them carted from the room. The servants were dismissed, sent into the village, not to return until the following morning, and he and the doctor had scrupulously cleaned every inch of the floor on their hands and knees before bringing the unconscious Marlowe down from his confinement. His fetters were secured tightly to the rings let into the floor. It was not the first time that a sacrifice had been spread and bound there, although usually the rites did not result in the death of the victim, or at least not directly. He drew the chalk over the lines lightly inscribed into the wooden floor while Montague scribed symbols on the offering’s chest, and all was in readiness. They withdrew to await the proper time.
Later, Northumberland, watching from the passage, noted the futile tugs at the shackles when Marlowe awakened, tugs that soon gave way to a seeming indifference to the fate in store for him. That would change, the earl had chuckled to himself, when the vampire found the eater of corpses crouching on his chest! He had found himself trembling with excitement, wondering what would happen. The minor conjuration was nothing, but what would the demon do upon finding the corpse it came to feed upon was undead? This was the sort of question that teased him. He set the herbs in the several braziers to burning, and as the room began to fill with the fumes he quickly closed the remaining chalk lines to begin the ritual.
He had felt the portal beginning to take shape and grow in the circle, when suddenly it was forced open, wider than ever before, wider than Percy had ever felt. A shock-wave of power caught him, lifting him and slamming him with stunning force against the wall behind him. He slid dazedly to the floor, watching in horror as a shape formed in the circle; this was no minor fiend appearing before him now. This was a Prince of Hell.
The monster was eight feet high or more, leperously grey and scaly, patched here and there with tufts of coarse black hair. He turned a sulfurous yellow gaze on the earl, reaching for him with gnarled and twisted fingers, each tipped with a dirty and cracked black claw. Webs of filthy skin stretched from the abomination’s hips to its wrists, and upon seeing the circle restraining it the thing laughed, a thick, tearing sound, like a leopard snarling, showing the earl its broken teeth and yellowed tusks. The smell of it rolling out over the room was intolerable, middens and jakes and foetid London streets at the height of summer in a plague year. The earl pulled himself to his feet and pointed a shaky finger at the devil, bleating a question in Latin rendered all but incoherent by shock and fear. The materialization in the circle snorted its contempt, and turned to the man lying at its cloven hoofs.
Percy had watched in horrified fascination as it knelt to caress the helpless man, and seemed to converse with him, although he couldn’t make out what was said for the blood pounding in his ears. The fetters had been shattered, and Marlowe, far from fleeing the foul thing, had embraced it, had gazed at it adoringly, and hungrily kissed it. He himself had fled then, smashing through a window, running and retching into the night.
Northumberland’s gorge rose again at the memory, and he vomited until his sides ached with the strain. Was this the result of the exchange? Had he sold his soul without knowing it? He forced these thoughts away—after all, Marlowe had always been a perverse villain, lusting after damnation the way a normal man might crave a wench.
As he had bolted for the woods, he had seen the approaching horsemen, and was aware that one of them broke away to pursue him, but he had made the shelter of the woods, and the man had turned back to the house. He was not too far away to make out their identities, however. So, Marlowe’s friends had come to rescue him, had they? What would they find in that hell awaiting them? He had not banished the demon, he recalled, his gut twisting, sweat beading his brow. Well, Ralegh could do it, the self-righteous fool. He waited, and had watched them bind Marlowe with some satisfaction. The man had endured enough to drive him into madness, and that would suit the earl very well. He stood watching the fire for a