Blood Ritual

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Good idea.’ Michael was grateful for the food. He ran a hand ruefully through his hair. ‘I daresay I look like a fugitive.’

  ‘Turn left as you get out of the car, about twenty paces straight ahead and you’ll feel the wall on your left,’ said Hilary, reaching for the ash stick and handing it to him. ‘The men’s too is the . . . Could you lean back, I can’t see . . . Yes, I can, it’s the second door. Say five paces from the edge of the building. Can you manage? I don’t think we ought to leave the car unattended.’

  He did not look like a fugitive, of course. Hilary leaned back, massaging her aching neck muscles with one hand and watching him.

  He looked dishevelled and there was a faint shadow over his jaw where he had not shaved. It made him suddenly and excitingly masculine, and it made her remember how his hands had felt on her body, how he had reached for her with that heart-stopping need . . . It was a very dangerous way to think.

  She felt better after she had taken her own turn in the wash-rooms. It was a rough-and-ready kind of wash, and it was a bit public with other travellers coming in and out all the time, but the water was hot and there were clean paper towels.

  The rolls tasted marvellous. They stopped in the shelter of some trees, and Hilary steered the car to where it would be more or less hidden from the road. She disconnected the wires and wound the side window down. Cool night air flooded in, and behind them was the immense backdrop of the pine-studded mountains, with purple twilight stealing over it. The stuff that nightmares were made of . . . The setting for every vampire film, every horror story ever told or remembered or written about this strange land . . . It was very hard to shake off the legends. It was practically impossible to discern where the line dividing fact from fiction was. I am deep in vampire country, thought Hilary, watching the purple twilight slide through the trees and shroud the mountains. I am in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains, in the myth-drenched land of Romania . . . And behind us is Csejthe, the ancient ruined castle which is not ruined at all, and where creatures practise a grisly, centuries-old ritual.

  At her side, Michael finished the last ham roll and said, ‘Food and drink. That chases the phantoms away, doesn’t it?’

  So he was aware of the phantoms as well. But the makeshift meal had brought them both back to a semblance of normality.

  Michael leaned back against the car seat and said, ‘And now tell me exactly what happened in the castle.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  He listened with the absorption that was so characteristic, not interrupting except to ask for clarification a couple of times, his expression one of complete concentration.

  At last he said, ‘However we look at this, however mad we think those corpse-creatures are – however mad they might actually be – one fact remains—’

  ‘Catherine and her brother are imprisoned in CrnPrag,’ said Hilary. ‘That was very clear.’

  ‘Yes.’ Michael frowned and thrust the fingers of one hand through his hair in angry impatience. ‘And there’s some kind of punishment in store for Pietro because he ran away. So whatever’s ahead for Catherine, it’s not unreasonable to think that Pietro at least is in danger.’

  ‘He turned his back on the ritual,’ said Hilary trying out the word to see if it sounded as melodramatic as she thought it would.

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael again. ‘Dear God, this is incredible. I oughtn’t to believe a word of it, and yet there the facts are. I do believe it, by the way. I trust your account completely. I’d believe you even if you reported something even more unbelievable.’

  ‘I don’t know that there could be anything more unbelievable,’ said Hilary, frowning.

  ‘I suppose we can’t write it off as harmless lunacy?’

  ‘There was the girl they killed in the cage.’ Hilary shuddered at the memory. ‘That might have been the act of lunatics, but there was nothing harmless about it.’

  ‘True, O King. And you were locked in the cell.’

  ‘Yes. And you’re not forgetting the strongest piece of evidence of all?’

  ‘I saw them as well,’ said Michael, softly. ‘Yes. Eighteen months ago I hid in Csejthe Castle – although I didn’t know what it was called then – and saw the corpse-creatures.’ His hand brushed his eyes lightly. ‘Like you, I was got out of the way,’ he said. ‘Only they used a different method.’

