"Go home, darling, please. I have a train at five in the morning and I'd like to get some sleep, because I have a lot to do in Budapest and I need to be rested. You know what will happen if you stay here overnight. Of course, instead of sleeping, we'll still be making love!" she laughed loudly. "And in the morning, I'll be a shadow of myself again."
Although he wasn't happy about it, he complied with her request, because what wouldn't you do for the woman you love? Yes, he loved her. He'd realized this only a few days before.
At first, it had been merely sexual infatuation, a physical attraction to an attractive, temperamental, and mysterious woman. Then, as they began to get to know each other better, it turned out to be more than lust. Much more.
As often happens at the beginning of a relationship, they talked a great deal. Mark learned that Violetta's father was Romanian and her mother English. Violetta grew up in Bucharest, where her father was a curator at the National Museum and her mother worked at the British Embassy. It was he who, as a little girl, instilled in her a love of fine art and was her first, highly competent guide to the world of painting and sculpture. True to her lifelong passion, she began studying art history at the University of Bucharest, while also working in the art trade. Thanks to her father's extensive connections, she established excellent contacts with numerous dealers and collectors across Europe, which quickly began to bring her considerable profits. A year ago, Violetta graduated with honors, and a few months later, her mother's older sister died, leaving her a historic house on Eternal Memory Street.
Violetta greatly impressed Marek with her knowledge of art, particularly painting, in which she specialized. She could talk for hours about the paintings hanging in her home. He was particularly intrigued by the story of a macabre canvas depicting several vampires in a mountainous setting, one of whom was drenched in blood and holding a long, sharp scythe with a cruel smile on his twisted lips. The beasts had terrifying, inhuman faces, and in their eyes lurked something elusive. Hideous and terrifying. Something that was the quintessence of evil. It was a work by the distinguished, though little-known Romanian painter Ilian Gordanescu, titled "Death Is the Beginning of Suffering." Painted in 1574, it was the artist's last work, reportedly inspired by his personal experiences with vampires. Legend has it that the painter miraculously escaped an attack by several vampires in bleak Transylvania, but this nightmarish experience left a devastating mark on his psyche. Ilian began to suffer from a strange mental illness characterized by panic attacks, interspersed with days of insomnia, which quickly led to his death. Fortunately, he still managed to complete the canvas that would become the greatest and darkest work of his life. According to some accounts, Ilian Gordanescu was bitten by a vampire, which caused him to turn into a monster – so after his death, an aspen stake was driven into his heart to prevent him from rising from the grave.
Mark stared silently at the extraordinary painting as Violetta, summing up the painting's extraordinary story, recited in an unnaturally muffled, unsettling voice a poem by the mad ancient poet, Dracos of Samothrace.
"Do not cry, fool, that your wretched life has just ended.
Rejoice, pathetic creature, that you were granted to live it,
For death is only the beginning of your bloody, terrible torment,
And the executioner of hell knows no bounds to sadistic imagination.
Now you will learn the meaning of the word endless suffering,
When the demon of evil deprives you of all hope of salvation."
The poem sent cold shivers down the boy's spine. From that day on, whenever he looked at the Romanian artist's work, he felt a sense of unease, the source of which he could not explain. Without a doubt, Violetta was a very intriguing, mysterious woman, who increasingly fascinated the young man. He felt drawn to the girl by a force he could not resist.
Mark, though a rather reserved man, gradually began to confide in his wife. He told her that he grew up in Portsmouth and spent every summer at their beautifully situated summer residence in the suburban countryside. His father was a large-scale cattle dealer, which amassed a considerable fortune, and his mother was his bookkeeper. The young man also had a younger sister, Ann. As cheerful as a goldfinch and as lively as a spark, she was the apple of the family's eye. Mark cared for her more than himself, never allowing anyone to harm his little sister, though he often teased and pranked her. To this day, some of his fondest memories were their horseback rides together and a family boat trip on the Thames.
Mark's family could afford a private tutor, so thanks to his thorough education, he easily gained admission to the University of London, where he studied English. During his five years of study, he experienced all the bright and dark sides of life in Albion's capital, its elegant residences and its sordid dives. In London, he befriended Yan Verman, whom he grew to love like a brother. There, he also became interested in sports – he trained in wrestling and fencing, and was passionate about boxing, dog racing, and horse racing. He devoured travel and detective books, and his greatest passion became the Napoleonic period and everything related to it. This was reflected in the topic of his thesis: "The Figure of Napoleon in European Literature."
His possessive father wanted Mark to become his right-hand man in the family trading company and later take over the business, but he could never find common ground with him. So he decided to go his own way and became a sports journalist. He lived independently, without relying on his father's money or connections—and what's more, he was proud of it.
Mark had grown so trusting of her that he told her things he'd never confided in anyone before. About how, at sixteen, he'd fallen in love with a thirty-year-old nun from his parish; about how he'd once been so drunk that he'd mistaken a friend for his girlfriend and tried to get him into bed; and about how he'd once contracted an embarrassing disease from a prostitute in London's Soho district, which fortunately had ended in recovery. He'd even confided in Violetta once that, although he'd had several women in his life, he'd never truly been in love, but that he hoped that would change soon.
