Covenant With the Vampire (30 page)

Mihai and frail, dear Ion helped Arkady carry the casket into the tomb, which
was a great struggle for the three of them; and because the others had left,
no one had prepared the tomb for the ceremony. Zsuzsanna was laid to rest - no,
not to rest! Not unless I can coax Arkady to leave her tonight - without flowers
or candlelight or song in a tomb grimly festooned with spiderwebs and dust.

Rumpled and wild-eyed and unshaven, Arkady spoke. I do not remember what he
said; I felt through the whole ceremony unwell, on the verge of fainting, and
was relieved when it lasted no more than a few minutes. And then our somber
little group trudged out - all except Arkady, who sat on the cold stone floor
in front of his sister's coffin and drew out the pistol, clearly intending to
sit vigil.

I was too distraught to try to plead with him anymore, and wanted only to hurry
outside and be free of the still, oppressive air in the tomb, but Dunya paused
to speak to him in Roumanian. In response, he took aim at her with the pistol.

We left him there. What else could we do? All the words in the world cannot
help him or his sister at this point.

I had Mihai take a message this afternoon to the castle, saying there would
be no
pomana
this evening, as Arkady was indisposed.

Like the servants, I am prepared to flee. I have packed the trunks, and now
need only to retrieve my poor husband. I am determined to make good on my promise
to Vlad: We will not stay.

Dunya says the vampire cannot cross running water, except in his coffin of
earth. Very well; Arkady and I shall make our escape at morning, and will not
stop until we cross the Muresh River, which we should make by dusk if we drive
the horses hard. Until then, we will remain ensconced in the nursery, which
Dunya has made a safe haven, with garlic wreaths at the window and door, and
everywhere else, the portraits of saints. She keeps a candle burning in front
of an icon of Saint George, who wields a sword, ready to lop off the head of
dracul
- the dragon.

The Devil.

I remembered it was the word by which Mister Jeffries referred to Vlad; Dunya
has explained to me that the villagers call Arkady's family by this name.

I have been praying to Saint George, too - praying that he will protect my husband
and child. I would kill the dragon with my own hand, if that were possible,
but Dunya says it is too dangerous to attempt and that, during the day when
it is safest to destroy him, the door to his resting place remains locked and
bolted, and is too heavy for any single soul to break down. Those who have tried
have all met violent deaths.

How many centuries must we wait for the holy dragonslayer to incarnate on this
earth and deliver us from this monster?

Dunya and I have discussed what must be done to bring Arkady out of the tomb,
to prevent Zsuzsanna from rising as
strigoi
tonight. It seems impossible
that he could stay awake much longer; but if he does, it is my plan to go to
him, like Delilah, offering to ease his thirst… with a draught containing laudanum.
If sweet words will not coax him, then the poppy will.

The sun is lower in the sky; it is time.

Saint George, deliver us.

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh

19 April, addendum.

Dear God, he has infiltrated our little haven of safety! He sleeps among us - and
I cannot go warn my husband, who is at the mercy of another, more monstrous,
child about to be born. Vlad knows everything we planned.

While Dunya, poor innocent pawn, knows nothing. She smiles sweetly at me even
now as she pours me a cup of pain-relieving tea, unable to decipher the mysterious
legends I scrawl across the page - quickly, before the next wave of agony comes.
I fear this will be the last diary entry I shall ever make. I will leave it
where my dear husband can find it, should he survive this night.

The pains started shortly after I returned from speaking to Arkady in Zsuzsanna's
tomb and was walking with Dunya back to the manor. In the middle of the grassy
lawn, I sank to my knees, reaching out, and in my flailing distress caught hold
of Dunya's dress just beneath the collar.

The fabric at her neck gaped to reveal the tender skin just above the collarbone,
and the two small red marks there - round, with white centres.

Grief pierced me like a sword, filling me with the same icy agony as the instant
I learned, so many years ago, that my mother and father were dead. True, Dunya
is still alive - she breathes, she speaks, she moves - but she is as lost to me
as my parents, long buried in the cold earth.

