"How is he?"
Mathilde smiled reassuringly at Carl. Ben and Ned had dragged the straw tick down from the loft, placing it as close to the fire as they dared. Lamar had been stripped of his wet clothing, briskly dried and bundled in blankets. Mathilde was gently but relentlessly tipping hot soup down his throat by the spoonful.
The Jerusalemite's body was cold to the touch, and he was breathing slowly and shallowly. Lamar looked around in confusion, weakly clutching the blankets to himself. "We need to warm him from both inside and out," she murmured softly. "Ben, are those bricks ready?"
Ben carefully touched one of the bricks Mathilde had placed inside the hearth when the youth had rushed into the house, word of the uproar tumbling from his lips. "Ouch!"
Ben grinned, sticking his finger in his mouth, and nodded.
Mathilde used metal prongs to pull out the six bricks, wrapping them quickly in rags and snugging them inside Lamar's many blankets. "You must drink," she urged the small man.
Lamar sipped obediently, his unfocused gaze traveling aimlessly around the room.
"He doesn't seem to know we're here," Carl commented worriedly.
"It's common," Mathilde answered sadly. "He's been through a terrible shock."
"Why isn't he shivering?" Ben observed, concern shining from his eyes as he moved to sit on one of the table's benches. Ned had curled up at Lamar's back, bracing the man and adding his own heat to try to warm the frozen Jerusalemite.
"He's too cold," came a quiet voice from the door.
Carl twisted, and Ben looked up. The hunter had entered unnoticed, and was shivering slightly. Gabriel shifted towards the warmth emanating from the fireplace, relaxing into the heat.
"What happened after we left?" Carl hissed.
"Mayor Hastings showed up."
If not for the dryness of his tone, Carl might have believed Gabriel's nonchalant façade.
"Then he resolved your disagreement with Robert." Mathilde's placid certainty had a confused look rising on Ben's face. The woman rose from her crouched position next to Lamar, gliding to the stove and the pots bubbling on it. A warning shake of the head from the hunter, however, compelled the boy to make an excuse, pull on his coat, and head out the door.
"No, actually," the hunter continued.
Mathilde's face never lost its composure. "Well then I'm sure he must have had his reasons," she explained complacently.
"Mrs. Austin," Gabriel fell back on the characteristic bluntness that had, until recently, been tempered with tact. "Can you tell me how your husband died?"
Her motions stilled for a moment, her hand faltering as she stirred the boiling soup. "I don't understand what that has to do with this discussion," she countered frostily.
Carl winced, shooting the hunter a glance that said, be careful! Gabriel didn't meet his eyes, staring deeply into the flames. "We know that Warren Gray was interested in Anthony Austin's death," Carl soothed, hesitantly trading glances between his friend and hostess. "We'd like to know why he found it so fascinating."
The widow turned on him, eyes sparking with anger. "That terrible man was fixated on Tony's death. I don't know why he couldn't leave it alone, always pushing, demanding – upsetting us all. My husband died in an accident." She trembled with the force of some unnamed emotion – anger? Grief? "That's all it was. A horrible accident."
"What kind of accident?" The hunter pushed for an answer, eyes intent on Mathilde. She met his gaze for only a moment before shifting back to the pot.
"A hunting accident," she murmured, weakly. Her head came up, determination spilling from her in waves as she poured the contents of the pot into a mug. She glared at the hunter. "I would prefer," she clipped out the words harshly, "if you would leave my home."
The hunter shrugged, the careless twitch of one shoulder.
Carl interfered. "Would you mind if I remained with my friend?"
Gabriel stared. He had known Carl was good – but this was almost unbelievable. Innocent gray eyes peeked shyly out from under auburn bangs, framing a humble, hopeful expression that made the friar look about twelve. Mathilde visibly softened towards the sweet visage, and Gabriel had to bring ruthless control to bear in order to repress an ungracious snort of laughter.
"Of course, dear. This young man is quite ill, and I'm sure having a friend nearby to help would be greatly appreciated." Her eyes cooled noticeably as they fastened on Gabriel. "I thank you for your help," she continued. "But I just don't have the means to support so many houseguests. I'm sure the Pardoes would be agreeable to your taking your friend's place in their home, until he is well."
Gabriel inclined his head to her, an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. "As you will, madam." The situation had played out perfectly, better than he had hoped, even.
At that moment, Ben returned from outside, clutching a large armful of firewood and dusted lightly with snow. "It's started again," he commented breathlessly. His eyes flickered to Ned as he deposited the wood by the fireplace with care. Silent messages danced between them.
