Dracula The Un-Dead

by Dacre Stoker

  The coach sped away, but not quickly enough to sate his impatience. He leaned out of the window and banged on the roof of the carriage with his walking stick. “Faster, man! Faster!”

  “Arthur, relax. We need our wits.”

  He was offended at her tone. Mina sounded as if she were talking to a child who’d eaten too many sweets. As a show of his anger, Holmwood thrust the items he had retrieved at her.

  Mina, perhaps for the first time in her life, thought better of opening her mouth. Instead, she chose avoidance. She took the things from him and placed them on the seat beside her; then, turning away from him, she tore open the telegram as an excuse to ignore him.

  She gasped and looked up at him, sheer panic on her face, tears in her eyes. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

  In all the years he had known Mina, this was first time Holmwood had seen her at a complete loss for words.

  At last, she said softly, “Van Helsing is here in London. He claims he was attacked in his hotel room by . . .” She stopped, struggling with the words.

  “Who, damn you?”

  “Dracula.”

  “I knew it!” Holmwood snatched the telegram from Mina, needing to read the words with his own eyes. He had wanted proof. Now he had it.

  “Van Helsing requests we come at once,” Mina muttered, her face blank. Her hands were frozen in place as if she still held the telegram.

  Time had stopped for Arthur Holmwood. In an instant, everything he knew or thought he knew had melted away as he experienced true fear for the first time in twenty-five years. But he also felt elation. Lucy was no longer so far away. Blood and death were in the offing, and he welcomed it. In war, the world was simple. Right or wrong, black or white. Live or die. In peace, he was lost in a sea of gray. Now it was time for war. Arthur Holmwood thrust his head out of the carriage window and growled at the driver, “Faster!”

  He fell back into his seat with a wild smile of satisfaction. It was obvious that Mina did not share his enthusiasm but was lost in deep thought, clearly troubled. He tried to understand what must be swirling in Mina’s mind. Dracula was alive. It was more than likely that he was the one who had impaled Jonathan. She had once been seduced by Dracula’s charms, and now she was faced with the knowledge that he must have murdered her husband. Then there was Bathory, whom Mina claimed to be the true enemy. Were Dracula and Bathory working together? Did Bathory even exist? There were only questions, and only one certainty—that death was waiting for them.

  With Seward’s journals and a bundle of evidence in his arms, Inspector Cotford stormed past the rows of bored inspectors and constables at their desks. Cotford knew he was huffing and puffing, stamping his feet down like an angry child. He did not care. He had a right to be angry. His theories had been summarily dismissed and his integrity had been challenged, as well as his sanity. No one bothered to glance his way. None of them cared about old cases, or his need to challenge the system.

  Cotford slammed the stack onto his desk. He cared, and thus was cursed. “Damned, gutless, spineless potato heads. ‘Why dredge up the past, especially because of some outlandish theories?’ they say!”

  Popping the top off of his silver flask, Cotford cooled his fury with several gulps of whisky. Only then did the others notice him. There was old, fat, mad Cotford, breaking yet another rule by drinking on duty.

  Lee came to his side and rested a hand on the flask, preventing Cotford from taking another swig. “Inspector, a little discretion, if you please.”

  “The Crown Prosecution Service refused to issue an arrest warrant for Van Helsing or Godalming!” Cotford fumed. “ ‘ The writings of a morphine-addicted lunatic are not sufficient evidence,’ they say.”

  Lee stared at him for a long moment. He had said he would follow Cotford so long as he was right. The Scotland Yard brass had made it clear that they did not think Cotford was right. Undoubtedly, Huntley would be making an official statement. Not only had Cotford further ruined his own career, but he likely also hampered Lee’s potential.

  “I’m going home, sir,” Lee bluntly replied. “I must speak with my wife. I have the feeling that the repercussions of our misadventure will be swift and harsh.”

  Cotford slumped into his chair, trying to assess the ruin surrounding him. He could see the writing on the wall. This latest folly would dredge up the past and no doubt make the newspapers. His superiors would berate him for soiling the reputation of the Yard, yet again. Forced retirement was inevitable.

