Dracula The Un-Dead Read online

  Quincey had wanted to stand his ground, but he was not yet in any financial position to meet his father’s challenge. He was defeated. His silence answered his father’s question.

  “I thought as much,” Jonathan barked. “While you’re living off my money, you will comply with my wishes.”

  The elder Harker wasted no time in contacting old acquaintances and former colleagues to call in some outstanding favors. The following week, Quincey found himself whisked away to the Sorbonne.

  Quincey frowned into the exotic tea. The evening had been going swim mingly until the memory of that encounter with his father tainted it.

  “Forcing you to study law? I assume, then, that your father is a solicitor himself.”

  “Pardon? Oh, yes,” Quincey said as he realized he must have been speaking his thoughts aloud.

  “Now I understand why I have not seen or heard of you since. A father wishing his son to follow in his own footsteps is far from rare. Alas, the story is as old as man’s dominion in this world. Perhaps you have a sibling who is more interested in the law, and can take your place?”

  “I am an only child. No one else to share the burden.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” Basarab replied. “You could have had a younger brother whom everyone favored. Comparisons between siblings always spark rivalry.”

  It had never occurred to Quincey that Basarab could have a brother. There was barely any information in the public arena surrounding Basarab’s private life. He cleared his throat and delicately inquired, “I assume your brother is not an actor.”

  “You assume correctly. He and I are polar opposites,” Basarab said. He gestured to the crown he had worn onstage. “I dare say that King Richard and his brother had a better relationship . . . nay, Cain and Abel.”

  Quincey laughed along with Basarab. The actor smiled. “Fate certainly has a strange way of bringing people with common bonds together.” As he was about to take a sip of tea, a banshee wail rang from outside the door. Basarab sprang to his feet.

  Someone pounded on the door, and a man’s voice called out, “Mr. Basarab! Save yourself!”

  With very few people left backstage to witness them, the two Women in White moved silently through the hallway, stopping at the door marked with the gold star. Faces bent in predatory grins, they licked their lips as they unsheathed their scimitars. Their eyes turned black; their fangs elongated. The dark one reached for the doorknob and the pale-haired harpy crouched like a cat waiting to pounce.

  Suddenly, a sandbag fell from above and hit the blonde, sending her chin into the floor. In that same instant, Seward swung down on one of the many ropes from the catwalks above. As he swooped close, he flicked a cross-etched glass bottle, splattering holy water onto the Women in White. Their skin sizzled and blistered. Their terrible wails echoed through the corridor.

  While the Women in White ran off, flailing in pain, Seward dived toward Basarab’s door and pounded on it. “Mr. Basarab! Save yourself!”

  Basarab turned to Quincey and pointed to the large steamer trunks. “For your safety, stay behind those.”

  Quincey swiftly did as he was commanded. Screams and commotion came from outside the door. Basarab grabbed a large steel broadsword from behind his desk. If Quincey hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the blade was deadly real, not a dull prop weapon. Basarab swung the dressing room door open, raised his sword, and leapt out, ready for a fight. But, except for a few terrified stagehands, the hall seemed free of danger. The actor focused on the fallen sandbag, and snapped his head up to the rafters.

  Looking left and right down the hall, he moved cautiously as if he expected another attack: Could the screams and banging on the door have been only a diversionary tactic?

  Quincey wondered what secrets Basarab was hiding.

  Seward chased the Women in White along the backstage corridor, and caught up to them on the stage behind the closed curtain. Seeing a shadow fall across the floor, he dropped down just as one she-devil’s scimitar hummed past his head. The pale-haired demon rushed at him from the other direction.

  Drawing his bone-handled bowie knife from its sheath, Seward cast it at her heart. With reflexes and speed far superior to any human, the Woman in White was able to dodge the blade’s killer thrust so that it missed her heart and struck deep into her shoulder. The dark-haired vampire grabbed Seward about the throat, but she inadvertently touched the silver chain around his neck, which had an assortment of small religious icons dangling from its length. Hot steam leapt from her blistering hand where she touched the chain, and Seward felt a terrible glee. He wore the chain for situations such as this. The wounded pair fled, bursting through the main curtain, and Seward’s pride swelled. For the moment, the weak old man had the advantage.

