Chapter Three: The Morning That Was Not Morning

CHAPTER THREE

The Morning That Was Not Morning

Every clock in Blackwood Manor claimed that it was ten in the morning. I had servants check each one, and the response was always the same: the clocks were working as they were supposed to. It was ten in the morning, and it was as dark as could be.

I told my maid, Candice, to awaken my parents, who were normally quite punctual. When Candice returned, she said, “I am sorry, my lady, but they insist on staying in bed.”

I sighed, and headed for my parents’ room to wake them up myself.

“Be careful, my lady,” Candice called after me. “Lady Elizabeth is in a pillow-throwing mood, I fear!”

There was indeed a pillow on the floor when I entered. After pulling open the drapes, I went to Mother’s side of the bed. “Wake up, Mama.”

After a moment, her eyes creaked open. “What? What is it?”

“Mama, the sky is black.” I let the fear show in my eyes. I could not show it to the servants, but I could show it to my mother. “It’s ten in the morning. Every clock in the house says so.”

For a moment, her eyes widened in what I took to be fearful recognition. However, they quickly returned to a thin, drowsy state, as if she had assured herself that I was overreacting. “Don’t be silly, Maraina. That can’t be.”

Father turned over with a grunt. “Everything’s fine, Maraina. Go back to bed.”

“But look.” I opened the doors to the balcony and gestured to the shrouded countryside. The weather was often overcast, but never had the clouds been so utterly black as they were now. It was as though the sun had been consumed by shadows. “This isn’t the night sky. There are no stars. There is no moon.”

The sky had become an infinite abyss. As I stared out at it, I felt as though I might fall up, and be lost forever. I felt absolutely minuscule, and it seemed that my house and family were equally minuscule—equally helpless. My fingers dug into the sleeves of my dress.

“Leave us,” Father said hoarsely.

I left the room . . . but I knew my parents were hiding something, and I wanted to know what. So after closing the door, I pressed my ear against it and listened.

“There’s something I must say,” Mother whispered, her voice cracking from the weight of her emotion. “I have not yet told you, for it sounds so terribly absurd—but Mr. Beauxdera may be telling the truth, and that is all the more reason to avoid him.”

“What?” Father asked. “You believe his slander?”

Mother hesitated. “I don’t know what I believe. But I saw Mr. Beauxdera once before we attended that dreadful concerto. He also played at Mary’s party, last April. You were with the girls in London, so I went alone.”

“I remember, Lizzy.”

“I didn’t tell you this before, for I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me, but . . . midway through the party Mary disappeared, and while looking for her I happened upon a room where the two of them were alone together. Benjamin . . . they . . . ”

“You needn’t say more. It doesn’t surprise me at all that the man’s a deviant.”

“You don’t understand. What I saw was not something that is ordinarily done. Mr. Beauxdera had fangs, and they were in poor Mary’s neck, draining her blood. He had fangs, Ben!”

A lump formed in my throat. It couldn’t be. Of course I’d heard of vampires; I’d even read some of the penny dreadful Varney the Vampire. But never had I believed them to be real. And how could Mr. Beauxdera, of all people, be one?

Mother continued frantically, the words rushing from her mouth like a train: “Mary saw me. She followed me as I ran out. She told me that it was a misunderstanding, that she wanted it. Oh, Ben, the monster must have seduced her! I fled, and did not speak a word of it to anyone. But months ago, I heard that Mr. Cillian had come to her home . . . and she hasn’t been seen during the day since. I fear she’s become a monster like Mr. Beauxdera. I’ve been afraid to visit her. I’ve been afraid to even answer her letters. I wish I was mad, I truly do, but I’m not, Ben. I saw what I saw.”

For a moment, Father was speechless; he seemed unable to reconcile Mother’s words, and looked at her as if she might be mad. Then he sighed, and said, “Then it’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

“In his letter, Mr. Cillian mentioned that there was to be a cause. He offered that I—that we—join this cause, and be rewarded with . . . immortality.” Father sounded troubled by the word. “I thought it had to be figurative. Or forgery. Or a joke. How could I believe it, dear, when it was all so absurd?”

