“Very perceptive, Captain Marsh,” Valerie said from the darkness. “I bear you no malice, but Joshua must not be harmed.”
Marsh snorted. “See what I mean? That ain’t trust. We ain’t partners on this steamer no more. Things are too goddamned uneven. You can kill me any damn time you want. I got to behave myself or else I’m dead. The way I see it, that makes me a slave, not no partner. I’m alone, too. You got all your damn blood-drinkin’ friends aboard to help you out if there’s trouble. God knows what you’re plannin’, you sure don’t tell me. But I can’t talk to nobody, you say. Hell, Joshua, maybe you ought to kill me right now. I don’t think I like this here kind of partnership.”
Joshua York considered that in silence for a time. Then he said, “Very well. I see your point. What would you have me do to demonstrate my trust?”
“For a start,” said Marsh, “supposin’ I wanted to kill you. How would I go about it?”
“No!” Valerie cried in alarm. Marsh heard her footsteps as she moved toward Joshua. “You can’t tell him that. You don’t know what he’s planning, Joshua. Why would he ask that if he didn’t intend to—”
“To make us even,” Joshua said softly. “I understand him, Valerie, and it is a risk we must take.” She started to plead again, but Joshua hushed her and said to Marsh, “Fire will do it. Drowning. With a gun, aim for the head. Our brains are vulnerable. A shot through the skull would kill me, while a shot to the heart would only knock me down until I healed. The legends are accurate in one respect. If you cut off our heads and hammer a stake through our hearts, we die.” He gave a raspy chuckle. “One of your kind would do the same, I think. The sun can be deadly as well, as you have seen. The rest, the silver and garlic, that is all nonsense.”
Abner Marsh let out his breath noisily, scarcely aware he’d been holding it. “Boil me for an egg,” he said.
“Satisfied?” York asked.
“Almost,” Marsh said. “One more thing.”
A match scratched against leather, and suddenly a little dancing flame burned in York’s cupped palm. He touched it to an oil lamp so the flame crept across to the wick, and a dusky yellow illumination filled the cabin. “There,” Joshua said, extinguishing the match with a wave of his hand. “Better, Abner? More even? Partnership demands a little light, don’t you think? So we can look each other in the eye.”
Abner Marsh found he was blinking back tears; after so long in darkness, even a little light seemed terribly bright. But the room looked larger now, the terror and the suffocating closeness of it melted away. Joshua York was regarding Marsh calmly. His face was covered with husks of dry, dead skin. When he smiled, one crackled and flaked away. His lips were still puffy and he looked as though he had two black eyes, but the burns and blisters were all but gone. The change was astonishing. “What is this other thing, then, Abner?”
Marsh took York at his word and looked him straight in the eye. “I ain’t goin’ to go this alone,” he said. “I’m goin’ to tell . . .”
“No,” Valerie said, from where she stood by Joshua’s side. “One is bad enough, we can’t let him spread this. They’ll kill us.”
“Hell, woman, I wasn’t figurin’ on putting’ no advertisement in the True Delta, you know.”
Joshua steepled his fingers and regarded Marsh thoughtfully. “Just what were you figuring then, Abner?”
“One or two people,” Marsh said. “I ain’t the only one who’s been suspicious, you know. And it could be you’ll need more help than I can give you. I’ll only talk to them I know I can trust. Hairy Mike, for one. And Mister Jeffers, he’s damn smart and he’s already been wonderin’ over you. The rest don’t need to know. Mister Albright is a mite too prim and godly to hear all this, and if you told Mister Framm it’d be all over the river inside of a week. The whole damn texas could burn off without Whitey Blake noticin’, so long as his engines weren’t bothered none. But Jeffers and Hairy Mike, they ought to know. They’re good men, and you may need ’em.”
“Need them?” Joshua said. “How is that, Abner?”
“What if one of your folks don’t fancy that drink of yours?”
Joshua York’s genial smile vanished abruptly. He stood up, walked across the cabin, and poured himself a drink: whiskey, neat. When he turned back he was still frowning. “Perhaps,” he said. “I need to think on this. If they can truly be trusted . . . I have certain misgivings about the trip down the bayou.”
