Lord of the Vampires

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Eyes dulled by pain and suffering, eyes that recognised me.

  I intended to silence her before Frau Koehler was alerted, to put her under my spell so that she would forget that she knew me, so that she would see another woman altogether. But I was too stricken by the sight of her to react immediately, and too distracted as the nurse slid a rocking-chair bedside and bade me sit.

  I sat, and cast my gaze again upon the old woman who had once been Mary, ready to do my supernatural work. But those blue eyes—they looked back at me not with fear, not with hatred or revulsion, but such honest warm affection that tears of gratitude stung my eyes. This was not the fleeting love evoked by sexual passion or mutual need or convenience; this was love for its own sake.

  “Mary?” I asked softly, and to my utter surprise, tears fell hot onto my cheeks—I, a hundred, a thousand times a murderess, so callous that I thought I would never know untainted compassion again. “Do you really know me? It is I—”

  “Zsuzsanna,” she breathed, in a trembling, reedy voice that broke my heart; never for an instant did the sweetness in her gaze waver. “How beautiful you are.…”

  I lowered my face into my lace-covered hands and wept. She was adrift in the past and remembered only the mortal Zsuzsanna, I realised, and had forgotten my Change; even so, I was touched by her welcome. But I had another reason for allowing myself the outburst. Pathos aside, I was compelled to achieve my objective: knowledge of Bram.

  Frau Koehler stepped up behind me and laid a broad hand upon my shoulder. “My dear … I know how difficult this must be for you,” she murmured. “May I bring you a glass of sherry?”

  I lifted my head and wiped away the tears with my kerchief. “Thank you. But … may I have a cup of tea instead?” That would allow me the time I needed.

  The Frau’s swift acquiescence cheered me at once; she departed down the stairs for the kitchen, while I leaned closer to Mary and took her hand in both of mine.

  “My darling,” I whispered. “I cannot bear to see you suffer so. But I can take all your pain away—forever.”

  I moved forward and down, and pressed my lips against the soft, loose folds at her neck; the ammonia-sharp odour of urine was overwhelming there, as were the strong sensations of Mary’s goodness, her fear of dying, her sincere love for those who had gone before her and those who would be left behind. Death’s approach had stripped away all else, until only the essence of the woman remained.

  But something held me back. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the woman she had been, or the powerful sense of goodness and tragic suffering emanating from her; I knew that the true Mary would rather die than turn to evil.

  Indeed, she drew her hand from mine and, with heartrending weakness, put her palms against my shoulders and tried in vain to push me away. “Please, no … I have lost two sons and a husband. Is that not enough?” She said it dreamily, calmly, without a trace of fear.

  I drew back. “Mary … do you want to suffer? Do you want to die?”

  She held my gaze directly; at the same time, she seemed to look past me, at something far distant and glorious, and her wizened face took on a radiant, wasted beauty. “My suffering is nothing compared to yours,” she whispered. “Mine will not last forever.”

  I fell back into the chair, stricken by a pain sharp as a needle piercing my melting heart. I tried to protest: How could she say that I suffered? I who enjoy the best life offers, I who endure no physical pain, I who inflict suffering and death upon others?

  But I could not deny it. In a flash, I saw my current existence as she would see it: the prettiest clothes, the finest champagne, the handsomest men, the beautiful and cruel Elisabeth. The vanity, the hollowness. Century after century without meaning.

  I rose and again took her hands, massaging them a bit to warm them. This time when I bent over her, I gently pressed my lips to hers. “God bless you, Mary.”

  “And may He bless you.” She sighed, and closed her eyes.

  I heard downstairs the rattling of china upon a tray, and muted steps; Frau Koehler was returning with the tea. I settled into the rocking chair and waited, trying to determine the best way to return to the study, when Mary herself provided the answer.

  Abruptly, she emitted a howl of pain, with the unbearable abandon of a wounded animal; I admit, I jumped a bit in the chair (and it is not an easy thing to startle a vampire). Again and again she cried out, and I called to her to ask what was the matter, but she seemed quite unaware of my presence. I felt enormous helplessness—and embarrassment when she suddenly clutched the blanket between her legs.

