Her eyes narrowed with pain, and she stiffened, but made no movement to run away or strike out against me; instead, she held her ground. I knew not what to make of it all, for the more I looked upon her, the more grief and anger overwhelmed me. I wished only to slam the door and forget her face as quickly as I could—and made a move to do just that. But ere I succeeded, the man behind her called out: “Bram! Wait!”
And Arkady mounted the stairs and moved beside her; a single sunlit tear spilled onto her cheek as he put a comforting arm about her shoulder. “My son,” he said gently, “with your weapons”—he nodded at the cross in my hand—“you have us both at a considerable disadvantage. I would never endanger you, and I ask you now: Will you hear her out?”
In reply, I glanced pointedly at John. He stared at the two with a profoundly perplexed expression, then back at me, and asked: “He is really your father?”
“He is,” I replied, and Arkady smiled at his grandson, saying:
“And you are John. I saw you last night at Carfax; your father pointed you out to me. My name is Arkady; but, please, call me whatever you wish.”
The colour drained from John’s face, and his expression grew slack; the strangeness of it all, coupled with last night’s terrible events, left him utterly dazed. He had come to see the vampire as our deadliest foe—and now we were contemplating welcoming two into the house. But he looked askance again at me—and, seeing affirmation, opened wide the door and said:
“Please. Come in.”
They could not, of course, pass over the threshold until John had removed the crucifix that hung above it. (The dog, perhaps, could have, but stayed close to Zsuzsanna’s side and would not leave her.) Once they had passed, he immediately replaced the talisman. This caused them some unease, but they reassured us that what they had to say was important enough to merit temporary discomfort.
I led them into John’s office, so that the others would not hear, and bade them all sit. They did, and after a reassuring glance from Arkady, Zsuzsanna said, her voice wavering:
“First and foremost, please know that I honestly regret all the harm I have caused you, your wife, and your first son. Will you forgive me?”
I nodded solemnly, for I was too pained to reply; in fact, merely to indicate assent was a difficult enough act of will, for my feelings were those of hatred and fury. But I swallowed them—a bitter—enough pill—and watched relief spread over her features.
“Thank you,” she sighed, then gathered herself. “There are many things I must tell you before you continue in your efforts against Vlad. The first—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, perhaps a bit too harshly, “but you must first answer a question for me before you continue. Why this abrupt change of loyalties? When last I saw you, you swore to kill me.”
Zsuzsanna laughed—not an altogether happy sound, but one which caused the dog, who lay at her feet, to glance up at his mistress. She leaned forward to stroke his head with distracted affection as she replied:
“It has not been as abrupt as it might appear. Remember, Bram, that I have spent five decades with Vlad and, as time passes, have come more and more to see that he has misled me. He is not the honourable misunderstood hero he initially portrayed himself to be; he is a cold, vile creature, completely incapable of any kind or affectionate impulse. As he was in life, so he is in undeath. And I have grown to hate him”—she lowered her face—“and myself. I was at Carfax, too, last night-where I came upon Kasha.” She glanced affectionately at Arkady. “I watched your encounter—how you both mourned Jan, and Gerda, and Mary”—again she bowed her head, and rapidly blinked to stave off tears—“and I knew that I had been a source of sorrow to all five of you.”
I signalled the dog, which rose and came shyly over, head down, tail tentatively wagging. I stroked its head and ears, and gazed deep into its sensitive dark eyes; it was a common, mortal dog, nothing more—and that impressed me more greatly than the speech she had made. Dogs are noble souls and instinctively fear evil and the vampire; yet this one doted on his mistress, and she on him.
“Very well. That shall be sufficient—for the time. Go on.” The dog settled comfortably upon my feet, and I was forced to continue stroking it or suffer repeated wet, cold nudges.
