“Professor Bartholomew Dinwiddie, creator of several strange inventions, most memorable among them a portable engine, in the way of a tobacco-tongs, by means of which a man may climb over a wall; an amphibious horse-drawn vehicle; and a gravestone sundial that celebrated the anniversary of the deceased’s birth and death. Known to his detractors, unkindly, as Professor Dimwit.” Ravensclaw reached for the teapot and refilled his cup.
Fortunately, her papa’s critics hadn’t learned of the little ladder that enabled spiders to climb out of a hipbath. The automaton that could play a flute. The mechanical quacking duck which appeared to digest and excrete its food. Emily said, “You are well informed, my lord.”
“I suffer from insomnia.” Ravensclaw gestured toward the bookshelves laden with reading material that ranged from early studies of anatomy, and treatises on fungi and pharmacology, to, unless Emily’s eyes deceived her, The Egyptian Book of the Dead. “Perusing scholarly treatises such as those written by your father helps me fall asleep. Did you know that the ancient Egyptians were in the habit of annually burning alive an unfortunate individual whose only crime was to have hair the color of yours?”
Emily refused to be distracted. “Since you are so well-informed, you will also be aware that my father died in a laboratory mishap a little over a year past. I am now overseer of the Dinwiddie Society.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t you dare point out that I’m a female.”
The Count arched an eyebrow. “You malign me, Miss Dinwiddie. I was merely going to remark that you are very young to assume such responsibility.”
“I am four-and-twenty. That is not so very young. Nor am I altogether ignorant, my lord. In addition to my extensive formal education, I worked with my papa, and consequently know about vampires and ghouls, shape-changers and werewolves.” Emily glanced pointedly at Drogo, snoozing on the hearth.
Ravensclaw selected a cucumber sandwich. “I see.”
For all her experiences with the Society — or the experiences she had read about in her role as her papa’s amanuensis, he having been reluctant to let her do anything — Emily had never before met a supersensible being in the flesh. If ‘flesh’ was the proper term. She watched Ravensclaw bite into his sandwich with every evidence of enjoyment. A plump, black long-haired feline oozed through the doorway. At sight of Emily, it hissed.
“Machka,” explained the Count, as he brushed crumbs off his breeches. “Romany for cat.” The feline jumped, purring, into his lap.
Emily fingered her necklace and its assorted charms. According to the literature, animals fled in terror of the preterhuman, yet here Ravensclaw sat like any ordinary man, with a cat on his lap and a dog sprawled on his hearth.
No, she told herself; this is more mind magic. There was nothing ordinary about the Count, or the dog that could well be a lycanthrope, or the cat that was probably someone’s familiar. “You will be wondering about the purpose of my visit. In short, I need your help.”
Ravensclaw smoothed his hand along Machka’s spine. “What has given you the impression that I’m a man who rescues damsels in distress?”
Emily hadn’t the impression that he was a man at all. “How many times must I tell you that I know what you are? Need I remind you of Mercea the Wise, Vlad Tepes, Michael the Brave? You have lived in palaces and huts alike, foraged for food in the mountainous regions of Wallachia, Moldavia, and Transylvania; have seen Greeks fight Romans, Romanians fight Hungarians and Tatars, Turks fight Russians and Austrians, all because mankind must disagree with its neighbor’s religion, covet its neighbor’s land and goods. Some decades past, you withdrew to observe the human tragicomedy from a less volatile vantage point than Romania.”
She paused, awaiting his reaction. Ravensclaw said merely, “You are well informed about my ancestors.”
“I’m well informed about you!” Emily sprang up from her chair and began to pace. “I do not presume to judge you. The Society has a live-and-let-live-except-in-isolated-instances philosophy. Evil is in the eye of the beholder, and morality is a point of view.”
“How remarkably open-minded,” murmured the Count.
Emily eyed the fireplace, over which hung a thirteenth-century sword, a sharpened rod of triangular cross-section steel drawn to an acute point at one end and hilted at the other; and envisioned whacking her host over his aggravating, albeit handsome, head. “You may be interested to learn that the Society has, or had, in its possession a double-bladed athame with a cabochon ruby and a double ouroborus set into its hilt.”
