Perfect Shadows (10 page)

“It was necessary, Kit, but you went into such violent
convulsions that it was all Geoffrey could do to keep you out of the fireplace.
He held you immobile for hours, until the convulsions eased enough for us to
get you back upstairs. It happens that way sometimes.”

“Will you untie me?”

“No,” said Geoffrey from the doorway. “Not for a time yet. We
have much to discuss, and you, I doubt not, have many questions.”

“I was . . . Frizer wouldn’t have stopped at half blinding me.
He meant my death: I read it in his face.”

“Frizer murdered you while Skeres held you down and Poley kept
watch at the door,” Nicolas said quietly. Another spasm, though again shorter
and less furious, lashed through my bound and weary body. He fetched water and
a cloth from the table and bathed my face. “One of my serving-men was in
Deptford when it happened. He told me of your death.”

“I hope they hanged Frizer in Tom’s full sight!” I raged, then
asked, ”What?” as Nicolas glanced at Geoffrey, who nodded slightly.

“He did not hang at all, Kit. The verdict at the inquest was
self defense,” Nicolas told me softly, bracing himself as if he expected me to
convulse again, but there was only a single fierce tremor before I brought
myself back under control, laughing bitterly.

“Well, Tom was ever a better friend to him than to me. But how
is it, then, that I live?” I looked first to Nicolas, then to Geoffrey, but it
was Nicolas who finally spoke.

“You remember the night we met, and I read the markings in your
hand for you? Yes, well, I did not tell you all that I saw. Rózsa saw it first.
The line of your life broke off short: you would die young, and soon. A closer
look revealed a star on the line of the head: you would die violently from a
wound to the head—Rózsa was most upset. We are not as other folk, Kit. Have you
heard of vampires?” I searched my ragged memory.

“Spirits that return from the dead to prey upon the living? But
spirits have no flesh. . . .” I forced my mind from its path, my gaze flicking
between Geoffrey and Nicolas as Nicolas spoke again.

“We are not spirits, Kit, or at least no more so than are other
men. This—condition is passed from us to mortals by the exchange of blood.” He
saw the hot color flood my face and laughed gently. “Oh, I know not the
details, only that Rózsa found you apt and made such an exchange with you. She
was wrong not to give you the choice, to make the exchange and leave you
unaware of the possible consequences of your actions.”

“I would have chosen no differently if she had,” I reflected.

“And even so you might yet have died, Kit, for the exchange
alone will not make the vampire. It is the will to live, the defiance of death
itself that makes us so.

“So there you lay, to all appearances as dead as your enemies
could wish you, and none knew that you yet might live save Rózsa and I. The
inquest seemed to take an eternity, and we were nearly frantic; it was held on
the first day of June, the third day since the murder, and on that night you
would rise, if indeed you were not truly dead. We considered stealing your body
if necessary, but as it happened, the inquest was swiftly over. We bribed the
sexton, your body was secretly handed to us and a pauper lies in the unmarked
grave meant for you.” I stared at him blankly for a few seconds then started to
tremble. Nicolas started towards me, as if he thought another convulsion was
coming on, until he realized I had collapsed against my restraints in helpless
mirth, the tears streaming down my face.

“‘He gave them the cup, saying this is my blood . . . and on the
third day he rose again from the dead’. . . .” I gasped when I could get a
breath. Geoffrey and Nicolas glanced at each other, Geoffrey frowning, but
Nicolas smiling indulgently, then Geoffrey stepped to the door. “Jehan,” he
called softly, and the serving-man I had seen before entered. He was tall and
graceful, with an air of barely-subdued strength. His face was handsome in an
unusual, predatory way, with high cheekbones beneath tilted eyes of feral gold.
I noticed he had the same curious aspect as Anneke: he seemed almost to glow.

