The Dark Blood of Poppies

by Freda Warrington

  “And now you are angry with me,” he said ruefully.

  “Has she gone, your uninvited guest?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “So you persuaded her, did you?” Her venomous tone appeared to startle him. “Your powers of persuasion are as impressive as ever. I hope you enjoyed it as much as she did.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said quietly.

  She could have screamed. Pulling away, she grabbed her coat as if it, too, had wronged her. “Don’t treat me like an idiot! You had her, didn’t you? I won’t even grace it with the term ‘seduction’.”

  His lips parted, ready to deny it. Instead he hesitated, frowning. “How did you know?”

  “I just know. I saw how you were with each other; there was a bond between you, two hundred years separated or not. It’s all over your face, damn it, that shameful glow.”

  He seemed bemused. “I never thought you would be jealous.”

  “And you’re amazed by that?” She buttoned her shoes, rose and threw on her coat. “You are absolutely amazed.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for my purse.” She found the purse under the chaise longue, checked how much money she had. Enough. “My God, all that garbage about not sharing me with Harold!”

  She hurried through the door and into the salon, her footsteps ringing. She was more than hurt. She felt annihilated.

  Sebastian followed her. “Robyn, don’t leave.”

  “No, I’ve had enough.”

  “Where do you think you’ll go?”

  “Cork. Home.”

  “Stop, will you?”

  She halted, three-quarters of the way across the room, keeping her back to him so he wouldn’t see her crying. Beside her, the crocodile skull grinned in its glass case.

  He said, “Anything between Rasmila and myself is separate. I won’t insult you by saying it meant nothing, but it was to do with blood, which I can’t explain to a mortal…”

  “And I don’t want to hear it! You’re a monster. You must take me for such a fool.”

  “Please don’t leave.” His voice almost broke. He sounded desperate.

  “You’ve got yourself; what more do you need?”

  Without looking back, Robyn resumed her walk to the door. She took four steps; she neither heard nor felt him move, but suddenly he seized her from behind, his arms locking across her ribs.

  She struggled, outraged and terrified.

  “Don’t go!” He turned her round in his arms, holding her with unholy strength. “I should die if you left me!”

  She almost wriggled out of his grip, but he thrust her against the closed door and held her there.

  “Why the hell should I stay?” she cried.

  He spoke fervidly into her ear. “This morning I came in from the outside world and the otherworld and the arms of a vampire where it was bitter-cold, and I saw you lying by the fire and you were warm, you were a living fire, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen, with your hair like brown flames. And I realised you are all that matters to me, your heat and your precious life. All Rasmila wanted from me was blood. She is like ice and I could never love her, because –”

  She waited for him to go on, her eyes tight shut. “Why can’t you say it?”

  “I’m telling you that I cannot endure my life without you.”

  “It’s not enough! Let go of me!” She fought him, but he held her. “What’s the point, when you won’t say the one thing –”

  “Do you want blood from me?” he whispered.

  “Say it!”

  “If I do, will it make you stay?”

  “Nothing else will.”

  He went quiet, his mouth in her hair. She felt his grip loosening, his whole body softening. “Have my blood, then. I love you, Robyn.”

  Her breath whooshed out in a laugh of sheer astonishment.

  “Now, will you please stay with me?” he said.

  Not a struggle between them now, but an embrace. “I’ll stay,” she said. They clung together, lost to each other and ashamed of it, pinioned by the dreadful joy of surrender.

  But I won, Robyn thought in bitter-sweet triumph. I’ve changed him, I’ve soured all his other victims; I made him fall in love with me and I forced him to admit it.

  I won!

  PART THREE

  Sometimes the Earth Goddess cried out in the night, demanding human hearts, and then She would not be comforted until She had been given human blood to drink.

  MAYAN MYTH

  I am all that has been, and is, and that will be No mortal has yet been able to lift the veil that covers me.

