The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier Trilogy (Books 1, 2, 3) (50 page)

When the crowd hushed, silenced almost on cue, I was
blind to the scene but knew my maker had stepped into the ring and stood close
to me. Her deafening screech and the stench of smoky breath were unmistakable.

“Ei wai lina,” she whispered directly into my ear.
“You have made Xing Fu proud by defeating the Fangool.” She raised her voice
for the last part, as though announcing my victory to the crowd. The vampires
cheered and chanted, “Novice—novice—novice,” until, without a word,
they were silenced again.

“Ei wai lina,” she said. “Unfortunately your win
falls on the heels of your crime. You’ll not be able to reap the rewards your
victory is owed. You’ve misbehaved, and for that Xing Fu is humiliated.”

She asked me if I knew what I did, whispering the
question in my ear. I shook my head and the noose tightened, the sharp blade
poised and ready about my neck. I felt the pinch of it cutting into me, though
the pain was mute. I can’t say how close I was to being beheaded but I’m certain
she would have rejoiced had I been.

She turned her attention to the hushed crowd of
vampires and said to them, “Ei wai lina has killed one of our donors.” The
vampires went wild with hisses and boos, spewing profanities to evince their
bloodlust and rage.

“Unforgivable,” one of them yelled.

Another made a sizzling sound to indicate his
wanting me to burn for my crime.

“I’ll think of a fitting punishment,” my maker said
to them. “She will receive the proper torture,” she said quietly to me, and
then back to them she called, “In the meantime, she’ll be put in the tombs,”
which made the vampires wild with excitement.

I was pulled in opposite directions before one
strong arm yanked me in a single line and I was forced to follow. The heat
rose, as we descended to the keel of the ship. I didn’t think we could go any
lower but was obviously mistaken. I couldn’t hear the frequencies of the guards
who led me down, but I could tell there were at least three of them. They
didn’t speak to one another, and once they’d thrown me in the cell, they pulled
off the hood, letting the flying guillotine remain.

…

The sky purples, and my captor hasn’t returned yet.
If he doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll set out, carrying my chain over my shoulder
like a prisoner escaped from a gang. If I run most of the night, toward where
the sun sinks, I may reach the sea. I’ve no idea where I am, but I can discover
where the sun goes down. I’ll just have to suffer the burns—but I
can—for him, I can suffer. I need to eat again, I need to find blood
along the trail. I will do that first, as soon as the sky darkens a little
more—just a bit—as soon as the sun is at the horizon—I must
find my own blood—I’m starved—I need to feed. I dream of Hal’s
blood. One sip—one sip would suffice—I’ll find the ship for one
drink—one sip—will suffice ... one sip … one sip …

***

23 December.
— I mark the date,
but the sun has barely risen in the east. Evelina is imprisoned somewhere in
the bowels of the ship. The Empress did not take the donor’s death well, making
a public example of her progeny, despite my claiming the kill as my own.

“Liar,” the Empress said through a gust of smoke.
“Two of my guards saw Ei wai lina enter your cabin and heard the girl’s cry.”

I doubted she spoke the truth since they would have
rushed in had they heard a donor scream.

“I do not know what I have to do to convince you,” I
said. “But I have been desperate for a kill and simply could not control
myself. I will face the consequences of my crime. Shall I wear the guillotine?”

She stood still, contemplating my admission, and
then said, “Did you love her?”

“Love?” I said, without missing a beat. She asked
about Evelina, not the donor. “What an impractical feeling. I could never love
a human, Cixi. Only her blood.”

But she tried me further. “You won’t mind if I
punish her, then? If she survives the Fangool.”

“Is there a chance she will survive?” I could
out-maneuver the shrewdest of manipulators.

“Shall we see?” When she stuck a hand in the fold of
her ruqun, she touched a device and the looming portrait of the Empress Dowager
Cixi slid sideways, revealing a large screen with a feed to the ring. My heart
stopped when I saw my Evelina on the deck, looking up at the fierce Fangool. I
clenched my fists to keep my talons from showing. “Shall we watch the fight
together?” Cixi asked.

