Incarnation (7 page)

“No harm done, I hope?” my rescuer inquired when they had gone. He did not come closer to me but remained where he was, affording me the chance to depart as well. Yet his gaze remained as intent as that of a hunter on his skittish prey who might break cover and flee at any moment.

Truly, my imagination was running wild.

“No harm at all, but thank you nonetheless, Mr. di Orsini.”

Had I not been watching him closely, I would have missed the look of surprise that flitted across his face. As swiftly as it appeared, it vanished behind his pose of imperturbable
politesse. Truly, he did not show his emotions lightly, assuming that he possessed them in any abundance.

This challenger of vampires might have the most noble intentions, but if I had learned anything of the strange world in which I now found myself, it was that nothing was quite as it seemed. Reality was far more complex and intriguing than I had ever suspected.

“You recognize me. I wasn’t sure that you would, Miss Weston. We have met before.”

“Under very different circumstances, I presume,” I said. I had to pick my way carefully through the fog of memory, but I was certain of one thing. “Surely you are aware that the Lucy Weston you knew is said to have died under bizarre circumstances. But that is only fiction, isn’t it?”

“I think you know better.”

Abruptly the little dance of feint and parry in which we had been engaged ended. He knew who—and what—I was. About him, I was far less certain.

“As apparently do you,” I said.
How
he knew was another matter. Was his presence in front of the Bagatelle at the same time as myself a coincidence or something more? Was he merely aware of Stoker’s deception or had he had a hand in bringing it about? Who precisely was Marco di Orsini and how had he acquired the power that he appeared to have over vampires?

“What happened in Whitby,” I said, “—what
really
happened—should be repellant to all human sensibility. Yet
Dracula
trivializes those events as no more than vicarious entertainment for the gullible public.”

He shrugged. “Tragic events that afflict someone else—whether fictional or otherwise—tend to be a source of
enjoyment, whether we wish to admit it or not. They prompt a pleasant frisson of relief. One’s own friend or relation—or oneself—has been spared . . . this time. The shadow of death has passed over, the sun is out again. People step over tragedy and go on with their lives, as they must if our society is to continue to function.”

“Whereas if they knew the truth about the dark powers among us, they would . . . what?” I said, thinking of what Stoker had told me. “Panic? Run amok? Demand explanations that those in charge do not wish to give?”

He shrugged. “All that and likely more. Tell me, Miss Weston, what brings you here?”

As he declined to answer my question, I saw no reason to answer his. Instead, I posed another. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? This is a haunt of vampires, I am told. No sensible human should come anywhere near it. So why have you?”

I did not go so far as to ask how he had managed to run off two vampires who should have been at his throat. But my gaze drifted pointedly to the pendant glowing against his chest, just above his heart.

Far from being nonplused, Marco di Orsini took my observation in stride. “You have unmasked me, Miss Weston. Clearly, I shall have to be on my guard around you.”

I frowned. “What do you mean—?”

“No one has ever accused me of being sensible. But I assure you, I am not altogether lacking in other useful attributes, as I hope you will discover.”

“You presume we are to be acquainted . . . again.” The arch of my brow signified my extreme skepticism that any such association between us was likely.

He refused to be discouraged. “Let us say that I hope we
will become friends, and based on that I presume to dispense a small bit of advice. The Bagatelle is undeniably popular, but it is not to everyone’s taste. Humans come here hoping to be chosen for transformation into vampires. You were mistakenly taken for such a supplicant.”

I could not conceal my shock. “They actually want such a thing?”

“Indeed, some do. Should I gather from your response that you did not?”

He was studying me far too closely for comfort. Rather than reveal so much of myself to him, I ignored his question and said, “I have been warned already that it isn’t an ingénue ball.”

He took my reticence with good grace, replying, “You’ve met Little Alice, I take it.”

What else did he know, this human who walked with apparent ease in the netherworld of hidden London?

Not taking my eyes from him, I said, “And paid a penny for the privilege.”

“Wise of you. She’s not what she used to be, but she still isn’t one to cross.”

“Neither am I, Mr. di Orsini. I have my own reasons for being here and I will not be dissuaded from them.”

A flash of surprise darted behind his eyes and was quickly gone, but not before I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was not entirely what he had expected.

“I assure you, Miss Weston, that was never my intention.”

He bowed and, with a slight flourish, stepped out of my way.

I proceeded quickly, before I could think better of it.

Above the door, the snake hissed.

CHAPTER 4

I
stepped over the threshold of the Bagatelle to find myself in a dazzling salon. The walls were covered with trompe l’oeil paintings depicting beautiful gardens bathed in moonlight, populated with frisky nymphs and satyrs. Finely woven Persian rugs lay over the floors. Hundreds of slender white candles burned in crystal and gold chandeliers suspended from the high ceilings. Porcelain vases so thin as to be translucent were filled with rare lilies and orchids that released a heady perfume into the room. The furniture was inlaid wood, marble, and gilt in the lavish Louis Quinze style. But all that was as nothing compared to the splendor of the room’s occupants. Male and female alike, they were all seemingly young, exquisitely dressed and jeweled, and beautiful beyond compare.

