Hotel Transylvania

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Madelaine, if you wish." He said to le Marquis, "Would you care to come with me, sir, while I see to the setting of the stage and the placing of my musicians? You might want to hear one or two of the airs that will be sung."

  "I thank you, but no," le Marquis said with formal stiffness.

  Instead of accepting this obvious and straightforward cut, Saint-Germain smiled affably. "But come, de Montalia. When will you be able to hear the great Ombrasalice practice again? There are few castrati who can compare with him."

  Robert de Montalia stood uncertainly, as if poised for flight. He took Madelaine by the arms, saying violently, "You do not know what I have done. I should not have let you come. Why did I allow it? I knew the danger. Do you understand that, child? I knew. I knew even when I pretended that it did not exist. And Saint Sebastien knew, or why did he come back to Paris? Why is he here, if not for you?"

  There was fright and more than a little anger in Madelaine's face. She pulled back out of her father's grasp. “This is not the time or the place!" she said sharply. "If I do stand in some danger, I beg you will not advertise it to the world."

  Before de Montalia could say more, Saint-Germain touched him gently on the shoulder. "Marquis, your daughter is quite right. Surely what you have to say to her can wait until you are able to be private with her. In the meantime, may I suggest that we see to the musicians? Perhaps if you tell me of what you fear, together we may work out a solution."

  He let himself be pulled away from the door, but said to Saint-Germain, "You are a dilettante. You know nothing of what may become of my daughter."

  "Then I hope you will enlighten me." He had taken le Marquis away from the entry hall, and now led him down a hall toward the library, where the musicians were waiting. "Turn your thoughts away from your worries for the evening, I beg you. If not for your sake, for your daughter's." He held open the door to the library and was greeted by a rush of sound that came to a ragged halt as he closed the door behind him and Robert de Montalia.

  A tall, soft-featured man in splendid dress stood by the fireplace, an expression of intelligent concentration on his smooth face. "Saint-Germain," he said in a voice of great sweetness, as high as a boy's.

  "Good evening, Aurelio." He turned to his reluctant companion. "May I have the honor to present Aurelio Ombrasalice to you, my dear Marquis? This is le Marquis de Montalia, the father of the woman our little entertainment honors."

  There was a general murmur among the musicians, and a woman whose ugliness made her stunningly attractive came forward and curtsied respectfully to Robert de Montalia.

  "This is Madame Inez Montoya, who will sing the Persephone tonight; I trust the theme of Persephone and the God of the Underworld will not strike you as improper fare for your daughter."

  Le Marquis, who was looking at the musicians, made an abstract gesture. "It is not too dreadful a topic. But there is an abduction, isn't there?" He scowled.

  Saint-Germain met this reservation with a charming smile and the full power of his eyes. "I will ask Ombrasalice to sing that for you now, and if you find anything in it to offend you, he will not sing it.” He turned quickly and said, "Aurelio, will you do that for me? I know you are engaged only to sing a performance, but I would count it as a favor."

  The tall singer graciously nodded. "I will sing that one aria. But softly."

  "Thank you, my friend. I appreciate this greatly." Saint-Germain motioned de Montalia to a seat and waited while the ten musicians tuned their instruments, an inscrutable expression on his face. He did not think that Robert de Montalia would hear the message in the aria that was meant for Madelaine alone. When the instruments were tuned and the players had given an expectant look to Saint-Germain, he explained, "The aria, mon Marquis, is in two parts, a largo, and then a passage for the violins, followed by an andante espressivo. Gentlemen, any time you are ready."

  The brief introduction in D minor went through the strings in descending triads, ending in two chords played pizzicato. Aurelio Ombrasalice stood away from the fire and sang in his strong, high voice:

  In my realm of shadows

  Unravished by the sunlight

  I raged And I knew not why.

  Your laughter in the meadows

  Demented me as it flew and surged

  Assaulting the sky.

  Oh, Persephone, I am undone by love

  And what my love must have!

