by P. N. Elrod
Again, that faint sound came to me, like the catching of a breath. It lay ahead somewhere . . . in that unknown darkness.
Though part of the dread ranks of the Un-Dead I felt an awful chill settling over my whole being that had nothing to do with winter weather. This was the kind of basic fear that few ever really leave behind with their childhood. For me it was like my sunset wakings in that tower room, only a hundred times worse. There I knew where light might be found and should that fail I could always rush to open the door and seek escape from my inner terrors that way.
No such luxury here. I was in unrelieved blackness surrounded by the dead, the true dead. Little matter they were all gone to dust, their essence remained behind. Harker had sensed them, and now it was my turn.
My body, giving in to unvoiced desires, vanished away. I took foolish comfort for a few moments, before wondering if I might not now be even more vulnerable to whatever lay invisible about me. If I could float about like a wraith, could not a real ghost be able to . . .
To what? I finally asked myself in a surprisingly steady inner voice.
No answer presented itself, indication that I'd finally reached the limit of my idiocy.
I was in a dark tunnel, nothing more, and just because vampires existed was no reason to think the same was true for ghosts. And before my fear could make any argument against that point, I pressed forward.
My hearing was muffled, so if the sound repeated I did not notice. The way ahead occasionally rose, but remained more or less straight. Once I encountered a second opening to the left and farther down another to the right, but ignored them for the main path. After awhile I worked up sufficient courage to go solid again.
It was better this time. I perceived some extremely welcome light. The glow was far away and very faint, being a mere reflection off a turn in the walls ahead. As an ordinary man I'd have missed it. Now I rushed forward, eager as a dying sinner about to grasp unexpected salvation.
That is, I rushed for all of two steps before my shins caught against something hard and nearly sent me flying head over heels. A rock or a sarcophagus, it mattered not, and I didn't care to know, anyway. Before coming to grief I vanished once more and was spared a hard, noisy landing. When I stopped tumbling about, I gradually solidified to the point where I could see the light again and drifted toward it at a more dignified pace and in a much safer form.
It grew brighter with each turn until I knew one more would put me upon its source, so I slowed, curious as to what lay ahead, but not averse to caution. Going solid only at the last, I peered around the final corner and beheld that the tunnel opened into a proper chamber, very wide and long and low of ceiling. Stone columns supported the roof and were thick enough to hold up the whole of the castle above. The floor had been more or less leveled and smoothed, but was cluttered with many different kinds of funerary boxes, some of wood and rotted away, the pitiful bones within visible, other boxes of stone, both broken and whole. This was obviously another part of Dracula's family vault, and it had been well-filled over the centuries.
The death stench was thick enough to cut; I was glad of having no need to breathe.
A single candle that made more shadow than light rested on the end of a stone sarcophagus. Seated on the other end was Dracula. He was turned away from me and huddled over something in his lap. I couldn't make it out for a moment, then with a shock realized he held the body of the dead wolf—not merely held, but cradled it, gently, as a mother might enfold her sick child in her arms.
Then did I hear that strange sound again. It came in conjunction with a shudder that seized Dracula's whole body. The back hairs rose along my neck. I could scarce believe what I saw and heard, but it was unmistakable: this great master of the Un-Dead was entirely caught up in the throes of a profound grief.
He did not weep openly, but rather seemed to smother it within himself until it overtopped his control. Only then did his sorrow find release in a long-drawn keen of pain. He rocked back and forth, sometimes lifting his face high, sometimes burying it in the matted fur of the wolf.
How long I stood agape and stared I could not say, so great was my surprise, but eventually I woke from the astonishment and determined to quietly remove myself. Anything else would be an unthinkable intrusion. Our talk could wait.
I went nearly transparent and started to drift backwards, but my intent was headed off by the sudden appearance of his wolves coming up behind me. They'd made their way unerringly through the darkness, probably in response to some inner call he'd sent out. Dozens of them blocked the tunnel, their great eyes catching the feeble candlelight and throwing back green sparks. They were aware of me but paid little mind, simply rushing past to get to the chamber. Maybe Art was right and they were more intelligent than others of their kind.
Why are they here?
Again, to answer my curiosity, I had to risk resuming solid form—for holding a semi-transparent state was fatiguing—and waited several moments for things to resolve.
The animals milled about, whining. Ears flat and tails tucked under, they sniffed and licked at their fallen pack member, which Dracula yet held close. They swarmed around him when he finally stood. He stooped and gently laid the body into the open sarcophagus.
For some time he gazed down in silence, his stillness of manner spreading to the pack, to his children of the night. A few restlessly paced, but most sat gathered about him, watching his every move, waiting.
The transformation was swift and noiseless: one moment he was a tall man dressed in black, the next, a huge black wolf. This time I noticed that the fur on his muzzle was pure white, such as you might see on a very aged dog.
