Shadowed Garden

She was so lonely.

Sitting in the garden in the evening, she waited for him. She watched the birds, gazed at the bright flowers that swayed in the breeze, but for all their beauty she didn’t really see them. All she saw was her fantasy: of the dark, handsome prince stealing her away in the night while her father and siblings slept soundly in their rooms, in the old mansion that her family had owned for five generations. He always came for her in the night, when the sun had sunken from its lofty aerie, and the shadows played in the starlight until dawn came to chase away her dreams. How she hated the coming of the dawn.

Now, as the sun began to sink below the horizon—always so slowly, and it vexed her—she dozed lightly beneath the tall oak in the middle of the garden, heedless of how the verdant grass stained her soft white gown and petticoat. A breeze stirred her blonde, fair hair, and she roused, looking out at the open sky, which was growing ever darker. It was overcast, the clouds a dark blue-grey against the inky backdrop of the heavens. It was cold, and the breeze was growing, but she waited for her lover.

An hour passed, and then a second, and the night settled into gloom, but at last there was a stirring in the darkness. He came to her on wings of shadow, from out of the vast blackening sky, and her heart leapt with joy. So grand was he, so graceful and so beautiful, that she thought of no one else even in the long hours they were apart; and she desired nothing more than to be reunited with him when the day had passed.

“Did you wait long, Emelie?” he inquired, his voice soothing and charming as always.

“The time seemed to pass in a moment, as though I were under a spell,” she replied, gazing deeply into his dark eyes with her blue. It was a lie, of course. Every second of their separation had been an eternity of longing.

“A spell?” he exclaimed with bewilderment. “And what fey fancy placed you under such enchantment, that you could spare not even a thought for me? I was not missed?” Now there was hurt in his countenance. “What a sorrowful fate! I shall leave you, then, to the waiting arms of your many suitors, who shall surely serve you better.”

A pang of fear struck her, sharp and terrible. “Don’t go!” she called to his back. “You cannot be so cruel! I missed you every second, and you must have guessed it.”

Turning about to face her, he watched her closely with those knowing eyes. “But my dear,” he reasoned, “how can I know a thing if you will not tell it to me? And is not a lady such as yourself inundated with proposals, from far worthier men than I?”

“What man is worthier than you?” she countered. “I should like to see him.”

He gave a brief laugh, and she smiled. There was a hunger in his eyes now, and they roved over her lithe body, though her clothes were ruined and her hair dishevelled, seeming to drink up the sight of her. No other man had ever looked upon her so passionately, and she trembled under his gaze, desperate for his touch, for the wonder of his embrace. “I am yours alone,” she said softly, and knew she truly meant it.

“And I yours,” he said, and she took his thin smile for affection. “I need not rest, nor wine, nor breath of air, if I only have you.”

She ran to him then, and into the caress of his fine strong arms. “But you’re cold,” she said with worry, and it was true: he was as cold as the night, as cold as death.

“Then you need only lend me your warmth,” he murmured, and kissed her.

She delighted in the feel of his breath on her skin, in their closeness, in the sensuous passion of his lips that lingered overlong on her pale, sensitive neck. And at last he kissed her fully on the lips, and she was insensate with ecstasy, knowing nothing but the feel of him against her; and even should the stars have died and fallen from heaven, she should not have known. But alas, after a time she knew not how long, their embrace was parted and she was left only with the memory, and the ache of longing that accompanied it.

The first morning grey had come into the sky. How long had they embraced? It seemed only a moment, lost to her forever, but already the night was fading, and their time had come to an end. As he turned away from her, slow and reluctant, she spied for a moment a most savage hatred directed towards the lightening east, and she was afraid; but this was her lover, and he surely must despise the moment of their separation as much as she.

“Must you go?” she asked in tremulous voice, finding all her strength gone.

“You know it is so, Emelie,” he replied distractedly, his eyes warily heaven-cast. “I cannot linger after dawn.”

“Will you come again tonight?” she inquired, daring not hope.

He looked at her, a long slow gaze that made her heart flutter. “If you wish it,” he said, and smiled broadly. “I will come every night, if you will wait for me.”

