The Parliament of Blood Read online

  The man at the door was a stranger. Tall and thin, wearing a top hat and a heavy cape against the cold of the night. His eyes were deep black.

  ‘Eddie Hopkins, I presume,’ the man said.

  John Remick could tell – from the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he slapped an ebony cane into the gloved palm of his hand … The man meant no good. Someone had it in for Eddie. Whatever Eddie had got caught up in, whatever Pearce and the Coachman were doing, it was a dangerous business.

  Remick had never once asked what happened to the children the Coachman took away. Looking back at the man with the dark eyes, Remick was suddenly sure that Eddie had saved his life. The boy had taken his place – even after the beating Remick had promised him. Whatever Eddie was doing, it was for the good. If Remick could help Eddie, could somehow take the heat off him and let him get on with his business …

  He thrust his hands into his pockets. He could feel the crumpled, ragged shape of his mother’s letter and gripped it tight in his fist. What would she think of him? Eddie had asked. Would she be proud of her son?

  ‘Yeah,’ John Remick said defiantly. ‘I’m Eddie Hopkins. What’s it to you?’

  Even as he said them, Remick knew they would be the last words he ever spoke. But Eddie would be safe. And Mum would be proud.

  ‘Some of this pipe work is new,’ George realised.

  ‘Our requirements change constantly. The river never rests,’ Clarissa said.

  There was a sound echoing the throb of the pumps. It reminded George of a church – the whole place with its high, stone roof, and the noise. It sounded like people chanting.

  ‘You said you need an engineer. Is it for this? To keep the pumps working and the tunnels dry?’ George wondered.

  ‘The river is never silent, never quiet, never calm,’ Clarissa said. ‘The system needs constant attention. It is so complex now that only Christopher Kingsley understands it fully. But we also need to make use of the newer technologies. For all his expertise, Kingsley is such a traditionalist.’

  The chanting was getting louder as they neared the end of the tunnel. ‘So this is what Kingsley was working on when he died?’ George said. His throat was dry at the memory of seeing his friend and mentor stretched out on the mortuary slab.

  Clarissa turned to George. The flickering light was red across her white face. ‘Why, George,’ she said quietly, ‘whatever makes you think that he is dead?’

  George stopped suddenly. ‘I saw him,’ he said, confused. ‘I saw his body …’

  But Clarissa had already moved on. She was standing beside a doorway in the tunnel wall, waiting for George to catch up. ‘The Hall of Machines,’ Clarissa said as he joined her. She stepped aside to allow George to enter the enormous cavern.

  The sound of the pumps and engines increased as he stepped over the threshold. The air was heavy and damp with steam and he could taste the oil at the back of his throat. There were a dozen or more engines with their huge metal boilers arranged along the length of the cavern. A mass of pipes emerged from them, running down the walls and disappearing into the darkness.

  In front of George thick ropes hung swaying, reaching up towards the high roof where they rattled against distant pulleys. The sound of chanting kept rhythm with the hiss and pulse of the pumps.

  ‘You see why we need your help,’ Clarissa said, her voice almost lost in the sound and the steam.

  There was a hush as Marie came into the theatre. Henry Malvern was supporting her, helping her across to a seat in the front row. She sat down, gasping for breath.

  Liz hurried to help. ‘You shouldn’t have come. You should be in bed.’

  The woman looked even more pale and drawn, so frail and tired. It took her several moments to get her breath. She squeezed Liz’s hand, and Liz could feel how very cold she was.

  ‘I wanted to come. Just once more,’ Marie said. Her voice was hesitant and faint – a shadow of how she had been just a few days ago. ‘I want to see you play the role of Marguerite. Want to be sure it’s in good hands.’ She smiled to show it was a joke, but the smile was an obvious effort. Her face creased and wrinkled. Devoid of the usual layers of make-up, Marie Cuttler looked so very old.

  Liz knew the lines already. She had a good memory, and was almost word perfect. She tried to lose herself in the world of the play, shutting out everything except the drama and Malvern’s occasional suggestions and advice. Struggling to forget her father, and Marie’s decline.

