Chapter 5
Chapter Five
One Hundred and Seven Years Ago
Life has grown… interesting. I never thought I would care for anyone again, yet now I have Harriet to watch over. Harriet had nowhere else to go, and her home is here now. Especially after the vampire hunter’s private ‘chat’ with her father, which ended, as one might expect, in chaos.
For my new guest, I refurbished every room. I even widened the hall windows and fitted stained glass; when the sun reaches its zenith, coloured light spills across the black-and-white tiles in jewel-toned pools.
The dining room now boasts a mahogany table, matching chairs, and a dresser.
Upstairs, I have taken a bold step: installing a bathroom, complete with a fixed bath and hot running water.
Pipes hum inside the walls. Recent articles over the past twenty years have extolled the virtue of moving the privy indoors and—thanks to magic—plumbing is simple.
Harriet dislikes bathing, so anything that encourages her is worthwhile.
Miss Beattie has taken a keen interest in us both. Fortunately, nothing has come of the mages we disposed of, and the vampire hunter now visits with purpose. She strides through my wards like a bull in a china shop, flings the door wide, and saunters in as though she owns the place.
The governess side of her has come to the fore, and she has set herself the task of teaching Harriet to read and write. The poor girl receives a sharp rap on the knuckles whenever she slouches or misspells a word. Harsh as it seems, something remarkable is happening: Harriet is changing.
The frightened mouse is shedding her timidity and slowly becoming a young lady.
Harriet, now nineteen, has had three and a half years of good food, which have rounded out her face.
Her blonde hair gleams; her dresses are fashionable and clean.
She is studying at the Magical College and still carries dirt beneath her nails.
Harriet will pick her nose when she thinks no one is watching, yet she has truly come out of her shell and is a pleasure to be around.
We have come to expect the vampire hunter just after she finishes work, so in the dining room I prepared tea and a light meal.
Tonight is not a pleasant meal.
We are at a stand-off.
They sit opposite each other at the table, stiff and awkward. Harriet’s cheeks burn crimson. Embarrassment, laced with tension, thickens the air.
Miss Beattie, by contrast, is bloodless: fury presses her lips into a thin white line as she pushes food around her plate without taking a single bite.
Then, with a sharp clatter, she drops her fork, as though she wants to fling the utensil across the room.
The polished, poised lady vanishes; in her place stands barely restrained anger.
She smooths the immaculate skirt of her dress with deliberate, rigid hands and glares, her grey eyes sweeping the room like searchlights.
“I have thought it through; it is the only way,” Miss Beattie says at last, each word clipped. “I need you to do this for me.”
No. I will not turn you into a weapon, I snap.
Harriet shrinks back, shoulders rising to her ears. I have frightened the girl, yet I do not apologise.
“She ain’t goin’ to do it, Miss,” she murmurs.
I know things are serious when Miss Beattie—Beryl—does not even chastise Harriet for slouching. She is all het up, but I still refuse to do as she asks.
“Why?” Beryl snarls. “Why won’t you help me? You have the magic, I know you have.”
Of course I have the magic. I groan inwardly.
Harriet, our reluctant intermediary, this time repeats my words verbatim.
It is not a question of ability. I know the spells. The problem is that it is wrong, morally and fundamentally.
“I’m dying,” Beryl says, leaning forward. “I have not long. The vampire I am hunting is on another continent; he may not return for years. I have no time.” She throws up her hands. “Please, House. Do this.”
You are the wrong type of human. The wrong kind of derivative. Your soul is not strong enough to survive such horrific magic.
“You are strong enough to make it work,” Beryl presses.
I will not.
“Then I will find someone else.” She turns away; an errant tear slips down her cheek.
The sight of that single tear silences me. The stoic, fearless vampire hunter is weeping.
Please do not ask this of me. No one should crave this existence.
“He killed my husband. My two children.” Her voice wavers.
For the past thirty-one years Beryl has been alone and hunting vampires.
Before that she was happily married, with two delightful little girls.
A monster decided they would make the perfect meal.
When Beryl’s husband tried to protect them, he was attacked as well.
In a single night, her happy life was destroyed.
“I must live long enough to kill him. This is my only option. If you will not do this for me, I will go elsewhere.”
If you visit another mage, you will die.
“Exactly. I’m dead either way, so I must try. Please, House.”
May I consider it?
“No. I have little time. I need your answer: yes or no.”
No.
“You are so stubborn!” She slams her palm on the table; the cutlery rattles. “Please!”
“I might know someone, Miss,” Harriet whispers.
You know no one, I retort.
“I might.” She stubbornly lifts her chin.
Stay away from other mages, do you hear me? I will not lose you both.
