Blood Spirits

by Sherwood Smith

  A bolt hissed past my head.

  I jerked around. For a split second the world stilled. Robert stood there eyes and mouth round in horror, hands out, fingers spread like massive starfish, then the side of his head flowered with blood.

  I swept the blade around in a haymaker. The figure leaped back, as Robert thudded to the floor. I glanced his way, then back as something clattered in the box by my hand. I stared witlessly down at the crossbow.

  A rapid flurry of steps, and the figure was gone. A vampire? No, not unless they grunted like normal human men.

  I flung myself down by Robert. He lay motionless, blood running into his eye and down his face.

  As the orchestra heedlessly went on with the waltz, not thirty feet away, I looked back and forth, wondering what to do—chase the villain? Do something for Robert? Only what?

  Staunch wound. I leaped up and grabbed some of the costume cloth. It was horribly dusty, and old—would it cause an infection? I stood there uncertainly as footsteps clattered, and Nat appeared.

  “Oh, I got lost,” she began in a loud, fake voice. But then her face changed, and she ran forward. “What the hell happened here?”

  “Someone shot him. From behind me.” I pointed. “Then threw the crossbow right here in this box and ran off. Why are you here? Did you hear it?”

  “No. Beka sent me to rescue you—she was sure that guy was going to shake you down for cash.” Nat looked from the prop box down to Robert, and then back at me. She knelt down beside Robert, keeping her skirt well away from him as she tested his pulse under his jaw, and then lifted an eyelid. “It’s bad but not fatal. One inch farther in, and he would have lost an eye at the least.”

  “Not fatal? It looks like a thousand gallons of blood!”

  “Head wounds are always bloody—”

  From the side hall came voices, led by a faint, acid drawl. “. . . wants me, he could have come to get me himself. I have quite enough to do, trying to watch those wretched people from the lower city . . . Ro-bair-r-r-r?”

  “The countess!” I whispered.

  Nat and I looked at each other in horror, then she smacked the side of my leg. “Get out of here.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you see? Alone with the murder weapon? I saw this on way too many Perry Mason reruns when I was a kid. It’s got to be a setup. I can take care of him. You get out.”

  I got to my feet. “But what if they blame you?”

  Nat grinned. “So they arrest me. I bet anything you care to name Bek will get me off, once they get a load of what I have to tell ’em. Worst case scenario, my rep can stand being hauled out of here in cuffs, but yours can’t. So vamoose.”

  I grabbed up the prop sword again. “In that case, I think I am going to go hunting,” I said grimly. I grabbed up a lantern with my free hand and started down the corridor that Robert’s shrouded attacker had taken.

  Yeah, I know—really smooth, Murray. Hunting a would-be murderer while wearing a ball gown and high heeled shoes, armed with a prop sword that would probably break if I blocked a serious blow, and carrying a lantern which—anybody who has ever seen a horror movie knows—will go out, guaranteed, as soon as the person is alone with the killer.

  But nothing happened beyond my managing to get myself thoroughly lost in the tangle of narrow corridors, many of which had been closed off and boarded up, or led nowhere due to the reconstruction. It was quiet, deserted, yet the more I walked, the colder I felt, until my teeth ached, and the hairs along the edge of my scalp stiffened.

  Then I reached an intersection where four ways looked equally uninviting. I held up the lantern, desperate for a clue. The crystal necklace picked up the light somehow, sending rainbow shards sparkling down one hallway, where the uncertain light caught on the pale fold of a gown.

  A person!

  “Hey! Wait up!” I yelled, hastily following it up in Dobreni, French, and German. I walked fast, the lantern swinging, which made the light dance crazily, shadows leaping and flickering. At the other end of a turning a flash of splintered light revealed the outline of a teenage girl, her marcelled hair pale below a graceful tiara. Shadows closed her away, but not before I saw her turn a corner.

  I ran after her, yelling, “Wait, wait!”

  My footsteps echoed, the light swung so much I had to squint against the dizzying effect. Once again I caught sight of her back, in a dress that I recognized: the delicate black and white striped, full-sleeved gypsy dress Chanel introduced in 1939, before she closed her shop for fifteen years.

