Sustenance (36 page)

“And that might make your position more precarious?” he suggested. “Because you know both the brother and sister?”

“Sort of. The Coven is wary about having members who have any kind of personal history, and if anyone does have such a connection, we’re asked to deny it outside of the group.” She made an impatient gesture. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds. His sister and I were in grad school together for a couple of semesters, and shared an apartment the size of a rabbit hutch. I met Happy then. He was a bright kid, very ambitious about his theories, and blithely unaware of his ambitions.” She managed a partial smile that lacked the brittleness that her previous attempts had possessed. “I liked him more than her.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Not that kind of like,” she amended. “He’s a lot more accessible than Meredith wants to be. She had the idea to be a free spirit back then, but somehow, that didn’t really suit her. She and Happy are very close.”

“Her name is Meredith?” Szent-Germain asked. “The family calls her Mim—”

“Meredith Isadora. They called her Mimi; at least they did then. Happy told me she’d gone back to Meredith when she got married.” She lowered her head. “We didn’t part on good terms, I’m sorry to say. Among other things, Mimi didn’t think the war would come, so she dropped out of her PhD program, and went on some kind of extended travel, about a year or so before the war broke out in Europe. She had trouble getting home. Happy told me she married a car dealer about ten years ago, and that she has a couple of kids, now. She isn’t as much a free spirit as she used to be.” She felt a strange pang of jealousy, and wondered if it were because Mimi had settled down, or because she, herself, had been deprived of her own security.

“Did Nugent offer to bring you and Meredith together during her visit?” Szent-Germain asked, encouraging her to talk.

“No.” She stopped again. “Aside from Happy, we don’t have anything in common, Mimi and I.”

“You have children,” he pointed out.

“Not that that’s anything remarkable,” she answered darkly.

They had reached one of the flights of stairs leading down to the river; they paused under the light that marked the spot. “The clocks will strike midnight in two or three minutes,” he remarked, looking down the street. “I should probably get you home.” He spoke reluctantly but with a pragmatic half-bow.

“Have we really been walking for almost three hours? My ankles will be the size of softballs tomorrow,” she lamented.

“In that case, I should definitely see you home.” Night and his native earth in his soles provided him with increased strength and stamina, and he knew he could easily carry her back to her flat if she required it, but he only added, “Don’t wear yourself out; you have enough to deal with. If you like, I can try to find a taxi.”

“It’s nice … no, it’s kind of you to say that, but I’ll walk,” she told him, staring at him with an air of discovery that she did not realize was apparent to him; her attraction to him had modified during their walk to something more comprehensive than it had been; seeming to hasten them on, a chorus of pleasantly discordant bells began to ring from nearby churches. They increased their speed from an amble to a more rapid clip; she felt her desire become yearning, and she started to consider what she might do to express that yearning. When she realized what she was seeking, she had a brief, internal scuffle with herself, appalled that she should consider making their alliance physical as well as affectionate, then decided that if he wanted the same thing, she would take him up on it, and wrestle with her conscience afterward. They would have to keep their lapse quiet, she knew, and that one consideration jangled at the back of her mind like an out-of-tune piano. She wondered if he were as discreet as she had assumed.

They spoke little, but as they turned into the rear alleyway behind the building where her flat was located, she brought her keys out of her purse, mentally chiding herself for the risk she was taking.

“Do you see anyone?” she whispered as she hurried with the lock.

“No; but then, I’m not supposed to,” he said, ironic amusement softening his observation; no one had been posted at the mouth of the alley, and the windows looking out on the cobbled narrow street were covered with draperies and shutters; there might be observers behind the dustbins, but he thought it unlikely. He listened intently but heard nothing more sinister than the hum of a new refrigerator in the rear apartment beneath Charis’ flat; Charis’ pulse was rapid.

She could not keep from glancing around, but she, too, saw nothing. “You’ll come upstairs?”

“If that would please you,” he said, perceiving the fluctuations of need and expectation and desire that were creating such foment within her.

“I think it would,” she said, and opened the rear door to the private staircase to her flat. “Go on, Grof. You know the way.”