“You must feed, Christopher, if you are to live. We have not fed
you these several days, to sap the strength of your convulsions, but soon you
will starve. You must now make your final choice,” Geoffrey said. “You must
take the living blood from this man’s veins to nourish yourself, and sustain
this life you have chanced upon, or refuse, and starve, to find yet the death
you might have had.” Geoffrey’s face was impassive as he motioned to Nicolas
and the two left the room. Jehan sat on the bed, close to me. I realized with
sudden dread that I was expected to bite into a vein and drink the blood of
this man, who was, it seemed, entirely in favor of the procedure. My stomach
twisted and I viewed the man with some alarm.

“I am Jehan, Master Marlowe,” the big man said gently, and
pressed the pulsing vein in his wrist to my dry lips. I had meant to turn my
head away, but the scent of his living flesh overcame my reluctance, and
instinctively my teeth caught the vein, penetrating the skin. My mouth filled
with his warm sweet blood and my body with new strength as the liquid flowed
like sparking fire down my throat. There was a different gratification
suffusing me, not overwhelming, as when Rózsa had taken my blood, but a warmth
of feeling that deepened as I drank. All too soon the wrist was forced from me.
Geoffrey had returned and pulled Jehan away. Jehan, his eyes content and
sleepy, leaned forward and kissed my lips, still wet with his blood, then
turned to rest his head across my knees and sank into slumber. I felt the
familiar lethargy claiming me, and I too, slept.

Awaking slowly some hours later, I jerked against the
restraints, for the head that rested so warmly on me was not that of a man at
all, but that of a large wolf. A very large wolf. The animal raised his head
and eyed me with a lupine grin before spilling off the bed to the floor, where,
before my unbelieving gaze, a mist seemed to envelop it, a mist that elongated
then solidified into a man’s shape: Jehan. A very naked and well-built Jehan,
who smiled at me, scooped up the tangle of his clothing from the floor by the
bed, then left the room. Almost immediately, Geoffrey entered, crossed to the
bed, and began to unknot my bonds. “Mayhap you should wait, for I may yet be
mad!” I told him, and described what I had just seen, but he only nodded and
finished his task.

“No, you are not mad; Jehan
is
a wolf, but he is also a
man. His clan has served my family for centuries, an association of benefit to
us both. His folk are easily swayed by their animal natures and would often run
afoul of society if they had not someone to protect and guide them. They serve
us in return. Now, do you dress yourself and come downstairs.” Geoffrey did not
seem to think that I should require any assistance, and I was most eager to
prove him right.

I dressed in the clothing I had worn before and started down the
stairs. At the landing a wave of giddiness swept over me and I might have
fallen, had not a serving-wench dropped the bundle she carried and caught me in
her arms. She had the look of Jehan about her, the tip-tilted gold eyes and the
dark burnished hair. She held me a moment then stepped back before the nearness
of her, the vitality, could entice me further. She caught my right hand in both
of hers and pressed a kiss into my palm before picking up her bundle and
scurrying up the stairs. Bemused, I made my way to the study with no further
mishap, and found Geoffrey and Nicolas awaiting me. I sat in the vacant chair
between them, as I had before. “Tell me about vampires,” I said. Geoffrey gave
me a long, considering stare before replying.

“There are several kinds of vampires,” he began. “Bloodlines, we
call them. You may think of us as families, with many characteristics, some
differing and some the same. Our bloodline is the Alexandrine, but more about
that at another time.

“There are many myths about our kind, most of which have no
factual basis. We breathe, but perhaps from force of habit rather than need, as
a lack of air does not kill us. There is actually very little that
may
kill those of our family; fire, certainly, or decapitation; wood is harmful to us,
but metal is not. Oh, a blade will cut our flesh and we will bleed for a short
time, but we heal completely from the most grievous wounds, and do not die. If
Frizer had used a wooden weapon you would indeed have died from the injury he
inflicted; as it was you were much damaged, and will be healing for some time
to come. It is often so, with the wounds that turn us from our former lives.

“We can starve, but that is rare, for our gifts are great. The
attraction Rózsa exerted upon you, against your natural inclinations, is an
example. It acts as a lure to call our chosen to us.”

