The Infernal Express

by Josh Reynolds

  At his prodding, Harker had at last revealed everything—her encounters with the Order of the Dragon in London, and Ruthven and his coven in Paris, and later, aboard the train. It was obvious that she’d hoped such revelations might make him reconsider his intentions. And they might have, but for the ever-present ache in his hand, and his growing suspicion that they were all caught up in events outside of their control.

  There were too many moving parts in play; too many factors to consider. Dracula was too dangerous to just hand over, whatever Morris and the Ministry wanted. But at the same time, there were precious few options—he couldn’t trust Harker and certainly wasn’t going to hand the bones over to the mysterious Ruthven and his lot. Which meant he had to play for time, until he could figure something out.

  “Remind me to give Morris an earful when we make it back,” he murmured to Gallowglass as they entered the dining coach.

  “If we make it back,” Gallowglass muttered.

  “Charles, Ebe, how lovely, you’re right on time,” Elizabeth said, as St. Cyprian and Gallowglass sat down. Harker didn’t join them, instead sitting a few tables away. She had her own part to play in his plan. “And oh, it’s dear Lucy—no need to skulk, dear. Pull up a chair. No? Suit yourself.” Elizabeth leaned over the table and said, conspiratorially, “Not a fan of mine, our Miss Harker.”

  “No, I’d say not,” St. Cyprian said, smiling. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see the obvious. Elizabeth was like a fire gone cold, with hints of heat buried deep in the ashes. She and Sarah were the creatures he’d glimpsed on the ferry. It disturbed him that they’d been watching him that long. “And with good reason, given her past.”

  Elizabeth paused. “Oh?”

  “Indeed. Bit sensitive about the whole sanguinary lifestyle, what?”

  “Charles dear, what are you implying?”

  “Oh Elizabeth, please. Playing coy isn’t your strong suit.” St. Cyprian knocked on the table. “Now, what is it, exactly, your lot want? The bones, I assume. Miss Harker was understandably tight-lipped.”

  Elizabeth frowned and began to deal the cards. Sarah snarled loudly enough to startle several nearby passengers. She glared at St. Cyprian, and her lips peeled back from long teeth. He met her gaze placidly, and used his forearm to press Gallowglass back into her seat. “Settle down, dear,” Elizabeth said, without looking at her companion. Sarah leaned back, her eyes wide and red. Gallowglass matched her glare for glare.

  Elizabeth looked out the window. “The Carpathian Mountains,” she murmured, as she put down a card. “Beautiful, if a bit rustic for my tastes. We’re near Borgo Pass, if I know my Baedekers.” She looked at St. Cyprian. “I was wondering when you would figure it out. You’re not half so dim as you look, Charles.”

  “I admit, I had a bit of help,” Charles said, as he looked at his cards.

  “And you’ve been distracted,” Elizabeth said.

  “There is that.” He put his cards down. “What do you want?”

  “Dracula. Rather, what’s left of him. Not me personally, you understand, but we all have our masters, don’t we?” Elizabeth said. “We outnumber you two-to-one, and we are all quite nasty.” She sighed. “There is no way out of this, Charles. We are not Bolsheviks or the followers of some esoteric creed—we are the children of the moon, that which flies by night, the eaters of the dead, etcetera and so on. We control this train. You cannot escape us.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He made to elaborate, when the train suddenly juddered on the track, and the shrill, piercing screech of the whistle stretched back through the coach. “The train has stopped,” St. Cyprian said, putting his cards down. Gallowglass frowned.

  “That’s not good, is it?”

  “No, it is not,” he said, looking out the window. The dark forest rose up around the track, dense and impregnable, and the Carpathians stretched far above. He caught glimpses of what might have been movement, and knew that this was no scheduled stop. He looked around the coach. “Where’s Harker?”

  “She stepped out,” Elizabeth said. Seeing his expression, she added, “Sarah went to find her. Oh don’t worry, Charles. I’m sure they’re fine. Now pick up your cards.”

  St. Cyprian looked at the empty seat beside her, realising that he hadn’t heard or seen the other vampire depart. A chill coursed through him. Fast buggers…need to remember that, he thought. “No, I’m in no mood for a game, I’m afraid. I think, rather, that I’m going to go find out why our train has stopped. Unless you object?”

