The Dark Blood of Poppies

by Freda Warrington

  The world dismayed him. Decadence, promiscuity, weak and faltering governments. He decided that a new order was sorely needed, among mortals and immortals alike.

  But how little I know, he thought. How much I have missed!

  These small admissions shredded his complacency until, close to his birthplace in northern Italy, despair overcame him. He broke down before the altar of a tiny village chapel and wept, dashing his head on the flagstones.

  Kristian is gone. He is never coming back! Who is there to carry on after him?

  No one but me.

  A life-sized crucifixion, crudely carved and brown with age, hung above the altar. It represented a faith he’d forsaken long ago to follow the true saviour, Kristian. A soft human belief that sentimentalised meekness and mercy. But now the figure portrayed something else. The rigid arms nailed to the cross, the agonised face under a crown of thorns – all expressed Kristian’s own anguish at his betrayal.

  In his grief, Cesare leapt onto the figure and clung to it, tearing its shoulder with his fangs. No one was there to witness the bizarre scene. Wood splintered, the foul taste of sap and old paint filled his mouth. Yet he went on in his frenzy, as if clinging to Kristian and punishing him at the same time.

  The storm in his skull overcame him, and he fell. As Cesare lay on the flagstones, God showed him a nightmarish vision. A blond child curled up under the wrath of a witch: a vast, ragged figure with wings and claws, wild black hair. She was beating the boy with a rod, lashing the tiny tender body with glee. Her hair flapped in a gale from hell.

  Cesare knew that she was both the child’s mother and the universal mother – the goddess of destruction, bride of the Devil, the Enemy.

  Terror overwhelmed him. He wept for the tiny golden boy, but couldn’t move. He knew that the child was secretly a cherub, immortal.

  Next he saw a bright gold figure with white wings and a fiery sword. Cesare saw himself at a door with a key in his hand. And he understood.

  I must open the door to God’s army. Let them through and they will slay the witch-mother and save the sweet child of immortality!

  The vision ended. He rose to his knees, gasping with terror and hope. He laughed and cried. “Forgive me, Father,” he said, clasping his hands. “I doubted you, but now I understand. Kristian died to test me. Use me, Lord. Let me be your sword in the war against the Enemy!”

  Presently Cesare walked out into the sunlight. As he emerged, he saw lines of soldiers marching along the dusty, bright road. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen: light filtering through the green leaves, gilding these brisk rows of disciplined, strong young men.

  Cesare felt new-born.

  Now, he thought. Now I am ready to face Lilith.

  * * *

  Cesare arrived at the Ballet Janacek’s house in Salzburg by night and entered, feeling all-powerful and disdainful, as if this act of stealth were below him. With heaven on his side, Violette could not touch him. The prospect of confronting her filled him with fire.

  The house, save for a sleeping caretaker, was deserted.

  Cesare’s first thought was that Violette had deliberately, spitefully thwarted him. Then he felt relieved. He thought of killing the caretaker as a small warning, but a letter on a desk distracted him. It concerned a tour of America, making it plain the company would not be back until autumn.

  But this is excellent, he thought. I have time to plan.

  Cesare’s new interest in the world led him to explore storerooms and offices, kitchens and rehearsal rooms. He lingered in an empty dance studio, then ascended to the private apartments.

  Photographs of Violette were everywhere. Other dancers, too, but her face held him. Blanched skin and huge dark eyes, black feathers clasping her head. Even in monochrome she was enchanting. “Odile, 1925,” read the caption. Cesare had no idea who Odile was. A witch, clearly.

  Here she was again, in loose white chiffon, her hair unbound. “Giselle, 1923.” A glacial sylph under a mantle of soot-black hair. Cesare stared, trembling. Through her terrifying eyes, her soul lanced straight into his, and he recognized her.

  Oh yes, she was the witch of his vision.

  She was the Enemy.

  She was everything Kristian had fought against, an affront to God. Alien, impure, uncontrollable, irreverent, wicked. She would bring degradation and death.

