I needed sustenance, for I had fasted very many months prior to embarking on The Maine King, and this was provided fortuitously by a huge dog which attacked me as I loped through mean and noisome dockside streets and alleys. The blood of animals is not so richly satisfying as that of humans—rather like, say, corn mush when one is accustomed only to the finest viands—but it fills the belly and has the added advantage that animals, being soulless, do not in their turn become as we Nosferatu.
I will not weary you with details of how I found a home. Suffice to say that I discovered an old and derelict property a little way out of the city and purchased it. Although they are nothing like Europe, I did enjoy the Louisiana wilds with their strange mists and bustling animal life and the swathes of Spanish moss draped from the trees like huge spider-webs.
Again, I made arrangements at a brothel to satisfy my need for food. This time the whore-monger was a native-born American of Sicilian descent, a member of the Black Hand. Unlike his European counterparts he cared nothing for his employees, regarding them as no more than money machines. I would be safe from unwanted inquiry.
A few more years passed uneventfully. The Great War raged in Europe but my fellow Nosferatu survived and Richelieu corresponded regularly, addressing his letters to Mr. Newman, Poste Restante, New Orleans. Two pieces of news gave cause for elation. One was that Van Helsing had died in old age, choking on a piece of blood-sausage, a delicious irony I am sure you will agree. The other was that both Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward had perished in the war: one at Ypres; the other at the Somme. The war passed in time and the world again lapsed into peace, although Richelieu said that all European countries were less happy places now.
It was in 1922 that I once again became obsessed with a woman, overwhelmed by that occasional mad lust to conquer, to engulf, to become as one for an eternity. Not since Lucy and Mina had I so desperately wanted a woman to become my blood consort.
I often stalked the night—using my power to distract attention from where I was—observing the world about me. I would visit taverns and vaudevilles, concerts and plays, even the movies; I would eavesdrop, identifying those who held positions of power and riches; I would ascertain their dwelling places and their friends and servants; I would make sure of all of those snippets of information which might at some time prove advantageous to me.
Thus it was that on a certain night I was attending a society ball at one of the great ante-bellum houses outside of the city. Or perhaps attending is not quite the right expression, for I was outside of the building looking in on them, a predatory cat gazing into the window of a butcher’s shop. By and large, the guests seemed to be a tedious crowd, concerned largely with their places in the pecking order, groveling or condescending depending on whether or not they were addressing their so-called superiors or inferiors.
An orchestra somewhere in a background salon played Strauss and Lehar and other waltz music for men in white ties and tails and women in ball-gowns to dance to. My attention was caught by a burst of merry laughter from a group of younger women who were watching a similar group of young men preening and displaying in an elaborate social courtship ritual. Who says that we are so different from the animals?
The young women, richly varied in size and coloring, were all beautiful in their own ways, all of them flushed with the rich blood of life. I could almost hear the blood pumping endlessly around those lovely nubile bodies, almost inhale its warm rich coppery aroma, almost taste the thick succulence upon my palate. I turned away lest greed overcome me.
The night was fine and clear, the sky an ebony jeweler’s cloth displaying a richness of diamond stars. Except for where light spilled from the house, the vast garden was a patchwork of shadows cast by great clumps of trees and shrubbery. I sat upon a stone bench, listening to the darkness, its multitude of sounds—muted, nigh nonexistent, to humankind—a concerto to my ears.
Suddenly voices were raised in argument. From beneath a nearby group of magnolias I caught the whiff of a woman’s scent and the stronger odor of a young male in passion, and my night-keen eyesight picked out a couple struggling a little in the shadows. Her voice was filled with indignation, his with a drunken desire.
“Haydon Lascalles! You just keep your hands to yourself and leave me be! I’m just not interested in you that way!”
“C’mon, honey, you know you want it really,” was the slurred reply. “Stop making such a damned fuss and give me a kiss.”
The woman was now fighting harder against the beefy and immature oaf who was attempting to embrace her, his clumsy strength slowly prevailing. As I stood, preparing to intervene, the woman raised her hand and slapped his face hard, at the same time screaming aloud.
