Two faces, one silver and one golden, rose over him, moon and sun. Karl felt their cool hands take hold of him, felt fangs tearing and sucking at his throat. Paralysed, he could not fight. Simon and Fyodor bore him out of the room, down twisting corridors into a cave.
They threw him into darkness, and he landed painfully on dank earth. A circle of brown gloom above... and Karl found himself at the bottom of a deep black pit, too weak to climb the sides or even to move.
Then came waves of fear, terror he hadn’t felt since being human. I will never die, he thought. I’ll lie here with the agony growing ever worse... and I’ll never know why.
If this is punishment for killing you, Kristian, I hope you are happy now in hell.
* * *
Benedict drove as fast as the old Morris and the cart-rutted lanes would allow. He had to stop twice to let the famished Andreas hunt, which further delayed them. They had just reached the valley mouth near Grey Crags when the engine finally overheated and died.
In the dreamy blueness of pre-dawn, Ben and Andreas left the car where it was and began to climb the valley on foot. A ragged path ran beside a stream, hills reared into heavy cloud; he remembered this wilderness so vividly from his childhood that it brought a cargo of mixed emotions.
Ben saw the mansion poised on the hill: part cathedral, part fortress. “Well, there’s the house,” said Benedict. “We couldn’t have motored much closer, anyway. There’s only a footpath.”
They crossed a wooden bridge over the stream and climbed a steep path, winding between boulders, to the front door. The house loomed over them; light glimmered from stained-glass windows, high above. Two stone lions, weather-worn yet menacing, guarded the iron-studded doors.
“Where is everyone?” said Ben. “I thought they’d be here by now. Perhaps they’re hiding behind the house?”
“No,” Andreas murmured. “They aren’t here.”
Too soon to start panicking, Ben decided. “I can’t believe Lancelyn’s here,” he breathed. “I can’t believe his cheek! What the devil has he said to Father?”
“Perhaps he cut short the argument by murdering the old man,” said Andreas.
Ben looked at his handsome, blood-flushed face, and shivered. “Don’t. Come on, let’s go closer to the walls before we’re spotted.”
Andreas went with him reluctantly, staring up at the pointed windows. “I don’t want to go inside.”
“What are you talking about?” Benedict looked at his watch. “Where the hell are the others? I thought they’d be here hours ago.”
“They should have been. Something’s wrong.”
“Always the optimist, aren’t you?” Ben leaned on a lion-statue. He looked at the heavy door knocker, a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. Andreas went to the door and pressed his ear to the oak panelling.
“Well?” Ben whispered.
“Some of them are here,” Andreas said quietly, startled and worried. “Inside.”
“What?”
“Karl’s presence is very faint. There are four others, but I can’t identify their auras. And one human. Katerina... I can’t sense her, I don’t know who is there.”
“Only four? Where are the others?” Ben’s confidence sank into frustration. The plan had gone wrong already. “Can you hear anything?”
“Only voices, too far away to distinguish... I don’t want to go in, Benedict.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s an evil energy inside that’s stronger than us. Can’t you feel it? I’m not such an idiot as to walk into a trap. What if our friends are in Lancelyn’s power?”
“In that case,” Ben said, “we should save them, shouldn’t we?” He tried the door, found it locked. “Too much to hope we could just walk in.”
“We could break a window,” said Andreas.
“You’re joking! Those windows are priceless!”
“Oh, the windows are more important than Karl’s life, are they?”
“This is wasting time,” said Ben. “Let’s do the obvious.”
He strode to the top doorstep, grasped the lion’s-head knocker, and pounded three times.
A slow minute passed before the door split and one half creaked ponderously open. Two weird, shining faces peered out, making Ben start violently. Shaking himself, he realised they were costume heads on the shoulders of two tall, robed figures.
One was that of a lion; a mask wrought in polished gold with a mane of rustling foil, like a sunburst. The other was a silver bull with curved horns like crescent moons. The lion was robed in yellow, the bull in white.
The lion spoke, its voice muffled behind the mask. “Welcome, Benedict.”
“Will you take me to Lancelyn?”
“That is our intention.”
