When Darkness Falls

by Susan Krinard, Tanith Lee, Evelyn Vaughn

  When again he drew back, however, quietly and in gradual stages, he let her go.

  His eyes were blacker now than any night.

  "Vivien," he said. That was all.

  "Connor," she answered.

  They stood looking at each other, connected by some pulsing chain of invisible yet nearly tactile force.

  "What now?" he said. He smiled. "In fact, I'm sorry, Vivien, I have to meet Lewis in about an hour, back at the plaster ladders."

  These words made no sense to Vivien at all. She nodded mutely.

  "There's a private premier tomorrow—an art house-type film Scavengers worked on. Quite a decent film, apparently, if it can find the right distributor. Historical—French and English, with supernatural elements. Would that appeal to you?"

  "Because if it would, I've got the regulation complimentary tickets. Could be interesting—these private film events sometimes are. And sometimes the movies end up winning at Cannes."

  Vivien's heart bounded along as if already en route to the show.

  "Yes, I'd really like to see the film."

  "Some of the rest of the team are going. Lewis and Angela. His wife. I mention this to reassure you you'll be protected from my lust."

  "That's a relief," she said.

  "Yes, isn't it, Vivien Gray? But once we're out of the theater, I don't promise anything. Perhaps if you run away the moment we're out the door, I might not catch you. But yes, I think I would still catch you."

  "And I would always," she murmured, "run very slowly."

  He put his hands, lightly now, on her shoulders. He bent to kiss her with a closed, decorous, yet possessive kiss. "I'll find you a taxi."

  In the dream, she lay on the bed of rose-colored satin. There were drapes of thinnest gauze that floated round her, drifting in some unseen breeze.

  Material and breeze, too, played on her naked body, arousing her in a remote and curious way.

  Soon, he would be with her.

  His hands would travel her body, forming her—inventing her—like the hands of a sculptor working upon her human clay.

  She would be anything he wished.

  There was no choice. None.

  Vivien heard a footstep. She opened her eyes once more. The light shone dimly amber from secret candles or lamps. Through the light, a shadow came. A white shadow.

  "No—"

  Her body was stone, would not move… or barely.

  As she rolled her head in fear, Vivien saw, cast dark as night on the floating curtains and the wall, the shadow-shape of two beings embracing. He—and she.

  It seemed already he took her—already she consented.

  But maybe it was not love he brought, but retribution—and for a crime of which she was innocent.

  I am not Emily—

  A hand brushed her ribs, her stomach. A fluttering deliciousness…

  How dim the light. She could not see anymore, not the shadows, nor whether her lover was formed of flesh—or marble.

  She heard his voice.

  It was not Connor's voice. And again, she thought what she could not say—I am not Emily.

  "A fine woman…" said the voice "… a fair woman… a sweet woman… "

  Vivien knew she must wake up. And woke.

  It was ninety degrees in London. It felt like two hundred.

  Connor arrived to collect her in a taxi that evening at six o'clock. He stood there a moment, looking at her. "You're beautiful," he said, and leaning forward, kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  She had chosen her one really "good" dress, a sleeveless, scoop-necked glide of pale gray silk, ending just on the knee, that described her figure closely without clinging to it. Her shoes were pale green, high-heeled sandals she had bought in New York, at Ellie's insistence: "When shall I wear these?"

  "When you are being Vivien," Ellie had enigmatically replied. Vivien also wore the long drop earrings of clear, lime-green glass, found in the market at Camden Lock.

  Gradually she realized Connor, too, was wearing a gray silk shirt—of a gray so dark it was almost black. His clothes tonight looked tailored, though remained immaculately casual.

  In the taxi they talked decorously about the film that was going to be shown.

  "Age of Aries—it's set in the Napoleonic period, when France was at war with two-thirds of the world. Other sections run parallel in England. The link is a werewolf theme. Lewis and I glimpsed the actor once in full fur—quite impressive even by day, and even though he was having to eat his lunch through a straw to save his prosthetic snout."

  The theater, a private one, lay among the net of roads behind Wardour Street, and the taxi pulled up short at the entry to the cobbled roadway.

