He stumbled into the boxes, the backs of his legs hitting them roughly and causing him to fall forward onto his knees. The bat, satisfied with the chaos it had created, flew skittishly out into the night air, a dark dot against the vast expanse of blue. Nick sighed with relief, still unaware of the shape that loomed above him.
An inhuman hissing sound filled the air, and Nick looked up, heart suddenly thudding hard. Before he had time to realise what he was looking at, everything went black.
As the reverend had claimed, the stairs in the cavern did lead to the cellars. Simone had forgotten that the cellars even existed; her imagination had replaced them with dungeons of damp stone and iron bars. It was something of a disappointment to be reminded of the truth, really.
She had groped about in the dark for a set of stairs that sent her up to the ground floor of the house. She hoped that Emily was all right, hoped that everyone else was all right in fact, and not knowing was starting to bother her. She walked as quietly she could, wishing that she had less heavy boots as a part of her wardrobe the whole time. The cellars took her into the kitchens, and she navigated her way around the huge tables and the untouched pots and pans to find the hallway. When she did, she darted straight for the stairs, thankful that there was no one about. She spotted the dim light coming from a room down the far end of the hall and realised that must be where Emily and Volkov were. Simone reached into the inner pocket of her leather jacket and withdrew her own supply of lighter fluid. She gripped it tightly, determined that she wouldn’t lose it, turned on her heel and ran up the stairs to where the painting stood. Volkov had never closed the curtains since that night when he had shown the portrait to Emily. Emily had told Simone about the portrait and had warned her that it might have a strange effect on her as she thought it might have done to her. As a result, Simone hadn’t been sure what to expect and now that she stood alone in front of it she spent some time and took it in, a grave look on her face all the while, before saying aloud:
“Jesus, you have to be kidding me. This is what all the fuss is about? It’s just some woman, what do I care about some dead bloody woman?”
As she snapped the cap on the lighter fluid, a shrieking sounded its way through the hall, rattling everything and knocking dust from the ceiling. Simone staggered, trying desperately not to fall as the world rumbled around her. The shrieking only grew louder, and Simone began to feel afraid. The portrait seemed to smash itself back against the wall, like the thing was alive and baying for blood. Simone fell back and worked on covering the portrait with lighter fuel as best as she could, splattering it in uncertain bursts of clear, water-like liquid across the canvas.
“Don’t like that, eh?” Simone said, unable to resist as adrenaline pumped through her body. “You’d better calm the fuck down or you’re going down in flames, you hear me?”
The shrieking stopped almost as swiftly as it had started, and the portrait landed back, returning to its place on the wall with a decisive thud. Eerie silence settled over the hall again, leaving Simone to focus on her ragged breathing. Her vision was spotted and her head felt light, like someone had pumped it full of helium. The countess’ sweet moon of a face glared coldly down at her, and Simone glared back. She tore off her jacket, leaving her only in a scruffy band shirt that had seen better days, unable to quite process that she was staring down a painting like a cowboy in a high noon duel.
“Do you want some?” Simone’s voice was low, the threat growling through every syllable of her words. She stood back a bit and adopted a fighting pose that probably looked ridiculous but made her feel at least a little empowered; she had forged her role as an enforcer throughout her school career and only rarely actually resorted to violence. Right now, it was sheer bravado that kept her on her feet with her hands curled into fists, thumbs on the outside. “Do you want some of this, you freaky fucking shit?
Simone had watched a great deal of The Avengers as a child and had often attempted to emulate Emma Peel’s fighting style on the living room carpet as the episode played. Emma Peel was a kick ass woman, and Simone realised that despite her initial fear of all the weird things that were going on around her, she wanted to be a kick ass woman too. Now was the time to honour the woman who acted as an equal to her male colleagues, as women should be. The portrait remained still, but Simone refused to take her eyes off it for even a second. She openly sneered at what she saw, working her hardest to convey the power and depth of her disdain. The countess stared back at with her gaze like two cold and depthless pools of midnight water.
“Come on then,” Simone hissed viciously before the force hit her, straight in the gut, a punch from an invisible fist that lifted Simone off her feet and down the steps. All the wind was forced from her lungs as she hit the ground, stars spinning in her eyes as she gladly let go of consciousness.
***
Meanwhile, Abrahms had made his way to the attic with an ease that unsettled him. He wasn’t stupid, in fact he had no doubt that the creature had something planned for him, and it was more a question of when it would strike. He had tested the door which, to his considerable surprise at the time, opened without protest. He walked in, heart in his mouth, thankful for the darkness even though Volkov would have no trouble finding him. Based on Emily’s instructions, he had made his way to the attic without disturbance. The only sounds were that of his breathing and the sound of his footsteps thudding softly in his ears. He went up the winding stairs, constantly checking over his shoulder, but no obstacle presented itself. And now he stood in the attic, alone and suspicious of every second that passed in calmness.
