Incarnation (9 page)

I rose to go, not entirely certain as to the wisdom of my actions but convinced that I had no better choice.

“Have a good rest,” Lady Blanche said. She gave me a long, level look before returning her attention to the papers on her desk.

“After you,” Felix said and drew me away, back through the iron-studded door and down through the hall where long-dead lords and ladies gazed at us sorrowfully and unicorns shed tears of blood.

CHAPTER 6

F
elix led me to an elegantly appointed chamber not far from the one where I had met with Lady Blanche. There I found not a bed but a platform draped in black, without pillow, mattress, or covers. Having removed my outer clothing, I hesitated before lying down. The bier proved surprisingly comfortable, but despite my fatigue and the relief from hunger that feeding had given me, I was wakeful.

Memories of my human existence glittered like rare gems in the darkness of my mind.

The boat train from Dover to Calais, my parents sitting close together in the first-class compartment we shared, recalling their journey along the same route years before when they had spent their honeymoon in France.

Amanda and I giggling as we strapped on skis, the pair of us greatly amused by the blandishments of a handsome Swiss instructor. Huddling afterward in front of a roaring fire in the chalet, sipping cocoa with our heads close together, laughing at our own antics.

How lovely it was to feel warm. Or so I imagined, for even the memory of what that was like had slipped away. Already it was beyond my reach.

At last my lids grew heavier, and I saw myself once again on the moors at Whitby. In my dream it was night, but a full moon rode high in the sky, illuminating a stark landscape devoid of all color. Sharp-edged shadows loomed on all sides. I could hear the distant roar of the waves coming ashore. The tang of salt lingered on the wind.

Behind me was the high brick house that was my father’s pride, standing as it did in its own parkland and signifying how far he had climbed from his humbler origins. The night was cold and damp. Nonetheless, I felt compelled to wander out into the darkness, past the wrought iron gate and the road beyond until I came to the narrow track leading along the moors toward the sea. I followed it with no thought as to where it might lead until, suddenly, I was no longer alone. No murmur of sound, no flicker of movement heralded the luminous being’s presence, but I sensed him all the same. Elation filled me. Without pausing to think, I held out my arms to him.

The night tilted around me. An owl screeched. I saw his face, imprinted forever in my memory. Powerful, brilliant, the ruler of the night. His beautiful mouth shaped my name, “Lucy.” At the very last, I thought I heard faintly, a murmur only, “Forgive me.”

Ecstasy and pain . . . the flash of fangs and then . . . terror and the womb of the grave holding me until he came again and I was reborn into the world.

Surely it must all be a fantasy of my own dark imagining? Yet as I drifted deeper into sleep, ravens cawed and wolves howled, vampires showed their fangs and humans bared their throats to be bled while off in the distance great engines roared and steam shot into the sky where soot fell as tears, baptizing the new age.

Through it all
he
sang of love and the triumph over death, but when I glanced away from the stage, I was startled to find that I was not alone in the velvet-lined box. Marco di Orsini shared the dream with me. In the darkness, the glowing red pendant burned as though lit by inner fire.

I woke a few hours later alone and with the sense of being summoned stronger than ever. I had to find the one who had transformed me before his song was done. If I did not . . . The mere thought of failure sent a wave of nausea through me. I had the sudden uncanny sensation that I stood on the edge of an abyss into which I and everyone else might plunge at any moment.

Spurred on by so unsettling a thought, I made as good a toilette as I could manage. My valise held a few basic changes of clothes and other necessities, enough for several days. Beyond that I could not think.

I donned a fresh chemise and shirtwaist, smoothed the wrinkles from my skirt and jacket as best as I could, and rearranged my hair before ascending the circular stairs to the club.

As I had hoped, no one else was about. The debris of the previous night had been cleared away and quiet hung over all. Beneath the door leading outside, I saw a crack of daylight.

Without hesitation, I put a hand on the door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. A quick glance was enough to determine that the snake was not in evidence, nor was the amber light lit. Instead, I looked out on a seemingly ordinary scene in everyday London.

The ever-present band of coal smoke hung above the rooftops, but here and there patches of blue could be glimpsed. The stench of the tidal flats along the Thames was greatly diminished, a certain indicator that the river was running high.
But the aromas of manure and diesel fuel made for a nasty mélange on the back of the tongue.

Although I was mercifully free of any need to breathe in the acrid air, I could not avoid tasting it. Peering down the passage, I saw vehicles of all sorts thronging Fleet Street. As I watched, the liveried driver of a large black automobile bearing the crest of the Cabinet Office shook a fist at a recalcitrant lorryman who refused to give way. Almost at once, Watchers appeared, surrounding the lorry and clearing a route for the government worthy concealed behind darkly tinted glass. Pedestrians were forced to scamper out of the road as the vehicle sped off.

A spindle-thin paperboy shouted the morning’s news. “Subversives bill passes Commons! Anarchists to be held without trial!”

The subject seemed to be of great interest. Men and a few women clustered around, thrusting money into the hands of the grinning boy as they snatched up newspapers. Quite a few walked only a short distance away before stopping to read. As they did, I noted that some appeared well satisfied, nodding emphatically as they absorbed what their elected representatives in their collective wisdom had chosen to do. But many others were frowning, shaking their heads, and hurrying away with grave expressions.

