Diaries of the Family Dracul - The Covenant with the Vampire Part 8

"You are Dracul, sir. Surely you know." His tone was perfectly civil, yet conveyed the depth of his hatred for me-and his fear.

"Tsepesh," I corrected him, but there was no reproach, no anger in my tone, only the sincere desire to know. That name evoked a sudden image of Jeffries, lying impaled on tall, swaying branches of pine; I struggled to repress it. "Honestly, I do not. Please..." I paused and added, thinking of Laszlo: "Was it murder?"

He stared at me through narrowed, skeptical eyes, trying to judge my sincerity. Something he saw must have convinced him at last, for he replied, as he withdrew his scrutiny and went back to digging: "Aye, you could say that, sir. His throat was torn out by wolves."

Chapter 6

Zsuzsanna Tsepesh's Diary 12 April.

I keep dreaming of his eyes, his emerald eyes.

Yesterday, I was certain I would die; today I am a little stronger and can sit up and eat the soup Dunya brings. Writing is no longer a terrific effort. Oddly, this disappoints me.

Two women inhabit my body now. One is the Zsuzsanna I have always known: weak, timid, her father's good, obedient girl. That one is so grateful to Mary for all her kindness, to Dunya for caring for me in my illness. I know they love me and want me to get better, and I want to please them by doing so. That one loves sweet Brutus for his devoted presence at my bedside, and is moved to tears when he worriedly gives my hand a cold, wet nudge and gazes up at me with those adoring amber eyes. That one knows she almost died and is terrified at the prospect.

But the other- Ah, the other. The other knows that she is changing, and embraces that change. The other is strong, pa.s.sionate, and waits only for him to return, to fulfill his promise to bind us together forever.

I know he is trying to come to me. He has not forgotten. He tried last night, I think; I have the faintest dreamy recollection of Brutus lunging onto the window-seat and barking ferociously. I remember emerging from my drugged stupor enough to sense his disembodied eyes, staring at me out of the deep velvet shadows of my closed eyelids. I tried to speak, and could not; so I thought to him instead, and I believe he heard. I told him what they had done to the window. I warned him about the dog.

G.o.d, how the other Zsuzsanna hates Mary! hates Dunya! hates that accursed dog, for keeping him from my window. Were I not so weak and unable to rise, I would strangle the life from them for daring to separate us! They feign innocence; they will not speak of him, but they know what they are doing. They know, the sniveling liars! They freed the dog from the kitchen and put the garlic flowers in my window while I was asleep, stealing in here like thieves to do their evil work.

The fools think they can stop him.

Despite my weakness, I sense the approach of a Strength I have never known, the hint of a body free of the infirmity that has plagued me my whole life. I feel my spine moving, untwisting, lengthening; I sit taller, straighter each day. There is a dull throb in my ankle, and when Dunya and Mary leave the room, I peer at my foot beneath the covers and see that it, too, is straightening. I smile despite the pain. At last, to be free! to be strong! I welcome this other Zsuzsanna; I am changing into something new, something wonderful. I am not sure what that might be; I only know that it is far better than any life I have ever known. At times, the weakness lifts, and I catch an ecstatic glimpse of it. To be strong and free and united with him-this is Paradise.

Let the little cripple die! Let me be rid of her at last!

Father and Arkady were wrong: there is an afterlife. Not the simpering, harp-strumming, angel-winged, cloud-sitting eternity envisioned by the Christians, but something dark and deep and fiery, as bold and pure in its impa.s.sioned Self-devotion as Lucifer Himself!They will not win. He will instruct me, and when the time is right, I will summon him. I need only be patient, and wait...

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh 12 April.

I am so worried about my husband.

Zsuzsanna is much improved today. The doctor"s- or Dunya's-ministrations seem to have worked. She is still extremely weak, but she was sitting up this morning and eating breakfast when I came to see how she was doing.

The easing of my concern about Zsuzsanna has caused my fears about the strigoi to lessen-at least, in the cheerful sunlight of day. Then it seems I dreamed the conversation with Dunya, which now seems curiously unreal, like a distant dream. Like the nightmare image of Vlad transforming into a wolf. At times, I can convince myself that that vision was some sort of hallucination prompted by grief, travel, and pregnancy. Only one thing seems unshakably true: that Vlad is a threat to Zsuzsanna, and we must do whatever we can to keep him away.

