Strigoi

by Tony-Paul de Vissage

  Just what he saw, Marek wasn’t certain, but he wasn’t about to lower himself by asking a servant his meaning. Aware his French was only a little above Hans-Claud’s stutters, he didn’t want to speak to the domestique any more than was necessary.

  After a few more steps in silence, the young man said, more to the hallway than to him, “If you lengthen your stay, my lord, you should see immediately to changing your hair style…and your tailor as well.”

  That brought a stifled snort. “Perhaps I don’t wish to look like an escapee from Madame la Guillotine.”

  “Of course not, M’sieur,” Latrec’s shrug was a bare lift of broad shoulders, “but one does desire to be in fashion, no matter how it originated.” The Frenchman half-turned, smiling at him. “Doesn’t one?”

  “Perhaps,” Marek acknowledged, thinking he’d be damned if he was going to have some barber shear away his hair so he looked like this young Dandy with the forward-swept curls in front of his ears.

  “You’re very youthful,” Latrec went on, apparently not bothered by his lack of enthusiasm. “I know aventurieri age slowly. Are you truly as young as you appear?”

  That meant Latrec wasn’t aventurieri but was trusted enough by the Marquise to be privy to knowledge of her origin. Is he thrall? He certainly had that outspoken familiarity the older blood-thralls exhibited.

  “I might ask you the same. One could wonder, since you’re so aware, how you came by that information.”

  There was another smile. Latrec looked as if he might explain, but by this tieme they reached another elaborately decorated door.

  “My answer will have to wait, sir, for my lady’s most eager to see her old friend’s foster son.” He bowed.

  Marek returned the gesture, thinking, Damn, these Frenchmen are polite.

  “Excuse me while I announce you, Mon Seigneur.” Latrec scratched gently on the door with his fingertips, and to a call, opened it and went inside. There was a murmured exchange and he was back again, pulling the door wide and bowing once more.

  “Madame, may I present Marek, le Marquis Strigoi.”

  Stepping across the threshold, Marek bowed in the general direction Latrec had aimed his statement. The door closed behind him.

  “M’sieu le Marquis, I’m delighted to receive you.”

  She reclineding on a chaise longue, several cushions behind her back, her feet resting on its striped satin surface.

  From the indolence of her posture, he thought her an invalid. Then there was a flutter of muslin and a brief revelation of long, slim legs and Grecian sandals with a glittering of rings on several toes as she swung both feet off the chaise and placed them on the floor. Raising the unfolded letter she held in her hand, she glanced at it again.

  To Marek, she appeared very young. She was dressed in a high-waisted white muslin chemise, in the style a la Directoire, with its tight sash and low neckline, the fashion he’d so protested on Ruxanda looking quite well on this female. She wore no jewelry other than brilliant drops in her ears and those enticing little toe rings.

  Marek was startled to find himself thinking la Marquise needed no other accoutrements adorning her person to make her more beautiful than she already was.

  Though her complexion was fair, her hair was dark, lustrous locks cut in a short and curly Titus style. As he looked down at her, he felt a sudden internal twisting he hadn’t experienced since Lily died. With such a startling sharpness he caught himself nearly gasping, Marek realized his heart, that easily susceptible organ inherited from his father, had abruptly come to life again.

  By the Oracle, can I be falling in love? Not lust, not even desire, but actual love? After only a few moments encounter? It was an unsettling sensation, disconcerting as it was unexpected.

  “Markgraf von Blitzensturm says you’re his fils adoptif.” La Marquise dropped the letter onto the table in front of her. “His foster son?”

  Marek was enchanted. He took a deep breath and released it so slowly it was like the softest sigh as he nodded.

  “How is that possible? I wasn’t aware dear Karl had other than two offspring.” She bestowed an impish smile upon him. “Is that another way of saying you’re a byblow, m’sieu?”

  If any other had said that, Marek would’ve stormed out with a blistering curse. Instead, he looked at la Marquise and smiled.

  “You’re jesting with me, surely, Madame. Or is it that, so far from the Motherland, the custom’s no longer followed? Of a father asking a friend to care for his child should he succumb early?”

