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

by K. P. Ambroziak

  I thought of Vincent. He was far from me now and the only sparrow I heard was the imagined one I created in my head. Bloodstarved, my body collapsed as it hung in the air, and my arms fell to my sides, incapable of fighting back. I pictured Vincent’s face, his stern eyes, his soft lips. I recalled our embrace, even as Mindiss dug her talons into the hardened skin of my chest and reached in for my heart. I didn’t feel the pain of her slicing into my flesh, but my heart drummed between my ribs with a force that shook my insides, daring my opponent to pull it from its cage.

  I wasn’t fearful or filled with regret, for rage alone was my fuel. When I envisioned Vincent’s teeth sunk in Gia’s skin, the stone of anger in my belly shattered and exploded up through my intestines, up into my throat and down through my arms. I could taste my ire, like black spume oozing up through cracks in a road. Once my talons had ripped through my skin, stronger and sharper than before, Mindiss was done for. Without thought, I raised my hands up and drove my fingers into the sides of my opponent’s head. Through her ears, into her skull, all the way to her brain, I thrust my hands in so deep, my knuckles sunk to her hairline. When her force waned and her effort on my flesh died, she dropped me to the deck with my fingers still lodged in her head. I heard one lone frequency—the warble of the sparrow, turning its loop as it continued to call to me.

  “Tingzhi!” My maker shouted from somewhere in steerage. “Tingzhi!”

  A troop of vampires swooped down into the ring and pulled the defeated Fangool from my hands. Her skull oozed and bubbled, as it slid off my talons. I admired my hands with the shiny goo of vampire gray matter stuck to their tips. The brain guts glistened in the dim light of the metal coliseum. But my victory was short-lived, for one of the guards took my hands and pulled them behind me, tying me up almost instantly. Another threw some kind of brace and hood over my head and tied it around my neck, tightening it so that it was pulled against my throat, its edge piercing my chin and the back of my skull. The lone sparrow died and the chaos of sound that erupted was impossible to order. The crowd’s whistles and jeers, their racket of frequencies and the Empress’s simian squeal, came blaring at me all at once. I tried to sort through the noise and locate Peter or Huitzilli or Vincent, but the cacophony was too dense.

  When the crowd hushed, silenced almost on cue, I was blind to the scene but knew my maker had stepped into the ring and stood close to me. Her deafening screech and the stench of smoky breath were unmistakable.

  “Ei wai lina,” she whispered directly into my ear. “You have made Xing Fu proud by defeating the Fangool.” She raised her voice for the last part, as though announcing my victory to the crowd. The vampires cheered and chanted, “Novice—novice—novice,” until, without a word, they were silenced again.

  “Ei wai lina,” she said. “Unfortunately your win falls on the heels of your crime. You’ll not be able to reap the rewards your victory is owed. You’ve misbehaved, and for that Xing Fu is humiliated.”

  She asked me if I knew what I did, whispering the question in my ear. I shook my head and the noose tightened, the sharp blade poised and ready about my neck. I felt the pinch of it cutting into me, though the pain was mute. I can’t say how close I was to being beheaded but I’m certain she would have rejoiced had I been.

  She turned her attention to the hushed crowd of vampires and said to them, “Ei wai lina has killed one of our donors.” The vampires went wild with hisses and boos, spewing profanities to evince their bloodlust and rage.

  “Unforgivable,” one of them yelled.

  Another made a sizzling sound to indicate his wanting me to burn for my crime.

  “I’ll think of a fitting punishment,” my maker said to them. “She will receive the proper torture,” she said quietly to me, and then back to them she called, “In the meantime, she’ll be put in the tombs,” which made the vampires wild with excitement.

  I was pulled in opposite directions before one strong arm yanked me in a single line and I was forced to follow. The heat rose, as we descended to the keel of the ship. I didn’t think we could go any lower but was obviously mistaken. I couldn’t hear the frequencies of the guards who led me down, but I could tell there were at least three of them. They didn’t speak to one another, and once they’d thrown me in the cell, they pulled off the hood, letting the flying guillotine remain.

  …

  The sky purples, and my captor hasn’t returned yet. If he doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll set out, carrying my chain over my shoulder like a prisoner escaped from a gang. If I run most of the night, toward where the sun sinks, I may reach the sea. I’ve no idea where I am, but I can discover where the sun goes down. I’ll just have to suffer the burns—but I can—for him, I can suffer. I need to eat again, I need to find blood along the trail. I will do that first, as soon as the sky darkens a little more—just a bit—as soon as the sun is at the horizon—I must find my own blood—I’m starved—I need to feed. I dream of Hal’s blood. One sip—one sip would suffice—I’ll find the ship for one drink—one sip—will suffice ... one sip … one sip …

  ***

  23 December. — I mark the date, but the sun has barely risen in the east. Evelina is imprisoned somewhere in the bowels of the ship. The Empress did not take the donor’s death well, making a public example of her progeny, despite my claiming the kill as my own.

  “Liar,” the Empress said through a gust of smoke. “Two of my guards saw Ei wai lina enter your cabin and heard the girl’s cry.”

  I doubted she spoke the truth since they would have rushed in had they heard a donor scream.

  “I do not know what I have to do to convince you,” I said. “But I have been desperate for a kill and simply could not control myself. I will face the consequences of my crime. Shall I wear the guillotine?”

  She stood still, contemplating my admission, and then said, “Did you love her?”

  “Love?” I said, without missing a beat. She asked about Evelina, not the donor. “What an impractical feeling. I could never love a human, Cixi. Only her blood.”

  But she tried me further. “You won’t mind if I punish her, then? If she survives the Fangool.”

  “Is there a chance she will survive?” I could out-maneuver the shrewdest of manipulators.

  “Shall we see?” When she stuck a hand in the fold of her ruqun, she touched a device and the looming portrait of the Empress Dowager Cixi slid sideways, revealing a large screen with a feed to the ring. My heart stopped when I saw my Evelina on the deck, looking up at the fierce Fangool. I clenched my fists to keep my talons from showing. “Shall we watch the fight together?” Cixi asked.

  I could not make for the door, as desperate as I was to go down to steerage.

  “The Fangool accommodated my wishes,” the Empress said. “She was more than willing to meet my progeny sooner since I mentioned not wanting the blood beneath her new talons to dry.” She held out her silver cigarette case, open and flush. “Cigarette?”

  I could not take my eyes off the monitor, watching my Evelina as though I could affect her will through the screen. My signal reached for hers but could not get at it. The shriek of the Empress’s frequency was too strong to overcome, standing next to her as I was. The cameras caught several different angles, flitting from one corner of the ring to the next. I would see the concentrated look on Evelina’s face and then the Fangool’s villainous frown. I steadied my anxious heart, committed to keeping Cixi’s suspicions down—I still wanted her to believe I cared little for her progeny, and this was the best opportunity to do so.

  I winced inwardly when Evelina received blow upon blow to her face, her chest, her shins, her back. She rolled away from her opponent and got in a few shots of her own but had yet to unleash her talons. She skittered about the ring, seemingly lost, having forgotten everything the Hummingbird had taught her. She floundered and Mindiss struck her in the neck, but did not pull her up. There was no sound coming from the monitor and I could not hear the wild vampires chanting for the Fangool
to rip out the novice’s heart, but I imagined the crowd’s taunts.

  I restrained myself until Evelina vomited blood, Muriel’s blood, all over the deck. I lunged for the door and sailed through the passageways, flying with a speed beyond my own. I ignored the jeers and whistles, the din of frequencies, and called out to the sparrow. It did not take long for her to catch my call and respond with her own. I reached the mezzanine in time to see the Fangool dig her fingers into my Evelina’s chest. I was ready to pounce, my hands on the rails about to thrust my body down into the ring, when the Toltec reached for my arm and stopped me. “Watch, ancient one,” he said. “See her claim her victory.”

  And she did, Byron. Evelina claimed her victory with a burst of rage so admirable, I felt the seeds of my being shudder in my core. I felt more than pride, Byron. More than admiration and satisfaction. I experienced synergy; she was my warrior, my perfect counterpart in every way. Her talons shot out from her fingertips, as her opponent bore through her chest, wrath biting at her, and without hesitating she drove her weaponized fingers into the sides of the Fangool’s head, penetrating her deadened skull. The scene was one of beauty, no doubt arousing the audience of vampires. They chanted for my Evelina, hailing her victor and novice no more.

  Her celebration was cut short, however, when her maker launched herself into the ring and took her progeny captive. I slipped away then, telling Peter to meet me in my cabin.

  When he came, I assured him Evelina would not be harmed.

  “But she took her away in the guillotine,” he said. “She’s probably down in a cell—the tombs, she calls them.”

  “Evelina is too valuable to the Empress,” I said. I did not want to confess her maker had seen my weakness, had discovered my true feelings for her progeny. “She cannot destroy the one she has made, and I will not let Evelina come to harm. A needless torture may be unavoidable, though.”

  Peter sighed. “She waits for your heroic deed, I am certain. She can’t see beyond it, ancient one.”

  I will always trust Peter since unadulterated venom flows through him, though he does not know it. Like Galla, he shares the finer qualities of our kind, loyalty being one such feature.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “You must go to Evelina, you must take her a donor to help her heal.”

  “She will be under guard,” he said. “I won’t be able to gain access.”

  I studied Peter, and he grew uncomfortable. He did not think I would approve of his affairs with the Empress’s most diligent servant, but I knew from where to draw my allies. “Use her,” I said. “Youlan will grant you access to the Empress and when you see her, you must insist it serves no purpose to let her progeny lie wounded. I do not doubt your ability to charm her spirits with your gift.”

  “How did you know—”

  “There is little about you I do not know,” I said.

  Peter scowled and then relaxed his brow. “Youlan and I?”

  As I write this, I wonder if the Empress’s den keeper is not the Yoo-hoo Captain Jem had raged about. Impossible thought, for she cannot be superior. I should know how well two vampires may hide their true relationship from others, though. No, the thought is foolish. Empress Cixi is the one with whom I must contend.

  I gave Peter the notebook I had taken from Captain Jem’s quarters. I told him to give it to Evelina. “There is a pencil inside,” I said.

  “And what shall I say when I give it to her?”

  “She will know what it is for if you tell her it is a gift from me,” I said. “Tell her—never mind. Just give her my gift.”

  “When I see the Empress, should I suggest Evelina’s donor be Muriel?” He asked.

  I had told him I wanted Evelina to feed on the same blood as me, but I did not think he could present such a demand to the Empress. “Let her decide whose blood Evelina may have,” I said. “She must believe you are merely doing her bidding.”

  I despise the thought of Evelina downing the narcotized blood, but I did not think I could arrange her feeding any other way. A den donor’s blood is better than no blood, and her wounds need to heal.

  I did not wait for Peter’s return, but went to see Captain Jem, despite his quarter’s being off limits. He had sobered up, if only a little, but did not shy away from me. Talkative and brash, he told me about the three men I brought to my hill town. I baited him with a false story about a sailor going overboard, and he ranted about the three as if their story was his own.

  “Middle of the night,” he said. “They just fucking vanished. The queen was livid,” he said. “Fucking emperor-ress, whatever. She fucking lost it, came crashing in here like I had something to do with it.”

  He swirled his hand about his head, gesturing to her insanity.

  “And did you?” I asked

  “Pffft!” He said. “Why the fuck would I help ‘em?”

  “Were they not American like you?

  He scoffed. “Nothing’s fucking American now. They were from the womb through and through.”

  I did not ask him to explain the womb again since I have decided to flesh out the information another way. “Were they den donors?” I asked.

  “Fucking donors, donors, donors—that’s all you ghouls think about. My fucking crew, the fucking psychos on this ship, you’re all a bunch of bloodsuckers.” His irrational outburst seemed to blacken his mood. “And how did you know they were American?”

  My inquisition was not a two-way street, and I was sure to inform him of that by dismissing his question. I asked, “Why do you think they left?”

  He opened a cupboard beneath his berth and pulled out a fresh bottle of golden liquor. He twisted the cap off and threw it on the sideboard. He took an excessive swig, titling his head back, revealing the throbbing vein in his neck. Captain Jem’s quarters suddenly shrank and I saw red. I floated to him, poised with the drink, and pulled on his raggedy hair, keeping his head back. He choked on the liquor and pulled the bottle from his mouth.

  “What the fuck?” He said. “Get the fuck off me—let me the fuck go.”

  “You seem to forget yourself, Captain Jem,” I said. “You are on a floating vessel with bloodhungry creatures who would like nothing more than to rip out your throat. I have killed greater men for far less.”

  Captain Jem looked at me sideways, his eyes a bit wider than before. I smiled and showed him my subtle fangs. He grew skittish and tried to pull himself from my hold.

  “Wasted energy,” I said. “You are all mine.”

  He swallowed and exhaled and said, “This is why it’s over.”

  I have grown too used to Muriel’s blood to spoil it with another’s, but since we were there, together, alone, I indulged. I was gentle with the skipper, despite my eagerness to sink in more deeply. His blood was not tainted like that of the den donors, though his liquor-soaked ichor was not as tasty as one might expect. I left him a little more wary of my kind, I suppose, bleeding him until he passed out. I am certain he will wake thinking he drank too much.

  Back in my cabin, I await Peter’s return with news of Evelina—

  ***

  Entry 9

  I left the trench and wandered out into the wilderness. I wound my way down from the rocks, back out to the border of the hills. I wanted so desperately to recognize my location, anything that would lead me back to Vincent, but I saw nothing familiar. I caught the occasional howl of a swarm of bloodless on the wind, though they were far from me. I wasn’t afraid of them like I once was, and would gladly face a pack of them if it would take me home—to Vincent.

  Skulking around the mounds, I let my nose guide me, for it was the only thing worth following. I smelled the foliage first, the reek of wetted moss and dirt. The ground was alive and open, begging me to taste it. Its scent is similar to blood—that’s why I desire to crawl into the muddy earth. I scoured the brush for small game, sifting quietly through the hills until I located a series of small holes in one. I am set up here, parked outside the hole, awaiting the stoat’s seco
nd departure. When the weaselly creature poked its head out before, I wasn’t swift enough to grab it. I wait, as I write—I wait—I write—I wait—I write … I must find cover before sunrise—

  …

  I heard a shuffle behind me, thinking it was my abductor come back for me, but it was a nose-horned viper making off with a field mouse. The viper’s venom is venomous—the viper’s venom is venomous—the viper’s venom is venomous—vipers venom venomous—venomoooooose …

  …

  I caught the snake, as it choked on the lump of mouse in its throat. When I held the snake’s mouth open, and touched the tip of its fang with my talon, the serpent went limp, its forked tongue rolling back into its throat. It emitted its venomous venom, despite its paralysis, but I won and bit off its head … the viper’s venom is venomous no more …

  …

  I was relieved when I picked up Peter’s signal, following it from the den down to my cell, and even more grateful to see him with a donor.

  “You need to recover from your injuries,” he said. “But you are not to indulge, so he can’t stay long.”

  “What about Muriel?” I asked.

  Peter shook his head, as if to say bringing her was out of the question. “Your maker has claimed this one as your donor. She insists you drink his blood.”

  Jörvi offered me his arm through the bars of my cage and my eyes ate up his neon skin before slurping his thick sweet liquid. My injuries had almost healed at the sight of him, but the drink made me high and I forgot all my woes. When I was finished, the boy stepped away from Peter, and a guard near the entrance led him out. I could barely see the prison, the tombs as my maker called them, from my slender cell, only triple my size. The deck of the slim passageway, more like a crawl space, leading to me was wet.