CHAPTER SIXTEEN

New Orleans,
August 1857

Sour Billy Tipton returned to the St. Louis Hotel that evening more than a little fearful. Julian would not like the message he carried from the Fevre Dream, and Julian was dangerous and unpredictable when displeased.

In the darkened parlor of their lavish suite, only a single small candle had been lighted. Its flame was reflected in Julian’s black eyes as he sat in the deep velvet chair near the window, sipping a sazerac. The room was full of silence. Sour Billy felt the weight of the stares upon him. The latch made a small, deadly snick when the door shut behind him. “Yes, Billy?” said Damon Julian, softly.

“They won’t come, Mister Julian,” Sour Billy said, a little too quickly, a little too breathlessly. In the dim light he could not see Julian’s reaction. “He says you got to come to him.”

“He says,” repeated Julian. “Who is he, Billy?”

“Him,” said Sour Billy. “The … the other bloodmaster. Joshua York, he calls hisself. The one that Raymond wrote you about. The other cap’n, Marsh, the fat one with the warts and the whiskers, he wouldn’t come neither. Damned rude, too. But I waited for dark, waited for the bloodmaster to get up. Finally they took me to ’im.” Sour Billy still felt cold, remembering the way that York’s gray, gray eyes had touched his own, and found him wanting. There had been such bitter contempt there that Billy had wrenched his gaze away at once.

“Tell us, Billy,” said Damon Julian, “what is he like, this other? This Joshua York. This bloodmaster.”

“He’s …” Billy began, fumbling for words, “he’s … white, I mean, his skin and all is real pale, and his hair ain’t got no color in it. He even wore a white suit, like some kind of ha’nt. And silver, he wore lots of silver. The way he moves … like one of them damn Creoles, Mister Julian, high and lordly. He’s … he’s like you, Mister Julian. His eyes …”

“Pale and strong,” murmured Cynthia from the far corner of the room. “And with a wine that conquers the red thirst. Is he the one, Damon? He must be. It must be true. Valerie always believed the stories, and I mocked her for it, but it must be so. He will bring us all together, lead us back to the lost city, the dark city. Our kingdom, our own. It is true, isn’t it? He is bloodmaster of bloodmasters, the king we have waited for.” She looked at Damon Julian for an answer.

Damon Julian tasted his sazerac and smiled a sly, feline smile. “A king,” he mused. “And what did this king say to you, Billy? Tell us.”

“He said to come to the steamer, all of you. Tomorrow, after dark. For dinner, he said. Him and Marsh, they won’t come here, not like you wanted, alone. Marsh, he said that if they come to you it’s goin’ to be with others.”

“The king is strangely timid,” Julian commented.

“Kill him!” Sour Billy blurted suddenly. “Go to that damn boat and kill him, kill ’em all. He’s wrong, Mister Julian. His eyes, like some damn Creole, the way he looked at me. Like I was a bug, a no-count, even though I come from you. He thinks he’s better’n you, and them others, that warty cap’n and this damn clerk, all dandied up, let me cut him, bleed him some all over them fine clothes of his, you got to go kill him, you got to.”

The room was silent after Sour Billy’s outburst. Julian stared out the window, off into the night. The windows had been thrown wide, so the curtains stirred lazily in the night air and street noises drifted up from below. Julian’s eyes were dark, hooded, fixed on distant lights.

When at last he turned his head, his pupils caught the gleam of the single candle flame again, and held it within, red and flickering. His face took on a lean, feral cast. “The drink, Billy,” he prompted.

“He makes ’em all drink it,” Sour Billy said. He leaned back against the door and pulled out his knife. It made him feel better to have it in hand. He began scraping crud out from under his nails as he spoke. “It ain’t just blood, Cara said. Something else in it. It kills the thirst, they all say that. I went all over that boat, talked to Raymond and Jean and Jorge, a couple others. They told me. Jean kept ravin’ about this drink, about what a relief it was, if you can believe that.”

“Jean,” said Julian with disdain.

“It is true, then,” Cynthia said. “He is greater than the thirst.”

“There’s more,” Sour Billy added. “Raymond says York has taken up with Valerie.”

