“When can I do this hiatus of performing?” Sophia asked as she slipped into the ruffled blouse. “I’m booked in for another sixteen months.”
“At the end of it. You can tell Antim you don’t want more engagements for a while,” said Katrine.
“And you think he would pay any attention to me?” she asked as she struggled to button the blouse, flipping the long, loose ruffles aside.
“I think he would listen,” said Katrine. “He isn’t a monster, you know. He has your best interests at heart.”
“And his paycheck, and yours,” said Sophia as she reached for a brush to work on her hair.
“That’s secondary. Our money is well-invested, and Antim could always play for other singers. He’s had offers, you know.”
“No doubt,” said Sophia.
“But he would rather play for you than anyone. And you know he’s been good for you,” Katrine said.
“Ever the loyal sister,” Sophia remarked a bit sharply.
“Do you think he’d do this just for the money?” Katrine demanded. “You know better. You’re just tired.”
“We’re agreed on that, at least,” said Sophia; her face looked pale and drawn. “Sometimes the thought of doing nothing but master classes is very tempting.”
“Go back to the hotel and put the Do Not Disturb sign out,” Katrine recommended.
“You forget—I can’t. Not yet. I have a young man to meet,” said Sophia with a frown.
“Then you’ll want this, too,” said Katrine, handing her the crystal bottle of Vol de Nuit.
“If I had time, I’d take a shower,” said Sophia. “Oh, well. Later.” She reached for the crepe trousers and stepped into them, taking care not to catch her high heels on the silken lining.
“Later. A good idea,” said Katrine. “I’ll finish up here. We’ll meet back at the hotel.”
Sophia nodded. “Do you ever want to live in a house, a real home? Doesn’t this travel make you exhausted?”
“We had a house, of sorts, in Brasov. It was in need of repair, and the drains leaked,” said Katrine. “You didn’t fare much better in Sinaia.”
“That was years ago,” said Sophia as she pulled on her jacket, adjusting the ruffles so that they cascaded down the lapels. “Years and years ago.”
“And you have forgot the pain of it,” said Katrine bluntly.
“I haven’t. I couldn’t. But I am beginning to remember the joy of it.” She sprayed perfume on her neck and wrists, then stood up. “I’m certain this is the best I can do for now.”
“You look lovely,” said Katrine, sounding a bit worried.
“I hope it’s good enough for the young man,” she said, and reached for her red-fox fur coat that hung at the end of her small rack of clothing. “I’ll assume you’ll get all this back to the hotel.”
“Of course, Madame.” Katrine almost bowed as she prepared to leave the room.
Going out of the dressing room, Sophia paused to ask, “Do you ever regret it, Katrine?”
“What woman does not regret?” Katrine asked with a ghost of a laugh.
Sophia echoed the laugh as she closed the door.
* * * *
The young man was clearly feeling gauche, thrilled and awkward at once, prepared to be sent away by the lovely soprano. He had never had much luck with women, and the idea of having caught such a glamourous attention as Sophia’s seemed absurd. Up close, he was taller than she had assumed, with sharper features and slightly slipshod grooming that had a kind of charm if she assumed he had dressed in haste. He looked at her with huge, adoring eyes and summoned up the nerve to say, “I thought your note must be…mistaken. Not that I wasn’t deeply flattered, of course,” he added conscientiously.
Sophia extended her hand to him. “No mistake. You must be aware that I sang two songs directly to you.”
“I…I wanted to think that, but I didn’t dare.” He coughed out of nervousness. “My name is Patrick Shipton.”
“And I am Sophia Viniceu; it is a pleasure, Patrick Shipton,” she said at her most charming as she came and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “I’d appreciate it if you could find us a nice, private place to have a drink and a bite to eat.”
“Of course,” said Shipton, as if in a dream. He began walking toward the large parking lot. “I can take you to the Commodore or the Blue Grotto; they’re open until two, and they have excellent menus.” They were also the most famous restaurants in the city, the places to see and be seen as well as dine.
