Lord of the Vampires

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  He and his wife are good, kind people, and when I see what they have already suffered at Vlad’s hands, I can only think of myself and Gerda when we were young—before our small family was destroyed by the vampire. Here in London, for the first time in many years, I have begun to feel myself surrounded by a family again, of brave and loving souls united by a common evil. I could not bear to think of Harker and sweet Madam Mina torn apart, or turned into vile undead parodies of themselves.

  Yet how could I protect them, without possibly exposing John and the others to more danger if Jonathan was Vlad’s unwitting spy?

  I did not know. But as Jonathan drove me back to the station, I asked softly, “If, in the future, I were to call both you and Madam Mina to London, would you come?”

  “Call us when you will,” he said, “and we will come.”

  I have spoken with John frankly about the Harkers. He agrees that we must do what we can to help both Madam Mina and her husband, but, same as I, is perplexed about what Jonathan’s oblique indigo taint might mean. Therefore we have decided that, when the Harkers come to London (and I have no doubt they shall), they will stay here at the asylum. They shall not know that I am here—I shall maintain invisibility for myself and Gerda in our respective cells—and this will assist me in keeping surreptitious watch over Jonathan until we establish whether he is Vlad’s agent or no. Until then, we will assume that he is, and will secretly use such precautions as I already do with Gerda. This will be safest for Mrs. Harker.

  John has agreed that he will reveal no information to the Harkers that will alert them to the full depth of our knowledge; rather, we are to seem as bumbling fools who know nothing of Vlad’s new strength. Thus, if Vlad is privy to Jonathan’s thoughts, he shall discover little of our plans. I have also warned John that Madam Mina has copied her and her husband’s journals out, and offered them to me; the time may come when he will be called upon to surrender his. As for myself, I can easily say that I have no diary, for the Harkers will see no evidence of it—or me—on the asylum grounds. But John records upon his phonograph daily, sometimes several times a day, and his equipment is too difficult to hide. I have asked him not to record any details he does not wish everyone to hear—or at the very least, to record them secretly by pen, so that he might not be overheard and the diary might be hidden away. He has agreed; and will also go back and listen to what he has already recorded. Any cylinders containing entries which reveal too much will be hidden in my cell, and he shall re-record them to make them consistent with what we want the Harkers—and by default, Arthur and Quincey—to know. We have agreed that John shall play the sceptic, who knows nothing of the vampire and is slow to believe.

  I have another reason for dissembling, one which perhaps is foolish: If Madam Mina, that brave and stalwart soul, were to learn the extent of Vlad’s powers, she might lose hope. And that I could not bear to see.

  13

  Dr. Seward’s Diary

  29 SEPTEMBER. How strange to write this by pen, and in my bedroom rather than the office. It goes against the grain to agree to deceit, especially one that might affect my two finest friends, Art and Quince; but I understand the reason for it, and must take comfort in the fact that by doing so, I protect them.

  So here is the truth—I must record it somehow, lest I forget all and begin to believe my own lies.

  To-day, shortly after noon, the professor took me back to Lucy’s tomb. Our plan for gaining entry to the cemetery was quite simple: We would wait for a funeral, which could be counted on to take place at mid-day, then hide ourselves when the mourners left. (There seems little point in arousing suspicion by climbing over the wall in broad daylight.) The sexton, thinking all had gone, would lock the iron gate behind him. Then we would be free to do as we wished, for Van Helsing confided to me that he has retained the key to the Westenra tomb, which the mortician had given him to give to Arthur.

  I admit, I accompanied Van Helsing with a great deal of trepidation. My grief over Lucy’s death, though no longer raw, was still fresh, and to finally witness the reality of vampirism with her as example seemed too painful. I think I agreed in something of a daze, for I could scarcely believe her dead, much less transformed into a monster. Part of me hoped that the professor was a deluded madman, and that all this talk of blood-sucking and Vlad Dracula was but a dream from which I soon would wake. So I went only half believing that I would see the proof of Van Helsing’s claims.

