Reckoning
Authors: Kate Cary
ECKONING
KATE CARY
EGMONT
We bring stories to life
Reckoning first published in Great Britain 2011
by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street
London W8 6SA
Text copyright © Working Partners Ltd 2011
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 7803 1014 5
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
First e-book edition December 2011
ISBN 978-1-7803-10145
For Matt Haslum
Clyst Abbey, Devon
Daybook of
Father Michael, Abbot of Clyst
13TH
N
OVEMBER 1917
3:05 A.M.
Thanks be to God that we have made it through another night.
My sleep has been fitful, disturbed again by the unearthly noises coming from the prisoner’s cell. Lord have mercy on us all if he should break loose while the bloodlust is upon him. Though I know that his chains are strong and the lock on his cell door heavy, fear clutches my throat when I am caught in his fiery gaze.
When the moon is at its highest, his tortured groans echo down the stone hallways—normally so still with the silence kept by our Cistercian brotherhood—until the whole abbey seems to ring with his torment.
He howls for blood, of course—craving it to nourish the darkness within him. Our keeping him from it strikes hard at his blackened heart.
As I write, he howls still—but less fiercely now, with dawn coming. The daylight shall quieten his vampire soul.
By starving him—chaining him so that he cannot indulge his bloodlust—I pray we might eventually cause the evil that possesses him to shrivel and die.
Shall the mortal remains of Quincey Harker survive such trial?
That I do not know. I have come across no record of such exorcism being embarked upon before.
I must hasten to the chapel. Prayers will begin soon. The early morning vigil calms me now more than it has ever done—warm candlelight flickering on the smooth stone pillars, white robes swishing against the gleaming wood of the pews as the brothers lower themselves to kneel alongside me to pray.
Afterward will come the blessed light of dawn. And Harker will be still again. . . .
11:05 P.M.
I fear that sleep is proving impossible tonight. The presence of our prisoner, locked below, has truly unsettled our community.
As I entered the refectory for supper this evening, the room hummed with whispering. The brothers, seated at the rows of long wooden tables, glanced up, eyeing me anxiously before returning to their hushed conversations.
“Good evening, brothers,” I said. “Is all well with you?”
Brother Sebastian glanced uneasily across at Brother Stephen but ventured nothing.
I took my place at table, said grace, and then helped myself to stew and bread, the latter freshly made that morning in the abbey’s bakery.
And then Brother Sebastian began to speak. “Father, how can we be well when we harbour evil beneath our roof?” he asked quietly.
“Harker was more unsettled than ever last night,” Brother Stephen added. He gazed at me, his blue eyes earnest in his gaunt face. “He seems to be making no improvement.”
I understood their concerns. Even I, in the darkest hours before dawn, have questioned whether we really have any hope of redeeming Quincey Harker’s twisted soul. But there must always be hope. “I beseech you, brothers, keep your faith. We must not abandon this work,” I insisted. “With no fresh blood to sustain it, the evil in Harker must surely be weakening.”
“That may be, but his will remains fearsome,” whispered Brother Sebastian.
“Maybe we should take a leaf from the old lunatic asylums,” grunted Brother Matthew, breaking a hunk of bread with his rough, stout fingers. “They’d ’ave beaten the devil out of Quincey Harker. Flogged ’im and purged ’im with emetics.” He pushed a piece of the bread into his mouth and began to chew.
I shook my head. “Brother Matthew, this is 1917, and we are men of God. I hope we have left such barbarism behind.”
“We may have,” Brother Stephen said. “But Quincey Harker hasn’t!”
I stared at him, surprised at the harshness of his tone. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Harker is a vampire!” he insisted. “There is no saving him. His soul is irredeemably lost. Surely it would be safer for all if he were destroyed in the traditional way.”
“A stake through the heart!” I exclaimed. “Brother, we are not murderers!”
All but Brother Stephen looked away. “It would not be murder,” he argued. “We would be freeing his soul at last and ridding the world of a great evil.”
