Blood Autumn Page 26

  The air was motionless, almost as if something or someone were waiting, and she heard no sounds. No birds were trilling their songs, and she couldn't even hear any noises from the river. It was truly isolated here; August had chosen her husband well.

  The path she followed meandered, and when she came around a huge tree, the house seemed to loom up suddenly. She stopped, surprised to have found it so quickly, and she had the disquieting thought that it had just appeared to her. The sun was burning off the mist that clung to the trees and the house.

  It was huge and old and dark. A colonial mansion from long-ago days, of a past century, of a family that had been prosperous. Of a family now dead. A long porch fronted the house, and two narrow windows flanked the double doors, once a polished wood, but now scarred from neglect and weather. Some of the windows on the second and third floors had been boarded up.

  The bushes in front of it were nearly dead, and the lack of activity anywhere bothered her. She hesitated, then licked her lips and told herself not to be a coward. She had faced the lamia before.

  But not on her own ground, she thought, and despite the heat of the morning she shivered.

  Holding her head high, she walked up to the double doors. When she lifted the brass knocker and let it drop, the sound echoed through the house. Minutes passed as she waited, and no one came. Once more she knocked; still no answer. She peered through a window adjacent to the door, but it was too dark inside for her to see. She tried the doorknob, found it locked.

  Easily remedied, Rose told herself, and bending down, she ripped off the hem of her petticoat, wrapped it securely around her hand, then thrust the protected hand through the glass of one of the windows. She flicked the remaining shards out of the frame, pushed the curtain aside, and crawled through the window. She looked around the dark room.

  Mustiness and a sharp odor she couldn't place choked her momentarily. She coughed, then took a deep breath. She could still see little because of the curtains, so she flung some of them back. A layer of dust coated everything in the old-fashioned room, as though it hadn't been used in some time. As though it hadn't been used since the death of Mr. Justinian, Rose thought.

  She glanced around for a gas lamp, but there was none, and so she settled for several long white tapers she found in a drawer. She stuck them in a three-pronged candelabrum, lit them with matches from the drawer, then began her search for the lamia.

  She went through the downstairs parlor, a library containing many dusty volumes, another parlor, the dining room, kitchen, and servants' quarters, and found no sign of August. As Rose walked, dust was stirred and pillowed upward in clouds. She sneezed several times and listened as the sound echoed. Well, if anyone was here, they knew she was as well, she thought ruefully.

  She went up to the second floor and found the bedrooms and sitting rooms there empty. The third floor was vacant and even dustier than the two below. The attic contained a handful of rooms used for storage, and here Rose poked through bundles and boxes, but found nothing more sinister than old clothes and books and memorabilia of several generations of Justinians.

  She realized she didn't really know what to look for, except that she had read in one of Miss van Cleve's books that vampires needed to stay out of the light during the day. Thus, Rose reasoned, so would a lamia. After all, she knew of no one who had been attacked in the daytime by August. Thus she must sleep by day. The lamia would need an enclosed place in which she could sleep and hide and which could be carried easily.

  A box or trunk, then.

  In the basement Rose found more boxes and managed to pry open the tops of some, but they were filled with packed dishes. She was about to give up when she saw another crate tucked into a shadowy corner. She walked toward it and held the candelabrum aloft, the light revealing a carved sandalwood box, a chest such as those found in India. Trembling slightly, she set the candelabrum down so she could use both hands, and traced the carving with her fingertips. Then she slowly raised the lid.

  The box was empty.

  Disappointed, and yet slightly relieved, she dropped the lid with a resounding crash, and in the silence that followed she thought she heard a high laugh. It had to be in her head, she reasoned.

  Damn. Defeated again. Defeated at every turn. She knew the carved chest had been the lamia's sleeping place, and she knew August must have feared discovery and so had moved her bed elsewhere. God knew where; certainly she couldn't search all of Savannah and the surrounding countryside. Damn. Hot tears of frustration and anger filled Rose's eyes.

