The Dark Arts of Blood

by Freda Warrington

  “So you said before.” He answered in German. “I do not tolerate degenerate languages in my house.”

  “As you choose,” she said, switching. “I speak three German dialects, French, English, Arabic, Spanish and Italian. And I do not appreciate you looking at me as if I crawled out of a pit.”

  He couldn’t identify the lilt of her accent. She might be from any country of North Africa or the Middle East.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I’ve been watching you for a while.”

  Anger rose in him like bile. “And how did you know the sakakin were here?”

  “I sensed them from a long way off. I heard them… groaning. Strange. One on its own, I would not have noticed. But several together give out a sort of vibration that calls to me.”

  Godric had strong nerves, but her presence made sweat ooze from his neck, cast a literal chill over him.

  “Nonsense. They were my father’s, and now they belong to me. What do you want, demoness?”

  “Your father stole them. He looted them from their hiding place. I want them back.”

  “And I told you last night that you can’t have them,” he said, straightening to his full six-foot-two and tightening his grip on the dagger. He knew that a male vampire could sweep a human aside or crush his throat with one hand. Perhaps a female could too – but he was pleased to note that she feared the object she claimed to own.

  “How can you own something that was buried in the desert for centuries?” he said thinly. “If they’re yours, why are you afraid of them?”

  “Guns are no less lethal to their owners,” she replied. “You don’t even understand what they are.”

  That was half-true, but Godric had documents left by his father. He knew the knives contained strange properties. Although he hesitated to use the term “supernatural”, it was hard to define them as otherwise.

  It crossed his mind that she might be able to find the sikin Bruno had lost. But his pride would not let him admit that he’d mislaid it.

  He was certain that this unwelcome strigoi had nothing to teach him.

  He stopped the projector. The screen went dark.

  “I know you are a vampire, yet you clearly have no power over me. You tried to attack me and couldn’t. So, if the knives protect me from you, they must be mine by default. If I knew a banishing ritual, you’d be gone by now. You would be dust.”

  “The word you want is afrit,” she said, “or ghūl, though neither really fits. I would prefer no label at all. We seem to have reached stalemate, Herr Reiniger. You’re right, the sakakin have given you power and I cannot get past you to take them. Yet you cannot banish me.”

  “Can’t I?” said Godric, icily furious.

  “There is nothing you can do to make me leave this place.”

  He raised the knife, drawing silver runes on the air, but she only vanished and reappeared in the corner of the booth, like a mocking ghost.

  “I am not going to fight with you.” She walked forward and rested her hand on the projector without flinching at its heat. “Don’t threaten me, and I won’t threaten you.”

  “Who are you?” he asked again. “Tell me, or leave.”

  “I’m not leaving,” was her mild answer. “I want my treasures back, but I won’t take them by force. Perhaps we can negotiate, instead.”

  “Negotiate?” he spat. “With what?”

  “We both have things we want.” Her voice was velvety. “We don’t have to explain ourselves, do we? Simply agree to help each other when the need arises. A compromise for our mutual benefit.”

  He was tempted to stick the dagger into her throat. How dare this foreign female intrude on his territory, forcing him into bargains on her terms?

  “I can’t tell you what the sakakin are,” she went on. “The knowledge is forbidden. However, I’ve seen you using them in your rituals. Each time you do so, you honour the sacred power that made them. That is interesting. And I think it’s a good thing.”

  “Seen us?” Godric gasped, thinking, What sacred power? We honour no deity but our own strength, as represented by Woden.

  She smiled. “Humans can’t hide from vampires. So I’ll let you keep them… for now.”

  “You will let me keep my own knives?” He laughed, a sharp bark.

  “I’ll let you keep them, on condition that you utter the name of Zruvan, Lord of Immortals, when you use them.”

  “Why in hell’s name would we do that?”

  “Because honouring Zruvan is the proper thing to do. And because it will increase your power. Try. You’ll thank me.”

