Bloodborn (27 page)

The madam pulled away from her, starting back towards her bedchamber. ‘I told ye. I ain’t quick with the incantations. The whole place’ll be down around our heads in a minute. Now leave me be.’

‘Mistress,’ said Gabriella. ‘I am truly sorry. I never intended–’

Mathilda turned on her. ‘Never mind about that. Just get out. The door’s behind you, and good luck with the flames.’

‘But, sister,’ said Gabriella. ‘The graveyard. The killer. We have to work together.’

Mathilda laughed wildly. ‘I’ve got a bit too much on my plate at the moment, dearie, thanks to you. I’m afraid yer on yer own until I get sorted out again. Now go, and don’t come back. Yer a damned curse!’

She slammed out of the room, leaving Gabriella and Ulrika standing in the middle of it alone. Ulrika lifted her head. From above came the distinct smell of smoke.

‘Merde,’ said Gabriella, then held out her hand. ‘Come, beloved, put your veil on. We must go.’

Ulrika took the countess’s hand and let herself be led to the door. ‘But… but the fire,’ she said as they passed through into the vestibule and started up the stair.

‘We have no other choice,’ said Gabriella.

Ulrika moaned with fear. Fire could bring the true death. It was as terrifying an enemy as the sun. ‘I hope the coach is still there,’ she said.

‘Hush, child,’ said Gabriella. ‘I must concentrate on these wards.’

They continued up the steps which, as before, seemed to branch and shift before them in a way that muddled the senses – at least they muddled Ulrika’s senses. With her eyes closed and a hand on Ulrika’s arm, the countess went up them slowly, but without faltering.

At every landing the smell of smoke got stronger and the sounds of fear and confusion louder. Shouts and cries of pain came through the walls, as well as the crackling roar and heat of fire. Ulrika tried to remain calm, though visions of being lost in the maze of stairways while they filled with smoke forced themselves upon her like unwanted suitors. She wanted to tear the walls down with her claws, but knew that would only bring her closer to the flames.

Pitiful screams and clangings made her cringe as they passed the level of the black hotel – hostages and kidnap victims shaking the bars of their cells and pleading to be let out. Maniacal laughter and hysterical sobbing came from the poppy den as flaming reality invaded the dreams of the lotus-eaters.

The last flight was just as she’d feared, opaque with smoke and red from reflected flames. She could not see the door at the top of the stairs. It might well be blocked.

‘Cover your head with your cloak, my dear,’ said Gabriella, as she did the same.

The countess’s calm voice steadied her and she did as she asked, then they took hands again and ran up the steps together.

Despite the cloak, the smoke burned her eyes and her throat, and the heat from nearby flames roasted her face and arms. The last treads cracked and fell through as they trod on them and they tumbled forwards onto oven-hot planks. Ulrika scrambled up and pulled Gabriella up with her. They lurched on, entirely blind, then slammed into the door. It flew open, unbarred, and they staggered out into the muddy yard.

Looking out from under the hem of her cloak, Ulrika saw with a gasp of relief that the coach was still there, the coachman struggling to hold the terrified horses still. She and Gabriella ran for it through crowds of bashers and harlots who dashed hither and thither like headless chickens, shouting and weeping. Though it was full daylight now, the square was nearly as dark as night. Huge clouds of black smoke billowed up from the tavern and tenements around them and blacked out the sky, and what light there was came instead from the flames that roared from charred windows like dragon’s breath. The entire ring of buildings around the yard was aflame.

‘Very thorough, these saviours of humanity,’ growled Gabriella as they stumbled on.

Lotte threw the door open as they reached the coach. ‘Oh, mistress,’ she cried. ‘I was so worried!’

