Sotto voce,
as if afraid his sister or the servants might overhear,
he asked, What did the doctor say is the matter? She seems so pale.
Some type of anaemia, perhaps, I answered, my own voice almost a whisper.
My heartbeat quickened as I struggled to find the proper words to gently approach
the subject I had wanted so long to discuss with my husband. But I fear there
is an emotional component to her condition.
In lieu of asking, he fixed his wide gaze upon me and held it there until I
continued, most tentatively:
I think
I believe it has to do with your uncle, Vlad.
How so? he asked. His tone seemed neutral enough to encourage me to proceed,
but in retrospect, I feel I should have caught its subtle defensiveness.
She is distraught about the thought of Vlad going to England, I said, and
despite my resolve, coloured.
The line between his eyebrows appeared again - a warning of what was to come.
But that does not make sense, he said, still in a hushed tone, mindful of
the servants. He explained very clearly to her that we would not go without
her - that we would wait until she is well. Is she upset about leaving home?
Not exactly
I hesitated, not at all certain now that the discussion should
be continued. But Arkady was determined to learn the problem. A hint of impatience
crept into his tone.
Well, then, what is it?
It is
I think she is still afraid he might leave her behind. I could feel
heat on my cheeks and neck, but his own impatience wakened mine, and I felt
I had kept the truth to myself long enough, that it was better to say it and
be done with it. She is
Vlad is
Arkady, they are in love.
He drew back as though I had slapped him and froze two steps from the landing.
His lips parted, and he stared at me with wide-eyed shock. When finally he was
able to speak, his voice was so soft I could scarcely hear: Wh-what? What do
you mean?
I have seen him in her bedroom late at night. Twice. I think her guilt over
the affair is at least partially responsible for her inexplicable illness.
Having unburdened myself of the truth, I felt suddenly weak, ill. My own cheeks
burned, but it was on his that I saw sudden bright blotches of colour.
Purely dazed, he turned from me towards the stone wall and whispered, That
is impossible. Impossible.
I moved awkwardly down the last two steps and turned to stare up at him. It
breaks my heart to tell you this. You know I would not say such horrible things
unless I was convinced they were true. But for Zsuzsannas sake, I -
As I spoke, he raised his hand to his temple in a sudden spasm of pain that
made me reach towards him in concern. He recovered abruptly, and whirled on
me in a sudden blaze of fury, leaning forward and teetering on the edge of the
step so that I feared he would lose his balance and fall. How dare you? he
shouted. You are no better than the peasants, who spread vicious lies about
Uncle! He has done you naught but good, given you this house and all this wealth - and
you have turned on him! You are an ingrate, Mrs. Tsepesh, and he is a saint!
A saint!
Do not raise your voice to me, Mister Tsepesh, I said, with a bit of heat
myself. I am no ingrate, nor he a saint. His words stung - and perplexed me,
for I would have thought him more concerned about his sister's honour than his
uncles.
As I spoke, he stormed down the stairs, past me, waving his hand for silence
and shaking his head as I tried to protest, to counter his anger.
I have heard enough! I will listen to no more lies! And he swept away on
a tide of fury. I listened to his receding footsteps, muffled at first by carpet,
then ringing loud against cold heartless stone. Had he reacted like the Arkady
I had always known, I would have followed him and been certain a swift apology
and reconciliation would follow - but this was someone whose behaviour I could
no longer predict. I gave him his privacy until such time as he had control
of his temper.
He closed himself in one of the studies and did not come out for an hour or
so, when he left the manor without speaking to anyone, and took the caleche
far earlier than is his custom - I suppose to go to the castle. I have no idea
whether he plans to speak to Vlad about what I have said.
I regret bringing up the subject; clearly Arkady's grief is still too fresh,
too raw. How can I ever speak to him, then, of what I have seen outside my window - of
the wildly fantastic truth that I saw Vlad become a wolf? Of the marks on Zsuzsanna's
neck, and the fact that I am half-convinced that he is
strigoi,
convinced
enough to permit the crucifix and the garlic?
I am afraid. Afraid of Vlad, afraid for Zsuzsanna. Afraid for my soon-to-be-born
child.
Mostly I am afraid because ever since we arrived, my husband has been slowly
changing into someone I do not know. I am changing, too, from a sensible woman
into a quivering, superstitious soul - especially when Dunya speaks of Zsuzsanna's
slow metamorphosis into one of the
strigoi.
Vlad became a wolf. What shall remain of Arkady and me, when our transformations
ace complete?
* * *
Zsuzsanna Tsepeth's Diary
13 April.
He knocked at the window again last night. He knocked, and I was prepared for
him. I had taken the crucifix from my neck and cleared away the garlic, hiding
it in the closet the way Mary and Dunya do each morning - they think they are
so clever! And I had unlatched the shutters, and thrown the sash open - but it
was not enough. When he came, Brutus started barking again wildly, lunging at
the window as though he intended to leap through it. Nothing I could do or say
would restrain him. I had to close the sash and shutters and return to bed,
for fear his insane barking would wake the entire household.
I tried taking Brutus to the kitchen, and discovered Dunya there, asleep on
the floor. She stirred as we entered, and I hurried back to my room with the
dog.
I am stronger, but I have stopped changing. I do not like this. I do not like
waiting. Something must be done.
* * *
The Diary of Arkady Tsepesh
14 April.
At last, I am strong enough to sit up and write. I recall nothing of yesterday
save Mary's delicate features, framed by golden curls that hung down and brushed
my cheeks when she leaned her face over mine. Her face, and her soft, cool touch
on my brow, and her murmured words of comfort; that is all I remember. She is
so good to me, so kind. I have tried several times to beg her forgiveness for
raising my voice to her earlier, but she merely touches her fingertips to my
lips and smiles.
Dear God, I wish I could forget the events of twelfth April, but they shall
haunt me for the remainder of my life. Where will it lead? Where will it all
lead? But no; I must not consider the future now. See? My hand begins to shake.
No, I must simply write it down, and from the act hope to gain insight as to
what I must do.
The day before yesterday, on the fateful twelfth, I learned that my sister
was ill, suffering from anaemia. This was distressing enough news, but after
I went to visit Z., Mary revealed that she had seen Vlad in Zsuzsas bedroom
late at night, and that the two had embraced.
I am ashamed to write that I shouted at my poor wife. I could not believe anything
so horrible of my sister, of V., the generous benefactor of us all. At the same
time, I knew Mary was incapable of lying, that it had to be true, yet at that
moment I felt once again the grip of impending madness, and descended into mindless
rage. I strode into the study and closed myself in, thinking to write it all
down and lift the anger, but I was far too agitated. I left the house and took
the caleche, unsure of my destination.
It was a warm spring day. Dawn had been clear, but early afternoon saw iron
clouds filling the sky, and the air had the feel and smell of an approaching
storm. Some inexplicable compulsion drove me towards the edge of the forest
where I had last seen Stefan. As I urged the horses between the trees, a gentle
rain began to fall, but the thick foliage protected us. Even so, we grew wet
as the sweeping branches sprinkled us with dew.
The animals tossed their heads and whinnied their disapproval of my foolish
decision to re-enter the forest. I told myself that I was not afraid, though
my mouth was suddenly so parched my tongue adhered to the inside of my cheek,
and I held the reins taut in slightly trembling hands. Not afraid, though I
could not keep from peering up at the tops of the tallest trees, to see whether
Jeffries lay swaying there with the wind.
It was day and it was warm. Wolves did not attack in daytime in warm weather,
nor singly, but in packs, and then usually only on winter nights. That was the
prevailing folk wisdom, yet Stefan had died on a beautiful, glistening summer's
day, killed by a solitary half-wolf. I remembered Father's revolver, beside
me on the seat where I had stowed it for just such an occasion. I set it on
my lap.
There was no sign of Stefan. I drove the horses forward a bit, slowly, straining
my eyes in the shadowy dimness for my dead brother's small form. We retraced
the progress I remembered, finally coming to a stop at the place I decided was
the one where the wolves had attacked.
