Hotel Transylvania (32 page)

Le Grâce is not Dead, as we Hop'd It is Certain that he will do us Some Mischief if he can. That he Recogniz'd Domingo y Roxas is Sure, for he (that is, Domingo y Roxas) was quite without Concealment. The very Tone of his (that is, Le Grâce's) Speech with Domingo y Roxas shows that he Knows more of us than is Safe. We Dare Not Ignore the Threat Le Grâce Represents.

Your Highness, let me Urge you to be On Your Guard. You, We, are Everywhere in Peril I pray that you, at your Earliest Opportunity, do us the Honor of granting Private Speech with us. I have Ask'd your Manservant to Alert you should he see you before you Read this.

At twelve of the Clock, I am always

Your most humble, Obednt. Svt. to Command,
 

Beverly Sattin

Chapter 5

Saint Sebastien rounded on Le Grâce, the glitter in his hooded eyes singularly unpleasant. He spoke languidly, but the ferocity in his face was not disguised. "Perhaps," he said to Le Grâce, who sprawled inelegantly on the brocaded sofa by the largest bookshelf, "you will be good enough to tell me, Le Grâce, what it was you sought to accomplish with this?" He held up the grubby sheet of paper with Le Grâce's clumsily written blackmail threat on it.

Le Grâce shook his head, possibly to deny the message was his, or perhaps to clear his head of the wine he had drunk so liberally a few hours before. He wiped his stubbled chin and slurred out a few words. "It... wasn't that… way, Baron. You mis... understand me."

"I doubt that, Le Grâce," Saint Sebastien said sweetly as he tapped the letter against his hand. "You threatened me with exposure. No," he said sharply as he saw Le Grâce prepare to interrupt, "do not deny it. You fed me this nonsense about the man in black and white! You chose your subject unwisely. Do not think that I will tolerate deception. Or threats."

"But I'm
not
lying," Le Grâce protested in vain.

"You would do better to admit your error, Le Grâce."

Saint Sebastien came over to the sofa and leaned one arm on its back. The velvet of his lounging robe brushed Le Grâce's cheek, and for an instant Le Grâce thought he would scream. "If you think to distract me with your stupidity, I warn you you will fail."

"I tell you, he is the man!" Le Grâce twisted away from Saint Sebastien, only to find that the fine, long hand on the back of the sofa had grasped his collar and was twisting cruelly.

"What must I do to convince you, Le Grâce? I cannot allow you to continue this way." The pressure on the sorcerer's neck increased as Saint Sebastien turned his hand delicately. "I am not a patient man, Le Grâce. I warn you that you are only increasing my anger with this foolish persistence."

Le Grâce's face had turned an unhealthy mottled color, and he tugged frantically at his neck cloth. "But it's
him!"
he insisted, gasping.

Saint Sebastien sighed resignedly. "Very well, Le Grâce. Since you are unwilling to tell me..." He stood back, releasing his hold on Le Grâce's neck cloth.

Pleasantly surprised by this turn of events, Le Grâce was about to rise when he heard that smooth, hated voice behind him. "Do not move, Le Grâce." Saint Sebastien said icily. "I have not given you permission to move."

"But surely—"

"Nor have I given you permission to speak." He spoke with silken charm as he walked around the corner of the sofa into Le Grâce's range of vision. "I am not finished, Le Grâce. I must beg you to stay with me yet a while." He fingered the long, thin whip he carried lovingly, and the whip twitched in his fingers as if it were alive.

Le Grâce felt himself grow cold. "Ah, Baron..." He shifted on the sofa, trying to block the blow he feared. "I tell you, I didn't lie."

"But I don't believe you." He had moved closer now, relishing the fear in the sorcerer's eyes and the sudden stink of his sweat.

"I know you don't. It's not my fault you don't know about Ragoczy." He cowered away from the tall, lean figure hovering ever nearer, his hands caressing the whip.

