Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

  She tried to make sense of what he was saying, although she did not want to believe what he was telling her. “You mean, those who become like you are no longer . . . you do not, or cannot—”

  “Cannot,” he said as gently as he could. “The love remains, but not the loving.”

  “You cease to be lovers when both are vampires?” she asked, very nearly repeating his explanation, as if by saying it aloud it would be more real; she was doing her best to mask her incredulity.

  He answered her with compassion in his dark eyes. “Yes.”

  “So when life is over, so is love.” She shook her head several times.

  “No, loving goes on, as you well know,” Ragoczy said, his compelling gaze on her. “It is our nature to seek the essence of life; and blood alone is strict . . . fare. With the life that comes with the blood there is also the bond.”

  She tried to keep her voice level, maintaining her composure. “And this woman, the one who was in San Francisco fifty years ago, she is a vampire,” asked Rowena. She waited for the answer, pausing in the shade of an elm tree, so that Ragoczy would not have to stand in direct sunlight; the leaves above her did not quiver as much as she did.

  “Yes. Since 1744. Her name is Madelaine. You have no reason to be jealous of her.” He reached out with his free hand and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “She has an estate in Savoy and a house northeast of Paris. When I am near where she is the blood bond is . . . heightened.”

  “The blood bond,” she repeated. “The way you knew where to find me?”

  His voice was low and warm. “Yes.”

  “And you miss her? Don’t you? You miss this Madelaine who has been a vampire since 1744.” Rowena knew the answer, but wanted to hear what he would say; her hand grew tight in his.

  “Yes: I miss all those who are lost to me, no matter how they are lost, or when, by coming to my life, or dying the true death,” he said quietly. “Madelaine is part of my . . . life, as you are, Rowena. As you are: as you will always be.” His lips were tantalizing on hers; she endured it for a moment, then wrapped her arms around him and clung to him with passion, her body pressed as close to him as her clothes would permit, as if to fix an impression of her reality upon him. When at last she drew back, he said, “You need not fear I will forget you: I will not.”

  He had identified her worry so clearly that she blinked. “I... I didn’t really think you would,” she admitted, still holding him.

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  “Ah.” He kissed her again, slowly and deeply, taking all the time she longed for; he felt her need as keenly as he felt the nearness of running water, though her desire was much more pleasant. He could sense the desolation of spirit that had possessed her since von Wolgast had had her kidnapped; he did his best to assuage it, all the while knowing that she would need time and distance to put it behind her.

  “You’ll stay with me, tonight?” she asked when she broke away from him. “I’d like you to stay with me.”

  “Then I will be honored to,” he said to her.

  She managed to laugh, her voice sounding only a little tense. “Will I come to your life when I die?”

  He held her gaze steadily. “We have shared loving more than six times, and each time you have known what was happening to you; you’ve known me for what I am. You were not lulled into sleep and then dreamed something very pleasant but without form: if my life is what you wish to have, it will be possible, within limits.” He saw her look of eagerness mixed with doubt. “It is not necessarily certain. There are things you must avoid: if your body is burned, or your spine is destroyed, or you are embalmed, you will not become vampiric.”

  “So few precautions,” she marveled. “No stake through the heart? No silver bullets? No Host in the coffin?” She made these accusations teasingly, without apprehension or malice, but they stung anyway.

  “A stake through the heart shatters the spine,” he said seriously. “Severing the head does, as well. A bullet, of whatever metal, in the spine or the head is as deadly to us as to anyone alive, and bullet wounds, no matter where, are never . . . pleasant.” He felt her hand go to the place on his side where the buckshot had ripped into him. “If you decide to come to my life, you will need to remember these things, for your own safety. The Host in the coffin is nothing but theatrics, and Christian chauvinism. And garlic,” he added, one brow lifting in sardonic amusement, “fortifies the blood and keeps away mosquitos and other insects carrying disease; it has no effect on vampires.”

  The amusement had faded from her features. “I ... I didn’t intend to ... to make your life sound trivial. I’m sorry.”

  He caught her hands in his. “There is no need to be; only keep these precautions in mind when you choose whether you will come to my life or not. A vampire gains many things in this life, but it is not without cost.”

  She looked away, out over the fields of brilliant reds and oranges. “I have thought about it, Count.” For all he had told her since they met, she was not fully convinced.

  “Do you wish to tell me?” he asked gently. “I will know your decision, eventually.”

  “I think now that I would prefer to live and die as most of humanity must.” She found the courage to look back at him. “I may change my mind as I grow older, but now, I think I do not want to face all the things you have had to face.”

  Ragoczy nodded his head once. “It would be useless to tell you that you would not have to endure a great deal. Any reading of history will tell you otherwise.”

  “And you have lived it: the Pharaohs, Nero, Charlemagne, Jenghiz Khan, the Black Plague, the Italian Renaissance, the French Revolution—” said Rowena, her attempt at levity forgotten. “I do not think I could—” She stopped, staring at him. “Do you ever regret your life?”

