Brides Of The Impaler

by Edward Lee

  One more shot: BAM!

  “You can’t hurt me with that-with that-with—”

  BAM!

  The sixth shot blew the woman clean off of Vernon like a catapult. She lay lopsided against the baseboard, con vulsing.

  “Fuh-fuh-fucker…” And then she fell dead.

  Vernon had fired four shots in a straight line down her chest, then a fifth to the right, and the sixth to the left, the bullet holes forming the configuration of the cross.

  He dragged his gaze to the middle of the room.

  Father Rollin was on his knees, exhausted, while Paul Nasher twitched on the floor, the sharpened pole rammed fully through his chest, puncturing his heart.

  Vernon glared at the priest. “Is it Miller Time yet?”

  “I killed him before the transference could take place,” Rollin wheezed. He pointed to Cristina who lay in the opposite corner. “See if—”

  Vernon rushed to her, felt for vitals.

  “Is she—”

  “She’s got a pulse. We’ve got to get her to the hospital. Looks like Nasher damn near beat her to death.” Vernon groaned when he put her over his shoulder. Rollin was already in the hall but something stopped him in his tracks.

  “What now!” Vernon yelled.

  “Is it my imagination…or do I smell smoke?”

  Vernon labored to the stairwell, looked down. The crackling was undeniable, and so was the roaring light. “Somebody set the fuckin’ house on fire!”

  “Hurry!”

  They rushed to the second-floor landing as smoke began to pour up in volume. The living room was engulfed in flames. We’ll have to jump from a window, Vernon thought, but then the priest bulled down the stairs.

  “Are you nuts!”

  “Come on, we can beat it!”

  Vernon followed, Cristina getting heavier on his shoulder. The front door of the house was already behind a wall of flame. “Now what?”

  “Here!” Rollin shouted. “The way we came in!”

  That’s right. The basement …

  He thunked down more steps into the basement, wondering how long it would take before the floor collapsed on them, bringing down rafters of fire.

  “Hurry!”

  No, YOU hurry, Vernon thought. I’m the one carrying someone …

  Now the house was shaking from the conflagration. Rollin was already on the floor, backing into the narrow hole. “I’ll pull, you push!” he yelled.

  Makes sense. Vernon knelt as he fed Cristina’s limp body into the hole. Rollin could be heard grunting his exertion; Cristina disappeared in increments. “Any time now!” Vernon exclaimed, hearing the fire upstairs roar.

  Vernon pushed on the unconscious woman’s legs until she was all the way in. Would the fire spread to the next building before they could get out? He could hear fire alarms going on at the adjacent condo. Vernon began to crawl into the hole, to fully exit the house.

  When he was halfway in, two hands grabbed his ankles and pulled him back.

  Vernon yelled the whole way.

  “What happened?” Rollin shouted from the other side.

  “Just get her out! The fire’s spreading!” He reached for his gun but realized he was out of ammunition. When he rolled over in the darkened basement, he saw a figure high above him.

  The third and final homeless woman. The one with the glasses, he recalled from the pictures.

  She sat naked atop a stack of high boxes, her pallid skin streaked with the familiar lines of homage.

  The moonlight lit her face and her fanged grin.

  “You should stay here with me,” she said, her feet rowing back and forth.

  “Why?”

  “Then we can go to hell together. We’ll live forever, just like the New Mother promised.”

  “The nun,” Vernon croaked. “Kanesae. Where is she?”

  “Nowhere, and everywhere. Like all evil. Come with me and all your questions will be answered.”

  Fat chance. But then Vernon remembered what Professor Fredrick had mentioned. “The thirteenth lifetime is over. You blew it. But…what was the secret that Vlad whispered to her as she was draining his blood?”

  The woman grinned. “If I told you…then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

  From the first floor, he heard the stairs collapse. The fire’s roar now sounded like a blast furnace. I have to get out of here. Now.

  “Let me impale you,” she said. “An offering to the Prince. You’ll be smiled upon in hell.”

  “I’ll pass,” Vernon said.

