Verse of the Vampyre

by Diana Killian

The cottage porch light shone welcome. There was a large parcel leaning against the corner of the steps. Grace checked the label warily, then, recognizing her mother’s handwriting, picked it up and carried it inside.

  It took no time at all to snip the string and unwrap the layers of brown paper. A small cheery card read, Another surprise is on its way. Which was unexpectedly cryptic for Grace’s family.

  Inside the paper was a long flat box, and inside the box was a dress. Or rather a gown. A really lovely confection of cream silk faille and bronze tulle. They didn’t make dresses like this anymore. She touched it with reverent fingers. It reminded her of the kind of thing Grace Kelly would have worn in To Catch a Thief.

  The significance of this sank in, and Grace’s eyes misted because she knew this was a special present from her parents. Her mother must have known in that way mothers have that there was something Grace was not saying during her last phone call home.

  Her parents couldn’t cure the deep hurt, the unspoken hurt, but they could fix the schoolgirl-sized tragedy of nothing to wear to the big dance. Grace chuckled, wiped her eyes and hung the dress in the old-fashioned clothes cupboard.

  Grace opened the door on the first knock.

  “I thought you’d never get here. I have something to show you.” She drew Peter into the cottage.

  “This is the kind of greeting a man appreciates,” he remarked. “And may I say your sense of timing is exquisite?”

  A laugh escaped Grace although she was only momentarily distracted.

  “I don’t mean that.”

  His gaze flicked over the photos of her family and friends, the vases of cut flowers, the tapestry cushions and jewel-colored rugs that made the place her own, and settled approvingly on the black leggings and long burgundy cashmere sweater that Grace wore.

  She was rooting amidst the day’s post scattered on the table. She picked up an object and tossed it to him. “This came in the mail. Not separately as a parcel, because I did get a parcel today.”

  Peter caught the plant bulb one-handed.

  “For the girl who has everything,” he commented.

  “It’s garlic.”

  Peter arched one brow. “Someone has discovered your unnatural love of pasta.”

  “Garlic,” she clarified, “which is used to ward off vampires.”

  “And the common cold if the medical journals are to be believed.”

  “I’m being serious!”

  “No, you’re not.” Peter took her coat from the back of a club chair. “Nor is whoever sent this to you.”

  “You don’t find this…strange?”

  “At a guess, I’d say it’s meant to be funny.”

  “You don’t think it’s threatening?”

  “What are you being threatened with? Bad breath?” He helped her into her coat, his fingers lingering for a moment in the silk of her hair. Slipping the garlic bulb out of her hand, he tossed it on the table. At her expression, he smiled ruefully. “Grace, I wouldn’t put it past someone on the theater committee to send these out as promotion.”

  “They can hardly stir themselves to put up posters and flyers. I can’t believe they’re organized enough to mass-mail garlic.”

  “Right, say this was sent in earnest. It’s supposed to ward off vampires, correct? So obviously it was sent to protect you. It’s not a threat, it’s a—”

  Grace put her hand up. “Fine. Don’t believe me. Just don’t humor me.”

  As they slipped out into the garden, Grace wondered if Miss Coke was lurking amongst the rhododendrons.

  Noting the look she threw over her shoulder, Peter asked, “Since when are you afraid of the dark?”

  “Everyone’s afraid of the dark,” Grace retorted.

  “Ah, you mean the great metaphysical dark.” He took her hand in his, and she treasured the warm strength of his fingers linked with hers. With Peter she was not afraid of any darkness.

  It was a short walk to the fete. They could hear music and the sounds of the crowd several streets away.

  The smell of damp grass and popcorn, the excited screams of children and the music of the merry-go-round greeted them as they reached the village green.

  “I guess rehearsal was canceled,” Peter remarked.

  Following his line of vision, Grace caught sight of Lord Ruthven. He stood in the shadows of an ancient oak. He wore his cape, and although many people wore costumes, he still received curious glances.

  “That’s just asking for trouble,” Grace commented.

