As for to-morrow, I can see no way around it: I must take a deadly risk.
26 AUGUST. Elisabeth was very moody to-day, and though she tried to master herself, she snapped at me irritably. Then she pressed a wad of pound notes into my hand in lieu of apology, and bade me go shopping.
So I and my handsome coachman drove through the city, and at one point, I ordered him to wait for me outside a fine dress-shop. Once inside, I made myself invisible and rode the wind the short distance to Hillingham.
It being shortly after mid-day, I was altogether unsure that I would catch Vlad’s victim alone; but I knew that she would be too weak to stray far from home. Daylight gave the estate at Hillingham a far cheerier air; the gabled stone house no longer seemed grim and sterile, but quite cheerful with its red door and eaves and white lace curtains. Upon the deep green lawn, black and tan terrier pups gambolled whilst their weary mother watched beneath the shade of a tall ash; nearby, a servant tended a perfumed garden of roses.
Gone, too, was the dark blue miasma that marked Vlad’s presence, and that was perhaps the most cheerful sign of all.
I located at once the window where Vlad had entered, and peered inside. The sash was closed today, despite the glorious warm breeze, but the young lady was exactly where I had expected to find her—in bed, propped up upon pillows, reading, with the covers drawn up as far as possible, as if she feared a chill on this, one of the warmest days of the year. She was quite a pretty girl, really, with light green upward-slanting eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and a small, thin nose, all of which gave her a rather feline look; and she wore a lovely dressing-gown of embroidered linen eyelet, pale sea-green to enhance her eyes. Whilst she read, a chambermaid stood beside the bed, devotedly brushing out the lady’s long, waving hair—which, in the dappled sunlight, looked the colour of sand gilded here and there with gold. Lying against the pale-green gown, it looked like a shimmering shore beside the great ocean.
As I watched, a kitchen maid entered with a tray bearing a modest luncheon and tea; her young mistress sighed and shook her head, but the servant pressed her case, and left the tray on the table beside the bed in case the young lady’s appetite improved.
The instant the servants had gone, closing the door behind her, I drew nearer to the window and materialised just enough so that I could tap my fingernails against the glass. As I had hoped, the girl looked up from her reading, and tilted her head, curious; I drummed harder, harder, projecting my aura outward as a fisherman casts a net, luring her until she could resist no more. She pulled back the covers and rose languidly; slowly (pausing once to close her eyes and press a hand to her forehead as if dizzied) she made her way to the window, and with great effort pulled up the sash.
This was my invitation. I lunged forward, thinking to leap through the open window into the bedroom, as Vlad had done the night before.
But something held me back at the instant I ducked my head beneath the glass. A talisman, something fastened above or below the window which made my skin tingle, then sting, then burn fiercely, as if I were attempting to swim through water which had been infused with ever-increasing amounts of acid until it was pure vitriol. I cried out at the pain, recoiling; my invisibility should have prevented the girl from hearing any sound, but she must have sensed something, for she frowned in puzzlement and peered farther out before shutting the glass.
This was Vlad’s doing, I decided, and silently swore to him that I would not be so easily discouraged. Thus I went round to other windows until I found one unencumbered by any spell—the dining room, where I found the same serving-girl setting a long table for only one. Again, I tapped upon the window and mesmerised her quite easily; she pulled open the window without an instant’s hesitation.
I wasted no time with her, but made my way directly upstairs to her young mistress’ room. There I knocked, and was obligingly admitted entry by her call: “Come in.…”
There is one moment when we vampires lose our ability to hide ourselves: at the moment of feeding, not because of any limitation imposed on us by the Dark Lord’s bargain, but because the act of drinking blood overwhelms us as utterly as it does our victim. Thus our mental concentration, so necessary for manipulating the aura, fails, and we are visible to those who nourish us.
So it was that when I stepped over the threshold into her chamber, I saw no point in veiling my presence; she would see me soon enough in any case.