“It is absurd. He must be a madman, Ben. Why did you ever agree to his visit?”

“It felt rude not to. I . . . I didn’t think it would be anything serious.” Father sighed. “Whatever happens, I won’t let him corrupt you or the girls. This so-called ‘immortality’ can only be a devilish curse, and our children will not succumb.”

I backed away from the door, too disturbed to listen further. I had to find Gladys. I had to warn her. I’d always lived with my family; while we often did not see eye to eye, I could not imagine life without them. I wanted to cling to each and every one of them while I still could.

I found Gladys on the balcony outside her room, gripping the railing and staring fearfully up into the sky. As I approached, she grabbed my hand.

“Maraina . . . ” She turned to look at me, her eyes tear-stricken. “Do you think it’s true, what Mr. Beauxdera said about Mr. Cillian?”

“It is.” I couldn’t lie to her. Not now.

“Maybe he won’t be able to come anymore,” said Gladys. “Maybe the black sky has changed his plans.”

“How do you know he didn’t cause the black sky?” I asked. “Oh, Gladys, what are we to do? We cannot sit here and do nothing.”

“We will not sit here and do nothing,” came a growl from behind me. Father had joined us, with Mother close behind. “You will not like what we must do, but we must do it all the same. This Mr. Cillian is a man; therefore, he can be reasoned with.”

I could not believe what Father was suggesting, especially given what he had just admitted to Mother. “Do you jest?” I asked. “We should flee.”

“It’s all right, dear,” said Mother, touching Father to soothe him, lest he become angry with me again. “Your father has a plan.”

Her terrified eyes suggested that she didn’t have much faith in it, but she was evidently forcing herself to stand by Father anyway. Gladys gripped my hand, but she, too, forced herself to smile and nod. When our parents were gone, she buried her face into my shoulder.

I let her cry on me for hours. She told me about various friends and suitors she wanted to say goodbye to. Then the clock struck four, and a servant called us to dinner. Gladys gave me a tearful smile and said, “Mother is right. Father’s plan will work out. We just need to have faith in him.”

She went down to the dining room. I considered fleeing on my own, but I did not know where to go, and did not want to abandon my family. Still, I needed a way to protect myself.

I’d already fired a gun once . . . who was to say I couldn’t do it again?

I rushed up to Father’s private study, where his gun cabinet waited. There I found a revolver, and bullets to load it with. The weapon felt cold and foreign in my hands, and I did not feel any safer for holding it. Nonetheless, I slipped it into the pocket of my dress.

As I headed downstairs, I wondered about the servants. What would happen to Candice? Would Mr. Cillian kill her, too? I toyed with the idea of shooting him as soon as he entered, but the idea repulsed me. I decided I’d only use the gun if necessary.

The dining room’s lights were dimmed, basking everything in a sickly yellow hue. When I entered, my dress looked as though it had aged a hundred years. The chair at the end of the table was closest to the doors, and it was empty for our guest. Normally this was where Mother sat, but tonight she sat between Father and myself. Gladys sat across from me, fidgeting with her nails, her eyes hollow with fear. On the table was bloody meat—nothing but raw bloody meat, all over. The smell was so rank that I pinched my nose.

“He’s late,” Father whispered.

“Maybe he’s not coming,” said Mother. “Maybe he forgot, or . . . or maybe there’s still time to flee.”

“Don’t be a fool. He’d find us.”

Mother looked to be on the verge of tears. “Please,” she said. “Give me one moment of hope. Just one moment.”

Thud, thud, thud. I heard the marching of many boots.

“They’re here,” whispered Mother. “Oh, Benjamin, they’re here!”

The servants opened the dining room doors, allowing eight black-cloaked figures to sweep in with mechanical precision. Where their faces should have been, there were only fanged skull masks, and though I saw no eyes in their sockets, I could feel them staring at me. They held their silver swords out before them, each blade a perfectly centered line down its carrier’s bone face.

