Connects with: Angel of Death, Sepia and Silver, The Edge of Sunset, Red Sky at Night, English Roses & Tragic Silence
Where Night is Blind © March 2020 E. C. Hibbs
Budapest, Hungary
January 2005
Moonlight pooled through the small hole overhead, dust motes and cobwebs floating lazily across it. It would not have been enough to see by, not for a human. But I was not a human. That weakness left me long ago. My eyes saw every flicker of shadow. My ears heard every bend in the spiders’ legs as they crawled across the walls. And I lay there like a statue, upon the stone sarcophagus in the middle of the floor.
The time was drawing near. But for now, I could take a moment to remember, before I left to find her. It was important to never forget why I lingered.
So I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and allowed myself to feel the water over my head. The memory always began here: under the filthy Danube. October, 1879, and barely ten miles away.
I tried to dive down further. I wanted to drown, but no matter how much I filled my lungs with water, life refused to leave me. Nothing would work. It was impossible to kill what was already dead, but there was a disgusting irony in giving up. Had I not already given up?
It was no use. I would not die tonight. I never would.
I removed the stones from my pockets, dropped them into the murk, and swam to the surface. My hair plastered to my face as I looked around. Buda Castle towered above me. Coaches still rattled across the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, even as the clocks struck ten. Nobody was looking down at the river. Nobody needed to. They had their own business.
The current carried me away, until my shoes scraped across the muddy bottom. Realising there was no point in attempting to stay there, I made my way towards a set of stairs dropping down into the water. It felt strange to take my own weight again. How I wished I could have just fallen through the ground, and then kept falling.
My eyes strayed to my hand. Pale, spidery, the flesh transparent and waxy. My fingernails were curved and black, resembling bird talons. That final detail transformed it from being the hand of a mere corpse, into that of a monster. A demon.
Until just a few nights ago, that hand had been normal. But then I had lapsed into a furious seizure; overcome by such pain, I thought I would surely die. When I regained consciousness, I was changed. I felt it, like my bones had turned to ice. The light hurt my eyes like never before. I did not dare let the sun touch me, for fear of it searing the flesh from my bones. I was a full vampire at last.
For four years, I had endured the transformation, fighting it, trying to understand it. This should never have happened to me. I was an innocent man, attacked, fed upon, and changed against my will. It was impossible to go home. I wrote, yet received no replies. I prayed as I had never prayed before, begging God to save me.
He did not.
I dragged myself into the streets. The gaslights had been lit long ago. Their glow hurt my eyes, and I turned away. My wet clothes clung to my body. With every step, water streamed from my shoes. I knew I should be freezing – it was October, after all – but the frigid air left no effect upon me. I sensed it as though it were a distant memory, like how I might have tried to recall the sense of winter during the height of summer.
Drunks and whores lined the alleys. Some called out to me. I was a pitiful sight, but my suit was still finely made. I had no money to my name, not anymore, but they were not to know that. All I had was my pocket watch, and my wedding ring, hanging securely around my neck on a chain. If they attempted to take that from me, I would tear off their fingers without a second thought.
I gritted my teeth as I passed them. I could smell their blood. If they got too close, I was unsure if I could control myself.
After several tense moments, I left them behind. But as soon as I believed myself to be alone, a woman leered from the shadows and snatched my coat. I glared at her, and she flew away from me as though struck. I kept my eyes on her, pinning her against the wall. I could hold her there for as long as I wanted, and she would not stand a chance.
Her eyes, a moment ago filled with seduction, flashed into terror.
“Pray, sir, don’t hurt me!” she cried.
A vein was protruding in her neck. I heard her blood roaring like a river. I was underwater again, desperate to breathe, to drink, to take her into me until she lay limp and lifeless. The river had left me weak, and my body was screaming for strength. For this...
With gargantuan effort, I turned away. As soon as my eyes moved from her, my grip faded, and she scurried away like a frightened mouse.
Good, I thought. Run. Count your blessings.
I let my feet carry me wherever they wanted. Streets and buildings and lamps all looked the same. Rain began to fall. I hardly cared. I was already wet through, like a sewer rat. I could not even muster a sardonic smirk at that description – never had one been so apt. Except perhaps a bat. Equally disgusting.
Then, as sudden as a flash of lightning, I realised where I was. Rows of terraced houses stood either side of me, wrought iron railings lining their fronts. A flight of steps led to each door. I looked at the last one on the left, just before the cemetery gates. I was home.
I stood frozen to the spot. The drapes were drawn – they were a different colour than I remembered – but behind them, I could see a silhouette moving about. Mirriam.
I hesitated. The distance was so small, compared to what I had walked from the river, and yet it seemed like a hundred miles lay before me. I had been gone for so long, but every day, I had longed for home, for her. The thought of my Mirriam had kept me sane through four years of torment and terror. She, my darling wife, with our darling little daughter in her arms.
I gathered my courage, crossed the street, and pulled on the bell chain. A few moments later, the door swung open.
A balding middle-aged man looked at me through a small pair of spectacles. I had never seen him before in my life. Behind him, the air smelled different than what I remembered. And yet his was the only heartbeat I could hear.
“Good God!” the man exclaimed. “Whatever happened to you?”
I slipped my hands into my sodden pockets so he would not see them.
“Mirriam Kálvin,” I rasped. “Is she here?”
The man frowned. “There is nobody of that name here, sir.”
“I am János Kálvin. Her husband,” I said. “I am afraid I have been gone awhile. I have been…”
Attacked. Mutilated. Transformed…
“Ill,” I finished. “Very ill.”
The man regarded me with a mixture of pity and wariness. He was probably musing whether my illness was one he should be concerning a policeman with. I knew from my life here: this area of Buda-Pesth had no place for the insane, the unwashed, the street rats.
“Mrs Kálvin left here three years ago, my friend,” he said eventually. “Bad fortune befell her. I have been the lone resident since then.”
Every time he drew breath to speak, I heard his lungs expanding; the blood rushing through his veins. I could almost smell it: thick and warm and heady. Inside my pockets, I clenched my fists so tightly, my fingernails dug into my palms. I needed to drink.
“What happened to your eyes?” the man asked. “Are you blinded, sir? Has someone hurt you?”
I lowered my gaze. I had only seen my reflection once since I changed. My blue irises were gone. The pupils had dilated so much, my entire eye appeared as black as jet.
“No, I am not injured,” I said. “Where did she go?”
“Somewhere east, I believe. An uncle came to see her, shortly before I acquired the house. A priest of some sort, or so I heard; rather famous. He invited her to stay with him and his children. But it was somewhere outside the city. I'm not certain where.”
I was certain. Mirriam had occasionally spoken to me of her Uncle Alexander Farkas. He lived in Hattyúpatak: a tiny village on the border with Romania. Three hundred miles away.
Very well. I might have kept myself away from her before, and wondered why she never replied to my letters, but no longer. After the Hell I had endured, I would find my way home, and home was where my family was. My dear, beautiful family.
The man was saying something. I forced myself to concentrate.
“… fetch you anything? Mr Kálvin, you'll catch your death in those clothes. Can I call anybody to help you?”
The sound of his blood roared in my ears. My stomach twisted and writhed, as though a snake had taken up residence in my bowels. I wanted nothing more than to expel it, but I knew I could not. I could only feed it. There was no choice.
“Yes, please,” I said, barely above a whisper.
The man stepped back to let me inside. As soon as the door was closed behind me, I snatched him. My teeth tore through the front of his throat. His windpipe ruptured beneath my tongue, cutting off his cry.
Then I tasted the blood: thick, rich, hot. I swallowed it like a wild animal that had gone for days without water. With every gulp, I saw his memories: he was a widower, born in Vienna, had worked in the law, had lost a daughter to typhus...
I only stopped drinking when I heard the final feeble beat of his heart. He lay dead in my arms, his eyes still open.
I hated myself. I begged God for forgiveness, then I gathered the body in my arms, crept back to the river, and let it float away. I watched until I could see it no more, then unfurled my wings. I had never used them before. The sight had terrified me too much. But now I knew they were the mark of what I had become; my disgusting cross to bear. If they – and what they stood for – would never leave me, then I would make them work for me. Evil and ugly as they were, they would carry me to salvation in Mirriam’s arms.
I moved them up and down, working the muscles in a way I never had previously. I barely needed to try before my feet left the ground. The wings bore me into the air, as silent as the angel of death, and I flew east.
The time was drawing near. But for now, I could take a moment to remember, before I left to find her. It was important to never forget why I lingered.
So I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and allowed myself to feel the water over my head. The memory always began here: under the filthy Danube. October, 1879, and barely ten miles away.
I tried to dive down further. I wanted to drown, but no matter how much I filled my lungs with water, life refused to leave me. Nothing would work. It was impossible to kill what was already dead, but there was a disgusting irony in giving up. Had I not already given up?
It was no use. I would not die tonight. I never would.
I removed the stones from my pockets, dropped them into the murk, and swam to the surface. My hair plastered to my face as I looked around. Buda Castle towered above me. Coaches still rattled across the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, even as the clocks struck ten. Nobody was looking down at the river. Nobody needed to. They had their own business.
The current carried me away, until my shoes scraped across the muddy bottom. Realising there was no point in attempting to stay there, I made my way towards a set of stairs dropping down into the water. It felt strange to take my own weight again. How I wished I could have just fallen through the ground, and then kept falling.
My eyes strayed to my hand. Pale, spidery, the flesh transparent and waxy. My fingernails were curved and black, resembling bird talons. That final detail transformed it from being the hand of a mere corpse, into that of a monster. A demon.
Until just a few nights ago, that hand had been normal. But then I had lapsed into a furious seizure; overcome by such pain, I thought I would surely die. When I regained consciousness, I was changed. I felt it, like my bones had turned to ice. The light hurt my eyes like never before. I did not dare let the sun touch me, for fear of it searing the flesh from my bones. I was a full vampire at last.
For four years, I had endured the transformation, fighting it, trying to understand it. This should never have happened to me. I was an innocent man, attacked, fed upon, and changed against my will. It was impossible to go home. I wrote, yet received no replies. I prayed as I had never prayed before, begging God to save me.
He did not.
I dragged myself into the streets. The gaslights had been lit long ago. Their glow hurt my eyes, and I turned away. My wet clothes clung to my body. With every step, water streamed from my shoes. I knew I should be freezing – it was October, after all – but the frigid air left no effect upon me. I sensed it as though it were a distant memory, like how I might have tried to recall the sense of winter during the height of summer.
Drunks and whores lined the alleys. Some called out to me. I was a pitiful sight, but my suit was still finely made. I had no money to my name, not anymore, but they were not to know that. All I had was my pocket watch, and my wedding ring, hanging securely around my neck on a chain. If they attempted to take that from me, I would tear off their fingers without a second thought.
I gritted my teeth as I passed them. I could smell their blood. If they got too close, I was unsure if I could control myself.
After several tense moments, I left them behind. But as soon as I believed myself to be alone, a woman leered from the shadows and snatched my coat. I glared at her, and she flew away from me as though struck. I kept my eyes on her, pinning her against the wall. I could hold her there for as long as I wanted, and she would not stand a chance.
Her eyes, a moment ago filled with seduction, flashed into terror.
“Pray, sir, don’t hurt me!” she cried.
A vein was protruding in her neck. I heard her blood roaring like a river. I was underwater again, desperate to breathe, to drink, to take her into me until she lay limp and lifeless. The river had left me weak, and my body was screaming for strength. For this...
With gargantuan effort, I turned away. As soon as my eyes moved from her, my grip faded, and she scurried away like a frightened mouse.
Good, I thought. Run. Count your blessings.
I let my feet carry me wherever they wanted. Streets and buildings and lamps all looked the same. Rain began to fall. I hardly cared. I was already wet through, like a sewer rat. I could not even muster a sardonic smirk at that description – never had one been so apt. Except perhaps a bat. Equally disgusting.
Then, as sudden as a flash of lightning, I realised where I was. Rows of terraced houses stood either side of me, wrought iron railings lining their fronts. A flight of steps led to each door. I looked at the last one on the left, just before the cemetery gates. I was home.
I stood frozen to the spot. The drapes were drawn – they were a different colour than I remembered – but behind them, I could see a silhouette moving about. Mirriam.
I hesitated. The distance was so small, compared to what I had walked from the river, and yet it seemed like a hundred miles lay before me. I had been gone for so long, but every day, I had longed for home, for her. The thought of my Mirriam had kept me sane through four years of torment and terror. She, my darling wife, with our darling little daughter in her arms.
I gathered my courage, crossed the street, and pulled on the bell chain. A few moments later, the door swung open.
A balding middle-aged man looked at me through a small pair of spectacles. I had never seen him before in my life. Behind him, the air smelled different than what I remembered. And yet his was the only heartbeat I could hear.
“Good God!” the man exclaimed. “Whatever happened to you?”
I slipped my hands into my sodden pockets so he would not see them.
“Mirriam Kálvin,” I rasped. “Is she here?”
The man frowned. “There is nobody of that name here, sir.”
“I am János Kálvin. Her husband,” I said. “I am afraid I have been gone awhile. I have been…”
Attacked. Mutilated. Transformed…
“Ill,” I finished. “Very ill.”
The man regarded me with a mixture of pity and wariness. He was probably musing whether my illness was one he should be concerning a policeman with. I knew from my life here: this area of Buda-Pesth had no place for the insane, the unwashed, the street rats.
“Mrs Kálvin left here three years ago, my friend,” he said eventually. “Bad fortune befell her. I have been the lone resident since then.”
Every time he drew breath to speak, I heard his lungs expanding; the blood rushing through his veins. I could almost smell it: thick and warm and heady. Inside my pockets, I clenched my fists so tightly, my fingernails dug into my palms. I needed to drink.
“What happened to your eyes?” the man asked. “Are you blinded, sir? Has someone hurt you?”
I lowered my gaze. I had only seen my reflection once since I changed. My blue irises were gone. The pupils had dilated so much, my entire eye appeared as black as jet.
“No, I am not injured,” I said. “Where did she go?”
“Somewhere east, I believe. An uncle came to see her, shortly before I acquired the house. A priest of some sort, or so I heard; rather famous. He invited her to stay with him and his children. But it was somewhere outside the city. I'm not certain where.”
I was certain. Mirriam had occasionally spoken to me of her Uncle Alexander Farkas. He lived in Hattyúpatak: a tiny village on the border with Romania. Three hundred miles away.
Very well. I might have kept myself away from her before, and wondered why she never replied to my letters, but no longer. After the Hell I had endured, I would find my way home, and home was where my family was. My dear, beautiful family.
The man was saying something. I forced myself to concentrate.
“… fetch you anything? Mr Kálvin, you'll catch your death in those clothes. Can I call anybody to help you?”
The sound of his blood roared in my ears. My stomach twisted and writhed, as though a snake had taken up residence in my bowels. I wanted nothing more than to expel it, but I knew I could not. I could only feed it. There was no choice.
“Yes, please,” I said, barely above a whisper.
The man stepped back to let me inside. As soon as the door was closed behind me, I snatched him. My teeth tore through the front of his throat. His windpipe ruptured beneath my tongue, cutting off his cry.
Then I tasted the blood: thick, rich, hot. I swallowed it like a wild animal that had gone for days without water. With every gulp, I saw his memories: he was a widower, born in Vienna, had worked in the law, had lost a daughter to typhus...
I only stopped drinking when I heard the final feeble beat of his heart. He lay dead in my arms, his eyes still open.
I hated myself. I begged God for forgiveness, then I gathered the body in my arms, crept back to the river, and let it float away. I watched until I could see it no more, then unfurled my wings. I had never used them before. The sight had terrified me too much. But now I knew they were the mark of what I had become; my disgusting cross to bear. If they – and what they stood for – would never leave me, then I would make them work for me. Evil and ugly as they were, they would carry me to salvation in Mirriam’s arms.
I moved them up and down, working the muscles in a way I never had previously. I barely needed to try before my feet left the ground. The wings bore me into the air, as silent as the angel of death, and I flew east.
*
I travelled for many nights, always under the cover of darkness. Whenever the sky began to lighten, I fought the urge to lie there and let it all end. But in that rising sun, I saw my family, and I found the strength to continue.
I changed out of my wet clothes. A tailor had stopped with his load at an inn, so I silently helped myself to his wares, including a pair of gloves, so I could avoid looking at my hands. I was careful to take black whenever I could, to help me blend into the shadows easier. Then I hooked my pocket watch chain over the waistcoat, and left a gold coin on the wagon, which I had found earlier on the road. It was not enough to pay for the theft, but it was better than nothing.
Buda-Pesth disappeared behind me. The noise and bustle of the city faded to rolling countryside as I entered the Alföld: a flat plain of grass which appeared grey and silver under the full moonlight. Yet I saw it all as clear as I would have in the day. The fields were patched from the harvest: some scythed to the ground, and others still tall and bountiful, waiting to be stripped. The dampness of autumn was upon the air, a wintry chill at its edge, like the tip of a blade.
I flew most of the way, allowing myself to learn how to control my new wings. As I soared between Earth and Heaven – the closest I might ever come to that place now – I thanked God that the nights were longer. I never would have managed, had all this happened in the summer.
And yet… until this very summer, had I not managed perfectly? Did God even hear me? He had not heard me when all this began. Why should he listen now?
It was still dark, but I knew it would not last for much longer, so I took shelter in a barn. It was better to be safe and stop in good time, than risk being caught in the sunlight. And I was almost there. I had seen the first sign for Hattyúpatak a mere ten minutes earlier.
Mirriam had waited four years for me. What hardship was one more night?
I settled against a stack of straw bales, and ran my finger around my wedding ring. Then, with nothing else to do, I recalled the night my life had changed forever.
I had not seen the face of the wicked demon which had struck me down. I was walking home; took the short cut down the alley near the river. Then he was upon me. He paralysed me with a single glance, held me down and stole my wallet. Then he fed upon me, and finally, infected me with the terrible black spittle.
Venom, one of the nuns called it, when I sought sanctuary at her convent. Like a snake. The Serpent, inside me, working his evil until it was a part of my very blood.
In the beginning, those sweet women aided me. One had recognised what I had become. She even allowed me to drink her blood, so I could control myself. She explained what had happened to me, and what powers and curses I would experience. She insisted I stay, so she could care for me. But even she was unable to save me, in the end. I had tried to fight the vampirism, and it fought back with equal ferocity, growing greater, until I was a kitten doing battle with a tiger. Then I became the tiger.
It all changed when my transformation was complete. The disgusting venom appeared again, spreading through me, breaking me under its touch. I would not have wished such agony upon my worst enemy. Then the wings had pushed themselves out of my back. My fingernails shed to reveal talons. The slightest hint of sunlight burned me as though I had stepped into fire. I hung between life and death, and as of yet, had not found my way completely into either.
I took myself from the convent, so I would not harm the nuns, and leapt into the Danube for the first time. I survived. When I crawled from the water, I killed three people and drank them dry. Horrified, I returned to the river. Still, it refused to drown me. I had broken the Hippocratic Oath; broken every law and moral line.
And in every moment, I had thought only of my Mirriam.
The barn door suddenly opened. I jumped, jolted from my reverie, and enfolded myself into the hay. I listened to the footsteps shuffling across the floor: small, delicate. A woman. I could tell from the smell of her, the sound of her breathing, that she was old. There was a rattling against the wall as she gathered the day’s tools. Of course, she was a farmer: awake before any other.
I peered at her. She was as thin as a rake, veins running across her hands like ropes. Even from here, I heard the blood flowing through them. It was strong. These country women were made of hardier stuff than the gentle ladies of the city.
I ran my tongue across my lips. It had been almost two weeks since I left Buda-Pesth. Two weeks since I had met that man in my house. And the thirst was building again.
Guilt tore my heart. How could I think of taking a life like this? A helpless elder, who likely had never harmed a thing in her life?
The tiger clawed at my innards and the snake whispered in my ear. At my back, the bat enfolded me in its wings. I was so close to Mirriam now. I needed to reach her. And to reach her, I needed to act. Now.
I slipped onto my feet. The woman turned, to lay a scythe down on a table. I quickly drew myself into the shadows so she would not see me.
There was a sudden glow in my periphery. Had the sun risen? I braced myself for the onslaught of pain, but it did not come. Instead, I found a light emanating from my hand.
I stared at it in astonishment, and realised I had somehow made it. Was this another strange and terrible power granted to me by the Devil? Of course it was. A disgusting lure to tempt the innocent into my grasp.
This had never happened before. Before the second transformation, I had no such ability. But, I supposed, my soul was sold now. I had the wings of a demon. I could move objects and people alike with a single glance. This was yet another mark of my maker: to be able to twist the fabric of reality so grotesquely. Why? Whatever had I done to deserve this? I had been a good and honest man; a loving father, a devoted husband. Life was simple and kind to János Kálvin. Now, I was unsure whether he even existed anymore.
Somewhere deep within, far from the reaches of logic or emotion, the animal instinct raised my hand, until the light was in full view. The woman turned around, and began walking towards me, as though she were sleepwalking. Her eyes were glazed, focused only on the light. I had her. She could not run. She was mine.
I bit down on her trachea. For a brief moment, she struggled, and then she was gone.
Blood flowed down my front. I tried to catch it with my mouth, but that only caused it to spurt more. So I continued as best I could, until she became limp in my arms. Then I held my face in my hands, and cried.
I stayed with her body all day. The sun rose and set. Before I left, I took a shovel from the barn door, and dug a shallow grave beneath a nearby tree. I laid the woman upon her back, and tore a scrap from her dress to tie under her chin. I had no coins for her eyes, but closed them anyway. After piling the earth back over her, I laid a hand upon it, in both apology and gratitude. Then I left her.
I did not allow myself to think about how I had summoned the lure. It was another tool of evil intended for me to continue surviving. I would not use it again. I would not kill again. Not a single soul. I had enough energy to fly the rest of the way, and that was all I needed.
When the moon reached its midnight point, I spotted one last village, alone in a great expanse of nothing. A stream cut through the land behind it, after which the plain continued as unbroken as it always had been. And yet, as soon as I laid my eyes upon it, dread pulled at my heart in a desperate warning. For some reason, I knew that I could not cross that water.
I kept my nerve. A sign stood nearby, reading Hattyúpatak. I had made it.
I landed in a woodland overlooking the tangle of houses, and pulled the wings away into my shoulders. There were fewer buildings here than in our entire street back in Buda-Pesth. I grimaced, wrinkling my nose at the scent of pig slop. My sweet wife and daughter were living in this hovel? Mirriam had told me about it, but I now realised that she had spoken through the rose-tinted glass of youth. How could her firm and blessed branch have sprung from the same tree as these peasants? If her Uncle Alexander was the famous priest of legend, could he not provide for his people better than this?
Despite the late night, the windows – all without proper drapes, of course – shone with lamplight. A few folks walked here and there, bent double against a cold which hardly registered to me. Their clothes were muddied and tattered. It was difficult to imagine how these poor beggars lived in one of the most powerful empires in Europe.
They appeared to be preparing for something. Men were piling wood in the centre of the village, the ends wrapped in fabric. Others were walking through the graveyard, pausing at each headstone to pray. How peculiar. Was it customary among these people to wander their dirt-lined roads under cover of darkness?
“We'll need more than that,” a girl said, gesturing to the woodpile. “Nothing can be unaccounted for. Erik, could you not have cut more?”
“If we cut any more, we'll have none left for winter,” a nearby boy replied.
I focused on them. The distance was immaterial; I could see every patch of mud on their clothes and every hair upon their heads. They were both teenagers: the girl was older by a few years, about fourteen, yet still held herself as though she commanded the village.
Shock rooted me to the spot. I had never laid eyes upon these children before, but they had the same beautiful mouth as my Mirriam. They must be her relatives – cousins perhaps?
And then: the sight I had been waiting for! The door to the house nearest the church opened, and she walked out. My heart practically stopped in my chest. Mirriam was thinner than when I had last seen her, in a duller dress not becoming of a fine woman, but she was alive. I searched her arms for signs of baby Éva, but there was nothing. She must be abed. Of course – she would be walking and talking by now: a true little lady.
I closed my eyes despondently. Four years. I had missed her first steps, her first words. She would have no memory of me.
I cursed the demon who had turned me. He had taken so much more than the coins in my wallet.
“Zíta,” Mirriam called to the girl. “Are you sure Uncle Alexander will be back tonight?”
“Beyond any doubt,” replied Zíta.
Mirriam’s shoulders dropped. “I am afraid.”
“As we all are. And as we should be,” said Zíta. “Those demons he is driving here are monstrous things. But that's why we must all be here, to stand our ground, and help him.”
“Even Éva? I don't wish for her to see it.”
“She will see it, no matter how you shield her. This won't be a quiet affair. She won't sleep through it. And even if you leave her in bed, she will wake to find you gone, and know something is wrong. Better to keep her at your side, Mirriam. We will protect her.”
Mirriam swallowed. I heard it; sensed the adrenaline firing into her blood. She looked older. Her face bore lines where it had not before. Her alabaster skin was tainted bronze from a summer spent outdoors. I could have even sworn I noticed some white hairs.
My joy at seeing her swarmed with anger and sadness. She was barely into her twenties. So young, yet already turning grey, already widowed, already lost everything. And all because of me.
Could I even go down there? Now I was here, the long distance between us closed, I was reminded once again of the impossible walk from the street to our old house. So close, and yet so far. How could I even hope to be with her again? What could I offer to save her from this existence? Our money was gone. Our home in the city was sold and empty. The only place left for either of us back there was Mirriam’s elaborate family crypt in Kerepesi Cemetery.
Mirriam hugged Zíta, and disappeared into the house. One by one, the other people returned to their own homes, and the windows grew dark as the lights were extinguished. I remained where I was, concealed by the trees. The moon drifted languidly across the sky. When I was sure by the heavy breathing that all were asleep, I stole down to the village.
I approached the door and held out my hand for the handle. These peasants would trust their neighbours enough to not make use of a lock. I went to step inside, but something stopped me, as though I were attempting to walk through a closed window. I looked around in alarm, and noticed a detail I had missed earlier. The entire house was surrounded by birch twigs, all lined end to end in a crude circle.
I frowned. Why could I not cross them? They were mere twigs! I tried once more, but to no avail. It was as though they formed a physical barrier, separating me from Mirriam. I could smell the birch as well, from the smoke pooling out of the chimney. Zíta was burning it in the hearth.
I growled. Birch was my weakness?
No. This was ridiculous, and I had come too far, survived too much, to abandon Mirriam now. I tore my gloves off with my teeth, brought my hands to the nearest twig, and hooked my long nails around it. Then, with an inhuman level of strength, I moved it.
It barely broke from its neighbour, but it was enough. The invisible barrier disappeared, as though I had risen from water into air. I did not care how long it must have taken for the two teenagers to create this elaborate circle. It would not bar me.
A thought fleeted in my mind. If birch was the thing to keep me at bay, why had they seen fit to lay it? Had they known I was coming?
No, that was impossible. Nobody knew I was still alive.
I opened the door, and stepped through. The house was dark, lit only by the fire in the hearth. It was stacked high with birch logs. Some at the edge had not caught properly, and only their papery white bark smouldered. I kept far away. The birch wormed up my nose and made my head feel as though it were filled with stones.
I could tell at first glance that this was the kitchen. Bundles of herbs hung drying from the rafters. Dented pots and chipped bowls of cheap porcelain lined the sideboard. There was a table in the middle of the room, a Bible resting ostentatiously in its centre. I narrowed my eyes at it. I had heard rumours that creatures such as I should be repelled by a Bible, but I knew that was not the case.
I turned my back on it, and stopped in mid-step. There was an oval frame hanging on the wall. Behind the glass was a sepia photograph: myself, Mirriam and Éva. I remembered the afternoon it was taken; the very same day I disappeared. My sweet little daughter had almost cried, so I stroked her cheek until she fell asleep. I never thought I would see this image again.
I lifted the picture off the hook and slipped it into my coat pocket. Then I walked towards the bedrooms. I listened at their doors. One was empty – I presumed it was the chamber of the priest. He was away on business of some kind, if Zíta’s words were true. In the room beside his, I heard Zíta herself, along with her brother, Erik. Both were breathing deeply, sound asleep.
That left only the third room. I did not even need to check to know that my family was inside. I crept through, silent as a shadow, and my eyes fell upon Mirriam. She was lying on her back in the bed, Éva was nestled beside her, curled into the crook of her arm like a little mouse.
My daughter's beauty shocked me. The last time I had seen her, she had been an infant, but now, her limbs and face were sculpted with healthy muscle. Her tanned skin was unflattering, but I had not expected any less, living here like this. She had the same raven hair as me; the same jawbone. And through the thin skin of her eyelids, I could see that her irises were the same icy blue as my own had once been.
Then I turned my attention to Mirraim. Her hair was tied into a braid which spilled over her shoulder, as fine as spun gold. She was dressed in a lacy nightgown – one I recalled purchasing for her back in Buda-Pesth. It was the one she had worn on our wedding night.
In an instant, I recalled the day she had meekly walked down the aisle towards me; the moment I had slid my ring onto her finger, and hers onto mine. That same ring was heavy against my chest: the one memento I had managed to maintain. I remembered peering past her veil to see the faint outline of a smile. I recalled the warmth of her body as I held her, the softness of her lips as I kissed her, the delicate words she whispered to me in the way only lovers could.
I ached to wake them both; to clutch them to me and never let go. I would take them somewhere new, where nobody knew us. I would find a way to regain our finances and start a new life. But what kind of life would it be now? How could I bear to put them into such uncertainty? Would they even accept me, after being gone for so long, and changed so terribly?
Perhaps, instead, I could do something else. I could linger, close enough to watch over them together. Life and death and God may have abandoned me, but I need not abandon those who were my entire life. I could stay, like a guardian angel, invisible by sight, but felt in heart. If salvation was to be found, surely it was here.
My decision was made. I had never been so sure of something since the day I married her.
I laid a hand beside Mirriam’s face. My heart ached with love and longing. She was my world. She had given me everything. Could I bear to kiss her? If I was quick, I could melt into the shadows before she had a chance to wake. It was better than nothing. I had to caress her, one more time.
She stirred, and turned her head slightly towards me. The movement opened up her neck, shining silver in the moonlight from the window.
I stared at her jugular. I could smell the blood. It was slowed by slumber; it would have been so easy to take. The animals of Hell whispered from within me, urging me to taste from the forbidden fruit once more. But I drove them down with a ferocity I had almost forgotten I possessed. I had not resisted the urge so strongly since the early days. Under no circumstances would I defile my beloved wife. Never.
I waited until I had myself under control, then leaned in to kiss her.
“Get away!” a voice hissed.
I leapt into the corner with a speed which shocked me. A figure was standing in the open doorway, clutching a knife. Zíta.
I held my hands up in an attempt to placate her.
“I intend no harm,” I insisted quietly.
Zíta did not move. Worried about waking my family, I urged towards her, keeping my hands in plain sight. She backed away, the knife still trained on me as she let me pass, then she snatched at the doorknob with one hand. I managed only one quick glimpse of Mirriam and Éva, before they were shut off from me.
Zíta faced me. I was taken aback by her ferocity. I had never known a woman hold such a stance before.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing in here?”
“I am her husband,” I explained.
Zíta blinked in surprise. I could tell she wanted to look behind her, where the photograph had been hanging, but she was too fixed on me to risk it.
“Impossible. Her husband is dead.”
“I was ill.”
The blood was roaring in her veins. I could practically smell her fear. It made my stomach twist in eagerness.
