The Nosferatu Scroll

72

The moment the light went out, Marietta gave a shriek of terror. She knew what the sudden darkness meant. For them, there was no more time. The ceremony was about to start, and within minutes she and Angela would be dying in agony.

She screamed again as the first hooded figure appeared at the base of the stone staircase, his features fitfully illuminated by the flickering light of his candle.

In almost complete silence, the remainder of the group appeared one by one at the bottom of the staircase and stepped into the cellar, the only noise the faint slapping of their leather sandals against the stone floor. As before, they moved slowly around the stone table, taking up their prearranged positions in what looked like a ghastly parody of a religious service.

Angela watched with mounting horror as the figures, all dressed in identical black robes, strode silently and menacingly across the cellar. Marietta had explained what had happened the night Benedetta had died, and it was obvious that the ritual tonight was going to be almost identical.

For a few moments, the men stood in unmoving silence around the stone table, apparently waiting for something. A couple of them turned slightly and looked back towards the entrance to the staircase. Then everyone in the cellar clearly heard the sound of another set of footsteps descending towards them, and seconds later a twelfth hooded man stepped into the room. There was only one space in the circle of figures, and the man stepped confidently forward and took his place within it.

The leader nodded his satisfaction. The circle was complete and, once the Master made his appearance, the ceremony could begin.

Bronson stood near the foot of the stone table, his head bowed respectfully, trying his best to emulate the stance of the other men in the cellar. Like them, he held the candle in his left hand but, unlike the others, his right hand was hovering close to the vertical seam that joined the two halves of his robe together at the front.

The garment had only one small pocket, nowhere near big enough to conceal the Browning pistol, and he’d had to leave it tucked into the belt holster. With the heavy robe over the top, the weapon was fairly inaccessible, and he knew that if – or rather when – he had to draw it, he’d have to be quick and get the robe open as fast as possible.

But his prospects were bleak. He knew that when he pulled the weapon, he might be able to shoot down two or three of the men, but in this confined space he would soon be overpowered. He would have to wait, and choose his moment carefully.

He was aware that there were other people in the cellar, besides the dozen men near him. He could hear faint movements, and the sound of sobbing, coming from somewhere in the darkness over to his left. Convinced it was Angela, he resisted the temptation to rush to her aid.

The scene Bronson was witnessing was bizarre in the extreme. Above ground, and away from the isolated island, life in the twenty-first century continued unabated, but what he saw in front of him was mediaeval both in its appearance and, he was sure, in its objective. In that cellar, at that time, the modern world had simply ceased to exist, and the ritual about to take place was designed to produce a result that wasn’t even mediaeval in scope. It was far older, and far more evil, than that.

Suddenly he detected a change in the atmosphere. A sense of anticipation, of barely controlled excitement, filled the air.

And then he heard something: a soft, sibilant sound, coming from the stone staircase behind him. The noise could only be caused by the hem of one of the robes rubbing on the stone steps as someone else descended into the cellar. All the other hooded men who were now surrounding the stone table were wearing sandals, and he’d clearly heard their footsteps as they crossed the floor of the ruined church. Perhaps the new arrival was barefoot?

He detected a new and unpleasant odour, and then the thirteenth man entered the cellar. He moved silently to the opposite side of the stone table, his hands and face invisible in the folds of his black robe, and all the other men, including Bronson, bowed low in supplication.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, then the new arrival – the person Bronson now assumed was their leader – gestured to the man on his left, who bowed in acknowledgement and produced a small box which he raised above his head while the other men looked on with reverence. Bronson tried to keep his face in shadow as much as he could, but he knew he had to act just like one of the other acolytes in order to remain safely anonymous. So he moved the candle slightly to one side, so that its light no longer fell directly on his face, and looked up.

The man lowered the box, opened it and removed a skull, the bone dark brown and cracked with age, the lower jaw and parts of the cranium missing. There was a soft collective intake of breath at the sight of the relic.

‘Behold the skull of Nicodema Diluca himself,’ the man said, ‘the legitimate descendant of the Princess Eleonora Amalia, the relic for which we have searched for so long.’

What happened next made no sense to Bronson. He watched in fascination as the man used a pair of modern pliers to snap off a section of the cranium, and then proceeded to grind it up using a pestle and mortar, his movements slow and deliberate, almost ceremonial.

The operation took several minutes, because the man clearly wanted to reduce the fragment of bone to dust, but eventually he appeared to be satisfied and placed the pestle to one side. He lifted the mortar above his head, and again this action seemed to inspire a kind of rapture in the group around the table, the dozen men raising their heads to stare reverently at the stone container.

