Blood and Chrysanthemums (8 page)

She observed each sensation carefully, clinically: the faint touch of red in his eyes as he lifted her wrist, the coolness of his lips against her skin, the moment of suction that tugged at her veins, the sharp stab of pain, the indescribable sensation of blood leaving body for his. With detached wonder, she felt her heartbeat quicken, her breath catch. When the brief feeding was done, she fingered the tiny marks on her wrist and acknowledged, with ruthless, scientific honesty, one more observation: she was unbearably aroused.

“Do you know?”

“Yes,” she breathed, touching her pulse. “I know.”

Ardeth wove her way through the cars jammed into the restaurant parking lot. So this is where they all ended up, she thought with grim amusement, all those cars that passed me by without stopping. She couldn’t see that this roadside stop was any more attractive than any other she’d seen on her journey but perhaps it was location that counted. Perhaps this restaurant occupied the spot that you were guaranteed to reach just as you were getting hungry, no matter where your point of departure or destination.

She shivered a little, recognizing the stirrings of hunger deep inside her own body. She had drunk from a sleepy cow early the previous night but it seemed to satisfy even less than elk’s blood. The long miles she had walked, both last night and in the hour since she had awoken, had left her tired and edgy. Her sleep had been snatched in uneasy moments in the basement of what had appeared to be an empty house.

There was nothing on the restaurant’s menu that would bring her any nourishment, but in the crowded stop she might find another ride to take her on the next step of her journey.

In the line to order, she surveyed the selection. Several truck drivers, groups of teenagers out from some local town, families with weary, cranky children, lone men who alternated between staring out the window and into their coffee cups.

Not looking good, she acknowledged with a sigh, wishing again that she could have simply taken a bus or a train. She had thought about it more than once as she walked through the empty night. She had even checked the schedule in one of the larger towns. Both methods of transportation had turned out to be more expensive than she had expected. She couldn’t afford it even if she were willing to risk dangers: exposure to daylight she could not control, the vulnerability of sleeping in public, the lack of opportunity to feed in a safe manner.

At the counter, she ordered a hot chocolate to justify her presence and went in search of a seat. The booths along the walls and windows were full and the tables all had at least one occupant. She scanned the faces carefully. A man caught her eye and smiled. She looked away.

There was a woman sitting alone, a book propped open on the table in front of her. She was consuming french fries with automatic regularity, her fork lifting them to her mouth without her mind ever seeming to notice the actions. Mid-thirties, Ardeth guessed, from the suggestion of lines bracketing her eyes and mouth. Her hair was brown, cropped short. Earrings of silver and green beads dangled from her ears, almost tangling in the collar of the bulky blue sweater she wore.

Ardeth watched her swallow another mouthful of french fries without looking at them. I used to do that, she thought with a feeling of detached
déjà vu
. I sat in restaurants and ate alone, barely noticing my food as I read.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” The woman looked up when Ardeth spoke.

“No, go ahead,” she answered and returned her attention to her book. Ardeth tipped her head a little to see the title:
The Golden Bough
. She had read it a long time ago, doing research for an undergraduate anthropology essay. She set her cup down and wondered which way the woman was heading.

“That’s not the kind of thing you usually see people reading in these restaurants,” she commented at last, and the woman looked up, blue eyes curious but wary.

“It’s for a class.”

“Are you a student or a professor?”

“Professor. English Literature, University of Winnipeg. Her gaze flickered down to the text then back up at Ardeth. “What about you?”

“I was doing my doctoral thesis in History at the University of Toronto. Does it show?”

The woman laughed a little. “Not really. But if you recognized the book, I guessed that you must have been at university.”

“For many years,” Ardeth admitted. She hadn’t thought about those ten years in a long time. For the last six months, that time had seemed as remote to her as her early childhood.

“Did you finish your thesis?”

“No. Some things . . . happened.”

“I know the story. It took me five years to finish mine on Renaissance drama.” She closed the book and held out her hand. “My name’s Kate Butler.”

“Ardeth.” She didn’t volunteer a last name and Kate didn’t ask.

“Where are you headed?”

“Back to Toronto. What about you?”

“Winnipeg. I’ve been visiting my parents in Saskatchewan.”

“How much farther is it to Winnipeg?”

“It’s a few hours down the highway. Are you planning to stop there?”

“I don’t know,” Ardeth admitted and managed an embarrassed look. “It depends on whether I get a ride or not.”

