a second trapdoor slab; then more steps leading down, ever down …
Occasionally Laverne would see the flaring of a torch—a real torch—down below at some undetermined depth, or smell its smoke drifting up to him. But never a sound from Vulpe, who must know this place extremely well to negotiate its hazards so cleanly and silently. How he could possibly know it so well was a different matter. But Laverne felt his anger rising commensurate to the depths into which he descended. Surely he and Seth Armstrong were the victims of a huge joke, in which Gogosu was possibly a participant no less than Vulpe? Ever since last night when they’d met the old hunter it had been as if this entire venture were pre-ordained, worked out in advance. By whom? And hadn’t George been born here? Hadn’t he lived here—or if not here exactly, then somewhere in Romania?
And finally Vulpe’s descent into the black guts of this place, when he thought the others were asleep … what little “surprise” was he planning now? And why go to such elaborate lengths anyway? If he’d known of this place and been here before—as a boy, perhaps—couldn’t he have let them in on it? It wouldn’t have been any the less fascinating for that.
“The Castle Ferenczy!” Laverne snorted now to himself. “Shit!” And how many leu had Vulpe coughed up, he wondered, to get old Gogosu to play his part in this farce?
Very angry now he stepped down onto a second floor where he paused to call out more loudly yet: “George! What the fuck are you up to, eh!?”
His cry disturbed the air, brought down rills of dust from unseen heights and ceilings. As its echoes boomed out and came back distorted and discordant, Laverne nervously explored the place with the smoky, jittery beam of his torch.
He was in the vaults, the place of frescoed walls, many archways, centuries-blackened oaken racks, urns and amphorae, festoons of cobwebs and layers of drifted dust. And there were footprints in the dust, quite a few of them. The most recent of these could only be Vulpe’s. Laverne followed the direction they took—and ahead caught a glimpse of flaring torchlight where it lit the curve of an archway before disappearing.
You bastard! Laverne thought. You’d have to be deaf not to know I’m back here! You’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, good buddy! And if I don’t like what you have to—
From above and behind, on the stone stairs where they wound up into darkness, there came the soft pad of feet and a softer whining. A pebble, disturbed, came clattering down the steps. Then all was silence again.
Shaking like a leaf, suddenly cold and clammy, Laverne aimed his torch up the stairwell. “Jesus!” he gasped. “Jesus!” But there was nothing and no one there. Or perhaps a shadow, drawing back out of sight?
Laverne stumbled across the stone-flagged floor of the great room, through an archway and into other rooms beyond it. His ragged breathing and muffled footfalls seemed to echo thunderously but he made no effort to be silent. He must shorten the distance between Vulpe and himself right now and find out exactly what the bastard was doing down here. The glow of Vulpe’s torch came again, and the resinous stench of its burning; Laverne plunged in that direction, through drifts of dust, salts and chemicals where they lay spilled on the floor, until …
… This room was different from the others. He paused under the archway prior to entering, cast about with his weakening beam.
Mouldy tapestries on the walls; a tiled floor inlaid with a pictorial mosaic which illustrated some strange, ancient motif; a desk thick with dust, laid out with books, papers and other writing implements. A massive fireplace and chimney-breast—and the flickering glow of a naked flame coming down out of that fireplace! George Vulpe had stepped … inside there?
Finding not a little difficulty in breathing, Laverne gasped: “George?” He quickly crossed the room and
Occasionally Laverne would see the flaring of a torch—a real torch—down below at some undetermined depth, or smell its smoke drifting up to him. But never a sound from Vulpe, who must know this place extremely well to negotiate its hazards so cleanly and silently. How he could possibly know it so well was a different matter. But Laverne felt his anger rising commensurate to the depths into which he descended. Surely he and Seth Armstrong were the victims of a huge joke, in which Gogosu was possibly a participant no less than Vulpe? Ever since last night when they’d met the old hunter it had been as if this entire venture were pre-ordained, worked out in advance. By whom? And hadn’t George been born here? Hadn’t he lived here—or if not here exactly, then somewhere in Romania?
And finally Vulpe’s descent into the black guts of this place, when he thought the others were asleep … what little “surprise” was he planning now? And why go to such elaborate lengths anyway? If he’d known of this place and been here before—as a boy, perhaps—couldn’t he have let them in on it? It wouldn’t have been any the less fascinating for that.
“The Castle Ferenczy!” Laverne snorted now to himself. “Shit!” And how many leu had Vulpe coughed up, he wondered, to get old Gogosu to play his part in this farce?
Very angry now he stepped down onto a second floor where he paused to call out more loudly yet: “George! What the fuck are you up to, eh!?”
His cry disturbed the air, brought down rills of dust from unseen heights and ceilings. As its echoes boomed out and came back distorted and discordant, Laverne nervously explored the place with the smoky, jittery beam of his torch.
He was in the vaults, the place of frescoed walls, many archways, centuries-blackened oaken racks, urns and amphorae, festoons of cobwebs and layers of drifted dust. And there were footprints in the dust, quite a few of them. The most recent of these could only be Vulpe’s. Laverne followed the direction they took—and ahead caught a glimpse of flaring torchlight where it lit the curve of an archway before disappearing.
You bastard! Laverne thought. You’d have to be deaf not to know I’m back here! You’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, good buddy! And if I don’t like what you have to—
From above and behind, on the stone stairs where they wound up into darkness, there came the soft pad of feet and a softer whining. A pebble, disturbed, came clattering down the steps. Then all was silence again.
Shaking like a leaf, suddenly cold and clammy, Laverne aimed his torch up the stairwell. “Jesus!” he gasped. “Jesus!” But there was nothing and no one there. Or perhaps a shadow, drawing back out of sight?
Laverne stumbled across the stone-flagged floor of the great room, through an archway and into other rooms beyond it. His ragged breathing and muffled footfalls seemed to echo thunderously but he made no effort to be silent. He must shorten the distance between Vulpe and himself right now and find out exactly what the bastard was doing down here. The glow of Vulpe’s torch came again, and the resinous stench of its burning; Laverne plunged in that direction, through drifts of dust, salts and chemicals where they lay spilled on the floor, until …
… This room was different from the others. He paused under the archway prior to entering, cast about with his weakening beam.
Mouldy tapestries on the walls; a tiled floor inlaid with a pictorial mosaic which illustrated some strange, ancient motif; a desk thick with dust, laid out with books, papers and other writing implements. A massive fireplace and chimney-breast—and the flickering glow of a naked flame coming down out of that fireplace! George Vulpe had stepped … inside there?
Finding not a little difficulty in breathing, Laverne gasped: “George?” He quickly crossed the room and
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