The horses lifted their hooves and snorted, impatient, nervous. I held very
still, watching the same spot in the shade of an alder tree where I believed
Stefan had last been. Watching, and listening, to a distant rustling in the
trees - most likely of birds and squirrels. A crow cawed, reproachful; a bird
sang.
I sat watching several minutes, aware of every sound around me, of the muted
patter of rain against trees, of my own breathing. At last, slowly, slowly,
out of the reticulate pattern of light and sepia shadow against trembling leaves,
Stefan emerged.
And gestured onward, at the deep recesses of the forest.
We followed, the wheels rolling against the damp, needle-strewn ground with
the snap of breaking twigs.
Once again, my brother's spectre vanished, only to reappear once I progressed
a fair distance in the direction indicated. We continued a good half hour into
the forest in this manner.
At last, Stefan appeared but gestured no more; only stared intently at me a
time, as might a living loved one trying to memorise the details of my face
upon parting.
And then he disappeared.
Confused, I looked round, and saw nothing but the same alder and pine trees.
I waited some minutes, then slipped the pistol into the waist of my trousers
and crawled out of the caleche. I tethered the horses to a branch, then commenced
investigating the area. There was nothing remarkable, just the same dense foliage
as before, and dark soil almost entirely covered by a carpet of dead leaves
and pine needles.
But when I walked over to the large tree where Stefan's ghost had stood, the
ground abruptly sank, soft and spongy, beneath my feet. I pushed away the damp,
vegetal detritus and discovered fresh dug earth, darker and more loosely packed
compared to the surrounding soil.
My heart began to beat more swiftly. Quickly, I swept more of the dead foliage
aside. As I did, I discovered something hard and white - a fragment of bone, from
an animal, I thought. But before I could examine it, the horses emitted high-pitched,
panicked whinnies.
I looked up to see a wolf, running swift and low between the trees, headed
not towards the caleche and the captive horses, but towards me.
I straightened and in a split second's time entertained the grisly notion that
Stefan had enticed me here to suffer the same fate as my two brothers; I imagined
my bright blood merged with the gentle rain and bejeweling the forest with crimson
dew.
The wolf lunged. I drew the pistol from beneath my coat and fired. Not four
feet away, the animal emitted a shrill, canine yelp and dropped in mid-leap,
at the highest point of the arc, bloodied at the juncture of leg and shoulder.
Yet it gathered itself and rose, unsteady, limping on three legs, and came
at me. I was forced to shoot again; this time, the proximity permitted me to
make a clean kill, and lodge a bullet just above and between its stark white
eyes. The creature sank to the forest floor with a whine that terminated in
a death-rattle.
I wanted nothing better than to sag weakly against the nearest tree trunk and
master my trembling - but the ominous recollection of the two dead wolves lying
at the open gate of our family tomb persuaded me to remain with pistol at the
ready.
There came a crashing of twigs and leaves; the second wolf appeared bare seconds
afterwards. I forced myself to wait until he was near enough for my aim to be
certain, and when at last I prepared to fire, I had to steady my shaking right
arm with my left. The wolf charged, and I squeezed the trigger, but the sparse
rain that dripped down through the forest canopy left the weapon beaded with
moisture; it slipped in my grasp as it discharged, sending the bullet wide of
its mark.
In the fraction of a second it took to realise I had missed my target, I knew
all was lost. The wolf leapt for my throat. Its body collided with mine, knocking
the pistol from my hand. Huge paws struck my shoulders, slamming them against
damp ground. I steeled myself for the pain of those cruel teeth upon my neck,
thinking not of the irony of my fate, nor the treachery of my brother's ghost,
but only of Mary and the child.
The wolf lowered its face to mine and peered at me with large, colourless,
feral eyes; its panting mouth revealed a long pink tongue and yellowed fangs
glistening with saliva. It snarled, and opened its mouth wide in preparation
for the kill. I felt its breath, hot upon the exposed, tender skin of my throat.
Gasping, I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for death.