Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 16
Part III: A Ruined Tomb in a Forgotten Land
Part Three: A Ruined Tomb in a Forgotten Land
“As for you, Achilles, no one was ever so fortunate as you have been, nor ever will be, for you were adored by all us Argives as long as you were alive, and now that you are here, you are a great prince among the dead. Do not, therefore, take it so much to heart even if you are dead.”
“Say not a word,” he answered, “in death’s favor; I would rather be a paid servant in a poor man’s house and be above ground than king of kings among the dead.”
Homer, The Odyssey (Book XI)
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, OzymandiasGalatz, Kingdom of Romania
1893
They decide to separate. Jonathan and Arthur hire a steam launch to follow the box, now traveling up the Danube on some nameless flatboat, as Seward and Quincy travel overland at the river’s edge. Too old for long hours in the saddle, Abraham Van Helsing procures a carriage for his own journey with Mina. Jonathan Harker’s directions are vague - west, then north - but he is certain that Mina will lead him to their final destination. After all, the castle draws her, just as it draws the thing that would possess her. The three women still haunt the castle, and he will deal with them just as they dealt with poor Lucy.
There is another reason for their departure, of which Van Helsing does not speak. Mina and Dracula are inextricably linked, and he fears her proximity to the others, lest her thoughts betray them. Her teeth are growing sharper now, he notes with dismay, but perhaps there is still time. A bitter wind blows, and the first flakes of an early snowfall are in the air as they set out for their destination.
I.
Over the Black Sea
1933
The whine of the engine noise made his temples throb, and the plane pitched and rolled with each change in the wind. Jonathan had chafed at the delay – two days lost while some bureaucrat in Sofia dithered over their flight plan - and Amy countered his objections by pointing out the Turkish guns that lined the coast. Those things open up on us, and we won’t last five minutes. Meanwhile, he paced nervously along the shore of the Aegean, visions of Sarah ever-present in his mind.
He had taken the ferry from Dover to Calais and boarded an overnight train to Paris. The following morning, Jonathan walked through the foyer of the Gare de l’Est, dressed in his best suit. His footfalls echoed in the empty hallway, and if he looked over his shoulder, Jonathan imagined that he would meet a doppelganger, a well-dressed version of himself, forty years younger and filled with optimism as he rode the same train eastward. He ignored the workman at the far end of the hall and stepped into the washroom. Timing was crucial for the next step, and five minutes later, when he brushed past the workman at the washroom exit, Jonathan tried to conceal his unease. The workman paid him no attention as he stepped to the urinal, nudging the bag aside with a dirty shoe. Jonathan exited the station and walked north, and when he was safely away from the entrance, he deposited the shabby overcoat and cap in a rubbish bin and hailed a cab for the airfield.
Turbulence buffeted the plane as they passed over the Aegean, and Amy carefully maintained their heading. The weather was turning as their papers cleared, and to avoid the storms, Amy flew northwest along the Turkish border toward the Black Sea. Jonathan tried to calculate the train’s progress as searchlights probed the sky.
“Storms are pushing us closer to the border than I like,” Amy said as a gust rocked the plane. “The lights are a friendly reminder to stay on our side of the line, but if the wind pushes us any farther south, they may fire a shot across our bow. Once we’re over water, we should be all right.”
“Do you think we can make it?” The passenger door rattled, and Jonathan’s stomach rolled as he fought the urge to heave the day’s meal onto his feet. If I were aboard the train, I would be sleeping in a comfortable berth right now.
“The plane handles a little funny with the modifications, but a little wind and some coastal artillery doesn’t worry me. I’ll save my concerns for the arrival.”
Jonathan nodded. Amy had replaced the landing gear with oversized tires and added jury struts to stiffen the wings. If the narrow strip of rock was still there, the ill-proportioned gear would give them the best odds of a successful landing. And, God willing, a successful take-off afterward.
