Hotel Transylvania

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She took his hand again. 'This Elixir of Life," she said, her eyes fixed on his. "How do you obtain it?"

  He kept his distance, admiring her courage, knowing that it would take so little to possess her. He thought of the eventual consequences, and sought to stifle her longing. "I drink it," he said harshly. "Ask Lucienne Cressie."

  Madelaine nodded. "I thought so. Was it you who made her ill?"

  "No." His voice was low, but filled with feeling. He pulled his hand free. "She took me because there was no one else. If there had been another, I would not have approached her."

  "Does she know it is you?"

  He laughed once. "She has dreams, my dear. Lovely, sweet dreams, and for a little time she blossoms. Then morning comes, and all is the same." He stopped again.

  "The Sisters told us of horrors in the night, unholy and undead things that drink the blood of Christians, stealing their souls in foul embraces. But you say that La Cressie is happy?"

  He damned himself for the tenderness he felt for Madelaine. "Apparently," he said dryly.

  A shy, knowing smile crossed her face. "Saint-Germain, my garnets have broken their chain again," she said, touching her necklace. "There is a cut on my neck. I am bleeding."

  Involuntarily his eyes flew to her throat, and grew dark as he saw the blood there. "You do not offer me a sheep or a horse?" The words, which he had wanted to be flippant, were almost a plea.

  "Only if you need more than I have."

  Once again Saint-Germain laughed, and this time with true enjoyment. "I need no more than what can be put into a wineglass." He stopped, seeing her face. "But it is not without risks," he added quickly.

  "What risks?" Her violet eyes were alive, and she was smiling.

  "If I drink too deeply..." He came toward her and touched her shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. "If I drink too deeply, or too often, you will become as I am when you die. And you will be thought unclean and unhallowed, and you will be hounded by misguided ones, and despised by the world."

  "You are not despised," she pointed out.

  "I have been. But I have learned."

  "But surely you can drink once, without harm," she insisted, her face alight with eagerness and her words made light by happiness. "Saint-Germain, oh, please..."

  "I can still take you to your aunt."

  "No, Comte." She left his side, moving swiftly to stand in front of the door. "I did not understand how a woman could hold her honor without consequence when compared to love. But I have seen the way of the world. I have studied those around me. If I must live as my aunt lives, as all the world lives, then I will know, at least once, what it is to be loved."

  This time the smile that brightened his face was new to her, and she felt her pulse race as he walked slowly toward her. His hand came up and undid die clasp on her garnet necklace, which fell, unheeded, to the floor. "Well? Are you certain?"

  His hands were on her now, warming her with easy, delightful caresses. Surely, gently, he sought the sweet weight of her breasts, lifting them reverently from the restrictions of her corset, cradling them as he felt them swell in his hands. He moved that last step closer and folded her into his arms, kissing her eyelids, her mouth, and then, almost dizzy with the ecstasy of it, set his lips against her neck.

  She gave a soft shout of triumph as she tightened her arms around him, feeding her rapture on the sharp passion of his kisses.

  Excerpt from a letter from la Comtesse d'Argenlac to her husband, le Comte d'Argenlac, dated October 14,1743:

  ...So, my dear husband, I trust that you will assist me in this arrangement I have mentioned. November will be dreary, and all the world will welcome a fête such as the one I have planned.

  I am aware how dear your forcing houses are to you, but I would count it very much a token of your affection for me if you would be willing to provide fresh fruit for all the guests. Your apricots, in particular, are always much praised and much admired.

  I have hired the Queen's Dancers for entertainment, and Saint-Germain has promised to compose new airs for Madelaine to sing. As La Cressie is still abed, he said he will consider accompanying her on the clavier or the guitar. Madelaine is delighted, of course, and I know that this will assure a great deal of interest in the evening.

  Your sudden departure for the country very much surprised me, and I was seriously alarmed for your safety until your message reached me. I was saddened that you had come to such straits as these. If you had told me sooner, this predicament might have been avoided. / have authorized a partial payment of your debt to Jueneport, which will ease your situation somewhat, at least for the present. Let me urge you once again to abandon your gaming, which has proven to be so disastrous to your good name and your interests. Your man of business has told me that you can no longer secure mortgages on your estates. Until our conversation of yesterday, I was unaware of those mortgages. Pray disclose the whole of your debts to me, and I will arrange with my brother and my man of business to discharge the most pressing of them. Otherwise, lam very much afraid that you stand in danger of prosecution and default.

