Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Something in his comportment showed her that she had gone too far. “No, no; I believe you.” She drew the duvet up to her chin as Szent-Germain left the room, knowing he would find Rogers in his office. She found herself of two minds now that he had consented; whatever she saw, she could not unsee it, and if it really were dreadful, then she would have to deal with it as best she could. She lowered the duvet and stepped out of the bed, going to the armoire; it was an imposing structure from the earlier part of the last century, a three-part piece of furniture in elegant bird’s-eye maple, with a full-length beveled mirror on the panel nearest the door. It was large enough to park a car in it, she thought as she opened the third panel. There were three Turkish cotton bathrobes of varying sizes hanging in the closet, and she decided to choose one to serve as covering until the bath.

  Szent-Germain moved almost silently, his small, bare feet seeming to skim the floor. He hurried into the antechamber and knocked on the door of the office before opening it. “The main bath, ninety minutes from now. Robes, scented soap and shampoo, sponges, slippers. Cognac for after.”

  “Given how warm it is, do you want the floor-heating on?” Rogers asked at his most unflappable.

  “Probably not, but if the wind picks up, then yes. Thank you, old friend.”

  Rogers waved the Grof away and closed his ledger book, a suggestion of a smile in the crinkle of his eyes.

  Back in the guest bedroom, Szent-Germain said, “The main bath will be ready in ninety minutes. What would you like to do while we wait?”

  “Get some answers; I don’t mean this in any derogatory way, but I do have a great many questions. I’ve been asking questions all my life, you know,” said Charis, trying to keep from reaching out to him. She had donned the bathrobe of middle size and length, so it hung on her a bit loosely. She had pulled up the duvet and was sitting atop it, reclining on the large pillow Szent-Germain had placed there for her.

  “As you wish,” he said, sitting back down on the side of the bed. “Where would you like to begin?” He straightened out the bedding on his side, tugging the folds out of the bedding, waiting for Charis to begin.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ve lived thirty-three years,” he said promptly.

  This startled her, but she did her best to conceal it. “You look older.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  She sat up. “No more games. Answer me. How old are you?”

  He met her eyes directly. “I am thirty-three, but”—he held up his hand to forestall her outburst—“I was born over four thousand years ago to what was considered a royal family in the Carpathian Mountains, at the dark of the year. Today most people would probably consider my father a warlord at best, but the world was a very different place, back then. I was initiated into the priesthood of our people, which conveyed provisional immortality. I was captured by our enemies and executed when I was thirty-three, and since my death, very slowly, I have changed, grown older, yet my age is still thirty-three. I have been told I look, perhaps, forty-five. I don’t know, for I have no reflection, and haven’t had since I rose from the mass grave where my soldiers lay.” Though the events that had brought about his transformation were in the distant past, they were still vivid in his memories, stark images against a backdrop that had lost all but its strongest outlines.

  “That’s impossible. You’re not dead,” she informed him stiffly. “You’re nothing like dead.”

  “I’m not alive, either,” he said, taking her hand. “There may be some scientific term for my state of existence, but I doubt it. I call myself a vampire.”

  “A vampire,” she echoed.

  “Most of the restrictions I must deal with are consistent with European legends. I cannot cross running or tidal water without pain, I am vitiated by sunlight, I survive on the blood I receive from those who provide me with nourishment. My native earth in my shoes and my furniture shields me from the worst of these limitations.” He ticked off these items on his fingers. “I am not driven off by the Cross, and other religious paraphernalia has no effect on me, garlic does not drive me away, and neither I nor those of my blood are vassals of the devil. I have no compulsion to count millet-grains, and I am not afraid of white horses.”

  “More fables. I want the truth.” She was precariously near tears. “You have promised me the truth.”

  “And I am telling you the truth insofar as I know it. This is one of the points you need to know if we are to continue as lovers. If we continue, what I am, you will become.”

  She flung up one arm. “This is like a bad movie. All that’s lacking is a colony of bats and an ancient, ruined castle. Vampires! That’s crazy!” She glowered in his direction and caught the reflection in the mirror on the armoire door. The bed was clearly visible, and she saw herself plainly, but where he sat, there was a kind of smudge, like a fuzzy cutout image of a man, tattered and threadbare, no feature distinguishable. “How do you do that?” she yelled at him. “Why do you do it? You are…” She could find no words to describe him.

  “It is my nature, as it is with all of my blood. I don’t do anything.”

  She had never heard such kindness in his voice before, nor seen such an expression of longing in his attractive, irregular face. “Well,” she said, a bit uncertainly, unwilling to meet his steady gaze. “I’ll suspend my opinion for now.” She stared at him, looking for some slight indication of deception; she found none. Maybe he was telling her the truth as he knew it, she thought. Maybe this was all a delusion, one he embraced wholeheartedly. Maybe he had been hypnotized, or drugged, she thought, and was told this to cover what had really happened to him. Maybe he had some kind of mental condition that built up a fantasy world because his own experience was too dreadful to remember; that didn’t explain the missing reflection, but it accounted for his outlandish convictions. Whatever the case, she reminded herself, the man ran two large companies working in many parts of the world, so he wasn’t an emotional train-wreck. She had yet to think of an explanation for his lack of a reflection, but that would come. She made herself pay attention to him and ask, “You don’t eat with other people. Is that really the custom of your people, or something else?”

