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Written in the Blood

Page 23

by Stephen Lloyd Jones


  ‘Let’s not.’

  The professor nodded, carrying on as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘The tolvajok may be ancient, but they’re not millions of years old. No modern complex life-form can claim a residency that long. By complex, I don’t mean in structure. Yes, certain species of jellyfish have been with us for half a billion years or more. And just look at the coelacanth, thought to have been extinct since the end of the Cretaceous. That is, until a fisherman caught one in his nets off the coast of South Africa. I’m talking about complex in terms of brain structure, although again that’s a misnomer, considering what we’re discussing. But I’m getting distracted. Where was I?’

  ‘The tolvajok. And their origins.’

  Beckett lurched forward, licking his lips. ‘Of course I was. Damned mind is going. I’ve been trying those Sudoku puzzles, you know. Waste of time. Anyway, we should start, as always, with the etymology. Lélek tolvajok is a Hungarian term. It translates, I believe, into something along the lines of spirit thief, or perhaps thieves, in the plural. But it’s not the most common name for them, I must say. I’m pretty sure the Slavic alternatives are more prevalent. The Czechs called them the zloděj těl. The Ukrainian term is xmapi. In the older languages, the direct translations often describe a virus, an infection of the mind.’

  ‘An infection?’

  ‘Yes, although that’s not a very helpful description. An infection doesn’t suggest sentience.’

  Leah felt the skin on her scalp contracting. ‘A sentient infection?’

  ‘Of the mind, indeed,’ Beckett continued. ‘Or so the stories go. You might be surprised to learn that the tolvajok are the precursor to many of the world’s darker folktales and superstitions. Vampirism, lycanthropy . . . you name it; before the birth of those relatively modern-day creations – throughout the Pannonian Basin at least – you had the tolvajok. A living entity, which, exactly like any other parasite, required a physical host in which to live.’

  ‘But you’re saying . . .’ She frowned. ‘In contrast to other parasites, this one had no body of its own?’

  ‘Correct. We’re talking about an awareness; pure consciousness, if you like. If it helps, think of our interpretation of the soul. Do you believe you have a soul? Whether you do or you don’t, it’s a device that features regularly in mythology. The only difference, here, is that whereas we generally consider our souls tethered to a single body during our physical existence, the tolvajok have no such restrictions. They simply need a host. And when one host starts to die, they go on to take another.’

  ‘But how could something like that exist?’

  Beckett shrugged. ‘You’re talking to a retired philologist, not a scientist. It’s the creation and distribution of the myth that interests me. But since you ask, let me ask you. What, after all, do we really know of consciousness? Historically, it’s been more the preserve of philosophy than science.’

  ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Lots, probably. If I could remember any of it. I think I wrote a paper on them once. Should be around here, somewhere. You’re welcome to take it if you wish.’ Beckett broke off, and seemed to see the chaos of his snug clearly for the first time. He scratched his head. ‘Well, maybe not. Let me see what else I recall. Ah, yes. There’s a quite detailed passage about the tolvajok in Gesta Hungarorum. And there’s also a Latin text – can’t think of its name – held by the Charles University in Prague. It describes them quite extensively. Other than that, the references are fairly obscure.’ Beckett’s eyes flicked over to her and he grinned. ‘One thing I can tell you is that you have a blessedly slim chance of ever encountering one. Supposedly the lélek tolvajok died out some time after the hosszú életek cull.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because the tolvajok were dependent on them.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, the texts diversify somewhat on the exact reasoning but, generally speaking, when the tolvaj seized a host, the effect on the victim’s physical body – as well as mind – was enormous. The longer the union, the more exacting the toll. Imagine an engine constantly running above its limit. The body uses up all its reserves, ages incredibly fast, and when the tolvaj moves on, what it leaves behind is effectively waste material.’

  ‘I don’t see the link to the hosszú életek.’

