Gripping the shard in his hand, he made himself try to roll over with the wolf on top of him. This meant turning his body over the crushed glass beneath him, but he did it. He pushed hard, eyes squeezed shut, and the wolf was too ungainly to keep her balance on his back. She stumbled and automatically jumped back, and Abrahms took the opportunity to force himself up. He was bleeding from a hundred cuts and already beginning to feel a little light-headed, but he lurched forward, and the wolf growled at him, her hackles raised and her stance defensive.
Screaming, Abrahms plunged the glass into the wolf’s neck. She yelped in shock and quickly shrank back, but Abrahms wasn’t done. Still gripping the glass, he dragged it clumsily across the broad, thick and furred throat of the she-wolf. Black blood came gushing forth, and the wolf shifted before him, taking her human form. She choked, drowning in blood yet unable to truly drown. The wound gaped like a second mouth. Abrahms shuddered and stepped back, moving away from the growing pool of dark, rank blood that swept across the stones of the garden.
The countess was not dead, but she was no longer able to move under her own power. Her wounds were severe, and she couldn’t heal herself in the earth of her homeland. All of that was over now, and she realised this in her last moments.
She fell to the ground, her naked child’s body landing cruelly against the gravel. The black blood spewed endlessly from her throat.
“Well played,” she rasped, voice wet and bubbling. “Now get him.”
And then she was quiet. Abrahms stood silently for a while, uncertain of whether it was safe to move her. He wanted her back in the house. He wanted her to burn. If only he could have cut off her head, but that shard of glass wouldn’t do it.
There was a door sequestered off to the side. Abrahms tested it, and of course it was locked. The blood loss problem was becoming more and persistent. He had to move fast before he lost consciousness and bled out completely. He kicked at the door, and thankfully the lock must have been weak, because it gave way after a few more weak kicks. He went to the countess, trying to avert his eyes from her nakedness, grabbed her ankles and dragged her across the gravel. He thought about the tears that dragging her would make in her skin, but felt no sympathy.
His breathing seemed louder in his ears, and his vision was starting to grow very narrow. He dragged her inside as far as he could go before he found himself collapsing. The countess suddenly seemed very heavy, so he let her go and fell back. He didn’t even know where he was, but he could smell the smoke and knew that the fire couldn’t be too far away.
Jonathan Abrahms lay back, his heartbeat slowing to a crawl, and wondered if this was a good death. As the darkness crept in, he thought of his mother and father, growing up, the seminary and all the horror that followed. He watched his life unfurl the way one watches a film. All the guilt he felt, all the pain, he felt it all again in a single burst. It was agony and pure pain.
But then came relief, finally left with the pleasure centre of the brain. Jonathan closed his eyes and took his last breath. He smelled the burning, the smoke and ash, and in his dying moments he knew that the fire would soon reach them. He turned his thoughts to Emily, and to Hugo, whose home he had helped to destroy; perhaps they would meet in heaven. Though in truth, Jonathan wasn’t sure where he would go. Would the lord be there to embrace him in eternal love, or would there be nothing? It didn’t really matter in the end. He was going to die, and it was going to have been for good.
That last thought resonating in his head, Jonathan Abrahms smiled and let the darkness take him at last.
***
Volkov’s eyes were wide and staring, his face twisted in disbelief. They were strangely blank, dull and devoid of life.
She didn’t want to withdraw the sword; he might be attempting to trick her. She wouldn’t put it past him at this stage. She still held the handle in both hands, not wanting him to grab it and remove it from his chest, where she had penetrated with her blade and sank deep into the heart of Richard Volkov.
But that wasn’t enough to kill him. She would have to withdraw the sword some time. She knew what she had to do, though the idea frightened her deeply. She couldn’t show fear, not now. No weakness, nothing that he can exploit if he is playing possum after all and decides to come alive again. Pushing down the creeping dread, Emily put a foot on Volkov’s shoulder and pushed. She pulled the sword out of Volkov’s chest, pushing so hard with her foot that he shifted backward, until the tip slipped out, coated in putrid blood. More of the black bubbled up from Volkov’s mouth, dripping down his chin and neck and further staining his already blood-soaked clothes.
