"Please, can we forego the formal introductions, Monsieur Renan," Grainger urged shaking the commissaire’s hand. "Sondra and I would like to clear this matter up as quickly as possible."
Renan took his hand and answered, "I’m afraid quickly may not be entirely feasible, Monsieur."
"Just, Grainger, please." At the policeman’s nod of acquiescence the Watcher continued, "Is there some difficulty of which we have not been appraised?"
A rueful laugh greeted his enquiry and Renan said, "I will show you."
**
"This is going to be a problem."
The three of them stood in the rehearsal room gazing into the cave-like entrance to the secret passageways. Renan shrugged. "As far as we can tell they stretch for miles, filling the spaces between the walls and floors of the whole building. I have even heard rumours that they extend below into a natural cave system."
"And we are supposed to find two vampires? In there?" Sondra peered round the corner; her warrior’s eye assessing the rough floor and the way the darkness swallowed the walls within yards.
"It’s not entirely hopeless. We have supplies."
A box in the corner offered up rope, lanterns and several containers of oil, along with food and bottles of fresh water. "I’m sure all this won’t be necessary," Renan assured them as they packed haversacks, distributing the weight evenly, leaving most of the weapons with the Slayer and her Watcher. "But I don’t see the point in us having to turn back just because we get thirsty."
Grainger ran a calculating eye over the supplies. "Personally I’m more concerned with getting lost if the passages are as extensive as you claim."
"Hmm. One of the advantages to doing a job in a theatre." Renan held up a metal tin and grinned. "Whitewash. They use it to paint over old scenery but it should do to mark our way."
***
As the sun fell below the horizon the Order swarmed up from the sewers, surrounding the Watcher’s house with a ring of indefatigable violence. Silently they scaled walls, removed tiles from the roof and slipped inside. Like shadows they hung from gables and balconies, feet braced to release when the signal was given.
And each, on the way, filed past Darla to receive their personal invitation from the bloodied lips of the Watcher she had snatched earlier in the day, the one who would never again step into a cab without checking it was empty.
***
"Mrs. Langtry," Pryce nodded to the young woman seated at the dining table. "I’m surprised to see you up and about." Disgusted would have been a more accurate description. Personally the senior Watcher had refrained from even speaking to his wife post partum until she’d been churched.
Lily had the good graces to blush and lower her eyes at the implied criticism, her hands fumbling for her napkin and bringing it pointlessly to her mouth. Beside her Midshipman Bartleby patted her arm and she returned his small smile. Pryce harrumphed disapprovingly and tore his eyes away, heading towards his seat at the head of the table. The sooner that woman was out of their house the happier he would be.
Only one other seat was empty, towards the bottom of the table and, after he’d sat down, Pryce’s gaze flicked from face to face in an effort to identify the culprit.
"Young Beecham not joining us this evening?" he asked, white beetle brows meeting in passing concern.
"No, sir." Bartleby answered, abandoning his charge in favour of answering the Watcher. "Mrs. Langtry had need of some legal advice and Beecham kindly volunteered to make the initial approaches for her. It seems he has had some dealings with lawyers in Paris before."
Pryce harrumphed again, showing his displeasure. Beecham should know better than to remain out so close to sunset and he determined to have words with the young man when he returned.
The staff served dinner the moment the senior Watcher was seated and conversation dried up around him as everyone tucked in to fish soup, followed by mutton cutlets in a white sauce with asparagus tips and finished with exquisite individual raspberry soufflés. A repast fit for the Queen, Pryce mused, congratulating himself once more on his decision to bring over English cooks. Decent food was so difficult to come by when one was abroad.
He sat back; hands linked over his sated stomach and cast a critical gaze over the assembly once more. Only seven Watchers held sufficient rank to eat at this table, the specialists in demonology and ancient texts that every national headquarters boasted. The others, more a well-trained private army than true Watchers, kept to their own kind below stairs, and mixed freely with the servants. In all they numbered twenty-five and were a force to be reckoned with. It would take a concerted attack by a large number of demons to overcome this household; always presupposing they could gain entrance to the building, and that thought inevitably made him smile.
