The Demon Count

by Anne Stuart

  And then suddenly I was completely awake, still not dar­ing to move a muscle, as I became chillingly aware of ex­actly where I was: lying in the demon-count's arms, for all the world as if that was where I belonged.

  Through the darkened shutters I could make out the first traces of daylight, a daylight that was surely never allowed to penetrate into the secure reaches of Luc's bedroom. Slowly, carefully, I moved out of the protecting circle of his arms, almost crying out with the physical pain of separa­tion from him. Sitting up on the still-made bed, I looked down at my guardian's smooth, untroubled face.

  He slept as one dead, did Lucifero del Zaglia, an un­pleasant notion on my part that I couldn't rid myself of. At some point during the night he had drawn a rich velvet throw over us, and with an inaudible sigh I slipped from beneath it, my bare feet cringing as they touched the chill marble floor. Pulling my disordered nightdress around my chilled body, I was conscious of two overwhelming emo­tions. First was a desire to crawl back into that bed beside him, and second, outraged and illogical pride that the demon-count, self-proclaimed lecher and despoiler of vir­gins, had allowed his ward to sleep the night through un­molested in his arms. Was I so unattractive? I demanded of myself. Did he agree with Rosetta's estimation, that I was a stupid, ugly English cow? Surely I had practically offered myself to him last night, and he hadn't even both­ered to take me! I could hardly acquit him of noble mo­tives: I doubted he knew the meaning of morality.

  Suddenly my eyes fell upon a beautifully inlaid rosewood desk beside the bed. On it was a book, with a sheaf of papers hastily stuffed inside it. I hadn't the nerve to read them—Luc could awake at any time and disprove the ru­mors of the supernatural that surrounded him. But I doubted he would.

  Hastily I took up the papers and tucked them down the front of my thin night rail. I turned back to look at my guardian.

  Staring down at the chiseled perfection of his alabaster profile, I wanted to scream and weep and hit him. I had to content myself with slamming the heavy, inlaid door very loudly behind me.

  In the early hours of the dawn the halls of Edentide lost their terrifying qualities. Indeed, before last night I had never been frightened, and in the rational light of day I decided it must have all been a nightmare, an unexpected reaction to my near drowning of the previous day. So silent was I on my cold, bare feet that I crept up on the redoubta­ble Thornton, still in rather grimy shirtsleeves, as he pe­rused some small, fascinating object in one of his meaty paws.

  "Good morning, Thornton," I greeted him serenely, and was diabolically pleased to see him jump with unaccus­tomed nervousness, dropping the small object he had been fondling onto the floor where it rolled and came to an ab­rupt rest against my toes. Thornton dived for it, but I was too quick for him. I retrieved the object, suffering only from a bruised forehead as Thornton careened against me. He drew himself stiffly upright, his clear, colorless eyes taking in my scanty clothing, bare feet, and generally tum­bled appearance with an interest mixed with an unlikely nervousness.

  "If you please, miss," he said in a wheedling tone of voice, holding out his thick hand. "That's my property you've got there."

  What I "had there" was a small, exquisitely-shaped sap­phire heart, obviously designed to be worn as a pendant. It seemed curiously familiar, and as I cast my mind back, for once my hazy memory did not fail me. A dark, damp-stained portrait in one of the unused third-floor bedrooms portrayed a typical Venetian beauty, with her heavy blond curls, large drooping eyes, and imperious nose. On her somewhat thick neck rested this very pendant, and on one plump hand was the sapphire ring Mildred Fenwick had paraded about with earlier.

  I smiled sweetly. "I think not, Thornton. What would you be doing with a sapphire pendant?"

  Being unoriginal, he came up with the same excuse Mildred had offered. The beads of nervous sweat stood out on his high-domed forehead. "Sapphire, miss? Surely not! That there is a piece of quartz. Belonged to my dear old mum, God rest her soul. The only thing she could leave to her Bert, and I've treasured it always. It's not worth much, miss, just sentimental, y'know." His perfect butler's accent was slipping in the agitation, and he rubbed his bony hands together nervously.