The clouds broke as they passed over the Black Sea coast, and Amy pointed toward the shoreline. Eight thousand feet below, breaking waves glittered in the moonlight. Jonathan stared at the iridescent band of water, rapt.
“Not many people get to see the sights from this altitude.” Amy was beaming. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s magnificent, Amy.” Staring though the window at the moon-limned breakers, Jonathan felt peace for the first time in many days. He stared out the window and wished Rupert Holmes, traveling by rail and wearing his best suit, a safe journey. He stared at the window a little longer and fell asleep, snoring gently as the engines droned on around him.
II.
Aboard the Orient Express
The train paused at Munich and continued east, passing south of Linz (“The birthplace of our beloved Fuhrer,” an Austrian woman explained with shining eyes) toward Vienna. Holmes passed the days in the lounge, smoking and watching the scenery as they traversed the wheat fields of the Hungarian plain. Munich had been… interesting.
The guards were waiting when the train arrived, and the brownshirts pushed through the cars, swearing at the passengers and scrutinizing any man over forty. The others arrived an hour later. They dressed in black uniforms, and Holmes noted the odd insignia - a pair of stylized runes, similar to twin lightning bolts - on the collars. They talked quietly with the passengers, a sharp contrast with the brownshirts, but their demeanor left Holmes with a cold feeling. These aren’t half-educated thugs putting on a show of toughness. Whoever they are, they are deadly serious. The thin man arrived last. He paused in front of Holmes for several minutes, his gaze alternating between Holmes’s face and the file folder in his hand, then continued onward. When the train was moving again, Holmes went to the lounge and ordered a drink.
He checked his watch. They had crossed the Romanian border last night, and in about thirty minutes, they would pass through Sibiu before the final stop in Brasov. Holmes had no intention of completing the last leg of the journey, and he lit his pipe as he passed through the dining car, where Linz-the-homeland-of-our-Fuhrer conversed loudly with another passenger, a tall man with a scarred face and a pained expression. The train was already slowing as he stepped onto the open platform.
The steam locomotive ran on coal and water, and while they carried enough coal for a long journey, the train stopped periodically to replenish its water supply. And the next water crane is in Sibiu. The train continued to lose speed as the engineer bled air from the brakes, and Holmes spotted an open area ahead – no trees, no poles, no visible rocks. Beyond, there were a few tall weeds. Just enough to disappear from view. Holding the satchel in his right hand, Holmes took a deep breath and stepped into the empty air. He landed with his feet together and allowed his knees to buckle. The brown fedora flew from his head, and Holmes tucked his chin into his chest as he rolled, distributing the impact through his legs and back. He gave himself a quick mental check – knees and ankles still working, spine intact, no teeth missing – and staggered into the weeds.
Somewhere ahead, the train continued to slow as Otto Skorzeny, unhappy dining companion of Linz-the-homeland-of-our-Fuhrer, stepped from the platform. Skorzeny backtracked, and after several minutes of searching, he found a brown fedora in the weeds. He carried the hat loosely in one hand as he followed the Englishman toward the city.
III.
Romania
Squat and rectangular, the castle had been constructed where the plateau narrowed to a point, and the sides were protected by the sheer cliffs. Broken battlements guarded each corner like aging sentries. John Quincy would have loved this place, she thought sadly. The gatehouse was little more than a ruin, its stones worn away by the elements or cast down by some long-forgotten invader, but the heavy door remained intact. Sarah lifted the iron ring and knocked, and the resonant booming echoed across the stones. There was no response, and she grasped the knocker again. To her surprise, the door swung outward. Sarah jumped, frightened by the sudden movement.
“Hello?” She peered into the gloom. “Is anyone there?”
There was no answer from beyond the threshold, and the open doorway regarded her with bemused contempt. Her nerves registered the feeling, barely perceptible at the fringes of her consciousness, of being watched from the shadows. Like a rat in a damp cellar, it remained hidden, not daring to confront her in the afternoon sunlight. A shy hermit, or a grinning monster? The doorway, if it knew, refused to answer.
A breeze wafted across the open ground behind her. It picked up speed, tousling her hair and snapping at the fringe of her skirt. Sarah’s eyes probed the horizon for signs of a brewing storm, but the sky retained the clear blue of autumn, untouched by clouds. The wind swirled among the cracks in the castle wall in a cacophony of tremulous whistles and low moans, and she perceived a rhythm and syntax to the sounds, a thousand broken murmurs of pain and loss. The sensation of being watched, of presence, became overwhelming, and the discordant notes resolved themselves into a single voice, a soft whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“Enter freely and of your own will.”
Freely? I was kidnapped and driven here, step by miserable step, for some purpose that I do not understand. She stood motionless as the air chilled her exposed skin.
“I am not here by choice!” she shouted into the blackness beyond the threshold. “You know that!”
The wind died, and she was alone. Sarah stood at the open door, her hair disheveled and her breath coming in short, heaving gasps. I’m cracking up, aren’t I? Shouting at the sky like a lunatic. By slow degrees, she mastered the feeling of panic that overwhelmed her. The open door beckoned, a silent invitation into the darkness beyond, and she stepped across the threshold.
The great banquet hall was empty, its revelers fallen to dust, its furnishings carried off by some enterprising marauder. Narrow windows, set high in the stone walls, allowed a few rays of sunlight to penetrate the shadows. At the periphery of the room, Sarah heard the skittering feet of fleeing rats or mice. A small table, out of place in the emptiness, rested in one corner, and Sarah approached it, feeling equal measures of trepidation and desire at the sight of the meal. She fell upon the bread, desperate to fill the emptiness in her belly, and gulped the water from the pitcher. When the last crumbs were eaten, she gathered her courage and called out again.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
There was no reply, save the echo of her own voice. Since those first whispered words (not words, she told herself, only the wind), there had been only silence. Still, someone had laid out a meal. A lantern and matchbox rested next to her empty plate. Sarah gathered these and set out to explore the castle.
A staircase led to the second floor, but Sarah let it be for the moment and explored the lower level. To her left, a narrow passage led to a hallway that opened onto a series of empty rooms. Sarah peered into one and found dusty shelves and a few books strewn about the floor. She examined one book – an 1874 edition of Black’s Law Dictionary. Strange to find a slice of London in this desolate place. The door to the adjacent room was broken asunder, and she stepped through the splintered frame. The ornate furnishings of the parlor were covered by dust and cobwebs, but the windows were large and provided a spectacular view of the gorge and the river below. Sarah let her fingers play over the dusty sofa, and an image came unbidden to her mind, of a young woman bending over a sleeping man. Something about vision troubled her, and she hastened back to the hallway.
The hallway ended in a short staircase with another door at the bottom. The door was fastened on the other side by a bolt or crossbeam and refused to yield to her touch. Sarah clicked her tongue in agitation. At least Bluebeard left a key for his wife. A story, one of John Quincy’s, flashed through her mind. He murdered the women, but their ghosts came back and took over their bodies. They grew long teeth, and their eyes turned red, and they lived by drinking blood. If some poor soul wandered to the castle after dark, they came for him while he slept, and… Sarah envisioned her father and mother, sleeping inside that locked room and waiting for sunset. Waiting for my arrival. Suddenly fearful, she retreated up the staircase and retraced her steps to the great hall.
She opened another door and followed the hallway to a long portico. At the far end, Sarah found herself in a rectangular courtyard, and she walked the low wall along the perimeter. An opening led to stone steps that wound down the mountain in a series of switchbacks, and she could see the river below. On the opposite side of the courtyard, she found a passage in the exterior wall, and Sarah passed through the entrance to a downward sloping hallway.
