The Dark Blood of Poppies

by Freda Warrington

“I don’t need your approval.” She folded her arms. “I’m nothing like you.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re exactly like me.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Without visible reaction, Sebastian turned side-on and gazed at the floor. “So, these men,” he said. “Would you have gone to bed with them?”

  “If necessary.”

  “Good thing I got here in time, then, is it not? And while we’re on that subject, I want you to stop seeing that little old rich man who’s always here.”

  “Harold Charrington?”

  “Whoever he is – and although he’s old enough to be your father, I assume he’s not your father, unless you’re even more perverse than I thought – you’ll stop seeing him.”

  Robyn gaped at him. “You are absolutely unbelievable.”

  “Well?”

  “You don’t come near me for days on end – then you saunter in making ridiculous demands? What gives you the right? And why the hell are you so possessive, all of a sudden?”

  Sebastian went quiet. His change of mood alarmed her.

  “I want you to myself, Robyn. I don’t want other men with you when I’m not.” His eyes were enticing, but his possessiveness aggravated her. And she thought, He could kill me. Just seize and murder me, if I say something he doesn’t like.

  Defying him was coldly thrilling.

  “You’re asking too much. I won’t change my life for anyone. And I won’t stop seeing Harold. He needs me, I enjoy his money, and he’s the only man I don’t actively hate.”

  “Are you saying that you hate me?”

  “Of course I hate you,” she answered harshly. “What did you think?”

  He grinned. He began to laugh.

  “What’s the joke?” she said, infuriated.

  “The joke is this, my dear. The ‘brothers grim’ came seeking vengeance, when actually it was me who killed your young lover.”

  The floor sank under her. She felt dull horror, but not surprise.

  “How?”

  “I met him at the Booths’ party. He was hiding upstairs and drinking himself into a stupor because you’d had the effrontery to turn up. When I told you I knew him, I lied. It was the first and last time we met. A young man alone, very drunk because the Dame aux camélias had broken his heart, needing a shoulder to weep on. Unfortunately, he chose mine. And I came looking for you afterwards, because his description of you so intrigued me. By the way, he didn’t exaggerate.”

  She was stepping away from him, mouth open with denial.

  “You sat and sympathised – then you killed him? And then you came hunting me?” She remembered Sebastian’s silhouette in the arbour like a dark dream. “And you had the nerve to come and tell me Russell’s death was my fault!”

  “Ah, but I take such pleasure from telling lies and being cruel. Don’t you?”

  “So his death wasn’t my fault.” Her fingers danced over the back of a sofa as she backed away. “He didn’t kill himself over me!”

  “And that’s all you care about, isn’t it?” said Sebastian. “So don’t stare at me with those great eyes like saucers. Haven’t I made you happy?”

  “Get out,” she said.

  “Oh, Robyn…”

  “I mean it.” She pointed at the door. “Out, now. Don’t ever come near my house again!”

  It was possibly the bravest thing she had ever done. She saw a flash of feral rage in his eyes that put her in fear of her life.

  Then the look vanished. The vampire shrugged. “If it’s what you want, beautiful child, I’ll bid you good-night – and goodbye.”

  With a sweeping bow, he vanished.

  She started violently; the trick never ceased to astonish her. Unable to believe he’d gone, she went into the hallway, but there was no sign of him.

  Robyn returned to the parlour, walked around the room in nebulous distress. She hurt all over, inside and out. What’s wrong with me? Why did I tell him to go, if it wasn’t what I wanted? But it was. I hate him. He’s poison. I am right to end it now, before it’s too late.

  She heard the front door opening. Every nerve in her body jerked – but it was Alice who came in, her brown coat and hat dewed with rain.

  Robyn ran to her.

  “What is it?” Alice hugged her like a mother soothing her child. Robyn told her.

  “So he’s gone for good?” Hope fractured Alice’s voice. “We’re out of danger? Oh Lord, I pray so!”

  Robyn couldn’t reply; guilt silenced her. Even knowing the peril she’d placed Alice and Mary in by seeing Sebastian, she hadn’t let this stop her. “Oh, don’t be upset, dearest. You did the right thing. Just be thankful it’s over.”