  "Really?" I said innocently. "And what were you plan­ning to do with this worthless little souvenir?"

  He licked his thin lips, his pink tongue darting over them like a snake's. "We all fall upon hard times, miss. The master isn't one to remember to pay regular, and I've had a few unexpected expenses. I was planning on selling it, much as it breaks my heart to do so." He held out his hand again, and I could see it trembling slightly. "Give it o'er, miss, please."

  "How glad I am to hear you say that, Mister Thornton,"

  I chirruped with bright enthusiasm that secretly made my head ache. "Unfortunate that you have fallen on hard times, but fortunate for me. I have taken an instant fancy to this worthless piece of quartz, and I shall have the count reimburse you for it. I'm sure once he sees it he'll decide on a suitable recompense for you, my dear Thornton."

  And then, with the jewel still clutched tightly in my hand, I swept up the stairs, for all the world like a duchess in full court dress, rather than a barefoot, thinly clad En­glish girl a little too foolhardy for her own good. I left Thornton babbling strangled protests and excuses in my wake.

  My room was just as I left it the night before. The bed­clothes were tumbled on the floor, the shuttered balcony door still tightly shut against intruders and the bright Ital­ian sunlight. Suddenly I was very, very tired.

  I retrieved the papers from their uncomfortable nest in my bodice and stared at them absently. They made little sense to me, and I wondered if it was my faulty Italian that made the hastily scribbled words appear like gibberish. Or was it perhaps a code?

  I would let Mark sort it out. At that moment I cared not one bit about Lucifero del Zaglia. That son of Satan was more than capable of taking care of himself.

  I tucked the papers under my pillow and turned to face my room. Pulling the dresser that contained my frivolous lace underclothing against the door to prevent unwarranted intruders, I pulled the bed back together and crawled wea­rily beneath the sheets. Whatever evil had entered my room in the dead of night, it would certainly never bother me during the blessedly safe hours of daylight. And with an idiotically free mind I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The sun was beginning to set when I finally awoke. My room was in an eerily murky half-darkness, and the re­membered terrors of the night came rushing back. With admittedly trembling fingers I lit the lamp beside my bed, illuminating the thankfully untenanted corners of my vast room. The sapphire pendant winked at me from the bed­side table, and I decided that the first order of business would be to hide it until I decided what I would do with the lovely thing. I was loath to present it to Luc, and yet let Thornton get his ham-handed fists on it I would not do.

  I climbed out of bed and was suddenly assailed by a weak, dizzy feeling. My mind quite naturally jumped to the conclusion that I was drugged again, when I belatedly real­ized I hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours. For a solid trencherwoman like myself that was something of a record.

  Sapphire still clenched in my fist, I hurried to the large armoire, determined to dress in the first thing at hand and then sneak down the back stairs to raid Mrs. Wattles's bet­ter than well-stocked kitchen. I swung the door open and stood there, numb with horror.

  A moment later, the still, bloodless body of the once- lovely Rosetta tumbled at my feet, her pansy-brown eyes staring sightlessly in that white, cold face. I stumbled back­wards, but by some hideous misfortune the dead girl had landed on my trailing hem, so that inadvertently I dragged the body part way across the room before it lessened its death grip. I stumbled back against the bed, gathered suffi­cient energy and began to scream, loudly and shrilly, over and over and over again.

  I accepted the proffered glass of wine gratefully, draining it with indecent haste after one long suspicious look in Luc's dir
ection. My eyes strayed around the small, formal little salon Holger von Wolfram had chosen for his base of operations. The candlelight successfully hid the fraying car­pets, the soiled slipcovers, the chipped and peeling paint. The look my one-time suitor cast upon me was cold and unsympathetic, and I wondered that I had ever been taken in by his spuriously dull-witted demeanor.

  "Perhaps, fraulein, you will be good enough to repeat for me the happenings of last night," he ordered stiffly, glanc­ing down at some mysterious papers beneath his heavy fist. "I would like to be clear in all matters before I make my arrest."