  Godric could barely catch his breath. “What do you expect in exchange for this devilish agreement?”

  “Hide me,” she said softly. “Let me pretend to be human among you.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I’m not asking to live here. I certainly don’t want your blood. Just the freedom to come and go as I wish. It’s hard for me to stay in one place without a plausible reason. You can give me that reason.”

  His instincts screamed no, but he couldn’t resist her persuasive voice. He’d told her she had no power over him, but that wasn’t true. She exuded a subtle influence that he couldn’t define or resist. Her stare weakened him. He could argue with her all he liked, but he was helpless to destroy her.

  “And how do I explain your presence? This is a working film-production studio. A lot of people come and go. Important people.”

  “Then pretend I’m working for you,” she replied with the same sweet tone and terrifying gaze.

  He tried to stutter that he could not consider employing a dark-skinned foreigner, not even as a housemaid, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  “It’s a very rare mortal who recognises what I am,” she said. “I pass for human every day. I know Europe, I know your customs and fashions. Surely a film studio needs someone to help with sewing, hair, make-up?”

  “You promise not to interfere with anyone or anything here?” Godric heard his own voice shaking. “You will even… help me?”

  “Good. You are not deaf,” she whispered.

  * * *

  Charlotte stood before a full-length mirror… a different mirror, in a different bedroom lying in moonlight and shadow behind her. A deep, hot bath awaited her, perfumed with rose oil. Between undressing and bathing, she paused to examine the scar. The wound near her hipbone had healed at last to a silver line. Soon it would be gone, as if no blade had ever touched her flesh.

  The scars of memory remained. Being attacked was a shock, but she’d got over it. The lasting effect of the knife was another matter. What kind of weapon could make a vampire go out of her mind, if only for a few hours? Something even Karl had never seen before?

  She tried to convince herself that the illusion of splitting in two had passed, but occasionally she would move her hand and see a ghost-trail. Sometimes she glimpsed a pale shape from the corner of her eye, or saw a figure in the distance who looked just like her.

  Charlotte tried to ignore these illusions, but they wouldn’t go away.

  Although tougher than humans, vampires were not indestructible. They were susceptible to emotion, to the dark underside of reality. For a long time she’d dreaded the bite of Lilith – a threat made by Violette, in her Lilith guise – but when it finally happened, the experience had been both fearsome and ecstatic. It had left her stronger, more clear-minded.

  The stabbing had been the opposite, as if it could undo Lilith’s good work. The idea made her angry. Just when she was growing in self-assurance, the wound had thrown her off-balance.

  Lilith’s bite was a sharp injection of wisdom, but it was not a miracle cure for all maladies of the soul.

  Whatever’s happening to me, I’ll resist, she thought. Karl’s warned me often enough that we can take nothing for granted, least of all the caprices of Raqia.

  They’d come to Violette’s new premises in Lucerne. The dancer had extended an open invitation, even while she wa
s away.

  Karl had several homes, including the chalet they’d abandoned: apartments in Paris, Vienna, and possibly others she didn’t know about. Charlotte wondered what else there was to learn about her vampire lover… But he’d lived for over a hundred and twenty years, so of course he had a past: previous lovers, and experiences both wonderful and terrible that had shaped who he was.

  Did she wish he’d met her as an innocent youth who’d never fallen in love until he set eyes upon her? No. He would have been a different person: still beautiful, but shallow. She loved Karl as he was, however dark and complicated. She trusted him. All that truly mattered was trust.

  So they could have gone anywhere, but they chose Violette. She was special. Charlotte was the one who’d initiated her from human to vampire, a decision that had brought near disaster. Now she and Karl were bound to the dancer in a thorny tangle.

  The theatre was grand, if dilapidated, with a five-storey dance academy attached. The buildings were designed in the curvaceous Art Nouveau style, painted with soft greens and sunset orange. Restoring the facades and interiors to full glory was costing Violette a fortune. Charlotte knew, since she and Karl had made generous contributions.