“You goddamned bitch!” he bellowed. He pulled her toward him with his left hand, in the same instant raising a massive right fist. As I rushed toward them, I became aware of others pouring out of the house behind me and instantly quelled my intention to kill the importunate fool. Instead I seized his collar and threw him to one side. To one of my supernormal strength his bulk was nothing and he flew from me as if he were a child, landing heavily on his back.
He glared up at me and without moving from the ground blustered: “Fifty years ago I’d have dueled with you for that, old man!”
“And fifty years ago, I would have killed you,” I told him coldly. My face must have contorted into a dreadful mask for the pathetic wretch caught his breath in sudden fright and I could sense the blood draining from his fat face.
I turned to the woman and—were I human, you might have said that I had fallen in love at first sight. Latin races call it ‘the thunderbolt.’ She had heavy dark hair falling about high cheekbones and slightly oval eyes which reminded me of the Slavic women of my native land. Cheeks were flushed with blood, full scarlet lips were parted slightly and her body radiated wrathful heat. But it was not just the outer beauty which called to me, for that never was an imperative consideration when choosing a mate. It was an inner and indescribable thing, something which always makes me certain that someone—man or woman—is a fit consort for Nosferatu. My hunger screamed.
“What’s going on here?” The speaker was almost a caricature, the archetypal Southern colonel, tall, skinny and sun-withered, hair white and goatee beard long and wispy. His posture cried out suppressed rage as he glared from the sprawling youth to me. Another man, a similar type but shorter and somewhat stout, pushed his way through the small crowd to pull the young man to his feet.
The woman clutched at the Southern colonel’s arm. “Daddy, Haydon was molesting me and this fine gentleman very bravely came to my rescue.”
The Colonel’s face purpled and he stepped threateningly toward the miscreant. The second man stopped him.
“I’ll deal with this, Deschamps. He’s my son. My sincerest regrets, Miss Josephine. When Haydon sobers up, I’m sure that he will be pleased to make a public apology.” He slapped his son hard on the cheek. “Get home, you’re drunk and a disgrace!”
Haydon Lascalles retreated several yards then turned to point a shaking finger at me. “I’ll see you again some day. Then we’ll find out how tough you really are.”
“Excuse him, sir, he’s young and foolish,” said Lascalles senior. He pushed his son away, telling him once more to get on home.
I bowed slightly. “Does the tiger find it necessary to pardon the yapping of the jackal? It is forgotten, sir.”
The man called Deschamps grasped my hand and released it almost immediately, as if startled by its chilled strength. “My gratitude, sir. I am Georges Deschamps and this is my daughter Josephine.”
“Szekely. Count Szekely. A very recent resident of your beautiful and great land.” I bowed to Josephine Deschamps and took her hand to kiss the fingers lightly. It was as well that the still-curious crowd had not dispersed, for I yearned to lap avidly at her blood.
“Again, my thanks, Count,” said Deschamps. “Haydon Lascalles is a boorish wastrel who merits a sound thrashing.”
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“In my day I would have—” I stopped myself in time. I had been about to say that in my day I would have had him impaled and that had he taken less than two days to die, the executioner would have joined him on the stake. I smiled a little in the dark, relishing memories of those lost, cruel times. “In my day I would have been honored to thrash him,” I concluded.
Deschamps pressed something into my hand. “My card, sir,” he said. “You will be a welcome guest in my home. Perhaps, Count, you will honor us with a visit very soon.” An invitation—my sanction!
“Alas, sir, business is to take me away for some weeks,” I lied. “But when I return . . . well, now that you have so kindly invited me, I doubt you will be able to keep me away.”
We all laughed at this supposed pleasantry as I made my farewells. The pathetic foolishness of humans. How easy they can make it for we Nosferatu. Now that I had received Deschamps’s gratitude-impelled invitation, nothing could gainsay me entrance to their dwelling place. And I would act upon that invitation, sooner than they could know, to dine with a member of their family. As I walked away from them my tongue lapped at lips and fangs as if I were a beast of the forest confronting a helpless fawn.
