A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) by Fred Saberhagen (most read book in the world .TXT) 📗

me that. The quick-drying plaster of Paris on his face kept him from saying the words aloud.

      “You may believe it,” Marie added. A pause. “When I am gone, yet another will come to help you. Now hold still, move not a single muscle. The mold will soon be dry.”

* * *

      Indeed, Marie was hardly gone, with her precious plaster cast packed in her hatbox, and the sun had hardly set, when there came a faint sound from the other end of the L-shaped cell, and—miracle of miracles!—a young woman appeared, wearing earrings of gypsy silver, peering with pretended shyness around the corner at him.

      “The gypsy fortune-teller!” Radcliffe breathed.

      She was dressed in a tattered costume suggesting gypsies, and in oddly accented French introduced herself as Constantia.

      The L-shaped cell had an old ventilation shaft at the far end. Seemingly too small for anyone to pass through it; and yet…

      Leaving his visitor behind him for the moment, Radcliffe went rummaging around in the angle of the cell where she seemed to have materialized. “There must be a loose stone somewhere. Or one of these window bars…”

      But then he looked more closely at the smiling woman, and partial understanding came.

      “Ah, perhaps I see. Or I begin to see. You, and Legrand…”

      “Yes indeed, how clever you are!” Constantia clapped her hands, like a child. “He and I are friends, and M’sieu Legrand has asked me to look in on you.”

      Radcliffe was soon convinced that this woman was sincerely trying to help him.

      “M’sieu Legrand also said that you might like some brandy.” And with a conjurer’s gesture, Connie produced a little flask.

      Neither Legrand nor Marie had come back to see Radcliffe. The otherwise abandoned prisoner soon came to depend heavily on the comfort and hope offered by Constantia, who, once having introduced herself, stayed close to him as much as possible.

      Connie could tell stories very amusingly when she made the effort, and Radcliffe was distracted and entertained by her tales of how she periodically adopted the role of the gypsy fortune-teller, and as such passed unchallenged among the other entertainers performing at the morbid parties.

* * *

      Very early on in their acquaintance, Philip’s new friend began to discuss with him the subject of vampires: their cravings, their powers, and even to some extent their weaknesses.

      And their first meeting was not over before she had kissed him, putting a severe strain on what feelings of loyalty he had begun to develop with regard to Melanie.

      From then on, whenever he was alone in his cell, which was very nearly all the time, Radcliffe kept expecting at every moment that the mysterious gypsy girl would join him. And frequently she did appear.

      Her words of encouragement were along the same lines as Legrand’s. “It will be possible for you to laugh at locks and bars and walls of stone, even as I do—even as the Chevalier Legrand. Possible to leave these walls behind you forever, and your jailers too.”

      “How can such a thing be possible?”

      She began the incredible, truthful explanation, gradually filling in details. And when the young man did not at first believe the vampire story, she conducted another convincing demonstration: vanishing before his eyes, then reappearing in the corridor outside the cell, beyond its locked and bolted door. Then in another instant she was back inside with him.

      “What is the secret?”

      She laughed, a small musical tinkle. “Love is the great secret of life. It solves all problems—and laughs at locksmiths, hadn’t you heard?”

      “Love?” They were very close together now, sitting side by side on the narrow bunk, and he had become enthralled.

      “It is at the beginning of everything, is it not, my tall American? Do you know what it is to love—?”

      “I have loved. I do love.”

      “But you did not let me finish. Do you know what it is to love, in the way of the nosferatu? What you will call in English, vampire.”

      The prison around them was very dark, and howled its fear and madness in a hundred different voices, mostly very faint. Radcliffe whispered: “I have heard … only stories. Stories told by old women, to frighten their grandchildren.”

      “Stories, pah, they are nothing. Real life is everything.” And Constantia, beginning by stroking his cheek with the seductive skill gained in three centuries of experience, conducted another demonstration, this one even more overwhelmingly convincing than the other.

      “Philip, give me a kiss.”

      “I…”

      “Bah, how can I show you, how can I do anything for you, if you will not do even that much when I ask it? Am I so ugly, then? You gave me a peck on the cheek before. But now I want a real kiss…”

* * *

      Later, what seemed to Radcliffe hours later though it was only a matter of minutes, he asked: “How long have you known Legrand?”

      “Ah, forever and a day! He calls me his ‘little gypsy.’ But there is no need for you to be jealous. For a long, long time now, for centuries in fact, we have been like brother and sister, because that is all that two of the nosferatu can ever be to each other.”

      “Oh?”

      “Besides, he is very old…”

      “Oh?”

      “Yes. Let me tell you some of the facts of life…”

* * * * * *

      Ah, my dear little gypsy! Constantia though not very large was physically strong, and had been so even in her breathing days. In fact she was very nearly as old as my brother and I. Brave, ready to deal with the undead, those she called the moroi, for the sake of the magical power the body of such a one could confer—but she had never been known for her logic. The combination tended to make her an interesting ally; but I had no time to try to recruit anyone steadier.

* * *

      The next time Connie came to visit our poor client, she brought with her another gift of brandy, this time a whole bottle instead of merely a little flask.

      Philip grabbed it eagerly. Having momentary trouble with