Page 24 of Love Immortal
Twenty-Three
A fter everything that transpired during fall break, I expect my nightmares to resume their ceaseless haunting, but they don’t. My dreams that week are not peaceful so much as empty—so empty, in fact, that some warped part of me wishes that a certain voice would call for me. But Dacian stays away, either to avoid frightening me or because he is respectfully giving me time to make my decision.
On Friday, I wake in the gray predawn light, my thoughts once again filled with Dacian. Even if he doesn’t visit my dreams, I cannot keep him out of my head. And today is the day I must decide whether to follow him into the treacherous shadows or stay in the safety of the light.
I try to address my situation with clarity, but all my surreal interactions with Dacian make me question my own memories and conjectures about him. In Bram Stoker’s book, the count had a way of confusing or hypnotizing his victims. But I already know that not everything in that book is true. I wonder who Stoker’s sources were and how the truth got twisted. He didn’t eat children. And he was never interested in Mina. Or Ms. Westenra. It was never them.
What did Dacian mean by that? Could he have been interested in someone else? Could it have been the person who started the whole story, my namesake? Or am I jumping to conclusions again? Is this merely wishful thinking?
I recall the way Dacian whispered Jonathan , his hand against my cheek, his thumb caressing my mouth. My face flushes. I never spoke about my fog dream with him or confirmed that it was his visitation, but just the thought of it makes me want to curl up under my comforter and never again show my face to the world.
I saw him dissolve into the mist with my own eyes. And if the dream fog was Dacian, if he was the one touching me, or if he took pleasure in simply watching, I?—
I squeeze my eyes shut as heat coils under the suddenly tight fabric of my pajama pants. Jonathan , the memory whispers again and again. I can almost feel the soft hush of his breath across my neck, the sweet torture of the moment before his skin met mine.
My fingers skim the waistband of my pants, dithering. I shouldn’t. What will I do when I see him in person? Will he know? But it’s too late to stop my mind. I feel his thumb on my lip. Unrestrained, the memory extends into a fantasy—Dacian’s thumb dipping inside my mouth and touching the tip of my tongue, my lips closing around it, drawing him in. My teeth graze the flesh of his knuckle. I’m filled with a greedy desire to take parts of him, all of him. Just like a vampire. How would Dacian even feel if he knew about this hunger inside of me?
I cling to the plausible deniability of it all as my hand reaches under the flannel of my pajamas. Dacian isn’t here; I’m not dreaming, and in the privacy of my room, I can fantasize about him all I want. I can imagine being touched by him anywhere. Everywhere.
That afternoon, as I step out of art history, I realize that I barely heard anything in the second half of the lecture as my nervous excitement mushroomed in anticipation of our meeting. Who am I kidding? Of course, I’m going with Dacian wherever he wants to take me. I must know what’s happening, what the real count is doing here on a college campus in the middle of Vermont. I cringe inwardly at the awkward title, but after Dacian’s plea, I won’t dare call him by that name he seems to hate even in my mind. He’s Dacian now, and this drive is bound to lift the curtain on some of the mysteries that brought him to this place.
I reach my car in the parking lot and climb in. The details of our midnight conversation still seem like a dream, but I memorized the address before I blacked out. Meet me at 29 Hollow Lane , he whispered. I pull my weathered road atlas from the glove compartment and shuffle through it. It is a standalone property north of Camden, just off Route 7.
After about fifteen minutes on the highway, I turn onto a small road that winds through the woods until I find the ornate brass sign that reads 29 Hollow Lane. The property is tucked back from the road. I drive on loose gravel for several minutes before the trees finally part, and a lawn with a two-story dark brick Tudor comes into view. I gape. It looks like a castle—there are massive diamond-patterned windows, three gables under the slate roof, and a turret on the left side.
Dacian gave me his home address . I’m not sure how to process that, whether there’s a meaning behind it other than the fact that he doesn’t want people to see a student and a professor hanging out together. Not only would that be suspicious, it would be grounds for an ethics investigation. Still…this is his home .
As I park in the driveway, I am overcome with curiosity about the domestic situation and living conditions of the world’s most famous vampire. I wonder if I’ll be able to peek inside when he opens the door. But those thoughts are short-lived because, by the time I kill my Chevy’s engine, Dacian is already outside, arms folded, leaning against a shiny black Jaguar.
