Immortal With a Kiss (7 page)

The corpse had been properly cleaned and dressed, brought down from the staff dormitories, and laid out after the girls had had their supper. It lay arranged on a table draped in black crepe in the good parlor. The lamps had been left burning, and I could see that flowers had been brought in. No doubt Mrs. Brown’s conservatory had been denuded for the purpose of honoring one of our own. No one else would do so. Miss Thompson was a woman alone in the world—very like myself—without husband or children to mourn her.

But she had me to shrive her, and that was an act of love.

“Hello, Agatha,” I said softly. I needed to hear the sound of a voice, even my own. As I stood at the body, my nostrils flared, catching the sour tang of the revenant’s blood. Yes. I sensed it now. This was what my blood knew and what I was made for.

My fingers caught the high, starched collar furling at her neck and bent it back on both sides. I found the marks, very neat and barely visible: two small punctures behind the ear piercing the skin to sever the carotid artery. The blood had been let neatly, so that not a trace of it had betrayed the violent end. A vampire who wants to hide his kill will refrain from draining the victim, so that the death will appear natural. Sometimes, the wounds could even be charmed and disappear, but this time the fiend hadn’t bothered. He hadn’t needed to expend the effort. His ploy had certainly fooled that ridiculous excuse for a doctor.

At least she had not suffered the slow agony of being bled over time. This was the usual way a vampire fed. This one had glutted himself, not wishing to waste any time in ending Agatha Thompson’s life. He had wanted her dead and quickly. Knowing this reinforced my conviction that Agatha had known something—something about the coven girls.

I made the mistake of looking at her face. Her skin was cast bluish gray, her lips gunmetal, her eyes smudged circles of charcoal. I had not known her well, but I felt close to her in that moment, a slice of time so intimate it stung my eyes. If I were to be honest with myself, I saw my own fate before me. Dying alone. A person well liked, but not loved, not in the way that makes one really immortal, the kind of immortality that matters.

I had to turn away, suddenly overwhelmed with—as much as I detest admitting it—a wave of self-pity. My footsteps were sharp as I went to the window. The rich tasseled velvet felt like a barrier, keeping me trapped with the dead. I pushed aside the heavy draperies and opened the window, lifting my gaze to the fullness of the moon shining like a silver sun. Outside, the air was crisp. The bare landscape below was still.

My voice was barely a whisper. I spoke to the window, not ready to face the body. “I think you saw something, Agatha, didn’t you? I think that is why you are dead. How it must have frightened you. Not only because it was unholy—for I wager it was—but also because you feared you’d lost your mind. That you’d be thought mad if you told anyone, as mad as Victoria Markam. I wish I had been given the chance to persuade you to tell me what happened. I would have believed you.”

I turned back to the body and opened my sack. “I hope you will forgive me,” I said. “I think you understand, though. I know your death was terrible, but there are worse things. I am here to keep you safe.”

The stake I drew out was slender, made from the branch of an ordinary hawthorn. The tip was cut to a point as thin as a needle. It was my own handiwork; I’d gotten skilled with a carving knife.

I approached the body. Opening the buttons of her shirtwaist, I arranged the fabric carefully out of the way. “I’ve done this before,” I said to reassure her—and also, if I were to be honest, myself—as I set the stake in position.

A chill crawled through me, and from outside the window I heard the high, mournful wail of a wild creature. A wolf ?

Miss Thompson’s eyes remained closed. I hesitated, suddenly imagining them flying open, her pale hands reaching for me and her mouth opening to reveal grotesque incisors, razor-sharp and hungry for my flesh. Around me, the smell of flowers was cloying. The wolf howled again, and I bared my teeth in a bracing grimace. I raised my hand to draw the mallet high into the air. My knuckles showed white on the stake, and I cried out a little as I swung the mallet down, using all my force to drive the stake into her heart.

It slipped into her chest bloodlessly, spearing her heart. The body jerked from my strike. I jumped back, startled, and let out a scream, then clamped my mouth shut to stifle it. I paused, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment before I drew in a bracing breath and forced myself back up to the table.

