by David Wood
“Will he?” Wagner asked curiously. He thought with the way Dracula treated Petran there was no way the Count would eventually elevate the man to the status of a vampire.
“No, because you will kill them all in the next eighteen hours,” Abraham spoke loudly, with force, as if reminding Wagner that his duty was somehow sacred. “But if not, would Dracula eventually turn Petran? No. Unlikely. He is a sad, deluded fool, and Dracula will use him and spit him out when the man is no longer of use. Then he would simply lure another feeble mind to do his bidding.”
As dawn approached, the old man fell silent, having said all he needed to say. He had instructed Wagner with all he would need. Wagner picked up the leather bandolier with the pouches, and began arming himself with crosses and wooden stakes, strapping them on to his legs with bandages. When he was ready, he faced the priest. They quietly appraised each other for just a moment, then Wagner turned to the door, ready to hike back up to the castle as soon as light pierced the sky. He descended the stairs to the main tavern, and the priest followed him.
“Take the horse in the inn’s stable. She will let you ride her like lightning. Be swift. Every moment wasted is a moment closer to sunset and death.” The priest held his hand out to shake Wagner’s hand. Wagner took the firm grasp. The old man did not let go. He looked solemn and sad.
“Andreas…if for some reason you are too late…if he has turned your wife, you must treat her as the others.”
Wagner’s head jerked up and he stared into the old man’s eyes.
“Andreas, you must! With no remorse. Remember, if he has turned her into a vampire, then she is dead, and the thing inside her body is defiling it. Treat it with the same hatred you would have for a man you found urinating on your mother’s grave. The vampire is a defiler of life, nothing more.”
Wagner pulled his hand away, and frowned. “If he has turned her, I will kill her. And him. And I’ll burn this entire country to the ground.”
Chapter 30
The sun was obscured behind a thick vein of muting cloud cover. Wagner found the brown mare in the barn behind the inn. She was amiable enough. After she munched an apple Wagner gave her, he saddled her and swept up into the smooth leather. He didn’t know the horse’s name, but he whispered to her of his need to reach the castle swiftly. The horse appeared to understand and quickly sped to a gallop. They rode through the fields and woods in silence, Wagner gently stroking the creature’s neck with one hand, hardly needing to use the reins at all. The animal knew the way.
He left the horse in the forest on the other side of the natural bridge, certain if he brought her to the door of the castle, he would find her dead when he eventually emerged from the inside. He approached the castle’s courtyard with caution, scanning the upper reaches of the structure for signs that Petran might again attempt to crush him with falling rock. He saw no movement, and nothing to indicate that the castle might be occupied at all. He could move around to the stables to see if the carriage was back, but he did not want to waste the time.
He had stopped on the way out of the village for one more item he had spotted in Brandt’s store, which his subconscious had registered—a lock-picking set. The stench in the small shop had grown, and Wagner felt a pang of guilt that he could not spare the time to take his friend’s corpse off the spike and give him a proper burial. A task for after. Despite the smell, the stop at the shop was well worth it. Wagner did not know what kind of obstructions and defenses Dracula and Petran might have left to guard against his incursion, but he knew the simplest would be just to lock the front door.
He approached the building, still wary of danger from all sides, and reached for the front door’s brass handle. The door opened without hindrance, and swung smoothly with no sound. No, of course, the fight will be inside, where they have the advantage. He moved into the foyer, with the pistol at the ready. The crossbow was strung across his back, and he could get to it quickly. The string was taut, but the bolts were in a pouch on his hip. He didn’t want to accidentally shoot himself in the head. Either weapon would do for Petran. The stakes were for Dracula and the woman.
And possibly for Gretchen.
He crept across the foyer, his eyes darting to the ceiling, the doorways, and the balcony up above.
No movement.
He didn’t know where Petran would be waiting for him, but he knew the surest way to get the man’s attention would be to head down to the cellar—to Petran’s room with the oubliette and the locked room he assumed to be the Count’s resting place. The priest had told him that Dracula would likely rest in a coffin or a stone sarcophagus in the most protected part of the castle. From that information, it was easy enough for Wagner to deduce where the Count liked to sleep.
