by Paula Guran
Madame Kunst looked flustered. “A peasant remedy? I don’t know … peasants are so superstitious and some of their practices are … well, unpleasant.”
Very gently, Saint-Germain said, “In your position, Madame Kunst, I would think you would take that chance, if only to make your ship. Brandy is a help, but you will not be clearheaded. With the herbal remedy, you need not be fuddled.”
She slapped her hands down on the comforter. “But what if the remedy is worse? Some of those remedies the monks made were mostly pure spirits with a little herbal additive. This is probably more of the same thing.”
“I assure you, it is not,” Saint-Germain said.
“Oh, I don’t know. I will have to think about it.” She remembered to cough. “I have to have time to recruit my strength, Herr Comte. I will tell you in an hour or so what I have decided.” With a degree of quiet malice, she added, “It was so good of you to offer this to me.” Saint-Germain bowed and left the room.
Slightly less than an hour after this, James came bursting out of Madame Kunst’s room, running down the corridor, calling for Saint-Germain.
The response was almost immediate. Saint-Germain hastened from his laboratory as he tugged his lab coat off, wishing there were a way he could curb some of James’ impetuosity. “A moment!” he cried as he reached the foot of the main staircase.
“We don’t have a moment!” James shouted as he came into view on the upper floor. “It’s urgent.”
“So I gather,” Saint-Germain said as he flung his wadded-up lab coat away from him. “But if it is, it might be best not to announce it to the world.”
“Jesus! I forgot.” He paused at the top of the stairs, then raced down them. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me. It should have.”
“We will discuss it later,” Saint-Germain said. “Now, what has you so up in arms?”
“Madame Kunst.” He opened up his hands. “She’s not in her room and her valise is gone.”
“Indeed.” Saint-Germain’s brows rose and he nodded grimly.
“I went to her room, as you instructed, and it was empty. The bed was still a bit warm, so she can’t have gone far, or have left too long ago. If we hurry, we can find her.” Now that he had forced himself to be calm, all his old journalistic habits came back. “If she’s carrying that thing, she’ll have to stay on the road, and that means someone will see her, if only a farmer or a shepherd.”
“You’re assuming she’s left Montalia,” Saint-Germain said. “I doubt that she has.”
“Why?” James demanded.
“Because Roger is down at the gatehouse and he has not signaled me that he has seen her. Not that that makes it simpler,” he added dryly. “This place is a rabbit warren and it is not easily searched.”
“Especially since we don’t know what we’re looking for, right?” James said, running one hand through his silver hair.
“That is a factor.” Saint-Germain looked up toward the ceiling. “But we also know what we are not looking for, which is a minor advantage.” He turned away from James, his eyes on the heavy, metal-banded door to the old wing of the chateau. “I think she may be armed, James. Be cautious with her. Bullet wounds are painful, and if they damage the spine or skull, they are as fatal to us as anyone else. No heroics, if you please. Madelaine would never forgive me.”
James did not quite know how to take this, but he shrugged. “If that’s how you want it, that’s how I’ll do it.”
“Very good,” Saint-Germain said crisply. “And we might as well begin now. First the kitchens and pantry, and then the old wing. With this precaution.” He went and dropped the heavy bolt into place on the iron-banded door, effectively locking that part of the chateau.
“Why the kitchens first?” James asked.
“Because of the weapons it offers,” Saint-Germain answered. “Knives, cleavers, forks, skewers, pokers. A kitchen is an armory on a smaller scale. If she has gone there, it will be touchy for us.”
They completed their search in fifteen minutes and were satisfied that wherever Madame Kunst was, she had not been there.
“This might not bode well. If she has panicked—which isn’t likely—it is merely a matter of finding her. But if she is acting with deliberation, it means she is already prepared and we must keep that in mind.”
“Does she know we’re looking for her, do you think?”
“Quite possibly. That is something else to keep in mind.” He was walking back toward the main hall and the barred door. “This may be somewhat more difficult. We can close off the wing, but it provides endless places to hide, to ambush.”
“Great,” James said with hearty sarcasm.
“Although some of the same advantages apply to us. I wish I knew what it was she is trying to do. If I did, then I could counteract it more effectively.” His hand was resting on the heavy bolt.
“And you won’t call the authorities,” James said.
“We’ve had this discussion already. You know the answer. We must settle this for ourselves. And for Madelaine, since she is the one who will have to live here when this is over.” He let James consider this. “You and I are transient. This is her native earth.”
“Okay, okay,” James said, then waved a hand at the door. “What do we do, once we get in there?”
“To begin with, we move very quietly. And we make every effort not to frighten her. Frightened people do foolish and dangerous things.” He lifted the bolt and drew back the door. “For the moment, keep behind me, James. If you see or hear anything, tap my shoulder. Don’t speak.”
“Right,” James said, feeling a bit silly. He had seen war and knew how great the risks were for those caught up in the deadly game, but skulking around the halls of an old chateau after a woman with a worn leather valise seemed like acting out a Grade-B movie from Universal. When the door was pulled closed behind him, he was disturbed by it. The hall was very dark, with five narrow shafts of light coming from the high, notched windows. James watched Saint-Germain start toward the muniment room, and for the first time noticed the power and grace of his movements—he was controlled and feral at once, beautiful and awesome.
