The Hunger (4 page)

He bowed once and trotted with a fair imitation of insouciance down the stairs to where the servants waited with his hat and cane and cloak.

Impossible man! Now here she was, all agitated by the smell of his blood and no man to satisfy her. He could not have doubted her intent. Had any man ever actually refused her?

Beatrix ran up the stairs to her boudoir, trailing her shawl of black Norwich silk. Perhaps he doubted his ability to perform, since he thought she wanted a sexual encounter. That must be it. He was weakened by loss of blood and the attack. When it came to that, she could not have taken blood in good conscience from one faint from loss of it. What had she wanted?

Betty helped her out of her gown. Beatrix hoped the girl could not see her state of confusion. She shushed her dresser out of her boudoir impatiently. Taking deep breaths, she willed her blood to quiet. It trembled rebelliously in her arteries. She breathed again. Slowly, the one who shared it slid down her veins. The pounding slowed. She sighed, in control again.

But was she truly in control? She felt herself sliding down a slope she had been on for many years. At the bottom was a black pool she recognized but did not understand . . .

AMSTERDAM
, 1088

The servants were gone, the house closed up. Beatrix haunted the muddy alleyways and the winding, narrow streets in her ragged red dress. She wanted her mother. She wanted Marte. But they were gone. Marte’s neck was broken, and her mother had . . . left her. Just left her
.

She hadn’t been good enough to love. And what would her mother say about her now?

The nuns had apprenticed her to a seamstress and told
her an orphan was lucky to get such a place. But the woman sent her out in daylight on errands, and sunlight grew more and more uncomfortable. Her skin burned and her head ached until one morning she refused to go outside. Her rebellion provoked a beating that looked to be the first of many. Beatrix had slipped out into the comforting darkness that night, never to return
.

Now she foraged in the refuse behind taverns and slept in the livery curled in the hay at the horses ’feet, with only their breath to warm her. But no matter how much she ate these days, she was hungry. Was it hunger? It was a kind of itching, unfulfilled feeling and it was growing
.

Tonight, it was worse than ever. She wanted to scream. She stole a whole meat pie from a street vendor and tore through the twisting alleys with all the speed she could muster to the marshes beyond the walls of the city. When she was alone, she stuffed great gobs of the pie into her mouth until she choked and retched
.

But it didn’t stop the aching, itching hunger. On all fours in the mud by the side of the raised stone road, she gasped for breath. How could she make the pain and the throbbing in her head go away? She couldn’t think! The smell of fecund rot surrounded her. A horse clopped on the road far away. Sensations assaulted her. She wanted Marte. She wanted . . .

She wanted the warm cup of blood her mother brought her sometimes at bedtime
.

Of course! Blood would stop the hunger. The clop of the horse’s hooves sounded louder. She had tried to get her favorite treat before. Her mistress-seamstress did not keep any in the house. The vendors in the marketplace sold blood for sausages and puddings, but she had tried that blood and somehow it wasn’t the same. Where was she to get it? Mother . . .

Sobs shook her as the last of the pie came up into the muck among the rushes. She could hear the horse
breathing as it came closer, and another breath, the rider’s, and the throb of . . . of blood. She stood, the weight of her soaked wool dress comforting. He was a big man, richly dressed. She saw well in the dark. And he throbbed with what she needed
.

Why was everything so red? Were they burning the fields? Smoke sometimes turned the moon red . . . She breathed out. She was strong. And the man on the horse had what she wanted. Needed. Throbbing there in his throat. The horse drew abreast of her. She closed her mouth and felt a stab of pain in her lip. She could smell her own blood welling there. The redness deepened and with it came certainty entwined with that smell
.

She sprang up to the road and pulled the man from his horse. He hit the ground with a thud. A whoosh of air escaped his lungs. The horse neighed in fear and wheeled away. But she had eyes only for the throbbing in the fat man’s throat. She fell on him, growling, tearing at his neck. He screamed and thrashed, but the scream turned into a gurgle, and there it was, blood, welling in sweet copper-tinged ecstasy into her mouth. She sucked at the ripped flesh and felt . . . alive. Her itching pain subsided. The man’s blood stopped pumping
.

