- Prologue

by Quincy Morris, Vampire (BAEN) (v5. 0)

  Jack got Art in the hut, and I went solid, pressing close to one of the larger chinks for a look within. It was as primitive as could be expected, being a single bare room. The only beds were their sleeping rolls, the only comforts the supplies they'd brought and the blaze in the small fireplace. The sight of my two dearest friends settling in brought sharply back the memory of a hundred other nights when we three had made camp in similar rough places. Their being here gladdened my heart beyond measure, at the same time tearing it in two, for I longed to join them, to let them know I was all right.

  Impossible, of course.

  Jack got Arthur's coat off for a look at the injured arm, but the span of my view within was limited, and I could not hear them so well with the wind playing up. Chewing my lip for a second to think it through, I decided to take the chance. I vanished, located the chink, and flowed inside.

  What a relief not to have to fight to hold myself in one place. Until I was out of the wind I'd not appreciated how strong it had gotten. They were not the only ones needing shelter. I felt my sightless way to a far corner by the ceiling, held there, and listened. My need to hear their voices far overwhelmed any shred of caution left to me. I had to find out if Art was all right. After a moment, I (figuratively) breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Nothing broken, just a bad bruising," Jack pronounced. "You can thank God for the thickness of your coat sleeve, for that's the only thing torn. If he'd bitten though… well, you need not worry about rabies, my foolish friend."

  "Rabies?" Art queried in a rather flat voice. He sounded used up and little wonder.

  "Indeed. No normal wild animal would attack a man, so it may well have been mad. There's a course of treatment for hydrophobia, but it's not at all pleasant, so thank God again that you've been spared."

  "I do, but what if it had been one of those damned vampires? They can change themselves to wolves, can't they? So—"

  "The professor said they were all destroyed, and we've no reason to believe otherwise. He told me he went through every room of the castle and sterilized it. Except for you shooting everything in the countryside, all has been perfectly quiet since, has it not? Here, have a sip of this and steady yourself. You're in sore need of rest."

  Arthur was quiet for sufficient time to have a drink. When he spoke again, he sounded stronger. "I bagged another one of the brutes, at least," he announced. "Here's a fresh tail for our collection."

  "A round half dozen, then. Excellent."

  "It's a start."

  "So you've been saying."

  "I warned you. I said I'd not stop until the whole cursed pack was dead, even if it took all winter."

  "As well it might. I hardly need point out to you that this is the first sighting you've had of any quarry for some time now."

  "They're not stupid animals, Jack. Even if they aren't one of those damned monsters in disguise they've more intelligence than you give them credit for. That's the other reason why I went out at night."

  "Meaning they were purposely hiding from us during the day?" Jack sounded skeptical.

  "Yes! If you'd done more hunting you'd see it, too."

  "What you see as cleverness probably has more to do with instinct than intellect. They know there's another predator in the area and are avoiding you."

  "I tell you they understand more than they should. It's not natural. There's something about them, about this whole country that's not right, else we'd have found some sign of poor Quincey by now, but there's been nothing. Not one bone, not even a scrap of clothing."

  "There's been plenty of snowfalls since that night. He's probably long covered."

  "God, if only I'd stayed awake. To think of him lying abandoned and graveless—"

  "Then don't. My comfort is thinking some peasant found him—or will find him—and do the decent thing. This place is so backward, we may never hear of it, but it will happen."

  Art made a sort of refined snort, indication that he had little confidence in such chance. "Damned wolves. The one that attacked me was lying in wait. He'd buried himself in a drift of snow and—"

  "What?"

  Arthur found it necessary to provide full details of what had befallen him. Despite such earnestness, Dr. Jack Seward was reluctant to come around.

  "You see it one way, I another," he said after some little discussion over the behavior of the wolf. "Did it not occur to you that the beast might have curled up under the snow to keep warm and you stepped on it while it slept?"

  "That's not what happened! If I'd merely trod on it I should have known. I'm telling you the bloody thing waited and then came right up at me!"

  "But it broke off and ran, which is what one might expect of an animal."

  "No—there was something else as well. I heard a man shouting at the same time. Only when he yelled did the thing stop its attack."

  "You're sure? You heard someone? Who?"

  Art groaned. "That's the madness of it. My God, Jack, it was Quincey!"

  Silence. For quite a long moment.

  "You don't believe me?" Art demanded.

  "I believe you heard a man shouting. But it had to be a peasant or some passing Gypsy."

  "Shouting in English?"

  "Really, Arthur!"

  "Yes, really! I swear it. I can still hear his voice, and it was Quincey bellowing away in that unfortunate Texan accent of his."

  "Arthur…"

  "What? I'm not one of your pet lunatics, so don't give me that look."

  "My dear fellow, I apologize for the look, but you can hardly blame me for it. Just listen to yourself."

  A heavy sigh. "I know what I must sound like but it is the truth, I swear. Believe or not, as you please."

  "Look, old man, you've had a nasty physical shock, and you're very tired, and I know for a fact that lack of sleep distorts one's perceptions."

  "I'm not inventing this. I heard Quincey."

  "And it could have been wishful thinking."

