Reckoning (13 page)

Journal of Mary Seward

20TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

Sleep eluded me for so long that by the time I finally fell into slumber, exhaustion banished all dreams. And yet I awoke surprisingly refreshed.

When I arrived on the ward, the smell of antiseptic was even stronger than usual. I spotted Helen already hard at work, up a ladder, scrubbing the walls. She turned to mouth a “good morning” to me over her shoulder as she continued to scrub.

A feeling of foreboding pricked my flesh as Sister approached me. “Fetch a bucket and brush and start scrubbing another of the walls, Seward,” she instructed. “We must get this ward spotless. Two more patients have succumbed to the virus.”

“Yes, Sister,” I replied immediately. But as I began to
walk away, Sister called me back. I turned to see that an uneasy frown now darkened her face.

“Nurse Seward . . .” she began slowly. “Do the symptoms of this virus seem to match those suffered by your father, by any chance?”

Cold shock washed over me. Did it appear that I had carried a virus to the ward from Father’s sickbed? My palms pricked with alarm. “Th-they do seem similar . . .” I admitted reluctantly.

Sister gave a curt nod. “Well, we must do all we can to contain its spread,” she went on. “Get scrubbing and make sure you use plenty of disinfectant.”

Disinfectant! Garlic would be more effective against this malady! I thought. If only I could voice to her my fear: that what afflicted these men was something much, much worse than a virus!

I stared after Sister as she marched briskly back to her office, guilt tightening like a vise around my heart. Even if there was no virus, I was still to blame. Quincey had come here seeking me.

I began scrubbing the wall facing Helen’s, working methodically, scouring everything with such fierceness that my mind emptied of all but my labour.

We finished around the same time and took our buckets and brushes together to the sluice room to fill them again with clean water and disinfectant, ready to begin on the floors. I lifted my bucket into the sink.

“How’s Becky settling in?” Helen asked, her voice startling me from my anxious contemplation.

I wondered suddenly if she minded my taking her roommate from her. “I’ve hardly seen her, but I think she’s content,” I replied. “I hope you don’t mind me stealing her from you.”

“Of course not.” Helen touched my arm reassuringly and then poured disinfectant into her bucket, watching it turn the water a milky white. “Stella seems to fill the void with her personality alone. We’ll get along fine.”

Sister carefully checked every crack and crevice after we were done. I think she was pleased with our efforts, though we were both exhausted by the time we left the ward and bid each other farewell at the sanatorium gates.

I could hear Becky moving around in her room when I let myself into the house. I guessed she must have just awoken. I put the kettle on to boil to make a pot of the tea she seemed to drink incessantly.

She came down, bundled in her dressing gown, as I was filling the teapot.

“How was your evening with Lord Bathory?” she asked, sitting down at the kitchen table and sleepily rubbing her eyes.

Eager to confide the confusion of emotions Bathory had stirred in me, I placed the kettle back on the hob and turned
from the stove. “He told me that he was falling in love with me!” I blurted.

“What?” Becky gasped. She pushed her spectacles farther up her nose. “Tell me everything!” she demanded, all sleepiness banished.

“He wants me to visit his estate down in the West Country,” I went on.

Becky gave a low whistle under her breath. “And will you accept his invitation?” she asked.

“Certainly not yet,” I said hastily. “I hardly know him. I cannot just go and stay in his home unchaperoned. It wouldn’t be seemly. Maybe later . . .” I stalled. How could I explain to Becky the other reasons that kept me from accepting Bathory’s generous offer? She had no inkling of the dangers that surrounded us now that Quincey Harker had returned.

“But you do like him, don’t you?” Becky pointed out.

I found myself smiling as I thought of sweet, kind Bathory and his earnest grey gaze. “Yes, I do,” I agreed.

“Well, then,” Becky said, “there’s no reason why you couldn’t grow to love him back. And your father would be so much more at peace if he knew you were settled.”

I poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her. “No doubt you are right, Becky. But Father encouraged my commitment to the sanatorium too. Though the war may be over, the wounded remain. He would approve of my continuing to
work there as heartily as he would approve of my being with someone like Lord Bathory.” And I took some comfort in knowing that to be the truth.