Harriet dutifully murmurs my words.
“You will lose me soon enough,” Beryl hisses. “If you refuse, I will tell everyone what you are—a sentient, dangerous house. They will come for your power, and they will work out that you killed your creators.”
Harriet gasps.
I groan. My prickly friend has reverted to threats. I do not believe for an instant that she would carry them out; she is merely distressed.
You really want this? You wish to murder yourself? And what about the vampires you still have to hunt?
“None is as vile as the one I pursue.” Her voice cracks.
I must ask myself—am I refusing out of principle, because I abhor the idea of sentient objects, or because I want to keep my friend? I have had over three years of something like normal life, three and a half years of company, friendship, and I do not wish to lose her.
I am not sure I am strong enough to pour human Beryl into an object and still preserve what makes her Beryl.
A weapon is a grotesque fate.
Yet would it be selfish to refuse?
She says she is ill, and I see it too. She is fading: weight loss, bruises, the stiff limp, the ugly cut on her thigh after a scuffle.
Blood stains the handkerchief she coughs into at night.
She is not pretending. Nearly sixty, she has been hunting vampires for more than thirty years.
A miracle. Vampire hunters do not live long; their lives are short and brutal, and the vampires and their court make sure of it.
Do you not believe in an afterlife, Beryl? I ask, changing tack. Do you not believe the soul goes somewhere else? To paradise?
Harriet repeats my words. I press on, unable to stop.
And what will your husband think? Your two daughters?
What will they feel when they wait for you, and your soul is trapped in a sentient object?
Stuck in a blasted weapon? If you do this, there is no paradise, no rebirth.
You will simply remain here, in this… hell.
I am confined to this form for eternity. This is no life, Beryl.
Beryl huffs, unimpressed, her grey eyes sharp and unwavering. She knows her own mind far too well. “I cannot rest while that monster is still alive, killing other families. I need time to reach him.”
When she first told me, I offered to deal with the monster for her, but she refused to name him and bristled when I pressed. I respect that boundary, and I make no further enquiries, yet she knows I stand ready to help should she ever ask.
Beryl insists he is unlike the vampires she hunts each night; facing him, she says, would destroy me. I would still try, but she is adamant: I must not.
One lesson I have learned is to let others make their own mistakes.
“It is nearly impossible. I know it will take years—decades, perhaps.” She lays her hands flat on her lap, as though restraining herself from pointing or once again striking the table.
“My mind is sound. If there is a paradise, my husband and daughters are there by now. Somewhere peaceful, somewhere beautiful.” Her voice tightens—and her next words undo me.
“But I am not the woman who held them. I am not who I was when they died. If there is a heaven, they would never let the likes of me in.” Her eyes glisten, yet she refuses to blink to release them.
“Perhaps I am ashamed of what I have become. A bitter old woman with too many deaths on her soul. I do not deserve paradise. But I do deserve my revenge.”
She leans forward, glaring. “Who are you,” she snarls, “to tell me I cannot have it? You killed those who wronged you. Am I not allowed the same? If you do it properly, I can still teach the kid. Come on, House. Please.”
Can I fashion a weapon that will hold her soul and preserve her voice—perhaps even her will—allowing her to move, to wield magic, to guide whoever wields her? I do not know. The twist of a spell, magic that made me, worked… Can I do that again? Better?
It is perilous, morally warped magic, and I hate it.
But she wept, and I cannot bear that.
Give me a couple of days to devise the spell, I say.
That is a lie: I could manage it in an afternoon. Spellwork for an unwilling soul—as was done to me—can take a full coven more than twenty-four hours to complete. But for a willing subject, with my power, it would take no time at all.
What I need is time—time for her to reconsider, to be certain this is truly her wish and not a whim.
I will set everything up. Make your peace.
For the first time, her usually straight spine sags; she crumples in her chair, relief plain on her face.
“Thank you.”
Only then do I notice Harriet sobbing. Loud, tearing sobs, arms wrapped around herself.
“I don’t want you dyin’, Miss,” she whispers.
Beryl reaches across the table, squeezes Harriet’s hand. “We must act quickly, while I still have strength. If it works—if House does it right—I shall remain. I shall still teach you, and we shall still correct that posture of yours.”
“I don’t care a button for me posture, Miss Beattie. I care about you!” she cries.
“Hush now, none of that.” Beryl delves into her bag, pushing aside knitting needles and yarn.
Carefully, she lays a worn, polished stake on the table. “This one,” she says. “I have had it for thirty-two years. It has been part of me. This is what I want.”
Harriet sniffs and nods, her voice cracking as she dutifully repeats my words.
I shall study everything. We will attempt the soul transfer in a few days.