  Copy or vintage? The light, the gown. The profile. Not quite Gran’s, and then I remembered that Christmas Eve vision. Gran’s twin sister, Rose—once Gran’s rival for Armandros.

  I am seeing Rose’s ghost.

  The light was so splintery that my head panged as I tried to see past the winks and shards of distorted light as I ran after her. The lantern jiggled and shook in my hand, worsening the effect; the closer I got, the more difficult it was to see the ghost, but then I heard party noise. Another turn led me to the other side of the stage. Not twenty feet away was the Ridotski table.

  I caught Honoré’s gaze. He said something to someone behind him, and from the jumble of people talking, laughing, and drinking, Beka emerged, her expression anxious as she rushed up to me. “I sent Nat to rescue you from . . . Kim. What’s wrong?”

  “First, where is Tony?” I asked.

  She didn’t have to look. “Over at the head table, bookended between Cerisette and the duchess.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “Since he stopped dancing with Cerisette,” Beka said.

  “So he hasn’t left the ballroom?”

  “No. He’s been dancing the entire—what happened?”

  I told her in a few fast words. Her mouth pressed into a line, then she said, “No wonder Natalie never came back. Neither has the countess. But there’s been no sign of any trouble out here.”

  A loud wham! caused people to jump. A girl shrieked, triggering the nasal, braying laughter of a bunch of teenage boys. The orchestra faltered as a cold wind surged around the room from the door that had slammed open.

  “A bad storm is coming in. I think it might be time to go home.” Beka added, “I hope you and Natalie will come to my house tomorrow. We can talk about all these things, while these people will be busy at their traditional New Year’s dinner.” She indicated the von Mecklundburg table.

  I thanked her as I looked around for Alec. I had to see him—talk to him! So did all Dobrenica, apparently. There were more Vigilzhi than I’d noticed before, moving efficiently through the crowd. Above, Gilles and his crew had finished their filming and vanished. Reluctantly I joined the general exodus.

  I got my wrap and made it outside, where the wind nearly knocked me off my feet. It blew with icy force, flagging my cloak and skirts like banners. I looked around, but of course there was no luxury sleigh waiting. So I bundled into a crowded cab with several other people I didn’t know. It smelled of long-ago eaten dinners, and it did not keep out the bitter cold, but it did give some protection from the biting wind. Shivering in my corner, I endured until at last the cab reached the inn.

  A hot bath, some tea, and I dropped into bed, too tired even to consider the fresh mushrooming of unanswered questions.

  I slid gratefully into sleep . . .

  And then came the nightmares.

  THIRTY

  FOR TWO DAYS the entire city was locked down by smothering shrouds of blizzard white. The lack of street noise was so profound that for the first time I could hear the distant cathedral bells faintly ringing the hours.

  That sound was reassuring during the day, but at night they only rang once, at midnight. Otherwise there was the howling wind, and a spectacular series of nightmares that kept waking me up during those interminable hours of darkness.

  I couldn’t help remembering what Danilov had said about vampires and nightmares. I tried not to imagine fanged blood-suckers prowling a
round the inn. There were enough weird things going on without my imagination creating more. How could anything, even a vampire, even see out there? I kept thinking as I walked from window to window, hoping for any sign of a letup so I could slip out and try to find Alec.

  At least there was Tania to mull some of the mysteries with. We met downstairs late on New Year’s Day. The last of the fresh vegetables had been consumed, so hearty stews and meat pies were now the main dishes. As Tania and I sat over our pepper stew, we could hear Madam Waleska’s irritable voice fog-horning from the kitchen as she scolded generally everyone.

  Tania admitted that she was having nightmares as well. I asked what they were about, wondering if they were somehow broadcast into our brains like personalized television from hell, but as soon as she mentioned lost, hurt, and sickened animals whom she couldn’t help, I abandoned that notion with gratitude: mine pretty much centered around car crashes.

