Bloodborn (37 page)

A growl rumbled in her throat. If that was the case, she would find some way to break their seal and slaughter them all. She would get vengeance for those she was too late to protect. She stepped back and surveyed the top of the wall. She could climb it easily, but would the energy be there too?

A crossbow bolt chimed off the gate and zipped past her ear. She dropped to a crouch and looked past the bars. One of Hermione’s gentlemen was coming forwards and laying another bolt in the groove. Ulrika sighed with relief when she saw him, despite his threatening posture. For if the gentlemen were still defending the house, it meant the beast had not yet struck, or – an even more thrilling thought – it had already been defeated!

‘Be off!’ he shouted. ‘They’re tipped with silver, and the next one’s through your heart!’

‘I have urgent news for your mistress!’ Ulrika called back. ‘I have discovered the lair of the killer!’

The man laughed. ‘The killers are captured, hoyden.’

Ulrika’s eyes widened at this. Hermione had trapped the beast and the sorcerer? The war was over?

‘Your mistress and the she-wolf,’ the guard continued, sneering. ‘Caught and chained and standing trial.’

Ulrika’s momentary hope shattered. She groaned. Could it be true? Could Hermione and her men have over-powered Gabriella and Mathilda? She grimaced. With silvered weapons, she supposed they could.

‘Then chain me too!’ she cried. She stood and unbuckled her sword belt, then threw it to the side. ‘For I have evidence to present in their defence.’ She raised her hands over her head.

The man with the crossbow frowned, uncertain, then looked questioningly to his left.

A voice behind the wall answered him. ‘Better to have them all in one basket, I suppose.’

The crossbowman nodded, then turned back to Ulrika. ‘On your knees. Hands on your head.’

Ulrika did as she was told, then waited as the gate creaked open of its own accord and the crossbowman covered her with the silvered bolt. Three more men came out from behind the wall. One Ulrika recognised as another of Hermione’s gentlemen, but the other two were dressed in huntsmen’s garb, and looked to be retainers of the estate. One of these came forwards with heavy manacles and pulled Ulrika’s hands down behind her back, while the other two put swords to her throat.

When the manacles were fastened, the huntsman hoisted her to her feet then shoved her forwards through the gate. It closed behind them, and he and the other huntsman led her up the path while the two gentlemen remained there on guard.

Ulrika surreptitiously tested the manacles as they walked on, straining at the chain that linked them. It was strong indeed. She felt she would be able to break them given opportunity and time, but it wouldn’t be quick. She sighed. If Lady Hermione was willing to look at the note she had found and listen to what she had to say, all would be well but, if she were blind and deaf to even that evidence, then Ulrika was walking meekly to her death, for she would not be able to defend herself, bound as she was.

The path twisted up through overgrown shrubbery and overhanging trees until, as the slope began to level off, a hulking, slate-roofed manor house was revealed among them, shouldering up from the crest of the tor to rise silhouetted against the clear night sky. The left end of the manse appeared to be an old keep, its raw stone and tiny, slotted windows a reminder of a brutal bygone era, but newer additions showed a more open face. The front door had grand marble steps leading up to it, and a portico topped with a balcony while, on the far right, a stately section made in the Tilean manner displayed a magnificent stained-glass window that was easily twice Ulrika’s height. And yet, despite the rugged beauty of the place, and the warm light that glowed from its many windows, it did not appear welcoming. No. That was wrong. Really it appeared too welcoming – unsettlingly so – like a giant jewelled snake waiting in its lair and mesmerising intruders with its glittering eyes and iridescent scales as it wrapped them uncomplaining in its coils, then swallowed them whole.

Another retainer on the steps opened the door and Ulrika’s huntsman guards prodded her through it into a small entry way. There was a high-ceilinged corridor ahead of her with richly-panelled double doors at the end. From behind these, she could hear the sounds of argument.

The huntsmen led her to the doors, then knocked quietly upon them. They cracked open and Otilia the housekeeper looked out.

‘Yes?’

‘Countess Gabriella’s ward, Frau Otilia,’ said the first.

Otilia looked Ulrika up and down with a cool eye, then smiled, which was even colder.

