'Magnificent, Great-grandfather,' Adrienne said sincerely. 'Merely an amusement, simply duck with figs and olives, but magnificent. Even better than the lemon-cured baby scallops.'
'You eat with all the enjoyment of one back from the dead,' Etienne said. 'And I should know, since I am dead.'
'Only the least important part of you,' Adrienne replied graciously.
They were dining on one of the outdoor terraces of the Villa Leopolda, looking down over the acres of cypress and olive trees that studded the gardens and the moonlit waters of the Cote d'Azur far below. The villa was a Belle Epoque fantasy of tile and terra cotta and marble, originally built on a whim financed by colonial plunder over a century ago, like some Edwardian dream of ancient Rome. The mild warmth of the air was full of the scents of roses and lady-of-the-night jasmine; bougainvillea frothed down from the balconies overlooking them; below was a tumble of jeweled lights and gardens and the running lights of the yachts in the basins below.
'Such a pity that King Leopold did not transition to postcorporeal successfully,' Seraphine said.
She was wearing the body she'd been born with, or the etheric equivalent: tall for a nineteenth-century Frenchwoman, and chestnut haired.
'Have I ever told you of the wonderful tour of his Congo Free State that we took in 'aught-three? The Force Publique officers were such good company, charming rogues. And their Batanga mercenaries were like frisky puppies, with their filed teeth and simple, earthy, substantial cuisine. A true example of the civilizing mission, a veritable Utopia in the jungle.'
Servants whose minds were a careful wash of no-thought whisked away the dishes, and brought out the entree: a tiny suckling pig, its crisp skin delicately scented with lavender. Along with it came the first mountain mushrooms of the season, sauteed with onion and a little garlic, a dash of white wine, fresh tomatoes and tarragon, with just a touch of lemon juice and sea salt.
You have told me of your Congolese tour only seventeen thousand, three hundred and forty-two times, ma chere bisaieul, Adrienne thought. Beginning when I was about six. Though it sounds like a great deal of fun, if one enjoys the tropics; severed hands as currency, what a droll idea.
'Yes,' Etienne said. 'Of course, a golden haze of nostalgia is only to be expected; in Europe in those days a certain discretion was required, whereas we could be quite free in the Free State, if you will pardon the pun. Poor Leopold. One would have thought him a natural, and his father was of a Black Dawn lodge, though of course that was before the breeding program really got under way on scientific principles. He could night-walk, a little, though his manifestation was weak…It did take several minutes for his matrix to disintegrate after his body died, and it was rather interesting to witness.'
'How we all laughed!' Seraphine said reminiscently, with a tinkling chuckle. 'Seldom have I felt such utter despair. Subjectively his death must have lasted a thousand years.'
'To hope for immortality and then have it snatched away…that would be exquisite,' Adrienne admitted. 'My, but this suckling pig is exquisite as well!'
'Of the season,' Seraphine said. 'But in spring, ah, the Carre d'agneau a la Provencale is superb here! We get ours from this shepherd in the mountains.'
'Only here in the south does one experience lamb as it truly should be prepared,' Etienne agreed. 'Not only the herbs with which it is cooked, but the herbs on which its mother feeds in life up in the mountains and passes on to the lamb as it nurses.'
Adrienne nodded and took a sip of her wine: a local vintage of no great fame, but more than adequate. The pork was indeed meltingly tender but firm enough for texture, and the kiss of the scallions and garlic in the oil that had been brushed on its surface complemented it completely. Not a complex dish, but one requiring real skill.
I must remember that satiety is a trap lurking before the feet of eternity, she thought. Keep the capacity to enjoy the simple things, or life might well become a burden.
The warm apricot tart with a dash of brandy went with the meal beautifully beneath the pale stars.
'Nice has grown too large,' she said, sipping at the after-dinner pastis. 'Does this not illustrate my point? At this stage of a dinner al fresco, one wishes to see the stars.'
'True, true,' her great-grandfather said indulgently. 'You have convinced me, my descendant.' A glimpse of something feral: 'It would be well not to become tiresome, like your brother and his ludicrous earnestness.'
'Oh, but it is in a much better cause, Etienne,' Seraphine said soothingly. 'And the dear girl has a point. I remember what this place was like when dear Leopold first built it. The night sky was truly lovely.'
'True,' Etienne said, mollified. 'And at least the lad still shows good taste. That 'wife' of his…worthy of draining to the last drop, slowly, over years.'
' Oh, yes,' Adrienne said, lost in thought for an instant; when she blinked all three of the Shadowspawn were wearing identical smiles.
'Despite his convincing repentance, I still think he might have some sort of childish disruption planned for the Council meeting,' Etienne grumbled. 'That would make me truly displeased.'
'Oh, I think we can manage to keep him from playing any reprehensible pranks,' Adrienne said warmly.
They chatted idly for a while; the upcoming meeting in Tbilisi was the main topic, usually with an undertone of malicious gossip.
'And now for the true dessert,' Seraphine said happily, and waved her hand.
The four chained to the fretted bronze poles began to scream as their vocal cords obeyed them once more. The Shadowspawn listened appreciatively.
'The children of the night, what music they make,' Adrienne said, and all three laughed.
Then the victims stopped, panting and sobbing and transfixed as the lambent yellow eyes rested on them, speaking to instincts older than the age of polished stone. Adrienne had to admit it was a piquant group: a handsome French couple in athletic and well-kept middle age, and their teenage son and daughter, the beginning and end of the prime feeding years. The relationships offered so many interesting variations on emotional pain and degradation, as well as straightforward physical torment.
Their minds were a roil of terrified speculation already; being kidnapped and then left naked and unable to utter a sound during the meal was an excellent preliminary. So were the toys and cushions and implements scattered ready across the marble terrace between the terracotta jars with their trailing flowers, the little glowing brazier, and the expressionless servants standing by with hot, scented damp towels and fluffy dry ones.
Seraphine rose and let her clothes fall away as she did, falling through the momentarily impalpable substance of her body; then she transformed to a statuesque blonde.
'I've always favored this form for energetic amusements,' she said. 'A real strapping Danish Valkyrie.'
She went to the mother of the family and gently touched her face, picking up a tear on one fingertip and then tasting it.
'Who…who are you?' the woman said. 'Oh, God, you changed!'
'We are the purpose of your being, ma petite,' Seraphine said. 'All your lives you have been walking towards this moment, this service of a purpose beyond your comprehension. Now it has come, for you and these whom you love so much. This night is all that you have left; be wholly present in what you are about to experience! It will be so intense.'
She began to scream again as the sense of the words sank home and Etienne transformed, stalking forward stiff legged, with the wolf's great head held low. Seraphine flicked the chains open with her mind and threw the woman to the cushions.
Adrienne rose and sauntered over to the husband.
'And soon we will do this to the whole world,' she murmured, stroking him as Seraphine fed and then lifted her face to the stars, blood running from the corners of her mouth, and her sulfur yellow eyes slitted in joy. 'To literalize the metaphor.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Adrian Breze stuck his hands in their thin leather gloves into the pockets of his jacket and closed his eyes, blanking the flow of his interior monologue until his mind was still and quiet and wary. Awareness of his surroundings swelled, until he was one with the cool fall day. Somewhere a dog grew aware of him, whined and
