“Marguerite!” The voice was weak but insistent. Roxton lay feverish on his bed. “He can’t have her.”

“Easy, John.” Summerlee’s voice was firm but comforting. “She’s fine, safe.” The older man emphasized the last word. “She’ll be back in a minute.”

His words must have sunk in because Roxton lay still and quiet for a moment.

Marguerite had just left the hunter to wash up. She’d spent the day in the sickroom again, just as she had these past three days. Her presence seemed to keep the hunter calm.

“No! Not Marguerite!” Roxton tried again to raise himself off the bed. Summerlee pushed his shoulders back to the bed. It was a measure of how much the fever had drained the hunter that the elderly scientist was able to succeed. At that moment the scientist caught sight of a bit of movement at his side. The hunter’s hand was taken in the firm grasp of two feminine hands.

“It’s all right, John. You saved me.” At the soft tones, Roxton settled back down but his hand held hers in a surprisingly firm grip. Marguerite turned her attention to Summerlee, a question in her eyes. The past forty-eight hours the hunter had been raving. She wasn’t sure how much more to expect. Weariness was compounded by worry.

“It’s not surprising that he’s so agitated. Not only is he contending with the fever, but also with the worries he had over our safety.” Summerlee smiled wryly. “You two are very much alike, you know.”

Marguerite lifted her brows in inquiry.

“He stayed by your side when you were ill. You called to him.”

Marguerite concentrated on brushing the hair from Roxton’s forehead, not wanting to meet Summerlee’s eyes. She smiled softly at the features now relaxed in a restful sleep.

“It’s good that you’re here for him,” Summerlee remarked approvingly.

“I haven’t done him any favours.” A trace of bitterness colored her words as she thought of how she had been used to manipulate the hunter by that damned Count, and in the past by other villains they’d encountered. She remembered how he once said he was ‘a trifle weary of having every lunatic on the plateau put a gun to her head or a knife to her throat’.

Summerlee studied her for a moment. Seemingly at random he spoke. “Did I ever tell you about a conversation I had with Roxton as we hacked our way through the Amazon jungle?”

Marguerite shook her head, her attention devoted to their patient.

“We knew the cannibals were nearby. I was horrified to see John rubbing his face and arms with a poisonous plant. I couldn’t understand how it would prevent a cannibal from eating him. He told me that it wouldn’t, but would ruin his appetite.”

Marguerite smiled at the still form in the bed.

“I was dumbfounded that he didn’t care if he was eaten, just that he would have some form of revenge.” The white haired scientist paused for a moment.

“That’s so like him, daring fate, reckless with his own life.” Marguerite’s tone was rueful.

“He’s not like that now. Now he has something to live for.” Summerlee studied the most enigmatic member of their disparate band.

Marguerite understood Summerlee’s intent, but said nothing to him. She busied herself sponging the brow of her patient with her free hand. But in her mind was thought that she was living for the moment, with no promise of tomorrow. What was fine for the plateau was one thing. London, well that was another matter. She’d keep her own counsel on the future, but she consoled herself, at least she’d enjoy what she’d been given in the here and now.

Summerlee assessed the pair. Challenger might be the visionary, the brilliant scientist, but Summerlee knew people just as well as he knew plants. As far as he could tell, on or off the plateau these two would need each other, but he mused, “Perhaps Marguerite isn’t ready to acknowledge that.” He stood slowly and patted her shoulder. “No sense borrowing trouble, it gets here on its own quickly enough. And there’s no telling what tomorrow has in store.”

Marguerite’s face softened as she remembered Roxton’s voice telling her the “future is always up for grabs”.

Summerlee, wise in the ways of people, didn’t look for a direct answer from Marguerite, but touched the hand that was still held in Roxton’s grip and left, turning back at the doorway. “Call me if you need me.”

Marguerite nodded.

***

Summerlee made his way to the balcony. He knew he’d find it occupied, as he had so often these past few days. He had another casualty from their encounter with the Count to try and heal.

Veronica stood next to the easel holding the painting of the “Dancing Dolls”. Her finger traced the outline of the yellow flowers, but her attention wasn’t focused on the illustration. Her face was sad and brooding. A frown had become her accustomed expression these past days.

“It really is a most delightful painting,” Summerlee remarked casually.

The statement didn’t cheer up the jungle girl. “How could I have fallen for such a fraud? How could I have brought him here?” She really didn’t expect an answer. There was more self-reproach in her voice than a request for an explanation.

Naturally Summerlee didn’t respond to that directly.

“Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about when we first came to the plateau.” Summerlee pulled his pipe out and began packing it. Veronica was drawn out of her introspection by the unexpectedness of the elderly botanist’s words. Summerlee continued as he patted his pockets for a match. “We were such a incongruous bunch. Each bent on charting our own course, focused on our own concerns.” He found a match and struck it. He was quiet for a moment or two as he created sufficient draw to start the tobacco smoldering. His eyes looked back into the past. “Did you ever think what might have happened to us if you hadn’t take a chance on us? On trusting us?”

Mutely, Veronica shook her head.