  “Not the way you mean,” he answered, with such tenderness that she felt tears well in her eyes. “There are many things I would have changed if they had been in my power for me to change them; that is not the same as regret.” Memories of many of these things ran through his thoughts: the madness that had consumed Czar Ivan, Laurenzo dying of a disease Ragoczy now knew had been leukemia, the hideous death Jenfra had suffered, the hopeless stand Ten Chi-Yu had made. ... He made himself look at Rowena, and put his whole concentration on her. “I will never regret the time I have been with you; I will treasure it. If I could change anything in what has been between us, it would be what you endured at von Wolgast s hands.”

  The tears spilled over. “Oh, Count,” she cried, and once again took refuge in his arms, letting him hold her while she repeated, “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” over and over in disjointed phrases. Finally she straightened up. “It’s time we were getting back. Tomorrow the packers are coming, and I want as much time alone with you as I can have.”

  He smiled quickly. “You are alone with me right now,” he pointed out, as she dried her eyes with great determination.

  “Not this alone. You know the alone I mean; the alone when we are all there is in the world.” She managed a defiant laugh.

  “You want to say good-bye through making love,” he said, remembering how often intimacy had been the only way to express all that parting would mean.

  “Yes.” She was aware that many would chide him for his blunt reply, but she welcomed his direct answer. “Yes. We will be back in Amsterdam in a little more than an hour, and then there will be the rest of the afternoon, the evening, and night for us.” She moved away from the elm

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  tree, going toward where his new automobile—an Opel 6/16—was parked, a short distance away.

  He followed after her, saying as he went, “Would you like to drive?”

  “Yes,” she responded promptly “But the Dutch farmers are not always best pleased to see woman behind the wheel. I will look at the scenery while you drive; I will not be seeing Holland again for a while.” She turned around to face him, continuing t
o walk, backward, toward the Opel. “Besides, I trust you to drive well. I saw how you drove the Darracq through all that snow.” The mention of that drive put a shadow over her face; she shook it off as quickly as she could. “Roads along dikes and canals are nothing compared to the Alps in winter.”

  He kissed his fingers to her. “Brava, carina mia,” he approved.

  “You’re flattering me,” she said, unable to sound displeased; she turned and faced the way she was walking.

  “Never,” he told her, doing his best to keep from wincing at the vivid sunlight. His native earth in the thick soles of his shoes provided some relief, but not quite enough to ward off the full impact of sunlight and water; he would have to ask Roger to change the lining before they left for London at the end of the week. “You wouldn’t like being flattered,” he added.

  “No, I would not,” she agreed after giving the notion a little thought. “I had more than enough of that from Rupert—or his version of it, in any case.”

  “I’m sorry he has made your situation so awkward with your family,” Ragoczy said with genuine concern.

  “So was I, at first. I still think he has been ungentlemanly in his complaints. But at least it has shaken my mother’s desire to see me married to the man, and I am . . . well; not quite grateful, but appreciative of what he has done.” She was almost at the automobile now, and she turned around to look at him again. “I’m sorry there won’t be time to finish your portrait before I leave.”

  “Another time, then,” he said as he reached her side and helped her to don her canvas driving coat, and then to climb into the passenger’s seat. “I’m sure we will find time when you return.”

  “Yes. I told my grand-father I would stay five years, whether he is alive or not, and I will abide by my word. I think it will take that long to make the most of the opportunity he is offering me.” She accepted his offer of goggles as he went to crank the Opel’s starter.

  “From what you have told me of him, you will have a champion in him; your family will have to approve his support of you,” said Ragoczy, drawing on his duster before bending to work the starting crank.

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I have a champion already,” she said quietly, rallying herself with a mental reminder that she was the one who had decided to leave. She raised her voice to be certain he heard her. “So, shall we say sometime in May of 1916? We can work out the specifics later.”

  “Certainly; I will look forward to it,” he replied as the engine caught and idled. He got into the drivers seat and eased the motor car into gear. “I have nothing yet scheduled for 1916.”

  “How fortuitous,” she exclaimed as they rolled along the road between fields of gorgeously smoldering tulips. “We shall consider the appointment made, then? Would you like to decide the rest—where and on what day, or shall we leave it until I have booked my return?”

  “You will have to decide those things when you have made your plans to return; what month and day you choose, and the place. I will do all that I can to meet you at the time and place you select.” He kept his attention on the road, using his voice to maintain the closeness between them. “If you are willing to give me your grand-fathers address, I would like to have it, although it is not necessary: you may send any letter to me through my London solicitor if you prefer. Sunbury will always know where to find me. With his son in the firm, it will not matter if the elder leaves, there will still be someone handling my affairs.” “What about your address in Russia?” asked Rowena, puzzled by his suggestion. “Will you not be receiving mail through Mister Golovin?” “I may be,” said Ragoczy carefully as he paused at the main road to let a horse-drawn wagon laden with cabbages go by before he turned in the direction of Amsterdam. “I may not.” He was aware of the questions that coursed through her. “Matters in Russia are uncertain. I have greater confidence in Britain than I do in Russia. Britain has the habit of stability that Russia has yet to achieve.” He slowed down as a matronly woman in a widow s cap hurried her gaggle of geese off the side of the road.