Her head lifted, and an impish glint came into her eye as she saw the dog lying upon my feet. “Friend likes you. He loves me dearly, but is always so relieved to find a nice, warm mortal.” And then the sprite vanished, and her expression grew somber once again as she said:
“There is another immortal involved here, a woman, Countess Elisabeth of Bathory—who, during her life, brutally tortured more than six hundred fifty young women to death, then bathed in their blood. Have you heard of her?”
“I have.”
“She is a vampire—and yet not, for she eschews sharp teeth and prefers to inflict the wounds on her victims with torture devices before drinking and bathing in the blood. She has always been a more powerful magician than Vlad, and more of a scientist; her pact with the Dark Lord is free from the superstitious trappings that mark Vlad’s. She can move about during the day or night, sleeps when she pleases in a bed, and does not fear religious symbols—only those powerfully charged as talismans, such as yours.” She nodded at my pocket, wherein I had replaced the crucifix; then she drew a deep breath. “I know, because I was her companion for some time. And I can say without reservation that, given a choice between Vlad and Elisabeth, I should fear Elisabeth more.”
On instinct, I asked, “Was it Elisabeth who stole the manuscript from Vlad last night?”
“It was,” Arkady volunteered, before his sister could reply. “When he was … quite distracted. Feeding, and doing the blood ritual with”—his expression grew mildly surprised—“someone here, wasn’t it, Zsuzsa?”
She nodded, but was too intent on her mission to react. “Elisabeth’s abilities are increasing rapidly; soon she will be as strong as Vlad was, as she comes to understand the riddle more and more. We have much to fear if she finds the first key, which will lead to the appearance of the fifth line.”
At this John seemed to come out of his daze enough to speak. “She may already have found it.”
“No,” Zsuzsanna said, leaning towards him—then recoiling a bit, which told me that John had taken my instruction to heart, and still wore Arminius’ crucifix on his person. “She has not. I know it.”
“How?” My son’s expression was that of the sceptical scientist, a trait I had encouraged.
“Jonathan Harker,” she replied, and both John and I immediately sat forward. “When he was at Castle Dracula, I bit him. And Elisabeth drank his blood, which put him under her control, as well. One of her tricks is that she can heal wounds, so I left no mark upon him. He is both my agent … and hers. This causes some difficulty now, for we can sense each other’s thoughts to some extent. As she is the more powerful, I dare only read him briefly, at odd hours. That is one of the things I wanted to warn you of; tell Harker nothing that you do not wish Elisabeth to know!”
She paused, then continued, “I regret it did not occur to me earlier to use Harker until I became suspicious of Elisabeth, and left her; it was then I discovered that”—she lowered her gaze, embarrassed—“that she was kind to me and pretended to love me in order that I might love her; for the terms of her covenant were that she should win a lover, and keep that love constant for six months … at which point, her victim would become the property of the Dark Lord. I believe that I was the incentive for her coming to Castle Dracula.”
An awkward silence fell over us all. John and I both blushed, and lowered our gazes; Arkady again put a protective, reassuring arm around his sister’s shoulders.
It was John who spoke up first. He tilted his face, intrigued; I could see that he had begun to trust her (a good sign, for I am coming to think he will soon become more adept at reading persons and auras than I). “Tell me … what is Harker doing now?”
The muscles in her face relaxe
d slightly, and her dark eyes took on a distant look—for an instant, no more. She shifted and said matter-of-factly, “Chewing a sausage, though he is too heartbroken to taste it. What has happened to his wife?” And as the realisation struck home, she lifted a gloved hand to her lips. “Oh! I am so sorry.…”
Again, there was a strained lapse in the conversation; this time, Zsuzsanna reinitiated it herself by rising. “That is all I have come to tell you: that, and that we must all try again to find the first key before Elisabeth or Vlad does. We shall give aid and information to you whenever we can.”
The rest of us rose, as gentlemen will. “Now I must tell you one last thing,” I said, quite solemn myself. “For I want no deception, no secrets, between us. I am bound to destroy Vlad … and all vampires. If you help me, Zsuzsanna, do so with the realisation that, if we succeed, I will not permit you or my father to live.”
