The Dark Arts of Blood

by Freda Warrington

  She was delirious. Nothing mattered except to feel him inside her, where he belonged, his swollen, eager flesh enveloped in hers, the pulsing focus of all heat, all the wordless passion in the universe.

  He lifted her, with her legs wrapped around his hips, on to the bed. He made her wait, sliding lightly and teasingly just where she ached the most, and then he showed her mercy.

  The feeling was pure heaven. And he knew how to draw out the sensations, playing, tormenting her, until she was in a different state of consciousness, flying through a cloud of bliss that built higher and hotter towards the ultimate peak… so slow, so exquisite, she almost did not want the journey to end but it must, she couldn’t contain this swelling knot of fire any longer…

  All those feelings were washed away by a sudden horrible sensation: a silver river drenching her from head to foot, like mercury: heavy, toxic and icy cold. The room spun. She was suddenly nowhere, lost in a snowstorm or in the lethal cold of the Weisskalt. Her only clear impression was of a white shape oozing from her, as if she were an amoeba splitting in two.

  Her ghost-double, the lamia, rose over the bed and floated, gazing down at her from above. Time stopped. The nightmare moment went on forever.

  “Charlotte? What’s wrong?”

  Karl’s voice shocked her back to reality. She pushed him away and sat up. Couldn’t think or speak or breathe. As their bodies disengaged she was left feeling empty, hot and slippery and unfulfilled.

  Karl grasped her upper arms, looking alarmed. She was confused, unsure of what she’d seen. What he had seen.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Why did you stop?”

  He was breathing hard, making a visible effort to calm himself. “You went deathly white and cold,” he said. “You were shaking, pushing me away. Your eyes were blank. Love, you haven’t fed enough and I didn’t even ask…”

  “No, it’s not that. Did you see… did you see the ghost come out of me again?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Only some mist that might have been anything. Steam from the bathroom drifting through the moonlight? Charlotte, beloved, it’s all right. There’s nothing there.”

  She gave a low growl of exasperation, stared into his feverish eyes.

  “What if the poison is still in my blood?” she said. “I daren’t risk infecting you!”

  “If you have some contagion, I’d happily share it,” he responded.

  “Don’t say that. I can’t risk contaminating you, even for love.”

  “Dear heart, I’m sure you’re not ‘contaminated’ in any way. But if you feel… I don’t know that ‘unwell’ is the right term, but I don’t think you’ve fully recovered. I should have realised, before we went this far.”

  He stroked her hair. They sat close, tense with frustration in body and heart. Charlotte felt torn up with emotion. She wanted Karl desperately, as he wanted her. They always did, like swimmers diving into a hot volcanic pool again and again, craving the glorious sensation of falling into each other.

  Karl was too courteous to sate his own desire after she’d called an unexpected halt. Charlotte suspected that if a victim protested just as his fangs pierced the flesh – the point at which the gushing blood became the entire universe – even then, he would stop.

  She admired him for that, but at this moment she wished he were not so self-controlled. If he had ignored her strange turn, if he’d let the fever carry them both into the rush of fire and the mutual blood-feast, they would presently be wrapped together, gasping with contentment – not sitting apart, aching with unspent lust.

  But.

  Karl might now be full of alien venom from her veins. That would have been worse.

  Foreheads resting together, they sat gripping each other’s hands, anguished.

  “Dearest, I do not think…” Karl began softly. “I am certain there’s nothing wrong with you or your blood.”

  She ached all over, with knots of sensation concentrated in the tips of her fangs and her loins. She also felt vaguely ashamed. I refuse to let the hallucinations affect me, she’d told herself repeatedly. Yet she was affected. The knife had cut into her psyche, dissected her in some horrible, indefinable way. She couldn’t even judge if she was right to be concerned or making a fuss over nothing.

  “How can you be so sure?” she said, her voice raw.