I smile. Of course the fancy Jag I ogled on the first day of the semester belongs to him. They’re a perfect match, down to the color scheme. Dacian is wearing a cable-knit sweater and jeans, stylish and all in shades of black, as always. Although I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear jeans. It must be his off-duty attire. It’s impossible not to notice how good he looks in denim. They’re neither loose nor skintight—just the right cut to show the shape of his hips and give me all the wrong ideas. My cheeks grow hot, and my mind is flooded with memories of what I did this morning while thinking of him. Shamefaced, I tear my gaze away before he can see right through me.
Stop daydreaming. This is not a date , I warn myself sternly, exercising all my will to banish the thoughts that will turn me into a puddle of lovesick slush. Then I open the door and climb out of the Chevy.
Dacian is always so composed, so hard to read, like he’s wearing a facade he doesn’t want others to peek under. But today, I sense uncertainty as I approach him. Perhaps he truly meant it that night when he said I should take my time deciding. Maybe he was worried I’d choose to stay away, to erase this mystery from my mind and return to the safety of pretending the world is normal, that dreams cannot be haunted, that bodies don’t show up inexplicably drained of blood. To erase him …
I would never.
“Hi,” I say, waving at him, which comes off as more awkward than I hoped.
“Hello,” he replies, unfolding his arms. “Are you ready?” There’s still a note of hesitation in his voice, as though he’s giving me one last chance to back out. But I don’t bite.
“I am,” I say, even though I have no idea where he’s about to take me. My remaining shred of rational thought is telling me that maybe I should be scared, but after fall break, my fear reserves are exhausted. My one consolation is that if Dacian Bathory wanted to kidnap me and turn me into his dinner, he would have already done so.
He gallantly opens the front passenger door for me, and I climb in. The interior of the Jag is black, shiny, and spotless. How does he keep it so clean?
As he powers up his car, a quiet song begins to play from the speakers, and the engine roars to life like a fantastical beast, reminding me of the wolf-dragon on Dacian’s signet ring. He performs his usual ritual of cracking the window open, and then he backs the beast up and commands it to follow the road back to Route 7.
Cool October air rushes in through the window, playing with wisps of Dacian’s silky hair. The golden sun kisses his cheeks. I sneak furtive glances at him and think about how unreal it feels being so close to him in the light of day, both knowing and not knowing what he is, what he did.
The count died in the original story, and yet almost a century later, Dacian is here, driving in the mountains of Vermont with me. It makes my head spin with questions. Did the book lie about his fate, or did Dacian cheat death at the last moment, unbeknownst to everyone? Where has he been all this time? Has he eaten since Eric, and if he has, who was the source of his meal? And also, why is he driving so slowly?
Initially, I assumed he didn’t want the loose gravel to scratch the pristine finish of his Jag, but now we’re on the highway, and he’s still going below the speed limit. A rusty pickup truck honks as it passes us. The audacity! I resist the urge to pop out the window and shout at the driver to have some respect. But I’m wondering the same thing as that driver. This ain’t my twenty-year-old Chevy Nova. This is a Jag ! We should be flying down this highway, not moseying along. Unable to contain my bafflement any longer, I clear my throat. “Is your car okay?”
Dacian’s dark eyebrows crinkle in confusion. “Yes. Why?”
“Well…” I pause, thinking how best to phrase it. “You aren’t driving very fast.”
In an instant, Dacian’s expression turns peeved—an uncharacteristically unguarded reaction for him. “Is that so?” he asks flatly.
I sense that I may have inadvertently hit a sore spot, but it’s too late to backpedal now. “Um, well, the speed limit is forty-five, and you’re going just above thirty,” I say, cautiously watching Dacian’s reaction. “If a cop sees you, you might get pulled over.”
My words seem to have an effect on him. Looking very uncomfortable, he presses his lips into a thin line. His hands grip the steering wheel a bit tighter, making his knuckles white. After what appears to be a brief but tumultuous debate with himself, he confesses, “I…only recently learned how to drive.”
For a moment, I’m at a loss for words.
“I didn’t exactly need to do it in my former life,” he adds, miffed. “I can cross vast distances much faster than any combustible engine. Unfortunately, you modern Americans expect me to travel inside a metal box, so I do my best to keep up the charade.”
I hide the smile that threatens to make an untimely appearance on my lips. His feathers are really ruffled. “Have you asked anyone to help you practice?” I ask innocently.
Dacian relaxes a little. “I could, I suppose. But I don’t keep many friends.”
