There was a game Greta and her father had played a long time ago in which you had to hold a complete conversation using only quotations from books or plays, and the first person who couldn’t come up with a line—any line—to carry on the discussion conceded defeat. Greta, who had been a voracious reader from an early age, had enjoyed it much more than Scrabble. Neither she nor Wilfert had used Bible quotes to any great extent, lacking the necessary stock of memorized phrases, but as Greta looked down at her patient she thought she could recognize a highly experienced player of the game.
“You didn’t commit iniquity,” she told him, not ungently. “You might have meant to kill me, but you didn’t do it. That’s a mortal sin you did not commit. Trespass, well, you did break into my car, but I suppose that’s a bit beside the point. We found you in the church, my friend and I, and brought you here to treat your wounds.”
That seemed to puzzle him, and he looked up at her uncertainly.
“I suppose I’m wicked to some extent,” Greta said. “Most people are. But on the whole I rather think it’s your brethren who are workers of iniquity, if they’re the ones who have been murdering people. ‘Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out. The element of water moistens the earth,’” she added, completely unable to stop herself, “‘but blood flies upward and bedews the heavens.’”
He blinked.
“Book of Webster, Duchess of Malfi.”
He did a bit more blinking, and Greta had to smile. “I mean it,” she said. “If they threw you out, you’re the better for it. They were not … doing God’s work.”
He looked terribly confused. “The land is full of … adulterers,” he said after a moment, as if searching for imperfectly memorized words. “Because of swearing the … the land mourneth … the pleasant places of the wilderness are dried up … and their course is evil, and their force is … not right?” His voice rose a little at the end, a question.
“Well, there are lots of adulterers around,” Greta said. “And lots of wicked people in general. People lie and cheat and steal and commit murder and have wars and refuse to give help to the people who need it. But that doesn’t mean you ought to go around killing them and reciting the King James for justification.”
“But …” His expression changed, as Greta watched. “But the enemies of the Lord shall perish, and the workers of iniquity be scattered.”
“I daresay the Lord will sort that out on his own time,” she said. “Here’s another one: ‘Hypocrisy is woven of a fine small thread, subtler than Vulcan’s engine.’ Don’t you think it seems a little … backward, perhaps … to run around committing mortal sins in order to cleanse the world of sin and evil?”
“We are commanded,” he said. “The Voice of God.”
She nodded. “What if it isn’t, though? What if it isn’t God at all, but something else?”
He screwed up his face—which had to hurt his burns, Greta knew—and shook his head firmly. “That’s blasphemy.”
At least they weren’t playing the Quotation Game anymore. “What if it’s something that’s pretending to be the Voice, and making you do its dirty work?”
“No!” he said, miserably, and again, softer: “No.”
Greta sat back, not willing to push him any further right now. “Never mind,” she said, more gently. “You’re safe here, like I said, and we’ll take care of you, even if they did cast you out of their ranks. Don’t worry about it now.”
“Excommunicated,” he mumbled, but with less distress.
“Okay, excommunicated. I know it matters to you, but it doesn’t change anything for us. We’ll help you no matter what.”
He looked up at her and despite the horrible blue-blank eyes, Greta thought she could see something like hope in his face, just for a moment, before his expression returned to one of pain and grief. He really couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, she thought.
When he spoke again his voice had changed. It was no longer the voice of someone playing a memorized part, but someone tired and hurt and frightened. “Eyes hurt,” he mumbled. “Everything hurts. Where are we?”
“Victoria Embankment,” she said. “In a house belonging to one of my good friends. I’m going to give you something for the pain.”
“Embankment. Chelsea,” he said. Greta blinked.
“Same riverbank, yes.”
“Chelsea,” he said again. “Something about … Chelsea. Can’t remember …”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Relax. It’ll come back to you.” She hoped, anyway. She hoped some things that were a bit more useful came back to him. There was another of those faint sighs, and the hand that was least damaged rose and drifted across the bed in her direction. She stayed where she was, letting his fever-hot fingers find and touch hers, letting him grip her hand.
“Cold hands,” he said. “I’m on fire. Don’t … don’t make me go back, I can’t, I can’t bear that hum …”
“They won’t find you. You’re safe here,” she said, wondering again if it was true. If any of them were actually safe here, if this man’s colleagues—or the thing that was running them—were aware of his location.
“Who was …” His breathing was getting faster. “Man. White face, black hair. Gave me water.”
“Easy,” Greta said, trying to put as much calm in her voice as she could. “It’s all right. That’s just Ruthven. It’s his house.”
“Demon?”
“No, just a vampire.”
This seemed to confuse him. “Unclean. Spirit of the dead, a devil.”
“Well, it depends on your point of view,” she was saying, but he squeezed her hand weakly and she shut up.
“In … danger.”
“What, from him? I assure you, you’ve got the wrong end of the stake there—”
“No,” and now he sounded slightly irritated and much more with it. “He’s in danger. You. All … all of you. They want you dead.”
Greta stared down at him, a mangled collection of scars in the shape of a man. Again the unwelcome thought surfaced: What else might be looking back at her from behind that face?
They want you dead.
“We need your help,” she said, aware of how small her voice was. “Please. Tell me what you know.”
“Can’t remember,” he said, closing his eyes tight. “Can’t … Blue light and that humming and it, the—the Lord, the Voice of the Lord spoke unto him …”
“Unto who?”
“Brother. Brother … Johann?” The effort of trying to remember was telling on him. Greta bit down on her questions.
“All right. Don’t worry about it now,” she said. “It will come back. Just rest, okay? You’re safe here. We’ll protect you.”
He seemed about to protest, but just subsided, breathing hard. Greta got up and went around the bed to inject the dose of pain medication into his IV. Soon enough his face relaxed as the stuff took hold.