There was a Mexican kid pretending to do some work behind the big house. Quincey gave him a nickel and took him around front.
The kid wasn’t happy to see the box. He crossed himself several times. Then he spit on his palms and took one end, delighted to find that the box wasn’t as heavy as it looked.
They set it in the parlor. Quincey had to take a chair and catch his breath. After all that time on the ship, and then more time sitting on his butt slapping reins to a pair of swaybacks, he wasn’t much good. Of course, this wasn’t as tough as when he’d had to haul the box from the Westenra family tomb, all by his lonesome, but it was bad enough. By the time he remembered to thank the kid, the kid had already gone.
Nothing for it, then.
Nothing, but to do it.
The words came back to him, echoing in his head. And it wasn’t the voice of some European doctor, like in Stoker’s book. It was Seward’s voice. “One moment’s courage, and it is done.”
He shook those words away. He was alone here. The parlor hadn’t changed much since the day he’d left to tour the world. The curtains were heavy and dark, and the deep shadows seemed to brush his cheek, one moment buckskin-rough, next moment satin-smooth.
Like the shadows in the Westenra’s garden. The shadows where he’d held Lucy to him. Held her so close.
No. He wouldn’t think of that. Not now. He had work to do. He couldn’t start thinking about how it had been, because then he’d certainly start thinking about how it might be, again…
One moment’s courage, and it is done.
God, how he wanted to laugh, but he kept it inside.
His big bowie knife was in his hand. He didn’t know quite how it had gotten there. He went to work on the lid of the box, first removing brass screws, then removing the hinges.
One moment’s courage .. .
The lid crashed heavily to the floor, but he never heard it. His horror was too great for that. After all this time, the stink of garlic burned his nostrils, scorched his lungs. But that wasn’t the hell of it.
The hell of it was that she had moved.
Oh, she hadn’t moved. He knew that. He could see the stake spearing her poor breast, the breast that he had teased between his own lips. She couldn’t move. Not with the stake there.
But the churning Atlantic had rocked a sailing ship, and that had moved her. And a bucking wagon had jostled over the rutted roads of Texas, and that had moved her. And now her poor head, her poor severed head with all that dark and beautiful hair, was trapped between her own sweet legs, nestled between her own tender thighs, just as his head had been.
Once. A long time ago.
Maybe, once again…
No. He wouldn’t start thinking like that. He stared at her head, knowing he’d have to touch it. There was no sign of decay, no stink of corruption. But he could see the buds of garlic jammed into the open hole of her throat, the ragged gashes and severed muscles, the dangling ropes of flesh.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Seward standing stiff and straight with a scalpel in his bloodstained grip.
And that bastard called himself a doctor.
There were shadows, of course, in their secret place in the Westenra garden. And he held her, as he had before. But now she never stopped shaking.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” she said. “Arthur is behaving like one of Seward’s lunatics. You must be careful.”
“You’re the one has to be careful, Lucy,” he said.
“No.” She laughed. “Mother has disregarded the entire episode. Well, nearly so. She’s convinced that I behaved quite recklessly– and this judging from one kiss on the terrace. I had to assure her that we did nothing more than tour the garden in search of a better view of the moon. I said that was the custom in Texas. I’m not certain that she accepted my story, but… ” She kissed him, very quickly. “I’ve feigned illness for her benefit, and she believes that I am in the grip of a rare and exotic fever. Seward has convinced her of this, I think. Once I’m pronounced fit, I’m certain that she will forgive your imagined indiscretion.”
“Now, Miss Lucy, I don’t think that was my imagination,” he joked.
She laughed, trembling laughter there in his arms. “Seward has consulted a specialist. A European fellow. He’s said to be an expert in fevers of the blood. I’m to see him tomorrow. That ought to put an end to the charade.”
He wanted to say it. More than anything, he wanted to say, Forget tomorrow. Let’s leave here, tonight. But he didn’t say it, because she was trembling so.
“You English,” he said. “You do love your charades.”