He roamed among the others, and they, with soft whines and tucked tails, greeted him. His movements were very like to theirs, but with my eye sharpened on what to look for I noticed subtleties marking him as being different from the rest. Where an ordinary animal might wander randomly, he was most deliberate, bestowing specific time and attention upon each of them turn-on-turn. Some he quickly nuzzled, others received lengthier, more elaborate welcomes. Throughout, there was from him an attitude of what I could only perceive as a sort of tender affection.
Caught up as I was in this strange spectacle, an errant thought began nagging me just then. It teased at the edge of my mind, and however dangerous it might prove to remain here I knew I must do so for the idea to come forth.
The wolves made a rough circle around the sarcophagus. Dracula sat in their midst and lifted his head high. From him came a full throated howl that turned my spine to ice. I winced, trembling head-to-toe, unable to help myself. The awful lament reverberated through the crypt, eerie beyond belief; I could scarce hold in place. My instinct was to turn and flee, but I fought it, needing to see more, to learn more. There was something important here I should know.
The truly terrifying part was how close this sound was to his earlier keening. Much louder, much more free in its expression of sorrow, but bizarrely similar. The others joined in his song of grief, their many voices rising and falling, interweaving, growing until the very walls seemed to shake from the clamor.
But this, all this for one dead wolf?
Not just one, though; there were six of them. Rites would doubtless follow for the rest when their bodies were found. The survivors would gather here with Dracula and mourn the loss, cleaving the dank air with their heartbreaking wails.
Never in my life had I ever experienced such a hellish chorus, yet it nearly made me weep to hear it. I'd stood strong at many a graveside service and held my peace, but this one was different. A man may go to his death with some understanding of the why of it, but not so for an animal. Within them lived a kind of sublime purity. That was what affected me so deeply now, their absolute innocence over matters that often troubled humans for the whole of their time on earth. The poor dumb brutes meet death knowing nothing of meanings and wherefores. But were things different and their perceptions raised, would they be any better off?
&n
bsp; Perhaps this was why I'd stayed to watch, for seeing it all in this way was new to me. I lingered a little longer, testing the notion, then dismissed it. There was some other reason nagging me, if I could but grasp it.
The dirge continued, setting my teeth on edge. A mad desire seized me to join in their song. I pushed it away.
Dracula was no longer a participant. He threaded his way throughout their circle again, making contact with each, but finally stopping with a tightly gathered group of three. They were also black of coat and larger than the others, and though obviously very much of this pack there was a certain aloofness to them. The rest had deferred to them much as they did to Dracula. I thought they might be this year's crop of cubs, still benefiting from having been the center of lavish attention from their guardians.
But there was something more . . .
The look of them, their manner. What was I seeing?
Then all three stared right at me, their eyes flashing green. They stared . . . and I felt my legs go to jelly. Were my heart not already stilled forever it would have stopped in that instant as the realization struck home.
My God . . . they really ARE his children!
Chapter Five
Snow coated my shoulders and caked the thick muffler I'd wrapped snug around my head and hat, nearly blocking my sight. I brushed impatiently at it and pressed on against the wind. I kept moving steadily despite the drifts, not daring to go invisible yet lest the strength of the gale sweep me back to the castle. The storm was easier to fight in solid form, taking less out of me. When I got to the shepherd's hut I might need all my reserves for whatever I found there.
A whole inactive day had passed since I'd last seen my friends.
Anything could have happened to them.
I carried along such small items that they might need for survival: a dry box of Vespas, a flask containing the local plum brandy, and a freshly killed rabbit I'd acquired from the castle cook. How I might introduce these to my friends without revealing myself I did not know, but it seemed best to be prepared.
If they still lived.
For my own aid I had a compass and consulted it frequently to hold my direction straight. The hut lay exactly west of the castle, easy enough to find in good weather, but a needle in a haystack in this storm. A few yards left or right and I could completely miss it.
Once released from my daylight stupor, I'd hurriedly departed the castle without seeing my host. After last night's extraordinary revelation I did not feel up to talking with him yet. I'd stumbled across something that was doubtless extremely private that gave me much to think over.
Maybe far too much for my sanity.
That Dracula had bred with the wolves had shocked me to the core, but reason told me that it was not my place to make judgments. Though he had once been a man in centuries past and still retained a man's form and manner of thought he was yet something altogether different. He'd already stated that he'd given a part of himself—his soul, I would guess—to obtain powers beyond the mortal. The rules were different for him; I must never forget that.
The method of it I did not dwell on, but the why had me puzzled and full of furious speculation. How could he be fertile with wolves, yet not indulge in the equivalent of the same activity with a woman? He'd said that the sharing of blood with them was the only expression of love left to him, and I'd no reason to doubt his statement. But perhaps as a wolf he was able to embrace the fullness of living again, in all its aspects. That gave me a wry smile. I suppose if that was the only other outlet left to him, then of course he would take it.
As for his progeny . . . well, that would account for their unnatural intelligence. It might also be the explanation for all those old legends about werewolves. If Dracula could make himself into a wolf, could they in turn become men? My mind reeled with the implications, but in my heart I knew these were questions I could never voice to him. Had he wanted me to know he'd have told me by now. I'd encroached enough.
