Reckoning (14 page)

Harker looked away then. “After a while, I found I could not remain there,” he went on wearily. “I fled and hid myself away in the ancient catacombs below the city of Exeter, determined I should cure myself. But trying to stifle my vampire side, to allow the mortal side of my bloodline to flourish—it is like trying to stifle Goliath.”

I forced my voice to cold steadiness. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“I need you, Miss Seward. Lily troubles my dreams, but it is you who fills my waking thoughts. That is why I came to Purfleet.”

Harker’s words chilled me. “What do you mean?” I whispered. “What help can you hope to get from me?”

“You are the only one left to have challenged the darkness and won,” Harker explained. “I once scorned you for your certainty about good and evil. I thought it was shallow and foolish. But now I see that it is what makes you strong. You
are the key, Miss Seward. My last hope of salvation.”

I could only stare wordlessly at the screen before me. Could it be true? Had Quincey Harker really turned from darkness to light, just as John had turned from light to darkness? Despite myself, I felt my heart open just a little.

And then, aghast, I reminded myself of who this was: the monster who had guided John and Lily so callously to their ruination—and was he also somehow responsible for the “virus” that had taken Father and threatened my patients?

His silhouette moved, and I heard the door of his confessional creak open. Transfixed, I watched him rise and was struck anew by his towering height.

A moment later, my door opened, and there he stood, silhouetted by the glow from the altar candles. His powerful frame had grown leaner. I searched his elegant features. The gauntness I found there confirmed his suffering.

He lifted a hand and reached toward my cheek. I flinched from his touch, and as I did so, I saw something like anguish flood his gaze.

“I see you cannot believe me so easily,” he murmured.

“No,” I told him, barely able to speak.

“You need not be afraid,” he told me softly. “Even if I meant you harm, I could not hurt you in this place.” He glanced warily at the altar with its golden cross. “The holy symbols here weaken me. They sap my power.” He turned his intense gaze back to meet mine. “I will not give up on you, Mary,” he said.
His use of my first name felt strangely, disconcertingly intimate. “I
cannot
give up on you. You are my only hope. Please . . . come here again tomorrow.” He closed the door of my confessional, and I was once again cast into shadow.

It seemed hours until I slowly pushed the door of the confessional open again. The church was empty. Harker had gone. My breathing came fast and hard as relief washed over me—along with some other emotion, strangely like regret.

What am I to think? How can I believe such a story from Quincey Harker? But why would he tell it if it were not true? What could he gain by misleading me?

My mind spins. I do not know what to believe. I shall write to this Brother Michael of Clyst Abbey and ask him if what Harker says is true.

Letter from Miss Mary Seward to Abbot Michael of Clyst Abbey

P
URFLEET
S
URREY
21ST
N
OVEMBER 1918

Dear Abbot Michael,

I have been told that you once offered help to a man
named Quincey Harker. Though I call him a man, I believe you understand his true nature as I do.

He has now come to me asking for my help, and I find myself unsure of what to do. As a Christian, I must despise all that he is. But I must also have faith in forgiveness and redemption—and if his desire to redeem himself and overcome his evil nature is genuine, then it must surely be my Christian duty to help him too. Can you confirm that what he tells me is true?

                       Yours sincerely,
                       Mary Seward

Journal of Mary Seward

22ND
N
OVEMBER 1918

Another two patients have been struck down. Even Sergeant Hopkins has now been afflicted. Unlike the other victims, he was neither weak nor vulnerable to contagion—he was almost strong enough to go home. The doctors are convinced a virus is to blame—and I am certain they believe I am the carrier. Dr. McLeod has called for a formal inquiry to be made. How shall I bear it if I am held accountable?

I am exhausted and frightened and bewildered. When I see my patients lying pale and unmoving in their beds, I find it impossible to believe that Harker is playing no part in their demise. And yet he claims he has learned to control his hunger. And no matter how carefully I search the throats of the victims, I find not even a scratch to betray a vampire bite.

None of it makes sense!