The chapel was well-lit through a broken section of the east wall, though the rays of sunlight did little to brighten the overall gloominess of the atmosphere. A portion of the east wall had fallen away, and Sarah peered through the opening. The ground below was strewn with deadfalls and dropped in a near-vertical descent to the river. Fall from there and you might live, she thought. Stone boxes were piled randomly about the floor, as if their contents had been looted for some unknown purpose. A musty aroma permeated the space, defying the breeze that poured through the openings.
She returned to the great hall and climbed the staircase. The rooms lining the upper hallway were empty, but the bedroom at the far end was furnished, and to her surprise, somewhat clean. The small bed was old, but the blankets were free of dust, and the cobwebs had been carefully removed from the stone walls. Next to the window, a wash basin and shaving kit were laid out on a table. The razor was missing, and Sarah gazed at the tarnished metal disk for several seconds before recognizing its function. An odd keepsake, she thought, a shaving kit with no razor and a broken mirror.
IV.
Munich
The Luftwaffe had ceased to exist at the end of the War, but there were no such restrictions on civil aviation, and the planes used for peacetime air sports could, in a happy coincidence, be repurposed as bombers for the next war. Perhaps the Heinkel transport that idled on the runway would, in a few years, carry bombs into France. A pilot himself, Heydrich relished the prospect, but for now, he had other concerns. The broad plateau was not suited to the landing of the Heinkel, but the maps indicated a road that would take them within perhaps five miles of their final destination. A call to Bucharest was sufficient to ensure the loan of two trucks, a pair of Opel flatbeds, courtesy of their friends in the Iron Cross.
He took stock of the men on the tarmac. Skorzeny had been right, of course - all would be useful, but none of them had been selected on the basis of aptitude. Hans and Richard were known quantities, though the latter was too prone to indulge his darker impulses. Sulzbach and Karl, the coal miners from the Ruhr, showed potential, though Karl’s prison record hinted at problems with obedience and self-control. Gerhard held the proper opinions regarding the Aryan race and the Jewish question, and Heydrich was particularly fond of him, though he suspected that Hans had selected him as a favor to a fellow Bavarian. The remaining men were chosen with an eye toward his cover story. For the small circle that knew of his mission, Heydrich’s stated intention was prospecting for gold in the Carpathians. Helmut, the chubby lab chemist from Berlin, was ostensibly there to provide technical support, and the younger men - Klaus, Martin, and Peter - were strong backs for manual labor.
And of course, there is Egon. Another War veteran and the oldest of the group, no one, including Egon himself, could fathom his exact purpose. He had served during the worst of the fighting at Verdun, choking on poison gas as the rats fed on his fellow soldiers, and the others considered him… slow. Egon wandered among the others, staring with his vacant eyes and never speaking more than three words at a time. Egon was not a Party member, and Heydrich found it wholly appropriate for such men to be excluded from the ranks - he found Egon’s buck teeth and stringy hair distasteful. Poor Egon signed up for a work relief program, and his name ended up on the wrong list. He is going to die for a bureaucratic error.
Unmarried, childless men who won’t be missed if something goes wrong. Jonathan Harker had eluded them in Munich, and but Heydrich had planned for every contingency. We are arriving, uninvited, on the doorstep of a haunted castle. It’s only polite to bring the host a dish.
A libation of blood poured out for the dead in Hades.
V.
Sibiu
The Gothic-style Lutheran church was impressive, if smaller than the great cathedrals of London and Paris. A statue of an elderly man in a bishop’s robe, stood in front of the façade, a large book beneath one arm. Holmes read the inscription at the base - Teutsch - and stared up at the stern visage. We honor the dead in stone. He lingered a moment longer, remembering the angel that guarded the tomb of Lucy Westenra, then moved on. A peasant lingered at the street corner, and speaking in German, Holmes asked for directions.
“West, then take the north-south road that follows the river,” the peasant answered. “Nothing out there but some fallow fields.”