For once, Valerie did not utter the expected protest. Marsh glanced at her, and saw that her lips were pressed tightly together, and in her eyes was something that might just have been the beginnings of fear. “What’s wrong?” Marsh said. “Both of you look . . . queer.”
Valerie’s head snapped up. “Him,” she said. “I asked you to turn back upriver. I would ask it again, if I thought either of you might listen. He is down there at Cypress Landing.”
“Who?” Marsh asked, baffled.
“A bloodmaster,” Joshua said. “Abner, understand that all my kind do not think as I do. Even among my own followers, well, Simon is loyal, Smith and Brown are passive, but Katherine—from the very beginning, I have felt the resentment in her. I think there is a darkness at the center of her, something that prefers the old ways, that grieves for the ship she missed and chafes under my domination. She obeys because she must. I am bloodmaster. But she does not like it. And the others, those we have taken aboard on the river—I am not sure of them. Except for Valerie and Jean Ardant, I trust none of them fully. Remember your warnings to me about Raymond Ortega? I share your misgivings about him. Valerie means nothing to him, so you were wrong in thinking jealousy a motive, yet otherwise right. To bring Raymond aboard at Natchez, I had to conquer him, as I conquered Simon so long ago in the Carpathians. With Cara de Gruy and Vincent Thibaut, there were other struggles. Now they follow me, because they must. It is the way of my people. Yet I wonder if some of them, at least, are not waiting. Waiting to see what will happen when the Fevre Dream steams down the bayou, and I come face to face with he who was master of them all.
“Valerie has told me much of him. He is old, Abner. Older than Simon or Katherine, older than any of us. His age itself disturbs me. Now he calls himself Damon Julian, but before that name he was Giles Lamont, the same Giles Lamont whom that wretched mulatto served for thirty futile years. I am told he has another human thrall now—”
“Sour Billy Tipton,” Valerie said with loathing.
“Valerie is afraid of this Julian,” Joshua York said. “The others also speak of him with fear, but sometimes with a certain loyalty as well. As bloodmaster, he took care of them. He gave them sanctuary, wealth, and feasts. They feasted on slaves. No wonder he chose to settle where he did.”
Valerie shook her head. “Leave him, Joshua. Please. For me, if for no other reason. Damon will not welcome your coming, will not cherish the freedom you bring.”
Joshua scowled in annoyance. “He still has others of our people with him. Would you have me abandon them as well? No. And you may be wrong about Julian. He has been in the grip of the red thirst for uncounted centuries, and I can soothe that fever.”
Valerie crossed her arms, her violet eyes furious. “And if he will not be soothed? You do not know him, Joshua.”
“He is educated, intelligent, cultured, a lover of beauty,” York said stubbornly. “You said as much.”
“He is strong as well.”
“As with Simon, and Raymond, and Cara. They follow me now.”
“Damon is different,” Valerie insisted. “It is not the same!”
Joshua York made an impatient gesture. “It makes no difference. I will control him.”
Abner Marsh had watched them argue in thoughtful silence, but now he spoke up. “Joshua’s right,” he said to Valerie. “Hell, I looked in his eyes once or twice myself, and he nearly busted every bone in my hand the first time we shook. Besides, what was it you called him? A king?”
“Yes,” Valerie admitted. “The pale king.”
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“Well, if he’s this pale king of yours, it stands to reason that he’s got to win, don’t it?”
Valerie glanced from Marsh to York and back again. Then she trembled. “You haven’t seen him, either of you.” She hesitated a moment, tossed her dark hair back with a pale slender hand, and faced Abner Marsh squarely. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Captain Marsh. I do not have Joshua’s strength, nor his trust. I have been ruled by the red thirst for half a century. Your people were my prey. You cannot befriend your prey. You cannot. You cannot trust them either. That was why I urged Joshua to kill you. You cannot just cast aside the cautions of a lifetime. Do you understand?”
Abner Marsh nodded warily.
“I am still uncertain,” Valerie continued, “but Joshua has been showing us many new things, and I am willing to admit that perhaps you can be trusted. Perhaps.” She scowled fiercely. “But whether or not I was wrong about you, I am right about Damon Julian!”
