The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 (30 page)

For a few moments she was unaware of him standing there, even though he was directly in front of her table. She was watching a particularly elegant couple performing lifts at the far right side of the dance floor; and he stood there, watching her without interference.

But when she looked up and he did not turn away, when his eyes did not narrow and he did not grow nervous as she turned the full power of her personality on him, she knew tonight would very likely be the best gourmet dining she had ever had.

His name was Patrick. He was a good dancer; they danced well together; and he held her tighter than a stranger had any right to hold her. She smiled at the thought because they would not be strangers for long; soon, if the night filled with light, they would be very intimate. Eternally intimate.

And when they left he suggested his apartment in Le Marais.

They went over the river to the old section, now quite fashionable. He lived on the top floor, but he was not wealthy. He told her that. She found him quite charming.

Inside, he turned on a soft blue light and another that was recessed in the wall behind a long chrome planter box filled with fat, healthy plants.

He turned to her and she reached out to take his head between her hands. He reached up and stopped her hands, and he smiled and said, in French she could understand, “You would eat some food?” She smiled. Yes, she
was
hungry.

He went into the kitchen and came back with a tray of carrots and asparagus and shredded beets and radishes.

They sat and talked. He talked, for the most part. In a French manner that posed no problems for her. She couldn’t understand that. He spoke as fast and with as much complexity as all other Frenchmen, but when others spoke to her, in the hotel, in the street, in the disco, it was gibberish; when he spoke, she understood perfectly. She thought he might have learned English somewhere and was speaking partially in her native tongue. But when her mind tried to halt one of the words she thought might be in English, it was gone too fast. But after a while she stopped worrying about it and just let him talk.

And when she leaned toward him, finally, to kiss him on the mouth, he reached across and put his hand up under her long blond hair, up to the nape of the neck, and brought her face close.

Through the window she could see the waning moon. She smiled faintly within the kiss: it was not necessary to have a full moon. It never had been. That was where the legends were wrong. But the legend was correct about silver bullets. Silver of any kind. And therein lay the reason why a vampire cast no reflection. (Except that was merely
another
legend. There were no vampires. Only children of the night who had been badly observed.) Because Jesus had been betrayed by Judas for thirty pieces of silver, the metal had been put to an evil purpose and was therefore, thereafter, invested with the power to turn away evil. So it was not the
mirror
that cast no reflection of the children of the night, it was the silver backing. Claire could be seen in a mirror of polished steel or aluminum. She could bathe in the river and see her reflection.

But never in a silver-backed mirror.

Such as the one over the fireplace just across from where she sat on the sofa with Patrick.

A
frisson
of warning went through her.

She opened her eyes. He was looking past her.

Into the mirror.

Where he sat alone, embracing nothing.

And Claire began to leave, to be replaced by the child of the night

Fast. She moved very fast.

Spine curves, fur mats, teeth lengthen, teeth sharpen, claws grow. And her hand that was no longer a hand came up as she shoved him away from her, raking the razoring claw across his throat.

The throat opened wide.

And the green sap flowed out. For a moment. And then the wound magically puckered, drew together, formed a white line of scar, and then vanished altogether.

He watched her as she watched him heal.

For the first time in her life she was frightened.

“Would you like me to put on some music?” he asked. But he did not speak. His mouth did not move.

And she understood why his French had not been incomprehensible to her. He was speaking inside her head, without sound.

She could not answer.

“If not music, then perhaps you’d like something to eat,” he said. And he smiled.

Her hands moved in vagrant ways, without purpose. Fear and total confusion commanded her. He seemed to understand. “It’s a very large world,” he said. “The spirit moves in many ways, in many forms. You think you’re alone, and you are. There are many of us, one of each, last of our kind, perhaps, and each of us is alone. The mists part and the children emerge, and after a while the old ones die, leaving the last of the children motherless and fatherless.”

She had no idea what he was saying. She had always known she was alone. That was simply the way it was. Not the foolish concept of loneliness of Sartre or Camus, but
alone,
all alone in a universe that would kill her if it knew she existed.

“Yes,” he said, “and that’s why I have to do something about you. If you are the last of your kind, then this life of chances, just to satisfy your needs, must end.”

“You’re going to kill me. Then do it quickly. I always knew that would happen. Just do it fast, you weird
son
of a bitch.”

He had read her thoughts.

“Don’t be a fool. I know it’s hard not to be paranoid; what you’ve been all your life programs that into you. But don’t be a fool if you can stop. There’s nothing of survival in stupidity. That’s why so many of the last of their kind are gone.”

“What the hell
are
you?!?” she demanded to know.

He smiled and offered her the tray of vegetables.

“You’re a carrot, a goddam carrot!” she yelled.

“Not quite,” said the voice in her head. “But from a different mother and father than you; from a different mother and father than everyone else out on the streets of Paris tonight. And neither of us will die.”

“Why do you want to protect
me
?”

“The last save the last. It’s simple.”

“For what? For what will you protect me?”

“For yourself . . . for me.”

He began to remove his clothes. Now, in the blue light, she could see that he was very pale, not quite the shade that facial makeup had lent him; not quite white. Perhaps the faintest green tinge surging along under the firm, hard skin.

In all other respects, and superbly constructed, he was human; and tumescently male. She felt herself responding to his nakedness.

He came to her and carefully, slowly—because she did not resist—he removed her clothes; and she realized that she was Claire again, not the matted-fur child of the night. When had she changed back?

It was all happening without her control.

Since the time a very
long
time ago when she had gone on her own, she had controlled. Her life, the lives of those she met, her destiny. But now she was helpless, and she didn’t mind giving over control to him. Fear had drained out of her, and something quicker had replaced it.