The stillness in the parlor was full of tension. Kurt frowned. Michelle averted her eyes. Cynthia sipped at her drink. All of them knew that Valerie, beautiful Valerie, had been Julian’s special pet; all of them watched him carefully. Julian seemed pensive. “Valerie?” he said. “I see.” Long, pale fingers tapped on the arm of his chair.

Sour Billy Tipton picked at his teeth with the point of his knife, pleased. He’d figured that bit about Valerie would settle it. Damon Julian had had plans for Valerie, and Julian did not like his plans disturbed. He’d told Billy all about it, with an air of sly amusement, when Billy had asked him why he’d gone and sent her away. “Raymond is young and strong, and he can hold her,” Julian had said. “They will be alone, the two of them, alone with each other and the thirst. Such a romantic vision, don’t you think? And in a year, or two, or five, Valerie will be with child. I would almost bet on it, Billy.” And then he had laughed that deep musical laugh of his. But he was not laughing now.

“What will we do, Damon?” Kurt asked. “Are we going?”

“Why, of course,” Julian said. “We could hardly refuse such a kind invitation, and from a king at that. Don’t you want to taste this wine of his?” He looked at each of them in turn, and none of them dared speak. “Ah,” said Julian, “where is your enthusiasm? Jean recommends this vintage to us, and Valerie as well, no doubt. A wine sweeter than blood, thick with the stuff of life. Think of the peace it will bring us.” He smiled. No one spoke. He waited. When the quiet had gone on a long while, Julian shrugged and said, “Well, then, I hope the king will not think less of us if we prefer other drinks.”

“He makes the rest of ’em drink it,” Sour Billy said. “Whether they want to or not.”

“Damon,” Cynthia said, “will you … refuse him? You can’t. We must go to him. We must do as he bids us. We must.”

Julian turned his head slowly to look at her. “Do you really think so?” he asked, smiling thinly.

“Yes,” Cynthia whispered. “We must. He is bloodmaster.” She averted her eyes.

“Cynthia,” said Damon Julian, “look at me.”

Slowly, with infinite reluctance, she raised her head again, until her gaze met Julian’s. “No,” she whimpered. “Please. Oh, please.”

Damon Julian said nothing. Cynthia did not look away. She slipped from her chair, knelt on the carpet, trembling. A bracelet of spun gold and amethysts shone on her small wrist. She pushed it aside, and her lips parted slowly, as if she were about to speak, and then she raised her hand and touched mouth to wrist. The blood began to flow.

Julian waited until she had crawled across the carpet, her arm extended in offering. With grave courtesy he took her hand in his, and drank long and deeply. When he was done Cynthia got to her feet unsteadily, slipped back to one knee, and rose again, shaking. “Bloodmaster,” she said, head bowed. “Bloodmaster.”

Damon Julian’s lips were red and wet, and a tiny bead of blood had trickled down one corner of his mouth. Julian took a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully blotted the thin line of moisture from his chin, and tucked it neatly away. “Is it a large steamer, Billy?” he asked.

Sour Billy sheathed his knife behind him with a practiced, easy motion, smiling. The wound on Cynthia’s wrist, the blood on Julian’s chin, it all left him hot, excited. Julian would show those damn steamboat people, he thought. “Big as any steamboat I ever seen,” he answered, “and fancy too. Silver and mirrors and marble, lots of stained glass and carpet. You’ll like her, Mister Julian.”

“A steamboat,” mused Damon Julian. “Why did I never think of the river, I wonder? The advantages are so obvious.”

“Then we are going?” said Kurt.

“Yes,” said Julian. “Oh yes. Why, the bloodmaster has summoned us. The king.” He laughed, throwing back his head, roaring. “The king!” he cried between gusts of laughter. “The king!” One by one the others began to laugh with him.

Julian rose abruptly, like a jackknife unfolding, his face gone solemn again, and the uproar quieted as suddenly as it had begun. He stared out into the darkness beyond the hotel. “We must bring a gift,” he said. “One does not call upon royalty without a gift.” He turned to Sour Billy. “Tomorrow you will go down to Moreau Street, Billy. There is something I wish you to get for me. A little gift, for our pale king.”