  ‘Because you were a man,’ said Hilary. ‘It’s why they didn’t bother to take you down to the dungeons, of course. Those creatures are really only interested in—’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘In the blood of young women. Oh, this is ridiculous.’ Hilary did not recall that she had taken his hand, but it seemed to have happened anyway. She withdrew her hand carefully. ‘None of it rules out madness,’ she said. ‘Csejthe might be the local asylum.’

  ‘“What-ifs” again?’ said Michael, grinning. ‘I’ll grant there are enough of them. What if you’d simply strayed on to the location of a horror film liberally spattered with fake blood? What if they were a coven of some weird religious sect? Or a society who re-enact this Countess’s life – like those people who fight the Civil War every year in England – what do they call them? – the Sealed Knot Society. Or they might be a group of fringe writers and actors using the “live-it-out” method of producing a play. Stanislavsky in surreal mode. Or a travel agent’s setting for Dracula buffs.’

  Hilary started to say something, but Michael went on.

  ‘Then there’s drugs. They might have been under the influence of hallucinogenics. Or you might. Perhaps Franz-Josef is a drug baron – maybe that’s where they get their money – and he fed you crack when you were at Varanno. Or maybe Csejthe is a secret government establishment used by geneticists . . . Don’t laugh at me, child, I can go on like this for hours.’

  He grinned and Hilary said, ‘We don’t think any of those things, do we? Not really?’

  ‘Not really. But how about madness? Hereditary insanity? Epilepsy at its wildest. Or some form of dementia. You listened to that grisly little conversation in the dungeon. Did they strike you as mad, any of them? What about Stefan and the boy – Ladislas?’

  ‘That’s the eerie part,’ said Hilary, thoughtfully. ‘I think they’re both sane. I think they’re all sane. They believe the blood . . . rejuvenates them. That it gives them immortality.’

  ‘Only eventually it fails,’ said Michael. ‘Or they believe it does. Like recharging a car battery. You can only do it a certain number of times and in the end it can’t hold the charge. Yes. You know this isn’t Bram Stoker after all: it’s Rider Haggard. It’s Ayesha and Leo Vincey somewhere in the lost Egyptian city. She lived for a couple of thousand years by bathing in some immortal fire, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but in the end the fire took back what it had once given,’ said Hilary, momentarily distracted. ‘I always loved that book; I didn’t think people read Rider Haggard any more. But whether they’re mad or sane, Stefan and those creatures intend more than imprisonment for Catherine and Pietro.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Michael looked thoughtful and, after a moment, he said, ‘If you accept the premise of a family having an hereditary ruler, you’ve probably got to accept that there’d be challengers for the rulership. History’s littered with that kind of thing.’

  ‘Yes. And Stefan talked about not risking pretenders once he’d got Franz-Josef out of the way. Let’s not forget the threat to Franz-Josef as well, by the way.’

  ‘I’m not forgetting it. And I don’t believe either Franz-Josef or Pietro would let Stefan snatch the power without a fight,’ said Michael. ‘I wouldn’t. I don’t think any man with red blood in his veins would – sorry I didn’t mean a pun – no man with any—’

  ‘Guts?’

  ‘Saving your cloth, Sister, I was going to say something a bit more vulgar. But guts will do. Pietro Bathory might have renounced his family, but I can’t see him meekly letting Stefan take what’s rightfully his, can you?’

  ‘No.’ Hilar
y grinned again. ‘It’s not even Rider Haggard now, it’s The Prisoner of Zenda. Rupert of Hentzau and Black Michael fighting over the throne of Ruritania.’

  ‘What astonishing literary tastes you have.’

  ‘I suppose—’ said Hilary and then stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I was wondering if Pietro experienced some kind of religious compulsion,’ said Hilary, half apologetically. ‘And left to enter a monastery or a seminary for priests.’

  ‘Like Catherine? But she didn’t know about the – the legacy,’ said Michael. ‘Or so the corpse-things said. That’s why they wanted her brought back.’

  ‘For an initiation ritual,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Like a bar mitzvah?’

  ‘Well, sort of.’

