A Dance in Blood Velvet (2 page)

“Can you hear me?” said the man. “I am Benedict. Do you understand? Can you speak?”

The vampire was confused. The man had an incredible aura of power... yet he was only a mortal, the source of the delicious salty heat. With effort, Andreas pushed himself up onto his hands. The man and woman both gasped, caught between fascination and fear.

The vampire did not see them as
people
, full of passions and hopes; he saw them only as swollen vessels of blood. They drew him with an urgent promise of warmth, nourishment, everything he craved...

“Banish it, Ben!” the woman cried. “Now!”

Propelled by unnatural strength, the vampire leapt.

The man raised his hands in self-defence - and vanished. Another realm rushed in, throwing Andreas through dizzying tunnels. At last he came to rest, paralysed, his mind blank within a screaming tornado of thirst.

Dull shapes leaned over him like a nightmare forest. He was in the otherworld again, while the world of humans hovered a breath away, just out of his reach.
That man Benedict did this to me,
he thought.
Tortured me with the scent of his blood, then pushed me back into this half-death! Katerina, Karl, help me...

There was no one to hear him. No one to care if he lay on the edge of death forever. But now his fear had two companions. Burning thirst, and rage.

In my dreams I see a carnival of ice

You’re wearing white and pirouette so nice

When I stop to ask the nature of surprise

A veil of contradiction is slipped before my eyes

Death is a ring-a-ring-a-rosey

You never reach the end

Ring-a-ring-a-rosary

I’ll pray for you, my friend

HORSLIPS, “RING-A-ROSEY”

H
e knew only her first name: Charlotte.

When he’d first met her at the concert, she seemed an averagely pretty young woman; medium height, slim rather than fashionably thin, nothing extraordinary. Her hair colour was difficult to define; a warm brown in shadow, the slightest ray of light drew out gleams of pure gold. And then she’d smiled, and her subtle beauty had first begun to enchant, then to obsess him.

Her name, the face in the photograph he carried: too much of a coincidence. Milner was convinced she was the woman he’d been sent to find.

And now - one week since their first meeting - he was alone with her in the moonlight, walking up a long, steep forest path to her house. They’d had to leave his car at the bottom of the hill. Although he considered himself fit for a man in his thirties, he was perspiring long before they reached the top.

“My goodness, you have this walk every time you go out?” he gasped, wiping his forehead.

Charlotte looked cool and not at all breathless, despite her evening coat and fur stole. “It’s impossible to get a motor up here. We don’t mind; we like the solitude. I’m only sorry that it’s inconvenient for our guests... Not that we have many. Do you want to rest a moment?”

Looking up, he saw a chalet through the pines, a shadowy-black structure with overhanging eaves, white window-frames and flowers along the balconies.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Well, we’re almost there,” she said, striding on without effort.

She led him inside, hung up his coat with hers and lit a lamp. Even in these simple actions she was magically graceful. Milner found it impossible not to appreciate the way her silky dress clung to her hips. The soft warm colours suited her; creamy-gold and clover shades, trimmed with old gold lace and tiny beads of bronze glass.

The chalet’s dark-wood interior was full of unlit alcoves. No electric lights, only golden-dim lamps and candles that she lit as she went. She led him to a reception room, where he stood trying to recover his breath while she rekindled the fire.

The house felt still and quiet. Fire-glow licked the dull-pink roses of the wallpaper - a cosy English touch - but failed to reach the rustic beamed ceiling. He noted French doors onto a balcony, and, near the fireplace, an archway to a darkened library. Milner found himself repeatedly glancing in there, like a child waiting for some monster to leap from behind the bookshelves.

He had no idea why he was so jumpy, so feverishly excited.

Charlotte was moving around the room, drawing curtains, winding up a gramophone. No servants? The mournful tones of
Death and the Maiden
wound softly around them as she came to him and placed a glass of whisky in his hand.

“Would you like a cigarette?” she asked.

He had noticed she didn’t smoke. He needed one to relax him, but was worried she mightn’t like the smell - why did that matter?

