The Dark Blood of Poppies

by Freda Warrington

“Is it so?”

  Pierre nodded mutely. “Has she been here?”

  Cesare ignored the question and turned to the others. “Behold, the second one to come here complaining of Lilith!” he exclaimed.

  “What does it mean?” said a slender male with yellow hair and black eyes.

  “I don’t know yet. But now we have a purpose again. We must find out who she is.”

  “John didn’t tell you?” said Pierre. “You’ve never heard of Violette Lenoir?”

  They all looked blank. John shook his ravaged head. “The human persona she puts on is a mask. She is Lilith, the demon mother who must be destroyed before she consumes her own children.”

  Pierre threw his hands up in exasperation. He liked the modern world. How he loathed all this medieval nonsense of gods and demons, how wretched that he needed the help of these fools!

  “When did you last leave the castle, Cesare? If you live like hermits, it’s no wonder you know nothing. You haven’t a clue what goes on in the real world!”

  “Of course we leave the castle,” Cesare said thinly. “We have to feed. But your so-called ‘real world’ is one of shadows. Kristian rightly taught us to shun it.”

  “I remember. You only go out at night, like the ghosts of monks haunting graveyards. Very gothic. And do you sip only your victims’ life-auras, or have you lapsed from Kristian’s path? Do you steal a little taste of their blood?”

  Cesare was thin-lipped. “Kristian was exceptional. Very few can match his high standards of austerity. Tell us of this female, Pierre.”

  “She’s a famous dancer. If you ever went out, you would know. She became a vampire because Charlotte – Karl’s companion?”

  “I believe I saw her once,” Cesare said dismissively.

  “Charlotte became obsessed with her, and brought her into the Crystal Ring. But she came out of the initiation mad, convinced she’s Lilith. I don’t know her intentions, but I do know she’s crazy. She’s already killed two vampires and had a damned good attempt on me! You know who Lilith is?”

  “As John said, the Mother of Vampires.” Another spasm clouded Cesare’s face. “Kristian spoke of Lilith as God’s instrument. Her dark thoughts spawned us, and she will reappear at the end of time to destroy us. To cast her own children into hell. Unless…”

  The hush that followed his words was charged with fear – and, if Pierre was not mistaken, a bizarre, hungry excitement. He closed his eyes, wishing he’d gone to Ilona after all. Her ridicule would have been comforting compared to this. Cesare’s vehemence was shredding his last hold on sanity.

  “Unless we can defeat her. That is our great test! And we can, if we hold true to our faith.”

  “Kristian’s great purpose for us!” exclaimed the yellow-haired male, and the others all began talking at once, in a rushing murmur of joy as if everything had fallen into place.

  Cesare clasped Pierre’s shoulder. “You can help us, Pierre. Show us where to find her.”

  “No!” he cried. “No, I can’t. I’m ill. Just let me stay here. Please.”

  “Vampires don’t suffer illness.”

  Pierre loathed Cesare’s condescending tone, but he’d asked for it by coming here. I believe in nothing, he thought. I don’t care what this means, as long as I never see Violette again. I’ll do anything for Cesare, sell myself to a man I abhor, if it means gaining protection from the witch!

  “The question is this,” Cesare went on. “Is Violette really Lilith, or is she insane? Either way, she must be dealt with. She’s committed heinous acts… Of course you can stay here, my dear friend. And I think that you are right.”

  “About what?”

  “That I’ve been cloistered here too long.” Cesare’s eyes were unfocussed, his dread of the unknown becoming a hard light of defiance. “It’s time I went out and re-acquainted myself with the world.”

  * * *

  Charlotte and Karl still went their separate ways to seek blood, as if their mutual feast on the peasant woman had never happened. The incident went unmentioned. On her own after Violette’s visit, however, Charlotte delayed her hunt. Instead she travelled through the Crystal Ring to Vienna, in search of a friend.

  She found him quickly. He was on his way home, strolling alone through one of the public gardens. She went ahead, and waited under a tree. Tall and slim with thick grey hair, his face still leanly attractive at sixty, he had the melancholy, self-contained look she remembered.

  Josef.

  As he drew level, Charlotte stepped into his path. He stopped, raising a hand to his chest; for a moment, she thought the shock had stopped his heart. Then he breathed out and smiled. His grey eyes, behind black-rimmed spectacles, gleamed with wry pleasure.

  He was in no danger from her. Josef was her only mortal friend.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I always startle you to death.”

  “That’s uncomfortably close to the truth,” said Josef. “You never knock on my front door, like a normal visitor. But, my dear Charlotte…” He kissed her hand, then held it between his palms. “Such a sweet death I would welcome.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Maybe not, but let me dream. Then you frighten me less.” He tucked her hand through his arm, and they walked together. Light from the street wove green webs in the foliage.

  “I never mean to alarm you, Josef, truly.”

  “But you can’t help it. I still see you as the little daughter of my good friend, George Neville, yet here you are, a ghost…”

  Josef knew what she was: an unholy creature in a human shell. When they’d met by chance last year, he’d recognised her because she looked so like her mother: deep-lidded expressive eyes, sombre mouth, warm brown hair that turned to gold leaf in the light. Learning the truth about her had shocked him, naturally; that behind the veil of feminine softness, she now lived beyond death, watching humans with the radiant eyes of a goddess and the red tip of her tongue poised in hunger.

  Josef had watched Charlotte end his sister’s life. Lisl had been desperately ill, dying, and he’d wanted her suffering to end. Charlotte knew the memory would never leave him. No haze of illusion shielded Josef from the horror of what Charlotte was.

  And yet he murmured, “Men would give their souls to be haunted by such a dear and beautiful ghost.”

  “They say vampires can’t befriend humans without causing disaster, but we keep trying. I’ve something to ask you, but your soul is safe, I promise.” They passed through an arbour of honeysuckle. The scent filled her head, making the world timeless for a lovely moment. “It’s a friend of mine.”

  “Your vampire friend, Lilith? I remember.”

  “I’m still worried. She’s so disturbed, I’m afraid she’ll harm herself.”

  “Don’t vampires harm others? I don’t see what I can do.”

  “But you know the mythology and how to interpret it. You’ve studied psychology.”

  “Charlotte, after I moved from the science of physics to that of the mind, I worked as a psychoanalyst for a time, until I retired to nurse Lisl. Yes, I study and write, but I’ve had no practical experience for years.”

  “You don’t forget, though. If you could observe her, perhaps talk to her if she’d permit it, you might gain some insight that would help.”

  He halted, a light breeze blowing his coat and scarf. Lights through the bushes made a silver mosaic around him. “Charlotte, my friendship with you is one thing. But to give help to another of your kind… I don’t know.”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it means everything to me. I don’t know what else to do.” He was shaking his head, troubled. Out of desperation she added, “Josef… It’s Violette Lenoir.”

  His head came up and he stared. “The Lenoir – the ballerina? You wouldn’t joke about such a thing, would you? Of course you wouldn’t.”

  “It goes without saying that you mustn’t tell anyone.”

  “Who would believe me? But I’ve seen her dance many times.” He
waved vaguely in the direction of the theatres. “And now you tell me she’s –?”

  “Disturbed. Unhappy,” Charlotte said quietly. “Perhaps this will help you to understand. What if I said that the ‘collective unconscious’ is perceived as a real place by vampires?”

  “Is it?” He looked sceptical.

  “Well, there is an otherworld that only we can enter. Some believe it’s the mind of God, and that we are his angels of punishment.”

  “Do you?” Josef raised his thick grey eyebrows.

  “No. I believe it’s the subconscious of mankind. I mean the massed electrical impulses of all their thought-waves and dream-waves. Energy becomes matter and vice versa. This is a question of perception. Vampires perceive thought-impulses as matter, an ethereal double of this world; and I mean ether literally, as a medium through which we can move like fish through water…”

  “Charlotte, stop,” he exclaimed. “This sounds almost scientific, but…”

  “I was a scientist,” she said tightly. “I didn’t just make my father cups of tea and type his notes. I understood and participated in his work.”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to sound condescending. It’s hard to conceive of such a place, though.” He took her arm and they walked onwards.

