George Martin - Fevre Dream

“Where’s this Julian?” Tom Johnston growled.

“Soon, Tom,” said Sour Billy. “Wait.”

For nearly ten minutes no one spoke. Then Jim Johnston sucked in his breath. “Daddy,” he said, “look. Somebody’s standin’ in that door!”

The door led to the kitchen. It was black back there. Full night had fallen, and the only illumination in this part of the house was the oil lamp on the table. Beyond the kitchen door nothing could be seen but vague, threatening shadows-and something that looked like the outline of a human form, standing very still.

Lily whimpered, and the nigger Sam held her more closely. Tom Johnston got to his feet, his chair scraping over the wooden floor, his face hard. He drew and cocked his pistol. “Who’s that?” he demanded. “Come out!”

“No need to be alarmed,” said Damon Julian.

They all turned, Johnston jumping like he’d been spooked. Julian stood beneath the archway to the foyer, framed against darkness, smiling charmingly, dressed in a long dark suit with a red silk tie shining at his neck. His eyes were dark and amused, the flame of the lamp reflected in them. “That’s only Valerie,” Julian said.

With a rustle of her skirts, she emerged and stood in the kitchen door, pale and quiet yet still strikingly beautiful. Johnston looked at her and laughed. “Ah,” he said, “only a woman. Sorry, Mister Julian. Them nigger stories got me all jumpy.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Damon Julian.

“There’s others behind him,” Jim Johnston whispered. They all saw them now; dim figures, indistinct, lost in the darkness at Julian’s back.

“Only my friends,” said Damon Julian, smiling. A woman in a light blue gown emerged at his right. “Cynthia,” he said. Another woman, in green, stood to his left. “Adrienne,” Julian added. He raised his arm in a weary, languid gesture. “And that is Raymond, and Jean, and Kurt.” They emerged together, moving silent as cats, from other doors ringing the long room. “And behind you are Alain and Jorge and Vincent.”

Johnston whirled, and there they were, stepping out from the shadows. Still more came into view behind Julian himself. Except for the whisperings of cloth against cloth, none of them made any sound as they moved. And they all stared, and smiled invitingly.

Sour Billy wasn’t smiling, though he was vastly amused at the way Tom Johnston clutched his gun and cast his eyes about like a frightened animal. “Mister Julian,” he said, “I ought to tell you that Mister Johnston here don’t intend to be cheated. He’s got him a gun, Mister Julian, and his boy too, and they’re both handy with their knives.”

“Ah,” said Damon Julian.

The niggers began to pray. Young Jim Johnston looked at Damon Julian and drew his own pistol. “We brung you your niggers,” he said. “We won’t bother you for no reward, neither. We’ll jest be goin’.”

“Going?” Julian said. “Now, would I let you leave without a reward? When you’ve come all the way from Arkansas just to bring us a few darkies? I wouldn’t hear of it.” He crossed the room. Jim Johnston, caught in those dark eyes of his, held his pistol up and did not move. Julian took it from his hand and laid it on the table. He touched the youth’s cheek. “Beneath the dirt, you’re a handsome boy,” he said.

“What are you doin’ to my boy?” Tom Johnston demanded. “Get away from him!” He flourished his pistol.

Damon Julian glanced around. “Your boy has a certain rude beauty,” he said. “You, on the other hand, have a wart.”

“He is a wart,” Sour Billy Tipton suggested.

Tom Johnston glared and Damon Julian smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “Amusing, Billy.” Julian gestured to Valerie and Adrienne. They glided toward him, and each took young Jim Johnston by the arm.

“You want help?” Sour Billy offered.

“No,” said Julian, “thank you.” With a graceful, almost offhand gesture, he raised his hand and brought it lightly across the youth’s long neck. Jim Johnston made a wet, choking sound. A thin line of red suddenly appeared across his throat, a little looping scarlet necklace, whose bright red beads swelled larger and larger as they watched, bursting one by one to send trickles down his neck. Jim Johnston began to thrash, but the iron embrace of the two pale women held him immobile. Damon Julian leaned forward, and pressed his open mouth to the flow, to catch the hot bright blood.

Tom Johnston made an incoherent animal noise deep in his chest, and took the longest time to react. Finally he cocked his pistol again and took aim. Alain stepped in his path, and suddenly Vincent and Jean were beside him, and Raymond and Cynthia touched him from behind with cold white hands. Johnston cursed at them and fired. There was a flash and a whiff of acrid smoke, and weed-thin Alain staggered back and fell, driven by the force of the bullet. A flow of dark blood seeped through the white ruffled shirtfront he wore. Half-sprawled, half-seated, Alain touched his chest, and his hand came away bloody.

Raymond and Cynthia had Johnston firmly by then, and Jean took the gun from his hand with a smooth, easy motion. The big red-faced man did not resist. He was staring at Alain. The flow of blood had stopped. Alain smiled, showing long white teeth, terrible and sharp. He rose and came on. “No,” screamed Johnston, “no, I shot ya, you gotta be dead, I shot ya.”

“Niggers sometimes tell the truth, Mister Johnston,” said Sour Billy Tipton. “All the truth. You should of lissened.”

Raymond reached under Johnston’s slouchy hat and got a good grip on his hair, jerking his head back to expose his thick red neck. Alain laughed and tore Johnston’s throat out with his teeth. Then the others closed in.

Sour Billy Tipton reached back and pulled his knife and sauntered over to the two niggers. “Come on,” he said, “Mister Julian don’t need you tonight, but you two ain’t goin’ to be running off no more. Down to the cellar. Come on, be quick about it, or I’ll leave you here with them.” That got them moving right proper, as Sour Billy knew it would.

The cellar was small and dank. You had to go through a trap door under a rug to get to it. The land around here was too wet for a proper cellar, but this cellar wasn’t proper. Two inches of standing water covered the floor, the ceiling was so low a man couldn’t stand upright, and the walls were green with mold. Sour Billy chained the niggers up good, close enough so that they could touch. He figured that was real nice of him. He brought them a hot dinner, too.

Afterward he made his own dinner and washed it down with what was left of the second bottle of brandy the Johnstons had opened. He was just finishing up when Alain came into the kitchen. The blood had dried on his shirt and there was a burnt black hole where the shot had gone through, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear. “It’s finished,” Alain told him. “Julian wants you in the library.”

Sour Billy pushed away his plate and went to answer the summons. The dining room badly wanted cleaning, he noted when he passed through. Adrienne and Kurt and Armand were enjoying some wine amid the dim silence there, the bodies-or what was left of them-just feet away. Some of the others were off in the drawing room, talking.

The library was pitch dark. Sour Billy had expected to find Damon Julian alone, but when he entered he saw three indistinct figures in the shadows, two seated, one standing. He couldn’t make out who they were. He waited in the door until Julian finally spoke. “In the future, do not ever bring such people into my library,” the voice said. “They were filthy. They left a smell.”

Sour Billy felt a brief stab of fear. “Yes, sir,” he said, facing the chair from which Julian had spoken. “I’m sorry, Mister Julian.”