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  BLOOD AUTUMN

  A novel of historical horror with erotic overtones

  "What a wonderful, scary writer Kathryn Ptacek is!"

  — John Coyne

  "Kathryn Ptacek is already better than many famous horror writers I could name."

  — Peter Straub

  Look for this other TOR book by Kathryn Ptacek

  SHADOWEYES

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  BLOOD AUTUMN

  Copyright © 1985 by Kathryn Ptacek

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  First Printing: January 1985

  A TOR Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates 8-10 West 36 Street New York, N.Y. 10018

  ISBN: 0-812-52447-0 CAN. ED.: 0-812-52448-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  To

  Andrea Minasian for the first year of her new life

  Thanks to

  — the Georgia Historical Society of Savannah, Georgia, and the Savannah Public Library, who answered all of my questions, — as well as to the city of Savannah, which proved hospitable while I was there,

  — Reverend Geoffrey Marsh for answering several questions of a theological nature,

  — Ashley McConnell for her long-standing patience in regard to Ireland and matters Irish, and, of course,

  — thanks most of all to Charlie for his support and love, his terrible jokes (escargot, eh?), and for being there this past year.

  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies.

  — John Keats,

  "Ode to a Nightingale"

  Prologue

  Savannah, Georgia: 1889

  "I didn't think you priests were supposed to gaze unabashedly at beautiful women, Uncle," the older man's nephew drawled slightly, his brown eyes following the direction the other man's had taken.

  "Really, Guy," Father Daniel protested, "we are human, after all." The Church, for all its spiritual ways, as he well knew, had a history of the appreciation of beauty, ranging at times to the point of hedonism.

  "But aren't priests supposed to be beyond reproach?" Guy continued.

  "You mean above suspicion, and you are referring to Caesar's wife. The reference is commonly believed to be derived from Plutarch."

  "Ah."

  Guy Maxwell, while intelligent and a well-trained and talented physician, had never claimed to be a classical scholar and had already lost interest in their conversation, although not the reason for it. Almost involuntarily his eyes strayed to the woman across the room who commanded his and his uncle's attention, as well the admiring glances of the other men present at the Parkers' party.

  Father Daniel had been one of the first of many arrivals on this hot September evening. Joseph and Celeste Parker were not members of his parish, but previously the couple had expressed interest in helping orphaned and abandoned boys. The Parkers had thus invited Father O'Neil of St. Mary's Orphan Home to the party, knowing that some of the wealthiest and most influential citizens in Savannah would be there. Father O'Neil, however, had developed a persistent cough two days ago and had insisted that his assistant Father Daniel attend in his place.

  Once at the Parker home the priest had looked around with unabashed interest, for his duties did not often take him inside the town's mansions. A two-story Federal with an exterior of the celebrated Savannah grey brick, the Parker house was impeccably furnished with furniture handed down through the family for many generations. Proudly, Mrs. Parker had exhaustively detailed the lengthy history of each notable piece, and Father Daniel had smiled faintly, remembering that at one time he, too, had owned handiwork by Chippendale, Hepplewhite, and Sheraton. The sin of pride, he had admonished himself unsuccessfully.

  For a while longer they had chatted; then she had excused herself to greet other guests, and shortly afterward Guy Maxwell and his colleague. Rose O'Shaunessey, also a physician at the Savannah Hospital, had arrived together and joined the priest.

  A colleague as well as his nephew's lover, or so Father Daniel suspected. As a priest of the Catholic faith, he was supposed to frown on such behavior; as the man he had once been, he approved heartily, for the woman doctor displayed a sensibility not often found among those her age, and she was witty with a quick smile and ready humor, had capable hands that looked gentle as well, and no doubt possessed a fiercesome temper if her bright red hair were interpreted correctly. Too, Father Daniel enjoyed talking with her, and had since Guy had introduced him to her several months before. Unlike many of his vocation, Daniel did not shun women. Indeed, all his life he had enjoyed being with them and had often found his empathy being repaid with trust. He did not think that Guy could have chosen a better woman than Rose.