  He backed away, transported by the pure fire of hatred. Then he knew. Pierre and John had spoken the truth. Lilith was real and at large in the world, more terrible than even John had suspected.

  “And you’re mine,” Cesare whispered to her frozen face. “Mine to deal with.”

  He raced back to Schloss Holdenstein as if winged. No good to wallow any longer, hoping in vain for Kristian’s resurrection. He knew he must take up the holy work in his own way. Destroy the Enemy, Lilith, and create a new order.

  Cesare thought of the strong and joyous young soldiers he’d seen. They were only humans, he thought. I am immortal, God’s chosen. I have a battle to fight, a golden world to create – and never again, as I build the new empire, shall I walk in another’s shadow.

  He’d stolen a small framed photograph. Inside the castle, he drew it from a pocket and gazed on the insolent face of chaos. Violette was in a daring, tight-fitting costume of glittering jet scales, not unlike the changed shape of a vampire in the Crystal Ring. The caption read, “The Serpent, Dans le Jardin, 1925.”

  “If you think you can slaughter the chosen of God,” he whispered, “you are very wrong, Lilith.”

  He smashed the glass with his knuckles. His blood smeared the dancer’s image, dripping over her throat and breasts, obliterating her eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  APPEASEMENT

  In her elegant house on Beacon Hill, Roberta Stafford lay beneath her lover, expertly coaxing his excitement to a peak while her thoughts wandered elsewhere. His back felt hairy, damp, and crepey with age, but she never let her distaste show. She was an accomplished actress. Thankfully, because he was not young, his demands were modest.

  At last he convulsed, grunted, and rolled aside with his wrist flung across his flushed forehead. Roberta immediately threw back the covers to let cool air onto her body.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” he said. “I must remind myself of why I’m keeping you in luxury more often.”

  She laughed, stroking his cheek. “Whenever you like, Harold. I’m always here.”

  “Was it wonderful for you, my dear?”

  “As ever,” she said ambiguously. He fumbled for her but she evaded him and went to open a window, reaching between curtains of creamy lace. The afternoon was golden. When she turned, Harold was out of bed and getting dressed. She regarded the doughy folds of his skin, his paunch ballooning over his sparrow legs, his heavy jowls and sparse grey hair, with affectionate tolerance. Harold wasn’t so bad. His love-making might be inept but it was financially rewarding. After all, he was no worse than any other man she’d had, and one of the few she did not actively despise.

  “So, I hear you threw him over,” said Harold, tying his shoelaces.

  “Who?”

  “Your young beau… Russell Booth?”

  “Oh, him.” Still naked, she helped him to fasten his gold cufflinks. “He wasn’t my beau. He was getting altogether too serious. I had to end it.”

  “Word is you broke his heart.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “Word is you also broke him.”

  “He must have thought I was worth it. He had a damned good time in the process. He has a rich daddy, he’ll be all right.” She sat at her dressing table and began to brush her thick, waist-length hair.

  “He’s not the only one with a rich daddy, is he?” Harold leaned on the back of her chair, the respectable businessman in his old-fashioned suit and wire-rimmed spectacles. “You’re a tough woman, Robyn.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” She glimpsed her reflection. Her eyes were soft and mischievous, her face glowing, he
r smile fresh and without artifice. She might be uncomfortably close to forty, but could still pass for twenty-seven. “He knew the conditions, and so do you. No wedding bells, no exclusive rights.”

  “Oh, I’m not jealous, my dear. Have as many boyfriends as you like, as long as you don’t throw me over for any of them.”

  “I couldn’t afford to, don’t worry.”

  In fact, she had money of her own, but preferred to spend Harold’s. She turned her head and kissed the back of his hand. The white hairs were dry against her lips.

  “Well, I have to go,” he said. “But I got you a present.”

  Robyn gave a soft laugh, pleased. He always brought an offering, even when he only came to rant about his problems and drink her illicit brandy – which, of course, his money had bought.

