by J. S. Barnes
We are none of us immune to this dreadful effect. Poor Quincey, for reasons about which I should prefer not to speculate, seems to me the most grievously affected. He has not been well, I gather, in recent days. There have been attacks – fits – of some unspecified sort. He seems to be maintaining his equilibrium only by a massive effort of will, as though he is engaged in some secret battle for his own sanity.
But this is unnecessary detail. I must face the truth. No longer can I try to evade reality simply by a process of compartmentalisation, placing all disagreeable facts and suspicions into ordered lines rather than face their ramifications. Why have I not learned this lesson yet? Surely the course of a human life ought to demonstrate development? Yet have I made the same mistakes my whole existence, replicating in ravaged middle age the same errors that I committed as a very young man.
Enough now. This is how the tragedy unfolded.
* * *
We dined together in a small inn by the river. It was a council of war. We made plans for a stealthy approach to London, after which we were to inveigle ourselves into the metropolis individually and unseen, aiming to penetrate the White Tower in which, according to the press, the Count had made his stronghold. We planned to travel in the hours after sunrise, when the powers of evil are at their weakest.
These schemes seemed to me sensible, practicable and well-considered.
All have now been rendered obsolete.
Still, we allowed ourselves in that repast the possibility of hope. Wine was drunk. Quincey took a small glass and the liquor loosened his father’s tongue, just a little.
‘I think,’ Jonathan confided, ‘that Mina must have been taken to London too. There was ever a connection between the Count and her. As to its specifics, I do not permit myself to think. She will, I’m quite certain, have formed a cornerstone of his revenge.’ As he spoke, his face was white and drawn in a mask of determination. I noted also that he took pains to drink no more than one glass and to refuse all offers of replenishment. Something in him has shifted for the good, at least, though it is surely scarce worth the cost.
Dickerson was, according to his nature, more eager than the rest of us to hasten to the city. He feels a certain guilt, I think, that he missed the slow corruption of his superior, the late Mr Quire. Ruby, however, seems most able to calm and to soothe our fiery American friend. She provides a welcome note of grace and reason to our band.
She spoke with wisdom and pride for some minutes, giving us a kind of impromptu homily as to the necessity and urgency of our work and of that divine advocacy which she believed to be at the back of us. After she had finished, she said: ‘Close by, gentlemen, is God’s house. And so I suggest that we pray together there for the strength and wisdom which we shall surely need in the battle which lies ahead.’
We all agreed with these sentiments.
‘A fine suggestion,’ said Lord Arthur, speaking, without thought, for the whole party. At his words, the rest of us nodded and murmured our assent.
‘Then let us leave,’ said Ruby. She rose from her seat and we all followed suit. Godalming settled the bill and we filed together from the tavern. There was a valedictory air to our procession, almost as though we knew even then that things were closer to their conclusion than we had thought.
We walked in silence to the cathedral, through streets that seemed at once to be both deserted and observant. We saw ahead of us the welcoming glow from within the temple – candlelight filtered through stained glass, identifiable at once as uncomplicatedly beautiful, even to one such as I who possess but a scientific gaze.
As we came close to the great door of the place, I found myself at the tail of our group. Jonathan, the girl, the nobleman and the American strode ahead, each purposeful in his or her differing manner, while I hung back with young Quincey.
‘You must be strong,’ said I to the lad. ‘Your father has survived a great ordeal. And I have seen at first hand the remarkable resilience of your mother. You shall all be reunited. Of that I have no doubt.’
At this, the young man gave me a melancholy smile. How much older he seemed at that moment than his true age! A world away from the boy who, only last year, played as happily as an infant with that poor kitten. How difficult and strenuous is the process of growing up.
At that moment, we reached the threshold of God’s house. There being no sign of any other worshippers, the others went inside. At the instant that they did so, however, the Harker youth touched me on the shoulder.
‘You go on, Jack,’ he said. ‘I find that I don’t feel altogether well.’
