second crucifix, followed by a third. “Perhaps you might help?” he said.
I located a second hammer in Vambéry’s bag and started on the other side of the room. When we ran out of crosses, we hung mirrors, all that we had in our possession. The better part of an hour elapsed before we finished. Vambéry nodded at my bowie knife. “Carve crosses into all open surfaces; leave nothing unmarked. The mirrors tend to confuse these beasts, if only by multiplying the number of crosses.”
As I went about this task, Vambéry placed garlic and holy wafers into a small bowl and crushed them with the handle of his knife, he then added water and stirred the mixture until it formed a thick paste like he did at Thornley’s home. Then, using the blade, he forced it into the space where the thick oak door met the surrounding stone. “Strigoi can become mist and pass through even the tiniest of cracks. This will prevent anything from getting in or out. The water is holy.”
The scent of the paste was strong, and Patrick O’Cuiv shuffled uncomfortably out in the hallway when he smelled it.
Vambéry began to sweat. He paused for a moment, steadying himself against the door.
“Are you all right?”
Vambéry nodded, but he did not appear well. I thought it was his anger boiling up inside him, but this reaction was something else entirely. He finished applying the paste, then retrieved one of the white roses from the basket he purchased earlier. He invoked a prayer in a whisper, stumbling over the words, then placed the blossom at the foot of the door. “No strigoi can leave his grave if he must pass such a rose, and most assuredly the chamber behind that door is nothing short of a tomb.”
These last words were forced out with no small effort on Vambéry’s part. His eyes rolled back in his sockets, and I managed to reach him just before he collapsed and was able to ease him to the ground. His skin was cold and clammy.
I sensed something behind the door, a presence. Something stronger than anything I had ever encountered.
“Arminius?”
The man’s eyelids fluttered, and his mouth moved as if to speak, but he said nothing.
“What is going on in there?” Patrick O’Cuiv said from the hallway, no longer able to look into the room now filled with crosses and mirrors.
“Vambéry passed out.”
“Not Vambéry,” O’Cuiv replied. “There is something happening behind the door.”
“I . . . I do not know.” I felt it, too, though. Whatever it was grew stronger, pulled at me in much the same way Nanna Ellen had when I was but a child. I wanted to open the door, wanted to wipe away the paste Vambéry applied there and stomp the rose to dust. I wanted to open the door and let it out. I felt it reach for my mind and wrap around my skull, these shadowy fingers groping, kneading at my thoughts.
I look forward to meeting you, Bram.
Vambéry mouthed this greeting, but not a sound escaped his lips; instead, I heard the words in my imagination only. He was unconscious, of this I was positively sure, yet his mouth moved again.
I learned so much about you from Ellen. She thinks so highly of you. Your sister as well. And your brother. Such a resourceful family. I can smell her blood in your veins, her sweet blood. And she so loves the taste of your blood. I cannot wait to sample it myself, Bram. In all these years, do you realize I never fed on your Nanna Ellen? I never had her blood on my lips. To know that, soon, I will taste not only hers but yours . . .
Vambéry’s pulse was racing, and he was breathing in quick, short gasps. Too, every muscle in his body had contracted and tensed. His fingertips were extended so far, they appeared to bend back towards the top of his wrists. He continued to mouth the words I heard only in my head.
Poor Deaglan O’Cuiv, only half a man living in a box. Why do you not let him out? Let him breathe. Let him