- Prologue

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

  I returned to the fir stand by the main house and waited, hidden by the black shadows, going over in my mind all I'd said this evening. It had been rough, but now I felt I'd done the right thing by coming back. Art had been in a poorly state and now, hopefully, was past it, and I'd kept my pledge to Dracula, maintaining the fiction of his death. Back in Transylvania I'd promised him my silence, but hadn't been all that specific about keeping away from my friends. That was some sharp hairsplitting on my part, I know, but damn it all, I'd missed them and given the choice I'd do it the same way again.

  The lights in Art's study had been turned down. A half-hour later—I timed it by the quarter chimes of a distant church bell—I felt it safe enough to return to the house, again going in by means of the study window.

  The fire had died out and all was dim and silent but for the usual creaks of an old house. I listened most carefully and decided that Art had turned in for the night.

  Vanishing, I flowed under the study door, partially re-forming on the other side. From there I floated down the long hall, my feet inches above the floor, truly looking like a ghost, albeit one in an Inverness and cap, clutching his bag like a misplaced traveler. At the far end were stairs, which I ascended. The upper areas were servants' quarters. I meant to go higher still, but could not recall where the attic stairway was; Ring was quite huge, and Art had shown me the way only once years back on a search for some forgotten relic. I'd been impressed that so large an area topped the house and that it was unused except for storage.

  "I suppose we'll have to clean it out someday," he'd said, "but there's no need for the time being." Though the household was large, the lower floors were more than sufficient for their wants.

  Giving up on finding the stairs, I vanished fully again and drifted upward, encountering the vague resistance of the ceiling and pushing into it. Such a disturbing feeling it was to pass oneself through a solid object. I cannot say that it was pleasant or unpleasant, only that I felt better once I was done.

  Solid again, I found myself in a very dark, dusty chamber. Light filtered in by way of some narrow windows, but not much of it. The attic was divided up into a series of small rooms that opened one upon another. Long ago, servant girls made their miserable homes here, taking what rest they could in the winter cold and summer heat. I suppose they had it better than most of their class back then, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for them.

  Some of their furnishings remained along with the cast off flotsam and jetsam of the house: narrow little beds, too short for my frame and no mattresses. Those had likely been removed to keep mice from nesting within. Well, I'd had worse accommodations.

  I consulted my Bradshaw's Guide to make sure of the train schedules. Once awake, an easy walk would get me to the station in plenty of time to catch the last train for London. Excellent.

  After a little quiet searching, I found a suitable closet-like berth bereft of windows that would serve. I shut its one door and blocked it with a heavy old trunk to further insure the preservation of my privacy. Of course, I was quite without light of any kind until I fumbled out matches and a candle from one of my pockets. I'd still not yet lost my distaste for utter darkness and took much comfort from the tiny yellow flame.

  I put the candle on the trunk lid, settled in on a bare floor with the valise for a pillow, and amused myself for the remaining hours until dawn with a copy of last December's Strand Magazine borrowed from the hotel's reading room. To my delight it had a Sherlock Holmes story in it. I had ever been a great admirer of his adventures. What a bitter disappointment to discover that this, "The Final Problem," truly was final. For all the terrible things I'd been through in recent times I was quite aggrieved to read of the awful end of Sherlock Holmes. He'd gone as a hero, yet was he still gone. Unlike me, he would not be returning. I felt cheated. Damnation, but I wanted to write to that Conan Doyle fellow and give him a piece of my mind. There was no reason for it that I could see. Why did he do it?

  I still had that righteous anger, or at least irritation, in my head when I woke the next night in thick blackness. In one hand I had a match, in the other the stub of the candle. Both had remained firm within my grasp through the whole of the day, for I never moved during my rest. In an instant I'd struck the match and lighted the candle, hardly before my eyes had fully opened. Childish, I know, but let anyone waken as I did that first night with a blanket swathing his face and wolves milling around and confess himself unafraid of the dark, and I'll take my hat off to him in humble admiration.