Now, after a month and a half of dating, he felt his love for her grow stronger with each passing day. He couldn't handle even brief separations; he actually suffered when Violetta left. He loved spending every moment with her, talking, walking, joking, and loving each other until they fell asleep. They discussed their work, politics, art, the plays they'd seen, and the books they'd read. They visited museums and art galleries together, took short trips out of town, went to football matches and concerts. She was as beautiful as she was witty and intelligent. They often laughed like crazy, wondering later what had made them laugh so hard. For the first time in his life, he felt he'd met a woman who understood him perfectly—his feelings, his behavior, his plans, his ambitions, his dreams. He felt he'd finally met the woman of his life. The girl he wanted to be with forever.
*****
When he went to get his newspaper the next morning, he was shocked. On the front page of the Portsmonth Times was a photo of a dead man, his legs ending just below the knees, as if someone had severed his lower legs with an axe. The body was found at the Three Roses Cemetery around 3:00 a.m. The eighth victim of the maniacal killer. Yan Verman. Marek's best friend since school. The boy cursed viciously. Furious and distraught at the same time, he thought he would give anything to finally catch this bastard. He wiped the tears that had formed in the corners of his eyes and sat with his head in his hands.
Images of their shared, impoverished, yet joyful London studies flashed before his eyes. Visiting museums, trips out of town, cheating on exams, drunken parties, fistfights and knife fights in pubs, sharing girlfriends, sharing money, clothes, food. So many years, so many memories! How many times had each of them defended the other, how many times had they pulled each other out of trouble? A friend as faithful and loyal as Yan is hard to find! And now his old friend is gone…
Fifteen minutes later, Mark had recovered enough to think logically. He decided to avenge his friend. He bought hunting binoculars. He decided to watch the cemetery every night until he finally saw who was dumping the bodies. Or perhaps the killer was bringing his future victims there to kill her among the old graves? He had to find out.
Violetta had left him the house keys to look after him in her absence. The girl's bedroom, located on the first floor, was an excellent vantage point. Mark's thoughts wandered to his lover. Violetta. If she were here, she would know how to comfort him after his friend's death.
For seven consecutive nights, he sat at the window with binoculars for hours at a time, but he didn't notice anything suspicious, except that Fred appeared several times in the cemetery, sneaking between the graves and entering some of the tombs. Violetta repeatedly asked him to kill the old man, but he replied that he wasn't a murderer and couldn't do it unless it was in defense of himself or the woman he loved.
During that time, no one died.
On the eighth day, Violetta called. She told him she'd be in Portsmonth the next morning at four-fifteen.
"I'll pick you up at the station," he offered.
"No, don't bother. I'll take a taxi. There's no need for you to drive at night. I can manage, really.
" "But it's no trouble for me, darling!"
"You'd better get some sleep, my stallion, gather your strength, and come back at ten in the morning. By then, I'll have had time to rest from the journey, too, so we can make up for the days we haven't seen each other in bed! Please, do this for me! It'll be better this way."
It was two in the morning when he locked the front door of his mistress's house. He wanted to sleep in his own bed. He was walking along the cemetery. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge owl appeared. It circled him, cawed loudly, and disappeared into the darkness of the night.
He shuddered. He remembered what his grandmother had told him. An owl is a harbinger of death. Whoever hears its hooting will soon have someone close to them die. He had never believed it. But when the wind picked up and stirred the tree branches, Mark felt a subconscious fear. He couldn't explain it. After all, he didn't care about superstitions.
*****
The next day, at ten o'clock sharp, he stood in front of Violetta's house. He clutched the morning newspaper, which he hadn't even looked through yet, excited by his beloved's return. When she opened the door, she was dressed only in a red corset and an obsidian amulet. Beautiful and sexy as ever, he thought. In greeting, she kissed Mark sweetly on the lips. Then she unzipped his fly and, taking his member, pulled him up the stairs, leading him as if by hand. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the delicately defined muscles of her bare buttocks, flexing and relaxing with each step.
Entering the bedroom, Violetta leaped onto the bed like a cat. She lay on her back and assumed her favorite position, spreading her thighs wide and grasping the phalluses of the heroes standing by the bed. Mark settled between her legs and, resting his head on her bare, feminine lap as if it were a pillow, unfolded the newspaper.
"Honey, please, give me five seconds." I'll take care of you in a moment, just let me read the headlines. I wonder if the killer was on the loose again.
"I'll give you three," she said, brushing his hair back.
"Holy shit!" he cursed loudly. "Victim number nine of the serial killer," he read. "This morning at five o'clock, another victim of a psychopath was found at the gate of the Three Roses Cemetery. A twenty-two-year-old girl, according to experts, died around four o'clock in the morning. The brutal killer cut off the woman's hand and ears. The deceased has been tentatively identified as Agnes Merton.
" "Agnes!" Mark threw the newspaper on the floor and punched her thigh. "She's my cousin! I told you about her. We grew up together! We were so close! She used to come to our country for holidays!" The boy gritted his teeth, then jumped up and kicked the wall.
"The death penalty for such a son of a bitch is not enough! When they finally catch him, they should torture him for months and only then kill him!" Mark leaned his head against the cold wall, unconsciously clenching his fists with a feeling of sadness and helplessness.
"Put him to death yourself," Violetta whispered. stroking his head and snuggling against the man's back. "First your friend, now your beloved cousin. You know who did this!
" "Fred?! Yes, Fred!" He clenched his fists again and gritted his teeth.
"Of course it's him. Kill him! The Earth shouldn't have beasts like Fred! Do it before someone else dies!
" That day, Mark no longer felt like having sex. He thought about Yana, Agnes, and Fred. The thought of killing the filthy old man kept circling his mind. It terrified him. It terrified him because he was getting closer and closer to finally doing it.
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