Blood to Blood (18 page)

Close to the water, he stopped, and with back to the land whispered, "I am waiting. Joanna Tepes. I mean you no harm."

He heard a rustle of fabric on flesh, the snapping of a twig. Turning, he saw her there, her thin body lit from behind by the distant gaslights. Sensing that a move toward her or away would invite attack, he stayed where he was and bowed as a commoner might to a princess.

She inhaled, then exhaled words. "Why such a gift?" she asked.

"The obvious. I know what you are, and I mean no harm."

"Harm is not always intended."

He was astonished at how well she spoke, at how much a woman she seemed. Dracula had seemed larger than a living man, a being too powerful to face. But this one with her thin body and nervous, green eyes seemed more likely to bolt from him than attack.

But wild things, even those in human guise, could not be trusted.

"I discovered the ship you came on," he explained. "I spoke to a crewman. He said you had brought only one box. Your brother had at least a dozen. I've found just one that is usable. I've taken it for safekeeping."

"Taken it where?" she asked.

Should he lie? The idea crossed his mind, but a lack of trust would only cause problems later. "I took it to my home. I will give it to you, or give you safety there, if you will do one little thing for me in exchange."

"And that is?"

"That you will come with me to my home. That you will stay with me for a time or visit often so that we may talk."

"Talk?" The word seemed spoken with her last bit of breath, the "k" barely pronounced.

"I have reasons. I will explain them all."

"And your home?"

He handed her a card, spoke some directions to get her there. "Will you come with me now… Countess?"

"I need consider. Maybe tomorrow," she replied.

Far better than he'd expected. "I will be waiting there for you," he said and began walking away from her, a casual stroll that he hoped hid his fear.

Two more steps and she appeared in front of him, her thin cotton gown moving slowly in the breeze. "You were one of them?"

Not quite a question. She might have seen him. Again, he decided on honesty. "I was."

"Then why come to me alone, without the others?"

"I want to know if I was right to be one of them."

She frowned, most likely trying to decide if he spoke the truth. She seemed remarkably logical for one Mina had thought mad. Perhaps that crumbling castle had only made her appear so. "Until tonight?" he asked.

She stepped aside and let him pass.

He walked away, his boots leaving dark tracks in the dew-covered grass.

There were flowers on the street where Joanna dwelled—daisies and verbena and snapdragons in bright window boxes, occasional clumps of tall hollyhocks in the narrow sideyards. Though the colors in her night-keen vision were raucous and beautiful, few of the blooms had any scent at all. and none so sweet as those in the gardens of her human youth. But as she followed the fair young man through the cluttered streets of Chelsea to the walled and iron-gated estates in Kensington, the gardens grew larger, the plantings more intricate. Some were given over entirely to roses, others to arbors of hanging purple and yellow-flowered vines. There were huge beds of orange and yellow with a spicy scent, so strong she could taste it as she moved over them, light as mist.

The gates of the young man's estate had already been opened to her by his invitation. She stayed close until the house was in sight, then hung back in the trees, falling into human shape. Watching. Watching.

The house was not as sprawling or ornate as her grandfather's, but it had a similar detailed charm in the delicately curved black iron of its porches and balconies, the design repeated in the benches on the forest path. Drawn by the fragrance of roses, she moved down one of these paths, stepping through wrought-iron gates in a low brick wall, her bare feet making no sound on the smooth cobblestones of the path.

On either side of her, beds of lavender and mint gave off a calming scent, lilies a spicier aroma, summer phlox their marvelous sweetness. Behind them were hydrangeas and taller lilies. Hedges walled off this charming space, and as she moved through a gap in them, she found herself in a larger space.

She had never seen anything like this—hedges cut into strange balls and triangles, beastly shapes and stars as if they were pieces of marble, the gardener their artist. An artist of scent as well as form, it would seem, since caught in the center of the lower, sculpted shapes were mounds of sweet alyssum punctuated with occasional sprigs of verbena.

Another hedge gave way to a vast expanse of lawn surrounded by a different set of flowering bushes hedged with violets and woodruff. She walked on grass now, keeping close to the shadows on the edge of the lawn until she came upon a gazebo nestled in a clearing in the bushes. It was a charming platform, three steps above the lawn and scarcely big enough for the bench and two chairs on it. She sat and took a deep, human breath, drawing in the melange of scent and the memories of the garden of her youth.

