Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  “I’m not offended,” James said, knowing that he was and was uncertain why. As he left the room, he passed near her chair, and for one moment, he was caught and held by the sound of her pulse.

  “She gave me a lecture on pacifism,” James said at last when Saint-Germain had asked him for a third time what he and Madame Kunst had found to talk about. “She wants me to end the war so no more widows will lose sons. God knows, I don’t want to see any more deaths, but what’s the alternative?”

  “Capitulation?” Saint-Germain suggested.

  “Oh, no. You’ve seen the way the Germans have treated every foot of land they’ve taken. And they say there’s worse things going on. One of the Dutch reporters said that there were cattle cars full of people being taken away. If they’re doing that in Germany to Germans, what would they do to the rest of us?” He gestured once. “That could be propaganda about the cattle cars, but if it isn’t …”

  “I do see your point, Mister Tree. I am not convinced that you see mine. Montalia is isolated and splendidly defensible. A person here, or in one of the houses in, shall we say, a ten-kilometer radius, with a radio receiver and a reasonable amount of prudence, might provide the Germans with extremely useful information.” He watched James as he said this, expecting an argument.

  “But what good would it be?” James objected, taking his favorite role of Devil’s Advocate. “You said yourself that the chateau is isolated, and God knows, this part of Provence is damned remote. What could anyone find out here? There’s nothing very strategic in your ten-kilometer radius unless you think that they’re going to start last-ditch battles for the smaller passes.”

  “We’re very close to Switzerland. As many secrets as gold are brokered through Geneva and Zurich. With a listening post here, a great deal could be learned.” Saint-Germain raised one shoulder. “I may be feinting at shadows, but it worries me.”

  “If they want a listening post for Switzerland, why not in Switzerland?” James asked.

  “The Swiss take a dim view of the abuse of their neutrality. Certainly there are monitoring posts in Bavaria and Austria, but it is not as easy to watch Geneva and Lausanne. The Resistance have found men and women doing espionage work in these mountains before. Last year, it was a gentleman claiming to be a naturalist hoping to preserve a particular bird; he climbed all over the mountains, and stayed in the old monastery on the next ridge. He might have accomplished his task, whatever it was, if one of the Resistance men did not become suspicious when he saw the supposed naturalist walk by a nest of the bird in question without a second look. It may be that Madame Kunst is nothing more than an Austrian refugee in a panic, but I am not going to assume anything until she has shown me I have no reason to be concerned.”

  James chuckled. “And where do you fit into this?”

  “I don’t want to fit into it at all,” was Saint-Germain’s short rejoinder. “War ceased to amuse me millen … years ago.” He shook his head. “Apparently you haven’t considered our position. We are both foreigners in a country at war. If we are imprisoned, which could happen—it has happened before—our particular needs would make a prolonged stay … difficult.” He recalled several of the times he had been confined, and each brought its own burden of revulsion. “You would not like prison, Mister Tree.”

  “I wouldn’t like it in any case,” James said at once. “I knew a reporter who was shot by the Spanish for trying to file an uncensored story. He’d done it before, and they caught him trying the same thing again.”

  Saint-Germain lifted his head, and listened. “Ah. That will be Mirelle. We will continue this at a later time, Mister Tree.”

  “What?” James cried, remembering the woman’s name all too clearly. Now he, too, could hear an approaching automobile.

  “You do have need of her, Mister Tree,” Saint-Germain said quietly. “More than you know now.”

  James came off the sofa to round on le Comte. “It’s monstrous. I’ve gone along with some of what you’ve told me, but I draw the line at this!”

  “Perhaps you should wait until you have a better idea of what ‘this’ is,” Saint-Germain said, a touch of his wry humor returning. “She is looking forward to this evening. It would be sad if you were to disappoint her.”

  “Come on,” James protested.

