Arminius! Damned Arminius! Once they had disappeared, I rose to my knees and sobbed, shaking my fist at the empty air, demanding that my protector appear and give us aid.
From somewhere beneath me, in the castle’s very bowels, I heard Zsuzsanna’s muffled shriek, and rose in anger. I would not sit by. I had seen the direction they had gone, and followed until I found a trapdoor that clearly led below. Yet it was stuck fast; I could not open it, could not enter, could do nothing but moan in helpless frustration. In moments, perhaps sooner, Elisabeth would emerge again, and no talisman in all the world would stop her.
So I sat upon the floor, head in hands, and, agnostic that I am, prayed to God.
And in my head, a voice spoke again—the blessed voice of Arminius.
Abraham, my son. We are close to defeat. Only one thing can stop her: to forge your own pact with the Dark Lord, and purchase our victory.
“No!” I pressed my hands against my skull, to blot the vile words out. “No!”
Again I prayed to God, and again God was silent; but Arminius spoke. God cannot help you now. Only the Dark Lord can.
The floor rumbled as with an earthquake, and from beneath came the howl of a mighty storm. I tried to stand, to gain my footing, but lost my balance, and fell to one knee. In my mind’s eye, I saw the great looming darkness of my dream, and saw myself devoured by it.…
And then, stillness. Stillness so profound that I was filled with a different terror, waiting for the sound of Elisabeth’s voice beside me.
“Dark Lord!” I cried out. “Hear me! I, Abraham Van Helsing, will make a pact with you!”
Scarcely were the words uttered before the terrible darkness did appear, the great advancing shadow of my dream, and began to swirl: deeper than indigo, deeper than black; deeper than night or death or eternity.
Yet it was an entity, a being. As it approached, I felt its intelligence, and rose upon my two feet to greet it as a man. I mastered my fear; I hid my trembling. And called out sternly: “I will make a pact. My life in exchange for Elisabeth’s destruction.”
From the centre of the swirling darkness came a small, gentle voice. The Dark Lord does not exchange life for life. Speak to me of souls. Speak to me of forever.
“My soul,” I cried, “in exchange for Elisabeth’s destruction!”
I offer only immortality: the vampires curse. What shall you offer me in exchange?
“I will not become a vampire! I will not prey on living or dead! Why can you not take me as I am?”
The darkness began to fade, to recede, to withdraw from me; down below, I heard a woman’s horrified scream. For a terrible instant, I believed I was too late—that Elisabeth had become the Dark Lord’s equal.
“Very well,” I whispered bitterly. “I shall be a vampire—but one far stronger than Elisabeth, able to overpower her—in exchange for my soul. In exchange for any suffering in all the world, if you make me able to defeat her.”
At once, a sense of infinite calm and acceptance flooded through me, and when the darkness flowed over me like the deepest ocean waters, I felt no fear. As it engulfed me at last, I whispered, “If I am to be yours, show me your face.”
Within its centre, a small dot of golden light appeared, then began to grow—brighter and brighter, wider and wider, until its radiance cast off all darkness. Blinded, I closed my eyes.
And when I opened them again, I saw before me my beloved mentor, Arminius.
“We meet again, Abraham,” said he, smiling. “As I told you so long ago: there are many types of vampires … and of them, I am chief.”
Zsuzsanna Tsepesh’s Diary
5 NOVEMBER, CONTINUED. I watched Elisabeth’s face as she examined the contents of the locket—watched it carefully for the change that would herald my destruction.
Her expression grew intent, then puzzled; then frustrated, as she muttered, “There must be more!” She held it up, and turned it round in her hands to examine it more closely, as if searching for a hidden spring; then once again produced the manuscript and read it carefully, then waited a bit, as if hoping another line would appear.
Finally, with a cry of raw anger, she hurled the locket, with key still attached, down into the piles of bones near my feet. I bent down and struggled to reach for them, but could not; the key had fallen deep into the layer of bones, and the locket lay facedown just beyond my reach, so that I could not even turn it over to see its contents.
Above us, a sudden darkness veiled the vault—a moving darkness, like the most furiously roiling thunderstorm. It dropped lower and lower until it stood like a pillar before Elisabeth, coagulating until it was so dense I felt I could touch it as I would a being.
