Part 1 (1/2)
Deadlier than the Pen.
by Kathy Lynn Emerson.
Chapter One.
March, 1888 -- New York City.
Unable to see for the darkness, Diana Spaulding paused just inside the entrance to Heritage Hall, waiting for the curtain to rise before she tried to find her way to a seat. In antic.i.p.ation of the start of Damon Bathory's performance, all lights had been extinguished, leaving the auditorium as black as the inside of an abandoned coal mine.
After a moment, a faint green glow appeared at the front of the proscenium. An eerie silence permeated the entire theater ... until it was broken by a sepulchral voice reading the first lines of a selection from Tales of Terror.
As an effect at the start of an evening of horror stories, that disembodied sound was nicely theatrical, but Diana deplored the icy chill that raced along her spine. She did not like being tricked into an emotional response.
Limelight came up slowly, brightening until the man in front of a black backdrop was clearly visible. Even in that intense glare, he retained an aura of mystery. The dark curtains billowed behind him as he moved, now revealing, now concealing a form attired entirely in ebony hues. An obsidian-colored mane framed his face.
For a long moment, Diana simply stood at the back of the hall and stared, mesmerized by her first good look at the writer she'd been ordered to interview. He was not what she'd expected. She'd been certain anyone whose mind could sp.a.w.n such ghastly, unforgettable images, who could create such horrible, evil, memorable characters, would be equally repulsive in person. The late Edgar Allan Poe, in the likenesses Diana had seen of him, looked as if he suffered the torment of the d.a.m.ned in order to create his nightmare tales.
The twisted, tortured soul of Damon Bathory, however, resided in a vital, superbly conditioned body, at least six feet tall, with a muscular chest and perfectly proportioned arms and legs. His facial features were difficult to discern but were certainly not deformed. The paleness of forehead and nose stood out in contrast to jet black waves of hair above and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard below.
What struck Diana most forcibly was that he moved with leonine grace, holding a copy of his book in one strong, long-fingered hand while he used the other to gesture. Each movement was subtle but compelling. Ch.o.r.eographed. He rarely glanced at the text.
Tearing her gaze away from the stage, Diana located an empty seat and slid in from the aisle. As she sank gratefully into a comfortable plush-velvet chair, she wondered if being surrounded by other people would diminish the impact of Bathory's performance. One glance around her answered that question. The deep pitch and hypnotic cadence of his voice held the entire audience spellbound.
Read aloud, Bathory's words possessed even more power than they'd had on the page, and they'd been evocative enough in print to give Diana nightmares. As she listened, he reached the climax of the story, the death of his hero. There was a moment of stunned silence in the crowd, followed by a smattering of shocked gasps and nervous, hastily m.u.f.fled t.i.tters. Into that highly charged atmosphere Damon Bathory spoke the last line of his text in a voice calculated to make the strongest man's blood run cold.
Since the spectators consisted primarily of young women, the effect was particularly successful, eliciting first horrified shrieks and then tumultuous applause. In the seat next to Diana, a girl of no more than sixteen sighed in ecstasy.
How many in the audience, Diana wondered, had come here solely to gawk at the man himself? This was the last night of the six he'd been scheduled to appear. Had word spread that it was worth the fifty-cent price of admission to sit in blackness and weave forbidden fantasies about a darkly handsome and charismatic artist?
Diana tugged off her suede gloves, shrugged out of her warm wool Ulster, and fumbled at her flat, beaded bag for one of the small notebooks she always carried. At the bottom, beneath her handkerchief, cab fare sufficient for a hansom, and an essence bottle, she unearthed a pencil. By the time Bathory launched into his second selection, her eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the auditorium. Long practice enabled her to write without much light.
”Smooth, cultured voice,” she scribbled, then paused to listen for any trace of regional accent. It was there, she decided, but never quite strong enough for her to place.
Setting that small puzzle aside, she concentrated on the text of his presentation. He wove a powerful spell with words and voice. She was no more immune to it than the other women in the audience.
As the evening wore on, Diana despaired of ever being able to convey to her readers even a fraction of the primordial feelings Bathory's words evoked. His use of metaphor and symbolism made her think her own writing style pallid in comparison. And how could she possibly do justice to a description of the atmosphere of subtle, sensual menace emanating from the stage?
As a performer he was very good. With his voice alone he made her believe in eternal h.e.l.lfire. Many an actor would envy him its resonance. They'd kill for his consummate skill at evoking a mood.
Diana had never enjoyed grim and distressing subject matter, but when Damon Bathory began his last selection, ”The Tale of the Blood Countess,” she could not help herself. There was an undeniable attraction about the thrill of being safely frightened. A delicious, antic.i.p.atory shudder raced through her.
When Damon Bathory reached the end of the story, lights came up in the hall. Some members of the audience departed at once, struggling into coats and chattering among themselves as they headed for the doors at the back. But several of the sweet young things who'd flocked to the reading, and a few who were neither sweet nor young, surged forward to accost the performer before he could escape backstage.