The alarm echoed through the house seconds before the door disintegrated and numerous battling figures barrelled through into the room. Pryce had just enough time to register "Vampires!" before something landed on the table, sliding towards him gathering china and silverware as it came.
Instinctively, all the diners leapt to their feet, chairs toppling as they escaped tureens and sauceboats spattering their contents in every direction. Pryce was no exception and his carver’s seat collided heavily with the carpet.
However, unlike the others he went no further. He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. Even as vampires flooded into the room and the humans around him defended themselves with any weapon that came to hand. Even while bodies dropped like sides of beef and dust filled the air. Even when blood sprayed over his bottle green silk vest and the death cries of his friends and colleagues vanished under the taunting jeers of murderous demons.
Throughout all Pryce remained riveted, standing at the head of the dining table. Hands clutching the gore splattered cloth, his focus no larger than the plate in front of him. The plate from which he had eaten his carefully prepared dinner. The plate he had mopped clean with gluttonous enthusiasm. The plate from where Beecham’s head now stared up at him through fish-dead eyes.
"Yield!" Luke bellowed from the doorway, casting aside the remains of the young Watcher’s body. Around him vampires went on the defensive, disarming where possible and only killing when they were left with no other option. The humans were putting up a fierce fight, particularly the reinforcements who were suddenly pouring into the room from the rest of the house making the outcome less certain by the moment. Darla hung back, using the larger vampire’s bulk to shield her from the violence in order to identify the leader, the Watcher’s Achilles heel. He wasn’t difficult to pin point. Older, greying hair, and standing stock-still at the head of the table, kept upright by force of will alone.
Pulling a small ivory inlaid Smith and Wesson from her bodice, Darla slipped past Luke and, dodging amongst the combatants, reached her quarry in moments.
"Tell them to surrender or I will put a bullet in your brain," she hissed into his ear. The Watcher collapsed as though someone had cut his strings and Darla grabbed him round the waist keeping the muzzle of the gun pressed tightly to his temple.
Her respect for him increased tenfold when he drew in a juddering breath, pulled himself upright in her arms and answered strongly, "Never. I would rather die than betray the cause."
"Would you rather die and rise again?" Darla asked, her voice knowing. Around them the battle swirled and eddied, neither party gaining the upper hand.
He gulped and she felt the shudder of disgust run through him, but he held his resolve. "My life has no value above the cause, demon. And if I fall, others will replace me and ensure my secrets die with me."
"Not if they are all dead." She paused, waiting for the implications of her statement to sink in. "My sire would make good use of your knowledge, Watcher. Consider that carefully before you make your decision."
He did and then said, "What possible reason would I have to trust you?"
"Honour amongst thieves?" Darla suggested and then added, "Or because you know what we have come for and if you give it to us, I, in turn, give you my word as an Aurelian that no more of your men will die."
The Watcher still hesitated, arguing, "The Slayer returns from patrol within minutes. Then we shall see where honour lies." The tide of the battle was turning against the humans and desperation etched his words.
Darla tightened her hold on the human’s waist with a jerk. "Do not lie, Watcher. Your little boy told us everything before he died. In fact I had to rip out his tongue to stop him talking. The Slayer is at the opera house fishing for red herrings and will not return for hours."
The assertion proved to be the final nail in the coffin. "Stand down!" the Watcher called, his voice cracking under the strain of his decision.
In a flurry of activity and few badly timed stakings and blows, the fighting ceased and the protagonists drew back into opposing lines awaiting the next set of orders. More alike than any of them would admit, the air was filled with murmurings of complaint from both sides and the jostling of discontented troops.
Darla released her captive and stepped back, keeping the gun trained on him. He glanced round, swallowed heavily at the implacable expression on her face and turned back. "The child is on the third floor."
