Blood and Chrysanthemums

by Nancy Baker

  “Why?”

  “Because he persuaded me he had a good reason for wanting to know. Because he’s one . . . of your blood.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Ms. Alexander. Yes, I am sure.” Ardeth wondered how she could be so certain and remembered the quiet scientist who had risked her own life, who had turned against her captors to help the vampires she was supposed to be studying. That woman would have demanded the only kind of proof that mattered. “How did you get my number?”

  “His assistant gave it to me,” Ardeth answered, momentarily bewildered, then recognizing the carefully concealed fear behind the question. “I’ll rip it up now.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye, Ms. Alexander.” There was no mistaking the finality in the tone.

  “Goodbye, Dr. Takara.”

  Ardeth set the phone down and turned to look at Akiko, Sara hovering beyond her, Mickey leaning on the edge of the door to the bedroom. “What does he want?” she asked at last. Akiko shrugged a little.

  “I do not know for certain. Only that he is very old and says he wishes to meet those of his kind.”

  “What if I’m not interested?”

  “I will tell him that.”

  “Tell him,” she paused, for a moment torn and tempted by the promise of companionship. But then she remembered Rozokov’s promises and her own, that they broke or bent far too soon. “Tell him that we’re solitary creatures. I’m not interested in meeting any more vampires.” Before she turned away, he saw Akiko bow slightly with calm politeness, as if her voice had not been bitter enough to bruise.

  “If you wish. But please tell me where I can find Dimitri Rozokov.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “In case his choice is different from your own.”

  It would be easy to refuse. It would probably be wiser to refuse. She had only Akiko’s word that this strange vampire meant them no harm. And it was Rozokov who had defined their solitary state. If he didn’t want her, why would he want any other vampire? Could she bear if it he did?

  “Banff,” she said at last, taking savage pleasure in the pain while she told herself that it was the final severing, the ultimate way to put them on two different paths. “He’s in Banff.”

  Chapter 18

  He woke alone in the bedroom, his mind full of jumbled memories: iron bars and pain, a vein pulsing beneath his mouth, the taste of blood in his throat.

  Dreaming. I was dreaming, Rozokov thought slowly. It was not something he did very often. Or, at least, that he could remember. He had been dreaming about the asylum and the time of madness before Ardeth had come. He had been dreaming about Ardeth as she had been, a terrified but resolute young woman putting her hand through the bars of a cell to let him drink her blood.

  He sighed and opened his eyes, staring at the slanted ceiling above his head. It is only in dreams that you can have her back that way, he told himself bleakly. You killed the mortal in her when you made her into a vampire. Perhaps that is the true curse of the vampire—we destroy what we love by turning into ourselves.

  He sat up slowly, feeling the first stirrings of hunger.

  Perhaps he should hunt in town tonight. There were women in this place besides the forgetful doctor. He could go to one of the bars and one would come to him, a lonely local or an adventurous tourist. Ardeth was gone. There was no reason he had to restrict his feeding to elk any more.

  Rozokov sat at the edge of the bed and rested his head in his hands, knowing he should resist the weariness settling into his bones. Unless he forced himself, he would do what he always did. If the night was clear, he would go to the observatory. If it was not, he would stay in the apartment and read the complex, baffling theories of the new world’s science. However the evening began, it would end in the woods, with animal blood thin and unsatisfying in his throat.

  Finally, he got to his feet and went to part the thick curtains a little, to gauge the night’s activities by the state of the night sky. He had slept late again and full night lay on the town. Above him, the stars glittered with cold mockery.

  He dressed without turning on the light, then went to the living room, pausing to run his hand over his hair and shrug on his long coat before he reached the door.

  He stood at the tiny landing for a moment. The observatory would be waiting, easy and uncomplicated. To decide to go there was hardly a decision at all.

  Look what happened the last time you made a decision, a voice inside him mocked. You drove her away.

  No, he told himself. She went. I offered her the choice to stay and she went. With her, she took away the questions and restrictions. The least that you can now do is make use of your freedom.

  That thought seemed to be decision enough. When he reached the street, he walked towards Banff Avenue instead of the observatory.

  The stored were still open, along with the coffee shops and restaurants. He paused in the doorway of one bar but the noise was too much for him and he moved on, watching the thin crowed of tourists drift along the street. At last, the bookstore drew him in and he let it. He wandered among the shelves, allowing his eye to be drawn by a cover or a title. The books had reassuring solidity in his hands. Even their smell was comforting.

  He was standing at the science section, contemplating whether he should expand his studies to include the new frontiers of computerization and artificial intelligence, when something bumped against him. He turned to meet two pairs of dark eyes.

  Feminine voices muttered apologies in a language he did not understand. He noticed the black silk of their hair, the white flicker of their smiles. “It is all right. I am quite undamaged.” Are they sisters? he wondered as they spoke again and lashes swept tawny cheeks in unison. For a dizzying moment, he felt the pulse of their blood, not in unison at all, but staggered so that it seemed a steady roar in his mind.

  He realized quite suddenly that they were flirting with him.