Abner Marsh frowned, not knowing what to say. Joshua reached out and took Valerie’s hand in his own. “I think you are wrong to be so fearful,” he said. “But for your sake, I will move with all caution. Abner, do as you wish, tell Mister Jeffers and Mister Dunne. It will be good to have their help if Valerie is right. Choose the men for a special watch, and let the rest ashore. When the Fevre Dream steams up the bayou, I want her manned only by our best and most reliable, the bare minimum needed to run her. No religious fanatics, no one who is easily frightened, no one prone to rashness.”
“Hairy Mike and I will do the pickin’,” Marsh said.
“I will meet Julian on my own steamer, in my own time, with you and the best of your men behind me. Be careful how you tell Jeffers and Dunne. It must be done correctly.” He looked at Valerie. “Satisfied?”
“No,” she said.
Joshua smiled. “I can do no more.” He looked back at Abner Marsh. “Abner, I am glad you are not my enemy. I am close now, my dreams at hand. In beating the red thirst, I had my first great triumph. I would like to think that here, tonight, you and I have fashioned a second, the beginning of friendship and trust between our races. The Fevre Dream will steam on the razor edge between night and day, banishing the specter of old fear wherever she goes. We will achieve great things together, friend.”
Marsh didn’t care overmuch for flowery talk, but Joshua’s passion reached him nonetheless and he gave a grudging smile. “Got a lot of work to do before we achieve any goddamned thing at all,” Marsh said, gathering up his walking stick and getting to his feet. “I’ll be goin’, then.”
“Fine,” Joshua said, smiling. “I will take my rest, and see you once again at twilight. Make certain the boat is ready to depart. We’ll get this done with as quickly as we can.”
“I’ll have our steam up,” Marsh said as he took his leave.
Outside, day had come.
It looked to be about nine, Abner Marsh thought as he stood blinking outside the captain’s cabin, after Joshua had locked the door behind him. The morning was dismal; hot and muggy, with a heavy gray overcast that hid the sun. Soot and smoke from steamers on the river hung in the air. There’s going to be a storm, Abner Marsh thought, and the prospect was one he found disheartening. He was suddenly aware of how little sleep he’d gotten, and felt inutterably tired, but there was so much to do that he dared not even consider a nap.
He descended to the main saloon, figuring that breakfast would give him some spirit. He drank a gallon of hot black coffee while Toby cooked him up some boiled beefcakes and waffles, with blueberries on the side. As he was eating, Jonathon Jeffers entered the saloon, saw him, and came striding over to the table.
“Sit down and eat somethin’,” Marsh said. “Want to have a long talk with you, Mister Jeffers. Not here, though. Better wait till I’m through and then go to my cabin.”
“Fine,” Jeffers replied, in a distracted sort of way. “Cap’n, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for hours. You weren’t in your cabin.”
“Joshua and I were chattin’,” Marsh said. “What . . . ?”
“There’s a man here to see you,” Jeffers said. “He came aboard in the middle of the night. He’s very insistent.”
“Don’t like to be kept around waitin’, like I’m some no-count trash,” the stranger said. Marsh hadn’t even seen the man enter. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the man pulled out a chair and sat down. He was an ugly, haggard-looking cuss, his long face cratered by the pox. Thin, limp brown hair hung down in strands across his forehead. His complexion was unhealthy, and patches of hair and skin were covered by scaly white flakes, like he’d been in his own private snowfall. Yet he wore an expensive black broadcloth suit, and a ruffled white shirtfront, and a cameo ring.
Abner Marsh didn’t care for his looks, his tone, the flat press of his lips, his ice-colored eyes. “Who the hell are you?” he said gruffly. “You better have a damn good reason for botherin’ me at breakfast, or I’ll have you chucked over the damn side.” Just saying so made Marsh feel somewhat better. He’d always figured there was no use being a steamboat captain if you couldn’t tell somebody to go to hell once in a while.
The stranger’s sour expression changed not a flicker, but he fixed his icy eyes on Marsh with a kind of smirking malice. “I’m goin’ to be takin’ passage on this fancy raft of yours.”
“The hell you are,” Marsh said.
“Shall I call Hairy Mike to deal with this ruffian?” Jeffers offered coolly.
The man looked at the clerk with brief contempt. His eyes moved back to Marsh. “Cap’n Marsh, I come last night to bring you an invite, for you and your partner. Figured one o’ you, at least, be out and about by night. Well, it’s day now, so it’ll have to be tonight instead. Dinner at the St. Louis, along about an hour past sunset, you and Cap’n York.”
