Reckoning (15 page)

I tried to hold on to my rage, but fear rose in me, growing
like a vine, entwining my legs and arms in its icy tendrils until I wondered if it would bind me till I could not move. “Dear God,” I prayed. “Give me the strength to overcome this devil!”

But how could I conquer him where others couldn’t? I knew how strong he was. What chance did I have of overpowering him?

Iron clanked. Someone was turning the handle of the front door.

Harker?

I held my breath, frightened that the tiniest sound might alert him. My heart pounded in my chest. Faintness made my head swim. I risked a breath, then another as I recognised the tall figure that slipped through the door and closed it behind him.

“Miss Seward?”

His voice was like a knife piercing my chest, sending fear like pain shooting through my body.

Did he know I was here? Could he scent me? I backed farther into the shadows and listened as his footsteps proceeded cautiously up the aisle. They echoed on the stone, then grew muffled as he reached the carpeted chancel. I could spy him now as he approached the candlelit altar.

My muscles tightened, ready for the attack, urging me to spring and fight, but I held back until he was near enough to reach in a single lunge.

He looked around, his gaze darkened by a frown.

“Miss
Seward
.” His voice was more insistent this time. Sharper-edged. He was suspicious.

Another moment and he would scent me for certain.

I could not risk a second longer in the shadows.

With a banshee scream, I leapt from my hiding place and swung the stake like a club, catching him on the back of his head.

Harker sprawled forward onto the steps of the altar and twisted instinctively to see his attacker. His eyes were glazed with surprise, stunned by the well-aimed blow that had floored him.

Swinging the stake up in the air, I caught it and clasped it point down, the mallet ready in my other hand. I leapt astride Harker as he lay dazed upon the altar steps and pressed the point of the stake against his heart. Lifting the mallet, I prepared to strike the death blow.

Harker grasped my wrist with an iron grip. The church might have sapped him of some of his power, but he was strong still.

He stared up at me, his gaze clearing to reveal utter astonishment. “Why?” he gasped.

“You lied, you devil,” I spat. “You learned nothing at the monastery! You killed one of the monks there! I should never have doubted your true nature.”

Dismay froze his face, as though he searched for words he could not find.

“I wrote to Father Michael!” I stormed on. “He told me what you chose not to reveal!”

He groaned, twisting his face from me. “How could I tell you such a shameful thing?”

Was that remorse I glimpsed in his bottomless gaze?

No!

I had fallen for his pretense before.

I pressed the point of the stake harder into his chest. “You will not persuade me this time.”

Harker removed his hand from my arm.

I stared down at him, startled at his acquiescence. Was he truly prepared to die? As he gazed back at me, his pupils widened, opening into black pools that drew me in

I did not feel the mallet slip from my hand, only heard it clatter onto the stone—a distant noise that held no meaning for me. I felt the rough wood of the stake brush against my palm as it fell from my grasp. And then I felt Harker’s strong arms encircling me, lifting me to my feet as he stood up and pressed me close against him.

The smell of him intoxicated me, and the sensation of his body hard against mine made my heart quicken with an anticipation that I cannot, even now, describe. My mind was empty of all thoughts, my body alive with sensation. I lifted my chin to look up into his face, search out that gaze once more that had so electrified me.

I saw my desire reflected there. And all I wanted was for
him to keep holding me, to return the passion that beat inside me like a swan’s wing pounding the water, lifting into flight.

He let me go.

The surprise of it brought me to my senses, and I staggered away from him, my head swimming.

“Do you believe now that I am sincere in my wish to change, Miss Seward?” Harker asked quietly.

“D-do I believe you?” I repeated stupidly, my mind desperately trying to take hold of the meaning of what had passed. I searched his eyes for a sign of that hypnotic stare, but it was as though he had shut a door upon me.

“I could have killed you just now, drunk your blood, broken your neck—done anything I desired with you,” he murmured. “But I did not. Is that enough to prove to you my sincerity?”

I stared at him, not knowing what to say. Was it enough? Or was he still playing tricks on me? “I—I don’t know. . . .”

A great sadness seemed to sweep over him, and he looked away from me. “Then I can do no more, Miss Seward.” He sighed. “There is no hope left for me.”

