Written in the Blood (30 page)

So you finally admit it, Etienne? You finally admit that you were hurt? That you can feel pain?

Yes, it seemed so. She stared around this grand old room, at the women playing with their children, at the nervous faces of her fellow volunteers, and suddenly felt shame. She was an impostor here, unfit to be around these innocent lives. For years she had locked away her feelings, selling her body to the highest bidder, fooling herself that she did good in the world, that she entertained the darkest fantasies of her clients so that others might not live them.

It had been more than a lie; it had been a betrayal. She had been damaged before she arrived at Tansik House, even more damaged by the time she left, and yet the longest years of suffering she’d endured had been delivered by her own hands. She had locked her feelings away so deep that now, as they flooded up to the surface, bitter and poisoned and so, so sad, she felt herself flailing, sinking beneath them.

Beside her, Soraya touched her arm. ‘It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?’

Etienne stared, unable to speak. She thought of her Aviary back in London, of the rooms decorated to suit her visitors’ tastes, and felt bile rising. It would go, all of it. For the first time in her life, she had an overpowering desire to be part of something: to be part of this; to be part of these people gathered here.

She watched Leah release herself from her mother’s embrace.

Hannah Wilde. It was undoubtedly her. Until now, the woman had been little more than a face in a collection of old photographs, a role to play. Jakab had never revealed the reason behind his obsession with Hannah or the circumstances surrounding his loss of her, and Etienne had never asked, content to slip into the role he had cast for her and close her eyes to the rest.

Now, as she watched the woman disappear through a door with her daughter and others, she felt not violated, but violator. Even though they had been separated by hundreds of miles of space, she had assumed this woman’s shape, had stolen her identity, had
supplanted
her.

Could there be a more intrusive crime than that? Could she ever hope to atone for what she had done?

Perhaps she could try; and perhaps the first step towards that atonement would be to admit what she had done. She closed her eyes.

Tell her? Are you crazy? Do you think they’ll be grateful to hear the truth? How you’ve lived your life? Do you think, for one moment, that they’ll want you to be a part of this if you tell them your history? No. Jakab is a memory. Just one more stain from your past. Erase him. Forget him. That’s all you have to do.

Decision made, she felt small hands reaching for her, and when she opened her eyes she found herself being drawn down towards to the floor, down into a game of metal soldiers and dominoes, down into smiling young faces and laughter and hope.

They reconvened inside Villa del Osservatore’s library, a womblike space that smelled of wood varnish and old leather. Along one wall, mahogany bookcases, intricately carved and reaching almost to the ceiling, held thousands of titles. Heavily draped windows lined the opposite wall, offering views of the lake and the mountains beyond. A brass telescope stood nearby. At the far end was a mantelpiece of buttery Siena marble, and scattered around the room were occasional tables displaying antique scientific instruments: seismographs, ship’s sextants, aneroid barometers, clockwork planetariums, galvanometers, Van de Graaff generators, hydrometers.

Leah sat in a chair beside her mother, opposite Gabriel and Catharina. With the library door closed, the noise of the children was muted. Her only accompaniment, as she told them of her
tolvajok
encounter at Llyn Gwyr, and the earlier incident in Interlaken, was the ticking of an ormolu portico clock above the fireplace.

Although her face remained calm, the
Főnök
’s eyes grew dark as she listened. When Leah finished her story, Catharina nodded. ‘We’d thought a few of them might still linger,’ she said, ‘but this confirms it. And now they know about you. I don’t know how many are left, but they’ll be searching everywhere. It’s not just you at risk, either. All the children here are potential prey, especially the older ones.’

Leah cringed at that.

‘Don’t,’ Catharina said, sensing her distress. ‘No one could have foreseen this, least of all you. The
lélek tolvajok
have preyed on
hosszú életek
youth for as long as we’ve both existed. They’re part of the natural order of things.’

‘But they’ve never had the opportunity to wipe us out before,’ she replied. ‘Which is exactly what could happen if they learn about what we’re doing here.’

‘True. Even so, it won’t be their intention. They’d be signing their own death warrant.’

‘If they do nothing, they’ll be signing it anyway.’

