A Dance in Blood Velvet

by Freda Warrington

  Starving, her head swimming with the heat of so many mortals, Charlotte slipped away and hunted down a victim; a strong, handsome, well-dressed young man, who never saw who seized him in the shadows. How it floods away all doubt and anguish, she thought, this gorgeous scarlet stream... How it sickens, that blood has such power over me, that I can’t exist without it...

  She left the man fainting, as if drunk. Her attack would unhinge his mind - for a few days or forever - but that was something her conscience had to swallow. Too great a burden, to kill outright -although she would, if it were unavoidable. At her core, she could be harder than Karl.

  Then she entered the Ring and went to the hotel where she’d met Violette earlier. The lobby was quiet, but her sharp hearing caught wisps of music and voices from a distant ballroom. In the cloakroom she rinsed a blood-speck from her cheek, hung up her coat, brushed and redressed her hair. Her evening dress was beige silk voile with handkerchief points, inset with panels of silver lace and sewn with silver bugle beads; soft colours that suited her, making her hair intensely golden. In the mirror, her face was pale but radiant, emphasising the dark lakes of her eyes. Her mouth was deep red from feeding, yet still she looked innocent. She smiled coldly at herself, at the deception.

  Janacek had refused to invite her to the party, yet here she was.

  She assumed there would be someone checking invitations on the door, so she entered the Ring and drifted through walls until she found herself in a great sweep of light. She tasted the thrilling heat of many auras mingling together in a glorious blaze of fire-colours. Voices buzzed like the rasp of loose violin strings.

  She found a corner and slipped into reality behind a huge potted palm. If anyone noticed, they’d put the apparition down to too much champagne. A high ceiling, chandeliers, tall windows with blue velvet curtains; oil paintings of Hapsburg high society at play. A chamber orchestra played waltzes.

  There were some three hundred people in the ballroom; members of Ballet Janacek with their rich friends and supporters. A gathering of the elite. The dancers were the stars, each one holding court in a circle. Charlotte couldn’t see Violette. Instead, instantly, she sensed her presence among her admirers, an icy gleam amid the heat.

  The ballerina was on the far side of the room, surrounded by a large group. As Charlotte threaded her way through, she was stopped several times and engaged in conversation, usually by men. She joined in graciously, enjoying the exchange of banal pleasantries. How she’d dreaded social occasions as a human; how deliciously easy it was, now she no longer cared whether folk accepted her or not.

  Yet as she drew close to Violette, apprehension crept through her. She wanted the ballerina not only to acknowledge her but to like her; she wanted to humiliate Janacek. Why did this matter? It was more than pride, more than desire for blood. The need was so deep and sharp that she dared not disturb it for fear of what she would find.

  First glimpse of the dancer through the crowd. In a long widesleeved dress of ivory satin, her black hair coiled under a bandeau, Violette was playing another role to perfection. The gracious goddess. She looked pellucid, crystalline; completely the exquisite spirit of Giselle. The faintest blue tracery of veins pulsed under her creamy skin. Her eyes were the only vivid colour about her. She would have caged any vampire’s heart.

  A corpulent German was vigorously shaking Janacek’s hand, then kissing Violette’s fingers with hardly more subtlety. One of Janacek’s assistants diplomatically guided him away; no one was allowed to monopolise the stars. More well-wishers pressed forward to replace him. An endless stream of people waited to meet Violette, who, like a queen, could spare only a few minutes to each.

  The dancer’s face was a mannequin’s; a white smile, beautiful but glassy eyes giving away nothing of her soul. Her sociable warmth was a shield. With a surge of sympathy, Charlotte saw that Violette hated this pantomime. She endured it because she didn’t want to disappoint.

  In a brief pause between greetings, Violette turned to Janacek and spoke very softly. Charlotte isolated their voices from all the noise around her. “What time is it?”

  “We only just arrived,” he said. “Give them an hour, at least.”

  “I’ll stay as long as I must. Providing I can have some more champagne. Would you mind?”

