The Infernal Express

by Josh Reynolds

  Ange shrugged. “It was six actually, but who’s counting?”

  Jean leaned forward. “We are here to deliver a message.”

  “And if I choose not to hear it?” Wolkenstein asked.

  “Then may God have mercy on your soul, for your body will belong to the Devil,” Ange said, smiling thinly.

  “Then say on,” Wolkenstein said, with a gesture.

  “You have had your fun, but the game is done. We will brook no interference in this matter, not from you or any mortal,” Ange said, almost apologetically. “Dracula is ours, in death as he was in life.”

  “I doubt he would agree,” Wolkenstein said.

  “Ash has little say in which hand stirs it,” Jean said. “The voivode was consumed by his own hubris, and the world has passed him by. Best to leave him to history, eh?”

  Wolkenstein pushed himself to his feet. Neither vampire moved. He was no threat to them, and they knew it. He felt no anger at the thought. He was too old for such wasteful emotions. The brothers Ténèbre were faster and stronger, but like of many their kind afflicted with a child’s naiveté. He lifted his ancestral sword, in its black sheath.

  “This sword was forged in the Harz Mountains, in a black cave, at the direction of him whom I serve,” Wolkenstein said, as he sighted down its length. “My family has carried it into battle since that time, and always in his name.” He drew the blade carefully from its crumbling sheath. “Never to be drawn, save in his service. Do you take my meaning?”

  Ange cocked his head. “I believe so, yes.” He patted his brother’s shoulder. Jean uncoiled from his seat. The tall vampire smiled widely.

  Wolkenstein extended his blade. “Come, Chevalier Ténèbre. Show me those infamous skills, which you so gallantly put to the Hunyadi’s use.”

  Jean snarled and tore his sabre from its sheath. He flowed towards Wolkenstein like a plume of smoke, and their blades connected with a screech of steel. The vampire was strong, but swordplay was about more than strength. Wolkenstein stumbled back, against the desk, and twisted, throwing his opponent off balance. Jean slammed into the desk face-first, and Wolkenstein heaved himself towards Ange. The little vampire faded into nothing as his sword hammered down, chopping into the floorboards. Thin fingers scraped his face as Ange reappeared behind him.

  Wolkenstein lurched forward and spun, swinging his blade out. Ange vanished again, as the sword cut through the space his head had occupied. Wolkenstein, lungs heaving, flung himself to the floor, leaving his sword standing upright in the floor as Jean hurled the desk across the room, narrowly missing him. The desk struck the far wall and crashed to the floor, even as the door slammed open. Knights of the Order flooded into the room, some carrying rifles, others wielding more archaic weaponry.

  Ange caught his brother’s arm, as the elder Ténèbre lunged for the Knights. The little vampire pointed at Wolkenstein. “A most invigorating debate, Grand Master. But in the end, it matters little. Even now, the bones of Dracula are within our grasp, and soon he and all his works shall be swept from the board.”

  Before Wolkenstein could reply, the two vampires were gone. One of his men helped him to stand. “Are you hurt, Grand Master?” one asked.

  “No,” Wolkenstein grunted. They had threatened him in his own home. That meant that they were frightened. They feared that the Order would succeed. He tore his sword free of the floor and held it up to the light.

  “What now, Grand Master?” a knight asked.

  “We mount up,” Wolkenstein said. “It is time that they remembered why they fear us.” He ran his thumb along the blade, flicking away splinters. “It is time to raise our standards and unleash the great dragon once more.” He looked at his men. “If the dead want a war, then we will give them a war.”

  13.

  St. Cyprian was in the forest of stakes again. The forest of the dead. Jutting temples of pain, spearing upwards through a rain of blood and excrement. Red waters lapped at his waist, and he clung to the rough wood, trying to keep from being dragged down. Splinters bristled from his hands as he clawed wildly, trying to keep his balance. The stakes shuddered suddenly, as if beneath a great weight. He looked up.

  Something watched him from far above, a behemoth shadow, perched on a platform of bodies. St. Cyprian couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The shadow began to move, crawling down towards him, its girth making the stake sink lower into the water. It eyed him with lamp-like eyes, a red glow passing over him. Then, it spoke…

  “Oi! Wake up!”