  ‘Pietro knew about the ritual,’ said Michael, thinking hard. ‘But he ran away from it. We don’t know why. We know that Catherine ran away as well, but that was because she had a vocation. You’d know more about that than I would, of course.’

  ‘It isn’t always easy to tell the gold from the dross,’ said Hilary in such a low voice that Michael barely caught it. But then she said, ‘Pietro doesn’t sound wildly religious, somehow. And the convent would have known if he were a priest or a monk,’ said Hilary. ‘They’d have talked about it. They always take a pride in having more than one of a family. It was a bad idea, forget it.’

  ‘So all we know is that Pietro rebelled,’ said Michael.

  ‘He ran away to live in Paris,’ offered Hilary.

  ‘On what? You don’t just run away and live in Paris unless you’ve got money to live with.’

  ‘They seemed quite well-off,’ said Hilary. ‘Houses and servants and things.’

  ‘It’s a pity we can’t get inside CrnPrag,’ said Michael, rather regretfully. ‘Because I think a number of questions could be answered. Tranz’s precise activities for one. You know, that’s one of the most extraordinary things about all of the extraordinary things happening here. All those tales about people being lured there. Tobias said—’

  ‘Tobias? Oh yes, the owner of the Red Angel.’

  ‘Tobias told a very remarkable tale about CrnPrag,’ said Michael. ‘About Bosnians and Romanians and refugees from every war since World War II being brought to CrnPrag. I wonder—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wonder if there’s a connection,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Between Csejthe Castle and CrnPrag. Because to find one sinister old house out here is startling enough, but to find two is stretching coincidence a bit far.’

  Hilary said, ‘Varanno was pretty odd as well if you want a hat-trick.’

  ‘Yes.’ Michael beat a clenched fist on the dashboard with frustration. ‘Jesus God, if I could just get up there—’

  He stopped, frowning, and Hilary said, ‘To CrnPrag? It isn’t possible. Is it?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s possible for you, lady,’ said Michael. ‘Shouldn’t you be going back to the Convent?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes, of course I should.’ Michael could not tell from her tone whether she wanted to return or not. She’s putting up a barrier. Is it because I said she should go back? Yes of course it is. Damn. But Hilary only said, ‘I wonder how Catherine’s family have explained her absence to Reverend Mother?’

  ‘Will they give an explanation?’ said Michael, and then at once. ‘Yes, of course they will. She was only given a week’s leave, and they won’t risk any unexplained ends. Will Reverend Mother want to know why you left Varanno without your belongings? Might she ask awkward questions?’

  Hilary said, ‘The Rule requires that I give obedience to her, but I’m on loan from England. A guest. So she can’t be too curious.’ She frowned, thinking, and then said, ‘I’d guess that some very plausible tale will be spun about misunderstandings over travel arrangements. Something that appears to tell the truth but is so complex that it hides the fact that it actually tells nothing. You’re a journalist, you ought to know what I mean,’ said Hilary.

  It was as if she had said: you belong to the hard cynical modern world and I do not. Michael ignored it and said, ‘Are you sure you won’t be questioned?’

  ‘No. Reverend Mother’s of the old school,’ said Hilary. ‘She’d consider it impolite to demand explanations. Especially of a guest.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re not coming with me, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t. What are you going to do – storm CrnPrag single-handed?’

  ‘Yes, but not single-handed,’ said Michael and grinned. ‘I’ve been working it out – listen. If we drive as far as Debreczen and get a meal and a rest at the Red Angel, can you cope with returning to Vienna by train? And then a taxi to the Convent at the other end?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, of course I can. It’ll be German-speaking by then; my German’s pretty sparse, but I can get by.’

  ‘Be thankful we’ll be beyond Hungary,’ said Michael. ‘I believe Hungarian’s hideously difficult to master.’

  ‘What about the car? Aren’t we going to the police?’

  ‘I think the best thing to do with the car,’ said Michael, thoughtfully, ‘is to simply leave it somewhere public and let it find its own way home.’

  ‘Won’t the Csejthe guards have reported it? And us?’