  The Women in White tore through the red velvet theatre curtain and leapt from the stage into the seats, bounding like wild cats on all fours from seat top to seat top. Seward jumped from the stage, twisting his ankle as he landed. He continued the pursuit, hobbling up the theatre aisle.

  The head usher, whom Seward had earlier followed into the backstage area, appeared at the top of the aisle and demanded in understandable bemusement, “Qu’est-ce qui ce passe?”

  The pale-haired woman hurled him out of her way, smashing his body into a nearby column. As she fled, she pulled the bone-handled bowie knife out of her shoulder. Seward paused by the man for an instant, but when he had determined the fellow was not too badly injured, he continued his chase.

  Seward stopped on the top step of the Théâtre de l’Odéon’s entrance. Smoke escaped from his mouth as the cold air clashed with his hot breath. Through the thick blanket of fog that had rolled into the Paris night, he could barely make out the shadowy figures of the Women in White across the street; but he could see by the flickering reflection of their steel knives in the gas lamps that they were waiting for him in ambush behind a monument that held a stone bust upon its central pillar. This was Seward’s moment at last. He caressed his beloved watch for courage. He would kill one of these demons in the name of Lucy and the other would die in memory of the poor girl slain in Marseilles. Seward drew his sword. He was God’s madman again. God’s soldier.

  With a battle cry, Seward raised his sword over his head and raced down the stone steps with surprising agility, ignoring the pain in his ankle. The two vampires watched his charge, making no effort to move. They smiled as he reached the bottom step and raced onto the rue de Vaugirard.

  A horse whinnied and Seward whirled in horror to see the error of his strategy. He had been so focused on attacking the two pawns that he had forgotten the black queen could attack from any direction. Out of the fog, the driverless carriage descended swiftly upon him. With no time to react, Seward was thrown down amidst trampling hooves and carriage wheels.

  Lying battered and beaten, he instantly knew he had not only failed the Benefactor, but he had also failed God. The shame he felt was even greater than the pain in his broken body. Through stinging tears, he saw the Women in White deftly catch up to the racing carriage and bound effortlessly onto it. The dark-haired demon turned to laugh at him before climbing inside the coach.

  Seward saw his watch lying on the ground nearby. He tried to retrieve it, but when he moved, the pain was too great. He coughed up blood, fighting to scream. A man loomed over him, and Seward tried to signal the man to give him his watch. The man followed Seward’s eyes and picked up the cherished timepiece. He said softly in French, “You won’t need this where you’re going.”

  As life slowly ebbed away, Seward watched helplessly as the man ran away with his most prized possession.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Antoine hurried Quincey out through the front of the theatre, where the young man was shocked to see the mangled body of a man lying in a pool of blood on the cobblestones. Pedestrians ran, calling for police and a doctor.

  “My God,” Quincey said, “what happened?”

  Whistles sounded from all directions
as policemen headed for the scene. Antoine pulled Quincey down the front steps, attempting to usher him away as quickly as possible. “As I understand it, a crazed man attacked two women in the theatre.”

  Quincey saw a vagabond leaning down to talk with the injured man on the street and was alarmed to see him grab the victim’s watch and run off. Without thinking, he yelled, “Thief!” and charged after the fellow, pushing past Antoine.

  It was too late. The thief had run up the street, out of Quincey’s range. Flustered at his lost chance at heroics, Quincey was forced to join the other mild-mannered pedestrians pointing the thief out to the arriving policemen. Within moments, two policemen had tackled and apprehended the vagabond and retrieved the silver watch.

  Antoine grabbed Quincey by the arm, dragging him away. “Mr. Basarab charged me with taking you safely back to the Sorbonne. Come with me right now, young man; this is no place for you.”

