‘Just because no one has found it for so long doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist,’ countered Ambros. ‘It simply means that it hasn’t been found. But even if it did there is no ways that it would simply be lying about in a random antique shop. That’s just too ridiculous to countenance.’
‘So are you saying that it does exist?’ Questioned Bastian.
Before Ambros could answer, Emily reentered the room, a smile on her face. ‘Got hold of William. He’s back at his estate in Kent. He invited me there to stay over for a night or two. I’m going to catch the train and his man will pick me up at the station.’
‘We shall talk later,’ said Ambros to the Jamaican, sotto voce. Then he turned to Emily. ‘Good,’ he affirmed. ‘Now remember, this is not just a social visit. Find out what the hell is going on.’
Emily nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Chapter 17
Head of the United Kingdom House of the Nosferatu, Lord Chelsea Byron, had long since lost the ability to feel remorse, or fear, or love. However, the last thousand years had honed his ambition to the point where it superseded all else. And so, even though he wasn’t scared per se, he was nervous.
Because opposite him sat Janus Augusta, head of the Italian house and also the Capo di tutt'i capi, the supreme leader, of the entire World Vampire Federation.
Augusta had been born around 100BC and even for a vampire he was considered to be ancient. He sat in the leather wingback, his spine bent over almost double.
A network of throbbing purple veins stood out clearly on his hairless skull, as they did all over his body.
His fangs stood out on a permanent basis, at least four inches long and stained yellow with age. Uncut fingernails arched away from his fingers, so long that they literally curled back on themselves, preventing him from doing even the simplest of tasks for himself, a habit that he affected to show that he had servants for everything.
But his eyes belied his frail appearance, Deep red in color and filled with a bottomless well of inhuman insanity. A pure madness brought on by living for far too long. A psychosis that can only come from having lost every friend, lover and companion that he had ever had. Thousands and thousands of years of bereavement and sorrow. A veritable litany of loss.
And with it came a hatred of all that was human.
When he spoke his voice was so sibilant and quiet that, had his audience not had the hyper-sensitive hearing of the undead, they would not have been capable of hearing him.
‘It is a shard of the true sword,’ he said.
‘After Sir Bedivere cast Excalibur into the lake, the Lady of the Lake, a succubus by the name of Nimue, destroyed the weapon, smashing it into pieces and flinging the shards into the deepest ocean.
But she retained one piece. A piece large enough to fashion a ring. This ring she gifted to Sir Lancelot. It was known as ‘The Ring of Dispell’ and it dispelled any enchantments. It is this ring that we seek. It is this artifact that shall give the Nosferatu wearer the power to become a Daywalker.’
‘For many centuries we have searched for the relic,’ said Lord Byron. ‘How is it that we have only now learned that it is the fabled ring of Lancelot? Rumor has it as many different articles ranging from Solomon’s crown to the Holy Grail.’
‘Do you question me?’ Hissed Augusta.
Byron dropped to one knee before he replied. ‘Never, my king. I merely enquire as to how we learned of its existence.’
‘We did not,’ replied the ancient vampire. ‘I did. And that is most likely due to the fact that I alone have been searching for it longer than anyone or anything on this earth.’
‘A level one Familiar recently told us of rumors that pointed to a human, Sir William Townsend,’ responded Byron. ‘A dealer in antiquities. It was alleged that he had come across a relic of great power. However, some of my Aspirants searched his premises and found nothing.’
‘I have already heard about this,’ interjected the Capo di tutt'i capi.
‘Did the morons that work for you not think that any antiques shop of any value is bound to have many items with some sort of power in it?
We all know that age itself can bring power to an object. If we all merely romped about ransacking places with antiquities in, where would we be? I also heard that they left evidence of their deed on camera for all to see. And now those infernal Shadowhunters are poking their filthy noses in our business.’
‘That is true, my King,’ agreed Byron. ‘However, I did punish the Aspirants involved. I put two of them to the true death.’
