Blood Spirits

by Sherwood Smith

“They sure are piling it on,” I whispered, remembering Beka’s revelation about Honoré.

  “Popular, isn’t he?” Nat grinned, and whispered behind her hand. “My guess is, they don’t want him contaminated by his low-class girlfriend when he’s vulnerable. Or maybe they’re worried because some think he’s a taco short on his combo plate.” She tapped her forehead.

  “Crazy?” I stared. “He’s not.”

  She shrugged. “You were alone with him. Did he pop obscure German at you? And watch out when he starts hurling Latin around, Beka says. Sure sign that he’s seriously pissed.”

  He hates being used as a lie-detector, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. Whatever other secrets Beka shared with Nat, the aura thing couldn’t be one of them. While I was thinking that, I almost missed the decision, it was so subtle.

  Honoré lifted his head, Tony made a gesture, and then Honoré said, “Very well. Thank you, Aunt Sisi. Robert.”

  “Come, dears.” The duchess sounded pleased. “We must not leave poor Alexander standing in the cold vault. Honoré, dear boy, you should not attempt those steps. Anton will see you home.”

  “Want to go with them?” Natalie asked.

  I grimaced. “I wasn’t invited.”

  Nat chuckled. “Big surprise, eh?”

  “What surprises me is the duchess sending Tony away, if this is all about appearances.”

  Nat shrugged. “My guess is, everyone will assume he was there. But one thing for sure, Honoré ain’t getting down those steps into the vault any time soon.”

  The von Mecklundburg posse and their chosen few from the Ridotski and Trasyemova families vanished through another side entrance as Tony bent to pick up Honoré’s long coat from the front pew.

  I turned my back on them and started up the aisle. “Where is the cemetery? I don’t think I’ve seen it.”

  “Catacombs right below us. Royal families only. Otherwise the posh set pretty much have their own vaults at their estates.”

  “So why isn’t Ruli being buried up at the Eyrie? Oh, because there’s more points to being stashed with all the kings?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “Where’s everybody else get put?”

  “Up on the mountain, near my neck of the woods.” She jerked her chin toward the north end of the city. “It’s really pretty up there.”

  We followed the last of the crowd through the great double doors, carved with medieval scenes of saints and angels. “Are the catacombs open to the public?”

  “No, but you could get permission from the bishop if you want to take a gander. Also, it’s pretty much fifteen hundreds and up, I hear. Around here, that’s practically postmodern. The medieval kings are in a crypt in that rose garden between the cathedral and the school over on that side. There are a bunch of little gardens with high walls built all around it.”

  “Theresa and her friends showed me one of those gardens last summer.”

  “Probably the Nuns’ Walk, behind which the teaching sisters live. That used to be where the schoolgirls hung out, before the gym was built. Girls eat their lunches there during good weather.”

  As we walked, I was hyper-aware of the ring of heels behind us: Tony and Honoré.

  “Anyway,” Nat said. “If you want, I can go back with you. Pick up your duds for my laundry connection. I have to drop off my own stuff.”

  “Kim.”

  We turned. Honoré was right behind me, his face strained. “Did Beka talk to you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Hey, did your cats show up, I hope?”

  Tony’s gaze cut from me to Honoré and then to Nat as Honoré said, “The neighbors took them in. Thank you for saving them, and thank you again for saving me.” To Nat, “I neglected to thank you for your medical aid.”

  “That’s what I do.” Nat waved her mittened hand at his knee. “Did you get that looked at by your own guy?”

  “Dr. Kandras has gone on holiday. I can wait upon his return. It’s not as if he can do anything.”

  Nat had been right. Honoré was going to tough it out, guy-style.

  Tony’s gaze was back on me. “Introduce me to your friend? Didn’t we meet somewhere recently?”

  “Dr. Natalie Miller. She’s the one who patched up Honoré right after the fire. Um, do I list all your titles for a formal introduction?”

  “Tony will do.”

  “Nice to meet ya.” Nat’s American accent was a contrast to Tony’s Britspeak and Honoré’s French air.

  “Question,” I said to Tony. “The tall guy with red hair, who came in with your family then left: Couldn’t place him, but he sure looks like you.”