His blue gaze sharpened. “The d’Auvergne athame vanished centuries ago.”
“Not vanished, was stolen. In 1544, to be precise, by Isobella Dinwiddie, and thereafter kept in a lead-lined chest locked in the Society’s vault. A number of other items have also gone missing. You must help me get them back.”
His expression was unreadable. “Must I?”
Emily counted to one hundred. Her first supersensible being was giving her heartburn. “Since the athame was originally stolen from you, you will know its powers.”
“Stolen from my ancestor, you mean,” the Count corrected. He had ceased petting Machka. The cat leapt down from his lap.
“Now you will try to convince me it’s your ancestor whose name is on the Dinwiddie list! The Society has known about the Breasla for some time, my lord. I doubt it would be in your best interest were the world to become aware of its existence as well. Papa told me that if ever I found myself in need of assistance, I should seek you out and remind you of the matter of St. Cuthbert’s finger bone.” He had also said she should proceed with caution, Emily belatedly recalled. “Don’t just sit there looking inscrutable! We must retrieve the stolen items before the powers of darkness are unleashed.”
“Such melodrama, Miss Dinwiddie.” The Count reached for the teapot. “Tell me about your father’s mishap.”
The mishap that Emily was growing to suspect had been no mishap at all? “Papa was developing a pair of galvanic spectacles that applied electric current to the optic nerve by means of a small zinc and copper plate attached to the nosepiece. Instead of the nosepiece, the current was applied to himself.” She adjusted her own spectacles, which had again slid halfway down her nose.
Ravensclaw said politely, “My condolences.”
Emily reached into a pocket and pulled out a trinket of the sort that might have adorned a gentleman’s watch fob, provided said gentleman was of an esoteric bent: a silver disc engraved with a serpent, its body in the form of an upright ‘S’, an apple in its mouth and an arrow piercing its breast . “After Papa’s death, things were at sixes and sevens for a time. I only recently discovered that the athame had been removed from its chest. I found this on the floor.”
Ravensclaw studied the disc. “Apollo’s arrow piercing the green dragon of Hermetic philosophy. An image of the union between passive and active, spirit and life. Interesting, but your vraja is far from an unusual piece.”
Emily noted that the Count had called the charm by its proper name. And that he wisely hadn’t touched the thing. “Not unusual, but not common either. I believe this particular talisman belongs to a man named Michael Ross. Mr. Ross is — or was — a favorite of my father’s.” She tucked the vraja back into her pocket. “He left London for Edinburgh several months ago. I believe Michael took the athame with him. You have a home in Edinburgh. May we please leave now?”
Ravensclaw nudged the cat off his lap. “Humor me, Miss Dinwiddie. What do you expect to accomplish in Edinburgh?”
Count Revay-Czobar was not impressing Emily with his quickness of perception. “I expect to find a thief! Haven’t you been listening?”
“And after you have found Mr. Ross, what then?”
Emily had not decided. Currently she was inclined to weigh him down with stones and toss him into the River Forth to drown. “Demand that he return the stolen items? Steal the dratted things from him? Maybe you can make him give them back. Naturally, you will prefer to travel under cover of darkn
ess. Unless you can sprout wings and fly like a bat?”
Ravensclaw studied her as if she was some hitherto-unencountered species. “If I was what you think me, Miss Dinwiddie, should you not be afraid?”
Emily was afraid, more than a little bit, but would bite off her own tongue before she told him so. “You admit it, then?”
Gracefully, he rose. “I admit nothing. You will be my guest tonight.”
His guest, or his dinner? Emily parted her lips to protest. Ravensclaw fixed his eyes on hers and the words died unspoken in her throat.
The Count moved toward her. Emily stepped back, hands raised to fend him off. Her fingers brushed his bare wrist.
…
A dizzying sense of mysterious dense forests, high craggy mountains, lush green upland pastures. A two-roomed cottage of solid well-hewn logs, roofed with laths. Wood floor covered with homemade woolen rugs. Similar rugs arranged neatly on the bed.
A woman with chestnut hair, wearing a sleeveless, richly embroidered jacket of fine white lambskin, a skirt woven in strips of light and dark red wool. Around her waist, an ornamental belt of different-colored wool interwoven with golden threads. Heavy wool stockings striped white and red and black.