I lowered my hands, and held one to my belly. Zíta’s eyes followed the movement. Then she saw my fingernails. She drew in a gasp of horror, and snatched a smouldering birch log out of the hearth. She held it at my face, looking straight into my black eyes.
“Dear God…” she breathed. “How did you get inside?”
“I mean no harm,” I repeated.
“Lidérc,” Zíta cried, her voice shaking in terror. Then she brandished the log at me, forcing me out of the door. As soon as we were in the open, she flung it back and forth like a madwoman. I barely managed to evade her.
“Everybody, wake up!” she bellowed. “A dark one is here! Wake up! Lidércnyomás! It will kill us all!”
“No! Wait!”
I snatched at the log, but as soon as I touched it, pain shot through my hand, as though I had thrust my palm upon a hot stove. I spun away and fell onto my knees.
People began to pour out of the neighbouring houses. As soon as they saw me, they ran over. One burly man pinned my arms behind my back, and forced me onto the ground. And then, in the distance I heard something: a peculiar screaming, as though from hundreds of yowling cats. It was coming closer.
Zíta turned in the direction of the noise.
“What shall we do with him?” the man asked. “Is that your Apa coming back?”
“Yes, thank God!” Zíta replied, pointing at me with the knife. “No matter what happens, keep hold of that one, Béla. We will need everyone for this!”
The rest of the village crowded around us. Even children were there. The youngsters pushed forward to catch a glimpse of me, their eyes wide with curiosity and fright. I sensed all their blood, in a giant beating circle; surrounding me, closing in, calling…
“Please!” I cried. “I would never have harmed her! Either of them! Release me! Oh, God, Mirriam...”
“Go to Hell,” Zíta snarled. “We know what you are, demon. Do you really think one of your kind could kill my Anya and we would not remember? Do you think our Apa would have forgotten? Why else do you think he has gone through the entire country, rounding up every single last one of you?”
I stared at her. One of my kind… A creature like me had taken her mother? There were others? I was not alone?
Another shriek came from over the hill. I looked towards it, then back at the house. There was a flickering warm glow from the window: a candle had been lit in Mirriam and Éva’s room. In any moment, they would come outside, and see me. See me like this.
Panic overcame me. I drew forth all my power, and fixed my eyes on Zíta. She was immediately thrown backwards, the torch and blade flying from her hands. I pinned her where she lay; pushed down on her chest, held her arms against her sides.
The distraction made Béla loosen his grip. I flung him off, and leapt to my feet. Everybody cried out in fright and backed away. Zíta screamed. It was a bloodcurdling sound, full of fear and hate.
I looked around, trying to find a gap in the wall of onlookers, but they had packed themselves in too solidly. So I rolled back my shoulders and unfurled my wings. That brought forth another cry of horror. I pushed down, and leapt into the air.
Freed from my grasp, Zíta clutched at her chest, gasping for air.
“Nem!” she bellowed. “Catch it! Stake it! Kill it! Quickly, now!”
Her voice rang in my head. It. Not him. It. What had she called me?
Lidérc. The flying bringer of nightmares. The creature of darkness from the folklore of my childhood: impossible to outrun, bringing doom and fire in its wake.
I flew away, towards the only shelter I could think of: the woodland. I crashed into the trees, landing in a pitiful heap. Every part of me trembled. I drew in my wings, and looked over my shoulder. Men were following me. Some of them had gone to the woodpile, and now I saw its true purpose. It was not firewood, but torches. The rags around their ends had been set aflame. All were birch.
The shrieking grew louder. A stone dropped in my belly. The trees might be shelter, but only from one danger: the villagers. The second danger – that terrible cacophony, whatever it was – was coming from the other direction. And now I was trapped in the middle of both.
A writhing cloud suddenly rose over the hill. My mouth fell open in horror. Within its thundery blackness were hundreds – thousands – of bodies, all writhing and twisting around each other like maggots. I could not see them closely; for the first time, my impeccable new sense of sight failed me. There was too movement, completely inhuman. And yet… they were human. They possessed all their limbs and features: men, women and children alike.
I recoiled. What in God’s name was this?
A bearded man was walking behind them, clutching a cane, clad in the dark garb of a priest. Other, younger men flanked him, like the Disciples of Christ. It was a terrible sight: one of complete power and drive. I smelled the determination in the old man’s blood. It was thick and pungent, with a strength that took me by surprise.
That had to be Mirriam's uncle. Alexander Farkas.
Footsteps pounded behind me.
“There it is!” a man shouted.
“Apa!” Zíta cried at the priest. “Hurry! There's one last Lidérc here! It tried to attack Mirriam and Éva!”
I let out a cry of terror and frustration. I had been so determined to get away, I had forgotten to hide myself in the shadows while nobody was looking! But now their eyes had found me again, I would never be able to escape!
I ran. They followed me. My ears rang with the shrieks of the trapped souls, and of the villagers, their fear heightening into hysteria.
“Demon!”
“Lidérc!”
“Devil!”
“Dark one!”
My toe caught a root and I fell. They were upon me in moments. They wrenched me up; grasped at my arms and throat like ravenous wolves. My coat tore into tatters from their ferocity, buttons flying in all directions. In a moment of fright, I thought they might dislodge the photograph, or pull my wedding ring from its chain.
I tried to throw the villagers off; to use my will to push them from me, but then two hands clamped over my eyes. They knew what I could do. And they knew how to hinder me.
“Bring it here!” a voice called. Farkas.
The men dragged me back. I screamed and struggled with every step, but with my eyes covered, there was no hope. I was overpowered and lifted off my feet. Then I was thrown forward, but I did not hit the ground. I hung suspended in the air, and a heavy mass was pressing upon me, slithering around me like snakes. The hands disappeared from my face, and I opened my eyes.
I was inside the cloud. And those people – those humans, who I had seen – they were not human. Their eyes were as black as my own. Their hands bore the same tapered talons in place of fingernails. Huge bat wings flapping everywhere in desperation. They were exactly like me.
I could not count them all, but their fear filled me, like water spilling out of a bowl. I was back in the river again, choking but not dying, weighed down but not sinking. Trapped.
Alexander Farkas snatched a birch branch, and drove us into Hattyúpatak. The entire village was there now, closing in around us, flaming torches in hand. It was a pack of animals; a furious mob, only growing in intensity as we were pushed closer to the stream. I heard the water trickling behind me.
Then I suddenly realised why I had been so terrified of going near it earlier. That stream was the Romanian border. And I knew, as sure as the sun would rise, that if I crossed it, I would die. If I was what they said, a Lidérc, I was a being of Hungary alone. None of us could not exist unless it was here.
The final piece of the puzzle found its place in my mind. That was what Farkas had done. He had walked the entire country, rounding up all of the creatures like me, all of those akin to his wife’s murderer, and brought them back here, to commit his own murder.
I looked through the cloud. I saw flickering flames, and Farkas with his arms raised. I smelled the hatred and disgust in his blood. Then I heard the villagers lifting their voices in song.
Himnusz. The song of Hungary. How ironic, to sing the praises of their country as they watched death unfold.
“Hozz rá víg esztendőt,
Megbűnhődte már e nép
A múltat s jövendőt!”
Had I not been suffocating in fear and bodies, I might have laughed at the absurdness of those words. Atoning sorrow hath weighed down sins of past and future days?
Yes, I thought. Atone for sins as you witness murder and terror. Were we all not once your brothers, sisters, children, parents? Did we not breathe the same air? Had we not all shared life and love?
They were disgusting. All of them. Hypocritical, tiny, careless vermin. What did they know of life and love? They were the ones who deserved to die! They should have been trapped within this prison, not us! Not I!
Then I saw Mirriam and Éva. They were near the front of the mob, standing next to Zíta and Erik. I only managed a quick glimpse of them, before the crowd heaved and blocked them from my view, but it was enough. I could not die here, not like this. How could I entrust these creatures – that priest – to care for my family? I had been forced from them once. Never again.
But I had to get to them. I would use my demonic power one more time. If I could reach through the cloud and take hold of something – or someone – pull their blood into me to give me strength… I might escape. It was my only chance.
The screams of the vampires grew louder. We were at the border now. Those poor souls trapped at the back began to disintegrate like ash. The sound focused me in a manner I had never felt before. There was precious time left.
I fought my way to the front and thrust my hand forward. I conjured the lure: that disgusting light which I had used to take the old woman. I poured all my will into it, making it brighter than ever. I had to catch somebody. They had to come; to be so entranced that they would leap willingly, straight into my grasp. The other Lidércs were putrefying around me. I would be next.
“Anya, please come back!” a child cried.
My heart leapt with relief. A figure was running towards me. A hand reached for mine. I felt delicate fingers close around my wrist.
I did not pause to think. I pulled hard, wrenching myself free of the cloud. I only glimpsed a flash of golden hair before the urge overcame me. I flew into the air, and bit down, hard.
Blood splashed over my face. It was messy; it shot in all directions and rained upon the ground. The singing rose into a wall of screams. All the bravado evaporated in an instant. If they had known what I was capable of earlier, it had been diluted by their numbers and arrogance. But now they had seen what I could do. What I would do. They would look upon me and know my strength.
The memories fleeted through my mind. I tried not to focus, but I still saw them. Born in Buda-Pesth to a wealthy family. Married a boy below her station. Paid for him to chase his dreams, no matter what the papers said. Bore him a daughter. Stood with him before a camera...
The heart stopped. I swallowed the last mouthful and raised my head. And my own heart stopped.
Mirriam was in my arms, her eyes still open, her throat shredded and raw.
I fell out of the sky. In desperation, I held a hand over the wound, as though that might stem the blood. But there was nothing to stem. It was all inside me, sating the snake within my stomach; the tiger in my heart; the bat at my back. The demon in my soul.
I screamed, so loud, I thought I might rupture my lungs.
“No!” I cried. “Why did you come? Why not some other? Why did this have to be you?”
There were more footsteps. The scent of burning birch. The deeper scent of bloodlust equal to my own.
My eyes snapped up. Alexander Farkas was running towards me, a sharpened piece of wood in his hand. I knew what he intended: to drive it into my chest and see me out of this world forever.
I hissed in fury: a terrible, inhuman sound. He could not kill me. I had no heart to spear. Not anymore. He had seen to that.
I leapt aside as he brought the stake down. I was barely aware of my own movements; only that something had broken inside me. I looked at the villagers around me and sent them flying through the air. Devil, they had called me? Demon? Yes, I would be a demon. I would give them what they wanted.
I pinned Farkas to the ground. This man who might have been family to me once… I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to know what he had unleashed; to look upon my face and draw back in fear.
He did. I allowed the moment to stand still, so I could drink in the feeling.
“She is dead,” I snarled. “And for he who tried to banish me from her, let her blood forever be on your hands!”