  ‘Not to the police because they won’t dare draw attention to what’s going on inside the castle. Whatever that might be,’ said Michael. ‘And even if they did—’ The grin slid out, ‘Even if they did, my love, would the police seriously suspect a nun and a blind man of stealing a car?’

  ‘You’re – that’s trading on it,’ said Hilary.

  ‘No it isn’t, it’s turning a negative into a positive. And on the subject of negatives and positives, you didn’t get a photograph of the corpse things, I suppose?’

  ‘I didn’t dare,’ said Hilary. ‘Not with Stefan and Ladislas there.’

  ‘Ah. Well that’s another reason why we can’t go to the police,’ said Michael and Hilary heard the note of satisfaction in his voice.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No evidence. In fact,’ said Michael, sounding very pleased indeed by now, ‘in fact, we really haven’t got any evidence at all. Not police evidence, that is,’ he said.

  Hilary stared at him. ‘You really are going to CrnPrag?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Quite apart from trying to find Catherine and her brother, I want to know what’s going on inside the haunted house. Tranz and refugees and carefully-spun horror tales to keep people out – it’s all some kind of a cover and I want to find out what’s underneath the cover. I don’t want to tamely hand it over to the police; I want to find out myself.’

  ‘You can’t. I mean you can’t go on your own. I’ll come with you,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Impossible, my love.’ His hand came out to her. ‘I’d like you to come, but it can’t be risked. If you don’t go back to Vienna, Reverend Mother will have all the Pope’s horses and all the Pope’s men hunting for you.’

  ‘But you can’t do it on your own!’

  ‘I shan’t be on my own. Once we’re back at the Red Angel, I’m going to get Tobias to drive me out to CrnPrag.’

  There were a dozen things that could be said to this, including the very sensible, ‘Don’t go – you might get hurt.’

  Hilary said, ‘Have we got enough money left?’

  They had enough but only just. The petrol gauge on the stolen car was flickering ominously on ‘Empty’ as they came down the mountain road, and Hilary saw the distant spires of Debreczen University and the old church in the distance with thankfulness. Almost there.

  She was beginning to feel dizzy with exhaustion and the unaccustomed hours of driving, but now that it was almost over, she relaxed a bit. How many borders had they crossed in the last week? Had there been checkpoints, with papers demanded of them? She had been concentrating on driving and on not being recognised as car thieves so intently, that she could not remember. There was a vague memory of Michael simply pr
oducing his World Press News identification, which had seemed to open most doors.

  Tobias was charmed to welcome back the English couple who were having some kind of adventure and clearly becoming romantically embroiled along the way. He served them steaming plates of chicken in a paprika sauce along with a bottle of the Hungarian Merlot wine that Michael had enjoyed before. It saddened his romantic soul to hear that the lady must return to Vienna directly after they had eaten, but at Michael’s request, he went off to find out about train times, returning presently to report that the Vienna train was due out of Debreczen station later that evening.

  ‘It is not a very long journey, but it will be close to eleven o’clock before you reach Vienna,’ he said and added hopefully that perhaps this would not be acceptable.

  ‘It’ll have to be acceptable,’ said Michael before Hilary could speak, and as Tobias padded away again he reached for her hand. ‘Hilary listen. I want you to be inside the Convent before nightfall. Eleven o’clock’s a bit late, but we’ll phone ahead and ask them to wait up for you.’

  ‘What on earth is all this about?’ said Hilary, staring at him. And then suddenly realising precisely what it was all about, said ‘Oh,’ in a rather blank voice. ‘You’re afraid that the Csejthe people might come after me. That’s it, isn’t it? Because they could trace me through the car and Varanno.’

  ‘I could wish you weren’t so astute,’ said Michael. ‘And I don’t really think anyone will come after you. But I don’t like the sound of Ladislas Bathory and we can’t ignore the fact that there’s a connection between Csejthe and Varanno. You were at Varanno with Catherine and you were driving the BMW. It’ll all jigsaw into place if they think about it.’