  I look forward to your return, my dear husband, and until I have the felicity to see you again, I am always your obedient and affectionate wife,

  Claudia de Montalia

  Comtesse d'Argenlac

  Chapter 8

  You damned idiot," Saint Sebastien said softly as he ran a contemptuous glance over Jacques Eugène Châteaurose. "You knew she did not like frivolity and hollow compliments."

  "But how should I have guessed it? She is not yet twenty; she was raised in the country and taught by nuns. My manner should have overwhelmed her. You know that it has been successful in the past." Châteaurose picked up one of the books that lay open on the desk and started to thumb through it

  "Put that down," Saint Sebastien ordered, and waited until Châteaurose had obeyed him. "I do not want to hear your excuses, Châteaurose. I am not prepared to accept failure on your part, particularly in this instance. You do understand that we must have that girl at the Winter Solstice, don't you?"

  Châteaurose was noticeably paler. "You have told me that, and I believe you, Saint Sebastien, but it was more difficult than I thought. She is not what I expected…."

  "I have asked you not to make excuses for yourself. If you continue in this vein, you will annoy me." He rose, his crimson lounging robe brushing the floor as he strode across the library. He stood for a moment contemplating a shelf of the works of Greek philosophers and Roman poets.

  "I will try again, if you like. I will approach her differently," Châteaurose said eagerly, starting toward Saint Sebastien.

  "I did not say you were to come near me," Saint Sebastien reminded him gently. "You must learn that one of the Rules we obey in this Circle is the Rule of Order. If you cannot learn that then you will be expelled in the manner described in the contract you signed when you joined us."

  In spite of himself, Châteaurose turned scarlet. He stammered, "I... I do not know... what you mean..."

  "That is a clumsy lie, Jacques Eugène," Saint Sebastien informed him. "Nevertheless, I will remind you. If you break our Rule of Order, you will be cursed by the Circle, and banished from our ranks. So that you may not speak ill against us, your tongue will be cut out. So that you cannot give testimony to our detriment, your hands will be struck off; so that you will not be able to identify us, your eyes will be burned out, and you will be at the mercy of the Circle for one night, after which you will be left nude on the highway to live or die as it chances." During this recitation, Saint Sebastien had stood quietly, the tips of his fingers touching, and held just below his chin, as if in prayer. At the conclusion he turned to Châteaurose. "I trust you recall your obligations?"

  Châteaurose tried to achieve an ingratiating smile. "I did not mean anything, Saint Sebastien. It is only my frustration speaking. I did not want to fail with the girl." Inspiration struck. "It was so awkward because Saint-Germain was there."
<
br />   "That poseur!" Saint Sebastien snapped, turning abruptly. "Surrounding himself with mystery, claiming on occasion to be immortal!" He stared down into the fire that blazed in the hearth, filling the library with a ruddy glow. "He interferes with me to his ruin!"

  Suddenly Châteaurose was very much afraid of the lean, evil man who confronted him with cold, condemning eyes. "What shall I do with him? Do you want me to get rid of him for you?"

  There was a flash of something immensely threatening in Saint Sebastien's eyes, which was gone almost before Châteaurose was sure he had seen it. "Yes," he said, drawing the word out. "Yes, you may rid me of him. I want him gone. But I do not want the Circle implicated in any way. Do you understand? You may find an excuse to challenge him, or you may hire bravos to assassinate him, or you may find a way to discredit him, but at no time, at no time, is there to be even the merest whisper of the Circle's involvement."

  Châteaurose swallowed nervously. "Very well."

  Saint Sebastien took a turn about the room, very much lost in thought. His hands were locked behind his back, and his crimson lounging robe rustling on the floor accented the restlessness of his reflections. At last he paused by the tall windows that overlooked the wide expanse of a topiary garden. This ordinarily impressive view was marred by the first real rain of October, and the sullen low clouds cast a leaden pall over the whole of Paris.

