The Vampyre (30 page)

‘“You have conceived,” I whispered. “Our child is growing within your flesh.” Annabella looked up at me; then her face twisted, and she looked away. I left her. She lay where she was, sobbing noiselessly.

‘The fruits of that night were both life and death. Yes - a child was born - already, I could nuzzle my cheek against Annabella's stomach, and recognise the faint golden scent from within her womb. But there was death in such a perfume - and death too in Annabella herself. Something in her had died that night - the infinite in her seemed burned away. She grew colder, harsher - the eternity behind her eyes began to dim - what before had been passion now seemed priggishness. She still loved me, of course - but like Caro, that was to be her torture and her doom. There seemed no hope of redemption for either of us now - and with Bell's destruction, I felt my own last hope was dead as well.

‘For now began the true torture. We left Augusta and headed for London. I had rented a new house, on one of the most fashionable streets in town - number Thirteen, Piccadilly. A place of ill luck? No - we brought the ill luck there ourselves. Bell's symptoms now were clearly gestatory. I could smell the child in her early morning vomit, or in the sweat that glistened oily across her swollen belly. I could scarcely bear to be parted from the smell. And so Lord and Lady Byron were always to be seen, arm in arm, the model married couple - the devoted husband and his pregnant wife. But Bell at least, seeing the desire in my face, was wise enough to know that it wasn't for her.

‘“You look at me with such longing,” she said one night, “but there is no love in your eyes.”

‘I smiled. I stared at her belly, imagining - below her dress, below her underclothes, deep within her flesh - the golden foetus ripening.

‘Bell watched me, and frowned. “Your face, B - it puzzles me.”

‘I looked up. “Indeed?” I said.

‘Bell nodded. She studied me again. “How can any face so beautiful look so hungry and cruel? You look at me - or rather” - she clasped her stomach - “you look at this, in the same way that you used to look at Augusta. I remember how your eyes used to follow her round the room.”

‘I stared at her, my face passionless. “And why does that puzzle you, Bell?”

‘“It puzzles me,” she said, “because it also frightens me.” Her eyes narrowed. They glittered cold and stern. “I am afraid, B, of what you will do to my child.”

‘“Our child?” I laughed. “Why, what could I do?” Suddenly, my face froze. “Do you think I might strangle it at birth, and drain its blood?”

‘Bell stared at me. Her face seemed more drawn than I had ever seen it before. She rose to her feet. She clasped her belly - then she turned and, wordlessly, she left the room.

‘The next week, Augusta arrived to stay with us. She had come at Annabella's invitation. This disturbed me. I wondered how much Bell either knew or guessed. Certainly, the scent of Augusta's blood distracted me; I grew savage again with conflicting desires; I ordered her to leave. All this Annabella watched with cold, suspicious eyes, and she began to clutch her stomach as though guarding it from me. From then on, I tried to be more careful. As Lady Melbourne warned: “Do not lose the wife before you have the child.” And so I began to leave Bell alone at nights. I would dine, get drunk, visit the theatre - and then, swathed in black and violent cruelty, I would prey once again in the city's vilest haunts. I would feed until my skin was rosy and sleek - I would feed until I was absolutely gorged on blood. Only then would I return to Piccadilly. I would join Bell in bed. I would hold her in my arms - and, of course, I would feel her belly's swelling curve. Softly, remorselessly, the beating of a tiny heart would sound in my ears. Despite myself, I would press my wife's belly again. It would seem to stir and ripple to my touch. I would imagine I had only to press, and the skin and flesh would part like water. I would imagine the foetus, viscous and blue, with its unbearably delicate network of veins, waiting for my touch - waiting for my taste. I would bite it so gently - I would suck the blood out like water from a sponge. These longings would become so intense, that I would start to shake. I would imagine killing my wife where she lay - slicing open her belly, parting the muscles and organs and flesh - and there it would be - curled and waiting - my child - my creation. I would remember my dreams of the Pasha's tower. I would long for his knife, his dissecting slab.