  The strings began to modulate into the major, and picked up tempo. Saint-Germain watched Madelaine's father, and realized his message was undiscovered. He nodded once to himself as Ombrasalice began the more difficult second half:

  In darkness burning for your light

  That, burning, casts away my night.

  The fire that burns for you, my own

  Gives light no one will ever ever see

  The wind that blows through time, my own

  Will never blow to me, will never blow to me.

  The strings capped off the aria with a lingering restatement of the second theme, then slipped into the minor again to end the piece. Aurelio Ombrasalice looked rather critically at le Marquis de Montalia, and when the musicians had stopped playing, said, "I would not like to give up the aria, Marquis. It is very good for me."

  "It is somewhat unorthodox," Robert de Montalia said at last. "I am not familiar with the meter or the harmonies."

  “They are based on Greek poetry and song," Saint-Germain said, thinking of the ancient times when flute girls performed in Athens. "The story being Greek, I felt such a conceit was appropriate. But if you find the piece too disturbing..." He left the rest unsaid and did his best to ignore the anger in Ombrasalice's face.

  "No, no, I cannot see that it would disturb Madelaine. It is perfectly within the bounds of propriety, and I must say," Robert de Montalia added handsomely, "that your entertainment is a most flattering gift. I am sure that Madelaine is deeply complimented." He rose, and was about to leave, when Saint-Germain said, "Stay awhile, Marquis, and I will bear you company."

  He did not wait for a reply, but issued a few final instructions to the musicians, then went to the door, closing it firmly.

  "Now, mon Marquis, I had best tell you that I know you are in some trouble relating to Saint Sebastien." He put up his hand to stop de Montalia's protests. "Whatever that may be, I want you to believe that I am yours to command at any time."

  Le Marquis de Montalia had become somewhat stiff again. "I thank you for your concern, Comte, but I cannot imagine that there is any trouble in my family that requires attention other than mine to remedy."

  "Of course." Saint-Germain had almost reached the ballroom, but paused to try once again to gain de Montalia's confidence. "If it should happen to be otherwise, you may call on me at any time. I would be deeply honored if you would."

  Robert de Montalia felt a twinge of alarm; then an idea came to him as he remembered his own hatred of Saint Sebastien. "Is it that you, too, have a matter to settle with le Baron?"

  Saint-Germain opened the door to the ballroom. "Yes. I have a debt I would like to pay."

  "I see." Robert de Montalia nodded. "I will keep your offer in mind, Comte." He bowed once and turned away into the gorgeous assembly, and it was not until the fête had ended that he spoke to Saint-Germain again.

  "A great success, Comtesse," le Comte was saying to his hostess as he bowed over her hand. In spite of the late hour, he was still absolutely precise in dress, and his powdered hair was neatly in place.

  Claudia smiled warmly at him. "If it was, you must certainly take much of the credit, Saint-Germain. The Persephone was a triumph."

  "Thank you, Comtesse, but I fear it is a rather trivial work." He obviously did not expect her to disclaim, for he had said this with such complete candor that there was no way to contradict him.

  "It was very much enjoyed. Madelaine was in raptures."

  "Was she?" Saint-Germain smiled secretly. "Then I am amply rewarded."

  Le Marquis de Montalia overhear
d this as he came into the entry hall, and he added, "I fear she will grow too much in her own estimation, Comte. But it was a pleasant work, and you have afforded us all a unique pleasure."

  "I will tell the musicians, Marquis. It was their skill that made the music live." He had signaled for his cloak, and waited while a lackey fetched it, reminding him, "It is black velvet, with red frogs at the throat."

  "I remember, Comte," the lackey had said, and was returning now with that garment over his arm, prepared to help Saint-Germain on with it.

  "No, thank you. I will carry it. The rain has stopped for the moment." He took the cloak, then said to Robert de Montalia, "Tell me, has Saint Sebastien left? I thought I did not find him among the guests after the Persephone."

  "I do not know." Le Marquis de Montalia glanced about uneasily.

  But Claudia answered him. "Saint Sebastien had the ill grace," she said with acid sweetness, "to leave after the overture to your work. He excused himself on account of boredom."

