The Dark Blood of Poppies (21 page)

As he watched from a distance through the glass doors, his thirst stirred. So warm and alive she looked, the opposite of Violette. Laughing, confident, seductive in her gleaming world. The centre of attention.

Ah, the first glimpse of her face! A surprise, as he’d anticipated. Not a fragile or simpering beauty. Her features were emphatic: a strong nose and chin, soft brown eyes that narrowed with mischief when she laughed, a mobile, deep red mouth. She looked warm, kind and poised: a strong character. People accepted her, despite her reputation, because they
liked
her. And she was lovely. A shaft of creamy fire, tipped by the chestnut jewel of her hair.

His disappointment over the ballerina was dust.

Sebastian wanted Robyn fiercely, but he wouldn’t go inside. No, he’d wait in the shadows, at one with the night that was his soul’s twin: dispassionate, brooding, limitless.

“So, you came after all?” said Ilona’s voice a few feet away.

He turned, saw her leaning against an ivy-covered wall. Although her composure appeared undamaged by his earlier attack, her eyes had an icy glitter.

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” said Ilona. “I’m glad we met: I was just growing bored. So, here we are, both hiding and spying. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Sebastian looked stonily at her, folding his arms. “You’re free to leave.”

She frowned. “Are you still being a swine?”

Sensing a human nearby, he pushed Ilona behind a tree. “Why pester me,” he said, “unless I broke your heart when I left Schloss Holdenstein?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she whispered. “I enjoy getting on your nerves, that’s all.”

“You always did.”

The human passed by. They pressed into the darkness, faces hidden, like lovers. Sebastian caught Robyn’s perfume: jasmine, rain-soaked flowers, the secret heat of her body, and the pull of her blood…

In his desire for Robyn he held Ilona tight, feeling her stiffen and gasp with pleasure.

“Be nicer, Sebastian,” she said softly, “or I’ll tell Karl you’re here.”

“Oh, and what could Karl do about me?”

“Well, he has interests in certain humans and he knows what you’re like. He’d want to protect them, which would rather cramp your style. And you don’t want to tangle with Violette, believe me.”

“She’s nothing,” he said. “But you don’t want Karl catching you, either, do you? The threat works both ways.”

She shrugged. “No, it doesn’t. He’ll notice me soon enough. His attention matters less to me than to you.”

Ilona reads me too well
, he thought with an inward sigh. “And if I’m nice to you, dearest?”

She smiled at his mordant tone. “No one will ever know you were here. Our little secret.”

“You have a point,” he said, warming to her more from increasing lust than friendship. Her body felt firm and lithe against his. “We’re too alike to tell tales.”

“That’s right,” Ilona breathed. “Don’t spoil my fun and I won’t spoil yours.” Her mouth glistened dark red, succulent. Her hands moved over his chest, tantalising. Now her presence was no longer unwelcome. “We should find somewhere quieter, don’t you think?”

And if Sebastian was aware that Robyn met another woman in the darkness, the impression was no more than the flutter of leaves.

* * *

As Violette reappeared from the garden, Charlotte took her arm and steered her into a verandah, a cool square room with marble benches and potted ferns. The party shimmered beyond the pillars, while this space was deserted, dim and echoic.

“How could you, Violette? If I hadn’t called just then, you would have fed on her, wouldn’t you?”

Violette jerked her arm from Charlotte’s grasp, her eyes glacial.

“I find you incredible. After months of pleading with me to accept my thirst, as soon as I find a victim, you interrupt and lose your temper! How dare you?”

“I dared to stop you,” Charlotte said furiously, “because you attacked someone I promised would be safe.”

“Do you imagine you’re responsible for protecting individuals? That’s dishonest.”

“No, it isn’t! Anyone else, Violette – but not Josef, and not Robyn! He’s my friend. She’s his niece.”

“I know. I saw them together.”

“But you don’t care?”

The lapis eyes widened, star-flecked. “Who is this human friend, Charlotte? I told you he was aboard the ship, and at the ballet, and you wouldn’t admit you knew him! Then you bring him to stare at me, like a doctor assessing me for an asylum. Why?”

