The Blood Countess Read online

  I lacked a suitable response for such a statement.

  Smiling nervously, I hauled my mother’s case into the small lift. Celia pressed a button, and the gothic machinery around us rattled closed. Slowly we ascended, passing the first floor, which was visible through the lace ironwork of the lift. Things were dusty and quiet on the landing as we passed. The next floor was much the same, only with an impressive cobweb dangling like white lace across a doorway. I had the distinct impression that some of the flats in this building were uninhabited.

  And then, in a flash, I had one of my peculiar feelings. It started as a cold, hard thing in my stomach.

  Someone died here. Someone died here, the wrong way.

  The thing is, either I have an active imagination, or I see things others cannot. It’s been this way since I can remember. My ‘active imagination’, as my dad used to call it, involves active dreams, prophetic visions, odd feelings, and it used to involve a great deal of frustration for my parents, not to mention a few child psychology bills. After I apparently foretold the death of the local butcher at age eight – and claimed to hear from him afterwards – people stopped coming to our house. It didn’t matter that I was kinda smart and kinda pretty; I was the local weird kid. These feelings of mine – or whatever you choose to call them – have always been strong when they come, but after the episode with the butcher, I learned to suppress them – with limited success.

  Most importantly, I learned to keep my mouth shut.

  ‘It’s Victorian,’ Celia said of the building, noticing I’d grown silent.

  My great-aunt waited patiently for me to respond. I managed to nod and say, ‘Mmm,’ while I worked at suppressing the dread in my gut. Death. The feeling was strong and unmistakable.

  I wondered if my Aunt Georgia had warned her about my peculiarity.

  ‘It was built in 1888 by Edmund Barrett, the architect and scientist,’ Celia went on, and gave me a meaningful look as if I ought to know something about him.

  ‘How interesting,’ I replied, recovering myself. Barrett didn’t ring a bell. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s fallen into some disrepair since my tenants passed on,’ Celia told me. ‘I don’t recommend you explore the other floors.’

  There was that cold feeling again.

  ‘The building is structurally sound, I trust?’ I smiled when I said it, as if I might be joking. I wasn’t.

  ‘Oh, darling, quite. You needn’t worry about anything like that,’ Celia said with a wave of her gloved hand.

  ‘It’s . . . beautiful,’ I blurted as a way of covering my little ripple of unease. ‘In a gothic sort of way,’ I added, and watched the deserted-looking third floor pass beneath us.

  ‘Yes. Gothic Revival,’ Celia informed me, unfazed. ‘The style was popular around that time, though you aren’t likely to come across many buildings quite like this one. It is unique.’

  I could see that.

  ‘I hope you didn’t have too much trouble with the door?’ my host ventured. ‘It doesn’t like visitors.’

  I frowned at the choice of words. ‘Yes, it is quite heavy,’ I agreed. ‘How do you manage it?’

  ‘There’s a trick.’

  The little elevator stopped at the top floor. We had arrived. The doors slid open, and we found ourselves faced with a set of double doors like those I’d seen on each of the other landings, only in this case the doors were painted a deep, glossy midnight blue. No dust. A carved table with a silver tray stood to one side. We stepped out of the lift and the door rattled closed behind us. Aunt Celia stepped up to the doors and paused. ‘Would you like to come in and see your new home?’ she asked me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and she smiled pleasantly through her veil.

  Celia opened one of the doors with her key and I followed her inside.

  I gaped.

  My Great-Aunt Celia’s spacious penthouse apartment was stunningly beautiful, and quite unlike anything I’d ever seen. The ceilings were high and domed in the centre and the floors were polished wood. The large main lounge room was filled with row upon row of tall bookcases bursting with beautifully bound books. I saw glass-fronted sideboards filled with curious artefacts, objets d’art and exotic plants I had not seen before. I thought I recognised a Venus flytrap, something I’d only seen in books. The furniture was antique. In fact, everything appeared old, but wonderfully appealing to the eye – a bevelled Edwardian mirror, curved lamps of stained glass, dark portraits of unsmiling nobility, exquisite tables and chairs with creatures carved into their wood. Every bit of the decor, every object, every piece of furniture seemed as if it had been crafted with the utmost care. Victorian. Edwardian. An Art Deco touch here and there. Details within details. Carvings within carvings. Celia had wonderful taste, and the different period styles blended seamlessly, though the result reminded me a bit of a beautiful library, or even museum. What Celia’s penthouse lacked in ‘lived in’ warmth and hominess, however, it certainly made up for with elegance and curiosity. My Aunt Georgia’s humble home with its modern, utilitarian furniture seemed strikingly dull by contrast. (Well, it had seemed rather dull before, I’ll grant.) No cobwebs here. No sense of disrepair. The chandeliers gleamed and twinkled.

  ‘This is my private area,’ Celia told me as we reached a locked doorway at the end of a long hallway. ‘I would prefer you not use this area.’

  I nodded. ‘Of course.’

  We walked back down the hallway towards the other end of the penthouse, past the kitchen, the dining room and the vast, open sitting room/lounge room. At the far end we reached an open doorway, the end of our little walking tour. The lights were switched on inside the room, and it smelled invitingly of freshly cut flowers.

  ‘This will be your room, Pandora,’ Celia said. ‘If you don’t object?’

  Object? Celia’s guestroom was palatial in a way you rarely saw in modern bedrooms. The ample high-ceilinged space contained a grand, four-poster bed made up with lace-edged pillows. There was a tall antique wardrobe in one corner and a beautiful oak dresser on which a vanity mirror and a crystal vase of deep red roses were placed. Next to it was the open door of an ensuite bathroom with a black and white tiled floor. Two narrow, arched windows opened on to the residential street at the front of the building. A small Victorian writing table with a hinged, sloping desktop sat under one window, and an old gramophone was on the floor next to it. I wondered fleetingly if it would play. On one of the flat surfaces of the writing desk was a platter of fruit and a sandwich.

  ‘I thought you might like a snack before you go to bed,’ she explained.

  ‘Thank you so much.’ I was ravenous.

  Next to the platter was a small photograph in an antique silver frame. Even from across the room I recognised it instantly, thought I had not seen it since I was very, very young. This was a portrait of my parents on their wedding day. They were gripping each other and grinning. My father wore a white shirt and tie, and my mother’s veil was pulled back, circling her head in a snowy halo. They looked so young, so happy. I felt a tug at my heart.

  ‘Welcome, Pandora.’

  Once again, I gathered myself. ‘Thank you so much. This is wonderful,’ I told my great-aunt, and meant it wholeheartedly. I placed my briefcase and my mother’s suitcase inside the door. If this was to be my new room, it was better than I could have asked for and far more than I’d expected. It was easily three times the size of the spartan room I had been living in at Georgia’s for the past eight years.

  ‘Help yourself to anything you like in the kitchen, and in the apartment. I want you to feel at home here,’ Celia told me. ‘However, there are some rules.’ Beneath the veil, her face became serious, and I stood at attention, as if to let her know I would take her rules on board like a good cadet. ‘Knock before you enter, please. And don’t venture into my side of the flat, as I said. I don’t like to be disturbed.’ She watched to see that I was taking note, and I certainly was. ‘And I don’t recommend you e
xplore the other floors of the building,’ she concluded.

  There was something ominous about that third rule, something ominous and important. I’m a pretty good girl, and I’ve never thought of myself as a rebel of any sort, but this was the second time Celia had mentioned that I shouldn’t snoop around the other levels of the old building, and I admit it gave me a naughty urge to do exactly that. I put that urge firmly away. It was a simple request, and one I knew I should honour.

  I nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, Great-Aunt Celia.’

  Celia lifted her delicate chin and gave me a reassuring smile. ‘Now, darling, you may have heard that New York is dangerous. Nonsense. There are some fine folks here in Manhattan. But don’t wander the streets alone at night unless you want trouble. Things change around here when the sun sets.’ She patted me gently on the arm and I thought she actually winked. ‘But of course you are a big girl, and you can look after yourself.’

  She searched my face as if for some sign or recognition of something, though I couldn’t imagine what she thought she might see.

  ‘If you need anything you can’t find here at home, there’s a corner store just down the street.’ Celia pointed to the left of the two tall arched windows to indicate direction. ‘It’s open all hours. Harold runs it. He’ll get you any supplies you may need. Put them on my tab.’

