The Vampire Secret
She had avoided Mr. Dreyfus for several days, but knew she could not avoid him forever.
Not while her grandfather, Mr. Knowles, insisted on dictating his life story to the odd, aloof Mr. Dreyfus.
It didn’t make sense to Pheobe. Nothing in Old Skipling was special nor worthy of being written down. The townsfolk had their routines and, like clockwork, they followed those routines. It was the only thing keeping them alive now.
In forty years, the town would be little more than a cluster of houses held fast by the stubborn folk who refused to let Old Skipling die.
But Pheobe knew if she did nothing about Mr. Dreyfus, Old Skipling would not last another forty years.
One morning in mid-december, Phoebe practiced her pianoforte at the village Church. The Vicar owned the only pianoforte in Old Skipling and her parents had sent express instructions that she continue her lessons over her Holiday stay.
Phoebe did not mind it so much anymore. Her lessons became the excuse she used to slip away from her grandparents’ home when she grew too homesick for the city.
As she came to the end of her scales, the Vicar’s wife told her that her grandmother had sent a message for her to return home as soon as possible.
“There is important news from your mother,” the kind woman said. “But your grandparents want to tell you in person.”
Phoebe hurried home. A sickly cold feeling twisted Phoebe’s stomach the whole way back. No good news was ever shared in person.
At least, never for her.
The house was still as she climbed the porch steps. Pushing open the front door, she came into the parlor.
Her grandfather’s fireside chair sat empty. Her grandmother’s needlework lay unattended on the small table beside her rocker.
Fear gripped Pheobe’s throat. Where had they gone? What of the message? The Vicar’s wife had told her the news expressly—and she wouldn’t lie, of course she wouldn’t.
But they were not here.
Yet, as she stood still, Pheobe knew someone else was.
A palpable breath lingered in the empty room. A presence seeped into the floorboards, betraying the sanctuary of her home.
Not daring to turn, Phoebe glanced toward the mantle clock.
There, in its glass, she saw him. His features were not clear, but his form she knew.
Mr. Dreyfus.
He stood just behind her, blocking the only way out.
Her blood turned to ice, sparking terror in her veins. Phoebe rushed into the adjoining room, bolting the door behind her.
She heard his footfalls and her heartbeats could have sounded the church bells.
Her room of refuge was her grandmother’s reading nook. The only way in happened to be the only way out. The singular window looked out over the steep hill that sloped to the lake below.
It would have to do. Phoebe rushed to the window ledge.
“Miss Knowles?” Mr. Dreyfus’ voice came through the door. “Miss Knowles, I do not wish to involve your grandfather in this.”
“But you have, haven’t you?” she said, frantically searching for the window latch. “You come into our home every day. Eat at our table, drink from our cups.”
“I am invited—”
“Your kind cannot enter unless invited!”
The window rattled open, groaning as the frame scraped the rim of the windowsill. Adrenaline coursed through her. She gathered up her skirts to more easily climb out.
“Miss Knowles, do not pass through the window.”
She paused on the sill. Cold winds whipped through the opening. How did he know about the window? How often did he come here so as to know the house so well? She heard the twitch of the door latch from without as he laid his hand on it.
“The drop is steeper than it seems. You will be hurt.”
“I will be hurt more by you,” she said.
The sloping ground below yawned deeper as she gazed down at it. But that was just her fear. She would be careful. Phoebe threw one leg over the window sill.
Don’t.
Something tightened in her chest, a dread she could not explain. As if guided by invisible hands, Phoebe pushed herself back inside the room. She shut the window and latched it.
She stood motionless. What she had experienced was his doing. She was sure of it. He couldn’t let her tell his secret.
But then…why didn’t he let her jump?
Clasping her trembling hands, she turned to the door, “Why did you come here, sir?”
“You did not give me the opportunity to speak with you in private. I would have let you be, but the vicar told me what you confided in him.”
Phoebe’s heart froze. So this was retaliation? “Where are my grandparents? What have you done to them?”
