Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “Rowena?” Ragoczy asked from behind her, knowing that some abrupt change had come over her, for she stood, still and shaking, as if unable to move.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, sagging against the railing beside the stairwell. “Oh, God, God, God.”

  Ragoczy went up the last four steps in a single, swift movement, and halted beside her, seeing for himself what had so transformed her.

  The easel holding her portrait of him stood in the center of the room, angled to face the top of the stairs. The drape had been removed, revealing slashed tatters that obliterated the image in the painting.

  “What?” Rowena whispered as she felt Ragoczy s arm around her shoulder. “Who?”

  “Whoever it is, we are intended to be frightened,” said Ragoczy with such calm that Rowena stared at him.

  “Then he was successful. I am frightened.” Admitting this restored her self-control; she went to the easel and lifted her hand as if to touch the ruined portrait. Then her hand dropped. “I am so sorry, Count. I had intended to finish it—”

  “I am sorry, as well,” he agreed, coming to her side again, trying to listen to every sound in the house, from the dripping of water in the bathroom on the floor below to the footfalls and voices rising from the street and the canal. “But you have no reason to apologize to me. You are not responsible for this.”

  She lowered her eyes, her anxiety growing stronger; her voice became a rough whisper. “He could still be in the house, couldn’t he? You don’t think—”

  “That the person who did this is nearby?” He drew her closer, hoping to lend her some of his fortitude through his nearness as he admitted his foreboding. “Yes, I do. This is a message, meant to scare and anger us. Whoever did this would want to be certain he achieved his desired effect.”

  “And it has,” she said, pulling back and turning away from the devastation of her work. “I can’t—”

  “Let me cover it with something. Where do you keep your drapes?”

  Ragoczy asked, knowing that any activity was preferable to remaining paralyzed.

  “In the cupboard, toward the rear of the room,” she said absently, her gaze still fixed on the wreckage.

  There was a sound at the foot of the upper flight of stairs: Ragoczy recognized it at once as a single crack of laughter. He felt Rowena stiffen beside him, and he reached out to touch her once more. “We will get through this,” he told her very softly.

  “How gallant,” von Wolgast said derisively in German as he came up the stairs, a pistol in one hand, a long knife in the other. He was not the same affluent, arrogant personage Ragoczy and Rowena had seen in April: he was thinner, with the first telltale signs of self-indulgence softening his features; the flesh under his chin was sagging and the pouches beneath his eyes were more pronounced than they had been three months ago. His stance was subtly belligerent, no longer expressing hauteur, but something more menacing. His clothes were good quality but unremarkable, the sort of suit any traveler might wear on a sea voyage; there was a bulge in his waistcoat that Ragoczy assumed was another weapon. Only the shine of his eyes was harder than it had been, and his cupids-bow mouth had become narrow and sullen. “Going to protect her, are you, you imposter? What makes you think you can?”

  To her astonishment, Rowena spat at von Wolgast.

  He laughed once more. “You will apologize for that before I leave— apologize and make amends to my specification,” he promised her, his expression becoming implacable. He swung toward Ragoczy. “You should really instruct Erich Rotscheune to be more careful in what he tells persons asking for you. He has a high opinion of you, for reasons I cannot fathom, and it leads him to boast. He has more than once revealed things about you that you would prefer to have kept quiet. It took no more than one or two questions and my . . . associate learned all he needed to know.”

  “I suppose I should discuss the problem with him,” said Ragoczy, his manner composed; he stood with every appearance of ease, as if he were not facing a knife and a pistol. “When I am next in Berlin, I will attend to it.”

  “When you are next in Berlin,” von Wolgast repeated, mocking Ragoczy with everything from the tone of his voice to his posture. “You have given instructions to bury you there?”

  Rowena heard herself gasp; she moved a few steps closer to Ragoczy,

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  near enough to touch him. She understood enough German to know that von Wolgast intended more than harm.