That makes sense, considering who he is. I wonder if he lives in that gigantic Tudor all by himself. That must be lonely.
As though sensing my curiosity and choosing to indulge it, Dacian adds, “I do keep several staff at my true residence. I could’ve asked them. But I’ve been traveling for a while, and I haven’t brought any of them with me.”
He doesn’t tell me where his real home is or the reason he had to leave it. Judging from his accent, I bet it’s somewhere in the UK. If it was still in Transylvania, there would be no need to hide it from me, as that information is already widely known thanks to the novel. Although the moment I think that, a pang of fear prickles my chest. If Dacian’s real home is not the Tudor I just saw, does that mean his stay in America is only temporary?
Quiet descends between us again. I need to fill this silence with more questions. I want to know everything about him. I ask the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you like The Smiths?” A mixtape with songs by The Smiths, New Order, and Bauhaus has been playing quietly in the background since we left 29 Hollow Lane. If Dacian doesn’t have many friends, I wonder if he made it himself. What a strange thought—Count D making mixtapes.
“Yes, I do enjoy them,” he replies, smiling unexpectedly. “Bowie too. I’m glad I didn’t miss him.”
This puzzles me. How could he have missed Bowie? Was he not around for a period of time? And why didn’t he learn to drive until now ? It’s not like cars were invented recently. Presumably, he’s had decades to practice—unless, of course, he’s always employed a chauffeur. I can’t imagine Dacian using public transportation. But before I can pursue that train of thought, Dacian continues, “This is by far my favorite thing about the twentieth century—how easy it is to capture music. The Walkman has got to be mankind’s greatest invention. I can’t believe you can just carry it with you.”
“You have a Walkman?” This time, I don’t hide my grin as I imagine Dacian with headphones over his ears, bopping along to a catchy beat.
“I do. You find that humorous?” he asks, shooting a quick glance my way before returning his full attention to the road.
I shake my head. “Just, most people would say that something like penicillin is mankind’s greatest invention. Or the airplane,” I say, letting out a laugh.
Dacian looks momentarily befuddled as he ponders my comment. “I suppose most people would. However, my body is not susceptible to human afflictions, and I don’t need a plane to fly. So, for me, it is the Walkman.”
I smile again. “I could tell you loved books, but I didn’t know you were into music too.”
“Of course I love music,” he says with a hint of pride. “How hollow would my soul be if I didn’t? Even a being like me couldn’t face the torture of such emptiness. If I had to endure an eternity without stories and songs, I would’ve given up on this immortal existence a long time ago.”
There is a certain melancholy about Dacian’s face when he says that last part. And I may be wrong, but I think I sense a hint of fear too. What is there to be afraid of if you cannot die? Although maybe that’s too simplistic a question. How long has Dacian been alive exactly, wandering through endless shadows? For all I know, he’s had lifetimes of experiences. They can’t have all been pleasant. The way he reacted to my name, how guarded he is around me, and the broken fragments of memories he’s revealed make me think fear must be a feeling he’s intimately familiar with. Loneliness as well. I spent a long time in a very isolated place with nothing to entertain me but a small library. When Dacian told me this, I didn’t realize how literally he meant it. Did anyone ever keep him company in that cold, dark castle, or has he been on his own for centuries? What really happened between him and Jonathan Harker? Where was he all this time that the world believed him dead? It’s maddening how little I know about him when he’s sitting right here, within arm’s reach.
I fidget in my seat, but before I can gather the courage to ask him more, Dacian says, “We’re nearly there,” and merges into the exit lane. Out my window, I spot a sign that says, scenic trail next 10 miles.
We drive down a narrow one-lane road for several minutes, and then Dacian pulls into a small parking lot next to a camping area. There are several shaded wooden tables with benches and a board with a trail map. Dacian looks around carefully before killing the engine, but we seem to be the only people here.
“Are we going on a hike?” I ask, half-joking. But the serious look on his face stumps me.
“Not exactly,” he replies.
We exit the Jag, and I follow him to one of the three trails I saw on the map. He stops me before I step onto the path.
“It isn’t prudent to travel further on foot,” he says. “I do not wish for us to leave any trace behind.”
I frown. There are plenty of tourist-trodden hiking routes in the Green Mountains—especially in the fall, when everyone and their cousin comes to Vermont to watch the leaves change—but this isn’t one of them. There’s not a soul around, just a yellow-red sea of trees. Why is he so worried that someone might know we were here? “What do you suggest?” I ask, perplexed.
