The Iscariot Sanction (40 page)

‘I am your friend, Lillian,’ he said. ‘No matter what. I wish you really knew that.’

Lillian reached deep inside herself, to recall what it was like to elicit warmth from another person. With every day that passed she found it harder to empathise, or even to speak to another human being without mocking at them. She hoped it was down to the company she was forced to keep, but she did not think that was the whole cause. Now, she took Smythe’s hand in hers, trying desperately not to show her dismay when he recoiled from her freezing touch. She concentrated on softening her features, so that the hard mask she had come to recognise as her own face might take on something of its old aspect. Finally, she spoke, as softly as she could, aware that her voice sounded more unlike her own by the day.

‘Beauchamp, I fear that Lord Cherleten seeks to keep me here for a very long time. I have seen my brother but once, and Sir Toby briefly, and no other friendly face but for yours. Even if I was so altered that I sought to betray you, my family, and my country, I would be unable to. The Nightwatch have erected a prison around my thoughts just as Lord Cherleten puts one around my body. I just wish to know that my family are well, that the Order endures, and that the monsters who inflicted this… this blasphemy upon me are to be punished. Please, Beauchamp, would you leave me here without hope, alone but for His Lordship’s lickspittles?’

Smythe looked conflicted. She knew it was unfair to make him feel so, but she could not find it within herself to care, not truly. Eventually, Smythe seemed to resolve his inner struggle.

‘I would not,’ he said, in a hushed tone. ‘But I must be brief, for Lord Cherleten cannot know I am speaking with you of any matter beyond your medical examination. Please, take a seat, and I shall talk while I work.’

Lillian obeyed, and Smythe busied himself, his hands finding their steel again. He took samples of the pale fluid that passed for Lillian’s blood these days, scraped tiny slivers of skin from her forearm, wincing as he did so even though Lillian felt not a thing, and finally, almost reverently, he took a lock of her hair. All of these things were placed into small glass phials, then filled with a brownish liquid.

As he worked, he spoke quietly. The prince was still missing, and there was no word from the Knights Iscariot. No messages had so far reached the north, and even Pickering’s fledgling resistance had gone quiet. Lord Hardwick had surfaced from his secret project only that morning, carrying a dire message to the palace. As a result, the Order was preparing for the worst; the Queen would leave London that very day, for a secret destination. As for John, he remained at the Apollonian, stationed there by their father so as to be out of harm’s way, for it was widely believed that the Knights Iscariot now had even greater reason to further their vendetta against him. Lillian smiled when Smythe told her that John had already been reprimanded twice in a short space of time for trying to harangue his way into the armoury’s subterranean facility.

Smythe took a roll of instruments from his case, along with a phial of yellowish solution. The roll contained numerous scalpels, lancets and coils of wire, and Lillian shifted uncomfortably despite herself.

‘I have had a good many samples taken from me these past days,’ she said. ‘But it seems you are about to make a subcutaneous injection.’

‘Most astute, Lillian. Let me explain. Lord Cherleten has most crudely alluded to the decomposition of your flesh over time, but he paints only the direst picture of your situation. In truth, it will take months before any signs of necrosis will be noticeable, by which time we will have it well under control.’

‘How… comforting.’

‘I have here a concoction of my own devising. It is primarily a preservative—mostly formaldehyde, truth be told—but it also contains not only bleaching agents to keep the skin looking flawless, but also several new innovations created by the Order’s best medical Intuitionists. For want of a better term, an elixir to encourage the skin’s healing process even when blood is… ahem… lacking.’

The mention of blood brought stabbing pangs of hunger, and Lillian felt sick at the thought, and betrayed by her own body at such a revolting instinct. She knew all too well that the degeneration of her flesh would be slowed by imbibing blood, but that the degeneration of her mind would only be hastened by it. The ‘curse of the vampire’, Cherleten had called it.

‘You wish to… embalm me alive?’ Lillian could not keep the dismay from her voice; this was one indignity that she could endure with neither smile nor scowl.

‘I… I am sorry Lillian. Today we only wish to get you accustomed to the idea. We do not have to administer the chemicals if you do not wish it. But eventually…’

‘Eventually I will need it, and increasingly often.’

Smythe nodded. An awkward silence passed between them.

