14 October. — We spent the night in the woods without shelter, but dawn has finally arrived to break up the darkness. Mere hours since fleeing the boat, I still mourn my loss. Elizabeth is heartbroken too, though she seems to have converted her sorrow into care for the girl. She has been by her side since our escape and I hope the temptation is not as torturous for her as it is for the other two. Veronica is worse off than ever, and Stephen is despondent. I will take him with me to hunt, leaving the girl with the other two. I see no use in dragging her through the woods. Though I put my faith in Veronica and Elizabeth, I have no other choice. It will be difficult for Stephen to leave his beloved, and I can already see the anguish on his face. Their commitment is inviolable since it is virtually physical. They knew each other as humans, which always makes for a severe attachment. More than a hundred years ago in Budapest, after she was transfigured, she saved him; it is a story worth a few lines in my diary.
Late one evening, as the two crossed Heroes’ Square together, they were assaulted. Stephen said the man’s eyes raged like a rabid animal, and he was waving a pistol at them. Stephen calmly stepped in front of Veronica and asked the man to back away. He twitched and scratched and then started to retreat but tripped on something and fell backwards. He fired off two shots, one bullet grazing Stephen’s shoulder and getting lodged in his neck, the other hitting Veronica in the temple. Stephen recalls lying on the ground, trying to get to Veronica but no longer able to move. “Only my eyes,” he said. “I could only move my eyes.”
He saw the shadow from the corner of his eye, the presence bending over him and caressing his face. He could feel the coldness, despite his paralysis, and still remembers the smell of lavender. Veronica-a-a-a.
“Taci,” the shadow said. “Noapte bună.”
He saw the shadow take Veronica’s body and carry it away. He recalls how they seemed to disappear into the darkness as though the shadow had never even touched the ground. Paramedics soon arrived and ushered Stephen away. He only heard voices in the hospital, apathetic and cold sounds. Nothing seemed real, as he lay in a bed paralyzed from his chin down. In and out of consciousness, he asked for Veronica each time he woke. Eventually, he realized his calls went unheard—the wound had silenced him, the bullet having severed his vocal chords. He lay incapacitated for months, aching for a life that was lost to him forever. Hopeless in his isolation, powerless in his body, he suffered until she came for him. He says he will never forget the moment everything changed, how in the blink of an eye, his life was restored. “I saw the shadow flit across the ceiling,” he said. “And then I smelled the lavender.”
He did not feel the bite, the venom’s rime course through him, the pain of his transformation. His perception was engrossed in the tingling of his newly revived body and the thirst—the burning need for blood. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw her,” he said.
Veronica greeted him with his first drink, nursing him to stability. From the moment of their embrace, he knew what he had become. “Wallach is my maker,” she said. “And I am yours.”
“Wallach?”
“It’s complicated,” she said.
Wallach is a Romanian nomad, a vampire who mostly travels alone. Nomads are reputed to be cruel, incapable of compassion, but Wallach had been good to Veronica. He had sincerely wanted to be with her, though he cannot change his nature. Abandoned at inception, he is unable to nurture a progeny.
“Why didn’t he save me that night too?” Stephen asked.
“He couldn’t,” she said. “We can only choose one every hundred years.”
Stephen said he did not understand what that meant at first, but soon realized the greatness of Veronica’s gesture—she had chosen him.
“I didn’t know if you’d regret my choice,” she said. “It’s permanent in the most permanent way.” He said she smiled when she said that and he could not resist showing her how grateful he was.
I’ve always admired their physical bond—their humanlike attachment. They knew how to enjoy their vampiric nature together from the beginning. After they joined our clan, we met Veronica’s maker. Wallach had taken up with an ancient vampire named Rangu. Rangu—not quite as ancient as I, but he wishes—claims to be a reincarnation of Vishnu, though not the tenth avatar. These days, however, I wonder if he is not the Hindu god come to herald the end of the world.
Later. — When Stephen and I made our way through the woods, we avoided the bloodless with ease since only a few wandered on this side of the riverbank.
“Wait,” Stephen said.
“I smell it too,” I said.
Smoke wafted through the trees, evincing the recent dampening of a fire. The bloodless are incapable of mental tasks such as building campfires—I will be devastated if I learn they have developed cognitive ability. The horror on the water had been threatening enough. “This way,” I said.
The scent led us through the trees to a clearing with a circle of spears stuck in the ground. The small enclosure looked like a savage’s prison, only not to keep the enemy in but out. In the center, stones surrounded a pit of sand. Stephen slipped in between the spears. “The coals are wet,” he said.
Neither of us picked up the human scent, not even one that had long since expired. “What are you thinking?” He asked.
I pointed to the small game drying on the line strung between two trees. Stephen smiled. “Humans,” he said.
“Grab the meat,” I said.
As he gathered the game from the line, bending down to place it in his satchel, a bullet sailed through the trees and grazed the top of his ear. Without hesitating, he turned in the direction of the shot and blasted off through the brush. When I caught up to him, he hung from a tree. He was tied up in a net, dangling from a branch, and I rushed up the trunk to free him with my talons.
“Why can’t I smell him?” Stephen asked when he hit the ground.
I held a finger up, directing him to keep quiet. I could hear the man breathing. When another shot fired in our direction, this time nicking the corner of my ear, I knew exactly where he was. I flew through the brush and caught the man before he got away, crushing his windpipe beneath my grip. A gun dangled at his side, as I held him several feet off the ground. The mystery of his elusive scent was solved when we smelled the month’s worth of silt and rot from the riverbed. He was covered in a stink that rivaled a sewer.
“Can we clean him before we feed?” Stephen asked.
I assured him we would have to make do, and we each took a nip from the stinking man’s neck before tearing through the forest back the way we came with his unconscious body. When we arrived, Veronica was gone.
“She was going mad,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sorry Stephen.” Elizabeth told us that Veronica ranted about turning to ashes. “I asked her to stay calm for Evie’s sake,” she said. “She leered at her—and I know that look. When her fangs dropped, I had to send her away.”
I chided myself for taking Stephen and leaving Veronica with such temptation. Elizabeth showed me the bruise the vampire gave Evelina when she attempted to put her arm in her mouth. “I was strong enough to get her off,” Elizabeth said.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Evelina said with her small voice. “I know she suffers.”
I still cannot get Stephen’s look of violence and disgust out of my mind. His wound was palpable, as he released his irons. “Do not,” I warned him. “You will regret it.”
“One sip for Chrissake,” he said. “You could have given her one sip.” He looked away, ashamed at his outburst, and I knew he would not cross the line. Instead, he ran off in the direction Elizabeth told him his beloved had gone and did not look back, as he disappeared into the woods.
I am torn—heartbroken really. I do not know how to keep us all together. The blood from the man has given my starvation a reprieve, but without Stephen and Veronica, without my whole clan, I am more vulnerable than ever—and so is Evelina. I have decided to wait for them until dusk. I hope for their return before th
e sun sets.
15 October. — When Stephen and Veronica did not return, Elizabeth and I carried Evelina through the woods to a deserted hamlet on its border. We encountered a few stray bloodless here and there, but the man’s blood gave me enough strength to smite them with my talons. We are in a cottage; it is rather small, with a single room, but is isolated enough and seems the safest place for us while I decide what to do about my shrunken clan. Elizabeth watches over the girl, and I have commended her on her discipline.
“You have shown great bravery and sacrifice,” I said to her, as Evelina slept at her side. She was touched by my gratitude and I suspect she did not think I would notice.
“I want to please her,” she said.
“You do.”
Elizabeth resented her transfiguration, though she loved Maxine, and spent years in search of her beloved, one she has yet to find. I worry she may think Evelina is a possible candidate, though she would never change the girl. That, I do not doubt. She must hope, though, that somehow, in some way, she is forging a bond with the human. I will not tell her it is hopeless, that their differences are too great and will eventually get the better of their friendship. For now, Elizabeth has nothing else, and I need her just as much as Evelina does.