“That I carry you.”
My mouth falls open. Surely he must be joking. But Dacian keeps a straight face, and before any incoherent words tumble out of me, he adds, “Are you ready, Jonathan?”
My knees go soft at the sound of my name coming from his lips. Perhaps he starved me of it on purpose so that now he can mold me however he likes simply by saying it. Still, this is crazy. I look around awkwardly.
“Yes,” I murmur, trying not to burst into flame from the spark of anticipation as he steps closer, puts his arms around me—one behind my back, the other under my knees—and swiftly lifts me off the ground. My eyes widen. I’m not heavy by any means, what with never having enough money for groceries and working double shifts over the summer, but I’m still a fully grown person! Yet Dacian’s muscles show no strain holding my weight; he might as well be lifting a feather.
My head is pressed against his chest as he tightens his arms around me. And then he takes a step forward, except his feet are no longer touching the ground. I gulp.
The world around me tilts up. Dacian carrying me like his bride is already a shock to the system, but now we’re flyin g. Instantly, my mind goes back to that night when I saw him hovering in the air outside my window. It’s no less dizzying to see him do it in broad daylight—and now I’m flying with him!
“Breathe easy; I will not let you fall,” he whispers as he levitates higher. As though my fear of falling is the reason my heart is about to thump out of my chest. I wonder if he can hear it, if he feels my blood running with his vampire senses. You can’t hide from me. Yours is the only beating heart inside this building. My face grows hot at the memory. His words sounded so sinister then. Terrified as I was, I missed what he was really telling me—that he was listening to my heart, to my blood, as he’s doing now. I feel a swirl of warmth under my sweater. I wonder if he’s always listening to it. If he thinks of it when I’m not around. If he wants it.
I try to calm down for both our sakes, but it’s easier said than done. I don’t know what to do with my hands or whether I should keep my head resting against his collarbone. His hands were cold at first, just like the touch of his fingers on my lips when he called me by my name for the first time, but now they don’t seem so anymore; my skin has grown hot where Dacian touches me. I try to sneak a glance up at him, but from this angle, I can’t see his expression and can’t even begin to guess what he’s thinking. It’s torturous to have him so close and not know, yet I welcome this torment, and he does nothing to stop it.
Unhurriedly, Dacian veers through the branches of golden-bronze beech trees and orange sugar maples. I can smell the chill in the air, the musky sweetness of the decaying leaves on the ground, and the sharpness of an occasional hemlock. But more than anything, I smell him . He smells like a memory, a feeling. Like a frozen, lonely place in faraway mountains, like a thousand desperate words, all unspoken. Like a millennium of yearning.
I let my cheek press against the fuzzy fabric of his sweater. I want to keep breathing him in. This isn’t a date , I remind myself, but part of me is desperately hoping it is. A date that would only make sense in a book about an ancient vampire pretending to be a literature professor and his student, who’s fallen for him beyond saving. Right now, he could carry me to the edge of the world and I wouldn’t resist. I just want to stay like this, gliding through the woods in his arms, and if he wants to look inside my mind like it’s an open book and read these feelings, I will happily welcome him in.
Dacian follows the trail for a while before turning sharply west. He still doesn’t tell me where we’re going or why, but I begin to sense a slight shift in him as we approach our destination, his body getting tense. This feels ominous. Dacian is not someone who scares easily—except apparently when it comes to driving above thirty, of course. Maybe it’s me he’s worried about. Reluctantly, I shake off the remnants of the daze I’ve fallen into and finally start to take note of my surroundings. Something seems wrong about this place. I can’t pinpoint it, but it feels too quiet. Too empty. As though living beings are instinctively avoiding this part of the forest, leaving it dreary and stale, allowing shadows to take permanent residence here.
Dacian slows his flight, and my gaze zeroes in on something below, about fifty feet ahead of us—a slumped shape surrounded by white markings on the ground. I squint. “What is that?” I ask uneasily.
We rise a good fifteen feet before he brings me closer to the scene.
“Oh god.” I gasp and cover my mouth once I manage to make out the shape below.
There’s a body lying naked in the center of a pentagram drawn on the ground with white paint, like a summoning ritual from a budget horror flick. The body has clearly been rotting for some time. All that’s left of it is a yellowish-green mass of skin and muscles clinging to a visible skeleton. It must have been here for weeks, a festering kingdom for maggots. Once I’m close enough, the putrid smell hits my nostrils and sends a stinging pain through my head. It is then, with a sudden inexplicable certainty, that I realize these half-decomposed remains belong to the hiker who went missing at the beginning of the semester.