  “Bugger them!” Cotford said, reaching again for his silver flask.

  “I almost forgot,” Lee said, voice cold. He withdrew an envelope from his pocket. It was inscribed with red ink. “This arrived for you in the morning post.”

  He handed Cotford the envelope and left the office.

  “A love letter from a secret admirer, no doubt,” Cotford said sarcastically.

  The constables and inspectors turned away and went back to their work. Cotford tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. Even before reading a single word, he recognized the bloody scrawl, and suddenly he was plummeting twenty-five years into the past. His heart raced. By God, he was right!

  Cotford leapt from his chair and ran out of the room, screaming Lee’s name. He caught the sergeant halfway down the stairs, so excited he could barely draw a breath to get the words out.

  “It’s from him! Twenty-five years ago, he wrote letters. Taunting Abberline. Taunting me. He even sent a letter once smeared with blood from one of his victim’s kidneys.” Cotford held up the envelope. “It’s the same handwriting, signed and addressed the same way. It’s him! We’ve done it, Sergeant! We’ve drawn the bastard out!”

  Lee responded by giving him a strange look.

  Cotford was smiling so widely that his grin almost split his face in two. He shoved the letter at Lee. “Don’t just stare at me! Read it!”

  Lee obliged carefully. “It’s probably a prankster who knew of the Ripper’s original letters,” he said. “A copycat.”

  Lee was performing his due diligence, but Cotford was prepared. “Not possible. Our current investigation has not yet made it to the press. I only revealed it to the Crown Prosecution Service this morning. This letter was sent days ago, according to the postmark.”

  Lee’s skeptical demeanor changed slightly. The inspector had a point.

  He read the letter:Dear Boss,

  The Answers You Seek Are Held By Quincey Harker. Find Him Wednesday Night At The Lyceum Theatre And All Shall Be Revealed.

  Yours Truly,

  From Hell

  Lee looked from the letter to Cotford. “That’s tonight!”

  Cotford smiled again. His partner was back. He wasn’t sure what game the Ripper was playing at, but he was making contact for the first time in a quarter of a century. This time, Cotford was not going to trip up. The Ripper would not outrun him. One way or another, he was going to end this tonight.

  “Sergeant Lee, gather your men.”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII.

  The backstage storage space was the perfect setting for an endgame. It was a dimly lit labyrinth of costumes, set pieces, and backdrops. There were no electric lights in that part of the theatre—the crew had no need for such luxuries. Gas lamps hissed in the four corners, casting long and wavering shadows.

  Bathory laughed to herself as she waited in the dark for Basarab. He was so predicable; he still thought God was on his side. She watched as he moved straight ahead, the broadsword held before him. He was not afraid, which was his folly. Basarab didn’t seem to understand that God never rewarded loyalty. Yes, come to me and die.

  Bathory enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game. She could see Basarab’s eyes seeking her out through the costumes hanging on the rack. He was no match for her. No man ever was. Even God couldn’t destroy her, so how could Basarab?

  Basarab lashed out, knocking down one of the costume racks. He thrust out the sword, but Bathory, with her preternatural speed, had already moved on.
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  “If you are so powerful, come out and face me, you witch!” Basarab roared.

  Bathory wanted to savor the moment. It was not time yet. There were many debts to be repaid before this game was over. “It was you who sought me out,” she taunted, unseen in the shadows. “Everything you do is so predictable. You’re led by your vanity, your arrogance. You honestly believe after all you’ve done that God is still on your side.”

  Basarab stalked Bathory through the maze, biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to corner her and strike.

  “I thought I could save you. To bring you back from the darkness of your own making.”

  Bathory stopped. She raised her head so that she could be seen through one of the shelves. “You vowed to be my companion. To stand by my side.”