  Karl let her go and she sat on the edge of the bed, knees pressed together. He rose to his feet and stood away from her: so beautiful with firelight running like liquid gold over his lean muscular body. Still aroused. He folded his arms, and it struck her that the combination of seriousness and beauty and arousal was mildly comical, as if he were some priapic forest god lost in thought.

  She bit her lip. Tears ran down her face, hot and wet like blood.

  “Charlotte, are you laughing or crying?”

  “Both, I think. Karl, I’m s—”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Do not ever say you’re sorry. You’ve nothing to apologise for.”

  “But you’re annoyed, and I don’t blame you. I’m annoyed. I’ve been trying to convince myself I’m well, but I’m not. I do not want to poison you. Not with blood, or any other bodily fluids. Perhaps it’s already too late, since we have kissed rather a lot.”

  “I’m not angry with you.” He sat beside her, his thigh pressed along hers, and took both her hands. “I’m certain you haven’t poisoned me, as you put it. I have many feelings, beloved, but not anger. Only towards the men who assaulted you.”

  She took a long breath, shivering despite the warmth. Feeling Karl so close was killing her. How long? she thought. Have they contaminated my blood forever? “But if I’m being paranoid, unhinged in some way… You must think I’m being ridiculous.”

  “I never think that, Charlotte,” he said. “I know you. If you feel something is wrong, I take your concern seriously.”

  His words made her shiver: a disturbing thrill of alarm mixed with the fever-heat of frustration. It crossed her mind that there were other ways to pleasure each other that need not involve any biting or sharing of blood… but no. The moment had passed and it would feel wrong, mechanical, and tainted by the chilly nightmare sensation that swirled around her…

  Karl raised his head, looking towards the window.

  “What?” she said.

  “Listen.”

  She listened, and caught the faraway whisper of familiar voices. They engaged her mind more than her physical senses, like tiny pinpricks of light touching the inside of her skull. The warmth of many humans, with a single cool presence among them. “Violette and company.”

  “It appears they’re nearly home.” He sighed. “We had better dress and try to appear presentable.”

  “Pretend nothing happened?” she said unhappily.

  He touched her cheek with gentle, expressive fingertips. “Liebling, we’ve endured worse than this and survived. Don’t worry.”

  She turned her head to kiss the heel of his palm. Karl never said anything he didn’t mean. Almost never. She slid off the bed and went towards the bathroom.

  “I’d better make use of the bath I ran before you came home.”

  “The water will be cold by now.” He gave a half-smile as she looked back over her shoulder: a smile full of pain, love and grave humour. It made her feel better in some ways, worse in others.

  “That’s precisely what I need, my dearest,” she said. “An icy-cold bath.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  RUMOURS

  “A my, are you still unwell?”

  Godric and his niece had positioned themselves opposite the theatre and academy, ready to film the Ballet Lenoir’s return home. A bright full moon, streetlamps and the snow-glow of the Alps filled the evening with eerie light. He hoped it would be enough. Amy was ready to start the camera rolling, while Godric prepared to take still shots. A knot of photographers had gathered, both press and tourists.

  “No, I’m in perfect health. Why?”

  “You look— Wi
ll you please move back! We’re trying to film!” Godric walked into the road, grabbing the elbow of a man who’d stepped into his line of vision. The man grumbled in French, but moved aside.

  “Damned French-speakers, think they own the town,” said Godric. “The hierarchy of language is everything. One day I’ll make it illegal to speak anything but Swiss German in this country!”

  Amy laughed, startled. “Uncle, really.”

  “Oh, it’s no laughing matter. I’m deadly serious.” He resumed his position at his camera and made adjustments, silently daring anyone else to obstruct his view. “As I was saying, you look pale. Gudrun said you were suffering a headache the other night. I’ll make that appointment with Dr Ochsner for you.”

  Amy snatched a breath, looking alarmed. “There’s no need.”

  “How can you concentrate on work if you’re unwell? Do not allow Mariette and her friends to take you out drinking and dancing until the early hours. I forbid it. You need fresh mountain air, not cocktails and that damnable American jazz. That’s something else I’ll ban. What is wrong with our home-grown folk music?”