With a snarl, Elisabeth threw herself to the skeletal ground, scrabbling so desperately to reach the fallen items that she ignored the manuscript, which fluttered down beside her.
“You have no right!” she screamed at the darkness. “This moment is mine, these trinkets are mine, and if you take them from me …” She hesitated in her sputtering rage, apparently realising that there was no way whatsoever to threaten this entity. With a fiendish howl, she turned as if to flee.
But she could not. For beside her stood Bram, glowing with an internal light far brighter than hers. She moved to pass him, and discovered herself entrapped between the darkness and his light.
I turned back in amazement towards the pillar—and saw in its stead a radiantly beautiful child. In his dimpled hands were the manuscript and the fallen locket, and he offered them both to me.
I took them both reverently, set down the gleaming parchment, and ran my fingers over the locket’s outer message: ETERNAL GODHOOD. Then, like a book, I opened the heart—opened it as I did my own—and on the inner leaves read:
ETERNAL LOVE
ETERNAL SACRIFICE
I began to weep, for I remembered most poignantly the suffering of my ancestors, my mother and father, my dear brothers, my nephew and his little son and wife, and that of all my victims and their families. I wept, and knew most intimately the cost of fear and greed.
“Zsuzsanna,” the child asked sweetly. “Do you understand, and accept?”
I nodded, too stricken to speak; and the child held out his hands to me, and helped me rise.
“A kiss, then,” said he. “Only a kiss.…”
As I stooped to oblige, he sternly shook his head. I felt his hands grow and change within my own, and his stature increase; his golden locks turned white and grew decades in length.
“Arminius,” I whispered, to which he replied, smiling:
“You shall not bow to me.”
And we fell into each other’s arms, and embraced.
19
Dr. Seward’s Diary
7 NOVEMBER. Headed for Paris on the train this morning. Art and I talked a good length about Quincey’s funeral arrangements, as his body travels with us. It seems there is no family in America, and so Art is determined to have Quince buried on his family estate. There is a very large tree there, with a lovely view, and Art says it will suit Quince just fine.
Mina also was up early, and came into the compartment whilst we were talking. She is the bravest of souls, that lady. I told her outright that Art and I had decided on a story about Quince’s death: that one of the gypsies had inflicted the mortal wound. Poor Harker is back to his pleasant self now and overcome with joy to see his wife freed from the vampire’s curse. But he has no recollection whatsoever of the events that occurred after we stopped the leiter-wagon.
She agreed at once that this should be the same story told by all, and I assured her I would write the professor and let him know. Very bluntly, she said, even though tears shone in her eyes, “It would break Jonathan’s heart to think that he had killed your noble friend, and he would turn himself in to the authorities at once; and that would break my heart. I think you do Quincey justice as well, for I know he would insist upon the very same thing.”
And she is right. As he was dying, Quince begged us that,
if we survived and Harker came through unscathed, we should never bring him to justice—for it was Elisabeth, not Jonathan, who was his murderer. I close my eyes now and can just see him smiling down upon the Harkers, and us all, for keeping our promise.
The professor (I cannot remember to call him “Father,” and certainly the word professor has for me come to be a term of endearment) has returned to Amsterdam. I would have gone with him had it not been for poor Quince; as it is, I will travel there after this funeral to attend another one very soon.
It is strange to see him so transformed.
The Diary of
Abraham Van Helsing
7 NOVEMBER. When I arrived home with my visitors, Frau Koehler hurried down the staircase at the sound of my footfall and at once burst into tears when she saw it was me.
“Thank God! Oh, Doctor, thank God! She is dying … it could be any moment now, and for days I have not been able to reach you! I sent telegram after telegram to Purfleet, but always, no reply!”
I put my arm round her and kissed her on the forehead head to comfort her, then explained I had brought with me Mary’s sister-in-law, Zsuzsanna, and her brother.
“Ah yes,” she said, voice trembling. “I met the young lady before.”
At this, I shot Zsuzsanna a telling glance, but at the news of Mary’s impending death, her eyes showed naught but concern. I whispered into the good Frau’s ear my request for some time for us alone with Mama, then motioned for Zsuzsanna and Arkady to join me.
