by J A Cummings
Rowena stroked his face. “You’re as bad as a dragon.”
“Au contraire,” he objected, settling down for a nap. “Dragons wish they were as wonderful as grimalkins.”
Rowena sat with Grendel as he slept. He had a particular sleeping sound, a purr combined with a snore, that she thought was adorable, and it made her smile to hear it. Grendel had been with her for well over three hundred years, through good times and bad. He only snored when he was at peace, and if her familiar was at peace, well… so was she.
Peace was something she hadn’t known much of, and she hadn’t lived this long by being incautious. While Grendel slept, she cast a spell that erected sturdy wards around the walls of the bungalow. Nothing that meant her harm could come in now, and nothing that she didn’t invite would have any power in her temporary living space. She felt more settled once she cast the spell, and she lay down to rest with her grimalkin.
When the afternoon shadows began to soften toward evening, she left her companion to his nap and returned to the vanity. The gown she would be wearing reminded her of the glittering balls she had attended during the waning days of royalty before the French Revolution. Those had been happy times. She had been the soothsayer to Queen Marie, and as such she had attended hundreds of balls and masques as the royalty blithely ignored the unrest growing around them. Grendel had warned her of the danger just in time, and her return to the New World had kept her head attached to her neck.
She styled her hair the way she had then, pinning her tresses into an elaborate updo accented with a fat sausage curl that draped over her shoulder. She did her make up to match, with a white base and bright red lips. Rowena added a heart-shaped beauty mark on her right cheekbone and surveyed her handiwork in her reflection. The false pallor of her face made the emerald color of her eyes, already just this side of inhuman, stand out like beacons. She was pleased with the effect and wondered when styles had become so drab. She liked this look.
Grendel woke in time to watch her get into her gown. “You need a dresser,” he told her.
“I’ll make do.”
The grimalkin muttered magical words and assumed a human form. He normally hated to do such things, finding bipedal life a diminishment, so she was honored that he had done so just to help her. He crossed the room and helped her into her gown, then laced up the back.
“Thank you,” she said, holding still.
“Don’t let it go to your head.” He kissed her cheek and finished his work.
She thought it was a shame he didn’t spend more time in human form. He was beautiful, with dark hair and brilliant golden eyes. Grendel smiled at her.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Beautiful.” He transitioned back into his four-footed shape. “You’re going to be the belle of the ball.”
“I just hope someone asks me to dance.”
She put on a complicated jet and ruby necklace, the largest ruby falling into the hollow between her breasts.
“You’re going to need a stick to keep all the suitors in line,” Grendel predicted with a purr.
Rowena added the mantilla and her mask, then did a pirouette for her familiar. He nodded appreciatively.
“Beautiful. Have a wonderful time.”
“I’ll try.”
“Negative Nelly!” he scolded. “You will.”
She smiled. “Yes. I will.”
“Very good. Words into action.”
Rowena took a deep breath. It wasn’t like her to fall into the trap of negative thoughts. She understood, like all witches did, that words had power, and since the fire, she had been hemorrhaging fire with negative self-talk. It was time that stopped.
She conjured a black lace fan and gave the grimalkin a deep curtsey. He bowed back.
“Now,” he said firmly, “go knock ‘em dead.”
Chapter Four
The hotel ballroom was enchanting. There were floating will-o’-the-wisps bouncing about near the ceiling, casting their blueish light over the dancefloor. Candles and torches in wall sconces added to the illumination, bright enough to let people see and be seen, but not so bright that the more nocturnal guests of the resort would be made uncomfortable.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight and sound. Dozens of partygoers in formal dress spun on the dancefloor as a string quartet played a monsters’ waltz, the key slightly skewed and the tempo quick. There were werewolves in their furry finery, banshees with their hair streaming down their narrow backs, and everywhere the sound of laughter and ease. There wasn’t a human to be seen, and Rowena was grateful yet again that there was one place in this world where she could find a little respite from homo sapiens.
“Pardon me,” a sepulchral voice said behind her.
She turned to face the speaker. A headless man in an 18th-century Hessian uniform stood there, his cape tossed back over his broad shoulders. He bowed to her, and she curtsied.
“I wonder if I might have this dance, fair maiden,” he said, the epitome of charm. He held out his gloved hand, and she put her fingers in his palm.
“I would be honored, sir.”
The Hessian swept her out onto the dancefloor, maneuvering her with grace and skill. She smiled.
“It’s almost as if we came prepared for one another,” she told him. “We’re dressed for the same time period.”
“I wish I could claim to have that much precognition. If I had known a lady such as yourself would be here, I would have worn a much smarter uniform.”
She heard a smile in his voice and wondered what his head had looked like when it was still attached. “Have you lost your horse, sir?”
He sighed. “Sadly, he was not welcome at the ball, so I left him at my bungalow.” He spun her, his hand secure on her waist. “Perhaps in the daylight you will allow us to take you for a ride through the wood.”
Rowena smiled. “I would be honored… Lieutenant.”
“Ah! You are familiar with my regiment’s insignias.”
“I am. I might even have encountered you before...your accident.”
