by P. N. Elrod
I prepared a similar letter to my Galveston bankers, again instructing them to take no action regarding my will since I still lived. Things would be in an almighty legal mess otherwise. I'd heard tell of a Galveston man who'd been declared dead and had suffered no end of trouble trying to prove himself otherwise so he could get his property back from his relatives. It must have been a bad day for him shouting himself hoarse before a judge trying to convince the court he was indeed alive. His family was no help, for by all accounts he was a bad sort, and they didn't mind him being dead, and in fact preferred it.
As I had no near kith or kin to worry over, such an alarming turn did not seem a possibility, but I patiently scratched lines on the paper all the same. Better to be safe than sorry, I thought as I folded and addressed them ready for mailing.
Before I knew it midnight was upon me, so I stretched and determined to take the air. The wind blew strong as it whistled around the shutters and set them to rattling. I wasn't familiar with the manners of the weather in this part of the world, but was willing to wager that a storm was brewing up, and I might not see the outside of the castle for awhile.
I found a long sheepskin coat and a fur cap to throw on as I intended to remain abroad for as long as possible to get some real exercise. A small side door in the courtyard opened onto a snow-choked trail leading down to the woods. The winds eased somewhat with my descent from the heights, but did not entirely depart. As I made the trees it continued to mourn through their tops, shaking pale flakes upon my shoulders. Except for its keening, the silence held complete rule here, and before I'd gone half a mile I felt the utter loneliness of the land closing over me like water on a downing man.
Shrugging it off as a fancy was useless, for the desolation kept circling back on me, refusing to leave. I thought of what Dracula had said of Harker succumbing to the dark atmosphere of the castle and wondered if it was finally working its way with me. Though alert enough to normal dangers, such subtleties of the spirit are usually lost to my perception. Until a few months ago my feet were planted square on the ground, no ghosts—or vampires—need apply to the world I knew.
That was the past, though, and this night world was crowded with far more things than I needed or wanted to know about. There wasn't much I could do to fix it back, either. The door had opened wide, and I'd been shoved right through, and like it or not would just have to get used to what I found there.
I stood for a long time with my back to one of the tall black trunks, listening to the forest. The heaviness in my heart lingered as I remembered other places where I'd taken watch in the late hours. This one reminded me sharply of the rare tough time Art and I had of it in Siberia being tracked by wolves. The pack had been so starved they'd not bothered wasting effort on howling themselves up for a hunt. I'd have preferred their noise, for then we'd have known where they were. Art had looked on the whole business as grim sport, keeping us morbidly cheered with a number of bad jokes mostly to do with welfare of the wolves. He maintained we had to keep moving to spare them from the indigestion they'd suffer should they eat us.
Where was he now? Back in England, probably, having brandy and a cigar at Ring or one of his clubs. He'd lift his glass in a toast to me. So much had happened to him, so many deaths in so short a time: his much-loved father, dear Lucy . . . and myself. I hoped John Seward would stay with him. A man might not speak of his grief, but having a good friend around was often solace enough in bad times.
During these musings I became aware of a tantalizing scent on the air. It was not constant because I wasn't consciously breathing. Only when speaking or by the normal motion of my body did my lungs get exercise. Now that my attention was snagged, I tried to focus on the source. After a moment I had a general direction and identified the smell. My curiosity up, I began walking toward it.
After a quarter mile I got to thinking I'd made a mistake. For me to pick up such a trail like a hunting dog and track it so far seemed ludicrous, but as it was apparently true, my senses were far sharper than I'd estimated or imagined. That, or my nose was just highly responsive to one special scent in particular.
Bloodsmell, Dracula had called it, and so it turned out to be.
