Perfect Shadows (21 page)

“You had best come and see this for yourself, Geoffrey,” he said
tonelessly, leading him to the chamber that had served as Marlowe’s prison.
Geoffrey’s soft cursing was the only sound for a time as he examined the room.
He turned to his companion, cold fury clouding his sight.” It is worse, even,
than you think,” Nicolas said quietly, showing Geoffrey the cup, its interior
still filmed with the young vampire’s dark blood, and then held out the fleam.
Geoffrey took it wordlessly and studied it. That it was not made of metal, as
he had expected, testified to its purpose. He closed his grip on the
instrument, breaking it to splinters, and cast the bits from him in disgust.
Nicolas caught up the weapons and clothing from the corner, and, still in
silence, they made their way back to the others. Ralegh knelt inside the broken
circle beside Kit, who still stared into his empty hands, oblivious of Jehan
holding him tenderly as tears streamed down his face. Geoffrey dropped down by
Jehan and took Marlowe from him. “Fetch the saddlebags,” he ordered.

As Geoffrey and Jehan dressed the unresisting body, Sir Walter
and Nicolas poked about the rest of the house, which was almost completely
empty, and returned to the study. Sir Walter nudged a pile of cloth, almost
invisible in the shadows against a wall, and gave a short startled bark as he
rolled the corpse out into the light. “Aestatis Montague,” he breathed, as he
stooped to make out the little man’s grotesquely contorted features. The eyes
had bulged nearly out of the sockets and the tongue protruded obscenely,
already blackening.

“You knew the man?” Nicolas asked, tautly.

“Knew of him, rather. He is, was,” Ralegh corrected himself, “a
defrocked priest, and made a great study of demons; he probably knew more than
any other man about Lamia and other such spirits. He was said to have known, by
some to have been the model for, the original Faustus, though they were
mistaken in the latter case. He studied a great deal in the East. I had not
known that he was in England, or that Harry knew him,” he replied, and jerked
around as Geoffrey returned carrying a cask of oil which he dumped out over the
floor.

“One moment, your grace,” Ralegh cried, crossing to the table at
the far end of the room, scooping up the empty saddlebags as he went. He began
hurriedly to sort the books there, a number of which he loaded into the bags,
and included the sack holding the herbs for the braziers. He nodded to Geoffrey
when he had done, and slung the heavy bags to his shoulder. Geoffrey returned
the nod, waiting until Nicolas and Sir Walter had climbed back out of the
window before kicking the contents of the smoldering brazier into the spreading
slick of oil, igniting it.

Jehan stood by the horses, holding Marlowe against his body
before him, his arms crossed over his chest and held tightly at the wrists.
There was a wildness in the unseeing face that disturbed Nicolas, and Geoffrey,
assessing the situation, swiftly mounted. He reached for the man, to set him on
the saddlebow, but Marlowe twisted from the loosened grip and ran, stumbling
and weak from his long imprisonment. Jehan was on him in an instant, knocking
him heavily to the ground and pinning him there, then looking helplessly up at
the others.

“We’ll have to bind him,” Geoffrey said, raising a hand to quell
the protests. “Yes, I know, but we have no choice. The dawn will be upon us
soon and we must be home safe before it. Sir Walter?” Ralegh nodded and
snatched a hanging from the window even as the fire caught it, throwing it to
the ground and stamping on it before hacking it into long strips with his
dagger. Marlowe fought wildly, his empty expression less than sane, but Nicolas
was relentless, and the younger man was soon trussed wrist, knee, and ankle.
They set him sideways on the saddle bow before Geoffrey, who spoke him gentle,
noting the tears that ran freely down the left cheek, and seeped slowly through
the stitched lids of the ruined right eye. The other two mounted and Sir Walter
started as Jehan transformed before his eyes in the flickering light of the
blazing house, but said nothing as they galloped into the night.

Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, sat in the shadows of the
wood, watching the house burn. What could he expect of his life from now on? He
should have questioned Marlowe further while he had him, he could see that now.
His tongue flicked nervously over his lips as he thought of the outcry his
victim had made at the branding, and how swiftly he had broken. Percy
unconsciously stroked the swelling at his crotch, thinking of other thing she
might have done to the helpless man, and other things he might have learned.
Too late, now, but there could be other times, would be other times. A sudden
doubt assailed him as he recalled with sickening clarity what he had seen that
night.

It had begun routinely enough; they had sweptback the rushes
covering the floor and had them carted from the room. The servants were
dismissed, sent into the village, not to return until the following morning,
and he and the doctor had scrupulously cleaned every inch of the floor on their
hands and knees before bringing the unconscious Marlowe down from his
confinement. His fetters were secured tightly to the rings let into the floor.
It was not the first time that a sacrifice had been spread and bound there,
although usually the rites did not result in the death of the victim, or at
least not directly. He drew the chalk over the lines lightly inscribed into the
wooden floor while Montague scribed symbols on the offering’s chest, and all
was in readiness. They withdrew to await the proper time.

Later, Northumberland, watching from the passage, noted the
futile tugs at the shackles when Marlowe awakened, tugs that soon gave way to a
seeming indifference to the fate in store for him. That would change, the earl
had chuckled to himself, when the vampire found the eater of corpses crouching
on his chest! He had found himself trembling with excitement, wondering what
would happen. The minor conjuration was nothing, but what would the demon do
upon finding the corpse it came to feed upon was undead? This was the sort of
question that teased him. He set the herbs in the several braziers to burning,
and as the room began to fill with the fumes he quickly closed the remaining
chalk lines to begin the ritual.

He had felt the portal beginning to take shape and grow in the
circle, when suddenly it was forced open, wider than ever before, wider than
Percy had ever felt. A shock-wave of power caught him, lifting him and slamming
him with stunning force against the wall behind him. He slid dazedly to the
floor, watching in horror as a shape formed in the circle; this was no minor
fiend appearing before him now. This was a Prince of Hell.

The monster was eight feet high or more, leperously grey and
scaly, patched here and there with tufts of coarse black hair. He turned a
sulfurous yellow gaze on the earl, reaching for him with gnarled and twisted
fingers, each tipped with a dirty and cracked black claw. Webs of filthy skin
stretched from the abomination’s hips to its wrists, and upon seeing the circle
restraining it the thing laughed, a thick, tearing sound, like a leopard
snarling, showing the earl its broken teeth and yellowed tusks. The smell of it
rolling out over the room was intolerable, middens and jakes and foetid London streets
at the height of summer in a plague year. The earl pulled himself to his feet
and pointed a shaky finger at the devil, bleating a question in Latin rendered
all but incoherent by shock and fear. The materialization in the circle snorted
its contempt, and turned to the man lying at its cloven hoofs.

Percy had watched in horrified fascination as it knelt to caress
the helpless man, and seemed to converse with him, although he couldn’t make
out what was said for the blood pounding in his ears. The fetters had been
shattered, and Marlowe, far from fleeing the foul thing, had embraced it, had
gazed at it adoringly, and hungrily kissed it. He himself had fled then,
smashing through a window, running and retching into the night.

Northumberland’s gorge rose again at the memory, and he vomited
until his sides ached with the strain. Was this the result of the exchange? Had
he sold his soul without knowing it? He forced these thoughts away—after all,
Marlowe had always been a perverse villain, lusting after damnation the way a
normal man might crave a wench.

As he had bolted for the woods, he had seen the approaching
horsemen, and was aware that one of them broke away to pursue him, but he had
made the shelter of the woods, and the man had turned back to the house. He was
not too far away to make out their identities, however. So, Marlowe’s friends
had come to rescue him, had they? What would they find in that hell awaiting
them? He had not banished the demon, he recalled, his gut twisting, sweat
beading his brow. Well, Ralegh could do it, the self-righteous fool. He waited,
and had watched them bind Marlowe with some satisfaction. The man had endured
enough to drive him into madness, and that would suit the earl very well. He
stood watching the fire for a few minutes, regretfully thinking of Montague.
The little man had been of great use, renting the house and seeing to the
special demands of the stratagem, but of course he would have had to die sooner
or later, as would any who had learned of the vampire’s existence. The serving
man and his son had already been dealt with, having met with an unfortunate
accident on the way back from market late one night. The earl brushed off his
clothing and began the walk back to his own house, some five miles distant.