Journal of Mary Seward

22ND
N
OVEMBER (LATER)

Harker was already at the church when I let myself in. He waited by the confessional box for me, as tall and imposing as a statue, half hidden in shadow.

My heart faltered at the sight of him, but determination hardened my soul. I had to try to stop his evil from spreading. Seeking strength from the crucifix and holy water at my throat, I walked between the pews toward him.

He acknowledged me with a solemn nod and slipped wordlessly into the confessional. I felt some small relief that he had chosen to sit there once more. The grille that separated us would be some small comfort.

I took my seat in the box beside his and gazed through the screen at his handsome face.

“I knew you would return,” he said, looking back at me.

“How could you be so sure?” I challenged.

“You are not one to leave a mystery unsolved,” he told me.

“You are no mystery to me!” I answered hotly. “I know everything of you and your kind!”

Through the grille, I saw pain flash in his eyes. “That implies you believe nothing of what I told you yesterday,” he said softly. “Have you no faith?”

“Faith in you?” I scoffed, thinking of my poor, dead father and ailing patients. “Tell me, then, Captain Harker: how have you survived without indulging your vampire nature all this time?”

“It has not been easy.” Harker leaned his head wearily against the side of the confessional and closed his eyes. “The craving for human blood has not left me for a moment. But I survive on blood from animals—sheep, dogs, rats, whatever I can find. It is enough to keep me alive.”

“You have consumed no human blood at all?” I questioned disbelievingly.

There was a pause. “Once,” Harker admitted. “Not a week ago. I travelled to London, seeking the distraction that mortal pleasures of the flesh can provide. . . . I met a prostitute, and in the throes of passion, though I had not intended it, I succumbed and drew blood.” He paused. “She did not object—indeed, I think she enjoyed it.”

A blush reddened my cheeks at the thought, and I was
thankful his eyes were closed. “And that is the only instance?” I insisted.

Harker must have heard the doubt in my voice. His brow furrowed. “You still don’t believe me.”

Agitated, I laced my fingers in my lap and then unlaced them again. “Recent happenings make me suspicious,” I told him candidly. “A supposed virus weakened Father before his death.”

Harker’s gaze met mine. “I am sorry you have lost your father,” he murmured.

The compassion in his tone seemed genuine, but I looked away. How could I trust him? “Now the virus has spread to the sanatorium,” I pressed on. “The symptoms are anemia and listlessness. Much like those of a vampire’s victim.”

He flinched. “You think I have been feeding from them.”

“The coincidence of the virus and your arrival strikes me as . . .” I faltered.

“As damning,” he finished, casting his gaze downward. “I have been sorely tempted,” he admitted. “Animal blood keeps me alive, but only human blood sustains the power I have grown accustomed to—and every cell of my body screams out for it.”

He raised his eyes again. “But I have resisted. I swear on Lily’s soul.”

The mention of Lily filled me with rage. “How dare you!” I spat.

“I dare because I loved her,” he said simply.

Could it be true? Surely this fiend could not be capable of human feeling.

“What can I do to convince you?” he persisted.

“I do not know,” I confessed.

A muscle in his cheek tightened, and his lip curled into a snarl of frustration. Unease prickled up my spine.

But then he went on. “Miss Seward, when I came of age, my father informed me of my birthright. I discovered I had no power over my destiny—no choice about what I might do with my life, not even about whom I would marry. It had all been mapped out for me by my father. I was simply there to serve the needs of my bloodline.” There was barely contained rage burning in Harker’s tone. “I was told of my half brother, John, and of Lily . . . How I must one day to bring them to the castle. How I must reveal to John his true birthright. How I must seduce Lily into being my wife.”

“You could have refused!” I argued.

“Did you ever defy
your
father?” Harker challenged back.

I turned away, remembering how I had ventured out into society only to please Father; how I had then sought his approval before seeing Bathory. . . . And for a brief moment, I had a glimpse of Harker as a dutiful son, unable to resist his father’s wishes. But any softening of my feeling toward him vanished as I reminded myself of his responsibility for Lily’s death and John’s vampiric transformation. “My father
never asked me to do anything unnatural,” I countered.