Lying in the middle of a wide patch of churned-up snow I found the carcass of a gray she-wolf. No other predators had gotten to it yet, so it was complete except for the tail having been lopped off. A trophy for the hunter. There was a hole in its chest that had gone clean through the beast, as I learned when I turned it over. There was quite a lot of blood on the snow, still very red and fresh-looking. That's what traveled on the wind to tantalize me, bringing me to the kill like a hungry buzzard. My corner teeth began to lengthen despite the fact I had no intention of touching the pitiful creature.
To get my mind off my belly, I made a long study of the area. There were wolf tracks aplenty here, a fairly large pack on the move. I also picked out two sets of men's boot prints in the snow superimposed over the wolves' tracks. One was unfamiliar, but the other belonged to my host. I'd spent enough time in his company to know his sign very well indeed.
So far as I could read things, the hunter had bagged his prize no more than two hours ago, approaching from the west. His shot and kill must have scared the pack, for their prints tore off to the east through the trees. He'd used a very sharp blade to take the tail, wiping it clean of blood on the wolf's coat. That done, he walked away, following them east. The prints Dracula left were on top of the rest and so recent the edges were still sharp. He'd just come through and also traveled east, but only for a few hundred yards when his boot tracks completely stopped. That flummoxed me for a bit until I found a fresh set of wolf prints larger than any of the rest. He'd swapped two legs for four, probably for better speed.
What his intention was toward the hunter I didn't want to think about. He was mighty fond of his wolves, and to hear him talk he had more regard for them than anyone or anything else. He would take this worse than bad, I was thinking, and I could understand him, too. To just shoot an animal down and take a mere trophy was wasteful to me. Where I'd been raised, we'd have skinned the body for the pelt and eaten the meat so as to get full use of it, especially during the winter when it was most needed. But I had the feeling Dracula would take grim exception to that as well.
I pressed forward, at times wishing I could turn into a wolf as well. Vanishing would have been convenient, but I needed to keep my eyes on the trail. A good thing it was, too, for the hunter's prints suddenly veered off to the north, and I might have missed them and the single set of wolf prints following. When both reached open ground the boot prints continued, but the wolf's ended. He'd not turned back, so he must have changed to mist or a bat so he wouldn't be seen by his quarry. I kept going, half in the expectation of finding the hunter's carcass next, lying dead and drained in the path. If so, then it might decide me about what to do concerning the life or death of Dracula.
The trail entered another stand of trees, and began slanting toward the east again. The hunter must have guessed the pack would turn at some point and thought to get in front of them and downwind. It was madness to hunt at night, but not impossible, for the moonlight was strong. The wolves would show up well enough against the snow for a good marksman to pick off one or two if he had a sharp eye. I ran through the trees, but made myself pause before crossing the next open field. The sky was empty of bats or cloudy swirls, but Dracula could be anywhere.
Then one of the shadows a good distance ahead of me unexpectedly shifted. Even with my improved night sight I discerned no detail. I'd have missed it completely if it hadn't moved against the wind just when my gaze fell on the right spot.
After a few moments I decided it was my hunter, and I was mighty interested in learning who he could be and why he chose such a strange hour to be out and about. My thought that he was trying to preserve the sheep population did not seem quite right. None of the locals, even the Szgany, ever came out after sunset. Generations of fear of the castle lord had been bred
into them, along with a much more ancient fear of hungry wolves. What the man was doing slogging around in the snow this late for trophies I could not guess, but he was tempting fate in a bad way and would need to be warned away quick.
To get closer without being seen, I vanished and flowed swiftly over the snow for several minutes. It was not unpleasant, for I'd made myself get used to the change of sensation this form imparted. I was aware of shapes and slopes, and could hear to a limited degree, but was quite blind. This was less alarming than it might have been, for when like this I had no need to fear crashing into anything and causing injury to myself; I either coursed around or went through it.
I resumed solidity and got my bearings. The wind had affected my path, pushing me farther east than I'd wanted, but I was considerably closer and could see much better, spying my man again. He continued forward, his movements slow and cautious, his posture distinct and recognizable; he was stalking something. I watched to see what held his attention, and in the far distance saw yet more movement. Several dark forms showed themselves against the snow: wolves.
