The Vampire Sextette

by Edited by Marvin Kaye

  She nodded. "Then understand that I will always sense you, no matter where you are, or where you go. It is the way of those of us who have become vampires."

  He winced at this last. "Vampires."

  "Yes," she confirmed.

  He regained his skepticism with effort. "For heaven's sake, isn't there another word for it? What a ludicrous notion. Vampires. Legends for the credulous and childish. Surely there is another explanation to account for what has happened." He lacked conviction, but he glowered at her, anyway. "How can you expect me to believe such a fable?"

  "I don't," she said wearily. "But it is still the truth. Oh, I have read that Polidori tale, and the little horrors Hoffmann writes, and I cannot blame you for how you think of us. If I were not what I am, I would be inclined to feel as you do, and scoff at the very idea of vampires." She came a step nearer to him. "But I am what you may become, and you need to know the dangers you may face."

  His laughter crackled, brittle as autumn leaves. "Very well, you have warned me. If we continue as lovers, I could become a vampire when I die if my spine or my nervous system or my body is not destroyed. I will have to avoid direct sunlight and running water and mirrors. That covers all the hazards, I think. Yes, and I will need my native Ohio earth to sustain me. And blood. Should it come to pass, I will take the precautions you advise, on the odd chance they may be necessary." Then, with a deep sound that was half sigh, half groan, he pulled her into his arms again and bent to open her mouth with his own.

  San Francisco, 30 August, 1855

  In the last ten days I have seen Tecumseh once, and that was in his carriage with his children, taking them on an outing to the Chinese market where Willy had purchased a paper kite in the shape of a dragon's head that he was attempting to fly off the back of the carriage, which annoyed the horses. Tecumseh was meticulously polite, doing nothing anyone could construe as paying untoward attention to me, but his eyes were haunted. Why he should be so distant now, I do not know, but it saddens me…

  Rain was turning the streets from dust to mud as the afternoon wound down toward night. Along the streets, lamps were being lit early to stave off the coming darkness as the first storm of autumn whipped over the hills.

  Madelaine sat at her desk, busying herself with writing, when she heard the knocker on the front door. She looked up, annoyed at the interruption, recalling that Olga had taken the evening off. Clicking her tongue impatiently, Madelaine blotted the half-finished page and reached to pull a vast woolen shawl around her shoulders before hurrying to the front of the house to answer the urgent summons.

  "Madelaine," said William Tecumseh Sherman as the door swung open. He was wet and bedraggled, his hair quenched of fire and rain-slicked to his skull. He glanced over his shoulder at the street. "May I come in? Will you let me?"

  "Tecumseh," said Madelaine, holding the door wider. "Welcome."

  His head bowed, he hesitated, and asked in a whisper, "You are willing to speak to me? After my inexcusable behavior?"

  Perplexed, Madelaine stepped aside to admit him. "Certainly. Come in. You have done nothing that would keep me from knowing you. What do you want?" It was the only question that came clearly to mind, and it was out before she could soften or modify it in any way.

  He pressed the door closed quickly. "I don't think anyone saw me," he said cautiously.

  "Possibly not," said Madelaine, her bafflement increasing as she looked at him. "You are soaked to the skin."

  "It doesn't matter," he said, squaring his shoulders and daring to look directly into her violet eyes. "I have been a fool and a coward, and I wouldn't blame you if you tossed me out on my ass."

  Had she truly been as young as she looked, Madelaine might have taken advantage of the offer; as it was, she shook her head. "No, I won't do that. But I have a few questions I hope you will answer." She indicated the way to the parlor.

