Ben and Lancelyn were trying to translate the text. There were lists of names, apparently some kind of medieval register, pages of scribbled notes in Latinate code, virtually illegible. Hard going. During the experimental summoning, Ben had held certain passages in his mind like photographs, delving for power behind their unknown meaning. And a being from the otherworld had responded.
I must tell Lancelyn, of course.
Lancelyn was head of the Order. He should be told, but Ben felt reluctant. He said aloud, “That’s just it. I tell him everything, because he’s the magus and I’m still his apprentice. Eh, Sam?” The cat, sitting on the hearthrug, stared at him with large yellow eyes. “I never minded, but this is different. My first true breakthrough. My secret.” He sighed. “But I’m being childish. Lancelyn and I share all knowledge. He didn’t have to lend me the Book!”
Benedict had constructed his attic temple for his and Holly’s use alone. The official group - the Neophytes of Meter Theon, as they styled themselves - met at Lancelyn’s house every Friday night. Members came from all over the country, not gullible thrill-seekers, but intellectual men and women: writers, artists, even scientists. They sought higher spiritual advancement than convention could offer. The occult was one of many post-War crazes, but special because - Lancelyn asserted - a new spirituality was needed.
Of course, every little group thought their magus held the truth, but Benedict believed Lancelyn was different. He saw through foggy nonsense to the bright clear path of wisdom.
Once a month, Lancelyn spent the weekend fishing, leaving Benedict in charge of the meeting. Magus Adeptus for an evening. He loved those times. Always a wrench to hand the reins back to his brother. Imagine the Neophytes’ reaction if he summoned such an entity in front of them!
I have to try again. Have to. But tell Lancelyn? Well... not yet.
Fear soared into excitement, and he forgave Holly her doubts. He sang as he shaved and got ready for work. Nothing more exhilarating than power. Mrs Potter the housekeeper arrived, made breakfast, fed the cat and went to the shops; Holly thawed and forgave him. They made small talk over the breakfast table. An ordinary couple.
Ben didn’t hear the door-knocker. Entering the hallway, about to leave for work, he found Holly opening the door to a visitor: a plump woman enveloped in a full-length cloak of brown velvet with a matching floppy hat.
It was Deirdre, one of the Neophytes. She and her lover, James, were frequent visitors to the cottage. A strong-faced, attractive Dubliner of forty-odd, Deirdre favoured the unconventional look of an artist. Her face was white between wings of faded-red hair, and she clutched a carpetbag.
“I can’t stay long,” she was telling Holly. “I’ve a train to catch.”
Ben greeted her, leading her into the parlour. “Come in, come in. We don’t usually see you this early. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
Deirdre, usually full of life, was subdued. She said quietly, “You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?”
“It’s James,” she said on a short breath. “He’s killed himself.”
Deirdre went grey. Ben caught her and helped her to the sofa before she fell to the floor. Holly unfastened the cloak, removed Deirdre’s hat and used it to fan her face, while Ben fetched a glass of brandy.
James had been a member of the Order, albeit an erratic one. And Deirdre, despite the fact that he was years younger and would never have married her, had loved him.
Holly said, “Oh, Deirdre, I’m so sorry. We had no idea.” She glanced at Ben, her expression reflecting his shock. “What happened?”
Deirdre gulped brandy and composed herself. Sam jumped on her knee and she stroked him, oblivious to his claws catching her clothes. “I’m sorry. I refuse to cry, this is too important for tears.”
“Take your time,” said Ben. The news wouldn’t sink in; unbelievable. Dreadful to see her upset when usually she was flamboyant and carefree.
“He hanged himself. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow: a young barrister with everything to live for... You know the things they say.”
“But why?” said Holly. She sat down by Deirdre, holding her hands, not far from tears herself. “He always seemed so happy and sure of himself.”
“He didn’t want to die,” Deirdre said softly. “He was driven to it. A few days ago he told me he believed that someone had launched a magical attack against him.”
