She was too faint to walk, so Charlotte lifted her in her arms and carried her up the steepening incline. She kept one arm beneath Amy’s thighs and let the coat hang free so that the blood wouldn’t soak into it. All through the long climb, the ripe blood-scent tormented her, while Amy sobbed quietly into her neck.
“It’s an awfully long way,” Amy said after a while. “I’m sorry. We can get motor cars up to the house, with great care, but I don’t drive.”
The town ended and there was only Alpine pasture ahead, a thin rutted track growing ever steeper, rustling forests.
“Amy?” said Charlotte. “There’s nothing here.”
The woman raised her head. “Along the path. Just a little further.”
Fifty yards on, Charlotte glimpsed light through the trees. Around a curve in the track she saw a white edifice: a newly built house in the stark modern style, like a marble monument with tall windows framed in black. The house was so imposing, with its straight lines and brutal facade, that Charlotte could not decide whether it was ugly or beautiful.
“I didn’t know this place was here.”
“Isn’t it grand?” Amy said tiredly. “You can leave me at the door.”
“No, I want to be sure there’s someone to take care of you.”
A few vehicles were parked on either side: a mixture of sleek expensive models, old boxy cars and vans, motorcycles. Light fell down the broad shallow steps. Charlotte saw figures moving behind textured glass panels that flanked the front door. She helped Amy to stand, taking almost her whole weight, and rang the doorbell.
The woman who peered out through a narrow gap was a matronly type dressed in dark brown, greying hair plaited around her head. Seeing Amy, her round, stern face furrowed with concern. She spoke German with the local accent. “Miss Temple? What happened to you?”
“Nothing, Gudrun. I felt faint,” Amy said, smiling weakly. “This is Charlotte. She’s been awfully good… I’d be lying on the street if she hadn’t picked me up.”
The woman paused. Her nostrils flared; the blood-smell was strong even to a human. Perhaps she already knew the nature of the problem.
“Bring her in. Miss Temple, you should not have gone alone. What were you thinking?”
As Charlotte helped her over the threshold, a few drops of blood splashed on the pristine marble floor. God, the gorgeous red blood… She could scent it on the older woman too, a subtler smell overlaid by sweat and perfume, and wafting from dozens of other people elsewhere in the house… The temptation was unbearable.
“Nothing,” said Amy. “I just need to rest. Don’t fuss.”
Charlotte gave her into the care of Gudrun. There could be any cause for her bleeding. Mere nature: heavy menstruation, perhaps a miscarriage, or – God forbid – an injury of some kind. Also, she knew that unmarried English girls sometimes took a quiet trip to the continent to end an unwanted pregnancy, although they generally went to France… Such matters were never discussed in public, but that was life’s reality. It wasn’t her place to speculate or judge.
“She should lie down,” said Charlotte, “and perhaps a doctor—”
“We thank you for your aid, Fräulein,” she said brusquely, “but everything is in hand.”
In the background, Charlotte glimpsed a handful of young-looking men and women, but the sight was brief. Guiding Amy, Gudrun turned at an angle to block Charlotte from going any further into the vast hall. She was being dismissed. Even as she stepped outside, the high black door swung towards her face.
Although startled, she was grateful to be severed from temptation.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” Amy called as the door slammed between them. “Thank you so much for your kindness.”
* * *
Well, that was bizarre, thought Charlotte.
Walking downhill towards the town, she breathed deeply of the fresh, wet Alpine air. From this height she could see the ruined city wall with its ancient watchtowers, the twin spires of the church, and rows of handsome houses clustering down the slopes.
How easy it would have been to take both women! To stupefy the matronly Gudrun with the mesmeric gleam of her eyes, then to lap blood from between the girl’s thighs as if licking clean a wound… finally cleansing her palate with a few sips from both their veins.
If other humans had come running to stop her… the grand marble hallway might have become a bloodbath.
But she hadn’t.
