“Oh, come off it. Don’t tell me you don’t know the score. Been in the house for three months or more, looked at him, smelt him, and not known him for a second-generation vampire? The Count’s son? Sooner or later you’ll be down under him taking the shagging of a lifetime, so that in around a year you’ll drop a little humvam.”
I screamed, “No!” and her laughter should have choked her.
“Yes. Yes . . . yes . . . yes. He likes the over-ripe, retarded type. The spark in the belly waiting to erupt into a mighty flame. After a session with my Lord the Prince Rudolph, my sort of uncle, a stallion won’t satisfy you. But,” she leaned over and inserted one long finger into the crease between my breasts, “guess what. He, descended from the most ancient line in the world, is ashamed of being what he is. Son of the vampire king. He won’t partake from the neck, or even intake vital essence from a bottle. Makes do with pig’s blood and rich mince. That’s why he looks so weird. And all he’s got to do is imbibe once—and, oh boy, you’ll see the difference. He almost gives way when I get to work on him, but no way. I don’t mind slap bot and fumble, but no give with the vital. Well, it wouldn’t be decent.”
I took a firm grip of my reeling senses, drove a shaft of iron through my quivering soul and transformed a spoonful of courage into a little spear of anger.
“You’re a dirty little trollop, miss. At least that’s what my old mum would have called you. You must have a mind like a cesspool, only it’s probably so twisted you can’t tell the difference between fact and fancy. Me, I’m going to hang on to my sanity and assume that dirty old man is over the edge, or if you prefer, up the pole, then get the hell out of this place.”
She patted my cheek and I smacked her hand away. “You can’t. No way. You’ve let him come real close and the smell of him is in your blood. And just supposing you were real strong and managed to get away—the pack would get you. The pack of shadmads. Or maybe as you’re someone special—vammads. They’ve been watching the house since you arrived. Looking after you. Once they get on your track they never let up until you’re a flabby bag of nothing in the gutter. No hume ever lives to spill the beans on the family.”
I closed my eyes and muttered a kind of prayer.
“Let me disbelieve now and know I am protected by invisible angels and can never be pulled down. Never.”
Her giggling flooded my being with cold wavelets and for the first time I knew my soul was confined in a castle that crouched half way up a flame-tipped mountain, where it waited for death to set it free. And in the valley there waited the demons, the unnamed, who feed on immortal essence, and breathe their fire-dreams into our sleeping brains.
Large beautiful hands stroked my naked thighs and I screamed total, absolute surrender.
“Take me to him,” I screamed. “Take me to him.” She purred a soft little chuckle.
“That’s why I came. Uncle Rudolph must be up and around soon, there’s so much for him to do. Help bend time for example. And he must have that what is essential for him to look young again.”
She was behind me, her hands on my breasts, guiding me out of the room, down the stairs. Realization of what lay in store made me struggle when we crossed the hall, and the mere sight of him—immortal son of Dracula—seated on the desk, exploded a fear bomb in my stomach and I passed into a fire-streaked darkness where the five senses merged into one, or took on an extra.
Tell me, sir, you might know, is it possible for all of us to have extra senses that sleep within our bodies, but could be awakened if the conditions are right—or wrong?
They—Mr. Acrudal and the young bitch—did something to me, for it seemed as if I slid down a tunnel through days, weeks and months, even years, and only allowed me to pop my head up through a ventilation hole, once now and again.
Did they bury me? If not, then how is it I can still remember the cloying dampness pressing on me everywhere; breathing rich soil that gave me a joyous half-sleeping life. Every now and again I became aware of one of their faces gazing down at me, his grown strangely young, glowing with a special kind of beauty that I suddenly realized had always been lurking just beneath the surface.
My blood gave a deeper red to his lips, my vital essence lit candles in his eyes; weakness fought tingling strength in my veins, blood had been replaced by something more interesting. Strangely, I cannot remember during that twilight period being other than happy. Or if not happy, then blissfully content. I became dimly aware that somewhere along the road to eternity I would take a dark turning and never come back, but even that prospect could not mar the safely insulated present.
