Sustenance (42 page)

“Don’t dodge the question, Grof,” she warned, almost as if he were a recalcitrant student; she struck at him affectionately with a small pillow. “Yes, what you do for me is … astonishing. But that’s not the point: you’ve told me before it would trouble me to see you naked.”

“I recall telling you that,” he said without much emotion of any kind, thinking back to the many, many times he had told others the same thing. “Past experience has shown me that my scars are upsetting.”

“Scars, is it?”

“Severe,” he confirmed. “They’re distressing to many who see them.” He had seen strong men flinch at the sight of them, and women become nauseated.

“Do you still think I would be put off by them?” She was startled and saddened by the notion. “After all this? Whatever your scars are”—she privately thought it would turn out to be some kind of ritual scars or tattoos: she had heard that all manner of old noble families used to do things like that, and that perhaps some of them still did—“I don’t think it would extinguish the torch I’m carrying for you.”

“That does not perturb me; I am prepared to accept that if I must.” To her surprise, he sighed. “No, I’m bothered by the sense that your curiosity is not likely to be satisfied with one or two simple explanations, and that could lead to more questions and more hazardous answers,” he said.

“My curiosity is at the heart of me, Grof; I am an academic and the daughter of an academic, and I have cultivated skepticism most of my life,” she said, pulling as far away from him as the bed would allow. “If that’s a stumbling block, it is a major one.”

“I like your curiosity, I like your capacity for thought, and I admire your academic work,” he told her.

“Really? Doesn’t my intelligence worry you? Don’t you find it intimidating?” She had had that experience in the past, and had found it disquieting that so many men became defensive when dealing with a clever, well-educated woman. “I hadn’t thought you had such a problem, but I am beginning to wonder.”

“I hope I do not. Over the years I have found intelligent women wonderful companions.” He thought of Olivia and Demetrice, of Hero and Padmiri, of Heugenet and Madelaine …

“You mean lovers?” There was a challenge in her question; her chin was raised and her face became more angular.

“In some instances,” he said, “but not in all of them. When there is a … an allurement, shall I call it? then perhaps I will venture into amorous association, but only so long as it is welcome, and the hazards are understood.”

“And you felt such an allurement from me?” she demanded. “Well?”

“Yes, I did. As did you.”

The realization that he had been aware of her attraction from the first was disturbing for her. “So this ally talk was simply a device to get me here? A kind of lure?” She slapped the bedding with the flat of her hand. Suddenly she shook her head. “If I’ve overstepped the mark, just say so. I know I can get carried away with questions.”

“Of course I didn’t scheme to draw you in,” he answered. “I am your ally whether you share my bed—”

“Your guest bed,” she interjected.

“Yes. My guest bed: whether you shared it with me or not. It’s not my practice to make my female authors show their appreciation by engaging in a dalliance as part of the publication process.” He held out his hand to her. “One has very little to do with the other: believe this. I would have responded to you if we shared a compartment on a train or attended the same lecture. And had there been no direct contact, I would not have sought you out.”

“Not worth the trouble?” she asked.

“You wear a wedding ring,” he answered. “I would prefer not to suborn infidelity. That does no one any good.” His compelling gaze rested on her, his sincerity apparent in every aspect of his demeanor. “Please, Charis. If you have doubts, tell me and I will try to my utmost to answer your questions as fully as I can. I’d rather answer questions than have you come to your own conclusions.”

