Blood to Blood (21 page)

Joanna never explained where she went on her long night journeys. Colleen didn't ask—first because it wasn't her place to ask, later—after Joanna stopped coming home hungry—because she didn't want to know, later yet because she didn't want to sound possessive or, worse, jealous. Better ignorance than that.

Then the inevitable happened. Though Colleen woke at the time Joanna usually returned, Joanna did not come. Colleen paced the rooms as always, then found her eyelids too heavy. With little warning of her exhaustion, she fell asleep.

It was well after dawn when she opened her eyes again. When Colleen went into the dark room that held Joanna's box of earth, she found no soiled dress on the carpet, nor any other sign that her mistress slept at home. It would not pain Joanna to have the lid opened if the door were shut, but though they were closer than some lovers. Colleen would not violate her privacy. Instead, she went about her usual work until sundown. When Joanna did not join her, she went into the dark room and put her hand on the lid. Before she could lift it, it opened from the inside.

Colleen jumped backward. She would have retreated, but the ruse would only have made her look more foolish. Joanna would have known she was there the moment she entered the room.

Joanna offered no explanation as to where she'd been. Instead she slipped a sapphire ring onto Colleen's finger, gave her a dry, quick kiss and drew her to the bed.

Joanna fed voraciously, then gave even more in return—more kisses, more caresses, more blood—leaving Colleen dizzy, cold and breathless. Her heart pounded. More than once she'd cried out in pain. And yet she clung tightly to Joanna, mixing kisses with tears.

"What is it,
draga
?" Joanna whispered.

"You're forcing my change because you're going away," Colleen said with a sob.

With hunger and need satisfied, all that remained in Joanna was something akin to love. She stroked Colleen's hair, kissed her again, held her close. "Colleen, I promise you that I will not force a change, though I think it became inevitable as soon as you tasted my blood. I regret that sharing. I shared a curse, out of fear and ignorance. I thought I needed that to bind you to me. I was wrong. But at least you will live a full life before you wake to mine."

"A full life…" Colleen choked back another sob. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

"Not permanently. I promise that. But I may be gone for a little while."

"No! You mustn't! Who will care for you as I do?"

Colleen would have jumped to her feet, but Joanna held her tightly. "I will not leave forever," she repeated.

"It's that man and his wealth," Colleen insisted.

"I have wealth enough of my own. Enough for you to live well in this house, to marry if you wish, to have children. Our time will come later."

Colleen ceased to struggle, pressed closer to Joanna, close enough to whisper, "Change me now. Let me be with you."

"You don't understand what you're asking. Do you want to die?"

Colleen rubbed the wound on the side of her neck, the second on her chest until the blood flowed freely again. "I'll do what I must to stay with you. Whatever you ask," she whispered.

Joanna looked at the blood. She could not help herself. She was greedy, too much so. Her nature demanded, love demanded and she had so little self-control. She rolled up on one elbow and looked down at Colleen nestled against her. Had she shared too much for Colleen to survive? Too little? No one ever told her these things. No one wanted her to know.

"I'll do whatever you ask," Colleen repeated.

"Then listen to me well. I give you the house and everything in it. And I promise I will not abandon you."

The hands that had been clutching flesh and fabric held only air and memory. Colleen pressed her head into the pillow and, cursing her unfamiliar weakness, cried.

One night's absence followed. Two. Three. When Joanna did not return home for a week. Colleen began to wonder if Joanna were truly dead or merely meant to drive her insane.

Long and lonely nights filled with uncertainty. Bad enough, but on top of that. Colleen felt a thirst in her that a pint or two from the women's room of a nearby tavern did not quench.

But though the alcohol could not kill the need, it could kill the inclination to satisfy it. She slept much of her days, visited the pub at night then returned to the house to roam its rooms, working through the dark hours to keep it spotless, ready when its mistress Finally returned.

And if she never did, what then?

Unthinkable! Just as it was unthinkable to believe Joanna might be truly dead. They were bonded by blood, Joanna had told her one would know if the other were in danger. But what if the man had lured her to his estate and trapped her? She might be in pain, or starving—a condition whose torments Colleen had glimpsed.

She made inquiries, discovered Arthur Holmwood's many addresses. She put on her best clothes and took a cab to the estate in Kensington. She had intended to bluff her way inside, but her accent—the blend of Irish and cockney—would not allow her to pass as a lady. As she stood outside the iron gates, a groundskeeper passed by and asked if she were all right.

"I seem to have misplaced my mistress. Is there a woman staying here with Mr. Holmwood?"

"Mister?" He smiled.

"Holmwood," she repeated. "The woman has dark hair and green eyes and is very thin. She's sick, actually. I'm worried about her."

"I'm sorry," the man said. He seemed about to say something more, then thought better of it and moved on, swinging a sickle to level the grass where the lawn met the wall.

She returned to Chelsea, miserable and hungry, with a sharp headache from the afternoon sun.

That night she tried his house in Mayfair, even going so far as to knock on the door. An old gentleman answered and looked at her kindly. "Is there something you need?" he asked, his English thickly accented; German or Austrian, she guessed.

She shook her head and said nothing as she backed away from the door. To say anything of her prepared speech would reveal too much to the man she guessed was Van Helsing—and the enemy.

