Diaries of the Family Dracul - The Covenant with the Vampire Part 13

My mother says Vlad has not spoken to you yet of the family covenant; but the time will soon come. When it does, remember: Believe nothing he tells you, for he will lie if it is to his advantage. He will tell you he abides by the covenant out of a sense of honour, or love for the family, but this is false. What the peasants say is true. He is strigoi, a soulless monster, a murderer, and the covenant is no more than a game to him; he will adhere to it only so long as there is profit for him. Your father too long believed that Vlad possessed some good in his heart, but in truth, the prince knows only evil. He is like an old wolf who has made so many kills he grows bored, and must find new pleasures; destroying innocence is one of them. He toys with you now, as he toyed with our father when he was young, and his father before him. This entertainment remains fresh for him, for he can only enjoy it once a generation. He will say that he loves you, but in fact he desires only to corrupt you, to break you as he did Father.

With my whole heart, I beg you: Flee from him. Escape before he destroys your soul.

But plan carefully, and wisely, and know that failure may cost you your loved ones.

Father tried to flee, and in retribution your mother, and our brother, Stefan, were taken from him. Yet I believe there is still time for you, if you are shrewd and cautious and realise that Vlad cannot be trusted; and I believe to my dying day and beyond that love can overcome all manner of evil.

I must end swiftly now, though there is much more that needs saying. But I cannot remain in my mother's house once the sun has set, for her safety's sake. I must go. I pray for you, Brother. Do not be so shrewd that you cannot pray for yourself.

Radu I sank once again onto the floor, sitting back on the cold, packed earth, letting the letter flutter down onto my lap. The shock of both Masika's death and the letter's contents gave me a lunatic's clarity of perspective; for the first time, I saw how tightly the pieces fit: All those skulls. Laszlo's insolence. The peasants' stories that V. was a bloodthirsty monster (there was no such thing as a vampire, of course, and I did not take Radu's use of the word strigoi literally, but it would explain the origin of the legend). V."s fury that I should interfere with his guests, his insistence that I not tell the authorities...

There could only be one conclusion. V. was a killer, and my father his accomplice, both of them suffering from the family madness that had begun to infect me. I cried out to think that I, too, was fated to descend into this insanity, that my hands should one day be stained with blood.

Are you an Impaler? One of the wolf-men?

"No," I whispered. "No..."

I scrambled to my feet, stuffing the letter into my waistcoat, and climbed back into the caleche, eager to be far away from the eerily deserted village. I arrived at the castle in good time, though it was now shortly after midnight. Nervous, perspiring despite the cool of night, I headed directly for the door to V."s drawing-room, pistol hidden beneath my waistcoat. I knocked; V. called out his customary inquiry, and I gave my customary reply.

"Arkady!" he exclaimed jovially, from the other side of the heavy wood. "Nephew, come!"

I put my hand upon the polished bra.s.s of the k.n.o.b, and turned.

A flash of silver. My father bringing down the knife, cutting my tender flesh. And behind him, a throne- Pain blotted out the image. I squeezed my eyes shut until it was gone...

Then opened them to the familiar sight of V. in his drawing-room-a sight which would never, could never, look quite the same. As always, there was a blazing fire in the fireplace, and the room seemed stuffy and uncomfortably warm. I ran a hand across my forehead and drew it away wet, then closed the door behind me.

V. sat in his chair, with his hands on the armrests, but this time he did not greet me; in fact, he did not even so much as glance up, but kept his attention focused on the crackling blaze.

At his elbow, the end-table still bore the shimmering decanter of slivovitz. Reluctantly, I forced my gaze from it to V., who stared straight ahead into the crackling flames, his expression immobile and unreadable as stone.

He was still as young as the last time I had seen him -a man now of fifty, rather than eighty, years. Yet I could not permit myself to react, to be distracted or frightened by this clear sign of my own incipient madness; the issue at hand was far too urgent.

"Uncle," I said quietly. The matter called for a strident, agitated tone, but the overwhelming silence in the room filled me with a sudden unwillingness to break it. "I am sorry to disturb you, but there is a matter of the most extreme urgency we must discuss."

V. gave no sign of hearing; his eyes never strayed from the object of their focus. This behaviour was so unlike him as to be unnerving, but I made myself continue: "It has to do with the terrible discovery I made in the forest."

He spoke, still staring into the flames. His voice was low and soft, but it was an ominous softness, of the sort heard in the deep, deadly growl of a dog just before the attack. "You would betray me."

"What?" I whispered, my pulse quickening at what I took for an admission of guilt.

He whipped like a serpent in his chair to face me with eyes ablaze with reflected firelight; the stony expression was now one of murderous rage. "You would betray me! Where are the letters?!"

I gaped at him, stunned to silence by his explosive fury, stunned that he should know.

