Covenant With the Vampire (31 page)

The pain gripped me again so hard I moaned, to her dismay and concern. But
as much as I loved her at that moment, as much as I would have given my life
to make her happy - I could not honour her request. Why? I told myself at the
time it was grief; I thought I did not trust V. or anyone else to protect Zsuzsa's
body. I thought that if anything happened to it, I would not be able to live
with myself. And yet… The truth was I remained because some external force
demanded,
compelled that I remain; because the invisible claws still gripped
my poor, confused brain.

Now I understand.

But at the time, I did not question my reasons. I merely stroked Mary's golden
hair and murmured, “My darling, I cannot leave. But if you wish, you may stay
here with me. I will keep us both safe.”

She tensed in my arms, “But you haven’t eaten or drunk in two days.”

“Ilona brought me some tea in the drawing-room,” I said, but that had been - a
day ago? Two? I could no longer judge time. I had no sense of hunger, but my
thirst was great, and I looked longingly down at the decanter on the floor.

Mary seemed to read my thoughts. She reached for the decanter, removed the
glass which had rested inverted over the stopper, and poured some of the contents
into it. “I knew you must be terribly thirsty,” she said, in a caressing, coaxing
tone. “I brought you tea with a little plum brandy in it; still warm, to keep
the evening chill away.”

The floral, fiery fragrance of the tea and slivovitz was heavenly, tempting,
as was the high-pitched melody of the liquid filling the glass. I realised then
how my parched throat ached, how my dry tongue adhered painfully to the cottony
inside of my cheek. I seized the glass from my wife's hand and drank it down
greedily, draining it in three swallows, unmindful of the tea that dribbled
down my chin.

“More?” she asked, and filled the glass again before I could reply. I began
to drink again, eagerly - then hesitated after the second swallow, alerted by
instinct. I drew the glass away, stared at it, then stared at Mary.

My conniving wife. My loving Judas.

I swallowed, then flexed my tongue against the roof of my closed mouth, savouring
critically: yes, there was the flowers-and-earth taste of the tea, and the sting
of the brandy… but there was another component as well, faint but altogether
familiar.

The bitter taste of opium.

The compulsion said to be angry; to scream at her, berate her; to hurl the
glass against the marble wall and see it shattered into a thousand pieces. But
the memory of my love for my family gone and my family yet to be stayed my hand.
I set the glass down and said, sadly, “You have betrayed me.”

A shaft of red, dying sunlight shone behind her, leaving her features in shadow,
but even in the gloom I saw her determination in the squareness of her shoulders,
the lift of her chin. “For love's sake,” she said. “To save you and the child.
Arkady, come with me.”

“I
can’t
,” I replied, and released a sob. “Don’t you understand?”

As I spoke, she rose to her feet, then gazed down at me. Her voice was utterly
weary, utterly determined. “Yes. Yes, I understand. He controls you - but he will
not for long.”

And she left without another word, moving out into the feeble sunlight with
the fixed expression of one resolved to be victorious. I knew she would merely
wait a brief time for the laudanum to do its work, then return.

Yet the instant she was gone, I gave way to the unreasoning fury. How dare
she be so blatant about her plan? For I knew that she intended for me to fall
prey to the laudanum in my weakened state, then with the aid of accomplices
would fetch me. And what would they do to poor Zsuzsa, once I was conveniently
removed?

I stood, snatched the decanter and glass and threw them blindly, then turned
from the tinkling shower of shards to sink to my knees, pitching forward until
my forehead rested against cool marble. Thus I remained, in a state of utter
despair and confusion, both in love with my wife and full of unreasoning rage
towards her.

As I huddled there, the sun set and the shadows lengthened, then faded altogether
into gloom. Soon the opium began to lower its soft grey curtain over my faculties,
and sleep threatened. I struggled against it, tried to force my wandering attention
on the sounds outside the tomb, to listen for intruders who would certainly
soon come. But I fell into another half-waking, half-dream state, my face still
pressed against the floor, my hands against my closed eyes. I felt the talons
sink into my brain once more, but this time I yielded peacefully and did not
struggle.

