The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier (Book 1)

by Ambroziak, K. P.

  I raced along the side of the cabin, following the trail of the man’s scent. When I got to the rear, he had disappeared into an opening in the wall. With the taste of the woman’s blood still fresh on my tongue, I slipped in through the hole after him. I not only smelled him, but could see the large trace of heat his body gave off in the dark. The opening had led us in to the small nook where Evelina slept. Foolishly, the man grabbed the girl from the cot and pulled her to him. She shrieked, woken with fright. He put a small pistol to her head and held her in his arms as though she were his hostage. He could not see me in the dark—and she barely saw him. When Evelina called my name, Elizabeth’s anguish met her cry. “Nooo!” She screamed.

  Elizabeth’s entrance startled the man and he turned to face her, loosening his grip on Evelina. The girl dropped to the floor and I lunged to catch her. Elizabeth dug her talons into the man’s neck, causing him to fire off a shot. Luckily, I had the girl tucked in my arms and the bullet bounced off my shoulder and hit a wooden dresser full of clothes. When Elizabeth finished her drink, we exchanged bounties and she took Evelina in her arms. I gorged on the man’s blood, tearing him open with my irons and sucking every last pittance of serum from his veins. The satisfaction is indescribable, greater than a scratch relieving an itch.

  Our stay in the cabin was short-lived. The bullet exploded in the drawer and set fire to the linens inside. As the curtains rose up in flames, we stole into the night with the girl, feeling high and satiated for the rest of the road.

  20 October. — Byron and I moved into the catacombs at LaDenza in the spring of 1901. He had only been mine a short while, though he took to the vampiric lifestyle straightaway.

  When I first found him in the foggy hillside of Scotland, an assistant professor of biology at a small university north of Glasgow, I was crossing his family’s estate. He was at home for a visit, and I was only there by chance, having made an unexpected stop in the highlands. The serendipity of our meeting is too perfect for the banality of words—and so I will refrain, leaving the mysterious circumstances unexplained. Byron never thought he would leave Scotland but changed his mind when he became immortal—ah! trite and goading word. “I do not want to hunt my own people,” he had said. “I cannot be satiated by the same blood that once coursed through my veins.” His ancestors had lived in the highlands for centuries.

  Byron fell in love with Italy, and so it was here that we spent most of our time. We had been cruising through the countryside, visiting each village as it came up on the road, when on a whim we found the catacombs at LaDenza. They sat below an abandoned cemetery in a pasture somewhere between one town and the next. Overgrown with ivy and moss, the entrance carries the inscription “Memento Mori.” Remember your mortality.

  He laughed at the epigraph when he saw it, insisting we had arrived.

  “Arrived?” I asked.

  “This is where we shall spend our days.” He meant it literally since he could only venture out at night then. “Let us explore,” he said. “Shall we?”

  We went down into the depths of the wasted chambers. The tombs were filled with the brave Latini soldiers who fought in the early fourth century. The surroundings were all but dust and stone, though inside some of the sarcophagi were hidden gems. We spent hours lurking in the darkness, surrounded by the rich history of Roman death, not realizing until the plague the tombs also housed more recent burials.

  It did not take much to set up a place for him to work. We cleaned out several of the large tombs making enough space for his laboratory. We turned most of the catacombs into habitable living space but still maintained a residence in the nearest village. We made sure to keep up appearances with the locals. By day Byron did his research down in the tombs, by night we explored the outside world—together.

  “It is home,” Byron had said. And for over a century, it was.

  But one hundred and fifty years after we moved into LaDenza, we were forced out. When the outbreak reached its peak, those recently buried in the cemetery rose and wrangled the bloodless to our nest. One afternoon, as Byron worked on a body, another attacked him. I heard his yell echo through the chambers. I ran to his laboratory to find him cornered behind his autopsy table. The bloodless that lay on the slab was strapped down, but five or six frighteningly decayed corpses were upright and closing in on him where he stood. They were mostly skeletal, deformed and awkward, but strong, as they clawed at him. He had been pinned up against the entryway by their efforts to escape. I grabbed the cattle prod that lay on the counter and smashed the bones to pieces. The shards flew in all directions, the broken bits still moving across the stone floor. I took hold of Byron and rose with him to safety.

