Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 17 (Part II)
A Ruined Tomb in a Forgotten Land
VII.
He had little appetite, so Hans walked among the others as they ate, seeing to their welfare. Richard had not been a friend - Hans doubted that Richard truly liked anyone - but in a life ruled by cycles of intrigue and violence, his presence had been an odd comfort, a point of reference to remind him that tomorrow would be much like yesterday. His disappearance left Hans out of sorts, a sailor adrift at sea.
“How are you holding up, Gerhard?”
“Camp food’s nothing to write home about, but I need to slim down anyway.” The big man daubed at his plate with a morsel of bread. “Too much extra weight’s not good for tramping through the woods.”
“Even shitty cooking’s hard to turn down if you’re hungry enough,” Hans said, smiling. He liked Gerhard. A fellow Bavarian and a man worthy of respect.
Skorzeny stepped into the circle of men, and the onlookers put down their plates.
“Listen up everyone! First watch starts in an hour. Herr Heydrich will take the first watch, along with Martin and Sulzbach.” Heydrich acknowledged him with a polite nod.
“Second watch starts at midnight - Helmut, Karl, Gerhard, and Egon. Egon, don’t talk their ears off.” Egon stared at Skorzeny, his eyes blank, as the others hooted in amusement.
“Gerhard will be in charge of second watch, since Richard is… wherever in hell he is,” Skorzeny said. Hans looked around the circle as the laughter died. Good. Give them a reminder that this is serious business. “Last watch starts at four in the morning and will be Hans, Klaus, Peter, and myself.”
There was a loud moan behind him, and Hans turned sharply. “Do you have a problem with that, Peter?”
“No, Hans.” Peter stared at his shoes.
“Good.” A shame that whatever got Richard didn’t eat you instead.
“At least two men together at all times. Headcounts every hour and give me a report at the end of each watch. And whatever happens,” Skorzeny’s eyes lingered over each face in the circle, “Don’t let me catch you sleeping, or you’ll fucking walk back to Berlin.”
VIII.
The cliff face was treacherous in the daytime; at night, it bordered on suicidal. Sarah wormed through the opening in the rocks and slid feet-first toward the trail below. Stars glittered overhead as she rested against a tree, glad to be away from the oppressive air of the castle. Perhaps the lynx was somewhere nearby, watching her from a hidden cleft in the rocks.
Her limbs had regained a little strength as the afternoon wore on, but a heavy feeling settled into her bones. The light in the window was fading, and when the sun set, she would soon hear the tread of footsteps on stone. Or perhaps he moved like a ghost, and she would hear nothing at all. As fear gave way to hopelessness, her hand went to her throat, and she cried out in surprise - the crucifix still from its chain.
At least now, I know his true nature. Quincy Morris had bested her last night, and perhaps he would seek her out again, but she would not venture again into his lair - at least not in darkness. If she lived, she would wait until sunrise to slip through the crack in the wall and search out the place where he slept. The knife lay somewhere in the cluttered room, along with the lamp oil, and she would put both to good use. Fire and steel, she thought. Cut off his head and burn what remains.
Drawing up her body against the cold, Sarah settled in to wait.
IX.
The morning rains had dissipated, and moonlight streamed through the open window of her bedroom. Gabriela lay perfectly still as she opened her eyes, trying to discern what had disturbed her sleep.
“Gabriela, wake up.”
Rupert Holmes stood over her bed, pale and drawn. He died in his sleep, she thought, and now he’s returned for me. Gabriela probed beneath her pillow with trembling fingers, and the packet of holy wafer slipped from the edge of the bed. She trembled as Holmes placed a hand on her shoulder.
“For God’s sake, wake up!” He gave her a hard shake. “Someone is outside.”
She followed him down the stairs, one hand on the banister and the other clutching the folds of her gown. Holmes moved with the easy grace of a cat, utterly silent. He can see in the dark, Gabriela thought, and for an instant, she saw a gleam of silver reflected in his eyes. She blinked once, and the effect was gone, leaving only her unease in its wake. He was perfectly normal this afternoon, but now?
“Rupert? Are you… all right?”
“Of course.” He stared at her, as if he found the question puzzling. “I feel quite good, in fact.”
The front door stood open, and she picked out a familiar profile leaning against the stone column of the portico. The lantern’s glow limned the familiar shock of unruly black hair, the heavy mustache, and the dark coat that hung nearly to the ankles. Quincy Morris handed her the lantern.
“My apologies for the sudden appearance.” The lantern’s glow danced in his eyes. “My hosts aren’t always happy when I make social calls, and I thought it best to wait outside.”
She regarded him warily, a forest traveler might observe a sleeping tiger. Quincy Morris rarely ventured from his sanctuary and never appeared at her home. His presence, a transgression of some unspoken pact between them, boded ill.