Lily wailed; the desolate cry of a mother bereft and struggled to get free. Bartleby held her tightly, pinning her slight form to his chest until her struggles died along with hope for her baby. In a last desperate move, she fell to her knees and appealed directly to Darla, her hands raised in supplication. "Darla, sister, please. For the love of god…" Cold demonic eyes made the words freeze in her throat and she dropped sobbing to the floor.
Pryce ignored her. After all what was the life of one innocent when weighed against an entire chapter of trained Watchers? "Bartleby? Show them the way." The Midshipman’s head snapped round and for a moment Pryce thought the man might refuse. He didn’t, though his expression when he left the room with Luke in tow was set as only an officer’s could be.
***
It was absolutely typical, Spike reflected as he closed the door behind him and carried the baby downstairs. One decent shag was all he got before Angelus stepped up and took over, throwing him out with instructions to keep the damn brat quiet.
Clutching the fractious infant to his shoulder with one hand, he popped the basket of supplies on the kitchen table and dug out the bottle. Christine had said the milk had to be heated but, after the last attempt, Spike quickly decided he couldn’t be bothered and anyway it wasn’t something vampires did, warming milk for babies, so it would get it cold and be bloody grateful.
The doorbell rang about three minutes after sunset, approximately half an hour after the baby had finally settled to sleep. Spike dumped his soiled shirt back in the sink and slipped on his jacket, buttoning it up to his neck and grimacing at the residual stench of baby puke and goat’s milk.
"Be glad to see the back of you," he grumbled morosely as he stumped through to the hall. "Smelly stuff oozing from both ends. Don’t remember kids being so… Who the hell are you?"
More to the point, what? The creature on the other side of the door was, frankly, the ugliest thing Spike had ever seen. Its face, though superficially similar to a vampire’s, had an undefined, melted look about it. Sparse strands of long dark hair fell haphazardly over malformed features. Eyes sunk so deeply that the sockets seemed to glow yellow under a forehead full of twisted, lopsided, demonic ridges. Nose bestial, flat and ape-like. Cheeks and jaw hollowed out revealing the disturbing edges of bone where flesh would normally soften the harsh lines. Only the lips were perfect, incongruously so when compared to the surrounding ruin.
"Mistress Darla sent me to collect the child," the creature announced in slightly accented English, bowing low, his bony fingers scraping the step. "The code word is Crawfie."
Any lingering distrust vanished and Spike grinned. "Couldn’t have got here any earlier, mate? Still, better late than never." He stepped back, waving the visitor into the hallway. "Hang on there and I’ll go get it for you."
Without a backward glance Spike hurried to the kitchen, grabbed the basket of supplies and scooped the baby from the drawer that had served as an impromptu cradle. Then he handed everything over to the new baby-sitter, hustled him out of the house and shut the door, sliding down it to the floor with a relieved sigh. One baby down and only one left to go. With luck Darla would never find out that the one she sent away was a fake.
Twenty minutes later and Spike was still scrubbing his shirt when the doorbell rang again. Cursing roundly he tossed the brush into the water, yanked his jacket back on and went to answer the door for the second time muttering profanities all the way.
The fresh-faced woman on the doorstep glared at him as he swung it open. "And what sort of language is that, young man?" she asked.
"Err…" he answered intelligently.
"Really," she continued, sweeping past him into the house, a cumbersome looking carpetbag swinging from one hand and an umbrella from the other. "Didn’t your mother teach you any manners."
Spike remained holding the door, his fingers clenching the wood as he fought not to lose his temper, and stared at her through slitted eyes. "My mother is none of your business," he ground out. "And who the hell are you anyway?"
The woman smoothed back her hair, primly restrained into a bun and half hidden under a black picture hat that looked as though it may have been cut from an old topper. She smelled of cough drops and sugar but underneath there was a definite tang of something non-human.
"There is no call to be rude, good manners cost us nothing, which is more than can be said for cheese. Now come in and close the door." As she spoke, the woman put her bag on the hall table, opened it and started fishing about inside. "Are you perhaps William?" she asked briskly, her voice echoing as she disappeared further and further inside until only her toes were touching the floor.
