Blood Spirits

by Sherwood Smith

  The dog bounded in and leaped on the bed.

  Beka snapped her fingers. “Shurisko!”

  Honoré gave out a groan of relief, holding out his hand, which the dog frantically licked as he trampled lovingly (and no doubt painfully) all over his human. But when Beka snapped her fingers a second time, Shurisko obediently leaped down, and sat, head at an alert angle, as if he was relieved that someone was in charge. Or maybe that was me, projecting my emotions onto the dog.

  Beka ordered one of the guys to take Shurisko to the laundry to dry him off and feed him, then turned to me. “Kim, the guest bathroom is at the end of this hall. Make use of the bathrobe in there—it’s fresh. You might want to get out of those clothes. I will be back shortly.”

  She went out as I set the papers carefully on a little table against the far wall, out of the way.

  The housekeeper, with a furtive, wondering glance at me, beckoned and led me to a bathroom that was the most modern thing I’d seen in this country. I shucked my clothes while the bath filled with steaming hot water. Soon I was soaking my aching body in stinging heat. The headache I hadn’t even noticed began to throb less. The lassitude was such bliss I caught myself on the verge of falling asleep, and sat upright. Whoa.

  I used the waiting shampoo and soap, then climbed out and wrapped myself in the bathrobe. It only came down to mid-calf (Beka was probably five one in heels), but it was warm and soft. I felt as heavy as a stone, and yawn after yawn seized me as I dried my hair, ran the waiting comb through it, and left it to hang down the back of the bathrobe.

  From the guest room came a yell of pain, then Natalie Miller’s familiar voice. “That’s it. No more torture. Your kneecap was kicked out of alignment. You’ll be glad to know I just fixed that. But it might be fractured, which would need more attention.”

  Honoré muttered something, then Nat laughed. “No, now I’m going to wrap that sucker up, so breathe easy.”

  Beka peeked out of Honoré’s guest room. “Ah, Kim. There you are. Honoré wishes to speak to you.”

  I joined them, intensely self-conscious in the bathrobe, though it covered more of me than the average evening gown would have. So much symbolism in clothing, I thought as I approached the bed, where Nat was laying out bandage stuff next to Honoré’s leg. She’d already cut his jeans up to the thigh. The sight of his swollen, discolored knee made my stomach curl, and I looked away from it.

  Honoré squinted at me past Nat’s shoulder. Sweat stippled his face as he slowly unclenched his teeth, and his body relaxed incrementally. Nat had obviously given him some kind of pain killer.

  His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he made an effort to speak, “I don’t understand.”

  “There was a fire,” I said. “I’m sorry about the house.” And to Nat, “I looked for a phone, but didn’t find it. Do you have 911 here?”

  “Fire brigade,” Nat said. “Beka called them.”

  Too late. But I wasn’t going to say it.

  Honoré whispered, “Cats . . . did you say the cats got out?”

  “Three did,” I said, holding up three fingers, and he relaxed a little.

  Beka said to Honoré, “What exactly were you doing?”

  Honoré took a deep breath. “Showed her the Project. Smelled fire. Went to check. Don’t remember anything more.”

  His eyes closed as Nat finished bandaging his leg. She straightened up. “That will do until you can get your own doctor to look at you.” She turned to me. “How long was he out?”

  “I don’t know. It felt like hours, but it must have only been a few minutes.”

  “How did you get him out?” Beka asked.

  “Dragged him on a rug.”

  Honoré opened his eyes again. “The Amaranth rug?”

  “It was mostly reds.”

  “Then it survived.”

  Beka whispered to us, “The Amaranth rug is a family heirloom.”

  “I left it lying there in the snow under the firs.”

  Beka opened her hands. “That won’t hurt it. But fire would.”

  I didn’t want to say that the rug was all he had left of his house, but from the faces around me, I was not the only one thinking it.

  Nat said to Honoré, “You’re definitely concussed.” Then to Beka, “I suggest getting some ice for his head. He needs to stay flat and quiet. His pupils are normal, at least, so we’re ahead on that front, but we need to keep checking. And he needs to see a doc to make sure there isn’t more damage under the hood.” She tapped her own skull. “As well as see to that.” A jerk of her thumb at his knee.

