Havva Sahin
Was that it? Was that all she could tell him? He already knew what they had become and he already knew he must keep it a secret. He had hoped she might be able to offer him a cure, or at least some useful information. Her letter was nothing more than a polite confirmation. Harold resisted the urge to tear it into little strips and throw it onto the fire. He now realised he would have no help or enlightenment and that he may never be able to revive his children. He had reached the end of the road.
During the first year, when Harold had returned from Turkey with the sleeping children, he had been approached by a firm of London solicitors who had offered their services. He had an odd feeling they knew something of his affairs, but he had politely declined their offer. He already dealt with a local firm whose services were perfectly adequate.
Now, after Havva Sahin’s letter, he could no longer afford to let things slide. Harold had an urgent desire to put everything on a more legal footing. He did not wish to deal with his local firm, so he dug out Mr Fairchild’s business card. The London solicitors were called Hamilton Blythe and he set up a meeting for the following week.
Mr Fairchild had been very forthcoming. He seemed to take the words out of Harold’s mouth before he spoke. Yes, it really was all most satisfactory. He could die now without the worry that he had not done everything he possibly could to ensure the welfare of his charges. Of course, he had not mentioned the children, but Fairchild seemed to know he had some hidden agenda. Even so the solicitor had been discreet and had not asked any awkward questions.
They would begin to search for any living member of his or Victoria’s family. No matter how distantly related, the Swinton estate would be willed to them. If he died before they located anybody, it would be held in trust for one hundred years, giving them that period of time to find somebody. After this time, if no relative was traced, the money from his estate would be given in its entirety to a children’s charity and the property itself would be left to rot.
To ensure Hamilton Blythe did everything within their power to trace his family, Harold decided to award them a generous bonus if they were successful. But with a condition: For the relative to inherit the estate and for the solicitors to earn their bonus, the relative must live in Marchwood House for a minimum of ten years, after which time they could do what they liked with it – sell it if they wished.
In this way, Harold hoped they would discover the hidden room and help find a cure for the children.
In the meantime, Refet and his family would be caretakers of the house and paid a generous salary. They would pass on the legacy of guardianship to their descendants. As long as they upheld their side of the bargain, they would have the right to remain in the Lodge House.
Harold had thought long and hard about the possibility of leaving the entire estate to Refet and his family, but despite everything, he was at heart, a traditionalist and Marchwood House had been in his family for generations. He wanted family to inherit.
*
Over the years, Harold’s face and body grew older. His hair greyed, the skin on his face sagged and developed a criss-cross of lines and crevices. He became frail and hunched, his movements awkward and slow. But the faces and bodies of his demon children stayed youthful. No age blemishes or wrinkles sullied their still countenances. Neither laughter nor worry line marred their beauty. They remained unchanged, unmoving, unconscious.
Harold finally succumbed to old age in 1922 and died in his sleep aged ninety one. In his final days, he did not wish to be apart from his children and so slept in the hidden room where he spent his last remaining weeks. He wrote in his journal by candlelight and he talked to the occupants of the large wooden crates as though they could hear his every word.
After his death, he wanted Refet to seal him into the room with his sleeping children. He did not know what would happen in the future. Whether a long-lost relative would be found to pick up the threads of this strange saga or if strangers would take over his house.
A few days before he died, he summoned enough strength to lock and bolt himself inside the room. And so he finally breathed his last breath and closed his eyes to join his wife and friends on the other side. Refet built a false wall in front of the original one and both stayed intact for ninety years.
Harold’s body remained in its bed, gradually decaying to nothing but bones. The five children lay untouched for decades in their comatose state, unaware of years passing and times changing. Shrouded in darkness, stillness and silence, they were together, but cut off, alone.
*
One day, Alexandre’s unconscious mind felt a change. He still slept, locked inside himself, but part of his brain noticed a minute shift - a lightening in his surroundings. A freshness and sweetness of air which turned his black universe into a brief warm moment. It left as quickly as it had come. But soon the feelings returned more often and he sensed he was less alone.
Still he didn’t stir, he remained a prisoner trapped in his century-long coma, only half emerging from the deep, through dark layers of stiff unconsciousness.
One black night, he sensed the sweetness so close he could almost touch it. He felt the sweetness come to him. It flooded his body and infused his limbs. It gave him a brief moment of sharp clarity, but the feeling left him as quickly as it had come. He had a muted vision of himself trapped beneath a thick layer of ice, hammering and shouting in silence, powerless to break free. Without coherent thought or feeling, he experienced brief flashes of changes around him. But for most of the time, only blackness.
Suddenly, in a light-shocked instant, the darkness splintered, banished by a crippling brightness. Too much of it. Unbearable pain. A thousand volts of electricity through his body. He was on fire. Burning from the inside out. He could not open his eyes for behind his eyelids was a light so evil and bright, he felt it would sear his brain and blind his very soul.
Exposed, he could see no dim, dark haven of escape. The heat was intolerable. Through the overwhelming pain, he felt the solidity of his body again. He had to force himself up and out of this chamber of torture, but the light had blinded him.