  “Afraid he’ll incite the villagers to riot?”

  “It may not be as silly as it sounds. Two cast and three crew members have quit so far. There’s a weird mood in the village these days.”

  Peter grinned.

  “Okay, I probably sound like an extra from Nosferatu.”

  “The silent film?” His eyes were laughing, but he conceded, “Oh, I don’t know. Your instincts aren’t bad.”

  Instinct? Grace prided herself on her analytical skills, but there wasn’t so much to analyze here. Start with a rather bad play about a vampire. Throw in a director with the same last name as the title character, a man who liked to wander around graveyards at night wearing a cape. Then what? A series of weird incidents: anonymous messages implying that a vampire walked among the village residents, free garlic, sightings of another man in a cape who might or might not be up to no good. All of which added up to what? Publicity for the show? Halloween fun? Someone’s weird sense of humor?

  “There’s a rumor that the security guard who died was attacked by a vampire.”

  Peter made a contemptuous sound.

  “I’m serious. People are saying that there were weird marks on his neck and that his body was drained of blood.”

  “Who is saying that?”

  She shrugged. “It’s just a rumor.”

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  They watched Lord Ruthven move off through the trees. She started, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lord Ruthven in the day—”

  But Peter interrupted, “I don’t know who that bloke is, but he’s not Lord Ruthven. Unless he’s taken Catriona’s maiden name.”

  It took Grace a moment to work this out. “You think they’re not married?”

  She could tell that Peter already regretted that moment of candor. He said, “I couldn’t say, but he’s not Lord Ruthven. There is no Lord Ruthven.”

  So the name Ruthven was genuine? But then how could there not be a Lord Ruthven? And Catriona was not married. The good news kept coming.

  “But what does that mean?” Grace persisted.

  Peter studied her, his eyes colorless in the artificial lights of the fete. “It’s merely an observation. Don’t get carried away.”

  Whatever, as Grace’s former students were wont to say. But it was certainly a strange observation, and one that she planned on checking out as soon as she had the opportunity.

  “What exactly would you like to do?” Peter asked. He was looking about himself with a detached curiosity. Grace wondered if this was his first fete.

  The crowd was a mix of revelers and spectators. Children squealed with delight, racing from amusement to amusement. The air was alive with the smell of roasting nuts, carnival music and adult voices urging caution.

  “I’m open to suggestion.”

  “Then perhaps we should start with the fortune-teller.”

  “Nice one. Is there a fortune-teller?”

  Peter pointed out a small striped tent. A sign on an easel outside depicted a giant hand, the various lines and pressure points illustrated with numbers and signs.

  Peter laughed at her enthusiastic reaction. “Are you forgetting the last time you visited a fortune-teller?”

  Grace was pleased at this reminder of their shared history and forgot, for a time, that Catriona was a shapely question mark on the horizon.

  The tent flap was pulled up, indicating that Madame Mignon was open for business. “Going in?” Grace asked.


  “I don’t believe in Fate,” Peter said.

  “What do you believe in?”

  “Myself.”

  “Well, I’m going in. Wish me luck.”

  “That’s what it’s all about.”

  Inside the tent, the close darkness smelled of sandalwood and candle smoke. Grace could barely make out a table in the center covered with silver gauze. A globe sat on the table. An electrical current rippled through it like strikes of lightning. The modern age of mysticism, Grace thought.

  She took a chair across from Madame Mignon, who was an indistinct figure beneath the layers of spangled veils. Grace got the uncertain impression of dark hair, dark eyes and dark lipstick.

  “What brings you to Madame Mignon?” inquired a deep, accented voice.

  Sense of humor? Curiosity? But Grace was having fun. She threw herself into her role of seeker. “I wish to know the future.”

  Madame Mignon was silent. Maybe she thought Grace was making fun of her.

  “Really,” Grace added.

  “Ten bob,” Madame said. She held a red-taloned hand out.

  Grace paid her. The money disappeared under the table. Madame Mignon held her hand out again.

