A Different Hunger

by Lila Richards

Rufus’s excursions below decks were unexpectedly curtailed by a serious outbreak of dysentery among the steerage passengers. Doctor Wells, disinclined to take chances with the rest of his charges, ordered all passengers to keep strictly to their own quarters.

  This was less onerous for the cabin passengers, since they still had the use of the poop deck, which was, in any case, out of bounds to steerage passengers. But Rufus was in no state of mind to exchange pleasantries with these good folk, and kept to his cabin, the better to brood on his misery. This had the unintentional side effect of his being able, during more lucid intervals, to reflect on his situation. His budding love for Serafina was in no way diminished, he realised, and neither was the pain of losing her. It was gradually borne in upon him, however, that her rejection had not been of him, but of the very notion that they might love one another. Indeed, she had seemed not only to welcome his embrace, but to hunger for it as he did for hers. Would he ever forget her dark eyes, aflame with desire as her lips sought his? Could she have been dissembling? No, he couldn’t believe it. Then why had she been so adamant that their love could not be? And what part had Springer played in her rejection?

  Rufus’s mind began to conjure up possible scenarios. What if she were already married, fleeing, perhaps, from a cruel husband, as Charlotte should have done from hers, had she only had the courage? This, however, begged the question of why Springer – whom Rufus was now almost certain was not Serafina’s father – was helping her. Or perhaps she was a widow still in mourning. Although she was not wearing black, as any self-respecting English widow would do, it was possible, he supposed, that customs in her own society were different. It would explain her reluctance to enter into a relationship, though it hardly seemed to account for the passion she had shown him, and it still left the question of Springer. Try as he might, Rufus could find no explanation that took satisfactory account of so many apparent contradictions.

  He came, at last, to the reluctant conclusion that he would probably never discover the truth, and must now accept, however unwillingly, that Serafina was lost to him.

  SEVEN

  It was not long before Rufus realised he could not continue to seclude himself in his cabin, if only because it would draw unwelcome attention to him. The last thing he wanted was to have some well-meaning person trying to find out what the matter was, or perhaps suggesting that Doctor Wells pay him a visit. For all that the rotund surgeon presented a bland face to the world, Rufus had the impression that a very sharp mind lay behind it. So he began to go about again, forcing himself to make polite conversation, and attending such entertainments as were organised, though his heart was not in them.

  Alone in his cabin at night, he would find himself wondering just what could be wrong with him that his every attempt to find the love he so longed for seemed doomed to failure. Was it some fault within him that made him unattractive to women? With all due modesty, this seemed unlikely. After all, neither Elizabeth Fane nor Charlotte Winter had seemed to find him so, however flawed their motives might have been. Eleanor Fox had been happy to flirt with him, until her ghastly brother had ordered her off. As for Serafina Radzinskaya, the passion of her kisses left him in no doubt of her attraction to him. Yet something had made her draw back from him and run away, and, it seemed to Rufus, that something could only be Springer, especially after the argument he’d overheard between them. What was it he’d told her? ‘I made you. You are blood of my blood, and nothing can change that – ever.’ It seemed a curious thing to say if all he meant was a blood relationship between them. It seemed to imply he had some power over her, and her fleeing from his embrace appeared to confirm it. Perhaps Springer was her father, after all. Rufus could think of little else to account for Serafina’s refusal of a love she so patently wanted. But in that case, why hadn’t she simply told him he must ask Springer for permission to court her? There must be some other hold he had over her – hadn’t he told her he could control her if he chose to? But what form such control might take was beyond Rufus’s powers of deduction.

  So when Doctor Wells announced at breakfast that there would be an evening of card games in the dining salon that evening, he decided to join in. Of course there would be none of the betting allowed that he’d been used to at Hurst’s and the other clubs he’d frequented back in London. But he’d long since realised he enjoyed card games far more for the skill than the money, so he knew he’d be perfectly happy to play for points.