  This time, when Saint-Germain spoke, his voice was low and his eyes compassionate. “Mister Tree, you will have to learn sometime, and we haven’t the luxury of leisure. Mirelle wants to have the pleasure of taking your vampiric virginity, and you would do well to agree. We are rarely so fortunate in our first … experiences. You will spare yourself a great deal of unpleasantness if you will set aside your worry and pride long enough to lie with her. Believe this.”

  “But …” James began, then stopped. He could feel his hunger coiled within him, and he knew without doubt that it was hearing the beat of Madame Kunst’s heart that had sharpened it. “Okay, I’ll try. If nothing else,” he went on with a poor attempt at jauntiness, “I’ll get a good lay.”

  Saint-Germain’s brows rose. “It is essential that she have the … good lay. Otherwise you will have nothing, Mister Tree. Males of our blood are like this.” He was about to go on when there was a quick, emphatic step in the hall and the door was flung open.

  Mirelle Bec was thirty-four, firm-bodied and comfortably voluptuous. She did not so much enter the room as burst into it with profligate vitality. Drab clothes and lack of cosmetics could not disguise her sensuality. Her hair was a dark cloud around a pert face that was more exciting than pretty, and when she spoke, it was in rapid, enthusiastic bursts. “Comte!” she called out and hastened across the room to fling her arms around him. “You’ve kept away so long, I ought to be annoyed with you, but I could never do that.”

  Saint-Germain kissed her cheek affectionately. “I have missed seeing you too, Mirelle.”

  As she disengaged herself from his embrace, she pointed dramatically at James. “Is this the baby? Comte, you are a bad, bad man: you did not tell me he was so beautiful.” To James’ embarrassment, Mirelle gave him a thorough and very appraising looking-over. “Oh, this is very promising,” she declared as she approached him. “I do like the white hair. It is distinguished, is it not?” As James tried not to squirm, she laughed aloud and reached for his hand. “You are shy? But how delightful.” Over her shoulder she added to Saint-Germain, “How good of you to offer him to me. I am going to enjoy myself tremendously.”

  “But, Madame, we …” James said in confusion, trying to find some way to deal with her.

  “Have not been introduced, is that what concerns you? I am Mirelle, and you, I have been told, are James. So. We are introduced now. It remains only for you to show me which room is yours.”

  James had had experience with many women, but this one took him wholly aback. Yet even as he tried to separate himself from her, he felt the draw of her, and his much-denied hunger responded to her. “Madame …”

  “No, no, no. Mirelle. You are James. I am Mirelle. It is more friendly that way, is it not?” She drew his arm through hers. “You will tell me how you come to be here as we walk to your room.”

  “I am not sure that …” James began with a look of mute appeal to Saint-Germain which he studiously avoided.

  “But I am. Let us go, James” She waved to le Comte and went quickly to the door, taking the ambivalent James with her. “Christ, I’m sorry,” James muttered some time later. They were in a glorious tangle on his bed with the covers in complete disarray. “If you give me a little time, Mirelle. I must be more worn out than I knew.”

  Mirelle gave a sympathetic laugh. “It is not fatigue, James, it is what you are.” She trailed her fingers over his chest. “Weren’t you told?”

  “I’ve been told all kinds of things the last couple days,” he sighed in disgust.

  “But this, this is different,” Mirelle said generously. “For a man, this is more important, is it not?” She snuggled closer to him, pressing her body to
his. “It is not the same when one changes. But there are compensations”

  “For this? I’ve never been impotent before,” James said, a note of distress creeping into his voice.

  “It is not impotent,” Mirelle assured him. “You are more than ready to make love to me, yes? And you are not repelled by me. So this is another matter.”

  “You don’t know what it is that I … almost did.” He felt suddenly miserable; he wanted to shut out the drumming of her heart that was loud as heavy machinery in his ears.

  Mirelle laughed deeply. “But of course I know what you almost did. You are the same as le Comte. You wanted to put your lips to my neck and taste …”

  “For God’s sake!” James interrupted her, trying to move away from her but not succeeding.