Charlotte looked down, embarrassed. Nothing escaped Violette. “Because that’s what he is, in a way.”

“What?” The frost in her eyes turned to flame.

“He studies mythology and psychology. I hoped that if we understood why you think you are Lilith, it might help. I wanted to tell you. I didn’t, because I knew you’d refuse to see him.”

“So instead you lie, and sneak him into my presence?”

“I’m sorry. But… I knew you’d react like this.”

The last words, spoken quickly, seemed to defuse Violette’s rage. She laughed, but her face was colourless.

“What do you expect? How many times must I say, stop trying to help me? You’re as bad as the others, who would burn me at the stake! Anything to deny what I am – but at least my enemies are honest!”

Charlotte turned away and sat on a bench, one hand clasping her bowed head.

“Is that why you chose Robyn – to punish me?” she said.

“For heaven’s sake,” said Violette. “You should know me better! It was nothing to do with you or Josef.”

Charlotte looked up. As always, the sight of Violette – a birch-pallid figure contrasted by the sooty blackness of her hair – stirred her deeply. “Why, then?”

“Because I saw a mass of pain and mistakes inside her. Her soul is webbed with bitterness… and I wanted to tear it all out.”

Still angry, Charlotte was disinclined to listen.

“This is the thirst, Violette. It finds any tortuous route to be satisfied.”

“No. I see
inside
people. I don’t want to, I hate it! But when I meet someone like Robyn, I have an urge… to bite. To suck out the poison, make her see what a fool she’s been.” She paused. A caprice of light made it seem that a demon shone like a dark skeleton through the fabric of Violette’s clothes and flesh, as if she’d become translucent. The impression was horrific.

Violette said lightly, “This conversation is a waste of time. Let’s return to the party.”

“Will you speak to Josef? Give him a chance, at least.”

“No, I won’t,” Violette said imperiously. “And don’t ever try such a trick again! Come, Karl will wonder where you are.”

For once, Charlotte had no desire to prolong the argument. “You’re right,” she said coldly. She stood up, not even wanting to look at Violette. But as they approached the ballroom, the dancer stroked her arm with sharp fingernails.

“You didn’t stop me feeding on Robyn. If the moment had been right, I would have taken her there and then. I’ll do so eventually. And when the time comes, Charlotte, I’ll do the same to you.”

* * *

Robyn was recovering, trying to rationalise what had happened.
A woman made a pass at me! Why am I surprised? After all, I’ve a shrewd idea of why Alice is so devoted to me, although she’d be mortified if she knew I guessed, poor puritan soul… No, it was her blatancy, and the fact of who she is.
Violette Lenoir!

She stretched, leaning back into the ivy.
I need a drink
, she thought,
a real one. I’ll go find Josef
…
God, what a strange evening!

I think I was willing to let her seduce me.

A sinking sensation went through her. An ache.
I never thought of women that way but, God, I’m so sick of men, anything would be better. Yet I had a feeling Violette didn’t really want me. She wanted me to want
her
, so she could reject and humiliate me. Was that her game?

Robyn’s heart hardened.
So, the great dancer has problems? Well, Madame, you can leave me out of them.

Bitterly amused, she began walking back towards the house. A tunnel of climbing roses led to a pergola with a little fountain dancing in the centre. On the far side, blocking her path, stood a man, a stranger.

She stopped, annoyed. Retracing her steps would look ridiculous. Besides, a gentleman would step aside and let her pass.

“Good evening,” she said, walking around the fountain.

“Good evening.” He didn’t move, so she had to stop awkwardly in front of him.

“Excuse me, please.”

He only looked at her, eyes half-veiled. He was a little under six feet, no more than five inches taller than her, but he seemed to be looking down from a great height. In the shadows, she could hardly see his face. Only the hint of a firm chin, an unsmiling, sculptural mouth, those disdainful eyelids. Dark, thick hair. Elegant bearing… another dancer?

