A Taste of Blood Wine

by Freda Warrington

  "I dare say," David sighed. "But I just can't. You know, I've been thinking it's time we let Fleur know what's happening here. There didn't seem any point in worrying her unnecessarily when we thought it would all be over quickly. Now it's obviously going to drag on, I think she should be told."

  "Yes, you're right," said Anne.

  David went to the hall telephone and was swiftly connected by the operator. His heart grew heavier as he listened to the ringing tone and he thought, Hell of a thing, breaking bad news… almost as if someone's died… No, mustn't be so damned morbid.

  When the telephone was answered, all David could hear was a buzz of voices and gramophone music. "Hello?" he said. "Jenny? This is David Neville, is anyone there?"

  Then Fleur's voice replied, "Hello, dear. Jenny's busy and I was right by the phone in the drawing room. This is a nice surprise." Her voice was languid, the words slurred.

  "Not a social call, I'm afraid. I've some rather serious news. It's about Charlotte."

  A pause; he got the impression Fleur was being distracted by someone else. Then she said, "Can you speak up? It's frightfully noisy in here."

  Losing patience, he said brusquely, "Have you been drinking?"

  "Of course I've been drinking. I'm right in the middle of a party."

  "Well, I'm sorry to interrupt your enjoyment with bad news, but will you listen, for God's sake?"

  "About Charlotte, you said? Heavens, hasn't she rung you yet? It's too bad of her."

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "She's here, David. I did tell her you'd be worried."

  David was speechless. Anne said, "What is it?"

  "Fleur's even more drunk than she sounds. She's talking gibberish." He tried to speak slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece. "Fleur, it's Charlotte I'm talking about. She can't possibly be with you, she's—"

  "But she is, dear. She's been here all day."

  "Since when?"

  "Oh, sometime quite early. About nine-ish. Turned up in a taxi."

  "On her own?"

  "Yes. David, don't be so irate. You can't count coming to her sister as running away. She's perfectly safe."

  He was so shocked he could not work his tongue. Finally he burst out, "Why the hell didn't you let us know?"

  "Don't shout, dear. I didn't know I was supposed to. She said she'd had an argument with Father about Henry and wanted to stay here until the fuss died down, that's all. I didn't think it was so awful."

  "She said what?' David paused for breath. "This really isn't making sense, Fleur. Is Charlotte there?"

  "Yes, she's around somewhere… probably still in her room."

  "Well, would you ask her to come to the phone? It's vital I speak to her."

  "Of course, dear, as long as you promise not to be too hard on her. Hang on… "

  David heard a clunk as Fleur put the earpiece down. "What's happening?" said Anne.

  "Fleur says Charlotte's there. Turned up in a cab this morning, alone… but I won't believe it until I speak to her. What the hell's going on?"

  Anne's face was alight with astonishment. "But don't you see, David? She must have escaped! Perhaps Karl was on his way to London and Fleur's was the nearest place she could run to."

  "Sensible girl, if it's so. But why didn't she let us know straight away? Oh, come on, come on… "

  Two minutes became five, then ten; the murmur of the party went on, but no one came to the telephone. David shouted down the mouthpiece, hoping to attract someone's attention, but no one responded. He replaced the receiver, tried to ring again, but the operator said the line was busy.

  "Oh God," he said, despairing. "She's left the thing off the hook. I don't like this, Anne. Fleur didn't sound right, somehow… if she's been taking dope, or something, she could have been telling me any nonsense. What if Charli's there… and Karl's still with her?"

  Anne looked at him, clearly sharing his thoughts. "Well?"

  "Hang the blasted phone, hang the police. I'm going straight down there now. Should do it in less than two hours."

  "Not on your own, I hope?" Her head was on one side, a glint of excitement in her eyes.

  "I should think not. Get your coat, old girl, and meet me on the drive."

  David went into the gun room for his service revolver and ammunition. In the corner of the glass cupboard a dull sheen of leather and metal caught his eye. His bayonet. On an impulse he took it, strapping it on as he hurried out. God knows, if bullets won't stop him, I'll try anything.