Emily stepped back and moved around him, cautiously grasping the sword like it was a lifeline. He didn’t move, and when she stole a glance at his face she saw that his eyes were still dead and cold, a dark and unsettling shade of gold, quite unlike any other. Emily poised herself, uncertain for a moment of what leg to put all her weight onto. She lifted the sword and levelled it at his neck, trying not to touch him. She aimed carefully, taking a few practice swings and trying to control her breathing. This was a hard thing to have to do and required strength that she did not possess. She paused, and absurdly she wondered for a moment if this was the right thing to do. She thought of her mother, and wondered what she'd have to say about all of this were she not corrupted just like Emily was. Her arms were aching, but she didn’t lower the sword. She remained still for a long while, too long. The fire would reach the attic eventually; she needed to get on with the awful task. She understood now why the executioner always wore a black hood. She would have liked to have been anonymous. She flexed her fingers, still wrapped around the sword handle. Her hands were aching but responsive. But it didn’t matter, Emily Van Buren would go for as long as she needed to. She prepared her stance slowly, agonising over whether she could do this but not wanting it to show. She couldn’t think of how to do that, unfortunately.
“Are you going to do it, Miss Emily?” Volkov asked, his voice infinitely sly. His lip curled and looked up at her, eyes alight once more.
And there it was. Emily faltered and almost dropped the sword, but she was determined that she would not let it go. No, not until the sword had performed its last act of bloodshed. Not until it had taken Volkov’s head. Only then would she let go. Emily was certain of that.
“Yes.” Emily said, and she meant it. She really did.
Volkov shifted, the top of his body lurching like a badly controlled puppet. More blood spurted from his mouth and chest, but he kept smiling. Emily watched him carefully, but inside she was panicking. She wasn’t even sure if she could cut his head off when he was still, how was she supposed to handle him moving?
Then Volkov spoke again and this time the sound of his voice gripped her. All her other thoughts were cast away by the power, and she knew that she must listen.
“No matter what you do, Miss Emily, you are still mine.” Volkov’s hands went to his wound, ineptly covering it up. The blood seeped through his fingers and over his hands within seconds, but he didn’t seem to care. He was staring insistently at Emily, and she was staring back at him. His words rang through her like a bell tolling again and again, hurting her in a way she found confusing.
“Even if you take my head, you’ll still be mine.” Volkov coughed, a strangely human thing for him to do. Blood splattered onto the wooden floors. He laughed, still coughing, and Emily felt the power of his gaze grow weaker. But it was still there, pulling at her. She remained silent.
“Say it,” Volkov demanded. “Say that you are mine.”
She automatically opened her mouth and began to say the words, but she suddenly stopped herself. Her will had become an incredible force in these last, desperate moments of the endless fight against evil. She stared at him, and pain flooded through her body. Volkov was punishing her in her head, and it hurt, but not as much as it hurt when he bit her, the bastard. She held on, biting down on her lip, trying to ride through the agony. Volkov frowned, annoyed at her
wilfulness, but she wouldn’t break. Not this time.
She searched inside herself for the words she truly needed. Not even words, just one word. One word that was both incredible close and terribly far away. She reached for it in desperation; the power of her words was all she had left.
Emily Van Buren stared into Richard Volkov’s eyes, those furious blazing suns. She and saw only darkness and suffering. To be denied death in such a cruel way, to live the way he lived, even though lived what not the appropriate word. Nonetheless, though a small part of her pitied him she could not help but be overwhelmed by her hatred. She stood tall and opened her mouth to speak.
“No.”
And then Emily swung the sword in one awkward but forceful movement, the dull blade slicing through the air until it connected with the thick muscle and sinew of Volkov’s neck. It cut into his throat and he choked, pupils shrinking down to pinpoints. Emily would be glad never to see or smell that disgusting black blood again, but it erupted from the wound that she had created with an alarming pressure. It hadn’t been enough; she’d have to do it again.
