Reckoning (19 page)

WEST COUNTRY BUGLE
2
ND
D
ECEMBER 1918
D
OCCOMBE
F
ARMWORKER
S
AVAGELY
M
URDERED

Journal of Mary Seward

2ND
D
ECEMBER 1918

Bathory had again left to do his rounds on the estate when I came down to breakfast this morning. Country life starts early, I have discovered.

Johnson had placed the local newspaper beside my breakfast plate.

The headline told of a young woman in the locality who had been murdered—drained of blood. I did not need to know more.

This was the work of a vampire. Quincey Harker had discovered my whereabouts. Cold dread gripped me. Why did he pursue me so doggedly?

And how could have he tracked me down so quickly?

L
ATER

I walked again about the grounds this morning, fretful despite the sunshine. I have taken Johnson’s advice and always keep the house in sight. This afternoon I sought distraction in the library, but Bathory’s collection of books proved a little dry for my tastes. Besides, I was impatient for his return, longing to share with him the contents of the newspaper article.

I showed him as soon as he got home. “My tormentor has somehow found out where I am,” I said, my voice trembling.

While Bathory quickly scanned the article about the murdered young woman, my gaze strayed to the window. Outside, twilight had bled into evening and the grounds beyond the window were swathed in darkness.

“Please try not to worry, Mary,” Bathory said soothingly. He cast the paper down on the sofa, strode to the windows, and closed the curtains. “You are safe here with me.”

I pray he is right—for both of us.

3RD
D
ECEMBER 1918

Lily came to me in my dreams again last night. It is as though my renewed anxiety over Quincey has drawn her back to the forefront of my mind—to haunt me with her tragic memory.

I dreamt that I awoke to find her standing over me. It felt strange, seeing her in Bathory’s home. Bloody and disfigured, she gazed down at me with pleading eyes and beckoned me from my bed.

I was powerless to refuse her.

As I crossed the room after her, she passed through the door like a ghost. I had to open it to follow.

I saw her waiting for me in the dimly lit hallway. “Lily!” I called. “Where are we going?”

But she paid no heed to my question and drifted on, turning into another hallway, leading me away from the part of the house that was familiar to me.

Some cold foreboding stayed my step. I did not want to follow. “Do come back, Lily!” I pleaded. “I am cold!”

But still she did not listen. She seemed to have some purpose and drifted on.

I followed, fearful of letting her out of my sight, mindful of what had happened when I’d left her alone in Castle Dracula.

I did not recognise the part of the house she led me to at all. A feeling of disorientation gripped me, and my fear began to grow. How would I ever find my way back to my own room again?

At last, Lily stopped beside a door that was slightly ajar. Soft light from within the room beyond it seeped out into the corridor. I opened my mouth to ask Lily why she had led me
here—but she silenced me by putting a bloodied finger to her bruised lips.

I heard a whimpering cry drift out from within the room.

My previous nightmares should have taught me caution, but I pushed open the door and looked in.

Reclining on the bed was a young woman, her face contorted in terror, her eyes so wide that their whites shone in the half-light. She struggled against the fiend that pinned her to the bed, lowering its mouth to her throat—and then suddenly she stiffened and gasped as it penetrated her flesh with its fangs. It began to feed, and the young woman’s cries became a strangled, desperate choking.

The blood pulsing through my veins seemed to rush to my head. I felt I was drowning in it. I recognised the creature even before it straightened and turned to stare at me, its eyes glittering like rubies, mouth and chin glistening red with blood.

It was John.

His face broke into a gloating smile.

A scream rose from the depths of me and rang shrilly from my lips.

I must have screamed out loud in my sleep and roused myself from the devastating nightmare, for suddenly I was awake.

I was in my bed, staring at its shadowed canopy overhead.

Quick footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, growing louder as they came closer, and then the door was flung wide.

Lord Bathory stood in the open doorway, a pistol in his hand. “What is it, Mary?” he demanded anxiously. “I heard you scream!”

“A nightmare . . .” I quavered. “Such a nightmare, I can hardly bear that my imagination could conjure up such a thing. . . .”

Bathory closed his eyes with relief. “A nightmare,” he echoed. He came to my bedside and laid his pistol on the cabinet beside me. Though I knew a pistol would be little use against Quincey, I was relieved to see that Bathory was ready to take the threat seriously.

He tenderly pushed a strand of hair from my face. “What did you dream of to frighten you so?” he asked.

I shuddered as I remembered. “I dreamt that John was here, in your house,” I told him. “Though it seems strange that I should dream that John was here when it is Quincey who pursues me,” I observed.

“Mary, if any vampire dared enter my house, I’d shoot him down like a dog!” Bathory vowed.

I shook my head. “Only a wooden stake through the heart will kill them,” I explained. “And garlic and crucifixes will drive them away.” I lifted the vial that hung at my throat. “Or this.”

Bathory looked puzzled. “What is it?” he asked.

“Holy water,” I told him.

Bathory raised his eyebrows. “Then I shall send a maid to the local church for a gallon of it tomorrow,” he said earnestly. “I believe some darkness stalks you, and I will do whatever it takes to defend you.”

I loosened my grip on him, reassured.

Bathory remained silent for a long moment. “Mary, this Quincey Harker must be a devil to want to hurt an angel like you,” he then murmured. “But do not worry. I shall keep this fiend from our doorstep.” And then he bent to gently kiss my brow. It was the most intimate gesture Bathory had yet made. It suffused me with warmth.

“I have to be away again in the morning. More politicking,” he explained. “You, however, must sleep in and recover. I shall spend the day looking forward to sharing dinner with you on my return.” Picking up his pistol, he rose and headed for the door.

I nodded. “Thank you, Xavier,” I said gratefully. He turned and smiled, his expression tender.

