The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier Trilogy (Books 1, 2, 3) (32 page)

Vincent stopped and turned to face me. “Listen,” he
said. “Tell me what you hear.”

I hadn’t focused on sound, as we toured the ship,
having been engaged with the sights. But I did as my master commanded, and
listened to the vibrations along the bulkheads. At first, the sound was like
steam from a radiator, steady and flat, but then the rustling sharpened and I
was able to distinguish between tones. Before long, I counted the different
rhythms and timbres and didn’t just hear frequencies but also voices. Chatter
along the steel soon turned into whole conversations, and distinct words rose
up from the din.
She’s mine—pren
la—neemhar—I’m starved—Hashe wo da—Niba
tadu—Wozian egu—Wuluase
. A medley of languages came at me, and
I counted each one, though I didn’t understand the meaning of any of the
foreign words.

“I hear them,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “How many signals?”

I hadn’t counted frequencies, only voices. “I hear
more than fifty different voices,” I said.

“You hear voices?” He scowled at me. “You mean
frequencies.”

“I hear those too,” I said. “But the voices are more
distinct.”

Vincent looked puzzled. “Are you still picking up my
signal?”

I wanted to say it was difficult for me to ignore
it, that I’d never stop hearing it, but I tamed my affection and reserved my
admiration for a more appropriate time. “Of course,” I said. “Do you hear
mine?” I hadn’t yet asked him about my fingerprint, the imperial mark which
stamped me for the Empress and not my beloved.

“Yes,” he said. “But it is weak. Come and meet
Peter.”

When we reached several levels lower, we came to a
passageway with an orderly line of vampires. They chatted casually, some joking,
some deep in conversation, and I recognized each of the voices from the ones
I’d overheard. Most of them spoke a dialect of Chinese, but also French, Dutch,
English, American and Italian. I looked at them as we passed, but none of them
returned a glance, keeping their heads down and whispers low. When I asked him
about it, he told me it was a show of reverence.

“For me?” I asked.

That made him smile. “No, Evelina,” he said. “For
me.”

I counted forty-two vampires in line to feed, as we
passed. I could smell the blood through several bulkheads, the den tucked
somewhere inside, and the vampires’ signals bounced off one another like the
clangor of an unrehearsed school band. The racket bothered me, and my belly
hardened. I tried to ignore them but the cacophony only died when we passed
into another passageway, shutting the door behind us.

“Who were they?” I asked.

Vincent dismissed my curiosity. “Peter will address
your questions,” he said.

I grit my teeth without realizing I did so until my
points dropped and forced my mouth shut. “Ow,” I said.

Vincent turned and glared at me. “Is there a
problem, Evelina?”

Like a headmaster scolding a student, he
condescended to me. I shook my head, though the wretched corners of my eyes
tightened again, emotion begging to get out. “I’m fine.”

He looked at me for a moment, poised with his scowl,
and I returned his stare, forcing myself to bear the rebuke. “Be brave,” he
said. “You have a long way to go.” His face softened and he looked as if he
wanted to say more, but turned and continued on instead.

As I recall that look now, I wonder whether
impatience prompted it or if he felt something greater, some sympathy or deeper
attachment to me though I belonged to another. I wanted to tell him I was still
the same girl inside and that I’d be his if he’d have me, but I couldn’t bear
the humiliation. I recall his telling me, “Nostalgia will choke you with every
memory you clutch, so you must kill the urge to think of the past. The past is
gone, which is why you shall continue to right the present.” Perhaps he meant
write, not right.

We passed a compartment with its door ajar. I’d
heard the vampire before I saw him. His frequency was boisterous, like an
untuned violin, and his appearance couldn’t have been more of a contrast to the
sound. He looked at me as I passed, smiling and jutting out his chin as though
acknowledging me. He whispered something but I couldn’t understand French. His
frequency dropped away faster than the others, but his whisper lingered—
novicia
.

