Tempting Fate (93 page)

“They have been fairly obvious. There were a few in Bavaria, a few in Vienna. I got away from them in Prague, but here, of course…” He jerked one of his shoulders in a shrug.

“Do you know who they are?” She did not dare to ask him if he cared about the danger he was in: she could sense that he did not.

“Probably SA or Thule Bruderschaft. Neither are very pleasant.” He saw a tall, pale woman in a fur coat run down the street toward the parked Benz. Unaccountably, he was sorrowed by Nillel’s duplicity, although it did not surprise him.

“Why are they following you, do you know?” She strove to be as reasonable as she could, pretending that Ragoczy was her student in need of advice.

“They think that I was responsible for the killing of five SA men in Munich.” He frowned as the rear door of the Benz opened and Nillel stepped into it.

“And were you?” Her nails were digging into her palms, bringing her some relief from the deeper pain within her.

“Oh yes,” he said rather remotely. “Yes, I killed them. They killed Laisha.”

“Saint-Germain,” she whispered, wishing she still knew how to pray so that she could do something, no matter how ineffective, to ease his suffering.

“There were five of them. Five.” He let the curtain fall, but continued to look out at the Benz. He could barely make out the pale fur of the blue-fox coat he had given her.

“Do they know it was you?” She wished now that James were here to point out the hazards they both faced. She was annoyed with herself now for leaving James’ note behind. If she had brought it, she might have used it to persuade Ragoczy to leave Germany at once. She had not anticipated that he would be so remote from her, separated by a grief that would know no release but the passage of time.

“Not precisely. As I understand it, they are of the opinion that I hired a gang of thugs—either Spartacists or White Russians, depending on who is telling the tale—to come in and do the dirty work for me.” He shook his head slightly as he saw the automobile start and drive away down the dark street.

“Did you know that the investigation is under the personal control of Hermann Göring?” Madelaine asked, hoping that she could say something that would startle him out of his reserved state of mind.

“Göring? He’s in Sweden.” Ragoczy’s brows rose and he faced Madelaine. “What makes you think so?”

“James’ contact gave him the information.” She wanted to scream at him, insisting that he do something to save himself, but was afraid that he would not respond, which would be more unbearable than all the rest.

“Göring,” Ragoczy said slowly, looking down at the empty street, staring at the figure in the shadows who thought he was concealed.

“There have been five men on the case, one in Bavaria, two in Vienna, and two here in Berlin. When Göring returns, there may be more men assigned to you. He thinks you’re suspicious and dangerous. The man in charge of the investigation is Moritz Eis. James’ contact gave me that news when I arrived yesterday.” It was not easy to keep from running out of the room, for the desolation of his spirit was growing more daunting.

“Is Eis a member of the SA?” Ragoczy asked lightly.

“Yes.” James had told her enough about the SA to make this admission disruptive to her.

Ragoczy nodded calmly, abstractedly. “And the Thule Gesellschaft? Do you know if he belongs to that?”

“No. There was no mention of the Thule Gesellschaft or Bruderschaft.” She felt her hands begin to tremble, and she repressed this sternly.

“That does not mean he isn’t part of it. Göring probably is, though I never saw him with the others.” He took a half-step back from the window, satisfied now that the man watching the house was fixed there for most of the night.

“Saint-Germain, will you stop that!” Madelaine said, her worry and impatience at last breaking through the tight rein she had held on herself.

“Stop what?” He turned to look at her.

“Do you want to die? Do you? Are you tired of living? You are like one of those idealistic fools who make targets of themselves, taunting their enemies, like those stupid, brave men in Italy. But what are you seeking to prove? What do you think you’re accomplishing?” Had she been able to weep, she would have been in tears. As it was, her voice broke and her breath was ragged.

Ragoczy turned his compelling dark eyes on her. “Oh, my heart, my heart. It is bad enough that one of us … Please, my heart, don’t grieve for me. I could not bear it, with the rest. You must not, Madelaine.”

The agony in his words wrung her heart, and she lifted her hand to her mouth so that she would be able to keep silent.

