Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  “So what’s your game?” Lydia made the question sound soft, not an accusation.

  Gilda thought a moment. She could easily have diverted the question, but she didn’t want to, at least not right away.

  “I’m trying to decide what to do next,” Gilda said, knowing Lydia could never understand how big a question it was.

  “Stick around this burg for a while.” Lydia’s voice carried the same invitation to joy that Gilda had heard in her singing.

  “I think I will.”

  “Good. Benny’s gonna need someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Smart, figuring on the future. That’s his one … kinda flaw, you know. Colored folks in this town need this, they need that.” Lydia’s eyes were unwavering as she watched Gilda listening to her. She spoke and examined Gilda at the same time. “He’s always thinkin’ about it, but he’s got no sense of a plan. You a woman who knows somethin’ about planning for the future. And he don’t know how to handle those mugs that keep edging up on him.” Lydia’s confidence in her words and in Gilda surprised her.

  Gilda looked around her at the books and ledgers. It felt like a room bursting with ideas and with life; Benny’s presence was as strong here as it was downstairs in the Evergreen. Gilda wouldn’t let herself listen to Lydia’s thoughts. That was another lesson from Bird she’d embraced: intruding on another’s thoughts simply for personal gain was the height of rudeness. So, the reasons for Lydia’s certainty remained unclear. Lydia watched Gilda watching her, as if she awaited Gilda’s assent. The memory of Lydia’s scent unfurled like an unexpected fog in Gilda’s head and she tried to clear her mind.

  “Why does the billboard say ‘Indian Love Call’?” Gilda asked.

  “My father was Wampanoag. Back East, you know, the Indians they named Massachusetts for. They were Wampanoag.”

  Gilda looked again at Lydia and recognized the bone structure. The blending of African and Indian lines was so common in this country, yet Gilda had forgotten. She’d seen many women who looked like they might be Lydia’s relatives.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “That was Benny’s idea, not mine. My mother would be fit to be tied.” She sipped from her glass, then set it down on a shelf and moved closer to Gilda. This time the cinnamon and flowers were real, not a memory. “She’s not much for people pretending not to be colored.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “Naw. Everybody likes a bit of mystery. So this year I’m it.”

  “What about next year?” Gilda kept her breath shallow, trying not to take in too much.

  I’ll be Lebanese!”

  The room was filled first with Lydia’s laughter, then Gilda’s. Deep inside an image blossomed for her, a tiny glimpse of her past. Inside she held a precious moment of laughter between her and one of her sisters as they’d toiled among the rows of cotton. The reason for mirth had quickly faded then. In the expansive dining room with Lydia, Gilda recaptured that forgotten joy and savored it as fully as if her sisters were still alive and in the room beside her.

  This was what Gilda found so entrancing in Lydia’s voice. It was rich with the happiness she’d had; very little sorrow or bitterness weighted her songs. The melodies Lydia sang each night might be mournful when delivered by someone else, but Lydia sang with the light of what was coming, not merely what had been done in the past.

  They both stopped laughing, comfortable with the recognition of the feeling growing between them.

  “And what’s your mystery, lady?” Lydia asked as if she already knew the answer.

  Gilda pressed her hand to Lydia’s cheek lightly, letting herself enjoy the softness around Lydia’s smile. She didn’t want to pull away from the question, even though she knew she couldn’t answer. Lydia stepped in closer, the full length of her body pressing its aura of heat against Gilda.

  The air wavered around them, intoxicated by mist and cinnamon.

  Then the unnatural silence in the rest of the flat crashed around them.

  No piano, voices, or glasses. The ominous silence was broken by a shout and the explosion of a gun.

  “Stay here!” Gilda said in a low voice, and bolted through the door.

  She moved quickly but without sound. When she entered the dining room, everybody was huddled on the floor, satin dresses and silk jackets askew. Through the parlor, she could see the front door forced open, almost off its hinges. The maid’s face was barely visible thorough a crack in the bathroom door and Gilda waved her back.