  It was not over, Robyn knew.

  * * *

  Robyn couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Even knowing what Sebastian was, and the vile things he had done, and the danger he posed – still she craved him.

  What’s he done to me to induce this infatuation? she thought. It’s irrational, disgusting. I won’t give in.

  Oh, but to fight with him, to insult and torment and tear at each other – all of that was preferable to being without him.

  The next afternoon, after a sleepless night and a miserable day, she went out alone and walked around the town until dusk. She wasn’t looking for him, she told herself. She needed to clear her mind, that was all.

  Should I employ a vampire hunter? I’m sure Uncle Josef must know one. If we stake him in his lair, will that free me from the curse? Good grief, what nonsense this is.

  She walked through the wealthy areas of Beacon Hill and Back Bay. The tall houses with their bowed fronts seemed to grin at her in the gloom. She glanced into their lighted windows, seeing cosy family worlds from which she was forever excluded. She didn’t want them, anyway. Their cosiness was an illusion; she knew the callous husbands, cruel parents, petulant sons and daughters who warred behind the facades. But their worlds looked warm and she was cold, even in her thick red coat.

  Wandering down Beacon Street and into the Public Garden, she sat on her favourite bench by the lagoon. Squirrels scampered towards her, rising expectantly on their haunches; so dear, with their bright eyes and tufted ears, but she had no food to keep them around her. Instead she watched ducks on the water. The summer colours were beginning to turn; the beeches tipped with burnished bronze, the elms glowing, the maidenhairs edging towards gold. Time to go home, she told herself. But she remained there, huddled up in her coat, dejected. Her life, she realised, had no point at all.

  And then he was there, standing beside her, hands in his pockets and his collar drawn up as if he were cold; his presence as natural and ordinary as that of any human.

  “So here you are,” he said.

  “I’m often here.” She didn’t look round, but she saw his black coat from the corner of her eye. “It’s my favourite place.”

  “I know. Did you hope I’d remember?”

  “Maybe.” She spoke quietly, all anger burned out, only relieved that he’d found her.

  “If so, I’m glad,” he said.

  “Glad that I’m stupid?”

  “Robyn.” The vampire sat down a few inches from her. “Robyn, Robyn.”

  “Were you looking for me, after everything I said?”

  “I respected your command not to come to your house. I don’t believe you placed any restriction on meeting in the park.” He sighed faintly. “It’s hopeless, really, isn’t it?”

  His arms slid around her. She let him hold her, her gloved hands finding their way around his waist. The feel of his body through layers of material, his uncanny aura, the dark beauty of him, all filled the void. She wanted his soothing, seductive embrace. Needed it.

  “Hopeless, keeping away from each other,” he said.

  She let the moment wash over her. There will be no foolish admissions, no angry words, she promised herself. Just this. A quiet relief, almost like sleep.

  He moved to look at her. His expression was soft, concerned, sombre: love
ly woodland light and shadows. The look seemed genuine, but she knew he was an actor, like her.

  “You’re a bad girl,” he said.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. You haven’t been eating properly. I won’t have you wasting away. Come along now, I’m taking you for dinner.”

  He stood up, pulling her with him. Not resisting, she laughed. “But who is going to be dinner? Me?”

  “Funny.”

  “Shall I order steak tartare, to keep up my strength?”

  They went to the restaurant on the waterfront where they’d met the first time. This time Sebastian made no pretence of eating. He simply smiled at Robyn while she worked her way through four courses, and finished them all. She’d been weak from hunger without realising. They hardly spoke. There seemed no need; their silent communication was continuous, a sort of resignation to their fate, edged with black irony. They were completely at ease with each other.

  And both were thinking, What the hell is going to happen now?

  Afterwards, they walked arm in arm through the old town, past the graceful buildings that had helped to shape history. When passers-by glanced at them, Robyn felt a delicious if reprehensible sense of conspiracy. You don’t know what Sebastian is but I do!

