Adduné - the Vampire's Game (10 page)

“
I have no idea why you think a little whippersnapper like yourself can tongue lash someone that’s at least three times your age, but then that’s the difference between English and American children. English children are taught manners – and that includes being respectful to their elders.”

He waited thoroughly relishing Miranda rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh. He had landed a good one.

“
And as for your question, I have the book. I didn’t forget anything except to bring it inside and that was because of your rushing me. It’s still in my car. If you’re done with your tirade and bad humor, I shall just run up and get it. Are you? Or should I have you sit in the corner for a nice long time-out?”

The overhead lights flickered off and on again this time taking more than a few seconds to recover.

“
Is this going to go on all afternoon?”

“
I’ll bring some candles with me. I think I have a torch in the car. It’s one of those that are guaranteed to work – even in emergencies. If it doesn’t, I’ll sue and believe you me, I certainly know how!”

“
I’ll say, you old scallywag! All you do is collect money from your baseless, nuisance lawsuits against reputable manufacturers! How many have been thrown out of court? 3, or is it 4,000?”

Reginald gave her a fatherly peck on her forehead. He didn’t feel good leaving her down here after what Figgs said, but what excuse could he give for her to accompany him? If he said anything, he could quite possibly open up that can of worms he’d started with that silly ghost story. Besides there were no such things as ghosts … only locals who probably had broken in. And who’s to say Figgs hadn’t had one too many that night? Everybody, even someone as sober as Figgs, had the right to indulge once in a while. Maybe he’d left the trip to the pub out of his story. That would certainly account for him seeing blurry images. It was a distinct possibility.

“
Now you just wait right here. It’s not your fault that you’re the result of a pair of very indulgent parents. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

Miranda smiled warmly. She reached out and gave him a hug burying her head in Reginald’s big barrel chest. She felt his suspenders through his vest. She really did love the old coot despite her not wanting to be treated like a child.

Reginald got flustered with her show of affection. He took her arms off of him holding them in his hands. He playfully shook them smiling at the elegant, young woman before him. He tucked her under her chin and then turned to leave.

Miranda was alone – standing in the middle of the cluttered room. She rubbed her hands together and blew into them. She hadn’t forgotten the cold – and it hadn’t forgotten about her. It seemed to be on the attack. She sauntered back to the Victorian panels hearing Reginald’s footsteps echoing as he walked up the stairs. Miranda wondered if she should consider getting in a stonemason to fix the staircase – or at least level it out. She’d hate anyone getting hurt. Maybe she’d bring it up with Reginald when he got back.

The lights flickered again. A beam of light shot out from the glass of the red egg. The glimmer caught her attention. She knew what she’d been told, but she wanted to have a more thorough look. She always drew her own conclusions, and, right now, she didn’t have an answer as to why a fake seemed so perfectly crafted.

She pushed back on her knees, rising quickly. She briskly strode over to the table. As soon as she picked it up, the overhead lights began flickering. This time there was more frequency, and longer lapses in-between. The intermittent blackouts were causing her to remain in complete darkness for lengthier periods of time. It was something she didn’t relish. She began trying to time each and realized that the timing was identical to being stabbed with a knife. Light. The knife was drawn back. Darkness. The knife was swiftly brought forward penetrating the victim’s flesh. The blade twisted in the wound – settling in deeply – only to be withdrawn with the burst of the new dawn.

She shook her head trying to dispel the imagery. It wasn’t helping steady her nerves. When she finally looked around, she could well imagine a shackled prisoner, crying out in pain for water after being stretched on the rack. Even though it hadn’t happened in recent history, the residue of tortured souls remained. She could feel the agony in the walls … and in the air. With Reginald near, the knowledge hadn’t bothered her, but now … left alone … it became omnipresent. It was all she could think about. The prisoners, pain, knives, stabbings … death.

Miranda refused to go down that road she had traveled earlier. It was just old wiring. When she had the staircase looked at, she might have an electrician see what they could do to bring the wiring up to code. In fact, she might have it all replaced.

Her attention returned to the egg she held in the palm of her hand. She raised it above her, eagerly searching out the hallmark she’d seen earlier. The mark hadn’t appeared sloppy at first blush, but she couldn’t be sure with the bloody lights going off and on. She prayed for the light to hold steady and stop cutting in and out. It didn’t happen –the intervals only increased into what could be described as interminable slips into darkness. It was maddening to work under these conditions and certainly not ideal to prove authenticity – of anything. She persisted, to no avail. If turned out to be genuine, it wasn’t one of the 61 Fabergé eggs that were known to exist. She could recite from memory, complete descriptions of each of them, but this … this certainly had all the earmarks of being authentic. The craftsmanship, the proportion, the attention to detail, and the cypher were all apparent The lights came on again. They burned steadily for a few seconds, she rushed to take advantage. She craned her neck straining to see before …

“
Mi-ran-da
… ”

Miranda jumped. Although the voice had been no more than a whisper – someone had spoken her name. At least, she’d thought she heard her name. She looked around the entire perimeter of the room – through the flickering light –to make sure she was alone. She was. Just her and her father’s antiques. No one could hide here. It was impossible. The light illuminated the room and what were now her possessions. It blinked and went away as Miranda was treated to tiny slices of darkness no thicker than someone’s flayed skin.

