The Dark Blood of Poppies (19 page)

“Ah. That sounds like a bad idea.”

“Sure, she took me for a fool. I think she would’ve stayed as long as my money lasted, if I hadn’t found out she was seeing someone else. Not just one man, a string of them. She can pick and choose, and she only chooses the rich.” He laughed bitterly, on the edge of tears. “I make her sound like a whore, but she’s not. I can’t explain. You’d understand if you met her; men’d just die for her.”

“So, has she ruined you?”

“Oh, the money doesn’t matter. Father isn’t speaking to me, but he’ll come round. I loved her, that’s the problem. When I found out about the others, I went crazy. You know what she did? She laughed. Can you believe it? After everything, she called me an idiot, said I’d got what I deserved. It’s her living, see; she bleeds rich men dry, and if she breaks their hearts in the process, that makes her even happier. My brothers tried to warn me, she’s done it countless times. What she likes best is to take fools like me and ruin them for any other woman.”

“She sounds charming, and not especially unusual.” Sebastian was growing interested, despite himself.

“She’s one on her own, I’m telling you. But the thing is…” He paused, struggling. “She’s here. Came with the ballet folks. After what she did, she walks in with her head in the air, laughing at us!”

“What a nerve,” Sebastian said admiringly. “So that’s why you’re hiding?”

“Couldn’t face her.”

Sebastian shook his head. “You should have done, to show you don’t care.”

“But I do! I still love her.” Russell looked up with hollow, desperate eyes. “I hate her too. I’d like to kill her, then myself.”

“Romantic.”

“If you think this is funny, you can go to—”

“Please, my friend.” Sebastian took Russell’s clenched fist and pushed it away. “I feel for you. But you’ve made yourself her victim, when you should forget this sentimental nonsense of love and think instead of cold-blooded revenge.”

Russell stared at Sebastian, jerked out of his self-absorption. Then he slumped. “I can’t. It’s pathetic, but I’m beyond it.”

“Then perhaps I could do it for you.”

“You?” Another flash of life, tinged with alarm. “How?”

“I could do to her what she has done to you. A taste of her own poison.”

The man’s eyes were huge, his mouth slack with astonishment. Sebastian smiled. Russell plainly realised that it was not an empty threat. Terror sobered him. “No. I couldn’t do that to her.”

“Describe her and tell me her name.”

“No. No.”

“Why not? How will she understand what she’s done, unless she suffers as you have?”

Russell hesitated, trembling. Sebastian saw an instinctive desire to protect his ex-lover warring with unholy excitement. Then he whispered, “Her name’s Roberta Stafford. She lives on Chestnut Street. You’ll know her – she’s so beautiful, with brown hair like all the colours of fall. Her friends call her Robyn, with a ‘y’.” He caught his breath, as if to suck back the information he’d spilled.

“I look forward to meeting her,” said Sebastian. His hand slid along Russell’s shoulder to the damp skin of his neck. “No regrets, now. Remind yourself that she deserves it.”

“Yes. But…” There was desperate anxiety in his eyes. “You won’t hurt her? Physically, I mean.”

“No more than this.” Sliding down on to the couch, Sebastian covered the strong young body with his own. He felt his fangs spring through the tender skin.

“What–?” One feeble protest, then surrender. Sebastian was already drinking his hot, pulsating blood, absorbing the ambience of smoke and stale alcohol and despair.

I doubt they’ll find the body until after the party
, thought Sebastian.
And they’ll think the poor heartbroken boy drank himself to death.

* * *

Robyn was happy tonight. She’d been content on her uncle’s arm as they’d taken their seats for
Swan Lake
; nothing to prove, no one to impress. The ballet was a delight. As for her guilt about letting Alice down, she’d assuaged it by buying Alice tickets for a different night.

Leaving the theatre afterwards, she saw Harold with his wife in the crowd. Robyn amused herself by catching his eye. How satisfying to see his eyes bulge in sudden terror, blood engorging his face! She heard his wife – a formidable matriarch – exclaim in annoyance as Harold steered her at an abrupt right angle.

“Someone you know?” asked Josef.

Robyn laughed. “Not officially.”

Harold, thankfully, was not at the after-show party.

Although Robyn was unimpressed by status, money or talent, she found the idea of mingling with the dancers oddly thrilling. On stage, they’d seemed too ethereal to be quite human… particularly Violette Lenoir.

