Wuthering Bites (33 page)

Joseph stepped up to look more closely. ‘'Pears so, miss.'

The herd-boys, tanner's son, dairymaid, and old vampire joined Joseph along the far side of the grave and, gazing down, agreed in earnest with him. My lady Catherine did, indeed, have a silver stake through her heart; she looked freshly murdered and dead at last, and quite beautiful.

Stooping down beside Heathcliff's body, I combed his long, black hair from his forehead. I then tried to close his eyes, to extinguish, if possible, the frightful, life-like gaze of exultation on his face. They would not shut; they seemed to sneer at my attempts, and his parted lips and sharp fangs sneered, too!

So it appeared, Mr. Lockwood, that my master found a way to release Catherine and himself from their torment of being part vampire, part human (though they reached that state through different circumstances), and to reside with her forever more.

‘Should we take the silver stakes?' Hareton questioned after we all stood and stared for a passage of time. ‘They must be worth quite a bit.'

‘Leave them,' I said, wanting to take no chances that either of them might rise again. ‘With him dead and no legal will, you will inherit all, Hareton. Plenty more where these came from, I should guess.'

‘Rather pretty, isn't she?' Cathy remarked thoughtfully, gazing down on her mother's corpse. ‘Though perhaps not as pretty as I.'

‘Most certainly not,' Hareton agreed, kissing her soundly on the cheek.

‘Anyone for breakfast?' I asked, looking up at the ragtag audience.

We buried him later that day, to the scandal of the whole neighborhood, as he had wished. Earnshaw, I, Cathy, Joseph, the sexton, and six men to carry the coffin comprised the whole attendance.

The six men departed when they had let it down into the grave, and we stayed to see both of them covered. Hareton dug green sods and laid them over the brown soil himself. It is as smooth and verdant as its companion mounds inside the gates—and I hope its tenants sleep as soundly.

“As for me, I can say I will sleep more soundly when I am back under the roof of the Grange, for I do not like it here at the Heights, Mr. Lockwood.”

“So the household is to move to the Grange once Mr. Earnshaw and Mrs. Heathcliff are married?” I asked.

“So they tell me, although something is afoot on the subject of plans being made,” answered Mrs. Dean. “They have been quite secretive the last few days, whispering and giggling. I do not like it one bit, I will tell you.”

“And who will live here then?”

“Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and perhaps the old snaggle-toothed bloodsucker will stay to keep him company. They get along quite well now that Joseph is no longer fodder. They will live in the kitchen, and the rest will be shut up.”

“For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it,” I observed.

“No, Mr. Lockwood,” said Nelly, shaking her head. “I believe the dead are truly dead now and at peace.”

At that moment the gate swung to; Cathy and Hareton were returning, hands clasped.

“
They
are afraid of nothing,” she grumbled, watching their approach through the window. “Together, they would brave Satan and all his legions.”

As they stepped onto the door-stones, and halted to take a last look at the moon—or, more correctly, at each other, by her light, I felt irresistibly impelled to escape them again. Pressing a remembrance into the hand of Mrs. Dean, I vanished through the kitchen as they opened the house door.

My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction of the kirk. I sought, and soon discovered, the two headstones on the slope next to the moor, moss creeping over both. I lingered round them, under that benign sky, watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.

By the light of the moon, I returned to the Grange, dined, and slept so well that I did not wake until I heard an unfamilar voice in my ear.

“Best be quick if ye value yer skin!”

I opened my eyes to see the old woman with the pipe tossing my belongings into my bag. “They's already set fire to the Heights. Grange is next.”

“Set fire?” I flew out of the bed, tugging off my nightcap. “Whatever do you speak of?”

“The master, handsome he is. And he's set determined to see both houses burnt to the ground before he and the missus are on their way. Wants to leave no fine manors for the beasties to set up housekeeping, with him gone. Would you care to wear yer pants, sir?” she asked, her lips wrapped round her pipe. She offered my trousers.

I grabbed them and stepped into them, tucking in my nightshirt. I could smell burning wood. “What are you talking about?” I demanded, stepping into my shoes. “You make no sense, woman!”

“Master Earnshaw. Sneaked into town and was wed last night, he and Mrs. Heathcliff. They're set off to Paris to go to some vampire slaying school. He paid us a year salary and gave us two horses and a cow to start anew. Ye best hurry,” she urged as she went out the door.

My shoes on, my overcoat flung over my arm, I ran down the grand stairs and out the door to find a gypsy wagon parked in the garden. Cathy sat beside Mrs. Dean on the wagon seat, directing Hareton in the lighting of a pitch torch.

“Mrs. Dean,” I gasped, snatching my bag from the old woman.

