The Satanic Brides of Dracula

by Lucas Thorn

  “Then we need better guns!”

  “Will you look at this, Hailwic,” Vasilja said. Mockery in her tone. “Our little girl is discovering politics. I’m so very proud.”

  “Don’t laugh at me, Vasilja,” Senka swept into the room on a carpet of rage. Pointed. “Don’t ever laugh. You’re both just like him. When he came to me, he told me all about the Bargain he’d made. And I couldn’t wait to be part of it. I begged for this. I wanted this. And when we arrived at his castle, I thought I’d find an army. I found you. He said we were the army. Maybe in his head he thinks he can make more of us, but it wouldn’t matter if there were ten or us. Twenty of us. Could we take Europe? The world? We need an army. That’s why you were first, Hailwic. He knew that, once. Knew enough to know he needed you. But something changed. And he stopped. Now you’re all so afraid of them. Afraid they’ll come to us while we sleep. Well, I’m scared, too. But we shouldn’t be hiding! Why should we be afraid? We’re vampires. We feed on them, not they on us.”

  Hailwic nodded as the young vampire spoke.

  Turned to look at Vasilja, who shrugged. “From the mouth of babes…”

  “He tried to raise an army. More than once. The last one was disastrous. Hungarians chased us for weeks. They nearly caught us.”

  “Maybe he went about it the wrong way,” Senka said.

  “Raising an army is relatively easy, Senka,” Vasilja said. “There’s not really a wrong way. It just requires a lot of money and someone very skilled with managing supplies.”

  “I can tell you we don’t have that kind of money anymore,” Hailwic said.

  Senka looked grim. “Then, who does? Let’s bite them.”

  “How will biting them solve anything?”

  “Then you bite them, Vasilja. Make them like Dimiti.”

  “It’s not as easy as that, Senka. Not everyone is like him.”

  “Then maybe we need a new army. One which doesn’t need money.”

  Vasilja laughed, a soft tinkle of gems spilling across the floor. “Darling, Senka. I thought you were growing up and then you say that. Don’t you understand humans? They’re too influenced by our master’s past experiments. Greed is so much a part of their soul now. You’ll never find people who’ll fight for you for nothing. Everyone always wants something for themselves. Isn’t that true, Hailwic?”

  “I wasn’t talking about people.” The younger vampire looked carefully from one to the other. “I think I need to tell you about my dreams.”

  “Dreams?” Vasilja settled into the couch and put her fingers to her forehead. “Oh, dear. You spent too much time listening to that dreadful hypnotist and his ridiculous theory of dream interpretation, didn’t you?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Franz stood at his window, watching wind sweep leaves down the cobbled street.

  At his back, rows of old books skinned in leather pressed into polished shelves. A small fireplace coughed light into the room along with a generous amount of heat. Something he’d grown fond of in recent years.

  A small writing desk squeezed against one wall among the shelves. A couch waited for him in front of the fire.

  Thick rug under his feet.

  Large round glass in hand. Brandy. The finest he could afford.

  He sipped with absent relish.

  Swirled the glass thoughtfully. Inhaling fumes.

  “Mister Hartmann?” Small voice from the doorway. “Was there anything else you’ll be needing?”

  “No, Marie. I suppose not.”

  “Then I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.”

  “Yes. Goodnight, Marie.”

  A short exchange. About as personal as he ever got with her. But she was a servant.

  There to tidy the rooms and dust his shelves.

  Nothing more.

  A book rested on his couch. Closed. Green leather binding. Black ribbon marking his page.

  He thought about opening it, but something was bothering him. Something was tugging at his mind, and he couldn’t quite put a name to it. Something he’d been reading in a paper said to be the work of Paracelsus.

  The sceptical side of him couldn’t accept it as genuine. The language wasn’t quite right. Not what he’d expect from Paracelsus.

  Yet, despite its dubious origin, there was something in it which fascinated him. One line. Could he trust it, though? Should he absorb it into his doctrine, or discard it for now?

