Covenant With the Vampire (19 page)

I went inside and shared the sad news with Dunya. She listened solemnly, her
lips pressed tightly together and her eyes downcast with sorrow. Though I said
absolutely nothing of my suspicions as to the cause of poor Brutus’ death, her
first words were an offer to sleep in Zsuzsanna's room tonight.

I agreed at once.

Superstitious and silly it may be, but I have witnessed events which logic
says are impossible, and I have a husband driven mad by some private terror.
I know why that poor dog died; I have seen the reason grinning outside my bedroom
window at night.

I only pray that Dunya, endowed with the same good, loyal heart but a far shrewder
brain, can avoid the same fate.

* * *

Zsuzsanna Tsepesh's Diary

15 April, 2 a.m.

It is done. I am his.

My back and leg and foot ache terribly, but I know now it is a good pain - like
birth pangs, temporary and leading to a outcome so wondrous all suffering will
soon be forgotten. Despite the pain, my entire body vibrates,
sings
with incredible, newfound strength; such strength, such
aliveness
that
I cannot sleep, cannot return to bed, but leaned naked and bloody out the open
windowsill after he left, stretching out my arms at the waning moon and inviting
it to dance with me, laughing up at the stars.

Laughing at Dunya, pitiful witless creature. She lies snoring (just as Brutus
did) on the floor beside the bed in deep, deep slumber. Look at her there, with
her gaping ugly mouth, her stinking crucifix! She will not wake until morning,
no matter how hard I laugh, no matter how loudly I taunt, singing into her ear:
Silly Dunya, silly Dunya! My ineffectual little watchdog!

I know nothing can rouse her. I know everything
he
knows now.

I know
everything
.

Once a miserable cripple, unloved, unwanted, I am now stronger and more beautiful
than you all! Immortal, because he loves me. I had no inkling of the depth of
that love until tonight; I am still awed, moved, amazed to the point of uncontrollable
trembling.

Oh, how I love him!

They told me about Brutus this evening - Mary and her little shadow, Dunya. A
part of me, a very small part now, wept. I had to; they were watching. They
expected me to be crushed and heartbroken. I obliged.

But I was so relieved. Relieved and happy, for I knew it meant he was coming
that night, tonight, and I knew what I had to do. And even when Mary told me
that Dunya would be spending the night in my room, “to look after me in case
I was upset,” I wasn’t worried. I knew to trust him. (Better Dunya than Mary;
for now that I know everything, I also know it is easier to influence some more
than others. Mary is one of the hardest - even more so than jealously devoted
Brutus was - and there is always the danger she might sway Arkady, who is already
difficult enough to deal with because of the headstrong streak he inherited
from Mother. But Dunya is superstitious, and like most of the local folk, readily
affected, especially when asleep.)

And so as we settled down to bed tonight, I waited, heart beating rapidly with
excitement, until I sensed the approach of those beautiful eyes, jewel-like,
evergreen, immortal. When Dunya fell to snoring beneath her blanket on the carpet,
I knew it was time. I stole quietly from the bed, gathered up the woven heads
of garlic around the window and hid them in the closet, grimacing at their repugnant
smell and crinkly, papery feel.

And then I leaned over the window-seat to fling back the shutters and raise
the sash; in poured the argent, energizing light of moon and stars. I stood
in the center of that magnificent lustrous pool and watched as shimmering atoms
of light began to swirl with rainbow colours, the way sun reflects off a soap
bubble. Then the specks themselves began to vibrate, to move, to encompass me,
circling faster, faster, until my overwhelmed eyes could no longer focus; and
out of that prismatic diamond dance, Vlad slowly appeared - faint and ill-formed
at first, like a daydream, then gradually more solid, until at last he stood,
his fine skin no longer so pale, but still catching the light with fleeting
iridescent glimmers of quicksilver, pink and turquoise, like mother-of-pearl,
like the fieriest opal. He was younger; yes, younger, with hints of iron at
each temple, making his resemblance to Father, to Arkady, all the stronger.
I reached for his crystalline-cold hands, and was pulled towards him.