"It's all right," he said, voice soothing. "I can help, perhaps?"

"I'm at the wrong address," she replied and whirled.

He followed, calling after her. His voice sounded concerned, fatherly, but she knew how voices could deceive. She ran down the quiet street to a noisier one and into an arcade of shops, lit within and without by gaslights. Blinded, frightened, she rushed on until a top-hatted beadle grabbed her from behind.

"Halt!" the guard ordered. "You have to walk in here, or I will ask you to leave."

She didn't look at him. didn't acknowledge his words.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head. When he let her go, she went on at as quick a pace as she dared. Once outside, she broke into a run, stopping only when she needed to catch her breath.

Once home, she barred the door, wolfed down a quick meal, then retreated to Joanna's little room and shut the door. She moved by memory to the box and lifted the lid. The scent that once had seemed so dank and desolate soothed her. She lay inside, comforted by the darkness of the room, wishing that she did not need air and could close the lid.

This might be as near as she ever got to her mistress again, she thought. The sadness would have made her frantic, but she had traveled so far today and the earth was so soft.

She closed her eyes. Though she did not know it, the dawn was breaking as she finally, peacefully, slept.

For Abraham Van Helsing, sleep came just as hard. Try as he liked to think the woman's troubles were none of his concern, he could not help but consider the frantic expression on her face, the way she had run from him as if she had seen the devil himself.

He thought of the vampire woman briefly, but dismissed the idea as nothing more than monomania on his part. It had been nearly a month since the last ship had arrived from the East, and there had been no sign of the creature. True, two more murders had taken place, but the victims had died from stabbing.

Police held to the theory that the killer wasn't the Ripper but someone imitating his style. And there had been one witness, a woman who had seen a man disappear into the darkness just before she found the body.

As for Jonathan, he had written that though he still had the dreams, they were becoming less intense. Van Helsing attributed that to Madame Mina's comforting presence in his life once more. It was likely that was all the dreams had ever signified.

Perhaps the vampire woman would never come at all.

As for the one he had seen earlier in the evening, she had been well dressed but without the bearing of a lady. A mistress whom Arthur had abandoned? Another actress, perhaps? He did not like to think Arthur could be so callous, but he had been most secretive since Van Helsing had returned from Exeter. Perhaps he had arranged a few trysts, then abandoned the poor child.

He decided it was time to speak to Arthur.

In the morning, he sent a note to the Kensington estate asking Arthur to meet him for lunch. Arthur agreed and suggested a place for the following afternoon.

Arthur's suggestion was a place well away from his usual haunts, on Georges Street in Marlyebone. The distance Van Helsing had to travel for the meeting was nearly as long as the distance Arthur had come. For that the old establishment should have been outstanding, but it was hardly different from a dozen outside dining spots in Chelsea or Belgravia. That alone would have been enough to suggest to Van Helsing that something was wrong; Arthur's behavior made it certain.

Van Helsing arrived first and chose a shaded table near the back, well suited for talking. The moment Arthur joined him, the old doctor noticed a change in him. Not that Arthur wasn't happy; he was. But there was something else, a guardedness Van Helsing had never seen in him before.

When Van Helsing asked where he'd been the past weeks, Arthur explained that he was getting the grounds of his estate in Kensington ready for a fall social, "a small party to welcome my return to society."

"Good. Good. You've put the past to rest, then," Van Helsing replied, the words as much a question as a comment.

"In a way. Gance's death made me think of my own mortality. I don't want to leave a fortune to strangers. I want family. Heirs."

Though he would not usually have pried, Van Helsing asked, "Have you considered someone?"

"Considered? Not really. What made you ask?"

"A woman came by asking about you. Well dressed but… well, I am no judge of English accents, but I would guess hers to be Irish."

"Irish! What did she look like?"

"Light-haired. Tall. Thin, like a boy. Twenty, I would say. When I answered the door she became quite agitated, as if she knew who I was and feared me. At first I thought she might be a servant of that creature—" He saw Arthur stiffen and misunderstood. "Do you have news about that?"

"Nothing. I even went down to the wharf and spoke to sailors from the last Eastern ship and discovered nothing new. But I think I need to adopt Wilde's philosophy and demand that something so unpleasant never be discussed in my presence again."

"You did not let me finish. Yes, I thought of that creature. Then I thought of your Rose and considered you might be seeing the girl, but if so, why did she seem so frightened of me?"

"You are too naive, doctor. There are many desperate people in London. She may have expected to find the rooms empty. They often are."

Arthur seemed less concerned than relieved. Thieves would be better actors. Van Helsing thought. "I never considered that." he said. "You may be right. If so, it is good I was there when she knocked, or we both might be missing some part of our lives."

"Well, you were there, thankfully. I should send a locksmith around this week, just to be certain the place is secure. Actually, I should come around myself. I haven't seen Beardsley lately. How is he?"

Having learned all he guessed he would. Van Helsing let the subject shift. "He looks better. He says he feels better. But I think his idea of better is not nearly good enough. He needs to be out of the country this next winter or it may be his last."

"Other physicians have said that for years, and he's still here. Aubrey has strength the rest of us can only wish we possessed."

"I pray that's so. Perhaps when you're ready we can pay a call on you in Kensington. A walk through the garden and an afternoon in the sun would be so helpful."