  Like Antoine, Quincey would not dare disobey Basarab’s wishes. As they shuffled through the crowd, he whispered, “What about Mr. Basarab?”

  “Surely you cannot expect a famous public man like Basarab to be seen around such a tragedy? Think of his reputation.”

  Quincey nodded, but he could not help but wonder what had really happened backstage, and why the great actor had remained behind when there could still be danger. The policemen were clearing the area now, allowing the injured man room to breathe. Quincey glanced back, finally able to glimpse the victim’s face. The man seemed oddly familiar.

  Looking up into the night sky, Seward realized that he felt no more pain. With his last gasp, he uttered a single word.

  “Lucy.”

  The driverless black carriage raced across the Seine by way of the boulevard du Palais bridge. The City of Lights sparkled in the night. Poets have written that when those lights shine, “Paris is a city for lovers.” But Bathory had lived long enough to know that the sparkle was just an illusion, like love itself.

  Countess Elizabeth Bathory had become her aunt Karla’s willing student, doing anything Karla asked for fear that the instruction might end. Yet, as the countess embraced who she was and found herself at last happy, safe, and content, she realized that she might find more bliss with someone her own age, in particular Ilka, the kitchen maid. Ilka was young, beautiful, innocent, and sweet. More importantly, Ilka always spoke of the future, unlike Karla, who often dwelled on the past. With Ilka, Bathory had someone with whom to share her youthful energy, to run in the fields and seek adventures. Bathory meant no harm to her aunt, and justified the dalliance by believing in her newfound philosophy that love could never be wrong.

  Aunt Karla began to suspect her and confronted Ilka. Blinded by jealousy and rage, she had denounced Ilka as a thief and saw to it that she was swiftly hanged for her crimes. When Bathory retaliated by ban ning Karla from her bed, her aunt betrayed Bathory’s whereabouts to her family.

  Days later, an armed escort arrived. When Bathory resisted, she was bound, gagged, hooded, and thrown over the back of a horse. She was told that her family was sending her back to her husband to fulfill her marriage vows before God and produce an heir for Count Nádasdy.

  It was then that Bathory came to believe that love was just a temporary illusion created by God to heap more suffering upon his children.

  Looking out now upon this so-called City for Lovers, from the driverless black carriage that raced away from the Théâtre de l’Odéon, Bathory swore she would one day burn Paris to the ground and stamp her boots upon its ashes.

  She turned from the small opening in the curtains shrouding the coach’s windows. “We must expedite our plan more swiftly.”

  “Your trap was ingenious, mistress,” her pale-haired companion said, with a hint of worry in her voice.

  “The vampire hunter is now dead and can never reveal to anyone what he saw in Marseilles,” the dark Woman in White added, her pretty brow puckered.

  “I knew him,” Bathory replied. “He was but one of many. Now the others will come. We shall strike first.”

  CHAPTER IX.

  Mina Harker stood on the small balcony and looked out into the night, longing for something, but for what, she couldn’t say. She shivered at the sound of the chimes ringing from the nearby cathedral, though she was not cold. Above the cathedral, what looked like an unnatural crimson fog was descending from the clouds, as if the sky itself were bleeding. The fog moved swiftly toward her, against the wind. Her eyes widened as she stepped back into her husband’s study and closed the shutter doors. In a wave of panic, she dashed from window to window, slamming them shut. Mere moments later, an angry wind pounded the glass so forcefully that Mina backed away for fear it would shatter.

  The howling wind grew louder and louder. Then, in an instant, there was nothing, only a deafening silence. Mina strained to listen for any sound, any movement. Daring at last to peer through the shutters, she saw that the house was enveloped. She couldn’t see an inch past the window.

  A loud, hollow knock upon the front door echoed to the high rafters of the foyer and Mina jumped violently. Another knock came, and then another. The pounding grew louder, more forceful.