Her expression grim, the
Főnök
said, ‘That’s also true.’

Hannah raised her head. ‘So what do we do now? We have a responsibility to the mothers and children. We can’t expect any of them to return to their homes once we tell them about this.’

‘No,’ Catharina replied. ‘We can’t. But Villa del Osservatore is large enough to house a number of them quite comfortably. With my
Belső
Ő
r
in residence, it’s defendable, too. We’ll protect some of the families here, and the rest at other sites. In the meantime, we’ll try to find out more about this nest of
tolvajok
Leah’s stirred up, and work out how we can destroy them before they strike.’

‘What about Etienne, Soraya, and the others?’ Leah asked. ‘Can we still use the centre in Calw?’

‘There’s no risk to them unless they fall pregnant,’ Catharina replied. ‘I think we’re safe to continue running things there for now.’

Gabriel glanced across at Hannah. He reached out and touched her wrist. ‘We’ll need to tighten up our security.’

The
F
ő
nök
nodded. ‘I can help you supplement it.’ Then she turned to Leah. ‘I don’t think you realise how lucky you were out there in Snowdonia. I want to hear more about this man who saved you too. I can’t begin to work out who he could have been. In the meantime, until we have a better understanding of this
tolvajok
threat, I don’t want you recruiting any more names from your list.’

‘But—’

Hannah lifted her hand. ‘No buts, Leah. Cat is right. Out of everyone here – out of all of us alive – you’re their prime target. You can stay here or you can come back to Calw, but your recruitment of new volunteers is on hold until we sort this out.’

Leah opened her mouth to protest, and then she saw the fear in her mother’s face and changed her mind. ‘You’re right.’

‘I mean it, Leah.’

She gripped her mother’s hand. ‘I promise you,’ she said. ‘I won’t take off again.’

Hannah squeezed her daughter’s fingers. With her next words she addressed the room. ‘This just got a whole lot more dangerous, didn’t it?’

The ticking of the ormolu clock was her only response.

PART II

C
HAPTER
30

Budapest, Hungary

A
nton Golias strode across the open expanse of Heroes’ Square, barely noticing the pigeons as they scattered from under his feet. He passed the square’s centrepiece, a towering Corinthian column with its statue of the Archangel Gabriel, and glanced up. The angel gazed out across the city, pale green wings spread. In one hand he held the crown of St Stephen; in the other, a Patriarchal cross. Clustered around the base of his column, astride enormous mounts, sat representations of Árpád and his six chieftains, the warriors who had led the Hungarian race into the Carpathian basin back in the ninth century.

Anton could not remember the name of the sculptor who had cast those statues, but the man had been a genius. Every time he saw those terrible countenances staring out across the square his blood froze a little – yet he always felt a simultaneous prickling of awe.

Not today. Perhaps his blood was too frozen already. The sky seemed prescient: boiling grey clouds lit by a low sun that tinged their edges with copper. It felt to Anton almost as if a meteor had hit the earth or a volcano had exploded, pitching mountains of ash into the heavens.
The End Times
, he thought, half expecting, in this vaguely biblical light, the mounts of the statues to rear up and their riders to roar out a challenge.

Crossing the road that separated Heroes’ Square from Budapest’s Museum of Fine Arts, he saw Oliver Lebeau waiting for him at the top of its steps. His friend was pale-faced, barely murmuring a greeting. Together, they went inside.

‘Where are we meeting them?’

‘I’ll take you,’ Oliver said.

They passed through the Renaissance Hall and up a flight of steps to the first floor. Side by side, they arrived at the entrance to a bright gallery roofed in glass. Two
tanács
guards stood in the doorway, moving aside as Anton and Oliver approached.

At the far end of the room, hands clasped behind his back, Ivan Tóth stood beside Krištof Joó, his attention on a painting of the Madonna.

When Tóth noticed the new arrivals he came towards them, heels echoing on the wooden floor. ‘Gentlemen, thank you.’

‘I suggest you tell us what this is about,’ Anton replied.

‘New information, Tóth said. ‘As a courtesy, I wanted to share it with you first, before we act.’

‘Act?’

