The supports of
the bridge terminated in cubes of black stone, which in turn
supported crumbling granite statues some fifteen and twenty feet in
height. The figures were grotesque yet startlingly lifelike, all
posed in attitudes of exhaustion: There was a potbellied troll with
fangs and bugged eyes, its slumped body robed in rumpled folds of
sculptured stone, notched sword dangling from one taloned hand; a
gargoyle with a grievous slash in its side, head lolling, eyes
closed, the claws of its left hand englobing a ravaged human head; an
imp with pointed ears, slit-pupiled eyes, and a long-chinned, weasely
face, sitting hunched, its entire posture expressive of defeat and
dread. Nearly twoscore of these grisly eminences lorded over the
bridge, and as they passed beneath each Beheim grew disquieted. The
statues possessed a preternatural solidity, as if imprisoned alive
within a sphere of powerful gravity, and it was easy to picture
them—the survivors of a beaten satanic army—shrugging off
some centuries-old enchantment, an evil glow returning to their blind
eyes, their granite chests heaving, their rock-thewed thighs
bunching, crumbs of stone and falls of dust sifting from their
ancient joints as they stepped down from their pedestals to complete
some interrupted slaughter.
Giselle, too,
cast an anxious eye at these malefic presences. Dressed as was Beheim
in loose-fitting cloth trousers and a man’s peasant jacket, her
hair pinned up, she had the look of a pretty child, and her frailty
in the midst of this oppressive and mutant geometry had never been
more evident. Though he had not wanted to involve her in the search,
he could trust no one else to be his accomplice, and this facile
disregard for her well-being caused him to think that Alexandra might
have been right, that his concern for Giselle would soon be
outweighed by other imperatives. As they slipped through the crack in
the wall and began climbing a torchlit stair, he considered sending
her back to wait for him, but he could not bring himself to risk
entry into Felipe’s apartments without having someone to stand
watch, and so he led her along the corridor at the top of the stairs,
past the locked brass-bound doors behind which the pale hierarchy of
the undead were taking their ease.
It was cold and
damp in the corridor; licks of torchlight cut the tarry shadows.
Walking along the narrow passageway, feeling the worn declivities in
the stone beneath his feet, Beheim felt he had left behind the
civilized present and entered a barbarous past. Why, he wondered, did
the lords of the Family risk naked flames for light when lanterns
would have shielded them from the possibility of a mortal accident?
Some dread nostalgia, perhaps, or a statement of their disdain for
peril, their confidence that they could overcome any menace, even
those self-imposed? Beheim himself shrank from the torches. The
crackling of the flames seemed to express a language of threat.
Once he had
opened Felipe’s door, he stood listening a moment. Beyond the
alcove was a hallway leading off to the right. From beyond the closed
door at its end issued the gasps and cries of strenuous lovemaking.
He instructed Giselle to take one of the torches from its iron socket
on the wall outside and stand at the entrance to the corridor.
“If anyone
comes,” he whispered, “flee to Lord Agenor. He will
protect you. Use the torch against anyone who seeks to harm you. Do
you understand?”
Her chin
quivered, but she nodded.
“Don’t
hesitate if you are threatened,” he said, perceiving that she
was not concentrating on the matter at hand, but was weakened by
sentiment and concern for him. “If anyone tries to harm you,
burn them. Then find Agenor. You will be safe with him.”
“But you,”
she said, “what will—”
“Be
quiet!” he hissed, angry both at her weakness and at himself
for taking advantage of that weakness, for using her so after having
betrayed her with another woman . . . though he
refused to consider it a true betrayal. If anything, he thought, he
might now consider the act of making love to Giselle a betrayal, a
show of disrespect for something of greater import and sweeter
potential.
She recoiled
from his show of anger, biting down on her lower lip, a gesture that
again lent her the aspect of a sexually precocious child.
