Blood Ritual

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘I am grateful for your hospitality,’ said the older man, and the corpse-creatures inclined their heads. ‘And for according me your time.’

  Again there was the brief gesture, and the one whom Hilary remembered as their spokesman, said in his once-beautiful voice. ‘We do not know how much time we have left, Stefan.’

  ‘But we can spare a little of it to hear you,’ said the woman at his side.

  ‘Thank you.’ The man called Stefan appeared to arrange his thoughts and then said, ‘You know that Franz-Josef’s boy – Pietro – turned his back on the Family a few years ago?’

  ‘And his sister entered a convent after he went,’ said the woman. ‘Yes, we know it . . .’

  She paused, and the spokesman said, ‘It is interesting to speculate whether there is any connection between the two events. Had you not thought of that?’ said the man, as Stefan and the younger man looked up. ‘I see you had not.’

  ‘I don’t see how there can be,’ said Stefan, slowly. ‘Cat was only fifteen or so when Pietro went. She didn’t enter the Vienna Convent until two or three years later. There can’t be a connection.’

  ‘No? Perhaps there are still many things you have to learn about your lineage.’ The man glanced at the others, and a murmur of something akin to indulgence went through them. It was almost as if they were smiling with tolerant affection on the shortcomings or the immaturity of a favoured nephew or grandson.

  ‘You are still very young, Stefan,’ said the man. ‘But you will learn. Do you wish to speak to us about Pietro’s defection?’

  ‘Partly. I think we have not an exact precedent for it,’ said Stefan evasively, and a man seated further down the table said, ‘It is something that has never happened before.’

  ‘There has been the occasional blackmailer,’ put in another.

  ‘But then there has been money involved. This,’ said the spokesman, ‘is very different.’ He leaned forward and the flickering light lay cruelly across his face. Hilary knew that the authority had shifted from Stefan to him; she had almost seen it happen: a globe of coiled silver thread passing from one pair of hands to another. ‘Pietro was a remarkable boy,’ he said.

  ‘Dazzling,’ murmured one of the women. ‘But one would expect any child of Franz-Josef and LaBianca to be so.’

  ‘There were only ever the two children of that pairing, of course,’ said one of the men, thoughtfully.

  ‘But it was as if everything was concentrated into those two,’ said the woman. ‘They are both dazzling. Pietro is brilliant.’

  She glanced rather defiantly at the spokesman who said, ‘But for all his dazzling looks and for all his brilliance, Pietro renounced his inheritance. That is something that has never happened in all our history. As you say, there is no precedent. I cannot remember anyone ever rejecting Elizabeth’s legacy.’ He looked down the table in courteous question, and the others shook their heads.

  ‘Not knowingly,’ said one of them.

  ‘No.’ The man turned back. ‘How did the Family’s head deal with Pietro’s desertion?’ he said, a thread of malice in his voice, and for the first time Stefan looked across at the younger man, and spread his hands as if to say, we have to tell them everything. Hilary understood that these corpse-creatures were what might be termed the Family’s elder statesmen, once rulers in their own right, but now too frail to play an active part. But their minds had stayed sharp and shrewd and they were still consulted and accorded respect, rather in the way that retired heads-of-state were consulted and accorded respect.

  After a moment, Stefan spoke again, and it seemed to Hilary as if he selected his words with extreme care. ‘Pietro has been found,’ he said. ‘Ladislas found him.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ said the man looking across at Ladislas.

  ‘It took many months,’ said Ladislas. ‘His renunciation of us was complete and he had covered his tracks very thoroughly.’ There was a glint of complacency. ‘But I found him,’ said Ladislas softly.

  ‘And where is he now?’

  There was a pause, and then Stefan said, ‘Inside CrnPrag,’ and at once a stir of interest went through his auditors.

  ‘Imprisoned?’

  ‘Yes. After all,’ said Ladislas, his face sharper and crueller, ‘after all, Pál, CrnPrag is the Family’s place for traitors.’

  Pál. Hilary heard it almost as the English ‘Paul’, but not quite. Some kind of unfamiliar way of accenting the vowel. Russian? Hungarian? She thought she was following everything pretty well; the corpse-creatures spoke in the measured tones of extreme age, and it was not hard to fill in the vocabulary gaps.

