The Dark Arts of Blood (10 page)

“He knows he made a mistake, sir,” put in Wolfgang.

Godric Reiniger paused to light a thin black cigarette. The
Eidgenossen
was his hand-picked group of men: thirty, including himself. He’d named the group
Eidgenossen
, meaning “comrades in oath”, in tribute to the pact on which Switzerland was founded.

Pacts, federations, compromises – all very fine in principal, but he cherished a higher vision: Switzerland with a single all-powerful leader, a hero of true vision, a god-like fusion of William Tell and Woden.

Most of his men were ex-army – not that Swiss men ever really stopped being soldiers. They were now his employees, part of his film crew, but more than that: they shared his dreams of a powerful Swiss nation. They shared his secrets.

“The
sakakin
are sacred, left to me by my father,” said Godric. “There were thirty. Now we have only twenty-nine. Will that make a difference to our rituals, do you think? It damages the symmetry.”

“It was a mistake,” said Wolfgang. “Bruno acted stupidly and he’s prepared to be punished.”

“Punishment won’t get our missing
sikin
back,” Reiniger said brusquely.

“As I explained, we tried. We almost perished, trying.”

“Oh, I believe you. You both look like death.”

“But – Bruno’s actions aside – isn’t the most remarkable factor here that we encountered actual vampires? I hike in that area, I have cousins there. There have been rumours for nearly four years and I’ve proved them true. Isn’t that astonishing?”

“Not really.” Reiniger sucked smoke between his teeth, regarding their mixture of fear and excitement with disdain. “I have told you for years that the
strigoi
are real. Elusive, but a true threat. Are you saying that you didn’t believe me?”

Wolfgang’s freckles stood out like a rash on his blanched skin.

“That’s not what I meant, sir.”

“I always believed,” Bruno put in, but Godric was still glaring at Wolfgang.

“What am I, some crazy old man to be humoured?”

“No, sir.” Wolfgang’s voice hardened. “I wouldn’t be at your side if I thought that. I expressed myself badly – of course we believed you, but encountering the reality – the
shock
– and how close we both came to death…”

“I appreciate your heroic efforts, Wolf, but the fact remains that you failed.”

“What will you do with us?” Bruno blurted out.

“What do you mean,
us
?” Wolfgang snapped, turning on him. “You’re the one who started this! I only tried to clear up your mess.”

Reiniger breathed, looking at the smoke swirling above their heads. He was aware of them both shaking, as if awaiting a death sentence.

How to deal with them?

“This is so much more than
just
a film studio,
just
a political enterprise,” he said. “I can’t sustain our fellowship unless I can trust every single one of you.”

“You can, sir,” Bruno said miserably, “but if you decide to expel me, I’ll go.”

Reiniger stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. Bruno nearly collapsed. He reeked of sweat and stale alcohol. “No, I don’t want to lose you. As one of my inner thirty, it would be a shame to waste your training.”

“Truly?”

Godric regarded his pathetic relief without emotion. Bruno was a useful workhorse, but Wolfgang Notz was much more. Godric could not look at him without a sting of resentment at his popularity. Also, his family was wealthy. He needed to keep Wolfgang loyal and under control, if only for the generous financial contributions he made to the cause.

“The
strigoi
are a real and present threat. I need young men of spirit around me, and it’s natural they’ll want to drink and get rowdy – but last night, it went too far. I rely on you to keep them under control, Wolf. Yes?” Godric kept his tone firm but uncritical. “I rely on you.”

“And I won’t let you down, sir.” Wolfgang stood like a soldier, as pale as whey.

The vampire fed from him
, Godric thought with a shudder of revulsion and curiosity.
Was it the same one who came here? No, they said she was fair-haired. I’ve not seen a
strigoi
for years… and then four are seen in one night? What does this mean? How will this affect us? I have to get the upper hand, but how?

“Rest, get your strength back,” he said in a businesslike tone. “I’ll worry about the missing
sikin
later. We have films to make, messages to promote, people to influence. We cannot afford distractions. Get out, both of you. Go.”

