A Dance in Blood Velvet

by Freda Warrington

  She had no memory of how she’d come here.

  A man lay beside her, his head propped on one hand. A perfect, muscular man with a mane of red-gold hair. A god. He looked like Mikhail, her principal male dancer in the role of Adam in Dans le Jardin, yet Violette knew it wasn’t him. His beauty failed to move her. The look in his eyes only made her loathe him.

  “God made me from the pure dust of Earth,” the man said reasonably, “but he formed you from filth and sediment. That is why you must always lie beneath me.”

  Violette felt that this argument had lasted for eternity. She sat up, dead leaves and mud falling from her. Her hair was full of leaves and cobwebs. Although the man’s words made no sense, they dripped oppression like honey. The pull of nature held her, soil and gravity dragging her down into the Earth’s embrace.

  “No, I won’t lie beneath you,” she said. “I will not lie with you at all.”

  “But you are my wife,” said the man.

  “I am no one’s wife!”

  “God gave you to me. He made you for me.”

  This was ancient theological myth, the story of Dans le Jardin, and yet it was real. Violette felt she’d sunk into a deeper layer of reality. This struggle was fundamental and absolute. It was the substratum of existence, and must be acted out. Again.

  “Who are you to call me filth?” she demanded. “Or lay claim to me?”

  “Your husband, sweet Lilith.”

  “Why should I lie underneath? Dust, sediment: earth is earth. I am your equal!”

  Trees clustered thickly above her and she saw the sky only as pin-points of light. Dense, fecund, obscene with life was this garden. A set from a ballet, more vivid than reality. Reptile eyes gleamed among the branches. Spiders and tiny snakes fell on her like rain.

  “God ordained that you be my helpmate and subordinate,” said the red-gold man. “If you will not obey, fair Lilith, I must force you. It is my right.”

  And he reached for her, this great and terrible bronze statue of a man. As he loomed over her, Violette saw that his face was that of her father.

  She tried to scream, uttering not a cry but a word. It flew out like a stream of fire, incandescent, unknown and instantly forgotten. The ineffable name of God.

  The forest canopy burst apart. Lilith tore herself out of the Earth’s embrace and Adam’s grasping hands, soared upwards. The sky was a lake of flame, her element, welcoming her back. She flew in awe and exultation.

  Adam’s voice followed her, thin and plaintive. “You can’t leave me!”

  “I wasn’t made for you!” she cried. “I was created for myself!”

  She glanced back to see the man gazing after her, as baffled as an ox.

  Now Lilith-Violette knew she had done something terrible. She had broken God’s Law. She had become the Enemy.

  Her flight became a fall into sleep. All she could see was roiling fire. The only sound was a heartbeat rolling slower and slower... fingers touching her, voices whispering in another dimension... slower until it stopped...

  Violette stood in a desert. The arid beauty made her want to weep for joy. Here was purity. No grasping, moist vegetation, no crawling things, no sweating male to weigh her down. Only a sweep of dry red sand, studded with rocks like giant rubies. A clean glassy sea washed the shore, reflecting a pure, pale lilac sky.

  But she was being pursued.

  God would not let her alone. He had sent envoys after her. She sensed them hunting her down on heavy, slow wings.

  Terror. Yet she would not run away. Now she had found her dwelling place, not even God would drive her out. She would fight to the death for her freedom.

  She saw them coming for her: three silhouettes swooping down against the curving void.

  “No!” she shouted. “You can’t take me back to the Garden, I won’t go!”

  They only smiled as they surrounded her; barely touching the shore with the tips of their toes, like dancers, like angels. She shielded herself, but they were all over her, kissing, stroking her hair. “Come with us. Come now,” they cooed. “You’ll die if you leave us. You’ve gone too far to turn back.”

  And Violette saw that the three were Stefan, Charlotte and Katerina. They were dark and divinely beautiful - and she hated them. “No. I won’t. You can’t make me -”

  She fought ferociously, but they were stronger. They lifted her between them. Her feet left the lovely sterile desert. She was flying again, this time helpless in their grasp.

