Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 13
A Man of Diabolical Cast
Purfleet
1893
Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh.
Mina Harker sits at the edge of the bed, unable to sleep. It has been twenty-four hours since she was awakened in the darkness, a pale face shining in the moonlight and a cold hand grasping her wrist. The memories – reeking lips upon her throat, followed by horror and revulsion as Dracula forces his own blood into her mouth – fester in her mind like an open wound. The injury on her forehead, the very spot where Abraham Van Helsing touched her with sacramental bread, still burns. Jonathan’s revolver is on the bedside table, and if she performs the final act at sunrise, they can cut off her head and end her suffering. She is a liability to the others now.
There is a noise in the hallway, and Mina’s heart beats faster as she grasps the revolver. Bullets will be of little use if Dracula has returned to carry her away, but at least the shot will wake the others. The floor is cold against her bare feet as she creeps across the room and turns the doorknob.
“Good evening, ma’am.” Quincy Morris sits in the hallway, boots off, with his large hat propped against the wall. He sees the revolver in her hand and grins.
“What are you doing here?” she says, her voice low. Behind her, Jonathan moans in his sleep.
“Just watching out for my friends.” Quincy pats the gun that rests in his own lap. “If yon foul beast dares cross the threshold, he shall find me ready. Besides, Arthur snores like a damned locomotive.” He winks, and Mina smiles in spite of herself. Still -
“I am so afraid,” she whispers.
“Me too,” Quincy says, and Mina is taken aback by the frank admission. “But if we stick together, I think things will turn out all right.”
Not alone, she thinks, and not finished yet. It could still end badly, and in truth, Mina sees no way out of her predicament. And yet - If we stick together, I think things will turn out all right.
Thus comforted, she returns to bed and sleeps through the night.
I.
London
1933
“Toss it at your feet. They can nip your fingers if you feed them from your hand. Do you like ducks?”
“Yes Grandpa.” Archie Spencer gave the breadcrust an underhand throw. It landed a few feet away, and the ducks fought over the scraps. “There were ducks in India, but we never fed them.”
He threw the next piece to a large black drake. The throw landed short, and a pair of brown ducks snatched the crust away. Jonathan landed a morsel directly in front of the drake, and the boy smiled, the first real smile Jonathan had seen.
Jonathan tossed another piece of bread. “What’s on your mind, Archie?”
“Mama is dead, isn’t she?” A tear rolled down one cheek. “ She drowned, and she’s gone forever. Is that what happened?”
“I don’t know.” Jonathan mulled over his next words. Tell the truth, but don’t take away his hope. “The police think she could have been kidnapped, and that means she could be alive. That’s what I want to believe.”
“Are the police looking for her?”
“Yes.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Archie, I may need to leave as well.”
“Grandpa, don’t –“
“Archie, look at me.” Jonathan’s throat tightened. “If you were lost, your mother would search for you to the ends of the earth. Sarah is my child, and if she is alive, I have to find her.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Maybe a week, or a month” – or possibly forever, if Arthur was correct. “I don’t know for sure, but Mrs. Cobham will take care of you until I return.”
“I’m so afraid, Grandpa.”
“I am too, Archie. But your mama is clever and brave –” he thought of Mina and forced down the sob that rose in his chest – “like her mother before her. And that gives me hope.”
The boy began to cry more freely, and Jonathan embraced him.
II.
Vienna
They ate breakfast at a café near the hotel, though Sarah had little appetite. The embassy, and home, seemed more real than it had in weeks, but despite her joy, an awful dread gnawed at her belly. Across the table, a cigarette burned in Sigmund’s hand as he watched the street. Neither of them spoke of the last twelve hours.
“You’re sure you won’t come with me?”
“No.” He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. “I’ll hang back and make sure that you aren’t followed,” he said. “As far as we know, no one else knows where you are, but the SS have informants throughout Vienna.”
They exited the café and turned the corner. Ten blocks up this street, and I’ll be at the embassy. Sigmund waited at the intersection, and she studied him closely - the lined face, the neat brown suit, the gray eyes that followed every movement. Sarah hesitated, unwilling to be on her own again, and slipped an arm around his neck.
“I never would have made it without you. Thank you.”
His eyes widened a fraction of an inch, as if her gratitude had taken him by surprise, and his fingers brushed her cheek. Sarah lingered in the embrace a moment longer, then started up the street.
