Chapter Text
chill
adj., withdrawn
15th September
Dear Miss Barrow;
Queen to K4.
regards,
J.C.
***
20th September
Miss Barrow;
Queen to bloody K4.
Cabal
***
21st September
Miss Barrow;
I don’t know what you’re so upset about.
Cabal
***
17th October
Miss Barrow;
This is childish. How long are you going to keep this up?
Cabal
He sealed the envelope and wrote the address. The stairs creaked under his tread as he walked down to the ground floor. His cardigan was buttoned against the predawn cold.
“More mail?” Horst was reading in the parlour. It still gave Cabal a start to find him there, lounging on the sofa and leafing through a magazine as if he was back from university. Still looking, in fact, almost exactly as he used to when he would come home to the family at Christmas.
“More mail than what?”
Horst ignored him. “I was thinking of heading in to town this evening. Shall I drop it at the post office?"
“No, thank you. I will cycle over in a few hours.” The letter would catch the morning train.
There was no mail service to the house. A new postmaster had once disregarded the warnings of the other villagers and ignored Cabal's post restante arrangement. He had cycled forth to bring the blessings of his Majesty's postal service to the lonely house, but his enthusiasm was annihilated by the half-defleshed dog skeleton outside Cabal’s gate. The fairies did like their little joke. The jar of honey Cabal had subsequently left in the garden was likely unrelated, but he was left in peace.
Johannes went to the cellar steps, and Horst raised his eyes from the magazine to watch him go. He would follow him downstairs soon, to lie in his walnut and satin casket and lapse into a vampire’s dreamless sleep.
He had initially protested the acquisition of the coffin. "It's too melodramatic. Who do you think I am, the Graf Von Cabal, rising from my tomb to nibble on the villagers?" His real objection might have been the permanence it implied. He and Johannes had been edging around each other, testing out cohabitation the way an amputee tries on a prosthetic leg. But the coffin was well-cushioned, and Horst did enjoy being able to stretch out. Johannes had pointed out that it was bound to come in handy sooner or later, even if Horst didn’t want to keep it.
Still writing Leonie, was he? Horst smiled a small sad smile before returning to an article on cravats. Something with a blue stripe would bring out his brother’s eyes, he mused. What if all the black cravats had tragic accidents? Bleached themselves. Were accidentally given to the poor. Bravely lit the fire in the parlour?
Below, Cabal tended his experiments in the secret cellar. The ventilation fans hissed at the edge of hearing, and the electric light was cool and steady. He had completed his day’s work. His necromantic experiments were underway, and now he reviewed what he knew of vampirism, its cause and reputed cures.
Hours later, he pulled himself up the stairs to the kitchen, head spinning. If he went more than a day without eating, Horst would become anxious and start making him sandwiches, so he ate something before he bathed, dressed, and took his bicycle out of the shed. The leaves were a slippery mat under the tires. The bark of the trees was black with a spatter of rain. Days passed.
***
Horst, of course, did not eat sandwiches. He travelled afield every few days to a different local pub. He had not fed from Johannes, and he didn't intend to. The area was sparsely populated, but he had managed so far.
He awoke one evening in the satin-lined closeness of the coffin. He could feel the sun below the horizon and the dull ache of the final rays in the sky. This quiet moment between sleep and waking was a good time to think. Lying there reminded him he was a vampire, of course, but that knowledge was never very far away.
His brother was hardly sleeping. He had to be bullied into eating. He didn’t have a kind word for anyone… and so far, so normal. But there was something wrong, something almost wistful about those brutal workdays and his cursory self-maintenance. Johannes had always worked to forget things he didn’t want to think about. And then there were the letters. Horst hadn’t seen a single reply from Penlow in the mail. And a curious vampire with an elder brother’s habit of prying didn’t miss much.
He would like to think Johannes’ discomposure was a positive sign. The medievals, Horst had read somewhere, had liked to see a bit of infection in a wound; they thought it meant things were healing up nicely. They called it laudable pus. Perhaps it was good that Johannes had accidentally harboured an emotion strong enough to frighten him? Horst chose to see it as a helpful sign, anyway. He had been encouraged by Leonie’s defence of Johannes, despite the subsequent events. Anything to help him put up with his brother’s moods.