Yet at night, I dream of Vlad's eyes, and know that it is all true. At night, I find it harder to explain the fact that Zsuzsanna's twisted spine is straightening before our very eyes.

So I will continue to indulge Dunya and let the garlic wreaths remain on the window (at night; we shrewdly removed them in the morning, and a good thing, since Arkady came to visit his sister at noon). They can do no harm (and once the sun sets, I become convinced they do much good). Most importantly, I will see that Brutus stays in the bedroom at night.

But it is Arkady I am more worried about at the moment. I have written about Zsuzsanna first, in hopes I would calm down, but once again I am near tears. We quarreled today, for the first time.

It was my fault. I was foolish to mention the business about Vlad and Zsuzsanna so soon. It has only been one brief week since Petru's death, and Arkady still grieves. It is only natural.

And yet...

Yet I cannot escape the fact that, since we came to Transylvania, he has become darkly moody and reclusive. He tells me little these days, when in England he loved to have long talks and seek my advice on subjects, because, as he said, "You are so coolly logical about things, Mary, and I am not." He has always been emotional, but in a positive, cheerful manner, full of energy and pa.s.sion.

Now he is silent, withdrawn, brooding. Every night he stays up late writing in his journal after he returns from the castle rather than come to bed to speak to me. I know that he is unhappy there, that something has happened with Vlad to trouble him.

When I rise in the morning, he is still asleep, his dark head against the pillow, his handsome face, with its large eyes, bold black brows, straight, narrow aquiline nose, growing faintly paler each day. There are lines and shadows gathering beneath those eyes; he has aged ten years in a week. I cannot help thinking how he resembles his sister, and how Vlad drains the emotional life from them both.

I feel lonely for him. The husband I knew is changing into a distant, melancholy stranger. I worry this Arkady will remain even after the grief for his father has lifted.He rose this morning only shortly before luncheon, and we shared a meal in near-total silence. He seemed exhausted, more so emotionally than physically, and though he was absently sweet to me after his old custom, his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Something troubled him, and so I was reluctant to disturb him, but as the meal ended, I dared at last to speak. The fact could no longer be hidden that Zsuzsanna was seriously ill; he would discover it sooner or later (even if he was currently too preoccupied to question why she no longer presented herself at meals). As her brother, he had the right to know.

"Dear," I said, at the great dining-table that had once seen a large family and now seemed sadly vast with only us two, "please don't be alarmed, but you should know that Zsuzsanna's condition worsened and she has been seriously ill. We fetched the doctor from Bistritz last evening."

He had begun to rise. At this news, he paused in the middle of the movement and lingered there, frowning with the enormous effort of bringing his attention from the infinitely distant point it had been to the present, and the words I had just spoken. For some seconds his hazel eyes remained clouded, then cleared as at last he registered and understood my remarks. The line between his eyebrows deepened, lengthened.

"Zsuzsanna ill?"

"Yes," I allowed, careful to keep my tone bright and optimistic. "But today she is much better."

His gaze swept uncertainly over me, the table, the dining-hall, the small pane of sunlight filtering through the distant window. "Oh," he said. "Well, I'm glad she's better. Perhaps I should go see her."

"I think she would appreciate that." I favoured him with a small encouraging smile- conniving woman that I am, smug in the knowledge that the garlic wreaths had been carefully removed and hidden in the closet. "Let me go with you." And I rose and wound my arm around his before he could stand. I wanted to make certain that Zsuzsanna said nothing to upset him; I suppose I feared she had noticed the garlic and would say something, or that she would tearfully confess to Arkady about Vlad. I wanted any shocking news broken to him gently.

We went into Zsuzsanna's room, where she sat in bed, once again writing in a journal and once again hurrying to shut it before we could read. The sunlight streamed in through the open shutters, illuminating the alcove where I had seen Vlad and Zsuzsanna embrace, and the sash had been thrown up to let in the pleasant, unseasonably warm air. The room seemed cheerful and pleasant, as if the bright sun had burned away the evil. Even Brutus seemed relieved, and greeted us with a peripatetic tail and a great, tongue-lolling grin. I detected a faint smell of garlic with sheepish discomfort, but Arkady seemed quite oblivious of it.