Like Beheim’s
quarters, Felipe’s living room contained heavy, dark furniture
and lanterns and ancient, almost indecipherable tapestries; the
shadows cast by the dim lighting were mere smudges on a faded Persian
carpet with a pattern of indigo and rose and brown. Though he did not
know what to look for, though he took pains to make no noise, knowing
that Felipe’s ears were sharp, he went hurriedly about the
search, more exhilarated than afraid, like a boy who has accepted a
dare. He fumbled through the contents of a writing desk, a mahogany
cabinet, and a small oak chest, but could find no evidence of the
Valea leader’s complicity in the murder. A search of the
servant’s bedroom, too, yielded nothing, as did a cursory
examination of a third and last room—a study—which did
not appear to have been occupied in some time, all the furnishings
and the large globe and the book-lined shelves being furred with gray
dust. Layers of cobwebs overlaid the hatbox-sized blocks of stone
that composed the walls.
Disappointed,
Beheim stood in the doorway of this third room, straining his ears.
He heard breathless gasps and fey melodic exclamations, punctuated by
grunts and the squeaking of bedsprings. Felipe and the Lady Dolores
were still at it, but he did not want to press his luck. Yet he was
reluctant to abandon his only lead, and he did not believe that
Alexandra would have steered him in this direction were there not
solid evidence to be had . . . unless, of course, by
persuading him to folly, by engineering his capture, she hoped to
bring dishonor upon Agenor. But if this were the case, would she not
have already given the alarm? No, he told himself, her motives would
not be so easily graspable. There must be something here.
He let his gaze
swing one last time about the dust-covered study. The books had
apparently gone untouched for years, and it was odd, he thought, that
Felipe, given his scholarly disposition, had not been moved by
curiosity to examine at least one or two them.
More than odd.
And then he
noticed something odder yet.
Except for a
strip along the walls of the room, there was no dust on the floor,
making it apparent that a carpet had recently been removed.
It was possible,
Beheim thought, that this had been done for cosmetic reasons prior to
Felipe’s arrival; but if the carpet had been removed because it
was dirty or worn, why then had it not been cleaned or replaced?
He dropped to
his hands and knees and, as he had done atop the turret, began a
careful inspection of the stones. At the center of the room he
discovered a section of five stones whose edges were worn smooth. He
pried at them and detected a slight shift. There must be a lever, he
thought, some sort of mechanism that would move them. He sprang to
his feet, went to the bookshelves, and began feverishly pulling out
books one by one, but soon he realized that he might save time by
giving the problem calm consideration . . . though
judging from the noises issuing from the bedchamber, he had no need
to rush.
He spent the
next few minutes pulling out combinations of books that he selected
according to title or color or subject; there was no depression or
crack that could hide a switch, and he thought that if, indeed, there
was a trapdoor, a secret room, the books must either conceal or
themselves be the mechanism that would open it. But no combination he
tried had any effect, and finally, angry with himself, with
Alexandra, he gave the globe a frustrated slap and set it spinning.
Without a sound,
the section of five stones swung downward to reveal a stairway.
Chapter
Twelve
B
eheim remained frozen in an expectant and fearful attitude, certain
that Felipe must have heard the slap he’d given the globe. The
noises from the bedroom had ceased. A moment later, however, the
lovers started up again with a rustling of sheets, an exchange of
soft endearments, with sweet exhalations and profound sighs, all
signaling, he assumed, a shift in position, a pianissimo movement in
their lustful symphony. His chest began to ache, and he understood
that this was because he had been so gripped by tension, he had
stopped breathing.
With infinite
caution, he descended the stairs—there were no more than a
dozen—and entered a dark corridor reeking of dampness and mold,
so cramped he was forced to go in a crouch. He went along it for a
considerable time, groping his way blindly, feeling the spidery
fingers of claustrophobia tickling the back of his neck; at last, on
turning a corner, he spied a chute of silvery light illuminating the
corridor’s far end, the beams as distinct as those cast by a
magic lantern. Moonlight. Spilling through a slit window into a tiny
room furnished with a rough wooden table and chair. Still wary, he
edged forward. The view was of an uninteresting slice of moonlit
Carpathia: pale clouds, black hills with a glittering river winding
through them. A dead cigar lay on the table—thin and black, a
villainous accessory. Felipe, Beheim recalled, was in the habit of
smoking an occasional cigar. And there was further evidence that the
Valea leader had spent time here. Ashes strewn about the floor. Some
papers covered in a bold script, tucked into a leather folder. A
penknife with an engraved
V
on the blade. In addition to the
table and chair, an unvarnished cabinet was set flush against one
wall. Beheim opened it. On the lower shelf stood a pitcher of water.