He walked down the corridor to the kitchen, intending to go directly to the stone spiral stair. As he entered the room, gun first, something flew across the room, hitting his hand and knocking the gun from his grasp. The gun launched across the room, and skittered under a heavy stove. His hand stung and vibrated from the impact, and the object that had hit him clattered to the floor at his feet—a heavy fry pan.
He quickly stepped back into the cover of the hall and unslung the crossbow from his back. Petran rounded the corner at a run, swinging a large ax at him, the man’s ruined eye now covered with a black leather eye-patch. Wagner managed to get the unloaded crossbow up just in time to deflect the blow. Even still, the force of the strike sent him staggering back several steps into the corridor. He had to remember that Petran was far stronger and much taller than him. His swings with a weapon like an ax could be devastating. Still wearing his dark blood-covered suit from their last battle, the servant grunted and took a step forward, preparing to swing the ax laterally.
Wagner rushed inside the swinging arc of the handle of the ax, and shoved the tip of the strung crossbow up under Petran’s chin, pushing the man’s head up and forcing him back a step. Wagner decided to take a gamble. If Petran was motivated by seeking eternal life, then maybe the thought of losing his life now would cause him to hesitate.
“Stop now, Petran, or I shoot!” Wagner shouted, and he hoped that the servant had not had time to notice the lack of a bolt in the weapon.
Petran’s eyes were crazy and glazed. For a second, Wagner thought the man would continue to fight. But he stopped, dropped the ax to the floor, and tried to step backward. Wagner stepped forward, keeping the crossbow vertical under Petran’s chin, where he’d be less likely to see it wasn’t loaded.
They crossed into the kitchen, the tall gangly Petran backpedaling, and Wagner advancing to keep pace. Petran’s face was filled with a malevolent hate, his mouth dripping saliva from the corners and his lone eye squinted, over sneering cheeks and lips. He began to move his hand upward and Wagner jabbed him hard again in the throat with the wooden top of the crossbow.
“Where is he? Down in the cellar, yes?” Wagner could see the recognition of the truth in the man’s face, even had he shook his head no. “And where is my wife?”
Petran did not answer that one. Instead he quickly reached up and shoved his hand inside the string of the crossbow, attempting to hold the string back. Wagner rammed upward on the stock of the device, smashing it hard into Petran’s jaw. The man stumbled backward, but did not release his hold on the weapon and it flew from Wagner’s grip.
The crossbow fell to the floor, as Petran stumbled backward after hitting his leg into a table. “Not even loaded…” Petran’s fury made the words come out in a spitting slurry. He bent down and grabbed the table and lifted it.
Wagner turned and launched himself back to the entrance of the corridor, just as Petran heaved the table across the kitchen. Wagner darted into the hallway and dove toward the floor. The table smashed into the corner, just as he passed it, but it still crushed his booted foot against the wall. A rocket of pain launched up his leg, even as he fell to the floor.
His foot hurt, but he tried to ignore it and focused on his hands. They would save hi
s life in the next few seconds. His foot could be dealt with later. He stretched out and grabbed the handle of the ax Petran had dropped. The table had broken when it hit the wall, and pieces of it were scattered around the mouth of the hallway. Wagner struggled to his feet, leaning on a broken portion of the table and one of its legs as he did so. Then he pulled the ax back and swung it at the doorframe, even before Petran came into sight.
Halfway through the arc of the ax, Petran appeared with a large cooking knife in hand. The swing was good, and the ax took the man’s arm off at the upper arm. It fell to the ground with the knife. Petran kept coming, as yet not even realizing he lost the arm. Wagner was surprised to see very little blood from the initial slice. It was as if the blood hadn’t yet realized it was free to spurt out. Petran rammed into him, sending them both careening down the hallway in a tumble of bodies, limbs, and blood.
