Written in the Blood by Stephen Lloyd Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

that?’
    Wary, the servant’s eyes flicked up and down the stairs. ‘Not me, of course. I wouldn’t say nothin’ like that. I seen how dangerous you are. That girl, the one your brother took, she seen it, too. Not much help to her, though, was it?’
    ‘What do you want?’
    The man straightened as best he could. ‘What do I want? I don’t want nothin’ much. But some people do. Some people want to know that what they’re looking at is what it is. That it won’t do them no harm. Some people sayin’ your time has come.’ The servant glanced over his shoulder again, before drawing closer. ‘ Some people sayin’ you’re all goin’ to burn .’
    His face cracked into a grin, flashing brown teeth.
    Izsák flinched, tripped against a step. Scrambling up the last few stairs on hands and knees, he ran along the hall, hearing the man’s wheezing laugh bounce off the walls. Wrenching open his guestroom door, he dived inside and slammed it behind him. He glanced around: canopy bed; wardrobe; writing desk. A single high-backed chair. Two leaded windows, looking down on to the Danube’s waters. On the floor, an empty bedpan.
    Why had he trapped himself? He was alone here, marooned at the top of the house, far away from Szilárd and the servants two floors below. From this room there was no escape should his tormentor decide to follow. No key sat in the door’s lock. If only he had kept one of the déjnin knives. If only he had pocketed one of the glass shards from the cellar.
    And what would you have done with them?
    From the hallway came a creak as the servant arrived at the top of the staircase.
    Izsák hiccupped. The back of his throat burned with bile. He pressed his spine against the door, braced the tips of his boots against the floorboards.
    He looked across the room at the cupboard. Far too heavy to move. Even if he had the strength, he had no time to heave it into position.
    Rap-scuff.
    The sound of the servant limping along the hall, dragging his game leg.
    Rap-scuff. Rap-scuff.
    Izsák opened his mouth to cry out, but his voice had left him. He breathed in half-sobs.
    Rap-scuff.
    Other side of the door now. Right outside.
    The doorknob jangled. An experimental nudge of the wood against his spine. Izsák opened his arms and flattened his palms against the wall.
    He heard a breathy whistling, and it took him a moment to realise that it was the sound of air rushing in and out of the man’s nostrils. So close.
    Izsák shifted his position, pressing his shoulder into the door. He splayed his feet. Perhaps, locked in position that way, he might keep the door closed a fraction longer should the man attempt to burst inside.
    The keyhole was just to the right of his head, a lozenge of empty space. Swallowing the bile in his throat, Izsák moved his head towards it. He placed his eye over the hole.
    And saw another eye staring in at him.
    A rasping voice floated through the crack between door and jamb. ‘ Some people sayin’ they goin’ a take your papa up to the Citadella in the morning. That the palace wants it done right, with witnesses. Not hidden, the way you usually does things. Some people sayin’ they goin’ a bleed him out, right there. And let the woman who got raped watch it happen. Some people sayin’ there’s goin’ a be celebratin’ after. Drinking and dancing. This is just the first, them people say. The first one, what starts everything that follows. A sign to the rest of us faithful. Of the burnin’ to come.’
    ‘Please,’ Izsák whispered. ‘Please stop.’ He couldn’t wrench his head away, couldn’t tear himself from the sight of that terrible blue eye. He knew that if this ghoul tried to force the door open, he would collapse to the floor, would curl himself into a ball and screw up his eyes and wait for whatever followed. He was too terrified to do anything else.
    ‘Orphan in the morning,’ gloated the voice. ‘You got your uncle a while longer. But they won’t let you stay