Gabriel stood, and crossed the room to climb up to the loft, intent on collecting his belongings. Mere moments later he returned with his rucksack, which he left by Carl. "I'll collect Lamar's things from the Pardoes'," he offered. Without waiting for a response from anyone, the hunter strode from the room.
The walk was cold and lengthy, but Gabriel's mind turned on thoughts of the animal he had discovered in the forest. Chasing hard on the heels of that came everything he had ever learned and seen about impalement – and those thoughts were decidedly grim. When he realized that his irritable glower was making some nearby townspeople nervous, the hunter expended the effort to wipe his expression blank, and turned his thoughts to the confrontation by the millpond. He resisted the urge to scowl, rolling his eyes instead.
The man who appeared on the Pardoes' doorstep was markedly less angry, after an effort of will. He knocked, and was accepted into the kitchen. After being offered both a seat and tea, politely refusing the latter, Gabriel began to speak. Calmly, he explained the situation, finishing with, "I'd like to bring Lamar's things to him. He'll be much better off resting far from the noise of the town."
"Of course." Mrs. Pardoe, a plump and matronly woman, immediately agreed.
"I was also hoping, if you and your husband have no objections, that I might be able to take Lamar's place in your hospitality." To the eyes of the Pardoes, the young man in front of them, for all his dangerous reputation and skills, seemed slightly embarrassed about the perceived intrusion.
A slight hesitation, and a worried look, passed between the married couple. The sharp-eyed hunter, however, effected not to notice. "I'd not strain the Widow's hospitality if I can avoid it," he admitted. "However, I would not intrude on you either. I'll speak to Mayor Hastings immediately, and -"
"That won't be necessary," Kevin Pardoe interrupted with a tight smile. "My wife and I are glad to fulfill our obligation to our fellows from Rome."
Not exactly welcoming, the hunter mused. "You have my deepest thanks," is what he said instead.
Louisa gave him a warm, yet distracted smile. "I'll take you to the room, then, shall I?"
"If you would be so kind," the hunter murmured.
Kevin grunted something about needing to check on the stock in the barn, and the three disbanded. Gabriel followed the much shorter woman up a flight of stairs, to a bedroom located at the front of the house. "This was where Lamar slept, the poor young man. I do hope he'll be alright?"
Gabriel murmured something to that effect, mindlessly soothing while he took in the surroundings with a careful eye. The room was small, containing only a bed, washstand, dresser and closet. The window was curtained with a heavy red cloth that matched the bed's wine-colored quilt, and looked out over the street. The meetinghouse was just visible over the roof of the General Store.
"I'll just freshen the bedclothes for you," Louisa smiled again as she scuttled to the bed, efficiently stripping the sheets into one bundle. "You collect your friend's things and be off now. I'll have everything ready by the time you come back," she assured him.
Gabriel's usual brisk efficiency served him well, and in moments he had left the house, returning on his way to the Widow's home. The walk seemed shorter this time, for an idea was teasing at the back of his mind, flirting with consciousness. As he grasped for it, it darted from realization, and the hunter resolved to let it be for now.
The Widow's house was quiet, Ben's presence notable from its absence, and the cause was clear soon enough.
"When did the shivering start?" Gabriel was a bit concerned at the violence of the small man's shaking. Carl looked upset as well.
"Not long after you left."
Gabriel glanced around. "And where's Ben?"
Gone to fetch Dr. Lamborne, Ned supplied helpfully at the same time that Carl said, "He ran to get the doctor."
Gabriel touched his head, momentarily befuddled by the echo. "How long has he been gone?"
A low cough cut off anything Carl might have said, and was followed by two more. Mathilde was frowning anxiously at the man she was trying to dose with willow-bark tea. "When did that start?" Gabriel asked worriedly.
"Just now," Carl replied. In a moment he was sitting next to Lamar, holding a cloth to the other man's mouth as the Jerusalemite coughed and hacked. The coughing soon abated, to be replaced by wheezing gasps.
"He's burning up," Mathilde fretted, the back of one hand resting lightly against Lamar's forehead. "Where is the doctor?"
"Here!" Ben gasped, bursting through the door with a red-faced, middle-aged man not far behind. The man was finely dressed, and wasted no time moving immediately to Lamar's side. Carl was edged out of the way until he was standing next to Gabriel. The two watched a brisk examination take place, the doctor firing questions at Mathilde. Soon, orders were lashing through the air and Ben and Mathilde were rushing about filling them as quickly as possible.
"Come on," Gabriel said quietly, as the two sprang into action. "There's nothing more we can do here."
Gabriel led Carl up to the loft and out of the way. "I'll be staying with the Pardoes; they've agreed to let Lamar switch with me. I want you to stay here tonight – I'll give an excuse to Schoen."