Fortunately, Zsuzsanna revealed nothing, and was sweet and considerate of her brother, rea.s.suring him that he should not spend an instant worrying over her. The crucifix Dunya had fastened round her neck had slipped beneath her gown, and she did not mention it to Arkady.

It all went quite well-until afterwards, when we left Zsuzsanna's room together and headed down the great winding staircase, Arkady taking the inside so that I might lean heavily upon the polished wood railing.

Sotto voce, as if afraid his sister or the servants might overhear, he asked, "What did the doctor say is the matter? She seems so pale."

"Some type of anaemia, perhaps," I answered, my own voice almost a whisper. My heartbeat quickened as I struggled to find the proper words to gently approach the subject I had wanted so long to discuss with my husband. "But I fear there is an emotional component to her condition."

In lieu of asking, he fixed his wide gaze upon me and held it there until I continued, most tentatively: "I think... I believe it has to do with your uncle, Vlad."

"How so?" he asked. His tone seemed neutral enough to encourage me to proceed, but in retrospect, I feel I should have caught its subtle defensiveness.

"She is distraught about the thought of Vlad going to England," I said, and despite my resolve, coloured.

The line between his eyebrows appeared again-a warning of what was to come. "But that does not make sense," he said, still in a hushed tone, mindful of the servants. "He explained very clearly to her that we would not go without her-that we would wait until she is well. Is she upset about leaving home?"

"Not exactly..." I hesitated, not at all certain now that the discussion should be continued.

But Arkady was determined to learn the problem. A hint of impatience crept into his tone.

"Well, then, what is it?"

"It is... I think she is still afraid he might leave her behind." I could feel heat on my cheeks and neck, but his own impatience wakened mine, and I felt I had kept the truth to myself long enough, that it was better to say it and be done with it. "She is... Vlad is... Arkady, they are in love."

He drew back as though I had slapped him and froze two steps from the landing. His lips parted, and he stared at me with wide-eyed shock. When finally he was able to speak, his voice was so soft I could scarcely hear: "Wh-what? What do you mean?"

"I have seen him in her bedroom late at night. Twice. I think her guilt over the affair is at least partially responsible for her inexplicable illness."

Having unburdened myself of the truth, I felt suddenly weak, ill. My own cheeks burned, but it was on his that I saw sudden bright blotches of colour.

Purely dazed, he turned from me towards the stone wall and whispered, "That is impossible. Impossible."

I moved awkwardly down the last two steps and turned to stare up at him. "It breaks my heart to tell you this. You know I would not say such horrible things unless I was convinced they were true. But for Zsuzsanna"s sake, I-"

As I spoke, he raised his hand to his temple in a sudden spasm of pain that made me reach towards him in concern. He recovered abruptly, and whirled on me in a sudden blaze of fury, leaning forward and teetering on the edge of the step so that I feared he would lose his balance and fall. "How dare you?" he shouted. "You are no better than the peasants, who spread vicious lies about Uncle! He has done you naught but good, given you this house and all this wealth-and you have turned on him! You are an ingrate, Mrs. Tsepesh, and he is a saint! A saint!"

"Do not raise your voice to me, Mister Tsepesh," I said, with a bit of heat myself. "I am no ingrate, nor he a saint." His words stung-and perplexed me, for I would have thought him more concerned about his sister's honour than his uncle's. As I spoke, he stormed down the stairs, past me, waving his hand for silence and shaking his head as I tried to protest, to counter his anger.

"I have heard enough! I will listen to no more lies!" And he swept away on a tide of fury. I listened to his receding footsteps, m.u.f.fled at first by carpet, then ringing loud against cold heartless stone. Had he reacted like the Arkady I had always known, I would have followed him and been certain a swift apology and reconciliation would follow-but this was someone whose behaviour I could no longer predict. I gave him his privacy until such time as he had control of his temper.

