Written in the Blood (15 page)

He wondered who it was. He had not yet heard the swish of fabric that announced Etienne’s nightly pilgrimage to Trusov’s apartment. If Béni or János stood outside, they would likely go away if he refused to answer.

The knock came again, louder this time. Again Izsák ignored it, willing his visitor to leave. And then the door opened and Katalin slipped inside.

He shot up in bed, panicked. ‘You can’t be here,’ he hissed.

‘Well, I am,’ she replied, crossing the floor and perching on his bed. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Not after what happened.’

‘If they find you—’

‘I know. They’ll take it out on you, not me. I’m sorry. This is really selfish. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble. But I had make sure you were all right. Are you? All right, I mean?’

‘I’ve felt better. Trusov – he’s crazy.’

‘They all are, a little.’

‘What kind of place is this? Where the hell have I ended up?’

There was little humour in Katalin’s smile. ‘Purgatory,’ she said.

‘That’s not funny.’ Izsák hesitated. ‘Do you know about Etienne?

‘About her and Trusov? They’re not exactly discreet. He feels guilty about it, I’m sure. I think that’s why he gets so angry. I think that’s why he went crazy when he saw you talking to me.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Trusov’s not the predatory type, whatever you might think. What he is, is weak. He didn’t pursue Ets. She pursued him.’

‘Come on.’

‘It sounds unlikely, I know. But it’s true. The sort of attention she gets from Trusov is all she’s ever known. It’s why she tries to make herself look older. Why do you think she’s here, Izsák? What’s happening to her now, it was happening before. She had a father, uncles. They did that, treated her that way. After a while I think it became the only way she could seek affection. Has she tried it with you?’

‘The first day.’

‘See? It doesn’t make Trusov any less of a monster for taking what she offers. But now he’s done it, I think he worries he’ll do it to someone else, too.’

‘Like you.’

‘Exactly like me. And that scares him. When he saw you talking to me, all that anger came out.’

‘Aren’t you frightened?’

‘Of course. But I always carry a knife. If he tries it, I’m going to stab him.’ Katalin reached out and touched Izsák’s chest. Her fingers were cold. ‘Just here,’ she said. ‘Right through his heart.’

Outside, they heard a creak of floorboards as Etienne made her way along the hall, seeking her comfort.

Izsák shivered. ‘What kind of place is this?’ he asked again.

‘A bad place,’ she said. ‘You should lock your door at night.’

He stared at her, at the haunted eyes that stared back at him. He wondered if she referred to Trusov, but somehow he knew she was talking about something far worse.

C
HAPTER
13

Mürren, Switzerland

S
itting at a window table in the wood-panelled restaurant of the Hotel Berchtold after her meeting with Soraya, Leah found that her stomach was cramping with hunger. She scanned the restaurant’s menu and called over a waiter, ordering a plate of cured meats and a basket of fries. Luca Sultés, sitting opposite, requested sparkling water and a bowl of fruit. On the street outside, a trio of snowboarders walked past, gear slung over their shoulders.

‘So,’ Leah said, after the waiter had returned with their order. ‘Soraya didn’t throw me out.’

‘She didn’t.’

‘You weren’t expecting that.’

‘Wasn’t I?’

‘You tell me.’

Luca stared at his bowl of fruit. Then he reached forward and plucked up one of her fries. ‘I didn’t know how she would react. But I thought the chances were slim.’

‘You underestimated her.’

‘Perhaps I underestimated you.’

‘Perhaps you did.’

‘I know what you’re going to ask next.’

‘We had a deal,’ she replied. ‘If Soraya said yes, you’d speak to the others. You’d give me a list of those prepared to talk.’

‘She hasn’t said yes. Not yet.’

‘I think she will.’

He nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

‘So you’ll talk to the others.’

‘I said
maybe
I would talk to the others.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Patience isn’t really a virtue with you, is it?’

‘I don’t have time for patience. You know how precarious this is. You’ll either help me or you won’t. I know you’ve already made your decision. Whatever I say won’t sway you. So let’s just hear it.’

Luca glanced outside at the mountains, and then his gaze returned to her face. The violet patterns in his eyes glowed so vividly they seemed to drain the colour from everything around them. ‘I’m not quite the games player you think.’

‘Meaning?’

‘If Soraya wants to take this chance, I’ll support her. If others wish to join her, that’s a decision for them, not me.’

‘So you’ll agree to do it?’

He shrugged. ‘I thought I just did.’

At his words, Leah felt the breath go out of her in a wave of exhaustion and relief. She felt so tired, all of a sudden, that it was an effort not rest her head against the window pane. ‘What happens now?’

