But Stefan went on clawing towards his target. Reiniger stepped backwards, out of reach, weaving his own dagger in front of Stefan. Its movement left trails of light, glyphs pulsating with silver fire. A shield.
Karl managed to get Stefan’s arms behind his back. Stefan kicked at him, then tried to rush head first at Godric, his neck twisted upwards and fangs bared. He uttered a piercing shriek that made the group members step back, flinching and pressing their hands over their ears. His momentum took both him and Karl off balance and they stumbled without grace to the floor, legs tangled.
Karl pinned him down. Stefan writhed beneath him like an enraged cat.
“Don’t!” said Karl.
“Why not, why the hell not?” Stefan growled.
“Because they were expecting this! If you attack them, they’ll kill you.”
“Do you think I care? Get the hell off me!”
“I care,” said Karl. “There’s no use in you dying unless you take them with you, and you can’t.”
Reiniger’s voice rang out. “Remain on the floor, both of you. We hold the power here and you know it. You’ve seen proof. You feel it, don’t you?”
Karl bowed under the increasing air pressure. The weight was so intense it made his ears ring. He glanced around and saw the gang now in a tight double circle, surrounding them. Sky-blue cloaks, pale savage faces, shining blades. They held their daggers aloft as if they were about to start a crazed knife-throwing act.
Such weapons could land hilt-deep in the flesh. How many wounds could he and Stefan endure, Karl wondered, before they actually died as Niklas had?
Killing us should be easy, he thought. They only need to pin us here long enough to hack off our heads. However limited Godric’s knowledge, he must know that much. If in doubt, they’ll cut us up and burn the remains.
With Karl and Stefan immobile, Godric Reiniger appeared confident enough to approach them. He straightened his cloak and stalked forward with his sikin held casually in his right hand.
“Perhaps now you realise I am deadly serious, von Wultendorf.” He raised his chin, glaring down his nose at them. “No one says no to me. When I asked you to transform me, it was not a suggestion.”
Karl managed to disentangle himself from Stefan and crouched beside him, one hand keeping him quiescent. The massed vibration of the knives made him dizzy. He met Godric’s haughty eyes.
“And when I told you I can’t, I was not making excuses. I will not create more vampires. Even if we tried, there is a high chance that the change would kill you.”
He felt Stefan jerk beneath his hand. This exchange had confirmed that his twin’s death was an act of revenge. Karl thought, Stefan, with all my heart, I am sorry. Perhaps we should have done as Godric asked: transformed him but let him perish. What’s wrong with me, that I can’t harm this petty tyrant?
“Separate them,” Reiniger snapped, gesturing to his henchmen. Karl and Stefan were dragged to their feet, held with knife-points digging into their necks and six feet of space between them. “I may require you to kill the blond one – the head needs to be severed. The dark one – Karl, I would talk to you again. If you refuse, your blond friend will die.”
“Let him go, and I’ll talk to you,” Karl said simply.
“Not possible. He’s like a spitting wild cat. I can’t let such a dangerous beast go free.”
Karl felt the heat of Stefan’s gaze on him. From long years of habit he composed himself and made his face expressionless.
“Herr Reiniger,” he said, “when did you last see your niece?”
“I beg your pardon?” Godric came closer to Karl, stone-faced.
“Think when you last saw her.”
Godric paused, eyes narrowing.
“Last night.”
“We have Amy in our custody,” said Karl. Inwardly he prayed that Charlotte had found her and that his statement was not an empty bluff.
“What?” Godric was speechless for long seconds, to Karl’s satisfaction. A shifting restlessness built among his followers. “Where is she?”
“In the company of vampires,” Karl said softly. He let his true nature shine through; his pallid dangerous beauty, his eyes unhuman like an angel’s. This hadn’t impressed Godric much before, but was always worth a try.
“You’re lying!” His breathing quickened. He half-raised the knife, hand trembling.
“Try finding her, then. Are you willing to gamble her life? You’ve protected yourselves, but not her. Let Stefan go, and you’ll get Amy back. Let him go, and I’ll talk to you willingly.”