When I appeared all at once in the entryway, pulled the door shut behind me, and locked it, she sat straight up in the bed and lifted a pale hand to pale lips with a look of intense curiosity tempered by gentle fear. She might well have cried out for one of the maids, but she was a gentle-woman, schooled in civility, and so she asked, with as much courtesy as she could summon in the face of such a surprise:
“Who are you?”
I smiled, and within me felt immortal beauty rise up and flower; felt, too, my magnetism instinctively increase and surge out through my eyes to the young lady’s, drawing her irrevocably to me. Deep, deep behind the green ocean of her gaze, I saw the faint glimmer of indigo. I would have to strike quickly; I would have to keep my own mind as blank as possible. Even so, the danger to me was still great. Who knew the limits of Vlad’s power? How could I be sure that even during the day, he would not reach out through this lethargic young creature and smite me?
“A friend, come to help in time of need,” I said, crossing over to stand beside the bed. At once I became keenly aware of diluted vitriol tingling upon my skin, and glanced up to find over the single window a tiny silver crucifix. Impossible that I should be affected by it anymore, now that Elisabeth had shown me the truth … unless, of course, it had been charged by a powerful and educated magician: Vlad.
The young lady distracted me then from that miserable thought; she sighed and pressed a hand to her heart—whether to protect it or bring it forth to offer up to me, I cannot say, but her startled gaze became one of ecstatic love, and her lips parted in sensual recognition of the event to come. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered, tilting her face upward towards mine, revealing a long white neck partially covered by a velvet band.
My smile grew ironic. Mary had uttered the very same compliment, but hers had been sincere (if not altogether lucid), and had touched me to the core; the girl’s came as a result of her being thoroughly mesmerised, and so held no pleasure for me.
I bent for the kiss, and pushed the band of velvet down until I found the marks. I put my lips to her neck there, and licked the skin, feeling the tiny punctures with my tongue so that I might place my eyeteeth exactly upon them. There I briefly hovered—not from a desire to savour the moment, but from trepidation.
Knowledge is ofttimes carried on the blood; to drink is also to learn of the victim. But at such moments, it is impossible for us to hold back; our auras surge forth to mingle with those of our prey. This is generally of no concern, for when the victim is thoroughly entranced, all she learns is forgotten upon waking, while the psychic tie to the vampire remains.
Thus Vlad can know her thoughts, her feelings, her images, to a limited degree (unless he more thoroughly ties her to him by an exchange of blood, at which point he can know almost anything he desires). And if I joined with her when she was mesmerised, and most open to his thoughts, I would know them.
But would he also know mine?
The reward outweighed the risk. I closed my eyes as my teeth sank slowly into the path already cleared for them, and tried to focus my mind solely on the sound of the girl’s breathing and her beating heart.
The blood rose up to meet me, and I drank.
Image of a plump, buxom woman—all breasts and belly, with no neck, thin greying hair swept into a scanty pompadour. Mother is looking ill these days, poor thing.
Am I dying? Arthur …
A young man with a riot of golden curls and a long, distinctly equine face.
The lines are six, the keys are two. The damned key! It must be here.…
Im
age of the shining parchment, emblazoned with gold beneath Vlad’s youthful hands; I could decipher the letters now.
To the east of the metropolis lies the crossroads. There lies buried treasure, the first key.
A burst of searing force—a force more blinding than lightning, more deafening than thunder, more powerful than the deadliest whirlwind, a force that apparently originated from Miss Lucy Westenra herself—smashed me backward into the wall. I reeled, impossibly dazed by the blow; only when I heard the maids crying out, “Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy!” and running up the stairs did I come to myself and gain control of my aura. By the time the maids arrived, discovered the door was locked, and began to bang frantically on it, I was invisible; by the time the aforesaid “Miss Lucy” opened aforesaid door, I had already slipped through it and was fleeing the way I came.