  As soon as the rehearsal was over, Liz hurried to help Malvern get Marie to his carriage.

  ‘You’re treating me like a cripple,’ Marie complained weakly.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Malvern told her. ‘A week or two’s rest and you’ll be back on your feet. Just been overdoing it.’ He glanced at Liz, and she could see in his expression that he did not believe this any more than she did.

  ‘Sleep,’ Marie murmured. ‘Just need some sleep.’

  ‘I’ll come with you to her hotel,’ Liz offered.

  By the time they reached her room, Malvern was all but carrying Marie. She looked so slight and thin that she must weigh almost nothing, Liz thought. But Malvern seemed to appreciate having Liz there to open the door and to help Marie to her bed. He excused himself while Liz helped Marie into her nightdress.

  ‘I’ll get her a glass of water,’ Liz said when Malvern returned. ‘She needs to drink, and if she can eat something …’

  ‘I’ll talk to the hotel people. Have food sent in.’

  Marie’s eyelids fluttered as she drifted closer to sleep. It was difficult to know if she was even aware they were there.

  Which made it all the more of a shock when Liz returned with the water. To find Marie wrapped in a tight embrace in Malvern’s arms. Neither of them seemed to notice Liz as she crossed quickly to the door and let herself out. She could feel the blood burning in her cheeks as she hurried down the stairs.

  The next opening in the tunnel, behind the Hall of Machines, led into another massive chamber. The light from the wall lamps was barely enough to illuminate the whole place, and one end was in total darkness. Rows of stone benches lined the chamber, filled with people sitting chanting. Between the benches stood a black carriage. George could make out one of the pale horses at the front of it tossing its head.

  There must be a hundred people here, he thought. Perhaps two hundred. As Clarissa led George to the aisle between the two sets of benches, the people stood up. The chanting was replaced with scattered applause. George felt himself colour with embarrassment.

  Clarissa was holding his hand, leading him up the aisle towards the carriage, and then past it. George frowned, suddenly anxious again. At the end of the aisle was a raised dais with what looked like a stone altar on it. And on top of the altar was a wooden coffin.

  Four men stood round the coffin, one at each corner of the altar. As George approached, his heart thumping in his chest in time to the renewed chanting, the men stepped forward. They grasped the coffin lid and wrenched it free. George could hear the tearing of the wood, the squeal of nails.

  Two of the men reached inside. A moment later, they straightened up and George saw to his surprise that each was holding a shoe. They set them down at the front of the altar and stepped away. The other two men now approached the coffin. Each of them scooped something out, then walked round the coffin to stand over the shoes.

  ‘Soil from his final resting place,’ Clarissa said quietly to George.

  The men allowed the soil to trickle through their hands and into the shoes.

  ‘What is all this?’ George demanded.

  ‘The Coachman will explain.’ So saying, Clarissa stepped aside, standing in a space between two of the people in the front row of the ceremony.

  George watched Clarissa as she started to chant with the others – a low, guttural sound that reverberated round the chamber. But he hardly heard it. He was standing open-mouthed, staring at the two people slightly apart from the ceremony. The lean, distinctive figu
re of Lord Ruthven. And beside him, unmistakable even in the dim, flickering light, was Eddie.

  All other eyes were on the altar, and sensing that something else was about to happen, George turned back. What was Eddie doing here? How could they escape? It was obvious that whatever was happening, it wasn’t good – for either of them.

  The Coachman was standing behind the altar. He was looking down into the coffin, his face shadowed. But when he looked up – as he held aloft a plain, pewter goblet – his hood fell back and the crimson light shone across and over and through the skull that was his head. His eyes seemed to flicker with the light from behind them.

  ‘Welcome, my brothers and sisters,’ the Coachman rasped. His voice cut through the chanting. ‘We are nearing the end of a long road. Soon, I will welcome my own sister back to us. Today is a step on that journey. But however much I feel her loss, however much I yearn for her awakening, there are more important matters at hand today.’