I lunged. Blood filled my mouth. I let it flow, and when his old heart gave out, I carried on sucking until his veins ran dry. I would remember this taste. No matter what happened, I would never forget it. And I would never forget this moment; this Hell on Earth. I was Hell. Hell was empty, and the only demon was here, within me.
I looked around for Zíta and Erik. Those disgusting little mites would continue his line. I would have them both in my teeth; crush the life from them, until their throats burst and their spines broke into splinters.
Half-burned torches lay discarded in the mud. The humans ran about like a colony of rats, fleeing for the shelter of their homes. Then I saw Zíta, crouched over Mirriam’s body, pulling her back towards the house.
Fury bloomed once more. I threw Farkas’s corpse aside, snapped my wings out, and flew at her.
But Zíta was too quick for me. She dragged Mirriam across the threshold, and pushed the misplaced birch twig back into position. I halted in mid-air, as though a rope had tightened around my waist. I went to kick the circle away, but Zíta snatched one of the fallen torches, ready to sweep it at me.
I stood before her, just out of reach, but I kept my wings spread, as wide as I could. Zíta looked straight back at me. Tears cut channels through the blood splattered on her face. Erik cowered behind her, his eyes wide with fright.
“Give them to me,” I demanded.
“Damn you!” Zíta cried, her voice cracked and broken. It sounded so much like my own, just moments earlier.
No. I had nothing in common with this roach. She was as much at fault as her wicked father. I did not see two youngsters before me. They were only obstacles made flesh; liars, thieves, killers. All the other vampires were gone now, forced across the border. Dead, and the people of this village had done nothing to help them. I was the only one left.
“Give me my family.” I snarled, firmer now. “I shall make you pay for this, Farkas.”
“Get away!” Zíta screamed. “Get away from here! I will kill you!”
“You cannot kill me,” I said.
My words were cold, contemptuous. I did not even need to raise my volume. I knew that would unnerve her more than if I shouted her down. And I had no emotion left to give. I was truly dead now, more than any river or sunlight or stake could inflict.
I heard the cries of a child from inside. They tore at my heart. Éva.
“Go with her. Take her into the back room,” Zíta said to Erik, her eyes not moving from me.
Erik hurried away with my daughter. I took a step forward, but Zíta brandished the log, keeping me at bay. I had a mind to throw her aside, but even if I did, the birch would still be there to bar me. And how could I bear to face my sweet little girl now, painted as I was with her mother’s blood?
“She is my daughter!” I snapped. “How dare you keep me from her! How dare you drive me from my wife!”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt them!” Zíta cried.
“And what chance did you give me?” I replied. “Look at me now, Farkas. You did this. So forever remember what you called me and what that means. I will be the shadow over your life. None can outrun a Lidérc.”
Zíta stood her ground, but a whimper escaped her lips. She was afraid. I smelt her terror like the finest opium.
I wanted nothing more than to kill her right there and then, but I knew that would be the easy choice. She had made the difficult choice, and I had carried it out, so now she held her own cross to bear as I held mine. I would nail her to it. And I would become more powerful, more patient, than anything she or her kin could ever use against me.
I would bide my time. She could not keep Mirriam forever. Or Éva. One day, when her guard was down, I would come back, and get my daughter away from her.
In silence, I flew into the sky. And I realised, as I disappeared west, that my transformation had not occurred four years ago, when I was attacked and fed upon. Nor had it occurred mere weeks prior. It had happened tonight in Hattyúpatak, where I was broken down, torn in two, and remade in my own image.
I changed out of my wet clothes. A tailor had stopped with his load at an inn, so I silently helped myself to his wares, including a pair of gloves, so I could avoid looking at my hands. I was careful to take black whenever I could, to help me blend into the shadows easier. Then I hooked my pocket watch chain over the waistcoat, and left a gold coin on the wagon, which I had found earlier on the road. It was not enough to pay for the theft, but it was better than nothing.
Buda-Pesth disappeared behind me. The noise and bustle of the city faded to rolling countryside as I entered the Alföld: a flat plain of grass which appeared grey and silver under the full moonlight. Yet I saw it all as clear as I would have in the day. The fields were patched from the harvest: some scythed to the ground, and others still tall and bountiful, waiting to be stripped. The dampness of autumn was upon the air, a wintry chill at its edge, like the tip of a blade.
I flew most of the way, allowing myself to learn how to control my new wings. As I soared between Earth and Heaven – the closest I might ever come to that place now – I thanked God that the nights were longer. I never would have managed, had all this happened in the summer.
And yet… until this very summer, had I not managed perfectly? Did God even hear me? He had not heard me when all this began. Why should he listen now?
It was still dark, but I knew it would not last for much longer, so I took shelter in a barn. It was better to be safe and stop in good time, than risk being caught in the sunlight. And I was almost there. I had seen the first sign for Hattyúpatak a mere ten minutes earlier.
Mirriam had waited four years for me. What hardship was one more night?
I settled against a stack of straw bales, and ran my finger around my wedding ring. Then, with nothing else to do, I recalled the night my life had changed forever.
I had not seen the face of the wicked demon which had struck me down. I was walking home; took the short cut down the alley near the river. Then he was upon me. He paralysed me with a single glance, held me down and stole my wallet. Then he fed upon me, and finally, infected me with the terrible black spittle.
Venom, one of the nuns called it, when I sought sanctuary at her convent. Like a snake. The Serpent, inside me, working his evil until it was a part of my very blood.
In the beginning, those sweet women aided me. One had recognised what I had become. She even allowed me to drink her blood, so I could control myself. She explained what had happened to me, and what powers and curses I would experience. She insisted I stay, so she could care for me. But even she was unable to save me, in the end. I had tried to fight the vampirism, and it fought back with equal ferocity, growing greater, until I was a kitten doing battle with a tiger. Then I became the tiger.
It all changed when my transformation was complete. The disgusting venom appeared again, spreading through me, breaking me under its touch. I would not have wished such agony upon my worst enemy. Then the wings had pushed themselves out of my back. My fingernails shed to reveal talons. The slightest hint of sunlight burned me as though I had stepped into fire. I hung between life and death, and as of yet, had not found my way completely into either.
I took myself from the convent, so I would not harm the nuns, and leapt into the Danube for the first time. I survived. When I crawled from the water, I killed three people and drank them dry. Horrified, I returned to the river. Still, it refused to drown me. I had broken the Hippocratic Oath; broken every law and moral line.
And in every moment, I had thought only of my Mirriam.
The barn door suddenly opened. I jumped, jolted from my reverie, and enfolded myself into the hay. I listened to the footsteps shuffling across the floor: small, delicate. A woman. I could tell from the smell of her, the sound of her breathing, that she was old. There was a rattling against the wall as she gathered the day’s tools. Of course, she was a farmer: awake before any other.
I peered at her. She was as thin as a rake, veins running across her hands like ropes. Even from here, I heard the blood flowing through them. It was strong. These country women were made of hardier stuff than the gentle ladies of the city.
I ran my tongue across my lips. It had been almost two weeks since I left Buda-Pesth. Two weeks since I had met that man in my house. And the thirst was building again.
Guilt tore my heart. How could I think of taking a life like this? A helpless elder, who likely had never harmed a thing in her life?
The tiger clawed at my innards and the snake whispered in my ear. At my back, the bat enfolded me in its wings. I was so close to Mirriam now. I needed to reach her. And to reach her, I needed to act. Now.
I slipped onto my feet. The woman turned, to lay a scythe down on a table. I quickly drew myself into the shadows so she would not see me.
There was a sudden glow in my periphery. Had the sun risen? I braced myself for the onslaught of pain, but it did not come. Instead, I found a light emanating from my hand.
I stared at it in astonishment, and realised I had somehow made it. Was this another strange and terrible power granted to me by the Devil? Of course it was. A disgusting lure to tempt the innocent into my grasp.
This had never happened before. Before the second transformation, I had no such ability. But, I supposed, my soul was sold now. I had the wings of a demon. I could move objects and people alike with a single glance. This was yet another mark of my maker: to be able to twist the fabric of reality so grotesquely. Why? Whatever had I done to deserve this? I had been a good and honest man; a loving father, a devoted husband. Life was simple and kind to János Kálvin. Now, I was unsure whether he even existed anymore.
Somewhere deep within, far from the reaches of logic or emotion, the animal instinct raised my hand, until the light was in full view. The woman turned around, and began walking towards me, as though she were sleepwalking. Her eyes were glazed, focused only on the light. I had her. She could not run. She was mine.
I bit down on her trachea. For a brief moment, she struggled, and then she was gone.
Blood flowed down my front. I tried to catch it with my mouth, but that only caused it to spurt more. So I continued as best I could, until she became limp in my arms. Then I held my face in my hands, and cried.
I stayed with her body all day. The sun rose and set. Before I left, I took a shovel from the barn door, and dug a shallow grave beneath a nearby tree. I laid the woman upon her back, and tore a scrap from her dress to tie under her chin. I had no coins for her eyes, but closed them anyway. After piling the earth back over her, I laid a hand upon it, in both apology and gratitude. Then I left her.
I did not allow myself to think about how I had summoned the lure. It was another tool of evil intended for me to continue surviving. I would not use it again. I would not kill again. Not a single soul. I had enough energy to fly the rest of the way, and that was all I needed.
When the moon reached its midnight point, I spotted one last village, alone in a great expanse of nothing. A stream cut through the land behind it, after which the plain continued as unbroken as it always had been. And yet, as soon as I laid my eyes upon it, dread pulled at my heart in a desperate warning. For some reason, I knew that I could not cross that water.
I kept my nerve. A sign stood nearby, reading Hattyúpatak. I had made it.
I landed in a woodland overlooking the tangle of houses, and pulled the wings away into my shoulders. There were fewer buildings here than in our entire street back in Buda-Pesth. I grimaced, wrinkling my nose at the scent of pig slop. My sweet wife and daughter were living in this hovel? Mirriam had told me about it, but I now realised that she had spoken through the rose-tinted glass of youth. How could her firm and blessed branch have sprung from the same tree as these peasants? If her Uncle Alexander was the famous priest of legend, could he not provide for his people better than this?
Despite the late night, the windows – all without proper drapes, of course – shone with lamplight. A few folks walked here and there, bent double against a cold which hardly registered to me. Their clothes were muddied and tattered. It was difficult to imagine how these poor beggars lived in one of the most powerful empires in Europe.
They appeared to be preparing for something. Men were piling wood in the centre of the village, the ends wrapped in fabric. Others were walking through the graveyard, pausing at each headstone to pray. How peculiar. Was it customary among these people to wander their dirt-lined roads under cover of darkness?