“It took us a long time to learn to work together, to depend on each other. If you hadn’t taken us in, well, who knows if we would have survived long enough to learn.” The white haired Englishman seemed to be considering the idea as he savored the aromatic tobacco. “We were fortunate that you took the risk with us.” Summerlee puffed on his pipe a bit more.

“It was a good thing I took the risk.” The furrows in Veronica’s brow smoothed a bit as she considered the past. There had been no assurances that those strangers she’d taken in would be worth the chance she was taking. At times early on in the explorers’ stay she was sure she’d made a huge mistake. She now thought of that time as a birth of a new family. And like all births it had been painful and messy, and well worth the effort.

“Indeed, it certainly was a good thing for us.” Summerlee agreed readily.

Veronica smiled. “And for me.” Touching his arm, she learned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Professor.”

She walked back to the treehouse, more liveliness to her step than there had been these past few days. Summerlee settled himself into a chair and leaned back so he could enjoy his pipe as he watched the sunset.

***

The treehouse was dark, only a single candle cast a glow in Roxton’s room. The extra cot that had been brought in was unoccupied. Marguerite curled in the chair next to the bed, dozing lightly, her hand still curled in the hunter’s fever warmed hand. Roxton shifted in bed, his movement disturbing the now loosely clasped hands.

“John?” Marguerite roused, murmuring softly. She felt his forehead. The fever was no worse, but it hadn’t gone down much either.

His eyes fluttered open, he tried for a smile with little success.

“Rest.” Marguerite wrung out a cloth and sponged his head and face again.

“This isn’t much of a holiday.” Roxton’s voice was steady if not strong, but Marguerite noted, no longer delirious. It was a hopeful sign that he was now on the road to recovery. Evidently Summerlee had been right and that bloody psychic vampire had at least drained away some of the effects of the fever in his attack on Roxton.

“Oh, don’t think you’re off the hook, Lord Roxton.” Marguerite refreshed the cloth before she sponged his hands. She knew the teasing would keep his spirits up. “You promised me the south of France.”

Roxton’s smile was a bit more successful this time. “And I have just the place in mind. It’s nearly the same.”

“On the plateau, ‘nearly’ is good enough, I suppose.” Marguerite sounded amused as she poured some water into a glass for her patient. “Challenger left this for you.” She picked up a draught that looked like it tasted vile and brought it to the hunter’s mouth. His hand stopped her from putting the cup to his lips.

“So you’ll go with me?” Roxton bargained. He knew he had to take advantage of the situation.

“Not until you’re well.” Marguerite tried to push the cup to his lips again.

“I have your word.” Roxton stubbornly held out.

“Yes, I’ll go with you. But not, I repeat, not until you’re completely well.” Marguerite would have promised him anything to get him to drink the medicine.

Roxton grinned, very much in his usual manner, but it soon changed to a grimace as he choked down Challenger’s concoction.

***
<some days later>

The dark haired couple hiked a slightly different route than usual to the Inland Sea.

“Are you sure that fever didn’t addle your memory, Roxton? We usually take that fork back there towards the sea.”

“Patience.” Roxton grinned. Patience wasn’t Marguerite’s stock in trade in most circumstances on the plateau. “You’ll see.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” But Marguerite’s words were quietly spoken to herself. She watched the hunter carefully, worried that he might overdo this first excursion from the treehouse.

A half mile further and the path inclined upwards. To Marguerite’s eyes Roxton was looking a bit paler than she liked. Then he paused as the trees gave way to a meadow. His sudden stop had caught her off guard. She reached out to steady him afraid that he’d grown lightheaded. She grasped his arm just below the elbow with one hand, the other arm looped about his waist. She braced herself to bear more of his weight.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, enjoying her protective actions. “What are you going to do if I faint? Carry me?”

“It’s either that or leave you for the raptors.” Marguerite’s tart tone informed him she’d consider both possibilities. She was reassured by his look that he was still doing fine although she tried not to let her relief seem too obvious. She let her arm drop away.

“As much as I’d like to see you try to haul me about, I don’t think we’ll need to put it to the test. We’re here.” He gestured with his right hand, grasping her hand in his left one.

Marguerite caught her breath at the beauty of the flower filled scene. The riotous colors and the aromatic breeze combined to form a beckoning paradise. The meadow tapered down towards the sands of the Inland Sea.

Roxton tugged her forward towards a sheltered spot. A glance about assured him that he’d have sufficient warning there of intruders, whether human or animal. He pulled out a blanket to spread upon the soft grass. He anchored one corner with his rucksack and gestured at Marguerite to do the same.

“Ready for lunch?” Marguerite asked as she turned to pull provisions from their packs as her companion stretched out on the blanket.

“I am hungry.” Roxton commented with a smile and a lift of his eyebrows. The hunter caught her hand and drew her down onto the blanket.

***

The flowers bowed slightly as the breeze wafted their gentle fragrance across the meadow to where the couple lay enjoying the warmth of the day. Clad only in his khakis, he lay with his head propped on one elbow watching the woman beside him. She lay close beside him, wearing only camisole and skirt. He was idly tangling his fingers through the dark hair that was spread out on the blanket. She wore a pleased smile at his attentions.