“Are you hitchhiking?” Kate asked in disbelief. “That’s not exactly the safest thing you could be doing.”

“Tell me about it. But I’ve got to get back to Toronto and that’s the only way I can manage it.”

“Well, you’ve got a ride as far as Winnipeg. As long as you don’t mind giving me whatever inside information you’ve got on U. of T.’s English Department.” Ardeth smiled.

“You’ve got a deal.”

Fifteen minute later, they were on the road. Kate’s battered Honda hummed along, almost drowning out the sound of U2 on the tape deck. Ardeth had dutifully repeated all the facts and gossip she could recall about the English Department of the University of Toronto. “Are you looking for a job there?” she asked at last. Kate shrugged.

“It’s my long-term plan. I can’t make a move for a couple of years but it never hurts to keep up with the news.”

“Why can’t you go sooner?”

“My parents are getting on,” she answered after a moment. “My brothers and sisters all live near them, look after the farm and all that, but . . . you know how it is.”

Ardeth nodded, not knowing what to say. Her parents had died five years ago in a car accident and the daily grief had long faded. What if they were still alive? she wondered for the first time. Would it change things? Could I go home? Which would be worse for them—living with the mystery of their daughter’s disappearance or with the truth of what she had become? She was suddenly glad that she had never had to make that choice, that Sara was her only living relative. She shivered at the unconscious irony of the thought. My only living relative. My only blood-kin. But there was another, of course. He was living, if not exactly mortal, and she was tied to him by ties of blood, by the taste of his blood in her mouth and the feel of his teeth sliding into her flesh.

The thought made her shiver, touching her with dread and longing. I left my blood-kin behind, he thought fiercely. I left my parents long before the accident took them. I survived leaving them and then losing them. I’ll survive leaving Rozokov.

Kate was talking again, about the University of Winnipeg and her students, her ongoing research, her boyfriend, her life. Ardeth let the words wash over her, soothing the sting of her memory. She found herself drawn into her own revelations about her interrupted thesis, the forgotten trials and pleasures of the academic world that had been her home for so many years. They had attended different universities and majored in different disciplines but they had experienced the same stresses and satisfactions, recognized the same absurdities and follies.

“Are you planning to finish it? Your thesis?” Kate asked at last, as if shared laughter and confession had finally made the question acceptable.

Ardeth looked out the window for a moment. “I don’t think that’s an option anymore.”

“Why not?” Kate persisted.

“Things have changed.”

“Things always change. If you want it, you should do it.” She smiled and shook her head slightly. “I know, I know, easy for me to say. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m an incurable optimist.”

Ardeth glanced back at her. “You’re excused. Incurable optimism is just what I need right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Kate said, concentrating on the thickening traffic. “Do you have a place to stay?” Ardeth glanced at her watch. It was just after midnight.

“Just drop me at the next exit outside town. I can still get another ride tonight.”

“Ardeth, I can’t . . .”

“Kate, trust me. I travel better at night. I’ll be fine.” For a moment, she thought the subtle persuasion of her voice and will wouldn’t be strong enough to defeat the other woman’s concern but then Kate nodded.

“Whatever you like,” she said calmly, signalling to pull off into a small roadside stop containing a gas station and doughnut shop. As the car coasted to a halt, Ardeth collected her pack.

“Thanks for the ride. It was the best time I’ve had since I started this trip.” Which was no more than the truth.

“My pleasure. Good luck. Remember, there’s always room in the world for another thesis.”

“About public transportation in nineteenth-century Toronto?” Ardeth asked and Kate laughed.

“Even about much more tedious things than that.”

“I’ll think about it,” Ardeth promised as she closed the door and waved to the Honda’s taillights as it pulled away. She had thought the words were a lie, but as she sat in the doughnut shop, sipping weak coffee and considering whether the trucker in the corner would offer a safe ride, she found herself keeping her word.

She liked Kate, with her directness and her wry sense of humour. Is that what it could have been like for me? she wondered. A teaching job, research into something that fascinated me, a boyfriend. A life. She thought of her apartment and the familiar comforts of books, of the couch that had begun to mould itself to her body, of the same, predictable routine of study and teaching.

All of that is gone, gone forever, she told herself sternly. There is nothing in that picture that allows for what you are now.

The trucker gave her a ride and didn’t try to touch her.

As the truck rolled on towards the east, Ardeth stared into the darkness and heard Kate’s words whisper in the wheels. “Why not?” they asked her over and over. “Why not?”