  “What does it feel like,” she asked as they walked through pools of gaslight, “to drink blood?”

  “Tell me what it feels like to drink brandy, or to make love,” he said. “You can’t.”

  “Better than sex?”

  The corners of his mouth rose enigmatically. “Different.”

  “But how does it feel to know that they can’t stop you?”

  “Extremely exciting,” he said candidly.

  She shivered. “And it gives you special pleasure… to kill?”

  “Now I never said that.” He spoke sharply. “We have to feed. Killing, murder, whatever you call it, is not my object. The blood, the bliss of drinking, is what matters. If the source of blood dies, I take no pleasure in that, I assure you.” He added, as if to eliminate doubt, “No pain, either.”

  “No guilt.”

  “Why should I feel guilty? Do you feel guilty about the bloody steak you just consumed?”

  “Don’t tell me your victims are no more than cattle to you,” Robyn said acidly. “I don’t play mind games with a bullock before I eat a slice of him. I don’t go to bed with him, either.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  She ignored his flippancy. “Well, am I merely food to you?”

  “You know you aren’t.” His tone became low and tender. “You know you’re much more than that.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

  “Let me walk you home, anyway.”

  They went very slowly across the Common, where little white lights glittered in the branches. Behind them, crowds were emerging from theatres in Tremont Street. But the park and the night, the dome of the State House rising like a golden moon beyond the trees, belonged to them.

  “I meant what I said,” Robyn continued. “I won’t be ordered around, and I won’t change my life for you.”

  “And I meant what I said.” He spoke with equal fervour. “I want you to myself.”

  “What’s made you so possessive?”

  He pulled her in a half-circle so she had to stop and face him. His pale hand moved over the fabric of her hat, along her cheek, coming to rest on her left shoulder. He looked human: full of conflict, tenderness, determination, indecision. His great dark eyes shone.

  “What would you say,” he asked, “if I told you I’m in love with you?”

  “I’d say you’re a liar.”

  He laughed. “Oh, you’re cruel. Sensible, though. Vampires can’t love. But I need to see you. Do you believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you feel the same?”

  “I feel,” Robyn said quietly, “that I don’t trust you.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not the merest fraction.”

  A silence. They walked on. Her hands were linked through his left arm, her head resting on his shoulder. Now and then his right hand moved across to clasp her hands in the crook of his elbow.

  “Will you invite me in tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” she replied, although she wanted him desperately. “Why should I let you satisfy yourself then disappear for days?”

  “You’re right. I wasn’t going to accept, anyway.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “It’s true. Because if I don’t disappear, if I were here every night – however much we want each other – it would not be long before I lost you.”

  In his face, webbed with light and shadow, she saw a terrible look that froze her. A look from a landscape of bleak hills, of ice-winds blowing between dark standing stones. She’d thought it impossible to feel any sympathy for him, but somehow her sympathy slipped its leash.

  “My God, you’re lonely,” she said, astonished.

  “Oh yes. The myth of the lonely vampire.” He kissed her cheek with cold lips. The chilling look stayed on his face and self-mockery darkened his voice. “Who can resist it?”

  * * *

  Sebastian stepped up to Robyn’s front door with an armful of red roses, so deeply coloured they were almost black. It was Mary’s night off, so the unfortunate Alice opened the door to him.

  As Sebastian presented the roses, Robyn was very aware of Alice in the parlour doorway, staring hard at her mistress. Her face was waxen, her eyes brimming with horrified questions. What is he doing here? You said it was over! You promised!

  “Would you put these in water, please?” Robyn said, hurrying to her. “Alice, don’t look at me like that. It’s all right. Leave us.”

  Alice gave the bouquet a glare of contempt. “Deal with them yourself, madam. I won’t touch anything of his.”

  She walked out with dignity, heading upstairs to her room. As she went, Robyn bundled Alice’s feelings into a closet in her mind, and slammed the door.

  “Your companion doesn’t like me,” Sebastian said ruefully.

  Then he and Robyn fell on each other as if starving. His coat fell, the roses fell. He began to unbutton her dress, nipping her neck, his teeth growing sharper until he drew blood.

