‘Leonora.’ He sat up slowly. ‘How do you feel? Are you well?’
‘Father, I am well. Where is Mother?’
‘I am sorry, my angel, she is …’ Harold choked over the words, unable to tell his daughter her mother was indeed gone from them.
‘Do not cry, Father,’ Leonora sat on the bed next to him. ‘Mother is gone?’
He nodded.
‘And you have brought us home,’ she said.
He nodded again, half afraid of this composed creature who was his daughter.
‘Alexandre is awake but the others still sleep. They will wake soon,’ she said. ‘We just needed time to recover and adjust to our new lives.’
‘How do you feel?’ Harold whispered, as his heart hammered in his chest. It was madness to feel such fear from his own flesh and blood, but he could not help it. She was so … magnificent.
‘I feel as if the world has given me all of its gifts at once,’ she replied. ‘As though I have the power of the moon and the stars at my fingertips.’
‘Well, that is good,’ Harold said.
She laughed at his words; a melodic tinkling sound, like the pealing of silver bells. ‘Yes, Father. That is good.’
‘What will you do now?’ he asked.
‘Why, we can do whatever we wish. But we cannot bear the light of day, that is all. What would you have us do?’
‘I do not know. I am just happy you are well. I despaired you would stay unmoving for all eternity. There is just one thing I need to know. Do you ... Do you ...?’
‘You may ask it, Father. Or would you rather I just told you?’
Harold nodded.
‘I know your question and the answer is yes. We do need blood.’ She confirmed his fears. ‘It is to us what bread and water is to you.’
‘Do you wish to drink from me again?’ Harold asked. ‘You know you do not even need to ask ...’
‘Father, no!’ She looked like a teacher scolding an insolent child. ‘I am sorry we took from you before, but we were not ourselves. No, we will find sustenance elsewhere.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘You will not kill anybody will you?’
‘I hope we shall not, but in truth I cannot yet be certain. I do not feel quite in control.’
Harold felt a dread-tinged happiness. ‘Just, please do not hurt Refet. He is here in England with us. He lives in the Lodge House.’
‘Refet!’ she exclaimed. ‘He is here in England? How wonderful. Of course I would not dream of harming a hair on his head.’
‘Good, good,’ Harold said, relieved. He was on new ground here and he did not know how his daughter’s altered state had affected her mind or her moral compass.
‘I believe the others are waking. I will see you soon, Father.’ And, with that, she was gone, like a piece of gossamer snatched up by the wind and whisked away.
*
One by one, they awoke and discovered different ways to adjust to their new lives. Harold realised they would never willingly or consciously harm him and he relaxed in their company, enjoying looking at their beauty and listening to their sighing voices.
Refet learned to be around them, but he could never fully trust them. He could still see the aftermath of the underground massacre in his mind and, although these creatures may not currently wish him ill, they were certainly capable of it. He treated them with respect, the way you might treat a pet dog that has been bred to hunt and kill.
Freddie gently told his father what had befallen them in the cavern and Harold wept all over again at the way in which his wife and friends had been so brutally murdered. But it was now clear that all five of them were adjusting well to their new lives as vampires, for that was what they were.
Harold purchased numerous books on the subject of demons and mythical creatures and the word ‘vampire’ was the closest description to what his children had become. They craved human blood, they could not go out in daylight and nothing appeared to harm them. Their new bodies were strong and their senses razor sharp. Now they had awoken, they no longer resembled statues and could almost be mistaken for normal humans – beautiful, pale, luminescent humans.
Leonora and Freddie assured their father they felt the same love for him as they always had, despite the fact his blood sang out to them. But Harold still felt slightly distanced, especially from Leonora who grew colder and ever more aloof. Perhaps also, the loss of Victoria had damaged his family.
*
Alexandre did not fully understand how he had been made. And why the five of them and not their parents? They had a loose theory that their youthful bodies had saved them from death and that their parents’ bodies had been too old to survive the trauma of having the blood drained from their bodies.
Maybe Harold had not been killed or transformed, because his blood had not been completely drained. They had just taken a little; enough to render him unconscious for a few days but not to kill him. Or perhaps they, as new vampires, did not have the ability or power to turn anyone.
Alexandre became pensive and withdrawn. He was not upset or angry at what had happened, but felt surprised and somewhat melancholy at the turn his life had taken. There had been too much unfinished business in his human life. Avenues he had yet to explore and opportunities left unexploited. Journeys he would never now be able to take.
His feelings confused him and he could not have articulated them if he tried. He felt … loss. That was the simplest way to explain it, but it did not fully cover the range of emotions which flooded his new body. He thought about the possibility of returning to Paris with Jacques and Isobel; returning to the only home he had ever known. But he knew it would only exacerbate these feelings of loss and the three siblings agreed it would be better to stay in England, at least for now. They were orphans, and France would feel wrong without Maman and Papa.