“Oh, dear God,” she groaned, leaning on the wall of the first house she reached. What am I, that I could even think it? Well… I know what I am. So, I’ll keep walking. Fast.
She carried on towards the heart of town. The strip of cloud above continued to unleash a steady downpour. She turned her face to the sky, letting the rain wash her clean. One thing she’d learned from Karl was self-control. He hunted by striking fast out of the dark, never looking at his victim’s face if he could help it.
Charlotte, by contrast, was inclined to befriend people before she fed. Even though she knew her desire for mutual affection was deceptive, she found the impulse hard to resist. Winning their trust, only to betray them.
“We all find our own ways,” Stefan would say with a shrug. “We’re vampires. Accept it. If you agonise over every pang of conscience, you may as well put yourself to eternal sleep in the Weisskalt.”
Charlotte could only imagine how desperate someone would have to be to seek that terrible frozen realm, the outermost shell of the Crystal Ring. The Weisskalt did not even guarantee true death: some vampires had come back after years of hibernation. Some claimed to remember every moment.
Perhaps she would find Stefan again, as he’d suggested, and tell him what had happened. Even if, she thought, he only finds the tale amusing, as he always does.
Although her hunger was acute, her desire to sate it had vanished. Sometimes the prospect of a too-lavish feast could kill the appetite.
Then a man stepped in front of her.
She was startled. Normally she sensed humans before they appeared, but she hadn’t been paying attention. The stranger was walking up from the town, where there were hotels and bars along the water’s edge. He was drunk, judging by his unsteady gait and the insolent way he confronted her, forcing her to stop. He reeked of stale beer. Jacket undone, hat askew. His clothes were nondescript: a plain suit that gave no hint of whether he was a tourist or local, rich or poor.
Not that his station in life meant anything. Alcohol could turn aristocrat or peasant alike into a brute. To a vampire, this meant nothing.
Blood was blood.
He addressed her in Swiss German, slurring his words as he propositioned her in the crudest of terms. As a human, she would have been terrified. Now, however, he had no idea what an extreme risk he was taking.
But she had no desire to hurt him.
She made her expression icy as she distanced herself and began to walk around the drunken pest. Unfortunately, he lacked the sense to let her go. He slipped and staggered on the cobbles, arms flailing for balance. Giggling, he circled in front of her again. Charlotte’s gaze became flint.
“Let me pass,” she said in German.
She side-stepped again, but this time he seized her arm. “No, come on, a beautiful girl all alone? Want to talk to you. Not good enough for you, Fräulein, is that it?”
His grip was strong. He might be an ex-soldier, one who’d guarded Switzerland’s borders during the Great War: he had that tough, weather-worn look. His hair was cropped short, his face red and sweaty. Not much taller than her, he was heavy-set, with muscular arms, blood vessels throbbing in his thick neck.
Charlotte preferred to avoid fights, unless pushed to the limit. However reckless or determined the man was, if he planned to overpower her he would be in for a shock.
“Let go,” she said, her voice a sword-blade.
The drunk responded by gripping both her upper arms. A slight tussle began. She was startled by his strength – as he was doubtless surprised to find her i
mmoveable, like a tree.
“Don’t be unfriendly, darling. Just a kiss. Look at those beautiful lips. You ever been kissed before? Bet you haven’t. Not like this. And I’ve something else for you, a real surprise…”
Over his shoulder, Charlotte saw Stefan and Niklas, tiny and far away at the bottom of the lane. They were looking up at her, but Stefan would view this as a moment of entertainment, not a reason to rush to her aid.
“Take your hands off me now or you will regret it,” she said softly.
“Ooh.” The drunk laughed. “What can you do to stop me, skinny little flower?”
“Let me go and run for your life, unless you wish to find out.”
More laughter, witless yet malevolent. He jerked her towards him and made to kiss her. Charlotte brought up her arms in a swift movement that broke his grip. He tried again, this time seizing her around the waist and the back of her neck.
Her eyes glazed, and she struck.
