I am somewhat at a loss what to do next. I know what I wish to do, what needs to be done, but dare I cross that threshold? And, if so, how?
June 9, 1888— More complications. Although the artifact gives life, it does not sustain it. I have had to allow poor Baxter to die a second death. His organs and flesh continued to deteriorate and putrefy, despite the reanimation, and he was in great pain even with the morphine. What use is returned life if the body continues to decompose? Conversely, Baxter’s brain remained in a state of preservation within the hollow of the artifact. I have heard of such things . . . experiments carried out with pyramidal shapes preserved foodstuffs longer than the same items kept within cubic boxes.
June 10, 1888— I am once again indebted to Crowe for his observations. We were having lunch and he wondered aloud whether a brain attached to an artifact would power a non-living device, such as perhaps Bob or Maria. Bob, of course, is our lawnmower man, while Maria is perhaps my crowning achievement in the field of automata: a life-sized doll with such intricate clockwork workings she can perform astonishing feats of dexterity, and even dance. Hmm.
June 12, 1888— Success, but of an abominable sort. I managed to transfer the artifact, containing Baxter’s brain, into the headspace of Maria. I connected her workings to the artifact and wound her up. She began to gambol about on all fours, sniffing at Baxter’s bowls and rubbing her torso against my leg, as though indeed a cat in semi- human form. It was quite disconcerting, though Crowe seemed to find it all delightful. I disconnected her at once and ordered Crowe to bury Baxter’s rotting corpse, brain and all. What is this strange device, and what can be its purpose? I dare not conceive of what I must do next. I dare not. But I must.
June 15, 1888— Another visit from Mr. W, who was “just passing.” He wishes to know if my investigations into the Atlantic Artifact have borne much fruit. I did not reveal my full notes to him, but said progress was continuing apace. He asked pointedly if I required any further resources. I hesitated for but a moment. W. is a man of secrets and shadows, and while I do not feel he can be completely trusted, I imagine he is my best chance for what I require.
I told him I needed a fresh human brain.
He stroked his moustache and regarded me with a most ominous stare, but nodded. “Surprisingly, that is possible,” he said. “I shall be most interested to see what results from your experimentation, Herr Professor.”
What have I done?
June 29, 1888— W. has been in touch. He has a brain for me. He did not reveal its origin, and I did not ask. It will be delivered within three hours.
There were no further journal entries. Gideon closed the book and let out a ragged sigh. He looked at Maria, who was still watching the countryside flash past. He asked gently, “What do you remember of when you first awoke in the Professor’s house?”
She turned to him and said, “We played a parlor game.”
“A parlor game?” Gideon frowned.
“Yes.” Maria smiled. “They call it the Imitation Game. Do you know it?”
“We had little time for parlor games in Sandsend, I am afraid.”
“One person plays the Interrogator, which was the Professor.
Then two people go into separate rooms. One was myself and one was Crowe. We had a cook, then, and she was the go-between. The idea was both Crowe and I had to make the Professor think we were a woman by way of answering his questions, which were delivered to us by the cook, who also noted down our answers and returned them to him. Crowe had to deceive the Professor and I had to try to convince him. It was quite fun.”
“What sort of questions? How was he to work out your answers?”
“Oh, logic, I think the Professor said. Things like, how long is your hair, do you wear skirts, how do you ride a horse?”
“And what was the result?”
Maria giggled. “What do you think? Crowe was hopeless at the game, while I managed to easily convince the Professor through my answers that I was the real woman.”
She smiled at the memory and turned back to the window, watching the fields that stretched along both sides of Route 1.
Gideon stared at Maria. Einstein had meddled in things he should never have touched. Maria was an automaton, a toy, but with a stolen brain. A pale imitation of a living woman. Had Professor Einstein created a monster? And had Gideon Smith unleashed it into the world?
She laid a hand excitedly on his arm, and if she noticed his involuntary flinch, she did not show it. “Look, Mr. Smith!” she said. “I can see London ahead!”
