The Dark Arts of Blood (28 page)

“Well, you never know.” Stefan gazed at the sky. “Oh, we should make it fancy dress!”

“Don’t,” said Charlotte. “You might put people off coming. Anyway, you and Niklas look wonderful in whatever you wear. Everyday suits, eighteenth-century finery, anything. Be careful, if you don’t want to become the playthings of some rich widow…”

“Oh, we have been.” Stefan’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve lost count of the dowager duchesses who have doted upon us. Not to mention dukes and counts, princes and princesses… Until they become
our
playthings in return.”

“You’re perverse, Stefan,” said Karl.

“You’re jealous. We have fun, don’t we, Niklas? And we offer so much pleasure in return. Why not spread it as far and wide as we can? All we take in payment is a sip of blood.”

“A sip?” Charlotte raised her eyebrows. Stefan winked. “I thought we were discussing the matter of my party dress.” She pointed to a flowing design of golden-fawn and rose hues with handkerchief points, all silk, lace and sequins. “I do like this.”

“Only the most expensive item in the catalogue!” Stefan grinned. “It is very
you
, though. Excellent choice.”

“I’ll pay for it, in any case.”

“No, you won’t.” Stefan picked up her hand and gave it a tender kiss. “My party, my treat.”

“What’s amusing you?” she asked Karl, who was shaking his head.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just glad to see you smiling again.”

* * *

Dawn came, splashing the Alps with fire and turning Lake Lucerne to liquid gold. Godric had not slept. His house guests slumbered – those who were part of the
Eidgenossen
no doubt restless with bad dreams – but he had prowled the quiet house all night. Run through several movie reels in his private cinema. Scribbled a few pages of his new script, sketched some ideas for scenes and costumes. Sleep was impossible. He wasn’t even tired.

The mood after Bruno’s death had been grim. His followers’ blood-lust had swiftly faded to a kind of sombre guilt.

Godric guessed every thought in their minds.

What have we done? Will that be me in Bruno’s place, if I put a foot wrong? Oh, but the thrill of taking his life. The rush of power.

He’d dispatched Wolfgang and a couple of others to sneak the body into a van and drive it deep into the forest for burial. Anyone who asked would be told that Bruno had gone back to his family. He was not especially popular. No one would really notice or care that he’d left.

Spying upon them in the beer hall had somewhat reassured Godric of their loyalty, but had not made him complacent. Their terror kept them under his control.

In his office, Godric held up the piece of linen imprinted with Bruno’s blood. Dazzling flecks of sunlight gleamed through the weave. Rather than the delicate streaks made by the shallow cuts of initiation, the blood was so copious that the symbol was almost lost, just one great random splodge of brown-red gore. Once it was properly dry, he would frame it.

Paradoxically, blood revolted him, but he endured his revulsion for the sake of power.

When his father’s daggers drew blood, something magical happened. Godric had discovered the phenomenon years ago, from his father’s papers and his own experiments. He’d never felt anything like the flood of energy generated by the blades entering flesh. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that Fadiya’s instruction – to add the name of “Zruvan” to the ritual – made the power even more potent.

When Bruno died, the moment released lightning-bolts through every cell of Godric’s body. Somewhat painful, highly exhilarating. The energy continued to flow in delicious pure white currents. It made sleep impossible. Unnecessary.

His inner circle had absorbed some too, but Godric had taken the main share.

He was ecstatic, ready to explode with new-found confidence. He
knew
he was something more than human now. Exactly what he was becoming, though, he was unsure. A touch of unease gnawed at him, as it had since he’d begun to experiment with the
sakakin
in his youth.

With every ritual meeting, every new rune, his strength grew. But what if he couldn’t control the process? What if he was actually destroying himself? Some nights, feverish, he would pace and pace and forget to eat. His strange sensations, hallucinations and dizzy spells often alarmed him.

That was why he kept asking Dr Ochsner, “Are you sure there is nothing wrong with me?”

Now he thought,
To hell with Ochsner. Nothing in his medical training can explain this. As he said, he’s just a mechanic.

“Godric?”

