Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage

by Doug Lamoreux

  “That's insane! How? Why? Where?”

  “Fer-get it's insane. The whole fekkin' thing's insane. Her takin' down that cross an' lettin' 'im in was insane. Ye heard her.” Harrington tried to turn away but Swales grabbed him, making him face it. “Ye heard her, Trevor. Ye heard her yersel'. It's cold. It's dark. I'm in a casket…”

  “I'm buried in a box.”

  “Aye. That's what she said. Packed up like a cold corpse in a box. She was seeing, no, she was in, his hiding place. He possesses her and, when it suits him, takes her place.”

  “Cor,” Harrington said breathlessly. “For what reason?”

  “The why is easy… to spy on his enemies. While she is where'er It hides. He is here, seein', hearin' through her. Gog, lad, do no' stare at me so. Do no' go askin' me what I mean. I do no' gawm a thing.” He grunted. “I saw a thaumaturge once…”

  Harrington's questioning glare stopped him.

  “Jings, lad, fer a fella what claims scholarship as his stock-in-trade, ye know shite. A conjurer… a magician. I envied him then. I envy him more now. I'd give all I have to pass my hand o'er her eyes an' magic-ly make her tell all she knows o' this devil.”

  “I agree. But we're not magicians,” Harrington said. “So, what are we going to do?”

  “NO! Not here!”

  They started, for neither had spoken. The demand had come from the bed. They turned to see Ekaterina, sitting up, with fear in her eyes. “Do not,” she implored, “discuss it here!”

  “Darling,” Harrington hurried to her. “We're sorry. We didn't mean to upset you.” He tried to take her in his arms but she resisted.

  “No, Trevor, it isn't that. You don't understand.” The fear in her eyes was real, but far away. She was looking both into the past and into the future – and was horrified by what she saw. “It wasn't a dream. NO! It wasn't a dream at all.” Harrington tried to quiet her, but she wouldn't have it. “It was real. I felt… what I felt… the cold, the damp, the darkness… through him. Oh, forgive me, my love, but I fear that he can feel, and see, and hear through me. Oliver is right. You mustn't say or do anything in my presence you do not wish… him… to know.” She faded back onto her pillow exhausted.

  Swales took the scholar by the arm and led him away, whispering. “If she can see an' hear what this creature sees an' hears, if she can lit-rally be where he is, can he no' do the same in reverse? She canno' be part o' our conversations. She canno' know our plans.”

  “Katya would never betray us!”

  “She would no' choose to betray us. But ye know at times she does no' control hersel'. We must remove the opportunity and speak outside her hearin'. She canno' tell what she does no' know. You must accept this, Ekaterina has. She knows her safety, all our safety, requires she be kept in the dark.” He saw the flash of panic on Harrington's face. “Be strong. She needs ye. I need ye.”

  “I don't need you!”

  They spun back to Ekaterina's bed – to an unbelievable sight.

  The girl was crouched, holding the frame above with one hand and pointing at them with the other. Her eyes gleamed. Her teeth were fangs. “You are nothing!” she shrieked.

  The voice was not that of Ekaterina. It was a deep male voice, filled with hate. Harrington reached for the girl. “Katya!”

  “Stay back, bastard,” it hissed. “Who are you to challenge me? I was a prince, a soldier, a statesman. Mine is a learning of ages, a heart that knows no fear… no remorse. What are you?”

  “Ye're fine, lass. Let us lay back…”

  “Fools! You would pit your knowledge against mine?”

  “Ekaterina,” Harrington began… but she heard nothing.

  “I despise you. Weakling!” Her eyes focused somewhere beyond the room. “I have tasted her blood… and she mine! When I call, she will answer. Where I go, she will follow. You, all of you, are nothing more than our sustenance. You will all die horribly – at the time of my choosing!”

  * * *

  Swales poured Harrington a cup of tea, returned the kettle to the stove, and joined him at the table. Both were shaking and shaken by what had happened in Ekaterina's cabin. The girl had collapsed after the vulgar puppet show her so-called master had put her through. She was back in bed now, sedated with laudanum (from the late Smirnov's kit), and thankfully asleep.