Luca finished his water. ‘We go back to the house. Later, I’ll make some calls. You’ll stay with us tonight, and in the morning—’

‘I have a hotel.’

‘No.’ His expression hardened. ‘You’ll stay with us tonight, and you’ll listen when people offer you their protection. I don’t know what you’re used to back home, but don’t tell me you come and go as you please, because I won’t believe it. I hear a lot. I know the
tanács
is in a state of turmoil. The new
Főnök
has failed to bring unity, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it all boils over soon. When what you’re doing over here gets out, you’re going to throw a live grenade into the middle of it, and that’s when you’ll need to keep your eyes open and know who your friends are.’

‘It won’t get out.’

‘You don’t think? Listen to me. If I have one skill, it’s how to read people. I can tell you’re doing this for the right reasons, and I can also tell that you have no idea how much danger you’re putting yourself in. Out here,’ he said, motioning towards the mountains, ‘it’s even worse. You’re in the Wild West now. There are no rules beyond that glass. No safety net.’

‘What’s out there, Luca, that makes you so concerned for my safety? You talked of the
tanács
, but don’t ask me to believe you’re worried about them. This is more immediate. This . . .’ She frowned. ‘It has something to do with your visitors last night, doesn’t it? Those . . . 
tolvajok
.’

Luca stared at her, tight-lipped. Was that
fear
she saw in his eyes? Surely not.

He leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. ‘We’ll go back together, like I said. You’ll stay another night. We’ll talk, and later this evening I’ll make some calls. In the morning you’ll have your list. How many names it’ll contain, I can’t say. But one thing I can tell you. You’ll not find many of the women you seek in Switzerland. We’re going to rack up some air miles getting this done. The—’

‘Hold on. We?’

‘We’ll visit those women together, Leah.’

‘No. No way.’ She saw his expression darken further, and ignored it. ‘I go alone, Luca. I’m grateful for your help, but this is something I need to do by myself. No debate. Afterwards, when it’s done . . .’ She let her words hang.

His frown held a moment longer, and then began to fade, as if he sensed that any attempt to change her mind would fail.

‘Is the cable car really the only way down from here?’ she asked.

‘There’s a train. We can take that.’

‘You’re a bastard.’

‘Are you cured?’

‘Of bastards? I guess not.’

He grinned, and then his eyes drifted over to the window and his expression froze.

Leah switched her attention to the street outside, and the warmth fled from her limbs.

The figure crossing the road towards the hotel was tall – easily over six feet – and impeccably dressed. He wore a jacket of herringbone tweed over a pale doeskin waistcoat. A scarlet cravat was tied at his throat. His corduroy trousers were mustard yellow, over lace-up shoes as glossy as black treacle. A fedora sat on his head, a jay feather tucked into the band, and he carried a walking cane, swinging it to and fro. Beneath the hat, a great bunch of dirty blond hair was gathered in a loose ponytail.

As the stranger stepped onto the pavement, Leah realised that although he carried himself like a man of middle years, his face looked wrong. Mismatched, somehow. Fleshy and jowled and unquestionably aristocratic, it was nevertheless lined with cracks and folds, like sun-baked earth. His eyes were lost in the sunken concavities of his skull.

The creature – for that, she suddenly intuited, was what it really was – came to a halt on the other side of the window. When it swung its head towards Leah a thrill of fear rushed through her, as if she’d been plunged into iced water. There was something awful about its face. Something apelike behind its countenance; doglike.

Luca rose to his feet. His coat caught the empty water glass and knocked it on to its side. It rolled across the table and came to a rest against a tray of condiments. ‘Get up,’ he hissed. ‘Now.’

Outside, the stranger lifted its cane. A flared silver python’s head topped the slim black shaft, its fangs picked out in gold. The sharp end, capped in metal, struck the window with a click: the sound of a toenail, or claw, or talon.

‘
Leah
.’

She shook herself. Tore her eyes away.

Luca’s face was pale. ‘We need to go.
Now
.’

Nodding, she stumbled to her feet. The bell above the restaurant’s entrance jangled and she turned in time to see the stranger appear in the doorway. Almost at once, Leah noticed the odour. It seeped towards her, fleeting and elusive, but she shuddered with its foulness nonetheless. It was the scent of decay, of corrupted flesh; a greasy, eye-watering
meat
smell.

