"'And . . .'" Van Helsing murmured, "'and . . . in . . . Jesus . . . Christ . . . His only son . . . our . . . our Lord . . .'"
"Stop this at once!" the Voivode commanded. He took a step forward, but Malcolm swung the host in his direction and he fell back again, snarling angrily.
Rachel's heart skipped a beat when she realized what her brother was trying to do, and she embraced his attempt with an enthusiasm born of desperation. Yes, she thought, yes! They all lived in an age of faith, an age of Victorian devotion. Religion was a vibrant reality to them all, not a social custom or a cultural heritage, not something to be thought about only on Sunday mornings, if at all. It structured their lives, it was central to their lives. "Go on, Professor, go on," Rachel said. "'God of God, light of light, true God of true God . . .'"
"'Begotten of His Father before all worlds,'" Malcolm prompted, "'begotten, not made' . . . say the words, Professor, say the words! . . . 'being of one substance with the Father, through Whom all things were made . . .'"
"'Who for us men and for our salvation,'" Van Helsing whispered, "'was incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary . . .'" He sighed. "'By the Virgin Mary . . .'"
"'And was made man,'" said another voice softly. Malcolm looked for the source of the words, and he trembled with hope when he found it.
Mina Harker.
Rachel left Jerry at the foot of the stairs and went toward her great-grandmother. "Yes, Mina," she whispered eagerly. "You were a devout Christian, too! Remember, Mina. Remember." She turned to her great-grandfather. "And you, Jonathan, you were a pious man. All of you were—Dr. Stewart, Mr. Morris, Your Lordship, all of you were! Remember the words, say the words, remember who you were, what you were!" She walked forward and stood in front of her grandfather, Quincy Harker, and held the protective host behind her back. "Oh, Grandfather, please try."
Quincy looked at her oddly, knowing that her body shielded him from the consecrated wafer, knowing he could whip out one powerful arm and sweep her head from her body. He gazed at her and the dead flesh quivered on his face. "'And . . . and . . . was . . . made . . . man,'" he rasped.
The cracked dead lips of the other nosferatu began to move haltingly. Holly Larsen ran to the Voivode and hid behind him, clutching a sleeve of his caftan and looking at the other undead with confusion and fear.
"I say you will stop this at once!" the Voivode shouted.
They ignored him. "'He suffered under Pontius Pilate . . . was crucified, died and was buried. . .'"
"' . . . on the third day He rose again from the dead . . .'"
"'. . . He ascended into heaven . . .'"
"'. . . and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father . . .'"
"'. . . from whence He shall come to judge the living . . .'"
"'. . . and the dead . . .'"
"YOU TORE ME FROM MY REST!" Van Helsing screamed.
The blazing eyes of the Voivode fixed on the face of the old Professor. "You are undead, you fool, you are as I am! You serve Ordogh now, you serve the powers of Hell! Stop this foolishness! We shall go from this place, and we shall feed, and—"
"YOU TORE ME FROM MY REST!" Van Helsing repeated, his fists clenching at his sides as he moved threateningly toward the Impaler.
"Van Helsing, be silent!" the Voivode shouted. "Be silent and obey!"
The flames in the Professor's eyes flickered, and then they died.
"YOU . . . TORE . . . ME . . . FROM . . . MY. . . REST!" Van Helsing screamed again, and grabbing the Voivode roughly under the arms, he threw him against the wall.
Holly gasped at the unexpected and incomprehensible assault, and she fell back from the enraged Van Helsing. All the certitudes that the demonic blood had taught her had suddenly been cast into doubt. In her life she had been a child of a godless age, and no vestige of faith remained in her to give her strength against the dark forces which moved her dead limbs. A wave of panic washed over her, a desperate need to get away, away from Van Helsing, away from the horrible words the other nosferatu were speaking, out and away from this basement madhouse.
She began to run past Malcolm toward Rachel and Jerry, preparing to fly over them and get to the door at the top of the stairs, but Malcolm reached out his left arm and wrapped it around her waist as she passed him. Her strength was so great that she could have ripped his arm from its socket had she had the chance; but she did not have the chance. Before she could dislodge his grasp, Malcolm's right hand pressed the consecrated host against her throat.
