The Dark Blood of Poppies

by Freda Warrington

  He held her hands and they looked at each other, taking in every new line, every sadness. Josef meant more to her than her own father. “Have you seen my mom?”

  “Yes, I felt I should, out of courtesy,” he sighed. Although Robyn’s mother was his sister, he didn’t get on with her any more than Robyn did.

  “Then I’m surprised you’re here,” she said lightly. “They’ve quite disowned me, and I’m sure they told you why.”

  He sounded more sad than disapproving. “Robyn, your letters give away more than you realise. But are you really happy, living like this?”

  “How would you like me to live?” The anger that sprang into her voice startled her. “My parents wanted me to live as the wife of a rich, respectable, churchgoing Bostonian, happy ever after. So much for that!”

  Josef looked startled and concerned. “You must miss your husband. Even if you were unhappy, it’s harder being alone.”

  “Miss him?” she gasped. Josef didn’t know the whole truth. No one did, except Alice – and her mother, who’d refused to listen. She wanted to tell Josef, I danced on his grave! – but movement in the parlour stopped her.

  “Here’s Mary with the tea,” she said, letting anger go with her breath.

  Stepping back through the fluttering net curtains, he caught her elbow. “My dear, I didn’t mean to upset you. If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry.”

  “You haven’t. Who am I to take offence at anything? Truly, I’m fine. My life is under control.”

  “Robyn,” he said, fixing her with compassionate grey eyes, “you don’t have to justify yourself. I’m not your father. I have only one demand to make of you.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you do me the honour of accompanying me to Swan Lake.”

  * * *

  The dancer in white was an avatar of perfection.

  In the enraptured eyes of her audience, Violette Lenoir’s genius made her more than human. Amid the painted sets, swelling music and lavish costumes, she was in her true place. An enchanted higher world, an aquarium of light separate from reality.

  Only a few knew Violette’s true nature. Strip her of her satin and tulle, feathers and greasepaint, and she would still shine like porcelain and ebony. The stage was camouflage. Take her out of context, and her otherness would still glow like a torch.

  This was Swan Lake’s opening night. Charlotte watched from a private box with Karl beside her, drinking Violette’s magic.

  As Odette, the dancer was all innocence and flowing delicacy, radiating passionate warmth. Yet it was only as Odile – Odette’s evil counterpart – that she was truly in character. She didn’t have to act. She became a pillar of glacial fire contained by the luscious black of her jewelled and feathered costume. Her powerful fluidity was stunning.

  In the darkness, Karl reached out and took Charlotte’s hand.

  It will be all right, Charlotte told herself. As long as Violette goes on dancing, she will be all right.

  The story wound to its poignant climax. Violette danced her curtain calls, while the audience showered her with flowers and applause. When the house lights came up, Karl said, to Charlotte’s surprise, “I think we should go and see her, don’t you?”

  She agreed, with a dart of apprehension. How ridiculous to fear Violette! But she couldn’t help it. The dancer had barely spoken to her since leaving Europe. Images of Violette cutting a red line across her wrist… seizing Charlotte, poising fang-tips on her throat, then confronting Karl with twisted rage in her eyes…

  Her morbid isolation throughout the journey.

  As they crossed the foyer, the body scents of the crowd woke Charlotte’s thirst. This pressing desire was no longer a shock. She drew it in like breath. The prospect of sating it later – outside, in some dark place without witnesses – was exciting.

  Nothing obvious marked Karl and Charlotte as predators. Someone who looked for too long might consider them almost too perfect in their soft radiance to be human. Film stars, perhaps? The onlooker would never guess that their allure was a jewelled trap.

  Backstage, dancers, musicians, directors and scene-shifters milled around the brick corridors. The theatre staff, with their American accents, their exuberance, their different fashions and manners – all struck Charlotte as fresh and strange. Even the lowliest errand boy was cheerfully impertinent, to her delight.

  The ballet company members were more reserved, acknowledging Charlotte politely as an enigmatic patron of the Ballet Janacek. She returned their greetings, her focus on the door of Violette’s dressing room.