“Knowles and Amelia are well. They’ve gone to Sumerset to purchase a gift for you. They hoped you would return home late, of course.”
Realization dawned in her mind. “You sent the message. You lured me here.”
“Yes. And I hope to complete our business before they return home,” his voice lowered, lingering softly in the silence, “I’m sure you do as well, Miss Knowles. Now, please…open the door.”
Phoebe slowly undid the latch. Her heart pounded in her throat. Perhaps she could slip past him if she opened the door wide enough?
He caught the door when she had opened it part way. Pheobe averted her eyes, unable to meet his just yet.
“Please, do not test my patience further,” he said as they stood opposite in the doorway, “If I must, I will follow you again should you escape. But I would rather settle our business and be done.”
“Settle it how, sir?” Did he mean to dispose of her?
“I have questions, Miss Knowles,” he said, stepping within the room. “Questions I need answered.”
He attempted to close the door but she held the latch. She thought perhaps it would give her courage to hold on. But when their eyes met, her courage took form in a new way.
She released the latch. “So do I, Mr. Dreyfus.”
Mr. Dreyfus closed and locked the door. Crossing her arms, Phoebe stepped away, keeping herself out of arms’ reach as he crossed to the worn chaise. With little ado, he seated himself, hands resting on the cane stood between his knees. He invited her to sit.
Rather than be seated beside him, Phoebe took the small stool opposite him. The seating felt strangely intimate in a twisted way; as if she were about to confess her sins to him.
“You have questions for me, sir?” she began, pretending as though this were a perfectly ordinary discussion.
He studied her, cane tapping gently on the floorboards.
“What made you come to this conclusion?” he asked once the silence had ripened, “What was it that brought on this notion?”
She sat a little straighter. “So it’s true? You…you are a vampyre?”
“Answer my question first, young lady. Then I may answer yours.”
“You took Mrs. Auckland’s hens, didn’t you? I found down feathers on your boots.”
Huffing, he looked away, clearly vexed at himself. Phoebe girpped her hands more tightly.
“And—and the Alban boy. I saw you leant over him during the advent prayer. When the candles were dimmed. He looked pale as death until you whispered in his ear during the second reading.”
“The young man was having difficulty keeping pace with the service,” Mr. Dreyfus said coolly. “He nearly nodded off completely. I simply attempted to rescue him from embarrassment.”
“He’s the Parson’s son, Mr. Dreyfus.”
The thin lips curled. “All the more need to be spared that embarrassment, Miss Knowles.”
“Why are you averse to sunlight then? Shouldn’t you appreciate its warmth during this horrid cold?”
He glanced toward the cold window. “My family home is near the bog to the north, Miss Knowles. The dark days ease my homesick heart.”
“Stop it, Mr. Dreyfus! You are a vampyre, I know you are,” she rose to her feet, hot tears of frustration pricking her lashes. “You can lie and deceive them, but you won’t do it to me! I won’t let you.”
“Is it really so important to you? That you should know for certain?” he asked. “It’s not enough that you’ve caught me at my weakest moments?”
“Weakest? No, you’ve grown bold; or, or Old Skipling has grown blind and I don’t—” she pressed a fist to her quivering lips, “I don’t know which is more horrible.”
The ghost of a smile crossed his lips, but he said nothing. He twisted the cane into the wooden floor, until it would go no further and he stopped.
“The winter has been so bitter,” he met her gaze, “I cannot remember when last I felt so cold…so empty.”
His eyes fell to her neck. Phoebe held her breath. But he turned away.
“Have you finished with your questions, young lady, or are their more accusations you want to lay on my shoulders?”
Perhaps resignation brought on a foolish boldness. The door stood locked, her fate sealed. She wanted to witness the naked truth before he took her life.
“I want to see them,” she said.
He remained motionless, but she saw one brow arch.
“Your fangs,” she laid a hand over her racing heart. “I want to see your fangs, Mr. Dreyfus.”
