The Dark Arts of Blood by Freda Warrington Page A

Herr Reiniger’s feeling merciful.”
    The front door opened, and a slim young woman stood in silhouette against the light from inside. “Is someone out there? Wolfgang?”
    “Yes, it’s me, Fräulein Temple.”
    “Is something wrong? What’s happening?”
    “Nothing. Bruno got into a little fight, that’s all. We’re coming in now. Ask Gudrun to make some coffee, would you, please? Black and strong.”
    * * *
    Godric stood in the centre of his office with folded arms, listening as Bruno and Wolfgang stuttered out their story. Their muddled shock and sheer amazement at meeting an actual vampire irritated him. They were like naughty schoolboys, frightened by a ghost.
    His fury was cold and rigidly suppressed, but it ran as deep as mountain roots. Had there been a knife missing from the cabinet, apart from his own?
I should have looked more carefully
, he thought,
but I did not think I needed to.
    After that, the female
strigoi
had distracted him.
    Bruno was quaking at Wolfgang’s side. He looked ready to pass out or fling himself through a window rather than face another moment of Reiniger’s arctic disapproval.
    “So you took the cabinet key from my office and stole the
sikin
?”
    “No, sir,” Bruno answered, sweating. “I’m sorry. I only pretended to put it back after the last
Eidgenossen
gathering.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know.” His chin rose with defiance. “It’s a beautiful weapon. And after all, it’s
mine
. I like the feeling of power when I carry it. I have no better excuse.”
    “It’s allocated for your use during meetings,” said Godric. “That does not make it
yours
, Bruno. You know that. Yet you took it on a boyish whim, and managed to lose it – how old are you, twenty-eight? An eight-year-old would have more common sense!”
    “He knows he made a mistake, sir,” put in Wolfgang.
    Godric Reiniger paused to light a thin black cigarette. The
Eidgenossen
was his hand-picked group of men: thirty, including himself. He’d named the group
Eidgenossen
, meaning “comrades in oath”, in tribute to the pact on which Switzerland was founded.
    Pacts, federations, compromises – all very fine in principal, but he cherished a higher vision: Switzerland with a single all-powerful leader, a hero of true vision, a god-like fusion of William Tell and Woden.
    Most of his men were ex-army – not that Swiss men ever really stopped being soldiers. They were now his employees, part of his film crew, but more than that: they shared his dreams of a powerful Swiss nation. They shared his secrets.
    “The
sakakin
are sacred, left to me by my father,” said Godric. “There were thirty. Now we have only twenty-nine. Will that make a difference to our rituals, do you think? It damages the symmetry.”
    “It was a mistake,” said Wolfgang. “Bruno acted stupidly and he’s prepared to be punished.”
    “Punishment won’t get our missing
sikin
back,” Reiniger said brusquely.
    “As I explained, we tried. We almost perished, trying.”
    “Oh, I believe you. You both look like death.”
    “But – Bruno’s actions aside – isn’t the most remarkable factor here that we encountered actual vampires? I hike in that area, I have cousins there. There have been rumours for nearly four years and I’ve proved them true. Isn’t that astonishing?”
    “Not really.” Reiniger sucked smoke between his teeth, regarding their mixture of fear and excitement with disdain. “I have told you for years that the
strigoi
are real. Elusive, but a true threat. Are you saying that you didn’t believe me?”
    Wolfgang’s freckles stood out like a rash on his blanched skin.
    “That’s not what I meant, sir.”
    “I always believed,” Bruno put in, but Godric was still glaring at Wolfgang.
    “What am I, some crazy old man to be humoured?”
    “No, sir.” Wolfgang’s voice hardened. “I wouldn’t be at your side if I thought that. I expressed myself badly – of course we believed you, but encountering