  They carried her in a great arc over the ocean, and dropped her. She plummeted through thin air, hit the shining surface. Waves swallowed her, and light filled her like water; flooding her mouth, lungs, heart, her whole body. She was the light. Yet there was nothing holy in its brilliance. It was hard and glassy, too bright, unforgiving.

  Yes. It was her light, completely.

  Violette came out of the transformation screaming.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NIGHTSHADE

  Holly was in the garden, attacking the ravages of autumn with shears and a rake, when the vampires came to her through the dusk.

  Andreas was sitting cross-legged on the grass, watching her with a sleepy half-smile. She still found his presence disturbing, though not unwelcome. As the others approached, he rose to his feet.

  Holly strained her eyes to identify their vague, grainy forms; their faces were pearly ovals, wreathed by tendrils. One was Katerina’s friend Rachel; she could tell by the red hair, like feathery flames around her thin shoulders. The two small men who moved like monks were John and Matthew. And behind them came Malik; almost seven feet tall, his face long and serene like a sculpture, his skin midnight black. Holly hadn’t yet heard him speak a word, but his eyes contained frightening intelligence.

  She was glad Andreas was with her. “What do they want?” she whispered, but he only shrugged. Facing them, she leaned on the upright handle of the rake as if it were a spear.

  Rachel seemed to be their spokeswoman. Her voice was clear and sweet, like a glass bell. “We must speak to you, Mrs Grey.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Mrs Grey, can you contact the dead?”

  Holly was stunned. She gathered her wits and answered honestly, “No. I won’t use my psychic abilities like that. It’s too easy to fool yourself. That’s why I don’t trust the gift. I let others interpret what I see.”

  “So, you think mediums fool themselves?” Rachel’s voice, eyes, face, her blade-thin body, everything about her was piercing.

  “Some do. And they fool gullible folk, which is cruel. And some may be genuine, but I don’t claim... Why do you ask?”

  “Karl and Katti and I wondered if vampires live after death, as mortals are supposed to; if we have anything resembling a soul. Do we go to hell, or float in limbo, or is there nothingness? We wondered if you could contact a dead vampire... such as Kristian.”

  Holly was aghast, but felt herself sliding under Rachel’s influence... then Andreas spoke, shaking her out of it. “Why in hell would you want to do that?”

  “Perhaps he’d explain what is happening.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Make contact with his ghost? He was insane enough in life! I tell you, it’s better not to know.”

  “Have you finished?” said the crystalline voice. “Mrs Grey?”

  “Andreas is right,” she said. “I’m not sure there is life after death for anyone. I think vibrations remain, but not consciousness... as in the Book.”

  “Yes, what did you glean from the Book?”

  Gooseflesh made a shivering path down her back. “Annihilation.”

  “Of what?”

  “I mean that I sensed nothing from it but loss and obsession. Negation of life. But what I picked up was only the effect of the Book on vampires. Isn’t that so, Andreas?”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “And when you look at us with your occult vision,” said Rachel, “what do you see?”

  Holly’s reply seemed to startle
her. She startled herself. “That you are like humans, looking in only one direction. You don’t see the danger behind you. Three huge winged spirits rising over your shoulders...”

  “What are they? Lancelyn’s so-called daemons?”

  “I think so, but I don’t know what they are. You’d have to ask Lancelyn.” Grief stabbed her throat. She swallowed.

  “Are you really so afraid to have theories of your own?” Rachel spoke with sudden contempt. “You give the impression of waiting passively - to become Lancelyn’s ‘Dark Bride’, or a sacrifice, or whatever fate holds. As if you’re only here to play a role.”

  Her words cut savagely into Holly’s fragile confidence. “You asked what I saw, so I told you,” she said tautly.

  “So should we help Benedict against these great shadows?”

  “I think you should listen to him, yes,” Holly riposted.

  “Thank you,” said Rachel. “We shall.” She turned and swept away, the others following. Holly almost collapsed into Andreas’s arms.

  “But you did beautifully,” Andreas said, steadying her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m furious that I’m still afraid of them,” she sighed.