  “Well,” Mirelle said reasonably, “it is what I expected of you. But you have not entirely got the way of it. You are judging yourself by your earlier standards, and they do not apply, my cabbage.”

  James rolled onto his side and rested his hand on the rise of Mirelle’s hip. “Look, you’re being very nice about this, and I appreciate it, but …” He wanted to shrug the incident off, to promise her another hour when he was feeling a bit better, but he could not find a gracious way to do so. He loved the feel of her skin under his hand and her nearness was oddly intoxicating, so that he could not bring himself to leave the bed or ask her to leave it.

  “You are discouraged, but you need not be, James. You have not got used to your new ways. You don’t have to worry. Let me show you. I love showing.” Her hazel eyes took on a greenish shine of mischief. “You must learn how to satisfy me. It is not too difficult, ami, and when it is done, you will do well enough for yourself.” She wriggled expertly. “Now, your hand there, if you please. That is a good beginning.”

  Dazed, James did as he was told, letting her instruct him as if he were a boy of fourteen. At first he could not get the memory of the long nights with Madelaine out of his thoughts, but then, as his passion grew in answer to Mirelle’s, he responded to her, and only to her, and this time, though he did not love her as he had supposed he would, he had no reason to apologize.

  Roger escorted Madame Kunst to her room, and listened quietly to her protestations that she was reluctant to remain at Montalia. “I have those I wish to meet. It isn’t wise for me to remain here.”

  “But there is fighting, Madame, and you would not be safe, should you venture out into the world as it is now.” Roger had received Saint-Germain’s instructions several hours before to be solicitous of the Austrian woman.

  “They said that there would be a boat at Nice that would take me to Scotland. I must reach that boat. I must.”

  “My master will make inquiries on your behalf, Madame. It would not be pleasant for you to suffer any more mishaps.” Roger was unfailingly polite and slightly deferent, but gave no indication that he would accommodate her.

  “He has some influence, this Comte? Could he help me?” Her voice pleaded but her wary eyes were hard.

  “That is for him to decide, Madame Kunst. I will mention what you have told me.” The hallway was dark where the glow of the lantern did not shine. “You have enough candles in your room?”

  “There are plenty, thank you,” she answered abruptly. Again she grasped the handle. “I must leave. I must go to Scotland. Can you explain that?”

  “I will tell my master what you have said.”

  Her hands came up to her chin in fists. “Oh, you stupid man!” she shouted in her frustration, and then was at once quiet and restrained. “Forgive me. I must be more … tired than I realize.”

  “Of course, Madame Kunst.” He lifted the lantern higher. “You can see your way?”

  She did not entirely take the hint. “That woman,” she said as she paused on the threshold. “I suppose she is necessary?”

  Roger gave her no response whatever and there was a subtle sternness about his mouth that indicated he would not indulge in speculation about his master or Mirelle Bec.

  “Well, such things happen, I suppose.” She gave a polite shrug to show it made no difference to her if those in the house wanted to be immoral. “The highborn live by their own rules, do they not?”

  “Good night, Madame Kunst,” Roger said, and stepped back from her doorway. When he was satisfied that the door was firmly closed, he turned away from it and made his way back toward the sitting room where he knew that Saint-Germain waited for him. His sandy head was bent in thought and his face was not readable.

  Shortly before sunrise, Saint-Germain found James walking in the overgrown garden. He came up to the American silently and fell into step beside him, letting James choose the path they were to take.

  “She showed me,” James said after a long while.

  “Ah.”

  Their feet as they walked crunched on the unraked gravel that led between the abandoned flower beds. James reached out and pulled a cluster of dried, faded blossoms off a trailing branch as it brushed his shoulder. “It wasn’t what I expected.” The paper-crisp husks of the flowers ran between his fingers and fell.

  “But tolerable?” Saint-Germain inquired as if they were discussing nothing more important than the temperature of bath water.

  “Oh, yeah. Tolerable.” He laughed once, self-consciously. “Tolerable.”