This close, even in her fear, she registered something strange: the creature’s clothes were flawless, not a speck of dirt or a scuff or a trailing thread. The black shaft of its walking stick shone like a rod of purest midnight. In fact, the only article out of place was its hair. Dark blond and thick, matted and foul with grease, tangled almost to dreadlocks, it was gathered in a bunch that trailed halfway down its spine; a strangle of worms.

Nostrils pulsing, it sniffed, a long inhalation. When it exhaled, Leah caught that odour again. This time there was nothing subtle about it; it was the smell of an opened coffin, a blast of putrefaction, the stench of a corpse pile.

The stranger lifted the cane and tapped the end of it three times on the floor. It seems lost in thought, puzzled. And then it turned its face to her and she saw its eyes clearly for the first time – two black chasms of emptiness. It grinned, lips skinned back from its teeth, and Leah felt as though someone had pressed a finger through her eye and scraped a nail down the inside of her skull.

She felt a hand grasp her shoulder. Nearly screamed. But it was Luca, pulling her from the table.

‘Come on,’ he urged, dragging her away. She struggled to make her legs move, found herself being towed backwards, past empty tables and startled waiters, into a kitchen of stainless-steel work surfaces and bubbling pots, and outside to a storage area of stacked wooden pallets and bins.

‘What was it?’ she gasped, eyes swimming with the sudden cold. ‘What
was
that?’

But she knew the answer without being told. And suddenly she was very frightened indeed.

‘We’re not safe yet,’ Luca said. ‘Run.’

Inside the restaurant, the
tolvaj
remained still, head cocked to one side. Something looped away from it, buzzing, and landed on the nearest table: a bluebottle, fat and bloated. Its metallic body shimmered as it crawled around in a circle, vibrating its wings with a sound like a burst of static.

A second bluebottle landed beside it. It skittered around the first, as if unsure of what exactly it was doing there. After a moment’s hesitation, it climbed onto the other insect’s back. There, on the restaurant table, the two bluebottles began to mate.

C
HAPTER
14

London, England

O
n the third floor of the Georgian town house where she lived, Etienne stood at the bedroom window and watched storm clouds, like a pack of grey wolves, race eastwards towards Mayfair from the direction of Hyde Park.

In the distance, a flicker of light singed the monochrome day and moments later she heard a grumble of thunder, and felt it in her chest. Down on the street, black cabs scurried like sparrows beneath the eye of a hawk. It was ten minutes to one in the afternoon. Her guest would be arriving soon.

Etienne felt a brush of emotion; a shallow wave breaking against her. She examined it with curious detachment – so rare for her to feel anything these days – and discovered that what she felt was unease.

Strange.

Yet out of all the visitors she entertained within these walls, the one whose arrival she now anticipated possessed the singular ability to dredge feelings in her, stirring up the silt-laden graveyard at her core like the dragged nets of an ocean trawler. Pity, distaste, revulsion even; she’d felt all those, to a greater or lesser extent, during her times with him. But unease? That one was new, and she rolled it around in her head, savouring the stomach-gnawing bitterness of it.

She could, of course, refuse him. Jackson and Bartoli, on duty in the building’s fortified ground floor, could fight off an armed assault team if she wished.

Usually she tolerated only one of her security personnel in the house at a time; their presence was a disagreeable impingement on her privacy. This morning, however, she had phoned Jackson – of all her guards the most trusted – and suggested that he spend the day with Bartoli. The coming storm, she lied, had left her feeling vulnerable.

Etienne knew that Jackson heard the deception in her voice – how long since she’d ever felt
vulnerable
? – but he did not question her, and now he toured the ground floor with Yoko, his four-year-old Vizsla, checking rooms and windows.

Yes, she could refuse her visitor. But she would not. She had not purchased this sprawling Mayfair residence – the art that hung from its walls, the clothes that hung in its dressing rooms, the beautiful, luxurious
silence
of this building standing in the elegant heart of London’s most desirable district – by recoiling in the face of danger. She had lived here near seventy years, had ceased to want for money or luxuries far longer. Yet still she continued at this task.

This vocation of yours
, she added, mocking herself.

She knew that a hunger dwelled in her, in that place where happier emotions should reside, a hunger she could neither sate nor deny. While her compulsion to scratch that itch never faded, she knew that she performed a service to the world in these cool West London rooms. While it was work for which she would receive not a single word of thanks, its value, Etienne believed, could not be denied.

Outside, another peal of thunder rolled over London from the park. When the sound receded, Etienne heard a
snick
as the hands of a gilded rococo clock on the mantelpiece found their one o’clock groove and chimed the hour. A moment later, the phone beside her bed buzzed. Barefoot, Etienne padded across the carpet and picked it up.