“Why did you come?” she asked.
“Because I find myself in need of assistance. Inspector Holmes,” Quincy looked at her guest, “We met in a place of great significance to both of us. A memory of great loss for me-”
“And a different experience altogether for myself,” Holmes said quietly. “You loved her?”
“I did.” Gabriela detected emotion beneath his facade. “The dead cherish the memories of what they were, store them up like treasures in a dragon’s lair, and the memory of Lucy was my most precious gem. But that’s of no concern for now – there is work to be done.”
The crossed an open field. Mud sucked at Gabriela’s boots, and the wind raised gooseflesh on her skin as they waded through the grass. Quincy’s own footfalls were utterly silent, and when she looked at the earth beneath his feet, she saw no tracks to mark his passage. She had understood his nature since their first encounter in 1916, and though Quincy Morris treated her with unfailing graciousness and respect, Gabriela found herself wondering whether his kindness hinted at a connection between herself and his dead lover, a thought that made her uneasy. “Treat him well, but never forget what he truly is.” Her father’s words, spoken shortly before his death, took on the air of prophecy now.
The knot in her stomach tightened as they entered the churchyard. Quincy led them through the graves until their path ended at a small tombstone. Gabriela felt his hand on her shoulder, surprisingly gentle, as she read the inscription:
Alexandru de Cel
1884 – 1929
The surrounding air began to vibrate, an odd sensation that raised gooseflesh on her skin and left a metallic taste in her mouth. Beside her, Rupert Holmes looked anxiously at the sky, searching the cloudless night for a brewing storm. A low hum emanated from the tombstones, just below her aural range but felt, an uncanny sensation in her bones. Quincy’s eyes blazed as the ground at their feet became tremulous, indistinct, and a void opened in the earth.
“The gift that you bestowed on Mr. Holmes, is a final chance at life but that is not its only purpose. A little earth from my own grave turns your father’s resting place into a passage from my home to yours, which requires only a key.” The red gaze fell upon Holmes. “Mr. Holmes is that key.”
“You… want us to come with you?” she stammered.
“A band of adventurers has arrived from Berlin. With your kind assistance, perhaps they won’t kill me in my sleep.”
Holmes nodded assent as Gabriela drew a deep breath. They were sailing into unknown waters now, on a boat captained by a dead hand and moving inexorably toward some hidden vortex. They clasped hands, and after a moment’s hesitation, she placed her other hand in Quincy’s, and together, they stepped into the void.
X.
There is no dignity in death, Hans thought. He had seen it often enough in the trenches, where the bravest of soldiers left this world pissing in their pants and crying for their mothers. He had seen bravery as well, heroic acts that defied explanation and men who bore their wounds with patience, but enough died badly to leave an imprint on his psyche. When it ends, it never ends well.
The watch with Klaus and Peter was uneventful, but they moved as a group and maintained a tight perimeter around the camp. Hans liked Klaus well enough - the man from Stuggart was perhaps the only kind soul in the entire group - but he found Peter nigh unbearable. Too young for the War, the boy was always going on about his service in the Friekorps. Beating up Communists and breaking shopkeepers’ windows is not real fighting. In the east, the sky was growing lighter, and he guessed that they had another hour until true sunrise. He signaled to Peter with an impatient wave.
“Do the headcount.”
His thoughts returned to Richard as Peter moved among the sleeping men. The jokes about Richard’s drinking contained an element of truth, but Hans found it a poor explanation for his sudden absence – the big man had a cold competence that was rarely affected by alcohol. Besides, we’re in the middle of nowhere - he could piss in the road if he wanted. Peter returned with a look of consternation on his face.
“There should be seven men in the trucks, right? Plus the three of us -”
“And Heydrich sleeping in the cab,” Hans said. The boy’s high-pitched whine set his teeth on edge. “Eleven. Can’t you count?”
“I only counted ten.”
Schisse. “Go back and do it again.”
He returned a moment later. “Ten men. Three in the back of each truck and Herr Heydrich in the cab.”
“Did you check the other cab?”
“There is no one else in the other truck! Someone is missing!” Peter’s tone was becoming indignant, and when the others were awake, Hans decided, he was going to teach the boy a painful lesson about respect.
“Fine. I’ll see for myself. Boy, if you’ve counted wrong –“
“What’s going on?” Hans wheeled, nearly bumping into Skorzeny.
“Someone is missing,” Peter said.
“Who?”
“I don’t know, I counted but didn’t check –“
Skorzeny cut him off. “Then go find out.” He turned to Hans. “Were you awake for the entire watch?”
“Yes, I was awake for the entire watch - were you?” Skorzeny read the look in his eyes and turned to Klaus.
