The Magistrate’s country estate has a long history, though not one you’ll find in the history books. The main house was built in the mid-seventeenth century as a hunting lodge for a young earl living in Dublin. On his first hunt from the property, he was thrown over the pommel of his saddle and died when his horse continued right on over him.
His family kept the property as a farm, though they had problems finding additional tenants after the first died of an unknown wasting disease and the second was found drowned in a mill-pond that he could have stood up in without the water reaching his waist. Soon, local lore said the place was cursed, and when the earl’s widow moved into the house at the turn of the eighteenth century, accusations of witchcraft were soon to follow.
She turned the farmhouse into a school for young ladies of noble breeding; a place for them to learn away from the distractions of the city. If the records are correct, she lived to be almost a hundred, which certainly didn’t help quash the rumours she was a witch. After her death, the school continued for several decades, before it burned down one night, killing every teacher and student inside.
Nobody was willing to move into the property after that, so the ruin decayed and grew ivy for a century and a half. It was finally re-occupied in the twentieth century, and that’s when things got really weird.
The cars pulled away from the front of the house as the Magistrate took his guests inside. Woods, Murtagh, and I followed. A long table in the front room had been laid with drinks and plates of food. Tomorrow would be the conference where old grievances would aired and disputes hammered out, but tonight was set aside for a welcome reception.
There was no blood on display. Sir Arthur never consumed it in public, and most vampires only needed to feed every few months. I suspected a discreet flask had been stored in each of the bungalows’ ‘caskets’ for emergencies, but ancient etiquette expected each of Sir Arthur's guests to sate any appetites before entering his territory. I knew Sir Arthur had an arrangement with the blood transfusion board, and that de Silva exclusively fed on seals and livestock. I had heard that Augustine had a legion of volunteers almost cult-like in their desire to donate, but it was anyone’s guess what arrangement Hamilton and ‘Sissy’ had. As Hamilton eyed the table with an uninterested eye, I wondered briefly if one vampire could feed on another.
Sissy darted forward to the table with wide eyes and grabbed a flaky pastry with both hands before devouring it.
Hamilton chuckled softly. “You’ll have to excuse her table manners. We don’t get out in company much.”
She spoke for the first time. “I fed today,” she said dreamily. “Everything tastes so good after I’ve fed.”
“I know that feeling,” said de Silva, moving to stand next to her at the buffet. “Though it sadly fades with the years. How old are you, my dear?”
“I think I’m sixty-four,” she said after glancing at Hamilton. “But I’ll be twenty-six for ever and ever,” she added with a giggle.
Augustine harrumphed loudly. “You bring this neophyte here? To this gathering? Does she even know the Laws?”
“She has been fully versed on all of our customs,” said Hamilton. “And I will personally guarantee her behaviour this weekend, if it satisfies you.” He moved to his companion and gently guided her away from the table. As he did, she glanced around the room, for the first time seeming to take in her surroundings. For a brief moment, as her eyes swept over me, I glimpsed something in her that seemed at odds with the dazed ‘stoner-girl’ attitude she’d been displaying, but it passed as quickly as her gaze did.
Augustine and the Magistrate then approached the table where Sir Arthur poured them each a glass of wine. I followed cautiously, still unsure if I was even supposed to be attending the reception. Sir Arthur laid my fears to rest, though, when he introduced me to Augustine.
“This young man,” he went on to say, “was the one of the two who ended up your city last month, by way of Madagascar.”
The Archbishop raised his eyebrows quizzically over his wine.
“A gang of smugglers,” I said, as explanation. “They were using Midnight Doors to get in and out of Ireland via a hub somewhere in the Madagascan rainforest. We went in one and came out another, and shut both doors down in the process.”
“Ah, I had wondered why the traffic of undesirables in and out of Cork had slowed. Well done, Master Grey.” He then raised his glass and I felt the Magister’s hand on my arm. I turned to find him pushing a full glass into my hand, with which I returned the Archbishop’s gesture, though I mentally filed away the ‘undesirables’ comment for further analysis.
“So, how many conferences is this?” I asked. The Magistrate had warned us against probing questions, but this seemed like a safe topic to broach.
The Archbishop thought for a second. “This would be the eighth regular meeting. I believe the first was in ‘52?”
Sir Arthur nodded. “Though we have met many other times, as needs arose. Emergency summits, so to speak. Which reminds me, Your Excellency, we need to speak on an important matter before tomorrow’s formal proceedings,” he said before he shot me a look that I had no problems interpreting.
“An honor to meet you again, Excellency,” I said and retreated from the pair. I joined Murtagh and Kelly in a corner and surveyed the room.
“This is…” began Kelly, before faltering. It was hard to talk about people when they were both in the room and could hear your heart beating from fifty yards away.
“Interesting,” finished Murtagh. “New Guardian of the North.”
“Did you ever meet the last one?” I asked.
“How old do you think I am?” he said with a cough.
“That’s actually a really good question,” I said. “Containment has a betting pool.”
Kelly laughed and Murtagh peered at me. “Is that real? Or a joke?”
Before I could answer, a shadow fell over my arm and I felt a looming presence behind me. “Ah, this is Galligan," I said to Murtagh. "He’s head of Augustine’s security. This is Murtagh, head of Containment and Eamonn Kelly, who leads our Materials division.”
Galligan shook each of their hands and we adjusted our triangle to form a square. “You can call me Paul,” he said.
“You’ve worked for the Arch-Bishop for long?” I asked.
“Four years this summer,” he said. “Though he’s been a patron of the White Clan since before I was born.”