‘He’s here. Outside.’ Jackson’s voice. ‘Bartoli’s watching him now.’

‘Then let him through. All the usual checks. Don’t lower your guard with this one.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Send him up as soon as you’re satisfied.’

‘The Aviary?’

‘If you would.’

Etienne replaced the phone’s receiver and walked to the corner of the room, where three floor-length mirrors waited. She discarded her kimono, the silk fluttering like butterfly wings as it shimmered to the floor.

Lifting her head, she began to examine every inch of her body, critiquing the muscular curves of her calves and thighs, the pleasing concavity of her stomach, the swell of her breasts. She glanced over her shoulder at the subtle bumps and shallows that formed her spine. She held out her arms and stared at her skin, at the honey-golden colour of it, at its tiny pale hairs. Turning her hands palms down, she searched for age lines, for a broken nail or a spot of dirt or a dry cuticle. She found none.

Etienne raised her eyes to the reflected face that looked back at her and saw a mask of living flesh. Flawless. Emotionless. Exactly what she expected to see. Her eyes betrayed nothing of her thoughts. Even so, she could not meet them for long. While her body, in its sculpted perfection, often enthralled her, she could never hold her own gaze for more than a moment. Instead she examined lips, nose, teeth. She had not styled her hair today but she had combed it; it hung either side of her face, a glossy curtain of blue-black.

Turning full circle, watching her body through all the angles the mirrors provided, Etienne decided she was ready. Her visitor would not wish to see any of this, but she needed to. This had become a ceremony she performed before the arrival of every one of her guests.

Naked, she opened the bedroom door and walked out into the hall, the cool air raising on her skin a rash of goosebumps that faded as quickly as it had appeared.

The Aviary waited on the second floor at the back of the house, accessed via a landing off the building’s central staircase or through an adjoining antechamber. Etienne had no desire to meet her visitor on the stairs. Instead, she walked along the third-floor hall from her bedroom, bare feet sinking into the carpet, and let herself through the last door on this side of the landing. Unlike the other rooms in the house, all of which had been renovated,
this
room and the one immediately below it remained as they had been found.

Paper curled from its walls. Flaking paint peeled from woodwork. At its centre waited a spiral staircase of cast iron, corkscrewing down into the antechamber below. Etienne descended, the metal rungs cold against her feet.

The walls and ceiling of the antechamber were stained, decrepit. Cobwebs shivered in corners. The single window was grey with dust; beneath it stood a neglected dressing table and stool. Five wooden wardrobes lined one wall. Along another, three more angled mirrors, and the door that led to the Aviary.

Etienne placed her fingers on its handle and paused, listening. The room beyond was silent, but she would struggle to hear him even if he stood right on the other side.

Contemplating that, she found herself jolted by another emotion, one that had not visited her in years: fear.

She closed her eyes.

Ridiculous. What’s happened to you today?

Outside, thunder rumbled, as if somewhere in the city skyscrapers were toppling.

Perhaps it’s the storm, she thought. Perhaps it’s just that.

Etienne opened the door. A moment later, her spiking heartbeat already beginning to slow, she stepped across the threshold.

Strange, in a way, that she still called this room the Aviary. No birds sang in its cages; no wings beat a draught upon the air. When she had purchased the house all those years ago, this part had been uninhabitable, untouched since its Victorian resident had expired following a prolonged dive into insanity. Down in the cellar she’d found, wrapped in bandages, a portrait of the man. His pale face loomed from the canvas, hair pasted to his scalp, eyes bulging in paranoia. Several times Etienne had thrown the painting away. On each occasion, unable to explain why, she had rescued it.

Elsewhere, she discovered evidence of the man’s dark obsessions. The Aviary was boarded up when she arrived. She tore down the planks herself, using a claw hammer to prise them away from the jamb. When she found the door locked, and its key absent from the bunch she’d inherited, Etienne hacked through the wood with an axe, bursting into a room as resistant to reason as the mind of a lunatic.

Against the far wall stood a row of ebonised display cases, similar to those she’d seen in the Natural History Museum over on Exhibition Road. Dust caked the glass like a skin, and when she wiped it away she saw the eyes of perhaps twenty birds staring out at her.

They had been preserved, but badly: bodies overstuffed, beaks broken, glass eyes imprecisely attached. As Etienne smeared her hand further along the dust-felted windows, she revealed a taxidermy project more peculiar and twisted than anything she could have imagined. The animals lurking inside those cases had never walked naturally upon the earth.
Parts
of them had; that much was obvious. But the woeful specimens that greeted her possessed a carnival-show horror. They were hybrids, abominations: creations sewn together by a misfiring mind. Here, the head of a cat attached to the body of a chimp. Beside it, the shrivelled head of a new-born lamb fused to the body of a snake; crude bat wings had been stitched all the way along the snake’s torso.