  Beka said, “You hear, Honoré? You need to rest.”

  Honoré’s lips whitened. “I need to know what is happening . . .”

  Beka hesitated, then gave a firm little nod. “Then we’ll have something to eat in here. You may lie flat, we can check on you, and you can listen all you like. I’ll make arrangements.”

  She ran out, and Nat beckoned me out into the hall. She took up a station by the door so she could watch Honoré, and I stood at the other side. “You look like you lost something. Got an injury?” Nat asked softly.

  “I’m wearing somebody else’s bathrobe. And there’s nothing to change into but my smoky clothes.”

  “Relax. Bek’s probably got her people on the hop with the laundry.”

  “Okay.” I peeked in at Honoré. He lay quiet, his eyes closed, so I whispered, “Speaking of injury, I don’t mean to stick my nose in your business, but shouldn’t Honoré be hospitalized? Check that. Is there a hospital here?”

  Nat grinned. “Sure is. Nice one. Or will be, when they finish redoing it. One of Alec’s first projects. But by our standards, it’s little more than a sanatorium.”

  “What, the so-called guardian families can buy Maseratis but can’t see their way clear to setting up a modern hospital?”

  Nat laughed. “You sound like me when I first got here. Alec did get them a state-of-the-art x-ray setup, but no one would use it. You gotta remember how removed they are here. X-rays, in most people’s views, are a cross between death rays and superstition. Wouldn’t go near it. Had to get an ultrasound, and even then. . . .” She shrugged.

  “Superstition!”

  “Sometimes, a good part of any medical treatment is in the mind of the treatee. The fact is, there are only four of us doctors trained outside the country, and we all had to adjust to the realities here. We learn from the midwives and horse doctors, and they learn from us. So anyway, Beka will probably get their Dr. Kandras over here later on, and he’ll feel the knee, and nod, and maybe throw in some Latin—though he usually doesn’t try that on with the toff set, who’ve lived in the West. But Honoré will be happy if the guy says, ‘Stay off it and you’ll heal.’ Ah. Here they come. I could use a cuppa.”

  Beka’s servants appeared, one wheeling a cart loaded with food and two steaming pots. We stepped out of the way so they could go into the bedroom. On the other side of the bed was a coffee table with two armchairs. One servant loaded dishes onto the table as another fetched a pair of ladder-backed chairs.

  “Another question, and this is entirely personal,” I said low-voiced. “If I stay any longer, what do I do about laundry? I mean, I’m sure Madam Waleska would arrange for it, but you said her sister is a blabbermouth, and I don’t want my bra size being a news flash all over the valley.”

  Nat chuckled. “And that’s exactly what would happen. Bring your stuff to me. I’ve got a great gig, and she’s quiet.” Nat shook her head. “I’m just glad I got back from my sweetie’s last night. I wouldn’t have missed a free lunch from Bek’s cook for the world. Wait till you taste it.”

  “Cook? I thought today was Stefan-Zarbat.”

  Nat grinned. “This is a Jewish household. They get a different day off. Works out,” she added. “The Jews do essential services on the main Christian holidays, and the rest cover on the Jewish biggies.”

  “I wondered about those inkri drivers on Christmas Eve.”

  “The o
nly time it can be a hassle is when the heavies fall on the same day.”

  “Then what do they do, get the nonbelievers to step in?”

  “Good question.”

  Beka reappeared, and we walked in behind her. Honoré’s eyes opened when Beka approached him with a cup of water. Nat and I sat down at the table.

  The talk was easy—food, Pedro, his new restaurant, and his favorite dishes—as we dug in on the spicy fisherman’s soup and cabbage pancakes. Honoré lay quietly, listening.

  I’d finished my soup when the housekeeper appeared at the door, eyes wide—and right behind her came Alec, dressed in a long coat with a suit under it, a narrow white silk scarf hanging down on the outside of his coat. The parallel lines of the scarf somehow made him seem taller.

  His face was distraught as he met my eyes. He blinked, and I could feel the effort he made to turn his attention to the others. “I am afraid I have bad news,” he began, then his gaze reached Honoré and widened. He let out his breath. “Honoré. What a. . . . We thought you were dead.”

