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Authors: Lynn Shepherd
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muffled, but unmistakeable all the same. The sound of a woman’s voice. Breaking, gasping. Wailing and rising now in—what? Pain? Fear? He tries the handle of the door, but is not at all surprised to find it locked. He tries the door again, aggressively this time, calling out and demanding to be let in. But there is no answer. The woman’s voice stops—suddenly cut off, as if smothered by a clamping hand. And then nothing.
Charles kicks against the door in frustration, but achieves nothing save more scuffs on an already shabby boot. He’s defeated, and he knows it. He waits a few moments more, then turns and walks back to his room, where he flings open the window and takes a deep breath of night air. The moon has risen full and whey-faced over the Danube, which runs sluggish and oily in the flooding light, but there must be some trick, some strange reflection off the water that makes the sky above glow brighter than the evening star. He’s still trying to puzzle this out when he hears sounds above his head—the sounds of footsteps. He flings the shutter open as wide as it will go and ventures out again onto the ledge. The parapet is only ten feet or so above his head,but the ground is more than thirty feet below. Thankfully he has always had a head for heights, even if not for languages. He reaches out and seizes a dry gnarled branch of the ancient creeper in one hand, and then another, more confidently, as he feels the bough sigh but stay. The wind is beginning to rise, and the leaves silvering the creeper flutter and whisper as he ascends, slowly, hand over clutching hand, his boots scraping blindly against the slabs for a foothold, and he is soon sweating under his coat, despite the cold. But five minutes later he has reached the crumbling stone balustrade and is grasping the edge and starting to haul himself up and over and seeing, in a staggered disbelief, exactly what it is the Baron has concealed here. And now all is clear—not just the references in the journal, not just the girl, but the Baron’s own words, even the specimens downstairs. It is all connected, all is part of the same great and overwhelming secret. And then there is such a sudden blinding glare of light that he closes his eyes a moment, and his fingers slip—slip first and are then crushed by some vicious grinding weight and he is losing his grip and when he opens his eyes again it’s to a hail of dust and dead leaves that blinds him until he feels something touch his hair and skin, something dry and leathery but
alive
, and he realises that there is an enormous bat trapped in the branches above his head. He tries to cling on, tries to shield his face against the wall, but as the bat flails closer and closer he cannot stop himself pulling away, and as the shift of his weight wrenches a section of creeper from the wall he is plunging down, falling, clawing, feeling death rush up to meet him on the remorseless stone-paved ground.
But it is not, it seems, his time. Scarce ten feet from the foot of the wall he comes to a gasping slithering stop in the thick tangle of the creeper trunk. His hands are scored and bleeding, but he is not dead yet. He clings there a moment, breathing so hard he can scarcely get oxygen into his lungs, before starting to clamber slowly, shaking, to the ground. The rain is coming down hard now, whichis no doubt why Charles does not hear—does not even suspect until he has both feet on solid earth and turns in an illusion of relief to see—
An enormous black-pelted hound. More wolf than dog, its neck ringed with a spiked iron collar, and hackles rigid all along its spine. It starts towards him, teeth bared, growling now, and Charles edges backwards, glancing about desperately for something he can use to fend the creature off—some stick or spade or a brick he could throw—but the dog merely presses closer, the whites of its eyes flaring. There is a frozen second of stillness and then the dog is upon him, leaping at
Charles kicks against the door in frustration, but achieves nothing save more scuffs on an already shabby boot. He’s defeated, and he knows it. He waits a few moments more, then turns and walks back to his room, where he flings open the window and takes a deep breath of night air. The moon has risen full and whey-faced over the Danube, which runs sluggish and oily in the flooding light, but there must be some trick, some strange reflection off the water that makes the sky above glow brighter than the evening star. He’s still trying to puzzle this out when he hears sounds above his head—the sounds of footsteps. He flings the shutter open as wide as it will go and ventures out again onto the ledge. The parapet is only ten feet or so above his head,but the ground is more than thirty feet below. Thankfully he has always had a head for heights, even if not for languages. He reaches out and seizes a dry gnarled branch of the ancient creeper in one hand, and then another, more confidently, as he feels the bough sigh but stay. The wind is beginning to rise, and the leaves silvering the creeper flutter and whisper as he ascends, slowly, hand over clutching hand, his boots scraping blindly against the slabs for a foothold, and he is soon sweating under his coat, despite the cold. But five minutes later he has reached the crumbling stone balustrade and is grasping the edge and starting to haul himself up and over and seeing, in a staggered disbelief, exactly what it is the Baron has concealed here. And now all is clear—not just the references in the journal, not just the girl, but the Baron’s own words, even the specimens downstairs. It is all connected, all is part of the same great and overwhelming secret. And then there is such a sudden blinding glare of light that he closes his eyes a moment, and his fingers slip—slip first and are then crushed by some vicious grinding weight and he is losing his grip and when he opens his eyes again it’s to a hail of dust and dead leaves that blinds him until he feels something touch his hair and skin, something dry and leathery but
alive
, and he realises that there is an enormous bat trapped in the branches above his head. He tries to cling on, tries to shield his face against the wall, but as the bat flails closer and closer he cannot stop himself pulling away, and as the shift of his weight wrenches a section of creeper from the wall he is plunging down, falling, clawing, feeling death rush up to meet him on the remorseless stone-paved ground.
But it is not, it seems, his time. Scarce ten feet from the foot of the wall he comes to a gasping slithering stop in the thick tangle of the creeper trunk. His hands are scored and bleeding, but he is not dead yet. He clings there a moment, breathing so hard he can scarcely get oxygen into his lungs, before starting to clamber slowly, shaking, to the ground. The rain is coming down hard now, whichis no doubt why Charles does not hear—does not even suspect until he has both feet on solid earth and turns in an illusion of relief to see—
An enormous black-pelted hound. More wolf than dog, its neck ringed with a spiked iron collar, and hackles rigid all along its spine. It starts towards him, teeth bared, growling now, and Charles edges backwards, glancing about desperately for something he can use to fend the creature off—some stick or spade or a brick he could throw—but the dog merely presses closer, the whites of its eyes flaring. There is a frozen second of stillness and then the dog is upon him, leaping at
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