The Dark Arts of Blood

by Freda Warrington

  “I surely hope so.”

  “But he took it out on Mikhail?”

  “That was the last straw. Emil may be hot-blooded, but his attack was unprovoked and I will not tolerate such behaviour! The trouble is, Charlotte…” Violette raked her fingers through her unbound hair. “If Emil were a lesser performer, he’d be on a train back to his home town as we speak.” She flung off the jacket as if too hot. “But no, he has to possess a sublime talent that makes him indispensable! What am I to do?”

  “Has this happened before? You must have dealt with such situations in the past.”

  Violette gave a short sigh. “You recall that when I was human, and naïve, my ballet director Janacek treated me as his property, a pet to be fondled. I had no power to stop him. The only reason he never forced me into his bed was that he feared impregnating his star. I should be grateful for that, I suppose. But when I met you, it ended. And when I became a vampire – I knew no man would ever intimidate me again.”

  “You can’t compare Emil to that appalling lecher.”

  “No, of course not, but I have rules. Any man, dancer or not, who dares show me the merest hint of over-familiarity dies in the arctic blast of my stare.” Violette gave a thin smile. Charlotte laughed, couldn’t help it.

  “I had noticed. The world has noticed.”

  Violette’s tone became gentler. “Nearly all my male principals have preferred their own sex – apart from Mikhail, but he’s always respected professional boundaries. That makes for a perfect partnership. My mistake was to make the same assumption about Emil. I suspected his inclination was for females, but I chose to ignore my instincts because he’s so damned brilliant.”

  “He is. And handsome.”

  “And knows it.” Violette groaned. “Admirers flocking at the stage door, tantrums because I reject his advances – how do I bring his ego under control before it destroys everything?”

  She seemed to be expecting an answer.

  “Speak to him.”

  “I can’t,” Violette snapped. “I’ve tried. There’s nothing more to say. Every attempt I make, he’ll interpret as a possible way in, a sign that I’m softening. Besides, it would be demeaning. I maintain discipline by being the steel empress; I cannot compromise that by running after him and trying to reason with him. No. All I can give him now is a wall of cold silence. But…”

  “You’re afraid he’s so headstrong he might actually walk out?” Charlotte, startled to see Violette at a loss, tapped her foot as she wondered what help to offer. “Would you like me to have a word with him?”

  The ballerina’s gaze met hers with a flash of hope. “Would you? I’ve suspended him indefinitely, which means he must attend practice but nothing else, which is damned inconvenient because I need to start rehearsing. Oh, and tell him I don’t want him leaving the premises.”

  Charlotte grimaced. “Violette, when I was human, I was so awkward that I could barely hold a conversation with a male without fleeing in terror – and they were just ordinary young men, probably as nervous as me underneath. I’d never dream of approaching a golden prince of the stage…”

  “You seem to manage quite well with Karl.”

  “That’s different. I fled from him too, but he didn’t give up. Yes, I’m different now, but those human fears still rear up and spook me sometimes… What shall I say to him?”

  “Oh, you’ll think of something.” Violette gave her a wry look. “Try to make him understand why I enforce these rules – you might make a better job of it than me. If he does as he’s told, I may reduce his suspension to two weeks.”

  “You are an appalling tyrant,” Charlotte said mildly.

  “So I’ve been told.” Violette gave a savage grin. “Charm him. Do anything it takes, within reason.”

  “I’ll try, but I’ve never really spoken to Emil; I don’t know how he’ll react…”

  “Nor do I, but I need him.” Her voice turned low and fervent. She didn’t need to explain that she meant for the sake of her art, the pursuit of perfection. Charlotte knew, everyone knew, that Violette put her ballet before her own life. “Charlotte, I cannot lose him.”

  * * *

  The lake was black, glittering with reflections from dim gas-lamps along the promenade. Emil skimmed flat stones across the water, an activity that did little to relieve his frustration. In his dark coat and hat, no one gave him a second glance as they walked by. Tourists, mostly. Couples, arm in arm. Damn them.