But just as they were about to enter, a loud bang from the secret gate made them pause and look out from under their cloaks. A phalanx of booted, long-coated witch hunters was pushing it open and striding in through the gap, pistols and rapiers drawn. A warrior priest walked with them, a heavy book and heavier hammer in his hands. The bashers and bawds cowered back before these interlopers, pleading for mercy, but the witch hunters paid them no mind. Ulrika cursed as she saw that their leader was Captain Meinhart Schenk, who they had previously met in Hermione’s parlour on their first night in Nuln. He held a smoking pistol in one hand. Gabriella groaned.

Schenk pointed at the countess with the spent pistol. ‘The woman was right!’ he called. ‘She
is
here!’ He strode towards her. ‘Lady, you are under arrest on suspicion of being a vampire.’

‘And you may arrest the other on the certainty of it, captain,’ said another witch hunter, stepping from the ranks and pointing at Ulrika. ‘For she has revealed her true foul nature to me.’

Ulrika’s heart sank as he raised his head and the wide brim of his hat revealed his piercing grey eyes. It was Templar Friedrich Holmann.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A FLAME TO THE FUSE

‘Into the coach’, barked Gabriella, then sprung through the door and rapped on the wall as Ulrika scrabbled in behind her and slammed the door. ‘Ride out, Uwe. Ride them down!’

‘Yes, countess,’ cried the coachman, and with a whip crack and a neighing of horses, the coach jolted forwards and splashed through the muddy, crowded yard.

From outside came the cries of the witch hunters and a tattoo of pistol shots. Ulrika was afraid Uwe would be shot dead before they reached the gate, but somehow they missed and the coach bounced on. Lotte shrieked as a face appeared in Ulrika’s window – a witch hunter, trying to open the door. Ulrika punched the man in the nose and he fell away. It hadn’t been Holmann. Ulrika wished it had.

A hard crash knocked them all sideways as the coach flew through the half-closed gate, scraping one wall and splintering the woodwork, and then they were in the narrow alley, rocking and pitching, the smoking wooden walls whipping past inches from the windows on both sides. The cries and pounding footsteps of the witch hunters followed behind them. They were not giving up the chase.

Gabriella clutched the sides of the coach, her eyes staring at nothing. ‘“
The woman was right
”,’ she said. ‘What woman did he mean?’

‘Could it be anyone but Hermione?’ asked Ulrika.

‘She is the one woman it can’t be,’ said Gabriella shaking her head. ‘Could Hermione name me without exposing herself? Did I not call her “cousin” in Schenk’s presence? She would be admitting relations with a vampire.’

Sunlight stabbed into the coach as it wheeled wildly into the street and out of the shadows of the narrow walls and the cloud of smoke. Ulrika slammed the windows shut and slapped down the louvres, closing out the horrible light that bit at her through her clothes.

Her brief view of the street before the slats cut it off had shown a scene of chaos. Crowds of shabby slum dwellers surrounded the blazing inn, gaping at the fire, while others ran back and forth with buckets, and people on the roofs opposite tried to wet down their shingles and beat out flying sparks with straw brooms.

Uwe didn’t slow, and Ulrika heard a heavy thud as one of the wheels hit a soft body. Cries of surprise and anger blared at them as they bounced on. Then Schenk’s bellow came from behind.

‘Stop that coach! Stop the vampires! They set the fire!’

A shocked babble rose from the crowd at the command, and the word ‘vampire’ ricocheted to and fro outside the coach like the buzz of a bee caught in a glass jar.

Gabriella snarled. ‘Very clever, witch hunter.’

Fists began to thump on the sides of the coach, and Ulrika heard Uwe’s angry shouts and the crack of his whip from above. Gabriella opened the louvres a fraction, just enough for Ulrika to see the milling bodies around them.

‘Mistress, I’m frightened,’ Lotte whimpered.

‘Fear not, dearest,’ said the countess. ‘We will win free.’ She raised her voice to a shout. ‘Ride them down, Uwe! Do not stop!’

Ulrika swallowed. The coach was slowing and jarring as it bounced over screaming bumps. If it stopped, they would be overwhelmed. ‘Use your power, mistress,’ she said. ‘Drive them away.’