"What? Why?"
"I want to see how he reacts to the news of what happened," Gabriel said grimly. "I noticed that he wasn't in the crowd this morning. And I want someone I trust here to watch after Lamar and Ben. Just for tonight."
"Speaking of this morning," Carl said hesitantly, "What do you make of – of that animal? What – what was done to it?"
Carl was looking a bit ashen, having gone unhealthily pale at the memory of the staked deer.
"It was impaled," Gabriel slowly explained, memory swirling in his eyes. "Impalement first was used as a method of torture in ancient Persia. There are carvings that record the deaths of criminals and enemies of the Persians, and Herodotus later wrote of it in the Behistun inscription. The Romans replaced it with crucifixion." A grimace twisted the dark features, painful memory catching at his heart. "It started becoming more . . . popular in eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, in Siberia with Ivan the Terrible – and in Transylvania."
Carl swallowed.
Gabriel's voice deepened in anger. "After he was murdered, they called him Vlad Ţepeş, or Vlad the Impaler, because that was the method of execution he favored. In life, however, his name was Vladislous Dracula."
Carl froze, trembling ever so slightly. Connections fizzled inside his mind, but the question died upon his lips, murdered by the terror welling up inside.
"He is dead," Gabriel snapped harshly, seeing the fear in his friend's eyes. Both of them knew that death was small consolation; the man they spoke of had evaded it once, enabled others to do the same. "He has failed at his one chance, and the Light-Bringer will not grant him another." It was said with utter certainty.
"How do you know?" Carl whispered raggedly. "He has made one covenant with the devil -"
"I know."
And there was no denying the terrible certainty of knowledge and experience that burned with those hazel eyes, lighting golden fires from within.
"I am the Left Hand," Gabriel whispered, the affirmation nearly lost in the space between them. "I know death." His voice raised, the emotion slipping away almost effortlessly. "When Dracula made his deal with the Light-Bringer, he abandoned his soul to the darkness to be allowed to repossess his own body. For his sins in life, the Light-Bringer favored him, and so he was granted more power than any other. But his second death was absolute, destroying both body and soul. There is no resurrection from that. He is gone. Forever, if I dare say it."
Carl released a deep breath. "But then how would they -"
"Impalement," Gabriel forced himself to continue normally, "continued for a time in Sweden, surviving until the past century in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth as a method of execution. While Dracula is the most notable person to have used this . . . torture, he is by no means the only one," the hunter finished with distaste. "It was, in fact, quite common."
Carl looked ill at the thought. "You said – you said it was . . . a sacrifice?"
Gabriel nodded grimly, fingering one of his rotating blades that had popped into his hand. "It was skinned alive," he muttered. "Blindfolded."
Carl caught the unspoken question. "Why would it be blindfolded?"
The hunter stood, pacing across the floor of the loft, leaving Carl sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I don't know," he admitted.
"But you think there are more," Carl was turning the information over in his head.
"I'm going to look now," Gabriel affirmed. The noises from downstairs had calmed, and they could hear Mathilde speaking lowly with the doctor. Lamar's coughing had stopped for now, but his breathing was no easier, audible even up the stairs.
"Then I'll reread Gray's journal notes, and ask the Widow if she can recall anything more," Carl muttered, blue eyes thoughtful.
The two men walked quietly down the stairs to rejoin the others.
"Dr. Lamborne," Carl stepped forward, a hand out. "How is Lamar?"
The doctor spoke, his voice somewhat high and perilously squeaky, though his words were hardly laughable. "Not too well, I'm afraid. He's been left with a serious case of pneumonia from his dip in the millpond. He's going to be quite unwell, but luckily we got the hypothermia under control. I've instructed Ben and the Widow as to his care."
"Thank you," Gabriel said when the man paused. He glanced meaningfully at Carl. "I'm afraid I must be going – would you mind very much informing Carl as to Lamar's care? Thank you." He gave the other no chance to respond, tugging the rim of his hat respectfully before slipping out the door. He didn't bother with the path this time, striking out instead into the woods to the south. He took care not to leave too much sign of his passing, but gave himself over to his senses, and the scent of darkness on the wind.
Left at the Widow's, Carl could do nothing but listen avidly to the doctor's stern, yet shrill, lecture. Lamar had inhaled water, and probably mucus from the lungs, and had developed an infection. He was bedridden, and needed to rest and drink lots of fluids. The doctor had given the Widow a packet of powder for daily treatment – one spoonful in a cup of steaming water. Lamar was to breathe the fumes, as they would help clear his lungs.
Carl personally thought that the treatment the doctor prescribed was rubbish; pneumonia was a difficult, deadly disease. But Lamar was young and healthy, and had not been in the water long. He had better chances to recover than most.
While he waited for the hunter to return, he reread the mission reports Gray had sent to the Vatican. There were seventeen in all, dated every other day from the nineteenth of December, 1888, until the last missive – January 23, 1889. Though each of the letters contained a dark undertone, to his frustration Carl could not find anything they had not already seen for themselves. The people of Boxborough were secretive, clannish and protective of their mayor and privacy. While they treated their counterparts from Rome with awe and respect, and acted as if they welcomed heroes from the front lines, there was still something stilted about their welcome. They were too thirsty for information on the fight, too ready to listen to stories that were mostly told round campfires, or to scare small children. From the tone of the letters, Carl got the impression that Gray suspected something more, something which he did not write. The letters were contrary, at times, and somewhat frenetic. In a bout of irritation with the missing member of the Order, Carl enlisted the Widow's aid.
"I remember him quite well," she answered, after he had begged her to describe the man to him, as he could not understand the other from his reports at all. "He was shorter than I, but taller than you, with hair the color of mouse fur." She snorted at her own uncomplimentary description. "He asked questions many times, as if the answers would change, or as if he wanted to be doubly sure. He nagged me, and persistently made himself a nuisance about the town, once his original mission here was fulfilled."
"His original mission?" Carl asked curiously.
Mathilde nodded, her dark eyes thoughtful. "Every year after New Years we receive visitors from Rome," she explained. "They examine the runnings of the town, hear any complaints against matters and laws of the Order that may have arisen during the year. They take stock of our supplies and send orders for replenishment if we are in need of something we can't make ourselves. That rarely happens," she added proudly. "Usually, there is a census taken, and we are appraised of the latest news, and changes within the Order. That is how we knew of your recent victory against the beast that attacked the Holy City," she explained.
Carl kept his eyes from narrowing with difficulty. Was she lying, or had she been lied to? Warren Gray had left for Boxborough during the first week of December; the trip had taken longer than anticipated due to foul weather. The business with the Spear, to which she was undoubtedly referring, had taken place during mid and late November, bleeding into early December; but Warren Gray had not been in Vatican City at that time. According to Jinette, Gray had been sent to Milan for all of October and November to work on a project in one of the few entirely Order-run churches in Italy. Even the Vatican itself was not fully staffed and controlled by the Order. His exposure to a society composed completely of members of the Order had been the deciding factor, the Order's former head had told him, for sending Gray to Boxborough.
"I see," was all he said.
"He was a flighty man," the Widow shrugged unconcernedly. "I was glad when he went home."
They spoke until the evening meal, Ben tending Lamar with an ear to the conversation. The Widow excused herself to begin preparing supper, leaving Carl to ponder in silence what he had learned, and resolving to speak to Ben in the morning.
It was after the evening meal when Van Helsing returned, chilled to the bone with the light of discovery in his eyes. He politely waited, eating lightly himself, until the Widow had turned in for the night. Carl promised to wake her later to see to Lamar, before he turned to the hunter. "You found more?"
Gabriel nodded grimly.
"Where?"
"Do you have a pencil? Paper?"
Carl rolled a pencil he had been using over to the hunter, flipping over one of the sheets with Gray's reports on it. Gabriel drew a box. "The Widow's house," he explained briefly.
"Astounding likeness," Carl agreed cheekily.
His impertinence was rewarded with a raised brow, and a squiggly line drifting toward the left of the page. "The path," Gabriel drawled.
"Of course."
Gabriel snorted, and turned his attention to the page. With a dot, he marked in the impaled deer Carl had seen, before he moved to the right – eastward – and further north. Another dot went almost directly north of the house. Another went further east, roughly level with the first dot. Two more dots, both to the south of the house, one to the east and another to the west. Gabriel lightly tapped the northmost dot. "All the others were bucks," he said quietly. "This one was a doe, and with fawn as well."
"There were two animals?" Carl ventured.
Gabriel shook his head. The fawn had not been born, then.
The two men stared at the five dots, before the memory of something he had read hit Carl like a bolt from a crossbow. He snatched the pencil right out of Gabriel's hand, and began to draw.
"What are you -"
Two sets of eyes widened in surprise.
When straight lines were drawn, connecting the five sacrifices represented on paper, the dots were shown to be the corner points of a pentagram – and when each dot was connected to every other one, the figure formed a pentacle. A pentacle centered on the Widow's home.
(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(
Candy to all my reviewers, some of whom are far too perceptive for my piece of mind – reviews really are my ambrosia and nectar, and they keep me typing. Thanks for each and every one.