Magistrates of Hell (37 page)

It staggered back, bayed at her, a yawping animal sound, then drove in again. She kicked again and felt her skirt tear where it grabbed her, kicked a third time, and a fourth – it didn’t seem to have any other strategy than to keep coming, keep grabbing, as if it knew that she’d tire long before it did. It leaned its weight on her, swung its arms, and her kick turned into a desperate shove, holding it away.

It howled.

Then it turned from her and followed its companion out the door and into the main room.

Lydia heard other things in that room and realized that the crashing in that direction had stopped. So had the screams and the shots. The smell of fresh blood came to her, and of cordite. She heard them crashing and pounding on the door of the western chamber, drowning out the crooning wail of the vampire Li below.

Can he really control them, once he’s brought them to him? Command them?

Or will they only see him as flesh that can’t fight them when they go to eat it?

There was nothing on the floor around her – or nothing she could see, by dim moonlight without her glasses: no shattered glass or broken shards of wood.
There’s got to be something
. . . Hesitantly, she bent her cramped knees, slithered down the pillar and squinted to get a better look at the floor. Distant and muffled, she heard Li’s voice, shouting what sounded like commands . . .

Shouting them again, louder and then louder . . .

Then he screamed.

A slumped form loomed suddenly in the moonlight, huge as it staggered through the door. Lydia tried to push herself to her feet but it was too quick for her. She smelled the blood on its clothing, blood on the huge hand that closed on her arm as it dragged her up to her feet.

Blood on Hobart’s breath as he stammered, ‘Get you out— Get you out— Oh God, that thing down there!’

He must have had a penknife in his pocket. Lydia twisted her hand aside when he sliced her bonds.
Do not, DO NOT get a cut
. . .

He kept his grip on her arm, stared down at her with eyes that caught the moonlight like an animal’s. In a voice that astonished her with its own reasonableness, she said, ‘Let me go, I can walk,’ just exactly as if he were Mr Woodreave trying to help her over a puddle.

It didn’t work. His grip tightened.

‘You’ll run away.’ His voice slurred over the swollen bloodiness of his growing fangs. ‘Need you. Make them give me medicine.’

Dammit
. . .

When he dragged her through the pavilion’s central room she could hear Li screaming down below, hideous shrieks.
Dear God, they must be tearing him to pieces, eating him as he lies there
. . .

She tripped over the corpses in the doorway. Two of Mrs Tso’s men, blood-covered.

‘Dying in my head,’ whispered Hobart. ‘I feel it – I felt them all, dying, oh God! I’m going mad, and I can’t go mad . . . I’ll make her give me medicine . . .’

In the middle of the courtyard a third figure lay: a woman’s, in a satin
ch’i-p’ao
. Bound feet in tiny shoes poked out from beneath her hem, and a gun lay near her hand.

Tell him who she was, or not?
He barely seemed aware of her.

‘You’ll be all right. Swear it. Honor bright—’ Hobart giggled suddenly and looked down into Lydia’s face. ‘Just – put you someplace safe for awhile. There’s places under the bridges, under the palaces—’

‘That really isn’t necessary.’ She forced her voice to be matter-of-fact. ‘I can arrange—’

‘No arrangement.’ He dragged her to the walkway. ‘Fed up to the bloody back teeth with goddam arrangements. Can’t let them see me like this. She’ll give me the medicine. I’ll make her. They’re all dying, I can feel them . . .’

More voices shouted in the courtyard, over the braying of the
yao-kuei
. Hobart stopped, and Lydia turned, to see in the moonlight indistinct figures rushing into the court as the slumped forms of the Others emerged from the pavilion. A shotgun roared. Lydia thought she saw the white blur of a beard on one tall figure, the flash of round spectacles and a samurai blade. She screamed, ‘Jamie!’ as Hobart seized her around her waist and lifted her from her feet, covered her mouth with a reeking hand.

And ran. Faster than she’d guessed the
yao-kuei
could run, down the walkway, across a court. Lydia kicked, writhed, nearly suffocated by the paw over her face, but he only tightened his grip. She heard him panting, almost in her ear, the hoarse, animal note of it terrifying.
His mind is nearly gone, and what then
. . .?