How good it is to have Becky to talk to. I find myself at a loss, alone in the house once more, now that she has left for work. The night seems to press at the doors and windows. I have locked them against all but Becky and can do no more now than say my prayers and creep beneath my covers.

21ST
N
OVEMBER 1918

The sweet, gentle John I fell in love with returned to my dreams in the early hours. And it was as if all harm had been undone, all the horror swept away. I lay in blissful slumber, joyful images flashing before me. . . .

Church bells pealing out a joyful refrain . . . smiling faces everywhere I looked, as I walked slowly up the aisle on Father’s arm in a white silk bridal gown . . . holding a sheaf of long-stemmed white lilies and roses of the deepest red . . . Father gazing down proudly at me . . . and John, standing near the altar, waiting for me—looking at me with such love in his eyes. The handsome young soldier I fell in love with . . .

The images rolled on, like a cinema film.

Hearing the priest finally announce, “You may kiss the
bride. . . .” John drawing aside my veil for that first kiss . . . me looking upon his face with such love I thought my heart would overflow with it . . . John’s adoring expression hardening . . . a harsh, cruel glint coming into his eyes . . . eyes fired not with passion, but with evil . . . his reddened gaze now burning hungrily into mine . . . him bending his head to kiss me—not on the lips, but on the throat . . . drawing back his lips . . . the light from the leaded windows glinting on his vicious white fangs as they bear down on my exposed throat . . .

In the dream, I tore myself from John’s embrace, fleeing back down the aisle. The empty church rang with my sobs of horror. Ahead, the great oak door swung open—and Lily . . .
Lily
lurched into the church, blocking my escape. Lily, wearing her own wedding gown, the gown she’d died in—now torn by the jagged rocks she’d fallen on, and soaked in blood from the gashes that covered her twisted, broken body. She shuffled painfully toward me, yet smiled as she opened her arms to receive me. . . .

My scream awoke me and I lay panting in my bed, my body drenched and shaking.

Will my dreams never cease to find new ways to terrify me? I shall not sleep again. I shall sit with my candle burning until dawn.

L
ATER

It has been a long, hard day.

I arrived on the ward to news that another soldier had fallen victim to the virus in the night. I feel sure the whole ward suspects me now of bringing the virus into the sanatorium. Two patients, chatting quietly, fell silent when I approached them. Sister, watching me closely, curtly reminded me again to wash my hands and whispered to the doctors on their rounds while glancing in my direction.

By the end of the shift, I found myself thoroughly disheartened. I longed for Father’s wise counsel, and my heart ached with the knowledge that it was lost to me forever.

I journeyed home along the lane that bordered the churchyard. As I passed, I could see Father’s tombstone, newly erected, bright and clean among the other, more-weathered stones. “Father,” I breathed, “I don’t know what to do. The war is over, and still the hospital is full of casualties. I cannot abandon them, and yet I seem to have become a harbinger of doom to my poor patients.”

I came to the lych-gate, and my mouth grew dry as the memory of seeing Quincey Harker there flashed through my mind. I touched the vial of holy water around my neck. It would be prudent to obtain a greater quantity, I decided. And the sooner the better.

I unlatched the gate and let myself into the churchyard,
hoping that Reverend Halifax might spare me some. I was not sure how I would explain my request to him. In Transylvania, the priest had required no explanation; he lived alongside the darkness.

Here it was easier to pretend evil did not exist.

I hurried up the path toward the church entrance. The churchyard seemed deserted, but anxiety gripped me as I noticed the weak winter sun already sinking on the distant horizon. An absurd thought flickered in my mind—that it might, at any moment, fall over the edge of the world and disappear, leaving the world in eternal darkness. I banished the foolish notion at once, chiding myself that I was once more giving full reign to my dark imaginings.

The studded oak door of the church was closed. I rested my hand upon the great loop of twisted iron that formed its handle. Its icy coldness stung my fingers as I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The sheltered nave was no warmer. My breath billowed before my face. But candles burning near the altar illuminated the surrounding walls and pillars and gave at least some air of comfort. The serenity of the place calmed me a little.

