“I may not be human, but I can still understand...”
“If I tell you, it’s only because you aren’t human.” Violette sank onto a corner of the bed. How like Giselle she looked; exhausted, almost destroyed, yet heart-breakingly beautiful. “The awful thing is that, because of you, I now know my father wasn’t mad after all...” She trailed off, then began, her voice light and rapid as if to skim over the pain. “From the outside, I had an ordinary middle-class life in Surrey. I was born Violet Birch - a ballerina needs a more exotic name, of course. My mother had no more children. My birth was difficult; I tore her, and she was never really well again... Nothing was spelled out, you see. There were only hints and mysteries. So that’s what I remember of childhood; not understanding, and feeling frightened.
“My father wasn’t the easiest of men. He behaved in extremes. Sometimes smothering us with affection, at other times cold and sarcastic. He scared me out of feeling any fondness for him. My mother refused to share his bed, and sometimes at night I heard them quarrelling, my father trying to persuade her into some awful act she didn’t want. All I knew was that it sounded dark and terrifying. She would say, ‘What if I had another child? It would kill me. We agreed!’ He’d say, ‘I know, but I’m your husband, I’m only human!’ And she’d shout back, ‘Do you want me to die?’”
Charlotte put in, “That must have been horrifying. Especially to a child.”
“Well, I became convinced that my mother’s poor health and unhappiness was my fault. I don’t believe my father ever forced her, but some mornings they’d be in a foul mood, snapping at each other and at me. Then my father would feel guilty and apologise to her - almost wheedling, while she sat as cold as a nun. And this, I thought, was ‘love’.
“We presented a conventional front, and did all the usual things like church-going. My parents appeared an ordinary, quiet couple. But... I’m sure mine was not the only home full of hidden tension, resentment, unspoken dangers.
“My mother accused my father of going with other women. I was old enough by then to suspect what their quarrels were about. He would deny it, but then blame her - admitting his guilt, in effect. They tore each other to pieces with this toxic mixture of possessiveness and rejection. And all I learned of sex was that it was dangerous and wicked, something men used to torment women.
“I was eleven, I think, when it happened. Father came home late one night in a terrible state, blood all over him. First we thought he was drunk and had got into a fight. A neighbour brought the doctor. But Father was so distraught he confessed everything, and no one could silence him. Mother pushed me out of the room, too late. I’d heard most of it and I heard the rest through the door.
“A woman had picked him up in the street, he said, and taken him to a hotel. She seduced him and he couldn’t resist, even though he was disgusted with himself. She was a demon, he kept saying. ‘A demon, a demon.’ She insisted on climbing on top.” Violette shuddered. “And when it was over she wasn’t pleased with him, so she leaned down and bit him - God, it’s so hard to say. She bit right through his male organs.”
As she spoke, Charlotte thought, Ilona...
“I was spared any more details, thank goodness, but I gather the mutilation was permanent. But all these ravings in front of our stunned neighbour and the doctor! My mother was devastated. She rushed out of the room, saw me and knew I’d heard everything. I think in sheer rage, and grief that she’d failed to protect my innocence, she took it out on me; slapped me, shook me violently, shouting, ‘This is what lust does! It’s sent from Satan to destroy us!’
“So those were my first lessons in physical love. Blood, pain, terror and rejection.
“Mother died a few weeks later. Shame killed her; she went into a decline, stopped eating, succumbed to pneumonia. My father was ill, too. Partly from his injury, but mainly in his mind. The attack unhinged him.
“He decided he and I were both evil. ‘This black hair,’ he would say, pointing from his head to mine, ‘it’s the mark of Satan. We’re from the Devil; we drove your mother into her grave. How can we save your soul, Vi?’
“I can’t express how terrified I was. He talked endlessly about evil and demons; often he locked me in my room for days. He got so deep into my head, I thought I was damned, that I’d wilfully destroyed my mother. And he...” Her voice gave out. She twisted her fingers together and went on, in a whisper of revulsion. “There’s worse. Sometimes he came into my room at night, sleepwalking, and exposed himself. He’d stand by my bed, saying nothing. How was I meant to react? I’d shut my eyes tight until he left, but I couldn’t avoid glimpses of... the injury. There was almost nothing left. A stump of flesh, scars...”
