The Dark Arts of Blood (15 page)

“Is it likely they’re still looking for this?” Violette touched the dagger, snatched her hand away. “Would they break in to steal it, or use it against us?”

“Unlikely,” said Karl. “How would they know it was here? Unless they have unknown sensitivities of some kind. They may not be vampires, but they could be working for one.” Karl met Violette’s doubtful gaze. “It’s unusual, but not unknown.”

“Why would this hypothetical vampire make weapons to harm his own kind?” Violette immediately laughed at her own words. “What an idiotic question! Vampires fight each other. Some made considerable efforts to destroy me, not long ago.”

“And a number of vampires died in that conflict,” Karl said darkly. “Perhaps someone wants revenge.”

“Who?” Violette shook back her hair. Her hands rose and fell in exasperation. “Kristian’s supporters were all destroyed or dispersed. There can’t be anyone left to come after us, surely? Those of us who remained made peace, more or less. An exchange of blood and kisses.”

“I’m certain the stabbing wasn’t planned,” said Charlotte. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or he was. And the cut healed. Sent me crazy for a few hours, but I recovered.”

“Are you sure?” Violette held her shoulders and spoke softly. “You and Karl were obviously shaken by what happened. How are you, truly?”

Charlotte smiled, feeling the echo of a hundred memories in her touch. She recalled Violette on stage, entrancing her audience. Violette in despair, when bankruptcy and illness nearly ended her career… Fighting ferociously as Charlotte transformed her into a reluctant vampire. Violette, transfigured into a wild and dangerous goddess with enemies everywhere.

Her fangs, piercing Charlotte’s throat. A surreal, enchanted rite as she and Charlotte and Karl lay naked together, joined, swimming in dream-like ecstasy…

Their love-making had been a form of alchemy, transformation. The mystical power of three. Never to be repeated, but always remembered and treasured.

Charlotte recalled the sight of Violette weeping over Robyn’s body, her heart shattered.

“I’m perfectly well,” Charlotte answered, stroking her cheek. “But I can’t waste time agonising over that night. It already seems hazy. What matters is to find the truth.”

“Cold logic. I like that.” Violette gave her a light kiss on the lips. “However, I’m not comfortable with the weapon being here. I put the safety of my staff and dancers before anything. Can you store it somewhere else? A bank vault?”

“We’ll take it to Stefan,” said Karl. “I’m sure he won’t mind. We’ll examine it at his home instead. We understand.”

“Thank you. That hostile glow reminds me of the skull-creature’s staff. I want it out of my sight.” Violette flipped the edges of the scarf over the knife and turned her back. “If you could remove it by tomorrow…?”

“Do you want us to remove ourselves, too?” Charlotte asked.

“God, no. Please stay.” Violette’s expression became tender, an aspect of herself she rarely showed. “You’ll be here a while, I trust?”

“We hope so,” said Charlotte.

“Excellent. I’ll need your help. I have three existing ballets to perfect, and a new idea niggling at me…”

“You’ve only just come back.”

The dancer shrugged. “That’s what I get for being artistic director, principal dancer and choreographer, all in one. How fortunate that I don’t need sleep.”

“As long as you don’t forget to eat,” said Charlotte, touching her arm.

“I won’t. Where are Stefan and Niklas living, by the way?”

Charlotte’s groaned silently. She realised she’d forgotten to pass on Stefan’s news. It had been the last thing on her mind.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you.” She looked through a window, into the darkness. “He’s taken a house on the other side of the lake.”

Violette’s face went still. “Has he, indeed?”

“It’s at least ten miles away. He swears he won’t bother you.”

“
Stefan
does not bother me. It’s the sort of company he attracts.”

“Pierre and Ilona are on their travels in Russia,” said Karl. “They won’t be back for some time.”

“But it’s not really them I’m worried about. Stefan has other vampire friends, strangers to us. He knows I will tolerate no threat to my ballet.”

“I know, I told him. He insisted that no one will trouble you, and he has the right to live wherever he wishes. Violette—” Charlotte stopped. “I don’t know why I’m making excuses for him. He’s right, it’s his business where he lives, and if you’re unhappy, the two of you should sort it out between you. I’m just the messenger.”

