I cross the foyer, taking the turning to the ballroom. The hallway is deserted, which is odd. Then I realise I can see. And the lights aren’t on…
I hear Bertrand hiss. ‘My lady! I can go no further.’
‘It’s fine.’ I keep running, leaving him behind. No vampire can get me now, anyway.
The double doors to the ballroom are splintered, half hanging from their hinges. I slow down, my hand to my mouth. Whatever happened here was quick, and violent. I enter the ballroom and my heart sinks. One of the shutters covering the long windows is bowed out of its frame, the window shattered, pale morning light coming in. The parquetry floor nearby is cracked and blackened, several piles of black ash drifting in the cool autumn air. I feel sick as I realise what they are. Vampires.Or what’s left of them.What if one of them is my mother? Or my father? I cannot bear the thought.
‘My lady.’ The call comes from behind me and I turn. A group of blood dancers are huddled together, kneeling, in the furthest corner of the room. I can’t understand why they’re hiding from the light. Then I realise. They’re shielding someone.
I start towards them, then stop. Oh darkness. Near to the wall, tumbled as though thrown, are the remains of a human. Blood pools on the floor, is spattered up the wall, a spray of crimson droplets. His head is on top of the pile of tangled body parts, mouth open for eternity. I try not to throw up. What in god and nightmares has happened here?
‘My lady, please!’ The call gets more urgent and I hear a groan. I think I recognise the voice. Please, no. I can’t take any more shocks. I make my way to the huddled group in the corner.
‘What… who is it?’ I sniff despite myself. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘We’re fine, my lady.’ It’s Elodie, her dark hair dishevelled, a smear of blood at her temple. She’s closest to me, her body pressed tight with the others, their arms wrapped around each other creating a wall of flesh to shield whoever is behind them.
I bite my lip to stop from screaming. ‘Who is it?’ I ask again, my voice shaking.
‘Emelia.’
My father. His voice is faded, old sounding, and I start to cry. The only reason he’s still here, that he hasn’t left the ballroom, is because he can’t.
‘Emelia, control yourself!’
I wipe my face, sniffing. ‘Father, wh-what can I do? Where’s Mother?’
‘You have to fix the shutter, block the window. Do something. I can’t move.’
‘Uh, okay.’ I can do that. I think. Spots of black ash swirl in the breeze, the gilt and mirrors silvered by the morning light. I avoid the piles of ash and blood spatters as I make my way to the broken window, feeling as though I’m in some horrible dream. The window frame is splintered beyond repair, the shutter bowed and blackened as though some force pushed it outwards. I still don’t know where my mother is. My breath sobs in and out. I hope and pray she was among those who escaped. I put the thought away from me, unable to consider it any longer. I have a job to do here, and I need to focus.
Grabbing the edge of the shutter, I pull, the metal cutting my hands, black soot smearing my dress. It doesn’t move. I groan with frustration, pulling again, but all I succeed in doing is hurting my hands, my palms red and scored with lines. ‘I can’t move it.’
‘Try something else.’ My father doesn’t sound disappointed – rather, he sounds encouraging, like he knows I can do this. I look around and notice panelled inserts running either side of the recessed window frames. I pause, remembering an old video I once watched of a man playing piano as his dark-haired wife opened white wooden shutters, his song one of imagination, of a different world. The windows had been tall, the shutters set in panelled recesses like these. I run my fingers along the edge of the panels. There. A semi-circle indentation at the edge of the wood. I hook my finger in and pull. There’s a creaking sound, and a cloud of dust appears. But the panel moves. I pull harder, managing to get more of my fingers around the wood and, gradually, the shutter opens, coming from the recess like a butterfly wing unfolding, hinges squeaking. It covers the window, not quite opening all the way, but enough to plunge the room into near darkness. The candle-lamps glow once more and there’s a sigh from the corner. The blood dancers come apart, one dropping to all fours. I rush over to my father. Oh my god and darkness.
Daylight is the most devastating thing to a vampire, and it looks as though he was caught in it long enough to ignite. One side of his face is blackened, his clothing singed and torn. I glimpse charred flesh and cuts through the holes in the fabric. A blood dancer is curled up next to him, half fainting. He has her wrist to his mouth. Oh shit. That means he must have been much worse, if he’s been feeding and yet still looks as he does.
‘Father…’ My voice breaks. I drop to my knees. He releases the dancer’s wrist and I see him half smile.
‘Good girl,’ he says, his voice faint.
I hold out my arm. ‘Take some from me.’
His brows come together and his smile fades. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
I am being ridiculous. But I don’t know what else to do. ‘Please, I want to help.’ My voice cracks.
‘You have helped. Here, take Danae.’
Danae is the fainting dancer. She’s so pale, her freckled skin almost translucent. My father must have taken a lot of blood from her. The other dancers crowd around, silent. My eyes prickle with tears at their loyalty, at what they did to protect my father.
‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ I say. ‘I just, um, thank you. Um, can anyone?—’
‘Here.’ James, all lithe muscle and smooth dark skin, bends down next to Danae. He puts an arm under her and together we manage to get her to her feet. Her breathing is shallow though and, as James scoops her up, her eyes roll back in her head.
‘Take her, get her well. I can manage from here. And thank you again, for everything.’
‘This will not be forgotten,’ my father adds. His voice is stronger, but he still hasn’t stood up. As the dancers leave, I kneel beside him.
