The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier Trilogy (Books 1, 2, 3) (21 page)

I listened to him, though I was wholly
concentrated on the delicious waiting-woman at his feet. Perhaps he could see
my desire or maybe he just had a hankering for horror himself, but when he
reached into the folds of his toga, he withdrew a dagger. Quite casually, as he
explained his scheme, he reached down at his side and stroked the woman’s hair
as though caressing the pelt of his tabby. She kept her eyes on the basin, continuing
to wash his feet, as his hand ran over the crown of her head. When he ceased
speaking, I noticed the subtlest of changes in his expression and a slight grin
rose on his lips. As though sensing the shift, the woman tensed, and he grabbed
a fistful of her hair. She gasped, as he yanked her head back and leaned over
to force his mouth atop hers. Then, pulling away only a little, he brought the
dagger across his chest and to the under side of her chin. She did not have
time to surrender to her god before he dug the dagger into her neck and slit
her throat. As the blood spilled down the front of her robe into the jorum of
fragrant water and onto the stone floor, I licked my lips. I would need to find
someone else for supper.

“As I have said, brother,” Pilate continued
with the girl’s wasted blood forming a pool about her. “We shall call them up
to the mount to see some … agh, I don’t know … some urn buried beneath the
stone or some fabrication of the sort.” He sipped from a cup he had at his side
and then tossed another fig into his mouth. He licked his fingers one at a time
and then clapped his hands together. His eyes widened as though a brilliant
idea were just hatched. “We’ll tell them the holy mountain calls them to see
the sacred vessel of their god. Ah! That’s a good one.”

I could not keep my eyes off the
waiting-woman’s nectar. Its smell teased me, even as the ichor slowly
congealed. I was irritated by the waste.

“Are you with me, brother?” His words had
escaped me and so I nodded. “You’ll ride with my soldiers into the village to
slaughter the swine.”

I pulled myself away from the wasted treasure
congealing on the floor. “If I may,” I said. “Your Excellence.” He giggled and
I knew the title pleased him. “Will it not anger the Jews further and perhaps
ignite unwanted tension with the High Priests?” I asked.

“Praise Bellona! It will be war!”

And so it was, though Pilate did not reign
for long after that. Caligula showed the prefect no mercy, sentencing him
without a trial and placing him in prison where he could either take his own
life or gamble on exoneration in the other world. I was sent to Pilate’s cell
to deliver the verdict, and when I slipped into the room armed with an opal
box, he rushed to my side.

“Hear me out, brother, before you speak,” he
said. “If my life has come to its end, take my soul. I’ve seen your black
heart—your pointed teeth—your lust for blood. I know what gifts you
possess.” He whispered in the somber cell, his coquettish voice lost to fear.

I was not surprised he had discovered my
secret. I did not hide my passion for blood as carefully as I could have. His
ruthless ways brought out the worst in me. “I wonder if you are deserving of
such a gift,” I said.

“I assure you I am,” he said. “I’ll rule the
world with powers such as yours—to die and be resurrected. What could be
more potent?”

“I have yet to die,” I said.

He moved toward me, reaching out his hand. He
placed his palm on my chest and let it rest there for a moment. The sinister
smile I had so often seen cross his face was now gone. His countenance was
stone, shocked by the thumping of my beating heart. “But how … please, brother,
share your gift with me,” he said. “Spare my death and make me like you.”

I uncovered the lid of the opal box, where a
rather plump scorpion lay docile in its corner. Its tail was relaxed and its
stinger limp. Pilate stepped back upon seeing the arachnid, and shooed the box
away with his hand. “I can’t die,” he said. “Not like this.”

I placed the lid back on the box and put it
down. “Brother,” I said, “death is not unique to you, nor are you to it. Every
man who devours life to excess will be ushered into death’s embrace with regret
and despair.”