“We'll need more than that,” a girl said, gesturing to the woodpile. “Nothing can be unaccounted for. Erik, could you not have cut more?”
“If we cut any more, we'll have none left for winter,” a nearby boy replied.
I focused on them. The distance was immaterial; I could see every patch of mud on their clothes and every hair upon their heads. They were both teenagers: the girl was older by a few years, about fourteen, yet still held herself as though she commanded the village.
Shock rooted me to the spot. I had never laid eyes upon these children before, but they had the same beautiful mouth as my Mirriam. They must be her relatives – cousins perhaps?
And then: the sight I had been waiting for! The door to the house nearest the church opened, and she walked out. My heart practically stopped in my chest. Mirriam was thinner than when I had last seen her, in a duller dress not becoming of a fine woman, but she was alive. I searched her arms for signs of baby Éva, but there was nothing. She must be abed. Of course – she would be walking and talking by now: a true little lady.
I closed my eyes despondently. Four years. I had missed her first steps, her first words. She would have no memory of me.
I cursed the demon who had turned me. He had taken so much more than the coins in my wallet.
“Zíta,” Mirriam called to the girl. “Are you sure Uncle Alexander will be back tonight?”
“Beyond any doubt,” replied Zíta.
Mirriam’s shoulders dropped. “I am afraid.”
“As we all are. And as we should be,” said Zíta. “Those demons he is driving here are monstrous things. But that's why we must all be here, to stand our ground, and help him.”
“Even Éva? I don't wish for her to see it.”
“She will see it, no matter how you shield her. This won't be a quiet affair. She won't sleep through it. And even if you leave her in bed, she will wake to find you gone, and know something is wrong. Better to keep her at your side, Mirriam. We will protect her.”
Mirriam swallowed. I heard it; sensed the adrenaline firing into her blood. She looked older. Her face bore lines where it had not before. Her alabaster skin was tainted bronze from a summer spent outdoors. I could have even sworn I noticed some white hairs.
My joy at seeing her swarmed with anger and sadness. She was barely into her twenties. So young, yet already turning grey, already widowed, already lost everything. And all because of me.
Could I even go down there? Now I was here, the long distance between us closed, I was reminded once again of the impossible walk from the street to our old house. So close, and yet so far. How could I even hope to be with her again? What could I offer to save her from this existence? Our money was gone. Our home in the city was sold and empty. The only place left for either of us back there was Mirriam’s elaborate family crypt in Kerepesi Cemetery.
Mirriam hugged Zíta, and disappeared into the house. One by one, the other people returned to their own homes, and the windows grew dark as the lights were extinguished. I remained where I was, concealed by the trees. The moon drifted languidly across the sky. When I was sure by the heavy breathing that all were asleep, I stole down to the village.
I approached the door and held out my hand for the handle. These peasants would trust their neighbours enough to not make use of a lock. I went to step inside, but something stopped me, as though I were attempting to walk through a closed window. I looked around in alarm, and noticed a detail I had missed earlier. The entire house was surrounded by birch twigs, all lined end to end in a crude circle.
I frowned. Why could I not cross them? They were mere twigs! I tried once more, but to no avail. It was as though they formed a physical barrier, separating me from Mirriam. I could smell the birch as well, from the smoke pooling out of the chimney. Zíta was burning it in the hearth.
I growled. Birch was my weakness?
No. This was ridiculous, and I had come too far, survived too much, to abandon Mirriam now. I tore my gloves off with my teeth, brought my hands to the nearest twig, and hooked my long nails around it. Then, with an inhuman level of strength, I moved it.
It barely broke from its neighbour, but it was enough. The invisible barrier disappeared, as though I had risen from water into air. I did not care how long it must have taken for the two teenagers to create this elaborate circle. It would not bar me.
A thought fleeted in my mind. If birch was the thing to keep me at bay, why had they seen fit to lay it? Had they known I was coming?
No, that was impossible. Nobody knew I was still alive.
I opened the door, and stepped through. The house was dark, lit only by the fire in the hearth. It was stacked high with birch logs. Some at the edge had not caught properly, and only their papery white bark smouldered. I kept far away. The birch wormed up my nose and made my head feel as though it were filled with stones.
I could tell at first glance that this was the kitchen. Bundles of herbs hung drying from the rafters. Dented pots and chipped bowls of cheap porcelain lined the sideboard. There was a table in the middle of the room, a Bible resting ostentatiously in its centre. I narrowed my eyes at it. I had heard rumours that creatures such as I should be repelled by a Bible, but I knew that was not the case.
I turned my back on it, and stopped in mid-step. There was an oval frame hanging on the wall. Behind the glass was a sepia photograph: myself, Mirriam and Éva. I remembered the afternoon it was taken; the very same day I disappeared. My sweet little daughter had almost cried, so I stroked her cheek until she fell asleep. I never thought I would see this image again.
I lifted the picture off the hook and slipped it into my coat pocket. Then I walked towards the bedrooms. I listened at their doors. One was empty – I presumed it was the chamber of the priest. He was away on business of some kind, if Zíta’s words were true. In the room beside his, I heard Zíta herself, along with her brother, Erik. Both were breathing deeply, sound asleep.
That left only the third room. I did not even need to check to know that my family was inside. I crept through, silent as a shadow, and my eyes fell upon Mirriam. She was lying on her back in the bed, Éva was nestled beside her, curled into the crook of her arm like a little mouse.
My daughter's beauty shocked me. The last time I had seen her, she had been an infant, but now, her limbs and face were sculpted with healthy muscle. Her tanned skin was unflattering, but I had not expected any less, living here like this. She had the same raven hair as me; the same jawbone. And through the thin skin of her eyelids, I could see that her irises were the same icy blue as my own had once been.
Then I turned my attention to Mirraim. Her hair was tied into a braid which spilled over her shoulder, as fine as spun gold. She was dressed in a lacy nightgown – one I recalled purchasing for her back in Buda-Pesth. It was the one she had worn on our wedding night.
In an instant, I recalled the day she had meekly walked down the aisle towards me; the moment I had slid my ring onto her finger, and hers onto mine. That same ring was heavy against my chest: the one memento I had managed to maintain. I remembered peering past her veil to see the faint outline of a smile. I recalled the warmth of her body as I held her, the softness of her lips as I kissed her, the delicate words she whispered to me in the way only lovers could.
I ached to wake them both; to clutch them to me and never let go. I would take them somewhere new, where nobody knew us. I would find a way to regain our finances and start a new life. But what kind of life would it be now? How could I bear to put them into such uncertainty? Would they even accept me, after being gone for so long, and changed so terribly?
Perhaps, instead, I could do something else. I could linger, close enough to watch over them together. Life and death and God may have abandoned me, but I need not abandon those who were my entire life. I could stay, like a guardian angel, invisible by sight, but felt in heart. If salvation was to be found, surely it was here.
My decision was made. I had never been so sure of something since the day I married her.
I laid a hand beside Mirriam’s face. My heart ached with love and longing. She was my world. She had given me everything. Could I bear to kiss her? If I was quick, I could melt into the shadows before she had a chance to wake. It was better than nothing. I had to caress her, one more time.
She stirred, and turned her head slightly towards me. The movement opened up her neck, shining silver in the moonlight from the window.
I stared at her jugular. I could smell the blood. It was slowed by slumber; it would have been so easy to take. The animals of Hell whispered from within me, urging me to taste from the forbidden fruit once more. But I drove them down with a ferocity I had almost forgotten I possessed. I had not resisted the urge so strongly since the early days. Under no circumstances would I defile my beloved wife. Never.
I waited until I had myself under control, then leaned in to kiss her.
“Get away!” a voice hissed.
I leapt into the corner with a speed which shocked me. A figure was standing in the open doorway, clutching a knife. Zíta.
I held my hands up in an attempt to placate her.
“I intend no harm,” I insisted quietly.
Zíta did not move. Worried about waking my family, I urged towards her, keeping my hands in plain sight. She backed away, the knife still trained on me as she let me pass, then she snatched at the doorknob with one hand. I managed only one quick glimpse of Mirriam and Éva, before they were shut off from me.
Zíta faced me. I was taken aback by her ferocity. I had never known a woman hold such a stance before.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing in here?”
“I am her husband,” I explained.
Zíta blinked in surprise. I could tell she wanted to look behind her, where the photograph had been hanging, but she was too fixed on me to risk it.
“Impossible. Her husband is dead.”
“I was ill.”
The blood was roaring in her veins. I could practically smell her fear. It made my stomach twist in eagerness.
I lowered my hands, and held one to my belly. Zíta’s eyes followed the movement. Then she saw my fingernails. She drew in a gasp of horror, and snatched a smouldering birch log out of the hearth. She held it at my face, looking straight into my black eyes.
“Dear God…” she breathed. “How did you get inside?”
“I mean no harm,” I repeated.
“Lidérc,” Zíta cried, her voice shaking in terror. Then she brandished the log at me, forcing me out of the door. As soon as we were in the open, she flung it back and forth like a madwoman. I barely managed to evade her.
“Everybody, wake up!” she bellowed. “A dark one is here! Wake up! Lidércnyomás! It will kill us all!”
“No! Wait!”
I snatched at the log, but as soon as I touched it, pain shot through my hand, as though I had thrust my palm upon a hot stove. I spun away and fell onto my knees.
People began to pour out of the neighbouring houses. As soon as they saw me, they ran over. One burly man pinned my arms behind my back, and forced me onto the ground. And then, in the distance I heard something: a peculiar screaming, as though from hundreds of yowling cats. It was coming closer.
Zíta turned in the direction of the noise.
“What shall we do with him?” the man asked. “Is that your Apa coming back?”
“Yes, thank God!” Zíta replied, pointing at me with the knife. “No matter what happens, keep hold of that one, Béla. We will need everyone for this!”
The rest of the village crowded around us. Even children were there. The youngsters pushed forward to catch a glimpse of me, their eyes wide with curiosity and fright. I sensed all their blood, in a giant beating circle; surrounding me, closing in, calling…
“Please!” I cried. “I would never have harmed her! Either of them! Release me! Oh, God, Mirriam...”
“Go to Hell,” Zíta snarled. “We know what you are, demon. Do you really think one of your kind could kill my Anya and we would not remember? Do you think our Apa would have forgotten? Why else do you think he has gone through the entire country, rounding up every single last one of you?”
I stared at her. One of my kind… A creature like me had taken her mother? There were others? I was not alone?
Another shriek came from over the hill. I looked towards it, then back at the house. There was a flickering warm glow from the window: a candle had been lit in Mirriam and Éva’s room. In any moment, they would come outside, and see me. See me like this.
