Lancelyn smiled, shaking his head, but the smile was cold. “You’re treading on dangerous ground, Holly.”
“It’s all I have. I should go.” She felt herself breaking. Enough. Swiftly she rose and marched towards the front door, chin held high. She collided with a hat-stand, thanks to her patchy eyesight, quickly regaining her dignity as she left. She was gone before Lancelyn had the chance to notice her eyes were full of tears.
* * *
Benedict spent hours on the landing outside the attic, studying the Book. Each time the text verged on making sense, he lost the thread again. The grimoire had a definite ambience: a feeling of grey misery, of immeasurably ancient times and secrets better not known... yet he couldn’t leave it alone.
From behind the door came eerie vampire groans, the snake-rustle of their bodies across the floorboards; but when he peered through the keyhole, he never caught them moving. They’d gathered in the temple shell, away from the door. Dead white moths.
This is cruel, Ben thought. But I have no choice.
He brooded on Lancelyn’s visit. He pondered the undead creatures beached in the driftwood of the temple, on the best way to unleash them on his enemy... God, I must act soon!
Andreas’s near-attack on Holly had alarmed him. Even more disturbing was the fact that she hadn’t seemed afraid.
He encouraged her to go out, to help Maud at the shop, visit friends or go shopping. But when she wasn’t at home, he found himself wondering, Where is she? Who is she seeing?
Has she gone to Lancelyn?
Terrible, to mistrust his own wife when they’d been so close. Vampires had brought paranoia into the house. He trusted no one.
Benedict bought a second-hand motor car, a black Morris. In its dark interior, uncanny passengers would go unnoticed. One afternoon, while Holly was at the bookshop, he took Andreas for a drive.
“There are several large towns in driving distance,” he said. “Birmingham, Derby, Nottingham; places where you can satisfy your thirst without attracting attention. When we revive the other vampires, it will be essential to travel further afield.”
Andreas didn’t reply. He was fascinated by the vehicle, entranced by its speed.
“Do you agree?” said Ben.
“You’re very calculating,” said Andreas.
“I have to be.”
“And yet you’re hot-headed. You are a strange man, Benedict. I think you would make a very good vampire.”
Arriving home, Ben parked outside the cottage, unlocked the front door, removed his coat. Holly wasn’t back yet. Andreas entered the study, as he often did, to read history books about the years he had missed, and newspapers, which he loved. Ben went upstairs to check on the vampire invalids. Outside the attic door he stopped in dismay.
The Book had gone.
He checked the door was still locked, looked through the keyhole and counted eight pale shapes. As usual, they lay as if dead - but they’d all moved closer to the door.
Ben ran downstairs and confronted Andreas.
“Have you touched the Book?”
“Of course not,” said Andreas. “You know I can’t stand the damned thing near me.”
“Well, where is it?”
“How should I know?”
“Someone’s moved it.”
“Not me. How could I, when I’ve been with you all afternoon?”
Ben turned away, suddenly realising what had happened to the Book. He checked all windows and doors; nothing had been disturbed. That proved it. Burning with rage, he sat and waited for Holly. If she’d betrayed him, perhaps she wouldn’t dare come home - but minutes later, he heard the front door open.
“Holly!” he shouted, striding into the hall. “You’ve taken it to him, haven’t you?
Hanging up her coat and hat, she turned, looking astonished to be greeted by this outburst. “Taken what to whom?”
“You know what I’m talking about! The Book’s gone. You took it. Where the devil is it?”
“I’ve no idea!” she cried indignantly.
“Don’t lie! You’ve taken it to Lancelyn! How could you?” He stepped towards her.
“Ben, don’t!” she cried, leaping backwards. “Stop! You look demented.”
He mastered himself, thinking, Surely I wasn’t going to hit her? “Where is it?” he demanded. Andreas came into the hall and stood leaning in the doorway with a slight smile.