  ***

  Charlotte stared at the two vampires, and felt as if someone had looped a cord round her throat and jerked it tight. How exquisite they looked and how terrifying in their unhuman stillness, the way their stare seemed to burn right into her. They were identical except for their eyes; one had irises of radium-blue, a look of glittering mischief in them; the other's were pale gold, expressionless.

  Clive said softly, "Charlotte, this is Stefan… " the blue-eyed one inclined his head to her. "And Niklas… " but the gold-eyed twin went on staring through her without any sign of acknowledgement.

  Charlotte could not move or speak. Impossible to say, "I'm pleased to see you," or, "But they're vampires!" A dozen thoughts passed through her mind at once, dive's presenting me to them as prey. No, he can't know what they are! But what are they doing here? How is it possible that they're in Fleur's house? A scant few seconds passed, seeming expanded and fragile with unspoken malevolence.

  Then the door handle rattled. Fleur's voice, muffled, called, "Clive? Are you in there?"

  For a moment the tension dissipated. Without a word Clive went and unlocked the door. Light spilled in, and Charlotte ran to her sister.

  "Whatever are you doing in here?" said Fleur, moving into the room.

  "Introducing Charlotte to our friends," said Clive.

  Fleur began to say something else, but as she saw Stefan and Niklas her face changed. Softened. She went past Charlotte and straight to the twins, walking unsteadily, her eyes dreamy.

  Charlotte's relief was short-lived. "Fleur?"

  "Ah, darlings," said Fleur, holding out her arms to the vampires. Charlotte watched helplessly as she embraced Stefan, while Clive looked on with apparent approval. Suddenly the whole safe world seemed to have creaked out of joint. Fleur turned, her arm round Stefan's waist, her head on his shoulder. "We wanted you to meet our special friends, dear."

  "But they—" Charlotte's words froze. If they realise I recognise them, what will happen to me? One thing she could see; Clive and Fleur were too much under the influence of drink or dope to be reasoned with. And she simply stood and stared in horror as Stefan lifted Fleur's wrist to his mouth—not kissing it but biting, sucking. Charlotte's pulse thudded thin and rapid in sympathy. Even as he drank, Stefan went on staring straight at her, clear-eyed and lovely as a golden-haired doll.

  Charlotte looked at Clive, but his expression was rapt. His only reaction was to clear his throat and slide his hand inside his own collar as if it were too tight.

  The door was open. Charlotte could have fled, but she was paralysed.

  Stefan held his victim only for a second or two before letting her go as calmly and dreamily as he had taken her. And still his sapphire eyes were fixed on Charlotte, cruelly amused. Charlotte was unconsciously holding her left wrist—suddenly aching again from Karl's bite—against her chest as if to ward him off.

  She took a step back, shaking her head in denial. They must have seen simple fear in the gesture; they could not begin to know the complexity of her feelings. As if nothing had happened, Fleur said, "Take our guests into the drawing room, Clive. We mustn't be selfish and keep them all to ourselves, must we?"

  With a piercing glance at Charlotte, Stefan put his hand through Niklas's arm and followed Clive out of the room, leaving Fleur and Charlotte alone.

  Fleur smiled; her eyelids were heavy, half-closed. "I'm afraid Clive frightened you a little. It was very naughty of him." Her words ran together, the conson
ants indistinct.

  Now the twins had gone, Charlotte found her voice. "But don't you know what they are, what they just did to you?"

  "Oh, don't say it. It's such an ugly word for such beautiful creatures."

  "You're in danger, they'll kill you!"

  "Nonsense." Fleur lifted her hand, ran her thumb over the pale crescent marks. "They only take a little. Makes one feel so light-headed and wonderfully creative." She half-turned towards the conservatory, swaying a little. "Such dreams I have… I can't wait to paint them."

  Behind her, scenes of horror gleamed darkly on their easels, patches of white standing out starkly; a skull, a winding sheet. Beneath Fleur's blithe normality was a derangement that sent Charlotte dizzy with alarm.

  "But who are they, how long have you known them?"