  "Thank you, Madame," he said with unwonted humility. He turned and locked the door himself, leaning against it as if he had been pursued by the hounds of hell. "Let me say what I must, Madelaine; if you stop me, my courage may fail me, and then I will be thrice-damned." He looked directly at her, keeping his voice quite low. "I have chastised myself every day for not coming to you, and with every passing day it grew more difficult to act at all. I have all but convinced myself that you do not wish to see me because of my cravenness. So I must come to you now, or mire hopelessly in my own inaction. Poor Hamlet had to bear the same trouble, in his way; I don't think I ever grasped the full scope of his predicament until now." He passed his hand over his eyes. "I'm maundering. Forgive me; I don't want to do that." He straightened up and moved a few steps to stand directly in front of her. "I'm no stranger to suffering. I have not yet fought a war, but I have seen men fall of fatal wounds, in Seminole ambushes, and I have held my comrades while they bled to death so that they would not be wholly alone."

  "What has that to do with you and me?" Madelaine asked, growing confused.

  "Let me continue," he said forcefully. "There are things I should have said to you days ago."

  She realized now how determined he was. "If you think it is necessary, go on."

  Sherman took a stance as if to fend off attack. "You would think that one who is… or, rather, has been a soldier would not have such weakness." He held up his hands to stop any protests she might make. Now he looked away, unwilling to let Madelaine see the shine of tears in his eyes.

  "Tecumseh…" Madelaine said gently, searching for a phrase to end his self-condemnation.

  He fixed her with his gaze, determined to admit his faults. "You have been so self-possessed, that I—"

  "I may appear that way to you, but I am far from feeling so, you may believe," she said, hoping to turn him away from further abasement. "You have no reason to cast me in such an angelic role."

  "You conduct yourself like a good officer, Madelaine." This was the highest praise he could give her.

  "If that is true and useful, then it pleases me you think so." She tried to smile and nearly succeeded. "Well, I will consider myself fortunate that I have some poise, and will tell you I am grateful to you for holding it in high regard. Let me get you a cup of coffee, or something to eat."

  "No," he insisted. "I am not finished, and I am not hungry." He put his hands together so that he would not be tempted to reach out for her. "It is inexcusable of me not to offer you any succor I can provide. My only excuse is that I am filled with anxiety about my children, and so have kept close to them for these past several days, for with their mother away, they are—You cannot blame me more than I blame myself."

  "Doubtless," she said dryly.

  "I am sorry I deserted you." He faltered, struggling to finish. "I am… tremendously proud of you."

  It would have been easy to give him a facile answer, Madelaine realized; it would also shut him away from her as no barred door could do. She considered her response carefully. "I know how hard it is to say these things to me."

  "As it should be," he agreed in self-disgust.

  "The more so because you have taken all the responsibility upon yourself, as if you were the only person who might protect me," said Madelaine, her understanding of him making this a precarious revelation.

  "But I am… your lover," he protested. "You yourself say there is a bond between us."

  "And so there is," she said, "which is why I do not hold you in the contempt you dread and hope I might. My sensibilities are not so delicate that I must have constant reassurance for my—"

  His supplication gave way to aggravation. "For heaven's sake, Madame, get angry with me. Denounce me for my desertion. Rail at me for not coming to you before now. Tell me what a poltroon you think I am."

  "But I don't wish to do any of those things," she said reasonably as she attempted to move nearer to him without upsetting him. "I think you are what you say you are—a father who is worried about his family."

  He nodded, the first dawning of hope in his steel-colored eyes. "There i
s some truth in that."

  "The more so because you have castigated yourself for things I have not held against you. The accusations you make against yourself are of your own creation, not mine. I do not hold you to the account you hold yourself. And just as well, given the catalogue of offenses you have conjured for yourself." She went and stood next to him, not quite touching him. "You have assumed I would not recognize your desire to protect your family, and would expect you to devote yourself to me."

  "As I should have done," he interjected harshly.

  "You may think so; I do not." She put her hand on his shoulder, noticing again how wet he was, then looked up into his face. "Tecumseh, listen to me: I will not deny that I would like to have you here with me, for I would."

  "It would be poor recompense to tarnish your reputation." He put his hand over hers where it rested on his shoulder. "I am taking a chance coming here now. Your housekeeper might—"

  "My housekeeper will not be back until late tonight. I have told her she need not look in on me; she may go directly to her apartment and retire. My man-of-all-work is dining with his cousin's family." She smiled at him.

