Blood to Blood (7 page)

"That bond won't be enough."

"Won't it?" He pushed himself and took an unsteady step toward her. She would know he had far too much to drink, so he did his best to keep his speech clear as he added, "When you were Jonathan's wife, how could I have ever looked at you with anything more than affection?

"I'm still Jonathan's wife," she reminded him.

And even drunk, he was too much of a gentleman to disagree. "It's gotten late," he said, turning toward the open doorway, wondering if he had the ability to leave. It would be a long hike to the cab on the main road, but it would sober him up, at least.

"So it has." She looked at him, undoubtedly realizing that he was somewhat unsteady on his feet. "I think you'd best leave in the morning. The sink and closet are at the top of the stairs if you want to get ready for bed. While you're up there, I'll fix us both some chamomile tea."

She turned toward the kitchen while he pushed himself to his feet, uncertain whether to follow her suggestion or slump back in his chair. He did neither. Instead, he looked at the room around him. "Do you think his ghost is here?"

She looked back at him, frowning. "Gance's? I haven't felt it."

"I hope it is. I hope he possesses me and shows me what he did to possess you."

"He convinced me that the act would be inconsequential. It was a lie I chose to believe."

"Mina!"

Later he was convinced that it was the anguish in his tone that made her stand where she was as he went to her, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. But though his passion was genuine, she did not respond.

Instead, she stood passive in his arms, whispering gently, "And it
was
inconsequential in one respect. In the beginning, I didn't care a thing about what happened to either of us. I care far more about you, Arthur. And Jonathan."

He backed away, certain the flush on his cheeks would be noticeable even in the dim light. "I've made a fool of myself. I'm sorry."

"It's not foolish to say what you feel," she responded and went into the kitchen.

He stayed where he was for a time, then joined her just as she was putting the kettle on the stove. "Is there any reason to hope?" he asked.

"If Jonathan and I cannot come to an agreement, there would be reason enough," she said without a trace of the coy tone Lucy might have used.

Would he be condemned to think of Lucy at the most inopportune moments? Perhaps he deserved it.

He pushed aside the memory and grinned at his hostess. "Then something came out of my declaration. I can wait." He grabbed his bag from beside the rear door and started for the stairs.

"You'd best take a light," she called after him.

Gripping the banister, he carried a candle in front of him up the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. Its dark woodwork seemed to absorb the rays as the thick carpet absorbed his footsteps. Even his breath seemed muted. The scent of the space was familiar, as if the smoke from Gance's pipe had merged so completely with the plaster that they could never be parted. Had he seen his friend standing in front of him, he would have been only mildly surprised.

Mina had not invited him to explore the second floor, but once he was there, curiosity got the better of him. He lit the lamp in the hallway, a second beside the bathroom sink. Together the lamps threw enough light into the bedroom that he could see an oversized and exquisitely carved canopy bed cloaked in blood-red lace and strewn with wine-colored cushions so dark they seemed almost black against the white crocheted duvet.

The lace, he decided, had come from Mina. The rest was clearly Gance.

He sat on the edge of the bed, noticing his reflection in the mirror beside it. He looked gaunt and pale in the dim light, more like Gance than himself. He lay back and thought of how many women Gance had brought to this bed to use as he wished. Women often told Arthur that he had wit and looks to turn their heads, but he never possessed his friend's predatory nature. Gance could have whomever he wished, while Arthur had to be content with harmless flirting or a night with women purchased for pleasure.

The well-respected Victorian to his friend's classic libertine.

He shut his eyes and prayed to whatever power might watch over a house like this. He asked for a greater Gance inheritance than mere wine—some small piece of Gance's soul.

With that thought fixed in his mind, he drifted off to the soothing scents of lavender and musk.

Mina waited in the solarium until the tea grew cold, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. As she'd expected, Arthur had fallen asleep on the bed. She looked down at him for a time, at the boyish peacefulness of his face as he slept. Would Gance have called her a fool for refusing him? She would never know, but it made no difference. She found her nightclothes and changed quickly in the bathroom. Returning to the bed, she slipped a pillow from beneath the coverlet, blew out the lamp and left him.