“Isn’t there somewhere within walking distance?” Sophia asked as plaintively as if she were still singing the Chopin. “I’m really quite hungry. Those restaurants are some distance from here, and not very private. I’d just as soon relax and dawdle through a proper meal, if you don’t mind a closer, smaller place? With fewer persons to stare at us?”
“Small wonder you’re tired, after such a performance,” said Shipton, becoming more confident with every step he took. “There is a cozy little bar about three blocks away: Ivy Street it’s called. They have some food to offer as well—it’s a limited menu, simple dishes but very good—and a really fine wine list.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Sophia, infusing her words with an expectancy she did not actually feel—she was a good performer and she convinced him utterly. “Just what I’m in the mood for.”
Shipton grinned. “Good,” he said, and repeated it twice as they began to walk.
The streets were fairly empty, and the cars going by kept on at a steady pace, none of the drivers paying the slightest attention to the couple strolling down the sidewalk. For all the notice they attracted they might have been invisible. Even the buildings conspired to conceal them. Most of the shops were lit only as much as safety required, and in the upper floors most of the windows were dark.
“So, what do you do, Patrick Shipton?” Sophia asked him.
“I’m finishing my PhD,” he said.
“Oh? In what field?” Sophia leaned on his arm a little, in the hope of creating an implication of intimacy.
“Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid,” he answered.
“Let me be the judge of that,” said Sophia, coaxing him.
“Invertebrate paleontology,” he told her, expanding in layman’s terms, “I’m doing my doctorate on early crabs and lobsters.”
“Sounds…daunting,” she said as she considered it.
“It feels that way, sometimes. We know so very little, and making assessments of the actual data…There’s so much yet to discover.” His face brightened. “We’ve only just scratched the surface.” He chuckled, and when she didn’t join him, he ducked his head. “Sorry. Paleontological joke.”
“Because you have to dig things up?” Sophia ventured, and managed to smile. “I am not entirely ignorant.”
“I never assumed you…” His voice straggled off. “Maybe I did. Most people haven’t a clue about my field of study. The truth is, I’m feeling out of my depth. I never thought anyone like you would…”
When he faltered, she said, “I spend most of my life on the road. My accompanyist is my manager, so my social circle is very limited. It’s very nice to have a little respite.” She glanced toward an alley ahead of them, then looked back at Shipton. “I’m glad you came to the concert tonight.”
“So am I,” he said. “I hadn’t planned on it, actually,” he went on as if confessing a crime. “But there was a ticket for sale on the department notice board, and I haven’t been out for weeks.”
“It sounds like a lonely life,” said Sophia, mentally measuring the distance to the alley.
“Science can be like that.” He paused. “You must have a lonely life, too, with all the traveling you do.”
She slowed her pace, her expression thoughtful. “It is the nature of the work.”
“Then we have something in common,” he said with a bit of a smile. Gradually he began to relax. “You must have sensed something.”
Sophia said nothing b
ut her face softened. “I often find someone in the audience to sing to. I live in great isolation, and so it is important to me that I connect with my audience. It makes me feel more…alive.”
Shipton seemed a bit disappointed that he wasn’t completely unique, but he made himself sound pleased. “And I was the lucky one this time.”
“You might say so,” she said, tugging on his elbow to draw him nearer to the alley. “Come. Step out of the light. A little privacy before dining.” There was a world of possibilities in how she spoke.
He looked a bit surprised, but complied readily enough. “The bar’s kitchen closes at one,” he said by way of warning.
“I’m not worried,” she said, and disengaged herself from his hold as if to make ready to embrace him.
“You sure about this?” Shipton asked, still unable to believe his good luck.
“I am,” she said, and took a step back.
He started in pursuit of her, then stopped as a strong arm whipped around his neck, pinning his head in a powerful lock. “Wha—?”
“I’m sorry,” Sophia told Shipton.