Once he was gone, I rose from my bed to fetch my journal. I knew I would not sleep.

Perhaps I will now, having purged the terrible experience on paper.

L
ATER

I slumbered uneasily until an hour or two after daybreak. Bathory had long since left on his business when I finally arose and went downstairs. I had little appetite, but a place at the breakfast table had been laid out for me, and, not wishing to seem ungrateful, I forced myself to eat a slice of toast and marmalade and drink a cup of tea.

There was nothing more in the local newspaper this morning about the murder.

After breakfast, a cold wind rattled the windows; I had no heart to venture outside and returned to my room. I stared out at the gardens, unappreciative of their beauty, my mind questioning again why John had returned to haunt my dreams. My new anxieties had clearly stirred old ones too. I found myself almost as fearful as if I were still in Castle Dracula, surrounded by the demons that inhabited that dark place.

And then a glimmer of sense broke through my obsessive worrying: if I explored the house, perhaps it would put my mind at rest. I reasoned that if I could see all the corridors in the bright, crisp light of day, some of the horrors left by my dreams might be dispelled.

I set off on my task. In daylight, the corridors were bright and well lit by wide windows. Painted in the most delicate colours and adorned by beautiful furniture and paintings, they seemed not frightening in the least.

Feeling relieved to see reality so unlike my nightmare, I returned to my room to discover that a cold luncheon had been brought up and left for me on a tray. Touched by Johnson’s thoughtfulness and finding my appetite somewhat restored, I ate the food gratefully.

Now, with last night’s nightmare dispelled and a full stomach, I feel rather drowsy. Lord Bathory is right—my anxieties really have taken it out of me. I shall rest for the afternoon and be fresh for his return.

L
ATER

I did not reawaken until a gentle tapping on my door penetrated my consciousness. I blinked open my eyes with a start—surprised to discover that the sun had already set. Moonlight streamed in through the tall windows.

“Mary?” Bathory’s soft voice called through the door. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up. “Yes? Come in,” I called. The door opened and Bathory entered, an inquiring smile on his kind face. “Have you been able to rest?” he asked, concern still evident in his voice.

“Yes, thank you,” I assured him, pushing the rumpled hair from my face. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight o’clock,” Bathory replied. He crossed over to the windows to close the drapes.

I gave him a grateful smile.

“I’ve come to see if you feel up to joining me for dinner,” Bathory went on tentatively.

“Of course!” I told him. “I shall be down presently.”

Bathory nodded. “Good, I shall tell Cook,” he said, and left again, closing the door quietly behind him.

I decided I would change into a more elegant dress—make more of an effort as Bathory’s guest. I chose the high-necked blue gown I had worn for our first dinner together. As I struggled with fastening some of its buttons, I heard a noise on the balcony beyond my window.

I froze momentarily, my flesh tingling with sudden fear. Then I rushed to the bellpull at the side of the mantle and tugged it ferociously.

“Mary . . .”

The unwelcome voice beyond the window stopped the breath in my throat.

Quincey Harker was outside my window.

I heard the door handle twisting as he tried to open it. Did he really think I would leave it unlocked?

“Mary, let me in!” he ordered.

What sort of a fool did he think me?

Instinct drove me into action. Though every fibre in my body called to me to run from my room—what would be the point? Quincey would only pursue me. If he had come to
claim me, I would face him! But I would not give up my life and soul without a fight.

I undid the chain that held my vial of holy water with trembling fingers, fumbling desperately with the small catch. The French windows rattled louder. Quincey was determined to break in. At last the catch opened, and I held up the vial and drew out the stopper. Not a moment too soon! I heard the wooden frame creaking then cracking under the strain.

With a splintering crash, the lock gave and the curtains billowed open, blown by the inrush of night air.

Quincey stood in the doorway, framed against the night sky, his face glowing in the light from my room. “Why did you run from me?” he rasped, fury gleaming in his gaze.

“Because you are a murderer!” I accused. “You lied to me about abstaining from human blood—
you
killed my father and my patients at the sanatorium! You want to ruin me!”

Quincey slumped against the window frame, shaking his head, as though grown weak.

“There’s no need to keep up your pretense anymore!” I spat. “I will never believe you again!”

“No!” he muttered, perspiration pricking his brow.

“Why do you persecute me so?” I demanded. “You have toyed with me from the start! Have you finally decided to kill me?” The vial of holy water trembled in my hand as I held it out toward him. It seemed suddenly so small, capable of no more than inflicting some small wound.

My bedroom door slammed open.

“Mary!” Bathory stood there, his pistol in his hand. Following my terrified gaze, he saw Quincey at the window. Without hesitating, Bathory took aim and fired at him.

At once, Quincey turned and sprang away, slithering over the balcony’s edge.

Bathory ran to the stone railing and, leaning over, fired again.

I sank slowly to the floor, relief flooding me. “Did you hit him?” I called.

“I think I winged him,” Bathory called back from the balcony.

I had not expected Bathory’s weapon to harm Quincey. Pain seared my heart, but I quashed it. I would not let myself feel compassion for that demon again. “Has he gone?”

“He’s disappeared into the shadows,” Bathory told me. “The dogs will sniff him out if he’s still on the grounds.”

“But they will do no good. Harker commands wolves!” I pointed out.

“If he has become vulnerable to my bullets, perhaps he’ll be vulnerable to my hounds also,” Bathory replied. He turned to me, his pistol hanging in his hand, face flushed, shoulders squared—quite changed from the affable scholar I had first known. He gave me a wry little smile. “It seems you have made a man of action out of me,” he commented, as though reading my thoughts. He crossed the room and
crouched beside me. “Are you harmed, Mary?” he asked gently.