‘Oh, but that’s to be expected. You are tired and you are anxious. Perhaps dear Ruby is right and a spell in the cathedral will soothe you in that regard.’
‘I just need a good night’s sleep.’
‘Come now. Just a few words of prayer.’
‘No,’ he said, more firmly than seemed necessary. ‘No. You go on. I shall see you soon enough.’
‘Back at the boarding house?’
He bowed his head. He would not meet my eyes. I wonder now – was he trying to tell me? Was he trying to warn me of what was even then fast approaching?
‘Thank you, Jack,’ he said. ‘For everything you’ve done. You’ve done your bit, you know. You’ve more than played your part.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Without your actions, the infestation at Wildfold, begun by poor Mr Parlow, would by now have spread halfway across the county… like some raging virus.’
‘I only did what many others would have done.’
‘And… more than that.’ He smiled weakly. ‘All through my life you’ve offered me a kind of alternative model. A different way to be – quite at right angles to my parents.’
‘Quincey,’ I said, ‘you’re speaking really rather strangely. Are you sure it’s only tiredness and this headache? I’d hate to think that you’d picked up some fever at sea. Or that, weakened by fatigue, you were sickening for something.’
‘It will pass. I am sure of that. Give my apologies to the others, won’t you? Most especially to my father.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ He nodded, his every gesture now freighted with weariness. ‘Good night, Jack.’
‘Good night.’
He turned, and was swallowed up by darkness. I went on, into the light, little knowing that we were but minutes from disaster.
FROM THE PRIVATE JOURNAL OF MAURICE HALLAM
12 February. * Later. Not long now. I am expecting soon the arrival of two visitors: Ileana and that poor, sacrificial boy.
Naturally, my thoughts have been engaged by the nature of my orders, of those terrible things which it seems that I must do in order to prepare the child for the Rite of Strigoi. I have grappled with my conscience, or at least with what remains of that withered thing. My choice is, at least upon its surface, a simple one: whether to obey the horrible commands of my master or to defy him and so confirm my own extinction.
As I sat and pondered these things, not more than a few moments ago, I closed my eyes and steepled my hands together. I suppose that I drifted into something almost like prayer, a thing that I have not dared attempt for more than twenty years. I think that in the silence I reached out and called, silently, for help.
Unexpectedly, an answer came. From the shadows at the corner of the room, I heard the whisper of a voice, one that I have not heard in its true form for too long.
It was that of Gabriel Shone.
Shone, not as he was after his corruption, not after we entered the gates of that foul castle, but before, in Brasov, when he was still unsullied.
He spoke three sentences as I sat with eyes shut and head bowed.
‘Fight, Maurice. You must fight now as I did not. Capitulation, you have my word, shall lead you only to hellfire.’
I opened my eyes and turned towards the sound of the voice, hoping with great desperation that he might still be there, in however transitory a form, shimmering and spectr
al.
Yet was there nothing to be seen but shadows. As, I think, was always to have been my destiny, I am now left alone to make my choice.
DR SEWARD’S DIARY
(kept by hand)
12 February. * Continued. Five of us kneeled at the head of the cathedral nave, before its altar, pledging ourselves, body and soul, to the fight against the Count and imploring our Creator to assist us in that noble endeavour.
Ruby’s gracious, confident voice led us in our prayers.
‘Merciful Lord,’ she intoned. ‘We who lay ourselves before you as humble sinners ask now for your guidance and your wisdom in that task which lies ahead of us. The chief agent of the Adversary, of him whom you cast down from the heavens, has been returned to the world of men. The evil-doer, that commander of the legions of the damned, sits at the centre of our earthly empire, seeking, we believe, to rule absolutely over us, and to institute in the name of his satanic master a new dark age. Give us we pray all hope and sustenance as we strive to defeat him. And if our lives be lost in the enterprise, please gather our souls to your side.’
She paused, as if she were surprised at being caught up in the emotion of the moment. ‘Amen,’ she murmured.
