The Vampire Sextette

by Marvin Kaye

  it offers us. If you know of any property I might like, tell me of it, and I will

  arrange to see it for myself," she said quite seriously. "I am in earnest, Tecumseh.

  I want to purchase some land here."

  "So far speculation has been very profitable, at least in this area." He nodded,

  doing his best to fall into his role as banker. "All the West is going to be valuable,

  someday. When Congress finally comes to its senses and builds a railroad linking

  the East Coast with the West, then land here will appreciate dramatically, but that

  will not happen until there is a railroad. Not even a good wagon road would help

  as the railroad would. But a wagon road would be better than nothing," he said,

  letting his rancor show. "Politicians! They cannot think beyond the next election.

  There is no sense in their reluctance to authorize the railroad other than their usual

  damned lack of foresight. The telegraph link with the Mississippi only begs the

  question, but it is typical of Congress to settle for half measures when full ones are

  wanted. As long as they keep California isolated, it will have little to attract

  investors beyond the gold fields, and that is not investment but exploitation, and it

  will continue as long as there is no land connection but trails across the continent.

  Only when goods and people may cross quickly and comfortably will the Pacific

  come into its own, and assume its place in the scheme of things, bringing the

  Occident and Orient together as no gang of Chinese laborers and cooks can do

  now. Until that time, it will be the last point of escape for the dreamers and

  scoundrels who seek their own private paradise, and attempt to create it for

  themselves here. It is shortsighted political chicanery to refuse to unite East and

  West by rail, I am convinced of it. The trouble is that California is an enigma;

  not even those who live here understand it." He folded his arms, his shirtsleeves

  suddenly too little protection for the encroaching fog. "I will get my coat."

  "Bring mine, will you?" She strolled deeper into the small grove of trees,

  listening to the sounds around her, the rustlings and flutters that reminded her that

  there were other occupants of the copse, many of which began their day when the

  sun went down—just as she would do if she did not line the soles of her shoes

  with her native earth. It was cool enough to be unpleasant, and she was relieved

  when Sherman came and held up her nip-waisted coat for her as she slid her arms

  into the leg-o'-mutton sleeves. He rested his hands on her shoulders as he stood

  behind her, then slid them down to cover her breasts.

  "How can I give this up?" he murmured, drawing her back against him, holding

  her tightly as his hands moved down the front of her body; he did this with ease,

  being more than a head taller then Madelaine. He stopped his rapt exploration

  abruptly. "I must be mad."

  "For planning to give me up or for wanting me in the first place?" She avoided

  any hint of accusation in her mild rebuke, but she could not shake off the sadness

  that swept through her at the realization that she would have to leave San

  Francisco and Sherman before long.

  "Both," said Sherman with utmost conviction, turning her to face him, staring

  down into her violet eyes as if he wanted to meet her in combat. "I am not a man

  who loves easily, and I am… possessed by you. What is it about you? You are

  more of a mystery than this place." His countenance was stem, his brows drawn

  downward. "Had I thought I would be so… so wholly in your thrall, I would never

  have begun with you."

  " Bien perdu, bien connu," said Madelaine, hoping to conceal the sting she felt

  from his harsh words.

  "But you are not well lost; that is the trouble. I do not need to lose you to

  know you, Madelaine." He surrounded her with his arms, his mouth rough on

  hers. He strained to press them more tightly together, then broke away from her.

  "But I will not compromise my marriage."

  "So you have said from the first," Madelaine reminded him, as much to assure

  him that she still understood his requirements of her as to lessen his defensiveness.

  "And I have never protested your devotion to your family. I will not do so now."

  "I meant it. I mean it still." He reached out and took her face in his long fingered hands. "I treasure you as I have never treasured another woman, and may

  I be thrice-damned for it."

  "Tecumseh," she said gently. "I have no wish to bring you pain."

  He released her and moved away, leaves crackling underfoot. His voice was

  low and his words came quickly. "But you will, and that is the problem. There's

  nothing that can be done about it now: you are too deeply fixed in my soul for

  that. Oh, it is no fault of yours; you have been honorable from the first, if that is a

  word I may use for our adultery. Never have you asked, or hinted, that you want

  me to leave my wife: it is just as well, no matter what sorcery you work on me. Yet

  when you go, as go you must, you will leave a wound in me that no enemy could

  put there. When you are gone…" He stared down at the ground as if to read

  something there in the dying light. "I have never known anyone who has so

  completely won me as you have."

  Madelaine did not go after him. "Then we must make the most of the short

  time we have, so that our joy will be greater than your hurt, and you will remember

  our time together with happiness." She did not add that she longed for his ecstasy

  to sustain her in the long, empty months ahead.

  "How can we?" He met her eyes in the dimness. "Why take the risk? We have

  been discreet so far, but I must resist my impulse to set caution aside."