He looked away from her, back through the curtains, down at the street, toward the man in the long overcoat waiting in the shadows of the house at the opposite corner. “I don’t know what I want. The true death, yes, perhaps. Why this loss, of all losses?” He thought for a little time, his eyes on his observer. “I’ve never known what it is to have a child. Children of my blood, that is another matter, and not the same thing. Those I have taken in love are … different. Laisha was … just a child. I never touched her as I touch my lovers. It was not morality, but something else. I could not think of her in that way. I’ve almost forgot what it is to lead a human life; to age, to marry, perhaps to have children, to grow old, to die. Yet Laisha might have done all those things. I used to imagine what it would be like to hold her child in my arms. Me, a grandfather.” He gave a travesty of a chuckle. “I did not want to live
through
her, because that isn’t possible. But there are so many things, familial things, that I have never had, or done, and she made me long for them. I used to wait outside the door to the music room when she practiced, to hear her mistakes and improvements. She was learning so much. When she outgrew her clothes, I would marvel at the change, for I have not changed in more than four thousand years. Every day she was different. I felt I was rediscovering the world. She delighted me and maddened me with her intelligence and her willfulness. She would have been headstrong, if she had lived long enough. They cheated her of all the things she wanted most. Her family was lost to her, for they were dead and she could not remember them. And then, when she had a sense of herself again, and was so close to beginning life for herself, they killed her. Oh, no, no,” he went on, sensing her desire to interrupt. “I don’t think there was any conspiracy against her, or me. I think it was chance. The men who killed her heard a Russian accent, and that was all. The insurgent forces that pillaged the estate where I found her had no idea she was there. I could take some comfort in a conspiracy, because it would mean that there were those in the world other than myself and one or two others who put some value on her. As it was, the police, the judiciary, and the SA officers all regarded the whole thing as an unfortunate accident. Which, in a way, it was. But Laisha is dead, whether from chance or treachery, and everything that she was is gone.”

When he had been silent for a few minutes, Madelaine was able to speak to him. “Saint-Germain, what can I do?”

“Nothing. It can’t be changed. I suppose in time I will grow used to it. I have before.” How weary he looked, standing there in the cold light at the window. The lines and planes of his face were marked as if inked on chalk. The wry curve of his mouth had gone and there was a tragic grimness in its place. He gazed toward the rooftops, as if seeing far into the past, or the future.

Madelaine stood still, mastering herself once again. When she spoke, her voice was very soft, like a caress. “Is that what you want, my dearest love? To be left alone to mourn? Shall I curtsy politely and inquire when the next train leaves for Paris, so that you may continue to look for another chance, another accident that will relieve you of the burden of grief? If you feel that way, why don’t you walk in front of a motorbus, and have done with it?”

“Madelaine!” he looked at her as he said it, shocked.

“We are bound to life. You said that to me. You, Saint-Germain, and I have lived by it.” Her hands gripped each other as if in battle.

“And you can still live.” He said it resignedly enough, but the passion in her voice disturbed him.

“Without you? Why? How?” She took a step toward him. “What am I to do?”

“You do not need me to live,” he reprimanded her kindly.

“And you do not need Laisha, but you woo death.” It had taken all her strength for her to say that to him, and she waited for the anger that might answer her. Anything he said now, she wondered if she would be able to hear it without being overwhelmed. She looked at the clock on the far wall, caught by the motion of the pendulum, grateful that there was something so ruthlessly, idiotically sane as that clock to hold her attention. If he sent her away, how would she endure it? Better to watch the clock. She was so preoccupied with the pendulum that she did not hear his light tread on the carpet, and jumped slightly as his small hands came to rest on her shoulders.

“Madelaine,” he said in her ear, and she could not tell whether he felt love or hatred, so fierce was his whisper.

“What now?” she asked quietly as he turned her around to face him.