  FIFTEEN

  HONORÉ’S EYES OPENED. He spoke faintly but with a hint of his customary suavity. “Who was it . . . who said, ‘News of my demise . . . has been greatly exaggerated’?”

  “Mark Twain,” Nat and I said together, and Nat muttered under her breath, “It’s ‘reports of my death.’ I’m a Twain freak. No one gets it right.”

  Honoré smiled briefly. I didn’t know if he even heard us. “I am alive,” he began. “Though I don’t know how long that will last. When my brother hears. What I managed to do to the house.”

  Beka extended a hand toward an empty seat at the table, and Alec sat down. “I thought he hated that house. The last thing I remember him saying was that your great-grandparents ought to be shot for renovating a dozen rooms without adding a bathroom.”

  Honoré flicked the fingers of one hand in a semblance of a Gallic shrug. “He has not been home. Since. I put in the upstairs bathroom.”

  “The house gives Gilles prestige,” Beka said to us, smiling. “‘My brother Honoré, the baron, and his mansion in Old Riev.’”

  “He has a brother?” I said to Nat.

  “Twin. Some kind of film guy, in France. Never comes here if he can help it.”

  Alec said to Honoré, “I hope your people were away.”

  “Yes. I sent everyone home. Stefan-Zarbat. How did you . . . ?”

  Alec indicated the windows. “We got several calls as soon as the storm passed on. There’s quite an impressive smoke cloud hanging over the—”

  The door banged open, and Tony strode in, eyes wide and angry. When he saw us, he stopped dead. His face whitened, then shuttered, and there was the old careless Tony as he leaned in the doorway. “You, too?” he said to Alec.

  “I didn’t want Anijka finding out through town gossip,” Alec said. “Bad enough about the house.”

  The two sounded normal, but the back of my neck tightened. They were watching one another as if no one else was in the room.

  “Anijka?” I mouthed to Nat.

  “Honoré’s sweetie,” she said. “And Beka’s cousin.”

  Beka explained to Tony: “I sent first for Dr. Kandras, but I was told he was at Mecklundburg House. I hope everyone is all right there?”

  Tony shifted his gaze from her to Alec and then back. “No one has told me much, draska mea, but I think he’s been employed for matters of après. The Danilovs went over in search of your animals, Honoré.”.11

  “Shurisko is here,” Beka said, and to me, “The cats?”

  “Got outside. But vanished.”

  Tony glanced from me back to Beka. “Then I believe my job is to see that the good news outruns the bad.” He vanished in a couple of long strides.

  Draska mea—‘my darling’ in Dobreni. Color heightened Beka’s cheekbones, but she said nothing.

  Nat turned to Alec. “‘After’ in French, I got that much, but what was he saying without actually saying it?”

  “Forensics, I suspect.” Alec got to his feet. “The duchess, or Robert, probably wanted a report from the doctor about the aftermath of the accident, and the doctor was gone all last week, it seems. This is the first anyone has seen of him since the 21st. Beka, hold that coffee. Damage control is a good idea. Honoré, if there is anything I can do for you, let me know.”

  He was gone as quickly as Tony.

  “Well, that was sufficiently weird,” Nat said, looking around the table. “What’s going on?”

  Honoré had closed his eyes again. Beka lowered a tiny spoon of sugar into her cup with the care of a scientist handling nitro.

  Natalie studied Honoré with a doctorish eye. “I think you might try to get some rest now.”

  Beka had been eyeing me. “You also look pale. Are you certain you did not take harm?”

  I ached in every bone and joint, but there was no use in whining. “Here’s my biggest problem. If I stay much longer I’m going to have to buy some more clothes. I am seriously out of wardrobe.” I didn’t want to add, Especially for funerals.

  Beka said easily, “How about if I take you shopping tomorrow, yes?”

  Beka’s Great-Aunt Sarolta arrived right behind the housekeeper, who brought my outfit back.

  The tiny old woman was grave, kind in face, listening with eyes closed as Nat told her what she’d done to Honoré’s knee and what things to watch out for—dizziness, disorientation, nausea, unconsciousness. The old woman responded in the same polite, old-fashioned French that Gran had taught my mother and me.