Noting the strained smile on Bathory's face, Diana felt a moment's sympathy. He played the role of famous writer well, answering all but the most inane of questions. He evaded those while modestly acknowledging the praise the women wished to heap upon him. At one point he had to politely dislodge the clinging hand of a particularly eager young female from his forearm.
Head bent to hide her smile, Diana scribbled a few final comments into her notebook while he dealt with the remaining fans. When all but the last two had left, she stood, collected her coat and gloves, and started towards the stage.
At first, Ben Northcote gleaned only a general impression of the woman moving gracefully down the aisle. She wore a pleasing costume in navy blue trimmed with embroidery and cut-work. The small bustle on her round skirt bounced as she walked, lending a certain jauntiness to her progress.
As she came closer, Ben's gaze slid upward. Her hat, a spot of color in red felt trimmed with red velvet, sported several feathers that drooped low enough to conceal her features until she was right in front of him. At last she looked at him, and he discerned wide-s.p.a.ced, bright blue eyes and a pert little nose. The slightly square shape of her face gave it character, rendering her handsome rather than pretty. What little he could see of her thick, mahogany-colored hair -- a strand had come loose from confinement beneath her hat -- softened the effect and brought out the likeness to gardenia petals in her complexion.
She waited until they were alone before she stepped onto the stage and addressed him. She'd clearly been taking his measure while he had taken hers. When she gave him a tentative smile and thrust out a hand, he took it and shook it without hesitation, just as if she were a man.
”Good evening, Mr. Bathory. My name is Mrs. Evan Spaulding. I write a column called 'Today's Tidbits' for the Independent Intelligencer.”
Ben dropped her hand as if he had been burnt. He made it his practice to read all the local newspapers. ”Today's Tidbits” was written in epistle style and enlivened by personal asides. The previous Friday, the columnist had skewered Tales of Terror, but it was not that unsigned review alone which made Ben wary. Monday's column had left a sour taste in his mouth. In that one she'd not only dissected a new production of an old play but the private business of the actresses in the cast as well.
”I realize this was the last of your public readings here in New York,” Mrs. Spaulding went on, the deepening pink stain in her cheeks the only indication that she might have guessed his thoughts, ”but I am sure you can have no objection to more publicity. Booksellers still stock your t.i.tles. You -- ”
”Sales are quite brisk, Mrs. Spaulding, and I've no desire to answer impertinent questions about my personal life.”
Although she winced at his curt tone, she did not give up. ”Would you rather I speculate?” She was nothing if not persistent. ”Be a.s.sured, Mr. Bathory, your name will appear in my column again whether you agree to an interview or not.”
”Indeed? Do you mean to drop hints to the public about my bedroom scenes?”
This second, more pointed reference to Monday's column brought another, darker rush of color to her cheeks. ”I have read The Curse of Hannah Sussep, or The Indian Witch and I mean to evaluate it for the benefit of my readers.” An involuntary moue of distaste accompanied this announcement.
Her critique would not be favorable, Ben concluded. The lady did not care for horror stories. Truthfully, he could not blame her, although he had no intention of voicing that opinion. Some of the Damon Bathory tales made even him queasy, and he was no stranger to spilled blood or grievous wounds.
”You surprise me, madam,” he said instead. ”What need have you to write this review when less than a week ago you gave yourself free rein to criticize other works by Damon Bathory?”
”It is my job to comment on all current books and plays.” Stiff of speech, standing erect, her chin stuck out at a belligerent angle, she was an irresistible target.
”Will my reading tonight be covered in your critique?”
”Why else should I have come?”
He met that response with a sardonic lift of one brow, a gesture that produced another frown from his attractive adversary.
”I will write about what I saw and heard,” she said, but he noted that her voice was not completely steady.
He knew the effect Damon Bathory had on women. During a performance he could not see his audience, and he had decided early in his four-month tour that this was a good thing. It was disconcerting enough afterwards, when the harpies descended upon him, clamoring for attention, craving a word, a smile ... a fright to tell their friends about. Doing readings in every major city in America had become more of a burden than he'd ever antic.i.p.ated when he'd agreed to the endeavor. That his readings were so popular with females of all ages never failed to amaze him.
”Far be it from me to stand in the way of freedom of the press,” he said now, to this one. ”I am merely curious when I ask this: do you mean to be equally fair-minded this time?”
Already defensive, she went rigid at his sarcastic tone. ”I will be honest,” she said through clenched teeth, ”as I always strive to be. It is not only my right but my duty to express a negative opinion if I have one.”
Ben watched her, reluctantly fascinated, as she visibly fought for control of her temper. He wondered if she was counting to ten. More likely to twenty, he decided as the silence lengthened between them. Both her tone and her words surprised him when she finally spoke.
”The books are not badly written.”
”How gratifying to be d.a.m.ned with faint praise.”
”You write too well. The images you evoke are dreadful to contemplate. All else aside, was it necessary to end with a bloodbath? In spite of myself, I came to like your half-mad heroine. I sympathized with her plight and hoped for her recovery. There was no warning before she and most of her family were brutally slaughtered. How can you expect me to recommend such a terrible story to my readers?”