15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Malik
M alik nodded at the concierge as he opened the door to the York’s gentleman’s club. He entered and let the servant help him off with his coat and put it in the cloakroom.
“Good evening, sir.” The major-domo said as Malik entered the main bar area. “Mr Jarratt and Mr Summerbell are upstairs in a private parlour and have asked that you join them when you arrive.”
“Thank you, Simpkins,” he replied, changing direction to head for the stairs to the second floor, and the smaller private rooms up there.
“Lord Malik.” Gilead Summerbell stood to greet him as he entered. “Summerbell, Jarratt,” he acknowledged both men, shaking their hands before
joining them at the small table. He was confused as to why he had been invited to join them. He looked towards where Jarratt was holding up the whiskey bottle they were sharing. Malik nodded, and then accepted the drink he poured for him.
“Your health, gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass and taking a generous mouthful.
“I have to leave shortly,” Summerbell stated. “I’m giving a talk to the Philosophical Society. Are either of you attending this evening?”
Jarratt shook his head. “Not this evening, Mr Summerbell. I’m afraid I have a conflicting appointment.”
“I hope to drop in later,” Malik added.
“Good.” Summerbell nodded. Getting up, he shook both their hands again.
The other man’s hand was sweaty, and Malik felt that he was shaking slightly. He looked at him, but he didn’t meet his eyes. Before he could say anything, Summerbell quickly left the room.
“Well, Mr Jarratt, it’s just the two of us. I presume you wished to speak to me about something?”
“I did indeed, Lord Malik. Or should I just say Malik. You’re no more a Lord than I am!”
“I beg your pardon!” He wasn’t staying here to be insulted. He tried to stand up but found he was unable to do so. Panic began to set in as he found that the harder he tried to move the worse it became He looked at Jarratt in horror. He tried to speak but couldn’t.
The door opened and Simpkins and another man entered and came to stand either side of Malik’s chair, putting their hands on his shoulders.
“Take him to the room underneath. I’ll join you soon,” said Jarratt.
Malik found himself being hauled up and manhandled between the two other men. He was slung over the younger man’s shoulder and taken down the servants’ stairs and through the kitchen. A heavy robe was thrown over him and he was thrown onto a hard surface, his head banging down on it heavily. Shortly thereafter they began to move. He assumed they were in some kind of vehicle.
His head throbbed and he felt sick. His usual healing wasn’t working. What was it Jarratt had slipped into his drink? He faded in and out of consciousness, barely aware of the vehicle finally stopping. The men pulled him unceremoniously from it and dumped him on the ground. He heard hooves and wheels moving away and could feel the wet ground soaking through his clothes. The world seemed to have stopped moving and he was lost in a maelstrom of chaos.
He came to later to find he was sitting in a wingback chair in the main room of the gentleman’s club. Where? What? His eyes darted around, taking in the familiar scene. But there were some major differences – no windows overlooking the river, and the ceiling was hewn out from bedrock. Most of the walls were covered in books and there was at least one door. Leading where, he had no idea.
He realised he was secured to the chair with ropes and still couldn’t move. He squirmed as much as he could, trying to find any give in the ropes. He tried to remain calm and work out what he was doing there, but there were no clues in the room.
The door opened and Jarratt walked through. Ignoring Malik, he walked over to the table to one side of him and picked up a decanter. He poured himself a generous slug of its contents.
“I’d offer you one, but I don’t think you’d drink it.”
“You’d be right.” He squirmed again. “Care to tell me what this is all about?” “I’d like you to know it’s not personal,” Jarratt said. “It’s your nature that I require.”
Malik looked at him in confusion. “My nature?”
“You are a vampire, are you not?”
He was surprised. How did Jarratt know this? Summerbell! It had to be. He’d stumbled on his secret a few years ago. Why had he let a stranger know? Realising that Jarratt was still waiting for a reply, he leaned forward as much as his restraints allowed, and looked Jarratt in the eyes.
“Yes,” he said clearly. “Yes, I am.”
Malik realised that whatever had been in the whiskey was not only stopping him from moving but was also preventing his vampire gifts from working.
“What is it to you that I am?” he asked.
Jarratt grinned. “I’d say I was sorry, but I’d be lying. I need your nature, your death energies as it were, to power a spell I need to cast. Unfortunately, there won’t be much of you left at the end of it.”
Malik stared at him in horror. He’d come across magic users who’d wanted to harness his death energies in the past, but none who’d actually had the means to do so. Spells that would allow them to carry this out were almost impossible to cast, let alone find.
“How?”
“I’ve been looking for a long time for a way to harness the energy you carry within yourself, that all vampires have within themselves.”
Simpkins and the other man who had transported Malik here entered the room, then moved behind him. Before he could even think to struggle, his head was pulled backwards. Simpkins roughly thrust a tube into his mouth, pouring some liquid down his throat.
He spluttered, trying not to swallow, and liquid poured from his mouth as he tried not to gag. Simpkins used his hands to stop him from spitting the tube out and keep his mouth closed. He had no choice but to swallow, else he’d drown. He thrashed about trying to dislodge the two other men.
Unable to help himself, he lost consciousness.
He floated between consciousness and unconsciousness as he lay naked on a cold flagstone floor. He wasn’t able to open his eyes more than a slit. All he could see around him were pricks of light through the gloom. These eventually came into focus as lots of candles on the floor and on the walls. For some strange reason Jarratt was dressed like a Roman Centurian. He stood over him while Simpkins and several other men surrounded him. There was no sign of Summerbell.
Chanting began and Malik could just make out a Latin word here and there, though what he was hearing meant nothing to him. He was out of his depth and had no hope of rescue. As the chanting went on, he could feel his death energies being drained from him. As the lights around him wavered and went out, he screamed.