The following is an excerpt from my second novel. Ignore the grammar please as it has not been to the editor. I would appreciate any comments or feedback. Thanks!


Tonight, I prepare for my journey to Russia. I had thought to make Alaska my permanent home but the events that followed the staking of the vampire some months back have made that an impossibility.
Even now, my three children set weeping in the small home they share with the native woman I have called wife for several years. They do not understand why I leave them and their sense of abandonment is acute. I cannot blame them for is it not the greatest betrayal a child can suffer? Worse yet is that I cannot even tell them my reasons and my children will forever believe that I left them for no other reason than a selfish desire to return to my homeland or out of shame at their dark skin.
How can I tell them that I leave to save them when I am unable to make them understand how I am saving them? How can I tell them that their father has dabbled in the dark arts? Even now, I question not only my sanity but also my purity before God. Let me explain.
On the night of the vampire’s capture, it was I who treated the body and prepared it for reburial. It was only I and the Archimandrite who were present with the body in close quarters. The Baranov had wanted to limit the number of men who came in contact with the aberration in hopes of controlling the aftermath. Thus, I was able to take much blood from the veins of the beast and in doing so was able to fill up several vials of the substance, which have remained hidden to all men, including the Baranov.
In the glow of the lamp each evening for these many days, I have stared at the contents of the vials, wondering what could be done with this unholy bounty. As a scientist, I recognized that the substance within these bottles should be studied, examined. As a devout member of the church, I knew I should cast it aside as it is cursed. The scientist in me won out and the bottles rest safely in my cabinet.
I am a heretic to be sure. The Church would most likely excommunicate me, as the vampire was, if they knew what power I possessed here in my small clinic. And it IS power, I am certain of that. For the substance inside these glass bottles has not decayed in any way. The liquid is as bright and free flowing as ever. No clots have as of yet began to form. It is as alive as the day six months back that I pulled it from his veins.
Because of this I know the legends are true. That the accursed Adrik lies waiting beneath the ground. While we sleep, he strains against his shackles and when we awake, his body goes lax as his mind burs with plans of his retribution. Awake, conscious, but bound by the power of the Cross and therefore, he thinks but cannot act. He burns with lust but cannot attain his desires. He hungers but cannot starve. Exhausted, he cannot sleep.
I am certain of this because I have done the most unconscionable thing. I have consumed his blood. Not much, only a few drops and yet what seemed an inconsequential amount now torments me in the greatest of ways!
It was an experiment of science and I have suffered no deleterious effects, save one. I can feel him. In my mind, Adrik’s presence hovers and he tugs at my soul. He calls to me, in screams at night and in whispers when the sun has dominion in the sky.
In my nightly dreams, I am with him in his casket. Inky blackness that not even his vampiric eyes can separate surrounds him with the stench of rotting wood. His clothes decompose and add to the filth that bathes his skin. The water, at first only a trickle, has filled the coffin and together we drown nightly. Insects slither across his bare skin. His every sensation is now mine. Our minds join in the abject horror of facing the eternity before us while we burn, literally afire with thirst.
The thirst for human blood to be sure but it is more. His soul begs for revenge. You see, Adrik was an innocent man. His soul is laid bare to my eyes and there are no dark shadows in which he can tuck away secrets.
Still, he is beyond my help. Beyond the help of any mortal, save the Archimandrite who could in a single act of mercy restore Adrik to the fold of the church and wipe his slate clean. But it this same man whose hands are surely stained as crimson as Adrik’s are now.
But I am only a physician. A writer at times when my hands can find time to spare a few words. So tonight before I seek to escape Adrik’s dominion over my mind, I will write the truth. I will put to paper how Adrik came to be in this state so that, at least, there is a written record of the terrible things that went on here. I will stand witness to the truth that this man was defiled.
To give his story justice, I must begin long before the curse of vampirism forever marked him. It seems Adrik was cursed from the moment his feet first touched the soil of New Archangel.
It was with his very birth that he was cursed. He was after all born into the wretched condition of serfdom. Simply put, his life was not his own. Now it seems, it shall never be. Being born an estate serf who worked the land, he was sent in lieu of monetary capital by his master as an investment in the Russian American Trading company of which I myself am a part. He was one of only a handful of serfs sent with the Russian American Tracing Company, this not being a common practice.