The pair saluted and made a grateful rush for the door. Godric drew on his cigarette one last time and stubbed it out.

A few minutes later he was in the projection booth, screening a reel from the new film he was editing,
Triumph in the Mountains
. Soon it would be ready for release.

His previous feature,
The Lion Arises
– showing the heroism of a Swiss soldier in foreign lands – had been well received by his private audience. The “lion” referred to Lucerne’s famous statue of a dying lion. Godric was proud of the title’s obvious symbolism, that heroic, fallen Swiss soldiers would one day spring back to life and victory. The local dignitaries whose support he was cultivating had loved the film.

The Lion Arises
was the fourth full-length movie he’d made. Unfortunately, none of his efforts so far had been acclaimed by the public. He had to pay for screening time at cinemas for the films to be seen at all. Criticism stung.
Audiences are used to trash from Hollywood or Germany
, he thought bitterly.
They need to be educated.

This scene from
Triumph
showed Wolfgang in the role of self-sacrificing hero, vowing revenge on the villains who’d despoiled his bride. She was portrayed by his lead actress, Mariette, swooning beautifully in a blond wig. The Alps made a stunning background. Godric nodded in satisfaction. The drama was far ahead of its predecessor. Yes, the story was basically the same – a brave Swiss German defeating foreign invaders – but what other story was there? Godric would keep finding different ways to tell it until he achieved perfection.

Next he would revive the tale of the ultimate Swiss hero, William Tell. Filming was already under way, even while he kept tinkering with the script. He would not let anyone forget the Three Tells of legend, the sleepers who would one day awaken to save his homeland. His stories would inform everyone that behind every folk story, every traditional carnival – such as the
Fasnacht
procession, with its raucous music and grotesque costumes – there lay a hidden purpose.

To drive out demons.

From the corner of his eye he noticed a woman beside him.

His heart leapt with shock. Dark skin, a simple olive-green dress… she stood there, silent, watching the film with him. Could she hear his racing heartbeat, scent his fear?

He wondered how many vampires he’d brushed past in the street and never even known. Perhaps dozens. You couldn’t be sure of anyone.

His own
sikin
was still in his pocket. Recalling how she’d recoiled last time, he took out the knife and held it ready. Only then did he dare look round at her. She appeared real, solid, even though she’d come out of thin air.

“Don’t try to use the
sikin
against me,” she said softly in French. “My name is Fadiya. Those knives are mine, Herr Reiniger.”

“So you said before.” He answered in German. “I do not tolerate degenerate languages in my house.”

“As you choose,” she said, switching. “I speak three German dialects, French, English, Arabic, Spanish and Italian. And I do not appreciate you looking at me as if I crawled out of a pit.”

He couldn’t identify the lilt of her accent. She might be from any country of North Africa or the Middle East.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been watching you for a while.”

Anger rose in him like bile. “And how did you know the
sakakin
were here?”

“I sensed them from a long way off. I heard them… groaning. Strange. One on its own, I would not have noticed. But several together give out a sort of vibration that calls to me.”

Godric had strong nerves, but her presence made sweat ooze from his neck, cast a literal chill over him.

“Nonsense. They were my father’s, and now they belong to me. What do you want, demoness?”

“Your father stole them. He looted them from their hiding place. I want them back.”

“And I told you last night that you can’t have them,” he said, straightening to his full six-foot-two and tightening his grip on the dagger. He knew that a male vampire could sweep a human aside or crush his throat with one hand. Perhaps a female could too – but he was pleased to note that she feared the object she claimed to own.

“How can you own something that was buried in the desert for centuries?” he said thinly. “If they’re yours, why are you afraid of them?”

“Guns are no less lethal to their owners,” she replied. “You don’t even understand what they are.”

That was half-true, but Godric had documents left by his father. He knew the knives contained strange properties. Although he hesitated to use the term “supernatural”, it was hard to define them as otherwise.

It crossed his mind that she might be able to find the
sikin
Bruno had lost. But his pride would not let him admit that he’d mislaid it.

