The Dark Arts of Blood

by Freda Warrington

  Godric, who fancied himself an artist, was designing a simplified version to become their party insignia. They were not yet officially a political movement. Officially, they were part of Reiniger’s film crew. But the chosen men of the inner circle were all aware of their leader’s great project: the Alpine Dawn Swiss Democratic Nationalist Party.

  Everyone agreed it was a pleasingly grand title.

  Each man held a sacred sikin knife – except Bruno, who was in disgrace for losing his.

  He was in the outermost ring, feeling safe from Reiniger’s scrutiny there. Wolfgang gave his shoulder a squeeze as he put the cloak on him, as if to reassure him, Everything will be all right.

  Bruno wasn’t sure why he’d been admitted to the secret circle, except for his utter dedication to Reiniger’s dreams, and the fact that Wolfgang Notz liked him. He was no intellectual – but nor were most of the men here.

  Godric was the one who did all the thinking. From his followers, he needed seamless agreement, loyalty and muscle.

  They were Reiniger’s embryonic army. For now they helped him make newsreels and movies to promote his ideals. One day, they would help him form a government.

  Godric opened the meeting as usual with the Alpsegen, the traditional Alpine prayer sung by shepherds to protect their flocks against all danger. The men joined in, their voices creating an eerie Gregorian-style chant.

  When it was done, all raised their hands in the three-fingered salute that symbolised the unity of all the Swiss cantons.

  “Lucerne was once, all too briefly, our seat of government,” said Godric. “One day, it shall be so again. May it please God that the Confoederatio Helvetica shall be governed from this very spot.”

  “Amen,” they all responded.

  “My comrades of the oath: you’ve each been entrusted with a sikin knife, unearthed by my father at a sacred site in the desert, a site so ancient that its origins remain unknown.” Reiniger’s voice was thin and hard, like a blade, a contrast to Wolfgang’s cheerful, earthy tone. “Fate delivered the cache into our hands. The very Soul of the Universe favours our enterprise. Let us summon the spirit of William Tell, our national hero, and of Berchtold, leader of the Wild Hunt, and of Woden, god of the mountains, and of Zruvan…”

  Godric’s mouth always made a little sour twitch on the last name. Bruno had no idea why he spoke it at all, since it wasn’t Swiss, but he accepted it as part of the esoteric business that only Godric understood. “…Zruvan, Lord of Immortals, Soul of the Universe, to watch over our ritual tonight.”

  “Hail, Lord of Immortals,” the men echoed. Godric switched from Christian to Pagan invocation without blinking. His only true belief was in the individual’s own strength: that was his teaching. All gods were there to serve man.

  “However, one of our knives is lost,” Reiniger continued. “Until it’s recovered, can the thirty function as twenty-nine? Will one missing piece make the whole structure collapse? I believe not. I believe our combined willpower can bridge the gap. Each one of you in turn has received the blood-initiation in order to give his power to the group. A painful but heroic ordeal, no?”

  The Eidgenossen murmured agreement.

  “Now, to compensate for the loss of the sikin, a deeper sacrifice is needed. This will serve a triple purpose: to intensify the power, to act as a chastisement and to warn against future carelessness.”

  Reiniger stared straight at Bruno. He pointed his dagger at him, then turned his wrist to point at his own feet, instructing Bruno to approach the centre of the circle.

  He obeyed, sweating.

  “Sir, what is this?” he whispered. “I thought I’d proved my loyalty.”

  “Do not argue with me.” Reiniger’s eyes were specks of blue ice behind his glasses. “Lie down on your back. Wolfgang, expose his chest.”

  Bruno obeyed. The marble floor felt chilly through his clothes. He looked up with wide, pleading eyes as Reiniger’s deputy undid his shirt buttons and spread open the garment. He was wearing a vest, which Wolfgang simply slit with his own knife. His glance in response to Bruno’s silent plea was apologetic but firm, merciless.

  “We see the scars of initiation on this recruit’s chest,” said Reiniger. “Thirty intersecting cuts forming the sacred Eyes of the Soul. I want each of you to reopen the cut you made, one at a time, in the same order. I trust you to remember?”