"Liar!" he shouted, with such force that I knew it carried throughout the castle. The words seemed torn from him, from a wellspring of hatred that ran so deep he shuddered as he screamed, "Deceiver! I know you did not give them to Laszlo as I asked!" The firelight sparkled, reflecting off the spray of saliva that accompanied his words like venom.

His anger was a terrifying thing, but for his sake, for Mary's sake, for all of our sakes, I could no longer permit myself to tremble like a child in his presence. The dead in the forest could no longer be ignored. If he had killed diem, dear uncle or no, insane or no, he must be stopped.

I straightened, lifted my chin, did not permit my voice to shake as I said calmly, "I took the letters to Bistritz myself."

"And posted them both? Do not lie to me, Arkady! I warn you-I do not deal kindly with liars!"

For a moment I considered whether it might be simpler just to lie, and persuade him through deceit; but he would learn the truth soon enough, when his guests failed to appear.

"I posted the letter to the solicitor," I admitted. "But the letter to the guests-"

"You destroyed it!"

Unwavering, I met his gaze. "Yes."

He turned away with a long hiss, fury simmering in his eyes as he stared once more into the fire.

"Uncle," I said, with gentle firmness, "I did so because I am enormously worried for your sake. For Mary's and Zsuzsa's. For the baby's. I will not have my family living with... with such horrors surrounding them."

He swiveled towards me again, half rising from his chair as he thundered: "And did I not swear to you that no harm would come to you? Did I not swear it, upon our family name?"

Dracul, I thought, or Tsepesh. But I did not say it, for it would only prolong the argument; and I understood now why he could, with such certainty, guarantee our safety.

I saw madness in his eye, and it tore my heart; I knew then he was at the very least aware of the murders, if not the perpetrator of them.

"Did I not swear it?" V. demanded. "Answer!"

"You did. But, Uncle-"

"How could you fail to believe me? How could you think that I would lie to you, or be disloyal? I told you not to go to Bistritz, yet you insisted on disobeying! I told you never to interfere with my guests! This one rule -and you have broken it again!" He rose and reached for the decanter sitting on the end-table, and as I watched in horror, moved as if to cast it on the flames, then turned and hurled it so that it flew over my head and struck the closed door behind me, shattering with a glittering spray of crystal and plum-scented slivovitz.

I ducked and shielded myself with an arm, narrowly escaping injury; had he aimed any lower, it would have struck me. And then, very deliberately, I raised my head and brushed crystalline shards and brandy from my shoulders, and looked at him through enlightened eyes.

My heart pounding with horror that I should ask him whom I loved such a question, I slowly said, "The dead in the forest, Uncle. How did they come to be there? How did they die?"

His rage had abated somewhat, but his chest still heaved slightly, and his face was flushed.

His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised me intently, saying, with terrifying softness, "Sometimes you take too much after your mother, Arkady. You must learn not to be so willful. You must learn to withdraw yourself from other people's affairs."

My knees went weak, as though the very ground on which I stood collapsed beneath my feet; somehow I managed to remain standing, but I could manage no more than a stricken whisper. "What are you saying?"

"That it is pointless to worry about what lies in the forest. It would be wiser to direct your attention to your own affairs. Now go! Go and think carefully about your mistake, so that you avoid such idiocy in the future."

I left, stunned and horrified, feeling as though the world itself had been suddenly turned upside-down, as though I were surrounded by dark swirling evil, by a whirlpool of madness that would soon pull me under to drown...

But that is not the extent of my current horror and misery. I have just risen, prompted by an inexplicable impulse, and discovered in the pocket of my waistcoat Radu's letter-and the letter I had written instructing the visitors not to come to the castle. Dear G.o.d, is my memory no longer my own? Did I only dream that I succeeded in burning V."s letter in the fire? And if so, which letter did I leave with the innkeeper in Bistritz? If the visitors come- I am going mad. As mad as my dear father must have gone to discover such evil, as mad as my uncle, my kind, generous, loving uncle. I wish could blot out my reason, force my mind to stop its relentless working, its unavoidable conclusion that the murders were the work of, at the very least, decades, so Laszlo cannot have been solely responsible. Nor could my father have been, for he died before Jeffries ever appeared.

Oh, G.o.ds! V. is a murderer, not the immortal monster of legend the peasants claim, but a monster nonetheless, and I have played his unwitting accomplice in bringing Jeffries here.

What can I do? Despite Radu's claims (including the preposterous one about Stefan; my brother was killed not by V. but a dog, a tragedy I witnessed with my own eyes) it is difficult to believe that V. would harm any of his family; the object of his madness seems to be outsiders...

