Hunting Prince Dracula (Stalking Jack the Ripper Book 2)

by Kerri Maniscalco

  I sucked in a quick breath and darted over to my trunk of postmortem supplies, snatching up the largest bone saw I could find and holding it before me. What in the name of the queen—

  Scraaaaaaaaatch. It sounded as if that same something were clawing its way down the red-tiled roof. Again, an image of a strigoi assaulted my sensibilities. A humanoid creature with dead, gray flesh and black claws dripping the blood of its last meal, scraping its way to my chambers to gorge once more. Part of me wanted to dash into the corridor and scream for the guards.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart pounded double its normal beat. It was the sound of heavy treading. Whatever or whoever was on the roof was wearing thick-soled boots. Images of vampires and werewolves gave way to the more disturbing thoughts of depraved humans. Ones who had successfully murdered at least five victims.

  I backed toward my nightstand, never taking my gaze from the window, and lowered my saw to turn the dial on my oil lamp. Darkness fell, hopefully rendering me invisible to whoever was still slowly crawling down the roof.

  I waited, breath caught in terror’s grasp, and watched. At first all I saw were heavier drifts of snow falling past my window. The sounds of scraping and the heavy tread were replaced by a sort of slipping noise.

  Then it happened at once.

  A shadow blacker than coal eclipsed the snowy world outside. It shook my windowsill with tremendous force, the tiny latch barely staying in place. Fear paralyzed my limbs. Whoever was out there was seconds away from either shattering the glass or the flimsy latch.

  I hefted the saw and took a small step forward. Then another. The reverberations of the assault on the windowpane amplified my racing pulse. I came ever closer to the window, hearing the phantom picking and prodding and—cursing.

  A gloved hand pounded against the pane. I tossed the saw and moved swiftly, unlatching the window, and grabbed him as if both of our lives depended on it.

  TOWER CHAMBERS

  CAMERE DIN TURN

  BRAN CASTLE

  17 DECEMBER 1888

  “Have you completely lost your senses?”

  Thomas’s long legs wildly kicked for the edge of the roof while I gripped his overcoat with more strength than I knew I possessed. “Stop thrashing about, you’re going to lose your grip and take me with you.”

  He huffed a laugh. “What, exactly, do you suggest, Wadsworth?”

  “Pull yourself forward while I tug.”

  “How… silly… of… me to panic. While dangling… inches away… from certain death.”

  It took some maneuvering, but I managed to hook my hands underneath his arms, then used my entire body weight to fall backward, pulling him through the windowsill toward me. We crashed to the floor, causing all sorts of noise as we knocked limbs and heads.

  Snow gusted into my chambers, swirling and angry. Thomas rolled off me and lay flat on the ground, staring at the ceiling, hand clutched over his torso, panting. His black overcoat was nearly soaked through. I pushed myself up, arms shaking uncontrollably from both the adrenaline and terror still coursing through my body in wicked torrents, and shut the window.

  “What in the name of the queen were you thinking? Climbing a stone roof… during a blizzard. I…” I gripped my hands in fists to keep them from trembling in the cold. “You almost fell off the roof, Thomas.”

  “I told you I was getting ready to scale the castle.” A damp lock of hair fell across his brow as he craned his neck up. “Maybe a bit of coddling or congratulations is in order. It was rather heroic of me, setting out against all odds to break into your rooms. I needn’t be chided.”

  “‘Heroic’ is not the term I’d use.” I sighed. “And don’t be cross. It’s unbecoming.”

  Thomas sat up, that damnable crooked grin set upon his mouth. “Daci and I used to sneak out of our rooms and climb the roof when we were children. It would drive our mother absolutely mad. She’d be hosting some boring dinner in Father’s absence, and we’d spy on the nobles in attendance.” He heaved himself up from the floor, dusting his overcoat off with a few flicks of his gloved fingers. “I don’t recall any of our outings involving a blizzard, though. Minor oversight.”

  “Indeed.” I inhaled deeply. Only Thomas could do something so maddening—like practically falling to his death before my eyes—and then offer up a bit of his past to soothe my ire. “Did your mother often host events while your father was away?”