Holmes thanked the man and began walking. The houses crowded him on either side, neater than a London tenement but unnerving for some reason that he could not pinpoint. He stopped, carefully surveying the steep roofs, until he figured it out. Eyes. Windows were cut into the tiled roofs in half-ovals, heavy-lidded eyes that followed him as he traveled. Holmes resumed his walk, eyes resolutely on the center of the street. When he reached the river and the houses gave way to factories, he turned south. The road was empty, save for a taxi that showered him with dust as it passed.
He reached the house an hour later and stood at the edge of the weed-choked lawn. A roost for the owls and a hole for the mice, he thought. No one has lived here for at least a half-century. The structure was a near-ruin, but there were tire marks in the soft earth, and a radio antenna protruded from one corner of the roof. Holmes mounted the steps and stood in the open doorway.
“You forgot your hat.”
Holmes wheeled about, alarmed. He guessed the man’s age at around thirty, though the scarred cheek gave the impression of an older man - gravitas earned at the point of a blade. He stood at the foot of the steps, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and a fedora held loosely in one hand. The Luger in his other pointed directly at Holmes.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Inside.” He gestured with the pistol, and Holmes stepped through the doorway. The stranger closed the door behind them, and Holmes faced the younger man, palms outward.
“No need for the pistol. I came at the request of a friend.”
“I’m sure you did.” The drab eyes bored into his own. “Herr Harker is clever, isn’t he? Our agent spotted him in Paris, and we were sure that he would show up in Munich. Instead, he gave us the slip.” He shook his head, and a broad grin creased the scarred cheek. “You, on the other hand…”
The shot struck him in the chest, and Holmes groaned as his left lung deflated.
“A couple of gold coins for the old peasant and a few more for the taxi driver - not that it will do him any good - and I beat you at your own game. Heydrich will shit when he lands at the airfield and finds me already waiting.” Otto Skorzeny fired again.
Rupert Holmes sank to his knees, unable to maintain his balance, and toppled onto his back. His brain screamed at him to get up, to flee, as his arms and legs scrabbled uselessly against the floor. A heavy weight crushed his lungs from the inside, and as the world went black, Holmes’s final thought was that he would find Lucy Westenra on the other side, her arms open for a final embrace.
VI.
The locked door itched in her mind, and Sarah returned there, retracing her steps through the dim hallway. She pulled hard at the heavy drop handle, then set her shoulder into the wood and pushed. The door held fast. Sarah ran her fingers along the iron bands that reinforced the wood and the stone arch that formed the doorway, searching for a hidden latch. If the door is fastened on the inside, there must be another entrance.
She returned to the great hall and exited through the gatehouse. The castle walls were built at the edge of a steep precipice, and Sarah approached as close as she dared. The rock face was a thirty-foot drop, but the ground below appeared manageable, and she searched for an opening as she stepped gingerly along the edge. It was a foolish quest, the artifact of her own boredom and frustration - if she gained entry to the locked room, she would doubtless find only cobwebs and dust. More likely, she would find no hidden doorway, only the bare rock of the outer wall.
Perhaps it’s better if you find nothing. Sarah had written off the whispering voice at the gatehouse as a product of fatigue and anxiety, and she could not bring herself to believe that there was any truth to John Quincy’s tales. Still, someone had left food and water, and if one wished for long life and good health, one simply did not break into the locked room of a haunted castle.
Papa did it, and he survived.
Yes, and he was driven half-mad by the experience. Mina’s voice echoed within her brain, less forceful than her experience on the boat, but sufficient to startle her. Something moved in her peripheral vision, and Sarah watched the tall grass, wide-eyed. The lynx slipped through the weeds in a flash of brown and disappeared over the edge. She moved quickly to the spot where the cat had vanished, and her breath caught in her throat. The was an opening in the rock, though the slope was scarcely less treacherous than the surrounding cliff. A few shrubs clung tenaciously to the soil, and she clutched at these as she scrabbled downward. Her feet slipped in the soft earth, but Sarah maintained a tenuous balance until she reached the bottom.
She followed the path that led eastward along the base of the cliff. The terrain was steep, and she fell once, scraping her elbows as a root gave beneath her foot. Below, the forest canopy sloped endlessly downward. Sarah envisioned herself tumbling to the bottom, the fatal result of a misstep, and her sun-bleached bones resting in a quiet glade as vines crawled through the openings in her skull. She forced the thought from her mind and stumbled onward, her eyes open for a glimpse of the castle wall above.
Eventually, the overhang yielded to an eroded jumble of talus, and she could see the castle again. It rested at the top of the slope, and she could see an opening at the base, a gap where the heavy stones had fallen away. This has to be the place. The air felt cool upon her face, and for the first time, she noticed the lengthening shadows - her trek had eaten away much of the afternoon. Moving with greater urgency, Sarah clambered over the rocks and squeezed through the opening in the wall.
The room was completely dark, save for the rays of sunlight that streamed through the break in the wall. Sarah found herself next to a door, and when she slid the bolt, the door opened into the same hallway in which she had stood a few hours prior. She opened the valve on the lantern, and as her eyes adjusted to the light, Sarah looked about the room. The space was large and filled with accumulated junk. Sarah wandered through the detritus and found military uniforms, rusted food tins, and weapons. In one corner, she found the disassembled remains of an automobile, an American Model T nearly as old as herself. A series metal cans rested in another corner, and she sniffed gingerly at the contents. Fresh water and lamp oil. Sarah carried one of each to the hallway, sweating a little with the effort. She picked up a rifle but found no ammunition and discarded it in favor of a large hunting knife. Outside, the sun vanished behind the mountains.
The mirror stood alone in an uncluttered area of the room, and Sarah let her fingers play over the intricate scrollwork that lined the tarnished frame. The glass was clean and polished to a bright luster in the lantern’s glow. A treasured possession. Sarah gazed at her reflection in the lantern’s glow. She had been an attractive woman when she left India, but now, her face was gaunt, and dark circles lined the eyes. She had lost perhaps a stone since her kidnapping, and the ragged dress hung limply from her shoulders. Sarah barely recognized the apparition that returned her stare. My God, I’ve aged twenty years in three weeks.
Something moved in the mirror’s reflection. The image was fleeting and indistinct, a shadow crossing the room, but she saw it and made an uneasy quarter turn, looking over her shoulder.
“Look in the abyss, the abyss looks into you.” The voice chuckled, mere inches from her ear. “I’m so glad that you came, Sarah.”
She stared into the mirror, empty save for her own haggard countenance, as fingers lightly brushed her neck.
VII.
Gabriela pulled into the rutted lane, anxious to be ready for the Englishman’s arrival. He thought differently, of course - Jonathan is crafty and will go where he is not expected - and she felt a burst of amusement at the sight of the tire marks. He was rarely wrong, but he was hardly omnipotent, and Jonathan Harker had arrived early. Gabriela followed the tracks, and at the back of the house, she found the first body. Someone local, judging by his clothing. Gabriela retrieved the rifle, an American-made Winchester, from the boot of her own car and thumbed several bullets into the magazine.
The front door was ajar, and she pushed it open with a trembling hand. A second body lay in the hallway. The Englishman? The corpse at her feet did not match the elderly face from the newspaper. Gabriela nudged at the body with her foot, and the fingers twitched, startling her. He’s alive, she thought, and though the stranger was beyond the skills of even the finest surgeon, he clung to life with an impressive tenaciousness. An idea entered into her mind, unbidden, and Gabriela pushed it away - he would fade soon enough, and it was better to let him go. She watched the convulsive movement of the fingers, and the thought persisted, softly spoken in her ear with a serpent’s charm. You can save him.
Don’t be stupid, she thought. The consequences were incalculable - it was his gift, and whatever illusions of friendship might linger between them, he gave away nothing for free. Something to be used only in extreme necessity, and perhaps not at all.
Not even to save a dying man?