She walked at a brisk pace, mumbling apologies as she pushed her way past a dark-haired woman and a couple with a carriage. She resisted the temptation to coo at the baby. I have my own child to see. She stopped at the third intersection and waited, one foot tapping at the cobblestones, as a policeman let the cross-traffic pass. Sarah fought the urge to turn left, to flow with the traffic simply for the sake of walking, and John Quincy’s voice piped up in her thoughts, teasing her. Never can sit still, can you sprout? At Sandhurst, they make you stand at attention for hours, sometimes days - won’t even let you wrinkle your nose. No army life for you, I guess. The memory opened doors that she preferred to keep closed, and she pushed it away. Her eyes drifted to the opposite side of the street.
The dark-haired woman was standing on the far side of the intersection, the slender body turned casually in her direction. Sarah’s heart began to beat faster. You’re panicking, she thought, jumping at strangers in a crowd.
The policeman waved her across, and she passed through the intersection, moving faster now. Sarah was careful not to run, lest she draw unwanted attention, but pressed through the horde of pedestrians that impeded her path, half-mumbling apologies as she went. She lost sight of the woman - proof, Sarah told herself, of her own faulty logic. Her would-be pursuer had paused at a storefront window or gone to her job in an office pool, or perhaps she had gone home to her family. Perhaps, she thought with a wry smile, she was frightened away by the stare of a mad Englishwoman. She paused at the next intersection and scanned the crowd. The dark-haired woman was directly behind her, no more than thirty yards away. Her eyes locked with Sarah’s own.
Sarah ran, pushing her way through the crowd with no more patience for stealth. She bumped an elderly man, drawing angry mutters from the other passers-by, but she pressed on, fighting the rising panic as she passed through another intersection. Four more blocks to go - or is it five? Just keep moving, and you’ll get there soon enough.
She stopped dead at the next cross-street. A large group of marchers, part of the wild ferment of Viennese politics, blocked her path as a guard held up the northbound traffic. Somewhere behind, a woman shouted her name, but she feared to glance at her backtrail, lest she see the dark-haired woman, perhaps flanked by a contingent of German soldiers, closing the distance between them. She wondered if Sigmund would be nearby, watching helplessly as she was murdered in the presence of a hundred onlookers. To make it this far, only to be thwarted by a bloody parade…
Sarah. Her mother’s voice in her head again. Just go, Sarah – run!
She sprinted into the intersection, ignoring the warning shout from the police officer. Caught in the marching throng, Sarah was carried westward with the crowd. Someone shouted at her, harsh, guttural words, like a curse, and hands groped at her body. Another marcher gave her a hard shove between her shoulder blades. Sarah took a wild, stumbling step and went down. Her hands scraped the paving stones, leaving a bloody abrasion on one palm, as she broke her fall. Sarah grasped at a passing sleeve, trying to force herself to one knee, but another hand shoved her aside, and she went down again. A foot stepped on her calf as the crowd rolled forward. If I don’t get up, they’ll trample me. A paunchy man in a threadbare coat passed to her right, and Sarah grabbed for the coat. An elbow struck her just below the right eye, but she was able to pull herself upright, and she careened to the empty sidewalk as she was ejected from the crowd. Behind her, the parade marched remorselessly onward.
Sarah retraced her path and continued northward. Her eye began to swell, and her legs and torso throbbed with each step, but the dark-haired woman was nowhere to be seen. She crossed a final intersection and directly ahead, like a shining city on a hill, she saw the British Embassy. Sarah breathed a silent prayer of thanks as she grasped her bruised ribs. Her body ached from the beating that she had endured, and she leaned against a post, fortifying herself for the last fifty yards of her journey. In hindsight, she realized, those few seconds of rest and observation saved her life. The couple watched her from the corner of the building, and as they reached into the carriage, the scarred man beside them caught her eye. Sunlight gleamed on metal, and Sarah’s eyes widened as the carriage, released from their grip, rolled aimlessly down the hill.
Sarah retreated, sprinting with burning legs and aching lungs as the Germans opened fire.
III.
Ploesti
The gendarme stood watch as the others combed the site for evidence. There was plenty of violence among the oil workers, and the political factions that sprouted in the War’s aftermath made their own grisly contribution to his caseload. Still, the mess at his feet was something new. A young constable joined him beside the remains.
“I’ve never seen faces like that.” The youngster rubbed his wispy mustache and averted his eyes from the remains. “It looks like they had an awful fright in their last moments.”
“They all look that way when they’re dead.” He studied the faces again, and the boy had a point - something about those open mouths and staring eyes was disquieting.