He took a deep breath. It relaxed him, even if he didn’t need the air. He raised the lid, meaning to take the dressing gown that hung on the cellar wall. He stopped when he saw Johannes sitting at the foot of his coffin. On the cement floor. “Johannes?'
His brother was sitting on the floor. In his suit. Horst grasped for words. “You’ll ruin your trousers."
“Yes. I was just,’ and Johannes stifled a yawn unconvincingly, “just thinking."
“Really. Well,’ and with an effort Horst summoned up his best devilish big-brother smile, “if taking the stairs is too difficult for you, allow me to help.”
Johannes did not exactly comply with being slung over Horst's back and carried up to the kitchen, but at least the struggles and cutting insults put some colour into his face.
***
7th November
Miss Barrow
Leonie;
How
***
Things came to a head the next night. Horst had, unwisely, enquired about the heavy sack sprawled in the front hall. Unpleasant shapes poked against the canvas. Johannes had chosen to hear a note of froideur in the question, and in the ensuing three minutes he had turned this into a fierce, if one-sided, argument.
Johannes stood in the middle of the parlour, mud on his trousers and anger on his face. "My work will culminate in the most important discovery in history, and I am met with obstruction and narrow-minded judgement. That isn’t insanity, that is fact.”
Horst sat on the chaise. He had said nothing about insanity. "All right, Johannes.” He could tell this wasn’t going anywhere. It only infuriated his brother more.
"Don't you dare humour me. My god, you would patronize me!' He voice was incredulous, and he slashed the air in an uncharacteristically showy gesture. "Neither of you ever tried to understand, to look beyond your meagre frame of reference."
That was too rich. Horst looked up from his crossword. “Really?’ Horst's drawl sounded relaxed until one realised one had lost four layers of skin. It was one of the few attributes that suggested Johannes was a blood relation and had not, in fact, been left by exhausted and infuriated fairies. “You are saying that you haven’t been sufficiently indulged by those close to you? Is that your argument, Johannes? And who else do you mean, exactly, when you say ‘neither’?"
“I don’t need your indulgence. I would, however, welcome a brief respite from the prissy expressions and finger-wagging."
Maybe it was time for some home truths. Horst turned his eyes back to his magazine and flipped to the next page, deliberately infuriating. He added, in a conversational tone, “it cost Leonie, being your friend. It costs to be close to you. We were talking about Leonie Barrow, weren’t we?"
Cabal's anger abated with confusion, so he didn’t try to deny it. "Costs…?” He looked as if someone was trying to explain the general theory of relativity using a latchhook, a quiche, and the vocabulary of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Horst knew that expression of old; it was how Johannes always looked when confronted with the needs of others. He had to try.
“Don't you think her conscience suffered? After all, I have the excuse of being your family." He did not say ‘blood.' "Leonie, poor sap, simply liked you.'
Johannes swallowed.
Horst pressed on. "It costs peace of mind. Safety. It costs self-respect, sometimes. How do you think I feel when I smell that?” And he threw his arm out at the sack. “When I think about the massacre? I bet Leonie lost sleep from the day she realised she’d somehow come to like you. Questioned herself. Wondered what the hell she was doing. Made excuses for you, ones she knew you didn't deserve. And a fat lot you cared."
Cabal suddenly found himself fighting for his footing in this argument. "And what do you think it cost me?” He liked to fight with a cool head, but something ungovernable was starting within him, uncoiling like a hot snake in his gut.
“I honestly don’t know, Johannes. Enlighten me."
Horst's bored challenge pushed him into honesty, and he spoke without thinking. The words expelled themselves like bullets. “It cost me time, Horst. Days, weeks. It cost me guilt." He suddenly felt as if he had vomited, hot and ashamed and a little relieved.
Horst softened a little, but he wasn’t ready to acquit Johannes yet. “Maybe guilt is better than not feeling anything. The irony is that I’m the vampire, and you...." He checked the time. He could still get across the fields to the pub before closing time. He sympathised, but he would sympathise better from ten miles away.