  “No, no, not here,” she said, fighting him off. “Come upstairs.”

  Their coupling was brief, ferocious, sharp as rose thorns. He bit her just as she reached the peak of bliss, so she felt pain and pleasure together. The sensation was like being drawn down a silvery, glittering strand of barbed wire, dripping with poison and narcotic crimson flowers.

  When the fire subsided, they broke apart, gasping. And then they held each other and wept.

  * * *

  Summer became fall, turning New England to flame. Robyn and Sebastian drove out to the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont to see rolling waves of apricot and gold, of bronze and toffee-brown and limpid yellow, preternatural tints of scarlet and deep maple-red, dazzling all the senses.

  “You like this, don’t you?” said Robyn, as if she could hardly believe a vampire could retain an appreciation of nature.

  Then it was Christmas, which meant nothing to Sebastian and very little to Robyn, as far as he could tell. She paid a short visit to her family and returned to tell him that the gathering had been polite but strained. Meaningless. She was glad it was over.

  Snow fell, wrapping Boston in luminous softness. The city glittered by day and glowed by night, as if it had drifted backwards into another, more idyllic time.

  Sebastian loved the chilly New England winter, the rain and snow and the cold sea-scented wind. They reminded him of Ireland. He wasn’t at home here, had never felt at home anywhere… except at his mansion in County Waterford.

  He would have gone there now, if not for Robyn holding him like a magnet in this prim old-fashioned town. He’d been visiting her for months now, once a week or more often if he could refrain from tasting her precious blood. Sometimes, with cheeks as pale a
s magnolia petals, she would beg him not to feed on her that night. Sometimes he would acquiesce; at others, he would take her anyway, leaving her furious, or silently hating him, or languid and tender…

  Every time was different. One night they tore at each other with hatred, the next with passion. That was why he couldn’t leave.

  Every day he would make a decision. I’ll kill her soon. I’ve teased her enough. It’s time to leave. Yet when the moment came, he couldn’t. He made excuses: I’ll wait until I’m tired of her, so sated that she’s no more than a husk. Or: she’s not quite in love with me yet. There’s still suspicion in her eyes. When she lets down her guard and trusts me completely – that’s the time to strike.

  But now, with the snow falling in great flakes past her windows, they lay entwined in bed, warm as nestlings in down. The taste of her blood was lush in his mouth; the scents of her hair, perfume, skin, the natural musk of her body, all filled his senses. Her eyes were half-closed, sultry with pleasure. She hadn’t resisted tonight. When he’d pierced the vein, she’d clutched him, as if thrusting herself deeper, finding a way to love the pain. And in the afterglow, she seemed content.

  “Now, you’re not finding this so terrible, are you?” he asked, gently teasing her.

  She was happy, unguarded. “If you must know…” She stretched, the warm weight of her breasts sliding over his ribs. “It’s kind of a masochistic addiction. Rather a dangerous habit to develop, isn’t it?”

  “Do you still hate me for it? Is hating men an addiction in itself? Have you found us all such monsters?”

  “Of course. What else? My father, my husband…” Words began to flow out of her: her miserable marriage, how her injured soul hardened, scarred by rage into a cold, vengeful pearl. Sebastian spoke too – his words weaving through hers – of a love that turned to bitter wormwood, and his revenge.

  “Her name was Mary, like your little maid. Her hair was fair too, and my Mary was beautiful, a tall fine woman. But we’d been married a long time with no children, and I badly wanted a child to inherit the estate or my work would all be for nothing.”

  “You’re talking about a time when you were human?” The wonder in her voice drew him on, like fire-glow to a storyteller.

  “At the end of the seventeenth century, beautiful one. In a country where religion is so real that people will persecute and kill each other for it. Centuries, my family fought to keep our property out of English hands. My father and brothers fled to France – but I stayed, and I did a very terrible thing. I converted from Catholic to Protestant, which entitled me to claim the estate. Do you understand? I betrayed my religion, my family and my people, in order to seize my father’s demesne.”