by Lucas Thorn
RISE OF THE FEL QUEEN #2:
MAD BRIDE OF THE RIPPER
For EE
Who once made me feel like Renfield
LATERAL BOOKS
First Digital Edition Revised
published in January 2019
Copyright © Lucas Thorn 2019
ASIN: B07KMMCTQP
www.lucasthorn.com
PROLOGUE
The little girl’s fists knuckled tears from her eyes.
She refused to lift her head. Just looked down at the muddy leather scraps which were her shoes.
Sniffed.
Arthur winced at the sound. Disgusted by the dirty creature. A homeless waif, one of five living in a nearby shack. If you could call it a shack. It was hardly a shed. Dirty floor. Dirty walls. Grubby little fireplace. Reeking of rotten food and excrement. Eldest child only twelve.
Or so he’d claimed.
This one no older than nine.
In his mind, he thought they should be rounded up by the police.
Little body shivered. Shock had turned her skin so pale it was almost translucent.
Which made the swollen red marks on her throat redder than they should have been. Bruised veins webbing her neck.
Kneeling, Van Helsing lay one hand on the girl’s shoulder. With gentleness in his voice, but not reflected in his unblinking gaze. His eyes remained twin orbs of stern ice.
“You’re safe now, Tammy,” he said. “I promise. But you have to tell me. Tell me who did this? Who did this to your neck?”
“It were the Bloofer Lady,” Tammy cried. “She were here. She were. Really, mister, she was. No one believes me, but she were here. In her white dress and everything. Just like they say. Please, mister, please let me go.”
“Bloofer Lady,” Arthur grunted. “That’s a hoax. Everyone knows that. Even the newspapers think it’s a frightful joke. This is rubbish, Abraham. We’re wasting time on filthy peasant superstition.”
“Hush, Arthur,” Van Helsing said. No emotion. Clipped German accent accepting no argument.
Arthur looked away.
Lord, Arthur thought. I’m a fucking Lord. Would it hurt the old bastard to use the fucking title?
“I believe you, Tammy,” the old man said. “Tell me where she went, won’t you? The Bloofer Lady. Where did she go after she hurt you?”
“Please, mister,” the girl whined. Sniffed again. Thick and nasal. Had the child ever washed? Arthur didn’t think so, and he took another shuffled step further away from her. Wiped his hands on his coat as she continued to sniffle. “Don’t make me tell. If she knows I said anything, she’ll come after me, won’t she?”
“How can she find you? She doesn’t know where you live, does she? You didn’t tell her? About your little friends?”
“I didn’t tell her anything. I didn’t want her to come for Lizzie.”
“And you don’t want her to come back for you either, do you?”
“No!”
He took both shoulders. Hard grip which made her only wail louder. “Then tell me! Tell me where she’s hiding.”
“You’re hurting me.”
The old man forced himself to loosen his grip. “I’m sorry, Tammy. Really, I am. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I can’t catch her if I don’t know absolutely everything. All I want to do is help you. So, I need you to be brave. Very brave. Can you do that?”
Tammy slowly pulled her fists from her eyes.
Red eyes soaked with fear.
Sniffed.
Arthur shuddered. Grotesque, he thought. Someone should put her out of her misery.
He felt the gun in his pocket.
Heavy.
Promise of a merciful death.
More than these street urchins deserved. Before the vampire had grabbed her, she was no doubt picking pockets or something equally unsavoury. A part of him wondered if they should let the vampire roam a little longer. Perhaps it would clean the city of unwanted trash.
A bit like wolves picking off the weakest deer.
“She had ghastly eyes,” the girl said. “The Devil’s eyes, they were.”
“I know.” Van Helsing’s voice was calm. He smiled at the girl. “I promise you, I won’t let her hurt you again. Do you believe me when I tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Then be a good girl and show me which way she went. You don’t have to come with us. Just point the way, and then you can run home. You want to go home, don’t you?”
The little girl looked back down the street at the row of degenerate houses.
Ramshackle and covered in filth.