In one corner of the room Etienne saw a heap of animal bones, reaching as high as her waist. And, hanging from the ceiling, the birdcages. They reminded her of lobster pots, although these had been fashioned from iron or brass. In some perched the skeletons of parrots, their bones held together with wire. Other cages contained heaps of tiny, air-dried carcasses – vaguely feathered husks that had presumably lain there since they’d fallen from their perches a century earlier. The floor was spattered with old droppings. On shelves, collections of bird skulls.

Etienne threw open the windows, letting in air and light. She took out the museum cases and their residents, burning them in the garden. The bone pile and the shelves with their papery skulls disappeared. She instructed her workmen to paint the walls, floorboards and ceiling a brilliant white, but she didn’t remove the birdcages. She emptied them of their dead, cleaned and painted them, and snapped off each of their doors. After that she hung them back up, perhaps a hundred of them. With the Aviary’s windows open, their metal chains and bars clinked as they swung against each other in the breeze.

Today, however, the windows remained closed, and the birdcages were still: silent and empty prison cells from which the dead had taken flight.

A rattan screen zigzagged the width of the room, dividing it in two. Waiting nearby, a single chaise longue, upholstered in gold fabric. The only additional colour on this side of the screen came from the hundreds of tiny birds delicately hand-painted on to the walls: scarlet macaws, iridescent toucans, flashing kingfishers; no more than a single example of any individual species, each one rendered in a size no longer than her finger.

Etienne moved to the chaise longue and sat. She pressed her knees together. Through the gaps in the rattan screen, she saw that the room’s partitioned side was unoccupied. At its centre stood a single Louis XV armchair. Unlike the chaise longue, it was upholstered in blood-red silk.

A door opened. A draught set the bird cages jangling. The door closed and she heard footsteps. A creak from the springs of the blood-red chair.

Etienne sensed him, now. Sensed his darkness; his rage; his white-knuckle self-discipline. She knew that the face he wore in her presence was not his own; other than his name, it was
all
she knew of him, despite the length of their acquaintance. Masking one’s features like that among fellow
hosszú életek
was a gross breach of etiquette, but his deceit seemed to trouble him not at all.

‘
Salut
,’ she murmured, listening intently for any tension in her voice. She found none.

‘
Salut
.’

‘It’s been a while.’

‘It’s been four and a half months.’ There was a playfulness to his tone. The vaguest hint of mockery, too.

Etienne knew exactly how long it had been. Before their last meeting, she hadn’t seen him in six months. Before that, a year. The frequency of his visits was increasing, and she wondered what that meant – if not for her, for him. ‘You’ve been well?’

She could hear the smirk in his voice. ‘You care about that?’

‘I prefer you to be happy.’

‘Of course you do.’

From the way his tone changed, she knew that the smirk had soured into a sneer.

‘You still have the photographs?’ he asked.

‘It’s one of them you want?’

‘Yes.’

‘The mother or the daughter?’

A pause as he considered. She thought she heard him lick his lips. A dry rustle, like leaves in a drain. ‘The daughter.’

She nodded. ‘You know how much that will cost?’

The smirk was back. ‘Oh, I know
exactly
how much it will cost, Etienne.’

Her forehead puckered into a frown. Rarely had he demonstrated such animosity so early in his visit, but she dismissed it. ‘You remember the
Bellicoso
?’

‘One of my favourites.’

‘Wait for me there. I’ll be along shortly.’

Chair legs scraped on wood. A door opened. The birdcages clashed like distant cymbals.

Back in the antechamber, Etienne sat at the warped dressing table. Outside, wind flung a fistful of raindrops against the window, the sound like pebbles dropped on a snare. Lightning flickered. Once, twice.

She opened the table’s slim drawer and reached inside to pull out the photographs – a stack of mismatched images as fat as two playing-card decks slapped together. Most of the photographs were in colour, but some were black and white or sepia, brittle and faded.

A rubber band held them together. Etienne slipped it off and began to sort through the images: a blurry shot, sun-faded and cracked, of a bikini-clad woman on a beach; a monochrome image of a serious-looking woman standing outside a terraced house, the photograph torn in half to remove the face and torso of the man whose arm snaked around her; a line of Parisian dancing girls in feathers and heels, one of them circled in black ink; a daguerreotype of two young sisters in profile, black hair scraped into tight buns.