“That's the last of them,” Catherine called to her new husband. “The parlor draperies would probably be the wisest location to start the blaze, my love.”

“Of course, my love,” Hareton called back to her.

“Mrs. Dean.” I hurried to the covered gypsy wagon. “What is happening?”

“My master's set Wuthering Heights on fire, and now the Grange is to see the same destiny. You can spot the flames from here, the blaze is so grand,” she told me good-naturedly, pointing in said direction.

Against my inclination, I turned and looked. Sure enough, in the distance, I saw a grand wall of red flames and a great column of smoke. “But why?” I asked, still amazed and so entirely not awake yet that I was not sure that I was not dreaming.

“A cleansing, Mr. Lockwood,” the new Mrs. Earnshaw explained, adjusting her traveling bonnet. “Only fire will erase the curse on both these houses. We have been doing family research and have discovered that far in the past, there was a Hareton Earnshaw of Wuthering Heights who was a great vampire slayer in the days when such matters were kept secret. That is the explanation for the vampires carved in stone over the gate and his name inscribed there. And since Hareton and I are both descendants, we see it as our duty to follow our forefather's footsteps. Besides, with us gone, if we do not burn the houses to the ground, the bloodsuckers will be dining on the villagers at our tables.”

“You don't say,” I said, aghast in shock.

“My husband and I, now wealthy enough to do as we like, are enrolling in a school in Paris where we will learn the finer arts of vampire slaying. We hope to travel the world killing them.” She smiled prettily.

“And you, Mrs. Dean?” I asked incredulously. “Do you intend to slay vampires?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Lockwood,” she cried, drawing herself up quite haughtily. “I am a housekeeper. I will keep house for Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw.” She glanced at the painted gypsy wagon she sat upon. “Or I will keep a wagon, whichever my master and missus prefer. And Joseph will continue to care for the horses and whatever else is needed.”

She nodded, and for the first time I spotted Joseph standing behind the wagon. He appeared to be wearing one of Heathcliff's old coats, for he was quite well dressed, though he still wore a long kerchief tied round his neck, no doubt to cover the scars of years of being fed upon.

Hareton walked out of the house, no longer carrying the torch, and I smelled the acrid odor of burning fabric. Within minutes, flames were shooting from the open parlor windows, and those gathered looking quite satisfied with his work.

“Well, my darling. Should we be off to Paris?” Catherine asked her husband sweetly. “Mayhap kill some bloodsuckers on our way?”

“Indeed, my love,” he answered, leaping up in the wagon seat and taking the leather reins in his meaty hands.

I must have been looking a bit forlorn, for as Hareton wheeled the gypsy wagon past me, Mrs. Dean looked out and called to me, “Should you like to join us, Mr. Lockwood? I know not where our journey will lead, but I have no doubt we will see more than a bit of adventure.” She gazed at the house now ablaze. “And you will certainly not be sleeping here tonight.”

I could not go, of course. Even the thought was preposterous. I was a man of considerable and distinguished responsibilities in London, and I had the hunting party to attend today. I could not leave the country in a gypsy wagon with two young slayer lovebirds, a manservant, and a housekeeper. I was in no way equipped to accompany them on any vampire slaying expedition. I didn't even have a proper weapon.

“Thank you for your offer, Mrs. Dean, but I could not possibly. You understand.”

She gave a wave, and I watched the gypsy wagon depart the garden. Feeling the heat of the flames behind me, I gazed over my shoulder at the burning house, then at Wuthering Heights, a ball of fire in the distance. I thought of Heathcliff and Catherine and the moss growing over their graves. The ever-lasting peace they had found.

I looked back to the departing wagon. “A bit of adventure,” Mrs. Dean had offered.

And before I knew what I was doing, I was running after the wagon, for I knew there would be much more to her tale, and I was not ready to retire to a quiet and sedate middle age. In truth, it was more than the promised adventure that drew me; it was the seductive and fascinating Mrs. Dean. A gentleman I am, and a man of breeding and quality I do claim to be, but in fact, my own father was born to a family of shipwrights, and I learned honest labor before I was ever tucked off to Cambridge and the life of my betters. My parents and siblings and every last stitch and knob of kin have vanished, and if I wished to take a clever and loving woman to wife, what care I if she began her days below stairs?

“Wait! Wait for me,” I cried, and ran after them. Whether I shall have time or inkling to continue an account of my affairs, I cannot say, and that, in any case, would be another story for another evening by the fire. Bid you well, dear readers, and go not out on a moonless night without sufficient quantity of prime garlic, for despite what others may tell you, the bloodsucking vampires do rule the darkness.