  An imposing man in full dress-uniform of the Napoleonic era welcomed them in through the door, saluting Connor, bending to Vivien's hand.

  Laughing, they went up a narrow stair and into the hospitality suite.

  Vivien, startled, stopped in the doorway.

  The long room lay under a carpet of scarlet petals, and for a second an image of broken roses chilled her. Then she heard Connor say, "Geranium petals. That would be, I imagine, because the Empress Joséphine introduced geraniums to France… "

  Vivien looked at him. "You're very clever."

  "I am now." Connor pointed at a suitably curlicued notice on the wall, from which he had read the information about geraniums.

  All around were similar snippets of knowledge, and prints dating from the early 1800s, depicting sieges, battles and naval engagements, full of fatly puffing, creamed-potato clouds of cannon smoke.

  A glittering chandelier blazed overhead, adding to the heat, while on a central table rose a champagne fountain of crystal glasses waiting to be filled by streams of wine.

  "It says, the shape of the champagne glass is modeled on one of Marie Antoinette's flawless breasts," said another voice.

  Lewis stood there, beaming, in velvet trousers and a white ruffled shirt, somewhat incongruous with his eyebrow ring and shaven crown.

  "We just don't know which one," added a red-haired woman at Lewis's side. She was thin and elegant, and wore a white cotton suit. "Hi, I'm Angie. You must be Vivien." Vivien greeted her. Lewis's wife held out a manicured hand.

  Something about Angela made Vivien slightly uneasy. Vivien wasn't sure quite what. Perhaps her harshness with lawns, as reported by Lewis?

  As the conversation went on, Angela seemed self-assured and friendly, and yet it was almost as if she had honed her social skills as part of some needful defence—even attack. Her eyes met everyone's openly, but otherwise they often scanned the room, as if looking for someone. Perhaps she was.

  They took wine from a tray, one of several borne about by young women in the semitransparent or decollete fashions of 1800s Paris and London.

  Vivien noticed that Angie thirstily gulped her wine, then reached out at once for another glass.

  "I can't drink red," she said to Vivien. "It gives me headaches. But then, white is so much cooler on a night like this."

  "It's murder in London," said Lewis. "Ange reckons it's up to a hundred."

  A man in a loose Indian shirt and with an eager, nervous look had engaged Connor in talk. A second man, who had on a joke tuxedo whose back was covered in yellow polka dots, kept soothing the first man and handing him glasses of ginger beer.

  "That's the bods who made the film. J.D.'s ulcer is clearly playing up, hence the ginger. The hoped-for distributor hasn't turned up yet," croaked Lewis to Vivien in a stage whisper.

  "Hush, Lewis," hissed Angela sharply. "He'll hear you."

  "Sorry, ma'am." Lewis smiled at Angela. "My missus," he added to Vivien. "She keeps a strict eye on my manners. One of the reasons I love her so."

  "Oh, I see, Lewis," said Angie, "that's why you love me." For an instant something waspish hung on the air. Then Angela smoothed it with a "Oh good, that stern man who's just swept in with his assistant—The hoped-for distributor has arrived!"

  There was a flurry
after this, a kind of dance where everyone kept changing partners—Vivien lost Connor in the crowd, while waiters were arranging champagne bottles. A man dressed as an officer in the army of George IV presently sliced off the corks with a sword.

  Exclamations were loud as the corks soared, narrowly missing the chandelier, and a river of bubbling silvery wine flowed delicately down into every breast-shaped glass.

  "My, aren't we color-coordinated."

  Vivien turned to find Cinnamon at her side with two glasses of champagne.

  Vivien looked at her flatly.

  Undeterred, of course, Cinnamon announced, "One of these is for Conn. Where is he? Oh, with the distributor… I see he's lost you, then. If he wants to, Conn's good at losing women."

  Vivien, taken aback, stared at Cinnamon.

  "Oops," said Cinnamon, then added, "This second glass is mine by the way. I didn't get it for you. Hope you don't mind."

  "I don't mind at all."

