Volkov offered her a small, dark smile. “There is water, Miss Emily. It’s been on the table beside you the whole time.”
Emily turned and took in the sight of the pitcher full of crystal-clear water and two tumbler glasses. Without speaking, she went and poured herself a glass, resisting the urge to just gulp down the pitcher. She had read once that drinking too much water can kill you, though maybe that would be preferable to what may be coming for her. She drank slowly, closing her eyes as the cold liquid flooded her mouth and trickled down her throat. She poured a second glass and drank that too, refusing to look at Volkov and acknowledge that he was watching her.
She set the glass down, feeling a little better, and returned to her station at the canvas. Just a little more work now, and it would be done. She took up her brushes again, hoping that whatever magic had possessed her before had not abandoned her yet; surely they would see this through together.
“Miss Emily,” Volkov said, causing her to start. She jerked the paintbrush back, away from the canvas.
“What is it?” She asked breathlessly. He stared at her for a moment in silence before speaking again.
“Miss Emily, do you hate me?”
She was floored by the question and lowered her paintbrush further, frowning. Seeing as he was so fond of mind games, she would answer his question with another question.
“Why do you care?”
Her words were cold and unfeeling, which were the words that he deserved. He blinked in surprise, as if her response was genuinely unexpected to him.
“Do you hate me?” He repeated himself, ignoring her own question.
Emily lifted her brush and wetted it with fresh paint. “Why does it matter if I hate you?”
This could go on forever if the two of them so wished, but evidently neither of them did.
“I would ask that you simply answer my question, Miss Emily,” Volkov said darkly.
Emily sighed and resumed her work, taking care not to look at him as she spoke. It was the only way she would be able to get the words out.
“Yes, I hate you,” she said plainly. “Did you honestly expect otherwise?”
Volkov leaned back in his chair, relaxing. Emily no longer needed him to sit; these were the finishing touches that make a picture complete.
“You have defied me at many turns on this journey of ours,” Volkov said. “Your hatred must run deep, and strong.”
Emily gripped the brush tighter, the pressure making her fingers throb. “You can’t just own people, Mister Volkov. You must understand that. I shouldn’t be yours to command, and that’s why I defy you. Don’t you see?”
Volkov slowly shook his head. His ponytail came loose with the movement, silky strands of black hair falling over his shoulder.
“I will tell you what I understand, Miss Emily. I understand that this arrangement was to be just between you and I,” Volkov said, brow lowered. “And yet I have reason to believe that you have brought a… third party into this.”
Emily’s skin prickled.
“What do you mean?” she said stupidly. She was so close to finishing, only a few more strokes and this would all be over. She tried to make herself go on and appear as nonchalant as she could, when inside she was ready to break down. Just a little bit more.
“I know about them, Miss Emily, the three that hide like rodents in my home. Clever creatures, but not as clever as I,” Volkov said. “I must confess to being disappointed that you would bring the man of God and your little friends into our dance, where they are most certainly not welcome. I would hate for them to be hurt, wouldn’t you?”
He stood up and glided towards her, and just as he arrived at Emily’s side, she finished the painting. There was no time for her to feel relief, not with him standing right next to her. She turned to look at him, incapable of ignoring his presence any longer. He was smiling as he leaned in closer.
“Do you not love your friends, Miss Emily?” he said, lips dangerously close to her ear.
Emily took a shaky breath. “Yes.”
“Is it complete?”
“What?”
“The portrait. Is it complete, finally?”
Her head was spinning. “Yes. It’s finished.”
“Wonderful, will you step aside and allow me to inspect it?”
Her body responded automatically; later her mind would chastise her for it. She stood behind him and eyed her canvas bag, hoping he would not take interest in it the way he had taken interest in the items in her room. She should have picked it up. She wondered if it would be possible to pick it up without him taking notice. Volkov was staring intently at the painting; she couldn’t see his face, and she was glad. It didn’t feel like he should be looking at it, even though it had been made for him. That was the strange thing about art; often you create something and end up selling to someone else. It was like giving a piece of yourself to a stranger, in a way.
