"This is not pity, Charlotte." He leaned forward, his shoulder warm against hers. "Never think that of me. It distresses me to see you unhappy, that is all. But you do have the courage to do something about it, you know. To keep your hair long in defiance of fashion demonstrates a quite extraordinary degree of stubbornness."
She smiled. "My mother had long hair. That's why I won't cut mine."
"As long as it is your choice," he said. "You should sing at the musical evening, to prove to yourself that you can face your fears. Would you do so, for me?"
The look in his eyes lifted all the breath out of her. A wordless communication between them, mystical beyond attraction or love; and she felt that if she verged on understanding she would fall over the edge and be swallowed.
"Yes," she answered. "If you like."
And then there was only the rush of the rain curving through the silence… and she would have given her soul for those few moments to last forever. Did it matter that his expression was changing, that the pull between them was darkening? The change was so subtle that she felt no danger, she simply fell with it. Too trusting. His attention was completely on her now, but the warmth in his eyes had turned as fervent as a crimson sunset burning through clouds, and he leaned closer and closer to her until shivers of anticipation cascaded down her spine.
His lips parted and she saw the whiteness of his teeth. He said, "I think you had better go back to bed, before it is too late." But the pressure of his fingers on her wrist tightened and she was pinned there, with no desire to escape. Wanting…
"Too late for what?" she gasped.
"For you to get any sleep." As he spoke there was a swish of car tyres outside and a headlight beam sliced obliquely through the curtains. "Your father is home. In time." He drew back and released her wrist. The spell was broken.
Charlotte did not respond at once. Then she realised what he had said and leapt off the sofa as if she had been scalded. "Oh my God—he will kill me if he finds us here."
"Of course he won't. He thinks you are perfect." Karl smiled calmly. "If he finds me reading a book and you sitting at your typewriter, what can he say?"
"In my nightclothes? Oh no, I must go." She hurried to the doorway then stopped, compelled to turn back. Leaning against the edge of the panelled door, she gazed at Karl, knowing that every second brought her father nearer to the front door, unable to tear herself away. For Karl was no longer looking at her and his expression had become immeasurably sad and distant, as if there were a vast gulf between them that could never be spanned.
"Karl, is something wrong? What is it?" she whispered.
"Nothing, Charlotte," he said. "Go quickly; it's dangerous to linger."
The key rattled in the lock. She turned and fled up the stairs.
* * *
Chapter Six
Pallid Companion
"Karl is in England," said Pierre. "He would appear to be living in Cambridge."
Kristian had received Pierre in the depths of Schloss Holdenstein, in a windowless chamber lit by burning torches on the walls. The flames turned the air smoky gold. Kristian cared nothing for modern comforts, but he sat in a tall carved chair like a bishop enthroned on a dais. The effect was one of austere and absolute power.
Two blond male vampires sat on the edge of the dais at his feet, looking impassively at Pierre. They were identical. He knew them, disliked their knowing aloofness; something sly about them. Stefan and Niklas, Kristian's pets. Their radiance was a contrast to Kristian's stark paleness, the priestly black of his robe and hair.
"What," said Kristian, "is he doing in Cambridge?"
"He has taken rooms in the town and visits the house of an eminent scientist almost every day."
Kristian leaned forward, absently stroking Niklas's golden-white hair. "Why?"
"Knowing Karl as I do, I would guess he wants to study science."
Kristian's thick brows drew together. "What possible interest could he have in that?"
"Oh, you know how he loves to learn things… "
"But science is the witchcraft of mankind." The edge in Kristian's voice alerted Pierre to trouble. "It is the source of true evil. Karl knows this, so how dare he sully himself with such profanity?" His face was formidable, but Pierre marked a glitter of peasant fear behind the black-diamond hardness of his eyes—a reminder that Kristian had been born in a dark, ignorant age—and fear made Kristian dangerous. "Tell me what else you found out."