  He interpreted her slight nod as the signal that she was aware and also to continue.

  “Then you know the translation of the word for that person, accesoriu parinte, from the Mothertongue into the language of the outside world, becomes foster father.”

  “Of course, m’sieu.” She smiled so prettily he couldn’t be insulted. “I did but tease a little.”

  “In my country…”

  “Where’s that, M’sieu le Marquis? Strigoi. It sounds…” Her eyes widened. “Surely, you’re not from…”

  “The Decebral Valley, Madame.”

  “You’re truly from the Motherland itself?” Her attitude changed, becoming excited. “I’m delighted. I’ve often wondered if those from whom we all came appear different.”

  As she gathered her Athenian shawl tighter about her shoulders, she gave him a quite frank stare, looking him up and down approvingly.

  “I must admit, if they all are as you, they must be magnifique indeed.”

  “Merci, Madame. You flatter me.” Marek inclined his head slightly, then straightened. “Shall I continue?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “My explanation?”

  “Oh, oui.” One hand waved graciously. “Go on, please.”

  “My father and Herr Markgraf were at university together.”

  “In the Scholomance?”

  He nodded.

  “I wish the Domnitor and the Council would rescind their ban and allow females to attend. If they did, I’d be their first student.” Briefly, she looked angry, then the expression faded. “Excusez-moi. Pray go on.”

  Resisting the urge to tell her she was too beautiful to worry her head about higher education, which he had the good sense to see might be a fatal mistake, Marek said, “Herr Graf stood with my father when I was presented to the Prince.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Another custom. For convenience’s sake, I refer to him as my uncle.”

  “Oui, I understand.” She sat a little straighter. “My apologies. In my excitement at meeting you, I’m forgetting my manners. Gaston, some wine for le Marquis.”

  Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed Latrec had come inside with him, was standing just beside the door. He didn’t speak as the domestique poured wine from a beautiful, cut-glass decanter sitting on a silver tray on the little table, except to murmur a soft merci as the goblet was offered to him.

  nhaling the wine’s bouquet, Marek took a quick sip, expecting something sweet and unpalatable after the robustness of the Austrian wines. He was surprised ny the clear, cool strength of the liquid.

  “Most refreshing.” Lowering the glass, he inhaled sharply with an involuntary little cough. “Rather takes one by surprise with that slight after-burst of flavor, however.”

  “It’s from my own vineyards. You may go.” She said the two sentences without a variation in tone, not even looking at Latrec.

  “M-Madame?” Apparently the domestique hadn’t expected that.

  “You heard me.” She continued holding Marek’s gaze. “You’re dismissed.”

  Latrec was too well-trained to protest, though it was obvious he thought it highly unusual for his mistress to be left alone with a man nearly a stranger. The way he gave Marek a short bow and a glare before he walked out, made him wonder just how personal a domestique the servant really was.

  “Come closer, s’il vous plais.”

  She gestured to a place beside her on the longue, patting it gently. Obediently,
he came around the table and dropped onto the little couch, setting down his glass.

  “Would you mind?” She nodded at the wine. “Dear Latrec was so taken with you, he neglected to pour me any.”

  Making a mental note to have a short word with dear Latrec about that, Marek smiled and offered her a glass. She sipped delicately before lowering the goblet to stare at him so fixedly he was discomfited. For something to do, he picked up his glass again, simply held it twisting the stem around and around in his fingers. At last, she reached up and touched his cheek.

  “You’re very handsome. Are you aware of that, M’sieu le Marquis?”

  “You flatter me, Madame. I’ve been told that, but I don’t find it so.”

  “I suppose it’s the eye patch.”

  Her fingers flitted over it, brushing against the band going around his head.

  “It lends a certain air of mystere.” The hand once more touched his face, stroking over the hair at his temple. “Such beautiful hair, black as the air at midnight. Your father must have been just as comely to make such a fine-looking son.”