  “Frau Koehler!” I cried, as the nurse thundered and rattled up the stairs; she appeared red-faced and gasping, and at once thrust the tea-tray upon a low armoire and went to the bedside of her charge.

  “Ah,” she said, relieved. “It is merely time for the bedpan again. I shall help her, madam. If you like, you may take your cup of tea and sit downstairs, where the noise will not disturb you.”

  “The noise?”

  “It is all painful for her now; she drinks so little that it burns like fire, especially with her open bedsores. But I will help her feel better. Off with you, madam.”

  So this is a lingering death: piss and shit and helpless pain, the crudest indignity.

  She moved towards the soapy bedpan in the basin, and I made good my escape before I saw anything more. Abandoning the tea, I sailed down the stairs and again slipped through the door to the doctor’s study. With immortal speed, I riffled through the papers on his desk—to little avail, for almost all of them were in Dutch and quite incomprehensible.

  But stored neatly inside a cubby-hole were three telegrams, sent from A. Van Helsing, Purfleet, England, to Frau Helga Koehler, Amsterdam. The first was dated 8 July, the second 16 July, the third 4 August.

  And all of them from Purfleet. Purfleet. Where Elisabeth and I went every morning to check on Vlad’s arrival!

  I would have sat down on the floor and quietly laughed—here I had come all this way to find someone back in London!—had the chilling realisation not come: Dr. Van Helsing was mortal, but he still was a force to be reckoned with. For he had somehow discovered Vlad’s new location.

  How could I be sure he had not also discovered mine?

  I skimmed through them all, for they were blessedly written in German, with which I have intimate acquaintance. They all thanked Frau Koehler for her reports on his mother’s condition, and volunteered the information that “Mrs. Van Helsing is unfortunately still the same.” The most recent one stated that he would have to remain in Purfleet awhile longer, but that the Frau should notify him at once should she judge Mary to be dying.

  Mrs. Van Helsing; the phrase filled me with trepidation, though I did not immediately understand or remember. Had there been a Mrs. Van Helsing? I had come to this house twenty years before, to take sweet little Jan with me and to steal Bram’s brother away.…

  Of course, of course. There had been a woman; a timid, large-eyed mousy little thing. I had bitten but not killed her, as she had been an obstacle in my way. She had one of those forgettable Dutch names that began with a G, that strongly aspirated sound like the Hebrew ch, repeated twice in the name “van Gogh.”

  For some reason, it had not even occurred to me that she was still alive. But the revelation that she was—and that she was in England with Van Helsing—filled me with horror.

  What if he were using his wife to get information about me? For vampire and victim are linked together so long as both survive; and so this wild-eyed woman was linked to me, even though her personality was so timid, so cringing, that over the years I had become blithely unaware of her. I, who had been such an idiot that I had not thought to turn the tables and get information about him.

  I have corrected my oversight.

  Through all this, I had been listening to footfalls and terrible screams overhead, and Frau Koehler’s soft, comforting murmurs. The screams had ceased, followed by the sound of pouring water. I slipped
out of the study, and waited at the bottom of the stairs again until the nurse appeared.

  She did not invite me up, but came down the stairs to stand beside me; perspiration shone on her forehead and upper lip. She raised her apron to her face and wiped it.

  “I think she will sleep now,” she said in a low voice. “She is very tired; she has had a very difficult day so far. Will you be back soon, Mrs. Windham?”

  I shook my head, eager to leave this sad house, and troubled by what Mary had told me. “No. It’s time for me to leave. I have my own family to take care of; and I have already given her my good-bye.”

  Her broad, square face grew genuinely sad. “I am sorry you must leave after such a short visit, madam. I can see Mary loves you very much, and you her.”

  I turned away before she saw my tears, and she led me back to the front entrance. When she opened the door, I paused and faced her, then lightly touched my fingers to her cheek.

