That Scoundrel Émile Dubois

by Lucinda Elliot

  The stakes having burned away, he had allowed the fire to die down, though a cutting north east wind buffeted about outside, and he was in his shirt sleeves. His green eyes were as fiery and savage as an animal’s.

  The mirror was clouding, shapes moving across the ceiling. Then they were gone.

  “Merde!” Then he started and listened intently. “The rascal!” He jumped up, vanishing in a mass of specks which sparked as they dissolved.

  Georges staggered a little as he tried to saunter up the passageway. He muttered and swore in French and looked bemused, his face still paler than earlier.

  Émile was on him almost before Georges saw the faint flicker, seizing Georges’ arms with fingers which felt like iron pincers. “Mon ami, you might have confided in me.”

  Georges’ clouded eyes sparked. “What, Monsieur Gilles? Can’t I go out without your chasing me with questions?”

  “Come into my study, Georges.” Émile soothed.

  Georges was still bellicose. “Stop digging your fingers into me like to some officer of the law.”

  Émile laughed and relaxed his hold, urging Georges towards his study with a gentle push which sent him on his way by several steps. “Forgive me, Georges, I forget my new strength. An officer of the law is something to which I have never ere now been likened.”

  The study door was locked, and Émile momentarily looked bemused himself. “I forgot that, too. Wait, I don’t think this will shock you.” He vanished in another flicker and the next moment was ushering Georges in.

  He drew Georges to a chair. “Georges, you look sick and your neck bleeds.” He pulled down Georges’ collar to look closer at the wound. The bleeding had been staunched, but the stains and the punctures were marked.

  Georges drew back a little. “Keep your own horrible teeth out of my neck; I don’t like the look in your eyes.”

  Though Émile’s eyes were flashing inhumanly once more, his tone was steady. “Did They target you? Came They back by stealth? Can you remember anything? It is daylight, too, but so it was with me.”

  He went to take a decanter and brandy glasses from the cabinet and poured some for Georges. “Can you face this, or are you as sick as I was?”

  “I only feel a little weak. Ma petite Mair has been luring me to her this past fortnight.” Georges swallowed some brandy. “You know, the girl we met in the lane. Mair Jones. Lord Ynyr didn’t succeed in curing her for sure.”

  “Of course, idiot I am! So she was the one bitten! I would clean the wound with brandy, Georges, but I sense you are partly one of us already, and we need fear no other infection. Mes petites would start you on their poisonous weeds, though they have had no more success with me than has Cousin Ynyr with this girl, and he used much the same as Katarina.”

  Georges’ eyes met Émile’s. “I don’t want to be treated. Now you ain’t human, Gilles Long Legs, do you regret it save as it affects petite Madame Sophie? I do not have any such worry, Agnes having rejected me. Who would choose to be old? This way, we escape that fate. I see how you delight in your new powers, and I want them too. Éloise still chatters of how you caught Dolly with one hand, and she’s weight enough to be an object of terror to most men should she tumble on them.”

  Émile’s taloned fingers arranged Georges’ collar and neck cloth to hide the wound. “Alors, we cannot have this girl killing you, Georges. You might find it difficult to persuade wenches back to share your coffin. You need some soup.” He rang the bell. “We must keep her away from you, for you look less a Provencal than a ghost. Did she penetrate Katarina’s barriers? I fear for our humans, if so.”

  “She met me in the barn at her farm, it is another good thing about the change, you feel the cold but little. Whenever I came to myself, I had taken off the – That Thing from Katarina. I think my blood becomes not human, for this last time, she drew away almost at once. She is a sweet thing, she is always crying when I wake up, and has worked upon me slowly, unlike Madame Kenrick with you. About our humans, ain’t Katarina said it’s impossible to secure open places properly? You and I went uninvited into Kenrick’s grounds. Houses seem different. You couldn’t get in without the boy. I knew no more could I, though I couldn’t speak.”

  “I should have guessed then. Here’s Guto…Guto, can Dolly prepare for this rascal, who sickens for something, some of her marvellous soup as soon as may be without offending the cook?”

  “For sure, Sir. Let me mend your fire.”