When they were both naked, he drew her down onto the carpet and began to make slow, careful love to her. In the planter box above them she thought she could detect the movement of the hearty green things trembling slightly, aching toward them and the power they released as they spasmed together in a ritual at once utterly new because theirs was the meeting of the unfamiliar, yet ancient as the moon.

And as the shadow of passion closed around her she heard him whisper, “There are many things to eat.”

For the
first
time in her life, she could not hear the sound of footsteps following her.

Peter Valentine Timlett was born in London in 1933, has lived in Australia for a few years, and now makes his home in Kent. He is primarily known for his Atlantean fantasy trilogy:
The Seedbearers
(1974),
The Power of the Serpent
(1976), and
Twilight of the Serpent
(1977). More recent novels include an Arthurian trilogy and a novel based on the witchcraft trial of Father Urbain Grandier,
Nor All Thy Tears
. He has worked as a jazz musician and in the distribution department of a large British publishing house. For several years Timlett was a practicing ritual magician, until he became frustrated with the aims of the occult group to which he belonged. Timlett’s interest in the occult is reflected in his
Seedbearers
trilogy, which he wrote without being aware of the heroic fantasy fad with which his trilogy was then lumped. (The U.S. paperback of
The Seedbearers
was saddled with a cover that rates as the most blatant Frazetta-Conan swipe ever.) Not one to pay heed to publishing trends, Timlett completed his Arthurian trilogy (as yet unpublished) little realizing that the market would be flooded with Arthurian novels that season. Timlett writes virtually exclusively in the novel form, and “Without Rhyme or Reason” is his only published short story. Ramsey Campbell coaxed this one out of Timlett for
New Terrors
, and I wish him success in persuading Timlett to show us a few more.

It was a large house, far bigger than she had expected. Must be five or six bedrooms at least. Not all that old, late Victorian probably, and the gardens were superb. It was set well back off a very minor road about a mile outside the village with not another house in sight, and as a consequence it was beautifully quiet and peaceful. She could be very happy here indeed.

She rang the bell and waited. After a couple of minutes she rang again. There must be someone at home, surely. Her appointment was for three o’clock, and she was punctual almost to the second.

“Yes?” said a sharp voice behind her.

She spun round, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come up.” The woman was in her late forties, tall and slimly built, with clear gray eyes that studied her firmly, almost fiercely. “I am Miss Templeton—Deborah Templeton. The agency sent me. Are you Mrs. Bates?”

The woman nodded. “You are punctual. I like that.” The gray eyes swept her from head to foot “You are also very pretty. I told the agency that you had to be pretty. I like to be surrounded by beautiful things, including people. You are not beautiful but you are very pretty. It’s the dress, I think, and the hairstyle. Pretty but not beautiful.”

Miss Templeton’s hand strayed involuntarily to her hair. “I usually wear it down,” she said.

“Yes, you should. With your hair down, a decent eyeshadow, green I think, and a daring evening gown you could look quite stunning.”

The girl smiled. “It’s been a long time since I dressed like that. There has been no occasion.” Mrs. Bates was no advertisement for her own philosophy. She wore patched and faded jeans, muddy at the knees, and a shapeless smock-like top that did little for her figure, and her hair was pushed up under an old hat that looked as though it might have begun life a decade earlier as a chic jockey cap in a Chelsea boutique. But she had that classical facial bone structure that most women envy, giving her face a precious ageless look. Given the right clothes this woman could also look quite stunning, despite her age.

Mrs. Bates was aware of her appraisal. “One should dress to please oneself, not others,” she said firmly. “When I am in the garden I dress like a gardener. In the evenings I dress like a woman, even when I’m alone.” She turned and walked away. “Come into the house,” she said over her shoulder.

Miss Templeton followed her around the side of the house and into a sun-lounge through a pair of French windows. A curious woman, this Mrs. Bates. The agency had been right to describe her as somewhat eccentric. But the room was beautiful. Each piece of furniture, as far as she could tell, was a genuine antique, and the woman waved her to a Victorian chaise-longue that alone would be worth a fortune by her own standards.

“As I am in my gardening clothes I will remain standing,” said Mrs. Bates. “I am a wealthy woman, Miss Templeton. The contents of this house are worth far more than the house itself, and for that reason alone I have to be careful whom I invite to live with me.”

“I understand.”

“And there is also the question of compatible personalities.” Again those gray eyes scanned her from head to toe. “I imagine that the agency told you that I am an eccentric.”

“They said that you were a strongly individualistic person,” said
Miss
Templeton carefully.

“And so I am. This is my house and thus I have the right to determine how it shall be run.”

“Of course.”

“I am a fanatical gardener, Miss Templeton. Summer or winter I spend most of my time in the garden. I do not want a companion, let’s be clear about that. I want someone to look after the house, leaving me free to tend the garden. Anything to do with the house, anything at all, will be your province.”

“So I understand. The agency gave me a list of all the duties and conditions and I find them very acceptable.”

“Good. As to meals, I see to myself during the week. You will be required to cook only one meal a week, on Saturday evening, for which I trust you will join me. I am a fanatic about the garden but not about the house. Providing it is kept reasonably clean and tidy you may come and go as you please. If you like walking you will find the countryside around here quite delightful. I am not a sociable woman, Miss Templeton. I can be quite charming when I put my mind to it but basically I prefer my own company. During the week, when you are not actually engaged upon work in the house, I would be grateful if you would remain in your rooms, but I would welcome your company on the Saturday evening.”

The girl nodded. “You want the house to run smoothly without you being bothered about it, and I am to stay out of your way except on Saturdays.”

The woman smiled. “Exactly. All this may sound a bit odd to you but I find that it suits me very well and I need someone who can fit in with that pattern, someone who is also quite happy with their own company most of the time. Your letter said that you are twenty-eight, an only child, and that your parents are dead. Any other attachments?”