Red Grow the Roses

by Janine Ashbless

  Lilla didn’t want to move but nodded, but then when she tried to rise her legs gave way and she sagged against him. He caught her deftly, as chivalrous as he had been on the bridge, and hefted her into his arms like a bride with a muttered ‘Oops-a-daisy’. Though he wasn’t a broadly built man her weight seemed like nothing to him. She looked up with wide eyes and parted lips, responding instinctively to his strength.

  ‘Do I know you, young lady? Have we met?’

  Oh, thought Lilla: no one had called her ‘young lady’ since junior school. And then it had always been a term of disapproval. ‘I don’t know. Have we?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lillabet.’

  He shook his head and carried her out of the room.

  ‘What’s yours?’

  The corridor walls were stone, the plaster stained and bulging with damp, the floor beneath his feet bare boards that creaked alarmingly. Lilla caught glimpses of doors opening on to small empty rooms with barred windows. He hesitated before answering her. ‘Robert Wakefield.’

  ‘Wakefield’s Roses?’ she asked, snuggling up ever so slightly against him, pretending an ease she didn’t feel. She hadn’t relaxed in days, had barely even slept, her skin crawling restlessly at the touch of her clothes. His clothes, old as they were, smelled a little dusty, and that was all. ‘Is that you, Mr Wakefield?’ She thought he would like being addressed as ‘Mr’ by a young woman and she was right: she saw the slight, proud lift of his chin.

  ‘That’s right. We supply flowers right across the country. As you’ll see.’

  Down through the twisting bowels of that house they passed, through wafts of damp and patches of darkness where there were no windows at all, until they came to a big room which though equally bleak contained the first signs of modernity she’d seen since entering the building: stacked cardboard boxes, rolls of cellophane and labels. Robert walked straight through, his stride and his grip no less easy now for having carried her this far, and shouldered open a large wooden door. He carried her over the threshold and they were outside.

  No, not outside. It was a cloister, she thought, like in a monastery, but triangular not square. It was the area enclosed by the complex’s forbidding outer walls. Robert paused, giving her time to look around. The whole area was roofed in with glass upon which the rain was drumming, and the glass was supported by the most elaborate wrought-iron frame held up by white-painted iron columns. All around them sounded the chuckle of water being channelled away down drainpipes. It was also warmer here; not quite a hothouse warmth, but after the dank chill of the building it seemed almost muggy. Growing under the glass were ranks and ranks of rosebushes in full leaf, their buds as full and crimson as pouting lips, the air fragrant with their scent.

  With a shift of her weight Lilla indicated that she wanted to try and stand, and Robert left her slip down and set her feet on the floor. The paths between the rose-beds were of soft flaked bark, mounded so deep that she felt like she was standing on cushions. She filled her lungs with the perfumed air.

  ‘Roses! – in April?’

  He acknowledged her surprise with a tilt of his head. ‘A unique variety, grown only here. It’s a talent of mine.’ He smiled thinly. ‘A gift, you might say.’ From his pocket he produced a hooked pruning knife, a gesture which made gooseflesh prickle Lilla’s forearms. ‘Green fingers.’

  She turned slowly on her heel to scan the glasshouse. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘This land used to be all marsh once. Sour grass and reeds and rushes, rough grazing in the summer and duck-hunting in the winter.’ The way he said it, so melancholy, sounded as if he remembered it personally and she gave him a searching look. ‘They built this place out here because it was isolated in those days. It was a private asylum,’ he explained.

  ‘For madmen?’

  ‘For the better class of madmen. This area was the exercise yard, where the patients could take the air in safety.’ He shrugged. ‘Then they built the railway along the embankment and the City grew out eastward to surround this place, and the land was drained and the river tamed. And I bought the building because … because here I could grow my roses.’

  ‘May I?’ she asked, indicating the bushes.

  ‘Please, be my guest.’

  Still a little unsteady, she walked a few paces to the nearest bush. It stood as tall as she did, the young leaves bright green and the older ones so dark they were almost black. The blooms, mostly still in bud, were a deep vibrant crimson but with a black stain at the base of each petal, and when she bent to sniff one that was half-open she inhaled not the strong musky perfume associated with red roses – a reek that always made her think of bathroom air-freshener – but a wild and spicy scent that reminded her of patchouli and caraway and melted muscovado sugar.

