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, changingtack.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 notwho 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 awillingsubject, 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.
Chapter Six
One Hundred and Seven Years Ago