“A gentle euphemism, to be sure,” he countered. “The revolutionaries aimed their cannon quite deliberately. How fortunate I was to be allowed to survive my death. Had I not, I never would have met a beautiful witch like you.”
She blushed. “You’re incredibly kind.”
“Not at all. I’m incredibly perceptive.”
“You may call me Heinrich,” he said politely, “or Lieutenant Schultz if you’d rather.”
“Rowena Glass. Or just Rowena.”
“The pleasure, Miss Rowena, is all mine.”
“Not all, Heinrich.”
The song ended, and they applauded the musicians. The Headless Horseman bowed to her. If he was a product of his time, and she thought he was, he would know that to dance with a woman more than one song at a time was a declaration of deeper feelings. She curtsied to him.
“Lieutenant. Thank you for the dance.”
“My pleasure, Miss…?”
“Rowena.”
He took her hand and leaned over it as if he meant to kiss it. Unfortunately, lacking lips, he could only bow. He chuckled and straightened.
“Truly, you’ve made me forget my singular condition.”
“I will take that as a compliment, sir.”
The Headless Horseman bowed to her again. “Miss Rowena. Enjoy the ball.”
“I shall.”
She turned and walked toward the table holding the punch bowls. There were four bowls, one holding a deep scarlet liquid that was as thick as syrup when the zombie server poured it from the ladle into a crystal cup. Another had greenish yellow goo, also cloyingly thick, that let off an unpleasant odor. The third bowl was filled with sangria, and the fourth was brown and not too unlike swamp water. She accepted a cup of the sangria and turned to examine the room.
Across the dancefloor, she saw another person dressed for the 18th century. He had a ruggedly handsome face with a square jaw a
nd flashing dark eyes. He wore an emerald green frock coat over a white shirt and a white waistcoat embroidered with gold thread. His cream satin breeches revealed a pair of beautifully developed calves. He saw her looking and raised his glass of ruby liquid to Rowena in salute.
She strolled around the room toward him, keeping to the outer edges of the dancefloor. A quick glance told her that he was doing the same thing, but headed toward her. They met near the French doors leading out into the garden.
“Mademoiselle,” he greeted. His voice was rich, like chocolate rubbed with honey. “May I have this dance?”
He was a vampire, and an old one. The power he exuded curled her toes and made her heart beat race. He extended his hand politely, but those extraordinary eyes bored into hers. She had to try twice before she could get her voice to cooperate so she could speak.
“I would be delighted.”
He escorted her to the floor. The waltz changed into a tango, and she laughed, nervous as a schoolgirl.
“I don’t think my gown is quite appropriate for this.”
“Then we shall make our own music.”
The handsome vampire danced her out into the garden. Rowena had heard and seen the end result of such things happening to human women in the past, but she was reasonably certain that the resort frowned on guests eating other patrons. She also knew that she was no human woman and had means at her disposal of defending herself if it came down to it. Besides, it was a beautiful night, and if a man like this wanted her to himself? She would be a fool to resist.
She followed him out into the cool night air.
He took her by the hand and escorted her to a bench in the garden, situated between two lilac bushes that were groaning with flowers. She touched the blossoms gently, and he smiled at her.
“Forgive me for staring,” he said, “but you are lovely.”
She couldn’t resist flirting. “How can you tell? I’m wearing a mask.”
“As am I.” His mask was a plain black satin affair, just enough to cover the top half of his face. “I see enough of your face to know that you are beautiful, and to think that I may well be stunned when I see the rest.” Rowena blushed again, and he smiled. “May I sit with you?”
“Of course.” She pulled her skirt aside to allow him room on the bench beside her. “Strange… we dress according to a certain era and our manners revert to match.”
The vampire nodded. “I find that the gentility of prior ages is very much lacking in modern culture. Don’t you?”
“I do. So many hook-ups, and internet dating and all of those hook-up apps for phones…” She sighed. “Whatever happened to the good old days of matchmakers and chaperones?”
“Truthfully, matchmakers are busybodies and chaperones are killjoys,” he admitted. “Perhaps some modernization isn’t so very bad.”
She offered her hand. “Rowena Glass.”
“Lucius Marcellus.”
The Latin name intrigued her. “Truly? Are you Roman?”
“I was.” He smiled. “Now you might call me a wanderer. And you?”
“Born in Gaul. My father was Roman.”
“Ah.” Lucius looked uncomfortable. “I hope that your conception was a happy event for your mother.”
Rowena laughed. “Very. They were married and quite in love.”
He nodded, pleased. “That’s wonderful. That wasn’t always the case in the outer provinces.”
“No, indeed.”
Lucius’s gaze swept over the ornamentation on her skirt. “That’s very clever, with the little spiders. Very memorable.”
She spoke without intending to. “I hope there’s more that’s memorable about me than just my dress.”
“It’s too early to say conclusively,” he allowed, “but the indications say ‘yes.’”
They could hear the music in the ballroom switch from the tango back to a stately waltz. Lucius rose and offered her his hand.
“Shall we return to the party?”
Rowena shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know… I was rather enjoying it out here. It’s a beautiful night.”