Through a broken gate and out on to the sloping shore of the shallow lake, water scummed with dirty ice in the moonlight. A marble bridge where the northern lake ran into the southern, and broken steps leading down to blackness underneath. Hobart stopped, set her feet on the ground and looked around him—

‘Remember this place,’ he panted. ‘Extraordinary—’ And there was a lightness in his voice, like a man in a dream. ‘Never been here in my life but remember it. They were here, there’s a hole they went down, cellars – cellars into cellars . . . It’s like I dreamed it.’

Then he flinched, put one hand to his head, face twisted with pain. ‘They’re dying. They scream when they die, inside my head. It’s like pieces torn away bleeding from my brain. I’ll put you there safe, then go back, talk to her . . . make her give me the medicine. It saved her boys, or would have, if they hadn’t been killed—’

‘She can’t give you medicine,’ gasped Lydia. ‘She’s dead. Back there. She’s dead.’

He struck her, jerking her arm to drag her into the blow. Half-stunned, Lydia sagged against his gripping hand, and he pulled her up again, held her against him. The moonlight reflected in his eyes like mirrors. ‘You’re lying,’ he whispered. ‘Won’t do you any good. You cunning little bitch.’

Then he grinned, with his bloody teeth, and put his palm to her cheek. ‘But pretty—’

A second set of reflective eyes appeared behind his shoulder, and a long white hand wrapped around his chin, another braced on his shoulder. Hobart roared, spun, faster than Lydia had ever seen a living man move, flung her down on the broken steps and slashed at Ysidro with his claws. Ysidro strange and wraithlike, as she had seen him when he hadn’t fed, weakened and stripped of illusion. He dodged, tried to twist free as Hobart grabbed him by the wrists—

And as if she’d rehearsed it a dozen times for a pantomime performance, Lydia stuck her foot between Hobart’s legs.

Hobart went down like a felled tree on top of her, his weight crushing, and with a whispered oath, Ysidro reached down and neatly broke his neck.

‘
Dios
.’ The vampire rolled the horrible corpse away, held out his hand to help Lydia to her feet. His fingers were like frozen bone, his long hair hanging in his eyes. ‘Mistress, I—’

In the same instant that Jamie’s voice shouted, ‘NO!’ a dozen yards away, a shotgun roared.

Ysidro’s body bowed under the impact of the blast, his white shirt starred suddenly with blood. For an instant his hand closed convulsively on hers, and their eyes met, as if he would have said something to her . . . She was aware of running footsteps, of Jamie and Professor Karlebach racing toward them, Asher tearing the shotgun out of Karlebach’s hand—

Then Ysidro’s eyes closed. His fingers slipped from hers, and he stepped back from her, his face relaxed into an expression of unearthly peace, and fell into the ebony lake without a sound.

‘H
e was a vampire,’ was all Karlebach would say. ‘A murderer a thousand times over. How can you shed one single tear for such a thing? What kind of woman are you?’

Asher knew there was no hope of making him understand. Kneeling – cradling Lydia in his arms, her body shaking though she made not a whisper – he replied quietly, ‘She’s a woman who has just had her life saved and seen her rescuer killed before her eyes.’

Karlebach’s face was the face of an Old Testament prophet, who speaks the judgement of God and is not moved. ‘He was a vampire.’ It was as if, for that space of time, he knew neither of them, nor anything beyond that fact.

The yellow light of flames sprang up behind the roofs of the Tso compound and showed Asher the trim little shape of Count Mizukami making his way down from the broken gate. ‘Madame Ashu—’

‘Is well.’ Asher rose to his feet with Lydia held against him, all that exhaustion and the pain in his side would tolerate. Her face pressed to his shoulder, her hands gripped his torn sleeves convulsively, unable to speak or to meet the eyes of anyone around her. ‘But I’m taking her back to the hotel. You’ll tidy up here?’ He glanced toward the spreading blaze now visibly licking above the roofs.

‘It is done.’ Mizukami must have used the spare petrol from the boot of his motor car, or else found lamp oil in one of the rooms near the vampire Li’s prison. ‘I even sent a man for the Fire Department.’

‘Thank you.’ Asher felt drained, emptied of every thought and feeling except that Lydia was alive and unhurt.

And that Ysidro was dead at last.

Young Private Seki, chalk-pale, brought the motor car around to the spot where Big Tiger Lane opened on to the lakeshore. Asher’s boots crunched the icy sand as he stumbled up the short slope, laid Lydia gently in the back seat and covered her with the car rug. Rigid and silent, Karlebach got into the front beside the driver, his shotgun by his side.