"Darla mentioned an uncouth chap who answered to that name may meet me. Aha, here it is," she announced happily, straightening up and pulling a cradle, complete with blankets, out with her. Spike gazed in open-mouthed shock. There was no way in hell that could have fit in the bag. It was twice the size.
She waited for an answer and when nothing was forthcoming said, "Close your mouth, William. We are not a codfish."
Spike’s mouth snapped shut and then opened again so he could stutter, "What…Who…Why…" A sneaking suspicion was starting to occur to him but he couldn’t really bring himself to believe.
Clucking her tongue in disapproval the woman shook her head and, to Spike’s horror, confirmed everything. "The child, young man. I have come to collect the child."
"Well, well, what have we here?"
Two pairs of eyes swung round to discover Angelus watching from the stairs. The visitor’s gaze ran approvingly over Angelus’ impeccable countenance and she held out her hand. "And you, sir, must be Angelus. Delighted to meet you."
Angelus strolled across the hallway, shooting a smirk at Spike as he lifted the lady’s hand to his lips. "Enchanté, madam. How can I be of service?"
A warm smile greeted his words and the woman said, "As I was trying to explain to your minion here," Spike opened his mouth to complain that he wasn’t a minion. The expression on Angelus’ face encouraged him to close it rapidly, the words unspoken. "Darla told me there was an infant to be collected."
"There is indeed," Angelus agreed. "Fetch the child, William. Let us not keep the nanny waiting."
"Um…" Spike vacillated, rocking back and forth on his heels.
Angelus’ eyebrow rose. "Problem?"
"Possibly, yes."
The brow crept incrementally higher and Spike squirmed, refusing to meet his mentor’s eye. "Answer me, boy." There was more than a hint of annoyance in Angelus’ voice now and Spike clenched his fists at his sides.
"It’s like this," he began and then the words petered out. He didn’t know how to explain. This was a blunder to beat all blunders. Everything he’d done wrong up to this point, every slip, every error, was nothing in the face of this one.
"William."
There was no mistaking the threat implicit in the careful pronunciation of his name, so Spike closed his eyes, took a deep breath and confessed. "I already passed the kid over. Some demon who said Darla sent him."
Ominous silence greeted his words. Spike kept his eyes tightly closed.
"Well then, as I’m obviously not needed here I will bid you goodnight." The nanny’s chipper tones made Spike cringe as much as her leaving him alone with Angelus did and when the silence continued past the door closing, it was all Spike could do not to cut and run.
"What did he look like?" The gentle tone of the question came as such a shock that Spike’s eyes flew open and fixed on Angelus’ face. It carried no hint of anger; rather the older vampire seemed tired as though the whole debacle was a step too far.
"Bit like a vampire. But as ugly as sin."
"Scent?" Spike frowned at the question and Angelus elucidated. "Did he smell like a vampire?"
"Dunno." Indicating the damp spot on his jacket, Spike added, "All I could smell was baby puke."
"What about now?"
Closing his eyes again, as an aid to concentration, Spike scented the air carefully. Human blood, sex and pocheen - Angelus. Cough drops and burnt sugar - the nanny. Under them… something… maybe… possibly… He shook his head in defeat. "Nope. It’s there, I think, just… I can’t smell him under the sick."
Buttons sprayed across the hallway, tinkling off the plaster and landing with silent thuds on the carpet. Spike gazed at his jacket lying on the stairs where Angelus had thrown it and then turned his stare on his mentor, who was now looking more his normal irritable self. "Try it without the jacket, idiot."
"Right. Right, then. I’ll… I’ll do that, shall I?"
Angelus nodded, Spike shut his eyes and tried again, wandering around the hallway closer to the wall where the thief had waited. Now he could smell it. Definitely vampire, there was no mistaking that but with a hint that smelled almost like boiled bacon. Faint, subtle and… Oh, shit, familiar.
His eyes flew open. "The opera house. It’s the vamp from the opera house."