  ‘All parasites harm their hosts in some way or other,’ he told her. ‘But the ideal relationship, if you can call any of this ideal, occurs when the parasite avoids killing its host, or at least avoids it for as long as possible. A body that ages incredibly fast is of limited use to anyone, so for the tolvajok, a person blessed with greater longevity—’

  ‘Such as a hosszú élet . . .’

  Beckett nodded. ‘Exactly. They represent a far more compelling solution. Even so, as far as I remember it, a tolvaj needed to seize a hosszú élet at an early enough age if it were to take full advantage of the longevity on offer. Take one too late, and their body aged just as quickly as a simavér host. Perhaps it’s something to do with the way the brain matures. Anyway, when the hosszú életek went into decline, it’s said the tolvajok died out.’

  Leah frowned. ‘Or they were forced to become less fastidious in their choice of host.’

  ‘Possibly, although according to the literature, the seizing of a new host was thought to cost the tolvajok dearly, too. Ultimately, if they switched too often they’d simply . . .’ He opened his fingers, scattering imaginary dust. ‘Drift away.’

  The old academic paused, and then he glanced down at the veins mapping the backs of his hands, as if his words had led him, suddenly, to consider his own mortality. Outside, another gust of wind sent a tremor through the curtains. Leah thought of the dark landscape beyond the glass; of all those lives being lived unaware of the threats that walked among them.

  ‘There was a fragment I came across once,’ Beckett said, rousing himself. ‘A very old text, late fourteenth century. Forty years or so after the Black Death swept through Europe. The original had been lost – this was a fifteenth-century copy, transcribed by a monk living in some monastery in northern Italy.

  ‘For most of its length it narrates the day-to-day investigations of a party of witch-hunters linked to the Dominican Order, which is of interest, anyway, considering this was a few hundred years before the publication of the Malleus Maleficarum. According to the fragment, one day the group’s inquisitor led them to an old ruin where, unwittingly, they stumbled across a nest of incredibly old lélek tolvajok. Roused from sleep, the tolvajok fell upon them, seizing new hosts from the party’s members. The inquisitor was the only one who managed to get away.’

  Leah felt her stomach tighten as she listened to Beckett’s voice.

  ‘The explanation,’ he continued, ‘was that when times were tough – after an epidemic of plague and so forth – the tolvajok went into hibernation, drastically reducing the toll inflicted on their hosts, until new donors could be found.’

  Beckett raised his eyebrows. ‘When I said earlier they probably all died out around the time of the cull, maybe I was being premature. Perhaps a few are out there still. Hibernating. Waiting for the right time to wake up and claim their inheritance.’

  Leah stared at him, at his watery blue eyes, at the way his chin trembled, ever so softly, when he spoke. She remembered her grandfather telling her how Jakab had once impersonated the man during a meeting in Oxford’s physic garden, shortly before her grandmother’s death.

  She wasn’t ready for this tale. Fifteen years might have passed since the horrors of Le Moulin Bellerose, but that episode had nearly broken Leah and her mother. What Beckett was telling her now, if true, presented a threat even greater than the one they’d faced all those years ago.

  ‘How do you kill them?’ she asked.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Her tea had begun to cool. She took a sip. ‘Thank you, Patrick. You’ve been incredibly helpful.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it immensely. You really do look a lot like C
harles, you know. There is one other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He hesitated, a faint pinkish tinge appearing on his cheeks. His eyes fell to his lap before they found her face once more. ‘It’ll sound like a question from a senile old man.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  She smiled encouragingly.

  Beckett licked his lips. ‘Did he find them? Charles, I mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m asking you this. But . . . the hosszú életek. Is that why he disappeared? Did he find them?’

  Rocked by what Beckett had asked, Leah considered him. There was no way she should reveal the truth. It was dangerous not just for her. She heard the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, and wondered how many years the academic had left, sitting here alone surrounded by his old texts, his myths and his cats.

  Abandoning her usual caution, she said, ‘He did better than that, Professor. He married one.’

  Beckett’s chest swelled. A moment later his mouth dropped open. ‘But that means . . . if you’re his granddaughter, that means . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘It means you’re talking to one.’