We kissed as relatives do - solemnly, on each cheek, hands primly clasped; and
then he encircled my waist with his arms and slowly, gently, unloosed my nightgown
and drew it down to my waist. I shook free of it and kicked it aside. He pressed
me to him, with that strong hand firm against my bare, almost-straight back,
and kissed my lips in a manner that was far from familial, with tongue and teeth
and heat.

Near-faint with anticipation, I leaned away from that embrace, presenting myself
to him: my head and shoulders fell back, causing my long, loose dark hair to
hang mere inches above the floor; my pale torso, silvered by starlight, curved
away from him like the crescent moon.

He arched his own body like a scimitar forward, against mine, and kissed me
again, drawing his lips - no longer so cold - once again over my mouth, my chin,
the curve of my jaw until they found my exposed, proffered neck, and the tiny,
elegant wounds just above the collarbone. His tongue circled them, delicately,
and I shuddered at the sensation of exquisite, feverish tenderness there. His
mouth opened wide; his lips pressed against my skin; his tongue began working
rapidly, eagerly over the wounds. I felt the ever-so-gentle pressure of razor-keen
teeth resting against the centre of each partially healed incision - waiting to
strike like a serpent, to sink deep into my flesh again.

I trembled, waiting.

He lifted his head, and whispered into my ear: “No. You are still too weak.
Let me be the first tonight…”

To my bitter disappointment, he recoiled, as swiftly as he had struck out the
time before, and released me from the embrace. I cried out softly in despair,
but fell silent when I saw his hands flash phosphorescent-pale against his black
cloak. It dropped to the floor, and he worked swiftly to unfasten his vest,
then his shirt. He did not remove them, but let them hang undone, and reached
forth with one hand to pull the fabric back, revealing a broad, powerful chest
that looked hewn from marble, as muscular and unyielding firm as a young Roman
god’s. His other hand he raised, and drew a long, pointed nail as sharp as knife-edged
steel across his heart, riving asunder his beautiful flesh and leaving a red,
diagonal slash in its wake.

And then he reached deep within that wound; his gaze held mine as he found
the vein and scored it. I saw the faint, transient flicker of pain in his eyes,
but it was far, far overwhelmed by a growing excitement. My gaze dropped to
the red ribbon on his chest, and the rich, crimson fluid welling there. I stared
at it, compelled, astounded, worshipful.

He wove his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck and grasped it, tenderly,
tightly, then pressed me to him.

I drank.

I drank like a newborn babe; I drank like a lover. As icy as his touch had
been that first night, as cool as his skin, so much hotter now was that blood - hotter
than any living creature’s. It scalded my lips and tongue and throat, made tears
course down my cheeks into my mouth, mingling brine with iron.

The taste! The dark, dark taste… !

I worked noisily, greedily, lapping with animal abandon; I threw my arms around
him and pulled him closer to me, with a surge of strength that made him laugh,
low and confident, but also with the faint surprise of one seduced, one overwhelmed
to the point of sudden startling weakness. I smiled even as I feasted, hearing
in that laughter a hint of the sweet, languid pleasure I had known when he drank
from me. My abrupt embrace threatened his balance, and he was forced to steady
himself against me, flattening his palms against my back, gradually pressing
his fingers more tightly against me until, at the end, he dug them deeply into
my flesh lest he fall.

As I drank, I learned. With his blood came the knowledge and perspective of
centuries; I could see it all now, see why he had to leave for England. The
world is changing with geometrically increasing rapidity. Our land is remote,
and has been spared for four hundred years, but civilisation is nearing at last.
The world and its governments encroach; he witnessed the establishment of Austrian
rule with trepidation, for it marked the beginning of the end of his reign.

He has fended off their control, but eventually, they will attempt to intervene;
and when they do, Transylvania will be too small. It will become difficult,
if not impossible, to prevent outsiders from questioning the disappearance of
stray travelers - travelers who have been all too few of late, but who bear useful
news of that changing world. And with each successive generation, the villagers
become fewer and more difficult to control.

