James Asher 1 - Those Who Hunt The Night (22 page)

“Do you ever hunt in them?” Though none of the other vampires in the long, gold-papered salon came near them, he was conscious of the light run of their voices behind him, as they played cards with spectral speed and deftness or chatted with the half-murmuring whisper of the wind. Seated in a spindly Louis XVI chair opposite Elysee, he knew they were watching him and listening as only vampires could listen, like so many suave and mocking sharks lying just beneath the surface of water, whose shore he could never hope to reach in time. In one corner of the salon, a tall girl whose dark shoulders rose like bronze above a gown of oyster-colored satin played the piano—Tchaikovsky, but with a queer, dark curl to it, a sensuousness and syncopation, like music trickling from behind a mirror that looked into Hell.

“Fah, and subject myself to the rheumatism?” Elysee laughed, a cold and tinkling sound without mirth, and made a great play with her swan's-down fan.

“And for what, enfint?” One of the graceful young men who made up her coterie of fledglings lounged over to the end of her divan. This one was brown-haired, his blue eyes bright against rounded and beautiful features; Asher wondered if Elysee had made them all vampires for their looks. Like all of the half dozen or so of Elysee's cadre, he was dressed in the height of fashion, his jet black evening clothes meticulously tailored, contrasting sharply with the white of his shirt and of the flesh above. “A sewer sweeper, whom one must kill without conversation and hide, like a dog burying carrion? Where is the fun in that?” His fangs gleamed as he grinned down at Asher.

Elysee shrugged alabaster shoulders above a dark green gown. “In any case, their superintendents count the sweepers very carefully when they go down, and when they come up. And they are canaille, as Serge says, and no fun in the hunt.” She smiled briefly, dreamy delight in her green eyes with their terrible vampire glitter, like a greedy girl savoring the taste of forbidden liqueur. “Alors, there are eight hundred miles of sewers down there.  He would wither up like a prune, this Great, Terrible, Ancient Vampire of Paris whom no one has ever seen . . .”

“What about the catacombs?” Simon asked softly, disregarding the mockery in her voice. A curious silence lifted into the room like an indrawn breath. The piano stilled.

“We all been there, sure.” The dark girl rose from the instrument's bench, moved across the room with a deliberate, lounging slowness that somehow partook of the same eerie weightlessness that comprised the other vampires' speed. Instinctively Asher forced himself to concentrate on watching her, sensing that if he did not, she would be all but invisible in the movement of his eye. They had been speaking French—Ysidro's, as he had said, not only old-fashioned but with an occasional queer childish singsong quality to its pronunciation—but this girl spoke English, with a liquid American drawl. In spite of the almost unbearable lentitudinousness of her movements, she was behind him before he was ready for it, her tiny hand molding its way idly across his shoulders, as if memorizing the contours of them through the cloth of his coat. “They keep count there, too, of workers and visitors. You hid there, didn't you, Elysee, during the siege?”

There was just a touch of malice in her voice, like the artfully accidental stab of a pin, and Elysee's green eyes flickered at the reminder of what must have been an undignified flight from the rioting Communards. “And who would not have?” she demanded after a moment. “I took refuge there during the Terror as well, with Henriette du Caens. They weren't ossuaries then, you know—just old quarries in the feet of Montrouge, stretching away into darkness. Bien stir, Henriette used to say she thought there might be—something else—there. But I never saw nor heard anything.” There was a touch of defiance in her voice.

“But you were a fledgling then,” Simon replied in his soft voice, “were you not?”

“Fledgling or not, I was not blind.” She tapped half-irritably, half-playfully at his knuckles with her fan—when the ivory sticks came down Simon's gloved fingers were no longer beneath them, though Asher did not see the hand move. She turned back to Asher, a handsome woman if not pretty, with the face and body of a woman in her prime and eyes that had long since ceased to be human. She shrugged. “Eh bien, that was long ago. And toward the end Henriette feared everything. Francois and 1 had to hunt for her, among the mobs that roamed the city by night; we brought them to her there. Aye, and risked our lives, when wearing the wrong color of kerchief could set them all baying 'J
la lanterne' like the pack of scurvy hounds they were! Fran-gois de Montadour was the original owner of this hostel, you understand.” Her wave, wrist properly leading, was airy and formal, like a painting by David; the white plumes nodded in her hair. There were a dozen huge candelabra burning as well as the gas jets along walls and ceiling—the light caught in the glittering festoons of crystal lusters, in the long mirrors that ranged one wall, and in the black glass of the twelve-foot windows along the other, all thrown back in an unholy halo around her.