Panic overcame me. I drew forth all my power, and fixed my eyes on Zíta. She was immediately thrown backwards, the torch and blade flying from her hands. I pinned her where she lay; pushed down on her chest, held her arms against her sides.
The distraction made Béla loosen his grip. I flung him off, and leapt to my feet. Everybody cried out in fright and backed away. Zíta screamed. It was a bloodcurdling sound, full of fear and hate.
I looked around, trying to find a gap in the wall of onlookers, but they had packed themselves in too solidly. So I rolled back my shoulders and unfurled my wings. That brought forth another cry of horror. I pushed down, and leapt into the air.
Freed from my grasp, Zíta clutched at her chest, gasping for air.
“Nem!” she bellowed. “Catch it! Stake it! Kill it! Quickly, now!”
Her voice rang in my head. It. Not him. It. What had she called me?
Lidérc. The flying bringer of nightmares. The creature of darkness from the folklore of my childhood: impossible to outrun, bringing doom and fire in its wake.
I flew away, towards the only shelter I could think of: the woodland. I crashed into the trees, landing in a pitiful heap. Every part of me trembled. I drew in my wings, and looked over my shoulder. Men were following me. Some of them had gone to the woodpile, and now I saw its true purpose. It was not firewood, but torches. The rags around their ends had been set aflame. All were birch.
The shrieking grew louder. A stone dropped in my belly. The trees might be shelter, but only from one danger: the villagers. The second danger – that terrible cacophony, whatever it was – was coming from the other direction. And now I was trapped in the middle of both.
A writhing cloud suddenly rose over the hill. My mouth fell open in horror. Within its thundery blackness were hundreds – thousands – of bodies, all writhing and twisting around each other like maggots. I could not see them closely; for the first time, my impeccable new sense of sight failed me. There was too movement, completely inhuman. And yet… they were human. They possessed all their limbs and features: men, women and children alike.
I recoiled. What in God’s name was this?
A bearded man was walking behind them, clutching a cane, clad in the dark garb of a priest. Other, younger men flanked him, like the Disciples of Christ. It was a terrible sight: one of complete power and drive. I smelled the determination in the old man’s blood. It was thick and pungent, with a strength that took me by surprise.
That had to be Mirriam's uncle. Alexander Farkas.
Footsteps pounded behind me.
“There it is!” a man shouted.
“Apa!” Zíta cried at the priest. “Hurry! There's one last Lidérc here! It tried to attack Mirriam and Éva!”
I let out a cry of terror and frustration. I had been so determined to get away, I had forgotten to hide myself in the shadows while nobody was looking! But now their eyes had found me again, I would never be able to escape!
I ran. They followed me. My ears rang with the shrieks of the trapped souls, and of the villagers, their fear heightening into hysteria.
“Demon!”
“Lidérc!”
“Devil!”
“Dark one!”
My toe caught a root and I fell. They were upon me in moments. They wrenched me up; grasped at my arms and throat like ravenous wolves. My coat tore into tatters from their ferocity, buttons flying in all directions. In a moment of fright, I thought they might dislodge the photograph, or pull my wedding ring from its chain.
I tried to throw the villagers off; to use my will to push them from me, but then two hands clamped over my eyes. They knew what I could do. And they knew how to hinder me.
“Bring it here!” a voice called. Farkas.
The men dragged me back. I screamed and struggled with every step, but with my eyes covered, there was no hope. I was overpowered and lifted off my feet. Then I was thrown forward, but I did not hit the ground. I hung suspended in the air, and a heavy mass was pressing upon me, slithering around me like snakes. The hands disappeared from my face, and I opened my eyes.
I was inside the cloud. And those people – those humans, who I had seen – they were not human. Their eyes were as black as my own. Their hands bore the same tapered talons in place of fingernails. Huge bat wings flapping everywhere in desperation. They were exactly like me.
I could not count them all, but their fear filled me, like water spilling out of a bowl. I was back in the river again, choking but not dying, weighed down but not sinking. Trapped.
Alexander Farkas snatched a birch branch, and drove us into Hattyúpatak. The entire village was there now, closing in around us, flaming torches in hand. It was a pack of animals; a furious mob, only growing in intensity as we were pushed closer to the stream. I heard the water trickling behind me.
Then I suddenly realised why I had been so terrified of going near it earlier. That stream was the Romanian border. And I knew, as sure as the sun would rise, that if I crossed it, I would die. If I was what they said, a Lidérc, I was a being of Hungary alone. None of us could not exist unless it was here.
The final piece of the puzzle found its place in my mind. That was what Farkas had done. He had walked the entire country, rounding up all of the creatures like me, all of those akin to his wife’s murderer, and brought them back here, to commit his own murder.
I looked through the cloud. I saw flickering flames, and Farkas with his arms raised. I smelled the hatred and disgust in his blood. Then I heard the villagers lifting their voices in song.
Himnusz. The song of Hungary. How ironic, to sing the praises of their country as they watched death unfold.
“Hozz rá víg esztendőt,
Megbűnhődte már e nép
A múltat s jövendőt!”
Had I not been suffocating in fear and bodies, I might have laughed at the absurdness of those words. Atoning sorrow hath weighed down sins of past and future days?
Yes, I thought. Atone for sins as you witness murder and terror. Were we all not once your brothers, sisters, children, parents? Did we not breathe the same air? Had we not all shared life and love?
They were disgusting. All of them. Hypocritical, tiny, careless vermin. What did they know of life and love? They were the ones who deserved to die! They should have been trapped within this prison, not us! Not I!
Then I saw Mirriam and Éva. They were near the front of the mob, standing next to Zíta and Erik. I only managed a quick glimpse of them, before the crowd heaved and blocked them from my view, but it was enough. I could not die here, not like this. How could I entrust these creatures – that priest – to care for my family? I had been forced from them once. Never again.
But I had to get to them. I would use my demonic power one more time. If I could reach through the cloud and take hold of something – or someone – pull their blood into me to give me strength… I might escape. It was my only chance.
The screams of the vampires grew louder. We were at the border now. Those poor souls trapped at the back began to disintegrate like ash. The sound focused me in a manner I had never felt before. There was precious time left.
I fought my way to the front and thrust my hand forward. I conjured the lure: that disgusting light which I had used to take the old woman. I poured all my will into it, making it brighter than ever. I had to catch somebody. They had to come; to be so entranced that they would leap willingly, straight into my grasp. The other Lidércs were putrefying around me. I would be next.
“Anya, please come back!” a child cried.
My heart leapt with relief. A figure was running towards me. A hand reached for mine. I felt delicate fingers close around my wrist.
I did not pause to think. I pulled hard, wrenching myself free of the cloud. I only glimpsed a flash of golden hair before the urge overcame me. I flew into the air, and bit down, hard.
Blood splashed over my face. It was messy; it shot in all directions and rained upon the ground. The singing rose into a wall of screams. All the bravado evaporated in an instant. If they had known what I was capable of earlier, it had been diluted by their numbers and arrogance. But now they had seen what I could do. What I would do. They would look upon me and know my strength.
The memories fleeted through my mind. I tried not to focus, but I still saw them. Born in Buda-Pesth to a wealthy family. Married a boy below her station. Paid for him to chase his dreams, no matter what the papers said. Bore him a daughter. Stood with him before a camera...
The heart stopped. I swallowed the last mouthful and raised my head. And my own heart stopped.
Mirriam was in my arms, her eyes still open, her throat shredded and raw.
I fell out of the sky. In desperation, I held a hand over the wound, as though that might stem the blood. But there was nothing to stem. It was all inside me, sating the snake within my stomach; the tiger in my heart; the bat at my back. The demon in my soul.
I screamed, so loud, I thought I might rupture my lungs.
“No!” I cried. “Why did you come? Why not some other? Why did this have to be you?”
There were more footsteps. The scent of burning birch. The deeper scent of bloodlust equal to my own.
My eyes snapped up. Alexander Farkas was running towards me, a sharpened piece of wood in his hand. I knew what he intended: to drive it into my chest and see me out of this world forever.
I hissed in fury: a terrible, inhuman sound. He could not kill me. I had no heart to spear. Not anymore. He had seen to that.
I leapt aside as he brought the stake down. I was barely aware of my own movements; only that something had broken inside me. I looked at the villagers around me and sent them flying through the air. Devil, they had called me? Demon? Yes, I would be a demon. I would give them what they wanted.
I pinned Farkas to the ground. This man who might have been family to me once… I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to know what he had unleashed; to look upon my face and draw back in fear.
He did. I allowed the moment to stand still, so I could drink in the feeling.
“She is dead,” I snarled. “And for he who tried to banish me from her, let her blood forever be on your hands!”
I lunged. Blood filled my mouth. I let it flow, and when his old heart gave out, I carried on sucking until his veins ran dry. I would remember this taste. No matter what happened, I would never forget it. And I would never forget this moment; this Hell on Earth. I was Hell. Hell was empty, and the only demon was here, within me.
I looked around for Zíta and Erik. Those disgusting little mites would continue his line. I would have them both in my teeth; crush the life from them, until their throats burst and their spines broke into splinters.
Half-burned torches lay discarded in the mud. The humans ran about like a colony of rats, fleeing for the shelter of their homes. Then I saw Zíta, crouched over Mirriam’s body, pulling her back towards the house.
Fury bloomed once more. I threw Farkas’s corpse aside, snapped my wings out, and flew at her.
But Zíta was too quick for me. She dragged Mirriam across the threshold, and pushed the misplaced birch twig back into position. I halted in mid-air, as though a rope had tightened around my waist. I went to kick the circle away, but Zíta snatched one of the fallen torches, ready to sweep it at me.
I stood before her, just out of reach, but I kept my wings spread, as wide as I could. Zíta looked straight back at me. Tears cut channels through the blood splattered on her face. Erik cowered behind her, his eyes wide with fright.
“Give them to me,” I demanded.
“Damn you!” Zíta cried, her voice cracked and broken. It sounded so much like my own, just moments earlier.
No. I had nothing in common with this roach. She was as much at fault as her wicked father. I did not see two youngsters before me. They were only obstacles made flesh; liars, thieves, killers. All the other vampires were gone now, forced across the border. Dead, and the people of this village had done nothing to help them. I was the only one left.
“Give me my family.” I snarled, firmer now. “I shall make you pay for this, Farkas.”
“Get away!” Zíta screamed. “Get away from here! I will kill you!”
“You cannot kill me,” I said.
My words were cold, contemptuous. I did not even need to raise my volume. I knew that would unnerve her more than if I shouted her down. And I had no emotion left to give. I was truly dead now, more than any river or sunlight or stake could inflict.
I heard the cries of a child from inside. They tore at my heart. Éva.
“Go with her. Take her into the back room,” Zíta said to Erik, her eyes not moving from me.
