Covenant With the Vampire (4 page)

"I apologise for disturbing you," he said. "I had not expected to find you
here."

"It is no disturbance."

"And how is your dear young wife?"

"Well. Resting."

"That is good," he said gravely. "We must do everything possible to maintain
her precious health, for the sake of the coming child." He glanced about at
the still, empty chapel. "But where are the mourners? The ones I paid to sing
BoceteV

"Gone," said I. "I dismissed them. It is entirely my fault. I hope you are
not angered, but I wished for silence."

"Of course," he replied, with great sympathy, and waved a hand to dismiss it.
"But how you have changed since last I saw you; you have become a man. More
than ever before, you resemble your father." He took a step back to better study
me, and drew in a short, pained breath. "It's true. You have his face, his hair…"
This was stated approvingly, then (surely I imagined this) his tone grew faintly
disappointed. "But your eyes have something of your mother in them."

He held my gaze for a moment, then turned towards the coffin. A look of sorrow
crossed his face as he sighed, "And here is our Petru…" ,

"Yes," I said, and retreated to the pew to allow him his moment of grief.

He raised a hand to his face as he closed his eyes, and said, with a grief
so deep fresh tears sprang to my eyes: "Is there anything more horrible than
death? More terrible than the realisation that he is lost to us forever?"

And then he lowered his arm, and approached the casket reverently; he took
my father's hand, and in a low, impassioned voice, exclaimed: "Ah, Petru! Has
your flesh grown so cold at last?" And he bent, raising the hand to his lips,
and kissed it, saying, "At times, I feel I have walked too long upon this earth;
too many times have I seen loved ones die, too many times kissed a dear dead
face."

He tried to replace Father's hand with some dignity, but sorrow finally overwhelmed
him, and he sank down to rest his cheek upon my father's chest, as I had, whispering
all the while: "Petru! Petru! My only true friend…"

And he wept. I closed my eyes and turned away, for to witness his suffering
was to add to my own; he looked so frail and pathetic bending over the casket
that I could not keep from thinking that soon, all too soon, he would be lying
in his own.

When at last he collected himself and rose, he gazed down on my father and
proclaimed, with such forceful, passionate conviction that his voice rang echoing
off the cold stone walls, and I knew it carried beyond the pale of death, so
that my father and all my ancestors heard: "I swear to you, by the name Tsepesh,
that your loyalty will not go unrewarded."

With that, he came and sat beside me, and we held vigil in silence. Soon afterwards,
the wolves began to howl again, so nearby that I could not help glancing anxiously
out the darkened window. Uncle saw and smiled faintly, reassuringly. "Do not
fear, Arkady. They will not harm you."

But the sound settled deep into my mind, and after some time, I fell into the
dream of Stefan and Shepherd once again, in the nightmare running through endless
forest. Hours and hours I ran, screaming Stefan's name while wolves snarled
in the distance; only then did I arrive at my ghastly destination to see my
brother's bleeding body, and Shepherd, raising his dripping bright red muzzle
to gaze at me…

Suddenly my father stood between us, his back trustingly towards the beast.
He gripped my wrist and turned the tender inside of my arm outward. I did not
resist; this was my father, whom I loved.

Trust me
, he said.
No harm will come to you
…

Silver flashed in a gleaming downward arc from his upraised arm to my exposed
flesh. I cried out, startled by the pain.

At the touch of a cold hand upon my shoulder, I woke gasping to find myself
staring into white wolf eyes.

"Arkady," Uncle said sternly. "Wake up. You are dreaming."

I blinked, and the wolfs eyes became my father’s, set in Uncle's pallid countenance.
Outside, the darkness had eased to pre-dawn.

"I must return," Uncle said.

I rose and escorted him to the doorway, thanking him for sitting vigil with
me, but he raised a hand to silence me, saying, "It is only fitting." He paused,
and for the first time, I detected a trace of hesitancy in his manner. "Tell
me, did your father ever mention to you the possibility of taking his place?"

"Yes," I replied. "It was understood. I had always intended to return to manage
the estate someday; I would be honoured to do so on your behalf."

