The Hunger (10 page)

John sipped brandy with an assumption of negligence, “I can see quite well from here.”

What he saw was two paintings, hung side by side. A glance at the other walls told him her art collection was even more extensive than the paintings in the grand drawing room would indicate. Fragonard, Rubens, a brooding Goya, only the best. The countess was a woman of the world, and apparently a rich one. He returned to the two in question. On the left was a masterful depiction of a river in fading light with clouds piling into a sky that dwarfed figures in front of an old mill. The light was luminous. You felt you were looking into an exact representation of an afternoon in Suffolk. Constable. The Royal Society disdained him, but John had always thought he was a genius. He leaned in and saw the painting was called something about “Flatford Mill.”

The painting on the right was a conflagration of wind and light that shone forth on a raging sea. It showed a ship breaking apart before your very eyes. You could feel the power of the waves, the wind tearing the swells into froth, the anguish of the figures cast into the water. The paint was laid on, not in Constable’s translucent perfection, but in great swatches of dramatic color. John did not need to peer at the name plate to catch the name of the painter. It was a Turner. But the title of the piece arrested his gaze.
The Wreck of a Hulk, 1810
. He hoped to God the scene was not prophetic.

“You see?” the countess said triumphantly. “It is the same in painting.”

John stood, transfixed. Finally he cleared his throat, driven to fill the silence. “Constable is Pope and Wordsworth, but Turner is Blake, of course.” He cast about
for something else to say. “Of course, if you have seen Constable’s sketches, they have much the same power.”

“You know him?” The countess sent John an appraising look. Then she turned back to the painting. “Still, he feels a need to refine in a way Turner is beginning to leave behind. Turner is learning to cut to the visceral nature of the light.”

John cleared his throat again. “Couldn’t one say the same in music? The precision of Haydn contrasts with the passion of Beethoven.”

The countess stared at him. “A passion so consuming it survived deafness. He must have believed that passion would triumph . . . His hunger to make music gave his life purpose.”

“Hunger . . .” John murmured. Did he want the life he had chosen? Did he want anything? “You haven’t said who your favorite poet is.”

“Oh, I like both styles. Pope is a master. Wordsworth is—”

“No,” John interrupted, his voice almost raw. “Time to step up to the mark, Countess. Name a name.” John wanted that name more than he had wanted anything in a long time.

She blinked, her long lashes brushing her cheeks. She swayed on her feet. “Blake,” she whispered, her impossibly dark eyes big and riveted on John’s face. There were questions there and, if he was not mistaken, a tiny, vulnerable spark of hope.

For a long moment silence reigned.

The countess came to herself with a start. Her countenance snapped shut. “I have had enough of you tonight,” she said brusquely. “You must have better things to do.” She shushed him through the door. “Symington,” she called. “Show Lord Langley to the door.”

John did not acknowledge the dismissal. “You’ve been associating with the wrong men.”

“What?”

“You should surround yourself with men you can’t bully.” He stared into those dark eyes.

“Bully!” They widened in outrage. “Rudeness will get you nowhere, Langley.” She turned and made as if to go. He reached for her wrist. The shock of touching her shot through him. A leaping flame of life rose in her eyes as her head jerked toward him. She was more alive than anyone he had ever seen. Their eyes locked and that vitality poured over him. Was this what lay hidden behind the veil of disinterest she usually projected?

“Tell me you don’t bully the men in your life,” he whispered.

His answer was a faint crinkle of humor around her eyes that rinsed the outrage away.

“Would you care for a ride tomorrow . . . shall we say at four?” He made it a challenge.

She examined his face so intently his soul felt stripped. But part of him felt full and getting fuller, longing to be stripped. She had made no move to take her wrist back. At last she shook her head. “I never rise until late.”

Disappointment washed through him. He realized he had been holding his breath and consciously let it go. He managed a shrug and released her arm. “Perhaps another time.”

“Shall we say half past seven?”