  ‘Oh, I hope to find a job very soon, and then I’ll pay my own way,’ I promised. I didn’t want anyone’s charity. ‘And I’ll pay you back for the car and any groceries and things.’

  My great-aunt smiled through her veil. ‘Of course you’ll have a job soon, dear, but payment won’t be necessary. You are family. Use the tab. Make yourself at home, Pandora. I think you’ll like it here in New York.’

  ‘Thank you so much. May I use your phone so I can let Aunt Georgia know I arrived safely?’

  Celia leaned glamorously in the doorway and cocked her head. ‘Oh, darling, did Georgia not tell you? There is no phone here. I abhor the things, and they never seem to work in this old building, anyway.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied, floored. I knew she preferred letters, but no phone at all? I guessed that meant she didn’t have Internet either . . .

  ‘And no Internet,’ Celia confirmed, and I flinched. ‘Darling, I am sure your aunt would love to receive a letter from you in your beautiful handwriting,’ she suggested. ‘Why don’t you write one tonight? Or in the morning?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ll do that,’ I said, thinking how very eccentric she was to live without such common modern conveniences. I guess older people didn’t always email. Never mind. Getting a cell phone would certainly be a priority as soon as I got a job.

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed suddenly, as something moved unexpectedly against my ankle. I took a little hop back and then looked down. ‘Oh, you have a cat,’ I said, relieved. I kneeled down, grinning. I love cats. And dogs. And pretty much all pets. Aunt Georgia never allowed me one. I offered a hand, and the feline sniffed my fingers delicately. She was a beautiful and unusual-looking creature – snow white and short-haired, with not even a single dash of colour on her soft coat. She looked up and I saw her eyes were like pink opals. Even her eyelashes were ivory.

  ‘Yes,’ Celia replied. ‘She is Freyja.’

  ‘Freyja’ was a name I recognised from my mother’s books. Growing up, I’d read every book in the house several times, and though I preferred my paranormal romance novels the best, my mother’s books on ancient cultures, mythology and folklore were a close second. Freyja was the name of a Norse goddess, if I remembered correctly. She was often depicted wearing a flowing feather cloak of some kind, driving a chariot pulled by cats.

  ‘I think it’s a great name,’ I said, and Freyja purred and circled my ankles before strutting over to her mistress.

  ‘I think she was investigating your room. It’s been a very long time since we’ve had anyone stay. We hope you’ll like it here, Pandora.’

  With another gentle pat of my arm, my great-aunt left me for the evening. Freyja walked after her with her tail up. I smiled to myself at the sight of them. I was desperate to sink into that four-poster bed, but not before I wolfed down the sandwich she’d prepared and enjoyed a long soak in the exquisite claw-foot bath of the ensuite.

  I found some bubble bath and got the tub steaming hot. Georgia’s house in Gretchenville had one shower and no bath, and I soon realised how much I’d missed bathing. I luxuriated, shaved my legs, washed my long, naturally light-brown hair with some lovely rose-scented shampoo, and ate the most delicious strawberries I’d ever tasted. I stared at the bathroom ceiling, wet and smiling. Once soaked and sated to the point of bliss, my hands wrinkled like prunes, I towelled off and dried my hair. By the time I flopped onto my new bed I was already in a deep lull. I reached over to switch off the bedside lamp, and through heavy eyes noticed a stack of fashion magazines on the bedside table. How thoughtful of Celia to put them out for me. There were top fashion magazines that never even came to Gretchenville. I noticed some older ones, too, issues of Vogue from the 1950s. I couldn’t wait to read them. But not yet. A hazy view of the elaborate ceiling cornices was fading in and out of my consciousness. My white linen nightie felt cosy and warm against my clean, scented skin. My new bedroom was beautiful and not at all cobwebby or musty. I was relieved that Celia didn’t seem like the invalid Aunt Georgia had described. Things were so much better than I’d feared when I’d first seen the building.

  New York. I am finally here.

  In the morning I would go to Mia magazine for my first job interview. I will wow them, I thought optimistically as I drifted off. I’ll have a job here in no time.

  I flicked the bedside light off, and closed my eyes. I figured I was settling in pretty well for someone who had never travelled to a big city on her own.