  “Come in,” she called before Charlotte knocked. Exchanging a look of unease with Karl, she went in.

  The dancer sat at her dressing table in a cream satin gown, her hair coiled around her head. The cold cream she’d used to remove her make-up gave her skin a glassy shine.

  She stood and greeted them with real warmth. “I’m so glad you came. Did you enjoy it? Didn’t they love us?” And she clasped both Charlotte’s and Karl’s hands, laughing.

  After their recent encounters, Charlotte was taken aback. She’d seen Violette in distress so often that this innocent glow of happiness was astounding. Karl, for once, was lost for words.

  “I told you Swan Lake was the one,” said Charlotte, relaxing a little.

  “And you were right. Ballet Janacek, the toast of Europe; soon to be the toast of America.” Turning to the mirror, she unpinned her luxuriant hair to unravel in fronds around her shoulders. “I noticed a man in the front row,” she said lightly. “Grey-haired, quite handsome, staring at me as if analysing my performance more than enjoying it. Do you know who he is?”

  Shocked, Charlotte didn’t know whether to lie or not. The man might not have been Josef. She tried diplomatic evasion. “A reporter, probably.”

  “Perhaps, but he was on the ship with us. He was watching me then, too. Tonight there was a woman with him, brunette, very striking.” Violette’s happiness was a veneer, Charlotte noted sadly. Her eyes in the mirror were haunted.

  “If you see him again, point him out and I’ll tell you if I know him,” said Charlotte. Karl’s face was immobile. She was grateful when he changed the subject.

  “If they’d seen you tonight, even your opponents would be convinced it would be a tragedy for you to stop dancing. You must go on, Violette, if it’s what you want.”

  “It is.” Her joy resurfaced. “Mortal or immortal, the ballet is still my life. At least that hasn’t changed. If Charlotte hadn’t transformed me, I would still be waking up half-crippled every morning, wondering how long I could stay out of a wheelchair. Instead I can dance forever, as if my shoes are possessed by the Devil. I know I’ve been a little wild at times…”

  She left the thought unfinished. Karl kissed her hand in a token of truce, a mere courtesy. But when the dancer came to embrace Charlotte, there was terrible electricity between the two women. Charlotte, who often wished Violette would be less sparing with affection, suddenly wanted to escape.

  “The good people of Boston are giving a party in our honour,” she said into Charlotte’s ear. “Please come. You know how I hate these affairs.”

  “Of course we will. We’re always here if you need us.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said with sudden intensity. The tip of a fang grazed Charlotte’s earlobe. “You and Karl. I need you.”

  * * *

  Sebastian looked forward to Swan Lake with keen anticipation. Boston struck him as fresh and tranquil after New York. He decided to stay a while. And by the week’s end, the ballerina would be his.

  He viewed the imminent game with sombre passion rather than glee, as if it were a duty to his dark vampire nature. How else should the Devil behave?

  My attentions will put paid to her dancing, of course, he thought as he took his theatre seat. It could destroy the company; and by the time I’ve finished with her – days or months, depending on how amusing I find her – she will of course die. What a waste. But how glorious, to extingu
ish such a light!

  Sebastian loved needless tragedies. They moved him unutterably.

  He settled down in the back row to await Odette – but within seconds of her bewitching entrance, he was sitting forward in astonished horror. The ballerina in white net and swansdown was a vampire!

  The pearly glow of her skin, the lustre of her eyes and the fluidity of her dancing; everything gave her away. Sebastian was appalled. Recalling his encounter with Simon in New York, he thought, Did Simon know about her? He certainly knew that if he told me, I’d never have come near her.

  Sebastian almost walked out, but suppressed the impulse and forced himself to watch, nails digging into the plush arms of his seat.

  Violette Lenoir. A slender-limbed weaver of enchantment. Had her rapt audience the faintest idea of what they were worshipping? Of course not. If she’d been human he would have found her captivating. Instead she stirred nothing in him, beyond detached appreciation of her skill. He saw her for what she was, a savage, heartless creature of ice. Like him. But to brazen it out before a human public –!

