“How was she to know what true horrors lay within my castle walls? She was dying, desperate to let go. I could see it in her eyes, so I placated her in her last hours. I sent my servants away and held her head in my lap as she died. I stroked her hair. I sang sweets songs to her and promised her that you would find a new mother in me.”
She was taunting him, Richard knew it. Every word was like a sharp, insistent prod to the chest, a slap around the head, goading gestures that he knew better than to rise to. Instead, he focused on the beating of his heart that still thudded heavily in his ears. He tried to tune her out, to vanish her from his consciousness, but knew that he was failing.
“The last word that passed her lips was your name. You were in her thoughts to the very last.” Her voice took on an unexpected softness, a vague air of wistfulness. “I have no children of my own and I never shall, for it is not the way of my kind, but for a single moment I felt what she must have felt, on her knees before me and begging for your life. I felt what it was to be a mother, and I wanted you to live.”
To Richard, the countess had uttered a lie so twisted that it felt like snakes were writhing in his gut. Were he stronger, he would have forced himself up and wrapped his hands around the thin reed that was her neck and choked until her eyes went dead. But all he could do was clench his fists as she continued to speak.
“Every boy I take in is a boy without a future. This is what you do not understand. They are lost creatures without mothers and fathers to love them, or mothers and fathers who cannot keep them. I am granting them a mercy; with my kiss they no longer feel pain. I have done this for many, many years, Richard. Did you never wonder why you were not brought to my parlour, why you bore witness to so many others being chosen?”
She was challenging him, demanding an answer. Richard, rigid as he was, could only shake his head once and grip the arms of the chair even tighter. It seemed to amuse her, knowing the power that she had over him.
“It is because when I first beheld you that night all wrapped up in swaddling robes I saw something that separated you from the others. I saw it again that day in the parlour, when you gazed upon my true face and did not die. I realised then that you had been given to me for a reason. You were destined for more than sustenance for a higher power. You were meant to bear witness to me.”
When the countess spoke again, her voice was low and contemplative, almost mournful.
“Humans are weak of mind and of heart. Most cannot comprehend what it is to be of my kind.” Her hands drifted to her skirts, smoothing them down absent-mindedly. “We are of two faces, the truth and the lie, and so we show them the face that they wish to see. They look for our humanity, not knowing that it is lost. But when we feed, the lie melts away and our real faces emerge. Often it is too much for a grown man to handle, let alone a boy such as you. But you saw me, Richard. You saw me and lived.”
She stared at him levelly, a gleam shining in her cold blue eyes. “Do you know why?”
After a while, Richard spat out a single word: “No.”
“Neither do I,” the countess replied, “But I do know that it interests me.”
Silence fell. Richard watched the countess pick up an embroidered pillow from the couch and stroke the fine stitching with long, white fingers.
“So, you see now that not every boy need share the same fate with the one that you saw in the parlour that day,” she said, dropping the cushion and turning to meet his eyes again. “I have chosen you to come beyond death with me. I believe that you, Richard, are meant for something more.”
Richard’s skin grew cold. “And that is why you allowed me to live?”
“You are the first and the last,” she declared. “I want you to learn from me. I have much that I can teach you.”
Richard snarled in disgust. “What could you possibly have to teach me?”
The countess smiled enigmatically. “Everything.”
He turned his head away from her. “And yet you imprisoned me. I was locked away for so long that I almost forgot myself.”
“You see it as imprisonment,” the countess replied. “I see it as a gift. I gave you time, Richard, time in which to devote yourself to study. You taught yourself to read, did you not?”
He nodded bitterly. “I had to, or I would have surely gone mad.”
“I could not afford for you to be spoiled. You were too precious.” The countess began to pace again, and this time he observed her movements carefully. She moved like no true human, even in her façade it could not be hidden. She moved too fluidly, like a spirit passing through water, like she was gliding beneath the full skirt of her gown, feet not even touching the ground. He remembered the talk in the corridors when he was still a boy, before his small world had been taken away from him. They had spoken of her weakness, her frailty, but then Richard recalled her remark about the truth and the lie of whatever it was she claimed to be. Even though her face was composed into that beautiful mask, she moved like a beast consumed by a cage and restlessness.
“Hate me now if you must, it is only natural,” the countess continued. “But I promise you that hate will fade, in time, and you will love me as they all have loved me.”
Richard bit back the urge to laugh. “I have never known what it is to love.”
“Then you must let me teach you,” the countess urged, eyes widening as she came close to him again and laid her dainty hands on his shoulders. He could feel the force of her strength behind them and was reminded, again, how easily she could break him if she only chose to. “Become my student and my follower, Richard. Love me and obey me and you will be rewarded with the greatest gift of all. This I can promise you.”
Her grip on his shoulders tightened a little, her fingertips biting into his collarbone painfully. Richard knew that she wanted him to look at her and could feel the irresistible pull as she worked her wicked enchantment over him, the way she had with the boy in the parlour all those years ago. It was hopeless, he knew.
