by P. N. Elrod
Tearing my gaze away, I surveyed the tiny interior. They'd organized everything neatly enough, out of habit and necessity. The horses took up nearly the whole of the room; not much space remained for anything else. I couldn't see what remained in the way of supplies, but noted that their store of firewood wouldn't last through the night. The presence of the animals might keep them from freezing or starving to death, but they would have a damned miserable time of it. If the storm continued on indefinitely—and I had no reason to think it would not, linked as it must be to Dracula's rage—they would surely die.
"I say, Art."
"Eh?"
"If we do get out of this, would you be averse to going home?"
"Home?"
"Yes, back to England, not just to the nearest village for more hardtack."
"But the hunt—"
"See here, I've been patient, but enough is enough. If we survive this, I would like to leave. The others must be worried sick about us with no word after all this time. You wouldn't want to cause Mrs. Harker any undue concern, would you?"
"Of course not, but I intend to finish what I've started."
"And I'm all for that. My suggestion is only that we break it off for now and come back in the spring for the finish."
"The wolves might be gone by then."
"Packs tend to stay in one area. Quincey told me so. Learned it from some red Indian he'd met once."
For the life of me I couldn't recall who Jack might be referring to, then it dawned that he was being less than truthful with Art in order to bring him around. Clever fellow.
"They'll all be here after the spring thaw, and we can pick up the trail then. Maybe hire some local help as guides. The herders here would probably be glad for the culling. It'll be like the old days when you and I and Quincey went tramping about. A more fitting memorial to him than freezing to death. What do you say?"
"You can leave if you like, I want to stay until I've got them all."
"I'm damned before I walk off and leave you on your own in this wasteland."
"I can look after myself."
"Yes, but—"
Art snarled something splenetic, obviously in one of his sulks.
Jack waited a moment, smoking. When he resumed, his manner was as serious and level as I'd ever known before. "Arthur. You know Quincey wouldn't want us to die on his account."
He got a short grunt for that one.
"What do you think he'd say if he knew of this? I'm sure he'd applaud the sentiment, but point out the impracticalities of our present circumstance."
I'd have said something more on the lines of them being crazier than a pair of drunk bedbugs for sticking it out, but Jack had come close enough.
"For the sake of his memory—" he continued.
"All right! I'll concede, but only until the spring."
Art sounded grudging, but I got the impression that his protests had been more about saving face than an unshakable determination to finish out his hunting. He could be stubborn when he wanted, but Jack invoking my name and likely wishes—which were indeed entirely correct—had allowed Art an honorable way to yield to sense.
With much relief, I made myself safely invisible again and went outside. I had to fight to hold in place long enough to materialize, and then the roaring wind was such as to scatter my thoughts as easily as the flying snow. God, but I was tired. I'd been in such a hurry to get away from the castle I'd neglected to feed before leaving. After the activities of the previous night and the strains of this one I was extremely weary, but it was less from hunger so much as a slowing of thought. I had to struggle to focus on my friends' plight.
Dealing directly with them was out of the question. Even muffled as I was and pretending not to understand English I could never pass as a Szgany close up, and returning to the castle to persuade one of the servants to act as my proxy Samaritan was impractical. Odds were he'd be shot for his trouble. I'd have to improvise something else for my friends.
First get them warmth. They could last days without food, but not fire. I cast about the surrounding trees, locating a dead one that would suit. Here did my extra-normal strength come in very handy as I broke off several whole branches, one as thick around as my leg. The wood was wet, but might dry out once inside the hut. I gathered enough to get them comfortably through the night and all the following day. Chopping it up was unnecessary; Jack was in the habit of carrying a hatchet for just such camp work.
I dragged the ungainly load around to the hut's door—only its top half was visible—and tried to arrange the wood to look as though it had been blown there by chance. Beneath the heaviest branch I placed the body of the rabbit. My friends could then give thanks to a thoughtful Providence Who not only sent them fuel, but had conveniently bludgeoned some dinner for them as well. I left behind tracks, but the wind was filling them in.
Hoping they would choose to accept the bounty without question or looking around too much, I grabbed one end of a branch and cracked it smartly against the side of the hut, making plenty of noise, then retreating a short distance upwind to hide behind a tree. With the snow blowing straight in their faces they'd be less likely to spot me.
Very shortly after the sudden commotion the door was pulled open and the both of them stood on the threshold, each holding a gun. Art had a Colt six-shooter I'd given him years back in Texas, and Jack held a Winchester at ready. As one they stared at the wood in disbelief and tried to pierce the darkness for an explanation. With a short, excited cry Art pointed out the dead rabbit.
Perfect. As I vanished and let the wind carry me east they were joyfully breaking off branches and tossing them inside. Even without the extra Vespas and plum brandy they could fend for themselves for the time being. Now it was up to me to see that they had a chance to get away for good.
* * *
With the wind tossing me like a tumbleweed, my trip back to the castle was considerably shortened if a bit wild. I concentrated on keeping myself low to the ground lest I be caught up and carried so high as to never come down again. The mad charge ended when I blundered one time too many against yet another tree trunk. Instead of flowing around it, I gave up, went solid, and had a look to see how far I'd come.