  And I was.

  Until I woke to find a man in my room.

  Somewhere in my dream I became aware of a presence.

  I was in the grip of a deep sleep, and it was a struggle to lift my heavy eyelids. Through snatches of vision, I thought I made out a pale silhouette against one wall, illuminated by the low light coming in under the curtains. Odd. I wondered if I was dreaming, or if some item of furniture in Celia’s guestroom formed the vague outline of a man, and I hadn’t noticed it before I went to bed. A coat rack? One of her gothic paintings, perhaps?

  Then the silhouette moved its head.

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted, and leapt out of the four-poster bed, putting it between the intruder and myself.

  I remembered with sudden embarrassment that I was dressed in my nightie, and I covered my breasts with my arms as a reflex before deciding to sacrifice modesty in favour of a ninja-style pose. I held my fists up, body rigid, ready to fight. I turned my head away from the stranger for just a moment to yell, ‘Celia!’ through the closed door.

  The man placed his hand over my mouth.

  Strangely, it felt like being touched by a cloud. My resultant scream became muffled. Somehow he had traversed the bed in a flash.

  ‘Shhh,’ came a low, reassuring voice. ‘I’m really sorry to have startled you.’ He smiled in the half-light, and even laughed lightly, seemingly delighted about something. He had a slight accent, though I couldn’t pick what it was.

  I frowned, confused.

  ‘Sorry,’ he repeated, dropping his hand from my mouth. ‘It’s just that . . . I’m so glad that you can see me.’

  ‘I’m not blind. Of course I can see you. You’re in my room!’ I declared, baffled. ‘Celia!’ I yelled again.

  ‘She’s not home yet,’ the man told me.

  Well, that was not reassuring.

  ‘You shouldn’t wake up the whole building,’ he advised.

  ‘Shouldn’t I?’ I challenged.

  He shook his head. ‘No. Though there aren’t a lot of people here these days, are there?’

  Great, he knew the other flats were unoccupied. That was not reassuring either.

  ‘Are you trying to scare me or something?�
� I challenged boldly. ‘Because I’m not scared of you.’ I thought this was a bluff, but immediately upon saying it, I realised it was true. I was not particularly frightened. The man standing before me seemed kind of calm, and the look in his eye was not lusty or crazed or any of the things I had been led to expect of a man who would break into a woman’s bedroom in New York in the middle of the night. I used to sneak into a lot of horror movies in the Gretchenville Village Cinema when I was younger, and this person did not fit the stereotype of horror movie villain. And now that my eyes had adjusted and I was really looking at him, I noticed the other obvious thing; how he was dressed. No balaclava. No scary hockey mask. He was actually wearing a full uniform, like a military man of one of the great wars of years gone by. And he was handsome. (Yes, I am perfectly aware that good-looking people can be serial killers, and it is weird and unhealthy for a girl to notice the physical attractiveness of a guy who has apparently broken into her room, but there it is.) This guy looked to be in his twenties, perhaps his late twenties, and his jaw was so strong it brought to mind an anvil. He was lean and tanned, and his eyes were the brightest blue I had ever seen. They almost seemed to glow. Though clean-shaven, he had sideburns, which seemed a little retro to me. Beneath his cap, his hair was sandy and worn a bit long over the collar.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ I asked, my faux-ninja stance softening a touch. Neither of the two windows appeared open or broken. My door was closed.

  ‘I’ve, um, been here for a while,’ the young man replied vaguely, clenching that magnificent jaw and casting his eyes about. He’s been in this room for a while . . . ? ‘No. Wait. That came out wrong,’ he apologised. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘You know my great-aunt?’ I ventured.

  He nodded. ‘Celia? Sure.’

  So he knew her name at least. Though given I’d called it out, it wasn’t exactly hard to guess.

  ‘Prove it,’ I dared. ‘Prove that you know her.’ I crossed my arms over my chest and set my face sternly to let him know I was no pushover. A few seconds followed while he appeared to be thinking about how best to respond. ‘And why are you wearing a uniform?’ I added. I guess I was a little nervous with the strained silence. I wasn’t someone who’d had a lot of men in my room before, and certainly never after dark, and with myself dressed only in a flimsy nightie.