She'd slept on the settee before and, like Arthur, her thoughts were of Gance as she drifted off.

Later, she woke suddenly, straining to hear what had roused her. But there was only the rustling of breeze through the bushes beyond the open door, the faint sigh of the house as the current of air shifted. A distant strobe of lightning gave her a logical reason for the sounds. A storm was coming. A large one, judging by the tingling of her skin.

She'd left their glasses and the decanters on a small table in the garden. A good gust would send them crashing on the cobblestones. As she went out to retrieve them, she paused and relished the wind in her hair, the kiss of the satin nightdress against her bare skin, even the cool, tumbled stones beneath her feet.

Without thinking, she untied the ribbon holding her gown shut and let the rising wind blow against her skin. The pleasure it gave seemed perverse yet harmless, the sort of thing no good woman would ever confess to doing.

She fell into one of the chairs and pulled her gown completely open, spread her legs wide apart, feet flat against the ground.

She had never felt the wind brush against her there, never knew this pleasure. Barely thinking about what she was doing, she slid her hands up her thighs, pressed her thumbs against the folds of her sex, as he had done. She threw back her head, inhaling the damp night air as her fingers began to move.

Gance, she thought, as she felt the first waves of pleasure roll through her.

In answer, she felt a drop of rain on her face, as if he were here with her, mourning the body he had lost.

She glanced up at the bedroom windows, and in a stroke of lightning noticed the curtain move. Was there someone standing at the window, or just an illusion caused by the sudden burst of light? She clutched her gown around her and rushed inside.

With the raindrops cool on her face, she held her breath and listened. No boards creaked on the floor above her. No sound at all except for her heartbeat and the rain beating on the stones outside.

What a strange, mad creature I've become
, she thought and let out her breath with a soft ripple of anxious laughter. It's the house, she thought. That and the constant reminder of what she had done here that made her so reckless.

On the long trip back to London, Arthur sat in his private compartment, drinking Yankee bourbon from a jacket flask, mind rolling like the wheels against the track.

She had refused him. Not Gance, but him!

Not unthinkable. She'd even done it with a certain flair, managed to give him some hope, but not much. It was clear as well that nothing he had told her would be repeated. She had always been one to keep a confidence, especially when she privately agreed with it.

And that was good. So good. He'd gotten a bit too drunk and hinted at a marvelous fantasy. At least he thought he'd hinted. Perhaps later he'd revealed too much. But if he had, she gave no indication that she was at all horrified by it.

He opened a copy of the morning
Post
and began to read, looking for all the world like the proper British gentleman that he usually was.

But that would change—his life, his fortune, all of it.

By the time he reached London, he had put away the flask and drunk enough tea to be waterlogged and sober. Nonetheless, he hailed a cab and called out a destination. Not the best part of town, even so early in the evening, but he had need for companionship. Besides, the hunt for it gave its own pleasure, as if he were already a predator and the girl he purchased to do with as he would no better than prey.

He decided on the Bostonian Gentlemen's Club because he had heard it was clean and none of his circle ever went there. Skipping the drinks, he chose a woman from the night's line whose chestnut hair and proud bearing reminded him of Mina.

The room she took him to was opulent, plush and dark—like the bedroom Mina had inherited from her lover.

Once the door was shut and locked and the red glass lamp turned down, she started to speak. He pressed his fingers against her lips, silencing her. "You do as I say, replying only to my questions. No false displays of passion, no coy, seductive maneuvers. Understand?"

"Yes, my lord."

That may have been a false display, he thought. She had no way of knowing his title. He let the answer pass. Tonight he was her lord. "Good. Take off your clothes," he ordered.

She did as he asked, exactly as he asked, then stood in the center of the room, hands at her side, waiting for his next order.

"Now, what may I do with you?"

"Whatever you wish, my lord. You have me for the night."