***
It was probably a mistake to return but there were things. Things he needed. Things that were more him than he was himself.
Glancing up and down the Rue Scribe, Erik darted into the shadows and unchained the grating over the back entrance to the tunnels, dipping through into the darkness beyond. Angelus would follow that much was a certainty. Erik may be mad but he wasn’t stupid and neither was his enemy. But Erik wasn’t defenceless either. Not in the tunnels. There were things. Things he could do. Back underground. Deep underground. Six foot down where all dead things belonged.
With mole-like tenacity his fingertips traced the damp brick of the walls searching, searching. There. The slight protrusion. Clawed nails worried at carefully replaced chunks of mortar, which pinged away leaving a handful of bricks loose enough to remove. Behind them a patch of ink, a hole darker than the darkness surrounding it. Not large but large enough.
Wrapped in winding cloths, or were they swaddling - it was so difficult to tell these days - he laid the baby inside. Safe in the womb of the earth. Protected from the dead things until this dead thing returned, free to take it to meet its destiny.
***
"Mistress Darla, your grandchild is here."
The minion ducked out of the doorway revealing Drusilla dressed in little more than a shift, shoes and coat. Her eyes looked clouded and confused, there were obvious bite marks on her neck and her hair resembled a tangled bird’s nest. Darla dropped the cut-throat razor and climbed off the senior Watcher’s lap.
"Drusilla, dear. What on earth are you doing here?"
"Daddy sent me." Dru blinked, her gaze flicking briefly to the blood on her grandmother’s mouth before returning, fascinated, to the Watcher tied to the chair. "A boiled egg. Hmm. A runny egg with all the goodness on the inside."
"An egg?" Darla considered the human, his scalp a checkerboard of white shaven skin and raw wounds, steel blue eyes dark with terror under tweezered brows, his face the colour of gypsum. The smell of urine and terror ripe in the air. "I suppose he does look rather like an egg."
"Bread and butter in the nursery but nanny won’t let me eat the soldiers."
The far away expression was becoming stronger and Dru started to weave her head. It was now or never. "Drusilla," Darla snapped putting a full measure of irritation in her voice. "I asked why you are here. I told you to stay at home with Angelus."
Some focus returned to Drusilla’s eyes and she frowned. "But daddy isn’t at home anymore."
At times beating the girl within an inch of destruction was such an enticing idea. Darla pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead repressing the urge. In the greater scheme of things it wouldn’t help. And really, temperamentally, Darla knew she wasn’t suited to dealing with Drusilla’s strange moods. Instead she took a deep breath, caught Dru’s hand in her own and pulled her over to sit on the settee, deliberately facing her away from the Watcher.
"Why have you come?" she asked slowly.
Dru smiled brightly. "Because daddy told me to."
"Yes, dear, you told me that. But why did Angelus tell you to come?"
The smile twisted into a sly grin and Dru leaned forwards to whisper conspiratorially in Darla’s ear, "Psst, psst, psst. I’ve got a secret."
Darla’s eyebrows raised. "A secret? A message? From Angelus?" That had to be it, though why he had seen fit to trust it to Drusilla was another matter entirely. "Tell me the secret, darling."
Drusilla glanced suspiciously round at the captive. "Not in front of the egg," she hissed. "Not unless I get to eat it after."
If it was something the Watchers shouldn’t know secrecy was easily ensured. A blow to the temple rendered the senior Watcher insensate and the room as safe as it could be.
"The nanny was the wrong one. William was silly and daddy’s taken him baby hunting."
There was a code to working out Drusilla’s words and, after so many years, Darla was quite fluent in it. In this case Dru was saying that Spike had given the child to the wrong person, something that somehow didn’t come as a surprise, and that he and Angelus were trying to recover it. Darla’s nails dug into her palms as she fought to control her frustration. Not a complete disaster, she argued with herself, and losing her temper was fruitless at this point in proceedings. It was far too late. There would be time for that later when she would ensure that stupid boy learned once and for all to be more circumspect.