“Tradator! Nelegiuit!” She backed away from him, making the sign against the evil eye.
…
Ravensclaw looked startled. Emily jerked her hand away.
Chapter Three
An ape’s an ape, a varlet’s a varlet, though they be clad in silk and scarlet.
(Romanian proverb)
Thunder rumbled through the heavens. Raindrops rattled against the window glass. Emily slept fitfully.
…
Moonlight cast eerie silver shadows through the dense wild forest. She slipped out of the small cottage that nestled among the tall spruce trees. He was waiting in the mountaintop meadow where aromatic grasses and flowers grew.
“I hunger. Let me taste you.” He spread out his dark cloak.
She steeled herself against him. “I know what you are.”
He reached out his hand to her. “As I know what you are, iubita.”
She moved closer to him, closer, unaware that she had moved at all. “You do?”
Cool fingers slid through her hair to the nape of her neck. “It is a matter of scent.”
His eyes were blue as the ocean’s depths. She whispered, “Scent?”
“You smell of garlic.” He lowered his lips to her throat. His teeth found her pulse. Sensation flooded her senses, an intoxicating warmth—
…
Emily surfaced slowly from the depths of slumber, a heavy weight on her chest, the metallic taste of blood bitter in her mouth.
She had bitten her own lip. Emily touched it with her tongue. Found herself wondering, shockingly, if Ravensclaw would like the flavor of her blood.
Don’t think of that, you pumpkin-brain! You must find the athame.
Warily, Emily opened one eye. She had read of incubi, that special class of demons who squatted on the breasts of sleeping women and made them long for things unimaginable in the practical light of day.
No incubus perched atop her chest, but Machka. They were almost nose to nose. The cat’s whiskers tickled. After a moment’s slit-eyed contemplation, Machka butted her head against Emily’s chin and began to knead her neck.
Gingerly, Emily patted the creature. She hoped her necklace of talismans would prove effective against whatever Machka was. They weren’t protecting her against the sharp claws that pricked her throat.
She turned her head on the pillow. The small cell-like stone room was simply furnished, her bed a straw-filled canvas mattress placed upon wooden slats. Easy to imagine an archer standing at the narrow vertical window, firing his arrows down on the enemy below.
The warped door creaked open. A maidservant bustled into the room. “Good morning, miss. I’ve brought your chocolate. Ah, the naughty pisica!” She scooted a hissing Machka off the bed.
Maidservant? The woman more closely resembled a tavern wench, brown-haired and buxom, with a fine color in her cheeks and plump pouting lips. Emily pulled herself into a sitting position. “What is your name? I didn’t see you yesterday.”
“Zizi, miss.” The servant set down her tray, on which rested a pot of chocolate and a plate of biscuits. “There’s three of us, not counting old Isidore.”
Emily reached for the chocolate pot. Here was a perfect opportunity to learn more about her enigmatic host. “Have you worked for the Count long?”
Zizi scooped up Machka, who was inching toward the biscuits. “As long as I can recall.”
Glamour, Emily decided. Although Zizi, as opposed to being pale and wan as befit an undead’s victim, was awesomely robust. Nor were there any fang marks on the startling amount of creamy neck and bosom that were on display. “Indeed?”
“As near as makes no difference.” Cat tucked under one arm, Zizi began to tidy up the room. “Ravensclaw treats his people well. None of us would want to work elsewhere.”
They wouldn’t, would they, if Ravensclaw had bespelled them? It was only sensible of the Count to have servants do his bidding during the daylight hours when he couldn’t be abroad. By means of the glamour, he blinded them to the knowledge that he was a bloodsucking fiend so foul no mortal could gaze upon his true form without being driven insane—
Insane with lust. Perdition! No incubus had sent that dream.
Zizi was still talking. “Himself says that as soon as you’re ready, we’ll leave for Edinburgh.”
Emily glanced at the bright light streaming through the window. “Himself?”
“The master.” Machka growled. Zizi set the cat ungently on the floor. “Will you need help dressing, miss?”
“Thank you,” Emily said, “but no.” Zizi closed the door behind her. Machka leapt on the bed, raised one back leg, and began to lick herself.