He closed himself in one of the studies and did not come out for an hour or so, when he left the manor without speaking to anyone, and took the caleche far earlier than is his custom-I suppose to go to the castle. I have no idea whether he plans to speak to Vlad about what I have said.

I regret bringing up the subject; clearly Arkady's grief is still too fresh, too raw. How can I ever speak to him, then, of what I have seen outside my window-of the wildly fantastic truth that I saw Vlad become a wolf? Of the marks on Zsuzsanna's neck, and the fact that I am half-convinced that he is strigoi, convinced enough to permit the crucifix and the garlic?

I am afraid. Afraid of Vlad, afraid for Zsuzsanna. Afraid for my soon-to-be-born child.

Mostly I am afraid because ever since we arrived, my husband has been slowly changing into someone I do not know. I am changing, too, from a sensible woman into a quivering, superst.i.tious soul-especially when Dunya speaks of Zsuzsanna's slow metamorphosis into one of the strigoi.

Vlad became a wolf. What shall remain of Arkady and me, when our transformations ace complete?

Zsuzsanna Tsepeth's Diary 13 April.

He knocked at the window again last night. He knocked, and I was prepared for him. I had taken the crucifix from my neck and cleared away the garlic, hiding it in the closet the way Mary and Dunya do each morning-they think they are so clever! And I had unlatched the shutters, and thrown the sash open-but it was not enough. When he came, Brutus started barking again wildly, lunging at the window as though he intended to leap through it.

Nothing I could do or say would restrain him. I had to close the sash and shutters and return to bed, for fear his insane barking would wake the entire household.

I tried taking Brutus to the kitchen, and discovered Dunya there, asleep on the floor. She stirred as we entered, and I hurried back to my room with the dog.

I am stronger, but I have stopped changing. I do not like this. I do not like waiting.

Something must be done.

The Diary of Arkady Tsepesh 14 April.

At last, I am strong enough to sit up and write. I recall nothing of yesterday save Mary's delicate features, framed by golden curls that hung down and brushed my cheeks when she leaned her face over mine. Her face, and her soft, cool touch on my brow, and her murmured words of comfort; that is all I remember. She is so good to me, so kind. I have tried several times to beg her forgiveness for raising my voice to her earlier, but she merely touches her fingertips to my lips and smiles.

Dear G.o.d, I wish I could forget the events of twelfth April, but they shall haunt me for the remainder of my life. Where will it lead? Where will it all lead? But no; I must not consider the future now. See? My hand begins to shake. No, I must simply write it down, and from the act hope to gain insight as to what I must do.

The day before yesterday, on the fateful twelfth, I learned that my sister was ill, suffering from anaemia. This was distressing enough news, but after I went to visit Z., Mary revealed that she had seen Vlad in Zsuzsa"s bedroom late at night, and that the two had embraced.

I am ashamed to write that I shouted at my poor wife. I could not believe anything so horrible of my sister, of V., the generous benefactor of us all. At the same time, I knew Mary was incapable of lying, that it had to be true, yet at that moment I felt once again the grip of impending madness, and descended into mindless rage. I strode into the study and closed myself in, thinking to write it all down and lift the anger, but I was far too agitated. I left the house and took the caleche, unsure of my destination.

It was a warm spring day. Dawn had been clear, but early afternoon saw iron clouds filling the sky, and the air had the feel and smell of an approaching storm. Some inexplicable compulsion drove me towards the edge of the forest where I had last seen Stefan. As I urged the horses between the trees, a gentle rain began to fall, but the thick foliage protected us. Even so, we grew wet as the sweeping branches sprinkled us with dew.

The animals tossed their heads and whinnied their disapproval of my foolish decision to re- enter the forest. I told myself that I was not afraid, though my mouth was suddenly so parched my tongue adhered to the inside of my cheek, and I held the reins taut in slightly trembling hands. Not afraid, though I could not keep from peering up at the tops of the tallest trees, to see whether Jeffries lay swaying there with the wind.

It was day and it was warm. Wolves did not attack in daytime in warm weather, nor singly, but in packs, and then usually only on winter nights. That was the prevailing folk wisdom, yet Stefan had died on a beautiful, glistening summer's day, killed by a solitary half-wolf. I remembered Father's revolver, beside me on the seat where I had stowed it for just such an occasion. I set it on my lap.