Her voice made him start. Fadiya appeared from nowhere, as if a piece of shadow had come to life. As she came soundlessly towards him, he felt his usual irritation at her presence, accompanied by the hateful sense of being in thrall. The room darkened around her.

Perhaps his ever-increasing strength would enable him to kill her soon.

“I watched your little ritual,” she said huskily. “I have never seen the
sakakin
used quite like that before. It was… interesting.”

“You seem to struggle with the concept of privacy,” he said sharply. “If I’d wanted you to observe, I would have invited you. Members of my
Eidgenossen
only.”

She only smiled. “The forces you raised were impressive, but you can’t keep me out. They are my knives: I only let you borrow them. Do you even know what you are doing?”

The question made him go still. He
thought
he knew. He dared not consider the possibility of being wrong. But his plans were none of her business, so he didn’t answer.

“Oh, Godric,” said Fadiya. She came too close and pressed her fingertips into his cheekbones – an overfamiliar gesture that made him recoil. Still, there was a definite note of awe in her voice. “What have you done to yourself?”

“None of your concern.”

“But it is. The daggers were not meant to be used in human rituals. I can’t
make
you tell me your intentions, but I am sincerely interested. I still say that we should help each other, not fight.” She fingered the edge of the linen. “Why do you make these blood patterns?”

His fresh confidence and expanding perceptions made him want to boast, and who else dare he talk to?
I refuse to be afraid of her. If seeming to trust her makes her more inclined to help me, why not?

“Symbols have power,” he said. “I hesitate to use the word ‘magic’, but they can change reality by focusing minds.”

Fadiya nodded. “And why do you want power?”

“Who doesn’t?” He laughed. “This small country may seem nothing to you, but it’s the most glorious place in the world to me. It’s the very heart of Europe. If I could bring all the cantons under my control – well, then, I’d make Switzerland such a force that I’d be regarded as her greatest ever hero.”

“I wish men would not insist on being kings or gods over everyone else,” she said softly, to herself more than to him.

“Being a
hero
is different,” he retorted. “I’ll use my position for good. My
Eidgenossen
comrades know that. They would not support me otherwise.”

“It’s persuading everyone else that’s the trouble.”

“I can do it. My films will sway them. And once I’m in power, no one,
no one
will ever dare to laugh at my work again!”

Fadiya smiled, beautiful yet impassive.

“What if I could bring you Emil Fiorani?” she said.

“What do you mean, bring him?”

“As a star for your new movie. If anyone could make people love your work, it’s him.”

“I have a star. Wolfgang is proving an excellent leading man.”

“But no one knows him. Emil is famous, and as beautiful as a fair Valentino. Audiences would climb over each other to see him.”

Godric bit the tip of his tongue until it hurt. He fumbled for a cigarette. “I don’t need him. He and his employer Madame Lenoir have treated me with a level of disrespect that I can’t easily forgive.”

“I heard she’s difficult. But they receive all the acclaim and love, don’t they, while you only attract… laughter.”

“I have powerful friends,” he snapped.

“And I’m one of them,” Fadiya said in the same smooth tone. “If I could part Emil from her, they’ll both be weakened, which will make you stronger.”

Godric sucked a lungful of smoke and held it. She had a point. He’d wanted to film Violette’s ballet to increase his own prestige, but she and Emil had dismissed him as if swatting a gnat. So, to gain some advantage over them, perhaps to have her
begging
him to send Emil back in exchange for free filming access… That would put him, Godric, effectively in control of her public image.

“It’s a thought,” he said, releasing a wisp of smoke. “Interesting.”

Fadiya gave a slow, cat-like blink. “What do you actually want, Godric?” she asked.

“I’ve already told you.”

“No,” she said, “what do you
truly
want?”

He exhaled the rest of his breath in a billowing cloud. When it touched Fadiya she vanished, as if she’d dispersed with the smoke.

* * *

“I told you about the strange episode with my memory, yet you still trust me to do this?” said Charlotte, standing in the silvery bower of Violette’s living room.

“You seem perfectly rational to me,” said the dancer. “There’s no one I trust more.”

“I hope you appreciate that I’m extremely uncomfortable about it. I thought we were friends. Blood sisters. Equals.”

“Of course we are.” Violette rested one hand on Charlotte’s upper arm.

