The Vampire Sextette

by Marvin Kaye

  the bed, naked and cross-legged, with a mess of sheets in his lap. "I should not

  have permitted this to happen. My life ought to be better ordered than that. But

  what proof am I against you—you, with a face filled with light, and all the sweet

  delirium of the world in your body. No wonder I could not reason myself out of

  my fascination. It is mad of me to love you."

  They were both silent for a short while, then Madelaine shivered and sat up,

  facing him down the length of the bed. "I cannot help but love you, madness or

  not."

  "Because it is your nature," he said, repeating what she had told him so often.

  "Because you have tasted my blood."

  "Yes," she said, trying not to fear his response.

  "Yes," he echoed, wanting it to be an accusation and hearing himself make the

  single word a vow.

  "And you accept it." She felt a surge of rapture go through her as no physical

  act would bring. That he finally recognized the bond between them! She would

  have laughed with utter joy had she not understood that would offend him.

  "How can I not?" he asked in mock capitulation.

  Certain his resistance was crumbling, she went to him in a single, sinuous

  motion, sweeping the sheets and comforter aside; she would not let him turn away

  from her. "Then tonight must stand for all the nights to come that we will not

  share, Tecumseh; why waste it in anticipating our separation when we may yet be

  together for a few hours more?"

  It was more than he could bear, having her so close. With a sound that was not

  quite a groan, he reached out and pulled her tightly to him, his carnality igniting

  afresh as he embraced her. At last he took her firmly by the shoulders and held her

  back from him. "How can you endure parting?" There was pain in his voice and

  his body was taut.

  "I can because I must," she answered, not resisting him.

  "Those of my blood do more parting than anything else. Or at least it seems

  that way to me."

  "And when you have gone, there will be others, won't there?" He meant this to

  hurt; his long fingers tightened on her shoulders.

  "Yes. There will." She looked directly at him, unflinching in the face of his

  accusation. "As you will have your wife, and those women you seek out for…

  didn't you call it necessity and amusement?"

  He released his hold on her and looked away. "You are right, Madelaine; I have

  no basis for complaint. I, after all, made the conditions of our liaison: how ill mannered of me to protest them now."

  She took his hand. "Stop berating yourself," she said in discomfiture. "If you

  must know, I find your jealousy unrealistic but… flattering."

  "I am not jealous." In spite of his forbidding demeanor, he could not stop a

  quick burst of rueful laughter. "Fine pair we are," he told her at last. "It would

  serve us both right if we lost the whole night in bickering."

  "If that would make parting easier, then—" she offered, only to be cut off by

  his lips opening hers.

  He seemed determined to press the limits of their passion, for he went at her

  body as if it were territory to be won. He lavished attention on her face and mouth,

  on the curve of her neck and the swell of her breasts, using every nuance of

  excitation he knew to evoke a desire in her as intense as his own, all the while

  reveling in her tantalizing ministrations and ecstatic responses to the onslaught of

  his relentless fervor; it was an act of flagrant, erotic idolatry. "Now. Let me have.

  All of you," he whispered to her as he drew her onto his lap, guiding her legs

  around him, shuddering in anticipation as she sheathed him deep inside her. His

  kiss was as long and profound as his flesh was frenzied; while she nuzzled his

  throat, he clasped her as if to brand her body with his image until their spasms

  passed.

  They were quiet together for some undefined time afterward, neither wanting to

  make the first move that would break them apart. Then he shifted, changing how

  he held her. "My foot's falling asleep," he apologized.

  "Does it hurt?" Madelaine asked, moving off his lap entirely. In the predawn

  umber gloom her bedroom looked more like a sketch in charcoal than a real place;

  no birds yet announced the coming of the October sun, but Madelaine saw it

  heralded by more than the muting of darkness.

  "No, it tingles," he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. As he pulled

  her close, he said, as he flipped his foot to restore circulation, "What a prosaic

  thing to happen."

  "It might have been a leg cramp," said Madelaine as levelly as she could; she

  was still filled with the glory of their consummation.

  " That would be a different matter, wouldn't it?" He chuckled once.

  She turned her head and kissed the lobe of his ear. "Oh, entirely."

  He ran his hand down her neck to her breast, cupping it and brushing her

  nipple with his thumb. "I hope you won't have bruises."

  "No," she said. "I won't."

  "Another of the things those of your blood don't do?" he asked deliberately

  lightly. "As you do not eat or weep?"

  "Yes," she said quietly, and kissed the angle of his jaw where it met his neck.

  • "Is it difficult, not to eat or weep?" he asked, still holding on to her.

  "Occasionally," she admitted, aware that she would have welcomed the release

  that weeping would bring her upon parting. She was about to move away from

  him when he tightened his arm, pulling her back close to him.

  "Oh, God, Madelaine: I cannot give you up. I must, but I cannot." This was

  wrung from him, a cry of such utter despair that she was rendered still by its

  intensity.

