"You're not listening to me, you little idiot," she hissed. "The blood speaks to you when you are dead. It only influences you just slightly when you are yet living. Mina gave birth to a son and passed the blood on to him. It rested in him and fed on his blood every moment that it coursed through his veins. It still does. He passed the blood on to his son, and his son passed it on to you. It is only when you die that the power of the blood will assert itself"
He took a moment to think this over. "So my danger will come when I die. Now, while I live, it is still manageable."
"Yes."
"By regularly taking the sacrament."
"Yes."
"But it burned me. I mean, the last time I took communion, it burned my mouth and my stomach."
"Because you have allowed the blood's power to gain an advantage. You told me that you had stayed away from church for a long while. Anything wears off, even sanctity."
"And if I take communion regularly from now on . . ."
"The pain will diminish and eventually disappear, and the power of the blood will be reduced."
"But not eliminated," he said.
"No," Lucy agreed. "Not eliminated. There will still be danger for you after you die."
Not with my veins filled with embalming fluid, he thought a bit smugly. He did not share his thought with her. "And if I ever have children?"
"It will pass to them, through the generations." She looked nervously over at the rose-tinged horizon. "Quickly. I am being kind to you by giving you this much time, but you must hurry."
"Okay," he said. "One more question. I don't just want to control this, I want to end it. I want to lift this from myself and my family. Can it be done? Is there any way just to eliminate the power of the blood completely?"
"That, I cannot say for certain. But I have a feeling, an intuition, if you like. It speaks to me but unclearly."
"Tell me what you can," he said.
She paused for a moment. "The Devil is tied to the blood, and the blood is tied to the Count, and all three are tied to the soil of the Count's native land." She stopped speaking, as if this cryptic remark contained all the information he needed.
He waited for her to continue. When she did not, he said, "I don't understand what you mean. How is that supposed to help . . . ?"
"Think, little fool, think!" she spat angrily. "Do people lack brains in this century? As long as his remains rest in the soil of his native land, the blood he has given retains its potency. Remove him from his native soil, and the blood becomes merely blood."
"But he isn't buried anywhere," Malcolm protested. "I've read the account in the book. It says that he was killed on a roadside near the castle, that his body collapsed into dust after his heart was pierced."
"And does it say that he was alone?" she asked.
He thought for a moment. "No, there were Gypsies with him, servants."
"Ah," she said, smiling. "And what did they do after the Count was killed?"
"They ran away," he said, shrugging.
"And then?"
He stared at her. "Nothing else is mentioned of them. I imagine that they just kept running."
Lucy Westenra shook her head and laughed sadly. "Stupid boy, blind, stupid boy. They must have returned to gather up his dust. They must have taken it to the castle and placed it in his coffin. They must have! The dust of the Count must be there still, else his blood would have been powerless to rip me from my rest!"
Malcolm began to pace back and forth, attempting to formulate a coherent plan of action from all of this. "So if I go to his castle and take his dust away from his coffin—"
"Away from his native land," she corrected him. "If you scatter the dust in Transylvania, it will be as if you had done nothing at all. Bring it to England and scatter it here."
"Or to America," he mused.
She smiled. "As you wish."
"And if I do this, the power of the blood will be broken, in me and in my family, now and forever?"
"Yes."
He looked at her. "And you? What will happen to you if I do this?"
"Nothing," she said. "I am already risen, I am already cursed. All you will do is help yourself. My blood, the Devil's blood in me, will remain as ever." She looked at the rapidly increasing glow of the sun above the distant hills. "I have stayed long enough." She began to run off into the thick clusters of trees that stretched outward from the churchyard.
"Wait!" Malcolm called out. "Tell me why you've told me all of this! Tell me honestly, why have you cooperated with me?" The echoes of her cold laughter were the only answer she chose to give.