Wagner sat up from the floor, but Petran crashed his forehead into Wagner’s face, smashing him back against the floor. His vision went blurry for a second, and then Petran’s remaining long fingers were around his throat, lifting him, and sliding his back horizontally along the wall, as the man’s severed arm sprayed blood behind him.
From where they struggled at the end of the corridor, Petran shoved with his remaining hand, and Wagner’s limp body flew out into the foyer to tumble in a heap on the edge of the checkered marble floor. He groaned and tried to stand. He found he couldn’t.
Petran stalked toward him, howling in pain as blood gushed out of his stump. Wagner looked down at himself. He was wet all over his chest, but there was very little blood. Ah, the holy water. He reached down to his leg, and pulled one of the wooden stakes from the sheath on his thigh. He was lucky none of the sharpened sticks had punctured his own leg in the skirmish.
Petran was on him again, the man’s long, gangly fingers fully wrapped around Wagner’s throat and drawing him up into the air again. Wagner swung the stake overhand, plunging it into Petran’s sole remaining eye. The man howled and dropped Wagner, then dropped to his knees, the foreign object lodged firmly in his eye socket. Wagner wasted no time scrambling to his feet, then kicked out as hard as he could with a booted foot. He drove the wooden stake deeper into Petran’s head, and through his brain. The shrieking ended immediately, and the tall man fell over backwards to the floor.
Wagner slumped back onto the carpet. He was exhausted from the fight, even though it had been brief. If only he could rest, just a bit before he needed to go on, he thought he might be alright.
But he heard a strange whistling noise, low and long, like an old dark melody or a dirge. When he looked up to the corridor leading to the kitchen, he saw the waitress vampire. She still wore her tattered gauzy gown, and he could see her full bosom under the sheer fabric. It was open nearly to the waist in front, and her dark ringlets of hair draped down her shoulders. She was terrible and beautiful in equal measures.
She was whistling slowly as she walked into the foyer, unconcerned at the sight of the blood around the room, or the dead servant in front of Wagner. Her eyes narrowed, as she glanced from the body to Wagner and back again to the body, as if she could not decide which she wanted to suck dry more.
“It’s time to die now, dearie.” She said, her voice a high croaking sound, nothing like it was when she had been alive and serving him his food at the inn. She rushed at Wagner.
He reached for his chest pouches, feeling one of the few remaining pouches that still contained bulging objects. He pulled out the head of garlic, and threw it at her across the room. She flinched, but the garlic went wide and rolled away across the floor. She was on him in a second, her long nails digging into the sides of his throat as she hoisted him to his feet with supernatural ease. Her mouth opened wider than a mouth should, showing her long fangs, as they made their descent toward his neck.
Chapter 31
Dangling from his throat, the air cut off from his lungs, Wagner’s fingers scrambled at the pouches hoping to find one last head of garlic. He found a round bulge in one of the remaining leather pockets. The outside of the bandolier was wet from the shattered vials of holy water, but he was able to work two fingers inside the flap. The she-creature was descending on his throat to suck the life from him, and spots of brilliant purple and deepest black were forming around the sides of his vision.
The garlic felt unusually slick in his hand. Then he realized it wasn’t the skin of a garlic bulb his fingers were touching, but smooth glass. One of the bulbs of blown glass remained. He tightened his fingers around the thing and yanked it from the pouch, raising his hand up, and stuffing the liquid-filled globe into the vampiress’s open maw.
Her instinct—the instinct of all vampires—was to bite down.
Her fangs pierced the glass, and it exploded in her mouth and throat. Instantly, Wagner felt the tension on his neck lessen and then disappear. A great welling cloud of steam like the smoke of acid burning its way through metal boiled out of her mouth and lifted toward the room’s vast ceiling. The creature threw its head back and the clouds of steam now shooting from her throat filled the room. This close to her, Wagner could see the great angry red boils and pustules forming on the vampire’s neck and face as the holy water did its work. Blood began to leak from her eyes and her ears, and then her eyes shriveled to black nuts and fell away inside her head. As her body collapsed to the floor, the space around Wagner was filled with a deep burning stench, like rich dung in a campfire. Wagner watched as her facial skin shifted and began to slide off her face.