  “That’s Uncle Jerzy. Listen. Uncle Robert asked me to find out if you’re attending the gala at the opera house.”

  I thought of that dress being made. “I guess so.”

  Tony said, “In that case, there will be a sleigh to pick you up at half past seven.”

  Before I could frame an answer, Honoré shifted, grimacing in pain. Tony lifted his fingers in a casual wave. “I’d better get him off that leg. Tomorrow will be rough enough.”

  “Tomorrow?” I said.

  “Council meeting. He insists on going.” Tony shook his head.

  “Summum ius summa iniuria,” Honoré muttered, head down as he walked past.

  “What did I tell ya?” Nat made a face. “I have no idea what he said—my Latin is strictly medical—but phew.”

  “I know it only because one of my history teachers had a crush on Cicero. It basically means, ‘More law, less justice.’”

  “And what does that mean when it’s at home?”

  “No clue. Honoré is on the Council, so it can’t be a crack at them,” I said as we hiked through the churned-up slush toward the streetcar stand.

  “One thing I do know. They sure make good-looking guys here.” Nat whistled softly under her breath. “Tony is even hotter up close then seen across a park when he zooms by in his candy-apple red chick-magnet, or across a restaurant. It’s those eyes. And Honoré is Raffles, the gentleman thief, in the flesh. Woo-ee! Anyway, what was that about Beka talking to you?” Nat asked as we joined the queue at the streetcar stop.

  The sky was streaky with clouds, the snow mushy on the ground. I shivered, though I wasn’t that cold.

  “She gave me the lowdown on some history and told me a little about magical charms.”

  “Heh.” Nat chuckled, her breath clouding.

  “You told me once that some charms work,” I said, edging close to the subject of Honoré, in case she knew about his gift. “You said they weren’t superstition.”

  “Yep. I’ve seen both. What I mean is, I see superstitious behavior all the time. Like pregnant women putting a knife under the bed during childbirth to cut the pain. The mountain women still do it, partly to cut the pain, but partly in case the Wild Folk are drawn by the smell of blood. The knives they use all have hawthorn handles, which are supposed to be great for offing vampires. Then there’s the superstition about doctors and diamonds—that one cracked me up when I first heard it.”

  “Diamonds?”

  “Like I ever owned one! But let me tell you, especially in the mountains, I don’t dare wear diamonds or crystals when I examine or deliver.”

  “Do you know why?” I asked. If Beka hadn’t told Nat about Honoré’s aura thing, then I probably shouldn’t, either. It wasn’t my secret to share.

  She shrugged. “The old midwife who first trained me warned me that people assume you’re hiding bad news. How did they get to bad news from anti-vamp action? Anyway, those old Salfmattas praying over wounds? I swear I saw them stop a bleeder once.”

  We’d been talking in English, but the word “vampires” caused some of the people in line to give us sharp looks.

  We climbed on board the streetcar. As we sat, I said, “Did I hear Beka say something about being lucky to find you home?”

  “She knew I was spending the holiday with my sweetie. But I got in the night before because th
ey were predicting that heavy storm. You can get mired in the mountains for a week if you aren’t a skier or a sled or sleigh driver, and I can’t do that to my patients.”

  “A sweetie! How does he rate against Tony and Honoré?”

  Nat snorted a laugh. “Just as hot but a different style. He’s got more of the Greek in him. Works as a joiner up at St. Josip’s. But his Greek profile isn’t what snagged me. He’s a singer with the temple choir. He’ll be doing a solo at the New Year’s concert—Britten’s Choral Dances from the Gloriana. Ordinarily I’m not that into classical music, but his voice will melt your socks off.”

  She continued easy talk about her guy, music, the concert, and not much else as we rode down the street then walked to the inn. There she looked around with interest as we trooped up to my room. We piled my dirty clothes into the shopping bag where I usually kept my good shoes, then I said, “Want some tea or something? My treat.” I was so grateful she had a “laundry connection,” as she put it.

