I stood and stretched, more out of habit than need. The instant I succumbed to the day-sleep I moved not a single muscle for the whole time, yet felt no crimp or cramp. It wasn't natural, but then I'd have to give up that kind of thinking.
Nothing much about me was a close cousin to natural, now.
I'd learned the truth of it well enough the night before with my first real taste of blood, and indeed it was my first. I could not count that which Nora had shared with me all those years past. Then I'd had only human-normal senses with which to appreciate the pleasure, but those limits were shattered forever. Part of me was delighted, part was dust-spitting angry for having had no choice in the matter, and a very great part was still afraid.
Just how afraid I didn't know until the moment when Dracula bared his arm and pierced it. The sight, the very smell of that blood had near-maddened me. Though I wore a human-appearing body, the changes within had enhanced everything. It was as though when I'd cast off that shroud of a blanket I'd shed a thick, unsuspected skin as well. All my senses were vibrantly aware, alive, and demanding stimulation. The absolute need to drink had near-overpowered me. The one thing to hold me back was knowing I'd be drinking from him, taking his blood into me. That, for reasons I dared not to think about, would have been unbearable, but still I nearly lost control and seized what was offered anyway. Only at the last second did I find the strength to turn away and run.
We all fear loss of control. Sometimes it's a rare, fine kind of fear you willingly challenge, like climbing onto a mustang that's never known a saddle. You either break him or he does his damnedest to break you with a wild bone-jarring ride as you settle up your differences. Falling off or not isn't as important as the fact that something else is in charge of things for a few moments.
But other times it's a sick-making kind of fear when disaster bushwhacks you, and no matter how hard you try you can't work things in your favor. That's what nearly happened last night. I'd gotten too close to the edge of giving in to mindless need.
And that just had to do with my hunger. What other ugly surprises awaited? I feared for myself and for others. Should I not master this change before leaving here, what harm might I bring to some innocent in my path?
The whole of the world was new again with fresh, cruel rules to learn. Whenever I ran up against a contrast between the old and the new it gave me something like an electrical jolt. I'd have to get past feeling so surprised and grim all the time or I'd not be able to do anything for myself.
The best way to stop being such a tenderfoot was to ply Dracula with as many questions as possible and absorb whatever advice he might care to hand me. Thinking over that which he'd already given, it made a load of sense, but I needed more from him. I was all too aware of my own desperate lack of knowledge.
One could adjust to anything, with enough time. Certainly Miss Nora Jones had done well for herself. Along with many other engaging attributes, she'd struck me as being a confident woman full of high spirits and happiness. There was nothing of the grave clinging to her that I could recall. If she could do it, then so could I, but I wondered how long it would take.
And… would I always be afraid of the dark?
* * *
Though the chill winter days sped swiftly by unmarked and unnoticed by me during my rests in the tower sanctuary, the nights were long and fully occupied as I set about learning how to be a vampire.
First and foremost I took special care never to let myself get hungry again. I could see now what a foolish risk I'd taken, so to avoid all possibility of losing control I kept myself well-stocked and full to the brim. As it turned out I didn't need all that much blood to be feeling my best. So far as I could judge, my first feeding had been the heaviest. A trip down to the stables every third evening seemed to suit my needs. The fine taste of horse blood was more than enough compensation for any lingering aversion I had about biting into the flesh of a living animal. For variation and to increase my skill I also fed from the Szgany's cattle. I thought I might sample one of the chickens, but decided against it. I could soothe and quiet the other animals, but none of the fowls. Besides, they really didn't look big enough to provide me a decent meal and still survive the experience.
That necessity seen to, I applied my energies toward getting used to other important particulars about my condition. I could move astonishingly quick when I wanted, but often with misjudgment, which made me clumsy. It was like being a boy again and going through a growing spurt. At about twelve I shot up a whole foot in height in one year and ate like any three field hands, and for all that time I seemed to be nothing but elbows, knees, and two left feet, forever bumping into things and knocking them over. Ma told me to be careful so often that I kept outside as much as possible for fear of breaking anything in the house.
I sought the same solution now, spending a good portion of the night exploring beyond the castle walls. There could I find the room to indulge my need for physical drill by clambering about the rugged country, testing my strength against the land. Running, climbing trees, scaling impossible cliffs, pushing myself beyond that which I'd known before helped me to reclaim command over my own body. It took a deal of concentration at first, same as when I'd grown out of my youthful awkwardness by learning to ride, rope, and shoot. There were moments back then when I thought I'd never get the art of it, but the hard realities of ranch life made such expertise needful for survival. To give up was not in the cards, so I'd kept at it until I forgot what it was like not to know how, until I was the best hand on the whole blessed range. So did I work myself once more.
Another, far less ordinary skill also required my most careful attention: learning to vanish—and, while bodiless, to move about in that state.
It took some powerful getting used to, I'll say that for the experience. Not that it was so difficult to disappear; the trick of it had to do with believing I was indeed capable of doing it. Dracula was of great assistance there, guiding me—in his own unique manner and method—through my first intentional attempt.