  The woman shrugged her bony shoulders. “Suit yourself. I guess someone should live to tell the tale.”

  Vernon stared as the temperature vaulted.

  “Singele lui traieste,” the woman whispered. She hitched forward on her perch. Only then did Vernon notice that she’d positioned a sharpened pole mounted on a Christmas tree stand just below. She hopped off the box, bringing her crotch right down on the point. She wriggled and fidgeted, then, as her body slowly slid down. She still showed the fanged grin when the point halted at the roof of her mouth.

  Vernon dove back in the hole and crawled out just as the ceiling collapsed amid an avalanche of flame.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  (I)

  “I”m realizing just now that I’m way too old for this,” Rollin said in the passenger seat. Sweat beaded his adrenaline-pinkened face.

  “You and me both, Father.” Vernon floored it to the nearest emergency room: Mt. Sinai, his suction-cup cherry ball pumping red and blue light into the city’s labyrinthine darkness.

  Who’s gonna believe this? he thought, but then realized it didn’t matter. He would tell no one. “Check her, will you?” He glanced into the backseat, where Cristina lay. Her head had been lacerated pretty significantly. God, I hope she doesn’t die…

  Rollin labored to lean into the back. “Her pulse feels strong. Breathing looks regular…”

  Vernon squealed wheels around a corner. “So…what exactly happened? Kanesae had—”

  “Kanesae had been growing stronger and stronger,” explained the exhausted priest, “as tonight got closer. With her strength came not only her ability to corporate—or become flesh—but her ability to influence her target: Cristina. Once Kanesae’s strength had peaked, she was able to fully overcome Cristina’s will, and I’m sure she’d been gradually doing that all along. It was Kanesae’s goal to manipulate Cristina into drinking the blood in the flagon, but—”

  “Paul got to it first, and damn near killed Cristina getting it.”

  The priest nodded wearily. “Once Paul had pilfered the flagon and consumed its contents, Vlad’s spiritual agency came into Paul.”

  “And then you killed him with the pole.”

  “Yes, and not a second too soon.”

  “So what happens now?”

  Rollin stared out the window, into the throbbing dark. “I don’t know. Kanesae has discorporated. Since the vessel for Vlad’s spirit is gone, I suppose she’ll have no choice but to go to hell—and stay there.”

  Vernon let the words sink in. Jesus. What a night. He’d 911’d the fire department as he’d sped from the scene and at least saw that the adjoining condo seemed to be evacuating safely.

  He skidded to a halt at the ER entrance. “Meet me inside,” Vernon ordered and jumped out. “And don’t talk to anyone.”

  Rollin nodded, rubbing his eyes.

  Yeah, I’m too old for this, all right, Vernon agreed as he huffed Cristina’s unconscious form through the sliding doors. Just as two male nurses got her on a gurney, Cristina’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Hey. I’m Howard Vernon, I’m a cop.” He squeezed her hand.

  Confusion filled her eyes, and she tried to speak but couldn’t.

  “Don’t worry,” Vernon said. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Finally she uttered, “I…can’t remember.” Then her face paled. “That woman…that nun…”

  “She’s gone now. We’ll talk later—” />
  A nurse shouldered Vernon out of the way. “Step back. We have to get her to x-ray right now.”

  “I want to go,” Vernon interjected.

  “No way—”

  Vernon flashed his badge. “Come on, man.”

  The nurses agreed and pushed off, Vernon hustling to keep up. In the elevator, Cristina looked at him again.

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m a friend of Father Rollin. Do you know who I mean?”

  Concentration; then she nodded.

  “We brought you here.” But Vernon didn’t want any more talk for now. I don’t think she’s quite ready to learn that her boyfriend’s dead, her friends are dead, and her house is on fire. “Just relax for now.”

  “Okay.”

  One nurse pushed the gurney through double doors, but Vernon grabbed the other nurse. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “How do I know?” the man snapped. “She could have a concussion, acerebral hemorrhage, a skull fracture.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Her vitals are good and so’s her dilation, and that’s all a good sign.” He turned toward the door. “This is as far as you go. Ask reception for updates.”

