Blood Sisters_ Vampire Stories by Women - Paula Guran Page 0,59

went home in thirty-one; Madelaine might have mentioned it.”

“Yes,” Saint-Germain said as he poked at the pine log; it crackled and its sap ran and popped on the dry bark.

“It was supposed to be earlier, but what with the Crash, they weren’t in any hurry to bring one more hungry reporter back to Saint Louis. So Crandell—he was my boss then—extended my assignment and when he died. Sonderson, who replaced him, gave me another eighteen months before asking me to come back. It was strange, being back in the States after more than thirteen years in Europe. You think you know how you’ll feel, but you don’t. You think it will be familiar and cozy, but it isn’t. I felt damn-all odd, I can tell you. People on the street looked so—out of place. Of course the Depression was wrecking everything in the cities, but it was not only that. What worried me was hearing the same old platitudes everyone had been using in 1916. I couldn’t believe it. With everything that had happened there was no comprehension that the world had changed. It was so different, in a way that was so complete that there was nothing the change did not touch. People kept talking about getting back to the old ways without understanding that they could not do that ever again …”

“They never can,” Saint-Germain interjected softly. He was seated once again in the high-backed overstuffed chair.

“… no matter what.” He broke off. “Maybe you’re right,” he concluded lamely, and stared at the fire. “I’ve been cold.”

“In time you will be warm again, Mister Tree,” Saint-Germain said, and rose to pick up a silver bell lying on the table beside his violin case. “Would you like to lie down? You could use rest, Mister Tree.” His manner was impeccably polite but James sensed that he would do well to cooperate with the suggestion.

“Sure,” was James’ quiet response. “Sure, why not.”

“Excellent, Mister Tree.” He rang the bell, and within two minutes a sandy-haired man of middle height, middle build, and middle age came into the room. “Roger, this is Madelaine’s great good friend, James Emmerson Tree. He has gone through an … ordeal.” One of Saint-Germain’s brows rose sharply and Roger recognized it for the signal it was.

“How difficult for him,” Roger said in a neutral voice. “Mister Tree, if you will let me attend to you …”

James shook his head. “I can manage for myself,” he said, not at all sure that he could.

“Nonetheless, you will permit Roger to assist you. And when you have somewhat recovered, we will attend to the rest of it.”

“The rest of it?” James echoed as he got out of the chair, feeling horribly grateful for Roger’s proffered arm.

“Yes, Mister Tree, the rest of it.” He smiled his encouragement but there was little amusement in his countenance.

“Yeah, I guess,” James responded vaguely, and allowed himself to be guided into the dark hallway.

The bathroom was as he remembered it—large, white tiled and old fashioned. The tub stood on gilt crocodile feet and featured elaborate fixtures of the sort that had been in vogue eighty years before. James regarded it affectionately while Roger helped take off his damaged clothing. “I’ve always liked that tub,” he said when he was almost naked. “It is something of a museum piece,” Roger said, and James was free to assume he agreed.

The water billowed out of the taps steaming, but James looked at it with an unexpected disquiet. He was filthy, his muscles were stiff and sore, and there were other hurts on his body he thought would welcome the water, but at the last moment he hesitated, suppressing a kind of vertigo. With care, he steadied himself with one hand and said to Roger, who was leaving the room, “I’m worn out, that’s what it is.”

“Very likely,” the manservant said in a neutral tone before closing the door.

As he stretched out in the tub, the anticipated relaxation did not quite happen. James felt his stiff back relax, but not to the point of letting him doze. He dismissed this as part of the aches and hurts that racked him. When he had washed away the worst of the grime, he looked over the damage he had sustained when he was thrown from the jeep. There was a deep weal down the inside of his arm. “Christ!” James muttered when he saw it, thinking he must have bled more than he had thought. Another deep cut on his thigh