  She watched Basarab flinch. The pain of the past was still throbbing in the present. Basarab spoke with such morose sincerity that Bathory almost believed him when he said, “Yes, there was a time I was foolish enough to think we could join forces as companions. I even felt love for you once.”

  “You knew we could never be.”

  “It was your choice to sin against the laws of God and man,” Basarab said.

  “Ah, that’s why you tried to kill me.” With that, Bathory crept back into the shadows. Her game entered the final round.

  Basarab raised his sword and splintered the wooden shelf where her head had been just seconds before. He raged forward, knocking down shelves, spilling the props as he advanced. “When I saw the evil that rots your soul, you left me no choice!”

  Bathory stepped from behind one of the costume racks, facing Basarab from the opposite side of the room. Basarab spun, broadsword at the ready. He expected her to attack, but she was not ready to make her move yet. This game was too delicious to end before its time.

  “Your God took away all that I held dear. His followers persecuted me for feelings I could not control. I have no choice but to take revenge on God and his children. Step aside.”

  Basarab let the sword drop to his side, an offering of peace. “Leave this place. Bother Quincey and his family and friends no more.” He drew close to her.

  Bathory stepped back and whispered from the shadows, “When you seduced Seward and his friends into crossing my path, you should have known the way would be paved in their blood.” Ever the gamesman, Bathory backed into a corner lit by a lantern. She sucked in her breath, contracting her inner organs, forcing blood to ooze from her pores. She could see Basarab was confused. Why had she backed herself into a corner? Why was she showing fear? Basarab decided to take a chance. He puffed himself up and cried out, “End your mindless killing or I will destroy you!”

  “You once faked your own death to escape my wrath!” Bathory smiled. It was time to pay her debt in full. The game was over. “Now your folly will become fact.”

  Basarab’s compassion for her was the trap; she saw the panic in his eyes as he realized he had been ensnared. She might have been backed into a corner, but he was the one who would die.

  It took only an instant, but for Basarab it must have been an eternity. Bathory’s eyes went black. She snarled like a beast as she curled her lips, revealing her fangs. Basarab swung his sword, but he was far too slow. Bathory was already flying through the air, her hand reaching out for the burning lantern as she leapt upward. As she soared over Basarab’s head, the lantern smashed onto the floor. She landed in safety behind Basarab as flames ignited at his feet. The train of the satin robe Basarab wore became a flaming torch. He thrashed and screamed as the robe was engulfed in fire, his struggles sending sparks flying about the room. The hanging costumes caught fire and began to burn. Within seconds, the entire room was ablaze. Basarab fell to the floor, screaming and desperately trying to quell the flames.

  Bathory laughed. Then she calmly opened the door and left her past behind to burn.

  Arthur Holmwood sighed. His associates on the London City Council had approached him years ago for a private donation to rebuild the Waterloo Bridge. Its Cornish granite was deteriorating, and it was plagued with several structural flaws. At the time, he could see no profit in financing such an endeavor. He’d dismissed the council’s request, recommending that the bridge repair be financed through public funds. But with an already overtaxed population and a poorly funded Metropolitan Board of Works, there was no choice but to close down the bridge from time to time to make stopgap repairs. Today was one of those times. As Arthur inched along in the carriage with Mina, it was infuriating to know that the Lyceum Theatre was a mere pace away from the opposite end of Waterloo Bridge, and that their carriage, along with the throngs of others and hundreds of people, were forced to reroute over the Westminster Bridge.

  Once they crossed the Westminster Bridge, the driver diverted along Victoria Embankment and veered back toward the Lyceum Theatre. Savoy Street, the adjoining street that would take them closest to their destination, had recently become a one-way going in the opposite direction. The carriage now had to continue eastward under the Waterloo Bridge, past King’s College, to find a side street to take them northward to the Strand. What should have been a ten-minute drive from Waterloo became a desperate half-hour frustration. Even Mina’s calm demeanor cracked under the pressure. Quincey would arrive for rehearsal, and they would be too late.

