Not a Drop of Honour

vii

Waiting for the night to fall that evening, Jonathan had occupied the time in his library. He blinked, eyes struggling even in the candlelight. Really, he was so inadequate for his job. His father had always told him that a great vampire hunter's eyes became acutely adjusted to darkness, able to pick out the smallest details even in the blackest night. And yet here he was, surrounded by light, hardly able to read the words on the paper in front of him.

10th Jan. 1890, Late at night.

The most horrible event has just transpired. I shall relate the thing in full. Tonight, I watched that man's house particularly keenly. This time, remembering how that bat had hovered around my window, I didn't dare even light a candle, taking special effort to stay awake.

At some point, I spotted something strange out of the corner of my eye. Emerging from the cemetery I noticed a man in formal garb, face strikingly pallid in the night. His features were gaunt, and he seemed almost to move with a stagger.

This, of course, was something I was well-acquainted with: the newly reawakened vampire servant, still unused to such an existence, still coming out of the grave's sleep. Not having even seen anyone or anything emerging from that abandoned castle, I turned my eyes to that man, now concerned with what he might do.

I watched him walk, somewhat disoriented, along the streets of the town—if I did not take action to follow him, he would soon disappear from my sight, so taking up my tools, I descended the stairs and exited the parish. (I reflect now that, in a situation like this, where it would be prudent to have someone else keeping an eye on the castle as I ventured out on my own, perhaps it would have been useful to have Jonathan here. But I am afraid that he is not yet living up to the potential I have raised him with, and, as I know he has been eager to join me on more of my hunts, I ought to chastise him by requiring him to stay at the estate and within London until he finds a suitable spouse so that he will be able to carry on the family legacy I have created in a dignified manner.)

Reading this, Jonathan winced, although he knew to anticipate this section. He remembered the countless marriages his father had attempted to arrange for him with the aristocracy and with women of other wealthy families, but Jonathan had constantly been too shy around these women, never making a marriage proposal and seemingly always to prefer simple friendship. How could he explain that it simply felt all wrong, when he didn't even understand himself why he felt this way? He knew his father was immensely disappointed, but that had never changed the facts. "Once you're married, you'll understand," his father had told him gruffly many times. "You have to embrace what it means to be a man, and the joy of having a wife."

Why, then, did he feel overcome with revulsion every time the moment before he had been about to make a proposal, shuddering with fear before finally backing out? The closer he got to marriage, the more dreadful he felt. His father never forced him into a marriage, but his disapproval was clear, and that alone was enough to make Jonathan shudder with tears when he was alone. What did he have to do, to feel what he should?

But there was no sense in dwelling on such a subject. There was his engagement to Erina now; he would fulfill his duties as a son after all. He returned to the journal.

I crept silently along, following from a distance. As he moved slowly, I did not have much cause to worry about losing him, even if around corners he disappeared to me momentarily. He approached a house, one which looked rather comfortable and seemed home to a family. Walking to the side, he picked up a pebble and cast it at a window, looking up anxiously to await what happened next.