  The doors swung closed in Vernon’s face.

  Only now did the totality of his exhaustion fully hit him. Holy shit. In the elevator down, two more nurses peered at him, sniffing.

  I must smell like a backyard grill, he realized.

  He didn’t see Father Rollin in the waiting room. Old bastard probably fell asleep in the car, Vernon guessed. He got two coffees in the vending room, was about to go outside with them when some heated talk was heard from the reception cove, then—

  “Everybody out of the way!” a voice barked. Suddenly lights flashed outside, tires screeched and sirens drew close. A half a dozen uniformed cops rushed through the sliding doors, and raced for the elevators.

  What the hell?

  Vernon flashed his badge as another cop entered. “What’s going on?”

  “Multiple assaults reported from the second floor, sir,” the officer answered without stopping. “X-ray.”

  Vernon’s mind blanked. He followed but missed the elevator so he trotted up the fire stairs.

  An odd silence filled the hall. No cops were in evidence, but both doors to the x-ray lab were now propped open. Two cops walked out, hands to foreheads.

  Vernon rushed in.

  Holy Mother of God …

  The two male nurses he’d seen earlier lay twisted on the floor. Both of their throats had been gnawed open, torn veins and arteries showing. Their faces looked wizened, a pale whitish blue. The ends of two snapped-off broomsticks had been rammed through their chests, yet almost no blood had leaked from any of their wounds.

  “Where’s Cristina Nichols?” Vernon demanded.

  “Who?”

  “These two guys brought her in here a few minutes ago for x-rays!” Vernon’s eyes darted around desperately. “Where is she?”

  No one answered, but then Vernon noticed two more cops looking perplexed out a nearby window. The window had been smashed from the inside out.

  Vernon turned and ran. Rollin …He almost tripped going down the stairs. More cops were pouring in when Vernon bulled out through the ER doors into the driveway.

  No, no, no, he thought.

  An intern whispered to a nurse, “Must be a full moon or something. I just heard there were two murders upstairs…and now this right at the same time.”

  Vernon walked in a daze to the scene. Before his car, several doctors were rising from their knees. An EMT was carrying away a portable defibrillator.

  Father Rollin lay stretched out on the pavement, unmoving. Another EMT put a sheet over his face.

  A physician’s assistant leaned against the car, writing on a clipboard.

  “What happened?” Vernon droned.

  “Multiple heart attacks, big ones. We did everything we could.” The P.A.’ s eyes flicked up. “Is your name Vernon?”

  “Yes,” Vernon croaked.

  “Before he lost consciousness he asked me to relay a message to you. I wrote it down.” And then he took out a small note pad. “But keep in mind, he was delusional at the time, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “What…did he say?”

  The P.A. squinted at the pad. “‘The flagon was fake. She fooled us.’”

  Vernon chewed his lip. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. But you knew the man?”

  “Yes…”

  “Do you know the nun, too? We’d like to talk to her.”

  Vernon suddenly felt as though he were standing on a 100th-floor ledge. “What did you say? A—”

  “A nun,” the P.A. repeated without a lot of interest. “Couple people said they saw a nun talking to him just before he collapsed, but”—he glanced around—“I don’t see any nun.”

  Vernon stared.

  “Oh, almost forgot. The priest asked me to give this to you.” The P.A. pulled something out of his pocket and dropped it into Vernon’s hand.

  It was Father Rollin’s cross and a ring with the crest: a dragon strangled by its own tail, and the words, O QUAM MAGNIFICUM, O DOMNUL.

  EPILOGUE

  “Do you remember your name?” her accented voice echoes.

  You pause. “Cristina Nichols…”

  The brick walls drip, the torchlight flickers. You stand half in and half out of this final vision as the luminous black, green, and red lines churn over the dungeon’s rough-hewn bricks.

  Kanesae is showing you, and now you understand that this is what she’s been doing all along…

  She’s never looked more real, more flesh, than at this moment. She’s dressed fully in her black habit now, her face aglow in the white wimple, her fangs shiny as diamonds.