  "You don't know much about Connor, do you," Cinnamon asked coyly, around her champagne glass. "The initial K doesn't mean anything?"

  Vivien felt something—her heart? the floor of her stomach?—drop through her body.

  Quietly she said, "Presumably it does to you.'"

  "Me? Not a chance. Did I say something?"

  Vivien thought, I am not going to play this game with you, Cinnamon. Vivien had met Cinnamon's type before. Troublemakers, ready with anything to throw you off balance. Cinnamon fancied Connor and was jealous of Vivien.

  Yes, Vivien knew about a K. Funny, humorous K. Who surely no longer had any part in Connor's life?

  Cinnamon's feral eyes were brightening, lifting.

  Ah, Connor had come back…

  Someone she had known through a hundred lifetimes touched Vivien's arm. With a deep, wounding, bewildered joy, she thought, I would know his touch, the sensation of his hands on me—anywhere—among a million others.

  Connor gave a glass of champagne to Vivien, having already collected one for himself. "Here's to Age of Aries. Oh, Cinnamon, two drinks? That's rather greedy, isn't it?"

  "One of them's for Ange," invented Cinnamon, shaking earrings that put the chandelier to shame. "We all know, she'll need as much as we can pour down her before we can even wheel her into the movie."

  "Cinnamon, use your mouth to drink with."

  "Ooh, don't be so cruel to me, Conn-conn—"

  Connor turned his back on her. He led Vivien calmly away through the crowd: "There's someone I want you to meet."

  The room behind the bar was also crowded, but gave on a balcony, open to a shimmering red-gold evening packed by roofs and fire escapes. No one else was out there, having given up on the notion of getting any air—there seemed very little.

  Connor stood Vivien quietly before him.

  "Who is it you want me to meet, Connor?"

  "Me."

  "Oh. I thought we'd met."

  "Did you."

  His mouth brushed hers, softly, quickly, and any doubt, however fleeting, perished. She shivered the length of her body in the boiling sunset.

  "How do you do, Vivien Gray. I'm sorry," he said, "for that business in there. Scavengers is a kind of family. And families fight."

  "It doesn't matter."

  A fanfare volleyed across the hospitality suite.

  "Our summons. I hope you'll like the film."

  She thought, Even if I hate the film, I'll still love every moment.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  "Luckily we're safe now. If we meet any werewolves, we can force these silver bullets down their throats."

  "But, Connor, they're made of chocolate."

  "Really? Better eat them, then, Vivien, do you think?"

  "Both?"

  They set the two bullets, an example of which had been offered to every person entering the movie theater, side by side on the table.

  "Silver foil over candy coating," said Connor. "They look almost real." He gazed up and away into nothingness for a moment. She saw it happen, the shadow rising behind his eyes. "Counterfeit. Funny how something can be a lie and still seem true." Then he pushed the shadow back inside himself. "Would you like some brandy with your coffee?"

  Vivien shook her head.

  "I will. I need it, after that scene with J.D."

  The film, which had been two hours long and rather marvelous, had proved a success with the hoped-for distributor, and J.D. and tuxedoed Ronald Whiting, the film's makers, had broken out more champagne. J.D. had gone round to everyone who had worked in any capacity on the film, wringing their hands over and over. Reaching Connor, J.D. had gone overboard in his praises: "We couldn't have done it without him!"

  "We only supplied and organized the expected stuff. For which they paid handsomely, despite a low budget," Connor had protested later.

  "Oh, come on, Conn, don't sell us short," said Lewis. "Who ever heard of making a film set during the Napoleonic wars and not showing a single battle? Okay, it was rendered on the personal level, a family saga with a werewolf in the closet—but how we dressed those sets made the thing work."

  "You've forgotten a few actors, Lewis. And a director and producer. And the design team."

  "Yes, yes, okay—"

  "Not to mention camera work that deserves an Oscar."

  "Sure, but—"

  Cinnamon had interrupted this discussion, which took place on the baking pavement of a now-nocturnal ten-thirty London, milling with rambling crowds. "I'm hungry."

  "Let's go eat," said Angela.

