Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain
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“I expect you to be Rowena, nothing more, nothing less,” he said.
“Or your idea of me,” she said, coming to the crux of her fears.
“No,” he told her. “I leave such folly to young Mister Bowen.” He held out his arms to her. “If you will have what I offer, I will require nothing of you but your fulfillment.”
“And my bond,” she added, clutching at her elbows to hide the trembling that came over her.
“Only if it is what you want. I will be bound, but until you come to my life—if that is what you want to do—you will not have any tie to me but the ones you create yourself. You cannot be compelled to acquiesce, not in anything between us.” He sensed her fright, and lowered his arms, adding, “I do not mean to cause you any distress, Rowena. I would rather remain nothing more than the subject of a portrait than give you any unhappiness.”
She stared at him in wide-eyed silence for some little time, then said, “I am almost convinced you mean it.”
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The pang that went through him was a keener pain than the buckshot had been. “I do not lie, Rowena: what would be the point.”
“You need what I can supply,” she countered at once, inwardly appalled at the callousness of her challenge.
“Yes,” he said.
The candor of his answer took her by surprise. “You do not deny it?” “No,” he told her, his tone low and melodious. “Those of my blood survive on what we gain from the living, but it is not blood alone that sustains us. It is the touching, the knowing, that nourishes us.” He looked directly at her. “The touching is rare, and all the more treasured for its rarity.”
She blinked, shaken by what he said. “Shall you touch me?”
“If you will be touched,” he responded.
“And if I will not?” she demanded. “What then?”
He did not quite shrug. “Then nothing will happen. I can derive nothing of. . . value from coercion, and I do not want your disgust. I experience what you experience, and if that is repugnant to you, it is abhorrent to me: there is no merit for either of us in that.” He gave her some seconds to consider what he had said. “Do you want touching? Rowena?”
To her amazement, she heard herself say, “Oh, yes, please.” And before she could change her mind, before sanity reasserted itself, she rushed into his embrace, her mouth open on his.
Ragoczy caught her up in his arms, relishing the passion he felt welling in her. He caressed her cheek as she drew back from their lass, his small hands cradling her face as they kissed again. His senses awakened with hers, his eagerness attuned to her own. He whispered her name as he swung her off her feet with an ease that revealed his strength. “Well?”
“My room is ready,” she admitted, her face pressed against his collar. “This morning, I was more certain ...”
He had begun to descend the stairs but stopped when she faltered. “If you are uncertain, then—”
“No,” she insisted. “I know that you are what I want.”
“Ah,” he said, and carried her down the stairs and along the corridor to her bedroom while she murmured tentatively of her need.
“I want,” she began, trying to formulate a description of what she wanted. “I want to know you will. . . you will accept. . . what I want.” “As much as I am capable of, you will have, so long as it gives you joy,” he told her as he closed the door to her room behind them, then set her on her bed.
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“Oh, Lord,” she said suddenly. “Yseut.”
“Your housekeeper is here?” Ragoczy asked. “What do you want to do?”
“Yes, she is here. But she has said nothing...” Rowena laughed nervously. “If she has said nothing yet, she probably will not disturb us.” She unfastened the frog necklace and handed it to him. “Thank you for that. I wear the suite often.”
“And you enjoy it?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
“Of course.” She looked up at him. “I . . . I’m nervous.” Her golden eyes pleaded with him even as she attempted to laugh off her statement. “I don’t know why I should be, but I—” Her words stopped as he laid his finger gently on her lips.
“Its all right to be nervous, Rowena; you are taking a risk,” he said, and moved to lass her.
She halted him. “You mean that I may not be as resolute in my independence if I have more . . . contact with you?” She knew that she sounded defensive, and mentally castigated herself for admitting so much.
His smile banished her anxiety. “If you are, it will be what you want, not what I demand of you.” Then his mouth met hers, awakening her need; their shared silence was eloquent.
When she could speak again, she said, “But what is the risk, then: it isn’t as if we haven’t. . . done anything before. We have.”
“So we have,” he agreed. “But when you took ballet as a child—and do not tell me you did not: no doubt your mother insisted—was not the second lesson after an absence from it more difficult than the first? The muscles were stiffer and the habits of movement had not yet been reestablished. This, Rowena, is the second lesson.” As he spoke, she put her arms around his neck and pulled him down beside her on her bed, her lips seeking his.
“I must strive, then,” she whispered, “to regain my strength.” And she pulled him against her in fierce determination, trying to summon up the courage to set her fears aside.
When he could, he propped himself on his elbows and looked down at her, saying gently, “This is not a contest, Rowena.”
She stared at him, trying to reconcile her desire with his compassion. “Then what is it?”
“If we are fortunate,” he said in still, deep tones, “it is a revelation.”
She gave a little cry and reached for him once more. “I want ... I want to have that,” she said, trying to control the surge of excitement coursing through her, hoping that her desire would not be ephemeral.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Ragoczy drew back, but only to remove his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, which he hung over one of the short posts at the foot of her bed; he did not quite stand. “You will want to take off more than the necklace, I should think,” he said with a wry lift to his brows. “Clothes make everything more clumsy.”