“I don’t know.” He had been tempted to shake her, to make her take back the accusation she had hurled at him, but he knew, in the depths of his soul, that she was right, that he had been searching for the chance to die, to be finally and utterly through with his life. But as he felt the vitality of her under his hands, he could not bring himself to harm her, or give her any more pain than he already had. This was Madelaine, who had loved him with knowledge and acceptance since the first time he kissed her hand at the Hôtel de Ville that September night in 1743. No one had done so before or since. “How could I hurt you this way? How?”

She made a sound in her throat as her arms went around him, and she clung to him in desperate hope. Her face brushed the white silk tie he wore, but neither noticed this. “If you were damned to Hell and I were assured of Heaven, I would rather burn with you than have Paradise alone.”

“My heart, don’t.” He put his hands at the back of her neck and turned her face up toward his. “It is hard enough … Don’t.”

“I will,” she responded, her violet eyes meeting his dark ones. “You gave me life, dearest love. I won’t let you ruin your gift.”

It was strange to kiss her, Ragoczy thought as their lips met. He had never kissed anyone after they had come into his life, not with this passion and yearning. He had never felt what those he loved felt, the need that sought life as well as embraces. He drew back from her. “It’s no use,” he murmured, his lips near her hair.

“Saint-Germain, please.” She held him more tightly, her fear gone.

“Among those of us who have changed, it isn’t possible.” He touched her face with one finger, outlining the contours he loved so well. “I had heard that there were those who had accomplished it, but never anyone I had met, or knew, or made. They all were optimistic, but in time there was disappointment. You are everything I love, Madelaine, you are all that I could want, but for one thing. And I am the same for you.”

She reached up to kiss him again, keeping her mouth on his until she hoped that the words were gone forever. “No. It must be possible. It must.”

“How?” His dark eyes were suddenly filled with sorrow and tenderness. “When neither of us has life to give the other?”

“That can’t be all that’s missing. If it were…” She pushed out of his arms, no longer trying to control her emotions. “It isn’t fair that that woman you came home with can offer you something I can’t!”

“Have you lived so long and not learned that very little is fair?” he asked her gently.

“But that woman, that kind of woman.” She folded her arms. “I am not jealous of what you wanted from her, or that you wanted her at all. I am jealous that she had it to give.”

“Yes, my, heart, I know. I felt something very like that when you told me about your American journalist. The others had not been so … protracted or involved. Yet I am glad that you have found him. I hope that he has come to—”

“He hasn’t,” she said, not letting him finish. “He thinks I’m joking, but he will go along with it because he truly does love me.” She did not attempt a laugh, but her eyes were almost as sardonic as his could be. “It doesn’t matter to me any longer, or not very much. But that woman, what was the attraction?”

“There was none,” he said, taking her in his arms again, seeking the nearness that he knew they could not have. “She gave me release, and I gave her the belief that she had power over me, and, of course, little bribes to keep her cooperative.” He could not dismiss the, sight of her running to that parked Benz. Her greed was greater than he had credited. “Her intentions, I think, were like a bad opera plot. I was cast as her beneficent protector, I think, or her noble lover. I was supposed to lavish my wealth and goods upon her uncritically and extravagantly, and then, at some appropriate moment, I was to blow my brains out rather than demand anything more of her.”

“That sounds horrible,” Madelaine said, shaking her head.

“It was, but there are times when it is best if such things are horrible, so that you can leave them behind without regret. That’s not always easily learned, Madelaine, my heart. It took me centuries, to understand it,” How much he loved looking at her. He liked everything about her, the way she stood, the opulent body, the intelligent eyes, her quick mind, her generous heart. “I had too much to regret, Madelaine. I could not add her to the list.” And yet, now that he knew what she was, he did regret her.

Madelaine lifted her arms around his neck, leaning against him, taking strength from him. “I have missed you, Saint-Germain.”

“And I you, my heart.”

Her eyes were luminous. “What can I say to you that will make you want to continue living? I have offered all I have; I can’t offer you my blood, although I love you more dearly, more passionately than anyone on this earth. You tell me that it can’t be done. I can’t take away your hurt, or restore Laisha to you. What am I to do, my dearest? Tell me. Or tell me how to die the true death with you.”