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Authors: Clay Griffith, Susan Griffith
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sweat, and offal hung in the air. Selkirk was chained to a wall inside a dank cell with nothing but long hours alone to consider his mistakes.
London. The vampire clan capital.
Selkirk had been in the great corpse of a city just a few months earlier, after receiving an emergency message via Mamoru's network of couriers. It was the only time he'd been contacted in all his time in Britain. Even deep in vampire Europe, word could still travel from the civilized south, although with great difficulty. Selkirk had penetrated London to locate Princess Adele, using the ley lines to go unseen by vampires. But even with that great skill, he was always a slip or an accident away from being discovered and killed.
Landing in London earlier today, through the wet air of early morning, he'd seen the towers of Westminster and the Bridge, so he knew he was south of the Thames River. But this part of the city was unknown to him.
The geomancer had been manhandled toward a hulk of a mansion, reddish grey brick covered with ivy and topped by a once-impressive dome. Two vast wings sprawled off a colonnaded portico with countless windows, some broken and most barred.
Goronwy had called it Bethlem. Or Bedlam. Before the Great Killing, it had been a madhouse. Now, the vicar claimed it was a research institute dedicated to understanding the spiritual and earthly arts. But a madhouse it remained.
Selkirk now found himself an inmate in that asylum. Cold air seeped through the stones, leaving him damp and freezing. He had lost track of the interminable, miserable time. Moans and screams echoed in the dust-filled building. A distant heavy door creaked open and admitted Goronwy, escorted by two bloodmen. The old man put an arm across his nose, grimacing at the stench.
“Ngh. I always forget the smell of science when I'm away.”
The man smiled at Selkirk through the bars of the cell. Gone were his previous modest clothes of a vicar. Now he was draped in a long silk dressing gown and a soft cap with a tassel. He smelled of flowery soap. He carried a large book with obvious pride. The bloodmen unlocked Selkirk's cell and chains from the wall, leaving the manacles around his ankles. He was dragged before the man he had once called a friend.
They all climbed the stairs out of the dungeon. As they passed through a long empty corridor, a soldier approached. He was clean and straight, not hunched and cowed like most of the bloodmen Selkirk had seen. This officer was fully in command of his faculties. He didn't act hypnotized or dazed. He even had a smug grin as he looked Selkirk up and down.
Goronwy asked, “What do you want, General Montrose?”
“Message from the palace. Cesare wants you and the spy there. Now.”
The vicar exhaled in disgust. “I've just arrived from Trellech. Surely I may eat.”
The general snorted a laugh. “I'm only a messenger, Doctor. Do you wish me to tell the prince you'll attend him after you've had a leisurely meal?”
The Welshman watched the soldier without obvious emotion. “I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, General. I am the witchfinder-general, not one of your fanatical Undead. I should hate to mention to Prince Cesare that you have certain faculties that require close study here.”
The bloodman officer shrank noticeably and lost some of his swagger.
With the upper hand retrieved, Goronwy resumed a professional respectfulness. “Please tell Prince Cesare, if you'd be so kind, that I will appear at the palace at my earliest opportunity.”
“But he seemed—”
“At my earliest opportunity.” The Welshman shifted the book, finished with the conversation.
General Montrose departed, leaving the vicar smiling. With a gentle shake of his fatherly head at Selkirk, he said, “I apologize for that unpleasant scene. General Montrose is rather full of himself. Typical of the Undead. They act like they drink blood.”
“The Undead?”
“Just part of Cesare's genius. He took a myth and
London. The vampire clan capital.
Selkirk had been in the great corpse of a city just a few months earlier, after receiving an emergency message via Mamoru's network of couriers. It was the only time he'd been contacted in all his time in Britain. Even deep in vampire Europe, word could still travel from the civilized south, although with great difficulty. Selkirk had penetrated London to locate Princess Adele, using the ley lines to go unseen by vampires. But even with that great skill, he was always a slip or an accident away from being discovered and killed.
Landing in London earlier today, through the wet air of early morning, he'd seen the towers of Westminster and the Bridge, so he knew he was south of the Thames River. But this part of the city was unknown to him.
The geomancer had been manhandled toward a hulk of a mansion, reddish grey brick covered with ivy and topped by a once-impressive dome. Two vast wings sprawled off a colonnaded portico with countless windows, some broken and most barred.
Goronwy had called it Bethlem. Or Bedlam. Before the Great Killing, it had been a madhouse. Now, the vicar claimed it was a research institute dedicated to understanding the spiritual and earthly arts. But a madhouse it remained.
Selkirk now found himself an inmate in that asylum. Cold air seeped through the stones, leaving him damp and freezing. He had lost track of the interminable, miserable time. Moans and screams echoed in the dust-filled building. A distant heavy door creaked open and admitted Goronwy, escorted by two bloodmen. The old man put an arm across his nose, grimacing at the stench.
“Ngh. I always forget the smell of science when I'm away.”
The man smiled at Selkirk through the bars of the cell. Gone were his previous modest clothes of a vicar. Now he was draped in a long silk dressing gown and a soft cap with a tassel. He smelled of flowery soap. He carried a large book with obvious pride. The bloodmen unlocked Selkirk's cell and chains from the wall, leaving the manacles around his ankles. He was dragged before the man he had once called a friend.
They all climbed the stairs out of the dungeon. As they passed through a long empty corridor, a soldier approached. He was clean and straight, not hunched and cowed like most of the bloodmen Selkirk had seen. This officer was fully in command of his faculties. He didn't act hypnotized or dazed. He even had a smug grin as he looked Selkirk up and down.
Goronwy asked, “What do you want, General Montrose?”
“Message from the palace. Cesare wants you and the spy there. Now.”
The vicar exhaled in disgust. “I've just arrived from Trellech. Surely I may eat.”
The general snorted a laugh. “I'm only a messenger, Doctor. Do you wish me to tell the prince you'll attend him after you've had a leisurely meal?”
The Welshman watched the soldier without obvious emotion. “I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, General. I am the witchfinder-general, not one of your fanatical Undead. I should hate to mention to Prince Cesare that you have certain faculties that require close study here.”
The bloodman officer shrank noticeably and lost some of his swagger.
With the upper hand retrieved, Goronwy resumed a professional respectfulness. “Please tell Prince Cesare, if you'd be so kind, that I will appear at the palace at my earliest opportunity.”
“But he seemed—”
“At my earliest opportunity.” The Welshman shifted the book, finished with the conversation.
General Montrose departed, leaving the vicar smiling. With a gentle shake of his fatherly head at Selkirk, he said, “I apologize for that unpleasant scene. General Montrose is rather full of himself. Typical of the Undead. They act like they drink blood.”
“The Undead?”
“Just part of Cesare's genius. He took a myth and
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