A Taste of Blood Wine

by Freda Warrington

  And then the blood. It gushed up to fill the elastic cloud of emptiness within him; it swept the pain away into scalding red ecstasy. God, how could I have forgotten this? And he was clutching the man like a lover and weeping as he drank, with an overwhelming sense of returning home. The answer had been there all the time. And it was so simple.

  ***

  Charlotte believed she had got over Karl. When he came into her thoughts she could drive him out again without pain; she felt calm, brisk, in control. Yes, life was bearable. She looked back on the months of desolation and felt a kind of grim pride that she had survived.

  I don't love Henry but it doesn't matter, she told herself. I don't want to be in love. No one is ever going to do that to me again!

  Only when it rained did she find it hard not to think of Karl, and it was such a wet summer. Rain lashing the windows while they had sat together in the study, warm in each other's radiance; always rain when he had visited her at night—or when she had waited for him in vain. Usually she would find some way of occupying her mind; so why, on this particular evening, did her mind stray so persistently into the past?

  Madeleine was staying with friends in London, and Charlotte hadn't seen Anne or David for weeks. Of course they're too busy to come here often and it's my own fault I won't go there. But being alone with Father and Henry all this time is so wearing. Perhaps that's part of it. She felt restless, sensitive to the pressure of the atmosphere as if a summer storm were brewing. To sit with Henry irritated her unbearably, so she had come to her room hoping to still her thoughts by reading. One electric lamp threw a red-brown sheen on the panelled walls, caught bronze highlights on mirrors, picture frames, the raindrops trickling down the window.

  She found herself reading the vampire story Carmilla without consciously intending to. It had always intrigued her; Carmilla the vampire who seemed more vulnerable than her prey, taking victims by befriending them, falling in love with them. Yes, it was like a love affair between Carmilla and the female narrator, one which would end in death. The story still frightened Charlotte. How thrilling, that fear… but why?

  Why is there a thrill in any kind of danger? To climb a mountain, to set sail for an unknown continent, to court Gentleman Death and not to die, somehow to outwit him… but still, always that edge, that blood-red glint in the shadows… Oh God, without that danger, that feeling, what is there?

  She slammed the book shut. And why am I doing this to myself?

  She sat quiet for a moment, felt the atmosphere change with almost physical intensity. The house seemed to expand around her and breezes sighed along distant corridors that did not exist. She could feel the screams in the air. She put her hands over her ears by reflex. When she took them away the screams had faded but she saw the face looking over her shoulder in the mirror.

  Her mother. Translucent, bronze-golden. Suddenly there were tears in Charlotte's eyes. "How could you bear it?" she said aloud.

  And her mother seemed to answer, "Pain goes away and is forgotten. If it were not so, no woman would bear more than one child. But it passes, Charlotte. It is a shadow you must walk through."

  "Not just the pain, but to die after… to have no consolation."

  "My consolation is my children, dear. And it is knowing that your consolation will be something different, something completely your own."

  Charlotte's throat felt tight, bitter. She closed her eyes. "I had something and it's gone. I know I had no right to it and it was evil; I know we lost Fleur and it almost destroyed the rest of us… but I can't stop thinking… "

  "Walk gently through my shadow," said the ghost. Charlotte opened her eyes but her mother's face was gone. A violent emotion was knotted up inside her. "I hate Karl," she said. "I hate him for leaving, for doing this to me." Why did she suddenly feel this rage? It was all woven up with a sense of dread, and she felt the inside of her skull turn cold. Frost all through her limbs; terrible fear, and no one to tell, no one to help her—because she was convinced it was completely within her own mind. "Damn you, Karl. When will you let me go?"

  Why am I so morbid tonight? She would go downstairs and sit with Father and Henry. They were still up. It wasn't so late. Perhaps they would listen to some music on the wireless. Yes.

  Charlotte left her room, but as she went downstairs she heard voices from the morning room, at the back of the house. Her father's, gruff and angry; then Henry's, rising in pitch as it did when he was agitated. And then Maple, subdued but puzzled. She leaned over the banister and listened.