Gabriela retrieved the bottle from her bedroom dresser and a length of heavy rope from her car. Returning to the dead man (he isn’t dead yet, she told herself), she rolled the stranger onto his back and opened the bottle. The eyes stared upward, devoid of life, as she pried open the lips poured the dark liquid into the stranger’s mouth. When the bottle was empty, she dragged the body (not a body, a living man!) to the bedroom and secured his arms with the rope. Perhaps he would survive, though the knowledge gave her little comfort. She had made the decision in the moment and taken action with little thought beyond the immediate outcome. He gives nothing away for free. Still troubled, Gabriela settled in to wait as daylight yielded to darkness.
VIII.
The hand maintained a firm grip on her neck, and Sarah gaped at the empty space in the mirror.
“Don’t turn around.” The accented voice was surprisingly soothing. “You saw something in the mirror, didn’t you? What was it?”
“I don’t know.” Sarah fought the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her. “I saw a movement of some kind. A shadow.”
“Turn around.” The hand released her neck.
Sarah turned. The stranger’s eyes reflected the weak glow of the lantern, whirling motes of silver in the sclera and a red tapetum lucidum in the iris. The eyeshine of a nocturnal hunter, she thought. She forced her own eyes away from the stranger’s face.
“I can see myself as you see me when I look in your eyes.” He smiled beneath the mustache and pointed at the glass with a thick finger. “But when I look there, I see something completely different. Perhaps that’s why the dead are so fascinated by the living.” He caressed a strand of blonde hair that fell around her ear. “Are you afraid?”
“A little,” she said. “I’m wondering whether you were behind this all along.”
“Hardly - I merely took advantage of the circumstances.” The glittering eyes reminded her of a cobra, weaving hypnotically as it followed the charmer’s pungi, and the baritone voice struck a chord in Sarah’s memory. “I did all I could to bring you here, but only after I heard of your disappearance. Your own courage and wit, so much like your mother’s, did most of the work. And of course, I need to see your father again.”
“Why do you want to see papa?” She barely recognized the croaking voice as her own. John Quincy told me something - what was it?
“Because the others - Art, Van Helsing, Mina, and Lucy - are all gone, and your father is the only one who can help me. Come closer and I’ll explain.”
Art, Van Helsing, Mina, Lucy. Sarah’s hand moved upward, searching for the crucifix at her neck. He caught her fingers with his own and placed the hand at her side. Understanding dawned in her eyes, and Sarah took a shuddering step forward as the lantern sputtered and died.
IX.
London
“My Lady? A package has arrived from Jonathan Harker.”
At this hour? Katherine Holmwood sat up in bed. Horace stood at the doorway and held the bundle like a cupbearer’s goblet.
“Thank you, Horace. Leave it by the door.”
The package was heavy brown paper secured with twine, and she undid the knot that secured the bundle. Jonathan Harker had always been cold to her, even in the best of times, and she viewed the softening of is attitude with cautious optimism, a tentative signal of fading enmity. Perhaps Sarah’s disappearance ground away the hard edges. Still, the ghosts lingered, and she wondered at Jonathan’s hinted promise of revelation. I have some things that will help you to understand - if you want them. She laid the contents, a series of folded maps and a journal, onto her bed and read the attached note.
Dear Kate,
Everything that you wanted to know is in these materials, though I doubt you’ll believe a word of it. Whatever you believe, please save everything. If I don’t return, give everything to Archie when he’s old enough to understand.
Her fingers caressed the cracked leather of the journal’s binding. What’s on your mind, John? Somewhere in those pages, the secrets of Jonathan Harker - and by extension, of Arthur Holmwood - were laid bare. Katherine Holmwood’s mind was alive with a sense of malign possibility. Did Arthur murder poor Lucy? Did you, John?
A floorboard creaked in the hallway, and Katherine withdrew her hand. Alone, with darkness pressing against the bedroom windows, the burden of unwanted knowledge was too great. Perhaps I’ll read them later. She stared at the pile of materials a little longer, then tucked everything into a dresser drawer.
