Dracula Cha Cha Cha

SUNRISE



Now, she was prepared to rip off Penelope's head and stuff it into her chest cavity. After fighting her way out of Brastov's lair, dragging Bond behind her, and enduring an anxious trudge back to the Via Eudosiana, Genevieve was not in a mood to deal gently with an uppity nosferatu nuisance like Penelope Churchward.



Kate faltered, stepping back, allowing Penelope to hiss at Genevieve. The Englishwoman's blood was up, her fangs were out and her eyes were wide. She might have frightened an infant who has never seen Mummy pull a face, and was probably strong-willed enough to overwhelm her warm prey. But she didn't have the mettle to cow an elder.



Genevieve didn't pop her claws or teeth.



She'd fought enough during the night, and bled several of the Russians. She would not be frenzied, she would be purposeful.



Penelope stepped forward, but Kate put a hand on her shoulder, holding her back. Kate nodded toward Charles, who was in his bath chair, barely alive.



The first pink of dawn slipped into the room.



From Charles's face, Genevieve knew this was the last day. An icicle transfixed her heart.



She remembered her first sight of him, in a crowded room in 1888, at an inquest. He had seemed untouched by the squalor and violence all around, the only man in London prepared to do something, even at extreme cost, to make things better. Later, she learned he wasn't a Boy's Own Paper good-fellow, no muscular Christian hero, but a man who tried always to do the right thing even when there were no right things to do.



If men like him had stayed in fashion  -  if they'd ever really been in fashion  -  this century would have been happier. Charles had refused to accept Dracula as his Lord, and had never let himself become like Dracula in his attempts to best the King Vampire. Edwin Winthrop and Hamish Bond, his successors, had learned too much from their enemy, had too much of Dracula in them.



There was blood on Penelope's blouse. Her own.



'She was trying...' Kate explained.



'I know what she was trying to do.'



The anger in Penelope's eyes swirled and broke apart. She was frustrated and afraid, like everybody else. For a tiny moment, Genevieve wanted to hug her, not kill her.



Then the idiot ruined it.



'He must be turned,' Penelope said. 'He is too far gone to be sensible about it. One of us must become his mother-in-darkness.'



Genevieve went directly to Charles and knelt before him. His eyes were still open. She felt the ebb of him, dwindling, disappearing. But he was still thinking, still determined.



With great effort, he lifted a hand to her face and into her hair. She kissed his palm, her teeth against his flesh. She tasted him but did not break the skin.



Even now, it wasn't too late.



And even now, he wasn't afraid to go on.



He'd often said he had nothing against vampires, but just didn't want to be one. Though she'd long ago got over being ashamed of what she was, she understood.



Genevieve blamed the first dead woman in his life, the one who hadn't come back. Pamela.



She thought the offer into his mind.



'Do you want me to?'



A tiny, gracious, grateful shake of his head told her.



Tears started in her eyes.



Penelope and Kate came near, anger subsided, children again. At least there would be no cat-fighting.



Genevieve swallowed her resentment of the intrusion. She had always had to share Charles, with duty, with memory, with others who had a better claim.



She'd lived four centuries before Charles. In that time, no one had come remotely as close to her heart, not her father-in-darkness, not those she had bled pale. She might live another four centuries, or more, after Charles.



Sunlight spilled over the carpet, creeping toward them. She should warn Penelope, who was sensitive to the sun.



Genevieve kissed Charles's lips.



She couldn't blame his death on anyone, not Penelope, or Bond, or Brastov's goon, or Edwin Winthrop, or Prince Dracula. If they had disturbed his last days, then it was her fault for letting them near him, and his for not being able to concentrate on his own life to the exclusion of the world.



She had failed to persuade him to accept the Dark Kiss. But he let her know that she had not failed with him.



His blood sang inside her.



'I love you forever,' he whispered, too soft for the others to hear.



'Forever?' she prompted.



'Forever,' he confirmed.



The sun rose up and bathed them all in stinging warmth. By the time it became unbearable, Charles was cold.



Genevieve knelt again, arranging his blanket around his legs, putting his hands into his lap, brushing back his hair, closing his eyes. It was like playing with a doll. Whatever Charles Beauregard had been was gone.



She stood, walked away from Charles, and snapped a slap across Penelope's face, fetching the Englishwoman off balance, leaving an angry red mark.



'That's for what you did in 1899.'



Penelope didn't protest, didn't make fists. Something was gone out of her.



The room was orange with dawnlight, and hazy.



One of them had to cry, so the others could comfort her, could cry themselves. Genevieve had thought it would be Kate, but it was her. From deep inside came sobs that racked her whole body. Penelope, the handprint fading fast, hesitated and stepped forward to embrace her, to whisper soothing nothings. They hugged and cried together, then broke apart and extended arms to Kate, who was more bewildered than bereft.



Kate joined them, letting flow her own tears. They huddled together on a divan, blood and water on their faces, sobbing not for what was lost but for what must stay behind. The room was filled with light that made each random dust mote a spark. The dust danced around them all.