As they entered, so too did a black-suited, top-hatted man. His body was thin, yet his head was extremely round—nearly a perfect sphere. Even his spectacles were circular in shape. As he grinned, his white, utterly hairless face stretched like rubber.

As one skeletal guard closed the door, another readied the chair at the end of the table. The pale man sat. He did not remove his hat.

As Mother wiped her face with her napkin, Father cleared his throat. “Welcome, Mr. Cillian. I am Benjamin Blackwood. This is my wife Elizabeth—” He paused, for the skeletal creatures were marching over to stand behind his and Mother’s chairs.

“Do continue,” said Mr. Cillian. His voice was excessively nasal. “Don’t mind the Reapers. They’re friendly, that’s all.”

Father’s eyes quivered. “Very well,” he said. “These are my daughters, Maraina and Gladys.”

Reapers took standing positions behind our chairs. Now the only chair that did not have a Reaper standing behind it was Mr. Cillian’s. My hand traveled to my pocket, and gripped the revolver. If I shot him now, would the Reapers kill us?

“We have blood-soaked meat for you, sir,” said Mother. Under the table, her hand was shaking as it held Father’s. “If you wish, a servant can pour you a refreshment, as well.”

“Quite the adulators, aren’t we?” said Mr. Cillian, still grinning. “Yes, I’ll have a glass of whatever’s in that bottle there.”

Barnes, who had always been calm and reserved, shook as he readied a red bottle that had no label. He tried to remove the cork, but his trembling hands made this difficult. When he finally managed to pry it free, he spilled, and crimson splashed onto the tablecloth. Barnes let out a nervous gasp and cleaned the stain, apologizing profusely, while a footman poured the bottle’s crimson contents into Mr. Cillian’s glass. Mr. Cillian giggled, thanked the servants, and took a small sip, before eyeing the meat. When our second footman came to serve it, Mr. Cillian took a sliver for his plate. It dripped with bloody sauce.

“This isn’t pork, is it?”

Father let out a nervous laugh. “Of course not. We wouldn’t show you such disrespect as that.”

Mr. Cillian brought some into his mouth and chewed.

“Well,” he said after a pause, “since I’m not queasy, I shall assume you are telling the truth. I suppose some people just taste more like pigs than others.”

I stared at the meat, my hand rising unconsciously to my mouth. No . . . it couldn’t be. My parents would never do that. And yet, I remembered Mr. Beauxdera’s rhyme: They sculpt their pearls from our bones, and make our flesh into their scones . . .

“I mean it as a compliment, you know,” said Mr. Cillian.

Surely I was misinterpreting? I wanted to hug my body. I wanted to squeeze my shoulders.

“Because it tastes lovely,” said Mr. Cillian.

I couldn’t start crying, not now. I squinted to stop my eyes from popping out of my head. I focused my gaze upon my parents, and they must have seen the horror on my face, for guilt flashed in their eyes. “How could you?” I whispered.

Mr. Cillian beamed. “Well, go on! Aren’t you all going to tuck in, too?”

The footmen offered us the meat, but none of us moved to take it. Father seemed too terrified to move, or to even speak.

I wondered who was on that plate. A servant? Candice? I remembered once seeing her sweating on a hot day, her skin shiny from grease . . .

“Anyone?” asked Mr. Cillian. “No? Fine then. Straight to business. Mr. Blackwood, I understand that you own a great many successful factories.”

Father looked ready to choke on his own breath. “Yes, that is correct.”

“So you acquired your fortune by utilizing the innovations of industry.”

“That—is also correct, Mr. Cillian.”

Mr. Cillian smiled. “You clearly understand that successful men take advantage of the changes of their age. Now, with the world on the precipice of a grand new era, you have the opportunity to do so once again.”

Father said nothing. His eyes were hollow with fear. I wondered if he was beginning to realize that his plan was not going to work.