  The house was more active at this earlier hour, but I made my escape with no one the wiser for it, using one of the attic windows. Hunger plucked at me this night, so I made my invisible way to the stables. Art had quite a collection of fine horses, including a matched pair for his carriage and several big hunters he'd brought from Ireland for the foxing season. I had to be careful, as the stable lads lived just above their charges, but it was dinner time and most were up at the house with their noses in their own kind of feedbag.

  Since that first reluctant lesson with Dracula peering over my shoulder, I'd gotten better at drawing off blood, teaching myself to be neat and fast. Most of the time the animal just didn't notice, but I'd also learned to size up which were more likely to hold for me latching onto one of their veins with my mouth. Picking out a dozing hunter I saw to my needs quicker than Dixie and got clear, feeling much refreshed for it.

  My return to London was just as uneventful, though anticipation of seeing Bertrice again made the journey seem longer. I hoped that the two busy days since the party would have softened the oddness of the fortune-telling incident in her memory. Tonight I would do my best to make her forget it—not by any hypnotic means—but by being as amusing as possible in the tale of my meeting with her brother. Perhaps that would redeem me in her eyes, and she would continue to allow me to pursue my acquaintance with her.

  After a stop at my hotel to change clothes and otherwise prepare myself, I strolled to the music hall, this time without any encounters with would-be robbers. I could hope my "suggestions" to the hapless couple to find another kind of work had taken root. At any event, they were not lurking in the alley tonight.

  With a different audience for company I watched the various entertainments again, joining in when there was a sing-along and marveling anew at the cleverness of the trained animal acts. With more appreciation than ever, I once more enjoyed the dueling scene from Hamlet and applauded until my hands stung. My, but Bertrice was wonderful to watch. This time I fully indulged myself in admiration for her legs, and all the rest of her. She cut a very trim figure, even in a doublet and waving a sword around.

  During this, I heard some derogatory whispering from a few people. Seems they didn't approve of an all-girl troupe of players. One of the men opined that he thought the lot of them were the sort of women who preferred the company of other women. I'd never heard of such a thing back in Texas—coming to England had done wonders in certain areas of my worldly education. I had given some thought to that possibility, but did not consider the notion to apply to Bertrice in particular. Her manner at the party led me to understand that she very much welcomed the company of men, she was just particular about who she allowed to get close. From the story that Wyndon Price had related, I could not blame the lady one bit for being cautious. In fact, I heartily approved of her wariness, for the world is full of knaves.

  Now, if I could but convince her I was not one of them.

  After the Hamlet scene was done, I went out and around to the stage door, there to gather with the hopeful johnnies and wait. One of them recognized me from the other night and asked how I'd fared with "Miz 'Amlet."

  I thought it was no business of his and let him know—in the politest possible terms, of course.

  "Har! 'E 'ad 'er all right!" the man crowed. He had liberally fortified himself against the cold from a flask he carried.

  "Sir, the lady is a lady and deserving of a gentleman's respect. Being drunk you seem unable
to grasp that, so I would recommend you make yourself scarce."

  "Drunk, am I?"

  "Indeed, else I should be pleased to defend the lady's honor by punching your nose out the other side of your face for your insult. As you are in no condition to defend yourself, I will allow you a chance to leave."

  "Damn Yankee toff!"

  I expected a set-to, having met his type countless times before in my travels. The fighting words are always the same no matter what the language, and a fool is always a fool no matter what the country. This one charged forward ready to grapple, but I easily stepped to the side so all he encountered was the unforgiving brick wall of the theater. He turned in time to avoid smashing his face, but his shoulder hit hard. That put him in an even more unpleasant humor.

  A few of his comrades then decided to help him out. Things got very warm and busy for the next few minutes as we traded swings and blows. There was a shrill whistling somewhere above us by the backstage door.

  I kicked a backside, put a fist into a belly, and sent my original attacker reeling toward the alley entrance—straight into the arms of a very large, red-faced constable.

