Matthew led us across the street instead and into a desolate churchyard whose gravestones tipped toward each other as if the dead sought comfort from one another. Pierre had a solid metal ring full of keys, and Gallowglass fitted one into the lock of the door next to the bell tower. We walked through the ramshackle nave and passed through a wooden door to the left of the altar. Narrow stone stairs twisted down into the darkness. With my limited warmblooded sight, there was no way to keep my bearings as we twisted and turned through narrow passageways and crossed expanses that smelled of wine, must, and human decay. The experience was straight out of the tales that humans told to discourage people from lingering in church basements and graveyards.
We moved deeper into a warren of tunnels and subterranean rooms and entered a dimly lit crypt. Hollow eyes stared out from the heaped skulls in a small ossuary. A vibration in the stone floor and the muffled sound of bells indicated that somewhere above us the clocks were striking seven. Matthew hurried us along into another tunnel that showed a soft glow in the distance.
At the end we stepped into a cellar used to store wine unloaded from ships on the Thames. A few barrels stood by the walls, and the fresher scent of sawdust competed with the smell of old wine. I spied the source of the former aromas: neatly stacked coffins, arranged by size from long boxes capable of holding Gallowglass to minuscule caskets for infants. Shadows moved and flickered in the deep corners, and in the center of the room a ritual of some kind was taking place amid a throng of creatures.
“My blood is yours, Father Hubbard.” The man who spoke was frightened. “I give it willingly, that you might know my heart and number me among your family.” There was silence, a cry of pain. Then the air filled with a taut sense of expectation.
“I accept your gift, James, and promise to protect you as my child,” a rough voice answered. “In exchange you will honor me as your father. Greet your brothers and sisters.”
Amid the hubbub of welcome, my skin registered a sensation of ice.
“You’re late.” The rumble of sound cut through the chatter and set the hair on my neck prickling. “And traveling with a full retinue, I see.”
“That’s impossible, since we had no appointment.” Matthew gripped my elbow as dozens of glances nudged, tingled, and chilled my skin.
Soft steps approached, circled. A tall, thin man appeared directly before me. I met his stare without flinching, knowing better than to show fear to a vampire. Hubbard’s eyes were deep-set under a heavy brow bone with veins of blue, green, and brown radiating through the slate-colored iris.
The vampire’s eyes were the only colorful thing about him. Otherwise he was preternaturally pale, with white-blond hair cropped close to his skull, nearly invisible eyebrows and lashes, and a wide horizontal slash of lips set in a clean-shaven face. His long black coat, which looked like a cross between a scholar’s gown and a cleric’s cassock, accentuated his cadaverous build. There was no mistaking the strength in his broad, slightly stooped shoulders, but the rest of him was practically skeletal.
There was a blur of motion as blunt, powerful fingers took my chin and jerked my head to the side. In the same instant, Matthew’s hand wrapped around the vampire’s wrist.
Hubbard’s cold glance touched my neck, taking in the scar there. For once I wished Fran?oise had outfitted me with the largest ruff she could find. He exhaled in an icy gust smelling of cinnabar and fir before his wide mouth tightened, the edges of his lips turning from pale peach to white.
“We have a problem, Master Roydon,” said Hubbard.
“We have several, Father Hubbard. The first is that you have your hands on something that belongs to me. If you don’t remove them, I’ll tear this den to pieces before sunrise. What happens afterward will make every creature in the city—daemon, human, wearh, and witch—think the end of days is upon us.” Matthew’s voice vibrated with fury.
Creatures emerged from the shadows. I saw John Chandler, the apothecary from Cripplegate, who met my eyes defiantly. Kit was there, too, standing next to another daemon. When his friend’s arm slid through the crook in his elbow, Kit pulled away slightly.
“Hello, Kit,” Matthew said, his voice dead. “I thought you would have run off and hidden by now.”
Hubbard held my chin for a few moments longer, pulling my head back until I faced him once more. My anger at Kit and the witch who had betrayed us must have shown, and he shook his head in warning.
“‘Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thy heart,’” he murmured, releasing me. Hubbard’s eyes swept the room. “Leave us.”