Covenant With the Vampire (13 page)

“I must apologise for my fit of temper, Arkady, but I have only a few rules
for those in my service, and I demand that they be followed. There is no quicker
way to provoke my wrath.” He poured a glass of the slivovitz and handed it to
me, saying: “Drink.”

I took it, though I did not want it, and, after a small sip, set it down.

“Now,” said V., with his usual warm solicitousness, “please forgive my outburst;
I can see it has unnerved you, and this was not my intent. Speak to me, Arkady.
Tell me what I must do to help you.”

I ventured timidly, “It is about Mister Jeffries that I have come.” When this
drew only an expression of polite interest, I grew bolder. “He has vanished
without a single trace, leaving all his belongings behind.”

“Indeed?” V. said, his eyebrows lifting with mild surprise. And then his expression
grew thoughtful, and he gazed into the fire as he considered this, his ruddiness
deepened by its warm glow. His anger had faded, but the blush across his cheeks
had not; it seemed his show of anger had left him permanently revitalised. “Most
odd,” he murmured at last. “I suppose I should not be insulted by this abrupt
departure. The English are full of peculiar customs.”

I made a small noise of exasperation. “I lived among the English for four years.
They are not in the habit of suddenly disappearing. I am afraid something dreadful
has happened to him.”

He stared back at me with puzzlement at the degree of my distress. “What would
make you say such a thing? What could possibly happen to a guest here, in my
home?”

“Perhaps… perhaps someone has harmed him; perhaps even killed him.”

At this he laughed aloud. Embarrassment and anger brought a surge of heat to
my cheeks, the back of my neck; he noted this, and immediately sobered, then
in a patronising, soothing tone, said, “Dear Nephew… you have suffered a terrible
strain over the past few days. Could it be this which has caused you to jump
to this conclusion? The man has left abruptly, but how can we say harm has come
to him? Perhaps he simply decided to return to Bistritz and in his haste forgot
his trunk; or perhaps he has some reason for wanting to disappear into the countryside.
Perhaps he foolishly went walking unattended in the forest and had his throat
torn out by wolves. Who knows? Perhaps he is not the newspaperman he claims
to be, but a criminal or murderer hoping to elude justice.”

My voice shook (from both anger at his questioning of my mental stability and
from fear that he was correct in so doing) as I replied, “Had he decided to
return to Bistritz, he would have asked Laszlo to take him, and he would have
taken his things. But today Laszlo is wearing his watch and his ring. He would
not dare attempt such thievery unless he knew Jeffries would not return.”

“Perhaps Mister Jeffries gave those things to Laszlo.”

“I think not. I think… I think he may have killed him and then stole them.”

“Killed him?” He was careful not to laugh, but this time only permitted his
eyebrows to lift in disbelief. “Arkady, the servants would never dare harm one
of my guests, I assure you. As you can see, I am most protective of them.”

“Perhaps most of the servants would not. But I think Laszlo is capable of such
an act. When I confronted him about the watch and ring today and accused him
of thievery, he said that dead men owned no property. And there was blood on
his sleeve, fresh blood. And this morning, when I arrived at the courtyard,
he was driving the carriage away, with a very suspicious expression, and on
the seat beside him was a large bundle.”

V. listened keenly. At last he said, in the patient tone of one trying to reason
with a madman, “Arkady, certainly carrying a bundle in the caleche can be explained,
as can the blood?”

“He lied about the bloodstain,” I interrupted. “He said he had slaughtered
a chicken for the cook, but she knows nothing about it.”

He paused, then continued, “But are you quite sure these things belonged to
Mister Jeffries? And that you did not mishear Laszlo's words? I feel certain
this must all be just a misunderstanding - ”

“I have no doubt what Laszlo said to me. And Jeffries” watch and ring are monogrammed
with his initial. He wore them all day yesterday.“

“You are quite sure of this?”

“Quite sure,” I said, but I read the clear disbelief in his eyes.

“I see,” V. said slowly, and turned away from me to gaze into the fire. I knew
he thought me quite irrational, and struggled to keep control of my temper,
lest I say something else heated that might further prove his conclusion. We
sat in silence a time, and then he asked:

“What do you think should be done?”