  “My notes,” he cried. “My work.”

  I promised him we would return, though we never did. Things escalated overnight and the village that housed our apartment was overrun with bloodless. When we fled LaDenza, I never thought I would return again—at least not without him. As I stared at the moss covered engraving this afternoon, I did not recall mortality, just Byron.

  I had Elizabeth wait with the girl, so I could go down into the depths alone to make sure the bloodless were gone. The field was empty, though the route between the tombs and the vineyard had not been. We passed several swarms, as we stole our way around them with the stealth we had newly acquired from our feast. The blood of the two humans had been an excellent source of vitality for Elizabeth and me, and for the moment, we have enough strength to outrun, outwit and outlast anything.

  The tombs were dark and empty and wet. A flood had washed through and our history was drowned beneath several feet of rainwater. I had hoped we could stay here, but the pools on the ground dampened that idea. I hurried to get what I came for, not wanting to leave the other two alone for longer than I had to.

  In the depths of the catacombs, I found the tomb where Byron had spent most of his life. I felt him there among his work, his diagrams and notes pasted up on the walls, his elements and samples lining the counters as though trapped in a still life. Our existence was captured before me like a study on canvas. The bloodless he had strapped to his slab had somehow freed itself from the manacles, and I wondered if its limbs had not simply rotted away. I took a large duffel bag from the cabinet and headed to the compartment in the back. The cryostat blood samples were housed there in a small trough-shape container, its temperature gauge assuring me its battery had been preserved. I placed the container in the bag and headed back through the laboratory.

  As I made my way to the entrance, I noticed Byron’s lab coat hanging on the rack by the door. I went to it and ran my fingers down the length of its arm. I recalled how comforting it was to do the same when he was in it. A slight touch down his arm would always send him into spells; he had been receptive to all of my affections once upon a time. When I reached the pocket on the side of the lab coat, I touched the small journal tucked inside. I stole the book from the pocket and slipped it into my own, knowing it contained more of the mysteries my Byron had solved. I was so caught up in my memories I did not hear the howl until it was too late and I felt the pressure of a wolframlike clamp on my shoulder, though the teeth could not gain a grip, slipping off my stone flesh.

  The fiend came at me again and I whacked it in the face with the duffel bag. It fell back into the water and then leapt up as though the baptism reinvigorated it. I tried to grab it by the throat but only got my hand caught in its open mouth. It snapped its teeth at me, and was met with a jaw full of hard flesh. I used my foot to dislodge my hand from the maw and sliced its throat with my talons. I turned around and made my escape. But I flew through the water only to find myself confronted by several more bloodless, waiting for me near the entrance. The water on the floor of the catacombs had awakened them and they formed a swarm, frenzied by the blood substitute in the duffel bag on my shoulder. They clawed their bony fingers and snapped their jaws but I was unwilling to surrender the one thing for which I had come. I renewed my efforts, slashing my talons and
plowing my body into their deformed figures, as I made my way to the stairs that would bring me to the surface. I could not let them escape with me and so I called out for Elizabeth, as I charged through the fray. “Ready the gate,” I said.

  I hoped she was not under attack too, as I flew up the steps of the catacombs. When I slipped through the portal, she was ready at the gate and slammed it shut as soon as I escaped. I could hear the bones of the bloodless get wracked, as they crashed against the large stone slab rolled into place at the gate’s front.

  “Well done.” The vampire’s voice took me by surprise. It was not Elizabeth’s, but the low register of Rangu. The godlike Hindu had caught the scent of the girl, coming upon the two of them, as I went down into the catacombs. Luckily for me, Elizabeth was able to distract him until I returned.

  He is not a villainous vampire—as I said, he believes he is a god incarnate. He was willing to hear my reasons for not feeding on the girl. “Byron believes she’s the key to saving humanity,” he said, sounding unconvinced.

  “We both do,” I said. “She is our hope there will be others.”

