Chapter 2
“Cripps,” you bark into the intercom. “I’m going to take a look around the house. Come and find me as soon as you can.”
A short, indistinct growl of agreement is all you get in response.
You turn back into the hallway. At the far eastern end is a door you don’t think you’ve passed through before.
The handle turns; the old lily-shaped lamps flicker and ignite.
This must have been the envoy’s study, you think. There are small, square indentations in the dust of the carpet where a desk and chair once rested. In the very centre of the room, a bust has been abandoned on the floor; cheap, carved from faux-marble, it was apparently not considered worth taking.
A low-browed head, dominated by a cruel Eastern curved nose and framed by two long, crudely-cut curtains of hair. Any Kindred in the world would recognise Mithras when they saw him.
Carefully, you crouch down, and turn the bust over in your hands.
Inscribed on the base, you read,
ἄνθρωπος ἐν εὐφρόνῃ φάος ἅπτεται ἑαυτῷ ἀποθανὼνἀποσϐεσθείς ὄψεις, ζῶν δὲ ἅπτεται τεθνεῶτος εὕδων,ἀποσϐεσθείς ὄψεις, ἐγρηγορὼς ἅπτεται εὕδοντος.
“Men burn,” you murmur, frowning, “…no…men are lit and men are extinguished like torches in the night…”
The little Mithras stares, dumb and unknowable, back up at you. You replace it on the floor.
Behind you, the door creaks further ajar, and a sprawling, gangling, immensely tall shape, its horrid brown suit bulging at the seams, forces itself through.
“Ah,” you say, getting quickly to your feet. “Evening, Cripps. I thought we might take a stroll underground.”
Beneath the yellow gauze, the Nosferatu’s teeth bare in something which is not quite a smile. One pocked eyelid flickers, vivid.
**
It isn’t long before you start to lose all sense of where you’re going in the angled, painfully narrow stone staircases and corridors; Mr Cripps, however, always seems to keep his sense of direction, and a curt snarl or phlegmatic snort from somewhere over your right shoulder helps you move in the right direction.
Somewhere far beneath the west wing, you find a colossal stone chamber, pillared and vaulted in the style of a Roman bathhouse, centred about a single, stepped, circular pool, now emptied of water, and the corners of your lips twitch upwards. The caretakers told you about this place; this hall hosted the Ventrue Grand Council in 1923, when the pool itself was filled, at astounding expense and with considerable difficulty, with a cocktail of blood siphoned from wealthy, noble and famous kine from across the globe. But Mithras, ancient and muddled, did not attend, and Lady Anne considered the gimmick a vulgar and distasteful one, and so seven years later the Council was held in Knightsbridge instead.
At the bottom of the stone pool, pieced together from what appear to be genuine, discoloured Roman tiles, is a crude mosaic of Mithras slaying a bull; another presumably costly and ultimately wasted gesture of flattery. The bull itself is hideous, crimson-eyed, its hooves thrashing out in helpless anger towards its killer. There can be no doubt it’s intended to represent the Sabbat.
You glance around the mithraeum once more, with mingled admiration for the grandeur of the place and contempt for its wastefulness. On the other side of the pool, Cripps idly kicks out with his hob-nailed boots, apparently immune to curiosity, and calls out, harshly,
“Doors.”
You glance back and note with interest that the heavy metal doors, fitted onto rollers, are equipped with thick deadbolts. Someone might blast through them with enough explosives, but they’d certainly provide a moderate obstacle to any attackers.
Suddenly, you catch it – incredibly faint, playing about your cheeks, the gentlest of breezes.
Of course, you think. When dawn finally comes, you’re standing alone, your enemies gathered around you…you’re nothing without an escape route.
“Stay here,” you tell Cripps. He shrugs, and returns to kicking dully at the nearest pillar.
**
The corridors below the mithraeum are sharply angled and short, and framed by low doorways that disguise sudden dead-ends and half-turns that loop back in on themselves; a simple but effective method of slowing down pursuers. You take your time, checking every corner, staying alert in case you catch that faint draught again, and finally, ducking through an inconspicuous threshold, you find yourself standing on the very edge of a precipice.
The ice well is huge – it’d have to be, of course – and impossibly deep; a slim spiral staircase winds down about the rim. Wealthy Ventrue used to import the ice from Scandanavia, you recall, and store up their particular brand of blood for when it was needed. Given time, you could probably restore it.
Keeping one hand firmly pressed against the cool stone wall of the well, you make your way downwards.
**
The drain itself is easy enough to find; sluices have been set into the floor of the well, allowing melted ice to drain away – you’d be willing to bet the tunnel goes all the way down to the Fleet river. The entrance is a little less obvious; after struggling for some time to push one of the enormous stone fridges to one side, cursing all the while your own sensible distrustfulness in not allowing Cripps to come down here with you, you finally manage to heave it a few inches to the right, uncovering the trapdoor.
Below waits a simple wooden ladder, half-rotted away. You hesitate, and then, with the utmost care, lower yourself down into the tunnel.
The secret passageway is earthy and crudely built; you have to keep your head bowed as you pass along it. Your fine shoes are, you note with irritation, fast becoming coated in filth and dust. The tunnel winds about, and suddenly turns upwards.
Your fumbling hands touch against stone; and, all at once, you’re gazing up at a very familiar, long, rectangular shape.
Carved crudely into the inside of the sarcophagus lid is a single word.
METHANE.
A shiver rises up in you. You frown, and turn back on yourself, gazing back down into the grubby darkness of the tunnel, trying to make out that filmy, greasy quality in the air.
How much of the gas, you wonder, would be needed in the air to set off an explosion? Not much, perhaps ten percent – so you pump it into your own escape route, and once you get out on the other side, you light a match, drop it down…and the Kindred chasing you meet a very quick end.
Your fingers find the catch in the sarcophagus lid; you slide it across, and scramble up into the cool night air.
You’re in Highgate Cemetery, you realise, the old Circle of Lebanon; through the low doorway of the tomb, you can make out the outlines of the brooding Victorian vaults and the famous black cypress tree. With a slightly raw creak that suggests the mechanism is beginning to fail, the sarcophagus lid slides back shut behind you.
The epitaph on the sarcophagus reads,
Donald Alexander Smith, 1820-1914. He that believeth in me, though he were dead yet shall he live.
Strolling back uphill towards Witanhurst, you have a good laugh about that.
**
You have an appointment in your diary to attend a kine charity ball tomorrow night; Trentbridge has asked that you attend. He plans to introduce you, at last, to the other members of the board of his bank, and hopefully get you onboard as a non-executive advisor. But, you note, Antonia has also left you a message concerning a scruffy-looking Kindred who came to your Whitehall office asking to see you, and who insisted he’d return again at the same time tomorrow…
A) I’ll attend the ball.
B) Kindred come first. I’ll head to Whitehall and see what this fellow has to say.
C) Neither: I’ll check in on the Wistman team personally instead.
D) Neither: I’d rather try to get in contact with one of the Princely candidates.
E) Neither; I’d rather hunt down this Mandrake instead.
And meanwhile...
A) With a little work, the mithraeum would look rather impressive. In a month’s time, we would technically be celebrating the anniversary of Mithras’ rule. Perhaps, with a little Toreador help, I could play host to something suitably patriotic – and, of course, invite our new Venetian visitor and some of the potential candidates.
B) With a little work, the mithraeum could make a fine stronghold. I’d rather put my efforts towards a few more tricks and traps, and making it habitable and fortifiable for some time if need be.
C) My funds are not limitless, and the house itself was costly; I’d rather leave it as is for now.
And remember, you can call (P) one of your contacts for information or advice.
1st