There was no sign of Stefan. I drove the horses forward a bit, slowly, straining my eyes in the shadowy dimness for my dead brother's small form. We retraced the progress I remembered, finally coming to a stop at the place I decided was the one where the wolves had attacked.

The horses lifted their hooves and snorted, impatient, nervous. I held very still, watching the same spot in the shade of an alder tree where I believed Stefan had last been. Watching, and listening, to a distant rustling in the trees-most likely of birds and squirrels. A crow cawed, reproachful; a bird sang.

I sat watching several minutes, aware of every sound around me, of the muted patter of rain against trees, of my own breathing. At last, slowly, slowly, out of the reticulate pattern of light and sepia shadow against trembling leaves, Stefan emerged.

And gestured onward, at the deep recesses of the forest.

We followed, the wheels rolling against the damp, needle-strewn ground with the snap of breaking twigs.Once again, my brother's spectre vanished, only to reappear once I progressed a fair distance in the direction indicated. We continued a good half hour into the forest in this manner.

At last, Stefan appeared but gestured no more; only stared intently at me a time, as might a living loved one trying to memorise the details of my face upon parting.

And then he disappeared.

Confused, I looked round, and saw nothing but the same alder and pine trees. I waited some minutes, then slipped the pistol into the waist of my trousers and crawled out of the caleche.

I tethered the horses to a branch, then commenced investigating the area. There was nothing remarkable, just the same dense foliage as before, and dark soil almost entirely covered by a carpet of dead leaves and pine needles.

But when I walked over to the large tree where Stefan's ghost had stood, the ground abruptly sank, soft and spongy, beneath my feet. I pushed away the damp, vegetal detritus and discovered fresh dug earth, darker and more loosely packed compared to the surrounding soil.

My heart began to beat more swiftly. Quickly, I swept more of the dead foliage aside. As I did, I discovered something hard and white-a fragment of bone, from an animal, I thought.

But before I could examine it, the horses emitted high-pitched, panicked whinnies.

I looked up to see a wolf, running swift and low between the trees, headed not towards the caleche and the captive horses, but towards me.

I straightened and in a split second's time entertained the grisly notion that Stefan had enticed me here to suffer the same fate as my two brothers; I imagined my bright blood merged with the gentle rain and bejeweling the forest with crimson dew.

The wolf lunged. I drew the pistol from beneath my coat and fired. Not four feet away, the animal emitted a shrill, canine yelp and dropped in mid-leap, at the highest point of the arc, bloodied at the juncture of leg and shoulder.

Yet it gathered itself and rose, unsteady, limping on three legs, and came at me. I was forced to shoot again; this time, the proximity permitted me to make a clean kill, and lodge a bullet just above and between its stark white eyes. The creature sank to the forest floor with a whine that terminated in a death-rattle.

I wanted nothing better than to sag weakly against the nearest tree trunk and master my trembling-but the ominous recollection of the two dead wolves lying at the open gate of our family tomb persuaded me to remain with pistol at the ready.

There came a crashing of twigs and leaves; the second wolf appeared bare seconds afterwards. I forced myself to wait until he was near enough for my aim to be certain, and when at last I prepared to fire, I had to steady my shaking right arm with my left. The wolf charged, and I squeezed the trigger, but the spa.r.s.e rain that dripped down through the forest canopy left the weapon beaded with moisture; it slipped in my grasp as it discharged, sending the bullet wide of its mark.

In the fraction of a second it took to realise I had missed my target, I knew all was lost. The wolf leapt for my throat. Its body collided with mine, knocking the pistol from my hand.

Huge paws struck my shoulders, slamming them against damp ground. I steeled myself for the pain of those cruel teeth upon my neck, thinking not of the irony of my fate, nor the treachery of my brother's ghost, but only of Mary and the child. The wolf lowered its face to mine and peered at me with large, colourless, feral eyes; its panting mouth revealed a long pink tongue and yellowed fangs glistening with saliva. It snarled, and opened its mouth wide in preparation for the kill. I felt its breath, hot upon the exposed, tender skin of my throat. Gasping, I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for death.