  "Why? Who is to know what passes between us? When we are private, there is

  no reason for caution," said Madelaine, feeling some of his contained anguish as

  her own.

  "No reason? Can you not think of one?" He shook his head, unwilling to look

  directly at her any longer. "It may be there is the greatest reason of all, for when

  we are alone together, I have no strength to resist you."

  "You are managing to resist me well enough now," she said, more sharply than

  she had intended.

  "Do you think so?" he asked, his voice very quiet and deep, the lines in his

  face severe.

  The silence between them lengthened, opening as if it were a chasm deep as the

  pits of hell. A scuttling in the underbrush as a fox hurried to find his supper

  provided a momentary distraction, then Madelaine took a step toward him, her

  hands turned palms up. "Tecumseh, do you recall what I told you of the bond the

  blood makes between us?"

  His features grew less formidable, and he reached out to caress her face as if

  compelled to do it. "Yes, Madelaine. How can I forget?"

  "Then believe that when we are parted, we will not be separated," she said as

  she touched his fingers.

  He put his hands into hers but would not close the gap between them. "What

  else would you call it?"

  For once she had an answer. "Tell me, when you cannot see the sun or stars,

  do you still know which direction is north?"

  "North?" he repeated, baffled, and then said, "Yes, of course."

  "And how do you know it?" she asked him.r />
  He frowned, hitching up one shoulder. "I… sense it."

  She nodded. "Then understand that I will always sense you, no matter where

  you are, or where you go. It is the way of those of us who have become

  vampires."

  He winced at this last. "Vampires."

  "Yes," she confirmed.

  He regained his skepticism with effort. "For heaven's sake, isn't there another

  word for it? What a ludicrous notion. Vampires. Legends for the credulous and

  childish. Surely there is another explanation to account for what has happened."

  He lacked conviction, but he glowered at her, anyway. "How can you expect me

  to believe such a fable?"

  "I don't," she said wearily. "But it is still the truth. Oh, I have read that Polidori

  tale, and the little horrors Hoffmann writes, and I cannot blame you for how you

  think of us. If I were not what I am, I would be inclined to feel as you do, and

  scoff at the very idea of vampires." She came a step nearer to him. "But I am what

  you may become, and you need to know the dangers you may face."

  His laughter crackled, brittle as autumn leaves. "Very well, you have warned

  me. If we continue as lovers, I could become a vampire when I die if my spine or

  my nervous system or my body is not destroyed. I will have to avoid direct

  sunlight and running water and mirrors. That covers all the hazards, I think. Yes,

  and I will need my native Ohio earth to sustain me. And blood. Should it come to

  pass, I will take the precautions you advise, on the odd chance they may be

  necessary." Then, with a deep sound that was half sigh, half groan, he pulled her

  into his arms again and bent to open her mouth with his own.

  San Francisco, 30 August, 1855

  In the last ten days I have seen Tecumseh once, and that was in

  his carriage with his children, taking them on an outing to the

  Chinese market where Willy had purchased a paper kite in the shape

  of a dragon's head that he was attempting to fly off the back of the

  carriage, which annoyed the horses. Tecumseh was meticulously

  polite, doing nothing anyone could construe as paying untoward

  attention to me, but his eyes were haunted. Why he should be so

  distant now, I do not know, but it saddens me…

  Rain was turning the streets from dust to mud as the afternoon wound down

  toward night. Along the streets, lamps were being lit early to stave off the coming

  darkness as the first storm of autumn whipped over the hills.

  Madelaine sat at her desk, busying herself with writing, when she heard the

  knocker on the front door. She looked up, annoyed at the interruption, recalling

  that Olga had taken the evening off. Clicking her tongue impatiently, Madelaine

  blotted the half-finished page and reached to pull a vast woolen shawl around her

  shoulders before hurrying to the front of the house to answer the urgent summons.

  "Madelaine," said William Tecumseh Sherman as the door swung open. He

  was wet and bedraggled, his hair quenched of fire and rain-slicked to his skull. He

  glanced over his shoulder at the street. "May I come in? Will you let me?"

  "Tecumseh," said Madelaine, holding the door wider. "Welcome."

  His head bowed, he hesitated, and asked in a whisper, "You are willing to

  speak to me? After my inexcusable behavior?"

  Perplexed, Madelaine stepped aside to admit him. "Certainly. Come in. You

  have done nothing that would keep me from knowing you. What do you want?" It

  was the only question that came clearly to mind, and it was out before she could

  soften or modify it in any way.

  He pressed the door closed quickly. "I don't think anyone saw me," he said

  cautiously.

  "Possibly not," said Madelaine, her bafflement increasing as she looked at him.

  "You are soaked to the skin."

  "It doesn't matter," he said, squaring his shoulders and daring to look directly

  into her violet eyes. "I have been a fool and a coward, and I wouldn't blame you if

  you tossed me out on my ass."