Malcolm turned back to Holly, who had remained close to the door of the crypt, clutching her crucifix, throughout the entire conversation. He could see in the dim morning light that she looked ill, pale and frightened, but he did not take the time to tend to her. He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her behind him as he began to walk toward the hotel. "Come on, we have to get to a telephone and we have to get packed."
She looked at the back of his head as he pulled her along, and somewhat dully she asked, "Wh . . . what? Are we going home?" She ran to catch up with him and she said eagerly, "Oh, Mal, I want to go home! I want to go home!"
"We aren't going home," he said. "We're going to Rumania." She felt too weary and too drained to argue with him. Lack of sleep had combined with shock and terror to render her incapable of opposition. She walked along beside him, trying to keep up with his frantic pace. She entered the hotel right behind him, but he ran up the stairs toward their rooms while she trudged unhappily behind him. He was knocking on Jerry Herman's door when she reached the top of the stairs. "Jerry!" he was saying. "Wake up! We have to get packed! A lot has happened tonight. Jerry! Come on, will you?"
Holly came to Malcolm's side as Jerry's sleepy voice said, "All right, all right already!" from the other side of the door. Jerry pulled the door open, scratching his head and yawning loudly. "Goddamn it, Malcolm, do you know what time it is?" he asked irritably.
"Of course I do," Malcolm replied. "Listen, Jerry, we—"
"Don't you know enough not to wake somebody up until they've slept long enough not to get a hangover?" He placed his hands on the sides of his head. "God, I feel terrible!"
"Jerry I'm not interested in how much you had to drink!" Malcolm said hotly. "I have something important to tell you!"
"Well, tell me more softly, will you?" Jerry said as he sank back onto his bed and moaned. "God, do I feel like shit! I haven't felt this lousy in years! What the hell do they make gin out of, anyway?" He rolled over on his side and continued moaning.
Malcolm glanced over at Holly. "Just what I need, an ally with a hangover." To Jerry he said, "It's going to take hours for you to be straight again, Jer, and I need your help right now. It takes hours for your body to metabolize every ounce of alcohol you drink, you know."
"Don't lecture me, Malcolm, okay?" Jerry whined. "I feel terrible."
"Just be quiet and listen to me," Malcolm said. "Holly and I—" He suddenly stopped speaking and stood staring at Jerry.
Holly came up beside him and asked, "What is it, Mal?" Then she saw it, too, and screamed.
"What's with her?" Jerry asked, scratching absent-mindedly at the two little wounds on his throat.
Chapter Ten
It was Rachel's turn to serve on the Altar Guild at church, and she was putting on her coat to leave when the phone rang. She huffed with annoyance, even though whatever delay the phone call might cause was of no particular importance. She could change the altar cloth and replace the candles anytime she wished that day, but she was a woman who tried to keep to a schedule, and Saturday morning was Altar Guild time on those days when it was her turn. Muttering under her breath, she draped her coat over a chair and went into the parlor to answer the phone. "Hello?"
"Rachel? Is that you?" her brother's foggy voice replied.
"Malcolm," she said without further salutation. "I can't hear you very well. We have a poor connec
tion. Where are you?"
"In London."
"What? Speak up!"
"I'm in London," he said more loudly, "I'm still in London. What time is it there?"
"Nine in the morning," she replied. "Why are you calling? Is something wrong?"
He paused before replying. "You could say that, I guess."
"Are you ill?" Her concern for her brother transcended her annoyance with him, and she frowned as she held the phone more tightly to her face.
"No, no, I'm fine, we're all fine. Well, Jerry . . . has a little problem. But that's not why I'm calling you."
"Is he all right?" she asked, relieved that her brother was not ill, and caring despite herself about his friend, "He's . . . well, he's been better. But listen, Rachel, I'm calling because I need more money. You have to wire it to me at the American Express office near Victoria Station."
"Malcolm," she said testily in clipped tones, "I was all in favor of this little expedition of yours because I thought it might help you come to accept the truth, but I'm not inclined to subsidize a vacation for you and your friends to any greater extent. If you are out of money already, that means that this has cost us nearly three thousand dollars so far, and I just don't—"
"I resurrected Lucy Westenra."
