Written in the Blood (7 page)

Leah followed the maid up two winding staircases to the top of the house, arriving in another long hall. The walls here were hung with paintings. Those closest to her were watercolours, their subjects elusive and light, ethereal brushstrokes that seemed to celebrate all that was beautiful and pure. But as she progressed further along the hall the paintings, and their subjects, grew darker. Watery pastels evolved into savagely vivid oils. Scenes that appeared transcendental regressed into baroque depictions of violence and war: dramatic contrasts of darkness and light as practised by Giovanni Baglione, Caravaggio and others.

At the far end of the hall, isolated from the other works and lit by a single wall spot, hung a painting that reminded Leah of something she had once seen in a Toronto art gallery:
Massacre of the Innocents
, by Rubens.

It made her stomach tighten to look at what it depicted. Against a background of classical columns, a group of soldiers tore into a crowd of semi-clothed civilians. Swords were plunged into breasts; throats were slashed open; babies were dashed against stone steps. The eyes of the soldiers shone as they carried out their slaughter. The wounded and the dying slipped in blood, pulling others down on top of them. Leah could almost hear their screams.

Was this how the
hosszú életek
remembered the genocide of the late nineteenth century? She shuddered to imagine what it must have been like. And also she wondered: had Luca Sultés – or his father – started this collection of art with the piece that hung before her now, beginning in horror and crawling steadily towards the light? Or had he begun where she had entered the hall, in celebration of beauty and hope, gradually descending into depravity, wading through years of blood to this final scene of butchery? She suspected the answer would not be the one she sought.

The maid opened the door to Leah’s suite and encouraged her inside. The room was huge. A bed crowned with six white pillows stood against the near wall, beneath a stunning vaulted ceiling. The wide windows offered a view of the moon-touched mountains beyond. A door opened onto a sweeping balcony.

Along one wall, a fireplace and a basket of logs. In a corner, a chair, table and reading lamp. On the chair rested her rucksack and motorcycle helmet. An alcove led to a marble-tiled en suite. A second door, in the opposite wall, appeared to grant access to the adjacent room. No key sat in its lock.

The maid moved to the windows and began to pull the drapes.

‘That’s OK,’ Leah said. ‘I can manage.’

The woman smiled her acquiescence, and when she raised her head Leah noticed her eyes for the first time: midnight blue, flecked with chocolate and almond.
Hosszú élet
eyes.

She wondered what might compel a
kirekesztett
– when the opportunities of a blinkered world were so obviously ripe for harvest – to become subservient to another.

Fear, she wondered? Isolation? The need to belong?

‘What’s your name?’ Leah asked, and immediately saw those arresting blue eyes dip to the floor.

‘Ede.’

‘How long have you been here, Ede?’

The woman smiled again, eyes still lowered, and Leah recognised an uneasiness in her expression that pained her.

What does she see when she looks at you? She sees Leah Wilde, bastard descendant of Balázs Jakab. Half
hosszú élet
and half not.
Kirekesztett
, by virtue of her birth. Twice damned, in truth, and yet by quirk of timing and fate accepted into that society denied to so many others.

‘Do you know why I’m here?’

Ede pulled at her fingers, nodded.

‘Do you think I’ll succeed? Do you think he’ll let me talk to them?’

A pause. ‘I would.’

Leah watched her a moment longer. Then she stepped back, not wishing to prolong the woman’s discomfort. ‘Thank you for showing me up.’

After Ede had bade her goodnight and closed the door, Leah moved to the windows. She stared out at the night – at the sky now obscured by cloud, at the glistening teeth of the Jungfrau, the Mönch and the Eiger.

Snowflakes had begun to fall. Already the steeply receding lawn, flanked by dark forest to the west and by a sheer drop to the east, had turned white.

Leah was about to move away from the window when she thought she saw a hint of movement at the edge of the trees. She stepped closer to the glass, feeling a prickle of something – some underdeveloped
élet
sense, perhaps – across her skin.

There it was again. A black shape moving in deep shadow.

Now she saw it move out of cover and on to the snow-covered lawn. This far away, she couldn’t tell what it was. It moved fluidly, but whether on two legs or four she did not know. On the opposite side of the lawn, from the lip of the precipice that fell away into darkness, another appeared.

