He believed me. At least, I thought he believed me. He answered thoughtfully:
‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried to find out.’
‘Then that’s all for the time being. If you do find out, please let me know, if you would be so kind.’
Without bothering to wait for his mocking chuckle, I opened my hand and cut off the contact. The figurine was gleaming with sweat, which made it seem almost alive.
That was it: time to go back to the hotel. To that cosy de luxe apartment for Light Ones, that kingdom of white and pink and beige, those lace curtains and silk sheets.
My phone jangled.
‘Hello?’ As I pressed the phone to my ear, I caught the waiter’s eye and ran one finger across my open palm, as if I was writing out a bill. The waiter gave a laboured smile, glanced at the solitary cup standing in front of me and scribbled ‘£2’ on a piece of paper.
‘Anthony, my friend,’ Lermont said in English. That ‘Anthony’ told me immediately that there was someone there who was not supposed to know that I was Russian. ‘How was my employee feeling when you left the Dungeons?’
‘Just fine.’
‘He’s been killed, Anthony. Do you think you could come over?’
I hissed something unprintable and scooped the small change out of my pocket. Right – the castle was there, the ravine and the bridge were there …
‘If I can catch a taxi straight away, I’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘Make it quick,’ Lermont told me.
I found a free taxi immediately – I didn’t need to resort to magic in order to get someone out of a cab that was already occupied. Edinburgh was remarkably good for taxis in general. I got in, took out a cigarette and lit it. The driver looked at me rather disapprovingly, but didn’t say anything. I wound the window all the way down. Of course, his next passengers would be non-smokers…
But I felt like smoking.
Idiot. What an idiot I was! I’d felt alarmed for Egor, concerned for Valeria … But I hadn’t bothered to use my head for what it was really meant for. My visit to the Dungeons had been observed. And now poor Jean, the nervous French student, would never go back home to Nantes…
It was my fault.
But what about Lermont – closing the place down and only leaving one man on duty to watch it? Not an Other, not a Battle Magician who could fight vampires on equal terms, but a frightened kid in make-up and fancy dress.
I imagined the young red-headed guy with his face pale from loss of blood instead of make-up, lying there surrounded by those appalling instruments of torture. ‘It’s a bit creepy here on your own.’ And I started swearing wildly under my breath.
‘I’m a fool, a fool…’
Lermont was waiting for me at the entrance to the Dungeons. He looked dark-faced and angry, the way only a Light One can be angry.
‘Let’s go,’ he said and tramped off without even looking round. We walked quickly through a string of empty rooms and came out at the River of Blood. This place again?
But Foma got into the boat without saying a word. I followed him in. He waved his hand, the mechanism creaked, and the boat moved forward.
‘Haven’t you called the police yet?’ I asked.
‘Not yet. Only our own people – and observers from the Dark Ones.’
‘Where are they?
‘I asked them to wait a few rooms away. I said I wanted to bring in an independent expert to examine the body. An ordinary human being. No point in anyone knowing about you at this stage …’
The boat crept across the small dark space and docked at the other mooring.
‘There,’ Foma said morosely.
I clambered out of the boat and followed Foma into the next room, which contained an exhibition of methods of execution. There was a dummy hanging in a noose from the ceiling, and over there on the guillotine – it wasn’t a dummy on the guillotine. The killer had demonstrated his sense of humour once again.
To cut a man’s head off with the sham blade of the fake guillotine must have taken superhuman strength – the kind of strength that a vampire has, for instance.
The white plastic bucket under the guillotine was half full with blood. The severed head was lying beside it. I squatted and picked the head up cautiously. I felt like screaming at the helpless awareness of my own stupidity.
‘I wish I knew what bastard did this,’ said Foma. ‘That man worked for me for seventeen years.’
‘The bastard was a young red-headed guy,’ I said. ‘He pretended to be French and spoke with a slight accent. He looked twenty years old. And he had a liking for theatrical effects. Very quick-witted, a remarkable actor.’
Carefully laying the severed head back down on the floor, I looked at Lermont’s dumbfounded face and explained.
‘He made a total fool of me. I was talking to the killer only two steps away from the body. And I didn’t suspect a thing. Not a thing!’
The head of the murdered guard – black-haired, but with a sprinkling of grey quite appropriate for a man over fifty – stared up blindly at me from the floor.
‘You can only mask your true nature from someone who’s very weak,’ said Lermont, drilling into me with his mistrustful eyes. ‘That’s axiomatic. Try to define my aura.’
A strange conversation over a dead man whose head has been severed. A strange place, a strange crime, strange conversations…
Lermont’s aura – a blaze of bright yellow-green discharges, a prickly hedgehog of Power – dimmed. The pointed discharges were drawn in and faded. A few seconds later Lermont was surrounded by the smooth multilayered aura typical of a human being.
A ragged open aura is a sure sign of an Other. It can have sharp needles and prickles, swirling vortices, gaping holes. All these are indications of an open-energy pattern and the ability to absorb energy, not just give it out like human beings. To absorb, process and perform miracles.
A human aura is smooth, multilayered, integrated. People only give out Power, they don’t absorb it. And the smooth membrane of their aura is an attempt to protect themselves, to halt the slow, implacable draining away of life.
Yes, now Lermont looked like a human being.
Almost like a human being …
I looked a bit more carefully and saw the pale needles of his aura. Foma had disguised himself very well, but I had broken through his defence
‘I see it,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t look at that young guy so carefully. He could have masked himself.’
‘In that case, your red-headed companion is a Higher Vampire. Or a Higher Magician pretending to be a vampire.’ Foma nodded in satisfaction. ‘And he was not able to put on a mask while disguising his aura at the same time. This is good, Anton, this is already good. We know his physical appearance: young, red-haired – there aren’t all that many Higher Others in the world.’
‘He must have got the cloak from somewhere here,’ I said. ‘And the false fangs. He heard me coming and instead of running away he came out calmly to meet me – and invented a cover story on the spot.’
‘I think I can guess why he needed the cloak,’ Foma said gloomily, glancing at the blood-spattered floor. ‘He must have got blood on himself… Send me his image, Anton.’
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the Frenchman as clearly as possible. Then I sent the mental picture to Lermont.
‘Aha,’ said the Scot. ‘Excellent. I’ll check out all the files.’