Her words woke a degree of scepticism in Ben, but no surprise. He knew such attacks took place among rival occultists; whether they worked could never be proved. He asked, “Who would do that? Had he made an enemy?”
Deirdre looked at him with expressive brown eyes. He realised she was concerned for him. “It’s difficult. The person he quarrelled with was Lancelyn.”
Ben was incredulous. “Are you suggesting that Lancelyn would launch such an attack?”
He hadn’t meant to speak harshly, but Deirdre flinched. “Please, Ben. I know you’re close, but Lancelyn’s no angel. He has a wicked temper on him.”
“But what did they quarrel about? If there was a disagreement within the Order, I’d know.”
Again a hesitation. “I - I don’t know. But it was rancorous, and that’s when James’s troubles started. Nightmares, feelings of persecution. I could hardly believe what James told me, but I went and confronted Lancelyn and he -” She foundered, shaking.
“Take your time,” said Holly. “Go on.”
“Well, Lancelyn denied it, but his manner disturbed me. You know how he is. And now things are happening to me, too. That’s why I’m leaving. So I came to say goodbye and -”
Ben cut across her. “What sort of things?”
They made a maudlin tableau in the half-light; a fading poetess with the younger woman sitting over her in concern.
Deirdre began softly, “I hear voices in my house when no one’s there. My housekeeper seems to look at me with Lancelyn’s eyes...”
“No,” Holly whispered.
“Last night I had a nightmare. I was lying in bed when the room filled up with dank air, so thick I could hardly breathe. Usually I see a strip of light between my curtains but this time it was pitch dark. I sensed a thing coming towards me. Something heavy and massive. A current of absolute evil. The bedclothes held me down as if they weighed a ton.
“I heard a creature snuffling outside, like a huge pig. It got closer. Then the darkness split and I saw my curtains blown wide apart. A beast came surging in over the windowsill, breaking the glass and half the wall with it. It filled the room. And it was ugly, like an armoured rhinoceros, covered in tarnished brass plates, with a great head all dents and dimples. No eyes. A bluish-white steam came from under the armour plates, icy cold and stinking. I knew when the beast reached me, I’d be crushed to death. And it kept coming, pushing me up the bed until I was squeezed flat against the wall. I was suffocating. The weight on my chest was unbearable and I couldn’t breathe -” She broke off, coughing.
Ben stroked her forehead. “Hush, you’re safe. How did it end?”
“I woke up. I was dripping with sweat, but everything seemed normal otherwise. The window was intact and the curtains hadn’t moved. I went to look out and all was quiet... but on the sill there were gouges in the wood like great claw marks. I looked again in daylight and the marks were gone, but the night before - I saw them.”
Ben’s reaction was absolute denial. He went to the window; birds fluttered and quarrelled outside. No one spoke. The clock cut the silence into hard sections.
At last he said, “I’m at a loss, Deirdre. I’m sure you’re telling the truth, but Lancelyn can’t be responsible. He’s a scholar; he’d never hurt his friends.”
Deirdre bowed her head, revealing grey strands in the copper. “I didn’t come here to argue. I’m telling you what happened, that’s all. If I don’t leave, it will be me next.” Her voice faded to a whisper. “It’ll be me.”
“No,” Holly said firmly. “Lancelyn wouldn’t harm a woman.”
>
Ben stared indignantly at his wife. Was she implying that he might harm a man?
He said, “Have you considered that your mind is overactive because of James’s death? That James and yourself might be the victims of suggestion, rather than actual magic?”
“Of course I have!” Deirdre snapped with a trace of her old spirit. “Don’t you understand that control of someone’s mind is the greatest power there is?”
Ben felt drained. This, on top of last night’s work! “Look, if it will make you feel better, I’ll visit Lancelyn, sort this out.”
Terror flashed in her eyes. “No, don’t! Don’t tell him. I only came to say, be careful, both of you. Just be careful.”
Disentangling herself from the cat, Deirdre stood up and squashed the floppy hat on her head.
Holly rose with her, concerned. “Where are you going?”
“Home to my family in Dublin. I’ll be safe there.”
