The Journal of Vincent Du Maurier Trilogy (Books 1, 2, 3) (70 page)

Peter Vaudès, the Guardian

Another pounding at
my door didn’t interrupt Vincent as he’d sensed the visitor coming up the stairs
of the tower. Gerenios hadn’t returned, but a mystery guest had found his way
up, and I was frightened.

“Who is it?” I
whispered, my voice box tightening once again.

Vincent raised a
finger to his lips and gestured for me to hush. The pounding ceased, and all I
heard was the sound of my own heartbeat thumping in my throat. I didn’t know
what I had to fear with Vincent as my personal bodyguard, but his expression
didn’t incite confidence.

He moved to the door
and pressed it with his two hands, as though feeling for what was on the other
side. The visitor pounded again, three times. Then a throaty growl arose on the
other side of the door, and I jumped from my stool, rushing to the window ledge,
the farthest spot from the entrance. I looked out to see what I could, but the
sun had grown dim, gray like the moon, as it set in the distance. The sky was
darkening.

I thought of
Gerenios, Freyit and the others. Were they under attack? Had they been killed
by the nimrod who came for Björg only hours before? The morning at the bier,
inspecting his bones, seemed ages ago. The electric purple of his marrow
confirmed something I had suspected for a while. The colonists were similar to
the donors on the ship. Men and women made with blood unfit for the vampire.

I hadn’t had the
courage to ask Vincent about the truth, but since Gerenios confessed to being
as old as he was, I had to wonder. My guardian had explained the age to which a
man might live. He said a natural human being could live for as long as ninety
to a hundred years. He claimed I would live that long if I was fortunate. But
also he told me there were those who could live far longer, forever he said. I
didn’t understand what he meant until I discovered the truth in the journals, that
the vampire’s life was endless.

“Peter Vaudès,”
Vincent said. I had fallen so engrossed in thought, I didn’t realize the
pounding had stopped, the danger passed. “I am not your guardian. Peter is.”

“Peter, the priest?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“He was the best one
for the job, and it was his plan.”

“I don’t understand,”
I said. “Why did I need a guardian?”

“You needed a skilled
teacher more.”

Vincent stepped
forward with his hands extended. I didn’t flinch as he placed his palms on
either side of my face and leaned his forehead against mine. The cold of his
touch ripped through me until I sensed nothing but warmth. I don’t know if my
eyes were closed or open but I saw the brilliant sky again, lit up with the
constellations that were barely visible now.

“We must find a
girl.” I recognized my guardian’s voice, though he wasn’t speaking to me.
Vincent responded in turn. “Where will we find a human girl, if any have
survived?”

“We have heard the
rumors,” he said. “Others have survived.”

“But are they healthy
enough to reproduce?”

“There’s got to be
one fertile girl on this wide earth somewhere,” Peter said. “This is God’s plan,
not mine. He will provide.”

“A Christian god’s
plan identical to the theme of Viking poetry,” Vincent said.

“Perhaps,” Peter
said. “But we have one man, why not one woman?”

“We do not live in a
garden.”

“I grant you that,
but why not make one?”

“The colony.”

“The second colony is
vibrant and promising,” he said. “Historic man just may thrive in a world with hematopes.”

“Impossible,” Vincent
said. “The arrival of a boy means this is the end.”

“But what if—”
Peter paused, as he looked up at the constellations twinkling above him. “There
must be an Eve.”

The memory passed
from Vincent to me, as we reconvened in the studio at the top of the tower in
the second colony of the resurrected.

“What are hematopes?”
I asked.

“You know,” Vincent
said.

“Gerenios,” I said.

“Every colonist, but
one.”

“I am the last historic
man?” The words fell heavy from my lips. “What does that mean?”

“You see the truth,”
Vincent said.

“I do,” I said. “But
the woman?”

Vincent shook his
head, a loaded gesture.

“Peter was wrong
about his God?”

“He was wrong about a
lot of things.”

“I am the last source
of blood,” I said, “and the nimrod has come to take me from you—why?”

“He wants me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We must reach the
end first.”

“Are Gerenios and the
others safe?”

“As safe as they can
be.”

“But he will die,” I
said, “before he knows the truth.”

“What truth?”

“He is not like me.”

Vincent smiled. “He
knows what he is.”

“He is like the
donors on the ship, isn’t he—all of them are?”

“Yes.”

“But how.”

“He is a part of a
new race,” Vincent said. “Gen H have made up the population since well before
you came about. The last of the healthy blood has come from our line.”

“Your kin?”

“Yes,” he said. “You were
not born from an artificial womb.”

“Béa was like me,” I
said. “Who was my father, then?”

“He is irrelevant,
but your mother was a great source of happiness to all of us.”

“What happened to
her?”

“She was left
unguarded,” he said.

“She is dead, isn’t
she?”

“She is.”

“Did the nimrod kill
her?”

He nodded and said, “To
get to me.”

“Why doesn’t he just
come for you?”

“He does,” he said,
“using my kin.”

“But so far he’s
killed three settlers.”

“My donor cannot
thrive without a colony.”

“Why?”

“Peter taught you
this,” he said, “when he explained the necessity of a village. Man cannot live without
a civilization, especially historic man.”

“Because a community
thrives, but a man alone doesn’t.”

“The colony is your
home,” he said. “The place I had hoped you could begin a family of your own.”

“A family?”

“Children, Dagur. I
would like to see you continue the line of men.”

“Bloodline,” I said.

His aspect remained
still as he said, “You need a partner, of course, a woman of child bearing age
who is not a Gen H.”

“Why can’t I be with
a colonist?”

I hadn’t spoken to my
guardian so directly, for he explained chastity and procreation in little
detail. Vincent’s hard stare told me I could be out of luck with him too. “You
may,” he said, “but such a union would not serve our purpose.”

“My children wouldn’t
have compatible blood.”

“It may be possible for
your union with a hematope to yield offspring, but you have more than blood as
difference.”

“What else?”

“How many pregnant
settlers have you seen in your time here?”

I hadn’t seen many. “I
don’t know,” I mumbled.

“They live a long
life,” he said. “But one must have something to live for.”

I had not thought
about the colonists as separate from me, as needing something to live for. They
scouted, hunted and fished, erected structures, made pathways and set up
facilities, and they fêted and feasted regularly. They made homes with one
another, joining in couplehood and small family units, elected a leader and sat
on committees, and lived in communion in every other way. I had never witnessed
death before the nimrod arrived, but they even mourned like other
civilizations. They seemed to be as normal as any other, and thrived in
community.

“For them, procreation
is not without its complications.”

I’d witnessed the
arrival of two newborns in the settlement, though the two female colonists had
delivered their children before joining us.

“Are you saying their
race will die off eventually?”

“They are not
immortal,” he said. “But they want for something greater, and you are that
promise.”

“How?”

He avoided my eyes
and looked up at the window. “Night will be here soon, and we must continue.”

“I don’t see why we
have to record your story if there’s danger. If that thing is coming for me,
shouldn’t I be hiding?”

“It may come to
that.” He gestured for me to return to my table.

“What good is it if
there’s no one left to read it?”

“History always finds
a place.”

“But if I am the
last.”

“You may also be the
first,” he said.

I inhaled deeply and asked
the question I had been biting to say, “Are you my father?”

“I am father to one
child,” he said.

“Only Lucia?”

“Yes, Evelina’s
child.”

The weight of the
world sat on my shoulders, as he pressed me into the stool, seeming to hold me in
place until I took to the flow of his dictation again. He picked up where he
left off with Youlan.

“I told her I cared
little for her story,” he said. “I wanted to see my child.”

Youlan’s Trick

“You will taste from
your own spleen if you do not bring me to Lucia.” I fought against the hardening
of my muscles and joints.

“She isn’t your only
daughter,” Youlan said. “I’m yours, too.” She flirted with fate, opening her
mouth wide, baring her metal fangs, and snapping it shut again. “I am her
sister.”

“You are no daughter
of mine.”

She looked up to the
left and grinned. “I’m one-hundred and eighty-four—no, eighty-five years
old.”

“You are not mine.”

“How could you know?”
She scoffed. “You said you would deny me three times.” She looked at her watch
again. “Ten minutes ago, in your chamber, you said you would say that very
thing, exactly like that.”

“I have never spoken
to you outside of this corridor.”

“That too!” She
blushed. “You said you’d say that, exactly that way, too.”

“You are delusional.”

“I was your favorite
until she came.”

“Take me to Lucia
now,” I said, straining to move my neck.

“Oh my, you are
smarter than this.”

I used every ounce of
energy I had to flex my hand, but her magic overpowered me, and left me to my
paralysis.

“Johann Mendel,” she
said.

The name touched my
head about as lightly as a cleave driven down on it. I could picture the man’s
face. “Who is that?”

“You must remember
him,” she said. “Don’t you see him in your mind?”

“No.”

“Can you see my
inheritance?” She leaned forward and looked into my eyes. “Don’t you recognize
me?”

“You are not mine,” I
said.

“That’s twice.” She
kissed my lips and I did nothing, her mouth warm on mine. She pinched my bottom
lip with her subtle fangs, and when she pulled away, she drew close to my ear
and whispered, “Next time I use my irons.”

She held the camera
still, pointed at me, but when she leaned her forehead against mine, I made her
drop it. My body may have been paralyzed, but my mind functioned as efficiently
as ever.

Once knocked from her
hand, the camera smashed on the floor and she jumped back with a gasp. I grabbed
her by the hair as she screeched. She reached for my hands, but I deflected her
shot. “Not this time,” I said.

She chuckled and
said, “Heredity is a funny thing. I knew you’d best me, father.”

“I am not your
father.”

“There’s the third,”
she said. “He should be on his way now.”

“Laszlo Arros?”

“Lucia won’t be with
him, though.” A storm raged in her violet eyes, her bottom lip quivering as she
said, “Tell me you remember Johann Mendel.”

She struggled to free
herself, but could only get her hands overtop mine, sending her franticness
into my flesh. “Take me to Lucia,” I said, “and I will tell you anything you
want to hear.”

She rolled her
shoulders forward, defeated. “The Czech lands? The industrial powerhouse of the
Bohemian Kingdom?”

My memory of Johann
Mendel had been revived at her first mention of his name, though I denied her
the truth. The setting, too, was vivid. The sweet air of an unpolluted farming
region, untouched by the industrial cancer that ate away the rest of the Slavic
plains. He was an Augustinian friar, a highly intelligent creature with whom
one could not trifle.

“My otec,” she
whispered.

Youlan had adopted him
as her father, a man of plants and pea pods and early genetic science. She may
have been telling the truth, but I had nothing to do with him after we parted
ways.

“Agáta was the
surrogate’s name,” she said.

Mention of that
particular woman confirmed my original belief I had nothing to do with her
beginning.

Youlan sneered at me.
“He comes.” She shifted to a shorter stance, her body straightening with
eagerness.

“Take me to Lucia,” I
said.

“Why do you give your
love to them?”

I tugged on her hair,
raising her off the ground. She gripped my hands more tightly, and squeezed.
“Do it,” she said. “Take off my head.”

“I will as soon as
you bring me to my real daughter.”

She pouted. “I am
real.”

“You have piqued my
interest,” I said. “If I attempt to fillet your corse after peeling away your
skin, will Laszlo Arros come to save you?”

“You wouldn’t,” she
said. “I know everything.” She gasped, “He’s here.”

I released her again,
my blood poached, stewing in the possibility of a physical battle with an equal.

“Why are you grinning?”
She asked.

My ire had reacted in
kind, envisioning the blood eagle I would give Laszlo Arros.

“He is here.” She
smiled and held up her middle finger.

“Is that what you are
made of?” I asked.

“There’s more,” she
said.

A talon shot out of its
tip and she plucked it with her other hand like a pin from a cushion. She held
up the dart admiring it, and then, as though freezing time, she whipped it at
my neck, its point stabbing my hardened skin. My hand went up too late to block
it. Mightier than a dart from a pipe, the point burrowed itself into my neck,
and I dropped backward onto the floor.

“He is here, father.”
The rest of the world disappeared as she said, “He is risen.”