Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  “We have to stop her from bleeding out! Call him off before he kills her.” Richard lifted Emily’s head into his lap and she groaned, her right hand clamped to the wound in her shoulder. Blood, the life, spurted from the ugly, gaping wound that the knife had left on her body. Volkov forced her hand away and placed his own hand across the gash. For the first time, the touch of his hand gave her comfort; the coldness of his skin served well to sooth the interminable burning sensation in her shoulder. She was too stricken by it to weep. She couldn’t even scream anymore.

  “Richard, really. This is quite melodramatic wouldn’t you say? Very well.” The countess turned to Abrahms, who stood blank-eyed and confused, still holding the knife but with a newfound uncertainty. “Little man of God, put down the knife, but put it somewhere you will not forget. And when you’ve put it down, string up these two in the ballroom with the others, and await us there.”

  Emily moaned again, wishing that she could do something. She could barely even move. She heard the countess scoff derisively.

  “We could just drink her, you know, and find someone else. Perhaps you were wrong about this girl, after all.”

  “I’m not wrong!” Volkov snapped back, his black hair hanging wildly in his eyes. “It can only be her and you know it!”

  “Ha,” the countess retorted haughtily. “I know nothing and neither do you, Richard Volkov. Who is this girl, even? She is no one, just some simple little girl that fancies herself something special.”

  “I was no one, too,” Volkov said softly. “We are all no one.”

  “Speak for yourself,” the countess replied tartly. “But you think that my circumstances and yours have anything in common with each other? Oh, Richard, after all these years and you are still a fool. Why should I even entrust you to a monumental task such as this one?”

  There was silence for a moment. Then, Emily heard Volkov’s voice again, his voice clearer than anything else to her. “She came to me despite her fear. She accepted the challenge despite her doubts. She sees me, my lady. She sees me…the way that I saw you.”

  Volkov laid his large, long-fingered hand flat across the wound in the shoulder and fell silent. Emily was drifting in and out of consciousness now, but somehow through Volkov’s cold hands, there was warmth, warmth that he gave to her. She could feel her wound closing, sense the skin knitting itself back together.

  The countess sniffed haughtily. “If you insist. But I do not understand your fascination with her, Richard. There are finer choices out there, surely you must know this.”

  Volkov shook his head. “No, mistress, there are not.”

  Emily was still weak, but she would keep what little blood she had left. At least, for a little while. She lay there, breathing softly but regularly, head still resting in Volkov’s lap. When she had more strength, she would jerk herself away from him, but for now she had to let herself rest, just for a little while.

  She was struggling to put together what had been said. The countess had mentioned the ballroom, something about stringing up… cold clarity penetrated the fog of her exhaustion and her body stiffened.

  “Miss Emily,” Volkov said in a voice quite unlike him; it was soft, soothing, filled with what seemed like warmth. “Lie still, we still have much to do.”

  “Richard,” she sighed, quiet as a mouse. “Richard, why?”

  Volkov stroked her face gently, trailing her own blood up her cheek. “You will see.”

  “We mustn’t delay, Richard, dawn will be upon us soon,” the countess said, and Emily felt the brush of skirts against her face as she stalked across the room. “And I suppose that old one will not be able to string himself up. It’s a pity, I would have liked to have seen someone die. I will meet you in the ballroom. Have her ready.”

  And with that, she was left alone with him. Her friends were gone off to whatever horrible fate awaited them and she was lying in the lap of a vampire, covered in blood.

  “Richard,” Emily said, struggling against the tide of sleep crashing over her head. “Who are the others?”

  She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. He smiled. Then the lifted her arm and pushed up the sleeve, revealing the red streaks of crusted blood. Indulgently he ran his tongue up it, from the elbow to the wrist, and she was too weak to stop him. He continued licking at her, washing away the blood with each stroke. He was giving her a tongue bath, like a cat, and his tongue felt rough against the skin, that same sandpaper-like sensation. He did this and she let him because there was nothing else that she could do.

  When he was done, he looked back down at her. Dried flakes of her blood were at the corners of his mouth, like crests of toothpaste. Her vision was blurring in and out. His hand returned to her cheek, and he began caressing her again. She closed her eyes.

  “Sleep, Miss Emily.”

  Emily slept.

  9

  In the dream, Emily was in the house with Hugo. They were doing what they had done many times before, sitting together in the library while Hugo talked to Emily about books, pushing new tomes towards her while puffing contentedly on his pipe. She wasn’t sure what book Hugo was talking to her about, wasn’t even sure if she’d read it, but she was astonished by how real it all seemed. The quality of dreams differs greatly from the quality of real-life experiences; there’s an elasticity to dreams, an awareness that both everything is possible and nothing is real. Emily could sense that elasticity, just about, somewhere far off from her, but it almost felt like truth.

  “Of course, the critics were furious with the work,” Hugo said, his old, soothing voice stirring up strong emotions that surged sickeningly in her chest. “Some suspected that Currer was a woman right from the start, and everyone thought that Jane’s feminist leanings were abhorrent and ungodly. Not so different from today, I would expect.”