It took a few moments for Rachel to absorb her brother's words. At last she stammered, "Y . . . you . . . you did what?"
She heard him sigh loudly on the other end of the line. "I resurrected Lucy Westenra. Holly and I went to her grave, removed the stake, washed her remains off with vinegar. And when I cut myself and poured some blood on her skull, she rose from the dead."
Rachel did not speak for a long while. She took the receiver from her face and held it in front of her, staring at it openmouthed and speechless. And then she screamed, "You did what? You did what!"
"Calm down, Rachel," Malcolm said quickly. "She gave me some information, some very valuable—"
"How could you do such a thing!" she screamed. "What in God's name is wrong with you? How could you do such a thing!"
"Rachel, will you please listen to me?" he shouted at her over the phone. "There's a way to get rid of the curse. Do you hear what I'm saying? There's a way to get rid of the curse!"
"Wh . . . what are you talking about?" she asked, trying to control her fury.
Her husband, Daniel, entered the room quickly as she spoke, followed a few moments later by old Quincy, who shuffled in at as rapid a pace as he could manage. Both of them had heard Rachel screaming.
"Listen," Malcolm was saying as her husband and grandfather came toward her. "I decided to try to raise Lucy so I could question her. I figured that she'd know more about this stuff than any of us do, right?"
"Oh, Malcolm!" she said, beginning to weep.
"Come on, Rachel, listen to me, damn it! I have to go to Rumania. That's why I need more money."
"Rachel, what's wrong?" Daniel asked.
"What's the boy done?" her grandfather added.
She waved them both silent with a curt, irritated gesture. "Why, Malcolm? Why do you have to go there?"
She listened carefully as Malcolm outlined for her the conversation he had had with the vampire the night before. He concluded by saying, "So if I can find his remains and get them out of Rumania, away from his native soil, and then scatter them, we'll all be safe. We'll all be okay. You, me, Gramps, and any children either of us may ever have." He paused. "I mean, I know about Daniel and everything, but I've been thinking . . . well, I mean I might . . . you know what I'm trying to say, Rachel. This is a solution, it's a way out of this for us. I have to go to Rumania. I have to go!"
She nodded, not approving of what he had done, but understanding it, and realizing that he had indeed found them a possible means of escape from their dark heritage. "Talk to your grandfather for a few minutes, Malcolm," she said. "I'm going to go into Daniel's office and use his private line to call Mr. Bruno at the bank. How much do you think you'll need?"
"I'm not sure. A thousand, I guess."
"Okay. Talk to Grandfather. I'll be back on the line as soon as I can."
"Rachel, what . . . ?" Quincy began, but she cut him off by handing him the receiver and then leaving the room.
Stopping at the edge of the parlor, she said, "Daniel, make sure Grandfather stays seated." I don't want him fainting or collapsing when Malcolm tells him what he has done, she thought as she went into Daniel's combination study and office.
Daniel, perplexed and annoyed, helped the old man into a chair and then stood back in silence, wondering just what was going on. Old Quincy's tearful and aghast reaction to whatever it was he was hearing on the phone did nothing to assuage his curiosity.
Rachel returned ten minutes later and took the receiver from her grandfather. The old man seemed to sink miserably into the cushions of the chair as he put his hands over his face and shook his head in sorrow.
"It's all arranged, Malcolm," Rachel said. "Bruno is taking care of it right now. He says that the money should be available to you within one hour."
"That's great, Sis. Thanks."
"Malcolm, just listen to me carefully," she said, her voice serious and just slightly tremulous. "I want you to be very, very careful. Promise me that you'll be careful."
"Of course I will, Rachel," he replied, "but there shouldn't be anything to worry about. Lucy told me what needs to be done, and I—"
"I'm not talking about that," she interrupted him. "I mean that going to Rumania is not like going to England. It's a communist country, a Russian satellite. Be very careful not to break any laws, or even call undue attention to yourself."
