The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier (Book 1) (7 page)

Vlad is no threat now, but difficulty will arise
when several vampires know about the girl. If she is the last blood source for
us all, she may surely be torn to pieces.

8 October.
— We are desperate.
The girl grows weaker by the day. We are out of options and have to push on. I
regret to abandon the last place I held Byron. He had made the cathedral his home,
a final laboratory among hallowed walls. He would grieve our parting too, but
it is dangerous to stay. We can no longer make runs into town without endangering
both those who remain and those who go. Vlad’s diversion beckoned the bloodless
to the cathedral, as a church bell calls its faithful to the altar. Our walls will
not keep them out forever. Minor tremors rattle the stained glass windows each day,
and soon an earthquake will shake the foundation, cracking open our fortification.

I have spent the last two nights planning our
escape, and have almost worked it out but struggle with how to mask the girl’s
scent. Nothing seems to do. Even cloaking her in our clothes, our scent, is
weak at best. I have to find a way to get her through the field and dell, all
the way to the shore of the river without detection. Once we reach the water, the
stream will carry us out to sea, where I am certain we can keep her safe. I
have given the others instructions, and assured them we will leave tomorrow at
dusk.

Later.
— When I went to see
the girl about our plans to leave, I told her of her stepfather’s death. She
had not seen him since we separated them, but seemed to appreciate the privacy.
“Marco saved me,” she had said to Byron. “I’m grateful for that, but he isn’t
the most honest man, if you know what I mean.” Byron confessed that he did. “And
he wasn’t much of a father.” My beloved reassured her she was safe, and expected
me to carry out the task of keeping the man from the girl.

She was asleep when I entered her chamber, a tantalizing
vision lying on the bed. I fantasized about seizing her and penetrating her
neck; her tan skin, exposed at the round of her shoulder, begged to be touched.
The blood pulsed beneath, urging me to taste it. I gazed on her, sucking in her
saccharine aroma with each inhale and exhale she took. She is more trouble than
I care to admit—but I have shaken off the temptation. It may seem out of
character for an old vampire like me to resist such a savory morsel, but actually
it is beneath me not to. My long years have granted me a willpower well beyond
any other, and I am resilient to desire.

I floated to her side and sat on her bed,
whispering her name. She was deep asleep and so I allowed my fingertips to
touch the crown of her head, brushing her skin ever so lightly before drawing a
line across her forehead with my thumb. Delectable creature that she is, my
fangs still dropped—they have a mind of their own—and my points
pierced my bottom lip, arousing me. I closed my eyes and thought of Byron. Was
I really taken with this girl or did I simply desire her because my beloved had
admired her so? Perhaps I wanted her because she was one of the last human
beings on earth. I really could not tell. When she stirred a little and let out
a long exaggerated sigh, I pulled my hand away.

“Why did you stop?” Her voice was faint.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I was merely trying to
wake you.”

She left her head on the pillow and looked up
at me with sleepy eyes. “I’m awake now.”

“I can see that.” She smiled at me but my
moment of weakness had passed. “I have news that I fear might upset you,” I
said.

She sat up and looked at me with wide eyes. “You’re
not leaving me are you?”

She was so vulnerable, like a wounded animal,
and I wondered if she would not be better off as a vampire. “No,” I said. “We are
not leaving you.” She exhaled. “But your stepfather is gone.”

She pursed her lips and turned away. “Did he
upset you?”

Her question surprised me; it meant she
assumed we had harmed him. “No,” I said. “He was rather useful to us.”

“Did the creepers get in?” Her voice cracked.

“We have not been breached.” I tried to deal
with her as Byron would, but I was not as compassionate as he was. “We have to
take you somewhere more safe,” I said. “We have to find food too.” I told her
of our plans and assured her I would let her know when I had worked out the
details for her. I told her it was imperative she stay in her room for the time
being, as I did not want anyone—or anything—to catch a whiff of her
scent.