  “She won’t,” Gallowglass said. Her hand rested inside her coat. St. Cyprian didn’t know whether she was faster than a vampire, but if anyone was, it was Gallowglass.

  Elizabeth looked at her. “Stalemate, dear?”

  “Close enough,” Gallowglass said. She jerked her head towards the door. “Go. See what’s up. I’ll watch her.”

  “Right-o,” St. Cyprian said. “Ta, Mrs. Amworth. Be seeing you.”

  “Not if I see you first,” Elizabeth said.

  He started down the aisle, heading for the door, but stopped as it opened and a couple entered, heading right towards him. He recognized Aife Andraste and her companion a half moment before he reached them, and for a moment, he forgot what he’d been planning to do.

  “Charles? Is that you?” Aife said, as he tried to step past them, his face turned away. Almost against his will, he turned.

  “Miss Andraste, what a surprise,” he said, with forced cheerfulness.

  “It is you,” Aife said. “I thought I saw Gallowglass slinking around. What are you doing here?” She caught his arm.

  “Aife, darling, will you not introduce me to your friend?” her companion interjected, before St. Cyprian could reply. He was a big man, broad and dark. Strong hands gripped the lapels of his coat, and a thick moustache occupied his upper lip.

  “This is my…my fiancé, Count Emilio Sforza. Emilio, Charles is a…a dear friend,” Aife said slowly, as if groping for the words.

  “Fiancé? I say that’s—well, that’s quick work,” he said, and immediately regretted it. Aife flinched, but nodded.

  “We met in New York,” she said. “I wrote to you…”

  “Life has been busy of late,” he said. “And in any event, you don’t require my permission to become engaged, what?” Oh you blithering ass, really? Is that the best you can muster, he thought savagely.

  “Indeed! I’m given to understand that I have you to thank for keeping my property safe,” Sforza said. St. Cyprian cocked his head and tried not to look at Andraste as Sforza gestured. “A family heirloom, long out of our keeping, but soon to be returned to its rightful owners, once I come to terms with the current possessor.”

  “The Sforza Pearl,” St. Cyprian said, comprehending at last. Sforza…of course. I was wondering why that name sounded familiar, he thought. He’d wondered who it had finally gone to, after he and Gallowglass had dispatched the Creeping Man. It sounded as if whoever it was wouldn’t have it for long.

  “Quite so,” Sforza said, with a smile. “My representatives in London cabled me in Vienna that a would-be thief had been foiled by the actions of one Charles St. Cyprian. Again, I thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it,” St. Cyprian said. “One does one’s duty, what?”

  “You are very good at it,” Andraste said. He looked at her. Was that a challenge in her eyes, he wondered, or a question. How many letters did you send me, how many postcards? And I never opened a single one, fool that I am.

  Sforza took Andraste’s hand. “It will be an engagement gift, waiting to be delivered when we arrive in London, after our trip.” His smile widened. “Much like the Templar Roadster, back in the baggage car. That is mine as well—a gift from a gentleman of my acquaintance, in New York.” He laughed. “With the train stopped, maybe we will take it for a drive, eh? You can come with us.”

  St. Cyprian looked at Andraste, who looked away. “Ha, well, yes. How delightful. Glad to be of service, what?” He
made to rise. “Well, must dash. Places to go, people to see, you know.”

  “Charles…” Andraste began.

  But he was already moving, heading towards the door. Before he reached it, however, a hand caught his wrist. He turned, and saw the Turkish man he’d noticed loitering in the sleeping car. As he opened his mouth to speak, something hard was jammed into his ribs, and he heard the telltale click of a pistol being cocked. “Mr. St. Cyprian. You look perturbed. Sit,” the man said. St. Cyprian glanced back towards Andraste, but she was looking away, laughing at something Sforza was saying. A surge of anger filled him, and then he was sitting down, across from the other man.

  “I have seen that look in the mirror,” the latter said. “An old flame, rekindled perhaps?” he asked, smiling slightly.

  “Never kindled at all, rather,” St. Cyprian said. He pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket and proffered it. “Gasper, Mr…?”

  “Selim Berker, Mr. St. Cyprian. And thank you,” Selim said, extracting a cigarette and running it beneath his nose. “Unusual tobacco, I must say.”