‘Indeed. You’ll remember how I’ve expressed my concerns about Catharina – not just her weaknesses of leadership, but her partisan approach. In particular, concerning this vile fertility programme.’

Anton opened his mouth to protest, but Tóth waved the objection away.

‘No, no, I don’t wish to revisit old ground. I realise you and I will never agree on the merits of that enterprise. You voted one way and I voted the other. Ancient history. But you’ll remember, too, that the one area in which we found unity was the strict set of conditions that guided the project’s operation.’

Anton did; he’d helped create many of those conditions himself, mainly in an attempt to alleviate the growing divisions he saw forming in the
tanács
, born from conflicting interpretations of
Vének Könyve
law.

Tóth said, ‘I must ask: how would you react if you discovered every single one of those conditions had been breached?’

He frowned. ‘Well, there’d be consequences, obviously. But I’m sure that—’

‘And what would your counsel be, should you discover that not only had those conditions been breached, but they’d been breached with the specific approval of our
Főnök
?’

Anton felt the blood draining from his stomach. If there had been one thing he’d always sought to prevent, it was Tóth knowing something he didn’t. He could feel himself being lured into trap here, from which escape might be impossible.

A year had passed since their meeting in Memento Park. Since then, his contact with Tóth had been infrequent. The
Főnök
, too, had become all but invisible. ‘Perhaps you might share with us whatever information you have,’ he said. ‘And then we can discuss it.’

‘Very well. It appears that a much wider group of volunteers has been receiving treatment courtesy of your beloved fertility programme.
Kirekesztett
women.’

Anton heard Oliver Lebeau’s intake of breath. He glanced across at his friend and saw, in an instant, that if this were true, he might have lost him.

If
this were true.

But he had become adept at reading Tóth’s behaviour over the years, and now his old adversary was acting like a poker player revealing an unbeatable hand.

Sensing Oliver’s shock, Tóth focused all his attention on the man. ‘Not only have they been treating
kirekesztett
, the
Főnök
has been helping to
coordinate
it. She’s even allowed some of the women to recuperate at Villa del Osservatore.’

Again Anton opened his mouth to speak, and again Tóth prevented him. ‘The purpose of this grand scheme of yours, if I recall correctly, was to repopulate the
hosszú életek
race, not to bastardise it. What we’ve discovered is unforgivable. She’s deceived us – her own
tanács.

‘I’ve always maintained that fears of our imminent demise are unwarranted. Yes, we have far more to do. But don’t tell me that our end is near. I simply won’t accept it. We didn’t agree on that sixteen years ago, and as a result this monstrous project was born. I hear that at least five of its volunteers have died as a result of its mistakes.’ He shook his head. ‘And for what: so we can bring a new generation into the world, conceived thanks to a woman who is half
kirekesztett
herself?’

‘She is
not
!’ Anton roared. ‘Hannah Wilde is nothing of the sort, and I will not have you say otherwise! Yes, she’s unfortunate enough to share a genetic link with the man of whom you speak, but it’s five generations distant. We abandoned the law of
sorozat
a century ago.’

Tóth stared, eyes flat, a gladiator waiting to deliver the final blow. ‘Hannah Wilde is the bastard offspring of Balázs Jakab, whether you like it or not. A
kirekesztett
. And now, that witch has somehow coerced our weakened
F
ő
nök
into polluting the world with a mewling
litter
of the creatures, in a grotesque infringement of our oldest laws of purity. Will you stand aside and let that happen, Anton? Will
you
, Oliver? The
tanács
have a right to know your intentions.’

‘He’s right.’ Oliver Lebeau had been silent throughout the exchange, but now he turned to his colleague. His face creased with conflicting emotions. ‘If what Ivan says is true, then it’s an abominable violation of our trust. I cannot, in good conscience, condone it.’

‘Thank you,’ Tóth said. ‘Rest assured, I would not expect your support in this without proof. Know that in the meantime this information comes directly from sources inside the
Bels
ő
Ő
r
at Villa del Osservatore. The women sheltering there are
kirekesztett
volunteers. In fact, I understand that this very morning one of them left with her newborn and is, even as we speak, returning with the child to London. We have, I maintain, only one course of action available.’