  The man called Pál leaned forward. ‘Is Pietro in CrnPrag by Franz-Josef’s orders?’ he said, and Ladislas hesitated.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Pietro was imprisoned on my father’s orders,’ and instantly the corpse-creatures turned to Stefan. Hilary thought: then they are father and son. I thought they might be.

  Pál and Stefan regarded one another. Then Pál said, ‘Pietro is in CrnPrag. That suggests only one thing.’ He paused and then said, ‘Franz-Josef is failing and you are intriguing to take the place that should be Pietro’s.’

  There was a sudden and complete silence. ‘Well?’ said Pál.

  ‘Franz-Josef is failing,’ said Stefan at last, and a sigh went through the corpse-creatures, like a breath of wind against dry leaves. The man and woman who had led the discussion looked at one another, and there was no mistaking the triumph in their faces.

  ‘At last,’ the man said, almost as if he were speaking to himself, ‘and so at last the bastard is failing,’ and Hilary heard with a cold thrill that he used the word not in the modern way, the derogatory way, but in the true, literal sense. Bastard. Base-born.

  ‘Are you sure of it?’ said the woman, with sudden sharpness. ‘Can we trust you?’

  ‘Ladislas has it from Franz-Josef’s lady.’

  ‘Has he indeed?’ Pál turned to regard Ladislas and there was a prurient glint in his eyes. ‘So LaBianca is as lascivious as ever, is she?’ he said, and the crescent-shaped smile curved his lips. ‘Does she make a worthy bed-partner, boy?’

  ‘Very worthy, Pál.’

  The thin dry lips stretched in a smile. ‘LaBianca,’ he said softly. ‘A dazzling creature. Once, Ladislas, I should have enjoyed challenging you for such a one.’

  ‘Once, Pál, you would have beaten me hands down,’ said Ladislas instantly, and Hilary thought: he looks insolent but at least he is not entirely bereft of courtesy.

  ‘Where is Franz-Josef now? Is he still at Varanno?’

  ‘He is on his way to CrnPrag.’

  ‘And once he reaches CrnPrag . . .?’

  Stefan did not answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘My people have their orders.’

  ‘So you intend to lock him up and take his place, do you?’ Pál studied the two guests. ‘Yes, I thought so. I ruled for as long as I could,’ he said. ‘You will know for how long. It was only when I began to fail – when we discovered that the blood ritual was not eternal, after all – that the bastard took my place.’

  ‘Because you had no son living.’

  ‘Yes. But the case is different now. Franz-Josef has a son—’

  ‘Also a daughter,’ put in the woman.

  ‘Anna is right. What about Catherine?’

  ‘Catherine has not reneged,’ said Anna at once. ‘She had still to be brought to her first ritual.’ She eyed Ladislas coldly. ‘What about Catherine?’

  ‘She also is held in CrnPrag.’

  The corpse-creatures regarded Stefan. Then Pál said, ‘Both of them? You are being very thorough, Stefan.’

  ‘I dare not risk any pretenders.’

  ‘But,’ said Pál softly, ‘pretenders sometimes come from a quarter that one least expects.’ His eyes flicked to Ladislas and then away.

  ‘Pretenders have languished in windowless cells for many years and still emerged to lead rebellions,’ said one of the men slyly.

  Anna sa
id impatiently, ‘Catherine should be given the opportunity to avail herself of Elizabeth’s legacy.’

  ‘She doesn’t want it.’

  ‘You don’t know that. She should be offered it.’

  ‘Anna is right,’ said Pál again, and several of the corpse-creatures nodded. ‘Pietro turned his back on the ritual with full knowledge and full understanding. But, as far as we know, Catherine’s case was different. She should be shown what could be hers.’ His thin dry old fingers tapped thoughtfully on the table.

  ‘I am wondering,’ he said, looking at Stefan, ‘what punishment you really have in mind for those two. I think it is not just imprisonment. But that is up to you. And I agree with Anna: Catherine should be offered what is rightfully hers.’