When she hit the hard, unforgiving floor, her skull was nearly clean of hair and bone.
Gooseflesh broke out on Wagner’s skin as he watched the woman’s body continue to move and gyrate on the floor. Quickly he withdrew one of the few stakes he still had on him and plunged the thing into her heart. The blood that welled up from the sides of the puncture looked black and thick to the point of being jelly. Finally, she stopped moving, and Wagner sank back on his heels and sighed in relief.
He sat on the floor for just a minute, his eyes constantly roving between the dead vampire, the dead servant, and the doors.
Before he knew it, he was looking at the ceiling, and the smoke swirling around it. The white mist was calming and he took a few deep breaths to steady his nerves further, before he would sit up.
When he opened his eyes and lifted his head from the floor, the room was dim. Not dark, but dimmer than it had been in the early morning. He sat and looked at his watch. It was late in the afternoon. Not sunset, but close to it. He had fallen asleep. He groaned.
Then he stood and shambled down the corridor to the lost ax. He was limping slightly, but he realized his foot was not broken from the impact with the table. When he returned to the foyer, he took two swipes with the ax to sever the freakish skull with the long fangs from the vampiress’s unmoving mass. Only then did he retrieve his stake from her. For good measure, he removed Petran’s head with the ax as well. The servant’s long neck was easier to hit, and Wagner took the head off in one clean swipe with the ax. He then retrieved the wooden stake from Petran’s skull. He had to put his foot on the skull to hold it steady, and pull with most of his strength to free the deadly implement. It came loose with a sluicing sound that made his stomach flip.
He sheathed the stakes on his leg, and then quickly walked around the room, collecting the weapons he had lost in the battles with Petran and the female vampire. The rest of the holy water was gone—the unused ampules having shattered inside their nesting leather pouches on the bandolier. He still had a few heads of garlic, though for the life of him he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t able to lay hand on them when he had needed them. He shifted them to the central pouches where they would be easier to reach, and delicately removed the shards of broken glass so he would not slice his fingers apart when reaching for the garlic. He still had a small metal flask, which had fit in a hip pocket—the last of his holy water, and reserved not for battle, but for another purpose. He collected the unus
ed stakes that had fallen from their sheaths, and the bolts for the crossbow.
When he got to retrieving the crossbow in the kitchen, he saw that it was beyond salvage. The string was snapped, and the wooden cross lath was shattered. He briefly considered trying to splinter the device further, to use as a makeshift stake, but decided he had enough stakes with the four he had. He had somehow lost the large cross; he quickly skimmed his surroundings, to no avail. He then broke a small piece of the table to hold horizontally in his hand with a stake crossing it vertically, forming a makeshift cross. He still had the small necklace cross from one of the pouches on his bandolier, and he donned that around his neck.
Finally, he took the ax. There would be more beheadings in his immediate future.
Limping, he took a candelabrum and lit all five sticks with matches from a nearby shelf, then made for the door in the kitchen that led down the spiral steps to the wine cellar…
…and to Dracula.
He didn’t expect any resistance on the stairs, but he still took them cautiously, now ascribing a far more calculating and venomous nature to Petran than the man might have been capable of. He looked for traps and thought about the rooms off the stairs before the cellar, and what might await him in them. But he encountered no troubles, and saw no signs of Dracula or any other vampires.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the soreness in his ankle had subsided a bit. He maneuvered through the wine racks to the locked door and set the candelabrum down on the floor. He pulled out the lock picks. One of the tools was bent in the scuffle upstairs, and he spent precious minutes straightening it against the stone wall with his hand. Then he went to work on the lock on the door, and found it surprisingly easy to open. He put the tools away and quickly checked the side door behind the wine rack to the oubliette room, relieved to find that it was still closed. He stepped back to the door he had just unlocked, and slowly opened it with one hand, the ax held aloft in his other.