  Doctor Wells had taken care to cater for everyone, with a variety of games for the adults, and parlour games such as snap and fish that even the young people could enjoy. Rufus was invited to join several other men in playing euchre. It was not one of his favourite games, but the good humour of the others made it more enjoyable than he’d expected. However, when Eleanor Fox’s brother made a move to join the group, the look he turned on Rufus carried such an obvious challenge that Rufus excused himself and went in search of a different game. He wasn’t afraid of a challenge, but there was something of the bully about Fox, and this was neither the time nor the place for the sort of unpleasantness he seemed intent on provoking.

  To his amazement, Rufus caught sight of the usually elusive Springer seated at the other end of the long dining table, engrossed in a game of bridge with three other men. This was his opportunity to speak with Serafina alone, and perhaps find an answer to the enigma that was destroying his peace of mind. Despite his trepidation, and his fear of what she might tell him, this might be the only chance he’d have, and he knew he must take it, come what might.

  Waiting until he saw Springer bent over his cards, Rufus slipped out of the dining salon. A cold wind moaned through the rigging, making the ship’s timbers creak so that the dark passageway took on an eerie quality that sent a shiver up Rufus’s spine. As he approached Serafina’s cabin, he heard the unmistakable sound of her voice. He felt a sudden rush of pleasure, and his gut tightened with a sensation somewhere between anticipation and apprehension. Then another sound reached his ears.

  He heard the low murmur of a man’s voice.

  Serafina answered it with a soft ripple of laughter, and Rufus ground his teeth in anguish. He wanted to scream, but his breath seemed to have congealed in his throat. So that was the truth about Serafina. She was nothing more than another Charlotte Winter, using men for her own gratification, drawing them in with her hints and promises, but giving nothing. Yet again he’d been duped by a woman’s charms, by her false air of vulnerability. Well, not any more!

  There came a rustling sound from behind the cabin door, and then the door handle began to turn. Rufus flattened himself against the wall, hoping the darkness was deep enough to hide him, and that Serafina and her lover would not turn in his direction. His wish was granted as they moved off in the opposite direction towards the steps that led to the main deck. For a few seconds Rufus remained irresolute in the shadows, then, without conscious decision, he moved to follow them. He dreaded what he might see, but he had to know just who it was Serafina had chosen to replace him, and what qualities this new lover possessed that he, himself, lacked.

  As the couple hurried along arm in arm, Rufus followed at what he hoped was a safe distance. When they took the steps down to the main deck, he hung back in the shadows, fearful of being seen or heard on the open expanse of the deck. To his relief, Serafina led the man into the dark seclusion of an area where coiled ropes were stacked against several lifeboats – not far from where he had overheard her quarrel with Springer – and Rufus was able to creep close enough to see the man’s face. He recognised him, although he wasn’t sure of his name – something like Hayes, he thought, or was it Mays? Serafina began to speak to the man in a seductive murmur, and, despite the sick misery that grasped him, Rufus found himself straining to make out her words.

  “Don’t be concerned.” Her voice was soothing, hypnotic. “You will remember nothing of me, and nothing of what transpires between us this night. Nothing, do you understand?”

  The man’s v
oice drifted to Rufus, flat, somnolent, like one in a trance. “Nothing – I understand. Remember – nothing.”

  “Good.” Her voice was a gentle caress.

  Crouching in the cold darkness, Rufus saw Serafina’s pale fingers move to the man’s neck. She seemed to be doing something with his clothing there, but the gathering wind was blowing clouds across the moon, and the shifting light made it impossible for him to see well. Suppressing a snarl of frustration, he moved, fraction by cautious fraction, until he could see more clearly. As he stared, mystified, Serafina raised her head to the sky, her skin gleaming like pearl in the moonlight, her hair a black cloud behind her, her lover a darker shadow before her. He heard the faint hiss of her indrawn breath, the silence as she held it for a long, long moment. Just for a second, she reminded him of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix – Blessed Beatrice – her rapt face raised in the exaltation of prayer. Then Serafina bent her head to the man’s neck and seemed to inhale, as though his skin exuded some sweet incense, her body shuddering in apparent ecstasy. Oh, what wouldn’t he give to feel that reverent breath on his own skin, to feel her body shiver like that against his! Sick with heartache, yet riveted to the scene before him, Rufus could only stare as her head lifted again, turning slightly so that he saw again that sudden flare of fire in her eyes that must, surely, be no more than an effect of the uncertain moonlight.

