The Vampire Sextette

by Marvin Kaye

  springing from his attraction. If only my attraction were not

  deepening as well. It has been so long since I have let myself be loved

  knowingly; for the last decade I have taken my pleasure— such as it

  has been— in the dreams of men who have been interesting to me,

  and interested in me. And that has sufficed; it is gratification but not

  nourishment. For that, there must be intimacy without fantasy. And I

  cannot help but long for that intimacy, for knowledge and

  acceptance— although why I believe I should find either from William

  T. Sherman, I cannot tell, except for what is in his eyes.

  Madelaine arrived at the French Theatre on Montgomery Street and found

  herself in a crush of carriages trying to get into position at the front of the theatre,

  where the sidewalk was broader and two wide steps were in place for those

  leaving their carriages. Ushers were at the edge of this boardwalk helping the

  arriving audience to alight.

  "I don't think I can get much closer, Madame, not in another ten minutes, and

  you would then be late," said Enrique, her coachman, as he looked over the line of

  vehicles waiting to discharge their passengers. "It is less than a block from here."

  "It is satisfactory, Enrique," said Madelaine with decision, handing him a small

  tip as she prepared to get out. "I will walk the rest of the way; if you will watch

  me, to be sure I am not—"

  "I will watch, Madame," he said, drawing the coach up to the boardwalk. "Do

  you need me to let the steps down?"

  "No," she replied. "I can manage well enough. The street is well lit, and I doubt

  anyone will importune me with so much activity about." With that, she opened the

  door panel, set her lap rug aside, and stepped down from the carriage, swinging

  the door behind her to close it. She was about to turn when she felt her cloak snag

  on the door latch; as she struggled to free it, she stumbled back against the coach.

  "Allow me, Madame," said a voice from behind her; William Sherman reached

  out and freed her cloak, then held out his hand to assist her to the wide, wooden

  sidewalk. "Good evening, and permit me to say that I am surprised to see you

  here."

  "At the French Theatre? Where else should I be?" Madelaine recovered her

  poise at once. "Thank you for your concern, Mr. Sherman. Why should you be

  surprised?"

  He answered indirectly as he glanced at his pocket watch. "The curtain will rise

  in five minutes. You will have to join your company at once."

  "Then I will have to hurry," said Madelaine, starting along the boardwalk in the

  direction of the French Theatre. "But there is no one I am joining, Mr. Sherman.

  And no one is joining me. I am a Frenchwoman here for the pleasure of hearing

  her own language spoken, not to indulge in the entertainment of society."

  "Surely you do not go to the theatre unescorted?" He gazed at her in dismay.

  "No, no; Madame, you must not."

  "But why?" she asked reasonably. "I have attended the theatre alone in

  London." As soon as she said it, she realized she had slipped; it was rare for her

  to make such an error.

  "Never tell me you went alone to the theatre as a child," he countered. "Not

  even French parents are so indulgent."

  "Not as a child, no," she allowed, irritated that her tongue should have got her

  into such a pass with Sherman, of all people. He was too acute for her to forget

  herself around him.

  He stopped walking, and looked down at her, cocking his head; the lamplight

  made his red hair glow like hot coals. "As a gentleman, I should never ask a lady

  this question, but I fear I must."

  She returned his look. "What question is that? I have told you the truth, Mr.

  Sherman."

  "Of that I have no doubt." He answered so directly that she was startled. "I

  can perceive the truth of you as if it grew on stalks. No, the question I ought not

  ask is: How old are you?" Before she could answer, he added, "Because I have

  received an accounting of your money in the Saint Louis office of Lucas and

  Turner, and with a portrait and a description to verify your identity. It would seem

  that you have not altered in any particular in the last decade. You appeared to be

  about twenty when you first went there, and you appear to be about twenty now."

  Very carefully she said, "If I told you when I was born, you would not believe

  me."

  He studied her eyes and was satisfied, "That, too, was the truth." He again

  looked at his pocket watch. "We are going to miss the curtain."

  "Does this mean you are escorting me?" asked Madelaine, unable to resist

  smiling at him.

  "Perforce," answered Sherman, his eyes creasing at the corners.

  "But what of the gossip you have warned me about? And your wife is still with

  her parents." Madelaine noticed that the theatregoers had all but disappeared from

  the street. She glanced at Sherman. "Are you really set on seeing Racine?"

  His face did not change, but his voice softened. "No."

  "Nor am I," said Madelaine, who had seen Phaedre more than twenty times in

  the last sixty years. "Surely there is somewhere we can go that will not cause

  tongues to wag?"

  Most of those going to the theatre were in their place. The few who remained

  on the street hurried to reach their seats before the curtain went up; they paid no

  attention to Madelaine and Sherman.

  He coughed once. "There are rooms at the casinos, private rooms. Men dine

  there, in private. Sometimes these rooms are used for assignations."

  "Would that bother you?" asked Madelaine. "Going to such a place?"

