“Do you feel it?” Clara said. For the bluish glow, which was part of all which lay within, was now a part of them as well. However, it was no longer an evil fire, but the warm embrace of a mother’s arms welcoming them home.
“Shake it off,” Jack said. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t where we belong.”
Yet there, as if to separate him from his words, and neatly lined up side-by-side-by-side, were three coffins, each as ornate and bejewelled as any chest of drawers one might have found in Buckingham Palace.
“Christ,” Jack muttered, “Does this mean that she’s got friends?”
“No. Not unless you want to count us. Because I’ll give you three guesses who the extras are for.”
Shuddering at the thought, Jack said, “Well, I’d say she’s in for a major disappointment. Which one do you suppose she’s in?”
“The one in the middle. For sure.”
“Looks heavy,” Jack remarked, as he took hold of the handles. And like a weightlifter going for the record, he took three quick breaths. Readied, and with a mighty heave, he pulled open the almost three hundred pound lid. And any morbid curiosity either of them might have felt was satisfied forever.
“Apparently,” Clara said, peering down on what might have been Mrs. Trollope’s granddaughter, “my blood agrees with her.”
“It’s her? For sure?”
“Yeah, it’s her. Happy now?”
Porcelain skin; emerald eyes; rose petal lips. So intoxicating was the beauty; so malevolent the evil; that Clara couldn’t help but loose the fervent murmur found upon her lips.
“Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.”*
Then, reverently, she bade her husband close it, for it was time now to go home. Gently, and quietly, he did as he’d been bid. And with the coffin’s close the spell was broken.
“What if it’s locked?” Clara said.
She and Jack were one flight up and walking toward the cellar door.
“I’d be surprised if it weren’t. But it doesn’t matter much, one way or the other.”
Leverage-wise, it couldn’t have been better positioned. Leaning forward, his hands on his knees and his back against the overhead hatch-like doors, Jack, slowly and steadily applied increasing pressure until the doors, resist as they might, resoundingly burst open. Whereupon Clara flew to her husband, the sun’s cleansing rays at his back, and fell limply into his arms.
Barely conscious, Clara lay upon the grass. At her side, Jack knelt, pleading with her to tell him what was wrong.
“I’m sorry, Jack,”—with eyes full to the brim. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“But what are you talking about? Clara, please, you’re scaring me.”
“Remember the upstairs garret? The bloody pinholes on my neck?”
She paused to swallow a sob. And then, “I’m infected. She infected me . . . the witch.”
Struggling; desperate to get out just a few more words before oblivion set in, she managed, “There’s one way—just one way to save me from becoming one of them . . .”
But that was it and just like that his wife was gone; as gone as one can be while still the barest breath of life remains behind. And so, with no idea what else to do, Jack gathered her up in his cradled arms and started off, the long trek home.
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If you’ll go to rembrandtpublishing.com, you’ll find the start of what’s been called a vampire novel like none since Dracula. You’ll also find the location of the next chapter posted there.
Brought to you by Jim Humble’s Miracle Mineral Solution. For without it I doubt I’d have stuck around long enough to tell the tale.
