The face twisted again, the voice deeper, louder this time. “We all do. You are just a vessel.”
“Can I speak to the real Madame Ivanova?”
This time, the entity inside the woman laughed aloud. “She is too mad to respond, even if you could get her attention.” The face twisted into a parody of regret. “She did not have the resilience of the countess. She barely lasted a century.” The woman leaned forward, her expression flickering between the entities animating her. “I think it was being tempted to drain the blood of her own grandchildren that started to turn her.”
Jack jumped back, landing on her feet, but the creature was faster and stronger. Its hot fingers grasped her throat and forced her against a sideboard, the edge cutting into her spine. Long teeth were inches from her throat, forcing Jack to put her chin down to avoid exposing it. She could hardly breathe, the drum of her heartbeat thumping in her ears. She brought her arms up hard, trying to evade the face inches from her own. The woman didn’t let go, but she did stagger back a little, giving Jack a moment to break the chokehold and spring toward the door.
“Wait!”
Jack paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Stay back, whatever you are.”
“I am what you are. You are blessed. You have been fortunate.” The creature weaved from foot to foot, as her expression changed dozens of times. “He will win in the end. Do you think Báthory did not fight back to save herself? She even consulted with the sorcerer, followed him his whole life to undo what cannot be undone.”
Jack wrenched open the door, almost falling into Felix’s arms. She slammed the door behind her. “Let’s go.”
“What? What did she say?”
Finally, the voice inside her got the upper hand for a moment and she found herself unable to speak, simply stare mutely into Felix’s eyes. The memory of his slashed skin against her lips, the gush of blood into her was somehow mixed up with the memory of his kisses, his hands holding her, his body against hers in the bed at the hotel. This was what it, Saraquel, wanted. Blood would give it the advantage. She pulled away from Felix with so much force he staggered.
“She said—” Again, Saraquel stalled the words. She forced herself to walk away, jogging toward the entrance hall. She could hear his steps following. All the occasions she had craved sensual experiences like food, danger, blood—sex—they didn’t just come from her. They came from some creature squatting inside her, the same monster that created Báthory…She brushed past the security at the door and into the street.
“Jack!” His voice was strident with anxiety, and she pressed her hands over her eyes for a moment.
“Not Jack—” The voice was ground out past some resistance in her jaw, as if her own body were trying to hold back the words. She wasn’t sure he had heard her.
This time, although the sounds muted and the world lost its focus, she could feel the thing expanding inside her, filling her up as if it were stretching her skin. She could no longer speak, and shut her eyes to focus. Her body was responding to the thing—Saraquel—expanding inside her. The need for Felix’s body, his blood, was like starvation or desperate thirst.
She could hear her words, her shaky laugh higher pitched than usual. “Sorry, I think it’s relief. It’s OK, it’s all OK as long as I don’t—” Not-Jack paused for a moment, and Jack realized she was nestling against Felix, feeling his response, his arms tightening, his body pressing against her. She responded to his kiss, her body knowing what to do, her lips inviting him in. “Let’s go back to the hotel.” Not-Jack’s laugh was light, alien to Jack’s ears. The most movement Jack could muster was a trembling in her hands, as she tried not to wrap them around Felix’s neck, tried not to pull him down into another kiss.
His breathing was ragged, and for a moment Jack thought he was convinced. But he reached up and took her wrists, not too gently, and unwound them from his neck. Jack opened her eyes, but could see nothing but darkness. Gathering all her energy, she tried to shriek a scream out, but only managed a mew of distress.
Not-Jack smiled. “I’m ready now, Felix. I’m tired of being a weakly child. I’m a woman—you made me a woman with your blood. Together we can be happy.”
Felix rested his hands on her shoulders, Jack could feel the warmth seeping into her. A sob built up inside her but was burned away before she could express it.
“But you aren’t Jack, are you?”
His hands were tight, squeezing her, holding her body away from his.