17 October. — Byron had mapped out a course of action in his notes. He had designed a plan to repopulate the earth with healthy humans. He believed the bloodless would eventually die off, and the healthy would outlive the plague. In two generations, he wrote, there will be no bloodless left—the infection will die with the last of them.
I feel an immense weight at this prospect since his conjecture may only be validated if I can keep the healthy safe. How I am to keep bloodless from this new population is a mystery I am determined to solve. Humans can only repopulate if bloodless do not prey on the populace—not to mention the starved vampires, lurking amidst colonies of healthy donors, bleeding them dry.
Later. — I had a dream, or a waking reverie, I conversed with Byron about cloning. Cloning can either save or destroy the world! Ah, it is a useless prophecy without scientists and labs. Save the girl! That is all you can do.
18 October. — We have been here for three days and several swarms have passed us, though none have picked up Evelina’s scent. She is covered in incense oil.
I have been successful finding canned preserves for her from nearby pantries. The hamlet is surprisingly untouched, as if all its inhabitants got up and left before the pandemic began. The cottages are vacant, none of them harboring the enemy. Elizabeth and I suffer—we are hungry. We hide our anguish from Evelina but if we do not get blood soon, we will be of little use to her.
19 October. — Byron, my dear sweet Byron, thank you for showing me your brilliant mind this morning when I found your entry on blood substitutes. You had hoped it would not come to this since consuming a substitute is a wretched thought and something none of us would desire, but you had been experimenting on synthetics nevertheless. I assume you wanted to spare me the horror of your delving into such grimy waters. I found the formula marked in the margin of your notes, and I can only assume it is a recipe for a substitute.
Since the turn of the millennium, the medical community had made significant advancements in hemoglobin-based oxygen therapeutics. By 2036, scientists had engineered a sufficient and acceptable substitute for human blood. We had never tried it since we never had a need for it, but now it seemed a viable option. I cannot imagine why Byron kept this from me, though I recall an allusion to it in a conversation months before the epidemic. He had been working tirelessly in his lab and when I expressed interest, he dodged my question.
“It is nothing,” he had said. “A mere trifle.”
Day and night he locked himself in his lab, vexed by the slightest disruption. Long gone were our wicked nights on the prowl for cold women and warm blood. It got to the point of my having to insist he come out to dine on the leftovers I brought him from my hunt. On one such occasion, as I watched him devour the lithe waif I served him, I noticed his malaise. It was as if the human blood did not excite his senses, and his apathy bothered me. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
He insisted he was not hungry and when I asked if he had fed, he changed the subject.
“Do you prefer men or women?” He teased me, knowing I favored the blood of young women. “What about animals?” He asked.
The proposition disgusted me and I showed him so, sticking out my tongue and making a retching sound. “Beneath me,” I said.
“I realize, my love, that you have ancient taste buds,” he said with a grin. “But we may not always be fortunate enough to choose from where our blood comes.” With that, he slipped back into his lab, leaving me to finish the waif he had only just begun.
I assumed his behavior was a result of his exhaustion, overworked as he was. Though we do not need sleep, we are required to rest our minds every now and then. I did not press him, and when the affliction proved resilient and he started his work on the bloodless, his troubling conduct was forgotten.
How could I not know, Byron? You were in the midst of developing a blood substitute that could save us all from anguish. It seems obvious now, but why did you not suggest it when our need for it grew desperate? Why not use the supplement to save us? To save you? My questions are without answers, though his final gift to me stares up at me from the margin of his notes. In addition to the formula, he made a list of the gallons of blood substitute in a cryostat cooler in his lab at our home in the catacombs.
Later. — As I anticipate our arrival tomorrow, I dread my nostos. I have not seen LaDenza since the plague began. When I told Elizabeth my plan early this morning, she voiced her reservations.