Though it did beg the question of who knew about the switch and what use they may find for the child. Someone with knowledge of her treachery could buy much favour at the Master’s court and all of it at Darla’s expense. The most obvious candidate was Li Hua.
"Did he say who took the child?" she asked.
Drusilla shook her head and then added thoughtfully, "But he said to meet them one hour before dawn at the opera house."
***
It could have been hours later, or minutes, when the fight between the two males culminated in Angelus screaming for Dru and the front door slamming shut.
Something that could have been laughter but tighter and more suffocating rose in Christine’s throat and her hand fluttered up, clutching at her neck heedless of the bloody wounds. They had left her alone. Left her. Alone. The enormity of it all was too much to comprehend and somewhere in her head a long dormant survival instinct kicked in.
Slipping from the bed, she padded across the room, the lasting pains in her thighs and back easing from enforced movement and disregarded in the determination to escape. Her clothes were long lost and she pawed through the wardrobe looking for something that might fit.
The cool caress of silk brushed against her fingers and she drew out a damask gown in palest rose pink. Hand stitched flowers blushed along the décolletage and the train puddled in a pale spill against the deep maroon swirls of the carpet. It looked like something a fairy queen would wear. Exquisite and elegant. Smiling slightly, Christine held it up to her chest. It was perfect, except…
Tucked into the sleeve was what appeared to be a fur trimmed hat or muff, dark strands clinging wilfully to the delicate fabric. Her hand closed around it and, despite the odd texture - a bit like tripe wrapped in horsehair - she pulled it out.
And screamed. Her voice rattling the glass in the windows as the scalp impacted damply with the wall and slid to the floor leaving a trail of dark matter in its wake.
A thin scared wail rang out from beneath the bed, rose to a brief crescendo and then petered away, but it was enough to remind Christine that she was not alone. Torn between the immediate needs of her own escape and the suddenly remembered baby, she slammed the wardrobe closed and grabbed clothing off on a nearby chair. It turned out to be a shirt and trousers, both of which were too big for her, but wearable. And it gave her an idea.
The kitchen drawer delivered a pair of shears, which served to cut away the length from her hair. She covered the rest with a cap found in the scullery along with an old worn jacket that was at least one size too small. Refusing to contemplate the dark stain under the arm, Christine buttoned it across her chest wriggling to ease the discomfort of having her breasts bound so tightly.
Next on the agenda was the baby. She could leave it in the bassinet but a pauper roaming the streets after dark with an expensive bassinet would be sure to attract attention. The laundry basket was far less conspicuous. Several towels and blankets went in first, creating a nest that would protect the child from any jostling. Next she lined it with underclothes, their soft material would be gentle against the baby’s skin. Then she returned to the bedroom to load up her precious cargo.
Despite the excitement earlier, the infant was soundly asleep, one tiny fist curled against her cheek, the other still clutching the statuette. Christine lifted her gently, trying not to dislodge it, but it slipped from the baby’s hand and tumbled to the floor. Immediately the child’s eyes flew open, her mouth gaped and she started to scream, a hungry desolate wail that tugged at Christine’s heart. She hugged the baby close and it turned instinctively to nuzzle at her breast.
"I have nothing for you, little one," she crooned, using her finger as a temporary distraction and adjusting the infant in her arms. The movement made its robe ride up around the neck and, as she tugged it back into place, Christine noticed the mark. Red and angry, shaped like teardrop, and burned into the child’s chest like a brand.
She ran a finger gently over it, tracing the raised edges, but her touch elicited no reaction. It didn’t appear to be painful. "Where did this come from, bien-aimé?" The baby wrenched its mouth away from her finger and started to cry again.
"Ssh, ssh." When her attempts at further comfort failed and Christine looked around desperately for something that may help. Her gaze fell on the figurine and she bent to pick it up. "Do you want your dolly? Would that make you…" The words fell away as she stared at the statuette in her hand. Embedded in its stomach was a diamond, the exact size and shape of the mark over the child’s heart.