The Burning (5 page)

Stephan turned his horse into the tavern yard of the village of Cheddar Gorge in the pouring rain. The creature’s coat steamed in the night air. Both he and Stephan streamed water. Stephan dismounted and handed the reins to the lone ostler who darted out from the portico. Then he unstrapped his valise from the saddle and turned into the inn. He refused to be tired.

Conversation stopped as he stamped his feet and shook
his dripping locks in the doorway. He looked up and found the locals, men and women, staring at him. The tankards the serving girls carried dripped foam onto the scrubbed floorboards. He stared back and eyes around the room glanced away. The landlord cleared his throat and moved forward, rubbing his hands together nervously. Low conversation started again, though it had a self-conscious tone.

“Can I be of service, sir?” The man had gray, curling locks that hung about his ears.

“A room,” Stephan muttered. “And some dinner.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Molly, show the gentleman up to the room vacated by Mr. Van Helsing.” He beckoned to a slatternly girl with a squint.

“No need. Just take up my bag.” Stephan handed his valise to the boots and unfastened his cloak.

“And have you eaten?”

“I’ll dine in that parlor.” Stephan nodded toward a doorway as he shook out his cloak.

“Very good, sir.” The landlord obviously recognized the quality of the cloak or the cut of the coat beneath it. Or maybe it was the gold signet ring. “I’ll send Molly in to stir up the fire. Some hot ale for a cold night?”

“Brandy,” Stephan said shortly, and strode through to the private parlor. He lounged in front of the fireplace as the girl poked up the logs. A boy of twelve or so brought in the brandy, bowing. The occupants of the coffee room made freer with their conversation with Stephan locked in the parlor. They couldn’t know he still heard them so clearly.

He chose a venison steak and roasted potatoes from the bill of fare. The brandy warmed him, and he settled down to listen. He thought the town would be talking about the epidemic of “influenza,” but that was not what was on their minds.

“So, young Van Helsing’s makin’ headway,” a man’s voice said, with a cackle.

“Moved in under the very roof,” another agreed. “I calls that progress.”

“ ’E’s welcome to that one,” a woman guffawed.

“Think ’e knows what she is?” the first voice queried.

“Think ’e cares? The money, woman, the money’s the thing.”

“I wouldn’t be foolin’ with no witch,” the woman said.

“She ain’t no witch. She’s a loon, pure and simple. It’s them eyes of hers and that white hair that makes you call her a witch. But that’s just . . . sooperstitious, that’s what.”

“An’ there’s the little matter of knowin’ things she cain’t know,” the woman returned. “That’s witch, that is. I wouldn’t have a wife like that.”

“I would,” the first voice chortled, “if she came with that kinda land and money. Husband would have it all. Once he’s in, he just commits ’er.”

“Shoulda been locked up a long time ago, I sez. We’d all be safer.”

The landlord served Stephan’s meal himself. The clatter of trays overwhelmed the conversation in the taproom. When the landlord bowed himself out, Stephan shut out the closer conversation and listened for others, fainter but still discernible. A discussion of cows. The curate at Winscombe was going to marry.

There . . . “My cousin’s man, over to Shipham, come down with that influenza. Can’t seem to get on his feet.” This might bear fruit.

“Whiskey with lemon, I alays say.”

“Now his sister’s laid up. Nasty-looking bites, she has, in the neck, just here. Doctor says as how it’s insects, but they look more like rat bites to me.”

“I ain’t heard of no influenza what starts with rat bites,” someone warned.

There was a pause. “Could we be talkin’, you know . . . plague?” the first whispered.

Stephan knew it wasn’t influenza. It wasn’t insects or rats. No. You might call it a plague, though. He was on the right trail. They were here somewhere. They would need a secluded place. With the number of afflicted victims, there was more than one. Three or four, perhaps. He ate his dinner mechanically. The joy of food was long gone, diminished by his awful purpose into merely the necessity of sustenance.

He might not be up to four. But if he tried to pick them off one by one, at the first death the others would scatter and he would lose his chance. He had no choice. He must find them together. But first he must find them.

Abandoned houses. Or . . . wasn’t this area known for its caves? Uncomfortable, but who knew how uncouth these vampires were? Perhaps they liked caves. He pushed back his plate and rose. Tomorrow he would see an estate agent about abandoned houses in the area. He could comb the properties in the early evening and search the caves by himself in the wee hours.

There was still time tonight. The ostler would know about the local caves. And he would tell Stephan about them whether he wanted to or not, under compulsion. The vampires would be out hunting tonight, but he would know their lair if he found it. Perhaps it was best if he located it while they were away. Then, when they came back in daylight, he would be waiting for them . . .

Stephan pushed back the fatigue of a long ride. Time to begin the hunt, while he still had eight hours of darkness left to him.

Three

Ann paced her nursery, her heart thumping in her chest. She couldn’t blame her uncle. He was trying to provide for her future, however misguided he was. But she could blame her cousin. Van Helsing could have no love for her. She had not seen him above half a dozen times. That meant he wanted what she had, not who she was. He’d have heard tales growing up of the money sunk in the Funds. Twelve thousand a year and no mortgages. The fact that she and her uncle lived so modestly only meant the land was in good repair, the latest improvements made to her tenants’ houses, and most of the income ploughed back into the Funds. Oh, she might be called comely, if one could get beyond the look she had of not being quite connected to the world, and the eyes. But her appearance was simply more of what she had, not who she was. Actually, her eyes were the feature of her appearance most “who she was.” That was probably why Van Helsing was uneasy meeting them.