“I’m here,” Mr. Cillian continued, “to ask if you want to join us. If you will pledge devotion to the Church of Black Heaven, and accept the gift of immortality.”

I tried to study Father’s face, wondering what he would say. Surely he wouldn’t accept this offer? But if he refused it . . . I glanced up at the Reaper standing behind my chair. It did not acknowledge me.

Father spoke slowly: “We . . . understand your exceedingly generous offer. We have no interest in immortality at this time. But we do give you our compliance.”

“Your compliance?” Another smile cracked Mr. Cillian’s lips. “Heh. I see. Your compliance . . . ”

“We offer neutrality,” said Father. “We won’t stand in your way. You have our word.”

“Then you do not offer your allegiance?” inquired Mr. Cillian, venom surging into his voice.

Father didn’t respond.

The silence in the room grew sharper and sharper, until it seemed to pierce my ears. Then Mr. Cillian’s mouth stretched wide open, and he giggled like a child. It was the most unsettling laugh I had ever heard. I wanted to shoot him then and there, but my hand froze in my pocket, afraid to pull out the gun—even as Mr. Cillian’s lips curled back to reveal sharp, bloody canines.

“I was so hoping we’d get to this part . . . ” he said, wiping his mirth-streaked eyes.

His giggles erupted into loud, manic laughter, and the Reapers behind our seats raised their blades. Before the one behind me could stab down, I pulled the revolver from my pocket, pointed up at the Reaper’s jaw, and fired. The Reaper fell as the bullet blasted through its head, but no blood sprayed from the wound—only a cloud of dust. The skull mask wasn’t a mask at all. It was its face!

I heard screams all around me as the other Reapers brought their blades down, then up, then down again, stabbing Mother, Father, and Gladys over and over. Gladys’s blood felt warm as it splashed against me, soaking my face and dress and hair. She reached for me from across the table, terror in her eyes, until whatever life they’d once held simply disappeared. Her gaze became empty, and her body ceased to move, save for the shudder it gave each time the Reaper stabbed it. “Gladys?” I tried to say, but I choked on her name. Somehow, all the air had left my lungs. “Mother?”

The entire table was red. Mother and Father lay still, dead eyes open as the Reapers continued to stab their corpses. Even Barnes and the footmen lay dead on the floor, blood pooling around them.

And all the while, Mr. Cillian cackled, too caught up in his murderous glee to notice that I was still alive. With a mortified wail, I pointed my revolver at him, and pulled the trigger once more. There was a burst of red. Mr. Cillian let out a snarl of pain and clutched his shoulder. “After the bitch!” he shouted. “After her!”

I got up and fled from the room, but the Reapers marched after me. I tried to shoot them as I ran, but I hit only walls. Before I knew it, I was out of bullets.

Panicking, I dropped the revolver and focused on my escape. I bolted through the doors at the back of the house, then down the staircase that led to the grounds.

I headed for the stables; I’d find Bastion and ride him to safety, just as I had the other night. But when I reached the stables, a Reaper was already there, pulling a bloody blade out of Bastion’s flesh. The horse lay on its side, dead . . . and our other horses were no different. The Reaper marched after me, staring with its eyeless skull face.

I ran onto the grounds, struggling to breathe. I stole a quick look behind me, and saw that the Reapers were getting closer. How could they move so quickly when they were merely marching? But then, I was not used to running, and my energy was disappearing by the second.

By the time I’d reached the edge of our grounds, my chest was heaving painfully. My throat felt as though it was being struck by a whip at every moment. My limbs begged me to stop, to lie down and let the Reapers kill me. Then—as if in answer to my unspoken prayers—a stagecoach blasted into view. It stopped right in front of me.

“Get in!” cried the driver, who to my surprise was a woman. It was too dark to see her face, and I had no way of knowing whom she served. But I knew that if I stayed, I would be killed for sure. I was too exhausted to keep running, and there was nowhere for me to go anyway.

So I stepped into the mysterious coach. The driver wasted no time in lashing the reins. We were moving before I’d even sat down.