Hotel Transylvania (42 page)

Châteaurose, who was farthest away from this, ran past it, madness distorting his face, and foam on his lips. His robe flirted with the burning elements as he ran, but his flight was too swift for even that hungry flame to take hold.

Where the molten carbon and azoth touched metal or cool wood, there formed little diamonds like the bright bits of salt left on the sand when the tide was retreated. The diamonds winked in the growing heat, shining with the fire that caressed them.

"The secret of jewels," Saint-Germain said to Saint Sebastien. “Think of that as you die." He was already moving toward the door.

Now the walls were charred and there was heavier smoke in the room. Beauvrai stood at the open door that led back to the chapel, indecision in every aspect of his posture. He coughed once or twice, then said to Saint Sebastien, "You never told me about the jewels, Clotaire. I don't like that." He put his hand to his mouth and retched.

Now Saint-Germain had gained the first tread of the long flight of stairs out of the cellar. He paused to look at the hellish room, saying to the two men on the far side of the fire, "I only regret the loss of my Velâzquezes. What a pity they must burn because of you."

Saint Sebastien shouted a terrible curse and rushed over the spreading fire, his hands extended to take Saint-Germain's throat. As he ran, the fire moved around him like impossible wings.

In the moment before Saint Sebastien could touch him, Saint-Germain reached inside his shirt and held up a little golden crucifix so that the light from the fire licked it, making it shine with weird brightness. "It was blessed at Saint-Germain-des-Près not four hours ago," he warned Saint Sebastien.

But Saint Sebastien had already stopped in mid-stride, his hand out to block the sight of the sacred thing.

"I thought so," Saint-Germain said. "I wish you joy of this foretaste of your particular eternity. Adieu, mon Baron. Or perhaps I should say,
À Satan?"
He backed up the stairs, still holding the little crucifix as a drowning man holds a floating spar. The walls scorched and cracked around him as he moved, but he did not let this distract him for a moment.

The sound of the fire was louder, and all three men knew that it had broken through onto the main floor of Hôtel Transylvania. If Saint-Germain doubted he would ever leave the building alive, he did not show it. At the top of the stairs he slipped out the door, closing it behind him.

Now that the threat of the crucifix was gone, Saint Sebastien launched himself at the stairs, dashing up them, apparently oblivious of the fire and smoke that wreathed him. He pulled at the door handle, and felt his skin peel back from his palm as the metal grew hotter and hotter.

Below him, Beauvrai had retreated to the farthest corner, his hands clapped over his eyes, and his breath coming in gasps as the smoke around him grew denser. Then the breathing stopped.

Saint Sebastien stood before the locked door, rage filling his mouth with bitter invectives that he hurled to the air. His voice was a ragged groan, his eyes almost sightless now as the fire grew, blossoming in bright petals around him. The hem of his robe charred, then sucked up bright fire as if needing adornment. His hair began to smoke, sending out fine wisps as it shriveled. Along his arms the skin began to crack.

With a last cry of hatred, Saint Sebastien turned, and with enormous laughter that might have been only the echo of the flames, threw himself down the stairs, burning, burning, like some terrible falling star plunging into the heart of the sun.

Hercule and Roger stood by the coach watching the first flicker of fire as it showed deep in the heart of Hôtel Transylvania. They had heard the hideous sound when the chapel roof had collapsed, and later, the almost human groan that had erupted as the flames broke through into the upper floor of the Hôtel. They had exchanged looks then, reflecting the worry that possessed them, but said nothing. To speak the words would make them too real, too possible.

Now the burning was tearing at the building, and they dared not hope that their master had survived the holocaust that raged in the depths of the building.

Madelaine stood beside them, wrapped in one of Saint-Germain's long dark cloaks. She stared at the building with a fascination that did not betray the grief and terror she felt as she saw the fire rise.

They had all seen Châteaurose rush from the Hôtel, his fantastic robes flying behind him. He had rushed across Quai Malaquais and thrown himself into the Seine before any of the three could stop him. They waited for another figure, but none appeared.

Now there were little spikes of flame in the smaller gambling salon. Hercule thrust out his lower lip. "I told him I would wait until he comes."

Roger nodded, pulling a long face. He considered the fire. "You had better blindfold the horses, then. They will bolt, otherwise."

Hercule was half-done with this task when the fire broke out in earnest in the upper floors. The three looked at one another, and Madelaine put her hands to her eyes, weeping unashamedly.

"Perhaps... ?" Roger said delicately.

"No." Hercule climbed to the box.

Two of the huge windows broke, and the fire roared out in hideous victory.

Then, from the floor above, there came a rope, and there was a black-clad figure on that rope, sliding down past the flame, his neat, stocky figure moving with an agility and grace that were surprising in a man his age. He touched the ground, steadied himself, then ran across the narrow space between Hôtel Transylvania and the stables.

"Master!" cried Roger. He wrung Saint-Germain's hand.

"Get mounted, old friend. The Watch will give the alarm shortly, and we must be gone. We have a long journey yet tonight." He glanced up at Hercule on the box. "I see you waited."

The laconic tone Hercule attempted failed miserably. "I followed your orders, sir. I would have driven into the fire, had that been necessary."

He paused. "Saint Sebastien?"

Saint-Germain bowed ironically. "He was detained, I fear."

Hercule's fists clenched. "I wanted to kill him myself. I wanted vengeance."

The smile crept back into Saint-Germain's eyes. "Pray accept my condolences. But why do we wait? Madelaine?"

Madelaine hung back, almost afraid to touch Saint-Germain, to speak to him, for fear he would fade and prove to be nothing more than the embodiment of her wishes. "Saint-Germain?" she whispered.

He turned to her, taking her by the shoulders, and looked down into her eyes. "I am safe, my heart. And you are safe."

