A Dance in Blood Velvet by Freda Warrington Read Free Book Online Page B

of the stage, spinning, spinning. She seemed weightless, lost, as vulnerable as a dry leaf; an unbearable fusion of anguish and unearthly beauty. Charlotte watched with her hands tightening on the arms of her seat. The poignant story worked a sombre curse on her; death, resurrection, the undead haunting the living into their own graves... And Karl was right. There was terrible pleasure in the pain she felt.
    Charlotte grew increasingly curious about the ballerina who inspired such powerful emotions. It was far more than technical skill or sheer beauty. She had that indefinable quality: presence.
    With keen vampire sight, Charlotte watched every detail. Violette Lenoir’s face was a pale oval, her eyes kohl-smudged and lips darkened to compensate for the bleaching effect of stage lights. Her black hair, flowing loose and lily-twined over her shoulders, had a blue sheen that enhanced the colour of her irises. Large, intensely violet-blue lakes - Lenoir’s eyes were irresistible.
    Humans are not meant to mesmerise vampires, Charlotte thought with irony. It should be the other way round... but no, that’s not true. Didn’t Karl see something extraordinary in me, however well he hid his feelings? And don’t I feel perpetually drawn to humans - if only for their blood?
    Oh God, I can’t want to - no, she’s an artist. Artists are perfect and untouchable, like us. But... I wonder if I could make her look at me?
    Occasionally it happened that a performer would stare at Karl and Charlotte from the stage, as if, with heightened perceptions of their own, they sensed something amiss. But Violette Lenoir, although Charlotte willed her fiercely, would not look.
    The ballerina was wrapped up in the story; nothing else existed. One of a band of souls betrayed, a victim whose only power was to haunt... and yet, in the end, what an insidious, lethal power that was.
    The tragedy wound to its conclusion. The audience rose in wild applause and Charlotte rose with them, tears blurring her eyes. The stage was all light and colour again, the ghosts returning to vibrant life. Only a story.
    As Violette Lenoir took her curtain calls and accepted bouquets, it seemed to Charlotte that her dramatic passion had switched off like a light. She smiled, but her eyes were glaciers. Her sudden aloofness only enhanced her aura; her darkness and paleness. The pain that had burned radiant while she danced was now locked away inside her.
    And Charlotte went on staring, with a simple, burning wish to know what this mysterious creature was really like.
    “Bravo!” shouted the man beside Karl. His accent was American. “Oh, marvellous!” He leaned towards Karl, raising his voice over the roar of applause. “Isn’t she the most wonderful thing ever?”
    “Perfect,” Karl answered. “That was the most enchanting performance of Giselle I have ever seen.”
    The American was in his fifties, grey-haired, his neck webbed with lines like snakeskin. Charlotte tried not to notice the pulse jumping under his jaw.
    He said, “Wonderful actress, too. Better than you think.”
    “In what way?” asked Karl
    “They say she’s an absolute bitch in real life.”
    A nervous thrill went through Charlotte. She asked, “Have you met her?”
    The man glanced at her and huffed, embarrassed that she’d heard his off-colour remark. “Once or twice; I organised the publicity for their tour of the States last year. She makes the proverbial Snow Queen look as hot as Jean Harlow.” He cleared his throat. “She’s... chilly.”
    “Perhaps you got on the wrong side of her,” said Charlotte. Karl’s attention switched subtly to her. “I should like to make up my own mind.”
    “So would a lot of folk, but it’s impossible to break through her entourage. She may love dancing but she sure hates people; so how does she pour out all that emotion?”
    “She’s a genius,” said Karl. “Pavlova truly has a rival.”
    Charlotte was trying to gauge whether Karl found the