Erik hurried away with my daughter. I took a step forward, but Zíta brandished the log, keeping me at bay. I had a mind to throw her aside, but even if I did, the birch would still be there to bar me. And how could I bear to face my sweet little girl now, painted as I was with her mother’s blood?
“She is my daughter!” I snapped. “How dare you keep me from her! How dare you drive me from my wife!”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt them!” Zíta cried.
“And what chance did you give me?” I replied. “Look at me now, Farkas. You did this. So forever remember what you called me and what that means. I will be the shadow over your life. None can outrun a Lidérc.”
Zíta stood her ground, but a whimper escaped her lips. She was afraid. I smelt her terror like the finest opium.
I wanted nothing more than to kill her right there and then, but I knew that would be the easy choice. She had made the difficult choice, and I had carried it out, so now she held her own cross to bear as I held mine. I would nail her to it. And I would become more powerful, more patient, than anything she or her kin could ever use against me.
I would bide my time. She could not keep Mirriam forever. Or Éva. One day, when her guard was down, I would come back, and get my daughter away from her.
In silence, I flew into the sky. And I realised, as I disappeared west, that my transformation had not occurred four years ago, when I was attacked and fed upon. Nor had it occurred mere weeks prior. It had happened tonight in Hattyúpatak, where I was broken down, torn in two, and remade in my own image.
*
I breathed deeply, and allowed the memory to fade. Cold granite appeared under my back. When I looked around, I was no longer in Hattyúpatak. I was in a new millennium’s Buda-Pesth, in the crypt, surrounded by the long-dead skeletons of Mirriam’s family. Beneath me, within the sarcophagus, lay her bones.
I touched my wedding ring, still on the chain around my neck. I had no any other reminders which I cared to hold onto. My pocket watch had been lost long ago, and I chose to send the photograph back to Éva, in some vague hope she might find comfort from it. My dear wife and daughter were all that mattered, and now they too were gone, their bodies turned to dust. Over a hundred years had passed. And to the best of my knowledge, I was the last Lidérc. The only one who had survived that night in Hattyúpatak.
That event; the Final Purge, as I had briefly heard it called, was lost to time now, as were the two Farkas children. Zíta and Erik were long dead, rotting in the Hell where they would have so passionately sent me. Yet I continued, never ageing, never changing, through decades of dawns which failed to kill me. I hoped God had forsaken them as he had me. That whole family was the one who deserved to be thrown to the Devil.
At least they could experience a reunion with their dear departed father. I would never know such luxury. That last kiss I had given to Mirriam truly was the last.
And so, I remained. I survived and endured in my own emotionless purgatory, right here upon her bones. It was as close as I would ever come to being with her again. And there were ways of coping. Ways that one learned when one must. I had taken up a territory here, in the cemetery, like an animal. Instead of seeking unsuspecting drunkards or old ladies, I kept my eyes keen for those who shared the featured of my beloved. Then I would bring them here, and keep them alive for as long as possible, so I could taste the blood for year after year.
She always came back, generation after generation. Pleasure was fleeting, so I would take it and keep it where I could.
It had been many years since I had taken and kept. The previous one’s skeleton was gathering dust in a corner of the chamber. Like all the others, she had cried and screamed. Nobody heard her. I had done this for too long to leave anything to chance. I had already gathered food in preparation for her replacement. I had ran into her some weeks ago, and my heart had leapt at the sight of her. None of her predecessors had looked so much like Mirriam.
She was perfect. She was mine. She just did not know it yet.
I climbed the stairs to the mausoleum, and walked through the door, into the misty January night. The cemetery spread around me: a stone labyrinth of tombstones and angels. The ground was uneven from years of burials, but I knew the terrain well enough by now.
My old street was empty, filled with only the strange horseless carriages which had appeared five decades ago, after the second war. Litter was strewn in the gutters, feathered by ice. This had once been a pleasant, wealthy neighbourhood when I called it home. No more. Fortune and time had been most cruel, not only to me, but to my city.
The fog turned thicker. I looked through it, into the window of the house opposite. My house. Thin drapes covered the glass, but on the other side, I could make out a silhouette. I had followed her for long enough to know the smell of her blood from miles away. Her hair was not the correct colour – all of the replacements bore imperfections of some manner, but they all would have her eyes, or her cheekbones, or her hands.
All of them, every single one, had been Mirriam. This one was no different. She was not the first, and she would not be the last.
The door opened, and the girl appeared. I drew a deep breath. Her blood lingered in my nose, mixed with accents of lavender and rose perfume.
“Say thank you to your mum for the pancake,” she said. Her Hungarian was well-spoken, but with a hint of some other accent beneath it. English. That was an interesting change.
“I will,” replied another voice behind her.
I glanced at the second girl. Her hair was cut unpleasantly short. She had a peculiar smell which I could not quite place: of something strong and rich. It was intriguing, but I had work to do. Work that did not involve her.
They both stepped outside. I seized my moment and held up my hand. The lure hung tantalisingly in the air, shrouded by the fog.
“There he is,” the girl said, pointing to me. But I knew she was referring to somebody else. A family member, most likely, come to chaperone her. No need for that now. It was rather amusing, how many of them believed I was somebody else waiting to take them home.
The second girl peered at my light. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s got to be him. It’s been twenty minutes and it’d take that long for him to get here.”
“Alright. But send me a text as soon as you get home so I know you’re okay.”
“I will. I’m sorry your birthday wasn’t sunnier.”
The short-haired girl raised her arms. “It’s the middle of winter, not exactly the best season for sun.”
“Good point. See you tomorrow.”
"Take care."
Then my little dear descended the stairs. Her friend waved and shut the door behind her. Perfect.
She came towards me. It did not take her long to fix her eyes upon the lure. She stretched out a hand, trying to see her fingers through the thick mist. I had her now. Even if she had found the strength to resist, it would have been to no avail. There was no going back. I was, after all, impossible to outrun.
Lidércnyomás.
I whispered the name I had heard others call her.
“Lucy…”
She became disoriented. Her heartbeat quickened. I heard it clearly; pictured the blood flowing through her body. I stood behind her, and she sensed me there. But before she could run, before she could even look at me, I put my arms around her, threw out my wings, and spirited her away.
I touched my wedding ring, still on the chain around my neck. I had no any other reminders which I cared to hold onto. My pocket watch had been lost long ago, and I chose to send the photograph back to Éva, in some vague hope she might find comfort from it. My dear wife and daughter were all that mattered, and now they too were gone, their bodies turned to dust. Over a hundred years had passed. And to the best of my knowledge, I was the last Lidérc. The only one who had survived that night in Hattyúpatak.
That event; the Final Purge, as I had briefly heard it called, was lost to time now, as were the two Farkas children. Zíta and Erik were long dead, rotting in the Hell where they would have so passionately sent me. Yet I continued, never ageing, never changing, through decades of dawns which failed to kill me. I hoped God had forsaken them as he had me. That whole family was the one who deserved to be thrown to the Devil.
At least they could experience a reunion with their dear departed father. I would never know such luxury. That last kiss I had given to Mirriam truly was the last.
And so, I remained. I survived and endured in my own emotionless purgatory, right here upon her bones. It was as close as I would ever come to being with her again. And there were ways of coping. Ways that one learned when one must. I had taken up a territory here, in the cemetery, like an animal. Instead of seeking unsuspecting drunkards or old ladies, I kept my eyes keen for those who shared the featured of my beloved. Then I would bring them here, and keep them alive for as long as possible, so I could taste the blood for year after year.
She always came back, generation after generation. Pleasure was fleeting, so I would take it and keep it where I could.
It had been many years since I had taken and kept. The previous one’s skeleton was gathering dust in a corner of the chamber. Like all the others, she had cried and screamed. Nobody heard her. I had done this for too long to leave anything to chance. I had already gathered food in preparation for her replacement. I had ran into her some weeks ago, and my heart had leapt at the sight of her. None of her predecessors had looked so much like Mirriam.
She was perfect. She was mine. She just did not know it yet.
I climbed the stairs to the mausoleum, and walked through the door, into the misty January night. The cemetery spread around me: a stone labyrinth of tombstones and angels. The ground was uneven from years of burials, but I knew the terrain well enough by now.
My old street was empty, filled with only the strange horseless carriages which had appeared five decades ago, after the second war. Litter was strewn in the gutters, feathered by ice. This had once been a pleasant, wealthy neighbourhood when I called it home. No more. Fortune and time had been most cruel, not only to me, but to my city.
The fog turned thicker. I looked through it, into the window of the house opposite. My house. Thin drapes covered the glass, but on the other side, I could make out a silhouette. I had followed her for long enough to know the smell of her blood from miles away. Her hair was not the correct colour – all of the replacements bore imperfections of some manner, but they all would have her eyes, or her cheekbones, or her hands.
All of them, every single one, had been Mirriam. This one was no different. She was not the first, and she would not be the last.
The door opened, and the girl appeared. I drew a deep breath. Her blood lingered in my nose, mixed with accents of lavender and rose perfume.
“Say thank you to your mum for the pancake,” she said. Her Hungarian was well-spoken, but with a hint of some other accent beneath it. English. That was an interesting change.
“I will,” replied another voice behind her.
I glanced at the second girl. Her hair was cut unpleasantly short. She had a peculiar smell which I could not quite place: of something strong and rich. It was intriguing, but I had work to do. Work that did not involve her.
They both stepped outside. I seized my moment and held up my hand. The lure hung tantalisingly in the air, shrouded by the fog.
“There he is,” the girl said, pointing to me. But I knew she was referring to somebody else. A family member, most likely, come to chaperone her. No need for that now. It was rather amusing, how many of them believed I was somebody else waiting to take them home.
The second girl peered at my light. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s got to be him. It’s been twenty minutes and it’d take that long for him to get here.”
“Alright. But send me a text as soon as you get home so I know you’re okay.”
“I will. I’m sorry your birthday wasn’t sunnier.”
The short-haired girl raised her arms. “It’s the middle of winter, not exactly the best season for sun.”
“Good point. See you tomorrow.”
"Take care."
Then my little dear descended the stairs. Her friend waved and shut the door behind her. Perfect.
She came towards me. It did not take her long to fix her eyes upon the lure. She stretched out a hand, trying to see her fingers through the thick mist. I had her now. Even if she had found the strength to resist, it would have been to no avail. There was no going back. I was, after all, impossible to outrun.
Lidércnyomás.
I whispered the name I had heard others call her.
“Lucy…”
She became disoriented. Her heartbeat quickened. I heard it clearly; pictured the blood flowing through her body. I stood behind her, and she sensed me there. But before she could run, before she could even look at me, I put my arms around her, threw out my wings, and spirited her away.