Saraquel, if that’s who not-Jack was, laughed, this time with a husky humor that shot scarlet lightning through the dark Jack was locked in. “We’re both here. We both want you. What does it matter?” Before Felix could answer, Saraquel answered itself. “You’ve only really known me. You’ve only ever wanted me.”
Tears sprang into Jack’s eyes at the lie. She wrestled with the immobility.
“I don’t believe that.” But there was doubt in his voice. “Let her go.”
The thing inside her laughed at him and his hands pushed her away. Jack/Saraquel staggered, and Jack found herself pushing forward, starting to see the dark shape ahead of her as Felix, taking a deep breath of her own.
“Felix,” she managed to whisper, then forced Saraquel back. It retreated, a mocking laugh sounding in the back of her head. She opened her eyes fully, and his concerned face came into view.
“Jack—” He advanced but she put a hand out to keep him away.
“No! Don’t touch me, I can’t stay me—I can’t stay me if you touch me. It helps Saraquel, the thing inside.”
For a long moment they stood, not touching, staring at each other.
“We can work on this,” Felix finally said. “This is possession.”
“We can’t do anything.” Jack took a step back. “This is what drove Báthory to kill. I’m a danger to you all.”
“Jack—” His voice was choked with emotion. He reached out a hand, but she stepped back, turned and started running, sure he couldn’t catch her.
She kept going, knowing she was right, that someday Saraquel would seduce him, feed on him, even destroy him. She ran along the Embankment, along the river, past late dog walkers, a few drunks, a homeless man muttering over a restaurant bin.
She could feel Saraquel writhe within her, teasing her with the remembered taste of blood, of the power. She lurched away, staggering onto a bridge, and leaned on the edge.
The water gleamed back like ink, twinkling with the streetlights dancing over its surface. She climbed over the barrier, dropping onto the substructure, balanced over the water. For a long moment she let the memory of the ones she loved wash through her: Maggie’s kindness, Sadie’s courage, Charley’s warmth, Ches’s loyalty, and, stabbing through her, Felix. Felix.
This was the only power she had to protect the ones she loved. It was an easy decision, and a short drop to the Thames below.
HISTORICAL NOTE
WRITING A STORY rooted in the past is always a balancing act between being as grounded in the evidence as possible, and telling an engaging and believable fiction. Edward Kelley was an extraordinary thinker and traveler, and was in Europe in the spring of 1586. I don’t know if he went to Venice, but he could have done. I like to think so, anyway.
Marinello and Konrad are invented. I can’t believe they didn’t exist somewhere, because there are some amazing characters from this period of history. Research is a swamp into which a writer can just get lost, following pirates, explorers, rogues and heroes through history.
With all this uncertainty about such interesting and sometimes infamous characters, I have stretched history to suit story. If this causes any offense, I apologize.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I HAVE A lot of people to thank.
Firstly, Michael Rowley for editing and nursing my muddled draft into a proper book. His endless enthusiasm for fantasy is infectious. It’s a pleasure to write under his leadership at Del Rey UK with such a diverse and talented group of writers.
Ch
arlotte Robertson, my agent, for agreeing the ending was dodgy and encouraging me to rewrite it. All while making me feel better about my writing and inspiring me to write more, and better. It’s great to know she can guide me through the world of publishing, which is bigger and more complicated than I imagined.
My patient beta readers Bethany Coombs and Downith Monaghan, fine writers themselves, and I look forward to seeing their books on the shelves one day.
My friend Ruth Downie, author of a series of books set in Roman Britain and published by Bloomsbury USA. It has been great to learn from someone who’s been in publishing much longer than me, and is kind enough to answer my dafter questions.
My noisy family, who have cajoled, read, argued and encouraged, especially my eldest son, Carey. He is my first editor, and he’s usually right.
My husband, Russell, who was happy to drive all day from Devon to the Lake District, just so I could explore Hawkshead for the book. We talk about the characters as if they live somewhere in our creaky old house. I’m looking forward to finishing the next book with them all.
And finally, for those who have read my books, I just hope you enjoyed reading them, because I loved writing them.
Thank you all.
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