  “Actually, I would prefer to lie in my native earth, which is in the Carpathians, as you are no doubt aware.” Ragoczy’s urbanity was not what von Wolgast was expecting; the Count took advantage of this. “Was it your personal animosity toward me that made you ruin Miss Saxon’s portrait, or was it something more?” He was well-aware that the destruction of the canvas had more than one purpose, but he would not say as much to von Wolgast. “If you despise me so profoundly, mightn’t you have found a more direct way to express it? Why drag Miss Saxon into it again?”

  “I am not the idiot you think me,” von Wolgast proclaimed. “I will not let her escape me a second time.”

  This distressed Ragoczy but he maintained his outward aplomb. “You have nullified any claim to being a gentleman if you act against Miss Saxon. You have done more than enough to her already.”

  Von Wolgast shook his head, gesturing with his knife as if wagging an admonitory finger at Ragoczy. “Oh, no. You will not provoke me to anything hasty. I will not be robbed of my vengeance.”

  Ragoczy gave a little shrug. “In another century you would be telling me to name my seconds, Baron. If any would support you in so ignoble a challenge.” His hand brushed Rowenas, a gesture so minor that it seemed unimportant, nothing more than a gesture intended to reassure her.

  “Name your seconds? I would not sully my reputation with meeting you. You deserve only to be horsewhipped,” declared von Wolgast, forgetting his resolve of a moment ago.

  “You have come a long wa^for a task a lackey might do, and have exposed yourself to arrest as well: I must suppose you have gone to some effort to find me in order to exact your . . . revenge,” Ragoczy pointed out, his outward demeanor remaining undisturbed. “I am still at a loss to understand why you detest me.”

  “You are right,” von Wolgast said. “I have come a very long way, and with a single purpose.” He stood more erect. “I have been dreaming of this moment for months.”

  “But why?” Ragoczy persisted reasonably. “What have I done that so offends you?”

  “You are a charlatan! You are a deceiver! You cozened your way into the Czar’s confidence, but you cannot work your hoax on me.” This time his gesture with the knife was broader, more determined. “You took ad-

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  vantage of everyone, posing as something you are not, and doing your best to destroy my business! My business!”

  Rowena stepped back, seeking to avoid any sudden thrust von Wol-gast might make; she drifted to the right as the fleeting pressure of Ragoczy s fingers had urged her to do. She strove to fight off the nausea that threatened to overcome her, brought on by von Wolgast s presence; she had not realized until von Wolgast appeared how loathsome he was to her. As she attempted to position herself where Ragoczy wanted her to be, she stared with fascination as the Count continued his verbal fencing with von Wolgast.

  “What convinces you I ever had the least interest in your business?” asked Ragoczy.

  “You were in Germany to persuade the Kaiser to disarm, weren’t you? You wanted to destroy all I have worked to achieve.” He did not give any time for an answer. “You needn’t deny it. Germany has friends in England, and word of what you tried with England’s Edward reached me in time to thwart your aims. Your fraud was not perpetrated in Germany, and George of England knows better than to interfere with German aims in Europe.”

  “At another time, I might like to know what those aims might be,” said Ragoczy. “At present I have more pressin
g things to attend to.” This continuing lack of fright that Ragoczy demonstrated made von Wolgast wild; his stance became more threatening. “You will have to hear them now, for you will never have the opportunity to do so again.” “And why is that?” Ragoczy made another slight movement of his fingers; Rowena slowly began to move behind him.

  This was what von Wolgast was waiting for; he would have preferred to have Ragoczy cringing in dread, pleading with him for pity, but this would have to do. He was convinced what he told Ragoczy next would erase that maddening poise at last. “I have something with me.” He tapped the bulge in his waistcoat with the point of his knife. “I have brought it especially for you. I have seen how it works.” His tongue flicked over his lips. “I have pitchblende mixed with certain herbs.” Ragoczy heard this with trepidation, for he had seen for himself what pitchblende could do. “And what do you intend to do with it?” He folded his arms and waited.

