Hotel Transylvania

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  "Don't you hear it?" Roger cried out to them.

  "Hear it? Hear what?" Domingo y Roxas put aside the wooden supports that would be used to carry the new athanor to the cart.

  "That noise. That sound. It is louder here." Roger glared at the floor. "You must hear it."

  The three paused; then Domingo y Roxas said, "It is the athanor." But his tone was dubious, and the others shook their heads.

  "I don't know what it is," Sattin said. "It is not the athanor."

  "There is a door into the vaults," Roger said as he listened to the sound. "Somewhere, there is a door!"

  "His Highness told us earlier," Sattin said, trying to remember now the location. "It is a trapdoor, I think, in the floor. In the north? Perhaps in the north part of the cellar."

  "Well, find it" Roger cried, remembering all he had seen when Saint-Germain had set him to watch Saint Sebastien.

  Mme. Lairrez stopped her packing once again. "You may look for it if you like, but I have obligations as well. I must have all this on the wagon and ourselves away from here before dawn. I will not allow you to stop me." She took one more straw-wrapped jar and pushed it into the huge basket with the others.

  "One of you?" Roger pleaded. "Ragoczy is in danger. He is in terrible danger."

  Beverly Sattin put his books aside. "As you wish. I will help you find the door." He refused to meet the reproachful eyes of his two Guild Brothers. To mollify them, he said, "It will not take long, and we owe a great deal to His Highness."

  "Go, then." Mme. Lairrez relented. "And may you find him safe."

  Roger looked at her. "Amen to that, Madame." Then he set off into the dark behind Beverly Sattin.

  Excerpt from a letter from Duc de la Mer-Herbeux to le Comte de Saint-Germain, dated November 5, 1743:

  ...The plan you have confided in me of your trip to England comes at a most fortuitous time. I trust that your offer was in earnest and that you are still willing to bear one or two messages to the Crown for me. You need not make a formal delivery of these packets, which I have enclosed with this letter. You will do well to hand them to my friend Mr. Walpole, who will know best what to do with them.

  ...I had your note yesterday, but the delicate nature of the communications I am sending with you have delayed my responding until now. I had thought to see you at Hôtel Transylvania earlier this evening, but it was closed, apparently due to some illness in the staff. So I have taken the liberty of sending these by messenger to your manservant, who you have told me has your utter confidence.

  While you are in England, I hope you will learn what you can about the matter with the Stuart claim. Charles Stuart is apparently serious about challenging George's right to the crown. Far be it from me or France to question the right of George II to his throne, but you may understand why our Beloved and. Most Catholic King Louis XV is concerned in the affairs of Charles Stuart, also a Catholic, and one whose claim to the throne comes from older associations than does His Britannic Majesty George II's. You will be ideally placed to observe the sentiments of the government and any comments you would care to pass along to me would be most heartily appreciated.

  I have prepared a note for that scholar of your acquaintance, Mr. Sattin, who you tell me has been studying in France for many years. In this note I commend your friend for his abilities and suggest that he continue in the same manner to the credit of a worthy patron in England. I beg that your friend Sattin will not too much discredit me.

  ...Several weeks ago you made passing reference to a planned visit to Prussia. As you have said you will return to France by summer, I trust we may speak further then of those plans.

  ...It is late and I am eager to retire. I wish you a pleasant journey and calm seas for a swift passage (although my experience has almost always been to the contrary). This and the enclosures by my own hand, are bringing you the humble thanks of

  Your most indebted

  Pierre René Maxime Ignace Ferrand Vivien

  Laurent Montlutin

  le Duc de la Mer-Herbeux

  Chapter 12

  Saint Sebastien's headlong rush down the aisle almost reached fruition. Saint-Germain was surrounded by the Satanic worshipers, and though he plucked them away easily, he could not free himself of them.

  Madelaine had braced herself for the blow she knew would dash out her brains, and knew a moment of resentment because there had not been time enough, or blood enough, for her to become vampiric and escape the awful finality of the death that faced her.

  And then Saint Sebastien fell, die broken plank he carried dropping from his hands in a resounding thud. His rage flared anew, desiring suffering in which to be slaked.