“I don’t know you and I don’t care for you,” Marsh said. “I sure ain’t goin’ to have dinner with you. Besides, the Fevre Dream is steamin’ out tonight.”
“I know. Know where, too.”
Marsh frowned. “What are you sayin’?”
“You don’t know niggers, I can tell. Nigger hears somethin’, before long ever’ nigger in the city knows it. And me, I lissen good. You don’t want to take this big ol’ steamer of yours up the bayou to where you’re fixin’ to go. You’ll ground yourself for sure, maybe rip out your bottom. I can save you all the trouble. Y’see, the man you lookin’ for is right here waitin’ for you. So, when dark comes, you go tell that to your master, you hear? You tell him that Damon Julian is waiting for him at the St. Louis Hotel. Mister Julian is right eager to make his acquaintance.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
New Orleans,
August 1857
Sour Billy Tipton returned to the St. Louis Hotel that evening more than a little fearful. Julian would not like the message he carried from the Fevre Dream, and Julian was dangerous and unpredictable when displeased.
In the darkened parlor of their lavish suite, only a single small candle had been lighted. Its flame was reflected in Julian’s black eyes as he sat in the deep velvet chair near the window, sipping a sazerac. The room was full of silence. Sour Billy felt the weight of the stares upon him. The latch made a small, deadly snick when the door shut behind him. “Yes, Billy?” said Damon Julian, softly.
“They won’t come, Mister Julian,” Sour Billy said, a little too quickly, a little too breathlessly. In the dim light he could not see Julian’s reaction. “He says you got to come to him.”
“He says,” repeated Julian. “Who is he, Billy?”
“Him,” said Sour Billy. “The . . . the other bloodmaster. Joshua York, he calls hisself. The one that Raymond wrote you about. The other cap’n, Marsh, the fat one with the warts and the whiskers, he wouldn’t come neither. Damned rude, too. But I waited for dark, waited for the bloodmaster to get up. Finally they took me to ’im.” Sour Billy still felt cold, remembering the way that York’s gray, gray eyes had touched his own, and foun
d him wanting. There had been such bitter contempt there that Billy had wrenched his gaze away at once.
“Tell us, Billy,” said Damon Julian, “what is he like, this other? This Joshua York. This bloodmaster.”
“He’s . . .” Billy began, fumbling for words, “he’s . . . white, I mean, his skin and all is real pale, and his hair ain’t got no color in it. He even wore a white suit, like some kind of ha’nt. And silver, he wore lots of silver. The way he moves . . . like one of them damn Creoles, Mister Julian, high and lordly. He’s . . . he’s like you, Mister Julian. His eyes . . .”
“Pale and strong,” murmured Cynthia from the far corner of the room. “And with a wine that conquers the red thirst. Is he the one, Damon? He must be. It must be true. Valerie always believed the stories, and I mocked her for it, but it must be so. He will bring us all together, lead us back to the lost city, the dark city. Our kingdom, our own. It is true, isn’t it? He is bloodmaster of bloodmasters, the king we have waited for.” She looked at Damon Julian for an answer.
Damon Julian tasted his sazerac and smiled a sly, feline smile. “A king,” he mused. “And what did this king say to you, Billy? Tell us.”
“He said to come to the steamer, all of you. Tomorrow, after dark. For dinner, he said. Him and Marsh, they won’t come here, not like you wanted, alone. Marsh, he said that if they come to you it’s goin’ to be with others.”
“The king is strangely timid,” Julian commented.
“Kill him!” Sour Billy blurted suddenly. “Go to that damn boat and kill him, kill ’em all. He’s wrong, Mister Julian. His eyes, like some damn Creole, the way he looked at me. Like I was a bug, a no-count, even though I come from you. He thinks he’s better’n you, and them others, that warty cap’n and this damn clerk, all dandied up, let me cut him, bleed him some all over them fine clothes of his, you got to go kill him, you got to.”
The room was silent after Sour Billy’s outburst. Julian stared out the window, off into the night. The windows had been thrown wide, so the curtains stirred lazily in the night air and street noises drifted up from below. Julian’s eyes were dark, hooded, fixed on distant lights.