Covenant With the Vampire (20 page)

Though not just yet, not yet. Dawn is still hours away, and the smell and taste
of his blood against my skin is so sweet…

* * *

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh

15 April.

Arkady knows about Vlad. Somehow, he knows.

I did not press for details - I know too many already for my sanity - but we had
a good, long talk this morning.

He was entirely recovered yesterday evening, and slept quite well through the
night. Or so I believe, for I slept like one of the dead myself, exhausted from
my two-day vigil, but when I woke briefly from a vague, terrifying dream about
Vlad, I remember turning over and being reassured to see Arkady, blissfully
asleep and snoring softly beside me. This morning, when I rose and pulled open
the curtains to let the cheerful sunshine stream in, Arkady was sitting up awake
when I turned round. His expression was so penitent and concerned that I said,
“Why, dear! What ever is the matter?”

As I crossed back to the bed to sit on the edge beside him, he said, “I must
beg your forgiveness.”

I took his hand, but I must confess that I felt a pang of fear at those words,
which would freeze the heart of any wife, regardless of how much she may trust
her husband. And then I remembered our argument of two days before, and laughed.
“Arkady,” I replied, “I have already forgotten it. Besides, you were probably
already ill then and not to be blamed for losing your temper. You are incapable
of doing anything so evil that it would require my forgiveness.”

“It isn’t that,” he said, so darkly that I felt once again a chill of fear.
“I want you to forgive me for bringing you and the child to - to this accursed
place!”

I stiffened and said nothing, but listened and watched very carefully as he
continued, lowering his eyelids and looking away from me as though ashamed,
instead focusing his gaze on the bright beams of golden light that filtered
through the window, and at Zsuzsanna's still-fastened bedroom shutters beyond.

“I have seen horrible things. No” - he raised a hand when I leaned forward, on
the verge of speaking - “you must not ask! I cannot speak of them. I can only
say this: that I promise you, I will see to it that they stop at once, and never
happen again. I will make sure no harm ever comes to you, or to the baby.”

“Oh, Arkady!” I cried. “For your sake as much as mine, we need to leave here!
You must tell Vlad we cannot stay!” I did not speak to him of what I had seen;
I was sure he had witnessed something similar, and I saw no reason to add concern
for my sake to his already overburdened mind. Only one thing was important:
that I could now convince him to take us both far, far from this place.

He withdrew his hand from my grasp. “But it would break his heart if I deserted
him and Zsuzsanna.”

“It does not matter! Tell him - tell him that the doctors have ordered a holiday,
for the sake of your health. Tell him we are only going away for a short time.
We could go to Vienna.”

He contemplated this, and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes…” He met my gaze, and I
smiled at the acquiescence in his posture, his eyes. “Yes. I shall meet with
him today and tell him. I am sure he would permit me whatever necessary to regain
my health. No, I am sure he would insist on it.”

“Oh, Arkady,” I said, with pure relief, and reached for him. He saw the tears
in my eyes and caught me in an embrace so tight I gasped, but I wanted for him
never to let go. Weeping, I told him I had been so worried, so worried for him
all these days; I told him that he had almost died, and that I could not bear
to see him bowed down another day with grief and concern. He wept too, and promised
me that we would get away. He will speak to Vlad this evening, and everything
will be arranged.

My heart is so light now; I have been packing my trunk and singing lullabies
to myself, to the child, and studying my German phrase-book. Everything seems
more cheerful at the manor: even Zsuzsanna is markedly improved, and has her
colour back. Dunya and I are so encouraged that we have moved a little mattress
for her into Zsuzsanna's bedroom; her presence, and the garlic at the window,
should be sufficient to keep any evil at bay.

* * *

The Diary of Arkady Tsepesh

15 April.

It is very late, and Mary is already asleep. I have lit a fire in the western
sitting-room, and as I write this, I am watching the flames. Twice I have risen
and tried to throw V.“s dictated letter upon them; twice have I found myself
unable to do so, seized by the now-familiar pain in my skull, followed by the
feeling that, by secretly and dishonestly incinerating that document, I will
have in essence cast my familial obligation onto the flames.

I am an honest man. I despise deception, yet I see no alternative, if I am
to keep V. happy while seeing justice done. Nor do I know exactly what to say
to Mary; she seemed so happy, so relieved at the prospect of going to Vienna.
I confess, I felt the same. But now that door is closed, unless I openly defy
Uncle's wishes. Unless I break with the family forever.

As much as I love Uncle, as much as I feel obligated to him, I can scarcely
bear now to walk inside the castle walls. My overwrought imagination no longer
perceives a vast stone ancestral home, but an ancient, grinning monster lying
in wait to devour me: each time I enter, the great door's sharpened metal studs
become razor-sharp fangs, the threshold a gaping maw, the dark, airless corridors
a long gullet.

When I passed through those hungry jaws this evening at sundown, with Father's
pistol in my waistcoat as protection, all I could think of was Jeffries. Where
had he met his final fate? In the guest chambers? In the servants’ quarters?
Or had he been spirited outside, to be flayed alive in the dark recesses of
the ominous forest?

I entered scanning the walls, the floors, the furniture, for blood. Climbing
the stone stairs, I imagined Jeffries’ head, tumbling down that long expanse
to meet me.

You’re an Impaler, aren’t you? One of the wolf-men?

I slowly ascended the stairs and made my way to Father's office, fighting a
resurgence of the delirium that had possessed me in the skull-strewn forest.
I did no work; I could not. Nor did I allow myself to think, for that seemed
a dangerous pastime. I merely sat in Father's chair and fought the cold dread
that threatened to settle over me, fought to keep my wits; and when I had some
uncertain degree of control, I rose and made my way to Uncle's drawing-room.

I knocked, and when V. called out, I entered.

Everything looked as before. Uncle sat in his chair in front of a blazing hearth,
which made the room warm and cheery. The slivovitz was still untouched on the
end-table, in the cut crystal decanter whose every facet trembled with firelight.
Only V. and I had changed: he had lost twenty years off his age; I had gained
them.

Impossible, impossible; I am indeed going mad.

“Arkady!” he said heartily, turning towards me with a smile; it faded abruptly
and was replaced by an expression of concern. The dark grey at his temples was
spreading, so that the hair on the sides was almost salt-and-pepper, and his
complexion, though still quite fair because of his aversion to bright sun, glowed
with robust good health. “But you are so pale! Please, sit.”

He gestured at the chair beside him. I sat, trying to hide my nervousness at
this latest spurt of backwards aging. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinising me
carefully, then poured a glass of slivovitz, smiling once again and saying:
“Your lovely wife sent a messenger to tell us you were ill. I trust you are
feeling better? Here, drink. It will put roses in your cheeks.”

I took the proffered glass and drank. There was no disguising the fact that
my hands shook, for the slivovitz splashed from the goblet in my unsteady grasp
and perfumed the air. I set it down with a clatter, in my clumsy agitation nearly
upending the glass.

V. watched it all with a small smile and the same intent scrutiny. “Better?”

“Yes,” I wheezed, expelling more fragrant slivovitz fumes, fighting the urge
to cough at the burning sensation in my throat. “Yes, I’m quite better. The
doctor said it was brain fever, but I am well now.”

“He is sure? You are altogether cured?”

I averted my eyes and stared into the fire. The room seemed suddenly stuffy,
overly warm. “Yes. Mostly. However, he and Mary are still quite concerned. He
says I need a holiday, and Mary has suggested that we spend some time in Vienna.
With your permission, of course…”

“No,” V. said.

My mouth opened, and I emitted a small gasp. Stunned, unable to fathom what
I had just heard, I stared at him. I half-expected him to laugh and say he was
simply joking.

He did not. His tone was flat, hard, neutral, his expression closed. “Mary
is too close to giving birth; she cannot risk further travel. Besides, the baby
should be born here, in his ancestral home, not in some foreign hotel.”

“But - ”

“She needs you, Arkady. You cannot go without her. And I need you, too. Today,
in fact, we must write a letter to a solicitor in London about locating a suitable
property for us. Time grows short. I can wait no longer.”