He said nothing, until the silence rang in her ears. Then he met her eyes.
“What do you hope to gain by that, Miss Knowles?”
“Understanding,” but she hesitated. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Perhaps. But understanding comes at a cost, you know.”
His lips drew back. She expected fangs, canines curled in a pristine, elegant fashion.
But instead she saw his teeth long, sharp, and twisted.
His hand snatched her arm. Before Phoebe could speak, he’d drawn down the sleeve up to her elbow.
Phoebe divined his intent. Anxiously, she let him bring her wrist to where his breath kissed her skin
“Is this what you wanted to see?” he said. His eyes watched her, waiting.
Phoebe stood rooted in place. “Yes.”
“Very well.”
She did not see him do it. Only felt him. An immediate, violent pain shot through her veins.
He sat motionless, lips pressed to her wrist, drinking everything her body gave up to him.
“Mr. Dreyfus—”
She’d meant it as warning that she was weak. But the effort proved too much and her knees gave way.
She heard a low rustle, saw a blur of dark silk as he caught her to his bosom.
“There, there now,” he sighed.
Mr. Dreyfus helped her down on the worn chaise, propping up her head with the aid of a pillow.
The room swam around her. Dark spots blurred her vision, nearly blotting him out.
“I knew it…I knew it was true,” she whispered.
“And what shall we do now?” he asked her, “I am found out and you are lying weak at my hands. This seems unfortunate for us both.”
The gashes he left bled without stopping. Cradling her wrist, he brought his tongue to the wounds. She felt a warm sensation ripple through her arm, and when he had kissed away the remants of her blood, all trace of his violence disappeared.
Phoebe watched him. “You…healed me?”
He pressed his thumb to her veins, to be sure her pulse had not weakened further.
“I may stain my lips with your blood, Miss Knowles. I wouldn’t stain my soul with it.”
Seeing him now, leant over her as he was, Phoebe saw how gaunt his face was, how tightly his skin stretched over his bones. Did he always look that way? Or had the bitter winter forced such a haunting expression from his tired face?
In spite of herself, she reached up and touched his skin lightly. Tiny flecs of gray dusted her fingertips.
“Are you dying?” she said.
“Yes. Dying but never dead.”
“Why?”
His gaze softened. “Such a curious thing, aren’t you?”
The kindness in his tone disarmed Phoebe, moreso because it appeared when he spoke about her. She frowned and lowered her eyes, flushing pink.
Mr. Dreyfus seemed amused.
“Have you taken any from my Grandmother?” she asked, “Or from Grandfather?”
He grew serious. “No. Not for many years. I would not trouble the elders for their blood.”
“That is why you took from Alban? And me?”
He gave a low hum of acknowledgement.
“But how can they not know what you are? How many years have you spent in Old Skipling?”
His somber eyes lowered. “Enough years for it to matter.”
“Then?”
“Then, perhaps, they do not want to know. Your grandfather’s account of this places vexes you, I know it does, but—do you never why they live here still? Without Old Skipling…without my presence, they know their own morality fast approaches. But with me, life becomes an hourglass frozen in time.”
“Do you prolong their lives?”
“In a manner.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Dreyfus.”
“It is not a thing to easily understand.”
“But I want to,” she insisted, her stupor all but gone now. “If I could determine you are a vampyre, why can’t I understand how you are?”
His cold fingers traced the dip beneath her jaw. “Do not force me to grant you that understanding. You would despise me for eternity.”
His palm settled on her neck. She felt ensnared yet protected beneath it. His eyes held such despair, such ravenous regret that she did not dare speak.
“Is not one forbidden truth enough?”
Her heart rebelled his question. She had puzzled, wondered, fretted through the long nights until the dawn mocked her. Had she not earned the right to know more?
But what would he ask of her in return?
“How is your head, young lady?” he asked, testing her forehead with the back of his hand.