“And yet I find myself being used as a spy.”

Violette had the grace to look remorseful. “I know, and I’m sorry – but who can I trust, if not you and Karl? I can’t ask my human assistants without compromising Emil’s dignity – he needs to stay private and untouchable, like me, at least to outside eyes. And who can observe him without being noticed, better than a vampire?”

“I understand. I’m simply telling you that I’m not happy.”

“Your distress is noted, my sweet friend,” Violette said mildly. “It won’t be forever, or for very long, I hope. I said I’d prefer him not to go out, but I didn’t
forbid
him, so I’ve only myself to blame if he does. I admit, I’m disappointed he chose to ignore a clear hint. But, since he persists in defying me, I
must
know what he’s up to. Have you anything for me?”

“Er… yes.” Charlotte wondered how to phrase the news so Violette would not hit the roof. Nothing for it but the plain truth. “He’s seeing someone.”

“Who?” The blue-violet eyes shone with anger.

“I’ve only glimpsed her from a distance. A young woman, very striking and fashionable. Dark hair, darkish skin – I think she might be Arabian, or perhaps Persian or Egyptian: I’m not sure.”

“How many times have you seen them together?”

“Three times in the last week. Once, walking arm in arm by the lake. Another time, going into a restaurant. And once, entering the Hotel Blauensee by the lake.”

“A hotel. So he’s sleeping with her.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I can’t tell, without following them into the bedroom – and I draw the line at that. I assume he is, though.”

Violette’s eyes glittered. She looked incandescent. She let her hand drop from Charlotte’s arm but otherwise stayed motionless, like a cat about to pounce. “He certainly got over me swiftly.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. She’s consolation, that’s all.”

“Well, it has to stop.”

“Does it?” Charlotte moved away and perched on a chair arm. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? You know my rules. My dancers are required to abstain from relationships, whether it’s with each other or with outsiders.”

“Is this a ballet company or a monastery?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm. Dancing isn’t any job, it’s a vocation. If we are to be the best in the world, I require complete dedication – and, yes, sacrifice.”

“And of course, no one has ever dared disobey you,” said Charlotte. “Not one of them has
ever
had a secret dalliance under your leadership. No one, ever, not once.”

Violette’s lips thinned. She gave a slow, emphatic blink.

“Very amusing, Charlotte. All right, perhaps my rules are unrealistic, but it’s a matter of discipline – yes, precisely as if they were in the army or a religious order. But I’m not naïve. No doubt half of them are breaking the rules as we speak. The point is…”

“Not to be found out,” Charlotte finished. She smiled. “My Aunt Elizabeth taught me that. We’re governed by the conventions of society, but how people
actually
behave is rather different. Yet the truth can’t be admitted openly. So her other piece of advice was that, if a person
is
found out, everyone should act as if nothing has happened.”

Violette laughed out loud.

“How British. So when you were caught out with Karl, your family sat down over a nice cup of tea and said nothing beyond, ‘Pass the sugar’?”

“Well… yes and no. They expressed every shade of shock, disapproval and rage you can imagine, and I deserved it. If it had been an everyday scandal, they would have forgiven me in the end. I think even Henry would have harrumphed and ignored the whole thing – it’s dreadfully bad manners to notice that your wife’s having an affair! But they knew what Karl
was
, you see. That was the difference.”

“Oh, that’s the line, is it? You could have fallen from grace with a poet, a gypsy, a coalman, a jazz musician…”

“But really not with a vampire who has drunk your blood and inadvertently nearly killed your brother’s best friend,” Charlotte said in a low voice. “To be fair, my aunt stuck to her principles: she was the only one who more or less forgave me, as if to say, ‘Oh well, it’s not the first time in history someone’s fallen for the wrong man.’ If anything, she seemed to like me better after I’d disgraced myself.”

“Interesting. A guilty conscience of her own?”

“Probably, but she was a realist. We’re straying off the subject. What I’m saying is this. If I were you, I’d turn a blind eye. Let Emil have his secret affair. If he’s found an outlet for his… feelings, he’s less likely to be fixated on you, isn’t he? Then, when he’s with you, he can put all his energy into dancing. Isn’t that what you want?”