  She did not move. She could not move. She wanted to run, but found herself frozen by the dark fear that it could be him, returned. She knew it was impossible. He was dead. They had all watched him die. There came the sound of glass breaking from the floor below. Mina could hear the front doors swing open and the sound of something being dragged along the marble floor. Jonathan had gone out, as usual. Manning, the butler, had been dismissed for the evening. But now someone else—or something—was in the house with her. Mina backed into a corner, cowering in fear. She was angry with herself for being so weak; she would not be a prisoner in her own home, to anyone or anything, least of all to herself. Her previous experiences with the supernatural had taught her that shrinking away like a frightened schoolgirl would not force evil to recede. Confronting it head-on was the only way to combat the darkness.

  She snatched a ceremonial Japanese sword from the wall, a gift from one of Jonathan’s clients. Ironically, she had always despised the prominent place Jonathan had given it in the room. Nearing the top of the grand staircase, Mina knelt to peer through the banister’s ornate iron rails. The front door was wide open. A meandering trail of smeared blood stained the floor from the threshold, across the foyer, and into the drawing room. The frightful thought that Jonathan had returned home and was somehow injured banished all her fears, and she raced down the stairs and into the drawing room. Following the bloody path to a corner, she found a man huddled beneath the portrait that hid the family wall safe. A bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating the study. She gasped, shocked at the ghastly appearance of a man she knew.

  “Jack?”

  Not only was Jack Seward covered from head to foot in blood, but he looked so frail and ill, vastly different from the robust man she had once known. He looked up at her, opened his mouth, and tried to speak. Blood gurgled out instead of words. Dropping the sword, she knelt beside him. “Jack, don’t try to speak. I’ll fetch a physician.”

  As she rose, Seward grabbed her arm. He shook his head vigorously. He pointed to the floor, where he had written with his own blood: “B-E-W- A- R.”

  “Beware?” Mina implored. “Beware of what . . . of whom?”

  Seward screamed, but it was abruptly silenced. He fell back, his face frozen in horror.

  Jack Seward was dead.

  Her own screams woke Mina from the nightmare.

  She was safe in her own chambers, in her own bed, tangled in her sheets. In those few disorienting seconds between the dream state and reality, Mina was certain that she saw the crimson fog seep out of her bedroom window and into the night. Although she was sure that she felt a presence in her room, she dismissed it as the last dissipating fragment of her vision. She sighed and dropped back into her pillow, watching the curtains billowing in the wind.

  She had shut the window before retiring
to bed. She vividly remembered fastening the lock.

  The cathedral bells rang, and Mina glanced at the clock resting on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter past twelve.

  She ran to the window and reached to grab the latch handle. She froze. The crimson red fog was in her front courtyard, slithering around the hedges and trees as it retreated from the house.

  After drawing the curtains, Mina raced down the hall to Jonathan’s bedroom to find comfort in her husband’s arms but was disheartened to find his room empty. The bedsheets had not even been turned back. He had not yet come home.

  “Damn him,” Mina cursed. He was supposed to have been on the 6:31 train from Paddington, arriving at St. David’s station by 10:05. She looked back into the night, wondering if she should ring up Mark at the Half Moon down the lane to see if Jonathan had stumbled in from the station. Then she remembered the embarrassing incident from the last time when Jonathan had traded blows with a fellow drunkard over the favors of an aged consumptive whore. Mina had been forced to endure the shame of traveling into town to bail her husband out of the police station’s cells.

  Despite that dreadful incident, she still wished Jonathan were here. He was rarely home of late. Now that her son, Quincey, was away at the Sorbonne, Mina often found herself alone in this grand, empty house. Tonight her loneliness was poignant and the house was like a tomb.

  She gazed at the row of framed photographs on the mantelpiece. What had happened to all those people? Some were deceased, but most had simply drifted away. How did my whole life crash on the rocks? Mina’s eye fell upon one of her favorite photographs, and she picked it up, a portrait of Lucy and herself, taken before the darkness came into their lives. Before she made her fateful choice. The naïveté of youthful innocence in those smiles comforted her. She could still clearly remember that beautiful August day in 1885 when she had first met the love of her life, Jonathan Harker, at the Exeter Summer Fair.