VROLOK (18 page)

“Thank you for telling me this. If you had of told me this from the start I probably wouldn’t have hated you as much.”

“If you had let me, I would have told you sooner,” Vlad said, and he took Isabella’s face in his hands. “When I saw you alive,” he said, “I felt I could find some form of happiness again. I felt you could be my companion, some one to share eternity with. Do you still hate me?”

Isabella looked at Vlad; he was amazing to look at, not just an attractive man, but a confident, proud man. His black eyes stared straight at her and he was just like her. He wasn’t under any illusions about Isabella; he had known her true character from the very start and had loved everything about her. He would never look at her in disgust as Nicolae had done. From the very first moment she had seen him she had been attracted to him as well, in spite of herself. She answered Vlad.

“I don’t think I ever really hated you. I blamed you for taking away something which was never really mine to begin with. It never occurred to me that the same thing had happened to you.”

“Will you stay here with me then?”

“I will.” As soon as these words had left Isabella’s lips she felt a slight sense of uneasiness. She felt as if he owned her. But at that moment she did not mind his ownership too much. All thoughts of her Italian friend had left her. Maybe she could find some measure of happiness with Vlad. She embraced him. When she did her eyes were drawn to the slashed portrait of the woman above the fireplace. She pulled back from Vlad. “If your wife had lived…do you think you would have ever been happy with her?” she asked.

“I think so. Yes, she was the perfect wife. She loved me unconditionally and she was easy to love.” This, to Isabella, was the wrong answer.

“The perfect wife! You mean she did what she was told?” Vlad smiled at Isabella.

“No, I mean she was perfect. She was a beautiful and dutiful wife. She didn’t argue with me, she respected my wishes and would have agreed with everything I said.”

“She killed your child. Is that the act of a dutiful wife?” Isabella asked.

“She was coerced into doing that. She thought she was doing the right thing.”

“It sounds to me like she had no will of her own.”

“She was not like you. You have too much will. To love a woman like you takes effort, Isabella. It doesn’t come easily.”

“Well then…maybe I should leave you with the memories of your…perfect wife.”

Vlad took Isabella in his grip. “I loved my wife and you loved your husband. What does it matter?”

“It matters…I will never be anyone’s second choice.”

“No one could even pretend to be settling for you and you know that, Isabella. You have not made it very easy for me to love you. Surely, you have to believe that I truly do love you after all these years. If I didn’t love you I would have given up on you long ago.”

“If that is the case, let me take down the picture.”

Vlad looked shocked at her request and quizzically replied, “You want me to take Markéta’s picture down?”

“Yes,” Isabella quickly blurted out.

Still unable to believe what Isabella was requesting, Vlad questioned her, “And what do you want me to put in its place?”

“A picture of me,” Isabella firmly replied.

“You haven’t got one,” said Vlad, not quite sure what Isabella was alluding to.

“I have,” stated Isabella, impatiently waiting for Vlad’s response.

“Where?” questioned Vlad.

“Back in Italy,” Isabella rebutted.

“Who painted it?” asked Vlad, still unsure of whether Isabella was telling him the truth.

“A man,” answered Isabella.

“The man I saw you with?” Vlad asked.

“Yes.”

Vlad then replied with a cynical tone in his voice, “You don’t want to be second choice…why should I settle for being yours?”

“I will get the picture and we can start all over again,” Isabella suggested.

“I don’t want you to go back there. I cannot bear to spend another fifty years alone without you,” Vlad said with passionate determination.

Isabella, testing Vlad’s trust, replied, “You won’t. I will be back within a month.”

Vlad reluctantly stated, “You’d better be.”

Isabella, knowing her own will and questioning Vlad’s last response, then replied “I’d better do as I please.”

“You are so wilful, Isabella! It can be exhausting!” Vlad said, exasperated.

“I am what I am—I will never change, and neither will you.” Isabella replied with a wry smile.

“I can’t change you?” Vlad asked implying that he could.

Isabella, still smiling, said, “Men have tried before and failed.”

“I could make you change.” Vlad pulled Isabella’s hair back so that she had to look at him. She pulled away from him.

“No you couldn’t. I would just leave. Or worse still, I could stay here and ignore you, like before.”

“Isabella….”

Isabella knew this was going to develop into another argument. So she pressed her finger to Vlad’s lips and said.

“If you let me go I will stay loyal to you forever. I promise, and you know when I make a promise I keep it.” Isabella somehow, in ways she could not fully grasp, that she would keep this promise, that she would always stay loyal to Vlad in her own unique way.

“I will let you go, but be back within the month.”

“I will be back soon but because I want to be, not because you told me to do so.”

Isabella left without another word. She had lied when she told Vlad her pictures were back in Italy. She had brought one back with her, but she wanted to return to Tuscany. Ever since she had left Vincente, she had felt that he was in danger. At first she assumed it was because she knew Vlad was watching them, but now she wondered if it was something else. She wanted to make sure he was well taken care of. She at least owed this to his mother.