Unable to do anything else, Richard lifted his head and considered the deep blue expanse of her eyes. Her monstrous face, her true face, was forgotten in an instant and he was left only with her agonising and unnatural beauty, the beauty that cut into his heart. Her eyes, he realised, were still the eyes of a child, and for a moment he forgot his hatred. Now, there was a feeling of something different, like warmth was spreading through him, warmth that soothed his tired and aching body. For the first time in his life he felt something close to comfort, and wondered if this was what love could truly feel like. A small voice somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind was crying out, begging Richard not to lose sight of the truth, pleading that he would not fall to weakness.
The small voice cried out, but Richard did not hear it, trapped in the eyes of this girl-child.
“I have been alone in my immortality,” the countess whispered, her words caressing him with unerring gentleness. “But you may join me, if you wish.”
And Richard, because he could say nothing else, said: “Yes.”
3
Richard knelt before the countess, who sat resplendent upon her high-backed throne. He lifted her skirts and kissed the hem. Her hand came to his face, caressing his cheek with a touch that left a cool trail on his skin. He leant his face into the icy pit of her palm, sighing with contentedness when she laced her fingers through his hair. They were together in one of the highest rooms of the castle. It was always cold, but the countess never complained of the chill and Richard learned to cope with it as quickly as he was able. The stone walls were covered in velvet tapestries adorned with intricately woven scenes of war and bloodshed. Richard had always found it strange that the recorders of history were so fixated upon death, but then the past was filled with death and the future would be no different. His knees ached upon the rough stone of the floor.
“Who am I, mistress?” He asked, keeping his eyes downcast.
The countess contemplated the question for a moment, hand still idly stroking his hair
. Richard dared to sneak a look at her face.
“You are Richard Volkov,” the countess declared, fingers trailing down his cheek. “The dark wolf.”
Richard Volkov stood up. He stood tall, his posture almost too perfect. His hair was thoroughly combed and tied back in an elegant ponytail, his face clean shaven save for a pointed patch upon his chin. He was dressed like a prince, adorned in finery that his mistress had bestowed upon him.
“What a time we have had together, you and I,” the countess mused. “You have done well. Better than I expected.”
Fine praise indeed, but Richard was careful not to let anything show on his face. Over the years he had learned to make a mask of his face. He rarely let his emotions show themselves.
It had been a long process. The countess wanted Richard, who up until now had experienced very little, to experience everything that life had to offer. The countess had decided that she would not change him immediately; some years would pass before she would deem him to be truly ready for his impending immortality. She wanted him to become a whole and complete man of knowledge first, to make a personal project of him. He finally learned where his precious books came from when the countess brought him to the enormous castle library. The sight of so many books, the only things that had ever offered him comfort, was almost enough to make him weep. This was where he would spend much of his time from now on, a fact that elated him and filled him with dread.
His education began. When he was not reading, the countess made him practice his writing, and when he was not painfully trying to form letters with a shaking hand then she was insistent that he learn to draw and paint, commanding that he study every book in the library on the subject and forcing him to practice through all hours of the day as well as the night. His hands were unsure and shaky at first, unaccustomed to the elegant movements and steadiness required for such endeavours, and for a long time his mind raged against him, chastising him for playing lap dog. By the end, his fingers had formed hardened callouses and his strokes were as close to perfection as you could come. He knew all there was to know about colour and light and reflection, more than any master under which he had studied. Richard had always learned quickly; his mind was infinitely sharper than his body. He came to appreciate his creations and be thankful of the way he could lose himself in them, if only for a while.
But then, one day, the countess declared that she would pose for a portrait. Richard, of course, had no choice in the matter. She seemed strangely taken with the idea and ensured that Richard had only the finest materials to work with, and the task was to be carried out in the parlour, the place that Richard still thought upon with dread.
He did not want to paint her, to have to gaze at her so carefully for hour after hour. He was sure that it would cause him pain in some way. He could tolerate her peering over his shoulder as he practiced his letters. He could stand her when she was beside him or at the other end of the room, but only barely. The fear and hatred of her was always clutching at his heart.
Of course, he had no choice.
She wore the same emerald green gown that he had found draped over the patterned screen when he was a boy, and had taken great cares to appear as beautiful, and to Richard as human as possible. Her lips were painted red, her face covered in fine powders and her hair piled upon her head in shining ringlets. A fine bejewelled choker adorned her lily-white throat. Even Richard, who had spent so much time attempting to harden his heart to her, could not help but be moved by it. Sometimes she caught him unawares in this way and he did not care for it.
She sat upon the little chair with such stillness, as if she had been frozen there. It was unnerving; Richard tried to cease his hand shaking as he mixed his paints to capture the exact colours of the subject that waited patiently before him.