  “Well, that is common sense.” Again she felt the chilling fascination of being too close to him. He only stroked her shoulders and withdrew rather fastidiously from her. “Don’t tell Benedict they asked your advice,” he said, amused. “What would it do to his pride?”

  * * *

  Violette became a vampire in anguish and fire. Charlotte was the reluctant witness to every birth-pang; the fire lashed her, too, for she had engendered it.

  Even as the Crystal Ring’s fierce energy filled Violette, she shrieked with agony and denial. As her initiators drew her back to the real world - her human life extinguished, a new light blazing in its place - she went on writhing against them, clawing at her own hair and arms.

  Her screams pierced Charlotte to the core.

  They tried to soothe her, but Violette was beyond consolation. White as quartz, as strong as a snake, she threw off their hands and broke loose. Charlotte thought she would fling herself through a window, but once free of them, her agitation died. In the centre of a Persian rug she crouched in sudden, deathly silence, a changeling under a wreath of wild black hair.

  Stefan, Charlotte and Katerina watched her.

  Eventually Stefan said, “I’ve never seen anyone react so violently. Usually they are too stunned even to speak.”

  “Well, it is done,” said Katerina, her voice dry.

  Stefan said, “She needs to feed. We’re all insane until the first taste of blood.”

  Charlotte sensed human heat in another room. Stefan was never unprepared. Memories flared of her own initiation; the cadaverous artist who’d offered himself eagerly to her, and the uncontrollable compulsion with which she’d leapt and gorged on his blood. The horror of it...

  “You’d better bring him in,” said Charlotte. Her own thirst rose. Violette’s blood was in her, but the transformation had exhausted her. It had been exhilarating, but now she felt scoured.

  Stefan and Niklas went to another room and brought out a young man between them. He looked dreamy, as if drugged. He was the one who’d invited Stefan to the party; Charlotte recognised his eager face and feverish, rapt eyes. He adored Stefan and Niklas. He did not realise - or care - that he was about to die for love.

  Stefan led the man to the edge of the rug. Violette looked up, her face wild; Charlotte thought, She scents his blood. Even his sweat is a lure. I remember. It’s so alien and repellent, yet you can’t resist...

  “Take him,” said Stefan.

  Violette’s eyes opened wider. Her eyes were unchanged, still bright and preternatural. Expressive, tormented, as if she were forever balancing en pointe on the lip of a pit.

  One emphatic word burst from her throat. “No!”

  “He won’t mind. He’s willing. See, it is easy...” Stefan bent and pressed his lips to his friend’s throat, took a swallow. A string of red pearls oozed out. “I’ve made the wound for you. Taste it.”

  She flowed to her feet. Her eyelids flickered; clearly the blood-aroma was tormenting her. “No,” she repeated. The hard edge to her voice was impossible to disobey. A tone Charlotte had often heard her use when schooling her dancers.

  “It is horrible the first time, but it will soon be over,” he said. “Delaying the moment will only increase your distress.”

  He pushed the human towards Violette. Her eyes grew round, her eyebrows crimped with rage. “NO!” she cried, and fled to the door.

  Stefan and Niklas followed, caught her before she touched the handle. She struggled, but Stefan held onto her and looked at Charlotte. “We should leave her alone with the victim,” he said matter-of-factly. “She’ll take him eventually.”

  “What if she escapes into the Crystal Ring?” said Charlotte.

  “She won’t. No one can enter straight away, it’s too overwhelming.”

  “Violette is capable of anything,” said Charlotte. “I’m not leaving her like this.”

  “Don’t talk about me as if I weren’t here!” Violette said fiercely. She broke free of Niklas and stood rubbing her hands together as if trying to scrape off the skin. She looked from Niklas’s blank face to the feverish human, seemingly horrified by everything. “I don’t care how long you leave him there, I won’t do it!”

  “This is regrettable,” Katerina said, “but I must leave.”

  “Where are you going?” said Stefan.

  “Back to Karl. He wants you to come too, but I fear your hands are full here. I wish you luck with her; you’ll need it.” With that, Katerina vanished into the Crystal Ring.

