The Kindred of Darkness by Barbara Hambly Read Free Book Online Page B

‘Honestly, I’m astonished the poor woman stayed with him as long as she did! She’s a cousin of Honoria Savenake’s … still lives in Deauville … I hope your husband doesn’t keep horseshoes nailed to the doors or strews salt across the thresholds …?’
    Dimly, she heard the clock strike again.
    She opened her eyes. Sat up. The rain had ceased, and the lamp had gone out. Something moved outside the window.
    Some flying thing that blundered into the glass.
    Lydia put on her spectacles, got to her feet.
    She crossed to the window, her long red hair hanging down her back in the ruins of her chignon, the fawn-and-pink silk of her niece’s gown whispering perfumed secrets. Whatever was out there, it was small and pale, bobbing erratically in the darkness. Sulfur eyes sparked in the light.
    Is this a dream?
    Feeling strangely unlike herself, Lydia unhooked the swags of garlic and wolfsbane from the curtain rods.
Did Cece dream something like this? About how she had to go to the window, open it for whatever that is – that white flying thing out there?
    Did it whisper like this in her mind?
    She stood for a moment, hands filled with dried blossom, looking out into the darkness. Then she carried the garlands to the farthest corner of the room, covered them with the bed pillows, came back to the window and opened the casements.
    Stretched out her hand into the blackness of the night.
    It landed on her wrist, a white mantis half again the length of her palm. Tilted its triangular head to regard her with yellow eyes. Four little feet pricked the skin as it walked up her wrist, the other two, tucked centaur-like up under its breast, for all the world as if it was indeed about to recite a Paternoster for the insects it would kill.
    She brought it inside, set it on the corner of the table where the reflections of the street-lamps did not reach. Wondered again if this was really happening.
    The mantis changed, and a man stood beside the table. He was young and very thin, his long hair like dusty moonlight over his shoulders and his champagne-colored eyes reflecting the dim luminosity like a cat’s.
    Scars marked his cheekbone and throat, as if the wax-white flesh had been sliced with razors.
    He said, ‘Mistress,’ and because this was a dream Lydia stepped forward into his arms.
    His flesh was cold through his clothing and his grip like whalebone and steel cable. It was like embracing a skeleton in a two-hundred-guinea suit.
    â€˜Hush.’ He brought up a gentle thumb to wipe the tears on her face. She realized she was weeping, and could not stop. ‘Hush, t’will be well. T’will all be well, Mistress.’ The clawed nail touched her skin like a dagger-point. For a time she could only cling to him, terrified that waking would drag them apart, until her tears were all cried.
    â€˜He took my child,’ she whispered at last. ‘Grippen took my child.’ Just being able to say it was like a steel band breaking from around her chest.
    She didn’t have to keep silent any longer, or be strong, or explain.
    Don Simon Christian Morado de la Cadeña-Ysidro understood.
    He said one word, in Spanish, that Lydia guessed would have taken paint off a gate.
    Then, ‘What does he want of you?’ He handed her into the desk chair where she had been sitting, replaced the blanket around her shoulders. Then he perched one narrow flank on the corner of the table, folded those long hands upon his knee. He had a gold signet ring, worn nearly smooth by time.
    â€˜There’s an interloper here, another vampire.’ She removed her spectacles, wiped her eyes. Replaced them. Simon had seen her in worse state than as a goggle-eyed golliwog, and anyway this was only a dream. ‘You got my telegram?’
    â€˜Upon arising. Service in Rome is villainous.’
    â€˜When will you be in England?’
    â€˜Tomorrow night.
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