  He held out the goblet, like a priest offering it to the congregation. ‘Rebirth. Awakening. Death. I bring you all three. Our trinity of blood. For the first time in four thousand years we celebrate these three together. Out of death I bring you undeath. Out of sleep I bring awakening. Out of life I bring you death, and so the circle of mortality is closed.’

  The Coachman held the goblet high above his head and the chanting broke off. ‘I give you the blood of life.’ Everyone was leaning forward, eager, waiting. Clarissa’s tongue flicked over her lips.

  The Coachman tipped the goblet, allowing the dark red liquid to splash down into the coffin. When it was all gone, the Coachman stepped back, spreading his arms in welcome.

  George felt as if his whole life was draining away. With a wrenching crunch, the side of the coffin split apart – kicked away as the body inside shifted, turned. Sat up.

  Christopher Kingsley, pale and dark-eyed swung his legs over the side of the altar, and into the waiting shoes. His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again they were fixed unerringly on George Archer – his former pupil, his erstwhile friend.

  ‘George,’ he said with obvious delight, his voice exactly as it always had been. ‘As I lived and breathed, it’s George Archer.’ His mouth twisted into a sort of smile. ‘How kind of you to come.’

  CHAPTER 15

  The low chanting had begun again, but to George it was as if he and Kingsley were utterly alone.

  ‘I saw you – in the mortuary …’ George said, incredulous. ‘But – you’re alive!’

  Kingsley was amused. ‘Oh no, George. I am quite dead, I assure you.’

  ‘But how – what …?’

  That made Kingsley laugh out loud. ‘You are so naïve, my friend.’ He stepped down from the dais, standing right in front of George now. ‘We are vampires,’ he said. ‘All of us. That’s what the Damnation Club is, who we are.’

  ‘Vampires?’ George was shaking his head. ‘But – that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Better keep your voice down,’ Kingsley warned him. ‘Not polite to call your fellows ridiculous.’

  ‘They’re not my fellows,’ George protested. ‘Look, what’s really going on here? I’m not a vampire!’

  ‘I know,’ Kingsley said quietly, with a hint of sadness. ‘But you will be. Weren’t you listening? Out of life comes death. Out of death – undeath. You are about to start your own journey. Here and now. As we watch, as part of the great ceremony.’

  George stared, open-mouthed. There was something about Kingsley’s eyes – a darkness that had not been there before. Not when Kingsley had been alive. Properly alive. Could it be true? At best they were all mad. At worst … He turned, ready to make a run for the tunnel. Maybe he could remember the way back.

  But Clarissa was standing behind him. She grabbed his arm, her grip stronger than George would have thought possible.

  ‘Do stay,’ she breathed. ‘We need you. I need you.’

  ‘It’s your choice,’ Kingsley said. ‘Join us. Or die.’ He shrugged as if it was a simple decision. ‘I made my choice a while ago, and so far I have no regrets. I had to wait years for this moment. Years of a twilight half-life waiting for death. Tending and maintaining and designing their pumps and machinery, but all the time waiting to welcome death’s cold embrace. You’re lucky to come to it so quickly.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ George demanded, his voice shaking.

  The Coachman was standing beside them now. ‘Kingsley must drink his first blood. Then he will truly be one of us.’

  ‘First blood?’ George swallowed, his throat dry. ‘You mean – my blood?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Clarissa said. But George’s relief was shortlived. ‘After he’s drunk first blood – then he’ll drink yours.’

  ‘Bring you into the family,’ Kingsley added.

  ‘Initiate you into the Damnation Club,’ the Coachman rasped. He raised his voice to address the silent crowd. ‘We will continue with the ceremony,’ he announced. ‘Bring the boy.’

  ‘Boy?’ That could only mean Eddie.

  ‘First blood,’ Clarissa said. She let go of George’s arm, and brushed the dust from his shoulders. ‘Join us, George. Surrender your earthly mortality and live for ever. Rule for ever.’ She stepped away, returning to her place with the others, watching.

  Kingsley led George to the altar. He was in a daze, head throbbing with the heartbeat sound of the chanting, the pumping, the blood rushing in his ears. At the altar, Lord Ruthven was waiting. He avoided looking at George. Beside him was Eddie – pale and expressionless.