I could not make for the door, as desperate as I was
to go down to steerage.

“The Fangool accommodated my wishes,” the Empress
said. “She was more than willing to meet my progeny sooner since I mentioned
not wanting the blood beneath her new talons to dry.” She held out her silver
cigarette case, open and flush. “Cigarette?”

I could not take my eyes off the monitor, watching
my Evelina as though I could affect her will through the screen. My signal
reached for hers but could not get at it. The shriek of the Empress’s frequency
was too strong to overcome, standing next to her as I was. The cameras caught
several different angles, flitting from one corner of the ring to the next. I
would see the concentrated look on Evelina’s face and then the Fangool’s
villainous frown. I steadied my anxious heart, committed to keeping Cixi’s
suspicions down—I still wanted her to believe I cared little for her
progeny, and this was the best opportunity to do so.

I winced inwardly when Evelina received blow upon
blow to her face, her chest, her shins, her back. She rolled away from her
opponent and got in a few shots of her own but had yet to unleash her talons.
She skittered about the ring, seemingly lost, having forgotten everything the
Hummingbird had taught her. She floundered and Mindiss struck her in the neck,
but did not pull her up. There was no sound coming from the monitor and I could
not hear the wild vampires chanting for the Fangool to rip out the novice’s
heart, but I imagined the crowd’s taunts.

I restrained myself until Evelina vomited blood,
Muriel’s blood, all over the deck. I lunged for the door and sailed through the
passageways, flying with a speed beyond my own. I ignored the jeers and
whistles, the din of frequencies, and called out to the sparrow. It did not
take long for her to catch my call and respond with her own. I reached the
mezzanine in time to see the Fangool dig her fingers into my Evelina’s chest. I
was ready to pounce, my hands on the rails about to thrust my body down into
the ring, when the Toltec reached for my arm and stopped me. “Watch, ancient
one,” he said. “See her claim her victory.”

And she did, Byron. Evelina claimed her victory with
a burst of rage so admirable, I felt the seeds of my being shudder in my core.
I felt more than pride, Byron. More than admiration and satisfaction. I
experienced synergy; she was my warrior, my perfect counterpart in every way.
Her talons shot out from her fingertips, as her opponent bore through her
chest, wrath biting at her, and without hesitating she drove her weaponized
fingers into the sides of the Fangool’s head, penetrating her deadened skull.
The scene was one of beauty, no doubt arousing the audience of vampires. They
chanted for my Evelina, hailing her victor and novice no more.

Her celebration was cut short, however, when her
maker launched herself into the ring and took her progeny captive. I slipped
away then, telling Peter to meet me in my cabin.

When he came, I assured him Evelina would not be
harmed.

“But she took her away in the guillotine,” he said.
“She’s probably down in a cell—the tombs, she calls them.”

“Evelina is too valuable to the Empress,” I said. I
did not want to confess her maker had seen my weakness, had discovered my true
feelings for her progeny. “She cannot destroy the one she has made, and I will
not let Evelina come to harm. A needless torture may be unavoidable, though.”

Peter sighed. “She waits for your heroic deed, I am
certain. She can’t see beyond it, ancient one.”

I will always trust Peter since unadulterated venom
flows through him, though he does not know it. Like Galla, he shares the finer
qualities of our kind, loyalty being one such feature.

“Listen to me,” I said. “You must go to Evelina, you
must take her a donor to help her heal.”

“She will be under guard,” he said. “I won’t be able
to gain access.”

I studied Peter, and he grew uncomfortable. He did
not think I would approve of his affairs with the Empress’s most diligent
servant, but I knew from where to draw my allies. “Use her,” I said. “Youlan
will grant you access to the Empress and when you see her, you must insist it
serves no purpose to let her progeny lie wounded. I do not doubt your ability
to charm her spirits with your gift.”