The Carpathians grow less safe, less sustaining, each day. And so, with the
patient, cunning foresight of an ancient predator, he had sent my brother to
London, to be educated in the ways of that great city, that his own transition
there might be eased.

I understood now, with dazzling clarity; and I wept, too, to know that he had
loved me enough to provide the miracle through which I might accompany him to
safety. To England.

Oh, more than that, it was far more than that. He has remained alone since
his wife died, almost four centuries before. But now, of all women, he has chosen
me,
and as I drank, emotion flowed out from him and engulfed me like
that dark red tide, and borne upon it was the knowledge that, with our exchange,
he was tied to me and I to him, forever.

He had chosen me as bride because
I
had chosen
him.
I had
drawn him to me, and he had seen that my loneliness was a need, a hunger, even
greater than his own.

He had chosen me because I alone loved him freely - no, it is a word beyond
love. I
revered
him in the manner he deserves.

I drank, and tasted his passion, and his unbending will; his hatred of the
rumini,
and his pain when they revile him as a monster.

He is no monster, no devil. He is a saint, an angel from Heaven!

No - more than that. He is a god.

I drank, and wept with sorrow for countless loved ones dead and buried, the
ache of knowing that each fresh young face, each new love, would be seen to
wither in turn and die. I saw the procession of a hundred faces in seconds,
all of them different, all of them the same, like Arkady and Father, all of
them minor variations of Vlad's own handsome visage. Again, and again and again
that love, that loss, that fresh grief, creating a loneliness eternal and more
horrible than the one I had tasted in my brief mortal life.

I drank, and knew we two would never be alone again.

He stirred at last, and groaned; his hands moved weakly over my back, trying
feebly to push me away. With the desperate instincts of a starving animal, I
pressed my face harder against his breast and furiously lapped the spurting
blood, fever-hot against his cool skin.

“Zsuzsanna,” he groaned. It was a prayer, a plea; I felt his incredible might
ebbing. Ebbing, and in
my
possession. I sensed a power more than human
coursing through my veins, and knew that, had I wanted, I could have snapped
his spine like a twig.

He trusted me that much. He had held me in his arms with that much strength,
and never harmed me.

I pulled back and straightened, hair falling forward, running my tongue over
my lips, and caught the blood that dripped from my chin with cupped hands. I
licked my palms clean like a cat, and when at last I looked up, satiated, serene,
omnipotent, his eyes were ablaze with wild sensuality that verged on madness.

He seized me. Oh, he was weak and I the stronger, but I fell back and let myself
be taken so my ecstasy might be complete. I swept my hair back, bared my neck
for him; I held perfectly still as those sharp, sharp teeth found their two
small marks, and when they pierced me again, I did not cry out, did not struggle,
but released a long, low sigh.

He did not drink long this time. He left me on my feet, swaying, drunken with
pleasure, and when he withdrew I clasped his hands and knelt before him, begging
him to finish what he had begun. I did not want to remain behind here any longer!

But he was firm. He pushed my hands aside; he bade me stay. He is my lord now,
and I will do as he bids, but I wept when he faded into the deep shadows, and
I ran to the open window calling softly after him.

When the cool night air touched my skin, I was drunk again, drunk with blood
and ecstasy and power.

My senses are heightened, keener. The starlight is dazzling, blindingly beautiful,
and the forest sings with life; I can hear each single insect chirping, hear
each solitary animal rustling in the trees, hear the distant, beautiful harmonies
of wolves. The taste of his blood still in my mouth seems velvety, deeper, more
heady and flavourful than any wine. I can still inhale its scent, borne on the
soft breeze: bitter, sharp, metallic, but rich and full and intoxicating. From
time to time, I touch a fingertip to one of the dark drops on my pearly breast,
and lift it to my lips, to smell, to kiss, to savour.

I am so
strong.
I could kill Dunya as she sleeps, snap her neck with
one swift twist of my hand.

But I will not. Not tonight. I will play the game just a bit longer, because
it is what he wants. I will quietly fill the basin with water from the pitcher,
and wash away the blood smeared on my hands and face, and the drops spattered
upon my bosom. I will replace the garlic at the window, then slip into my nightgown
and into bed.