  “A special blend,” St. Cyprian murmured, taking one himself and putting the case away. He lit a match, and Selim leaned forward with a grateful bob of his head. “I don’t usually share my cigarettes with a man who introduces himself by poking a gun in my side.”

  Selim puffed on his cigarette and shifted uncomfortably. “My superiors sent me to ensure that you reached Istanbul in one piece.”

  “And a fine job you’ve done so far,” St. Cyprian said.

  “We were under the impression that you were competent,” Selim said sharply.

  St. Cyprian clutched his heart. “And have I disappointed you?” he said, with mock-sadness. “I do not think that I could bear it, if I have.”

  Selim grunted and sat back. “What you have done, is given me the opportunity to complete my—our—mission without risk of detection. You will give me the valise, and I will transfer the contents to my bag. You will continue on to Istanbul…”

  “And continue to play stalking horse, eh?” St. Cyprian glanced around, looking for Gallowglass. He saw her across the car, playing cards with Elizabeth. There was no way to signal her without causing a potentially dangerous scene, and even if he had been so inclined, Selim disabused him of that notion quickly.

  “I did not come alone, Mr. St. Cyprian,” he said, his voice pitched low. “We always come in strength, whether our enemies see us or not. The train is stopped. My brothers await me, in the forest. Do not make them come aboard.”

  “I’m not your enemy,” St. Cyprian said, thinking of the movement he’d seen in the trees—Selim’s fellow Janissaries? How many of them were out there?

  “No? On whose side did you fight, when the call to war came?” Selim asked. There was no malice in the question, merely a blunt truth. “I remember the bullet that perforated my hand.” He held up his scarred palm. His fingers straightened and he pointed. “And you…you remember the origin of the wound that sees you favor your leg, when you walk, I think.” The dark eyes met his, and St. Cyprian sat back, nodding reluctantly.

  “Better to say, we do not have to be enemies,” St. Cyprian said.

  “Then give me the valise, and we shall be friends.”

  St. Cyprian scratched his chin. “Well, I suppose I can always use more friends, what?” he said, slowly pushing himself to his feet. “It’s in our compartment. I assume you’ll follow me? Yes? Very well.” He made for the doors, hoping that Gallowglass would notice. Or maybe Harker, if she had returned at last from wherever she had disappeared to. But no such luck. He was on his own.

  Selim followed him back to the compartment. “It’s in there,” St. Cyprian said, gesturing to the door. Selim frowned.

  “Do you think I am a fool?”

  “Depends. Is that gun really loaded?”

  Selim gestured. “You first, Mr. St. Cyprian. I warn you, I will not hesitate to fire if you try anything foolish. I have killed many Englishmen in my time. I was at Gallipoli.”

  “Not me, old boy,” St. Cyprian murmured. “Stuck strictly north of the Alps m’self.” He opened the door to the compartment and stepped inside. Selim stepped into the doorway and waited, pistol held tight to his side. The weapon was hidden from any porters or passengers who happened to walk past, in the corridor.

  St. Cyprian stopped dead as he saw the state of the compartment. Bags had been torn open, and his belongings tossed about. The mattresses had been gutted by knives, and the panels on the walls slit open. He heard a creak of wood, and turned, even as a black-clad shape hurtled out of the private washroom, knife extended. St. Cyprian twisted and caught hold of his attacker’s wrist. He guided the knife back, so that it embedded itself in the doorframe. Selim jerked back, startled, and St. Cyprian turned and shoved his opponent into the Turk. The two men fell in a tangle. They wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  St. Cyprian flung himself towards his bed, hoping that he could draw his Webley before one or the other recovered. It was a vain hope. He heard the thump of feet behind him and caught up a pillow. He turned just in time to catch the downward stroke of the knife. “Ave dominus Dracula!” the black-clad assassin spat as he tore the weapon—a thin-bladed Nahkampfmesser—free of the ruptured pillow. Before the man could make a second attempt, Selim’s pistol barked, and the would-be killer toppled sideways.