  She grinned. “You look like you could use a nap, and I’ve got to drop this stuff off before my afternoon appointments.” She stood with her back to my door and dug through her purse. “Here’s a couple of aspirin. When that wears off, have them make you some bark tea.” She used the Dobreni words. “It’s as good as aspirin. Better, in this weather. I’m not kidding, dude. All of you look tense as hell. I don’t know if it’s for the same reason, and I don’t want to know. I’m interested in people, not politics.”

  And I’m interested in both, Tony’s voice said in memory.

  I put Dobrenica above everything, and therefore I get trapped in politics, Alec had said.

  “Something’s going on. Doesn’t take mysterioso magic to see it.” Nat hefted the bag of laundry. “Catch ya later.”

  EIGHTEEN

  SHE LEFT, AND I SWALLOWED the aspirin with water from the jug that always waited for me on the little nightstand.

  I took off the funeral dress, hung it up, put the good shoes back in the wardrobe, then lay down. I meant to take a nap. The room was warm and quiet, and there was no sign of any ghost. But when I lay back on the quilt, my brain kept buzzing from one thing to another, always centering around Alec. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? Did he want me to stay, or not? He’d sent me a message, but why couldn’t he have come himself, even for ten minutes? Maybe I should go find him.

  I put Dobrenica above everything, Alec had said, and therefore I get trapped in politics. Something was missing. Something was wrong.

  I thought again of the turmoil he’d betrayed when we first saw one another. He’d wanted to see me, and yet he’d said that about wishing I hadn’t come, and that he didn’t want me dragged into “It.” Except, whatever “It” was for him, I had a nasty suspicion I was already hip-deep, and the tide was rising fast. The first splash had apparently happened before I even arrived from London.

  The problem wasn’t me, then, it was him. What was this pain I sensed in him? He hadn’t loved Ruli, nor she him. Was it guilt? No, I could not believe that. I could easier believe the world was flat than that Alec had deliberately murdered Ruli. Anyway, he wouldn’t have to be guilty to feel guilty. In fact, he could be full of self-reproach because he couldn’t remember what had happened. I hated the thought of him all alone, wracked by guilt and remorse.

  So why wasn’t he talking it out with me? I remembered that tension on Christmas day, the ambivalence during our first interview. Something was sure wrong.

  I got up and did a set of ballet warm-ups. Then I did a set of lunges at an imaginary target, left hand and right, left and right.

  Muscles loose as string, my skin damp with sweat, I lay down again. No nap. What I really wanted to do was go straight to the palace, march into Alec’s office, and say, “What’s this wall between us? Is there a door for me?”

  Except I knew I’d find him surrounded by government flunkies, who would then do the Dobreni equivalent of tweeting . . . whatever happened.

  His days didn’t belong to him. So, what about nights?

  I hit the bath (there was hot water, yay!) and put on one of the two outfits that had been delivered. When I descended to the dining room, I found Josip, for once, not confined to the kitchen. He was sitting at a table with a group of men, talking and drinking.

  Theresa was also there, hanging fresh holly wreaths in the windows. I noticed that hanging in the center of each wreath was a flower-shaped piece of cut glass. The flower was the same basic shape as the one on Honoré’s prize rug Ruli’s Ginger Rogers dress, and the wooden pendants on Beka’s bracelet. What had they called that rug? Amaranth. A word that appeared in Milton’s poem, “Lycidas,” which I’d studied hoping it would furnish the key to understanding Alec.

  Connection or coincidence, I wondered, staring at the way the wreath’s crystals winked and gleamed.

  One of the men shoved back his chair, startling me out of my reverie. “Midday already gone! Back to work before my rascals fall asleep or ‘borrow’ my tools.”

  Voices rose in agreement, and Josip’s group broke up, leaving him to pile cups and plates on a tray.

  “I will clear the table, Josip,” Theresa said, and sidled such a furtive look my way my interest jumped.

  “I can clear it.” Josip smiled. “There is nothing for me to do until the meats are finished.”

  “Go help Anna with the breads,” Theresa said. “She would like that. I don’t mind clearing things away. I am here, anyway, to do the wreaths.”