  He started awake, hand immediately flying to his pistol. A hand caught his wrist. Gallowglass glared down at him. “We left Vienna a little while ago,” she said. She released him and stepped back. “Budapest is coming up in a few hours. You look bloody awful.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate your candor,” he groaned. “Vienna, you say?” He scrubbed at his face, trying to wake up. He felt feverish, as if he were coming down with something. And we know what that something is, don’t we? He looked at his hand. It hurt, but no worse than before. If anything, he was becoming used to it.

  “You’ve been sleeping a lot,” Gallowglass said.

  “Have I?”

  “Let me see your hand.” He held out his hand and she caught it. He winced as she probed the wound. “You pulled it open again.”

  “I’m beginning to think Harker’s right,” he said, as she applied Andre’s salve. “I feel rather like a dog who’s eaten bad meat.”

  “You look it,” Gallowglass said, as she re-wrapped his hand.

  “As you’ve said, thank you,” he snapped and snatched his hand back.

  She stuck her tongue out. “Tetchy, tetchy,” she said. Then, “We should move it.”

  He nodded wearily. At the moment, the valise containing Dracula’s remains was hidden amongst their effects, but such a hiding place wouldn’t hold up to a concentrated rifle-through. Their compartment had been searched several times since they’d boarded in Paris, at least once by Harker herself. It was only a matter of time until one of their shadows found it. “Yes, we should. Let me clean up a bit, and we’ll think on it a bit.” He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled towards the en suite bathroom.

  It was little more than a well-upholstered closet, with a loo and a basin of Italian marble, and a small shaving mirror. A jug of water sat atop a small upright tray, and he poured a little into the basin, after putting the stopper in. He splashed the tepid water onto his face and neck, rubbing at the grime he knew was there. He was suddenly glad he’d thought to bring an assortment of colognes.

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as he towelled off his face and started as something with eyes like lamps and teeth like razors stared back at him. He fell back, against the door, heart thudding. It had not been his face. It had not been a human face at all, he thought. His hand spasmed and he clutched it to his chest. It felt swollen and hot. He tugged at the bandages, but didn’t take them off.

  “She’s right. You’re in there, aren’t you?” he murmured, staring at his reflection. “You cheeky sod, I as good as invited you in, didn’t I?” He clenched his hand, and winced. “Stupid bloody fool. Andre warned me, but I had to know, didn’t I?”

  St. Cyprian heard something, as quiet as the whisper of a bat’s wings. It might have been laughter, or simply one of the myriad noises a moving train gave off. Either way, his heart sped up, painfully, and his arm began to ache, as if slivers of iron had been inserted beneath his fingernails. He sank down the wall, eyes closed. The floor was cold, beneath him. No, he realized, as he put his hand down, not the floor.

  Snow.

  Snow on the ground. A woman in white, in her arms a child. She looked up at St. Cyprian, her pale face splattered with red. She had Harker’s face. Then, she was gone. In her place, horses crashed against each other beneath a bastion of dark-trunked trees. Turks pressed against Hungarians? Romanians? He couldn’t tell.

  Through them, sword flickering through Turkish necks, came the man. He w
as bull-necked, with long mustaches, his mouth open wide in a silent howl. His teeth were like spear points as he lifted a dragoman off of his horse and hurled him to the ground. Red eyes found St. Cyprian’s own and he flinched away, unable to bear the malignancy of that gaze.

  A sword point caught his chin and lifted his face. He looked up, into the flushed face of the red-eyed man. Only it wasn’t a man looking at him but the hideous, snouted face of a bat. It hissed at him, and the fear was replaced by something else.

  “I know you,” he said. Silence greeted him. Only the gentle slap of blood against floating flesh broke it. “I know you and I am not afraid.” He forced the words out, fighting the urge to scream as the stink of carrion filled his nose. It was worse than the trenches.

