“I think it would,” she said, and opened the rear door to the private staircase to her flat. “Go on, Grof. You know the way.”
“If you take your shoes off here…” he recommended, stopping to remove his own.
“Oh, what a good idea,” she said in an undervoice, then bent to unbuckle the ankle-straps so that she could kick them off; then she carried them by the straps in her left hand with her purse as they went up the stairs quickly and quietly.
When they entered the foyer, Charis spoke again, but softly. “Steve diMaggio checked it out yesterday. He’s a real wonder. We should be safe.” A single wall-sconce was shining, casting the room into a glowing half-light that made everything glisten. She pulled her damp scarf off her head and shoved it into her coat-pocket.
He closed the staircase door and set the substantial latch in place. “What now, Charis?” he asked, his question mellifluous.
She did not say anything while she studied him: short, stockily trim, with a deep chest, beautiful small hands, and arresting eyes. Not handsome, but mesmerizingly compelling, she decided. Tonight he was dressed in an Italian roll-top pullover of silk the dark color of aged iron, and a suit, also of Italian cut, in ash-black Turkish wool. His black loafers were from an expert bootmaker in London. The air of culture hung about him, and she had a moment of panic that he might be a practiced seducer, a man attuned to—She could find no word that described the predatory sort of behavior she feared. To cover her hesitation, she asked, “May I ask you something?”
“Certainly,” he said.
“How old are you?”
If this were unexpected, he gave no indication of it. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he said.
“No, really; how old are you?” she persisted.
“What do I appear to be to you?”
“Other than coy?” She cocked her head. “Somewhere between forty and forty-five,” she said at last. “Maybe a well-preserved fifty, but I doubt it.”
“I’m older than you think,” he said. “Does that make a difference?” It had on a few previous occasions with other curious women.
“I doubt it,” she said, taking off her coat and going to the coat-closet to hang it up. As she emerged, she said uncertainly. “What am I getting into?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, still standing near the door to the stairway. “So long as it brings you joy.”
“You see,” she said suddenly, “I never thought I’d do this—commit adultery. I didn’t imagine I’d ever consider doing what I’m probably doing now. I always thought I wasn’t that kind of girl. I meant my marriage vows when I gave them. It never occurred to me that Harold and I would get a divorce, either. And so now, I can’t decide what I should do. You attract me. Well, you know that.” She took two steps toward him, then stopped still. “I can’t … you’ll have to come to me.”
Unhurried he went to stand directly in front of her, less than a hand’s-breadth between them. “I’m here.”
“Would you leave if I tell you to go? Considering what I’ve said?”
“Of course,” he responded without heavy emphasis. “I can’t imagine anything worse than a reluctant lover. It would benefit neither of us.” He had known that kind of futile encounter three millennia ago, when he had been confined to an oubliette for being a demon, and had been given a living sacrifice every full moon; those hapless women had provided him the blood he required, but beyond that, all he gained was the impact of their fear; throughout his long life, he had often encountered a resistence at the core of desire: he remembered the elusive gratification of Tulsi Kil, the unremitting need for sensation from Estasia, and the perplexing air of performance that had infused Photine d’Auville’s passion. None of them had been reluctant, but none of them had sought or wanted the intimacy he craved.
“You’d better kiss me, so I can make up my mind,” she said.
“Now?”
“Yes; now,” she said.
He took her hands in his, holding them at her sides, and leaned forward a little, his mouth touching hers gently, exploring. It was a long kiss, a slow kiss, developing as it went along, one that grew more intense as seconds faded into a minute and more, their kiss becoming deeper and more exciting than any other Charis could recall. She told herself that it was because of her long celibacy, but knew it was not: she had remained faithful and content to be so for two years during the war. This had been little more than six months, and this one kiss was running riot through her in a way she had never experienced. She pulled his hands around behind her, then reached around his neck to draw him nearer to her. Still neither of them broke from the other. Finally she sighed and turned her head a little; he continued to hold her. When she was still for a short while, he said, “Well?”