"Poor Le Grâce," Saint Sebastien purred. "You are a bungling liar and a fool, but you have your uses." He stepped back to give his arm play. The motion was so quick that Le Grâce had not realized what it meant when the sjambok fell against his jaw, opening his flesh to the bone.

With a cry made up of pain, betrayal, and desperation, Le Grâce clapped his hand to his bleeding face as he lunged at his tormentor.

"I had this whip from a man who had been a slaver," Saint Sebastien informed Le Grâce as he stood back, waiting for his next opportunity. "It is made from the rhinoceros, from the pizzle, to be precise. It is oiled and stretched, oiled and stretched, until it cuts more deeply than steel. But you have found that out, have you not?" He played with the heavy whip, letting it writhe on the floor as he held it easily. Somewhat dreamily, he went on, "When he gave it to me, he demonstrated it." The whip coiled on the floor. "He had a reluctant slave of his own, and he amused himself for an afternoon with this. At times I think the slave's blood still stains the lash." On the last word, he brought the whip into play again, this time letting it fall full force across Le Grâce's shoulders.

Le Grâce bellowed and tried to roll away from the whip, but it fell again, this time tearing open the flesh of his back and bringing bile into his mouth. "No! No!" He tried to push away from Saint Sebastien and the next assault, and succeeded in turning the sofa onto its back.

The loud crash of furniture brought swift results, for the door to the library flew open, and Tite, Saint Sebastien's personal servant, came into the room. "Master?" he asked anxiously.

Saint Sebastien shrugged. "No, Tite, it is not I who is hurt. It is poor Le Grâce, there. You must take him away for a while, and be sure that his wounds are looked to. I have not finished with him yet. He has not given me the answers I want." Le Baron was flushed and speaking in a jerky, excited way. He still held the whip, but now the long, ominous strand of leather was quiet, sated.

Tite grunted as he went to Le Grâce, who had staggered into a corner of the room, where he crouched, one arm up to deflect more blows. His face and back were spattered with blood now, and from the deep cut on his jaw more blood welled. The sorcerer whimpered, all the while trying to press closer to the wall as Tite approached him. His progress left a swath of red on the fine wall-covering.

"Take him to the stables. You know the room." Saint Sebastien had regained a little of his grand manner. He wiped his face with a heavy silk handkerchief and dropped the handle of his whip to the floor. "I will want to talk to him within the hour. Remember that."

Tite had grabbed for Le Grâce, his big arms holding the terrified sorcerer in an easy grasp. "The stables. As you wish, master." He started toward the door, his face impassive, apparently unaware of the groans of pain Le Grâce made every time he moved at all.

"Yes, I think I want to use him myself. The Circle may have others, but I think this one is for me." He neatened his lace jabot and fixed a beatific smile on Le Grâce. "You may he to me. You may cheat me. It does not matter. You may also die for me, Le Grâce." He reached out and flicked the edge of the wound on Le Grâce's face. "It is said that the face gives the greatest hurt, after the loss of manhood. I wonder."

Le Grâce was too cold now to say much, and he could not bring himself to open his mouth.

"Go out by the terrace," Saint Sebastien ordered Tite. "I don't think it would be wise to have the other servants see him."

Tite nodded as he went to the wide french doors that filled one wall of the library. Beyond them a gray veil of rain had dropped over the world, leaching the color out of it. When Tite pulled the door open, a cold breeze chilled the room. "The room in the stables," he repeated as he stepped out into the rain.

"It was such a promising morning," Saint Sebastien lamented as he went to close the door behind Tite. He stared meditatively out at the drowned afternoon, his mind on nothing in particular. There was a faint, predatory smile on his mouth.

He was pulled from this contemplation by the sudden rattle of wheels on the flagged sweep of drive that curved around the hôtel Saint Sebastien. He looked up, and the smile broadened, for in the mist he could just make out the outline of Chenu-Tourelle's ridiculous new coach. Filled with energy now, as if the sight of the coach had revived him, Saint Sebastien turned back into the library, shut the french door behind him, and pulled on the bell rope to summon a lackey.