“Well, this is wonderful,” Violette sighed. “Storms and strangeness in the Crystal Ring. Skull-headed entities attacking me in mid-ocean. Drunken thugs with foul blood and poisoned blades. And now a houseful of vampires, a stone’s throw from my new academy! Karl, tell me, is this a vampire’s lot in life? No peace, ever? A layer of reality torn away so that all manner of horrors can invade our lives at random?”

“Well,” said Karl, with a rueful grimace. “If you would put it like that, yes. I’m afraid you’re right.”

“All right. Then let them come.” The dancer’s eyes lit up like fiery blue stars. “Let them try.”

* * *

After Violette had left, Karl came to Charlotte’s side and placed his hand in the small of her back. His touch gave her a surge of pleasure, mixed with pain. She loved his warm strength beside her, his dark angelic presence. With him, she was where she belonged. She couldn’t be anywhere else. He was the home of her soul. A dark whirlpool, forever drawing her inwards.

Karl was never cruel for the sake of it, but he was ruthless. No one could call him
good
; he was a vampire, after all, and didn’t try to deny his nature. But falling in love could not be helped.

He kissed the nape of her neck. The touch of his mouth flooded her with desire, to the very tips of her fangs. Charlotte leaned into him, drawing his hands around her waist. She knew it happened only rarely in life that you met the one: the lover who never becomes ordinary.

Being forced to hold back was unbearable. Every time she tried to will the lamia out of existence, the haunting came back in full force. She couldn’t shake the conviction that cold silver poison ran in her veins, that if she and Karl were intimate the contagion would eat them both away like acid.

“You’re distracting me,” she said.

She felt his sigh against her neck, making the hairs stand up. Their enforced mutual self-control loaded the slightest touch or look with painful longing. He hadn’t tried to persuade her she was imagining her affliction, because he saw – whether the cause was external or psychological – that something was genuinely wrong.

She was glad of his understanding. All the same, having to abstain was killing her.

He gave her a light kiss on the shoulder and let her go.

“I’ll take the knife to Stefan later,” he said.

“I must admit, I’ll feel easier without the wretched thing here. Ridiculous, but I feel as if it’s
watching
us. Let me study it for a minute before we wrap it up.”

“I don’t think it’s watching us,” Karl said wryly. He reached around her and flipped the knife over. “Did you see that?”

The handle was carved with a pattern of pictograms. Each was the size of a fingernail, and resembled a labyrinth with an oval in the centre. A face…

“The symbol?” she said. “Yes. It looks like a skull inside a maze. A skull with closed eyes? And some writing I can’t decipher. I need to view it under my microscope.”

She leaned forward, holding the haft steady although it kicked painfully against her fingertips. She thought,
Why do I need a microscope, when I have vampire sight?
Gripping the knife for as long as she could bear the pain, she looked deep into the carving, right into the grain itself. Trying to understand the nature of its hostile emanations…

Abruptly she let go, easing her numb fingers against Karl’s hand.

“The blade wasn’t dipped in noxious chemicals. The harm emanates from the metal itself.”

“I suspected that,” said Karl.

“And the handle is not ivory,” she said. “It’s human bone.”

* * *

“All these little scars on your arms and chest: there are more each time I examine you. Would you care to tell me what’s causing them?”

“That’s a personal matter,” Godric snapped. “They are ritual marks, like tattoos, if you will. Ignore them.”

“I see. In that case, I cannot find anything wrong with you, my friend.” Dr Ochsner folded his plump hands on his desk.

Godric finished fastening his shirt, glimpsing his own skin and narrow ribcage as he did so. In the dull lamplight of the doctor’s office, his pale flesh looked yellow. He trusted Ochsner and wanted to believe him, but…

“They told my mother there was nothing wrong with her, two days before she dropped dead of a stroke.”

“Truly, Godric. You’re as fit as a freshly trained soldier.” He peered at Godric over half-moon spectacles. His red-blotched face widened seamlessly into his squat neck. “You’re getting over a slight cold on the chest, and you need to eat more. That’s all. Have you always had these anxieties about your health?”

“I don’t actually believe I am ill,” Godric said thinly. He adjusted his tie and sat stiffly upright in his chair. “But I need to be
sure
. I can’t afford to fall sick, I have too much to do.”

