The Dark Blood of Poppies (38 page)

The cries grew fainter but more desperate.

“A mother’s boy,” Cesare sneered. “John will knock that out of him. The more completely John breaks them, the simpler they are to reshape. Twenty so far; how many more, do you think, before we begin the transformations?”

“As many as you wish,” Simon said, trying to sound interested. “But let’s keep the number manageable. Thirty should be enough, not an army of thousands.”

“Of course. I believe in moderation.” Cesare’s gaze slid sideways to meet his. “The thousands will follow in good time. They’re not just an immortal army against Lilith; they are for the world
after
Lilith.”

“The bright new day,” Simon murmured.

“Quite so.” Cesare’s face shone with a soft, radiant smile. “Which reminds me, we should discuss the question of transformation. The order of initiation will be crucial –”

“Don’t worry,” Simon interrupted. “We’ll talk later. All will be well.”

Cesare looked reassured. Simon walked away, the human’s sobs dwindling but still audible; an irritating noise, like a constantly whining dog. Even when he reached a small chamber at the top of the castle, he could still hear it. He stared out of a narrow window at the forest beyond.

“What you don’t realise, Cesare,” he muttered to himself, “is that unless we seduce Charlotte, Karl and even Sebastian to our cause, your dreams may never bear fruit. They are the crucial ones. By refusing to join us, they aid Lilith.”

So close I came to winning Charlotte
… The memory of her fangs piercing his neck burned Simon as much with ecstasy as humiliation.
The fact that she outwitted me only proves me right. With her on Lilith’s side, an army of green fledglings will fall like grass to a scythe.

The grey light rippled. Simon looked round to see two figures emerging from Raqia: his rejected lovers again, Fyodor and Rasmila. Pathetic waifs.

This time, however, they didn’t rush to cling around his neck. Instead they greeted him with formal bows, self-controlled and dignified.

“We’ve given you time to reconsider,” said Rasmila. “If you still insist that you no longer want us, we’ll accept your word. You will never see us again. But if you’ll give us a last chance to prove our love…”

She looked resigned, not hopeful. Fyodor’s chalky face was gaunt, like a man facing the gallows. Yet their dignity touched Simon. Or… perhaps his contempt for Cesare and John made him more tolerant of his former companions’ failings.

“Well, I make no promises,” he said thoughtfully. “But there are matters in which you may be of use, after all.”

Their faces lit up. They gasped his name, but he turned his back on their gratitude and incredulous delight. In the depths of the castle, Werner’s sobs became the whimpering of an abandoned child.

* * *

Five days passed before Sebastian went to Robyn again. To his disappointment, her house was deserted.

He entered and wandered the rooms in darkness, imagining her everywhere, looking at silver-framed photographs on her polished sideboards. Four pretty young women in wide-brimmed hats, laughing in an open-topped car: Robyn and her sisters? A formal Edwardian couple: mama and papa, no doubt. A very young Robyn in a cowboy hat, sitting on a horse. A lean-faced, intelligent-looking man arm in arm with two women… this one had a caption. “Mommy, Josef and Lisl, 1902.”

No photographs of the dead husband, no happy wedding scenes.

All her possessions looked expensive, gorgeous. Ornaments, vases of fresh flowers, creamy lace on dark wood. He breathed her lingering scent, imagining her in the parlour, or climbing these stairs… brushing her hair at this dressing table, stretching out on the bed… her tall voluptuous body dappled by moonlight.

Ah, I wish you were home tonight, my Robyn.

Yet he didn’t wait for her. A pensive mood fell on him. To see her now would destroy the magic of haunting her empty house. It was as if Robyn, not he, were the ghost.

Sebastian recalled another house he’d loved. He felt the place calling powerfully to him, although it lay across an ocean. Perverse, that he felt more affinity with houses than he ever had with sentient beings.

But the thought of Blackwater Hall reminded him of Simon, Ilona and the others. He cursed.
Am I lingering here
, he thought,
to avoid their intrusions into my life? Perhaps. What of it? I don’t want them, but I do want Robyn.

When he left, he waited another four days before returning. He wanted to punish Robyn a little, for not being there precisely when he’d needed her.

