Reckoning (21 page)

Journal of Mary Seward

5TH
D
ECEMBER 1918

Lily haunted my dreams once more. I awoke—or thought I awoke—and saw her, luminescent in the shadowy darkness of my room. She beckoned me from my bed with a twisted and bloody hand. Her eyes glittered anxiously, and she fluttered at my bedside as though agitated.

“Lily, why do you wake me again?” I asked. “All is safe now. There is no need to fear.”

She did not seem to hear me. A frantic look of anguish possessed her disfigured face, and she urged me to rise with an ever more urgently waving hand.

“What is it, Lily?” I asked her, longing for her to speak. But she said nothing, only began to cry. Blood-tinged tears soaked her bruised and broken cheek. Then she beckoned again and glided out into the hallway.

I could not deny the desperation in her gaze. I grabbed my robe and chased after her along the corridors we had traced before.

The rugs felt silky beneath my feet, and the cold air carried the smoky fragrance of dying embers. My heart pounded ever harder in my chest, for I knew where Lily was leading me—to the same part of the house she had brought me to before. Reluctantly I forced myself to follow until I recognised the dreaded door. It stood before me—closed this time—looming like a headstone. Fear pierced me like an icy wind and froze the blood inside my veins. Last time I had found John inside this room. Would I again have to endure his hideous presence? I could not bear it. But Lily pointed toward the door and beseeched me with her eyes. I knew I must open it.

I steeled myself and placed my hand on the handle. It felt oddly warm beneath my fingers, as though a fire burned within. I turned it, trembling, and pushed wide the door.

Joyous relief bathed me like a cool breeze as I was met not with a feeding, vampiric John, but a sleeping Bathory, breathing peacefully as a child. His face was turned from me, and I lingered on the threshold, wanting to snatch a glimpse of him in repose.

With a smile, I tiptoed in, looking curiously around me as I went. I stopped short when I noticed something at the foot of the bed. The milk white body of a woman became visible,
lying on the rug. She was naked, and her head was twisted, her broken neck showing the red stain where she had been bitten.

What was this?
My head swam in confusion. Vomit rose in my throat, and I swallowed hard against it. Before I could move, Bathory rolled his head in sleep and turned his face toward me. A dribble of blood oozed from lips that parted slightly to reveal a single, gleaming white fang.

No. No, this wasn’t possible! I covered my mouth with both hands, pressing back the scream of terror and disbelief that struggled to burst forth. And then I realised that someone was lying next to Bathory—a woman, clothed in rich green satin that camouflaged her against the green quilt. As I stared, I realised that there was something strangely familiar about her—her jawline, her mouth, her nose, her brow. . . . I searched my memory to place her—this woman, sleeping so peacefully beside the man who swore he loved me.

I gasped in shock as the answer came to me. Without the glasses and the fiercely scraped-back hair . . . there was no mistaking her—

Becky Morrow.

I turned to find Lily, to demand why she had conjured such a dream for me—but Lily had gone. I felt a chill draft blow into the room, bringing goose bumps to my flesh. And in that moment of physical sensation, I understood.

This was no dream. I was not asleep.

This was real.

Lily had come—a spirit in the mortal world—to warn me of the deception.

I stood there I’m not certain how long, struggling to come to terms with what I had learned—staring again at Bathory, who now seemed a complete stranger to me.

And Becky—dear, kind Becky, who had nursed Father and been such company for me in my grief? How did
she
come to be here? Was she a victim as Lily had been? Had she been seduced by the vampire who now lay before me?

Quincey’s warning rang in my ears.
Bathory is dangerous!
He
had
been trying to save me.

Trembling from head to toe, I backed away toward the door.

If this is no dream, I told myself, I can at least attempt to control what happens next. I turned and fled down the corridor. I had to free Quincey. If we were facing a vampire, another vampire might be our only hope.

I must release him, I told myself—the idea hammering in my head to the rhythm of my pounding feet. I ran and ran, turning through this corridor and that until at last I found the head of the stairs. I raced down them two at a time and sped across the entrance hall and down through the servants’ passage.

My bare feet made hardly any sound as I raced through the kitchens. I caught a glimpse out of one of the windows.
The sun was red and low in the sky. I had slept nearly the whole day!