It didn’t matter. She could not marry. She could not even touch a man, let alone take a husband. Surely her uncle
didn’t believe Van Helsing would be content with a marriage without a conjugal relationship! She’d . . . she’d talk to her uncle tomorrow, have him send Van Helsing away whether it was good breeding or not to do so.

She caught her breath. She was actually panting. She felt out of control, as insane as people all thought her. There was only one remedy for that. She needed calm.

Ann grabbed a knitted shawl and a candle and turned to the ornate fireplace. She ran her hand over the intricate carving of the right panel. The panel clicked and opened silently onto darkness. Ann breathed. Here was the antidote to the dinner and Van Helsing’s conversation with her uncle. She ducked into the dark passage she knew so well. Down through the walls of the house she tiptoed on the old stone stairs, careful not to touch the narrow walls of the passage or brush against the entrances to several other rooms at Maitlands as she passed. No one used this passage anymore. No one but her even knew of it. At last the floor leveled out. A stone arch with a jagged-toothed design in the Romanesque style signaled the end of the tunnel.

She stepped out into the immensity of the stone crypt that underlay the original abbey. The smell of old stone and damp earth and the dust of centuries enveloped her. The darkness was hardly dispelled by her tiny candle. The nearest round arches that held up the ceiling loomed above her. She had explored every corner of this hidden sanctuary when she was little. So she knew that if her light reached far enough, it would reveal the stone coffins, some with effigies carved in their lids, that lined the edges, and the side chapels where the walls had caved in and the earth fell into fans of wet loam. Several great fireplaces lined the walls. She had no idea whether they were there for heat, or whether they had once served some more sinister purpose. There were altars in the two small chapels that remained and carved fonts for anointing the dead. Nothing here held terror for her.

This was her secret place. Above her the ruined arches of the abbey when it had been taken by Henry VIII were Gothic because they were newer than this crypt. The standing walls aboveground were still attached to the part of Maitlands Abbey that was occupied, as if in silent reminder that all on this earth was transitory. The Brockweirs had no need to build a Gothic folly on the grounds to evoke tristesse and passing time. The building carried its own ruins. The intact portion had been transformed many times, its Gothic stone softened into comfort by succeeding generations who forgot about the crypts below the ruins. Ann only found them because of the secret passage.

Her footsteps echoed in the immensity as she crossed to the stairs that led to another narrow passage. Now she was creeping along under the knot garden, toward the wilder part of the estate. After what always seemed an eternity, she saw the stairs to the stone door in the monument that stood beyond the cultivated gardens of the estate, out past the meadow, next to the woods. She climbed and pushed against the door. On spring hinges it opened to her touch as though it were new and not hundreds of years old. She stepped into the night. The stars spread out in twinkling chaos after the rain as they wheeled above her, the constellations only an artificially imposed order. Behind the stars was the cloud of the Milky Way.

Calm. How could you not be calm in the face of such implacable immensity? She looked back at the impassive stone men in robes looming above her. Were they priests? Their inscription had been lost to time and weather. The door to the passage was in the base of their statue. They understood immensity. But she did not reach out to touch them. Their stone had been carved by human hands.

She turned to the woods marching up the slope to the Gorge. The Gorge was filled with trees and stones that had never been touched. Trees held only the passing of seasons,
the occasional trauma of storm or fire, but no emotion; no betrayal or dismay or anger. There was a faint . . . satisfaction in trees, the almost imperceptible joy of growth. But up there, hidden in the sheer stone above the river, was her very favorite place. A place of stone. The stone of caves was even quieter than trees.

She started through the woods.

Stephan Sincai strode up through the forest behind the town toward the gorge that cut sheer sides through the Mendip Hills. They were more than hills really and the road that followed the gorge sloped up steeply. Best to keep off the road if possible. He struck out through the trees. The forest was mixed with deciduous trees and conifers, unlike his native lands in Transylvania. The night was nearly moonless and shadows of deep and deeper black were all that revealed the presence of the trees and boulders. But Stephen walked surely through the maze. The night was his time. The smell of rotted leaves and the green spice of needles filled the damp air.

The ostler said the hills were filled with caves, most without an entrance to the outside. Not promising. But there was one larger cave, discovered long ago, with many branches and side passages. Stephan would start there. He strode through the darkness, stiff with purpose. He would not think of the horrific job to come. It was the price. The price he longed to pay to expiate his crimes. Asharti was his fault, her evil laid at his door. He might have turned her toward goodness if it hadn’t been for loving Beatrix.

Beatrix . . . for a while he thought she loved him in return. He began to see life as more than an endless series of jaded encounters with human cupidity and cruelty. He’d found that the world held possibility when he saw it through her young eyes. Then came the realization.

CASTLE SINCAI, TRANSYLVANIAN ALPS, 1105

In the darkness of the barn, with the breathing of the animals all around, Stephan opened his eyes as Beatrix approached. The green smell of new-cut hay mingled with the aroma of horses. And beneath that, the musky scent of their lovemaking in the stall. As he sat, the blanket fell to his waist, exposing his bare chest and shoulders. When had she left him? He must have fallen into exhausted sleep. There was a hard core of despair in his belly. Beatrix thought he did not love her because he had tried to love Asharti. Asharti hated him because she knew in his heart he loved only Beatrix. Making love to Beatrix had not erased her hurt
.