* * *

Every knock at the door made Robyn’s heart leap and drum in her throat. It was never him, of course. When had he ever bothered to announce his arrival?

Tonight – ten days since she’d last seen Sebastian – she jumped by reflex, then scolded her nerves into submission.
Let Mary answer it
, she thought. Unless it’s Harold, I’ll play the gracious hostess for fifteen minutes then get rid of them.

A minute later, Mary entered and announced two names that sent a chill through her.

“Mr Victor Booth and Mr William Booth to see you, ma’am.”

Russell’s brothers. The last people in the world she wanted here, but propriety demanded that she face them.

“Show them in,” Robyn said, resigned.

Two young men, with close-cropped brown hair, entered with their hats in their hands.

“Mary, take their coats,” she said, but the older one raised his hand.

“There’s no need, ma’am. This won’t take long. I’m William and this is Victor, my brother.”

“Yes, I remember. It’s a pleasure to see you,” she lied. “How may I help?”

The two were of average height, thickset, as serious as detectives. Neither attempted to shake her hand. Their fleshy, shiny faces recalled their brother, although he’d taken the family’s meagre share of good looks to the grave with him.

“You remember our brother Russell, Mrs Stafford?” said William.

Their eyes were dull and hard as gunmetal, accusing. Robyn’s invisible armour slid into place. “I know. I was terribly sorry to hear of his death. Won’t you have a drink?”

“We don’t drink, ma’am,” said Victor. His voice was weak, with a strangled note that people must love to imitate. “Neither did Russell, until he met you. Then it seems he drank himself to death.”

She had a ghastly feeling of
déjà-vu
: Sebastian in the Booths’ garden, insinuating that she was Russell’s murderer. But surely Sebastian had no connection to these men? Preposterous… but what if he did?

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re implying, if anything.” She spoke lightly, as if this was a friendly conversation.

“I think it’s clear enough,” said Victor. He was less sure of himself than William. She could take advantage of that.

“Are you suggesting I had something to do with his death?” she said in soft amazement. She moved deeper into the room, while they stayed by the door. Harder to hit a moving target, she thought. “That’s unfair. I was fond of your brother. He was a nice guy, the best. We saw each other for a while, but he was so young…”

“Too young to die,” said William. “Too young to kill himself over a whore like you. Don’t act innocent, Mrs Stafford. Everyone in town knows about you.”

“What do you want?” she said sharply.

“We want you out of Boston. Go, or we’ll smear your reputation over any town where you try to settle. We will ruin you.”

Robyn gave no sign that she’d heard. She pretended to be lost in thought, one hand playing with the slide that held her hair coiled on her neck. The slide came free. Sweeping her hair over her right shoulder – a gesture she’d perfected to seem artless – she was about to begin her appeal, only to be arrested by the certainty that Sebastian was nearby.

She ignored the feeling. Eyes downcast, she said, “Do you really blame me? I thought he’d get over it. I never realised… God, if it’s true, I’ll never forgive myself!”

She swayed. Victor started towards her, thinking – as she’d intended – that she was going to faint.

“I’m fine,” she said as he hovered, looking confused. “What could I do, but end our relationship? I shouldn’t have let it begin, I admit that. But what was the alternative to ending it? I hardly think your family would have approved of our marriage, do you?”

She was a faultless, natural actress. Victor was half hers already, so she focused on William.

“If I caused his troubles, I’m sorry. Folk say you’re fair, Christian men who wouldn’t dream of making such accusations against a widow on her own. Especially not ones based on rumour. You don’t actually know me, do you?”

Even William looked less sure of himself. Not finding her the hard-faced witch they’d expected, they didn’t know how to proceed.
A few more moments
, she thought,
and they’ll be eating out of my hand – or drinking my bourbon, the miserable abstainers.

Now she would invite them to sit, and she’d ask questions about Russell, perhaps cry a little. Favour one brother, create jealousy, divide them. Playing this game with two at once would be fun.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” she began. “Whatever you want, let’s talk first. You don’t object, do you?”

“No, ma’am,” William said with reluctance.

As he spoke, she heard a footstep in the hall. Then Sebastian appeared in the doorway. He wore a dark overcoat and looked forbidding, every inch a creature of subtly malevolent strength.