She put a hand to her lips, her eyes blank. Then, her voice level, she went on, “By the time the doctors took him to an asylum, I was nearly as mad as he was.
“I was sent to live with an older cousin who had her own children and didn’t really want me. Fortunately they were well off, and she was happy to send me away to ballet school. I was so lucky. I poured all my energy into dancing and shut the past away. Oh, I was tough on myself... but even so, I couldn’t erase the nightmares completely.
“Father died in the asylum. I was fifteen when I last saw him, and he was still talking about the demon who’d mutilated him. ‘She was a lamia,’ he said. ‘A temptress, an instrument of Satan. All woman are the same inside!’
“His words made me ill. I said, ‘Not my mother.’
“‘No, she was saint,’ he said, as if he’d forgotten the bitterness of their marriage. ‘The Devil made me defile her, and she gave birth to a demon.’ He pointed at me. ‘That’s what killed her, Violet. You!’ Then he lunged and tried to strangle me. The attendants restrained him before he did any real harm. I never saw him again.”
Charlotte, reeling, struggled to find words. “Gods, I’m so sorry. But he was ill; surely you know that nothing he said was true.”
Violette’s eyes flashed open, accusing. “It wasn’t you in some disguise, was it? My father swore she had teeth like a wolf and sucked his blood. It would make sense; you destroyed him, and now you’ve come for me.” The dancer’s face paled to greenish-white.
“It was not me, I swear,” said Charlotte. “Did he give a description of her?”
“Her hair was the colour of blood. She called herself Ilona. That’s all.”
Charlotte closed her eyes in utter dismay. Ilona, would you feel remorse if you heard this - or would you just laugh? “Does it help to know that it wasn’t your father’s fault, either? He was the victim of a vampire. Knowing that, could you forgive him?”
Violette rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. There was silence, then the sound of water running. Charlotte waited a minute, and went after her.
She found Violette leaning over the sink, splashing water on her face. “Are you all right?”
“I felt faint. I thought I was going to be sick, but I can’t. I’ve eaten nothing today.”
“You must eat. There’s no sense in punishing yourself. Let me take you out for lunch; you’ll feel better.” She led Violette back into the bedroom; the dancer was passive, exhausted. “Don’t you understand? None of it was your fault.”
“Of course I understand! That makes it no less painful. However many times my rational mind tells me it wasn’t my fault and I did nothing wrong - my inner self refuses to listen. My father’s word was law. My voice is nothing.”
Then, at last, Charlotte took Violette in her arms and held her. The dancer did not resist. She wrapped her slender arms around the vampire’s back, dropped her head onto her shoulder, as if giving herself up to death. Her cheek felt deliciously cool against Charlotte’s... and although the vampire in Charlotte longed to bite down and feel sweet hot blood pouring into her mouth, tenderness won.
“I can’t love anyone, because I don’t know how,” said Violette. “My father warned that my true nature would come out one day. Desiring women instead of men doesn’t make m
e feel safer, because he convinced me that women are devils. You came along to prove it.”
“A sort of guardian demon?” Charlotte said.
“Yes,” Violette laughed drily. “Isn’t that what you are?”
“I suppose so.”
“Do you know why I made you leave, that time in my flat? It wasn’t because you bit me, or the shock of realising what you are; I think I already knew. It was because I let myself lose control, and I was frightened of what I felt. Disgusted.”
“But you’re not driving me out now? Nor running away?”
Violette shook her head. “You win,” she whispered.
The dancer shed a few tears, but Charlotte remained dry-eyed, feeling hollow as they held each other. Knowing that Violette accepted her, not as a friend, but as the embodiment of her surrender to the evil side of her nature.