  "It should bother you," said Sherman sternly. Then he made up his mind. He

  took her by the elbow and started to lead her in the direction away from the

  French Theatre. "My carriage is in a livery around the corner on Pine Street," he

  said.

  "I wish you would not hold on to my arm in that manner," she said to him. "It's

  uncomfortable."

  He released her at once, chagrined. "I meant nothing unsuitable, Madame." He

  put more than two feet between them. "You must understand that I only sought to

  guard—"

  "Oh! for all the saints in the calendar!" Madelaine burst out, then lowered her

  voice. "I meant nothing but what I said: I dislike having my arm clutched. But I am

  glad of your company, Mr. Sherman, and your protection. I know these streets

  can be dangerous."

  He paused at the corner of Pine Street. "I will take you home."

  "My coachman will do that, thank you," said Madelaine amiably, "after we

  have our private discussion."

  This time there was an eagerness in his eyes as he looked down at her. "What

  did you mean by discussion, since you are clarifying your meaning, Madame?"

  "That, in large part, is up to you," said Madelaine, regarding him steadily. "I

  will not seduce you, or demand what you are unwilling to give; I want no man who

  is not enthusiastic to have me."

  He laughed abruptly. "What man would that be? One who is dead, or prefers

  the bodies of men?"

  Madelaine answered him seriously. "I do not mean only my body, Mr.

  Sherman. If that is all I sought, it is there for the taking, all around us, at

&
nbsp; acceptable prices. I mean a man who is willing to see into my soul. And to let me

  see into his."

  Taken aback, Sherman straightened up and stared down the dark street. "Well,

  your candor is admirable." He paused thoughtfully. "Let me make myself plain to

  you, Madame, and if what I say is repugnant to you, then I will not impose upon

  you any longer, and I will forget that any of this was said. No matter what you may

  stir in me, I cannot, and I will not, compromise my obligations to my family. I am

  married, and that will not be changed by any desire I may feel for you."

  "I don't recall asking you to change, or to hurt your family," said Madelaine as

  she put her hand through his arm. "I only remember suggesting that we spend the

  evening together."

  "And that I may have you if that is what I wish," he said, as if to give her one

  more chance to change her mind.

  Madelaine's smile was quick. "I am not challenging you, Mr. Sherman. I am

  seeking to spend time with you."

  "Whatever that means," said Sherman.

  "Whatever that means," Madelaine concurred.

  San Francisco, 16 June, 1855

  … Tonight will be better.

  The sheets were fine linen, as soft as antique satin, and there were six pillows

  and a damask comforter flung in glorious disarray about the bed. In the wan spill

  of moonlight from the window, Sherman was standing, wearing only a loosely

  belted dressing robe, and smoking a thin cigar as he gazed out into the darkness.

  "The other evening and now this. What must you think of me?"

  "Nothing to your discredit," said Madelaine quietly, hardly moving as she

  spoke. "I think you do not trust what you want." She pulled the sheet up to cover

  her breasts.

  "That's kind," he said tightly. "Many another woman would be offended."

  Madelaine turned on her side to look at him, regarding him with a serious

  expression. "If that's not it, what is bothering you?"

  He met her eyes. "You are."

  "Why do I bother you? Would you rather not be here?" she asked, more

  puzzled than apprehensive.

  "No. There is no place I would rather be," he answered evenly.

  "Then why—?" she began, only to be cut off.

  "Because it is what I want," he said bluntly, and stubbed out his cigar in the

  saucer she had set out for that purpose. "A man in my position, with a wife and a

  good marriage, has other women for convenience and amusement. It isn't that way

  with you. You are not a convenience or an entertainment. You are not convenient

  at all. You are what I want. All of you. And I should not. I must not." He started

  toward the bed, tugging at his sash and flinging it aside as he reached her. He

  stared down at her as his robe fell open. "Do you know what it means to want you

  so much, to go beyond reason with wanting you? I want to possess you, and I

  fear you will possess me. I am afraid that once I touch you, I will be lost."

  "Is that so terrifying a prospect?" she asked, moving to make a place beside

  her in the bed.

  "Yes." In a shrug he dropped his dressing robe to the floor, letting it lie in a

  velvet puddle.

  "Then come and stretch out beside me. We can talk as friends, all through the

  night." She piled up the pillows. "I don't require you to take me."

  "How do you mean?" he asked sharply.

  "If you do not want to touch me at all, you need not." She regarded him

  kindly. "If you would like to, then you may."

  He scowled. "How can you say that you want me, that you have me here in

  your house, in your bed, and not care if I—"

  She sighed. "I've told you before, William."

  "Don't call me William," he interrupted, seeking a distraction from the

  confusion that warred within him.

  "I won't call you Mr. Sherman, not here," she said, slapping one of the pillows

  with the back of her hand; though it was dark, she could see his face clearly and

  knew he was deeply troubled. She strove to lighten the burdens of desire that so

  plagued him, and decided to stay on safe ground. "What does the T in your name

  stand for?"