She raised herself from the wreck of a man. Dimly she knew that his throat was ripped and that she had ripped it. His eyes dulled and his thrashing stilled. When someone saw him, they would say he had been killed by a beast, or a monster. Her mother said she was different. Now she knew how. No wonder her mother left her
.

She turned her face up to the moon, cold, sure, its cycles predictable, once you knew their secret. She had found the secret tonight to the hunger. And she felt strong. Like a strong monster
.

Beatrix ran her hand over her eyes and massaged her temples as though she could rub away the memories.
Couldn’t
you have told me, Mother, what I was? Couldn’t you have showed me that it didn’t have to be that way, ripping throats and killing them? I thought I was evil
.

It was Stephan who told her about the Companion in her blood that made her who she was. Her mother deigned to give her human blood sporadically during her childhood, to keep the Companion quiescent. But when the Companion started to manifest itself and its powers at puberty, her mother had abandoned her, not wanting to be burdened with the role of mentor. That fell to Stephan, and worse yet, Asharti. But she wouldn’t think about that, or what followed.

Damn these memories! She had put all this aside hundreds of years ago. She was beyond the hurt, and she avoided evil these days. What did it mean that the memories came back so insistently now? Whatever it meant, it wasn’t good.

She turned to the huge bed. Tonight she would not even have the distraction of feeding her Companion. She stepped out of her dress. It was Langley’s fault. She shouldn’t need blood for a week or more after Blendon. But the scent of Langley’s blood had sent shivers of life along her veins. The Companion yearned toward life with an intensity nearly impossible to resist. The rush of life when she was feeding was one way she staved off madness, and also the closest she came to losing control. A thin line. But she didn’t lose control. She hadn’t with Blendon.

Beatrix shrugged out of her chemise, grabbed a silken gown from her dressing room and pulled it over her head. Then why had just the smell of blood begun that throbbing fervor in her veins? She teased the pins from her hair and let the auburn mass hang down her back. Langley. Something about Langley himself. She sorted through her memory of this evening. He was well made, but so were a thousand other men. She was impervious to men’s physical
charms. An elusive expression around his mouth and eyes said he wasn’t as hardened as he pretended. He was hiding something; his wound, but more. That was it! As an expert at hiding, Beatrix recognized secrecy, even when it masqueraded as disdain. What did he hide besides a wound?

She wanted to know more about Langley.

As she pulled the heavy draperies tightly over the window, it occurred to her that she really could not invite Langley for Tuesday’s drawing room after she had so pointedly snubbed him. Of course he had snubbed her in return by assuming that she would not have a card for the Duchess of Bessborough’s ball on Saturday. Which meant he was likely to be there. She crawled into the great bed and under the duvet. She didn’t have a card, of course. But that could be remedied.

At Number Six, Albany House, Withering opened the door, having clearly disobeyed John’s order not to wait up. He took one look at his master and gripped his arm.

“Don’t be an old woman, Withering,” John protested. “Footpads, that’s all.”

“You’ve started your wound bleeding, my lord, haven’t you?” The man was fiftyish, mouth drawn down in a perpetual frown, his dress simple and impeccable. He had been with John through thick and thin. “I did, if you recall, my lord, indicate that this was a distinct possibility if you insisted on going out this evening.”

“I acknowledge your moral superiority without reservation,” John muttered as Withering guided him firmly to the bedroom. The room swayed ominously.

Realizing, apparently, that victory over an opponent who was very near to fainting was easy sport, Withering relented. “Let us just examine your wound, my lord.”

After the painful process of extricating him from his coat, John lay back on the bed and gave himself over to
Withering’s ministrations. To avoid hearing Withering’s predictions of permanent disability, John let his mind wander back to the countess. He could see why she had the town in thrall. She was exquisite, of course, but London had her equals in beauty. No, there was something about her . . . a weariness, the subtle air of having seen everything and of knowing the danger in that. He shook himself. Of course a courtesan had seen everything. But there was more. She teetered on some edge and the town held its breath.