  "I went in the pantry for a bit o'supper, sir," Maple was saying, "and I saw the window wasn't closed properly; it sticks unless you bang it to. So I opened it to do that and this hand comes through and grabs my wrist. Nearly gave me a heart attack. It was pulling at me, like it meant to take me clean through the window—so I slammed the window down on my own arm so it couldn't pull me any further, and it let go."

  "Get Maple a brandy, Henry," said her father. Their voices became indistinct for a few seconds. She went down to the half-open door of the morning room and heard him say, "We mustn't tell Charlotte."

  "No. Absolutely not, Professor," said Henry.

  Charlotte pushed open the door. "What mustn't you tell me?"

  The three men froze and stared at her—the white-whiskered chauffeur on the couch, Henry handing him a glass, her father with his hands in his pockets—all looking distraught, and dismayed that she'd overheard. Eventually her father said, "We, ah, we think there was a burglar in the garden. Didn't see any point in worrying you."

  A potential intruder would have made her father angry rather than nervous. She knew he was lying. Trepidation was crawling up and down inside her but she went to him, slipped her hand through his arm and stroked his forehead.

  "Are you all right, Father?" she said gently.

  "Yes, yes, perfectly."

  "You don't look it. If it was a burglar you would have called the police, wouldn't you?"

  An uneasy silence. All the lights were on but the room still seemed dark, oppressive. Henry said, "Look, Charlotte dear, why don't you just go to bed? It's all under control. Nothing for you to worry—"

  "I am not five years old," she said, infuriated but keeping her voice as calm as she could. "I know when you are trying to hide something from me."

  And she walked towards the windows.

  "Don't touch the curtains!" Henry exclaimed. He moved in front of her and dramatically spreadeagled himself across the window; Charlotte simply moved to the next window and pulled open the drapes.

  There was no one there. She looked out at the dark lawn, the trees against the sky, rain glittering in the light from the house. It was a tiny garden compared to the one at Parkland, but there were still borders, arbours and hedges where an intruder might conceal himself. Nothing moved in the shadows.

  She heard distinct sighs of relief. "What was it?" she said, turning round. "What did you see?"

  "It was just some rogue," said her father, irritable now. "Probably a student playing a prank."

  "Most of them have gone down for the summer," said Charlotte. She looked steadily at her father but he turned away, changed the subject, busily started organising Henry and Maple. She stood there, held in a trance; she knew there was a conspiracy and she thought, It can't be what I think… but why else would they be so afraid—and why have I had these premonitions all evening?

  She went out into the hall and telephoned Anne. "I needed to speak to someone normal," Charlotte said, trying to be lighthearted. "It's been such a peculiar evening; we had a would-be burglar or someone in the garden and everyone's jumping out of their skins."

  Anne went quiet. Then she said, "Did you see this 'someone'?"

  "No, and Father's being very evasive about it. It's driving me mad."

  "I expect he… didn't want to worry you," Anne said in a strange tone. Then she, too, changed the subject. She sounded distracted, not her usual self, and she ended the call after only a few minutes, leaving
Charlotte more distressed than before. She knew something. She was hiding it. God, Anne, even you?

  Whispered secrets, telephone calls behind closed doors, and a dark web of conspiracy netting the house… Charlotte went to bed and dreamed, for the first time in a year, of a desolate beach where hideous black birds flapped endlessly towards her across the ocean.

  ***

  "David," said Anne, putting down the telephone and turning to him. "I think you had better call your father. There was someone outside their house too… and they wouldn't tell Charlotte who it was."

  "Oh, no," David groaned. "Since the damned thing hasn't appeared here again, I was hoping that was the end of it."

  "Perhaps it's Charlotte he's looking for—not you," she said.

  Anne waited anxiously while David made the call. When it ended, he met her eyes grimly. "Yes, it was Karl they saw. Poor Father, it could have given him a heart attack—not to mention Maple. They did the right thing, not telling Charlotte, though."