He was certain that this unwelcome
strigoi
had nothing to teach him.

He stopped the projector. The screen went dark.

“I know you are a vampire, yet you clearly have no power over me. You tried to attack me and couldn’t. So, if the knives protect me from you, they must be mine by default. If I knew a banishing ritual, you’d be gone by now. You would be dust.”

“The word you want is
afrit
,” she said, “or
ghūl
, though neither really fits. I would prefer no label at all. We seem to have reached stalemate, Herr Reiniger. You’re right, the
sakakin
have given you power and I cannot get past you to take them. Yet you cannot banish me.”

“Can’t I?” said Godric, icily furious.

“There is nothing you can do to make me leave this place.”

He raised the knife, drawing silver runes on the air, but she only vanished and reappeared in the corner of the booth, like a mocking ghost.

“I am not going to fight with you.” She walked forward and rested her hand on the projector without flinching at its heat. “Don’t threaten me, and I won’t threaten you.”

“Who are you?” he asked again. “Tell me, or leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” was her mild answer. “I want my treasures back, but I won’t take them by force. Perhaps we can negotiate, instead.”

“Negotiate?” he spat. “With what?”

“We both have things we want.” Her voice was velvety. “We don’t have to explain ourselves, do we? Simply agree to help each other when the need arises. A compromise for our mutual benefit.”

He was tempted to stick the dagger into her throat. How dare this foreign female intrude on his territory, forcing him into bargains on her terms?

“I can’t tell you what the
sakakin
are,” she went on. “The knowledge is forbidden. However, I’ve seen you using them in your rituals. Each time you do so, you honour the sacred power that made them. That is interesting. And I think it’s a good thing.”

“Seen us?” Godric gasped, thinking,
What sacred power? We honour no deity but our own strength, as represented by Woden.

She smiled. “Humans can’t hide from vampires. So I’ll let you keep them… for now.”

“You will
let
me keep my own knives?” He laughed, a sharp bark.

“I’ll let you keep them, on condition that you utter the name of Zruvan, Lord of Immortals, when you use them.”

“Why in hell’s name would we do that?”

“Because honouring Zruvan is the proper thing to do. And because it will increase your power. Try. You’ll thank me.”

Godric could barely catch his breath. “What do you expect in exchange for this devilish agreement?”

“Hide me,” she said softly. “Let me pretend to be human among you.”

“Impossible.”

“I’m not asking to live here. I certainly don’t want your blood. Just the freedom to come and go as I wish. It’s hard for me to stay in one place without a plausible reason. You can give me that reason.”

His instincts screamed
no
, but he couldn’t resist her persuasive voice. He’d told her she had no power over him, but that wasn’t true. She exuded a subtle influence that he couldn’t define or resist. Her stare weakened him. He could argue with her all he liked, but he was helpless to destroy her.

“And how do I explain your presence? This is a working film-production studio. A lot of people come and go. Important people.”

“Then pretend I’m working for you,” she replied with the same sweet tone and terrifying gaze.

He tried to stutter that he could not consider employing a dark-skinned foreigner, not even as a housemaid, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“It’s a very rare mortal who recognises what I am,” she said. “I pass for human every day. I know Europe, I know your customs and fashions. Surely a film studio needs someone to help with sewing, hair, make-up?”

“You promise not to interfere with anyone or anything here?” Godric heard his own voice shaking. “You will even…
help
me?”

“Good. You are not deaf,” she whispered.

* * *

Charlotte stood before a full-length mirror… a different mirror, in a different bedroom lying in moonlight and shadow behind her. A deep, hot bath awaited her, perfumed with rose oil. Between undressing and bathing, she paused to examine the scar. The wound near her hipbone had healed at last to a silver line. Soon it would be gone, as if no blade had ever touched her flesh.

The scars of memory remained. Being attacked was a shock, but she’d got over it. The lasting effect of the knife was another matter. What kind of weapon could make a vampire go out of her mind, if only for a few hours? Something even Karl had never seen before?