  Our plan proceeded like clockwork. We went to the churchyard and waited until the gate was unlocked and mourners had arrived. Then we, too, entered—dressed in black, to better fit in. The professor had brought his medical bag, which caused me some consternation, for I felt it would draw attention to us; luckily, he was right that no one would notice or think anything of it if they did.

  It was a chill, grey day, bleak and damp with mist; an appropriate day for our task. Throughout the burial, we stood quietly at the fringes of the crowd. And when it was done, and the crowd began to scatter, we moved behind the farthest tomb and waited until we heard the clang of the sexton closing the gate.

  Finally, when all was clear, Van Helsing led me back to the small, square stone building at whose entry was carved the legend:

  WESTENRA

  I had been too distracted during Lucy’s funeral to remember where the tomb lay; my gaze had been focussed on her casket, draped in linen and strewn with white flowers, whilst I tried to picture how she would appear as undead. Would she still be beautiful, or even recognisable as the sweet girl she had been? Would she have long, slavering fangs and inhuman strength, bursting through the lead lining intended to hold in the stench of putrefying remains?

  The professor clearly sensed my growing reluctance, for he briefly laid a warm hand upon my shoulder that conveyed both comfort and encouragement. Then he set upon the lock with the key. The former was ancient and somewhat rusted, requiring him to play with it several seconds before, at last, the large metal door gave a mournful screech and came open.

  It took us both some effort to push it open—I all the while wondering how Lucy would ever be able to manage it. The professor motioned me to enter; a darkly chivalrous gesture if ever there was one. I did, and started as a squeaking black rat skittered over my foot. Inside, the air was cold but stale, and heavy with the scent of mouldering flowers. It was, I think, the most hopeless place I have ever stood, for within a week’s time, the spiderwebs had grown heavy, and numerous shiny-coated beetles crawled before my feet. The whole of it—high octagonal windows, bleak walls, crawling shadows—was coated with a very fine layer of dust that seemed to absorb all light. I suppose the grimness distracted me, for the professor touched my shoulder to bring me to myself.

  Once more I started, to my embarrassment, then began to follow Van Helsing, who had moved past me with a sense of purpose, out of the narrow entryway into a wider room where a good twenty coffins lay upon marble catafalques. It was easy to guess which were Mrs. Westenra’s and Lucy’s, as the others were all shrouded with such a thick film of dust (which demonstrated how long it had been since any had visited here) that neither the coffin’s colour nor the nameplate could be seen.

  To the cleaner coffins the professor went at once, bag in hand, and squinted down at the silver nameplates to ascertain which was Lucy’s. That decided, he set down the bag and retrieved from it a turnscrew and fretsaw, both of which he rather callously set upon Mrs. Westenra’s nearby casket.

  I must say here that I was altogether amazed by his incredible calm and matter-of-factness. Being a trained physician, I had long ago lost my squeamishness around the dead; but this was no ordinary corpse we were approaching now, nor ordinary circumstances. Yet Van Helsing behaved as if it were something he had done his whole life.

  Without fanfare or even a hint of reverence, he raised the coffin lid, so swiftly that I barely managed to keep from drawing back. It was foolish of me to do so, for my brain knew well that we would only see the lead lining; but my heart had a
pparently caused me to forget for an instant. The dead flowers which had rested atop Lucy’s casket—one of which I had laid there myself a week before—scattered with a rustling whisper to the ground, a cruel reminder that even grief itself was not everlasting.

  The professor paid them no heed but, with the cool detachment I have seen him wear in surgery, picked up the turnscrew. With a sudden savage movement, he made a hammer of his fist and struck the turnscrew’s handle so that its tip tore open the thin lead casing.

  This time, I recoiled in earnest, and drew out my handkerchief, fully prepared to protect myself from the ensuing rush of noxious gas that would come from the week-old corpse. But no stench came. I permitted myself to draw a breath, and stood fascinated by what came next.