“Don’t go,” Ben said helplessly. “You’ll be such a loss to the Order.”
“No I won’t, because I don’t care any more. I’m sick of the occult. The secrets were never meant to be used like this. Grownups dressing in silly costumes and playing power games; it’s not worth dying for, is it?”
Ben smiled sadly. “That sentiment could apply equally to any great British institution. Why single us out?”
“Well, damn the whole lot of them, then,” Deirdre said with feeling, trying to smile back. “God go with you.”
They saw her off. Ben rocked on his heels, watching the autumnal gleam of her hair as her figure dwindled along the street. Then he and Holly went back inside, closed the door, and hugged each other.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “Poor James, poor Deirdre. But how could she accuse Lancelyn?”
“It’s true he has a temper, and the power to control people,” said Holly. “But he wouldn’t... He’s like a father to me, more than my own father ever was. He wouldn’t!”
“I don’t think she told us everything.”
“Probably not, but you didn’t want to listen, did you?” she said. Ben glared at her, but couldn’t reply. “Will you see Lancelyn? Will you tell him about last night?”
Ben looked into her bird-bright eyes, and read beneath the surface of the question: Do you still trust Lancelyn? Tell me you do, so that we can both still trust him.
“Yes, of course I’ll see him.”
“And promise me one thing. Never, ever try to repeat last night’s summoning again!”
Deirdre’s description of her nightmare had brought metallic revulsion to the back of his throat, a disgust that now extended to the previous night’s visitation. He’d been too arrogant. Some things were not to be meddled with.
“I promise,” he said easily. “I promise.”
* * *
The theatre was in Milan, the performance the Ballet Janacek’s Giselle.
In the foyer, the audience flowed to take their seats, a sea of voile and jewels, of dark suits, crisp shirts and groomed hair. Beautiful, ugly or mediocre; all were made elegant by fine clothes, by the glamour of theatre lighting and the heightened atmosphere. Glittering, the mortal crowd tantalised a vampire’s senses on every level.
Karl and Charlotte moved with the throng. Their pretence of being human was a pleasure as satiny as seduction.
Karl usually wore black or charcoal. On him, a dark suit and white shirt, black overcoat, gloves, and a white cashmere scarf looked timeless and enticingly elegant.
Charlotte chose the muted colours she loved: shades of bronze and mushroom, dusty lilacs and sunset tints, sometimes a touch of gold, cream or silver. She liked soft fabrics, silk and lace and beads, ankle-length skirts with floating handkerchief-points. Everything soft, subtle, indefinable.
Often Charlotte would see someone glance at them, then blink and stare, as if in unconscious recognition. But no one guessed the truth. They did not see two monsters, only a tall, slim, charismatic man and a solemn-faced woman with crystalline eyes; and if anyone looked twice, they took preternatural glamour for surface beauty.
Karl drew the most stares, especially from women. Charlotte didn’t mind. It suited her temperament to be in the background. She was simply glad to be with him, that he wanted her; because if he hadn’t - if he’d left her or never loved her at all - she would have given up and died. Such was the extremity of her infatuation. Intoxicating and fragile.
Karl and Charlotte often travelled through the Crystal Ring to theatres all over Europe, to mingle with humanity and find victims in the dark backstreets afterwards, vanishing home by dawn. Although daylight held no danger for them, they both loved the velvet magic of night.
There was an added edge tonight, since David’s friend had found them. Every time Charlotte heard an English voice among the flow of Italian, she shivered.
As they moved down the aisle, Karl was pensive. His gaze wandered over the baroque fancies of the ceiling, the gilded plaster and brass chandeliers. “I last came here with Andreas and Katerina. Ach, du liebe Zeit...”
“How long ago?” said Charlotte, startled. Karl rarely mentioned the friends whom his enemy, Kristian, had left to freeze in the highest circle of the Crystal Ring. Sometimes she wished he would say more.
“Forty years, at least. Yes, in the 1880s... It was almost the last time I saw them. This place has hardly changed, except for the electric lights in the chandeliers.”