Augusta sneered. ‘You have grown soft, Lord Byron. See to it that the other Aspirants involved are also beheaded.’
Byron nodded. ‘Of course, sire. It shall be done.’
‘I know,’ affirmed the ancient one. ‘Now, tell me of your other blunders.’
‘What blunders, my liege?’
The Capo hissed. ‘Do not play with me, child,’ he commanded. ‘I know all. You insult me by performing parlor games. Four of your elder brethren have been killed. What happened?’
Byron flinched. He had thought that he had covered his tracks; however, once again, he had underestimated the leader’s power and influence. ‘There is a new Shadowhunter, my king,’ he said. ‘A mere child, only newly come into her powers. I sent four Enforcers to kill her, thinking that it might discourage the Foundation from looking any deeper into our affairs.’
‘And what happened?’
‘She killed them, sire.’
‘How is that possible?’ Asked the ancient vampire.
Byron shook his head. ‘Truly, I have no idea. Our informant assured us that, while she was talented, there was no way that she could best four of our top exterminators. It is a mystery.’
‘Did she receive help?’ Enquired Augusta.
‘Our informant says not. Apparently she did it herself.’
Augusta nodded. ‘Interesting. Find out more about this new Hunter. Report back to me when you know everything about her. Lineage, history…everything.’
Lord Byron got off his knee and bowed deeply. ‘As you command, so shall it be done.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Augusta. ‘That is true. And I advise you never to forget that, Lord Byron. Now leave me, I grow hungry. Send me a Familiar. Someone young. Preferably male. A boy if you have.’
Byron bowed again and left the room.
Chapter 18
William’s stately home, Taunton Abbey, was situated a couple of miles outside of the port town of Dover in Kent. His ancient driver had picked Emily up from Dover station and driven her to the residence. Truth be told, she was expecting a huge pile similar to the Foundation headquarters. But William’s place was very different.
A long, marble chip driveway led to a house that wasn’t quite as large as the Foundation but was still magnificent. However, where Pankhurst Manor was all gargoyles and mullions, the Abbey was all light stone and glass. Hundreds of leaded windows reflected the sun and, instead of grotesques, the roof line was decorated with stone filigree, cherubs and angels.
The only jarring point was a huge wolf’s head carved above the main door, its jaws open wide, canines exposed and eyes staring madly ahead. Underneath, in Latin, Vitae Passus Est.
Em assumed that it was the family motto. “Life is Suffering”. She suppressed a shudder. The whole thing was incongruous when compared to the bright and beautiful surrounds.
The car pulled up in front of the sweeping steps that led to the front entrance and the chauffer clambered out, tottered around and opened her door for her. Waiting at the top of the stairs stood William, his tousled hair a mess like he had just left it that way when he got out of bed that morning. But, as usual, the rest of him was immaculate. Olive moleskin trousers, Burman walking boots, a tan Orvis bush shirt and a sleeveless Shoffel shooting gilet in a dark chestnut.
He looked like a walking palette of autumnal shades.
He smiled and Emily felt her heart leap. Then he strode down the stairs towards her
and enveloped her in a huge hug. She could feel the heat of his body and it felt almost unbearably hot, as if he had a fever. His rangy muscles felt like steel hawsers as she pressed up against him. And his smell was masculine and comforting at the same time. A heady mixture of grass and ozone and leather and soap.
Then he suddenly pulled back and let his arms drop to his sides.
‘Oh,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry. What do you think of me? Manhandling you like that. I must apologize, it’s just that, well, I was so pleased to see you. Got carried away, don’t you know?’
Emily laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t mind.
Actually, it was nice; I’m also pleased to see you.’
William’s smile returned two fold as his obvious pleasure at her response painted itself across his face.
‘Splendid,’ he retorted. ‘Awfully good. Well, the chaps will take the luggage up to your room. Chef has prepared us a light lunch, then perhaps I could take you on a little tour of the estate?’
