I kneeled over her, resting the tip of the dagger on her chest, just above her heart. It merely required that I should drop my weight on to my hands and through them to the dagger and I would have ended the accursed existence of another of these creatures. How long, I wondered, would it take for Domnikiia's bodily remains to decay? For her there would be no collapse into dust as there had been for the others. Her death had occurred but twelve hours ago. That was scarcely any headstart at all. Once I thrust the blade into her and extinguished her life, her body would remain almost as perfect as ever, decaying only over a period of days and weeks just as though she had been a mortal woman. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer for strength in what I was about to do. It would take only the briefest of action from me to shift my weight and plunge the wooden blade into her. I waited for the moment when strength and hatred would fill me and I would carry out what I had to do. And I waited.
I was no Rostopchin. I was no more capable of destroying something so beautiful as Domnikiia as I would have been of burning down Moscow if I had been handed a flaming torch and pointed towards the quarters of Bonaparte himself. I was a pathetic cousin of Othello. For me the victory of my love over my wisdom meant that I could not kill when all sense dictated that I should. It was beyond me, as if some power greater than I could not stand to see Domnikiia depart the face of the earth at this time; that all the love that had been poured into her creation could not be so easily cast aside.
And yet if I could not kill her, then what was I to do? Should I leave now and never see her again, hearing only occasionally of the strange death of some innocent that I would suspect had been caused by her? The regret would crush me. Every terrible death would be my fault for my inaction today. By choosing now not to destroy the creature that had come to inhabit Domnikiia's body, I would take on the responsibility for each death that she went on to bring about. Were I to die tomorrow in battle, or even today by my own hand (the thought had occurred to me), then the deaths of all those future souls would still be reckoned against mine at my judgement. To not plunge my dagger into Domnikiia was to damn my own eternal soul, and yet I could not do it. So I was damned. The very certainty of it opened up a new vista of possibilities. A new liberty was endowed upon me that allowed me to take any action, regardless of its moral consequences. Like a man sentenced to hang for a petty theft, I was now free to commit any crime I chose – freer, in fact, because the thief would still have to fear what came after his death.
It was conceptually thrilling, but as I contemplated it, I could not think of many immoral acts that I desired to perform – certainly none that I hadn't already committed even before my newfound ethical liberation. I would never have considered myself an especially good person, but it seemed that somehow in my life I had lost – or had never acquired – the urge to be bad. My behaviour was not imposed upon me through a fear of ultimate retribution, but was somehow an innate part of my character, created perhaps by the accumulation of a lifetime of those fears. But did having no desire to be bad make me good? Surely goodness must come from the resistance of dark urges, not from their mere absence? It is only the weak who beg the Lord not to lead them into temptation. The strong need temptation to test their strength. I had been presented with but one temptation – to let the vile creature that Domnikiia had become live – and I had yielded to it without a fight. I knew that it was not too late, that I still only had to raise my hand and let it fall again to bring about my own salvation, and yet I knew too that I could not and nor would I ever be able to.
There was only one conceivable advantage that could be taken from my decision to damn myself. If I was to walk the remainder of my days on the earth in the knowledge that, when I departed it, my subsequent path would be precipitously downwards, then at least I did not have to walk alone. I could be with Domnikiia. I would let her take me and create me as a vampire in the same way that she had so recently become one, and then at least our journey to hell would be made hand in hand. I knew that I was clinging on to one last gleaming thread of self-flattery – that she would want me beside her. If she did not, then I would die at her hand with no subsequent rebirth as a vampire. It would be apt punishment for my vanity.
I set down my wooden dagger at the side of the bed and took one last look at Domnikiia's beauty, then I licked my fingers and put out the light of the candle beside us. I took off my boots and my coat and my scabbard, discarding them on the floor, and lay on the bed beside her. Beneath my coat I saw the bloody mess of my wounded arm, but it did not matter. When I awoke – if I awoke – it would be to become a creature of the same ilk as Domnikiia and we would have an eternity of togetherness before us. A wound such as that would mean nothing to me. I had not shut my eyes for two nights and, as the rush of sleepiness came over me, I began to wonder whether I was in any state to make such a profound decision about my life. What did this mean for how I felt about my wife and my son? Even if my soul was bound for hell, did they not deserve my company and my support at least while I was alive? They were questions which I was too weary to answer.
It struck me that one of the interesting aspects of what I was about to undertake was that I would have the opportunity of looking back on my own death. I had observed death from the outside on many occasions – although there were other times when I wished I had been there to observe it – but it would be a rare privilege to be able, as a vampire, to recall what it was like actually to die. And yet, I thought, all souls, whether they end up in heaven or in hell, must have that same opportunity. If I didn't appreciate that, then I had to question whether I believed in heaven and hell at all, in which case, how could I be so certain of my own damnation?
But the speculation was unnecessary. Soon, I would have knowledge. I fell asleep.
CHAPTER XXVII
WHEN I AWOKE, I WAS INSTANTLY UNEASY. MY SURROUNDINGS were vaguely familiar, but I was aware of some pressing issue that had to be resolved. Memory quickly returned. My first, perhaps unremarkable observation was that I was alive. I reached out to my right, but Domnikiia was no longer beside me. She must have awoken. She would have seen me. Surely I would have to have been awake to have drunk her blood and become a vampire. Had I woken to do that and then gone back to sleep, forgetting what had taken place? I considered myself, trying to determine whether physically or mentally I felt any different. I could find nothing.
I glanced to the window and looked outside. As far as I could judge, it was late morning. The snow shimmered in the light of the sun. The reflected light shone into my face and cast a shadow of my hand on to the empty pillow beside me. I was no vampire. As I had thought, I needed to be conscious to become one of those creatures, so that I might imbibe the blood of the one who created me. Domnikiia had not yet transformed me into a creature like herself, but she soon would. I heard a footstep outside and the doorknob began to turn. My earlier conviction that I would become a vampire had completely left me. I found it impossible to retrace the line of reason that had led me to it. Now, the prospect of letting Domnikiia sink her teeth into my neck and of my drinking her blood in return was both sickening and frightful. I would gladly kill her in order to save myself from such a fate.