“Emily, pin her down, quickly now!” Abrahms commanded, shouting over the screams that pierced the air. His voice pulled her from whatever it was that held here there, and she did as he asked, pushing down on Victoria’s shoulders with all the strength that she could muster. She could feel her mother’s strength thrumming in her bones and knew that she would not hold against her for long. Victoria thrashed her head from side to side, body juddering like she was having a fit.
“FINISH IT, EMILY!” She screamed, spit flying from her mouth. “FINISH IT!”
“Reverend,” Emily said, voice cracking with weariness. “I can’t hold against her much longer. She’s too strong for me.”
Abrahms shifted, and Emily removed her hands from her mother’s shoulders. Abrahms grabbed them and held fast against Victoria’s thrashing.
“Go to my bag, you’ll find a wreath of garlic. Bring it over here and put it around your mother’s neck.”
Emily crawled along the floor until she came to the bag, which Abrahms had left in the middle of the room. She opened it up and retrieved the wreath, struck instantly by the overpowering smell of garlic, which mingled horribly with the stink of burned skin that was sure to remain with her for weeks. She went back to the bedside as quickly as she could, lurching clumsily to her feet as she did so. Victoria’s bottom half thrashed like a fish thrown out of water, the only part of her that hadn’t been constrained.
“And you, man of God,” she said, turning her attention to Abrahms. “What will you do with me?”
“You shall not tempt me, foul creature of the night. Return to the shadows and leave this woman alone.”
The thing shrieked with laughter, high pitched and grotesque. It made Emily’s skin crawl.
Abrahms leaned back. “Emily, do it now!”
She saw an opportunity when Victoria lurched up, viciously snapping her teeth at her. She looped the wreathe around her neck, and watched as Victoria’s head fell back
Abrahms grabbed the bottle from the bedside table with his free hand and poured the entirety of its contents over Victoria’s neck.
The putrid smell of singed meat permeated in the air as the fluid burned away the diseased flesh, and rather than increasing her thrashing and screaming, Victoria’s body finally stilled. She had been paralyzed by the pain. Emily and Abrahms watched gravely as she slipped away into unconsciousness, her body finally relaxing. The liquid had soaked into the wound and was doing its work. Emily wondered if it was Holy Water, or perhaps a concoction that he had created himself.
The quiet that followed was almost blissful, and Emily was thankful for it. It was better for her mother to sleep and be free of all this; she wished that there was a way to give it to her. Abrahms stepped back, coming to the foot of the bed. He kept his eyes fixed on Victoria the whole time.
“Our father, who art in heaven…” he began, before trailing off. Now that it was done, the fight that had driven him had now left his body. He looked grey and exhausted in the room’s dim light. Emily went to stand beside him, and they both looked upon the body that lay before them. Victoria’s breathing was quick as a frightened rabbit, but it sounded as though she was gasping for air, desperate for it to return life to her.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Emily asked.
Abrahms let out a long, tired sigh. “When she awakens she should be more like her old self. But it’s only a matter of time, Emily, I’m so sorry.”
She felt her stomach fall away, body riddled with that queasy sensation when you drop from a great height. This is what she’d been afraid of, and now that the words had been spoken out loud she felt their enormity weighing down upon her.
Emily knew that everyone must die, but it was still agony to think that her mother would not be here anymore. Like all children, she secretly believed that her parents were immortal.
“There must be something we can do,” Emily said desperately, her voice growing thick with the tears that threatened her. She swallowed and tried to remain as calm as possible. “There has to be a way.”
Abrahms turned to look at her, and she was struck by his eyes. They were bloodshot and yellow, as if he were very unwell. His brows were low and his mouth was a grim line.
“If a village well is poisoned, then it’s only a matter of time before everyone drinks the water and dies,” Abrahms said. “The only way to stop that from happening is to purify the water, and to choke off the poison at its source.”
Emily nodded slowly, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks. She ran her hands through her hair, grabbing it at the roots and pulling in frustration. She closed her eyes to the pain. “I don’t want her to die, Reverend.”
It came out plaintively and heartfelt, a daughter loving her mother in the simplest of ways. Abrahms sighed again, mournfully this time.
“It never gets any easier.”
Emily believed him. How could such a thing get any easier.
“I know now that the crucifixes do not work, but I had hoped,” Abrahms went on, lowering his head as if ashamed. “I gave it to you because I thought that you may be able to protect yourself, but you gave it to your mother instead. That’s the kind of girl you are, Emily, you put others before yourself. In your mind, their lives matter more than yours.”
“Yes,” she whispered, and meant it.
“Then there’s only one thing to do.” He didn’t need to say what that thing was. She would have to finish the painting. She would have to face him, and find a way to finish him.
Emily felt herself crumpling, body bowing under the strain. Abrahms went to her and pulled her into an embrace, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close so that her chin rested on his shoulders. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax and forget everything, remembering the way that Nick had held Simone, the way that he had offered her comfort.
“You have been very brave, Emily,” he whispered into her ear. “But I need you to be brave for a little longer. I need you to stand with me against this. Will you do that?”
How she wanted to say no, how she wished that she could will all this away and be left once more with her old life. But she found herself nodding against his shoulder and saying: “I will.”
No matter how strong her fear, her desire for justice was infinitely more powerful.
“God is with you, Emily,” Abrahms said, patting her back gently. “I know it may not feel that way, but it is the truth. You are never truly alone.”
She wanted to laugh at that, but instead she hardened her heart and stepped out of his fatherly embrace, back out into the cruel, hard world. Who was God? God was nothing to her.
“You should go, Reverend. You need to prepare for tomorrow.”
He looked blank for a second before the recollection crossed his face. “Emily, your mother needs to be taken somewhere that isn’t here. It’s the only way we can try and keep her safe while we… while we deal with the Volkov problem. The nearest hospital is a few miles out from here, can you send your mother there?”
Emily’s mind felt foggy. Thoughts of her father rolled about in her head, mixed up with memories of her family and friends, the people that she loved and the people that she did not love.
“I will, Reverend,” she said. “But my father… I have to wait for him to come home so I can talk to him in person. He’s had a lot of shocks lately and he doesn’t need any more.”
Abrahms frowned, clearly unhappy with her answer. “Just promise me you’ll try.”
Emily smiled weakly. “I promise.”
Abrahms picked up his bag and went to the door, leaving Emily standing there watching her mother sleep restlessly, body turned away from the windows.
“Don’t let your mother take that wreathe off,” Abrahms said, stopping to look over his shoulder. “And if you have any sleeping pills, I suggest you find a way to get them down her. It might help.”
Emily nodded again. “Until tomorrow, Reverend.”
Abrahms went to speak before hesitating. His eyes darted to where
Victoria lay, then back to Emily. He said, quietly: “Until tomorrow.”
He left then, and Emily continued standing in silence. Only when the sound of the door slammed through the house did she feel herself return to her senses. She forced herself to move from the spot she stood in, grabbing an empty glass on the bedside table before going back into the ensuite to open the medicine cabinet. She rifled through the bottles of perfume and nail polish remover until she finally found it, a tiny white bottle with a few pills left by the thin clattering sound it made when she shook it. The sleeping pills belonged to her father, who had never been a good sleeper. Though her parents shared the same bed, it was common for Victoria to grumpily move into the spare room, no longer able to cope with Christopher talking in his sleep as well as continually thrashing about all night long. Victoria often had the bruises on her legs to prove it, and would often use that fact against him during arguments.
Emily filled the glass up with water, then tapped two pills into her palm and made a fist, crushing them into a fine powder. She sprinkled it into the water and swirled it about before taking it back into the bedroom. Victoria’s eyes had opened again, but they seemed vacant and far away. Emily lifted the back of her head up and poured the water through her open lips. To her amazement, Victoria accepted it, as if she knew that she was being drugged and welcomed it.
Emily waited and watched as her mother finally slipped into a true, deep sleep. With her eyes closed and her body still, she looked like herself again. The wreath was still around her neck, the smell floating insistently through the room, and she seemed at peace, though her very soul was at war. Emily’s eyes drifted to Victoria’s neck. The scabbing flaking red skin had been washed away to reveal a fresh, unscarred layer. It was pink and new.
Eventually, Emily went to her own room. She considered barring the door with a chest of drawers, but realised that she would need to be able to get out quickly if something were to happen to Victoria. She left the door closed and wished that she had a lock, though she knew that such things were not important to Volkov. If he wanted to come in, he would find a way. She waited, and she drew. She sat cross legged and produced sketch after sketch in every style she could think of. She knew Volkov’s face so well that it flowed from her fingers. She drew him lighting candles and standing in front of her, commanding her with his eyes in front of the portrait of Countess Marika Fenenko. She recreated the terror of his face as he loomed above her, the softness in his features when he sat before the fire and listened to her speak. She sketched him sitting on her window seat, a toy dog leaning against his hip like an affectionate friend, and she drew him sitting in the library with his chin resting in his hands, deep in thought.
Emily worked until she had exhausted herself. By the time she put down her pencil, it was dark outside. Her hand ached, stained with lead and charcoal. She knew that she needed to go and check on her mother, but the thought of going back into that room filled her with dread, and then she realised that she hadn’t heard her father come in. She checked the clock, which told her it was 10pm. She hadn’t realised it was so late and cursed herself, throwing herself off the bed and trying to ignore the dizziness she felt; she hadn’t eaten all day and couldn’t face up to the idea of food. She threw open the door to her parents’ bedroom and found only one body in the bed. Cold realisation swept over her: her father still hadn’t come home.
She stared into the dark bedroom, and noticed the breeze that caressed her face. The windows were open again, the curtains blowing. Her skin felt alive with electricity. She had the only key. It was still in the pocket of her jeans. Without thinking she ran in, taking care not to look at Victoria, and closed each window as quickly as she could. She pulled out the key and locked them, struggling with shaking fingers, and yanked the curtains shut before retreating to her room, where she could think.
