Genevieve Undead Part 23

The graf released his invisible arrow, and laughed as he recalled his true aim and clean kill.

Sylvana clapped, arranging her face so as to express amus.e.m.e.nt without cracking the mask of powder around her eyes and mouth.

Otho was staring directly into Sylvana's valley-like cleavage, and dribbling beery spittle.

Rudiger, of course, must notice his guest's interest in his mistress. Doremus wondered just how hospitable his father was prepared to be to upstart Otho.

Doremus looked away from Sylvana, back to his mother's portrait. The Grafin Serafina had died on another of Rudiger's unicorn hunts. If there was any gossip, it had never been repeated within Doremus' earshot.

Magnus stood in front of the rising fire, toasting his behind, drinking wine from a goblet. Balthus sat at the table, on hand to give expert testimony should the graf need a detail of his stories confirmed or expanded. His vampire was about somewhere, lurking.

Doremus sat down at the table, and carved himself a slice from a haunch of venison.

'Fine meat, my son,' Rudiger shouted. 'The finer for its freshness.'

Actually, Doremus would have preferred it hung for a day or two, but his father was insistent that what he killed this morning should be consumed this evening.

'To fully appreciate the taste of a meat, you have to kill it for yourself,' Rudiger explained, loudly. 'It is the way of the forest, the path of tooth and nail. We are all hunters, all animals. I simply remember better than most.'

Doremus chewed the tender meat, and cut himself some bread. Anulka, the dark servant girl with the distracted eyes, brought him a jug of spiced wine. His legs and back ached from his day in the woods, but he was hungrier than he'd thought.

From somewhere, Otho found a lute, and began to sing bawdy songs. Tired of the noise, Doremus poured himself a goblet of wine, and hoped the liquor would make the racket go away.

'Oh, the bold Bretonnian barber has a great big pole,' Otho sang, 'And the doughnut-maker's daughter a fine-sugared hole'

IV.

'A pity we couldn't have unicorn on our table, graf,' Otho ventured, voice tired from the fine entertainment he had granted the others. Some blasted servant had taken his lute away. He a.s.sumed Rudiger would have the fellow roundly flogged and booted for his impertinence, although the graf had unaccountably failed to intervene. He probably didn't want to make a fuss during dinner.

'Unicorn is not a game animal,' the old sportsman said. 'Unicorn is barely an animal at all.'

'Is that a unicorn horn on the wall?' Otho asked, knowing d.a.m.ned well it was, but wanting to keep Graf Rudiger occupied with stories. While he was boring everyone with tales of the hunt, he wasn't looking at Sylvana. And when he wasn't looking at her, the woman was nuzzling his leg under the table with nimble fingers, pinching his thigh, exciting his interest.

Sylvana de Castries had been eyeing up Otho for days, and tonight, if old Rudiger got sozzled enough, things would pa.s.s between them that would brighten up this dull holiday jaunt. It was a week since his last harlot, and his b.a.l.l.s were bursting.

Otho choked back a laugh as Sylvana's hand strayed into his lap. From here, he could see down the front of her dress, almost to her belly-b.u.t.ton. She had a ripe body, lightly freckled the way Otho liked his wh.o.r.es.

After a day of hunting, there was nothing better than an evening of food and drink, and a night of well-upholstered harlot. Among his league brothers, Otho was famous for his appet.i.tes in all directions. It was a point of honour in the fraternity that the lodge master be insatiable. Although, looking at weedy Dorrie, that tradition was due to take a nosedive in the new year.

Otho wondered if there were any way he could keep Doremus out of the office, and pa.s.s the cap on to one of the real bloods, Baldur von Diehl, Big Bruno Pfeiffer or Dogt.u.r.d Domremy.

The unicorn trophy was mounted on a s.h.i.+eld bearing the von Unheimlich coat of arms. Three feet long, and regularly polished, it was a perfectly tapered spear, threaded through with veins of silver. In the lodge, it was traditional for a little blood from any notable kill to be rubbed into the horn as a tribute, and the trophy's background was overlaid with crusted stains.

Rudiger emptied his horn, and called for it to be refilled. Anulka, the juicy maid-s.l.u.t with the blue lips of a weirdhead, complied. If Sylvana didn't come through, Anulka was Otho's number two choice. She looked just the sort for a midnight game of hide-the-sausage.