  "Oh, I don't know… a month or two, I think." Since Karl came to Cambridge, Charlotte thought. Fleur continued, "Does it matter who they are or where they come from? You needn't frown at me for taking dope; they are more delicious than any drug. Now, come along to the party, dear, and I'll make sure you relax and enjoy yourself. Was there something I meant to tell you? Oh, I don't know. It can't have been important."

  Charlotte let Fleur lead her into the hall, but once there she broke away and ran up to her room. Shutting the door she leaned against it, one hand pressed to her head. She felt like a scrap of paper in the wind, helpless.

  Why would Stefan and Niklas be here, except because of Karl? Did Kristian send them, as he sent Pierre?

  She imagined a huge dark figure moving through the house, scoring the polished table tops with his fingernails, crushing the glass lampshades to dust in his hands. Utter contempt for wealth and all it could buy. But her image of Kristian was as vague as a shadow and it had no face.

  It's as if Fleur and Clive are addicted to them in some way… A shiver went through her. Addicted, yes, just as I can never have enough of Karl, his face, his eyes, the way the light burns on his hair… this dreadful craving they call love.

  She thought of Madeleine; her infatuation with Karl, the way her gaze had hung on Pierre, that night he had forced his way into Parkland.

  "They fall in love with evil and so meet their death," Karl had said. It was like a drug, this craving that had taken her heart, soul, her whole being by the roots and torn her to pieces. Name the demon, they say, she thought, hugging herself. Name the demon and it loses its power.

  She looked at the black and gilt stalk of the telephone on the bedside table. Of course, she must ring David. I should have done it hours ago. I must have been out of my mind!

  But an eerie murmur came from the earpiece and she jumped as if it had become a scorpion in her hand. Either it was out of order, or someone was on one of the other extensions. She replaced the receiver and said aloud, "But what could David do anyway? What use would it be to invite him into more danger? I must help Fleur and I must do it alone."

  Her terror subsided into a trance of calmness. In control, she left her room and went downstairs to the party.

  The drawing room was decorated on a fashionable Egyptian theme, the colours sand and desert-red, the lines geometric and stylised. Dimly lit, the lamps all draped with shawls so the light glowed through traceries of embroidery and lace, it was a warm red den; enticing, threatening. A layer of smoke swirled and tipped just below the ceiling. Women in lace and beads and feathers, men casually dressed with their collars undone, reclined on sofas, chairs, even the floor. They all seemed either too languid or too animated; their laughter too wild, eyes unfocused, their slack faces moist and bronzed by the feverish light.

  Charlotte moved into the room, looking for Fleur. For once, she felt not so much self-conscious as invisible; they were all so wrapped up in themselves. In one corner, a young man was reading a morbid poem to a small but attentive audience. As he finished, a self-styled literary critic, an overweight woman with a prim, pinched face, began demolishing his poetic efforts on technicalities. "Your similes didn't quite work for me, Teddy, because I think you'll find liver isn't actually quite the colour you describe… " On the sofa near which Charlotte was standing, two plump, bespectacled women were engaged in an earnest if drunken discussion of Irish politics—oblivious to anything else, even to the two young men tangled in an embrace in the armchair opposite.

  Father would be horrified by this, Charlotte thought. And vampires here, taking their rationality and their life in sips. They're only willing victims because they've been bewitched; they don't know the danger and they don't care.

  The men in the armchair disentangled themselves, and she saw that they were Stefan and Clive. Charlotte stared, too astonished to stop herself; she was almost as shocked as she would have been to see David there. Clive, of all people… always so conventional… now raising his fingers to wipe away a red streak on his throat, his eyes closed and his face flushed with fever or pleasure. Charlotte turned away, swallowing hard. And at last she saw Fleur, languishing in an armchair between a man and a woman who were perched on the arms, talking and laughing with her. She stretched out a lazy hand to greet Charlotte, but made no move to go to her.

  One of the blond vampires sat on the floor, leaning back against her chair. Niklas. His face was pale and cherubic, his golden hair almost white in a splash of lamplight. His irises glittered like sovereigns with an oddly vacant tranquillity.