  He did not return the smile. "You mean they left you alone?" he demanded. "What kind of servants do you have, Madame, that they leave you by yourself?"

  "I have servants who do as I instruct them." Now Madelaine grew impatient. "What nonsense you talk, Tecumseh," she said with asperity. "You would think I am a hothouse flower, incapable of fending for myself, when you should realize I have managed on my own for decades."

  "Visiting Indians," he said, determined to make his point.

  "Among others," she responded, refusing to be dragged into yet another dispute with him.

  "Oh, yes; those travels in Egypt," he grumbled. "Hard going, no doubt."

  "They were," she said. "Some of the time. The expedition was a small one, and we were four hundred miles up the Nile." She recalled the endless heat and sand; she remembered the Nile at flood, and the profusion of insects and vermin that came with the water; she saw the faces of Falke and Trowbridge and the Coptic monk Erai Gurzin, and the death of Professor Baudilet.

  "What is it?" Sherman asked, reading something of her memories in her face. "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing," she said. "It's all in the past, all behind me." She shook off the hold of the memories and made herself pay closer attention to him. "Your hand is like ice," she said. "You're wet to the skin. You may not want any food, but you need to get warm and clean once again."

  "It's not important," he claimed.

  "It is if you are taken ill because of it," she said briskly, and slipped her hand from under his, but only to seize it and lead him through the gloom of her house to the curtained alcove off the kitchen where her bathtub was kept. "I will start heating water right now," she declared as she went to the stove, opened the tinderbox, and stirred the embers to life. She pulled two split logs of wood from the box near the stove and put them, one on top of the other, on the glowing coals. "This will be hot shortly, the kitchen will be warm, and your bath will be ready in a half hour." She paused to hold out her hand to him again. "Do this for me, Tecumseh."

  Sherman regarded her tenderly. "A bath. I wish I could stay for it," he said in a rueful voice, his fingers lacing through hers.

  "Do you tell me you will not?" she asked.

  "I fear I must," he said by way of apology.

  She closed the stove grate and put her hands on her hips. "And why can't you? And no farragoes, please, about my reputation. No one saw you come, and only I know you are here."

  He looked somber. "My children are—"

  "Your nurse is more than competent to care for them," said Madelaine, who had met the woman several times and had been impressed with her reliability. "And don't tell me you have never got home later than expected."

  "But—" he began, only to be cut short.

  "You need to get warm and dry before venturing out into that weather; I will supply you with an oilskin against it. You would tell me the same if I had paid you a visit, and well you know it, you need not bother to say otherwise." She stared at him, waiting for his answer.

  "What would be the point?" Sherman said. "You wouldn't believe me if I did. And neither would I."

  "Good; at least you admit that much: we make progress," said Madelaine as she lifted the side of the curtain and took the first of four large pots from the shelf next to the bathtub. She carried this to the pump at the sink and began to work the handle to fill the pot.

  "You're never going to be able to lift that," said Sherman, reaching out to heft it for her. "Let me."

  It was tempting to let him take the pot, but Madelaine kept her hold on the two handles and hoisted the eight-gallon pot from the sink to the stove without effort. "Unnecessary; I can do it, thank you. I told you those of my blood acquire extra strength; this pot is a minor thing," she said, unwilling to permit him to claim otherwise, even if there were no reason for it other than good manners.

  "But it isn't fitting," Sherman protested as Madelaine reached for the second pot. "No, Madelaine. No, I can't allow it. You should not have to do such menial work, not while I am here to help you."

  "Why not?" Madelaine asked, setting the pot in the deep sink and starting to work the pump handle once again. "What is the vice in menial work that you think I should disdain it? Why should anyone feel shame, doing necessary work? Don't tell me you never filled a pot, or carried one, before now?"

  "Of course I've done both," he blustered. "That's different."

