“The museum is yours,” I said.
I placed Vlad’s head on the bench beside her. She put her hand on the case and tilted it upward. “Jīngrén,” she said, as she stared at the petrified visage.
“Not really,” I said. “His pride got the better of him.”
She peered into the glass, taking several drags on her cigarette. She blew the smoke at the figure and pulled the case closer with both hands. The semblance of a smile showed on her face, as she gazed at the stony head. I told her the museum was secure but her vampires would have to disarm the incendiary devices before they could gain access to the art.
“Yùcè,” she said.
“He was predictable.” I assumed Youlan had gone to fetch Evelina and I felt anxious for her to return with the girl. When she did not, I pushed the Empress to fulfill her part of the bargain. “Are you taking me to her?” I asked.
A gust of smoke escaped the vampire’s tight mouth and rolled up into her nostrils, as she exhaled. She tapped the glass case with the palm of her hand and stood up. “Come,” she said.
I followed her out of the deckhouse, as one of the guards waiting on the other side opened the hatch, anticipating our exit. She gave me a curt bow and ushered me into his company. He led me through the passageway I had taken to see Evelina once before. I sniffed the air trying to catch a whiff of my sweet morsel, but it was in vain. When we passed the compartment where I had viewed her from behind the glass, I knew I was close. I thought I felt her heart beat in tandem with mine. I could almost sense her warm touch on my callous skin. I would kiss her neck first, I thought, and then raise her in my arms. My mouth watered in preparation for her soft neck against my lips. She was close. I was close … so close.
The guard pointed to a compartment and I almost missed the smirk he tried to contain. Though his lips did not move, I could see the smile in his eyes. It was beneath me to reciprocate and I simply grunted, as I pushed him out of the way. I opened the hatch and went in. The smell of blood greeted me, though it was not Evelina’s. I hesitated until I saw the shaded figure on the berth.
The light in the compartment was dim, as a lone candle cast shadows on the mantle. My girl lay on the berth with her hands gently across her stomach. She looked peaceful, as if asleep. She was still wearing the elegant imperial dress of the Qing dynasty but the gold and red embroidered diyi was stained with her blood. The mass of dried serum was clotted on one shoulder, and stuck in the hair that now hung over her left breast. The Phoenix crown with its gold dragons and kingfisher feathers was gone.
As I approached the sleeping beauty, I was certain I could see her chest rise and fall with her breath. She is only sleeping—I repeated the mantra until I felt her for myself and knew she was beyond sleep. I suppose I should have realized the truth sooner. I should have known the beauty for which I had embraced all hell was merely a transient fancy. I should have noticed the human features gone from her face, that she was merely an outline of what she had once been. I should have sensed the loss, the congealed and coagulated blood now fetid and dry on her ashen skin, no longer pulsing beneath it.
The black cloud of grief shrouded me, as madness and sorrow hit me in equal waves. I lamented her lifeless body like a father mourning his dead child, as I had grieved for my cousin long ago. Evelina’s figure offered no solace, despite its tranquil perfection. She had taken her own life with the only weapon she could find. Her captor’s decorative claw was still caught up in her nest of blood-clotted hair, and the gash in her neck revealed her fate, just as the wound in Penthesilea’s nape had wasted her blood on the sticky Trojan air. I knelt down beside the corse, just as I had done on the battlefield then.
Had I been human, I would have been breathless. Evelina was magnificent, her face an angelic effigy, her features drawn out and crystallized forever with budding youth. She was not dead but made divine, and the low murmur of her frequency told me exactly to whom she belonged. She was a child of the Empress now, a progeny of the Qing dynasty. I waited in anticipation to greet her, as her maker wandered somewhere else aboard her ship of masterpieces, Evelina nothing more than another opus for her collection—one that would live forever.
