by Tanith Lee
He left the young man sleeping. Five hours later, Snake was noiselessly gone. He had taken all the cigarettes, but nothing else.
Snake sold the cigarettes quickly. At one of the cafés he sometimes frequented, he met with those who, sensing some change in his fortunes, urged him to boast. Snake did not, remaining irritatingly reticent, vague. It was another patron. An old man who liked to give him things. Where did the old man live? Oh, a fine apartment, the north side of the city.
Some of the day, he walked.
A hunter, he distrusted the open veldt of daylight. There was too little cover, and equally too great cover for the things he stalked. In the afternoon, he sat in the gardens of a museum. Students came and went, seriously alone, or in groups riotously. Snake observed them. They were scarcely younger than he himself, yet to him, another species. Now and then a girl, catching his eye, might smile, or make an attempt to linger, to interest him. Snake did not respond. With the economic contempt of what he had become, he dismissed all such sexual encounters. Their allure, their youth, these were commodities valueless in others. They would not pay him.
The old woman, however, he did not dismiss. How old was she? Sixty, perhaps – no, much older. Ninety was more likely. And yet, her face, her neck, her hands were curiously smooth, unlined. At times, she might have been only fifty. And the dyed hair, which should have made her seem raddled, somehow enhanced the illusion of a young woman.
Yes, she fascinated him. Probably she had been an actress. Foreign, theatrical – rich. If she was prepared to keep him, thinking him mistakenly her pet cat, then he was willing, for a while. He could steal from her when she began to cloy and he decided to leave.
Yet, something in the uncomplexity of these thoughts disturbed him. The first time he had run away, he was unsure now from what. Not the vampire name, certainly, a stage name – Draculas – what else? But from something – some awareness of fate for which idea his vocabulary had no word, and no explanation. Driven once away, driven thereafter to return, since it was foolish not to. And she had known how to treat him. Gracefully, graciously. She would be honourable, for her kind always were.
Used to spending money for what they wanted, they did not balk at buying people, too. They had never forgotten flesh, also, had a price, since their roots were firmly locked in an era when there had been slaves.
But. But he would not, he told himself, go there tonight. No. It would be good she should not be able to rely on him. He might go tomorrow, or the next day, but not tonight.
The turning world lifted away from the sun, through a winter sunset, into darkness. Snake was glad to see the ending of the light, and false light instead spring up from the apartment blocks, the cafés.
He moved out onto the wide pavement of a street, and a man came and took his arm on the right side, another starting to walk by him on the left.
‘Yes, this is the one, the one who calls himself Snake’
‘Are you?’ the man who walked beside him asked.
‘Of course it is,’ said the first man, squeezing his arm. ‘Didn’t we have an exact description? Isn’t he just the way he was described?’
‘And the right place, too,’ agreed the other man, who did not hold him. ‘The right area’
The men wore neat nondescript clothing. Their faces were sallow and smiling, and fixed. This was a routine with which both were familiar. Snake did not know them, but he knew the touch, the accent, the smiling fixture of their masks. He had tensed. Now he let the tension melt away, so they should see and feel it had gone.
‘What do you want?’
The man who held his arm only smiled.
The other man said, ‘Just to earn our living.’
‘Doing what?’
On either side the lighted street went by. Ahead, at the street’s corner, a vacant lot opened where a broken wall lunged away into the shadows.
‘It seems you upset someone,’ said the man who only walked. ‘Upset them badly.’
‘I upset a lot of people,’ Snake said.
‘I’m sure you do. But some of them won’t stand for it.’
‘Who was this? Perhaps I should see them.’
‘No. They don’t want that. They don’t want you to see anybody.’ The black turn was a few feet away.
‘Perhaps I can put it right.’
‘No. That’s what we’ve been paid to do.’
‘But if I don’t know –’ said Snake, and lurched against the man who held his arm, ramming his fist into the soft belly. The man let go of him and fell. Snake ran. He ran past the lot, into the brilliant glare of another street beyond, and was almost laughing when the thrown knife caught him in the back.
The lights turned over. Something hard and cold struck his chest, his face. Snake realised it was the pavement. There was a dim blurred noise, coming and going, perhaps a crowd gathering. Someone stood on his ribs and pulled the knife out of him and the pain began.
‘Is that it?’ a choked voice asked some way above him: the man he had punched in the stomach.
‘It’ll do nicely.’
A new voice shouted. A car swam to the kerb and pulled up raucously. The car door slammed, and footsteps went over the cement. Behind him, Snake heard the two men walking briskly away.
Snake began to get up, and was surprised to find he was unable to.
‘What happened?’ someone asked, high, high above.
‘I don’t know.’
A woman said softly, ‘Look, there’s blood –’
Snake took no notice. After a moment he tried again to get up, and succeeded in getting to his knees. He had been hurt, that was all. He could feel the pain, no longer sharp, blurred, like the noise he could hear, coming and going. He opened his eyes. The light had faded, then came back in a long wave, then faded again. There seemed to he only five or six people stood around him. As he rose, the nearer shapes backed away.
‘He shouldn’t move,’ someone said urgently.