“Will we bring Evie?” Elizabeth’s sole concern was for Evelina and her child.
“Of course,” I said.
“But how’ll we get past the creepers?” She asked. “Just the two of us?”
I found it telling she had picked up the girl’s term for the bloodless. “We have no choice,” I said. “We have to get back to the catacombs.”
“What if they’re still—” I raised my hand to prevent her question. She knew it meant I had nothing further to discuss and my decision was final.
“We set out when she wakes,” I said.
We left the cottage an hour later. I carried Evelina on my back while Elizabeth towed the meager provisions we had acquired. We moved swiftly through the abandoned hamlet, a ghost town without a soul, living or dead. I had found a map and planned our trip along the quickest route back to my home. The catacombs are on the outskirts of a town ten miles north of our current location, but there is an obstacle and it will take us twenty-five to get there. The river through the path keeps us from traveling straight since we must avoid the water at all costs.
My energy waned, hungry as I was, but I conserved what I had in case of an attack. The rise of a swarm is difficult to predict, so I renewed my efforts to listen for howls in the distance. Elizabeth clung to my left side and we cradled Evelina between us. I could not carry her any longer and we were forced to walk at a human pace. I tried to resist frustration when she asked to stop. “Please,” she said. “I need to catch my breath.”
The last thing I wanted to do was stop, even for a brief moment, but pushing her was pointless. I needed her healthy and alive but had to remind myself of her condition constantly. “We will rest here for a while,” I said.
We were in a vineyard and I noticed a small cabin a few yards away. I insisted we go inside for shelter. “I’ll go ahead,” Elizabeth said.
As she stole through the withered vines up to the cabin, I scanned the horizon for movement. The place was abandoned, and the silence confirmed there were no bloodless for at least a furlong. When Elizabeth waved to me from the cabin, I picked Evelina up in my arms and carried her to safety. The stop was a fortuitous one since we found a fully stocked cupboard and what looked like a fresh pot of coffee inside. Though the pot was cold, the grinds were fresh. Elizabeth op
ened a can of oysters and a tin of crackers and set a plate for Evelina. “Doesn’t it seem like someone is living here?”
“Yes,” I said. Yes, yes, it does! The thought of also sharing a meal woke my senses.
When Evelina finished eating, she was ready for sleep. I carried her to a small cot in a nook at the back of the cabin and as she rested, Elizabeth and I sat in the main room, where soon the most incredible smell wafted in through the windows. When starved, fresh blood smells delicious no matter the human.
“Shush!” The sound of a male voice broke the silence.
What luck, I thought, there is more than one.
“Someone’s inside,” the man whispered.
“The dead?”
“How should I know?”
We stood at the door, waiting with readied fangs. I let my irons drop for the simple pleasure of the kill I had long been needing. Elizabeth gave me a look that said she wanted to give chase but I held her back. We hung on the edge of anticipation for what seemed like eternity. “They’ve gone?” Elizabeth gestured.
I sniffed the air, shaking my head at the fresh blood smell still thick and close. They had not gone, but waited to see if we would come out. I feigned a cough and then baited them with a loud whisper. “Someone is coming,” I said.
Elizabeth mimicked Evelina’s small voice. “Oh no,” she said. “Do you think they’ll let us stay?”
We heard shuffling on the other side of the door, and I put my hand on the knob, turning it slowly. Before I could pull the door to me, it swung open and a young woman stood on the step with a rifle pointed at my face. She was dead at the sight of me, for I grabbed her hair and ripped open her neck with my mouth, as the rifle dropped to the ground. I bit into her with my subtle fangs, keeping her alive for Elizabeth. When I had my fill, I handed her off. “I will be back with the other,” I said, wiping the blood from my chin. I do not think she heard me, as she was in the throes of ecstasy when I took off.
The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier Trilogy (Books 1, 2, 3) Page 7