"I love you, Holly," he whispered as he bore her down with him onto the floor, ignoring her shrieks of agony, ignoring the blood which burst from her throat as the host burned its way down into her undead flesh. She threw him away from her and then began to dig with frantic, desperate fingers into the fiery tunnel which the small bit of sanctity was creating. The host burned through her, and then the wound spread upon her throat in all directions. As Holly made a futile effort to rise to her feet, the flames consumed what remained of her neck, and her head fell from her shoulders onto the floor. Her body quivered spasmodically and then fell motionless. In an instant her body began to decompose, and the basement was filled with the stench of putrid flesh.
The Voivode pushed Van Helsing back and began to advance on Malcolm, who was no longer holding the protective wafer. "You shall pay, little Harker, you shall pay!" he said furiously through clenched teeth.
Jerry threw a bulb of garlic at the Voivode, momentarily distracting him. It was time enough for Malcolm to retreat to the safety of Rachel and the other piece of consecrated host. He took a cross from the bag and held it in front of him. The three mortals huddled together at the foot of the stairs, hugging each other tightly, shaking with terror and anger and hope.
Van Helsing's body was trembling violently from his massive internal struggle as he held his hands out to Mina and Jonathan, saying, "Pray with me, Madam Mina, friend Jonathan, pray with me. Old friend Jack, Arthur, Quincey Morris, and Quincy, my dear boy Quincy, pray with me, pray with me!" Mina and Jonathan reached out and clasped his hands.
The expression on the Voivode's face was like that of a rabid animal as he looked from the shielded mortals to the rebellious nosferatu. "You will obey me!" he shouted. "You are mine, you are mine, and you will obey me!"
"'Our Father, which art in heaven,'" Van Helsing began. "'Hallowed be Thy name,'" they said in unison.
"Stop this!" the Voivode screamed furiously.
"'Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven . . .'"
The Voivode grabbed Mina Harker's arm and pulled her away from Van Helsing. "You are mine! You will obey me!"
"'Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us . . .'"
"You cannot do this!" Vlad Dracula screamed. "You cannot pray, you cannot remember your old lives, you cannot! You are nosferatu, you are nosferatu!"
"'And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil' . . . but deliver us from evil . . . but deliver us from evil . . . !"
They repeated the phrase over and over again in their frenzied, angry voices, a mad litany chanted by undead tongues. They moved slowly forward and began to surround the Voivode.
"But deliver us from evil . . . !" said Jonathan Harker and John Stewart as they grabbed him by the arms and held him in a grip as inhumanly powerful as his own.
"But deliver us from evil . . . !" said Abraham Van Helsing as he took hold of the wooden chair near the wall and tore off me of the narrow legs. "But deliver us from evil . . . !" he said gain and again as he took the jagged piece of wood in both hands and began to approach the Impaler.
"No! Stop!" the Voivode shouted. "I command you!"
Their strength was his strength, their power was his power. He could take whatever form he wished, and they could assume the same shape and pursue him. He could become a mist pursued by mist, a bat attacked by bats, a wolf ravaged by wolves. He was trapped, a general facing a revolt of his own
troops, a king confronting his own revolutionary subjects.
"But deliver us from evil . . . !" they cried as Van Helsing raised the stake above his head. "But deliver us from evil . . . but deliver us from evil . . . BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL . . . !"
"Ordogh!" the Voivode screamed. "Ordogh! Ordogh!"
"BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL . . . !"
"NO!" he screamed. "NO! NO!"
"BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL . . . BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL . . . !"
Van Helsing summoned every bit of his inhuman strength, and, a cry of rage bursting from his undead lips, he thrust the stake deep into the monster's heart.
The Voivode shrieked and fell to the floor as a jet of blue-black blood burst from his chest. He grabbed hold of the stake and tried to pull it out, but Quincey Morris grabbed one hand and Quincy Harker grabbed the other, and they held him fast as the unholy liquid poured out of him in a torrential flood.
