“It is perverse,” I had said. “We are not supposed to save them—just the opposite in fact. I brought them back here to save you.”
“She is the answer we have been searching for—”
“How?”
I was frustrated by his inability to see that her pregnancy was the one thing that would save him. “Devour her,” I had said. “You can have her all to yourself. It will revive you, reverse your decay—the blood of her child will enrich you. You would be rejuvenated if you would only feed on the girl.”
“She is not to be touched,” he had said.
We argued like this until our last hours together, but he knew I would obey him. I may have been our clan’s leader but I was subservient to Byron. My union with him had dictated it so. I had fastened myself to him, and because I had made him in my image, I could no longer live without him. I was at his mercy, though the others did not see our truth. In front of them, he was the subordinate vampire.
“One day, Vincent, when I am long gone, you will understand this sacrifice.”
“Enough!” I promised him I would abide by his wish.
“And the others?” He had asked.
“They will follow my law.”
He came to me then and took my hands in his and thanked me with the same gratitude that had melted my heart at his vampiric birth. His kiss was like the drop of heaven I shall never know.
Later. — I am sorry, Byron. I regret my blindness to what you were doing for us. But even more, I regret not telling you I love you for it.
2 October. — Veronica grows weak, as does Elizabeth. The female vampires suffer more without blood. I have ordered Jean to draw from the man again, but to leave the girl untouched. Though we had kept them in the same room, Byron wanted them separated when the girl confided that Marco is the father of her child. She claims it was consensual, but regrets the outcome nevertheless.
When she told us about their escape from their home, she was curled up on the sofa, her legs tucked under her robe. She was still too thin to show but Byron figured she was about five months along. “He saved me but not …” Her words drifted. “He didn’t mean to let go of her but we were surrounded and he had no choice,” she said.
She told us they made it to a natatorium where they met up with Marco’s friend, the third man from her party.
“Salvatore let us in since the neighborhood was already overrun with them. We had stayed in our house long after the neighbors moved out. I think we were the only ones left on the block. Marco insisted we stay until the carabinieri showed up. He said they’d come for us—he said radio reports said they’d come to our neighborhood too.” She twisted the fringe of her robe between her fingers, as she spoke. Curling and uncurling, she mangled the wool beneath her sweaty palm and I could smell her perspiring beneath the heavy fabric. “When the creepers—that’s what Marco calls them—when they came to the neighborhood in crowds, he decided to leave. We snuck out one night, me and him and Lucia.”
“Lucia?” Byron asked.
“Lucia was my sister. She was—” Her voice got caught in her throat, but she cleared it and began again. “I can’t even remember her face now, you know?” She looked at Byron with sad eyes and I tempered my sting of compassion. “Marco couldn’t save her, but I got away and headed to the pool. Marco said he knew how to get in.”
“Were you pursued by the creepers, as you call them?” Byron asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Like a pack of wolves or something, they chased after us.” Marco led them through a row of bramble bushes, she said, and the thickets scraped them when they passed. But the thorns did more damage to the bloodless, as their skin got caught on the points. She turned back and saw the face of one peel right off, she said, as it ran through the bush after them. “The pool was just on the other side and Marco pulled me by the arm because I couldn’t keep up. He finally picked me up and ran with me all the way to the courtyard on the other side of the building. We saw a few creepers reaching through the gate, and that’s how we knew there were other people inside.”
Marco yelled for help when he saw Salvatore at the gate, and assured her they would be safe inside. “We just made it,” she said. “Creepers crowded in on us, and Marco shot at a few of them too.”
“Did the bullets stop them?” I asked.
She looked up at me with surprise, having forgotten she was not alone with Byron. “No,” she said. “They just kept on.”
Byron glanced at me. Nothing short of lighting the bloodless on fire would stop them. My beloved had discovered that only cremation could prevent reanimation.
“I was never so happy to see the inside of that public pool,” she said. “It had little windows way up high at the top near the roof so it seemed safe, and the only way in was through the door Salvatore had chained back up after he let us in.”