'Yes, Lodge Master Waernicke,' Rudiger replied, 'that is the horn of a unicorn mare. A magnificent beast, hunted down and killed by my grandfather, the Graf Friedrich. As you know, only the female unicorn yields ivory. The stallions we saw today were poor things beside a unicorn mare. They are taller, swifter, beardless, possessed of an almost human intelligence. Among unicorns, things are different than among men. Each tribe consists of a mare and six or eight stallions. l.u.s.ty b.i.t.c.hes, unicorn mares. Mothers gore their female foals at birth. Only the strongest survive to adulthood, to gather their own tribes. Unicorn mares are the longest-lived of natural animals, surviving several generations of stallions to tup with their grandsons and great-grandsons.'

Otho laughed loud, and elbowed Sylvana. Under the table out of Rudiger's eyeline, he slipped a spit-slicked forefinger into his fist and wiggled it in and out. Sylvana laughed like music, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s shook like jellies.

Otho's mouth went dry with l.u.s.t, and he had to gulp down a swallow of wine to keep himself from choking.

He had been drinking ale, wine, Estalian sherry and coa.r.s.e Drak Wald gin. He believed in mixing his drinks, and his stomach had never let him down yet.

'You have hunted a unicorn mare?'

Otho looked around. Genevieve, the vampire girl, had dared to ask the graf a question.

There was a pause. Otho expected the graf to lash out at the intemperate bloodsucker. Instead, he sipped his ale, and shook his head.

'No, but I shall. Tomorrow. And you shall all accompany me.'

In the quiet that fell, Otho could hear the fire crackling.

'A two-edged privilege that,' Magnus said, 'considering the saying.'

Everyone looked at the old northerner.

'And what saying is that?' Otho asked, jollying the party along.

' 'Of those who hunt the unicorn mare, one comes home and he alone.' It's commonplace in the Drak Wald, and in the north.'

'A superst.i.tion,' Rudiger snorted.

'Nevertheless, it is often true. As a child, I was a guest in this lodge when Graf Friedrich set out to bring home his ivory. And I was here when he came up the hill, horn in his hand. Five had set out. Including your father, Rudiger. And only one returned.'

The graf fell quiet. Although Friedrich was often remembered in story and song, little was said about Dorrie's grandfather, Lukaacs.

'Are you afraid, old friend?'

Magnus shook his head. 'No, Rudiger, not afraid. I'm too old for that.'

' 'One comes home and he alone,' eh?'

Rudiger had explained earlier that he had waited years for the chance to go after a unicorn mare. Traditionally, they could only be stalked between the winter solstice of Mondstille and the new year celebrations of Hexenstag. And, despite the proliferation of stories, they were rare creatures.

'Today, we robbed our mare of two consorts. That will have angered her. Tomorrow, we must hunt her down, or she will come for us. That is all there is to it.'

Otho felt he better show some enthusiasm. 'Fine sport,' he said. 'I'm in.'

He slapped the table, rattling the cutlery, and shoved a hunk of meat into his mouth, was.h.i.+ng it down with more ale.

Sylvana sat primly back, her hand withdrawing. 'Tonight,' she had whispered. 'Outside'

That would be cold, but a league man fears no discomfort.

'It will be an adventure,' Otho said, through a mouthful of food. Then, he belched.

Rudiger looked askance at his guest, but he too was drunk, although with a quieter, more dangerous inebriation.

'Sorry,' Otho said. Rudiger shrugged, and smiled.

'And I,' Magnus said.

Dorrie kept his mouth shut. But there was no way out of it for the little inky, Otho knew. When Graf Rudiger called his unicorn hunt, he had spoken for his son too. The milksop would have to rush about in the open air, keeping up with the graf. If it weren't for his lineage, Doremus would come in for a lot more barracking at the university. He was just the type the league men liked to tar and feather, or tie naked to the statue of the Emperor in the courtyard. Didn't drink, didn't brawl, didn't wench. Nose in a b.l.o.o.d.y book all the time. The dead woman in the portrait must have put it about as much as Sylvana, because little Dorrie certainly didn't seem to be the type to have an old man like Graf Rudiger. Come to think of it, he had heard stories The threads of silver in the mare horn caught the last of the fire, and shone like lines of molten metal.

'The unicorn mare is the most dangerous quarry in the world,' Rudiger said.

'And what's the second?' the vampire asked, boldly.

'Man's mare,' the graf said, smiling. 'Woman.'

V.

After midnight. Here she was, again, creeping through dark corridors, night senses alive.

Rudiger would have understood, Genevieve thought. He was a hunter. In him, it was a need as keen as her red thirst.