“You don’t have to stay.” Antim dismissed her with a sneer.
Shipton made a choking noise as he attempted to break free of the hold Antim had on him, one arm futilely sawing the air, his feet scrabbling on the uneven pavement, all to no avail. Antim was much too strong for him.
Antim nodded to Sophia. “You’re part is done. Go back to the hotel. I’ll meet you there later,” he ordered, then sank his teeth into Shipton’s exposed throat, grinning as the blood gouted, steaming, into the night air.
Sophia moved farther away, flicking her hands across her fur coat to rid it of the most obvious spatters. “This is going to have to be cleaned,” she warned as she continued on toward the other end of the alley. She walked steadily, aware that if she ran she would draw attention to herself, and that, in turn, might expose Antim. “I’ll be waiting.”
The noises that answered her had nothing to do with words.
* * * *
It was almost three hours later when Antim returned to the hotel. His face was ruddy and he moved with the kind of confidence he only displayed after a successful kill. He went to Katrine’s room first, remaining there for the better part of an hour before going to Sophia. He found her dozing over a popular novel about a Byronic tribe of vampires; she was wearing plaid flannel pyjamas and looked more like a tired school librarian than an international concert artist.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said as she looked up from her book.
“You look like you could use a fix,” Antim observed, strolling toward her in the long, rolling pace that he thought made him look panther-like.
“You know what I need,” she said wearily as she marked her place in the book by bending down the corner of the page.
“Of course I do,” he said, and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over toward her. “He was strong. You chose well.”
“You chose him,” Sophia reminded him. “You pointed him out. All I did was follow your orders. It’s all I ever do.”
Antim laughed softly. “Then I must applaud my own good taste.” He grinned. “That wasn’t too bad a witticism, was it?”
Obediently Sophia laughed, but it was nothing more than a rote response. “Are you going to insist I beg you?”
“I may,” he answered.
“Then, please, please, please, may I have what you bring me?” she pleaded, half-jesting, half-desperate.
“Shortly, Sophia,” he promised her, relishing his authority. In an aggrieved tone he added, “I had to go through a great deal to dispose of him.”
“You selected the place where you…took him,” Sophia reminded him.
“I was foolish,” said Antim. “I had to carry him six blocks, dead weight in every sense of the word. When he’s found, they’ll think he met with two or three men with knives and chains. They won’t wonder at his loss of blood.”
“Did you drain him? Completely?” Sophia hated herself for the appetite the question aroused in her.
“Pretty much.” Antim smiled at her. “You can have your share.” He had removed his jacket and now he opened his shirt and nicked his chest with his short, hard thumbnail. “Come ahead, Sophia. Drink.”
She moved toward her, a study in ambivalence, for as much as she yearned for his blood, she loathed her need of it. At last she leaned against him and put her mouth against the place where his chest bled. The blood welled, filled her mouth, and she swallowed hastily; the strength and youth it conveyed surged through her, restoring her and giving her a thrill that was almost sexual.
“This is the part Stoker got right,” Antim crooned as he stroked her hair. “You and Katrine are as much mine as Dracula’s brides were his.”
“I know,” Sophia said between mouthfuls of the restorative blood; it was wonderful and vile all at once.
“You ought to be grateful,” he said as she continued her feeding.
“I am,” she assured him.
“That’s not what Katrine tells me. She says you’re getting tired, and you’re talking of ending your career.” He stroked her hair, his nails just touching her scalp as he did, a reminder of his power.
Sophia froze. She should have known Katrine would betray her. Mastering her sudden burst of panic, she said, “I have been working very hard for a long time, Antim. I may be pushing my luck to continue much longer. My career spans almost fifty years, and very few singers can claim so much. Our reviews are beginning to point out how long I have been touring. The last thing we want to do is draw too much attention to my longevity. It could lead to questions that not even you could dodge.”
“That possibility certainly exists,” said Antim, pressing her to his chest again. “You may have a point.”