"I understand. Now, if I were to hurt you just a little…" He deliberately left the sentence unfinished, watching a quick shudder pass through her. The moment of pleasure he felt at this was beneath him, but he accepted it. If he were going to have a vampire's mind-set, he should expect such disquieting feelings.

"A little only, please," she whispered.

"I was only asking. Now I would like to ask something more. Do women ever come here?"

"Two of us, you mean?"

"No, no. As customers."

"Not here, my lord. But there are other places."

"Name them."

She listed three. Of them, only Impostors—such a marvelous name!—was known to him. He recalled it as being particularly discreet, so much so that he had no inkling that women were ever admitted. Ladies, duchesses, contessas. He wondered which of his friends' wives frequented such a place. "Do they offer men or women?" he asked.

"Both, my lord."

"Or both at once?"

"Yes. I have been told that women who come alone are not welcome, unless they are already known to the staff."

Intriguing, even more than the girl before him. But she was his for the night, and it had been a long time.

"Come here," he said and placed her hands on the buttons of his coat.

Later, in a moment of supreme passion, he asked her to hurt him just a little. Anxious to please, she bit harder than he expected, but he only learned that later when, just before leaving, he examined the marks she'd left.

He turned back to her, still lying on the bed, still naked as if he might change his mind and return to it. "Do men often request you to do that?" he asked as he brushed his finger over the wound she'd left.

"Sometimes. Not often in so public a place."

"Well, it will be ascots for a while," he replied mostly to himself, and handed her half a crown as a tip. He could afford it, and she had been more than generous with her favors. As he left the establishment, he considered that London would be a perfect place for a vampire—but only if it were male and rich.

As he had promised, Steranko handled every detail. Joanna and Colleen had an inside cabin with not even a porthole to let in the cursed light. And when they boarded the ship together, shaking hands with the captain, who greeted everyone as they stepped onto the deck, they were wearing Western clothing. These things seemed finer to Colleen than anything she had worn in her life, and she tried not to think where Steranko had found them so quickly.

And because he had explained to the captain that the noblewoman who had booked passage suffered from extreme seasicknesses and fear of water, the captain made a point of whispering reassurances to her, then commented that she could get below because she seemed so terribly cold. Joanna understood enough of what he said to take a breath and laugh. The sound, so close to hysteric, had an unexpected effect. Throughout the voyage, the crew never questioned Joanna's being constantly in her room. Everyone was certain they understood.

As for Colleen, she dined with the servants of some of the other passengers, but said as little as possible about her mistress. They would all be lies, of course, and the less told, the less likely she was to be caught in one. But they were curious.

"I hear that you travel with a princess," a woman commented one morning over breakfast.

Colleen swallowed down a mouthful of dry biscuit with a bit of warm tea. "And a poor traveler," she said, hoping to change the subject.

"Russian?" a man asked. "It seems that every one of them has some title."

"Turkish," Colleen answered.

"And she's going west, alone?" The woman's voice was incredulous. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"Turkish women are no more than slaves to their husbands," one of the men said. "Perhaps she's run away."

Someone from the end of the table called out, "What does she keep in that trunk the porters carried on board? It looks big enough for the body of her husband."

More laughter. They must have thought it a joke, but the curiosity behind it alarmed her. "Her clothes and some books and keepsakes."

"Well, they must mean plenty to her, considering the lock on the thing. And why is she going west?"

"I don't know very much about her reasons," Colleen replied, then lied as instructed, "but I've been in her service a few months and she's always treated me well."

That had the desired effect. Someone asked what she'd been doing in that part of the world. Now she could answer honestly, as she had when Joanna had questioned her. Indeed, after the experience, she had promised herself that she would explain it to everyone and perhaps help some poor, unfortunate girl from making the same naive mistake. "I'd been living in London for three years working as a cook's helper. The family I served was transferred to India. I didn't want to go, so they made arrangements for me to be employed by a cousin of theirs. After they left, the position fell through. Months passed. My savings ran out.

"I was trying to get some job in a textile mill when I met a woman who told me that there were good jobs for ladies' maids in France."