  "I know," she said, moved by his anguish; she sought to find some

  consolation to offer him but could think of nothing.

  His eyes were frenzied as he pulled her around to face him. "I will not let this

  end. If I took you with me, if we left right now, we might be anywhere in the world

  in a month."

  "If that is what you want, Tecumseh, then I will do it," she said, amazed at how

  deeply she meant what she said.

  "It is, it is," he insisted. "It would be the joy of my life to have you at my side.

  Think of all the places we might go, and all the time we would have." He tried to

  smile, but succeeded only in stretching his lips over his teeth.

  "That might not be the advantage you assume it would be," said Madelaine, a

  sadness coming over her that surprised her more than it surprised him. "You

  would grow old and I would not. You might not mind this year, or next year, but

  in time it would vex you. To say nothing as to what your children would think."

  He stared at her. "My children?"

  "Well, you would not leave them behind, would you?" she asked reasonably,

  and knowing what his answer would be.

  "No," he admitted after a moment. "I could not do that."

  Madelaine kept on. "They would see what you would see: they would grow

  older and I would not."

  He did his best to deny what she told him. "If I could have you all to myself,

  then I would be happy, no matter what became of us. Or what my children might

  suspect."

  "And how long would you be content?" Madelaine bent to kiss the fingers of

&nbs
p; his hand on her shoulder. "Even with your children along?"

  "I would be thankful to the end of my days," he said with profound conviction.

  "Do you think so?" Her voice was soft and poignant. "You tell me this is how

  you feel, but it is not. You would not like to face age as the living do, while I

  would hardly change at all."

  "I wish you wouldn't say it that way," he protested.

  "How would you like me to say it?" she challenged. "You would grow old, and

  I would appear not to. Vampires age very, very slowly. I have hardly changed in

  the last century. How would you—"

  "I would accept it," he insisted, his fingers digging into her flesh, driven by the

  force of his emotions. "I might not like it, but I would be willing to accept it."

  "Would you? What of the lovers I would have?" She made her question blunt

  deliberately.

  "You wouldn't need them. You would have me," he told her firmly.

  "For a time, perhaps," she responded, continuing with great care, "but I would

  need to find others, or you would soon be exhausted and come to my life." This

  was not quite the truth, but it was near enough that she knew she had to make him

  aware of what was likely to happen.

  "Then we would carry on in vampire fashion," he said, his emphatic tone

  shoring up any doubts that might trouble him.

  "But vampires cannot be lovers of vampires," she said, and felt him go still.

  "And why not, pray?" His tone was harsh, sarcastic, as if he expected some

  self-serving answer.

  "Because vampires must have life. It is the one thing we do not have to give,

  and the one thing we need above all others," she said quietly. "Once you come to

  my life, you and I will not be able to—"

  "It's not true!" he exclaimed, pushing her away.

  "But it is," she said.

  "So I must share you or lose you," he said thoughtfully.

  "Yes," she said.

  "And I take it there is no alternative to this?" He reached out for her hand.

  "Can we not devise some means to allow us to remain together without having to

  become estranged?"

  "We can never be estranged," Madelaine said.

  "Because you have tasted my blood," he said, a wistful note creeping into his

  statement.

  "Yes, Tecumseh; because of that."

  He had a sharp retort in mind, a single, pithy remark that would show his

  skepticism was flourishing; the words never came. Instead, he turned, took her

  face in his hands and scrutinized her features, memorizing them, before he kissed

  her with the sudden, harsh misery of parting. As he rose abruptly from the bed, he

  said, "Stay there. Please, Madelaine. Don't come to the door. I won't have the

  courage to go if you do."

  "All right," she said, watching him dress, her violet eyes filled with anguish.

  Only when he was ready to leave did she say to him, "You are part of me,

  Tecumseh. You will always be part of me."

  He paused in the door but would not look around. "And you of me." He

  waited for her to say good-bye; when she did not, he strode out of the room and

  down the stairs.

  San Francisco, 8 October, 1855

  Tomorrow I will be gone from this place. It is a harder parting

  than I would have thought possible, for I am torn between my

  certainty that I must go and my reluctance to leave Tecumseh. I find

  his hold upon me quite astonishing, for I have been resigned from the

  first— or so I thought— to going before his wife returns. I had not

  thought I would find leaving so arduous, or the wrench of separation

  as painful as it is proving to be… The two buckboard wagons are

  ready, one carrying my books and papers and personal things, one

  carrying four crates of my native earth. I have bought two horses to

  ride, and mules to pull the wagons, and I have paid off those I have

  hired. There only remains the closing of my account at Lucas and

  Turner; I have decided to do it as I am departing tomorrow, my last

  stop in this city before we turn to the south-southeast. It may be that

  Tecumseh will not handle the matter himself, but will deputize one of

  his assistants to tend to the matter…

  "We're sorry to see you go, Madame," said Jenkins as he held open the low

  gate, admitting Madelaine to the realm of desks and files.