“Go to the authorities in Bistritz,” I replied, “and tell them our suspicions.
Let them investigate Mister Jeffries’ disappearance.”

Again V. contemplated my words, and after a long pause said slowly, in a tone
so soothing I thought at once I was a child snuggled in my bed, listening to
Father's low, lulling voice relating a fairy tale. “Arkady… I ask you to restrain
your impulse and trust me. I assure you nothing has happened to Mister Jeffries,
and that your conclusions are… premature. You have been under an enormous emotional
strain; perhaps sorrow is clouding your judgement. Let two days pass. By that
time, I am sure the mystery of Mister Jeffries will be solved. If it is not,
then you shall serve as our detective. You are bright, with a good brain; I
trust you to solve the mystery, and in the end we shall see that justice is
done. Only there is no need to trouble the authorities. Will you promise to
trust me?”

As he spoke, I felt a wave of dizziness, and the same viselike pain in my skull - and
the same conviction that I was losing my grip on sanity. Perhaps I
was
being foolish to suspect Laszlo on such little evidence; perhaps I could not
trust what my own eyes had seen. After all, here was V. sitting before me, a
man suddenly ten years younger.

“I promise,” I said bleakly. V. refused to discuss any business, saying that
I clearly needed to go home early and rest; and so I took my leave of him.

When I passed by the guest chambers again on my way out of the castle, they
had been entirely emptied of Jeffries’ belongings; it is as if he had never
existed, had never come.

I left the castle, my heart heavy at the thought of what might have happened
to poor Jeffries, my mind perplexed by all I had seen - both real and unreal.

How shall I discern the difference?

On the drive home, as the caleche rolled across the grassy knoll, I was drawn
from my anxious reverie by the horses“ nervous whinnies, and caught a glimpse
of what had troubled them: a large grey wolf, bounding in our same direction,
from the castle towards the manor. I gave the reins a snap and the horses gratefully
quickened their pace; but I had come to myself enough to note my surroundings,
and could not help gazing over my right shoulder at the bright nacreous beauty
of the moon, sailing above the thick stand of forest.

I stared at it only a few seconds. As I did, something small and pale began
to materialise against the backdrop of dark forest; I knew at once, before my
eyes focused, that it was Stefan. After Father's mutilation, I could not bear
to look upon my brother's face or throat, and so I fastened my gaze on his white
linen shirt, and the large irregular black stain there, which radiant moonlight
imbued with a satiny sheen.

Stefan raised an arm, and pointed at the forest - in the same direction as twice
before.

Hesitant, intrigued, fearful, I coaxed the reluctant horses in the direction
of the apparition. As I neared, Stefan vanished, only to reappear further away,
almost hidden by the shadows of tall pine at the forest's edge.

I urged the horses closer. Again Stefan vanished, then reappeared, this time
inside the forest's border, and motioned me to enter.

I drew a breath and followed; the horses moved tentatively, snorting their
disapproval at my foolhardiness. The passageway between the trees was narrow,
and boughs brushed against the sides of the caleche, releasing the fragrance
of evergreen. The instant we entered, panic and regret seized me, for the trees
were so close and their foliage so dense that I found myself staring into utter
blackness; by contrast, the moonlit knoll had seemed bright as day. Only the
smell of pine and the brush of tree limbs revealed my location.

Blinded, I reined the horses to a stop, and tried to determine the placement
of tree trunks so that I might safely direct the caleche back out. Yet in the
midst of the darkness, Stefan's small form appeared once more before us, glowing
with the same radiance as the moon, illuminating the path towards him.

Once more, I followed in the caleche. But before we arrived at the place where
Stefan had stood, I detected a thrashing in the undergrowth, a low growl, a
blur of movement, and pulled the horses round at once. The caleche swung about
in the opposite direction, so swiftly that one wheel lifted off the ground and
I very nearly lost my balance and fell - which would have proven fatal.