Despite the passions tearing at me, I did not plunge in rashly as would have done a young Nosferatu. No, instead I spent several evenings and nights reconnoitering the Deschamps home, merging in with the light ground mists which crept lazily through their property, exploring the layout of house and gardens, casting forth my mind to identify and know family members and servants and their locations during those crucial nocturnal hours. Containing my patience was a burden, for I was torn by the almost irresistible cravings which torment my kind in these circumstances.
At length I chose my night. Generally the household retired at about midnight but I stayed my hand with difficulty for another hour or so beyond the time when I sensed that the last occupant had fallen asleep. At the end of this lull I made my way to that part of the house below Josephine’s own balcony and bedroom window.
I scaled the outer wall with ease, instinctively finding finger- and toe-holds imperceptible to humans, gaining the balcony within brief moments. Despite the night’s humidity windows and screens were firmly closed, doubtless to prevent access of pestilence-ridden night-flying insects. The family were patently unaware of other, more potent, dangers of the night. The windows were neither let nor hindrance to me and I slid with ease through the tiny gaps available.
The moon was full that night and shed its silver light into Josephine’s chamber, casting checkered shadowy patterns on floor and walls almost to ceiling height. The apartment was huge—as becomes that in the home of a wealthy family—and was well appointed with fine antique furnishings, the centerpiece being a fine leather-topped escritoire with chair upon which a silken gown had been carelessly tossed. Against the wall opposite the windows was a vast and solid four-poster bed with heavy drapes held back by loops of silken cord.
There, in charming disarray, lay my sleeping Josephine, mane of hair spread across fine lawn pillows like dark weed in a milky sea, a single sheet pushed back to well below her waist. Her soft lips were parted and with each gentle breath she took I could hear the Lorelei song of virgin blood.
With my mind I summoned her to wakefulness and slowly she roused, stretching lazily and gazing around the room until she spied me there at the window. With a gasp she sat up, as if about to scream for help. I placed a finger against my lips, imposing silence upon my victim, my love.
For seconds only she resisted and then yielded, mentally and physically, relaxing back against the pillows, eyes shining in terrified fascination. She made but one more sound. “You!” she gasped.
For long minutes I did no more than stand and watch, partly to appreciate her beauty and partly to whet my appetite to the full with anticipation. Then in response to an imperious gesture of my hand, Josephine slowly loosened the top of her nightgown, drawing it aside to reveal one perfect breast, the dark nipple stark against the white flesh. I could see the gentle throbbing of a vein in her neck. I settled by her side, taking one hand in mine to kiss it gently.
“This is a dream,” she whispered.
“It will be but as a dream,” I told her. “A recurring dream of which you will have no memory. And from the dream you will slip into the longest sleep of all, a sleep from which you will awake immortal to take your proper place at my side.”
I lowered my head and drank deeply, more deeply than I had intended that first night but love knows few restraints. I drank my full and more from the fountain of that wine which gives life to us all whether Nosferatu, human or animal. During the day that followed and the days following that, I rested more completely than I had rested for many long years.
It took Josephine Deschamps one week to die. The family physician and the specialist he consulted were no Van Helsings. They puzzled over their patient at the beginning and they puzzled until the very end. They assigned nurses to her day and night but they were no obstacle for I needed to do nothing more than entrance them deeply before coming to Josephine.
On that final night I was at the bedside studying my soon-to-be consort. Her flesh was pallid and drawn, the sole color being two bright spots of fever on the now skeletal cheekbones. The eyes looking back at me glittered madly, while pale lips pulled back from hueless gums and white teeth which were taking on the sharper aspects of Nosferatu.
“Soon, my love,” I reassured her.
“Soon, my master,” she replied, voice weak and resigned.
I took nourishment from Josephine for the final time then opened a vein in my wrist, holding it to her mouth so that in turn she could drink. She clutched fiercely at my hand, like a feeding baby clutching at the mother’s breast. Then she collapsed back. She would be dead by dawn, I knew. Then it would be but a short wait until the rebirth.