I came to understand, sir, that fear and even dread can so easily change from black to bright red. Can you understand that?
The birth pangs were muted.
Like having a tooth pulled when the cocaine hasn’t quite taken effect. I mentioned that dread had changed from black to bright red, well, during the birth I existed in a red mist. I could see the young bitch (only she wasn’t young), moving about, feel her hands on me, forcing my legs apart, but when she and Mr. Acrudal spoke, their voices seemed to come from a long way off and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
The explosion that tore my guts apart rocketed me into full consciousness for around two minutes and I felt the agony, the pure seething terror and knew . . . knew—knew exactly what I was giving birth to, but then he, Mr. Acrudal, Prince Rudolph, filled my brain with wonderful pictures, so that fear, the pain, the knowledge, were banished and Iwas permitted to sink back into my nice cozy insulated happiness.
I awoke in my own bed.
That which had come from my body was confined to a black wooden cradle and when it raised its head and spat at me, I screamed and strained at the broad straps which only permitted limited movement. Even now, sir, when more immediate horror whimpers just beyond that door, a cold shudder sends limb-freezing dread down my body, when I think of that tiny face twisted up into a grimace, hissing like a snake, then spitting . . . No, please don’t ask me to describe it. Please don’t . . . Thin and white, two jutting teeth, black gleaming eyes . . . yes, like those of a snake. A black mamba . . . Rudolph was very gentle with me—the young bitch had disappeared for the time being—and he explained over and over again that it would improve beyond recognition in time, become beautiful, as did the entire race down to the fourth generation. The right nourishment took care of that. But . . . but—I will be all right, sir, in just a minute—but I must tell you . . . must . . . he said for the first few weeks I must . . . feed . . . feed it . . . but . . . he explained wonderfully . . . it was not milk it needed . . . so it wouldn’t suck . . . but bite . . . chew . . . chew . . . sometimes nibble . . . nibble . . .
After two weeks they took the thing I had bred away from me, which may have saved the remnants of my sanity, for it had begun to develop tiny claws on fingers and feet, although I was assured that they would soon disappear, being in fact the equivalent of milk teeth. Rudolph—how beautiful he had grown—fed me on stewed mince and maybe because I didn’t think about it too much, it tasted quite nice and most certainly did me good. I put on weight and when I was quite strong—and not before, for he really was most considerate—the Prince took my left hand in his and explained all I needed to know.
Actually all he wanted was to live a quiet eternity writing a history of his illustrious family, but it would seem it was his duty once now and again, to father an offspring, which would be a half-breed, but help spread the Dracula blood among the humes. Only a woman who could remain in that dreadful house for not less than three lunar months, was suitable for vam breeding.
Rudolph bared his sharp white teeth in an engaging smile that I found to be so irresistible. “You are to be congratulated, my dear. Many were interviewed, few were chosen.”
“And what happens to me now?” I asked.
He sighed deeply. “Why did you have to ask that question? Whatever answer I give is certain to hurt. I should put you down, but I lack the necessary rut
hlessness. So, I am going to set you free. Whatever happens will not be the result of my action. Take my advice, get well away from the house. Travel by day. The pack are not happy in daylight and whimper most piteously when caught under the naked sun. I cannot give you hope for a long life, for that on reflection will not be desirable, but you may derive some satisfaction in evading the pack for a quite considerable period.
“Tell someone of your experience if you so wish and it eases your mind by doing so. No one will believe, but a version may be passed on and that will give birth—in the fullness of time—to an interesting legend. But of course should someone even half believe and start to investigate—more work for the pack.”
The pack.
He always pronounced that word in a peculiar way, as though it were distasteful to him and its implication something no gentleman would ever consider. Oddly enough, I did not even think about it, although at the back of my mind I knew what eventually my fate would be. The young bitch had told me plainly enough.
Instead, I began to wonder who prepared the wonderful meals that were served up on a wooden tray and came to the conclusion it must be Rudolph. A gifted family and, when necessary, domesticated. After all, the original Count cooked excellent meals for Jonathan Harker and made his bed into the bargain. Yes, he actually gave me Dracula to read.