What? After dark? But he did not want to be the one to cry off, so he voiced the only barrier that might count with her. “What about your salon?”

“I come downstairs at ten.”

“I shall call at half past seven, then.”

She cocked her head in speculation. “Don’t think you’ve gotten what you want.”

“I might say the same,” he murmured. He turned and strode toward the door, needing to be the one who left. In moments, he was in the street. Had he seen what he
thought he had seen? Was the moment of revelation real, or was it all an act?

He strode off toward the corner of the square, his mind churning with a growing anger. It had been her game in the first place, this silly naming of poets. When called to account, she threw him out. The worst of it was if she had asked him to stay tonight, he might have succumbed to her wiles. What a weakling! Had he not had enough of women who had no constancy, no virtue? And who was less virtuous than the countess? She did not even bother to hide her shoddy morals. She used men like handkerchiefs and tossed them away. And the fools stood in line to give her the opportunity to do so.

It was the damned vulnerability he had seen in her expression as she breathed Blake’s name that wouldn’t be dismissed. She had bared her soul in that one word and she knew it. No wonder she reacted so violently. But he would not succumb again.

His body reacted to the shot that rang out before his mind could register it. He had ducked up the front stairs of the nearest house, behind a pillar that held up its pediment, before he realized he had heard a thunk in the tree nearest his head.

The bullet was meant for him. He searched the square. Wind moved through the great trees in the center; the elms were still bare and clacking, the oaks creaking. A pair of carriages crossed the other side, oblivious, the horses’ shoes ringing on the street. He thought he caught movement in Hill Street from the corner of his eye, but when he looked, there was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. All doubt was banished now. Those hadn’t been footpads in Hay Hill. Someone was trying to kill him. That meant someone knew what he was.

Six

Beatrix practically ran to her boudoir. She heard a shot ring out in the square, but she did not even ask one of the servants to inquire. Let banditos take up residence in the square and murder passersby. She didn’t care. How had she revealed so much to him? Why? Was it the thunderbolt to her heart when he had told her he valued Blake above all others? And when had Blake and Turner become her favorites? Could art transform reality into something even more real and more invested with emotion? Was there second innocence, God forbid?

Ridiculous! Once you had been tarnished by the cruelty and stupidity of the world there was no way back. She did not believe in transformation. She sat at her dressing table. Did she?

Yet she had every edition of Blake’s poetry, as well as some of his illustrations. So primitive. So evocative. Had she lied to Langley about Blake being her favorite? Beatrix ran her hand through her hair, pulling the pins out and letting it cascade to her shoulders. She looked into the mirror at a face that would never change. No. Transformation was
not possible. Her innocence had been ripped from her centuries ago . . .

COURTYARD OF CASTLE SINCAI, TRANSYLVANIAN ALPS
, 1102

“We hunt tonight, kittens,” Stephan said. He swung his cloak around his shoulders. Beatrix had never seen a man look so fine, though she had to admit her experience of men was limited. The leather jerkin he wore over a linen shirt and hose and boots was meant to make him look like any other man. It failed. How could anyone mistake those shoulders, those smoldering eyes, those cheekbones? The excitement of the night coursed through her. She and Asharti would learn how to feed tonight. There would be no more goblets of blood presented by Stephan, safe and unexciting. She glanced at Asharti. Her sister had come to heel fast enough when Stephan threatened to leave her behind
.

The two girls swirled their cloaks on. It was cold in the mountains. “Will we go to the village?” Beatrix asked. “It is a long way, in the cold.”

“Never feed close to home, and never in the same place twice.” He took their arms. “No, we go far, and we have another way to travel. Tonight I will show you one of the most useful gifts from our Companion.”

“Translocation!” Beatrix practically squeaked
.

“How does it work, Stephan? Show us now,” Asharti commanded
.

“First you must understand the process,” Stephan said patiently. “You call your Companion and it lends you its power. If you draw enough power, a field is created around you. Light does not escape. Others cannot see you.”