“I don’t know.” Her voice dropped. “Perhaps someone broke in.”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’ve checked the whole house. Whoever entered had a key. Who has a key, except you?”
“Mrs Potter.”
“No. I took hers, so she can’t come in when no one’s here.”
Holly went white. To Ben, she appeared a stranger, not his wife. She blinked, parted her lips and said quickly, “Wait, Ben. You keep a house key in your drawer at the shop, don’t you?”
“Yes, but...”
“Maud went out this afternoon. She asked for an hour off. She may have gone into your office first...”
“That’s preposterous! Why her? She knows nothing about the Order, still less that the Book even exists!”
“That’s not true. She saw it once, when you’d left it in the parlour. And she’s always angling to join -”
“Oh, so Lancelyn’s got to Maud, has he? She’s never even met him!”
“She must have done,” Holly said patiently. “He’s often in the shop, isn’t he? How could she not have met him?”
“This is ridiculous.” He grasped her shoulder and she winced. “Bad enough if you’ve betrayed me, without blaming an innocent girl. Maud couldn’t...”
Dismayed, Holly retaliated, “Ben, are you losing your mind? I know it was Maud. How can you not believe me?”
“Because you were always Lancelyn’s pet! Remember, you said you’d do anything to stop this battle. And the only thing was to give him back the blasted Book. Doubtless you told him about Andreas and the summoning. It’s logical. You probably knew about this ‘Hidden Temple’ all along, and denied that as well.”
“I never did! I knew nothing, I swear!”
“Perhaps you took part in the orgies, for all I know!”
“How dare you not trust me?” she cried, seething. “Damn it, I’ll prove Maud took that Book!”
“Holly -” he began, but she marched to the front door, seizing her coat as she went. She slammed the door so hard that the whole cottage shook.
Still trembling with rage, Benedict heard the reverberation go on and on. The house cracked and shifted eerily. He looked up the stairs, then, his tongue thickening with dread, he began to climb.
“Don’t go up there,” said Andreas.
Ben paused, sudden fear dousing his anger. Andreas was at the foot of the stairs, gazing up at him. And as Ben stood there, shaking, he heard the sound of wood splintering above. The attic door.
“My God, they’re breaking out. You must help me.”
He glanced down at Andreas, but the vampire shook his head, backing away, eyes blank. He looked terrified. Ben discovered then that a vampire’s fear was more infectious and horrifying than that of any human.
“I’m leaving.”
“No!” Ben shouted. “I forbid you to leave!”
Andreas carried on towards the front door.
Ben said, “The chain is tightening.”
Andreas stopped and doubled over, hands flying to his throat. After a moment he straightened up and turned to glare at Ben. His eyes were circular pits in his skull, and a necklace of red fingerprints marked his neck where he’d plucked at the invisible garrotte.
“Please help me,” said Ben.
“You can keep me here, but there’s nothing I can do,” Andreas said hoarsely. “They’re as eager for my blood as for yours! You’re on your own, my friend.”
CHAPTER NINE
POPPY WINE
For two weeks, Charlotte waited for news of Janacek. She could have spied on him in person, but the t
hought repelled her. She’d come too close to him and to Violette; now she needed to keep her distance in every sense.
Every day she would travel through the Crystal Ring to Berne or Interlaken to look at the newspapers. Late one morning, as she was about to leave the house, she found a newspaper already open on a table in the library. Her gaze went straight to the headline: renowned choreographer Roman Janacek had died after a short illness. His death was unexpected, a cold that turned to pneumonia. The funeral would take place near Salzburg in two days’ time.
Charlotte had been expecting this moment, yet it was still a shock. As she stood reading the story for the third time, Karl entered the room and walked soundlessly to her.
She turned, but there was no need to speak. From his expression, he knew what she was reading.
“Did you put this paper here?” she said, her voice almost failing.
“I left it for you to see. I thought you should know.” His voice was grave.