  Hesitantly Grace rested her hand atop the fortune-teller’s. Madame Mignon’s paw was warm and soft, with fleshy strong fingers. Her hand closed around Grace’s. She covered their linked hands and began to massage Grace’s.

  That seemed weird, but Grace made herself relax. Actually, it felt kind of good, the strong thumbs working her pressure points.

  “Ah, I see, I see,” Madame crooned as though the TV reception were clearing up. “I see it all.” She smoothed Grace’s hand out and stared hard at her palm in the glow of the electrified crystal ball.

  “You are a smart girl, a girl who knows her own mind. Ah, but a choice lies before you. I see two men, two very different men. One man holds the key to your heart, but he is dangerous to you, this man. You cannot trust him. You cannot trust anyone connected with this man. You cannot trust yourself.”

  That narrowed it down. “Oh dear,” murmured Grace.

  Madame Mignon rattled on. “I see great temptation. I see lies and deceit. I see a journey. A long and dangerous journey that will lead you into great danger…” She trailed off as though the routineness of this prophecy was boring even her.

  After a long moment of guttering candles, she seemed to squint at Grace through the veils. She spoke more slowly, even reluctantly. “I see a room. A hidden room. A treasure lies in this room. The treasure of an ancient king. The treasures of ancient Egypt. And a…what do you call it? A manuscript?”

  “Say what?” Grace sat bolt upright.

  Madame Mignon seemed to have lost the train of thought. Through the mosquito netting her eyes appeared to be closed. Had she nodded off?

  “True love stories have no ending,” she said abruptly, and let go of Grace’s hand.

  “What’s the verdict?” Peter asked when Grace joined him outside the tent.

  Grace ticked off on her fingers. “There are two men in my life. I am going to take a trip soon.”

  “No mention of tall dark strangers or coming into sudden money?”

  “Just the usual.”

  A familiar dwarf and ballerina ran past shrieking hello, waving red sparklers.

  “Friends of yours?”

  Grace found herself wondering what kind of parent Peter would make. It was difficult to imagine him in that role. Grace had always assumed she would have children, but many of her assumptions had been challenged in the past year.

  Two men and a choice to make?

  She shook off the crawly feeling she’d had in the fortune-teller’s tent, asking briskly, “What do you suppose they have to eat?”

  Peter arched one brow. “You are a brave soul.”

  “I didn’t have time for dinner.”

  “All right. Don’t run off with the gypsies, Esmerelda. I shall return.”

  Esmerelda. When was the last time he had used that pet name? Months. Did tonight’s date mean they were recovering their lost footing, or was he simply treating her to some of that routine charm he served up to the customers?

  Peter hadn’t been gone more than a minute when a hand closed around her wrist. Even without looking Grace knew those dry stick fingers did not belong to Peter. She turned and found herself face-to-face with the woman in black.

  Starting, Grace stepped back.

  “Do I know you?”

  The claw fingers kept their grip on her wrist, but the woman said nothing.

  “What do you want?” Grace tried to pull free. “Let go of me.” She didn’t want to cause a scene. She had the polite person’s dread of public fracas. Miss Coke was not as elderly as Grace had first thought, and she was much stronger than she looked.

  “What gives you the right to threaten and harass people?” she said indignantly.

  Miss Coke thrust her face in Grace’s and hissed…something. Grace couldn’t make out the actual words between the moist sibilants that flecked her face.

  “Now, now, girls.” To Grace’s grateful relief, Peter was there, moving between her and the older woman. She didn’t see what happened but all at once her wrist was free and Miss Coke was yowling like a scalded cat. People turned to stare.

  “My word,” Peter said. “I turn my back for three minutes, and you’re brawling in the streets.” He guided Grace through the crowd, which seemed to engulf the motionless Miss Coke.

  “That was her. The woman in black. The one I told you about. She’s crazy.” Grace found that she was shaking. Peter’s arm felt strong and supportive around her. “I think she cursed me.”

  “Darling, I imagine adolescent girls have been cursing you for years. It hasn’t had much effect on you, has it?”

