Read Online The Dark Blood of Poppies by Freda Warrington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Freda Warrington
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shook herself out of the hallucination, trying to scream. She couldn’t make a sound. Even if she could, there was no one to hear.
Her panic subsided as swiftly as it had struck. She was used to this now. The visions were tormenting, but she’d learned not to fight them.
The Crystal Ring flung her down the rolling flank of a cloud. God, she was cold. And the pain was still there, a cruel hand squeezing her throat. Fire, from mouth to heart to abdomen.
The thirst.
It had shocked her awake with nightmares of strangulation, and now it forced her down towards the Earth.
Night closed over her. The Crystal Ring melted away, and the mortal world reappeared, warm and solid. Violette felt stone beneath her feet, looked down and saw ordinary feet in button-strap shoes. She was back in human form. She stared at her calves in silk stockings, the hem of her dark blue coat. Her cloche hat half-covered her eyes. She hoped no one would recognise her.
How tempting to imagine a miracle; that the Crystal Ring didn’t exist, that her bad dreams of being owl, serpent, Lilith, vampire, had never happened. But the thirst remained to mock the wish.
I must feed
, she thought.
She found herself near the Mirabell Palace, an iced cake of a building set in formal gardens. She heard the soft dance of fountains. All around her stood elegant square houses of the eighteenth century, and beyond, forested ridges rose against the midnight sky. A chamber orchestra played in a house nearby; there was always music in Salzburg. Violette pictured the musicians in the golden warmth of some salon, and her hunger leapt.
She walked towards the river.
Halfway across a bridge, she stopped and leaned on the parapet. People glanced at her as they passed. She needed their blood but she held herself rigid, staring at the river, thinking,
Soon, but not that one… not him… not her.
Reflected lights hung in the water. To her left, a hundred yards along the bank, stood the pale green mansion that housed the Ballet Janacek. Some windows in the top storey were still lit up. Not all the
corps de ballet
had gone to bed.
Bad girls
, she thought.
We’re soon to begin our American tour and you need your rest!
Amazing that she could think of anything beyond the hunger.
I won’t feed tonight
, she thought. Her lip stung, nipped between her teeth.
I won’t.
On her right lay the old town, sheltered by the Mönchsberg Ridge. She could see lovely colours, invisible to humans, in the darkness. All the scintillating roofs, domes and spires of endless churches… She’d sought solace in them once, but what had they done to save her? And what would their priests do now, but denounce and revile her?
Her eyes, as she gazed at the beautiful churches, were cold.
Footsteps approached. Something felt wrong… The steps were slow, soft, yet oddly emphatic. The presence came towards her, but no human heat came with it.
A vampire.
She looked round. A man in a dark, expensively tailored coat and a cashmere scarf stood regarding her brazenly. He was good-looking, she supposed, in an insolent way; his hair was brown and curly beneath his hat, his eyes very blue but a little too large and widely spaced. He had the look of a charming sadist.
He said in French, “Madame Lenoir? I have been looking for you.”
“Well, you’ve found me.” She answered in the same language, but he detected her accent and switched to English.
“Forgive me, I’d assumed you were a compatriot.”
“English names aren’t the fashion in the ballet world,” she said tartly, “but we can talk in English, French, German; whatever you wish, assuming we have anything to talk about, which I doubt.”
His eyebrows lifted with amusement. “Madame, I am Pierre Lescaut. No doubt you have heard of me.”
“Not that I can recall.” This wasn’t true. Karl often spoke of his wayward friend.
Removing his hat, he bowed extravagantly, then kissed her gloved hand before she could avoid him. “Well, now
Her panic subsided as swiftly as it had struck. She was used to this now. The visions were tormenting, but she’d learned not to fight them.
The Crystal Ring flung her down the rolling flank of a cloud. God, she was cold. And the pain was still there, a cruel hand squeezing her throat. Fire, from mouth to heart to abdomen.
The thirst.
It had shocked her awake with nightmares of strangulation, and now it forced her down towards the Earth.
Night closed over her. The Crystal Ring melted away, and the mortal world reappeared, warm and solid. Violette felt stone beneath her feet, looked down and saw ordinary feet in button-strap shoes. She was back in human form. She stared at her calves in silk stockings, the hem of her dark blue coat. Her cloche hat half-covered her eyes. She hoped no one would recognise her.
How tempting to imagine a miracle; that the Crystal Ring didn’t exist, that her bad dreams of being owl, serpent, Lilith, vampire, had never happened. But the thirst remained to mock the wish.
I must feed
, she thought.
She found herself near the Mirabell Palace, an iced cake of a building set in formal gardens. She heard the soft dance of fountains. All around her stood elegant square houses of the eighteenth century, and beyond, forested ridges rose against the midnight sky. A chamber orchestra played in a house nearby; there was always music in Salzburg. Violette pictured the musicians in the golden warmth of some salon, and her hunger leapt.
She walked towards the river.
Halfway across a bridge, she stopped and leaned on the parapet. People glanced at her as they passed. She needed their blood but she held herself rigid, staring at the river, thinking,
Soon, but not that one… not him… not her.
Reflected lights hung in the water. To her left, a hundred yards along the bank, stood the pale green mansion that housed the Ballet Janacek. Some windows in the top storey were still lit up. Not all the
corps de ballet
had gone to bed.
Bad girls
, she thought.
We’re soon to begin our American tour and you need your rest!
Amazing that she could think of anything beyond the hunger.
I won’t feed tonight
, she thought. Her lip stung, nipped between her teeth.
I won’t.
On her right lay the old town, sheltered by the Mönchsberg Ridge. She could see lovely colours, invisible to humans, in the darkness. All the scintillating roofs, domes and spires of endless churches… She’d sought solace in them once, but what had they done to save her? And what would their priests do now, but denounce and revile her?
Her eyes, as she gazed at the beautiful churches, were cold.
Footsteps approached. Something felt wrong… The steps were slow, soft, yet oddly emphatic. The presence came towards her, but no human heat came with it.
A vampire.
She looked round. A man in a dark, expensively tailored coat and a cashmere scarf stood regarding her brazenly. He was good-looking, she supposed, in an insolent way; his hair was brown and curly beneath his hat, his eyes very blue but a little too large and widely spaced. He had the look of a charming sadist.
He said in French, “Madame Lenoir? I have been looking for you.”
“Well, you’ve found me.” She answered in the same language, but he detected her accent and switched to English.
“Forgive me, I’d assumed you were a compatriot.”
“English names aren’t the fashion in the ballet world,” she said tartly, “but we can talk in English, French, German; whatever you wish, assuming we have anything to talk about, which I doubt.”
His eyebrows lifted with amusement. “Madame, I am Pierre Lescaut. No doubt you have heard of me.”
“Not that I can recall.” This wasn’t true. Karl often spoke of his wayward friend.
Removing his hat, he bowed extravagantly, then kissed her gloved hand before she could avoid him. “Well, now
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