Blood Autumn Read online

  She hunted for the living.

  She ignored the cries, the entreaties, the pitiful begging, the outstretched arms of those injured, those soon to die, for they would not satisfy her.

  Vultures and wild dogs had been at the dead since earlier in the day when the mutineers had stormed the city, and the overpowering sun and stifling heat had done their work as well, putrefying the bloated flesh until the noisome stench of death arose everywhere, and already pale maggots crawled and burrowed through the lumps of meat that had once been human. Pools of dark blood, stagnant and with great clouds of black flies hovering above them, had formed in the cracks between the cobblestones, in the holes in the streets, and occasionally animals — dogs, perhaps — could be heard lapping at puddles.

  Daintily she raised her long, graceful skirts to avoid the worst of the gore and paused in the hellish glare of the surrounding fires to inspect the lonely street. A dog, its ribs showing through diseased skin, slunk away.

  She continued walking, searching, ignoring the bits of flesh on the streets, the arms and legs, fingers and hands that had been lopped from European women and children before they had been raped and butchered. She spared no glance for the men who sprawled on their sides, bellies ripped open, their intestines glistening wetly in the firelight, or for those whose skin had been delicately peeled away to reveal the raw muscles and ligaments and bones.

  These meant nothing to her. She had witnessed far worse in her long life, farther back than the time of Agamemnon, and doubtless she would see worse in the years to come. Whatever surprises mankind might hold for her, its capacity for cruelty to its own kind found her unastonished. Too often had she seen it expressed.

  Far better to be what she was, she thought as she hunted for her prey, for she did not kill in the name of religion, state, revenge, jealousy, greed, or any of the artificial contrivances man had invented to explain his blood lust.

  She killed simply for the blood and the life that it brought her. No more, no less.

  At a slight noise some distance away she paused and narrowed her eyes. There was a slight movement by a gate to a walled garden. A young man. And European. As well as uninjured. She breathed deeply, smelling the vigorous blood as it pumped through his healthy body.

  Her bloodstained lips pulled back into a smile, and she drew closer to him. The young man — he was, she realized with some satisfaction, hardly more than a boy — had become aware of her now and was trying to hide himself, thinking she was one of the mutineers returned to kill him. Her smile widened, and she held out her pale hand to him as she approached. He was afraid, and his blood coursed faster, his fear exhilarating to her.

  He had been crying. His family was dead. His world gone.

  She opened her arms to comfort him. "Come to me," she said ever so gently. "Come to me."

  Nodding, the boy sniffled and crept into her arms, then nestled his head against her shoulder. She bent her dark head and kissed his soft lips, and he cried out as a fire stirred in his loins.

  Together, they sank to the ground, and as she kissed and caressed his silky hair and tender throbbing flesh, she gave him release and death.

  *

  When Hamilton woke at last, he was in a bed, and at First he didn't know where he was or what had happened. But as his eyes focused, he saw that it was nighttime and that August Parrish tended him.

  "How do you feel, Tommy?" she asked solicitously, her dark eyes concerned. She was cleaned, her gown fresh, and he wondered if the blood covering her had been only a nightmare.

  He shook his head and drew his brows together as he tried to remember how he had come to be here. Was he sick? Had his fellow officers called for her? He remembered coming to Delhi, because of the mutiny. He had come to see if August and her father were all right, and in the Parrish house he had found ... he had found blood and her and — all too swiftly his memory returned, and he closed his eyes at the remembered sights.

  "What are you?" he whispered. Once more he could see the blood on her face and dress, on her lips.

  Apparently she hadn't heard him, for she placed a cool hand upon his feverish forehead and he shivered at her touch. "You fainted, my love. You mustn't worry now, for I will take care of you."

  Hamilton cringed, recalling how he'd ached for her touch and love, how he'd longed to embrace her. He wanted to be repelled, but even now his body was betraying him and desire writhed within him.

