by P. C. Cast
“I promise with all of my heart!” I’d meant the promise. I’d had no way of knowing that the rest of the night would alter everything.
* * *
Mr. Simpton had fulfilled his wife’s request. He and Arthur were seated at the same table as Father and me, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Burnham, and Mr. and Mrs. Ryerson.
Father had gloweringly pushed a crystal flute filled with champagne the color of a blush over to me, saying, “Drink this. The bubbles may help your abominable croup!” I’d sipped it, folded my linen napkin onto my lap, and surreptitiously watched Arthur’s mother whisper to him.
Arthur’s face had gone pale, obviously with nerves, but he’d nodded tightly. He’d turned to his father, and I saw rather than heard him say, “It is time.” Slowly, laboriously, his father had stood, raised his own champagne flute and, using a silver knife, tapped the crystal, silencing the crowd.
“Good ladies and gentlemen,” he’d said. “I must begin by saluting Mr. Burnham and ask that you join me in a congratulatory toast to his genius, which was the driving force behind the World’s Columbian Exposition.”
“To Mr. Burnham!” the room roared.
“I am happy to announce that tonight’s congratulations are not yet over. But I bow to my son, Arthur, as he must lead us in our next toast, and he has my blessing in doing so.”
I’d felt my rapid heartbeat pounding in my chest as Arthur, tall, handsome, and somber-faced, stood. He’d walked around our table until he reached Father. He’d bowed first to him, and then he extended his hand to me. Though mine trembled terribly, I borrowed strength from him and stood by his side.
“What is the—” Father had begun to bluster, but Arthur neatly cut him off.
“Barrett Wheiler, I publicly, formally, and with the blessing of my family, declare my deepest affections for your daughter, Emily, and ask your permission to court her with the express and honorable purpose of marriage.” Arthur’s voice was deep and did not falter one bit. It carried throughout the opulent dining hall.
In that moment I can truly say that I loved him utterly and completely.
“Oh, well done, Simpton! Congratulations indeed!” It was Mr. Burnham, and not my father who stood. “To Emily and Arthur!” The room echoed his toast, and then there was an eruption of cheers and well wishes. As Mrs. Ryerson and Mrs. Burnham gave me soft kisses and made over Arthur and me, I saw Arthur’s father limp over to my father. I held my breath. Though Father’s expression was dark, the two of them shook hands.
“It is done.” Arthur had been watching as well, and he whispered the words to me as he bent and kissed my hand.
I don’t know whether it was with relief or with illness, but it was then that I fainted.
When my senses returned there was pandemonium around me. Father was bellowing for a doctor. Arthur had lifted me and was carrying me from the room into the sitting area outside the great hall. Mrs. Simpton was trying to reassure Father and Arthur that I was simply overexcited and had not been feeling well all day.
“And the poor thing’s gown is entirely too tight,” she’d said as Arthur placed me gently on a settee.
I’d tried to reassure Arthur and agree with his mother, but I could not speak through the cough that gripped me. Next I knew there was a gray bearded man bending over me, feeling my pulse, and listening to my chest with a stethoscope.
“Definitely not well. Fever … rapid pulse … cough. But in light of the events of the evening, I’d say all except the cough could be attributed to woman’s hysteria. Rest quiet, and perhaps a hot toddy or two are what I prescribe.”
“So, she will be well?” Arthur had taken my hand.
I’d managed to smile at him and answer for myself. “Quite well. I promise. All I need is rest.”
“She needs to get home and to her bed,” Father had said. “I shall call our carriage and—”
“Oh, Father, no!” I’d forced myself to smile at him and sit up. “I would not rest well knowing I had been the cause that took you from this special dinner you have so looked forward to.”
“Mr. Wheiler, please allow me the honor of escorting your daughter home.” Mr. Simpton surprised me by speaking up. “I understand what a burden it is on the family when one member is not well, as I have not felt completely myself for months. This evening I agree with little Emily—rest shall do us both a world of good—and that should not hinder the celebration for the rest of you. Mr. Wheiler, Arthur, please stay. Eat, drink, and make merry for Emily and for me.”