“What about you, Klaus? Did you slip off for a smoke? Take a little nap, maybe?” Klaus shook his head as Peter came running back.
“It’s Sulzbach, Herr Skorzeny.” The boy’s eyes were large and fearful. “But he was sleeping in the truck an hour ago - I saw him when I did the last headcount!”
“Come on.” They followed Skorzeny to the truck and peered beneath the canvas that covered the flat bed.
“All the way in the back,” Klaus whispered. “How did he get out without waking the others?”
“Let’s ask them. Get up, Karl! Your bunkmate has gone sleepwalking!” Skorzeny shook a sleeping man as Hans stared at the empty space. Impossible. There was simply no way that Sulzbach could have left without drawing their attention.
The scream came from behind them, loud and ululating. Skorzeny released Karl's arm and turned abruptly to Hans.
“Where the fuck is Peter?”
He was right here. Hans stared aghast at the empty road. For the love of God, he was right here just a moment ago.
XI.
Sarah dozed in restless fits, her back to the tree as she waited for sunrise. The forest was silent save for the occasional owl or bat flying overhead, and fear eventually yielded to boredom. Even the gruesome task set before her produced little emotion - there would be a moment of crude butchery as she sawed through the neck, but once she separated the head from the body, perhaps the wound on her leg would be healed. Just to be certain, she would use the debris from the junk room to burn the remains on a crude funeral pyre. Everything will be all right at sunrise. Sarah would find her father, and they would return to London. In a few years, when Archie was a little older, she would have an incredible story to tell him. Her body relaxed as she let her eyes drift closed.
Fingers encircled her ankle with the cold touch of the dead.
Sarah gasped for air as she twisted her body against the strong grip on her leg. Her feet vanished beneath the soil, and with horror, she realized that she was being dragged downward, into the earth. His grave was right here the whole time, her mind screamed as a hand seized her hair. Sarah’s head was pulled to one side, exposing her neck, and she felt the pain, a white-hot stinging sensation that spread throughout her body. She drew a final lungful of air, and her mouth pealed forth a series of shrill cries. She was on her feet and blundering through the trees before awareness returned. A dream. Only a dream.
She made her way through the forest as the eastern sky brightened and scrambled over the rocks to the castle wall. Sarah crawled through the opening and found the lantern and matches carefully laid out next to the breach. Did I do that, or were they left here for me to find? She cursed silently as the first match died and shielded the second with her body. When the lantern flared to life, she slipped the crucifix from her neck. Tiny feet scrabbled across the stones as the rats fled at her approach.
“Impressive.” Quincy Morris emerged from the shadows behind her. “Most people wouldn’t have returned after their first encounter, but you are truly the daughter of Jonathan and Mina Harker. I’m glad to see you again, Sarah.”
“I’m sure that you are.” Sarah grimaced at the tremulous sound of her own voice, but she raised the crucifix and took a hesitant step forward. Quincy took a corresponding step back.
“What do you propose to do?” The first rays of morning streamed through the broken wall, but there was no fear in Quincy’s eyes. “Are you going to drive me into the sunlight?”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t do just that,” she said.
“Because I’ll kill you if you try,” he said. “I mean no harm, but that is one bridge that I won’t cross.”
“You mean no harm?” Sarah took another step forward. “You brought me from London to kill me, didn’t you? They left you here when you died, and you lured me here to turn me into a thing like yourself! A creeping parasite that destroys what he touches.”
To her surprise, Quincy stood his ground. Though the crucifix reflected brightly in the lantern’s glow, mere inches from his face, he remained impassive. Take one more push and shove him into the daylight, Sarah thought. Instead, she searched his eyes, devoid of fear or hostility, and hesitated.
“Tell me something. Do they still have traveling magic shows in England? The ones that practice mesmerism?”
“No.” She eyed him cautiously over the arms of the crucifix. “Not in my lifetime.”
“A shame.” The corners of the mouth turned downward. “You had a dream about fear and pain and maddening hunger – all of those things are memories. My memories. I had to show you the truth.” His voice changed, and the uncouth accent melded into something different. “They left you to die here, Mr. Morris. Follow them and have your revenge. Now, do you understand?”
“Dracula.” Sarah’s right arm wavered, and her wound began to itch. “It was Dracula that you heard.”
“When Jonathan cut off Dracula’s head, his body was destroyed, but his spirit lingered on. I might have acted sooner if I had understood at the beginning, but I was driven by hunger and barely capable of rational thought…”
Driven by hunger. “I saw the marks on my leg.” Sarah’s eyes lingered on the breach in the wall, where light streamed through the opening. “I know what you did to me.”
