Immortal With a Kiss (25 page)

“
Phragmipedium reticulatum
,” he said, his voice filled with reverence. “Breathtaking. And here is the cheeky
Phalaenopsis schilleriana
.” He indicated a more conventional flower in shades of pink and rose. The leaves were flat, broad, and white-veined. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” he mused, and then moved on.

I found myself overwhelmed as I viewed the collection. From the lovely to the grotesque, the orchid petals boldly displayed suggestive shapes. There were delicately feminine unfurling petals, unabashedly displaying a nub of hooded stamens that made my skin so red and hot I felt scalded. Others were masculine, bulbous shapes appearing shockingly fertile among conceits of brightly colored plumage.

“You of course see the vein of sensuality in the plant.” He glanced at me apologetically. “Pardon my frankness, but it is difficult to ignore.”

“Yes,” I agreed nervously.

“The orchid’s name is from the Greek legend of Orchis, who was the son of a nymph and a satyr. He proved to be an alarming combination of beauty and sexual aggression. There is a great deal of mythology that attributes the ability of the plant to inspire some rather unsavory acts.”

I tried to laugh, but I was too uncomfortable. It was too hot in here. Suddington had explained earlier that the heat and humidity were maintained by large furnaces underground, which kept a steady supply of steam coming up through ornate vents laid into the floor. Right now, however, it felt as if we were sitting on top of a volcano about to erupt.

“An interesting defense,” I said, trying to shed some of my discomfort with humor. “Blame it on the flowers?”

“Ah, but not just flowers. Orchids. Mystical and noble flora. They embody not only life—which you see represented by its shocking appearance—but death as well. In Bohemia, certain orchids are known as the ‘hand of death.’ ”

I stopped. “What is this one?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. The flower in question was quite horrible. Spotted petals folded around the core so that it resembled an angry face topped with spiny leaves. From its maw extended long, black spindles so that it looked like some insect of prey with grasping tentacles, crouched and ready to strike.

“Ah. That is the
dracula chimaera
. Very exotic, and rare. Its beauty is not always appreciated.”

I could not reply for a moment, for the combination of the sight of the thing and the name struck me dumb. Foreboding throbbed, dull and distant in the back of my mind.

“I see it speaks to you,” Suddington said, mistaking my silence for appreciating. “It usually repulses most. But it is a very special orchid. Some would say a lord among the rest.”

I struggled for the right words. All I could come up with was to murmur, “It is quite unusual.”

“You are a skilled diplomat. You know, it is one of my particular favorites, perhaps because it is often so misunderstood.” He suddenly grabbed the pot and held it out to me. “You must take it. Yes, go ahead. Take it as a companion to the other I gave you.”

“I cannot,” I protested, recoiling from the thing.

“Indeed, I insist. What is beauty, if not shared?”

I stared dubiously at the orchid. Beauty? This looked like something out of a nightmare. If I put it in my bedchamber I was certain to get no sleep.

“I absolutely refuse,” I said firmly, and placed the pot back in its spot on the table. “I have no talent nor am I equipped to care for such a delicate plant.”

Suddington’s gaze flickered over me coldly. He was sorely disappointed, but I was beyond caring. The cloying air, the lascivious plants, the frightening
dracula chimaera
all combined to make me feel ill, and I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. “I must be getting back to school,” I said, and turned to lead us out of the orchid house.

He did not follow immediately. I had to await him in the conservatory. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him straightening the pots, taking care to make certain all was in order before coming to join me.

“Thank you for indulging me,” he said, and again, his tone was stiff. Clearly, I had offended him. But the urge to flee had overcome me and I had no choice but to exit the orchid house as fast as I dared.

Chapter Twenty-one

I
n this new school term, Valerian appointed himself my guardian. He insisted on a daily meeting. Most times, we used Serena’s cottage. She was always willing to give us our privacy for these summits. Sometimes, when my time was short, Valerian came to Blackbriar. Like clandestine lovers, we slipped into secret spots to exchange words. But there were no kisses, no embraces, not even a lingering touch.

Things between us were in careful balance. Neither one of us was satisfied with the unresolved nature of what had happened, but a solution evaded us both and so we never spoke of it.

On this day, I was eager to tell him what I had learned. As we drank tea and nibbled on poppy-seed cakes Serena had prepared for us, I told him of George Smythe, and of his connection to Miss Sloane-Smith. I described the extensive orchid collection. However, Valerian showed little interest, and I cut short my report.

After he left, I stayed to help Serena with the dishes. “Your man is jealous,” she said sagely.

“It is foolish of him.”

She gave me a curious look. “Is it?”

I was so shocked, I could not reply. The comment stuck in my thoughts like a bur under a blanket, and when the orchid arrived for me the following morning, I felt a sharp pang of guilt, remembering Serena’s words.

The messenger sent a footman for me, and when I arrived in the hall, I found a pot tied up with a great ribbon, the elegant blossom seeming to radiate its exotic beauty in the dull surroundings rather like a beacon among shadows. There was no denying the rush of excitement as I held his gift. I was attracted to Suddington—the evidence of my own racing pulse was undeniable—but how could I have this visceral reaction to him when Valerian was so near? Was I so fickle?

A hot, unpleasant tide of shame rose up in me. My mother, I recalled, had betrayed my father. Was I that same, inconsistent sort?

The note from Suddington read: “
Grammatophyllum scriptum
is used for the making of love potions. Guard it carefully. Fondly, S.”

I started when a chirpy voice rang out. “Oh, Emma, what is that you have?” I groaned softly, recognizing Trudy Grisholm’s insincere tones. I turned to face her.

She eyed the extravagant flower with raised eyebrows and a secret smile. “What a lovely gift.”

And one the entire school would know about by luncheon, I mentally wagered.

Trudy peeked at the card, her heavy eyebrows crawling up to her hairline. “Lord Suddington? Why, I had no idea you two were such close . . . friends.”

“Nor did I,” I said with false lightness, attempting to step past her. I did not want to speak with her now, not when I was feeling a bit flustered.

She allowed me, but her smirk assured me she would have the last word, and most probably removed from my hearing. My guess proved correct when a few hours later Miss Sloane-Smith glowered at me from across the dining hall during lunch. If blood could boil, then surely she was being poached in her skin. I half-expected her to sack me on the spot.

As I tried to eat, I recalled she had the necklace, the same one Alistair had given my mother two separate times, the same one I’d seen in the portrait in Suddington’s house. How had it come to be in her possession? Then something else occurred to me.

Smythe, who had begun the cycle of the Cyprian Queen, was
her
ancestor—after all, it was the Cyprian
Queen
. Why had I never considered that this vampire could be a woman?

My thoughts spun from there, a web of connections that drove me nearly dizzy. By the time I met with Valerian later that day, I had my reasoning ready.

“Do you recall your directive to read Coleridge’s
Christabel
when we were in Avebury?” I began without preamble when he walked into Serena’s cottage.

He cocked his head with a curious smile. “Ah . . . Certainly. What—?”

“Christabel was the victim, but her tormentor was a
female
revenant. Geraldine.”

His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know the work.”

“What if Ruthven—which we know to be a false name, a conceit—is, in fact, a woman? What if she is the headmistress? Glorianna Sloane-Smith.” I held up a hand at his doubtful reaction. “Listen to what I have reasoned so far. I have been absolutely astonished by Miss Sloane-Smith’s reluctance to address the girls’ wicked behavior. She was completely dedicated to blaming Miss Markam, branding her as mad rather than confront what was really going on. She turns a blind eye to the antics of the coven girls—I’ve seen it again and again.”

“But that is easily explained, if you are familiar with how administrators of these types of institutions think. It is all about appearance; the perception of a good school, and an education well worth the tuitions, is essential to survival.”

“Correct, but what if that was not her motivation at all but simply her guise? What if she were in a uniquely powerful position to prey among these girls, and then repress and control the reaction so that she keeps them here, under her thrall, without interference from the outside world?”

Valerian’s eyebrows forked down skeptically.

“When I was in Denmark, I read a novel by an Irishman, Sheridan Le Fanu. His
Carmilla
is a female vampire who preys on other women. Two mentions of such a phenomenon cannot be coincidence.”

Valerian stroked his chin with his long fingers. “But the intensity, the violence, the sexual preoccupations of the vampire indicate to me that it is male.”

In one of those leaps of memory, something else completely unanticipated sprung into my mind. “There is much to suggest the kind of sisterly affection that ventures into the sensual. I found quotes about the Cyprian Queen in a poem by Sappho, with Margaret’s things. I wondered then if it was a sign of certain intimacies associated with the philosophy of womanly love found on the island of Lesbos, where Sappho lived and wrote.”

Serena, who had come into the room to check on the tea she always insisted on serving us, paused. We had gotten used to having her around and had long ago stopped caring what she overheard; we were all convinced she was more than trustworthy, and she had occasional insights that were helpful, as on this occasion.

“Such women in my country are burned as witches,” she volunteered, then shook her head angrily. “Terrible.”

My head snapped up. “The girls themselves play with the idea of witchcraft. In fact, they revel in it.”

Valerian peered at me with fresh interest. “What put you on to suspect Sloane-Smith?”

“I have felt tension between us since the beginning. I fear, now that I see it all in retrospect, that I attributed much of what I felt about her to the fact that she reminds me of my stepmother, Judith.”

He rubbed a finger against his chin. “Do you know why she has disliked you?”

I was hesitant to mention Lord Suddington’s attentions, but I could not afford to hold anything back. “She does not like my friendship with Suddington. I thought it was this, anyway. She becomes irate when he . . . well, he has been kind to me.”

“Yes,” Valerian said. His mouth was tight. “I know.”

“This morning, he sent me one of his orchids, and her reaction was positively seething, and that is what got me to think of her again. It has occurred to me before that she is part of this, but I was unable to put together any evidence.”

“And now?”

“Now I know about George Smythe—her ancestor.” I leaned forward animatedly. “It could very well be she was at work back then and the wrong person was hanged. In my studies, I learned that vampires have frequently been discovered to weave into the fabric of their own families over generations. Sloane-Smith has such a family as would be perfect for this strategy, with long branches and many far-flung cousins. It would be a simple thing for the vampire to kill a victim and assume both its aspect and personality, able to live under that identity.”

Valerian threw up his hands. “But this is no good. I myself have seen her out and about in broad daylight, Emma, as have you. She is at the school every day. She can be no vampire if she braves the sun.”

Nonplussed at my obvious oversight, I flushed. “Yes,” I agreed after a moment. “There is no way around that, for she is not by any means nocturnal.”

By this necessity, my suspicions of the headmistress were brought to a halt. Still, it was a shame to abandon this line of thinking, for in every other aspect, it made perfect sense that she was behind the Cyprian Queen. It could have been merely personal, but I felt a deep malevolence from her. Was it only due to her perceived rivalry concerning Lord Suddington?

Demoralization hit me as I left Serena’s cottage to return to Blackbriar. I’d had such hopes it was Sloane-Smith. What increased my despair was the fact that I had no one else in contention—not a single direction to go in to solve this thing before the killing began. And time—I was well aware—was quickly running out.

I
n my exhausting dreams that night, I saw the
dracula chimaera
. It seemed to loom large and predatory over me, its grotesque tentacles alive and quivering as they reached to me . . .

I awoke disoriented and confused. Nausea curdled my stomach as I fought my way out of bed to stand shivering barefoot on the wood floor of my room. What was this—the ague? I felt ill, almost to the point of delirium.

Lighting the lamp, I stared about me, thinking again of the rats. The memory of how they had swarmed me still made me tremble. I looked about. The room was empty. On a thought, I went to the window. It took nearly all of my courage to pull back the curtain to see if Ruthven was lurking outside. There was nothing there, and for a moment I was relieved.

Then I saw that the line of salt I’d used to seal the window was missing. Panic flooded into me as I circled the room wildly, finding it all gone—the small crucifixes, the garlic, everything!

I stumbled to the bag where I kept all of my talismans, my stakes made of holy hawthorn, and other tools of my kind. A quick inspection revealed most of its contents intact, but my vial of holy water and the large silver crucifix I’d once stolen from Saint Michael in the Fields were missing.

My head felt stuffed with cotton, my brain and limbs equally sluggish. What could this mean? It had to have happened recently. I would have noticed . . .

Would I? I did not check my supplies regularly.

What was wrong with me? I felt as if I had caught a fever, but what were the chances I would fall ill coincidentally when someone had tampered with my protections? It had to be some doing of the vampire. Or its little witches . . .

The sound of pounding footsteps penetrated my befuddled state and I heard Eustacia’s voice calling my name. There was a pounding at my door.

“Mrs. Andrews!” she screamed. “Mrs. Andrews, please come! It is Vanessa—she is being murdered!”