The Hunger (40 page)

John had been riding for two days without sleep, stopping only to wolf a sandwich he did not care to eat, or to change horses. He had been through nine horses. Daylight was the worst. It sapped his strength. The spectacles allowed him to avoid being blinded if he squinted, but everything was surrounded by a corona of light. He had wrapped a knitted comforter about his lower face and over his nose like some highwayman even in the heat of June, but if his hood slipped back he could feel the upper half of his face burn immediately. And always there was the needle-sharp prickling of his skin, even under his clothing.

The first night was one of unremitting rain. Splashed
with mud and wet to the skin, he had to go more slowly to avoid slipping in the heavy going of a rutted road. It was maddening.

Everywhere he went he engendered fear, looking so much like a Spanish bandito and muffled head to foot. He always muttered something about a disease, and that, coupled with monetary largesse, bought a semblance of service if not good will.

He unwound his comforter and took off his cloak at sunset on the outskirts of Amsterdam. The beast he rode was all but dead, and he was little better. He picked his way slowly through the old streets and along the canals. Herengracht had been dug in the seventeenth century. Called the “gentlemen’s canal,” the largest and most elaborate houses were built along it. He had been thinking about how to find Stephan Sincai most quickly. Beatrix said she had lived at number 380. He had a hunch that Sincai was not as immune to Beatrix as she believed. John decided to start with number 380 and see just how sentimental Stephan Sincai was.

John plodded along the narrow street that lined the Herengracht. The canals smelled of fecund green. Number 380 was an ornate copy of a Loire chateau in solid Dutch stone. Reclining figures embellished its main gable and the bay window was surrounded by cherubs, acanthus leaves, and mythical monsters. How appropriate. When he dismounted, his knees gave out under him. He held to the stirrup leathers until his head stopped swimming. Then he dragged himself up the five steps to the portico and rapped with the knocker, shaped like a golden bat, wings outspread. He might have the right house. And Sincai had a streak of whimsy in him.

The dour servant dressed in green livery who opened the door frowned down at him. “Tradesmen to the back door,” he said in high Dutch. He was about to close the door, when he added, “No beggars allowed.”

John realized he was bareheaded, wearing the same ill-fitting coat he had won at piquet, covered with the dust and mud of three countries and without a bath since Beatrix had wiped the sweat from his body in a tenement in the Marais.

He pushed open the door with a strength the old servant could never match. “I am here to see Stephan Sincai,” he said, mustering his best Dutch. It might not match his French, but it was serviceable. He was surprised to find his voice was hardly more than a croak. How long since he had taken water?

“Mijanheer Sincai does not entertain anyone, let alone riffraff or down-on-their-luck tradesmen. Be off with you.”

Again the door began to close. But now John knew his hunch was right.

“Tell him I come for Beatrix Lisse. He will see me. He must.” John tried not to let his desperation show. That would not encourage the old servant to let him in.

“Go away, or I will call a watchman,” the old man warned, his voice rising. “Mijanheer Sincai will give you no alms. Get to a workhouse!”

“Let the man in, Mechlin,” a deep voice sounded from somewhere inside.

Instantly, the servant’s face went blank. “Yes, Mijanheer Sincai.”

John stepped past him into a foyer bathed in light from a chandelier with a thousand crystals. The floor was laid in black and white marble squares. An elegant staircase curved up on the right to the first floor above. There, leaning on the rail, was a man clad elegantly in a black coat that fitted his broad shoulders exactly, a frothing neck cloth intricately tied, and close-fitting knee breeches. He was dressed for the most formal occasion or for another time. A diamond winked in the folds of his cravat and a gold signet with a cabochon ruby weighed on his right
hand. His hair was dark and worn long about his shoulders, his cheekbones imposing, his lips full, though at the moment he pressed them together most severely. It was his eyes that captured your attention, though. They were dark pools of . . . emptiness. You could not call it sorrow. They held everything and nothing.

They stood looking at each other. Vibrations showered down on John. They were almost a curtain of solid . . . energy. John closed his mouth forcibly. He had a sense of incredible power.