“No, no thank you.”

“Won’t you sit down, Mr Milner?”

He sat where she indicated, in a chair by the fire. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked girlish and innocent, but solemn, haunted.

“This is too kind of you, Mrs - or should I say Frau -”

“Just Charlotte,” she said with a brief smile. How her face lit up when she smiled.

Ah, embarrassment over her marital status,
he thought.
She’s choosing to be discreet, rather than lie.

“Well, then, you mustn’t call me ‘Mr’. It’s John,” he said, feeling awkward. “Isn’t your - er - the gentleman at home?”

“Not at the moment. I don’t expect Karl back for quite some time.”

The way she looked at him sent a rush of heat to his face.
My God, would she really proposition me while her lover is off the scene?
Though her morals appalled him, he turned dizzy with excitement.

She knelt and prodded the fire. Sparks roared up, outlining her with liquid red-gold light.
God, she is so lovely.
He gripped the whisky glass hard on his thigh to stop his hand shaking.

He said, “So, er, I trust you enjoyed the opera tonight?”

“Very much. And it’s so kind of you to escort me while Karl is away. But I have a confession to make.”

“Yes?” Milner swallowed.

She turned with the poker in her hand. “I prefer the ballet.”

At last, a safe topic of conversation; she left him damned near speechless. “You’ve seen the Ballets Russes? Pavlova?”

“Yes, at every chance.” He found her manner strange, almost abrupt, as if she disliked making small talk for the sake of it.

“And Ballet Janacek?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you simply must. Their
Giselle
is on a par with anything of the Ballets Russes. Wonderful prima ballerina.”

She didn’t respond. The silence purred like static.
I never dreamed this would be so difficult!
he thought.
Must say something.
“It’s most kind of you to invite me here, Frau - Charlotte, but -”

“You expressed interest in seeing Karl’s Stradivarius cello,” she said. “Don’t you wish to see it?”

“Good God, yes, of course,” he said too enthusiastically, sitting forward. “I should say so. It’s so good of you to -”

He broke off, because of the way she was gazing at him. Challenging him with wide, clear eyes.

“Well, it isn’t why I asked you here,” she said. “And it’s not really why you came, is it?”

He gulped a mouthful of whisky and nearly choked as it burned its way down.

“What do you mean?”

“There is something on your mind, but it isn’t music, or art, or anything in which you professed to share our interest when Karl and I met you last week. You are too friendly, then, when you think no one’s watching, your face changes and your eyes go cold. Taking everything in, like a policeman.”

Her words were so close to the truth that he couldn’t gloss over them. The scene he’d envisaged was falling apart. She saw through him, and his desire for her was clouding his judgment. A
story, quick, think of a story. Then, maybe
...
well, why
did
she invite me here, alone?

He cleared his throat. “Can you read my mind?” he said lightly.

“No, or I wouldn’t be asking.” Her voice was low and serious.

His imagination, never powerful, deserted him. The way Charlotte’s large, deep-lidded eyes bore into him made him feel guilty, as if he were trying to deceive a child whose perception and intelligence were greater than his own.

And she was armed with a red-hot poker. There was nothing for it but the truth.

“Is your name Charlotte Millward?”

She stiffened visibly as he spoke. “No. I never use that name.”

“Then do you use the name Neville, or von Wultendorf?”

The look in her eyes showed he was not mistaken. How was it possible for her sweet face to fill him with such unease?

“You had better tell me who in hell you are,” she said.

John Milner reached into his pocket and took out the letter. He hadn’t sealed the envelope because he’d intended to write more after this encounter. With a resigned sigh he passed her the top page. Still kneeling, she replaced the poker in its stand and read aloud, her voice soft and puzzled,

Dear David,

Wonderful news at last! I am ninety-nine per cent certain that I’ve found your sister. Can’t claim brilliant detective work, just hard slog. I located her through a mixture of educated guesswork and luck.