  “If you will drink it, in coffee or tea or wine—it doesn’t matter which—I may spare Miss Saxon any further distress at my hands. If you will not, she will answer for your refusal in ways that neither she nor you would like.” He rocked back on his heels. “I will not be able to stay to watch the whole of it, unfortunately. But I will have the chance to

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  see the beginning, and take what pride I can in knowing nothing on earth can save you.”

  “Are you certain of that?” Ragoczys one experience with pitchblende had been over two thousand years ago, and it had taken him more than a century to recover fully from the injuries the substance had caused. The only thing he had endured since his vampiric renewal from death that was worse than the ravages of pitchblende was crucifixion.

  “I certainly am. I saw a man die of it last month, to be certain you would suffer enough for all you have done to me.” He motioned Ragoczy to get back so there would be room to move about the studio while he talked. “It takes very little, and it can be inhaled as well as drunk, but if it is swallowed the death is more painful, although not quite so long. The pitchblende causes lesions at first, on the lips, very disfiguring. Poured into an open wound, it is worse than gangrene. Once in the body it begins to eat away at the vitals, slowly consuming them. I am told it can take up to ten days to kill. I understand some go mad from agony. I am sorry I will not have the opportunity to see if you are stalwart enough to endure it to the end. You may have to take von Rosenwieses way out, and kill yourself like the coward you are.” Again he used the knife to tap the bulge. “Pernicious stuff, you’ll agree. I was warned that it must be carried in lead crystal, or it might cause me some minor discomfort. I have a considerable amount of it here: four grams.”

  Rowena listened to this hideous recitation with increasing dread. She wanted to tell Ragoczy to refuse to take the poison, but she could not make the words come. She never thought she could be so lacking in character, but she knew she could not tolerate having von Wolgast touch her, let alone anything more than he had had done already. She felt Ragoczy s hand on hers. “Count...”

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said to her in English.

  Von Wolgast s amusement was triumphant, for although he did not know English well, he recognized the intent of Ragoczy s words. “Ach, ja. Console the little lady, Ragoczy. Tell her she will enjoy what she and I will do together.”

  Ragoczy discovered he could abhor von Wolgast far more than he already did. “It will not matter what I do, will it, Baron?” He made von Wolgast s title an obscenity. “You are not going to let her go, are you?”

  “And have her accuse me again?” von Wolgast asked, savoring the little cry Rowena gave almost as much as the hatred he saw in Ragoczy s penetrating eyes.

  “You will have the opportunity to find out,” von Wolgast said, smug-

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  ness turning his face to a travesty of good humor. “You will see it all. Your anguish will be beyond description.”

  Had he confronted von Wolgast alone, Ragoczy might well have cringed, giving the man what he sought until he made the fatal error of assuming Ragoczy was cowed. But Rowena was depending on him to sustain her; he felt this with staggering intensity; he would not have the chance to indulge von Wolgast s wishes to distract him. Whatever action Ragoczy took against von Wolgast, he would have to do it swiftly. He gathered himself for a single attack. “You have no reason to hurt Miss Saxon,” Ragoczy said, knowing von Wolgast was expecting some endeavor on his part to hold off what von Wolgast believed was the inevitable.

  “I have reason to hurt you, for all you have done to me.” Von Wolgast s glare was severe. “If you had not tried to ruin me, if you had not supported Nadezna, I would have endured your existence. But you had to—” He stopped, visibly striving to master himself.

  With Ragoczy serving as a shield, Rowena reached out to the cabinet where her store of painting supplies were kept and eased the door open, forcing herself not to hurry; speed could only bring about disaster. She knew where everything in the little cupboard was, and found the large cylindrical tin of turpentine by touch. As she closed her hand around it, she had to overcome the rush of fear that went through her; she concentrated on removing the cap, hoping that the odor would not alert von Wolgast to what she was doing. With more will than she realized she possessed, she seized the tin of turpentine and pressed it against the back of Ragoczy s thigh. She saw him nod slightly as his hand moved to take it.

