The Dark Blood of Poppies by Freda Warrington Page A

John sitting beside the sarcophagus, his head resting on his fists on the rim. He’d been there for days. The stone coffin was half full of blood, a glossy maroon blanket through which Matthew’s head showed like a death mask.
    The abattoir stench that filled the chamber was, to Cesare, rich and sweet.
    “Well?” he said.
    “The same as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before,” John answered dully. “Nothing is happening.”
    Cesare swept blood away from Matthew’s cheeks and studied the sunken, slate-blue skin. No sign of regeneration. If anything, it was beginning to decay.
    He sighed. “If there is no improvement by now, there’s no hope.”
    John’s fists tightened. “Why isn’t it working?”
    “I don’t know.” Cesare licked his bloodied hand clean. “Perhaps Kristian had some secret knowledge we lack. Or the head has been too long severed. It’s no good, John. Let Matthew go.”
    He expected denial and grief, but to his surprise John whispered, “Very well. Would you do one thing for me? Take Matthew’s head and bathe it. I can’t bear to.”
    “Of course.” Cesare scooped the head from its clotted caul and took it to a corner of the chamber, where a bowl of water stood on a table. With his back to John, Cesare rinsed stringy blood from the heavy waxen head. It took time. The hair was matted solid.
    As he worked, John said, “I believe you.”
    “About what?”
    “We belong to God,” John said softly. “I believe it.”
    Cesare smiled. The words thrilled him. He’d converted a lost soul! “That is wonderful.”
    “It’s not your fault Matthew can’t return to life.”
    “You’re being very gracious,” said Cesare, drying the head on a square of sacking. “I expected you to blame me, although I’m sure we did everything right. I thought you would be distraught. You’re taking this well, John. I’m impressed.”
    “No, it’s
her
fault,” John breathed.
    “Who?”
    “Lilith.”
    The name struck Cesare like a whip. It plucked a discordant memory from his own mortal life, centuries past; himself as a scared boy, his mother standing over him with a rod in her hand and the burning pain, tears, terror…
    John went on, “Lilith, the mother of vampires. She killed Matthew and prevented his rebirth. She, far more than Satan, is our enemy. She will destroy us all.”
    Angered, Cesare wanted to silence him. He turned, only to find he couldn’t speak. He could only stare at the thin figure hunched beside the coffin.
    John had pulled out half his hair, leaving his scalp a mosaic of welts and glistening red holes; and as he went on raving in the same flat voice, he tore out a handful with every other word, as if to tear out his grief by its bloody roots.

CHAPTER FOUR

MOON IN VELVET
    “ C harlotte?”
    The familiar, light voice sent an eerie thrill through her. Charlotte saw Violette appear in the doorway, pale in a dress of beaded ivory silk.
    Violette stepped into the firelight. Her dress sparkled but her face and arms were matte, like velvet-white petals. With her black hair coiled under a bandeau, she held herself with all her natural balletic poise.
    Charlotte put her book aside and stood up. “Violette, this is a lovely surprise. How are you?”
    “I…” The dancer fell silent and stared into the fire. Her posture was defensive, as if to fend off any kiss or touch of greeting. Charlotte had no idea how to broach the subject of Matthew’s death, or the complaints of the other vampires.
    “I waited until Karl had gone out,” Violette said finally. “I need to see you alone. Do you mind?”
    “Of course not! Please, sit down.”
    “Thank you, but no.” Violette clasped her hands across her waist. “I can’t sit still. I should be helping the wardrobe mistress with the costumes for the tour, but…”
    Charlotte, moving closer, was shocked by her pallor. “Have you fed tonight?”
    “Not yet,” Violette said brusquely.
    “Are you still finding it hard to