... and the poor crippled and unwanted babies sacrificed to him by the peasants (in return for their safety?). I am torn between protecting him and turning him over to the authorities in Vienna; how can I betray my dear benefactor? At the very least, I must try to procure him a doctor, a specialist who might help. But I cannot permit- No time to finish! I have just glanced up and seen through the open window Laszlo, driving the coach toward the castle. And within, the two visitors-! For their safety's sake, I shall follow at once...

Chapter 9.

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh 17 April, Late afternoon.

Zsuzsanna sleeps. So grey and waxen is her skin that were it not for the slight, rapid rise and fall of her bosom beneath her nightgown, I would deem her days dead. I sit at her bedside, fighting tears, fighting to be strong for the sake of Arkady, who will soon come to take his place in this heartrending tableau. I long for and dread his arrival.

I understand now why he took to keeping a diary after his father's death. I cannot bear merely sitting by Zsuzsanna's side, awaiting the approach of the inevitable. Dunya was kind enough to fetch my pen and journal, and so I write. It dulls the ache, and the fear, though nothing could now erase them.

As soon as my sweet husband is recovered from this fresh grief, I shall convince him to leave. I do not care if my time comes on a carriage, or a train; my child will not be born in this accursed house, will not come to know whatever h.e.l.l his poor father has endured because of that monster's love.

The legends are all true. I knew it in my heart the instant Vlad pressed his lips to my hand; knew it, though schooling and reason would not permit me, until today, to fully believe.

But those things have no power here. In this d.a.m.ned and magical place, only Evil holds sway. I will fight it with all I know to be the highest Good: the love between myself and my husband, our love for our child.

He shall not have them.

But Zsuzsanna is lost to us.

Oh, if only I could forget the way he looked at my belly at the pomana...

I can write no more of this; the pain is too great. Let me try to find peace in the orderly recounting of the day's events.

Despite the laudanum, I woke early this morning, unable because of last night's terror to sleep long, though I held a faint hope that perhaps it had been only a vivid nightmare.

Arkady was still sleeping soundly, with his pistol beside him on the night-table-the first unhappy sign that last night had been no dream. I rose, went over to the window, and pulled back the curtain to reveal sunlight glinting off the cracked, pockmarked pane.

It is an omen. I try to convince myself otherwise, but I can no longer deny what I know.

At the sight, I felt a sudden pain in my belly-not as sharp as I imagine a birth-pang would be, but more of a rippling ache. I attributed it to indigestion and distress, and held my side until it pa.s.sed. It did, swiftly, and I closed the curtain and dressed, leaving Arkady to sleep.

On my way toward the staircase, I paused at the open door to the next bedroom, then went inside to stand before the cradle there. Earlier in the week, Dunya brought it out to clean it.

It is solid, polished cherry, a beautiful thing; Arkady and his father-and who knows how many generations of Tsepesh children-have lain in it.

The sight of the little cradle, its edges burnished to a dull gloss from the touch of so many mothers' hands, brought me to tears. I was bitterly disappointed because I realised (then- but I will not stay now) that I could probably no longer travel, and that the child would be born here at the manor. Movement grows more difficult each day. The baby has dropped lower, and with a mother's instinct I know my confinement is near its end.

Sadly, I made my waddling way down the stairs to breakfast. I was ravenous and ate everything Cook put in front of me, but eating provoked more indigestion. Cook kindly made me a tisane of mint, and I drank it out in the little garden, where it was sunny and warm. I asked after Dunya, thinking to instruct her to launder the linens and blankets for the little cradle, but none of the other servants had yet seen her.Feeling the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze on my face, listening to the singing of birds, I felt strengthened enough to give myself a silent talking-to, for the baby's sake. I knew the poor child sensed his mother's anxiety; it would not be good for him, or me, to approach the moment of birth with a mind tormented by visions of wolves and vampires.

And so I made a pact with myself to banish dark thoughts. From that moment on, I was resolved to be cheerful, to spend my days thinking not about Zsuzsanna or Vlad-that I would entrust to Dunya-but about the baby's arrival. All this talk of strigoi-it had to be nonsense, and all the strange things I had seen were the result of pregnancy, grief, and worry over my husband. The wolf who had attacked at my window had no doubt been rabid, and his green eyes the product of my imagination, which was sorely troubled by the knowledge of Vlad and Zsuzsanna's illicit romance.

I simply could no longer allow myself to believe Dunya's silly stories. For the sake of my child.

And if we could not go to Vienna, so be it; I would find a way to feel happy and comfortable here, at least until the baby was old enough to travel. There was no point in pressuring Arkady into an unpleasant argument with Vlad.

Once I decided, I felt much relief. I went back upstairs, thinking to wake Arkady and apologise to him for my earlier attack of nerves, and rea.s.sure him that, if Vlad found it inconvenient for us to leave now, we should not fret, but instead focus on the upcoming joy.

We deserved to permit ourselves some happiness.