  If this marring of his prospect disturbed Saint Sebastien, he did not show it in his face or his manner. A slight, satisfied smile pulled at his mouth, and he turned away from the window to face Châteaurose. "Le Comte d'Argenlac gambles, as I understand it?"

  "Yes," Châteaurose answered, puzzled.

  "He is very much in debt, is he not?"

  "Yes. And his estates are mortgaged. He does not admit it, but he is entirely dependent on his wife."

  Saint Sebastien let out a pleased sigh. "Good. Excellent. To whom does he owe money?"

  "Everyone," Châteaurose said in disgust. "He is worse than a drunkard when dealing with cards or rouge et noir. I myself have seen him lose twenty thousand livres in an hour."

  "A considerable sum. No wonder he is in so much trouble. Do you know what his feelings are about this? Does he want to be dependent on his wife?"

  "No, he hates it. Sometimes I think," Châteaurose went on with rare insight, "that he ruins himself only to ruin her."

  "Then perhaps he would be willing to trade some of his difficulties for the chance to have revenge on his wife through her protégée." He was musing now, and his smile was more sinister.

  "Do you mean turn La Montalia over to us to annoy his wife?" Châteaurose was incredulous at first, but even as he spoke the words, he saw merit in the plan. If there should be repercussions, they would fall to d'Argenlac. He nodded as he thought this idea through. "I think he might do it, if approached properly."

  Saint Sebastien sank into a low Turkish chair. "To which of us does he owe the most?"

  Châteaurose would have liked to sit, but he did not dare. He compromised by resting his arm on the mantel, crossing one booted leg over the other. He was dressed for riding, and his coat skirts, front and back, were pulled back and buttoned over the hip, which not only made riding easier, but showed off the lining of gold-and-black twill against the ocher English wool of the coat and neat riding breeches. His muslin neck cloth was edged in Belgian lace, and except for the worried expression he wore, he was the epitome of the compleat aristocrat.

  Saint Sebastien's fingers tapped ominously on the arm of his chair. "Do you know, or will you have to find out? If it is the latter, you have until nightfall to deliver the information."

  "No, no, it's not that," Châteaurose said hastily. "You startled me, that's all. I think d'Argenlac owes the most to Jueneport. His wife has settled some of the debt, but not all, I think. The amount is greater than d'Argenlac admitted to." He considered this a little longer. "I believe there is a question of the estate in Anjou. I am not sure, but I think that Jueneport holds a private note on it, and so far, there is no sign that d'Argenlac will be able to redeem it."

  "Would he want to?" Saint Sebastien had crossed one leg over the other, and the satisfaction was back in his face.

  "Oh, yes. I am certain of that." He avoided the cold ferocity of Saint Sebastien's eyes. "The Anjou estate is where he has his forcing houses. I think it would kill him to have to give them up."

  "Good," Saint Sebastien said dreamily.

  "And there is the matter of what he owes de Vandonne, which is trivial beside the debt to Jueneport, but still considerable. As I recall, jewels were involved. I do not know how the matter stands at the moment. I cannot tell when de Vandonne is boasting and when he is telling me the heart of the issue."

  Saint Sebastien shrugged. "It is of no consequence. We will deal through Jueneport first, and if there is no satisfaction there, then I will talk with de Vandonne."

  There was a knock at the door, and on Saint Sebastien's command, it opened and Saint Sebastien's manservant Tite came in.

  "What is it, Tite?"

  "Le Grâce is here, mon Baron. He wishes to speak with you. He says it is urgent."

  Saint Sebastien regarded the taciturn servant apprais- ingly. "I am not accustomed to receiving calls from such as Le Grâce. A nameless orphan! I trust you denied me?"

  "No, I did not. I was certain you will want to talk to him." Tite came farther into the room and waited.

  "Now, why?" Saint Sebastien said, waving Châteaurose aside.

  Tite came stalking up to Saint Sebastien and held out his hand. When he opened it, he revealed an uncut diamond of slightly bluish cast rather larger than a hen's egg.

  Saint Sebastien sat up abruptly, and Châteaurose swore.

  "He says that the Sorcerers' Guild was given the secret of jewels by a strange man claiming to be Prinz Ragoczy of Transylvania."

  "Is it genuine?" Châteaurose asked, awed by the huge stone.