  “My father was fair and blond,” he said shortly, cursing himself for that blasted sensitivity about his appearance. Comparisons always brought awkward explanations of why he resembled neither János nor Anastacza. “My coloring’s part of my claim to be ghidaj.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Is that all what, Madame?”

  “Your coloring. Is that the only thing gaining you your title?”

  For a heartbeat, he stared at her.

  Why can’t I tell her? Show her? He wanted to tear the patch from his face, explain it was merely a disguise. My search is almost over. What does it matter if I rid myself of this mask and not hide behind it?

  “Not at all. ” He gave her a startlingly shy smile. “Would you like to see my anomaly?”

  “M’sieu le Marquis.” She leaned forward, gazing up at him intently. “I’ll look at anything you wish to show me. Anything.”

  The last word was breathed at him.

  His fingers plucked at the knot in the leather, loosening it. It fell from his face, landing on one knee before sliding to the floor. Marek blinked, and stared at her.

  “Ah.” She made the word into a sigh, stroking a finger against the edge of his left eye. “They’re beautiful. Like jade and turquoise.” Bending, she scooped up the strip of leather and tossed it into the fireplace where the flames made short work of it. “Never cover either of your eyes again, m’sieu. I forbid it.”

  “Madame.” He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head. “The Sectiune knows best.”

  “I've always thought that business of the anomaly a silly custom, though I understand those in the Motherland are very ritual-bound, aren’t they?”

  He tried to decide if she was belittling his home, saw nothing but that smile and understood in that moment she liked to make gentle mockery. With a smile of his own, he answered, “Perhaps, but I’m no longer in the Motherland, as you can see.”

  “I see a great deal,” she replied. “I also wish to see more. Much more. Without those so out-of-style garments hampering my view. How old are you in True Years, my lord?”

  “Why, I’m nearly…” He had to think for a moment. This sudden turn in the conversation was disconcerting, as was her plain-spoken wish to see him naked. “Two-score-and-one.”

  “A mere child, but so handsome.” She leaned back, her smile becoming broader. “That makes me more than ten times your age.” She made the statement quite calmly. “However…I like younger men. Much younger men.”

  She swung around so they were sitting face-to-face. The movement twisted her body, throwing full breasts into near-total view above the low-cut neckline.

  “Madame, I didn’t come here to be seduced.” Marek got no further as la Marquise leaned forward and kissed him.

  “Would you complain if you were?” She raised the wine glass.

  “Not in the least.”

  The little goblet fell from her hand, wine splashing the hem of her gown as Marek set down his glass and took her in his arms, pressing his mouth roughly against hers. She gave a faint whimper, muffled against his lips. For several moments, he held her that way, noting she didn’t struggle or attempt to pull away, but leaned against him, her arms going around his neck. As he released her, she fell against the cushions with a gasp, as if she couldn’t catch her breath.

  “Don’t pretend the vapors. I sense you’re not the kind for that foolish deception.”

  Instead of being insulted, she laughed and kissed him on the forehead, trailing a row of tiny caresses to his jaw.

  “Something must be done about you, mon cher, as soon as possible. Latrec!”

  The door opened immediately, the blond manservant almost falling over the threshold.

  He must’ve been standing with his ear against the door.

  Marek returned Latrec’s stare with a darker one of his own.

  “M’sieu le Marquis will be staying the night,” she informed him.

  There was a flicker of emotion on his fair face.

  “See he’s prepared.” There was an imperious wave of one hand.

  “My lord, if you’ll come with me?” Expression now impassive, Latrec bowed to Marek and gestured to the door.

  Slightly bewildered but willing to humor her ladyship, Marek stood as Madame once more leaned back against the cushions, swinging her feet onto the chaise and picking up the letter. When Latrec ushered him out the door, he looked back to see her seemingly engrossed in finishing Karl-Josef’s missive.

  Closing the door, the manservant gestured down yet another hallway. They’d gone only a few steps, however, before he said, without looking at Marek, “You worked fast.”

  “I think you have it wrong.” Marek’s reply was short.