A hand touched his shoulder, fluttered off, like an insect.
The light faded into black, and the noise swept in like a tide, filling his ears, dazing him. Something supported him, and he shook it from him – a wall –
‘Come back, son,’ a man called. The lights burned up again, reminiscent of a cinema. He would be all right in a moment. He walked away from the small crowd, not looking at them. Respectfully, in awe, they let him go, and noted his blood trailing behind him along the pavement.
The French clock chimed sweetly in the salon; it was seven. Beyond the window, the park was black. It had begun to rain again.
The old man had been watching from the downstairs window for rather more than an hour. Sometimes, he would step restlessly away, circle the room, straighten a picture, pick up a petal discarded by the dying flowers. Then go back to the window, looking out at the trees, the rain and the night.
Less than a minute after the chiming of the clock, a piece of the static darkness came away and began to move, very slowly, toward the house.
Vasyelu Gorin went out into the hall. As he did so, he glanced toward the stairway. The lamp at the stair head was alight, and she stood there in its rays, her hands hanging loosely at her sides, elegant as if weightless, her head raised.
‘Princess?’
‘Yes, I know. Please hurry, Vassu. I think there is scarcely any margin left.’
The old man opened the door quickly. He sprang down the steps as lightly as a boy of 18. The black rain swept against his face, redolent of a thousand memories, and he ran through an orchard in Burgundy, across a hillside in Tuscany, along the path of a wild garden near St Petersburg that was St Petersburg no more, until he reached the body of a young man lying over the roots of a tree.
The old man bent down, and an eye opened palely in the dark and looked at him.
‘Knifed me,’ said Snake. ‘Crawled all this way.’
Vasyelu Gorin leaned in the rain to the grass of France, Italy and Russia, and lifted Snake in his arms. The body lolled, h
eavy, not helping him. But it did not matter. How strong he was, he might marvel at it, as he stood, holding the young man across his breast, and turning, ran back toward the house.
‘I don’t know,’ Snake muttered, ‘don’t know who sent them. Plenty would like to – How bad is it? I didn’t think it was so bad.’
The ivy drifted across Snake’s face and he closed his eyes.
As Vasyelu entered the hall, the Vampire was already on the lowest stair. Vasyelu carried the dying man across to her, and laid him at her feet. Then Vasyelu turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ she said.
‘No, Princess. This is a private thing. Between the two of you, as once it was between us. I do not want to see it, Princess. I do not want to see it with another.’
She looked at him, for a moment like a child, sorry to have distressed him, unwilling to give in. Then she nodded. ‘Go then, my dear.’
He went away at once. So he did not witness it as she left the stair, and knelt beside Snake on the Turkish carpet newly coloured with blood. Yet, it seemed to him he heard the rustle her dress made, like thin crisp paper, and the whisper of the tiny dagger parting her flesh, and then the long still sigh.
He walked down through the house, into the clean and frigid modern kitchen full of electricity. There he sat, and remembered the forest above the town, the torches as the yelling aristocrats hunted him for his theft of the comfit box, the blows when they caught up with him. He remembered, with a painless unoppressed refinding, what it was like to begin to die in such a way, the confused anger, the coming and going of tangible things, long pulses of being alternating with deep valleys of nonbeing. And then the agonised impossible crawl, fingers in the earth itself, pulling him forward, legs sometimes able to assist, sometimes failing, passengers that must be dragged with the rest. In the graveyard at the edge of the estate, he ceased to move. He could go no farther. The soil was cold, and the white tombs, curious petrified vegetation over his head, seemed to suck the black sky into themselves, so they darkened, and the sky grew pale.
But as the sky was drained of its blood, the foretaste of day began to possess it. In less than an hour, the sun would rise.
He had heard her name, and known he would eventually come to serve her. The way in which he had known, both for himself and for the young man called Snake, had been in a presage of violent death.
All the while, searching through the city, there had been no-one with that stigma upon them, that mark. Until, in the alley, the warm hand gripped his neck, until he looked into the leopard-coloured eyes. Then Vasyelu saw the mark, smelled the scent of it like singed bone.
How Snake, crippled by a mortal wound, bleeding and semi-aware, had brought himself such a distance, through the long streets hard as nails, through the mossy garden-land of the rich, through the colossal gates, over the watery, night-tuned plain, so far, dying, the old man did not require to ask, or to be puzzled by. He, too, had done such a thing, more than two centuries ago. And there she had found him, between the tall white graves. When he could focus his vision again, he had looked and seen her, the most beautiful thing he ever set eyes upon. She had given him her blood. He had drunk the blood of Darejan Draculas, a princess, a vampire. Unique elixir, it had saved him. All wounds had healed. Death had dropped from him like a torn skin, and everything he had been – scavenger, thief, brawler, drunkard, and, for a certain number of coins, whore – each of these things had crumbled away. Standing up, he had trodden on them, left them behind. He had gone to her, and kneeled down as, a short while before, she had kneeled by him, cradling him, giving him the life of her silver veins.