I was used to the sight of the last stages of death, and could face it with composure—but not so with one I so dearly loved, whose former beauty and grace I knew well. Mama lay curled upon the bed like an unborn child, blind, mute, deaf, unaware of our presence. Yet even in her unconsciousness, her face was cruelly twisted with pain.
Arkady at once rushed to her side, knelt upon the floor, and gently lifted her hand to his lips; and there he kept it whilst Zsuzsanna and I wiped away our tears and set to the work at hand. Zsuzsanna moved first, her silent gaze speaking of her need to do so, for it was she who had caused Mary some pain, and she who therefore had the right to remove it.
She bent low, and gently turned Mama’s contorted face towards her radiant one; and when she pressed her lips against Mama’s chapped, gaping ones, I saw her shudder, then bear up stoically against the agony.
I watched her drink deep and lovingly of pain. And when Mama’s brow yielded its last furrow, I drew Zsuzsanna aside, and bent down for my own kiss.
Eternal love; eternal sacrifice. Only through these two could Elisabeth’s goal of omnipotent immortality be achieved. The truth cannot be hidden; but fear and hate obscure it. One might say that Arminius was cruel to offer immortality to all who wished it, even the most wicked.
Yet how else could those who most needed it be redeemed, save through centuries of opportunity, of contemplation, of boredom, which can only lead to one inevitable conclusion?
The Dark Lord is also the Lord of Light.
For Vlad, there is no more hope; as to Elisabeth, we have given her the gift of solitude and time. She is trapped forever within the catacombs where she came so close to understanding, with the golden locket and its message that so puzzles her. The entrance to that subterranean tomb we have rendered invisible, so that none can find it.
As I kissed Mama, I shuddered beneath the first round of agony—Zsuzsanna had drawn away all physical pain, and now bore it, and her own grief, in silence. But this was suffering of a different sort I encountered; emotional hurt, perhaps of all anguish, the most difficult to bear.
Still, I bore it, and gladly. “There are many different types of vampires,” Arminius had said, and I remembered also what that wise alchemist had told me during my first tutelage: that he was a vampire, of the psychical kind.
It was at first a pleasurable process for me, for I saw the faceted jewel-like intricacies of each shining soul, the incredible infinite wealth of knowledge stored in each memory. But over time, the very beauty of what I stole began to haunt me; and the treasure I accumulated preyed upon my conscience until I could bear the guilt no more.
“And what did you do?” I had asked him.
I repented. I made amends.
Just as Zsuzsanna and I both have; taking on the suffering of others willingly—as our food, our nourishment—instead of their life’s blood. We require their pain to survive—but if we wish to end our sacrificial existence, we need merely starve.
I shall live forever, long past the time it takes to redeem the collective suffering of my ancestors.
And when my dying mother’s pain had eased, I rose, and smiled tearfully as she opened her pale blue eyes. “Bram,” she whispered—and knew me, and when Arkady rose beside her in excitement, her eyes widened, with such joy and happiness it broke my heart. She took his cold hand, pressed it to her lips, and sighed, “Am I in Heaven? Or has God heard my prayer?”
I glanced at Zsuzsanna, and she followed me out into the hall, softly closing the door behind her. There we stood until Arkady, tears shining upon his cheeks and falling into the curve of his smiling lips, said:
“It is over. She has died in peace, in my arms.”
We found her, too, smiling faintly where she lay, in peaceful, untainted death, and Zsuzsanna and I both laid a final kiss upon her smooth brow.
When we left the room, my father took my hand and said, “I am prepared.”
The look of sad and happy acceptance in his eyes wrenched my heart, but this was a pure and blessed grief, with joy amid the pain. We walked arm in arm down to my medical office, which had stood so long unused, and he lay down upon the surgical table and bared his neck to me.
But first, I bent down and pressed my lips to his, and took from him all the accumulated sorrows of his life and undeath, which were many. At the end, he smiled up at me, eyes shining, and I gave him peace.
A blessing upon my family, and yours; may God grant us all such peace. Amen.
JEANNE KALOGRIDIS is the author of two other novels in her acclaimed vampire trilogy, Covenant with the Vampire and Children of the Vampire. She has been obsessed with Dracula since childhood and has done extensive research to write this book. She taught English for eight years at the American University in Washington, D.C. She now lives in California.
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