- Prologue

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

Bertrice smiled, arching an eyebrow. "You tell me."

  They both laughed; evidently this was an old joke for them.

  "Sholenka, what can you tell us about this fellow?" Burce nodded in my direction.

  "My dear man, I'm not one of those automaton machines at the seaside that points to slogans for a penny. At least introduce us."

  Burce did so. Her name was Shola Vyvial; she was also an actress, and everyone called her Sholenka.

  "Russian?" I asked, after giving her a proper greeting.

  "Czech," she replied. "A long time ago for the family. You, I perceive, are from America."

  "She's amazing," said Burce to the audience, all pleased confidence.

  "I've an ear for accents, you silly drunkard."

  He pretended offense. "And you are a fraud."

  "Of course I am, aren't we all?"

  Laughter from the crowd as she shuffled her strange, oversized cards. "Would you like your fortune told, Mr. Quinn?"

  "I don't rightly know, miss. Seems to me that the future is best when left as a surprise."

  "What a refreshing opinion. There are many here who would fanatically disagree with you." She put down her deck and smiled at the man in the crusading gear. Damn, if that sword on his hip wasn't real, and it had the look of an antique. "Lord Richard, you may become scarce now, your success is assured for many years to come."

  The tall man vacated the chair, pausing to bow over her hand and brush his lips against her fingertips. "It's been a pleasure. I am ever your servant, lady." He straightened and paused, his gaze fastening on me as though in recognition.

  I tried to place him, but was fairly certain he was a stranger. Still, I was glad of my mask.

  Burce stepped in. "Lord Richard d'Orleans, Mr. Quincey P. Quinn, an American businessman, if you will allow me to commit a tautology. I've yet to meet an American who was not a dedicated entrepreneur."

  "An honor, Mr. Quinn," said d'Orleans as we shook hands. He had the most remarkable piercing blue eyes, and I got the feeling that should we ever meet again, he'd remember me despite my mask. "Welcome to the circle, young one."

  "Sir?" I didn't quite understand what he meant.

  "You are wise not to be overly curious about the future," he continued, as if he'd not heard. "It's a dangerous place. Even for us."

  He didn't explain that cryptic statement, either, and moved off. He had a walk like a panther. Bertrice, along with all the other women in the room, marked his progress until he was gone from sight.

  "What was that about?" I asked no one in particular.

  "Who knows?" said Burce. "He sometimes mutters the most fascinating nonsense. Abandon all hope, ye who banter here."

  "Eric, you're an evil man," said Sholenka.

  "I adore you, too, witch."

  "Please take the chair, Mr. Quinn."

  I spared a glance at the others present. "You've plenty here waiting ahead of me."

  "Nonsense, Eric wants me to look you over."

  "Uh…"

  "Oh, nothing untoward, Mr. Quinn. It's not that sort of party, leastwise not in this room. Now remove your mask and put down your drink."

  Setting the still-full champagne glass to one side, I stuffed the attempted disguise into my pocket. She stared long into my eyes. I didn't know what to expect. In my travels I'd encountered a number of native fortune-tellers, shamans, and what-not. I won't say if I believed or disbelieved any of their doings, but understood that it was always wise to respect them.

  Sholenka's expression went all puzzled.

  "Something wrong?" I asked.

  She gave no reply and began shuffling the cards. "Cut them," she ordered.

  I did so.

  She then cut them herself in to six short piles. She turned the first two cards over, her mouth drawing into a serious line. "Three of Swords and the Five of Cups are in your past. You've known terrible sorrow. A very sharp grief, perhaps from an unexpected death."

  I felt my belly give a sickening twist. Bertrice, who stood just behind Sholenka, frowned at me as though thinking this might be a bad idea. Obviously she'd known that, like her brother and Jack Seward, I had also proposed to Lucy Westenra and endured the pain of her loss. I couldn't help but stare at the card showing a heart pierced by three swords, one for each of us. Unbidden to my mind came the terrible image of Lucy thrashing and shrieking in her coffin as Art drove the stake into her. Her heart. I'd stood by with Jack and Van Helsing, reading the prayer for the dead.

