He had thought more than once about photocopying these pages and placing the originals in a safe deposit box, but always rejected the idea. It was important that he handle this paper, that he re-read these words before going out on an investigation, especially if it promised to be difficult or dangerous. It helped remind him of what he was, and where he had come from.
He read each letter slowly. One was signed "John W. Seward, M.D." The other, written in a shaky, old man's hand, bore the signature "Abraham Van Helsing, M.D., D.Ph., D.Lit., etc."
It was these documents, along with the account given by Stoker, that had allowed the family to piece together the fate of the first Quincey Morris, who had fought and died in a place far from home.
* * * *
The Carpathian Mountains
Transylvania
Novembers, 1887
The sun was low on the horizon now, which lent greater urgency both to the pursuers and their quarry. The two parties were pushing their horses to the limit—they all knew that once that blood-red orb disappeared below the mountain peaks, continuing the chase would be futile.
The American was at the head of the pursuit. He rode hard and well, bent low over his mount's neck to decrease wind resistance and reduce the blurring of vision caused by the cold air whipping at unprotected eyeballs.
Unlike his companions, the American had some experience taking a horse into battle, although the brightly dressed gypsies up ahead bore little resemblance to the Apaches he had fought in south Texas as a young man, almost twenty years earlier.
The gypsies' cart was slowing to a halt now, under the rifles of Mina and the Professor, who had been hiding in ambush behind some rocks near the entrance to the castle. But the gypsies, although stymied, showed no inclination to surrender. Dismounting, they produced knives from within their clothing and formed a protective cordon around the cart and the large, rectangular crate that it carried.
The sun had crept lower still.
The American rode up on the scene and was out of the saddle before his mount had stopped completely. He sprinted toward the gypsies' cart, drawing the huge Bowie from its sheath on his belt. He could see Harker rushing forward from the opposite side, waving that great kukri knife of his like a scythe.
The two of them attacked without hesitation. There was no time to parley with the gypsies, even if a common language could somehow be found. There were at most a few minutes of daylight left, and then his time would be on the world again.
The American fought savagely and by instinct, which is the only way to go up against odds with any chance of survival. Slash, parry, thrust, parry, slash, feint, slash, thrust, parry, the big steel blade of the Bowie knife never still, thrust, parry, feint, slash, the left hand working as well, punching, clawing, blocking, pushing, gouging as he surged forward, forward, always forward. He knew nothing of fear, or pain, or mercy, and three gypsies lay twitching on the ground before the rest of them finally gave way before this madman, a moment after their kinsmen on the other side broke under Harker's equally desperate onslaught.
The two men clawed their way onto the cart's flat bed and immediately assaulted the nailed-down lid of the crate, the refuge and resting-place of the creature they had come so many miles to destroy.
Using their knives as levers, they tore the nails loose, wrenched off the lid and flung it aside—just as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the western sky.
He was inside, as they had known he would be, to all appearances a corpse but then, as the daylight fled over the horizon, the ancient eyes flew open, the sharp canine teeth suddenly visible as the face twisted in a triumphant smile—a smile that vanished an instant later as the blade of the Bowie slammed into the monster's heart while Harker's kukri bit deep of his throat.
The sudden blast of energy from the crate knocked the two men onto their backs, their knives clattering loose against the crude wood of the cart. A terrible sound filled the air around them, an immense bellow that somehow combined a screech of pain, a scream of fear and, strongest of all, an animal howl of rage. It lasted only a few seconds, but when the two men regained their feet and peered inside the makeshift coffin, there was nothing left but dust, a few scraps of cloth and a half-dozen gold buttons, each inscribed with a stylized letter "D."
The surviving gypsies had also observed their master's dissolution. Responding to a shouted order from their clan leader, they took to horse and fled, leaving their dead behind. As the sound of hoof beats faded into the distance, an unearthly quiet settled over this impromptu battlefield, a silence broken only by the wind and the far-off howling of wolves.