She gave in to Charlotte hating herself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MIDNIGHT ANGELS
A Sunday evening; it seemed to Holly that she and Benedict had spent the whole day quarrelling. He wanted to send her away, but she refused to go.
“For goodness’ sake, Holly, you’re not safe here! You’ve been in danger several times. I can’t risk it happening again.”
“It’s not safe for you, either!” Her face was hot with anger. “That’s why I’m staying.”
“I can’t allow it. You must go to your parents’.”
“Why should I be any safer there? The supernatural takes no account of distance. Besides,” she added bitterly, “how would you know I wasn’t consorting with Lancelyn?”
“I trust you,” he growled. “How can I concentrate on the situation while I’m worrying about you?”
“What am I supposed to do with myself, a hundred miles away? Doesn’t my worrying matter?”
Neither would back down. The parlour door was open; she noticed Andreas in the doorway, witnessing their quarrel with no hint of embarrassment. As Ben paused for breath, Andreas walked in and said lightly, “You’re too hard on her, Benedict. She is only trying to protect you.”
Ben glared at him. “Yes, but she can’t.”
“Really? Where do you think we’d be without Karl and Katerina?”
“What has that to do with Holly?” Ben said, exasperated.
Drenched by foreboding, Holly awaited the inevitable reply.
“She called them, of course.”
Dismayed, she said, “Andreas! You swore you wouldn’t tell him!”
He shrugged. “I am not very good at keeping promises, I’m afraid.”
Ben turned almost yellow with anger, then went icily quiet. The change unsettled her. He couldn’t tolerate the idea of anyone surpassing his occult skills - least of all his own wife. Knowing that, she’d resolved to keep her efforts secret.
At last he said thinly, “How could you possibly have called them?”
“I don’t know,” she said, flustered. “I’m not sure I did. I imitated the ritual, but nothing happened. It could be the echo of your original summoning that brought them, not me.” She finished lamely, “I only wanted to help...”
“How dare you even try?” he hissed, colourless. “How dare you interfere with this?”
She had no defence against his fury. Seething, she retreated to the kitchen, only to find Katerina there with the cat in her arms. One of the new vampires stood beside her; a thin, pale woman with red hair.
Dear God, Holly thought, is there nowhere I can escape?
Katerina turned and looked sympathetically at her over Sam’s tabby head. She said, “Your husband doesn’t deserve you, my dear.”
Holly stopped, keeping the table between them. “Have you been listening?”
“It’s difficult not to overhear, in such a small house. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”
Holly looked stonily at her, thinking, I want my cat back and I want you gone, all of you! The flame-red of the new vampire’s hair reminded her of Deirdre, and a horrible flashback hit her; Deirdre falling under the train... the image subsided and she let her breath go.
“Are you all right?” Katerina, with apparent concern, walked around the table and unloaded the indiscriminate Sam into Holly’s arms. “If you like, I’ll reassure Ben myself that I will let no one harm you. But ask yourself: is he trying to protect you, or merely to exclude you? Hard not to notice a touch of jealousy in his voice.”
“Did I summon you?” Holly asked, suddenly fierce. “Or was it Benedict?”
“I’m sorry, my dear. I have absolutely no idea.”
Holly glanced down at Sam, now rubbing his face against her chin in an ecstasy of affection. This, she thought, after you were all over Katerina! “Well, I don’t care what my husband says or thinks. I am not leaving.”
* * *
Karl found Benedict in his study; still raw from the argument, to judge by his sour demeanour.
“Must you be so uncivil your wife?” Karl said pleasantly. “She has everyone’s best interests at heart. I don’t know who summoned us, but it’s clear she was trying to help.”
Ben glowered at him. “I don’t need a lecture, even from you.”
“Very well, no lecture. You are right to be concerned for her; after all, why should these vampires obey you?”
Benedict stared, his expression guarded. Karl sat facing him across the study desk. A candle spilled a pool of light between them.
“Why should I justify my actions to you?” Benedict said stiffly. “Presumably you could kill me at any time, yet you haven’t.”