I’d covered my smile with a cough. Mr. Simpton had put Father in a position twice in one night wherein he would look ridiculous if he refused him. Had I not felt so terribly ill I would have wanted to dance about with joy.
“Well, indeed. I will allow you to see my Emily home.” Father’s voice had been gruff, verging on impolite, but everyone around us acted as if they did not notice.
Everyone, that is, except Arthur. He’d taken my hand and met Father’s dark gaze, saying, “Our Emily now, Mr. Wheiler.”
It had been Arthur and not Father who had helped me to the Simpton carriage, and Arthur who had kissed my hand and had bidden me a good night, saying that he would call on me the next afternoon.
Father had stood alone, glowering, as the lovely, well-upholstered carriage had driven away with Mr. Simpton and me smiling and waving.
It had seemed that I was a princess who had finally found her prince.
* * *
Wheiler House was unusually still and dark when the Simpton carriage left me on the walkway to the front door. Mr. Simpton had wanted to see me inside, but I had protested that he not inflame his leg any more than necessary, and explained that Father’s valet, as well as my maid, would be waiting within.
Then I’d done something that had surprised myself. I’d leaned down and kissed the old man’s cheek.
“Thank you, sir. I owe you my gratitude. Tonight you saved me—twice.”
“Oh, not at all! I’m pleased by Arthur’s choice. Get well, child. We will talk again soon.”
I’d been thinking how fortunate I was to have found Arthur and his affable parents when I entered our foyer and lit the gaslight within. After the soothing darkness of the carriage and the night, the light seemed to send spikes through my temples and I snuffed it out immediately.
“Mary!” I’d called. The house didn’t stir. “Carson! Hello!” I called again, but my words dissolved within a terrible cough.
I’d longed for the comforting shadows of my garden and the concealing darkness beneath my willow—how I believed it would have soothed me! But I was feeling so very ill that I knew I must get abed. Truth be told, the severity of my cough and the burning of my fever was beginning to frighten me. I struggled up the three flights of stairs, wishing Mary would hear me and appear to help me.
I was still alone when I made it to my bedchamber, pulled the cord that would ring the summoning bell in Mary’s small, basement room, and collapsed on my bed. I have no idea how long I lay there, struggling to breathe. It seemed a very long time. I’d felt like sobbing. Where was Mary? Why had I been left alone? I’d tried to unhook the tight little buttons that ran from the back of my neck all the way down to my waist and to take off the green silk gown that was so restrictive, but even feeling completely well that would have been nearly impossible. That night I hadn’t even been able to manage unclasping Mother’s pearls.
Fully dressed, I lay on my bed, gasping for breath between coughs, in a state that was more dreamlike than awake. A wave of weakness washed through me, closing my eyes. I believe I might have slept then because when next my senses registered the world around me, I thought I was in the grip of a hideous nightmare.
I’d smelled him before I’d been able to open my eyes. The scent of brandy, sour breath, sweat, and cigars filled my bedchamber.
I’d forced my eyes open. He had been a hulking shadow over my bed.
“Mary?” I’d spoken her name because I hadn’t wanted to believe what my sen
ses told me.
“Awake, are you?” Father’s voice was thick with alcohol and anger. “Good. You need to be. We have things to settle between us.”
“Father, I am ill. Let’s wait and talk tomorrow when I am better.” I’d pushed myself farther back against my bed pillows, trying to put more space between us.
“Wait? I’ve waited long enough!”
“Father, I need to call Mary. As the doctor said, she must make me a hot toddy so that I can rest.”
“Call Mary all you like—she won’t come. Neither will Carson or Cook. I sent them all to the fair. Told them to take the whole night off. There is no one here except the two of us.”
That’s when I became afraid. Summoning all the strength I could, I slid to the other side of the bed, away from him, and stood. Father was old and drunk. I was young and fleet footed. If I could just slip around him, he would not be able to catch me.
