The madness, p.25
The Madness, page 25
This is what you wanted, I remind myself. Right, down spirals, left, left, right, straight.
“If you’re doing this, then we need to have a plan,” Singer had said. “There’s no sense in wasting our one chance to get this bastard.”
“Get all these bastards,” Mam clarified. The Book of Blood was clear. If we could manage to kill the creator, all its spawn would be unmade. That’s why it was essential to infiltrate the center of the web.
We had huddled around Mam’s kitchen table for weeks planning it out. Singer would use a bug planted in my phone to connect to the club’s Wi-Fi as soon as I arrived. She’d hack into their system. If it was successful, she’d try to let me know.
“I’ll blink the cameras twice, if I can,” Singer had said. “It really depends on how much access I can gain. We’ll know on the day.”
If she was successful, then they could keep tabs on me, keep me alive. Quincey was ready to go nuclear and storm the club if I found myself in harm’s way, although I reminded her that “harm’s way” was the point.
We did the blood ritual in St John’s church’s thousand-year-old graveyard during a waxing moon, three weeks before I went to London. Each of us pulled free the wooden stakes that Mam had carefully crafted for the purpose. Elm for Singer, for the death and rebirth of her daughter. For vengeance. Elder for Quincey, our powerful protector. For balance. Cedar for Mam, boundless and eternal. For protection. And bloodwood for me, killer of Fampirs. The only wood for someone with blood already on their hands. For justice. With any luck, however, the ampoule would do the killing for me.
Mam broke open the bread roll she had baked that morning. It had the scent of garlic and chives, and something bitter that I couldn’t place. Not verbena, but a substance equally caustic. She put it in the center of the circle she’d drawn in salt and squeezed a dose of verbena oil onto it from a small pipette in a vial.
A hysterical impulse to laugh hit me as I took in the moment’s surreality. Here I was, Dr. Wilhelmina Murray, scientist, performing blood magic in a graveyard, with my mother, the batty witch up on the hill.
“It’s your turn, dear,” Mam said, nodding at Quincey.
My stomach lurched. Something about this felt so very wrong. Like playing with fire.
Quincey nodded and before I’d even blinked, she’d nicked her finger with a lancet from her glucose monitor bag.
“Diabetic,” she said, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows at me. “Diagnosed ten years ago.”
“You were fated to this role, it seems. Although it’s less impressive than an athame,” Singer agreed.
“On the bread,” Mam directed. “We need a fair amount.”
Quincey squeezed her blood onto the bread. When it wasn’t enough she pricked herself again and again until the blood soaked the whole loaf on both sides.
“Well endowed with collagen, dear copper,” said Singer, then muttering sardonically, “The athame would have been faster.”
“Repeat after me,” Mam said firmly, and enunciated words in what sounded at once Welsh and not. Quincey repeated each phrase diligently, and I shuddered.
Mam took the two halves and broke them apart so that five soggy pieces now lay in the grave dirt.
“Now eat.”
Singer’s eyebrows shot up. “Pardon?”
“Eat the bread. One piece each.”
“Even me?” Quincey asked, her nose wrinkling.
“Even you.”
“No one said anything about eating blood,” Singer said. She looked a little green.
“It must be done.”
“What about fucking hepatitis?”
“I’m clean, you cunt,” Quincey said, laughing.
A memory of Renée rose, sharing her masticated flies with me, and I choked back a sob. With shaking fingers, I picked up the bread and bit into it. Every instinct I had screamed for me to spit it out, to rinse my mouth with bleach and then bathe in a tub of it until I was clean again. I chewed, and chewed and chewed, trying to ignore the soggy mouth-feel and coppery tang in my nostrils, the knowledge that I was ingesting Quincey’s DNA, and forced myself to swallow.
Singer and Quincey glanced at each other, then did the same, gagging behind closed fists and scrunched eyes. Singer almost vomited hers back up but managed to hold it down, retching into the dust. Mam ate last.
“What about that piece?” I asked, eyeing the remaining soggy chunk.
“This one is for you,” she said. “And it will need all of our blood.”
I groaned. “Why is it always blood?”
Mam shrugged. “Blood is life.”
Quincey rummaged in her pocket again and held out a handful of lancets, and we all eyed them with distaste. “Doesn’t hurt, you big babies.”
It took less time for us to add our blood to the final piece of bread. Then Mam picked it up and began crushing it between her fingers. It squelched wetly, turning her hands crimson.
“This piece is for the ampoule.”
“Are we sure this is the best plan?” Quincey touched my arm. “Can you keep a plastic bubble in your gob for an entire month?”
I tongued the gap in my teeth where my front molar had once been. “If I can’t it’ll be me and Lord Cysgod in boiling excrement for the rest of eternity.”
Mam looked less than pleased.
Singer barked a laugh and slapped me on the shoulder. We all chuckled for a moment. Fleeting conviviality in the depths of horror.
“How will we know it worked?” I asked.
“As soon as we speak the words for Invocation, it will. I’ll seal it in the ampoule, then, once you’ve broken the capsule and it’s in your bloodstream—” she looked at me, her expression unreadable “—you’ll be protected.”
Now the moment has come.
