The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier (Book 1) (30 page)

The black cloud of grief shrouded me, as
madness and sorrow hit me in equal waves. I lamented her lifeless body like a
father mourning his dead child, as I had grieved for my cousin long ago. Evelina’s
figure offered no solace, despite its tranquil perfection. She had taken her
own life with the only weapon she could find. Her captor’s decorative claw was still
caught up in her nest of blood-clotted hair, and the gash in her neck revealed
her fate, just as the wound in Penthesilea’s nape had wasted her blood on the
sticky Trojan air. I knelt down beside the corse, just as I had done on the
battlefield then.

Had I been human, I would have been
breathless. Evelina was magnificent, her face an angelic effigy, her features
drawn out and crystallized forever with budding youth. She was not dead but
made divine, and the low murmur of her frequency told me exactly to whom she belonged.
She was a child of the Empress now, a progeny of the Qing dynasty. I waited in
anticipation to greet her, as her maker wandered somewhere else aboard her ship
of masterpieces, Evelina nothing more than another opus for her
collection—one that would live forever.

When the eyes of the novitiate fluttered
beneath her closed lids, I knew she was on the advent of her transfiguration. Remorse
and ecstasy consumed me all at once, and when her nostrils flared and her lips
swelled and her jaw cracked with the pressure of their hardening, I was ready.
I pulled her from the berth and into my arms, holding her to me. I readied the
goblet of blood that had been placed at her side. She would wake with the
unquenchable thirst and need we all experience, that commanding lust for blood.

Perhaps you read this now and question
my joy at seeing her turned vampire since I had fought so hard to keep her human,
but my sorrow fled with her metamorphosis, all my fear and wrath dissipating at
the sight of her perfection. There was no need for her to be human any more.

A baby’s cry rushed to meet me from somewhere
deep beneath the metal deck of the cargo ship, echoing through the passageways.
When the Empress saved Evelina from the clutches of the nomad, she had acquired
the child too, a human newborn, the greatest treasure she could obtain. The
child is safe here with the other prized works of art, as the most precious one
among the whales of Cixi’s collection. Evelina and I will protect her together.
When the new vampire finally opened her eyes, the sound of her crying child seemed
to aggravate her, as she recalled motherhood despite her change. Her first word
upon waking was not blood—but
Lucia!

THE END

The following is a
preview of THE JOURNAL OF VINCENT DU MAURIER II …

Translator’s Note

After discovering the artifact on the Esja, a dig was set up near the
site and a team assigned to excavate. They searched for months without success.
Two years later, however, near the same ravine, a group of geologists came upon
this artifact, sitting atop a mound of stones. Despite its seemingly intended
discovery, it also dates from the period of the Red Death. We have confirmed
that the handwriting matches that of the previous journal’s author, and this
narrative picks up where the other left off, even as this one is different for
its added content. Tucked safely inside the leather binding, inserted between
specific pages, is another diary of sorts, written in a different hand and
using a graphite ink. We call this interior document “The Notes of Evelina
Caro” since the writer names herself at several points in the text. We believe
these loose sheets are the writings of the girl mentioned in the first
notebook. She recounts her story, as does the writer of the first diary,
Vincent Du Maurier. The two stories coincide and someone has gone to great
lengths to align her pages with his, as though attempting to weave their
storylines together. Her entries do not offer us dates, but each is marked and
numbered. The following chronicle is the contents of the two texts translated
in their entirety. We have not strayed from the page ordering or altered the
document in any way.

Dagur Bijarnarson

270 P.C.E. (Post Common Era)

THE
NOTES OF
EVELINA
CARO

Entry 1

I thought I heard the sparrow but the chirrups in
the branches above fooled me. My captors have me in some kind of shed with only
a thin wall separating me from the bloodless. I despise my chains, but I’m not
frightened. I’ve conquered fear—I only worry for Vincent. They’ve set a
trap. I overheard them—it’s him they want.

“Vincent come,” the deep voice said. “Mine.”

“She’s mine,” the other said, almost wheezing the
words. “Tear her stony flesh.”

Both of them slurred their speech, agitated and
unhuman. I haven’t seen them yet, but I hear them plotting. I perceive
conversations far better than I did on the ship, and I think it’s because the
burns have heightened my senses, sharpening my gift.

When my abductor returned, I cringed at his
offering, the limpid, tasteless blood, more wanting in flavor than air. It’s
hard to believe it’ll heal my burns. It barely nourishes. The succor from the
donors on the Empress’s ship is superior to this dreck, but I’ll suffer
it—I must—I must.

“Munca,” he said, tossing me a badger. He waited for
me to drain the carcass before leaving. “Sanjele te va juta,” he said.
Impossible to understand, I ignored him and suffered the wretched substance.
The blood does little to revive me, but my urge to slice his throat is alive
and if he gets near me again, I will.