Abrahms had been struck by the size of the attic, and struck again when he saw just how many pieces of artwork had been hidden away up here. Emily had not been exaggerating; there must have been hundreds, if not thousands, all stacked up on each other and covered with dusty white cloths. He would not have to burn all of it; they were arranged in such a way that if a fire were to catch, it would catch swiftly. But he set about his work regardless, soaking the cloths in lighter fluid with random squirts as we made his way through the graveyard of artistic endeavour.
A low, rumbling sound echoed through the attic and Abrahms nearly dropped his torch. A sharp intake of breath was the only indication that he was afraid. He exhaled slowly, careful not to make a sound.
“You can’t be here,” he whispered into the darkness around him. He stepped back, bumping into a covered canvas and stumbling around it awkwardly, torch flailing. He refused to fall; swinging his leg back he held himself fast with his foot pressed into the ground behind him. He straightened himself up, targeting the light of the torch back and forth, and around in a circle. He saw nothing, but he could hear the clicking of nails against the wooden floorboards, rhythmic little taps from four feet, the sound the family dog makes when it impatiently stalks the house while it waits for its walk. It didn’t matter if it was Volkov; there was something in here with him. His mind instantly went to his first encounter all that time ago, the way that the knife had sank into the flesh, slicing through muscle and sinew. He had attached a knife to his belt, concealed carefully beneath his coat. Muttering a prayer under his breath, he slowly unsheathed it until he held it at arm’s length in front of him. From the sound of the clicking claws the beast was circling him, like it was waiting for the right moment to strike and end the game at last.
“You can’t be here,” Abrahms said again, louder this time, and his voice caught in his throat. He sounded weak and scared. “And if it isn’t you, then it must be someone else. So, come out now and let’s get this over with.”
The clicking stopped abruptly to the left of him; Abrahms’ body stiffened in response, his grip on the knife’s handle tightening until it hurt. He turned slowly to the left, taking his torch with him, and the light caught a flashing gleam; reflected against the glassy surfaces of eyes watching him carefully and quietly in the darkness. Abrahms jumped and this time the torch fell from his hand, clattering to the floor and insta
ntly flickering out, the switch disturbed by the hard landing. What little Abrahms could see was now lost to him, and it was hard to suppress the bubbling panic inside.
“Oh God, help me,” he said. He slashed out with the knife a few times, knowing that it was unlikely to connect with anything, and staggered about as he blindly tried to find his footing. Since those long, terrifying nights in the vestry, Abrahms had never quite been able to shake away a persisting fear of the dark; that he’d lost his torch only intensified that fear, here in this enclosed space.
His foot connected with something heavy and solid, sending a shock of pain up his leg. He cried out and immediately regretted it, wishing that he could bite his tongue and take the yelping sound back. He could hear the creature’s breathing now, ragged and wet, the sound of a long tongue hanging over pointed, bone-white teeth. Abrahms had extended his arm when he fell and laid his hand out flat, so he wrapped his fingers back around the knife and waited, flat on his back, winded and feeling every one of his years. He waited in the vain hope that everything would be all right.
And then it came, as he had expected. The call so impossible to resist, the call that coaxed and teased and compelled. It washed over him, gentle and welcome as a warm blanket in winter. He tried to fight it, but he knew that it was futile; it was only by some divine miracle that he had broken through it the first time, and he had thankfully never had to deal with it since. Until now, of course.
The creature came closer; Abrahms could make out the shape from where it stood, if he lifted his head high enough. All those years ago, he had laid down willingly. But now here he was, laid out flat and about to die unless he could regain control of his body again. He held the knife tight and willed his arm to move when he called for it. He prayed that there would be another miracle; he was a man of God, it was his duty to live and praise his name, not to die a pointless, painful death. He felt his arm muscles twitch, and dared to hope.
This was when the monster threw itself upon Abrahms’ prone body. The sudden pressure on his chest took him by surprise and his reflexes took over, causing the knife to fall from his grasp again, hitting the floor with an accusatory thud. The beast, the wolf, was standing on his chest, proud and upright with its head cocked down. Its eyes flashed like orbs, and it whined low in its throat. Abrahms felt sweet elation sweep through his body, more intense than it had ever been. The wolf brought its head down closer, until Abrahms could smell the blood on its breath. With human-like precision, it licked a spot on Abrahms’ neck before nipping into it, its teeth easily breaking the skin.
Abrahms cried out, but it was not from pain. His body was wracked with the strongest of feelings that mankind can experience, a brief flash of everything before his mind gave away to nothing. He had not passed out, but Jonathan Abrahms was no longer there. That persona, that core piece of a person slept somewhere, deep inside, unable to break through the poison that had entered his veins. The wolf pushed itself off Abrahms’ chest and padded back into the shadows, silent and unseen.
Abrahms got to his feet, ignoring the bruised flesh inside his shoe. He couldn’t feel it and didn’t care to either. He breathed raggedly, and all that he felt was a need to do as his master asked. And he would do whatever his master asked. He waited.