I had to hurry. Bathory would soon be waking.

As I passed the table, my fingers brushed a handle and sent a teetering pile of pans clattering to the floor. The noise rang from the white-washed walls and echoed through the halls. But I did not pause. I thought only of reaching Quincey. Nothing must prevent me.

I half slid down the ill-lit cellar stairs. The door was ahead of me. I rushed to it and, grasping the heavy bolt, drew it back with a dull clank.

The door swung open, and I saw Quincey’s eyes gleaming like a wolf’s in the shadows. “Quincey,” I panted. “I have seen Bathory. I know what he is!”

Quincey slowly drew himself to his feet.

“You must help me!” I begged. “I cannot escape here alone!”

“I no longer have the strength I once had,” Quincey rasped. “Bathory is more powerful than I. . . now.”

I looked at him for a moment, and I knew that the world was not so black and white as once I had imagined. I drew back my sleeve to reveal my freckled forearm. “Here!” I cried. “Take some of my blood. It will give you the strength you need for us both to escape.”

“No, Mary.” Quincey shook his head. “I will not taint you. But I will do what I can.” He moved from his cold prison,
mounting the twisting stairs two at a time. I marvelled that there was still strength enough left in him and raced after. I could hear his breathing, hard and laboured, but still he raced on, holding his hand out behind him so that I might grab it. Together we dashed through the kitchen. The sun had sunk below the horizon now. We made our way up into the entrance hall.

A great pool of moonlight flooded from the windows. I prayed Bathory had not yet awoken, but as we crossed the polished stone floor, a shadow fell across it. Bathory emerged to bar our path, smiling triumphantly.

My stomach tightened with rage and terror. I heard footsteps on the stairs behind us and turned. Becky descended the stairs slowly, regal as a princess in her green gown. She smiled broadly, revealing her pristine white fangs—her gaze locked on Quincey.

Confusion gripped me. She seemed no victim now. Indeed, she was more beautiful than I could ever have imagined, her chin proudly tilted and her auburn hair cascading around her oval face.

I saw now. She had taken great pains to hide her beauty, for it would have marked her out above any woman.

“Late as ever, Rebecca,” Bathory chided, and, like a falconer receiving his hawk, he held out his hand to her as she glided to his side.

She turned and addressed him fondly. “A lady’s prerogative . . .” Her Irish brogue had disappeared, replaced now by
an imperious clipped tone that sounded nothing like that of the unassuming girl I had known at the sanatorium.

Dear God, Becky was no victim at all! She was a vampire like Bathory.

With a sickening jolt, I realised that I had invited her into my home to play companion to my father! And her work at the sanatorium. Could it have been Becky feeding off the patients all along?

“You—you killed my father!” I shrieked at her.

Becky gave me a dismissive smile. “Oh yes, your father . . . He really was very sweet,” she purred. “But sadly, I didn’t have the pleasure of killing him. He was trying to escape me when he met with his accident.”

I longed to fly at her and scratch out her eyes, but Quincey grasped my hand and held me back.

“And before you ask—those soldiers at the ward?” Becky went on, her eyes glowing seductively. “I assure you, they were grateful for my attentions after I’d persuaded them. . . .”

“Well, you shall not persuade us!” I shouted.

“Really?” Bathory’s grey eyes were now cold as slate, devoid of all feeling for me. The gentle gaze I’d come to trust had gone forever. Without warning, he stepped forward and thrust his fist at Quincey’s chest, sending him flying backward as though tossed by a giant.

I gasped, never imagining such superhuman strength lay concealed in Bathory’s slim physique.

Quincey rolled as he crashed to the floor and staggered at once to his feet, breathing heavily.

Becky glared at Bathory, anger lighting her eyes. “Be careful with him! He is not as strong as once he was,” she told him.

I stared at Quincey. “Have you met her before?” I demanded.

“Yes,” Quincey replied between gasps. “That is Lady Rebecca Bathory, Lord Bathory’s sister.”

“Bathory’s sister?” I whispered.

Quincey nodded. “She is renowned among our kind,” he added curtly, “as a skilled seductress.”

I saw that his eyes burned with a reproach that hinted at intimacy. With a sting of jealousy, I realised that Quincey spoke with the voice of experience.