When we reached the end of the passageway, the hum
of the ship’s generators drowned out the other sounds. Vincent flew down the
ladderlike steps to the engine room, waiting for me at the bottom. “Come,” he
said.

I don’t know why I hesitated, but I feared heading
deeper into the belly of the ship. For the first time, I realized the only
thing between me and the water was the metal bulkheads and the thought made me
uncomfortable. It was a pesky childhood memory, but one I had yet to forget. I
froze on the spot.

“Come,” he said again. “Now.” I willed my legs to
move and take the steps down, gripping the rails with my hardened fingers. “We
are almost there,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

I hadn’t thought about feeding, despite what I
assume is a natural desire for a vampire. I was too nervous to think about it
in fact, and was sincere when I said my desire for Vincent superseded my want
for blood. “No,” I said.

He scowled at me, sizing me up. “You will feed soon
anyhow,” he said. “Peter will take you.” I didn’t question my master. “Come,”
he said.

His impatience worried me—I hoped it wasn’t
because he wanted to be rid of me.

We worked our way past machines and contraptions
that only an engineer could command. I heard some faint signals but no voices
until the drone of a beehive caught my attention. When we reached the vampire
playing a game of solitaire on a small table in the engine room, I knew the
drone belonged to him. He laid the cards down with speed, lining up his suits
like they’d been readied beforehand. He glanced up at us, and dropped the cards
when he saw Vincent, standing to greet him. My master barely acknowledged him,
asking him where he could find Peter.

“Ack terine,” he said.

“He is in the back,” Vincent said, more for his own
benefit than mine. “Wait here.”

The solitaire player returned to his game as soon as
my master left, and didn’t look up at me again. He wasn’t too old, maybe
thirty—in human years anyhow. He seemed a stodgy fellow, uninterested in
everything, though I only had his frequency to go on since he didn’t address
me. The dull drone of the bees marked his boredom, and kept my attention until
the murmur of a dove’s coo drew me in. Peter’s frequency harmonized with
Vincent’s, and the two together seemed evenly matched. Envy’s ugly sister
plucked at me again, as I pictured a wise vampire, wearing the remnants of a
handsome face like Byron’s—his sweet aspect, warm countenance, and soft
eyes, I still recall them perfectly. But Peter was nothing like Byron, and I
almost faltered when I saw him. He looked young—younger in fact than me.

“Evelina,” he said, as he stretched his hand out to
greet me. “It’s nice to finally put a face to your name.”

“This is Peter Vaudès,” Vincent said. “He will be
your mentor.”

I reached out and shook his hand but the gesture
seemed unnatural for both of us. “Hello,” I said.

Peter’s smile invited me in, and his face suggested
a gentle soul, if in fact we still have souls. My spiritual state seems
precarious and of little consequence now—I have forgotten the catechism I
once knew by heart.

“Peter is equipped to teach you what you need to
learn,” Vincent said. “He will be your guide for the time being.”

“What about the Empress?” I asked.

“I’m sure she’ll want to see how you progress,”
Peter said. “But you’ve got a ways to go yet.” He smiled warmly.

“Will you show Evelina back to her compartment when
you are finished with her?” Vincent spoke to Peter as if they were alone.

“I’m happy to keep her here if you’d like,” Peter
said to Vincent, as he examined me. “Her limbs are quite long.” He objectified
me, speaking about me as if he were a farmer buying a calf. His detachment
comforted me, though, since Vincent seemed to take interest in my features when
Peter remarked on their potential, reassuring me of my place in his future. It
made me think he wouldn’t abandon me if he could see my worth.

When Vincent finished his directives, he told Peter
I wouldn’t disappoint him. “She has a fire in her that makes her resilient,” he
said. “Try to tap into it early on.” He turned to me before he left, scowling
at me as usual. “Obey Peter,” he said. “He knows what is good for you, and will
not lead you astray.”

