The Dark Arts of Blood (21 page)

She was Violette’s opposite.

Emil looked away. The room swayed, and he couldn’t focus on anything without it flickering and rolling like a stuck movie. The male beside him was tugging his sleeve, shouting some incoherent joke in his ear. They all seemed to be shouting at him – teasing, mocking, joking at his expense – how was he supposed to respond? Another full stein foamed in front of him. He was too far gone to care where he was or what any of this meant.

Nothing. That was the point. He wanted meaningless sensation, and here it was.

A man at the head of the table was speaking in a low, firm voice, as if telling his drinking friends something of great importance. He had the look of a youthful but experienced army officer. A shrewd face, handsome in a way, short hair catching the light like a reddish halo. He emphasised every point he made by chopping the table with the side of his hand.

All the men sitting alongside Emil went quiet and listened. Some began to chime in, or to mutter approval.

Emil took another swig of beer and clenched his jaw. Wonderful – they were talking politics, a subject that made his blood boil. They were all of a type, he noticed, no doubt ex-military: young but older than their years, rough around the edges, in shirt-sleeves.

Emil began to feel restless, bored and slightly ill. Not drunk enough yet… time to leave, find somewhere quieter… perhaps a bottle of plum brandy to drink himself unconscious and fall into the lake. Ha, in the morning they might drag his body from the water with a hook.

Ballet star in tragic drowning…
How would Violette like that?

“Hey!” shouted someone down the table. “What’s so funny, pretty boy?”

“What?”

The man, a coarse drunk not much older than Emil, indicated the speaker, who was apparently the head of this gang of – twenty-five? Emil couldn’t concentrate to count them properly. “Herr Notz is speaking. When he speaks, you shut up and listen. You don’t
laugh
.”

“I wasn’t…” Emil felt a flare of anger. Who were these idiots, with their dishevelled clothes and their narrow, bloodshot eyes?

Another jumped up, raising his beer in the air. “Here’s to Godric Reiniger! Here’s to Wolfgang Notz! Switzerland forever! The world doesn’t know what’s coming:
we are
!”

All the others joined the toast, their yells deafening Emil. The red-haired man, Wolfgang, raised a calm hand and said, “Sit down and shut up, Bruno.”

“Shut up yourself!” shouted a patron from the neighbouring table. “Switzerland doesn’t need to turn into Italy. We don’t need nationalist talk here. We’re trying to have a good time! Can’t you find another cellar for your preaching? A coal cellar?”

Laughter.

Wolfgang Notz only gave a slow, menacing smile. His companion, Bruno, started breathing faster, turning red with rage.

Something odd happened then. Emil’s addled brain became a lens: distorted chaos around the edges with a small, lucid window in the centre. With perfect clarity he saw Wolfgang go still and glance meaningfully across at Godric Reiniger. Suddenly noticing that the older man was there, but keeping the observation to himself?

Reiniger stared back at Wolfgang and gave a small nod.

Then Notz stood up and leaned on the table with both hands. His voice was measured but penetrating enough to silence the musicians.

“Have you all forgotten your history, your proud heritage? The heroes like William Tell who fought to make this glorious country what it is? That is all under threat from every side! You in this place, you want to live your tiny lives surrounded by gypsies and thieves, degenerates, homosexuals and cripples? That is your choice. But if you are young and strong, and would like a better future – give us a fair hearing. Switzerland needs to protect herself. Why should we take in refugees, the dross of the world, every time war looms? We need to expel the enemy within. We need breathing room for our pure Swiss nation. You all know what I’m talking about! We could all be strong together. Protect our borders and we become stronger! No more threats or compromises with the nations around us. A new world in which Switzerland stands above all others! This new world has no place for weakness, no room for effeminate aristocrats or those of inferior idle blood.”

Emil saw that Reiniger had a small movie camera on the table; he was filming Notz’s performance. Reiniger’s mouth curved in a small, proud smile.

“Look at me and remember this moment,” he added. “Our founder, Godric Reiniger, knows the secret of power. We know it too. Do you?”

The room went silent. A different voice called out, “If that’s what you want, clear off to Italy and march for Mussolini. Lick his boots clean while you’re at it.”