He tipped his face up toward the full moon, and the silvery light made him seem to glow. Power in the presence of the goddess had a way of doing that, Rowena had learned. Lucius nodded. “A walk through the garden, perhaps?”
She stood and tucked her fan into her pocket. “That would be lovely.”
The Roman vampire offered her his arm, and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. They walked down the stone steps away from the ballroom and into the ornamental garden. Someone had taken a great deal of care to layout the paving stones, grasses, flowers and shrubs. There were geometric patterns studded with coordinating bursts of color, and all paths led to the center of the garden, where a huge golden fountain in the shape of a fantastical fish shot water high into the air.
“Beautiful,” Lucius breathed in appreciation. “The makers of this resort have outdone themselves.”
“I agree. I’ve only been here for a day, but I find it all quite lovely.”
“You’ve not had much chance to explore, I’ll wager.”
They strolled around the circular bank of the fountain’s pool. Coins littered the bottom, scattered dots beneath the crystal blue water. Rowena wondered how many of those coins were ancient, and how many were currencies that no human eye had ever seen.
“No,” she admitted. “But I plan to see it all before I leave.”
“There is much to see.” He took a coin out of a pocket of his frock coat. “Would you care to make a wish?”
Rowena accepted the coin. “A simple wish, or an enchanted one?”
Lucius smiled, and it was a handsome smile. She saw no hint of his fangs. “You are the magical lady,” he said. “I leave that choice to you.”
She whispered a brief incantation over the gold piece in her hand.
“By silver moon and water blue,
may the love you seek come seeking you.”
Rowena tossed the coin into the fountain, using her right hand to throw it over her left shoulder. She heard a loud splash, and the sparkle of magic briefly illuminated the fountain and its pool. Lucius smiled and nodded.
“A pretty spell, to be sure.”
“The best ones are.”
He offered her his arm again, and she accepted it. They continued to walk.
“How much of the island have you seen?” Rowena asked him.
“Oh, all of it…just none of it during the day.” He chuckled. “We’ve been here for the better part of three months, now.”
Her heart sank. “We?”
“Yes. My Maker and I.”
“Your Maker? Not your lover?”
He gave her a look so strange that she regretted asking such a prying question. He stopped walking, and she prepared to be upbraided for her rudeness, something that she would have richly deserved.
“We were at one time,” he told her softly, “but that hasn’t been the case for hundreds of years.”
Rowena looked away from him, feeling foolish. He might have been any married man, exclaiming to the young woman in his sights that his marriage had been over for years. Next he would swear to leave his partner for her, and the time-honored tradition of lies and dishonest would begin anew. Rowena had heard it all before.
“We should go back in,” she said, turning away from him.
She walked a few steps away when his voice stopped her. “I understand that you may not trust me. I can’t fault you for that decision. Please know that you have been a beautiful light in a long darkness for me.”
Rowena turned and looked back at him. “A beautiful light?” she echoed. “You scarcely know me.”
“No,” Lucius admitted, gazing into the fountain’s pool, “but I know goodness when I encounter it. I’m the monster that devours innocence. It draws me.” He looked into her eyes. “You draw me. And for that, I thank you. I had forgotten what is was like to share time and company with a good heart.”
; “Mr. Marcellus,” she said softly, “in this place, we are all monsters.”
“No. Not all of us. No one could say that of you.”
“I’m a witch,” she told him. Those words should have been all the convincing her needed.
“Yes, you are,” he nodded. “But witches can be good.”
“So can vampires.”
Lucius smiled sadly. “Very few of us.”
A hard female voice called out from the steps of the hotel. “Lucius!”
He grimaced. “My mistress calls me. I apologize, Rowena.”
“For what?” He sounded so sad that it broke her heart. She smiled for him, trying to show him that no hard had been done, but if anything, her good humor only made him sadder. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
The woman called again. “Lucius!”
“Would that were the case.” The Roman vampire took her hand and kissed it. His lips were cool, which told her that he hadn’t fed tonight… at least not on anybody living. “I’m sorry that I didn’t meet you sooner. Things could have been so different.”
She had never heard anyone in such bottomless despair. He offered her his arm again, and she accepted it, studying his face. He made a concerted effort to only look straight ahead.
The woman standing on the hotel steps was a beauty. She had long golden hair and was dressed like a goddess, complete with laurel leaves in her hair. The purple hem on her toga and the gold of her mask and jewelry amplified the impression. Her dark eyes glittered as the two of them approached. She was a vampire, too, and older than Lucius.
The female vampire leveled a glare of harsh annoyance on the two of them. “You made me call you twice,” she scolded.
“I”m sorry, Mistress,” he murmured.
The woman turned to Rowena and offered her hand. “I am Julia Silvania Caratacus. And you are?”
“Rowena Glass.”
They clasped hands, and Julia’s mouth turned down at the corners. “A witch?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I see.” Julia turned to Lucius and said in Latin, “This will not be the end of this conversation.”
No doubt they were counting on Rowena not speaking their tongue. She surprised them by responding in the same language, “There’s no conversation to be had. He was being a gentleman and escorting me back in. I’m afraid it was me that made him hesitate.”