“I will,” I said, wanting to tell him I’d miss every
moment away from him, but I squashed my emotion for the hundredth time since my
awakening. My heart broke a little when he said goodbye. If he hadn’t told
Peter to return me to my compartment, I would’ve believed he was leaving for good.
But I held onto the thought of seeing him again, ambitious to make him proud.
When he left me, flying up the ladder to the ship’s upper deck, I held my gaze
on his path, listening to the magical loop of his sparrow’s warble. As long as
I received his signal, I was all right.

“Evelina,” Peter said. “Come with me.”

I wouldn’t trade my sparrow for the dove, but I
followed my mentor as the obedient disciple I would prove to be. Peter led me
past the solitaire player, who continued to ignore us, and deeper into the
engine room where a row of compartments were hidden in plain sight. We stopped
at the door of one and Peter unlocked it with a swift spin of a wheel, and then
opened it, gesturing for me to enter. I stepped into the small cabin, one-third
the size of mine, and stood in the center, glancing about the space, noticing
the bare bulkheads and sparse furnishings. A stool sat in front of a small
ledge that held a thick volume next to a string of beads. The bible and rosary
seemed out of place in the vampire’s compartment.

Peter chuckled and then offered me the stool.
“Please sit,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to fear. I want to be your friend.”

“I’m not scared,” I said. It wasn’t entirely a lie,
but neither was it the whole truth. Peter didn’t frighten me, but his plans for
me did. Plus, I suffered Vincent’s absence since his signal had died out to a
mere trace in my mind.

“You like him, don’t you?” Peter asked.

I could’ve questioned to whom he referred, but I
knew he meant Vincent. “He saved me,” I said. “We’ve—”

“I know your story,” he said. “You don’t have to
tell me. I think it’s lucky you’ve already found the one.”

“The one?”

“Your paramour,” he said.

“I don’t know that word.”

“Oh, it’s a French expression, forgive me,” he said,
searching for the Italian equivalent. “Inamorato—I think that’s correct.”
Instead of blushing at his presumption, my jaw clenched, as the familiar burn
of anger gnawed at me. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, smiling with such
genuine emotion I couldn’t resist softening.

“I’m not upset,” I said.

“Perhaps you’re hungry?”

“Perhaps.” If I was starved, I didn’t know it. I
didn’t crave blood, just Vincent.

“You’ll see him again,” he said. “Sorry. I’ve got to
stop doing that. It’s a bad habit.”

Peter can read minds, which I discovered when he
anticipated everything I wanted to say. He knew my feelings for Vincent before
we said our first hello. He said my thoughts were endearing, and told me he’d
never seen a greater attachment between vampires.

“I thought it was because he’s, well, you
know—the ancient one,” he said. “But I can see that something stronger
anchors your affection. It’s probably because you fell in love with him when
you were still human? Did you pledge yourself to him then?” I didn’t say
anything, but recalled the night we stayed in the winery and he drank from me
while I slept. The memory made my throat tighten.

“Ah,” Peter said. “You surrendered long ago.” I
wanted to ask him if he could read Vincent’s mind, if my master desired me as
much as I him, but I didn’t have to, for he offered his response freely. “I
can’t see into his mind,” he said. “I’m too young for that.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“About 498, give or take a year. It’s hard to keep
track, as you can imagine.” He smiled, showing me his fangs. “Oh, I see what
you mean. Human years? Ah, yes.”

“You look young,” I said.

“I was seventeen when my maker found me near death,”
he said.

I hadn’t sat when he first asked me to, but when he
gestured again for me to sit on the stool, I did. He sat across from me on the
berth, leaning forward to tell his story. “I lived in Paris, right in its
heart. I was, unfortunately—or perhaps not—in the wrong place at
the wrong time. I was stabbed on Rue Saint-Séverin, a few feet from the steps
of the flamboyant Roman Church near Saint-Jacques. Do you believe that? I was
sacrificed for the cause, slated to be a martyr of sorts, one of many victims
of the massacre that began on St. Bartholomew’s Day—a massacre, I’ll add,
that lasted more than two centuries—ah, but alas.”