  She grabbed the candelabrum, nearly flinging it into the pile of boxes on the floor. It would serve them all right if she burned the damned place down.

  Burned. She stared thoughtfully at the flames of the candles. Something stirred in her mind, a half-forgotten memory. Something from the day she had talked with Miss van Cleve. She concentrated. They had talked about the occult, about witches, and about —

  Wait. The crosses and holy water that she and Father Daniel had tried to use against the lamia which had proved ineffective were used against vampires. Could it be that the lamia, being older than Christianity, was not at all affected by the trappings of that young religion, but by something more basic.

  Such as . . . fire?

  Miss van Cleve had mentioned the trials of witches in Europe in past centuries, trials where the witches had been burned.

  Fire was a basic element, and even though lamias weren't witches, it might work. What else was basic? Earth, fire, air, water. The four elements. Obviously, earth and air could do the lamia no harm, and Rose could hardly tie the lamia up, then toss her into water. So all that was left was fire.

  Fire ... the all-consuming element. Fire, Which destroyed all and everything.

  Fire, which was one of mankind's oldest weapons against the darkness.

  "It's worth trying," she murmured aloud.

  First, though, she must see if Father Daniel had returned. She had to know what happened to him, and if he wasn't there, she would go to Guy and have him call to the lamia.

  As Rose came out of the house she saw the sun had shifted considerably since she'd gone in. It was afternoon by now. She couldn't have spent all those hours in there, but somehow she had.

  She had to hurry now. She knew she had little time left.

  *

  That morning Daniel had returned to Savannah, and he had slept since that time. Sometime in the afternoon he heard someone pounding on his door. Then someone called his name repeatedly.

  Rose, he thought sleepily. He tried to call out to her, but he could only murmur. After a while the pounding stopped, and he drifted off to sleep again.

  And the dream, always the same, came to him over and over, and tormented him, taunting him with its sensuality. Finally, Daniel could stand it no longer. He forced himself to wake up, to sit up, and he stared, wild-eyed, around the room.

  "Stop it! Stop it!" His entire body trembled, and acid tears burned his eyes; he felt as though he hadn't slept in weeks. The return trip from India had been rough, the seas choppy; he had been ill the entire time, and he had dreaded the return to Savannah, the return to the place where he would die.

  But he had no choice. He had come straight home, hadn't even gone to St. Mary's; he had spoken to no one, cared to speak to no one. He was glad Rose was gone; then she couldn't bother him. He hoped she wouldn't return because he had to wait.

  The afternoon had given way to evening; darkness had fallen now. A shaft of white moonlight thrust its way through a break in the curtains and pierced the dark air. He hadn't changed clothes, and now they were damp from his sweat, musty from travel. He pushed back his tangled hair and settled back in the bed. Dimly he was aware of hunger pangs. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten, but he didn't care, and so he pushed the hunger away. He knew he should try to go back to sleep, but the dream, bringing with it his exquisite torment, would return.

  He couldn't fight any longer, he told himself wearily. Not at all. H
e was too old, too tired to fight anymore. He couldn't even pray any longer. God would not help him, hadn't helped him yet, hadn't helped ease the torments he felt. He had prayed these past weeks, had prayed, and felt empty of God's grace.

  "Come to me," Daniel said aloud. "August, come to me, please. End it all. I admit defeat."

  Rich laughter bubbled forth from the opposite corner as August stepped from the shadows. He stared at her. She had never been more beautiful with her glittering red lips, her dark mocking eyes, and the cascade of midnight hair with its musky scent.

  He had never seen her more vibrant, more alive, than she was now, he thought dully. Nor less human.

  Unable to respond beyond watching, he waited as she swayed gracefully across the wooden floor to stand by the bed. She stared down into his dulled eyes.

