More Than Mortal (16 page)
Authors: Mick Farren
As often as possible, Destry and Marieko made excuses and ducked these scented, candlelit, boudoir overtures to the night. A regular first item on the agenda was an inevitable and lengthy complaint by Columbine on the hideousness of the nightmare from which she had just wakened. On this particular evening, Marieko wanted to hear nothing about anyone else’s dreams and would gladly have ignored Columbine when she’d sent Grendl to summon to her. The invitation was couched, however, in terms that made it clear Columbine would throw such a merciless tantrum, followed by such protracted sulking and recrimination, that Marieko’s and Destry’s existences would be made miserable for the entire span of the night and maybe longer. It was Columbine’s method of reassertion after she had steered them so close to the metaphoric rocks of disaster the previous night. Thus Marieko sat cross-legged in a Louis XV chair while Destry—in her now almost-perpetual riding habit, and with a riding crop hanging from her right wrist—paced impatiently and treated them like a pair of bickering schoolgirls.
“I’ve about had it up to here with this nonsense. To a greater or lesser degree, you’ve both botched either bringing Victor Renquist under our control or finding out if he arrived here with any hidden agenda of his own.”
Marieko hardly regarded this as fair and said so. The only reason Destry could accuse anyone of failure was because she had yet to go one-on-one with the male. “I had everything set for the maximum possible chance of his inadvertently revealing himself.”
Columbine fluffed a pillow. “But you were so busy having fun with him, you let some unknown third party introduce a horde of badly drawn assassins to the mix who almost did away with the both of you.”
“That was not the way it happened, and you know it.”
“Oh, yes? I suppose you hated every moment on the bed of swords?”
“I wouldn’t claim that. I admit some parts were highly pleasurable. I didn’t have to play the whore.”
“Perhaps you should have done so. Maybe we would have gleaned more than that he can shape-shift in dreams.”
“And I suppose lunging at him with a sword was a highly reasoned ploy to put him off his guard?”
Destry turned in her pacing and glared, flexing the crop between gloved hands. “I’ve already told you both to knock it off. I’m not joking.”
Destry so plainly wasn’t joking, Marieko and Columbine fell silent. Marieko became even more still and formal in her lotus pose while Columbine agitatedly removed and replaced the stoppers of her perfume bottles. Destry and Marieko had often discussed whether Columbine derived some kind of stimulant or narcotic effect from combinations of the various aromas. Once, while Columbine had been in London, snaring one of her boy victims, they had tried a selection for themselves, but experienced no discernible results. Some discreet research by Destry had revealed that the sole source of Columbine’s perfumes was a small shop in the city of York, run by an elderly Hasidic Jew. The family-owned business was so old and long established that it claimed the title of “perfumer and apothecary,” but when she had attempted to delve further into what exactly was being supplied to Columbine, Destry had been countered with a wall of silence under the guise of customer confidentiality. The only thing the old human with skullcap and beard had let slip was that a majority of the products he supplied to Columbine by regular registered mail were
compounds blended according the client’s own specific formulas.
compounds blended according the client’s own specific formulas.
Columbine applied a little of one of the fragrances to the side of her throat with a small glass wand incorporated into the stopper of the bottle. “So now, whatever has been invading my dreams took it upon itself to infect the dream scenario devised for Renquist.”
Marieko lowered her eyes and, at the same time, shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think so?”
“Of course, you can accuse me of presuming. I know I haven’t experienced your dreams firsthand, but from all you’ve told and shown us, they would seem to be the product of another’s complete and vivid memories. This infection, as you put it, this intrusion, was nothing more than a crude assault. A deliberate disruption of the plan as I devised it. I even heard the sound of artillery outside the castle walls. It was so out of place, it would have been laughable, had it not been so aggressively mounted and so deliberately designed to do damage.”
“You have another of your theories?”
“I believe this intrusion was by another nosferatu.”
“Perhaps Victor himself, looking to beat you at your own game?”
“No.”
“No? It would seem the obvious answer. A perfect example of his usual perfidious trickery. You saw how he tried to confuse us last night by sneaking in the way he did and staging that ridiculous display.”
Marieko was tempted to point out that Renquist’s display, far from being ridiculous, had set Columbine completely off balance, but she knew Destry wouldn’t tolerate any resumption of verbal sparring. “When he took control at the end, the change was so profound, I’m certain he was not the author of the earlier interruption. I would have noticed something, I’m sure.”
“He’s a master of deception.”
“But I’m not stupid.”
Columbine seemed poised to make some disparaging remark but was quelled with a look from Destry. “So who, if not Victor?”
Destry dropped into a chair as though she felt she was no longer needed to keep the peace between her hissing sisters. She casually hooked one leg over the arm of the chair and, employing one of her more masculine mannerisms, swung a thoughtful, boot-shod foot. “Fenrior or one of his clan would seem the most likely candidate.”
The idea took Columbine by surprise. “Fenrior? How, pray, could that noisome brute be part of the picture? He hasn’t paid us any attention in years.”
“We have Renquist here.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“Sure he does.”
Columbine considered this. “I suppose it’s possible that Renquist’s arrival was detected. That unspeakable pair, Theda and Cyrce, can be very perceptive when they want to be. And that horrible Gallowglass who—”
Destry tapped her boot with the whip. “It’s not a possibility. It’s a near certainty. Fenrior may ape the barbarian, but he’s brutally shrewd and wholly dedicated to the protection of his clan.”
“But they’re all the way up in the wilds of the Highlands.”
“You think he doesn’t have spies in London? Loners, solitaries, even humans with the sight? London may have no indigenous clans or colonies, but it has its population. Renquist checking into the Savoy probably didn’t go unnoticed. And last night’s fireworks display could have been detected for miles around, if anyone was paying attention. There’s probably more than one of our kind wondering what Victor Renquist is doing here, but I still believe Fenrior is the prime suspect, simply because he’s the closest.”
As Destry made each point of her argument, she continued to tap the toe of her boot with the crop until Columbine raised a pale and protesting hand. “Would
you stop doing that? There are no men here to be excited by it.”
you stop doing that? There are no men here to be excited by it.”
“It disturbs you?”
Columbine toyed nervously with her perfume bottles. “Everything disturbs me this evening. I need to feed. I need blood even if it has to come from a damned pack. Where’s Grendl?”
Destry looked around. “Where
is
Grendl?”
is
Grendl?”
Marieko supplied the answer. “She’s taking water to Victor.”
“Water?”
“Everyone knows Victor Renquist wakes with an unnatural thirst.”
“He never needed water when I knew him.”
“That was a long time ago, my dear.”
What was it with England’s dreaming? Obviously Renquist dreamed in other places, but since he had arrived in the antique island, the dreamstate had been as much the center of drama as the so-called real world. It could even be said Columbine’s dreams brought him there in the first place. He wondered if the colorful fervor of all this dreaming could be related to the complex and energy-intense convergence of the Nephilim ley-line matrix that still pulsed under southern England. Such a subject was certainly worthy of further research, but research was a thing of the future. He needed to put consideration of dreams firmly to one side. Above and beyond anything else, he was thirsty.
If he had planned ahead before retiring, he would have requested a jug of cold water. Marieko would have been more than happy to command one of the servants to bring it, but Marieko had proved such a distraction, even before the dreaming, the idea had completely slipped his mind. Now that she was gone, he wasn’t quite certain what to do. The undead visited so little, the etiquette for houseguests was far from defined. Should he attempt to summon a servant? He, of course, knew exactly where
to find the kitchen, water, and ice, but that would involve prowling the halls of Ravenkeep Priory without having been categorically invited to make himself at home. Of course, after having bedded and dreamed with one of the primary residents, such freedom to wander might have been tacitly assumed, but Renquist was old-fashioned in his punctilious observance of the minutiae of good manners, and he also knew one could never be too careful around female nosferatu on their home territory, especially when one of those female nosferatu had attempted to destroy him less than twelve hours earlier.
to find the kitchen, water, and ice, but that would involve prowling the halls of Ravenkeep Priory without having been categorically invited to make himself at home. Of course, after having bedded and dreamed with one of the primary residents, such freedom to wander might have been tacitly assumed, but Renquist was old-fashioned in his punctilious observance of the minutiae of good manners, and he also knew one could never be too careful around female nosferatu on their home territory, especially when one of those female nosferatu had attempted to destroy him less than twelve hours earlier.
Very gently, he cast around for the auras of his hostess troika and discovered all three of them gathered in another of the bedrooms. That Columbine was the one still in bed tended to indicate the bedroom was hers, and that she was conducting some form of retro-toilette. Would it be egocentric of him to assume he was the subject under discussion? It might be, but it was also very likely to be the truth. They could, of course, be making domestic arrangements or just small talk, but he doubted it after all that had transpired. He couldn’t read the details of their conversation without making his eavesdropping obvious, but he guessed one topic had to be the origin of the determined outside assault on his and Marieko’s shared dream. It was something he needed to think about very carefully himself before he blundered in any deeper, but again, his paramount consideration was water, and only after he’d rehydrated himself would he be able to commence that level of analytical thinking. Life would have been so much simpler if he had just thought ahead, and a cool, clear jug was standing on the night table.
As he would have expected, the huge Elizabethan four-poster—still covered with his rumpled and disorganized fur rug—generally dictated the style of the dark, wood-paneled bedroom. Two narrow lancet windows, rendered eyeless against the day by solid oak fitted shutters, were an approximation of the period, as was the
somewhat grim tapestry of a hanged man with an apparently amused crow looking down on him from the horizontal gallows beam. The same conformity, though, could not be found in the large triptych of Victorian lithograph prints depicting various groups of Christians being unpleasantly martyred in the ancient Roman arena in the days of Nero or maybe Caligula. The unfortunates, mainly attractive young women with rounded flesh and plaintive, soulful eyes, were being flogged, burned, and crucified, and one was about to be torn apart by a team of four garlanded oxen. The work was a typical and hypocritical Victorian trick of presenting overtly sadomasochist imagery under the pretense of religion, but maybe also indicative of the prevailing Ravenkeep attitude? The danger of crosses and other holy relics might be a human, Hollywood, and Hammer Films myth, but few nosferatu could tolerate a Christian.
somewhat grim tapestry of a hanged man with an apparently amused crow looking down on him from the horizontal gallows beam. The same conformity, though, could not be found in the large triptych of Victorian lithograph prints depicting various groups of Christians being unpleasantly martyred in the ancient Roman arena in the days of Nero or maybe Caligula. The unfortunates, mainly attractive young women with rounded flesh and plaintive, soulful eyes, were being flogged, burned, and crucified, and one was about to be torn apart by a team of four garlanded oxen. The work was a typical and hypocritical Victorian trick of presenting overtly sadomasochist imagery under the pretense of religion, but maybe also indicative of the prevailing Ravenkeep attitude? The danger of crosses and other holy relics might be a human, Hollywood, and Hammer Films myth, but few nosferatu could tolerate a Christian.
Whatever the protocols, Renquist was not going to allow himself to be tortured beyond endurance by a waking thirst. He may not have formally been given the run of the house, but he was going to look for water. In the bedroom closet he found his robe. He slipped it on, but as he approached the door, a rapping came from the other side, taking him completely by surprise.
“Who is it?” As he spoke, he could perceive only a faint and listless aura of a human who seemed scarcely alive.
“It’s Grendl, sir.”
The thrall was endowed with all the humanity and animation of sculpted lard. It would appear Columbine and her two companions psychically, and perhaps physically, drained their servants to the point of near mindlessness. In principle, Renquist strongly disapproved of such behavior. He certainly didn’t treat Lamar, his chauffeur in Los Angeles, like that, or any of the other human servants he’d had under his power down the years, but it was hardly his place to comment on how other nosferatu conducted their business—and in any
case, the woman was holding a tray with a clean glass and a large pitcher of ice water. She made a clumsy curtsy and addressed him in a slow monotone, as if reciting memorized lines. “Mistress Marieko said I should bring this for you, sir.”
case, the woman was holding a tray with a clean glass and a large pitcher of ice water. She made a clumsy curtsy and addressed him in a slow monotone, as if reciting memorized lines. “Mistress Marieko said I should bring this for you, sir.”
Renquist, ignoring both gentility and the glass, took the jug itself and drained a long lupine draft; then he let out a protracted sigh. Grendl the thrall stood looking at him blankly, and he dismissed her with a motion of the pitcher. “Thank you. You can go now. I’m sure your mistresses have other tasks for you.”
The human continued to look blankly at him for a further few seconds before dropping a second ungainly curtsy and shuffling away. One of the reasons Renquist never reduced his own servants to such shambling incapacity was a matter of practicality rather than any moral altruism. They were simply of so little use in that condition. If a human servant was allowed to retain at least a modicum of character and dignity, he or she was invariably more efficient. Another reason was aesthetic. Servants needed a certain snap to their attention. He didn’t want to be surrounded by torpid, bipedal slugs. Servant loyalty didn’t need to be maintained by full-burn mind control. The combination of nosferatu charisma and the hinted promise of eventual immortality was more than enough to create a willing thrall able to think for him- or herself and act with intelligence and initiative.
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