“Brother Stephen.” I sighed. “Do you have so little faith in prayer? And what of God’s mercy? Our Lord Jesus spoke of love—it is the most powerful weapon. We can weaken the evil that grips Harker’s soul by depriving it of the blood it craves. And once it is weakened, we must trust that God will show mercy and cleanse the darkness from him once and for
all. Remember the words of Saint Paul: God’s strength manifests itself when I am weak.”
Now Brother Stephen looked away too.
“We must believe that God’s love has the power to save Quincey Harker,” I went on. “And we must be his vessels.”
As I write, moonlight flooding my desk, brighter than the candle flickering beside the page, I can hear Harker begin his own midnight vigil—the mournful, agonised howls piercing the thick stone walls to ring out into the night.
I pray tonight that my words prove true and that we can indeed save Quincey Harker’s immortal soul.
29TH
N
OVEMBER 1917
After prayers and breaking fast this morning, I visited Harker in his cell.
I entered the dank, stone chamber, closing its iron door behind me. The heaviness of the earthy-smelling air made it hard to breathe.
Harker was resting in the shadiest corner, away from the weak shaft of sunlight filtering through the tiny barred window high up on one of the walls. He was sitting on the floor, his head leaning wearily against the stones. But his eyes glinted watchfully. He reminded me of a caged panther I had once seen at London Zoo.
“You should sleep,” I advised. “You must be tired.”
“I have no wish to sleep,” he growled, staring in disgust at his narrow, blanketed bunk.
“But is it not in the nature of your kind to sleep through the day?” I asked.
Harker sprang to his feet, the heavy chains that bound his wrists clanking in protest. “I may hide from the flesh-burning sun, but I am not such a slave to the vampire nature as most of my kind. I am a
prince
among them,” he hissed, his eyes flashing. “My power is far greater than any of theirs.”
I took a stumbling step back, a hand sliding to my crucifix. His sudden anger alarmed me. Even though it was daytime, I feared I might glimpse that fiery glow that rages in his eyes when the hunger for prey grips him.
His gaze retained its dark intensity, however. Harker pushed a lock of black hair away from his forehead and then, to my surprise, he smiled. “It is you who should get some sleep,” he warned. “For tonight is Saint Andrew’s Eve—when all the world’s evils are at their strongest.” He drew in a long breath. “My hunger is sure to be . . . most disturbing.”
I fought the icy fear that chilled my blood at his words, thinking instead of his howls of anguish ringing out each night. “I’m sorry your hunger torments you so,” I told him. “But we keep you here in your best interests. And tonight we shall pray for you.”
Harker lifted his chin and let out a harsh laugh. “Do you believe God will listen?”
“God is always listening,” I assured him.
“But does he always
hear
?” Harker asked.
I returned his gaze uncertainly. Was he taunting me?
“I pray that someday you will know his mercy,” I murmured, and stepped toward the heavy iron door.
As I turned the key in the lock from the other side of it, I saw Harker still watching me through its small barred window. I looked away.
What am I to make of our prisoner? After listening to him curse and struggle against his captivity each night, I hardly expected to find his conversation still so lucid. But can I believe it is Harker with whom I speak? Am I conversing with a man or with the evil that possesses him? I pray that the Lord in His infinite wisdom will give us the strength to bring this tormented soul back into the light.
The moon is rising—and, I fear, a storm is too. The dark crags and rolling heath land beyond the abbey walls are now brushed by glowering skies. Though the seasons here in the West Country are known for their mildness, Dartmoor seems to have a climate of its own—as if the moor itself draws down the worst of the elements and conjures up squalls and tempests like some ancient storm-bringer. On nights like this, staring out into that bleak landscape beyond, one feels very far from civilisation. It is
hard to believe that the busy cathedral city of Exeter is but a few miles away.
I shall now join the brothers for a night of prayer. For on tonight of all nights, we must do all that we can to protect Harker from the evil within him.