  He jerked in his chair, eyes wide, and immediately Leah regretted her words. What if she caused his heart to fail? How could she ever forgive herself?

  But already Beckett was recovering. He gazed at her and she saw, suddenly, not the eyes of an old man, but those of a boy, full of intelligence and curiosity and life.

  ‘What’s it like?’ he whispered. ‘Please, Leah, will you tell me?’

  She slid off the chair and knelt beside him, among the piles of books. Her grandfather had told her many stories of his time at Balliol, but the best ones always involved Beckett. She remembered how the pair had spent their evenings in the Eagle and Child, how Beckett’s enthusiasm for so many different subjects had inspired Charles into areas of research he would never otherwise have contemplated. She remembered how helpful Beckett had been when her grandfather began researching the hosszú életek. The knowledge Charles had gained from their discussions had possibly helped her mother defeat Jakab in France. ‘I’ll show you,’ she told him.

  Afterwards, once she had shared with him the gifts bestowed by her blood, the old man sat back in his chair, face so full of joy that it made her heart ache to think she would never see him again.

  His smile grew mischievous. ‘I feel like Samwise Gamgees when he saw the elves at Rivendell.’

  She laughed and he joined her, and soon they were laughing so hard they couldn’t stop, clutching their stomachs in pain and delight.

  When, finally, Leah recovered, the room felt like a different place, a sanctuary where two strangers had come together and forged a bond as strange as it was tight.

  She reached out and covered his hand with her own. ‘I have to go.’

  Beckett’s eyes remained on her face. ‘I’ve always said the world is filled with as much wonder as sorrow. You tip the scales heavily towards wonder, Leah Wilde. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m so glad I came.’

  Gripping the arms of his chair, the old man swung his pink-swaddled legs off the pouffe and pulled himself to his feet. When he offered his hand she declined, embracing him and kissing his cheek instead.

  ‘The tolvajok,’ he said. ‘They haven’t disappeared, have they?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Not yet.’

  ‘Then, please, Leah. Remember what I told you. You must be careful. If they discover your existence, you’re going to become the most hunted young woman on the planet.’

  CHAPTER 21

  London, England

  The sky above West London was piercingly bright by the time Leah arrived outside Etienne’s Mayfair residence. Overnight, a chill wind had carried the rainclouds away, leaving streets that dripped and glimmered in the morning sun.

  She switched off the Mercedes’ engine and stared up at the town-house windows. For a moment an unusual feeling gripped her, as if something scratched the surface of a memory and tried to work it loose. It reminded her of the sense she’d had, that evening in Interlaken, that the weather would change overnight, and that snow was coming.

  That experience had manifested almost as a taste: olives or lemons, something bitter and sour, but not unpleasant. This feeling was different: a tingle, or an itch, behind her eyes.

  It’s nerves. Nothing more. Etienne unnerves you, that’s all. Come on. Get this done.

  Climbing out of the car, she passed through the security gate and went up the front steps. The same man opened the door to her. He wore no firearm today. Was that progress, she wondered? And did he offer her the vaguest of smiles this morning, in contrast to his previous distance?

  He told her to take the stairs to the second floor and then he disappeared through a door at the end of the hall. Alone, Leah ventured up the staircase, glancing at the cameras that monitored her route. Unlike before, their lenses remained still.

  Something’s different.

  That feeling was back, too; stronger now, almost as if a tiny insect had flown into her eye, beating its wings as it died. She shook her head, blinking the image away.

  Nothing had changed on the second floor. The same priceless collection of porcelain greeted her. The carpet was just as deep; the silence just as expectant.

  The door to the drawing room was closed. Hesitating, Leah stared at it. She wondered, not only what Etienne’s answer would be, but how she would feel about her decision. For the first time since starting this, she could not honestly say she hoped one hundred per cent that the woman she’d come to see would give her a positive answer.

  Admit it. ‘Unnerve’ is not the word you mean.