The lesson began in his library. One evening he traded all that writing for reading, giving me to understand he'd lost interest in it for the time being. When I once chanced to inquire about the nature of his labors, he simply replied he was making a memoir for himself about his life. The task had been somewhat inspired by the exhaustive diaries kept by my friends. He was more than willing to share additional details, for he quite enjoyed talking about the wartime exploits of his ancestors—or rather one-time contemporaries—and bent my ear for hours on end without running down. Tonight I thought it best not to raise the subject as I had the feeling I already knew more about him than was good for me.
He was very much at his ease in an old chair, his long legs stretched out before the fire and crossed at the ankles, hands steepled over the book on his chest, his head thrown back so he could stare at the wavering shadows on the ceiling. Though his face still retained some youth, his hair was quite gray now, becoming shot through with streaks of pure white, as was his lengthening mustache. It was trimmed away from his hard mouth, and I was fairly certain he'd used a touch of wax for neatness of appearance. How he could keep himself so well groomed without the use of a mirror was beyond me; perhaps one of his Szgany was a barber. The first time I tried to shave by touch was my last. After gaining a motley collection of nicks (which healed remarkably fast) I decided to just let my beard grow.
I bade him a good evening and mentioned my interest in learning how to vanish. He reminded me in turn that I'd already accomplished the task, which would make things easier.
"One can hope so," I said. "But you'll pardon me if I have some doubts. I don't know how I did it."
"You must believe that you can. Then will you master it."
"I'll allow the truth of that. What must I do?" I half-expected him to get up and give a demonstration, but he continued to stare at the ceiling.
"You must try to recall how it was for you in the forest," he said. "What were you think
ing at the time?"
"I can't say that I was thinking of anything except getting away from you."
"A very understandable reaction given the circumstances. Immerse yourself in that moment again."
I tried, conjuring up as best I could the memory of being surrounded by wolves and facing their dread master, but nothing happened. "Maybe I'm not feeling as inspired now as I was then."
"Perhaps I could call on my wolves to come and chase you about the room until inspiration strikes you once more."
That raised a smile from me, until I realized he wasn't making a joke. "No, thank you."
He straightened slightly, directing his gaze toward one of the tall windows, his forehead puckering.
"What?"
"Listen."
I did, for he seemed to be entirely distracted by whatever he was hearing. Far below I only heard the servants going about their business, the soft scratch of cellar rats, the wind sighing outside, and the creak and tick of trees bending to it. All was normal. I shook my head. "What is it?"
"The wolves."
It didn't take much to catch on. "They're quiet."
He grunted agreement. "They've not hunted in the last few days and should be hungry. The moon is high, yet their song is silent. Something must be wrong."
He left the comfort of his chair and book and swept from the room with me right behind him. I'd grown so used to the nightly singing of his children that I'd ceased to note it. Its absence might mean nothing, but was worth checking. Back home when the wild things went hush it was generally for a good reason and best to be on guard.
I followed him up the stairs that led to my tower room, but we passed its entry and continued on until the ceiling pressed close. The stairs ended at a formidable trap door in the roof; he threw the inside latch and pushed. The hand-span thick oak slab boomed back on its hinges, and we climbed through.
Icy air stung all my exposed skin as we emerged onto the roof, but was not uncomfortable. If I chose to linger without sensible coverings, then might the cold wind begin to affect me, but all was well for now.
The sky was a rich dark blue such as I'd never been capable of seeing before my change, its vast field silvered with a dense net of bright stars. In my time I'd seen many sights that could be described as breathtaking, but this was the corker. I knew in my bones that no matter how long I lived I'd never get tired of it or lose the sense of wonder it inspired. This was decidedly one of the more agreeable aspects about my change.
The tower wall was low, extending itself only a foot above the roof's snow-dusted wood beams, which looked to be fairly recent compared to the rest of the castle. I would guess by their weathering they'd been put in place only in the last hundred years or so. The time of wars in this area was long past, else any sentry placed here would be too exposed to enemy fire. On the other hand it would take a rare shootist to accurately reach this far, though a good Sharps rifle would put things in his favor.
Dracula stood at the edge right next to the low wall, the strong wind at this height tearing at his clothes and whipping his hair flat along his skull. He faced into it, scenting the air. I did the same, breathing in and catching only the chill, clean snow, pine, wood smoke, and sometimes the earthy whiff of stale leaves that had escaped the last storm. His senses may have been sharper than mine or he knew better what to seek, for I took no clue from it. After a moment he gave up and walked slowly all around the limits of the wall to view the lands far below.
His castle stood proud on a high cone of rock. One side faced a terrible drop into a black valley where the pines stood guard like raised spears, the other a steep but less alarming descent which would still have been easy to defend from attack. From this vantage we had a fine broad view of the snow fields and dense stands of trees for miles in every direction. Clearly visible to my night-accustomed eyes was a thready depression marking the road my friends and I had used in the final stage of our hunt. I hoped they had a safe journey back to Galatz, and at the same time felt a deep twinge of guilt for their sorrow at my seeming loss. First my life taken away and then my body, the former bad enough, the latter making a sad situation all the more awful. At least with a body to bury one could make a true farewell and move on.