  When Guto had gone, Émile went over to the window and stared out at the shrubbery. “Georges, now I can confide in a fellow bat. I fear I cannot make do with bloody meat any longer. When I look on the sweet neck of Sophie moi, the urge seizes me. I should warn her and the others, yet I do not see now why it is so bad for ma femme at least to join me. It is these miserable religious scruples hold her back, this belief in the soul. Otherwise, ma petite would never let this come between us. Georges, you and I have seen much proof of the ethereal nature of the human spirit, n’est pas?”

  “Don’t speak to me of les femmes’ prattle of Matters Spiritual; I endured enough of such with Agnes’ Tarot cards. She chattered of foreseeing black magic and a clash between Good and Evil.”

  Émile grinned. “Are we now, Georges, on the Devil’s side? Perhaps we ever were. Eh bien, it is well we gave Dolly orders everyone in my household must wear – those Religious Symbols. Must I send them off? They would be unhappy; hereabouts there can be little enough work giving better than starvation wages, and I cannot say I am willing to emulate Kenrick and live in discomfort with such drudges as have no choice but to endure living with a monster.”

  He shuddered. “Two hours since, I perforce had Guto burn those – sharp pointed things made up at Plas Uchaf. We cannot do to Kenrick as we planned before and I suspect him to be impervious to normal weapons.”

  Georges shuddered too. “We must do for him another way, then. About staff, you pay well, and they’d still be under threat from Them Others.”

  Émile threw open the window. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he hurled it so the blade slammed into the bark of a tree in the shrubbery across the way.

  Georges pulled out his own knife, and cursing at his own weakness, threw it so that it thudded into the bark next to Émile’s.

  They exchanged grins. “Nice trick Marcel Sly Boots taught you, Gilles. You see I am near as proficient as you.”

  “We must practice further, Georges, for we may well have need of a precise aim.” Émile moved his head, listening. “Now ma pauvre petite comes trustingly back from the village to the Wicked Brigand’s Castle.” He winced. “She sings so blithely, I cannot bring myself to tell her what has happened. Sure, if ma pauvre Katarina had not been confined to bed then she would have guessed your secret.”

  Georges listened too. “They have been to the village to see Agnes’ infant lives with her sourpuss of a mother. The baby and I took to each other at once. I would even have been happy to be a father to her. Can you believe it of Southern Georges, Gilles? But then, who would ever think of you as marrying a little chit sans le sou?”

  “You want the girl still even as I cannot endure to be apart from her mistress. We must court them gently, Georges, as with the other. Après tout, what sane woman would not choose to be young and pretty for one hundred and fifty years and more? You may yet win jolie Agnes back. We could be so happy a household, n’est pas?”

  Sophie hummed again as she came back from taking a last minute check on Katarina. “At least she takes liquids now. I hope we may tempt her with some of that syllabub tomorrow. Goodnight, Agnes, my dear. I so envy you Eiluned, she is delightful.”

  She ran her finger down Agnes’ cheek. “Agnes, you look sad! You said there is a great difference between – well, you said ‘a rascal’ who is rich and one who is poor. If it is only a matter of money keeps you and Georges apart, I am sure Monsieur Émile would be happy to help –”

  Agnes’ lower lip jutted. “Is good of you, Mistress Sophie, but I believe t
hat fickle Georges has a new girl already. Besides, he is too much a rogue. I must put Eiluned first.”

  Émile came through the dressing room door in his dark blue robe. He smiled on Agnes as she took up her candlestick. “Do not be hard on him, ma petite, I know he pines for you still. Remember I will make you both financially independent whenever you wish.”

  “You are a nice rich rascal, Monsieur Gilles.” Agnes made her curtsy. “Though you have a bat’s hearing.”

  Émile laughed as the door closed behind her and came to play with Sophie’s hair as she stood by her dressing table, careful not to scrape her with his talons. “Such lovely hair as you have.”

  His otherness sent tingles of fear and excitement down her spine. His eyes, too, were altered, the flaring having now come to the front. Their gaze wandered below her chin, as they had repeatedly at dinner even as he told her absurd stories. She was tingling then.