  “I know, but please suspend disbelief for me. I’m telling the truth. We call this otherworld the Crystal Ring, or Raqia.”

  “Ah, I know that word!” said Josef. “A Hebrew word from the Bible, meaning firmament, or expanse, or heaven, or simply the sky… An appropriate word to borrow.”

  “And Raqia creates vampires. If a human is taken there on the point of death by other vampires, he or she becomes a vampire too.”

  “Rebirth,” said Josef thoughtfully, “not from the energy of the real world but from that of the collective mind. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. I’ve no proof. It’s what I feel to be true.”

  “But then… Why vampires? Why not – oh, anything the human mind can conjure? Monsters, dream lovers, figures from mythology? Archetypes, as we Jungians say.”

  She laughed. “But we are monsters and dream lovers, Josef. And what is Lilith but a mythical figure? But we must be vampires, we couldn’t be anything else, because we represent the very extremity of human fears and hopes.”

  “The fear of death and the hope of eternal life,” said Josef, nodding. “Yes, you are almost making sense!”

  “Thank you,” she said wryly. “But you’ve left one out: fear of the dead coming back to life and feeding on the living. Isn’t that the deepest terror of all? The breaking of nature’s laws. We can’t be defined scientifically, because the laws of physics, chemistry and biology break down around us. We come from the lawless realm of dreams.”

  Josef was quiet for a while. “So vampires have theories and theologies,” he said. “Amazing.”

  “And we argue about them as much as humans do.”

  He was fascinated now. She saw the glow in his face. “Let me propose a theory,” he said. “Archetypes are motifs that crop up everywhere. Lilith appears in every mythology under many names; a primordial image. It sounds as if Violette has absorbed an archetype that has particular resonance for her. It may be a complex – that is, a fragment of the psyche that’s broken away due to some past trauma.”

  “I’d say she’s had her share of those,” Charlotte murmured. “So if she thinks she’s wicked and destructive, she separates that part of herself and calls it Lilith?”

  “Possibly. In the voices heard by the pathologically insane, the complex can take on a separate character. Does Lilith talk to her?”

  “I don’t know.” The words pathologically insane reverberated. “She speaks of Lilith compelling her… But Josef, I’m convinced you could help her. We’re vampires, but we are still – well, human, in a way. If I can persuade her to speak to you. That’s the difficulty.”

  “I’m not sure.” Josef looked at the ground. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “I’m tempted. It would be fascinating. But if she won’t talk to me…”

  “Surely you could learn something from observing her? Don’t turn me down flat! Wait, before you answer, here’s an enticement in return. The Ballet Janacek will be touring America soon. Karl and I are going. We’re patrons, of a sort. There’s a spare berth on the ship, so it would cost you nothing to come with us.”

  His face softened, and he smiled. “Why would I want to go to America?”

  “The tour opens in Boston.”

  “Ah.” His eyebrows rose.

  “I’ve seen photographs of your niece Roberta on your desk. You said she lives in Boston and that you haven’t seen her for years…?”

  “Oh,” he said, moisture filling his eyes. “Oh, this is quite a bribe. My little Roberta. I called her Robyn, with a ‘why’, because she was always asking questions.”

  “And wouldn’t she love to see her uncle?”

  His face was tender, lined with old sorrows. “Extraordinary, that a vampire should care for the happiness of a mere mortal.”

  She shrugged. “Most don’t. Yes, it’s a bribe, but please say yes.”

  He tried to look grave, but couldn’t keep the joy from his expression. “Yes, I’ll come. Dear God, I am going to see my Robyn! Thank you.” He bent and kissed her cheek. A kiss of friendship – but the kiss lingered a moment too long. She had to suppress sudden, treacherous thirst.

  Time to end the meeting before it went too far.

  She knew that the words she’d spoken earlier had already come true. Vampires cannot befriend humans without causing disaster. Josef was in love with Charlotte, even though he knew they could never be together. But that was keeping him from finding someone else.