He turned sharply, his great black coat billowing as he strode down the aisle and out of the church.

“Dear God!” I breathed.

I gathered up the stake and mallet, which lay on the floor
where I had dropped them, and thrust them back into Van Helsing’s bag.

The house was empty when I returned. Becky had left already for her shift, but I welcomed the solitude. I needed time to think.

Harker had not been completely honest with me about what had happened at the monastery—but did that make everything he had told me a lie? If he had come here to destroy me, he could have done so in the church. Yet he had spared me. Did that prove him honest in his claim to seek redemption?

Bewilderment crowds me still.

25TH
N
OVEMBER 1918

I dreamed I was once again at Carfax Hall with Lily, in those days when we were blissfully unaware of the perils we faced—she in love with Quincey Harker, me in love with John—both of us unaware that they were half brothers and progeny of the house of Tepes. In my waking hours, that time seems so long ago—but in my dream, I was living it again. And this time, I knew of Harker’s true nature.

I watched as Lily, innocent and fresh as the flower she was named after, ran up to the house from the gardens,
carrying a dozen or so freshly cut blooms. She flitted past me, unaware of my presence. My skirt fluttered in the breeze of her passing, the heady perfume of the roses she carried lingering in the air.

I turned to follow her—and saw Harker, standing in the shadows of the hallway. He watched Lily climb the stairs, then turned and smiled at me. The intensity of his gaze filled me with foreboding. I wanted to run after Lily, warn her of his dark secret—but my legs would not move and my voice had no strength. I was utterly powerless and could only watch, horrified, as Harker strode up the stairs toward her room.

My desperation must have forced itself upon the dream, for suddenly I, too, was in Lily’s room. But now it was nighttime. Lily lay slumbering in her bed, her dark hair clouded across her pillow, her lips parted slightly as her breast rose and fell with her gentle, even breathing. What relief I felt to see her safe!

And then, without warning, a shadow fell across her. Harker. Once more I tried to call out—to warn Lily—but I could not. I was like a creature preserved in glass, powerless to do anything but watch as Harker sat down beside her and reached out to ease the dark curtain of hair away from her soft white neck.

Rage pulsed through my veins as he slowly traced the outline of Lily’s face and then trailed his fingertips lower,
along the base of her throat, a predatory smile upon his lips. I sucked in a deep, painful breath as I watched him lower his head toward her. I steeled myself to witness the bite that would defile her. . . .

But no strong white fangs pierced her flesh; no crimson blood pulsed out of her. I stared in shock as Quincey pressed an innocent kiss to Lily’s cheek and then another to her forehead—with such tenderness that my heart ached at the sight of it.

As he drew away to smile down at Lily’s sleeping form, I felt dazzled by the love I saw in those fathomless eyes of his. He then turned and left the room.

Oh, what am I to believe? That this dream is a visitation of the truth? How can it be so? I know Quincey Harker to be a monster!

And yet . . .

Doubt had risen in him even while he’d seduced Lily. I’d seen it recorded in the pages from his journal of that time. And it was he who helped me flee the castle. I could not lift the heavy door that barred my escape, but he came and lifted it for me. Without that act of mercy, Grace and I would never have escaped that wicked place.

Twice now he has spared me.

And now he asks for my help.

Dawn is some time away, and weariness drags at my bones. I will sleep now, soothed by the strange release I have found in
my dream. But tomorrow I shall visit Carfax Hall and find out once and for all whether he truly wishes to turn away from the darkness. For if what he says is true and I am the only one who can help him, how can I turn my back on him?

L
ATER

The sanatorium’s inquiry into the source of the virus has begun. This afternoon, Dr. McLeod and two of his colleagues interrogated me about Father’s illness. They asked when it had first afflicted him, how it had affected him, what precautions I had taken to prevent carrying it onto the ward. I left the interview room drained and miserable.

Helen was waiting for me in the corridor outside. “How did it go?” she asked anxiously.

“I told them all I could,” I answered.

“And do they really think you are to blame for the virus?” she asked sympathetically.

“They can think of no other explanation,” I replied.