  " 'Er, now! Wot's all this then?" he demanded, though it was very obvious what was going on. Holding his captive by the scruff of his neck like a cat with a kitten, he glared at me as a possible source of the trouble. The rest of the johnnies broke off their fighting.

  I quickly put my clothing in order and retrieved my hat from where it had fallen. "It's nothing, officer, just a little roughhousing and high spirits."

  He gave a mighty sniff of his man. "Hit's spirits, roit enuff. I fink you'd best come along wif me, sir, an' we'll sort it out at the station."

  The unfairness stung. "But I cannot leave, I'm waiting for someone!"

  "You may wait at the station, come along naow."

  I looked around for support, but the johnnies had all fled. Only the doorman remained, still clutching the whistle he'd used to summon the law. I appealed to him. "Sir, tell this officer that the fight was none of my doing."

  "Would if I could, but I didn't see 'ow it started, only 'ow it ended."

  Damnation. "I was here just the other night. Miss Wood will vouch for me."

  "I'll let 'er know where you are, then. 'Ave a good e'n." And he went back inside the theater, apparently having forgotten the consideration he'd originally collected from me or that I could be the source for more of the same.

  "Roit along, sir," said the constable, pleasantly. "This way."

  "Very well." I sighed and went quietly, biding my time until we reached the sidewalk and were under a gaslight. "There's just one thing, officer…"

  "Naow nonsense, sir."

  "Of course not, but I seem to have something in my eye. Please have a look, as it is paining me."

  Being no fool, he must have sensed I was up to no good, for he dropped one hand to the truncheon on his belt, perhaps anticipating a physical attack.

  "I must ask that you listen to me for just a moment…" I began, staring hard to reach his mind. As he was stony sober and I was annoyed, this did not take long. The slight pain between my eyes was nothing to the satisfaction I got when he marched onward with no memory of me at all, only his oblivious, drunken captive in tow.

  My satisfaction lasted until I turned toward the music hall and all but collided with Bertrice. She was in her walking clothes, her cape thrown over one shoulder as though she'd not had time to put it on. She held a furled umbrella ready in her hand like her stage sword. "Mr. Morris," she said, guardedly. "How nice to see you again. What was your business with that constable?"

  She was back to using my last name again. Drat. "Just a minor misunderstanding." How long had she been there? How much had she seen?

  "He was cooperating with you most wonderfully. Hanging on your every word, in fact."

  "I can be persuasive when necessary, miss."

  "Above and beyond the call of necessity, it would seem."

  "It's nothing."

  "If you say so. The doorman said I'd be in court all night because of you, so I came to the rescue. How nice that you took care of things yourself."

  She was willing to rescue me? My heart lifted. "I appreciate your willingness to help, Miss Bertrice. May I thank you by offering you a late dinner?"

  "Yes," she said after a moment of watching the still-retreating officer. She handed me her umbrella for a moment as she unshouldered her cape and gracefully wrapped up in it. "You may."

  She knew of a nearby pub that catered to the theatrical crowd and guided us there. Several of her cronies from the hall had already taken it over and tossed familial greetings at her while giving me a look-see as we picked out a table. It was a big, jostling, friendly place, but seemed to have no separate area for ladies, and I remarked on it to her.

  "They do during the day, when ladies are out and about, but at this hour there's little point," she said. "Those of us in the business, for the most part, are all one together, male and female. This pub understands that and allows for it, though many may see our innocent camaraderie as scandalous. Those on the outside don't always understand and make assumptions that theaters are dens of iniquity. Some of them are, I'm sure, but I've yet to encounter one. As with any little society it is the sins of a few outstanding failures who paint the picture for the rest of us. Hence we have the larger world assuming that all actors are drunken buffoons and all actresses are prostitutes."

  "I've never thought that."