The brothers, still on their feet, stared at him.

“You’d better be leaving now, gentlemen.” Sebastian’s soft tone was a promise of violence. “If it takes two grown men to intimidate one woman, I think you should be crawling back under your stones while you can still walk. And if you ever come near Mrs Stafford again, you’ll be reunited with your brother sooner than you hoped.”

Robyn could only stare, incredulous, as William confronted the vampire.

“Whoever you are, sir, this is none of your god-damned –”

Sebastian’s hand shot out and landed on William’s throat. He appeared to exert no pressure. He fixed the brothers with gleaming eyes, but both men stared back as if he’d produced a gun. William turned grey.

“Out,” said Sebastian.

Both men jammed their hats on their heads and fled.

Sebastian turned to Robyn with a look of amusement. “Well, that was easy,” he said.

“How dare you!” she exploded.

“How dare I – what?” He appeared stunned by her reaction.

“Interfere in my life!” She felt livid enough to attack him. “You had absolutely no right!”

“Beautiful child, they were threatening you. They deserved the fear of hell putting into them, gutless pigs.”

“I was coping perfectly well on my own, thank you! I didn’t ask for your help and I don’t need it. They came here hating me. They would have left thinking what a warm, wonderful and wronged person I am. Given time, I’d have sent them both the same way as their precious baby brother.”

“To the grave?”

“To the bottle! Russell told me the reason they’re both teetotallers is that Victor used to be an alcoholic. It would have been my pleasure to make him lapse. I love corrupting evangelists.”

Sebastian gazed at her in wonder. “You truly have an evil streak, don’t you?” He came to her and stroked her arm. “I thoroughly approve.”

“I don’t need your approval.” She folded her arms. “I’m nothing like you.”

“Yes, you are. You’re exactly like me.”

“Go to hell.”

Without visible reaction, Sebastian turned side-on and gazed at the floor. “So, these men,” he said. “Would you have gone to bed with them?”

“If necessary.”

“Good thing I got here in time, then, is it not? And while we’re on that subject, I want you to stop seeing that little old rich man who’s always here.”

“Harold Charrington?”

“Whoever he is – and although he’s old enough to be your father, I assume he’s
not
your father, unless you’re even more perverse than I thought – you’ll stop seeing him.”

Robyn gaped at him. “You are absolutely unbelievable.”

“Well?”

“You don’t come near me for days on end – then you saunter in making ridiculous demands? What gives you the right? And why the hell are you so possessive, all of a sudden?”

Sebastian went quiet. His change of mood alarmed her.

“I want you to myself, Robyn. I don’t want other men with you when I’m not.” His eyes were enticing, but his possessiveness aggravated her. And she thought,
He could kill me. Just seize and murder me, if I say something he doesn’t like.

Defying him was coldly thrilling.

“You’re asking too much. I won’t change my life for anyone. And I won’t stop seeing Harold. He needs me, I enjoy his money, and he’s the only man I don’t actively hate.”

“Are you saying that you hate me?”

“Of course I hate you,” she answered harshly. “What did you think?”

He grinned. He began to laugh.

“What’s the joke?” she said, infuriated.

“The joke is this, my dear. The ‘brothers grim’ came seeking vengeance, when actually it was me who killed your young lover.”

The floor sank under her. She felt dull horror, but not surprise.

“How?”

“I met him at the Booths’ party. He was hiding upstairs and drinking himself into a stupor because you’d had the effrontery to turn up. When I told you I knew him, I lied. It was the first and last time we met. A young man alone, very drunk because the
Dame aux camélias
had broken his heart, needing a shoulder to weep on. Unfortunately, he chose mine. And I came looking for you afterwards, because his description of you so intrigued me. By the way, he didn’t exaggerate.”

She was stepping away from him, mouth open with denial.

“You sat and sympathised – then you killed him? And then you came hunting me?” She remembered Sebastian’s silhouette in the arbour like a dark dream. “And you had the nerve to come and tell me Russell’s death was my fault!”

“Ah, but I take such pleasure from telling lies and being cruel. Don’t you?”

“So his death wasn’t my fault.” Her fingers danced over the back of a sofa as she backed away. “He didn’t kill himself over me!”