My hands shook and tears silently coursed down my cheeks as I finished my work. Snapping off the end of the stake, I covered her body carefully so that no one would know what I had done. Lovingly, I smoothed the lines of her skirt and touched her hand. “Rest in peace,” I whispered.

The light shifted as if something had passed outside the window, blocking the silvery moon for a moment. I swung around to peer intently into the night. Nothing was there.

I went to the window and closed the drapes, letting the velvet fall back into place. And then suddenly I froze. It was as if the air had rushed out of the room, soundlessly vacating the space. A voice echoed in the vacuum that had been created, pronouncing crisp and rhythmic words that coiled around me like a constrictor suffocating its prey.

Who are you?

I struggled against the feeling of it crawling inside my skull—the same feeling I’d had on the stairs earlier today. The feeling from my dream.

Emma?
My name hissed around me. I spun, desperate to find the source of the voice.
Emma. You are Emma.

I rushed to Agatha Thompson’s corpse. It had not moved. I stood my ground, turning a full circle to peer into the tight shadows where the lamplight dared not venture.

Sister? Yes. Yes! I feel you, I feel the blood of my father . . .

“Marius?” I called softly.

I felt something twist, a hesitation, then:
You speak the name of our enemy.

Before I could respond, the presence receded, pulling away from me like a fast-moving tide. I could breathe again. I sat for a long time, just Miss Agatha Thompson and I. Then I gathered up my implements and packed them away in my bag, sneaking through the shadowy halls to my room, dogged by the sinister implications that crawled over me, through me, in my mind—echoing in that single, terrible word.

Sister.

Chapter Seven

A
fter a somber and uneasy week, Miss Sloane-Smith all but ordered the students out of the school, granting rare permission for them to go into the village. No doubt it was her plan that such a diversion would restore the equilibrium after the school’s tragic loss. And I had to admit that the girls were excited at the prospect of the outing. Grief was a fleeting thing for the young, I observed, as they were packed off into carriages and traps for transport. Most of the teachers agreed to go as chaperones, but I elected to stay behind. I had some spying to do.

I felt uneasy in the empty hallways. A few times in recent days I had felt again that alien presence, that sense that something was reaching out to me, hovering just behind me, about to tap me on the shoulder. I was acutely aware of my disadvantage: it knew something about me, although it was clearly unsure of what possible threat I might pose. I, however, was woefully without so much as a clue to its identity or whereabouts. Or intention.

As I made my way to the third floor, a prickle of apprehension raised gooseflesh along my arms as I became keenly aware of my solitude. The girls’ dormitory room for the sixth form students was located in the back of the oldest part of the house. I entered the dormitory and began my examination without so much as a hiccough of conscience. All was fair, as they say, in love and war. I rather thought that when one was dealing with the cursed undead, it was always the latter.

I paused at each one of the bedsteads lined against the inside wall, then traversed to those positioned opposite, situated between tall windows. Each girl possessed a standing chest of drawers, the small flat surfaces on top the only opportunity for personalization in this severely regimented environment. Upon some of these were Bibles and miniature paintings, schoolbooks, papers, paste beads, pen nubs, hairpins, and the like. A few were neatly arranged. Most were a heaping mess.

At Vanessa’s bed, flowers wilted in a chipped vase among the usual hodgepodge of items. I bent low so that my head almost touched her pillow and breathed in. I felt the tremor of my blood vibrating in my veins, a sign I had come to know meant the presence of the vampire was here in some detached form. That was nothing I did not already know, however. The oily smudge wrapped around her had told me that upon first meeting. I rifled through the jumbled contents of her belongings, in her drawers and under her bed, but learned nothing more.

Margaret’s area, predictably directly next to Vanessa’s, was extremely orderly. Her quilt was neatly folded at the foot of the bed, her sheets crisply tucked and her pillow fluffed and poised at the head. On the table a candle and a book were placed at precise angles.

Beginning at the bottom of her bed, I held out my hand, moving up. I felt the same slight tingle. It was unpleasant, almost painful, but I could bear it. Margaret’s slyness made it easy to dislike her, and I suspected she was the most cunning of all the girls, so I took extra care with her things. This turned out to be fortuitous, for had I not been attuned to details, I would have missed the name of the book by her bed. I’d assumed it was a Bible; that was what most of the girls had on hand. But this was not a holy book. Or, at least, not
that
holy book.

