by Minda Webber
“Miss Grimm, you are a delightful surprise! Quite a lovely girl. I do so hope you enjoy your stay in my country.”
Rae glowed with happiness at the compliment, even if it came from a mere impoverished baron. Her smile dimmed as she studied him, however. His compliments were quite nice, but the silly man was just too big. Though not fat, he was large and very tall, with thick blond hair and a beard. She had never liked beards. He had amazingly broad shoulders and a chubby nose as well.
“You put Helen of Troy to shame,” the man said sincerely.
Rae’s smile brightened again. Although she hadn’t yet launched a thousand ships, Bertie Higgins, the candlestick maker in Cornwall, had launched his boat and even named it in her honor. Besides, she reasoned as she took a sip of wine, everyone knew that Greeks had much more passionate natures than Englishmen. If she lived in Greece, she’d probably have a thousand and one ships to her credit. Or at the very least she’d be wedded by now.
Baron Fennis Schortz hadn’t wanted to come to either this dinner party or ball, but he had reluctantly sent his acceptance. He’d felt he had to attend, as his good friend, Rolpe von Hanzen, had so insisted. Rolpe had been berating him for the past year, claiming Fen was burying his head in the snow, refusing to live life. Rolpe had pressed the point, saying that Fen’s unruly brood needed a stepmother with a loving and guiding hand. To be honest, Fen agreed that he could use a wife to help him recover his good humor—and to warm his bed as well as his heart.
For that reason, Fen had responded to the countess’s invitation. But never had he expected the vision of loveliness he’d received tonight: a blonde beauty the likes of which he’d never again thought to see after burying his beloved wife. Seated by Miss Grimm and breathing in her scent of lilacs and cloves, he’d sensed his heart immediately beating harder. He’d felt a tug at his groin in response; several tugs, in fact. Apparently, Fen realized ruefully, his juices were flowing again. His heart was no longer dead, but beginning to pulse with passion. Or at least one of his organs was.
“I have envied Helen at times,” Rae said softly. “To have such devotion from an admirer, to have armies fight great battles over her…that is every maiden’s dream.” And it was just what she deserved herself. Who knew? Someday historians might write of her great beauty!
“I can’t believe you have cause to envy anyone.” Fen hid a grin. “I don’t believe I have ever seen hair so gloriously golden. It’s like moonlight, and it must hang down to your knees when unbound.” The little ingénue would be a wicked handful, for he could tell she was a bit vain; but then, what woman who looked like Miss Grimm was not?
Rae preened some more, then realized she should discourage the man’s attentions somewhat. He was already so besotted she could wrap him around her finger a dozen times, and dessert hadn’t even arrived yet. And he was poor and a mere baron, even though he was correct: her hair was glorious. Everyone told her so.
She adopted a stern tone. “Even though I’m English, and unfamiliar with Prussian manners, I can’t imagine a conversation concerning such personal attributes is entirely appropriate.”
“Perhaps not,” he ceded. “I must admit you rather muddle my thoughts.”
She nodded coolly, acting bored. “Do you know anything about the witch in the Black Forest?”
Fen choked on his wine. “A witch, what witch?”
“Not a witch. Not what witch or which witch, but the witch, and her whereabouts.” Good grief, the silly man seemed a dunce as well as a hulking lout. And he looked genuinely startled by her question.
“Why?” Fen managed to ask after wiping his mouth with his napkin. Whatever had caused the ravishing beauty to talk about witches?
“Why what?”
“Why witches?”
“Why not?” She gave him a peevish look. “Are you dim?”
He blinked, then grinned.
“No, Baron. I meant are you dim in the brain. Of course, would you know if you were? Dim, I mean. In the brain.” Rae felt more than a trifle annoyed. “See what Greta’s started?” She narrowed her eyes. The baron had stopped giving her compliments, all because of some foolish old witch who told fortunes and probably turned princes into frogs. Perhaps she would make an exception and target a baron as well.
“Greta who?”
“Oh, don’t start the who-ing again,” Rae chastened him coldly. “You sound like an owl. Greta, over there.” She politely dipped her head in the direction of her sister, who was sitting watching the room in general and surely plotting ways to discover all kinds of nasty little secrets.
