by Clare Daly
The man’s body went limp, as Sasha at last drew back from him, his eyes closed, licking the last of the blood from his lips. He let the body slump to the ground and when the rapture of the kill left him, he looked at her dreamily.
‘For such an ugly act, the reward more than overcomes it.’
He gestured for his hat and she gave it to him stepping over the man’s body.
‘I’ll never do that, you know. I’d rather die.’
‘Therein lies the problem. If you don’t feed, you won’t die as a result. You will just grow weak and the hunger will break your will in a never-ending spiral. You will have to face it. You have no choice.’
‘You can feed me.’
‘We can’t feed each other. We can only offer our blood in making you one of us. It is living human blood that will sustain you.’
They walked back onto the street. The policemen were still there and one of them looked their way as Sasha bade them good evening, taking her hand.
‘Are you repulsed?’ he asked her.
‘I am,’ she said quietly.
‘You’re more composed than I thought you would be. You do surprise me Evelyn.’
‘You’re not the first man to think that,’ she said.
30
Fourteen nights passed as Evelyn refused to drink. The night after the killing, she simply refused to leave the house and Sasha went with the others, returning minutes later, fresh blood spilled on his shirt, the result of a rushed feed or perhaps a ploy to have her smell the richness of it and want it for herself. His care of her was straining on the group and as she lay on the bed upstairs with Mafdet, she could hear them discussing her fate as if in the same room.
‘It’s not normal for a fledgling to refuse to eat. She must be starving. How is she able to resist it?’ Wade asked.
‘We’re all different,’ said Sasha. ‘Give her time. How long did it take you Lincoln?’
‘About five minutes,’ he said solemnly. ‘But I welcomed the change. She did not. That’s the difference.’
‘She’s holding on too hard to the person she was,’ Velle said. ‘You have to embrace this otherwise you may as well be dead.’
‘She’ll come around,’ said Sasha hopefully.
‘What about Gabriel? Surely he’ll intervene?’ she said.
‘He hasn’t so far so he’s waiting, like us, to see what she decides herself. If she chooses not to feed than I have no doubt he’ll take her and force her to do it. He wanted her a vampire. He’s invested in her and he needs her for something. He won’t just let her go.’
Mafdet’s ears pricked up at the mention of her master’s name and Evelyn pet her side gently as they lay together. The lynx turned her head back to her as if to second the thoughts of the group below. As her delicate hands moved through Mafdet’s coat, she knew she would have to feed sooner or later. Each night she pushed the desire away, banishing it, but it was getting more difficult as time went on and she knew that she was weak, the strength from Sasha’s blood slowly fading. When he appeared in the room a moment later, he read the look on her face.
‘Come, I can look at you no longer. You must feed.’
She sat up as Mafdet climbed off the bed, welcoming it after many nights of lying patiently waiting for her mistress to rise.
‘Let me take someone who will welcome it,’ she said. ‘Someone who is waiting for it, the door to the next kingdom already ajar.’
‘As you wish,’ he said taking her hand.
‘I think I know the place,’ she said. ‘Can we travel over water?’
‘We can go where we please, once it’s within the hours of night.’
‘Take me to Staten Island,’ she said, rising swiftly.
31
Michael had slept most of the journey south, curled into the corner of the stagecoach, his belongings tucked up in a small suitcase beside him. When night came he would wake, watching and listening for them, looking out at the blackness as the carriage rolled on, taking him further and further away from New York. He had no doubt they could use their preternatural senses to sniff him out if close. His only hope was that he had given them the slip and that they like Baker believed he was on a ship back to Ireland. When he’d seen Baker waiting for him at the corner, his immediate instinct was to run from him too, but then he saw the suitcase and the look on Baker’s face, almost envious, and he knew he was not there to foil his escape, but to aid it.
‘Quickly,’ he’d said, hailing a carriage.
Michael climbed in, Baker following close behind.