  As the carriage raced toward the Lyceum, a low, distant din grew to a roar. Something was afoot. The street appeared empty, yet both Mina and Arthur could hear a commotion close by. It was probably another traffic snarl-up, but they had no choice but to plow ahead. Holmwood again slammed the walking stick into the ceiling of the carriage. In response, the driver slapped the reins on the horses’ backs. The increase in speed did nothing to relieve the tension in Mina’s face.

  They reached the corner of Wellington Street, when a driverless black carriage bolted across their path.

  Their driver pulled back on the reins with all his strength, and the stallions screamed. The carriages collided. Holmwood’s driver was thrown through the air as the carriage tumbled end over end.

  Inside the carriage, the last thing Arthur Holmwood remembered was hearing something crack. Then blackness.

  Pedestrians on Wellington Street carried water back and forth. Bells clanged in the distance. Carriages tried to race through the street, clambering to escape, held back by the throngs. Screams and black ash filled the sky.

  Quincey burst through the crowd of onlookers and saw the Lyceum Theatre belching black smoke. Flames whipped from its windows. A section of the roof collapsed with a sickening crash. The huge fire illuminated the London nighttime sky with a devilish, red-and-orange hue. Actors and crew crawled from the smoking theatre, coughing and gasping for air, black soot covering their faces, their clothes singed. Some were badly burned, their reddened skin already peeling back like pages in a book. One woman’s hair had caught fire, leaving the top of her head bald and blistered. The air had become tinged with the nauseating smell of ash and burned flesh. Quincey was dumbfounded. Then he saw the lanky figure of Hamilton Deane stumble out of the curtain of smoke. Quincey rushed to his side and took hold of him roughly. “Deane! What happened?”

  Deane hacked in answer: “A woman arrived, some countess . . . Basarab left the stage with her . . . then . . . flames . . . everywhere.”

  “Basarab?!” He shook Deane by the shoulders. “Listen, man! Did he escape?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

  Quincey shoved him aside and ran toward the theatre’s column-flanked entrance.

  Deane screamed from behind him: “Quincey! No! It’s suicide!”

  The fire’s searing heat held Quincey at bay. One half of him was desperate to save the man he trusted, his friend and mentor. The other half of him was desperate to find the man who had lied to him and betrayed that trust. Either way, Quincey had to save Basarab—how else would all of his questions be answered? Quincey shielded his face from the flames with his coat, took a deep breath, ran up the steps, and leap
t inside the burning Lyceum Theatre.

  The last thing Mina heard before she fell into unconsciousness was a loud crack as Arthur Holmwood fell on top of her. How long she lay there in a faint, she did not know, but when at last she swam through the darkness back to lucidity, it was to find him standing over her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I believe I’ve survived,” she said, amazed that this was the case.

  Holmwood offered his hand. This time, she took it and allowed him to help her up. He helped Mina through the window to the top of the fallen carriage. Her long skirt made the maneuver difficult. “I heard a crack. Did you break something?”

  Holmwood gestured to his walking stick. It lay on the cobbles, broken into two pieces. Mina reached back into the carriage and withdrew her concealed sword.

  A moan from their driver caught their attention. He was lying in a twisted heap in the middle of the road. Mina and Holmwood, still dazed, hobbled to his aid. The bone in his broken leg had ruptured his skin. Blood poured from the gaping wound.

  “There’s too much blood,” Mina said. “He may have torn an artery.”

  She unwrapped the shawl from the sword and tightly tied it around the driver’s leg, above the wound, hoping to stem the flow of blood and save the poor man’s life. When she noticed that Holmwood wasn’t helping, she immediately assumed that it was because he wouldn’t get his hands dirty to aid a lowly servant. But as she looked up to rebuke him, she saw that he had run for help, and to investigate the clamor coming from Wellington Street.

  “Fire!” Holmwood cried. “It looks like the Lyceum!”

  They shared the same thought: This fire was no coincidence.

  Mina said, “Go! I’ll stay with your driver. Find Quincey!”

  He nodded and ran around the corner onto Wellington Street.