I let my subtler fangs descend and their
points drop over my bottom lip. He drew in a shallow breath and held it. I told
him to close his eyes and let grace bear him to the other side. He mistook my
meaning and turned his face away, dropping his head to expose his neck. I let
him go to his death thinking he would be reborn. He did not excite my desire,
but blood was blood. When I unleashed my iron fangs and opened my mouth wide, I
recalled the tasty girl in Sepphoris. She would finally be avenged of his
brutalities, and hers was the only face I saw when I ripped open his skin and
stole the life from him.

7 December.
—
This morning the boy warned me the smell of the cooked meat has
drawn the bloodless near.
We have
not seen any until now, and I fear the plants are not grown enough to have an
effect. Eventually Thetis’s flowers will multiply and their toxic seed will
spread through the soil to create a natural fortress inside our walls, but for
now the powder on the outer walls will have to suffice. The gate is sealed and
I do not believe they will attempt to climb the fortifications lined with
powder, but the boy stays on the battlement most of the day to stand guard. The
parapet along the four sides gives us a full view of our surroundings, and for
now we can keep watch.

“There’s a small swarm down near the tree
line,” he said. “But that’s it.”

When I am up there, I mostly watch the west,
where the sea crashes up onto the base of our cliff. Though we are several
hundred feet up, I am wary of a water attack. If the bloodless rise up out of
the sea, they will certainly scale the rock, adrenalized by the water. Rain
worries me too; if a storm comes, we will have to hope the powder holds.

The other matter is the girl’s health. She
looks peaked, despite the protein I feed her, and she may be anemic. “The baby
is using her up,” Alessandra told me. “Draining the mother of her nourishment.”

I am jealous of the unborn, for I must starve
in the meantime. It has been a week since I last fed. I feel the pain of
withdrawal, but am busy enough not to notice it every waking moment. Shortly
after we arrived, Alessandra and I discovered that the only source for drinking
water is a mountain spring running through the forest several miles from our
walls. I fetch water almost every day, and before I left for the spring today,
I saw the girl.

Her new home is a small two room squat with
open windows and stone walls decorated with grass roots and cracks. The floor
is a mix of cobblestone and dirt, and the thatched roof has been newly piled.
The boy and I repaired its holes before Alessandra swept out the floors and
dressed the interior with several pieces of furniture recovered from the villa.
Evelina has two stools, a small table, a raised mattress and several
tapestries. She has other trifles, such as dishes and a washbasin, but the
decor is more than lacking.

When I entered, she lay on the mattress with
her swollen feet propped up, frowning at me with her changed face, distended
and pale. Her smell is the same, though I cannot tell whether that is a boon or
bane. It still tortures me, if less than the cessation of our communion. The
bond we formed overpowers me at times, and I find it difficult to be near her.
I would not have gone in to see her if she had not asked for me.

“Sit with me,” she said.

“Is everything all right?” She shook her head
and I sat beside her, placing my hand on top of hers. I thought of Byron. Had I
somehow turned into him? Had he become me? I missed my beloved still, and would
perpetually.

“I’m worried about you,” she said.

I patted her hand with mine. “Ridiculous,” I
said gently. “You are the one about to give birth.”

“But you’re not feeding,” she said, knowing
my reasons. “You look sickly.”

“I am a vampire, darling. I am supposed to
look like death.” My attempt to make her smile failed.

“Alessandra feeds,” she said. “But she’s not
strong enough to keep us safe.”

I would not tell the girl I agreed with her,
though I did. Abstaining from her blood made me weaker.

“I’m frightened,” she said. “I’m having bad
dreams.”

“What dreams?”

“They’re coming.”

“Who?”

I knew very well who. Her fears of being
taken by the bloodless will never go away, and she has every reason to be
afraid. They are even more relentless in their desire for her than I am. She
knows her baby’s smell will lure all kinds of predators to our
door—bloodless and vampire. I have my own doubts about the war that lies
ahead.