“They’re Germans, aren’t they? You think the Communists had at them?”
“I don’t think so,” the gendarme said. “The Bolsheviks shoot or stab. See those wounds?” He pointed to the large hole in the throat of the nearest body. “That looks like an animal attack, but something is missing. Take a closer look.”
The younger man studied the corpse as a fly crawled across the dead face, and the gendarme waited. The most obvious clues could hide in plain sight, and it was good to let the boy puzzle things out for himself. There was the case in 1919, the gendarme thought, the grisly murder of itinerant laborer. The killer read the writings of some English charlatan and thought to bring back his dead wife with a magic spell. Took us forever to find the murder weapon, even though -.
“There’s no blood!” The constable drew back, surprised. “Do you think they were killed somewhere else and dumped here?”
“If they were, the killer went to a lot of trouble,” the gendarme said. “There’s no blood on the clothing, so he stripped them naked, tore out their throats, and drained them of every last drop. Afterward, he washed the bodies and dressed them again before leaving them here. And the lack of blood here doesn’t account for what’s on the old storage tank.”
“There’s something else.” The constable pointed toward the edge of the clearing. “I found an empty film canister at the edge of the brush.”
They walked across the clearing, where the storage tank lay on its side, rusting in the weeds. The killer took pictures, the Gendarme thought. Mementoes of his handiwork? A message sent to Berlin or Moscow? Or is it random trash, unrelated to the crime? Then there was the matter of the blood on the tank - present in some quantity, but not nearly enough to account for a pair of corpses. The clues are hiding in plain sight, but what do they mean?
“What do you make of that?” The constable pointed to the rusted metal. “Is it a code word?”
“Perhaps.” The gendarme thought of the itinerant laborer again. Blood magic to raise the dead. He carefully studied the writing as the morning sunlight warmed the earth.
IV.
Vienna
Sigmund waited until Sarah reached the first intersection, then walked east for two blocks. They’ll find out she is in Vienna, and there’s only one destination for an English fugitive. Heydrich would have sent no more than two or three men, and to ensure that the Austrians did not hold her for questioning, it had to be finished before she reached the embassy. Just pray that they’re looking for a blonde Englishwoman and not a German Jew. Sigmund made a mental note of the parked cars as he walked - he would need to leave quickly, and it was easy enough to steal a car. He had no fear of the guillotine or the noose, but the Austrians might turn him over to the SS, and the thought filled him with dread. The pistol, the same one that he had looted from the dead SS man, chafed his side as he walked.
He reached the parade, and the marchers blocked his way. Sigmund listened to the angry chants - down with Jews, down with capitalists - and thought better of wading into the crowd. He drifted westward, paralleling the marchers, and searched for the front of the column. The setback was infuriating, but with any luck, he could still beat Sarah to the embassy.
He heard the first gunshots, and Sigmund flattened his body against a nearby doorjamb. There was an instant of silence, then a long burst of submachine gun fire chattered in the distance. In the street, the forward movement of the parade stalled, and its participants milled about in confusion. A lone policeman tried to restore order as a scuffle broke out within the crowd. As the first cries of the dying reached his ears, Sigmund was already retracing his steps, a plan forming in his mind even as the certainty of failure and loss overwhelmed him.
V.
An intense stabbing pain radiated from her chest, and Sarah wondered whether a broken rib had punctured her lung. Someone pushed her from behind as she waded into the crowd, and Sarah tasted blood as her head struck the cobblestones. Fingers entwined in her hair, forcing her head downward. Above, the marchers stared with slack-jawed incomprehension as the gunman opened fire on the crowd. A flurry of bullets passed, striking at random among the marchers or whistling past her ears with the buzz of angry hornets. Sarah opened her eyes and saw the dark-haired woman at her side. Their eyes met, and the woman gave a slight nod - encouragement, perhaps, or acknowledgement of their mutual predicament. A half-dozen marchers lay dying around them. The woman hauled Sarah to her feet as the gunfire ceased.
“Come with me if you want to live!”
The woman hauled Sarah to her feet. Behind them, the gunman retreated as the marchers surged forward, his empty weapon useless against the mob.
They fled down the sidewalk. Sarah’s ribs ached, and her ankle protested with each step, but she was overwhelmed by the imperative to flee, and panic lent strength to her weakened limbs. They ran for three blocks and stumbled into the alcove of a department store entrance. Sarah collapsed against the display window.