  It’s one way of attracting prey, he thought cynically. Well, if I cannot feed on her, I’ll find someone else. Another dancer, perhaps, less famous but lusciously human…

  He sighed. It wouldn’t be the same. A cloud of desolation descended.

  But… did Simon want me to discover that Lenoir is one of us? Why? He told me to reconsider what he’d said after I’d seen her… He should know that manipulating me won’t work. I’ve no interest in my kind. I refuse to rule or be ruled. How much more plainly could I have stated it?

  With distaste, he sensed two other vampires in the audience. He couldn’t see them. He could only feel their presence, like two cool gems in a sea of sweltering humans.

  He left before the end, not wanting to risk meeting them. The foyer of rose marble and gold leaf was quiet. The street, with tall brownstone and Victorian buildings, was gently busy with the moving lights of cars. Hands in pockets, Sebastian walked towards the Common and the Public Garden. This was Boston’s heart, the green land between the old town and the wealth of Beacon Hill.

  Warm spring air brushed his skin. He was so deep in meditation that he hardly noticed the warning sign, a glass dagger pricking his mind…

  Suddenly alert, he looked ahead to locate the vampire. Too late: the woman had seen him and stood on the sidewalk, smiling. Waiting for him. He couldn’t avoid her.

  She wore a coat of black figured velvet and fur, jet beads twinkling on her ears, her dark fire-tinged hair frozen in a precise curve around the pale heart of her face. She studied him with the amused disdain he remembered from Kristian’s castle, many years ago.

  “Sebastian!” she said, her eyes shining. She’d retained her charming Austrian accent. “This is the most wonderful surprise!”

  “Ilona.” He inclined his head, polite but cold.

  “Is that the best you can do? After all these years!” Without waiting for an invitation, she pressed close to him and clasped her hands behind his neck. With an inward sigh he relented and embraced her, pressing his lips to her cold skin.

  “How did you know I was here?” he said.

  “I didn’t. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I crossed the ocean to look for you. I saw you in the theatre, but you were too busy staring at Violette to notice me. I have a little advantage. Like you, other vampires tend not to sense me until I’m right in front of them.”

  Ilona slid her hand through his arm, and they crossed the road into the Public Garden. He couldn’t shake her off without resorting to violence. At present he lacked the will even to argue.

  “I guessed you would leave early,” she went on, “so I came out and waited for you.”

  “So, are you here with the other three?” he asked. “The enchanting Lenoir and her companions… I didn’t stop to see who they are.”

  “One of them is Karl.”

  “Oh, I should have known,” said Sebastian. They entered an undulating green space full of trees. On the nearby lake, the swan boats were moored for the night. “It goes without saying, I’ve no wish to see him.”

  “His companion is Charlotte, some human he took up with about three years ago. She’s a sweet immortal, but too soft for her own good.”

  “Ilona,” he said, “I am not interested.”

  “You haven’t changed, have you?” she said with relish. “Still the loner, the fastidious vampire-hater. You even made love to me as if you hated me.”

  “Wasn’t that the way you preferred it?” he said acidly.

  Laughing, she rested against a broad tree trunk. Sebastian reflected that Ilona was his equal, not a human to be ensorcelled, played with, tormented. Unrewarding. Yet he still found her attractive. He stood close, one hand resting on the trunk above her shoulder.

  “I’m not with the others,” she said. “They don’t know I’m here. And I doubt they’ve noticed you, either.” Her tone was conspiratorial. Similarities in nature had drawn them together, although they’d nearly torn each other apart during their brief, fierce liaison.

  “Ah, I remember,” he murmured. “You’re the main reason I prefer solitude.”

  “You sure know how to hurt a girl.” She mimicked a New York accent. Then, in a rush of feeling, she said, “But of course, you don’t know! Everything’s changed. Kristian’s dead!”

  “Aren’t you the bearer of glad tidings,” he said coolly, deciding not to admit he already knew.

  “Perhaps, but some think Violette might be worse.”

  Simon’s warning again. A new immortal at large, too dangerous to be allowed her freedom.

  “Violette?” He felt his patience evaporating. “If this is another attempt to involve me in vampire affairs, don’t waste your breath.”