As Ben moved forward, Andreas seized his arm and pulled him back, wild with fear. “Come away! Don’t go in!”
“I must. You can stay here.” He crossed the threshold, seeing a flight of stone stairs curving up in the gloomy interior. Home, after all these years!
Andreas followed, frantic. Ben turned to see the silver bull thrusting Andreas back with gloved hands. “Your presence is not required.”
Andreas staggered backwards, his face aghast in the narrowing gap. Then the door slammed shut, and Ben was alone with his bizarre welcoming party.
The darkness made him near-blind at first. He felt them removing his coat and jacket, then pulling a heavy cotton garment over his head. It felt like a ritual robe of the Order; he smelled incense in its folds.
“What are you doing?”
“Lancelyn wants you suitably attired,” said the lion. Ben knew that neutral, ageless voice...
“Just take me to him, will you?”
The bull laughed softly. He recognised the laugh, the heavy accent. “It is not so easy.”
“Fyodor?” Ben said accusingly. “Simon? What the hell’s going on? You’re meant to be on my side!”
Without responding, the lion-mask spoke. “Your right to see Lancelyn must be earned. He has sent us to test you.”
“Get out of my way. Where is he?” Seeing a faint grey glow from the first-floor landing, where the living rooms were, Ben strode towards the stairs. Lion and bull seized him. He struggled violently, to no effect. Their fingers were delicate, yet hard and strong as handcuffs.
Recollecting himself, he began to exert his will over them. “You forget, I am your master. There is a chain around your necks -”
“No longer,” said Simon. “You forget that you set us free.”
“Let me go!” he cried. “This is bloody ridiculous!”
“No, Benedict,” said Fyodor, a cruel smile in his voice. “This is bloody serious.”
They led him between them, not upstairs, but through the doorway that led to the kitchens and storerooms.
“You traitors. How did he get his hands on you? Or were you with him from the start? Answer me, damn it!”
They were mute. A door shut, enclosing them in blackness. He felt Simon leave him, heard a heavy creak. Another door opening, a sudden chill breeze... Then they led him forward again.
“Mind your footing,” Simon said helpfully. “There are steps down.”
The warning came too late. He trod on thin air, pitched forward, found strong hands bearing him up until his groping feet found the tread. Then, in the after-shock, a wave of fear wrenched his guts.
“I know what your costumes symbolise,” he breathed, counting steps as they descended. “The lion represents the sun, the bull is the moon; symbolising the study of nature as the path to high wisdom. This is an initiation, isn’t it?”
“Yes. An initiation for the adept,” the lion replied.
Forty-three steps, then an uneven, rocky surface tilted downhill under his feet. He heard water running, smelled the subterranean clamminess of a cave. A tremor of excitement broke through his fear. These must be the caves I could never find! Mother told me they were blocked off. Has Lancelyn re-opened them? How, why? As t
hey moved through darkness, Ben’s mind worked furiously to comprehend what Lancelyn was after.
A scream of metal and a blaze of light made Ben’s nerves explode, unravelling his hard-won calm into a tangle of terror. A hooded silhouette rushed out of the blaze, swinging a scythe at his head.
A scream leapt from his throat before he could stop it. He couldn’t move. The scythe swept over him with a swoosh, the blade’s draught ruffling his hair. Then the hooded figure shot backwards and jerked to a halt. As Ben’s eyes adjusted he saw what it was: one of Lancelyn’s damned automata, poised on a rail in a small, natural chamber. He swallowed, trying to slow his shallow breathing.
“The scythe-bearer welcomes the postulant to his initiation,” came Simon’s voice. The lion-mask was suddenly burnished bright by lamplight.
“Very impressive,” Ben said harshly. “I suppose there’s someone behind a curtain pulling wires?” No reply, but he sensed their amusement. Probably Fyodor himself had pulled some hidden lever. “So, Lancelyn insists I prove I’m worthy to speak to him? Incredible. All right, but tell me - is this a grotesque pantomime, or does he mean it?”
“His motives are his own affair,” said Simon, “but you’d be well advised to take him seriously. As a postulant, you have certain choices. Make the wrong one, and you die.”