She sat still, thinking for more than a minute, then straightened up and crossed her legs tailor-fashion and looked directly at him. “What I really like about you is that you don’t try to jolly or … or belittle me out of my inquiry, no matter how much it annoys you. You discuss these things very well, as if we were both rational adults. You haven’t called me silly—that’s something.” She touched his cheek. “Thank you for that.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you for welcoming me in spite of all the questions you have, and the doubts. That’s very brave of you; after all the coercion you have endured already, it must be doubly difficult to confront me about something so private.” He saw her nod, and he felt a pang of grief for her. “I am not seeking to exploit you, not even in print. I am not interested in seducing you; I am interested in loving you. By the same token, I will not trivialize your work or your achievements, or claim credit for the work through publishing it. You’ve had to accept certain restrictions on your ambitions and your attainments well before the witch-hunt phase began. Unless you come across the lost books of the Etruscans or the fifth volume of the Athenian registry of plants, you will have few chances for advancement in the American academic world, more’s the pity. Not that the Europeans are any better than the Americans in that context, and in some instances, worse.” He shook his head. “And yet things are improved: since the turn of the century, women have had more opportunities than they have had in the Occident for almost two millennia. The most disheartening thing is not that it happened, but that it took so long to come about.”

This basic summing up of the state of women’s issues worried Charis, who drew away from him and no longer felt his presence in the same intense fascination she had experienced at first. She had not known any of her colleagues to discuss women’s role in social developments beyond the Suffragettes, as if the vote were all that was needed. “You’re right: there is still a long way to go.” Her voice was subdued, and she rolled onto her side, drawing her legs upward against her chest as a barrier between her and Szent-Germain. “I want to tell you about my mother. My mother was a Flapper when she was young; she loved jazz and weekend parties in the country. She did sculpting in wood, and she was part of a show at a gallery in Chicago when she was in college. College was rare for women then, and still not common now. She had a little money from her grandmother so that she could wait to marry, and so she had a job decorating manikins in store windows for three years. She was good at it, I’m told. She was also good at designing games. But once she married—she was twenty-five when she did, and half her family had given up on her ever finding a man—the only enterprising thing she did was make bathtub gin. Once in a while, she would carve something in wood; she always gave the works away, but before she did, my father always displayed her work on the mantelpiece, and boasted of her talent to his friends. He stopped at that; he would not take a booth at the county fair to show her work, or suggest she visit an art gallery to find an exhibitor. That was too public an exhibit for him. By the time I went to college, my mother spent the afternoons playing mah-jongg and drinking tropical cocktails with three businessmen’s wives, all in circumstances like her own.” She was silent for almost three minutes, then shook herself. “Why are we talking about this? I accept that your interests are liberal. I believe you have my best interests at heart. I have realized that you are not a religious man. And you have a vast knowledge of history. All granted. All things I admire. I give you credit for taking on my books. But I am not without reservations. I might be more trusting if I were not in the process of getting divorced, but perhaps not. My ambivalence troubles me as much as I suspect it troubles you, but I cannot deny it. I may have too many questions about you. That remains to be seen. I apologize for my behavior, but I cannot give it up.” She swung around to face him, speaking quickly so she would not run out of nerve before she had finished telling him what she wanted. “Will you, or will you not, let me see you naked?”

“I would prefer not, but if you insist, I will.” He rose to his feet.

“I do insist.” She stared directly into his dark, dark eyes that flickered with what looked like tangles of blue filaments. “You’ve warned me, and my reaction will be my concern.” There was a slight qualm behind this assertion, but she overcame it.

“Since you are so determined, I’ll ask Rogers to heat up the main bath. It’s at the back of the flat, at right angles to the kitchen. In an hour and a half, it should be ready, and while we’re waiting, I’ll explain about the number of exposures you can have without risk, and why, and what that risk entails.” He got out of bed. “I’ll be back as soon as this is arranged; it’ll take five minutes, no longer.”

“You’ll work something out with him—with Rogers—so that you won’t have all your clothes off, won’t you?” she began, only to have him interrupt her quietly.

“I gave you my Word, Charis. If that is insufficient—”

Something in his comportment showed her that she had gone too far. “No, no; I believe you.” She drew the duvet up to her chin as Szent-Germain left the room, knowing he would find Rogers in his office. She found herself of two minds now that he had consented; whatever she saw, she could not unsee it, and if it really were dreadful, then she would have to deal with it as best she could. She lowered the duvet and stepped out of the bed, going to the armoire; it was an imposing structure from the earlier part of the last century, a three-part piece of furniture in elegant bird’s-eye maple, with a full-length beveled mirror on the panel nearest the door. It was large enough to park a car in it, she thought as she opened the third panel. There were three Turkish cotton bathrobes of varying sizes hanging in the closet, and she decided to choose one to serve as covering until the bath.