  INSCRIPTION ON THE GODDESS’S TEMPLE AT SAIS

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  VAMPIRE IN BLACK

  Charlotte found it deeply unsettling to be in Cambridge again. Over two years had passed since she’d left, and she had heard little of her family in that time. She had placed them in a doll’s house in her mind, where they remained frozen as she had last seen them, like vampires: reassuringly the same forever.

  The idea of never returning seemed inconceivable, but her dreams of doing so had been vague, fantastical. The reality was both disturbing and oddly banal.

  How strange to see the big greyish-cream stone house behind the high wall. To push open the gate, feeling the wrought iron damp and flaky under her fingers. To cross the drive, noticing how the shrubs had grown, the changing pattern of moss on the stones. Even the great trees had subtly changed shape. All looked familiar and yet strange, as if memory and reality were in static conflict.

  She rang the doorbell. The maid answered. Dear Sally, the same as ever; tall and thin, with a vaguely worried air and untidy brown hair hanging in wisps around her spectacles.

  “Miss Neville!” Sally stared until she was swept aside by a dark-haired woman.

  “Go back to the kitchen, dear, I’ll see to this.”

  Charlotte took a moment to realise the woman was Anne.

  The maid obeyed, bewildered, glancing back over her shoulder. Charlotte could imagine the gossip in the kitchen. Then she and Anne were alone, gazing at each other.

  Charlotte saw changes in her immediately. Still young, attractive, warm-hearted – but there were fine lines around her eyes, a look of maturity. She’d put on a little weight and was dressed staidly in a skirt, blouse, cardigan and long strings of pearls. A county wife.

  Charlotte also saw the strain that tugged at her mouth.

  “You’d better come in,” Anne said at last. No display of emotion. “You got my letter, then.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Simple,” Anne murmured with a half-smile. “I’ll show you later.”

  On the threshold, Charlotte hesitated. “Is David here?”

  “No, he and Elizabeth went out for some air. They needed a rest from the sickroom.”

  So her father was still alive. She wasn’t too late.

  Relieved that she wouldn’t have to face David immediately, she entered the hall. The way Anne stepped back, as if Charlotte were infectious, saddened her. That was why Anne had sent Sally away: to protect her.

  “Madeleine’s here, though,” said Anne.

  Her heart twisted. She didn’t want to see Madeleine either. The worst thing of all, she thought, would be seeing Henry. He’d been their laboratory assistant, much-loved by her father, no more to Charlotte than a comfortable acquaintance until he’d declared his feelings for her. And when Karl vanished, believed dead, she had married Henry simply because nothing mattered any more. Married him, then betrayed him the moment Karl came back.

  To see Henry again would be excruciating.

  “How is Father?” she asked quietly.

  She thought of times when she’d arrived home from an outing and her father had come into the hall to greet her, hands distorting the pockets of his tweed jacket, delighted to see her yet gruffly annoyed that she’d been away. How empty the hall seemed when he didn’t appear.

  �
��Not well.” Anne’s mouth twitched down at the corners. She made a marked effort to control her voice. “The doctor doesn’t think he has much longer. Days, at most.”

  For a frozen instant they stared at each other. If they’d still been friends, if Charlotte had still been human, they would have embraced and wept. But Charlotte couldn’t move. To feel her friend recoil would make this even worse.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Anne’s shoulders rose and fell. “His heart, his lungs. He’s been growing weaker for months. David says he’s never been completely well since the influenza in 1919. And my father says the stuff he worked with in the laboratory may have been dangerous. Radium, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, radium,” Charlotte replied, her voice faint.

  “Of course, losing you and Fleur didn’t help.”

  Charlotte said nothing. She wanted to see him straight away, but the words would not come out.

  “You may as well come into the drawing room,” said Anne.

  As she opened the door, Charlotte was arrested by the scene inside. There was her sister Madeleine on the carpet, playing with a boisterous blond toddler; or at least, trying to stop him destroying a wooden train. The boy took one look at Charlotte and began to yell.