‘Put her with the others,’ she said, then stepped aside and opened the doors.

The huntsmen pushed Ulrika into a sumptuous panelled room, set about with gilded furniture and lit by a huge gold and crystal chandelier that hung from the coffered ceiling. Ahead of her, tall windows and leaded-glass doors looked out into a moonlit garden, while to her left, a fire roared in a marble fireplace decorated with carved dragons and knights.

It was to the fire that her guards led her. Countess Gabriella and Madam Mathilda knelt before it, hands chained behind them like her own, and their backs uncomfortably close to the flames. Glaring down at them with her Cathay fan white-knuckled in one delicate hand was Lady Hermione, all in white, her gentlemen in a half-circle behind her and von Zechlin at her right, his left arm wrapped in bandages and his face a mess of scabbed-over lacerations. Rodrik stood at her left, also bandaged. Famke fidgeted off to one side, chewing the nails of her long, slender fingers.

Gabriella shot Ulrika a sad smirk as the crossbowmen forced her to kneel beside her, but she said nothing. Mathilda was speaking, and not softly.

‘I didn’t come t’kill ye, y’daft bitch!’ she was braying. ‘Y’invited me here! Y’said we was to talk peace!’

Hermione slapped her with her closed fan. ‘I did no such thing! There can be no peace between us! Not after you killed Dagmar and the others!’

‘But I didn’t!’ insisted Mathilda. ‘Why would I?’

‘I thought you said
I
killed Dagmar,’ said Gabriella dryly. ‘You should make up your mind.’

‘You both did it!’ Hermione shrilled. ‘You have conspired against me from the first!’

Ulrika had had enough. ‘Mistresses!’ she cried, in a voice she had last used when addressing cavalry troops in the field. ‘I have proof that the killer is none of us! And that he is on his way here.’

Everyone turned to look at her, staring.

‘How dare you interrupt your betters, girl!’ snapped Hermione, but Gabriella cut her off.

‘Who is it then?’ she asked. ‘And what is this proof?’

Ulrika looked around at them, waiting to be shouted down, but even Hermione seemed willing to hear.

‘The killer is a great undead beast that resides in a crypt within the Garden of Morr in the Temple District,’ she said. ‘Its companion, or master, or servant – I know not which – is a warlock capable of hiding the beast even from our eyes. I found the beast’s coffin and the necromancer’s books in the crypt.’

‘Are we expected to believe this story because you tell it?’ sneered Hermione. ‘You are your mistress’s creature after all.’

‘I said I have proof!’ Ulrika cried, then continued before Hermione could draw a breath. ‘In the necromancer’s desk I found notes from a spy.’ She looked around at them all. ‘Someone among us who has told him our every move. Someone who knew Madam Dagmar would be alone in her coach the night she died. Someone who knew that Mathilda would come here even though she was not invited.’

Hermione and her gentlemen all began to look around at each other, frowning suspiciously.

‘The note is in my doublet,’ said Ulrika to Hermione. ‘I would give it to you except my hands are bound.’

‘I will get it for you, mistress,’ said Otilia, coming forwards from where she stood at the door.

Ulrika turned towards her, nodding to where the note was tucked, then froze, all at once remembering where she had seen the graceful script of the note before. It had been on the directions that Otilia had given Gabriella when Hermione had sent them to stay at Aldrich’s house – directions written in Otilia’s own hand!

Suddenly other things flashed back to her – things that had seemed inconsequential at the time. It had been Otilia who had suggested that the Lahmians look for clues in front of the Silver Lily, where the little warlock had planted the fur and the paw prints that had led them erroneously to suspect Mathilda. It had been Otilia who had poisoned Hermione against Gabriella by reminding her of the countess’s von Carstein blood. It had been Otilia who had urged Hermione to retreat to Mondthaus and who had tricked Mathilda into following her here with the false promise of peace talks.

‘No!’ Ulrika barked. ‘Not her! No one but Lady Hermione! I trust no one else!’

Otilia paused, her face going pale, but Hermione rolled her eyes.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘I’m not touching you. You stink of rose water and corpses. Otilia, fetch me the note.’

‘No!’ snarled Ulrika. ‘I will bite her throat out if she comes near me!’