My father had believed that the natural state for Britons was one of freedom founded on the twin pillars of the Magna Carta and the common law, which he regarded as England’s gifts to the world. I had to wonder if he still felt that way, wherever he was.

The morning sun was pleasantly warm on my face; I felt a temptation to linger outside the Bagatelle, but I told myself
that I should use what time I had before the other vampires awoke to go back and search the club. With luck, I might discover a clue to the whereabouts of the one who had transformed me. At the very least, I would gain a better understanding of the strange beings among whom I found myself.

I was about to return inside when a flicker of motion nearby stopped me. A man was leaning against the passage wall near the entrance to the club. He looked up from the newspaper he had been reading.

“Miss Weston,” Marco di Orsini said. “What a surprise.”

He had exchanged his evening dress for the elegant apparel of a gentleman of business, but he still wore the glowing red pendant. I could not help but notice that he looked every bit as formidable and compelling by daylight as he had in darkness.

My unwonted awareness of him put a tart edge on my tongue. “Have you nowhere else to be, Mr. di Orsini?”

Far from being put off, he looked amused. “I thought I’d make sure you were all right.”

“While everyone was asleep?” I asked. The notion of him looking in on me as I lay unaware on the bier was disquieting, to say the least, yet I did not doubt that he was capable of doing just that. A human who could confront vampires when they were fully awake and eager for blood certainly would not hesitate to do so when they were asleep and unaware.

“Not everyone apparently. You’re up and about. I hope you had a peaceful rest?”

“Peaceful enough.” I made to go around him. “Now if you will excuse me . . .”

He shifted away from the wall just enough to block my path. “The sunlight doesn’t trouble you?”

I recalled what Lady Blanche had said about the perils of exposure to full light and hesitated. “As you can see, I am well covered.”

My assurances did not convince him. He came closer and studied me intently. I drew back as he reached out a hand but not before I felt the light stroke of his fingers along the curve of my cheek.

The effect was electrifying. Apart from my struggles with the thralls and with Stoker, no one had touched me since that night on the moors when
he
had transformed me. Until that moment, I had not realized how much I missed such simple human contact. Surely that, rather than any quality unique to the man himself, explained the deep, undulating pleasure that rippled through me.

“Your skin is cool,” he remarked. I drew some satisfaction from the fact that his voice was not as steady as he no doubt wished. Imperturbable though he might look, Marco was not immune to the unexpected attraction between us.

“You are not breathing,” he continued after a moment, “and if I move my fingers down just the slightest degree to the vicinity of your carotid artery, I dare say I will find no pulse. And yet—”

Abruptly, I regained control of myself. “And yet what?” I demanded, jerking away from him. More than his effrontery at touching me, I was alarmed by my own reaction. Pleasure still strummed within me, a siren song I was determined to resist.

“I am all too well aware of my state; you do not need to inform me of it.”

He looked at me curiously. “Are you? Unless I am very much mistaken, you do not seem to have embraced it fully.”

I remembered the supplicants vying to be fed upon for the
chance of receiving what had been given to me through no effort of my own. They both horrified and fascinated me.

“I did not ask for this existence . . . whatever this is. I am neither alive nor dead. I am trapped somewhere in between.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “So you appear. No longer human, yet perhaps not entirely vampire. That would explain why you can tolerate exposure to the sun. And why those two last night didn’t recognize you as one of them.”

The thought that some human part of myself might still survive was more than I dared to hope. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Do you really think that it is possible to be both human and vampire?”

“I would not have thought so . . . until now. I have never known vampires to exhibit lingering human traits or spare a moment’s thought for their lost humanity. To the contrary, they delight in being rid of it.”

“Is that so?” I could not hide my skepticism. My transformation engendered many emotions—shock, disbelief, curiosity, a certain animalistic exhilaration—but delight was yet to be among them.

“How could it not be?” Marco countered. “You are endowed with powers no mortal possesses. Your strength and speed are without equal. Your senses are stronger by far, allowing you to experience the world in a way no human ever will. You need never know illness and you need never age. Do all these attributes of your kind count for nothing with you?”

“The price is very high, some might even say that it is too high,” I reminded him. When he appeared unconvinced of my regrets, I continued, “Right now, I can smell your blood. The scent is tantalizing . . . enrapturing. I have been tormented by hunger because I have refused to feed on humans, as I
perversely yearn to do. But I have no idea how much longer I will be capable of such restraint.”

My gaze drifted to the portion of his throat visible above his high collar, there where the life force pulsed. I swayed a little toward him. “Do you have any notion of how easily I could—”

Far from appearing concerned by my desires, Marco seemed much more interested in my unwillingness to act upon them. “You do not feed on humans?”

“The notion repels me, yet I yearn to do so.”

As I spoke, my gaze was drawn to the glowing red pendant on his chest. Why did he wear it? How had he come by it? Did it play a part in his ability to confront vampires without fear?

I felt no danger in his presence, but perhaps that was due to my own ignorance, which I had to acknowledge was considerable. Apart from what I had gleaned from the mishmash of Mr. Stoker’s lamentable novel and my brief contact with the vampires of the Bagatelle, I knew nothing of my own kind. By contrast, I remembered enough of what it had meant to be human to be keenly aware of all that I had lost.