Isabella had every intention of her keeping her promise to Vlad. She would be back within the month and this time she be would be happy to return. She arrived back at her Italian house after nightfall. She looked out the window and saw lights in the distant piazza—they were burning fires there. She could hear loud shrill sounds and whispers about inquisitions and acts of faith. She was not so sure what this meant. A strange smell was filling the streets. It was a smell that made Isabella want to wretch. It was the smell of burning flesh.

Isabella was hungry, so she began walking towards the crowds. The stench was getting stronger but she was ravenous, she needed to feed. She followed the sounds of the crowd.

When she reached the piazza she saw what she thought looked like some sort of celebration. There were people cheering and music was playing. She overheard a man talking to a woman, telling her to make sure the straw was dry so that that the heretics would not be made unconscious by the smoke fumes. The man said that it was imperative that they felt themselves burn to purge their souls. Isabella was repelled by these people. She was supposedly the demon amongst this crowd, and yet she had never thought of anything so abhorrent. She looked up at one of the victims. The flesh was slowly burning off his legs. She felt pity for him she looked up towards his face. It was contorted in agony and yet she still recognised him. It was Vincente.

Without thinking Isabella leapt into the fire and slashed the ropes that were binding him. She carried him off away from the crowd. The people around her were so stunned at this woman leaping into the burning flames that they did nothing to stop her, but even had they tried it would have been a futile task. Isabella took him home, but it was nearly too late. She laid him down on her bed. Then she ran and got water and poured it on his legs. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. He looked up at her and grabbed her dress.

“You,” he whispered. “Isabella…take the pain away.” It was same plea his mother had made. Isabella was faced with a dilemma. Not only could she take the pain away, she had the power to let him live. Would he thank her for saving him? Isabella was reminded of Nicolae and how he had reacted. Vincente screamed again in pain. She was running out of time—she had to decide what to do. She leaned in towards him.

“I can take your pain away,” Isabella said.

“Hurry!” he screamed in anguish.

“I can also make sure that you live?” she said, her tone indicating a question.

“Hurry!” he screamed again.

“Do you want to live?” She asked.

Vincente, not knowing the full gravity of his situation, agreed in a tortured voice. “Yes, Isabella I am too young to die.”

Isabella wanted to make sure that Vincente knew exactly what he was asking her. She replied, “No matter what the cost?”

“Yes, Isabella, hurry!” he screamed again.

Isabella leaned in and bit his neck, and then she slit her own wrist and let him drink from her. The burned flesh on his wrist started to heal and then his legs gradually healed. He wanted more blood but Isabella could not spare him anymore. She ran out and brought back the man who had said to keep the straw dry. Vincente drank from him and was soon fully recovered.

Vincente was somewhat disoriented. He looked at Isabella. “What happened? How did you save my life?”

“You may not think that I have. You may have preferred to die.” Isabella answered. Vincente sat up to examine his burned flesh.

“I’m not burned.”

“No, you’re not.” Isabella answered.

“What did you do?” he said calmly. Isabella was hesitant to tell him. “Whatever it was, I am grateful,” he said.

“When you asked me why I had no mirrors around the house, I never answered you. I’ll answer your question now. The reason I have no mirrors is because they are useless to me…I have no reflection.”

Vincente opened his mouth to speak. But Isabella pressed her finger to his lips to silence him.

“Listen,” she continued softly, “have you ever heard of Vampires?”

Vincente sat before her stunned by her revelation, for he understood her, finally. He nodded.

“I am a Vampire,” Isabella told him, “and to save you I turned you into one. You’ll never grow old and you will never die; but you have to kill.”

Vincente thought for a moment and then looked at Isabella and said, “Who can I kill first?”

“I take it this means that you are not repulsed by the creature you have become.” Isabella replied.

“I get to spend eternity with you. How could this make me unhappy?” Isabella was worried by this comment, for although she held great affection for Vincente she had no intention of spending eternity with him, but she would not tell him this yet.

“You have to understand Vincente, killing is not as easy you think and if you do not kill you will be in constant pain.”

“You saw what has been done to me? How can I have any feelings towards humans when they are beset on killing me and the only one who stood up against them was a Vampire?”

“You have other weaknesses as well. Have you realised yet how well you can see at night…that there are no lights in this room?”

“I wasn’t really thinking about that. It means that I will be able to paint at night just as well as I paint during the day. I have perfect eyesight at night. This is not a weakness,” Vincente said.

“You have perfect eyesight, yes; but now only at night. During the day you see nothing clearly. It’s just a blur. It’s as if you are staring into the sun, all you see are shadows enshrined in light,” she said.

Vincente’s face dropped. This was the first piece of news that seemed to upset him, but he shook off his disappointment.

“It doesn’t matter.” He smiled and embraced Isabella, but when his face was buried in her shoulder his features darkened again. He had lost his perfect eye for painting. Painting was the only talent he possessed and to not be able to paint during the day was devastating for him.

They sat together in the dark. Vincente held Isabella’s hand tightly; he was adjusting to the implications of his new circumstances. In the early hours of the morning they heard people gathering below Isabella’s window. She approached to watch them; they were carrying torches and planning more murders—they were a mob. “What is happening here?” she asked Vincente.