“I’ll stay here,” she said. “But please don’t
forget me.”

She was terrified—I could practically
smell her fear. For a brief moment—very brief—I wanted to send one of
the others in to sit with her, but my sympathy passed and I got up to go. As I reached
for the door, she made the offer I loathed to refuse.

“You can have my blood if you need it,” she
said.

She knows our secret—I am certain of it
now.

9 October.
— The girl proved easy
enough to transport, and we have my beloved to thank for that. An entry in his
notes gave me the solution I needed. Sometime in the early stages of his
experimentation, he had discovered that the bloodless were unable to detect
particular scents. They were acutely aware of the smell of living flesh, but
they seemed indifferent to the smell of the vampire. The attacks they made on
us were random. They could not have cared for Maxine the night they surrounded
her, but probably sensed the humans inside the trattoria. Byron’s note read:

Test Subject
56 – incapable of detecting the burning from the candle wax – I
held a piece of flesh just out of reach – she clambered to get to it
– she fell off the table – her reaction was as expected – the
lit camphor oil was different – she did not smell the flesh doused in oil
– same reaction with incense, spice, lavender,
etc.
etc.
– no
reaction to aromatic perfumes. Conclusion: olfactory organs are limited –
human flesh reaction – human flesh covered in perfume no reaction. Must
try opiates next!

With this, my sweet Byron, you have given me
the answer to getting the girl out of the cathedral undetected.

When I explained it to her, she was
surprisingly cooperative. The baptismal ritual was unpleasant, to be sure.
Veronica and Elizabeth brought me all the incense oils they could find and we
filled a wash basin. The girl covered her hair, her face, her arms, her legs,
every bit of skin with the perfume, and then we dressed her in an oil-drenched
garment. The smell was repellent to us since we could barely detect the human scent
beneath all the perfume.

I paid my respects to Byron’s ashes, sealing
the sarcophagus forever. I packed his notebooks and put on the overcoat he wore
the last time I saw him. My heart was heavy, but I turned my focus to the
journey ahead—and the clan, my clan, I was desperate to keep safe.

With all the supplies we could gather, we
left the cathedral in a weaker state than when we had arrived. The girl was nestled
between me and Jean, as Stephen led us through the passage to the exit. Before he
untied the chain from the portal, he listened at the opening for howls, and when
he heard none, we proceeded out the hatch.

The earth’s full satellite greeted us, as we
rose up from the ground. Despite the light of the moon, the field was as dark
as ink, but we moved easily through the wilderness. I glanced back at the
cathedral only once, and then let it disappear from view forever. Byron’s last kiss
remained with me, though, as I welcomed the cool air on my skin.

Our first test came at the edge of the dale.
The field had been empty, but when we reached the valley, we ran into a swarm too
big to skirt.

“Qu’est-ce qu’on fait?” Elizabeth clung to
Jean and Veronica linked her arm through Stephen’s.

“We move quickly,” I said. “Together.” I
picked up the girl and carried her in my arms. She remained as still as a stone,
as the clan folded in around us, and we wove through the valley as a tight-knit
cluster. Stephen and Jean held out their blades, slashing at the ones that came
within reach. The bloodless swarmed loosely but our smell evaded them and I silently
thanked my beloved for providing the solution that made the girl invisible.

The water’s edge was a short jaunt from the
dale, and I anticipated the boat, if not hoped one would be waiting. That was
the only detail I was unable to plan. We had seen boats tied to a dock several
months ago but I could not know if they would still be there. I had a back-up
plan, but nothing as solid as floating down the river in a vessel. I thanked my
beloved Byron again when I saw the small, double-masted sailboat greet us at
the shore. Stephen and Veronica went on first, and when they confirmed the boat
was empty, the rest of us boarded. Jean set us on the course I had mapped out
for him. Never one to refuse commandeering his own ship, he is our captain. Many
years ago, he sailed with the Spanish Armada, working his way up from master’s
mate to midshipman on one of their warships. He probably fed his way up the
ranks to commander of the
São
Cristóbel
, but
I cannot say for sure. That particular vessel had seen the most casualties during
the attack on the British.