  Quickly she slipped into the bed beside him. He tried to roll away, but found he couldn't move. What was wrong with him? he wondered. He was so tired, exhausted as though he had gone through an ordeal. The day before he had been a strapping officer of the Dragoon Guards. Now he felt as insubstantial as the fluff from a dandelion. One strong gust of the wind and he would float away, float away into nothing. His eyelids grew heavy, and he didn't think he could keep his eyes open any longer, for it was such an effort. He closed them and drifted into the greyness close to sleep.

  Something cold and damp, like the mist from a graveyard, caressed his stomach, slithered down his legs, then between them and up to his groin to cup his testicles. He groaned at the strange touch, tried to raise a hand to brush whatever it was away, but was unable.

  Then slivers of ice kissed his face, his neck, his bared chest. Fragrant hair, hair that smelled of musk and blood and jasmine, brushed against him, tickled him, and his lips drew back in a grimace.

  August, he thought vaguely, it must be August. Who else — what else — could it be? The kisses, so cold, rose to his chest, then fell down to his stomach, down to his groin, and razorlike teeth nipped at him. Moaning, he arched his weary body, felt a tongue curl around him, and he was throbbing, hardening at the velvet touch, and want-ing her so badly. Hundreds of fires seethed in his veins, and panting heavily, he reached out for her, but he couldn't find her. Again her teeth dragged across his loins.

  He howled in pain and desire as the pounding in his temples and groin doubled; he rocked his hips as he tried to ram into her, but found only air. He had to have her. Now. She was on top of him, then off to one side, stroking and fondling, rubbing him until he moaned; then she was on top again, teasing him with fingers and nails and teeth and tongue, and he grunted, and stabbed upward, thrusting higher with his engorged shaft, and higher, seeking, thrusting, and he couldn't wait, couldn't wait any longer to find her. He thrust up once more, and it spread through him, burst outward in a final paroxysm of lust, and as he climaxed wildly, teeth sank into the tender flesh of his neck.

  He screamed once, then fainted into the well of blackness.

  Night after night she visited him, and each time he woke, Hamilton desired her more than before. He spent his days in a half-waking state, and in his dreams he saw the destruction of Delhi and the murder of the English. He saw horrible scenes, and tears squeezed out from under his eyelids. He saw villagers fleeing from an unseen terror that hunted them by night, and as they fell, they cried out, for nothing could save them.

  Blood and dust mingled, painting his dreams with a terrible tint. The villages of India stood empty, the living having fled, and yet that which hunted them remained, and always it was behind him, and he didn't want to turn, but he had no choice, and he would turn, and he'd feel the sharpness of its teeth.

  Once or twice he managed to stagger to his feet, and unclothed, and not even noticing, he stumbled through the house, blinking in the unaccustomed brightness of daylight.

  Large black flies buzzed around the rotting bodies on the floors, and the fetid odor of death clung to him and sickened him.

  He heard nothing from outside and wondered what had happened. Were any English soldiers left, or was he the last one? This amused him, and he laughed, but the laughter dissolved into tears that streamed down his dirty cheeks. Sobbing, he slumped to the floor, and when he awoke, he was in bed and August was slipping in beside him.

  Once, he tried to escape. He made it as far as the doorway to the outside when faintness overcame him, and he leaned against t
he door to rest, and when he looked up next, dusk had breathed into night, and she was standing before him. He began weeping, and ever so gently she led him back to bed.

  As the long days and nights continued, his strength ebbed away. When she came to him, she would talk, and he listened to her tales of an India long ago, an India before the English had come, before even the Mogul, before Alexander had come to conquer. She had lived here too long to remember, she told him, and before that Greece had been her home, for her and for her sisters. But over the centuries her sisters had been scattered across the world, and she no longer knew if they lived.

  Lilith, she said, had been one; others had not been so famous, though. And then she had kissed his lips, chilling him, and her mouth had slid down his chest, past his stomach to his loins, had slid to the tip of his member, which she touched softly with her tongue, and despite his exhaustion, he had felt the stirrings of passion once more. He cried out for her to have mercy, and she had answered him with the cold laughter of something that was not human.

