Sustenance

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “We’ll take care of setting it up,” Charis told him. “But what about Tim?” She nodded toward where his wheelchair had been moved after it had been eased down the path on the south side of the cottage. “Where would you like us to put him?” Tim’s coordination was lessening, and that meant he could not be left to fend for himself even in little things.

  “I’ll let Moira decide that,” said Nugent, glancing at the thermometer. “Make sure he’s in the shade, though. It’s heating up.”

  “I’ll manage that,” said Washington Young, who had been in quiet discussion with Russell McCall. He had taken on the task of getting Tim about several months ago, and now was viewed by all the Coven as Tim’s practical nurse.

  “Excellent,” Nugent approved, then hastened back through the cottage as he heard another car drive up.

  “Bethune, let’s hope,” said Charis as she started to set out all the various contributions to the picnic, and moved around Wilhelmina as she set out forks and knives wrapped in serviettes. “Remember to leave an open place for the ham.”

  “Yes, we all hope it’s Bethune, and not some pest from the CIA,” said Wilhelmina, watching Moira slice white and rye breads, putting the slices into a large ceramic bowl decorated with low-relief birds and flowers.

  “Hello, everyone,” called Steve diMaggio from the top of the stairs. “Someone’s got a fine car out there. Happy says it’s yours, Grof.”

  “If you mean the maroon Jaguar, it is mine, and thanks for the notice.” Szent-Germain stopped flapping out the blanket he was about to spread under a weeping willow.

  “Who brought the Dutch salad?” Bjornson asked, looking at the steel bowl filled with chopped steamed potatoes, chopped steamed cauliflower, chopped sauteed onions, and chopped hard-boiled eggs, all in a dressing of Hollandaise sauce.

  “Guilty,” said McCall. “It’s about the only picnic dish I know how to make.”

  “It should go well with the ham,” said Wilhelmina.

  Elvira raised her glass in a salute. “To the Dutch salad!”

  “Amen,” said Bjornson, reaching for his dark bottle of fruit-infused beer from Belgium.

  Tim Frost made a sound that might have been a cheer or a rebuke. He had been wheeled to the far end of the three tables where the overhang of the porch provided him the shadow he needed; Moira went to him and offered him a half a croissant, which he mashed in his fist before carrying it to his mouth.

  “Let me deal with this,” said Young, taking Moira’s place at Tim’s side. “You give yourself a break.”

  “Thanks, Wash; you’re a life-saver,” said Moira, and went back to cutting up some round barley-rolls.

  DiMaggio brought his summer sausage out of a cloth shopping bag; the skin of it glistened and smelled of summer herbs and garlic, a formidable creation as long and as thick as his forearm. “Where do you want me to put this?” he asked.

  Mary Anne Triding, dressed more for a garden party than a picnic in a long flowered skirt and a peasant-style blouse, abandoned her contemplation of the pond, and came up the gradual slope of the lawn to the edge of the tables. “Anything I can do?” she asked of no one in particular.

  “You can quarter the apples,” Moira said. “There’s another knife in that mug.”

  “Hot-diggity! Is there another cutting board?” Mary Anne asked, looking around for one. “I don’t want to ruin the tablecloth.”

  “On the shelf,” said Moira, and turned toward Washington Young, who came up beside her.

  “Is there any juice or soft drink I can give Tim? He’s getting restive.”

  Young looked around at the table. “I’ll tell him it’s almost time to eat, but he’s thirsty now.”

  “I think Jesse has some lemonade,” said Moira. “That should do.”

  “That sounds like a good choice,” Young said, and went farther down the table to secure a bottle of lemonade for Tim.

  Watching his guests, Nugent smiled and poured himself another glass of wine.

  From his vantage-point under the willow where Szent-Germain had spread the blanket Nugent provided, he watched the Coven gather and talk. With the arrival of Bethune, the activities became more centralized at the table, now that the last guest had arrived. Charis came up to him, her face obscured by her hat, and took a second or two to study Szent-Germain, who was lying down on the blanket, his attention on the leaves above his head. To his surprise she asked, “Will I feel any different than I do now? After the sixth time?”