  ‘They’re beautiful.’ They were almost perfect, in fact; not one overblown or misshapen flower head or discoloured leaf. The blossoms were borne on tall straight stems, and the only flaw seemed to be that these were clad in wicked-looking red-tinted thorns. ‘What’s the variety?’

  ‘Rosa “Sanguine Heart”.’ He went to a nearby bush and cut a flower on a long stem.

  ‘And what does “sanguine” mean?’

  There was the slightest of pauses. ‘Optimistic,’ he answered, with such inapposite chill that she bit her lip, not wanting the tension in her breast to burst out as laughter. ‘They’ve won RHS awards, if you know anything about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sorry, no.’ Rubbing her arms, she returned to his side.

  ‘Would you care for one?’ He offered her the rose, its dark-red petals so charged with colour that it seemed to throb. ‘Be careful of the thorns. They have to be cut off before shipping.’

  She smiled up at him, taking the stem with care. ‘Can I sit near the boiler?’

  ‘Of course.’ He offered his arm and she fell in beside him as he walked her through the mass of plants. Under his worn sleeve the limb was hard with muscle, but the fingers he rested on her wrist were long and delicate. She imagined those hands trailing drifts of cobweb finer than lace and the unexpected image made her shiver. She pressed closer to his arm to reassure herself of his solidity and felt him respond with an intake of breath.

  ‘What’s this?’ In the centre of the strange garden was a stone sarcophagus, knee-high, with a slate slab for a cover. There were lines of script carved into the stone. Robert didn’t reply. ‘Is it a grave? Why’ve you got a grave in your garden, Mr Wakefield?’

  ‘This way, Lillabet.’ He tried to lead her past but she dragged from his arm enough to read the inscription: no name or date but a verse of poetry.

  From too much love of living,

  From hope and fear set free,

  We thank with brief thanksgiving

  Whatever gods may be

  That no life lives for ever,

  That dead men rise up never;

  That even the weariest river

  Winds somewhere safe to sea.

  ‘Swinburne,’ she said. She’d had to set a Swinburne poem to music for one of her college projects and she recognised the rhythmic cadences and the bleak sentiment.

  The tight line of Robert’s lips relaxed. ‘Yes. A fine poet, much underestimated in the modern age.’

  ‘Is it a grave?’

  ‘Not yet. There’s no one in it at the moment, anyway.’

  ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘I imagine you think I’m morbid,’ said Robert, sounding a little uneasy. ‘But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared in advance.’

  ‘You sound like you’re looking forward to it. In the poem, I mean.’

  ‘Do I?’ He looked away.

  Lilla gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘You’re a bit of a goth, aren’t you, Mr Wakefield? The clothes and everything?’

  He frowned. ‘A goth? Oh – oh, yes, I see …’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have a lot of goth friends. And I love the clothes.’ She indicated her own: a black velvet coat-dress, very fitted to t
he waist but full below, that buttoned all the way down from the neckline to the hem. It showed off her figure admirably despite displaying not a hint of skin. ‘Especially the women’s underwear, don’t you think?’ she added with a sweet grin.

  A flush mounted in his pale cheek and he set off again, leading her with a firm grip on her arm. ‘Let’s get you to the boiler.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I need warming through.’

  He stumbled ever so slightly.

  ‘I am grateful, you know, Mr Wakefield. It’s so kind of you looking after me like this.’

  ‘Think nothing of it.’

  ‘No one else cares. No one else would have come and saved me the way you did. So quick. So strong.’

  ‘Here we are,’ he mumbled. They’d reached the far wall of the cloister, where a great black cast-iron boiler stood. It looked Victorian, with ornate brass dials and levers, but from the quiet hum it was giving off the interior fittings were very modern. Pipes snaked away from it, disappearing into the earth. Robert released her and bent to look intently into the inspection panel, then tap some of the dials. ‘It’s gas-fired,’ he said, clearly trying to focus on the new topic. ‘I had it converted. It’s on a low setting now we’re into spring, but if you stand close it’s quite warm.’ Straightening up he glanced back at her and his eyes opened wide. ‘What are you doing?’

  While his attention had been on the boiler, she’d been opening the buttons up the front of her coat – or to be precise, her dress, since she had nothing but underwear on beneath it. The sodden velvet buttons oozed water under her fingertips as she slipped them one by one. ‘I have to take it off to dry it out,’ she said softly. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  He stared. ‘What is this?’

  Not as dumb as he might seem, she thought: he was starting to guess. That Dickensian scene on the bridge: the rescue of the swooning maiden – now this, her costume. How long would it take him to work it out? ‘Haven’t you ever seen ladies’ underwear before, Mr Wakefield?’ Slipping off the long-sleeved dress, she laid the rose coyly across her chest while keeping her expression one of wide-eyed innocence. She was wearing reproduction Victorian-style lingerie: a sleeveless chemise with lace ruffles and pink ribbons about the deep curve of the neckline, long cotton drawers, and underneath them opaque silk stockings gartered above the knees. Over the chemise was a satin corset, laced in matching pink, that narrowed her waist and lifted and cupped her generous breasts. Of course everything was soaked through from the rain: the thin cotton of her top and pantaloons was quite transparent where it clung to her, offering immodest glimpses of her dark gold pubic fleece and her pink nipples which were poking out against the cold fabric like boiled sweets.

  ‘This is quite improper,’ he said hoarsely, but his eyes swept up and down her figure.

  ‘But how else am I to warm up?’ She walked slowly toward him, dropping the dress, crossing one booted foot carefully in front of the other so that her hips swung with every step. ‘Unless you can think of another way?’

  His mouth sagged. The front of his trousers stirred as something very improper indeed flexed beneath.

  ‘What about it?’ she whispered, standing right in front of him, lifting her mouth. ‘Would you like to warm me up, Mr Wakefield?’ Softly she laid a hand on his chest, sliding it under the edge of his waistcoat.

  His jaw clenched. His hand moved. Without warning he had a hold of the back of her hair and he wrenched her head back, making her gasp at the blossom of pain. ‘Don’t,’ he snarled, his other hand hard on her waist, his fingers digging in despite the boning of the corset. ‘I am a gentleman but I cannot be held responsible for my actions, girl, if you provoke me.’

  Riding the flare of shock, Lilla felt the explosion of arousal burst, hot and wet, inside her. The rose fell from her fingers. ‘That’s right,’ she breathed; ‘that’s Victorian values for you. We know all about the “gentlemen” and what they got up to: the brothels, the servants seduced and thrown out on the streets, the hundreds of “respectable” girls throwing themselves from river bridges because they’d been ruined. One in sixteen women in this city making their living by prostitution. Your Swinburne – he had a thing for being whipped, didn’t he? Would you like to whip me, Mr Wakefield? Would you like to thrash my pretty white bottom?’

  ‘Be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘You have no idea of the trouble you’re getting yourself into, girl.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ she countered, nearly giggling. ‘I know exactly what you are.’ Her lips shaped the terrible word that hung between them, though she gave it no sound: vampire. ‘I know,’ she whispered, ‘you’re just aching to bite into my cold skin and taste the hot blood beneath.’

  For a moment his eyes, which had narrowed to burning slits, widened. Then he wrenched her around and pushed her backward, right off her feet, until she was slammed up against the great black barrel of the boiler, her back arched over its warm curve, and his hand was no longer in her hair but gripping her throat. Blood hammered in her head: she thought for a moment she would pass out.

  ‘That Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at the National Gallery. That’s where I’ve seen you. You were with Reynauld. You’re one of his women.’

  Lilla licked her lips and struggled for air: he let her breathe with some reluctance. ‘I was one of his donors,’ she admitted. ‘Not any more.’ She could feel his newly sprung erection grinding into her. And now she was horribly, helplessly aroused, wet in anticipation of his bite.

  Robert grinned, showing fangs, which made her heart thump wildly. ‘He threw you out.’

  ‘Yes.’ The anger was still there inside her, like a black stain through her lust.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I upset him. I had the cheek to ask for too much. I wanted him to make me … like him. Like you.’

  He stopped grinning abruptly. ‘You did what?’

  She met his eyes. ‘I want to be a vampire.’

  ‘So you’ve come here – to me?’ The dawning truth was visible in his face: the realisation of the way she’d inveigled her way into his house. Lilla decided that brutal honesty was the best tactic now.

  ‘You’re as much use to me as he is.’

  He shook his head slightly. ‘You could have drowned falling from that bridge, you do realise? What if I hadn’t heard you? What if I’d taken no notice?’

  ‘Then I’d be dead.’ That prospect seemed unreal to her now that she wasn’t hanging over a cold river any more. She twisted her mouth, nearly spitting the words. ‘Better that than living like this. I’ve seen you people and I know what I want. I have as much right as any of –’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ he snarled, but then his next sentence sounded more weary and disgusted than angry. ‘You have no rights. Nobody has any rights.’

  Lilla took a strangled breath. ‘I want to live in the night. I want to drink blood. I want to be immortal.’

  ‘Then no wonder he repudiated you. We don’t make more of our own. That’s Reynauld’s iron rule.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are loads of you. Don’t fob me off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked softly, but there was nothing soft about the carnivorous teeth hovering inches from her face. His breath was cold. ‘There are six of us here. Neither more nor less in many years, by Reynauld’s own interdiction.’

  ‘Six Master Vampires, yes, but loads of bloodkinder. Everybody knows that. Haven’t you read StakeGirl’s blog?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. What in the name of all that is holy is a “blog”?’

  That shocked her. For a moment he didn’t look like a young man wearing antique clothes, but an old man trapped in a young man’s body. ‘It’s an online diary,’ she said weakly. ‘On the Internet, you know?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. The Internet – I’ve heard of that. Well, I don’t own a computer. But I assure you … Master Vampires? Bloodkinder?’ He wrung the word out as if it were a filthy dishclot
h.

  ‘StakeGirl’s a vampire killer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She goes around taking out lesser vampires: the bloodkinder. There are dozens of them. She writes it all up and puts it on her blog. She’s famous.’

  Robert Wakefield blinked, and he let go of her throat and leaned back a little. ‘Truly, I swear I would laugh, if it were not so pitiful. There’s no such thing as bloodkinder. The last human converted anywhere around here was sometime in the 1960s.’

  ‘But …’ Lilla’s mind raced, anxiety seeping in as the threat of violence receded. Robert’s expression had slipped from anger to contempt, and she didn’t like that. She knew that it would take a miracle for this to be anything but her last chance.

  ‘It is a joke, this blog of yours. Or a work of fiction you’ve been naive enough to take for fact.’

  Lilla stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. ‘Make me into a vampire.’

  ‘Have you heard a word I’ve said?’ he growled. ‘He’s forbidden it.’

  ‘So?’ She couldn’t keep the desperation out of her voice.

  ‘So?’ He was flabbergasted by her obstinacy – or perhaps by her ignorance. ‘Have you any idea what he’d do to us?’

  ‘Reynauld wouldn’t hurt me. He doesn’t hurt girls.’

  ‘Very true. And fortunate for you. But I am not a girl.’

  ‘Oh, I’d noticed that.’ Lilla prided herself on her adaptability. Now she reached down and grasped the thick curve of his cock. If he’d had been a living human she’d have felt its heat through the cloth of his trousers, but he was cold as clay. It didn’t stop his flesh heaving in response to her touch though, and when she spoke next she dropped her voice to a purr. ‘I never met a girl with one of these … Mr Wakefield. It’s so big.’

  His eyes darkening, he took her by the shoulders. ‘You think you can manipulate me?’

  ‘I think … that you want to fuck me.’ She tugged at the bow at the neck of her chemise, untied the ribbon in one long, sensual pull and without hurrying – there was no hurry, he was fixated on the sight – loosed the cloth to better reveal the luxuriant swell of her breasts and their swollen needy nipples, poking out over the lip of her corset. ‘I think that you want to bite my beautiful big tits, Mr Wakefield.’