“No.” The dead face betrayed no sign of remorse. “I mesmerized you to share my memories, nothing more. Think, Sarah - this place crawls with vermin. Rats, mice, bats, any one of which could have bitten you while you sleep.” The red eyes seemed to grow larger. “If you were one of mine, you wouldn’t dare threaten me. You wouldn’t hold up that cross and bar my way.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, but doubt crept into her mind and entwined her thoughts like tendrils. Her right arm began to tire.
“Perhaps not, but if you aren’t planning to kill me, I need to be going.” She lowered the crucifix, and he took a step forward.
“One more question,” she said. “Where is Dracula now?”
“Your father is going to walk up those steps in a few hours, and I intend to ask him.” He glanced at the light in the opening, and for the first time, Sarah thought she saw a hint of anxiety. “I’d explain more, but I find myself short on time.”
“Why would papa know?” Sarah shook her head. “He hasn’t been back for forty years.”
“Because Arthur Holmwood figured out the truth, and I’m hoping your father has the last piece of the puzzle. Now -” Quincy folded his hands in supplication. “May I?”
Sarah stepped aside as Quincy Morris swept past and vanished into the darkness.
XII.
Hans angled into the trees for a hundred yards and turned, searching north to south as Skorzeny moved in the opposite trajectory. Peter’s cries echoed through the forest before trailing off to a series of anguished moans. He’s going to die if we don’t find him soon.
The repeated the search pattern, and on the second pass, they found blood, a spatter of crimson in the wet leaves. A pair of drag marks led deeper into the forest, and Hans marveled those tracks, as a trail of breadcrumbs to mark the passage of their phantom. Klaus called the boy’s name, and Hans envied the genuine concern in his voice.
“Peter? Peter! Can you hear me?” Klaus disappeared into the trees, calling Peter’s name as he followed the bloody track. Hans and Skorzeny followed, slipping in the soft earth as the ground became steeper.
Peter lay at the bottom of a shallow ravine, his torso propped against a large oak and his broken right arm twisted beneath his body. Klaus scrambled down the embankment as Hans stared at the wound on the boy’s throat. How can he be alive after losing so much blood? Klaus cradled the boy’s head as Peter moaned and Hans, who took pride in his ability to function under the blackest skies, found himself paralyzed by indecision.
“Come on.” Skorzeny nudged him from behind. “Let’s get him back to camp.”
Hans stumbled forward and knelt as Peter’s eyes fixed upon his own.
“Look at me, Peter. What happened?”
“Hans.” Peter’s struggled to speak. “I’m sorry I messed up the count.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Hans patted the boy’s shoulder. “What happened to you?”
“Not what. Who?”
“Who, Peter?” Hans’s jaw clenched. “Richard? Sulzbach?”
“No.” The boy’s eyes became unfocused, and he smiled, the childlike smile of a pleasant dream. “Don’t know who. Just remember… Singing. Beautiful singing.” The smile faded, and he began to cry. “I’m scared, Hans. Please help me.”
“I’m here, Peter. I promise I’ll help you – please don’t cry. Please.” Klaus whispered into Peter’s ear, and Hans leaned closer as the boy mumbled a few words, his speech barely intelligible.
“What did you say Peter?”
“A message for you – from Him.” He shuddered once, fearful, then the childlike smile returned. “Teach… painful lesson. In respect.”
The fingers of his left hand tightened on Klaus’s collar, and Hans fell back, startled by the sudden movement. His mangled right arm was useless, but Peter levered himself erect with an unnatural, flailing contortion - a man falling upward. Klaus screamed, a sharp wail of surprise and pain, as Peter’s head lunged forward, and the teeth sank into his jaw.
Klaus pushed the boy’s head away as they slipped on the wet leaves, but Peter seized him with a free arm - his broken arm, Hans noted wildly - and pinned his torso. Hans grasped Peter’s bloody shirt as Klaus’s cries became full-throated screams and Peter twisted his head to expose the throat. His own feet slipped in the muck, but Peter toppled backward from the blow and pinwheeled to the ground. Klaus was near-catatonic, and Hans placed his own body between them as Peter rose with the same upward-fall jerking of arms and legs. The boy laughed, a grating, high-pitched giggle that made his blood run cold. He’s going to kill me, Hans thought. Peter was going to tear out his throat, and the last thing he would hear would be Klaus’s cries as he choked on his own blood. Hans braced for the final onslaught as the boy took a single step forward.
The shot came from behind, too close to hear the snap of the passing bullet, but Hans saw the puff of bloody mist erupt from Peter’s chest. Reinhard Heydrich fired again, and Peter crumpled to the ground as the bullet struck his forehead. Heydrich lowered the rifle to his hip, and the others gathered about in a loose semicircle. Hans was nudged gently aside as strong hands lifted Klaus to his feet.
Skorzeny pointed to Karl and Egon. “Bring the boy too.” They hesitated, then grasped Peter’s arms and hauled the body back to the road.