I recall the photograph of him printed in the local paper. I think the man’s name was Jeremy. He was smiling, posing in front of some picturesque vista. There was a sweep of luscious blue mountains in the background and bright sunshine glowing around him like a halo. He wasn’t just a hiker—Jeremy was a forest conservationist visiting this part of Vermont to study the Green Mountain ecosystem. “His wife and one-year-old son miss him dearly and hope for his safe return,” the newspaper had read. But this body on the ground looks nothing like that man, all his light robbed from him, leaving behind only a putrefying carcass.
“What happened to him?” I push out, my tongue too thick to cooperate properly. Why did Dacian bring me here? Dean Wilkins mentioned a bear attack, but bears don’t draw pentagrams.
Dacian’s tone is oddly flat and emotionless when he replies. “This person was killed as part of a ritual sacrifice.”
Sacrifice? The word ping-pongs in my mind. I feel sick. My breath gets stuck in my throat like someone has smashed a fist into it. I turn away, desperate to escape the corpse, but there’s nowhere to go; I can only hide my face in Dacian’s chest and the smooth, dark wool of his sweater.
His arms tighten around me. His voice suddenly gentler, he whispers, “Let yourself breathe, Jonathan.”
“I’m trying,” I wheeze. But it’s still a struggle to get the air in and out. “Who would do such a thing?”
Instead of providing me with relief, Dacian’s reply feels like another sucker punch. “Your former classmate, Mr. Stockton.”
Wait. What? “That’s…that’s impossible,” I argue. “How would you even know that?”
With a calm that reminds me that Dacian is not human, no matter how much he may appear to be, he explains. “I know because I saw it in Mr. Stockton’s blood when I drank it. Many things remain unclear to me, but this was at the very top of his mind. I saw this place and the body as vividly as I see it now.”
I try to stay coherent, but my voice sounds like a helpless little whine. “You saw it in his blood ? I don’t understand.”
“Let us return to the car,” Dacian offers softly. “There, I will explain everything.”
I don’t object.
He carries me back to the Jag, soundlessly floating between tree branches. But it doesn’t feel magical anymore. My hands are clammy, and I keep remembering the stench of corporeal rot, the fallen leaves obscuring the crudely drawn pentagram. Eric sacrificed him. A real person. A husband. A father. For a ritual.
Dacian opens the Jag’s door for me and helps me into the front seat.
“Remember when I told you Eric Stockton took something from me?” he asks, joining me in the car. Dazedly, I nod. “It is the book that went missing from the library. It used to belong to me before it was sold off and eventually donated to Camden. Mr. Stockton was the one who stole it.”
My brain scrambles for clarity, trying to arrange these pieces of information into a picture that makes sense. Ms. Tarnow said that the missing book was the diary of a nineteenth-century European nobleman—a “madman,” as she referred to him, because of the bizarre writings that filled those pages. Of course! How did I not see this sooner? The journal was Dacian’s! No wonder it sounded like the ramblings of a lunatic to a modern woman who likely doesn’t believe in vampires. I don’t know if I’d have believed it myself before I saw Dacian bite Eric…
“That book is your diary,” I repeat aloud for confirmation.
“Yes,” he says simply. As though admitting that he kept a journal almost a hundred years ago, even though he looks no older than twenty-five, is perfectly normal.
Numbly, I ask, “So why would Eric steal it? What did you write in it?”
“Mostly stories from my life, my private thoughts.” Dacian’s gaze briefly turns pensive before he adds, “However, among my writings was a detailed explanation of the ancient ritual that created me.”
My stomach drops. “Created you? You mean…”
“Yes, it’s a ritual that turns a human into a vampire. Mr. Stockton sought to replicate it.”
Dacian’s reply sends my thoughts reeling once again. Eric stole Dacian’s diary and killed Jeremy…so that he could become a vampire? And not just Jeremy. Anita Hernandez’s body was also covered in puncture wounds and bled dry, no bullshit cartels or hungry bears to blame. Both people were murdered for this ritual.
Still, it’s unbelievable to think that Eric could do such a horrible thing. He was a spoiled, rich brat who treated me like dirt, slept through his classes, and spent his time at drug-filled parties with Mads Jr. and Callahan, but I’d never have pegged him as a cold-blooded killer or an aspiring vampire. “Are you certain Eric did this?”