I returned to the prim dress shop, where Antonio still waited with the carriage. From there, we returned to the relative security of Elisabeth’s house; I was grateful she did not see me enter, as I was too exhausted after the strange attack to shield myself a minute longer from the gaze of others. Nor was I in a mood to hide my dishevelment or my shaking hands. I went straightway to my private sitting-room (private because Elisabeth so despised animals she would not enter it), where my white, bejewelled prisoners cringed at the sight of me. The cockatoo raised its crest and recoiled as I approached, and the Afghan retracted its tail and tried to slink away—but I was in too great a need of honest comfort. I picked the poor dog up and set it beside me on the sofa, then buried my face in its soft fur and we two trembled together.
Vlad had become acutely aware of my interference with Lucy Westenra. Indeed, he had very nearly killed me—an impossible thing for one vampire to do to another, yet the shock that had surged through my supposedly impervious body had nearly torn me apart. Even now, as I write this, I am so shaken my hand can scarce hold the pen. What has made him so strong—and why is Elisabeth now so weak?
Speaking softly to the hound, I raised my face to his—his, I say now, not it, for despite his dreadful innate fear, he sensed my own, and looked back at me with dark eyes so full of compassion for my own suffering that I could not hold back tears. They coursed down my cheeks, and that blessed creature gently licked them away with his tongue—which only made me cry all the harder. God Himself cannot convince me that this animal has no soul; indeed, his is infinitely worthier than mine.
After a time, we both calmed and ceased our shivering, and I think he honestly came to enjoy my caresses. I leaned my head against his thin shoulder, listening to the rapid beating of his heart, and wound my arm round him where he sat; when at last I grew too engrossed in my own concerns and ceased stroking him with my free hand, he nuzzled it tenderly.
I had never even thought to give him a name, for I had seen him only as a pretty ornament instead of a living, feeling being; but now I call him Friend. Indeed, he is my truest. Through my entire existence as an immortal, I have never met with such unbiased and unconditional acceptance and love.
As I sat and petted him, my mind grew steady enough to return to all that I had learned from Lucy Westenra, and thus Vlad.
The manuscript; the manuscript. I had no logical reason to believe it, but my instinct was adamant: its very possession must confer power. Had Elisabeth once possessed it, only to lose it to Vlad when we were all still in Transylvania? He seems far stronger now, however, than she was then.
The lines are six; the keys are three. To the east of the metropolis lies the crossroads. There lies buried treasure, the first key.…
Lines and keys: of them and their number I could derive no sense, only the obvious deduction that treasure lay buried at a particular crossroads, perhaps east of London. It was clearly a riddle—but to what end?
The damned key! It must be here.…
Most assuredly not Lucy’s thoughts, but Vlad’s, who had been meditating upon the riddle at the moment of my intervention. So the treasure at the crossroads—the first key, whatever meaning that might have—had not yet been discovered. Yet Vlad was desperate to find it.
A horrible thought seized me: If the manuscript itself conferred astonishing power, then what would possession of the first key confer? And the second?
And Elisabeth had followed him in hopes of regaining the parchment.
By this time, Friend had grown bold enough to lie down with his chin upon my lap; I sat stroking him for a long time, thinking of how the world would be if Vlad retained his amazing strength—or if Elisabeth took it from him.
At the moment, I could remember only Vlad’s cruelties and Elisabeth’s kindnesses. Yes, she had kept the truth from me, but not for any malicious purpose; her worst crime appeared to have been a lack of faith in my trustworthiness, but she had not known me long enough to understand that I am interested not in power, but in peace and pleasure. So I rose and bade Friend remain, and went in search of Elisabeth, prepared to reveal all that I had learned that day.
She was not in any of her habitual places: the great drawing-room, the bedchamber we shared, her favourite sitting-room, the formal French garden. I went back to Antonio’s quarters on the main floor to see if he was there; he was not, which made me think that perhaps he had taken her on some social errand.