  The lightness faded from his expression. “Father hardly ever traveled with us to Bucharest. He did not believe in celebrating our accursed ancestry.” Thomas strode over to my armoire and rifled through my things. He handed me my cloak. “We ought to hurry. The storm is only beginning.”

  I was grateful for the thick stockings tucked into my boots as we trudged through the snow. It was heavy and wet, and clung to the bottom of my cloak with everything it had. In the past I had loved wintry nights. The silence that encapsulated the earth, the glittering sparkle of ice glinting in the moon’s glow. But that was while safely tucked inside my London home with a mug of tea and roaring fire, a book nestled in my lap.

  “This is where you saw them take the body, correct?”

  Thomas pointed toward the break in the woods, the slight trail at the rear of the castle’s grounds where we’d exited. I nodded, teeth clattering as snow mixed with sleet. It was a miserable night for an outdoor adventure, but we no longer had the luxury of waiting for better circumstances. If Daciana or Ileana had been taken, perhaps we’d find a clue out here—a swift check of the morgues had yielded nothing. Though how we’d find anything in the dark, with snow covering it, was seeming like an unachievable task.

  We paused near the entrance to the forest, the moonlight throwing the long, thin shadows of the trees in our direction. Talons, claws—the imagery unsettled me.

  Thomas inspected the ground on either side of the trail, his body slightly shaking as the wind picked up. “Seems undisturbed. We should be able to go in a little ways—see if we come across anything at all. Maybe look for the food stores Moldoveanu claims are out here. Then we’ll return to the castle and reenter the way we came, through the kitchens.”

  Wind whipped strands of hair from my braids, but I was too cold to untuck my hands from beneath my cloak. I was fairly certain this was the coldest night ever known to the world. When I didn’t respond, Thomas turned. He took in the tears slipping down my cheeks, the wind smacking my face with my own hair, and slowly approached. Without any innuendos or flirtation, he tucked the hair behind my ears with trembling fingers.

  “I’m sorry it’s so miserable out, Wadsworth. Let’s hurry and get back indoors.”

  He made to assist me back toward the castle, but I dug my frozen heels in. “N-no. No. Let’s s-see what’s o-out there.”

  “I’m not sure—” He held his hands up in surrender as I flashed a look of determination. “If you’re positive…”

  I took in his own shivers and the redness of his nose. “Are you able to stay out here a bit more?”

  He nodded, though hesitation was there. I gathered my strength and headed into the woods, Thomas following in my wake. Boughs of snow-covered spruce hung low, doing strange things to the sound around us. It was as if someone was holding their mittens over my ears, though it also seemed as if I could hear for miles in either direction. I focused on the crunch of Thomas’s boots as he sped up to keep pace with me. Bits of snow fell in clumps, hitting the ground with a splat.

  No animal noises. Thank goodness for small favors. It was likely too cold for even the wolves to be prowling these grounds. The trail went on for what felt like miles, though it was only a few hundred feet before we came upon a fork. The path to the right appeared wider, as if someone had taken great care in chopping down saplings and brush. I imagined that was where we’d find the food stores.

  The pathway to the left, however, was overgrown with prickly-looking shrubbery. Thorns and sharp leaves posed a warning to anyone considering taking it. I choked down the urge to fl
ee in the opposite direction. That familiar feeling of being watched by someone ancient and menacing pierced the area between my shoulder blades.

  I knew Dracula wasn’t real, but his ghost certainly felt as if it were haunting these woods. The skin on the back of my neck prickled as images of strigoi, creeping through the forest, waiting to strike, emerged. I took a moment to steady my nerves. I did not have any desire to explore a passage Nature was so intent on keeping to itself. Especially at night, during a blizzard, while a real murderer was nearby. It might be cowardly, but at least we’d live to hunt another day. I motioned toward the more well-worn path, snow falling ever faster.

  “We’ll check the other way during daylight. Let’s see if the food stores are down here.” The only response was silence, punctuated by a few drifts of falling snow. I spun around, cloak whirling about me like a ballerina’s skirts. “Thomas?”