He used his base animal senses to throw himself out of his container. He dragged himself across sharp stones of fire and ice, willing himself to flee from the white heat. It took all of his diminished power to subdue his own body and order it under control.
He crawled for what seemed like an eternity until he finally found himself away from the glare of death and in the relief-giving gloom of a cool place. As he lay, exhausted and in agony, he felt as though his body had been turned inside out. He retched, but his throat and mouth were dry. From the distance, he heard a voice, like a buzzing fly, getting closer.
The sound grew louder, turning from a buzz, to a hum, to a voice, to a scream and when he looked up he saw a beautiful, but terrible angel devil creature rushing towards him with a gleaming axe. Terror numbed his brain. He scrabbled to get away from the approaching demon, using his weakened limbs to try to escape.
It was difficult to gain any purchase on the smooth stone floor. He skittered backwards as far as he could go. Trapped against a wall. Cornered. He had to do something before the creature brought its axe down upon him. He begged for his life.
‘Non!’ he cried and then he realised the creature had not screamed at him in his mother tongue of French, but in another language. He recognised it. Not Latin or Greek. Not the language of the Gods, but ... English.
Her voice was rasping and guttural, not a dialect he was familiar with. She was enraged with him, but he had no idea why. Had he done something wrong? He did not know her, did he? He would never forget an encounter with such a magnificent creature and yet, there was something familiar he could not quite put his finger on.
Her legs were clad in black and she wore an indecently short dress with great leather buckled boots. She had dark hair in a plain style, but her pale eyes flashed like a she-wolf.
He thought quickly and amended his words, ‘No
! Please … Je vous en supplie! I beg of you!’ His voice sounded strange to himself, weak and hoarse. He knew the essence of himself, but he had difficulty remembering who he actually was - his name, his status, his life.
Suddenly, he saw the glint of metal and heard the swish of the axe as it fell, but strangely he felt no fear, felt no pain. He caught the weapon easily and now held it in his hands. He had stopped it dead. It had not harmed him.
It was then he realised who she looked like. He remembered a name and a face from his past.
‘Leonora? Is it you? He shook his head. ‘Non, ce n’est pas toi.’
She looked at him with fear in her eyes, pulling desperately at the axe. But Alexandre did not need to exert himself at all in order to keep hold of it. She screamed something at him, but he could not make out the words.
‘Why did you attack me?’ he asked, starting to recover. He still felt weakened and in pain, but his body had stopped shuddering and jerking. He was more in control.
‘Why d’you think?’ she spat the words at him, still tugging uselessly at the axe.
He suddenly had a blinding flash of realisation and remembered. He was at the house of Harold Swinton. He was in England. And then, the true horror of what had happened hit like a sledgehammer all over again. He was no longer human. He was a vampire.
As soon as he remembered this, the thirst came upon him. The girl creature who stood above him, smelled like a heavenly angel and he would have to be strong to resist her. She spoke to him and he thought he heard her say that this was her house.
‘This is not your house!’ he exclaimed. Had something happened to Harold and to his family? His family! Where were his brother and sister? ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t have to explain anything to you!’ she retorted. ‘You need to tell me who you are.’ She still tugged at the axe, staring at his face. He looked back at her in confusion but he was no longer afraid.
‘If I release this weapon, will you refrain from your attack? It is too exhausting to talk whilst you are trying to kill me.’
He saw her think for a moment. She nodded her head in assent and so he let go of the axe. He saw she still gripped it tightly, but she was true to her word and kept it lowered.
Alexandre sat up and put the palms of his hands together, interlocking his fingers and bowing his head.
‘I must think,’ he said to himself, dizzy with the scent of her. Then he looked up and stared into the girl creature’s eyes. ‘The others? They are …’
‘There are four others like you,’ she snapped. ‘They’re still down in the cellar.’
‘The cellar? Bien. This is good, I think. You are a strange girl, no?’
‘Strange! Me? Yeah, that’s a good one. What are you? What are you doing here?’
He smiled at her outrage. ‘Very well, I am tired, but we shall sit somewhere together and I will tell you about myself. Yes. I will tell you my story and you will tell me yours.’
He had to resist his thirst and speak to this girl to find out what had happened. For he realised she was no angel or demon, but merely a strange and beautiful human made of flesh and of … blood.
Chapter Twenty One
*
‘Two thousand and eleven? Two thousand and eleven! But that is more than a century.’ He choked out the words. ‘I have been asleep for one hundred and … one hundred and thirty years.’
Madison watched as several emotions disrupted his perfect face. He seemed pretty gutted, but she still didn’t trust him.
‘What of you?’ he continued, his voice stilted with emotion. ‘Does this house now belong to you and your family? Harold must be dead of course. Poor dear Harold. What a sad and wretchedly lonely life he must have led.’
‘I’ll listen to your story and then you and your vampire family need to get out of my house.’
They stared at each other for a moment.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will tell you my story and if you then still wish me to leave, I will abide by your decision.’