I released a horrified wail at the sight; Dunya thought I cried out in the
anguish of childbirth. I wanted to flee, to run away into the forest. At first
I struggled, and would not let her lay a hand on me; but I was soon forced to
let her help me back to the nursery.

Once there, I fought not to shudder at her touch, too disabled by my condition
to do anything but let her tend me. But she has been as gentle, as devoted as
a sister. I look now at her loving, guileless face and can only weep.

Monster! Monster! Someday I shall make you pay for what you have done to her,
to Arkady's sister!

I can see in Dunya's eyes that she, unlike Zsuzsanna, is entirely unaware of
what is happening to her; my dearest friend has become my most dangerous foe,
and she does not even know it. How long has he used the poor innocent girl?
Did it happen recently, or has she been his since the night she slept in Zsuzsanna's
room? Does she slip out to him at night, when we are asleep? Has she always
been his spy?

Or did I betray her by telling V. I know of the covenant? Is this how her faithfulness
to me is rewarded?

I cannot bring myself to tell her, to rend her heart. Dunya, my loyal Dunya!
The
strigoi
has won. You and I both are lost…

Pain again. I can write no more. God help us.

The Diary of Arkady Tsepesh

21 April, addendum on separate parchment. 1 A.M.

I sit listening to my wife's screams as I write a warning to the child who
is now being born. Days have passed since last I wrote in this journal, and
in the interim I have experienced more grief and horror than words can convey.
Zsuzsanna died and was laid to rest in the family tomb. Of that period I remember
only the instant she died in my arms, her beautiful dark eyes fixed on her uncle’s.

The whole event is a blur; my will was broken slowly, inexorably, by first
my father’s, then Jeffries“, then my sister's deaths. And when the talons of
control crushed my mind as I sat three days earlier in this same room, this
time they would not release their grip.

Oh, but what I have seen this night transcends any previous terrors. What I
have seen so shocked me to my very essence that I emerged out the other side
of madness, and am sane.

Sane - and for the first time in my life, no longer a puppet.

Let me record, then, what I can remember clearly. I have stated here all I
can remember of my sister's death; I was apparently awake three days and would
not eat, and remained with Zsuzsa in the tomb, but of this I have only fleeting
recollection.

My wife came to me less than an hour before dusk the day Zsuzsanna had been
buried. This I remember well because of the emotions it provoked, and because
of what followed.

I remember sitting in the tomb on the cold marble floor beside my sister's
sealed casket, my back propped against the cool wall, elbows on my knees, both
hands grasping the revolver. I was in an odd state of consciousness, neither
waking nor dreaming, but somewhere between the two, where dreams seemed free
to intrude upon and merge with reality.

I had been inside the windowless building since midday, and had left the great
stone door open that I might better hear and see an intruder's approach. The
door opened on an antechamber, which contained dozens of older coffins, and
a narrow corridor led back to a second wider chamber, full of even more deceased,
to which had been added the alcove where my immediate family was buried. Only
a small shaft of sunlight penetrated the outer chamber into the alcove, leaving
it dim and shadowy, but my eyes had grown accustomed to the lack of bright light,
and I was able to tell by the increasing gloom that the day was waning.

I fell into a strange waking dream wherein I imagined that my father, mother,
and Stefan lay perfectly preserved atop their coffins. As I watched, they rose
with the slow, silent dignity of the dead to sitting positions, opened their
eyes, and gazed down on me with expressions of benevolent concern.

I was most of all surprised to see my mother - and quite clearly - for I had no
memory of her whatsoever, only a vague mental image based upon a small oil portrait
of her my father had, which was painted some years before they were married.
I knew from the painting that her hair had been pale, but when I saw her sitting
upright atop her casket, I was most amazed to see how much she favoured my wife.
Oh, she was larger of bone and build and bosom, with a square jaw and wider
face, but the resemblance was undeniably there, especially in the eyes. She
wore a low-cut white silk gown with short puffed sleeves and a wide blue ribbon
beneath her breasts, in the form-revealing, immodest
empire
style that
had been popular more than twenty years ago, when women dampened their dresses
to make them better cling. Her long curling golden hair was tied back with more
blue ribbon, but otherwise allowed to fall free like a young girl’s.

