Bloodline (20 page)

Journal of
Captain Quincey Harker

30TH
N
OVEMBER
(CONTINUED)

Lily is dead. There is little I can do for her now.

But I have protected Miss Seward and helped her to leave this hellish place.

I believe that Lily would approve.

Afterward, I sat in my room, numbed with pain. My cheek smarted where the holy water had blistered it.

Near dawn, something was thrown up at my window. I heard John’s voice calling me from below, over and over. His taunting tone filled me with foreboding and I moved quickly from my bed to see what excited him.

Shading my eyes, I drew back the drapes.

John stood below, recklessly exposed. Seeing my shadow move to the window, he began to laugh. “Look, dear brother!” he called. “I’m about to pay you in kind!”

I peered through the repellent rays to where John’s already reddened hand was pointing. Against a long-dead tree trunk rested a black shape.

“I was careful to shield her as I carried her out here, for I would hate for you to miss the full glory of her destruction,” John sneered.

I stared on at the strange form attached to the tree. A sickening realisation gripped my belly.

“You taught me well, Captain Harker,” he sneered. “Perhaps you remember Private Smith?” John pulled away the cloak that covered what I now already knew to be there.

It was Mother. John left her there and quickly made his way into the safety of the castle.

In moments, the sun rose, awaking her with a start. For the first time in my life I saw her eyes widen in fear. She writhed against her bindings as her face began to blister and bubble like pork on a spit. I imagined the flesh sizzling and crackling, though I could hear nothing but her agonised screams. Smoke poured through the satin of her dress.

I watched helplessly as her body crumbled away, charred to ashes. Then a wild rage possessed me.

I turned and ran from my room, taking the stairs three at a time. John was waiting for me in the crypt. “I did not realise what a dry old stick she was!” he gloated.

I grabbed him by the throat. “Why did you do it?” I spat, struck by how little fear he betrayed as I began squeezing the
breath out of him. His blue eyes had grown as icy as my mother’s used to be.

His lips drew back in a grimace that showed teeth long and sharp. He gripped my wrists with a strength that, disconcertingly, almost matched my own. “You should not have killed
my
mother.” He gulped, dragging my hands from his throat.

So that was it.

“You are mistaken,” I said, struggling against his grip. “I had nothing to do with Rosemary’s death.”

“I saw you coming from the coffin room, and then I found her body!” John accused. “You drove a stake into her heart. Who else could have done it?”

“Who was it that brought stakes into this place?” I asked.

John let go of my arms. His hands fell away. “Mary,” he whispered. His face hardened as shock turned to anger. “Mary!” He grasped his head in his hands as though it might split in two and roared with an uncontrolled rage. “I’ll kill her.”

I struggled to mask my shock. “Too late,” I told him lightly. “She is gone. And so is Lily. Dead. She threw herself from her window.” I waited to see how this news would move him. But no sign of grief broke through the expression of rage that gripped his face.

“So she chose to die rather than marry you,” he sneered.

I flinched at his words. “Are you not at all sorry?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “She has proved herself weak. We are stronger without her.”

I stared at him. Though I had spent many more days in the shadows than him, my soul had never been as black as his.

“Enough!” I snapped. And I strode back into the castle. At sundown, my destination will be a place never before visited without invitation.

L
ATER

As the sun was setting I fetched the key that would give me access to the tower of the north wing. I yanked the door open and made my way up the narrow spiral staircase.

I reached the studded door at the top, lifted the latch, and entered.

“Father!” I shouted.

Tepes stepped out from the shadows; his body, though stooped, still hinted at the great strength it once harnessed. “Quincey …” he breathed. “Why have we not begun the wedding celebrations?” Concern lit his rheumy eyes.

“There will be no celebrations,” I told him shortly. “The bride you chose for me preferred death to becoming one of us.”

Father’s hands dropped to his sides. “How could you have let her get away?” he demanded.

“Surely ‘how’ does not matter,” I snapped. “Rosemary is
dead. And I am leaving this place. John may have it all. I want no part of my inheritance. I no longer have the stomach for it.”

Father’s expression changed to one of icy threat. In an instant, he no longer looked frail. “Whatever has happened, you will stay! It is your duty!” he bellowed at me.

“All I have done is
your
duty!” I spat back. “I will do it no longer. This future you’ve planned for me—this
destiny,
Father, is not glory. It is ruination. I will go now to find my own way.”

I turned toward the door.

With a great roar, Father leapt at me, hurling me against the wall.

He lunged again, but this time I was prepared. I grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him away.

With a crash, he fell upon his ancient desk. Ink pots and pens clattered to the floor.

“Let me go, Father,” I growled. “I do not want to hurt you.”

“I will kill you first,” Father hissed, utter hatred in his eyes. A thin trail of dead, blackened blood leaked down his temple.

I shook my head, disgusted by the pathetic sight. I turned again toward the door. A second later, I felt something crash down onto my back. As I reeled round, I saw Father had hit me with the wooden chair from the desk.

I watched as he picked up a splintered chair leg, its end split into a sharp and deadly point.

I did not have time to think as I deflected his next blow, just grabbed the leg and used it as he had intended on me. I gripped it tightly in my fist and plunged it into his chest. I felt the bone of his breastplate shatter and the stake lodge deep into his dark heart.

Screaming and writhing, he grasped the stake between his hands; his contorted face reflected his dreadful realisation.

I heard a loud gasp from the doorway and found John there.

I let Father’s impaled body drop to the floor. It had already begun to degrade, but he hung on like the demon he was.

“John!” he gasped. “Regard your true sire …” Black blood welled up in his mouth and he swallowed it back.

John’s face was a mask of revulsion and horror as he took in Father’s face.

Then, with a final sigh, Father gave up his damned and blackened ghost.

For a final time, I turned and walked to the door, passing John without a glance.

As I reached the top of the stairs, John’s cold, hard voice came to me.

“You brought me here. You helped unleash my true nature. And now you are abandoning me?”

I bowed my head, unable to deny it. “I am sorry,” I replied. “I gave you what was rightfully yours. It is up to you what you do with it.”

Before I leave, I shall fetch Lily’s broken body from the rocks and bury it away from here. A true innocent claimed my heart—yet died because of me. Lily’s death must be the beginning of my salvation.

Journal of
Mary Seward

30TH
N
OVEMBER 1916

I pushed through the vegetation that disguised the tunnel’s entrance and we emerged into soft morning light. The child roused and looked around her, wide-eyed, as though thankful as I for the cool fresh air and sight of the village ahead.

I turned back to look at the castle, bathed in the bloodred glow of the sunrise on its mountain perch.

How startled the villagers were to see us. The innkeeper took us in and his wife fed the baby warm milk. Villagers crowded at the doorway, jostling to see the
woman who had returned from the castle—in daylight, and with one of their own.

When I had finished eating, the innkeeper brought the infant to me and placed her back in my arms. I looked at him in surprise, having expected her family to come and claim her once word of our arrival had reached them. I gestured to the child, then to the houses beyond.

The innkeeper shook his head and motioned to me to stand and follow him. He led me down through the village to the churchyard. There, he showed me a series of gravestones—one that looked newly placed. Carved on it were two names. The innkeeper looked sorrowfully at the infant and crossed himself.

I understood. The child’s parents had recently been taken. She had no family left here.

That night, the child and I slept side by side in a great soft bed. For the first time in days I felt safe, secure behind the wreaths of garlic blossom that hang at the window, as they do around every door and window in the village.

8TH
D
ECEMBER 1916

It seems we shall be home in time for Christmas. I sent a telegraph to Father this morning.

The ship rocks gently beneath me as I write. The captain
says the weather will remain fair for us all the way to England.

Here in my cabin the infant sleeps peacefully in her cot. No one from the village offered to take her. I think they were frightened, as she had been so long in the castle. I have named her Grace.

I pray daily that God will protect us both from the darkness we have left behind—and that somehow, my heart shall heal from the grief that afflicts it.

Beyond the watery horizon lies England, where I shall make a home for Grace. A safe haven where God, and peace, shall dwell.

The breathless sequel to Bloodline is coming in February 2011

ISBN: 978 1 4052 5467 0

Mary Seward thought she had escaped the horrors of Transylvania. But now, back in England, she has terrible nightmares, fears the darkness, and sees vampires everywhere. When a strange virus weakens her father, Mary suspects that there’s a far more sinister force at work.

Could Quincey Harker have returned?

The first temptation is never the strongest …

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