  To the surprise of the others, Saint-Germain laughed. "Well, he is at least an honest critic." He was still smiling as he said to la Comtesse, "Pray tell Madelaine that I will see her at the appointed time. I noticed she is still with the intrepid ones in the ballroom." He directed his next words to le Marquis. "De Montalia, of that matter we spoke on earlier—believe me, for I have never been more sincere in my life."

  He did not wait to hear what Madelaine's father might answer, but strode swiftly to the door and out into the night.

  It was less than an hour later that Madelaine opened her window on the third floor of hôtel d'Argenlac in response to a gentle tapping and the faint scrap of a melody she had heard earlier that night.

  "Saint-Germain?" she whispered as she saw the man who clung to the sill of the window. "How did you... ? It is a sheer drop..." She dismissed these questions, standing back to give him room. "However it was, come inside now."

  There was a sibilant rustling, and Saint-Germain stepped into the room. He was no longer dressed for the fête, having put away his finery in exchange for a simple sleeved waistcoat of the darkest brown, burgundy small clothes and hose, and a shirt of natural muslin. The powder had been brushed from his hair, and it was simply confined with a burgundy ribbon. He pulled fine Austrian-made gloves from his small hands. "It is cold out," he remarked as he set these aside.

  "Then sit here by the fire." She motioned to a chair, waiting until he had seated himself before sinking to the floor beside him. Her night-rail was of Indian silk, and the material clung to her body. She did not lean against him, but pulled her knees up and dropped her chin on them.

  They sat together this way until Saint-Germain touched her shoulder gently. "What troubles you, my heart?"

  She did not answer him at once. "You were in a duel. You could have been killed."

  "Killed?" Saint-Germain stifled a laugh. "To kill me, Madelaine, my spine must be severed completely. A sword, a stake, perhaps one of these unpleasant new bullets, anything that breaks the spine will kill me. One of my blood was killed by a collapsing building in Rome. And fire, I can burn, like all living things. But a duel? I was not in the least danger from that impulsive, unfortunate young man." He stared out the window. "I wish I knew who killed him."

  "Why?" she asked, sensing his unease.

  "Because then, my heart, I would know who wanted me dead." He stopped abruptly. "Of course, I do have a fairly good idea who is behind it," he added dryly after a moment.

  "Is that why you're not wearing black?" She met his glance, challenging. "I noticed. Do not think I have not eyes."

  His laughter was soft, low. "I know you have eyes. And so have others. As it is well-known that le Comte de Saint-Germain wears only black and white, a man in dark browns and burgundy cannot be he. I am not anxious to have rumors about our attachment reach unfriendly ears."

  She turned her head to one side. "If this is not Saint-Germain, who visits me, then?" Under her bantering tone there was worry.

  "Oh, Graf Tsarogy, if you like. I have used that name at Schwalbach. Or Lord Weldon. I think I used that in Leipzig and Milano. Or Comte Soltikoff, who I was in Geneva and Livorno. There are other names, of course. You may choose the one you find most attractive."

  She shook her head, a dislike in her face. "Stop it, Saint-Germain. I do not like it when you do this. I begin to fear that you will change as you change your name, and that when you are no longer Saint-Germain, you will forget me." She had turned from him, so that he saw her profile only.

  There was a saddened amusement in his voice. "Do you really think that, Madelaine?" He reached out and caressed her shining dark hair, made ruddy where the light of the fire touched it. "Do you think that I will ever forget you?"

  "You have lived a long time," she said in a small voice. "You will live much longer. It would be easy to dismiss me...

  He dropped to one knee beside her, like a knight to his liege. "You have my word that I will not forget you. We are bonded, you and I. I promise you that I am not toying with your life." His words were harsh, and there was more sternness than ardor in his manner.

  She could not meet his eyes as she felt the blood rise in her face. She remembered reading in the Old Testament of a love as terrible as an army with banners. At the time, she had not understood. Aloud she said, "This is not sweet languor, is it, Saint-Germain? All my life I have been told that passion is the right of men, and surrender the right of women."

