Dracula The Un-Dead

by Dacre Stoker

  “You’re leaping ahead. We still have to ascertain proof of the identity of the Ripper,” Holmwood said. “Only then can we be sure that our theory is correct, and only then can we connect all of this to us.”

  Quincey thought it a waste of valuable time. If Basarab knew Seward and had initiated Seward’s quest for Jack the Ripper, then it stood to reason that the Ripper had to be Dracula, and that Basarab knew that, too. Quincey’s blood boiled, remembering how Basarab had defended Dracula, going so far as to play the character sympathetically on the stage. But then he had reached out to Seward to hunt Dracula down. Whose side was Basarab on?

  Quincey checked the time, then ran to retrieve his coat from the rack, calling back to Holmwood over his shoulder, “You said you were in need of more evidence. Then follow me and let’s acquire some.”

  “From where?”

  “I’m late for rehearsal. It’s time I confronted my dear mentor. He’s done nothing but confuse me, and I will have the truth from him at last.”

  Holmwood followed Quincey swiftly out the door.

  They ran westward. A Daily Telegraph newspaper seller barked from the corner of Wellington Street: “France establishes a protectorate over Morocco! Explorers missing in the South Pole! Bram Stoker, manager of the Lyceum Theatre, near death!”

  Quincey grabbed a copy of the late edition. He skimmed through the article about Bram Stoker, which merely confirmed that Stoker had suffered a stroke. He crumpled the paper and tossed it away. Useless.

  They continued to the Lyceum and were admitted into the theatre by the box office manager, Joseph Hurst. Quincey was about to enter the auditorium when Holmwood stopped him, pointing out the show’s lobby card mounted on an easel: NOW IN REHEARSAL: A TALE OF TERROR—THEGREAT ROMANIAN ACTOR BASARAB—A NEW PLAY BY BRAM STOKER—PRODUCED BY HAMILTON DEANE AND QUINCEY HARKER. Holmwood looked appalled. “How could you do this to us, knowing what you know? I cannot allow you to make a mockery of Lucy’s death and tarnish my name in the process.”

  “Your name is not in the play.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Deane felt that, rather than pay three separate actors, it was more economical to merge you, Mr. Morris, and Dr. Seward into one character.”

  “That is an outrage!”

  Quincey shook his head. The aristocracy was certainly eccentric. “Did you not just say you didn’t want your name to be tarnished?”

  “Quite right,” Holmwood sighed.

  As if on cue, Deane stepped into the lobby. Surprised to see Quincey, he kept his distance. “Rehearsals were canceled out of respect for Mr. Stoker.”

  “Why wasn’t I aware of this?”

  “I wasn’t certain I wanted you there.”

  Quincey shrugged. “Fair enough.” He paused, then asked, “Where’s Basarab?”

  Mention of the actor’s name curdled Deane’s face. “I told him Mr. Stoker had been sent home from the hospital, and I wanted to visit him to check on his condition. Basarab had the audacity to deny my request and left me with script changes that require me to build part of the set to his exact specifications. My crew will be working around the clock to carry out the reconstruction in time for tomorrow night’s rehearsal. Meanwhile, to answer your question, I have no idea where the arrogant bastard is.”

  Quincey took a step toward him, Deane took a fearful step back, and Quincey felt embarrassed. “I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Deane . . . for everything. I was misled and am ashamed of my earlier behavior toward you. Now, please, I need to speak with Basarab immediately. It’s urgent.”

  Although Deane was visibly relieved by Quincey’s apology and polite request, Holmwood could easily detect the tension just under the surface of their exchange. He glanced at Quincey, the question obvious on his face.

  Deane said, “Basarab said he wanted to call time for half past six tomorrow night. I can only assume he will return by then.”

  Quincey extended his hand to Deane, who took it warily. They shook hands and then Quincey and Holmwood departed.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Holmwood said. “He seemed frightened of you.”