But if she had seen Antonio, she would know that I had returned, and it was most unusual for her not to greet me and praise whatever I had bought, especially since she seemed so desperate to stay in my good graces.
So I continued my search of the house, until at last only one room was left: the cellar, which Elisabeth so affectionately referred to as the “dungeon.” An odd sense of dread overcame me the moment I set foot upon the landing leading downward, and touched the handle upon the iron-bound door; my reaction was to veil myself from all detection, for I think now I instinctively knew what I should find.
So I walked in silence down the stairs, and when I arrived upon the bottom step, I saw what I had always seen: the dirt floor, the long-unused fireplace, the terrible blond Iron Maiden, and the great hanging iron cage, with long sharp spikes directed inward. And surrounding it all, vast, empty darkness.
Yet I thought I espied upon the Iron Maiden’s lip a drop of blood, and so I moved over the cold ground, forward one deliberate step, then another, then another …
Until at last I caught a flash of feeble indigo, and a glimpse into the circle—Elisabeth’s circle, from whence emanated screams so fierce, so hoarse, so hopeless in their abandoned agony, that I knew not whether they came from male or female, adult or child, human or animal throat.
And in the centre of the vast dungeon, the fireplace blazed brightly, while nearby, the iron cage swung suspended the height of two women from the ground. At the pulley stood Antonio, chest bared and glistening with perspiration from the fire’s heat; at the sight of me, he grinned, baring teeth—the Devil’s own inviting smile.
Nearby, between the fire and the swinging cage, Dorka stood heating a long poker in the flames, her sweat-shining face reflecting fireglow and transformed from its usual sour expression to one of pure ecstatic transcendence. And when the metal grew white-hot, she hoisted it by the attached broom handle and jabbed it up into the black cage.
Or rather, at the prisoner within: a young, naked girl whose spiralling auburn curls spilled to her thighs and mingled with the blood streaming there. She was a lovely creature, slender, tall, and long of limb, with small and beautiful breasts, but in her death-agony, she had been reduced to a graceless, shrieking thing. She was far too beside herself to notice my entrance; her only concern was the approaching poker. It found the tender skin of her leg, and her screams grew impossibly shriller as she flailed, recoiling. Alas, her efforts to avoid pain only increased it: she had already been gored by two long metal spikes inside the cage, and her movements only served to drive them deeper into her tender flesh, and enlarge her terrible wound. The spikes pierced the length of muscle between her right ribs and hip, and held her fast. In a pitiful effort to free herself and a
void further impalement, she had wedged herself sideways between the row that pierced her and the row in front of her; the latter’s spikes she gripped with her hands and pushed against.
But before she could free herself, Dorka jabbed again; I winced at the hissing sound of searing flesh and the accompanying howl. The girl struck out valiantly at the poker with her hands until, inevitably, one of them became impaled; then she began to kick as if there were still a remote chance of survival. But there could be no hope; blood streamed from the mortal wound at her side, from the singed puncture upon her strong white thigh, from a cut upon her otherwise perfect forehead. At the sight of her, I felt bitter pity—and also a strange pride that she who was so clearly defeated would not yield to her enemies until the very moment of death. She could not be far from it, for she had lost an impossible amount of blood; it streamed down her thighs, her legs, her feet, onto the floor of the cage. Had she not been held fast by the spikes, she would certainly have slipped.
I had never before taken notice of the cage floor’s special design; it was flat everywhere and rimmed—except for one place where it slanted downward into a spout, forcing the blood to spill in a narrow stream.
Beneath that stream sat my erstwhile lover, her face tilted upward to greet the gentle crimson rain. I have seen Elisabeth enflamed with passion; I have seen her in the moment of sexual release. But never had I seen her wear an expression of such infinite bliss, infinite satisfaction—indeed, she looked up at her unwilling benefactress with all the adoration and love I had long searched for in her eyes, yet never found. Upon her lap she reverently held her victim’s clothing: a plain grey gown with white cotton apron, a servant’s humble frock.
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