I set the girl up in one of the two cabins
below. She was tired from the travel and I insisted she rest while we set out
to sea. “Thank you for bringing me,” she said, rubbing her belly, as she sat on
the edge of the berth.

“How are you feeling?” I had to think about
her welfare and could no longer dismiss her human needs.

“I’m a little hungry,” she said. I avoided
looking at her directly. Despite the perfume, she still proved alluring. “You must
be too,” she said.

“We all have sacrifices to make.” I searched
the bag of supplies and found the last of the dried apricots, handing them to
her without ceremony. “This should help a little,” I said.

She took the tin of fruit and turned it over
in her hands. She sighed softly and placed it at her side, and then with a
coolness that mimicked my own, she pulled up her sleeve and bared the inside of
her arm, holding it out for me. “I don’t mind,” she said. “You have to feed too.”

I will admit the offer tempted me, and it
took every ounce of willpower to keep my fangs from dropping. I reached for her
arm and pulled her sleeve back down. “It is safer if none of us taste you,” I
said. There was no point in masking our conversation anymore. She knew what I
was, what we all were, and she was fearless. “If we do,” I said. “None of us
will survive.”

She sighed again, but this time more
passionately. “Will you make me like you?”

I did not need to voice my refusal; she knew
she was only useful as long as she remained human.

“I’m … afraid of becoming … one of them,” she
said.

It was as if those were her only two choices.
“Why can you not simply remain human?” I asked.

“There’s no more place in this world for
humans,” she said.

“Then we shall all be lost, my dear.” The
term of endearment rolled off my tongue as if it had always been mine. But I merely
impersonated Byron, stealing what little compassion I could from him.

When I left the girl, she was asleep. Her moment
of weakness worries me. If any of the others witness her vulnerability, her
generosity, they will not be able to resist as I have.

10 October.
— In 1588 on the
waters of the North Sea, Jean saw a Siren.

When he was still a midshipman on the
São Cristóbel
, he kept watch at night. He had passed his
seventy-fifth year as a nocturnal, which meant he could tolerate the daylight,
but he preferred the solace of the ship in the dark and often volunteered for
the post.

As we sat on the deck of the small sloop tonight,
he recalled the mythical creature. “She ’ad gold ’air like ze old French coin
wiz skin as white as snow and leeps as red as ze blood I seeped.” He swore he
could hear her singing, calling for him to join her. She danced up and down on
the foam of the dark sea, her hair thrashing about in the wind. Her breasts
were lush, exposed above the water. “’Er neck,” he said. “She showed ’er neck
to me wiz ze promise of succulence.” He said that he pulled out his telescope to
get a better view and when he put the magnifier to his eye, she was but an
arm’s length away. He reached for her and felt his cold hand burn at the
imaginary touch. Her eyes were like fire. “Le Diable,” he said. “Le Diable.” He
was convinced she was the devil. “I pulled ze telescope away,” he said. “And she
was gone. No’zing but ze angry waves left.” He said her song stayed in his head
for days, as he longed for her return. “She never came back,” he said.

“You hallucinated,” I said. “Probably from
the opiates in a wounded man’s blood.”

“Ah, merde.” He shooed at the stream we floated
down, offering it his tsk-tsk.

I believe Jean saw what he did. I am no
skeptic, I am a vampire, and I come from irregular stock too. My mother was a
naiad, an early shapeshifter. But that is a story for another time …

12 October.
— We have been on the
water for two nights now. We are starved and weak, though the girl is safe and we
have had luck catching fish for her to eat. Stephen and Veronica found rods and
lures below the boat’s deck our first night aboard. The perch is a mild fish,
despite its pungent aroma, and she eats it courageously, for it is served to
her raw. We cannot have the smell of fried fish wafting through the air; cooked
flesh may welcome others.