“He, Henriette, and I were the only ones to escape the Terror, and even Frangois did not, in the end, escape. After it was over . . .” She shrugged again, a gesture designed to show off the whiteness of her shoulders. Behind him, Asher could feel the dark American girl move closer to his chair, her body touching his back, her hands resting on his shoulders, the cold of them seeming to radiate against his flesh.

“Henriette never recovered, though she lived near a life span after that. Eh bien, she was after all a lady of Versailles. She used to say, nights when we had brought her some drunkard whose blood filled her with wine in turn, that no one who had not experienced the sweetness of those days could ever understand just what it was which had been lost. Perhaps she could not get used to the fact that it was gone.”

“She was an old lady,” the dark girl's voice said, syrupy and languorous from behind Asher's head. “She didn't need no drunkard's blood to loosen her tongue about the old days, about the kings and about Versailles.” Her nails idled at the ends of his hair, as if she toyed with a pet dog. “Just an old lady whinin' for yesterday.”

“When one day you return to Charleston, Hyacinthe,” Ysidro said quietly in the English in which Hyacinthe spoke, “and see where the American army shelled the streets where you grew up, when you find that men themselves have changed there, I hope you will remember.”

“Men never change.” She shifted her body again, her hip touching Asher's shoulder, a disturbing shiver passing into his body as if communicated by electricity. “They only die ... and there are always more men.”

“Even so.”

Asher found himself sitting very still, aware that Simon, behind Elysee's divan, was poised on the verge of lightning speed; aware, too, of the touch of a quarter-inch of Hyacinthe's fingertip against the skin of his throat. At Ysidro's request, he had left his silver chains behind at the hotel. They would never have let him in, the vampire had said, if they'd suspected, and such a show of bad faith would have damaged Ysidro's own somewhat questionable standing among them. Though Asher could not see it, he was aware of the quadroon girl's glance, teasing and defiant, daring Simon to stop her if she decided to kill this human protege of his, challenging him to try his speed against hers.

Ysidro went on softly, his eyes never leaving hers, “As for Henriette, she was a lady of Versailles, speaking even the language of 'this country,' as they used to call it: that enchanted Cythera that floated like an almond blossom balanced on a zephyr's breath above a cesspit. I understand her comparing the world after Napoleon marched through it to what it was before and finding it wanting. I think she simply grew tired of watching for danger, tired of struggling—tired of life. I saw her the last time I visited Paris, before the Prussians came, and I was not surprised to hear that she did not survive the siege. Did she ever speak, Elysee, of the Vampire of the Innocents?”

“No.” Elysee fanned herself, a nervous gesture, since Asher had observed that the other vampires seemed to feel neither heat nor cold. The others were slowly gathering around his chair in a semicircle behind Hyacinthe, facing Elysee on the divan and Simon at her back. “Yes. Only that there was one.” She made a scornful gesture which did not quite disguise her discomfort at the topic.

"The Innocents was a foul place, the ground mucky with the bodies rotting a few niches beneath the feet, skulls and bones lying everywhere on the ground. It stank, too. In the booksellers' and lingerie vendors' stands that were built in the arches, you could look up and see through the chinks in the rafters the bones stacked in the lofts above. The Great Flesh-Eater of Paris, we called it. Francois and the others—Henriette, Jean de Valois, old Louis-Charles d'Auvergne—sometimes talked about the stories of a vampire who lived there, a vampire no one ever saw.

After I became vampire I went there to look for him, but the place . , . I didn't like it." An old fear flickered briefly in those hard emerald eyes.

“Nobody blames you for that, honey, I'm sure,” Hyacinthe purred with malicious sympathy. “I'm thinking if he ever bided there at all, he's got to have been crazy as a loon.”

“Did Calvaire ever go there?” Asher inquired, turning his head to look up into her face, and she smiled down at him, beautiful as a long-contemplated sin.

“It was all gone 'fore Calvaire was even bit, honey.”