‘If it is not strictly necessary, I would rather not. Not today. I do not think I can face it.’

‘Of course. It is a lot to get used to, on top of… everything else.’

‘What else is in the bag?’ Lillian sniffed, with apprehension.

‘I, um, that is…’

‘Please, Beauchamp, spit it out.’

‘Very well. I was asked, while I was here, to fit you for a wig.’

‘My… my hair?’

‘Not for some time,’ Smythe said hastily. ‘It is just a precaution, and better to prepare you for the eventuality now, Lord Cherleten said.’

Lillian thought she should feel more sorrow than she did, but somehow she resisted any temptation to cry. In fact, she admitted to herself, there was no temptation at all. The longer Smythe talked, the more inured she became to any feeling whatsoever. Except for the hunger; that remained very real.

‘Can that wait for another day, also?’

‘Of course. It will not be necessary for a while.’

‘How long?’

‘Months, at least. Perhaps as long as a year.’

Lillian took a deep breath. That did not seem a terribly long time at all. ‘Anything else?’

‘Ah, yes. But this is good, I think, if a little uncomfortable at first.’ Smythe produced a small silver case and opened it up so that Lillian could see within. It contained two eyes; or, at least, two pieces of thin, coloured glass designed to look like eyes. ‘You wear these over your eyes. You will be able to see through them perfectly well, I assure you. And it will, um, disguise the… you know.’

‘You mean I shall be able to pass for human without frightening small children in the street.’

‘Not just children,’ Smythe joked, but the weak laugh died on his lips when his eyes met Lillian’s. ‘I am sorry. If you will allow me?’

Lillian looked at the lenses warily, and finally acquiesced, allowing Smythe to lean in to insert the strange lenses over her eyes. So close to him—inappropriately so, were he not a medical man—she could smell the nervousness on him, and the blood pumping through his veins. She bit her lip to quell the urge to tear out Smythe’s throat.

As she had suspected, she felt nothing. When Smythe was done, she blinked madly. It felt like he had thrown sand in her eyes.

‘You’ll soon get used to them,’ Smythe said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. ‘Here.’ He took a small mirror from his bag, and handed it to Lillian.

The sight of hazel eyes, a close match for her old self, brought a lump to her throat. For that moment of feeling alone, she was grateful to Beauchamp Smythe.

‘I… do not know what to say,’ she said at last.

‘If you are happy, then you need say nothing. If you are displeased, then tell me what I may do to make amends. I am, as always, your servant.’

Was Smythe still sweet on her? Was such a thing possible? More likely he was merely being the perfect gentleman and consummate professional. A few weeks ago, Lillian would either have dismissed him bluntly, or encouraged him cruelly, depending upon her mood. Now she did not want to do either.

‘Beauchamp… something troubles me.’

‘I imagine a great many things trouble you, Lillian. But is it anything I can help with?’

‘It is about your help, as it happens. All of this…’ She waved a hand across the medical supplies that Smythe had brought with him. ‘These things could not have been prepared in just two or three days, even with the help of Intuitionists. The tests that Lord Cherleten has conducted so far cannot have borne fruit yet. And so… how is it that you come to know so much about my condition, and how to treat it?’

‘Ah,’ Smythe said, averting his eyes from Lillian’s.

‘How long has the Order been preparing for this? Did they know about the Iscariot Sanction?’

‘Good lord, no,’ Smythe said. ‘Lillian, this really is not my place to say. The Order is built upon secrets on top of secrets. We all play our part in the great game, without ever holding all the cards. Lord Cherleten comes deuced close, though.’

‘That was not an answer.’

‘Just this once, it is all the answer I can give you. You will have to ask Lord Cherleten for the rest.’

‘I will,’ Lillian said, determination and frustration washing over her in equal measure.

Smythe began to pack away his things. ‘Best not dilly dally much longer,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Cherleten is already suspicious. Just… try not to land me in it, will you?’

Lillian thought about that for a second, then nodded. ‘Of course not.’ Then, although she resented herself for it immediately, she brushed her fingers against Smythe’s cheek, and whispered to him. ‘You are a dear friend. Please… visit again.’