  Rowena looked worried. “You do not think that there will be ... more trouble in Russia, do you? The papers give accounts of unrest, but surely that is on the wane. I thought the reforms put in place would make for better government, and bring about greater participation by the people. The reports have said that there have been improvements. The Duma is supposed to keep the country operating fairly. As long as that is being done, what trouble can there be?”

  “If I knew, I would not be apprehensive about the future of the country,” said Ragoczy with a stem smile. “So, if you will, use my solicitor in England to reach me. Let him know when you will be coming back, and where you would like me to meet you, and I give you my

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  word that if it is . . . humanly possible I will be there.” He waved to a farmer on a cob who was crossing one of the small bridges over the canal, letting him and his mount cross the road in front of the Opel. “If you want to reach me at any time, I hope you will write to me. I will want to know what you are doing, how life in San Francisco is for you.” “I will,” she said, so quickly that Ragoczy knew she had been worried about how complete their separation would be.

  “Good; I will look forward to your letters.” They were almost at the fork in the road, one of which led to Antwerp, the other of which went to Amsterdam; Ragoczy steered his way onto the Amsterdam road, and fell in behind a lorry.

  “Can you overtake him?” asked Rowena after a few minutes.

  “Yes, but the traffic is getting slower.” He kept to his position, and was rewarded for his patience at the next large intersection, where the lorry turned away toward Rotterdam.

  They continued on into Amsterdam, and were nearly at Rowena s house when she said with false nonchalance, “Did you learn anything more in Berlin? About the case?” There could only be one case she would ask about.

  “Reighert has made a full statement in the hope of securing mercy from the court,” said Ragoczy. “He gave a full account of Nadeznas murder and your abduction, as well as the death of von Wolgast s wife. Blau says it is horrific reading, and that if even half of it is true, von Wolgast will be condemned to death in absentia.”

  “And von Wolgast himself? Do they know how he has achieved his absent state?” asked Rowena, her voice tightening as she spoke the name. “What has become of him? Have you heard anything?”

  “Nothing reliable. Inspector Blau told me that most of the profits of von Wolgast s company are being funneled to a managing company in South Africa, which may or may not mean anything.”

  “South Africa,” she said dully. “Do you think he will ever be caught? Really?”

  “I think that will depend on von Wolgast,” said Ragoczy with conviction. “He is the sort of man who may yet prove to be his own worst enemy.”

  Again she fell silent; as the Opel turned along the canal fronting her house, she said, “It has not been easy staying here.”

  “But you did not want him to win,” said Ragoczy, certain of her emotions on this issue. “You remained so he would not have the satisfaction of driving you out.”

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She smiled, her eyes wistful. “Yes; that’s it. I also had to prove to myself that he had not driven me off.”

  “So that you can go to America with a clear conscience,” said Ragoczy as he pulled into the narrow parking slot near the steps to the front door.

  This time her face softened as she turned to him. “It will be good to have my last recollections of this house be of you and me together.”

  He set the brake and got out of the Opel, then went around to open her door for her, taking the goggles she gave back to him and stuffing them into his pocket. As he offered his arm, he said, “You said the removers come to pack tomorrow. When are they supposed to arrive?”

  “I told them no earlier than ten,” she said, a little of her old mischief flaring in her golden eyes. “You have not
hing to worry about.”

  “I was not worried, Rowena,” said Ragoczy, not quite truthfully; it was not the hour that troubled him but Rowena s unstated need for his annealing presence. Much as he longed to see her wholly recovered from all she endured, he was aware it would not happen from intention alone; time and experience would provide the anodyne she sought, far more than any fulfillment he could provide. Her desire for their shared passion concealed a more complicated craving, and he was unsure that he could address that yearning for restoration that held her as surely as her blood bound him to her: it would take more than a long night together to provide her with the inner strength she had for so long taken for granted.

  She turned the key in the lock and went into her house, stepping aside for Ragoczy and locking the door behind him. “It seems wisest,” she explained.

  He made no comment for none was required. He took off his driving duster of black canvas and hung it on one of the hooks by the door. “You said there were some more studies of the canals you had done? May I see them?”

  “We might as well get this behind us—so we can concentrate on other things,” she said, a trifle too urgently; her fear of the house had not abated as much as she liked to think it had. She shrugged out of the wrapper she had worn in the Opel.

  “I will follow you up,” he said, taking her driving coat from her and putting it on the hook nearest the door.

  “You are very good to me,” she said suddenly as she started up the stairs to the floor above.

  His smile was enough to make her breath catch. “I would say it was the other way around.” He came to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at her. “Well, Miss Saxon?”

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  “Well, Count Saint-Germain?” she countered, and with a sudden laugh, she raced up the stairs, glancing back over her shoulder to be sure he was behind her. If her voice was slightly too high-pitched to indicate real pleasure, and if she ran more in flight than abandon, neither she nor Ragoczy mentioned it: she pounded up the second flight of stairs, and stumbled into the studio.