“There is a great deal you do not understand.”
“I think there’s a great deal that neither of us understands.”
“True,” said Karl. “We’re both reluctant to give away secrets, but this is arrogance, which achieves nothing. I suggest we forsake our pride and talk openly.”
“Well...”
“Are you afraid of me?” said Karl.
“No.”
The candle burned to a stump and began sputtering in liquid wax. Karl snuffed out the flame with his fingertips. Smoke ribboned upwards, side-lit by the dull red glow of a lamp. With the eerie lamplight outlining his pale face, Karl stared at Ben from unblinking amber eyes...
After a moment Ben looked away, his posture softening. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, of course I’m afraid. I’m not an idiot. And I know I’m out of my depth, but I’m damned if I’ll let it defeat me! Why are you the only vampire I can’t control?”
Karl leaned back, folding his hands on his knee. “Possibly because the others were dormant, while I was not. My question is, what gives you power over any vampire?”
“I thought it was the Book, but Lancelyn’s got it now and I was able to subdue Simon without it. I’d like to think the power’s within me. Natural aptitude honed by mental discipline.” Benedict began to tell his story. He spoke flatly at first, then feeling crept into his voice and he spoke fervently of the Neophytes of Meter Theon, his dispute with his brother, his astral journeys into the realm he called Raqia.
When Benedict mentioned Holly’s vision of a black grimoire in an underground passage, and their quest to find it, Karl’s amazement grew.
“Why should she have that particular vision?”
“Lancelyn had a way of directing her to the result he wanted,” said Ben. “How, I don’t know. She can’t give any rational explanation.”
“I know where those tunnels are,” said Karl. “I’ve been there, too often.”
Ben’s eyes grew wide as Karl told him a little about Kristian, the Weisskalt, and the ancient passageways beneath Parkland estate.
“I saw the Book in the cell,” said Karl. “And I went back, only to find it gone. At least I know now what became of it. But I had no chance to look inside, and I’m curious.”
Ben was restless with excitement now, his resentment of Karl forgotten. “There were lists of names, and scribblings in a sort of coded Latin. Lancelyn and I were working on the translation together, until the trouble started.
It was only after I brought the Book here that I was able to summon Andreas. Only an experiment, the first time...”
“If Kristian’s death woke vampires in the Weisskalt, they must have been drifting in the Ring for months. They answered your call because they were weak; other immortals were strong enough to resist. I’m not denying you have extraordinary talent...”
“Thing is, the Book itself seems to have an intrinsic hold over vampires. As if they fear it.”
“I see.” Karl was carefully not telling Benedict too much. “But when you speak of entering the astral world - surely you don’t do so bodily?”
As far as Karl knew, only vampires could enter the Crystal Ring. A mortal taken there, on the point of death, became a vampire.
“No,” said Benedict. “Only in dream form, as it were. Lancelyn describes the spirit world as subjective, a journey into the self. That’s not to denigrate its importance. The microcosm contains the macrocosm; each man contains the universe within himself. But the point is that when I found Raqia - the Crystal Ring, as you call it - I knew it was real. Then I began to doubt that Lancelyn’s spirit realm and mine were the same. I decided that mine was real, his wasn’t - egotism, perhaps, but that’s where the rot set in. My desire for superior knowledge clashed with his refusal to see me as equal.”
Karl said, “But if the Crystal Ring is the human psyche, his ideas weren’t inaccurate. I’ve never heard of a mortal discovering our realm. It’s impossible...” He went on, half to himself, “But why should it be? If the Ring, or Raqia, is a realm of the subconscious, surely all humans have the potential to enter. Why shouldn’t a highly trained mind do so consciously?”
“You mean I may not be unique?” said Ben.
Karl half-smiled. “Does that matter?”
“Yes, it does.” Ben grimaced, self-mocking. “Naturally I want power that no one else possesses. Why deny it?”
“Well, you’re certainly not alone in the desire.”
“No. Lancelyn and I are very alike.”
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