  Even that was to be denied him. Robert, Marquis de Montalia, held him back, his hands scraped to the bone where he had pulled them from the ropes that bound him to the altar, his face a bloody mask from the torn ear. His hands which held Saint Sebastien by the ankle sent blood running down le Baron's leg.

  Saint Sebastien writhed in this merciless grasp, trying to kick de Montalia's hands away with his free foot. Each blow he gave to those raw hands must have been agony for Robert, but the hold did not break. Robert shouted incoherently, staggering as de Vandonne fell against him, but would not release Saint Sebastien.

  De Vandonne lay against the altar, his dissipated young face in a rictus smile. He could not move his arms because Saint-Germain had, in two swift movements, dislocated both his shoulders. He did not think he could stand and did not make the attempt; his feet were pulpy where the heel of Saint-Germain's boot had crushed them. He saw Robert de Montalia, like some monster from the Temptation of Saint Anthony, pull Saint Sebastien toward him, destruction promised in every move he made with his butchered hands.

  De la Sept-Nuit had grabbed Saint-Germain by his hair, and tugged, wanting to deliver a series of sharp blows to his throat. He felt a clump of the slightly curling dark brown hair pull out of Saint-Germain's scalp. Then he winced as the beautiful small hands reached back and fixed themselves to his arms at the elbow, tightening, tightening, until there was a giving way, and de la Sept-Nuit screamed and his hands dangled uselessly below badly broken arms. Saint-Germain spun around, turning de la Sept-Nuit so that he could pin the young Chevalier's arms behind him, and in a fast, clean upward snap of his knee, broke the spine of Donatien de la Sept-Nuit.

  Though he resisted with frantic strength, Saint Sebastien was being drawn inexorably nearer to Robert de Montalia's deadly hands. He knew beyond question that if de Montalia once fixed those bloodied fingers on his throat, he was a dead man. He fixed his hands on the uneven floor and pulled against the relentless strength of his adversary, but without avail.

  "I will kill you," Robert de Montalia said slowly and distinctly, and Saint Sebastien heard the words over the din of groans, shouts, and oaths.

  It was Jueneport who took two of the torches off the wall and held them before him like short swords. He motioned his Circle confederates aside and began to move in on Saint-Germain, brandishing the torches in le Comte's face.

  This was a moment Saint Sebastien could use. He kicked out desperately, then shouted with all the strength that was left in his body, "In the name of your Blood Oath, help me!"

  Châteaurose and de les Radeux heard this, turning toward the cry. They did not hesitate, but threw themselves on Robert de Montalia, bearing him to the floor.

  As Madelaine watched this terrible battle, she was almost sure she had been forgotten. Her horror at the wrath of her father, and the brutal attack that even now had defeated him, went beyond tears, or hatred, or madness. She felt nothing, and had to convince herself that this was not happening in a dream, or to someone else far away. Only the sight of Achille Cressie bringing an iron brazier to the men who had brought down her father forced her to sudden action. She made another effort to test the strength of her bonds. On the third attempt she noticed a give in the part of the screen holding her left arm. Grimly she turned her attention there, determined to get free. />
  Achille Cressie had thrust Châteaurose out of the way with an angry word, then himself stood over Robert de Montalia. He took the brazier by its base and raised it high above his head, shouting to Robert as he did, "No one had you after me!"

  An instant later the heavy iron bowl had smashed de Montalia's face beyond recognition as anything human.

  Saint Sebastien nodded grimly. "Well done, Achille. That makes up for much." He looked toward Saint-Germain, then leveled his arm at him. "I want him killed. Do it slowly."

  Once again the Circle began to converge on Saint-Germain, and he met the threat calmly. He had judiciously avoided the torches Jueneport held, his agility and speed more than once catching Jueneport off guard and forcing him to retreat.

  "If you hold him, I will burn him," Jueneport shouted to his fellows.

  Those words brought Madelaine's head up, and all her fear, her desolation, rushed back. She remembered that Saint-Germain had told her fire could kill him. After his long, long life, it tore at her vitals to think he would die so stupidly. She renewed her efforts to get free.