No joy in Vienna; as we thought, the chap wouldn’t be so obvious as to go back to his hometown. Still, I had a feeling he wouldn’t stray far. I tried Prague, Budapesth, Rome. You said he claimed to have been a cellist, and that they both liked music, so I’ve been to concerts until the damned stuff is coming out of my ears. Finally, in Switzerland, eureka! Concert in Berne last week, I saw a girl in the foyer who was the image of the photograph you gave me. Your description of her companion clinched it; striking fellow, had all the ladies turning their heads. It was remarkably easy to get talking to them. No apparent attempt at hiding their identities; they gave no surname, very little personal information -hence the tiny doubt - but they openly called each other Karl and Charlotte and gave the impression they lived in the locality.

So, to answer your first question, yes, they are still together. Your sister is charming. So is the man, though I confess he’s also oddly unnerving. Difficult to explain, but I now understand why you warned me to be careful. However, your sister showed no fear of him. Seemed quite the perfect couple. That might not be what you hoped to hear, but it may at least set your mind at rest.

I dared not appear too pushy in case they grew suspicious, but as we parted, I invited them to an opera this coming Saturday. Charlotte expressed interest. Karl said he’d be otherwise occupied, yet seemed happy for Charlotte to be escorted by me - a man they’d only just met! Odd. Still, fingers crossed she’ll turn up and I’ll have more to share with you.

While I know you didn’t intend to tell -

Charlotte stopped. She’d reached the bottom of the page. “Where is the rest?”

Milner waved the second page uneasily. “I was going to finish after I’d spoken to you.”

She looked stunned, and he was desperately sorry he’d distressed her so much.
God, if only things were different and I could draw her down onto the Persian carpet...
But her face was like ice.

“I can’t believe it. I thought David had accepted this and let me go. Why - why would he hire a stranger to look for me?”

“I’m not a stranger. I’ve known your brother for years. I was with his regiment in the War. Afterwards, through a set of circumstances I won’t bore you with, I became a private detective; nothing glamorous, just finding errant spouses, hanging around boarding houses in Brighton for evidence in adultery cases - you know the sort of thing?”

“No, I don’t,” Charlotte said thinly. “What in God’s name did David tell you about me?”

“He got in touch out of the blue last year. He said that you’d left your husband - well, it would be eighteen months ago by now - and run off with another man whom he didn’t seem to think at all suitable. He wanted me to find you.”

“Why? To bring me back? He knows that’s impossible.” She leaned anxiously towards him, making his heart leap. “Is there news of my family? Bad news?”

“None that I know of. Your father isn’t well, but I gather you knew that when you left. David didn’t tell me much at all, to be honest. One shouldn’t make assumptions, but it may be that your husband wants to initiate divorce proceedings...”

She sat back on her heels, staring at the fire. “That’s in the past. I have no husband except Karl.”

He continued gently, “Or it may be that David was simply worried and wanted to know you were safe.”

Charlotte fell silent. He studied her neat profile, the enticing pink sheen of her mouth. Then she said, “He doesn’t need to know. As far as he’s concerned, I’m dead.”

She rose fluidly to her feet, walked to the doors and went out onto the balcony.

Milner drained his whisky glass and set it down. It wasn’t drink that made him light-headed. He was unreasonably glad that her “husband” wasn’t here. For no rational reason, he dreaded meeting Karl again. At least his absence gave Milner a chance to mend things with Charlotte.

He followed her and stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry you’ve taken this so badly. You must be furious at me.”

A gorgeous smell of pine filled the spring air. Light from inside outlined her form; the Alps and forest were iron-blue behind her. Charlotte was an indistinct yet perfect, elegant figure of the modern age. Thin straps on creamy shoulders, long pearls, her beaded dress sashed low across her hips, the casual drape of silk emphasising the allure of her breasts. Her long hair was gathered loosely at the nape of her neck.

Milner loved long hair. He hated the fashion for cropping it short. And Charlotte’s hair was so beautiful, the glossy russet waves sprinkled with gold. Under a sequinned bandeau, her forehead was broad and pale, her eyes sea-grey.

“Why should I be angry with you?” she said.

“For deceiving you.”