“What exactly has she started?” Fen asked. He’d totally lost track of the conversation, but that wasn’t entirely bad, because he could stare at the vision before him.
“Do you always ask so many questions?”
“Only when I’m interested,” he responded, grinning at her cheekily. “What has Greta done? Is she a witch?”
Rae smiled. “At times, yes. You see, she’s my eldest sister.”
“Ah.” Fen understood the tribulations of siblings, and the bonds between them. “Why witches?”
“She studies fairy tales.” Rae wrinkled her nose. “Half my family does. She actually,” Rae began and then shuddered, “believes in them.”
Fen hungrily watched her wrinkle her nose, longing to kiss its adorable tip. “There’s no witch,” he said. “Only an old woman who tells fortunes.”
“Greta will be deeply disappointed. She wants a witch.”
“No witches here,” Fen replied honestly. No, there were no witches; though many other supernatural creatures laid claim to the Black Forest region. He sincerely hoped that the sisters Grimm were not going hunting. The local creatures often valued their privacy, and dealt harshly with any who trespassed upon it.
Greta grimaced. Her first dinner party, and everyone was so secretive…or in denial. Here she was, deep in the heart of the Black Forest—well, not actually deep in its heart, but nearby, in the town of Wolfach—and yet, where was the danger, the intrigue, the legends come to life? Instead of people taking up arms against aggressive ogres, or big-fanged werewolves howling at the doors, or young fair maids with bite marks fainting all over the place, the whole locale was remarkably cheerful. It was most depressing. There were no dark shadows or castles of Dracul in the picturesque town, merely people, ordinary people, just like in Cornwall. Boring.
Also just like in Cornwall, Rae was being cosseted and admired. Greta noted her sister’s expression as she glanced down the long expanse of white tablecloth. Rae’s dinner partners were almost strutting like peacocks due to their good fortune at being seated beside her. As usual, Rae was enjoying the attention, flashing brilliant smiles all around. It was a sight Greta had seen a hundred times, and oddly she felt a wave of homesickness. The three days they had been staying at her aunt’s seemed to stretch to months, and Greta wondered why she hadn’t just stayed home. After all, she could have been insulted in England with less enthusiasm than Aunt Vivian showed.
Of course, tonight looked more promising. This dinner party away from their aunt’s mausoleum of a home, their first dinner party in Prussia, was filled with the elite of local society. Their aunt had taken great pains to apprise the two sisters that this particular courtesy was due to her patronage. They were most fortunate to have her for an aunt, or so she kept telling them.
Greta turned her attention to the hosts, the grand old dame and her husband, the Count and Countess DeLuise. Their wrinkles matched their pomposity. They were both considerably older than even Greta’s aunt, but they did seem to be the crème de la crème of Prussian nobility, with their pretentious airs and jewel-laden bodies. Greta had never seen such wealth. Again she calculated just how many gems were affixed to the intricate golden headdress on Countess DeLuise’s head: well over sixty diamonds and rubies, she was sure. Greta had noticed that the lordly old dame rarely spoke a word, and that her lips were tightly drawn. But then, Greta thought, if I had to wear something as
heavy as my aunt’s cat upon my head, I’d be grumpy, too.
Turning back to the diner on her right, Greta held back a sigh. She was seated beside an odd little man with an unusual style of hair. He was reminiscent of a hedgehog, since his coiffure stood up in straight tuffs all over his head. “That Pied Piper in Hamloff is nothing, I tell you. Nothing!”
“A pied piper?” Greta asked. Hadn’t she read something somewhere about that?
Herr Mozart didn’t answer, just began humming and scribbling again: black marks all over the tablecloth. He had a strange little laugh, and was most definitely enjoying his wine. After a few moments of silence, he glanced at her, his dark eyes harsh with anger. “No real musician would play for rats. They say he can cause goats to follow him when he plays on his pipe, too. It’s total rot!”
Having overheard the conversation, Greta’s other dinner partner, Herr Nietzsche added quietly, for her ears alone: “Goats, all manner of goats, follow the Pied Piper’s playing. It’s an unseemly disaster. Whole villages lose tons and tons of milk and cheese.”