“You’re a troll!” said Kelly, a bit loudly.
“You’ll have to excuse the kid,” said Murtagh. “He’s new to this whole thing.”
“I wanted to speak to you about security on the estate,” Galligan said to Murtagh. “I have more men than needed to guard the bungalow, and wondered if you needed reinforcements around the perimeter.”
“The perimeter is well-patrolled,” said Murtagh. “But thank you for your offer.”
“The Archbishop would feel a lot better with men he knows and trusts on patrol.”
“And I would feel better knowing two groups who don’t know each other are not both patrolling through unfamiliar woods at night. That’s how misunderstandings happen.”
Galligan opened his mouth to say something, but I interrupted with, “The Magistrate has arranged security for this weekend. If that is not sufficient for his Grace, he can bring it up with Sir Arthur.”
“The Arch-Bishop doesn’t bother himself with the minutiae of things like this. He leaves it to me.”
“Well,” said Kelly, suddenly, “The Magistrate is right over there if you’d like to bring this up with him. I’m sure he won’t mind the interruption.”
Galligan drained the remainder of his wine and left the room.
The rest of the reception was stilted, with not a lot of mingling. De Silva lurked in a corner, watching the proceedings with eyes shadowed by his uneven fringe, while Hamilton followed his “Sissy” around the room protectively, like a cat watching over a newborn kitten. The Magistrate did his best to keep conversation moving, introducing the Archbishop to the members of the Department that were present.
It was getting close to 5am when I made my excuses. I had the noon watch the next day and I knew I’d be no good without a solid five or six hours sleep.
A bungalow had been set aside for the security staff, that seemed to serve as a storage depot for towels and bed linen during tourist season. The storage racks had been moved to the smaller bedroom and some bunks had been brought into the other two and set up in rows, like something from The Great Escape. It was cramped; I could lie on the bed assigned to me and reach out to tap the next one over.
But I had slept in worse conditions. I was able to shut out the noise of Putter snoring that filtered through the wall and was dead to the world a few minutes after lying down.
I woke to the sound of my phone’s alarm. It was a quarter past eleven, and the beds around me were full of Containment members, sleeping fitfully. I shut off my alarm hurriedly and stood.
I recognised Cormac’s overnight bag sitting on the bunk above mine, so left to find him.
He was sitting at the table in the small kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. He looked drained. I poured one for myself and sat opposite.
“What time’d you get in?” I asked.
“About two hours ago,” he said, taking a sip.
“You spend all night at the missing student’s apartment?”
“Most of it. Scryed it back and forth and sideways. I couldn’t do a card trick right now.”
“Find anything?”
He looked up. “Not a thing. Only person in or out of her flat for the last week was herself.”
“Any sign of foul play?”
“Downstairs neighbour sleeps next to the stairs leading up to hers. He says he was woken up around 2am last night - or the night before, sorry - by something, but can’t say what. Then he heard a thud from her flat. Five minutes later, he heard her door open and close and heavier-than-usual footsteps going down the stairs.”
“Sounds suspicious.”
“A bunch of her clothes and her toothbrush and toilet stuff were gone. A suitcase might explain the thud and the heavy footsteps.”
“You find her passport?”
“Nope. But an expedited request for her bank and credit card statements show no sign of any plane tickets purchased.”
“Sounds like she packed up and left. Any sign of foul play?”
“Just that she was supposed to meet her parents for lunch yesterday and completely ghosted them. She’s about two months off finishing her undergraduate course, and her professors say she was going to walk home with a first or a second.”
A sudden thought occurred to me. “Were her textbooks there?”
“No, taken too.”
“There you go, then. She’s gone off to some place like this,” I indicated the cottage around us, “to do some intensive cramming. Probably had a panic attack at the thought of failing her finals and thought she needed some time in a distraction-free environment. Suitcase full of books would explain the thud and the heavy footsteps.”
Cormac leaned back to stare at the ceiling and ran both his hands slowly through his long hair. “Could be. She’s not answering calls because she has her phone off.”
“Tell the Gardaí to Check AirBnBs or couch-surfing apps.”
“Will do.” He pulled his phone out and started messaging. “Remind me to bring you with me to the next crime-scene.”
I stood and stretched. “I need to shower. Can you check in on Woods? He’s in the small room behind the main house.”
Cormac nodded.
“Go around the right-hand side of the main building, and there’s a door. Just knock and make sure he’s alright. He seemed a bit worried last night; I think the realities of vampire politics may be hitting home.”
I spent longer in the shower than usual, washing the sleep out of my eyes and trying to wrap my head around the weekend ahead. I knew that tensions would be high, but the arrival of Hamilton and Sissy had escalated things beyond anyone’s predictions.
I was dressing when I heard a soft knock on the bathroom door. I slipped my glamour on and opened it to see Cormac and Murtagh waiting. Murtagh seemed his usual stoic self, but he had an air of worry I was not used to seeing.
“You’d better come see this,” said Cormac quietly.
They led me outside and to the main house, then around the side path towards Woods’s apartment.
The Hunting Lodge had been built with three entrances. Aside from the portico’d front door, there was a servant’s door to the kitchens on the side and a back entrance which had originally led to a mud room for returning hunting parties. When the building became a school, the back room had been cleaned up and converted into living quarters for the headmistress and later, the estate caretaker.
I knocked once and then pushed the door slowly open. The curtains were still closed, but I could still see by the light that spilled in from the open door.
“When you said you’d bring me to the next crime-scene,” I said to Cormac, “I presumed I'd have time for breakfast first."
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