“Tell me about the dreams,” I said.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “They
come from the ground—up through the stones, flinging them away as they
crawl out of the earth,” she said. “And sometimes they swing from the trees,
over the walls, squashing the flower beds beneath their bare feet—and
they’re huge … these men … these monsters. They have skeleton faces and their
hands are twice the size of yours—and they use them like big scoops to
rip up the ground around us. And they steal … they snatch the baby from my arms
before suffocating me with their horrid tongues, and—they—they—catch
me up in their teeth and they bite me all over—my arms, my neck, my
stomach. And their teeth … their teeth are like … are sharp
like—like—yours.”

She was agitated and I placed my hand on the
crown of her head to calm her. I told her it was only a dream, impossible fears
that would never become a reality. I promised to bring her a sack of Dilo seeds
to keep by her bed just in case. “It will keep you safe if I am not here,” I
said. “Both you and her.”

“Her?”

I had known for some time Evelina was carrying
a girl. The flavor of the child’s blood betrayed her sex; I tasted it in her
mother’s. “You are having a girl,” I said.

“But how—oh!” She took my hand and
asked me to help her sit up. She was lighter than one would expect looking at
her girth.

“Her scent is … like yours,” I said.

“But you’ll resist her, right?”

“Of course.” I could only hope.

Later.
—
I have just returned with the water, and something I had not
expected to find.

Before I left the camp, I faced the forest
and took a long whiff of the air. I let my nose dig into the trees beyond the
side wall, holding the scent in my nostrils, hoping to detect the faintest
trace of blood ripe enough for drinking. I gave Alessandra the message to bring
the girl a sack of seeds and told her I was going for water. I headed into the
woods with the cart, as dusk settled in.

I cut through the trees, trailing the scent
of a buck. I was disinterested in the animal for myself but wanted it for my
girl. It would mean several weeks worth of food for her. It had been a while
since I had smelled such large game. The forest had seemed all but abandoned by
its four-legged nesters. I picked up speed, as I felt myself coming closer to
the roe deer. When I spotted the reddish summer coat, I stopped several feet
away. I watched in silence as the buck picked at the leaves of the brush. It
seemed undeterred by the apocalypse ravishing the earth, unaware of the new
predator hunting its flesh. I practically floated on air as I made my way
closer to the animal. It was deaf to my approach, as it pecked at the briar
root. It chewed the branch greedily and the forest echoed with the sound. All
things dropped away, as I moved in sync with the buck’s jaw, its chewing
dictating the rhythm of my pace.

When I was a few meters from it, I crouched
low to the ground and then stretched long as I propelled myself up from the
path. My energy faltered and I barely made it off my feet. The twigs beneath me
snapped and the startled buck looked back in my direction. I realized then I
had been mistaken. I had not stalked a roe deer at all, but an emaciated
corpse, pecking at the rotting flesh draped over the brush. I tumbled
backwards, as the bloodless lunged in my direction. It did not attempt to bite
me, even as it swatted at me with its mangled arms, protecting its find. I
pushed myself up, grabbed the cart and took off in the opposite direction.

My delusions were getting the better of me.
It was not the first time I had imagined something that was not actually there.
I needed to feed. I raced through the forest to the ravine at the other side of
the woods. The wheels of the cart bounced off the ground, as I dragged it
behind me. I could hear the water rushing and smell the fresh spring, as I
approached. By the time I arrived, darkness had seeped in through the trees. I
crept up to the water, careful not to arouse a swarm. I had a small amount of
powder from one of the seeds hidden in my pocket and could only hope it would
keep the bloodless away. I dropped to my knees and tasted the cold water,
wishing it would somehow refresh me, reinvigorate my senses. But only
blood—her blood—would suffice.

I sunk the canteens in the stream and when
their skins were swollen, I corked them and slung them over my shoulder. I was
feeling rather defeated, believing I was stronger than this. I failed at the
sacrifice I was trying to make—anemic or not, I wanted to feed on my
girl—and then I smelled it, the slightest trace of blood on the air.