  Charlotte stayed in the doorway. She didn’t rush as a human might, only observed, as was her vampire nature. Madeleine’s gaze flicked to her, registered astonishment, then went back to the toddler.

  “He’s been grumpy all afternoon, Anne,” she said, standing up. “I can’t do a thing with him. I’m afraid he’ll disturb Father.”

  Anne picked up the wriggling child. “I’ll have Sally put him to bed. He just wants attention; he knows things aren’t normal.”

  Passing Charlotte, she paused. Charlotte studied the boy; even red-faced and grizzling, he bore a clear resemblance to her brother David. How plump with blood – Charlotte shut off the thought, horrified at herself.

  “This is my son, George. Eighteen months old. Say hello to your Auntie Charlotte, George.”

  The child responded with an ear-splitting bawl and turned his face into his mother’s shoulder. Anne smiled tiredly. “It’s not you. Don’t feel obliged to say anything nice about him; he’s the most objectionable child in the universe. David’s sure he’s a changeling. But we love him. Don’t we, George? Most of the time.”

  She went into the hall, calling for Sally. Charlotte remained where she was, staring past Madeleine, thinking, My God, Anne had a baby and I didn’t know.

  Then she recollected herself, and went in. Nothing had changed. The cosy sepia room was still full of Victorian clutter, her father’s collection of clocks ticking madly.

  Madeleine smiled hesitantly.

  “Charlotte, I can’t believe it’s really you! Oh, look, no one’s taken your coat. Let me.”

  Charlotte was reluctant to take off the garment; it was like shedding a protective barrier. But she obeyed, also relinquishing her hat and gloves into her sister’s hands.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” said Maddy, admiring the coat. “I love this swirly figured velvet. And beautiful colours, russet and gold, like your hair. It does suit you…” Her voice gave way on the last words. She half-ran into the hallway, reappearing almost immediately. She was as Charlotte remembered; all nervous energy and charm, strikingly pretty with her shingled copper-red hair. But Charlotte noticed changes. She’d lost her sharp corners, her self-absorption.

  “Do sit down. I can’t believe you’re here.” Maddy settled on the couch, Charlotte in an armchair. “I don’t know why you waited until Father – oh, it’s too awful, Charli. Why did you stay away so long?”

  “You know why,” Charlotte said gently. Her sister looked sideways at her, as if struggling inside. Charlotte hated adding to her pain.

  “Yes, well, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it? I know it was awful when you left, and David and Father were angry, but I’m sure they didn’t mean you to stay away forever. You could even have brought –” She clearly couldn’t say Karl’s name. “Well, you know, you could have brought him with you. I’m sure they’ve forgiven you.” Her face froze suddenly and a wild look came into her eyes. “He’s not with you, is he?”

  “No.”

  She gave a small gasp of relief. “But you’re still…?”

  “Together. Yes.”

  Madeleine seemed at a loss, not knowing whether to be pleased or dismayed. She, too, had fallen under Karl’s spell, but the shock of discovering he was a vampire had almost destroyed her. Obviously those memories haunted her. How could they not?

  “But where have you been?”

  “Switzerland, mostly. And America, and Austria.”

  Maddy looked stunned by this prosaic answer, as if she’d expected Charlotte to say, Hades. “Switzerland? Good Lord, we went there on honeymoon two years ago.”

  “You’re married?” Something else she hadn’t known.

  “Yes, to a simply wonderful man, Tristan.”

  “Any children?”

  “Not yet. We’re hoping. We’re trying like mad.” Madeleine took a ragged breath. “I wish it could have happened before Father got ill.”

  Charlotte took a risk. She moved to the couch and sat beside her sister, knowing she might recoil. Her recollection of Maddy jerking away in terror, when Charlotte had tried to say goodbye, still burned.

  This time Maddy didn’t move. Charlotte touched her arm, then folded her hand around the tender flesh, suppressing with all her will her desire for the hot, sweet blood pulsing under the surface. Her arm slipped around the bony shoulders and Madeleine leaned into her, hungry for solace. Their closeness emphasised a gap between them, where their older sister Fleur should have been.

