by Dacre Stoker
Mina was about to close the books and plan her next move when an image caught her eye: an illustration of Bathory’s family tree. She scanned the genealogy. Bathory’s grandfather was Stephan Bathory, a famous Hungarian nobleman. Where did she know that name from? Her finger traced back across several branches of Stephan Bathory’s family tree to the name Helen Szilagy. Mina’s hand trembled; a shiver ran through her body. Now she began to see that Dracula and Bathory had a deeper bond than their need for blood.
Helen Szilagy’s husband was Vlad Dracula III.
Stephan Bathory had fought beside Prince Dracula, helping him reclaim his throne after the death of his father. Dracula, Mina’s dark prince, had taken Stephan’s cousin as his wife to secure an alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor. Dracula believed he was Christ’s holy warrior and that his marriage would help him join the two facets of Christianity into one force against the Ottomans.
The dark stranger. Mina now knew that she had seen Dracula’s face for a reason. It had been Elizabeth Bathory’s distant cousin, Dracula, who had come to rescue her. The dark art in which she’d been “instructed” was no doubt the kiss of the vampire. How could Dracula, who claimed to be a warrior for God, be a part of unleashing a murderous she-devil like his cousin Elizabeth Bathory upon the world for all eternity? Mina was confused.
No matter what Dracula’s relationship was to Bathory, or to the second man who had delivered the note, one thing was certain: Dracula had saved Bathory from a hellish life—she had created her own hell after life.
From her dream, Mina knew that Bathory was the one who had delivered the deathblow to Dracula. But why? Memories flooded back into Mina, and she heard the words Bathory had spoken before she plunged the knife into Dracula’s heart. “ You spurned me for an adulterous whore.”
With shock, Mina realized that she had been the catalyst for Dracula and Bathory’s enmity. This puzzled her. Dracula and Bathory could not have been lovers, but clearly their bonds ran deep. Dracula had planned to run away with Mina. Bathory must have felt betrayed and have harbored a deep jealousy toward Mina all these years.
Now Mina understood. Bathory was set on destroying her and the entire band of heroes who had, in her mind, turned Dracula away from her. But Mina was plagued by one question: What had spurred Bathory into action after all these years? Mina could only surmise that it had something to do with Jack Seward. Seward must have learned of Bathory’s existence. That was the only answer. And since his friends ignored his warnings, Seward must have sought out Bathory himself. Alone, he was no match for the countess. His attack on Bathory must have set her on her new path of revenge. Bathory was nothing if not an opportunist. The brave band of heroes, now separated by years and the hardships of life, were low-hanging fruit, ripe for the picking. Now she understood what Bathory had meant when she said: “Your time has come. . . . I will take from you what you hold most dear. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ ”
Mina felt the room spin as she realized the depth of Bathory’s madness. She intended to extract revenge like a biblical plague.
Mina had to find her son before Bathory did.
CHAPTER XXXV.
Quincey trudged up three flights of stairs to his room on Archer Street in Soho. The flat was reasonably priced, and the area was filled with actors, painters, and other artists.
Quincey made the long walk down the hall to his own room, next to the shared water closet. Van Helsing’s words continued to plague him. He wondered why no one ever trusted him—not his parents, not Arthur Holmwood. Perhaps that confrontation itself was a test, and Quincey had failed. A weak old man with a cane had bested him.
Quincey inserted the key into his lock and realized that the door was ajar, though he distinctly remembered locking it. Someone was inside. Running was futile. If Dracula was waiting for him inside, he would have heard the key in the lock. There was no way Quincey could outrun Dracula. It was now time for Quincey to prove to himself and the band of heroes that he was a man worthy of respect.
The door creaked as Quincey nudged it open and peered into the darkness. Across the room, the long, lean figure of a man was silhouetted against the window.