We all said the word, Jonathan, Arthur, George Dickerson and me. ‘Amen.’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ Ruby admitted, ‘where all that came from.’
‘The words were fine,’ said the American.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and smiled dazzlingly.
None of us moved but all sat in quiet reflection, contemplating the enormity of the task before us. Then we heard, quite clearly, from somewhere not far from the cathedral, something like a scream, composed in equal parts of terror and grotesque delight.
‘What was that?’ Lord Arthur asked, already rising to his feet.
‘Come on,’ said Dickerson. ‘No time to wonder.’
He ran, without saying more, down the nave and towards the door. I followed, with Jonathan, Godalming and the girl at my heels. As we did so, it came again, that weird, haunting sound, this time accompanied by something else: a dreadful strangulated noise of exertion, like foxes in the night.
* * *
In the end, it was the policeman who led us to them. We found them in the cloisters, standing together in the shadows. So swiftly did events unfurl that I caught only glimpses – mere dreadful glimpses – of the whole scene.
Quincey Harker was standing beside a stone wall. Behind him stood a woman – or, rather, not quite a woman. She was, or had been, very beautiful – that much was clear – but she was monstrous also, for when we interrupted she was (I have come to believe) half-transformed into something like a gigantic black bat.
‘Quincey!’ I shouted. ‘Get away from that thing!’
One taloned hand was upon the boy’s shoulder, yet he did not seem to be struggling or trying to escape. Rather he accepted that proprietorial claw as though it were proper and just.
‘Son!’ Jonathan called out. ‘Come to me. Run away.’
‘No,’ said Quincey in a small, determined voice. ‘This is what has to happen. Ileana has come. She has to bring me to my… other father.’
Poor Jonathan went quite white at this. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘No. No.’
Quincey said more: ‘I must be prepared. You see? For the hour before the dawn, when the Rite of Strigoi will be performed.’
‘Get away.’ This was the policeman. The girl, at his side, was murmuring some prayer or incantation.
‘Get away,’ said Dickerson again to the woman whom Quincey had called Ileana, ‘you foul abomination. Get away from the goddamn boy!’
She called out in response – the same strange keening cry that we had heard from within. It was caused, I realised then, by pain as much as by exultation: the agony, I supposed, of constant transformation. Her form shuddered, shifting now ever closer to the bat.
Jonathan could only look on – pale and afraid.
It was our American ally who leapt forward, towards the boy, as the vampire writhed behind him. He meant, I suppose, to drag Quincey free of her grasp. As matters turned out, he did not even reach him.
‘Stay where you are,’ young Harker said. ‘You cannot stand in the way of destiny. Do you not remember? When Van Helsing fell? His last words to me? I am to be the vessel.’ As he spoke, I saw that something glinted in the darkness – a revolver, filched, no doubt, from our arsenal.
‘He’s armed!’ I called out, but it was too late.
‘Come here,’ said the American. ‘Come to me!’
‘Please,’ said the boy. ‘I beg you, come no further.’
‘You have to step away from that creature,’ the American cried. ‘Right now!’
The vampire-woman was now almost entirely bat – a vast, monstrous, freakish sight.
‘I’m sorry,’ Quincey said. He pulled the trigger on the revolver in his hand. The sound of the detonation was brutal in that holy place.
The policeman stopped, as if hesitating, then fell with a horrid slump towards the ground. Within seconds, Ruby was with him, on her knees at his side. He was bleeding. I could see that even in the gloom. She placed her hands on his chest, in an effort to stop the flow.
With a shriek, the gigantic bat soared into the sky. There was clasped in her hands the slender figure of Quincey Harker. As in some fantastic nightmare, they rushed into the distance. It sounds absurd set down, but that truly is what happened.
‘Look at me.’ This was Ruby to the former sub-divisional inspector. ‘George, look at me. Please. Please. Keep looking into my eyes.’
Still the blood poured from him. Surely his life hung in the balance.