  The gaslight lamp flickered on the wall above his writing desk.

  He didn’t notice.

  Watched as Marie darted down the path, eager to make her way home. Had she said she was married? He couldn’t recall.

  He stared after her, intense eyes unblinking as they followed her passage. The gentle glide of each step. Feminine wiggle of her behind.

  His tongue touched the edge of his lips.

  Was she beautiful?

  Did it matter?

  He turned from the window and ran his finger across a line of slender books. Through his collections of alchemy and a few handwritten journals mined from Rosicrucian connections.

  Gently, pulled a few from their shelf and placed them carefully on his desk.

  Reached into the back and pushed a hidden board which revealed a small collection of books buried inside the wall.

  His fingers sifted through them until he found what he was looking for and pulled it free.

  A silver pentagram was all that adorned the green leather cover. It was a book without name and it had cost a good deal of money to procure.

  How many times had he read it? Too many.

  Most of it didn’t make sense. It could leap from one idea to the next with a suddenness that made him question both its authenticity and its author’s sanity.

  But some sections were magnetic in their potency. Their potential pulled at him even when he wasn’t home. As he worked on his patients, he thought about this book. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

  He opened to a familiar page.

  A ritual so blasphemous it made his heart race to read. Should anyone discover this book in his possession, he’d be arrested. Its contents were so repulsive that no judge would hesitate to have him hanged at the very least.

  His colleagues in the Theosophical Society would be both horrified and secretly thrilled by it. But he dared not show them. Their tongues were looser than their purses.

  Licking his lips, he read it over and over.

  Marvelled at the violence of it. The intoxicating promise of power it exuded.

  What made a man capable of committing such an act as described on this page? Was he such a man? Had India taught him nothing of the peace a man should struggle to attain?

  The daily meditations.

  The frequent brush with the spiritual.

  Were these so inconsequent compared to the tantalising whispers of the Devil himself?

  He closed the book, the slam of its pages making his heat skip a beat before he shoved it back into its hiding place. Pushed the journals back, and took his seat by the fire. Dropped the book onto the ground beside him and swirled his brandy.

  Sipped.

  Shook his head.

  And realised that, above all else, he wanted to try it.

  The ritual.

  He had to try it.

  Would he be able to do it? Would his hand quiver and shake?

  What if he couldn’t finish the thing?

  What if the woman screamed?

  He’d have to gag her.

  Have to.

  And which woman?

  He knew so few of them.

  And a virgin? How did one even ask that question of a woman? It had never come up in polite society before. There was no polite way to ask such a thing.

  Marie looked innocent enough, though. Could she be virgin?

  Even if she was, questions would be asked if she disappeared.

  Who, then?

  Who?

  And how to get them to where he needed them to be?

  It was s
aid there were men who’d kidnap someone for a fee. Where would he find such blaggards? Should they be local? What if they blackmailed him? They’d be sure to blackmail him.

  He’d have to kill them, too.

  He rubbed at his cheeks.

  If it succeeded, the power he’d gain could be indescribable. And if he failed?

  Execution.

  Too big a risk.

  The whole thing was ridiculous. He couldn’t do it.

  He slumped in his chair and finished the last swallow of brandy, bitterness evaporating his fantasy.

  Sighed.

  Said; “Fuck.”

  Then jumped as someone knocked on his door.

  He wasn’t expecting company. Was he? Lately, he’d been forgetting things. Too much of his mind was focussed on that damned book.

  He stuffed the grimoire away and stomped from his library. Irritated that he’d sent his servants away so soon. But hadn’t wanted anyone home while he studied.

  Flung the front door open faster than he’d meant to and stared in slack-jawed amazement at the three ladies standing in a neat row in front of him.

  “Mister Hartmann,” one of them purred. “And so eager to meet us, I see.”