As the stylist fusses about my hair, I take a breath and bite down on the ampoule. Bitter, concentrated verbena mixed with the spellbound blood of me, Mam, Singer, and Quincey is released in my mouth. It is a vaccine against fear. And against what is to come.
Please...please let it work.
When the priming up is complete, the guards steer us through labyrinthine hallways and twisting staircases—keeping a route in mind is impossible—until we are ushered into a grand foyer.
Every imaginable luxury is on display. Immense, richly patterned tapestries, Lucullan sofas arranged around a massive inglenook, crown molding on high ceilings, tufted detailing in every medieval splendor—nothing less than flawless for this thirteenth-century aerie. I imagine the blood of generations splattered unseen on the walls.
I keep my eyes open.
Five men sit languorously on sofas, while one leans against an adjacent column, conversing calmly among themselves. When we’re ushered into their presence, they turn in unison like a six-headed beast to scrutinize us with predatory cunning.
A seventh man with a vulpine aspect and shoes shined to mirror polish, seated in a high-backed chair steepling his fingers, gestures for us to approach. Dark hair combed back, his strange eye glints as he regales us with a smile. The other men seem subtly deferential: a nod here, legs crossed to face him, heads tilted to listen.
“Welcome to my house,” he says.
There is an easy politeness to him. An almost boyish charm. He’s not young—his features have something of a salt-and-peppered quality, suggesting an established man in middle age—but there’s nothing pompous in his manner. Nothing sinister. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect the other men were the monsters.
And yet, I am certain this is the man I have been looking for. The head of the serpent. At last.
My waning energy lifts its head like a mole scenting air.
Our ties are cut, one by one. We rub our wrists, each of us scanning the room for opportunities for escape. I watch the leader.
A ginger girl at the end of the line breaks away and rushes for the door. In the blink of an eye, the blond man by the column has cut her off with a wolfish grin. He snaps his teeth at her, and the other men laugh. The man in the high-backed chair watches, impassive.
Ginger lunges away from Blondie with a panicked shriek, and he catches her wrist with unnatural speed, laughing as he licks it with a tongue too long to be human.
“I like this one,” he says, sly eyes trailing over her flesh, nostrils flaring with the scent of her. “I think I’ll start here.”
“Now, now, Rodney,” says the vulpine man. “You will have your chance to bid, as always.”
The girl holding my hand cowers close to me.
“They’re not human,” she whimpers.
“No,” I say coldly. “They’re not.”
The vulpine man turns to us and smiles again. “You have been selected for a special celebration.” He inhales, closing his eyes, and I have an impulse to press my arms close to my body. “Such fine flowers. Don’t be scared. You’re my invited guests,” he says to the girl standing next to me. His eyes are kind, unassuming. If I didn’t know what he was, I’d almost believe him. What perfect camouflage.
I watch him, even as the other men move to survey us.
“And what purpose do we guests serve?” I ask, stepping forward. The girl beside me gasps at my audacity and tries to pull me back. I shake her off. I know what I am doing. I have to make certain he chooses me.
I clench my teeth to stop them from chattering.
He regards me with interest. His eyes are so penetrating I wonder if he can read my mind. I make sure to think something vulgar just in case.
“You are the sport,” he says with graceful charm.
“And you’re the monster, ready to pounce.”
He shrugs. “No use lying to the dead.”
“If you can catch me first,” I mutter, eyeing the door.
He cocks his head at my response and gives a sheepish, almost apologetic smile. “Indeed.”
With this he turns away, beckoning to his aides to prepare for what comes next.
A small team of men in suits—human by the look of it—shuffle around us setting up a small block, readying the television above the fireplace and handing out tablets.
Then it begins.
The bidding is degrading. Each girl is shoved forward for auction like we’re a Modigliani or Renoir, and the men bid by the hundred thousand. It doesn’t take very long. Our stats are shown on the main screen above the fireplace—blood count and type, muscle makeup, diet, features, and behaviors. When my own data litters the screen I watch the men salivating and a weird sense of violation comes over me. Even clothed in this gown, I have never been more naked.
I catch a glimpse of my profile. My name is listed as Bambi, next to my blood type—AB—along with other stats. I frown. My blood is O+. I’m absolutely certain. I wonder with panic if this could make or break what happens next.
Several of the men bid for me, but I keep the leader’s eye, my chin defiantly raised.
But it’s the worst possible outcome.
Blondie wins after nine rounds.
The creep is exultant.
“Yes!” he shouts, punching the air.
“Dickhead,” murmurs the long-haired man next to him.
Blondie turns, smirking. “First pineapples, then tulips, then the South Sea, then the Japanese stock market, then the dotcom bubble...at this rate, you’re going to be living off rats!”
His target, frowning, inhales to speak, but the vulpine man raises his hand.
“Rodney.”
Blondie’s smirk dribbles away.
The long-haired man chuckles as their leader raises his hand and waves Blondie to the side like so much debris.
Blondie, sulking, grabs the ginger girl and pulls her away with him. The other men follow suit, dispersing with their weeping “winnings.”
Mr. Vulpine stands and smiles at me.
“Mine,” he says, and offers me his hand.