  His hands slipped under her hair and attached a sparkling band round her neck. A diamond choker. “Just a little something,” he said. His “little somethings” were always worth a fortune.

  “I guess this means you bought your wife a present too.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said, “but yours cost more. Actually, the diamonds are kind of a peace offering. I wanted to take you to the ballet, but my wife wants to go, so I have to take her instead. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, never mind,” Robyn said, indifferent. “You’re very sweet. When have I ever been angry with you?”

  “Never. Why d’you think I keep coming round? You’re the nicest woman I ever met.”

  He patted her shoulder and left.

  When he’d gone, Robyn took off the choker and dropped it on the dressing table. The tiny hard gems clicked as they folded onto the polished wood. Her depression lasted only a few seconds. Then she shook herself out of it, rang for her maid to run her bath, and began to coil her hair onto her head.

  Her hair was the one thing about herself she admired. Heavy, thick and glossy, a deep glowing brown threaded with the gorgeous fall colours, her hair wove the power that attracted men to her. And she was pretty, she knew, but scores of Boston women were prettier, and younger. She saw the subtle ravages of maturity in her strong-featured face. Her allure came from a deeper level. She had a quality of repose, of warmth and tolerance. Men felt they could talk to her, that she’d welcome them, faults and all.

  At the same time they found her mysterious. The combination seemed to be irresistible. And Robyn had learned to take full advantage of her appeal.

  Some men only wanted sex; they were fun, because she could pick apart their egos with exquisite subtlety over months. But the best ones were those who fell in love and begged her to marry them. Those she could destroy utterly, especially if she got them to leave their wives before she rejected them.

  There were two or three a year, not droves, but each one was a work of art. She was selective, choosing men who had the most to lose. And it was particularly satisfying to follow her vocation in Boston, that most puritanical and stratified of societies.

  For each man who fell, there was another to replace him. She could have drawn up a waiting list. They never learned. Her reputation was known, but each new lover thought he’d be the one to change her.

  That was her weapon. She made them believe her when she said, “You’re different to all the others. I never loved until I met you.”

  Some of them she had quite liked, superficially. But deep inside, she despised their schoolboy infatuations, their arrogance. They deserved punishment.

  Sometimes she hated her existence, but mostly she drifted through it with the same placid optimism that drew lovers into her trap.

  The Irish maid, Mary, came to say the bath was ready. Robyn slid into the perfumed water and lay in contemplation of steam beading the marble tiled walls. Pleasantly tired, she was soothed by the sounds of Mary tidying the bedroom.

  Her housekeeper, Alice – more companion than servant – entered the bathroom through wreaths of steam.

  “Would you like your back washed, madam?” she asked, calling her “madam” with affectionate insolence. Robyn sat forward, enjoying the soapy sponge on her back. Alice’s hands were firm and soothing. She was the same age as Robyn but looked older, her round, kind face still handsome in a cloud of dark hair. Over the years that she’d kept house for Robyn, they had grown close. Robyn considered Alice her only friend and ally against the world.

  “Would you like to go to the ballet?” Robyn asked. “There’s a company here from Europe. You probably saw it in the Evening Transcript. Harold mentioned them, too.”

  Alice paused in her task. Streams of hot water coursed deliciously down Robyn’s spine. “The ballet, h’m? I would love to, but surely some gentleman –”

  “To hell with them,” Robyn said decisively. “Harold wanted to take me, but of course he can’t be seen with me in public.”

  “Well, if you’ve no one else,” Alice said darkly, rising to her feet. She was never impressed by any favours that Robyn offered, aware they could be withdrawn without notice. “I need to send Mary for fresh towels.”

  While she was out of the room, Robyn heard the doorbell. She cursed. A long pause, then Alice returned with an armful of white towels.

  “There’s a gentleman caller for you, madam.” She seemed to be suppressing a smile.

  “Oh, damn. I’m tired,” Robyn sighed. Then she remembered her heartbroken beau. “It’s not Russell, is it? Tell him to go away.”