  Ah, so that’s what they were talking about. Jane Eyre, one of Emily’s favourite books. Simone was the kind of girl to idolise women that kicked ass and looked amazing while doing so. Emily obviously had no problems with this, she had no reason to. But personally, she preferred the heroines that were quiet and bookish and clever, softly asserting themselves and emphatic when they said no. She looked up the women that were certain of their status as intellectual equals to the men around her. Strength was important, but so was the power of the mind. This is why she and Simone were best friends. The complemented each other perfectly in that opposites attract sort of way.

  “Misogyny aside, I don’t think it’s hard to imagine them suspecting Currer the way they did. What man would write a female character like Jane?” the words flowed from her mouth like water, echoing eerily around her, a little reminder of the dream state; that crack in the illusion again.

  Hugo laughed delightedly, clapping his hands together like a child. “An excellent point well made, my dear. I do find there to be a distinct difference in men’s insights into women and women’s insights into themselves. For centuries, the male author has struggled with the concept of ‘the ‘female character,’” he made the air quotes gesture as he said this, an absurdly modern thing to see an old gentleman doing. Normally, she would have laughed. Hugo went on, leafing through the hardback copy he had open on the table in front of him.

  Despite his traditional way of living, Hugo had always been a progressive sort. Emily liked to think that everyone in her life had contributed to her character in some way, and Hugo represented her moral centre, a complex place of conflicted feelings and ideals that sometimes confused her but could generally be depended upon to guide her in the right direction. Hugo looked at her expectantly.

  Emily nodded, smiling, but inside something felt wrong. She needed to get out of this dream, though it was tempting to remain here a while, talking about books with her old friend, breathing in that pipe smoke and drinking endless cups of tea, which were sometimes laced with bourbon in the winter when she got older, for extra warmth.

  “And of course, she must endure great trials before she emerges victo
rious,” Hugo said pointedly. The fire was burning, and the flames flickered in his grey blue eyes. His face became grave; when he smiled he seemed younger, but like this he seemed so much older. The last time she had really seen him was before she left for college because she rarely went home during those years, so in her mind he was still 87. His hair was like candy floss, or clouds floating about his head, his face set with deep lines of age and experience: “That is what makes a great hero, male or female. They must endure great trials and come out better people for it. If you do not change, you cannot call yourself a hero.”

  If Emily was Jane Eyre, then the countess was Volkov’s mad wife in the attic. Except that she was not his wife. Rather his mad mother; this girl child somehow held sway over the man who held sway over Emily. But Volkov was no Rochester, she had to remind herself of that. Although he was deeply flawed, Rochester was at least capable of passionate love and yearning, the best of what a human can feel. What Volkov experienced was no more than a passionate desire for control.

  And how had the novel ended? Fire, destruction, blindness and reconciliations. Fairbanks Manor had to burn, just like Thornfield did.

  “Emily?” Hugo asked, voice soft and inquisitive. “Are you quite all right?”

  Emily felt herself start in the dream, and she could have sworn that her heart had really jumped in its ribcage. Then she offered another weak smile, tucking her hair behind her ear, and looked at him for the last time.

  “Yes, Hugo, I’m perfectly fine,” she replied mechanically, the lie burning her tongue and, in her mind, turning it an ashen black.

  He simply stared, and after a while he stopped blinking entirely. It was unnerving, and Emily was reminded once more that she was not awake, that she was in a dream. Hugo was dead, she remembered now.

  ***

  Emily awoke to find herself laid out on a cold, stone slab. Her skin was cold too, and her head hurt. She felt woozy and more unlike herself than ever. She shifted uncomfortably, her shoulder still aching a little despite being healed. Then she opened her eyes and discovered that she was on the slab, perversely dressed in white. The dress itself was beautiful, even in her groggy state she could appreciate it. It was woven from the finest silks, the white stark against her own pale skin. The dress had no sleeves, which in the past probably would have had Emily blushing, but not today. There were hundreds of freckles on her pale arms. Her red hair brushed against her shoulders. She could feel someone watching her.

  And of course, there was Volkov, standing above her, hands behind his back and waiting patiently. When you have all the time in the world, you don’t mind waiting. She looked at him and the memories of what had happened came flooding back. She cringed, her brain feeling far too large for her skull, and a pitiful groan fell from her lips. She was still alive. It wasn’t over yet.

  Everything outside of her immediate field of vision was blurred, but she could see Volkov clearly enough. She hoped that her sight would get better once she was awakened fully.

  Volkov, to her surprise, extended his hand to her. It was only because she wasn’t sure if she could stand on her own that she took it and let him pull her up. Her legs shook a little under her weight, but she just about managed. Her eyes were level with Volkov’s chest; he was standing insistently in front of her. She looked up at him, aching from head to toe, and he looked back at her. His eyes were not human; no one had eyes that colour. They were like pools of molten gold, beautiful and burning. If you fell in molten gold, you died. Emily swallowed nervously.

  “What have you done?” she asked.

  Volkov’s mouth twisted. This close, she could see every black hair against his cheek. He was very dark, furry like an animal. His eyebrows joined together to form a thick band across his brow.