  Quincey noted that there was a shading of respect in Arthur’s voice. He hated to admit it, but once again Basarab’s teachings had proven valuable. He wished he had asked Basarab where he was staying, but it had never occurred to him. Now he would have to pay for his lack of attention to detail. “As frightened as Deane may be of me, he’s terrified of Basarab. And now we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see if that fear is justified.”

  Holmwood was no longer listening, his mind shifting to another thought. “Deane does not concern me or Basarab at the moment. We have a greater problem. We need to discover why Van Helsing attacked you. We need to ascertain what game he’s playing at.”

  Nestled in his hotel room bed, Van Helsing thought of Quincey. Mina Harker’s son was a child playing with matches, and he had to ensure the boy would not set the world ablaze. Van Helsing hoped that he had been firm enough to scare the lad back to the Sorbonne. Dracula’s blood had flowed through Mina’s womb into her son. If Quincey succumbed to the darkness, he could become a powerful enemy. Van Helsing was determined to prevent this from happening: If necessary, he would make good on his threat and kill the boy before allowing him to fall into Dracula’s hands.

  It was not old age that kept Van Helsing from sleep; it was the endless waiting. He was certain that Dracula knew he was in London. He was an old man and an easy target. Dracula had killed Jack and Jonathan. He wondered when his turn would come.

  Van Helsing looked at the weapons displayed on the table across the room. Dracula was not a fool. He had to know Van Helsing would be prepared to do battle with him. His greatest fear, next to death, was Dracula dismissing him as a weak, crazy old man, not worth the effort.

  Something brushed against his leg under the covers. A bump appeared under the blanket, slithering across the mattress. Then another. Another. He stared at them, disbelieving. Had his time finally come? When the first bite came, he screamed, but could not move his aching joints quickly enough to leap from the bed. He thrashed in pain as the vicious bites came one after the other. Whatever it was under the blankets converged on him, tearing at his flesh.

  Van Helsing threw back the covers to find a swarm of squealing, filthy rats tearing at his skin, gouging out bloody chunks. They crawled all over his body. He kicked and howled, slapping the rats away. A white rat, its red eyes glowing, teeth bared, ran up his chest, aiming for his neck. He grabbed the verminous creature and flung it across the room, where it smashed against the wall, exploding in a spray of blood.

  At last the old man found the strength to lunge off the bed, but the fright and adrenaline were too much for him. His heart seized. He gripped his chest and fell to the floor. The pain was so immense that his jaw clenched. He could no longer even scream. Van Helsing reached for his pillbox on the nightstand. A new wave of torment overwhelmed him and he fell back. The Reaper’s grip was strong this time.

  After untold minutes, the old man noticed that the rats had disappeared. That there were no bites on his legs. But the shadows in his room were still moving; and now he knew that the rats had been merely a prelude.

  For a moment, through his pain, Van Helsing felt a dark joy. At last, the final battle had come. Marshaling his strength, he lurched toward the nightstand, knocking over his spectacles as he reached out again for his pillbox. The shadows now coalesced and rose up in a spiraling tornado and splintered the nightstand. The pillbox fell to the floor. The deafening howls of wolves emanated from all around Van Helsing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  Van Helsing faced what might well become the final decision of his life: The pillbox or the weapons, which to retrieve first?

  The dark shadow had almost reached the ceiling as it began to fill out into a three-dimensional form, a figure slowly becoming clear within the shadow’s opaque envelope. Van Helsing was running out of time. With the la
st of his strength, he made his decision. Bracing his hands against the bed behind him, he pushed himself forward, flinging himself toward the weapon-covered table. If he was going to die, he would take his demon with him.

  The figure in the shadow had taken on human form. Van Helsing’s hand was inches away from the loaded and ready crossbow on the table. Before he could grasp the handle, a shadowy arm lashed out and flipped the table into the air. The weapons scattered out of Van Helsing’s reach.

  It was over. The old man rolled onto his back, awaiting the end. He had nothing left. His once-mighty heart had surrendered long before his will.

  The howling grew louder as the shadow fell across Van Helsing.

  “Forgive me, my friends,” he whispered. “I have failed you.”

