Virgin Sacrifice - Van Helsing Fanfiction

10 - The Key

There were so many questions. 

As Cardinal Jinette spoke of the world in which she would so abruptly be indoctrinated, Marseille found herself sobering. Her pride at being selected, above all other scholars, had begun to waver as she listened to the grueling descriptions of the untold horrors she would face if she accepted. She watched the old man's face, a mask crafted of steel and experience, and thought of how quickly her own mask would crack under pressure. By the fifteenth repetition of the word 'dangerous', the words had begun to lose all meaning. 

There was a smile that Marseille had worn on her face that started to dip, becoming a frown.

"Who is Elizabeth?"

Once the question aired, Marseille realised that she had interrupted. Or that was what she had assumed as she watched the two men exchange a look. Vetturini's face was already shrewd and unpleasant, but it made her stomach knot as she watched Jinette's face become guarded and masked.

"The author's beloved," Jinette supplied.

"She died," Vetturini added darkly. "Most tragically. Set herself on fire with a Kerosene lamp."

"Why did - "

"That's not the point," Jinette replied quickly. "Nothing more than another risk of the study of these works."

Marseille felt a large lump in her throat where she could not swallow.

"Excuse us for a moment," Jinette said.

"Of course," Marseille remarked absently, returning to the book in her hands.

There might have been something that Marseille could overhear from the elders as they stood aside to quietly discuss their business. Usually, she would gather information if she saw fit: whether it was private or commonplace, she would listen and decide whether it was important enough for her to try and remember. This might have been such a moment, when the lesser sin of eavesdropping might have saved her from making the decision that would alter the very shape of her life. But she could not hear a word.

It was not remarkable-looking. When the young woman reached out to touch the binding, she recognised this style of book-mending as something archaic and not often used: the cover was hard and held the impression of being made from dense wood, making it heavy and clumsy in her fingers, while the scratch of the leather was neither soft nor pleasant. There were places where the book was falling apart: revealing the ligaments that pulled the parchment together. Like human flesh knitted to a skeleton.

The book opened with a creak. To Marseille's building curiosity, it had something written on the inner page:

Elizabeth

Beautiful, beloved

Living, loving, perishing

I have murdered you

Departed lover

"This man has lost his mind," Marseille breathed.

"That is often the mark of genius," Vetturini's voice was the softest she had ever heard it.

The young woman could feel it sliding over her shoulder blades. She shifted in her seat; the fabric of her dress ruffled and whispered against her skin but still the feeling did not go away. As if the caul of her robe had become tangled and clustered at her throat, there was a sharp feeling on the edge of her neck that would not leave her.

"This book cannot fall into the enemy's hands?" Marseille guessed.

"It is more than that," Cardinal Jinette straightened. "Once you have read this book, you will never truly be safe. Though you may burn this book and blacken its pages, stifle its voice by burying it in the soil, rip up the remains and scatter the ashes," The man shook his head. "Its ghostly voice will remain in your head."