It was only then that someone noticed that the American was bleeding.
Both Seward and Van Helsing were physicians, but there was little they could do. One of the gypsy blades had found a major artery, and the hastily applied pressure bandages could not stem the flow of bright-red blood.
Mina Harker knelt beside the American, taking one of his hands in her own. She wept softly, and he turned his head toward her, probably with the intent of saying something manly and consoling. Suddenly his eyes widened. With an effort, he raised one unsteady hand, pointing at Mina's forehead. "Look!" he croaked. "It's gone! The scar…"
They looked, all of them: Harker, his hands still red from the Count's blood; Jack Seward, moustache quivering with emotion; Lord Godalming, the noble profile barely visible in the gloom; and Van Helsing, their leader, whose wise old face went from exhaustion to elation in the space of an indrawn breath.
Mina Harker's forehead, which had been scarred weeks earlier by the touch of a wafer of Holy Eucharist, was now utterly smooth. "God be praised!" Van Helsing said reverently. "Her brow is rendered clean as the virgin snow—the curse is lifted, by the death of the Devil that inflicted it!"
One by one, the men knelt on the ground, in respect for the miracle they had just witnessed.
It was sometime during that interval that Quincey Morris, of Laredo, Texas and many points east, lay back, closed his eyes, and quietly died.
Some time later, they loaded Morris's body onto the back of the cart that the gypsies had abandoned. "Should we put him in the coffin, Professor?" Godalming asked.
Van Helsing shook his head adamantly. "We should not the remains of our friend defile with the unholy resting-place of such foulness. He deserve better of us, I think."
In the end, they took coats and jackets from several dead gypsies and fashioned them into a semblance of a shroud. The gypsies themselves they buried in a common grave. While the Harkers and Lord Godalming labored at this, Seward and Van Helsing stood off a little way, talking quietly. "We shall have to make arrangements to have Quincey's body shipped back to Texas for burial," Seward said. "He would want that, you know."
The old man nodded. "He said so to me once, years ago."
"We should telegraph his family, as well. It wouldn't do to have the coffin simply arrive there unannounced."
Van Helsing sighed. "You are quite right. I will the telegram send from Bistritz. His family must learn the news, tragic though it be. We should also write at length, each of us, so they may know the true heroic end of him who they consign to the earth."
"Both his parents are still alive, I believe."
"Yes, and one child, also."
"Child! You mean Quince was married?” Seward's voice betrayed his shock. "But… but he sought Lucy's hand, just as Godalming and I did!"
The old Dutchman laid a gentle hand on Seward's arm. "Do not have distress, friend John. Quincey was married once, true. But his wife died, in childbirth. It has been, now…" Van Helsing calculated briefly, "about four years since. So, fear not. Our American friend was a gentleman. He was free to marry Miss Lucy, if she would have him. But, as matters developed…"
"Yes, quite." Seward closed his eyes tightly for a moment. The fate of Lucy Westenra was a wound on his soul that would need a long time to heal, perhaps a lifetime. "But the baby lived, you say?"
"Yes—lived, and is
now in the care of Quincey's parents on their ranch, or so he did tell to me some months past."
Van Helsing saw that the others were done with Morris's body and preparing to leave. As the two men walked toward their horses, Seward asked, "Is Quincey's child a boy or girl? You didn't say."
"A boy. Strong and healthy, by all accounts." Van Helsing swung into the saddle. "We should pray that the son grow to be as brave and steadfast as was the father."
"Yes, we should," Seward said. "The world needs such men." They turned their horses and joined the others on the road that would take them to Bistritz, and, in time, back to England. Behind them they left nothing but a ruined castle, a few gold buttons, and a handful of rags that were already scattering in the cold, Carpathian wind.
* * * *
Morris finished reading the letters, refolded them carefully, and placed them back in their original envelopes. He put the two envelopes in the fireproof box, and locked it. Then he returned the box to the bureau drawer.