The tree turned out to be the rocky base of the castle, and it was just as well for me to stop there. Fifty yards farther and I'd have gone over the edge into that near-bottomless valley. I slogged through the drifts to the courtyard entry and took myself immediately to the stables to refresh my strength, for I was quite dizzy. Whether it was a result of that peculiar mode of travel or lack of nourishment I couldn't say, but a deep drink of a milk-cow's blood soon restored me.
Once inside, I went to the library, but Dracula was not there, nor had any of the kitchen servants seen him. This was not unusual, as they rarely crossed paths with their master if they could help it. Not that he was a cruel man to them; it had less to do with their natural fear of what he was than the fact he was a boyar and they his peasants. For all the enlightenment of a modern world, the ancient class barriers still held sway here. Democracy was something out of history that had to do with the long dead Greeks. Amid the expressive shrugs to my simplified question, one of the men paused at lighting his pipe and pointed upward expressively, rattling something off that was beyond my limited vocabulary. I thought I understood, thanked him, and left.
Emerging from the trap door in the high tower I found Dracula standing near the western edge of the roof, arms crossed, brooding over God knows what. Though the air was bitingly cold, there was no wind up here, which struck me as very strange until I reminded myself that the storm was not normal. The proof of this was driven forcefully home when I joined him at the edge. Above us the stars cut the deep blue sky in their bright, stately circle; below, thick dark clouds roiled, tormented by the moaning wind, completely hiding the ground. We stood on a small stony island suspended exactly between chaos and order.
Dracula barely acknowledged my presence and continued to gaze out over t
he clouds. There was a heaviness of manner about him, as though any movement would be too costly an effort. His hair and long mustache were pure white now, and he bore many more lines on his face than when I'd last seen him. A combination of grief and not feeding, I suspected. It imparted an unexpected humanity to him.
"This is my work," he murmured with a slight lift to his chin to indicate the storm.
"I thought it must be." The scent of fresh snow drifted up to freeze the inside of my throat.
"It seemed a good way to discourage your friends."
That he knew the man he'd attacked had a companion and the identities of both was no surprise. "I'm sorry about the deaths in your pack."
He favored me with a long, steady, and quite expressionless look. "You understand how . . . important they are to me."
"I do." He also apparently knew of my presence in the crypt the night before, but I wasn't about to explore the subject. "If you sent the wolves far away—"
"That has been done."
"My friends thought they were avenging me, my disappearance. That's why they were hunting."
"So I presumed." There was a cold light in his eyes. "In using my wolves to save you I never thought they would be placed in danger. Though I can accept your friends' desire for revenge, it will stop now."
"I won't allow you to kill them."
Dracula made no reply, only continued to regard me steadily. I dared not look away. Do that with a wolf and he attacks.
"Allow," he said. His eyes narrowed slightly. He seemed . . . amused. And it was not at all reassuring.
I knew how to fight him and win. There were plenty of old but usable weapons scattered about the castle, mementos of past wars. Any one of the pole arms would serve as a stake, and the swords still looked sharp enough to easily remove a man's head. And though he might be nearly invulnerable at night, same as me, my advantage over him was the fact that I could yet hold a cross. Hanging from my neck on a long chain was a silver crucifix I'd worn since the beginning of this hunt. I had prayed much over it, asking again and again for guidance. It lay next to my skin even now, cold on my own chill flesh.
"The ploy with the storm worked," I said. "They're ready to leave."
His stare sharpened.
"I only looked in on them and listened. They never saw me."
He gave a short nod. "Most wise of you."
"Will you let them depart in peace?"
No reply. He turned back to the west, his features dropping into a frown.
"Will you?"
"A moment, Mr. Morris."
Dracula closed his eyes, lifting his head toward the clear sky. He let his arms relax to his sides, but raised his hands to waist level, fingers spread, as though holding an invisible ball close to his body. He held this pose for a very long time before gradually rotating his hands so his palms faced away from his body. Only then did I see he was under some kind of peculiar strain. Every inch of him trembled from it, though his hands were rock steady. There was an oddness about them, or rather the space between them.
It was like looking into a hole and finding another hole on top of it. I couldn't say that I saw anything, but something was there—or wasn't there. Maybe the more sensitive Harker would have been able to see what my eyes couldn't pin down. What I knew for certain was that all the hair on my scalp stood on end from whatever it was, and I wanted to put distance between us. I stayed, though, curiosity overcoming instinctual fear.
The wind below took on a deeper moan. Had I given myself over to fancy, I could have sworn there were words in it, not a language I spoke or ever wanted to learn, but words all the same.
Was he making the storm worse? That's what it looked like. Bad enough to start with, but if it became more violent the frail hut would certainly collapse.