Leaving the cat to its ablutions, Emily swung her bare feet down to the cold floor. After a quick visit to the corner basin stand, she pulled off her nightrail, folded it neatly and placed it in the valise that Isidore had found abandoned at the bottom of the broken stone stair. She shook out her wrinkled gown, struggled into it, and set out in search of the Count. Machka jumped down from the bed to trail at her heels.
Ravensclaw was in the Lady’s Chamber, Drogo dozing at his feet. The Count had dressed for traveling in fawn breeches that clung to his muscular thighs, snowy linen, a superbly cut brown coat, and glossy boots. His auburn hair was drawn back and tied at his nape.
He rose to greet her, a slender volume in one hand. “I am reading a formula for the manufacture and use of a magic carpet. A virgin is required.”
Emily narrowed her eyes at him. Did not the undead, at the break of day, take refuge in their tombs? “I have read that one may vanish a nosferatu by stuffing his left sock with graveyard dirt and cemetery rocks, then tossing it into water flowing away from the area one seeks to protect. Supposedly, the demised may be controlled by the use of spiritwood and rum.”
Ravensclaw awarded her his bewitching smile. “One needs to be naked during that particular ritual, I believe.”
Wonderful. Now I’m thinking of him naked. “Alternately one might make a stake of ash, hawthorn, or maple and pound it into the corpse, put garlic in its mouth, and pound a nail in its head. Remove the heart and halve it. Incinerate the decapitated body and throw the ashes to the wind.” Any of which, Emily admitted, would be a great pity in the present case. “You have a reflection. I saw it in the window yesterday.”
“Why would I not have a reflection?” Ravensclaw replaced the book on its shelf. “I assure you that I am quite corporeal.”
He was entirely too corporeal for her peace of mind. “I understand we are to go to Edinburgh.”
“Is that not what you wanted?” Ravensclaw inquired politely. Drogo opened one yellow eye.
“What I want,” retorted Emily, “is to be able to travel without the annoying restrictions placed on females.” Cu
riosity got the best of her. “Tell me, does a sanguisurge discriminate between male and female blood?”
“The undead are amphierotic,” Ravensclaw informed her. “Umbivalent, that is. I know this due to my vast reading, you understand.”
Amphierotic? Umbivalent? “Are you mocking me?” Emily asked.
“No, Miss Dinwiddie, I am enjoying you. It is a very different thing.” Ravensclaw scratched Drogo’s head. The wolf parted his great jaws and yawned.
Enjoying her, was he? Emily wished she might say the same. “Speaking of Edinburgh, how do you plan to transport your, ah, resting place?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very exasperating young woman? Come with me.” Ravensclaw indicated a doorway in the far wall.
He stepped aside. Emily entered the adjacent, smaller room. She was no longer surprised to see antique furnishings and tapestries and colorful wool rugs. Never, however, had she seen anything like the canopied bed that dominated the chamber, its headboard and posts elaborately carved with figures in bas-relief. Behind her, Ravensclaw said, “This is where I sleep.” His husky tones evoked erotic scenarios played out on the fur coverlet and linen sheets.
Cheeks burning, Emily bent to peer beneath the bed. She saw not a speck of dust or dirt. “I thought revenants couldn’t go far from their native soil.”
“I don’t know about revenants, but I can go anywhere I please.” The Count’s amused voice came from the vicinity of her upthrust rump.
Hastily, Emily righted herself. “And can you cross running water, my lord?”
“I swim,” he informed her. “I also bathe.”
She wouldn’t, she absolutely wouldn’t, think of Ravensclaw bathing. Emily squinted at an ornate bedpost. Carved figures sat face to face, heels locked around each other’s waists, their nether parts— Oh, my.
“Miss Dinwiddie?” inquired the Count. “I believe you are anxious to depart for Edinburgh?”
Miss Dinwiddie was anxious to depart Ravensclaw’s bedchamber before she took leave of her remaining senses and dragged him down with her on that wicked bed, there to determine what was possible and what was not. Emily stalked out of the room with all the dignity at her command. In the Lady’s Chamber, with the air of a magician, the Count produced her umbrella and cloak before he escorted her outside.
Ravensclaw Page 2