But that night I had not been a fleet-footed girl. I had been dizzy with fever and weak with a cough that would not let me catch my breath. As I’d tried to dart around him, my legs had felt as if they were made of stone and I’d stumbled.
“Not this time. This time we settle it!” Father grabbed my wrist and pulled me back.
“We have nothing to settle! I am going to marry Arthur Simpton and have a good and happy life away from you and your perversions! Do you think I don’t know how you look at me?” I’d shouted at him. “You disgust me!”
“I disgust you? You whore! You are the one who tempts me. I see how you watch me—how you flaunt yourself to me. I know your true nature, and by the end of this night you will know it, too!” he’d roared, sending spittle flying into my face.
He struck me then. Not on my face. Not once that night did he strike my face. One of his hot hands held both my wrists together in a viselike grip, pulling my arms over my head, while his other hand, curled into a fist, battered my body.
I’d fought him with all my might. But the more I fought, the harder he beat me. I had been propelled by terror, like a feral creature cornered by a huntsman, until he grasped the front of my silk dress and ripped it downward, tearing Mother’s pearls with the delicate fabric so that they rained around us as my breasts were fully exposed.
My body betrayed me then. It could no longer fight. I went cold and limp. When, with an animalistic growl, he’d pinned me on my bed, lifted my skirts, and rammed himself within the most intimate part of me as he bit and groped my breasts, I’d not moved. I’d only screamed and screamed until my throat had gone raw and my voice was lost.
It had not taken him long to finish. Once spent he’d collapsed, his great, sweating weight pressing me down.
I’d thought I would die, bleeding and broken beneath him, and smothered by pain and loss and despair.
I had been wrong.
He’d begun to snore, great snorting breaths, and I realized he was fully asleep. I dared to prod his shoulder and, with a grunt, he’d rolled off me.
I hadn’t moved. I’d waited until his snoring resumed. Only then did I begin inching away. I’d had to stop frequently and press my hand against my lips to contain the wet coughs, but finally I was free of the bed.
The numbness of my body was gone, though I’d wished mightily that it would return. But I did not allow the pain to make me hesitate. I moved as quickly as my battered body would allow and pulled my cloak from the armoire. Then slowly, quietly, I gathered up the loose pearls, as well as the emerald clasp, and secreted them, and this, my journal, within the deep pockets of the cloak.
I left through the rear door. Though I couldn’t chance pausing beneath my willow, I walked my dark path one last time, calling the concealing shadows to me and drawing comfort from the familiar darkness. When I reached the garden gate, I paused and looked back. The full moon had illuminated the fountain again. Europa’s marble face was turned toward me and through my blurred vision it seemed as if the water from the fountain had turned to tears, washing her cheeks as she wept for my loss. My gaze went from the fountain to my pathway and I realized that behind me I had left a trail of blood.
I went out the garden gate that had allowed Arthur, and what I believed to be salvation, into my life. I would retrace Arthur’s steps. He would still be my salvation—he must still be my salvation.
The Simpton Mansion was not far down South Prairie Avenue. I’d been grateful for the lateness of the hour. I met very few people as I stumbled along the walkway, enveloped in the cloak I clutched tightly about me.
You might think that during that painful journey I would have been imagining what I should say to Arthur. I had not. My mind hadn’t seemed my own, just as, earlier, my body had stopped obeying me. My only thoughts were that I must keep moving forward, toward safety, kindness, and Arthur.
It had been Arthur who found me. I’d paused in front of the Simpton Mansion, leaning on the cold wrought-iron fence that decorated the boundary around it. I’d been trying to catch my breath and to order my thoughts into finding the latch to the gate, and Arthur, leading his bicycle, had burst from the very gate I had been approaching.
He’d seen me, and paused, in the darkness not recognizing my cloaked and hooded form.
“May I help you?” His voice, kind and familiar, had broken me.
I’d shrugged off the hood and, in a voice so damaged I barely recognized it as my own, I cried, “Arthur! It’s me! Help me!” Then a coughing seizure, more severe than all the rest, took my body over and I began to crumble to the ground.
