The Demi-Monde: Summer (24 page)

His sister was quiet for a moment as though gathering herself to proceed. ‘But now Lilith has returned to finish what was interrupted all those thousands of years ago … making humankind perfect.’ She smiled at Billy. ‘And that is why Septimus Bole has sent you here, Billy, to prevent the second coming of the Lilithi.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because Septimus Bole is a Dark Charismatic – a by-blow of a Grigori – and the Grigori are frightened of me … of the Lilithi. They know that the Lilithi will one day return and find a way of destroying them and correcting the mistake we made of allowing them to mate with Fragiles. They know that one day we will find a way of purifying humankind and of eradicating the contamination of Dark Charismatics. Now, after all these years I am come to fulfil this destiny.’

Utterly mad
.

‘Even as we speak, arrangements are being made to bring the Column of Loci back to its rightful resting place in the Temple, and once it is here, the power of the Temple is restored … the power of Lilith is restored. On Lammas night I will conduct a ritual that will begin the Awakening of the Lilithi and to do that I need your help, Billy.’

Billy sure as hell didn’t like the way Ella looked at him when she said this: he had the freaky feeling that she was laughing at him, but having seen the way she’d handled that aurochs he decided to play it cool.

‘Me? Like as always, I’m here fo’ yo’, Sis. After all, we’s family?’

Ella gave an unsettling little laugh. ‘Yes, we are family. And being my twin, Billy, your … assistance will make me all-powerful. It is Fate that you have been sent here just as the final battle between the Lilithi and the Grigori is to be fought. And you, Billy, are my most powerful weapon in this struggle.’

Suddenly Ella spread her arms wide and, in a voice so loud that it filled the Temple, cried out, ‘ABBA, I am come again. I have come to reclaim the Nine Worlds. I have come to bring Perfection to the Kosmos. I am Lilith reborn.’

Man, this bitch is swinging off her hinges
.

Book 3, verse 27 of the
Flagellum Hominum:
Translated by Jezebel Ethabaal, JAD Academic Press

Kondratieff heard the arrival of the Signori di Notte even before they were announced. He heard them banging on the door of his house, he heard them shouting at his housekeeper demanding to know where he was, and he heard them pounding up the stairs to his study.

It took them less than thirty seconds to do all that but it was enough time for him to place the precious copy of the
Flagellum Hominum
and his plans for the bomb back into their hiding place under the floorboards and to assume the look of aggrieved innocence so necessary when dealing with members of Venice’s secret police.

As the door of his study was barged open, he turned in his chair to greet his visitors, who consisted of a young and very florid-faced captain and two impressively large constables. ‘Are you Docteur Nikolai Kondratieff, Head of the Future History Foundation?’ the captain demanded.

‘I am.’

‘Good,’ and the captain stood to one side to allow a fourth man to enter the room.

Kondratieff recognised him immediately: few Venetian men were as tall as the Abbé Niccolò di Bernado dei Machiavelli or as addicted to the use of perfume. But no perfume known to man was powerful enough to mask the aroma of duplicity that bedecked Machiavelli. Kondratieff loathed both him and his extraordinarily supple loyalties. Put simply, the man was a turncoat. Doge Catherine-Sophia had barely stopped twitching before he had converted to IMmanualism, had pledged his allegiance to the new Doge and had begun ridding Venice of anti-IMmanualists. And as head of the Signori di Notte he was ideally placed to do just that. He was, without doubt, the most unprincipled man in the whole of Venice.

Kondratieff corrected himself: he was the
second
-most unprincipled man in the whole of Venice. The premier exponent of these deplorable talents was the Senior Prelate of the Church of IMmanualism, the Marquis de Sade, but it was a bloody close contest.

Machiavelli came to a halt a pace in front of Kondratieff’s desk and glared down at him. Closer now, the feeling of unease he engendered was stronger, his faux-holiness making the hairs on the back of Kondratieff’s neck tingle and sweat start under his armpits. Silently he counselled himself to remain calm; his life depended upon it.