  The howls came to a crescendo, as if saluting their master’s victory. The shadowy attacker lunged forward and Van Helsing screamed. He hoped his heart would stop in time to spare him the pain, but in the end, the Reaper was as sadistic as he was cruel. Van Helsing was still alive as he felt the fangs tear into his neck.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  Mina desperately needed to find Quincey. All of her telegrams to Professor Van Helsing had gone unanswered. It was now very possible that she was alone in her quest. Quincey was out there somewhere exposed, vulnerable. And Bathory was far more sinister a force than she had ever faced.

  Taking the iron key that she had kept hidden in her dressing table, she hurried down to the cellar to the room adjacent to the cold storage. Mina inserted the key into the rusted lock and tried to turn it. Because she had not wanted Quincey to find the contents of this room, the lock had not been opened in twenty-five years and it resisted her attentions stubbornly. Mina tried again with more determination. Still the key would not turn. Damn it to hell! With that outburst of frustration came a loud crack. The door came open. Mina was taken aback to see that the door frame surrounding the lock was now broken. At first frightened by her apparent strength, she quickly realized that the wood had been rotted away by damp.

  Picking up the lantern she had brought down with her, Mina ventured into the dark room. On the shelf, alongside moldy, forgotten keepsakes, was the old box that she and Jonathan had once carried into battle in Transylvania. After witnessing the decay of the door frame, she should not have been surprised to see the sad state of the old wooden box. Her heart sank as she pried the lid open. The Bible was waterlogged; the garlic and wolfbane were rotted and putrid; the contents of the bottles had long evaporated; the knives had rusted; the mallet and wooden stakes adorned with golden crosses were cracked or crumbling. They had once entrusted their lives to the contents of this box. It was now as close to extinction as the brave band of heroes.

  Mina rushed back up to the study to retrieve the only remaining weapon of any use left in the house. Physically, she was no match for Bathory. She would need a sturdy weapon if she and Quincey were to have any chance against her at all. Her hand clasped the katana, the engraved, ceremonial Japanese sword that Jonathan had received as a gift from his clients.

  JONATHAN HARKER

  The Anglo-Japanese Alliance

  January 30, 1902

  In her rush, Mina unsheathed the katana carelessly, yanking her hand back and hitting her elbow on the mahogany bookshelves behind her. Wincing in pain, she dropped the blade instinctively.

  Crack.

  Mina turned to see that her elbow had smashed through the edge of the hardwood shelves. She rolled up her sleeve and examined her arm. There was very little pain, but the wound was already swelling, black and blue. She looked down at the cut in her hand. Her skin was sliced open and there was a steady stream of blood. But again, there was very little pain.

  Strength. Could Dracula’s blood be empowering her? After all these years? Was this Bathory’s blood at work? What irony that Bathory would give Mina the power to make the inevitable fight between them more interesting.

  She looked about and saw the decorative glass paperweight on the corner of the desk. She picked it up and squeezed. Nothing.

  She tried again with all her might. Still nothing. Could the shelf have been a fluke? Blast!

  Mina slammed the globe onto the desk, once again in frustration. To her amazement, the globe smashed into pieces. Mina opened her hand. There were blood-covered shards of glass protruding from the flesh of her palm. But again she felt very little pain.

  For the first time in weeks, Mina smiled.

  Why had this power never revealed itself before? It occurred to Mina that she had never before been prone to extreme outbursts of anger. Yet, now when she needed strength most, it was here. Whatever the reason, she had to be certain how to call on her newfound strength if it was to be an effective weapon against Bathory.

  Mina positioned her hands on either side of the great oak desk, recalling the two bull-sized moving men who had strained to carry it into the house. She took a deep breath and tried to lift it. Her arms shook, but the mammoth desk would not budge.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured Bathory, thinking of how the vile creature had entered her home and violated her. Her anger grew, but the desk refused to move. Suffer the little children to come unto me. Mina pushed off the desk to turn away. There was a loud screech as the desk slid away from her on the hardwood floor. She stared after it, puzzled. She needed to work out how to summon this strength quickly. She needed to be able to command it.