  Charlotte moved nearer, observing so intently that she forgot to worry how they would react when they saw her. Vampires drew people’s attention with indefinable magnetism; a lure to their prey. And as a young woman alone she stood out; not part of a group, outside convention. Unnatural.

  Several acquaintances descended heartily on Janacek, and while he greeted them, Violette’s gaze found Charlotte. Her smile faded. Staring, she touched Janacek’s sleeve.

  “That woman’s here!” she whispered. “Did you invite her?”

  “Excuse me,” said Janacek to his friends. He looked startled to see Charlotte. “No, of course not.”

  “Then what’s she doing here? It was understood, no outsiders. I certainly don’t want your affairs flaunted at me!”

  “I tell you, I did not invite her.”

  “How did she even know?”

  “She overheard in the hotel. But I tell her it is a private party...”

  As they spoke, Charlotte moved out of their line of sight. Taking a glass of champagne from a waiter, she slid towards Violette and Janacek like a blade of starlight.

  “Well, have her removed.”

  Janacek sighed. “Of course. Where is she? I can’t see her now. You know, someone with such impudence has to be admired...”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Violette said flatly. “It’s the principle.”

  “Oh, does it really matter?”

  “Yes it does! I keep seeing her, and she’s beginning to infuriate me. There’s something disingenuous about her that makes me go absolutely cold.”

  In the chilly wash of these words, Charlotte stopped. Two tall male friends of Janacek were all that blocked her way now. Recovering her composure, she brushed their arms with her fingertips. The lightest of touches, yet they leapt apart as if she’d delivered an electric shock.

  Stepping between them, she smiled into the hostile faces of Violette and Janacek. She offered the glass. “More champagne, Madame Lenoir?”

  The dancer’s eyes opened wider. Her face was a composed mask, but Charlotte thought, She’s frightened of me! I don’t want her to be afraid...

  Janacek found his voice. “This is a private party, madam.”

  “It was rather impulsive of you to invite me, then.”

  Violette said nothing.

  “Frau Alexander, you made a mistake,” Janacek said, flustered. “I said, not tonight. You cause embarrassment.”

  “Forgive me, Madame Lenoir,” Charlotte said innocently. “I didn’t mean to start an argument. Herr Janacek led me to believe he could introduce us, but I wasn’t quite sure what he expected in return.”

  As she spoke, she let her true nature shine through, holding nothing back. They would not guess “vampire”, only see a woman of uncanny beauty with hypnotic violet eyes. A vampire trick, to hold the gaze of potential victims a little too long; men and women alike would become fascinated, tongue-tied, over-eager to please. Then it was easy to control them; and if she wanted to touch them, to kiss their necks, they were only too happy to oblige. Yes, anything! their eyes would say, not understanding what they were permitting until it was too late.

  She saw Janacek fall at once, as he had before, his brain interpreting the feeling as simple lust. Sweat broke out on his upper lip.

  But Violette... How coldly polished the ballerina’s eyes were; how could mortal eyes be so chilling? It was near-impossible to hold the look, as impertinent as staring at a princess - but Charlotte persisted.

  Violette, however, did not react as she had hoped. Far from softening, her eyes grew more aloof, even contemptuous. It was she who severed the contact, not Charlotte.

  “This is a simple misunderstanding -” Janac
ek began.

  Violette turned to him and snapped, “I don’t know what this woman is insinuating, but please ask her to leave.”

  The crowd around them fell quiet, watching.

  Charlotte was devastated. How could Violette be so completely impervious? She’d wanted to prove something, to melt Violette’s reserve into soul-deep empathy, and she’d failed. Not a word, not a smile, not even the barest semblance of courtesy could she wring from the dancer.

  Is it possible, she thought, that she sees right through the glamour and hates what I really am? No, no, it’s something else. It’s him.

  Janacek opened his hands, shaking his head a little. “I’m sorry, madam, but really you should not have -”

  Violette gripped his arm. “For goodness’ sake, don’t apologise to her. Enough.”