  "She'll guess," Anne said bluntly. "What shall we do?"

  "Well, you heard me tell him to call us immediately if the deuced thing appears again. If it does, we'll go straight to Cambridge. Aunt Lizzie too; I think it would be safest if we all stay together."

  ***

  The next morning, Charlotte, Dr Neville and Henry worked as usual, not mentioning the previous night. Nothing was said at dinner; but as darkness fell, after nine o'clock, her father suddenly produced an armful of notes that needed typing and virtually bundled Charlotte into the study to do the work.

  She knew precisely why he was doing it. If the mysterious intruder appeared again he was determined that she should not see it. But she played the game. She typed mechanically for an hour, two hours, her mind not on it; she felt the atmosphere tightening again, fear squeezing her ribs like whalebone. Is there something outside? In a strange way she didn't want to know; she wanted to ignore the feeling until it went away. Perhaps I'm imagining all this. Perhaps father really does need these notes by tomorrow…

  Headlights flashing through the curtains startled her. A few minutes later the front door opened and she heard voices in the hall; David, Elizabeth, Anne. They spoke rapidly, quietly, but she pressed her ear to the door and could just hear.

  "He's still there," her father was saying. "I've sent the Maples and Sally to stay with Mrs M's sister. No point in putting them in danger too."

  "Does Charlotte know?" said David. No answer; Charlotte imagined him shushing David, pointing at the study door. Then their footsteps were moving away and she heard David saying, "Best she doesn't… "

  When Charlotte was sure they had left the hall, she slipped out and ran upstairs. Her room was at the rear of the house, the window overlooking the back garden. Now she had made the decision to face her dread, it fountained up inside her. Her legs weak and her pulse beating thinly through her head, she forced herself to look through the glass.

  The moon was behind the clouds, swelling the darkness with a faint silver luminosity. She saw the stiff crowns of the apple trees, the roofs of the shed and summer house gleaming; the untamed shrubs, sycamores, the dark box hedge that hid the vegetable garden. Frozen, poised it looked. And there in the centre of the lawn she saw a dark figure. Too far away to be certain, but the shape of the upturned pale face was so familiar…

  "No," she gasped. "No. Why are you doing this to me? Go away, go away!"

  The dread kept rushing up until she wrenched away, arms wrapped around her stomach, holding herself against the agonising stabs of fear. The coldness in her head became a snowstorm and she almost passed out. So sick, she felt. She lay on the bed, hearing nothing but her own heart roaring in her ears, thinking, I'm dying, I'm actually dying of fear…

  The faintness passed and she sat up. Thank God for this numb control that always came to her rescue. The initial shock was over; now there was a kernel of ice inside her, scepticism, even anger—both at her family and at Karl—and disbelief. A soul-deep instinct was telling her, It is not him.

  Charlotte looked out again. The figure had moved closer to the house. Composed, she went downstairs again and found her family gathered in the morning room.

  Silence dropped like a blanket as she walked in. They looked at her with guilt in their eyes, even Anne; they seemed lost, impotent. Although Charlotte was furious at them for trying to deceive her, at the same time she felt desperately for them. A suspended pause, then they all seemed to remember the need to act normally.

  "Charlotte, dear, how are you?" said Elizabeth, coming to kiss her on the cheek.

  "Finished that work already?" her father said with forced jollity. Their kindness was too intense and fragile, as if they were about to break bad news.

  "I know what's happening," she said. "It's no good you trying to protect me."

  Now they looked sideways at each other; Anne to David, David to Elizabeth then their father. "I doubt that you do," David began. "Look, Charli, this is very difficult. You must understand—"

  "Even you, Anne!" Charlotte exclaimed. "The one person I thought I could trust not to treat me like an idiot!"

  She walked towards the curtains—almost ran, as David and Henry came after her—and flung them open.

  Six feet from her, on the other side of the glass, she saw Karl staring in at her.