  Dear God, what had we done?

  What terrible irony lay before me on the table. "Those pictures't-tell you that?"

  She made no reply and turned over two more cards. "The Tower of Destruction and Strength. You've recently known sudden, dire transformation, or a collapse of something in your life, but you weathered it. It has made you better and stronger."

  A chill seized my spine, as though a breath of winter straight from Transylvania had invaded the room and sought me out. Was she also a reader of minds?

  "The last two are your future. Do you want to see them?"

  Dry-mouthed, I nodded.

  "The Moon. Beware of deception, either deceiving yourself or believing lies from others."

  Well, that was ever a good idea.

  The last card. She shifted in her seat, uneasy. "The Fool, reversed."

  "What's it mean?"

  "You must beware of a risk or of taking risks."

  "I always try."

  "You don't understand. Four of these six cards are of the Major Arcana. That means there are very powerful forces at work around you. This is no ordinary warning to be cautious. Deception and risk could truly be in your future."

  "That possibility holds for us all, ma'am."

  "One last card," she said. "You must turn it yourself. Cut it from any of the six stacks before you."

  "Does it matter which one?"

  "No. Let your feelings guide you."

  My feelings were that of puzzlement and fearful dread. She'd bulls-eyed too much already for my comfort, but I could not bring myself to stop. I chose from the thickest deck of those remaining, cutting and turning as she had done.

  A little murmur went through the crowd. The card needed no interpretation for me, depicting as it did a skeleton with a scythe cutting away at the tiny figures of people.

  "The death card," said Lord Burce.

  "Major Arcana, five out of seven," Bertrice muttered.

  "This isn't exactly cheering, is it?" I asked.

  Sholenka recovered from her own disconcertion. "This doesn't always symbolize a physical death. It can mean change, like the death of a way of life, the passing from the old to the new. These first two cards indicate that a physical death has already occurred and is behind you. These others are only warning you to either be cautious or to prepare yourself for the change to come."

  From the reaction of the others, I wasn't so sure. It seemed to me that she was trying to ease the bad news so as not to scare me. "I fear I am no wiser for the warning. Is there any way you might be more clear about just what the change might be?"

  Bertrice had watched the exchange with great interest. "Shola, he's all worried now, and who can blame him? Mr. Quinn, perhaps you'd best not attach too much importance to this. Think of them as nothing more than bits of pasteboard with pictures that tell a story with no end."

  Sholenka smiled sympathetically. "The cards can be vague at times. I'm sorry if I've upset you."

  And here I thought I had been covering it up well. "I confess that I am greatly stirred around for not knowing the nature of what may lie ahead."

  She nodded. "All right, there might be a way of getting a hint. Let me see your hands."

  For an instant I recalled that moment in the stony wilderness when Dracula made the same request. I extended my hands toward her, palms up on the table. She took them in both of hers. For a moment she only studied the lines.

  "You've lived very deeply, an intense life, but there's a sudden break in its flow. There
's a resumption here, but it's very strange… I don't quite see what… oh, God!"

  She released me as though my touch burned her.

  "What is that?" she demanded. She stood up so quick her chair fell over. She backed away, staring at me. "What are you?"

  "Miss?"

  Sholenka's eyelids were peeled wide and her expression was wild. "You're here and beyond. It's black with death!"

  The others gaped at her, then at me. I didn't know what to think or do. She'd gone plumb crazy.

  "The colors, like an empty grave," she went on. She grabbed up her cards, shaking so much she could hardly hold onto anything. "A swirling pit of fire, black fire under the moon!"

  Burce stepped next to her. "Shola? Control yourself! It's all right."

  "Get me out of here!" Without waiting for him, she bolted.

  Chapter Ten

  Everyone, myself very much included, gaped at her as she retreated, wailing, with Lord Burce trying to catch up. No one moved for a long moment.

  I was stunned as you can get and still be awake. I didn't know what to think.