Seething, Reiniger turned away. He took Wolfgang and six others away from the main group, whispering urgently to them.
“Karl, why do you want to talk with this monster?” Stefan demanded. “After what he’s done to Niklas, to us?”
The Stefan of old would have delighted in the irony of a vampire calling a human a monster. The new, red-raw Stefan was deadly serious. Karl understood, but a horrible chill spread through him; the old, wickedly charming Stefan might be gone forever.
“Because I created this monster,” Karl answered softly. “My actions in the past are at least partly to blame for what he’s become. Everything we do casts a long shadow.”
“Don’t get philosophical with me,” said Stefan. “Just kill him!”
“Will you trust me and do as I ask? Be calm. Or at least pretend to be calm.”
“If you have my niece, prove it!” Reiniger spoke over them, loud and furious.
“I can, but that may take an hour or so,” Karl answered. “If Stefan has not been released by then, it may be too late for her.”
Blood crept into Reiniger’s ashen complexion. Karl added, “You can afford to let Stefan go. You still have me.”
“I don’t want to be released!” Stefan retorted. “Give me ten minutes with these pigs – if I make them suffer a tenth of what Niklas went through, I won’t perish in vain.”
Karl took a breath, close to anger and wondering what would force Stefan to leave. He said quietly, “You realise who went to capture Herr Reiniger’s niece?”
“Wait a minute,” said Stefan, his eyes suddenly blazing into Karl’s. “Who is with Niklas?”
“No one,” Karl said steadily.
At that, Stefan shook as if he would combust with emotion, a column of white-blue flame. “You left Niklas on his own? How could you? I’ll never forgive you for this.”
“I had no choice,” Karl said steadily. “I followed you here. Violette had to leave, as did Charlotte. Niklas is dead. He won’t know.”
“You bastard! That’s not the point! I know!”
Stefan struggled and hissed in his captors’ grip. His face was chalk white, ghastly.
“In which case, why don’t you go to him?” said Karl. “If he needs anyone, Stefan, it’s you.”
That persuaded Stefan at last. He threw a look of pure hatred at Karl – but he shook off the human hands and strode out. Karl closed his eyes in pain, wondering if Stefan would ever recover. He’ll never be the same again, he thought. Never.
When he opened his eyes, Godric Reiniger was standing in front of him. His expression was alarmingly intense and eager.
“Well, Karl? Shall we go somewhere more private to talk?”
* * *
Emil woke in the soft half-light of a bedroom. Fadiya was asleep beside him.
Asleep.
He realised that he had never seen her sleeping before. On the bedside table beside her lay a small dagger, hardly more than a letter-opener, with a ruby set in the pommel.
He got up and looked out through the filigree screen across the window. Below lay the courtyard garden. His gaze drifted around, taking in the hazy beauty of flowers and fountains and blue sky. Light-headed, almost too lazy to move, he wondered if they’d drugged him. This place was so beautiful, with its falling water and shaded galleries.
“They’re all vampires, aren’t they?” he said as Fadiya rose from the bed and drifted to join h
im. “Every single one. Once you’ve seen, you can’t unsee. What is this place?”
“A safe house, dearest,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “Our secret dwelling, Bayt-al-Zuhur. House of Flowers.”
“If I go outside and tell the authorities, it won’t be a secret, will it?”
“Now, why would you do that?” Her smile and her seductive eyes worked their usual dark magic on him. Whatever she was, he still wanted her desperately. “Or rather, how? You can’t escape. I know how high you can leap, but even you can’t clear these walls. And if you could, and soldiers came to break down the doors, we’d simply vanish.”
“They might come with guns. Hand grenades. Bombs. Turn your palace into rubble.”
She gave a slight shrug, indifferent. “We’d find somewhere else to live. It’s only a house. But isn’t it beautiful? Why would you want to destroy such a splendid riad?”