Ochsner opened his palms in agreement. “Indeed. And I am always happy to give reassurance. You were barely five years old when your mother died. Terrible experience for a child.”

“I am not anxious. Merely cautious.” Godric tapped his fingertips on his knees, suppressing a wave of the odd dizziness that had brought him here. “I’m solicitous of my own health, and that of my staff and friends. That is why I send them to you for regular examinations.”

“That’s only wise.”

Godric did not particularly like Dr Ochsner, who sat behind his desk like a benevolent toad, but that was immaterial.
Liking
was a feminine weakness. In more important ways, they were of one mind.

“I don’t need psychoanalysis, just confirmation of my physical health. It’s essential my supporters
perceive
me as strong.”

“And they do, my friend.” Ochsner gave a small laugh. “Think of me as a mechanic, tuning the engine of a powerful racing car. Your occasional dizzy spells are caused by plain overexertion. Get more sleep, and eat plenty of red meat: that will keep you in the peak of condition.”

Godric swallowed. “I only eat white meat. Veal, pork, chicken.”

“Ah, well, there’s your problem. Change your diet. I told your niece the same. Lots of bloody red steak and offal.” The doctor lit a cigar, offered one to Godric. He declined.

“What do you mean, you
told my niece
? You haven’t seen her yet.”

“Ah.” Ochsner cleared his throat. “Actually, I have. She came for an evening appointment, well over a week ago. I thought you knew.”

More rebellion
, he thought, tensing with irritation. He’d wanted Amy to see Dr Ochsner because – he’d learned from Gudrun – she suffered heavy monthly bleeding that left her exhausted; a checkup was in order. Ochsner had suggested he could scrape out the troublesome tissue: a cleansing procedure to solve the problem.

Godric liked the sound of an internal cleanse to purge all that unspeakable feminine mess. That sort of treatment could only improve one’s well-being.

Amy, though, had refused to discuss such a private matter with her uncle. But surely her health mattered more than her privacy? They’d argued. Now to learn that she’d obeyed him, but in secret, indicated defiance of a peculiarly underhand nature.

“Well?” Reiniger demanded. “What did you find? Is she unwell, does she have any… problems that should concern us?”

Dr Ochsner shook his head. He poured schnapps into two tumblers, passed one across the desk. “Nothing irregular.”

“What does that mean?” He sipped the liquor. The doctor took a large swig. “Did you examine her properly?”

“I gave her a thorough examination and curettage, an internal stripping, if you will. It may help, but some women bleed more heavily than others. It’s perfectly natural. More importantly: she is not pregnant. She has no diseases. She is a virgin. Is that not what you actually wanted to know?”

Godric Reiniger exhaled and sat back in his chair. Yes, that was precisely what he’d wanted to know. Amy was pure, and now nicely cleaned out. Perfect marriage material, ripe to be offered to a man of wealth and influence.

Her life in London had not turned her into some promiscuous flapper. Godric was very determined that she would not
become
a promiscuous flapper.

“Most reassuring,” he said softly. “I wish she’d told me. I suppose she was embarrassed. Thank you, doctor.”

“You’re welcome.” Ochsner drew on his cigar and grinned through a cloud of smoke. “Women, eh?”

Godric rose to leave.

“Come to me at any time,” said the doctor, rising to shake his hand. “I look forward to your visits. Anything I can do, at any time of day or night: I’m always here.”

Their handshake was firm, transmitting an understanding far deeper than his neurotic medical concerns.

Neurotic
, thought Godric as he stepped out of the building. The fresh damp air immediately made his head whirl – not true dizziness, but a strange buzz of energy.
Am I neurotic?
A string of thoughts twined around his brain like barbed wire.

He tried not to think about Fadiya. True to her word, she’d acted the sweet obliging helper, painting make-up on to the faces of his actors for the early scenes of his next film. You would never guess she wasn’t human. Everyone loved her.

Godric hated her. The hypnotic glow of her eyes unmanned him. Yes, she’d “let” him keep the
sakakin
, and promised him extra power, but he wanted power on his own terms, not hers. As soon as he found the strength to expel her from his house – or even to kill her – he would.

Although Ochsner supported his politics, he was not part of the inner circle. When Godric told him to ignore the rune scar, he obeyed. The doctor would do anything for a price.