His words filled her with purest joy.

“But, there is one small thing I must ask of you,” he said carefully, and with a seeming reluctance.

“Yes?”

He gestured to the graven silver cross that hung at her breast. “I am so very sorry, but could you please leave that behind? My mother had one just like it, before she passed away; it hurts me to see it. I would not have it spoil our time together.”

Such a simple thing gave him so much pause? “You needn’t be sorry over so little,” she laughed. “Of course. I couldn’t care for such a thing more than I do for you.”

His face softened in relief. “Then until the morrow, farewell.”

And then he was gone, vanished like so much shadow.

-----

Day passed, and the evening after it, and the manor was still and silent, swathed in the play of shadows beneath the waxing moon. César finished his reading in the firelight of the study, and stood against the protests of his aching back. Reshelving his novel, he snuffed the candelabra, keeping a single candle to light his way through the hall.

Ever since his wife, Isabelle, had died, he had taken to this habit of reading late into the night. It didn’t matter what he read, merely that he occupied his mind long into the lonely hours of darkness. Perhaps it was unhealthy, but he never broke the habit. It was his nepenthe, his escape from thoughts of his lovely wife and her long, terrible decline and untimely death.

The flickering candlelight cast eerie, fluid shadows across the portraits lining the hallway, and César quickened his step a little. He was old now, too old to be frightened of the dark, but still he let his fancy run wild. Perhaps he had read too many horror novels, he thought wryly to himself.

On the way to his chambers, he spied a door slightly ajar; it was the door into Emelie’s room, and the moonlight shone in past the open drapes. He opened it a little, looking in. Something glittered in the silver light, hanging from her dresser door, but he paid it no mind. Turning, he saw the bed still made. But it was well past the time she should be retired: how unlike her, to be up so very late. And there was no sound through the rest of the manor, no light; wherever could she be?

Silver glittering caught his eye again. It was a cross, a simple thing, adorned only with a short prayer: Dieu, bénissez cette vierge. Abritez-la toujours dans Vos bras, et gardez-la coffre-fort du attouchement de mal. “Lord, bless this virgin maiden. Shelter her in your arms always, and keep her safe from the touch of evil.” A sudden, horrifying fear gripped him, and the candle dropped from his fingers, extinguishing itself.

Damn the stupid girl! How many times had he told her, after her mother died, never ever to remove it! And she wasn’t in her room … where could she be? It simply wasn’t safe for her to be about so late.

“Are you looking for Emelie?” spoke the amused voice of a young man. He stood carelessly on the windowsill, as though it was a perfectly natural place, and the bright moon silhouetted him against the night.

“Emmanuel!” César hissed, anguish crushing his heart. “No more cursed name ever was spoken! What have you done with my precious daughter? Was my wife not enough to slake your dreadful thirst?”

“Ah, Isabelle,” Emmanuel murmured. “I loved her, you know. Such a shame.”

“Never speak her name in my presence, foul night haunt!” César howled. “Why have you come back here?”

“To exact my vengeance, César,” the vampire said carefully, savouring the moment. “Since you killed me and stole my beloved Isabelle, I exist for nothing else. I will take everything from you, and when at last your despair is complete, I will take your life as well, and damn your soul for all eternity.”

Snatching at the cross, César ran to the window, thrusting the holy object at Emmanuel. The younger-seeming man leapt back, laughing, his feet resting easily on the air as though it was solid earth. Great wings of shadow rose from his back, obscuring the moon, so that the feral light of his eyes burned brightly. With his left hand, he led a pale figure from behind him, and into the light.

“Emelie!” César gasped, tears forming in his eyes. “What have you done, fool girl?”

She regarded him with darkened eyes, now devoid of innocence or mercy. “I love him, father,” she said, and gazed longingly at Emmanuel’s face. “You could never understand that.”

“This is not the last time, César,” Emmanuel called mirthfully. “I will return. And piece by piece, I will tear apart all that you have.”

The pair vanished into the night, and César fell to his knees in desolation. Emmanuel would keep his word. That much had always been true.