  “Well, I haven’t got much time,” said von Wolgast with amicable malice. “We might as well get started. Ragoczy, you will lead the way. Miss Saxon, you will go next, just in front of me, so that your supposed Count will not be tempted to do anything reckless.” He wiggled the pistol, urging them to comply.

  Rowena stayed close behind Ragoczy, concealing the turpentine tin and finding solace in Ragoczy s nearness. She looked down and noticed a large drop of turpentine had got onto the caramel-colored linen of her skirt, darkening it. Flinching at this, she hoped von Wolgast would not notice it, or realize its implication.

  “Down the stairs,” said von Wolgast victoriously. “Stop at the bottom of the flight before going down to the ground floor. Miss Saxon will be directly in front of me. I will use the knife on her, not the pistol. Keep that in mind.”

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  Very carefully Ragoczy began his descent, appearing to hesitate with each step. He dared not say anything to Rowena, certain that his one desperate chance would fail if he alerted her; he would have to depend on her trust in him, and her good sense. When he was one step from the bottom, he seemed to stumble and to grab out for balance. His hand missed the railing and shoved Rowena aside as he spun around and flung the turpentine from its tin up into von Wolgast’s face, at the same time pulling Rowena the rest of the way down the stairs and dragging her out of reach before turning to face von Wolgast.

  The stink and the pain struck von Wolgast at the same time as the turpentine splashed into his eyes and down his face. He dropped his knife as he tried to wipe the liquid away, and in the next instant lost his footing and began a stumbling fall down the stairs. His pistol went off twice and he screamed out his odium for Ragoczy. He crashed to the floor prone, howling in pain.

  In a breath, Ragoczy was standing over him, his foot on the back of his neck as he reached for von Wolgast s arm, intending to twist it behind him. Only when his wrist was in Ragoczy s steely grip did he remove his foot from the Baron’s neck.

  Von Wolgast screamed. “NO!” His face went ashen and he ceased to struggle with his captor, although his body was stiff with pain. “Mein Gott, no,” he whispered.

  “Get up, von Wolgast,” Ragoczy ordered, without a trace of fear. “On your feet.”

  At the first pull on his arm, von Wolgast shrieked. As the pressure eased, he whimpered. “I can’t.”

  “Then I will help you,” said Ragoczy, and with a strength that was lost on von Wolgast, lifted the man upright in one fluid movement.

&
nbsp; Then they all saw the blood. It spread across von Wolgast s waistcoat, staining his shirt and the lapel of his coat. As he took two steps away from Ragoczy, small shards of glass glittered in the center of the bright red aureole. “It... broke,” von Wolgast said softly in the aghast silence. He put his hand to his waistcoat, and drew it back, pinpricks of blood on his fingers. “It brokel” he repeated as the full importance of the wound struck him. He stared down at himself. “The pitchblende ...” His words trailed away.

  Suddenly Rowena rushed at von Wolgast, her hands ready to gouge and tear. She yelled with frustration as Ragoczy caught and held her. “I will!” she shouted; she wanted to hurt him.

  “It isn’t safe, Rowena,” Ragoczy said somberly, continuing to restrain

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  her until she ceased to struggle. “You do not want the pitchblende on you. You do not want to cut yourself on the glass.”

  The quiet authority of his words finally reached her. “You mean what he said was true? There is such a poison?”

  The enigmatic expression in Ragoczys dark eyes held more visions of remembered wretchedness than she could imagine. “Yes. And he is unfortunate enough to know how he will die.”

  Von Wolgast began to wail, the sound like that of a lost child. He made an attempt to pluck out the splinters of glass, then gave it up with a groan. With an abrupt lunge, he dove for his pistol, now lying near the top of the other flight of stairs; Ragoczy was too quick, and kicked the pistol down to the ground floor before von Wolgast could reach it. This time he lay, his knees drawn up, mewing sobs.

  “What is going to happen to him?” Rowena asked as she stared down at von Wolgast.

  “He described it quite well,” Ragoczy said, and went down on one knee beside the Baron. “Miss Saxon is going to send for an ambulance,” he said kindly.