“Did he go to the catacombs, then? Did he ever speak of this—this spectral vampire?”

“Calvaire,” sniffed one of the other vampires, a dark-haired boy whom Asher had guessed had barely begun to grow a beard when Elysee had claimed him. “The Great Vampire of Paris. He might just.”

Asher glanced over at him curiously in the shimmering refulgence of light. “Why?”

Behind him, Hyacinthe replied with silky scorn, “Because it was the kind of thing the Great Vampire of Paris would do.”

“He was very taken with being—one of us,” explained Elysee slowly.

The brown-haired young man, Serge, seated himself gracefully on the divan at Elysee's feet. “We all have a little fun, when we can,” he explained with a grin that would have been disarming, but for the fangs. “Calvaire was just a little grandiose about it.”

“I don't understand.”

Hyacinthe's fingers touched his hair. “You wouldn't, under the circumstances.”

“Calvaire was a braggart, a boaster,” Elysee said, closing her swan's-down fan, stroking the soft white fluff between fingers as hard and as pale as the ivory of the sticks. “Like some others.” Her glance touched Hyacinthe for a malignant instant. “To sit with your victim in an opera box, a cafe, or a carriage—to feel the blood with your lips through the skin, spinning it out as long as you can, waiting . . . then to go drink elsewhere, only to quench the thirst, and go back the next night to him again, to that personal, innocent death . . .” She smiled dreamily once more, and Asher was conscious of a slight movement among the vampires behind him and of the swift flick of Ysidro's eyes.

"But Valentin carried it a step further, a dangerous step. Perhaps it was partly that he wanted power, that he wanted fledglings of his own, though he dared not make them here in Paris, where I rule, where I dominated him through that which he gave me in passing from life to . . . everlife. But I think he did it for the—the 'kick,' as you say in English—alone. He would sometimes let his victim know, especially the victims who found it piquant to know how near they flirted with death.

“He would lead them into it, seduce them ... he had a fine grace and would play death like an instrument, drinking it, in all its perverse sweetness. Bien stir, he could not be permitted to continue . , .”

“It is a dangerous thing,” the boy vampire to Asher's right said, “to let anyone know just who we are and what we are, no matter what the reason.”

“He was furious when I forbade it him,” Elysee remembered. “Furious when I forbade him to make fledglings of his own, his own coterie ... for that was the reason he gave. But I think that it was just that he enjoyed it.”

“But then,” Hyacinthe murmured, “the ones he told always expected to win.”

Something in her voice made Asher look up; her hand caught him very lightly under the jaw, forcing his head back so that his eyes met hers. Under her fingers, he could feel the movement of his own pulse; she was looking down into his eyes and smiling. For a moment it did not seem to him that he breathed, sensing Simon's readiness to spring and knowing there was no way—even if Elysee's fledglings did not try to stop him—that he could cross the distance in the time it would take Hyacinthe to strike.

Elysee's voice was soft, as if she feared to tip some fragile balance. “Let him alone.” He saw Hyacinthe's mocking smile widen and felt the slight tensing of her fingertips against his throat.

Quite deliberately, he put up his hand and grasped the cold wrist. For an instant it was like pulling at the limb of a tree; then it yielded, mockingly fluid in his, and she stepped back as he stood up. But she still smiled into his eyes, lazily amused, as if he'd failed some test of nerve, and there was in the honey-dark eyes the savoring of what it was like to seduce a victim who knew what was happening. His eyes held hers; then, just as deliberately, he dismissed her and turned back to Elysee.

“So you don't believe Calvaire sought out this—this most ancient vampire in Paris.”

The fan snapped open again, indignant. Elysee's eyes were on Hyacinthe, not on him. “I am the most ancient vampire in Paris, Monsieur le Professeur,” she said decidedly. “There is no other, nor has there been for many years. And en tout cas, you—and others—” Her glance shot spitefully from Hyacinthe to Ysidro, who had somehow come around the divan to her side and within easy grasping range of Asher. “—would do well to remember that the single law among vampires, the single law that all must obey, is that no vampire will kill another vampire. And no vampire . . ” Her eyes narrowed, moved to Asher, and then back to the slender, delicate Spaniard standing at her side. “. . . will do that which endangers other vampires by giving away their haunts, their habits, or the very fact of their existence, to humankind.”