She didn’t spend a very great deal of time in what might be termed the real world, her days given over to a job that did not involve ordinary humans or their opinions or activities, and it was a little strange to realize that in fact the situation was almost as bad for the regular inhabitants of London, who did not know the things she knew.
“There isn’t … widespread panic,” Varney said, apparently in an attempt to reassure. “But people are certainly frightened. The smell is unmistakable.”
“The smell,” she repeated.
“Humans in fear give off a very particular scent,” Ruthven said over his shoulder, stacking tins in a cupboard. “It’s quite distinctive. Not exactly unpleasant, but sharp.”
Greta didn’t much like the thought of that, but let it go. “Nothing else has happened yet, though?”
“Not that I could ascertain,” said Varney. “There were no new murders in the papers I saw, and I only overheard mentions of the eleven victims, no further than that.”
“I wish I could believe there won’t be any more,” she said, and couldn’t help a shiver, frustrated all over again at the fact that she had no idea what to do.
They’d only just finished putting things away when Cranswell called down from the landing, for once not sounding particularly flippant. “Guys? You, uh, might wanna come up here. He’s awake and talking.”
The burned man was muttering and trying to sit up when Greta got there. She rearranged the pillows with brisk efficiency, propping him up. “Hey, easy, easy now. Relax. What is it? Have you remembered anything?”
She was aware of the others silently entering the room behind her, but her attention was focused on her patient. He seemed less vague and confused than he had the last time she had spoken with him, but not what she’d call totally lucid. At least he wasn’t talking in scripture, which she thought was probably a good sign.
“Trying,” he said. “I have … flashes. Bits. It’s not enough …”
“You want to tell us about it?” Cranswell asked, sounding legitimately surprised.
His unpleasant eyes closed, reopened, and he nodded slightly. “No … reason not to, now. Already … already damned. Cursed of God.”
Fastitocalon moved slightly, as if about to speak, but apparently decided against it. “Well, setting that aside for now,” Greta said, “I think we can help you remember the parts that are missing. Will you let one of us … hypnotize you?” That was as close as any other description for what she hoped Varney could do.
He reached for her hand, and again she could feel that sick heat thrumming in him, feel it in her skin the way she felt the glow of his blue eyes, and she remembered Fastitocalon saying, He’s not human. Not entirely human, anymore.
“Please,” he said, and that sounded very genuinely human. She could also still recall with vivid clarity that he’d tried to kill her—and glancing over her shoulder at Varney she was a little surprised by the expression on the vampyre’s face. There was anger there, yes, certainly, but there was also great weariness, and a sort of softening of the hard lines around his mouth that one might possibly call sympathy. It was not an expression she had ever pictured on those features.
“Sir Francis,” she said, glad her voice sounded normal; she gently freed her hand, stepping away from the bedside. “If you would?”
Varney even moved as if that weariness were almost too profound to bear; it hurt her looking at him. She had seen people whose remaining days were measured in single digits move like that, deliberate and slow and with a terrible, painful care.
He sat down beside the bed, and the monk’s blue eyes tracked down to meet his, and widened; the glow intensified for a moment. Greta read fear in the scarred face. Fear and fascination.
“Look at me,” Varney said, and his voice was softer and more beautiful than any of them had ever heard it—a voice all of them instinctively wanted to obey. “Look closely at me, and relax. I will help you remember.”
Watching, Greta shivered. Varney’s pupils began to expand and contract, expand and contract, the reflective irises appearing to grow and shrink in a slow, gentle rhythm. Even from the side, not caught by anywhere near the full force of his gaze, she could feel the room begin to drift away from her into a vague shimmery space like a roomful of mirrors, reflections repeating themselves away into infinity. This wasn’t at all like Ruthven’s thrall had ever been. It was much stronger, much more powerful, and as she floated in the center of a world of gently shining images of herself, nothing seemed to matter in the least. Nothing … at … all.
Fastitocalon’s hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped, finding herself abruptly back in the room. Gravity seemed to have been turned back on. He had to steady her for a moment as her balance tottered.
Varney was still talking in that low, incredibly sweet voice, repeating himself. “You are quite safe,” he said. “No harm will come to you. Watch my eyes, and know that you are safe.”
If she kept her own eyes shut and just listened, or made a conscious effort to look the other way, Greta found she could pay attention without actually coming under his thrall herself. The faint, ragged voice of the monk, when it came, was a sharp contrast from Varney’s beautifully modulated tones. “Safe,” he said, and sighed, sounding very young.
“Where are you?” Varney asked.
“Embankment … house.”
“Who are you?”
“Excommunicate. Anathema.”
“What is your name?”
Slowly he turned his head from side to side on the pillows. Either he had no name, or he could not remember it, or he was not allowed to do so. Varney took a long breath before returning to his questions.
“Where have you come from?”
“Under … city. Underneath. Tunnels underneath, chambers.”
“Tell us about the place under the city,” said Varney, with no emphasis whatsoever. “What is down there?”
“Light of God.”
“What is the light of God? Tell us about it. Tell us everything you know about it.”
She could feel it when Varney stepped up the power somewhat, like turning up a rheostat. The faint, vague murmurs in response to his questions strengthened into something more like ordinary speech. “In the room marked Plant. It is … inside a metal cabinet with a dial on the door. It is made of glass and it hums, all the time, never changing, even when it speaks in the voice of God.” Abruptly he started to hum, a nasty whining sound, and beside her Ruthven sucked in his breath sharply. She was glad when the quiet catalog of information resumed.
“Inside the glass there is a spark, too bright to see clearly. It never stops moving. And it glows. It glows blue, and takes away our sight, our sins, our foulness. It burns away all that is … is worldly.”
“Who are ‘we’?” Varney asked.
“Brothers. Members of … holy Order, the Sword of Holiness, Gladius Sancti. Only those who have been purified by the light … may bear the blade.”
There was the faintest catch in Varney’s voice. “Tell us about the blades.”
“The crossblade. Anointed with chrism. There are ten … nine, now.”