  Last year’s unsettling events had convinced Violette to move from Austria to Switzerland. Lucerne might not be a vast city, but it was popular with tourists, rich with history and gorgeously beautiful.

  A fresh start meant a new name. Violette had dropped the name of her previous director, Janacek, and chosen to call the company Ballet Lenoir instead.

  She was working manically, touring Swan Lake, The Firebird and her own ballet Witch and Maiden, almost before her dancers’ toes could touch the ground. On the surface, this made good use of their time while the theatre was being renovated. Underneath, Charlotte knew, Violette used frantic work to drive out grief.

  Soon she would return, and the theatre would swarm with set builders, musicians and dancers in preparation for their grand opening.

  At present the labyrinthine building stood empty. Charlotte sensed a handful of human staff as specks of warmth in far-off corners. All around her lay deserted rooms, as if she and Karl were the only guests in a vast, derelict hotel.

  “Come to me whenever you wish,” Violette had said. “This suite will always be ready for you. And soon it will be refurbished to your taste, I promise.”

  Charlotte caught her own gaze in the mirror. A shiver passed through her… but her reflection stayed in place. No hallucinations, no ghostly succubus to terrify her. While she’d never been vain, with a non-human eye she could appreciate the beauty that others saw in her: a slender curvy form, complexion like liquid moonlight, innocent violet eyes, a fall of golden-bronze hair… all too useful in snaring her victims.

  Movement behind her made her freeze. This time she was very careful to make sure that the new arrival was Karl.

  He’d been hunting, returning so discreetly that she hadn’t sensed him until he appeared from the Crystal Ring. She smiled at his reflection, experiencing a rush of sheer delight at seeing him. Most vampires were attractive – useful bait for their prey – but Karl had the loveliest male face she’d ever seen: coolly intelligent, serene and humorous. A face to make the angels fall in love. Strong bone structure, softened by full dark hair that took on a crimson sheen in any touch of light. And his eyes – such eyes should be illegal, she thought. Seductive, bewitching, they were amber-golden windows on to another world.

  He took her off guard every time, as if she’d never seen him before. Karl simply had a dark allure that she could drink in forever and never be sated. Every time was like the first, and even more intense for all their precious shared experiences. A glimpse of him was enough to take away her breath, to ignite a sphere of heat that began below her heart and spread all through her. Her desire to wrap her arms around him and taste his mouth was as powerful as hunger.

  “Have we been introduced?” he said.

  Charlotte laughed. “Do you make a habit of surprising women in a state of undress?”

  “This is an unprecedented delight.” He slid his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You look like Venus rising from the waves.”

  He tangled his fingers in her hair with such obvious pleasure that she caught her breath. Her body softened with the sensual intimacy of his touch, and frustration at the layers of fabric between them.

  “I don’t make a habit of admiring myself when you’re not here, I swear.”

  “No one would blame you.” He ran a fingertip along the knife-scar. His touch made her gasp, not entirely with pleasure. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Only slight soreness… but look, the wound’s healed. Sometimes I think it’s a shame our scars don’t stay.”

  “For what purpose?” he said, surprised. “As a badge of… dishonour?”

  “In a way, but more than that. Scars would be a map of our existence. Our history, engraved on our flesh.”

  “Battle scars,” Karl said thoughtfully. “If that were the case, some vampires would be truly horrifying to behold.” He touched his throat. Charlotte’s brother David had once hacked him there with a bayonet in a bold but hopeless attempt to protect her. “After all the fights I had with Kristian and others… I would not be a handsome sight.”

  “I’d love you anyway. No one could scar your soul. Well, I suppose they already have, but I love you, scars and all.” She leaned into him, her head resting back in the crook of his shoulder. “Instead, we’re all more beautiful than we deserve, as if we’re melted and poured into a fresh mould every night by the Crystal Ring.”

  “Charlotte? Where is this train of thought leading?”