Summoning all of his courage, Quincey cried, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
A flame ignited with the crack of a match. Quincey could make out the illuminated tip of a cigar and then billowing smoke. His first instinct was to run, but that was exactly what his mother and Van Helsing would have expected him to do. Quincey swallowed his fear and, stepping forward, reached for the light switch. The bulb flicked on with a hum and flooded the room. The tall man at the far end of the room stood with his back to Quincey, staring out the window at the street below.
Without turning, the tall man said, “Good evening, Master Harker.”
Quincey recognized both the voice and thick, blond hair. “Lord Godalming?”
Arthur Holmwood turned to face him and pointed to the steamer trunk in the center of the room, upon which lay the business card Quincey had given him containing his address. The man seemed pale and worn, and there was a hollow look in his piercing blue eyes. Quincey wondered what could have unsettled him so. He was not the type to frighten easily.
Holmwood tossed the used match into the fireplace and ran his white-gloved finger through the dust on the mantelpiece. It came away smudged. His disapproval of Quincey’s living conditions was evident.
“Have you also come at my mother’s behest to threaten my life?” Quincey asked sharply.
Holmwood looked surprised.
“Van Helsing made his point very clear,” Quincey said. He pulled down his scarf and indicated the bloody scratch on his throat.
“I have long considered Van Helsing’s character above reproach. But now, I am no longer sure.” He sighed.
This was a very different Arthur Holmwood from the man Quincey had met a few days ago. He was ready to hazard a guess: “Are you here to help me?”
Holmwood’s face became stony. Then he turned away. “Lucy came to me in a dream and opened my eyes.”
Although it sounded like madness, Quincey did not doubt for a moment the truth of what the man was telling him.
Holmwood stared out at Piccadilly Circus. “One way or another, it’s time to finish what I began twenty-five years ago.” His back straightened and his head came up. He inhaled deeply, stretching the silken material of his coat as his muscular back expanded. Then he pivoted on his heel like a soldier. When he faced Quincey again, his eyes were fierce and determined. “If you’re right, Master Harker, and Dracula is somehow still alive, then at this very moment, you and I must swear an oath before God: that no matter what the cost, we shall once and for all destroy him.” There was finality in his tone.
For the first time, Quincey had a clear ally in his battle against Dracula. Now was the time for action. Without hesitation, he said, “I swear before God to avenge my father and see, by my own hand, Dracula dead.”
The door smashed open with one swift kick from Arthur Holmwood’s boot. Rats squealed in the darkness. Holmwood ignited an electric torch. Quincey felt along the wall for the electric lights, but his companion placed his hand on his shoulder as they stepped into the decrepit room.
“This is Whitechapel. There are no electric lights here.”
Holmwood’s torchlight fell upon a rusted kerosene lamp on the floor. He tossed Quincey his box of matches and gestured for him to ignite the lamp. When he did, a wave of rats scurried out of the light, seeking the dark corners.
Quincey was unable to suppress his shock. “How could Dr. Jack Seward reside in such a place?”
“As I mentioned earlier, he was quite mad.” Holmwood pointed to the ceiling, where symbols of every religion known to mankind were suspended. Quincey recognized the icon directly above him as the cross of the Rosicrucians. The ceiling was pasted with torn pages from both the Old and New Testaments, the Torah, and the Koran. Quincey guessed that Dr. Seward was covering his bets; he’d und
oubtedly wanted them all on his side.
Quincey examined the walls. He discovered that the Bible pages were torn from different editions and various languages. His eyes were drawn to the words scribbled in . . . was that blood?
Vivus est.
“ ‘He lives,’ ” Quincey translated. “You say he was mad. Terrified seems more the case.”
Holmwood betrayed no emotion. He made his way to Seward’s straw mattress and tapped the floorboards with his walking stick. One responded with a hollow thud.
“What are you doing?” Quincey asked.
“Would you be good enough to hand me the lancet from the wall there?”
Quincey glanced to where Arthur was pointing. Jack’s surgical knife held a yellow, aged newspaper clipping to the wall. He withdrew the knife, reading the faded headline: “JACK THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN.”
Perhaps Seward was mad. But as he scanned the walls, a pattern emerged, recurring themes among the chaos: Dracula, Jack the Ripper, vampires, religion, and productions of Richard III . . .