“It’s not so dizzy anymore,” Phoebe said, feeling flushed. When he made to remove his hand, she pressed her hand over it. “Just a moment more, please? Your palm is cooling.”
Mr. Dreyfus’ brow furrowed in amusement, but he let her keep his hand in place. His touch soothed the warmth in her head and staved the headache that threatened.
Now that the truth was clear, she felt a certain freedom. Theory had been tested and proven fact. With his bite, Phoebe found herself unfettered from the chains of uncertainty. Perhaps that in itself was enough.
“How did you know?”
She opened her eyes. His voice has wakened her from her dozing. He watched her with a quiet intent, his features sharpened just enough to give him a haunted look.
“I don’t know,” she said, resting her hands together. “It simply made sense to me.”
“Do you always wonder if men of eccentric tastes and solitary habits are vampyres?”
“…It may be why my parents sent me away to Old Skipling.”
Mr. Dreyfus barked a shrill laugh. Gesturing an apology, he attempted to comment, but a fit of chuckles kept him speechless for some time.
“Forgive my incontinence. Are there many vampyres in the city?”
“Not in the way I thought, no,” Phoebe sighed. She raised herself on her elbows, “I…don’t know what to think about them now that I’ve met you.”
He gathered her arms, helping her to sit up. The silence pounded in her head. Wincing, she teetered as her body threatened to succumb. He kept her steady until the attack passed.
“I don’t want to leave Old Skipling now, knowing what you are.” She pressed her quivering lips together. “Promise me you won’t hurt them.”
“Miss Knowles—”
“Please. If you won’t tell me what it is you do, or what effect you have on this place, then you must promise you won’t harm them.”
He regarded her coldly. “Even if I promise to ‘control myself,’ you must know I take great risk in allowing you to keep my secret, Miss Knowles.”
“Would you kill me to keep it?” she asked.
His brow furrowed, features went dangerously still. “How many times must I deny the temptation of your body before you understand that murder is not my aim?”
His eyes lingered on her neck, lips stretched thin until his fangs protruded. She had struck a nerve.
“You are a hunter, Mr. Dreyfus,” she said calmly.
“And you are not? Searching for a secret that isn’t yours to bear, yearning for answers you are not strong enough to know, holding your ground against a creature like me,” he took her hands in his own. “It would be a sin, even for myself, to destroy one so foolish and clever.”
“But what of everyone else?” she pressed, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach. “Must they be clever to be safe?”
“Don’t twist my words, now,” he said, “I’ve all but promised you I do not wish to take their lives.”
Phoebe rose from the chaise. “Seal your promise, then. Vow it and I swear on everything I love, I will never tell your secret to a living soul.”
He watched her intently, his expression dark as the shadows around them. Then, he reached for her wrist. “As you wish.”
“No, not with blood,” she said, clutching her wrist close, “Blood is not sacred to you. The act would be no better than forming a pact over brandy.”
He found this amusing, but did not linger on the analogy.
“Well, then, young lady,” he said, “how shall we seal this promise? Since blood, it seems, is not sacred enough.”
Phoebe drew in her lips, unable to meet his eyes. “A kiss.”
Mr. Dreyfus straightened, a knowing look softening his features.
“That is sacred enough for you?”
She nodded. “Vows are made by them.”
“Vows are broken by them, too, young lady,” he warned, rising to his feet.
“Isn’t that up us?”
He closed the distance between them. “And if one breaks the vow?”
Clutching the lapels of his coat, Phoebe stood on tiptoe to make herself level with him. “Then the other will, tooMr. Dreyfus steadied her waist between his hands. The cold touch of his palms permeated through her thick woolen dress.
“Silence is a heavy burden to bear,” he warned her, keeping her close as she balanced.
She knew that. She always did. Perhaps that truth made her heart beat faster.
Phoebe touched his cheek. “Is that why you confessed what you are?”
“…Yes.”
His very soul carried on that one word.
He needed this vow as much as she did. She must not delay any longer.