But she didn’t think of what to do, instead she thought of what had happened. And there, in the dark, Emily began to cry. Her tears were hot and fast, her gasps for breath wrought and difficult. She wept for everything that had gone before and for everyone that had been brought into this nightmare that she must endure. She bit down on her fist to muffle her screams, the only way she could think to release the crushing pressure in her chest. She cried until her throat ached and her chest heaved; she wept with the wild abandon of a lost child. When she had no more tears left she knuckled her eyes hard and sniffled, her breath catching and hiccupping. She focused on calming herself.
There was no one there to help her, no one to pat her on the back or hold her or tell her that it was going to be all right. She was alone in herself, one little fish struggling against the tide, and that tide threatened to engulf her. After a while, she took off her trousers and socks, lay down and shut her stinging eyes, thankful for the relief it brought her. Her nose was blocked, forcing her to breathe wetly through her mouth, and her head ached in time with her pulse, as it sometimes did after she cried heavily. She turned on her side, away from her own locked windows, and tried to sleep.
The next thing that she knew was a hand on her stomach beneath her t-shirt. The hand was deathly cold; she shuddered at its touch, not having to wonder who it was.
Volkov lay beside her, leaning over her shoulder with his mouth close to her ear. She could feel him smiling against her skin and closed her eyes, trying not to remember the night he first came to her. Revulsion throbbed through her, and Volkov laughed softly.
“Will you finish it now, Miss Emily?”
Emily gripped the pillow. Volkov’s hand began to trail along her belly, stroking her hip with his icy fingers. She wanted to tell him to stop, but she wasn’t sure if she could speak. For all she knew, she could still be dreaming.
Volkov brought his head closer and ran his tongue up Emily’s neck, sending shivers of disgust through her.
“You see me for what I am,” Volkov purred in her ear. “It can only be you, and you know it.”
Emily kept her eyes shut and said: “Yes.”
And it was true, it could only be her. And it could only be her to destroy him.
“I’ll finish it,” she said into her pillow, forcing the words out. “I promise.”
He shifted and suddenly she was on her back. He lay across her, the way he had that night, and she looked into his eyes and he had her. He brought his head down and laid his lips over hers. She felt the graze of his fangs against her lower lip, and he moaned against them the way a man would. She simply willed it to be done, so that she could begin to forget it.
Then, suddenly, there was light and noise and she was sitting up in bed and her father was standing in the doorway with his hand on the light switch. Her vision was filled with white spots as she spun around groggily; except for her, the bed was empty. Volkov was gone, if he had ever been there in the first place. Emily turned back to her father, confused, and was shocked to see how terrible he looked. His clothes were rumpled, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot and his hair an un-brushed mess around his face.
“Dad,” she said hoarsely. “Where were you?”
But he didn’t answer her; instead, he said in a frantic voice: “Where’s your mother, Emily?”
“What?” Emily tried to get her thoughts together. “She’s not in your room?
Christopher was screaming, barely even restraining the fear that gripped him. She had never seen him like this before and it scared her.
“I came back and the bed was empty. She’s gone, Emily. Where the hell is your mother?”
5
The night air was chilled and damp, but Emily kept running. Even in the darkness, she knew where she was going.
After her father had woken her with his terrible news, she had leapt out of bed and pulled on some clothes as quickly as she could, grabbing whatever was nearby and pulling it on. Christopher had broken down into tears, his shoulders hunched and shaking. Emily buttoned up her jeans and went to her father. She laid a hand on his arm and he started at her touch.
“Where is s
he, Emily?” Christopher asked again, looking at her beseechingly. She squeezed his arm reassuringly.
“Dad, I’m going to go and find mum, okay? But I need you to phone for an ambulance. Can you do that?”
Christopher swallowed loudly, his eyes bright with fresh tears. “Do you know how much I need your mother, Emily?”
And Emily did know, because she needed her too. But there was no doubting that her father loved her mother, and her heart ached to think of how he must be feeling. He didn’t even know that his dearly beloved wife was doomed to a cruel fate unless his daughter finished a painting of the monster: a monster that was killing her, and had left Derek Wilson without his parents. She could only hope that he would never know the truth.
“Phone for an ambulance, dad. I’ll be back soon, and I promise that I’ll have mum with me. Do you hear me? I promise.”
Christopher nodded, taking a deep breath. Emily could see that he was trying to calm himself and put her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
“I love you dad,” she whispered. “Call an ambulance.”
With that she hurried down the stairs, where she stuffed her feet into her boots and ran out of the door. Her father did not come after, and she hoped that he would be all right on his own.
She ran past house after house, faster than she had ever run in her life, her feet loose in her boots because she hadn’t laced them up. It wasn’t long before she was out of breath and her lungs were burning and her gums aching, and she wished that she had tried harder in P.E. at school. She pushed on, gasping; the thought of her mother, lost and possibly confused thanks to her prolonged illness, spurred her on. She was heading to Fairbanks Manor, her eyes fixed on the dark mound of the hill it rested upon. She wouldn’t stop until she reached it.
Emily knew that she was putting herself in danger; it was fully dark and she ran willingly towards the house of a vampire, who was no doubt lying in wait for her. And yet she was so determined that he would not win, that she almost believed that it was possible.
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