  As I’d hoped, she met my gaze, and fell at once into trance. “You will remember none of this,” I told her. “Not me, not my name, not my appearance, and if Mary speaks of it, you will take her to be delirious. Most important, you will not, so long as you live, mention this to Dr. Van Helsing.”

  “Of course not,” she said, and I smiled, breaking the spell.

  “Thank you, Frau Koehler.” I kissed her on the cheek as I would a sister.

  “Godspeed, Mrs. Windham.”

  Now I am on the boat home, where I’ve found myself a secluded spot down below (it is a beautiful day and everyone is taking sun up on the deck). Here, I let myself go deep into trance and found my connexion with Mrs. Van Helsing. The threads tying us are rather weak, though with practice they will strengthen. This is what I saw, only moments ago:

  A small, plain room with white walls, a window with black iron bars marring the view of a flower garden below. Over the window, a small gold crucifix.

  Behind me, the sound of a door opening; a man’s soft, deep voice calling: “Gerda, dearest …”

  Gerda, yes! That was her name.

  The view swings one hundred eighty degrees; I now find myself looking at an older man with white speckling his golden hair and thick eyebrows, and a smile meant to mask the worry in his blue eyes. He has not recently shaved, and the sunlight pouring in through the window catches the silver hairs on his chin and ignites them. There is such an air of heaviness about him, as if he were like Atlas, bearing the world’s weight upon his shoulders. At the same time, there is an air of goodness, too, reflected in his eyes and the simple, rounded features on his face.

  There is something familiar here, something disturbing: I look at him and think of my dead brother, though they look nothing physically alike. I know this man, but for an instant, I am stymied, for he is almost a quarter-century older than the last time we met, and the years and tragedy have aged him.

  Bram, Gerda thinks, but the deep sorrow within her holds her tongue so that she cannot speak—and I at once remember. This kindly older man is my nemesis, Van Helsing, the murderer of my little Jan, who would still be beside me to-day had Van Helsing not killed my immortal adopted child.

  So. Van Helsing is with Gerda—in an asylum, I think; how else to explain the bars? And at that very moment, he begins to ask her questions:

  What do you see now?

  “I’m not sure. I see water, a great deal of green water—and disappearing behind me, a coastline with tiny windm—”

  I pull her up short before she can utter the word windmills, although damage has already been done. He will know now that I have gone to Amsterdam—but damned if he will know when or if I have returned to London.

  He asks other questions, but she remains steadfastly silent, until he surrenders and leaves.

  When I emerged from the connexion, I wrote this all down at once, lest I forget any detail. I will tell Elisabeth about the fact that Van Helsing is in Purfleet, somewhere near Vlad. She will be angry enough at the wasted time—so I must never tell her about my terrible error in forgetting about Gerda; she will never forgive me.

  And if we fail, I will never forgive myself.

  At the same time, I am deeply troubled. Whenever I think of Mary, it is as though my icy heart is gently warmed by a small internal flame—a flame she has rekindied; and I remember what it is to feel human compassion, human love. Shall I kill her only son?

  Enough! Enough! Such thoughts are too dangerous. I will have my revenge.…

  10

  Zsuzsanna Dracul’s Diary

  20 AUGUST. No further clues from Gerda about Bram Van Helsing; I suspect she said or did something which alerted him to my interference, and he in turn has performed some powerful magic to prevent my repeating it. We have been going through the city bit by bit, looking for an iron-barred window that looks down onto a flower garden, and we did find two possibilities, including a madhouse adjacent to Carfax—but no Van Helsing, no wife. Is it possible that he is adept enough to make them both invisible?

  It is my own fault that I could be so disgracefully outdone by a mere mortal; Vlad taught me only the most cursory exercises in mesmerism, invisibility, and self-protection, but I never pressed him for more information. (I know now he would not have given it even if asked, but there were times when I could have got hold of some very enlightening ancient tomes, and did not.) I honestly had no interest in such “boring” things … now comes the time for regret.

