The Vampyre (29 page)

‘And yet so nearly I didn't. I stayed with Annabella two weeks, and didn't drink once; instead, I felt myself grow withered and cold. The winds were freezing; the food appalling; the parents frigid and tedious. Damn it, I thought to myself, I'm a vampire, a lord of the dead - I don't have to put up with this. When I escaped at last, back south, killing seemed like freedom again, and in the passion of my blood lust, I could almost forget my need to have a child. As the date of the wedding drew near and then passed, I continued to linger in my London haunts, and when I set out at last, the prospect of marriage seemed as chilling as before. I passed the road to Augusta's house; on a compulsion, I followed it; when I arrived, I wrote a letter, breaking the engagement off. But I couldn't sleep with Augusta that night; her husband was with her and my torment of frustration was enough to persuade me to rip my letter up. Reminded of why I was marrying, I set out at last, meeting up with Hobhouse on the way, and then travelling slowly north, towards my anxious bride. It was now the dead of winter. Snow was thick on the ground, and the whole world seemed frozen. My own soul too seemed turned to ice.

‘We arrived at our destination late in the evening. I paused outside the gates. Ahead, I could see lights twinkling. Set against them, the darkness and the gleaming snow seemed like freedom. I longed to run like a wolf, wild and cruel. I longed to kill. Blood would look beautiful, splashed across the snow. But Hobhouse was with me - there was no escape - we rode up the path. Annabella received me with undisguised relief.

‘I married her in the drawing-room of her parents' house. I had refused to enter a church - enough to send her mother into hysterics, as we took our vows, at the thought of what her daughter might be marrying. But Annabella herself, as I slipped the ring onto her finger, stared at me with her customary calm, mournful and sublime, and I felt her eyes stilling my restlessness. There was no reception. Instead, once the new Lady Byron had changed into her travelling dress, we climbed into a carriage, and set off, on a wintry journey of forty miles, to a remote country pile named Halnaby Hall. There we were to pass our honeymoon.

‘On the way, I studied my wife. She smiled calmly back. Suddenly, I hated her. I looked away, staring out at the frozen fields. I thought of Haidée - of blue skies, and warm pleasures - I thought of blood. I glanced back at Annabella. Suddenly, I laughed. I was a creature dangerous and free - and yet this girl thought to chain me with snivelling vows? “I will be even with you yet,” I whispered. Annabella looked back at me startled. I smiled coldly, then stared out again at the passing streets. We were in Durham now, and the sight of so many people aroused my thirst. Bells were ringing from the cathedral tower. “For our happiness, I suppose?” I said mockingly. Annabella stared at me in silence, her face pale with pain. I shook my head. “It
must
come to a separation,” I hissed. I thought of the fate in store for her child. “You should have married me when I first proposed.” Before I had met Augusta. Before I had learned the full horror of my fate - which now would surely engulf us both.

‘Suddenly, I felt a terrible shame. Annabella still hadn't answered me, but I could feel her anguish, in a way I had never felt a mortal's pain before. She had so much - and so little - of the child - and yet always, behind her eyes, there seemed to wait that eternal depth. We arrived at Halnaby Hall at last. As we climbed out of the carriage, she squeezed my arm, and I smiled at her. We kissed. Later, before dinner, I had her on the sofa. Her eyes still gleamed as she looked up at me, but it was with passion now, no longer with pain. It was good to give her pleasure - and good as well to feel my power over her - to feel her body obey me, if not her mind. At dinner, her pippin face stayed happy and flushed. I wondered what conjunction might have happened in her womb - what spark of something new might be growing there.

‘The thought aroused me. The darkness seemed to be calling to my thirst, and I told Annabella I wouldn't be sleeping with her. But pain burned in her eyes again, and she touched my hand so softly, that I couldn't resist her appeal. That night, I had her again, behind the crimson curtain of our four-poster bed. Then, for the first time in a long while, I slept. I had a terrible dream. I imagined I was in a laboratory. A pregnant woman was lying on a slab. She was dead. Her stomach had been ripped wide open, and a figure in black robes was bending over it. I walked closer. Surely it was the Pasha. I could see now that he was slicing out a child, cutting the dead foetus from its mother's womb. Wires were attached to the tiny creature's head. They burned and sparked; the foetus moved; it opened its mouth, and wailed with life. Slowly, the Pasha bent forward his head. “No!” I screamed. The Pasha bit; I saw the baby stiffen, then slump, and blood began to drip from it, spreading impossibly fast, until it seemed like a flood that was filling the room. I held the Pasha's shoulder, and pulled him round. I stared into his face. But it was not the Pasha's. No. It was my own.