“Were there others with you?” Byron asked.
“Several families,” she said. “The pool was drained and cots were set up on the floor.”
“How many people in total?”
“Let’s see,” she said, as she counted her fingers. “Eleven including us.”
Byron did not look at me but I knew what he would ask next. “Are they still there?”
“No, no, no,” she said. “Oh-no.” She seemed fearful of the memory but Byron pushed her, wanting to collect as much information from her as he could before he left us. He made notes, compiling a dossier for me to use after he was—it was that night, after she left him, that he withdrew into—his sarcophagus.
“What happened, my dear?” Byron brushed his hand across hers, and jealousy’s sting bit me.
“Well,” she said after taking a deep breath, “we lived for several weeks in quiet. I think it was weeks—I spent most of my time with a boy from my school. He was there with his family, and they were holding out too.” She and the boy played board games, she said, while the adults played poker around the pool. A third family was there, and the mother nursed their baby at night while the two young boys and their father slept. Evelina and the new mother were the only females in the group, and she seemed timid when Byron pointed that out. I suppose he wondered if she knew to whom the baby belonged, though to me it did not matter.
“Creepers hadn’t bothered us since the day we arrived, and so we went back to just waiting for the carabinieri to come. Sometimes we’d hear machine guns outside and every time we thought it was them. But they never came before the day—” She stopped herself.
Byron’s hand rested on hers, and he petted her when she fell silent. I subdued my rage—never had I been jealous when we hunted women and men for sport, but this was different, this was unnatural. He did not intend to harm her and his affection seemed too genuine for my taste. I was utterly sick inside.
“Niccolò and I played with the two young boys—Niccolò is—was—the boy from my school,” she said, “when all of a sudden we heard a loud crash from the other side of the wall in the courtyard. The whole building shook and then the ceiling started to crumble. We ran toward each other and huddled in a corner. The building tremors slowed but the walls and ceiling kept vibrating. Marco said it was an earthquake, but the others thought it was a bomb. When it was over, the men went to see the damage and came back saying we were all done for. The wall of the courtyard had been knocked down and creepers climbed in and were pressed up to the inner wall, which gave way too.” She took another deep breath. “The bomb or earthquake or whatever it was never even stopped them. They came at us. ‘Run up the steps!’ Salvatore yelled and we made our way up to the back of the building. I didn’t realize the others were missing until we got out on the other side. Creepers were everywhere—I don’t know how we dodged them all but we got away.” Her voice cracked. “The family with the baby—Emilia—taken down.” She covered her ears. “I can still hear their screams.”
She may have meant the human cries or bloodless howls. Since we had never heard a firsthand account of a human attack, I was riveted.
&nbs
p; “Niccolò … Niccolò … he … didn’t make it because he tried to save Davide and … Antonio … when their dad fell he turned back to get them.” She held her hands more tightly against her ears, but Byron seemed transfixed.
“How soon did you get to the trattoria?” He asked.
“We only just got there a few days before you found us.” She looked at me, letting her hands fall to her lap. Her face was swollen with sorrow. “The pool attack happened months ago,” she said.
I had hoped there were others, as did Byron. “Rest now, my dear,” he said. “Vincent will take you back to your room.”
She kissed his hand and thanked him with a gratitude like the one that had melted my heart all those years ago; hers, it seemed, had the same effect on him.
“You must keep her safe,” he told me when I returned to his chamber. “Her child too.”
These were the last words he spoke.
3 October. — I told the others the girl was to be treated with care. “Swear an oath,” I said. “Each of you will help me keep her and the baby from harm.”
“Tu as ma parole,” Jean said.
“Yes, Vincent,” Elizabeth said.
Stephen and Veronica also consented.
“Eef I may ask,” Jean said. “Why?”