  The three had chatted, the doctors about their work at the hospital, the priest about his boys at St. Mary's, until Rose had entrusted Guy to his uncle's care and had wandered off to chat with an acquaintance. Gradually Guy's and Daniel's conversation had shifted to the woman who had entered the large salon minutes before. While the new arrival's worshipful cortege shepherded her out to the flagstone terrace where the air was cooler, Guy and his uncle applied themselves to the pleasant task of studying her.

  From head to toe the newcomer wore black, and the priest wondered if she was in mourning, although he saw no crepe. The decolletage of her simply cut evening gown dared much, delving lower than those of any other lady in the room, and many eyes strayed to that shadowy valley revealed. Upon her head perched a dainty hat with a half veil that tantalizingly shaded the upper portion of her face, a veil unnecessary, for the hotly burning southern sun had set several hours ago. Long kid gloves, opera slippers, and a double strand of jet completed her severe costume. Her black hair trailed in long curls that caressed her shapely shoulders.

  Neither tall nor short, she was perfectly proportioned with an hourglass figure the priest did not think was achieved through the use of deforming corsets and stays worn by so many other women. Her skin glowed with the luminescence of an Oriental pearl. He couldn't be sure of the color of her eyes, although from time to time he caught a glint of them from behind the veil. Her face — that portion he could see: the full red lips, the pointed chin, the wide cheekbones, the straight, finely formed nose — he would have described as beautiful, although that seemed woefully inadequate.

  There was a presence about her, a grace; no, an impression of unrivaled loveliness. Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, as Marlowe had asked three centuries before, Father Daniel wondered? Or the face of a nymph, a naiad, a Grace, as Scott would have claimed, or was it merely the face of a woman, but one who seemed more than the sum of every woman he had ever met, ever envisioned?

  Father Daniel blinked, and found himself leaning forward, breath caught, as she spoke to the men surrounding her. He was unable to hear her, but he found he was being sucked into a vortex deeper and deeper, the swirling sides rising around him; he was losing himself within the lovely depths of the glittering eyes he imagined and the luminous-ness of her skin and wetly shining lips, and remotely he heard a voice, and knew it was Guy still talking to him, and with great reluctance the priest pulled himself out of the attractive vortex and breathed deeply. Guy's voice was no longer faint.

  "It's really all the same period, after all. Isn't it?" he asked.

  "What?" Slightly startled, the priest glanced at the young man.

  "Caesar and the Romans and Jesus Christ. It's all about the same time, isn't it?"

  "Good God, Guy, I haven't the faintest idea of what you mean!"

  "That makes two of us," he adm
itted, somewhat ruefully, as he grinned.

  Daniel chuckled, and the younger man joined him. After a moment he lifted his crystal goblet and indicated the beautiful woman. "Why aren't you over there with the rest of those young gadabouts instead of staying with a feeble old man like me?"

  "Because I am chaperoning my uncle."

  "A foul business for someone so young as yourself, and certainly not the most exciting of tasks. Go on." He waved his hand. "I know you want to meet her."

  "There's time."

  " 'Do not squander time, for that's the stuff life is made of.' "

  "Quoting the Bible again, Uncle?"

  Daniel sighed. "Franklin, not the Bible."

  Guy lit one of those long cigars, which he knew his uncle detested and which he still insisted upon smoking nonetheless, and the priest sipped his wine as the smoke whirled in a blue-grey cloud above their heads and drifted in sinuous tendrils toward the French windows.

  For the occasion the Parkers' servants had hung gaily hued paper Chinese lanterns upon the lower branches of the trees in the garden, and now in the darkness insects buzzed and darted, circled and droned in the bright orbits of light. The priest could clearly see the long delicate form of a dragonfly bumping against the lantern closest to the doors.