This afternoon, she had thought Otho Waernicke might be a possibility. He was a fat-head, but certainly strong in his way, impulsive, hot-pa.s.sioned. But now his blood would be thick with ale and wine, and she had tapped too many drunks in her barmaid days. She didn't need his hangover. Sylvana had been drinking heavily too, and she wasn't sure she should try her anyway. The graf might find out, and take extreme measures. That silver-and-ivory unicorn horn would be a very effective way of ending her vampire life. Doremus was off-limits for the same reason, although the youth appealed to her. He had depths that weren't immediately apparent, and that made him attractive.

The last moons of the year, just past full, shone in through the gla.s.sed window at the end of the corridor. The pale light was cool and soothing to her skin, but the thirst burned in her throat and stomach.

Soon, she would be forced to Balthus. The puppet could hardly resist, and everyone already a.s.sumed she was bleeding him in his bed. But, for the moment, she could afford to be more fastidious.

The forest guide had taken to laying garlic flowers on his shrine to Taal, to protect him from her. And he had a silver knife under his mattress. She had picked it up with a cloth around her hand, and dropped it into the commode. She didn't want Balthus panicking and hurting her.

She made her way back down to the dining hall. The embers were still glowing in the ashes of the fire, and the servants were clearing up by candlelight, bearing away the crockery to the kitchens, arguing over the leftovers of the venison and fruit.

They all froze as she stepped into the hall, but, recognizing her, shrugged and got back to work. They knew what she was, but also that she was only barely their superior in the von Unheimlich household. Compared to the caprices of Graf Rudiger, she was no threat.

There was a servant girl in her early twenties, dark where the others were corn-blonde, sultry where they were lumpy. At dinner, Genevieve had sensed this girl's interest. Her name was Anulka, and she was from the other end of the Empire, the World's Edge Mountains. In that region, there were Truly Dead vampire lords and ladies, and the peasants competed to please their masters. Anulka had lingered by Genevieve, bringing her wine and food which went untouched, and bestowing smiles and glances.

The girl would do.

Anulka was by the fire, waiting. Genevieve beckoned her, and she curtseyed, crossing the room with a certain smugness of expression, calculated to irk the other maidservants. They turned their backs, and shook their blonde plaits, muttering prayers to Myrmidia under their breaths.

The dark girl took Genevieve by the hand, and led her out of the dining hall into a dressing room. It was spa.r.s.ely furnished, but there was a cot, with pillows rather than straw.

Anulka sat on the cot, and, smiling, loosened the drawstring of her s.h.i.+rt, lowering her collar away from her swan-white neck. Genevieve's eyeteeth grew longer, sharper, and her mouth gaped open. There was red desire behind her eyes. She felt her fingernails extend like claws, and brushed her hair away from her face.

She must have blood. Now.

'No, child,' someone said, a hand upon her shoulder. 'Don't cheapen yourself.'

She wheeled around, razor-tipped fingers up to strike, and saw the interloper was Count Magnus. Just in time, she held herself back. It would not do to harm this n.o.bleman, the friend and mentor of Graf Rudiger.

'The s.l.u.t's looking for a protector, for gold, for a way out of this place.'

Anulka's blouse was in her lap now, and her flesh was pale and cold in the moonlight. There was a trickle of blue juice seeping from her mouth, spotting her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'She's a weirdroot chewer, Genevieve,' Magnus said. 'You'd be poisoning yourself.'

Anulka smiled as if Magnus weren't there, teeth stained, and caressed herself, inviting Genevieve's sharp mouth to fasten upon her body.

If she hadn't been so consumed with the red thirst, she might have noticed Anulka's addiction. She was far gone into it, weirddreams floating in her eyeb.a.l.l.s. The servant lay back on the cot, and convulsed as if Genevieve had bitten her. She moaned, welcoming a long-gone, or half-imagined lover.

Magnus found a blanket and, not unkindly, put it over Anulka's slow-writhing body.

'She'll sleep it through,' he said. 'I know the addiction.'

Genevieve looked at him, asking without words 'No,' he said, 'not me, my father. His brother was one of the five who didn't come back when Friedrich won his ivory. He thought it should have been him, and tried to bury the guilt with dreams.'

She was weak now, and enervated. She was shaking, her gums split and her stomach empty. She had been close to drinking, but not close enough 'Dreams,' Magnus said, wistfully.

There was nothing for it. She must find Balthus and take him. He would fight, but she could find a burst of strength to overcome his struggle. Her teeth would meet in his neck.

She turned, and her knees gave way. Magnus, surprisingly fast for someone his age, caught her.

'It's been too long, hasn't it?' he asked. She didn't have to answer.

Magnus laid her down on the flagstones, which were ice-cold through her dress, and propped her up against the wall.