Rhosh had been speaking to the Voice for weeks. But the Voice had been silent now for five nights. Could it be the Voice could not attend to two tasks at one time, that the Voice, if it were to possess some wretched revenant and drive it to burn, could not be speaking politely to Rhosh at the same time or even on the same evening?
Five nights ago the Voice had said, “You of all understand me. You of all understand power, the desire for power, what is at the heart of the desire for power.”
“Which is what?” Rhosh had asked the Voice.
“Simple,” the Voice had replied. “Those who desire power want to be immune to the power of others.”
Then five nights of silence. Mayhem throughout the world. Benji Mahmoud broadcasting all night long from the infamous Trinity Gate house in New York, with recordings of the show looping during his daylight hours so that those in other parts of the globe could hear them.
“Maybe it’s time I discovered what’s going on here for myself,” Rhosh said. “Now listen to me. I want you to go belowstairs and stay there. If some benighted emissary of the thing should crash-land on our wintry little paradise, you’ll be safe from it down there. Stay there till I return. This is the same precaution being taken by others the world over. Belowground you are safe. And if this thing talks to you, this Voice, well, try to learn more about it.”
He opened the heavy iron-braced oak doors to the bedroom. He had to change his clothes for the journey, another terrific annoyance.
But Benedict came after him.
The fire was low in the bedchamber and glowing beautifully. Heavy red velvet draperies covered the open windows, and the stone floors here were covered with old oak boards and layered with silk and wool Persian carpets.
Rhosh stepped out of his robe and flung it to the side, but then Benedict rushed into his arms and held him fast. He buried his face in Rhosh’s wool shirt and Rhosh looked to the ceiling thinking of all this blood smearing onto his own clothes.
But what did it matter?
He embraced Benedict tightly and moved him towards the bed.
It was an old coffered bed from the court of the last Henry. A splendid thing with rich knobby posts, and they loved lying together in it.
He stripped off Benedict’s jacket, and then his shirt and his sweater, and brought him down on the dark embroidered covers. He lay beside him, fingers tightening on the pink nipples on Benedict’s chest, his lips grazing Benedict’s throat, and then he pressed Benedict’s head against his own throat and said, “Drink” under his breath.
At once those razor-sharp teeth broke through and he felt the mighty hungry pull on his heart as the blood flowed out of him towards the heart beating against him. A gusher of images opened. He saw the burning house in London, saw that hideous wraithlike thing, saw what Benedict must have seen but never registered, that thing falling to its knees, the rafters coming down on it, an arm cracked loose and flung away in the fire, black fingers curling. He heard the skull pop.
The images dissolved in the pleasure that he was feeling, the deep dark throbbing pleasure he reveled in as the blood was drawn out of him with greater and greater speed. It was as if a hand had ahold of his heart and was squeezing his heart and the pleasure washed out in waves from his heart, passing through all his limbs.
Finally he turned and pulled Benedict off and sank his teeth into his neck. Benedict cried out. Rhosh ground him against the velvet cover, drawing the blood with all his strength, deliberately sending spasm after spasm through Benedict. He caught the images again. He caught the sight of London below as Benedict had taken to the skies. He caught the roar and the scent of the wind. The blood was so thick, so pungent! The fact was every single blood drinker on this Earth had a distinct and unique flavor of blood. And Benedict’s was luscious. It took all his determination to let go, to run his tongue over his lips and lie back on the pillow and stare up at the worm-eaten oak ceiling of the bed.
The crackling of the fire seemed hugely loud in the empty chamber. How red was the chamber, from the fire, from the dark red draperies. Such lurid and beautiful and soothing light. My world.
“You go down now to the cellar, as I told you,” Rhosh said. He rose up on his elbow and kissed Benedict roughly. “You hear me? You listening to me?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” Benedict moaned. He was obviously weak all over from the pleasure of it, but Rhoshamandes had taken only what he’d given, passing the zinging red ribbon of his own blood through the younger one’s veins before whipping it back into himself.
He climbed off the bed and, before the open armoire, pulled on a heavy cashmere sweater and woolen pants, then wool socks and boots. He chose his long Russian coat for this journey, the black velvet military coat of czarist days with the black fox collar. He pulled a watch cap down over his hair. And then took from the bottom drawer of the armoire all the papers and currency he might need, and put these securely into his inside pockets. Where were his gloves? He put them on, loving the way his long fingers looked in the sleek black kid leather.
“But where are you going?” asked Benedict. He sat up, mussed, rosy cheeked, and pretty. “Tell me.”
“Stop being so anxious,” said Rhoshamandes. “I’m going west into the night. I’m going to find the twins and get to the bottom of this. I know this Voice has to be coming from one of them.”
“But Mekare’s mindless and Maharet would never do such things. Everybody knows that. Even Benji says that.”
“Yes, Benji, Benji, the great prophet of the blood drinkers.”
“But it’s true.”
“Downstairs, Benedict, before I drag you there myself. I have to be off now.”
It was a fine retreat, that cellar suite of rooms, hardly a dungeon what with its thick animal skins and abundant oil lamps, and of course the oak fire laid ready to be lighted. The television and computers down there were comparable to those up here, and a slender air shaft actually brought a steady bit of fresh ocean breeze in from a tiny opening in the rocky cliff.
As Benedict went out, Rhosh went to the eastern wall, lifted the heavy stag-hunt French tapestry that covered it, and pushed back the door to his secret office, one of those doors weighted so that no mortal alone could move it.
Familiar smell of beeswax, parchment, old leather, and ink. Hmmm. He always stopped a moment to savor it.
With the power of his mind, he quickly ignited a bank of candles on iron candelabra spikes.
The rock-cut chamber was lined with books to the ceiling, and on one wall hung a huge map of the world painted by Rhosh himself on canvas to feature the cities that he most loved in correct relationship to one another.