Charlotte couldn’t speak. Karl voiced no accusation, but he was clearly waiting to hear what she would say. When a vampire spent time with humans, and one suddenly died - of course he was suspicious. And she was terrible at lying.
“It says he died of pneumonia,” she said at last “I did not drink his blood.”
Karl’s gaze was unwavering. “There are other ways.”
Her tense silence was as good as a confession. He might not stand in judgment, but his disapproval lay heavy on her. He added, “If you feed on their life energy instead, the damage is invisible. That’s what Kristian would do, because he couldn’t bear to touch humans. The victim never knows, until they die of the first minor infection they catch. It’s often a cold, I’ve heard.”
She dropped her head in shame.
“Why, Charlotte?” he asked.
She made herself meet his eyes. Their calm amber glow still had the power to squeeze her heart white. “He was a vile man. He had power over Violette, and used it to torment her. He treated her like a slave.”
“Would a jury sentence him to death for that? He may have been vile, but he was also brilliant. What if you have not only destroyed him, but broken up his company and ended Violette’s career?”
So quiet, Karl’s voice, and impersonal. Charlotte felt ashamed and angry, burned by his words even though his tone was so carefully neutral. She said, “You’re a vampire too, Karl. Don’t tell me you’ve never killed anyone. I know you have.”
“I’ve done many things to regret, even though they were necessary to my survival. But was his death necessary to yours?” Then, to her amazement, Karl’s face changed. He frowned and drew away from her, at a loss; failing to keep his dismay hidden. “I can’t believe you would do this. It’s so unlike you. Or is it? Perhaps she was right.”
He started to walk away. Then, only then, did she see how much pain she’d caused him, and knew with horrifying certainty that she couldn’t put it right.
“She? You mean Katerina?” Charlotte said, following him. “She’s labelled me a murderer, has she?”
Karl stopped, half-turned without looking directly at her. “No. She only suggested that perhaps I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.” And he resumed his walk into the drawing room, so distant that the few feet of air between them might have been an ocean.
Charlotte stayed in the library. She sat at the table, staring at the print that condemned her. Not for a moment had she worried that Karl would find out, nor considered his reaction if he did. His withdrawal left her impaled and helpless, thinking over and over, He’s going to Katerina. I’ve driven him to her.
She felt deathly, yet she couldn’t cry. Her only emotion was bitter numbness.
I meant to kill Janacek, and I’d do it again, she thought. It can’t be undone. How can Karl understand what compelled me, when I don’t understand it myself?
For two days, she hardly saw him. What was there to say? Katerina’s presence made it all too easy for them to avoid each other. When the time came, Charlotte dressed in black and travelled alone through the Crystal Ring to Austria.
There was no colour in the graveyard, only tones of grey as rain sifted over the rough hillside outside the church. The trees sheltering Charlotte wove a black web, glistening with silver. Such a crowd outside, more people than could possibly fit into the church! Stunned, she watched horse-drawn carriages arriving; the hearse, the mourners following. Black horses, white flowers; Violette’s colours. She sensed human radiance barely warming the chill interior of the church, while the hymns floated thinly into the damp air.
I caused this, she thought. The death of a great man, a national hero. All these people are mourning him.
She felt no sense of triumph. If this proved her power, it was not the kind of power she’d ever wanted. Neither did she feel sorrow, only a detached spiritual greyness.
I stand here like a ghost. Outside humanity. Undead.
When the mourners came out and assembled round the grave, Charlotte looked anxiously for Violette. There she was, black-veiled but unmistakable, dainty even in grief. Her head was bowed; her hands, encased in black silk gloves, clasped in front. A man and woman moved close beside her to comfort and guard her. Some of the mourners were sobbing. Charlotte could not hear Violette’s voice among them.
The coffin was lowered, prayers said, flowers and clods of earth and ballet shoes thrown into the grave. The mourners began to drift away until only Violette remained. Charlotte watched as her companions tried to persuade her into the carriage, out of the rain; she shook them off. “Leave me alone for a few moments,” she said.