Emil couldn’t form a sensible answer. How weird, to feel so terrified and yet numb, as if his fear were miles away. I am mad, or drugged, he thought. If I know, why can’t I fight it off? What’s happening to me? Every minute he sat there, he felt his fitness fading, his blood-starved muscles turning soft like overcooked spaghetti…
“What are you doing?” Fadiya asked as he straightened up and placed a hand on the wall.
“I need to practise. Violette will be furious if I lose condition,” he said.
The room tilted. He staggered, catching himself with one hand as Fadiya helped him back to the bed. She murmured something strange. Surely he’d misheard.
“Let me worry about Violette’s fury.”
“What did you say?”
“Bathe and get dressed. You can eat breakfast in the garden. We have to leave soon.”
“Leave? I don’t understand.”
She would not answer his questions, so he did as she asked, then went outside and sat on a bench in the shade, trying and failing to shake off his dream-state. He was afraid, but his mind’s warnings would not connect with his body to force him into action.
A commotion pierced his trance; a rumbling engine, clouds of orange dust, voices. It was coming from somewhere beyond the walls but sounded alarmingly close.
A man said, “We’re ready.”
“Coming, Nabil,” said Fadiya.
Three pairs of hands, as strong as steel cable, seized Emil. He tried to ask what was happening, tried to resist, but he couldn’t make his limbs or tongue work. He uttered a faint laugh, only to choke on exhaust fumes and sand. This was ridiculous, couldn’t be happening. Not to Emil Fiorani, the greatest male dancer of his time—
“Not yet, you aren’t,” said Mikhail in his mind.
I should not be here, he thought as graceful, pitiless demons bore him away.
He was stuffed into the back of a truck with a canvas roof. His legs and wrists were bound with rope, and a rag tied around his mouth – when had they done that to him? He felt the truck’s grumbling vibration, breathed in a nauseating combination of fuel and hot metal and a ripe farmyard smell, as if the vehicle’s usual cargo was goats.
“And you know where to wait?” Fadiya was speaking in French to someone outside the truck. “We should have over a day’s head start. And make sure you explain fast, Nabil; it’s said she is quicker to kill than to talk.”
* * *
Reiniger brought Karl to his private cinema again. The room was bright, illuminated by modern chandeliers made of black struts. Black velvet curtains hung closed across the screen. Karl hoped there were to be no more movies, but Godric only sat on the arm of the nearest back-row seat. It occurred to Karl that this was somewhere Reiniger felt comfortable, safe. Like the meeting chamber, there were no windows.
He sensed men guarding the doors, but no one came in with them. The energy that radiated from the bone-knives still tingled painfully on his skin. Immunity might develop eventually, but he guessed the process would take more time than he had.
Part of the reason he’d cut himself was to see if exposure would lessen the dagger’s effect. He had a brief flashback to the musty cellar where Charlotte’s father had his laboratory. Karl had endured considerable pain as he sought chemicals to destroy vampire flesh. He’d never been afraid to experiment on himself.
“Well, now,” said Godric, drawing on a cigarette. “If anything happens to Amy, you’ve seen what I’m capable of in return. None of your friends are safe from me. Especially not your lady friend – your wife? – Charlotte. Doesn’t that merciless streak make me a perfect vampire candidate? I’m giving you a chance to reconsider.”
Karl suppressed his reaction. He couldn’t let fear distract him.
“Why would you wish to be a vampire, when you have all this? Weapons to paralyse us, followers who share your dreams – what more do you need?”
“Because…” Reiniger took a deep drag and blew out an acrid cloud. He sat with his legs crossed at the knee, all poised arrogance except for the raised foot tapping at the air. “It’s all external, isn’t it? The sakakin, the bone-knives, aren’t part of me. Any of my followers could betray me. It’s the difference between being a mouse with a matchstick sword and being a lion.”
“There’s probably a fairy tale about that,” said Karl. “The mouse always wins.”
“And by using its wits, of course, not fangs and claws.” Godric drew back his chin in a subtle sneer. “But your kind has intelligence as well as strength. Why can’t the two coexist? I need to become more than I am. I know I have the potential. Why should you keep this gift to yourself? Jealousy?”