“That must be rather vexing. Being stuck with cow milk and losing their kids like that,” Greta replied.
She studied Herr Ronald Nietzsche, a jovial and round fellow of middling years who had introduced himself by saying he didn’t care to have too many virtues because it was upsetting trying to maintain them all. She had liked him immediately; and when he proceeded to gossip about those around the table by saying they should not underestimate the privileges of the mediocre, Greta had to bite her lips from laughing aloud. He really was of a humorous bent, and he’d kept her entertained with the exploits of local nobility, both the great and the small. Yes, it appeared the people here were exactly like the English, with the exceptions of being Prussian and speaking a guttural language called German.
Herr Nietzsche chuckled. Leaning over, he whispered, “Herr Mozart prefers being the only talented musician in the region. He’s jealous of the Piper.”
Greta nodded, smiling. After a crafty pause, she led the conversation back in the direction she most desired. “All this talk of Pied Pipers makes me think of fairy tales…”
Nietzsche groaned. Whenever she’d mentioned fairy tales or monsters before, he’d swiftly changed the subject. But, undaunted, Greta tried again. “I had heard the tale of a young lady of royal birth who was bitten by something strange in the Black Forest and went to sleep for a hundred years. Thousands of rose bushes and bramble bushes grew up about her resting place. I heard some prince finally rescued her.”
“Really, my dear, such a vivid imagination you have, and so silly. The prince’s attire would have literally been torn away, so he would have been naked and scratched raw by thorns. What princess would have wanted to wake up to a prince with a thousand pricks? Besides, it wasn’t a princess; it was a man by the name of Rip Van Winkle. He wasn’t nobility, either. And he only managed to sleep for two months, after he drank too much ale at the Oktoberfest.”
Leaning over and inspecting the scribbles of Herr Mozart, Nietzsche deftly changed the subject again. He whispered to Greta: “Mozart is a musical genius, but as a conversationalist he leaves much to be desired. Just don’t mention Tchaikovsky to him, because he goes absolutely berserk. Genius must be catered to and cajoled. I absolutely insist upon being fawned over myself.”
“You’re a musician, then?”
“Good heavens, no! I can’t tell a C note from a B. Is there even a B note?” he muttered. Before Greta could answer, he went on to explain that he wrote not music but books. “It’s always been my ambition to say as little as I can in as many sentences as will fill up a page. Where another man might write two pages, I will write ten.”
“Then you subscribe to the school of loquacity?” she asked.
“Nein. I subscribe to no school. I just love to hear the sound of my own thoughts.”
Greta tried once again. “Ah, excellent! Then I beg you to please tell me more about this mysterious area.”
“It is…mysterious,” Nietzsche revealed. Then he turned his attention back to Herr Mozart.
Greta couldn’t help but laugh, but he truly was dodging the question. Shaking her head, she wondered why no one appeared to know anything, or wanted to know anything, about the supernatural world surrounding them. Although Greta appreciated the humor with which Herr Nietzsche had related the foibles of the local elite, she was rather disappointed by what she’d gleaned.
Wolfach was amidst the Black Forest—a land of fairy tales, blackish forest trees, black forest cakes, black magic, black lacquered cuckoo clocks, and black magic witches casting spells and causing women to sleep forever. (These witches also turned princes into frogs or other equally degrading things, Greta was told.) This was the land where werewolves feasted on human flesh by moonlight, yet wore a human form by day. This was the place where legend and reality met, and she would find out what everybody was hiding—even if it killed her. Though she hoped she didn’t mean that literally.
Sighing, Greta fought her disappointment. This was her first outing in Prussian society, and her research was not going well at all; her brothers would be thoroughly disappointed when she wrote to them tomorrow. Perhaps she could embellish a bit and mention something about witches turning someone into a bird, or witches’ houses made of…? Greta thought a moment. She needed something which would make her brothers laugh. Then, glancing down the table to a schnecken, an elaborate gingerbread muffin, she had her answer.