The tall Texan who had died in the shadow of Castle Dracula was the first of the Morris family to stand against the forces of darkness that forever trouble the world.
He was not the last.
Quincey Morris closed his suitcase, picked it up from the bed, and went off to catch his plane.
Chapter 3
The LaRue house certainly didn't look frightening. But then, they never do, Morris thought. The pleasant white Colonial with green and gray trim wouldn't even merit a second glance from some Hollywood production assistant out scouting locations for a new Wes Craven movie. Morris had been in a few certifiably haunted dwellings over the years, and none of them had borne the slightest resemblance to Castle Dracula—a place that Morris also knew a great deal about.
There was the house in West Pittston, Pennsylvania—the little one with the white siding. Nothing special to look at, but pure evil inside—as bad in its way as an equally nondescript place in Amityville, Long Island. And Morris had once spent an hour in a certain town house in Washington's Georgetown section. Walking through the elegant home, you'd never know that two Jesuit priests had once died there while performing an exorcism to save a little girl.
Morris had learned that evil doesn't advertise. It doesn't have to.
The fortyish blonde who answered his knock had probably been fairly attractive a few months ago, before fear and worry and sleepless nights had their way with her.
"Mrs. LaRue?"
"Yes, what is it?" she said impatiently. Clearly, she was ready to repel boarders, whether salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses, or candidates for City Council.
"My name's Quincey Morris, ma'am. You're expecting me, I hope."
For an instant she gazed at him blankly, then comprehension dawned. "Oh, you're the—I mean, yes, of course, my husband told me. Please come in."
She led Morris down a short hallway and into the living room, where her husband sat on a couch next to a dark-haired boy of about five. They were watching a video that Morris recognized. It cleverly used stop-motion animation to portray the adventures of a wacky British inventor and his long-suffering dog.
LaRue stood up at Morris's entrance and walked over to shake hands. "Glad you made it. Good to see you, I see you've met my wife Marcia."
Morris nodded. Looking at the boy he said, "And who's this handsome young fella?"
"This is my son, Tim. Say hello to Mr. Morris, Timmy."
The boy turned his pallid face toward Morris long enough to say "Hi," before returning to the TV screen. "We're watching Wallace and Gromit. Wanna watch with us?"
"Maybe later, Timmy, thanks," Morris said. "I have to talk to your folks for a while first, okay?"
"Okay." The boy's gaze did not leave the screen.
Morris turned away and was about to ask LaRue something when the boy's voice from behind him said, "Are you gonna catch the ghost?"
Morris looked back at Timmy, who continued to stare at the TV. "Do you think there is a ghost, Timmy?"
A twitch of the small shoulders. "I guess. Mom and Dad say there's one." The boy's voice was utterly lacking in effect.
Morris stepped closer to the couch. "Have you seen a ghost?" he asked gently.
"Uh-uh. It's indivisible."
"Invisible, you mean?"
Another shrug. "Yeah, I guess."
"Then how do you know there is one?"
"It does things. Bad things. It makes Mora and Dad all scared. And Sarah. She's my sister. She's always cryin' and stuff." Timmy LaRue's voice remained as empty as if he were discussing a dimly remembered comic book he'd read a year ago.
Morris took a casual-looking step to one side, so that he could see the boy's eyes straight on. "How about you, Timmy? Does it make you scared?"
"Uh-huh." Two syllables, delivered in a monotone. Morris was certain now.
Shellshock. The kid's shellshocked, or whatever they call it now—post-traumatic stress disorder. He's been so terrified that he's passed fear and come out on the other side. This goes on much longer, he'll be a basket case, probably for life.
Morris looked at the boy's too-placid face again. If he isn't already.
"If there's a ghost, I'll catch him, Timmy. I promise."
"Okay," the emotionless little voice said.
Morris walked back to the parents, who had watched this exchange with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. "I'd like you to give me a walking tour of the house, if you would," he said briskly. "Not just the rooms where the attacks have occurred, but the whole place. All right?"