“Oh, God! Emily!” He’d thrown his bicycle aside and caught me in his arms as I fell. My cloak had opened then, and he’d gasped in horror at the sight of my torn dress, and my broken and bloody body. “What has happened to you?”
“Father,” I sobbed, trying desperately to speak as I struggled to breathe. “He attacked me!”
“No! How could this be?” I watched his gaze go from my untouched face down to the wounds on my exposed breasts, and to my ripped skirt and my blood-coated thighs. “He—he has completely abused you!”
I’d been staring into his blue eyes, waiting for him to comfort me and take me within to his family where I could be healed and where Father would, eventually, be made to pay for what he had done.
But instead of love or compassion or even kindness, I saw shock and horror in his eyes.
I’d shifted my body, covering myself with my cloak. Arthur made no move to keep me in his arms.
“Emily,” he’d begun, in a voice that sounded strange, and stilted. “It is clear that you have been violated, and I—”
I will never know what Arthur was going to say because at that moment a tall, elegant figure stepped from the shadows and pointed a long, pale finger at me, saying, “Emily Wheiler! Night has Chosen thee; thy death will be thy birth! Night calls to thee; hearken to Her sweet voice. Your destiny awaits you at the House of Night!”
My forehead exploded in blinding pain and I covered my head with my hands, as I trembled violently and waited to die.
Remarkably, with the next breath I drew, my chest loosened and sweet air flowed freely within me. I opened my eyes to see that Arthur was standing several feet from where I’d crouched, as if he’d begun to run away. The dark figure was a tall man. The first thing I noticed about him was that he had a sapphire-colored tattoo on his face that was made of bold lines spiraling from the crescent moon in the center of his forehead, across his brow and down his cheeks.
“My God! You’re a vampyre!” Arthur had blurted.
“Yes,” he’d answered Arthur, but had barely spared him a glance. All of his attention was focused on me. “Emily, do you understand what has happened to you?” the vampyre asked me.
“My father has beaten and raped me.” As I spoke the words, clearly and plainly, I felt the last of the sickness leave my body.
“And the Goddess, Nyx, has Marked you as her own. Tonight you leave the life of humans behind. From here on you answer only to our Goddess, our High Council, and to your own conscience.�
��
I’d shaken my head, not truly understanding. “But, Arthur and I—”
“Emily, I wish you well, but this is all too much for me. I cannot, will not, have such things in my life.” And Arthur Simpton had turned and fled back to his parents’ house.
The vampyre moved to me and with grace and preternatural strength, he lifted me in his arms and said, “Leave him and the pain of your old life behind you, Emily. There is healing and acceptance waiting for you at the House of Night.”
That is how I came to finish the record of what happened to me this horrible, wonderful night. The vampyre carried me to a black carriage, drawn by four perfectly matched black mares. The seats inside were black velvet. There were no lights at all, and I welcomed the darkness, finding comfort in it.
The carriage took us to a palace made truly of marble, and not the weak pretence of stone that the humans of Chicago had created for their fair.
As we drove through the gate in the thick, high walls, a woman met me on the front stairs. She, too, had a sapphire crescent tattoo in the middle of her forehead, and markings surrounding it. She waved joyously, but when the carriage stopped and the vampyre Tracker had to lift me from within, she hurried to me. She shared a long look with the other vampyre before turning her mesmerizing gaze on me. She touched my face gently and said, “Emily, I am your mentor, Cordelia. You are safe here. No man will ever harm you again.”
Then she took me to a sumptuous private infirmary, bathed and bandaged my body, and bade me to drink wine laced with something warm and metallic tasting.
I still sip on the dark drink as I write. My body aches, but my mind is my own again. And I find, as always, I am learning …
May 8th, 1893
Emily Wheiler’s Journal
Neferet’s Journal
Entry the first and last
I have decided. I have made my choice. This will be my last journal entry. In my retelling of the end of Emily Wheiler’s story and the beginning of Neferet’s wondrous new life, I complete what I began here in these pages six months ago.