Few paid me any heed, occupied as they were with one another. I passed through the first room into the chamber that lay beyond. It was larger and incredibly even more glorious. With my family I had strolled through the Sun King’s creation at Versailles, visited the magnificent Hermitage in Saint Petersburg, and marveled at the Sistine Chapel, but never had I encountered so much beauty in a single setting. So dazzled was I that some time elapsed before I realized that among
the gloriously garbed vampires there were humans, men and women both.

I consider myself far from a prude, but their appearance was startling in the extreme. Both sexes were scantily clad, often with no more than a small triangle of cloth to preserve the illusion of modesty. Some of these humans were elaborately tattooed with intricate designs that flowed down their bare torsos and thighs, and around to their backs. They wore heavy gold bands covered with intricate carvings at their wrists and ankles. Bejeweled collars encircled their necks. Trailing behind the vampires, who drew them along on leashes, they kept their eyes lowered submissively.

As I watched with mingled shock and fascination, a female vampire of surpassing beauty beckoned her human with a crooked finger and a smile that displayed her fangs. He came eagerly. Together, they slipped onto a low couch. Her long nails, lacquered a brilliant red, trailed along his supple chest, tracing the pattern of his tattoos. Their limbs entwined. The human moaned and fell back, his throat bared. As she sank her fangs into him, his back arched in ecstasy. Watching the trickle of his blood that escaped her sucking, I felt as a voyeur would, intruding upon an act of the greatest intimacy. Yet I could not bring myself to look away. Hunger raged in me, for sustenance, for power, for pleasure. All this could be mine if only I embraced my fate.

My clothes were suddenly far too constricting. I longed to cast them off for the glorious garb of the female vampires, their silks and satins in the most vivid hues, the bright plumes in their hair, the jewels that adorned their necks and limbs. Yes, I was tempted. I wanted all that and so much more. I looked again at the pair on the couch. The female had released her
grip on the young man. With the tip of her tongue, she licked the excess of his blood from her lips and murmured a word to him. At once, he slipped from the couch and knelt before her, kissing her hands in obeisance. Watching them, I was at once fascinated and repelled.

Humans were being bled all around the room, seemingly to their delight. Others were being displayed like trophies, while here and there they were being traded. I watched as a lovely flame-haired girl was handed over from one vampire to another in return for several gems. She went eagerly and was soon stretched out on a couch with her new patron.

The scene was both shocking and confusing. A single encounter with the luminous being on the moor had been sufficient to change me utterly. Yet here it seemed that humans could be fed upon repeatedly while remaining human. I could not begin to understand why my own transformation had proceeded so swiftly unless it meant that the being I had encountered was different in some way from other vampires.

Even as I puzzled over the matter, I became aware that I was being watched. A tall, slender male in a burgundy velvet lounging suit was leaning up against a nearby column. He had a long face framed by waves of dark hair that flirted with his shoulders. His mouth was full and soft but it was his eyes that struck me most, appearing both keen and sympathetic. He reminded me of a young Oscar Wilde, the writer who had been released from prison only the month before, having served his sentence for crimes of an intimate nature that proper young ladies such as I had been were not supposed to know anything about.

“First time here?” the young man in velvet asked with an amused glance at the valise I clutched.

I had come to meet others of my kind, yet confronted directly by one of them, I had to fight the impulse to flee. Cautiously, I replied, “Yes, it is.”

He straightened and held out a hand. I could not fault his manner; he touched only my fingers as he bowed graciously. “I am Felix Deschamps and you are—?”

I hesitated, uncertain whether or not to reveal my real identity. I had no idea how the vampires would react to my arrival in their midst. Would they accept me as one of their own or would they view me as an interloper? Upon my ability to gain their confidence rested what hope I had of finding
him.

When the silence had dragged on long enough to provoke a questioning look from my new acquaintance, I said, “My name is Lucy Weston.”

Felix released my hand and took a step back but continued to stare at me intently. A single raised brow was enough to tell me that he recognized my name. However much Bram Stoker and his “intermediaries” had succeeded in fooling the human public, they had managed no such subterfuge among the vampires.

“By any chance, are you acquainted with a human named Bram Stoker?” he asked. When I did not reply at once, he went on, “Irish fellow, manages the Lyceum Theatre, dabbles in writing. I haven’t read his novel myself; not to my taste. But we’ve all been speculating as to how he learned enough about us to write such a strange mélange of accurate details mingled with the most absurd, exaggerated notions. You wouldn’t know who or what informed him, would you?”

“If you are asking whether it was me, no. But I do know that whoever gave him that knowledge wants what happened to me concealed. Hence the decision to present it as fiction.”

“Interesting. . . . So what brings you to the Bagatelle, Miss Weston?”

Before I could respond, a cry of mingled delight and anguish interrupted us. We both looked toward the alcove where a large male vampire who had just fed was rising from a couch on which a nearly naked young woman lay. Her head was thrown back in an spasm of pleasure even as blood gushed from the gaping gash in her throat.

The couch under the woman was rapidly becoming soaked. She was clearly bleeding to death. I knew this yet I could rouse no feeling for her at all. She was merely a curiosity. I understood full well that I
should
care. Indeed, the Lucy I had been, whose ghost seemed to haunt me, was filled with horror at my callousness. Nonetheless, someone had to act and very quickly or the young woman had only minutes to live.