Emily was pleased to see that William’s concept of a light lunch was so far off the mark as to be ludicrous. The table literally groaned under the weight of roast pheasant, slabs of home cured ham, stuffing, potatoes and vegetables.
Ravenous as usual she piled her plate high and ate with gusto. William ate in the same fashion, consuming even more than Emily’s Shadowhunter hungry metabolism and she wondered how he managed to stay in such good shape. With that calorific intake, she thought, he should be the size of Lyle. But she decided that discretion would be the better part of valor and deigned to ask him how he stayed so ripped when he ate enough to sustain four normal men.
True to his word, William showed her around the estate after lunch. She immediately fell in love with the place.
Rolling manicured lawns stretched for acres, leading down to the sudden drop of cliffs that overlooked the English Channel. To her right she could see the White Cliffs of Dover; resplendent in the cold English sun as they reflected the light off their unbelievably white surfaces.
Copses of Oaks dotted the landscape and, scattered about the estate were random buildings that seemed to have no purpose other than decoration.
William called them Follies, and they ranged from the Beacon Tower, a fifty five foot high tower, to the Faux castle, a huge façade of a medieval castle that stretched some five hundred feet from end to end, its purpose merely to improve the view from the main ballroom of the manor house.
‘You don’t have any livestock,’ noted Emily as they walked about the estate.
‘How do you mean?’ Asked William.
‘No horses. No sheep, cows. I’d have expected livestock. I mean, I know that it’s not a farm but I thought that all English gentlemen had horses.’
William laughed. ‘Well, not this one. Don’t really like them and they can’t stand me. Must be a family trait,’ he continued. ‘As far as I can remember, the Townsends have never ridden to the hounds or kept livestock or pets of any sort. Not even dogs.’
They wandered back to the house and William walked Emily through most of the formal rooms, withdrawing rooms, ballrooms, dining rooms. Each one more spectacular than the last.
Eventually Em started to experience a sort of luxury-overload. William picked up that she had seen about all that anyone could take in during one visit.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a few phone calls that I have to make before the market closes. Why don’t I show you to the library, you can nose around there for a while and when you’ve had enough, pull one of the bell-cords and a chap will come and show you to your room? We’ll be eating in tonight, so there’s no need to dress but I’m sure that you shall want to avail yourself of the bathroom and such.’
Em smiled her agreement and, a few minutes later, she was alone in a magnificent library. She wandered around, not looking for anything specific, simply looking. She was surprised to find that, as well as many thousands of leather bound musty old tomes, there were hundreds of more contemporary books. Ranging from Hemmingway through to Lee Child.
She picked a few up and thumbed through them. They were all first additions and most had been signed and dedicated.
She picked up a first addition of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
It was dated 1890 and when she opened it she saw that it was dedicated and signed by the great man himself. To my Darling William, it read. Your munificence is overshadowed only by your compassion. Your friend forever, Oscar.
Emily smiled to herself. Obviously William’s great-grandfather had been christened William as well.
Next, an original copy of Shakespeare’s Macbeth caught her eye. Man, she said to herself. This must be worth a pretty packet.
Once again it was dedicated by the author. William, remember always; ‘He is mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf’. With love and respect from your namesake, the other William.
Em did a few figures in her head and worked out that all of the male Townsends for the last few hundred years must have all been called William. She raised an eyebrow. Wow, family get togethers must have gotten confusing, she mused.
She meandered down the room and eventually found herself in a low-ceilinged section. Here the books seemed older than all of the others. But despite their obvious age they were well preserved and, unlike many of the other books that she had walked past, seemed so devoid of dust that they must have been fairly regularly used.
She ran her fingers along the shelf, reading the titles out to herself as she did.
The Book of Abramelin the Mage. The Ars Notoria.
Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. ‘The false monarchy of demons,’ translated Emily to herself. She took it down and flicked through it. The English was archaic and difficult to read but the book was basically a compendium from the 16th century, dictating the names of the sixty-nine major demons. Weird, she observed. Wonder why he reads these?