  “Shit.” Gilda heard Morris.

  “Everybody stay down,” Gilda shouted as she listened to the entire flat—the attackers seemed to have fled. She hurried to the bar. Behind it, Benny lay on the floor. Morris held his hand to the wound in Benny’s chest. His fair skin had paled as if the blood were draining from him as well.

  “I told him we had to give them the joint. They been wanting in for months.” Tears filled Morris’s voice. “We got other stuff, we don’t need this shit.” Morris spoke as if his words could bind the wound.

  “Quick, let me.” Gilda edged Morris out of the way and knelt beside Benny. “Get them out of here.” The floor around Benny was awash in his blood. The moments moved in rapid flashes for Gilda. She looked into his eyes as she tried to find his pulse. He was there and not there.

  Morris’s apologetic voice was a low murmur as he helped people to their feet and kept the exit orderly. The woman in the maid’s apron came out of the bathroom and helped Morris find people’s coats.

  As Benny’s blood cooled around her, Gilda thought of the little boy, Lester, arriving tomorrow at noon with his sister for a job. She could feel Lydia reaching out, begging her to make everything all right as if she knew Gilda was able to hear her. All the connections Benny had with those around him in this room had created a family, and in turn he aided others holding their families together. He was able to help give life in ways different from Gilda. She fought the urge to save Benny with the power only she possessed.

  Blood should not be given as an unexpected gift. Bird’s admonition rang in her mind, Gilda knew of those who’d not chosen wisely, giving the gift of blood to those unable to manage the powers. She’d seen the results: deadly tyrants, intoxicated by their powers, unable to care about the havoc they created around them.

  The explicit wish for the gift must be stated. How can you know who is capable of carrying such a burden? Gilda accepted all the reasons for letting Benny die. She turned to see Lydia standing at the bar looking down at them, her mouth open in horror.

  “I know you can save him.”

  Lydia’s eyes were full of that knowing. Gilda didn’t understand how that could be, and at the same time knew she could not let Benny’s life slip away from him, to be soaked into the hard wooden floor. But to give the blood without his direct request was against all she’d been taught.

  Which would be the worse transgression?

  Gilda put her lips to the wound in Benny’s chest, where the blood had pooled. She took his blood into her mouth and listened for his needs. His mind was full of many people he wanted to help. Pictures of people, of towns, of the Evergreen were lit inside Gilda like reflections from a mirror ball. A fascinating dizziness pulled Gilda closer to Benny’s mind. Lydia was deep inside his dreams, too, and it was as she’d said: as a sister.

  The most urgent image inside Benny was his love of Morris. Gilda was startled that she hadn’t realized it earlier. Their bond had grown out of a mutual care for the colored people of their town. Without the guarded protection they both maintained in public, the kinship and desire between them was unmistakable. The two men were partners in business and in life. There was little time left, but Benny’s thoughts kaleidoscoped through her mind like spokes on a wheel. This was a family. They had work to do. Benny’s thoughts were filled with an array of faces, although his body was almost still under her hands. She could not ignore the tie that held so many together.

  Gilda let herself
feel rather than think about what was coming. She would give him her blood and he would survive. Benny, Morris, and Lydia would know what she was. She would have to explain the life of the blood. If he desired it, Benny could go on with his life, fully recovered, and reject that preternatural life. When the hunger came on him, he could fight as if it were a drug, until it subsided, then dissipated completely.

  But Benny might also decide to live with the blood. He would have the right to ask Gilda to share with him twice again until he was strong, and she would teach him about their life as Bird had taught her. She could not guess which path he would choose. Only in the moments and years to come would Gilda know the meaning of her decision.

  She could feel Lydia staring down at her. With the hard nail of her small finger, Gilda cut the skin on her wrist smoothly and held it to Benny’s mouth. At first, the blood just washed down his face. She tilted his head back so his mouth would open. He began to take the blood in and Gilda felt life slowly return to his body. His eyes fluttered, then filled with confusion and relief.

