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Everything the Congregation knew about the mysterious book of origins—Ashmole 782—was based on fragments such as this. Any new discovery dramatically increased their knowledge. And this letter contained more than just a brief description of the book and some veiled hints as to its significance. There were names and dates and the startling revelation that the book Diana Bishop had seen in Oxford was missing three pages.

Knox looked over the letter again. He wanted to know more—to squeeze every potentially useful bit of information from it. This time certain words and phrases stood out: your broken lineage; the Father who gave you life and breath; your maker. On the first reading, Knox assumed that Loew was talking about God. Upon the second he came to a very different conclusion. Knox picked up his phone and punched in a single number.

“Oui.”

“Who is Benjamin ben Gabriel?” Knox demanded.

There was a moment of complete silence.

“Hello, Peter,” said Gerbert of Aurillac. Knox’s free hand curled into a fist at the bland response. This was so typical of the vampires on the Congregation. They talked about honesty and cooperation, but they had lived too long and knew too much. And, like all predators, they weren’t eager to share their spoils.

“‘Benjamin shall raven like a wolf.’ I know Benjamin ben Gabriel is a vampire. Who is he?”

“No one of importance.”

“Do you know what happened in Prague in 1591?” Knox asked tightly.

“A great many things. You cannot expect me to rehearse every event for you, like a grammar-school history teacher.”

Knox heard a faint tremble in Gerbert’s voice, something that only someone who knew the man well would catch. Gerbert, the venerable vampire who was never at a loss for words, was nervous.

“Dr. Dee’s assistant, Edward Kelley, was in the city in 1591.”

“We’ve been over this before. It’s true, the Congregation once believed that Ashmole 782 might have been in Dee’s library. But I met with Edward Kelley in Prague when those suspicions first surfaced in the spring of 1586. Dr. Dee had a book full of pictures. It wasn’t ours. Since then we’ve tracked down every item from Dee’s library just to be sure. Elias Ashmole didn’t come into possession of the manuscript through Dee or Kelley.”

“You’re wrong. Kelley had the book in May 1591.” Knox paused. “And he took it apart. The book Diana Bishop saw in Oxford was missing three pages.”

“What do you know, Peter?” Gerbert said sharply.

“What do you know, Gerbert?” Knox didn’t like the vampire, but they had been allies for years. Both men understood that cataclysmic change was coming to their world. In the aftermath there would be winners and losers. Neither man had any intention of being on the losing side.

“Benjamin ben Gabriel is Matthew Clairmont’s son,” Gerbert said reluctantly.

“His son?” Knox repeated numbly. Benjamin de Clermont was on none of the elaborate vampire genealogies the Congregation kept.

“Yes. But Benjamin disowned his bloodline. It is not something that a vampire does lightly, for the rest of the family is likely to kill him to protect their secrets. Matthew forbade any de Clermont to take his son’s life. And no one has caught a glimpse of Benjamin since the nineteenth century, when he disappeared in Jerusalem.”

The bottom dropped out of Knox’s world. Matthew Clairmont couldn’t be allowed to have Ashmole 782. Not if it held the witches’ most cherished lore.

“Well, we’re going to have to find him,” Knox said grimly, “because according to this letter Edward Kelley scattered the three pages. One he gave to Rabbi Loew, who passed it on to someone called Abraham ben Elijah of Chelm.”

“Abraham ben Elijah was once known as a very powerful witch. Do you creatures know anything about your own history?”

“We know not to trust vampires. I’d always dismissed that prejudice as histrionics, not history, but now I’m not so sure.” Knox paused. “Loew told Benjamin to ask his father for help. I knew that de Clermont was hiding something. We have to find Benjamin de Clermont and make him tell us what he— and his father—know about Ashmole 782.”

“Benjamin de Clermont is a volatile young man. He was afflicted with the same illness that plagued Matthew’s sister Louisa.” The vampires called it blood rage, and the Congregation wondered if the disease was not somehow related to the new illness afflicting vampires—the one that made it impossible for them to make new vampires. “If there really are three lost sheets from Ashmole 782, we will find them without his help. It will be better that way.”

“No. It’s time for the vampires to yield their secrets.” Knox knew that the success or failure of their plans might well depend on this unstable branch of the de Clermont family tree. He looked at the letter once more. Loew was clear that he had wanted Benjamin to heal not only the book but his relationship with his family. Matthew Clairmont might know more about the book than any of them suspected.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to timewalk to Rudolphine Prague now to look for Edward Kelley,” Gerbert grumbled, trying to stifle an impatient sigh. Witches could be so impulsive.

“On the contrary. I’m going to Sept-Tours.”

Gerbert snorted. Storming the de Clermont family château was an even more ridiculous idea than going back to the past.

“Tempting though that might be, it isn’t wise. Baldwin turns a blind eye only because of the rift between him and Matthew.” It was Philippe’s only strategic failure, so far as Gerbert could remember, to hand over the Knights of Lazarus to Matthew rather than to the elder son who had always thought he was entitled to the position. “Besides, Benjamin no longer considers himself a de Clermont—and the de Clermonts certainly don’t believe he’s one of theirs. The last place we would find him is Sept-Tours.”

“For all we know, Matthew de Clermont has had one of the missing pages in his possession for centuries. The book is of no use to us if it’s incomplete. Besides, it’s time that vampire pays for his sins— and those of his mother and father, too.” Together they had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of witches. Let the vampires worry about placating Baldwin. Knox had justice on his side.

“Don’t forget the sins of his lover,” Gerbert said, his voice vicious. “I miss my Juliette. Diana Bishop owes me a life for the one she took.”

“I have your support, then?” Knox didn’t care one way or the other. He’d be leading a raiding party of witches against the de Clermont stronghold before the week’s end, with or without Gerbert’s help.

“You do,” Gerbert agreed reluctantly. “They are all gathering there, you know. The witches. The vampires. There are even a few daemons inside. They are calling themselves the Conventicle. Marcus sent a message to the vampires on the Congregation suggesting that the covenant be repealed.”

“But that would mean—”

“The end of our world,” Gerbert finished.

V. London: The Blackfriars

34

“You failed me!”

A red damask shoe sailed through the air. Matthew tilted his head just before it struck. The shoe continued past his ear, knocked a bejeweled armillary sphere off the table, and came to rest on the floor. The interlocking rings of the sphere spun around in their fixed orbits in impotent frustration.

“I wanted Kelley, you fool. Instead I got the emperor’s ambassador, who told me of your many indiscretions. When he demanded to see me, it was not yet eight o’clock and the sun had barely risen.” Elizabeth Tudor was suffering from a toothache, which didn’t improve her disposition. She sucked in one cheek to cushion the infected molar and grimaced. “And where were you? Creeping back into my presence with no concern for my suffering.”