  She blinked, uncomprehending. “Not content with humans? You want to kill the art of conversation as well?”

  “I’ve already had Simon plaguing me with cryptic remarks about doom and destruction. Get it over. Tell me about Violette.”

  “Charlotte transformed her. Couldn’t leave her alone. She looks harmless enough on stage, doesn’t she? But a number of vampires are working themselves into a frenzy of terror over her. She’s certainly crazy. She has two immortal heads on her belt already. Or more, for all I know.”

  “What’s your opinion, Ilona?” he said, impatient. “I can’t believe you’re frightened of her. You’re like me; you don’t really care, do you?”

  She shrugged. “She doesn’t like me, but she’s never threatened me. However, she attacked an acquaintance of mine, Pierre. The effect on him was alarming.”

  “In what way?”

  “She reduced him to a trembling heap, afraid to set foot outside the dubious sanctuary of Schloss Holdenstein. Pierre is a coward, but only in the sense that he prefers an easy life. If anything, he has a positive taste for being abused and humiliated. So tell me, what power does Violette possess, to dismember his personality as Kristian never could?”

  Sebastian’s indifference was shaken by unease, as if a huge crow had swooped over him. “I’ve no idea. As I said, I don’t care about the petty infighting between you and your kind.”

  “My kind?” Ilona glared at him. “Dear God, do you really think yourself so superior?”

  “Not superior. Separate. That’s how I prefer to remain.”

  “Have it your own way.” Her rage cooled to disdain. “No one missed you when you left Schloss Holdenstein. Why should we need you now?” Her mouth, a perfect plum-red bow, curved into a smile that said firmly, You cannot hurt me. She was lovely, but his desire for her was passionless, purely physical. “There’s something else. You must have noticed changes in the Crystal Ring. Doesn’t it seem stormier? Hostile, as if it doesn’t want us anymore?”

  Her tone chilled him. Although she mocked other vampires’ fear of Violette, he sensed that she was secretly terrified.

  “I rather like it,” he said.

  “You would. Well, the rumour is that it
’s Lilith’s fault. Her presence has warped the Ring. She could be our doom, they say, unless…”

  “You called her Lilith,” Sebastian broke in.

  “Did I? It’s what she calls herself. I told you she’s crazy.”

  The name stirred an inky stratum within him. A formless shape rose, dissipated, vanished. “But you don’t believe this nonsense?”

  “I can’t stand hysteria,” said Ilona, sliding her arms around his waist under his coat. “I’m here to prove it’s not true. And you, why are you here? Toying with some human?”

  “You remember me. How touching.” He kissed her. Her mouth opened to his, warm and eager. Then she drew back and smiled, stroking his cheek.

  “Confess,” she said. “You look miserable. You’re bored, aren’t you? Let’s forget all this. I’m taking you to a party.”

  “Will Karl and the others be there?” He rested his hands on her shoulders. His need to be alone was proving stronger than his lust for her.

  “Of course. It’s in honour of the Ballet.”

  “Where?”

  “Some grand house on Commonwealth Avenue.”

  “Good. I shall avoid Commonwealth Avenue like the plague.”

  She frowned. “Why? They needn’t see us. And there will be humans, an ocean of fascinating strangers to plunder.” She pressed her slender body against his, her mouth curved in invitation. “I thought we could amuse ourselves together, as we used to.”

  “Well, you thought wrong,” he said icily. “I don’t want to be with vampires, Ilona. I don’t want to see Karl or hear another word about Violette. I hate vampires, Ilona – and that includes you.”

  “You arrogant bastard!” She glowered venomously at him, her head tilted. Then she showed the tips of her fangs.

  Sebastian’s hands tightened on her shoulders. His mouth fell to her throat, his lupine teeth springing through her flesh. Ilona yelped, tried to struggle, then clung to him, groaning with mingled pleasure and pain. After a few seconds – realising he was doing this not in desire, but as a reminder of his strength – she began to fight again.

  Sebastian was not angry. It was only the bleak, lightless vista within him, demanding its solitude. Its autocracy.