8
The Children of Heqet
When Stoker found Elizabeth Bathory at the foot of the 199 steps to the abbey, she was wearing a long, hooded cloak, and he could quite clearly see her reflection in the jet-shop window she was browsing; another vampiric myth untrue. The sight of her brought back his dreams of the previous night: haunting images of the severed, monstrous head, shot through with snatched glimpses of Bathory’s alabaster flesh, her tongue running over pin-sharp fangs and ruby lips. Stoker had never been unfaithful to Florence, not even in thought, but it took half an hour in a cold bath to chase the night’s visions away.
She looked up as he approached, her mirror image glancing at him over the rim of dark, round-rimmed glasses.
“Countess,” he said. “How are you?”
“Rather hungry,” she said, her voice as low as he remembered. He paled, and she laughed. “Perhaps for a currant teacake and a pot of Earl Grey.”
“It is a devilishly hot day, Countess, and the sun burns terribly. Are you quite certain . . . ?”
“The sun will not kill me, but it will weaken me somewhat. However, I am acutely aware the accursed Children of Heqet could abscond at any moment, and I wish to locate them posthaste.”
“So you know they are in Whitby and its environs, but not precisely where?”
“Exactly. And my resources are running low; the ichor of the monster coagulates and thickens in its veins. I fear I may only be able to sup from it one more time. That is why I cannot allow them to escape.”
Stoker coughed and extended his elbow toward her. “Would you care to walk with me?”
Bathory inclined her head. “How gallant of you, sir.” She placed her slim hand on his forearm and allowed him to lead her from the cell into the sunshine. “And you can tell me what you have learned about the Children of Heqet.”
Stoker had learned more than he expected to on his morning sojourn to the library, and he related it to Bathory as they wound through Whitby’s streets. He caught people glancing at her, and more than one man took a second look at her astonishing beauty. He felt suddenly wretched; what if word got back to London that Bram Stoker was promenading through the town with such a creature on his arm? He pushed away the thought.
“I looked up various spellings before settling on the one I believe is pertinent: H-E-Q-E-T.”
“Unusual,” murmured Bathory. “It puts me in mind of Hecate, the Greek goddess of witchcraft.”
Stoker nodded. “And also of childbirth, and nurturing the young. Hecate shares something with Heqet, who was one of the Nile goddesses, the goddess of birth and resurrection. She was often depicted with the face of a frog, which are prevalent along the Nile, and women would wear her image on talismans around their necks while they gave birth.”
“The face of a frog,” said Bathory, smiling at a woman with full skirts who passed by. “ ‘And the Lord spake unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch forth thine hand with thy rod over the streams, over the rivers, and over the ponds, and cause frogs to come up upon the land of Egypt.’ ”
“Exodus,” said Stoker thoughtfully. “The Old Testament plagues.” He was silent for a moment, then glanced at Bathory. “Do you think it is possible the plague Moses brought forth was not merely frogs?”
Bathory smiled. “I find it entirely plausible. And do not forget what the Children of Heqet stole from Castle Dracula: a jeweled scarab. Egyptian.”
Stoker shook his h
ead again. “But they would be impossible creatures, thousands of years old.”
“Egypt is a strange land, with ancient ways lost to the rest of the world,” said Bathory. “They did not consider death as you do. To the ancients the end of life was not a brick wall, nor a passage to some heaven of white light and sloping meadows. Death was a transformation, part of a cycle.” She smiled. “We would have had much in common. Some would believe me an impossible creature, as well.” She looked across the gambrel roofs of the town. “But where are they?”
“I asked my landlady, Mrs. Veasey, where the most unsalubrious district of the town is,” said Stoker. “She warned me away from it. Perhaps a good place to start?”
The slums on the outskirts of Whitby were not pretty, but Stoker had seen far worse in London. The port’s poor district was a haphazard warren of dirt tracks winding between tight terraces, home to those workers who earned such a low wage they could not afford accommodation in more prosperous parts of town, farmhands who toiled on the inland estates, the families of fishermen forced out of their traditional haunts by rising prices caused by an influx of richer folk, and the feckless, hopeless, and lawless.