“If you take your shoes off here…” he recommended, stopping to remove his own.

“Oh, what a good idea,” she said in an undervoice, then bent to unbuckle the ankle-straps so that she could kick them off; then she carried them by the straps in her left hand with her purse as they went up the stairs quickly and quietly.

When they entered the foyer, Charis spoke again, but softly. “Steve diMaggio checked it out yesterday. He’s a real wonder. We should be safe.” A single wall-sconce was shining, casting the room into a glowing half-light that made everything glisten. She pulled her damp scarf off her head and shoved it into her coat-pocket.

He closed the staircase door and set the substantial latch in place. “What now, Charis?” he asked, his question mellifluous.

She did not say anything while she studied him: short, stockily trim, with a deep chest, beautiful small hands, and arresting eyes. Not handsome, but mesmerizingly compelling, she decided. Tonight he was dressed in an Italian roll-top pullover of silk the dark color of aged iron, and a suit, also of Italian cut, in ash-black Turkish wool. His black loafers were from an expert bootmaker in London. The air of culture hung about him, and she had a moment of panic that he might be a practiced seducer, a man attuned to—She could find no word that described the predatory sort of behavior she feared. To cover her hesitation, she asked, “May I ask you something?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“How old are you?”

If this were unexpected, he gave no indication of it. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he said.

“No, really; how old are you?” she persisted.

“What do I appear to be to you?”

“Other than coy?” She cocked her head. “Somewhere between forty and forty-five,” she said at last. “Maybe a well-preserved fifty, but I doubt it.”

“I’m older than you think,” he said. “Does that make a difference?” It had on a few previous occasions with other curious women.

“I doubt it,” she said, taking off her coat and going to the coat-closet to hang it up. As she emerged, she said uncertainly. “What am I getting into?”

“Whatever you want,” he said, still standing near the door to the stairway. “So long as it brings you joy.”

“You see,” she said suddenly, “I never thought I’d do this—commit adultery. I didn’t imagine I’d ever consider doing what I’m probably doing now. I always thought I wasn’t that kind of girl. I meant my marriage vows when I gave them. It never occurred to me that Harold and I would get a divorce, either. And so now, I can’t decide what I should do. You attract me. Well, you know that.” She took two steps toward him, then stopped still. “I can’t … you’ll have to come to me.”

Unhurried he went to stand directly in front of her, less than a hand’s-breadth between them. “I’m here.”

“Would you leave if I tell you to go? Considering what I’ve said?”

“Of course,” he responded without heavy emphasis. “I can’t imagine anything worse than a reluctant lover. It would benefit neither of us.” He had known that kind of futile encounter three millennia ago, when he had been confined to an oubliette for being a demon, and had been given a living sacrifice every full moon; those hapless women had provided him the blood he required, but beyond that, all he gained was the impact of their fear; throughout his long life, he had often encountered a resistence at the core of desire: he remembered the elusive gratification of Tulsi Kil, the unremitting need for sensation from Estasia, and the perplexing air of performance that had infused Photine d’Auville’s passion. None of them had been reluctant, but none of them had sought or wanted the intimacy he craved.

“You’d better kiss me, so I can make up my mind,” she said.

“Now?”

“Yes; now,” she said.

He took her hands in his, holding them at her sides, and leaned forward a little, his mouth touching hers gently, exploring. It was a long kiss, a slow kiss, developing as it went along, one that grew more intense as seconds faded into a minute and more, their kiss becoming deeper and more exciting than any other Charis could recall. She told herself that it was because of her long celibacy, but knew it was not: she had remained faithful and content to be so for two years during the war. This had been little more than six months, and this one kiss was running riot through her in a way she had never experienced. She pulled his hands around behind her, then reached around his neck to draw him nearer to her. Still neither of them broke from the other. Finally she sighed and turned her head a little; he continued to hold her. When she was still for a short while, he said, “Well?”

