The Dark Blood of Poppies (20 page)

Josef wilted with relief. Charlotte touched his arm, aware that she, too, had been rigid from head to foot.

“Charlotte?” Karl said softly.

“Damn it,” she said. “I should know Violette well enough by now! Why does she still make me feel like this?”

“I’d say you have good reason to be afraid,” Josef said heavily. “I can’t explain, but she terrified me on a level that even you have never touched. What I can make of this, without speaking to her, I don’t know.”

“We shouldn’t have involved you, Josef,” said Karl. “This is not for humans to deal with.”

“Karl’s right,” said Charlotte. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t give up so easily.”

“I’ll go to Violette.” She made to stand up, but Karl’s hand pinioned her.

“Don’t,” he said. “You know how unpredictable she is. Leave her. She’ll come to you soon enough.”

“Very well,” she said, knowing he was right. “Josef, you should go back to the hotel.”

“Nonsense. I’m perfectly all right.” Josef looked gravely at her. “It’s Robyn I’m concerned about. I was a fool to bring her.” His glance flicked to Karl and back.

Charlotte saw the look, and sighed inwardly.

“Robyn is not in danger,” she said firmly. “Don’t worry about her. You’re safe, and so is she, I promise.”

* * *

Robyn was pleasantly surprised to find the garden almost deserted; a handful of guests were smoking on the terrace, but no one took any notice as she passed. How lovely to be alone in the night, with the scent of honeysuckle and orange blossom floating around her. Passing a couple who were pressed between an ivy-covered tree and a wall, she started. In shadow she saw a man’s back, a mass of dark hair, the woman’s hands like pale sea anemones against his evening jacket. For a moment she thought they were Karl and Charlotte – but no, she’d left them inside with Josef. Only a courting couple, wrapped up in each other. She passed quickly, pretending she hadn’t seen them.

Robyn found a tree to hide her from the house and leaned against it, feeling the bark imprinting her bare back.
I must shake off this foolish mood. Why is Josef being so mysterious about his friends?

“I guess he’ll tell me in his own good time,” she murmured aloud. She stretched, breathed the sweet air, exhaled.

“Will he tell you?” said a voice in the darkness. “Men tell women so little. It’s their last weapon, keeping us in the dark.”

Robyn jumped. The voice was English, as delicate as frost-feathers, sharp as a sliver of crystal. Holding herself steady, she called, “Who is that? How do you know so much?”

There was movement, and Robyn saw the woman framed in a trellis arch against scattered light from the house. A dancer’s silhouette in an ashes-of-roses dress like a dewed cobweb, witch-black hair. Robyn couldn’t see her face.

“I’ll tell you what I know,” said the dancer, “if you’ll tell me.”

Detaching herself from the tree, Robyn approached her.

“Sure, would you like to hear some stories?” said Robyn. Incredible excitement and pain fountained inside her, none of it betrayed by her casual tone.

“Oh, yes. Tell me,” said Violette, holding out a hand – the hand that had earlier described Odette’s grief and Odile’s malevolence so eloquently.

So began their conversation, without preliminaries or awkwardness. There were no social barriers in the darkness, only empathy.

“I’m Violette,” said the dancer.

“I know who you are, Madame.”

“You have the advantage, then.” Violette slipped her hand through Robyn’s arm; how deliciously soft their flesh felt, pressed together. “Even I don’t know who I am. But please call me Violette.”

“I guess all that attention must be… exhausting. I’m Robyn.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Robyn.”

“You found it a little crowded inside?”

“Too hot, too crowded. I need to get away sometimes.”

“Away from their eyes,” said Robyn. They walked side-by-side along paved paths, between neat rows of trellis hung with roses, honeysuckle and vines. At intervals there were arbours with clipped bay trees in tubs. Robyn was slightly above average height, and felt clumsily large beside the petite dancer.

“Thirsty eyes,” Violette agreed. “They have eyes like vampires, even the women, though the men are the worst. You’re right, it is tiring, trying to satisfy their demands. The social demands, I mean.”

“What about other demands?” Robyn risked impertinence. “Or don’t they dare?”

