The Dark Arts of Blood Read online

  * * *

  Violette always got her way.

  Some would call her manipulative, but her hold on Charlotte ran deep. They’d been through so much together – events both wondrous and nightmarish – that no one else understood the dancer as Charlotte did. Violette was a genius and a goddess. Charlotte’s obsession with her had nearly destroyed them both, but love between vampires was rarely simple or painless.

  They were tangled together like thorn bushes, with as much anguish as affection, but the truth remained that Charlotte loved Violette with all her generous soul and always wanted to help her.

  “Next week we start rehearsals in earnest, so I’ve given everyone a four-day break.” Violette was in a silk robe at her dressing table, Charlotte in her black coat ready to go out. “It will be interesting to see what time Emil comes home – if he comes back at all.”

  “Wherever he goes, I’ll be there, haunting him.” Charlotte spoke in an ominous tone, only half joking.

  “I suppose Karl disapproves of me asking you to watch Emil?” said Violette. “He thinks I use you, I know he does.”

  “In the past, perhaps,” Charlotte answered. “These days, he’s more tolerant. Ever since…”

  “Ah, the bite of Lilith, which brings enlightenment,” Violette said very softly. “And the death of childish fears, and visions of the future…”

  “And mutual understanding. Love.” Charlotte smiled, picturing the time she and Karl and Violette-as-Lilith had shared each other’s blood and bodies in an ecstatic trinity.

  “Unfortunately, it didn’t bestow us with omniscience,” Violette added.

  “Probably just as well. The little glimpses we get are enough to drive us mad at times. Occasionally the firmament tears open and shows us something astonishing or horrific… That’s quite enough for me.” She leaned down and kissed Violette on the cheek. “Off I go to be your night spy. Don’t wait up.”

  * * *

  Forty-eight hours later, Charlotte was stepping into a Parisian nightclub called Trois Loups Noirs.

  She entered the club through the Crystal Ring in order to avoid attention from door staff, waiters or anyone in the fashionable queue that was gradually shuffling inside. Within the smoky, candlelit space, no one noticed her stepping out of the shadows.

  Tonight she was not herself. No flowing satin or lace in subtle melting colours. Instead, a visit to a boutique had secured a disguise: black eye make-up, red lipstick, a brown wig cut in a jaw-length bob. And she wore a dramatic black and white dress, not her style at all.

  Violette was right: Emil had absconded for the weekend. Charlotte had seen him and his lady friend emerge from Hotel Blauensee at dawn. Soon after, to her great surprise, the two had been collected in a sleek Hispano Suiza – which made her heart jump, as it was like the one Karl used to own – by none other than Amy Temple, with a dark-haired male in the driver’s seat. She recognised him as the hero of The Lion Arises.

  Three more motors had drawn up, horns beeping exuberantly until people began leaning out of the hotel windows to shout at them. Then the four vehicles set off in convoy towards the French border: sixteen bright young adventurers, chattering in a mixture of French, German and English.

  Amy was good friends with Emil’s lover, judging by the hugs and kisses they exchanged on meeting. Now Charlotte would have to join Amy’s jaunt to Paris, whether she wanted to or not.

  To take the famous Emil Fiorani on the trip with them was, Charlotte guessed, quite a prize.

  She followed through Raqia, skimming through the ether in her changed form like an eel through the depths of a lake. Reality appeared dim, compressed and distorted near ground level. Keeping the cars in sight was not easy; she would have lost them, had they not made several stops for fuel and food. The journey took the entire day. Darkness fell long before they reached the city.

  Perhaps she should have accepted Amy’s invitation after all – but that might have meant there was no room in the vehicle for Emil. Worse, Emil would then know that Violette had sent her. Besides, following them unseen was a pleasure that suited her secretive nature.

  With the infinite patience of immortals, Charlotte watched as the party checked into a tall narrow hotel. They took supper at a pavement café, then withdrew to their hotel and apparently spent most of the following day asleep. That gave Charlotte time to procure her disguise, to satisfy her thirst in the backstreets, and to wish that Karl was with her.