Leaning close, Phoebe prepared to kiss him. But in the moment, she lost courage and simply pecked his lips quickly. Thumping down onto her heels, she attempted to wriggle free.
Mr. Dreyfus appeared surprised. Then, at the sight of her flushing cheeks, he softened.
His gaze held such a mixture of cold tenderness that she wanted to look away. But she didn’t. She basked in it.
“Come now,” he murmured.
He held her close, until their bodies became as one. One hand cradled her head gently as he dipped towards her.
She lifted her chin to meet him.
They kissed. Fully, completely. His lips felt cold, yet full against her own. When he seemed to hesitate, to break their fragile bond, Phoebe lifted her chin to strengthen the kiss.
She told herself she did it to be sure the kiss was worthy of a vow.
But that was only partially true. The kiss bound them in the vow, yes. But being held in his arms like this, alone and unseen in all of Old Skipling—that felt sacred.
She stayed in his embrace. Bared her secrets to him as he revealed his own.
Until the world grew quiet and the stars fell still.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Phoebe! Phoebe, darling, are you home?”
Phoebe awakened when her grandmother called from without. She heard her grandfather’s shuffling steps in the hall.
Phoebe roused herself from the chaise. Mr. Dreyfus had gone. Something dark and heavy tumbled from her knees when she stood.
A long coat winter coat. The coat he had worn that afternoon. She couldn’t remember him laying it over her, but the room did feel cold when she raised herself.
Her grandfather pushed into the room, holding a candle. “Ah, there you are, poppet. I say, what have you got there? Did Dreyfus leave his coat here again?” he clicked his tongue, “That fool would forget his head if wasn’t attached.”
Phoebe embraced him. “Thank you, Grandfather.”
Confused, Knowles returned her embrace, chuckling, “For what, Poppet?”
Phoebe let her eyes linger on the window behind them. It had been left open. Just a crack.
“For writing your book.”
Her grandmother’s voice called once more. “Charles! Come light the oven, will you? Phoebe, set the table, child! I won’t wait another minute for supper.”
Soon enough, the family were gathered around the table.
“I do hope you were not too worried about us, child,” Mr. Knowles said over dinner. “We did not expect you to be home so soon.”
“Never mind,” Phoebe smiled in understanding, before returning her eyes to the platter before her. She still felt the ghost of his kiss on her lips. “But what called you out of town so unexpectedly?”
Her grandparents exchanged looks of excitement. Then her grandmother hurried from the table to bring a wrapped parcel to Phoebe.
“Open it, Phoebe,” she insisted, clasping her hands.
Phoebe undid the brown paper. “Oh! A dress!”
“No, a ball gown! For the ball this Saturday!”
“Not a ball, it’s the yuletide dance,” Mr. Knowles explained, smiling at his wife’s joy.
“Oh, shush, Horace, it’s a ball,” Mrs. Knowles said, “It’s to be held at the mayor’s house this Saturday, as I said. Everyone in Old Skipling must attend, young or old,” she cast a knowing glance at her husband, who blushed like a schoolboy, “But of course, you deserve a proper ballgown for the occassion.”
Phoebe held up the dress to herself. A beautiful soft azure dress with tufted sleeves. Embroidered snowflakes bedecked the flowing skirt, creating the illusion of a snow flurry when she spun around with it.
“Heaven’s sakes, go try it on!” Mrs. Knowles clapped.
Phoebe rushed upstairs to her room. Shutting the door, she slipped into the gown as quickly as possible. While looking at the ballgown, she couldn’t help but think how beautiful it was and how well it fit her.
A shiver of excitement passed through her. She found herself hoping for the ball on Saturday to come soon. She did not know if anyone would notice her. But perhaps that didn’t matter so much. Right now, she must show the gown to her grandparents.
As she descended the stairs, with slight difficulty due to the skirts, she noticed Mr. Dreyfus’s coat hanging by the door. She paused, lost in thought.
Then hurried on to the dining room.
THE END