  Lydia’s eyes showed both her gratefulness and bewilderment when Gilda looked up, Benny’s warm blood staining her face and clothes. The door to the flat slammed shut and they heard Morris running.

  “Benny,” he bellowed as he came. Their life together had seemed about to end when he’d gone to the front of the flat to help the shocked guests leave. His anguish was carried in the tears that ran down his face onto his blood-splattered shirt. He stopped abruptly when he saw Lydia smiling. Incredulous, he looked down at Benny, whose eyes were open and had regained their focus.

  A familiar vitality pulsed through Benny’s body as Gilda cradled him in her arms. She sensed they would be spending much time together in the coming months.

  “He’s all right, Morris,” Lydia said, as if she knew it was true even though she wasn’t exactly sure why. Her voice was full of joy like her songs.

  RENEWAL

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro was honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award by the World Fantasy Convention in 2014. She received a Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement Award in 2009, and was the first woman to be named a Living Legend by the International Horror Guild (2006). Yarbro was named as Grand Master of the World Horror Convention in 2003. She is the recipient of the Fine Foundation Award for Literary Achievement (1993) and (along with Fred Saberhagen) was awarded the Knightly Order of the Brasov Citadel by the Transylvanian Society of Dracula in 1997. She has been nominated for the Edgar, World Fantasy, and Bram Stoker awards and was the first female president of the Horror Writers Association. The author of scores of novels in many genres, her manuscripts are being archived at Bowling Green University.

  As noted in the introduction, Yarbro’s contribution to the vampire genre—the creation of the character of le Comte Saint-Germain and his still continuing adventures—is immense. The twenty-seventh novel of her Saint-Germain series was published in December 2014. From her two collections of short fiction featuring Saint-Germain, I chose this novella set during World War II. It provides a great deal of information about the form vampirism takes in the universe Yarbro has created…

  With bloodied hands, James pulled the ornate iron gates open and staggered onto the long drive that led to the chateau. Although he was dazed, he made sure the gates were properly shut before starting up the tree-lined road. How long ago he had made his first journey here, and how it drew him now. He stared ahead, willing the ancient building to appear out of the night as he kept up his dogged progress toward the one place that might provide him the shelter he so desperately needed.

  When at last the stone walls came into view, James was puzzled to hear the sound of a violin, played expertly but fragmentally, as if the music were wholly personal. James stopped and listened, his cognac-colored eyes warming for the first time in three days. Until that moment, the only sound he had remembered was the grind and pound of guns. His bleary thoughts sharpened minimally and he reached up to push his hair from his brow. Vaguely he wondered who was playing, and why, for Montalia had an oddly deserted look to it: the grounds were overgrown and only two of the windows showed lights. This was more than war-time precaution, James realized, and shambled toward the side door he had used so many times in the past, the first twinges of real fear giving him a chill that the weather had not been able to exert.

  The stables smelled more of motor oil than horses, but James recognized the shape of the building, and limped into its shadow with relief. Two lights, he realized, might mean nothing more than most of the servants had retired for the night, or that shortages of fuel and other supplies forced the household to stringent economies. He leaned against the wall of the stable and gathered his courage to try the door. At least, he told himself, it did not appear that the chateau was full of Germans. He waited until the violin was pouring out long cascades of sound before he reached for the latch, praying that if the hinges squeaked, the music would cover it.

  In the small sitting room, Saint-Germain heard the distant whine of an opening door, and his bow hesitated on the strings. He listened, his expanded senses acute, then sat back and continued the Capriccio he had been playing, letting the sound guide the solitary intruder. He gave a small part of his attention to the unsteady footfalls in the corridor, but for the most part, he concentrated on the long pattern of descending thirds of the cadenza. Some few minutes later, when he had begun one of the Beethoven Romanzas, a ragged figure clutching a kitchen knife appeared in the doorway and emerged uncertainly from the darkness into the warmth of the hearthlight and the single kerosene lantern. Saint-Germain lowered his violin and gave the newcomer an appraising stare. His dark eyes narrowed briefly, then his brows raised a fraction as he recognized the man. “You will not need that knife, Mister Tree.”