  Van Helsing set down the turnscrew and picked up the tiny fretsaw. After working it into the gap left by the puncture, he sawed some few feet down one side of the coffin, then across the top, then down the other side. Both fretsaw and turnscrew he replaced in his bag. Then he grasped the tongue of metal at the top and pulled down to the foot, as a mother might pull back a too-warm blanket so as not to wake a sleeping child.

  But there was nothing of tenderness in the professor’s movements; when he drew back the lead casing to reveal the corpse beneath, his expression was colder and harder than I have ever seen it.

  “Friend John,” he called, with a voice so deep and stern none would have dared disobey it. “Look away from her! Look away!”

  Actually, I had not yet steeled myself to gaze down at her, so his warning came in time. He stepped between me and the coffin and said urgently, “I have done you a disservice in not warning you first. No, look up at me, not at her—yes! And now listen: Sense your own aura, and withdraw it inward, towards your heart. Strengthen it there. This protects you from her pull, now and in the future. Yes, yes!” he cried in approval; apparently my features had changed as I put into practice his lesson. Indeed, I found the result was that I had “hardened my heart.” The emotional strain of the painful encounter was abruptly eased, and I found myself possessed of some measure of the professor’s calm concentration.

  I let go a sigh as my equilibrium returned.

  “Very good!” the professor said. “Very good. If you wish to look down at her now, you may; if I see that you have trouble, I shall help. I apologise that I had not schooled you in this technique earlier. I was foolish enough to hope that the talismans I had left with her would remain, and keep her in the tomb until we could send her to a more honourable rest. Before she was placed in her coffin, I had left them upon her lips and breast—but see? Someone has taken them.” He sighed. “I had set them upon her at her wake, but someone in the house stole them then—two crucifixes of gold. So before her burial, I paid the mortician and set two more upon her before I watched them seal her fast beneath the lead. Now someone else has cheated us again—but no mortal, I fear, or the lead would already have been rolled away.”

  I listened to him with only half an ear, for at his permission I had at once looked down at Lucy. To say that she was beautiful would have been an insult; in undeath, she was beyond beauty, beyond radiance. Indeed, it was as if the sun itself had been wrapped in white cerements, revealing only in places—head and hands—its full blazing glory. Her hair, which had been dark ash bleached to blond in places by the summer sun, was now a glorious and shimmering bronze streaked with molten gold. Her lips were the delicate, iridescent pink of mother-of-pearl, just as her eyes—her open eyes, which gazed sightlessly at a point beyond the ceiling—were the seafoam—green of polished nacre. And her face was that of the full moon, possessed of an internal radiance.

  One thought-one small thought, Dear God, she is beautiful!—and one fleeting and subtle desire to give up on all that was moral and right, to join her in eternal ecstasy, and I felt my heart go out to her as the tide seeks the moon. I was lost, smitten.

  Once more, a touch of the professor’s hand brought me from my dangerous reverie. I looked up, and caught a gulp of air; staring into Van Helsing’s dark blue eyes, I focussed myself and again took control of my heart and emotions.

  “I am all right,” I said. “I shall look at her no longer.” And to show my determination, I stepped away from the corpse and faced the entry.

  He was there only a few seconds longer in order to leave more talismans and roll the lead lining back over her, then close the casket lid. “For Arthur’s sake,” he said grimly as we left, “and the fact that I was too arrogant to bring with me stake and knife, thinking that my pale magic would hold her here—I do not kill her now. But if we do not succeed in doing so to-night, when Arthur and Quincey come, there will be much blood upon my head; much blood.”

  It is evening now, and Arthur and Quince will arrive in a few hours in response to the professor’s letters. Thoughts of what is to come leave me too restless to eat supper.

  The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing

  29 SEPTEMBER. Arthur and Quincey arrived last night at ten o’clock, both of them wearing expressions of confusion. As agreed, John herded the lot of us into his study and locked the door, which only added to the mysterious sense of secrecy.

