The Parliament of Blood (32 page)

The police straightened up and looked at each other. ‘We want him,' the first policeman said, ‘to ask about the body of a young boy of about your age that was found in his house.'

Eddie blinked, and felt the colour drain from his face. John Remick – he'd sent the boy to his death. He might have been a bully and a thug but no one deserved that.

The policemen had noted Eddie's shock. ‘So if you've got a message from this child-murdering swine, you'd best tell us right now so we can catch him before he and his accomplice Protheroe come looking for you.'

Eddie nodded. ‘He said to tell Sir William he'd meet him in the Bear and Ragged Staff at nine o'clock.'

‘Where's that?'

‘Eddie shrugged. ‘Shoreditch, I guess. Now,' he added squaring his shoulders and adopting an air of righteous indignation, ‘where's me tuppence?'

The safest place, Sir William decided, was the Atlantian Club.

‘The chief steward, Vespers, can accommodate us in a private room,' he said. ‘There we can examine these journals again in detail.'

‘What do you think they will tell us?' George asked.

‘I really don't know,' Sir William admitted. ‘Perhaps very little. From a brief look I am afraid nothing stood out beyond what we have already seen.'

‘Except the dead bats,' Eddie said. ‘What you keeping them for, anyway? They might turn into vampires. That happened in a penny dreadful that someone told me about.'

‘Improbable,' Sir William said. ‘But as we know only too well, the improbable has a habit of becoming not only possible but fact. Ah, here we are.'

Sir William led them up the steps to the imposing door of the Atlantian Club. A uniformed doorman stepped out of the fog to greet them.

‘Stephen, would you please let Mr Vespers know that I require a private room for a discussion with my friends and colleagues?'

‘Of course, sir.'

‘And if anyone asks, we were never here.'

The stage door was standing open, but inside the theatre was in near darkness. Liz could make out a glimmer of light coming from the stage, but there was no sign or sound of anyone else.

She was late. The rehearsal should be well under way by now. ‘Hello?' she called. ‘Anyone there?'

No answer.

The lights at the front of the auditorium were turned down low. Liz walked to the front of the stage and peered
out into the gloom. She gave a startled cry and spun round as somewhere behind her a door slammed shut.

‘Who is it?'

Someone was watching her from the wings. A dark shape, a vague figure.

‘Henry – is that you? Where is everyone?'

The figure stepped out on to the stage. It was not Malvern, it was a woman. Liz gave a short laugh of relief. ‘Marie. How are you feeling? Where is everyone?'

Marie Cuttler walked slowly towards Liz. She looked in better health than Liz had seen her for a while.

‘I knew you'd come,' Marie said.

‘There is a rehearsal. At least, I thought there was.' Liz took a step backwards. There was something about Marie's tone, her voice. Her feet were bare. And why was she wearing her nightgown? She seemed to be fully recovered, but even in the low light she still looked so very pale.

‘The rehearsal was cancelled. Henry sent everyone home.'

‘Why? What's happened?'

Marie stopped a pace in front of Liz. ‘It was a mark of respect. The show will be postponed.' She reached out and stroked her fingers down Liz's cheek.

‘A mark of respect? For what? I don't understand.'

Marie's fingers were ice cold. Her skin was ice pale, almost translucent. ‘Why, a mark of respect for
me
, of course. Don't you think that was sweet of him?'

‘For you? But you look so well. So much better.'

‘Much, much better.'

‘Then – why?'

Marie's fingers had reached Liz's neck. They tightened into a firm grip, so cold they burned into her.

‘Because I died, of course.'

With a gasp, Liz leaped back. Her feet caught in her skirts, and she fell – breaking free of the icy grip on her throat. Above her, Marie's face contorted into a snarl of rage.

‘Understudy! You thought you could assume my role, didn't you? How can you do that when you're drained of blood?'

She reached down for Liz again. Tangled in her dress, Liz struggled to push herself backwards, out of the way.

‘I never asked for the part,' she said. ‘If you're up to it, you can play Marguerite. I really don't care.'

She managed to get to her feet at last, backing away as Marie circled round her.

‘Not the play,' Marie hissed. ‘My role, my position, my right. With
him
!'

‘Henry?' Liz wondered.

‘You know so little.' Marie lunged suddenly. Long, sharp nails whipped past Liz's cheek. ‘I was to serve my Lord. But not any more, thanks to you.' She leaped at Liz.