“What did you see?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “It was a ballet then, too. We saw La Sylphide. A tale of a supernatural being falling in love with a mortal.”
“Do you still miss them?”
“Less than I used to,” he said, but she saw pain flicker in his eyes. “And it’s no use to keep asking myself why I couldn’t save them. They belong to the past, beloved.”
“And so does Kristian,” Charlotte murmured. “Thank God... or whatever gave us the power to destroy him.”
In a cavern of crimson velvet, they waited for the overture to begin.
Charlotte’s deepest pleasure lay in the pure joy of being at Karl’s side. Horrible, the things she’d done to stay with him, not least the heartbreak she’d caused her family and her dearest friend, Anne. But given a second chance, she would do the same again because, if she’d remained human, Karl would either have left or destroyed her with his blood thirst. She’d commit any crime to keep him... And now she too was a crime against nature, a bearer of madness and death.
Incalculably expensive, their love.
Her personality hadn’t changed, but continued to deepen in strange ways. As a mortal, she’d wanted to hide from the world. Now she was entirely detached from it, but the wounds of isolation she’d suffered as a girl lingered. In time she would rise above them; for the present, she had years of painful shyness to exorcise. Irresistible, to walk among people and think, I’m not afraid of you any longer. Your judgment of me means nothing. To know that with a look she could inspire fear or desire; or let them see she was not the demure young woman she appeared but something other. To turn their safe world upside down!
A sweet revenge; harmless, if self-indulgent. As a mortal, she’d craved affection, even while she hid from it. As a vampire, rather to her shock, she found the craving even more intense.
When strangers noticed them, she sensed their curiosity as strongly as she scented their blood-heat. Often she and Karl would strike up a conversation, forming superficial friendships that could never become intimate. That was how they’d met John Milner. Sometimes it happened that another couple would fasten onto them for the evening. The wife would flirt shamelessly with Karl - her poise torn to shreds by his allure - while Charlotte would brave her dagger-glances and charm the husband. This had led to many entertaining evenings. But here was a difference between them: Charlotte would sometimes feed on the husband, if she could get him alone. Karl, though, never touched the wife. Charlotte didn’t fully understand why, yet - in a prosaically human way - she was glad.
> Taking a victim was not infidelity. The notion was irrational, though it could seem perilously close, for blood was more than nourishment. Passion, conflict, excitement, pleasure and pain... everything. Never could blood be mere food. Never.
Charlotte remembered John Milner with mixed feelings.
Leaning close to Karl, she said, “I ought to feel guilty.”
“Why?”
“It was that man, Milner, who suggested we see Ballet Janacek.”
Karl’s eyebrows lifted. “You are not still thinking about him, are you?”
“I’m only concerned that he might not forget. He could still return to David and tell him... something. Or if he doesn’t go back, David may think the worst. Will he send someone else? Must we vanish from human eyes completely?”
“No,” Karl answered firmly. “No one has the power to make us live as fugitives, not even the people we loved. The human world can’t touch us.”
He was right, and he was wrong, but it didn’t matter. Calmness flowed into her from his amber eyes, and for the thousandth time his beauty struck her as if she’d never seen him before. Red and honey lights in his hair; rain beating against a window in another time, while the touch of his fingers soothed her into believing that her fall from grace would be divine.
“I know,” she said. “But I don’t want David to keep torturing himself.”
“Then write to him yourself,” said Karl.
“What’s the point?” Charlotte said, resigned. “As you once told me, it’s not fair to hope they’ll forgive me. What we did can never be forgiven.”
“No,” he said. “It can’t.”
His fingers were twined with hers, and the murmur of the audience electrified her. At this moment she was so blissfully happy that she could forget what she was, forget the thirst. She was no longer outside the crystal world she’d first glimpsed in Karl’s eyes; she was inside, wrapped in velvet and golden light.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I’m perfectly happy.”
He smiled. “And so am I, beloved,” he said, kissing her hand. “These moments are worth any pain. They are what we live for.”
A Dance in Blood Velvet Page 4