  “She was right. `efore her last trans-fermation, what she told us was correct. She's changin', to some new order o' creature like this thing she calls her master. He kills… takin' his victims somewhere beyond death. We must consider Ekaterina's affliction in light o' what she told us. Ye were right to call it a baptism o' blood…”

  “I can't even think about it.”

  “Here, lad. I was wrong to ignore it when ye raised the point; an' ye have no' the luxury o' ignorin' it now. But we can use our knowledge against him. We can find this monster through her.”

  “How can you even suggest it. It's too horrible, unthinkable!”

  “Calm yersel'.” Swales took a sip, and his own advice. “Very well, let it be as ye say. Our task will be more difficult. But it remains our task all the same. So let us ferget the lass now an' consider our adversary. He's only been seen at night and, apparently, does not venture from his box until the deathwatch hours. I dinna gawm if he fears discovery an' so tries to avoid us or if, like the lass, he's effected by the sunlight itsel'. It does no' matter. Between dawn and sunset he confines himsel' below. Thaat's when we must find him. That `efore anythin'. Find him in daylight an' strike.”

  “This ship has been searched repeatedly.”

  “At the risk o' agreein' w' Popescu… This creature is hidin' in one o' those wooden boxes.”

  “Then we must find him… for Ekaterina's sake.”

  “Aye, but it goes deeper than thaat, lad. There's more than the girl at stake. Fifty o' `em, each a hidin' place! An' we're takin' this thing an' his boxes to our homeland. Once there, scattered in attics, basements, buried in the ground, hidden throughout the town - or the country. He'll ne'er be found ageean. An', if Popescu's book is right, time is on his side. He'll have centuries t' wait.”

  “Cor!”

  “Aye. Now, add t'other thin's that book says. That he can change form; alter his physical bein' to that o' the mist, the wolf, the rat, the bat to attack unsuspectin' folk in the night. W' the evidence of our eyes alone, must no' this man, this monster, be ut-terly stamped out?”

  “It's horrible,” Harrington said, nodding. “These boxes, this evil, cannot reach England. We must find him and destroy him. But, Oliver, we cannot go about this foolishly. We must carefully plan how we'll proceed.”

  “Oh, aye. We must make the necessary preparations an' we must go armed.”

  “But what chance have we now of getting a gun?”

  “A gun is no' the only weapon in the waarld.”

  “You used the last of your garlic.”

  “There's yer handiwork,” Swales said. He produced one of their homemade crosses and pushed it into the scholar's hand.

  Harrington scowled. “I made those at your insistence. As for using them, I'm afraid you have the wrong vampire hunter.” He tried to hand it back.

  Swales refused. He curled the scholar's fingers around the icon and patted his hand. “Take care, lad, lest yer stubborness be the death o' ye.”

  “Oliver, I can't pretend belief in god.”

  “I dinna ask it o' ye. The cross is no' only a symbol of God; it's a symbol o' good. Surely, ye believe in good an' evil?”

  “I don't understand your question.”

  “Ye're avoidin' my question. Ye either believe in good an' evil bein' two vastly diff-rent thin's or ye do no'. In which case ye accept as fact there is no marked diff-rence between yer lass an' the creature tryin' to claim her. Now which is it?”

  “Don't be ridiculous! Of course there's a difference!”

  “An' one o' the two is good?”

  “Certainly!”

  “An' t'other?”

  “All right,
your point is made,” Harrington said, slipping the cross into his pocket.

  “Armed against evil, we identify the right box, we secure it so this thin' canno' emerge and, when the opportunity comes, we open it an' do what must be done.”

  “If we make a mistake, is there a danger of his getting off the ship? If he can take the form of other creatures, couldn't he become something… a bat?… and escape?”

  “He canno' cross runnin' water, so he canno' leave the ship.

  “I remember reading that. But that means the men were right. They were right all along! We should have just thrown the boxes into the sea.”

  “They were right, but to what end?”

  “If running water will destroy him, we can find him, carry him up, and throw him over.”

  “The cap'n and mate would no' allow it then and they will no' allow it now. Precious little good it'll do to survive this trip only to be hung for mutiny. No, lad. We find him alone an', w' protection at hand an' him at our mercy, we destroy him where he lies.”