  The following evening, the group finally emerged in glittering finery for a night out in Montmartre. She memorised all their faces and realised she’d seen at least half of them in The Lion Arises. The actress Mariette – the Egyptian queen – was clearly the pack leader, but Charlotte’s attention was on Emil and his companion. He looked splendid in an evening suit, blond hair brushed back. His lover matched him for beauty, her brown skin contrasted by a dress of pale creamy gold, glittering with sequins. Her eyes were huge and dark beneath a sparkling bandeau. She wore a single long strand of pearls.

  Charlotte found their glamour mesmerising. Inevitably she began to imagine how the woman’s silken skin would feel under her lips… how she would taste… Her fangs slid into striking position. The sudden pain as one fang-tip nicked her tongue jolted her back to reality.

  Concentrate, she told herself. I’m here to observe, not to indulge.

  Five years ago, she’d been a shy human of twenty, thrust by her Aunt Elizabeth into the bedlam of high society. Hard to believe so little time had passed; it felt like several lifetimes. She recalled a blur of debutante balls, picnics, dozens of events aimed at the ultimate goal: to find the perfect husband. Not an easy task after the Great War.

  Looking back, Charlotte appreciated that this wasn’t such a bad way of doing things. After all, the London season was supposed to be wild fun. Her younger sister Madeleine had loved it. Charlotte, reclusive by nature, had loathed the entire pantomime.

  Over-sensitive, she was all too aware of the deadly serious purpose behind the season. A good marriage, the right friends, the constant reweaving of society’s structure lest everything collapse… The relentless burden of expectation had made her recoil.

  Anyway, that was far in the past. Karl had appeared and opened her eyes to the freedom of being her true self. What if she’d never met him? She might still be leading a quiet, productive life as a research scientist. There were worse fates. But she would have remained an introvert: stoic, competent, broken-hearted but never letting her bitterness show.

  Karl certainly had not “saved” her in any sense. Their love had proved expensive, not least to her family. But… the heart would not be denied.

  Now her life was full of strange pleasures and pains, roaming the night to feast on blood… In spite of all they’d endured – and even with the lamia haunting her – she would not swap her existence for anything.

  Entering the jazz club, she felt a surge of nerves and excitement. The atmosphere was intense; a devil’s brew of noise, smoke and body heat. Not the sort of venue her aunt would approve of, although Madeleine had sneaked illicit visits in London. Not wholesome for young ladies…

  The place was packed with young ladies, regardless.

  She was aware of English voices mingling with the French. There might be people here who remembered her. She dared not risk being recognised, since she was officially dead.

  Being seen alive was a hazard that went beyond embarrassment.

  An African-American jazz band created a raucous, joyous sound that made her want to sway and lose herself in sensuous rhythm. Couples bobbed frenetically on the dance floor. Charlotte smiled. She and Karl favoured the older, graceful dances. She wasn’t sure she could tell the Lindy Hop from the Blackbottom or even the Quickstep, and the idea of attempting the Charleston struck her as faintly ridiculous.

  In her disguise, she felt ridiculous in any case.

  On the far side of the room, she saw Emil’s party taking seats around a table with a white tablecloth, candles and
ashtrays. They were all laughing, chattering as if already drunk. A waiter placed cocktails in front of them. Cigarettes were passed around. Charlotte saw Emil accept one, coughing clouds of smoke as if it were his first. Everyone laughed at him and he laughed with them, knocking back his drink in one gulp. Next, the regal Mariette tried to drag him on to the dance floor, but he resisted. Their light-hearted argument grew loud and heads turned to stare at him. All over the club, people began nudging each other and turning to gawp. “Isn’t that Emil Fiorani, the dancer?”

  Violette would be horrified.

  Surely one night of abandon wouldn’t damage his health? Unless this was how he meant to go on, in sheer rebellion. Charlotte had no intention of intervening. She was only there to observe.

  “Mariette, leave him alone!” Amy’s voice.

  “Oh, don’t let me prise you away from Fadiya,” said the Egyptian queen, waving a dismissive hand at Emil. Even from a distance, Charlotte heard her clearly.

  She pondered how best to spy on the group. Find a table where I can sit close enough to hear them, but not close enough to be noticed.