Pierre felt as if he were on trial. He resented the feeling Kristian induced in him that he must prove himself, like an errant son to an impossible perfectionist of a father. He tried to maintain his nonchalance. "There was a limit to what I could discover without him knowing I was there, but I observed that the scientist has a beautiful family, a number of lovely daughters—"
"Whom you will not touch," said Kristian, as if reading his thoughts. "They are irrelevant. The object is to find Karl, not to indulge yourself. But Karl must be punished… "
"For learning?"
"For turning his back on me and embracing the works of man!"
Kristian sat back and drummed his long thick fingers on the arm of his throne. He was lost in thought for so long that at last Pierre spoke hesitantly.
"Beloved master… " How I hate calling him that! "What do you wish me to do now?"
The vulturine eyes refocused on him. "Yes… Go to him, Pierre. Tell him that if he wishes to see his beloved Ilona again, he had better come back to me."
Ilona was usually a vivid presence in the castle, belligerent and bright as splintered glass. Pierre noticed how still and empty the rooms seemed without her. He asked, "Have you sent her away?"
"I have sent her away forever, unless Karl returns. She is in the Crystal Ring. In the Weisskalt, sleeping."
One of the blond vampires, Stefan, jerked his head up in shock. Pierre met his blue eyes, saw his own feelings reflected there. The thought of the Weisskalt filled him with dread; that biting, endless cold, the utter silence and loneliness… and being torn away from life into oblivion, never knowing whether you would wake again. That was the power Kristian held over them all. That was the fear. And if he could do it to Ilona, he was capable of doing it to anyone.
"Mon Dieu" said Pierre, all detachment squeezed out of him like breath. "Even her. My God, is no one sacred to you?"
Kristian reached forward and caressed Pierre's cheek. "You are all sacred to me, my friend. That is the whole point. You are all sacred."
***
Karl sat alone in the laboratory, an hour before Dr Neville and the others were due to come down and start work. He was at a side bench, gazing down at a small glass dish full of clear liquid. The liquid was concentrated sulphuric acid; in it, there floated a sliver of his own flesh, sliced from the back of his hand. The cut had already healed, but the sliver lay undissolving, as if in water. He had found no chemical that affected vampire flesh. Even radium did not burn it.
"I must impress upon you the risks of the radioactive materials with which we work," Dr Neville had said. "I once saw Monsieur Curie with his hands absolutely red raw from handling radium. If I send you to the Cavendish to collect any radioactive substance you must follow the safety procedures; use gloves, change your jacket, wash thoroughly. The talk in the papers about the dangers of radioactivity and X-rays may have been exaggerated, but I make sure anyone who works with me has a regular blood count to set their minds at rest. It's all quite safe, as long as we are careful."
But Karl could be as careless as he liked. Radioactivity did not seem to have any effect on him. He was careful to evade the blood count, however.
He had thought, if there was nothing in nature that would destroy a vampire, there might be a substance artificially produced in a laboratory. Apparently it was not so. Something must kill us, he thought, prodding at the skin with a glass rod. Acid and fire do not burn us… cold only forces us to sleep. There must be a way other than beheading… a method that would take Kristian complete
ly by surprise, because there is no other way to defeat him…
Or are we truly immortal? (What if the severed head lives on?) Even Kristian could not tell me what immortality means… He had come to Cambridge to seek answers, but he had a feeling that even here he would find none. Philosophy and speculation were not enough.
Karl knew he was allowing himself to become too involved with the Nevilles, but he couldn't help himself. They intrigued him. Madeleine's vivacity, David's good nature and innate decency, Dr Neville's enquiring mind, Charlotte's mystery… He had not let himself draw so close to human beings for years. That was the danger, their seductiveness. Personality and flesh formed a single entity, multi-layered, intricately figured and bejewelled… and could he detach himself completely from the desire to take his preoccupation with them to its natural conclusion? To feel their flesh under his fingers and to consummate the need for their blood… but to what end? To see them disintegrate into madness, or even to see them die?
No. The prospect of it was enough to freeze the desire. He would not touch any of them. He must not.