  "And instead you want to conquer?" He moved nearer.

  She nodded uncertainly. "And then I become frightened, and I say hateful things." Her hands clenched at her side. "I see the beautiful women around me, I hear them talk about you, I see the way they look at you, and I think how long you have lived, and I want to drive them away so that you will not leave me. I could not bear to have you leave me." She struck out at him with her fists. "I know it does not make sense!"

  He did not stop her blows. "Are you jealous: you need not be."

  "Yes! Not really. I am sometimes, when I think you will forget me, or grow tired of me. You will go away to be a Russian Czar or an Arab mathematician. You could do that, couldn't you?"

  He was tempted to laugh, but he did not. He contained her hands in his. "I will certainly go away from time to time. I must go to England soon. I have given my word to Mer-Herbeux. But I will always come back to you. In your life, and later in mine, I will never desert you. Love is not for the weak, my heart. You must have courage." His dark eyes were glowing now. "You are blood of my blood, Madelaine. It would be as impossible for me to leave you as it would be for me to cross the Seine barefoot. Even if blood did not bind us, I swear to you that love would."

  Madelaine smiled, warmth filling her though she shook her head. "But for you, blood is part of the love, isn't it?"

  He paused. "It is all I have, my dear. When I became a vampire, I lost certain living abilities. Most of the time I do not find this an inconvenience. Yet for you I could wish to be a man and love you with all the pleasures of the body."

  She rose to her knees beside him, pressing against him, letting the force of his passion draw her nearer. "It does not matter." She forestalled his objection. "No, do not remind me that I have never lain with a man. If I had had a dozen lovers, I would feel no different."

  "Perhaps," he murmured, but held her more tightly as he kissed her shining hair.

  Her senses ran together, so that it seemed she could taste the pressure of his arms around her, that she could feel the light of his eyes, that she could hear the passion of his seeking hands. She breathed in sharply, as if tasting air for the first time, and felt him wait, checking his need for her until she could share it.

  "I will shatter for joy," she said, breathless. "I wish, deeply, deeply, that you could feel what I do." She looked full into his face. "You will not let me taste your blood?"

  When he spoke, his voice was a caress. "Do not concern yourself. If delight could make one mad..." He had taken off his sleeved waistcoat, and
she pulled at the buttons of his muslin shirt. He stroked her neck and shoulders, then held her face in his hands. "It is late, Madelaine. I ache for you."

  "Yes, oh please, yes." She turned and let him ease her back against the thick white carpet before the fire. Her veins were afire now as his lips sought hers.

  Earlier that night he had plucked melody from a harpsichord for her, and now he made music of her body. There was great tenderness in his eyes as he unfastened her night-rail and slid it reverently back from the soft curve of her shoulders, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs. Where he had parted this night garment he clothed her with the warmth of his touch and his knees. Each touch, every motion, wakened her inmost harmony.

  Madelaine trembled violently as her body rose to fill his hands, to press still closer to his mouth and the delicious rapture he gave her. Her intense need, until that moment unrecognized and unknown, surged through her. She gave a cry as his small hands pressed her intimately, learning the whole of her.

  Now he had stretched beside her and was drawing her ever nearer to him—his presence, his compelling nearness, shutting out the lesser fire in the grate, the room, the world. Then, at last, his mouth was against the curve of her neck. She threw back her head and her eyes closed in triumph and elation as his passion overcame her.

  Text of a letter from the sorcerer Le Grâce to le Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien, dated November 4, 1743:

  From Le Grâce to Saint Sebastien, most profound greetings.

  Obedient to your commands, and anxious to discharge your orders, I have sought diligently, mon cher Baron, in the hope of finding where the remaining members of the Sorcerers' Guild have gone. I can learn little of them, but that they have not left Paris, for old Valenaire in la rue de les Cinq Chats saw the English Sattin but two days ago. Others have spoken to Domingo y Roxas, but there is no information on their location. Valenaire thinks that they have put themselves under the protection of a powerful noble, but you would have known of that.