“Nor did mine,” Harker answered boldly.

“A lie!” I shot him a sharp glance.

“Everything I did, I did in accordance with my nature,” he argued. “Only in rejecting my bloodline do I act unnaturally! And yet I am willing to do it. Willing to struggle against everything I have felt, or known, or been taught.”

I had not thought of it before—that Harker might be bound by his nature. For him, choosing virtue meant fighting against the evil that infused his very soul. “But why?” I pursued.

“Because of Lily and John—and what I did to them.” Harker’s voice was low and filled with sorrow. “When I met Lily, I began to doubt the destiny my father had decided for me.”

Giving a long sigh, Harker reached inside his heavy black coat and drew out a wad of folded paper. “My change of heart was gradual, I admit,” he went on. “But now that it is done, it is irrevocable.” He held up the papers. “An entry taken from my journal of two years ago,” he explained. “I carry it with me to remind me of the reason I turned my back on my past. It sits beside my heart—like a talisman, to stop me from returning to the darkness.”

We were both silent for a long moment.

“Would you like to see?” Harker eventually asked.

I nodded.

He rose and left his side of the confessional for a moment. “It is outside your door,” he said on his return. “Until tomorrow night, then.”

As he turned and left the church, I slowly pushed open my door and reached out for the folded papers Harker had placed on the polished floor just beyond.

They were of soft vellum, softer now from being carried so long in Harker’s pocket. And as I unfolded them, I saw that they were indeed pages torn from his journal. I recognised at once his handwriting—I had read parts of his journal at Castle Dracula when I had stolen into his room in the desperate hope of staking him in his sleep. He had not been there, but his journals had, and I had flicked quickly through them, reading passages here and there, hoping to gain some advantage over him.

The candlelight in the church was just enough for me to make out his words.

T
HE
A
RMY AND
N
AVY
C
LUB
36–39
P
ALL
M
ALL
, L
ONDON
23RD
O
CTOBER 1916

I came here, as my hunger for Lily grows stronger by the day. To remain at Carfax Hall is to be a starving man trapped in a room with the sweetest, most fragrant of
delicacies he must not yet consume. And last night, I almost lost control.

Lily came creeping into the darkness of my room in search of me. She did not see me at first, sitting in the shadows. “Quincey?” she whispered breathlessly.

I remained silent, attempting to shore up my resolve. I had taken such pains to avoid being alone with her.

Seeming bewildered at my apparent absence, Lily moved over to the moonlit window and looked out at the grounds beyond. Bathed in moonlight, her skin took on a pearl-like sheen. Her girlish cologne of sweet violet hovered innocently around her in the still air, a heady contradiction to the saltsweet tang of her heated blood. The blend filled my lungs, dizzying me with desire. I stepped out of the shadows.

Hearing my footfall, Lily turned, tense with shock—and then she exhaled deeply, her beseeching gaze unravelling my resistance.

I crossed the room and pulled her hard against me. She melted into my arms, arching her back, consumed with a passion that clearly surprised her as much as it did me. “This is maddening,” I growled. “I must have you.” Feeling the sharp points of descended incisors on my lower lip, I began to trail my kisses along Lily’s delicate jaw line and down toward her soft, pulsating throat. She is mine utterly, I reasoned. She was born to be my bride. What difference if I take her now?

“Yes . . .” she gasped as my teeth grazed against her tender flesh. “Yes, my darling. I love you. I love you with all my heart.”

I froze, unable to bring myself to pierce her skin. Suddenly clearheaded, I thrust her from me—so swiftly, she fell back against the velvet drapes.

Wanting no opportunity to be swayed, I turned and grabbed up my greatcoat.

“Quincey! What is it?” she cried.

“I must leave tonight,” I replied harshly. “I have business in London.”

“How long will you be gone?” she asked, looking desolate.

