It took days of travel to reach England from St. Petersburg where she’d been keeping an eye on Victoria’s granddaughter, Alexandria. By then the storm Sabra had envisaged had come and gone, the mystery of it cold, though gossip was still rife. The macabre tale of a dead captain sailing his deserted ship into harbour confirmed to her that she’d done the right thing leaving the Russian court to investigate this. Whatever had been aboard boded ill for the realm she’d pledged to guard.
She spent a week in Whitby, sensing nothing useful, learning little of import except that the wolf had also been real enough, though all thought it to be only a large dog. According to a newspaper report, it had fled the ship following the same path she’d seen in her dream, vanishing into the night, perhaps to prowl the moors, alone and afraid.
Or so people assumed.
Shape-shifters were not unknown to her. Most were harmless, but this one was different, else its magic wouldn’t have drawn her attention so strongly.
She sought and found information about the ship’s cargo and its final destination, tracking it to Purfleet. Taking to the rails again, she followed the same route to King’s Cross station, and ultimately to the badly aging mansion attached to old Carfax Abbey.
The place was deserted save for a number of boxes in the ruined chapel which proved to be filled with earth.
So… that was it. One of the European Breed come to settle in England. She had no objection to them, so long as they conducted themselves with wisdom and discretion. Thus far she was unimpressed. This one—if she drew the correct conclusion from the captain’s log printed in the papers—had killed the entire crew of the ship on which he’d sailed. Why had he not simply cast his influence upon them to make them forget his presence? All those of undead blood had that talent, but this had been vicious and barbaric beyond reason.
Then there was the matter of the magic.
Whoever this newcomer might be, he commanded powers beyond those of his peers. The Europeans had sufficient supernatural strengths within their inherent natures, but to combine those with black sorcery made for a frightening potential. Before she could return to Russia, Sabra would have to determine their extent—and his intentions.
Still in the convenient isolation of widow’s weeds, Sabra took rooms at a nearby hotel. In the days to come she maintained a loose vigil on Carfax, primarily after dark, as she judged it to be the most likely time for him to return, but that proved a disappointment. The only activity she marked was noting one night that nearly half the boxes were gone, the signs left in the thick dust indicating the invasion of a carting firm going about its prosaic business.
Then there was the occasional excitement when one of the lunatics from the sanitarium next door escaped. He always came to Carfax, crying pitifully to gain entry to be with his “Master.”
The poor brute was touched by the moon all right, his disturbed mind reacting badly to the European’s strong psychic trace. She visited the fellow once in the late hours, speaking through his barred window in hope of learning something useful. Alas, his madness was something even her powers of influence could not pierce. All she got was his insistence that “the Master was here,” to which she assigned its broader meaning. If the European were on the immediate grounds, she’d have sensed him.
Growing impatient with the wait—for August had long vanished and September was nearly gone—Sabra tried a scrying ceremony one night while the moon was still at full. The results, as she stared hard into the mirrored surface of a black bowl filled with water, were mixed. She saw the delicate shadow of a young woman, but nothing of her face or location. The shadow became less and less substantial, then vanished altogether.
Not good, Sabra thought grimly, then added a handful of earth taken from one of the boxes to the bowl. She stirred it clockwise and waited for the water to grow still again.
This time she saw his shadow. It stretched long and solid in the moonlight, reaching far over city and field. The shadow was not black, but blood red. No surprise there. She sought to raise her view, to see the man himself, but he kept drawing away from her. His shadow suddenly changed shape, first into that of a wolf, then a bat, and finally dissolving into countless fly-specks that swirled away to vanish in the wind. She did not think he was aware of her; this was only part of his normal protective magic.
And probably strongest at night, she wryly concluded upon waking from her trance.
The next time she made an attempt was at the brightest hour of noon, closing her shutters and pulling the draperies close.
The visions were clear now, but dark: deaths and burials, images accompanied by vivid emotions. She was at last able to see the young woman. Dead now. There had been much unhappiness and suffering for her. Though she’d been hedged round with protections, they were not sufficient to keep him from sating his appetite for her. Poor lost child. She’d have had little idea what was happening to her, nor would she have known how to defend against it. There was much to be said for keeping alive old superstitions and wives’ tales. The great dawning of science had helped many with its light, but there were yet things walking abroad who took advantage of the shifting shadows in the chasms between science and faith.
Dire change had already wrested the girl from her final sleep, too late to restore the balance there. However, Sabra had gotten a distinct clue to follow, a very clear vision of a churchyard with a marble mausoleum, and the impression that it was fairly close.
At dusk she set out searching for a specific building to match the one she carried in memory. London had hundreds of churches, but she had a scent to follow the right one. Death and sorrow leave their own unique spoor.
Not far from Hampstead Heath, she found the church and its attendant cemetery. There she got confirmation that the gods favored her presence, for she arrived in time to witness a most peculiar event. Four men, one old, the rest young, were hoisting themselves over the churchyard wall. With no small exertion they eventually succeeded, albeit in a most undignified manner. They should have scouted the area first and made use of a convenient overhanging tree but a few yards along the wall. Sabra had the advantage of them with her excellent night vision. Despite her skirts, she nimbly climbed the friendly branches to drop silently on the other side.
Though stealthy as they threaded through the tombstones to the mausoleum, they did not have the look of grave robbers, being too well dressed. Medical men seeking a corpse suitable for dissection? No, for one of them produced a key to the structure. Mourners? They were in for a wretched surprise. She hid behind a shadow-steeped cypress, close enough to observe.
The older fellow, who had a Dutch accent, seemed to be in charge, unlocking the mausoleum that they might enter, then shutting them all inside. She stole forward, listening through the door cracks as they labourously opened one of the coffins within… only to find it empty. That did not sit well with the other men, who all seemed connected to the young woman who should have lain there. They demanded an explanation, and the old man, whom they addressed as “Professor,” provided one. He was quite detailed.
Ah. So that was it. Hunters. He was trying to train his acolytes in the mysteries of destroying Nosferatu. With indifferent success, it seemed, though he managed to convince his unhappy students that something odd was afoot and that they should hold watch.
They soon quit the tomb, Sabra withdrew to the cypress, and all save the professor settled in to wait. He busied himself by working some sort of putty around the door, explaining that the crumbled-up Host he’d mixed into the stuff would prevent the Un-Dead from entering through the cracks. This positively scandalized Sabra. There were other, more respectful methods of sealing a place. Holy Water or a blessing would have done just as well. Perhaps he was trying to make a dramatic point with his students.