“Sarah? Are you all right?” Sarah’s head lolled on her shoulders as the woman shook her. “Are you shot?”
“I don’t think so.” Sarah forced herself to breathe through the pain, and her head slowly cleared. “How did you know my name?”
“My name is Gabriela de Cel.” Gabriela peered around the corner, searching for movement int the street. “I am from Romania, and I work for a friend of your father’s.”
“I don’t believe you.” Sarah drew back, wary. “My father doesn’t have any friends in Romania.”
“Forty years ago, a woman was murdered, and the police think that your father was responsible.” Her voice rose to an urgent crescendo as a car appeared at the far end of the street. “I know the truth, Sarah. I know what really happened - I know that your father is innocent.”
Your father is innocent. The words registered in her consciousness with joyless irony. In a few minutes, I will take that knowledge to my grave. The approaching car, a big Mercedes, moved slowly as the driver scanned each storefront, a submachine gun protruding from the open window. Sarah watched, mesmerized, as a second car joined the hunt. They proceeded up the street at a leisurely pace, moving in tandem, like a pair of lions seeking prey.
VI.
London
“Frankly, I’m surprised that you weren’t turned away at the door.” The receptionist tapped the open appointment book on her desk. Holmes started to speak, and she cut him off. “What were you thinking? The Ambassador is a busy man, and you appear with some ridiculous tale about a kidnapping at sea! Come back with names and proof of nationality, and make an appointment, and perhaps the ambassador will talk to you.”
“The ship’s crew says that the missing passengers spoke German,” Holmes said. “It seems natural that your Embassy would receive inquiries – a pair of Germans disappear on a voyage to London?”
“They speak German in lots of places.” She dismissed him with a wave. “Ask the Belgians or the Dutch.”
“My apologies for wasting your time. Of course, there is one other thing.” Holmes passed Jonathan’s note across the desk. “Do you have any idea where it might have come from?”
“None whatsoever.” She glanced at the note with the weary air of one accustomed to humoring fools. “Where did you get it?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, but the handwriting appears familiar, doesn’t it?” Holmes tapped his shoe on the marble tile as he spoke. “Your appointment book was lying open, and it was the first thing that I checked when I entered your office.”
He had waited for the opportune moment to reveal the note, certain of provoking a reaction, but her countenance never faltered. Give credit where it’s due, Holmes thought. She doesn’t frighten easily. The receptionist stared into his eyes for an extra heartbeat, then tucked the appointment book beneath her arm.
“I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Ten minutes later, she returned with a sealed envelope.
“Now if you will excuse me, I have actual work to do.” The hand waved again, banishing him to the outer darkness. “Good day.”
Holmes left through the south entrance and continued toward St. James’s Park. He paused under the statue of Edward VII (I wonder what he’d think of the world he bequeathed us?) and opened the envelope. Holmes read the penciled words carefully.
Harker
Holmwood
Westenra
They have the journal
They are looking for a castle.
VII.
Lena Von Hoesch watched Englishman cross the courtyard before returning to the large office. Her father sat at his desk, flanked by the tricolor flag of the Weimar Republic. The other flags, a circle of white against a red background, with the hooked cross inscribed in the center, remained in their unopened shipping crates. Leopold Von Hoesch smiled as she entered the room.
“Did he get the message?”
“He left without reading the note. What have I gotten us into?”
“You helped a man in need,” he said. “A foolish act, perhaps, but a brave one.”
Lena Von Hoesch walked around the heavy desk and placed a hand on his shoulder. She had delivered the note without his knowledge, a covert act of defiance that endangered them both. Still, her father had not batted an eye over her action and had placed himself at risk with the visit to Jonathan Harker. “It’s safe enough – they know violence and intimidation, but the finer points of espionage evade them for now.”
“If the Chancellor finds out what we’ve done, it won’t end well.”
“If we are lucky, Herr Hitler will be gone in a year,” he said. The ambassador placed his hand upon her own. “In the meantime, let’s be sure he doesn’t find out.”
VIII.
Vienna
Gabriela kicked at the lock with the ball of her foot, but the door refused to yield. She grabbed Sarah’s arm as the second car, an ugly green sedan of American vintage, pulled alongside the first.
“When he passes the big car, we run. Understand?”
Sarah heaved herself upright and began running, her stiff muscles protesting each step, as the green car blocked her view of the Mercedes. Halfway across the street, her ankle twisted, and Sarah fell headlong to the pavement. The Mercedes loomed over them, its headlamps glowering like unblinking eyes, as Gabriela pulled her upright. He won’t even need the gun, Sarah thought. He can run us down in the street.