She started as if interrupted in a critical point in her ruminations. “Oh. I’m sorry. Yes. You’d better stay. I think I’d like it if you would.” She seemed unable to let go of him. “You know where my bedroom—yes, of course you do,” she added, then went on as if resuming a recitation. “I want you to stay with me, all night if you can.”

“If that is what would please you,” he answered.

“Oh, please, Grof!” she exclaimed, moving a few steps away from him, afraid that if she remained near him, she would seek out another kiss, and then more. “Will you stop being so infernally
reasonable
? I want you to stay. In my bed. With me.” She took a deep breath. “So? Do you want to stay?”

“I thought I’d made myself clear,” he said, smiling as he spoke. “Yes, Charis. I want to stay the night with you.”

“And if I change my mind?” This was asked more tentatively.

“Then I won’t inflict myself on you. My Word on it.” He lowered his voice but remained focused on her. “Believe this.”

There was a look in her eyes that he could not read. “Do you mean that? If you don’t, it’s quite a pick-up line.” She made no apology for the skepticism in her tone and demeanor.

“Of course I mean it,” he said with a single chuckle.

She continued to watch him as if she were prepared to bolt from the room. “So what would you do?”

“If you changed your mind?” he asked easily. “I would rather you not change your mind, but if you do, be benevolent enough to tell me.” He did not add that he would know in any case, for that admission would be likely to daunt her present desire.

She hovered where she stood, unable to make herself move. “You’d better come and kiss me again,” she told him.

He closed the distance between them, and this time caught her up in an embrace as their lips met. This was a more tempestuous kiss than the first, which was a question asked and now was answered. Gradually, without apparent effort, he lifted her into his arms, his mouth never leaving hers, and carried her down the corridor to her bedroom, where he set her down and took a step away. “Will you let me undress you?”

She looked around, her features pleasantly dazed. “Did you really do that? Carry me?”

“Yes,” he said as if it were nothing unusual.

“How?” She took his hand. “Why?”

“To spare your nylons,” he said.

“Really, why?”

He knew better than to try to answer her question, so he put his hands on her shoulders and asked, “Where do you want me to put this?”

“What?”

“This,” he said. “Your jacket.”

“In…” She pointed to the closet. “No. Just put it over the back of the chair. Put it all over the back of the chair.”

He began to unbutton her rumpled linen jacket, working steadily, serenely. “All right.” He moved behind her and slid her jacket off her, then laid it carefully on the back of the wing-back chair. “How do you manage to get into this? It’s designed for a contortionist.” He was unbuttoning her blouse that closed down the back; it was silk crepe, simple in line, ecru in color, with small mother-of-pearl buttons.

She laughed, a little breathlessly. “I button the lower ones before I put it on, and then only have to fasten the top six,” she said, surprised that he should think of such a thing.

“One day, you must show me how you do it,” he told her, a suggestion of amusement in his voice. “For now—” He freed the last button and eased the blouse off her arms, the backs of his fingers lightly brushing her skin. She shivered, but not because her bedroom was cool; she was entranced by the time he took to rid her of her clothes. Nothing was done in haste: her silk blouse was draped over the chair’s wing to minimize wrinkles, and now she had only her bra above her waist. Then she felt her bra tighten, and almost at once a release as he undid the hooks and eyes at the back. For a second she felt exposed, defenseless; she had to fight the impulse to keep hold of the bra, to use it as a shield. No one but Harold and her doctor had seen her without clothing for more than a decade, and suddenly it seemed that she had forgotten herself entirely, that she was giving in to impulses that no decent woman would indulge, but she could not bring herself to say the words to stop him.

He set her bra on the seat of the chair, then removed his jacket, hanging it on the far wing. “Would you rather remove your own hose? I can’t promise I won’t run them.”

There was something so wonderfully ordinary in what he said, that she dared to respond, “No; you do it. My garter-belt is elastic.”

He reached around her to briefly cup her breasts in his hands, caressing the luxurious swell of them and fingering her nipples deftly, then unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt from the back, and instead of dropping it down so she could step out of it, he lifted it over her head, folded it lengthwise to preserve its pleats, and set it over her jacket on the chair. “Would you rather sit down?”