30TH
N
OVEMBER 1917
I must record the horrors I have just seen.
Last night, as I led the brothers in prayer for Harker, terrible groans of torment began to rise from his cell below. And then, just before midnight, a scream rang out from the cell—a scream so chilling that it seemed to choke me into silence.
I picked up an altar candle and, signalling Brother Sebastian to do the same and follow me, hurried down toward the vaults.
Harker’s cell door stood ajar.
Brother Sebastian looked at me, his customarily ruddy cheeks stricken white with terror.
The most monstrous howling could not have filled me with more trepidation than the heavy silence that came from within the cell. Had Harker somehow escaped? And was he now at large?
I prayed for strength to stop my hand from shaking as I reached out and pushed the door open wider.
Harker was there. His chains still hung upon his wrists, shackling him to the wall. But he seemed insensible to our arrival, for his attention was entirely focused on the white-robed figure slumped in his strong grasp. For moments I could neither move nor speak, watching him convulse in rhythmic shudders as he sucked the lifeblood from his victim’s throat, thick groans of gratification rumbling up from his own. And then, in one swift movement, Harker twisted his prey’s neck and I heard the cracking of bone.
The victim’s head lolled back unnaturally, neck clearly broken. His face was contorted like that of a gargoyle, the dead whites of his eyes like marble in the cold moonlight that sliced through the tiny barred window above.
It was Brother Stephen.
I found my voice. “No!” My cry echoed around the cell.
Harker raised his head, his lips and chin gleaming wet with blood. His eyes glowed like embers as he met my stricken gaze. He let Brother Stephen fall to the cold flagstones. Blood oozed from Brother Stephen’s throat like that of a slaughtered lamb, staining the white wool of his robe.
I sank to my knees beside Brother Stephen’s body. “Why did you come here, Brother?” I sobbed, though I knew he could no longer hear me.
And then I saw them: the mallet and long, sharpened wooden stake, lying in the corner of the cell as though flung there. Brother Stephen had decided to take matters into his
own hands. He had come here to kill Harker—to hammer a stake through his evil heart. God rest his poor, impetuous soul.
“Father Michael, come away!” Brother Sebastian had followed me in and was pulling at my robe. “The prisoner is still possessed! You must come out of his reach!”
But God must have entered my soul like iron, for I felt no fear within me as I looked up and met Harker’s fiery stare. Only sorrow.
I lifted my crucifix and, holding it out in front of me, walked slowly toward Harker. “Know that the Lord sees what you have done and abhors it!” I proclaimed.
He roared at the sight of the blessed object and tugged at his chains, his face frenzied. A superhuman strength seemed to possess him. With an almighty heave, he wrenched the iron wristbands and snapped them from the chains that held him. The chains clattered against the wall, dangling useless now from their fastenings. He was free!
Harker lunged forward, pushing me out of his way. My fall was broken by the still-warm body of Brother Stephen. Drawing in a sharp breath, I turned to see Harker charge past a cowering Brother Sebastian and through the open cell door.
“We must stop him,” I gasped as Brother Sebastian helped me to my feet.
“Father Michael, I fear he is unstoppable . . .” Brother Sebastian whispered.
“Then we must return to the brothers in the chapel and pray for Brother Stephen’s safe passage to heaven—and for any poor souls caught out on the fog-wrapped moors. For now, no creature is safe. Having hungered for blood for so long, I dare not imagine how much it will take to slake Harker’s thirst.”
Dawn is now lighting the sky. I have returned to my cell to rest after our vigils, but I cannot sleep. Some of the brothers are still praying. It is a mercy, at least, that Brother Stephen died of a broken neck and not from being sucked dry of his blood. His body will not rise as one of the vampire undead. It is the one mercy Harker showed his poor victim.
Despite his crimes, we pray for Quincey Harker too. What could have made such a monster, and who can save his blackened soul now?