‘CitiZen Kondratieff, we have reason to believe that you are a fellow-traveller of the crypto and WhoDoo agitator Josephine Baker.’

Kondratieff shrugged. ‘And good morning to you too, Abbé Niccolò, I am pleased to see you looking so well—’

‘Answer the question!’

To buy thinking time, Kondratieff tried to prevaricate. ‘I do not believe you have asked a question. You have made a statement. Questions, or so I was taught at school, are generally constructed in the interrogative form.’

Machiavelli snorted his frustration. ‘Are you a fellow-traveller of Josephine Baker?’

‘Why don’t you ask the woman herself?’ An important question: if the Signori di Notte had taken her then he was a dead man. Under torture she would be forced to admit that he’d been in contact with Jezebel Ethobaal and to tell all about his plans to disrupt the Lammas Eve ceremony.

‘The agent provocateur Josephine Baker has evaded capture, spirited to the JAD by her fellow Code Noirists. So I ask you again: are you a fellow-traveller of the woman?’

A feeling of intense relief washed over Kondratieff. ‘Would you be so kind as to define for me the term “fellow-traveller”?’

Another snort. ‘One who aids and abets an Enemy of Venice and gives succour to those who would deny the divinity of Doge IMmanual.’

‘Then the answer to your question is no.’

The curtness of the answer obviously threw Machiavelli a little. He was probably used to those he interrogated stammering out a longer-winded denial but as Kondratieff had learnt during his time in the service of Doge Catherine-Sophia –
may ABBA rest her soul
– when mouthing moonshine it was always best to keep answers concise.

‘You lie. We have reliable witnesses who report that you conversed at length with the woman on the afternoon of the eighth day of Summer in the Café Florian. Do you deny having met her?’

‘No.’

A frown dressed Machiavelli’s brow; this was obviously another unexpected response. ‘And what was discussed at this rendezvous?’

Kondratieff shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a “rendezvous” as that presupposes advanced knowledge of the meeting, of which I had none. I had never met Miss Baker before and she came up to me unexpectedly whilst I was sheltering from the rain in the café. She seemed quite beside herself, telling me some poppycock about how the Column of Loci was important in determining the outcome of Ragnarok. She asked that I help her to steal the Column, a request I declined. Hearing this, Miss Baker became very agitated and stormed out of the café. The café was quite crowded so there must have been several witnesses to the encounter.’

‘You didn’t report this incident to the authorities?’

‘Why should I have? I had no idea that Miss Baker was a – how did you so wonderfully describe her? – ah, yes, a crypto and WhoDoo agitator. If I reported every crackpot who crosses my path I would have precious little time for my work.’

Machiavelli eyed Kondratieff suspiciously, his foot tapping nervously on the wooden floor of the study as he did so. Not quite certain if he’d put the floorboard back correctly, Kondratieff found himself wishing the man would desist.

‘I must also ask why you had one of your servants purchase five thousand boxes of matches.’

Kondratieff stifled his surprise: he hadn’t realised he was being watched so closely. ‘Such an exciting life you secret service types lead, eh, Abbé Niccolò? Whatever will you be up to next: delving into my dustbins, perhaps?’

‘Answer the question!’

‘I have an idea regarding how the manufacture of matches may be made safer for the poor girls who labour to produce them. It is a simple idea but one I am confident will eliminate the scourge known as Phossy Jaw. To do this I must test the effectiveness of my matches against those already available on the market. Hence the purchase of so many boxes of matches.’

For several long seconds Machiavelli searched his face for connivance. Then, ‘I must ask you to accompany me to the station for further interrogation.’

This was not good news. Kondratieff had no illusions regarding his ability to withstand an ‘interrogation’. Time, he decided, to call Machiavelli’s bluff. ‘Am I right in supposing that you have the authorisation of Senior Prelate de Sade to interrupt my work?’

‘In matters of Sector Security I am answerable only to the Doge herself.’