  "You admit defeat, Daniel?" He nodded almost mechanically. "This is what I have waited for so very long, my dear." She flicked a pink tongue across her full lips; they glistened in the moonlight. Her voice was almost merry. "I wanted not only you, Daniel, but the desertion of your God. I have waited, seeking to seduce you away from your false faith." She brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers and laughed as he recoiled. She whirled away from him, sat in a chair by the bed. "In the beginning you were strong, and yes, your will matched mine. I was intrigued, very much so, and then you grew afraid and ,fled to the Church. That, Daniel, was your downfall."

  "My faith, the Church ... it was the only way I . . ." His voice faltered, and he tried to look away.

  "You were never safe there," she said, a half-smile curving her lips. "I could have come for you there at any time. Any time." She laughed at his expression. "But, you see, I preferred the game, and so I waited, bided my time, and I permitted you to grow complacent. Now" — she rose and stepped closer to the bed — "you cannot resist me, Daniel. You see, your God, a false one, has sapped your manhood."

  Numbly he recognized the truth in her words. These past thirty years he had deluded himself into thinking he was safe from her. He had tried to hide, had only succeeded in hiding the truth. He shook his head, hotness stinging his eyes.

  "Why me?" he whispered. "Why did you want me so badly?"

  "I wanted you more than any because you did not desire me as the others did. And because you were very special to me."

  "You said that before . . . that I was special to you. I don't understand." Each word was agony for him to speak. The nearness of her body was overpowering, and he could feel himself breaking. "Why?"

  "Don't you know?"

  He shook his head. He could think no more.

  "You might call this visit tonight a somewhat overdue homecoming."

  "What?" Her words made no sense to him.

  "A homecoming," August repeated as she draped her lithe arms around his neck. "Yes. I have left you twice, Daniel, not once. Did you know that?" He stared at her. "Can you not think back, back to when you were a child?"

  The scent of musk. The laugh. Merest scraps of memory. Something struggled in his mind, struggled to free itself, and he shook his head, feeling the pounding of his temples, the pain shooting through his brain.

  "No. No, no, no." That wasn't what she meant. It. Couldn't. Be.

  "Yes. My son."

  He screamed.

  "No!" he shrieked. "It isn't true! It's not!"

  But he knew it was. He screamed again as she bent and kissed his lips, and a shock jolted throughout his body. He tried to struggle, tried to push her away, but he couldn't move. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him, unresisting, back onto the bed. He kept shaking his head, denying. It couldn't be so; it couldn't, for his mother had died; his father had told him so.

  "Died? No, I left for I had become bored with your father, a rather pale, uninteresting creature." She chuckled. "I don't always kill my husbands, Daniel. Not always. And as you will find, I can be a very loving and tender mother."

  He recoiled as she kissed him again, forcing his lips apart with her tongue. It traced his lips, explored the cavity of his mouth, and he felt the nausea rise up in him, even as the desire did, and he was ashamed. Her hands fluttered across his body, undressing him swiftly, touching him deftly, moving away, returning to tantalize, and he closed his eyes against the inner pain. He tried to pray, but no words passed his dry lips nor came from his deadened brain. When he was finally unclothed, she laid her hands upon his chest and dragged her nails down his skin.

  His body shook with new tremors, and slowly his eyes opened, and he stared, unblinking, at her as she eased out of her gown; she wore nothing underneath.

  Naked, she paraded before him. She cupped her ripe breasts in her hands; then she bent over him, brushing the crimson tips against his face, thrusting them into his pliant lips, against his clenched teeth. He tried to move his head, tried to look away, but couldn't. She stood up, yet stood so close to him, and she stroked her breasts, then trailed her fingers down to rub her hips, her thighs. Slowly she spread her legs, thrust her hips forward, and fondled herself, then laughed. She slipped onto the bed and crouched above him. Her damp flesh pressed against his, and he, burned as though he'd been branded with a hot iron.

  God will damn me, he thought; God will damn my soul to hell for my sins. All my sins. Lying and lust and . . . and . . . and now this.

  God doesn't hear you, mocked a voice in his mind.