Two pistol shots rang out, a distinct pop-pop that, after her encounter with the submachine gun, sounded almost puny - a child’s kick at the toe of a dragon. The Mercedes struck the green car with a scream of metal on metal, then plowed into the sidewalk on the far side of the street. The remaining car steered directly for them and veered away at the last instant. Its tires squealed as the car skidded to a stop.
“Sarah!” Sigmund opened the passenger door. “Get in, there may be others!”
A wave of joy washed over her as she limped to the car and slid into the seat beside him. Sarah rested her head on his shoulder and let the fear and pain of the last ten minutes slip away. Giddy laughter welled in her throat. We cheated the hangman again, didn’t we? She lingered for an instant longer, savoring the feeling, and sat up.
“Where did you get the car?”
“Pinched it from the street - is that how the English say it?” He grinned at her, then noticed Gabriela in the rear seat, and the smile faded.
“Who is our passenger?”
“Gabriela saved my life,” Sarah said. Beside her, the gray eyes regarded the mirror coolly.
“I see.” Sigmund worked the clutch, and they began rolling. “We’re going to a find a safe place and get rid of the car. Then you and I,” he shot a backward glance at Gabriela, “are going to talk.”
Sarah gazed through the window as they sped past an idling motorcycle. The joy of survival faded, and the contentment of their reunion was shunted aside by the painful knowledge of dashed hopes. Like a hare, she fled the baying dogs only to run headlong into the hunter’s gun. All for the sake of an old ghost story.
Behind them, the motorcycle followed.
“We need to get across the river.” Sigmund’s eyes alternated between the street and the mirror. “The SS will concentrate on the Embassy, and if we can hide for a few days - I don’t know, perhaps we can try for Switzerland again.”
The motorcycle accelerated, closing the distance as they reached the long bridge that spanned the Danube, and everything that followed was a whirlwind of noise and pain. Sarah caught a brief glimpse of the driver, the scarred visage that she remembered from the embassy, before Sigmund forced her head down. He stomped the brakes in a frantic attempt to shake their pursuers, and Sarah had time for a single crazed thought - too late - as the woman in the sidecar opened fire. The driver’s window exploded inward, showering them with broken glass, as Sigmund jerked the wheel to the right. Sarah was thrown into the dash as they struck the guardrail, and her fingers clutched helplessly at the empty air, desperate for some handhold to arrest her flight. Blood spattered the leather seat, and beside her, Sigmund’s face was ashen.
The motorcycle pulled alongside for a final coup de grace, and Sigmund wrenched the steering wheel to the left. They struck the rear wheel of the motorcycle, and as the rider overcompensated to arrest his slide, the woman was thrown from the sidecar. She landed directly in their path, and her scream was cut short by a wet, grinding noise as the woman was pulled beneath the bumper. Behind them, the motorcycle wobbled, stabilized, and came to a stop. The rider watched an instant longer before speeding away in the opposite direction.
They rolled to a stop at the far end of the bridge, and Sigmund killed the engine with a bloody hand. His eyes drifted closed, and his head lolled as Sarah grasped at his collar. Behind them, a red smear of debris marked the passage of the woman.
“Sigmund? Look at me!” Sarah’s cries left her throat raw and her ribs aching. “Everything’s going to be all right, we just need to find a doctor, please don’t die on me!”
“You need to go.” He smiled with blood-flecked lips. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you home.” He pulled her closer and whispered into her ear until his body relaxed and his eyes lost focus. Sarah held him a little longer, weeping, until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Come on.” Gabriela surveyed the trail of carnage behind them. “We need to go before others come.”
Gabriela led them south, and Sarah followed passively - she had suffered too much to do otherwise. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Not even Sigmund’s dying whisper could rouse her.
“Do not trust her, Sarah. Whatever happens, do not trust her.”
IX.
London
“Good afternoon, sir.” Horace met him in the foyer. “Do you have an appointment with Lady Godalming?”
“No,” Holmes said, “but I need to speak with her. It is rather urgent.”
“Of course.” The hint of a smile touched the servant’s lips. “Lady Godalming is quite busy, but I’m sure she will receive you if you don’t mind waiting. Please be seated.”