  “I’m sorry,” he choked. Pulling his voice loose. Looking from one beautiful face to the next and unsure what to think. Were his cheeks red? Warm from liquor, or something more carnal? “I wasn’t expecting visitors. If you’re patients, I’m afraid I don’t work from my home. I mean…”

  “Oh, we’re not patients, Mister Hartmann. Not at all.” She stuck out her lips in a coy smile. “Aren’t you going to invite us inside? It’s terribly cold out here, you know.”

  “Inside?”

  “Of course. Is that a fire? That would warm our skin so much. You’re cold, aren’t you, Senka?”

  “Very cold,” the youngest said. Voice sending shivers through his lower region. She was dressed in a top hat and coat. Like a man. But there was no mistaking the lush curves of her figure. “I want to be warm.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Silly man. My name is Vasilja. This is Hailwic. And that’s Senka. She’s very hungry. I wouldn’t recommend feeding her, though. Well. Not straight away.”

  “Are you…” Hesitated. Looked to see if anyone he knew was around. Lowered voice; “Prostitutes?”

  “Why, Mister Hartmann, what an odd thing to suggest. Do we look like that to you? Of course we’re not.”

  “Then…”

  “We’ve been told you have a collection of philosophical books we might find very interesting. We do love books. Senka here, she loves books. Don’t you, Senka?”

  “I like books.”

  “She was hoping, and so were we, that you might show us your collection, Mister Hartmann. And perhaps tell us all about your travels. We’ve heard you’ve been to India. Is that right? All the way to India. I hear the weather is intolerable there.”

  “Yes, well. I suppose there’s no harm…”

  “None at all.” Vasilja moved forward a little, pale hand reaching for his. Stopping short at the threshold. And her smile penetrated him deeply. Through to his soul, he thought. Couldn’t help nodding as she said; “You want to invite us inside, don’t you?”

  A curtain seemed to pull itself around him like hot perfume. Smoking his thoughts. He found himself nodding. “Yes.”

  “Well, why don’t you? You’ve left us standing outside for far too long. The wind is absolutely ruining my hair.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” The strange fog curled through his mind and he blinked to clear it. Couldn’t. Stepped back instead and waved toward the library. “Please. Come inside, ladies. Be welcome in my humble home.”

  Senka flashed a grin which hid her teeth and skipped inside.

  Vasilja looked around, noting a few small paintings on the wall. “I wouldn’t say it was humble, Mister Hartmann. It looks very fine indeed. Oh, I do like this one.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, of course. I said it, didn’t I?” She turned on him, stunning him back into silence. Reached out with a finger and pressed it to his cheek. He flinched at the cold touch, but didn’t pull his head away. “Do you know what else I like, Mister Hartmann?”

  “Franz,” he said. The word tripped awkward across his tongue. “Please. Call me Franz.”

  It sounded like a plea from his heart and he wondered how he’d let so much desperation fall into his voice.

  All he knew was he needed her to say his name.

  Just once.

  Say it, he thought. Please say my name.

  “Franz,” she purred. “Very well, Franz. Please take us to your library. We wish to see your books.”

  “This way,” he said. Tottered ahead. “Follow me. I hope you like it. I’ve spent years collecting it all. Some have come from as far away as America. Spiritualism is very popular there, you know. In fact, I think America will grow to become a new centre for study in the future. So many very talented people are working there already. Good work, too.”

  “America?” Vasilja sounded impressed. “Did you like America, Franz?”

  “I’m not sure.” He stopped in the middle of the library. Thinking. “I think I did. Some of it. I was married for a short time.”

  “Was she beautiful?”

  “She was.” The sadness was like a plucking of a harp’s string, but distant. “I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t well-liked. I tried hard, but they didn’t like me. And they barely tolerated me in India. I’ve come to accept my interests me be somewhat more specific than theirs.”

  “It’s not here,” Hailwic said softly.