She started as if interrupted in a critical point in her ruminations. “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes. You’d better stay. I think I’d like it if you would.” She seemed unable to let go of him. “You know where my bedroom—yes, of course you do,” she added, then went on as if resuming a recitation. “I want you to stay with me, all night if you can.”
“If that is what would please you,” he answered.
“Oh, please, Grof!” she exclaimed, moving a few steps away from him, afraid that if she remained near him, she would seek out another kiss, and then more. “Will you stop being so infernally reasonable? I want you to stay. In my bed. With me.” She took a deep breath. “So? Do you want to stay?”
“I thought I’d made myself clear,” he said, smiling as he spoke. “Yes, Charis. I want to stay the night with you.”
“And if I change my mind?” This was asked more tentatively.
“Then I won’t inflict myself on you. My Word on it.” He lowered his voice but remained focused on her. “Believe this.”
There was a look in her eyes that he could not read. “Do you mean that? If you don’t, it’s quite a pick-up line.” She made no apology for the skepticism in her tone and demeanor.
“Of course I mean it,” he said with a single chuckle.
She continued to watch him as if she were prepared to bolt from the room. “So what would you do?”
“If you changed your mind?” he asked easily. “I would rather you not change your mind, but if you do, be benevolent enough to tell me.” He did not add that he would know in any case, for that admission would be likely to daunt her present desire.
She hovered where she stood, unable to make herself move. “You’d better come and kiss me again,” she told him.
He closed the distance between them, and this time caught her up in an embrace as their lips met. This was a more tempestuous kiss than the first, which was a question asked and now was answered. Gradually, without apparent effort, he lifted her into his arms, his mouth never leaving hers, and carried her down the corridor to her bedroom, where he set her down and took a step away. “Will you let me undress you?”
She looked around, her features pleasantly dazed. “Did you really do that? Carry me?”
“Yes,” he said as if it were nothing unusual.
“How?” She took his hand. “Why?”
“To spare your nylons,” he said.
“Really, why?”
He knew better than to try to answer her question, so he put his hands on her shoulders and asked, “Where do you want me to put this?”
“What?”
“This,” he said. “Your jacket.”
“In…” She pointed to the closet. “No. Just put it over the back of the chair. Put it all over the back of the chair.”
He began to unbutton her rumpled linen jacket, working steadily, serenely. “All right.” He moved behind her and slid her jacket off her, then laid it carefully on the back of the wing-back chair. “How do you manage to get into this? It’s designed for a contortionist.” He was unbuttoning her blouse that closed down the back; it was silk crepe, simple in line, ecru in color, with small mother-of-pearl buttons.
She laughed, a little breathlessly. “I butt
on the lower ones before I put it on, and then only have to fasten the top six,” she said, surprised that he should think of such a thing.
“One day, you must show me how you do it,” he told her, a suggestion of amusement in his voice. “For now—” He freed the last button and eased the blouse off her arms, the backs of his fingers lightly brushing her skin. She shivered, but not because her bedroom was cool; she was entranced by the time he took to rid her of her clothes. Nothing was done in haste: her silk blouse was draped over the chair’s wing to minimize wrinkles, and now she had only her bra above her waist. Then she felt her bra tighten, and almost at once a release as he undid the hooks and eyes at the back. For a second she felt exposed, defenseless; she had to fight the impulse to keep hold of the bra, to use it as a shield. No one but Harold and her doctor had seen her without clothing for more than a decade, and suddenly it seemed that she had forgotten herself entirely, that she was giving in to impulses that no decent woman would indulge, but she could not bring herself to say the words to stop him.
He set her bra on the seat of the chair, then removed his jacket, hanging it on the far wing. “Would you rather remove your own hose? I can’t promise I won’t run them.”