"There was a job, but it was hardly what I'd expected. As soon as I realized what my intended duties would be, I ran."

"One heck of a distance," one of the cooks said. The girl beside her began to giggle, reminding Colleen of Joanna.

The woman beside her pulled her gray shawl higher on her shoulders, patted Colleen's hand and said with sympathy.

"You were taken in, dearie. It happens, especially when you're hungry."

"Someone told me the ship leaving Calais that night was bound for Ireland. Since I had enough of France, and nothing for passage, I stowed away. Only it sailed to Varna instead. Then I met my mistress."

"She could well be an impostor, dearie," the woman continued.

"I could hardly know one way or the other, but she's been good to me," Colleen answered. "Does anyone know what I might do to make her more comfortable? She hasn't a hint of sea legs."

"Peppermint and chamomile tea and honey," the woman said. "No spicy foods or things with too much fat. Which, of course, means she'll be eating biscuits and tea all the way to London."

"When she's up to it, add soup with plenty of salt and crackers," the man across from her suggested.

"Brandy… lots of it. Put it in the tea," the ship's cook called from the stove.

"It works for him, dearie," the woman beside her whispered. "But look at the slop we eat because of it."

Colleen finished her meager meal, then claimed a plate for her mistress from the cook. While the servants were given biscuits and tea and a bit of cheese for lunch, the better passengers got pieces of orange or apricots in syrup, and often boiled eggs.

Once in the room she shared with Joanna, Colleen would sit on the floor with her back pressed against the door and eat the best of the small fare. Of the rest, some of the meat and cheese were used as bait to lure rats into the room for Joanna's meals. The remainder was returned to the kitchen or tossed overboard under cover of night.

And the rats did come sometimes, stealing softly into the room. Joanna would wait until they took the bait before pouncing quick as a cat, then turning her back so Colleen would not have to watch what she did with them.

But the rats did not come enough. And on those nights when her hunger grew too strong, Joanna would open her arms, and Colleen would move into them and shut her eyes.

Were the lips of these creatures always so soft, so pleasant against the skin? Were their teeth so sharp that the piercing seemed almost pleasant, and the slow drawing out of life so pleasurable that her body would shake with delight?

And did their hair always smell of the sun they had lost, of wildflowers blooming in summer meadows? Colleen would lay in those arms, her eyes shut, dreaming of her youth, her first carefree lover, those days under the Irish sun.

And when Joanna had taken her fill, she would lift the girl gently in her arms and carry her to the bed they were expected to share during this journey. She would lie beside her, feeding her wine and bits of food, and sometimes, when she thought her servant had grown too weak, a bit of her own blood.

Her brother would have said you must take care of the servants who earn your trust. Joanna understood that, but this was more, far more.

Affection had been there even before the blood had formed a bond between them. With it came deeper understanding of the girl's feelings, her culture, even the ability to speak her language. It was as if in taking life from her, she stole knowledge too.

As she kissed the girl's lips and stroked the side of her face, she understood that without this brave creature to face the world with her she would be utterly lost.

So they traveled south through the Black Sea then west across the Mediterranean. On some days Colleen felt as healthy as ever; on others, overcome with fatigue. But she tried to go about her business as always, certain that any marked change in her schedule would cause ill luck for the pair of them.

Late one stormy afternoon, as she sat with others in the kitchen, she heard Joanna calling her name, the mental summons so unexpected and so sharp with fright that she winced from the pain.

"Something wrong, child?" the cook asked.

"A headache, that's all. I should go below."

"In that downpour? Come closer to the stove and dry off while I fix you some tea."

The ship lurched from a sudden gust of wind. Colleen gripped the table for support, nearly upsetting it. No wonder Joanna, trapped and helpless, was alarmed.

She started for the stove when she felt the cry again, this time so piercing that she put her hand against her forehead, as if by placing her hand on her head she could muffle the thoughts thrust into her mind. Why hadn't Joanna warned her of this power? In the wrong moment, she might have given everything away.