She had come across half a world on an uncertain voyage, and if she had known that this, only this, was at the end of it, the garden alone would have made the journey worthwhile.

She sat and dreamed of the garden of her youth for a time, then got up and walked on. What if she were mortal, the lady of this house, the princess of this castle? A pleasant dream as long as it lasted, a dream shattered when, lost in reveries, she did not notice a servant, a thin, small man, coming toward her until they nearly collided.

He dropped one of the pieces of wood he carried but ignored it. "Who are—" he began to ask.

She placed one finger over his lips, silencing him for a moment.

"So cold," he whispered. "Come inside. The cook is heating water for tea. Perhaps she'll give you something to eat before you have to go."

She shook her head and stared at him, trying for the same expression Illona had so often used with her. He backed away a few steps, then turned and ran, silent until he reached the kitchen. Then she could hear him babbling on about some intruder in the garden. She watched the staff from above as, holding lamps high, they traveled down paths seeking her.

"She was here, I tell you," the man insisted when, grumbling, they gave up the search and started for the house.

"Sure she was, Petey. And the sight of you in all your strength frightened her off, did it?" the cook taunted.

"More likely my promise of a meal from you," the man retorted, then added mostly to himself, "She was here. I saw her. It makes no difference if anyone believes me."

"He's been in the brandy again, that's what," the cook went on.

"Was not," he said and headed toward the rear grounds. "Well, not much, anyway," he added when he was out of earshot.

In time, even he gave up the search and went inside.

She waited as one by one the lights were extinguished and the house went dark.

Around her there was silence broken only by the howl of a stable hound, the rustling of some small creature in the leaves close to her feet.

Dare she go inside?

She did not have a beating heart to beat faster, no quickening breath to gauge her fear. But every nerve in her body vibrated a warning. She trembled, retreated almost to the edge of the lawn, then stopped and drew on the courage that had brought her across a continent and an ocean.

If he had meant to harm her, why this strange ruse? Why lure her here when he had already discovered her lair? When he knew that her servant was out?

Take him at his word, she thought, and forced herself forward and inside.

Two servants slept in the little room she'd entered; one a scullery maid, judging from the smell of lye soap that clung to her skin. The other had to be the cook, and as Joanna hovered close to her bed, she smelled wine and spices, onions and dill. And she slept so soundly. It would be such an easy matter to pull back the coverlet, undo the top laces of her nightshirt and take what she wished. She was so close to acting in her hunger, almost too close, when the thought of what might happen if she did and the woman woke made her pull back.

Hardly a fitting beginning to any sort of relationship with the man who owned this house. With one reluctant look back, she moved through the open door and down the empty hallway to the spotless kitchen. Through the pantry lay the formal dining room, the gilt-edged china on display in a glass-doored cabinet, a cut crystal vase of roses on the lace-covered table.

Beyond it, behind a pair of pocket doors, was the music room, with its benches and coffee tables, and a huge piano in the center. She pressed lightly on a bass key, and a low moan seemed to echo off the walls, as if the room itself were the sounding board. Startled and afraid that someone might hear and come to investigate, she moved quickly to the opposite side of the house.

Possessions were more numerous here—collections of paperweights and china flowers, tapestry pillows and lace doilies. Strange for a man to treasure such things. Perhaps they had been collected by his mother or grandmother and he could not part with them.

Was that how mortals held on to life after death? How they remembered their past?

So sad. So futile.

And so beautiful. She ran her thin fingers over the smooth curves of delicate glass flowers and intricate wood carvings polished to a rich patina. She sniffed empty cloisonné spice jars still holding the scents of India and China. Places he had visited, his family had known.

She sensed him in the room above her, and with concentration heard the steady in and out of sleep breath even through the thick walls.

She had intended merely to explore, but the temptation to observe him when he was helpless—to do what he could have so easily done to her—was too strong. In human form, every sense alert to danger, she climbed the stairs, moved down the hall. She might have been floating, so soft was the carpet, so light her step.

She entered the room as she had the garden, in human form, using the stealth she had perfected in her youth. The room was huge, the tall windows flung open as if he, having given an invitation, welcomed her to come. He lay on his stomach in the center of the huge four-poster, a thin coverlet over him. A half-finished glass of brandy lay within reach on the bedside table, not the first he'd drunk, given the sheen of sweat on his body in spite of the cool night.