  "I'm glad to hear it. You can imagine that having such a stigma attached to this profession causes its members to become even more insular to themselves, thus increasing the mystery, thus increasing the dark rumors. The more one denies them, the more people believe them to be true. Yet for all that condemnation, the crowds still come to see us perform."

  "Hopefully the experience will enrich them. I certainly felt such again tonight. You were in fine form up there, if you don't mind hearing me say so."

  "One never grows tired of sincere praise."

  I was about to heap on more of it for her, but a waiter came to take our order. Bertrice asked for sausages, eggs, and an ale. I settled for a half pint of the latter.

  "You're not hungry?" she asked.

  "I ate earlier." The stink of cooked food was bad, but if I kept her talking then I had no need to breathe. "Have the shows been going well for you?"

  "Very well, indeed. No one threw rotten vegetables at us, and the catcalls were not so loud that we couldn't speak our lines over them. But never mind that, tell me about Arthur. How did your Lazarus impersonation go over?"

  I narrated a highly expurgated version of the truth, adding in as much humorous comment as I could, wishing to lighten what had been a most serious situation. "He was in quite a state, and it would be hard to say which of us was the more shaken, him seeing me again or me rushing to catch him before he fainted."

  "He fainted?" This alarmed her.

  "Not quite, but he was dozy for a moment or two from the shock. Poor fellow thought me to be a ghost for awhile, but a little brandy and pinching on my arm put him right again soon enough."

  "Good. How I wish I could have been there. Arthur's a strong man, but lately I've been worried for his health. He's not been the same since… since last summer."

  "No one of us has been. It was a terrible ordeal."

  "I didn't know Lucy all that well, but she struck me as being a very sweet, loving girl."

  "She was that and more."

  "Just what did take her away? Arthur never said anything specific."

  I hesitated, not knowing how much to relate. "Jack Seward said it was some kind of pernicious anemia. He dressed it up in a lot of medical words, but I think it had something to do with her blood not being right. You'll have to get him to explain it properly."

  "I will. You never told me the circumstances of how he and Dr. Seward came to think you were dead in the first place."

  The waiter brought our ales just then and offered her and then me a curi
ous stare before hastening away.

  "We were on a hunting trip—"

  "Where?"

  "Transylvania."

  "Where on earth is that?"

  "Eastern side of Europe; it's pretty out of the way."

  "Sounds it. What were you hunting?"

  "Wolves."

  "Did you shoot any?"

  "We took one big fellow before being attacked by some local bandits."

  "What? Arthur in the middle of a fight?"

  Damn, perhaps I should have expurgated this story as well, even if it was made up. "We were all in the middle of it, but the size of our party told in our favor and the bandits soon retreated. I fear I got caught up in the excitement and gave chase when I should have stayed with the rest. We became so far separated that I lost my way. Then—and I hate to admit it as I regard myself as a good rider—my horse threw me."

  "Heavens."

  "That's what I think happened. I'm sure I struck my head when I landed, my memory is very thin on that part. I woke at night, stiff and cold and surrounded by wolves."

  Her eyes went wide. "You're joking! Wolves?"

  "The very pack we were hunting. They had a mind to return the favor upon my person, but I managed to fight them off, then this old hermit came to my rescue…"

  From that point my story was the same as the one I'd given her brother, but without the vampire element. Bertrice was hard pressed to believe any of it, which said a lot to me about her sharpness of perception. I wouldn't have easily believed me, either, but the truth was much too fantastical.

  "Well, Art and Jack found my horse running loose, but not me. They spent more than a month scouring the area for sign of me or my body, and had I been there to be found I might be telling you a different story now. But the hermit's lodgings were some miles distance, and I'd gotten feverish, so we none of us ever hooked up. Assuming the bandits or the wolves had killed me they went home—for which I don't blame them one bit, as I'd have done the same. It was the worst of the winter by then and they were close to perishing themselves from the cold. By the time I got back to civilization I was surprised to discover I'd been declared dead by my friends. I didn't know if I should be horrified or laugh my head off."