  She had never taken his blood, never would. But still she was insidiously picking his soul apart.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANGELS FALLING

  Sebastian avoided other vampires, as he had done for decades. They had nothing he desired or needed. He wanted the citadel of night entirely to himself.

  He loved America for its size and grandeur. Forests, lakes and mountains where he might track a single victim across the wilderness. Cities, seething with the rich and poor of all nations, where he could pass from slum to glittering skyscraper like a chameleon.

  Sebastian loved his ability to go unnoticed by humans. He would leave them with no memory of his presence, with only a feeling of unease as if shadow wings had brushed them. He could even pass unseen by other vampires, a rare gift. Immortals usually sensed each other, but they never noticed Sebastian unless he willed them to.

  This confirmed his sense of being unique, superior.

  Over two hundred and twenty years had passed since Simon and his companions had drawn Sebastian into their dark world. He hadn’t seen them since. Sometimes he wondered why they’d chosen him. The fair folk, it seemed, had a grim sense of humour.

  You will make a wonderful immortal, Rasmila had said. Sebastian knew from the start that he was an orphan in the darkness. Yes, it was purgatory, but his only possible fate: the natural extension of his solitary, dark character. He relished both his own pain and the evil he visited on others. His revenge against the faithless Mary had only been the beginning.

  How very far away that night seemed now. Meaningless. I didn’t love Mary as I sucked out her life. I loved only her blood… And yet, on a deeper level, the act hadn’t been meaningless at all, but the profound sealing of his vampire nature.

  After he left Blackwater Hall – as later occupiers named it – he’d taken ship to America. He wanted no more of Ireland’s shadowy magic, its religions and superstitions, war and the endless struggle to hold onto his birthright. In the early years of his new existence he was savage, bitter and self-absorbed. As time passed, though, he discovered that vampires were not frozen in one mood forever. Bitterness passed. He gained control of his blood thirst and his fear of eternity. Then he began to think of the house again.

  Eventually, some six
ty years after he’d left Ireland, curiosity drew him back. He discovered that the scandal of the landowner who’d murdered his wife and her lover, then vanished, was local legend; a folk tale told by old men in their cups. The estate had passed to the Crown, then been awarded to a Protestant family in gratitude for their loyal service to William of Orange. Sebastian felt no resentment. He simply wanted to see who the family were, how they kept the place. Blackwater Hall: a good, plain name stating that the house belonged to the river and the land. Self-important noblemen came and went, but the land endured forever. And the family was pleasant enough, fair to their tenants. Sebastian approved of the way they looked after his demesne.

  Yet he owed it to the house, and to himself, to haunt them a little. To frighten the old men, to feed on the young and strong. To turn a capable wife into a crazed neurotic, or seduce a virgin and ruin her for marriage, to kill a first-born son here, a beloved small daughter there. Just to darken their lives once in a while, as generations came and went. America remained his hunting ground, but every few years he would revisit Ireland and listen with pleasure when people said, “That Blackwater Hall is haunted; it’s cursed the family!” And he would slip silently into the house and torment the hapless inhabitants a little more.

  Sebastian had seen off the last of them, an eccentric old bachelor, in the 1860s. Blackwater Hall had stood empty ever since, which gave him immense satisfaction.

  The house was his once more.

  These days, however, he rarely dwelled on the past. He lived in the moment, drinking sensation as if it were blood. Tonight he was in New York, moving through the soft sparkle of lights in search of human heat, the shimmer of music and laughter. How the New World had changed since he’d first arrived! Ah, the Jazz Age. Since the Great War, cities had mushroomed: skyscrapers soaring up everywhere, motor cars with long bonnets and wire-rimmed wheels crawling nose-to-tail through the streets. Dirt and fumes, noise and energy. He loved the mood of criminality engendered by Prohibition, a law that enticed more people than ever before to imbibe the forbidden fruit of alcohol. Wild music, outrageous clothes, a new cult of youth. And yet the modern age still had romance, a kind of innocence.