“Will you do it?” she asked.
He stopped in the act of removing his cufflinks as he watched her unbutton her shoes, “I will help you; I will not do the whole,” he said after a short, thoughtful pause.
“Why not?” She sat up on her bed, trying to summon a sense of indignation, without success. “Is that beneath you?”
“Hardly,” he said, and answered her first question. “You are troubled by our attachment because you do not want to give up your autonomy; I do not want that, either. If I were to undress you entirely, you might decide that your hard-won emancipation had been compromised. I would not want you to feel that now or any time, and I would prefer not to provide you an excuse to decide it has happened. It is not your subjugation I seek, Rowena, it is your liberty: believe this.”
“You cannot know how much I want to,” she said as she stood up and began to unfasten the jacket of her suit. When she had draped it over the back of her grand-mother chair, she turned to him. “You’re right,” she conceded. “I must do this for myself.” She unfastened the skirt and stepped out of it as it puddled around her feet. “How did you know?”
“I know you, Rowena,” he reminded her, his voice kind and caressing. “The knowing and the love are the same.”
Her face and neck flushed as she began to unbutton her shirt; she took her time, using each tiny delay to assuage her doubts. Finally, standing in her slip, she faced him. “I leave the rest to you,” she said, and stepped out of her shoes.
His eyes were warm as sunlight on her, and he saw her reserve fade as he closed the distance between them in four steps. “Are you certain this is what you want?”
“Yes, I am certain,” she said testily, then repeated, �
��Yes,” in a softer tone.
He lifted her slip without haste, and when he had it off her, he bent and kissed her above her half-corset, as lightly and persistently as the falling rain.
She held him close as he unfastened the lacing of her half-corset, trying to smile as he tossed the undergarment onto her grandmother chair. The silk of his shirt was luxurious, but she suddenly found it disap-
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pointing. “Aren’t you going to take this off?” she asked, plucking at the collar.
“If you insist,” he said, and added, “I had better warn you: I have scars.” They were a white swath from the base of his ribs to the top of his groin, tokens of his first, incomplete death. He took her hands and put them over the buttons. “Turnabout is fair play.”
This reminder made her giggle; she did her best to unfasten the buttons without moving more than an inch or two back from him. When the shirt was open, she reached behind him and grabbed the back of it, intent on pulling it off. “Straighten your arms. One at a time,” she said as she felt his thumbs slide into the tops of her drawers. As he bent to help her step out, she finally got him free of the shirt. When he stood up again, she glanced down. “Lord God in Heaven,” she exclaimed.
He knew what caused her outburst. “Do they disgust you?” he asked, waiting for her reply.
“You said scars.” She raised her eyes to his face. “I had no idea.” Impulsively she wrapped her arms around him. “No wonder you have the ideas you do.” She kissed him, her sympathy going out to him. “They look . . . fatal.”
“They were,” he said.
The full significance of his admission sunk in. With a rush of tangled emotions, she clung to him. “How terrible,” she said, certain that her attempt to comfort him was inadequate.
“It was a very longtime ago,” he said, and bent his head to her breast, ministering to the other with his hand until the aureoles and nipples were rosy with excitement. He continued down her body, his whole being and his esurience fixed on her growing fervor and the wildness in her soul.
She lay back trembling, her body quivering like the strings of a ’cello as he devoted himself to her pleasure; she welcomed the sensations he offered her, and the discovery of responses within herself that were new to her, astonishing and wonderful. Her gratification was more sustained and intense than the first time they had lain together, shaking her with release; she took pride in the fulfillment they shared, in the murmured words of rapture he gave her when her frenzy had passed. When she could trust herself to speak coherently, she asked, “Are you really four thousand years old?”
“Yes,” he said, stroking her from her neck to her hip; her flesh moved pliantly with his hand.
“And you have survived this way?” She reached up and touched his mouth.
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“Once I understood what survival was, yes,” he said quietly “It isn’t just the blood is it?” she asked.
“It is life,” he answered.
“Life,” she repeated, drawing him into another kiss. Finally she trusted him.
Text of a letter from Reighert to Baron Klemens Manfred von Wolgast.
Chez Noir February 27, 1911
My dear Baron;
Once again, in accordance with your orders, I have had word from Bernard in regard to Ragoczy. He has continued to observe him and follow him on his various errands throughout the city. When not at his house, he occasionally visits the press of Jo van Groot, of whom he may be the patron. It also appears he is continuing to visit the artist to sit for his portrait. Bernard has had a few conversations with her housekeeper, a widow named Yseult, who has told him that occasionally Ragoczy and Miss Saxon spend long hours together in her room instead of occupy ing their time in her studio, and that these visits sometimes extend far into the night, which Bernard has confirmed, at least as far as the hours are concerned. Whether this affaire is an arrangement of convenience or something more Bernard has not been able to determine. I will instruct him to inquire more closely if you decide you want more specific information. If the housekeeper is telling the truth, you may rest assured that Bernard will confirm it in no more than a week.