  She thought she had been ready for the shock this time. She was wrong. She could not breathe. Sound and light seemed to be coming at her from a vast distance and all she could see clearly were those irises of palest gold—and the jet-black pupils boring through her with no humanity, no recognition, no emotion at all. Bleached, they looked. Beautiful, yes—but not Karl's eyes.

  David was helping her into a chair and Henry was fanning her face with a scientific journal. The curtains were closed again but he was still there, she knew, she knew.

  "We did try to warn you," Henry said feebly. They all gathered around her. Her father knelt down by her and stroked her hand, but she pulled away.

  "It's not Karl," she said.

  "Oh, Charli," said Anne. "I know this must be awfully hard for you. He was outside Parkland two nights ago, just the same. He tried to hurt David. I know it's unbelievable, but it obviously is Karl."

  "It isn't." Charlotte spoke with unshakeable conviction. "It isn't him. You only have to look at his eyes!"

  They looked on her with pity now; poor child, appalling shock, she can't accept it. That's what they were thinking, but she knew she was right. But the horror of it…

  Her father said, "We saw him last night. He tried to grab Maple through the pantry window—poor fellow was in an awful state."

  "We're so sorry, old girl," said David. "We were only trying to save you from being upset."

  "I know," said Charlotte, "but you can't. What are you going to do, cut off his head and see if he comes back again?"

  Her brother shook his head, so distressed that she felt ashamed of herself. "Charli… I don't know. I just don't know."

  She said up, her back rigidly straight. "I don't know who it is, but it isn't Karl. Now, I think I would like to go and lie down."

  "Would you go with her, Anne?" said David. "I don't know whether he means to get inside the house—but as long as I can keep him in sight, we'll be as safe as we can be."

  Charlotte had no intention of going to bed—but if Anne was with her, she couldn't do what she had planned. Then she thought, Why be secretive? She can't stop me. Upstairs, Charlotte went to her dressing table, picked up the little white card and turned it round in her fingers. 'We are here sometimes," said the old-fashioned writing. Just that. It may only be something Fleur left in the dress pocket. No, I know it wasn't there when I put the dress on. If it's not him, what does it matter? But if it is…

  She left her room and went to her father's—the only upstairs room with a telephone extension. Anne followed, saying, "What are you doing?"

  "Telephoning someone who might help."

  "Who?"

  "One of Karl's friends.
"

  "A vampire?" Anne almost choked on the word. "Oh, Charli, do you think that's wise?"

  "It's my only hope! All my life, things have happened to me because I let them. I would like to be in control for a change. You can listen, if you like." Anne sat down on the foot of the bed as Charlotte asked the operator for the number and waited while it rang.

  And someone answered. "Hello?"

  "Is that Stefan?" Her voice was weak with nerves.

  A long pause. Then something like a laugh, and the light, Scandinavian-accented voice said, "It would not be Niklas, would it? Charlotte? I never expected to hear your sweet voice again, especially after all this time."

  God, it's really him. The sound of his voice sent shivers through her. "You left a card in my pocket," she said. "You try to kill me then you give me your telephone number!"

  "We were only trying to frighten you," he said, a smile in his voice. "I told you, killing is no fun. You were impertinent but I admired you for it; why else do you think I gave you the card? I am so glad you have used it at last, but may I ask why?"

  "I need your help. It's desperately important and I don't have time to play games. It's about Karl. You know that he was killed."

  Another silence. When Stefan spoke again his tone was so guarded she was immediately suspicious. "I heard, yes."

  "He said he had no quarrel with you and Niklas; he made it sound as if you were more friends than enemies."

  "Such human terms, Charlotte. We loved Karl. Everyone did."

  "Good, because Karl is here now." Her voice was running away with her. "He's standing outside the window, watching the house. He's appeared three nights in a row and he just stands there. The point is, it's not Karl, it's something that looks like him! I want to know what's going on!"

  Again a long pause, and she thought, He knows what it means but he's not going to tell me! Then he said, "Don't upset yourself. What you have said is a shock to me."