  Once the others had taken seats upon the long sofa, I stood before them to address them, and they all three looked up at me with curiosity and even faint hope—as if there might be something good in the midst of all this sorrow. Arthur himself looked dreadful; he had aged fifteen years in the course of a week. His formerly smooth forehead was creased with wrinkles, and his eyes were still dazed; in them, I saw thoughts of sadness enter and leave like passing clouds. He was at that terrible early stage of mourning where any sight, any sound, any memory, might touch him and reignite his grief.

  Quincey, too, was suffering in his own quiet way. His already thin lips had grown noticeably thinner, and shadows had gathered beneath his tired eyes; beneath the freckles that so perfectly matched his dark red hair, his skin had grown pale. He sat with his big white Stetson in his bony fingers, and toyed with the rim so that the hat slowly revolved round and round. Yet despite his suffering, he maintained a forced brightness for his friends’ sake.

  It was for me a difficult moment, staring at these good but troubled souls; I had contemplated long about this meeting, and had come to the unhappy conclusion that there was simply no kind way to do it. So I began by saying that I had finally learned what had killed Lucy, and that she was now in such a state that we had one last task to perform, for her sake.

  Arthur stiffened with horror. “Dr. Van Helsing, do you mean to tell me she was buried alive?”

  I shook my head: no, no. “Dear Arthur, dear friend; do you trust me? Do you believe that I honestly cared for Miss Lucy, and that I wanted, and still want, only the best for her?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, but his eyes remained tormented.

  “Then let me take you to her tomb, for there lies the only physical evidence necessary to explain what we must do. If you will only trust, and come with me—”

  The look of confusion and pain on Arthur’s face pulled at me, but I remained cold and resolute. “First,” Arthur replied, clearly struggling to contain his feelings, “I must know why we need to go to the tomb. What terrible mystery can it be, that you cannot tell me plainly as a friend?”

  “I can only tell you that it is for Miss Lucy’s sake that we go,” I told him. “There is something that remains to be done for her, that she might rest peacefully in death.”

  Quincey Morris set his hat upon his lap and leaned forward to say, in a heated tone, “Now, see here, Professor! Going back to the tomb for mysterious reasons is a cruel thing to do to Arthur, don’t you think? Can’t you see how difficult this is for him?”

  I held my tongue but thought: Ah, poor Quincey, I know it is no easier for you!

  He continued, scowling, “If the poor girl’s dead, she’s dead; what more can be done for her?”

  Quite calmly I answered, “We must cut off her head, put a stake through her heart, and fill her mout
h with garlic.”

  John’s eyes widened at once with pure dismay at this blunt and heartless outburst. Quincey, on the other hand, leaned even farther forward and rested fingers upon the pistol worn on his belt.

  As for poor Arthur, he turned livid and rose in a burst of fury, bending his right arm at the elbow and pulling it back in preparation for the blow aimed squarely at my jaw.

  And before John could rise to restrain him, he struck out with his fist. I was prepared for such a blow; before it could land, I had already taken a step backward and withdrawn my aura, rendering myself quite invisible.

  Arthur swung at the air, then drew back in utter amazement and gaped down at his fist, as if expecting to find there some defect. Finding none, he stared open-mouthed at the room surrounding him.

  Our friend Quincey slowly sank back into the cushions and quietly replaced his hands in his lap. I watched as the big freckled Adam’s apple slowly bobbed down once, then rose back up. Beside him sat John, whose expression was a curious mixture of sorrow, wry disapproval and mounting hilarity.

  For the space of several seconds, no one uttered a sound.

  Duly satisfied that I had made an impression, I walked behind the sofa where the two men were sitting, materialised, and said quietly, “Gentlemen.”

  They all snapped their heads round to stare at me. Arthur was so utterly stymied that he began to sway on his feet; I quickly stepped around the sofa and back to him. He clutched my shoulders, wide-eyed and mute, and let himself be led to the sofa, where he sat between John and Quincey.

  “Gentlemen,” I continued, “what you have just seen could be the result of the three of you having simultaneously gone quite insane. Or there could be another explanation, one not acceptable according to our current understanding of science. I must swear you to silence concerning it; if you choose instead to speak of it, be aware that I will deny it and label you mad.”