  The woman watched the dragonfly, then smiled faintly as she stretched out a hand to brush the insect away, or so Daniel expected. Instead, in one fluid motion she had caught it, then flung her hapless prisoner inside the lantern. The dragonfly fluttered frantically around the paper prison until its wings brushed against the candle flame. Instantly the insect ignited, the paper caught fire, and one of the men leaped forward, pulling her away just as burning embers showered downward.

  Incredibly, no one appeared to have witnessed the dragonfly incident. No one, except the priest. Perhaps it had been enacted entirely for his benefit. After a moment he dismissed that as a nonsensical notion.

  Momentarily something inside Father Daniel fluttered like the poor dragonfly, and he frowned. A fleeting memory. Gone. Almost there again. Almost a recognition. Of what? This woman? Had he previously met her? Before he lived in Savannah? Surely he had. She was from his long past, but for some reason the priest couldn't determine the occasion or place, and that greatly troubled him, for his mind was not generally — he thanked God — given to such unfortunate lapses.

  He relayed as much to his nephew.

  "What's that. Uncle?" Guy sounded distracted, his voice almost dreamy, as his eyes remained fixed on the woman. The priest wondered what Rose must think of her beau's fascination, for surely she saw Guy had eyes only for this other woman. Daniel glanced at the woman doctor, but she stood with her back to them as she conversed with several women.

  The bough where the paper lantern had hung was now dark.

  "That woman."

  "What about her?"

  "She reminds me of someone. Someone from my younger days. Back when I was in England, I think."

  "A passing resemblance, no doubt." Guy dismissed it, licked his lips.

  "No, no. It's more than that, Guy. She looks just like the woman. I think." His nephew did not notice his confusion. "It's been so many years, though," Daniel mused. So many years . . . too many. Try as he might, he was unable to recall under what circumstances he could have met the woman. Before he could even speculate further, he saw Rose strolling toward them. She caught the tail end of the conversation.

  "What's been so many years?" she asked, her voice containing the slightest trace of a northern accent. Her bright blue eyes were alert, filled with intelligence and compassion, and Daniel thought it would be an excellent idea for Guy and Rose to marry. Tonight, though, he feared, might put a strain between them.

  "I was saying, my dear, that I believe I've met that woman before."

  " 'That woman' is named August Justinian, and she's the widow of a planter," Rose replied.

  The priest blinked in surprise. "How did you . . ."

  Her lips twitched. "I asked."

  "I should have known," he said, chuckling.

  "I had to know." Her eyes strayed to Guy.

  True, the priest thought, she had to learn the identity of this mesmerizing woman. Too much was at stake for her tonight.

  Apparently Guy hadn't listened to their exchange. Daniel didn't think his nephew was aware of anything but the other woman. For a few minutes longer Guy continued to watch silently, then stubbed out his expensive cigar, and left them without a word.

  Pain in her eyes, Rose looked after him as he walked across the room. "She's like a flame, and the men are moths."

  "Yes." And the priest remembered all too clearly the burning dragonfly. " 'Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair?' " Rose raised a slender eyebrow, and he shook his head. "An old poet, dust for two centuries now."

  Guy had reached the terrace and was introducing himself to the widow. Too far away to actually hear Guy's words, Rose and Daniel found it wasn't necessary. The expression on the young man's face was sufficient. Momentarily the conversation in the room lulled, and they heard the echo of the other woman's laugh as she edged closer to Guy and smiled up at him.

  The shade of a half-forgotten memory stirred as Daniel tried to peer into the past, but a thick fog had enveloped his mind and all the forms were ghostly and surreal, vague, as though they hadn't been his own memories.

  Guy was lost, too, the priest thought sadly, and wondered why he thought that.

  "I'm surprised you aren't over there, Father Daniel." Rose's tone was ironic.