Szent-Germain moved almost silently, his small, bare feet seeming to skim the floor. He hurried into the antechamber and knocked on the door of the office before opening it. “The main bath, ninety minutes from now. Robes, scented soap and shampoo, sponges, slippers. Cognac for after.”

“Given how warm it is, do you want the floor-heating on?” Rogers asked at his most unflappable.

“Probably not, but if the wind picks up, then yes. Thank you, old friend.”

Rogers waved the Grof away and closed his ledger book, a suggestion of a smile in the crinkle of his eyes.

Back in the guest bedroom, Szent-Germain said, “The main bath will be ready in ninety minutes. What would you like to do while we wait?”

“Get some answers; I don’t mean this in any derogatory way, but I do have a great many questions. I’ve been asking questions all my life, you know,” said Charis, trying to keep from reaching out to him. She had donned the bathrobe of middle size and length, so it hung on her a bit loosely. She had pulled up the duvet and was sitting atop it, reclining on the large pillow Szent-Germain had placed there for her.

“As you wish,” he said, sitting back down on the side of the bed. “Where would you like to begin?” He straightened out the bedding on his side, tugging the folds out of the bedding, waiting for Charis to begin.

“How old are you?”

“I’ve lived thirty-three years,” he said promptly.

This startled her, but she did her best to conceal it. “You look older.”

“It was a long time ago.”

She sat up. “No more games. Answer me. How old are you?”

He met her eyes directly. “I am thirty-three, but”—he held up his hand to forestall her outburst—“I was born over four thousand years ago to what was considered a royal family in the Carpathian Mountains, at the dark of the year. Today most people would probably consider my father a warlord at best, but the world was a very different place, back then. I was initiated into the priesthood of our people, which conveyed provisional immortality. I was captured by our enemies and executed when I was thirty-three, and since my death, very slowly, I have changed, grown older, yet my age is still thirty-three. I have been told I look, perhaps, forty-five. I don’t know, for I have no reflection, and haven’t had since I rose from the mass grave where my soldiers lay.” Though the events that had brought about his transformation were in the distant past, they were still vivid in his memories, stark images against a backdrop that had lost all but its strongest outlines.

“That’s impossible. You’re not dead,” she informed him stiffly. “You’re nothing like dead.”

“I’m not alive, either,” he said, taking her hand. “There may be some scientific term for my state of existence, but I doubt it. I call myself a vampire.”

“A vampire,” she echoed.

“Most of the restrictions I must deal with are consistent with European legends. I cannot cross running or tidal water without pain, I am vitiated by sunlight, I survive on the blood I receive from those who provide me with nourishment. My native earth in my shoes and my furniture shields me from the worst of these limitations.” He ticked off these items on his fingers. “I am not driven off by the Cross, and other religious paraphernalia has no effect on me, garlic does not drive me away, and neither I nor those of my blood are vassals of the devil. I have no compulsion to count millet-grains, and I am not afraid of white horses.”

“More fables. I want the truth.” She was precariously near tears. “You have promised me the truth.”

“And I am telling you the truth insofar as I know it. This is one of the points you need to know if we are to continue as lovers. If we continue, what I am, you will become.”

She flung up one arm. “This is like a bad movie. All that’s lacking is a colony of bats and an ancient, ruined castle. Vampires! That’s crazy!” She glowered in his direction and caught the reflection in the mirror on the armoire door. The bed was clearly visible, and she saw herself plainly, but where he sat, there was a kind of smudge, like a fuzzy cutout image of a man, tattered and threadbare, no feature distinguishable. “How do you
do
that?” she yelled at him. “
Why
do you do it? You are…” She could find no words to describe him.

“It is my nature, as it is with all of my blood. I don’t do anything.”