Moonlight washed the shadows. He caught the wild look in her eye. A twin to the fearful look a colt gets just before it’s broken.
He kept his silence. He was imagining things. He held her.
It was the last time he would hold her, alive.
THREE
Quincey pushed through the double doors of the saloon and was surprised to find it deserted except for a sleepy-eyed man who was polishing the piano.
“You the piano player?” Quincey asked.
“Sure,” the fellow said.
Quincey brought out the Peacemaker. “Can you play ‘Red River Valley’?”
“S-sure.” The man sat down, rolled up his sleeves.
“Not here,” Quincey said.
“H-huh?”
“I got a big house on the edge of town.”
The man swallowed hard. “You mean Mr. Owens’s place?”
“No. I mean my place.”
“H-huh?”
“Anyway, you go on up there, and you wait for me.”
The man rose from the piano stool, both eyes on the Peacemaker, and started toward the double doors.
“Wait a minute,” Quincey said. “You’re forgetting something.”
“W-what?”
“Well, I don’t have a piano up at the house.”
“Y-you don’t?”
“Nope.”
“Well… Hell, mister, what do you want me to do?”
Quincey cocked the Peacemaker. “I guess you’d better start pushing.”
“You mean… you want me to take the piano with me?”
Quincey nodded. “Now, I’ll be home in a couple hours or so. You put the piano in the parlor, then you help yourself to a glass of whiskey. But don’t linger in the parlor, hear?”
The man nodded. He seemed to catch on pretty quick. Had to be that he was a stranger in these parts.
Quincey moved on. He stopped off at Murphy’s laundry, asked a few questions about garlic, received a few expansive answers detailing the amazing restorative power of Mrs. Murphy’s soap, after which he set a gunnysack on the counter. He set it down real gentle-like, and the rough material settled over something kind of round, and, seeing this, Mr. Murphy excused himself and made a beeline for the saloon.
Next Quincey stopped off at the church with a bottle of whiskey for the preacher. They chatted a bit, and Quincey had a snort before moving on, just to be sociable.
He had just stepped into the home of Mrs. Danvers, the best seamstress in town, when he glanced through the window and spotted Hal Owens coming his way, two men in tow, one of them being the sheriff.
Things were never quite so plain in England. Oh, they were just as dangerous, that was for sure. But, with the exception of lunatics like Arthur Holmwood, the upper crust of Whitby cloaked their confrontational behavior in a veil of politeness.
Three nights running, Quincey stood alone in the garden, just waiting. Finally, he went to Lucy’s mother in the light of day, hat literally in hand. He inquired as to Lucy’s health. Mrs. Westenra said that Lucy was convalescing. Three similar visits, and his testiness began to show through.
So did Mrs. Westenra’s. She blamed Quincey for her daughter’s poor health. He wanted to tell her that the whole thing was melodrama, and for her benefit, too, but he held off.
And that was when the old woman slipped up. Or maybe she didn’t, because
her voice was as sharp as his bowie, and it was plain that she intended to do damage with it. “Lucy’s condition is quite serious,” she said. “Her behavior of late, which Dr. Seward has described in no small detail… Well, I mean to tell you that Lucy has shown little consideration for her family or her station, and there is no doubt that she is quite ill. We have placed her in hospital, under the care of Dr. Seward and his associates.”
Mrs. Westenra had torn away the veil. He would not keep silent now. He made it as plain as plain could be. “You want to break her. You want to pocket her, heart and soul.”
She seemed to consider her answer very carefully. Finally, she said, “We only do what we must.”
“Nobody wants you here,” Owens said.
Quincey grinned. Funny that Owens should say that. Those were the same words that had spilled from Seward’s lips when Quincey confronted him at the asylum.
Of course, that had happened an ocean away, and Dr. Seward hadn’t had a gun. But he’d had a needle, and that had done the job for him right proper.
Quincey stared down at Mrs. Danvers’s sewing table. There were needles here, too. Sharp ones, little slivers of metal. But these needles weren’t attached to syringes. They weren’t like Dr. Seward’s needles at all.