I stepped toward Dracula and damn the consequences, but a blast of wind caught me in the chest like a giant's fist. It knocked me flat and sent me skidding on my back across the slick wood of the roof to fetch up against the low rise of the opposite wall. I half turned, throwing an arm around it to save myself and found I had a sick-making view of that black valley stretching straight down into hell. All was clear there, for the shrouding clouds parted around the tower and soared sharply upward to shred themselves to nothing in the high distance.
The force that struck me slacked off, allowing me to stand. Though still strong, this wind was bearable. Quite normal, in fact. No unearthly voices. I cautiously approached Dracula.
He was bent forward, hands resting on the wall to hold himself up, his head drooping with fatigue. He tiredly looked at me.
"Such elements," he murmured.
I ventured to cast an eye to the west. The clouds were gone. For as far as I could see the snow lay thick, silent, and trackless under the crystal bright stars. "What about the elements?"
"Easy to summon when you have the rage of ages to fuel it, not so easy to disperse."
He did seem utterly exhausted. The skin pressed close to his skull; his tiger-green eyes were now dark pits. Though I'd grown used to the age on his face this was the first time I truly perceived him to be old.
"Your friends shall find their going will improve some five miles away in whatever direction they choose to take when they depart."
Relief flooded me. "Thank you."
"You kept your word, I keep mine. What they have done was done in ignorance. I've stopped them. It will have to be enough."
I wisely did not enlighten him about their intent to return in the spring to finish the job. "The futility of retribution?" I asked, recalling what he'd said about the deaths of his mistresses.
His eyes sparked. "Indeed. For all my years . . . it is still the hardest of all wisdoms to grasp, for sometimes retribution is not always a futile action."
I grunted agreement; it seemed the right thing to do.
He slowly straightened. "Which gives me one question I will ask of you, Mr. Morris."
Only one? In our conversations he usually had dozens to ply.
"Have you decided whether or not you will conclude your own portion of the hunt and kill me?"
Did he know how to read hearts and minds as well as conjure up a storm? I tried to hide my startlement and alarm, but doubted my success. "I don't know wh—"
He made a throwing-away gesture. "Do not bother with such prevarication. I am not insulted by your intentions, whatever they might be. I assure you that I completely understand about such debts. You would take my life in payment for that of Lucy Westenra and the sullied honor of Mrs. Harker. Is that not true?"
There seemed no point in denying it. "Yes. How did you know?"
"Because you so carefully avoided such subjects throughout your stay here."
True. Partly because he didn't want to talk about either lady, but I also steered around any general mention of revenge whenever the topic surfaced. To him I must have been as clear as glass.
"By misadventure or on purpose, I have visited so much misery upon you and your friends, your desire to avenge them is not easily pushed aside. So I ask again: what will you do?"
Why did he wait until now for this? Having just shown mercy to Art and Jack did he think I'd look more kindly upon him? He was smart enough for that kind of manipulation, but I'd come to know him fairly well; such an obvious ploy was beneath his sense of honor.
Then there was his very evident weariness. Of all times, this was his most vulnerable, perhaps the best and only opportunity I would ever have of fighting him and winning. Why would he give me such an advantage?
Because this way he will get an honest answer from me.
He was taking a hell of a chance, courting an instant fight to the death or getting peace of mind. My reply would settle things forever with him, one way or another.
I could also respect a brave man. An honest answer he would get.
"We've both lost those whom we've loved," I said.
There was no need to mention the wolves. Or his three companions. They were here, anyway. Th
ey were all on the tower with us, along with Lucy's ghost, who hovered just over my left shoulder.
"Nothing will be served by more death," I continued. "The way I see it, things are even between us."
Though I'd made a sacred promise to Mina Harker, and another to myself to the memory of Lucy, I'd come to realize the heavy burden involved in the keeping of such oaths. In my heart I knew it was not one I was up to carrying for the rest of my life.
"My decision is to do nothing," I said.
I could not tell if he was relieved or disappointed. For the odd mood he seemed to be in either one would have equally suited him. Dracula gave a single slow nod, and that was that.
"The year is turning," he observed after awhile. "The solstice will soon be upon us, with its endings and beginnings."
Solstice? I'd been mulling over what to do about Christmas, having the idea it was a holiday he had reason not to observe. "I think my time here is ended as well."
He made no argument against it. "Indeed. You've learned all you need to survive and probably much more than you ever wanted to know."
That raised a rueful smile from me.
"Then fare you well, my so-young friend, if I might call you that. Our time together has been most . . . instructive to me."
"For us both, sir."
We stood for sometime after that, each looking out on the snow blanket, listening to the wind and trees whispering to themselves. Doubtless he understood more of their language than I . . . but that was all right with me.
It was one of those things I really didn't want to know about.
Chapter Six
Paris, January 1894
My return to western civilization was neither straightforward nor easy. Traveling is a difficult enough activity, but more so when one is unconscious during the day. I had to trust my inert, helpless body to the tender mercies of shipping clerks, baggage clerks, porters, and lord knows who else. Just getting to Buda-Pesth was such an ordeal that I was tempted to forgo the rigors of another train trip in favor of hiring a wagon and team and driving myself at night.