He grunted in pain as Withering tightened a fresh bandage about his shoulder.

“You should have the doctor in, my lord.” That was a familiar refrain from his valet.

“I can’t afford speculation.” Or at least more speculation than his reputation provided. Let the
ton
think him bad. Let mothers and their daughters cross the street as he passed. But they must not guess his double life. Only Withering knew about John’s other calling, except for Barlow and one or two others in the government. Of course, his valet never knew the particulars of John’s missions, or anything about Barlow. Still, it was almost a comfort to have one person aside from Barlow with whom there was no need to dissemble. John was no fool. Barlow cared only for his usefulness. John
was
useful, the best the underdog British had against Napoleon in a war that had grown frighteningly one-sided. When Barlow ordered him to ferret out what was going on in France, he would do it.

Something was going on, that was certain. Four British agents dead, all in the same grisly and unlikely manner. Barlow hardly credited John’s report that the bodies were drained of blood. The French intelligence service had grown strangely effective. Rumor had it there was a new head man. But he and Barlow would put a stop to these atrocities. He set his jaw.

That was it! That was what was so intriguing about the countess! She had secrets, just as he did, and he would bet they were pips. Withering poured some laudanum, but John shook his head. He liked to have his wits about him. Wits. What wits? Here he was mooning over a woman who was like all the other women he had known in his life, not a shred of virtue, no honor . . .

The secret that disturbed him most was that he wanted to see the countess again.

Three

Withering’s dire predictions may have been off, but John was definitely not feeling quite the thing on Friday. He stayed in his dressing gown most of the day, and while he refused the man’s offer to fetch a doctor, he did submit meekly to Withering’s ministrations and drank the familiar concoction of raw eggs and pepper without complaint. He was about to accede to Withering’s offer to procure an early supper to eat in his rooms, when a message was sent up by the doorman from downstairs.

The seal was Barlow’s. “That will be all, Withering,” he said sharply as he tore open the envelope. He glanced over the single line. “Supper at Brooks’s upper rooms. Nine. Barlow.”

“Withering,” John called. “I’m eating at Brooks. Set out some neck cloths.” Had Barlow discovered the identity of the spider at the center of the new French web of spies already?

“Yes, my lord,” Withering said, sighing.

In fact, it felt good to get out into the brisk March air as John strode down Duke Street. It was not far to Brooks, where Barlow had engaged a small private dining room.
They talked of inconsequential matters through the Dover sole and the saddle of venison with its accompanying array of winter vegetables. Barlow was an old man, with beetling brows that inched across his forehead like caterpillars. He had been sick when John left for France last, so sick John hesitated to go. But tonight he seemed in the pink of health. Even his normally gouty foot did not bother him. John wondered whether he should tell Barlow about the footpads who might not have been footpads. He wasn’t certain they were anything but what they seemed. As the trifle was served, John mentioned a hot tip for the spring meeting at Newmarket. “Gone to Grass,” he said, as the waiter left a decanter of brandy, a tray of cheeses, and a box of cheroots. “Turvey has got a new training method. You should see his horses run.”

The door closed softly behind the waiter. Both men lighted their cheroots. The smoke blended with Barlow’s lavender water scent. He was wearing a touch too much. John drew on his cigar and sat back, watching Barlow exhale and slosh the amber liquid in his cut-crystal glass. “You did not invite me to dinner for the pleasure of watching me smoke.”

Barlow glanced up, his old eyes sharp. “We may have acquired a way to the information we need,” he said slowly. “But there is a slight problem.”

Did he know already who the new spider was at the center of the French intelligence web? The man was amazing. John chuckled. “Nothing you can’t handle.”

“Don’t be so sure, young man,” Barlow chuffed, “until you know the situation.”

John took no offense. The situation must be difficult indeed to make Barlow so touchy.

“A French operative familiar with the highest circles of French intelligence was on a frigate that escaped the blockade at Brest,” Barlow said. “He was among several passengers let off in Spain who made their way to Gibraltar.”