"Saint Sebastien is dead?"

Saint-Germain glanced back toward Hôtel Transylvania and saw the fire spreading toward the ballroom. "I would assume so." He pushed her gently toward the coach. "Come. It is time we leave."

She let him hand her into the coach, and sat very still while he called out "Hôtel d'Argenlac," to Hercule, and waved to Roger, who would be the out-rider on this journey to England.

"I thought Roger would come with your baggage," she said.

"So did I, originally. But Sattin will do that." He closed the door of the coach and sank down beside her.

For some time they rode in silence—fatigue, hurt, and terror leaving little room for anything else. Then, as they moved beyond the close-packed streets of le Faubourg Saint-Germain, Madelaine ventured a few timid words. "Was it very dreadful?"

Saint-Germain turned toward her. "Yes."

"I see." She studied her hands. "And you are going away."

"As I told you, for a time. I will be back in May."

"I see," she said again, and burst into tears.

"Here." He sat up, taking her into his arms, secretly relieved that she could endure his touch. "What is this, Madelaine?"

"You have a disgust of me," she sobbed.

"I? Never." He slid his hands under the cloak she wore, moving cautiously to avoid frightening her. After what she had experienced from Saint Sebastien, he knew she could easily relapse into the abhorrence the Satanists had inspired in her. Slowly, gently, he caressed her. "I have a disgust, a loathing for Saint Sebastien and his Circle. I despise them for what they did to you. But that cannot change my love for you, my heart. Nothing could do that."

She said something incomprehensible and turned her face to his shoulder. He held her that way for some little time, murmuring occasional endearments to her hair, and at last she spoke again. "Your eyebrows are all singed. So is your hair."

"Are they?" He touched her face with one lingering finger.

"Even your lashes." Her grip around his waist tightened. "I almost lost you."

"But you didn't." He kissed her then, and felt his love for her sing in his veins. "My valiant, my cherished Madelaine."

She was breathless as she pulled away from him, and her eyes shone with an inner brightness. She put her hand to his chest as she mustered her resolve. Even the lumbering coach could not soften her determination. "You said you would let me taste of you. Before you left for England. Let me. Let me."

He watched her in the swaying darkness, probing her sincerity with intent eyes. There were bruises on her body, but much of the numbness had left her mind. This was no childish need for solace, but the true seeking of her entire being. In escaping from unspeakable evil she had won the right. He nodded. "Lift your feet."

"What?" The strangeness of his request made her wonder if he was refusing her, and she prepared to insist.

"This is no mockery, Madelaine. Lift your feet." He waited until she had; then he reached to the seat opposite them. A tug of a concealed lever and the seat changed, sliding forward to join its fellow as its back swung down.

Madelaine felt amusement return to her. How like Saint-Germain to have such a contraption in his coach.

"I often sleep while I travel," he explained as he secured the mountings.

Tentatively Madelaine moved onto the bed, and found that the firm cushion made a comfortable mattress. She spread the cloak for a blanket, then reached up to Saint-Germain.

"This cannot be done in haste," he said softly. "Here." He held out his hand, and in it rested the ruby stickpin that usually nestled in the lace at his throat.

She touched the jewel, a certain awe in her voice. "What must I do?"

"Wait." He pulled off his scorched shirt and flung it away. The night touched his smooth skin, and he shivered as he sank down beside her, though not from cold. Carefully he put the ruby into her hand, and then held that hand in his own. Their eyes locked. "You do this." He moved her hand so that the ruby was drawn across his chest.

"I don't want to hurt you," she cried as she saw the dark blood well along the path of the jewel.

"I am not hurt," he assured her at his most compelling. A joyous delirium rose in him. He lay back, his eyes slightly closed, and drew her forward. "This is my life. I give you my life." His voice, deep and low, stirred the strongest yearnings of her heart.

Without a word, she bent to put her lips to the wound he had made, trembling as his body arched at the touch of her mouth. His hands sought out her desires, drawing response on response from her, until the very air shook with the force of her love. Passion blinded her, so that there was only Saint-Germain and the glory of his ravishment. All her soul was contained in his small hands, fused by the white-burning ardor they shared. The fierce sweetness of her heart opened to him as she felt his inexpressible loneliness thaw in the radiance of her fulfillment.

Suddenly she turned away from him, and he reached for her in his turbulent longing. "Madelaine. What is it, my own heart?" He felt apprehension touch him, a terrible fear that even his embrace could not sear away the anguish she had had from Saint Sebastien.

Then he saw that she had the ruby in her hand still, and that she held it poised over her left breast. Before he could stop her she had made a cut in her breast identical to his. There was a kind of frenzy in her eyes as she twisted on the cushions, until she curled around Saint-Germain so that he could share her rapture.

Lightly, gently, he leaned his head against the gorgeous curve of her breast. Their faces were close together and as his lips found the wound she had made for him, he saw the glorious spasm change her features, transforming her.

The horror of the night's ordeal faded before the dizzying triumph that possessed them, and even the rumbling of the coach and the cramped quarters could not recall them from the ecstasy that bound them, exalted them, consumed them with a fever that fed on its own satisfaction.

At last the coach drew up at the gate of hôtel d'Argenlac. The jingling harness sounded mournful as a dirge to Madelaine as she tore herself away from the elation she found in Saint-Germain's arms.

He sensed her longing and reached to embrace her again. "Be of good cheer, my heart," he told her, his voice filled with music. "When I return we will be together again."

"Pardon, master," Roger said apologetically at the window. "We cannot stay."

"I know," Saint-Germain said sadly. He rolled away from the folds of the cloak so that he would not be tempted by her presence. After a moment he said in a voice that was almost normal, "Go, Madelaine. Go now. I will write to you often, through messengers. In May, my heart. It is not so long."