26

BLEAK HOUSE

OXFORD, ENGLAND - GRIFFIN MANOR

Nikola swept around the ancient mausoleum, his trench coat rippling under the moonlight. He circled the stone structure rising up out of the lawn where Nigel's father was laid to rest. Roses and jasmine tangled over its ionic columns and hefty ironwork door, clutching at them with supple vines ending in spawns of colour.

His fingertips brushed over the sprays of white, inhaling their strong perfume which lingered in the thick mists washing around the lawn, gates and huge manor house in front. It looked like a silent sea caught in time. Terrifying, beautiful - mournful...

In the sliver of new moonlight, the manor's blonde sandstone was a dull grey, banks of Victorian windows black eyes peering out at the night. It loomed at the top of the hill as if it were a ridge of granite peaking from desert dunes. Rows of columns bearing the weight of the mansion dug into cold English soil like talons strangling a mouse.

"Hello, old friend," he whispered, to the house as much as Nigel. Like Nikola, it hadn't aged a day save for a few fresh knocks about the edges.

Taking care not to set off the security lights, Nikola tracked across the lawn, navigating an elaborate sprinkler system then leaping a line of hedges. The manor was under ownership of the Griffin family but with Nigel, his daughter and grand daughter all dead, it had fallen into the hands of a distant cousin who had no knowledge of Vampire blood play in the late nineteen hundreds. Instead he sensibly lived in town, this building abandoned to the care of its butler, groundsman and cleaners.

All quiet.

Nikola checked his watch then bounded a wall. He crossed the paved courtyard and crept to the cellar door. Nigel had been good enough to give Nikola a proper tour of his house for occasions such as this. With very little trouble, he pushed the old jumble of wood open.

Three flights of stairs down found Nikola in the belly of the house, passing cellars full of wine, linen, Greek statues and – to Nikola's relief, a huge pile of crates from the second world war. Luckily for Nikola, the current owners saw the contents as inconvenient trash and hadn't laid so much as a middle class paw on it.

"Well well well – long time no see..." he hissed. Last time he'd laid eyes on this lot, Helen had made him drag them from a burning building. Good times.

Nikola flicked open a pen knife and knelt down, tugging away a dusty cloth covering. He rubbed his sleeve over the copper plates on the front of each chest. They were numbered; 3341-E, 21-399Q … 940-3B. Nikola paused. That was it, the crate from a Nazi occupied castle on the outskirts of Paris.

With brute force, Nikola tugged it from the pile and slid the blade along the cracks in the hardwood. It creaked and then, with a bit of shuffling, groaned open. Paper documents filled more than half of the enormous box. They were brown and dry, curled up around the ribbons tied to keep them in neat piles. Alongside were classified letters from the war years, stolen archaeological research and yes, there it was.

Nikola excavated the foot-long wood and leather box. It was heavy but its contents undisturbed.

Crack.

Nikola's head snapped around. Someone was at the door – no, sneaking down the first flight of stairs.

Hurriedly, he threw the sheet back over the chests and slipped into the narrow, stone corridors linking the subterranean rooms. The footsteps were quicker, advancing directly toward Nikola. The vampire let his eyes turn black, the minuscule amount of light now enough to navigate the labyrinth beneath the house.

Left, through a room and then left again into a smaller cellar. Nikola looked up at the trap door in the ceiling. In a single leap Nikola hooked his fingers on the metal hoop and tugged the trap door open. Another jump and he was clambering onto the floor of the room above. Shit – three more sets of feet. The house was crawling with goons.

He was still beneath the ground, no way out but up. Nikola glanced around the cellar; shelves that used to hold cheese, preservers and not a lot else. Only one door this time. With no choice, he opened it and peaked out. He sank straight back into the room as a figure all in black strolled past, sworn off shotgun dragging in one hand, carving knife strapped in his belt made of silver.

Nikola shivered. This was no random house invasion – they were after him. He waited a few more seconds then silently tracked after the goon. Nikola shadowed him, gaining ground until he was hardly a foot out of step. The man in front sensed something – a primal part of his brain flailing in alarm. Too late, Nikola cracked the antique box over his head and the man fell soundlessly. Nikola dragged him into a room, divested him of the gun and knife and set out – armed.

He could not escape at the ground floor. As he peaked from the servant's door he found a dozen men assembled in the marble foyer, muddy boots leaving tracks all over Nigel's beautiful Pagan floor.

"What the devil is going on down here!" an old, white haired man in striped pyjamas holding a torch meandered down the curved staircase. He was flabbergasted to find the house full of people – at this hour of the morning no less! "The bloody hell do you all think you're doing? This is private property and I -" The man stopped when his nose came worryingly close to the barrel of a rifle. "I-"

The man holding the weapon tilted his head to the side like a vulture. His eyes were narrow and dark, his head covered by a bandanna tied over his short, blonde hair. "Hope we're not bothering you..." he drawled.

Londoner, Nikola realised at once. This was a local crew, probably a scavenged group of independent mercenaries.

The man in pyjamas was too frightened to nod.

"Sit yourself down ol' man. We're just going to take a bit of a look around if you don' mind. Bit of a fan of ol' houses like these and the secrets they keep."

"S-secrets?" the man stuttered, looking even more surprised as he sat down on the stairs. "There is nothing in this place that escapes my notice."

"Really..." the mercenary drawled, considering the deteriorated creature and his almost comical appearance. Whatever his thoughts were, they were interrupted by the crackle of his radio. "Did you find it?"

"Negative. Brown's down though. You were right, there's someone else down here."

Nikola self consciously sank deeper into the darkness, black eyes focussed on the slit of light peaking through the door.

"Find him!" the man snapped.

Snap.

Another man in black fell, his eyes rolling back in his head – the last thing he saw being a row of Nikola's claws scraping against the wall out of sight.

Nikola was on the third floor of the manor, chased and cornered like an Oxford rat. They'd been at this for hours and his patience was wearing thin. Beyond the windows he could see the first blush of dawn stealing the night away from the stars and with it his cover. They'd find him in no time as soon as the sun rose.

Nikola set the box down on a table, sitting in the dusty chair beside. The study yawned around him, inches of dust coating everything except the fragile nets of spiders. He tapped his claws over the box, then took a breath and opened it.

There, exactly as he recalled. Set inside the faded velvet was an ugly, misshapen egg of stone. A keystone made of meteorite. It was smooth and cold as he laid it in his open palm but there was something else – a whisper of electricity humming through its soul. He narrowed his black eyes at it. Nikola loved energy, it ran in his veins and through his heart but this technology set him ill at ease.

He regarded the stone suspiciously before slipping it into his breast pocket and discarded the cumbersome box in the disused fireplace.

"Oh Nigel," Nikola whispered, wandering around the sad room. "You were the only one of us that actually managed a legacy and you're not here to enjoy it. I'm – I'm sorry about your daughter – and grand daughter," he added softly, lingering by the window. "Don't suppose you can give an old friend a hand out of this bloody big building of yours?"

Beneath this side of the house was not the perfect lawn and garden but Nigel's first passion – his green house which stretched nearly two hundred metres capped with layers of special netting to protect the geographically confused garden of Eden beneath. Glossy rainforest leaves brushed eagerly against it, sniffing out the fresh air beyond that was far too cold for them to endure. Death in freedom, Nikola was well acquainted with that yearning.

"Aw mate, I'm sorry..." Nikola muttered, unlatching the window. The poor thing squealed having never been opened. Awkwardly, he clambered onto the narrow ridge of stonework running along the outside of the windows which, to his horror, discovered was purely ornamental and structurally dreadful. He shuffled along the ledge, freezing air whipping at his face.

The window beside him shattered in a waterfall of glass showering out at the night. It fractured over the ground beneath, glinting in the growing dawn. From the hole emerged the blonde man with his rifle.

"Vampire, eh?" it was an accusation rather than a question. He shook his gun menacingly. "Brought a little something just for you."

"Oh fu-"

The gun cracked as Nikola flung himself into the air.

He flew like a bat, jacket billowing behind him like wings with his arms spread wide. He headed inevitably down toward the greenhouse... A bullet clipped his shoulder. It tore through his skin. Nikola screeched, blood splattering onto the netting before he hit it. For a moment he sank onto the taught netting as though it were an enormous, green trampoline. It stretched under his weight, straining against its steel pillars and then tore on one side. He entered an out of control slide, tumbling into the mess of foliage inside.

The mercenary watched from the window. "Get down there," he hissed at the others. "And bring me that stone!"

Nikola batted a leaf off his face. He was laying on his back, staring up at the ghostly form of the manor and ruined roof of the green house bowing toward him.

"Ow..." he groaned, looking at the torn flesh on his shoulder. It wasn't healing yet which meant that the bastard upstairs with bad hair was using silver.

"Young Mr Tesla!" a whisper hissed at him from under a ruined plant.

A pair of hands fished him off the ground, dragging him back to his feet then started dusting him down and nudging him sharply. "...you're still alive?" Nikola replied, when he recognised the old man.

"Nice way to greet a man. Manners never were your strength – youth, perhaps. Old Mr Griffin was right. He knew you'd be back one of these days but God – look what you've gone and bloody done to his green house."

"Ow!" Nikola hissed, as the old man slapped him across the back of the head. "Why is everyone hitting me?"

"Karma, young son. All that new age witchcraft and such!"