Dimitri Rozokov sat in the corner of the coffee shop, watching the wisp of steam rise from the tiny cup of espresso sitting in front of him. The small round table gleamed black. The cup was black too, turning the coffee into a pale, muddy moon in an empty sky. He hooked one finger through the handle and lifted the cup to his lips. The coffee burned across his tongue and seared its way into his stomach. The sharp, bitter taste was strangely soothing.

He looked out past his ghostly reflection hanging in the window. I wonder where she is, he wondered for the thousandth time, then pushed the thought away.

It had been three nights since Ardeth had left. He had thought about going after her, trusting his instinct to let him find her path, but one night had passed and then another and now he could seem to do nothing but sit here in the false warmth of the coffee shop and wonder where she had gone.

To make matters worse, each night since her flight had been cloudy, so even the solace of the stars had been denied him.

You should be relieved, he told himself, sipping the espresso again. Now there are no questions to answer, no decisions to make. He did not have to control the future now—he only had to let it happen.

Rationalizations again. He hid his bitter smile in another taste of the bitter coffee. She had not taken the questions with her; she had left new ones in her wake. He had believed it when he had told her they were solitary creatures. He had also believed it when he made the “fine speeches” about morality and mortality that she had thrown back at him so venomously. Dimitri, my friend, you are a man of flexible mind. An important attribute in a vampire, or so he had always believed.

But if the fine speeches were true, why had he fallen from their precepts so easily? And if solitude was the truth, why was he so lonely?

A sound from the doorway, a familiar voice, jerked his attention back to the world around him. He looked up; sudden, irrational hope a sharp pain in his heart . . . 

The dark-haired doctor stood with a group of friends at the coffee counter. Her hair was loose and shining. The tall, thin body seemed full of sinewy energy, barely contained by tight jeans and bright purple parka. Rozokov remembered that body pressed between his and the fence. The memory of her blood blotted out the taste of coffee on his tongue.

She turned suddenly, eyes scanning the shop, looking for a free table as her friends ordered.

See me.

For a moment, her eyes met his and he noticed for the first time that they were blue. Then her gaze moved on, drawn by the lure of the empty tables to his left.

Disbelief surged through him for a moment, anger on its heels. How dare she ignore him? How dare she not acknowledge the power he had over her?

Something cracked and he looked down to see the handle of the espresso cup between his fingers. His rage died suddenly as it had flared up.

And you lost Ardeth for that? For a woman whose unconscious does not even remember you?

He left two dollars on the table to pay for the broken cup and left the shop, careful not to look at Leigh. But her laughter followed him into the night.

He let his feet wander, unwilling to go back to his empty rooms this early. The back streets of Banff were quiet. A car passed him, headlights dazzling his eyes. Behind him, he could hear the hiss of bicycle tires on the pavement, then the rider swept by him, legs pumping, long hair flying.

On his way to the river, he found himself at the cemetery. He stood for a moment at the gate, then followed his impulse over the wire fence. He walked up a gravel path, pausing to look at the inscriptions. The names were mostly Scottish, Irish, Italian. Dates from the early century onward. The headstones bore angels and wreaths and, once in a while, the mountains that the dead had loved, and sometimes, died for.

At the centre, there was a mausoleum. It was not much, as mausoleums went. Certainly, it was nothing like the great family crypts in which he had sheltered back in Europe. But even this place must have its founding families who entombed their dead in granite and marble, rather than wood and dirt. He went to the door and peered through the copper-coloured grate. Moonlight touched white marble.

With a sigh, Rozokov turned and settled down onto the stone stoop, his back against the looked metal door. What would it feel like to rest inside the cold stone? To lie there forever, flesh decaying, bones turning white? Would it be like the long sleep but without the all-devouring hunger to call one back to the world?

But during the long sleep, his soul—if he still had one—was firmly ensconced inside his undead body. If he died the true death, what would happen to it?

This was a godless age, this new world into which he had awoken. No, he acknowledged, not precisely godless. But the gods of this time had no interest in souls. Earthly dollars and devotion would suffice the popular idols of the twentieth century. And surely there was more solace than ever in the faith he had chosen so long ago, the belief in science. According to its laws, when his long life at last ended, his matter would melt back into the universe and be reconstituted once again as a flower or a cockroach or a star.