  “But that reminds me,” I said, leaning forward out of habit, though we were alone in the dining room. The last of the local patrons and relatives had departed on New Year’s Eve. I hoped everyone had gotten safely home before that storm hit. “I was so busy telling you about Count Robert and the crossbow that I forgot to say that on the ride to the ball I saw Shurisko again, this time around St. Xanpia’s fountain. A lot of other animal ghosts were with him. That’s the second time I’ve seen that.”

  Tania’s thin fingers paused in breaking open a rye biscuit. “Yes, they seem to meet there. I have seen them, many times. I used to go there at lunchtime on school days to watch them, when I was small.”

  “Shurisko didn’t stay at the fountain, but started jumping around the sleigh I was in. This is like the third or fourth time I’ve seen him doing that. Do you think it means anything? Of course it doesn’t mean anything. I’m beginning to think that ghosts are all crazy, either that or the ghost world doesn’t make any kind of sense to the living.”

  “Shurisko is a dog,” Tania said slowly. “Dogs are so very loyal to those they love. There must be meaning in his actions. I will ask.”

  “And here’s another question. I finally heard that ghost. He said only one word, ‘Esplumoir.’ I’m told that this is an old Arthurian legend. Do you know how it relates to Dobrenica?”

  Tania spread her hands. “I think I have heard it mentioned once, as a medieval legend. We have many of those.” She gave me her quick smile, her manner apologetic.

  I smiled determinedly back, hiding my exasperation. It would be nice to have an answer to something that didn’t bring on another ten questions, but I kept that whine to myself and, after the meal, I went upstairs to get in a hundred pushups, then do a full set of barre stretches. Now that the other rooms were empty, I could do ballet combinations up and down the hall, followed by some lunges and fencing moves. Using the fireplace poker from downstairs helped keep my arms in shape .

  Next morning, I did the same, only this time I used the entire dining room as my gym while the rest of the family slogged through the snow to Mass. When I say that they left twenty minutes early for a church two blocks away, you get an idea how nasty the weather was.

  When Tania got back, she came up to my room. “I overheard one of the teachers reminding Theresa that there will be a partial solar eclipse at dawn Tuesday morning. The students are supposed to observe it for school.”

  I snapped my fingers. “If eclipses are supposed to have influence on Vrajhus, how about we experiment with looking for ghosts? Except,” I jerked my thumb at the window. “Would we see anything besides snow?”

  “Everyone insists that this storm will be gone by tomorrow night,” Tania said. “If you can trust the older folks’ predictions.”

  “Do you trust them?” I asked.

  Her cheeks colored. “We always go by Grandfather Kezh’s bones. Every time they ache, we get a storm, and when the ache eases, it passes.”

  “Bones and barometric pressure. If Grandfather Kezh recovers his spryness tomorrow, shall we make a date for Tuesday morning on the roof?” Then later in that day, see if I don’t make my way to Alec . . . or he to me.

  Tania flashed a grin. “Theresa would love an excuse to climb on the roof.”

  The snow was still falling on Monday, but when we looked out, we all told each other that it wasn’t coming down quite as hard as it had been.

  By mid-morning, I actually began to believe it, because—faint, but there—were the houses across the street. Grayish and indistinct, but there.

  Not half an hour after I made that observation a white-dusted figure labored up the street, which was waist-high in snow, to drop off the newspaper delivery.

  Everyone pounced on a copy. Usually the family shared a single copy, leaving the rest out for the patrons. But I was the only patron, and Madam didn’t even expect any. The household vanished into the back, and I sat down by the window, alone in the dining room, and opened the paper.

  So what’s the first thing that met my eyes?

  Statthalter Seconds Motion to Investigate Own Complicity in Death of Lady Ruli

  I flung the paper away as if it had bitten me, but then I picked it up again. I had to know the worst. More, I had to figure out the agenda behind the articles, if I could.

  There was an article about the accident site. The most often quoted source was Dr. Kandras’s report describing the remains of a young woman around age thirty, with strands of pale hair caught in the broken branches of a tree.