  “I do miss you, Maddy,” she said. “I often think about you.”

  “You never wrote.”

  “How could I?”

  “But it’s all right now… isn’t it?” Madeleine looked up, her sweet face close to Charlotte’s. She was pale with anxiety. Charlotte understood.

  Maddy could not bear the knowledge that Charlotte had become a vampire. Her mind wouldn’t accept it. Instead she denied the truth, let herself believe that the intervening years had magically cured Charlotte – perhaps cured Karl, too – making her human again. That was why she let Charlotte touch her. To convince herself.

  “It’s not all right,” Charlotte said gently. “I shouldn’t have come back. But don’t be afraid of me, Maddy. I love you more than I can say.” She cheated a little as she spoke, allowing her eyes to work their spell, calming Madeleine’s fears. Let her keep the illusion. Forcing the raw truth on her would be cruel.

  “What does it matter at a time like this, anyway?” Maddy said. “We’re still sisters. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  They were sitting like that, arms around each other, when Anne came back. A look of grave suspicion clouded her face. Charlotte winced. Don’t you trust me one tiny bit, Anne? But… why should you?

  “I’ve spoken to the nurse,” Anne said. “You can go up and see him, if you wish.”

  An unexpected wave of fear hit Charlotte. She didn’t want to see her father. She wanted to remember him as he used to be. Pacing the laboratory in his shapeless jacket, his tie askew, propounding some new theory to her and Henry, his thick white moustache tinged yellow from cigar smoke. Bluff in manner, short-tempered sometimes, but the kindest of men underneath. Too possessive, he’d made Charlotte suffer in many subtle ways, but he had adored her – until the day she ran away with Karl.

  Then he’d disowned her. And she had said such cruel things in response, words that could never be taken back.

  “Are you sure he wants to see me?”

  “Ask him yourself,” Anne said grimly, folding her arms.

  “You know how we parted.” Charlotte stood up. “He told me I’d ceased to exist.”

  “Well, you have in a way, haven’t you?” Anne’s lips thinned. “I thought it was impossible for you to turn any paler – but you’ve
gone quite white.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Whatever is happening now, Charlotte, you were the instigator.”

  “Has he asked for me?” she said desperately.

  “Go and find out for yourself.”

  Floored by Anne’s obduracy, Charlotte strode out of the room and went to the stairs. The house was deathly quiet. Daylight hung like dust in the stairwell. Every move she made unleashed memories. There was the door to the study, half-open onto silence. There was the door to the cellar laboratory, where she’d spent her days assisting his experiments. Shut and locked now, perhaps forever.

  She ascended the stairs. She’d walked up these stairs with Karl, once… climbed them thousands of times without him, but always remembered that one time she’d led him to her bedroom…

  She knocked lightly on the panelled door to her father’s room, then let herself in. The curtains were drawn. There was a shape under the bedclothes, wisps of grey hair… she couldn’t look. The stale smells of illness hung in the air. On the near side of the bed sat a plump woman in uniform and starched white cap. She stood as Charlotte entered.

  “Good afternoon, madam.”

  “I’m his daughter, Charlotte. How is he?”

  “Resting. He’s comfortable,” said the nurse, telling her nothing at all. From her calm manner, she knew nothing sinister about Charlotte. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Neville. I’m only sorry it’s under such circumstances.”

  “Quite, er – would you leave us alone, please? I’m sure you must need a rest.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea. Just call if you need me.”

  When the nurse had left, Charlotte approached the bed. Her mouth was sour.

  There was her father’s dear face against the pillow, eyes closed, mouth open. How sunken his cheeks were. She stared at his neck, his wrists protruding from the sleeves of striped pyjamas, the narrow ribs rising and falling under the covers. How had he become so thin? He’d always seemed robust. She had known for years that his health was delicate, but she’d put it from her mind, never entertaining the possibility that he might die. Ever.