"I'll come back for it soon," she said, and hurried below.

When she got there, she discovered that the box, which had taken up most of the center of the little room, was missing.

She rushed to the narrow hall, but there was no one in sight. The doors on either side of her were locked, but the second one she tried opened a moment later, and a man, clutching a towel and looking miserable and sick, peered out at her. "Someone knocked. Is the ship all right?" he asked.

Colleen looked past him but saw no sign of the box. "The ship is fine," she said. "But I seem to have lost my mistress, and it appears that our cabin has been robbed."

"A woman missing! Go into your cabin and lock the door. I'll go topside and find the captain." He grabbed a coat and rushed down the hallway, nearly falling when the ship took another unexpected lurch.

As she watched him go, Colleen heard her mistress call to her again, this time softer, as if she knew Colleen had already answered.

Colleen stared at the hallway floor, trying to devise some story to explain what Joanna was doing inside the box. An idea had just begun to form when the man returned, along with the captain and two of the crew.

"You say your mistress is missing?" he called from the end of the hall.

"And our large steamer trunk too."

"Not an easy piece to carry," the captain said. He turned up the flame on his lantern and crouched, studying the floor. "The thief came my way. I can see the marks from the trunk." He turned and followed the trail down the hall until it ended at the door to a storage compartment at the bow of the ship.

As expected, the door was bolted. While the captain searched the ring he carried for the right key. Colleen heard a sound in the unused cabin to her right, the hissed intake of a breath of air, a grunt, a stifled cry—things that the others did not seem to notice.

They did hear the scream, though, and the struggle that followed. This time the captain didn't bother to look for the key but instead slammed his own shoulder against the door. His two crewman joined him on a second attempt and the door fell open, held upright but askew by just the lower hinge.

To the others the dark room must have seemed empty, though Colleen could see the deep red glow of Joanna's eyes before she turned away from the lamplight. It must have smelled of mildew rather than the overpowering scent of blood. I am becoming like her, Colleen thought.

Then her mistress, the one no one on the ship ever called by name because the name was too foreign to them, stepped into the light.

Her pale face was streaked with blood, her hair dripping with it. The bodice of her dress was ripped, one shoulder and most of a breast exposed. But it was her terrified expression, her trembling lips and the quick gulps of air she took in, that made the captain raise the lantern higher and move past her. He looked down into the open box, then at the papers and clothes that had been inside and were now scattered through the room, then to the place where the thief lay, his own knife buried in his neck.

Joanna whispered something in Turkish and fell against Colleen, shivering as Colleen patted her back, whispering sympathetic, soothing words.

The captain stepped forward. "Princess," he began. "Princess, can you tell us what happened here?"

"The box!" Joanna whispered. "He opened it and…"

She stopped before she said too much, and she buried her wet face against Colleen's neck. "It's clear that he was going to kill her and put her body in it. He had a knife," Colleen said, lying for her. "She got it away from him… and thankfully, or she would have suffocated long before we found her."

Joanna stopped trembling and lifted her head. Though Colleen could not see her face, she knew Joanna was looking at the captain, doing what she could to control his mind. After a moment of silence, he lowered his lantern and called out, "Will someone bring a blanket for the poor woman?"

Their neighbors rushed to help, and moments later Colleen was assisting her trembling mistress down the hall to their room, while the crewmen dragged her trunk behind them.

Not one of them, even the Romanians, ever whispered the dread words Colleen had first heard only weeks before. "
Strigoaica
… vampire."

But they were much on Colleen's mind as she sat with Joanna in the cabin. The cook had sent them a bucket of cold, soapy water. As Joanna stripped off her clothing, she paused to suck the still-wet sections of blood from the cloth before handing it over to Colleen for cleaning. The vigor with which she did this convinced Colleen that she had not taken much from her attacker before being discovered and that she would need more soon.

Strigoaica mort.

And herself? She ran a finger over a still-bloody section of cloth and held it close to her lips. The smell tantalized, but the thought of tasting it sickened her.