At the entrance to the muniment room, Saint-Germain held up his hand to motion James to stillness. He slipped through the narrow opening, then returned several long moments later. “She is not here now, but has been here,” Saint-Germain told James in a whisper that was so quiet it was almost wholly inaudible. “One of the old plans of Montalia is missing.”
The two rooms below the muniment room were empty and apparently untouched. James was becoming strangely nervous, as if unknown wings had brushed the back of his neck. He found it difficult to be self-contained and was all for hurrying up the search so that he could bring his restlessness back under control. “She’s in the upper rooms if she’s anywhere in this part of the chateau,” James murmured, wanting to speak at a more normal level.
“Patience, James. You and I have much more time than she does.” He made a last check around the small salon, then gestured to James to follow him. “We’ll try the tower rooms next. Be careful of the steps.”
The narrow, circular stairwell was dark at all times, but Saint-Germain carried no light. James was growing accustomed to his improved dark vision, but was still not entirely confident of this to climb without watching his feet. For once, he was the one who lagged.
The first storeroom proved empty, but Saint-Germain indicated that he wanted to make a warning trap. “Nothing complicated; a few things that will make noise if knocked over. Should she be behind us, we will have a little time,” he whispered, and set about his work.
James stood on the landing, experiencing the same unpleasant sensation he had had in the lower room. On impulse, he decided to investigate the next room himself, thereby saving them time as well as giving himself the satisfaction of doing something worthwhile. He moved close to the door, as he had seen Saint-Germain do, and then opened the door just wide enough to be able to slip inside. H
e was dumbfounded at the sight of the valise sitting on the floor amid the other trunks and broken chairs stored there, and was about to call out when he sensed more than felt another presence in the room.
“Not a sound, Herr Tree,” Madame Kunst said softly as she brought up a Smith & Wesson .38 pistol. Her hands were expertly steady as she took aim at his head. “I will use this if I must.”
Saint-Germain’s warning flashed through James’ mind—if his nervous system were damaged, if his spine or skull were broken, he would die the true death, and his resurrection would have lasted merely a week—and he stood without moving. He began to dread what might happen if Saint-Germain should come into the room.
“You have been curious about the valise, haven’t you? You have all been curious.” She no longer looked high-strung and helpless; that part of her had been peeled away, leaving a determined woman of well-honed ruthlessness. “I have promised to see that it is left in working order, and you will not interfere.” She nodded toward the valise, her aim never wavering. “Open the valise, Herr Tree.”
Slowly, James did as she ordered. He dropped to his knees and pulled open the top of the old leather bag. He stared down at the contraption in it.
“It is a beacon, Herr Tree. Take it out—very, very gently—and put it on that brass trunk by the wall, the one under the window. If you trip or jolt the beacon, I will shoot you. Do you understand?”
With more care than he had ever known he possessed, James lifted the beacon. As he carried it toward the trunk she had indicated, he thought to himself that she had told him. Trip or jolt? Not with Madame Kunst’s close observation; he put the beacon in place and hoped it was well-balanced.
“Turn around, Herr Tree,” she said, softly, venomously.
James obeyed, hoping that she would not shoot in this little narrow room. “I’m not alone.”
“Herr Comte?” she asked quickly.
“Yes.”
She walked up to him, just far enough to be out of reach. “And the servant?”
“I don’t know,” James lied, praying she would believe him. “He … he was told to get the car ready.” He forced himself to speak in an undervoice though he wanted to shout.
“How helpful,” she muttered. She glared at him, apparently wanting to make up her mind, and finally, she cocked her head toward the door. “You will have to come with me, I think. You and I.”
James all but ground his teeth. He wanted to rush at her, to yell so loudly that she would drop the .38 and flee from him. “Where are we going?” he forced himself to ask.
“Out. After that, we’ll see.” She was wearing her salmon-colored knit dress that in the muted light of the room looked more the shade of diseased roses. “Walk past me, Herr Tree. Hands joined behind your head.” She came nearer to him. “What you feel at the base of your skull is the barrel of my pistol. If you move suddenly or try to grapple with me in any way, I will shoot. If you move your hands, I will shoot. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very.”
“You will reach with your left hand, slowly and deliberately, for the door. You will open it as wide as possible and you will release it.”
James did as she ordered, and when she told him to walk out onto the landing, he did that, too, as the muzzle of the .38 lay like a cold kiss on the nape of his neck.
“Now, down the stairs. One at a time. Carefully.” She was speaking softly still, but the sound of her voice rang down the stones, mocking her.
On the fourth step down, James heard a sound behind him that did not come from Madame Kunst’s steps. Apparently she was unaware of it, for she never faltered nor turned. He wondered if she were so confident of her mastery of the situation that she paid no attention to such things. He moved a little faster, trying to remember where the trip stair was.
“Not so fast,” Madame Kunst insisted. “It’s dark in here.”