The death of Alexandre’s parents could almost be counted as a blessing, given what had happened. Maman could not have borne it - to see what her children had become and Papa would have been saddened by the future they faced. A future of blood-filled nights in darkened corners; of cold skin and sharp teeth. Outsiders. Creatures of legend and myth, never belonging, never changing, just enduring.
No, his parents were better off dying with the image of their human flesh-and-blood children in their minds. This was the whirl of thoughts Alexandre’s mind contained. They spun around, forming and reforming but always resulting in the ever-familiar hollow feelings of loss.
Leonora became more detached as the nights went by. Alexandre sometimes felt her eyes on him, but when he turned to face her, she was always looking elsewhere; still as inscrutable as ever. She only spoke to him when necessary - polite but distant.
He remembered Cappadocia, where she had bandaged his bleeding palm with her petticoat and held his good hand in hers. She had spoken to him with tenderness and concern, comforting him in the wake of his father’s death. But all that gentle warmth had left her. She was as cold and hard as her new vampire body. Her pale eyes gave nothing away. She was obedient to her father, patient with her brother and solicitous to the rest of them, but her old personality appeared to have been leached away. Maybe in time she would soften a little? Maybe.
As summer turned to autumn and autumn to winter, something was going wrong. Alexandre felt alternately strong as a god and then weak as a kitten. He did not understand it. One minute he had enough strength to fell an oak tree, but then he would be overtaken by a great lethargy that left him incapacitated for hours, sometimes days. The others were the same. They tried drinking more, but their appetite for blood decreased along with their energy.
Harold was pinched with worry. He feared they were dying and was desperate to find out what was wrong.
‘I think it is better this way,’ Refet said. ‘How long you think before people in village start to realise there is something odd here? Already is talk of foreign strangers and rumours about this house. I think is better they sleep longer, awake shorter.’
&n
bsp; ‘Well I know your feelings on the subject, Refet, but do not forget these are my children we are talking about.’
‘I know, I know, you children! They not children anymore. You know this.’
‘When I want a lecture from you, I will ask for one!’
‘Yes, yes. You only want me speak when I say something you want hear.’
‘You are right, Refet. I do not wish to hear that it is better if my children fall into a coma and die. On this, you are right.’
‘You know I not mean this. I only say …’
‘Yes, you are only being sensible. I know. But I could not bear to lose them all over again.’
‘I know. I sorry.’
‘No, I am sorry. You are a good man to put up with all this mad nonsense.’
‘You not so special. My life full of mad nonsense before I met you.’
‘I am sure it was, Refet, my man. I believe this world is full of more mad nonsense than you or I will ever know.’
*
The vampires slept more and woke less. And then, one day, they just never woke up. Harold continued to talk to them and to read to them, ever hopeful they would rise and speak again.
After some years, he purchased a new machine called a gramophone and played music to them, sure this would provoke some reaction. Very occasionally, one or other of them would grab his wrist and drink from him. These episodes usually left him weakened and delirious, but he noticed no change in any of them. Their eyes remained closed and their bodies stayed still as stone.
He thought of them all as his children now and cared for them equally. He thought often about why they had transformed and not his beloved Victoria or Didier and Marie-Louise. Could it simply be because they were children, younger and stronger than the adults who had perished?
Harold read voraciously of vampires and ancient legends, to see if he could discover what his children had become and why they remained unconscious. But all the information he came across was fictitious and brought him no nearer to discovering the truth.
So many questions and no answers. It was frustrating and disheartening but he would not give up hope. He had no other family and worried constantly about what would happen to them when he died. He would have liked to travel back to Turkey, to speak with the old woman, Havva Sahin. Perhaps she would be able to cast some light over what had happened. But he daren’t leave his children for too long. He decided to write her a letter.
Refet married a local girl. They had children together and seemed happy working for Harold, sometimes keeping him company in the evenings. He made Refet promise that when Harold died, he would continue to look after the house to ensure no harm befell the children. Refet said he would be happy to take on this role, but that Harold would probably outlive them all.
After some months, on a wintry November morning, a letter arrived. It was the letter Harold had been waiting for and he took it into the library, sat at his desk and sliced open the envelope with shaking fingers.
My Dear Mr Swinton
I am so sorry for the loss of your wife and friends. I had the pleasure of meeting Agha Isik Kaya and he struck me as a good man, God rest his soul.
Your children have become blood demons. They are vampyr. There is nothing you can do but be thankful they sleep. Keep them in the dark, in the ground and speak of it to no one. I will keep your secret.
Peace be with you.
Havva Sahin
Was that it? Was that all she could tell him? He already knew what they had become and he already knew he must keep it a secret. He had hoped she might be able to offer him a cure, or at least some useful information. Her letter was nothing more than a polite confirmation. Harold resisted the urge to tear it into little strips and throw it onto the fire. He now realised he would have no help or enlightenment and that he may never be able to revive his children. He had reached the end of the road.
During the first year, when Harold had returned from Turkey with the sleeping children, he had been approached by a firm of London solicitors who had offered their services. He had an odd feeling they knew something of his affairs, but he had politely declined their offer. He already dealt with a local firm whose services were perfectly adequate.