  Tommy Hamilton awoke to the drumming of rain on the roof and knew the monsoon season had come while he slept. Cautiously he opened his eyes; seeing grey light, he could not tell if it was morning or dusk. He felt more clearheaded than he had for a long time, less feverish, and he was encouraged.

  He listened for any sounds which meant August was close by, but he could hear nothing but the rain. Slowly he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. His head pounded, and vertigo swept through him, but gradually the dizziness abated, and he was able to stand, albeit somewhat shakily.

  He looked around for his clothes, found only white trousers and a shirt too big for him. He tucked its length into the waistband of the pants, and he knew it had belonged to August's father. Or rather the man who had masqueraded as her father. She had told him that she had found Parrish years ago and had lived with — and off — him, and he had lived to serve her. When he was no longer of any use, she had killed him.

  He slipped on sandals and left the bedroom. He was aware of an overwhelming hunger, as if he hadn't eaten for days, and as he looked down at himself he saw how pitifully thin he had grown. His skin hung upon him; his wrists had shrunken almost to the bones, and he shuffled along like an old man.

  He bit back tears and went into the kitchen, where he inspected a basket of rotting fruit black with flies and insects swarming over it. He stared at it hungrily, but could not bring himself to eat the decaying fruit. In the pantry he found a few pieces of molded bread. He wolfed it down, then vomited immediately. He poured wine down his throat, then realizing he was about to lose that, too, he stopped and sipped it more cautiously. Bottle in one hand, he left the room, and as he walked, he would take a swig of the wine.

  Momentarily weak, he sat in a chair in the kitchen and stared around at the bodies as though he'd never been there before. How long had he been under her spell? Days? Weeks? Months? Or worse, years? But if it were years, wouldn't someone have entered the house and found him?

  He drank more wine, the tepid liquid soothing his burning throat. He couldn't continue as her slave. She might kill him or do something even worse. What that was he didn't know, nor did he wish to find out. So he must do something. He wasn't strong enough to escape from the house yet. And if he did, she would just hunt him and bring him back to her lair. Therefore, he had only one choice. He must kill her.

  Hamilton wiped the wine from his unshaven chin with the back of his hand and frowned. How? For after all, what was August Parrish?

  A creature of the night, of dark dreams, and in that moment he realized how stupid he had been. While he courted her he had never seen her in the daytime, and never once had he thought it strange. He'd called upon her after dusk, dined with her at night, kissed her in the light of the moon. He laughed, but his throat muscles were stiff from disuse, and the sound came out a sob.

  To kill her he had to find her.

  Slowly he explored the house, covering his nose and mouth as he passed the mouldering corpses in the rooms filled with the odor of rotted flesh. He searched through wardrobes, under beds, into every enclosed space he could find. He drank more wine, and again dizziness swept over him. He should return to bed and rest. No, this might be his last chance. If he went to bed, he would fall asleep, and when he woke, she would be there, waiting.

  She had to be in the house; elsewhere she might be too easily discovered. She was here. Somewhere.

  In the kitchen he found a door locked from the other side. He looked around for something to hit the doorknob with. He found a cast-iron pot, hefted it, then swung it against the door. The knob flew off; the door swung open and a cool damp darkness assailed him. He found a candle, lit it, and held it aloft. Steps led down into what had to be a cellar. He started to descend.

  The candle's flame flickered when he reached the bottom of the stairs, but the air in the cellar was still — too damned still, he thought. He knew she was here, but as he looked around, he despaired, for dozens of boxes and crates were stacked against the walls. Where would she be? Behind one of these crates? And even as he thought it, he knew the answer.

  Wearily he began pulling the tops off the boxes one by one and stared at the contents. Dust rose in great clouds, choking him, and from time to time he paused to take a sip from the wine bottle. It was nearly empty; he should have thought to bring another one, but now he couldn't stop to fetch another bottle. He wanted to find her before it was too late.