  Mina’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on the study door.

  “Begging your pardon, madam,” Manning said from outside the study, “but there is a gentleman at the front door who wishes to speak with you.”

  Mina had to be on the next train to London to find Quincey: He couldn’t go unprotected for one more night. She had no time for empty condolence visits. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Manning, but I’ll have to ask you to send him away. Tell him I’m not up to company as yet. I’m certain he’ll understand.”

  “I had told him that you did not wish to be disturbed, but he gave me his card and insisted that you would make an allowance for him.”

  Not wanting Manning to see the mess she had made in the study, Mina cracked opened the door and took the small, ivory card. She nearly dropped it at the sight of the name inscribed upon it.

  “Shall I send him away?” Manning asked.

  “No.” Mina knew if he was here, this visit was of the utmost importance. Her eyes darted to her bloody hand. He can’t know about any of this. “Show him to the sitting room. Have him wait for me while I make myself presentable. I shall meet with him there.”

  Lord Godalming, Arthur Holmwood, had watched Quincey walk away. It was just as well that the young man had asked to be alone. He needed some time to digest the information they’d obtained from Seward’s flat. Could Dracula really have been Jack the Ripper? Holmwood barely recalled the autumn of 1888, when London had been in the grip of terror. He had been immersed in his own fears, with his father and Lucy both struggling with failing health. He could not bring himself to believe that their enemy was still somehow alive. How could it be? Then there were the present-day Ripper-style murders throughout Eastern Europe, which could not be so easily dismissed as coincidence. He could not argue with Quincey’s theory, nor think of anyone else but Dracula who could have killed Jonathan by impalement in the middle of Piccadilly without effort or witness. If Dracula had indeed returned to England, they were all in grave danger. Everyone had to be warned. Even so, he was reluctant to contact Mina Harker. Dracula might have come to take his revenge on her; or Mina might finally have succumbed to his charms now that she was no longer bound by her matrimonial oath. Her mind had always been a puzzle of contradictions. Holmwood could not hazard a guess at what her reaction would be to the news that Dracula was still alive. Despite his concerns, he decided to do the most honorable thing. Mina had to be given all the facts, and what she chose to do with that information was up to her. Unfortunately, he would have to share the consequences of Mina’s choice.

  The manse
rvant took Arthur Holmwood’s coat and led him into the sitting room.

  “Would his lordship care for a drink?” asked the elderly butler.

  “No, thank you.”

  Holmwood was distracted by the photographs on the mantelpiece, most notably the picture of the Harker family taken during some distant Christmas when Quincey was a small boy. His rage began to boil again as he compared his losses. He had lost Lucy, and any chance of happiness in his life. In contrast, after their ordeal in Transylvania, Mina had been able to resume some semblance of normalcy, to live with the man she loved, raise a child, have a family. His eyes drifted to a framed photograph of Lucy and Mina. It was sacrilege for it to be there. After all, Jonathan and his law firm had arranged to bring Dracula to England. And, inadvertently or not, Mina had led the demon to his Lucy. He’d driven a stake through his own beloved’s heart. Mina had bedded the demon that destroyed Lucy. How dare she display that portrait! He was full of resentment, and the rage threatened to boil over. When the door opened behind him, he spun around, ready to unleash his anger upon Mina when she walked into the room. But when he saw her, he was frozen speechless. It was as if he had stepped back in time. Despite the years that had passed, Mina looked exactly as she had when he last had seen her. For a brief moment, Holmwood half expected Lucy to trail into the room behind Mina as she always had before. . . . The memory of a skeletal Lucy in the crime scene photograph returned to him shockingly. Lucy was dead: She had rotted away like his heart. It was little wonder Jonathan Harker had fallen to drink, having to live with a woman who was a constant reminder of their shared tragedy.

  Jolted back into the present, he noticed Mina Harker’s black mourning dress, an old woman’s finery. At least she had the good sense to be ashamed of herself.

  “Time has been good to you, Mrs. Harker,” he said, making little attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.