  "Le Grâce claims that these stones are made in the alchemist's oven, the athanor. Apparently, whoever the man is, he has a formidable secret, even if the stone is not real." Tite regarded his master evenly, and waited while Saint Sebastien stared into the fire, apparently seeing nothing.

  Eventually he said, "Show him into the blue salon, Tite, and tell him I will join him directiy. I want to know more of these stones."

  Tite bowed and withdrew, a cynical grimace settling on his features as he closed the door.

  "Well?" Châteaurose demanded impulsively as soon as they were once again alone.

  "Prinz Ragoczy, Prinz Ragoczy. Where have I heard that name?" Saint Sebastien directed his gaze toward the rain- spangled windows. "I should know that name—"

  "What about the jewels?" Châteaurose interrupted him. "Will Le Grâce give us the secret?"

  "CertainlyThe calm in Saint Sebastien's tone made the word frightening. "One way or another, we will learn the secret." He rose from his chair and paced down the library. "I will want you to proceed on this matter with Jueneport and d'Argenlac. That girl is mine. She has been promised to me since before her birth, and I will not let her go. I charge you with the matter, and I remind you that I will not tolerate your failure. Remove Saint-Germain from our path and distract the aunt. She will be given us on a platter by her uncle."

  Châteaurose bowed deeply. "As you wish."

  Saint Sebastien was almost at the door when he turned and said softly, "If you fail, Châteaurose, you will regret it more than you can imagine." Then he was out the door, leaving Châteaurose alone, feeling very cold, though he stood in front of the fire.

  Text of a document written in Latin on parchment, sealed in a chest in Saint Sebastien's library, dated August 19, 1722:

  By the names of Asmodeus, Belial, and Astoreth, by the Vow of the Circle and the Oath of the Blood, by the Rule and the Sign:

  I, Robert Marcel Yves Etienne Pascal, Marquis de Montalia, promise the Circle and its leader, Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien, that upon the birth of my first legitimat
e child, I will mark that child for service to the Circle in whatever way the circle sees fit

  I affirm that I am at present unmarried, but am betrothed to Margaret Denise Angelique Ragnac, and that any child born of this union will be recognized by me as legitimate, and be my heir if male.

  Should I default in any way on this agreement, may the advantage which has been secured for me be forever revoked, and neither the sea, nor the land, nor the sky be sufficient to hide me from the wrath and vengeance of the Circle and the Powers of Satan, which shall endure for all eternity. Signed and witnessed this day, and to be without limit in my life, or until such time as my firstborn child shall pass the age of twenty-one years without being taken in service to the Circle.

  Sworn to in the mortification of the flesh and the Rites of Blood:

  Robert Marcel Yves Etienne Pascal

  Marquis de Montalia

  PART TWO

  Madelaine Roxanne

  Bertrande de Montalia

  Excerpt from a letter from l'Abbé Ponteneuf to his cousin le Marquis de Montalia. Dated October 16, 1743:

  ...I have had the felicity of hearing your daughter perform some airs, with Saint-Germain accompanying her on the guitar. They were practicing for your sister's fête, and Madelaine was kind enough to invite me to listen. I confess I am not overly fond of the guitar—it lacks the subtle tones of the lute and does not have the celestial sound of the harp. Yet I will allow that Saint-Germain plays it prettily, and that the music he has composed shows Madelaine's voice to advantage. I was pleased to read the text of the airs, for the sentiments expressed are wholly acceptable to me, and I am certain would be to you. It is to Saint- Germain's credit that he does not follow the modern taste for dissonant chords and jarring melodies. His music, on the contrary, harks back to the old forms, even to the modal harmonies of several centuries ago.

  Occasionally Madelaine must confront Beauvrai or Saint Sebastien socially, which is lamentable, but cannot be avoided without giving a serious affront, which would lead to scandal and gossip, which would significantly reduce Madelaine's chances of making an acceptable match. I have taken the liberty of giving her a little warning about Beauvrai and Saint Sebastien, telling her that their reputations are such that her name must be sullied if she is seen with them. This is no prevarication on my part, for it is perfectly true that it would harm her immeasurably to be in their company. I did not think it wise to reveal the truth of the matter to her, for such knowledge could not but stain that sweet innocence which makes her so truly admired.