  He knew he’d behaved like a complete fool with Violette. To stop and think before he acted was not in his nature, but now he cursed himself, striking his forehead with his knuckles. She couldn’t have humiliated him more thoroughly if she’d stripped him naked, painted him blue and flogged him through the streets. And he’d known this would happen, yet he’d offered his heart for her to trample on regardless. Weeks in the wilderness of her disdain? Perhaps she would never look at him again without contempt.

  “I’ll never be at ease with you again. I’ll never confide in you, never treat you as the other half of myself, never trust you. Because of this, I’ll always be on my guard. Everything between us will be work, nothing else.” Her words looped around his mind, like razors cutting him to pieces.

  The price of dancing with her, now, was that he would be her abject slave forever.

  And yet… how to leave?

  He couldn’t.

  How quickly could love turn to hate? He nearly hated her for her glacial dismissal of him. She valued his looks and talent – but his inner life, his yearning and love and devotion, his humanity, were worthless. He thought, I am just a thing to her.

  Did she have a heart at all, or a lump of black diamond in her chest?

  From nowhere, like a spectre taking shape from starlight, a woman moved alongside him. She appeared so silently that he almost jumped out of his skin. Even in near-darkness she seemed to gather every speck of light, her pale coat glowing golden-cream. Smoky amethyst eyes shone under the brim of her cloche hat. The hat was decorated with a silk camellia, rosy-gold like her hair…

  He’d seen her often, but never spoken to her. She was one of Violette’s special, secret friends. Frau Alexander, if that was her real name.

  “Emil?” Her voice was quiet as she leaned on the rail beside him. “I’m Charlotte.”

  “Madam.” He gave a formal bow, not knowing what to say.

  She paused, as if she were lost for words too. Eventually she said, “A beautiful evening…”

  “If you like it dark and cold,” he said sourly.

  “Sometimes darkness helps.”

  He studied her neat, girlish profile as she looked across the water. She was lovely, unconventional and gypsy-like in her beauty, her eyes unreadable as if they held a complex soul a thousand miles deep… but she was not Violette.

  “Did she send you?” he asked at last. “Madame Lenoir, I mean.”

  “Yes.” She turned to face him, gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, I know this is awkward. She’s… concerned.”

  “Is she?” He gripped the rail so hard his hands burned. “Did she tell you that I made a total fool of myself? That I declared my love to her, despite my every instinct screaming against it? Agh.” The last sound was a grunt of agony.

  “No one else knows,” Charlotte said gently. “She trusts me. She said… Look, you understand that it’s impossible for her to speak to you at present? But if you abide by the discipline she’s set out, everything can go back to normal.”

  “No. Nothing can ever be normal, after this.”

  “She would prefer you to stay inside the premises.” Charlotte’s tone grew firmer. “Emil, I know it’s difficult, but either you do as she says or you leave. Neither of you wants that, do you?”

  He groaned, put his forehead on his knuckles. “No.”

  “You must understand that she sets these rules for a reason. Romantic relationships between her dancers are not allowed.”

  “Of course I understand!” He straig
htened, throwing his hands in the air. “I am not an imbecile! But I cannot help—” Catching his breath, he said, “Madam, forgive me. I don’t mean to cause offence, I’m not usually so ill-mannered, but…”

  “It’s all right. I’m not offended. I know how it is to fall in love, to be so mad with love for someone that you can’t eat or sleep or think. It happens to everyone, so they say. But you have the great misfortune to fall for Violette. The sooner you accept that it can’t be, the sooner your pain will fade.”

  Emil was breathing harshly, trying to suppress another outburst against Charlotte.

  “Why can’t it be?” He kept his voice as low as he could manage. “Why? She is not much older than me. I can prove worthy of her! Am I hideous? Call me vain – I admit it, I am vain – but those stage-door girls don’t sigh and swoon for no reason. The heavens blessed me with a fair countenance, God-given talent, and I would like to think enough courage, passion and loyalty to last my whole life. What more does she need of me? Is it unknown for performers paired on the stage or film set to fall in love? How would it harm her to be dancing with her husband? Are we breaking some law of the land?”