The weight of the warning sobered him. Lancelyn would, he thought. He would actually kill me. And the vampires I nurtured to protect me have turned against me.
“What if I refuse to go along with this?”
“You have already begun,” said Fyodor, “but you can choose to stop.”
“But that choice will result in my death?” Ben said, his throat dry. “Very well, let’s get on with it.”
“Well chosen,” Fyodor jeered.
“Your way lies through there.” The lion pointed to an aperture in the far wall. An Alice-in-Wonderland rabbit hole, barely two feet high. “It symbolises the tomb through which the postulant must pass before reaching enlightenment.”
Ben recognised the words from an ancient ritual. “Go and triumph over the terrors of the tomb,” he murmured to himself. The smallness of the opening made his stomach recoil. Setting his jaw, he dropped down on all fours and entered.
It seemed a natural fissure, rough-walled, very narrow. Earthy, damp air filled his throat as he felt his way into the blackness, the robe catching annoyingly under his knees. Lancelyn may be several steps ahead of me, but he hasn’t won yet. Not while I’m still alive.
Two minutes into the fissure, claustrophobia hit. Sweat drenched him. He was on fire and shivering, his heart drumming madly. His tiny world rotated and he thought, God, my heart’s giving out! I shall be buried alive.
He crawled faster, scraping his hands and his knees. The roof touched his head; his whole body tingled with sick fear. Dear Lord, if I’m going to die here, let it be fast...
Now he was squirming on his stomach, breath chattering in and out. An inflow of fresh air reached him. His fear, having reached its peak, began to recede; then it dawned that the tunnel roof had risen, and there was space around him.
Ben’s panic subsided, leaving him shaken and humiliated. He stopped and sat on a rock, drawing deep breaths, chastising himself for allowing intellect to be submerged by primeval reflex. That won’t happen again, he told himself. To die, without scoring a single point against my brother, to die a fool? Not a chance. Death itself does not matter and I refuse to fear it.
Eyes straining against darkness, he felt his way across a rock-bed, edging between slabs and boulders. His fear had subsided to a background tremor, unpleasant but bearable.
Lancelyn, you’re out of your mind, he thought. A true initiation should be a test of the mind, not of someone’s ruddy pot-holing abilities... If it’s test of courage, though, I’ve hardly passed with flying colours.
His feet found a lip of rock and he dipped his hand into empty space beyond. A chasm, barring his path? On hands and knees, he worked his way along the edge, discovering that it was roughly circular, some twelve feet across. As he completed the circumference, he was startled by an alien substance pricking his knuckles. Something snake-like, tough and bristly yet warmish...
Rope! A rope ladder, in fact, lashed to a rock and hanging down into the pit.
Ben wiped sweat from his forehead and neck. A choice, obviously. Do I find another way out - and there must be one, since whoever put the ladder here is unlikely to have crawled through the wormhole - or do I climb down? Taking the easy way seems cowardly but might be wise; the difficult way, possibly courageous, probably stupid. Which of those am I, in Lancelyn’s opinion?
Well, we’ll see.
Gripping the ropes, he swung himself over the drop. The ladder creaked alarmingly. His descent was slow as he tested each rung before trusting his weight to it. He counted them as he went; twenty-nine, thirty - then his foot pawed at nothingness.
He stopped, hanging like a spider on a thread. His nerves threatened a second betrayal, but he shut down the turmoil. The utmost in bravery or misjudgment was required now. A gamble, he thought; if I let go, perhaps I land on my feet and find a tunnel to safety - or perhaps I fall to my death.
His hands were in a spasm on the cold, damp rung and he thought, I can’t let go. I’ll have to climb up again... No. wait. If I remove my robe and tie it to the bottom rung -
A voice below him almost dealt a fatal blow to his heart. “Benedict!”
Ben stared down and saw, gleaming like the moon floating on midnight water, Karl’s face. His heart jolted, blood galloped through his aching head. The visage shone with its own light, like some deep-sea creature with blood-red eyes.