He had come perilously close with Charlotte, that night in the study. He had only meant to offer impartial friendship, and yet, despite his resolve, her sweetness had ensnared him… drawing him down into the spiral from which only Dr Neville's arrival had saved them both. But worst of all was admitting to himself that he had wanted more from her than blood, and much more than friendship… for that, too, was wrong.
He would not let it happen again.
Perhaps it was inexcusable to move among humans like this, but there was no reason for his mere presence to harm them. It disturbed him that David's friend Edward had recognised him for what he was, but the age of scepticism was on Karl's side; inevitably it was Edward who was regarded as strange, not Karl. The thought brought an ironic smile to his lips.
He sensed a human presence moving in the house above, before he heard the light footsteps coming down the stairs; Charlotte. The prospect of her company was pleasant—too much so. I am human, and I am her friend, nothing more, he reminded himself. Let us both believe it.
"Oh! Good morning, Karl," she said. "You're here early."
"You also."
"Father asked me to replace the gold leaf in the electroscope. It's so fiddly, I seem to be the only one who can do it." Instead of muttering an excuse and fleeing, as she would once have done, she came and leaned on the bench beside him. "What are you doing?"
He knew it was unfair, the way he had taken away her fear that evening with a little of the tranquillizing glamour that held his victims; but his motive had been sincere. He didn't want her to be afraid of him; he didn't want to see her unhappy. She was still nervous, but now she held her ground and spoke to him, testing herself.
"Nothing very interesting," he said. "If you really wish to know, I was examining the effects of various chemicals on skin."
"Human skin?" she said, staring into the dish. "But whose is it?"
"Mine, of course." He half-smiled. "It is only a sliver, Charlotte. I could hardly ask your father or Henry if I could cut a piece out of them, could I?"
"Well, no, but… "
"There are so many substances that may affect the body in terrible ways."
Charlotte nodded. "I've seen some awful burns from people being careless in the lab. But there are worse things."
"Yes?"
"I remember learning about the chlorine and mustard gas they used in the trenches, the way it killed… It was too horrible to believe, but I had to because I saw men dying of it. My father had to work for the Government during the War, so my sisters and I stayed at Aunt Elizabeth's house in London and helped to nurse the wounded soldiers that she took in. Madeleine and I were rather young to be nurses but we used to run around fetching and carrying things. I can never forget the ones who had been gassed. It was like watching someone drowning, very, very slowly. I used to wish I could breathe for them… It was such a strange and frightening time, yet when I look back I remember how real it seemed. Nothing since then has ever seemed so real." Karl watched her, but her eyes were downcast. "David hardly talks about the War, but it's just from the little he says—from the offhand way he says it, more than anything—that you realise how terrible things must have been. I don't think most people realise, not yet. It must have been worse than anyone can imagine."
"It was," Karl said quietly.
Charlotte instantly became embarrassed, thinking she had distressed him. "Oh, I'm so tactless; of course, you would have fought on the other side, but—I'm sorry, if you have painful memories I didn't mean to—"
"No, Charlotte." He could hardly explain that he had been on no side but his own. He put his hand over hers, just for a second. "A vicarious pain, if anything. You are right; no one who was not there knows what it was like. But the silence will be broken eventually."
Her grey-violet eyes were full of amethyst shades that only vampire sight could perceive; her expression was an intriguing mixture of passion and seriousness. Unlike Madeleine, who was all sparkling surface, she kept her inner self closed away behind filigree doors and veils. Karl wanted to see her smile. He said, "Tomorrow we go to your aunt's beautiful house again. I hope you have not changed your mind about singing."
"I gave you my word, didn't I?" Light came to her face, and the link flowed between them again, a shared unspoken secret. "I've practised a song with Maddy. Anyway, I can't escape now."
"Why not?"
"Henry is going to stay with his parents and he wanted me to go with him instead of to Parkland. But I told him I can't let Maddy down."