The forest went coal-black. I could see nothing, but felt the tension on the
reins as the horses reared, heard their screams above the snarls of wolves.
I slapped the reins, hard, harder, half rising out of desperation, but the horses
were too panicked to obey. The wolves leapt, biting at the horses’ faces; I
heard the snap of their jaws, the thud of their paws against the ground, and
recoiled as one jumped at the caleche, so near that I felt its warm breath against
my face and heard the whistle of air as its teeth clamped shut.

This horrible scene endured only seconds, but it seemed an eternity before
I found the whip and galvanised the shrieking horses into movement. We thundered
out of the trees into the streaming moonlight. The wolves at first followed,
nipping at the terrified animals’ hooves, but soon fell away and dashed back
into the forest.

The horses and I were trembling uncontrollably by the time we returned to the
manor. Through some miracle, neither of the animals was seriously harmed. Even
so, I felt terribly guilty when I saw their bleeding muzzles, and as the stablehand
was already asleep, I tended to their wounds, speaking gently to calm them - though
I think the act did more to steady my nerves than theirs. I promised them we
would never again venture into the forest without Father's gun.

I could not promise that I would not go there again. Stefan awaits me. Something
evil tried to prevent me from discovering what he wanted me to find tonight.

But this is irrational! My dead brother's appearances are nothing more than
the result of stress and imagination. Yet the delusion is so strong, it is difficult
to resist…

Have shock and sorrow driven me to the brink of insanity? I feel as though
I teeter on the precipice. I have seen my dead brother materialise before me;
I have seen V. impossibly rejuvenated. I have felt the talons of madness clutch
my skull. How can I be certain if I indeed saw Laszlo wearing Jeffries’ ring,
or saw the bundle in the caleche, or blood on his sleeve? How can I know for
certain Jeffries himself existed?

No. No. I must not doubt or I
shall go
mad. Stefan is an hallucination - compelling
but unreal; but I know I saw Laszlo wearing the ring, and I know I did not misunderstand
his insolent, incriminating remark.

By the time I entered the house, I had mastered my shaking and achieved some
degree of calm - a good thing, as Mary was still awake. I think she is concerned
about me - I have tried to hide the shocks of the past few days, but I suspect
I have done too poor a job. That small crease she gets between her eyebrows
when she is particularly preoccupied has reappeared. She gently broke the news
to me that Zsuzsanna seems to be quite ill of some unknown malady, and though
I know she was distressed by it, I could not help feeling that she was hiding
something more for fear of alarming me. I worry so that she is unhappy here,
or that something has occurred to upset her.

She also questioned me, asking whether there was something troubling me. I
tried to reassure her that all was well, but I do not think she believed me.

We retired early, and I did not pause, as is my custom, to record the day's
events in my diary; I was exhausted by the emotional strain.

To comfort me as we lay together, Mary put my hand upon her stomach so that
I might feel the child moving within her; the precocious rascal kicked so hard
that we both were forced to forget our troubles and laugh. My own laughter verged
on tears, for I felt a resurgence of the overwhelming love and gratitude I had
experienced on the wagon-lit from Vienna, when I had gazed upon my sleeping
wife.

I fell asleep quickly, but woke within the hour from a dream of Shepherd, lifting
his bloody head to regard me with the white eyes of a wolf. I fear returning
to that dream, and so I have risen to record these words by lamplight.

Oh, Mary! Dear unborn child! To what sort of madhouse have I brought you?

The Journal of Mary Windham Tsepesh

11 April. Morning.

The night before last, I scarcely slept, though I pretended to be asleep when
Arkady returned. I was too overwhelmed to make sense of what I had seen, so
I spent the long hours beside him in bed, listening to his breathing and praying
to God that, when I rose in the morning, I would wake to find I had been victim
of nothing more than a nightmare.

I pray often in secret these days. Arkady knows of my faith in God. (How tolerantly
we smile at one another, each smug in his own beliefs, when one of us makes
a pronouncement concerning religion.) Not the sour, wrathful God of England's
Church, Who would curse my husband to Hell for his disbelief. The God to Whom
I pray is wise, loving, far too divinely shrewd to be concerned with the petty
rules and jealousies and wars of humans, or to be so annoyed by my husband's
rejection that He would damn him to eternal torment.