The two silhouettes converged, lining up in front of the house perhaps a hundred yards from the windows. Leah glanced around at the lights blazing in her room; she would be clearly illuminated to whoever or whatever lurked outside. Alarmed, she shielded herself behind a section of window frame. She reached out a hand and tested the balcony door. Locked.

The mysterious shapes on the lawn were motionless now. While she couldn’t discern a particular outline to them, or even individual limbs, she sensed that they stared up at the house.

Something seemed to spook them. As one, they bounded across the lawn into the cover of the trees, and Leah acknowledged that they couldn’t be human, couldn’t be human at all. But what kind of animals they were – what kind of
thing
– she could not begin to guess.

She tested the door again, tried to shake it in its frame. It denied her attempts.

Leah closed the curtains and undressed. After brushing her teeth, switching out the lights and slipping beneath the bed’s covers, she lay in the darkness, thinking. She recalled the strange collection of masks and clocks that had greeted her arrival; the increasingly macabre artworks hanging in the hallway outside. And then she began to consider the man in whose house she stayed.

A Kutya Herceg.

We should throw this witch in the river and see if she floats.

He was rumoured to have killed scores of Eleni over the years, the Crown-appointed organisation responsible for the genocide of 1880. But if the stories she’d heard were to be believed, he had turned on his fellow
hosszú életek
far earlier than that. Could she reconcile those tales with the man she had met tonight? It disturbed her to admit it, but yes, she could.

And what of his son, Luca Sultés?

Sultés defied any attempt at definition. Could she possibly begin to trust
him
in light of what she knew about his father? At the very least, could she try to forge a partnership with him, in pursuit of the goal to which she had devoted herself? She might have to.

Leah turned onto her side and saw, through the shadows, the door that linked this room to the next. Light from the other side picked out its shape. She remembered she had not tested it to ensure it was locked. Too late now. She could feel sleep reaching for her. It had been a long day. Exhausting. Perhaps the start of a journey that would lead her to the place she needed to go. Perhaps one that would lead her somewhere immeasurably more dark.

Time would tell. Time, always, would tell.

Once, in the night, climbing up from a dream in which silhouettes of muscle and teeth pursued her through a forest as dark as the far side of the moon, she thought she heard something moving on the other side of the windows. A snuffling against the glass.

She opened her eyes, still not fully awake, and in the moment before sleep claimed her once more, pulling her back to the tangled undergrowth of the forest and the chase, she thought she glimpsed, through a gap in the curtains, a blast of condensation against the window, the vapour of an expelled breath, and an eye, glimmering like an oily reflection, roving over her body as she lay prone beneath the sheets.

C
HAPTER
7

Calw, Germany

H
annah led the
Örökös
Főnök
Catharina Maria-Magdalena Szöllösi and her entourage into the communal garden that lay behind the cluster of single-storey chalets. Wind stirred the fallen leaves, carrying autumnal scents of cyclamen and witch-hazel.

The flower garden had been Gabriel’s idea. They had planted it within months of buying the land on which the centre now stood, choosing the plants together, deliberately selecting species known for their scent. At any time of year, Hannah could come out here and enjoy the fragrance of the blossoms: narcissus and lily of the valley in spring; jasmine, honeysuckle and lavender during the hot months of summer; in winter, through a pall of rich wood smoke, the dizzying scent of Daphne odora.

She remembered how, when she’d been a child, her father had visited the university physic garden in Oxford when he needed solace and some space for his thoughts. Usually this fragrant garden in Calw, with its myriad of fragrances and the soft music of its wind chimes, worked the same magic on Hannah. Not today.

The lawn needed mowing. Blades of grass, like tangled hair, snatched at her feet as she walked her guests to the picnic table. Somewhere overhead, the distant drone of a light aircraft cut through the forest quiet. She heard her guests pulling seats away from the wooden table, slats creaking as they sat. The
Főnök
, she thought, faced her, flanked on either side by two
tanács
councilmen, Anton Golias and Oliver Lebeau. To her left, she heard Gabriel set down a tray of coffee.