Since you are determined still to disgrace Ragoczy, I recommend you pay Bernard the sum he has been demanding in order to ascertain the importance of this artist in his life, and he in hers. Ragoczy does not strike me as a cold fish, no matter what Nadezna told you. He may have dealt with Nadezna only for her dancing abilities, but that may have been out of prudence instead of indifference. Perhaps his interests lay elsewhere. If this artist has engaged his heart, she could be used to advantage. Bernard will put one of his men to watch Miss Saxon if you are willing to pay the price for such surveillance, which he will want in advance. 1 have instructed him to continue to watch Ragoczy and to confirm the nature of his dealings with Miss Saxon, but with a second man, we will know more, and sooner.
Every policeman I have approached tells me that Inspector Blau cannot be influenced or pressured into supporting a case he is not cer-
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tain is, accurate; his integrity would seem to he beyond question. Therefore, I would not advise trying to interfere in any way in his investigation of Nadezna’s death. With Ragoczy out of Germany, there is nothing more being done. If you were to appeal to him in any way, it might have the reverse effect desired, and cause him to reexamine what he has learned about her murder. This could lead to questions neither you nor I would want asked, in public or in private. I urge you to keep silent about her death, except to say it was a terrible tragedy, which is safe enough. Let time take care of the problem. As long as Ragoczy is in Amsterdam, or London, or anywhere but Berlin, we are safe.
The Chez Noir has taken in four of Nadezna’s girls; it seemed the most sensible thing to do. It keeps them where they can be watched, and guarantees I will know if they make any attempts to profit from Nadezna’s death. Should I learn anything from them, I will inform you at once. From what I have determined thus far, their suppositions regarding her murder are just that — suppositions. The police rarely listen to the speculations of prostitutes, which is in our favor.
Until next Thursday, when I will be delighted to introduce you to Bi-ennot: she is a glorious fourteen-year-old from Trier, very lovely and completely inexperienced. I think you will find her to your liking, and worth the price.
Reighert
R S. As far as I can discover, there has still been no connection made between the death ofNadezna and the death ofRenfred Meyer. Let us trust that this will continue to be the case, for both our sakes.
4
As the train rolled inexorably toward the German border, Roger regarded Ragoczy with a mixture of worry and aggravation. “It s plain that you left your private railway car behind in order to be less . . . visible in your travels, but, my master, this is not sufficient, nor would traveling with the third-class passengers be.” He looked at his watch as if expecting it to toll out the hour of doom. “The police will not be content
Chelsea .Quinn Yarbro
to ignore your presence,” he warned, speaking in a combination of Latin and Italianate French they had evolved between them over the centuries. “You will not be able to conceal your presence long enough to do the things you want to do. This isn’t a hundred years ago, when you would have had a week without interference. You yourself have said that you cannot outrun the telegraph.” He stopped his harangue to shove his watch back into his pocket. “You could end up in prison. Do you recall what prison was like? In China? In Mongolia? In Tunis? In Central America? It will be much worse here, for you will be watched, and you will reveal your true nature, eventually.”
“So you have said, repeatedly.” Ragoczy sat back against the upholstered seat of their first-class compartment. It was more comfortable with the small case of his native earth shoved under the seat. “You did not need to come, if you are so apprehensive, and pessimistic.”
“Or they may be more diligent,” said Ragoczy in sardonic amusement. “If they are fresh, they will want to show it.” He looked at the window, watching the night rush by; only the compartment and Roger were reflected in the glass. After a short silence he said, “I hope I have not endangered Rowena.”
“My master?” Roger said in some surprise.
“Oh, not from anything she receives from me—no, I meant that I am afraid those who oppose me may wish to harm her, as a way to strike at me.”
“Is that why you recommended she visit her family?” Roger asked, setting aside his map and folding his arms.
“Part of the reason; yes, it was,” Ragoczy replied, adding, “I hope she decides to go, not only for protection, but so she can make some peace with them. It is more vexing to her than she likes to admit that the family cannot understand what she is doing: only her grand-father in San Francisco, who is proud of her, endorses her—all the forgotten gods be thanked for Horace Saxon.”
“Do you think she will?” Roger indicated his interest by the angle of his head.
“Go to England or make peace?” Ragoczy shrugged, not to indicate
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any lapk of concern but to express his uncertainty. “I do not know if she will do either. She wants to sort out her feelings about her family, that much I am certain of, and she will have a better chance of doing that if she does not rule out all contact with them. Much as she is an artist, she is also a daughter, and she has not been able to forget that. It may be too soon for her to make such a gesture, but in time, I hope she will.” He shifted in his seat. “From what she said last night, Rupert Bowen is coming back to Amsterdam in a week or so, providing she does not go to England.”