“How did you know—”

“There is little about you I do not know,” I said.

Peter scowled and then relaxed his brow. “Youlan and
I?”

As I write this, I wonder if the Empress’s den
keeper is not the
Yoo-hoo
Captain Jem
had raged about. Impossible thought, for she cannot be superior. I should know
how well two vampires may hide their true relationship from others, though. No,
the thought is foolish. Empress Cixi is the one with whom I must contend.

I gave Peter the notebook I had taken from Captain
Jem’s quarters. I told him to give it to Evelina. “There is a pencil inside,” I
said.

“And what shall I say when I give it to her?”

“She will know what it is for if you tell her it is
a gift from me,” I said. “Tell her—never mind. Just give her my gift.”

“When I see the Empress, should I suggest Evelina’s
donor be Muriel?” He asked.

I had told him I wanted Evelina to feed on the same
blood as me, but I did not think he could present such a demand to the Empress.
“Let her decide whose blood Evelina may have,” I said. “She must believe you
are merely doing her bidding.”

I despise the thought of Evelina downing the
narcotized blood, but I did not think I could arrange her feeding any other
way. A den donor’s blood is better than no blood, and her wounds need to heal.

I did not wait for Peter’s return, but went to see
Captain Jem, despite his quarter’s being off limits. He had sobered up, if only
a little, but did not shy away from me. Talkative and brash, he told me about
the three men I brought to my hill town. I baited him with a false story about
a sailor going overboard, and he ranted about the three as if their story was
his own.

“Middle of the night,” he said. “They just fucking
vanished. The queen was livid,” he said. “Fucking emperor-ress, whatever. She
fucking lost it, came crashing in here like I had something to do with it.”

He swirled his hand about his head, gesturing to her
insanity.

“And did you?” I asked

“Pffft!” He said. “Why the fuck would I help ‘em?”

“Were they not American like you?

He scoffed. “Nothing’s fucking American now. They
were from the womb through and through.”

I did not ask him to explain the womb again since I
have decided to flesh out the information another way. “Were they den donors?”
I asked.

“Fucking donors, donors, donors—that’s all you
ghouls think about. My fucking crew, the fucking psychos on this ship, you’re
all a bunch of bloodsuckers.” His irrational outburst seemed to blacken his
mood. “And how did you know they were American?”

My inquisition was not a two-way street, and I was
sure to inform him of that by dismissing his question. I asked, “Why do you
think they left?”

He opened a cupboard beneath his berth and pulled
out a fresh bottle of golden liquor. He twisted the cap off and threw it on the
sideboard. He took an excessive swig, titling his head back, revealing the
throbbing vein in his neck. Captain Jem’s quarters suddenly shrank and I saw
red. I floated to him, poised with the drink, and pulled on his raggedy hair,
keeping his head back. He choked on the liquor and pulled the bottle from his
mouth.

“What the fuck?” He said. “Get the fuck off
me—let me the fuck go.”

“You seem to forget yourself, Captain Jem,” I said.
“You are on a floating vessel with bloodhungry creatures who would like nothing
more than to rip out your throat. I have killed greater men for far less.”

Captain Jem looked at me sideways, his eyes a bit
wider than before. I smiled and showed him my subtle fangs. He grew skittish
and tried to pull himself from my hold.

“Wasted energy,” I said. “You are all mine.”

He swallowed and exhaled and said, “This is why it’s
over.”

I have grown too used to Muriel’s blood to spoil it
with another’s, but since we were there, together, alone, I indulged. I was
gentle with the skipper, despite my eagerness to sink in more deeply. His blood
was not tainted like that of the den donors, though his liquor-soaked ichor was
not as tasty as one might expect. I left him a little more wary of my kind, I
suppose, bleeding him until he passed out. I am certain he will wake thinking
he drank too much.

Back in my cabin, I await Peter’s return with news
of Evelina—

***