A Taste of Blood Wine

by Freda Warrington

  "I was always myself with you, liebchen. I was not acting, if that's what you think. There was just an unfortunate fact about me that you did not know."

  She put her face in her hands. She had been tempted by the Devil and she had fallen; she felt ruined, her heart was shattered. Was it worse to know that he loved her after all? Yes. Yes, it is worse.

  Karl's love for her made it impossible for her own feelings to die; and as long as she felt the smallest degree of sympathy for him or belief in him, that surely made her as evil as he was. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. Then she felt the light touch of his hand on her arm, and he drew her out of her chair and gathered her onto his knee. Her limbs felt weightless. She put her arms round his neck and they held each other, auburn and russet hair mingling together.

  "Dear God," he said. "I haven't the heart to keep you prisoner, beloved. Your brother is outside; I will come down with you and unlock the door, and deliver you safely to him."

  She raised her head. "Then they'll try to arrest you, and you might kill some of them."

  "I will not touch anyone."

  "Then they might kill you."

  "Perhaps. I rather thought you might wish me dead by now."

  "Well, I don't!" she said fiercely. She knew the decision she was making was wrong, but she let the knowledge settle cold and dark within her. "Don't send me away, Karl. I won't go."

  "I set you free, and you choose to stay?"

  "Even if I left here this minute I would still be a prisoner! How can anyone understand? It's taken over my life completely, there is nothing else! You can't put it right, Karl, by pretending it never happened."

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Do you regret it?"

  "No." She looked at the shiny blackness of the window, listened to the nightwind moaning around the house. She thought of David waiting grimly in the dark; she thought of Anne, Madeleine, her father, but they seemed to be on the far side of a night that would never end. "You can't show me a glimpse of another world and then shut the door," she said. "I want to know everything."

  * * *

  Chapter Eleven

  Whispered Secrets

  Kid, I cannot believe you did something so rash!" George Neville's voice trailed off into a cough and he leaned heavily on the marble mantelpiece, thumping his breastbone. They were in the main drawing room with Elizabeth and Inspector Ash. It was approaching midnight and they were all red-eyed with strain. David was concerned to see how his father was suffering; it had taken a bare few hours outside the manor, earlier in the day, to affect his weak chest.

  "It wasn't rash," David replied, calm but grim. "Von Wultendorf was on his own, outside the house, standing on the step as if he were actually trying to make himself a target. Damn it, he had fair warning! And he was so infernally arrogant—all he could say was, 'The more difficult you make this for me, the more difficult you make it for Charlotte.' I had to shoot. He was going to go back in the house and do God-knows-what to her. It was my only chance to stop him."

  "But you didn't stop him."

  "The bullet went straight into his chest, I swear. He fell back against the door, then straightened up as if nothing had happened."

  Neville scratched at his head, smoothed back the thinning hair. "I wish to God you had killed him, David."

  The inspector said, "If you had succeeded in killing him, you may well have found yourself facing a criminal charge."

  "I tell you, I'd happily hang if it meant getting Charlotte out of there!" David said furiously.

  "Unfortunately, as you only seemed to have given him a flesh wound, you may have made things worse for Miss Neville," said Ash.

  My aim's not that bad, David thought angrily. The fact that a bullet through the chest didn't floor him only proves that he's not human! He bit down on his frustration. He couldn't say it out loud.

  Ash went on, "Under the circumstances, sir, no action will be taken against you. But I warn you, unless you agree not to take matters into your own hands again, I shall have to insist that you stay away from the manor."

  "The hell I will," David said under his breath. "Very well, Inspector, you have my word; but don't ask me to keep away. I'm going back there now."

  "Oh, David, you really should get some sleep," said Elizabeth. "You'll be no use to your sister if you collapse with exhaustion."

  "If you'd spent a few weeks in the trenches, you would really know the meaning of the word 'exhaustion'," David said quietly. "This is nothing."

  "How disrupting this all is," Elizabeth sighed, turning away.