“You don’t understand. Do you know how long it’s been? How many years?” Johnnes’ voice shook on the last word. Horst knew what he meant.
“One... plus eight in a hole... plus the year of the carnival… plus about three and a half, I suppose. Thirteen years and a few months.’ His voice had changed from frustrated to sad. “But look at yourself. You can’t keep going like this, Johannes. It’s not too late for you to…’ he didn’t dare say ‘move on,’ “...have a life."
That had been the wrong thing to say. Johannes had been looking for an excuse to slip back into his vast, comforting rage at everything. "By all means, Horst, continue to lead by example. What are you doing with eternity these days?' He snapped his fingers as if he'd just remembered. "Right, sipping barmaids and lecturing me on mediocrity.’ All trace of uncertainty had vanished from his voice and posture. “You have the wrong idea. The time I spent saving Leonie Barrow from herself was a distraction from my work. I am grateful she has absolved me of any responsibilities towards her.” He said it coolly. Maybe he had convinced himself it was true.
Horst felt ill, but he stood and refolded the newspaper with a crisp snap. “Fine. Just don't kill her to prove your detachment if she turns up again.” If he had stayed, he would have seen Cabal’s face change, but he was gone.
****
Horst left in a huff, off to deplete the veins of the idle and tipsy. Cabal thought he would try to sleep. If his soul would shut up for five consecutive minutes. “If she turns up again.” He had caught himself rehearsing lines of argument he should have used at the Dee Society, wondering what he should have said then, what he could say if he saw her again.
Setting a few skeletons on the grotty little bigots had seemed a small price to pay for Twiccian’s file, and it had been intended to buy him and Leonie some time. In retrospect, he should have refined the plan. He should have left the wards up and foiled the horde of undead, thereby back-stabbing Twiccian - after making provisions for a safe retreat. Should have, could have, would have, he reflected wryly. Damn. He was thinking about it again.
After all, he had met her at a carnival, on an aeroship, and in an insane asylum; surely she couldn’t avoid him forever. Could she? He lay awake for hours, but his exhaustion pulled him under at last. When he awoke, muscles stiff and eyes grainy, it was day.
He drifted around the house, unable to settle into any useful activity. He tidied. He hadn’t needed to tidy when he lived alone, but Horst left a litter of magazines, newspapers, ashtrays, and books. Cabal secretly found it soothing to put the house to rights after his brother's small disruptions.
He found a few letters scattered on the floor. Horst must have picked up the mail before retiring for the day. A large, stiff envelope caught his eye. It had no return address, but the handwriting drew his full attention; he felt a thrill, which he immediately suppressed. Leonie had written?
He should throw it away in total indifference, of course. Or perhaps bury it a few miles away, to be safe. This was not, he thought carefully, a welcome development. She probably had some tiresome request. What if she needed him, for example? Or could it be an apology? He would be gracious if it was an apology, he decided.
He appraised the package. It was far larger than a letter. Even though he didn’t often reciprocate, her chess moves had sometimes been accompanied by actual letters, and none of them had needed an envelope like this. It was unlikely she had sent him a package of anthrax or a mail bomb or some other piquant bit of correspondence. Even if she had addressed it under duress… well, perhaps it was as well to be safe.
He opened it in the attic lab, with all due precautions. He was curious. His tweezers found envelopes and a dog-eared notebook.
He had been obliged to search her room at the university, once. He hadn't found any of his correspondence, although she kept letters from family and friends. It seemed she had kept several of his after all. His recent letters were in a separate bundle. They hadn’t even been opened. And finally, the notebook in which she kept their chess game. He removed his gas mask and acid-retardant gloves.
He turned the notebook in his hands. Its cover was creased and rubbed from being stuffed into coat pockets and purses. The package was a finely mixed piece of courtesy and rebuff; he appreciated it aesthetically, even as it stung. This was everything she possessed that he had touched: everything that might have been used to track him through divination or forensics. They would not be turned in to the Dee Society. On the other hand, the unopened letters were a particularly crisp slap in the face.
She had also sent the notebook, in which she had recorded nothing more than their chess games. He opened it and turned to the last page, wondering if she had left a note, a final thought. There was only a line drawn through the chessboard, scored so deeply there was a mark in the blank pages beneath it.