"Ah. Excellent. But let us not speak of business now while our hearts are heavy."
He put his hands upon my shoulders, and we took our leave of each other in the
traditional manner, then went our separate ways into the retreating night.

The renewed howling in the distance made me hasten across the dewy grass towards
the manor. As I neared the manor's east entrance, I chanced to see a dark blur
of movement low and to my left and froze in panic, thinking it was a stray wolf
or perhaps even a crouching bear, running towards me.

It was neither. As I directed my sight towards the source of the movement and
my eyes adjusted to the dimness, Stefan's small, bloodied form coalesced in
the waning moonlight.

My dead brother stood at the far end of the east wing overlooking the forest
between manor and castle; he raised a thin arm and gestured sweepingly at the
tall pines.

Our gazes met. He regarded me with reproachful solemnity, no longer the grinning
imp, his dark brown eyes - my mother's eyes - huge and almond-shaped, with a slight
upward tilt, set in a child's head still too big for his bleeding body. Beneath
his chin, a darkly glistening flap of skin hung down; moonlight gleamed off
the whiteness of bone at his throat. He pointed with his forefinger again at
the distant trees and silently stamped his foot in a characteristic gesture
of impatience I had not seen in twenty years.

I emitted a soft bleat of terror, fell to my knees and covered my face. I remained
there some minutes until at last I dared peer between trembling fingers.

Stefan was gone. I pushed myself to my feet, brushing away bits of damp grass
that clung to my trousers, and hurried into the house.

* * *

And now I write. Everywhere I look tonight, I fear I will see Stefan - in the
bed beside my wife, outside in the corridor. I know this apparition is merely
the result of grief, yet I cannot free my mind from ruminating on the legends
about the
moroi.

What do you want me to find, little brother? What treasure lies hidden in the
forest?

I have written this at feverish pace. It is yet morning, but the sun is high
in the sky. Mary still sleeps, poor tired thing. I shall go lie beside her now,
and pray I do not dream of wolves.

Zsuzsanna Tsepesh's Diary

6 April.

I write this after midnight - so I suppose it is really 7 April after all. I
am so hungry for sleep, so weary. The day of Father's death I lay all night
weeping; nor could I rest well the night after. Now that sweet sleep finally
comes, I am wakened by Brutus" barking. He keeps lunging at the window. He is
calm now, but if he does it again, I shall confine him to the kitchen before
he wakes the entire house.

When first I opened my eyes and gazed over at the window, I thought I saw reflected
there Uncle's face - but it was merely the lingering afterimage of a dream. Brutus
was so agitated I finally went over and opened the shutters to investigate,
and saw something crouched and grey running across the grounds: a wolf.

I had thought I would not be able to sleep after the fright, and would sit
and write about Kasha and Mary's arrival, but exhaustion overtakes me again.
To bed now. Sweet dreams, Brutus!

* * *

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh

7 April.

This country is beautiful and wild and strange, like its people; and my husband's
family, it seems, are the strangest of all.

I feel no small guilt recording such words. But I must ease the burden of this
knowledge in some manner, and I cannot tell my good husband, and most certainly
not his family. Yet as I begin to write, I am tempted to credit my uneasy perceptions
to delusion, brought on by my condition. Perhaps all expectant mothers suffer
such worries…

Nonsense. I have never been delicate, never "subject to the maladies triggered
by nerves. Arkady is proud of my levelheadedness; and it is true. I come from
a cool-blooded people. I love my husband for his warmth, his passion, his bold
declarations which do not spring easily to my lips. Most times I envy those
very qualities.

But his great-uncle and sister possess them to the degree of madness.

I can say nothing to my poor dear Arkady; he is heartsick enough over the death
of his father. I am determined not to add to his grief, for I understand it
all too well. I was orphaned at age thirteen. Four sisters and three brothers
I have, yet we all grew up apart in the homes of distant relatives when Mother
and Father died untimely in the fire. I have wanted for so long to belong once
again to a real family that it brought tears to my eyes in London when I read
the gracious letters from Arkady's father, sister, and great-uncle welcoming
me into theirs. I felt honoured to be a part of a heritage that stretched back
centuries; I felt blessed. I knew my children would grow up proud.