Liz threw herself aside, and Marie landed close by. She
had dropped to all fours, lips drawn back over her teeth like a hungry dog. She came at Liz again, moving slowly, in a crouch. Like partners in a grotesque dance, the two women circled each other.

Hampered by her skirts, Liz knew if she tried to run Marie would catch her easily. Instead she backed away as fast as she dared, ready to dodge aside if Marie came at her again.

Liz was almost at the edge of the stage, shadowed by the side curtain, when Marie pounced. The force and speed of her attack drove Liz back. Strong arms wrapped round Liz's shoulders as Marie tried to force Liz to the ground. Liz scrabbled behind her, grabbing for anything that would help her keep her balance and stay on her feet. If she fell, she would be lost.

Her hand closed on a lever. But her weight forced the lever back, and Liz fell. Somewhere out on the stage she could hear the snap of a mechanism as the lever moved. Then Marie was on top of her, hands scrabbling for Liz's neck as Liz struggled to throw her off.

With an almighty effort, Liz rolled to one side, sending Marie flying. Liz got to her feet, gathered her skirts and ran back on to the stage.

‘Is anyone there?' she yelled. ‘Help – someone, anyone!'

‘There's nobody,' Marie told her, emerging from the shadows and advancing again on Liz. ‘The doors are locked. You really can't escape me.'

Liz was taking ever shorter steps, almost shuffling across the dark stage. Marie was close now, getting
closer. Her long, thin fingers slashed within an inch of Liz's face.

All the time, Liz was looking round, peering desperately at the floor. Then her foot disappeared into nothing. She stopped quickly, swaying as she caught her balance. Could she escape? Would she be quick enough?

‘Whatever this role is, whatever you were talking about, I know one thing,' Liz said. She hoped her words would enrage Marie further, cloud her reason, and give Liz the time she needed.

‘What's that?'

‘I'll be so much better at it than you.' Liz stepped back.

Marie gave a shout of anger and leaped at Liz. Her nails ripped through empty space. Her teeth closed on nothing. She landed and turned in one fluid movement. But the stage was empty. Liz had vanished.

The volumes of Oldfield's journal were spread out on a large table. Sir William was busily arranging and rearranging them. The metal box in which they had been stored was open at the end of the table.

‘The late Reverend Oldfield's journals cover a lot of ground,' Sir William said. He moved to the end of the table and, as if describing a picture, explained: ‘We have a history, an account of an event. If we had brought Hemming's translation of the Book of the Undead with us, that would precede these journals as an account of far older events. Older, but connected.'

‘And what else?' George asked. ‘We know about photographs and shadows and light.'

‘Which Oldfield's journals also touch on.' Sir William sighed and shook his head. ‘All of this we know, like the craving for contact with home soil and the need for rich oxygen. There must be more.' He slammed the flat of his hand down on the top of the table in sudden frustration. ‘Somewhere here, there must be more.'

Eddie was disappointed. ‘So, we've learned nothing new?'

‘Oh, I didn't say that,' Sir William admitted. ‘In fact, we have learned a great deal. None of it, however, good.'

‘Like what?'

‘We knew that there was a danger that a new invention – the development of photography – might force the vampires into the open, into taking action. I suspect that there is another reason why they have become more active now. A reason hinted at in Oldfield's later writings.'

‘And what's that?' George asked.

‘Their own history. This is a time predicted by vampire lore. It is when, apparently, the ancient Lord of the Undead – known to the Egyptians as Orabis – will come again to lead his people. In this time of crisis, the greatest and most dangerous vampire of all is about to rise and claim his inheritance.'

‘But they didn't know it would be a time of crisis, surely?' George said.

‘Probably not. But it does coincide with the time when sleeping vampires will awaken, and trade places with
those now awake. Some of those in positions of power and influence especially will be loath to give that up and go into hibernation for centuries. So this is the time when Orabis will decide.'

‘Decide what?' Eddie wanted to know.

‘Whether they should continue as before – maintain the status quo, carry on living in secret and feeding clandestinely off human society, some sleeping and others waking … or whether they should emerge and take over.'

‘And which will they choose?' George asked.

‘I wish I knew. For some vampires, this is the culmination of their life's work, the moment they have been waiting for. But others fear the changes that Orabis may bring.'

‘And just who is this Orrible-iss?' Eddie asked.

‘
Orabis
is the Lord of Death. Oldfield speculates he will have no qualms about declaring vampires lords of the Earth. His followers set up the Damnation Club – a so-called Parliament of Blood – many years ago to serve as a vampire government in waiting, ready to take over and rule the Empire.'