  “Miss Emily, I have done nothing. We have only just begun.”

  He stepped aside, leaving Emily to take in the sight in front of her. Five people hung from chairs looped elaborately around the elegant chandelier on the ceiling in the centre of the ballroom. They swung, their weights redistributing and causing the chandelier to swing perilously around. They were hung up by their arms, winched up and exposed to the people beneath them.

  Emily shivered in her thin white dress. How could she ever know if she was still a virgin? Would she die never knowing a loving touch? The thought was painful to her and she mentally pushed it aside. Her breathing became laboured, body alive with anger. These were her friends, her family: Abrahms, Simone, Nick, her mother and her father, strung up like pigs. All she could do was shake with rage.

  The countess stood in the centre of it all. Though undeniably beautiful, she was not dressed in the finery that Emily might have expected from the portrait in the hall. She wore a simple, dirty shift that hung off her childish frame. Now that she was seeing her in the flesh, Emily realised that she couldn’t be more than a teenage girl of thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. She felt a wave of pity run through her quite involuntarily; she was just a child, really. What kind of life is it to be an eternally young girl, always on the cusp of womanhood? It chilled the blood to think of it.

  The countess, for her part, drifted here and there within the circle, touching the bodies, which Emily realised were alive and waking up. She was already terrified for them.

  Emily sat back on the stone altar heavily, stunned by what she was seeing. She watched the countess scoff openly at her from beneath the chandelier, and her loved ones, groggy and disoriented, not yet aware of what was going on. She watched them sway, their bodies threatening the integrity of the chandelier and its fixation to the ceiling. Volkov went once more to stand over her, and in her hatred she felt that she needed to look at him.

  “Five healthy, waiting bodies, Miss Emily,” Volkov whispered, like he didn’t want this conversation to be overheard by the countess, which to Emily was unlikely because she was merely footsteps away from them as he spoke to her. “You have a selection, it seems.”

  Emily said nothing, she couldn’t. There were too many terrible thoughts running through her head at the dark implication of Volkov’s words. But screw it; she’d make him spell it out.

  “Selection for what, Mister Volkov?” Emily said, returning to a formal title for him in a way that struck him, or at least it seemed to have struck him from the expression that quickly crossed his face.

  Volkov rolled his eyes. “Oh, Miss Emily, you really must sharpen up if you are to be my apprentice.”

  Emily took in a breath sharply. “I never said I wanted to be your apprentice.”

  Volkov laughed scornfully. “I had no choice either, Miss Emily. My mistress chose me, and so that was that.”

  “That is the way of our people,” the countess interjected, ceasing her idle stroking of Nick’s cheek. He was, after all, the youngest man there. “Once you’re chosen, that’s that, though I still question your choice, Richard.” She shot an accusatory glare in Richard’s direction, which he blandly accepted, a man accustomed to accepting abuse, mild or severe.

  “Where are my gowns, Richard?” the countess asked, speaking to him as if Emily wasn’t sitting right by them, rooted to the stone slab close to the French windows that opened out to the sea.

  “You know where your gowns are, my lady.” Richard said, frowning. “In the boxes in the first guest room. In the west wing.”

  “Ah yes, well, thank you Richard,” the countess said, swaying her hips and arms back and forth, like a bored child. “I must get out of this wretched shift. I will return shortly. Make her choose.”

  The countess looked at her again, the contempt clear on her face. Then with a toss of her head, she scurried off to find one of her pretty dresses somewhere in this vast house. Emily felt a small trickle of relief; one vampire was better than two.

  Volkov smirked. “She does not like you, but I would not let it trouble you, there are very few people that she actually cares for. And you do not want her to like you. At least when she does not like you she is likely to ignore you, unless of course
you happen to be a young boy.”

  The implication hung thickly in the air. Emily gripped her hands around the edge of the slab, this crude altar fashioned from rocks taken from God knows where, perhaps a tomb from some castle.

  Volkov stepped back, tiger eyes blazing in the firelight of the scores of burning candles scattered about the ballroom. Emily couldn’t help but think that this scenario would be complete with an organ with a masked man playing a doom-laden song from an opera that she didn’t recognise and didn’t want to. She calmly watched Volkov wave his arm like a circus ringleader towards the hanging chandelier.

  “When you change, you will be hungry,” Volkov said like a parent talking to child about the benefit of eating well, “Ravenous in fact. At least, that is how it was for me.” His eyes were dark, as if the gold had cooled. Emily wanted to stand up, but she couldn’t trust her legs to work, so she remained a little longer. Her head was pounding. Volkov stepped aside and allowed Emily the full, awful view. She looked on in silence.

  “Remember that your mother is already turning, but the change will be slow,” Volkov warned. “There is more than one way to change a person, you see. You can do it swiftly and bring about the change in an instant, this is how I came to be as I am, or you may take the more prolonged approach as I have with your mother. Your mother is mine, but Sarah Wilson and her husband were not, Miss Emily. It is not the kind of blood that she favours, as you may have realised, but needs must. She would have preferred the Wilson boy, I think.”