Date: Tue, 9 Aug 1994 23:22:08 EST Subject: Fluff: The Flowers of War, part 17 Mes amis: this tale of mine is nearly over. I have enjoyed brining it to you, and hope you have enjoyed reading it! There will be, je pense, one more part after this one. And mon cher ami, the Baron, promises part 99 of his autobiography soon! (You can let Gideon get up now, Elrich). :-) Genevieve _______________________________________________________________ J'attend. Genevieve stared moodily into the hearth. The fire had no right to burn so merrily. It should have been spitting and hissing, puffing out gouts of great black smoke; or sullen, moody, refusing to brighten when stirred and poked. J'attend. The little cousins prowled the walls of the chateau, their jade green eyes occasionally peering in at the "pretty lady", until she crossly forbid them to spy on her. Elrich tsked at her, his raspy voice calling out that it was "not safe". J'attend. "Not safe". Merde! What _was_ safe, this endless waiting, threatening to drive her mad? The constant running to the small window set in the great door, whenever she heard the least sound that might be Claude returning safely? Jumping whenever a spark rose in the hearth? Genevieve threw a metal vase against the door, relieving some of her frustrations, but bringing the ghouls running. Jared gave her a reproachful look when he picked up the dented bronze vessel. Elrich pciked up the scattered flowers, most of which had shed their petals. The once-bright colours lay like dead butterflies on the flagstones. She was past caring. Roughly, she brushed the protesting ghouls aside and opened the door of the chateau. The night drew around her, gathering close and nuzzling her. A raven called in the distance, and Elrich hissed at it, his eyes dark despite the moon puddling in them. Wetness on her cheek startled Genevieve. She put up her hand and discovered that she was weeping. One tear trickled into her mouth, salt and blood. It was true. Vampires wept tears of blood. "Lady," said Elrich. "Not safe." "Inside," Jared suggested. She did not realize that they had led her inside until she was sitting on one of the few chairs in the chateau. Elrich had pressed a goblet of wine into her hand, and stirred the blaze in the hearth. If he had fired the chateau, Genevieve would not have noticed. No warmth, no laughter, no danger could penetrate her misery. Je n'attend pas. There was no one to wait for any longer. The raven had been announcing his victory, trumpeting his triumph. The ghouls huddled at Genevieve's feet. Defeat was contagious. Elrich keened softly, but Jared was silent, his bright eyes hooded. Genevieve might have been a statue. Carved in stone. Marble. Cold. "I have won," said the raven. Pain exploded across Genevieve's face. The marble cracked, flaking away to reveal the woman beneath. Startled, she looked up. Blue eyes met blue eyes. Azure pools that had never been warmed by love sneered down at her. Contempt twisted that too-handsome face, just as evil had long ago twisted whatever heart existed within Etienne Corbeau. "How did you get in?" was all Genevieve could think to ask. "My poor fledgling dove," his mouth curved into the parody of a smile. "I used the door." "You could not have. None would have invited you." He patted her on the head, and she felt soiled. "Child," he said, "none needed to. That applies only to the homes of the living, my dove." The ghouls were on their feet, crouched into attack positions. Genevieve checked them with a gesture, recalling the sickening crunch of bone when Corbeau had thrown Elrich into the wall. It seemed another lifetime when that had happened. They were no match for this ancient vampire. "You are wise," Corbeau whispered. "Wise enough to cease this persecution, my dove? This is what becomes of those who do not leave well enough alone." He dropped something in her lap. It was heavy, and felt horrible. Taken by surprise again, she automatically looked down. No, there was no need to wait, not any longer. Claude's severed right hand, a crimson ruin, lay staining her velvet robe with his blood. There was no doubt that it was her master's hand. His ring was still on the third finger, the ring she'd given him when they had legally wed. Only the True Death would have wrested that ring from him... his hand from him. She had known it when she had heard the raven call. "Etienne Corbeau," she said, her eyes cold fire, like burning diamonds, "I call forth a curse on you. You shall pay dearly for this. No matter where you go on this earth, be looking over your shoulder, raven's spawn. Never shall you know peace, never shall you rest in your evil ways. I shall always be with you, watching you, waiting for you to make that one mistake that will bring the True Death upon you. Believe me, Corbeau, you shall rue this night. Curse the night you first saw me, carrion-eater. That was the night you made an enemy who will hound you. I am now the mistress of this house. I order you to get out." He bowed elaborately, mockingly. He kicked Elrich on the way out, for no reason at all. When he was gone, then Genevieve screamed. * * * * Anyone want the last