It took Nikola a moment to get over 'Karma' being lobbed in as something 'new'. "I need a way out of here." Nikola whispered, stopping the old man from fussing over his bleeding arm. "Do you have a car I can borrow?"

"This is not what I had in mind..." Nikola stood, hand on hips with a stern, unimpressed glare burrowing deep into his pale features. "Oh bloody hell," he sighed, in his best Magnus voice.

"'Twas Mr Griffin's back when he was a boy – or so my father used to say," the grounds keeper patted him gently on the back in encouragement. "This house has many secrets yet, I'm sure you'll be back for a few more before my life is done. Go on now, those walkin' twats will be around here any minute and I don' think I can keep 'em busy long for long."

Nikola lifted his leg uneasily over the Crocker. He'd ridden one of these – once – in the war and... oh fuckity bugger, it was this exact bike. A bike that crashed into a ditch, if he remembered correctly. What was it with Nigel and his pension for rescuing damaged goods? He must have learned that from Helen.

"Get a move on, lad!" the man whacked Nikola across the arse with his walking stick.

Nikola revved the bike. It almost choked on its own fuel but then its tarnished wheels and cracked leather pulled together, spluttering forth into the first hint of morning. A line of bullets thwapped into the ground beside his bike. He looked over his shoulder, seeing a gunman on the roof click a fresh cartridge in and shift his weapon back onto his shoulder.

He was leaving a messy track in the lawn which turned into a screech of gravel when he hit the foot path, swerved and floored it toward the front gates. There was another roar behind him – well, more like a dull purr of Land Rover sneaking out of the tree line. It lumbered through a hedge and pointed its nose directly at Nikola's tail. Blimey.

"I really miss the good old days," Nikola shook his head, riding the bike faster though he doubted it could put out much more, its feeble tread slipping worryingly. Something shook itself free and clanked away over the gravel.

The Land Rover loomed. Its windows slid open to reveal a nimble mercenary who leaned out with a gun balanced against his shoulder. He took a shot at Nikola, hitting the handlebar next to his hand.

"YOU MISSED ME!" Nikola shouted angrily over his shoulder.

Perhaps but he wasn't about to miss again, shuffling the weapon and lifting it again. Nikola took a sharp turn, ducking off to the right just before the mercenary pulled the trigger. Either they really wanted a vampire hanging on their trophy wall or they were after the stone. The only people who knew about the stone were Apries, the Immortal and possibly Amasis. He didn't like the sound of any of those people hunting him.

The Crocker wobbled beneath him, the back wheel deflating rapidly with a fresh bullet hole. Nikola yelped as steel hit gravel. The bike veered to the left and tossed Nikola casually over a sandstone wall. He landed with a splash, his heavy coat dragging him down into a beautiful pool that was absolutely freezing.

The water stung Nikola's eyes. Bullets rained into the water around him, hot shells sizzling as they sank, not quite reaching him but if he tried to surface he'd find himself with more than a few holes in his hide. Panicked, he looked through the water. The smooth sides of the pool curved up toward the glaring garden lights. Useless pool filters flapped at him and a stray leaf spun about, kicked up by his thrashing.

He could do with some rescuing.

The bullets stopped. His lungs burned but Nikola dared not surface. One by one, the glaring orbs of light went out. Then darkness.

Nikola swam toward the surface, breaking free with a desperate gasp of sweet night air. His cloak floated in the water around him like a black halo. The only source of light was the tiny arc of moon falling toward the tree line and haze of pink where the sun threatened to rise. The Land Rover was parked against the sandstone wall – doors open with bullet holes through the windscreen. There was no one about.

He dragged himself out of the water. Mist rose off him as he let himself out of the pool gate and eyed the surrounding gardens. There were bodies on the lawn – mounds of black with accompanying pools of dark blood.

Nikola whispered something untoward in Serbian, dripping his way toward the front gates. There was a silver car at the front, a beaten up first run Camery with a woman in the driver's seat, tapping her gloved fingers against the wheel. Helen – no, Nikola tilted his head, moving closer. Ashley.

"Aren't you meant to be fishing with your mother?" Nikola asked, still partially vamped up as he collapsed into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

Ashley Magnus wore tight leather and dark sunglasses even at this hour. Her neatly cut fringe was only slightly tussled from her brief morning exercise – namely making chaos of the front lawn. "Aren't you meant to be in Paris?"

"Brief detour..." he shrugged, checking that all his claws were intact.

"Yeah," she pulled out of the driveway and headed back to the main road. "Mum said you were a pathological liar who enjoyed making new friends."

"If you're referring to the new lawn ornaments-"

"I'm just going to pretend you said, 'thanks'," she rolled her eyes. "Now, I trust we're still going to Paris?"