  The group murmured that they did. Bruno could smell their sweat now. They were almost as frightened as he was. Also, unlike him, aroused.

  “This time, go deep,” said Reiniger. “As deep as you like. Don’t mind his cries. This is his punishment for losing his knife. In payment, his sacrifice will fill us with strength. Watch carefully. If you lose the sacred sikin entrusted to you – this will be you.”

  “No,” Bruno mouthed as Wolfgang leaned down to make the first cut: a concave arc across the top of his ribcage.

  “Hush,” said Wolfgang, barely audible. “Take your punishment in silence. You’re giving your life for the good of the group.” Then he mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  Tears ran down Bruno’s face, but he didn’t make another sound. At first it only stung. He remembered his initiation – just like this, but with the blades barely nicking the skin. It had hurt like the devil. Never dreamed he’d have to go through it again. As each man loomed over him, one by one, he felt their blades go deeper, re-carving the sign into his flesh. He saw their panting, excited faces. The pain built slowly, savage, burning. His breathing was high and fast. He felt hot fluid trickling down his chest, smelled his own blood.

  Power was building in the air, hot and flowing like lava. He lay giddy and breathless with agony, aware of his heart pumping out his life on to the floor.

  Last, Godric Reiniger thrust his knife into Bruno’s belly and ripped it from left to right.

  “Thirty cuts,” he panted, and pressed his own dagger into Bruno’s hand. “Make the last one yourself.”

  For a split second, Bruno thought of pushing the blade up into Reiniger’s heart – but he had no strength or will to do so. He knew it was over. How could he kill the man he’d worshipped? I’m sacrificing my life for the group…

  Wincing, he pushed the tip into the middle of his own abdomen. A weak effort. Then a terrible despair and anger seized him and he made a last, violent thrust.

  Reiniger took the sikin from his feeble grip. He bent down and touched his tongue to the wound, grimacing. Then he said, “The linen, quickly!”

  An oblong of white fabric was placed on Bruno’s torso. Reiniger meticulously pressed it down himself, making sure that every drop of blood was absorbed. It began to congeal a little before he finally tore it away, revealing a perfect imprint of Bruno’s wounds.

  “It’s done,” Reiniger declared, holding up the cloth. “That’s how powerful your blood vow is, your responsibility – in direct proportion to the reward of great power. Do not let me down, unless you wish to lie in Bruno’s place.”

  Bruno’s last mote of consciousness hovered near the ceiling, watching the gruesome scene from above. No emotion. He was beyond disbelief, fear, denial, beyond all emotion. And there was someone floating with him: the dark girl, Fadiya, whom no one really knew. She was looking down at the scene, smiling…

  Smiling at him as his mind passed into eternal blackness.

  * * *

  The house was monumental, stark, all straight lines with no Art Deco curves to soften its corners. Imperial. Karl took in the building from a distance, impressed by the way the outside lights floodlit the walls to make the edifice appear carved from ice. As Charlotte had described, several vehicles were parked in front. He marvelled that they’d made it up the steep road.

  He read the nameplate: Bergwerkstatt. Mountain workshop. A deceptively modest house name, he thought, that masked a grander message. Here we are slaving to make art in the mountains! Admire us!

  Beneath it was a small business plate: “Reiniger Studios.”

  So this was the lair of t
he genius who’d made The Lion Arises, Karl noted sourly. Also home to a violent gang who’d tried to slay Charlotte and viciously attacked Emil. According to recent newspapers, the eminent local director, Godric Reiniger, was soon to launch his latest feature, Triumph in the Mountains, while working on a drama called Three Tells, a new project about Swiss heroes of folklore.

  I’m sure the world cannot wait, thought Karl.

  His higher senses perceived human warmth inside the building. They were hard to count… he sensed a gathering upstairs, thirty men at most, but they were a blur. At least twenty more were scattered in the downstairs rooms.

  How best to approach Reiniger? Probably through the Crystal Ring, so he could hide on the boundary between realms and watch without being seen.