Finally, the man lowered the mortar and walked slowly around the table to show the contents to the leader, then he returned to his place in the circle and put the mortar to one side, on another, very much smaller, stone table behind him.

For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then the leader made another gesture, this time to the man on his right, who nodded and pointed towards the two men who were standing on Bronson’s left. They both bowed slightly, then stepped away from the stone table and walked slowly away into the darkness that shrouded the other part of the underground room.

As they did so, a scream ripped through the oppressive silence, and Bronson could sense an almost palpable ripple of excitement coursing through the men around him. Working by feel with his right hand, through the thick material of the robe, he checked the Browning, trying to make sure that the hammer was cocked and the weapon ready to fire.

Then he heard another voice from the darkness, laced with fury and yelling in English, which he recognized immediately. Angela was somewhere in the room, together with at least one other young woman.

The leader of the group turned his head slightly to look towards the sound of her voice, as did several other men around the table. Bronson stared in that direction as well, trying to build up a picture of the layout of the room, so that when he moved, he wouldn’t slam into a wall or trip over anything. As far as he could tell, in the fitful illumination provided by the candles, it had a low ceiling and no doors apart from the one leading to the spiral staircase. Along one side of the room were short dividing walls which formed small, door-less, internal rooms. Possibly they’d once been storerooms but now, even in poor candlelight, he could see that they were being used as cells.

He could just about see Angela, who was still shouting her defiance at the men. Bronson tensed, ready for action. And then he heard a sudden sharp crack and a brief flare of light from the darkness, and she fell silent. He didn’t know for sure, but it looked as if one of the men had used a taser on her. He would pay for that, Bronson vowed, his hands clenched, blood pounding in his temples.

The leader of the group held up his hand, and immediately the attention of all the men around the table snapped back to him. He whispered something to the man on his right, who’d been acting as his assistant during the first part of the ceremony. This man nodded and then he, too, lifted his hand.

‘Our master has made a decision,’ the man said, his Italian smooth and educated. ‘We have two subjects available to us tonight. As you know, one of these shares the holy bloodline of Nicodema Diluca, and she will enjoy the rapture of giving her lifeblood freely while two or three of our number offer their unworthy seed to her sacred womb.’

For a moment, Bronson didn’t understand what the man meant. Then it dawned on him: despite the almost literary expression he had used, what he was actually talking about was multiple rape. Bronson felt his whole body tense with loathing and disgust.

‘Our second subject,’ he continued, ‘has no direct connection with us, but has accidentally proved to be of enormous value to our quest. She was responsible for removing the diary of Carmelita Paganini from its resting place in her tomb. She has provided a translation of a part of that book, and this information in turn led us to the island of Poveglia, where we recovered the Source Document, the “Noble Vampyr” treatise written by our ancient and revered master, Amadeus. This holy text has confirmed the validity of our quest and the accuracy of our rituals, except in one important respect.’

There was a sudden silence in the chamber, and Bronson could tell that every man there was totally attentive, waiting for the explanation.

‘What we did not know until now was that, for the ritual to be successful, we needed to combine the blood of the descendant of Nicodema Diluca with that of a woman without connection to any of the sacred families. Our leader has decided that this Englishwoman, whose usefulness to us is now at an end and whose spirit must be released to the void for our own security, will fill that role. So this evening we will celebrate the passing of both spirits.’

The chill Bronson felt as he heard those words and understood what the man meant had nothing to do with the cool and clammy air of the cellar. Angela, it was clear, was also destined for multiple rape, and was then to be murdered. As if that wasn’t horrific enough, the man’s next statement showed the hideous depths of the cult’s brutality.

‘Afterwards, in accordance with the tenets of our quest and our sacred knowledge, we will then enjoy her directly, consuming her blood and her still-warm and ripe flesh in the manner prescribed by our sacred guide and master in spirit, the venerable and inspiring Amadeus.’

Several of the men appeared to nod, though the voluminous hoods that covered their heads and faces largely concealed any movement, and Bronson heard a faint murmur of approval.

‘Now let us begin. Bring forward the first subject.’

There was a howl of outrage and anguish, and then the two men walked back towards the circle and the stone altar, each gripping the arm of a dark-haired girl in her early twenties who was struggling violently, trying desperately to get away. They stopped a short distance away from the stone table and held her as still as possible.

Two other men then left their places in the circle and stepped over to her, one in front and the other behind her.

His features invisible beneath the hood covering his head, Bronson glanced towards the girl, stark terror written all over her face, and then at the silent figures of the men surrounding the stone table. He knew he would have to make his move soon – he would not permit the men around him to do harm to this girl or to Angela. Or he would die trying.