Eyes closed she remarked as she inhaled the glorious scent of the flowers, “So this is your idea of Côte d’Azur.”

“I thought the resemblance was there.” He closed his own eyes and enjoyed the sweet aroma. Then he glanced at his companion, “A perfect meadow and a beautiful woman. What more could you want.”

“Waiters scurrying to and fro with extra dry martinis, anxious to do my bidding,” Marguerite remarked reminiscently, but not really unhappily.

“But here there are no crowds of people preventing me from this,” Roxton commented as his callused finger idly traced the soft skin at edge of her camisole from the shoulder down to the curve across her chest. She caught his hand.

“I thought you said you were hungry earlier.” Marguerite remarked playfully.

“I did. I just never said it was for food.” His hand returned to its prior occupation. She shivered.

“You have recovered.” Marguerite’s voice was meaningful as her eyes gleamed wickedly. Then she returned the favor by tracing the muscles of his bare chest. It was his turn to for a sharp intake of air.

“It must be your excellent nursing.” He bent his head and nipped at her neck. “I think it’s time for another dose of medicine.”

Breathless, Marguerite remarked, “If I must, I must. Anything to help you recover….” She tugged his head down for a kiss.

Roxton lifted his head after a few moments. “I’m feeling better already.”

“You’re sure this isn’t just an attempt to distract me because you forgot to pack a lunch?” Despite her teasing words Marguerite didn’t seem all that interested in food as her hands wandered.

The hunter defended himself playfully as he enjoyed the sensations her touch sparked. “It’s all there, bread, cheese, wine.” Roxton’s breath caught as she found the sensitive spot on his ribs. He smiled significantly as he added, “And I remembered the grapes, this time.”

Their intimate laughter mingled in the warm afternoon air.

finis

Author’s Notes:

Inspiration for Sándor’s unique abilities came not from Bram Stoker, despite the nod given to him in this story, but rather from a sci-fi/fantasy story by Simon R. Green. I changed the character’s motivations and weaknesses to fit the constraints of my story.

Information on field dressing game birds and preparation of them came from The Joy of Cooking, January, 1973.

The poem that Roxton quotes to Marguerite is Song by John Donne.

The complete text can be found at: http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/sweetest.htm

The choice of this poem was dictated by two considerations. One is that we’ve had examples of Roxton quoting Donne before, specifically in End Game. Secondly, the sentiment in the section I quoted reflected what Roxton tells Death he’d do if Marguerite was taken from him. He’d “go on living just to keep the memory of her alive.” I suspect he’d want her to do the same.

In Pirate’s Curse Malone credits Veronica with teaching him how to throw the knife, so it made sense to me that they probably did some target practice.

Transylvania post WWI – My gratitude to CMS, Ariadne and Santa Crux for their help in keeping me from a misstep over Transylvania’s status. CMS drew my attention to the issue. Ariadne explained the cultural ties, and Santa Crux has tons of documentation that she shared. This was also complicated in that in 1923 (the setting of the story) the situation in Europe would not be known to the explorers. They would only have knowledge of the events before they left for the plateau in 1919.

Some of the info Santa Crux shared with me: After Treaty of Trianon 1920, Transylvania was in Romania. The Treaty of Versailles was signed 28 June 1919 and all the bigwigs (Lloyd George, W Wilson, Clemenceau) went home. The other treaties were settled by the lesser lights after that and the media coverage in England would have been much reduced.  The Hungarian rebellion (Bela Kun) happened 21 March 1919, the Romanian occupation took place after that. The Treaty of Trianon was signed 4 June 1920. At that time there were a lot of treaties being signed, new states being created, ethnic unrest etc.

Santa Crux credits her source as: The Oxford Illustrated History of WWI ed Hew Strachan 1998.

My thanks to CMS and Lisa Paris for their assistance on the Magyars. I was unsure as to whether Roxton and Marguerite would recognize the connection to Hungary. The background they gave me assured me they would. Again another misstep adverted.

So what mysterious illness did Marguerite and Challenger have? I decided on a variation of the “Pharaoh’s curse”. It’s been speculated that when ancient Egyptian tombs were opened a mold infected those who entered too quickly before the ‘bad air’ had a chance to escape. The illness was frequently deadly. The coincidence of the illness to those who entered the tomb led to speculation that there was a curse on those who entered the tombs of the Pharaohs. Also after some research I found out that the Grooved Ware People’s burial urns sometimes contained black henbane, which is not only a poison, but a powerful hallucinogen. Gives you a whole new perspective on the episode Suspicion, doesn’t it?

Oíche Shamhna or Samhuinn is Gaelic for Samhain, a Wicca festival that coincides with a more well know day, Halloween. It seemed an appropriate feast day to be celebrating when a psychic vampire shows up.

Hungarian words
Hölgay means lady
Drágám means my dear

I hope this was as enjoyable to read as it was to write.