Bloodline (10 page)

Journal of
Lily Shaw

4TH
N
OVEMBER 1916

Dear Mother and Father,

We arrived in Whitby in time for dinner at the Hope and Anchor—a quaint harbourside inn where we are booked for the night. Quincey has chartered a vessel, and we are set to leave on the early morning tide, weather permitting.

A storm rages as I write here in the room I share with Antanasia. She dozes in her chair, but I can hear Quincey pacing restlessly next door. He hates to be ruled by the elements, I suspect!

I, too, am restless. My body trembles with a mixture of fear, excitement, and anticipation. We left Carfax Hall so quickly I did not even have time to rejoice with Quincey at the prospect of our future wedding. There has been scarcely a moment alone with him. How I long to feel his arms
around me—to tell him how I look forward to our union.

But I must leave him to tend to our affairs, for we pass through dangerous territory on our journey and we must arrive safely. I have no doubt that in Quincey’s care, no harm shall come to us.

Your loving daughter,
Lily                           

L
ATER

What changes these last hours have brought to me. I am reeling from the memory of them, but I shall try to record them here.

It was around midnight. I thought Quincey had turned in for the evening. But then I heard his door open and close—and his footfalls passing our door. Heart beating fast, I rushed over and opened it. When I gazed down the hall, he was already halfway down the shadowy staircase.

“Quincey!” I whispered after him. “Where are you going?” But he did not hear me.

Confused, I turned back into my room to get my coat. Antanasia slept on peacefully. I threw my coat around my shoulders and headed after Quincey down the stairs.

Outside, the storm raged. Quincey leaned into the wind and made his way toward the harbour. I wondered, what could drive my love from his room in the middle of the night?

I had to know. I had to follow. I walked out into the darkness.

My heart hammered against my rib cage as I moved stealthily behind him. There was nary a soul on the cobbled streets of town—and no wonder. The rain drove hard, stinging me as it soaked through my hair, my coat, my nightgown.

Quincey paced the streets, then turned at the water’s edge. He ascended a path to the windblown sea cliff that towered beside the harbour. I glanced up. It was a terrible height. Near the cliff’s edge was a church surrounded by a large graveyard.

I feared the wildness of the wind at such an exposed height, but Quincey strode along, staring straight ahead.

His determination set a new fire within me. I had to discover what my beloved sought with such resolve.

Quincey was moving at such a pace that I was breathless by the time I reached the long flight of stairs to the cliff top. He began to climb, two steps at a time, unbowed by the lashing rain. My legs trembled as I stumbled behind him.

Halfway to the top, a strong gust swept the hem of my coat into a nearby bramble. Try as I might to free the fabric, it would not come loose! The thorns were like talons, holding me back.

Fearful that I might lose Quincey, I tore the coat from my frame and continued to climb.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I discovered him
striding the path to the churchyard. He swung open the gate and moved between the gravestones until he arrived at the cliff’s very edge.

Clouds tussled on the dark horizon in front of him. The light of the moon brought shape to their swirling mass. The gusting wind made the grass around the graves seem to flow like water; I felt its chill pierce my thin gown and reach into my bones.

Quincey seemed elated by the tempest that whipped around him, sending his coattails flapping like a cloak behind him. I gazed with awed adoration at his powerful frame, the brightening moon illuminating his noble features. He seemed a creature equal to the storm. He stared out to the wild sea, challenging the turbulent sky. His eyes bored into the horizon, as if he were trying to see beyond it.

Clearly a troubled mind had brought him to this place. But what could disturb him so? Whatever it was, I wanted to console him.

“Quincey,” I called. But he could not hear me over the howling wind. I stepped toward him, carefully making my way to the cliff’s edge. “Quincey,” I called again.

I was nearly at his side when I stumbled on a gnarled tree root. I lost my balance and, screaming, pitched toward the edge.

The world tilted and I beheld the rocky beach below. I began to tumble—

Then the strong arms of my beloved caught hold of my waist. He leaned forward and scooped me up in his arms as though I weighed no more than a child.

My body shivered. I clung to him as the wind tore at me, fearing it might rip me from him. He laid me down on a smooth stone slab—a grave, I realised. I breathed deeply, struggling to slow my pounding heart.

Quincey paced before me, then knelt and took my face roughly in his hands. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, forcing me to look into his eyes.

“Please, do not be angry with me.” I yelled to be heard above the storm. “I only saw that you were troubled. I wanted to comfort you.”

“It is dangerous for you to be here,” he growled, shaking me violently. “You have no idea.”

“I don’t care,” I argued, staring directly into his fiery gaze. “You are the master of my heart. Quincey, I want you. And I want to be with you—forever!”

His eyes softened. He seemed almost surprised by my words.

Then, for the first time, he truly looked at me. His eyes roamed over my body, now exposed by the thin wet fabric of my gown. He lifted his hands and pushed the dripping hair from my face. Then his hands wandered over me, tracing the curves of my breast, my waist. He lingered over me, savouring me.

I knew that I should be ashamed, but my body would not—could not—respond as if this was wrong. I leaned my head back, revelling in the feeling.

“You should not have come here,” he said, kissing my ear, the line of my jaw.

“I am glad I did,” I replied. And I spoke the truth—for there, safe in his arms and far from the quiet, calm world I have known, I felt truly alive. “Please. I am yours. Take me.”

Quincey shuddered. He leaned forward and kissed my neck. I felt a delicious pain as his teeth pricked my skin. Waves of pleasure broke over me. The world swam before my eyes and in a moment, all faded away.

Journal of
Mary Seward

6TH
N
OVEMBER 1916

I write from the train. We are due to arrive in Whitby around six p.m. I must admit that I had trouble leaving Father in such a state. But ever selfless, he insisted that my place was with John.