  “Emil, I’m sorry.” Charlotte looked distressed now. Her face had an inner light, like an angel, and her eyes glimmered… He caught himself, feeling for a chill moment that she was trying to hypnotise him. He looked away.

  “Why are you sorry? I know she sent you to talk sense into me, but you cannot know she will never change her mind. Even she can’t know that!”

  “She won’t.” Charlotte’s voice was quiet but very firm. Another chill went through him. “Emil, please believe me. I know this hurts, but it will pass.”

  “No. You think this is some boyish infatuation? This will not pass.”

  “Then learn to live with a broken heart.”

  He glared at her. “How do you know what will be? She sends you, her confidante, to tell me what she wants me to believe – but you are just a… a bystander. Forgive me, Madame Charlotte, but you do not know.”

  “Emil.” Again the tone of sympathy that made him want to scream. “I don’t know any way to convince you, except to tell you the truth. There was someone… last year… but that person died. So Violette’s heart is broken too. Show her some pity, because she has nothing left for you.”

  He barely heard the last words through the roar of blood in his ears. Someone else… but they died… Nothing left for you… Tears burned his eyes.

  “No. No.”

  He began to back away. Charlotte filled his vision, like a painted angel in silver leaf. There seemed to be two of her, or more: multiple reflections of Charlotte. Again the world shifted, as it had when he saw the skull-figure hunting Violette through the ocean storm. The top layer of reality tore away and he saw, with dreadful clarity, as if he’d been drugged, that she was not human… That she had the same eerie, deathly glow as Violette. Beauty sharp enough to kill, like a sword.

  “What are you?” he gasped. Her mouth moved, and she reached towards him, but he was backing away. “What are you?”

  “Emil, wait.”

  Her voice was faint through the rush of blood as he turned and fled into the darkness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FALLEN PRINCE

  Godric pulled his hat brim low over his eyes as he followed Wolfgang, Bruno and the rest of the herd towards their favourite beer hall. He rarely went drinking with them – if he did, they would be on their best behaviour – but tonight he was conducting an experiment. He wanted to observe their antics when they didn’t know he was watching. By the time they noticed him – if anyone did – it would be too late. Beer would have dissolved their inhibitions.

  He wished to see what they talked about, how outsiders reacted to them. The knowledge might even make dramatic material for a future film. However, his main purpose was to watch for signs of sedition. The loss of a precious sikin – on the surface, a drunken mistake – might be hiding a more sinister motive.

  He had to be sure of his inner circle’s loyalty. The merest hint of insurrection would be crushed. Keeping a careful eye on them was simply pragmatic, not paranoid.

  Godric also needed a distraction from his own thoughts. His encounter with the male strigoi at the cinema had left him struggling to master his emotions. He’d been stunned, furious, agitated – had no idea how to react or what he should do. And every time he recalled the man’s deceptively attractive face, the feelings boiled up again and he grew short of breath, dizzy.

  This had to stop. For years Godric had sketched and filmed “demons” as a form of expression, but real evil, apparently, looked human.

  The females of his household had gone to a restaurant for a more civilised evening out. They did not carouse with the men. When the sexes socialised together, he insisted on proper behaviour.

  One thing he knew: none of this rabble would make an acceptable husband for Amy. Not even Wolfgang Notz: wealthy, brave and well-respected he might be, but still far from suitable.

  Godric watched his gang of supporters trooping into the Bierkeller. Heat, music and noise billowed from the interior in a noxious cloud. To one side of the open doors, he saw someone hesitating, a man with a cloud of golden hair and the slender, taut build of an athlete. He swayed a little, clearly drunk. He started towards the entrance, then halted as if the wall of heat had physically stopped him.

  My God. It can’t be, Godric thought. His heart’s rhythm increased and he moistened his lips. Such an opportunity must be seized.