The steam-cab deposited them on the outskirts of the district, where ragged children played with a battered leather ball on a dusty patch of land. Bathory pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and hid behind her dark spectacles; the sun was high and hot, and Stoker himself felt faint from its merciless rays.
They passed a knot of down-at-heel men who whistled and cat-called at Bathory. “We see what we can see,” she said through gritted teeth, “and ask questions if need be.”
They walked for an hour, losing themselves in the rammed together, ramshackle houses, a patchwork of wood and brick spreading like a swamp. Most of the windows were smashed or without glass, and the sounds of violent arguments, wailing children, and cursing was almost more than Stoker could bear. They paused for a moment in the shadows and Stoker offered Bathory a drink from his water canteen. She took it and muttered, “Not enough.”
“You require more water?” he asked, hoping for an excuse to call off their search. The dirt track was awash with raw sewage, and Stoker had held his kerchief to his nose and mouth for the last quarter of an hour.
She squinted at him, a look he couldn’t read but which filled him with sudden dread. From behind him a chorus of shouts sounded, as a husband and wife roared at each other in the dark pit of their sorry home. He watched Bathory looking at the scene, and he saw her eyes widen at the distinct sound of the slap of flesh upon flesh. Stoker turned and looked in at the window; a corpulent man with a snarling face was standing over a shuddering woman on her knees, his fist raised. He paused in his unintelligible raving to meet Stoker’s eye.
“An’ what the fuck are you looking at?”
Stoker averted his gaze but heard Bathory’s breath catch in her throat. Before he knew what she was doing, she elbowed past him and pushed open the rotten wooden door into the house.
“Countess!” he hissed, but she was already inside, and he saw the look of surprise and indignation on the man’s face as she entered the tiny hovel.
“What do you want, bitch?” the man snarled, as though her were an actor playing his part in a dreadful little production laid out for Stoker’s personal viewing.
“Get out,” Bathory said to the cowering woman, who stumbled out of the door and, to Stoker’s shock, into his arms.
Stoker watched what happened next, transfixed, wishing he could tear his eyes away. All he could do was hold the man’s pathetic wife to him, so she wouldn’t see Bathory picking him up by his shirt as if he were no heavier than a child’s doll. It was only when she bent to his neck in some obscene parody of a lover’s embrace that Stoker at last found the strength to close his eyes.
When he opened them again, Bathory was returning to the street, seemingly taller and with a more dreadful bearing than before. Her mouth was slick with blood, and she took the kerchief Stoker still clutched to his face and wiped herself with it.
“He won’t hit you again,” she said curtly to the woman. “He won’t hurt anyone, anymore.” Then she turned to Stoker. “Even the Children of Heqet would shun this forsaken hole.”
Stoker left the woman standing dumbly in the tight street and hurried after Bathory, who stalked along the track back toward the main road. When he caught up with her, she whirled round, her eyes flashing, and took his tie firmly in her hand.
“Don’t be shocked. It is what I am. It is what I do. I try to limit myself to taking those who deserve it. To those who think it is acceptable to hurt women.”
“Do you hate all men, then?” asked Stoker.
A smile curled the corners of her exquisite lips, and Stoker found it even more terrifying than her anger. “No,” she said. “I was married, was I not?”
Bathory moved closer to him, and he felt the rustle of her skirts against his weakening knees. “Countess . . .”
“I miss Dracula so,” she whispered, her mouth close to his ear. “I miss his ministrations. When the moon was full, we would transform into wolves and fuck all night in the forest.”
Her lips brushed his ear, thrilling him; he was both terrified and aroused. “Would you like to run as a wolf, Bram? I could make it happen.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed with some effort. “Countess. I am a married man. . . .”
She backed off, and when he opened his eyes she was smiling, patting down his tie. “That you are, Mr. Stoker,” she said. “And I am a widow.” She paused, looking toward the road. “Let us return to the abbey, to consider our next move. I shall meet you there.”