A loud creak drew Quincey’s attention back to Holmwood. His companion had placed the tip of the lancet into the seam of the floorboard and was prying up the wood. When he had removed the floorboard, he reached down beneath the floor. Quincey stepped closer. A secret compartment?
Holmwood pulled out a rusted metal safe.
“How did you know that was there?”
Holmwood slammed the box against the wall, snapping the lock, and it sprang open with a loud pop. Morphine and chloral vials, a leather belt, and syringes fell out and rolled onto the mattress.
“Even if he had gone mad, you do not forsake a man who fought beside you in battle. Who do you think paid for his habit? For this room?” Holmwood asked.
He examined the interior of the box, walking his fingertips along the seams. Frustration creased his face. At last he threw the box across the room, and it clanged to the floor. “Blast! If Cotford missed anything, I thought for sure it would be in there.”
He began to ransack the room, overturning furniture and pulling open empty bureau drawers. Quincey was not surprised by Holmwood’s revelation: He was a man of duty and honor—his marriage showed that. Wanting to help, Quincey raised his lantern and examined the secret compartment for himself. A herd of cockroaches swarmed over something white that was hidden below the floor.
“Wait! There’s something else down here.”
Quincey stamped on the boards to scatter the insects. With some trepidation, he reached down and pulled out a parcel of bound papers. Anxious to impress, he passed the bundle to Holmwood, who went to the desk and untied the string holding it together. Quincey held up the lantern to see what he had discovered.
It was a stack of postmarked envelopes—letters—which rested upon something thick, rectangular, and wrapped in white paper. Holmwood cast aside the envelopes and tore away the white wrapping, revealing a yellow, hard-covered book. Quincey knew what it was even before his companion turned the book over to reveal the cover.
Holmwood blanched visibly as he read the book’s cover: DRACULA.
Holmwood’s home, the Ring, was in East Finchley, but if they went there, they could be vulnerable. Quincey suggested that they seek refuge in the office of Hawkins & Harker. He had avoided his father’s office as much as he could in recent years, but what better place was there to hide than the last place anyone would expect to find you?
He remembered the day his father had presented him with the office key. With pride in his voice, Jonathan had said, “Someday, it will be yours.”
And Quincey repaid him with hate.
A loud bang drew his attention away from the envelopes he was sorting. Holmwood had slammed Stoker’s novel onto the table, shoving it away with disgust. He could read no more.
“How could Jack have done this? After all I did for him. We all swore an oath of secrecy. It was not just because of our bond that I paid for his rent and his morphine. It was also to ensure that he kept his oath.” Holmwood pounded the desk with a furious fist, remembering the moment when, after the battle with the gypsies, the surviving friends had placed their hands upon a Bible and sworn never to tell anyone what had transpired in their mad, bloody hunt for Dracula.
“How can you be sure it was Jack Seward who betrayed you to Stoker?”
Holmwood gestured to the book and envelopes. “Jack obviously needed someone to talk to, and we refused to listen.”
Quincey wanted to say something poignant but decided it was best to focus on the letters. He paused for a moment, uncovering a tattered sheet, which looked different from the rest. The cursive handwriting was elegant and feminine. It was addressed to Seward from his ex-wife. Cold and to the point, it read: “Do not come to America. Stay away from our daughter.”
Part of the signature was smeared. Seward’s tears had marred the ink. Quincey wondered if the girl would ever even know her father was dead.
Holmwood crossed to the desk and pulled open the drawers one by one until he found a whisky bottle. He laughed out loud. “One thing was assured. You could always count on old Jonathan to have a drink handy.” He blew the dust from a glass and poured himself a double shot.
Time seemed to stop as Quincey stared at the signature on the next letter. He blinked as if it would somehow clarify what he saw before him.
Holmwood looked up to see the blood draining from Quincey’s face. “What is it?”
“This one is from . . .” Quincey nearly choked on the name. “Basarab.”