When we first arrived, I was barely conscious, but I
recall his dragging me out of the sun and into the shed. He was close enough to
kill then, but I was too weak and my talons wouldn’t obey my command. He
sniffed me all over, like a dog devouring the air to find his master’s prey.
“Lavanda,” he said, repeating it several times. “Vampir mu.”

He stared at me, but I could barely see him, his
face was a blur. The next thing I saw was the dirty ground when I woke from my
stupor. He’s gone now and I’m alone, though swarms of howling bloodless go past
my prison. The chains limit my movement, but I can see through the slats in the
shed. The sun is still up, and the brightness bothers my eyes. My skin
revisited its anguish when a little stream of light bit me through the slats in
the wall. I’m bolted to a slab of concrete too heavy to lift, and it’s safer
for me to sit in the center of the cell, as much as my chains will let me, and
rotate like a dial to avoid the sunlight. I’ve lost my strength, my ability to
concentrate, and my hope dwindles.

My burns aren’t healing. They run deep. The flesh on
my hands looks like melted candle wax and when I felt my face with the tips of
my fingers, I imagined the horror show I’d become. My abductor didn’t seem put
off when he looked at my face, but he must’ve thought me repulsive.

I’m channeling my energy into this composition,
though my anger sits in the pit of my stomach like a stone, heavier than the
slab of concrete that keeps me here. I was happy when I discovered the notebook
still tucked inside my waist. It has dried since, and though the pencil’s dull,
I’ve sharpened it against the concrete. I’m writing everything down—as
much as I can remember. For Vincent, whose token of initiation is most fitting,
and for Byron, whose useful records kept me alive. But in truth, I’ll scribble
in this diary so that I may be one with my beloved. I held his book once,
tucked inside my robe, close to my heart—but I wouldn’t dare read it. I
was too cowardly then to wade through the depths of his ancient and sorrowful
head. To know what he actually thought would’ve been ruinous for one like me.
But now, despite being unfit, I shall record my short history in these pages.
My hope is that he comes before I reach the end ...

…

Once I was stripped of my humanity, I felt nothing
for it. When I’d been changed for mere hours—maybe three—I couldn’t
tell—I’d picked up five hundred and eighty-one different smells. I could
easily keep track. It seemed I could count any number of things—thoughts,
feelings, smells—without effort. Time holds no sway and these words, for
instance, spill onto the pages in the same moment my thoughts
happen—instantaneous, effortless—I collect and transcribe the
images.

Vincent had said, “Your feelings will temper once
the transformation is complete. This state of hyper-sensitivity will expire and
your sensibilities will become manageable.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” I’d said.

“It means you will shed your physiological needs and
no longer live on the plane between vampire and mortal, which will allow you to
embrace the intensity you have acquired, as well as control it.”

I thought he could read my mind until I realized
he’d lost his ability to sense me when he’d purged the last of my blood from
his system. I still mourn the moment our communion was severed, when I watched
him feed on another. I thought I’d lose my mind to anger, as the memory of our
union persisted like a phantom limb begging to be touched.

But my awakening saw me starved and bitter, and
Vincent said I wailed for the child I’d pushed from my body only days before.
My transformation was in fact worse than the labor I’d endured, but the trauma
seems mute now, especially since suffering the sun’s wrath. When I’d woken,
he’d put a cup to my nose. The smell made the back of my throat itch and my
lips parted, but the pain of teething sabotaged my pleasure. A desperate ache
ripped at my gums, as my fangs pushed through the skin in my mouth. The ache is
worse than giving birth, I promise.

“It will pass,” Vincent had said, as he forced the
cup on me. “You must feed.”

I took the sauce in my mouth and braved the pain.
The blood was more than thick, like curds from sour milk, and I retched when it
got stuck in my throat.

Vincent pulled the cup back. “You are still
hardening,” he said. “If you take it in slowly, it will go down with ease.” He
touched the crown of my head and a streak of lightning ran all the way to my
toes. My desire for him grew greater in that moment than my desire for blood.
“I will bring you a donor soon,” he said. “We will share one.”

I wanted to take his hand in mine and thrust it on
my chest so he could feel my heartbeat, as I gazed at him with my new eyes. I
thought I loved him before, but at that moment I was simply lost. I don’t know
if he sensed my longing, but he gave me a stern look and then pushed me up and
rested me against the berth.

“Finish the cup,” he said, as he stood and paced the
compartment.

I couldn’t cry, though the corners of my eyes
tightened, as human emotion lingered on the margins of my being. I closed my
eyes to rid the feeling.

“You cannot be tired,” he said. His voice hadn’t
changed but his tone forced me to feel his lashing most acutely. “You must feed
more and then greet your maker.”

He sucked in the air and licked his lips. He was
hungry again. I grew bitter with jealousy of the blood he smelled, of the
choice girl he’d put to his lips and drink from. My lividity must’ve shown, for
he exited the cabin, leaving me on the berth, aching for his return.