  Elisabeth’s welcome was sweeter than I’d expected it would be when I returned from Amsterdam; I never confessed to her about Gerda, but lied and said I had bitten Mary and learned that the good doctor is actually somewhere near London. This surprised and pleased her, and we spent some agreeable hours together over the following days. Yet as generous as her mood was, she seemed to grow somewhat haggard and irritable. I thought it was out of frustration over our vain search for Van Helsing, and that she was struggling to hide it out of concern for me. Now I know better; she was dissembling for my sake, all right—not out of kindness, but out of a wish to deceive.

  To-night I am beginning to see just how much she has kept from me. And what she has told me: are those, too, all lies?

  It began mid-morning. We had been going mad awaiting Vlad’s arrival, but to-day I had an overwhelming hunch that this was to be the day. So Elisabeth and I at once hurried to Carfax. (What a vision she was, dressed in palest pink and cream satin, her long curls pinned up beneath a matching cap; it was as if she had intentionally made herself more beautiful in an attempt to extinguish my anger and doubt.)

  Safely cloaked in our invisibility, we stood a distance from the dismal old house, beneath a copse of large, gloomy oaks—Elisabeth would go no farther—and watched workmen deliver the same wooden boxes I had seen the tsigani load onto their wagons and carry away. Fifty boxes in all—and one unquestionably containing Vlad! I recognised it by the enveloping elliptical glow—midnight-blue speckled with gold, like a starlit sky, larger than any aura I had ever seen him cast (mind that my abilities in this regard have always been less than remarkable).

  I know Elisabeth saw it, too, for she gasped aloud—then caught my arm and hissed into my ear, “We must leave at once!”

  Confused, I turned to frown at her—and my confusion increased at the poorly masked fear upon her face. “What do you mean, leave? He has arrived; it is day.… Now is the time. When the workmen are gone, we must go in and destroy him!”

  “Then you will go alone. Can you not see how powerful he has become?” She gestured at the glowing box, her expression and posture—with one impatiently tapping cream slipper—revealing intense anxiety. She turned and began to move away, but I grasped her arm and held it.

  “You’re afraid of him,” I marvelled. “You who claim to be unconquerable, you who swear that you avoided confronting him only because you wish to relish your little cat-and-mouse game … You are afraid. Can it be that he is now the cat, and you the mouse?”

  “Let me go!” She surrendered all pretense then, and uttere
d a Hungarian epithet as she swung at me with a pink-and-cream-striped arm. I have never seen her features so grotesquely contorted with anger; in an instant, she was transformed from porcelain doll to Medusa. “Don’t be a fool—if we argue, he will sense us. Zsuzsanna, you have no idea what danger you’re putting us in!”

  I would have said more, would have asked, And are you afraid, too, of Van Helsing, whom you refuse to kill? Is he, too, the stronger? She broke free from my grip, and transformed herself directly into a golden butterfly that sailed away upon the late summer breeze.

  I controlled my anger and rode upon the sunbeams, but I did not follow her back in the direction of the house in London. Instead, I left Carfax estate and made my way into Purfleet proper, where, beneath the cloak of invisibility, I slipped into a silversmith’s shop and made off with a shining dagger and long-handled sword.

  Then it was back to Carfax, for my fury at Elisabeth’s deceit made me ever the more determined to destroy Vlad, and to destroy him at once. Why else had we been waiting all these weeks? I would show her what true courage meant, and then, having destroyed him, would leave her to her vanity, her decadence, her vile dungeon waiting silently for its first victim. As for myself, I needed neither the protection of man or woman, nor their love; the two I had dared love had both betrayed me, and I would never again permit myself so to suffer. Perhaps I should go to Vienna, or Paris.…

  When I arrived, the workmen were still hard at their task. The anger wavered only once as I waited beneath the dying oaks, when I reflected that perhaps I had been hasty in thinking that Vlad’s belief that no vampire could ever destroy another in traditional fashion, with stake and knife, was simply another of his mediaeval superstitions. What if it was true?