“This is wonderful,” she whispered as she and Josef entered the ballroom.

“Very impressive,” said Josef, looking around.

“No, not the room. James Wilberforce Booth has three sons: Russell, Victor and William. I had an affair with Russell. Now his family loathes me. Watch them looking daggers at me! I shouldn’t be here, but there isn’t a damn thing they can do.”

“Oh, Robyn,” her uncle said sadly. The narrow eyes of Victor and William poured venom in her direction. “Don’t you mind them glaring?”

“No, I love it. They’re the ones tearing themselves apart, not me.”

“But what if you bump into Russell?”

“What if I do? I might lead him on and drop him all over again. Don’t look at me like that! I am joking.”

“Are you?” said Josef, shaking his head. She only smiled, knowing he loved her too much to condemn her.

Russell, however, did not appear. The Booth family ignored her, as if it were beneath their dignity to make a scene. Robyn relaxed.

There were people here she knew. Some shunned her, but there were plenty of others prepared to overlook her scandalous reputation, simply because she was attractive and good company. They found genuine sweetness in her character, and couldn’t believe the worst.

The evening was convivial, until Josef took her to meet his friends. The moment she saw them, the atmosphere changed.

The strangers made a strikingly attractive couple. Charlotte was the daughter of an old friend, said Josef, but his excuse was transparent.
So
, Robyn thought,
this is the mystery woman! How sad that he loves her without hope…
Robyn read their stances and gestures like an adept. Charlotte, although clearly fond of Josef, had an unbreakable bond with the man at her side. Meanwhile, Karl and Josef quietly resented each other.

Her impressions went deeper. Karl and Charlotte were not merely beautiful but curiously vivid. Charlotte’s solemn face and violet eyes were wreathed by gold-frosted hair, her arms pale and slender against the russet velvet of her dress. And Karl could well be one of the male dancers. He had that slender strength and grace, a dark presence that was quiet yet overwhelming. To Robyn it seemed the ballroom and guests were sketched in watercolour, while these two were painted in rich oils. They had luminosity, beauty and depth more extreme than reality.

Unnerving. Accustomed to being the centre of attention, for once Robyn felt invisible. She made light-hearted conversation, trying not to give away how irrationally disturbed she felt. Perhaps Josef sensed it too. He ended the exchange abruptly and led her away, suddenly pale.

“What’s wrong, dear?” she said. “Are you unwell?”

“No, no, I’m quite all right. But we can’t keep them all evening, they have to circulate.”

Robyn didn’t argue. There were too many people, introductions to be made, one conversation spilling into the next. The dancers, mostly female, were noticeable for their swan-like grace. A wealth of human beauty. Robyn became languorously enchanted, seeing the room through a crystal haze. Everyone seemed to move slowly, like swimmers through a flooded temple, their pearly flesh adorned with silk and jewels.

Through this uncanny light, she watched Karl and Charlotte from a distance.

Together or apart, they kept exchanging glances as if passing thoughts by telepathy. Always observing others, too, like spies. Emotionally, they were wrapped around each other like vines. With strangers, they were friendly but unreadable. With each other, their faces became radiant, expressive, conveying a hundred thoughts without words. Karl’s long dark lashes lowered as he spoke softly to Charlotte; her expression ignited into sunlit charm as she responded.

Watching them, Robyn burned.
Oh lord, not jealousy
, she thought. She despised romantic love as a lie, yet it hurt to be reminded that for some, it was true.
Even if it’s not forever
, she thought cynically.
However strong, there’s always something that might break it. Oh, but to feel such passion, if only for a month, a year, a day! If I could be seventeen again and unbruised…

A rise in the level of conversation jolted her. There was a flurry of excitement, a wave of applause. The
prima ballerina assoluta
had arrived.

Like worker bees around their queen, everyone began clustering around Violette Lenoir. Minutes passed before Robyn even saw her.

Then she glimpsed a small woman, a sylph in ashes-of-roses silk and silver lace, lilies in her coiled black hair. On stage she projected a commanding presence; in life she looked softer, more delicate, and wholly a star. A weird shiver went through Robyn: a shocking recognition of another creature like Karl and Charlotte.