He reached a satisfactory spot where a thick branch came down low enough for him to rest his gun muzzle. He was less interested in sport than in bettering his chances to make a kill with careful aim. His figure went quite still, and I knew he'd be trying to match his sights up with his target, getting one to mesh with the other, and in between one heartbeat and the next he'd pull the trigger.
This did not happen, though.
After he settled in—and it was obvious his entire being was consumed by making his shot—a blur of black and white erupted from the snow just in front of him. It took a full second before I realized what it was and his awful danger. The great dark form of a wolf burst from where it had been hiding under a drift and leaped up at him, knocking him flat. His gun went off, the shot going wild. My belly turned over as I recognized the distinct sound of its flat crack in the emptiness.
That clinched everything. With a shout I pelted toward them as fast as I could.
The wolf, which I assumed was Dracula, since I'd never heard of wolves burying themselves in snow banks to wait for prey, paused its attack and looked right at me. I wasn't close enough to hear his growl, but saw a flash of white teeth against the black muzzle. He wasn't pleased by my interference. The man he loomed over twisted quick to face his danger. He still clutched his rifle and started to bring it around. The wolf went for it, strong jaws clamping down. I heard a thin cry as the gun was dragged from his fingers. The great wolf then seized his arm, held tight, and easily hauled him several yards over the ground like a child might drag a cloth doll. The man fought. His terror and rage combined and compressed themselves into a appalling shriek that tore right up my spine so hard I damn-near pitched headlong off my feet in my haste to reach him. The last time I'd heard a screech like that had been in India when a man-eating tiger had taken a pilgrim from the road not ten yards in front of me.
I doubled my speed and shouted again. The wolf broke off and started directly toward me, confirming his identity. A true wolf would have fled.
The man stopped his noise as soon as he was released. He yet moved, but was feeble about it.
At a run far faster than I could ever achieve on two legs, the black wolf pelted toward me and blocked my path, head lowered, fangs bared, and rumbling a deep growl of warning.
"I have to see if he's all right," I said, not feeling a bit foolish for addressing the animal. I knew he understood me.
He only growled, advancing slowly. By God, even knowing that this creature was my host in a different skin, I couldn't get past the fact he was a scarifying sight. I backed away a step before catching myself.
"Let me go to him," I insisted.
Another growl, but this time accompanied by a completely unexpected gesture. He shook his head, not as a dog, but as a man would, deliberately from side to side. The message was clear: if I took another step I'd be the one he'd tangle with next.
"I can't let you kill him and that's flat. Sir."
The growl ended, and damn me if I couldn't almost see Dracula's own lowered-brow expression on this thing's lupine face. He bounded forward and butted his body hard against me, forcing me back. He wanted us out of there, and since he was leaving his quarry be, I decided to agree to a retreat. I threw a last glance at the man, who was just starting to sit up and look our way, then hurried into the thick of the trees with the wolf at my heels. Hopefully, the hunter would miss seeing us in their stark gloom.
Once we were well into forest shelter, the wolf paused and made its change back into man-form again. As a human, he looked no less ferocious. Harker had once vividly described one of Dracula's rages; I could see now he'd made something of an understatement.
"You overstep yourself," Dracula whispered, his lips hardly moving, but the soft sound cut like a saw. He quivered all over as though barely holding himself back from tearing me apart.
"I could not let you kill him."
"Nor could I let him kill. Nor shall I allow him to do so again. You shall not interfere."
"I'll do whatever is necessary."
He made a half step toward me, fists raised, and I braced for whatever was to come. He held himself in check at the last instant, but it must have been taken a lot of effort. I could feel the heat of his anger washing over me. We glared at each other for I don't know how long, until my head began to ache from the strain of meeting his eye. He took another step forward, but as he did his body shimmered darkly and faded. The countless specks that took its place swarmed all around me, seemed to flow right through me. My very bones seemed to turn to ice as its touch brushed them. . . . Then it was gone.