Coal smog crawled through the streets, adding to the gloom as early morning fog began falling away from the streets. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you do. Your friends are waiting. Lizzie is waiting, too. You’ll be safe there. Safe while we make sure the Bloofer Lady never comes for you again.”
Shoulders buckling, the little girl wiped her nose across the back of her sleeve.
Arthur suppressed a gag.
Watched as the girl gave a defeated nod. Raised a little arm and pointed. “She went there.”
“Down this street?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see which building she went into?”
“She didn’t,” the child said. Lowered her voice to a frightened whisper. “She went to the graveyard. That’s where she took me, mister. She said we could play a secret game. That it would be fun. She said I shouldn’t be afraid. But I was. I didn’t want to, but she held my hand very tight and wouldn’t let go. And then she made me lay down on one of the stones. It was so cold. She told me she wanted to kiss me. A gentle kiss, she said. But it wasn’t soft at all. She bit me. The Bloofer Lady bit me on the neck and it hurt.”
The girl burst into tears again, sobs chugging like a train as Van Helsing patted her head.
“There there, Tammy. You run along now. Go straight home and don’t talk to anyone, you hear?” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of notes. “Take this. And don’t be frightened. We’ll deal with the Bloofer Lady for you. After tonight, you’ll never see her again.”
“Really?” The girl took the money, eyes wide. Sobs choked off by sight of more than she’d ever seen in her life. “I can have it?”
“Yes. Now, run along home. Off you go.”
“Bloofer Lady,” Arthur snorted as the girl scurried away without a word of thanks. “Do you really believe that, Abraham?”
“Yes, actually,” the old man said. Wiped his hands on a little handkerchief before dropping the tainted cloth to the ground. “I do.”
“She hardly seemed very reliable. She’d have said anything for money. Anything at all.”
Couldn’t hide the bitterness from his tone.
Had begun to wonder if Van Helsing was the same kind. The old man seemed to be taking an awful lot of Holmwood money to fund his crusade. But not much of it had yielded results.
“Would she? What about the marks on her neck?”
“Probably some infection. Enough of it around here. God, Abraham. I feel dirty just being near the little monster.”
“She’s not the monster, Arthur. The real one is this way.”
“You honestly want to go to the cemetery?”
“Naturally. That’s where this Bloofer Lady is.”
“If this Bloofer Lady is a vampire, shouldn’t we wait for the sun to come up?”
“It’s close enough to morning. She will have taken refuge by now. Come.”
Arthur followed the old man, hand inside his pocket. Fingers around the revolver’s grip. Something about the heavy weight made him feel less afraid, even though he knew bullets wouldn’t stop the undead.
For that, he
had a mallet. Two long stakes. Crucifix.
Small bottle of holy water.
And a bible.
Didn’t much believe the bible, but he’d seen vampires cower from it so was happy to use it as a shield if he had to.
The cemetery’s gravestones were a mix of old and new. Some looked close to toppling over, faces obliterated by muck and lichen. Others were fresh. Clean. Names etched crisp into stone.
Names with no real value, he thought.
Who were they anyway? Did anyone even remember anything about the dead lying buried here? The majority were simply names and dates on a stone. What had they done to deserve being immortalised?
He followed Van Helsing. Watched as the older man knelt to rub his fingers through moist grass. Or sniff at the air. What he was smelling, Arthur couldn’t guess.
With the factories nearby, all Arthur could smell was the stink of industry and the echo of Tammy’s unwashed body. He put his sleeve up to cover his nostrils.
“This way,” Van Helsing said. Headed swiftly toward a crumbling crypt. “It’s in there.”
Mist crawled on its belly around surrounding graves, sucking at the rotting gasses of decaying corpses.
Arthur shuddered. “How can you tell?”
“Can’t you smell it, Arthur? Brimstone. The vampire’s unholy bargain with the Devil leaves a trail anyone should be able to detect.”
“Brimstone. Are you serious?”
“Never more so. Look! Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“Something moved in the shadows.” The old man pulled out his crucifix. “Be ready, Arthur. And don’t hesitate. No matter what you see, do not hesitate.”