  As she worked her way across the club, a group of braying Englishmen in Oxford bags got in her way, waving bottles of champagne and entreating her to join them. She tried to slip past but they were insistent, in their polite yet inebriated way. The old Charlotte would have fled. The new Charlotte had to battle with sudden blood-thirst as their salty heat flowed around her… and it would be lamentably easy, she knew, to lure any of them outside into a dark alley…

  She held back, biting down to stop her fangs extending.

  “You look just like a film star,” one of them shouted into her face. “Clara Bow, that’s who.”

  “No. Lillian Gish. Claire Adams, even lovelier,” said his friend. They grinned, swaying in front of her. “Come on, join us. You’re aspso…” He giggled, unable to form the word absolutely. “So lovely.”

  Through gaps in the crowd, Charlotte watched Emil.

  Mariette had found another dance partner, and Emil was sitting with Fadiya, watching the band. His arm was around the back of her chair, fingers tapping to the rhythm; she was whispering into his ear, smiling.

  So Charlotte sat down with the Oxford bags crowd, letting them fuss around her and pour champagne, not guessing she couldn’t drink it. Well, she could pretend to sip, even force a little down her throat if necessary, but mortal drinks were as appealing to vampires as pondwater.

  All the time she kept her eyes on Emil.

  He was still smoking. Empty cocktail glasses crowded the table.

  Idiot, she thought, knowing Violette would disapprove. She chewed her lip at the thought of reporting back; she felt like a teacher, asked to spy on ill-behaved pupils. Am I supposed to report him to the headmistress? What will I be telling her?

  “He drank. He smoked. Yes, people recognised him. Yes, he made a fool of himself in public. Danced on tables, fell over. Then he had wild sex with his girlfriend. And with everyone else too; a veritable Roman orgy…” Charlotte groaned silently. I shouldn’t have to witness this. He’s a grown man, and I feel more than a little sordid.

  “I say, I love this one!” said the young man beside her as the band launched into an even livelier tune. “Come along, we’re dancing!”

  He pulled Charlotte to her feet. She tried to resist but he was propelling her on to the dance floor with cheerful, relentless force. She could have stopped him easily, but not without causing a scene and possibly drawing blood. “It’s not optional!” he yelled.

  It was, however, a way to edge closer to Emil.

  “Really, I’m terrible, I’ll tread on your feet,” she protested.

  “Tread away! You’ll be fine. I’m Noel, by the way.”

  “Vera.” Charlotte gave the first name that came into her head.

  “You don’t look like a Vera.” He seemed disappointed.

  “Rose, then. Will that do?”

  “Rose is perfect,” Noel said happily. Next moment she found herself caught in a maelstrom of prancing, twirling couples, with Noel’s sweaty hands gripping hers. He was good-looking, well spoken, full of laughter: perhaps the sort of man she might have married, if she’d been outgoing and fun, like her sister Maddy.

  Charlotte gave up and joined in. She made a fair job of the Lindy Hop by employing the simple vampire technique of mimicry.

  “You lied,” he said, breathless as he bobbed up and down. “You’re damned good at this.”

  “I’m only copying you,” she said, willing her bandeau to hold the wig in place.

  “Like hell. If that were so, you’d be stomping like an elephant!” He winked. “I think you’re a bit of a bad girl on the quiet, Rose.”

  She only smiled, all the time keeping her gaze on Emil and his paramour.

  He shone in the smoky gloom, with deep golden hair swept back from his proud, striking face. People kept glancing at him. Even offstage he looked like a fairytale prince, a yellow-haired Valentino. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a slight growth of stubble, but he was young enough to get away with these signs of debauchery. If anything, they made him more alluring.

  His attention wandered from the band to the dancers and back. He showed no sign of noticing Charlotte, to her relief. She’d only half-expected her disguise to work, but apparently he was fooled. He didn’t know her that well and would not expect to see her.

  And his state of mind? Hard to tell. His lips smiled, but his eyes were narrow, restless. He looked like someone so determined to have a good time that he was nearly angry about it.