  “The book says his head must be cut off and his heart pierced.”

  “Then that's what we do.”

  Harrington nodded with determination. “For Katya, I am ready to suffer the consequences of murder.”

  “It's no' a question o' murder and the only consequences will be if we fail. Does no' the book say also thaat, treated so, the monster's body will fall to dust? There would be no evidence o' murder.”

  “I'm merely saying I am prepared to meet the rope for Ekaterina's safety.”

  “That's grand, lad. But I'm no'.” Swales squeezed Harrington's arm. “Still an' all, it is agreed we'll do this. We shall leave no stone unturned findin' him. An' shall stand or fall destroyin' him.” He stepped into the galley, clinked about, and returned with a stout brown bottle. “Shall we seal our oath?”

  Harrington grunted. “I've had enough Golden Mediasch to last a lifetime.”

  “Golden… pah,” the cook said, pouring. “This is slivovitz. Sweet blue plum brandy; the Serb cure-all.”

  Harrington swallowed the brandywine, pursed his lips to exhale as the shot sent a heat-burst through his chest, and inhaled deeply to recover. “That's… good.”

  “Ye said yersel', the prize should be worth t' risk.”

  “If you had this all the time,” he said with tears forming, “why did we drink the other?”

  “I didn't know ye then,” the old man said, catching a breath of his own. “Slivovitz ought only be imbibed w' the worthy.”

  * * *

  The music ended. The fog cleared in late afternoon, revealing a blue sky. For the first time in weeks a small but exceedingly happy crew went back to work. The captain ordered all sails set and, in deference to their jovial moods, kept what he knew to himself.

  Nikilov had taken a sextant reading, the first in six days of blind sailing, and had consulted his charts. The results were devastating. He and his first had been egregiously in error; fooled, no doubt, by the abominable weather. But that poor excuse offered no solace. Demeter was nowhere near Whitby – and would not be for days. They were still hundreds of miles south in the English Channel.

  The frustrated Nikilov considered coming hard over, taking the ship north to England's southern coast and her nearest port. But, he knew, he could not. Sailing into Dover on a beautiful sunny day with a ship in good repair would be impossible to explain to the owners. The cost of hauling the cargo overland to Whitby would be more than they would be willing to bear… without a permanent change as far as he was concerned. Yes, he'd lost crewmen. But theirs was a dangerous business and, as far the company was concerned, fatalities part of the cost of conducting it. He could point to nothing – except fear – to justify abandoning their contractual destination. He could not divert the ship.

  It had been a difficult journey. But they were nearing Whitby. At the moment, the men's hearts were light and the weather was finally in their favor. They were a good crew and they deserved this enjoyable respite. Tomorrow he would break the news… They had yet several more days at sea.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Saturday, 31 July, began like so many others on this – Demeter's most dismal journal. The damnable fog had returned. There was a sunrise but, behind the shifting mists, it appeared as little more than a diffused glow intensifying the suffocating gray. The gay mood of the previous day had vanished, replaced with a pervasive feeling of doom.

  Their fast broken and on deck, the men were let in on the captain's secret. The storms and fog had contributed to what Nikilov confessed was his navigational error; for which he apologized. They had made less progress than he had earlier imagined and, no, they would not reach Whitby this day. The mumbles and groans of the crew (Popescu, not surprisingly, more than the others) were received with silent understanding. When they subsided, the captain did his best to bolster their spirits again. They were in the English Channel, would soon pass Dover's brilliant white cliffs, and would make their last major course correction. They were almost there!

  That ground covered, Nikilov moved on to their ship's duties. It was Saturday and, though he believed it would do the men good to busy themselves cleaning, he simply hadn't the heart to order it. They were dead on their feet and aching in spirit; they needed rest. Other than Funar (funny, how Nikilov still thought of the girl as Funar) there was no sign of illness aboard the ship. They would survive another day or two without soap.

  The master dismissed the men, to their duties or their bunks as assigned, and went for a walk to mull his thoughts. He began in the bow, where he undid the forward battens and lifted the hatchway covers. Then, wandering his ship alone, pondering the voyage, he propped doors open as he passed. It was Saturday after all, he could at least air Demeter out.