‘I would wake from these fantasies shuddering with disgust. I tried to cauterise them, to sear them from my brain. But it was in vain. Nothing could rid me of their presence - nothing - they were a part of the poison that ran in my blood - the mingled fire of sensation and thought. I could no sooner escape such rottenness than I could escape myself. The Pasha was dead - but just as pox survives the infected whore, so too did his evil live on, consuming my veins, and all those I loved. “I wish the child were dead!” I would scream, when its blood beat particularly golden in my ear, and my fantasies seemed to be melting me. Bell would stare at me in horror. I would try to calm myself. “Oh, Bell,” I would sob. “Dearest Bell.” I would stroke her hair. Frightened, she would shrink back, then, hesitantly, reach out to hold my hand. Sometimes, she would press it against the swelling of her stomach. She would look up and smile, with doubtful hope, searching in my face for the father of her child. But she never found him. Dead-eyed and frozen, she would turn away.

‘One night, late in her pregnancy, she shuddered at my look, then gasped.

‘“Bell,” I said, kneeling down beside her, “what is it? Bell!” I tried to embrace her, but she pushed me away. She gasped again - and the scent of my child, in a sudden golden flood, dizzied my eyes and dissolved the room. Bell groaned. I reached for her hand. Still she pushed me away. I rose to my feet. I called for attendants. When they came, they too seemed to shrink from me, so fierce and cold was the darkness in my eyes. Bell was lifted from the floor, and taken to her bed. I stayed below. The perfume of my child's blood hung heavy in the air. All that night, and into the morning, the scent grew ever more beautiful.

‘At one o'clock in the afternoon, the midwife came down to me.

‘“Is it dead,” I asked, “the child?” I laughed at the midwife's look of shock. I had no need of her answer. I had only to breathe in the living blood. The house seemed full of rich blossoms and colours. Unsteadily, I climbed the stairs. Like Eve I felt, approaching the fruit of the forbidden tree. My limbs shuddered, I gasped for breath, I felt the sickness of a deep and ecstatic thirst. I walked into the room where my wife had been confined.

‘A nurse came across to me. “My Lord,” she said, holding up a small white bundle, “our congratulations. You have a daughter.”

‘I looked down at the bundle. “Yes,” I choked at last. The scent of blood seemed to burn my eyes. I could scarcely make out my child, for when I looked, I could only see a golden haze. “Yes,” I gasped again. I blinked. Now I could see my daughter's face. “Oh God,” I whispered. “Oh God.” I smiled faintly. “What an implement of torture have I acquired in you.”

‘The nurse backed away from me. I watched as she laid my child back in her cradle. “Get out!” I screamed suddenly. I looked around the room. “Get out!” The attendants stared at me, frightened - then they bowed their heads and scurried away. I crossed to my daughter. Again, she seemed enveloped by a halo of fire. I bent low over her. In that moment, all feeling, all sense, all thought was lost to me, melted into a blazing mist of joy. The richness in my child's blood seemed to rise to meet my lips, scattering gold like a comet's tail. I kissed her, then I took her in my arms. I bent low again. Tenderly, I placed my lips upon her throat.

‘“Byron!”

‘I paused - and then slowly I looked round. Bell was struggling to sit up from her bed. “Byron!” Her voice was hoarse and desperate. She rolled from her bed, and tried to cross to me.

‘I looked down at my child again. She held her hand up to my face. How tiny her fingers were, how exquisite her nails. I bent my head closer, to study them.

‘“Give her to me.” ‘I turned round to face Bell. She staggered, as she held out her arms, and almost fell.

‘“I have been waiting a long time for her,” I said softly.

‘“Yes,” gasped Bell, “yes, but now - I am her mother - she is mine - please, B” - she choked - “give her to me.”

‘I stared at her, not blinking. Bell struggled to meet my gaze. I glanced back at my child. She was very beautiful, this creation of mine. She raised up her tiny hand again. Despite myself, I smiled at the sight.

‘“Please,” said Bell. “Please.”

‘I turned from her, and walked to the window. I gazed out at the cold London sky. How warm and soft my child felt in my arms. I felt a touch on my arm. I glanced round. The expression on Bell's face now was terrible to see.

‘I looked away from her, back out at the sky. Darkness was rising in the east, and the clouds already seemed pregnant with the night. London, in a great mess, stretched away to meet them. I felt chilled with a sense of the vastness of the world. All this, and more, the Pasha had shown me in the flight of his dreams, but then - I had not understood -
I had not understood
. I closed my eyes - I shivered - I felt the measureless nature of things. What, in such a universe, was human love? A bubble, nothing more, on the breaking surge of eternity. A spark, brief and flickering, lit against the dark of a universal night. Once it was gone - then the void would come.