  At that, his expression turned flint-black. Charlotte had lost him. Forced to choose between them, he sided with Violette; he might have power over her, but clearly she also had a hold on him stronger than any Charlotte could conjure. His feelings were transparent in his face; he was inwardly furious at having to send away a woman who - he supposed - would have been an easy conquest; and he turned that fury full on Charlotte. If she hadn’t infiltrated the party and upset Violette, he could have played her like a kitten on a cotton reel for weeks.

  So he imagined. Charlotte, intuiting his thoughts, gave a thin smile.

  “I am sorry you have wasted your time.” The malevolent weight of his glare would have terrified the human Charlotte. “Obviously I did not make clear that Madame Lenoir does not permit unsolicited contact. Now, if you would leave quietly, to avoid a scene...?”

  As he spoke, she recalled his hands on Violette’s waist, his taunts, her revulsion. It was his fault the dancer was isolated. Janacek was not her shield against the world, but her gaoler. All Charlotte’s emotion condensed to a single point.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, I’m going. And I’m the one who should apologise.” She stared at him as she spoke, her eyes widening, letting him see her pupils turn to ice, windows onto night. Again she snared him, not with lust this time, but fear. To see him draw back, unsettled, was gratifying.

  Then, acting on a cold, swift impulse, Charlotte did something she had never done before. Without even touching Janacek, she sucked out his life energy. Radiant needles of heat left his skin and entered hers; the sensation was a brief, unpleasant prickling, then tingling fire. She turned hot as if she’d swallowed his blood - but without the luscious satiation. The peculiar austerity of the feeling made her feel ruthless.

  Janacek didn’t seem to notice. Like everyone else, he stood waiting for her to leave. Then his face turned grey, and he staggered as if about to faint. People flocked round him in concern, but he shook them off, insisting testily that he was perfectly all right. Violette simply watched, expressionless.

  “You should take care of your health, Herr Janacek,” Charlotte said icily. “You don’t look at all well.”

  She turned and walked away, burned by dozens of stares following her; everyone affected by her presence, no one understanding why. She felt Janacek’s gaze boring into her spine. He knew she’d done something to him, and was scared to death...

  In the hotel lobby, Charlotte leaned against a column and closed her eyes. Shock washed over her. God, she thought, what have I done? Unforgivable. God, him... I can’t really have done this!

  Then coolness flowed back into her, as frigid as Violette’s eyes. The one person she wanted to reach had been unmoved.

  “It was for you, Violette,” she whispered. “I did it to free you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE LEFT-HAND PATH

  “They’re in the attic,” said Holly, “and out on the landing. White creatures like skeletons. I don’t know how many.”

  “You’ve been up there?” Ben said anxiously.

  She nodded. “I took one look and ran straight down again.”

  “Did any of the creatures hurt you?”

  “No.”

  Holding her chin, he turned her head side to side, studying her throat. No marks, thank God. “You should have left the house, old girl.”

  “I had to wait for you,” she said gravely.

  Benedict flattened his hands on the air. “Stay here. Don’t move. Andreas, come with me.”

  “Be careful,” she said. “For heaven’s sake be careful!”

  He went into the hall and ran lightly up the stairs. Andreas, still muffled in his hat and scarf, followed unhurriedly. On the landing, at the foot of the narrow flight that led up to the attic, Benedict paused.

  The atmosphere rippled. The house no longer felt familiar but many times its real size, a huge dark edifice sprawling into other dimensions. The walls reverberated with ponderous shudders and crashes, like a glacier shedding icebergs...

  A pale body lay halfway down the bare wooden steps. It looked dried-up and dusty grey. Impossible that it had moved at all, let alone crawled so far!

  Ben gave Andreas a grim glance and began to climb towards the attic.

  His heart accelerated as he picked his way over the prostrate figure, expecting its hand to snake out and seize him. Was it possible to establish control over these entities, or was he too late?

  He got past the thing. It didn’t move, only lay like a spider-husk, cobweb-draped, devoid of life-signs.