John took a breath, swallowed, and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Take the man’s cloak and gloves, Mechlin.”

John put them into the old man’s arms, noting the distaste with which he took them.

“And send some brandy to the library?” Sincai motioned John up the stairs.

John went over what he had been rehearsing in his mind for two nights and days. He trudged up the stairs, trying to muster his wits. Sincai motioned to a chair by the fire, silently.

“I . . . would not accost you without introduction except under extreme provocation,” John began, but he did not sit. “I dared not stay my importunity even until you fulfilled your social obligation tonight. Time is of the essence.”

“You mistake. I do not go out these days, but I like to dress for dinner.” Sincai’s voice came from deep in his chest cavity, sonorous. The weight of ages hung on each syllable. He had a languor about him John found vaguely familiar. Before he could say more, brandy was delivered on a tray by a suddenly very correct Mechlin. Sincai poured from the cut-glass decanter as Mechlin bowed himself out. He handed the glass to John. “From your accent you might be more comfortable speaking French, or . . .” Here he paused, as if listening. “English?”

John was disconcerted. The man had a good ear. He realized he had not even introduced himself “English, if it
is my choice. I am John Staunton, Earl of Langley.” There was no point in subterfuge. He could not afford any perception of insincerity.

“Perhaps,” Sincai said in perfect English, “we should begin with you telling me why I should not wrench your head from your body in the next minute.”

John blinked. Whatever he had expected it was not this. “Because then you would not know why I came or how I know of you, or what Beatrix Lisse has to do with any of this.”

“I know it must be Bea who made you. I thought she had more self-control.”

“How did you know I was made?” he could not help but ask.

“Your vibrations are slow—those of one quite young. It is impossible to hide. I would guess . . . days . . . a week at most. Now I ask again, why should I not kill you?”

John bowed his head, cursing himself. Of course this man would hate him for being one of the made after his failure with Asharti. Sincai might despise Beatrix for making him. Would he refuse to help her? John felt himself in deep water. All he had been thinking about was the overwhelming need to get here and to save Beatrix. He had not realized there would be such a formidable adversary between him and his goal. This man was filled with distrust. He had retreated from the world. What was in John’s way here? The languor! It was a much more pronounced version of the disinterest that had emanated from Beatrix when he first met her. John gathered himself. He wouldn’t answer Sincai’s question. Not directly. “Do not blame Beatrix. We were both . . . wounded. Her blood mingled with mine. She did not make me willingly.”

“We all have choices. She could have let you die.”

“Perhaps she is tenderhearted.”

“Bea?” Sincai snorted.

“You do not know her as well as you think,” John
observed. Sincai examined him in surprise. Good. Keep the old sinner off balance. Perhaps that would break through his lethargy.

“Did Bea send you here?” Sincai snapped.

“In a way. She said you were the only one who could call Asharti to heel.”

“Why do you bring this tale of woe to my door? I have no interest in either of them anymore.” Sincai downed his brandy and poured another.

You lie
, thought John.
I can feel your agitation
. Now he could play his trump card. “Because Asharti has Beatrix imprisoned and means to have her guillotined on Sunday.”

Sincai paused, his expression frozen, glass halfway to his lips. Then he tossed off the brandy. “Nonsense. They were peas in a pod, a very twisted pod. I was right in that at least.”

“You mean because made and born are the same?” He stared at Sincai defiantly. “You hurt her when she found out she was part of some experiment.”

“I know.” The eyes did not show emotion. He blinked once. “But I’m sure she came to properly hate me, as did Asharti. They left me easily enough, and spurned my . . . care for them.”

“I know Beatrix followed Asharti away from you, in her pain. But they are not the same.”

“I believe I know them better than you,” Sincai said bitterly, waving a dismissive hand.

“I have just spent a month as Asharti’s . . . guest. I have known Beatrix for the last three. How long has it been since you have been in contact with either one of them?” He waited for that to sink in. “You do not know what Asharti has become, or what she means to do.”

