My dearest Margrijt,
Will it never end? Do not I have more reason than most to fear the devilish machinations of the undead? To mistrust their siren call and see through their false promises? All of the above, and yet … As I gave my blood to Lucy Westenra, an unholy glee ran through my whole body. Not the satisfaction of a small service rendered to a poor soul who desperately needed the help, but something darker, deeper; a sensual, sated feeling that almost made me sigh out loud with pleasure. My hand trembles with shame as I write this. As Arthur felt that the giving of blood to her had bound him in marriage to his fiancée, so do I feel like an adulterer. I have betrayed him, the dear boy who reminds me so much of Maarten. Betrayed him and you. And all for naught. She died, Margrijt. God help us all. Died and came back. Undead. I looked upon her, and she was so like that other, long ago, in appearance, in allure … When she came towards me tonight as we were waiting for her by the tomb, I could feel John’s revulsion like a physical thing, but my hand trembled for a different reason when she walked into the light of my lantern. Her lips full and red with blood, a trickle running down her throat, down her white breast, only to disappear in her nightshirt. Her very name rings with temptation. But this time I did not give in to these wanton feelings.
Do not despise me for letting Arthur drive the stake into her heart. As God is my witness I did it for him and not to shirk the gruesome task.
After her terrible scream it was immeasurable relief to see the sensual beauty disappear from her face; at that moment her worn features seemed more appealing to me than any healthy, unmarked face could be. May God see fit to deliver the hellspawn who did that to her into my power; may he give me the strength to crush the unlife out of his body and make him pay for the night’s work he forced my hands to do. And avenge you. Both of you.