  ‘She may resist. She has been inside a convent for four years—’

  ‘She had been in Elizabeth’s old house in the Blutgasse,’ said Pál impatiently. ‘She may be more aware of Elizabeth than you think.’ He eyed Stefan. ‘Have you ever been in that house?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought you had not. If you had you would understand. If Elizabeth walks anywhere, she walks there . . .’ He stopped. ‘Well, Stefan? I assume you are here to ask for our support in your insurrection? Yes, I thought so. I think we would give you that, but only on condition that you offer the ritual to Catherine first.’ He glanced along the table. ‘Are we prepared to support Stefan?’

  ‘I support him,’ said several voices.

  ‘I also,’ said several more.

  ‘He’s nearest in line and it accords with the rule,’ said one.

  ‘My thoughts also. Then,’ said Pál, turning back, ‘those are the terms, Stefan.’ Take it or leave it, said his tone.

  Stefan and Ladislas exchanged a quick look. Then Stefan said, ‘Very well. Yes. If you will support us, we will agree to that.’

  ‘Good. You will bring Catherine to Csejthe – a week from today? That would give you time?’

  ‘I – yes,’ said Stefan, slowly. ‘Yes, it would give us time.’

  ‘You have sufficient prisoners inside CrnPrag?’ There was a lick of greed in Pál’s tone and the others leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stefan again.

  The crescent-shaped smile curved Pál’s lips, but it was Anna who spoke. ‘You are very anxious for our support, Stefan,’ she said. ‘We haven’t much strength to oppose anything done within the Family any longer. Why do you want our approval?’

  Stefan paused, and Hilary had the impression that he was selecting his words with care. Finally, he said, ‘When Franz-Josef took the rulership after Pál failed, you all approved it.’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Stefan, ‘I have heard it said you hated him.’

  Pál said, ‘I did hate him. I still hate him.’

  ‘But you sanctioned his rule. Why?’

  ‘He was in direct line,’ said Pál. ‘For all that he was a bastard, he was Elizabeth’s direct descendant. I had no choice.’

  Stefan said, slowly, ‘I don’t believe I can rule as the Family’s head unless you all support me as you did Franz-Josef.’ He looked at Pál and Anna. ‘Most particularly I must have your blessing,’ he said. ‘You and Anna.’

  ‘Blessing is an odd choice of word,’ said Pál, wryly. He glanced at Anna. ‘But since you ask, we give it. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna slowly. ‘As Elizabeth’s two surviving children, we give you our blessing.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Michael was almost frantic. He could feel by the Braille watch on his wrist that half an hour had already passed since Hilary went down into the castle dungeons – although it felt like four times that much. It ought to have taken her no more than ten minutes – fifteen at the most – to position herself and reel off a half-dozen or so photos. The fear that she had been caught and imprisoned again gripped him by the throat.

  He tried to persuade himself that if they had found her there would have been some kind of tumult: running feet, shouts of anger or triumph. But Csejthe’s walls were so immensely thick that a dozen battles could be raging in the dungeons and he would not have heard a thing.

  As well as that, there was the matter of the guards and the dwarf, Janos. Were they still searching the hillside for the occupant of the BMW? Michael thought they must be. If they had discovered the unconscious body of their colleague, some kind of hue and cry would have been raised; people would have run out through the upper rooms of the castle, calling to one another for help to carry the man inside. He thought he would have heard that. So far so good on that score at least.

  Another seven minutes ticked by and Michael knew he dared not risk waiting any longer. The idea appalled him, but he knew he was going to have to step out of the concealing hearth cupboard and find his way back to the road to get help.

  The thought of Hilary in the hands of the corpse-creatures gave him strength, even while the dangers reared up to gibber at him: he could unwittingly walk into a roomful of the corpse-creatures, he could fall down a flight of stairs, into a quarry, into a pond, be seen without knowing it.

  But Hilary had been gone for forty-two minutes now and there was nothing else for it. He fought for calm and, after a moment, managed to conjure up the layout of the hall that Hilary had sketched in word-pictures. Fifty feet long and the door facing you. Could he do it?

