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From behind the sea of blurred faces, a silhouette of somebody approached. The lights seemed to follow him. There came a thunder of footfalls, and in the quiet intervals, a low grunting, shattering of glass, shuffling of fans and papers. He was barely more than a shadow, slender and wretched, and although his face was now clean-shaven, and did not have that solemn and unrelenting expression, and his body lithe and graceful, Valerie remembered who this young boy was. She remembered the blazing brightness of Mircalla on him, not knowing then who she was, as she pinned him to the ground with ease and spilled his blood under the glow of his lantern. The stream of crimson against the dying moonlight passing through the icy ground like ripples in the water, the same sense of strangulation that seized his body and left two punctures. He did not meet her eye when Cecilia placed a hand on his shoulder. It promptly gave rise to a wave of gasps and murmurs because talks of decorum, especially when an inferior was involved, restored one’s sense of dignity. She had surrounded herself with the need to be noticed and admired, so it became characteristic that the same pleasure occurred to her, especially after her marriage.
And Valerie looked nothing like the image of Valerie that existed before marriage.
“Boy, do you know this woman?” In her drunkenness, Cecilia pushed the tray off the boy’s hands and shook her finger. Many in the room held themselves in part discomfort and part disapproval, though their state was as loud and careless. A vein bulged on the boy's forehead as he nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor and shards of glass wet with foam.
“Speak!” Cecilia demanded and dug her nails to his waistcoat.
“Yes, madam.”
“How can someone like you know an esteemed lady like Mrs. Vertigo? Answer immediately.”
“I—” The boy raised his head, looking directly at her. Valerie was accustomed to looks of perpetual exasperation, eyes grappling with disgust and awe at the same time. Yet, she had never been held under a gaze so rancorous and merciless that she couldn’t breathe. He did not make the least effort to conceal his insolence.
“I saw the lady in the woods, madam. She attacked me.”
Whispers turned into screams. They were mouthing the words over and over again like rings of sand in a desert, grating and sweltering, and their brows were slick with sweat. Valerie did not feel a thing for herself, but only the crack of her wrists as the crowd whirred in anticipation. She closed her eyes and listened to the inciting sound and cutting terms. They were considerably excited. She was no different from her surroundings. Only then she opened her eyes again.
Behind Cecilia, the boy shifted slightly, flashing a glance at the crowd who weighed him up and down, left and right. And Valerie noticed how bony his fists were, half of his face hidden behind the flimsy fabric of his suit, idly turning on his heels, nodding vaguely as his mistress spoke.
“Poor Felix—my poor, lovely Felix. He has never quite healed.” She tilted her head and quavered toward the end, as though she was coming loose. Rose-gummed, vindictive, unforgiving. In one swift motion, Cecilia reached for his throat, curled her fingers around his chalky necktie and ripped it free. It slithered to the floor.
“Tell them what she did to you.” Cecilia was circling around him, brushing her fingers around his waistcoat and shirt.
“This lady and her friend assaulted me in the woods. I saw them pressed against a tree… unladylike… intimate. There was blood and I called out to them, not knowing who they were, and demanded what they were doing. I don’t remember much more but I toppled backwards, the shadow—her friend—charged across the hollow, dove straight at me, and two needles pierced my neck. Miss Mircalla Karnstein she was, her friend.”
27
For a suspended moment,nothing happened. Then Cecilia ripped the boy’s buttons, sent them scattering them across the room, and revealed his neck. The marks rose higher and higher, to his chin, then almost to his ears. Every inch of his skin was covered in sanguine and violet, as though painted by a rough hand, deep veined and wrinkled like an old man. But there was the discolored and bulging wound right before her eyes. It was straining against the naked whiteness of his own skin, throbbing and opaque in appearance. He pressed a hand over it, feeling its gnarly shape, then with eyes protruding from their sockets, returned Valerie’s gaze.
“This adulterous woman is the root of our misery! She has been infesting our town with sickness and famine. And we may never see the light, and lest we intervene, she will cling to the bottom of our world and suck the life out of it!”
She searched the room hopelessly. Cecilia knocked her down with a swat of her hand. She was indignant. Flaming waves of humiliation rose from Valerie’s chest when she saw Ethan. He was standing under the staircase, stooping forward, as if he were physically hurt, and peering with wide eyes at her. His lusterless gaze swept from the boy’s neck, down his bare chest and to her struggling to her feet. But he did not move, only scratched the tip of his black mustache.