Almost immediately the library door opened and a young lackey in Saint Sebastien's red-laced deep-blue livery came in and bowed respectfully. He did not lift his head as he waited for orders.

"I gather we have company, Maurice," Saint Sebastien said pleasantly. "I believe I saw le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle arrive just now. I trust, I do trust that he has been welcomed?"

"He has, master, and his guests."

"He
does
have guests? How charming." Saint Sebastien nodded, then waved his hand negligently. "I will want a note to be delivered. Not immediately. It must arrive at hôtel d'Argenlac no earlier than nine tonight. I will give it to you now. I might be busy later."

"The message will be delivered as you say, master."

"Of course it will. Life is much easier when you obey me implicitly, is it not, Maurice?" He bent to pick up the sjambok, and let the lash curl lazily through his fingers. "No, not today, Maurice. Today I have other things on my mind. But it would be unwise of you to forget this." He fingered the end of the whip and watched Maurice turn pale. With a sigh he abandoned this sport, and strode to the secretaire near the wall. "I will not take long, Maurice. Then you may take me to my guests. Where have you put them?"

Maurice stammered his answer. "One of them... one was... in a swoon... But le Marquis... he... he... said to take her to your private study." The last words came out in a panicky rush.

Saint Sebastien interrupted himself in trimming his writing quill. "My private study. How thoughtful. Is anyone else with them?"

"No. No. Le Marquis, the young lady, and her companion, who is distraught."

"Indeed?" Saint Sebastien said solicitously. "How unfortunate. We must remedy this situation. In a moment I will attend to it. But this note, first, I think. Yes." He had finished trimming the quill, and now pulled out the standish and two sheets of hot-pressed paper. Saint Sebastien smiled at the bold embossed crest at the head of each sheet. It was an old, old patent-of-arms, granted to his many-times-great-uncle in the days when the Inquisition destroyed the Knights Templar. In memory of that occasion, the arms showed a cinq-foil, each branch of which contained allegorical figures: topmost was a goat seated on a throne, then a skull inverted to make a cup, next a candle burning upside down, followed by a mandrake root, and last the tall, fearful hat of the Inquisition.

Saint Sebastien's gaze lingered on this device lovingly, and he wondered if that Inquisitor ancestor of his would be surprised to discover that the heretical, blasphemous practices he had so rigorously stamped out were being used by his own blood. Recalling some of that worthy priest's painstaking records describing the Question of suspected heretics, Saint Sebastien thought he saw in the meticulous details of torture a dim echo of the delight he himself found in giving suffering.

His mind strayed again to Madelaine. He knew exactly the use he would make of her, and it pleased him to think of the agony her death would bring not only to her but also to Robert de Montalia. Saint Sebastien nodded. He found the idea attractive. He had not intended to tell de Montalia much more than he had Madelaine, but he reflected on the matter, and realized that if he detailed his intentions, Madelaine's father would be driven to frenzy.

He caressed his wooden-faced lackey with hot eyes, assuring himself that his servant was thoroughly frightened before drawing the paper forward. His smile broadening, he began to write.

Text of a letter from Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien to le Marquis de Montalia, delivered by hand shortly after nine on the night of November 4, 1743:

My very dear and long-absent friend, Robert, Marquis de Montalia, I send you greetings and my most cordial wishes for your welfare along with my compliments.

How sad I was not to have known earlier that you would once again return to Paris. When I think of the many hours we spent together, twenty years ago, I am desolated to think that you would forget to tell me of your visit, so that I could arrange some appropriate entertainment for you.

But fortune has favored me, dearest Robert. At last I have found a way to tender my respects in a manner befitting our long years of friendship, the protestations of which have endured through our separation. The obligations of our association are not easily forgotten, Robert.

By now I would imagine that you are cherishing fond hope for your daughter's future as la Marquise Chenu-Tourelle. No doubt you think that she dines tonight with the family of le Marquis.