  Then, a voice like rusty razors scraping stone. “Oh, but you are. As the ape hunkered by the fire, you fear me, as you fear the kings of the north, the south, the east and the west. You fear me.” The words came at him from every direction. “You know me. My name means terror. It means death. You know me, boy, and I know you…”

  St. Cyprian clapped his hands to his ears and suddenly he was down beneath the blood and falling deeper and deeper, pulled down by impossibly strong hands. He clawed at the liquid, trying to pull himself to the surface, but whatever had him was too strong. He sank faster and faster, descending towards two great crimson lights that rose from the depths.

  When he saw the face behind those lights—no, those eyes—he screamed. Blood poured into his throat and he was drowning even as he screamed and screamed and then, the bathroom door was being kicked open and Gallowglass was shaking him. Breathing heavily, he pushed her away. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine. Just had a moment, is all. Just a bad moment.”

  “More than that,” Gallowglass said, as she hauled him to his feet. “Cor, you’ve sweated clean through your shirt.” She grabbed his hand, as if to check that her earlier work hadn’t been in vain. “What is this? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I told you—he is infected,” Harker said, from the door of the compartment. “He woke the Devil, and welcomed him in. And now he pays the price.”

  Gallowglass turned. “Oi! Shut it, dora.”

  “I am getting tired of your insults,” Harker hissed. She took a step forward, and Gallowglass’ hand darted into her pocket. St. Cyprian caught her elbow and pulled her back a half-step, before she could produce her balisong.

  “And I’m just plain tired, so be a dear and bugger off. Go see if you can ferret out just how many hired killers have gotten on this blasted train,” he said. Harker stared at him, and he wondered if she were seeing him or the thing she thought was coiled inside him. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent snarl and she turned away, slamming the compartment door behind her.

  “Should have let me puncture her ego a bit,” Gallowglass said, pulling her elbow from his grip. He shook his head.

  “We have enough enemies as it is. I’d rather keep her on side, if at all possible. We may have to work with Godalming and his people at some point in the future, and I’d like to keep relations friendly, what?”

  “Fine, I’ll play nice, but I ain’t sharing a coach with her on the way back,” Gallowglass said. “Let her take another train.”

  “Fine,” St. Cyprian said. He pulled on his coat and gestured to the door. “For now, let’s concentrate on hiding these bones, eh?”

  They settled on the second baggage coach. It was the closest to their cabin, and no one would think twice about seeing them coming and going. Or, that was the theory at any rate. “They’ve all been through here twice already,” Gallowglass said confidently, as she led him through the stacks of luggage and mail crates.

  “Like our compartment,” St. Cyprian said. “I can tell someone’s been fingering my cravats, and smudging my spare cufflinks.” He held the valise in his uninjured hand.

  “Better the cufflinks than your skull,” Gallowglass said. “Think it was those Drachenorden twats?”

  “It could be anyone. I’ve spotted at least two known English anarchists, three Serbian revolutionaries and one rotund Belgian who’s either a thief or a detective, or both,” St. Cyprian said, wincing as he jostled his hand against a heavy wooden crate. He stopped and flexed his hand, trying to work out the soreness. He looked around. “I say, would you look at that,” he said, and started across the coach, towards a long, low, silver shape.

  Gallowglass hurried after him. “What? The motorcar?”

  “Not just any motorcar. It’s a Templar Roadster,” St. Cyprian murmured, running his hands over the silver car’s smooth curves enviously. “1918, I think. Probably a four-cylinder engine, three speed transmission. Bloody beautiful car.”

  “Looks small,” Gallowglass said. “It got put on at Vienna. Rolled it right up the ramp.” She sniffed. “Only took three men, so you know it’s light.”

  “Aerodynamic,” St. Cyprian countered. He straightened with a sigh. “If I knew who owned it, I’d offer to buy it. Then, they’d refuse to sell. I know I would.” He shook his head and looked at Gallowglass. “Right, let’s get this done, while our Miss Harker is otherwise occupied.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Gallowglass said dubiously.

  “Not even remotely, but given that we are adrift in what is rapidly coming to resemble a sea of skulduggery, I feel it is for the best.” He gestured to the stacks of luggage. “We’ll take it out of the valise, and then hide that in our berth. Keep them guessing, what?”

  “Keep who guessing?”

  “Them, they, those ones, over there,” he said flippantly. “Find a spot where it’ll be safe, at least temporarily, use those street-born instincts of yours.”