  Nothing. Everything around me remained eerily silent, save for my ringing ears. I rushed toward the path on the right, noting the single set of footprints leading down it. Blasted Cresswell. Splitting up during a blizzard in the middle of the forest was yet another winning idea of his. I quietly cursed him the entire time it took for me to kick through the snow. After a few more strides I came upon a small stone structure that sat nestled between two larger boulders. It was no more than a hut, really.

  Thomas’s footprints disappeared within. I swore I was going to give him a piece of my—

  Suddenly, he came crashing out of the building, nearly breaking its door as he slammed it shut. Before I could ask what on earth was happening, a loud snarl ripped through the quiet snowfall. A long, mournful howl followed.

  Goosebumps rose across the entire length of me as several other cries tore through the night. “Cresswell!”

  Thomas flipped around, hands still clutching the doorknob. Scratches and huffs frantically pawed at the wood, the sound terrifying in the otherwise still night. “Wadsworth—on the count of three, run!”

  There was no time to argue. Thomas counted down too quickly for me to protest. Before he called out “Three,” I was off. I had never been more thankful for leaving my skirts behind in favor of breeches as I hurtled over embankments of snow and branches.

  Thomas crashed through the woods behind me, yelling at me to not turn back, to keep running. I ignored the answering howls, though I could now hear other creatures bounding through the snow behind us. I didn’t slow. Didn’t think about how the frosted air burned my lungs as I gulped it down. I didn’t focus on the cold sweat coating my skin or the seemingly endless trail back to the castle. I most especially did not imagine wolves the size of elephants crashing through the forest behind us, ready to tear our limbs off and scatter them about.

  I wished that Moldoveanu and Dăneşti were monitoring the woods again, but we weren’t that lucky. We broke from the forest, running as fast as the elements and our bodies allowed.

  Thomas grabbed my hand, a lifeline in the storm of terror. Barks and snarls crashed from the brush, the wolves now mere feet behind. I thought my heart might seize up any moment. We were going to be attacked. There was no way we’d outrun them. We were—

  A gunshot exploded from the wood line.

  Thomas threw me to the ground, sheltering me with his body. I lifted my head over his shoulder, watching as two large wolves retreated into the woods. Every bit of me was frozen, but all I could concentrate on was the thrashing of my adrenaline. Someone had shot at the wolves. Were we next?

  Clumps of snow dotted my hair and my clothing. Thomas pushed himself off me, slowly scanning the area. I noticed the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the way he tensed for any further attack. He took my hand and helped me up. “Hurry. I don’t see anyone, but someone’s definitely out there.”

  I searched for a shadow or silhouette of the gunman. There was nothing but lingering smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder. This time when I shivered, it had nothing to do with the ice sliding down my spine. We ran toward the yellow light of the kitchens, not looking back until we were safely inside and Thomas had kicked the door shut. I collapsed against a long wooden table, barely missing a few mounds of rising dough.

  “Who do you—”

  The door banged open and a rather husky figure stomped snow from his boots, musket slung over his back. Thomas and I both grabbed for knives from the counter. The figure moved forward, oblivious to the cutlery now aimed at him. With a swift movement, his hood was tossed back. Radu blinked at us.

  “Mr. Cresswell. Miss Wadsworth.” He removed the musket from his shoulder and leaned it against a trestle table. On it sat a bowl of stew, steam still rising from its center, and a hunk of bread torn into a few pieces. “I warned you about the woods. Hmm?” Radu pulled a stool out and sat, tucking into his late-night meal. “Run along back to your chambers. If Moldoveanu discovers you’ve left the castle, you’ll wish the wolves had gotten to you first. Dangerous. Very dangerous what you did. Pricolici everywhere.”

  Thomas and I didn’t so much as exchange a glance as we apologized and ran for the door.

  Post-mortem kit, c. 1800s.

  PERCY’S SURGICAL THEATER

  AMFITEATRUL DE CHIRURGIE AL LUI PERCY

  BRAN CASTLE

  21 DECEMBER 1888

  “I will be leading today’s lesson in place of Professor Percy.” Moldoveanu pointed up at the Bianchi twins. “If you’d still like to perform this task, I suggest you come to the operating table.”