And to his great surprise, on the uppermost shelf were three flasks
and three small perfume bottles with antique silver caps, all filled
with liquid—pale yellow, Beheim decided after holding one of
the bottles up to the window—and a large tumbler containing
perhaps a quart of this same liquid. A scrap of paper was tucked
beneath one of the bottles, and on it was scribbled a list of
measurements like those appropriate to medicinal dosages.
He sat at the
table, sifted through the papers, which proved to be a portion of a
travel journal written in both French and Italian, random jottings,
how Felipe felt about various of the Family whom he had seen at the
Decanting for the first time in years—he was less than kind in
his opinions—and so forth. He stopped on spotting the name
Agenor and read the pertinent passage:
. . .
Agenor continues to demand that I be swift. I understand his urgency,
for his claim that we may be in the last days of our kind does not
strike me as wholly unreasonable. Yet I must be certain before I
approach the Patriarch. I know Agenor wishes to make a dramatic
presentation during the Decanting, but I refuse to be rushed and will
continue to rely on my own judgments. He will not coerce me into a
precipitate disclosure, nor will I allow him—or anyone else—to
take matters into their own hands. Another few weeks, perhaps, and I
will be prepared.
Prepared for
what? Beheim wondered. He read on, but after skimming through the
remainder of the papers, though his Italian was not expert, he was
disposed to think that there was no further mention of the two men’s
business.
He removed one
of the bottles from the cabinet and unscrewed the silver cap. A harsh
acidic odor. The same that had clung to the bottle cap he had found
atop the turret. He put a drop to his lips. The taste was vastly
superior to the odor. Similar to overly tart lemonade. Judging by the
partially filled tumbler and the list of dosages, Felipe had been
drinking the liquid, and thus Beheim felt no compunction about trying
it himself—what poison, after all, could harm a vampire? If he
could identify it, he thought, he might be closer to proof positive
concerning Felipe’s involvement in the murder. He tipped back
the bottle and downed a hefty swallow. Palatable, though too bitter
by half. Medicine of some sort, apparently. He could discern no
immediate effect. Whatever the nature of the liquid, the bottle cap
and the odor made it apparent that someone with access to the secret
room had been on the turret on the night of the murder. This alone
was sufficient to place Felipe at the head of his list of suspects,
but it was scarcely incontrovertible proof of murder. Still, the
evidence was worth bringing before the Patriarch; it provided a lever
with which Beheim could force the representatives of the various
branches to remain at the castle long enough for him to conduct a
proper investigation.
Realizing that
he could not depend upon Felipe’s sexual prowess for much
longer, Beheim pocketed the bottle and headed back along the corridor
to the stair, eager to collect Giselle and be gone. But on mounting
the stairs, he realized that this might not be so easily achieved.
The sounds from the bedchamber had stopped. Cursing his incaution, he
eased toward the study door. He held his breath, listened, but heard
nothing. Not a whisper, not a hint of Giselle’s presence. No
telling what had happened to her. There had been too much stone
between them for even his sharp ears to pick up her movements. She
might already have fled, and Felipe would be waiting for him at the
door. Or else the lovers might have fallen asleep.
That must be it,
he decided. What he had assumed to be a mere lull in their
lovemaking, those sighs and whispers, must have signaled an end to
their passion, an exchange of endearments preparatory to sleep.
But as he
stepped out into the living room, his heart sank and weakness
fettered his limbs, for there, at the entrance to the alcove, dressed
only in a pair of trousers, stood Felipe Aruzzi—a blond
youthful-seeming man of more than four centuries in age, lean and
fit, pale arms and chest banded with muscle, yet with bloodshot eyes
and a glabrous complexion, his face warped by an expression of
contemptuous rage. Clad in a green robe, her black hair tumbling
about her shoulders like smoke made solid, the Lady Dolores stood
beside him, lovely in her disarray. She bared her fangs and started
toward Beheim, but Felipe caught her arm.