She cocked her head to gain an advantage as the unwelcome light show continued. The pace became faster and steadier resembling a black light straight out of the 60s. She became slightly dizzy and unbalanced as the razor-sharp knife increased its stabbing frenzy. She turned towards the back wall – where she thought the sound originated. She wasn’t sure – it had been so faint. One step above inaudible. Her back was to the door – her eye focused on the wall – watching the spectacle of man-made eclipses as light appeared and disappeared on its surface. The intermittent play of light and dark made it difficult for her eyes to adjust to the extreme contrasts. Her vision was affected – everything now tinged with surrealism as if not really there. Her heart beat increased in tempo as she strained to see the supporting wall. Her eyes found its secret – a series of small round holes in the mortar and plaster. Remnants of where the leg and arm irons had been attached. By the height, she wondered if the prisoners had been given enough slack to sit down and drop their arms. Probably not. The height was another way to heap more abuse on the captives. It made it impossible for their arms to be anything but held over their head.

Her eyes traveled the length of the wall. The stonework was old, but holding its own against Father Time. The way the large pieces of stone were stacked reminded Miranda of a stone age honeycomb. It was no more than a mutually beneficial network of solid bulging masses that had succumbed to a liquid permanently suffocating them into position, but the voice … where had it come from? Her eyes swept the wall one more time. She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she’d heard anything. The debilitating cold continued its punishing attack. It was causing her to tire. She yielded to a wide, uncharacteristically unattractive yawn.

It was most likely her imagination – glowing and active like the upstairs fire in the hearth. She hoped Reginald stopped to throw another log on it. It would be a treat if and when they ever did emerge from this underground labyrinth. She lowered the egg and tried to make sense of her conflicting emotions. It was ridiculous to be thrown by poor electrical wiring. Imagining people calling her name from somewhere behind the thick stone. As if someone were encased in it and …

“
Mi-ran-da
…”

Her name
was
being called. She was sure of it. The first time, she’d been willing to let go, but she wouldn’t let go twice. Her free hand went to her throat as she shuffled backwards in a series of small, unsteady steps. Her mind was becoming cloudy – her thoughts jumbled. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her legs felt weak. It was partly from the numbing cold and partly from fear. She was scared and wished Reginald would return so she could escape this nightmare she was caught up in. She stared expectantly at the wall as if certain a ghost would seep out and materialize before her.

The voice had only seemed to come from the other direction – the acoustics of the old house were playing tricks with her. She turned towards the door. Her eyes narrowed as she realized that Reginald must have snuck back downstairs. He was trying to scare her again. This time she was having none of it. She’d catch him in the act.

She bounded to the door and opened it – a smile playing on her lips. She pulled the door sharply and ran out into the corridor.

“
Got you, you old, windbag ….”

She looked in both directions. Reginald was nowhere in sight.

“
Reginald?” she called out tentatively. She heard her voice echo off the stone. It sounded pathetic and alone. Silence was the only reply.

She realized she was still holding the red egg in her hand. She didn’t like wandering about with something potentially that valuable in her hands. What if it were a one-of-a-kind undocumented Fabergé? She chided herself for not putting it down before she played detective. She wasn’t ready to give up on the notion that Reginald was there – probably doubled-over with laughter at having tricked her. She barely took a breath as she listened for any telltale sound that he was nearby. There was none. Just the chilling cold and empty air. She turned slowly around and walked back inside the room – being careful to shut the door behind her.

She questioned what had happened. She had been positive that it was him and yet, thinking it over, the voice hadn’t sounded like Reginald. It had been lower in tenor … almost seductive. That was daft! There were no sexy men in the cellar calling out her name. Only artifacts her father had collected and she doubted they had the power of speech.

She walked back to the table where the egg had resided before she’d swept it up and subjected it to scrutiny. The lights had steadied a bit. They were back to a faint flicker. She stared at the manufacturer’s mark finding that she was not really concentrating. She was distracted. Hearing someone speak her name had shaken her to the point of imagining something in the room … something … behind her. Moving slowly towards her and reaching out a long, clawed hand to …

“
Miranda
…”

Something touched the back of her hair. Maybe it was a cobweb, or spider, or that taloned hand she thought she’d only fantasized. She screamed and jumped just as the lights went dead. She was pitched into a filthy, craven blackness. She instinctively held onto the egg, but fervently tried to dislodge what was crawling through her hair. She batted at her locks with her loose hand. She couldn’t see if anything fell – or what, if anything – was violating her. She began frantically grabbing the back of her head – feeling for anything that shouldn’t be clinging to her tendrils. She wanted to make sure nothing was still hanging on. She leaned over, bringing her head down. She ran her hand through her loose curls several times – shaking her head to ensure removal. She didn’t feel anything. It meant that either nothing was there, or that whatever it was had burrowed into her thick mane. The thought sickened her. She started to panic. If only there were some light for her to see. There was just that unrelenting darkness. And silence that she filled with the memory of her scream. It resounded and reverberated in her head.

She had to check a mirror. It was the only way to make sure nothing was crawling around in her hair. She felt her way being careful not to knock into any of the priceless treasures. She berated herself for shutting the door. The lights were undoubtedly out in the hallway also, but she wouldn’t have had to take time to find the door handle. She felt along the wall and located the doorframe. It took several passes, but she kept going until she felt the cool metal. She’d found it. She turned the handle. The door appeared to be stuck. She jiggled the handle and tried again. Someone was whimpering and Miranda realized it was her. She didn’t like making those types of noises – didn’t like losing her composure, but she needed to get out of this room.