  “No. He asked me not to say. It’s a surprise.”

  “Oh, Lord, tell me it’s not my father!”

  “No. It’s someone you’ll want to see, I promise.”

  Robyn rose from the water, creamy and long-limbed, and let Alice wrap her in a cloud-soft towel. “I hate mysteries. All right, tell him to wait, then come back and help me do something with my hair.”

  Robyn took her time dressing, unable to think of a man she actually wanted to see. On entering the parlour, she almost did not recognise the tall, slight man who rose hastily to his feet to greet her. Years had passed. How grey his thick, unruly hair had turned! But the kind, chiselled face behind the black-rimmed spectacles was the same.

  “Uncle Josef!” She flung herself into his arms, laughing.

  He hugged and kissed her with delicate reserve. They’d met only three times; once when she was a child and Josef had visited her family, again when her parents had taken her to Europe. The third time had been after her wedding, seventeen years ago. Such a long time. But they’d always kept in touch.

  “Forgive me for not announcing myself,” he said. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Oh, you certainly did that!”

  “My little Robyn.” He held her at arm’s length. “You look so lovely. Glowing.”

  “So do you, Uncle.” She laughed again in amazement. “But you’re in Vienna! What are you doing here?”

  “A long story. A friend was travelling to America and asked me to come with her.”

  “Who is she? Come on, do tell.”

  He looked away, as if embarrassed. “It’s not what it sounds like. She really is just a friend. She’s with the Ballet Janacek and there was a spare berth.”

  “A dancer?”

  “No… some sort of business partner.”

  Amused, Robyn shook her head and opened the French doors to her garden terrace. Ivory nets fluttered like bridal veils in the breeze.

  “Do you believe in coincidence? I was just talking to Alice about seeing the ballet. Now I’ve heard them mentioned three times in one day. That’s an omen, don’t you think? Come see the garden.”

  Josef followed her out onto the terrace. A flight of steps led down to a tiny walled garden filled with shrubs and ferns, honeysuckle spilling over the walls, plants in terracotta tubs, a lemon tree in the centre of a handkerchief lawn.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “At a rather grand hotel on Tremont Street. Oh, I’m not here to impose on you, don’t worry.”

  “I never thought you were, dear.”

  “But this is a lovely h
ouse,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She added silently, and so good to be mistress of my own domain.

  Robyn was proud of her home, one of a row of town houses that stepped gently up Chestnut Street. Built of soft russet brick, it had long leaded windows with white shutters, black railings tipped with gold, a flight of steps up to the front door. The rooms were big and beautifully kept, with polished floors or pale jade carpets, carefully placed antiques. Visitors always remarked how elegant and friendly the house was, how at home they felt there.

  “Well, there’s plenty of room with just Alice, Mary and me,” she said. “I have the Wilkes, too, a married couple, but they don’t live in. Mrs Wilkes cooks, Mr Wilkes is my chauffeur and gardener. They’re very sweet.”

  “You are not lonely,” he said, “since your husband… passed away?”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” Josef said with feeling. “The last time was…”

  “My honeymoon in Europe,” she said flatly. “Before the War.”

  He gave her a rueful look. “You write less often than I do.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. I’m a dreadful letter-writer. But I do send photographs every Christmas.”

  “They are all framed on my desk.”

  “And I wrote several times last year, when Auntie Lisl died. I’m so sorry, I know how much you loved her.”

  Pain crossed his face. “She was terribly ill. Her death was a release.”

  “So now you’re all alone… or are you?”

  “All alone,” he said resignedly.

  “How have you have escaped all the women who must have fallen for you over the years?”

  “Because I could never make a choice.” Her teasing made him grin. “I know myself well enough not to make any woman unhappy by marrying her. Well, now I’ve grown up enough to tire of being a bachelor, I find it’s too late. There is someone, but she’s half my age and doesn’t love me, so…” He shrugged.

  “She must be mad.”

  “I am quite happy,” he said, “apart from missing you.”