“The man you told me about, the Romanian actor? Let me see.” Holmwood took the letter from Quincey’s trembling hand and read.
Quincey scrabbled through the rest of the stack. “And this one is as well,” he said, holding up another.
He could see that Holmwood was just as disturbed as he was. Now he strode to Quincey’s side and joined him in ransacking the letters, searching through the signatures.
At last he grabbed one up: “Here’s another.”
Quincey compared the letter he held with the one in Holmwood’s hand. “This one, too. Seward and Basarab were obviously carrying on a correspondence.”
Holmwood began sorting them by date. “How could Basarab have known Seward?”
Quincey was dumbfounded. He recalled the voice he had heard through the door the night when he’d first met Basarab in his dressing room. Mr. Basarab! Save yourself! It must have been Seward in the hall. The carriage that ran him down was no accident. How much did Basarab know? Had Basarab used Quincey from the very beginning? Whatever the truth was, the answers surely lay in Seward’s letters.
By the time the sun set, Holmwood and Quincey had pieced together the jigsaw of correspondence between Basarab and Seward. Quincey pinned one of Seward’s letters onto a corkboard.
“According to this letter, Basarab claims he learned of your exploits in Transylvania from the gypsies who survived the battle at Dracula’s castle gates. But why contact Seward and no one else?”
Holmwood pinned a second letter to the wall. “By date, this is the next letter. Basarab asks for Seward’s help in hunting someone he believed to be Jack the Ripper.”
Quincey remembered the old newspaper article pinned to Seward’s wall. He searched for the next letter by its corresponding date. Within the envelopes, they had also discovered a number of newspaper clippings in various languages from different countries, all concerning the gruesome murders of women. The dates on these clippings fell within the last ten years. Holmwood spread them out on the table, sorting them, trying to find a pattern. Each illustration depicted gory crime scenes, with women savagely wounded. The similarities to the Ripper murders were obvious.
Holmwood stood up suddenly, as if struck by an epiphany. “It is so clear.” He dragged Quincey back to the table, pointing as he explained. “These clippings imply the Ripper murders did not end in 1888. They portray very similar crimes throughout Europe. The Ripper merely left London. For the past twenty-five years, he’s been at work in other coun
tries. As long as the Ripper kept moving from city to city, country to country, the different police jurisdictions and language barriers prevented the authorities from putting the pieces together. In each city, from what I am able to translate, there was a series of five or six slayings. In each case, all the victims were prostitutes, and in each instance, the killings would stop suddenly without explanation. Because the Ripper moved on.”
Quincey yanked a letter from the corkboard, remembering its particular letterhead: The Moscow Art Theatre. He showed the letter to Holmwood. “This was the first letter from Basarab to Seward, sent when Basarab was in Moscow on the first leg of his tour of Richard III.” Quincey took another letter from the stack adorned with the Théâtre de L’Odéon letterhead and found the corresponding newspaper clippings. “This one Basarab sent while he was in Paris. Again look. More clippings, more murders. In Paris!”
Quincey looked up at Holmwood, feeling like an eager schoolboy again. “Don’t you see? The Ripper has been hacking his way west. Back to England.”
“Basarab was using his touring company as cover while he chased the Ripper across Europe.”
Quincey was about to say what was on both their minds when Holmwood stopped him: “Don’t! We have no proof yet.”
“Why else would Basarab contact Seward? Why else would Basarab ask for Seward’s help in hunting the Ripper? The Ripper is a vampire. He has to be.”
Holmwood went back to the stack of letters and examined them again. “Quincey, we have to be sure. There’s no definitive proof in these letters. We need more evidence. The only thing we can be certain of is that Seward was trying to warn us about Jack the Ripper. He died trying to open our deaf ears.”
Quincey knew Holmwood was trying to be logical, trying not to jump to conclusions. But to him the answer was clear. “If you refuse to say it, then I will. Jack the Ripper is Dracula. He has to be. ‘Vivus est! ’ It was written in Seward’s blood. Who else could he have been referring to?”
