Date:         Thu, 26 May 1994 18:46:39 EST
Subject:      Fluff: The Flowers of War, part 8

Mes amis:
I know you are all on the edge of your chaises, waiting for the next
installment of my little tale... voila!  *smile*
Genevieve
**********

When the carriage arrived at Claude's chateau, the lawyer helped
Genevieve to descend.  He could see that she was beginning to wonder if
she had done the right thing by going with him.

"It is so dark, Claude," Genevieve drew her cloak more closely around
her.

"Do not be afraid, Genevieve."  Claude guided her inside.

"Where are your servants?"  Genevieve wondered, for no-one had come to
greet them, or take the horses.

"I have but few servants," Claude replied, "And they are instructed not
to show themselves to guests unless I command it.  May I get you
something?"

"No, no thank you," she replied, now alarmed.  "Claude... no.  I shall
not ask that."

"I mean you no harm, Genevieve," he said quickly, "I only brought you
here because here I may speak privately, with no danger of anyone
overhearing.  You must know the truth about Corbeau if you are to help
me fight him, and the truth must not be made known to anyone else.  Do
you promise that what I am to tell you will remain our secret?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, trying hard not to show how frightened
the change in Claude's demeanour made her.  She had known him all her
life... but had she?

Claude showed her to a seat and sat down in a nearby hard chair.  He put
his hands over his face momentarily, wondering how to phrase what he had
to say.  Genevieve watched him anxiously, wishing she had her father
with her.  Papa would know how to deal with Claude!

"Do you know how I met your father?" he asked, eerily echoing her
thoughts.

"No, Claude, he never told me," Genevieve replied.

"I was out riding, and it was a bad night--there was a storm, and my
horse took fright and threw me.  I was not hurt, but your father was
passing by, returning from a late-night session with some scholarly
friends of his.  He saw my horse running by alone, and knew that meant
there was a thrown rider nearby.  He gave me a ride in his own carriage,
and we became friends.  When he told me he was the proud new Papa of a
beautiful little girl, although his wife had died bearing her, I knew
that that little girl would be someone very special."  He looked over at
that little girl, now a woman grown, a wife and a mother.  The wife of a
dying man and the mother of two dead children.  "Your Papa would be very
proud of you," he said.  "I am very proud of you.  You have courage.
That is very rare, ma chere, in women or in men."

Genevieve blushed, wishing that Claude were not quite so handsome, or
Gaspard so ill.  Feelings rose inside her, confusing her, and she raised
her scented handkerchief to her face, hiding her coloured cheeks.

"Etienne Corbeau," Claude changed the subject suddenly, "Is as unlike
Blaise as it is possible to be.  He is evil, Genevieve, a true monster."

"Surely he is just a man, Claude?" she asked.

"Ah, no, ma fleur, he is not just a man.  Genevieve... do you know what
a vampyre is?"

"Papa told me about such creatures," she replied, bewildered.  "They are
those who have died, but are not at rest, and they must drink blood to
keep what life they have.  But surely such things are just legends,
stories to frighten children?"

"I wish it was so," Claude replied.  "The vampyre is very real,
Genevieve.  He is, as you said, a being that was once alive, but has
died and been revived as the vampyre.  I am telling you the truth,
pleas do not look at me like that!"  He sighed.  "Yes, the vampyre
must drink blood, there is no help for that, but some drink only enough
to survive on, and try to ensure that those they must sup from do not
suffer, and continue to live.  Others rejoice in suffering and pain, in
killing and rending, and live the lives of evil that such creatures are
reputed to revel in. "

Genevieve was horrified, and blocked her ears.  "No, it cannot be that
such abominations exist!" she exclaimed.

"If they do not, why did your Papa tell you about them?" Claude
demanded.  "Genevieve, I would not tell you this if it was not
truth.  And vampyres are not abominations.  Not all of them.  I wish I
could claim that all of them are not evil, but you have the proof that
at least one of them is a true monster."

She looked at Claude, realization dawning in her eyes.  He had brought
her here to explain to her what Etienne Corbeau was.  And why, indeed,
would Papa have told her about vampyres if they did not exist?

"Claude," she gasped, "Are you trying to tell me that Etienne Corbeau is
a vampyre?"

"Yes, Genevieve," he breathed a little sigh of relief.  "But you see, so
am I."
******
Shall I continue?
Genevieve
and her faithful sidekick
fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca

Date:         Sun, 29 May 1994 10:31:20 EST
Subject:      Fluff: The Flowers of War, partieme neuf

Mes Enfants de la nuit:
It is very quiet this weekend, I think that all of our American friends
have gone off on Memorial Day picnics!
For the few of you who are still here, I offer the next part of my
story.

Genevieve
*****************

Genevieve sat perfectly still, staring at Claude.

"I think I had better go home now," she said, faintly.

Claude grasped her hands in his.  "I will not harm you!" he declared.
"I could not, for your Papa's sake... and yours.  Genevieve... I love
you.  I have loved you ever since you toddled into my arms when you were
three.  I loved Blaise, too.  I would never harm his daughter!"

She did not struggle to free her hands, but clung to her friend.
Friend?  Fiend, rather!  Had he not just admitted that he was a creature
of the darkest night, a thing that must drink blood?

Was he not her dear friend and counseller, had he not always been there,
offering his love and support?

