Covenant With the Vampire Read Free

quickly grown
chill, and Mary and I rode in sleepy silence towards home. This time I did not
doze, but used the time to reflect on the nightmare.
    Would that it had been but a dream.
    In fact, it was a somnolent memory, triggered perhaps by the familiar scent
of pine. The terrible event had actually transpired in my fifth year, though
in reality I had not ventured close enough to examine my poor, bleeding brother.
In reality, I had fainted the instant my father sank to his knees beside his
dying son and released an agonised scream.
    Years later, when Father had recovered somewhat from the tragedy of Stefan's
death (and from the guilt - oh, how he blamed himself for trusting the animal!),
he spoke to me of what might have caused Shepherd's sudden viciousness. Stefan
had stumbled, Father said, and struck his head, which had bled profusely. Shepherd
had always been a good and loyal dog, but the smell of blood had caused him
to revert to his predatory instincts, those of the wolf. The dog was not to
blame, Father insisted; rather he himself was responsible, for trusting the
animal to overcome its dual nature.
    * * *
    The recollection of Stefan's death caused my sense of dread to increase until
I became convinced that the very worst news awaited us at the end of our journey.
Alas, my premonition proved correct. After an interminable ride on serpentine
sand roads, we arrived at my father's estate very close to midnight, and together
the coachman and I helped Mary from the caleche. (She seemed rather taken aback
by the size and grandeur of the manor, a far cry from our humble flat in London.
I suppose I have been vague concerning the extent of our family's wealth. What
shall she say tomorrow when the sun rises and she sees the magnificent castle,
dwarfing us?) I must admit that I took fright when a huge Saint Bernard bounded
barking down the stone steps to greet us, but I forgot the dog when my dead
brother appeared in the doorway.
    Stefan stood, fringe of tousled jet hair against the translucent alabaster
of his forehead, despite the passage of twenty years a small, solemn six-year-old,
and raised his hand slowly in greeting. I blinked, but his spectre remained;
only then did I notice that the pale upheld palm and white linen of his torn
shirt were stained dark red - in the gleaming moonlight, almost black - and realised
that his hand was lifted not to greet, but to disclose blood.
    As I watched, he stretched forth his arm and pointed, small fingers dripping
blood and dew, at some object behind us. I glanced over my shoulder surreptitiously,
knowing that Mary and the coachman did not share in this vision, and saw nothing
but an endless forest of dark evergreen.
    I turned back to see Stefan, moving down the stairs towards us, silently but
emphatically gesturing towards the forest.
    Abruptly dizzied, I let go a cry and closed my eyes. There are legends in my
country of the
moroi
- the restless dead, doomed by secret sin or concealed
treasure to wander the earth until the truth be revealed. I knew Stefan's brave
young heart had held no sin, nor could I imagine he had possessed much by way
of treasure; I knew this apparition was caused by nothing more than the stress
of travel, and the fear of the news to come. I am a modern man who puts his
hope in science rather than God or the Devil.
    I opened my eyes, and saw, not Stefan, but Zsuzsanna in the doorway.
    At the sight of her, my heart constricted with pain; beside me, Mary raised
a gloved hand to her lips and emitted a low moan of grief. We both knew at once
that Father was dead. Zsuzsanna was dressed in mourning, her eyes red and swollen;
though she tried to smile, her fleeting joy at seeing us was overshadowed by
an air of sorrow.
    Ah, sweet sister, how you have aged in the few short years I have been away…
! She is only two years my senior, but appears fifteen. Her hair - like mine and