Then came the morning when he kissed me on the lips and as always my legs turned to jelly and you would never believe how young and beautiful he looked.
My luggage stood in the hall, but I couldn’t really believe I’d have a use for it—not now. The young bitch opened the door and I ignored her impudent grin, but I will confess I’d go to my end more happily after an hour alone with her, just supposing she was tied down or something. “Goodbye,” Rudolph whispered. “There’s plenty of money in your handbag. More than you’ll ever need.”
A taxi stood waiting and someone—Rudolph I suppose—carried my luggage out and piled it at my feet. Then I was away and again knew nothing until the cab drew up outside a rather dingy hotel. The driver spoke over one shoulder.
“The Imperial, ma’am. That was where I was told to bring you.”
I must have blacked out or maybe time-jumped forward a few hours, for I remember nothing more until finding myself lying on a double bed looking up at a cracked ceiling.
And you want to hear something really weird? I was homesick for that awful old house and Rudolph and the young bitch. I think I must have passed around three days eating and sleeping, and quite possibly have remained in that hotel until my money ran out, if I had not seen them from my window.
It must have been early evening for the street was silver-gold with lamplight and I could easily see the black car standing opposite with three or four figures leaning against it, staring up at my window. Dressed entirely in black, with long dog-like faces; jutting mouths, black lips, flattened noses, tapering ears and gleaming red-tinted eyes. I breathed two words:
“The pack!”
I’d forgotten them.
I sat by the window and watched them all night. So far as I could see not one moved until the first streak of dawn lit the gray roofs. Then they all piled into the car and drove away.
I left the hotel ten minutes later and have been more or less on the move ever since. But the pack have never really been far behind and I’ve no doubt are somewhere in this vicinity now. I’ve seen them several times, but they keep their distance, because I suppose I’m not quite ready for the kill yet. When I leave, sir, it might be well if, for your own sake, you waited for a while before leaving. Don’t let them think you’re at all interested in me. But you may be safe enough, for Rudolph said I could tell my story, but it’s best not to take risks.
Well I’ll be on my way. Thank you for being such a good listener—and, yes, buying me that drink after that silly fainting spell. They’ll be calling time soon, so you can go out with the crowd. Lovely full moon tonight . . . wolf moon I’ve heard it called. Good luck, sir . . . good luck . . .
GRAHAM MASTERTON says that he has always been reluctant to write about vampires (“It is a physical impossibility to bite somebody in the neck and draw blood from their carotid artery without either killing them or putting them into the emergency room. They certainly couldn’t walk around Whitby in an empire-line dress looking interestingly wan”). However, he made an exception for “The Laird of Dunain,” which he wrote with “artistic licence,” and also for his novel Descendant, which follows the adventures of a vampire-hunter in World War II.
Masterton was born in Edinburgh in 1946. His career as a horror writer began almost accidentally in 1975. Up until then, as the editor of both Penthouse and Penthouse Forum magazines, he had been making his name as the writer of hugely successful sex-instruction manuals, such as How To Drive Your Man Wild in Bed. When the bottom fell out of the sex-manual market, however, he offered his publishers The Manitou, a story about a Native American medicine man who is reborn in the present day to take his revenge on the white man. It was subsequently filmed with Tony Curtis as the star.
The author has followed it with more than 100 books in various genres, including such horror novels as The Djinn, Charnel House, The Devils of D-Day, Family Portrait, Night Warriors, Ritual, Tooth and Claw, Night Wars, Ghost Music, Forest Ghost and Plague of the Manitou (the fifth and final novel in the “Manitou” series). His short fiction has been collected in Fortnight of Fear, Flights of Fear, Faces of Fear, Feelings of Fear, Festival of Fear, Figures of Fear, Manitou Man: The Worlds of Graham Masterton, and Grease Monkey and Other Tales of Erotic Horror.