“Only a day or two,” I assured her.

“Please, don’t leave!” she pleaded. “I shall miss you . . .” she added softly.

“I
cannot
stay here tonight, Lily!” I snapped at her, refusing to look into her pained eyes as I moved to the door.

I fled, running from the house like a thief in the night, transforming myself into a bat and flying to the welcome anonymity of London.

I am still furious with myself. Yet why? Because I am too weak to resist Lily? Or because I could not bring myself to bite her? What stopped me? At the time, I attributed it to Father’s wishes that I preserve Lily for Saint Andrew’s Eve and our wedding. But the truth is . . . my heart cries out against corrupting her innocent soul.

Journal of Mary Seward

22ND
N
OVEMBER 1918
(
CONTINUED
)

As I finished reading, the pages trembled in my hand. I had gazed inside Quincey Harker’s heart and seen, among the darkness, a glimmer of precious light.

My thoughts darted this way and that. How could I refute such evidence?

“Wait!” I cried, running toward the door of the church. I looked out into the churchyard. It seemed empty. “Mr. Harker!” I called out.

It was only a moment before he stepped silently from the shadows. He faced me then and pushed a hand through his dark, glossy hair. “I can give you no more proof,” he said wearily. “If you do not believe me now, I will go and leave you in peace.”

I stared hard at him. “Swear to me you have harmed no one in Purfleet,” I demanded.

“I swear,” Harker replied softly.

“Then I . . . I will help you,” I found myself saying.

“Thank you, Mary,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Letter from Abbot Michael of Clyst Abbey to Miss Mary Seward

C
LYST
A
BBEY
D
EVON
22ND
N
OVEMBER 1918

Dear Miss Seward,

You must beware! It is true: Quincey Harker came to me, seeking salvation from the evil that afflicts him. I hoped that prayer would be enough to redeem him. But it was not.

Evil does not afflict him like some common cold—it is a fire, banked down deep within him—a fire I could not extinguish.

Harker killed a brother here.

Be careful, I beg you. However much Harker claims he would turn his back on evil, I fear it is too strong in him to overcome. Do not sacrifice yourself to save this creature, for it is not only your life that is in peril, but your very soul.

                             God protect you,
                          Abbot Michael

Journal of Mary Seward

23RD
N
OVEMBER 1918

I have just received a letter from Clyst. As I read Abbot Michael’s words, the heat seemed to drain from me. He told me something Harker had omitted. While at the abbey, Harker had killed one of the monks—a man of God! What greater sin could there be?

I have been a gullible fool!

How could I ever have doubted that Harker was a fiend, capable only of evil?

I should have trusted the words of Van Helsing. In the papers Father gave me recording the battle fought against Count Dracula, Van Helsing writes:

The undead cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world . . . .

That, Van Helsing stated, was their only aim. Their only purpose.

I shall send word to Harker at Carfax Hall that I want to see him at the church again tomorrow evening.

I must kill him before he takes another life—or die trying.

24TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

I thanked God for the rage that pulsed in my veins as I went to the church this evening, for if I had not been fueled by anger, I would not have had the courage to go.

The sky was still light as I hurried through the churchyard. I would not risk Harker arriving first, for surprise was my best weapon.

But it was not my only one.

Van Helsing’s bag weighed heavily upon my arm as I walked. I carried it with no less fear in my heart than when I had done so to Castle Dracula two years ago. John, Lily, Father—all were gone from me now. But my sense of purpose was stronger and I more determined than ever before. This time I knew what awaited me, and this time, I faced a battle against the darkness alone.

I let myself in through the heavy door of the church, the sun beginning to bleed into the horizon. I hastened through the chancel and knelt before the altar, whispering a hurried prayer. Glancing up at the west window, I saw that twilight was giving way to darkness. How quickly the night rushed in!

I concealed myself in the shadow of a chancel pillar near the confessional boxes and, crouching, took the mallet and one of Van Helsing’s stakes from his bag. And then I waited, my breath billowing in clouds before me.