“A few have tried.” The dancer’s tone was chilly. “Not many. But I want to hear about you, Robyn. Tell me.” She spun round in front of her, took both her hands and pulled her along as if dancing. Robyn saw her eyes: expressive blue-violet jewels caged by black lashes and arched black brows. Hypnotic with light and life, yet strangely hard, as if they contained a vast and ruthless soul.

Violette led her to a bench under a cavern of Virginia creeper. Robyn felt drugged, dream-laden. She was acutely aware of being in the company of a virtual goddess, at a loss to understand why the ballerina had chosen her to the exclusion of all others – but rather than making her feel awkward, this enhanced the weird thrill of their encounter. It was so easy to talk to Violette. She unwound Robyn’s story like silk.

“It was my father’s fault,” Robyn began. “I’m nothing to him. He must have been capable of love once, when he met my mom. He met her in Vienna, married her there and brought her back to Boston. Unfortunately, he didn’t realise she was Jewish – or rather, he realised, but didn’t understand that marrying an outsider would stop him taking his place in society. She wasn’t a girl from the right Boston family, you see. He should’ve known, but he was young, hot-headed. So he had to work extra hard to achieve his goals, and it left him a little bitter because he was
very
ambitious, had to be the biggest man in town. To him, his children were… how can I put it? Commodities.” She leaned back on the creeper-covered wall, feeling the tender leaves against her skin, aware of Violette’s cool radiance beside her. “Wasn’t so hard for my brothers; they only had to succeed in business. But my sisters and me… well, we were all pretty, and that made us valuable. So he sold us.”

“Sold?” Violette sat forward, her face intent. Robyn was amazed to have shocked her.

“You know, business deals. Favours. ‘Sign this contract and your son gets my beautiful, rich daughter.’ That’s how I came to marry Samuel James Stafford.”

“And you had no say in the matter?”

“You don’t know my father. He always gets his own way. I was young and scared of him, and Mom always took his side. So I decided to make the best of it, convinced myself I loved Samuel. He was handsome in a cold, Harvard sort of way, and completely obsessed by me. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. So everything was fine,” she said sarcastically.

Violette leaned towards her, holding Robyn’s bare arms, and something eerie and inexplicable happened. Her magnificent, luminous eyes captured Robyn’s. It seemed they entered another place together, where no one else existed, and Robyn’s life was unreeling in a necklace of images.

Her husband’s jealous cruelty. Sexual degradation that escalated to brutality. His bouts of drunkenness, beatings from which she barely emerged alive. And then, webbing her into the sticky prison of deceit, his apologies, his endless promises to change, his pathetic declarations of love… and the cycle began again.

“I could do nothing. No one would have believed me. Divorce would bring disgrace on my family and wreck my father’s most important business connections. That was the truly horrible thing,” she whispered, her wrists now resting on Violette’s shoulder, their faces close together. “That both our fathers had sold me into this, because they both knew what Samuel was like before he married me.
They knew.
And I was a slab of drugged meat to tame the hyena, to keep him from damaging his family’s status. They all knew, these men. What could I do against their silent conspiracies, their handshakes and deals, when a daughter or a wife is just a thing to be bought and sold?”

Tears of rage ran down her cheeks. The wind rustling the creeper sounded like rain. “I conceived and miscarried five times. Three of those were because he’d hit me or knocked me downstairs, the others out of despair, I think. I never conceived again. So he decided I was the devil because I was barren. Eight years of hell, and then heaven smiled on me. The bastard died of a heart attack.

“When we came home from the funeral, my housekeeper Alice and I locked the doors. I tore off my widow’s weeds and we danced and laughed like a pair of mad witches. And then… I set about taking revenge.”

“Against the men you hated?”

“Against all men. Couldn’t do much to my own dad because it would’ve hurt Mom, but I got Samuel’s father; I seduced him, ruined his marriage and business within a year. And then others. Young and old. I decided that no man was ever going to use me again. Never.”

“Do you hate them all?” Violette spoke with an urgent hunger in her voice that startled Robyn.

“Not
en masse
,” she said thoughtfully. “Some of them have good hearts. Harold’s not so bad, too old to be any real trouble. And my uncle, and Wilkes, my driver. H’m, that’s three; can’t think of anyone else.”

She smiled wryly, but the dancer’s face remained intense. Unnerving, for all its beauty.

“So you don’t believe in love?”

