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L&039;ECLISSE
NOTICE OF DEATH FROM THE TIMES OF LONDON AUGUST 1ST, 1959
Charles Pennington Beauregard, 105, died peacefully yesterday in Rouished diplonised in his lifetithy career, variously attached to the Indian Civil Service, the Foreign Office, the Royal Air Force, and Lord Ruthven&039;s wartime Government of National Unity &039;think tank&039; He was a lifelong enes Club of Pall Mall, a private institution that remains club of choice for many public servants
Born in India in 1853, son of Major Marcus Aurelius Beauregard of the Fourth Boton of Loxley Barrett, Charles Beauregard was educated at Dulwich College and Merton College, Oxford Briefly married (1882 - 3) to the former Miss Pamela Churchward, of Chelsea, he had no issue He twice refused a knighthood His few publications include two books of verse, The Matter of Britain and The Britain of Matter He will be buried privately in the Protestant Ce place of Keats and Shelley
16
KATE IN LOVE
Since the funeral, Kate had been on a blood bender, drunk with red thirst She&039;d been back to her pensione at least twice in the past week, but had not slept Even after feeding and love, she couldn&039;t drop off, torhts and persistent memories Marcello, however, went out the second he was spent, sunk into a torpor deeper than any vaether, he took off his dark glasses but left on his socks Very romantic, she supposed Perhaps that was how Italian reat lovers
They were in his apartment, a lass bunkers set down in featureless grasslands At its edges, Rome was as distinct from the countryside as a cliff is from the sea
The flat was fashionably under-decorated, with little furniture and none of the reference books or piles of periodicals Kate expected Her own roo up entirely with paper Marcello didn&039;t even own a typewriter He dictated all his articles,notes rewrite people worked up into actual prose One roo but a white dial telephone - the famous telefono bianco, once a touchstone of luxury in Italy - on the floor, long golden cord snaking across bare boards
Though Kate knew Marcello body and soul, inside-out on the deepest level, she was still ignorant of a great many details about his life She&039;d found out his surname at some point, but presently it escaped her Where was he from? Were his parents still alive? None of that mattered He was a for-the-ht for that atoe sense of impermanence He knew as little about her, but had opened hihtly, feeling the swell of fresh blood in her face It was as if she earing a fleshy, pulsatingcareless, taking far too ht fixture above the bed swung like a gibbet Was it ? It didn&039;tCharles was dead and buried She had to stay behind
The fact of his death, a sunburst in herelse out She&039;d planned to help Genevieve with the funeral arrangeht out Marcello, frankly overpowered him, and made hi of blood
Had Edwin Winthrop coht so, but hadn&039;t been able to connect the kindly oldmaniac she remembered from the First World War
There were few other mourners Marcello had propped her up, and she made love to him near Shelley&039;s ashes All of the poet but his heart was buried in Rome That was how she felt, too
At first, Marcello was shocked, perhaps even unwilling, but she set out to enslave hily, pulled off the trick Without Charles&039;s civilising influence, she row into a proper vampire, a monster of the old school
Marcello was relieved that she was leaving the Crimson Executioner alone There had been no more jaunts to I Cessati Spiriti, nolocales Themysteries meant There had been no new murders, no new clues The paparazzi had taken dozens of photographs of Sylvia Koscina as Medea, and the otten Other sensations would co
She shivered with fullness Her heart coursed Colours and shapes floated on her eyes Her skin felt stretched tight, on the point of bursting She had drunk so ain and wheedled inside her, spurring her to action Her fangs prickled in her ums as they slid out of their sheaths There was a little dental sensation, on the edge of tingling, jabbing over the line into pain Delicious pain
She wanted to feed again