Horace disappeared into an unlit hallway, and Holmes waited. The house was ornately furnished (and better kept than Jonathan Harker’s, he noticed), but he found the silence oppressive. Why Katherine Holmwood chose to live in an empty house, with a skeleton crew of servants and the ghost of a dead husband, was beyond him. The room was adorned with freshly-cut flowers, but the floral aroma could not mask the sharp odor of decay beneath. Harker, Holmwood, and Westenra. Rupert Holmes turned the names over in his mind. They have the journal. The implications were mostly clear - Arthur Holmwood’s suicide in 1904 was connected to Lucy Westenra’s death eleven years earlier, and both were connected to Jonathan Harker in some way that the missing journal would doubtless reveal. But why would the Germans care about a pair of decades-old mysterious deaths? And they are looking for a castle - what bloody castle? Holmes had no interest in dragging Katherine Holmwood through the mud, but if Lord Godalming had left behind his own writings, private papers not shared with Scotland Yard, they might provide a clue to Sarah Spencer’s disappearance. Holmes would deal with the matter quietly, if possible, but the safe return of Jonathan Harker’s daughter took precedence.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Holmes checked his watch. Damn you, Horace - Lady Godalming is busy, my arse. He paced the room and studied the gardens through the window. They were quite pretty in the afternoon sunlight, though the well-manicured hedges and perfect rows of flowers left him unmoved. A thing of beauty, nourished on blood and bone.
“Horace!” Holmes shouted. “Send the Lady, please! This is important, and I don’t have much time!”
He stepped into the empty hallway, and the photographs on the wall attracted his interest. The blonde woman in the first photo, Holmes guessed from the painting in Jonathan Harker’s house, was Mina Harker. There was a photo of Lady Godalming herself, an awkward-looking teenager, and a group photo of three women. A shame the photographer botched the shot, he thought, noting the blurred face. Homes came to the final portrait.
Impossible. The woman with the dark curls beamed at him, and Holmes returned her gaze with dawning horror. Deep in the recesses of his own mind, Lady Godalming’s echoed, like the tolling of a death knell. “Lucy was such a sweet girl. She sickened and died before the wedding ever took place.” The photograph provided the connection that he had been missing. Jonathan Harker, a close friend of Arthur Holmwood was suspected of foul play in Lucy’s death. Arthur Holmwood, Lucy’s fiancé at the time of her death, had obsessed with his lost love from her death in 1893 until his own suicide eleven years later.
And Lucy Westenra was the monster of Hampstead Heath.
Rupert Holmes touched the photograph with trembling fingers. It fell from the wall, and he jumped back as the glass shattered on the floor. Holmes cast a quick glance toward the fading daylight in the front windows as pallid faces watched from the depths of his imagination and hands stretched forth to caress him with the touch of dead flesh. Finally, his courage failed, and Rupert Holmes fled the house, leaving the broken picture behind.
IX.
The envelope was waiting when he arrived home, and Jonathan skimmed its contents. When he was finished, he poured a large glass of Scotch from the bottle on his desk. Jonathan drank, his eyes averted from the note, and refilled the glass. By degrees, his courage returned, and Jonathan dared to read again.
The envelope had been delivered from Bucharest via a private delivery service. Jonathan unfolded its contents, a full page from The Times. Below the fold, a news article reported the disappearance of Sarah Spencer in the Mediterranean. The handwritten note above the story consisted of an address in Sibiu and a single line:
Come quickly.
Sibiu, Jonathan thought. He had carefully removed the name from every scrap of correspondence and not spoken its name aloud for forty years. He poured another drink, but the liquor could not dull the cold fear that settled into his heart. Sibiu. Not Bistritz - the red herring that Jonathan planted to deter treasure hunters and would-be occultists. Sibiu. If the sender knew about Sibiu, then the note was genuine, and someone was privy to his darkest secrets.
Arthur, Seward, Quincy, and Mina are dead. Only I remain.
Who else knows the truth?
X.
Kiel, Germany
1931
Conduct unbecoming an officer. The words rang in his ears like the tolling of a death knell. On some theoretical level, he understood their concerns. What if you had gotten her pregnant, Reinhard? How would your behavior reflect upon the Reichsmarine? Still, he would make no apology, no admission of guilt – he had met another woman, and the engagement was off. Ultimately, his dismissive tone carried as much weight as the offense itself.
His dismissal from Reichsmarine stung, but he moved resolutely forward, not daring a backward glance at the shame of his dismissal. His separation of the navy had been official for less than twenty-four hours when he joined the National Socialist German Workers Party.