‘“You are to remember this moment,” I said, without looking round. “You must leave me, Bell. No matter what I say - no matter how strongly I appeal to you later -
you must leave me
.”

‘I turned round to look at her at last. Bell's eyes, so cold for so long, were damp with tears. She reached up to try to stroke my cheeks, but I shook my head. “She is to be called Ada,” I said, placing our daughter in her arms. Then I turned, without a further word, and left the room. I did not look round again.

‘“You are insane,” said Lady Melbourne, when I told her what I'd done. “Quite insane. You marry the girl, you get her pregnant, she gives you the child - and now this. Why?”

‘“Because I can't do it.”

‘“You must. You must kill her. If not Ada - then Augusta.”

‘I shrugged and turned away. “I don't think so,” I said. “Pleasures are always sweetest when anticipated. I shall continue to anticipate.”

‘“Byron.” Lady Melbourne beckoned to me. Her pale face gleamed with pity and contempt. “All the time,” she whispered, “you are getting old. Look at me. I waited. I was foolish - I gave in at last. We all do. Get it over with now. Drink your daughter's blood while you still have your youth. You owe it to us.”

‘I frowned. “Owe it?” I asked. “
Owe it?
To whom do I owe it?”

‘Lady Melbourne's brow creased only slightly. “To all our kind,” she said at last.

‘“ Why?”

‘“You are the slayer of Vakhel Pasha.”

‘I stared at her in surprise. “I never told you that,” I said.

‘“We all know.”

‘“How?”

‘“The Pasha was a being of extraordinary powers. Amongst the vampires, who are the lords of death, he was almost our king. Did you not realise that?” Lady Melbourne paused. “We all felt his passing.”

‘I frowned. Suddenly, half-formed from the shadows of my mind, the Pasha's shape seemed to pass before my eyes, pale and terrible, his face frozen with unbearable pain. I shook my head - and the phantom was gone. Lady Melbourne watched me with a faint smile on her bloodless lips. “Now that he is dead,” she whispered in my ear, “you are his heir.”

‘I stared at her coldly. “Heir?” I repeated. Then I laughed. “How ridiculous. You forget - I killed him.”

‘“No,” said Lady Melbourne, “I do not forget.”

‘“Then what do you mean?”

‘“Why, Byron,” Lady Melbourne smiled again, “that he had to choose you first.”

‘“Choose? To do what?”

‘Lady Melbourne paused and her face froze back into icy stillness. “To scale the mysteries of our kind,” she said at last. “To find meaning in the face of eternity.”

‘“Oh, well.” I laughed shortly. “Nothing difficult, then.”

‘I turned away scornfully, but Lady Melbourne followed me and took my arm. “Please, Byron,” she said, “kill your child - drink her. You will need all your strength.”

‘“For what? To become a thing like the Pasha? No.” I brushed Lady Melbourne away. “No.”

‘“Please, Byron, I . . .”

‘“
No!
”

‘Lady Melbourne shuddered at my glance. She lowered her eyes. For a long while she stood in silence. “You are so young,” she said at last. “But already, you see what power you have.”

‘I shook my head. I took Lady Melbourne in my arms. “I do not want power,” I told her softly.

‘“Because you have it already.” Lady Melbourne looked up at me. “What more can you want?”

‘“Rest. Peace. To be mortal again.”

‘Lady Melbourne sniffed. “Impossible dreams.”

‘“Yes.” I smiled faintly. “And yet - so long as Ada and Augusta live - then perhaps” - I paused - “then perhaps there is a part of me which
is
mortal still.” Lady Melbourne began to laugh. But I quieted her and held her; like a trapped victim, she stared deep into my eyes. “You ask me,” I said slowly, “to fathom the mysteries of our vampire breed. The mystery, however, is not to know, but to escape what we are. Vampires have power - knowledge - eternal life - but all these are nothing while we also crave blood. For as long as we have such a thirst, we shall be hunted and loathed. And yet - knowing this - I still find my own thirst growing daily more fierce. Soon, blood will be my only pleasure. All other joys will taste like ash in the mouth. That is my doom - our doom - Lady Melbourne, is it not?”