  Had she truly been as young as she looked, Madelaine might have taken

  advantage of the offer; as it was, she shook her head. "No, I won't do that. But I

  have a few questions I hope you will answer." She indicated the way to the parlor.

  "Thank you, Madame," he said with unwonted humility. He turned and locked

  the door himself, leaning against it as if he had been pursued by the hounds of hell.

  "Let me say what I must, Madelaine; if you stop me, my courage may fail me, and

  then I will be thrice-damned." He looked directly at her, keeping his voice quite

  low. "I have chastised myself every day for not coming to you, and with every

  passing day it grew more difficult to act at all. I have all but convinced myself that

  you do not wish to see me because of my cravenness. So I must come to you

  now, or mire hopelessly in my own inaction. Poor Hamlet had to bear the same

  trouble, in his way; I don't think I ever grasped the full scope of his predicament

  until now." He passed his hand over his eyes. "I'm maundering. Forgive me; I

  don't want to do that." He straightened up and moved a few steps to stand directly

  in front of her. "I'm no stranger to suffering. I have not yet fought a war, but I

  have seen men fall of fatal wounds, in Seminole ambushes, and I have held my

  comrades while they bled to death so that they would not be wholly alone."

  "What has that to do with you and me?" Madelaine asked, growing confused.

  "Let me continue," he said forcefully. "There are things I should have said to

  you days ago."

  She realized now how determined he was. "If you think it is necessary, go on."

  Sherman took a stance as if to fend off attack. "You would think that one who

  is… or, rather, has been a soldier would not have such weakness." He held up his

  hands to stop any protests she might make. Now he looked away, unwilling to let

  Madelaine see the shine of tears in his eyes.

  "Tecumseh…" Madelaine said gently, searching for a phrase to end his selfcondemnation.

  He fixed her with his gaze, determined to admit his faults. "You have been so

  self-possessed, that I—"

  "I may appear that way to you, but I am far from feeling so, you may believe,"

  she said, hoping to turn him away from further abasement. "You have no reason

  to cast me in such an angelic role."

  "You conduct yourself like a good officer, Madelaine." This was the highest

  praise he could give her.

  "If that is true and useful, then it pleases me you think so." She tried to smile

  and nearly succeeded. "Well, I will consider myself fortunate that I have some

  poise, and will tell you I am grateful to you for holding it in high regard. Let me get

  you a cup of coffee, or something to eat."

  "No," he insisted. "I am not finished, and I am not hungry." He put his hands

  together so that he would not be tempted to reach out for her. "It is inexcusable of

  me not to offer you any succor I can provide. My only excuse is that I am filled

  with anxiety about my children, and so have kept close to them for these past

  several days, for with their mother away, they are—You cannot blame me more

  than I blame myself."

  "Doubtless," she said dryly.

  "I am sorry I deserted you." He faltered, struggling to finish. "I am …


  tremendously proud of you."

  It would have been easy to give him a facile answer, Madelaine realized; it

  would also shut him away from her as no barred door could do. She considered

  her response carefully. "I know how hard it is to say these things to me."

  "As it should be," he agreed in self-disgust.

  "The more so because you have taken all the responsibility upon yourself, as if

  you were the only person who might protect me," said Madelaine, her

  understanding of him making this a precarious revelation.

  "But I am… your lover," he protested. "You yourself say there is a bond

  between us."

  "And so there is," she said, "which is why I do not hold you in the contempt

  you dread and hope I might. My sensibilities are not so delicate that I must have

  constant reassurance for my—"

  His supplication gave way to aggravation. "For heaven's sake, Madame, get

  angry with me. Denounce me for my desertion. Rail at me for not coming to you

  before now. Tell me what a poltroon you think I am."

  "But I don't wish to do any of those things," she said reasonably as she

  attempted to move nearer to him without upsetting him. "I think you are what you

  say you are—a father who is worried about his family."

  He nodded, the first dawning of hope in his steel-colored eyes. "There is some

  truth in that."

  "The more so because you have castigated yourself for things I have not held

  against you. The accusations you make against yourself are of your own creation,

  not mine. I do not hold you to the account you hold yourself. And just as well,

  given the catalogue of offenses you have conjured for yourself." She went and

  stood next to him, not quite touching him. "You have assumed I would not

  recognize your desire to protect your family, and would expect you to devote

  yourself to me."

  "As I should have done," he interjected harshly.

  "You may think so; I do not." She put her hand on his shoulder, noticing again

  how wet he was, then looked up into his face. "Tecumseh, listen to me: I will not

  deny that I would like to have you here with me, for I would."

  "It would be poor recompense to tarnish your reputation." He put his hand

  over hers where it rested on his shoulder. "I am taking a chance coming here now.

  Your housekeeper might—"

  "My housekeeper will not be back until late tonight. I have told her she need