* * *
I can’t stay, Charlotte thought. I must go back to Karl.
She was alone in a spartan bedroom, leaning on the windowsill and gazing at the great forested shoulder of rock across the river, the fortress walls rising into the sky; and below, the sunny Renaissance elegance of roofs and spires.
How weird this is. I never dreamed I’d come here. I never even meant to speak to her.
I said that meeting Violette would destroy her magic, but it hasn’t. She is so strange. I can’t leave her alone...
I should go back to Karl now. But what is there to go home for? His disappointment in me, and Katerina’s contempt. If I leave him to her, will he miss me at all? A flash of memory, a deep twisting pain. How can we ever restore the perfection we’ve lost? We can’t... is that why I’m clinging to Violette?
Surface matters had proceeded smoothly. Charlotte had met patrons, administrators and solicitors; legal and financial difficulties were raised, only to dissolve under the spell of her shining, persuasive presence. She’d taken a couple of the men aside, flattered and entranced and fed on them... so easy. And now the Ballet Janacek belonged to Violette.
The ballerina expressed not a word of gratitude.
Charlotte hadn’t expected or even wanted thanks; as the days passed, it became clear that nothing was going to change. Violette did not want Charlotte there; she merely tolerated her, a strange, unwelcome benefactor.
As the dancers returned, Violette threw herself into work as if nothing else existed.
Karl was constantly in Charlotte’s mind, a deep-red ache. They’d never before been apart for so long, and she grew restless to see him. Yet she hesitated. She couldn’t forget the pain of their parting conversation. If only he’d forsake Katerina, she thought, and if only I hadn’t killed Janacek... To go back was to risk rejection. But the longer she stayed away, the harder it was to return.
Besides, Violette had let her into the enchanted circle of her company, and held her there with an unseen force like gravity.
Charlotte watched her preparing for Swan Lake, mesmerised by her energy, the miracle of beauty unfolding. In rehearsal she was strict, an obsessive perfectionist, often short-tempered. Never unfair. Her dancers, male and female alike, feared, respected and worshipped her.
But she has no friends among them, Charlotte thought. Even the ballet patrons who socialise with her are no more than acquaintances. She will let no one close - least of all me. Why?
Violette had told the company that Charlotte was her “business assistant”, which was loosely true. No one questioned this. They were simply glad that the ballet had survived.
In the evenings, when Violette finally rested, she would collapse on a chaise longue and eat a huge meal while Geli iced her knees and massaged her shoulders. She seemed to be in constant pain.
“This is what ballet is,” she said dismissively, when Charlotte expressed concern. “It’s not glamorous, it’s hard work. If I don’t complain, nor must anyone else. I always tell my dancers, if you can’t endure the pain, find another career.”
Once or twice Charlotte persuaded Violette to walk along the river with her. They talked, but Violette was not the kind to confide, and Charlotte, too, had secrets. So their conversations were only about ballet business, and they trod warily around each other, not really knowing why they were together at all. Still Charlotte’s obsession was increasing.
She would watch the dancer’s slender neck and the movement of her throat as they talked, the lovely soft inkiness of her hair and the darkness of her brows against the pearly cloud of her face... and as soon as darkness fell, Charlotte would rush through the Crystal Ring and feed on a victim as if possessed. But never did she lay a finger on Violette.
She’d been there almost two weeks - it seemed longer, so much had happened - when restlessness compelled her, one night, to enter the rehearsal studio. She took in the empty, mirrored sweep of the room, moonlight fanning through the uncurtained windows, and imagined Violette there, pirouetting fluidly across the studio as she practised Odile’s steps.
How does she move like that? Charlotte wondered.
She took off her shoes and began to move experimentally. Raising her arms she spun in a foutté, then lifted one leg in a high écarté. Her soft full skirt swirled round her legs. It felt pleasant, exhilarating. She ran on the tips of her toes and leapt in a grande jeté - and then something made her stop dead. Violette was in the doorway, dressed in a grey satin robe, glaring at her.