Roadkill
Graham Masterton
Even a vampire cannot always halt the march of progress . . .
He slept, and dreamed . . .
He remembered the blood, and the battles. The extraordinary clanking of swords, like cracked church bells, and the low hair-raising moan of men who were fighting to the death. He remembered how sharpened wooden stakes were thrust into the cringing bodies of weeping men, and how they were hoisted aloft, so that the stakes would slowly penetrate them deeper and deeper, and they would scream and thrash and wave their arms in anguish. He remembered how he had looked up at them, looked them in the eye, and smiled at their pain.
He remembered his own death, like the shutting of an owl’s eye; and his own resurrection. The strange confusion of what he had become; and what he was. He remembered walking through the forests in torrential rain. He remembered arriving at a village. He remembered the women he had lusted after, and the blood he had tasted, and the wolves howling in the dark Carpathian mountains.
He remembered days and nights, passing as quickly as a flicker-book. Sun and rain and clouds and thunderstorms. He remembered kisses thick with passion. Breasts running with rivulets of blood. He remembered Brighton in the sunshine, and Warsaw in the fog. He remembered heavy, seductive perfumes, and women’s thighs. Carriages, cars, railway-trains, airplanes. Conversations, arguments. Telegrams. Telephone calls.
It went on forever, and sometimes he lost track of time. Sometimes he had written letters to some of his closest friends, only to realize halfway through that they must have been dead for two hundred years. He had hunched over his desk, in such a spasm of grief that he could scarcely breathe. He had stopped writing letters—and, even when he received them, which was very rarely, he didn’t open them any more. But every day a new day dawned, and every night the sun went down; and almost every dusk he pushed open the lid of his casket and rose from his bed of friable soil to feed on whoever he could find.
One night, early in October, he opened the cellar trap to find that the hallway was empty. All the furniture had gone. The hallstand with its hat-hooks and mirrors; the Chinese umbrella-stand beside the door. Even the carpets had gone. He stepped out onto the bare boards in his black, highly-polished shoes, turning around and around as he did so. The pictures had gone. The landscapes of Sibiu and the Somesu Mic. Even the painting of Lucy, with her white, white dress and her white, white face.
He walked from room to room in rising disbelief. The entire house had been stripped. The dining-table and chairs were all gone, the sideboard gone, the velvet curtains taken down. Everything he owned—his chairs, his clocks, his books, his Dresden porcelain, even his clothes—everything was gone.
He couldn’t understand it. For the first time in his existence he felt seriously unnerved. For the first time in his life he actually felt vulnerable.
It had been so much easier when he had been able to hire servants—people who could handle the daytime running of the house. But in the past twenty years, servants had been increasingly difficult to find and even when he had found them, they had turned out to be demanding and unreliable and dishonest. As soon as they realized that he was never around during the day, they had taken time off whenever they felt like it, and they had pilfered some of his finest antique silver.
One night, in a pub, he had met a builder, a mournful Welshman called Parry, and he had managed to organize some repairs to the roof and a new front gate, but it had been years since he had been able to find a gardener, and the house was densely surrounded by thistles and plantains and grass that reached as high as the living-room window. He hated unkempt gardens, just as he hated unkempt graveyards, but as time passed he began to grow to enjoy the seclusion. The weeds not only screened him from the world outside, they deterred unwelcome visitors.
But now his seclusion had been devastatingly invaded, and he had lost everything he possessed. All the same, he gave thanks that the cellar trap had remained undetected. It matched the parquet floor so closely that it was almost impossible to discern. He was in constant fear that somebody would find his sleeping body during the hours of daylight—not a priest or any one of those scientists who had once hunted the undead. Real death, when it came, would not be unwelcome. No, what he was afraid of was injury or mutilation. This part of the city, once fashionable, was now plagued by gangs of youths whose idea of an evening’s entertainment was to throw petrol over sleeping tramps and set them alight; or to break their legs with concrete blocks. Death he could accept—but he couldn’t bear the thought of living forever while he was burned or crippled.
In the Footsteps of Dracula Page 41