  “Gotcha,” I thought, hot triumph burning through me. There is no sweeter sight than a view from the pinnacle of moral superiority. Liar—caught in the act!

  Except . . . the quotations were from the twenty-second. Nobody had spoken with him recently. What if the bones he found really were a female’s, but someone got to them after he saw them, and they were swapped for Marzio’s?

  What if . . . what if.

  Impatiently, I shut down the eternal grind of questions, and turned to the rest of the front page. There was Dr. Kandras’s report, another from the Vigilzhi who climbed down to the accident site. They were so circumspect that every other word was the Dobreni equivalent of “alleged,” whenever there wasn’t a more straightforward “we do not have that information at this time.” The von Mecklundburgs had been interviewed (“Is not a second to our motion an admission of guilt? We only ask for justice,” Robert trumpeted from his pinnacle) as had the Bishop (“We will investigate every witness, corroborate every fact”). The article ended, perhaps intentionally, with no comment from Alec, but following that were his office’s plans for the forwarding of various projects.

  The news shifted to local stuff, reports of the previous week’s festivities and a strictly formal, respectful report on Ruli’s funeral. I was scanning rapidly through that when another snow-dappled figure lumbered through the door, pausing in the vestibule to shed the worst of the white. What emerged was a worn Vigilzhi greatcoat, with no collar tabs or shoulder markings, meaning a low rank. His hat was pulled down over his ears and his muffler wrapped up nearly to the hat brim.

  I began to refold the paper, remembering that the locals often read the paper when they came in for meals or a drink. The Vigilzhi messenger had already slipped from my notice until he paused by the counter and looked around. Something in the line of that coat, the way he moved....

  I dropped the paper—he raised a gloved hand and yanked down the muffler to reveal a familiar square-cut chin, and the curve of mouth that had first entranced me six months before.

  “Alec?” I breathed.

  He pushed the hat up slightly, his eyes rueful with laughter. “I didn’t think I could get away with it. But I had to try.”

  “Uh.” Think! “Come on up to my room. Nobody’s out here. Yet.”

  Here we were, two adults—one of them the most powerful person in the country—sneaking upstairs like teenagers when Mom and Dad aren’t looking. I certainly felt that way, and from the quick look he cast behind the counter before we headed up the stairs, he was feeling the
same.

  I shut us into my room, and let out my breath with a sigh. Alec looked around, and I said, feeling self-consciously warm, “Um, want to take off that coat?”

  He set the hat on the little table and slowly began to unwind the muffler. Desire beat between us, intense and vital. “I had to see you,” he said, then gave a small, breathless laugh. “This is probably a bad idea.”

  “No. It’s a good idea. I was sitting here feeling every jab in today’s paper, and trying to figure out how to cross the city to find you.” I hesitated, my longing to throw my arms around him so strong it had become a physical emptiness that hurt. But his stance, the slight question in his eyes, the hand half-raised in mute appeal, and I remembered: Ruli is probably alive.

  The guy was still married. When last we’d been alone together, he was a widower, ready to face heavy time as a murderer. Now?

  I wrenched my gaze away, hooked my foot around the little chair, and plopped down. “Have a seat,” I said, striving for casual, though it hurt not to touch him.

  “The paper,” he repeated, as if trying to remember what a paper was. He looked around again, this time apparently seeing the room, and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. “I haven’t seen the paper yet. I was over at HQ early, and . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “Bad?”

  “Yes. No. Could have been worse. I get the sense that the journalists are definitely not in anyone’s pocket. What news do you have?”

  “Robert von Mecklundburg is recovering. When he woke up he corroborated what you told Nat.”

  “So he doesn’t blame me?”

  “No. Said you tried to defend him with a prop sword. That’s the good news.”

  “That reminds me, if you get a suspect, check his arm, and it definitely was a he. Tall. And I smelled guy sweat. He’ll have a bruise right here.” I smacked my arm just above my elbow. Then the last part of what he said sank in. “There’s bad news?”

  “There was an attempt on the Ridotskis.”

  “What happened?”