Bathory took the hem of her cloak in her hand. She whirled it up and across her face, and Stoker blinked. In the space of that blink she was no more, but a raven was taking noisily to its wings, soaring into the blue sky above the stench of the stew, and heading toward the sea.
He watched it go, and the memory of Bathory sinking her teeth into that wretch’s neck rose unbidden. He suddenly and uncontrollably vomited where he stood.
Bathory was sitting on the grass, her cloak and skirts spread out around her. She looked quite the lady, protected from the sun in her hood and gazing at a small book of verse by Keats on her lap. Stoker cleared his throat as he approached and fixed a smile to his face. Bathory looked up over the rims of her spectacles. “Mr. Stoker. Watching me feed can be rather . . . unsettling. I would not have blamed you had you fled from me for good.”
The specter of her bloodlust hung between them, and Stoker tried not to glance at the neckline of her frock hidden in the shadows of her cloak. She said, “I become a changed person, when the hunger is upon me. It can take some getting used to. You were horrified?”
He nodded. “I was horrified. But I understand. You weren’t yourself.”
Bathory shook her head violently. “No, Mr. Stoker. You miss the point. I was myself.” She spread out her hands. “This is not me, Mr. Stoker. This is pretense and disguise. These are the trappings of civilization and respectability which vampires wear when we go abroad among mortals, but it is not us.” She lowered her eyes, somewhat coquettishly, thought Stoker. “I spoke of wolves and forests. That is the true freedom vampirism bestows.”
Stoker smiled wanly. “We mortals are artifice and show as well, Countess. We are descended from the rude apes, as Darwin would have it. Underneath our clothes, we are all naked.”
She smiled appreciatively. “I thank you for your understanding, Mr. Stoker.” She looked into the distant blue sky. “But we are no closer to finding the Children of Heqet, are we?”
Stoker had walked via a pharmacy in town up to the abbey, and as he mounted the steps with his purchases something struck him, something so obvious he punched his own forehead. He said, “Countess, I believe I might have the answer. I should have thought of it immediately. Sometimes I stuff my mind so full of trivia I forget where I have put things. I was recently in the company of a young man from Sandsend. It is primar
ily a fishing village, though with a beautiful aspect. This young man was called Smith, and was rather desperately trying to get in touch with some hero from a penny dreadful he fancied could help him with a problem in Sandsend.”
“What kind of problem?” asked Bathory as Stoker took her elbow and steered her toward the town.
“A fishing boat belonging to his father had turned up abandoned following a night of dense fog. The news was somewhat overshadowed by the arrival of your own ship, Countess. But the loss of his father and the ship’s crew could perhaps be the work of the Children of Heqet, could it not? Mr. Smith and I parted company and he sent me a note. I remember it plainly now. He wrote: There is indeed an undead monster on the loose, but not the one you think. I fear I did Mr. Smith something of a disservice. Could he have seen one of the Children of Heqet?”
Bathory nodded. “In the absence of any other theory, Mr. Stoker, let us away to Sandsend immediately.”
“It is already late in the afternoon,” said Stoker. “Perhaps we could carry out a preliminary reconnaissance and return tomorrow? I should not like to be lost in those caves at nightfall.”
Bathory said, “Mr. Stoker, I do my best work after nightfall.”
They went to a hardware store for equipment and called in at Royal Crescent. Mrs. Veasey cast hooded glances at Elizabeth Bathory as Stoker ran down the stairs in excitement, brandishing the story-paper Gideon had sent to him.
“Look at this!” he called. “Oh, I was such a fool not to listen to Mr. Smith. Look!”
He held out the copy of World Marvels & Wonders to her and enjoyed watching her eyebrows rise as she saw the lurid illustrations to the story of the Faxmouth mummy. “Crude, but unmistakable,” she said.
“Mr. Smith said he was going to London to seek out this Captain Lucian Trigger—I confess, I had always thought him a fictional character, but Mr. Smith was determined. Perhaps Mr. Smith has not yet departed. He spoke of strange happenings in his village, just outside Whitby. . . .”
Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Page 9