For now, I shall put that worry to the back of my mind and concentrate on the next matter at hand—my visit to Carfax Hall.

L
ATER

The Hall loomed beyond the solid stone walls that surround its grounds. The sun was low in the sky. I knew Harker would be waking by now. As I pushed open the great oak- and-iron gates, I remembered the first time I had called here—to tell Lily that John was wounded and in the sanatorium. I had approached the hall then with no little trepidation, awed by its gloomy facade. I recalled how the heavy rain and glowering clouds had done little to lighten my mood. I felt no less wary now.

Harker has spared me thus far; why would he harm me now? I tried to reassure myself with reasoning—but it felt like approaching a leopard’s cage. Could Quincey Harker ever be tamed?

The bellpull was grimy with disuse. I was thankful for my gloves as I rang it. The sound of it echoed in the house beyond the cobweb-shrouded door.

My heart quickened as I heard footsteps approaching down the hallway inside. A moment’s hesitation and then the great door swung wide. Harker loomed above me upon the threshold.

He searched my face. “Have you come to try once more to kill me?” he asked finally.

“I have come to talk to you,” I answered.

“Are you willing to help me?” he asked.

“I don’t know if I can,” I told him. “But I had to come. There is something I still need to know.”

He beckoned me in and led me to the shuttered parlour. Candles blazed on the mantle, illuminating the room, but there was no fire lit in the hearth.

I looked around me. Every piece of furniture, every ornament sat eerily where last I had seen it, more than two years ago. But now, dust and cobwebs dulled them all and the cold air smelled dank and stale. My body stiff with tension, I sat down on the musty couch and had to suppress a cough as dust from it rose up and caught in my throat.

“May I fetch you a drink?” Harker offered.

“No!” I answered sharply. “This is not a social visit.”

Harker smiled, but the expression in his eyes was bleak. He seated himself on a leather armchair opposite me. “No, I suppose it is not,” he agreed. “What is it you have come to ask?” He looked weary, his eyes upon me, waiting.

“What makes you think you can fight the evil within you? You killed a monk at the monastery,” I accused. “A man of God!”

I saw his shoulders sag. “It is true,” he admitted. He rubbed his eyes, pausing for long seconds before speaking again. “It was Saint Andrew’s Eve,” he said finally. “When the darkness is at its most potent. The evil rose like a tide within me, and perhaps I might have resisted it, but I was provoked. Brother Stephen sought my destruction. He came
into my cell with a mallet and stake. Only Father Michael believed I could be saved.”

“He does not believe it now,” I informed Harker. “He thinks you are beyond mortal help.”

“Do you agree with him?” Harker’s voice was laced with pain.

“I do not know,” I answered honestly. “Finish your story.”

Harker stood and turned to face the mantle as he went on. “Brother Stephen came into my cell, intent on my destruction. And though I had been given a sleeping draft that night, some part of me sensed his purpose and I awoke to find him standing over me, holding a stake above my heart. How was I to resist such provocation—and on such a night?”

“You make excuses!” I challenged. “Did you feed from him?” The air between us seemed to grow heavier as I waited for his answer. “Did you feed from him?” I insisted.

Harker lifted his gaze to mine, and I saw it flare with some dark emotion I could not name. My skin prickled with fear.

“Yes,” he replied quietly.

Nausea rose in my throat.

“I will keep nothing from you now, Miss Seward,” he continued. “The sound of Brother Stephen’s pounding blood echoed around me in that tiny cell, the sweet smell of it
leaching out from his pores. . . . I was so starved of it. . . .” He paused and ran his fingers agitatedly through his dark hair. In the silence, I felt sure he must be able to hear the thud of my heart. But if he did, he ignored it. “Truly, I do not know whether it was self-preservation or . . . bloodlust . . . that finally drove me to do it,” he said, his voice now seeming to crack.

The vulnerability that possessed Harker’s face seemed so alien to his proud, aristocratic features. I found myself shockingly moved by it. I remembered our conversations in the church, how I had heard, in his confessions, the voice of a dutiful son and of a grief-stricken lover. Now I heard the self-recrimination of a murderer, and despite myself, I felt sympathy for his pain.