It was a myth, Hannah knew, that a person’s sense of smell grew any more acute once they lost their sight. But she had learned that
hosszú életek
senses were far more sensitive than those of
simavér
stock. Since the discovery of her heritage, and her subsequent education from Gabriel, Hannah had begun to develop those remaining senses beyond anything she could previously have imagined. Her hearing, to Gabriel’s amusement and delight, now surpassed his own. Her sense of smell had developed such that she could predict changes in the weather, often hours in advance. And, although she had not shared this last revelation with anyone, she thought she could sometimes detect the shifting emotions of the people around her. Whether that was due to smell alone – some subtle combination of hormones and sweat – or something she intuited, in part, from the cadence of their breathing, Hannah did not know. What she did know was this: along with the scent of cyclamen and witch-hazel drifting out of the forest, and the rich aroma of brewed coffee, she could clearly detect the
Főnök
and her councilmen, and the curiously conflicting emotions of love, distrust, fear and tension that seeped from their pores in an aromatic brew, sharp and bitter, malty and soft, too tightly embroidered to unpick and assign.

It troubled Hannah, that blend. She could sense them watching her, and it made her skin itch. She felt the cold scratching of fear in her stomach, and it angered her; she had spent too many years afraid. Each new spike was like a drop of mercury in her veins.

She didn’t want to be sitting here, feigning an air of calm, while somewhere out there her daughter faced dangers unknown. Matthias had reassured her that Leah would be found soon enough, but how could he promise her that? How could any of them? For fifteen years she’d dedicated herself to the task of arresting the
hosszú életek’s
decline, always with the hope of securing her daughter’s future. Right now she was seeing the unintended consequence: the girl she lived to protect offering herself as a pawn in that very battle.

To combat her anxiety she stood, feeling for the pot and cups on the tray, and served coffee. Sitting back down, Hannah held her own cup close to her nose, trying to lose herself in the aroma of roasted beans.

‘I believe it’s a day for celebration,’ the
F
ő
nök
said.

Do not reveal your emotions.

Hannah forced a smile. ‘It’s a day for catching up on sleep,’ she replied, rolling her neck.

‘It was a long labour?’

‘Nothing extreme. But . . .’ She decided she might as well be frank. ‘It wasn’t without its complications.’

A click of bone china as the
Főnök
placed down her coffee cup. ‘Did she need intervention?’

‘Yes.’

The woman paused. ‘You nearly lost her.’

‘But we didn’t,’ Gabriel said. ‘Flóra appreciated the risks. And now she has a son, another—’

‘Gabe, please. We understand all that. Truly we do. I ask only out of concern for the mother. None of us feels anything but delight at this news.’

Across the table, Anton Golias grunted.

‘Something to say?’ Gabriel asked. Hannah heard the ice in his tone.

‘You know my feelings on it. Flóra was too old. It was a risk.’

‘There have always been risks.’

‘Some more extreme than others.’

Hannah stiffened at that. ‘What else would you have us do, Anton? Look at the alternative. Would you prefer that?’

‘Of course not. But some would say you should take greater care when choosing the women you recruit.’

‘And who should make that choice? You? The rest of the
tanács
? Flóra came to us willingly. You know that as well as I. Is it for us to deny her?’

‘Five women have died on these premises in the last six months.’

‘And fifteen babies have been born.’

‘So we’ve reduced ourselves to statistics, is that it?’

‘Can you suggest a different approach?’ Hannah asked. ‘Should we pack it all in, go home quietly and light a candle to commemorate the last of us? We’re fighting a war here, in that building behind me. Fighting a grim, backs-to-the-wall last stand: against nature, against the consequences of the Eleni outrages all those years ago. Like any war, we’re going to have casualties. It’s messy and it’s horrific, and believe me that if you stayed here a week and watched what we do you’d see how we suffer – and how we rejoice – with every inch of ground we advance or retreat. Do you think we don’t grieve for each volunteer we lose? Do you think we don’t live with their loss every day? Tell me a better way and I’ll listen.’

The sound of wind chimes filled the silence.

Anton sighed. ‘I don’t wish to attack you, Hannah. I know your intentions are pure. We all know. And I don’t have a better solution for you. But I have to consider the greater good.’

‘This
is
the greater good.’

‘Only if you have a chance of succeeding. If not, all you’re doing is accelerating the very outcome you’re trying to reverse. From what I hear, you’re fast running out of options.’

Hannah felt Gabriel’s hand on her arm. She knew, immediately, what he feared she might say: that there
was
another option, but the
tanács
was too entrenched to consider it. She wouldn’t speak of that, of course, especially not now; especially considering where Leah had gone.