The crowd lining the road from the churchyard was silent, indistinct behind a veil of rain; the minister sheltered with the gravediggers inside the porch; one carriage waited for the dancer. They might as well not exist. There was only Violette.
She stood on the lip of the grave, a slim figure as austere as a headstone in the misty half-light. But she no longer looked down at the coffin. She was staring straight at Charlotte.
Charlotte simply looked back, willing her to walk over, thinking, If you want to speak to me, come; if not, you will never see me again.
Then Violette walked around the grave and across the wet grass to where Charlotte stood under the dripping trees. No one came after her. For the first time, the two women met alone.
“I thought it was you,” said Violette. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was calm and precise, giving nothing away.
Charlotte opened her umbrella and held it over them both; a subtle cage. “I came to pay my respects, Madame Lenoir.”
Violette’s face was a fleeting pearl behind the net veil. Her cheeks were dry; no tears. Sable, black feathers and jet beads suited her so exactly that she took Charlotte’s breath away. What was it about this woman? Not sexual, Charlotte’s feeling, more like a passionate response to a work of art. Indefinable, spiritual yet almost covetous. Infinitely more than a desire for blood.
“Why?”
“For your sake. I had to speak to you.”
Violette stared at her, pupils expanding. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”
“Yes, you dismissed me like an empress sending away some peasant not fit to kiss your feet. Will you do the same this time?”
“I would, but you have me at a disadvantage,” the dancer said thinly. “You force me to ask you who you are.”
“You know my name.”
“But what are you? A witch? You told Janacek to watch his health. Two days later he was dead. How did you know he might die? Did you put a curse on him?”
“I only observed that he looked unwell. Surely you’re not superstitious?”
“There are no folk more superstitious than performers, and dancers are the worst.” Her self-mocking tone was grim. “You come to every performance; you leave flowers in a locked room; you appear at a party that no one could enter without an invitation; then Roman upsets you and suddenly he is dying...”
“And I thought you were too wrapped up
in your work to notice me at all,” said Charlotte.
Violette blanched. She tried to remain aloof, but Charlotte saw tension and fear roiling under the mask. Remorse hit her; not that she’d killed Janacek, but that his loss had hurt Violette. She touched the dancer’s shoulder at the base of her slender neck.
Violette froze; clearly, she didn’t like to be touched. Charlotte held her gaze, wanting to calm and entrance her as Karl had once done to her; wanting to fill her with the same blissful tranquillity. The ballerina remained impervious.
“I’m sorry,” said Charlotte, letting her hand drop. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your grief. But Janacek was doing you no good. He had nothing left to teach you.”
“I owe him everything. He saved me from spending my life in the corps de ballet; he gave me that chance!”
“He would have destroyed you! He was jealous, wasn’t he?”
“He loved me.”
“If he did, his idea of love was possession and control. Wasn’t that his scheme, touching, taunting you, telling you what he planned to do with me?”
The dancer whispered, “How could you know that? How the hell could you possibly know that?”
“What I don’t understand is why you let him do it. Did you feel in debt to him? So? That gave him no rights over you, none at all.”
Violette closed her eyes. She was shaking. “No one could know these things unless they were a witch.”
“I know it can be impossible to break away from someone, no matter how much you want to. If you loved him, I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Charlotte thought the ballerina was going to faint. She’d imagined some magical communication and friendship between them; instead, all she had achieved was to make Violette miserable and frightened.
Charlotte said softly, “I had no right. How could I forget that it’s possible to adore someone, no matter how wicked they are?”
Silence, except for rain dripping onto the grass.
Violette drew a shuddering breath. Sobbing, she said, “I hated him.”
Not sobs, Charlotte realised, but humourless laughter. “Violette?”
“I hated him! You are exactly right about everything. My God, trying to pretend to be grief-stricken. I would like to dance on his grave!”
A Dance in Blood Velvet Page 18