Taking some of the schnecken and nibbling on it, she glanced over at her sister again. Rae’s rather imposing dinner partner captured her interest. He was a very large man, not fat or stout but apparently heavily muscled beneath his black jacket. His eyes were a deep gray, the color of smoke. He was a plain man, his face a bit craggy, like the cliffs back home. Weather-beaten and creased, it was still a face that commanded attention. The man’s attire was well made but rather threadbare, and he wore no jewelry of any kind except a large onyx ring. Greta had been introduced to him shortly before they took their seats. He was Baron Schortz, and from the looks he was giving Rae, Greta knew her sister had made another conquest.
It appeared, however, that Rae wasn’t in the least interested in the baron. Now that she had found a chance to mingle among nobility, she might just find herself a prince, rather like that Cinderella character Greta had read about. Her beauty would draw them in despite her lack of coin.
Suddenly the Countess DeLuise, who had been silently sitting and glaring at her cherry strudel, sat up straight and cleared her throat. The guests turned to her. In firm command, Countess DeLuise, bedecked in jewels, loudly tapped against her champagne glass with her spoon. The table grew silent. The countess let the silence grow for effect, then in a bracing voice declared, “It’s schrecklich-keit!”
Greta searched her memory and remembered that the German word meant frightful. Her blue eyes lit with interest, and she wondered just what it was that was being described.
Countess DeLuise continued, her substantial voice growing stronger with each word. “Ja, I must speak now! I can hold the forbidden secret no longer. The news is grave, very grave. One of you…is a vampire.”
A murmur rippled through the dining hall. Greta and Rae’s eyes went wide with shock.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Countess Who Cried Vampire
“Yes, one of you at this table is a vampire,” the countess repeated for effect. “My poor Wolfach is filled with vampyr. Evil, vile creatures they are, with extremely big teeth that suck the blood of innocents under the shadow of night,” the woman declared, the fervid light of sincerity burning in her eyes.
Greta wanted to dance a jig. Finally! Someone was actually talking about something interesting. She drew in her breath and waited, giving Herr Nietzsche a speaking glance.
“They are everywhere, so beware!” the countess remarked, an odd twist to her features, her tone harsh with condemnation.
“Yes,” Greta whispered, zealously scanning each of th
e guests’ faces, wondering if anyone did have the urge to bite a neck instead of the delicious gingerbread. Unfortunately, as she regarded the various diners, she noted with disappointment that none appeared to be sporting fangs. Nary a guest looked discomfited by the countess’s revelation, either.
Glancing over at Rae, Greta glimpsed her sister staring in rapt fascination at DeLuise.
“Alas, our fair town is brimming with vampyrs. It’s clogged with the foul vermin, chock-full and just plain overrun by the nasty biting creatures. A stake! I’ll trade my strudel for a stake!”
Herr Nietzsche caught Greta’s perplexed look and spoke quietly: “Oh, my dear child, pay the countess no mind. It’s all a bit of unsinn—nonsense. The countess is a bit eccentric, even if she does have exquisite taste in jewels. And I do so love her wiener schnitzels; her chef is a marvel. It’s the main reason I put up with her odd quirks and kidney complaints.”
On her other side, Herr Mozart roused enough to remark with a slurring of his words, “I’ll write an aria to the dreaded Nosferatu. They will adore it in France. All that passion and bloodthirst, you know.”
The Countess DeLuise cried out, “Fritz, get the garlic cloves!”
Her austere butler sighed and nodded uneasily. Then he shuffled off to gather the required herbs.
“Enough of somber tidings. It’s time to enjoy life and dance away the fright,” the countess commanded, and she then proceeded to the ballroom, where she would stand at the head of the receiving line with her husband.
As Greta watched the dotty old dame leave, Herr Nietzsche extended his arm. “Come, my child, let us proceed,” he asserted, placing her hand on his arm. “Nein, we must not upset the countess. She becomes quite testy if her words aren’t taken as law. If she commands us to dance, we must dance. But before we dance, we must wait in line like all good Niederer Adels.” Upon seeing her confusion, he quickly translated: “Lower nobility such as myself. Alas, I have the brain of a king but the blood of a commoner.”