“Why would I?”
Van Helsing said nothing. Crept toward the little opening. Peered into the darkness.
Licked his lips.
“I’ll go first. You can watch my back.”
And ducked inside.
Arthur followed, drawing mallet and stake. Took a shallow snatch of breath and was overwhelmed by its thickness.
Whispered; “God, Abraham. The dust. Are you sure this is the place?”
“Yes,” the old man said. Pulled out a torch and lit it. Let the flame peel away the shadows of the crypt. A heavy coffin lay in the middle of the small room.
Beside the coffin, the bodies of two children.
Each with throats torn out. Flaps of skin raked back to expose ripped arterial cords.
Arthur covered his mouth and nose with his cuff. “Oh, God.”
“There. Inside the coffin. The vampire is here. And torpor already clasps her awareness. We’re just in time, Arthur.”
“Right.” Arthur tried not to gag as he stepped past Van Helsing. Eager to get the job done and get out. Held stake out in front of himself and saw the white dress. Stained with blood. Fresh blood still wet. Gleaming in the torchlight.
Eyes half-closed and wincing, he pressed the stake to the vampire’s breast.
And, though he always tried to avoid doing so, looked at her face.
He froze.
“Arthur?” Van Helsing whispered. “What is it?”
His strangled cry echoed within the crypt. “Lucy. It’s Lucy!”
Her eyes flicked open.
Lips drew back in a savage grin to show fangs. Mouth opened in enraged silent roar.
Van Helsing rushed up. “Arthur! Strike!”
“No. I can’t. Look, Abraham. Look at her. It’s Lucy, damn you.”
From her open mouth, the shriek finally emerged. High and piercing like the scream of a bird.
Her arm flashed, clawed fingers streaking toward Arthur’s neck.
Van Helsing shouted.
Mallet hammered home.
Blood.
And then there was silence. Broken only when Arthur began to sob.
CHAPTER ONE
Lucy Westenra woke with a scream.
Clutching her breast. The sensation of wood sliding through skin and bone still echoed dreadfully close to her heart. Fear gripped her soul with a drumbeat reincarnated from the primal origins of man.
As though dragged from her nightmare, thunder bellowed overhead. Roaring through thick stone walls and shaking deep into the foundations. Lightning flashed rapid pulses outside the little window high above her head. A silver cross fixed to the glassy pane.
Toothed with bars.
As was her door.
“No no no,” she moaned. Her throat felt raw. Stomach churned with hunger. Her head swirled with vertigo. Swung her mind around with it until she screeched wildly; “Let me out. Let me out of here!”
Rain.
It battered the walls outside, hitting the window like beads of ice. Wind howled through trees, shaking their limbs with nature’s fury. Sound of crashing waves and a tang of salt as it whistled through the smallest of cracks somewhere high above.
A storm.
Its unsettled belly rolling across the rugged little town called Whitby.
That’s where she was.
Not London.
Whitby.
A fragment of memory unclipped itself and gave hint to her location.
The Seward Sanitorium.
Polluted with madmen and lost souls whose minds had been twisted and warped by a world they could no longer function in nor understand. Wave after wave of crashing nausea loosed itself upon her as she thought about them. She slumped, feeling their insanity like a living thing.
Feeling it breathe around her.
Stifling.
Hot.
Whispering in her ears and teasing the edge of her awareness.
Was it their madness she was feeling? Or her own?
She couldn’t stop shaking as she pushed herself back into the corner, leaving blankets behind. Wanted to cry, but no tears would come.
“Why am I here?” Raised her voice to scream at the bars; “What have you done to me? Let me out!”
Shuffle of shoe. Rasp of stiff coat sleeves. “Lucy? Lucy, are you awake?”
She hissed at the voice.
Frowned.
Sniffed the air, lips curling in distaste. Could smell him. A clinical smell. He’d always had the air of medicine around him. A cold and creepy scent. “John? Is that you?”
“Of course it is.” Tone of someone repeating himself too often. Exhaustion was there, too. “Have you forgotten again? You always forget where you are. Do you remember why you’re here?”