  Forty-four minutes now. Three-quarters of an hour. Something had unquestionably prevented her from returning. Michael found the cupboard latch and the door swung open with the slow, sinister creaking familiar from a dozen bad horror films, used in fifty different formats to herald the murdered body or the rotting corpse falling out of the wardrobe.

  He felt the echoing space of the banqueting hall the instant he stepped into it, and there was a faint scent of woodsmoke and old timbers. Empty? I believe it is, he thought, his senses stretched to snapping point. There is no sense of human presence here.

  Only the ghosts . . . He would pay the ghosts no attention. Ghosts did not hurt you, not even when they pressed in on all sides, blood-drenched, bone-squelching, their dripping, fleshless fingers held out in piteous entreaty . . . Stop it!

  But this is the Blood Countess’s castle, said his mind slyly. The corpse-things told Hilary about her. This was her lair, her den, the place where she butchered her victims and immersed her body in their fresh warm blood . . . And you are walking through it in the pitch darkness of your sightlessness . . . Anything could be creeping after you, anything could be watching from the shadows . . . You must be mad to think you can get out of here unseen.

  Michael took a determined grip on his stick and began to feel his way along the wall of the banqueting hall. Fifty feet. Twenty-five or six paces. And at any minute the corpse-creatures’ servants – the corpse-creatures themselves – could bound out from the darkness and be upon him. From behind him was a sudden whisper of sound, and he stopped dead, the hairs lifting on the back of his neck. Had it been simply a board creaking back into place after his own steps? Or had it been a light, soft footfall? Was something stealing after him? His instincts screamed at him to whip round and confront whatever might be there, and the fiercest frustration he had yet experienced tore jaggedly across his mind. I can’t see!

  But nothing came out of the blackness and nothing moved. It was absurd to conjure up images of grinning phantoms or of the butchered victims of Elizabeth Bathory reaching out to him . . .

  Join us, brother . . .

  Yes, the ghosts were here all right. There were dozens of them. Michael felt his mind reel with the long-ago agonies and the centuries-old cruelties. For a moment it was as if he were drowning in the pain and the evil.

  And then he took a deep breath and shook off the crowding ghosts, and forced his mind to concentrate on the task in hand. Hadn’t Hilary said there was some kind of settle or dresser partway along the wall? With the thought it was there, lumbering out of the blackness to smite his legs. Michael gasped at the unexpec
ted smack of pain and swore under his breath. At any minute there would be running feet, and the hall would fill with the servants. But nothing happened. Onwards then. He felt his way around the carved wood, smelling the faint aroma of beeswax and old oak. Whoever looked after Csejthe did so thoroughly. It was odd how your mind latched on to totally irrelevant things at times of stress.

  It was possible to feel the current of colder air from the door now, and Michael inched along the wall, forcing himself to walk as Hilary had insisted: upright, shoulders back. There was an almost irresistible desire to lean forward when you could not see, groping with your hands for obstacles before you hit them. But you could not do it, Hilary had said firmly. All that leaning over did was cause spine and shoulder problems eventually, never mind looking silly. And you did not find the obstacles any more easily.

  He found the door and stepped outside without too much difficulty, but there was a huge vulnerability now. Inside the castle Michael had felt vaguely safe; protected by walls and cupboards and floors. But the outside yawned enormously; there were no boundaries here, no comforting walls to tap or window-ledges to mark your progress along a wall. He understood suddenly how agoraphobics must feel. At any minute the ground might open up and swallow you. At any second you might fall headfirst into a yawning chasm. Or a fire, or a lake . . . Don’t!

  He would make a deliberately casual way down the mountain path. It suddenly occurred to him that, even if he was spotted, there was nothing to link him with Hilary. He could be just a chance traveller, a sightseer. There was a bitter irony about that last, but if he went slowly and casually, his blindness might not be apparent. If he was careful to stand up straight and not fumble his way, he might pass for an abstracted student of architecture or wildlife. He blessed the providence that had make him refuse the white stick and opt instead for a plain ash cane. He did not mind people thinking he had sprained an ankle or injured a knee, but if he could fool them into thinking he could see, so much the better. If he could fool them now, it might mean the saving of Hilary.