Sincai lost all pretense of composure. His eyes snapped to red, then back to brown-black pools. He set the glass down. Tension vibrated in the room. Sincai took a breath, and the vibrations scaled back a notch. His expression
flashed something that might have been regret, then hardened, as though he steeled himself. “Very well. Tell me what Asharti has become.”

John swallowed, suddenly tongue-tied. Could he tell this man, or this more-than-man about Asharti? He started as the glass shattered in his grip and brandy spilled upon the Turkey carpet. His palm was deeply lacerated. The seeping blood seemed a metaphor for what Sincai was asking him to do. As John stared the cut began to close. He clenched his hand, not wanting to see the healing, clear evidence of his changed state. He looked away, breathing hard.

“Sit.” It was a curt command. John managed to glance up. For the second time tonight, Sincai motioned him to the chair. John mastered himself. This was what was required of him. He must spill his soul and somehow tell Sincai about Asharti. John sat. Sincai turned to pour another brandy. John stole a glance at his palm. The cut turned to a pink line then disappeared entirely.

Sincai held out the brandy sternly. John pressed his lips together and took the glass. Now it was his turn to gulp what he hoped was liquid courage. He looked up with as much steadiness as he could muster. “She plots to control Bonaparte, and replace him or rule through him once he rules all Europe. She is making vampires. Many vampires. She wants to start a world where humans are raised for slavery and as a food supply, and she rules.” He swallowed hard. “I suppose you might think that kind of world desirable.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Sincai snapped. “Order would be lost. So many made vampires would make others. There would be no respect for the Rules. Soon there would be too many and not enough blood. The balance would be shattered. I might have objected once to killing them if they were made accidentally, but I did not want them made at the drop of a hat.”

John nodded. What Sincai didn’t hate was the idea of human cattle. What could John expect? “Asharti made wounds on my body that became infected with Beatrix’s blood.”

Sincai waited.

“I came to kill Asharti, not knowing what she was.” John snorted a laugh that broke in the middle. His voice lowered to a murmur. “She has . . . ways of extracting information and . . . and making one do . . . other things, as well.” John looked up, plastering defiance over his shame. “I betrayed my country to her, and myself.”

“And how did Bea’s blood get into your wounds?” Sincai’s voice softened to a rumble.

John sipped convulsively from the glass Sincai refilled. The room smelled of spilled brandy. Shards of glass still winked in the light of the chandelier. “Beatrix followed me to France when she discovered my mission. Foolish of her. Asharti’s vampires wounded her. She . . .” Here he swallowed hard. “She held me while she transported us both out of Asharti’s reach.”

“I see.” Sincai backed up to the fire, a pensive look on his face. “In short, she saved you. And now you want to return the favor.”

John stood. All the urgency of his mission washed over him, wiping out the shame he felt over succumbing to Asharti. “Asharti has a phalanx of newly made vampires holding Beatrix. You are strong enough to best them. We have just enough time to reach Paris before Sunday.”

Sincai threw back the last of the brandy. “I do not go out. I can save no one,” he rasped.

“You are responsible!” John accused. “You know what Asharti is, and yet you have done nothing. You
must
save Beatrix.” He could feel the man’s vibrations in the air. Sincai was stronger by thousands of years than he was. John could not force him to do anything.

“Responsibility? Oh, yes.” Sincai’s tone held an infinite
sadness. “I am responsible for both of them, feral kittens that they are. They are both killers. Yet I did not kill them. I should have. Just as I should kill you.”

John chose to ignore the threat to his own person. “Beatrix is not a killer. She left Asharti. She lives a difficult life as best she can. She is world-weary almost unto death, like you are. She thinks Asharti killing her is for the best. But she has much to live for if she only gets the chance.”

“She
was
born, not made,” Sincai mused. “Perhaps Rubius is right. There is a difference.”

“Bloody hell! You have been wrong on every count,” John swore. The man had to be startled out of his complacence or he would never go after Beatrix. “Born or made, people are individuals. We play the hand we are dealt. Beatrix may have been led astray by Asharti, but she was young. She played her hand. She righted herself and she tries to go on. Asharti did not right herself, not because she was made, but because she was always wrong inside.” He drew himself up. “Now it is your turn to right yourself, Sincai.”