  “And how do you plan on keeping her safe?” He has lived through as many plagues as I and realizes how dire this one is in comparison.

  “I will stay by her side until I cannot any longer,” I said.

  He laughed with a deep, guttural chortle that was both jovial and frightening. “This problem holds no solution,” he said. “You are better off accepting our fate.”

  “Which is what?” I asked.

  “Our time has come to its end.”

  I did not believe that, though I would not argue with one who thought he was the harbinger of the final days. “Where is Wallach?” I asked.

  “Searching for his scion,” he said.

  “Veronica?”

  He nodded reluctantly. Rangu did not like competition.

  “Does he know where she is?” I asked.

  “I think he’s looking somewhere about these parts,” he said. “He doesn’t know she’s not long for this world.”

  “How do you know?”

  “None of us are.”

  Rangu was like that, a prophet without prophecy, just presumptions. He assumed Wallach’s punishment for leaving him was never to see Veronica again.

  “And Stephen?” I asked.

  Because Wallach was Veronica’s maker, he would sense her whereabouts, and if he was in the vicinity, it meant she and Stephen were too. My hope that our paths would cross again was renewed.

  “When did you last feed?” Rangu asked.

  “We have had some good fortune in the vineyards.”

  “Hmm,” he muttered. “You look satisfied.” He glanced over at Evelina and I readied myself. I could tell he itched for her, but not if he felt brave enough to face the consequences. “Every now and then I catch one up in my fangs too,” he said, concentrating on the girl. “I thought I had stumbled upon a pretty prize when I found Byron’s little miracle here.” He smiled at her with a closed mouth, trying to hide the fangs that had most certainly dropped by now. “When Elizabeth told me she was waiting for you, I was more than willing to wait for you too. I thought we might feast together.”

  Despite his agitated state, Rangu looked sullen. It had been a while since he fed.

  “I have something that will help,” I said. “Byron made a blood substi—”

  He cut me off, insisting he would rather starve than drink synthetic blood. He assured me he was in no position to stoop to such extremes. “If it’s time for me to part with this body, I shall abide Vishnu’s will.” His resignation made me think of Byron. “I’m sorry for your companion,” he said, as if reading my mind.

  “How did you know?”

  “I always do.”

  Rangu took my hand in his and I shuddered at his fragile skin. Our hands remained clasped for a moment, and then he turned to Elizabeth. “Be well bhagini,” he said. “May Vishnu watch over you.” He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, and then he faced Evelina, gazing at her for a moment before speaking. “May I?” His voice had fallen into its deepest and darkest register.

  She glanced over at me but lifted her hand to Rangu. He took it in his and turned it over. He brought the inside of her wrist up to his nose, sniffing in deeply. He let the smell of her blood wash over him, holding it in his nostrils as though savoring it for later. That is when I realized my mistake. His composure shifted and I saw his mind turn. Who can resist the smell of a fetus? His fangs erupted and he snapped open his jaw, but before he could take his bite, I threw myself between teeth and skin. The look I gave him was enough to set him straight, for he quickly retracted his fangs and feigned a smile before backing away. “I see,” he said. “Now I see.”

  With that, he vanished into the field as furtively as he had come.

  25 October. — We are in a villa on the outskirts of Portero, a town abandoned but not empty. Swarms rove the streets, though we reached the hideout easily enough by scaling the rocks around the village. Elizabeth and I took turns smiting bloodless, as we bore Evelina to safety. After our encounter with Rangu, I thought it best to hole up for a while. I have made the villa resilient to invasion and we were fortunate to find canned goods in its cupboards. Evelina will have food for several weeks, though I worry about Elizabeth. We have grown hungry again already, which is why I decided we would sample the blood substitute.

  As Evelina slept, Elizabeth and I dined by candlelight in the small kitchen. The cases of blood substitute were sealed, each one labeled and dated in my beloved’s handwriting—I felt him with me, guiding me as I made my selection. I chose the most recent specimen out of the dozens of vials, confident we could ration the portions and make them last for weeks. “We will share one every couple of days,” I said, holding the vial up to the candle, studying the thick crimson serum.