  It seemed best to stay put, though I was well aware of all the people starting to turn their shocked attention on me, particularly Bertrice. I felt just about the same as they must, but more of it. How had Sholenka picked up on my being a vampire? There was no other explanation for her pitching such a fit. I looked at my hands, but they were the same as ever. Not in the least like Dracula's. Now if she'd acted that way over him it would make sense. Given the right circumstances, he could set most anyone off like a box of dynamite.

  "What's wrong with her? What did she see?" several asked, peering at me, suspicious. The good humor filling the room moments before had quite vanished. I could tell they were blaming me for it, too.

  "Excuse us, ladies, gentlemen." Bertrice seized my arm. We made an ignominious retreat. People in our path got out of the way. As we left the dim room, I heard them starting to talk.

  Bertrice didn't stop until we were nearly to the foyer, then rounded on me. "What the devil was that about?" she demanded.

  By now I was fairly shaken too, like descending a staircase too quick and finding there's one less step than you expected. "Blamed if I know. Was she joshin' me with an act?"

  "Shola is a very steady sort. She saves the hysterics for the stage, and she's not that good at them. That was real fear. Why was she babbling about death and graves?"

  I shook my head, very troubled and uncomfortable. "I can't say. That was the dam—well, I've never seen anything to beat her. I'd apologize, but I don't think she'd welcome it."

  "Maybe I should go see her."

  Wyndon Price, drawn by the commotion, rushed past, holding the skirts of his ball gown high. He did not notice us.

  "Seems to me things are under control. Or will be," I said. I wanted to get clear of this homestead before Sholenka talked too much more. "They'll likely give her smelling salts and brandy, and she'll be right as rain."

  "I hope so." Bertrice's eyes went narrow. "What did she see about you?"

  I spread my hands. "I couldn't say that either."

  "Really?" She expected an answer, one I dared not give.

  "Maybe I should be heading out, if you don't mind. Seems like my continuing to be here might spoil things for some, and I wouldn't want to do that."

  She seemed about to ask me more, then swallowed it back. "What an excellent idea. I'll go as well."

  "Please don't deprive yourself of staying on my account."

  "It's for me. I've said hello to those who needed it, eaten a good meal, and know when to make a proper exit. What a surprising evening this turned out to be."

  I could wholly agree with her. Damnation, but why did it have to end this way?

  * * *

  Bertrice found another guest who was also about to leave and skillfully arranged a ride for us in his four-wheeler. He was tottery from drink and dozed on his bench, while she and I sat opposite and made sure he didn't entirely fall off. I wondered why she did not maintain a carriage in town for herself, since she could well afford it. Perhaps it would not be in keeping with her pretense as a struggling artist and actress.

  She didn't say much during the ride, and I could tell the woman was simmering herself up for something. She was likely angry that I wouldn't answer her, maybe having seen through my lie. It made for a very chilly journey.

  The driver paused at my hotel. I got out, bade Bertrice a simple goodnight with a chaste kiss on her hand. She responded with a regal nod and a piercing look. I trudged inside, weary in heart. The palm-reading incident had had a decided cooling effect on our once-easy conversation. I wondered if she'd ever want to see me again.

  Such were my glum thoughts just before dawn when, divested of my evening clothes, I sieved inside the traveling crate and settled on top of the bags of earth there. Dracula had said I could pretty much resume the same life I'd had before—with some changes. Did those changes include forsaking Bertrice?

  I very much wanted to become much better acquainted with her, but how to do that without explaining myself? I'd been warned not to trust my secret with just anyone. If I hypnotized a lady into acceptance of my condition and instructed her to keep quiet about it, then would I be fairly safe. But making so free with Bertrice just wasn't honorable. This wanted sleeping on, though simple sleep I could not achieve.

  Between one thought and the next the sun had come and gone. My only clue of its passage was a subtle feeling of having rested and a change in the sounds of activity around me. Instead of the early morning staff quietly placing the guests' cleaned boots outside doors, I heard the modest bustle and conversation of those guests going about their business. To have such excellent hearing was a mixed blessing, as I'd learned during my stay in Paris, but I'd also learned to ignore such jabbering.