  "Where are we going?" demanded Cinnamon.

  "Don't know where you're going, Cinn," said Lewis. "To hell on a bicycle?"

  "I mean dinner, Lew."

  "Wherever you like."

  "Oh, then—"

  "No," said Lewis firmly. "I mean Angela and I are eating at Goya's. And you are not fit to be seen there in that Kleenex of a dress you're wearing. Vivien, though, and just possibly Connor, if he can agree with me for once, would be welcome."

  Cinnamon's face set in a mulish rage. So, after all, she could be wound up.

  Connor said, "Thanks, Lewis, Angela. Vivien and I have a table booked elsewhere."

  Vivien shook hands with Lewis, who kissed her on both cheeks. "Watch out for Connor—isn't it full moon tonight? If that long hair of his gets longer, run!"

  Angela kissed Connor, hugged him with surprising warmth, and shook hands with Vivien without either hug or kiss.

  "Terrific to meet you, Vivien." Then, turning to her husband, she said, like a schoolmarm, "Now, we can't leave poor little Cinnamon all on her own. Her dress is all right." And Lewis was saying something very odd that sounded like, "Hey, Ange, being a bit cattish, aren't you?" Perhaps he meant catty…

  It all faded behind them as Vivien and Connor ran for the taxi he had hailed.

  In the cab, they talked on about the movie. Anecdotes he now told her about the production, particularly one that involved a runaway cannon chasing a herd of cows, ended in laughter.

  This second restaurant to which he brought her was quite large, like a luminous cavern lit by pearly spotlights. It stayed open until 2:00 a.m. Mozart and Beethoven sang through speakers.

  All through the meal they talked, laughed.

  Then, quite suddenly, the meal was over, the plates gone, the glasses dry, the coffeepot emptied. She thought, with an abrupt jolt, as if seeing the cliff's edge before her, What now? They were the very words he had said to her in the park behind the church.

  For would he leave her now? Was there some new appointment he must keep? And after tonight, anyway—what?

  "Vivien, maybe I should take you home."

  "What time is it?"

  He looked at his watch. "Nearly a quarter to one."

  "And you haven't become a werewolf. How disappointing."

  "And your clothes didn't fall off at midnight," he said, "like Cinderella's. Even more disappointing. At least, to me, and most of the men in here."<
br />
  They stared at each other.

  He said, softly, "I want to go back with you, Vivien. I want to be invited into your fascinating little flat, hung with mirrors and paintings. Not for coffee or a drink. I want to take you to bed, Vivien, my Vivien, and make love to you." His eyes were seas of darkness. She swam there, and to help her swim, he held both her hands. "Is that too soon?" he said. "Or am I assuming too much? Tell me. Either."

  "Not too soon," she whispered. "Not asking too much. I want all that too."

  "Alors, ma belle," he said. He stood up. "Allez-vous à moi."

  Now, my lovely one, come you to me…

  Her mind translating, the respectful formal French of vous not lost on her, Vivien rose in a kind of trance. He had already settled the bill. But she didn't afterwards quite know how they walked from the restaurant. Yet there they were on the pavement, pressed side to side, his arm about her, and from the London night came a taxi, ordered by angels, it seemed, just for them.

  The taxi was traveling easily, the night's heavier traffic finished, when Connor's mobile phone sounded.

  He took the slender wafer from his jacket, scowling at it.

  "I turned this off for the movie." He didn't attempt to answer the call. "Wait, I loaned it to Lewis afterwards. He left it on—" The twanging call, which had stopped, began again. "Vivien, sorry. I'd better see what this is."

  Vivien sat mutely, lost in him.

  How could anything as ordinary as a phone call matter?

  "Hi, Lewis. What the hell's up? No. No, she isn't. You'd better ask her. Okay." A long gap. "Right. Yes, you're right, I'm the one with the keys. Fine. I'll let you know—Not tonight, then." Connor broke the connection. "Vivien, we need to make a detour."

  "What is it?" she asked, as Connor leaned back from redirecting the irked taxi driver, who now spun the cab squealingly around on the empty road. "May I know?"