  Karl stepped closer to the house. He entered Raqia and drifted to the level of the uppermost storey.

  Then he smelled human blood. The scent was strong, hitting him in a shocking sensory wall. Yes, blood, but not tempting or delicious. It was a foul smell of contamination, like decaying meat, mixed with dust and metal.

  What the hell is happening inside?

  Karl made to pass through the outer wall, but could not. A barrier stopped him – not the wall itself, but an invisible force. Wherever he tried to push through, a red glow tingled around his hands, like charged plasma.

  All around the house he probed for a way in, but the harder he tried, the more powerfully the barrier rejected him. At last he fell, landing on soft ground at the side of the house. The unseen power throbbed as if generated by some unearthly, lethal engine. It made his head ring with awful pressure, an electric current that rooted him to the ground.

  Against that, Karl knew he couldn’t get inside. He didn’t even want to.

  He sat for a few minutes on the peaty earth, wondering if this sense of toxic revulsion had also afflicted Charlotte. If her experience was even vaguely similar, he understood why she was alarmed and haunted. The power came in waves, cold and sickening.

  He’d sensed forces like this before, invisible yet as real as the wind. Never had he encountered one so visceral.

  Was someone being murdered in there? What kind of murder could repel a vampire, rather than draw him in like a vulture?

  Karl had a dizzying impression that Raqia itself was intruding into the world, distorting reality. He’d met only two humans with the power to touch the Crystal Ring and manipulate it in a small way. The ability was incredibly rare, but not unknown. Was there a human here with similar power? Godric Reiniger himself?

  He saw transparent but distinct columns of red light rushing up into the sky.

  Eventually the power faded. Perhaps he could have entered then, but his instincts screamed a warning to keep away. As the sphere of force dissipated, he became more starkly aware of the danger inside. In his mind’s eye he glimpsed a group of men, wild-eyed and blood-spattered, each gripping a knife like the one used to attack Charlotte, and each blade dripping red…

  If he went in now, he would not come out again.

  Karl stepped away, glaring up at the monumental Bergwerkstatt. He was shaken, mystified. But above all, he was patient.

  “Whatever you are doing in there, Herr Reiniger,” Karl murmured, “I do not think you are making a movie.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ISTILQA

  Wearing an ink-blue dress to blend with the night, black hair loose to veil her luminous skin, Violette stepped into the Crystal Ring. At dead of night, there were few humans to see or recognise her.

  When she first became a vampire, she’d fought the blood-thirst until she was nearly insane. She recalled those days with a shudder – crouching under a shroud of tangled hair, Stefan telling Charlotte in the distance, “If she doesn’t feed soon, we may have to destroy her.”

  Although she had come to terms with her nature – part vampire, part Lilith, part Violette – she still couldn’t hunt easily. Unlike Karl, she rarely seized strangers on the street. Nor did she develop affection for her victims, beguiling them as Charlotte did. Not that she never did such things, but every vampire was different. Every victim was unique, too, which meant that each encounter had its own singular ambience.

  Violette’s habit was to travel through Raqia to some far-off town and haunt the rooftops, seeking the subtle auras of those who slept beneath. Her Lilith instinct drew her to those who needed to change.

  Perhaps they lacked the will to escape a cruel husband, or to cease beating a child, or to overcome a weakness of some kind. So many reasons. Lilith’s wisdom was enigmatic. Violette rarely knew in advance why she must take this person’s blood in particular. Only her subconscious heard souls crying out in their sleep, craving the harsh corrective pain of her bite. Violette simply followed.

  That didn’t make the hunt easy. It was a nightly battle.

  Tonight she stood by the bed of a spinster, a plump woman in her thirties. She slept restlessly, fighting bad dreams of an oppressive mother who bullied her to get married when all she wanted was to farm her own plot of land, and write poetry, and to be left alone… These wisps of knowledge came to Violette in her Lilith-trance.

  The woman smelled ripe with menstrual blood and the mustiness of sleep, but the scent was not unpleasant. Violette leaned down and felt her fangs extend, hard and sharp.