  He had expected many things, but not this lone, elegant man. James shook his head, his expression becoming more dazed than ever. “I …”

  He brought a grimy, bruised hand to his eyes and made a shaky attempt at laughter which did not come off. He coughed once, to clear his voice. “When I got here, and heard music … I thought that … I don’t know what.” As he spoke he reached out to steady himself against the back of one of the three overstuffed chairs in the fine stone room, which was chilly in spite of the fire. “Excuse me … I’m not … myself.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Saint-Germain said with gentleness, knowing more surely than James how unlike himself he was. He stood to put his violin into its velvet-lined case, then tucked the loosened bow into its holder before closing the top. This done, he set the case on the occasional table beside his chair and turned to James. “Sit down, Mister Tree. Please.” It was definitely a command but one so kindly given that the other man complied at once, dropping gratefully into the chair which had been supporting him. The knife clattered to the floor, but neither paid any attention to it.

  “It’s been … a while,” James said distantly, looking up at the painting over the fireplace. Then his gaze fell on Saint-Germain, and he saw the man properly for the first time.

  Le Comte was casually dressed by his own exacting standards: a black hacking jacket, a white shirt and black sweater under it, and black trousers. There were black, ankle-high jodhpur boots on his small feet, the heels and soles unusually thick. Aside from a silver signet ring, he wore no jewelry. “Since you have been here? More than a decade, I would suppose.”

  “Yes. “James shifted in the chair, his movements those of utter exhaustion. “This place … I don’t know why.” Only now that he had actually arrived at his goal did he wonder what had driven him to seek it out. Indistinct images filtered through his mind, most of them senseless, one or two of them frightening.

  “On Madelaine’s behalf, I’m pleased to welcome you back. I hope you will stay as long as you wish to.” He said this sincerely, and watched James for his response.

  “Thanks. I don’t know what … thanks.” In this light, and with the abuses of the last few days, it was n
ot possible to see how much the last ten years had favored James Emmerson Tree. His hair had turned from glossy chestnut to silver without loss of abundance; the lines of his face had deepened but had not become lost in fretwork or pouches, so that his character was cleanly incised, delineated in strong, sharp lines. Now, with smudges of dirt and dried blood on him, it was not apparent that while at thirty he had been good looking, at fifty he was superbly handsome. He fingered the tear on his collar where his press tag had been. “I thought … Madelaine might have been …”

  “Been here?” Saint-Germain suggested as he drew one of the other chairs closer to where James sat. “I am sorry, Mister Tree. Madelaine is currently in South America.”

  “Another expedition?” James asked, more forlorn than he knew.

  “Of course. It’s more circumspect to stay there than go to Greece or Africa just now, or wouldn’t you agree?” He spoke slowly, deliberately, and in English for the first time. “I would rather be assured of her safety than her nearness, Mister Tree.”

  James nodded absently, then seemed at last to understand what Saint-Germain had said, for he looked up sharply and said in a different voice, “God, yes. Oh, God, yes.”

  “I had a letter from her not long ago. Perhaps you would care to read it later this evening?” He did not, in fact, want to share the contents of Madelaine’s letter with James; it was too privately loving for any eyes but his, yet he knew that this man loved her with an intensity that was only exceeded by his own.

  “No,” James said after a brief hesitation. “So long as she’s okay, that’s all that matters. If anything happened to her, after this, I think I’d walk into the path of a German tank.” His mouth turned up at the corners, quivered, and fell again into the harsh downward curve that had become characteristic in the last month. He looked down at his ruined jacket and plucked at one of the frayed tears.

  Saint-Germain watched this closely, then asked, “Has the fighting been very bad?”