Emily’s left arm twitched. She forced herself to step forward and grab her bag. Volkov’s own arm shot out before she had time to get a hold of the strap. She turned to him, furious, and he looked back at her with a patronising expression. His fingers pressed into her skin, and she knew that there would be some fine bruises if she made it through this alive.
“I think not, Miss Emily. Step back again, if you please,” Volkov said, and released her arm.
He had to know, the way that he knew everything else. Emily stepped back, mouth going dry again. Breathing steadily was becoming more difficult with each passing second.
“What have you done to them?” she asked, voice quivering with fear. “Tell me, Richard. Please.”
She had never called him by his first name before. It sounded strange to her, like it was in a language she didn’t understand. Even Volkov seemed slightly taken aback by it; in an oddly human way, he blinked a few times as if he had been stunned and stood there dumbly, arms by his sides. She took advantage of this rare moment of weakness and grabbed at her bag, pulling it back and clutching it to her breast defiantly. She stared at him with wide eyes, wondering what he would do.
He did nothing.
“You called me Richard,” he said, after a while. “Why did you do that?”
Suddenly, he didn’t seem to care that she had her bag back. He was just looking at her, eyes half-lidded and strangely soft in the increasingly dim light of the candles.
“I don’t know,” Emily replied honestly. “I just want to know what you’ve done to my friends. Have you killed them? Have you made them like you?
A smile pulled at Volkov’s lips again. “Not me, Miss Emily. I have been in this room with you all night.”
“Then what are you talking about?” Emily was beginning to feel very tired.
“In time, Miss Emily, in time,” he said, turning back to the painting. “First, we must discuss your work.”
Emily, suddenly feeling quite overcome with exhaustion, went to one of the chairs strewn about the room and sank into it with a resigned sigh, closing her eyes.
“Do you get off on this stuff?” she muttered into her fist, deliberately slurring her words so that they gelled together into noise.
“You have done well, Miss Emily,” he said, coming closer to her. She instinctively flinched back in her chair, tucking her legs up to her chest and closing herself off. She tried not to look at him.
Volkov cocked his head. “In truth, Miss Emily, I always knew that you were capable of greatness. I beheld it in you on the night we first met.”
Emily stared off into the middle distance and wrapped her arms around her legs.
“But I sensed that you were being held back,” Volkov went on. He bent down, hands flat on his knees. The smell of him grew stronger; Emily wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Was I not right, Miss Emily?” He asked. “Have I not unburdened you, as you needed to be unburdened?”
She turned her head toward him slowly, her face pale and her mouth a thin line.
“What do you mean by unb
urdened?”
Volkov reached out and took one of Emily’s hands, pulling it away from her protective stance. She wanted to pull back, but didn’t. His hand was cold and the iciness penetrated her skin.
“There is much that ties you to this world,” he said softly, that same seductive murmuring he had used before. “Your family, your friends, this town, your unfulfilled dreams, these things are anchors strapped about your feet.”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly, and he went on. “You are meant for more, Miss Emily, just as I was meant for more. But you cannot enter into such a contract when burdened with these human concerns. This is something that I learned long, long ago. I had no family to grieve for me; it made things easier.”
Her hand was still in his. In any other circumstance, it would have been a gesture of kindness; to Emily it was just another restraint binding her to him. He spoke of unburdening her, when he wanted her to have no other burden than himself. The cruelty of it struck her hard like a slap across the face.
“You remind me of myself in many ways, Miss Emily,” Volkov persisted. “Or at least, how I once was. I too was an observer, someone that saw the truth of the things around them. I saw, and I too was made to create.”
His words were beginning to come in a rush. His eyes seemed brighter as he spoke, as if he were excited. “What you have created, Emily, is your greatest work. It has joined us together, you and I, in a way that you may never completely understand; it is a part of us and we are a part of it.”
The words thudded bluntly in her head. “I did as I promised, didn’t I?”