When the eyes of the novitiate fluttered beneath her closed lids, I knew she was on the advent of her transfiguration. Remorse and ecstasy consumed me all at once, and when her nostrils flared and her lips swelled and her jaw cracked with the pressure of their hardening, I was ready. I pulled her from the berth and into my arms, holding her to me. I readied the goblet of blood that had been placed at her side. She would wake with the unquenchable thirst and need we all experience, that commanding lust for blood.
Perhaps you read this now and question my joy at seeing her turned vampire since I had fought so hard to keep her human, but my sorrow fled with her metamorphosis, all my fear and wrath dissipating at the sight of her perfection. There was no need for her to be human any more.
A baby’s cry rushed to meet me from somewhere deep beneath the metal deck of the cargo ship, echoing through the passageways. When the Empress saved Evelina from the clutches of the nomad, she had acquired the child too, a human newborn, the greatest treasure she could obtain. The child is safe here with the other prized works of art, as the most precious one among the whales of Cixi’s collection. Evelina and I will protect her together. When the new vampire finally opened her eyes, the sound of her crying child seemed to aggravate her, as she recalled motherhood despite her change. Her first word upon waking was not blood—but Lucia!
THE END
The following is a preview of THE JOURNAL OF VINCENT DU MAURIER II …
Translator’s Note
After discovering the artifact on the Esja, a dig was set up near the site and a team assigned to excavate. They searched for months without success. Two years later, however, near the same ravine, a group of geologists came upon this artifact, sitting atop a mound of stones. Despite its seemingly intended discovery, it also dates from the period of the Red Death. We have confirmed that the handwriting matches that of the previous journal’s author, and this narrative picks up where the other left off, even as this one is different for its added content. Tucked safely inside the leather binding, inserted between specific pages, is another diary of sorts, written in a different hand and using a graphite ink. We call this interior document “The Notes of Evelina Caro” since the writer names herself at several points in the text. We believe these loose sheets are the writings of the girl mentioned in the first notebook. She recounts her story, as does the writer of the first diary, Vincent Du Maurier. The two stories coincide and someone has gone to great lengths to align her pages with his, as though attempting to weave their storylines together. Her entries do not offer us dates, but each is marked and numbered. The following chronicle is the contents of the two texts translated in their entirety. We have not strayed from the page ordering or altered the document in any way.
Dagur Bijarnarson
270 P.C.E. (Post Common Era)
THE NOTES OF EVELINA CARO
Entry 1
I thought I heard the sparrow but the chirrups in the branches above fooled me. My captors have me in some kind of shed with only a thin wall separating me from the bloodless. I despise my chains, but I’m not frightened. I’ve conquered fear—I only worry for Vincent. They’ve set a trap. I overheard them—it’s him they want.
“Vincent come,” the deep voice said. “Mine.”
“She’s mine,” the other said, almost wheezing the words. “Tear her stony flesh.”
Both of them slurred their speech, agitated and unhuman. I haven’t seen them yet, but I hear them plotting. I perceive conversations far better than I did on the ship, and I think it’s because the burns have heightened my senses, sharpening my gift.
When my abductor returned, I cringed at his offering, the limpid, tasteless blood, more wanting in flavor than air. It’s hard to believe it’ll heal my burns. It barely nourishes. The succor from the donors on the Empress’s ship i
s superior to this dreck, but I’ll suffer it—I must—I must.
“Munca,” he said, tossing me a badger. He waited for me to drain the carcass before leaving. “Sanjele te va juta,” he said. Impossible to understand, I ignored him and suffered the wretched substance. The blood does little to revive me, but my urge to slice his throat is alive and if he gets near me again, I will.
When we first arrived, I was barely conscious, but I recall his dragging me out of the sun and into the shed. He was close enough to kill then, but I was too weak and my talons wouldn’t obey my command. He sniffed me all over, like a dog devouring the air to find his master’s prey. “Lavanda,” he said, repeating it several times. “Vampir mu.”
He stared at me, but I could barely see him, his face was a blur. The next thing I saw was the dirty ground when I woke from my stupor. He’s gone now and I’m alone, though swarms of howling bloodless go past my prison. The chains limit my movement, but I can see through the slats in the shed. The sun is still up, and the brightness bothers my eyes. My skin revisited its anguish when a little stream of light bit me through the slats in the wall. I’m bolted to a slab of concrete too heavy to lift, and it’s safer for me to sit in the center of the cell, as much as my chains will let me, and rotate like a dial to avoid the sunlight. I’ve lost my strength, my ability to concentrate, and my hope dwindles.
My burns aren’t healing. They run deep. The flesh on my hands looks like melted candle wax and when I felt my face with the tips of my fingers, I imagined the horror show I’d become. My abductor didn’t seem put off when he looked at my face, but he must’ve thought me repulsive.
I’m channeling my energy into this composition, though my anger sits in the pit of my stomach like a stone, heavier than the slab of concrete that keeps me here. I was happy when I discovered the notebook still tucked inside my waist. It has dried since, and though the pencil’s dull, I’ve sharpened it against the concrete. I’m writing everything down—as much as I can remember. For Vincent, whose token of initiation is most fitting, and for Byron, whose useful records kept me alive. But in truth, I’ll scribble in this diary so that I may be one with my beloved. I held his book once, tucked inside my robe, close to my heart—but I wouldn’t dare read it. I was too cowardly then to wade through the depths of his ancient and sorrowful head. To know what he actually thought would’ve been ruinous for one like me. But now, despite being unfit, I shall record my short history in these pages. My hope is that he comes before I reach the end ...
…
Once I was stripped of my humanity, I felt nothing for it. When I’d been changed for mere hours—maybe three—I couldn’t tell—I’d picked up five hundred and eighty-one different smells. I could easily keep track. It seemed I could count any number of things—thoughts, feelings, smells—without effort. Time holds no sway and these words, for instance, spill onto the pages in the same moment my thoughts happen—instantaneous, effortless—I collect and transcribe the images.
Vincent had said, “Your feelings will temper once the transformation is complete. This state of hyper-sensitivity will expire and your sensibilities will become manageable.”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” I’d said.
“It means you will shed your physiological needs and no longer live on the plane between vampire and mortal, which will allow you to embrace the intensity you have acquired, as well as control it.”
I thought he could read my mind until I realized he’d lost his ability to sense me when he’d purged the last of my blood from his system. I still mourn the moment our communion was severed, when I watched him feed on another. I thought I’d lose my mind to anger, as the memory of our union persisted like a phantom limb begging to be touched.
But my awakening saw me starved and bitter, and Vincent said I wailed for the child I’d pushed from my body only days before. My transformation was in fact worse than the labor I’d endured, but the trauma seems mute now, especially since suffering the sun’s wrath. When I’d woken, he’d put a cup to my nose. The smell made the back of my throat itch and my lips parted, but the pain of teething sabotaged my pleasure. A desperate ache ripped at my gums, as my fangs pushed through the skin in my mouth. The ache is worse than giving birth, I promise.
“It will pass,” Vincent had said, as he forced the cup on me. “You must feed.”
I took the sauce in my mouth and braved the pain. The blood was more than thick, like curds from sour milk, and I retched when it got stuck in my throat.
Vincent pulled the cup back. “You are still hardening,” he said. “If you take it in slowly, it will go down with ease.” He touched the crown of my head and a streak of lightning ran all the way to my toes. My desire for him grew greater in that moment than my desire for blood. “I will bring you a donor soon,” he said. “We will share one.”
I wanted to take his hand in mine and thrust it on my chest so he could feel my heartbeat, as I gazed at him with my new eyes. I thought I loved him before, but at that moment I was simply lost. I don’t know if he sensed my longing, but he gave me a stern look and then pushed me up and rested me against the berth.
“Finish the cup,” he said, as he stood and paced the compartment.