"NO!" he screamed again. "NO! ORDOGH! ORDOGH!"
The room was suddenly filled with a blinding white light which burst outward from the tip of the stake as a freezing whirlwind whipped suddenly through the room and the shrieks of the Voivode grew deafening and echoed madly against the walls. A swirling cloud of red smoke coalesced above the glowing stake, and the screaming vampire arched his back as his dark soul was sucked up into the cloud, through the breech in the barrier between time and eternity. The cold wind blasted the faces of the onlookers, and as the agonized screams themselves grew agonizing in their intensity, the mortals shut their eyes against the light and covered their ears against the piercing sound.
And then there was a startling stillness and a sudden darkness in the quiet basement.
He was gone.
The stake lay on the floor amid a long pile of dust, and the vampires looked down at it, suddenly silent in their victory. Van Helsing shattered the silence by crying, "Free! We are free!" And then he began to decompose.
The three mortals watched in mute fascination as the undead flesh began to harden and crack and from the vampires' bodies in large, thick flakes. The creatures screamed in pain, but mingled with their screams were cries of joy as eye sockets grew empty and teeth were bared in fleshless skulls, as bony fingers trembled and naked ribs quivered from the dissolution. In the blinking of an eye, six skeletons stood before them; and then the rotten bones collapsed to the floor with a clattering crash, and the air of the basement was filled with floating wisps of dust.
Quincy Harker's face was growing dark and liquidy, and chunks of rotten flesh broke free and fell off, landing with loud, wet splatters as he tried to smile at his grandchildren. Then he pitched forward onto his face and like Holly Larsen, began to emit noxious gases as his body, dead these three months, began to putrify.
As with one motion, Malcolm, Rachel, and Jerry sat down heavily on the stairs and surveyed the scene before them. Against one wall was Daniel Rowland's dead, mutilated body. The rotting corpses of Holly and old Quincy lay in the center of the room.
And everywhere else was only dust and bone.
EPILOGUE
The cold November wind whipped about his feet, blowing brown leaves against the gravestone. He had brought no flowers, for he remembered that she had never really cared for them. He looked up at the gray sky and then back down to the marble stone. "I'm sorry, Holly," he sighed, shaking his head sadly. "I'm so sorry."
"Mal?" Jerry Herman said softly, kindly, from a few feet away. "Let's go, okay? It's a long drive back."
"Yeah, okay." He turned from Holly Larsen's grave and followed Jerry back to the car parked on the cemetery road.
He had only been out of bed for a few days, and he was still too shaky to drive, so he got into the front seat beside Rachel as she started the engine. Jerry got into the back and closed the door. "Mal, you feeling all right?"
"I'm okay, Jerry," Malcolm said quietly.
"It's over, Malcolm," his sister said. "We all have to put it behind us and go on with our lives."
Malcolm glanced back at the grave as the car pulled away from the roadside. "Those of us who still have lives,"
"She's at rest, Malcolm." Rachel's voice was gentle and comforting. "They're all at rest now."
He nodded a dismissive agreement, then fell silent.
They had driven up to the little town of Skaneateles, New York, for the sole purpose of visiting Holly's grave. It had taken them six hours to drive up and would take another six to drive back, and only Malcolm's insistence had impelled Rachel to agree to the journey. Jerry was taking turns with her in the driving, but it was still a long trip, and to Rachel and Jerry, an unnecessary one.
But though they did not relish the long drive, they understood why Malcolm wanted to go, and so they had driven him up and were driving him back. He felt responsible for everything that had happened. Logically, he and they knew that the responsibility lay elsewhere; but when feelings and logic collide, logic rarely emerges victorious.
"They don't believe us, you know," Malcolm muttered.
"Hmm?" Rachel responded. "Who doesn't believe us?"
"The police. De La Vega and the other detectives. They think we lied to them."
Rachel laughed grimly. "We did lie to them. We had to lie to them. If we'd told them the truth, we'd all have ended up in padded cells." She immediately regretted her thoughtless comment, for Malcolm's collapse from nervous exhaustion, while not quite a breakdown, had been close enough to make Rachel feel she should choose her words carefully. "Malcolm . . ." she began.