  “You’re not like all those other people,” Vasilja purred, pressing against his side. He liked the feel of her up against him. Wanted to snatch her into his arms. But his body wouldn’t move. It was frozen. As if in fear, but it wasn’t fear. “Their way is too feathery for you, isn’t it? Too empty. All that talk of astral bodies. Fourth dimensions. Touching the spirit plane. It’s all nonsense to you, really. When you close your eyes and try their exercises, you fall asleep.”

  “I take what interests me,” he said. Carefully. Was she testing him? The damned fog wouldn’t leave his mind. “Everything they tell me, there’s holes in it. Pieces missing. I believe if I can find what fills those empty places, I might find a better way.”

  “For whom? Your friends? The world?” She ran her fingers down his collar. “Or for yourself?”

  Strangled; “Myself.”

  “That’s why these aren’t the only books you have, are they? You have others. Secret books. Books which could get you into a lot of trouble.”

  He shook his head.

  Sweat beads probed the edge of his forehead.

  He wanted to wipe them away.

  They itched his skin.

  But he couldn’t move. His heart was hammering in his ears.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Yes, you do.” She slid around behind him and wrapped arms around his chest. He could feel her breasts soft against his back. Her cheek rested against his shoulder. “We want to see it, Franz. We want to see the book you don’t dare show anyone. The book which makes you frightened of the man you were meant to be.”

  “I don’t have such a book.” The words were dry. They sounded like a lie. Each syllable thick.

  Too thick.

  “Show us, Franz,” she moaned. “Please show us. Don’t you want to please us?”

  “Behind the shelf,” he said. Fast. Washed with relief. It felt so good to say. Even better as her fingers gripped him hard. Pulled him tighter against her. “I can show you.”

  “Show us.”

  “You’re not human, are you?”

  “Are you scared, Franz Hartmann?”

  “I am.”

  “You don’t need to be. Not if you bring us what we want. Not if you please us.”

  “Of course.”

  And it seemed so simple.

  They were the key.
The key he’d always been waiting for. He didn’t know how, yet, but their path led to his magical success. He was sure of it. A hole had found its perfect filling.

  A spark of hope burned brighter in his belly and he gave in to the fog swirling through his brain like brandy in a glass.

  “You see, Franz? Aren’t we everything you ever wanted?”

  “Yes.” And it was true. “You are.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “It’s incomplete,” Hailwic said.

  “It can’t be,” Franz Hartmann moaned. He stood where Vasilja had left him. Unmoving. “I was promised it was the full version. An original.”

  Vasilja sighed “How much is missing?”

  Hailwic pursed her lips, thinking. “Two hundred years ago, we were cornered by Poles somewhere not far north from here. There were only fifty of us left alive after the first night. We’d taken a small farm. I can’t even remember where it was. Dracula used a copy to summon our Master and beg for aid.”

  “I remember that,” Vasilja said. Even tone sounding colder than ice. “Oh, wait. No, I don’t. You locked me up in the castle.”

  “It was for your own good.”

  “For two years?” Vasilja’s eyes narrowed.

  “We sent you messengers to eat.”

  “Only once a week!”

  “Now’s not the time.” Hailwic tapped the book’s cover. “I’d say half is missing. Maybe more.”

  Senka stood in front of Franz, poking him in the chest. “Why won’t he move?”

  “I told him not to,” Vasilja said, still a little annoyed. “Please leave him alone, Senka. It’s easier to control them if they’re not too stimulated.”

  “I want to control him.”

  “I rather think you should learn your own power first,” Vasilja said. “Just so you know, I think this is a complete waste of time. Dreams are only fantasies, you know. Stories we tell ourselves while we sleep.”

  “They weren’t fantasies.” Senka moved away from Franz. Reached out and snatched the grimoire from Hailwic. Ignored the eldest’s raised eyebrow and began flipping through the pages. “It looks wrong.”

  “Wrong,” Hailwic repeated. “That’s your assessment?”

  “Yes.” She handed the grimoire back with a sour twist of her mouth. “It’s not right.”