"Sure, Rachel, okay."
His tone of voice told her he was just agreeing to forestall a pointless discussion, so she added, "Promise me, Malcolm."
"I promise, Rachel, honest."
"And Malcolm . . . Malcolm?"
"I'm still here, Sis."
"Wear a crucifix when . . . well, just wear a crucifix."
His voice this time was serious. "I will, Rachel. Bye."
"Good-bye." She waited until she heard the line click dead, then she hung up the phone.
"Will someone please tell me what's going on here?" Daniel asked petulantly. "What has the boy done now?"
Rachel shook her head. "It's a long story, Daniel, and it's one that I probably should have told you years ago, but I just don't have the energy to go into it now."
"Well," he began, and then stopped. Having expected a more illuminating reply, he was now nonplussed. "Well," he repeated.
"You said you were going to see Harry Stevenson this afternoon, weren't you?" she asked as she once again picked up her coat and began to put it on.
"Yes. What of it?"
She sighed. "You'll be home by dinnertime, won't you?"
"I suppose so." Daniel frowned. "Now, see here, Rachel—"
"Later, Daniel. Later I'll explain everything." She went to the door of the house and pulled it open. "You have a right to know, I suppose."
"A right to know what?" he asked, but she had already shut the door behind her. Daniel Rowland turned to old Quincy and repeated, "A right to know what? What is she talking about, Grandfather?"
Quincy Harker seemed not to have heard the question. In any event, his response had nothing to do with it. "I don t feel too well, Daniel. Help me up to my room, would you please?"
"Certainly." Daniel helped the elderly man to his feet and lent him an arm for support as they made their way slowly toward the stairs.
"Just remember," Quincy said, panting slightly. "When I die, I want a simple funeral. No viewing, no expensive casket, none of that wasteful fuss."
"Yes, Grandfather."
"You make sure of it, Daniel, if Rachel and Malcolm forget."
"Yes, Grandfather."
As Quincy Harker was slowly mounting the stairs toward his bedroom, his granddaughter was walking around the corner and drawing close to St. Thomas's Episcopal Church. Rachel was, even at her lowest ebb, very wel
l organized and very methodical. Having done all that she could do for the time being, she saw no reason not to proceed with her Saturday just as if her brother had not called her—just as if she did not know that Malcolm had unleashed a vampire upon an unsuspecting world, just as if she was not worried to the depths of her being about her brother's going to Rumania in search of the remains of the creature that had been the source of so much sorrow to her family.
She walked up the few steps that led to the large oaken doors at the entranceway of the Gothic-style church and leaned back as she held on to the brass door ring, using her weight as an aid in pulling it open. The church was never locked, though it had been burglarized a number of times and the church council was forever debating the issue. As a matter of security, either Father Henley or his assistant, Father Langstone, were always in the building during the day on Saturday, knowing that the ladies of the Altar Guild would be coming in to prepare for the next day's services.
Father Henley heard the heavy door close and got up from behind the desk in his office to see who had entered. He smiled at Rachel and said, "Good morning!" as he saw her walking forward down the aisle between the rows of pews. "Father," she said, and nodded in response, hoping that he was not in a conversational mood.
He was. "Have you heard from Malcolm?"
"Yes," she replied, trying to mask her disquiet. "I've spoken to him on the phone."
"How is he enjoying England? Has he gone to the cathedral at Canterbury?"
"I don't believe so, Father, but he probably will before he leaves." He isn't there to sight-see, she thought to herself.
"Well, he certainly should go there while he's in England," Henley said, walking with Rachel back to the storage room where the candles and altar cloths were kept. "Travel can be such a broadening experience if you make a point of seeing the right things." He heard Rachel emit a curt, humorless laugh, and he looked at her closely, noticing for the first time that something seemed to be amiss. "Rachel?" he asked. "Is everything all right? You seem troubled."
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