  "You know who did it?" I asked breathlessly, leaning forward, my eyes carefully avoiding the unreadable, dark expression on Luc's face. He was leaning negligently against one damask-covered wall, having ironically declined Holger's offer of a seat in his own house. I had yet to exchange a word with him since the previous midnight, and my poor, tortured mind was beset with conflicting emo­tions as far as my demonic guardian was concerned. Out­raged pride, anger, embarrassment, and most of all, a sneaking, overwhelming fear for his safety made my hands tremble so that I had to clench them tightly in my lap.

  Holger cast a meaningful glance at my unconcerned guardian. "I have a very good idea," he said pompously, and I felt the fear clutch at my heart a little more tightly.

  "I awoke in the middle of the night," I began, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair in an attempt to appear at ease. "I felt there was something in my room, something . . . something evil." Even now, remembering my unrea­soning terror of the night before, my mouth went dry. "I could see someone's silhouette out on the balcony, outside my shutters."

  "And?" he demanded impatiently.

  I was aware of his determination, his furious regard, as I was aware of Luc's golden eyes watching me from across the small room. "I . . . I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs," I stammered.

  "Did you call for help?"

  "No, at least, I don't think so. I was too frightened even to think." I looked up into Holger's grim face with my most appealing expression, and for a moment the stern lines softened into what might hopefully have been consid­ered sympathy but bore more of a resemblance to lust. "I thought I was being chased, though now I realize that is not so."

  "Why do you realize that, fraulein?" he pounced.

  "Because I ran into the count, and there was no one following me. No one at all."

  Holger turned to Luc. "Is that true?" Skepticism was heavy in his accented voice.

  Luc shrugged. "True enough. My ward was most proba­bly terrified by some nightmare. She had suffered an unfor­tunate dip in the canal yesterday, and it must have upset her more than she realized."

  "That still does not account for the serving girl," Holger snarled. "Have you some easy excuse for that?"

  A brief, chill smile flitted across his saturnine face. "But of course, my dear Captain. This house is easily accessible if someone truly wanted entry. No doubt the ghoul of Ven­ice decided my house would be a perfect place to dispose of his most recent victim. Maniacs quite often have bizarre senses of humor, I've been told. He must have crept in one of the ground-floor entrances, followed Rosetta upstairs, and murdered her, stuffing her body in the nearest avail­able closet. Which sadly belonged to my impressionable ward."

  "Very convenient. And when do you think all this hap­pened?"

  I could feel the trap closing in, and I wanted to call out, to warn Luc to be careful. But for once, wisely, I kept my mouth shut.

  "I would imagine sometime in the early evening," he re­plied. "While we were at dinner, no doubt. Before Char­lotte went up to bed."

  "And that's where you are wrong!" Holger shouted, causing me to jump nervously. "I place you under arrest, Count Lucifero del Zaglia, for the murder of Rosetta di Serbelloni, among others."

  "My dear Von Wolfram," Luc protested wearily, "What­ever for?"

  "Because the surgeons say without a doubt she died somewhere between the hours of midnight and dawn—the hours when you are free to roam this damp, wretched city, committing foul and loathsome crimes. No one else in this house would be free to wander around during those dark hours without arousing comment. You have been watched, Del Zaglia, and we know for a fact that you never left this house last night. No, you stayed here to claim your newest victim. I only wonder that Fraulein Morrow has survived In your hellish clutches for so long!"

  All this was very stirring, but Luc rose to his full height, almost half a foot taller than Von Wolfram, a tired expres­sion on his face. "Are you sure you're not Italian, Captain? Such a love of melodrama, to be sure. I did not murder Rosetta between the hours of midnight and dawn."

  "So you say," the Austrain sneered. "But where is your proof?"

  For the first time since I had left Luc's bed my eyes met his, and the rueful expression in their golden depths threw a new fear into me. He would not say a word, would be convicted of a murder I alone knew he couldn't have com­mitted, rather than speak out and sully my reputation. I almost burst into tears at his nobility, determined to speak out myself and save him. I needn't have bothered.

  "My proof sits in front of you, my good Captain. Miss Morrow was with me from a little before midnight until dawn this morning."

  All of Holger's regard for me could not have been spe­cious, for he blanched visibly at Luc's idly spoken words. "No!" he protested.

