Authors: Mick Farren
More Than Mortal (12 page)
The horse was frankly curious. It knew him, and yet it didn’t. Had the beast more reasoning capacity, it would have realized that it recognized the kind but not the individual. Horses are not logisticians, however, so it stood foursquare, wary, but in no way afraid. Its nostrils flared, but its eyes were fixed on the advancing nosferatu, black, deep, and unknowable eyes, as those of a shark when about to strike. In many respects, it was the same root unknowability that could, on an infinitely more sophisticated level, be found in the eyes of Renquist himself. The stallion’s eyes were ringed with red rather than the white or yellow of more conventional horses. It moved its right foreleg as if in preparation to
paw at the floor of its stall with one hoof, slowly and abstractedly, neither in panic or fury, just the uneasiness of perplexity. It recognized Renquist as undead, but the only other undead it had known were the three females of the troika and, before that, those who might have tended it at whatever farm, ranch, or stables whence it had come. To the horse, Renquist was an equine paradox, a familiar stranger.
paw at the floor of its stall with one hoof, slowly and abstractedly, neither in panic or fury, just the uneasiness of perplexity. It recognized Renquist as undead, but the only other undead it had known were the three females of the troika and, before that, those who might have tended it at whatever farm, ranch, or stables whence it had come. To the horse, Renquist was an equine paradox, a familiar stranger.
“Steady now.”
He approached the animal, an open hand extended. It tossed its head twice and then stretched its long neck forward, barely touching his palm with its black velvet muzzle. A brief nonverbal exchange occurred, but in the same instant, Renquist realized he had been exceedingly stupid and careless. In his admiration of the stallion, he had all but certainly given himself away to the three females.
Marieko’s aura was a honed and searching razor. “Right then. Just a moment ago. Something. I’m certain.”
“Where?”
“The stables.”
“The stables?”
“I’m sure, but fleetingly.”
Like two more probing, psychic spotlights, Columbine and Destry joined with Marieko, and their harmonic and united perception panned in the direction of the stables. “Where?”
Marieko concentrated, directing the search. Such was the true strength of the troika in time of threat or crisis. When need or desire drove, all three could operate as one. “As I said, it was fleeting.”
“I’m getting nothing but the aura of Dormandu.”
Columbine let out an exasperated hiss. “That damned horse is like a beacon. It radiates raw power. Even when Destry’s riding, it almost swamps the fact that she’s there on its back.”
Marieko’s perception suddenly halted in its searching
sweep. Where the faces of others frowned when thinking or perplexed, hers took on a distracted passivity. “It would be the perfect place to hide.”
sweep. Where the faces of others frowned when thinking or perplexed, hers took on a distracted passivity. “It would be the perfect place to hide.”
“Where?”
“Within the wild aura of the beast.”
“If such a thing was done, it can only be Renquist.”
“Or another nosferatu.”
“A human would totally lack the understanding.”
“If it is Renquist, why should he do such a thing?”
“As a test.”
“A test?”
“Isn’t existence little more than a series of tests?”
Renquist stepped swiftly beside the horse, as near as he could without unnerving the animal. He placed a calming hand on its neck and leaned his body against the stallion’s shoulder. He’d let himself slip, and such carelessness was unforgivable. Although it was not his survival at stake—merely his ego and pride—he still wished to avoid discovery, and his only hope to evade it was to merge his own aura with the crude uncontrolled power of the horse. A surprise entry of the kind he wished to achieve was only credible if it worked. Premature discovery would reveal him as a fool playing a childish game, and the disadvantage at which it would put him with the three females was shameful beyond consideration. He had hoped to learn, but instead, he would be nothing more than a laughingstock. The intensity of the females’ search was palpable, like a shudder running across the surface of his mind. He leaned closer to the horse for greater camouflage. He could feel its breathing and the beat of its heart. Both were moved rapid. The horse was growing increasingly uneasy at all the unaccustomed psychic traffic around it. Renquist wanted further to calm its anxiety, but to do so would be to effectively show himself.
He could, of course, quickly and easily be found if the females applied some fairly simple lateral thinking.
They were at present looking for him, and he was confusing them by merging his aura with that of the animal. If they merely reversed the process, and read the aura of the horse, they would immediately see him through the horse’s eyes, and his flamboyant scheme, that he was now starting to regret, would be undone. He knew sooner or later the idea would occur to them. He didn’t know Columbine’s companions, but he knew her. She might be vain, shallow, and cruel, but she wasn’t stupid. It was not quite time, though, to admit failure. If he just moved fast enough, he could still carry out his plan and avoid appearing the consummate idiot.