  Andreas whispered, “Mein Gott, was I like this?”

  The top landing lay in sepia half-light under one dim electric bulb. The attic door was a lightless rectangle. Ben moved softly to the threshold, staring at a white wrist and hand that stretched out towards him. A skeleton hand.

  “Don’t go too close,” Andreas whispered. “If it smells your blood...”

  Not replying, Ben stared into the darkness.

  The temple was ruined, four panels shattered so he could see into the shell. Luminous shapes hung on the blackness; he counted six. None were inside the temple itself; they were out in the attic, lying motionless as if the effort of crawling that far had exhausted them. With one at his feet and another on the stairs, that made eight... was that all? Might there be others he couldn’t see?

  The air shivered in a ghost-wind. Compelled to close his eyes, he found himself gazing up into a blizzard-racked firmament.

  Ben understood. He was seeing into the astral world. The vast skyscape always turned him giddy with awe. There were mountains above him, split by gaping chasms, distant peaks towering into violet infinity. A dark, shifting world, lit by gleams of fire. An appalling coldness sifted down... a dull copper-red light suffused everything, unearthly and baleful...

  This is my fault, he thought. I tore a rift between the Earth and Raqia and I didn’t seal it properly! What did I do wrong? I failed to end the summoning... or it went on after I’d stopped, like radio waves on the ether.

  “What are you doing?” Andreas said urgently, as anxious as any human.

  “Hush!” said Ben. “Don’t interrupt me.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, held out his arms stiffly. He let his mind blend with Raqia, and then, with all his might, he willed the beings back into their own realm and the rift to heal.

  Dangerous to do this cold, with no preparation. He felt himself falling, thrown into a chasm. Freezing... ahhh... And then he came back to himself and saw nothing behind his eyelids except dull red starbusts.

  He reached for the door frame to steady himself, opened his eyes and stared into the attic. He saw roof-struts, shadows, the temple shell...

  The pallid figures still gleamed in the darkness. He’d failed to banish them. There were too many and he lacked the strength. Shaking, he leaned against the wall, whispering, “Oh, God.”

  The next he knew, Andreas seized his arm and cried, “Vorsicht!”

  Ben saw the corpse in the doorway rise up in a pale loop. Andreas hauled him out of the way just as it struck. He heard a soft thump as it landed headlong on the floorboards, felt its fingernails scratching at his ankle. Feeble yet hideousl
y cold and grasping.

  Ben snatched his foot out of its reach. “Christ!” he exclaimed, pressing back against Andreas; forgetting that he had the same hungers.

  He saw Andreas’s white face from the corner of his eye, felt the chill of his skin. Horrified, he pulled himself free. He was trembling uncontrollably. The attacker now lay rigid and blankeyed, as if it had spent all its energy in that one leap.

  Enough, he told himself. I’m behaving like a slave to this situation and I must become its master. What would Lancelyn do?

  “You are in danger if you stay here,” said Andreas.

  “I am gratified that you care.”

  The vampire shrugged.

  Ben said, “But how dangerous are they? Can you remember how it felt when you were - like that?”

  The black eyes gleamed angrily. “Ja, leider.”

  “Well?”

  “It was extremely unpleasant. I don’t know how to describe it. Have you ever woken in the night with a dead arm, having slept on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Imagine feeling that all over, but worse. Your body is dead but your mind is awake and confused. You have no memory, only fear. And then excruciating pain, as feeling comes back to your limb?” Ben nodded. “That’s how I felt when I smelled your blood. A stinging fire like pins all over me. Jumping at you was a reflex. But when I failed and fell back to the ground, the numbness returned.”

  “So, you believe these creatures are suffering?”

  “Yes, that is a safe assumption,” the vampire replied acidly.

  “But unless they’re provoked by the smell of blood, they are helpless? Well, I shall lock them in the attic.”

  “They will sense humans in the house. Despair may make them stronger. They’ll break out; a locked door won’t stop them.”

  “Well, what will?” Ben said through his teeth.