  The window exploded, and the compartment echoed with gunfire. Selim clambered to his feet, firing blindly. St. Cyprian ducked and grabbed the handle of the valise and rose to his feet, bringing the case down hard on the Janissary’s head. Selim fell, stunned. St. Cyprian turned to the exterior door and kicked it open. Gunfire split the night. It had a peculiar back and forth quality to it, and he saw more black-clad figures hurrying along the track. The Turks weren’t the only ones waiting in the woods, it seemed.

  “Higher ground,” he muttered. “That’s the wicket. Up we go.” He caught hold of the edge of the door frame and heaved himself up, valise clutched awkwardly in his hand. He didn’t have a plan, as such. But up was surely better than down.

  A hand caught his, as he flailed for a handhold. He looked up, into a razor-sharp smile. “Good evening. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Charles St. Cyprian? Ah, I thought so. I am Ruthven. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  16.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” Ruthven said, as he bowed. He was lean and tall, and well dressed. His skin shone like marble in the moonlight. His companions were a study in contrasts. One was broad shouldered and fiercely moustachioed, and dressed in the uniform of a Cossack officer. The other was slight and pale and clad in the raiment of a priest. “My companions—Boris Liatoukine and Ange Ténèbre, brothers in blood, or all but.” The Cossack clicked his heels and bowed. The priest inclined his head.

  “I’d introduce myself, but there hardly seems to be any need,” St. Cyprian said, rising to his feet. Clutching the valise, he stepped back. He reached slowly into his pocket, hoping he could get to the Webley in time.

  “Oh we all know what you are, if not who,” Ange murmured. “The fame of the Royal Occultist spreads even unto heathen shores.”

  “All I know is that you are a dead man, if you keep reaching for that pistol,” the Cossack, Liatoukine, said, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. The sound of gunfire rattled up, and he turned. “Wolkenstein, the fat tub of bear lard, is here. We must hurry. Kill him and let’s be gone, Ruthven.”

  “Patience is a virtue,” Ruthven said, looking at St. Cyprian. He smiled and spread his hands. “When the train stopped, I speculated that something was in the offing. And I was right. We seem to have you at a disadvantage, Mr. St. Cyprian. My companions and I have come to claim that which you so assiduously protect.” He held out a hand. “Turn it over, and we can all walk away happy. Refuse, and, well…your apprentice will receive a battlefield commission, just before she too is sent to whatever gods await her.”

  St. Cyprian shook his head. “Sorry old boy. Ca
n’t do it, I’m afraid. King and country, and all that.” He hefted the empty valise. “And you take one step further and off the train he goes, what?” It was a calculated gamble. If it came to it, he’d chuck the valise, and hope they went after it. If they didn’t…well, it likely wouldn’t matter much. The air trembled with a low hum, and he peered past the vampires. Something black was moving through the night sky, and fast. He caught hold of his Webley.

  “Throw it, and I will open your guts, boy,” Liatoukine said, as he took a step forward. He drew his heavy cavalry sabre from its sheath and pointed it at him. “We have quicksilver in our veins. You are but mud, to us.”

  “Easy, Boris…he wouldn’t do something so foolish,” Ruthven said, waving the other vampire back. “Just hand it over, St. Cyprian. Go back to defending your tiny island from ghosts and bogles and leave we immortals to police our own.”

  “If you’d been able to control him in the first place, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?” St. Cyprian said. He drew the Webley, hiding the action behind the valise. “In fact, I’d say you johnnies have proven singularly unequal to the task, what? Best leave it to the professionals.” He cocked the revolver. The black dot was growing larger, and the sound was getting louder. He recognized it now—engines. A two-seater kite, probably German. He’d heard that steel-wasp sound often enough in the trenches.

  Ruthven cocked his head. “I hear the plane, you know,” he said softly. “Don’t think it will help you.”

  “I don’t,” St. Cyprian said. A machine-gun opened up from somewhere back in the tree line, and Ruthven whirled, startled. St. Cyprian fired his Webley. Ruthven sprang back with a curse, and the other two vampires started forward.

  The plane dove down, with the moon at its back. The guns mounted on its frame opened up with a shrill roar. Bullets chewed the top of the train as the plane swooped along its length. Ange and the Cossack weren’t quick enough to avoid the fusillade, and jerked wildly as their flesh was punctured by the hail of lead. Ruthven rolled aside, sliding on all fours across the top of the train like an angry cat.