There were no markings on the cover or spine, and the volume was cheaply bound in a thick paper covering. Opening it, I found a small square of brown paper folded over something bulky. On the paper were written these words:

Her breath’s the breath of Love,

Wherewith he lures the dove

Of the fair Cyprian Queen.

My hand tensed. It was Margaret’s handwriting; the bold, impatient hand was identifiable. The citation was attributed to Sappho of Lesbos, which she signed with a flourish at the end of the verse. I knew little of the ancient Greek poetess and champion of woman, but as I pondered this excerpt, I recollected there was significant scholarly speculation on the nature of Sappho’s and her female followers’ love for one another. Most believed it had been what most would term “unnatural.”

The Cyprian Queen—the same term Old Madge had used. She had said the girls thought she was love. I wondered briefly on the nature of the close friendship among the students. I could imagine such experimentation was not uncommon in schools. But how far did it go?

Inside the paper was a flower, crushed flat but carefully arranged in its delicate shape. The faded colors were still apparent in ghostly traces among the crisp petals.

I turned to the title page, and frowned to see the book was an old translation of the
Malleus Maleficarum
. The print was faded, the paper cheap. I did not need to read it; I was familiar with this work. Written in the fifteenth century by two German Inquisitors, it was the handbook of witch-hunters but later became, in a twist of ironic perverseness, a sort of witchcraft manual for those whose penchants for evil turned toward the heretical.

Witches.

A sound startled me. I turned quickly, dropping the book. The thud of it hitting the floor sounded like an explosion, and made me jump again.

Eustacia stood in the doorway. She must have been passing by and seen me in here, rooting about. She was too bright not to comprehend at once what I was doing.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said quickly and disappeared.

I replaced the book on Margaret’s table and sprinted after her. “Eustacia, do not leave.” I caught up with her at the doorway to her dormitory, a smaller chamber where the younger girls slept. “I have been meaning to talk to you. I know you are in possession of a quick mind, which is why you take classes with the older girls. Yet I notice you hesitate to answer my questions in the classroom, when you clearly know the answer.”

She flushed. “Oh.”

“I realize, of course, your predicament with the older girls. It must be difficult for you to be separated from your friends in the younger classes. But I have noticed Margaret and Vanessa, Lilliana and Therese and . . . who is the other girl? Ah, well, that group—you know them—they try to include you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, casting a longing look inside the dormitory. She wanted to escape me. I wondered why. Was it something the girls had said about me, to make her fear me? It distressed me to think she would not trust me, for I liked her. I wanted to help her.

I also had more mercenary reasons: she had information I needed. I was not about to allow her to slip away. “I was wondering if you’ve ever heard the older girls talking about . . .
witches
?”

She blinked, unsuccessfully attempting to appear surprised. “Witches, ma’am?”

“I saw Margaret has a book about witches.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” She turned to go, but I moved quickly to cut her off. There was no mark of the vampire on her, so I knew she was not a part of the group. Not yet. But they had her in their sights. I had seen how Margaret tried to dominate her, draw her in. She might not be able to tell me much, but any detail could be of help to me. And I found I cared deeply about being of help to her, for clearly she was distressed. I even sensed she wanted to confide in me.

“Is there something wrong, Eustacia?” I asked, softening my voice. “I might be able to help, you know.”

She shook her head. “No, really, Mrs. Andrews. I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, dear, but I find it difficult to believe that.”

She stammered, “No, there’s nothing wrong. I don’t know anything about the book, really. Margaret . . . she gets strange ideas sometimes, that’s all.”

“She frightens you,” I said.

She opened her mouth but said nothing, and I realized she was too afraid to speak. My chest tightened. I was determined to help her, but how could I get her to tell me what was wrong?

“Please, I have to go,” she said and tried to duck past me again.

I put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Just a minute.” I felt cruel pressing her so, but I was doing it as much for her own good as my need to learn what she knew. “I can assure you, Eustacia, I will tell no one—not a soul—of anything you say to me. No matter what. You would not be tattling to tell me because I am not interested in disciplining them. I want to help them. I want to help you.”