When at last I came to Transylvania, the lush beauty of the landscape charmed
me, and the magnificence of the family estate quite steals my breath each time
I focus my attention upon my surroundings. I can scarce believe I am a part
of this, that I am now considered chatelaine of this vast manor built four hundred
years before. As I write these words, I can lift my eyes and see through the
open shutters ethereal clouds of blossom where cherry and plum orchards extend
up the mountainside next to the prince's great stone castle, rising up against
the backdrop of the Carpathians. Beyond the opposite window, quaintly costumed
shepherds tend grazing flocks in the open meadow that borders the dense forest,
a sight that must be no different from that viewed by this room's inhabitants
in earlier centuries. Arkady says there is a vineyard, too, and when we rode
from Bistritz, he pointed out his great-uncle's vast fields near the village
in the valley, and said that come autumn, they would be golden with wheat. The
Tsepesh estate feeds the entire town - quite generously, I should think, for the
local peasants seem much better clothed and nourished than any I have seen elsewhere
in this empire.

I am overwhelmed, and anxious to prove myself worthy to be part of the family.
Another stab of guilt pierces me as I write these words, for they have required
nothing of me, have done nothing save welcome me with open arms. When I met
Zsuzsanna, my heart went out to her. She is so kind, and such a frail, lonely
creature - crippled, as so many of the peasants seem to be. Arkady says it is
because of their isolation and intermarriage, and one of the reasons his proud
family line is in danger of dying out. I felt sorry for Zsuzsanna, alone now
in this great, brooding house. I was sad for her father's death, but glad we
had come. I believe nothing would make her happier than playing auntie to a
horde of children (and nothing would make me happier than playing mother to
one). She is something of a child herself, having been, like her people, isolated
too long from outside contact. Although she is extraordinarily intelligent - she
practiced English with Arkady "for amusement" before he left for England, and
her letters to us prove she, like her brother, has inherited her poetess mother's
brilliance with language - she is also resoundingly naive.

But the great-uncle, Vlad -

Of him I know not what to say, except that he frightens and disgusts and charms
me. I do not want him near my children. Perhaps I shall have my wish, for he
seems terribly weak and pale, and according to Arkady is incalculably old.

When we left Bistritz, I saw fear in the old coachman, and I see it daily in
the eyes of my chamber-maid, Dunya. She and the other servants cringe when I
or one of the other family members approach, and will not meet our gaze. After
seeing the prince, I understand why. There is something terribly disturbing
about him, something frightful. I cannot label it, for it has everything to
do with instinct and naught with reason. Even the dog, Brutus, senses it, and
flees the prince's presence.

But Arkady and Zsuzsanna do not. They look at him with such love, such devotion.
They speak of him with a reverence others reserve for God, and they shrug off
what they term small eccentricities. Vlad did not even attend the funeral, but
no one took offense. It is as though he has them mesmerised.

Instead, he came the night after our arrival to Petru's
pomana,
a
traditional "dinner for the dead," for which all the deceased's favourite dishes
were prepared:
mamaliga,
a baked savoury cornmeal porridge topped with
poached eggs, stuffed cabbage, and a chicken dish with a peppery red sauce.
It was a small, sorrowful affair. In the cavernous dining-hall, Arkady, Zsuzsanna,
and I waited, wistful beneficiaries of a surfeit of opulence, surrounded by
hundred-limbed silver candelabra, a table service of pure gold, and the finest
cut crystal whose every facet reflected a thousand shimmering tongues of flame.
We were positioned at a long, heavy wood table that would easily have accommodated
thirty, and at the hall's other end stood a second table of the same length
but lesser height, which I assume was for the children. I could not help but
think it sad that the family had been reduced to us three plus the uncle. Apparently
I was not the only one to whom this notion occurred, for Zsuzsanna turned to
Arkady and with wan, forced cheerfulness, said, "Do you remember, Kasha, when
we were children and Uncle Radu came to visit from Vienna?"