  It would be simple. It would require none of the careful words, the charade of promises and lies that would be needed in one of the local bars. They believed the language barrier kept them safe, allowed them this brief moment of excitement or amusement in a public place. That barrier made no difference at all to him; he had learned long ago that the power of his will transcended the spoken word. All he had to do was exert that will and they could be his.

  He thought of kissing their pale pink mouths, of finding the veins beneath the delicate skin of their throats.

  But . . .

  It would still be work. He would have to use considerable mental strength to soothe and coax them. He would have to find some private place to go to take advantage of their compliance. He would have to blot the memory of the encounter from their minds.

  When he put his face against the glossy black satin of their hair, he would have to keep himself from imagining it was Ardeth’s.

  He smiled with careful, deliberate menace. Flushed cheeks blanched, smiles faded. Then they were gone, backs straight in dignified retreat.

  Rozokov looked down blindly at the book in his hand and returned it to the shelf. So this was freedom, he thought bitterly. Surely in this town there must be someone who would not remind him of her. There must be women who had nothing of her in their smiles, whose skin would not feel like hers, whose mouths would not taste like hers. If he could not find a woman, then there must certainly be a man who would not remind him of her. But the men of this town were too much alike. They would make him think of the climber and then he would be back where he began. If there was a mortal who would not be only her substitute, he admitted, he would not find one tonight.

  When he went back out onto the street, the clouds had moved in, covering the stars. With a sigh, he headed back towards the apartment.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he realized that there was something sitting on the landing. He stared down at it in bewilderment for a moment before his head ca
me up and surveyed the quiet, empty alley. He could sense no life out there, no awareness studying him from some hidden spot. Carefully, he bent to pick up the small package and hurried into the apartment.

  Switching on the light, he sat down and turned the strange gift in his hands for a long moment. The wrapping paper was thin and delicate, patterned with white flowers and the elegant forms of cranes. Beneath it, he could feel the shape of a book.

  Could it be from Ardeth? Had she returned and left this as a peace offering between them? But that did not seem her way somehow.

  Perhaps that climber, Mark Frye. Had he left this as a gift for Ardeth, hoping that she had returned? But if he had, one would have supposed he would have addressed it to her in some fashion, knowing that she did not live alone.

  There was only one way to find out, of course. He would have to remove the paper and open the book. He could do that, surely. It would require no great resolve, no terrifying commitment, no choice of right or wrong.

  He felt the prick of detached self-disgust and tore the paper, the material ripping easily beneath his fingers. The book itself was surprisingly sturdy, bound in dark leather that he knew was older than it appeared. In the centre of the cover, a crest of stylized flowers had been embossed.

  Curious, Rozokov opened the book. The paper inside was thin and brown with age. The writing began on the third page; a spidery scratching that made strange yet beautiful forms of some of the letters. Though it did not look as if it should be, the writing was in English.

  The Lady of the Autumn Moon . . .

  The night forgotten, his coat still wrapped around him, Rozokov began to read.

  Were we to make

  A thousand autumn nights

  Into one,

  There would still be things to say

  At cockcrow.

  —Tales of Ise

  Chapter 19

  THE LADY OF THE AUTUMN MOON

  As the chrysanthemums bloomed and the leaves began to turn and fall, a certain young man was forced to leave the capital. His father and his uncle had long been in competition for the honours of the court and now, with the announcement of his uncle’s daughter’s engagement to the crown prince, it was apparent who had been victorious. The young man’s father found himself without power, and the uncle, to rid himself of the young rival, named the young man to the governance of a distant province.

  The family lamented but there was nothing to be done. Though the omens were inauspicious for such a journey, the uncle insisted that it must occur immediately, and the young man could not refuse. Accompanied by four retainers, he left his weeping wives (who mourned but did not volunteer to follow him into exile, perhaps, to be charitable, in hopes that it would not be permanent) bid farewell to his father, and began the journey on horseback to his new home, far to the northwest.

  Along the way, ill luck befell them and the small group was beset by bandits. They fought valiantly but to no avail. The retainers were slain, the horses and their burdens stolen, and the young man barely escaped. Beaten and bruised, he stumbled through the wild woods, hopelessly lost among the pine trees. His heart was filled with terror, for this wild mountain land was long known to be home to ghosts and demons such as the malicious long-nosed tengu.

  So it was that when he saw a faint light among the trees, he staggered towards it, praying that it would prove to be the retreat of a hermit monk or some other kind of person who would take him in and shelter him. Instead, when he emerged from the darkness of the trees, he saw a fine house beneath the moonlight. Soft lamplight glowed from an open doorway.

  Thanking the gods for his good fortune, he rushed to the house and mounted the veranda. As his step sounded on the wood, a figure appeared in the doorway. In the lamplight, he could see that it was an old woman, clad in old-fashioned servant’s garb, her long, grey hair streaming about her shoulders as if she had just risen from her bed.

  The young man realized for the first time what a sight he himself must be. His travel clothing, which had been fine and elegant when he left Heian-kyo, was now torn and stained. He had lost his hat in the woods and there were dead leaves and twigs in his hair. All his belongings, except for one pouch which contained the scrolls concerning his new position, had vanished with the bandits.