What had made him so foolish as to seek her, challenge her? He had issued a challenge but had been uncertain of the outcome. That much had been clear in the quick beating of his heart, the smell of fear that hung about him as he'd left her standing in the park. She thought that if she stood here long enough, she would see through flesh and bone to the core of him and understand the puzzle he presented.

One she needed to solve; but carefully.

Afraid to wake him, startle him, perhaps force his hand and hers too soon, she moved away from the bed and studied the room. She saw nothing out of order here but a half-empty brandy bottle under the nightstand. Beside it was the photograph of a woman with fair hair and a heart-shaped face and an expression that, in spite of the formal pose, hinted of innocent wickedness.

She had left him? She had died? No matter, he mourned her and slept alone.

She wanted to touch him, wake him, speak to him as he had asked her to. But not yet, not until she was ready.

Though he did not wake, he seemed to sense her. He cried out in his sleep and rolled onto his side, one arm rising to brush against his face, the side of his neck.

Startled and nearly certain he was about to wake, she faded into mist and floated above him. When his eyes remained closed and his breathing slowed once more, she descended slowly. The mist enveloped him, air against flesh, cold against warmth. She fought the urge to take human form, coalescing finally into a ghostlike human shape. She lay with head against his shoulder, hand on his waist, thighs against his thighs, the mound that once would have taken him inside and given out life, pressed against his groin.

His breath was warm as it passed through her, and where he touched her she could feel the steady beating of his heart, the river of life it pushed through him.

She wanted the fantasy to continue, to be mortal for just this night. Instead, she'd become painfully aware of their difference, then of the passing hours, and the need that was growing inside her that must be met.

Enough! she thought, and retreated to the doors, the garden, the path, the wall, the poorer parts of the city—her city, now that she had learned the layout of its streets and rivers and claimed it for her own.

Tonight was different from the ones before. Tonight she could not be an observer of the life around her. Her hunger was too sharp to carry home.

Besides, she needed to be strong to solve this puzzle, not half-starved from a trusted servant's blood. And Colleen needed to be strong as well in case the man surprised her and turned out to be a danger.

She found a drunk sleeping in a narrow passage between two rotting houses. He didn't stir when she undid the putrid kerchief around his neck and bit, deep enough to take what she needed, shallow enough that he would live. The drink that warmed his blood assured that, if he was ever conscious enough to notice her, he would assume she was some phantasm in his sodden mind.

Sated, she returned to the house in Chelsea where Colleen waited, lying in bed in the dark but still awake.

As always Colleen tried to hide how frantic she had become. She lit a candle and glanced at her mistress. "You saw him?" she asked.

"More than saw. I spoke to him. He gave me his card." She handed it over to Colleen.

Colleen sat up and lit the lamp, then looked at the name. "Arthur Holmwood. Lord Go… Godalming," she read, frowning. "A lord. Does the name mean anything to you?"

"He tells me that he was one of the men who came to the castle. He knows so much." She got up and began to unhook her dress.

"Is that mud on your sleeve? No, blood! I can smell it. What did he do to you?" Colleen demanded.

"Nothing. I was hungry, so I took from someone else, that's all. You should be thankful when I do."

Colleen blew out the light and rolled onto her side, facing the wall.

Joanna stared at her back a moment, then stripped off the dirty clothes and lay down beside her.

Colleen's body was tense, but once she shuddered. She seemed to be holding back sobs. "I'll clean the dress in the morning," she said.

Not so long ago. surrounded only by her kind, Joanna would have given no thought to the girl's sorrow, or the hunger of that child she'd fed or the callousness of the baker she'd killed. But now, surrounded by the teeming human life of this city, she could feel a part of herself remembering back centuries to when she had been human, and all the emotions that a human soul possessed. She kissed the nape of Colleen's neck and stroked her hair, quieting the misery with her touch. "I saw the most marvelous garden tonight," she whispered with only the faintest breath. "Someday I will show it to you."

Colleen rolled over, pressed against her, nuzzled the wound Joanna had opened on her breast. She began gently, then became voracious, biting hard when the blood refused to flow. Joanna winced but held her tight and let her nurse.

Grow strong, child of my love, she thought. Grow strong.