  No. But she was here, and she would do this. And she would obey the rules she had set herself at the beginning.

  She knew nothing of Etienne’s history, her character, how she had come to possess such enormous wealth – but she knew little, either, of the other women she had met. Steeling herself, Leah knocked on the door. When she heard a voice call out in reply, she went inside.

  No flames danced in the hearth today. The ashes in the grate had been swept, and the metalwork was immaculate. Etienne sat upon the same chair by the fireplace. She smiled, and then she raised one hand from her lap and gestured towards the window.

  Leah saw a man standing there. The bright sunlight streaming in from outside had transformed him almost to a silhouette, but she saw enough. His eyes, flat and pale but doubtless hosszú élet, were the pallor of wood smoke. Leah could not tell how old he was by looking at his face; had she not glimpsed his eyes she would have imagined him perhaps thirty years her senior. But she guessed he was far, far older than that; far older, too, than Luca Sultés, the man she’d left behind in Interlaken.

  He was dressed in a sombre woollen peacoat, so dark it seemed to gather shadows to it, and held himself stiffly, as if uncomfortable in his shape.

  ‘I’d like you to meet someone,’ Etienne said. ‘This is Tuomas. We’ve been friends for a while.’

  Leah switched her attention to Etienne, then back to the stranger standing by the window.

  ‘After we met,’ the woman continued, ‘I called Tuomas and told him of your proposal. I realise that might concern you. And I do understand the importance of keeping your venture concealed from the eyes of the tanács. But considering what you’re asking of me, I believe I’m entitled to seek advice.’

  ‘I’m not asking anything of you, Etienne. I’m only here to offer—’

  ‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘Semantics, though, really. What I’m trying to say is that your secret is as safe with Tuomas as it is with me. He has no connection to the tanács. Nor anyone else.’

  ‘Does he speak?’ Leah asked, trying to lighten the mood but worried, the moment the words left her lips, that she’d crossed that invisible line of etiquette she’d sensed during her first visit. The stranger’s presence distressed he
r in a way she couldn’t quite grasp.

  ‘On occasion,’ Tuomas said. His voice was scratchy, odd.

  ‘Sorry. My mouth runs away sometimes.’

  ‘Not at all. I can understand why you’d be concerned. Frightened, even. But you can forgive Etienne, I hope, for wanting a second opinion before deciding on her course.’

  Leah nodded. ‘I can.’

  ‘I have few talents, but you might say I’m a reasonable reader of people. Or at least I used to be. It’s why Etienne asked me here, to look you in the eye and tell her what I see.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  He came towards her. This close, she could smell his cologne, spicy and dark. He studied her with those flat grey eyes and she felt as if she were being opened and sifted, her thoughts as clear as if they had been written down on paper.

  ‘I see a young woman who doesn’t grasp the danger she’s in.’

  Despite how uncomfortable it made her, Leah forced herself to maintain eye contact, feeling almost as if she sensed something in his expression. She thought of the cameras along the staircase – how two days earlier they had tracked her progress through the house. How this morning they’d remained still.

  ‘I see fear and I see hope,’ he continued. ‘I see someone trying to do something remarkable, with little concern for her safety.’ Tuomas glanced at Etienne. ‘You have no concerns from me. Only my blessing.’

  Confused, Leah turned away. What she saw shocked her. Tears stood on Etienne’s cheeks, glittering diamonds. Flustered, the woman brushed them away, and in that single action Leah thought she glimpsed, finally, the humanity in her, concealed so masterfully until now.

  Perhaps it was Tuomas’s presence, or the intensity with which he had studied her, but now she found herself noticing more in Etienne’s expression: an aching loneliness, and a self-control so rigid it threatened to shatter her should she allow it to fail.

  ‘I want to come with you, Leah,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what will happen, and I know you can’t promise me anything. But the thought of a child. It’s . . .’ Her words seemed to fail her, and she flapped her arm. ‘I’ve made my decision. I hope your offer still stands.’

 

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