  He strode up to the man, placed a firm but reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  “Sir, a friendly word of advice,” said Godric. “I don’t recommend that appalling place. It’s filthy and full of drunks. People will recognise you. That could be very awkward indeed. We’ve met before: do you remember? Godric Reiniger, at your service.”

  “What?” The man looked round slowly. The flush of alcohol turned his beautiful face ugly. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  “Allow me to suggest a more elegant establishment. We could take a little supper together—”

  “Oh, I remember you,” the blond man slurred. “Leave me the hell alone!”

  He swung his fist at Godric’s head. His aim was wild, and Godric ducked out of the way, staggering back a few steps to regain his balance. He looked up again to see the man vanishing into the fug of the beer hall.

  “Fine,” said Godric under his breath. “Go in, then, against my advice. Let’s see what you make of it, little princeling.”

  Someone caught Godric’s arm, steadying him. There was a shadow at his side: Fadiya.

  She was dressed in her elegant but drab style: a cloche hat and expensive-looking coat of dark brown. She appeared, at least to an outsider’s eyes, entirely human.

  As always, her disturbing presence made him both infuriated and helpless. He didn’t want her anywhere near his household, but he could not make her go away. The knives are mine, but I’ll let you keep them, she had told him, if in exchange you let me live among you. Everything about her made him shudder. He had to keep reminding himself that his rituals had strengthened him against vampires. He grew stronger every day. She couldn’t harm him.

  “What do you want?” he snapped.

  “That young man seemed rather upset with you,” she said in her calm, velvety voice. “Are you hurt?”

  “This isn’t a suitable place for women.”

  “Why should I care about that? If you and I are to help each other, sometimes I need to go where you go. I like to watch humans. Why did he try to hit you?”

  He wanted to tell her to go to hell, but her glittering eyes disarmed him.

  “I don’t know, but he’s going to be sorry.”

  He walked away from Fadiya, towards the light and noise, but she followed. “Who is he?”

  “Emil Fiorani. An arrogant youth who sneered at me when I was trying to speak with Violette Lenoir.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. “How interesting.”

&nbs
p; “He’s one of her dancers. Her principal partner. You must have heard of him.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard his name,” she echoed. “But are you sure it’s him?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Godric said thinly. “The question is, why is he in a place like this, drunk and alone? Why?”

  The conspiratorial tone of her reply made him wonder, for the first time, if she really could prove useful to him.

  “Perhaps I could find out for you.”

  * * *

  Emil entered the Bierkeller – reputed to be the rowdiest in town – and pushed his way through the crowded cellar in search of a seat. Already drunk from a few glasses of wine in a hotel bar, he hadn’t yet reached his goal of oblivion. The air was thick with smoke and stale alcohol, with body odour laced with sickly perfumes. Lamps turned the pall to an ochre fog. Music pierced his ears, an obnoxious blend of folk and popular songs, with bursts of discordant singing as customers joined in. His shoes skidded on spilled beer, wet sawdust and God alone knew what else on the floor.

  This place was some kind of purgatory. The clientele reminded him of his own peasant origins, a loathsome thought. But tonight he felt loathsome, and craved everything raucous and disgusting, a sewer of depravity to purge him of Violette.

  A group of noisy men pulled him down on to the end of a bench beside them. There was nowhere else to sit. A barmaid slammed steins of beer on to the table, laughing off the crude remarks that were shouted at her. These people were enjoying themselves, Emil noted in disbelief. This was his idea of hell, but he swallowed the rank beer as if forcing down medicine. His companions at the long table shouted and laughed – at what, he didn’t care. Two beers later, he was reeling drunk.

  The music began to sound uplifting. He was tempted to leap up and perform a folk dance on the table. The girls looked prettier… One in particular kept catching his eye. She was sitting across the room, seemingly alone, too well-dressed for her surroundings.

  Some minutes later, he noticed Godric Reiniger at a different table. Herr Reiniger was more or less inconspicuous in a shabby coat and a hat that shaded his face, but the glint of his spectacles caught Emil’s eye.