"You didn't want to go away with your fiance? I think you are being rather cruel to Henry," said Karl.
He hoped his teasing would not upset her. She only lifted her shoulders, half-smiling and half-sad. "I don't think he really cares what I do," she said.
***
Charlotte leaned her head back against the upholstery and gave herself up to the clean wind blowing hard into her face. She let sensation replace thought until there was nothing but the noise and movement of the motor car as it sped along the leaf-strewn lanes, trees rushing by in a blurred glory of tangerine and bronze and plum-red. Hopeless to keep on thinking, I must not want what I can't have.
Normally, she and Madeleine and her father would have been driven to Hertfordshire by Maple, but Maddy had contrived to be offered a lift in Karl's elegant dark red Hispano-Suiza. The next thing they knew, Father had found some excellent reason for Charlotte to go with them. Madeleine sat in the front next to Karl, talking with him as he drove, their words carried away on the wind. Charlotte was in the rear seat, knowing exactly what she was; an unwanted chaperone. She tried not to mind, yet she could not shake off a wistful sadness. Her companion in the back seat was a case containing a cello, borrowed from a Cambridge music society for Karl to play.
She did not wish that Henry was with them. She only wished that Madeleine was not—and then felt guilty for it.
Charlotte couldn't say why one conversation with Karl had made such a difference to her, yet it had. That night she had met him in the study—some weeks ago now—he had ceased to be a terrifying figure and had become a friend. Strange and wonderful transformation. Now, in the euphoria of overcoming her fear, she wanted to talk to him all the time, as if to keep proving and proving to herself that the change was real. Still nervous, yes, but alight with a kind of delicious excitement that she had never experienced before. It felt right that they were friends, but only friends—so why was it so difficult not to resent Maddy?
The lanes grew narrower and deeply rutted, forcing Karl to slow down to a few miles an hour. At the gates of Parkland Hall he stopped the car to let a farm cart across the entrance. The shaggy white horse rolled its eyes at the Hispano-Suiza; the farmer, muffled in scarf and cap, called out a cheerful, "Thank you, sir. Mornin'!" as they passed by. Then Karl steered the car on to the drive that lay like a grey ribbon across the slopes of the estate.
Charlott
e was pleased to see David's Bentley already in front of the Hall. A footman was unloading his luggage. The front doors stood open and Newland was in the doorway, a broad grey-haired figure impeccable in black. He was always correct and disinterested, as a good butler should be. Charlotte knew he was fiercely loyal to Aunt Elizabeth. He came out to welcome them, telling Karl, "If you'd care to leave the motor car here, sir, Charles will unload your belongings and park the vehicle for you. I shall inform Lady Reynolds of your arrival."
It was pleasant to be at Parkland again, Charlotte thought as she stepped into the portico. Perhaps it was the effect of the invigorating autumn air, but for once she felt optimistic.
Opposite the entrance was a staircase, red-carpeted and flanked by pillars of tawny marble, rising up from the lower hall to the family living rooms on the first floor. Doors at the base of the staircase led to the servants' domain. At the top was the spacious upper hall, where sunlight slanted across the aquamarine carpets, flared on the frames of oil paintings and burnished the wood of the antique furniture to a golden red. Here Charlotte felt she was entering an older, more peaceful time in which she was completely at home and safe. Even the prospect of singing to an audience was less terrifying in the glow of Karl's friendship.
And in the upper hall were David and Anne, and Aunt Elizabeth coming to greet them with effusive hugs and kisses. She looked more beautiful and sophisticated than ever, Charlotte thought; nothing old-fashioned about her at all. When she saw Karl—elegant as ever in a dark overcoat and white cashmere scarf—her face lit up and she made such a fuss of him that Madeleine began to look affronted, suspicious.
Charlotte sensed it at once; Elizabeth and Madeleine were no longer aunt and niece but rivals. Glances flashed between them like swords. Karl realised in the same instant and looked straight at Charlotte with a mixture of amusement and dismay, as if to say, "What am I supposed to do?"
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