There was something so wonderfully ordinary in what he said, that she dared to respond, “No; you do it. My garter-belt is elastic.”
He reached around her to briefly cup her breasts in his hands, caressing the luxurious swell of them and fingering her nipples deftly, then unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt from the back, and instead of dropping it down so she could step out of it, he lifted it over her head, folded it lengthwise to preserve its pleats, and set it over her jacket on the chair. “Would you rather sit down?”
The question was so unexpected that she did not quite understand it. “I don’t know. Why should I?”
“If you’re sitting, you won’t have to worry about your balance—standing might be otherwise,” he said, sensing she was again feeling out of her depth. “Sitting is easier. Which would you prefer?”
She blushed a little—and at my age, she thought—and said, “Yes. You’re right. I will sit on the end of the bed.”
He sank down on one knee before her to unhook her hose from her garter-belt, taking care to handle the nylons carefully. He then pulled her garter-belt down from her hips over her thighs and legs; he gathered it up with the rolled hose and put them on the chair-seat with the bra. “Why don’t you get under the covers? You’re chilled.”
“About my panties?” She felt like a schoolgirl, calling them panties, but no other word came to mind.
“No reason to rush,” he replied.
Now thoroughly perplexed, she faltered, staring at him in consternation. “Do you want me to undress you?”
He gave her a smile that was nearly a kiss. “No. I’d rather you get comfortable.”
“Oh.” She turned around and grabbed the corner of her duvet and flung it back, leaving a triangle of sheet. She half-stretched, half-crawled onto it and reached for the duvet again. “There. All snug.” She tried to imagine what he was going to do that was different from what she expected.
“That’s good,” he said, and sat on the side of the bed across from her in order to remove his shoes and socks; he set them next to the night-stand as he stretched out beside her on the top of the duvet.
Once again she was surprised. “Don’t you plan to undress?” She was troubled as soon as she said it. “How are you going to—you know.”
“I’m not going to, not tonight,” he answered, making a few adjustments to the duvet. “Tonight is for you.”
“But if you don’t…” She felt herself lost again, unsure of how to say what she thought she should.
“If you are satisfied, then I will be as well,” he whispered as he lay on his side as he reached out to her, the duvet rising between them, and curving around her shoulder like a fine fur stole. “For now, close your eyes and let me awaken your desires.” He fitted himself to her back, lying spoon-style, his hand moving a bit of the duvet aside to give him access to her body.
The thought of closing her eyes was a bit unnerving, for if she could not see him, he might do … anything. But she had come this far, and she decided that she would do her best to trust him. “All right,” she said, and closed her eyes as he turned the front of her body away from him. “What now?”
“This gives you freedom to move as you wish, even if it is to leave where you are,” he said, and moved his shoulder so he could turn her face in order to kiss her, and had both hands free to touch her. While their mouths were joined, she felt his hands move toward her breasts; she had a moment of panic, but she fought against it, trying to decide how she would kick herself free of the covers if that became necessary. Gradually she relaxed as he stroked her body, starting at the base of her neck and going down to her panties, then caressing her along her sides, doing nothing in haste. When he finally fingered her breasts again, her body was already becoming excited, her nipples were stiffening, and she started to approve of this unorthodox approach to love-making; it did give her a freedom she never realized until now that she lacked. His touch was light and deft, rousing her nipples as if they were precious ornaments for an heirloom, for although his ministrations were thoughtful, they were also playful.
With her eyes closed, Charis said, “Give me a sec,” and reached to wriggle out of her panties; she tossed them in the direction of the chair. “Now go on,” she whispered eagerly.
“As you wish,” he said, and extended his unhurried exploration of her flesh. From her breasts and flanks he shifted his position enough so that he could reach the apex of her thighs. Conscious of every nuance of her increasing passion, he began to awaken her deepest concupiscence, stimulating her already swollen clitoris with soft, expert caresses, taking all the time she needed to feel the full range of her desire. His own esurience was increasing as well, and he tantalized her to draw out her carnality, so that they would both have the full enjoyment of their awakened passion.