part? Genevieve fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca Date: Thu, 18 Aug 1994 21:59:34 EST Subject: Fluff: The Flowers of War, final chapter Mes chers amis: Yes, sadly, the time has come to conclude my tale. I do so hope that someone, at least, has had some enjoyment out of reading it. It was not a happy tale, that is true, but they all cannot be, n'est ce pas? Genevieve ___________ Copyright 1994 by Anne Fraser _________ Genevieve wept. For Claude, for Gaspard, for her children and her chere Papa, and most of all for herself. The little cousins huddled at her feet, miserable at the loss of their master. Elrich keened softly, rocking back and forth, but Jared was silent. His eyes spoke for him. There was no trace of jade in those slitted black depths. The lady reached into her lap and stroked the cold, shrivelling fingers of that poor hand. She twisted the ring until it slid off its former home and into her shaking palm. Her sanguine tears blended with the blood soaking her lap. An arm went around her shoulder and she flinched, startled. "Maman," said Albert. "Oh, Albert!" she sobbed, and hugged him tightly. "He is dead." "Oui, c'est vrai." The young vampire started to weep, his own reddish-silver drops joining the pool of blood on Genevieve's lap. "Corbeau will pay for this," Genevieve vowed. "We will make him pay," Albert agreed. Her blonde head lifted, resolve damming the flow of tears. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, we will. Albert, summon the others. Claude's work will not die! We who are left must continue to fight against the dark tide that threatens us all." Albert's mismatched eyes caught fire. "Madame," he vowed, "I am with you." When the others had been assembled, Genevieve could not help having a lump in her throat. When she had last faced this coven of vampires, Claude had been with her. She knew that the full impact of that loss had still to strike her. For now, as so often before when she had dealt with pain, she had work to do and could not waste time in grieving. She had flowers to gather, the blossoms that would produce the seeds of war. "Friends," she addressed that glittering-eyed crowd, "our leader has met the True Death. We should not allow this to mean that our cause also dies. Find Etienne Corbeau. Bring me _his_ hand." She raised Claude's ring, kissed it, and put it on her own finger. There was no applause, or cheering, but every head nodded its agreement. One by one, the vampires came up and pledged their allegiance to Genevieve. Not one, not even the most misogynistic elder, quibbled about being commanded by a woman and a fledgling. She was Claude's heir. Corbeau had fled France, perhaps understanding that he had engineered his own doom. Although the network combed the continent for him, he had truly gone to earth. "No matter," Genevieve said when this news was brought to her. "Some day, some time, he will make that final fatal mistake. And I will be there when it happens. I have vowed to watch him burn, and scatter the ashes. The raven will have his feathers singed." When she buried Claude's hand, only Albert and the ghouls attended. The sad relict was laid to rest beside Gaspard, the St.-Morien children, and Blaise Lambert and his wife. All of Genevieve's family were now under the earth, and she cried. * * * * * Jean reached over and gently brushed away a stray tear from the lady's cheek. "Mon pauvre!" he exclaimed. "What a terrible story!" He held her tightly, stroking her hair and murmuring into her ear. "There, there, Genevieve. It is all far in the past. Corbeau is dead, you have won." "Have I?" she asked, sniffling. "Of course you have. You have followed Claude's dream, insane as it was, and never become the sort of creature Corbeau was." "I miss him so much, Jean," she admitted. "Claude, I mean, not Corbeau." She smiled at her feeble joke. "You truly loved him," Jean observed sorrowfully. "As you do not love me." "I _do_ love you, Jean," Genevieve objected. "But it is not the same." "No. Love is never the same, cheri. And I never again dared to love so deeply, for I learned that those you love die." "A terrible lesson, cherie." "Yes." It was a cold, lonely little "yes". "Pauvre petite. What I do not understand, Gen, is why you told me that this is a secret. All those who love you should know this tale." "Do you really think so?" Genevieve looked uncertain, a rare expression on her features. "I was afraid it would make Gideon think less of me." "Never!" "Then perhaps I will tell him," she mused, picking up the cat Aurore and cuddling it. "When we go to Pandora's handfasting. Now, what do we take as a gift, Jean? I am so bad at gifts." Jean reached over and tickled the cat. "How about Aurore?" he asked, teasing. "Certainly not!" Genevieve snatched the two-tone feline out of her lover's reach. "But perhaps a cat of their own..." "A dog, surely," Jean countered. Bickering pleasantly, the couple drew together and night drew a curtain over them both. ________________ The End________________ Let me know if you liked my story! Genevieve who will be forever grateful to: fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca