The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier Trilogy (Books 1, 2, 3)

by K. P. Ambroziak

  “Shit,” he mumbled.

  Sweat dripped from his brow and I could practically taste the salty stench of his skin on my tongue. He would not appeal to me if I was in a position to choose, but like this he would do. I waited a little longer to see what would happen since I did not think the door would give way, though I was prepared to intervene if it did. When the howls lulled, he smiled. “That’s it bastards,” he said. “Suck it in.”

  When the cries of the bloodless ceased, I did not think it was because they had dropped to the ground one by one like stones falling on concrete. I assumed something drove them away, and the mystery aroused me.

  When all was silent outside, the labored breathing of my guest drew my attention. The young man let his body slide down the door until his bottom hit the floor. He tossed his head back with a sigh, and rested it on his rucksack. He dropped his machete to his side, and reached over his body with his free hand to pull his other arm up and across him. When his head slumped to the side, I knew he was no longer conscious. I held off my attack, though he would have been easy to take—his machete is no match for my speed. His ability to skirt the bloodless intrigued me and thus granted him a stay of execution. He had obviously used something to make his way through the swarm and into the villa. There had been no gunshots or explosions, and he had not arrived in a vehicle. It was as if he came through the swarm with some kind of immunity.

  After watching him in his stillness for several minutes, I was surprised when he moved again. Finally revived, he slipped his good arm from the strap of his rucksack and pulled the injured one out slowly. He winced and cursed, as he freed himself from the bag. With one hand, he placed the sack in front of him and threw his legs around it. He rifled through it, pulling out a round canteen. He brought the jug to his mouth and dug his teeth into the cap, turning it three times before yanking it off. He spat it from his mouth and raised the jug to drink, downing it in one long swig then placing it on the floor before reaching into the bag again. He rummaged through before finding the item he sought.

  When he pulled out the flashlight, I slid behind the drapes. He threw his light on the room, spotlighting the ceiling, furniture, floor and windows, but missing me entirely. When he left his light on the bookcase in the corner of the room, I knew he searched for something specific. He struggled to stand, his lame arm dangling at his side. He looked unsteady but regained his balance when he took his first step to cross to the bookshelves. Once there, he stuck the flashlight’s end in his mouth and sifted through the books. “Shit,” he mumbled.

  His wounds were pungent, filling the room with their odor. He winced, as he reached for a book way up on the top shelf. He was forced to use the stepstool near his feet and when he finally pulled the book down, I could see it was a large photo album. With his good arm, he carried it across the room to a table in the corner near the window. The flashlight was still in his mouth, but he pulled it out once he put the book down. He opened the album and shone his light on its pages, as he examined each one. When he found what he was looking for, he held the light on the page for a moment and then peeled out the silver photograph. He smiled, as he shone the light on it. He placed the photo in his vest pocket, and threw the flashlight around the room again.

  He inspected the villa next, rifling through drawers and cupboards and sniffing empty cans. I was certain he could smell Evelina’s incense oil and wanted to know who was living there in his absence. I followed him closely, knowing his machete was still at the front door but a small hatchet hung from his belt. He tiptoed from room to room, and I hoped Evelina still slept, though the slammed door would have woken her. I was relieved she remained in her room until I had come for her.

  As he made his way down the hallway toward her, he put his ear to each door. When he reached hers, I closed the gap between us and stood directly behind him. He listened at her door, and I concentrated on not killing him if he opened it. When he reached for the knob, I came out of the shadows.

  “Who are you?” I said.

  He did not try to grab his hatchet, for he fainted at the sound of my voice. I caught him in my arms and tapped softly on Evelina’s door. She had been waiting on the other side and threw it open when she heard me. “A creeper?” Her look of fright was almost as expressive as his had been.

  “No,” I said. “Just a guest.”

  I carried the young man back to the front room and laid him on the sofa. Evelina stood behind me, afraid he was dead.

  “Fetch me the oil,” I said.

  I wanted to mask his scent, more intent on keeping him odorless for the bloodless than indulging in his savor. I opened his vest and lifted his shirt. His bare chest aroused me, exposed as it was. The cut of his abdomen, rising and falling with his breath, made my subtle fangs itch and they dropped despite my effort to keep them up. While the girl was out of the room, I took a quick nip from the inside of his arm where the vein sits just beneath the flesh. I pierced the skin ever so softly with the point of my fang and sucked up the blood that pooled in the crevice. The ichor hit my core with a jolt, charging my heart. His cocktail was far more potent than Evelina’s, though not as delectable. His taste in fact proved how hers had ruined me for all others, even as I relished the high from his.

  When Evelina returned, I spread the oil on his chest and arms, which was how I discovered his dislocated shoulder. I gave the girl the bottle to hold and placed my hands on his joint where bone meets socket. “I think I am about to wake him,” I said.

  When I snapped the shoulder into place, the young man let out a shriek, his eyes locking shut in pain. I slapped my hand over his mouth to smother the cry.

  “Shush,” I whispered. “I mean you no harm.”

  When he opened his eyes, they welled with tears. Evelina stood behind me, watching with apprehension. The young man breathed in heavily and then spoke with a strident voice. “How did you get in here?”

  “The same way you did,” I said “The front door.”

  “But it’s surrounded?”

  Elizabeth and I had scaled the trellis on the side wall to reach a window overlooking the valley below at the back of the villa. The front entrance had been impossible to breach with the bloodless pacing the villa’s doorstep, but the isolation at the back of the building made it worth the effort.

  “There were none when we arrived,” I said.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “That’s impossible.”

  “They couldn’t smell me,” Evelina said. “I mean, us.”

  “How did you travel past them?” I asked.

  He evaded my question and changed his posture, sitting up to look at me. The room was still dark, but Evelina held up a candle that allowed him to see my frame. I was not sure if he knew I was with another, but he tried to hide his surprise. His tune changed when he saw the girl and he treaded lightly. “How long … you been here?” His words were disconnected, as though he had a hard time stringing a sentence together. He drew in a deep breath and then his whole body fell backwards into the sofa.

  “Is he dead?” Evelina asked.

  “Just unconscious. He is probably starved.”

  I ordered her to bring me the grappa from the cupboard and when she returned, I dripped a bit of the liquor on the man’s mouth. The aroma seemed to revive him and when he finally came to, I forced him to take a proper swig. He kept the bottle at his lips until he had downed enough of it.

  “Are you hungry?” Evelina’s small voice softened him. He shook his head, and let it fall back again, though he did not pass out. He fell into a deep slumber until the sun brought in the morning sky.

  5 November. — I slipped out of the villa, leaving Evelina to watch our guest while he slept. The air was thick with the fog that rolled in over the mountains. The odors of a salt sea and rotted bloodless mingled, making one fetid aroma. The swarm I had heard die away from the doorstep was actually still there, but the bodies were fallen on the cobblestones and decomposing at the villa’s entrance. Inanimate piles of flesh, u
nmoving as corpses are wont to do, stared up at me. I kicked the first body and stepped on its limbs, the brittle form breaking beneath my foot. I leaned over and looked into the face of the bloodless woman whose nose and eyes were eaten away as though buzzards had climbed in and feasted. Her flesh looked green, drained as it was of all its juice, and dried marrow was visible beneath the skin.

  I waded through the fallen swarm, inspecting each body as I went. They had not been punctured or visibly wounded, nor were they burned or macerated. Their debilitated state mystified me, and I knew only one person could explain. When I headed back to the villa to speak to the young man, the sun threatened to burn away the morning fog.

  He was awake and sitting up on the settee when I came in through the front door. “Going out is risky,” he said. “Don’t you think?” The smell of his blood distracted me for a moment and I pictured myself tearing into his neck. “Shit,” he said. “You okay?”

  “Perfect,” I said. “How is your shoulder?”

  “Feels like hell,” he said. “Evelina is getting me some aspirin.” He pulled his arm closer to him and winced.

  “I can tie a sling around it if you would like,” I said.

  He seemed reluctant to let me touch him, but gave in when Evelina returned. I was not the gentlest of paramedics, though he wore a brave face for the girl. She was at ease with him already. They had obviously struck up a conversation before my arrival, and I almost regretted leaving her alone with him. I had assumed he would sleep for hours. When she asked him about the photos that hung on the walls, I paid little attention.

  “You’re in every one,” she said.

  “It’s my father’s home,” he said. “We were close.”

  “Do you live with him?” She asked.

  “I used to,” he said. He winced, as I pulled the scarf into a knot. When I finished with his sling, I took up a post near the window on the opposite side of the room. I decided to wait to ask him about the bloodless.

  “Where is your father?” Evelina asked.

  “Gone,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  She sat down beside him on the settee and touched his shoulder. The young man shifted his body, though he did not flinch. I could see he welcomed the girl’s embrace.

  I will be more cautious about leaving them alone from now on. She is vulnerable and too easily charmed by silly men. I do not care he is the first human she has spoken with since Marco. She has grown used to the company of vampires, and I will not have her safety threatened by a garish young man.

  8 November. — His name is Helgado Tarlati. He has been with us for two days, sleeping and eating. He is exhausted, if not completely dehydrated, but seems revived by the bit of food Evelina has coaxed him to eat. I am not happy to share her meager rations with him, but she insists. At this point, I do not know what to make of him. He tells us the villa belongs to his father. He is young—nineteen he says.

  “When it all began, my father refused to leave,” he said. “It took months to convince him to evacuate.”

  “Did he die on the road?” Evelina asked.

  “He’d have stayed if I’d let him. He would’ve died here … in peace.”

  I watched the two of them, as they exchanged brief histories. They spoke about their dead loved ones in the same stoic manner.

  “I had to destroy the body,” he said.

  Evelina reached out and patted his hand where it rested on the table. The tightness in his mouth seemed to relax at her touch.

  “It was torture,” he said, “but I forced myself to watch. I wanted to see his flesh melt, I needed to see it bubble and boil on the bones.”

  The question faded from Evelina’s lips, as she caught up her breath and stifled her desire to know why. She seemed to pull back a bit, moving her hand from his ever so slightly. I do not think he noticed, but I could see the tempo of her breathing change, as the rush of blood that flowed through the lovely vein in her neck sped up. Her cheeks flushed and I could barely contain my fangs.

  “The torment of losing him led me on a wild chase into the desert,” he said.

  “The desert?” Her small voice indicated she had not yet recovered from his admission. She did not know what to make of Helgado Tarlati.

  “I was enraged,” he said. “I wanted to kill every one of those blasted things with my bare hands.” He took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “Maybe I had a death wish—maybe I just wanted …”

  “To be like one of them?” Evelina said.

  “I just wanted to feel something even if it was that.”

  Death has no feeling—I resisted adding to the conversation.

  “I was lucky,” he said. “I don’t know how I survived.”

  “What happened to your shoulder?” Evelina asked.

  He grinned. “I have no idea.”

  “But it was pulled from the socket,” she said. “You must know what happened.”

  “When I got to the main square at the bottom of the village,” he said. “Something caught me.”

  Evelina’s eyes opened wide. “A bloodless?”

  “Bloodless,” he said. “That’s a weird thing to call them.”

  She blushed and my mouth tightened. My fangs ached for a bite.

  “A group of them surrounded me,” he said, “forcing me through a small opening between the picket fences that border the shops on the main street.” He had gotten caught in the fence, as he crawled through. “My rucksack got stuck.”

  “Oh no,” Evelina said. She was fixated again, holding her breath, as he told the story of his narrow escape. Her fear of him was waning, her pulse newly racing.

  “But before I could panic,” he said, “I felt a … I don’t know, like a rough tug on my arms. They were out in front of me like this.” He raised his good arm straight up above his head. “I was belly-down on the ground and it was like this jolt of cold hit me, it grabbed me like a vise around my wrists. I couldn’t see what it was but the next thing I know, I am being pulled with this intense force.”

  “What was it?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “It was too dark and it just disappeared. But the pain … whoa.”

  “Your shoulder?” He nodded, seeking her sympathy. “How did you make it to the villa?” She asked.

  “Shit luck, I guess.”

  Evelina blushed again.

  “I’ve always been lucky,” he said. “After papa died, I went further south—into the desert. I ate whatever I could find—flowers, grubs, anything—sometimes I went days without food. I only stopped to help … and kill. But eventually I didn’t run into anyone, and it felt like I was the last man in the universe. I thought … I felt like … forget it.” He faded away for a moment, seeming to remember something he wanted to forget, then continued, telling us that he found shelter at an abbey. “Mount Oliveros,” he said. “It’s a monastery on the top of a peak in Tuscany. When I saw the sand-colored brick, I touched it just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.”

  He smiled then and looked at Evelina. They sat beside each other at the small dining table in the kitchen nook. They seemed to forget they were not alone in the room, and I shifted in the doorway where I stood to remind them.

  “The monastery had a drawbridge … like a castle,” he said. “As soon as I approached the entrance gate, the bridge was lowered and the great iron door opened for me.”

  “Were you scared?” Evelina asked.

  “Of what?”

  “Anything—everything,” she said with a giggle.

  His grandstanding bored me, as he shook his head, once again faking bravado for the girl. “A monk came to greet me as soon as I crossed over into the darkness.”

  “They were safe?” Evelina asked.

  “They are totally isolated, living separate from everything, they haven’t experienced it yet.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “They don’t have communication with the outside world.”

  “But …”
Evelina was confused. She could not detect his lie. I am in fact familiar with that particular area on the coast of the Ligurian Sea and know of no monasteries there.

  “They fed me and gave me fresh clothes after allowing me to take a hot bath,” he said. “They even gave me my own room and I slept for like fifteen hours straight or something.”

  “But did you tell them?” Evelina asked.

  “I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Every monk takes a vow of silence and I had to do the same if I stayed.”

  “But how could you not tell them?” The girl’s voice cracked. “What if one of them dies?”

  “I was sworn to silence.”

  “But you could have passed them a note.”

  “I tried,” he said, “but Brother Clemente wouldn’t accept it.”

  “But …”

  “Their Order forbids them from receiving info from the outside world.”

  “Why did they take you in then?” Evelina asked.

  Ah-ha! She was paying attention—perhaps he will be forced to admit his lies.

  “Their only activities are prayer and meditation but if a stranger comes, they have to offer him a seat at their table in case it’s an angel in disguise.”

  “Oh,” Evelina said. “That’s beautiful.”

  I could not believe he filled her head with such nonsense.

  “They’re men of God,” he said. “They believe everything that happens to them is his will.” He looked up when he said his.

  Evelina pouted a little. “But if they die, they’ll all become…”

  Bloodless.

  11 November. — I often write long into the night. The boy sleeps in his father’s bedroom while the girl uses the room across the hall from him. On the second night he was here, he took his rucksack and slipped into the room quietly after Evelina had gone down. He turned the lock in the door after he closed it and dragged a chair over to lodge beneath the knob. He did not trust me, though I have yet to show him how treacherous I can be. He and Evelina have grown close. His shoulder seems to be healing, which I think is due to her attention. She fawns over him. They eat together and talk about childish, petty human burdens, though the other day I overheard him ask her about me.