Dacian’s face remains impassive. He’s not shocked by any of this. “I am certain,” he confirms. “That night when you saw me with him, Mr. Stockton was hunting . For the next sacrifice.”
I shake my head in disbelief. But then I remember the incident earlier that evening when Eric assaulted me in the vault. He sounded paranoid and incoherent, rambling about books being at fault for something. In fact, he’d been acting off for weeks. Was that behavior the result of becoming a vampire?
“As I mentioned, when I drank Mr. Stockton’s blood,” Dacian continues—I can’t help but shiver at how openly he admits to this—“it allowed me to glimpse some of his memories. It’s one of my abilities. I wanted to find out where he’d hidden my journal, but I was distracted.”
“By me?” I ask.
“Yes, by you,” he says softly.
There’s an odd expression on his face that I can’t quite parse. “There is a connection between us,” he adds, confirming what I’ve suspected all along. “That night, when you saw me, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t decide if I should chase after you and lose my chance of finding my journal, or keep extracting the knowledge from Mr. Stockton drop by drop. In the end, I accomplished neither. I hesitated and let you escape, and by the time I returned to the woods, Mr. Stockton was already dead. Blood memories can only be taken when they flow from the living. Once there’s no pulse, the current stops.”
That explains why Dacian never caught up to me, letting me reach the safety of my dorm. He must’ve been scared I would out him, forcing him to flee Camden and killing his chances of ever finding his journal. Of course, I’d never do that. Even when I was terrified that he might kill me, I never considered exposing him. This affair has always been between the two of us. And now, because of my interference, Dacian has no way of discovering where his journal is stashed. It could be buried under a tree in the mountains, for all we know.
A silly hope springs to life inside of me that maybe we can put all of this behind us, that Dacian and I can return to being student and teacher again. Or something more , if only he’ll allow it…
“I guess it’s over, then.” I sigh, ready to let the weight of this supernatural murder mystery slide off my shoulders. “Since Eric is dead, there should be no more victims. Maybe we can find a way to tip off the police about Jeremy’s body without implicating ourselves.”
But when I glance at Dacian, he doesn’t look even the tiniest bit relieved. He gazes back at me with the kind of apologetic discomfort one might feel while explaining how the world really works to someone very naive.
“It is far from over, Jonathan,” he says quietly. “Eric Stockton wasn’t the only person involved in the hiker’s death. In his memories, I glimpsed others. They wore masks, so I couldn’t see their identities. You see, during the first stage of the ritual, each participant must kill one sacrifice. It seems that while Mr. Stockton partook of the hiker’s blood, ultimately, he was someone else’s kill. As was the woman. I stopped Mr. Stockton when it was his turn to bring a sacrifice of his own, but his companions still possess my journal. As they are not my progeny, I cannot distinguish them from regular humans. It is likely they will continue killing until the ritual is complete, but now they’re going to be far more careful. They know someone might be watching them.”
I stare at the trees surrounding the small rest area. Their bright, golden glow has dimmed—gray clouds have now shrouded the sky, blocking the sun. I can barely wrap my mind around Eric being an accomplice to two gruesome murders, and now Dacian is telling me there are a whole bunch of soon-to-be vampires running around Camden, looking for people to sacrifice?
“I apologize,” he says, observing me cautiously. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have subjected you to seeing that body. It was quite grotesque. But I wanted you to know that Camden is a lot more dangerous than you realize.”
I understand that very well. I think of all those nights I walked alone after a late library shift, unwittingly tempting fate. I’m the perfect candidate for a sudden disappearance—no family and only one friend who cares about me. No wonder Dacian warned me on that rainy night in the library. He’s known all along.
“We need to report this to the authorities. It’s too serious,” I say. “Three people are dead already. How many more will there be if this isn’t stopped?”
Dacian’s body tenses. “I’m sorry, but we cannot do that.”
Something snaps in me. “Of course we can. And we must! Or are you suggesting we let that guy rot up there? He’s an innocent person. He doesn’t deserve this, Dacian.” I think of Jeremy’s corpse, used up and discarded like trash, decaying on the mountain while his family cries themselves to sleep every night, praying that he’ll come home. And the poor immigrant woman whose death no one seems to care about. It’s not right.
“No, he does not deserve this,” Dacian agrees. “And neither did the woman. But I can’t let you go to the police.”