  "Because you did it?" Madelaine guessed, and shook her head. "Where did you learn such intolerance?"

  He glared. "It is what everyone expects of well-bred men and women."

  "Isn't that a bit… extreme?" Madelaine asked. "To require well-bred men and women to become dependent puppets requiring the labor of servants to make their way in the world?"

  He did not answer her question, and stood, with an expression of distant blankness, staring at the two windows at the rear of the kitchen. The anemic light filtering into the room banished most of the colors, turning the figures of both Sherman and Madelaine a ghostly, washed-out shade of sepia with pale beige faces. As if to be rid of this perception, Sherman shook himself and found the nearest kitchen lamp and a box of lucifers to go with it. As the flame rose, the kitchen seemed to warm with the return of color. "There. That should make your task easier."

  Madelaine did not point out that the increasing dusk made little difference to her; she saw in darkness almost as well as she saw in moderate light. Instead, she nodded her thanks and carried the second pot to the stove while Sherman took the third from the shelf and set it in the sink under the pump, and started to ply the handle with vigor. "The wood is catching; that will make everything more comfortable," she remarked as she glanced at the tinderbox of the stove.

  Sherman continued to fill the third pot of water, then carried it to the stove, setting it in place with care. "Since you are determined to do this, I suppose I ought to lend my assistance."

  "If you like," said Madelaine, handing him the fourth pot and saying, "Just fill it with water." She then tugged the curtain aside so that the bath alcove was completely open, revealing the large enameled-copper tub and a wall of shelves where the various requirements for bathing were placed. "I have set out bath salts, if you want them. And I have a razor and shaving supplies, if you need them."

  "You are always prepared," he said, intending it as a complaint, but making it into a compliment. "Yes, I will rid myself of this stubble," he said, and went on slyly, "or I might have to explain where all the scratches on your body came from. Since you insist on doing this, I shall do it properly. Perhaps I should grow a beard again."

  Madelaine could not stop herself from smiling, knowing now that he would remain with her for several hours, if not all night. The weight of his absence lifted from her and she said playfully, "In fact, given the circumstances, shaving would be a prudent thing to do."

 
"Prudent," he repeated ironically. "What a word to use for anything pertaining to you and me, Madelaine."

  "All the more reason it is necessary," she said, satisfying herself that the tub would be ready when the water was hot. She set out two large sponges and a rough washing cloth on the rack next to the tub, and then pulled out a brass towel rack. "I'll get a robe for you from the linen closet."

  He extended his arms to block her progress and pulled her to him, bending to kiss her as his embrace enfolded her.

  She shifted against his arm, then gave herself over to his caresses as if she had never before experienced them. Finally when she could speak at all, she said softly to him, "Tecumseh, I have no wish to compel you to do anything that displeases you."

  "I know that," he said indulgently as he stroked her breasts through her clothes.

  "You're distracting me," she objected without any determination to stop him.

  "Good," he approved. "I intend to." His kiss was light and long, full of suggestions that left both of them breathless. "Why don't you let me help you out of that rig you've got on?"

  "Tecumseh," she said again, making a last-ditch effort to keep from giving in to him completely. "You will not be angry, will you? For my turning you from your purpose?"

  "Why should I be angry?" He kissed the corner of her mouth. "And what purpose do you mean? I only wanted to apologize for failing you."

  "You mean you had not resolved to break off with me?" she asked.

  He stared at her, a hint of defiance in his answer. "After what I have done, I am shocked that you are not angry with me." He reached up and pulled the long pins from the neat bun at the back of her neck. "That's better," he said as he loosened her hair with his fingers.

  "I could not be angry with you, not when I have tasted your blood," she said.

  "That again," he muttered; he became patiently courteous, all but bowing to her. "And why is that, Madame Vampire?"

  "Because I know you, and I know what you are." She looked up at him, and read vexation in his eyes. "I know that you despise weakness, especially in yourself, and you often regard your feelings for me as weakness."