‘Why are you helping me?’ he asked.
‘Because you are not meant to be around these creatures. You’ve seen what they are, what they do. They’ll kill you, don’t think that they won’t.’
Michael stuck his head out of the carriage window looking backwards and to the skies.
‘I am assured of it Baker, believe me,’ he said, his hands shaking as he patted the suitcase on his lap.
‘There’s a ship sailing tonight for Liverpool. Go back to Ireland and make a life for yourself. Forget this ever happened.’
‘Without her?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, but you are best to consider your sister dead.’
Michael thought of the blood and her teeth, so close to him.
‘Is there any way back for her?’
‘To be human again? I’m afraid not. There is no reversing it. It is not a spell of magic. It’s a transformation.’
‘Can they be killed?’
‘Michael, I am giving you an opportunity here.’
‘Why are you helping them? Maybe you’re hoping they’ll change you too, are you?’
‘I have my reasons,’ he said as they made their way to the port.
Baker bought him his ticket and though they parted with a firm handshake, he did not leave. He waited until the ship’s anchor was raised and then satisfied, he left. It began to move slowly away from the pier and Michael saw his chance. He ran across the deck, his case in hand and leapt over the edge. His feet landed inches onto the wooden pier, the weight of his case almost tipping him backwards into the water. He cashed in his ticket at the office, stuffing the bills into his jacket.
He had no intention of leaving America. That was exactly what they wanted, to be rid of him for good. Terrified as he was, he knew he couldn’t leave. Baker wasn’t going to share any knowledge with him, but not one of these vampires was from New York. They had travelled across America and so would he, until he found the knowledge he was looking for. And so, he found himself journeying by stage to Philadelphia and onwards to Washington, then to Richmond, Virginia through to Greensboro, North Carolina. By the time he reached Georgia, his money was almost spent and he arrived in the thriving city of Atlanta, in the hope of finding lodgings and a hot bath. That night, he sat by his hotel window on Peachtree Street, watching the people below, the sounds of the train whistles echoing as they came into the terminus. As the sun came up, the train workers arrived in their droves, the streets full of carts carrying coal and cargo to the busy station. He walked among them, eating a slice of cornbread, watching them as they scurried about, oblivious to the darkness that prevailed around them. He almost wished he was one of them, carefree and with no knowledge of what lurked in the corners of the night. He longed for the simplicity of his farming life and the sweat and satisfaction of a hard day’s work. A sign in the window of a local trading post caught his eye, and instantly he knew it was just what he needed.
LABORERS WANTED.
OAK HILL PLANTATION. (32 Miles).
ASK INSIDE.
The store keeper was a friendly man in a pristine white apron. He said he was in luck, as the plantation’s weekly supply wagon would be in town that afternoon and he could talk directly to Oliver Kempner, who looked after the provisions and hiring. Michael liked the look of Kempner as s
oon as he saw him. He was in his forties, his skin permanently reddened and wrinkled by the hot summers, his hands, like shovels, calloused and coarse skinned as he shook Michael’s hand. Within five minutes, Michael was helping him load cartons and boxes into the wagon and the two chatted all the way back to Oak Hill as the sun began to dip into the horizon. The wagon pulled off the main road and down a long path lined with oaks, their branches haunted by the Spanish moss that clung to them like a veil. Michael caught his first glimpse of the house, its white portico columns running the length of the façade. The colonial mansion was like a jewel sitting in the sceptre of a king, the winter sun hitting the windows of the first floor, reflecting its light in beams across the wide balcony overlooking the gardens.
Kempner drove the wagon around to the back. Cotton fields stretched as far as the eye could see, cabins dotted here and there between clumps of trees. The sky was a bruise of deep red and purple, the sun almost gone and as they unpacked their cargo, a man rode up on horseback.
Kempner turned to introduce them.
‘Mr. Yates, this is Michael O’Neill,’ he said, his southern accent drifting lazily on the evening air. ‘A new pair of hands.’