  Then he saw…but no, it couldn’t be! He thought he saw, in her open mouth, two fangs that gleamed like daggers in the moonlight. Her dark head swept down and she pounced – it was the only word he could think of – upon the man’s exposed neck. He heard a soft crunch, like teeth biting into a crisp apple, followed by soft suckling noises. What on earth could she be doing? Then the clouds cleared from the moon, and by its stark light he saw the stain of blood that had soaked into the man’s shirt. More was seeping into it from a thin, crimson trickle running down from—from…

  Rufus fled, barely managing to suppress the urge to vomit until he reached the poop deck, where he leaned out over the railing and retched until there was nothing left in him. Rushing to his cabin, he flung himself onto his bed, gasping for breath.

  It was some time before he felt able to crawl from his bed to find one of the bottles of brandy he’d brought on board secreted amongst the linen in his cabin trunk. The White Star Line, owner of the Orion, strictly forbade the consumption of alcohol on board, but he’d thought a few bottles of decent Cognac might come in handy for emergencies, and if ever there were an emergency, this was surely it. Back on his bed, propped up against the pillow, he gulped down several mouthfuls, feeling its cleansing fire burn down his throat and gullet and into his stomach before replacing the cork and laying the bottle on the bed beside him. He mustn’t drink too much – he needed to think. But how could he think with the image still in his mind of Serafina biting into the neck of her? God! What should he call him? Lover? Victim? Prey? Why would she perform such an appalling act? Unless she was – he could scarcely bring himself to think the word – a vampire? But that was ridiculous. It was insane! Vampires didn’t exist beyond the pages of a novel or the superstition of folklore. A thought almost too horrendous to contemplate entered his mind; perhaps Serafina was insane, a prey to some sick fantasy that made her believe she was a vampire and act accordingly. Had she committed such acts before, perhaps, and was Springer attempting to take her beyond the reach of those who would have her committed to an insane asylum?

  He shook his head as though to clear it of such vile thoughts, uncorked the bottle and swallowed another mouthful of brandy. No, there were no vampires, and he refused to believe the Serafina with whom he had danced and conversed so happily, the Serafina who had kissed him with such passion, was insane. No, he had seen nothing more than some rather aggressive lovemaking. A rush of anger almost overwhelmed him at the thought of Serafina, whom he loved, and who knew he loved her, in the arms of another man so soon after such ardent kisses.

  His mind returned to the argument he had overheard between Serafina and Springer. He had seemed to be forbidding her to do something – an injunction she had clearly felt was an infringement of her free will. Even from their brief acquaintance, he could readily believe that Serafina valued her freedom, and would chafe under too firm a hand. What if she’d simply taken up with someone – anyone – to show Springer she would not be dictated to? If this were true, while it didn’t make him feel any better about what he’d seen, he could see how it might have happened. Perhaps, even now, she was boasting to Springer of how she’d shaken off the shackles with which he’d sought to bind her.

  But how could such behaviour, distasteful as Springer must surely find it, endanger them in any way? And that had seemed his major concern. Rufus pressed his hands to his brow in an effort to recall what Springer had said. What had it been? Something about the world becoming less safe for them? Yes, that was it: ‘The world is becoming less safe for our kind.’ What could he have meant by that, unless—unless both he and Serafina shared the same sickness, the same insanity? Try as he might, he could not bring himself to believe they were both insane when they seemed, the two of them, so rational.

  Which left only the most insane explanation of all.

  Those were fangs he’d seen, and that crunching sound had been those fangs biting into the man’s neck. The suckling sounds were Serafina drawing blood from the wound she had made there. If she were a vampire, it made sense of her seductive voice commanding the man to forget the incident, as well as his trancelike reply. It made sense, too, of Springer’s words to her, his unwillingness to countenance her becoming too close to anyone, even if it meant condemning her to loneliness. And the strange wasting sickness that stalked the ship, the welts Doctor Wells had found on a victim’s neck, it made sense of them, too. It all made perfect sense – if the two of them were vampires. Ludicrous though it seemed, it fitted the facts as nothing else did.