  “Not immediately, no,” he answered, sitting up to look at her. “But the requirements, later on, will impose some adjustments.” He saw her fretful expression. “You probably won’t have to deal with it for a decade or two.”

  “And what will I be like then?”

  His dark eyes glowed with compassion. “That is a matter for you and circumstances to determine. There is no set persona for a vampire, any more than there are those for the living.”

  “You mean, it depends on when I pass on, and how, I guess. Only I won’t pass on, will I? I’ll be somewhere between life and death. I understand that. You’ve told me the basics: line the soles of my shoes with my native earth, stay out of direct sunlight whenever possible, avoid running water in all its forms, including currents and tides, try not to travel by airplane. Fire can kill me, anything that breaks the spine above the heart can kill us,” she said, making a recital of it. “I still have questions.”

  “Indeed,” he said, lying back down as she started off toward the tables.

  Jesse had opened another four bottles of wine, and was handing out more bottles of beer. “Those of you wanting blankets, now’s a good time to get them,” he said, nodding to where Szent-Germain sat in the shade of the willow tree. “The Grof’s got the right idea; find a place that’s out of the sun.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Mary Anne as she took one of the blankets. “I’m going down by the pond. There’s an old arbor down there, with some grapes growing.” She nodded to the others. “I’ll be back for food. If anyone would like to join me?”

  Pomeroy was taking off his jacket, his face ruddy in the heat. “If you’ll wait a minute or two, I’ll come with you, Mary Anne. So long as you choose a spot with some shade.” He had a somber look about him, and he spoke with caution. “I think we’re under observation; there’s a black car parked just short of the drive up to this place. It’s been there for an hour or so, according to Happy’s neighbor—the one with the goats, a quarter mile along on the other side of the road. I spoke to him; he’s been watching the car.”

  “That sounds pretty obvious to me,” said McCall. “I’d expect more subtle surveillance.”

  “I think that’s part of the plan, to be conspicuous, so that we’ll know they’re watching us, that they can watch us with impunity,” said Pomeroy. “I’d like to be proved wrong.”

  “That’s not the only thing you’d rather be wrong about.” Bethune came down the stairs. “Sorry I’m late. Leeland and Rothcoe pulled me in again. I’ve come directly from the meeting. I asked them why they were harassing us in France, but they claimed not to be. They’re just doing their jobs, their assignments, their duty—take your pick.”

  “Why did they want to question you?” Nugent was coming down the backstairs, bringing a bowl of cheese sauce.

  “I don’t know. They had a new round of questions for me, most of which I couldn’t answer without betraying my canon of ethics, which I suppose they anticipated. It was a stalemate all around.”

  Mary Anne sighed and sat down on a small, convenient boulder; this would need more than ten minutes, she was sure. “You might as well tell us about it.” She peered up at the sun through slitted, shaded eyes, feeling the day had lost some of its shine.

  “In that case, how did it go?” Charis asked.

  “About the same as last time. They might just want to rattle us. But I have to tell you, I don’t trust them. They’re after something, and they’re being cagey about what it is. I did what I c
ould to keep most of you out of it, but I don’t know if it did much good. They might have some new information about us, or they’re trying to get us to give in some way.” He went and got a bottle of beer from Jesse, holding it carefully so as not to lose any of its contents. “Sorry to tell you this,” he went on after taking a swig; he swung around, talking to Bjornson. “I learned one thing: your wife has been talking to the FBI about us. She’s trying to make sure that she’s doing what they want, so she won’t be under suspicion.”

  Bjornson nodded heavily. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Is there any chance that you could persuade her to be more circumspect? The less she tells about us, the better.” Bethune waited for Bjornson’s answer, as did most of the others.

  “I doubt she’ll listen to me, not after she’s made such a point of leaving me in order to return home.” Bjornson sighed. “She’s skittish, and easily peeved. And that makes her manipulable, by everyone but me.”