Emily pulled the sword from Volkov’s neck and he instantly collapsed to his back, leaning back on his still bent-legs. Emily put her foot on his chest and pushed him down to the ground, and his legs unfolded until he lay splayed beneath her, almost destroyed. Stained with blood, sliced up like meat from a butcher’s apprentice, and yet the eyes were still the same. They stared into her green ones, their heat soaking through her. And his face, that face that beguiled her, teased her, confused her and tortured her, that hadn’t changed either. His mouth was still fixed in a smile, somehow. Knowing him, it was the last of his wicked plays against her, and she decided not to let it bother her, even though it really was very unnerving. The inky blood began to spread upon the ground, forming yet another fetid puddle.
“Ah, Miss Emily,” she heard the voice in her head. “What a fighter you turned out to be.”
Volkov’s lips weren’t moving. His body was too broken for that.
“I had such high hopes for you,” Volkov went on. He coughed pathetically, suddenly seeming rather boyish, strangely youthful and vulnerable. “You would have made a fine apprentice.”
And at that, Emily shook her head. She tried not to think about the painting, her brief masterpiece. Instead, she wondered if perhaps she had more than one masterpiece to give to the world, and flexed her hands against the sword.
“And I think that you would have made a poor master,” she said. “You can’t make someone like me into someone like you. Your master turned you into something else. She turned you into a monster, and you let her. I don’t know why, but you let her.”
Silence. When Volkov piped up again, his voice was strained, like he was holding something back.
“To survive.”
There was pain there, she could feel it. She didn’t know of his history, and probably never would now, but it was clear from the way he spoke those two simple words that Richard Volkov was capable of feeling, even still, on some primal level.
Emily nodded, red curls hanging in her eyes.
“To survive.” she repeated.
She looked at Volkov, and found herself feeling the slightest bit of pity for him. In a way they were similar, both pawns in someone else’s game. “I hope you find peace.”
Then she lifted the sword and brought it down on Volkov’s neck once more, finally and mercifully slicing the head from his shoulders. The sword hit the wood with a dull thunk, and Emily finally let go of the handle.
Her hands ached and she felt faint. The voice wasn’t in her head anymore, but what about the curse? She felt strange in the same way she had before, and yet she still breathed like a human. Her blood was still red, from what she could see. And what about her mother? Would either of them be spared?
Volkov’s head had rolled to the side, dead eyes fixed on a point on the floor. Scrambling up, Emily grabbed the head by the hair and picked it up. She would be taking it with her, but not before she held it up to her face and saw those dead eyes for herself. She needed to convince herself that it was real, that she’d really done it. She was suddenly having trouble believing that this wasn’t a dream, and that she would soon wake up to find that the fight was still ahead of her.
But no. Here in her hand was physical proof; she could feel his hair entwined around her fingers, and the aching in her hands and arms, all these things were real. She had to go, she needed to deal with this and get out of here at last. She felt a sudden aching need to see her friends again, and her stomach hurt when she thought of the reverend. She hoped that he had gotten out alive, but something told her that wasn’t very likely.
Emily made her way out of the attic. The first time she had run; this time, she walked.
***
The fire was growing by the second, and by the time Emily got to the stairs it was starting to creep up them, ready to destroy the upper floors of the house. She would have to jump, and she wasn’t even sure how long she could continue walking. She was feeling very weak, her energy fading away as she came down from the prolonged adrenaline high. But she had to keep going, she wasn’t going to be beaten now.
Emily jumped, clearing the flames and landing clumsily on her exhausted feet and almost toppling forward. Dodging the flames, she made her way to the door, covering her face with her shirt as she did so. The smoke had grown into a monstrous black cloud, choking and poisoning. Emily longed for air, and she was glad.