  “Well, it’s a little… old-fashioned.”

  “Timeless!” he growled. “If you think you dislike traditional music, you shall listen until you learn to love it.”

  “I didn’t say I dislike it… never mind. Everywhere closes so early here,” she muttered, bending forward to look through the viewfinder. “Mariette says we should visit Paris, where they have a proper nightlife.”

  Was she asking permission?

  “I forbid you to go to Paris,” Godric said thinly. “The actors and actresses I’m forced to employ have only half a brain between them but you should be paying attention to learning the history of your homeland, not associating with their like. Volkskunde, the study of folklore, our noble history and heroes.”

  “I can’t help associating with your actors, since they’re always around the house.” She spoke quietly but with touch of defiance he found infuriating. “They’re my friends. I really like the new make-up girl, Fadiya.”

  “Keep away from her too,” he snapped.

  “Why? Just because she’s from another country doesn’t mean she’s carrying tropical diseases. Really, Uncle. She’s lovely.”

  Godric felt his face flush with silent rage. He couldn’t tell his niece that the intruder was a vampire, a strigoi or some kind of desert demon, that he would kill if only he could break the strange influence she had over him. When had Fadiya spoken to Amy? How dare she? She’d promised she would not take anyone’s blood, but how could he trust her?

  “Just do as I say.”

  “I always do,” said Amy, low but impertinent.

  Women – as much as he loved his niece – were impossible. I should marry her off to a suitable husband, he thought, rather than let her wander like a lost soul with ridiculous ideas of being an actress.

  “You are barely nineteen.” His low harsh tone made her flinch. “They’re too old for you. As long as you’re living in my house, I am your guardian and you will do as I say or, believe me, neither you nor your ‘friends’ will like the consequences.”

  Engine noise drowned her reply. Three limousines swept in front of the theatre, followed by a convoy of other vehicles. Amy turned the handle and the camera began its rolling flutter.

  “There’s Madame Lenoir,” said Godric. Excitement swept away his concern for Amy. “Stay trained on her! You have her?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  Amy might be only a slip of a girl, but she had a way with a cine-camera. He had to allow her that. Obligingly, Violette Lenoir stepped out of her chauffeur-driven car and turned to wave at the crowd.

  Godric Reiniger seized his chance. He’d written to her twice in the past few months, but received no reply. She was hopelessly elusive. In ten seconds, she would vanish inside the building.

  He rushed across the street, jostled his way through the dancers and staff who were emerging from the convoy, and caught her just as she set foot on the steps. Camera flashes went off. Journalists shouted at him to move aside, but he ignored them.

  “Madame Lenoir! Please, madame, one moment of your time. You will have heard of me? Godric Reiniger, at your service.”

  He bowed. She looked impassively at him, like a snake assessing a mouse. It was essential he made an impression, made her realise how important he was.

  “Your name is familiar…”

  Her chauffeur, big and broad in his uniform, stepped forward to intervene, but Violette raised a hand to stop him.

  “Reiniger Studios,” Godric spoke fast, eager and assertive. “I run the film company based here in Lucerne. We make newsreels and documentaries promoting local culture. Also full-length dramas. Your ballet is highly newsworthy. It’s set to become an essential part of Swiss culture, and so quickly. This is a remarkable achievement—”

  “My ballet is international,” she said with a cool smile. “We just happen to be based here.”

  “Quite so! That makes you enormously important to Lucerne, to Switzerland’s prominence in the world.”

  “Well… thank you, Herr Reiniger.”

  He noticed a man standing behind and to one side of her. Stunningly handsome, sun-blond – her male principal, Emil Fiorani. Reiniger hoped Amy had him in the frame, since he was growing as famous as Violette.

  She began to turn away, only by an inch, but enough to indicate that she was going inside.

  “Madame, your arrival home will be shown as part of a newsreel across all our towns and cities.”