  “But surely she writes to you? She must have mentioned this to you?” Bethune exclaimed. “Can’t you explain this to her?”

  “Yes, she sends me monthly letters, and she tells me about the canasta parties she has attended and what she has won, and if she liked the leg-of-lamb at Sunday dinner. She’s afraid her mail is being opened, and her telephone is tapped.” Bjornson was obviously uncomfortable discussing this so openly. “She’s afraid of being denounced as a Communist sympathizer. I can’t blame her for that.”

  “She’s probably scared: she won’t pay attention to you, even if you write to her—which I wouldn’t recommend,” Bethune admitted. “That won’t stop the FBI, I’m afraid. It might make them push harder.”

  “Would it help if one of us wrote to her on behalf of the Coven?” Pomeroy volunteered.

  “Good Lord, no,” said Bjornson. “The greater the distance she can create between herself and us, the happier she’ll be.”

  There were murmurs of sympathy mixed with grumbles; Bethune abandoned his inquiry of Bjornson for the time being.

  Mary Anne and Pomeroy collected a second blanket, then started down the lawn toward the arbor. As they passed the willow tree under which Szent-Germain was lying, Mary Anne said, a trifle too loudly, “I think Bethune is right, and we still have a spy in our midsts. Someone is passing on information about us.”

  “Mary Anne, don’t fret,” Pomeroy said, not wanting to argue with her.

  She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes fixed on Szent-Germain. “Well, he isn’t one of us, is he?” She walked more quickly, her skirts bouncing as her stride got longer. “What’s keeping him from spying on us? He’s a foreigner.”

  From his place in the shadow of the willow, Szent-Germain remained still, as if he were napping. He could not blame any of the Coven for having doubts about him; Mary Anne was right in saying he was not one of them, no matter how beneficial Eclipse Press had been for seven of their numbers. He knew he was tolerated more than accepted; given the Coven’s situation, he realized anything more would be an unreasonable expectation. Yet it saddened him to be regarded so mistrustfully. His long experience of exile made him especially sympathetic to the Coven’s plight. He closed his eyes and waited for Charis to join him.

  She walked up to him some ten minutes later, a plate of food in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. “McCall says he’s going to London.”

  “That makes three times since April,” said Szent-Germain, opening his eyes and propping himself on one elbow. “Are things looking up for him?”

  “Who knows? I think he’s looking for a job there; he surely isn’t finding one here in France, unless he changes his mind about doing a book for Eclipse,” said Charis, bending down to set her plate on the blanket, then hunkering on her heels in order to decide upon a position that would make her comfortable. “Axel Bjornson says his apartment has been bugged again. Steve confirms it, and is planning to get around to check all of us for bugs this next week.” Gradually she sat down and put the plate on her thighs.

  “I’m pleased to hear he’s being so diligent.” He shaded his eyes with his free hand. “I’ll schedule a check on the print-shop as well. Anything else?” Szent-Germain asked, thinking he would do well to warn Rogers of these developments.

  “Well, Elvira believes she’s pregnant but hasn’t told Jesse.” She took a small sip of the white wine in her glass. “She told me shortly after we arrived, when she pulled me aside to talk. I know she’s told Willie, and maybe even Mary Anne. I think she wants Jesse to find out from some source other than herself.”

  “How far along is she?”

  “Not very; she’s two weeks late with the curse.” Charis picked up one of Wilhelmina’s deviled eggs and ate half of it.

  “Then she might not be pregnant; a miscarriage can throw the cycle off-schedule for some women.” Memories of Zilphah and Orazia flitted through his mind, though only one had suffered a miscarriage.

  “I don’t think that would be any consolation to her,” said Charis. “She wants a child and she’s ignoring the risks. Jesse wants one more than she does, according to her.”

  Szent-Germain nodded once. “It’s not an easy thing to get over.” His eyes were fixed on the middle distance.

  “A miscarriage or wanting a child?”