Von Zechlin snorted and drew his sword. ‘Stay back, Frau Otilia. I will deal with this tatterdemalion.’

Otilia continued forwards. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘It is no trouble, m’lord. I am not afraid.’

‘Nonsense,’ said von Zechlin, laying his sword against Ulrika’s neck. ‘A gentleman allows no woman to be exposed to danger, regardless of her station. Now stay still, filth.’

With fastidious fingers he pulled aside the grimy edge of Ulrika’s doublet and withdrew the note which she had tucked between it and her shirt. Ulrika shot a glance at Otilia and saw that she was backing quietly but quickly towards the door.

‘Stop her!’ Ulrika shouted. ‘She’s going to run!’

Otilia froze as everyone turned to look at her. ‘I was merely retiring to my place, mistress,’ she said with a curtsey to Hermione and a dagger glare at Ulrika.

Von Zechlin waved the note open, then held it up so that Hermione could read it. ‘I would not have you touch it, m’lady,’ he said. ‘It is as filthy as the wretch herself.’

Hermione peered sceptically at the little piece of paper, but then her face fell and she snatched it from von Zechlin to read it again. ‘Otilia!’ she cried. ‘This is in your hand!’

Everyone turned again to Otilia, and saw that she was halfway out of the door.

‘Seize her!’ shrieked Hermione.

Two of her gentlemen leapt to do her bidding as Otilia ran out of the door and slammed it behind her. They threw it open again and raced out after her. Everyone in the room waited, listening to the sounds of a scuffle from the hall, and then the door opened again and the men dragged Otilia back in, her perfectly coifed hair now awry, and her face white except for two spots of livid red on her cheeks. They brought her before Hermione and forced her down, holding onto her shoulders.

‘Explain yourself, Otilia,’ said Hermione, holding out the note. ‘What have you done?’

‘There is little to explain, mistress,’ the housekeeper said. ‘I have betrayed you.’

‘But… but why?’ said Hermione, looking distraught. ‘Haven’t I always cared for you? Haven’t I loved you? You were my most loyal servant!’

‘Aye,’ said Otilia, her voice suddenly sharpening. ‘And what has that loyalty won me? Nothing!’ She raised her chin defiantly and looked Hermione in the eye. ‘For ten years you have dangled the blood kiss before me, always promising it, but always next year, next year.’ She shot a dark look at Famke. ‘And then you take in this gutter slut, this peasant with no manners, and give her what you have denied me! Look at me!’ she spat, pointing to her face. ‘I will be forty this year. Already I am old! I do not want to be made immortal when I am a hag!’

Hermione gaped at her, unstrung. ‘Oh, but beloved, I was going to give it to you. I only–’

‘No more lies!’ snarled Otilia. ‘You knew you’d not hold my loyalty once you turned me. You only used the promise of it as a carrot. Well I saw through it at last! I am done with you!’ She laughed wildly, her eyes fever-bright. ‘I found someone willing to give me the gift now! And all that was required was your destruction!’

‘Who?’ asked Gabriella, straining forwards on her knees. ‘To whom have you betrayed us?’

But Hermione stepped to Otilia before she could answer, and lifted her off the floor by the neck, her claws extending. ‘Traitorous bitch!’ she hissed. ‘Do you want my kiss? You shall have it!’

‘No, Hermione,’ called Gabriella. ‘Don’t kill her yet! Ask her who–’

A silent thunderclap concussion staggered Ulrika and cut off Gabriella’s words. Ulrika felt as if she had been struck by lightning, or knocked down by a towering wave. At the same time, a pressure she hadn’t realised was there seemed to have lifted from her chest. Her ears popped and she felt dizzy and light. She looked around. Gabriella and Mathilda were writhing on the ground, thrashing their heads around on the rug, and Hermione had dropped Otilia and fallen against von Zechlin, clutching her temples and hissing in pain. In the corner, Famke was slumped unconscious against the wall.

Strangely, none of the humans seemed to have felt a thing. They were staring at their stricken mistresses in utter befuddlement.

‘My lady,’ said von Zechlin, trying to support Hermione with his one unwounded arm. ‘What has happened? Are you well?’