  “I was remembering my hallucinations. The lamia. I’m reassuring myself that it’s only me in the looking-glass, and not a separate blood-crazed demon with staring eyes.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “I think the demon is me,” she said softly. “But I feel as if the knife cut her out of me, so she’s floating about, no longer attached. I know that sounds ridiculous, but Raqia plays games, leaving us to interpret what’s real and what isn’t. Like Violette, thinking she’s Lilith. Or our premonitions, when the three of us… when we saw all those visions together. The unearthly marvels we see every day in the Crystal Ring. They’re real, yet not real. I mean that although they’re visions, they point us towards reality.”

  “Riddles,” said Karl. “It’s possible that the knife is an artefact affected by the Crystal Ring. The question is how.”

  “You’ve been in Raqia more recently than me. Seen anything… worrying?”

  “A few unusual phenomena. Rods of light shooting up from the Earth. Storms, spectres.” He gave a slight shrug. “Nothing coherent.”

  “Nothing specifically dangerous aimed at us?”

  Karl turned her to face him. His hands slid over her hair, along her cheekbones, gliding down her neck and over her shoulders. She pressed against him, pushing herself into his touch like a cat. Her breathing deepened. Karl responded, his mouth meeting hers, so delicious… The kiss ended too soon.

  “Beloved,” he said, “I don’t think the strange moods of Raqia have any conscious intent behind them.”

  “Probably not, but we know the collective subconscious affects us. The moods of Raqia, and the knife, and my hallucinations all seem tangled together. Something is wrong, but nothing makes sense.”

  “We will find those men who attacked you. And answers, I hope. Don’t be melancholy.”

  “I’m not.” Her fingers played, loosening his tie and working at his shirt buttons and waistcoat. “But you know me. I never can stop wondering. The attack was so strange and wrong. I can’t let this rest. I was a scientist in life, and I still am.”

  “Yes, beloved. Always,” he whispered.

  “And so are you. Furthermore, you play the cello better than I ever shall, with your miraculous fingers…”

  When she’d been a very proper, studious model of virtue �
�� only a few years ago – Karl had lured her into this secret world of passion, but he’d done so with such subtle, irresistible tenderness that she’d never felt they were doing anything wrong. In a society where unmarried intimacy was scandalous, the need for secrecy had made it all the more exciting.

  In her own heart, their forbidden relationship had been the most natural thing in the world. The paradox between her duty to appear virtuous, and the reality of their hidden affair, had been unspeakably thrilling.

  Until she’d discovered that Karl was a vampire, and the world had collapsed around her.

  Not all the pieces could be picked up… but she and Karl still had the one thing that truly mattered: their mutual, obsessive love.

  Now their hands slid over each other, caressing smooth milky skin, no area out of bounds. He raised her hand to his mouth, kissed her knuckles then ran the tip of his tongue over each one in turn. Her whole body clenched tight with bliss. Her head fell back. Always, always this heat swept over her, as if they couldn’t help but flow together like molten gold. Even when they were maintaining a decorous distance in public, the magnetic pull was there.

  Other vampires joked that they could see it: a shared aura, like strands of glowing plasma between them.

  She moved his hand to her breast, pressing herself into the warmth of his palm, then drew that hand all down the length of her body to the sweet ache where her thighs joined. Karl gave the softest gasp as his fingers felt gently, deliciously into her. The intimacy made her nearly swoon with joy.

  With her free hand, she worked at his clothing until, smiling, he helped her.

  “The faster we try to undress, the more everything gets into a tangle,” she breathed against his throat.

  He laughed. At last he pressed against her, clothed in nothing but his smooth ivory skin: all hard flat muscle, like a dancer, but warm with stolen blood. His hair brushed her shoulders as he bent to kiss her neck. She felt the teasing touch of his fangs. Entwined fingers, hair, limbs… So exciting, the contrast between Karl as the self-contained perfect gentleman, and this secret Karl, uninhibited and sensual and ardent.