Obediently, James slowed. He heard the whisper-light tread behind her, and wished he dared to turn. The trip stair was only a few treads below him. He made his way carefully.
Then, just as he passed the trip stair, something tremendously strong swept by him on the narrow curving stair, knocking him to the side and catching Madame Kunst on the most unstable footing in the tower.
She screamed, twisted. She fired once, twice, and the bullets ricocheted off the stone walls, singing and striking sparks where they touched. One of the bullets struck her in the shoulder and she fell, slid and slid, screaming at first and then whimpering. Her descent stopped only when Saint-Germain reached her.
“You may get up, James,” he said as he lifted Madame Kunst into his arms.
Moving as if he were tenanted in a body that was unfamiliar to him, James rose, testing his legs like an invalid. When he was shakily on his feet again, he looked down at the other man. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, James. Your methods were reckless but your motive laudable.” He looked down at Madame Kunst, who was half conscious and moaning. “I should bandage her and get her to a physician. There must be a plausible story we can tell him.”
James had not the strength to laugh at this as he came down the stairs.
“But it will arrange itself,” Mirelle said confidently with a nonchalant French shrug. “A refugee woman, she says, came to my farmhouse, and I, what could I do but take her in? I did not know that she was carrying valuables, and when there was a commotion, I investigated.” Her minx’s eyes danced as she looked up at James. “It was very nice of you to give me the pistol, Mister Tree. I would not have been able to defend her if you had not been so generous.” She held out her hand for the pistol.
“How do you explain the rest? The beacon and her wound?” Saint-Germain asked, not quite smiling, but with the corners of his mouth starting to lift.
Mirelle gave this her consideration. “I don’t think I will explain the beacon. I think I will present it to a few of my friends in the Resistance and they will see what kind of game it attracts. For the rest, the thief was holding Madame … Kunst, isn’t it? so tightly that I was not in a position to get a clean shot.” She sat back in the high-backed chair that was the best in her parlor. “The physician in Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete will not ask me too many questions, because he likes me and he hates the Germans and the war. Beyond that—who knows? The Germans may take her back, the Resistance may kill her. It does not matter so much, does it?” She folded her hands.
“Mirelle,” Saint-Germain said, with more sadness than she had ever heard in his voice, “you cannot simply abandon her like so much refuse.”
“You say that, after she tried to kill James and would have killed you?” Mirelle shot back at him. “You defend her?”
“Yes,” was the quiet answer.
Mirelle got out of her chair and turned her helpless eyes on James, then looked away from them both. “Perhaps you can afford to feel this way, you who live so long and so closely with others. But I am not going to live long, and I have very few years to do all that I must. Extend her your charity, if you must, but do not expect it of me. My time is too brief for that.” She folded her arms and stared defiantly at Saint-Germain.
“You have chosen it,” Saint-Germain reminded her compassionately; he took her hand and kissed it.
“So I have,” she agreed with her impish smile returning. “For the time, I have the best of both, and when that is done, well, we shall see.” She turned toward James. “Would you like to remain here for the evening, James?”
“Thank you, Mirelle, but no.” He glanced out the window to the parked Bugatti.
“Another time then. I will be at Montalia tomorrow night?” Her eyes went flirtatiously from Saint-Germain’s to James’ face. “You would like that, yes?”
“Of course,” Saint-Germain said, answering for James.
“Then, good afternoon, gentlemen, and I will see you later. I have a few old friends who will want to hear from me, and the physician to mollify.” Without any lack of courtesy, she escorted them to the door, and stood wav
ing as the Bugatti pulled away.
James returned the wave, then looked at Saint-Germain. “What will happen to Madame Kunst?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Does it concern you at all?” James was beginning to feel a twinge of guilt.
“Yes. But it is out of my hands now.” He drove in silence.
“Just that easy, is it?” James demanded some minutes later when he had been alone with his thoughts.
Saint-Germain’s small hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No, James—and it never becomes easy.”
BLOOD FREAK
Nancy Holder
New York Times bestselling author Nancy Holder is a five-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award who has also received accolades from the American Library Association, the American Reading Association, the New York Public Library, and Romantic Times. She and Debbie Viguié coauthored the witchy Wicked series for Simon and Schuster. They have continued their collaboration with the Crusade (about a worldwide war against vampires) and the Wolf Springs Chronicles werewolf series. Holder is the solo author of the young adult horror series, Possessions, for Razorbill. She has also written many novels and book projects tied to various television series—most significantly, in our context, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. Among her approximately two hundred short stories, she’s written a few featuring vampires. Holder lives in San Diego with her daughter, Belle, and their growing assortment of pets. Visit her at nancyholder.com.
“Blood Freak” takes us back to the psychedelic era of the 1960s when even Dracula got groovy…
Captain Blood. The Bat Man. He lived in a real castle, that is to say, someone built it to live in, not to film it, in the middle of the Borrego Desert. That is to say, east of San Diego, that Republican bastion of the Military Industrial Complex of Amerika, north of the Mexican border, where you could score lids of grass for five bucks a pop. His craggy, Scottish castle had been in some John Carradine movie, which some people found more trippy than the rumor that the current owner was a vampire.