  "I am sorry to leave," said Madelaine with as much sincerity as good manners.

  "I have truly enjoyed my stay here."

  "Yes," said Jenkins, going on a bit too smoothly. "Mr. Sherman has your

  account information ready, if you'll just step into his office?"

  Madelaine was a bit startled to hear this. "Very well," she said, and turned to

  walk toward the door at the end of the aisle between the desks. She had to steel

  herself against seeing Sherman this last time, and she waited a long moment before

  she knocked on the door.

  "Enter," came the crisp order.

  She obeyed, making herself smile as she went up to his desk. "I've come to

  say good-bye, Mr. Sherman. And to pick up my account records and traveling

  money."

  Sherman had risen, but he did not take her proffered hand; instead he

  rummaged through a stack of papers on his desk. "I have your account

  information here, Madame de Montalia, and the funds you requested," he said in a

  voice that did not seem to belong to him.

  "Thank you," she responded.

  "I wish I could persuade you to carry less gold and cash with you." Concern

  roughened his tone. "You are not on the boulevards of Paris, Madame, and any

  signs of wealth are likely to attract attention you cannot want." His face was set in

  hard lines, but his eyes were full of anguish.

  "I know something of the dangers of travel, Mr. Sherman, although I am

  grateful for your warning. I will heed your admonitions to the extent that

  circumstances allow." How formal and stiff she sounded in her own ears; she

  wanted so much to weep, and could not. It would not be seemly, she told herself,

  even if it were possible, and added aloud, "I will take all the precautions I can."

  "Yes," he said. "Be sure you keep a loaded pistol to hand at all times. If you

  need one, you will need it instantly."

  "I'll do that," she said, delaying taking her file of material into her hands, for

  that would be more final than closing the door.

  "You will be wise to learn as much as you can about those you hire to guide

  you. Many of the men in that profession are scoundrels and not to be trusted." He

  spoke crisply, yet all the while his eyes revealed suffering he could not admit.

  "I will be careful, Mr. Sherman," she promised him.

  Sherman coughed twice, short, hard coughs that might signal an asthma attack.

  "Don't trouble yourself, Madame," he said brusquely, waving her away, although

  she had not moved. "It will pass. And I have a vial of your medicine, if it does

  not."

  Madelaine had to stop herself from going around his desk to his side, to

  comfort him. "Well," she said rallyingly, "do not let pride keep you from using it."

  "I won't," he said, and stared down at his desk in silence for several seconds,

  then asked, "Do you think you will ever come back to San Francisco, Madame?"

  "Ever is a long time, Mr. Sherman," she pointed out. "I do not pla
n to now,

  but in time, who can tell?"

  "Who, indeed," he said. "And we knew when you came that you would leave,

  didn't we?"

  She nodded. "Soon or late, I would go."

  "Off to study America," he said, trying to be jaunty; his voice cracked.

  "Yes." She bit her lip to keep from saying more. With an effort, she remarked,

  "I suppose your children must be glad that their mother is coming home."

  "Oh, yes," he said, grateful to have something safe to say. "Both of them are

  delighted."

  "I'll think of them kindly," said Madelaine.

  "You're very good." He fumbled with a square envelope, then held it out to

  her. "Here. I want you to have this."

  "What is it?" Madelaine took the envelope cautiously, as if she expected

  something untoward from it.

  "A sketch I did. Of you." He looked her directly in the eye, a world of longing

  in his gaze.

  "Oh!" Madelaine said softly. "May I open it?"

  "Not here, if you please," he said, his standoffishness returning. "I couldn't

  keep it with me, much as I wanted to. It… it is very revealing—oh, not of you, of

  me. If Ellen ever saw it, she—" He cleared his throat. "It is enough that one of us

  should have a broken heart. I will not chance giving such pain to her."

  Madelaine nodded, unable to speak; she slipped the envelope into her leather

  portfolio which she had brought to contain her account records.

  "This is too difficult," Sherman whispered as he took the file and thrust it

  toward her. "If you do not leave now, I don't think I will be able to let you go.

  And let you go I must."

  "Yes," said Madelaine as she took the file and put it into the portfolio.

  "And your cash and gold," he went on with ruthless practicality, handing her a

  heavy canvas sack with Lucas and Turner stenciled on its side. "Be careful where

  you stow this."

  "I will," she said, and turned to leave.

  "Madel—am," he said, halting her. "I wish, with all my heart, you… your stay

  here wasn't over."

  "You're very kind, Mr. Sherman," said Madelaine, struggling to retain her

  composure.

  "As it is," he went on as if unable to stop. "I will think of you each… often."

  "And I of you," said Madelaine, wishing she could kiss him one last time and

  knowing she must not.

  "If only you and I…" He let his words falter and stop.