  Saint-Germain heard these words, but said nothing. Instead, he fell back some little way from Jueneport, as if seeking to escape the torches and the men who fanned out to capture him. But this was deceptive. Quite suddenly, and without warning of any kind, he threw himself to the floor and rolled swiftly toward Jueneport's feet. As he passed under the man's legs, he reached up and delivered sharp blows to the back of his knees.

  While Saint-Germain rolled beyond, Jueneport fell forward heavily onto the torches he carried. He made a ghastly scream as the flames licked at the silk robe he wore.

  "Madelaine!" Saint-Germain said urgently: "Madelaine!"

  She cried out his name and pulled to the limits of her bonds.

  "Can you walk?" he asked as he came to her side, keeping a wary eye on the Circle members, who were once again moving to surround him.

  "I think so."

  "You will have to." He smashed his hand against the screen where it held her, and the wood broke under the blows. Quickly he took the pyx from around his neck and put the chain over her head. "It has the Host They will not touch it.”

  "But you..." she began.

  "The door is at the rear of the chapel, in the little narthex. It will take you into the Hôtel. From there you must find your way out."

  "And you?"

  Saint-Germain turned to her, and for a moment the hot fury left his dark eyes. "I will follow you, my heart. You have my Word on that."

  "But Saint-Germain," she said, her whole body shaking as she stood free and unbound for the first time in many hours.

  He kissed his fingertips to her. "Go," he said softly. Then he wrenched his eyes away from hers and turned to face the men who were coming closer. He paused only a moment, then rushed to them, his arms upraised.

  Startled, the Circle fell back a moment, and that moment was long enough for Saint-Germain to reach for Achille Cressie.

  Madelaine did not hesitate. She stumbled down the side aisle, almost falling twice as her feet, both treacherously half-asleep, turned under her. At the end of the chapel she could not find the door, and the dark there made the corners uncertain.

  Behind her, Saint-Germain lifted Achille Cressie into the air by shoulder and thigh, then, using Cressie as a battering ram, brought him down full force against Beauvrai, who fell back, bruised. Achille Cressie began a high, quavering wail that grew louder as Saint-Germain hurtled him down at the floor again. The sound stopped abruptly, on a pulpy thud.

  "Fall back!" Saint Sebastien shouted, and his Circle obeyed, keeping themselves beyond the range of Saint-Germain's deadly hands and feet.

  At the back of the chapel, Madelaine again tried to find the door, and was about to scream with vexation and terror when there was a screech slightly above her, and a sliver of light fell across the wall. In a moment the door was open, and in it stood Roger and Beverly Sattin.

  "Oh, God be thanked," Madelaine sighed, and fell into the arms of the English sorcerer.

  In the center of the chapel there was stillness save for the spasmodic twitching of Achille Cressie's body.

  "Master," Roger said at his most imperturbable, "I think your coach is ready now."

  "Thank you, Roger," Saint-Germain said, only slightly out of breath. "I have some little business to finish up here."

  Roger bowed, then pointed out, "The unfortunate there in the flames has started a fire, sir."

  Until that moment, Saint-Germain had not noticed the incendiary flickers that were creeping up the piles of stacked pews, feeding hungrily on the dry wood. All the men in the cellar turned toward the fire.

  "As you see," Roger said somewhat unnecessarily, "you cannot leave through the vault. There is only this stairway." He stood aside.

  Saint-Germain nodded. "I see. Take Madelaine to my coach, then. And keep that door open."

  Saint Sebastien motioned to Beauvrai, who staggered to his feet. "The door!" he snapped as soon as Roger, Sattin, and Madelaine were gone.

  Beauvrai lumbered toward the door, his silk robe flapping ludicrously about his bandy legs.

  "Now," Saint Sebastien said, raising his hands in demonic invocation. He began his chant, and the flames took on a darker color. Saint-Germain moved cautiously toward the door, then stopped as the fire moved higher along the wooden supports of the chapel. He realized that in very little time the ceiling might collapse.

  De les Radeux watched his uncle, and then in panicked flight rushed across the room, pushing Beauvrai aside, and ran for the stairs.