  “Either, or both,” he answered, and lay back again.

  After a short silence while she nibbled at her food, she said, “I’m sorry you can’t have any of this. It’s pretty good, most of it.”

  “I’m glad you enjoy it,” he said.

  Another silence fell between them. Then she said, “How will I explain to Arthur and David, when I’ve Changed to your life?”

  “You’ll know better when the time comes,” he said, not wanting to remind her yet again that she would have to die before the Change could occur. “It will depend on how old your boys are and how they feel about you when it happens.”

  “But they’ll want some explanation, won’t they? After the divorce, becoming like you will be difficult for them to accept, won’t it? Worse than divorce, in a way. Who knows how long it will be until they and I meet again? They’ll be curious, don’t you think?”

  “If any of these concerns distresses you, you can still change your mind and limit the risk that comes with revealing the nature of your … transformation. I won’t hold that against you.” He had a brief, intense recollection of Tulsi Kil, and of Gynethe Mehaut.

  “But there could still be a risk of Changing, couldn’t there?”

  “A remote one,” he said, then tried to quiet her consternation. “If you do not want to Change, you can order yourself embalmed, and you will die the True Death as surely as if your head were removed or your nervous system were destroyed.”

  She shivered a little. “That sounds so … so final: head removed, nervous system destroyed. Those are stark prospects.”

  “That they are. Bear in mind that once you Change, you will look the way you are when you die for a long time, and in time, as your sons become old men with children and grandchildren of their own, you will seem as young as the day you died. For we age very slowly, and that could make continuing contact with your boys awkward, not just for you—it could be troublesome for Arthur and David.”

  “I get that.” She took up a round of bread with pate spread on it. “Do I have to tell them what I’ve become?”

  “Do you mean a vampire?” he asked, and saw her cringe. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “I don’t want to lie to my children,” she said, indignation showing in her posture.

  “You don’t have to explain anything unless they insist, and even then, you may prefer to keep some details to yourself. You may tell them—and it is the truth, by the way—that you have received provisional immortality, or some other such definition. How and why this happened would be your choice to make.”

  “That’s easy for you to say; you don’t have children,” she observed, and wished in the next second she had not spoken.

  “No, I have no
children. But I had a ward. She never knew what I am.” His voice had dropped, and his enigmatic gaze struck her as deeply as the sight of his scars had done.

  “And does she ask you nothing now?”

  “She asks me nothing because she is dead,” he said, his voice so flat that she felt more appalled than she thought was possible. “She was killed in Munchen more than twenty years ago. There was a large riot—broken windows and vandalized autos—and she was killed. There were others killed and many hurt; she probably hadn’t been singled out, but she was still dead.” He closed his eyes in a fruitless attempt to shut out the image of the five Brown Shirts who had attacked his ward, probably because she had a Russian accent, if they had any reason at all. He continued, “At least it was over quickly; she didn’t have to suffer very long.” His thoughts flooded with memories of Laisha Vlassevna, how cruelly she had been killed, and what he had done to her killers in retribution. “They used a rifle-butt to smash her skull.”

  “You saw it?” she asked, trying to imagine what that had meant to him.

  “I wasn’t near enough to stop it.”

  Charis finished her wine. “I’m sorry I brought it up. It never occurred to me that you might have been … like a parent.”

  “It surprised me, as well,” he said, his tone becoming gentle again.

  She moved a little nearer to him, as if consoling him with her presence. “I can’t think how you stand it. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry—but I know I couldn’t bear it if anything should happen to my boys.”

  There was a burst of laughter from the Coven members at the table under the porch, and Elvira shouted over the gaiety, “It won’t take that long, it won’t.” She was moving around the table, sampling bits of what remained of the picnic. Nugent had brought half a dozen folding chairs from the side of the house, and now they were occupied by the Kings, diMaggio, McCall, Bjornson, and Nugent himself, where they were exchanging tales of faculty politics and student misbehavior with a kind of nostalgia that was painful to watch.