When I did return to civilization, it would have to be done with the greatest of care and doubtless be difficult, particularly in legal matters. Art, perhaps with Harker's help, would take upon himself the dismal task of notifying what kinfolk I had and my bankers. Due to cholera, the grippe, various wars, tornadoes, blizzards, summer heat, and other like incidents that were part and parcel of living in Texas I had no real relatives left, only some very distant cousins in the east. They'd had sense enough to stay put and thrived.
Seven years ago, when Pa passed on, the whole kit came to me, a vast ranch, more cattle than I could count, and more work than any one man needed in a lifetime. On advice from my Galveston bankers I leased the running of the place to some English investors—which was how I met Arthur Holmwood. His father had sent him as his agent to Texas to have a look at things; we struck up a fast friendship, and Art planted in me the temptation to see what the rest of the world was like. I turned the daily ranch business over to some trusty foremen to look after and the money counting to those who were good at it and took off. Because of the railroads and a new meat-packing plant, the old place kept turning a tidy profit even in bad years, leaving me free to roam.
That's how it enabled Art and me to circumnavigate the globe before my twenty-fifth year, hunting big game, paying our respects at various embassy parties, raising hell where and when it was appropriate, and otherwise having a good time. Whether sweltering in the Amazon or freezing in Siberia we collected enough experience for a dozen explorers in an astonishingly short time. That our tramping about together should come to an end here in the deeps of Transylvania was unthinkable, but end it did—this part of it, anyway. Going back promised to be uncommonly complicated.
But I'd worry about that later. Dracula was looking mighty annoyed as he glared out over the forest.
"Something is indeed wrong," he said in reply to my question. "There is no sign of them I can see or feel."
"Maybe the deer hunting wasn't so good and the pack moved on," I suggested.
"Were that true I would hear complaints from the peasants about missing sheep. Nay, but there is something else afoot. I know not what it could be, but I will find out."
"Tonight?"
"Why not? Ah, your promised lesson. Very well, we will continue, but not for long. First I will—wait a moment." He paused and stared intently into the night. "That should not be there."
"What?" He was rather closer to the edge than I, as I'm not overly fond of heights and the wind was a nuisance. Still, I took a pace or two forward as he extended one hand to point.
"There? Do you not see it?" he said. "A line of smoke about five or six miles distant."
I peered down the length of his arm, trying to see. Just as I was about to say no I felt something slap me smart and solid between the shoulders. The force of it launched me tumbling headfirst down the castle wall. I shrieked and clawed empty air, legs thrashing, sight blurring as the ground rushed up to smash me to pulp.
Then… nothing.
I still felt the sickening motion of falling, but not like before. This was strangely slow and suspended. I was lost, sightless and deaf in a void, with no sense of up or down, with no body at all.
He's killed me, I thought. This was death, true death, and this time I'd not be coming back.
Anger flooded me, or whatever wisp of consciousness remained that could be flooded. He'd gotten all that he'd wanted of me and in this way had disposed of an inconvenience. I'd never return home to carry the tale that he yet lived. The treachery of it was beyond comprehension. I wanted to scream my outrage, but had no mouth, no lungs; instead I seemed to roll in the nothingness like a stray piece of cloud at the mercy of the gales. Soon I'd be blown to shreds and drifting forever…
But another something blocked my way.
I was sensible of the wind buffeting me about, and now became aware of being pressed against a wide uneven surface. It was like swimming in murky water where you could only feel your way around things. Perhaps I'd found the bottom of the pond.
Only then did I dimly realize what had actually happened.
It did not mitigate my rush of anger, but I managed to push it aside for the moment, which was just as well for all concerned. The world came back to me, though it was more correct to say I came back to the world. My dulled senses reestablished themselves with such suddenness and painful clarity that it took a while before I sorted everything.
The black bulk of the castle loomed above me, for I lay flat on my back atop a drift of snow at its stony base. How I got there without injury I now fully understood. The method Dracula used to spark the process had been—no jest intended—Draconian to say the least.
Where in hell had the bastard gone?
Peering up, I made out a flurry of motion where he'd been standing on the tower. He was no longer there, but I did spy a bizarre, sinuous patch of darkness floating against the intense blue of the sky. This larger than man-sized patch was by no means opaque, for the stars were visible through it.
It drifted off the rampart and came spiraling lazily down toward me. As it got closer I saw it was made up of tiny specks like dust or a thick swarm of small insects. If you didn't know where to look it was nearly invisible. Only when certain bits caught the moonlight did it become easier to see and even then one might blink and find it gone.
This extraordinary cloud came to rest a few steps from me, collected together into a rough vertical column a yard or more across, then gradually compressed until there was more solid to it than space. Eventually it turned into his face and form and held that way. Dracula looked down at me, arms behind his back like a schoolmaster, one eyebrow raised.
- Prologue Page 6