  “It depends on how you view the purpose of dining. I do not indulge in feasting, but I do take nourishment, as you should know, and I do it in privacy with one partner,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. “What you give me not only confirms our intimacy, it is the one source of nourishment I can tolerate. Fortunately, my needs are not great: I take no more than would half-fill a wine-glass.”

  She tossed her head, missing her shoulder-length locks that had been pruned back to a sophisticated page-boy style. “You mean that ‘taste of the blood’ you do? You’ve had that from me?” She changed her position on the bed so she could not see the reflection directly.

  “Yes. The taste of blood, as you call it, opens the way to the touching I’ve told you about, and it is the touching I seek.”

  “You really aren’t making this easy, are you,” she challenged.

  “You mayn’t believe it, but I am; this explanation could be much more complicated than it is,” he told her gently. “I know it goes against the grain with you, all this illogical information, and I want to explain it all to you, but there are a few complex matters that go along with the answers you seek, and that may not work as you would like, for which I apologize.” He patted the place next to him. “Lie down again, if you would. We have plenty of time to explore. We might as well make the most of this opportunity.”

  “That would make five, and I’d rather save it up, if you don’t mind,” she answered distantly, staring up at the painted ceiling, then asked, “Is it really true that this is your guest room, or is it something more intimate?” she asked while studying the cavorting angels that flocked from one side of the ceiling to the other, benignly mischievous in their capers.

  “Yes, it is.” He smiled a little. “My room is more … auste
re, not a place for guests.” His room was a small alcove near his library, with a narrow desk ornamented with a simple brass library-lamp for writing, a low-backed stool, and a large iron-bound leather chest with a thin mattress on top of it, with a single blanket. “This is much more satisfactory, don’t you think? It is designed for insouciance.”

  “So you have said,” she told him as she suddenly yawned with her whole body, her sinuous movements revealing that her desire was still present within her. Now that she had opened this door with him, she was uncertain of how to proceed, and took refuge in her skill for seeking academic information. “I’m still at a loss to see how. If I understood that, perhaps I wouldn’t feel that I’ve … oh, I don’t know … deprived you in some way of what you give to me.”

  “I am not deprived, Charis,” he assured her. “But I’m troubled that you’re not happy.”

  “Oh, I’m happy about this, more than I can tell you,” she said, indicating the confusion of the bed. “I don’t think I could bear everything that Harold is doing if I couldn’t have an occasional tryst with you. I’m depending on them to carry me through the whole divorce.” She laughed sharply and grabbed his hand and brought it to her breast, sliding it under the bathrobe and holding it there. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m still a person. I feel as if I’m some kind of robot, going through the motions of life, but not actually living. When I look at where I started and where I am now, I can’t see how everything changed so completely.”

  “You were not the one who chose the changes that happened. You did nothing to bring about your exile. You could only decide what to do after those changes had taken place. It is as if you had been caught in a tidal wave, and flung beyond the wreckage. I apologize for the image, if it troubles you, but I feel such turbulence in you … It would be most disturbing if you felt no strangeness in your circumstances. I am an exile, myself, and I know of old how often our situation in the world can change, and how that haunts us.” He moved so that he could more easily kiss her shoulder.

  “How do you stand it?” she demanded suddenly, the emphasis on the you. “From what I’ve heard from you, you’ve been through the mill for quite some time, though I hadn’t realized for how long. I still don’t believe it. I can’t grasp the possibility of living for a century, though a few people do it.” She gave an embarrassed little cough. “The other evening, when you were talking about the last Czar, it was almost as if you had been there—you, not your uncle.” She fixed him with a penetrating stare. “Or do you have an appalling portrait in the attic?”

  He chuckled once. “Wilde was always at his best when writing about mythic things. No portraits that I’m aware of.”

  Charis went silent, finally saying quietly, “I meant that, you know. I am depending on you. Not for forever, but until the divorce is finished, and perhaps beyond. Without you, I would flounder. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I believe it shouldn’t be more than two years. Bethune thinks so, too. You can stand that, can’t you?”

  “Ah, Charis,” he said, making her name a consolation. “Little as you may think you want it, you will want to know what I have to tell you if you seek my support—which you may have for as long as you require it.”

  “Those risks you keep mentioning,” she said, shaking her head.

  “They are very real,” he told her.

  “So you say.” She rolled toward him. “Your silk shirt is all wrinkled,” she remarked as if making an apology.

  “It can be ironed,” he told her. “Shirts are like that.”

  “You’re making light of—” she began, starting to straighten herself up again, and her eyes glinted.

  “No, I’m not. I am attempting to remind you that the shirt doesn’t know or care if it’s wrinkled: that is a human concern. It’s really not a very good analogy,” he told her, and felt her relax back down onto the bed. “Those who come to my life will have to learn how to conduct themselves, for their own sakes as well as mine and the rest of us.”