"Take it easy, Sis. I know what you meant." He smiled sadly. "I feel a little silly about it myself."
"Well, you shouldn't, you know," Jerry said. "With everything that happened and everything we went through, it's surprising we didn't all flip out."
"You didn't, though," Malcolm said, "neither of you. Just me."
"Yeah, well, Rachel's too strong and I'm too simple." Jerry smiled, and Rachel and Malcolm laughed. Then they fell silent again.
They were passing the Albany exit on the New York State Thruway when Malcolm said, "They're probably going to watch us, keep an eye on us."
"Who is?" Rachel asked.
"The cops. They think we killed Daniel and Holly and Father Henley. They think we robbed all those graves."
"Let them think whatever they want to think," Rachel id. "They can't disprove that cock-and-bull story you two me up with about a Satanist cult. Daniel, Miss Larsen, and Father Henley are just three more open cases to them, and they can't prove we did anything." She paused. "Which we didn't. And as for those coffins, all three of us can prove where we were when the graves were robbed. So let them watch us all they want." She rubbed her eyes. "Besides, Grandfather's grave wasn't even really robbed. There was an empty coffin in it when they dug it up. As far as they know, the funeral home was at fault."
Malcolm listened and then asked gently, "Do you miss him?"
"Grandfather? Of course I do."
"No, Daniel."
She did not reply at first. Then she said, "Sometimes. Not often."
"He was a victim, too, you know."
"He wasn't a victim when he walked out on me," Rachel said. "When I told him our family history and what we were facing, he should have been supportive. He wasn't. He should have wanted to help. He didn't."
"I guess he was no Van Helsing," Jerry said.
Rachel harrumphed. "He wasn't even much of a Renfield. At least that poor lunatic rebelled when Mina was endangered." They were silent again for a while, and then Rachel said, "Malcolm, you're still young and you're still healthy, and the curse has been lifted from us all. You should marry, become a father. Not soon, of course. I know that wounds heal slowly, but—"
"No," Malcolm interrupted. "Marry, maybe, someday. But kids?" He shook his head. "Never."
"There's no reason why you shouldn't," Rachel said "The power of the blood has been broken. There isn't any danger anymore."
Malcolm's laugh was humorless and grim. "We don't know that, Sis."
&n
bsp; Rachel glanced at him. "Of course we do. We saw what happened when the Count was killed."
"Sure, Mal," Jerry said. "No more Dracula, no more vampires, no more curse. He dies, and the blood become nothing but blood."
Malcolm shook his head and repeated, "We don't know that. Sure, we know what we saw. We know that he's dead, really dead this time. A wooden stake is foolproof. But beyond that, we aren't sure of anything. We may still have the . . . the infection in our systems, and if we do, I'm sure as hell not going to pass it on to anyone else."
"Malcolm, you're being silly," Rachel insisted.
"Maybe I am," he conceded, "but I'm not taking any chances. Think about it. How do we know that the other vampires disintegrated just because Van Helsing killed the Count? I told you about the demon in my visions, the one who made the pact with Dracula. Maybe he destroyed them just to throw us off our guard. Don't forget, Dracula's dust was swept up along with all the others, and it's all in an evidence locker in some police warehouse somewhere. Maybe the demon is waiting for us to die so he can try this all over again. Maybe there's someone else somewhere who has the Count's blood in his system. Maybe—"
"Maybe you should get a dictionary and look up the word 'paranoia,'" Jerry suggested. "Sure, the cops swept his dust up with all the other dust, and it's all mixed up together. How could anyone tell what's left of Dracula from what's left of Van Helsing and all the others?"
"It isn't normal dust," Malcolm countered. "Remember, it didn't blow away in the wind a hundred years ago on that road in Transylvania, but it should have if it were just ordinary remains. Why should we assume that the demon can't separate Dracula's dust from everyone else's when and if he wants to?"
"Malcolm," Rachel said gently, "I know you've been through a lot. We all have."
"No shit," Jerry muttered.
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