“You didn’t tell me you could dance.” Her tone was one of grave accusation.
“I can’t,” said Charlotte. “It was the first time I’ve tried.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Violette came towards her, eyes burning. Charlotte had never seen her so angry. “You liar! You were dancing en pointe in stockinged feet; that’s almost impossible, not to mention stupid. You’ll injure yourself. But no one can dance like that ‘the first time’. You’re mocking me. Why?”
“I’m not, I swear,” Charlotte said quietly. “I copied what I’ve seen you doing, that’s all.”
“Excuse me, but you cannot ‘copy’ the years of work it takes to become a prima ballerina.” Violette was furious, but Charlotte saw fear behind her eyes. She was telling Violette the truth; but how could she explain that immortal bodies were not like those of humans? They were strong and fluid, not bound by tight muscles, stiff joints or lack of coordination. Imitating humans was effortless. It was what vampires did to live.
“I’m flexible, and a good mimic... If I looked more than a clumsy beginner, that was only due to poor light, and luck.”
“No.” Violette turned away and held onto the barre. Charlotte saw her reflection, the stiff terror of her expression. “I would ask you to stop mocking me, but that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You aren’t human, are you? I tried to convince myself otherwise, that the things I said over Janacek’s grave were foolish fancies - and I almost succeeded, until I saw you dancing. I thought I could cope with you, but -”
“Don’t feel you must ‘cope’ with me,” Charlotte said softly. “I hoped you would grow fond of me.”
She touched Violette’s shoulder. The ballerina shrugged her off with revulsion. “I never knew,” she said, her face turning white, “that Satan craved affection, as well as one’s soul. How touching.”
“I’m not from Satan,” said Charlotte, thinking, Yet you are so nearly right! “What on earth do you think I am?”
“A creature sent to tempt me. I’m going to tell you something now that I’ve never told anyone. You may think I’m mad, but it hardly matters. Other people think they have guardian angels; I have demons. They lean over me as I’m falling asleep, three tall shadows. They don’t speak but they imply... that I will face temptation, and my fall will affirm their belief that I am wicked to the core.”
Charlotte was stunned, wondering if Violette was sane. “What are these demons?”
“My guilt, I imagine. I don’t actually think they’re real, obviously. Temptation was bound to come and I’m fated to succumb, and then I’ll be damned, like my -” She stopped. After a second she breathed again, and went on, “I’m frightened to death of you, Charlotte. Your presence here is killing me. It’s temptation and punishment together. I thought I could prove something by resisting you, but I can’t.”
“Oh, God,” Charlotte breathed. “I don’t know what to say. The last thing I wanted was to cause you pain. I’ll go.” She began to walk away. Violette, she sensed, did not turn round but watched her in the mirror as she went. “I’ll go.”
* * *
Once Charlotte decided to return to Karl, she realised in horror how long she’d been away.
Did he wonder where I was? she thought as she travelled through the Crystal Ring. He must have guessed I was with Violette. If he’s given up on me... I couldn’t blame him, but it would kill me.
How
have I let this happen?
She felt abandoned and terrifyingly lonely. The rolling mountains of the Crystal Ring filled her with fear.
She arrived to find the chalet in darkness. No sense of Karl’s presence; without him, the place was a shell. Weighed down by disappointment, Charlotte moved listlessly around the rooms, lighting lamps.
My fault, I should have come back sooner. Her throat was burning. Karl, where have you gone? I should have stayed. Why did you give so much to Katerina; why did I let you both get away with it?
Violette, from a distance, seemed a heartless Snow Queen who had enticed Charlotte away from her true place.
In the glow of a Tiffany lamp, filtering through stained-glass lilies and dragonflies, she saw a note lying on a sideboard. She read in Karl’s elegant, slanting handwriting,
My dearest Charlotte,
Katti can travel again, so we have gone to search for Andreas and the truth about Kristian, beginning in the place where we last saw him. We could wait for you no longer. How long it will take I have no idea, a few days perhaps. If you must depart again before we return, leave me a letter. Tell me where I can find you.