  How dare this French domestique—in his mind, he twisted the word into an insult—hint he came here with the intention of seduction? Hell, he’d expected the woman to be ancient.

  “Madame appears to be expert in guiding men to her bed. I did very little.”

  “…but didn’t argue, either, it seems.” There was smug satisfaction in his voice as if Latrec had won some slight verbal victory. He gestured at a door on the right. “Through here, sir.”

  The room was a bedchamber, but very austere. So plain in fact, Marek had little doubt it wasn’t Madame’s suite at all. Perhaps she had her assignations here? Keeping them backstairs, in the belief the servants wouldn’t know?

  “Now then, sir.” Hands went to the lapels of his coat, attempting to slide it from his shoulders. “If you’ll disrobe?”

  “Un moment.” Marek’s hand struck Latrec’s chest, shoving and sending him staggering backwards. He shrugged back into the coat and put several feet between himself and the domestique. “You’ll clarify that remark.”

  Recovering, Latrec stared at him as if not knowing what to say. Then he smiled again.

  “Please, sir, don’t be discomfited. I’ve no designs upon you.” He cocked his head, his smile broadening. “Though I swear I see plainly why the mistress desires you. It’s simply my task to prepare you before you go to her.”

  “…and this task involves…?”

  Latrec’s gesture took in their surroundings.

  “Simply helping you undress and bathe.” He nodded to a ceramic tub sitting before the fire that somehow had escaped Marek’s notice. “Should it be required.”

  Marek glanced at the tub. There was no steam rising from the water. It looked very cold, and uninviting. As though it had been sitting there for some time. Waiting.

  “La Marquise is very fastidious,” Latrec went on, his tone hinting he’d said this so often it was spoken by rote. His expression showed a certain affectionate cast for his mistress’ whims. “She prefers her amoreux clean-shaven, well-bathed, and without offensive body odor. Not that I’ve sensed such from you, my lord.” He added the last hastily as he saw Marek about to object. “…as with most aventurieri.” />
  “I bathed before I came here, but if I must… Very well, let’s get this over with. I’ve no wish to tarry long in this room.” He pulled off his coat assuming an impatient air.

  Latrec took it from him, placing it on the foot of the bed. “Yes, sir, I can see that.”

  There was a flicker of a glance at the front of his trousers, causing Marek to look down before he could stop himself.

  “Shall I bring your man to help you?”

  “I think you may do that duty.” He wanted to put the Frenchman where he belonged…in his place as a servant.

  Obediently, Latrec bowed. Marek’s waistcoat, neckfall, and shirt were delivered into his waiting arms until the domestique held everything he’d worn, and he stood naked.

  The blue gaze flicked up and down his body in much the same way the Marquise’s had.

  “Madam will be very pleased, I believe,” Latrec decided. “She likes them tall, but one thing does worry me.”

  He hesitated, as if afraid to go on.

  “What would that thing be?” Marek was rapidly losing his attempt to quell backhanding the domestique and send him flying through the wall. The domestique’s very precise way of speaking, with its hints of criticism, was getting on his nerves.

  “I…well, sir, to put it delicately…”

  “Delicacy be damned. We speak plainly where I come from, and if my body has some flaw Madame won’t like, don’t you think it’s better I know it now and not after I’m with her? Aren’t you supposed to prepare me?”

  Latrec blinked, stepping back. It was plain he wasn’t accustomed to having his mistress’ would-be lovers speak to him so harshly.

  “It’s merely that, as I said, she likes her bedmates clean-shaven.” He gestured at Marek’s chest. “Quite frankly, sir, I’ve never seen an aventuriera so…uh…hirsute. A few curls around their privates perhaps, but if you’ll pardon me for saying so, you look human.”

  Marek ignored that, feeling it the worst insult his physical appearance could be given. He was grateful the servant hadn’t remarked on the disappearance of his eyepatch or the colors of his eyes.

  “She’ll have to accept it or reject me,” he retorted. “I’m not shaving my chest or my privates for some female’s personal quirks.” His next sentence attacked. “You seem to know a great deal about your mistress’ intimate life.”