After a moment’s thought, Em came to the conclusion that the books must be collectable as far as William’s business was concerned and, with that minor mystery solved, she found the bell-cord and gave it a yank.
Shortly after that an old retainer arrived and showed her to her room.
Chapter 19
The evening meal had been fantastic and now Emily and William sat in the small withdrawing room. A fire crackled and spat in the massive fireplace and filled the area with a gorgeous mellow light.
William had poured a brace of liqueurs for the two of them. Something called Benedictine. The bottle looked hand blown and when Em looked at the label she could see the date of distillation, 1820. The drink was almost two hundred years old, she realized with a shock as she took a sip. The flavor was intriguing, unusual more than delicious.
‘This bottle was made for me in the 18th century by a monk by the name of Francesco De Guilamme,’ said William.
‘From the Benedictine Abbey of Fecamp in Normandy. You can see here, on the label.’ He pointed. ‘The initials, DOM. Stands for Deo Optimo Maximo.’
‘To God, most good, most great,’ translated Emily.
William smiled. ‘Correct. So, you are a linguist as well as a jazz expert.’
Emily didn’t react; she simply stared at the young man for a few seconds. Finally she spoke. ‘For you,’ she said.
‘What?’ Responded William.
‘You said that the monk made it for you.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes,’ she affirmed. ‘You did.’
‘How silly of me,’ said William. ‘After all, that was over two hundred years ago.’ He held the bottle up. ‘Some more?’
Emily was about to refuse but when she looked at her glass she saw that she had finished her first tot so she held out her glass for a refill.
‘I saw some interesting books in your library,’ she said. ‘Particularly at the end of the room in that low ceilinged area.’
‘Ah, yes,’ acknowledged William. ‘The occult section.’
‘Do you read any of those?’
&nbs
p; ‘From time to time,’ admitted William. ‘Some of them are rather fascinating. Hard going though, mainly being in Latin.’
‘Have you ever come across any mention of the corona potestatem?’
William frowned. ‘The Crown of Power. I have read many stories, take your pick.’
‘You tell me,’ insisted Emily.
‘The saying goes – He who wears the Crown of Power shall rule over all. But there is no definitive work saying what the Crown actually is. Many say that it is merely the assumption of power, not an actual crown. Like the presidency or a potentate of some sort. Some say that it was the crown of Aragon, others, that it was a ring worn by the Prince of Wallahia, Vlad the third. Or, as most people know him, Vlad the Impaler.’
Emily gasped. ‘Dracula?’
‘The same,’ admitted William. ‘Count Vladimir Dragwlya. Count Dracula.’
‘The vampire.’
William laughed. ‘Folklore and peasant superstition,’ he said. ‘There are no such things as vampires. Granted, Vladimir was a complete psycho. Killed hundreds of thousands of people. Although, by all accounts his younger brother was quite a nice chap. He went by the moniker of Radu the Handsome.’
‘Wow, no wonder Vlad was pissed,’ noted Emily. ‘His brother gets “Handsome” and Vlad gets “Impaler”. I’d also be a little peeved.’
William laughed again. ‘True, but it didn’t make him a vampire. That was all due to the Irish author, Bram Stoker in 1897.
He didn’t invent the vampire but he definitely gave it its modern interpretation. He simply took Vlad’s inherent evil and enhanced it by making him a vampire.’
‘So, no corona potestatem?’ Asked Emily.
William shook his head. ‘Afraid not. Still, that should help you sleep better at night. No vampires, no ghouls and no monsters to disturb your slumber.’
The young Sir walked Emily to her room. When they got there he folded her into his arms, and hugged her tenderly. Then he kissed her on the lips. A soft, lingering kiss that rooted the Shadowhunter to the floor and threatened to take away her ability to stand on her own two legs.
Emily Shadowhunter - Book 1: VAMPIRE HUNTER Page 8