  She gestured to the roadster. “There. We’ll stuff it up into the undercarriage, near the wheel well.” He hesitated, and Gallowglass sighed. “It’s a car, innit? No one really looks at their bits, just the panorama, like.” She made an expansive gesture. She hiked a thumb at the shelves of luggage. “They’ll look in those first, and in the nooks and crannies of the baggage car itself, before they look under the motor car.” She looked at him. “Key to hiding things ain’t to consider if it’ll be found, but how long it’ll take someone to find it.”

  “Plan for success, prepare for failure, eh?” St. Cyprian said, as he opened the valise. His mouth went dry as he took in the leather bag with its strange markings, and the faint bumps and crenulations which denoted the larger chunks of bone. For a brief instant, he thought that they might be moving, like maggots beneath the hide of a dead animal. His stomach squirmed and he closed his eyes. His hand began to throb and he pressed it to his chest, waiting for the pain to pass.

  When he opened his eyes, Gallowglass was watching him carefully. Belatedly, he realized it was concern. He gave a wan smile and flexed his aching fingers. “Nothing to fret about. Just a bit of lurgy. Had worse, I assure you.”

  “Not since I’ve been around,” she said, tersely. She reached into the valise and snatched out the bag. The rattle of its contents sounded like laughter.

  “Well, I did have a life before you showed up,” he said pointedly. “Tidy, neat, and respectable,” he added, after a moment. He rubbed his bandage hand.

  “Oh yeah, you were a regular Mrs. Grundy, you were,” she said, as she scooted up under the roadster and situated the bag of bones. “Tell it to Sweeney, why don’t you?”

  He snapped the valise closed. “I’ll overlook that, if you hide the valise as well. Not too well, but not terribly obvious, if you can.” Gallowglass clambered to her feet and snorted. St. Cyprian snorted. “Yes, yes, do forgive me. You are the master of illicit stowage. I would be lost without you.”

  “Damn straight,” she said, and snatched the valise out of his hands. They returned it to their compartment, and returned it to its hiding place. She looked at him. “Now what?”

  “Dinner, I think,” he said. He fished his pocket-watch out and examined it. “Or lunch, rather. I have been asleep, haven’t I?”
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  “Like the dead,” Gallowglass said. St. Cyprian shivered.

  “Yes, quite.”

  As they made their way to the front of the train, Gallowglass asked, “We going back to London, after?”

  “We don’t have to,” he said. He looked at her. “Where were you thinking?”

  “Rotterdam,” she said.

  “Rotterdam? What’s in Rotterdam?”

  “Flying dog, innit?” she said. “Leastways that’s what that old book of yours says.”

  “What book?”

  “French one.” She reached beneath her cap and scratched her head. “About the whatcha­ma­call­ems…ghouls. Written by that frog. The Comp Deeurlat.”

  “Cultes des Goules,” he said, staring at her. “By the Comte d’Erlette.”

  “That’s the biscuit.”

  “I don’t own a copy of Cultes des Goules. I’ve never even seen a copy.”

  She shrugged. “I read it somewhere, anyway.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “I’d like to see a flying dog, is all.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” he said, as he opened the door to the dining coach. “After you.” Gallowglass stepped past him, and then stopped, with a curse. “What is it?” he asked, leaning over her. “I—oh.”

  The coach was more crowded than it had been. But he had no problems picking out a familiar face. She was dark and just this side of exotic looking, though dressed more regally than he’d last seen her. She was sitting with a well-dressed man at a table, drinking a cup of coffee. “Aife,” he murmured.

  “Got on at Vienna,” Gallowglass murmured. “Didn’t want to say, if I didn’t have to.” She made a face. “Guess I have to. We should go.” She turned and tried to push him back out of the compartment.

  He didn’t move. Aife Andraste, as big as life, laughing quietly as she touched her companion’s arm. He hadn’t seen her since he’d put her on a fast ship for New York, but she hadn’t changed much in the intervening months, if at all. She was as lovely as she had been the day he’d waved goodbye. He turned away abruptly, causing Gallowglass to stumble. “I do believe I’ve lost my appetite. I think I shall go back to our compartment.”