But recognition of what?
Robyn wondered, disturbed. She felt Josef’s hand on her elbow. He too was staring at Violette.

“Well, there she is,” Robyn said cheerfully. “The star of the show. Do I get to meet her?”

“No, I…” Josef took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I don’t think so.”

“Uncle, are you sure you’re not ill? Do you want me to take you home?”

“No, but I think you should go.” He tucked the handkerchief away.

“Why? I’m enjoying myself.”

“Some of the people here… they are not so nice.”

She laughed gently, imitating his Viennese accent. “Oh, Uncle, what makes you think I’m so nice?”

“I mean it. They may be… dangerous.”

“Ballet dancers? What are they going to do, pirouette us to death?”

“I’m serious, Robyn. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I didn’t think.”

“Well, if you won’t explain, I’m going nowhere. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”

His expression closed and he gave a small, resigned shake of his head. An autumn-clad figure slid quietly to his side: Charlotte.

“May I steal your uncle for a while?” Her voice was lovely, Robyn noticed, with its English delicacy. She gave Robyn a look of genuine warmth. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Go ahead,” Robyn answered with a smile. She watched them walk away, the golden-brown head tilted towards Josef’s shoulder.

Within seconds, a man – one of her hopeful admirers – cornered her, but others joined them so she was able to excuse herself and edge around the dance floor towards the beckoning peace of the garden.

What’s the matter with everyone tonight
? she wondered.
Me, especially. I need air.

Heads turned as she passed but she took no notice. They were like dream figures. Her sense of unreality verged on euphoria. And… yes, a twinge of jealousy that Josef was privileged to meet Violette Lenoir.

Why
? she thought.
Some of the people here may be dangerous? How in heaven’s name am I supposed to take that?

* * *

As Charlotte led Josef to the corner where Violette was holding court, he said, “Won’t she be suspicious of your motive for introducing me?”

“Oh, probably,” Charlotte replied. “She misses nothing. But I won’t let her hurt you, Josef, believe me. Talk about the weather, ballet, anything, but observe her and tell me what you think. And be careful what you say to me, because we have sharp hearing.”

His expression was dark with misgiving. “Really, I don’t know that I’ll be of any use.”

“Nor do I. It’s just a feeling that you might see
something
we’ve missed.”

“Ah. There is a name for this exercise,” he said.

“Yes?”

“It’s called clutching at straws.”

Violette sat in an alcove between marble pillars, embowered by green ferns, receiving a stream of admirers. No one tried to monopolise her, Charlotte noticed. Violette leaned forward in her chair, hands folded in her lap, her ankles crossed. A defensive posture. Yet she sounded relaxed as she spoke to a middle-aged couple.

“Our daughter just loves the ballet,” said the wife. “We wondered, Madame, if you would be so gracious as to see her dance, tell us if she has a future? You must be dreadfully busy, I know.”

“It’s no trouble,” Violette said kindly. “Bring her to the theatre tomorrow afternoon.” And the couple gushed in gratitude.

Charlotte knew that Violette had once hated this attention, the unavoidable by-product of her talent, but her transformation enabled her to endure it. Easy for an immortal to act the gracious goddess – and Violette was nothing if not an actress.

Too many people wanted to meet her: introducing Josef was impossible. Instead, Charlotte and Karl found chairs, and the three seated themselves at the edge of the group. Josef turned even paler. He removed his spectacles, polished them, replaced them on the long blade of his nose.

“What is it?” said Charlotte. Karl’s face was impassive.

Josef replied quietly, “It’s like the first time I saw you, Charlotte; I mean, the first time I realised what you are.” He glanced uneasily at Karl. “Now I can hardly fail to see the signs in others. It’s disturbing, to put it mildly. But she is… oh, more than beautiful. Divine and terrifying. What else could Lilith be?”

He spoke in a whisper, but the word was a soft hiss.
Lilith.
As he spoke it, Violette looked up, her gaze travelling past her immediate companions and locking on to Charlotte’s. Eyes dark with anger, she rose from her chair. “If you would excuse me…” she said, weaving through her admirers.

She came towards Charlotte, Karl and Josef like a serpent poised to strike. Josef’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. Violette fixed Charlotte with a glare, as if to demand,
How dare you bring some human to stare at me as if I were a specimen?
Then her glance flicked away. She glided past them and vanished into the crowd.