‘How do you know this woman is
kirekesztett
?’ Anton interrupted.

‘She’s known to us.’

‘What, may I ask, was her crime?’

‘That’s irrelevant.’

‘I think it’s extremely relevant.’

‘Then you’re a minority of one, Anton. You know what I intend to propose. I need to know how you stand.’

Three sets of eyes watched him, waiting for his answer.

You pledged yourself to Catharina. Look how she’s treated you.

But regardless of what Tóth had unearthed at Villa del Osservatore, the man was wrong about one thing: they
were
facing extinction. Catharina might have misled him, but he knew that her intentions, however flawed, were pure.

What would you have done in her position?

As he pondered that question, another confronted him:
What will you do now?

Could he stand by while Tóth took control of the council and forced a coup? They had not even talked of the details, but he cast a glance at Joó, standing beside Tóth, and saw the almost religious zeal in the man’s eyes, sensed the hunger in him. If he remained silent while these two enacted their plans, the result, he knew, would be a bloodletting.

Tóth blinked. ‘This isn’t a game. You haven’t lost and I haven’t won. There’s too much at stake here to allow our personal grievances to influence us. I want your support in this, but I won’t beg for it.’ His eyes grew hard. ‘And I do need your answer.’

Anton looked around him. At the art on the walls. At the two
tanács
guards standing with their backs to the room. At the three men waiting for his answer.

It was probably futile, but he did it anyway. He wouldn’t have been able to face himself if he hadn’t. He ran.

Arms pumping, blood surging through muscles that hadn’t been tested in years, Anton Golias tore through the galleries of Budapest’s Museum of Fine Arts, leather-soled shoes cracking like rifle shots off the marble floor. He reached the first-floor staircase, slid around a banister, hurled himself down its steps. One flight, two.

Already, his lungs were on fire. Needles of pain whipped through his muscles. Too old for exertion like this. Too old and too soft.

He dared not look behind him, could not afford any delay to check whether he was followed. The
tanács
guards were younger, faster, more used to action. And ruthless.

Anton burst out of the museum’s front entrance and tripped down the steps. He slipped, almost fell, recovered himself.

You have to warn them.

Yes, but first he had to get away. He saw a gap in the traffic and sprinted across the road to Heroes’ Square.

Above, framed by swirling skies, the statue of the Archangel followed his progress with malachite eyes, wings outstretched, as if he waited for a gust of wind on which to soar.

Scattering pigeons and tourists alike, heart working like a piston in his chest, Anton dashed across the street at the square’s north-eastern corner, overtaking pedestrians, weaving around cyclists, aiming for the road where he had parked his car. He was relieved to see so many people on the streets. It would make accosting him here far more challenging.

His car waited up ahead, parked in a single row of vehicles facing out into the street. Pulling the keys from his pocket, he activated the locks, saw its amber hazard lights flash.

He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. From here, he could see the entire width of Heroes’ Square. No one ran across it. No one crossed the road towards him.

Trembling as his heart recovered, sucking down painful lungfuls of air, he fished his phone from his pocket. He brought up the number he needed, dialled, and then blood erupted from his chest, spattering the steering wheel in a dark spray.

Anton bucked in his seat, teeth cracking. The phone skittered away from him, bouncing once on the passenger seat before tumbling into the footwell.

Looking down, he saw the serrated tip of a
Merényl
ő
’s
déjnin
blade protruding from a tear in his shirt. He gasped, watching as the knife retreated back inside his chest.

The assassin was in the car, waiting
.
You never even checked
.

The blade plunged into his back and out through his chest a second time, showering the windscreen with scarlet rain. This time the weapon’s steel grated against bone, severing something in him. His fists beat down on the steering wheel. His feet danced, kicking at the pedals.

He tried to take a breath, couldn’t. Tried to focus his eyes. Couldn’t. Thought he saw, across Heroes’ Square, through vision that jumped and hitched like film running through a broken projector, the Archangel spread his wings and soar up into the heavens.

It was a portent, perhaps. Or simply the product of his misfiring brain. But whatever that image was, it remained burned onto Anton Golias’s retina long after death had claimed him.