  She rained burning kisses upon his face, his neck, chest, thighs, nipping at his flesh, seizing a fold of skin between her strong teeth and worrying it. Pain and pleasure mingled with his terrible shame, producing an answering effect Daniel had never before experienced. It was fire and ice, comfort and agony, and he knew he couldn't stop, not even if he wanted to. That was the last damning bit, that he could do nothing, could not keep himself from liking it. And yet he knew this unnatural lassitude was what her other victims had experienced. The thought did not console him. Other victims. And now he was one, he even more than the others.

  She stroked his manhood, laughed when he would not become firm. "Do you need more coaxing, my love?" she whispered into his ear. She stuck her tongue into his ear, and he twitched as the liquid sensations coursed through his body. She kissed the tip of his manhood, licked it languorously, maddeningly slowly, and slowly brought him to arousal.

  Humiliated, he lay with his hands clenched into fists at his side. Even his body had betrayed him. He was dying. He had failed again, failed as he had with everything in his life. Bitterness filled him because of his empty life, a life devoid of any reason.

  Devoid of anything except sin, he told himself.

  August kneaded the muscles of his arms and chest, licked his lips, and gripped his testicles in her fingers. She stroked them, and he cried out. Carefully she positioned herself above his groin, then lowered herself until she was just brushing the tip of his throbbing manhood. Groaning, he arched upward to meet her.

  Suddenly the door crashed open.

  "No!" he heard a woman scream, and then August was wrenched off him. Startled, Daniel looked, but his head moved so slowly, as if he were suspended in time. He saw that it was Rose who had come into the room. She had dropped a small keg onto the floor.

  She slammed August, still startled at the interruption, against the wall, and before the lamia could recover, Rose grabbed the keg, uncorked it, and began flinging a clear liquid on the other woman. The smell of kerosene filled the room. Rose dropped the keg, then stumbled back a few feet, ignited a match, and tossed it onto the drenched lamia, who was trying to rub the kerosene off.

  With a roaring sound flames engulfed August, and screaming, she reeled away, falling against another wall and setting fire to the draperies. Rose backed away as sparks flew off the lamia's body and landed on the carpet, setting it afire. The sound of inhuman cries, the snapping of the blaze, the smell of kerosene and burning flesh filled the room, gagging Rose and Daniel. Rose doubled over as black greasy smoke billowed upward, enveloping everything in the room. Daniel tried to sit up, but cou
ldn't.

  Suddenly, there was a shout, and Guy rushed in just as the walls ignited. He saw his uncle, still lying stunned on the bed. He threw a robe around the naked man's shoulders, and lifting the old man easily in his arms, he ran outside. He set him down carefully, then ran back to the building.

  "Fire! Fire!" Guy called and ran to help the other residents of the burning building.

  In the distance Daniel could hear the clanging of a fire bell and the sound of shouting, and in the fresh night air he blinked as he slowly recovered from his semiconscious stupor.

  With great difficulty Daniel eased himself into a sitting position and stared at the burning spectacle in horror, and the memory of what had been about to happen returned. He would have committed ... if it hadn't been for Rose — Rose. He looked around, but didn't see her anywhere outside. A crowd had gathered to watch the. fire, and he couldn't see too clearly, but he knew she wasn't here. She must be inside, only Guy hadn't seen her.

  Daniel knew he couldn't wait for his nephew to return and then go back inside. It would be too late for Rose. His own anguish forgotten, he stood, pulled his robe around him more securely, gathered his strength, took a deep breath, and rushed back inside the burning building. He found a handkerchief in the pocket of his robe and tied it over his mouth and nose, and he beat at the flames licking along the door frame with a rug he found. Then he dashed into his room.

  Flames were everywhere, and in the midst of the fire he saw the two women. They were locked together in a grappling embrace as they fought one another. To his horror, one of the women burned like a candle. The clothes of the other smouldered. He peered through the blinding smoke and flame, and saw that it was Rose. They struggled soundlessly, the one trying to pull the other into the flames with her, and they twisted, battling, the flames shooting upward, and as they turned, he saw the strain on Rose's face.