The Dark Blood of Poppies (9 page)

“Well, certain immortals believe you are mad, although who they are to judge, I’ve no idea,” said Pierre. “They claim that you tore off a vampire’s head with your bare hands – frankly incredible. They have paranoid conviction that you are… how can I put it? Not a conventional vampire, if such a beast ever existed.”

“Who said these things?”

“Oh, everyone.”

“Stefan?”

They crossed a courtyard and descended some steps to a terrace with a waist-high wall. The Fortress rose in all its masculine weight behind them. In front lay a sweeping view of the valley, sky and mountains.

“Yes, Stefan, Niklas, Karl, Rachel, Ilona, John. They went to Karl and Charlotte’s house yesterday evening, to tell Charlotte that she’s created a monster.”

“And you happened to be there?”

“Only because Ilona insisted I go. For Ilona to be so concerned is quite out of character. You have certainly stirred them up.”

“If they think I’m a monster, what do they intend to do about it?” Her voice was paper-thin and soft, and like paper it could cut without warning.

“No decision was reached.”

“Do they mean to kill me?”

“Perhaps.”

She leaned on the wall, silent. Across the valley, the Alps pushed up from the Earth’s crust under a frost-white web. The peaks were immense yet they seemed to float, as if weightless. The sky was dark, cloudy. Rain fell steadily, but Violette seemed oblivious.

Pierre watched her, fascinated. She had a true ballerina’s neck, long and slender. He studied the creamy curve of her throat – as much of it as her black fur collar revealed – and felt a perverse desire to kiss her there.

After a time she asked, with evident difficulty, “What did Charlotte say?”

A breath flickered in Pierre’s throat, not quite a laugh. “Oh, she defended you with passion, but it was a case of ‘the lady doth protest too much.’ She was panicking, because in her heart she agrees with them.”

Violette bent her head. “Even Charlotte,” she murmured. “So, I have no friends in the world, then?”

Pierre shrugged, lifting his hands. “It’s a cruel world, Madame.”

“It means nothing. I’d guessed, anyway.”

He moved closer. “Surely it means something. I came to warn you.”

“Why?” Seeing deep suspicion in her expression, Pierre felt wounded.

“I refused to believe them, Madame, until I could make up my own mind. Now I have met you, my opinion is that they are a bunch of hysterics. Clearly you are a gracious and gentle creature who harbours ill intentions towards no one.
Ma chérie
, you won’t even feed on humans until the need nearly kills you – will you?”

He ventured to put a hand on her shoulder. She looked at the hand, then at him. “What are you doing?”

He placed his other hand over hers, where it rested on the wall. “You have one friend.”

He leaned towards her. Couldn’t resist. Her scent was gorgeous: floral perfume mingling with satin, rosin dust, wood polish from her studio. But no taint of blood. She was clearly starving, her flesh drawn against the bones. Pierre shook with excitement. How could another vampire be as alluring as a human victim? He reminded himself that she wasn’t human, that he must approach her not with his usual gleeful confidence, but with delicacy.

“You, my friend?” she said. “I think not.”

Her coldness dismayed him. “But I have –”

“You have done nothing but mock me since we met. I’ve no idea what you’re playing at, Monsieur Lescaut, but it is nothing kind. Nothing sincere.”

“I am not mocking you.” His hand slid along her shoulder and rested on her spine.
Careful
, he told himself.
Use all your charm
. “Why did you walk here with me, Violette, if you did not see something to your liking? We are not human, we need not pretend. Nor waste any time.”

“What do you want?” She looked alarmed. That was good. It meant he’d got the upper hand.

“To kiss you.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “So you want to kiss me, do you?”

Oh God, yes
, he thought, but she put a finger to his lips. Her whole manner changed; seductive softness came to her mouth and eyes. “Wait. Let me kiss you.”

In an ecstasy of excitement, Pierre smiled and closed his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

He knew he’d made a mistake, half a second after it was too late. Her hands slid softly over his shoulders. She leaned into him, her face questing towards his. Then, in a flash, her fingers became steel traps, and her mouth slid along his jawline and fastened on his throat.

His eyes flew open. He gripped her wrists, couldn’t shift her. Her fangs darted into him and he felt her shudder from head to toe, felt the unvoiced release rumbling through her like the purr of a lioness.