  “What?” the woman groaned. Her eyes opened, shining white in the darkness.

  “Hush,” murmured Violette, falling to her knees beside the bed. She put her cold hand on the woman’s hot forehead, held her gaze. The victim went calm and still.

  “Just a moment of discomfort. Nothing to fear. Tomorrow you’ll wake feeling as light as air, unafraid to follow the path you desire.”

  Afterwards, sated, Violette felt calm again, warm, almost human. She vanished – leaving her victim with the memory of a strange dream – and drifted upwards through Raqia’s amethyst clouds until she reached clear air, with bronze hills rolling beneath her and vast fiery chasms above.

  She wished she could love Emil as he wanted. It would make their lives simpler – but it was impossible on every level. Her nature sought solitude and independence. The one time she’d fallen in love had cost her more than she could bear. She still couldn’t see a certain shade of chestnut hair without her heart ripping itself from her chest.

  Even if she had desired men, she and Emil were mentor and student: unequal in experience, emotion, attitude, everything. And even if that could be set aside, there was the greatest barrier of all. He was human, she was a vampire. And he must never know.

  Violette saw a coal-black cloud hurtling towards her, a dark meteor. It looked distant and took a long time to reach her, but whichever way she turned, it was still there.

  Heading straight for her.

  She braced herself to fight. The blackness resolved into a figure with dark red robes, a huge skull-shaped helmet over its head and a long staff glowing in its bony grip…

  It was huge, twice her height. She struck out, only for her hand to go straight through as if through smoke. The apparition floated in front of her, staring from the black empty pits of its eye-sockets.

  Did she see stars in there? She was looking into the infinity of space, as if its eyes held the whole universe.

  Illusion.

  Violette had never been so afraid in her life. She felt as if Lilith actually fled and hid deep inside her. She was simply human Violette again, suspended like a child in front of this terrible being.

  “What are you?” she demanded. “Another messenger from God, trying to tame the rebel demon? I am not your instrument. I bow to no one, I belong to no one!”

  The creature only stared, wordless.

  The thought occurred to her that there was nothing inside. It wasn’t really there at all, but – as Karl had said – some kind of projection.

  A projection of what?

  A worse idea struck her. What if I am creating it myself? Karl and Charlotte tell me that such things happen. Anything can appear in the Crystal
Ring. Nightmares become real. So if I’m creating this Kastchei-apparition myself, I’ll never be rid of it!

  “Who are you?” she cried again. “Kastchei? What do you want?”

  No answer. Instead it swooped at her. She couldn’t move fast enough to escape its path. The skull-creature went straight through her, and she felt it – a horrible, glacial rush that stole all her strength.

  It was gone. Nothing had happened, because there was nothing there. Only a mirage. But the shock sent Violette tumbling towards the Earth, numb, unable to stop herself falling down into the muddy darkness.

  * * *

  Emil woke in a strange bedroom full of carved dark wood. His whole body ached… but the pain was dull, nothing compared to the previous day. The bed was empty beside him. The sheets were rumpled, though, and a woman in an oyster silk chemise stood at the window.

  He felt as if he’d surfaced from the thick black silt at the bottom of a lake.

  “Oh my God, what happened?” he groaned.

  She turned to him with a charming white smile. Fadiya, that was her name.

  “Sadly, my dear, nothing,” she replied. “You toppled on to the bed and fell asleep. I could not compete with the charms of unconsciousness, it seems.”

  He remembered… just. Dancing with her downstairs in the small public lounge… stumbling upstairs, just drunk enough to find everything hysterically funny, but not enough to start any more foolish fights.

  And he recalled kissing her before he’d passed out: a brief, delicious sense-memory of her lips on his, warm and eager.

  Panic paralysed him. Could she be a prostitute? The thought hadn’t crossed his mind last night, but there had been very little in his mind at all. Or too much. All he needed now was a furious Violette, Thierry or Karl to burst into the room… Fadiya said nothing had happened, but she would still want her money.