“It’s easy to mock Mussolini,” said Notz. “There is a leader with
almost
the right idea. We can do so much better. Come on, we all know that Switzerland is the finest country in the world. It’s our duty to protect her!”

This brought cheers, but Emil was enraged. He staggered to his feet, head throbbing. “Mussolini’s an arrogant, bloated bastard!” he spat.

A staff member, apparently the landlord, signalled frantically at the band. The music started up again, with the desired effect of drowning the argument. The folk around the edges of the cellar were losing interest. But Wolfgang, Bruno and their band of supporters all turned to stare at Emil.

“And who are you?” said Wolfgang.

“No one. But I’m telling you he’s a maniac, a brute.”

“He saved Italy.”

“I
am
Italian. He spouts fine words, like you, but he’ll ruin us! And if you want to ruin Switzerland the same way – you are all gullible fools!”

Emil was panting for breath, struggling to get the words out, beyond caring what he said. The loudmouth, Bruno, stood up again and pointed at him, red-faced.

“See this creep who insults us? He looks like a girl with his golden hair. He’s one of those ballet dancers. Don’t you recognise him?” Bruno made an exaggerated flouncing gesture. “He’s one of those we’ll be exterminating, when our time comes. Italians are scum, no better than gypsies and Slavs. You – you’re the worst of all worlds! Homo. Queer. Communist. You should be chained up in prison, not prancing on the stage!”

Emil was unsure what happened next. He was dimly aware of lurching forward, striking out at Bruno, missing, nearly falling over. A male server grabbed his arm. Then a fight broke out – Bruno and his comrades exchanging blows with a group of men who’d been heckling them – but the scene retreated into the distance as Emil was hustled towards the doors.

All a blur.

Even through the beer-fog, he knew the only sensible response was to leave. The next he knew, he was thrust outside into the cold and dark. Chilly air hit him, turning the world into a carousel.

He made his way down the side of the building, hanging on to the wall, until the roar of voices and music faded. No clear thoughts in his head, only a swirl of rage and anguish. The alley swayed and rolled like a ship in a storm.

Long fuzzy seconds later, shadows began to gather around him. A voice said out of the silence, “Hey, queer.”

* * *

“I failed,” said Charlotte, sitting on a chair arm in Violette’s living room. Karl, back from visiting Stefan, leaned on the chair behind her. “I’m so sorry. I tried to explain…”

“What?” said the dancer.

“That you’re grieving for someone else. He must accept that a relationship is impossible. I don’t know what else I could have said.”

“You could have tried a little hypnotic glamour, Charlotte. It worked on me: it should certainly have worked on an impressionable colt like Emil.”

“I did try. I don’t even like to do so, because it’s usually so easy… but Emil didn’t respond. Or rather he did, but in the wrong way. He told me, not politely, to leave him alone, and he bolted into the darkness.”

“Wonderful,” said Violette. “Where is he now?”

“He made off towards the Aldstadt. I don’t think I’d have put things right by chasing him. Violette, he is terribly upset. Don’t you realise how badly he’s taken it? I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Violette dropped her head. “Well, you tried. If I can’t bring him to heel, who can? Is this his ‘hot Latin blood’ or just an excess of… energy? How much truth will it take to convince him? ‘I never have relationships with my dancers. In any case, I prefer women. Oh, and I’m a vampire. How many more reasons do you need, Emil?’”

“Dismiss him,” said Karl. “If you can’t work with him, it’s the obvious answer.”

“Anyone else, I would,” said Violette, shaking her hair back over her shoulders. She looked ragged, forlorn. “But on stage… he is perfection, Karl. I cannot lose him. Not without a fight. And I’m worried. He nearly flung himself overboard in a storm! What else might he do?”

For half a minute, no one spoke. Then Karl gave a quiet sigh.

“Let me go and look for him.”

* * *

Karl’s hunt for Emil took him through medieval streets, between throngs of tourists and locals, past hostelries spilling light, music and the stink of cooking food. The church-going, hard-working nature of the locals meant that revelry tended to cease early, but it was barely nine o’clock and foreign visitors had an appetite for late-night carousing. The less appetising smells masked the aroma of human blood.

