Read Midnight Harvest Online

Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fiction, #Horror, #Fantasy, #Dark Fantasy

Midnight Harvest (35 page)

“Of course, but rarely. Among other things, men are not so willing as women to accept my impotence.” He saw the question in her eyes. “Just as I have come to think that most of those who love their own sex are born with that predisposition, so most of those who love the opposite sex are also predisposed. I was a man long before I was a vampire, and I have found that I have a greater inclination to love women than men; not wholly exclusively, but preferentially.” His candor spared her the distress she had begun to feel.

“And you still feel something for me?” She brought up her chin as if daring him to let her down.

“Most certainly,” he said. “I have tasted your blood and I know you; how can I not love you?”

“There is so much I want to say to you,” she said as she put the snifter down, its contents untasted. “I don’t know how to begin.”

“There is plenty of time, Rowena. I have no plans to leave yet awhile,” said Saint-Germain. “You needn’t do anything that troubles you, not now, not at any time. I don’t expect you to offer yourself to—”

“But I may lose my nerve,” she admitted.

“You make being with me seem dire,” he said lightly, but with an underlying note of sadness.

“No, not dire. Anything but that. I remember so well how it was in Amsterdam.”

“It will be different now,” he told her gently.

“Because I’m older and you aren’t?” she asked, a little downcast.

“Because time has passed and our lives are different than they were,” he said with such utter kindness that the breath caught in her throat.

She was silent for the better part of a minute. “Would you like to stay to dinner?”

His dark eyes lingered on her. “You understand that this would mean you would be in danger of becoming like me when you—”

“—die?” she finished for him. “Yes. I know that. But just now I am more concerned with my life than my death.” She rose, moved her tray aside, and came toward him where he now stood ready to take her into his arms.

 

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
C
ENERE IN
L
ONDON TO
C
OLONEL
A
NDREAS
M
ORALES IN
M
ADRID.

Browns Hotel

London, England

29 September, 1936

Colonel Andreas Morales

22, Calle Real

Madrid, Spain

 

Dear Colonel,

First, my congratulations on your promotion. No doubt it is highly deserved and one of which you can be proud. The eyes of your superiors must be on you.

This is coming to your home address in order to spare you—and me—any difficulties regarding the errand on which I am embarked, on your behalf. I am convinced that this mission on which you have sent me exceeds your authority, but I will not hold that against you as long as you continue to support what I am doing to promote your agenda. Like you, I am a professional, and I have certain standards to maintain if I am to preserve my reputation and continue in my chosen occupation. For this reason, I will endeavor to complete my assignment to your satisfaction in all regards, just as I will anticipate your upholding our agreement. You may have questions put to you that you would prefer not to answer officially, which this private communication will make it possible for you to do; you can still deny my work, which undoubtedly suits us both.

I have, in accordance with your wishes, continued to try to locate Ferenc Ragoczy, le Comte de Saint-Germain. As you may recall, I had traced him as far as Cherbourg, but after that, I had drawn a blank, so, as you know, I went to England, where, as you can see, I still am now. I have been busy attempting to get information, but without much success. His household staff were not forthcoming, although I have managed to get a little from one of them, which I have attempted to confirm, for to run off across the Atlantic on only the word of a servant would be irresponsible.

To that end, day before yesterday I had occasion to accost his attorney, one Miles Sunbury, in his flat in Siddons Lane. Sunbury had been avoiding me for some little while and I decided to approach him directly, and press the urgency of my inquiries. He was not inclined to impart the information I sought willingly, so I was forced to make my argument more physically. It took me longer than I expected, and required more stringent measures than I had anticipated; Sunbury turned out to be stubborn and I am afraid our interview became harrowing for him. He was alive when I dropped him off just outside of a large local hospital. I did not bother to get the name of the institution. If he received prompt care, he will probably recover, although he may need to walk with a cane, and his face isn’t quite what it used to be.

I have learned that Saint-Germain has indeed gone to America, and Sunbury at last provided the names of a number of law firms to which he referred the Comte, the most prominent of which is a firm in Manhattan. I propose to take the next ship to New York and begin there, for I don’t think the servant who said he had gone to Boston knew what she was talking about New York is a much more obvious place for a man like Saint-Germain to go, and it would amaze me if he was foolish enough to confide his intentions to a servant. I will hope to find him without much delay, and I will do as you have charged me. You needn’t fear that any of my efforts will be traced back to you. I have been able to keep your name out of this and will continue to do so.

However, once I reach New York, I will need additional funds if I am to continue this chase. You will have to wire money to me at whichever bank you use in New York. Let me know which bank and the account number so I can use the money promptly. If you fail to provide me with what I need, I will return to Spain and make you regret what you have neglected to do: the very questions you seek to avoid would have to be asked and neither of us would acquit ourselves well in such an eventuality.

I anticipate a complete resolution to your problem no later than the end of the year, if all goes well. It may be that I will not find the Comte as quickly as I anticipate, and if I require more time, I will so inform you. I will keep you abreast of my progress as I have the opportunity to do so.

Yours to command,

Cenere

chapter five

It was sunny to the north of San Rafael, a golden, early-autumn morning that was warm except in the shadows, where the chill in the air was a reminder that winter was coming. The Packard rolled along Route 101 past the cemeteries at a steady fifty-five miles per hour until they reached Novato, where they slowed down to twenty, having been warned about the eagerness of the local police to ticket speeders passing through their town. Once beyond the city limits, they resumed the higher speed and continued on up the highway. There were dairy farms along the road, and the fields were filled with grazing cattle. At Petaluma the dairies were replaced with poultry farms and large, hand-lettered signs advertising fresh eggs for sale. Beyond Petaluma the farms were bigger, with sheep and goats as well as cattle out in the fields. The morning grew warmer as they traveled.

“We couldn’t ask for nicer weather,” said Rowena as they reached the outskirts of Santa Rosa and slowed again to pass through the small city.

“It is quite beautiful,” Saint-Germain agreed. “Geyserville is not much farther, is it?”

Rowena laughed. “You saw the map.”

“Yes, but you have actually been here,” Saint-Germain reminded her. “You know what’s ahead because you’ve seen it.”

“Not for a couple of years. They’ve been improving the road. Another one of FDR’s projects, I believe.” She pointed to the line of hills ahead of them on the left. “There are still many stands of redwoods as you go along this highway.”

“We have passed logging trucks in the south-bound lane,” he said as they stopped for a traffic light. “Not much farther.”

“Do you know how to find the winery once we get there?” Rowena asked. She had taken stock of the dry, khaki-colored, velvety hills that framed Santa Rosa, with their occasional clusters of trees, and knew that once they were out of the town, they would be a long way from the usual comforts she was accustomed to have around her. This did not trouble her; she was prepared for roughing it a little.

“I have the directions he gave me on the telephone last night, and he said, if we need better instructions, to call from Healdsburg. There’s a café in the middle of town with a telephone booth just inside the door, according to Pietragnelli,” said Saint-Germain. “Why are you so nervous? I hope you don’t regret accompanying me.”

“No; it’s not that. You said he knows I’m coming,” she said. “I’m not the kind of surprise most hosts like to have.” She smoothed her tan twill slacks and touched her natural-leather handbag; she looked casually elegant, sleek, and informal at once, in the fashion made popular by Hollywood, her roan hair tied with a long scarf of soft, brocaded silk in a bronze shade that almost matched her dark gold eyes and complemented her olive-green linen blouse.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I arranged to bring you with me this time; he knows you’re an artist specializing in land- and cityscapes. He was quite impressed. I’m fairly certain he’ll be delighted to have you visit.” Saint-Germain looked down at his gas gauge. “I think we should fill up the tank at the next opportunity.”

“Shall I look for a gas station? There must be one along this stretch of road, for travelers. Out here in the country, they often have them at general stores or garages.” She adjusted the side-wing so that the dusty wind did not blow directly on her.

“If you would, unless you recall where one was,” he said, starting ahead on the green light.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” she said.

They found a Texaco station on the north side of town, and Saint-Germain ordered the scruffy young attendant to fill the fuel tank. After paying for the gasoline, they got back on the road, continuing on up the Redwood Highway. Thirty minutes later they entered Geyserville; Saint-Germain began looking for Geyser Creek Road, and turned right onto it, following out along a graveled two-lane way for three miles. The only signs of humanity, were the road itself, the barbed-wire fences, and the telephone poles.

“He really is out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t he?” Rowena asked, then pointed. “Look. Grapes. We must be getting close.”

“These vines have been recently harvested,” Saint-Germain observed. “If they are picking, it must be in another plantation.”

“Then we must be getting near the place,” said Rowena, looking around more carefully.

Saint-Germain nodded. “There should be a gate in the next half-mile.” He could see in the rearview mirror the boiling dust behind the Packard.

“Which side of the road?” she asked.

“The right,” said Saint-Germain, braking as a covey of quail burst from the weeds at the roadside and scurried across their path.

“There’s the gate. It’s flanked by two stone lambs, just as he said it would be,” said Rowena, pointing. “Shall I get out and open it?”

“I’ll do it,” said Saint-Germain, pulling the Packard to cross the cattle-guard that fronted the gate. He set the hand-brake and put the transmission in neutral, then got out and went to open the metal-framed gate. Returning to the car, he drove through, then braked again and went back to close the gate. “He said it’s half-a-mile to the house. It’s in a stand of oak, on the far side of the rise.”

“With this one road, and the telephone poles, we can’t miss it,” she said, with an amused glance toward him, so nattily dressed in his black linen suit and immaculately white shirt; even his perfectly knotted dark red bow tie belonged more to a resort than a winery.

They crested the rise and saw, almost directly in front of them, tucked into a hollow of the rising hill, a sprawling, two-story house painted a pale terra-cotta shade with white trim built in an Italianate version of Carpenter Gothic, an L-shaped structure with a broad flagstone terrace in the bend of the L. It was shaded by a half-dozen scrub oaks that hovered around the house like huge, anxious, dark green hens. There was a small barn a short distance from the house, and a cluster of small cabins on the far side of the barn. The winery itself was off to the side of the house on the side opposite to the barn, a large stone building built up against and back into the hill. From somewhere a short distance away came the sound of machinery and occasional imperative shouts.

Saint-Germain pulled up in the circular drive in front of the house and stopped the Packard. “I assume we’re here,” he said to Rowena, and got out of the car.

As he opened her door for her, she looked around her. “What a wonderful place. Just look at that house! I’m surprised
Sunset
hasn’t done a piece on it.”

“They might not know it exists,” said Saint-Germain, cocking his head toward the road they had just driven. “It is not exactly on the beaten path.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, and reached back into the car for her sketch pad. “Do you think Mr. Pietragnelli would mind?”

“I have no notion. You will have to ask him when he comes.” Saint-Germain checked his watch. “We’re almost on time.” He started toward the front door, only to be stopped by a stentorian shout.

“Il padrone!” A man in work-clothes surged across the yard between the winery and the house; he had a fringe of disordered, greying curls that made his pate all the more obvious; his eyes were small and black as raisins, very animated beneath his tufted brows. His face showed years of use, leaving it rumpled and friendly as an unmade bed. “Il signor’ Conte! Benvenuto a la casa mia!” He clapped his hands as he came, his grin infectious.

“Signor Pietragnelli,” said Saint-Germain, for surely it was he. “Che piacer. I am delighted to meet you at last.”

“Ed io lo stesso,” enthused Carlo Pietragnelli as he reached Saint-Germain and laid claim to his hand, shaking it vigorously. “You come in good time.” His English was excellent, almost without accent, but the cadences in which he spoke it were entirely Italian.

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