He arrived on board the Neva, the mighty warship sent from Russia to voyage around the world, under command of the proud Captain Lisianski whom I suspect was no easy man to work under. The voyage in and of itself was not an easy one. It was plagued with disease from time to time and lack of funding at others.
With no direct intentions, it happened that the Neva was in the vicinity of New Archangel when Alexander Baranov made to retake the site upon which New Archangel now sits. Fate tried to intervene for poor Adrik in this instance and caused the winds to die down such that the sails of the Neva hung limp and useless. An odd thing off the coast of Alaska to be sure. But Baranov, being stronger than fate itself, had the Neva pulled into the sound by canoes full of Aleutians Indians.
The Battle for New Archangel was not a particularly bloody battle but it was long. Unbearably long, actually. The Baranov found the Tlingit’s to be a surprisingly guileful group of fighters. It was their most favored fishing grounds they were protecting after all.
Knowing the Baranov was coming, the tribe had built a fort across the marsh and along the Indian River that wound through the forest to the sea. It was a heavily fortified encampment, quite suited for withstanding the heavy cannon fire of us, the Russians and fire we did for days.
Unable to blow them out, the Baranov sought to starve the Tlingit’s instead. As I said, they were heavily fortified and provisioned but as any city under siege, eventually hunger sets in. The Tlingit’s sent an envoy promising surrender and the Baranov’s forces waited patiently until one evening, a chanting began that lasted well into the night. It ended with hair raising screams that could have pierced the slumber of the dead.
The Russians, it was said, were a twisted lot of anxiety and those present say the screams delved straight to the soul. It raised the hair on the soldier’s arms, made them reach for the crosses strung round their necks with trembling hands.
Expecting the gates of the Tlingit encampment to open, our Russian troops waited until it became apparent that the gates would yet remain closed. Not a sound could be heard except the cries of scavenger birds circling above. The forest was quiet, as if the wind itself could not even find the energy to breathe through the trees.
Finally, exhausted and unwilling to wait any longer, the Baranov gave the order to take the encampment, bloodshed or not. What they found is difficult to describe. Captain Lisianski could scarcely detail the carnage. I have read his account and I daresay, it turns the stomach sour.
The fort was empty of the living, save two small children and one old woman. The Tlingit’s had long since escaped into the forest, knowing the mountain trails as no white man can, leaving behind only the bodies of their children. Or perhaps it was the slave children. We shall never know and does it really matter? We are hardly in a position to condemn them, having our own class of slaves that we treat as poorly.
I tell none of this to judge the Tlingit’s, only to set the scene for what happened to Adrik. You see, that wretched man was one of the first sent through the gate. It was he that stumbled upon the first of the two living children and by a wicked twist of fate took the life of one young child. The boy died in Adrik’s arms, his blood spilling onto the cursed dirt of the fort while Adrik desperately tried to staunch the wound with his hands. Needless to say, it did not work.
From that moment, Adrik’s demeanor changed. Melancholy became his constant companion. Nightmares became so frequent that he could never lay his head down without being brought from sleep by these visiting demons. Any other man would have recognized this terrible event for the accident it was but Adrik became nearly inconsolable with grief.
I treated him myself with a variety of potions and concoctions that helped none at all. The most comfort the man received came from the services of a quiet priest who prayed with him daily. During his free time from his serf duties (which was scarce), he accompanied the priest in the instruction of the native children and in visiting the sick and afflicted. I suppose it was Adrik’s way of paying penance, however unnecessary it may have been.
Returning from one evening with the priest, he had the bad luck to catch the eye of Irena, future Duchess of jfkdjfk. Her father, Duke of jfkdjfk, had brought her abroad with him, unusual for the nobility but not unheard of. She was betrothed to a nephew of the Tsar.
Perhaps her father sought to keep her pure by keeping her close to him but I fear he had lost that battle months ago. In his defense, I do not think he realized the deepness of his daughter’s depravity and so his sins against Adrik shall surely be forgiven him.
Adrik was uncommonly handsome, especially for one born of such low station. A base man would have used the beauty of his face to find favors and there would have been many in high stations whom would have enjoyed his attributes. Adrik’s interests, however, were towards no woman but to the Church alone.