But Arkady had already gone, apparently in a hurry, for he had left his cabinet open, and his diary lay open, as though hastily abandoned, near his pillow.

I carefully shut it, set it on his night-table, and stoppered the open bottle of ink I found there. I would have gone back down to the kitchen to search for him, but the thought of navigating the stairs again held me back. Instead I made my way to the east wing and Zsuzsanna's bedroom, holding in my mind the cheerful notion that I could spend the day with Dunya and my child's aunt sorting through heirloom baby clothes and linens, and readying the nursery. I remembered how radiantly Zsuzsanna had smiled, when she spoke of how good it would be to hear the laughter of children in this house again.

It was quite late by this time, almost noon, but her door was still closed. I knocked; no answer came. I called; hearing no response, I timidly opened the door a crack and peered inside.

Sunlight streamed in through open, unshuttered windows. My eyes caught sight of the far window-seat first, and I noticed that Dunya had already taken down the garlic flowers.

And then my heart froze when I heard the sound of gentle snoring, and realised both women were still asleep. I stepped inside, and as my gaze fell upon Zsuzsanna, I raised a hand to my lips and cried aloud: "Dear G.o.d!"

She had been writing as she lay on her bed, but weakness had caused her to drop the pen and overturn the ink bottle; the indelible black liquid now stained quilt and sheets. Her little diary lay face-up, the leaves opened like a fan.

But it was not the large, black splotches on the bed that had made me cry out. Zsuzsanna was paler than the linens, paler than the pillow on which her head lay. She gasped, chest heaving as she fought for breath, her contorted white face lined with soft, dove-grey furrows that looked rendered by a watercolour artist's brush. Her open lips revealed colourless gums which had so receded that her teeth appeared ghoulishly long."Zsuzsanna," I said at last, and hurried to her side. I took her hand; it was icy and limp as that of one dead.

She was fully awake. Her dark eyes, encircled by aubergine shadow and wide with childlike innocence, stared up at me with frighteningly intense lucidity; she struggled to draw enough air to speak, and failed.

"Don't move," I whispered. "Don't talk..." I moved the diary and the ink to the night-table, noticing as I did the crucifix there, set atop the coiled, broken chain, as if she (or someone else) had impatiently torn it from her neck. I settled beside her, avoiding the large damp spot on the quilt, and gently brushed the hair back from her cool forehead.

The safe, happy world I had endeavoured to create for myself that morning collapsed utterly around me. I knew Vlad had come again last night, to visit Zsuzsanna -and to threaten me.

I will kill him before I let him harm my husband or my child.

I went over to Dunya, lying on the floor beneath a blanket, seized her shoulders, and shook her. Her stupor was greater than any produced by laudanum; I could only think of my waking nightmare of Vlad's green eyes as Dunya's head lolled sleepily on her shoulders. She did not even open her eyes until I shouted in her ear: "He returned! He returned, and Zsuzsanna is on the verge of death!"

This seemed to draw her back. She blinked, and rubbed her eyes; and then she saw Zsuzsanna, and covered her face with her hands as she let go a horrified wail that broke my heart.

But there was no time for pity. I gave her another shake, and said, "Go at once downstairs and have one of the men fetch the doctor!"

She lowered her hands, threw back the blanket, struggled to her feet. Tears glistened in her eyes as she leaned over Zsuzsanna-who watched us with that oddly intense gaze-and gently loosened the nightgown at her throat. She pulled the fabric down an inch or two, and drew back with a gasp.

I moved beside her and followed her gaze, to the place on Zsuzsanna's milk-white neck, just above the collarbone, where those terrible red marks had been. Impossibly, they had altogether disappeared, leaving no trace, not even tiny scars-nothing but pearlescent, unblemished skin.

Dunya drew her trembling hand away, and straightened, then motioned for us to go into the corridor, lest Zsuzsanna should overhear.

I followed her out into the hall with a sense of dread.

"It is too late for the doctor," she whispered sadly. "You saw that the marks have healed.

The change is complete; she will be dead before tomorrow comes."

I felt a surge of anger at hearing those words: It was unfair that Zsuzsanna should be so cruelly stricken, unfair that Vlad should triumph. The poor woman had endured a difficult enough life, and now she would die at a time when she should be joyously awaiting her nephew's birth with her family. My resolve to be cheerful for the child's sake crumbled; Vlad had won again.

I vented my rage on Dunya, shouting: "I don't care what superst.i.tion says! Go get the doctor! We must do something to help her!" The poor girl recoiled, trembling, then curtsied and flew down the stairs. I returned to Zsuzsanna's bedside and took her cold, lifeless hand; she looked up at me with those great, strangely euphoric eyes.

"It will be all right," I soothed. "We have sent for the doctor. We'll make you well..."