The Dark Arts of Blood by Freda Warrington Read Free Book Online

lamia floating in the mist…
    “Who are you?” she said softly. “If I saw you coming towards me, would I fall into your arms, or run for my life?”
    She touched the surface… and the pale creature on the other side copied her action, reaching up so they joined fingertips. When she dropped her hand, the ghost did the same, in blank mimicry, like Niklas.
    She stared and the
doppelgänger
stared back, like an accusing ghost that had floated out of its grave.
    Then she understood.
    She was human again – had been all along. Her twin self in the mirror was the vampire. The knife had split her in two.
    Her breathing quickened. Her vision blurred, making the lamia appear covered in white gossamer flowers. Beautiful, deadly. And Charlotte knew in utter terror that she must keep the lamia inside the mirror-veil, contain her so that she could no longer prey on innocent humans… but how?
    She no longer had any clear thoughts. She simply
knew
that the two halves of her had come adrift. But she had no idea how to be human again… the knowledge filled her with dumb horror, worse than that of becoming a vampire.
    I can’t go back.
She tried to form words but no sound came out.
Was I ever you, or have I dreamed it all? I cannot go back! Stop tormenting me! What must I do to destroy you?
    The pale mist-demon only stared back, empty-eyed, devoid of compassion.
    Karl appeared in the shadows behind her, making her start.
    You’re back
, she tried to say.
    He spoke, but she could barely hear him through the rushing sound in her ears. She thought he asked, “What are you doing?”
    “Hallucinating,” she said, unsure if she’d spoken out loud. “She—” Charlotte pointed at the apparition behind the watery veil, who pointed back. “She is doing this. She’s pretending to be me. Or I thought I was her. This isn’t real, but I can’t make it stop. Give me a pen and paper. If I write this down…”
    She couldn’t see his face, only a dark figure. A crisp male voice said, “
Gnädige Frau, entschuldigen Sie, bitte…
”
    Not Karl.
    She stared straight ahead, confused yet deadly calm. She found her voice and answered in the same language, “Who is that?”
    A long pause. She caught a scent of human sweat. Something was very wrong, but she was paralysed by the nightmare and could not, dared not move.
    “Police, madam,” said the gruff voice. “Is your husband not at home?”
    “He is not,” said Charlotte.
    “Or your father, brother, any male friends?”
    What a strange thing to ask.
    She heard his laboured breath, a mixture of exertion and angry determination. Her nose twitched with distaste at his human stink of sweat and smoke and the earthy scent of the outdoors on his clothes. There was no way for him to have reached the chalet except by a steep climb on foot. His voice, smell and general aura recalled the drunk who’d attacked her… but this was not the same man. He carried himself with authority. He was taller, red-haired and sober.
    “No one but me,” she answered. The spectre’s lips moved with hers. “What do you want?”
    “If I might have a word… We can go downstairs.”
    “I can’t,” she said.
    “Madam?”
    “I can’t leave the mirror in case my ghost escapes.”
    Silence. He cleared his throat again, and this time his voice was harder.
    “Who are you? How long have you been living here?”
    “What is that to you?”
    “I know this area. This chalet is long-deserted – or is it? The owner can’t be traced. And yet lights are seen in the windows. A peasant woman comes up to clean the place, but won’t speak a word about the inhabitants. Music is heard. On occasion, people succumb to mysterious illnesses. When they recover, they speak of apparitions in the forest, a pale beautiful woman or a man… like the
Weisse Frauen
, the elven spirits of the Alps?”
    “What has this to do with me?”
    “That’s what I’m here to find out.”
    “At night, on your own?”
    More throat-clearing.