Sustenance: A Saint-Germain novel (St. Germain, 27)

The vampire Count Saint-Germain protects Americans fleeing persecution―and becomes trapped in a web of betrayal, deceit, and murder in post-WWII Europe in Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's SUSTENANCE The powerful House Un-American Activities Committee hunted communists both at home and abroad. In the late 1940s, the vampire Count Saint-Germain is caught up in intrigue surrounding a group of Americans who have fled to postwar Paris. Some speak out against HUAC and battle the authorities.Saint-Germain swears to do his best to protect his friends, but even his skills may not be able to stand against agents of the OSS and the brand-new CIA. And he has an unexpected weakness: his lover, Charis, who has returned to Paris under mysterious circumstances.

Publishers Weekly on Commedia della Morte

“The detailed historical knowledge characteristic of the series is evident, complemented by highly literate eroticism.”

Historical Novel Society on Commedia della Morte

“Rich descriptions and impeccable attention to historical detail.”

All Things Urban Fantasy

“A meticulous novel, An Embarrassment of Riches brought to mind an elaborate version of The Historian, told from the vampire's perspective. Despite the many books that have come before, Saint-Germain's perspective is easily accessible to a new reader. I had no difficulty feeling involved.”

Shelf Life on Borne in Blood

“You might compare Yarbro's style to Anne Rice in her vampire tales, where the plot is character driven. The book is intriguing.”

Midwest Book Review

“Chelsea Quinn Yarbro has created the most remarkable and original vampire since Bram Stoker's Dracula.”

Publishers Weekly on An Embarrassment of Riches

“Yarbro's compelling prose and meticulously researched setting combine effectively for a vivid historical tale.”

Booklist on An Embarrassment of Riches

“The characters are richly described and brought to life. The book's attention to details and development of characters make it a must-read.”

Peter Straub

“Quinn Yarbro is one of our finest writers and craftpersons, incapable of a slack paragraph, or a fuzzy thought. Everything is perfectly focused, everything is expertly accomplished. And the Count remains a vibrantly original character, one of the greatest contributions to the horror genre.”

Minneapolis Tribune

“These solidly researched novels show us a Saint-Germain who genuinely learns and grows from a fiend into a being of great gentleness, wisdom, and compassion. The series is probably the most sustained and impressive treatment to date of extreme longevity.”

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

SustenanceA Novel of the Count Saint-GermainBy Chelsea Quinn YarbroTom Doherty AssociatesCopyright © 2014 Chelsea Quinn YarbroAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-7653-3401-5ContentsTitle Page, Copyright Notice, Dedication, Author's Note, Part One: Charis Lundquist Treat, Part Two: The Ex-Pats' Coven, Part Three: Lydell Gerold Broadstreet, Part Four: Ragoczy Ferenz Grof Szent-Germain, Epilogue, By Chelsea Quinn Yarbro from Tom Doherty Associates, About the Author, Copyright, CHAPTER 1It was one of those probably nothing noises, a sound that was part scrape, part yowl, a bit sneaky, and it brought Charis Treat abruptly awake, her pulse racing, words whispering out of her at machine-gun speed. "It was a tree branch, or an angry cat, or something at the docks, or—" Or anything but the CIA bugging her Copenhagen hotel room. She sat up in bed, holding the pillow in front of her like a shield. Striving to separate herself from the fear that made her hands shake, she used her most reasonable lecture voice: "You're in ..." It took her a couple of seconds to remember. "You're in Denmark, not Louisiana. You don't have to worry about the Committee, not here." Her voice was louder now, and she was breathing more normally. She forced herself to yawn, not very successfully, then she got up and went to the cramped bathroom, where she took a second phenobarbital and an aspirin, used the toilet, and went back to bed. Her alarm clock on the night-stand told her it was four-thirty-seven. "Damn," she muttered. She would need to get back to sleep quickly if she were going to have sufficient rest when her breakfast tray arrived at six-forty-five. If only she did not have to be off for her interview by seven-thirty. She sighed and got slowly back into bed, ordering herself not to stare at the ceiling, trying to imagine what Harold and the kids were doing; that was something she would find out later. It would be a mistake, she thought, to go to her interview overcome by melancholy. "Be sensible. They're fast asleep," she told herself aloud. "Just as you should be, Charis." She often lectured herself sternly in the waning hours of the night, had done so since she was in grammar school. Now she leaned back and rested her head on the goose-down pillow, willing herself to sleep.After nearly an hour of watching the shadow-pattern of the birches' falling leaves in the hotel garden dancing and sliding on the wall, she sighed, reached out, and turned on the bedside lamp; its yellow glow created a cone of light that allowed her to resume reading Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country. She managed to get through another twenty pages before the first signs of the advancing dawn suffused the room with thin, limpid light. Marking her page with a brass paper clip, she set the book down, turned off the light, and did her best to get at least enough of a doze to restore her to the semblance of alertness."Breakfast, Madame," said the waiter in acceptable English as he rapped twice on her door."Coming. Thank you," she said, dragging on her bathrobe as she got out of bed and into the chilly morning; she made her way to the door. "Put it on the table," she said, thinking it was absurd to tell the young man that, since there was no other surface in the room that would reasonably accommodate the tray.The waiter offered her a neat little bow and set the tray down, and handed Charis the bill on a kind of clip-board.Charis went to pull her purse out from under the pillow, opened up her wallet, and removed four coins—the same amount she had paid every breakfast for the last four mornings—and went to close and lock her door as he left. "Eggs, toast, herring, tea," she said as she lifted the lids on three plates, stacking them together on the remaining wedge of empty tabletop. The first day she had asked for orange juice as well, but was amazed at the cost, and had dropped it from her subsequent breakfasts. The eggs were soft-poached, just the way she liked them, and there was a little ramekin of fresh butter next to the two slices of toast. The herring was broiled. Not what she would have back home, but not too foreign, either. She fit the strainer on top of her cup and poured out the dark, leafy tea through the fine wire mesh, concentrating on not overfilling her cup, as she had done yesterday. There was so much to get used to! "Book your call for six this evening," she reminded herself aloud as she pulled up the overstuffed chair from next to the bed and began to eat, keeping an eye on the clock.The noise that wakened her returned, and this time she realized it was the squeak of brakes on the delivery van that had just unloaded the day's produce at the hotel's kitchen door. She made herself chuckle at her fears, saying, "Next you'll be jumping at phone calls."When she was finished with her meal, she went into the bathroom to wash and put herself in order. At thirty-six, she was still passably attractive, especially for an academic, she thought wryly, but she knew enough to be careful with her make-up and hair-style, to put the emphasis on her best features, which were her large, smoky-blue eyes and her teak-colored hair. She wished she had a shower, but made the most of a quick turn in the tub. The towel she had been provided was a pale blue, a bit threadbare, and scratchy. She rubbed herself down quickly and then took a minute to stare at herself in the mirror. She patted the dark smudges under her eyes and decided to use her Elizabeth Arden foundation—it gave the best coverage. She took a moment to pluck a few stray hairs from her dark, angled brows, and sighed. "I'll have to rely on charm, I guess. Looks aren't going to do it today." She applied her make-up with care, hoping to conceal the anxiety that had taken hold of her; it would be foolish to reveal how desperate her situation was becoming.She left her room a few minutes ahead of schedule, her fawn-colored wool jacket long and princess-cut over an ecru blouse an understated version of Dior's New Look. Her skirt was not quite the right length for sticklers, but its deep Prussian blue matched her gloves, her shoes, and her hat. Her purse was a simple dark-blue clutch—shoulder bags had vanished from American stores when Hoover had declared that Communist sympathizers carried them—and her briefcase was a darker version of her jacket. All in all, she was pleased with the impression she could make.The expression on the face of the clerk at the front desk confirmed her good opinion; he took her order for an eighteen-hundred-hours call to America, saying, "Will you take it in your room or in the telephone lounge?""I think my room would be better, thank you," she said, wondering if she should tip him.He recognized her predicament. "Gratuities are offered when the service is complete."She could feel her face grow warm. "Thank you," she said again, and added, "Your English is very good."The clerk smiled. "My parents sent my brothers and me to our aunt in Canada during the war years.""Probably sensible," she said, missing her own sons, and turned toward the entrance. Stepping out of the hotel, she asked the doorman to hail a cab and gave the driver the address she had memorized the night before. "I understand we should need about twenty minutes to thirty minutes, perhaps a little longer. The roads won't be crowded yet. In half an hour, they will be." He swooped into the street and lit a cigarette. "I will have you there shortly after zero-eight-hundred. I know a shortcut." He grinned around the cigarette and signaled to turn left, making a rude gesture with his hand.The morning was nippy—not quite cold, but chilly enough to make her think she had been wrong not to wear a coat. She settled back in the cab and watched the traffic around her, but gradually anticipation of the morning's meeting claimed her thoughts: she tried to decide what she would say to this Ragoczy Ferenz, Grof Szent-Germain; how should she address him? In what language? Did he speak English? French? She knew a little Italian, but not enough to discuss her book in it. She suspected he was Hungarian: the sz looked Hungarian, but it might be Polish or Czech. Probably not Russian: Russians weren't supposed to use titles like Grof any longer, unless he was one of the Old Regime, whose family fled before the Revolution. Certainly not Bulgarian or Croatian or Serbian or Montenegron, and probably not any other Jugoslavian ethnic group; for a while she mentally ran through the list of nationalities that Grof Szent-Germain might be but probably wasn't. She resisted the urge to bite the end of her little fingernail, telling herself it would smear her lipstick. The cab took an energetic turn to the left, and she grabbed the loop hanging down between the front and rear seats."Sorry; there was an obstacle in the road," said the driver, who was on his third cigarette."So I gather," said Charis, adjusting her hat and sitting back once more.The driver double-clutched down into second gear and climbed up a small rise; the street was very narrow, with ancient cobbles and the narrowest of walkways along the edge of the stones. The buildings here were old—most a couple of centuries at least—Charis realized, and wondered why a publishing house should be in this older part of the city. She was more startled when the driver turned into an even smaller side-street, barely wide enough for the cab to negotiate, and drew up in front of an elegant four-story building that looked to be about three hundred years old. "Number 32, Madame," said the driver as he flipped up his trip-flag, and told her the price. "It's zero-eight-hundred-twelve."She worked out the fare in American dollars: one-twenty-eight, more or less, yet another reminder of how the war had driven up the price of fuel and of operating a car. She handed over the appropriate coins, which still seemed dreadfully unfamiliar to her. "Thank you," she said, letting herself out with care onto the narrow strip of brick sidewalk, her purse in one hand, her briefcase in the other; the cab was put into reverse and backed away from Charis' destination.It was in beautiful repair, she thought as she climbed up to the front door, pausing to look at the various ornaments above the windows: most of it was scroll-work in a subdued Baroque style. Reaching the broad top step, she saw the modest bronze plaque above the knocker:Eclipse Publishers and translation servicesand above that was another one, saying, she assumed, the same thing in Danish.Charis hesitated, her confidence faltering, then remembered that Harold had not sent her the full hundred and fifty dollars he had promised her; she grabbed the knocker and swung it down on its strike plate twice and waited for someone to answer.Roughly a minute later, a man who looked to be about fifty, with sandy hair touched with white and eyes the color of old, much-washed blue jeans, opened the door. He nodded to Charis. "Professor Treat?" he asked in English; his accent was almost flawless."I am," she said, trying to conceal her sudden return of nervousness with a smile. "I'm a little early, but I don't know the city and didn't want to be late.""Please come in; I'm Rogers, the Grof's personal assistant," he said, stepping back and opening the door wider into a two-story entry hall with a single, broad staircase leading to the gallery circling the hexagonal room one floor up. He indicated a comfortable drawing room on Charis' right. "If you'll be seated, I'll tell the Grof that you've arrived.""Thank you," she said, and glanced in at the muted blue-green walls and several large, oaken bookcases filled with hard-bound editions of all kinds, some looking to be almost as old as the building. Two sofas and a coffee-table stood in front of a handsome fireplace; the whole room was alight with watery sunshine."May I bring you some coffee or tea while you wait?""Will that be long?""Well, as you say, you are early, and the Grof is in a meeting."She hesitated, worried that her appointment might be cut short because of her early arrival, which might be seen as American pushiness; she knew Europeans disliked it. "Coffee," she said when she realized that Rogers wanted an answer. "With milk, no sugar.""Very good." He nodded again and left her to inspect the shelves, hoping to learn more about what Eclipse published.She had removed her gloves and was perusing a volume on the archeology of the Peruvian Andes, translated from the French; the date of publication was 1948, and the book was printed on coated stock with wonderful photographs, many in color. This was most encouraging, she decided, and turned around to find Rogers returned with a tray holding a large cup-and-saucer, a plunger coffee-maker, and a jug of milk. "Oh. Good.""Shall I set it down, Professor Treat?""Yes, please," she said, putting the book back on the shelf. "It's quite fascinating, isn't it?""Professor de Montalia's work? Yes, it is," Rogers agreed as he placed the tray on the coffee-table. "The Grof will be with you shortly. He has been in a meeting with his printing staff, and they're going to run over—something about the new presses. He apologizes for the delay.""Thank him for informing me," she said as she went to the nearer sofa and sat down, reaching for the small lacquer-work tray as she did.Rogers nodded toward the fireplace. "Would you like me to light the kindling?"The room was a little cool, and without a coat she was growing uncomfortable; she did not know how much longer she would be here, she reminded herself as she depressed the plunger on the coffee-pot. "If it isn't inconvenient for you, that would be nice.""No inconvenience at all." Rogers went to a small, antique secretary and removed a box of fireplace matches, then moved the fire-screen and lit the kindling under the quartered logs. He remained where he was until he was satisfied that the logs were starting to burn. "If you need anything more, please press the button by the door," he said, putting the fire-screen back in place, and going away."Thank you," Charis called after him, then added milk to her coffee and tasted it, knowing it was still very hot. She set the cup down and rubbed her tongue on the roof of her mouth, feeling the first onset of interview-jitters take hold. Somewhere in the house, a clock sonorously rang the half-hour. It was the time appointed for her interview; in spite of all her good intentions, Charis began to fret. She drank her coffee and added more from the pot.Some five minutes later, she heard crisp footsteps approaching through the entry hall, and thinking this was Rogers coming to fetch her, she reached for her briefcase, preparing to rise.A moment later, a man of slightly less than average height, graceful yet sturdily built, came through the door. He appeared to be in his middle forties, had well-cut dark hair with a slight feathering of gray at the temples, and an angled arch to his brows; his face was more attractive than handsome, with a broad forehead and a slightly askew nose, his eyes an arresting, strange blue-black. He was dressed in a black suit of understated elegance. His shirt was off-white and obviously silk, as was his dark-red damask tie. His waistcoat had a subtle pattern of what looked like wings in its fine black wool. "Professor Treat. Thank you for waiting," he said in English with a faint accent she was unable to identify. "And I apologize for the early hour, but I will be leaving Copenhagen tomorrow and wanted to see you before I left, which is why I suggested an eight-thirty appointment." His voice was low and musical, and his manner, though formal, was welcoming."Grof Szent-Germain," she said, recovering herself, and, starting to rise, held out her hand, while struggling to get out of the deep sofa cushions.He came closer and took it, bowing slightly. "A pleasure, Professor Treat. Welcome to Eclipse Publishing. I trust your journey was a pleasant one.""Thank you," she said, standing up a bit awkwardly. "The cab-driver smoked a great deal.""And your journey from America?" he asked."When is a long flight ever comfortable?" she asked, wanting to seem more broadly traveled than she was.He offered a wry half-smile, saying, "I concur, especially over water," then motioned to her to be seated, and took his place on the sofa opposite hers."Before we begin, let me assure you that I am aware of the lamentable developments in the United States. It is a difficult time for academics in your country, is it not?""America has always had a streak of anti-intellectualism in its make-up," she said, using her lecture tone. "When the people are frightened, they often seek refuge in religion and reject science. Science is not often comforting.""They reject knowledge out of fear," he added."Out of fear," she agreed.He shook his head. "I hope you are finding a better reception here in Denmark. And in Paris, for that matter.""I hope so; most everyone has been polite, but I don't speak Danish, and that is a problem for me," she said, and reached for her coffee-cup to finish what was left in it, wanting her throat to be less dry. "I have pretty good French.""The French will appreciate that," Szent-Germain said with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow.Charis managed an uneasy chuckle."I've noticed you have the name Lundquist in your query-letter," he went on in the same easy manner."My maiden name," she said, and felt herself blush. "With my situation being what it is, I don't want my ... political difficulties to reflect poorly on my using my maiden name, Harold can protect his place at Tulane." (Continues...)Excerpted from Sustenance by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. Copyright © 2014 Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO has been nominated for the Edgar, the World Fantasy, and the Bram Stoker Awards.  She has been named a Grand Master of the World Horror Convention and a Living Legend by the International Horror Guild.  In 2014, she was named Lifetime Achievement Winner of the World Fantasy Award.  Author of many novels of horror, dark fantasy, mystery and more, including the St. Germain series, Yarbro lives in Berkeley, California.

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