Then the feeling hit her again, setting her nerves aflame. He was too vivid, too overpowering.
This man is another like Karl and Charlotte and Violette.

“Would you please let me pass?” she said tightly.

“Forgive me, madam, but are you Mrs Roberta Stafford?” The voice was quiet with coiled strength, the accent soft with a hint of Boston Irish. A neutral voice, fitting a creature who blended with shadows.

“I am,” she said guardedly.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“Well, I was at the party all evening…”

He cut across her. “I have some news. Bad news.”

“What is it?” Chilled, she felt a rush of dread.

“I regret to say that your ex-lover, Russell Booth, is dead. He took his own life, Mrs Stafford. He killed himself because of you.”

The garden tipped and slanted away beneath her.

When she revived, she was on a wooden seat under the pergola. The stranger was beside her, holding her arm. His fingers felt like cold satin.

“Are you all right?”

“I never faint,” she said, drawing deep breaths. The cause wasn’t the news itself, but his gentle, dark voice: a stab of guilt, as if Death itself had pointed an accusing finger.

“You’re in shock,” he said. So sombre: a spirit from the shadow-world, unreal yet electrifying. She pressed her fingers to her temples.

“Wait,” she said. “He can’t possibly be dead. He lives here. If he’d committed suicide, I hardly think his family would be throwing a party.”

“Perhaps they don’t know how depressed he is – how much he’s drinking because you came here tonight.”

“He can’t be dead.”

“If not, it’s no thanks to you,” said the soft voice. “If he is – you’re responsible.”

“This is crazy. Help me inside, please,” she said sharply. Perhaps if she saw him in electric light, among other people – but he didn’t move. Robyn began to shiver. The detached faceless presence of death… she felt herself fading again, blood rushing from her head.

Collecting herself, she spoke in anger. “Sir, I’m terribly sorry to hear about Russell’s problems, but my contact with him ended weeks ago. This is nothing to do with me. You have no right to make such insinuations!”

“I stated a fact. In his eyes, your callous treatment destroyed him.”

“How do you know?” She sat forward, gripping the edge of the seat, preparing to run. “Who are you?”

“Only the messenger, Mrs Stafford.”

Impossible, but – he was transparent. She could see the bench and the climbing roses right through him.

Her head swam. Gasping, she shut her eyes.

When she looked again, she was alone. Air stirred softly in the space where he’d been: a ghost, her own conscience, or an actual spectre from limbo seeking revenge?

Impossible.

Robyn stood up. Walking as briskly as she could without actually running, she gained the columned verandah. Great squares of blond light swam in her vision. On the steps she missed her footing, and collapsed into Karl’s arms.

C
esare found John at a table in his cell, his bald, scarred head bent over a book. Pierre was there too, slumped on a pallet as if he’d lost all interest in living.

“The world of mortals is a terrible place,” Cesare said gravely from the doorway. “A sewer.”

“What?” Pierre looked up, his face skull-hollow and waxen. Candlelight gleamed horribly on its starved planes. His eyes were bulging orbs, his unwashed hair straggled in matted curls. Cesare regarded him with both pity and irritation.

“A sewer,” he repeated, “infested by vermin who squabble without dignity to survive, who breed without discrimination, maim and kill each other for entertainment, and worship depravity. Who think that, for a stab of remorse and a prayer, God will forgive them.”

“This is news?” Pierre said wearily.

Cesare stiffened with rage at his insolence.
However, a leader must tolerate petty faults in his followers
, he thought.
I’ve endured the world’s horror, but I can and I will do something about it!

These two victims of Lilith filled him with sudden sympathy. John, no longer the self-contained monk, appeared demented and monstrous. His scalp would have healed if he’d let it; instead, he continued to mutilate himself, as if in penance. On the corner of the table sat Matthew’s head, like a grisly candle welded there by its own wax. The flesh was beginning to desiccate, lips drawing back in a ghastly grin, fangs hanging at full length. Vampire flesh, it seemed, did not decay like that of humans, but turned slowly to dust.