K.
The place where we last saw Kristian...
That meant they’d gone to Parkland Hall. Charlotte held the note against her chest, stunned. My fault for not being here... but to think that Karl would go without me, that he’s gone with Katerina instead!
At least he’d let her know. She thought of following, but decided better of it. If she missed them, she didn’t want to be there alone. If she found them, though, she had no wish to encounter Katerina in the garden that had been sacred to her and Karl. How foolish this jealousy was, yet how sharp, a knife in the heart.
She dropped the note where she’d found it, left no message in return. She couldn’t bear to wait for them. We agreed to go back there one day... But I should have been with you, Karl, not that woman.
Turning away, Charlotte threw herself into the Crystal Ring. She was going back to Salzburg, to Violette.
* * *
What is the use of anything, Holly thought, if Ben doesn’t trust me?
She hurried down Market Street, round a corner into the cobbled alley where the bookshop was. She’d meant to go to Maud’s lodgings, but the encounter with Lancelyn had shaken her badly. She needed to gather her thoughts, and the shop was her only refuge.
Holly reached the doorway and fumbled for her key. The bow window was unlit, but the small panes glinted; she was glad of moonlight as night fell. As she put the key in the lock, she froze.
There was someone inside.
Pressing her face to the glass door, Holly saw Lancelyn and Maud. He was talking, bending towards Maud, touching her hand; Maud’s eyes were huge with awe, her mouth open. Holly looked on in wild dismay. She saw them sharp and clear as if lit by a cocoon of light even though the shop was dark...
She shut her eyes tight, cursing. When she looked again, they’d gone.
She opened the door and entered. No one here. The interior was indistinct to her imperfect eyes. Only a vision... but of a genuine encounter? Her psychic intuition rarely misled her. She felt drained by the conflicts of the past few days. Locking herself in, she sank onto a stool behind the counter, and dropped her head on her arms.
Is Lancelyn trying to slither inside my mind, as he did with Deirdre? He promised not to hurt me, but how can I believe him?
And again, What’s the use if Ben doesn’t trust me? If Lancelyn’s somehow poisoned him against me... but why? What are they doing, fighting each other, tearing me apart like a rag between two dogs?
Holly thought about Andreas. Despite what he was, there was such sadness about him, an endearing melancholy. He’d once spoken of his lost friends Karl and Katerina so longingly that she’d touched his hand - and in that touch, received an echo of memory from him. Two figures from the last century, drawn in black and white and faded reds, with lovely, pitiless faces. The image still hung in her amazed mind.
Are they still alive? Might Andreas’s friends help him? she wondered. Would they help Ben - or only bring more danger?
Holly went into a narrow recess between ceiling-high bookshelves. This would be her temple. Raising her arms, she began to turn in circles, chanting.
She felt ridiculous, without incense and paraphernalia, without Benedict or Lancelyn to lend the weight of their conviction. She was a mere handmaiden to the Order, with no authority to conduct a ritual of her own.
Yet, with a kind of shuddering desperation, she went on. She uttered the secret titles of Meter Theon, summoned Andreas’s friends by name, wove mental barriers to protect herself from evil... but she sensed no energy gathering. Hopeless. Her heart wasn’t in it.
She was too afraid.
At last she sank down onto the worn carpet, drained. Nothing happened. The shadows remained motionless. Must go, she thought. Must find Maud, then go to Ben...
Deep torpor flowed over her, and she slept.
* * *
Karl looked up at the Georgian mansion standing square against the sky. Foliage flowed from its flanks, curtaining the steep gardens; tree bowers, ornamental lawns neatly enclosed by shrubs, an occasional monkey puzzle tree or sequoia standing in exotic silhouette. The moon swathed the landscape with silver gauze, catching jewel-points of colour that only vampires could perceive. How different England felt from any other country. Gentle, ancient, redolent of lost lives...
Karl had always felt fated to come here again... but not so soon, and not without Charlotte. He wasn’t unduly worried about her; she was a vampire, not a vulnerable mortal. He knew she was staying away of her own will, and he understood her reasons. All the same, he ached with regret.