They were at present looking for him, and he was confusing them by merging his aura with that of the animal. If they merely reversed the process, and read the aura of the horse, they would immediately see him through the horse’s eyes, and his flamboyant scheme, that he was now starting to regret, would be undone. He knew sooner or later the idea would occur to them. He didn’t know Columbine’s companions, but he knew her. She might be vain, shallow, and cruel, but she wasn’t stupid. It was not quite time, though, to admit failure. If he just moved fast enough, he could still carry out his plan and avoid appearing the consummate idiot.
Speed was all he had left. He formed a mental picture in his mind: stable to scullery, kitchen to corridor, two more rooms, and into the drawing room. He perceived no locked doors to bar or delay his progress, and, hoping his memory served him correctly (and no structural alterations had occured since the time of de Richleau), he made his lightning move. With the fleet paranormal rapidity only a nosferatu could summon, he threw himself headlong on this hastily plotted course in exactly the direction of the three probing auras.
Neither Destry nor Marieko were particularly fond of the two crossed sabers mounted on the wall beside the fireplace, but Columbine insisted they hang there and not be removed. Almost two hundred years earlier, the swords had been used by rival admirers in duel. The confrontation had been notable, even at the time, for its slashing, no-quarter savagery, and also for how, within three days of the formal confrontation in the grey dawn of a mist-shrouded Richmond Park, both protagonists had been dead. The young Fitzroy Dudley, a captain in the tenth Hussars, and Lord Stockdale, known to his friends as Tiger, who had called out Dudley in the first place, had carved each other so badly both had died of their wounds scant hours apart. With neither becoming her new paramour and protector, Columbine had been
forced to seek consolation by being squired to the Prince Regent’s Pavilion in Brighton by the notorious Sir Harry Deerpark, an amusing and degenerate libertine to whom, in her human days, she had often turned when affairs of the heart became altogether too much for her. Harry Deerpark could be trusted never to fall in love and never to fight duels over women. Columbine had been all of sixteen at the time, but she already knew a certain tangible solace could be found in the arms of a man who made it clear from the start he would never seriously give a damn. Now she marched to the pair of blades and selected the one within most easy reach. “Blast it to hell, I’m going to the stables. I’m going to find out exactly what’s going on there and put a stop to it.”
forced to seek consolation by being squired to the Prince Regent’s Pavilion in Brighton by the notorious Sir Harry Deerpark, an amusing and degenerate libertine to whom, in her human days, she had often turned when affairs of the heart became altogether too much for her. Harry Deerpark could be trusted never to fall in love and never to fight duels over women. Columbine had been all of sixteen at the time, but she already knew a certain tangible solace could be found in the arms of a man who made it clear from the start he would never seriously give a damn. Now she marched to the pair of blades and selected the one within most easy reach. “Blast it to hell, I’m going to the stables. I’m going to find out exactly what’s going on there and put a stop to it.”
She turned with the heavy sword in hand, but before she could take a step toward the door, a small but blinding star seemed to explode from the cosmos at the exact center of the drawing room. For a nanosecond that seemed like an eternity, Columbine ceased to subjectively exist. The searing radiation was all-consuming, and her personality was an indivisible part of it. The very mathematics of her being were knocked off-line, and all was dazzling diamond blindness. Then she returned to herself as a falling spiral, a vast, spread nebula, or maybe the interior of a neutron—macro or micro, it didn’t matter. She twisted without will or power to stop herself until the star coalesced in colors and flame of the visible spectrum and way beyond, still flaring like a sun, but Columbine was at least standing again in the drawing room, on her own feet, the fatal saber still in her hand, although dangling uselessly by her side. Gradually the shining aura assumed the form of a winged humanoid, a towering majesty of flaming demigod. It flexed like some bird of prey, giving one final display of spread and radiating pinions, with feathers of wild lightning, and then the wings folded, the fire was extinguished, the glare faded to nothing. Victor Renquist stood before
them, aside from the style of his dress, exactly as Columbine remembered him: tall in a dark overcoat, leaning nonchalantly on a silver-topped cane, the long curly hair, the young but gaunt features, and those ancient eyes that left no doubt they had seen most of what it was possible to see. The hard but full-lipped mouth curved into a smile of quietly demonic humor.
“Sorori in sanguinem.”
them, aside from the style of his dress, exactly as Columbine remembered him: tall in a dark overcoat, leaning nonchalantly on a silver-topped cane, the long curly hair, the young but gaunt features, and those ancient eyes that left no doubt they had seen most of what it was possible to see. The hard but full-lipped mouth curved into a smile of quietly demonic humor.
“Sorori in sanguinem.”