  Before him sat an ornately carved teakwood box, about six feet in length and four feet high, and when he raised the heavy lid, the sweet odor of cloves and sandalwood rose. She slept inside on a bed of dried spices. Or at least he thought she was asleep, for her eyelids were closed, her black lashes sweeping across her cheekbones. She was so beautiful it brought tears to his eyes. He bent to kiss her, then stopped. He had come here to destroy her. He didn't know where his rifle was, so he would have to use something else. In a pile of tools he found a hammer, and he hefted it. Heavy, it would prove deadly. He returned to the box and gazed down at her. All that loveliness ... all that evil, and the love and hatred he felt for her warred within him.

  Taking a deep breath, he raised the hammer. He would bring it down in one swing and smash her head open like a ripe melon. The horrible image was too clear in his mind and nearly stayed his arm. He had to act now, before he gave in. His arm swung downward, the hammer hurtled, down and down, and midway he stopped, the heavy tool snapping against his wrist. He did not feel the pain.

  He stared at the woman he had loved. He could not destroy her. He no longer had the will to do it; he couldn't live without her. He wanted her, needed her. Even as she was. Even as he was.

  He dropped the hammer, which clattered to the floor. His weight sagging his knees, he collapsed against the box, huddling on the floor, his head resting against the box. Closing his eyes, he wearily drew in a ragged breath and waited. He was there when dusk came and she awoke. He heard a slight sound, and then she was beside him, stroking his hair. "You shouldn't have left your bed, my sweet," she chided softly, "for you aren't yet well."

  He nodded, but he could not speak. She helped him to his feet, and he leaned against her as she guided him up the stairs.

  "I think we have been in India overlong," she said as they reached the bedroom and she eased him onto the bed. She pulled the covers over him, then caressed his cheek. His eyes blank, he looked upward; she smiled tenderly at him.

  "Perhaps we will travel to England, where the race is younger and much more vigorous." She paused, lifting an elegant eyebrow. "What do you think. Tommy?"

  A sob escaped him, and he nodded feebly.

  London, England: 1859

  In the span of less than two weeks Lyttleton had lost two close friends. He was shocked by the deaths, and he grieved for his friends. For poor bedeviled Terris and poor shrunken Tommy. Such odd, abrupt deaths. And both had had that tortured, hunted look in their eyes toward the very end of their lives.

&n
bsp; Lyttleton frowned, something else bothering him about the deaths. What could it be? He concentrated, and then he had it. For some reason, he thought, there was a connection of sorts. But what connection could there be?

  Tommy Hamilton had loved August. Wyndham Terris had thought he loved August. Now both men were dead. Surely this tenuous connection was a coincidence at best, Lyttleton told himself. Or was it?

  Both had known the woman; both had died. For God's sake, what was he thinking? Others knew her and hadn't died. For that matter, he knew her and was very much alive. Henry Montchalmers was an admirer of hers, and he most certainly wasn't dead.

  He was imagining it, he told himself. No connection existed. He was tired, distraught at his friends' deaths, and his mind wasn't reliable at the present. Still, he sensed a strangeness about the deaths, a strangeness that he did not understand, and he was not sure he wanted to.

  Lyttleton saw August Hamilton the day after Terris' funeral, when he attended a dinner party given by the Ashfords in honor of their son's return from his travels abroad.

  Lyttleton, who had been kept busy all day, arrived slightly out of breath and a little late at the Belgrave Square mansion. He relinquished his hat and cane to the butler who greeted him at the door and informed him that the other guests had already gathered in the library. He was shown into the room, where he went straightaway to his host and hostess and proffered his profuse apologies.

  "Quite all right, Lyttleton," said Lord Josiah Ashford, a vocal member of the House of Lords and a staunch proponent of the Irish Home Rule Bill. He clapped his guest heartily upon the back and thrust a glass of wine into his hand. "Come in, come in, and meet the others. I'm sure you know most everyone, though."

  Lady Blanche Ashford, who had never spoken much to Lyttleton in all the many years of their acquaintance, nodded shyly and murmured that she was happy to see him again.