"Fine, I'll do the honors," LaRue said. Looking at his wife, he said, "Do you want to…?" He made a small head movement in the direction of his son.
"Sure, I'll stay with Timmy," she said with a ghost of a smile. "We'll watch some more Wallace and Gromit together."
As the two men left the living room, Morris asked quietly, "Where's the little girl—at school?"
"That's right," LaRue told him. "She'll be home in a couple of hours."
"How is she dealing with this? Same as Timmy?"
"No, she's… jumpy. Nervous all the time. Has screaming nightmares three, four times a week." LaRue shook his head. "I don't know which is worse—watching her fall apart, a little at a time, or seeing Tim turn into a fucking zombie." LaRue's voice broke on those last two words, but he regained control quickly. Morris wondered what it was costing the big man to keep his emotions dammed up like that—and how much longer it would be before the dam burst.
They began their tour of the house.
* * * *
"What's this here?" Morris asked. They had stopped on the second floor hallway, in front of a large oak bookcase. The top of the bookcase was at eye level for Morris, and it was there, among the usual family bric-a-brac, that something had caught his attention.
LaRue looked at the small object in Morris's hand. "Oh, my mother-in-law used to make those. Said they were good luck charms, or something. We're always finding them around the house."
Morris twirled the charm in his fingers. Its base was a three-inch length of wire twisted into a figure eight—which, laid on its side, is the mystical symbol for infinity. A bit of green thread was tied around it at the center, and through this had been inserted a couple of sprigs of some kind of flora, now long dead.
Morris rubbed a tiny piece of the vegetable matter onto his index finger, then brought the finger to his mouth and licked it. Aconite, aka. wolfsbane. Well, now.
"I'd very much like to talk to your mother-in law," he told LaRue. "Does she live in the area?"
LaRue shook his head. "She used to live with us," he said. "She died four months ago."
"I'm sorry for your loss." Morris thought for a moment. "And the attacks started occurring when?"
"About three months ago," LaRue said with a sigh. He ran a hand through his untidy hair. "I know where you're going with that," he said. "It's occurred to me, too, you know. I just haven't had the guts to say it out loud."
"Say what, exactly?"
LaRue ma
de an impatient gesture. "That Greta's… ghost, spirit, whatever you want to call it, is responsible for all the shit that's been going on."
"Is that what you think?"
"Well, Christ, it's what you're thinking, isn't it?"
Morris shrugged, and said nothing.
"I mean," LaRue said, "if we're going on the assumption that all of this is being caused by some kind of spirit… and if you look at the timing, and all…"
Morris kept twirling the little charm in his fingers, watching it go round and round. Without looking up, he asked, "Was your mother-in-law on good terms with the family?"
"Yes. Yes, she was. I mean, I've heard all those jokes about mothers-in-law that people make on TV. But Greta was okay, you know? We all got along pretty well."
"Including the children?"
"Oh, yeah. She loved the kids. They loved her back, too. Her dying hit them both pretty hard—and then this other shit starts…"
"I assume she had her own room?"
"Sure, it's down the hall. Don't you want to do the rest of the tour first?"
Morris slipped the little charm into his pocket. "No, I've seen all I need to here."
* * * *
"It's all pretty much the way she left it," LaRue said. "None of us has had the heart to start packing Greta's stuff up, and we don't really need the room for anything, anyway. Besides, after the… incidents started, we all got kind of preoccupied."
"That's good to know," Morris said, looking around the spacious bedroom. There were knick-knacks and mementos all over the bureau, nightstand, and bookshelves, but nothing that drew his interest for more than a second or two. "Listen, I'm going to have to search the room. I'll handle her belongings carefully, and with respect, and I'll put everything back exactly as I found it. But it's something I've got to do. Will that upset you?"
LaRue shrugged. "I suppose not. But what are you looking for?"
"I'll let you know, if I find it."
Eight minutes later, he did.
Black Magic Woman Page 4