“Do you?” said Robyn. “Here I am, talking about myself all night, not giving you a chance. Why do I get the feeling that you feel the same, that things have been just as bad for you?”

“Not quite as bad, because instinct made me keep them at arm’s length before they got the chains on me – but bad enough,” Violette murmured. Her hand slid over Robyn’s shoulder, down her upper arm. How cool her touch was, how sensuous. “We both knew the moment we saw each other, didn’t we? Like knows like. The same bitterness, the same suffering, even though we’ve lived our lives thousands of miles apart.”

I can’t believe she’s telling me this
, Robyn thought, electrified. “It’s a pretty common experience.”

“I know,” said the dancer. “I see it everywhere, this hideous weakness that makes men into monsters and women into victims – and the other way round. It enrages me. No, I don’t trust love, even when I see a couple doting on one another. What are they trying to hide?”

“Who are they trying to fool?” Robyn added, thinking of Karl and Charlotte.

“But have you ever wondered,” Violette said, her voice softening, “how it would be with a woman instead?”

This is getting out of hand
, Robyn thought. Yet she was seized by the thrill of trying something new and forbidden. “Oh, Lord,” she said, embarrassed. “Thought about it, I guess, but never –”

The dancer leaned in and pressed her lips to Robyn’s. The kiss was cool, dry, brief – and completely unravelled her.

“Never?” Another kiss. “Never at all?” Another, another. Robyn was shaking. This was awful and yet tantalising… why not a woman, after all… no one, male or female, could resist Violette… Her hands crept onto Violette’s shoulders, slid into her luxuriant hair. She was scared to go further, worried that Violette was not sincere, and that if she betrayed any feelings the dancer would pull away and mock her.

Violette’s mouth met hers, parting her lips and teeth. Her tongue felt shockingly hot. What Robyn felt was not exactly sexual, for she had suppressed those feelings for too long. It was generalised heat, sensation rippling over her skin, an unbearable sensuality flowing from Violette’s fingers, her lips, every point where their bodies touched… a red excitement building in her spine… yes, sexual after all, but also frightening.

Violette pushed her into the wall, her kisses growing more fervent. Robyn felt trapped. She tried to loosen the dancer’s grip, to convey that this was too much, too soon – she’d expected gentleness; shouldn’t women be gentle with each other? – but Violette was too strong. As she pressed Robyn down, her passion seemed single-minded, blind. Like a rapist.

“No, don’t. Stop, please stop,” Robyn tried to say, but Violette’s hand was on her windpipe and she was choking.

“You deserve it,” Violette murmured. Her lips slid hotly down Robyn’s throat, came to rest on a throbbing vessel just above her collarbone. “Yes, you deserve it.”

Teeth nipped the skin, making her nerves leap with pain. She shivered with fear, yet something within her yearned outwards, surrendering to this dark entity.
Yes… do it…

Cool air rushed between them. Violette pulled away and the pressure vanished. She was looking across the garden, as if distracted; then she turned back to Robyn, and pressed one hand lightly between her breasts.

“But not yet,” she said, eyes glazed. “Excuse me.”

She stood up coolly, as if nothing had happened. She slipped away into the darkness, leaving Robyn confused, breathless, bereft. Unable to move.

As she sat there, nearly catatonic, she saw the distant silhouette of a woman on the terrace, light spinning a golden web through her hair. And she heard Charlotte call out softly, imbuing a single word with concern, warning and rebuke.

“Violette!”

* * *

After Sebastian left his victim cooling in the study, he had a decision to make. He was eager to meet the unique Roberta Stafford, but if he rejoined the party he was bound to be recognised by Karl and the others. They might not
sense
him as such, but once they saw him, they’d know. He wasn’t afraid of confrontation; he simply couldn’t be bothered with it.

So Sebastian delayed the moment. No hurry, after all. He haunted the edges by keeping to the terrace, moving in and out of the Crystal Ring, listening to conversations. He quickly identified Robyn, even without a clear view of her face: there was only one chestnut-haired woman with any presence about her. The anticipation of meeting her was torment.

He knew she would be beautiful. Unusual beauty, perhaps. Someone special, a worthy substitute for Violette.

Those other vampires had better not make a claim on Robyn
, he thought.
If they try, that would be a confrontation I’d relish.