I couldn’t cry, though the corners of my eyes tightened, as human emotion lingered on the margins of my being. I closed my eyes to rid the feeling.
“You cannot be tired,” he said. His voice hadn’t changed but his tone forced me to feel his lashing most acutely. “You must feed more and then greet your maker.”
He sucked in the air and licked his lips. He was hungry again. I grew bitter with jealousy of the blood he smelled, of the choice girl he’d put to his lips and drink from. My lividity must’ve shown, for he exited the cabin, leaving me on the berth, aching for his return.
Impatient, I pushed myself up and stood for the first time. I felt the weight of my body, but the lightness of my being was like nothing else. My hollowness made me shake where I stood like a leaf shuddering in the wind. I took my first steps alone, crossing the deck on my new limbs. The torpor begged to be noticed, as I waded through the air like a finger through molasses in winter. I don’t know whether I was quick or slow, but I reached the small sink on the other side of the cabin and held onto it, as my body continued to sway. A small dressing mirror hung above the basin, but I resisted looking into it. I’d never liked my girlish face when I was mortal, and doubted it’d please me now.
Vincent returned and I lost my balance where I stood. I felt the deck rise up to greet my body, as I crashed into it. But before I touched the planks, my hero reached out and clasped me in his arms. For a blissful moment, I relived our communion until he dropped me back on the berth, forcing me to endure his coldness.
“Our donor is coming,” he said.
I watched him as he paced the cabin, recognizing his lust to feed. I wasn’t as eager as he until the girl with strawberry blond hair knocked on the door and he gave her leave to enter. Her smell teased my gums and my fangs broke my toughened skin again. I’ve yet to experience the bolder ones, the ones that come with wrath. Vincent said it’ll be a long while before I see my iron fangs. But my subtle ones hurt well enough, and I pricked my lip in anticipation of the meal.
“Evelina,” Vincent said. “Sit up.” He shook the berth with his foot to break the spell, for the promise of her blood had gripped me.
“Sorry,” I said. If I’d been human, I would’ve blushed.
I sat up on the bunk like he commanded. He didn’t speak to the girl, as she lingered by the entrance. She’d closed the door behind her and waited up against it until he settled me. She knew I was the novice, the one they’d been talking about. She gave off an air of experience, as if she’d been there for a while.
“Watch,” Vincent said. He held his hand out for her to take. She reached for it and let him guide her to my side. Envy’s ugly sister tightened her grip about my throat. I didn’t care that the strawberry blond’s blood was for me, he’d shown her t
he tenderness that was once mine and my heart bled because of it. My reality hadn’t seemed desolate until then. “Are you paying attention?” His acerbic tone returned. “Watch.”
He kneeled in front of her and reached for her cheek, stroking it freely. His eyes were steady on her, concentrated and hard. I recall those eyes and the faint they could spawn. My tear ducts tightened again. “Evelina,” he said. “You must concentrate.” There seemed no end to his upbraiding. When he guided the girl’s head to the side to expose her neck, her flesh quivered. “That is the vein,” he said. “Let your fangs find the spot. They know what to do.” The girl didn’t move, but neither did I since my bite into the strawberry blond would seal my transformation and confirm my exile from the body that once satisfied Vincent’s hunger.
With another nudge from my master, I surrendered and let my lips touch the girl’s flesh. That was all it took, for I lost myself with the contact. The mortal vein had begged me to pierce it, and my points cut the girl’s ivory skin like a hot knife through butter. I didn’t need to think—I simply heeded to the pleasure and drank her in. The fresh blood was nothing like the coagulated draft Vincent had fed me at birth. This was silky, like melted caramel. I closed my eyes when a sly grin crossed my beloved’s lips, as he watched me indulge in my first true taste.
Vincent didn’t leave me after we’d shared the redhead, but I was afraid he would. We hadn’t discussed my future. I was certain he’d made some preliminary arrangement for me and when he announced my first visit to my maker, I was nervous and eager—
The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier (Book 1) Page 23