Mr. Yates looked down at him from his horse, sizing him up.
‘You’re a ways skinny. You got farming experience, boy?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘How long you been in America?’
‘A couple of months, Sir.’
‘You’re in danger of losing that Irish accent of yours,’ he said. ‘Fella I know, name of Geraghty, forty years in America and never lost his Irish accent, a Cork man …great fella,’ he smiled.
‘I guess it’s leaving me whether I like it or not,’ Michael said. ‘That’s the effect your America is having on me.’
‘Show Michael to his quarters. Pay is a dollar a week plus keep.’ He nodded his head, clicking his heels into his steed as he headed in the direction of the stables.
‘Welcome to Oak Hill,’ Kempner said. ‘Mr. Yates expects hard work but he’s one of the best in these parts. A gentleman.’
Michael’s quarters were in a house at the back of the property. He shared it with eight other men, including Kempner who had a room to himself. That evening as they ate a stew of winter vegetables and a chicken, roasted on the open fire, he listened to them talk of his new master.
‘God bless Mr. Yates. At least we have our jobs long as he doesn’t take them negroes,’ said one, his hands grabbing for a piece of bread, the dirt from the fields still under his fingernails.
‘Mr. Yates doesn’t believe it’s right,’ said another to Michael ‘keeping people like cattle, chaining them up. He’s rich so he ain’t got the worry of not being able to pay for workers, but some of them plantation owners, they don’t got that sort of fortune and they will take that labour from the slaves or hell, they think it’s their right to.’
‘Count yourself lucky boys, you have the freedom of this fine country,’ said Kempner raising his cup of apple cider. ‘Here’s to freedom.’
‘To freedom,’ Michael said, raising his cup high into the air.
32
Evelyn felt the soft earth under her feet as they came to rest on the rain soaked grass of Tompkinsville. Before them loomed the gates of the Quarantine Maritime Hospital, a walled compound of twenty or so buildings containing over a thousand sick and dying souls, who never made it into New York Harbour.
‘It’s perfect,’ said Sasha.
She realised she was still holding his hand and she let go. As they had glided over the waves, she was pretty sure she knew how to keep herself above the water without his help, but she was hungry and didn’t want to let go, for fear her weakness would cause her to tumble into its icy depths. Inside the gates, the grounds were quiet and Sasha moved to an open window, quickly disappearing inside.
She joined him as they moved through rows of beds. Most of the windows were open, in the hope of cooling the feverous. Patients stirred, groaning through their agony as others slept soundly, glad of a night’s respite, free to dream that soon they would leave there with a cheery goodbye and be on their way – though the potter’s field, not far from there told another story.
A nurse sat at one end writing up her records, every now and then glancing down the room. They kept to the shadows, disappearing through a door at the far end. The smell of soap and camphor filled the air and Evelyn paused, allowing her vampiric senses to guide her. Two doctors passed them consumed in conversation, oblivious to their night time visitors hiding in the gloom. When they had turned a corner, she stopped at a set of doors, her fingers running over the letters painted there – Critical Care. Could it be? She slowly opened the door, her hand trembling.