  And the worst of it was that he was still in love with Serafina. Even after seeing her in the very act that defined vampirism, he loved her, and, God forgive him, some part of him actually wished the neck her fangs had bitten had been his. Some terrible part of him longed with all his heart to feel her hunger for him as he hungered for her, to feel her body quiver against his with ecstasy as she drank his blood.

  With a groan half-longing, half-revulsion, Rufus tore the cork from the brandy bottle and practically poured the liquid down his burning throat. What was wrong with him, for God’s sake? How could he think such appalling thoughts? Yet how could he deny it? The plain truth was that he was in love with a woman he had every reason to believe was a vampire.

  He knew he should do something – but what? If he told Serafina what he knew, she’d almost certainly tell Springer, and Rufus scarcely dared think what Springer might do, especially after his warning to Serafina. But what of the victims? How could he just stand by and let more passengers fall ill – or even die – as one had already? He felt sure he should tell someone – Doctor Wells, perhaps – but how could he expect anyone to believe something he found hard enough to accept himself, even after seeing proof? They might just as easily decide he was insane. Perhaps he was, though he had no desire to risk being locked up for the rest of the voyage. When he found himself contemplating leaving an anonymous message for Doctor Wells, Rufus knew he had reached the limits of what his mind could dredge up by way of a solution to his dilemma. His best plan now was to sleep – if he could. Perhaps in the morning his mind would be clearer.

  He took a last mouthful of brandy, re-corked the bottle, and got up to replace it in his cabin trunk. As he opened the drawer, his eyes fell on the Bible his Aunt Fordyce had pressed on him before he had left for Glasgow. Like the other Bibles he’d seen at Glencrae House, it had a plain cover of soft black leather. Between its pages was a bookmark made of some stiff, blue fabric. Curious, he picked up the book and opened it. Someone – perhaps his aunt – had embroidered a cross on the bookmark with fine gold thread. It must be just his mood,
he told himself, but he found it oddly touching to think of the austere old lady setting such delicate stitches. As he stood gazing at it, it occurred to him that such Christian symbols were reputed to be a protection against vampires. Not that he believed in such mumbo-jumbo, but then, he hadn’t believed in vampires, either, until…

  Rufus gave an involuntary shudder and pushed shut the drawer of the chest, then carried the Bible to his bed and placed it under his pillow. He wasn’t sure how much faith to place in its protective qualities, but he had seen for himself Serafina’s ability to control a man. It seemed unlikely that Serafina would attack him. After all, hadn’t she chosen to shun him rather than risk harming him? But who knew what Springer might do if he felt himself in danger of being exposed? Somehow, Rufus didn’t think a mere locked door would be proof against Anton Springer. He was by no means certain a Bible would either – but it was all he had.

  EIGHT

  Early the following morning, Rufus was roused from an uneasy sleep by the sudden clatter of hail on the poop deck above him, and the noise of sailors hurrying to furl the sails. The ship bucked, warning of an impending storm. As he sat up, yawning and rubbing his eyes, the memory of the previous night came flooding back, and with it the unsettling wash of anxiety. It was a wonder he’d slept at all. He certainly felt no better for it, or any closer to deciding what he should do.

  By the time he had dragged himself through his ablutions and dressed, both hail and wind seemed to have subsided, so Rufus decided to take a walk on deck before breakfast in the hope that it would help clear the cotton wool from his head. The moment he left the relative cosiness of his tiny cabin, he became aware that the temperature had dropped considerably since the previous night. Shivering as he made his way along the narrow passageway, he heard voices issuing from the dining salon, and recognised one of them as belonging to Doctor Wells. Feeling rather guilty, but unable to resist eavesdropping after what he’d seen the previous night, he crept closer to the door, poised for a hasty retreat if necessary.