  David resisted making an angry response. Underneath her brittle surface, he knew his aunt was as upset as anyone. "Just keep the supplies of hot food and drink coming, Auntie."

  "I'm coming up there with you," said his father.

  "Oh, no, you're not!" said David. "Two hours in the cold air this afternoon and you sound like a consumptive. Maddy needs you here."

  His father shook his head, pushing his hands into his shapeless pockets. "Damn my blasted lungs! Here, David." He produced a bulky envelope and held it out, speaking gruffly as he did when he felt awkward. "I've written Charlotte a letter. Will you take it for her? I put your mother's cross in there; Charlotte needs it more than I do, just now." He brusquely wiped moisture out of his eyes. "I didn't mean to be so harsh on her the other day. I was so bothered about losing Henry, I never gave her happiness a thought. This might—this might be the only chance I have to tell her I'm sorry."

  ***

  In response to another knock at the door, Karl went down and retrieved—more cautiously this time—a second parcel of food for Charlotte. When he returned to the solar he looked at her sitting by the fire, waif-like, her woollen sweater barely softening the tense angle of her shoulders. In candlelight the chamber had the clear mellow quality of a painting by Vermeer; a moment frozen in time, telling a story that ran far deeper than the surface. Charlotte seemed stretched thin by what was happening, like glass held up to the light. And her eyes were shimmering circles of violet, thirsty for knowledge; for understanding. They made him feel oddly helpless. Their light burned him, made demands that he could not answer.

  He wanted to tell her everything, yet he couldn't bring himself to begin. He hardly dared to touch her. So much passed between them, unspoken, every time they looked at each other, but the veil of danger kept them apart.

  More and more he was aware of her as a mortal; the blood running like quicksilver just beneath the delicate skin, the enticing warmth of her. Beauty that took away his detachment to a dangerous degree. But he sublimated these feelings and would do so again and again for as long as he must.

  "Charlotte," he said, walking across to her, "here is a letter for you."

  She looked at the envelope in his hand with astonishment, but made no move to take it. "Where did that come from?"

  "They brought some more food for you. It was in the parcel, with a message from David imploring me to release you."

  "Oh God," she breathed.

  "Aren't you going to open it? I wonder if they expected me to tear it up without showing it to you."

  Slowly, she extended a hand and took the bulky envelope from him. Her hands were shaking as she tore it open. Some kind of necklace fell out and clattered onto the floor. She ignored it. She scanned the letter once, then read out in a level voice:

  "My dearest Charlotte,

  In the hope that this will reach your hands, here is a token for your comfort and protection. Be assured that you are in our thoughts every moment of the day and night and we are praying and working constantly for your safe release. You have done no wrong, only been the victim of your old father's selfishness. For the words that passed between us recently I beg your forgiveness; you are the most precious thing to me in the world.

  Do not despair, but join us in praying that we shall very soon be reunited. All our love is with you and this darkness will soon be behind us. Have faith!

  Your very affectionate,
>
  Father."

  Karl bent down to pick up the necklace from the floor, found it was a gold chain with a cross made of tightly woven hair. When he straightened up, Charlotte was weeping, her face in her hands.

  "Your father sent this for you," he said softly. "Won't you wear it, for his sake?"

  She raised her head, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. "Oh my God, it's my mother's cross."

  "It is strange, isn't it," he said, "the way Protestants suddenly embrace Catholicism in an emergency."

  "People sometimes used to have crosses made from their loved ones' hair. It's my mother's hair, you see. Father never parts with it." She broke off, staring at the cross dangling from Karl's fingers. "But you can touch it!"

  "Of course, it is well-known that vampires cannot abide crucifixes. That is obviously why he sent it for you," Karl said, amused. He fastened the chain around her neck and kissed her lips. "There, now you will be safe from me."

  She blinked. "So it's not true that the sign of the cross terrifies you? I hadn't even thought about it." She rubbed her arms as if chilled.