  “It looks like the real thing,” Elizabeth said, wrinkling her nose. “Do you think it tastes like it?”

  “We can hope.”

  When I tore off the cap, the pungency of the fake blood struck me. It was similar to the scent I adored, but less fleshly. My fangs dropped and my mouth moistened, as I held the vial up to my nose. The feral scent aroused me, reminding me of every battlefield I had crossed. The stench of wounded blood penetrated the senses more deeply, even if less savory. I have always been a discerning biter, though I have been known to experiment. Every savor of blood is distinct, for every human being is a unique and complicated nexus of nourishment. No two donors taste alike, which makes the pursuit doubly pleasing. I assumed the same would be true for the synthetic blood. I put the vial to my lips and tossed my head back, downing half of the blood in one swill.

  “What does it taste like?” Elizabeth was keen to try it, so I handed off the vial without explaining that the texture was wanting, less coagulated than authentic blood, and the flavor was acrid. She emptied the vial into her wide open mouth, and then licked her fangs and front teeth. She shivered and gave me a sour look. “It’s horrible!”

  She too had a sensitive palate. “Shush,” I said. “You will wake the girl.”

  She shook her shoulders as though freeing herself from the experience. “Will we ever gorge on proper blood again?”

  I was glad Evelina did not tempt her. Never had she asked to feed on the girl, and though I cannot tell if she wants to, I doubt she could resist if the opportunity arose. The newborn will be a whole other challenge—for both of us.

  “That is the hope,” I said. “By saving Evelina and her child, we will not want for blood again.” I had my doubts, though I would never voice them. I reassured her our efforts were valiant and we had no reason to fail.

  My vampire companion retired to a bedroom where she could daydream of better days, as she suffered the substitute’s second-rate blood high. I stayed in the front room, waiting for the sun to rise over the mountain’s ridge. The villa is at the top of a hill and looks out over the others. I reclined on the settee while the blood substitute coursed thr
ough me. Like lightning running across my insides, it gave me the rush to which I had grown addicted.

  When the morning light began to wash the room, I took out the small journal I had found in Byron’s coat. I flipped through its pages, remarking his elegant hand. His script was always embellished with swirls and flourishes. He made every word an event, which is why this one entry caught my eye. In big bold capital letters, he had marked impure across the page. The word stood alone—the entry before and after it unrelated; one described the earth’s rise in temperature and the other was an observation about specimen number ten. I assumed his reference was to the brain he had been examining at the time but I could not make the connection. The bold print was surreal, invasive, innocuous and terrifying all at once. I flipped through the pages to find anything that could be related, and when I came to the last entry, the one dated the day before I yanked him from his laboratory in the catacombs, I found what I was looking for.

  The blood substitute is impure. One drop has made my insides feel as though they are turning to stone. The pain is unbearable—cannot let Vincent know.

  Byron had not always been secretive, but we never discussed the blood sub—

  26 October. — The scream that rushed up the hallway to meet me suspended my horror and reason. I jumped up from the escritoire and ran to the room where Evelina slept, but she too had heard Elizabeth’s cry and headed in to see the vampire. We found her toppled over on the floor, her legs still on the bed and her torso contorted and twisted on the rug beneath her. Her face was buried under her hair. She flailed her arms and reached out to me. “Vincent … the pain.”

  I crouched down beside her and took her up in my arms. Her arched torso vexed and convulsed. I brushed the hair away from her face and was struck with terror. Impossible nature! The expression on her visage was a manifestation of her anguish. Like a statue, rigidity had seized her and hardened her to rock. Her lips were mere lines, as the corners of her mouth had become taut and stony. Her eyes were wide and her brows raised in a perfect arch of petrification. I took her face in my hands but it chipped beneath my grasp. Soon her torso stopped convulsing and became stone too. Lastly, her legs and feet went rigid. I pulled them down onto the floor with the rest of her, but their weight made them crash and smash into pieces. She was a broken cast of slate—an uncanny reproduction—a marble effigy.