“You have to let me out, John. You have to. She’s coming. I must go to her. There’s so much to do. Can’t you understand? Oh, I have to be there. I have to prepare the way!”
“Go to whom, Lucy?”
“Why, the Queen of course. She’s coming. Coming to England.”
“The Queen? But the Queen is already in England, Lucy. She’s in her palace, no doubt. And she’s not sent word she wants to speak to you. I promise you there hasn’t been a single invitation for you. Forget about it. It’s just a dream. That’s all. A dream. You’re here because you’re sick. Don’t you remember? You need help.”
“I’m not sick. I’m a vampire. They had another name for me. They had to give me a name. It’s only right to name the thing which terrifies you.” She stared through the dark slits between bars. Into the shadows beyond. The dark hallway clenched and tight. A fog still curled through her mind. Echoes of the nightmare? Or something else? What had he done to her? “They called me the Bloofer Lady.”
“No! No, you’re not the Bloofer Lady. Where did you get that idea? You’re not that. Don’t say such things. Please. A vampire is a myth, Lucy. Nothing more than rural superstition. They’re not real.” He came into view, dragging a chair. In his forties. Late forties. Looked even older, especially in the dull light of the corridor. Tight-cropped beard mostly white. Little square glasses across his nose. Set the chair down in front of the bars and sat down. Studying her. Mix of expressions on his face. Pain. Love. Something else. Fear? Yes. That was it. Fear. “Listen to me. Just listen. You’re not a vampire. Yo
u’re not the Bloofer Lady. That’s just a dream. It’s not real. You’re Lucy Westenra. And you’ve been very sick. You suffered an extreme bout of hysteria and it triggered your anaemia. We’ve been able to treat that, mostly, but you’re still unwell. It was severe, and you hallucinated. You saw things which weren’t there. You’ve been having difficulty letting these wild hallucinations go. You’ve been clinging to them as if they were real. The longer you hold onto them, the further into madness they’ll take you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Where is he, John?” Lucy stared back at him, betraying nothing. “Where is Dracula? What did you do to him? I know you’ve done something terrible. Will you tell me?”
“Dracula?” He put his head in his hands. Kneading forehead with withered fingertips. Splotches on the backs of his hands. He looked so old, she thought. So old she could smell death leeching into his repulsive body already. “Oh, Lucy. Can’t you see he wasn’t real? He was only in your head. A delusion your mind invented.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because, secretly, I know you didn’t want to marry Arthur.” Bitterness. In his words like oil. “You told him you’d marry him, but you were only doing what your father wanted. Arthur wasn’t right for you. Your heart is too good. Too open. An aristocrat could hardly hope to capture your heart. You knew you would spend the rest of your life in a loveless marriage. So, in your despair, your mind invented a fantasy to help come to terms with it. And, as the wedding approached, you retreated further and further away from reality and into your fantasy world. But it’s all going to be fine now, Lucy. You’re safe I swear to you, you won’t have to marry him now. You can let the delusions go. Return to me. Return to us. I believe all you need to do is acknowledge it was a fantasy, and we can begin to heal you. Until you accept everything I tell you is the truth, you’ll sink deeper into this fantasy you’ve created. You’ll lose yourself. Utterly, I’m afraid. You don’t want that, do you? You don’t want to lose yourself?”
“Marry Arthur?” Lights flickered and flashed inside her mind. Whispers twittered at the edge of her hearing. Arthur? Who was he? A face drifted from her memory. Wide, but shallow cheeks. Moustache. Dark hair shot with grey. Wrinkles. Crooked yellow teeth. She choked a laugh. “Why would anyone want to marry that toad? He’s an old man, John. I mean, look at me. I’m young. I would have wanted to marry someone I thought was attractive. Someone much closer to my age. Someone virile. Of course I wouldn’t want to marry him. But I understood everything my father advised. It was the sensible thing to do. Arthur was a man with estates. A title. It would ensure our family businesses would benefit greatly from his family’s influence in government. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.”