  My own room was quiet, meaning it was safe for me to slip clear of the crate, which I did. The maid had been and gone, for the bed was made up. I'd taken the trouble to lie in it to make things appear normal, and that's as much as was needed here for my safekeeping. So long as I maintained such simple ruses and drew no undue attention all would be well for me. With strangers, anyway. Despite my rest, I was no closer to a decision concerning what to say to Bertrice, and it would have to wait.

  The night before I'd written a telegram to Art at Ring, instructing the hotel's night man to see to its delivery. I'd done this to assure that Art would be home when I came calling, careful to give no clue to my identity:

  "My dear friend, it's been too long since we've shared conversation. Please be home tonight after dinner that we may catch up on past adventures. I wish to surprise you, so I will sign myself only as—An Old Comrade."

  I'd wanted to intrigue him and knew this would turn the trick. If he was still feeling low, then would this spark his curiosity, hopefully in a pleasant way.

  When I had readied myself for the trip to Ring, I went downstairs to find a reply had come that afternoon, left in care of the hotel. It warmed my heart enormously.

  "Dear Old Comrade, whoever you are, you are most welcome to my home. Will be waiting. Arthur, Lord Godalming."

  * * *

  The train schedules in England being vastly more reliable than those on the Continent, I was able to board my car in the full confidence of arriving just after the dinner hour. I carried a small travel case, heavy with a quantity of the earth so necessary to my rest. There would be no return trains until the following night, so I'd have to find a place to shelter for the day. Once Art and I had had our talk, though, I was sure he would provide one for me.

  If all went well.

  It had taken Dracula an astonishingly short time to bring me around to a different way of thinking about vampires. But then I'd become one, so that did have a powerful influence over the quickness of my conversion. Art would be a tougher nut to crack, but there was a good possibility he would see reason, once I got him past the first awful hurdle. I'd decided to take the least unpleasant path and hypnoti
ze him from the start.

  It was cowardly, but I saw it as a way of sparing him from needless distress. He might eventually forgive me, for we were old friends.

  As a small salve to my conscience, I determined never to take any such liberty with Bertrice. In this instance with her brother I had a tolerable excuse, but she would ever be spared from my lack of resource. How things would unfold between us, if they were there for the unfolding, was up to the Fates, and thus I prayed that those capricious sisters would be kind to me.

  My arrival at the little station went unmarked. No one met me, which was satisfactory. If I'd wanted a carriage and driver waiting, I'd have requested it in the telegram, knowing Art would oblige and likely be there himself. That would never do.

  Valise in hand, I walked from the station to Ring, it being a half-hour's leisurely stroll away, and the countryside was pleasant—in the summer. At this time of year, though the land was strangely green from winter wet, the charms of a walk were less appealing, but the wind was not so bad, and it was not raining or cold enough for snow. My thoughts were more on the coming interview than anything else, even Bertrice.

  Art and I were as close as any two men who were not born as brothers. Even though we'd had vastly different upbringings, back in Texas we'd formed that kind of instant bond that sometimes happens between people. We thought alike on many things, disagreed on others, but respected our differences and celebrated our similarities.

  How long ago it seemed to me, those days, those years of tramping all over the world, testing ourselves against its countless obstacles and winning. It seemed as though nothing could stop us then. How changed was our world now that our view was tempered by so many sorrows, one sorrow in particular. As much as I mourned Lucy, Art had the greater grief, for he had been the one she'd chosen. I'd seen his love for her bring about a nobility of spirit in him that ran beyond the limits of his inherited title, but at what price?

  That I was about to discover.

  I passed through the great gates of the estate. They were always open, England being long past the days when such defenses were needed. A curving graveled drive led to the huge old house. It looked bleak, for the surrounding trees were bereft of their foliage except for a stand of evergreens off to the west. There I took myself, seeking their shadows.