‘I dare not,’ said Gabriella. ‘They have a priest of Sigmar. He might sense it.’

‘Isn’t it a bit late for discretion?’ Ulrika asked. ‘They already know we are vampires!’

Gabriella shook her head. ‘No. Until one bares one’s fangs there is always a chance to deny it.’

Ulrika shot Gabriella a guilty look at that, but kept silent, afraid to admit exposing herself to Holmann.

The countess drew her bodice dagger and made to open her window. ‘So we must fight like frightened ladies, not queens of the night,’ she said. ‘Ulrika, fix your veil.’

Ulrika adjusted her veil, which had come loose in their flight, then drew her own dagger and threw open her window as Gabriella did the same on her side of the coach.

Wincing in the sun’s poisonous glare, Ulrika squinted through the thin black fabric at the knots of angry peasants who were trying to catch the speeding horses and climb up on the running board. Uwe’s lash licked among them, striping faces and arms, but they were not deterred.

A man caught the sill of Ulrika’s window and she stabbed the back of his hand with her dagger. As he fell away a woman shouted and tried to thrust a torch through the opening. Lotte shrieked. Ulrika kicked the door open and it cracked the woman on the shoulder, sending her careening into a few others.

A young man made a leap for the open door as Ulrika tried to close it again. She slammed it just as he caught the frame, and crushed his fingers. He howled in pain and she released him, then closed the door tight.

The coach broke through the fringe of the crowd and speeded up again. Ulrika breathed a sigh of relief and looked back. The wide-brimmed hats of the witch hunters were caught in the middle of the densely packed street, and she could hear Schenk screaming for them to get out of the way. She grinned. The mob was a double-edged sword, it seemed.

She started to draw her head back in, but then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar face and looked again. Von Zechlin! He and his men were trotting out from a side street near the Wolf’s Head on horseback and spurring after the coach – and Rodrik was with them!

‘Mistress!’ she cried. ‘Hermione’s men, and Rodrik!’

Gabriella slid across the bench and looked over Ulrika’s shoulder. ‘I should have killed him,’ she snarled. ‘I should have killed them all.’ She rapped on the wall. ‘Uwe! Beware behind you!’

‘I see them, mistress!’

The coach slewed around a tight corner, its iron-shod wheels skidding sideways through the wet mud of the unpaved street and throwing Ulrika and Lotte together, then straightened out and raced down a narrow crooked lane, but it was a slow clumsy thing compared to the mounts of Hermione’s gentlemen, and they closed the gap swiftly.

Von Zechlin spurred ahead of the rest, shooting into the narrow gap between the coach and the shops that lined the street. Ulrika tried to slash at him as he passed, but missed. He pulled ahead and raised his sword to strike at the withers of the left-side horse.

‘Fool,’ cackled Gabriella, then. ‘Left, Uwe! Left!’

There came a crack of the whip and the coach swerved abruptly, crushing von Zechlin and his horse against a half-timbered wall. Horse and mount went down together in a pinwheel of limbs and ploughed up a bow-wave of mud as they hit the ground.

Ulrika laughed and looked back. The rest of Hermione’s gentlemen were pulling up to see to their fallen captain, but one came on, his horse leaping the wreckage.

‘Rodrik is still with us, mistress,’ said Ulrika. ‘And gaining.’

Gabriella looked out of her window, then nodded. ‘Now I think we can use sorcery.’

She closed her eyes and curled her fingers around each other, then tightened them into a white-knuckled grip while muttering under her breath. It looked like she was choking someone.

Ulrika looked back. She was. Though his horse was plunging on, Rodrik was clawing at his neck and turning purple. He could barely keep his seat. Ulrika eagerly waited for him to fall, but he reined in instead, then bowed over his horse’s neck, hacking and coughing. The coach lurched as Uwe took it around another corner and she was thrown back into her seat. When she looked out again, Rodrik was out of sight. She cursed.