The darkness around me filled with a preternatural brilliance and I lowered
my hands to see Uncle's green eyes, ablaze with an interior incandescence. Yet
the dark outline of his form remained invisible - only his eyes appeared, though
I clearly heard him speak.

Be strong, Arkady. Stay awake but a little while longer, and all will be
well.

His voice was musical, soothing, pleasing to the ear, and soon I calmed. Despite
his urging, I fell after several moments into a sound slumber. How long I slept
I do not know; but I was awakened some time later when the corridor lit up with
the distant, yellow glow of a lantern, and footsteps echoed in the tomb's entrance - followed
by a lupine snarl, and a man's horrified screams.

I clambered groggily to my feet, and groped in the shadows for the revolver,
found it on the cold floor, then ran towards the commotion.

Just inside the open entrance to the antechamber, the lantern lay on its side,
and the oil had spilled out in a puddle on the marble and ignited. I watched
by the light of that small blaze as a large grey wolf pushed its muzzle past
flailing arms, sank its teeth into the throat of a man, and shook him as a terrier
might a rat.

I raised the gun, ready to fire - but the rapid movement, combined with my exhaustion
and the laudanum's effects, blurred the distinction between victim and attacker.
I cried out in frustration, unable to aim, afraid to fire, lest I instead kill
the human.

The victim let go a gurgling, gagging cough; his arms fell back limp against
the marble as the wolf bent lower, sinking its teeth more deeply into flesh
and muscle and bone before giving another, more thorough shake, then lifting
its prey more than a foot off the ground.

The wolf let go, satisfied its job was done, and observed its handiwork. The
man fell back, his skull striking the marble with an ugly crack, the impact
spattering fat drops of blood on the white walls and floor.

I gasped as I recognised the old gardener, Ion. His white moustache was soaked
with blood, his dark eyes wide with terror, his mouth slack and bubbling with
the same crimson foam that welled up from his exposed windpipe.

With bright, deadly golden eyes, the animal looked up at me and emitted a low
growl.

I raised the revolver to shoot. To my surprise, the animal turned, and, rather
than attack, bounded out of the tomb and into the night. I did not pursue, but
instead knelt beside poor Ion, who was already dead. Only then did I notice
on the floor beside him a cloth bag, stained with blood.

I opened it, and found within the mallet, the saw, the stake, the garlic. The
sight filled me with wild, mindless hatred; I could not forgive Ion for the
act. Driven by overwhelming compulsion, I took the bag and its contents over
to the place on the floor where the oil had spilled, and fed it to the flames,
slowly, coaxing them to consume as much as possible. The metal saw remained
intact, and the mallet's handle was only slightly blackened, but the garlic
ascended to heaven like the most pungent incense, with copious, eye-stinging
smoke. I took pleasure in seeing the stake charred and broken into small pieces.

By then all the oil was consumed and the fire went out, leaving me in hazy
darkness. I slipped the revolver into my waistband and rose, dizzied by smoke
and opium, and stumbled back towards the inner chamber.

As I entered the narrow corridor, I spied at its other end a fleeting flash
of white, and hesitated, at first fearful; but the flash had been gently radiant,
like feeble candleglow, before disappearing. This was no wolf, but a person
carrying a failing lamp - Mary, I decided, who had returned and somehow slipped
into the inner chamber without my notice.

I called her name.

And heard, echoing within the second chamber, a soft sigh, almost a groan,
a sound that was at once human, feminine, yet strangely feral. And with that
sound - I do not understand how or why, but with that sound…

All confusion, all doubt fell away. There was still fear, yes, deeper and greater
than ever before, and grief. I an only compare my mental experience to that
of
a man who, ignorant of the fact he has been blind for decades, suddenly
regains his sight. The shackles of control fell away, the invisible claws that
clutched my skull withdrew. For the first time since childhood, my mind was
truly my own.

The light grew as Zsuzsa stepped into the outer chamber.

