Incarnation by Emma Cornwall Page B

amused glance at the valise I clutched.
    I had come to meet others of my kind, yet confronted directly by one of them, I had to fight the impulse to flee. Cautiously, I replied, “Yes, it is.”
    He straightened and held out a hand. I could not fault his manner; he touched only my fingers as he bowed graciously. “I am Felix Deschamps and you are—?”
    I hesitated, uncertain whether or not to reveal my real identity. I had no idea how the vampires would react to my arrival in their midst. Would they accept me as one of their own or would they view me as an interloper? Upon my ability to gain their confidence rested what hope I had of finding him.
    When the silence had dragged on long enough to provoke a questioning look from my new acquaintance, I said, “My name is Lucy Weston.”
    Felix released my hand and took a step back but continued to stare at me intently. A single raised brow was enough to tell me that he recognized my name. However much Bram Stoker and his “intermediaries” had succeeded in fooling the human public, they had managed no such subterfuge among the vampires.
    “By any chance, are you acquainted with a human named Bram Stoker?” he asked. When I did not reply at once, he went on, “Irish fellow, manages the Lyceum Theatre, dabbles in writing. I haven’t read his novel myself; not to my taste. But we’ve all been speculating as to how he learned enough about us to write such a strange mélange of accurate details mingled with the most absurd, exaggerated notions. You wouldn’t know who or what informed him, would you?”
    “If you are asking whether it was me, no. But I do know that whoever gave him that knowledge wants what happened to me concealed. Hence the decision to present it as fiction.”
    “Interesting. . . . So what brings you to the Bagatelle, Miss Weston?”
    Before I could respond, a cry of mingled delight and anguish interrupted us. We both looked toward the alcove where a large male vampire who had just fed was rising from a couch on which a nearly naked young woman lay. Her head was thrown back in an spasm of pleasure even as blood gushed from the gaping gash in her throat.
    The couch under the woman was rapidly becoming soaked. She was clearly bleeding to death. I knew this yet I could rouse no feeling for her at all. She was merely a curiosity. I understood full well that I should care. Indeed, the Lucy I had been, whose ghost seemed to haunt me, was filled with horror at my callousness. Nonetheless, someone had to act and very quickly or the young woman had only minutes to live.
    Suddenly several hooded figures identical to those I had encountered outside the Lyceum appeared. At once, I stiffened, readying myself to fight once again.
    “Is something wrong?” Felix asked.
    “Those . . .” I gestured toward the figures, who were clustering around the woman on the couch. “Those things, they—”
    “They’re thralls, servants of a sort. They’ll take care of her.” Mistaking the source of my concern, he added, “Thralls are unpleasant to look at, I know, but they’re useful. She’ll be fine, and in the end, she’ll get what she wants.”
    I heard him clearly enough but kept my guard up all the same. “What do you mean, what she wants?”
    He appeared surprised that I did not know. “To become one of us, of course. It’s what all the supplicants want. That’s why they’re here.”
    Despite my own experience, I had not fully grasped theprocess by which a human was transformed into a vampire. Now as understanding dawned, I said, “The humans submit themselves to be fed on so that they can become vampires?”
    “Why else would they? There was a time when we hunted humans, but only with great restrictions. We knew hunger then, but not any longer. All that is passed now. With the promise of what we can offer, we have more candidates than we need to amply sustain ourselves.”
    “What brought about such a great change?”
    He waved a hand dismissively.