  He bowed low and spoke in his most courteous fashion. “Forgive my intrusion. I and my retainers were set upon by bandits on the road. All of my companions were killed and I barely escaped with my life. I beg you to allow me the shelter of your house.”

  When he finished speaking, she knelt on the floor and bowed low, for his aristocratic origin was evident in his speech. “Please be welcome in our humble house, my lord. If you will enter, we will do our best to serve you.”

  Her greeting was so sincere and welcoming that he almost fell into the house but managed to keep his feet and follow her through the shadowy corridors until they reached a garden. In the moonlight, the young man could see the heavy, overhanging boughs of trees and ragged, uncut sagebrush and grass. In the air there was a sharp, metallic scent, and in one corner steam rose from a circle of rocks. “Our spring has healing waters, so they say. If you wish to bathe, I will bring you clean clothing and then take you to the lady.”

  This sparked the young man’s curiosity, but the thought of the hot water drew him more and he spared no time for questions. He bathed in the spring, whose hot water did indeed seem to rejuvenate him, and then dressed in the clothing the old woman brought for him. They were of fine quality but the style was old-fashioned as the old woman’s and he had to settle for combing back his wet hair as he had no way to re-dress it in proper court fashion.

  As he followed the woman back to the house, he decided it must be the home of some old aristocratic family, who had left the capital some years before to live in this strange isolation. Perhaps they had been victims of a struggle for power, as he had been.

  The woman led him through a veil of silken panels into a dimly lit room. She gestured for him to be seated on a padded pillow then knelt to pour heated wine into a saucer. He gratefully swallowed the first and, when offered, the second saucer as well.

  Then the old woman bowed to him again, rose and padded to the doorway. Alone, the young man looked about the room and saw for the first time the thin screen set across on end. Beneath it, he could see the flow of a lady’s sleeves, pale grey and white and silver silk that looked like mist on the floor. Even in the darkness, he thought that the shadow lying across the cloth must be a lock of her long, black hair.

  He bowed from his cross-legged position. “Thank you, my lady, for your hospitality.”

  “You are very welcome,” a voice came from behind the screen. “My maid said that you were set upon by bandits. I trust you were not injured.”

  “Only bruised and cut a little. Your spring has helped that.” Intrigued by her voice, the young man crept a little closer. He told her his name and, knowing that it would hardly be polite for a well-bred woman to tell him hers, decided to call her, in his mind, the Lady of the Autumn Moon. Sipping the wine, he told her how his party had left the capital and been attacked by the bandits. “Your house was a most welcome sight, my lady. How did you come to live so far from the world, in such a remote spot?”

  “My father brought me here, many years ago,” she answered, though her voice sounded so young that he decided she must have been a mere babe at the time. “When he died, I remained.”

  “Are you alone here?”

  “Only I and my maid remain. The other servants all left with my father’s death.”

  “What a terrible life for a young woman,” the young man observed, “Have you no family? No one to take you back to the capital and see to your future?”

  “I have only myself.”

  “Believe that your kindness to me will not go unrewarded,” he assured her, resolving to help but privately uncertain what resources he might still have. Would it be possible
to take her to his new home? If she were as beautiful as her voice suggested, he might be able to set her up as his concubine.

  “Your kind thoughts are thanks enough, my lord.”

  “Nonsense,” he answered, then decided to try to persuade her with poetry.

  “Lovely in a lonely garden—but how much more

  precious is the plum-flower when it is seen.”

  He heard the rustle of her silks and the sleeves of her gown moved beneath the screen like a pale hand.

  “The moonflower scents the night

  But in the day you would pass it by,”

  she replied and he was moved by her wit even as he was intrigued by her resistance.

  “I would wait all night for the moon

  and let the morning dew wet my sleeves

  if she did not come.”

  He was waiting for her reply when the old maid reappeared and crouched into the room.

  “I have prepared a chamber for you, my lord. Surely you are tired and wish to rest.” The young man was annoyed to be interrupted in his flirtation with the Lady of the Autumn Moon, but, when he looked towards the place where she sat, she said nothing and so he was compelled to follow the maid down the veranda to his chamber. And, in truth, he was so wearied by the events of the night that he was asleep as soon as he lay down.

  In his sleep, strange dreams came. He dreamt that he was wrapped in a silken web, like that of a spider, while something probed and lapped at the cut that the bandit had made on his shoulder. The dream so disturbed him that he awoke in the middle of it and, without thinking, struck out at the heavy darkness with the first thing that came into his hand, the comb which the old woman had given him to arrange his hair.

  There was a cry of pain and he came fully awake. In the moonlight, he could see a young woman crouched on the floor, holding on to her hand. She was more beautiful than he had imagined, her face as pearly as the moon, with fine arched brows and a mouth red as a cherry. Hair the hue of midnight fell over her shoulders and pooled on the mats around her knees. Gossamer robes drifted about her, baring her shoulders. “My lady . . . please forgive me. I dreamed. . . .”