“My time in this world is near its end,” he said. “John
and Lily—they are your future. They need you now, more than I….”

We stopped off in London so that John could draw money from his bank. He asked for it in gold, as that will be welcomed anywhere.

As the train pulled out of Kings Cross station, we opened the parcels that Father provided for us. We found a sheaf of papers and notebooks along with a leather bag. Beside the bag’s catch was a name, clearly engraved:
Van Helsing.

We opened the leather bag first. Its contents seem to shed little light on the matter.

Amongst the mundane but useful items—an oil lamp, candles, and various tools—we also found a bundle of wooden stakes, each about three feet long.

I drew one out and handed it to John. He ran his fingers along its length—felt its sharpened point. “What can it be for?” he wondered.

Deeper inside the bag, I discovered some dried blossoms so old they turned to dust at my touch. I lifted the powder to my nose and smelled the musty scent. “Garlic,” I reported.

Reaching into the bag again, I drew out a small cotton bundle. I unfolded it and found it contained a silver crucifix and the crushed remains of a few wafer-like biscuits. “Holy wafers …” I guessed.

John shook his head. “This is ludicrous. There must be something in there that makes more sense.” He reached inside the bag himself. “Ah. Now this I can understand,” he declared, lifting out an old revolver.

I was shaken, having not yet dared to think of what we might need to do to recover Lily.

John, sensing my fear, laid a hand on mine. “Do not worry. The war has made me accustomed to killing,” he said quietly. “And I swear I shall protect you from all harm. Let’s start reading the notes now. Your father assured us they would explain all.”

And so I write while John begins to leaf through the pile of papers Father gave us. I hold Van Helsing’s crucifix in my other hand and take some strange comfort in its presence.

I only hope that we will not be too late to save Lily from this monster.

L
ATER

We arrived in Whitby to find the place in the thrall of a terrible storm. The wind and rain lashed the station and John struggled to open the door against the gale that howled along the platform. I am glad we brought so little luggage. John was able to carry both our bags while I hurried through the ticket office and secured a carriage to take us to the docks.

Our small coach rocked in the fierce wind as we clattered
over the rough road to the quayside. The driver stopped by the harbour wall and climbed down from his seat to help us from our carriage. “We’ve not seen squalls like the ones we’ve had these past days for many a year,” he told us. “Fishermen who went out afore this one blew up dare not come back in, and those who stayed in dare not go out. There’ll be a few empty tables in the town tonight, I reckon.”

John grasped the driver’s arm. “So no boats have left in recent days?” he asked, his voice raised over the wind. His face was taut with renewed hope.

My heart leapt too—I hardly dared hope that Quincey and Lily had not yet been able to set sail.

“A ship went out in the lull during yesterday’s early morning tide,” the driver responded. “It was such fleeting calm, she was lucky to catch it. Slipped out of the harbour while she could, like a cat through a closing door.” He grinned.

“Where was the ship bound?” John asked urgently.

The driver shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you that. But old Jacob, the harbourmaster, is sure to know.” He gave a throaty chuckle. “You’ll more than likely find him in the Hope and Anchor.” He pointed toward a harbourside inn.

Jacob told us that the ship had been bound for Varna. Our flicker of found hope was snuffed out.

I found us rooms here at the inn while John has gone in search of a vessel that he might charter to follow Harker and Lily.

L
ATER

John has struck a deal with a Dutch captain and we board the
Katwyk
tomorrow at dawn to catch the early tide—so long as the storm has eased. The wind outside is beginning to weaken, and I pray that it means God is with us.

We sit before the fire in my room, still warmed by our supper. I suppose we are lucky to have found accommodations so comfortable, but we have little thought for our surroundings. Instead we pore over the notes and journals in Father’s collection.

Included amongst Father’s reading matter are pages from his own diary, in which he made notes on one of his asylum patients, one R. M. Renfield. It was Renfield’s cell in which poor John was confined! The coincidence chills me to the bone. I dare not mention the connection to John; he does not know whose cell he occupied. But the more I read of my father’s notes, the more unnerved I become.

Referring to Renfield’s predilection for eating bugs, spiders, and the very lowest of creatures, he wrote:

As I read this, I remembered John wanting to kill and eat the rat he caught. I wondered if Renfield’s haunting presence
might have affected him in some supernatural way….

Just a week ago, I would have considered such a possibility ridiculous. Now I know that there truly are monsters in the world. Any of the horrors that haunt us as children may resurrect themselves to threaten us now.

“Look at this,” John said, handing me a book from the pile. “Professor Van Helsing was an old mentor of your father’s—a philosopher and a metaphysician—and an expert in obscure diseases. His help was sought when Dracula preyed upon one Lucy Westenra. Dracula desired Lucy. He came to her repeatedly and slowly drained her blood….”

I read the pages that John had given me.

I took hold of John’s hand.

“The notes say your father and Van Helsing found Lucy like
that time after time,” he continued quietly. “Do you think he has done this to Lily? Do you think he has drawn her blood?” His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his fear.

I embraced him, my heart bursting with pity. As I clung to him, hopelessness threatened to overtake me. Then I realised—we had to remain calm. We had to apply our minds to the facts at hand.

Though I wanted nothing more than to forget these horrible documents, to distance myself from them forever, I could not. I read on.

After digesting the tragic tale of Lucy Westenra, I turned to John. “Dracula drained Lucy’s blood over many nights,” I observed. “And after each bite, Lucy grew weaker and weaker. But Lily has
never
shown this weakness. And we have not seen the telltale marks on her neck. Harker must not have bitten her while he stayed at the hall.”

Then the image of Dora Hughes flickered through my mind.