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Authors: Clay Griffith, Susan Griffith
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turned it into an army. The vampires feed from them, and then the Undead will do anything to die in their masters' service, so they can be resurrected.”
“That's crazy,” Selkirk snapped angrily. “This whole thing is crazy.”
“Of course it is. No educated man believes vampires are undead humans. The Undead serve our lords because they're crazy. I do it because I'm a scholar.”
Selkirk couldn't find words to reply to such insanity. He wondered briefly if he was dreaming, still asleep in Goronwy's cottage in Trellech. However, that was too simple to be true. They continued on to a large chamber lit with candles. Plates and glasses were set on a long wooden table as if it were a banquet hall in the heart of Alexandria and not hellish London. The bloodmen led Selkirk to a chair. Goronwy sat opposite him, then dove into the lavish meal with relish. Selkirk recognized Goronwy's book with a start. It was al-Khuri's On Concentrative Reflexes. There were only two like it in the world, and they belonged to members of Mamoru's cabal. Selkirk trembled at the implications. The al-Khuri book was a singular text for geomancy, and its presence here in clan England was inexplicable.
“We're sitting on a circle here,” the Welshman said, through a mouthful. “You sense it, no doubt. This place is on what you Alexandrian scholars call a rift. I don't think the power resonates a great deal, but the vampires still don't like coming here. What is your opinion?”
Selkirk stared around like a lost child. This couldn't be happening to him.
“You're confused, I know. It's all strange to you now, but you'll come around. We'll do great things together, you and I.” The old man produced a long pipe and a battered tin of rancid tobacco. He offered a second well-chewed pipe to Selkirk, who merely closed his eyes in refusal. Goronwy put a flaring candle to the stuffed pipe and puffed clouds of vile smoke with the sigh of a contented squire. “Cesare is so keen for knowledge, I have carte blanche. Bethlem will become a renowned place of scholarship, lad. I will become the greatest man of the realm. With your help, of course.”
Selkirk sought some bit of focus. “What does Cesare care about your spiritualism? Those practices are anathema to his kind.”
Goronwy shrugged. “Cesare has vision. It was only a year ago that he sent his old war chief Flay to snatch me up in Wales. He'd heard of me, as a practitioner of religion. Of course I thought I was a dead man, but as it happened, he wanted to tap my expertise. He wanted to create an institute of spiritual advancement and chose me to direct it. I have the authority to seek out all other practitioners in the realm and bring them here for examination.”
“Examination? Or extermination?”
Goronwy merely puffed his pipe.
“You're a traitor,” Selkirk said.
“A traitor? To whom?”
“Humanity.”
“Bah.” The old man blew another cloud of smoke and crossed his slippered feet. “What do I care for some vague notion of humanity? I live in Britain.”
Selkirk sat forward. “But you're hunting the enlightened and bringing them to Cesare for slaughter. They are the only salvation humanity has against the vampires. You're helping him destroy them!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand. I merely do research. I uncover principles. Just as you do.”
“You call yourself witchfinder-general.”
“Ah. Just a bit of drama awarded by Cesare. That's a political office. My scholarly title is Doctor of Comparative Spirituality. Here in London, I prefer the title doctor. Among the herds, I use reverend . Town and gown, you know.” Goronwy waved his hand with an impish grin. “You don't understand. You've been conditioned by the Equatorians to believe lies about the north. You'll see. With time, you'll see.”
The sound of a commotion reached them. Voices shouted for Goronwy. The old vicar stood slowly, his pipe clamped in his teeth, annoyed at the interruption. When the office door
“That's crazy,” Selkirk snapped angrily. “This whole thing is crazy.”
“Of course it is. No educated man believes vampires are undead humans. The Undead serve our lords because they're crazy. I do it because I'm a scholar.”
Selkirk couldn't find words to reply to such insanity. He wondered briefly if he was dreaming, still asleep in Goronwy's cottage in Trellech. However, that was too simple to be true. They continued on to a large chamber lit with candles. Plates and glasses were set on a long wooden table as if it were a banquet hall in the heart of Alexandria and not hellish London. The bloodmen led Selkirk to a chair. Goronwy sat opposite him, then dove into the lavish meal with relish. Selkirk recognized Goronwy's book with a start. It was al-Khuri's On Concentrative Reflexes. There were only two like it in the world, and they belonged to members of Mamoru's cabal. Selkirk trembled at the implications. The al-Khuri book was a singular text for geomancy, and its presence here in clan England was inexplicable.
“We're sitting on a circle here,” the Welshman said, through a mouthful. “You sense it, no doubt. This place is on what you Alexandrian scholars call a rift. I don't think the power resonates a great deal, but the vampires still don't like coming here. What is your opinion?”
Selkirk stared around like a lost child. This couldn't be happening to him.
“You're confused, I know. It's all strange to you now, but you'll come around. We'll do great things together, you and I.” The old man produced a long pipe and a battered tin of rancid tobacco. He offered a second well-chewed pipe to Selkirk, who merely closed his eyes in refusal. Goronwy put a flaring candle to the stuffed pipe and puffed clouds of vile smoke with the sigh of a contented squire. “Cesare is so keen for knowledge, I have carte blanche. Bethlem will become a renowned place of scholarship, lad. I will become the greatest man of the realm. With your help, of course.”
Selkirk sought some bit of focus. “What does Cesare care about your spiritualism? Those practices are anathema to his kind.”
Goronwy shrugged. “Cesare has vision. It was only a year ago that he sent his old war chief Flay to snatch me up in Wales. He'd heard of me, as a practitioner of religion. Of course I thought I was a dead man, but as it happened, he wanted to tap my expertise. He wanted to create an institute of spiritual advancement and chose me to direct it. I have the authority to seek out all other practitioners in the realm and bring them here for examination.”
“Examination? Or extermination?”
Goronwy merely puffed his pipe.
“You're a traitor,” Selkirk said.
“A traitor? To whom?”
“Humanity.”
“Bah.” The old man blew another cloud of smoke and crossed his slippered feet. “What do I care for some vague notion of humanity? I live in Britain.”
Selkirk sat forward. “But you're hunting the enlightened and bringing them to Cesare for slaughter. They are the only salvation humanity has against the vampires. You're helping him destroy them!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand. I merely do research. I uncover principles. Just as you do.”
“You call yourself witchfinder-general.”
“Ah. Just a bit of drama awarded by Cesare. That's a political office. My scholarly title is Doctor of Comparative Spirituality. Here in London, I prefer the title doctor. Among the herds, I use reverend . Town and gown, you know.” Goronwy waved his hand with an impish grin. “You don't understand. You've been conditioned by the Equatorians to believe lies about the north. You'll see. With time, you'll see.”
The sound of a commotion reached them. Voices shouted for Goronwy. The old vicar stood slowly, his pipe clamped in his teeth, annoyed at the interruption. When the office door
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