“You did, and you did not,” Volkov said smugly. “You brought others into this, and you have lighter fluid in your possession, hidden in that bag you hold so tight. Do you take me for a fool, Miss Emily?”
Emily shook her head. “No.”
“Then why try to do what you cannot possibly achieve?
She watched him blankly, pale green irises shining. “I don’t know. Because it’s right, I suppose.”
Volkov smiled at that, giving a little shake of the head. “Right and wrong are meaningless concepts.”
“To you, maybe,” Emily shot back, words brittle. “But not to me. I know the difference between right and wrong, Richard.”
His name seemed to have a strange effect on him, for when she uttered it a second time he stumbled forward slightly, grasping at her hand tighter. She bit back a little yelp. His face was closer to hers now, his body leaning against her knees. There was something about his face that she could not define. He let go of her hand and, before she could react, took her face in his hands, fingers lacing through the wild curls in her hair. She gasped at the sudden, very unwanted contact and tried to pull back, but he held her fast and she couldn’t move.
“You know very little, Miss Emily. After all, you are only twenty-five.” Volkov’s eyes bore into hers, until she felt that the burning gold colour would consume her like fire. “But I have such things to show you, if you would only come with me. We would have all the time in the world.”
What struck her next was not the urge to reject, but rather the sweet pull of temptation. It was not her that felt this way, she tried to tell herself. She would never go with him willingly, but she had to work hard to remind herself of that fact. She didn’t speak, and she couldn’t break his gaze. His thumbs dug into the hollows of her cheeks, causing her to whimper, and his pupils narrowed down to pinpoints.
“Why do you want me?” Emily whispered. “All I ever wanted was to do what I love. I’m not meant for anything beyond my own life, and you weren’t either. It’s… it’s just not right, Richard.”
Volkov finally released her and stood up, towering over her.
“You do not see yourself,” he said. “But you see everything else. That is the nature of the artist. I should know. I have lived it myself, a long time ago.”
What happened to him?
He went mad. And eventually he died, as we all do.
The memory flooded back to her in a sudden rush.
“You made that painting out there,” she said, indicating towards the door with her arm. “That woman… she made you, didn’t she? She was a vampire too, wasn’t she?”
Volkov rolled his eyes. “If that is what you will insist on calling my kind, then yes, Miss Emily, the Countess Maria Fenenko is a vampire, my maker.”
She noticed the present tense and felt her skin prickling. “Is?”
He looked at her like she was stupid. “Did you think that I would manage to deal with your friends alone while keeping you suitably distracted?”
Her mind whirred with a thousand thoughts. She dropped her legs to the floor, letting go of her defensive position. She tried to focus on single thoughts at a time. It was a white wolf that she had seen the night she had stayed at the house, its fur as pure as fallen snow. Then Emily remembered the other wolf that she had seen, trying to get her mother back to the house. That wolf had been black. Everything began to fall into place.
“There’s another one of you, is what you’re saying,” Emily stated flatly. “There were two of you the whole time. You brought your maker here.”
Richard nodded. He lifted his hand to the nape of his neck and gave the ribbon that bound his hair a gentle tug, loosening it. His shook out his inky tresses, which fell about his shoulders
“I am Richard Volkov,” he said. “I am the Dark Wolf.”
“And this countess is the White Wolf,” Emily said impatiently. She pushed herself up and primly brushed down her clothes for reasons she couldn’t fathom. “I get it. Now, what has she done to my friends? I want to see them.”
“Well, Miss Emily, if you would look back to the door for just one second, you will find one of them waiting for you,” Volkov said. “As for the other two, I cannot say. At least not yet.”
Emily looked over her shoulder and found Abrahms there, filling the doorway with his wide, dependable body. His head was low; he didn’t look right. He was hiding something in his hand, holding it in such a way that suggested he had pushed whatever it was into his sleeves. Hiding it.
“Reverend?” Emily called, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her voice.
He lifted his head and looked at her through hooded eyes.
“Emily,” he said sluggishly. “You are Emily, aren’t you?”
Emily swung back to glare at Volkov. “What’s happened to him?”