His skin tasted foul with alcohol-tainted sweat but she buried her face in his throat, heard him grunt with pain as her fangs pierced his veins. His body went into a spasm, arms flapping as he tried to push her off. He cursed, still fighting – that was unusual. Victims usually went still and pliant under her spell…
This one went berserk.
She needed so much force to hold on to him, she could barely keep her fangs in his neck, let alone draw blood. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash.
The glint of a steel blade.
The drunk’s elbow hooked back and plunged forward. Charlotte felt the blade go hilt-deep into her abdomen. The sensation was like a punch. Then a terrible throbbing discomfort began to spread from the wound.
He slurred angry words that she could hardly understand.
She gasped, lost hold of him and staggered backwards, clutching at the dagger hilt. It had passed between the edges of her coat and straight through her dress as if through paper. Vampires could be injured and suffer agonies, but they usually healed swiftly, able to ignore pain for long enough to kill their attacker.
This was different. She’d never felt pain like it. The stab-wound felt cold, pulsing as though it was releasing poison through her whole body. She doubled over, trying to pull the knife free. It stuck fast as if held in her flesh by barbs.
Her attacker staggered sideways, pressing one hand to the wound in his neck. Blood oozed through his fingers to soak his shirt collar. Face contorted with shock and rage, he snarled, “Strigoi!”
That was the last word he uttered before Stefan caught him.
She wasn’t sure what happened next. Her head swam and her sight went dark. She was aware of lying face down on the wet cobbles. There were noises above her: scuffling, footsteps, gruff curses… then silence.
Charlotte half sat up and looked down to see her coat hanging open, the yellowish handle of the knife sticking out of her stomach and her slow, crimson blood staining the pale silk crepe of her dress. She couldn’t breathe or think for shock.
“Charlotte, my God.” Stefan was crouching at her side, looking horrified. “Can you walk? Don’t try to pull out the…”
Knife, he was about to say, when the blade fell free at last. He caught it before it hit the ground, immediately dropped it with a cry.
“It burns,” he said.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Like ice. God, it hurts. I can’t…”
“Charlotte? Dearest, I’m sorry, if I’d known what that rogue intended…”
The blade shone, luminous to her sensitive eyes.
“Did you kill him?”
Stefan shook his head. “Couldn’t hold him. He ran. Never mind him, you’re more important. Can you stand up?”
“I’ll try.” The dark street whirled around her. Everything was unreal, as if she were slipping in and out of consciousness. It took a far more drastic injury than this to destroy a vampire: decapitation, at least. She knew this was serious, but her mind wouldn’t accept it.
“Charlotte?” Stefan sounded panicky now. “Stay with me. What the hell did he do to you?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to force a smile. “Humans are supposed to succumb, not to fight back.”
“I know. How dare they defend themselves?” Stefan tried to joke but he looked as grey and deathly as she felt. “Hold on to me. Niklas and I will take you home.”
“Bring the knife.”
Grimacing, Stefan picked up the weapon, using his coat sleeve to protect his fingers. Swiftly he wiped off the blood and slipped the blade into his coat pocket. “I have it.”
She was shivering violently as he wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll be all right in a moment,” she said through chattering teeth. She felt she’d split in two, half of her looking down on the scene from above.
“Of course you will,” said Stefan. His horrified expression belied his words.
“But tell Karl to find out what the knife is,” she added, “in case I can’t.”
“You can tell him yourself.” Stefan spoke through gritted teeth as he drew her with difficulty into the Crystal Ring. Her vision exploded with black stars. The other-realm received them, but it felt wrong, hostile, as thick as wet cement. “We’ll take you home, and you’ll soon be better.”
“But the knife,” she persisted, trying to make herself clear while she still could. “Freezing cold, burning like acid. You must find out who made it and why.”
“I understand. Keep talking to me. Soon be safe.”
She felt herself falling, stumbling. Rain drenched her. Raqia – their other name for the Crystal Ring, the secret astral realm of vampires – had spat them out.