She seemed so young, even younger than Mary, and looking down on me with confident,
tender brown eyes, gave me a smile that made all grief and madness and heartache
fall away.

Beside her, Father sat, and my throat constricted to see him young and strong
and unbowed by grief.

And then Stefan rose beside them, a thin, knob-kneed, smiling-eyed child, and
in those shining orbs I saw a love, a tenderness that had been absent from the
eyes of the
moroi
who had led me into the forest, the
moroi
who had no doubt been a malevolent imposter.

At the sight of them, the familiar skull-crushing pain seized me. I cried out
and held my head between my hands, pressing hard as though to blot out my consciousness.

Yet, surprisingly, the pain could not cause these images to disappear. My family
remained, and directed affectionate smiles at me. I panted, disabled by the
agony, but my fear began to ease in their presence; and as the fear eased, so
did the pain, only slightly, but enough to permit me to open my eyes and look
upon them.

Their appearance evoked no trepidation in me, as Stefan's materialisation once
had, for they emanated such intense concern and love - all for me - that I began
to sob out of sheer wonder and gratitude.

In the past weeks, I had seen little of good and far too much of evil, but
when my family appeared round me, I felt it was a sign that good would triumph
after all - that the evil which had littered the forest with skulls would be
defeated, and justice done. I felt - I felt (even now it is difficult to speak
of it without a welling of emotion; the sense was so strong) that though they
were dead, my family put their arms around me, tried to give me strength. Most
of all, I felt my mother wished me to know that love would conquer all despair,
that all my grief and confusion would vanish if I would merely listen to my
heart.

I believe this even now, with all my being. If there is absolute Evil in the
world, then certainly there must also be absolute Good, which revealed itself
to me through the love of my dear, dead family; a Good powerful enough to break
through the mental bonds which held me enslaved.

Tears of joy streamed down my face - and in the midst of this amazing revelation,
I heard footsteps at the entrance to the tomb. Yet I was too overwhelmed by
emotion - by love - to be frightened or to raise the revolver.

And when I heard my wife's voice, at the same time frightened and determined,
softly call my name, I knew it was a sign. I understood my family's message
then: that I was lost, enslaved by misery and confusion, but Mary's love for
me - and mine for her - could dissolve the vampire's hold over our family and save
our child.

Hopeful, I set the gun on the floor by Zsuzsanna's casket and struggled to
my feet toward the source of that lovely sound.

Yet I was too dizzy and weak to remain standing. I sank back to the floor just
as my beautiful wife's silhouette entered the alcove. A stray beam of sunlight
glinted off her face, revealing eyes glistening with tears.

“Arkady?” she said, her voice high and uncertain; eyes unaccustomed to the
dark, she hesitated, unseeing, only feet from me, then took a halting step forward.
A second ribbon of fading sunlight fell lower, across her bosom, and gleamed
blindingly off the little gold cross and the faceted crystal decanter in her
hands.

“Here,” I replied, and watched as she peered into the shadows and caught sight
of me.

I suppose I sounded weak and pathetic, for she said, “Oh,
Arkady,”
with such pity and anguish, I was stricken with love for her. With great difficulty
because of her swollen stomach, she set the decanter on the floor beside us,
then struggled to sit. I tried again to rise, and managed to meet her partway
and awkwardly help her the rest of the way down.

My dead family had vanished by that time (though the terrible pain in my head
remained) so that we were surrounded only by silent caskets, but I felt their
love encircling me still. And so I encircled my wife with my arms, and pressed
against her and the child.

She wept quietly a time, without making a sound, but I felt her tears warm
against my neck. After a time she lifted her face, and said in a voice calm
but weary as my own, “I have been so worried about you. If you continue this
way, you will make yourself ill. Please… come home with me.”