Three beds lay against the wall. Two were empty, as if recently stripped of their bedclothes, the stained mattresses telling a thousand tales, while the far bed was a mini fortress, a framed green curtain fencing it off from the rest of the room. She felt the tiny muscles in her gums flex, her teeth yearning to come through. Her fingertips brushed the fabric, pulling the screen away and there in its protection lay Lawrence Sherlock. The young man’s skin was the colour of spoiled milk, his eyes sunken into the dark circles that swept under them. He had lost weight and his bony arms lay either side of him, on top of the hospital blanket. His chest barely moved as he breathed, the air no more than a harsh crackle as he exhaled, his chin lopping downwards on his chest. Evelyn could hear the rumble of each expiration, his lungs laboured, his weakened heart slowly beating its way to the end. She touched his forehead softly and he stirred, his eyes opening for a moment trying to focus before giving in and closing again.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she whispered. ‘God will welcome you into his kingdom this night,’ she said, the words heavy to her, her own dismantled faith making a liar of her. He tried again to open his eyes, seeing her this time and a single tear rolled out of the corner of his eye. She was helping him. She just had to focus on that. Her lips brushed against his cheek and she kissed him – an apology for what she was about to do. She moved to the soft flesh of his neck. Her sharp teeth projected from her gums at the feel of his skin and then they were inside, cutting deep with very little effort. She felt the blood rush into her mouth, warm and metallic, her body savouring it, allowing it to find those parts of her that needed its strength, building the new vampire, making her strong. As she drank, an image of Lawrence came into her mind, of him sat on his bunk on The Eleanora, telling stories from home. A happy, hopeful young man with the sweetest smile on his face. She gagged as her mind took over the act, her repulsion overpowering her body’s yearning for it. His blood caught in her throat, and she spat it out, a red pool on the floor. Panicked, she took a cloth from his bedside to clean it up.
‘Don’t waste it!’ said Sasha incredulously.
She brought the blood-soaked cloth up from the floor and threw it at him.
‘Here,’ she cried ‘you have it.’
Lawrence let out a sudden groan that startled them both.
‘Finish it,’ Sasha said. ‘You owe him that.’
She turned her back to him, leaning in towards the wound. She allowed her desire for his blood to rise. She must end his suffering, and her own. This time her body welcomed every drop and she drank until she felt his heart take its last leap and she withdrew, knowing he was gone.
‘We need to leave,’ said Sasha still holding the bloodied cloth. ‘You will learn that it’s best not to leave evidence of your visit.’
She stood back. Her legs felt like jelly and Sasha caught her arm, before they failed her.
‘Steady yourself. It takes a little while for it to work its magic the first time until you get used to it,’ he said.
‘Monster,’ she said as he grasped her hand.
The hospital disappeared and just before sunrise, they were back in their room, safe from the sun’s gaze.
‘Now you sleep,’ he said, ‘and tomorrow night, we will try again.’
Within ten minutes he was sleeping the sleep of the dead beside her, Mafdet curled into a ball at his feet. Evelyn couldn’t contemplate rest. She could feel Lawrence’s blood in her veins, like a poison infecting her with this immortality and she hated how her body had welcomed it. Michael had been gone two weeks and every night she thought of him, alone on his journey back home. Baker had told her that he’d followed him to the docks, where he’d stowed away on a ship bound for Liverpool and her heart sank as she thought of him alone and scared, fleeing a country that was to be a dream but had turned into a hellish nightmare.
She wept at the memory of his terror-stricken face and the thoughts of never being able to make that journey across nights and days to see him again. The taste of blood rose again in her mouth and she despised herself for it. She swung her legs off the bed, an idea forming in her mind, seducing her with its simplicity. Silently she lifted the drape around the bed and stepped onto the floorboards, hoping they wouldn’t creak under her bare feet and give her away. She slipped out onto the landing, where she stopped.
The sun was rising and it streamed a long rectangle of light towards her from the window. She tiptoed down the landing towards it, edging forward until her toes met the shaft of light. She wriggled them in its warmth, waiting. When nothing happened, she took a step boldly into it, drowning herself from head to toe in the warm bright sunlight. Still nothing. Confused she waited there a few seconds more and then scampered down the stairs to the front door, throwing it open and running out into the street. How was it supposed to begin? She imagined the warmth would start to intensify, then her flesh would redden and perhaps blister before bursting into flames or instantly turning her to ash. But none of those things happened. The sun’s heat penetrated her skin but no more than she felt on any other normal day when she was alive. She looked back to the house. Had Sasha told her the truth? He must have for that’s the way he lived, out of the sun’s glare for fear of destruction. The others too. She wasn’t going to die in that moment – not that way.