She reached out to take Arkady’s hand, and a look of understanding passed between them. “I know. I’m prepared for that now.”
Arkady looked back at us both and said, “We will be at Carfax this morning—if Elisabeth permits.”
“As will we,” I said. “We go ostensibly to seal off Vlad’s boxes; but John and I will be looking for the manuscript and key. The others know nothing of either; we thought it safest, as we suspected Harker was somehow … vampirically connected.”
Arkady nodded. “Then we will stay out of sight, and not interrupt you except in an emergency.”
So the two visitors turned to leave—Zsuzsanna hesitating at first, for I think she wished to embrace me, or to say something more to convince me of her heartfelt regret. I wanted nothing of it, for the deep pain she had inflicted on me and my family could not be erased by a mere confession. Thus I turned away from her, and she sighed reluctantly and began to leave.
But as John put his hand upon the door to open it for her, I called out:
“Why?”
The two men frowned back at me in puzzlement, unsure of both my question’s meaning and target; but Zsuzsanna understood.
“Why?” I asked again. “The full truth.” She looked over her shoulder at me, and on her lips played a bitter smile.
“Because I grew bored, Abraham. In half a century of undeath, I have achieved the heights of pleasure and the depths of depravity; I have known unlimited wealth, unlimited beauty, unlimited power over men. I collected about me all the exquisite things of the world: jewels, clothing, creatures. But the loveliness I sought could not mask the ugliness of what I had become, nor hide the fact that my existence had become a weary attempt to repeat pleasure after pleasure throughout eternity. Nor could it ever win me a moment’s honest affection from another.” And here she again took her brother’s hand and squeezed it; and he smiled, eyes bright, down at her.
Gazing up at him, she said softly, “Without death or compassion, life has no meaning. And so I have returned to the only one who truly loves me. For his sake, I would sacrifice all. What else was left to me? Should I become like Vlad and Elisabeth—bored predators who have staked their continued immortality on games, with mortal pawns?” She faced me, eyes flashing. “Ask your father, Bram—ask Kasha how Vlad toyed with him, slowly trapping him in a web where he could do naught but be accomplice to the crudest murders! It was the only way Vlad kept the centuries exciting: every twenty years, another eldest son, another gradual conquest, thrilling only because his undeath depended on it.”
Her voice rang with a passion and fire I had seen twenty years ago, in the vampiress—now I know it belonged to the woman herself. “I will not become as he! I will not fear Death so much that I care not what suffering I inflict! I have inflicted enough anyway—and if I can make some small amends, I will.”
So she and Arkady left to precede us to our destination. John and I returned to the others, and, with Jonathan, Quincey, and Arthur—and several of the consecrated Hosts—went to Carfax. By then, it was half past seven in the morning, and though morning made the old house seem somewhat less gloomy than the night before, it accentuated more than ever the dismal degree of filth. Certainly the chapel seemed less daunting; pale shafts of sunlight streamed through the dust-covered eastern windows, dappling the wall where the cross had once hung.
At once I produced wrench and turnscrew, and, with these in hand, proceeded to unscrew the lid from the first of the heavy boxes. The others assisted me by lifting away the lid, and setting inside a piece of the Host. So we went one by one, treating each box the same—difficult work, and at one point I gave the turnscrew to John and asked him to continue, as my back had grown tired of bending and I wished to stretch it. It was the truth, though in part, I also wanted to surreptitiously wander a bit in search of the first key.
Before starting, however, I wandered over to the wall and stretched a bit in the sunlight—for the day was chill and the old house cold as the tomb it was, so any bit of warmth was welcome. As I stood there, one hand pressed to the filthy wall for balance, a flash of dark, dark blue appeared in front of my eyes; I blinked, and when I looked again, there stood Zsuzsanna.
Invisible and silent, I hoped, for her agitation was exceptional; she was near to wringing her hands as she cried, “See there! The wall! He has taken it!”