  She laughed, but the sudden whistle and explosion of a firecracker overhead caused her to jump. Golden embers drifted in the breeze like pollen.

  Peter chuckled, his breath warm against her ear. “She won’t get you, my pretty.”

  More rockets streamed off into the sky. Giant phosphorus blooms of purple, green, and blue burst wide in the night sky, following a distant crack. Glittering cosmic rain showered down on the tents and trees.

  9

  Chinese lanterns lit the courtyard and threw the ivy’s shadow into patterns of hearts and butterflies against the stone walls. Music drifted from inside the house.

  It was the night of the Hunt Ball, and everyone who was anyone in Innisdale was in attendance. Cars lined the circular drive of Ives Manor, the nineteenth-century home of Sir Gerald and Lady Ives. Every window in the manor seemed ablaze with life and color. Squares of light lit the dark lawn.

  As they started up the front stairs Peter caught her hand, and as Grace turned he kissed her lightly, as lightly as the mist from the fountain. “Beautiful Esmerelda,” he whispered. His fingers brushed the delicate pearl-and-filigree antique earrings she wore. The earrings matched her necklace, a gift from Peter that very evening; a lovely variation on the traditional corsage.

  “Thank you again,” she said, referring to more than the compliment.

  “My pleasure.”

  A butler (or maybe it was a footman) announced them.

  Sir Gerald, dashing in a scarlet evening coat, greeted them like old friends. Grace caught a whiff of his unique scent: top note, fruity aftershave, bottom note, blended whisky.

  “Lovely to see you!” Lady Theresa said. Her blond hair was coiled elegantly. She wore a startlingly low-cut gown of iridescent blue.

  “It could be interesting if she drops a contact lens,” Grace remarked, as she and Peter strolled away from their host and hostess.

  “It could be the best party of the year.”

  Peter rounded up champagne glasses, and they repaired to the ballroom.

  Grace felt as though she had stepped into a painting she had once seen on a visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Hunt Ball by Jules L. Stewart.

  Men in tuxedo and white tie
or scarlet evening jackets and women in formal gowns circled the room to the sweep of a full orchestra. Jewels flashed and sparkled on bare arms and throats and in elaborately dressed hair. Velvet, silk and satin shone richly in light from the chandelier. Candles and flowers were multiplied by the mirrored panels between Palladian windows.

  It was like a Merchant Ivory production.

  “Did you want to dance?” he asked.

  Grace held up her champagne glass. “I’m working on it.”

  His expression grew quizzical. “This is a first. Don’t tell me you’re feeling shy.”

  “A little.”

  Peter seemed to know everyone, moving with smiling confidence through the crush; you would have thought he was to the manor born, Grace reflected. The truth was, she had no idea to what he was born, but she had never seen anyone better suited to white tie and tails, with his tanned skin and his fair hair shining in the illumination from the chandeliers.

  She glimpsed many familiar faces—and not just from the hunt. Apparently the Hunt Ball really was the social event of the season.

  She recognized Allegra in slinky scarlet dancing with Derek Derrick. Sir Gerald, his receiving line duties done, was with a crowd of gentlemen not dancing.

  She spotted Lady Vee in black taffeta, her hands encrusted with jewels, sitting with several other elderly women clustered like birds of prey as they watched the dancers.

  “I should say hello,” Grace said

  “You are a glutton for punishment.” But he steered her over to the flock.

  “Petah dahling,” Lady Vee greeted him. “Have you a line on that Egyptian mummy I’m interested in?”

  Peter smiled his charming smile. “Lady Vee, you know perfectly well trading in Egyptian antiquities is illegal.”

  The other ladies tittered.

  “My deah, I am confident you will find a way.” She nodded graciously to Grace. “I understand from my niece that that dramatic travesty opens next week.”

  That answered one question. If Lady Vee was no longer financing the project, the Ruthvens must be putting up the capital—eliminating one motive for the play. It was not a scam to get money from unwary financiers.

  “That’s what they tell me,” Grace said.