Volkov only smiled. Emily turned around and began to approach Abrahms slowly and carefully, taking care even with the sound of her feet against the carpet.
“Reverend, it’s me,” she said, raising her hands so that they were in front of her. “Did something happen to you? Do you know where Nick and Simone are?”
He didn’t answer, only shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot in the doorway. His arm twitched and she moved back instinctively, stopping where she stood but holding her ground.
“Reverend?” she said again hesitantly. “Oh Reverend, what did she do to you?”
Abrahms moved his arm, revealing the knife. Emily bit back a gasp of shock and took another few steps away. She raised her hand higher, a gesture of submissiveness. Abrahms began to advance upon her, suddenly and quickly. Emily moved back, trying not to look behind her to see where she was going. She didn’t want to lose track of Abrahms for even a second. She foolishly stumbled into Volkov, who laid his hands on her upper arms, holding her in place again.
“I could stop him, of course,” Volkov said, leaning down to smoothly whisper into her ear. “If you will only agree to join us.”
Abrahms was getting close now, only a few more steps. Emily wriggled uselessly in his grasp, wanting to scream and cry but finding herself incapable of doing so. It filled her with frustrated anger that only rendered her incompetent rather than stoking the flames of her righteous fury. Abrahms brandished the knife with a blank look on his face. When Emily looked into his eyes she found nothing but emptiness; whatever spark it was that made Reverend Abrahms who he was had gone
out, like a star exploding into the nothingness of space. Emily felt a lurch of fear; not just fear of him, but fear of oblivion.
Then more were coming through the door, three people, which Emily wasn’t quite expecting. They were not all on their feet either. Her friends were being carried by someone that Emily could only identify as the countess. Her golden hair hung in soft curls down her back; the hair of a fairy tale princess, but there was something off about her face. She found herself staring at her, dumbstruck, and she forgot about the man of God and his knife.
But she remembered again when the knife went into her left shoulder, sinking in deep as Abrahms forced the blade in with a disturbing amount of force. Emily screamed, hot pain searing through her shoulder; instinctively she tried to grab at the handle of the knife; she wanted it out of her. Along with the pain, a stabbing was such a horribly intimate thing. It felt like a violation; she wanted the foreign object removed.
Abrahms was white-faced and sick-looking, but he fought against her, getting a hold of her wrist and squeezing hard, trying to force her to let go.
“Reverend!” Emily cried. “Reverend, for God’s sake, come back! Please come back.”
Abrahms withdrew the knife sharply, and Emily gasped as the intruder left her body. She could feel warm blood tricking between her breasts, along her arms and soaking into her jumper. The pain was astonishing. Bleeding in front of vampires in all ways, Emily thought through the haze of her pain-addled mind, it probably couldn’t get any worse. Except it will get worse, because it always does.
She collapsed, hitting the ground heavily. Abrahms had halted, and when she peered up at him she saw him looking at Volkov, who she found to be down on his knees by her head. She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear him snarling, the furious barking of a starved dog.
“Not her, you idiot!” Volkov screamed, and she flinched against the sudden increase in pitch and volume. “Not like this! You weren’t actually supposed to stab her!”
“Oh, do calm down, will you Richard?” Emily heard a new voice now, a female voice, deceptively sweet and musical. It must be the countess. She was beginning to feel delirious, her body swiftly entering shock. She could feel from the stickiness of her clothes and the way that they clung to her that she was losing a lot of blood and quickly. The wound was not fatal, but the blood loss certainly could be. She heard two successive thuds and guessed that the countess had dumped the bodies – god, she hoped they were still alive – of her friends somewhere in the room. The pain was fading a little, but Emily knew that this was what happened when you were dying. Soon she would be left with nothing but her brain’s pleasure centre for a brief but blissful while and then nothingness. At least that’s what she presumed. Now that all of this had happened, she wouldn’t be surprised by Heaven or Valhalla, reincarnation or any of the world’s ideas about the afterlife. At this point, nothing would surprise her.
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