  The day passed quietly… as far as Nikilov and his remaining hands knew.

  * * *

  Below deck, outside of the knowledge of captain and crew, a new and very different battle for the schooner was begun. With the others at their duty stations or in their bunks, Harrington and Swales, carrying lantern and kit, quietly entered the midship hold. It contained only a handful of the Transylvanian boxes; making it, they'd agreed, a good place to start their process of elimination. As quickly and as quietly as they were able they set to work.

  Harrington took a pry bar to the first box while Swales stood holding a cross in his admittedly trembling hands. The scholar loosened the lid, then took up a hammer and one of the wooden stakes they'd fashioned. He and the old man shared an anxious breath and a nod of readiness. Harrington jerked the lid open. Dirt. Nothing but.

  Both sagged, Swales lowering the cross, Harrington the hammer and stake. Both, realizing they'd been holding their breath, exhaled lungs-full.

  “Only forty-nine to go,” Harrington said.

  Swales made his famous grunt of disgust. “I'm too old fer this shite.”

  The box was resealed as quietly as they were able. Harrington scratched a small mark in its forward end and they moved to a second casket. Then another, and another; repeating the routine. Each unveiling started with nervous dread… and culminated in embarrassed relief when the box was found to contain only soil. Tension… relief… frustration. Again and again. A feeling of hopelessness grew.

  Soon, they'd gone through all of the cargo in the midship hold finding nothing more evil than mold. Each container was resealed, marked, and pushed back into place. Now they were certain, the vampire was in the bow. Collecting their tools and lantern, Harrington pointed to the forward door and asked, “Shall we?”

  “One minute,” Swales replied. He slid the cross into the lamp bracket on the main mast footing and left it there. “Let us keep it out o' bounds.”

  Harrington smiled nervously, nodded agreement, and led Swales into the forehold.

  * * *

  Just before sundown, or when sundown would have been had the fog not prevented his seeing it, Nikilov circumnavigated the ship again, retracing his steps and resecuring the doors, the hat
chways and his own porthole. He wound up his patrol in the mess.

  There, the tired old Scot was hard at work. He and Harrington had barely gotten started in the forehold, when he'd been forced to return to his duties. With the sick girl, the searches, the calls to deck for the weather, the meals he'd served already that day, and his and the scholar's covert activities (of which the captain was unaware), the cook was behind the times. His galley and mess were… a mess. His hopes of getting on top of the matter… were about to be dashed.

  “Mr. Swales,” the captain said wearily. “I'm sorry to ask it of you, but there is nobody else. Would you… could you stand the night watch again?”

  Swales, like everyone else, was exhausted. Unlike the others, he was decades past his best years. His rheumatic joints, his oft sprained back, the old calcified breaks to his bones; all were conspiring to put him out of commission. For the captain, he'd ignore them. He smiled at the weary ship's commander. “O' course, sir. Glad t' assist any way I can.”

  Bleary-eyed, the captain retired. He considered making a notation in his ship's log but, in the end, decided there was nothing new to add. He checked the time on his prized clock, immediately forgot what it read, and fell onto his bunk. Nikilov was sleeping the moment his head touched down.

  Swales grabbed his oilskin in the event the unaccountable rains returned, his clay pipe and a tin of '-baccy, and (from its hiding place in the larder) Popescu's rosary. He set them aside to pour a steaming cup of tea. He stuffed a ship's biscuit into his breast pocket, the thoughts of the day running through his head, and hurried topside sipping his fresh brew. Behind him, Swales' slicker, pipe, and the borrowed crucifix lay side-by-side, forgotten, on the counter of his galley work space.

  * * *

  Popescu stood at the wheel - terrified.

  He wasn't alone. The cook was on watch, forward, in a suffocating fog that, like the previous four days of rain, had risen from nowhere. But he may as well have been alone. He could see the wheel in his hands and little else. He knew the mizzen mast was immediately before him, and the deckhouse and main mast before that, but none were visible. Nothing and nobody existed, save the dank fog.