She went to the door and grabbed the handle without hesitation. Pulling hard, the door creaked open. A dull light poured into the hall, and just like that Emily had her way out. But before she went through she looked back, a quick glance over her shoulder. The flames raged behind her, the heat blasting into the air, and Emily felt a surge of sadness as she watched Fairbanks Manor burn in the fire that she had started. The fire would cleanse, take it all back to zero.
She was only outside for a few seconds before she was tackled by Simone in a misguided attempt at a hug. She didn’t notice that Emily was holding a severed head by its hair, but that was only a matter of time. Simone’s face was flushed with excitement, her eyes glittering.
“Em! Em, you’re alive! You’re in the sunlight and everything! What happened?” the words fell out of Simone’s mouth at an incredible speed, to the point that she was incomprehensible. Emily awkwardly returned her embrace with one arm. Simone hugged her tightly around her middle.
“A lot of stuff, Si,” Emily said, moving away and lifting the head so that even Simone couldn’t miss it. “A lot of stuff happened, and this is all I have to show for it.”
Simone looked at the head with a surprisingly blasé expression. “Huh.”
This wasn’t exactly what Emily was expecting to hear, and she lowered the head so it was hanging by her side again. Simone looked back at her and gave a single nod, mouth curling into a smile.
“Nice,” she said, simply, and Emily felt strangely proud.
“But what are you going to do with it?” Simone asked. “You can’t take it home with you. What if it starts talking, gibbering on about getting revenge or something?”
Emily found herself laughing. “I’m not going to keep it. I just… I wanted to prove to myself that I’d really done it. I thought if other people saw it then it’d prove I wasn’t crazy. I left his body in there to burn.”
Simone was quiet for a moment, thinking something over. Then she gingerly reached out and took the head by the hair, pulling it out of Emily’s grasp. Emily let it go; she was happy not to have to bear that slight but terrible weight anymore.
Simone lifted the head until Volkov’s dead eyes were level with hers. She made a show of inspecting it, and Emily laughed again. She was glad of it, each peal of laughter made her feel a little lighter.
“I can indeed confirm that this is the severed head of a vampire,” Simone said confidently. “Judging from the wounds to the neck, weapon of choice was likely to be a butter knife wielded by a child age
d five and clumsy.”
Emily replied by giving the Simone the finger, and Simone laughed. Then she turned her attention back to the head.
“Let’s put this handsome fellow back where he belongs,” Simone said.
Emily nodded. “Yes. Let’s.”
They were still by the door, and Simone went to the door while clutching the head in both hands. She looked back at Emily, who was watching silently.
“Do you want the honours?” Simone asked, gesturing to the head and the door.
Emily thought about it for a moment before shaking her head.
“No,” she said. “I won’t touch him again. Never, ever again.”
Simone gave an artless shrug. “Can’t say I blame you, darling.”
And with that, Simone tossed the head through the gap and pushed the door shut, once and for all. There were no final words, no acknowledgement, simply the closing of a door. A door that encloses the fire.
The two friends looked at each other. The light was growing brighter, the morning clouds thinning out and the mist burning off the atmosphere. There they were, two young women, two friends that had been through hell and somehow managed to make it through with each other’s help. They smiled at each other, and without speaking they grasped at each other’s hands.
“It’s done now,” Simone said. “Let’s go home and try to figure out how to explain this to your parents and the police and the firemen or whatever.”
Emily nodded in agreement, and they began to walk down the drive, the gravel crunching beneath Simone’s shoes. It didn’t bother Emily, not now that she had experienced a much worse pain. It wouldn’t be long before the fire brigade showed up to try and salvage the house.
“Where’s Nick, by the way?” Emily asked. Simone responded with a wide, cheeky grin.
“What are you up to?” Emily narrowed her eyes, but Simone just laughed at that.
“Nothing. But in case you haven’t noticed, Em, you’re not wearing any shoes,” Simone said, looking pointedly at Emily’s bare feet, covered in blood like the rest of her. “I thought we should drive home.”
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