“It’s no good,” he said. “We can’t take you that way. You’re too heavy.”
“Heavy?” she gasped, trying to make light of the situation even as her vision turned black and red.
“You know what I mean. You’re like a willow branch, my dear, but too weak to enter the Crystal Ring. The wound’s taken all your energy.”
“Yes… God, Stefan, it hurts.”
“So, I have a new plan. We’ll steal a car and drive you home. Don’t worry, it won’t take more than two hours at most.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to argue. “That man was incredibly strong, too strong for a human. And he said something…”
“What?” Stefan bent his ear to her lips. “I can barely hear you.”
“He said, ‘I know what you are. Your strength will become ours and you are finished.’”
CHAPTER TWO
THE COLD KNIFE
Karl chose Prague as his hunting ground tonight, travelling there swiftly through the Crystal Ring. On most nights, he journeyed far from the house he shared with Charlotte, a chalet high in the Bernese Oberland. Feed too close to home, and rumours would begin.
Not that they’d always resisted temptation.
He loved Prague’s beautiful old buildings with their red roofs and majestic pastel walls, all the elaborate churches. He liked to walk slowly among the night crowds, his mind gradually emptying of all thoughts as his blood-thirst grew.
A group of smartly dressed men and women gathered in the doorway of a hotel, apparently heading out for supper. As Karl approached, one woman caught his gaze and froze, her dark eyes shining. Her attention stayed locked on him as he passed, as if her companions had vanished.
She might see a handsome face in shadow beneath the brim of his hat, some kind of tantalising promise in his eyes. That was a vampire’s deceptive allure. Instant, heart-stopping desire for a stranger: he’d seen the reaction so often that it made his heart sink a little.
Now he only had to stop and smile to have his victim for the night. The man at her side might be her husband, but she’d still find a way to escape: anything to be with the dark-haired stranger whose face made her forget to breathe or blink…
Eventually she did blink, languidly, like a cat.
Karl turned and hurried away through the crowd.
Every vampire had their own way of hunting.
In the past Karl had been tormented by his conscience, but he’d never let it rule him. Thirst conquered guilt every time. Unlike some, he wasn’t inclined to seduce and torment his victims first. He aimed to feed with as little distress to his prey as possible.
He did not always succeed.
He was still a vampire, after all. When the need arose, he could be as soft, emotionless and lethally cold as snow.
In a back street, he saw the silhouette of a young man bent over the engine of a very old motor car. The scent of oil and fuel and sweat twined around Karl as he approached. He seized the man from behind, fed swiftly—
Outside time as blood filled him with delicious crimson flames…
Then he laid the man gently down on to the cobblestones, hoping he would not die, and that his nightmares would not be unbearable. Quick and soundless, Karl walked away without once looking at his face.
“You might have offered to mend his car first,” said a familiar male voice from the shadows.
Karl halted as Pierre and Ilona stepped out in front of him, two fashionably dressed dark figures against blackness, outlined by splinters of light from nearby windows. They were arm in arm: Pierre, his wayward friend who’d rarely been anything but trouble, and Ilona, Karl’s daughter.
For years she’d rejected Karl in angry punishment for the terrible wrong he’d done her: transforming her without her consent, simply because he couldn’t bear to see her grow old and die. That was a mistake he would never make again.
With Charlotte, he’d made very sure she was aware in advance of the dangers and horrors of immortality, as well as the pleasures.
Lately, Karl and Ilona had reached a truce, almost full reconciliation. Almost. Seeing them, he felt resigned joy mixed with the sadness of all their past conflicts. They exchanged greetings: a light kiss on the cheek for Pierre, two kisses and an embrace for his daughter.
“What a pleasant coincidence,” Karl said softly. “What brings you here?”
Pierre shrugged. “We all have to be somewhere, my friend. And Prague’s one of our favourite cities, as it is yours, so not a very great coincidence.”
The Dark Arts of Blood Page 2