X.
Romania
The hand shook him gently, then firmly.
“What is it, Hans?”
“Midnight - your turn for watch. Now get up! I’m freezing and I want to sleep.”
Richard struggled to push himself upright. They had linked up with Skorzeny at the airstrip and picked up a pair of flatbed trucks. He had laughed as the big man left Hans in a cloud of dust, but the last twenty miles of unpaved road left his lower back stiff and aching. Fucking potholes.
Hans passed him the rifle. The electric torch was attached to a leather strap, which he slipped over one shoulder to keep both hands free. Ten men slept beneath the canvas awning of the flatbed, and Heydrich slept in the cab. Of course he does. Where there’s comfort to be had, trust an officer to find it. Richard took a long pull from the flask in his pocket and walked until the camp disappeared around a bend in the road.
A wolf howled in the distance, and Richard’s fingers tightened around the stock of the rifle. The eerie wail was a good reminder to stay alert - a wolf’s teeth would crunch right through bone, and he would take no chances with the sleeping men behind him. Teeth. Richard poked his tongue into the empty space where his molars had been. He had survived four years on the Eastern Front, from the slaughter of the Russian army at Tannenburg to the final drive on Petrograd in 1918, without a scratch, and it was galling to have his teeth kicked out by an unarmed woman. I should have wrapped the bitch in a heavy chain and thrown her over the side. Perhaps they would meet again someday, but for now, a wolf pelt would make a nice trophy. He moved another hundred yards and stopped to listen.
A twig snapped somewhere to his left, and Richard switched on the torch. No use shooting what you can’t see. He panned the light along the forest floor, until he found what he was seeking. Twin orbs – a pair of eyes – cast a pale reflection in the torch’s beam. He curled his finger around the trigger and clicked off the safety. The eyes crept forward until the wildcat stood in the center of the road, watching him for a moment before fleeing into the brush. Richard’s chest deflated in a long exhale - it was a stupid idea, hunting a wolf in the middle of the night. He needed sleep, and if Egon objected to being awakened a half hour early, he could take it up with Hans in the morning. If he can find the vocabulary.
The wolf howled again, startling him, and Richard’s finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. The gunshot struck the ground at his feet, and a geyser of dirt sprayed into his mouth and eyes as he dropped the rifle. He turned, and the wolf was there, standing in the center of the road and blocking his retreat to camp. Its gray head was massive, streaked with white around the muzzle, and the thick fur around the neck framed the head in a crest not unlike a lion’s mane. The eyes shined golden and red in the torchlight as it started toward him at a lope.
Richard sprinted into the forest. Branches slapped at his face and protruding roots grasped at his ankles, and a series of tremulous bleats escaped his throat with each panting breath as he ran. Behind him, the rifle lay forgotten in the road, and the mournful wail of the wolf’s song filled the forest. He ran until panic yielded to exhaustion, and after several minutes of agonizing effort, the run slowed, then stopped completely. Christ, I should have spent less time in the beer hall. Richard doubled over and planted his hands on trembling knees as he fought the urge to vomit. The torch still hung from its heavy strap, and when he could breathe again, he switched on the light and scanned the forest floor.
Where is he? I should have been dead before I left the road.
The wolf hit him from behind, a sinewy mass that slammed into his body with the force of a gunshot. A bone in his ankle snapped as he went down, and Richard, unable to stand, rolled onto his haunches. He had never been so afraid, not even during the War, when the Russians charged in waves and his comrades fell all around him. The wolf circled, and its eyes, two pinpricks of red, locked with his own. The torch began to flicker as its battery faded, and Richard watched with bulging eyes as the shape blurred and elongated. Fear yielded to incomprehension and then awe as the revelation unfolded before him. Not a wolf. A man. It spoke, and the voice was deep and powerful, like the grinding of stones at the earth’s core.
“Hello Richard.”