And this, all this, was now for the other. Even her blood, it seemed, did not bestow immortality, only longevity, at last coming to a stop for Vasyelu Gorin. And so, many, many decades from this night, the other, too, would come to the same hiatus. Snake, too, would remember the waking moment, conscious another now endured the stupefied thrill of it, and all that would begin thereafter.
Finally, with a sort of guiltiness, the old man left the hygienic kitchen and went back toward the glow of the upper floor, stealing out into the shadow at the light’s edge.
He understood that she would sense him there, untroubled by his presence – had she not been prepared to let him remain?
It was done.
Her dress was spread like an open rose, the young man lying against her, his eyes wide, gazing up at her. And she would be the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. All about, invisible, the shed skins of his life, husks he would presently scuff uncaringly underfoot. And she?
The Vampire’s head inclined toward Snake. The dark hair fell softly. Her face, powdered by the lamp shine, was young, was full of vitality, serene vivacity, loveliness. Everything had come back to her. She was reborn.
Perhaps it was only an illusion.
The old man bowed his head, there in the shadows. The jealousy, the regret were gone. In the end, his life with her had become only another skin that he must cast. He would have the peace that she might never have, and be glad of it. The young man would serve her, and she would be huntress once more, and dancer, a bright phantom gliding over the ballroom of the city, this city and others, and all the worlds of land and soul between.
Vasyelu Gorin stirred on the platform of his existence. He would depart now, or very soon; already he heard the murmur of the approaching train. It would be simple, this time, not like the other time at all. To go willingly, everything achieved, in order. Knowing she was safe.
There was even a faint colour in her cheeks, a blooming. Or maybe, that was just a trick of the lamp.
The old man waited until they had risen to their feet, and walked together quietly into the salon, before he came from the shadows and began to climb the stairs, hearing the silence, their silence, like that of new lovers.
At the head of the stair, beyond the lamp, the dark was gentle, soft as the Vampire’s hair. Vasyelu walked forward into the dark without misgiving, tenderly.
How he had loved her.
LA VAMPIRESSE
Going up in the elevator, he felt a wave of depression so intense at what he was about to do, that he almost rushed out at another floor. But then what would he see? The eerie elongate building was frosted with a dry desert cold. On the ground floor he had already encountered strange sliding, creeping or slipping shades. He had glimpsed creatures – things – he didn’t want to be at large among. And anyway, there was the man with him in the lift, ‘helping’ him to reach the proper place.
‘How is she today?’ he had asked, when they first got in.
‘As always.’
‘Ah.’
And that was all.
Ornamental, the elevator had fretted screens of delicately-wrought white metal. Its internal light was soft, but not warm, and when the cage finally rattled to a halt, and the screens parted, a cold blast hit him from an open window.
‘Is that safe?’
‘What?’ asked the man.
‘That window – surely –’
‘That’s fine. See the grille?’
He looked and saw the grille. And in any case, now they were in the heart of a desert night. The sunset had been sucked under, sucked up like red blood, in the minute or so of the elevator’s ascent. Stars glittered out in the black sky, undimmed even by the lights of this immense, automated mansion. Soon a moon would rise.
‘Thanks,’ he said humbly, to the attendant. Should he tip him? Perhaps not. The man was already undoing a door and it seemed he should go through – go through alone. And now, after the depression, for a moment he was afraid.
‘Am I okay in there?’ He tried to sound flippant.
The attendant smiled suddenly, contemptuous as a wolf. ‘Sure. It’s all right, you know. She’s sated.’
‘She is?’
‘Yes. Quite.’
‘Sated.’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’ he heard himself ask. The ghoulish word hung there in the slightly-warmed cold a
ir.
The attendant said, ‘Best not to ask, mister.’
‘No …’
‘Best not to ask,’ the man repeated, as fools or the nervous or the indomitable often did.
But this time, he resisted, himself, doing so.
And then he was through the door, which – as it seemed with its own laughter – shut fast and closed him in.
The first thing he saw in the great wide room was the Christmas tree. It was that blue-green variety, about two metres tall, and growing in a stone pot. He knew of the tree, had indeed seen pictures of it. Probably not the same tree, but the same type of tree, and decorated approximately in the same way, for it was hung with long pearl necklaces.
The room was luxurious. Thickly carpeted, with deep chairs upholstered in what looked like velvet, or leather. The drapes were looped back from two tall windows, in one of which the moon was now coming up from the desert.
In fact, this whole room was very like the other room, the room he had seen photographs of. Not absolutely, he supposed, but enough.
He looked around carefully. On a gallery up a stair were book-stacks lined with volumes of calf and silk, gilded. A globe stood up there on a table, and down here, one long decanter filled with dark fluid, and two crystal goblets.
‘It isn’t blood.’
He snapped around so fast a muscle twanged at the top of his neck.
Christ. She had risen up silent as the moon rose, out of that chair in the corner, in the half light beyond the lamps, a shadow.
‘No, truly, not blood. Alcohol. I keep it for my guests.’
He knew what to do. And if he hadn’t known, he had had it droned into him by everyone he had had to deal with, lawyers, his own office, and inevitably, the people here. So he bowed to her, the short military bow of a culture and a world long over. But not, of course, for her.
‘Madame Chaikassia.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘At last. One who knows how to say my name.’