Impatient, I pushed myself up and stood for the
first time. I felt the weight of my body, but the lightness of my being was
like nothing else. My hollowness made me shake where I stood like a leaf
shuddering in the wind. I took my first steps alone, crossing the deck on my
new limbs. The torpor begged to be noticed, as I waded through the air like a
finger through molasses in winter. I don’t know whether I was quick or slow,
but I reached the small sink on the other side of the cabin and held onto it,
as my body continued to sway. A small dressing mirror hung above the basin, but
I resisted looking into it. I’d never liked my girlish face when I was mortal,
and doubted it’d please me now.

Vincent returned and I lost my balance where I
stood. I felt the deck rise up to greet my body, as I crashed into it. But
before I touched the planks, my hero reached out and clasped me in his arms.
For a blissful moment, I relived our communion until he dropped me back on the
berth, forcing me to endure his coldness.

“Our donor is coming,” he said.

I watched him as he paced the cabin, recognizing his
lust to feed. I wasn’t as eager as he until the girl with strawberry blond hair
knocked on the door and he gave her leave to enter. Her smell teased my gums
and my fangs broke my toughened skin again. I’ve yet to experience the bolder
ones, the ones that come with wrath. Vincent said it’ll be a long while before
I see my iron fangs. But my subtle ones hurt well enough, and I pricked my lip
in anticipation of the meal.

“Evelina,” Vincent said. “Sit up.” He shook the
berth with his foot to break the spell, for the promise of her blood had
gripped me.

“Sorry,” I said. If I’d been human, I would’ve
blushed.

I sat up on the bunk like he commanded. He didn’t
speak to the girl, as she lingered by the entrance. She’d closed the door
behind her and waited up against it until he settled me. She knew I was the
novice, the one they’d been talking about. She gave off an air of experience,
as if she’d been there for a while.

“Watch,” Vincent said. He held his hand out for her
to take. She reached for it and let him guide her to my side. Envy’s ugly
sister tightened her grip about my throat. I didn’t care that the strawberry
blond’s blood was for me, he’d shown her the tenderness that was once mine and
my heart bled because of it. My reality hadn’t seemed desolate until then. “Are
you paying attention?” His acerbic tone returned. “Watch.”

He kneeled in front of her and reached for her
cheek, stroking it freely. His eyes were steady on her, concentrated and hard.
I recall those eyes and the faint they could spawn. My tear ducts tightened
again. “Evelina,” he said. “You must concentrate.” There seemed no end to his
upbraiding. When he guided the girl’s head to the side to expose her neck, her
flesh quivered. “That is the vein,” he said. “Let your fangs find the spot.
They know what to do.” The girl didn’t move, but neither did I since my bite
into the strawberry blond would seal my transformation and confirm my exile
from the body that once satisfied Vincent’s hunger.

With another nudge from my master, I surrendered and
let my lips touch the girl’s flesh. That was all it took, for I lost myself
with the contact. The mortal vein had begged me to pierce it, and my points cut
the girl’s ivory skin like a hot knife through butter. I didn’t need to
think—I simply heeded to the pleasure and drank her in. The fresh blood
was nothing like the coagulated draft Vincent had fed me at birth. This was
silky, like melted caramel. I closed my eyes when a sly grin crossed my
beloved’s lips, as he watched me indulge in my first true taste.

Vincent didn’t leave me after we’d shared the
redhead, but I was afraid he would. We hadn’t discussed my future. I was
certain he’d made some preliminary arrangement for me and when he announced my
first visit to my maker, I was nervous and eager—

Entry 2

My abductor returned, though he wasn’t alone this
time. His leader isn’t vampire, isn’t bloodless, but some monstrous mutation of
both. I’m hesitant to call him a ghoul but he’s like something from a tale of
the macabre. He’s a genuine demon, if they do in fact exist, and when I first
laid eyes on him, I thought I recognized him from my nightmares in the hill
town. He knows me and whispers my name between the words he wheezes out, his
beaked mouth garbling his speech. But he doesn’t frighten me because I can hear
his frequency—clearly, in fact—which helps me anticipate his
behavior. He comes in peace despite himself.

“Eveleeeenaaaaa,” he said. “Vincent rescue.” He
didn’t approach me, but stood in the doorway, blocking his entourage from
entering. When a bloodless poked its nose into the shed, as though sniffing for
me, he crushed its head with his elbow, squashing it beyond repair. “Vincent
comes,” he said, drawing out both n’s in
Vincent
,
making it sound like he was caught in a stammer.

When he shut the door again, I dropped the chain.
I’d wrapped it around my wrists, and held it taut in my hands, ready to choke
him with the links if he came closer. Shortly after he left, my abductor
returned with supper. I downed the wanting blood and tossed the carcass back at
him. He brought the ferret to his lips to finish it off, disappointed to find
I’d left him nothing.

“La com,” he said, as he spat on the ground in
disgust. He slammed the shed door and I waited some moments for him to
disappear before returning to my ritual. This is how I while away the hours
until my rescue, knowing Vincent will find me—he has to—he’ll
always come for me.

THE JOURNAL OF VINCENT
DU MAURIER II is now available at

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