  “My lovely girl, I must be honest with you, though you will be alarmed. These last couple of days I change apace, and now when I look at your throat, I want to nip it, ever gently. I have fought this because I love you, and you want me human. Now I do not think I can fight it long. I should be heroic, and tell you to go. I cannot.”

  “Oh, Émile!” she tried to stop her lips from trembling. “Do try and struggle against it a little longer! The cure yet may work.”

  He caressed her face. “I think not, my poor girl. I know Katarina has told you a tale of the cure working best when seeming not to work at all, but that makes no sense. We have failed to keep me human. I remember you telling me as a child you were kind enough to draw me as Theseus and Achilles, semi-mortals indeed, eh? But you can be semi-immortal with me now. You must not let your religious scruples hold you back, Sophie; bien sûr I suspect them to be heterodox enough. Think, if there be vampires, then they must be part of the natural order of things, no more damnable than other blood sucking bats.”

  “Émile, there are other cures yet –”

  She sniffed while he snorted. “De quel absurdité! I have seen that book of yours. Vraiment, ‘The Cure of the Charged Wine’, I wonder they did not recommend use of the mummified bones of an ancient saint while they were about it. My poor girl, delude yourself no further about these superstitions in which ma pauvre petite Katarina places such faith.”

  Tears were coming now. “But crosses protect us, Émile, therefore –”

  He took hers between thumb and forefinger. “As does that disgusting herb it sickens me even to think of, Sophie. That is not evidence of Divine protection, but of natural aversion. Besides, how far do the religious symbols protect you? This seems to have little affect on me. Ma petite, it is not just from me your pretty neck is in danger. The thought of Kenrick or Mackenzie getting their teeth into you makes me wild. It must be me who bites you. I will do all I can to keep you and the other humans safe from the Kenrick ménage, but –” He fumbled in his dressing gown pocket. “How is it none of you girls ever has a handkerchief? Monster or no, I cannot bear to see you weep.” He dried her face.

  She took the handkerchief to blow her nose. “Émile,” she thought her voice wobbled grotesquely, “I wish I could join you with a clear conscience, but I am sure it would be wrong to despair of a cure. This may be a test for us. I believe you will be your old self again yet, and all will be well.”

  “Do you have that from Agnes’ Tarot set? Ah, vraiment, I don’t want to hurt or frighten you, Sophie. It is not just my desire for your sweet blood drives me; I still love you true, as I ever must, however much a creature of dread I may become to others. I want nothing to stand between us. Why, my lovely girl, would you be so cruel as to condemn me to live for perhaps a couple of centuries without you, as must happen do you insist on remaining human? Eight months without you was endless torment.”

  “Ah, Émile…” She gazed into his eyes tenderly, but in their sparkling depths she felt a strange pull on her senses, and she dropped her eyes.

  He caressed her chin. “You believe in a Creator with a beneficent plan for mankind, including no doubt, even semi-demonic creatures such as myself. Surely such a Being would forgive you for joining me?”

  “I make no doubt, yet that is no excuse for giving in to despair so soon, Émile.”

  He looked playful rather than desperate. He pinched her cheek, and she flinched back from his steely touch. “Do you remember your terrors at the beginning of our wedding night? You know now that you had no cause to fear me then. It is so with this, if you will just give yourself to me.” He began kissing her. His thirst for her blood seemed to merge with his other desire.

  She didn’t kiss him back, but for all her fear and her distaste at his wanting to drink her blood, warmth shot through her. His lips went from hers down her jaw, heading for her throat.

  She pulled away. “Émile, when you made me that offer in the music room, I couldn’t with an easy conscience have given myself to you, though you have no idea how I wanted to. It is even more so, now.”

  “Forget your worries, my lovely girl, they make no sense;” he murmured, pressing her towards the bed. “Trust me. No more talk. It wasn’t with words that I soothed you our first night together.” He kissed her some more and caressed her breast. His fingers came into contact with the cross, and he moved them away. “This wretched thing becomes hot. How can you endure to wear it?”

  She caressed his face. Suddenly the inhuman flaring in his eyes no longer frightened her, nor her sense of his otherness. “If I agreed to join you it would amount to despairing of God’s mercy, and–”

  “God’s mercy? Bien sûr, I have seen much of that, my girl.” He pulled himself away and made for the door. Unluckily, his exit was made ludicrous by his having to pause to free his erection from his dressing gown.