“Where is Rózsa?” I broke in. “She said once that I called her,
one night when I was unhappy and alone.” Geoffrey nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, where we become emotionally involved a link may be forged.
She is in Paris now. We sent her away when you first awoke last summer.”
“Last summer? But—”

“Anon, Kit. I will lend you my journals from the period. It was
for the best, as you will see,” Nicolas counseled, and with that I had to be content
as Geoffrey continued his discourse.

“We do reflect in mirrors, being, as you have pointed out, of
solid flesh. That misconception came about, I believe, when men, knowing less
of optics, thought that what a mirror reflected was the soul, and it is supposed
we have none. The sun is not necessarily deadly to our kind, and still less so
the older we are, but prolonged exposure can damage us past the point of
healing ourselves without aid, and daylight is not our natural element: it can
leave us sluggish and vulnerable. The lethargy it induces is heaviest when we
are newly risen, and that is when we are at our most vulnerable.

“We do not change our shapes, but our servants do, accounting
for that myth, I think. It is useful to us, is it not, that mortals are misled
in so many particulars?” I stared pensively at the fire.

“That is not the first time that ‘mortals’ have been referred
to. Are we, then, immortal?”

“Virtually, Kit, virtually,” Nicolas answered. “How old would
you guess me to be?” I studied the figure before me.

“Fifty?” I hazarded. Von Poppelau nodded solemnly.

“So I was, and more, when I died more than ninety years ago.” He
settled back in his chair to tell his story.

“I was in the Low Countries when I received the letter from Rózsa’s
mother, Anna, my god-daughter,” he said. “She was in Barcelona with her
husband, Adán Francisco de Salinas y Verdad. They had run afoul of the
Inquisition, and she feared for their lives, and for their young daughter. I
left immediately, but I came to Barcelona too late to save Anna and Adán: they
had been burnt as heretics.

Rózsa, their daughter, was to be put to the question on her
fourteenth birthday, late in October. She was imprisoned in a convent outside
the city, and the Abbess agreed with me that her nuns would be much more
edified by the sight of five hundred pieces of gold in the abbey coffers than
by that of one more girl being burnt to the glory of God. I waited in the
darkened chapel for the girl to be brought to me, fearing our capture, and
knowing the penalties if they took us alive; I fingered my dagger and resolved
that would not be. The Abbess brought the girl, pitifully thin and abused, and
vanished with her gold.

“The convent priest surprised us as we were leaving. I thought
for a moment that the Abbess had betrayed us, but no, he was alone. I was fast
approaching my threescore years, but still hale and vigorous withal. I leapt
upon him, knocking him to the ground. Rózsa had seemed distant, indifferent to
what happened to her, but no more. She sprang on the priest, jerking the cord
from his waist and swiftly binding his hands behind him. I stuffed his cowl
into his mouth, knotting his rosary securely about it to gag him. Between us we
wrestled him into the sanctuary and hid him in the shadows under the altar.

“Without a word we left the church and mounted the waiting
horses, which I had hidden a little way off. We rode for the harbor, only
pausing once, for Rózsa to change into the boy’s clothing I had brought for
her. Her hair had already been cut short by the nuns.

“We went by sea as far as Genoa, and overland from there to
Budapest, where I took Rózsa to her aunt’s house. The journey had taken almost
two months, and the child looked much healthier, though still painfully thin.
The bitch wouldn’t see us, just sent word by a servant that as far as the
family was concerned Anna had died the day she had married a Spaniard, and the
dead bear no children,” Nicolas shook his head. “Rózsa said nothing, just leant
over and spat on the polished floor, then walked away without looking back.

“I took her with me to Prague and she became my daughter. But
the time she had spent in the prison with her parents had taken its toll, and
in the convent she had not been allowed to rest and regain her health, but
rather made to do work too heavy for a child of her brittle strength. The
winter following her fifteenth birthday I watched the signs of the consumption
growing in her. I had seen it before in another dear one, and I could not bear
it. The physicians said that mountain air would be good for her, so in the
spring we traveled to Bavaria, and there we met Prince Geoffrey, who had taken
a house there and asked us to stay with him.