“I am flattered, Quincey,” Becky murmured alluringly. “I have thought of you often these many years. It was my hope that someday our destinies would intertwine and that we could be again what we once were.”

“We were nothing,” he snarled. “Do not pretend otherwise.”

Becky’s eyes flashed. “You worshiped me once! And now we can resume our affair. Once
she
is out of the way.” She shot me a look of pure disdain.

Bathory stepped forward then, his gaze now burning with a fiery menace. He snarled, his curled lip revealing his glistening fangs. “To hell with your girlish infatuation, Rebecca!
We have a task to finish.” He turned toward Quincey. “I suppose it would be wise to deal with you first.”

My heart seemed to freeze in my chest. Quincey was now so weak and Bathory so strong! Quincey could never win such a fight.

I reached for the vial of holy water at my throat. But as I fumbled beneath the collar of my nightgown, a hideous realisation gripped me.

It was gone!

“Looking for this?” Bathory took something from his pocket and dangled it before him. My chain, with the vial swinging from it!

As I clasped my throat, vulnerable now, my horror mounted. “How did you . . .?” I croaked.

“I took it while you were sleeping, of course,” he answered smoothly. He slipped the vial back into his pocket. “Poor, powerless Mary. Now you must simply watch—and wait your turn.” He turned to Quincey and lifted his fist.

“Leave him, brother!” Rebecca shouted.

Bathory hesitated a moment. It was the moment Quincey needed. Before Bathory could land a blow, Quincey raised an arm and deflected his aim. With his other hand, he punched Bathory hard on the jaw.

Bathory collapsed to the ground and spat a puddle of black, oily blood onto the marble floor. As Quincey stared down at him, panting from his effort, Bathory flexed his
shoulders and gave a roar so filled with fury that it fixed terror in my heart. If Bathory got to his feet, Quincey would never manage to defeat such rage. I had to do something.

Glancing quickly around the walls, I saw, resting on brackets, an ancient war axe, with two curving blades that gleamed in the moonlight. I ran to it and dragged it down. Its over-mighty head swung toward the floor, and I struggled to control it. But my arms were infused with desperation, and somehow I found the strength to heave its blades back into the air.

Becky stared at me, her eyes burning with fire. She hissed and drew back her lips to reveal her deadly fangs.

I stormed toward Bathory. He was still on his knees, wiping the blood from his lips, but his sister’s hiss alerted him and he looked quickly up at Quincey, expecting another blow.

Catching him unawares, I swung the axe.

It sliced his head clean from his shoulders. The beats of his ruined heart sent a fountain of blood spurting from his neck and his head. His body fell to the ground with a dull crack, and his head rolled over so that his face stared up at the vaulted ceiling, his eyes still wide with shock as the fire in them faded.

Perspiration prickled on my brow, and I let the heavy head of the axe rest on the ground, though I would not let go of the handle. I crouched and fumbled in Bathory’s jacket pocket,
swallowing hard against the bile that rose in my throat. I had to get my vial back. I felt its delicate chain and grasped it, drawing it out and clasping it thankfully in my hand.

Becky had staggered back, bent double as though punched in the stomach. She pressed her hand over her mouth, horrified. A wrenching sob exploded from her.

Then she turned her stricken gaze on Quincey. “Surely you won’t kill me as well?” she whispered. “After what we shared?”

Quincey shook his head wearily. “I loved you once, Rebecca. But your cruelty to Mary I cannot forgive.”

Becky stared in disbelief. “You sound as if you love her!”

“With all my soul,” he answered without hesitation.

My heart soared even as Becky’s stare hardened into pure malice. She glanced at Bathory’s corpse. “Then I am glad that we agreed to do as we were bid!” she hissed. “He told us that Mary should be tormented before she died.
He
said a quick death was not enough; that she deserved something crueler—and now I agree!”

“He?” Quincey asked coldly.

I found myself struggling to understand what Becky meant. Who could she mean?

Rebecca gazed at Quincey, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.

“Who? Who is it that ordered you to torture Mary?” Quincey demanded.

I heard movement behind us and turned to peer into the shadows—expecting to find a servant staring fearfully at the bloody scene before us. But I could see no one.