  Émile paced about his room, swearing. Then, snatching up a candle he went downstairs, his light making surging shadows on the walls as he stalked through the house.

  The fire was dying down in his study, but he didn’t bother to stoke it. He placed his candle on a table nearby and sat down to work in the dim light at his desk. He scribbled formulas, then sat lost in thought. He took out the book ‘On the Use of Imitative Representation’ and read it for a while.

  He brought out from his desk a large memoranda book with blank pages, and putting it on the desk, stood gazing long on it. Then he went back to writing more figures.

  Outside, owls hooted in the clear, frosty air. After a couple of hours, Émile’s eyes began to droop. He jerked himself into alertness, and worked some more, but at last he began to doze, his head falling forward onto his arms.

  Someone knocked at the door even as the tiny specks of flickering light began to play on the ceiling. Shaking himself, Émile started up to unlock the door.

  Mr Kit stood outside.

  “What?” Émile mumbled, still half asleep.

  “I know you don’t like to be disturbed in here, Monsieur Gilles, but Georges tells me and Dolly a fine tale –”

  Émile whirled about as light on the ceiling intensified and moved downwards. “Merde! Get back!”

  Mr Kit held his ground, eyes goggling, his meaty hands grasping Émile’s shoulders. Above their heads opened a scene inside a rough café. Georges and Émile were sitting at one of the tables. The pictures ran towards them, almost wrenching Émile from Mr Kit’s grasp, so Mr Kit staggered; still he hung on to Émile, who drooped against him. Émile seemed asleep, his breathing even. Groaning in horror, grasping the collapsed Émile, Mr Kit staggered backwards, staring up at the ceiling.

  “I want a shave.” Georges felt his chin with disgust, thinking longingly of the barber’s shop they went by earlier. “We may be living like to vagabonds, but I detest looking like one. For sure you need one, too.”

  The dishevelled Émile – surely in little danger of being recognised as an aristocrat now – turned from gazing out of the window, and drank some of his coffee. “It’s up the road, ain’t it? I’ll join you soon.”

  Georges
supposed such matters still meant little to him and now he no longer had to put on a brave show for his remaining sister, he couldn’t conceal it. He would have liked to squeeze Émile’s shoulder, but couldn’t under the looks of the other men in the café, scornful of a couple of foreigners from the South.

  He glanced across at the man opposite, whose eyes he felt on them; the man averted his gaze. Satisfied, Georges strutted out to the street, pausing to salute two passing girls. Encouraged by their giggles, he lingered to talk.

  Suddenly, Émile froze, eyes dilating, shaking his head and slopping coffee on the table as he nearly dropped his cup. He muttered aloud, “This has been before!”

  The man opposite, having finished his bread and cheese paused in picking his dismal teeth to sneer. He was strongly made, with the shoulders of a navvy, and wore a long scar from cheekbone to jaw with pride.

  Another labouring man, also heavily muscled and savage looking, dark with dried sweat, hair matted, came into the cafe. The first man beckoned to him and they muttered together. Then the man with the scar moved over to where Émile sat, eyes still distant, while the other laughed behind.

  “One of them filthy Southerners, eh? I know what you do with your mothers and sisters!”

  Émile’s eyes snapped into focus. The other man pulled out his knife, chuckling happily.

  Émile went for them at once, vaulting across the table as though on cue. Outside, Georges heard the commotion break out. He dashed back inside, pushing past other customers escaping.

  The following fight was epic in savagery, though short. Mr Kit, standing frozen, the sleeping Émile draped across him, chortled out his approval at the other Émile’s moves above their heads. Besides knives, the conflict involved head butting, kicks, leaps across furniture, dramatic falls, struggles and gouging as blood sprayed dramatically about. The owners took refuge in the kitchen while the customers went outside, one man dodging back in to snatch up his food.

  It ended with Georges leaving the sweat stained man bleeding and unconscious on the floor, one arm clearly broken, while Émile dragged his semi-conscious opponent outside to bang his head up and down in a puddle of combined filth.