And he has a right
, thought Asher wearily, closing his eyes,
to be bitter. He did the right thing, by all the laws of God and man, and received no thanks for it. Not even acknowledgement for the death of the young man he loved like a son. Instead he was betrayed by one whom he’s seen falling further and further beneath a vampire’s seducing spell
.

No wonder he pulled that trigger, even as Ysidro saved Lydia’s life
.

Shooting Ysidro had been an act of salvation, to free both Asher and Lydia from servitude to the vampire’s spells.

He is right
. Asher leaned back into the leather of the car seat, Lydia’s head resting on his thigh. Under his hands her tangled hair was wet silk. Lydia alive. Lydia unhurt.
He’s right
.

In the dark behind his eyelids, Asher saw Ysidro’s body buckle under the spray of silver buckshot. White shirt starred with blood, colorless hair like spider silk around the scarred and skull-like face. No expression, neither pain nor joy, anger nor regret, like a strange statue wrought of ivory, air and time.

Saw him fall backward into the near-freezing black water.

Into peace. Into death. Into Hell. A thousand and ten thousand and a hundred thousand black iron steps down . . .

The following day Karlebach informed him that he had changed his ticket home, and instead of traveling by the
Ravenna
with the Ashers at the end of the month, he would take the
Liliburo
out of Shanghai next week, alone.

On the night of the twentieth of November, Asher dreamed of Don Simon Ysidro.

He’d gone with Ellen and Miranda to see Rebbe Karlebach off at the train station, for his journey to Shanghai: Lydia still kept to her room. He’d offered to accompany his old teacher south on the day-long journey, and when Karlebach had refused – Mrs Asher, he said, needed her husband at her side – had arranged for the Legation clerk P’ei Cheng K’ang to go with him, and to see him safely on to the boat. On the platform the old man had embraced him, and returning the embrace Asher had felt how fragile his old friend seemed, stiff and brittle and unyielding. Karlebach had whispered his name, and Asher had said, ‘Thank you, my friend.’ He did not say for what.

They both knew – Asher felt this through his bones – that nothing would be the same between them again.

It had been a week of nine-days’-wonders in the Legation Quarter. The news that Sir Grant Hobart’s body had been found in the fire-gutted house of the notorious Mrs Tso (‘I can’t say I’m wildly surprised,’ had been Annette Hautecoeur’s comment) had been followed hard by Asher’s resurrection (‘No, no, haven’t the slightest idea what it was all about . . .’), and by Mr Timms’s gruff apology on behalf of the Legation police (‘Telegram from London informs us that the charge was all balderdash – no, they said no more than that . . .’).

‘How astonishing,’ Asher had said, with what he hoped was a convincing look of baffled surprise.

Yet all these developments had been dwarfed by the appearance of five Chinese – presumably cousins of various Legation servants, though there was no way of proving this – and a dilapidated American artist named Jones, who walked into the Legation police station and independently swore that they’d seen Richard Hobart at various times on the night of October twenty-third wearing a tie which in no way resembled the murder weapon. Moreover, the rickshaw-puller who had brought Richard to Eddington’s put in an appearance, and testified in excellent English – he’d been a professor of that language at the Imperial Railway College at Shanhaikuan before the downfall of the dynasty – that when he had brought the young man, incapably drunk, to the gate, it had been to find Holly Eddington’s body lying already dead in the garden. His fare had, in fact, stared down at the body, sobbed pitifully, ‘Oh Holly, who has done such a dreadful thing?’ and had fainted. Mr K’ung had attempted to revive him and had only run away from the scene when people began to come from the house.

Asher wondered where the dead Mi Ching’s cousins had located an English-speaking rickshaw-puller for the purpose, not to speak of an impoverished American artist. But, Lydia had commented over tea later in the afternoon, it was a very nice touch.

Lydia had been very quiet through it all.

Now Asher dreamed of the Temple of Everlasting Harmony. Lydia, guidebook in hand, was telling him about the various fearsome statues that stood along its western wall: ‘This is Lu, Magistrate of the Wu Kuan Hell – I think that’s the hell where sinners are fried in cauldrons of oil, only those poor people around his feet in the statue look like they’re being steamed instead of fried . . .’

‘Perhaps they’re given a choice,’ Asher suggested.