  Charlotte and Stefan were alone, staring at the apparition that was Violette. Charlotte felt no resentment at Katerina’s departure; after all, she had not asked for Katerina’s help, and had no reason to demand it now. Violette was her responsibility alone.

  The prima ballerina who made audiences weep, who shone in the spotlight as she gracefully gathered more bouquets than she could hold, now crouched like a lunatic and began to rip out strands of her lovely black hair.

  * * *

  “What do vampires fear?”

  Simon moved towards Karl across the darkened study as he spoke. One lamp burned under a red shade, dimming Simon’s blond radiance to copper and earth tones. For a vampire, he had an attractive openness that reminded Karl of Charlotte’s brother David; decent, trustworthy. Unnerving qualities in a predator, Karl thought. He must seem godlike to mortals.

  “What have vampires to fear, really?” Simon asked again.

  “Everything,” said Karl. “Pain, death, not dying. Discovery by humans, if only for the anguish it causes. Hating what we are, fearing ourselves damned. The loneliness of the Crystal Ring; imprisonment in the Weisskalt. And discovering humans who have power over us.”

  Simon started to laugh. “Yes, you are right! But you’re the first vampire I’ve heard admit it.”

  “I’m merely being realistic,” Karl said with a smile.

  “And the entities that Lancelyn has supposedly summoned against us; should we fear them too?”

  “I believe so,” said Karl. “They appear to be far older than us. But you have lived for centuries too, haven’t you? Surely you must be aware of such creatures?”

  “Yes, I am old. I remember Greece in its glory.” Simon ran his fingernail along the edge of the desk, extruding a line of dust. “And I’ve heard of vampires more ancient still, possessed of unknown qualities. Alas, I know nothing of them.”

  “Kristian was rumoured to have been transformed by three ancients,” said Karl. “Perhaps that was what gave him such power.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It’s said he destroyed his own creators,” said Karl. “I assume that means he put them in the Weisskalt.”

  “He must have been inconceivably strong to have done so.” The fair vampire gazed candidly at him. “So, Karl, to have destr
oyed Kristian - you must be even stronger.”

  Karl sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Then a savage memory took hold and he said, “No. Love brought him down. There, something else to fear. Love, the subtlest weapon of all.”

  “Why so melancholy?” said Simon. “I’m simply glad to be alive again!”

  “Then I’m pleased for you,” Karl said drily. “But what if Kristian’s creators woke when you did? Are they the ones attacking us?”

  “Possibly.” Simon paused in thought. “But these self-styled occultists, Benedict and Lancelyn - how would Kristian have dealt with them?”

  “Killed them outright,” said Karl. “He wouldn’t have cared about the loss of potential knowledge.”

  “Ah, prudence was never among his virtues. Benedict seems to control us all...” A pointed stare. “Except you, Karl.”

  “Are you suggesting I kill him? I could, but I won’t. This isn’t finished yet. Surely you don’t agree with Kristian’s attitude that slaughter is the answer to everything?”

  “No, my friend.” Simon looked amused. “I was simply trying to judge whether you and I are in agreement. We are, to some degree.”

  “How do we differ?”

  Simon half-sat on the edge of the desk, arms folded. “Whatever we tell ourselves, vampires need a leader,” he said. “We need guidance.”

  “Not you, too,” Karl said, dismayed.

  “What?”

  “There are still vampires at Kristian’s castle who can’t accept his death. They seem unable to exist without a master telling them what to think and how to live.”

  “Don’t despise them. Not everyone is perfect.”

  “I wasn’t implying that I think I’m perfect,” Karl said thinly, “but there will never be another Kristian.”

  “Do I detect sadness?”

  “I loathed him, yet I understand why some needed him to say, ‘It is acceptable to be a vampire, because you are the Chosen of God.’ But he lied. His whole existence was a lie! He filled himself with his ideas of ‘God’ because he was empty... I don’t want to pursue this. He’s gone, and they cannot make me, nor anyone else, into him.”

  “So, it’s time to seek new strategies.”