When he first touched the paint to the canvas, he felt some indefinable thing flow through him, warming the tips of the fingers that held the brush. He found his hand steadied, as if another was guiding him, and as he painted he became more lost in the creation of it.
He began, unusually, with her eyes, for they were what haunted him in his dreams. The deep, eternal blue of her irises took some time to create, and he worked painstakingly to capture the glint in those eyes that placidly watched him. In all the portraits he had seen, it was the eyes, and only eyes, that could speak to its admirer. It took him a long while to diligently mix the paints for the perfect, depthless blue. Richard sensed that the countess wished for her eyes to tell a story. He felt that it was his duty to get it right.
Then her face, the bow-like curve of her painted lips, the pointed chin and the long white neck. Working on the eyes alone had taken hours, but Richard cared not for his hunger or his thirst. It was only him and the painting; there was nothing else.
He wondered if he was losing his mind or if some dark force had taken hold of him, bewitching him to carry on despite his human cares. Perhaps it was the countess’ desire that compelled him. He worked throughout the night, and the countess never moved in all that time. She sat with her dainty hands folded delicately in her lap, her beautiful, child-like head held high, while Richard painted with the growing intensity of a madman. Now and then his hand would quiver unexpectedly, causing mistakes he would have to paint over later. The shaking was part of his human self, frustrating and imperfect. He had to cast it aside, so that he would finish this. Something was happening to him, something that thrilled and terrified him. His hand moved with a fluidity that he could only dream of, and yet it was he who was doing it, the person responsible for the art that poured from his mind into his fingers, directing and being directed, creating beauty through small and careful movements. It was intoxicating to paint this way, to have such control and yet no control at all. His eyes flicked from the countess to the portrait, back and forth, back and forth. He knew that this would be his masterpiece, and with that came the knowledge that he would always stand in the shadow of the countess and that he would never be free of her. They were bound together whether he liked it or not, and of course he did not like it, but here he was doing as she wished.
When it was done, he fell back with exhaustion. Whatever power it was that had fuelled him fled from his body as quickly as it had entered, and his limbs felt as heavy as lead. He breathed in deeply and flexed his aching hand, trying to work the blood back into it. It tingled, tired and abused, and he passed out there, in his painter’s chair. When he awoke, her was in his bed and struggling to remember what had happened throughout the night before. Later, the countess had stated that she was pleased with his work, and Richard felt a deep relief. It was if she had been testing him, and maybe she had been, and that he had passed. He had proved himself to her, this lethal and otherworldly being that held him in its thrall.
He did not know what she had done with the portrait, and he longed to see it again but knew that he could not ask. Though he had created his finest work, it did not belong to him. This caused him pain that he struggled to repress.
But the countess was a sharp thing, able to spot even the slightest change in behaviour. She noticed Richard’s sullenness and remarked that art was indeed a powerful thing, and that he had immortalised that which was already immortal. But she kept the portrait from him nonetheless.
After that, all he knew was that there would come a day when he would be given the gift that the countess had promised. It was this thought that helped him through the long and painful hours, through the confused feelings of hatred and hope that rose up and receded within him like the tides. Through those days and nights, and there were many of them, he clung to the possibility that he would finally earn his freedom.
And now, it seemed, that time had come.
“On this day, you are no longer my ward,” the countess said. “I have taught you all that I know.”
Something squeezed in Richard’s gut at her words. He had been waiting years for such words to finally pass her lips. He bowed his head as if to appear humbled, but in his mind he was already
envisioning his escape from the walls of this prison that he was meant to call home.
But the countess knew him better than he knew himself and to her, even his thoughts were not sacred. She smiled slowly and wagged her finger in admonishment.
“Ah, but you are not free of me, Richard,” she said, voice laced with childish glee. “I owe you something yet.”
The back of Richard’s neck prickled.
“I owe you something yet,” she repeated. “Just as you owe me something.”
She stood and began to move across the floor in a single fluid movement. She went to the window and Richard followed; she did not need to bid him. She indicated that he should look out of the window, and he did so obediently.
“What do you see, Richard?” the countess asked, gazing at the windswept mountainside and the things that lay below them. Richard leant out and felt the breeze against his skin, the cold harshness of it reminding him that he still lived. He looked down at the treacherous path carved into the mountain, following with his eyes where it led.
“The village, my lady,” Richard replied dutifully. The village was not much of anything now; it had grown smaller over the passing years, and many fled into the dangers of the mountain pass, favouring possible death over the life they lived in such misery. From his vantage point, Richard beheld a smattering of poorly-constructed huts with broken-in roofs and the ground scattered with mud-matted hay. It was a sad sight, but it was a familiar one at least.
“Tonight, when the darkness has deepened, you will go there.”
Richard’s heart instantly quickened as the meaning of her words sank in. She wanted him to leave the castle walls, to go beyond his small world for the first time. He pulled back and stared at her, unable to stop his eyes from widening. She seemed pleased with his reaction, a tinkling laugh falling from her red lips.
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