Rebuffed despite her numerous advances, Irena’s anger was kindled against Adrik. I must assume when she missed her monthly cycle, she chose him to be her scapegoat to pay for her previous sins. Her father never doubted her claims of rape by the one man who was truly not capable of such a crime. Had it been anyone else, I would have had my doubts.
Knowing she could no longer marry into the royal family, the Duke was outraged and promptly strung Adrik up outside the cabin, delivering nearly twenty lashes with the knout, that whip so similar to the cat of nine tails.
Unable to obtain a confession from Adrik on pain of mortal death only, the Duke turned towards the afterlife instead. The Archimandrite, our highest priest, fared no better and so ignoring his divine calling of mercy, he promptly excommunicated poor Adrik. You see the Duke wanted a full confession that would secure his daughter a pension from the Tsar.
It seems the Archimandrite preferred a god made of gold. Wide and easy is the path that leadeth to destruction. I only hope it will lead that false prophet straight to hell.
Unable to confess a sin that he did not commit and unable to bear the future as a condemned man absent from God, Adrik developed a hunger for revenge that would last beyond his mortal life. Thus he turned to vampirism by the act of suicide. What a potent combination, excommunication and suicide! He became the undead, the stricken! Not worthy of burial on hallowed ground; not worthy of the great ceremonies that properly put the dead to rest.
The English have a saying that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I think they have forgotten the rest of that poem which is that Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.
Never have I felt a rage so deep, so visceral as Adrik’s; his love for mankind has died and hatred has taken a firm root in the remains of his once quiet heart. His rage breeds a deep thirst.
It is daylight as I write this and so I am able to bear it, he becomes more subdued by the rising of the sun. It seems the power of his mind wanes during the light of day but I must not fool myself. His thoughts are ever present with him, he knows no rest. No peace.
For fear of what I might do with his thirst burning in my own breast, I locked myself in the block house night before last, the same cell in which the dejected Adrik took his own life and sealed his fate.
During the night, I cried aloud with his hunger, my hunger. I strained my arms through the bars, begging for release by anyone. Thankfully, the wind blew, the rains pelted and no one heard my cries until this morning. For I am certain, I would have gave into the hungers that filled me, his promises of immortality, and of a strength which I dare not think on too much. Especially now that age is robbing me of the strength that was once mine.
On rising the next morning, I smiled at the soldier who found me, telling him I was getting old, absentminded even, and had accidently let the cell door shut behind me. Why had I come here? He asked. I told him I must have dreamed I had a new patient here in the cell house.
For two nights hence, I have contained myself in the cell at dusk, asking my assistant, who is also my nephew, to free me once the sun is well positioned in the sky. He thinks it odd but does not say anything and does as he is told.
As for the blood I have collected, I am unsure of what to do. In my heart of hearts, I know I should pour the cursed fluids out upon the earth but with this same heart, I am afraid to do this very thing. For I cannot say with any certainty what unnatural thing will arise out of it. I know it will not decompose but instead will last for an eternity. And yet, I fear it will fall into the wrong hands as it would make a very powerful weapon indeed. I can scarce imagine the men that could be controlled with such a substance. What armies could be powered by this blood or what men might be capable just to obtain it.
Have I sold my soul for this knowledge? Will I rise vampire upon my death? No, I think it more difficult than that. I think it takes the vampire’s mark upon your skin or commitment of the sin of heresy or suicide. Neither of which I have.
And do not the old legends speak of consuming the vampire’s heart to regain your strength or to cure the disease of vampirism? Have I done anything different? At least, this is how I console myself in the dark of night when his cries are so loud in my head that in sheer desperation I clasp my hands over my ears, burying in head between my knees. It does no good; I hear him still. What pure hell is this! What have I done?
Of a few things, I am certain. I have tasted his power, his promises of immortality on this earth and I must leave. For I cannot bind myself each night and I am certain that one evening when the sun has sunk below the horizon, I will rise like my nocturnal companion begs and go to him. I will dig him from the earth and remove the stakes from his diseased heart. If only to release myself from the hell I have created by my own curiosity. And then how many people will die? How much blood will it take to satiate his thirst for revenge?
So while I still perform under my own power and my mind is more or less mine, I have booked passage away from here. I leave the fort clinic in the capable hands of my nephew whom I have personally trained in the arm of medicine. As for my children, I leave them only with the hope that by my very desertion of them, I will yet save them. May God forgive me all my sins.”