  ‘Now is the time,’ the Coachman cried, standing behind the altar to address the assembly. ‘Here is the place. I have given you rebirth. I now give you awakening.’

  George was staring at Eddie, willing him to come out of his waking sleep. ‘Eddie,’ he mouthed. ‘Eddie – we have to get out of here.’

  Eddie’s expression did not change. But he winked.

  Ruthven had stepped away, leaving Eddie on one side of the altar, and Kingsley on the other. Making it look as though he knew what he was doing and was taking part in the ceremony George walked over to stand beside Eddie.

  ‘You all right?’ George hissed out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Eddie murmured back, still staring ahead. ‘Going to have my blood sucked out and all, but I’m fine.’

  ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘You don’t say?’

  Further whispered discussion was curtailed as the Coachman continued with his speech. ‘We are gathered here today to witness the Great Awakening. Our Lord walks among us once more. He watches over us and keeps us safe. And when we find the Fifth Casket, our Lord will once more be complete. And He will take his rightful place as our ruler. He will reign over us, as our supreme sovereign.’

  The Coachman had spread his arms. As he finished, he brought them together, pointing down the length of the chamber towards the far wall, drenched in darkness.

  The lights sputtered and flared. The walls glowed red as the lamplight seemed to creep along them, into the darkness.

  ‘Oh my cripes,’ Eddie said out loud.

  The whole assembly turned hungrily to watch as the light reached the back wall and illuminated the horror that hung there.

  ‘Behold Orabis!’ the Coachman cried. ‘He is awake. Beyond the Lord of the Undead.’

  The wall was a mass of criss-crossing pipes and cables and tubes. The sound of the pumps seemed to grow as the light increased – a great heartbeat of sound that emanated from the creature attached to the wall.

  It was seated on a throne of wood and metalwork. Surrounded by valves and metal tubes. The thin pipes that lined the wall joined and connected before feeding into the creature’s body.

  Like a grotesque parody of sovereignty, Orabis stared out over the assembly. The wall ran red behind him. Viscous fluid dripped from the joints in the pipes and seeped from the wounds where they connected into his body. Dark eyes stared out from the emaciated face. The ragged rema
ins of cloth wrappings hung decaying and rotting from the dark, dry, desiccated skin.

  From the Hall of Machines behind him came the sound of the steam pumps as they hissed and spat and forced the blood round the system, through the body.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ George was unable to look away from the horrific sight.

  ‘Your god indeed,’ the Coachman said. ‘That is why you are here. You will serve our Lord Orabis. You will help maintain and service the systems that keep him alive.’

  ‘But – why?’ George could hear the tremor in his own voice. ‘What sort of existence is that?’

  ‘He needs blood,’ the Coachman said simply. ‘Enough to awaken him at the Unwrapping ceremony. Just enough for him to get to the coach. Now he grows stronger with every moment, every drop, absorbing the life force, gaining in power.’

  ‘You know more about the new technologies than I do,’ Kingsley said. He sounded as if he was discussing a mundane engineering project. ‘The newer steam pumps. The possibilities offered by electricity. Your help will be invaluable, George. I know how the system works and what is required. Together we will be such a team.’

  The Coachman turned to face the assembly, to face his Lord. ‘The time is now!’ he said again. ‘The place is here! Soon our Lord will again walk among us. The long years, centuries, millennia of waiting will be over. You know my sister and I have abstained from the blood of life since our Lord was so cruelly taken from us. But I tell you, my friends, soon my Lord and I will drink together.’

  ‘My loyal, steadfast servant.’ The voice was rich and soft. It seemed to emanate from the blood-soaked walls. The Lord of the Undead’s eyes were black pools, staring across at George and Eddie. ‘You have waited so long while I was lost and slept. But the waiting is almost over. Soon all my people, even Belamis your sister, will awaken to hear my will.’

  ‘As soon as we have the Fifth Casket, my Lord, and you are whole once more.’ The Coachman bowed. ‘We do you reverence.’