  “Maybe you should get the wreaths up first.” Josip chuckled. “Just in case, I’ll have my cleaver at hand.” Still chuckling, Josip left her to it and vanished into the back room.

  “Something going on?”

  Theresa made a quick gesture. “My aunt says that the kosher butcher’s wife’s sister heard at the Habsburg Street weavers that some of the old protections have blown down in the wind, or broken, or been defaced. Then someone else said Shadow Ones have been seen along the edge of the city, where Friday market is held.”

  “Vampires?”

  Theresa tossed her head, her braids swinging. “My aunt, she loves talk. No one else has seen them, but many are renewing the protections. My mother insists on fresh holly, with her great-great-grandmother’s charms brought out, to keep them away.” She joined me in the alcove and lowered her voice, her manner one of suppressed excitement and secrecy. “Speaking of talk. A man was here at breakfast today, asking many questions about you.”

  I paused. “Is this a good or bad thing?”

  Theresa looked around. “I do not know that. Here is what I know. My second cousin’s father, Uncle Tadenz, who first brought you here last summer in his horse cab? Uncle Tadenz met this same man at the train station and took him to Mecklundburg House a week or two ago.”

  “Does anyone know his name?”

  “No, but he was very friendly. But he asked so many questions! Mostly about you. Who visits you here. If the Statthalter ever visits, or sends messages.” She looked around again, then lowered her voice so I almost couldn’t hear her. “Mother was very proud of yesterday’s message. You know her way. She means nothing ill toward you in telling him all about it! But I felt you should know.”

  “Thanks, Theresa.”

  I tried to dismiss my irritation as I pulled on my gloves. Why couldn’t whoever it was talk directly to me? Maybe he’d meant to, but that would have been when I was shopping with Beka. It didn’t sound like he’d been exactly secretive—not if he’d joined the daily breakfast blab.

  Still, when I got outside, I took a good long look around in case there was someone lurking. It was a half-day for most workers. There were plenty of people on the street, anonymous in their bulky clothes, but they all seemed to be going somewhere.

  I pulled my hat low, yanked my scarf up to my nose, and bent into the wind. My experiences last summer, and that picture of poor Ruli plastered on the front of the newspaper, made me feel outlined in neon.

  I scurried my fastest, skidding
once or twice, but I didn’t slow until I reached the intersection. Tania’s lens shop had three customers inside. Waiting on them was Tania and a tall, thin man around my dad’s age, the latter helping an elderly man, who peered at the alphabet chart on the opposite wall. Tania’s customer was a gawky girl of about thirteen, her mother hovering behind her. The girl was trying to decide between the various wire-rimmed frames. They were kind of pretty, though definitely old-fashioned by Western standards.

  As I shut the front door, the little bells tinkled.

  The blonde bomb barreled out. “Tania? Tania? Do not keep custom waiting!” she said shrilly then peered at me. Her nose lifted. “Tania, I will take over here myself. You help the lady.”

  “I can wait,” I said.

  The woman shooed Tania with fussy movements of her small, plump hands and cooed at the mother in a sugary voice. The daughter eyed her for a moment, looking mutinous as only thirteen-year-olds can when adults are trying to coax them into something. Then she whispered to Tania.

  I wandered along the shop walls, peering at the astonishing array of glass and crystal prisms as Madam Lens-Maker urged the mother toward the most expensive frames. The mother sturdily asked the price of each, and the girl peppered Tania with anxious questions about which of two pair looked most flattering.

  I worked my way to the shop window. In it were large shapes of welded glass with water inside, some of it colored. Below, positioned to catch passing rays of sunlight, were prisms in pyramid, cube, and other shapes. And hanging from tiny beaded strings were many styles of chandelier prisms. When I got close to some of these, the glitter of refracted light made my head pang.

  Behind me, the drama steadily escalated as the two women were now carrying on a kind of battle conducted in rigidly polite voices. The girl peered into the hand mirror, her nose about an inch from the glass.

  Tania said in a low voice, “The octagonal ones frame your eyes so nicely.”

  “The square ones are much more practical,” the mother stated.

  Madam Lens-Maker cooed, “The hill girls all wear these with the decorative silver chasing.”