Now, after Havva Sahin’s letter, he could no longer afford to let things slide. Harold had an urgent desire to put everything on a more legal footing. He did not wish to deal with his local firm, so he dug out Mr Fairchild’s business card. The London solicitors were called Hamilton Blythe and he set up a meeting for the following week.
Mr Fairchild had been very forthcoming. He seemed to take the words out of Harold’s mouth before he spoke. Yes, it really was all most satisfactory. He could die now without the worry that he had not done everything he possibly could to ensure the welfare of his charges. Of course, he had not mentioned the children, but Fairchild seemed to know he had some hidden agenda. Even so the solicitor had been discreet and had not asked any awkward questions.
They would begin to search for any living member of his or Victoria’s family. No matter how distantly related, the Swinton estate would be willed to them. If he died before they located anybody, it would be held in trust for one hundred years, giving them that period of time to find somebody. After this time, if no relative was traced, the money from his estate would be given in its entirety to a children’s charity and the property itself would be left to rot.
To ensure Hamilton Blythe did everything within their power to trace his family, Harold decided to award them a generous bonus if they were successful. But with a condition: For the relative to inherit the estate and for the solicitors to earn their bonus, the relative must live in Marchwood House for a minimum of ten years, after which time they could do what they liked with it – sell it if they wished.
In this way, Harold hoped they would discover the hidden room and help find a cure for the children.
In the meantime, Refet and his family would be caretakers of the house and paid a generous salary. They would pass on the legacy of guardianship to their descendants. As long as they upheld their side of the bargain, they would have the right to remain in the Lodge House.
Harold had thought long and hard about the possibility of leaving the entire estate to Refet and his family, but despite everything, he was at heart, a traditionalist and Marchwood House had been in his family for generations. He wanted family to inherit.
*
Over the years, Harold’s face and body grew older. His hair greyed, the skin on his face sagged and developed a criss-cross of lines and crevices. He became frail and hunched, his movements awkward and slow. But the faces and bodies of his demon children stayed youthful. No age blemishes or wrinkles sullied their still countenances. Neither laughter nor worry line marred their beauty. They remained unchanged, unmoving, unconscious.
Harold finally succumbed to old age in 1922 and died in his sleep aged ninety one. In his final days, he did not wish to be apart from his children and so slept in the hidden room where he spent his last remaining weeks. He wrote in his journal by candlelight and he talked to the occupants of the large wooden crates as though they could hear his every word.
After his death, he wanted Refet to seal him into the room with his sleeping children. He did not know what would happen in the future. Whether a long-lost relative would be found to pick up the threads of this strange saga or if strangers would take over his house.
A few days before he died, he summoned enough strength to lock and bolt himself inside the room. And so he finally breathed his last breath and closed his eyes to join his wife and friends on the other side. Refet built a false wall in front of the original one and both stayed intact for ninety years.
Harold’s body remained in its bed, gradually decaying to nothing but bones. The five children lay untouched for decades in their comatose state, unaware of years passing and times changing. Shrouded in darkness, stillness and silence, they were together, but cut off, alone.
*
One day,
Alexandre’s unconscious mind felt a change. He still slept, locked inside himself, but part of his brain noticed a minute shift - a lightening in his surroundings. A freshness and sweetness of air which turned his black universe into a brief warm moment. It left as quickly as it had come. But soon the feelings returned more often and he sensed he was less alone.
Still he didn’t stir, he remained a prisoner trapped in his century-long coma, only half emerging from the deep, through dark layers of stiff unconsciousness.
One black night, he sensed the sweetness so close he could almost touch it. He felt the sweetness come to him. It flooded his body and infused his limbs. It gave him a brief moment of sharp clarity, but the feeling left him as quickly as it had come. He had a muted vision of himself trapped beneath a thick layer of ice, hammering and shouting in silence, powerless to break free. Without coherent thought or feeling, he experienced brief flashes of changes around him. But for most of the time, only blackness.
Suddenly, in a light-shocked instant, the darkness splintered, banished by a crippling brightness. Too much of it. Unbearable pain. A thousand volts of electricity through his body. He was on fire. Burning from the inside out. He could not open his eyes for behind his eyelids was a light so evil and bright, he felt it would sear his brain and blind his very soul.
Exposed, he could see no dim, dark haven of escape. The heat was intolerable. Through the overwhelming pain, he felt the solidity of his body again. He had to force himself up and out of this chamber of torture, but the light had blinded him.
He used his base animal senses to throw himself out of his container. He dragged himself across sharp stones of fire and ice, willing himself to flee from the white heat. It took all of his diminished power to subdue his own body and order it under control.
He crawled for what seemed like an eternity until he finally found himself away from the glare of death and in the relief-giving gloom of a cool place. As he lay, exhausted and in agony, he felt as though his body had been turned inside out. He retched, but his throat and mouth were dry. From the distance, he heard a voice, like a buzzing fly, getting closer.