  “Do you remember back at the house?”

  You slowly shake your head.

  “The ruse worked,” Kanesae informs. “Thanks to selfishness and greed—the hallmarks of humanity.”

  You see now, the upper room. Paul drinking the flagon’s precious blood himself.

  “It was not the blood of the Prince in the flagon. That was the secret.”

  Your eyes widen, and you see…the past.

  You see Kanesae in this chamber so long ago. On the stone slab she is cutting the head off of a dog, and draining its blood into the flagon.

  “Then…where did you hide the Prince’s blood?” you ask.

  Kanesae grins. “In me, and that’s where it’s been, for thirteen lifetimes. Until now.”

  You look down at your belly, which feels full and hot inside. The two men at the hospital were but tidbits, while your first meal proved the most paramount.

  More of the vision pours into your mind. You see Kanesae so long ago gashing the throat of the man on the slab, letting his blood flow into the chalice, then gulping it down. Then she shows you what you did at the house: Kanesae cutting her own wrist and filling the chalice with what gushed out.

  And handing the chalice to you.

  “The diversion succeeded,” she says, “just as the Prince whispered it would so many centuries ago…”

  You stare at her.

  “The past is done.”

  The weaving colors fade—

  “All that awaits is the future, its darkness like ripe fruit set out for us…For you.”

  —and then the vision dissolves and you’re back on the streets of this monolithic city in the middle of a hot, star-filled night.

  You can hear every heart beat.

  Kanesae leads you through alleys and byways, through black streets and across rooftops, and then…up a stairwell.

  She pauses at the landing and smiles. Is there a tear in the nun’s eye? “Me enamourer ad infinitum …”

  You look back at her. You suddenly feel strong, audacious, and without fear.

  “Do you remember your name, my love?”

  “Drwglya,” you breathe.

  “Let us begin…”

/>   You turn to face the door in the hallway that reads FREDRICK, and you raise your hand to knock.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Above all, I need to thank Jess Franco, Amano de Ossorio, Paul Naschy, and Jean Rollin, whose macabre and brilliant films have enthralled me for years and whose manipulation of imagery and atmosphere have proven a polarizing influence. Also, very special thanks to Dallas Mayr for NYC data and fifteen years of friendship. And, in no particular order: Tim McGinnis, Dave Barnett, Don D’Auria, Bob Strauss, Monica Kuebler, Tony and Kim, Mary Tutty of Mary’s Cabin, Julie Ahrens (for the very cool shirt!), Thomas Deja, John Mahoney and his parents, Nanci Kalanta, Mark Justice, Michael Lohr, Nick Cato, Chris from Insidious, Tom Weisser, Tom Moran, Charlie Meitz and Nina Zwaig (for Romanian stuff), Tim Shannon (for crab-infested water), and Anda for med stuff, Rich Chizmar, Tess, Pam, Ashley and Trey, Crystal and Alicia and Gus, Stephanie Shiver for Cadaverettes, Megan Dipo (for the wonderful Infernal Angel illo), Robert from Sweetbay (whom I hope likes this book), Dave and Liz Bolter, Kathy, Kirt, Tony, and Audrey, Sascha Mamczak, Ian Levy, and Ioana Mitea.

  Lastly I must acknowledge the excellent and indefatigable historians Radu R. Florescu and Raymond T. McNally for their superlative book, Dracula: Prince of Many Faces. This book provided much historical data crucial to my novel. Any historical inaccuracies are solely my fault.

  E.L.

  HIGH PRAISE FOR EDWARD LEE!

  “The living legend of literary mayhem.

  Read him if you dare!”

  —Richard Laymon, Author of The Woods Are Dark

  “Edward Lee’s writing is fast and mean as a chain saw

  revved to full-tilt boogie.”

  —Jack Ketchum, Author of Old Flames

  “He demonstrates a perverse genius for showing us a Hell

  the likes of which few readers have ever seen.”

  —Horror Reader

  “Edward Lee continues to push the boundaries of sex,

  violence and depravity in modern genre lit.”