  If Saint Sebastien noticed this defection, he gave no indication, but continued the sinister chanting, moving his hands toward the conflagration, then pointing toward Saint-Germain.

  The flames roared up between Saint-Germain and the door, narrowly missing Châteaurose, who leaped back with a curse.

  "I am loath to leave you, Saint-Germain, or Ragoczy, or whoever you are," Saint Sebastien shouted, to be heard above the eager crackle of the flames. "But I fear our little encounter must end." He smiled at the wall of fire that cut Saint-Germain off from the door. "I am sure you will have some few minutes yet. In that time, you may contemplate the vengeance I will take on your companions." He made an insulting magnificent bow and fled to the door, motioning to Beauvrai and Châteaurose to follow him.

  In a few moments Saint-Germain heard the door slam shut and the uncompromising sound of the bolt driven home. He looked at the flames that were eating steadily toward him, devouring the wood and cloth that had been part of that chapel for more than a thousand years. The heat scorched his lungs when he breathed, and he felt his eyebrows singe.

  He could delay no longer. Stepping back to the altar, he gathered his strength, then rushed at the flames, leaping into the air and somersaulting over them, his stocky body pulled in on itself, made as small as possible. On the far side of the fire he came down on his feet, dropped to his knee, and then was up again, coughing as smoke filled his lungs.

  There was a warning rumble, and a large part of the ceiling gave way, revealing the empty cellar above and giving new life to the fire as cool air rushed in. Saint-Germain stood for a moment, debating if he should try to force the door, but the fire was already reaching into the wooden floor of the cellar. He did not have the luxury of time.

  One of the ceiling supports that had fallen was not yet burned. This he put against the wall and began to pull himself up its length, hand-over-hand. The heat was becoming oppressive, and his eyes burned with smoke.

  As he gained the cellar floor, he heard the sound of running footsteps. He realized that he must have got ahead of Saint Sebastien, and that those dire men were coming behind him. He breathed deeply, then sprinted away for the sorcerers' laboratory, knowing he could intercept them there.

  He had barely flung open the door when Saint Sebastien, Beauvrai, and Châteaurose appeared. The sorcerers' room was empty but for the two athanors, and one of them glowed with a heat far in excess of
the fire that already was beginning to gnaw at the walls behind them.

  "Well met," Saint-Germain said, stepping into the room.

  Châteaurose stopped first, and gave a strange cry. His face was that of a man in his worst nightmare afraid to waken.

  Beauvrai was too exhausted to speak, but flung up one arm as if to ward off a blow.

  But Saint Sebastien smiled. "I think not," he said, and reached for the nearer athanor, which was the newer, larger one.

  What he had meant to do with it was never discovered, for as his hands touched the heated bricks, he screamed, and reeling back, he tipped over the alchemical oven. There was a muffled crack, and then the brick walls of the overturned athanor bulged, sagged, then burst explosively, revealing gears of white-hot metal, mangled now, and losing the precious molten combination of carbon and azoth which poured on the floor in a thin, burning stream, flames spreading around it as it ran.

  Châteaurose, who was farthest away from this, ran past it, madness distorting his face, and foam on his lips. His robe flirted with the burning elements as he ran, but his flight was too swift for even that hungry flame to take hold.

  Where the molten carbon and azoth touched metal or cool wood, there formed little diamonds like the bright bits of salt left on the sand when the tide was retreated. The diamonds winked in the growing heat, shining with the fire that caressed them.

  "The secret of jewels," Saint-Germain said to Saint Sebastien. “Think of that as you die." He was already moving toward the door.

  Now the walls were charred and there was heavier smoke in the room. Beauvrai stood at the open door that led back to the chapel, indecision in every aspect of his posture. He coughed once or twice, then said to Saint Sebastien, "You never told me about the jewels, Clotaire. I don't like that." He put his hand to his mouth and retched.

  Now Saint-Germain had gained the first tread of the long flight of stairs out of the cellar. He paused to look at the hellish room, saying to the two men on the far side of the fire, "I only regret the loss of my Velâzquezes. What a pity they must burn because of you."