But he had an older faith, one he had never quite shaken in all the centuries. He did not pray, he did not worship, and he broke many of its commandments. But that did not mean he did not believe, somewhere in the secret depths of his heart.

It was part of the reason he had survived so long. He lived because he was afraid to die, for then he might find that he was truly damned.

One night in Paris, more than a century ago, Jean-Pierre had asked him how long they would live. Rozokov had replied that he did not know and changed the subject. To contemplate the sum of their possibly endless days disturbed him. Could anything of matter exist forever? Could anything sane?

In the end, of course, Jean-Pierre found an answer. Five months later, he was dead, burned in the inferno a vengeful arsonist had made of their mansion.

But you, Rozokov thought, you did not die. You fled to the New World to hide among the bankers and burghers of Toronto until your secret was discovered.

You should never have offered Ardeth the hope of a life together. Not when you exist only on the instinct for survival and the fear of damnation. Not when you live only because you are afraid to die, as if the sin of self-destruction could be any worse than the ones you have already committed. Perhaps suicide might even bring you salvation.

He sighed and tilted his head back to stare at the moon. His belief was not great enough to die to save the soul he was not certain he possessed. He might curse his blind instinct for survival but it was very strong, especially after the ordeal in the asylum. Even now, as he brooded, his eyes found the beauty of moonlight and shadow on the carved angel and the scent of the trees made him want to breathe it through his very skin.

There was no resolution, no epiphany. There was only the recognition that he would live another night.

His rooms were empty still, but there was some comfort in them. He would go hunting later, after midnight. That much resolved, Dimitri Rozokov rose from the mausoleum step and walked back across the graveyard.

He had barely entered his rooms when there was a knock at the door. For a moment, he stood still, frozen by the unexpected interruption. Who would be standing on the dark landing at this hour, knocking on the door of a man who knew almost no one in town? The landlord perhaps.

Or Leigh, a greedy part of his mind gloated. Perhaps she heard your call after all.

He went to the door and opened it warily.

A young man stood there; big, fair, unshaven, wearing the ubiquitous outdoor gear of the town. He was carrying a plastic bag from the local grocery store.

“Yes?”

“Is Ardeth here?” The question answered his own, Rozokov realized. This must be the climber she had been tempted by on the mountain, the one she had fled in her bare feet. A temptation she resisted, a voice whispered mockingly.

“No.”

“When will she be back?”

“I don’t know. She went away.”

“Oh. Do you know where?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well. I have some of her stuff, her climbing shoes, here.” He raised the bag at his side. “It took me a long while to find out where she lives or I’d have returned it sooner. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Mark Frye.” He extended his free hand. Rozokov stared at it for a moment, then took it. Despite his seeming calm, the young man’s hand was chilly with sweat.

How easy it would be, Rozokov thought distantly. A little mental force, perhaps only a friendly smile and the promise of information about Ardeth, and this creature, so big and full of life, would walk through the door into the apartment. Then his strength would melt beneath my hands, flow into my veins. Would I taste Ardeth on his lips? Could I have her back somehow, by having him?

“Dimitri Rozokov.” Frye peered at him curiously for a moment and Rozokov wondered what he could see in the faint light from the apartment. There was nothing particularly ominous or suspicious about either the decor or his own disguise—his jeans and dark shit were as standard as the other man’s. Had his thoughts shown on his face?

“So, are you her old man?” The question shocked him, both for its presumptuous bravery and its odd phrasing. Then memory of slang picked up on the Toronto streets or from late-night movies reasserted itself and it seemed disturbingly knowing, ironic. For a moment, he toyed with saying yes, acknowledging his status as Ardeth’s lover . . . and her blood-father. Then he remembered that he might not qualify as the former any more.

“I am certainly old,” he said at last. That, at least, was a safe truth.

“I didn’t know about that. About you,” Frye said awkwardly.

“Would it have mattered?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it would.” To his surprise, Rozokov found himself inclined to believe him.

“Well, if she comes back, I’ll tell her that you called.” It seemed a safe promise to make, an easy way to get this young man with his disturbing questions, disturbing apologies and even more disturbing life off his landing.

“Thanks.” Frye thrust the shopping bag into his hand, then headed down the stairs. Halfway to the ground, he turned around. “I hope she comes back soon.”

Rozokov stared down at the upturned face and saw a strange sympathy in the eyes watching him. I am not the only one who lost her, he realized.

“So do I,” he said at last and knew that it was the truth.