At least now I understood why his grief for the dead she-wolf had been so great.
The cold wind drew false tears from my eyes which froze on my face under the muffler. I rubbed them away and tried to get my bearings. I'd found a clearing that seemed familiar, but no sign of a path. The snow covered all and changed all and continued to do so with every icy blast. Drifts filled in valleys and leveled hills. If I found Jack and Art in this it would be due more to luck than my skill as a woodsman.
The hut was not too very distant from the castle, but the hard going lengthened my journey fourfold. I took that into account for my reckoning, and after an hour of travel began to cast about in hope of spotting the structure. I cared nothing about leaving tracks at this point, the snow would cover them fast enough.
After another hour of it I was close to despair and feeling the cold creep into my bones with a vengeance. The changes within could not protect me forever.
I picked out an especially large tree for a landmark, paced fifty feet straight west, and trudged in a broad circle around it. When I found my own trail again, I walked another fifty feet out and made another circle, looking all the time for some sign of the hut.
Twice more I did this before finally stumbling upon it. The snow was piled so high on one side that it was nearly buried to the roof. I'd been looking for the three horses, but they were no longer there. That gave me a leap of hope for a second or two, thinking my friends might have left. Not possible, said the voice of common sense. By all the signs the storm had raged steadily through the day; they would never have been able to depart in it. My guess was they'd brought the horses in with them to add their body warmth to the shelter.
And so it proved when I vanished and sieved inside.
Again, I was grateful for the respite from the endless wind, but it was quite crowded within; I hardly knew where to carry myself to be out of the way. The animals quickly became aware of my presence and began to stir unhappily.
"What is it?" Art called out, his voice high with strain and louder than necessary for such small quarters.
"It's all right, the horses are just restless," Jack calmly replied. "Go back to sleep."
"With that row? I doubt it."
Thank God. They still lived.
"What's gotten into them?" complained Art, peevish.
"Not pleased with the cramped accommodations. A word to the management is in order."
"One good kick will bring the walls down on us."
Jack got up and made hushing noises at the horses while I floated toward the fireplace and hovered next to the ceiling to get away from them. It must have worked; they finally settled down. I kept utterly motionless and in silence rejoiced that all was well, or reasonably close to it.
"God, look at the time," said Art, still in a complaining tone. "I've slept all day."
"You needed it. Besides, we're neither of us going anywhere for awhile."
"Is it still snowing?"
"Yes, unfortunately. In all my life I've never been so bored with the weather. I hope to heaven it blows itself out soon."
"Our supplies—"
"I wasn't going to bring up that sore point, my boy, so don't bother yourself."
"This is my fault."
"The storm? Thank you, I was wondering who to blame."
"It's hardly a joking matter."
"We can do little else. Here, this will put you in a better mood and warm you up."
A pause as Art partook of what I presumed to be a sip from Jack's brandy flask. "We could be days here, you know."
"I know."
"Jack Seward, you can be damned annoying."
"So some of my patients have informed me in one way or another."
"Meaning I'm becoming a lunatic?"
"Well, it would give us both something to do to pass the time."
Art snorted.
"That's better. We've been in worse spots than this before and come out all right. Odds are we'll do it again."
"That, or we're overdue for a comeuppan
ce."
"Are you hungry?"
"I can wait. We might need it later. I was a fool to just take the tails. Should have carved some meat from the last one."
If I'd been capable of such an expression, I'd have given a shudder just then. Knowing what I did now, had Art cut away a haunch of that she-wolf for his supper I had no doubt Dracula would have not let himself be distracted from killing him. He'd have torn Art to ribbons.
"We'll get along without," said Jack.
"I could probably find the body. It's not that far."
"It's on the other side of the world and hidden by drifts. Let it go."
"I've gotten us killed and there you sit—"
"We're not dead yet, Arthur, so hand me the brandy and light yourself a cigarette. If we're going to die we might as well be civilized about it. Besides, we've still got the horses, so let's not worry about starvation for the time being."
Neither spoke for awhile. I conjectured they were most likely to be staring into the fire as men do when there's nothing else to occupy their attention. This seemed an appropriate moment to take a chance.
Carefully, so very, very carefully, I began to resume form, the barest whisper of form, just enough to allow me to see them. It seemed to take forever to emerge from the grayness. I held myself perfectly still, lest movement draw their eye or disturb the horses.
As gradual as the circuit of a minute hand, the inside of the hut took on shape and substance. I saw light from the fireplace first, then made out the figures of two men seated cross-legged before it directly below me. They were so near I could have reached out a ghostly hand and brushed the crowns of their hats. Once more did I feel a vast ache in my heart for these, my lost friends, so close and so far; yet the temptation to re-enter their lives remained firmly at bay. I was not in such desperate need of their company as to selfishly forget my responsibility toward them, but how I longed for a glimpse of their faces.