  “So there are more of you?” She concealed a sigh in a yawn. “Are there many of your kind?”

  “No. Perhaps, at present, thirteen or fourteen in all the world,” he answered.

  “Thirteen or fourteen,” she marveled. “Is that all?”

  “Yes: one in Mexico, one in Canada, one in New Zealand, one in Kiev, one in France”—he pointed to himself—“one in Algeria, two in China, one in Rhodesia, one in the Argentine, one in Bombay, one in India, or so I assume, and one, perhaps, in Spain.” As always, memories of Csimenae and Tulsi Kil saddened him.

  “So a very select few,” said Charis, her doubts burgeoning once again. “And far-flung at that.”

  “If you want to put it that way,” he responded, and waited for her to continue.

  “What has that to do with what you want to say to me?” She found herself curious about how he would respond. “What kind of association do you and these thirteen or fourteen have? Do you give parties, hold meetings, visit one another? I’m not applying to the Eastern Star. Am I? My father was a Mason, so I quali—”

  “Nothing of the sort,” he said. “I am not a Mason. I doubt they’d have me.” He had belonged to a number of occult Lodges, Orders, and Brotherhoods over the centuries—including the Freemasons—but not for more than well over two hundred years.

  The last traces of her ecstasy had faded and she could feel discontent welling up to take its place. “A group of ten or so, not a gathering like the Coven. Do you ever do that?” She stared at the ceiling again, wondering if the angels were listening to the two of them. “Why is this all so mysterious? Look, I have assumed that you are some kind of agent for one country or another, and I can live with that. You don’t have to share particulars with me, or make something up. It bothers me when you say things that are more story-telling than real. You say you want to have experience of all of me, but you don’t let me have all of you.”

  He could see by the faint vertical line between her brows that she was not convinced by what he had told her; she would not be persuaded without evidence. “I have no wish to discomfit you, Charis.” He took a breath. “I know you are ill-at-ease now. Have I done something that offends you?”

  “Not precisely,” she said, staring at him.

  “Will you explain it to me, whatever it is?” he asked, still sitting on the edge of the bed, his clothes—for although he had removed his jacket and tie, he still had on slacks and his silk shirt, just now open at the neck; his small feet were bare—surprisingly neat. He remained still while Charis lay back again, amid a cloud of cream-colored satin. The bathrobe she wore gaped open.

  She reached out and touched his sleeve. “I think … in fact, I know you’re holding things back from me. I can be specific, if you like. You tell me we are allies, but you keep secrets from me a lot more than I keep them from you.” She did a half-roll and propped herself on her elbow. “And what about what you said earlier, that we can only make love another two times before it will be dangerous for me? Do you carry some horrible disease? Why six times, since you don’t … you know.” She turned and stared at him. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain, if that really is your name, and I need to find out.”

  “On that we agree,” he said; he could feel her doubts growing during their times together, and had not yet decided how he might explain all she would need to know if they continued as lovers much longer. “Do you recall what I told you last month about my father’s fiefdom?”

  “Only that it’s in the Carpathians,” she responded as she thought about the wonderful, lazy evening they had spent at Longchene, in the shadows of birches and willows, and wreathed in the aroma of wild thyme. “The eastern hook, I think you said.” She moved, her enticing smile holding his attention. “I know you told me more.”

  “And you didn’t listen,” he said, a philosophical smile brightening his face.

  “No, I didn’t.” She looked away from him, then turned back. “It was such a del
ightful afternoon.”

  “Have you recalled any part of what I told you?” He did not sound disappointed.

  “Incompletely,” she said. “It was such a fine day, and the lunch you provided had been very good.”

  A pair of clear soft chimes sounded from the depths of the flat.

  “The bath is ready, if you would care to come with me?” He held out his hand to her.

  The lights in the flat were on low, providing a kind of half-light for them to use to get to the main bath. They spoke little, moving quickly past the dining room and the pantry, then into a corridor behind the kitchen, where Szent-Germain paused to open the door. Warm, scented steam wafted over them as he bowed Charis into the dressing room that fronted the bath itself. “Welcome,” he murmured.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “The tub is specially made, four feet deep in the center, with two sets of steps leading down into it. It is nine feet long and six feet wide,” he told her. “You can hang your robe over there, on the padded hooks. Shall you undress me or would you prefer I do it?”

  “I’ll do it, and then I’ll hang up my bathrobe.” She did not want to admit that she found the bath a bit overwhelming. “If you’ll stand over there, near the light-fixture, I’ll take care of you.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and approached the three sconces of frosted glass.

  She came up to him, and began by pulling the tails of his shirt out of the waistband of his slacks. The shirt was open at the neck, so she took hold of the first secured button and unfastened it. This was strangely exciting to her, and she unbuttoned the other seven buttons as rapidly as she could, her attention on the silk and not the skin. She shoved the shirt back, and looked squarely at his broad chest. “Oh. Oh, God,” she whispered, reaching for the shirt to pull it closed again. The scars began at the base of his sternum and followed the ribs down to his waist, then down beyond his waistband. The tissue was white and looked tautly stretched, with striations through it, testimony to a fatal injury.