  "Yes," Luc mocked him. "Is it not true, little one?"

  I threw him a glance of intense dislike. "As Count del Zaglia has so chivalrously stated, I spent the night with him," I said in a cold, slipped voice.

  "In his bedroom?" Holger gasped.

  "In his bed."

  Suddenly the Austrian crashed his fist down on the deli­cate papier-mache table in front of him. "I will not have it," he screamed in German. "It is lies, all lies!"

  "It is the truth," I replied wearily in that same tongue.

  "Do you realize, young woman, that this will very likely be reported in the newspapers?" he demanded after a long moment. "The international press has been most concerned with the ghoul of Venice. Any news about his latest atroci­ties are sent by correspondents all over the world. The London papers have been especially interested, and will be likely to reprint your guardian's alibi. How would your friends and relatives react to that, eh? Your name, be­smirched before all the world?"

  "I'm sure they will think it no more than I deserve," I replied wearily. "And now, if that is all . . ." I rose, keeping my eyes away from that area of the room that Luc dominated.

  "I have not dismissed you," Holger snapped.

  Suddenly I was very angry, at Holger and Luc in par­ticular and men in general. They sickened me, and if I spent another minute in their company I would lose control completely.

  "Well, I have dismissed you!" I shouted suddenly, slap­ping at his restraining hand.

  "I must warn you, gnadiges Fraulein, that this man will not escape me for much longer. That he had wickedly se­duced you is to be expected, that you would lie for him is also obvious. But his free days are numbered, and where will you be once your protector is gone?"

  I pulled against his hand in vain. "Don't you realize," I said wearily, "that you are mistaken? He didn't murder Ro­setta. I wouldn't lie for a murderer."

  He sneered. "I care not whether he murdered a hundred maidservants. If you have no idea what his crimes are far be it from me to enlighten you. Perhaps he will tell you next time you are in bed together."

  Unthinkingly I reached out and slapped his bovine face. It was like hitting a boulder. "And when we have your beloved Luc, and have dealt with him as we deal with all traitors, then you will have to turn to me, my dear fraulein. And after I have suitably disciplined you I'm sure we will get on quite well." He turned and smiled evilly at the demon-count. "She will be quite amenable after a while. Tell me, my dear Count . . ." The next words were so incredibly obscene I could scarce understand him. Luc was not so afflicted.

  A moment later I was free from Holger's steely gras
p, and the Austrian was lying on the floor, holding his stom­ach and groaning in pain.

  "Go to your room, Carlotta, and lock yourself in," Luc ordered, his negligent grace vanished.

  "You don't have to tell me that," I snapped. "But I'd rather use another room."

  A brief smile lit his dark face. "You are frightened of ghosts, little one? You may of course stay in my room."

  My reply was slightly less obscene than Von Wolfram's question, but Luc only laughed. "Maddelena will show you to a room that is at least halfway clean."

  Holger was beginning to drag himself to his knees, groaning and clutching himself as if in mortal pain. I turned to go, and then my wretched weakness forced me to turn back. "You will be all right?" I questioned reluctantly. "He won't imprison you for striking him?"

  An expression I couldn't read flitted across his dark, handsome face. "Do not worry about me, little one. I don't deserve it. Besides, the Devil looks after his own."

  There was nothing left for me to do but leave the two men alone with their mortal enmity.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  For one who had suffered through such an incredibly varied and eventful thirty-six hours I slept surprisingly well. Maddelena, with an ill-concealed contempt, showed me to a smaller, less grand back bedroom on the second floor. The clothes still in the closet left little doubt that this had been Rosetta's room, and that fact, coupled with the room's unfortunate view of the side canal that had provided me with my recent bath did little to reassure me. The cold gleam in the housekeeper's black-currant eyes added to my unease. I had ventured to say something suitably sympa­thetic about Rosetta, but the old witch had forestalled me with a shrug of her heavy shoulders.

  "That one!" she spat, which couldn't hurt the dust-caked floor. "She was born to die thus. If it hadn't been the vampiro it would have been one of her many lovers."