“You mean we are invisible?” Beatrix asked, shocked
.

“I have seen it with Robert,” Asharti said smugly
.

“And then, my pets, if you continue to call, the field
becomes so dense it pops you out of space. You can learn to direct where you will reappear, with practice.” He saw Asharti start to speak and lifted a finger. “You must hold to me, so that we end in the same place. It hurts a bit. So be prepared.” He lifted his cloak and they snuggled into his body, one on each side
.

“Now call,” he ordered
.

Beatrix thought a connection to the one who shared her blood
. Companion, come to me.

She felt a tingling rush of power down her veins. “Again,” she heard Stephan say, from farther away, it seemed
. Companion!
The world went dark around them. She couldn’t even feel Stephan beside her. The tingling ramped up and up, and she wasn’t sure she had control of it. It engulfed her, mastered her. Her Companion cried out for life, and power. Pain engulfed Beatrix. The world disappeared. And then the pain was gone. The world appeared. She felt Stephan clutching her shoulders. But it was a different world than they had left; a dark alleyway that stank of cabbage and piss. A series of buildings, all in some state of disrepair, lined both sides of a narrow dirt passage. Loud, deep voices and shrill laughter came from inside the largest of them “Voila!” Stephan announced. “The yard of the Rose and Thorn in Sigishoara.”

Beatrix looked around, trying to get her bearings. “We can do this . . . anytime we want?”

“It takes much energy. There are limits,” Stephan warned. “And it takes practice.”

“Freedom!” Asharti hissed. Her eyes glowed
.

Stephan nodded, smiling, and pointed. “The next man that comes out the front door is yours, Bea. Do as I have taught you. Take but a little, and we will practice again tonight.”

Asharti clung to his torso and rubbed herself like a cat against him. “Stephan, I am hungry. I should go first,”
she pouted. Beatrix did not like how Asharti had begun to treat Stephan over the last several weeks. This kind of cloying behavior made Beatrix’s blood boil. The puzzling thing was that Stephan did not try to stop it
.

“Your turn will come.” Stephan drew them forward to peer around the corner of the building. He nodded at Beatrix as the door to the tavern swung open. Light and noise spilled out across the narrow dirt track of a street. But the man who stumbled out was gray-haired. His face was marked by an early encounter with the pox
.

Beatrix shrank back, shaking her head. “I don’t like that one.”

“You do not need to like them, Bea. They are food.” Stephan said, exasperated. He had never been exasperated with her in front of Asharti
.

“Can I not take one more comely?”

“Bea is going to take forever. Hold me, Stephan, to keep me warm.”

Stephan put his arm around Asharti. Beatrix resolved that the next man out the door would feel her compulsion, no matter if he was a leper. The older man staggered off down the street. It was late. The moon was setting behind the buildings. Surely the men would come out soon to go home. She jerked toward the opening door. A man stumbled out and fell on his hands and knees in the street
. Let him not be vomiting.
Beatrix thought as she glided out of the alleyway. The man picked himself up and swayed, looking around to get his bearings
.

“Good evening,” Beatrix said softly in the language of Dacia, where Castle Sincai sat. The man was young, though not as young as she or Asharti, and coarsely made. It could have been worse. Stephan had taught her to call her Companion gently so it would not overwhelm her like it did when she was hungry and desperate, but slide up along her veins to do her bidding
.

The young man looked at her with his own kind of
hunger in his eyes. “What is this?” he asked. But Beatrix had let her eyes go red. She had him
.

“Come with me.” She backed toward the shelter of the narrow yard. The young man, now slack-eyed, followed. When they were hidden, she made the man kneel. Why couldn’t they feed in a nice dining room like the one at home? This one smelled. Since Stephan made her bathe regularly and followed his own advice, she found the scent of unwashed men repulsive. But her distaste was overwhelmed by the call of her blood. She thought about the man lifting his head, and he did, baring his throat. She could feel the blood pulse in him. It excited her and the one who shared her body
.