Nearly all humans had an aura, but some gave out more distinct signatures than others. Although he knew Emil only by sight, he’d noticed the dancer’s strong energy field, easy to sense from a distance. Karl tuned out all the other humans around him and locked on to Emil’s bright gold and red outline.

Discreet in a dark overcoat, he slid into the Crystal Ring at ground level. Here the world became compressed and insubstantial. Human beings no longer appeared solid, but as silhouettes outlined by spindly light rays. Every now and then he caught Emil’s signature, only to lose it again. But he was nearby… somewhere.

Karl felt like a spy or a bloodhound, performing this duty for Violette. Not that he minded, apart from mild exasperation at Emil’s behaviour.
If I were Violette, I’d leave him to his own devices
, Karl thought.
He’s a grown man, not a child.

Unless it was the revelation of
what
she was that had sent him out of his mind.

Most humans were easily influenced by vampires. Curious, that Emil seemed immune to the power of Violette’s will. Charlotte was no less persuasive, but even her mesmeric gaze had failed to calm him.

Surely Emil couldn’t know that Violette and her friends were not human? However, that didn’t mean he hadn’t sensed
something
. Once a human saw through a vampire’s mortal pretence, the truth was difficult to unsee.

I only hope he’ll listen to me
, Karl thought,
because I’ve no intention of using physical force. If he refuses to come back, I’m not going to fight him.

Karl caught Emil’s aura more strongly. In his mind’s eye he touched the fire-bright energy… and although a hundred other auras glowed around him, the signal was steady amid the shifting flow.

The pall of a seedy
Bierkeller
drew him.

Karl entered and pushed his way through the sweaty beer hall crowd. People were leaving, others arriving, causing a constant press of bodies. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of stale beer, sausages and sauerkraut and humans, overwhelming. Raucous folk music, voices yelling along with the songs. He’d been in far worse places, muddy battlefields where young men lay dying in shell craters… in comparison, a room full of rowdy drunks was nothing.

Their blood held no temptation, although Karl might have felt differently if he’d been hungry. He detached himself, imagining the chaos sealed behind a glass wall.

But where was Emil?

His aura had drawn Karl here like a magnet, but now it was gone. One group of fifteen or so, seated at a table near the band, appeared isolated from the other merrymakers. Slightly shabby, fairly drunk, there was little laughter or talk among them. Instead they were all paying attention to one man, who resembled a schoolmaster.

He was tall, and sat as straight as a sword. His mousy hair was shorn, catching the light to give the impression of pale fire cloaking his head. A strong, bony face, light-blue eyes behind spectacles…

Karl recognised him as the heckler from the cinema. Godric Reiniger, the amateur film-maker.

There was power in his blade-straight posture and his air of sheer confidence. The men sitting along the table were all leaning towards him, like courtiers attending a king. Beside him sat a handsome fresh-faced military type with freckles and shorn gingery hair… disturbingly similar to the intruder described by Charlotte. Not distinctive enough for Karl to be sure. Any of them could be the one who’d stabbed her.

If only Stefan were here
, Karl thought.
He would identify the culprit for certain
.

Reiniger was speaking of the glory of Switzerland, its rich folklore and heroic history. Nothing wrong with that, but his low, fervent tone made Karl’s heart sink. Even here, in a supposedly neutral federation and refuge for free thinkers, there were extremist groups. Some, with powerful connections in the military, had wormed their way into government.

There was something different about Reiniger, though. A kind of desperation, mixed with high-minded goals. Karl realised that he was reprimanding his companions.

“No use shouting about politics in a drunken frenzy. Our approach needs to be subtle, through film and art, poetry and song,” Reiniger murmured. “A stealth attack. We can’t force a new leader upon them. First we must make them
yearn
for the new leader, one they don’t even realise they want until we show them. They must
plead
for him. Only then…”

As he listened, Karl caught another nagging undercurrent. The group gave off the same sour odour that the intruder had left in their chalet… and on Charlotte’s clothes. Those aromas mingled here, faint but distinct.

It would make sense
, Karl thought, keeping very still, resisting the strong urge to launch himself at them in rage.
If they drink regularly in here, then stagger home – some in a group, some alone – the guilty men could well be among them.