Other vampires had fed on him before; it wasn’t so bad, could even be pleasurable. But this was hideous. The first taste of blood seemed to madden her, and she unleashed all her pent-up hunger on him. She pushed him back across the terrace wall, almost cracking his spine, and came down on top, tearing at his neck, sucking.

Helpless at first, Pierre began to struggle. His surrender should have been divine. Instead it was horrific. There was nothing sensual about her. She wasn’t like Ilona: beautiful, savage, but still womanly. No, Violette was elemental, covering him like the wings of a vast, sharp-taloned owl.

She blocked his instinctive escape to the Crystal Ring, held him in place. Pain ran molten from his throat to his spine. Already she’d taken too much blood.

How intimately he knew the compulsive power of the thirst. He knew she would not be able to stop… And his own response, even through his agony, shamed him. An urge he rarely felt because blood thirst was everything to him, a need he despised as human: sexual desire.

Suddenly the pain ceased and her face rose over his. Blood gleamed on her lips. Her mouth and eyes were purple caves.

“Do you want to kiss me now, Pierre?” she said throatily. “You think me some pliant doll you can jeer at, then have just for the asking? My friend? You liar.”

Her contempt quenched all desire. Panicking, he thrust his foot under her ankle to wrench her off-balance. Then he was away, evading her clawing limbs, taking long strides that brought him to his knees on the ground, his legs were so weak.

Pierre staggered up and ran on.

He crossed the courtyard to another open corridor, and found himself in a maze. High walls rose on all sides and steps led in three different directions. No sign of a way out. The Fortress was vast and he had no idea of its layout.

He felt her following him. Heard faint sounds like wingbeats, claws scraping the cobbles, an animal panting after its prey.

Pierre made another wild leap at the Crystal Ring, fell back like a bird with clipped wings. How had she stolen his strength so quickly?

He ran into a dark archway. She was behind him, playing cat-and-mouse, laughing. His heart pounded and he turned clammy, like a scared human.

She can tear off a vampire’s head with those little hands…

He broke a lock, burst into a tower room, and ran up flights of stairs to the top chamber. On the far side was another door. He flung it open, found only a small flat roof beyond, just a lookout place, a dead end. He weighed his chances of simply throwing himself off the edge. A long fall down the outside of the Fortress… That appeared his only escape, and wouldn’t kill him, but this was his inadmissible weakness: he hated heights.

Trapped in the chamber, Pierre could hear Violette climbing the stairs quite slowly after him. There were old weapons displayed on the walls for sightseers. Pierre grabbed a spear and crouched in an alcove to wait for her.

His fear turned to anger. This had happened too many times, a stronger vampire feeding on him, stealing his pride with his blood. Usually Kristian, sometimes Karl. Perversely, he hadn’t minded so much – but from a female, it was insufferable.

An owl screeched far away in the forest. Dull light fanned through a leaded window and through the open door. She would probably sense his presence, but if she didn’t – if her senses were dampened by her blood-feast – she might assume he was out on the roof.

He watched the stairwell, listening… and realised he could no longer hear her.

She’s in the Crystal Ring
, he thought, shivering.

The hairs rose on his neck and his head whipped round. She appeared – not from the stairwell but in the roof doorway, a silhouette in the dark-blue arch.

“I haven’t finished with you,” she said.

She glanced dismissively at the spear, and began to approach.

Pierre would not give her a chance to get near him. With a shout, he leapt up and charged, aiming the iron tip at her heart.

Startled, she hesitated. The tip passed between the long fur reveres of her coat and made contact. He felt the fabric of her dress tear, felt her flesh break, bone splintering. She gave a cry. He smelled blood, saw a dark stain growing between her breasts.

Fevered, he ran her into the opposite wall and pinned her there.

Her eyes were white orbs, her mouth open. Blood ran from her lips. She spoke, her voice bubbling through the fluid. “A stake through the heart, Pierre? You know you can’t kill me like that.”

“Run away into the Crystal Ring, then,
chérie
,” he grated. “I will destroy you, one way or another.”

“For making you feel foolish?”

He stabbed and twisted the spear. “They were right about you! You are insane, you’re the thing that mortals daren’t name!”