“Believe me, it is not jealousy. I told you before that this existence is not what you think.”
Reiniger gave a soundless laugh. “How do you know what I think?”
“Actually, I’m interested in what everyone thinks,” Karl said softly. “That is why I spend too much time listening to the ramblings of an egomaniac, rather than breaking your spine. I learn a lot. I cannot resist waiting to hear what comes out of your mouth next.”
“What?”
“You strike me as a man who loves to talk but never listens. You are so wrapped up in your own ideas and plans, you close your ears to other voices except those that agree with you. It must have stung to hear the audience laughing at your film. You think that if you become an immortal predator, you can force people to recognise your genius. If your group seizes power, you could pass a law.”
Reiniger’s cigarette broke between his teeth. He spat out the stub.
“Amusing, Karl. And partly true. All great men are obsessive. Yes, I have an appetite for power. Mainly for the good of my country, but also to open people’s eyes.”
“To make them pay attention to you?”
“I seem to have your attention. And you’re correct: I don’t care for your opinion. However, I still believe we could be comrades, Karl. And there’s a vacancy in my circle. I’m missing a knife and I suspect you can locate it. Bring it to me, and join us.”
Karl half-smiled in surprise at this offer.
“But I killed your father.”
“You did. But I was standing there, and I failed to save him. There, probably, is the reason that I loathe feeling powerless.”
“That would make sense. You were only ten years old, yet you think you should have saved him.” Karl moved away and down the steps, looking at framed artwork on the walls. Each was a piece of stretched white linen showing a similar rune roughly drawn in brown paint.
Not paint. Dried blood.
“Don’t open their eyes too wide,” said Karl.
“What do you mean?”
“Let us say you got into government. You don’t want the populace knowing about this, do you? Your occult activities. Carving patterns on to the bodies of living people and taking a print, as if their blood is ink. Do such symbols have actual power?”
“Oh, yes.” Reiniger came slowly down the steps after him, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Blood is life, and intention is energy. Everyone who joins my circle undergoes this
initiation. It isn’t fatal – unless we cut too deep – but the ritual adds power to the group, and brands each member as one of us. These are not mere abstract paintings, but records of sacrifice, pain and blood initiation. A seal of each man’s dedication. When we’re ready to make our move, the Swiss government will not withstand us. Alliances and federations make the nation weak: I intend to make us strong. We’ll all possess your gifts: charisma, persuasion, hypnotic power, physical invulnerability. Karl, I hope you’re beginning to see that you’d be wiser to join us than oppose us.”
“I’m seeing something,” Karl murmured. He wondered just how much power Reiniger’s group had drained from Stefan and Niklas. Although he believed that “magic” meant no more than “lack of explanation”, he knew the universe could behave in enigmatic ways. He touched the textured surface of a canvas with blobs and smears of blood so fresh they still gave off an odour. He saw a name written small in one corner. Bruno Glor.
He suspected that Bruno had not survived.
“I don’t oppose you,” he added. “Your politics don’t concern me, but your attack on my friends does, very much. Where did you get the bone-knives?”
“From my father,” said Reiniger.
“And how did he acquire them?” Karl didn’t expect a straight answer, but he suspected that Reiniger was talking openly in order to win him over, or at least to impress him.
Godric needs my approval, Karl thought, puzzled. Everything he’s done has been to seize my attention: an unpalatable mixture of ruthless brutality and mysticism. Is he really prepared to forgive me, just because I might be useful to him?
“He was an archaeologist,” said Godric. “He unearthed them on the northern edge of the Sahara Desert, along with scrolls he estimated to be at least four hundred years old.”
“From a grave?”
“He didn’t believe so. They were simply buried, like hidden treasure. His painstaking translation revealed what seemed to be description of creatures that lived on blood and never died. As for the rune ritual, he derived that from what he read. Each knife is a channel that takes energy from the victim to the attacker.”
“Ah,” Karl said softly. “So if humans stab a vampire, it creates a kind of vampirism in reverse?”
The Dark Arts of Blood Page 37