I knew that funerals tend to be held swiftly in the Southern States, such is the corruptive quality of the climate. I also knew that because of flood risk in the local environs, interments were frequently above ground in stone niches. I guessed that a family of status such as Josephine’s would have its own crypt somewhere in or near the city and I had spent a little time searching for this. When I did find it, I was pleased with it, for it was a large, plain edifice, unadorned save for double bronze doors and a simple plaque inscribed: DESCHAMPS.
Josephine’s mortal remains were taken to a funeral parlor popular with the wealthy. Late at night, after the last mourners had gone, I slipped in to view the body. I told the attendant mortician that I was a family friend just returned from Europe and that having heard the sad news I was constrained to pay respects. He led me to a tiny chapel where the open casket rested on a bier beneath a wall-mounted cross. I dared not approach too closely; to allay suspicion I mendaciously explained to the attendant that I was a Mussulman.
Nonetheless, I could see Josephine clearly enough from where I stood and noted that cheeks and lips were full and red with apparent good health, that a little smile seemed to touch the wonderful mouth. I was pleased with this, for the signs were now there that she was Nosferatu. Resurrection varied in my experience, but it was unlikely to be more than three or four days before she emerged from the tomb, ravenous and ready to be tamed and tutored.
The day of the funeral was dull and heavily overcast and I watched the actual interment from beneath the shade of a grove of trees beyond the graveyard. I began my vigil that night and for several nights thereafter, shielded by localized fog which I had summoned to the area. There was no sign of Josephine emerging but I remained calm for I know how very much the return can vary from person to person.
You may wonder at my apparent unconcern, but the truth of the matter is that it is a far better thing for new Nosferatu who have been entombed to make their own way to freedom. It is an essential part of the process of discovery.
After the fourth night I began to feel alarm and by the sixth night I could only conclude that something was seriousl
y amiss. Perhaps some bumbling primitive had sealed Josephine’s coffin with a cross, inadvertently denying her release. I had to discover the truth for myself and find some way to release Josephine from her prison.
I passed through the knife-edge gap in the bronze doors and entered the resting place of several generations of Deschamps where each coffin was sealed into the vault wall by a stone slab. Each of these was adorned solely with the name of the occupant, as a quick search revealed with the newest, deepest incision: JOSEPHINE DESCHAMPS 1901–1922.
I ripped the slab from its place and revealed the casket which I lifted down carefully. I scrutinized the external dimensions but could see nothing like a cross or religious icon which might have held Josephine helpless and immobile. I tore away the lid, the deeply sunken screws screaming in protest as I did so.
Josephine lay there peacefully, still with the healthy look that I had observed in the funeral parlor. It was now well into the night and she should have been responding to the initial cravings for human blood. I examined her carefully but could see no visible signs of Unlife. Baring my chest, I incised a vein and blood spurted freely. Lifting Josephine to me, I pressed her mouth firmly to the wound. She did not respond, hanging limp in my arms with blood trickling down unmoving lips to stain the front of her burial gown. I touched her cheek in wonderment and noticed a greasy feel beneath my fingers. Swiftly I rubbed and her face became a mask, smeared as if by the bloody tears of a clown. She was masked by rouge and paint!
I laid my mouth to her neck but barely had my fangs penetrated the cold flesh than I was assailed by a foul chemical stench. I tore the gown from the young body. Her torso, from shoulders to pubis, was marred by a hideous Y-shaped cut, crudely stitched. There was no blood inside my darling, only a noxious preservative.
Embalmed! She had been embalmed! Her heart and entrails had been ripped out and she had been filled with some disgusting laboratory concoction. Josephine was nothing now, nothing more than a ruined husk. Emitting a bestial howl of frustration and rage, I ripped the corpse limb from limb, strewing its parts about that dreadful chamber of the dead. Grief unassuaged, I tore the Deschamps vault apart, destroying coffins and scattering bones and cadavers until there was nothing left for me to ravage.
In the Footsteps of Dracula Page 25