“There is more; guests are due to arrive soon in Bistritz. We must write another
letter and have Laszlo post it tomorrow. There are many, many details to be
taken care of, Arkady, and I think you were right when you earlier said the
best cure for your grief is work. So let us work now. But I promise you - you
will have your holiday with Mary and the baby. In England. We will all take
it together.”

“I cannot stay here,” I said, my voice quaking as hard as the hand I lifted
to my brow. “Dear God, I cannot stay - ! I cannot bear this any longer! I have
found - I have found Jeffries’ head, buried in the forest.”

And I raised my other trembling hand to my brow and lowered my face, staring
down through unsteady fingers at my lap.

A long spell of silence followed, during which time I could not bring myself
to raise my head. Nor did I look up when, finally, V. spoke, but I heard the
somberness in his hushed tone: “Are you quite certain?”

“How could I make such a mistake about such a horrible thing, any more than
I could make a mistake about Laszlo taking Jeffries’ ring?” I snapped.

“I see,” he said softly, but I saw he did not see at all, that he did not believe.
“It is no wonder, then, that you are distraught. It is enough to drive anyone
mad.”

“Yes,” I whispered, pressing my fingers hard against my forehead, in hopes
it would ease their shaking.

“This is terrible, of course.” He paused. “How is it, then, that you chanced
to… to make this horrible discovery? Did you actually see anyone bury it… ?”

“No.” Uncertain how to explain that I had been led into the forest by a ghost
lest I further confirm V.“s suspicions of my mental instability, I lowered my
hands and looked up at him.

And saw, sitting in his chair, with short, thin legs swinging six inches above
the floor, hands gripping the armrests in V.“s usual manner, my dead brother,
Stefan.

In the warm autumnal-orange glow of the fire, the yawning wound at his throat
was quite clearly visible, and I could see that the blood which dripped there
from onto the white linen of his torn, dirtied shirt was vermilion, fresh, bright.
As I stared slack-jawed, stricken dumb, Stefan's impish grin widened in an expression
of purely malevolent amusement.

I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands, unable to speak.

At the touch of a hand on my sleeve, I started in the chair and glanced up
in fear - into Uncle's dark green eyes. For the most fleeting of seconds, as I
opened my eyes, I fancied I saw on his lips a hint of the same evil smirk Stefan
had worn. I blinked, and realised his features were composed in an expression
of utter concern, utter reassurance.

“Arkady,” V. said, in a lulling voice, “it was wrong of me to pursue the matter.
Of course you are too distraught to answer questions on this subject at the
moment. We need not discuss such things now.”

I leaned forward on the edge of my chair, unable to understand his calm in
the face of this gruesome revelation, unable to understand anything except that
I was on the verge of insanity, and knew that it would take little more to push
me over that precipice. “I cannot stay! Don’t you understand, Uncle?
Someone
here at the castle - ”

“Laszlo, you mean,” he interrupted, in a tone that was gentle and utterly reassuring,
utterly unconvinced.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, flushing with anger. “Laszlo, then! - murdered your guest.
I can’t remain with my wife - and baby - near a monster capable of - ”

I broke off as I remembered Laszlo had lived at the castle but two years, and
was unable to stifle the thought: So many skulls. So many skulls. Too many for
one man to accomplish in two years’ time…

The next thought was blotted out by a now familiar, crushing pain in my temples - the
same I had felt when Masika had attempted to convey some secret to me, when
Mary had confronted me on the stairs about V. and Zsuzsa. I raised my hands
and rubbed them, wondering whether this agony was merely the result of nervous
exhaustion, or whether it had a more sinister cause.

“Arkady,” V. said, in a tone soft and somber, and as sincere as I have ever
heard anyone use. “Do you love me?”

His voice contained nothing now but sheer, wistful longing. He seemed to shrink
in his chair, to become a pathetically stooped old man. The imperious prince
was gone. I saw only my father, worn and bowed by decades of loss and grief.
He gazed beseechingly at me with eyes that were naked and beautiful, stripped
of all charm and power, full of stark, simple need; the eyes that had wept over
my father in his coffin.

I was taken aback and sincerely touched, despite my extreme agitation. I stammered,
“Why… why, yes, Uncle. Of course I love you deeply. I hope you have no doubt
of that.”