She pointed, and I followed the direction with my gaze. To my left, slightly above my head, a shaft of pale daylight painted the wall—at the very centre of the now-departed cross. The dust and spiderwebs there had been brushed away to reveal a hole in the rotting wood, wherein had been placed a small wooden box. The box’s lid had been sprung open, so that if one stood perpendicular to the wall, careful examination would show the lid protruding.
I reached up casually and felt its inside with my fingers: emptiness, and polished wood. An effort to pull the box free failed. “And how do you know it was Vlad,” I breathed, turning my face to the wall, “and not Elisabeth?”
She glanced at Harker, who, along with Quincey, was lifting the heavy lid of the third box so Arthur could set inside another piece of sacred wafer. “It cannot have been she. I do not know where she is, but she is still frustrated, and now bitterly angry. I think she made this same discovery this morning—which means that Vlad must have found the key sometime last night.”
“And read the fifth line?” I asked grimly.
“I don’t know. I must hurry—Arkady has gone to try to follow him, and I must join him!”
Before I could say another word, she had vanished; and so I rejoined the men and helped them finish their task.
It was long, hard work, and mid-day had arrived before we were finished. The others seemed cheered by our early success, whilst I struggled to hide my own disappointment; John alone noticed. As we could spare no delay, we proceeded almost immediately to the station and took the train into London.
We located the old mansion at 347 Piccadilly quite easily, though the bustling neighbourhood in which it was located and the bright light of day precluded our breaking house as we had at Carfax. Arthur came up with the excellent notion of pretending to be the owner of the property, and hiring a locksmith to open the front entry. This he did most successfully, feigning such casual ease and confidence as he watched the hired man do his job that a patrolling policeman took no notice of them.
After some wry comments from Quincey as to Lord Godalming’s native talent for crime, we entered the house. Making a thorough examination of the property, we found Dracula’s effects upon the dining-room table: a bundle of deeds (thank God, only to the four properties) and another ring heavy with keys.
But within the same room were the boxes: not nine, but only eight in number! Nevertheless, with the aid of turnscrew and wrench, we opened each one and sealed it with the Host. Then the tools were turned over to Arthur and Quincey, along with the ring of keys; off they went to Bermondsey and Mile End, whilst Harker, Seward, and I remained at Piccadilly, to lie in wait for the “count,” should he come.
Come he did—after a wait of many hours, and just after Quincey and Arthur
returned with the report that they had successfully sealed off six boxes at Bermondsey and six at Mile End; but one box remained unaccounted for!
It was just after that frustrating revelation that we heard the key turn in the lock, followed by footsteps—sounds that put us all on alert, but also filled me with bittersweet gladness, for they signalled Vlad’s return to limited powers in daylight. He could move only in human guise now, until the setting of the sun—all the better for us!
Even so, he proved a fearsome foe, and sprang through the dining-room door with feline grace and cunning. Harker wielded his great kukri knife and slashed out, eyes blazing like those of an avenging angel. Had he been an inch closer, he would have won the day, for the tip came perilous close to the vampire’s cold heart. As it was, the huge blade sliced through the breast of his coat, and out spilled a cascade of gold coins and banknotes.
With speed and skill, the vampire ducked beneath Jonathan’s arm to scoop up what coins and notes he could, and with them ran off, so swiftly that none could catch him.
Harker was undone by his failure, for he had sworn to free his darling from the curse by nightfall; we comforted him as best we could. But secretly, I felt encouraged by that afternoon’s encounter: Vlad’s hair had been streaked with silver, his face lined with the first traces of age. He is growing steadily weaker, key or no! And soon we will obtain it from him.…
If Elisabeth does not reach him first.
4 OCTOBER. In the hour before dawn, John came to wake me. He and the other men had been taking turns spending the night outside the Harkers’ room—in part to make Madam Mina feel protected, and in part, I think, to protect me from Jonathan. At any rate, Jonathan had come rushing out of the room to wake John, as Madam Mina had asked me to come hypnotise her at once, before the sun rose.
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