34
He is so confident, so absolutely sure of his power over me, that he walks ahead, leading me out of the drawing room and along shadow-veiled, sinuous corridors without looking back. He doesn’t expect his prey to have fangs. Centuries have proven him right.
My fury is acid—how I wish I had the power to drain him of the lives he has stolen. How I long to give that life back to Lucy. My fault, my mind taunts. And yours, it adds, staring at the creature leading me to my death.
Right, down spirals, left, left, right, straight. I add in the new turns in reverse as I follow; they are a new tic, an obsessive song. Left, left, spiral down, right. The castle is more like a hedge maze—no doubt carefully built and added to over the centuries for this specific purpose. We are mice in a trap.
His eyes follow me as I enter the room he has chosen. A private study at the top of a spiraled staircase. I don’t know how far I am from the ground, how far from the sky. It feels like a terrarium, deep underground, hermetically sealed. It screams no point trying to run.
Mine.
“Wine?” he asks.
“Always,” I reply with mock enthusiasm.
My tongue probes for the ampoule, my companion for so long, forgetting I already cracked it open and swallowed. A momentary sense of loss, then buoyed by the knowledge that I am the ampoule now.
My reply gets a smirk and a raised brow. How he enjoys the mock civility of this game.
My reckless, furious rage returns as he pours wine from a glittering crystal decanter. It obliterates any fear.
Lucy will never drink shitty boxed wine again.
My eyes bore into him as he wanders over, holding out the glass. I force a smile. “Changed my mind.”
His jaw works, a flash of irritation quickly hidden.
Fuck you, I think, and almost sneer.
“Drink,” he insists, handing the glass over.
“No.”
He sips from it instead, his eyes never leaving mine. “Delicious,” he says, lips stained red. “It’s a shame, really. I bet you’ve never tasted yourself before.”
I jerk, startled. It’s my blood. But I force outward calm.
A long sigh, as though this is the real tragedy. “So few people get the chance to really drink deeply of themselves.” He puts the glass down and unbuttons his shirt, hands moving slowly from one button to the next, taking his time. Pervasive pattern of grandiosity... My brain is spitting diagnoses. Lack of empathy...excessive need for admiration... Does psychopathic narcissism occur among the undead? Or is it a situational hazard?
We haven’t even begun to crack the potential of their DNA...
Seward’s vile fascination.
I want to spit at him. I want to scream. To claw. Not yet.
Instead, I force myself to pick up the glass and take a sip. “I must admit it’s a first,” I manage, my revulsion disguising the fear contaminating my reckless anger.
He grins. Am I the first, I wonder, to willingly drink of her own blood? He looks back at me, shirtless, as he takes off his belt. He kicks off his shoes, followed by his trousers.
“Not a fan of clothes?” I quip, an edge creeping into my voice. I wonder just how many ways he plans to use my body before he’s finished with me.
“Oh, don’t go all prudish on me now,” he says, tilting his head to one side. “Your innocent look doesn’t fool me for a moment. We could have a lot of fun if you’d loosen up a little.”
Loosen up. He sounds like a uni lad, out on the town for a “bit of fun.” I can’t even count the number of women who’ve entered my office because they weren’t loose enough for a man’s liking.
Playtime is over. I swing my legs down and make a move to stand. But with inhuman speed, he’s pinned me down on the chaise. He’s fully naked now. One arm immobilizes my torso, while another holds the wineglass between us. I can’t move. He is a stone megalith. An arresting monster.
“Drink,” he says, and he isn’t asking. His pupils dilate, feeding on my fear and humiliation. “A benediction in blood.”
His weight grows heavier at my silence, my refusal, crushing me down until I feel my ribs creak in protest. All the easy manners of before, the facade, are now gone. His eyes lick themselves over my face, and his grin is more a sneer. Flurries of panic litter my body.
I remember why I’m here. What I’m doing this for. Who I’m doing this for. And slowly I open my mouth and close my eyes, a deliquescent form.
The soupy, clotted gore fills my mouth as I feel his erection grow against my leg.
Seizing my moment, I spit my own blood back into his face.
He’s startled for a moment, but that’s all I need. I slip out from under him to the door.
I glance back once and mouth, “Fuck you.” Then I’m running, leaving behind his sibilant anger.
Left, left, spiral down, right; right, spiral down, left, left, right. And then straight.
I race through one room draped in shadows after another. The entire castle is under a pall of gloom. I almost stop when I stumble on Blondie feeding on the ginger girl from the back of the line. She is limp in his arms, her throat entirely missing. The vampire looks up as I pass and grins, her flesh dripping from his teeth.
I hear howling in the distance and a dog—far too large to be normal—rushes past after a screaming girl in the opposite direction. I haven’t heard footsteps running after me, his inhuman speed chasing me down. I don’t slow, won’t wait to be found.
My eyes flick to the next turn in the hallway.
“Once you’ve taken the potion, you’ll have some advantage,” Mam had said. “A circle of protection that will make you harder to smell—and harder to trace. This might give you more time, but not much.”
Quincey had crossed her arms. “But you’re still on your own finding your way out of the castle. And we don’t have blueprints for you to study.”