  "My friends and… and family call me Cump," he said, swallowing hard.

  "Cump?" She was baffled.

  "My given name is Tecumseh," he said at last. "The Ewings added William

  when they took me in after my father's death. So that I could be baptized into

  Maria Ewing's Catholic religion." He sat on the edge of the bed and absently

  reached out to stroke her hair.

  Madelaine knew he had just given her a very special gift. "You're named for the

  chief of the Shawnee."

  "Yes," he said with urgency as he reached out and wrapped his long-fingered

  hands around her upper arms. "How do you know about Tecumseh?"

  "I know he had a twin brother, Tenskwatawa, and they were both called The

  Prophet." It was not a direct answer, but it was all she was prepared to give now.

  "Come to me, Tecumseh. You don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

  He glowered at her, then looked down at himself, sighed, and swung his legs

  up and under the covers. He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. "What should

  we talk about?" he asked, his manner forbidding.

  "Anything you wish or nothing at all. Either will please me if that is what you

  want." As much as she desired to lie next to him, to feel his flesh against hers for

  the length of her body, she, too, lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, noticing

  a faint crack in the ornamental plasterwork. She wanted to bridge the rift between

  them, and sought for something she could give him, as he had offered his name to

  her. "Let us share secrets, as friends do," she suggested impulsively. "If you like, I

  will tell you how old I am."

  "That is a wonderful secret for a lady to share with a friend, and quite an

  admission for any woman to make." He laughed once, then looked grave. "Very

  well. On my honor I promise I will never repeat it," he told her somberly.

  "You had best not," said Madelaine, and plunged ahead, telling herself that

  surprise was an advantage with this man. "For I was born on the twenty-second

  day of November, 1724, at Montalia, my family estate, in the south of France."

  For several seconds Sherman was silent. Then he chuckled. "Seventeentwenty-four, not 1824. That would make you more than a century old, Madame."

  "I am," she said, beginning to worry.

  He turned toward her, trying hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "All

  right. I deserved that. For the sake of argument, we will say you are ancient, a

  veritable crone. You are one hundred thirty -one years old, or will be in

  November." His chuckling continued, rich and easy, the hard lines in his face

  relaxing so that he, himself, now appeared younger than he was. "And how did

  you attain this great age without looking older than a girl just out?"

  "Because I died on the fourth of August, 1744. I was just out," she replied,

  trying to keep her voice from trembling, though she could not disguise the chill

  that seized her, making her quiver.

  "The fourth of August, 1744," he repeated, as if hearing the words again would

  change them. His chuckle turned to coughing, and he took a minute to bring his

  breathing under control. He lay back on the pillows, willing hi
mself not to cough.

  "You don't expect me to believe this, do you?"

  "Why not?" she answered, fighting the desolation that swept over her. She was

  afraid her teeth would chatter. "Tecumseh, you know when I am lying. I am not

  lying now, am I? This is the truth."

  "The truth?" he scoffed. "Well, Madame, you sure look mighty pretty for a

  corpse." He rolled onto his side, propped himself on his elbow, and stared at her.

  "How can you claim to exchange confidences and then tell such bald-faced…"

  The words straggled; when he spoke again, he was awed. "You are telling the

  truth, aren't you?"

  "Yes," she said as if from a great distance.

  "But how… ?" He touched her face with one long finger; he did his best to

  comprehend the enormity of what she said. "Dear God, Madelaine, how?"

  She gave him Saint-Germain's answer. "I drink the Elixir of Life. And I do not

  die. I cannot die."

  This was not nearly sufficient to convince Sherman. "Then tell me something

  of your youth." His steel-colored eyes grew sharp. "Who was ruling France then?"

  "When I came to Paris, Louis XV was king," she answered calmly, though she

  continued to shiver as much from the strength of her memories as from

  apprehension about Sherman. "That was in the fall of 1743. I went to my aunt so

  that she could introduce me into society."

  "What sort of fellow was he, Louis XV?" demanded Sherman, making her

  answer a test. "I warn you, I know something about the man, and will not be

  fobbed off with vague answers."

  "Venal, luxury-loving, indolent, handsome, overindulged, manipulative. In a

  word, spoiled." She stared at him, surprised when he took her hands in his. "I

  escaped the Terror, which is just as well."

  Sherman managed a kind of laugh. "A lovely corpse without a head —that

  would be difficult," agreed Sherman in ill -concealed excitement. "Limiting, I

  should think."

  "A corpse is all I would have been. Those who taste the Elixir of Life are not

  proof against all death. Madame la Guillotine is as deadly to me as to you. So is

  fire." She looked directly into his eyes. "In the time I have lived, can you imagine

  the number of times I have said good-bye?" And how many more times I will, she

  added silently to herself. She thought of Trowbridge then, of his devotion which