Smythe did not recoil this time, and she knew then that his feelings for her still burned strong, and were overcoming his fear and misgivings. She needed that, not only because she craved some contact with the outside world—some weak link in Cherleten’s chain of secrecy—but also because she needed to feel like a human being. At least a little. At least for now.

Smythe took her hand and kissed it. ‘I shall return as soon as I can, and as often as I can. And I shall give your regards to John. He won’t rest until they let him come back to see you, you know. He’s proving quite the squeaky wheel back at the club.’

‘A dog with a bone.’ Lillian smiled. ‘He won’t give it up. Bless his heart for it.’

Smythe held her gaze for a moment longer, before clearing his throat and opening the door, making a show of it for the doctors back in the ward.

‘And if those lenses give you any trouble at all, tell one of the nurses at once and I’ll get them remade. Farewell, Lillian.’

She followed Smythe out of the examination room, where Cherleten was waiting. By his side was a nurse, holding a neatly folded stack of clothes. One of Lillian’s own uniforms, with a pair of boots, cleaned and polished, on top.

‘My dear, please forgive me,’ said Cherleten, with uncharacteristic humbleness. ‘I have allowed my pursuit of scientific endeavour to blind me. Your frustration earlier was not unwarranted, and for as long as you remain here I would not have you feel like a prisoner. Please, take the examination room as a dressing room for the time being, and I shall have an orderly make one of the other rooms available for you.’

The nurse handed the clothes to Lillian, who was so surprised at the gesture she said nothing.

‘When you are ready,’ Cherleten said, ‘I would have words with you in private. I am making that room in the corner my office. Meet me there at your convenience.’ He indicated one of the locked rooms nearest the main doors.

Lillian gave a small curtsy. She felt foolish at once, but Cherleten did not react. It was the proper form of thanks when done a kindness by a peer of the realm, after all. Lillian went back into the room to change; a simple act that felt like the most important thing in the world.

* * *

Cherleten was different somehow. He sat behind a desk in the windowless office, which was sparse and clinical, having been, until recently, a disused private room in the ward, Lillian surmised. He offered her a seat, which she refused—she had spent far too long prostrate recently. She likewise turned down a glass of brandy. She had eaten no food nor taken any drink but small amounts of water in three days. She felt none the worse for it, and the smell of the brandy overwhelmed her even from two yards away.

‘I expect Smythe’s news came as a shock to you?’ Cherleten said, once he had made himself comfortable and poured his drink.

Lillian tensed. Had he overheard? She said nothing.

‘It is a lot to absorb in such a short space of time,’ he continued. ‘The transformation you are going through is… unprecedented. If what de Montfort told you is true, then the repercussions for us all are grave indeed.’

She relaxed a little; Cherleten knew that Smythe would confront her with wigs, glass eyes and formaldehyde, and it seemed he meant no more than that.

‘Lord Cherleten, it seems I am a living experiment, first for them, and now for you. Might I ask what you hope to discover with all these tests?’

Cherleten swilled his brandy around the glass, and put it down on the desk without taking a drink. ‘De Montfort explained some of the vampires’ nature to you, did he not?’

‘He did. It was barbaric.’

‘They come from ancient times. Everything was barbaric then. These days we are taught that men evolve; perhaps the vampires have evolved too, albeit much more slowly. For what good is evolution through natural selection when one can live for a thousand years? And that is really the crux of the matter, Agent Hardwick. For the vampire, procreation is difficult. They despise the very process, for it means debasing themselves with “lesser creatures”—humans. I can see from your face that this subject repulses you, so I shall put it in as fine a way as I can. The vampires have half-breed servants, some of whom, like de Montfort, even rise to prominence due to quirks of their blood. But even those of the old lines, of the Blood Royal, are not truly pure. They masquerade as such, and are certainly powerful, but they are degenerates, slowly becoming more grotesque with each new birthing. Weaker, less able to walk amongst men without evoking fear and revulsion. You must understand that the curse of Judas Iscariot cannot be transmitted like some disease spread in a brothel. It is passed through the generations, a taint passed from father to son—or sometimes daughter—by birth. The Iscariot Sanction, if it truly does what de Montfort claims, creates new purebloods from the line of kings. It distils the very essence of Judas and bestows it upon another. If de Montfort can create a new vampire of such power by taking just one human life… well, he could transform as many of the populace as he wished, and slaughter the rest.’