  "No, it's not true. But don't disillusion your father. He is trying his hardest. You had better write back and reassure him that you are well."

  "Yes," she said vaguely, but he saw the disturbing thoughts and the questions in her face. He wondered if he would ever see her smile again. "But are any of the superstitions about vampires true?"

  "I have never discovered any symbol, herb or plant, that holds any more terror for me than it does for you. I cast a shadow and a reflection like a human being. Holy water does not burn me, nor do I find priests unduly repellent."

  "But you never came to chapel with us."

  "Because I don't believe in God," said Karl. "Actually I like churches; didn't we once agree that King's College Chapel was one of the most exquisite buildings we know? I love to go there."

  Charlotte looked shocked. "Don't you—don't you worship anything?"

  "Such as the Devil, you mean?"

  Her eyes widened. "I must know."

  "No, I do not worship the Devil. I told your father I was an agnostic and that was true; there may be more to life than we can see, but I don't pretend to know what it is."

  She was looking at him in obvious disbelief. He added, "What did you expect me to say?"

  "How do I know?" she flared. "You tell me you are some supernatural creature, then you say you believe in nothing—it doesn't make sense."

  Karl sat down on the floor beside her, resting one arm across her knees. "Satan was not waiting to initiate me personally into an evil existence, nor God to vent His wrath. That isn't to say they are not there; some vampires still believe in them passionately. There is no simple answer." A weariness of spirit crept over him; he didn't want to talk, only to sit quietly with Charlotte, to pretend that there was nothing else; no distance between them, no blood-thirst, no humans holding them to siege. But it was impossible, and Charlotte's distress was inside him like flame.

  "I've got to know how you became as you are. You said you'd tell me." Her voice was soft but insistent. Then her face changed and she touched his cheek. "Karl, you look so sad. It's hard for you to talk about, isn't it? I didn't realise."

  "Yes, it is difficult," he said. "Still, they are only words, beloved; how can they have this power over us? I know you believe in God and that makes this doubly hard for you, the notion of sin." She bowed her head, her hand tightening on his. "Well, that is ingrained in all of us," Karl went on. "My family were Roman Catholics; belief was unquestioned, a habit of thought formed from babyhood. Unless you repent of your sins you will be forever damned in the fires of hell; so the priests told us.

  "Certain things you know about me are true. I lived in Vienna and I was a musician there. I could never be specific about the date because I was born in 1793." He heard Charlotte draw in a breath. "My parents were not rich; my father was a schoolmaster, my mother worked hard to bring up her children. I had two sisters and a brother; there were others who died in infancy. My mother's life must have been one of drudgery, yet it did not seem so at the time. She never lost her beauty, and my memory is of her always laughing and singing. But although my father was good to her, he was never warm, and she did so crave affection. Certainly she received it from her children. We adored her; she was so lovely, dark red hair like rose leaves… "

  "Do you look like her?" Charlotte asked.

  "I suppose so. Ilona certainly does." Karl stopped. The memories were so vivid that he only had to speak of them to see their faces, hear their voices.

  "Was Ilona one of your sisters?"

  He paused. Should I tell her? Everything, I said. "No, she's my daughter."

  "Daughter?" Charlotte looked utterly dismayed. "But you said you weren't married, I never thought—"

  "I was once. Now you look more shocked than when you found out I was a vampire. But it was a long time ago, liebchen, and I want to explain it in order."

  "I'm sorry. Go on."

  "It was not an easy time. We lived through two French occupations of the city and all the deprivation that entailed, then after the Congress of Vienna there was the repression and censorship of Metternich. But this was also the time of Schubert and Beethoven; I saw them, I played their music while they were alive and working. I still see the buildings of the Ringstrasse as new and gaudy, because when I grew up the Ringstrasse did not exist. Charlotte looked incredulous. "It seems so far in the past."

