Immortal with a Kiss

by Jacqueline Lepore

  As I tried to eat, I recalled she had the necklace, the same one Alistair had given my mother two separate times, the same one I’d seen in the portrait in Suddington’s house. How had it come to be in her possession? Then something else occurred to me.

  Smythe, who had begun the cycle of the Cyprian Queen, was her ancestor—after all, it was the Cyprian Queen. Why had I never considered that this vampire could be a woman?

  My thoughts spun from there, a web of connections that drove me nearly dizzy. By the time I met with Valerian later that day, I had my reasoning ready.

  “Do you recall your directive to read Coleridge’s Christabel when we were in Avebury?” I began without preamble when he walked into Serena’s cottage.

  He cocked his head with a curious smile. “Ah . . . Certainly. What—?”

  “Christabel was the victim, but her tormentor was a female revenant. Geraldine.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know the work.”

  “What if Ruthven—which we know to be a false name, a conceit—is, in fact, a woman? What if she is the headmistress? Glorianna Sloane-Smith.” I held up a hand at his doubtful reaction. “Listen to what I have reasoned so far. I have been absolutely astonished by Miss Sloane-Smith’s reluctance to address the girls’ wicked behavior. She was completely dedicated to blaming Miss Markam, branding her as mad rather than confront what was really going on. She turns a blind eye to the antics of the coven girls—I’ve seen it again and again.”

  “But that is easily explained, if you are familiar with how administrators of these types of institutions think. It is all about appearance; the perception of a good school, and an education well worth the tuitions, is essential to survival.”

  “Correct, but what if that was not her motivation at all but simply her guise? What if she were in a uniquely powerful position to prey among these girls, and then repress and control the reaction so that she keeps them here, under her thrall, without interference from the outside world?”

  Valerian’s eyebrows forked down skeptically.

  “When I was in Denmark, I read a novel by an Irishman, Sheridan Le Fanu. His Carmilla is a female vampire who preys on other women. Two mentions of such a phenomenon cannot be coincidence.”

  Valerian stroked his chin with his long fingers. “But the intensity, the violence, the sexual preoccupations of the vampire indicate to me that it is male.”

  In one of those leaps of memory, something else completely unanticipated sprung into my mind. “There is much to suggest the kind of sisterly affection that ventures into the sensual. I found quotes about the Cyprian Queen in a poem by Sappho, with Margaret’s things. I wondered then if it was a sign of certain intimacies associated with the philosophy of womanly love found on the island of Lesbos, where Sappho lived and wrote.”

  Serena, who had come into the room to check on the tea she always insisted on serving us, paused. We had gotten used to having her around and had long ago stopped caring what she overheard; we were all convinced she was more than trustworthy, and she had occasional insights that were helpful, as on this occasion.

  “Such women in my country are burned as witches,” she volunteered, then shook her head angrily. “Terrible.”

  My head snapped up. “The girls themselves play with the idea of witchcraft. In fact, they revel in it.”

  Valerian peered at me with fresh interest. “What put you on to suspect Sloane-Smith?”

  “I have felt tension between us since the beginning. I fear, now that I see it all in retrospect, that I attributed much of what I felt about her to the fact that she reminds me of my stepmother, Judith.”

  He rubbed a finger against his chin. “Do you know why she has disliked you?”

  I was hesitant to mention Lord Suddington’s attentions, but I could not afford to hold anything back. “She does not like my friendship with Suddington. I thought it was this, anyway. She becomes irate when he . . . well, he has been kind to me.”

  “Yes,” Valerian said. His mouth was tight. “I know.”

  “This morning, he sent me one of his orchids, and her reaction was positively seething, and that is what got me to think of her again. It has occurred to me before that she is part of this, but I was unable to put together any evidence.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I know about George Smythe—her ancestor.” I leaned forward animatedly. “It could very well be she was at work back then and the wrong person was hanged. In my studies, I learned that vampires have frequently been discovered to weave into the fabric of their own families over generations. Sloane-Smith has such a family as would be perfect for this strategy, with long branches and many far-flung cousins. It would be a simple thing for the vampire to kill a victim and assume both its aspect and personality, able to live under that identity.”

  Valerian threw up his hands. “But this is no good. I myself have seen her out and about in broad daylight, Emma, as have you. She is at the school every day. She can be no vampire if she braves the sun.”

  Nonplussed at my obvious oversight, I flushed. “Yes,” I agreed after a moment. “There is no way around that, for she is not by any means nocturnal.”

  By this necessity, my suspicions of the headmistress were brought to a halt. Still, it was a shame to abandon this line of thinking, for in every other aspect, it made perfect sense that she was behind the Cyprian Queen. It could have been merely personal, but I felt a deep malevolence from her. Was it only due to her perceived rivalry concerning Lord Suddington?

  Demoralization hit me as I left Serena’s cottage to return to Blackbriar. I’d had such hopes it was Sloane-Smith. What increased my despair was the fact that I had no one else in contention—not a single direction to go in to solve this thing before the killing began. And time—I was well aware—was quickly running out.

  In my exhausting dreams that night, I saw the dracula chimaera. It seemed to loom large and predatory over me, its grotesque tentacles alive and quivering as they reached to me . . .

  I awoke disoriented and confused. Nausea curdled my stomach as I fought my way out of bed to stand shivering barefoot on the wood floor of my room. What was this—the ague? I felt ill, almost to the point of delirium.

  Lighting the lamp, I stared about me, thinking again of the rats. The memory of how they had swarmed me still made me tremble. I looked about. The room was empty. On a thought, I went to the window. It took nearly all of my courage to pull back the curtain to see if Ruthven was lurking outside. There was nothing there, and for a moment I was relieved.

  Then I saw that the line of salt I’d used to seal the window was missing. Panic flooded into me as I circled the room wildly, finding it all gone—the small crucifixes, the garlic, everything!

  I stumbled to the bag where I kept all of my talismans, my stakes made of holy hawthorn, and other tools of my kind. A quick inspection revealed most of its contents intact, but my vial of holy water and the large silver crucifix I’d once stolen from Saint Michael in the Fields were missing.

  My head felt stuffed with cotton, my brain and limbs equally sluggish. What could this mean? It had to have happened recently. I would have noticed . . .

  Would I? I did not check my supplies regularly.

  What was wrong with me? I felt as if I had caught a fever, but what were the chances I would fall ill coincidentally when someone had tampered with my protections? It had to be some doing of the vampire. Or its little witches . . .

  The sound of pounding footsteps penetrated my befuddled state and I heard Eustacia’s voice calling my name. There was a pounding at my door.

  “Mrs. Andrews!” she screamed. “Mrs. Andrews, please come! It is Vanessa—she is being murdered!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  My limbs were leaden, my vision blurred, my breathing shallow and quick. I felt as if I were swimming in a black sea, fighting against powerful currents to get to the door.

  Eustacia stared at me, horror written on her young face. Her reaction sobered me somew
hat, and I drew myself upright with supreme effort. “What is happening?” I managed, my voice a croak as air scratched against my parched throat. I could hear my words were slurred.

  I must be drugged, I thought. I knew I was not right, and this could not be simple illness. I had not felt like this ever in my life.

  The girl was before me, and I knew she was speaking, but for some reason I was having a great deal of difficulty absorbing her words.

  At last the sound of screams rising from the girls’ dormitory penetrated my fog. I pushed Eustacia aside and launched myself down the corridor.

  Where were the other teachers? Their rooms were near to mine. They were close enough to hear Eustacia pounding on my door, close enough to make out the cries of the girls in the quiet of the night. And how were the other students able to sleep through this? The sound of crying was a cacophony in the darkened halls.

  I burst into the room where the sixth form girls slept, then stopped in my tracks at the terrifying sight before me. My strength seemed to run out of me, leaving me numb. I gasped for air, unable to get anything into my lungs.

  In front of my eyes, bathed brilliantly in the light from an ample moon, the hideous form of a creature hovered in midair. The thing was part man, part . . . demon. It was naked, its flesh an inhumanly leathery texture tightly stretched over grotesque sinews and musculature that flexed like machine pulleys as it wavered, leering at me with its maw open, razor-sharp incisors gleaming in the light like diamonds. Its head was bald and whitish, its eyes fiery red. Plumes of smoke blew from enlarged nostrils, as though it were some great dragon, misting the glistening red blood that dripped wetly from its mouth.

  I was taken aback only a moment; the blood of my mother asserted itself even as I hesitated. I knew the sensation, welcomed it as my focus tightened, my muscles tensed, ready to strike if need be. This was when I was at my best—in the fight, in the moment. All feeling of being drugged temporarily vanished. In moments like this, my Dhampir nature took over.

  Valerian had told me long ago that the sight of a vampire feeding, in its unguarded state, stripped of all its ability to charm and deceive, was unspeakably revolting. He was correct. I knew that the thing before me was Ruthven—the vampire in its true form. But even more horrifying, Vanessa Braithwait languished in ecstasy in his arms, her mouth open and smiling, her blood black in the dim light of the dark room. Around her, crying loudly as they gazed up in mesmerized horror, were the other girls of the dorm, clinging to one another desperately in their state of terror. All except the other coven girls—Lilliana, Therese, Marion, and Margaret—who stood silent, watching the beast and Vanessa with something akin to rapture on their faces.

  “Get out!” I cried. Again, my speech was sluggish, but it was strong enough to command the students. They broke out of their paralysis and began to scramble toward the door. “Go. Hurry!”

  They ran out of the rooms, but the four silent girls stayed firm. I did not waste any time trying to convince them, but turned to the vampire. I put out my hand, but the Dhampir strength in me, which usually flowed in and out of me at such times when I called upon it, did not surge. The drugs, I thought. They were impairing me.

  I could not give in to fear. It meant death for everyone in the room. With determination, I summoned my strength and shouted, “Stop!”—and to my surprise, this startled it. It blinked at me, and the tiniest of my preternatural resources bubbled just enough to reach the thing. Although my touch was more like a brushing-off than the punch I’d intended, the vampire’s reaction was astonishing. It reared at the sight of me, mouth gaped in horror as it bellowed a single word: “No!”

  The vampire dropped Vanessa to fling its hands up over its face, covering its hideous appearance. At this unexpected display of vanity, I instinctively stepped forward to catch Vanessa before she struck the floor, but I was not quick enough. She fell with a sickening thud and lay there in a state of semiconsciousness. A glimpse of blood under her head indicated a head wound. The pool spread quickly.

  I stood frozen in fear that he’d killed her, but her head rolled slightly as she let out a small moan. Her arms reached up, as if begging for her tormentor to take her up into his arms again.

  I lifted my gaze back to the hovering revenant still cowering from me. My momentary advantage would not last, and the effects of the drug were taking their toll. I belatedly realized I’d made a grave error by coming here without any protections, any weapons. I had been so groggy and disoriented I had not realized what I was doing when I left the room without them. Cold dread seeped into me, like a bloodstain spreading fast across linen.

  Then Ruthven did a strange thing. Instead of pressing its obvious advantage, it withdrew, recoiling away from me. To my amazement, it retreated several steps to the corner. Its twisted body was hunkered over, its arms held as if to shield its face from view. I watched this, amazed and puzzled. Then, as it threw an agonized glance at me, I realized it was ashamed! The proud Ruthven did not want me—its sister, its equal, its mate—to see it like this.

  It whimpered, betraying its desperate state. Oh, yes, I knew this creature, for it had revealed itself to me in trying to seduce me. It longed to be admired, loved even, worshiped as a god and goddess in one. But this vicious, loathsome beast before me was its true form, one it had to assume when it fed. All guise was gone, all pretense of the charming lover, revealed for what it was in truth—not glorious at all, but ugly and base, greedy, sniveling, insecure, childish.