Charis had never known such transcendent excitation as what possessed her now. Her entire body quivered with the release that gathered within her. As her first orgasm overcame her she hardly noticed his lips on her throat, nor would she care if she had. Some incaluable time later, as the rapture started to diminish, she found herself hoping that the next time she spent the night with Szent-Germain, it would be for this ecstatic fulfillment and not for revenge on her husband.
TEXT OF A REPORT TO LYDELL BROADSTREET IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, USA, FROM PHILETUS ROTHCOE IN AVIGNON, FRANCE, WRITTEN IN CODE AND CARRIED BY COURIER AND DELIVERED TWO DAYS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.
Avignon, France
May 19, 1950
D-D Broadstreet,
In response to your inquiries related to my preliminary report:
No, I did not notice anyone accompanying Hapgood and Meredith Nugent any time during their visit beyond a local guide in Nice, who was at least fifty; she remained with them for the greater part of the day, showing them the usual points of interest as well as providing for tours of buildings not generally open to public viewing. At the end of the day, Hapgood took her recommendation for a restaurant, paid her, and there was no other communication between them.
Brother and sister appeared to be in good health, and spent a little time at the public beaches for which the Riviera is famous during their drive westward. Meredith is the stronger swimmer of the two. After their time at the shore, they ventured inland, into the Central Massif, where they visited a number of hill-towns before arriving at the small villa that Hapgood had rented for eight days. I could detect no pattern to their travels beyond that they would end up at Sainte-Clairmonde. They spent most of their time at the villa, the greatest part of their time in the vineyard attached to it, and in the village securing food for their meals; the villa has no electricity.
No, no contact was made with those outside the village. There is no telephone in the villa, so I can state confidently that the only calls they
made were from the post office in Sainte-Clairmonde, most of them to members of the group called the Ex-Pats’ Coven in Paris. There was one telephone call logged in for them, from Russell McCall, also a member of the Coven; Hapgood did not return it, and the call was not renewed. Hapgood received three letters at the post office, collected each in turn, but sent none himself.
As I described in my preliminary report: at the end of their visit, Hapgood drove Meredith to Avignon, and she took the train to Brussels, where, according to the passport officer there, she was met by a man from the University. She spent the night with him and his family, and in the morning spent two hours and twenty minutes with her host at the University, then took a taxi to the airport and was on the afternoon airplane bound for New York. Thus far, there have been no reports of questionable activities in Brussels.
Hapgood returned to Paris on the seventeenth, as I mentioned before, and aside from having dinner with the Praegers and Mary Anne Triding, has had no formal contact with any Coven member but Steven diMaggio, who searches for bugs for the Coven—usually finds them, too. There has been nothing remarkable in Hapgood’s routine.
Aside from a meeting at Eclipse Press, Paris, there has been no contact between Hapgood Nugent and Grof Szent-Germain. Incidentally, the title appears to be genuine: the man actually does own a family estate in the Romanian Carpathians, and the family has been there well back into the Middle Ages, or so my affiliate in the region informs me. Unlikely as it may be, the man appears to be what he claims to be.
I will prepare a follow-up report next week.
Philetus Rothcoe
2
SZENT-GERMAIN’S FLAT was quiet; even the new hi-fi set was turned down to a hush, so that only a whispered thread of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 could be heard. A library lamp stood guard over the main desk, on the lowest of three settings. “Probably just as well,” the Grof said to Rogers with an ironic smile. He had risen from his wing-back chair, the one with his native earth enclosed in the upholstery; as Rogers came through the door Szent-Germain sat back down again. “Parisians still dislike almost all things German, including Bach. The light-bulbs are the Italian ones.” They were speaking in Imperial Latin, aware that they might be overheard, in spite of it being four in the morning.
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