  "Yes, but still vivid to me. Vienna has always been addicted to music, so it was natural that I grew up surrounded by it. I began as a chorister, and my parents made every sacrifice to give me a good education at a seminary where I could learn the piano and the cello. Later, when I joined an orchestra and could earn extra by teaching, I was able to give back all they had given to me. Treatment in the best clinic when my mother was ill, a maid to keep house for her. But she had tuberculosis, there was little they could do in those days. My father only outlived her by a year or two. Yet they were both in their fifties when they died; a fair age, for those times. I became a vampire ten years before they died, but I thank God they never knew it."

  "I was twenty-seven; I played with an orchestra at the palaces of the Hapsburgs, at the Opera and the finest houses; and my wife had just given birth to our first child. I was so perfectly happy it seemed nothing could go wrong."

  Not quite able to disguise the emotion in her voice, Charlotte said, "Your wife—what was she like?"

  "She was small, dark, very sweet, but she could terrify grown men with her temper. We met rehearsing a Mozart opera. Therese sang in the chorus." He smiled sadly. "Other faces I remember clearly, but hers is elusive, impossible to recapture. I don't know why."

  "And you loved her very much. It's in your voice."

  He clasped her hand and said gently, "I lost her a long time ago, dearest." He found it more painful than he had imagined to recall the past. He felt the touch of Charlotte's hand on his hair as he went on, "Therese was my life. We named our baby daughter Ilona after her mother, who was Hungarian. I was completely wrapped up in them. It never occurred to me that anything could intrude.

  "I began to notice a man who came to every performance we gave. His appearance was so very striking; he was extremely tall, not exactly handsome, but he had a strong, brooding face that fascinated me. His clothes were old-fashioned and severe, which gave him a puritanical look quite out of place in the flamboyance of Vienna. Hard to describe the magnetic glow of strength and power about him; I often noticed others looking at him, too. But he always seemed to be watching me. Dark eyes, never blinking. He unnerved me a great deal.

  "After he had stared at me through perhaps seven or eight performances, he approached me and introduced himself as Kristian Müller. He spoke Hochdeutsch—I mean high German, rather than the Wienerisch dialect—with an accent I could not place. He wanted me to give a private performance to his family, and he offered a sum of money that staggered me. Therese and I wer
e not in poverty, but a wealthy patron could make all the difference to our lives, make our families comfortable and ensure our daughter's future. I saw no harm in it. So I went alone to play my cello for Kristian, and he rewarded me generously and invited me again.

  "He lived in lavish apartments but he looked out of place among them, like an actor in a set; there was nothing of his personality in the rooms at all. I was relieved that there were always others with him, graceful men and women with shining eyes who intrigued me almost as much as Kristian himself. But he was always the centre of things. I can't emphasise enough the curious presence he had, like a mountain—drawing people to him, then crushing them.

  "It amused me at first, the way his clique revolved around him, but then it began to seem sinister. An evening of Kristian's company exhausted me, and I could not wait to escape the smothering atmosphere and return home to Therese and Ilona.

  "And soon I began to realise that Kristian resented me putting my family first. He would find reasons to make me stay longer. He was so powerful, so hard to defy. I was growing quite nervous of him. Sometimes Therese would say, 'Don't go again, Karl. It's not just music he wants from you.' Yet I ignored the warning signs and I dismissed him as an eccentric. A great mistake.

  "One evening, on about my sixth or seventh visit, Kristian was there alone. I played for him as usual and he plied me with wine and schnapps, trying to make me drunk. I was beginning to wish I'd listened to Therese and wondering how I could escape; but he never touched me. Instead he began to talk of God.

  '"Do you not realise how wretched your life is?' he said. 'Humans think they are alive but they walk around with their eyes closed. They think they know God but they are worshipping a painted idol, wrapping themselves in delusions. They separate good from evil and pretend evil cannot touch them; Lucifer, they call it. But God and the Devil are the same being,' said Kristian. 'One dreadful and avenging God who covers the world with his dark wings… '