Gods! she was lovely, as radiant as an angel. It was her pale, shining skin
that had glimmered in the corridor, and I saw it in the darkness as clearly
as if she had been surrounded by a thousand burning candles - nay, that seemed
to blaze bright within her! Impossible for any man not to be drawn like a moth
to that inner flame, to those full, red satin lips, to those gleaming teeth.
To those eyes, whose gentle dark brown colour had not changed, but which now
seemed burnished with gold; blank, wild eyes which looked upon me and did not
know me. Her hair had become lustrous and black, asparkle with glints of electric
blue. That hair fell unfettered and soft to her waist, over a body whose shape
showed clearly beneath the diaphanous grave cerements: a body newly perfect
and full and womanly.

All this I perceived in the space of a second, no more. For that brief time,
I felt an urge to step forward, to embrace her, to kiss those crimson lips,
to weep with joy at her resurrection; but my mind was free, and my thoughts
clear. My elation turned quickly to horror as I understood with blinding conviction
the truth about V., about my poor dead sister.

Dear God, I only thought I knew fear. But what I have experienced of it in
my past is like a tiny crystalline pond compared to the storm-dark, turbulent
ocean that surrounds me now.

I turned and ran; ran as though the Devil Himself pursued, across the uneven
slope towards the manor, my mind swirling with revelations:

That my uncle was indeed the
strigoi
of legend. That I had been controlled,
led step by step by V., masquerading as my brother's ghost; that he had controlled
the behaviour of the wolves, who were meant to kill other prying souls who went
into forbidden areas of the forest - but
not
to harm me. That he had
stopped the wolves in time… in order to lead me to the conclusion of my own
madness.

He toys with you… It is all a game.

All a sadistic game to lead me to the forest, then to Bistritz, then to the
verge of insanity… but for what purpose? For this one night, when I was but
a pawn to protect Zsuzsa? To break my will, that I might cooperate in murder?
In the procurement of victims?

But V. needs no one's help; could it be that he torments me for the sheer simple
pleasure of it? No. It must be something more; he is too shrewd, too calculating.
But if’so - why now has control of my own mind, my thoughts and emotion and volition,
been returned
to
me?

I ran straight to the stables and there harnessed the horses to the caleche,
intending to fetch Mary immediately and flee with her into the night. Yet before
I could climb into the carriage and drive it round to the front of the manor,
I heard a sudden shriek:

“Domnule! Domnule!”

The little chambermaid, Dunya, dashed towards me out of the darkness, gesticulating
wildly; her scarf had come loose and slipped down upon her hair, and her face
was red and shining with tears.
“Domnule, hurry!”
she cried, sobbing
and gasping for breath such that she could scarcely get the words out. “The
child is about to be born, and he has taken her! He has taken her!”

My heart froze; I knew at once of whom she spoke, yet I grabbed her shoulders
and shook them. “Who? Mary? Has someone taken Mary?”

“Vlad!” she replied.

“Where?”

“The castle…”

I swung up into the caleche and took the reins; beside me, Dunya wrung her
hands, crying out pitifully, “Do not leave me! Please, let me come!”

“It is safer for you here,” I said, and urged the horses on; but she managed
to catch hold of the moving carriage and climbed up, saying, with a determination
that touched me:

“She is my mistress; I cannot desert her! The baby is coming and she will need
me.”

So I headed for the castle equipped with nothing more than a lantern, Father's
revolver, and the chambermaid.

As we drew near to those grey stone walls, they appeared especially forbidding
and forlorn; at first I assumed it was my state of mind that made them so. Then
I realised, as I stared at the great ancient battlements rising dark against
the darker sky, that not a single window shone with light.

I pulled the caleche into the courtyard and handed the reins to Dunya. “Remain
here. If I do not return with Mary within a quarter-hour, take yourself to safety.”

Fright had made her eyes great as saucers, yet she replied stoutly: “I will
stay here until you return with the
doamna.
”I tried to leave the lantern
with her as well, but she insisted I carry it; and so, with lamp in hand, I
tried to push open the great front door, which had been bolted shut. I therefore
went round to the small entrance on the castle's eastern side, which I knew
of only because I had seen the servants make use of it. With my free hand I
drew the revolver, and made my way through the narrow corridors and up the winding
front staircase toward the guest wing.