I struck the right chord, for uncertainty gathered in her gaze. The poor girl wanted desperately to confide in me.

Therefore, I pressed on. “They are sneaking out. I already know that and I have told no one. They have a group, a club of some sort, and it involves something very . . . very dark. Very dangerous.”

“The wicked things they do!” she said in almost a moan, and reached out for me and wrapped her smaller hand in mine. I grasped that desperate hand, moved by her torment, and murmured encouragingly, “It’s all right.”

“They like it,” she whispered, her mouth trembling. “They want me to be part . . . They say there must be seven. They say I must join them.” She stepped back suddenly, pulling her hands free and burying them in her hair.

“Eustacia?” I reached out to comfort her and her eyes snapped up to hold my gaze.

“I shouldn’t have told you!”

“No, it is quite all right, I promise—”

“If they find out, they will murder me.”

I must say, the thrust of her terror was like a physical thing, and in the same manner that a blow to the wrist will numb the hand, so too did her fear transfix me for a moment. When she wheeled and fled out of sight, I remained frozen.

Murder her? Surely she was exaggerating, using the term to describe the social torture the girls would put her through, excluding her from their circle, bullying her with taunts and nasty pranks.

But I remembered the bodies Victoria Markam had seen and was uneasy. No, that was absurd. The girls were not murderers, for they were not vampires.

However, they were clearly putting a crushing amount of pressure on her. Why—what did they want with her? They needed seven girls, Eustacia had said. I counted five students. Eustacia would make a sixth. There had to be one more I did not know to make up the septet.

As I exited the dormitory wing, I resolved to keep an eye on Eustacia, perhaps try again to gain her trust. She could be a valuable resource to understand what was happening with the . . . well,
the witches
was as accurate a term as any.

A
fter luncheon, I thought I might venture out to the frozen garden, as a means to help myself think. I dressed warmly, bringing along a volume of Keats’s poetry. I had found some interesting insights about vampires and other mystical creatures in the work of the Romantic poets. Coleridge’s
Christabel
contained a line that had saved my life this past spring, once I realized its relevance to the strange happenings in Avebury. Other writers, too, had pondered the subject of the vampires. Polidori’s
The Vampyr
, Lord Byron’s
Manfred
—both written during a storm-ravaged summer the two men spent trapped indoors while they were vacationing with Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Shelley on the shores of Lake Geneva. The two writers’ accounts were ominously acute in describing the vampire sensibility. I had often wondered what transpired that summer, for it was here Mary Shelley had begun her chilling
Frankenstein
, another story of the dead come to life.

But of all the Romantic poets, Keats, in his tragically short career, had written the most stunning works involving the undead.
La Belle Dame sans Merci
and
Lamia
were almost certainly about vampires. I thought I might find some inspiration in his poetry.

And it was Keats my mother had scribbled on the inside leather flap of her torn portmanteau. Thus, I thought he might have something to tell me.

It was colder outside than I’d thought, and the sun was blurry and thin. If I were less stubborn, I would have gone indoors posthaste, but I liked the privacy out here and I’d missed the crisp air of a chill winter’s day. As I began
In a Drear-Nighted December
, a curiously cheerful poem completely out of character with the poet, a voice cut into the quiet.

“I should have known you would have your nose in a book. Lud, you are helpless, Emma, and freezing to boot. When the woman at the house directed me to find you out here, I thought she was daft.” It was a droll tone, infused with humor and mockery, and I caught my breath, recognizing it at once.

Sebastian stood on the grass with his feet braced apart, arms akimbo, an apple-green cape artfully draped over slight shoulders. Upon his head was a jaunty hat that made him look like Robin Hood. He was laughing at me, his smile as mischievous as that of Eros.

I was up off the bench and in his arms before I drew another breath. “Sebastian!” I shouted.

“Heavens, gel, you’ll muss my hair.” But his arms were around me, and although he was a slightly built man, his embrace was tight and sure.

“How I missed you,” I said. My voice was muffled against the extravagant knot of his cravat. I could not seem to let him go.