I looked for Reverend Halifax, searching the pews and knocking upon the vestry door, but there was no sign of him.

Suddenly my gaze touched upon the confessional box. I felt drawn toward it. Father’s death . . . the mysterious virus on the ward . . . Quincey Harker’s return from a dark world
I could not explain to anyone else . . . it was all fast engulfing me. Though I knew there would be no churchman on the other side of the ornate lattice screen to hear me, I would confess the truth of what was happening, along with my fears, to God. Maybe He would somehow provide the guidance that Father no longer could.

I opened the door of the confessional and stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. The confined wooden box, smelling of beeswax polish, felt comforting and safe. I sat upon the smooth, worn seat and bowed my head. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I began.

“No, Miss Seward. It is I who have sinned.”

My blood froze as I recognised the voice of the last creature on earth I expected to find in such a place. Stifling a gasp, I leaned up to the screen. Quincey Harker’s powerful profile and dark sweep of hair were unmistakable.

Terrified, I pressed myself against the back of the confessional box and clutched my throat, my fingers grappling for the smooth glass vial that hung from its chain there. “I have my holy water,” I warned.

“You will not need it,” Harker replied.

His tone seemed tinged with resignation, devoid of its previous menace. Instead it sounded immeasurably sad.

“I have not come to harm you.”

My mind reeled at this. “Why else would you have come here? What do you want from me?” I whispered.

“Redemption.”

I struggled to comprehend what I was hearing. Quincey Harker—the demon of the trenches, the architect of John’s downfall, the monster who had drawn Lily to her death—was searching for redemption? It could not be true. Half hysterical with fear, I felt the wild urge to shout with laughter at such a preposterous notion, but caution counseled me to listen in silence as he continued.

“Of course, you do not believe me.” Harker turned to face the screen between us. His dark eyes gleamed—not with fire, but with anguish. “Listen to my story,” he entreated. “And then perhaps you may better understand me.”

I found it impossible to reply but acquiesced by remaining there.

Harker began to speak again. “When I saw dear Lily’s torn and broken body down there on the rocks . . . I felt such pain, such guilt. . . such immense loss . . .” he admitted quietly. “A true innocent had claimed my heart—and yet she’d chosen a terrible mortal death over eternal life with me.” He gave a deep sigh. “For the first time, I was repulsed by the wickedness that had been nurtured in me. How could I have seduced and defiled such an innocent as Lily? For years I had unquestioningly accepted that making her my wife was my duty—a part of my destiny. But I discovered that I’d come to truly love her. I began to anticipate our marriage with joy. Then, with one wretched act of free will, Lily chose
a destiny of her own.” Harker paused. “And in so doing, she caused me to question mine.”

There was a heavy silence. For a moment, I thought of flight, but Harker’s speed and strength were superhuman. He could block my escape easily.

“My thoughts were a maelstrom,” he continued. “Could I resist the evil instinct I had embraced so eagerly as a younger man? Could I suppress the hunger—survive without the blood? I decided that I must try. I renounced my vampire bloodline and my part in Father’s plan to bring the house of Tepes back to glory.” Harker’s voice was now thick with emotion. “I left the castle shortly after you, Miss Seward. I walked away from my dark inheritance.”

“Where did you go?” I whispered, finally finding my tongue.

“For the first few months, I roamed war-torn Europe, trying to come to terms with what I had done, grappling with the vampire side of my nature,” Harker told me. “At times, the hunger for blood seemed to consume me—send me feverish. I would awaken to find I had succumbed . . . and grow despondent.

“I had a yearning to return to England and decided to make my way to the wilds of Dartmoor in the West Country, where my appetites would find scant temptation. And out there, miles from the nearest town or village, I came across Clyst Abbey and the small company of monks who keep
their ancient order alive. I found myself hammering on their door, not knowing what I sought there.

“I was taken to Father Michael, their abbot. He sensed the darkness in me at once and asked if I meant the brothers harm. I denied this and told him of my struggles. It seemed like fate. Father Michael offered to take me in, saying he believed that the battle to restore the mortal side of my nature to supremacy was one worth fighting—though such a thing had never, to his knowledge, been tried before.”