Madison nodded, briefly. She found it hard to look at him without catching her breath at his beauty.
He said his name was Alexandre Chevalier. He told her a condensed version of his life and how he had come to be asleep in her house and, despite herself, she listened in fascination. If he was to be believed, he deserved her sympathy, not her fear and anger. Her emotions skittered all over the place. Could she really kick him out if he’d suffered all that? But then again, he could just be a really good liar.
‘And now you have heard how I came to be here in this place, in this time, won’t you please tell me a little of your own life.’
She paused. She knew she should just tell him to leave, but part of her wanted him to stay. His voice, his face … He was mesmerising. Alright. She’d just talk to him for a while longer. She needed more time to make up her mind.
‘My name’s Madison Greene. I live here with my brother, Ben and I’m pretty sure the Harold you told me about, is Harold Swinton, my ancestor.’
‘But that is incredible! You are Harold’s relative? A descendant. This means you are related to Leonora and Freddie. So that is why I thought you were she. You look so alike.’
‘Leonora,’ she repeated the name. ‘Yeah. Ben, my brother, he said she looked like me.’
‘Well, he is correct. You have the same beautiful pale blue eyes.’
She was annoyed to find herself blushing. He really was exquisite. Broad-shouldered and tall, his black hair swept back in dishevelled waves from his aristocratic face. Now his skin wasn’t so pale, he looked almost completely human.
‘What are you gonna do? I mean, now you’re awake and everything. I guess you can stay here for a bit, if you want to.’
‘You are sure? You will allow me to stay?’
‘Yeah, you can stay. For now. What about the others? Are you going to wake them up too?’
‘The others,’ Alexandre said suddenly. ‘Please. Will you excuse me for a few moments? I must go and see the others. I can feel them, but I have to look upon them with my own two eyes. They are down in the cellar?’
‘You were all in there before ... before you woke up.’
‘I must see them!’ He stood up, suddenly agitated. ‘And I must confess I feel somewhat strange at discovering I have slept for so long. I need some time to …’
‘… to get your head around it. Yeah, I can relate to that.’
‘Your language is strange. It is ‘modern’ I suppose. It is hard for me to follow. Forgive me, I must go.’
He left.
Madison sat on the sofa, her tiny frame unmoving. The clock ticked. The room was dark and still. She pushed her hair away from her face. She was scared. Terrified to be honest. She must be crazy to be so drawn to him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
He hadn’t felt threatening when he spoke to her, but now he had gone … well, now she could see the true enormity of what had happened tonight.
It was all completely insane. And what on earth would she tell Ben? How would he react? Oh, by the way Ben, you know those statues? Well they’re not statues, they’re vampires, but they’re really friendly once you get to know them. He’d need therapy. Come to think of it, she could probably do with some too. Only they’d both get shoved in the nut house if they started saying anything remotely near the truth.
The darkness in the lounge felt all consuming. Her body had grown numb and cold. She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there. She got up and switched on the main light and a couple of lamps. But even that didn’t make things any more normal; if anything, it felt weirder to see all the usual stuff in its usual places, when everything was so un-usual.
She wondered when and if Alexandre would return and what would happen when he did. He was so beautiful and she couldn’t seem to act normally around him. She had been either completely tongue tied, babbling inanely or really rude.
She was restless. She needed to do something, but what? She knew
there was no way she’d be able to concentrate on anything as mundane as watching television and anyway, she was feeling a bit creeped-out being downstairs on her own, not knowing whether or not he would reappear at any moment.
She made the decision to go upstairs. She wasn’t going to sit around waiting for him to return. No. She walked up the wooden staircase and went in to see Ben, who was snoring lightly.
She turned on his bedside light and sat beside him. Then she lay down next to him on top of the bedclothes, closing her eyes and letting her mind focus on normal things, plans she had for the future. Maybe one day she and Ben would go on holiday, somewhere warm and exotic - a beach holiday with lots of water sports. Or perhaps she could get a horse and learn to ride – that was something she’d always dreamed of doing.
She tried not to let any of her thoughts veer down dark paths. She really did not want to think about Alexandre; it was too terrifying and her mind was in turmoil. She turned onto her side and drew her knees up towards her stomach, listening to Ben’s slow rhythmical breathing. She tried to let her mind think nice thoughts: holidays … warm beaches … a horse … a vampire. She fell asleep.
*
Once in the cellar, Alexandre opened up the crates and gazed at the sleeping forms of Isobel and Jacques with their cherubic faces and blonde curls. The twins’ hair was as fair and blonde as his was dark. He smiled at the thought of his lively brother and over-dramatic sister, but the smile left his lips as quickly as it had formed.
How was he to revive them? Would he ever hold a conversation with them again? Why had he awoken, but not them? What had happened to him to jolt him from his slumber? Would they wake next? Alexandre looked across at Freddie, who appeared happy even in sleep. He walked to the next crate and stared down at Leonora, her porcelain face framed with a dark glossy mane of hair. Yes, she was still beautiful, but she left him strangely cold now.
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