  "Pah!"

  Some moments went by, then: "Art, I miss him, too," Jack said in a much-subdued tone.

  I gave a groan myself, silent, of course. It took all my resolve not to materialize right then and there before them in a foolish attempt to cure their grief and my own as well.

  "Shall we have a drink to him?" suggested Art, his own tone much quieter now.

  "Yes. Absolutely."

  They made a simple toast to me, which I found powerfully affecting for its very restraint. With them being British and all, the less spoken the greater the meaning. Though nothing had been settled between them about what Art had heard, they'd found something to agree on and would hopefully leave it at that.

  Jack the physican was still one for practicality, though. "You were very lucky tonight on many things, but I must insist you not repeat this hunting after dark ever again," he said.

  "I'm no child."

  "But you are being infernally discourteous. When that shot woke me and I saw you'd gone, I didn't know what to think and hardly dared to try. I can understand you being restless, but please have the decency to inform me of your intent and spare me undue worry."

  "There's nothing hereabouts to cause concern—or so you insist."

  "Nothing out of the ordinary, I'm sure, but mad wolves aside, those Szgany villains are doubtless still in the area and might harbor objections to our presence. After the fight we gave them I rather think they'd want to pay us back."

  "Humph. They're the ones who owe us after what they did to poor Quincey. They're probably far away from here because of it. Believe me, were I to catch sight of any one of those murdering swine I'd serve him the same as I did this wolf."

  "You don't mean that," said Jack, sounding shocked.

  Art fell silent, giving me to understand that he did mean it. While deeply moved by this declaration I was also quite appalled. Not for the world would I want my friend to have the deaths of others on his conscience resulting from his intent to avenge my demise. Something would have to be done, but I had n
o idea what.

  "Let's get some sleep, Arthur—"

  "And things will look different in the morning?"

  "I should hope so."

  "Nothing will change for me."

  "No, but after some rest we'll both feel improved. Trust me, I am well trained on this."

  "Yes, from those lunatics under your care. Were that true, then a bit of sleep would fix them up nicely and you'd lose your position."

  "You're being unkind, which I forgive because the mangling you got has put you in a temper. In any case, I should be delighted if all my patients woke up restored. It would make my reputation in the field and be worth the loss of custom."

  "Certainly there's no end of mad people in the world," Art grumbled. "I'm sure your asylum would fill itself again in no time."

  This comment made Jack chuckle. "To sleep with you. I'll build the fire up. Damn me, but I think it's gotten colder."

  "It is colder. Hear how the wind howls. Like those damned wolves."

  I listened as best I could, then slipped outside and made myself solid again to hear better. My fears were thankfully for naught, for it was indeed only the wind and not wolves behind all the noise. The idea that Dracula had rounded up his pack to make some kind of assault on my friends had stabbed through my mind, but the absurdity of the notion soon asserted itself. He had no need to resort to anything like that so long as this storm continued to build.

  The snow fell so thickly I could see no farther than a dozen feet. The wind drove it hard into my eyes and soon my face was coated white, forcing me to constantly brush it clean. I'd survived blizzards in my time, but this one promised to be worse than anything even Siberia had thrown at me. Van Helsing once said Dracula could command the weather, and I had the growing conviction that my missing host was behind this particular event.

  If so, then Jack and Arthur stood little chance of surviving without help.

  * * *

  As they seemed to be all right for the present I made my way back to the castle, first following the fading tracks of my friends, then soon picking up my own. By the time I reached the point where I'd found the wolf's carcass nearly every trace was obliterated by snow, but from here I knew what direction to take to return.

  It was something of a startlement, though, to discover the carcass was quite gone.

  One set of faint tracks—of the two-legged variety—led away from the spot. I guessed that Dracula had retrieved the body, for what purpose I could hardly conjecture. A talk with him about this night's events was necessary; I might ask him then. The prospect of a showdown held no appeal for I knew he'd still be furious, but there was little point to postponement. I trudged in his wake, hoping to reach his destination before fresh snow filled in all trace of his passing. He'd headed straight back to the castle, but veered around its rocky base in a direction I'd not gone before.

  This new path finally led to a very narrow opening, easily missed if one were not aware of it—or close on the trail of another who was familiar with the area. A vertical slab of rough stone, looking to be a normal part of the mountain, thrust out at a shallow angle in such a way as to appear to be haphazard rubble fallen from above. His tracks went right instead of left, bending toward the base rather than going around the outer side along the path. The stone acted as a massive shield to what appeared to be a natural cleft no more than a few feet deep and of no particular interest. I knew better than to trust such semblances around a structure of this age. Its ancient builders would have left nothing overlooked in the design of this fortress, and I pressed through, gratified to find I was correct in my suspicions. A sharp turn into a forbidding shadow revealed a narrow doorway and tunnel driving up into the mountain.

  It might have once served as a secret escape route during a siege. The cramped passage zigged and zagged as it climbed, cutting off all outside light. I had no liking for blundering about in the dark and resorted to partially vanishing to spare my toes and shins. Feeling my way forward in this manner was only slightly less nerve-wracking. The familiar gray that my eyes could yet perceive in this form was now a profound and unrelieved black and so disorienting that I traveled close to the ground lest I lose all sense of what was up or down.