“Memories?” said Katerina.
Karl half-smiled. “Can you tell?”
“I always could, my dear. I don’t know why people find you mysterious. Will you tell me, or shall I just be quiet?”
“I am so glad you’re here,” said Karl. “I still can’t believe it, after all this time.” He fell silent, listening to the air breathing softly through the leaves. There were no humans in the garden; he sensed a few motes of heat in the house, but didn’t probe too closely. He had no desire to encounter any of Charlotte’s family.
He and Katti were dressed in greatcoats, gloves and heavy shoes; tonight’s work would be unpleasant.
Eventually Katerina said, “Well, won’t you tell me about this place? Describe your life, while I lay frozen asleep...”
“I met Charlotte,” Karl said quietly, “because I was looking for a way to kill Kristian. I thought a scientist might help me find answers; why vampires exist, what our fate might be when the universe itself isn’t eternal... and how we might be destroyed.”
Katerina said sharply, “And did you find your answers?”
“There are none. Only theories. Humans can’t fully explain the natural world; how can we expect them to understand the supernatural? But Charlotte was the scientist’s daughter. Dr Neville; a kind and trusting man whom I deceived utterly.”
“Not deliberately, Karl? It’s not in your nature.”
“That hardly salves my conscience. We cause harm, whether we mean to or not. Simply seeking his help, pretending to be human, was a deception.”
“And then you stole his daughter.”
“Among other crimes.”
“Poor Dr Neville,” breathed Katerina. “But tell me about Charlotte. Why her? You swore you’d never make another vampire, after Ilona.”
Karl smiled without humour. “Surely I don’t need to explain what I see in Charlotte? Anyway, this is her aunt’s house. This is where...”
“Enough,” said Katerina. “I’ll use my imagination.”
“The irony is that through Charlotte, I did find a way to destroy Kristian. There’s a medieval manor not far from here, with an underground tunnel leading into these gardens. Charlotte and I had to use it as an escape route... and it almost killed me.”
Ka
terina blinked in disbelief. He’d told her very little, preferring to show her. “How?”
“Come with me.” Karl tucked her hand through his arm.
The ice house was a small stone and brick chamber sunk into the side of a slope, hidden in a thick belt of trees where the gardeners seldom worked. Parts of the garden were left deliberately wild, enhancing its charm. To Karl’s relief, the chamber had not been pulled down or bricked up; it looked exactly the same as when he’d escaped with Charlotte.
“This is where the tunnel emerges,” he said. “The ice house extends under the hill...” He ducked under the low lintel, Katerina following. “The opening is at the very back.”
“Where? All I see is mouldering stonework...”
“In the floor, where it joins the wall. It’s clogged with leaves.”
Karl bent down and scooped away damp decaying layers. Insects scurried over his gloved hands. He relied on vampire sight in the darkness, not risking torchlight until they were underground. Soon he found soil under his hands, and saw the small fissure yawning downwards, uninviting. No surprise that no one had ever explored it - except Charlotte.
Discarding the soil-crusted gloves, he paused, staring into blackness so absolute that even vampire sight could not penetrate. He waited for the keening of ghost voices... the touch of searing coldness.
“If you sense anything strange, tell me,” he said
“What?” Katerina was kneeling close beside him, her face moon-pale, her eyes intent. “Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts now?”
“Listen; if you feel cold and weak or hear strange sounds, turn round and come straight out. I mean it, Katti. There’s a presence here that almost killed me. And it destroyed Kristian.”
Her eyes showed white with shock, but she nodded.
Karl eased himself feet-first into the fissure, found the sloping floor, and edged down until it levelled out and he could stand. Then he helped Katerina down after him. She looked around her as he flicked on his torch. Rotting bricks, soil, tree-roots; air saturated with a musty stench.
She said, “There is something... an evil feeling. What’s causing it? How did Kristian die?”
A Dance in Blood Velvet Page 21