He tossed it all into the trash and sagged back in his chair.
Who knows how long this maudlin state of affairs would have continued, if fate had not intervened?
...
Cabal was bludgeoning something to death on the landing when the air pressure in the house changed. Windows creaked and rattled, drafts keened. Cabal arose from the red-brown smear on the hardwood. He must come back with a damp rag shortly, he thought. The drafts shrieked louder; this was not a natural wind. He pelted down the stairs. He searched the parlour, the library, the kitchen for the source. He paled and hurled himself down the cellar stairs. Wind rushed past him.
There was a gaping hole in the wall of the cellar. It did not give on to the sandy loam characteristic of the neighbourhood’s topsoil. Instead, Cabal saw a gleam of light and glimpsed another space. He leapt at his brother’s coffin. The box had already started to drift a little, at one end. It was not a difficult distance to jump; the wind dragged him in the direction anyway, and he was able to drape himself over the tasteful walnut of the lid.
Inside, Horst was lying insensible: dead for all practical purposes. A vampire is a fearsome thing at night, but around teatime he is as useless as three byakhee at a bridge table. Cabal embraced the casket with both arms and dug his toes in to the floor on the side of the portal. The sliding stopped.
The suction from the portal did not abate; in fact, it climbed. The wind that whipped by Cabal was November-cold now, strained through the cracks and crannies of the old house. Wind tore at his skin and stole his breath. The force of it made it impossible to breathe, except in gagging little bursts. And Cabal’s foot slipped, and the coffin moved an inch. He was beginning to wish he had eaten more, lately; he was underweight.
His foot slipped again. It was unstoppable now: one or both of them was going through. The only question was whether it would be one or both of them. He had a moment of wretched choice; follow the coffin into the portal, or ensure Horst’s abduction to give himself a chance.
He wrenched himself over the coffin, sending it careening into the portal but gaining a few precious feet. He splayed on the floor like a starfish, maximising his contact with the ground, pressing himself into it. He heard a window burst somewhere in the house. His cheek rasped along the concrete as the portal drew him closer, closer….
And all was still. The shrill of the wind was replaced by ringing silence.
The cellar was almost free of dust. It was also free of a well-padded walnut coffin with satin lining. Cabal knew what had happened and who had done it.
He pushed himself up to his knees. His cheek stung. The wall was back to its unremarkable self, and Horst was gone, sucked through a doorway in reality. Johannes realised he was still kneeling on the cement floor, and he was pressing his fists into his brow.
He was just so verdammt tired. His eyes prickled.
He had to go to war with Arthur Twiccian. Alone. Naturally.
He wondered what Leonie was doing now. Having tea with her "sweet boy," probably. And Cabal never got a moment's surcease from this grim bloody nightmare of death and loss and fading hope. He watched the blood pulse behind his closed eyelids. He felt his throat constrict.
He bit the inside of his cheek, hard. The pain cleared his head and brought him back to himself. “Mawkish,' he said aloud. "And not even true." He had to assume Horst had not been killed out of hand. Sunlight might not be a permanent death, but if there was one, Twiccian would have found it.
So: assume he been taken to lure Cabal into a trap. Within certain parameters, he could cope with that: but if that was Arthur Twiccian's plan, he had overestimated Cabal. He had no clue where to start looking.
“There’s no point,’ he said aloud, “in luring someone into your trap if they can’t find it, Twiccian.” This was ridiculous. And that kind of information took weeks or months to prise out of the underworld. Twiccian would have defences against scrying.... What would he do if Twiccian had covered his tracks too well?
He steadied himself again. He would start with his own notes on the man. He hadn’t learned of another lair, he would remember that, but perhaps he had overlooked something. The notes were in the attic lab. It seemed like a long way up.
He made himself rise lightly to his feet. He dismissed the sensation of fatigue. He would go ahead on adrenaline, on grit, on stubbornness. He had done it before. Horst had been taken. He was Johannes Cabal, and he was not without resources.
He dusted his knees. Histrionics were hell on trousers.
In the attic laboratory, Cabal started a new notebook.