  “Thank you, Herr Reiniger.” She smiled. “One more newsreel won’t do us any harm. It was nice to—”

  He interrupted urgently. “Madame, wait. I’ve something more ambitious in mind. I’d like to film the ballet from the inside. Your dancers, rehearsals, the finished performance – a film documenting the real life of a ballet company. Our ballet company. Think what an historic record it would make!”

  Her expression changed subtly from imperious warmth to polite chilliness. She drew back, making it plain he was too close, too eager, too intrusive.

  “No,” she said.

  “No? Madame Lenoir, please.”

  “You should have written to us about this. I can’t grant requests to strangers in the street. It was nice to meet you.”

  Now the chauffer’s firm hand was holding him back, while Violette dwindled into the shadows inside.

  “But I did write!” Godric protested. “I received no answer!”

  “She’s given her answer,” said the chauffeur. He gave Godric a small but firm shove that made him bristle with indignation. From the doorway, Emil Fiorani gave a broad white smile and a shrug of obvious, mocking sympathy, as if to say, Hard luck. The princess turned you down. Then he followed Violette Lenoir inside.

  Godric went back to Amy. She was still cranking the camera handle at a steady speed.

  “Stop filming,” he said.

  “What happened? What did she say?”

  “Nothing.” Godric felt every muscle in his jaw tighten as he swallowed his anger, like lumps of curdled milk. Finally he added, “She said no, she won’t allow me to film the ballet.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “How dare she say no? Does she not know who I am? Who do they think they are? As if their form of art is any more important than mine!”

  “Perhaps you took her by surprise,” Amy said quietly. “I didn’t know you were going to run after her like that. Don’t be annoyed, uncle.”

  “I am not annoyed.” His rage stilled as quickly as it had blown up. “It’s her loss. But… let’s wait and see if she changes her mind.”

  * * *

  By the time Violette came to their rooms, Charlotte was wearing a lace and silk dress in the soft shades she loved, coffee and rose and champagne, complete with creamy stockings and shoes, her hair neatly rolled on the nape of her neck. Not that she and Violette had many secrets from each other, but she wanted to greet her friend with d
ignity, rather than make it obvious that she and Karl had been in a naked fever less than half an hour ago. It was a question of good manners.

  Karl appeared elegant and collected in his dark suit. No one would guess how dishevelled he’d been so recently, nor that their heated encounter had been miserably curtailed. He was well-practised in switching to a state of instant calm. Charlotte, who’d envied this ability, was learning to match him.

  A light knock. “Charlotte? Karl? May I—?”

  Karl was already opening the door. Violette swept in, threw her coat and hat over the back of a sofa, and embraced them in turn. First Charlotte, with a long warm hug, then Karl more briefly. A subtle lily scent drifted in with her. As always she looked exquisite, draped in silver-grey and faded violet hues that made her snowy skin and ebony hair all the more striking.

  “My dear friends.” Violette took Charlotte’s hands. “When did you arrive?”

  “Only two days ago,” said Charlotte. “I’m sorry, it was a rush and we weren’t sure when you were coming back. If it’s inconvenient…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Violette gave one of her rare but heartfelt smiles. “These are your rooms. This is your home, whenever you wish. I don’t suppose you’ve come to choose wallpaper… so what’s wrong?”

  Karl moved to the mantelpiece and leaned there, his expression unreadable.

  “Nothing,” said Charlotte, giving him an anxious glance.

  “What is this ‘nothing’ that’s making you both so tense?”

  “Oh,” said Charlotte. “Truthfully, I wish we were here for the pleasure of welcoming you home. But I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

  “Very little,” said Violette, eyes narrowing.

  “Your perception is flawless,” Karl said with a half-smile. “There was an incident. Of what significance, we don’t know.”

  “Perhaps none.” Charlotte suddenly felt she didn’t want to talk about the knife-wound, the lamia, anything. Not yet. “Our lives are always eventful. I needed a change of scenery.”

  Violette’s eyebrows arched. “You will tell me, sooner or later.”

  Karl added, “Well, there’s no hurry, if you’re tired from your journey.”