  “It always comes to this,” I whispered. “It always ends in death. That was what Madge told me on the first day. These poor girls. They think you are beauty. But you are in reality this: A hideous monster. Death. Evil. Repulsive.”

  I stressed the last word, testing it. Ruthven twitched, as if touched by fire.

  I turned to the girls he’d cast under his thrall. “See, all of you, see what your Cyprian Queen truly is. Not beautiful, but ugly. A monster, not a god.”

  They looked confused at first, then dawning terror claimed each one of them in turn. As it did, they scuttled away from the hulking creature in the corner, sobbing loudly and clinging to one another.

  Ruthven’s mournful wail came from a reptilian throat. “My lovesick beauties . . .” He reached a taloned hand toward them, and they screamed, clamoring to get away from him. The razor-sharp claws closed into a fist. An unearthly shriek shook the room, and the creature curled venomously as it turned back to me.

  I reached out my hand toward it, clamping down my mind in fierce concentration. Sweat broke out on my brow as I searched for its mind, its essence. My skill was weak, but I clung to the knowledge that this was what I was made for. It would come to me. It had to.

  “I once thought you worthy,” it hissed. “You viper!”

  It pushed back, and my connection snapped off. The girls’ screaming pitched anew. The sound seemed to annoy Ruthven, and it swept its hand in an arc toward where they huddled together. “Sleep,” it murmured, and silence fell as all in the room, save me, swooned into unconsciousness.

  “No!” Margaret called, stepping forward with her hands held out beseechingly. “Not me! I want to see!”

  I thought the demon smiled at her. It curled its talons in the air, a sickening gesture of affection, and as the other girls subsided, she remained standing.

  “Eustacia,” I called behind me, afraid the young girl, too, would fall under the spell. But the vampire had not bothered to quiet her; she stood transfixed and silent. I urged her: “Fetch my bag from my room. It is under the bed—bring it to me immediately. Go!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Margaret step toward Eustacia as the younger girl turned to flee. Margaret snagged Eustacia by her nightdress and yanked her so hard Eustacia flew onto her back and yelped in pain. She lay there, stunned and unmoving.

  “Eustacia!” I called out in alarm.

  Margaret whirled to me, her eyes gleaming with a wicked fever. “Vanessa wants this. You must not stop it!”

&n
bsp; “It is not true,” I shouted at her.

  “He will make her eternal!”

  “You ignorant fool! The transformation takes three times bitten. I assure you it is not giving you the transformation. It is feeding! Vanessa will die. You all will.”

  She sneered, as if I knew nothing. “She will be his immortal love. He promised.”

  “A cursed immortality,” I said. “Look at your god now. Did he promise to take you as well?”

  “She will.” Margaret’s gaze fell to her friend, writhing on the floor. Her gaze softened and I saw her love for Vanessa written on her features, so plaintive and lost it hurt to look at. Her breath hitched as she drew in a shaking breath laden with the full burden of her emotions, and murmured, “Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!”

  I lost no time exploiting this moment of weakness. With a well-placed kick aimed squarely to her knee, I brought Margaret down.

  With a groan, Eustacia struggled to her feet. “Run!” I urged her. To my great relief, she staggered out of the room. Neither Ruthven nor Margaret attempted to stop her.

  A rush of air behind me brought me back around to see Ruthven had taken flight and was almost upon me.

  As with so many times when I faced my supernatural foes, I let instinct bid me. This time, I let myself fall back, reaching my hand out as I hit the ground. My palm slapped into a puddle of Vanessa’s blood. I felt its wet warmth on my skin.

  I brought my hand up and held it in front of me. The creature’s attack halted immediately, nearly a hair’s breadth from my face. The blood of its victim seemed to have a deleterious effect.

  My mind was working furiously, hampered by the drug. How long would it take Eustacia to get back with my bag? How long could I hold off the vampire like this?

  “I would have made you a goddess,” Ruthven murmured bitterly. “My greatness . . . My art . . . I thought you would be honored, but you . . . you were jealous all along! You hate me because you see my greatness. You want what I have gained, you ungrateful traitor.”