“Benedict.” Karl’s voice was strangely hollow. “Help me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Lancelyn’s creatures captured me. They drank me dry and I can’t escape.”
“There’s no way out below?”
“Nothing. Only stone and water.” Two pale hands floated up, disembodied. “If you’d come further down the ladder, I could reach your ankle and haul myself out.”
Karl’s eerie, coaxing tone was far from normal. Ben didn’t move. “What do you mean, Lancelyn’s creatures?”
“Simon, Rasmila and Fyodor. I can’t explain what I saw, but they joined with Lancelyn’s daemons and became them, like souls rejoining bodies. They attacked Katerina and the others. None of us had a chance.”
“Are the other vampires dead?”
“I don’t know.”
Ben groaned in bitter dismay. Not merely defeated, but betrayed. “And you, Karl,” he said, “whose side are you on?”
“Yours, Benedict,” came the reply, “but I can’t help you until you help me escape. Reach down to me. It’s not far.”
Ben was uneasy, but couldn’t leave Karl. “Wait,” he said. The ladder shuddered as, with difficulty, he pulled his robe off over his head. With one end wrapped tight around his hand, he leaned out, dangling the garment into the lightless well.
Ben was rigid, breath held. He felt Karl grasp the cloth, his weight less than he’d expected. And then, in a rush like the killing leap of a panther, the vampire surged up towards him, his face pallid as tomb-marble, his eyes red pits of famine.
Ben gave a hoarse scream and loosed the robe. White fingernails scratched his hand, fell away into blackness.
Frozen, Ben clung to the ropes and stared downwards. Horrified, he knew Karl was famished beyond caring who became his prey. He had almost died to find it out.
“Benedict, come down to me,” said the voice, softly compelling. “I need you. Come...”
“No,” said Ben. Tears squeezed from his eyes with the sheer effort of resisting, with the harsh blow of treachery. “I should have known that a vampire’s blood-lust is stronger than loyalty, even yours.”
“I am in agony. You can’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry, Karl. Lancelyn’s used you against me. If I try to help you, I’ll die.”
Silence. The
n Karl spoke, his voice parched but controlled. “You’re right, Ben. You’ve seen that I can’t stop myself. Leave me, quickly! If you linger... I will persuade you. I think there’s a way out above. Go, before -”
That was the last Ben heard. He was already climbing out.
As he climbed over the lip of the pit, he saw a patch of pewter light a few yards away. A tunnel, high enough to admit a man! He made his way across the rocks and entered, feeling calmer but very grim. The glow, filtering along the twisting passageway, sculpted sooty masses of shadow more threatening than simple darkness.
Ben shivered in his shirt-sleeves, aware he might be walking into another trap. The tunnel led into a cavern of columns and rounded stumps of dripstone. He sensed watchers in the shadows, waiting, like Karl, to leap out and seize him.
He chanted softly to himself, channelling his mind towards Raqia. Hardly breathing, he waited for the silhouettes to pounce... He could hear a stream or spring, and over its soft bubbling music, an eerier sound like the silvery chime of bells.
A hundred shadows leapt and froze. Ben stopped in alarm. Yellow light spilled suddenly from above, sending fingers of flat darkness towards him. Squinting, he saw a doorway cut high in the cave wall, with light glaring through iron bars. Steps cut in the wall led to the aperture. He spun round to see what lay behind him; no watchers in the darkness after all. But seeing the cavern through which he’d walked, he gasped.
The whole cave glittered. It was a grotto embellished by human hands; every surface encrusted with crystal, amethyst, amber and seashells in swirling patterns. The shallow stream threw back reflections to dance on the ceiling. Cherubs stood on boulders, gazing into the water. Ben was amazed. To think this folly had been under the house, undiscovered, all through his boyhood!
He ran to the carved steps and ascended towards the light. Through the iron bars he saw a long, cream-washed gallery bathed in golden light. The unlocked gate swung inwards at his touch, and he entered.
The walls were painted with arcane symbols. Eleven bronze tripods stood along the length of the gallery, a bright-burning path to an altar at the far end. The peppery smoke of incense wafted to him.
A Dance in Blood Velvet Page 46