Ah, Dieu, she was so confused!

Claude saw the war of emotions that played across Genevieve's face.  He
released her hands and sat waiting, patient and hopeful.  He would say
nothing more to influence her.  She must come to a conclusion on her
own.

Genevieve thought of the times she had been alone with Claude.  Her
children had been with Claude.  Papa and Claude had spent long nights
together, arguing about philosophy over a bottle of wine.  There could
not be anyone more unlike that bete Etienne Corbeau than Claude du
Monet.  He had never offered her any hurt, nor threatened her honour and
her business, the way Corbeau had.

"Did you make Corbeau what he is?" she asked.

Claude would have breathed in relief, did he still need to draw breath
at all.  She was accepting it, as best she could.  "Non, ma fleur," he
replied.  "He is older than I.  I do not know who Turned him, but
whoever did should have been staked and left for the sun."

"Is that your justice?" she asked.  "How you kill evil vampires?"

"It is the best method, that or burn the body.  We can come back, even
from the stake.  But not from fire, or sun."

"Why has someone not burned Corbeau, then?"

Claude looked at her.  Steadily.  "It is not for lack of trying,
Genevieve.  But he is strong, strong and wily.  There are some of us who
are trying to bring the ones like Corbeau to heel, to stop the
killing... I am but one of these.  I cannot tell you who the others are,
for you are not a vampire, and there are things I cannot tell to any
breather, no matter how beloved."

"'Breather'?" Genevieve repeated.  She watched Claude closely.  How was
it that she had never noticed before that he drew breath only to speak
with?  Did his heart beat?  How old was he, who had made him a vmapire,
had Papa known...?

Oddly, she was no longer frightened or confused.  She had accepted the
existence of vampires, it was only another step to accepting that Claude
was one.  But not one like Corbeau.  She would not believe that.  Claude
was a good man, and she loved him.  He said he loved her, and she did
not think that an evil vampire could say those words in quite the tone
that Claude had used.

She suddenly ached to have him hold her, kiss her, and found herself
shocked.  She was still married, although poor Gaspard was unable to
fulfill a husband's role in the marriage bed.  And Claude did not like
women, although she was beginning to wonder if Papa had lied about that.
He was not looking at her like a man who was not interested in women
should look at a pretty female!

"The others?" she asked.  "How many?"

"Too few," Claude replied.  "Far too many vampires are indifferent, or
secretly admire the evil ones.  I do have some help here, but they are
poor creatures who do not have full sense to work with.  Sometimes,
Genevieve, the Turning goes wrong."

"I do not think I understand."

"To become a vampire, you must have another vampire drink your blood,
then offer you his own blood to drink.  Even this does not guarantee that
you will become what I am.  Sometimes, you simply die and do not rise
again.  Sometimes, other things happens.  The Turning goes wrong, and
you become another sort of creature entirely.  These poor things are
simple beings, with broken speech and slow understanding.  They are
obedient and loyal servants, but they can never be our equals.  Nor are
they human... not any longer.  They are ghouls."

Genevieve shuddered, for the word conjured dreadful apparitions in her
mind.  "You have such creatures here?" she asked.

Claude nodded.  "My 'little cousins', I call them.  Would you care to
meet them?'  Without giving her a chance to refuse, he rang a small bell
that sat on a table.

"Is it safe?" Genevieve asked fearfully.

"They obey me," he replied.  "They will not harm you."

Two men in livery came into the room, slowly and uncertainly.  They
walked carefully, as if aware that they held on to their bodies'
processes only by a very tight will.  Both had the remnants of
handsomeness about them, but their faces were rather blank.  There was
no spark of intelligence, of awareness about them.  Both had unusual
jade green eyes, one with wild white hair that hung down around his
face, the other with neater, black hair.

They stopped and stared intently at Genevieve, and the black-haired one
ran his tongue over his lips.  She drew back.

"Jared." Claude's voice did not raise or lash out, but the black-haired
one flinched.  "And Elrich.  This is Madame St.-Morien.  Please greet
her properly."

The white-haired one--Elrich?--bowed.  Clumsily.  "Lady," he rasped.
"Pretty."

The other, Jared, nodded.  "Pretty," he echoed.  And looked at Claude.
"Not safe," he said.

"Yes, it is," Claude replied.  "It's all right, Jared.  We can trust
her.  She is a friend."

"Friend?" Elrich's green eyes gleamed.  "Elrich welcome friend."

"Thank you, Elrich," Geneveive managed to say.

"Pretty lady.  Elrich's friend."  He elbowed Jared.  "Jared friend."

Jared elbowed him back.  Claude looked at them both and they subsided.
"Leave us now, please," he requested, and they departed, both looking
hungrily back at Genevieve.

"What strange creatures," she shivered.

"Like children," he agreed.  "Very dangerous children.  It is now known
how to prevent this from happening during Turning, but I cannot bring
myself to destroy the little cousins.  They trust me to look after them,
and they look after me, as well.  They can tolerate some daylight, so
they make excellent guardians during the day."

"So, if anyone tried to reach you to harm you during the day...?"

"I'm rather afraid they'd eat him," Claude replied, trying and failing
to hide his amusement.
**********
More to come!
Genevieve
and the looking-forward-to-getting-her-bike-out
fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca