Night's Gift: Book One of the Night's Vampire Trilogy

by Mary M. Cushnie-mansour

  “Yes, but with my limited knowledge on profiling, I thought maybe I would read some of these other volumes you have here and take notes on them. I think it would be better to try and see the parallels between more than two serial killers at a time,” I added.

  “Who else did you have in mind?” the count enquired.

  “I was thinking of some who lived in this century, like Richard Chase, who was nicknamed the Vampire of Sacramento, or the German fellow, Peter Kurten, dubbed the Vampire of Düsseldorf But I actually thought to begin with this fellow; he seems to interest a number of people because he was never actually caught,” I said as I pulled a biography of Jack the Ripper from the shelf.

  “You have set yourself quite a task,” the count expressed. “Jack was a demonic character.”

  My face must have shown shock at his statement, for the count said, “Why are you surprised that I might have known Jack? I know Richard and Peter as well—both rogues. I am familiar with a great many of the individuals who have gone down in history as serial killers—and some of the current ones as well.”

  “Was Jack one of you?” I inquired.

  “Not one of us, but a rogue—a very dangerous and uncontrollable one, though.” The count paused; he seemed to be considering how much more he should tell me. “Teresa and I were living in London at the time; actually, my father, Uncle Vacaresti, and Aunt Emelia were, as well. We had purchased a large house near the Whitechapel area.”

  “The same one you were living in when you met Bram Stoker?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He paused again and then motioned to one of the chairs. “It would probably be better for you to hear this story sitting down.” The count remained standing. “Elizabeth had decided to come to England. We heard rumours of what she had left behind as she passed through the countryside—we had our own people keeping tabs on her. But then she decided to come to London. Her thirst for blood was unquenchable, and of course, the pickings were greater in the big city. It was in London that she met ‘Jack,’ as we shall call him.”

  “That was not his real name?” I queried.

  “No.”

  “So, you know who he was?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did not turn him in to the authorities!” I cried out. “That makes you an accomplice.”

  The count’s face turned very serious. “What would you have us do, Virginia? Think about it. Elizabeth had come upon this young man at the hospital. She had taken a job there, cleaning in the morgue at night. He was studying to be a coroner. She watched him closely. One night a young woman was brought in and laid out on the slab. She looked dead enough, but all of a sudden, just as Jack was getting ready to perform his autopsy, she began coughing. Obviously, she had just passed out somewhere and had been taken for dead. It happened a lot in those days. Elizabeth was sweeping at one end of the room when she heard the girl. She watched as Jack leaned over and whispered something in the girl’s ear; and then, with a smirk on his face he slit the girl’s throat!”

  “How do you know all of this?” My mind was telling me that the count, or someone very close to him, would have had to be present.

  “We have our means. Working in hospitals was a good way for us to obtain certain things we needed for our existence. Now, back to why we did not turn Jack in to the authorities. Elizabeth saw an opportunity, and she took it. For a long time, she had been looking for someone to do her dirty work for her. She sauntered over to Jack. At first he was shocked at having been caught, and he was ready to use his knife on her in order to cover up what he had just done. But Elizabeth was quick, and she was exceedingly strong—we all are.

  “When our contact—we shall call him Gregory, for the sake of a name—came upon her and Jack, she was feasting! Gregory hung back in the shadows; he knew how dangerous she was. When she was finished feeding, he watched as Elizabeth held Jack’s lips to the wound on the young woman’s neck, encouraging him to drink the blood which was still flowing warm from the wound he had inflicted. Gregory heard Elizabeth tell Jack that she had been watching him. At first he did not believe her, but then she described exactly what had happened—that is how I know such detail.

  “And then Gregory heard Elizabeth’s proposal to Jack. She promised him eternal life if he would supply her with enough fresh blood to meet her needs. Jack already had the seeds of darkness inside of him—Elizabeth just pushed him over the edge. At first, Jack was very careless—most rogues are when they first turn. His killing spree made the news headlines, but eventually he settled into his new way of life and kept away from exposure. He was Elizabeth’s puppet as she is someone else’s. Someone much more powerful than she is pulling her strings. She does not like that, but there is naught she can do about it.”

  “Is that individual a rogue?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who, then?”

  “Possibly, but there is no need for you to know that information.” The count leaned over my chair and stared directly into my eyes. “So you see, Virginia darling, with what we are, how could we go to the authorities with this kind of information? How could we expose them, because that would mean revealing what we were? Do you understand this?”

  I nodded. I did not want to understand any of this. I was not even sure if I wanted to know anything more. These events just kept getting more and more bizarre. What was I really trying to do here? This man standing in front of me was the leader of his kind, according to his father’s diary, yet he feared to expose the rogues created by his kind. Was that really the case, or did he truly not care and just keep turning a blind eye? And who was it that was giving rise to the rogues? That was a question the count had avoided answering, even though I had asked. I did not think I was ready to have it answered, in any case!

  As though the count had read my mind, he answered some of my inner questioning. “We deal with our own matters, Virginia. That is the way it has to be.” He took hold of my hand and pulled me up and into his arms. “And now, the matter I think that needs to be taken care of is the nourishment of my son.” He smiled.

  As much as I yearned for the count to sweep me away to my room at that moment, I was also hesitant after what I had just heard. This was a world I did not want any part of. I had been playing a dangerous game, and it could get even worse—how much so, I had no idea yet! But if I resisted him now, what would the count do? I decided it was better not to—much as the count had decided it was better not to tell the authorities who Jack the Ripper truly was. It is called self-preservation!

  I followed the count, unwillingly—willingly—up to my room. That night, as we lay in each other’s arms, I felt our son move within my womb for the first time.

  Sixth Month

  Chapter Fourteen

  T he weeks continued to speed by. Before I knew it, I was entering into my sixth month of pregnancy. My body swelled with the child the count had predicted he’d implanted in my womb that one rapturous night so long ago. I did not know whether to hate the child that grew inside of me or to love it. I did not even know what it would be. Would my child be like him or, by some quirk of fate, would it escape that fate? Somehow, I doubted the latter.

  The count came to me often. We would talk, and then we would make love. Some of our conversations precipitated a more lusty union than others, and I soon learned which issues could really turn him on! He claimed our coming together would give nourishment to his son. Many were the mornings I would wake up hating myself for my promiscuous weakness. I would swear never to submit to him again, but each time he entered my room, my blood would begin surging through my veins, and then he would take me on wings of fire into a hell of ecstasy such as I had never known before. It was a perdition that burned me to the very pit of my soul. I ached for more, so much more. As much as I detested my situation, I could never get enough of the Count Basarab Musat. I damned him when he was not with me; yet, I opened my arms to him whenever he pleased to walk through my door.

  I also damned myself. Physically he
nourished me, but the count still had not shown me the emotional attachment that I was hoping for. I had thought that would be possible because of the conversations we continued to have, but it had not happened yet. He kept the conversations at a comfortable distance, and at times, when he felt I had stepped over a line, he would remind me of whom he was! In order to escape I needed to gain his full trust, and the voice inside of me kept reminding me I had not yet done that. Time was running short. Escaping was my ultimate goal. At least that was what I kept telling myself.

  ~

  Teresa busied herself with the preparations for the upcoming celebration, the birth of my child. She had decided my help would not be needed, so I had no idea what was actually in store for me. The invitations had been sent, and the replies were beginning to arrive—all positive, she informed us at supper one night.

  The count was elated. Max was busier than usual. One evening, I overheard him telling the count that he might need some assistance when all the guests arrived. The count assured Max that his relatives would be bringing their own servants, so it would be a good idea to prepare some of the guest rooms for them. There would be no need for outsiders, especially at such a crucial time.

  I was surprised at how healthy I was during my pregnancy. Max supplied me with a special drink each day, one he said I must consume, not only for my health but the baby’s, too. He said it was fortified with vitamins and that it was an ancient mixture that had been used by the family aristocracy for centuries. He always stayed to make sure I drank the liquid to the last drop. Actually, his attendance was not really necessary because the drink was surprisingly tasty. At the time, I did not even think to connect it to the one Mara had consumed. After all, she had found hers not to be very appetizing.

  Teresa had started hovering over me when the count was not with me. Max constantly asked me how I was feeling when he brought my meals. They seemed to have accepted the fact that I was there to stay for awhile, especially Teresa. Of course, in a roundabout way, she never ceased to remind me of the fact that my baby would be her child one day. For that reason, amongst others, I did not fully trust Teresa’s good intentions. I assumed she had an ulterior motive—I just did not know when she was going to present it!

  ~

  Finally, partway through my sixth month, I observed the side of the count that I had come to believe was not possible for him to possess. On that particular night, there had been such a genuine gentleness about him; also, there had been a sensitiveness that I could not comprehend coming from the cold, distant man he had continued to be throughout the months. Even our conversation that evening had a different tone to it. It made me wonder if his mother had reached up from her grave and touched him with a breath of humanness.

  “Virginia, my darling,” he whispered huskily as he cradled my face in his hands. “Are you not feeling well today? You are so pale.”

  “I am fine, Count.” I forced my focus away from his penetrating eyes.

  “Then there must be something bothering you. Is there any possible way in which I would be able to ease the pain I detect behind those beautiful eyes?” The count seemed to be trying to flatter me. Despite the number of times our bodies had been one, he had never spoken quite like this before.

  “Well,” I began, still unsure of whether I should ask. I had been feeling so penned in. I had not walked outside since that one night in December. I needed to breathe fresh air into my lungs. I needed the sun to sink her rays into my pores. I was a human, not a creature of the night, so how could one like him understand such a need?

  “Continue, Virginia. What is it that you desire? If it is within my power, I shall grant your wish.” The count’s hand grasped hold of my chin, compelling me to look into his eyes. It was a gentle forcefulness.

  “I need to get out,” I stated. I felt his fingers stiffen on my face. Quickly, I added, “No, no, Count, not away—out into the fresh air. I miss the sun and the fresh breezes on my open skin. From my window, I can see spring in the making ...” I forced a tear to escape from the corner of my eye. It trickled slowly down my cheek. Is he capable of sympathy? I wondered. I hoped.

  The count released his hold on me, straightened up, and strolled over to the window. He stood for what seemed like ages, just staring out through the glass. Finally, he returned his attention to me.

  “Would you like to walk the grounds with me tonight, Virginia? I am afraid it is impossible to allow you out in the direct sunlight during daylight hours. You are carrying my son, remember. I do not desire him to have any exposure to the sun, even while still in your womb. In fact, the sun’s rays penetrating your body would be most detrimental to his well-being.”

  The count paused a moment, as though he were still contemplating how he could help alleviate some of my pain. “I shall leave instructions for Max,” he continued, “to move you to a room in the tower at the back of the house. It has a door that leads out to a flat, enclosed area of the roof. I believe it is referred to as a widow’s walk. I will instruct Max to allow you to take air in the late evenings, once the sun has set. He will have the key to the door, so he can open it for you at the appropriate time and relock it when you are finished. That will eliminate any exposure to the sun’s rays and still allow you some fresh air. It is also perfectly hidden so, while you walk, you will not be out in the open. Anyone who might be passing by on the nearby streets will not be able to see you.”

  “Why the move, dear Count? Would it not be simpler to take my walks in the yard or the courtyard?” I asked.

  “Out of the question!” A hint of his old cynicism crept momentarily into his voice. I decided not to pursue that avenue any further. I knew he still did not trust me not to attempt another escape if I were on the ground. Where could I run to from the roof?

  I nodded my head. “I am sorry if I touched a sore spot, Count. I was not thinking clearly. I thank you for your consideration of my feelings. And, yes, I would love to walk with you in the gardens now.” I went to the closet and retrieved the cape I had worn before—Teresa had not wanted it after she had found out I had worn it.

  As I tried to don it, the count’s warm hands took control. Do not ask me how a vampire could have warm hands, but he did; at least I thought so on that particular night. Maybe it was only the illusion created by the personal warmth he appeared to be extending to me. “Here, Virginia darling, allow me.”

  Before I had time to react, the cape had been secured around my shoulders, buttoned into place, and I was being escorted out of my room on the arm of the man I hated, loved, and desired all at the same time. He guided me through the gardens, cradling my hand close to his bosom. I took no note as to whether there was a heartbeat beneath my trembling fingers. It was of no consequence to me; I was walking alone, with him. His arm was around my waist. Teresa was nowhere in the picture!

  Max must have been in the yard planting flowers—I assumed it had been Max. I had yet to see any other servants around the house. I could not figure out, though, how he had time for all the matters he attended to. Maybe the count had a gardener who came in once in a while—one to whom Max would hand an envelope of money to after each visit. I would have to pay closer attention now that spring was here. Of course, I had often thought there was the possibility someone else actually lived in the house and helped Max—someone who worked in an obscure part of the building, where I would never be able to see them. Maybe it was even someone like Max, but of a lower station. But Max had said that there was no one else. I shuddered. The count drew me closer, most likely thinking I was chilled. Good that he could not read my thoughts—or could he?

  We approached the statues. During my last walk, I had been so engrossed in our conversation that I had not observed them closely. Now I saw their true diabolic symbolism. They were grotesque-looking creatures, and in my opinion, they did not belong in a garden full of beautiful flowers. However, the thought crossed my mind that the flowers were nothing more than a distraction, so that the world could not see through t
o the true ugliness which lay behind the walls of the mansion.

  I thought back to some of the older buildings and homes I had seen in Toronto. They, too, had had diabolical gargoyles placed on and around their grounds. Was it just a sign of a certain era, or were there a number of vampires out there that people were not aware of? If so, were they like the Count Basarab Musat, or were they the ones created over the centuries by the rogue vampire?—the one name that the count would not say. Had some of them, as the count had done, moved to small towns, or cities like Brantford, pretentiously posing as upstanding members of society? If so, how many were there? I shuddered again. The count drew me even closer. He did not seem in a talkative mood.

  From the statues, the count led me down to the row of ancient trees that stood like sturdy castle guards around the property. Their branches knitted together, many of them dragging on the ground, leaving no obvious open passage for an escape to the outside world. My eyes searched earnestly for such an opening, but in the pale light of the moon, I could detect none. Their assignment was to let no one pass, in or out, and they did their job well. I wondered why the trees had allowed me in on that fateful night not so long ago. I also wondered why the count was taking me so close to the trees now. Was it to show me I had no way to escape, I would never make it through the tangled roots? I knew he did not fear I would cry out—how could I, with him beside me? And who else, besides curious twits like me, would be on the streets in a residential area at this hour? Even most teenagers would be home, snug in their beds!

  We turned and headed back toward the house. The count became talkative, but it was different from our usual subjects. He talked of his homeland. He described the rolling hills, the mountains, and the castles. There was a dreamy tone to his voice as the words poured out. He talked of the relatives who would soon be arriving. I thought I detected a hint of childish excitement in his voice, too, when he mentioned the guest of honour, his father. This was the man who had so painstakingly written the diary detailing the unfortunate demise of the Musat and Dracul families. “My father has waited a long time for this event,” the count stated as he touched my swollen belly.