“Satan?”

“Cancer!”

He pushed the spike deeper, feeling horribly exhilarated, yet helpless. She was in pain but she wasn’t dying. And why didn’t she escape into the Crystal Ring? Was it pain that stopped her, or was she mocking him further?

The metal slid deeper. He felt it break through the heart to touch her spine. She groaned, and her hands came up to grip the shaft, forcing it out of her body. Her gloves were wet and black with blood, yet her grip was solid. He pushed, she resisted. They struggled against each other, static, and all the time her gaze held his.

Mon Dieu, her expression!
A blank, sightless look, as if some demon had possessed her and all she could do was observe its actions, aghast. Her horror infected him and he wanted to scream.

Then she wrenched the spear out of her chest and lifted it with terrible strength, swinging Pierre clear off his feet. Taken by surprise, he couldn’t let go. She swung him in an arc, rushing forward as she did so. He was borne backwards at speed, felt the window at his back, the impact as the leading burst and the glass shattered around him.

He was out in thin air. The maw of the valley tilted beneath him. Frantically he held onto the shaft of the weapon, his legs jerking for a purchase on nothingness. He glimpsed Violette’s face above him, a white gargoyle, an ice-queen.

“Please—”

She let go of the spear. Cast it away, as if releasing a dove.

He fell, limbs flailing, down the high grim walls of the Fortress, down into the trees, and onwards down the sheer side of the Mönchsberg Ridge.

Cruel rocks bruised him until at last he slammed into a hard surface. The momentum of his descent translated to shivering waves of agony. He slid over a curved ridge and came to rest in a niche, with saints looking down at him. Curving above him was the copper-salted cupola of a church. He’d landed on its roof.

The feel of broken bones made him cringe. Ribs, an arm, his left leg in two places. He stared up at the clouds, at the louring presence of the fortress high above.
Is she still up there
, he thought,
laughing at my distress?

Pierre knew he must lie here until his unnatural body began to heal. He wouldn’t die… but after a while, he wished he could. He wept with pain.

God, what’s she done to me? Something more than physical injury, worse than humiliation.

A clawed creature with an owl’s predatory eyes and a serpent’s body swooped down, brushed him with dark feathers, covered him with a mantle of bitter darkness. Then it was gone.

* * *

Cesare found John sitting beside the sarcophagus, his head resting on his fists on the rim. He’d been there for days. The stone coffin was half full of blood, a glossy maroon blanket through which Matthew’s head showed like a death mask.

The abattoir stench that filled the chamber was, to Cesare, rich and sweet.

“Well?” he said.

“The same as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before,” John answered dully. “Nothing is happening.”

Cesare swept blood away from Matthew’s cheeks and studied the sunken, slate-blue skin. No sign of regeneration. If anything, it was beginning to decay.

He sighed. “If there is no improvement by now, there’s no hope.”

John’s fists tightened. “Why isn’t it working?”

“I don’t know.” Cesare licked his bloodied hand clean. “Perhaps Kristian had some secret knowledge we lack. Or the head has been too long severed. It’s no good, John. Let Matthew go.”

He expected denial and grief, but to his surprise John whispered, “Very well. Would you do one thing for me? Take Matthew’s head and bathe it. I can’t bear to.”

“Of course.” Cesare scooped the head from its clotted caul and took it to a corner of the chamber, where a bowl of water stood on a table. With his back to John, Cesare rinsed stringy blood from the heavy waxen head. It took time. The hair was matted solid.

As he worked, John said, “I believe you.”

“About what?”

“We belong to God,” John said softly. “I believe it.”

Cesare smiled. The words thrilled him. He’d converted a lost soul! “That is wonderful.”

“It’s not your fault Matthew can’t return to life.”

“You’re being very gracious,” said Cesare, drying the head on a square of sacking. “I expected you to blame me, although I’m sure we did everything right. I thought you would be distraught. You’re taking this well, John. I’m impressed.”

“No, it’s
her
fault,” John breathed.

“Who?”

“Lilith.”

The name struck Cesare like a whip. It plucked a discordant memory from his own mortal life, centuries past; himself as a scared boy, his mother standing over him with a rod in her hand and the burning pain, tears, terror…