Instead she swallowed, calmed herself. ‘I appreciate the need for debate. Of course I do.’

‘I’m sure,’ Anton replied. ‘You know this project split the
tanács
in two. I don’t agree with the more literal interpretations of the
Vének Könyve
, and neither do I see their relevance to what we face today, but you should know that the voices of orthodoxy are becoming increasingly loud. I’m here to ensure that the risks you’re taking don’t grow so excessive that you lose what support you still enjoy. Even some of your strongest supporters are starting to say the pair of you have too much personal interest in this to be objective.’

Gabriel laughed. ‘How can any of us
not
have a personal interest in this?’

‘Some are also saying,’ Anton continued, ‘that considering Hannah’s heritage, she’s hardly the most obvious person to be leading this programme.’

Oliver Lebeau’s chair creaked as it shifted under his weight. Now he interjected: ‘Yet we all know how ridiculous those objections are. Without Hannah, there
is
no programme. It wouldn’t exist.’

The
Főnök
said, ‘Please don’t think we came here to attack you, Hannah. It’s not the reason for our visit.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘We’ve learned something. It may be nothing. But if what we’re hearing is true, then it affects us all, and it affects your situation directly.’ Addressing her councilmen, she added, ‘I’d like to speak to Hannah and Gabriel alone. Oliver, you wanted to see the facilities. I believe someone is available to show you around.’

The two men stood, and Hannah heard them walk back across the garden to the complex. Wind sighed in the trees. For a while, no one spoke.

‘I’m sorry you had to listen to that,’ the
F
ő
nök
said. ‘Anton can be blunt, but his intentions are good.’

‘Are they?’ Gabriel asked.

‘He takes his responsibilities seriously.’

‘And we don’t?’

‘Of course. That’s not what I meant.’ She sighed. ‘Look at us: you and me. Prickly like this. If our mother could see us now . . . I never realised how wise you were to turn down this role.’

‘Not much wisdom needed for that, sis. I’ve never been good with rules. Hardly the best choice of candidate to enforce them. If our mother could still see us, she’d say you were the obvious choice to succeed her and you know it. I work better from the side-lines. Always have.’

‘Things have changed so much. The
tanács
plot and scheme, bicker like school children. These days the role of
F
ő
nök
seems mainly one of mediation.’

‘Another skill you inherited from mother, and one that I lack. You were always the best choice. The only choice.’ He paused. ‘I still don’t understand how the
tanács
can be so backward about what we’re trying to achieve.’

‘Those passages in the
Vének Könyve
are problematic.’

‘And while your councillors argue about their interpretation, we’re trying to ensure our very survival.’

‘We were never going to reverse a thousand years of ingrained doctrine overnight. If you could take a more visible role—’

‘My place is here, Cat.’

She sighed. ‘I know.’

‘So let’s not skirt around the reason for your visit. The
tanács
situation is hardly new. Although if Oliver can impose his will on you, it’s worse than I thought.’

‘I could hardly deny his request to see this place.’

‘We agreed to keep it secret.’

‘But not from the
tanács
.’

‘The location, we did.’

Catharina remained silent.

‘So tell us. What is it? What’s happened that’s brought you all the way out here to Calw? I take it you haven’t dug us up any new volunteers.’

‘Is Leah here?’ the
F
ő
nök
asked. ‘She should listen to this. It affects her, too. More than anyone, perhaps.’

Hannah felt her stomach plummet at the mention of her daughter’s name. ‘Leah’s not around right now. Whatever this is, we’ll pass it on.’

‘Can you contact her? Ask her to come back?’

‘She’ll be gone a few days. Please, Catharina, just share your news. I’ll make sure Leah knows as soon as possible.’

‘Very well. But once we’ve spoken, we’ll need to brief Matthias. You’re going to have to step up security. Perhaps even relocate. And we’re going to have to talk to the parents. Check every one of the children.’

That cold scratch of fear from earlier had begun to bore out a furrow. ‘The way you’re talking, this doesn’t sound like something that could be nothing.’

‘No.’ The
F
ő
nök
paused. ‘Hannah, have you ever heard us talk of the
lélek tolvajok
?’

Beside her, Gabriel’s chair creaked. ‘There hasn’t been an abduction in years. You told me the
tolvajok
were dead.’

‘Maybe not,’ his sister replied.