  Without further prompting, the twins rushed down to the surgical stage and took their places. Even though our academy was seemingly under attack, there was still the matter of the assessment course and those two, tantalizing seats we were all fighting for.

  Giovanni did an exceptional job creating a taut surface for his blade to slide across. His twin handed him a forensic breadknife after he’d opened up the body of the slain maid, Mariana. He carefully removed her liver, noting the same discoloration that had been present in Anastasia’s corpse. Giovanni used the long knife to shear off a sample and placed it on a slide. It seemed an awful thing for a medical tool to be called a breadknife when its purpose was to carve into specimens and not baked goods.

  Cian had offered to conduct this postmortem, but the twins insisted on doing it. Since they’d discovered the maid’s body, they’d felt a duty to assist her in death. An uneasy feeling was present in the theater with us; it was difficult to study the bloodless bodies. Having Moldoveanu lead this lesson didn’t help the heavy atmosphere. His expression was harder than usual, an added shield he wore since the discovery of his ward’s remains. I had wanted to offer condolences before class, but the threat in his gaze stayed my tongue.

  “Excellent technique.” Moldoveanu adjusted his apron. “Like the other cadavers, this one is also missing its blood, as I’m sure you all can see. Why, if you were to hazard a guess, do you believe the murderer is taking the blood?”

  Noah’s hand was the first in the air. “Local papers are saying the Impaler Lord has returned. Villagers are panicking. It’s someone who enjoys the fear, I think. Death and murder aren’t the satisfying part. It’s the hysteria surrounding them.”

  “Interesting theory. Where do you suppose they’re disposing of the blood once it’s been taken, then?”

  Noah’s brow furrowed. “There’s a river close to the village. Maybe they dump it there.”

  “Perhaps.” Moldoveanu lifted a shoulder. “Let’s see who’s read ahead in their anatomy texts. How many quarts of blood are in the human body? Anyone?”

  “Five… maybe… a little more… depending on the size of the person,” Erik said.

  “Correct. Which is around one gallon.” Moldoveanu walked around the body, attention landing on each of us. “That is quite a decent amount of blood to transport through the village. Though not impossible, yes?”

  “Could be too risky, though,” Noah added. “Even if it was carried in a wooden bucket, the possibility of it sloshing over the sides would exist. Plus, if anyone
noticed it, the villagers might sound the alert.”

  “Indeed. Though a seemingly excellent depository for the blood, the river poses too great a threat to this particular murderer. He strikes me as the sort of person who does not wish to be stopped. He is careful. He has likely been plotting this for quite some time. I believe he has a history of violent acts, beginning in childhood. Though others will claim this to be of no consequence, I find it a useful tool to consider the history of the perpetrator.”

  Moldoveanu motioned for the twins to continue with the postmortem. Giovanni removed a bit of the stomach. Its contents would be examined for signs of arsenic, though a familiar garlic odor already hung in the air. I glanced around the room; each student was carefully scribbling notes, their focus more intense under the watchful gaze of the headmaster.

  I tried thinking back on my conversations with Anastasia, convinced there had to be some indication of what she’d discovered about the scene in the missing woman’s house. I hated thinking of her traveling into the village alone and meeting her doom. But I didn’t even know if she’d made it that far. For all I knew, she never made it past the tunnels in which her body had been found. Was the murderer someone in this room, and if so, who would have been able to dispose of that much blood so quickly?

  I surreptitiously inspected Andrei and Nicolae, who quietly spoke to each other in Romanian. They could be working together, though I cautioned myself to not focus entirely on them and miss other clues.

  My attention strayed to the Bianchi twins. I recalled Anastasia remarking on how they ignored her attempts at chatting. Was one of them the person she’d been intrigued by? If disposing of the blood was too much of a risk for a single individual to handle, did that point to the two of them working together? They were very good at forensics and likely had ample knowledge of poisons. Perhaps it also wasn’t a coincidence that they’d discovered the maid’s body.