Marlowe strove against the rags that bound him, but the knots
were good, and Geoffrey’s strong arms held him fast. Presently he ceased to
struggle.

Geoffrey felt him slacken, and the ashen face and blank expression
troubled him. The long miles vanished beneath the pounding hooves, but as the
dawn approached Kit grew restless, the remembered torment of his exposure
welling in him, and Geoffrey murmured to him, gentling the man as he would a
restive horse. Jehan, running on his own four paws across the fields, reached
the manor first and as they arrived he, without bothering to dress, was
preparing the bath in the heavily shuttered room Kit would occupy. Geoffrey and
Nicolas brought the bound and struggling man in between them, and he quieted
somewhat in the safe shadows of the room. Geoffrey, on his guard, cut away the
rags that bound his young ward but Kit just stood there, and allowed Jehan to
strip him and lower him into the waiting tub. The hot water relaxed him, and
the day-trance claimed him within minutes. Geoffrey gave Jehan his instructions
before he and Nicolas left to take their own rest.

Sir Walter made his way to his own rooms, stopping only long
enough for a word or two with another guest, who had observed their entrance
from the shadows of the gallery. When he reached his bed he threw himself down,
not even removing his boots, asleep before his body touched the mattress. He
woke late in the day to peruse the books and other flotsam he had rescued from
the fire and that evening took his findings to Geoffrey.

“I am concerned about Kit’s—condition, your grace. I have
examined the contents of the braziers that were burning around the pentacle,
with disturbing results. Among the more usual herbs were hemp and blighted
rye.”

“I am familiar with the effects of hemp, Sir Walter, but why
blighted rye?” Geoffrey said, frowning.

“Francis Bacon was experimenting with it. He had an idea that
the visitations of the Devil that plague some villages were in fact the result
of poisoning. This led him to ingest some of the spoiled grain, and when he ran
mad with what seemed to be a case of possession, his manservant called in
Northumberland, who being a wizard, as the man thought, ought to be able to
deal with it, as well as keep it quiet. Harry told me later that Bacon reported
seeing everything from the devil to the dancing dead. Who knows what demons Kit
may have seen, or thought that he had seen? I feel that this may be why he has
withdrawn.” Geoffrey nodded consideringly.

“I thank you, Sir Walter. We will bear this in mind.”

Three days passed and Marlowe woke each evening with a
convulsive start, fighting the bonds that no longer held him. Jehan would catch
him, holding him until the struggling body relaxed. Sylvie would fetch
Geoffrey, who would sit on the bed taking the man’s face in his hand, turning
it toward the light. He was more than a little disturbed by the vacant
expression. On the third night he raised his voice, calling Kit by name and
slapping him sharply on one cheek. He flinched, but otherwise gave no sign that
he had heard his name, or even felt the blow. After a quiet exchange with
Jehan, Geoffrey left Marlowe resting with the large serving man on one side and
Sylvie on the other, and retraced his steps to the small study where Nicolas
waited.

“I do not know,” he answered the unspoken question. “It may be
that Northumberland has broken him past healing. He has said nothing and is
refusing to feed—” he swung around at an abrupt motion from Nicolas and faced
Sir Walter in the doorway.

“Your pardon, your grace,” the man said smoothly. “I did not
mean to eavesdrop.”

“But you have questions and wish answers,” Geoffrey finished for
him, and Ralegh nodded, his eyes narrowed to ice-blue slits in his weathered
face. Geoffrey indicated a seat near the fire and Sir Walter sat and began to
fill his pipe.

“First of all, my lord, I do not know, nor do I care, what your
natures maybe. That you are good men and that my old friend is well befriended
in you in his great need, I have no doubt, so we may dispense both with those
questions and your explanations. No, I wish to know what your plans are
regarding Northumberland,” Ralegh said softly, gazing at the coals. Geoffrey,
too, studied the fire a time before answering in a remote wintry voice.