‘I screamed. I opened my eyes. Light from the fire was shining through the red cloth. “Surely I am in Hell!” I muttered. Annabella stirred, and sought to hold me, but I brushed her aside. I left the bed, and sat staring out at the soft mask of snow across the moors. I rose, and left my body, to wander on the winds of that freezing night. I found a shepherd, alone, searching for a lamb. He was never to find it. His blood fell in a shower upon the snow, pitting it like gleaming rubies. When I had drunk my fill, I dropped my victim, and returned - to my body - and to my bed. Annabella, sensing my misery, reached out to hold me, and rested her head upon my chest. But her love did nothing to soothe my spirits, only agitated them the more. “Dearest Bell,” I said, stroking her hair, “you should have a softer pillow to lie on than my heart.”

‘The next morning, I stayed in bed till twelve. When I rose at last, I found my wife in the library. She looked up at me. I saw that there were tears in her eyes. I reached for her, felt her body against mine. I breathed in her scent. I frowned, then stroked her belly. I frowned again. She was not pregnant, I could tell. There was no stirring of another creature's blood in her womb, no infant life. I sighed. I clung to my wife, as though to protect her against her fate. “Believe me,” I whispered, almost to myself, “I am more accursed in this marriage than in any other act of my life.”

‘Bell stared deep into my eyes. “Please,” she said at last, in a soft, desperate voice, “what is this agony you are guarding from me?”

‘I shook my head. “I am a villain,” I whispered. “I could convince you of it in three words.”

‘Bell said nothing for a while. She pressed her cheek against my chest again. “Does your sister know of it?” she said eventually.

‘I stepped back. I was shaking. “For God's sake,” I whispered, “don't ask about her.”

‘Bell continued to stare at me. Her eyes seemed to be reaching to the depths of my soul. “There is no secret,” she said at last, “no matter how terrible, which will destroy my love. No secret, B.” She smiled, a quiet smile of pity and contemplation, and then her face was, as usual, still, not stern, and touched by love. I choked, and turned away from her.

‘Bell did not follow me - and neither, in the weeks to come, did she press me about the secret which she knew I bore. But I, like a man with a wound, kept touching it, and half-exposing it to her view, for her calmness infuriated me, and I was often raging to see it destroyed. In such moods, I would loathe her. I would hint at the miseries awaiting us, as though my doom was an antidote to my married state - husband, not vampire, seemed the more dreadful word - I would almost be in love with my fate again. But then the horror would return - and with it the guilt - and Annabella's love would still be there. At such times, when I could trust myself to her, I would almost feel happy, and my dreams of redemption would come back to me. But my mind was a tumult, and my feelings changed like the flames of a fire. It was not an easy honeymoon.

‘And all the time, my thirst was growing worse. Bell was permanently about me - and it maddened me. We returned to her parents' home - bad food again, and worse conversation. I craved vice. One evening, my father-in-law told a story for the seventh time. My patience snapped. I announced I was leaving for London at once. Bell demanded to go with me. I refused. We had a furious row. There seemed something strange about Bell - something almost priggish - a quality her virtue hadn't suffered from before. She repeated her arguments again, in front of her parents, and I had no choice but to bow to them.

‘I left with my wife, then - but my rage against her now was icy and cruel. “We will visit Augusta,” I announced suddenly. “We have time on our way back to London.”

‘Bell did not complain. On the contrary, she seemed pleased. “Yes, I'm looking forward to meeting your sister,” she said. She paused, and smiled faintly. “About whom I have heard so much.”

‘Oh - but she was to hear more - much more. After three months apart from Augusta, my hunger for her was desperate, and my passion a maelstrom of conflicting desires. Our carriage pulled up outside her house. Augusta descended the stairs to welcome us. She greeted Bell first; then she turned to me. She brushed her cheek against my own, and I felt a spark that ran to the depths of my soul. “Tonight,” I whispered but Augusta looked shocked, and turned away. Bell stood waiting for me, to take my hand. I walked past her without a glance.

‘That night, Bell went early to bed. “Are you coming, B?” she asked.