  Saint-Germain continued his unhurried stroll, but pointed out that the sun would be up in half an hour. “You are not used to the sun yet, Mister Tree. Until you are, it might be wisest to spend the day indoors, if not asleep.”

  “Unhuh.” He turned back toward the chateau, saying with some awkwardness, “Mirelle told me she’d be back in three or four days. But she didn’t … Oh, Christ! This is difficult.”

  “She will be here for you, Mister Tree. My need is not great just now.” He answered the unasked question easily, and sensed James’ relief.

  “That’s what she hinted.” James looked sharply at the shorter man. “Why? Is it because you’re after that Austrian woman?”

  “What an appalling notion! No, of course I’m not.” He expressed his indignation lightly, but decided he had better explain. “Oh, if I were determined to … use her, I could wait until she was asleep and visit her then, and she would remember little more than a very pleasant dream. It is something we all learn to do in time, and it has its advantages upon occasion. But Madame Kunst is a bit of a puzzle. Her purpose for being here is not known to me, and it would not be sensible or wise to … be close to her. If she learned or guessed what I am, and wished me ill, she would have me at a distinct disadvantage. The Resistance might not mind taking off time from hunting Nazis and Nazi sympathizers to hunt a more old-fashioned menace. You must not forget that is how most of the world sees us—as menaces. I would not like to have to leave Montalia precipitately just now.” There had been many times in the past when he had had to take sudden flight in order to save himself: it was not a thing he wished to do again. “We must be circumspect, James.”

  This was the first time Saint-Germain had addressed him by his Christian name, and it startled him. “Why do you call me James? Is it because of Mirelle?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Saint-Germain’s wry smile was clear in the advancing light.

  “You’ve been calling me Mister Tree since I arrived here.” The tone of his statement was stubborn and James was plainly waiting for an answer.

  “And you have not been calling me anything at all,” was Saint-Germain’s mild reply.

  James faltered. “It’s that … I don’t know what to call you.”

  “Is it?” Saint-Germain gestured toward the side door that led into the pantry. “This is the quickest way.”

  As James was about to go in, there came the drone of planes overhead. He looked up, searching the sky, and at last, off to the north, saw a formation of shapes headed west. “I can’t tell whose they are,” he said quietly.

  “American or British bombers back from their nighttime raids. They keep to the south of Paris for reaso
ns of caution.” He held the door for James.

  “This far south?” James wondered aloud, already stepping into the shadow of the doorway.

  “It is possible, James. They have done it before. You have been here very little time and until last night, you were not paying much attention to the world around you.” There was no rebuke in what he said, and he felt none.

  “True enough,” James allowed, and waited while Saint-Germain closed the door behind them and latched it. “Why bother?”

  “The crofters around here are very insular, careful folk, like all French peasants. They respect and admire Madelaine because she is the Seigneur. Don’t look so surprised, Mister Tree. Surely you can understand this. The peasants are proud of their estate and they are protective of Montalia. Most of them think it is a great misfortune that the lines have passed through females for so long, but that makes them all the more determined to guard Madelaine. They know what she does—or part of it. They would beat their daughters senseless for taking lovers, but the Seigneurs are different, and her adventures provide them endless entertainment.”

  They had come into the kitchen where Roger was cutting up a freshly killed chicken. He looked up from his task and regarded the two men quizzically. “I didn’t know you were outside.”

  “James was taking the air, and I was coming back from checking the gatehouse,” Saint-Germain said. “You might want to purchase some eggs from the Widow Saejean. Her boy told Mirelle that times are hard for them just now.”

  Roger nodded. “This afternoon.” He bent and sniffed the chicken. “They’re not able to feed them as well as they did.”

  “We could purchase a few of our own, if that would help,” Saint-Germain suggested, but Roger shook his head.

  “Better to buy them. If we bring chickens here, we won’t be able to feed them much better than the rest do, and they would resent it. We are still the foreigners, and it would not take much to have them remember it.” He began to cut up the bird with a long chef’s knife, letting the weight of the blade do much of the work.