I whirled and caught a passing glimpse of his shapeless progress over the snow, like the shadow of a shadow. It moved quickly and with purpose, not in the direction of the fallen hunter, I noted with relief, but back the way I'd come.
A few seconds later the wind abruptly rose with a raging force that I'd only known standing on the castle tower. It clawed at me and sent dry surface snow skittering up in tiny cyclones. More snow came loose from the trees and rained down, creating an instant storm. I ignored it and walked to the edge of the stand so I could see how the man was doing.
He was trying to find his feet again and looking all about. His left arm hung straight at his side; he had to hold the rifle one-handed. I'd recognized the sound it made firing aright; it was a Winchester, one of the several I'd brought for our late expedition. I also belatedly recognized the man holding it: Lord Godalming—or as I knew him—Art Holmwood, and what the hell he was still doing traipsing around in Transylvania in the dead of winter was the devil's own guess.
Chapter Four
The last, the absolute last thing I expected in all the world was for my friend to be anywhere near. Certainly if our places were reversed I'd have departed this unfriendly land as soon as possible for home once the hunt for Dracula was finished.
Then it struck me that for Art, the hunt was not at all finished. I watched him from the shadows, my jaw all but scraping the ground as I realized why he'd remained behind. Though this proof of the depth of his friendship raised a lump in my throat fit to choke a horse, at the same time I was furious at him for taking such a risk. Dear God, but he had no idea what he was tempting—Dracula's limitless wrath.
And where had he gotten to? I glanced around, but saw no sign of him. That meant nothing, though. He could be anywhere, including right next to my friend.
Poor battered Art finally struggled to his feet, holding his left arm close. From my vantage I could discern little more than that, though it was reassuring. If he could stand he was probably all right. We'd been in some tight spots in our time, and he was tough enough when he had to be.
He carefully scrutinized the surrounding forest, probably on guard for more wolfish ambushes. None jumped out at him. He followed the four-footed trail Dracula had left, but only a few paces before giving up and trudging back again, missing my tracks. Apparentl
y he'd had ample excitement for one night. When he was well within the trees, I vanished, speeding noiselessly over the open ground after him.
A damned convenient way to travel this was, leaving no mark. Art was nearly as good at scout work as I, and for his sake I wanted no evidence of my presence around. I'd not forgotten Dracula's deadly intention toward his former hunters should his survival be discovered. I would have to keep my promise to him and remain dead to them as well.
This could go remarkably bad if I was not careful.
Sensing the bulk of a large tree in my path, I drifted close to use its cover, then materialized for a quick look.
Art was some twenty yards ahead, moving slowly.
Now I made myself like the second image on one of those double photographs. Even as I faded, the forest faded to me. I was faint enough to see through, yet could use my eyes, though it was like trying to peer through thick fog. The darkness hid what showed of me to normal human vision, leaving me nearly invisible, and I still had the advantage of leaving no prints in the snow. Thus did I follow him, drifting wraithlike just above the ground.
His was a dark gray figure against a gray background. With all the tree trunks in the way I had to keep the space between us short lest I lose him and hurried, slowing when only ten yards off. To improve my vision I allowed myself to become just a bit more solid. Now was I able to see he was on a faint path, fighting against the rising wind.
It was becoming quite a nuisance. Little seemed to affect me in this form, except the force of a strong breeze. I had to struggle to maintain my course, yet keep far enough back to avoid Art discovering my presence. If he did, it would mean his certain death, but I wasn't sure my caution would make any difference. His shooting of the wolf had set Dracula off like ten kegs of gunpowder. I'd read in history books about how some old kings were so selfish of their range they'd kill anyone else who trespassed looking for venison. Maybe Dracula held the same views, though it did not seem likely. He had no use for deer meat. Besides, Art hadn't been after . . .