Sophia nodded as emphatically as she could and still go on taking sustenance.
“I’ll think about what you’ve said,” he told her, and caught her hair in his hand, forcing her to look up at him. “But I will brook no opposition from you. Try to stand against me and you’ll go hungry.” The edge in his voice made it plain that he was utterly serious.
“I won’t oppose you,” she said, and was relieved to be allowed finally to drink her fill.
* * * *
“There’s a man in the fifth row, left section of the orchestra; apparently he’s alone—the seat next to him is empty,” Antim told the stage manager in Los Angeles. “Madame Viniceu would like a note to be delivered to him at intermission.”
The stage manager shrugged. “Near or far aisle?”
“Near,” said Sophia. “Dark hair, looks about thirty.”
“You must like ’em young,” the stage manager remarked.
“Something like that,” said Sophia, glancing at Antim as she spoke.
“They’re so full of life, when they’re young,” Antim said with a wink. “And they fall under Madame’s spell.”
The stage manager gave an amused snort, then said, “I’ll get you paper. But you better get a wiggle on—intermission’s a-wastin’.”
“Remember to sing the Mussorgsky directly to him,” Antim warned Sophia as she started toward her dressing room.
She nodded. “I’ll write the note while I change.”
“Have Katrine bring it out to me,” said Antim. I’ll see it gets delivered.”
“Fine,” said Sophia abruptly.
Watching this exchange, the stage manager shook his head. “She’s quite a handful, isn’t she?”
“It’s part of the package,” Antim said.
“She’s quite a talent, that’s for sure. Nobody sings like her.” He sighed. “The things they make us do for them!”
“It comes with the job,” said Antim philosophically.
“A woman like that—I guess she needs the reassurance.” The stage manager watched Antim speculatively.
Antim nodded. “It’s…life’s blood to her,” he agreed.
AN AUTHENTICATED VAMPIRE STORY, by Franz Hartmann
On June 10, 1909, there appeared in a prominent Vienna paper (the Neues Wiener Journal) a notice (which I herewith enclose) saying that the castle of B—had been burned by the populace, because there was a great mortality among the peasant children, and it wdyas generally believed that this was due to the invasion of a vampire, supposed to be the last Count B—, who died and acquired that reputation. The castle was situated in a wild and desolate part of the Carpathian Mountains and was formerly a fortification against the Turks. It was not inhabited owing to its being believed to be in the possession of ghosts, only a wing of it was used as a dwelling for the caretaker and his wife.
Now it so happened that when I read the above notice, I was sitting in a coffee-house at Vienna in company with an old friend of mine who is an experienced occultist and editor of a well known journal and who had spent several months in the neighborhood of the castle. From him I obtained the following account and it appears that the vampire in question was probably not the old Count, but his beautiful daughter, the Countess Elga, whose photograph, taken from the original painting, I obtained. My friend said:—
“Two years ago I was living at Hermannstadt, and being engaged in engineering a road through the hills, I often came within the vicinity of the old castle, where I made the acquaintance of the old castellan, or caretaker, and his wife, who occupied a part of the wing of the house, almost separate from the main body of the building. They were a quiet old couple and rather reticent in giving information or expressing an opinion in regard to the strange noises which were often heard at night in the deserted halls, or of the apparitions which the Wallachian peasants claimed to have seen when they loitered in the surroundings after dark. All I could gather was that the old Count was a widower and had a beautiful daughter, who was one day killed by a fall from her horse, and that soon after the old man died in some mysterious manner, and the bodies were buried in a solitary graveyard belonging to a neighboring village. Not long after their death an unusual mortality was noticed among the inhabitants of the village: several children and even some grown people died without any apparent illness; they merely wasted away; and thus a rumor was started that the old Count had become a vampire after his death. There is no doubt that he was not a saint, as he was addicted to drinking, and some shocking tales were in circulation about his conduct and that of his daughter; but whether or not there was any truth in them. I am not in a position to say.
The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories Page 30