“It is for our own good,” I said. No further explanation was needed since the clan would not challenge my command; the problem lay, however, in convincing them it was my desire. “She may be the solution,” I said. “Somehow she holds the key to our survival.” I wanted to believe what I told them as much as I hoped they would. I put all my faith in my beloved Byron. I could do nothing else. “The man will serve as sustenance for now,” I said. “But we will have to go on the hunt again soon, and if lucky, we will find others. We must believe these are not the last two humans on earth.”
“Perhaps we should move on,” Elizabeth said.
The others looked at me with a similar design in mind. It appeared they had spoken about it in private. “I will take it into consideration,” I said. “But it will be difficult to move with two humans and a third on the way.” Elizabeth looked down at the floor; she knew I was right. “For now,” I said, “let us continue to hunt after dark.”
The howling had ceased and the shadows on the walls were minimal, as only a few stray bloodless wandered past. Since we lived in darkness and spoke in hushed tones, we were undetectable to them, and as long as we kept the humans tucked away, our cathedral would be safe.
“How is the man doing?” I asked.
“’E’s wavering,” Jean said.
“Let us make sure he eats enough.”
“Well, that’s just it,” Stephen said. “They’re going through the rations quickly.”
Scarcity of human food was not something I had thought about. Foolishly, I had forgotten they also needed to eat. “Our next run into town will have to be for food then.”
When our meeting ended, I went to talk with the man. Byron had ignored him, but I wondered if he did not have additional information for us. He had given up reclining on the bed and was on the ground doing sit-ups. He stopped when he saw me and fumbled to get up from the floor. His injured arm was still bound in a sling. “Listen,” he said with a slight lisp from his cracked tooth. “I’m going to come right out and say it. We’d like to leave. We thank you for your hospitality but we’d like to take our chances outside.”
“Do you think that is really wise considering her condition?”
“Her condition?”
“Your stepdaughter is pregnant.”
He was shocked—too shocked. He looked at me in such a way that I wondered if he knew it was even possible. Perhaps the child was not his after all. “Maybe your friend took liberties with the girl,” I said.
He scratched his head with his free arm. “That sonofabitch!”
“She seems to think you are the father though,” I said.
“She—what—I …” His flushed expression evinced his guilt. He sat down on the bed and put his head in his free hand. “Oh my God.”
“He will not help you,” I said. “But I can.”
He resigned himself to staying, knowing he could not escape with her in that condition.
“Do you know what happened to your friend Salvatore?” I asked.
“He—he—he,” he stammered.
“Yes,” I said. “He what?”
“The creepers—they attacked him in—the—the—the trattoria.”
“I see,” I said. “Do you need anything, Marco?” I wanted him to think our intentions were good and that we were concerned for their well-being—which we were, essentially.
“Uh,” he said. “No, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “But can I see Evie?”
“Not now,” I said. “She rests most of the day.” I turned to go but he stopped me.
“What’s your name?”
I offered him the most troubling smile, fangs and all, and extended my hand to shake his. “Vincent Du Maurier.”
He looked down at the floor, as his hand shot out to meet mine. He trembled when we touched. “Will there be much more blood drawn?”
He knew the answer, but I humored him. “As much as we need,” I said.
I flew out of the room before he registered the door open and close again, and passed Jean in the hall with his readied syringe, as I headed back to my chamber.
Later. — I pored over Byron’s most recent notes. Nothing in them made much sense. I found in the midst of them, however, some kind of chart he had drawn. It had arrows and lines pointing away from one central source—Evelina. She liked to be called Evie, but he was a stickler for formalities. She was at the heart of most of his diagrams. He had outlined the process of delivery very nicely for me, delegating each of us a task when the baby comes. He had given me a list of things she would need between now and then, and even drew up a list of things the baby would have to have as soon as it was born. On almost every page, he had jotted in the margins: We must keep her alive! She must not be tasted, and I assumed he had intended the directives for both the bloodless and us.