A faint breath fanned the back of her neck and the chilling sensation spread to chest. Someone took her arm and drew her up. The word came out so choked that nobody moved. “Mircalla.”
Valerie fought to breathe, the sting of her shame coiling around her like barbed wire, until Mircalla lowered her head, folding the smooth skin, and looked at her. It was a moment of freedom, no matter how fleeting it was, until a gleam of light fell on her lap. She seemed to be filled with warmth, streaking through her mind as if she were on a precipice, but then Cecilia howled and slashed the boy’s neck. The wound burst open like an arch of carnations. Turning her head, Valerie could see the flesh tearing, his shirt crusting in red-brown stains. The boy whined, staggering and swaying.
“They feed on our blood and betray our flesh! Look! Look at how their teeth press against the lips. Do you hear the sounds deep from their throats, through their noses?” Cecilia pushed the boy aside and stomped her feet.
The view induced a feeling Valerie had become so familiar over the course of months, inspired not by the gravity’s pull but by the infinite reaches of her hunger. She almost fell, lurching over the broken glass and sticky champagne; sweat broke out on her skin. It was the sight of blood that made her thus feral, climbing up her groin, the flat of her hands, to her temples. Valerie clenched her muscles against the feeling, but it only lasted for moments, and then she sprang on the boy. But before she could sink her teeth into his chest, Mircalla pulled her back. The boy yelped and sprinted back to the staircase.
“Bestial, degenerate, foul! That’s what this family is. Damned be Ethan Vertigo and his schemes for wreaking havoc on us! He has poisoned our lives from the day his sister went missing to the day he took her as wife.”
What a white, blue-veined face that was! “You deceived us… Your purity was a hoax… We prayed for an heir… You’re rotten… Shame on you! Give us back our grace! Shame on you! Look us in the face! Shame on you! You’ve taken our hopes! Shame on you! Shame! Shame!”
Valerie took notice of Cecilia’s wrinkles about the eyes, the lips that bared a dazzling set of teeth, her chin stiff with tension that drew her back. She was wildly looking at people every now and then to see whether they were listening. She possessed the place and walked confidently to her, wheezing merrily under her breath, as she passed her and stood before Mircalla.
It happened in the blink of an eye. Mircalla’s wind whipped around her, cold and ravenous as she pulled the body. She snatched Cecilia Harker with the flick of her wrist and lifted her, turning her around, then bit at her throat, hard, and at the same moment, blood seeped onto her tongue, trickling down her chin. Cecilia could not even open her mouth before she jerked to a stop turned stiff as a board. A coat of wet blood on the pristine satin of her gown, glistening under the chandeliers, and Mircalla did not let go of Cecilia, letting the bystanders stand in terror, easing the curve of her back in pleasure.
“Spare us,” the crowd begged and Valerie noticed that they were huddled in a corner, sagging and sour-smelling, covered in a fine layer of sweat and blood. Mircalla must have pierced both arteries to splatter them thus, she thought. A vibrating feeling warmed her hands, then nestled on the burning itch that kept her awake night after night. Nothing was too much trouble for her anymore. As the house held its breath, she crawled to the twisted silhouettes of Mircalla and Cecilia, pulsing with urge. She wanted blood. She needed every drop to sweep her veins, claim the untouched parts of her body. Slick, irresistible, delicious, and copious.
“Come closer. Look at this.” Mircalla smeared warm blood on Valerie’s sleeves and wrapped an arm around her. The bewildered sparkle in her gaze had expanded, as if to hold Valerie within.
Her eyes opened, unseeing, misty, and swimming in a languor of desire. It was her husband, yelling at her face, forcing her to her feet; his face distorted with a kind of torture that sickened Valerie. She shoved him aside. A sea of people carried him away quickly.
Valerie’s aching legs gave way, and she almost fell to her side. Mircalla cupped her face. She trickled a crimson line down her cheeks, on her neck, and she began to pulsate with anticipation. A life such as this needed no elucidating; she could grab and pluck it from its roots and make it her own. She would evade the withstanding solitude, pacing in the darkened rooms of Vertigo Peaks—afraid of the faces that followed and crept behind her window no more, and make them all prey to feast upon—and months of rancor would vanish in this room if she wanted. Her heart raced faster; her breaths were sharp and shallow. The air was not enough to fill her lungs; the fuel was somewhere else, Valerie knew.
Mircalla stroked her hand and put it over the open wound. Deep cuts on the flesh, punctures and shining bones.
