The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(100)

Stoker was unnerved. How did this stranger know this? He felt vaguely alarmed, not a little afraid.

“I suppose I am always looking for a good story,” he said stiffly, and he rose. “Perhaps it’s time for me to be off.”

“I know a good story.”

Stoker stopped, couldn’t help himself. “You do?”

“Oh, yes. It is the story of brothers bound by blood. They walk the earth together, never at rest.”

“Oh, I see. They’re ghosts.”

“No, no, not ghosts. They are something very different indeed. Something very old. It is the blood, you see. They have pages from a long-lost book that gave them the knowledge they needed to use blood as food. It’s quite a gruesome tale. I can tell it to you if you like.”

Stoker relaxed. He knew this sort of fellow. He would wait for his prey in the boneyard of the abbey, scare the tourists with a ridiculous tale, then demand coin. He was a modern-day bard.

Still, there was something about this man that made him uneasy, ran little skitters of alarm up his arms. Stoker stood. “I imagine it is quite a story. Sadly, it’s getting late, and I must be off.”

Stow looked away from him, out to the sea. He whistled once, sharp and low, held out his arm. “Good day to you, Mr. Stoker. Do not forget to visit the library. It is really critical to you and your career.”

The bird landed hard on the man’s fist. He gave her a treat and bowed his head toward Stoker, then stood and turned away.

Stoker shook his head, rubbed his eyes. Impossible. Impossible. It seemed from one moment to the next, the man and falcon were simply gone, disappeared.

He was tired from the journey, exhausted from managing Irving. He was hungry and thirsty, and now he was seeing things.

Yes, he needed a rest.

He took a last look around the abbey and started toward the stairs. Supper and sleep, and he’d explore the rest of the town in the morning.

He felt eyes on him, and he whirled back to look at the bench, at the grounds of the abbey, at the cliff, but no one was there. He saw a mist move through the boneyard, obscuring the gravestones. It moved toward him, closer and closer. He was frozen until the mist began to curl around his feet. As if released from a trance, he ran down the stairs, not looking back.

Later that evening, as he made plans to visit the town’s library, he was compelled to record a name in his notebook—why, he didn’t know.

Mina. And I will name my heroine Mina.





THE FIFTH DAY


SATURDAY

Dracula, a 1897 Gothic horror novel by Irish author Bram Stoker, introduced Count Dracula and established many conventions of subsequent vampire fantasy. The novel tells the story of Dracula’s attempt to move from Transylvania to England so that he may find new blood and spread the undead curse, and of the battle between Dracula and a small group of men and a woman [Wilhelmina “Mina” Murray Harker—Jonathan Harker’s wife] led by Professor Abraham Van Helsing. . . .

After Dracula learns of the group’s plot against him, he attacks Mina on three occasions, and feeds Mina his own blood to control her. This curses Mina with vampirism and changes her but does not completely turn her into a vampire.

—WIKIPEDIA





CHAPTER SEVENTY


Sky News London 6:00 a.m.

We’re coming to you live with breaking news. There was a bombing last evening outside the Prince Edward Theatre, resulting in the death of Corinthian Jones, Lord Barstow, prominent consultant to MI6.

“Also, a military helicopter was downed on the grounds of the home in Twickenham of the genius scientist and founder of Radulov Industries, Roman Ardelean. Mr. Ardelean is being sought by police to answer questions for a variety of charges, including the assassination of Lord Barstow last night. We start the news now.”





CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE


A feather-perfect hawk, sitting on a clean perch, with well-greased jesses and a clean leash, in proper accommodation, is a pleasure to behold. Hawks wearing poor and ill-kept furniture, sitting on filthy blocks and perches and in no proper accommodation are a disgrace to the falconer and, indeed, to the sport.

—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice

The Savoy Hotel

Strand, London

Roman Ardelean called Radu’s personal line. There was no answer. He called Iago’s phone. No answer. What had happened? Had he taken all of Marin’s blood in his greed to be cured immediately? He called one of the house lines, but it appeared to be dead. He felt fear begin to thrum deep. And then he turned on the television to see his face plastered at the bottom on the newscaster’s desk. And he heard about the helicopter crash at the Old Garden.

They’d found him. They’d found Radu. Where was his brother? Had they taken him into custody? How to find out?

Roman had killed Barstow, the sodding bastard, so that was something, but now he didn’t care. Where was Radu?

Would they find him here at the Savoy? He’d used the Laurence Bruce disguise and a fake name. But they’d found out everything else. He listened to the news talk about the man with Lord Barstow, who had escaped serious injury—Harold Drummond, consultant to MI5.

He kept dialing both Iago’s and Radu’s private phones. Still no answer. He was worried, too, about his cast. He had instructed the cast to fly north to the estate, but Arlington refused to be parted from him. She’d flown to him last night without his calling her, her talons digging into his arm, drawing blood, and he’d had to smuggle her into the hotel under his coat. What did she know that he didn’t? Did she have some sort of extra-sensory ability to sense danger to him?