Another noise came then, as we gathered about that courageous man – a single sob of absolute hopelessness and despair. At the sound of it, I turned to see tears coursing down the grizzled cheeks of my old friend, Jonathan Harker.
‘We have to go then,’ he said. ‘You heard my son. He spoke of the hour before the dawn. The Rite of Strigoi. We have scarcely any time. We have to race against the night.’
The American tried to speak, a horrible gurgling struggle. ‘Go,’ he said at last. ‘Get the boy back. Stop them before the dawn.’ He took a breath then forced himself to go on. ‘And, once and for all, kill that vampire bastard.’
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
12 February. My worst imaginings have come to pass and all that I can do is to bear witness to them.
If only I had listened sooner. If only I had dared to understand. If only I had been more courageous.
I watched helplessly as my son was taken from us by a creature whom I recognised as being a vampire of the oldest sort – a Transylvanian hellion like those brides I once met beneath the castle of the Count. The American policeman, Dickerson, lay helpless upon the ground and it was thanks only to the diligence and expertise of the young woman, Ruby Parlow, that the bleeding in him was eventually staunched.
As to whether that gentleman still lives, I know not. When last I saw him, he was still breathing, although every inhalation sounded painful and perilous. The lady, by his side, bade us fly and blessed us as we went.
‘He would not wish you to stay! Go, gentlemen. Hunt the creature down. Rescue the child!’
So we ran, we three – Godalming, Seward and I – away from the bloody scene at the cathedral and into the road beyond.
Already I was panting with exertion, pushed by events almost beyond endurance and desperate now to save my son at any cost. Our mood was both grim and frantic.
‘We have to get to London!’ I cried, as crazed and unmanned as, I dare say, any father has ever been.
The road was empty and dark. Indeed, the whole of the town seemed abed and slumbering. There was no sign of life. If beings of a different order patrolled the night, then we saw no sign of them.
‘How?’ I cried. ‘How are we to get there?’
It was Arthur, our natural leader, who opened his mouth to speak. Quite what even his money and influ
ence might have achieved in such a situation, I cannot say.
Whatever the nobleman’s suggestion may have been, however, I never learned it, for at that instant two lights emerged from the blackness and we heard the leonine roar of an engine. We watched as it slid forward – a great, high four-seater thing, gleaming brass and chrome. A single figure sat behind the wheel, burly in aspect, goggled and dressed in all the apparel of the motor-car enthusiast.
It seemed at first like salvation. I raised an arm.
‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop!’
The vehicle rolled on. The driver bent his head as if in concentration and gave not the slightest indication of slowing his speed. He had surely seen us three, yet he appeared determined to ignore us.
Panic to a still greater degree gripped me at the thought that the fellow might not stop. In the end, it was Seward who thought the fastest and who flung himself in front of the approaching automobile.
With a shrill whinnying of brakes the car came to a grudging halt. The driver called out: ‘Clear the way. Clear the way, I say!’
There was a touch of Scots to his voice. An educated Edinburgh tone. He tore off his goggles. ‘I said, clear the way!’
Seward stood his ground, even lifting his chin a little in order to suggest pugnacity. ‘I am very sorry, sir, but I cannot do as you request.’
The man snarled. ‘What are you talking about? What is the meaning of this?’
I stepped forward and hurried to the alienist’s side. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry, but we need to get to London.’
‘Are there no trains, sir?’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘My boy has been taken. He’s been kidnapped! And something terrible will happen to him if we don’t reach the capital by dawn.’
At this, the fellow behind the wheel looked, one might say forgivably, sceptical. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘You men must be drunk. Or worse. The whole thing sounds to me like a melodrama from the popular stage.’
Arthur joined us then. All three of us stood in the path of the motor car. His voice cleaved the sound of the engine. ‘It is the Count, sir.’ His words rang out. ‘The same man who has taken control of the apparatus of our state has taken my friend’s boy. And we mean to get them back. First the boy and then the nation. Indeed, I believe the two to be connected.’