“Why not?” I demand, my nerves stretched to the point where I’m not sure I can hold it together anymore.
“Because I cannot be discovered,” Dacian says, visibly frustrated.
I recoil from him. “Are you saying you’d rather save your own skin than stop this madness?”
Dacian’s expression ices over, and it feels like the distance between us grows a thousand miles. “You have no idea what you’re asking for. You don’t know what it’s like to be caught, Jonathan,” he says, his voice carrying a chill that hits me right in my bones.
An image of a small box flashes in my mind. A box hidden away in a tiny dark room where no one ever goes and no sunlight reaches. Something inside it rattles. Something inside it calls. Something?—
I snap out of it. Is this somehow connected to why Dacian never learned to drive? Why he disappeared after the events described in the novel? Why he keeps a window open in every room he steps into?
“You might not understand this, but I’m severely compromising my personal safety by searching for my journal,” he says sternly. “The nineteenth century was perilous enough with its arrogant Dutch doctors turned vampire hunters. What do you think the U.S. government would do if they found out about me? My imagination may be lacking when it comes to modern methods of torture, but I wager they’d start by determining exactly how immortal this body of mine is.”
This stuns me into speechlessness. I haven’t truly considered the consequences of Dacian being revealed for what he is.
“But worse than that would be them finding my journal,” Dacian continues, not waiting for me to respond. “It was sheer luck that it spent a century gathering dust in some collector’s private library, the ritual never taken seriously or tested. But if someone in power were to find it, what do you think they would do with the knowledge of how to create vampires? Imagine an army of immortal soldiers. I must prevent that from happening. Those who have the journal now haven’t completed the ritual yet. They remain within my grasp. But if they get frightened by the police, they may escape and continue murdering their way across the country.” Dacian exhales as though trying to reassert control over his emotions and then adds more quietly, “Besides, how would you explain to the authorities how you know where the body is? People like Mr. Stockton can afford to be reckless. They don’t need to worry about plausible alibis. They have family lawyers ready to get them out of trouble. But you, Jonathan—who will protect you ?”
One by one, Dacian’s words sink to the bottom of my gut like stones in a lake. As horrific as the murder of two innocent people is, it pales in comparison to what might happen if the secrets in his journal become widespread knowledge.
“How long before they complete the ritual?” I ask quietly.
“I do not know. There are two parts to it, and the second part…it requires preparation,” Dacian says. He doesn’t elaborate, but his tone is grim.
After a moment he leans back in his seat, his gaze slightly unfocused. The weight of centuries seems to have settled on his shoulders once again. “Forgive me. I should never have put this knowledge into writing. In my arrogance, I never imagined that my words could be taken from me, that anything could be taken from me.”
I hate this situation, but I do understand where Dacian is coming from. The journal must be retrieved and hidden where no human can be tempted by it again. There is no other way.
But there’s one thing I still don’t understand.
“Why did you bring me here? Why tell me all of this?” I ask. By showing me that someone else committed these murders, Dacian must have been trying to clear his name, but wouldn’t it have been easier not to involve me at all? If his true intention is guarding the secret of how to make vampires, then why trust me with any information about this?
“Being what I am, there are places I cannot enter without invitation,” he replies, watching me intently. “As you know, some of the legends about us are true. I’m hoping you can help me locate what belongs to me before more people die.”
That seems fair. If a vampire can’t enter a dwelling uninvited, then Dacian’s ability to conduct his search is limited. He needs a willing human on his side.
Still, something about his answer makes my heart stutter treacherously. Dacian was haunting my dreams before I ever suspected anything about his true nature, before I even knew sinister rituals were taking place in the shadows of the woods.
Did he get me the work-study job at the library just so he could recruit me, or was there another reason? The way he looked at me that very first time at the theater—I felt it. The instant connection was unlike anything I’ve experienced in my life. And why did he touch my lips so gently when I confronted him? If this is all just a ploy to find his journal, isn’t it too cruel to toy with my heart like that? To lead me on? Doesn’t he know the effect he has on me?
“Is that the only reason?” I ask, feeling like I’m balancing on the edge of a cliff. One word from him could save me or doom me. Just one word.
But Dacian does not reply. Instead, he fumbles for his car keys in his pocket. “It’s getting late. We shouldn’t linger here.”
He starts the engine and reverses the Jag out of the small parking lot, driving us away from the scene of the crime and further from the answer I so desperately need.