  Again was I reminded of swimming in a murky pool, though I hadn't much experience at that since deep bodies of water of any kind are unknown in the part of Texas where I was raised. A trip to Galveston in my youth had given my pa the opportunity to provide me with that quick, unforgettable swimming lesson, but the green ocean was bright as a ballroom compared to this.

  It occurred to me that it would be better to retrace my route and wait in the library for my host's return. Dracula might be as determined to speak with me as I with him. On the other hand, I had no way of knowing when he would turn up or whether he was finished with my friends for the night. If he took it into his head to seek them out again, then I was their only protection.

  For what it was worth.

  I could guard them after dark, but during the day…

  They would still have their crucifixes with them, of that I was sure. As we'd all had ample proof of their effect against the Un-Dead—or at least Dracula's particular breed of Un-Dead—Art and Jack would hold fast to such defenses, even if the danger seemed past. For all they'd been through it would likely be a habit they'd retain for the rest of their lives; such would have been my intent had I not been so abruptly cut from the herd by a Szgany knife.

  Of course, if he did not go himself, Dracula had servants who could ignore the cross to carry out their master's orders. Perhaps they were not armed with modern Winchesters, but a few had long rifles that were just as deadly given the right circumstances. But those were hardly necessary. One man sneaking up on the hut with a burning brand could set the poor structure afire in mere seconds.

  With that terrible thought I decided I had entirely too much imagination and it was downright gruesome. Maybe the atmosphere of this place had gotten to me after all. No matter, I would speak to Dracula before the night was finished and try to head off further trouble.

  The tunnel gradually leveled and widened, so I paused, allowing myself to become solid again. All was as black as before; I concentrated on listening. Naught came to me but a faint unidentifiable noise that might have been some trick of the wind except for the air being wholly still. I sniffed and determined that it was quite stale, being musty from bat droppings and the stench of old rot, indication that I was close to the tombs if not there already. I recognized it instantly from my initial visit that first waking night; it is not the sort of fetor one forgets.

  Again, that faint sound came to me, like the catching of a breath. It lay ahead somewhere… in that unknown darkness.

  Though part of the dread ranks of the Un-Dead I felt an awful chill settling over my whole being that had nothing to do with winter weather. This was the kind of basic fear that few ever really leave behind with their childhood. For me it was like my sunset wakings in that tower room, only a hundred times worse. There I knew where light might be found and should that fail I could always rush to open the door and seek escape from my inner terrors that way.

  No such luxury here. I was in unrelieved blackness surrounded by the dead, the true dead. Little matter they were all gone to dust, their essence remained behind. Harker had sensed them, and now it was my turn.

  My body, giving in to unvoiced desires, vanished away. I took foolish comfort for a few moments, before wondering if I might not now be even more vulnerable to whatever lay invisible about me. If I could float about like a wraith, could not a real ghost be able to…

  To what? I finally asked myself in a surprisingly steady inner voice.

  No answer presented itself, indication that I'd finally reached the limit of my idiocy.

  I was in a dark tunnel, nothing more, and just because vampires existed was no reason to think the same was true for ghosts. And before my fear could make any argument against that point, I pressed forward.

  My hearing was mu
ffled, so if the sound repeated I did not notice. The way ahead occasionally rose, but remained more or less straight. Once I encountered a second opening to the left and farther down another to the right, but ignored them for the main path. After awhile I worked up sufficient courage to go solid again.

  It was better this time. I perceived some extremely welcome light. The glow was far away and very faint, being a mere reflection off a turn in the walls ahead. As an ordinary man I'd have missed it. Now I rushed forward, eager as a dying sinner about to grasp unexpected salvation.

  That is, I rushed for all of two steps before my shins caught against something hard and nearly sent me flying head over heels. A rock or a sarcophagus, it mattered not, and I didn't care to know, anyway. Before coming to grief I vanished once more and was spared a hard, noisy landing. When I stopped tumbling about, I gradually solidified to the point where I could see the light again and drifted toward it at a more dignified pace and in a much safer form.

  It grew brighter with each turn until I knew one more would put me upon its source, so I slowed, curious as to what lay ahead, but not averse to caution. Going solid only at the last, I peered around the final corner and beheld that the tunnel opened into a proper chamber, very wide and long and low of ceiling. Stone columns supported the roof and were thick enough to hold up the whole of the castle above. The floor had been more or less leveled and smoothed, but was cluttered with many different kinds of funerary boxes, some of wood and rotted away, the pitiful bones within visible, other boxes of stone, both broken and whole. This was obviously another part of Dracula's family vault, and it had been well-filled over the centuries.

  The death stench was thick enough to cut; I was glad of having no need to breathe.

  A single candle that made more shadow than light rested on the end of a stone sarcophagus. Seated on the other end was Dracula. He was turned away from me and huddled over something in his lap. I couldn't make it out for a moment, then with a shock realized he held the body of the dead wolf—not merely held, but cradled it, gently, as a mother might enfold her sick child in her arms.