Something pressed against Quincey’s stomach. He blinked several times, but he couldn’t decide who was standing in front of him. Owens, or Seward, or…
Someone said, “Get out of town, or I’ll make you wish you was dead.” There was a sharp click. The pressure on Quincey’s belly increased, and a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder.
The hand of Count Dracula. A European nobleman and scientist. Stoker had split him into two characters–a kindly doctor and a hell-born monster. But Quincey knew that the truth was somewhere in between.
“Start movin’, Quince. Otherwise, I’ll spill your innards all over the floor.”
The count had only held him. He didn’t make idle threats. He didn’t use his teeth. He didn’t spill a single drop of Quincey’s blood. He let Seward do all the work, jabbing Quincey’s arm with the needle, day after day, week after week.
That wasn’t how the count handled Lucy, though. He had a special way with Dr. Seward’s most combative patient, a method that brought real results. He emptied her bit by bit, draining her blood, and with it the strength that so disturbed Lucy’s mother and the independent spirit that so troubled unsuccessful suitors such as Seward and Holmwood. The blind fools had been so happy at first, until they realized that they’d been suckered by another outsider, a Transylvanian bastard with good manners who was much worse than anything that had ever come out of Texas.
They’d come to him, of course. The stranger with the wild gleam in his eyes. Told him the whole awful tale. Cut him out of the strait-jacket with his own bowie, placed the Peacemaker in one hand. A silver crucifix and an iron stake jammed in a cricketing bag filled the other.
“You make your play, Quince,” Owens said. “I’m not goin’ to give you forever.”
“Forever is a long time.”
“You ain’t listenin’ to me, Quince.”
“One moment’s courage, and it is done.”
Count Dracula, waiting for him in the ruins of the chapel at Carfax. His fangs gleaming in the dark . . . fangs that could take everything…
The pistol bucked against Quincey’s belly. The slug ripped straight through him, shattered the window behind. Blood spilled out of him, running down his leg. Lucy’s blood on the count’s lips, spilling from her neck as he took and took and took some more. Quincey could see it from the depths of Seward’s hell, he could see the garden and the shadows and their love flowing in Lucy’s blood. Her strength, her dreams, her spirit…
“This is my town,” Owens said, his hand still heavy on Quincey’s shoulder. “I took it, and I mean to keep it.”
Quincey opened his mouth. A gout of blood bubbled over his lips. He couldn’t find words. Only blood, rushing away, running down his leg, spilling over his lips. It seemed his blood was everywhere, rushing wild, like once-still waters escaping the rubble of a collapsed dam.
He sagged against Owens. The big man laughed.
And then the big man screamed.
Quincey’s teeth were at Owens’s neck. He ripped through flesh, tore muscle and artery. Blood filled his mouth, and the Peacemaker thundered again and again in his hand, and then Owens was nothing but a leaking mess there in his arms, a husk of a man puddling red, washing away to nothing so fast, spurting red rich blood one second, then stagnant-pool dead the next.
Quincey’s gun was empty. He fumbled for his bowie, arming himself against Owens’s compadres.
There was no need.
Mrs. Danvers stood over them, a smoking shotgun in her hands.
Quincey released Owens’s corpse. Watched it drop to the floor.
“Let me get a look at you,” Mrs. Danvers said.
“There ain’t no time for that,” he said.
Dracula chuckled. “I can’t believe it is you they sent. The American cowboy. The romantic.”
Quincey studied the count’s amused grin. Unnatural canines gleamed in the moonlight. In the ruined wasteland of Carfax, Dracula seemed strangely alive.
“Make your play,” Quincey offered.
Icy laughter rode the shadows. “There is no need for such melodrama, Mr. Morris. I only wanted the blood. Nothing else. And I have taken that.”
“That ain’t what Seward says.” Quincey squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. “He claims you’re after Miss Lucy’s soul.”