  He shook his head. "Not I. No, I am content to assume the role of watcher, but that's all. I leave flirting to others far younger — and some older." He noted that some of the woman's — she had a name, he had to remind himself — admirers were far older than he.

  "You said that she seemed familiar."

  "Yes," he said slowly. "It's as though I know her from sometime . . . someplace ... but not recently."

  "An old flame?" she teased.

  "Hardly," he replied dryly. "I think I would have remembered that, after all, and yet that's the strange part of this puzzle, my dear, for you see, I cannot recall where or when or how I might have met her. Usually I don't forget names and faces — I can't, as a priest. And I've been unable to stir a single memory."

  Apparently Rose took his lapse of memory far more seriously than did Guy, for she frowned. "It is odd. Very odd, don't you think?"

  He nodded, unable to erase the image of the burning dragonfly from his mind. "The whole evening has been odd." He paused, then murmured, half to himself, " 'Fair is foul, and foul is fair.' "

  "I beg your pardon, Father?"

  "Nothing important, my dear."

  They fell silent, companionably so, while the priest sipped his wine and Rose watched Guy. More and more male laughter came from the terrace, and every so often Father Daniel heard the sultry voice of the woman. Of August Justinian, he corrected, reminding himself of her name. The woman.

  Some twenty male admirers now clustered around her, each one listening intently to her every word, and in their midst was poor lost Guy. Poor Rose, Daniel thought, and glanced at the woman doctor.

  She gave him a brief smile with just the smallest hint of sadness.

  "I think I must be going, Father. I've a long day tomorrow." .

  "Of course, my dear. If you wish me to escort you . . ." he began.

  "No," she replied quickly, "that won't be necessary, Father; I don't have far to go."

  He held her hand in his for a second, squeezed it; then she nodded and left. She did not glance back at Guy, nor did he notice her departure.

  Daniel sighed heavily and moved his chair a little closer to the terrace so that he could give his full attention to the woman. To August Justinian.

  ". . .am just returned from Paris," he heard her saying. She received general approval from her admirers. "I had wanted to travel to Rome this past summer, but now I will wait until next year."

  "Jasper's jus
t back from there," one tall balding man rasped loudly, nodding to a middle-aged man by his side. "Damned unsafe over there, ma'am. In my opinion, it wouldn't be a good place for a woman to travel alone. Not at all."

  "I never travel alone," she replied, and the others all laughed.

  Unabashedly the priest eavesdropped — listened, as he preferred to term it — and learned that the woman had traveled widely throughout Europe and Asia. She had an education of sorts, that much was obvious, although he did not think it formal. But she seemed very learned in numerous subjects, being able to hold an intelligent conversation with the men on any topic they chose, and she was facile in many tongues, which she amply demonstrated at the requests of her companions. All of the men surrounding her were utterly charmed by her, and the more they fell captive to her, the more Father Daniel grew suspicious.

  Or perhaps suspicious was too strong a word, he thought. Perhaps he was simply displaying caution in his immediate acceptance of her. Normally he wasn't overly circumspect, though, for from the first moment he had met Rose he had liked her and had known she would be good for his nephew. So why was he now proving so reluctant when all the other men were the widow's adoring devotees? It didn't make sense.

  The men were enchanted by her, Daniel thought as he finished his drink, as though she were — He looked up to see her staring at him. Or so he thought, but almost immediately she spoke to Guy, and he dismissed it as a coincidence.

  Or had it been?

  The hours passed, the darkness growing more complete outside the Parkers' home, and slowly those attending slipped away to return to their own homes. When no more than a handful of guests remained and the priest was drowsing from the effects of the wine, a slight noise roused him. He glanced up to see the beautiful widow gliding through the French doors and across the marble floor toward him. He scrambled to sit up.

  She stopped a few feet away as he clambered awkwardly to his feet. Still he could not see her eyes because of the veil. She did not move for a minute, then spoke in a husky voice. "You have been watching me, Father."