  Stefan moved to sit next to his twin; two lions, guarding Fleur's chair. The women beside Fleur leaned down to Niklas, offering her wrist; blank-eyed he bit into it until the woman flopped forward like an abandoned marionette. The others laughed. Fleur leaned down to stroke Stefan's hair, her smile serene, her eyes sleepy. The room was blurred, dim, shadowy, yet Charlotte saw that one scene clear and shining as an altarpiece. The twins, sitting upright and cross-legged with their admirers around them, like gods before their worshippers. Stefan was the one who smiled and talked, while his golden-eyed brother said not a word. Again, she noticed that they blinked in unison.

  All my life I've felt powerless. Perhaps I am, but I must do something to stop this.

  She caught Stefan's gaze and held it meaningfully. After a few seconds, as if intrigued by her attention, he rose to his feet and came to her.

  "I would like to speak to you in private," she said.

  He looked at her, quizzical and amused. A peculiar thrill went through her. Almost as seductive as Karl, his white-gold beauty, but he lacked the inner tranquillity that in Karl had swept away her better judgement. Nor did he look as unpredictable as Pierre, but there was a deeper edge to him that she could not read. Danger.

  "Are you sure? Very well, Charlotte." He had a slight Scandinavian accent. "I am so pleased to meet you at last. Shall we go into the conservatory?"

  She knew what a risk this was, but she let the mask of coldness come down over her face, as it so often had in the past, when strangers tried to engage her in conversation. For once it was not her enemy but her friend. He held open the door for her, but as they went into the hallway, the skin on her scalp shivered with anticipation. She glanced round to see the golden-eyed vampire following them, moving like a ghost in blank silence.

  "Don't mind my brother," Stefan said. "He does not like to be far from me, and I have to take care of him."

  "Can't we talk alone?"

  "He will not repeat anything he hears. He is mute."

  She found Niklas even more unnerving than Stefan, but she said, "Very well, I'll speak to both of you."

  In the darkened conservatory, Charlotte felt swamped by the brilliance of Stefan's aura. She was uncomfortably aware of Niklas standing amid the forest of plants and dark paintings, beautiful and mindless as a waxwork. Suddenly Stefan put his hands on her arms and said, "Don't move; I want to know what he sees in you. You look haunted; more interesting than simple beauty. I think you would be perfect… "

  "I don't know what you're talking about, but I know what you are," Charlotte said. "I want you to go away and leave my sister alone."

 
; Stefan smiled. "Have you been tormenting yourself about this? Is this why you look so unhappy?" he said, quietly mocking. She tried to free herself of his touch and suddenly she felt the incredible strength of him. "If you really know what we are, you are very brave to confront us. This won't protect you," he added, touching the cross that still hung round her neck.

  Like a frozen hare she could do nothing to evade him as his lips moved on her neck. A burst of pain; then with hallucinatory acuteness she felt him take one single swallow of blood, and withdraw.

  "That is all we take from your sister and the others," he said into her ear. "They are in no danger from us. I should take no pleasure in killing them."

  "But you're destroying them mentally!"

  "That is a very subjective point of view. Unleashing their creativity, they tell us. It is a game to them, a novelty, something to try like a new drug. They seek eagerly the clouded nightmares and the daydreams that our bite can bring. We are supplying a need, if you like… "

  "An addiction."

  "Yes. They are addicted to us. Yes, I like that."

  "It's sick, horrible."

  "But not as bad as killing them, surely? There's no fun in that."

  She didn't know what good it would do to appeal to his mercy, but she had to try. "Stefan, I can't make you leave. I'm asking you. There must be someone other than my sister you can prey on."

  "But she would not want us to leave. She dotes on us, as you saw."

  He had a gentle, implacable air of superiority that Charlotte could not penetrate. He was playing with her. He and Niklas would close in on her and there was no one to save her; she could scream herself hoarse and no one would take any notice. Yet she would not let her fear win. Her voice abrupt and icy, she said, "You can only stay as long as your presence here is useful to Kristian."

  Stefan drew back, looking genuinely surprised. It was a tiny victory, revealing that she was not as ignorant as he had assumed. "I beg your pardon?"