Again, the laughter. “I am a man of science, Mr. Morris. I accept my condition, and my biological need. Disease, and the transmission of disease, make for interesting study. I am more skeptical concerning the mythology of my kind. Fairy stories bore me. Certainly, powers exist which I cannot explain. But I cannot explain the moon and the stars, yet I know that these things exist because I see them in the night sky. It is the same with my special abilities–they exist, I use them, hence I believe in them. As for the human soul, I cannot see any evidence of such a thing. What I cannot see, I refuse to believe.”
But Quincey could see. He could see Dracula, clearer every second. The narrow outline of his jaw. The eyes burning beneath his heavy brow. The long, thin line of his lips hiding jaws that could gape so wide.
“You don’t want her,” Quincey said. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“I only want a full belly, Mr. Morris. That is the way of it.” He stepped forward, his eyes like coals. “I only take the blood. Your kind is different. You want everything. The flesh, the heart, the… soul, which of course has a certain tangibility fueled by your belief. You take it all. In comparison, I demand very little–”
“We take. But we give, too.”
“That is what your kind would have me believe. I have seen little evidence that this is the truth.” Red eyes swam in the darkness. “Think about it, Mr. Morris. They have sent you here to kill me. They have told you how evil I am. But who are they–these men who brought me to your Miss Lucy? What do they want?” He did not blink; he only advanced. “Think on it, Mr. Morris. Examine the needs of these men, Seward and Holmwood. Look into your own heart. Examine your needs.”
And now Quincey smiled. “Maybe I ain’t as smart as you, Count.” He stepped forward. “Maybe you could take a look for me… let me know just what you see.”
Their eyes met.
The vampire stumbled backward. He had looked into Quincey Morris’s eyes. Seen a pair of empty green wells. Bottomless green pits. Something was alive there, undying, something that had known pain and hurt, and, very briefly, ecstasy.
Very suddenly, the vampire realized that he had never known real hunger at all.
The vampire tried to steady himself, but his voice trembled. “What I can see… I believe.”
Quincey Morris did not blink.
He took the stake from Seward’s bag.
“I want you to know that this ain’t somethi
ng I take lightly,” he said.
FOUR
He’d drawn a sash around his belly, but it hadn’t done much good. His jeans were stiff with blood, and his left boot seemed to be swimming with the stuff. That was his guess, anyway–there wasn’t much more than a tingle of feeling in his left foot, and he wasn’t going to stoop low and investigate.
Seeing himself in the mirror was bad enough. His face was so white. Almost like the count’s.
Almost like her face, in death.
Mrs. Danvers stepped away from the coffin, tucking a pair of scissors into a carpetbag. “I did the best I could,” she said.
“I’m much obliged, ma’am.” Quincey leaned against the lip of the box, numb fingers brushing the yellow ribbon that circled Lucy’s neck.
“You can’t see them stitches at all,” the whiskey-breathed preacher said, and the seamstress cut him off with a glance.
“You did a fine job, Mrs. Danvers.” Quincey tried to smile. “You can go on home now.”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to stay.”
“That’ll be fine,” Quincey said.
He turned to the preacher, but he didn’t look at him. Instead, he stared through the parlor window. Outside, the sky was going to blood red and bruise purple.
He reached into the box. His fingers were cold, clumsy. Lucy’s delicate hand almost seemed warm by comparison.
Quincey nodded at the preacher. “Let’s get on with it.”
The preacher started in. Quincey had heard the words many times. He’d seen people stand up to them, and he’d seen people totter under their weight, and he’d seen plenty who didn’t care a damn for them at all.
But this time it was him hearing those words. Him answering them. And when the preacher got to the part about taking… do you take this woman … Quincey said, “Right now I just want to give.”
That’s what the count couldn’t understand, him with all the emotion of a tick. Seward and Holmwood, even Lucy’s mother, they weren’t much better. But Quincey understood. Now more than ever. He held tight to Lucy’s hand.
The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists Page 9