  A ragtime number started. Charlotte found herself manhandled, lifted nearly off her feet, compelled to learn a new, more frantic set of steps. There was much jaunty circling with cheeks pressed together, which at least enabled her to see over Noel’s shoulder. Again she turned her attention to Emil’s companion.

  Fadiya’s hair was fashionably short and wavy, her skin warm with a bronze sheen. She was nothing like Violette. Her deep brown eyes were framed by thick lashes and heavy brows. A lovely face with a long, regal nose. And yes, very beautiful. Calm, smiling, affectionate, utterly lovely. She and Emil made a striking couple.

  Again Charlotte felt exasperated with Violette’s need to control every aspect of her dancers’ lives. But, as Violette said, they knew what they were in for. In return for the honour of being chosen, total dedication was the price they gladly paid.

  Still… could there be special dispensation for the marvellous Emil? Charlotte wondered if Fadiya’s devotion would help him to concentrate on his work, or ruin him?

  Charlotte was barely aware of the whirling dance. She focused wholly on Fadiya, like a ballerina spotting a focus point during a pirouette. It was like seeing single frames of a film. Smile. Laugh. Shoulder touch. Blank eyes, no expression. Another smile. Not once did she lift a drink to her lips.

  Emil’s body warmth rippled from him, a sunset aura. From the girl, though, there was almost nothing. The faintest indigo shimmer, at most. That might mean she was putting on a happy front while guarding her true self in public…

  Noel stumbled into Charlotte, making her lose the rhythm.

  “Most dreadfully sorry,” he said, catching her elbows to steady them both. “I think I’m a bit squiffy. Perhaps we should sit down?”

  The band began a slower song in waltz time.

  “Oh, one more dance,” said Charlotte. “We can prop each other up to this one.”

  “Splendid,” he said, grinning. “You’re an awfully good sport, Rose. I rather like you. Where do your folks live?”

  “Tell you later,” she whispered. Shuffling slowly amid the dancing couples, she pressed closer to him, letting him hold her more tightly, her head resting on his shoulder… easing along his collarbone until her mouth touched his neck. She felt him jump with surprise, but soothed him with her hands, heard his sigh of astonished bliss. She clutched the back of his head to hold him steady and bit into his throat, a swift sharp motion too subtle for
anyone around them to notice. Ah, the divine burst of blood on her tongue… the matchless flavours, like thick red berry juices and wine and rare steak… indescribable to humans but utterly divine and addictive.

  She felt the red rush through every cell, forced herself to drink slowly, savouring every sip, so that he didn’t pass out on her. To counter the pain, he would be confused, dreamy, enthralled as if drugged. Certainly not inclined to fight her off.

  When choosing victims, Charlotte was usually more private than this. But tonight, she was someone else.

  She was Rose, a bit of a bad girl.

  When his knees began to buckle she withdrew her canine teeth, discreetly cleaned the wound with her tongue, made sure there was no visible evidence. Then she led him back to his table.

  “I think your friend’s had one too many cocktails,” she told his raucous companions. Noel only swayed and sat down heavily, grinning, reaching out to her and slurring that she mustn’t leave, they were having such a grand time… Charlotte evaded all the grasping hands and ignored their entreaties.

  Turning away, she saw Emil still sitting at his table. Fadiya, though, had gone.

  * * *

  Outside, the square was full of music and light from all the restaurants and clubs. Crowds of stylish revellers strolled between street artists. Charlotte savoured the scents of the mild Paris night, wishing with all her heart that Karl were beside her. There was no greater pleasure than walking arm in arm with him through human crowds, sated and glowing inside with fresh blood… well, there were some greater pleasures, but this was among the finest.

  She put her yearning aside. Tonight she was here on business.

  Fadiya was not easy to find in the crowd. Charlotte fixed on her faint indigo trail and followed until she caught sight of her. She appeared to be walking with purpose, keeping close to the buildings of the cobbled square. She was wearing a coat, so perhaps she was heading back to the hotel, but if she were tired or unwell, surely Emil would be with her? The fact that she was alone suggested a private assignation of some kind.

  Fadiya did nothing obvious, like meeting another man or a girlfriend, hailing a taxi or heading towards their hotel. Instead she slid through narrow lanes, holding her dark coat around her until she almost disappeared.