“Go on then, little man of God,” a voice said from the deepest shadows of the room, each word echoing against the rafters. “Go and find your friends, and then do what you must do.”
These were the words that were spoken, and yet there were more beneath them, words that echoed in his head, telling him what it was that he must do.
Kill them all.
He bent at the middle and picked up the knife one last time, bringing it to the level of his waist. He touched a finger to the blade and felt the cold sharpness of the metal. Back straight and shoulders squared, Abrahms walked out of the attic and down the winding staircase, never once having to watch where he stepped.
8
The night was long and hard, and every moment that passed in the absence of her friends made Emily more and more anxious. She worked on the portrait, stretching to reach the high spaces and longing for a foot ladder or anything to help her. She cursed her natural minute stature and agonised over where the paint was dripping. Volkov didn’t seem to care for such things, but her remaining fondness for the house had her worried regardless; she did not want to mar its old beauty with her clumsiness.
The candles slowly melted down, giving her a vague indication as to how much time had passed. In this dark, shadowed room it was impossible to know what time it was. There was no clock, and she had forgotten to wear her watch, another thing that she cursed herself for.
Volkov sat with infinite patience, his pose never once shifting through the seconds, minutes and hours that trickled by in a passionate, focused silence.
When the time had come, Emily had hovered the brush over the canvas, overcome with the initial uncertainty that she always experienced when embarking on a new project. But this uncertainty had a different quality to it; it was greater, stronger, an all-encompassing uncertainty that made her hand quiver. She lowered it for a moment and took a breath, trying with all her mental power to be calm. It felt that she was about to do a very bad thing, an unforgivable act like Victor Frankenstein. But then she moved her hand forward and began to paint, and it did not quiver anymore. As she exhaled slowly and steadily through open lips, she felt her fingers grow strong and dependable, gripping at the brush with precision. She quickly discovered that she was painting the eyes, which was unusual for her and felt a little concerning. And yet she continued painting, creating those golden orbs where the fires danced, echoing all their cold glamour and wickedness, and all their emptiness. Here was a thing devoid of humanity, just look at its eyes and you’ll see. This is what Emily wished to convey. If she could do one thing, it would be to tell the truth.
When she was done with the eyes she moved on, painting her subject’s face from the centre outward, mixing the pale white of Volkov’s skin with intense care and attention, persisting in capturing the shades of the shadows that danced along the walls, intent on getting the angles exactly right. She had done this many, many times before, and her hands moved almost automatically as she painted on. After a time, it occurred to her that she made no mistakes, no errors to be rectified; the image flowed through her fingers like water. Some finer force was at work through her, she could feel it. She moved on her healed foot, feeling lighter than air as she danced back and forth, arms limber as she made great, sweeping gestures with the brush to create the velvety backdrop. She had never worked this hard in her life.
Despite everything, she could feel the elation of painting, the physical act of creation; birth but with paints and oils and the intricacies of human imagination. This is how Emily created life. But this thing she created was no life; it was a confusing thing to her, and yet as she worked she could tell that she was on the verge of her very best piece. It hurt her deeply to know that it would be destroyed, and so she tried to harden her heart to it. She knew that she would fail to do this, and she did. This would be her masterpiece; how could that knowledge do anything other than make her heart soar? And in the same turn how could the knowledge that it would not survive the night make her heart ache?
She tinkered with titles as she worked, to store away in her memories (she would never try to replicate it; she couldn’t) for the days when she felt like everything that she drew was terrible and worthless. Portrait of the Vampire, Eyes of the Wolf, Behind the Mask, Murderous Blood-Sucking Mother Killing Blackmailing Raping Vampire Son of a Bitch. She was only mildly considering the last on the list. These thoughts, and the painting, consumed her for a time so that she was blind and deaf to almost everything around her. She didn’t hear the thud of her friend’s spine connecting with the floor not far from the room in which she stood. It was only her, the painting, and Volkov. Nothing else could possibly matter.
Emily didn’t know how long they had gone without speaking.
She guessed that it must have been hours, and once again hated the way that time seemed to disappear once she was in the confines of this house. By this point she was only rarely glancing at him now and then, and he was allowing her to do this. Apparently the undead possess a stillness beyond humans, who are prone to twitches and itches and shifting discomforts. His stillness was always unnerving to Emily, but tonight she saw it for what it truly was; a small crack in the illusion that he had created around himself. It was such a small thing, but it was enough to give it away to her. She, who had his face burned into her memory whether she wanted it there or not. It was the one true way in which she had come to know him.
She was coming close to the finish; she could sense it in the way a writer knows when the final sentence is approaching, and the director calls the final ‘cut’ on the final scene of their latest cinematic masterpiece. She looked at Volkov, who looked back at her without breaking his pose.
“It’s almost done,” she said through chapped lips. It occurred to her that she hadn’t drunk or eaten in hours and that her mouth was incredibly dry. She tried to work some spit into it and failed, she was so dried up.
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