Columbine could feel herself turning grey and starting to physically quiver with undead anger. She was still sufficiently disoriented to be distanced from her surroundings and unable to speak, but she was completely capable of hatred, and right at that moment, she hated Victor Renquist more than she had ever hated him before—and perhaps more than she had hated any other being she had ever encountered. That he should stage such a gaudy and humiliating spectacle, the only purpose of which was to demonstrate his power and her weakness, reinforced everything she had ever loathed about him. And then he had the gall to address her as sister in blood in formal Latin. For some illogical reason, the Latin fanned her fury more violently than anything else. It was the conclusive mockery, the ultimate evidence of his overweening and insolent vanity, the final straw, the cherry on the poisoned sundae. The sword in her hand meant nothing to her, otherwise she might have run Renquist through right there and then. Instead she just stood and stared, and as the drawing room came more fully back into focus, she emitted a drawn-out hiss of pure soul-spite.
“How did you ever manage to survive for so long?”
Renquist laughed. “By never doing what’s expected of me.”
The laugh triggered a fresh surge of rage, distorting her senses all over again, but this time, the anger failed to render her immobile. Quite the reverse. Without conscious thought, she raised the saber and advanced on Renquist until the point was just inches from his chest. “I called you here for a purpose, Victor. I intended to
make use of you, but I realize I detest you too much.”
make use of you, but I realize I detest you too much.”
“So now you intend to put that sword through my heart?”
“I really have no choice, Victor. You’ve done enough. You’re an unchanging monster, and you must finally cease.”
Renquist’s mockery diminished slightly. “You propose to destroy another nosferatu? Despite all the taboos and constraints?”
“You have invaded my mind and domain. I would be justified under the laws.”
Marieko stepped forward with an authoritarian warning. “Columbine. This is madness … .”
Renquist raised a hand, indicating that Columbine was his problem and he would deal with her. “You’d do well to heed your friend, my dear. Think seriously about this.”
“I don’t need to think.”
And so saying, she lunged at Renquist with all the speed, precision, and expertise of an experienced swordswoman, but somehow the blade never struck its mark. In a matador move, Renquist pivoted slightly at the hips and then, striking like a snake, grasped the steel eight or nine inches back from the point. The sword had been on display too long to be particularly sharp, but nonetheless, as he tightened his grip on the curved blade, it bite deeply into the flesh of his hand. His expression didn’t change, though, even when, down the length of the weapon, Columbine could feel it’s edge scrape on bone.
Not content with merely stopping her lunge, Renquist began slowly and deliberately to twist the sword. Columbine resisted as best she could, but she was no match for Renquist in any trial of pure strength. Her fingers could not retain their grip on the hilt. The guard pressed on her wrist, threatening to break it. The excalating pain was too much. The saber was wrenched from her hand. Renquist held the blade for a moment and looked deep
into Columbine’s eyes. Then he hurled the sword away from him so it clattered against the bricks of the fireplace.
into Columbine’s eyes. Then he hurled the sword away from him so it clattered against the bricks of the fireplace.
“I’m really not so easily destroyed, my dear.”
A furious sob rose in Columbine’s chest, and she could do nothing to prevent its shameful escape. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Renquist was drawing her in, and, no matter how she might deny it and hide behind a screen of fury, he had the power. “Damn you, Victor! Damn you!”
Renquist sighed and permitted himself a weary smile. “I’ve been damned beyond all memory.”
Dark nosferatu blood was running down his right hand, dripping from his fingers and making irregular splatters on the three-hundred-year-old rug on which he stood. Without breaking eye contact, he raised his bleeding hand, wounded palm outward, reversing the direction of the flow so it trickled down his wrist, soaking the cuffs of his shirt and jacket.
Marieko felt the change instantly. Something old and savage was in the room. At the sight of Renquist’s blood, an atavistic and transforming presence entered, and all culture and civilization faded like a cultivated chimera. Wild nosferatu faced each other in the firelight with a threatening, wolf-pack simplicity, three females and a male, and the male was bleeding. By untamed, unutterable, feral tradition, the females had two choices. They could submit, or they could take him down. They could seize tribute and drain him, or they could pay tribute and bow to his will. Columbine’s eyes were huge and darkrimmed. Renquist seemed to hold her in total trance. Destry’s gaze was fixed on the bloody hand, and her breathing was becoming progressively deeper and slower. Marieko prided herself on being the most controlled of the troika, but even she could feel her rationality and composure being rapidly eroded by the most primal appetites. She, too, stared at the still-welling,
deep burgundy blood, oft-desired and usually forbidden. She was gripped by the brutal, unnameable thirst. All undead secretly shared the craving, the taking of blood from their own kind, so much more to do with elemental power than with mere survival.
deep burgundy blood, oft-desired and usually forbidden. She was gripped by the brutal, unnameable thirst. All undead secretly shared the craving, the taking of blood from their own kind, so much more to do with elemental power than with mere survival.
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