4 October. — Before we headed out to hunt for human food, we fed on our ration of Marco’s blood—a meager portion, I might add, that is now used up. We needed to find sustenance for ourselves, as much as we needed food for the humans. We planned on going to an area of town we had stayed away from for some time, an antiquated section that housed spice markets and butcher shops, apothecaries and fruit stands. I thought if there was food tucked away somewhere, it could be in that area since the market had plenty of underground nooks and storage spaces. It was easy enough to get to, as we flew through the fields practically unnoticed. Only one straggler crossed our path, but we traveled so fast Stephen knocked him over, as we passed him by.
The entrance to the market was once barred but now the gates were toppled over, trampled by a swarm no doubt. I was surprised to see the main street marked with piles of ash, as if a fire had ravaged the place and burned everything in its path.
“Who could’ve done this?” Veronica asked.
“Must have been humans, right?” Stephen said.
They both hoped we would stumble on some poor fools hiding out, as I had until then, but the smell of burned flesh was thick and my optimism was swept up in it. I motioned for the two to stay close, as we went through the market stand by stand. The spice shelf whose sweet aroma once wafted through the streets was now in embers; its herbs and dried fruits turned to char. The rotting apple stands and lettuce carts were toppled over and burned, while singed rugs and baskets clung to rusted hooks from the awnings, just barely buoyed up in midair. The scene was a postcard from a city struck by the ash of a volcanic eruption, the scorched wares a shadow of a world we had known.
“It smolders still,” Stephen said. “They may be here, whoever did this.”
It had been set to flame not all that long ago, though I believed no human had done it despite Stephen’s hoping so. “Not they,” I said. “He.”
“Who?” Veronica asked.
“Vlad is here,” I said.
The ruler of the House of Dracul had arrived, no doubt to rob and pilfer what blood was left on our coast. I knew he would eventually pay us a visit, I had just thought it would be under better circumstances. Jean is one of Vlad’s descendants; made from the venom of the famed impaler, he is his first progeny. He grew dispirited with the Romanian boar and defected soon after we met in France. I taught Jean that the life of the vampire need not be as base and brutal as the one Vlad had offered him and he embraced my customs, striving to be a cultivated creature like me. Though most vampires are bound to the one for whom their transfiguration is owed, they are free beings nevertheless. When Jean decided to leave his boorish maker, Vlad could do nothing but give his progeny his blessing, if only reluctantly. The originator’s venomline, however, will always retain some sway, and so since Vlad made Jean and Jean made Maxine and Maxine made Elizabeth, he has influence over all three of my clan members. The head of the House of Dracul has never recovered from the loss of his oldest progeny and since we are all desperate for blood now, he seeks out his descendants both for comfort and as his army to overtake the deserted world.
I had sensed his coming for days, though I tucked my suspicions aside to mourn the loss of my beloved. It was clear at the market that I could avoid him no longer since he would come for Jean, and perhaps the girl. “We have to go,” I said.
“Is he dangerous?” Veronica asked.
“He could be if he realizes we have fresh blood,” I said.
Neither of them knew how savage Vlad could be or the threat his presence posed to our captives, though I did not doubt Jean and Maxine had told them stories. Reports of Vlad’s conduct perpetuated his frightening reputation for centuries; he came from a long line of agitators. During the Black Death, in fact, an ancestor of the Houses of Dracul and Bazaraab decelerated the recovery of the masses. Toktomer was a banished prince of the Mongol Empire and became a vampire out of sheer necessity, for he saw it as his only way to rule. I was not aware of his turning until later, when its myth spread far and wide among us. A female vampire bit him, a slave he had captured. He had been at war for years, leading his army as a Mongolian exile in Crimea, and as the story goes, he found a girl wandering along the pass one evening near his camp. She was only eight or nine, but seduced him still, and he took her in, calling her his child bride, teaching her to fight alongside him. She had been one of mine for a thousand years, and fed on his troops one by one until he realized something was amiss.
The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier (Book 1) Page 4