  Then the housekeeper apologized for the fact that my coat was ruined. She held it up, and everyone stared at the rips from glass and wood, but scariest of all were the holes in the back where sparks had landed on me, probably right before I launched myself out that window.

  The sight of those creeped me out so much I made excuses and retreated to the bathroom to change. When I came out, the bedroom door was closed, and Nat and Beka stood in the hall, waiting.

  Beka asked me, “See you at nine tomorrow morning?”

  “I’m going to have to do something about money. What I’ve got was for my return trip. Can we stop by a bank? I’m sure they can handle credit cards, even if everyone else is back a century or so.”

  “We can discuss that on the morrow,” she said. “Would you like to borrow a coat and gloves? Shimon’s wife is tall, too, and I know she will not mind if you take one of her coats.”

  “Great. I can return it tomorrow after I get a new one. Thanks. “

  Beka brought me a coat, then Nat and I left.

  We climbed into the waiting car, and the driver took off at a sedate speed. Someone had swept the driveway and plowed the icy streets. As the car bumped slowly past the walls of banked snow, I peered through the back window. Though the time was something like five, and it was already dark, there was a thin gray stream of smoke against a black night sky studded with stars.

  “Tell me about draska mea,” I said in English, hoping the driver didn’t speak it. “I’ve never heard Tony use that kind of language before.”

  “And you know him so well,” Nat retorted, grinning. “Look, I’m not going to yap about Bek’s personal life, but put it this way. All of them have had on and off again affairs with that guy. Like I told you last summer, he’s the king of on-again off-again.”

  “Got it.” I lowered my voice. “Look, you’re a doctor.”

  Nat chuckled. “Last time I checked.”

  “Honoré got a concussion, right?”

  “Minor, I think. I’m more worried about that knee.”

  I lowered my voice even more. “Here’s what I’m getting at. He doesn’t remember what he was doing when the bust fell on him. So . . . is it possible that the same sort of concussion happened to . . . someone . . . if he were thrown clean out of a car?”

  Her smile vanished. “Yeah, I see where you’re going, and yeah, that has been talked about. In fact, that’s pretty much where we are. Especially as the dude we’re not
naming has been ram-jetting around ever since, and if he gets more than five or six hours of sleep a night then call me Ishmael. Ishmael. Geez, what kind of parents would ever land that name on a defenseless kid? Even in the olden days. It’s that ish. Too much squish in it, you know what I mean?”

  In other words, end of subject. Not that there was anything more to say. My big insight was old news.

  When the car reached the Waleskas’ inn, I ran inside, shivering.

  I had one thought: going horizontal. But there was that whiff of refrigerator air in my room. A glance at the mirror, and adrenaline shot through me like a geyser: there was Grandfather Armandros, staring straight at me, that cigarette glowing at the tip. And behind him, several other people, their outlines blending and overlapping. When I tried to bring any of them into focus my head swam.

  I slammed the wardrobe door and sat on the bed, hands pressed to my eyes. “Can you talk to me?” I asked.

  Nothing.

  Reluctantly, I got up, opened the door, and squinted at the mirror. They were still there.

  “Talk to me! What do you want?” I tried variations on that in four languages, with no result.

  So I slammed the door again and was about to flake out on the bed when someone rapped at the door.

  When I called out “Enter,” Theresa came in, her eyes wide. She said with muted excitement, “The duke is here to see you.”

  Her eyelids lifted on the word “duke” as if she’d said “Santa Claus is here to see you.” Or maybe “the devil.”

  I swung my feet down and followed her, wondering if it was Tony or handsome Trasyemova duke. I couldn’t imagine why a Vigilzhi, duke or not, would want to talk to me.

  I would rather have had the Vigilzhi arrest me, I thought when I saw Tony prowling around the empty dining room. Theresa looked from him to me, then vanished through the door to the private quarters behind the counter.

  “Can we go up to your suite?” he said abruptly.

  “Suite? I have a room.” The idea of being alone with him in that tiny space was way too unnerving. Not because of the wayward attraction so much as because I didn’t trust him as far as I could toss an elephant.