‘I smiled coldly, then glanced at Augusta. “We don't want
you
here, my charmer,” I sneered, reaching out to take Augusta's hand. Bell's face grew pale; she stared at me, but after several seconds' silence, she turned and withdrew without a further word.

‘When she had gone, Augusta rose to her feet. She was angry and upset. “How could you treat your wife like that? B, how
could
you?” She refused my demands to sleep with her. “There was no harm in it before, but not now, B - not now. Go to Annabella. Be kind to her. Comfort her.” Then she pushed me away, and I saw that she was crying as she ran from the room.

‘I wandered out into the garden. I hated Augusta, then - but I loved her too, her and Bell, I loved them both madly. And yet it was their very pain which had most aroused me, the glimpse of the almost-tears in their eyes, their own love fighting and mingling with their fear. I raised my face up to the blazing moon. I felt its light replenish my cruelty. I glanced up at the room where Augusta slept. Her perfume came to me on the sighing wind. Suddenly, with my nails, I slashed across my wrist. Blood welled up. I drank it. Lightness, like quicksilver, rippled through my veins. I rose, and my own desires bore me on the wind, and I entered softly into Augusta's dreams. Her husband was snoring by her side - but I lay with her, my sweet sister, and felt her flesh warm against my own, her blood, blood of my blood, sighing with mine, moving with its flow. A cloud passed from the moon, and its light spilled across the bed. “Augusta,” I whispered, as her throat was touched with silver. I bent my head, and my teeth pressed gently. Like the skin of a peach, the throat began to give. I pressed further. Still the skin gave. So easy it would be, to puncture it. I imagined the flood of ripeness and taste, the golden liquid, rising to welcome the touch of my lips, feeding me with youth, eternal youth. I tensed - and then I pulled myself back. Augusta gasped, clutching at the sheets, and I moved with her, until, damp-limbed, she lay still in my arms. I stared into her face, tracing my own in her lineaments. For hours I lay. I began to hear the first songs of half-awakened birds. Like a star, I faded on the coming light.

‘Bell was awake when I returned to her. Her face was haggard, and her eyes full of tears. “Where have you been?” she asked.

‘I shook my head. “You don't want to know.”

‘Bell reached for me. I shrunk from her touch. She froze. “Do you hate me?” she asked at last.

‘I stared at her. Guilt, frustration, pity, and desire, all rose up within me, fighting for supremacy. “I think I love you,” I said at last. “But I am afraid, dearest Bell, that it may not be enough.”

‘Her eyes looked deep into my own, and as ever, I felt them healing me and calming my rage. She kissed me softly on my lips. “If love is not enough,” she said at last, “then what can redeem us?” I shook my head. I held her in my arms. For the rest of that night, her question tortured me. If not love - then what? I didn't know. I didn't know.

‘For we were both, Annabella and myself, chained on the rack of my destiny. Love pulled us one way, my thirst the other. I was frightened by how nearly I had killed Augusta, how easy it had seemed and I felt a fresh desperation to save her from myself and get a child. But for a long time, the horror of my situation numbed me. I couldn't do it - not implant a meal of blood in Annabella's womb - not when that meal would be her flesh, and mine. And so Augusta continued to torture me - and the effort of sparing her - and Annabella's womb - drove me into rages that were close to insanity. I could no longer bear to sleep with Bell. Instead, I haunted the crossroads and fields, slaking my thirst, venting my rage, with attacks of furious savagery. But fresh blood now could barely stave off my frenzy - within hours, my need would be as desperate as before. One night, returning to Augusta's home, her scent almost overpowered me again, and it was all I could do, standing by her bed, not to slice across her naked throat. With a desperate effort, I controlled myself, and I melted away on the rhythms of her breath. I paced in the garden, up and down - then, for the first time in a week, I returned to my bed.

‘Wordlessly, Bell raised her arms to greet me. Like bright poison, my blood seemed then. Bell shuddered, then screamed, a desperate, animal sound. “Your eyes are full of hell-fire,” she gasped. I smiled; the fire seemed to be in hers as well, and her cheeks were flushed, her lips bright red. Suddenly, she snarled; she pulled my mouth to hers; her purity seemed burned away. There was nothing of Annabella now in her whorish, heartless face; nothing of Annabella in what she did with me that night. She began to scream, writhing like a woman possessed, as my sperm flooded through her, bearing its tiny, fatal seed of life. Her whole body buckled; she raised her arms; her fingers reached up to stroke my face. Then she began to weep.