‘As you wish: it is just that I had been led to believe by the Senior Prelate that the removal of the Column of Loci to the Temple of Lilith takes precedence over everything. I can only hope that this interview isn’t just sabre-rattling on your part, Abbé Niccolò, because I am on a very tight schedule and any delay could mean that the deadline’ – he had to suppress a smile; ‘deadline’ was
such
an apposite word – ‘for the delivery of the Column is missed.’ Kondratieff smiled. ‘May I see the
lettre de cachet
verifying your right to arrest me?’

The two men locked stares but it was Machiavelli who looked away first, bluff called. ‘No
lettre de cachet
has been issued.’

‘Ah,’ murmured Kondratieff, ‘so this is an
unofficial
visit.’

‘You should be grateful that you have such powerful protectors, Kondratieff. Very well, you will remain free but remember that you are being watched night and day.’

‘That is a task your agents will find very easy to perform. I will have little time to leave this house until my plans for the transportation of the Column to the Temple are complete.’

When – with much bad grace – Machiavelli had gone Kondratieff spent two long hours sitting by the window watching the rain shimmy down the panes of glass as he tried to shake off the feeling of panic that had settled on him.

He just thanked ABBA that he’d had the 4Sight to have Josephine Baker pantomime a brusque – and painful – departure from the café. That she had left in such obvious dudgeon had muddied the waters and made Machiavelli unsure as to his culpability, but it had been a damned close-run thing and Kondratieff felt himself seriously shaken by how near he had come to being arrested. He wasn’t built for adventure or intrigue; he was just an academic and by no means a hero. But that was what Fate was demanding of him, to play the hero, a role he had spent his life trying to avoid.

Thanks to the power of his HyperOpia program, he was able to 4Cast the Future of the Demi-Monde with some exactitude and this had, inevitably, necessitated his becoming involved with the nefarious manipulation of that Future, but he had always tried to make the nips and tweaks he made to the historical continuum as subtle and as slight as possible. His had been the gentle hand on the tiller of Fate. But with regard to the threat posed by the Lady IMmanual and her odious brother, a gentle hand would not be enough. Together these baleful twins were the embodiment of his oft-cited temporal avalanche, a historical juggernaut, barging a path to the Future with all the subtlety of an armoured steamer. And avalanches were difficult things to steer: the WhoDoo mambos might be able to neutralise the power of Lilith, but to defeat Duke William Kondratieff’s calculations showed that brutal and decisive action would be needed.

But …

But whilst mathematics was unwavering in its precision and cold-blooded in its certainty, the same could not be said about
him
and, unfortunately, he was the one ordained by Fate to execute the sentence handed down by preScientific arithmetic. Fate, by giving him the responsibility of purging the canker that was Duke William from the body of the Demi-Monde, was
obliging him to become a mass murderer … and to destroy himself in the process.

How, he wondered, would history remember him: as monster or martyr? Would his name be respected or reviled?

Another long, doleful sigh. It mattered not: he would be dead when the history books were written.

The thought of his impending death persuaded him to check his design for the bomb’s fuse mechanism again, and he pulled the blueprints from their hiding place under the floorboards. This done, he spent several minutes auditing his calculations and, as he had concluded the dozen times he had done this before, he judged them to be correct. Of course, the data relating to the effects of a concentrated dose of Mantle-ite radiation were scant but he was confident that it would be more than powerful enough to trip the detonator. The design he judged to be foolproof, the only flaw he could see was that he would be given no time to escape: the moment the fuse was triggered, the bomb would detonate.

It was a suicide mission, a thought so troubling that Kondratieff found his hand had begun to tremble. He had to take a moment to settle himself.

Even as he sat there pondering on his imminent death the clock in the corner of the room chimed. He checked the time by his pocket watch: de Nostredame’s guest would be arriving soon, so with a fatalistic shrug of his shoulders Kondratieff collected up the blueprints and made his way up the stairs to the top of the house.