Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  I'd wanted to intrigue him and knew this would turn the trick. If he was still feeling low, then would this spark his curiosity, hopefully in a pleasant way.

  When I had readied myself for the trip to Ring, I went downstairs to find a reply had come that afternoon, left in care of the hotel. It warmed my heart enormously.

  "Dear Old Comrade, whoever you are, you are most welcome to my home. Will be waiting. Arthur, Lord Godalming."

  * * *

  The train schedules in England being vastly more reliable than those on the Continent, I was able to board my car in the full confidence of arriving just after the dinner hour. I carried a small travel case, heavy with a quantity of the earth so necessary to my rest. There would be no return trains until the following night, so I'd have to find a place to shelter for the day. Once Art and I had had our talk, though, I was sure he would provide one for me.

  If all went well.

  It had taken Dracula an astonishingly short time to bring me around to a different way of thinking about vampires. But then I'd become one, so that did have a powerful influence over the quickness of my conversion. Art would be a tougher nut to crack, but there was a good possibility he would see reason, once I got him past the first awful hurdle. I'd decided to take the least unpleasant path and hypnotize him from the start.

  It was cowardly, but I saw it as a way of sparing him from needless distress. He might eventually forgive me, for we were old friends.

  As a small salve to my conscience, I determined never to take any such liberty with Bertrice. In this instance with her brother I had a tolerable excuse, but she would ever be spared from my lack of resource. How things would unfold between us, if they were there for the unfolding, was up to the Fates, and thus I prayed that those capricious sisters would be kind to me.

  My arrival at the little station went unmarked. No one met me, which was satisfactory. If I'd wanted a carriage and driver waiting, I'd have requested it in the telegram, knowing Art would oblige and likely be there himself. That would never do.

  Valise in hand, I walked from the station to Ring, it being a half-hour's leisurely stroll away, and the countryside was pleasant—in the summer. At this time of year, though the land was strangely green from winter wet, the charms of a walk were less appealing, but the wind was not so bad, and it was not raining or cold enough for snow. My thoughts were more on the coming interview than anything else, even Bertrice.

  Art and I were as close as any two men who were not born as brothers. Even though we'd had vastly different upbringings, back in Texas we'd formed that kind of instant bond that sometimes happens between people. We thought alike on many things, disagreed on others, but respected our differences and celebrated our similarities.

  How long ago it seemed to me, those days, those years of tramping all over the world, testing ourselves against its countless obstacles and winning. It seemed as though nothing could stop us then. How changed was our world now that our view was tempered by so many sorrows, one sorrow in particular. As much as I mourned Lucy, Art had the greater grief, for he had been the one she'd chosen. I'd seen his love for her bring about a nobility of spirit in him that ran beyond the limits of his inherited title, but at what price?

  That I was about to discover.

  I passed through the great gates of the estate. They were always open, England being long past the days when such defenses were needed. A curving graveled drive led to the huge old house. It looked bleak, for the surrounding trees were bereft of their foliage except for a stand of evergreens off to the west. There I took myself, seeking their shadows.

  On this side of the gray stone pile was Art's study on the second floor. The windows were shut, of course, but the curtains were open. He usually forgot to draw them unless one of the maids chanced to do it.

  Had my heart been beating it would have given a leap, for a figure now appeared at one of the windows. I could not make out his features, but guessed it to be Art himself. A servant would not have stood there looking out for so long. I wanted to rush forward, shouting, but firmly held back. I had a plan on how to go about this reunion and would stick to it.

  I concealed my valise under the low branches of a fir that had grown crooked, marking it in my memory. Should the evening go badly and I found it necessary to retreat, I wanted my earth in a safe, easily found place. Not that I expected trouble, but damn me if Sholenka's strange card reading hadn't left me thoroughly unsettled. It is all well to discount such things as superstitious nonsense, but I'd seen too much. There was more to the world than most of us are aware, and having experienced—if not become a part of—that hidden side, I'd be a fool to ignore it.

  Leaving the fir stand, my eyes peeled for stray gardeners making rounds, I walked straight to the west side of the house to stand beneath the study window. From here it was only about twenty feet up. That had not seemed so much from a distance, now it looked impossible, though I'd scaled taller cliffs in Transylvania. On the other hand, those had not been composed of smooth, mortared stone.

  Very well, I had another way of gaining entry. I wanted to avoid the front door. The servants knew me too well. Instead, I vanished and lifted my incorporeal self higher and higher, using the hard face of the house as a guide. When I sensed a change of its surface, I went just solid enough to see I was level with the window. Art, thankfully, had drawn the curtains by now. What he'd have done seeing me floating ghostlike against the sky did not bear thinking about.

  Vanishing utterly, I sought and found my way through the cracks in the casing until I was fully within the room. So much for Van Helsing's lore that a vampire could not gain entry to a house without invitation. Then again, perhaps my original welcome to Ring made when I still breathed was yet in effect. No, but that lore was false as well. I'd had no trouble walking into Lord Burce's home. Maybe the restriction only applied to Dracula's breed.

  I dismissed speculations in favor of acquainting myself with the lay of the land. I knew it well, having spent many hours here yarning away with Art over a bottle or two from his rich cellars. Over there was the big fireplace; he would have it blazing in anticipation of his guest's arrival. Near his desk stood his drinks cabinet, probably open for the same reason.

  Well, I mustn't keep him waiting.

  I felt my way across the large room, and yes, sensed Art's nearby presence. He was in his favorite chair by the fire, no doubt filling the time by reading the papers or some book as he was wont to do. I brushed rather too close to him, for he made a sudden exclamation and left his chair. At first, I couldn't apprehend what he was up to, but muffled sounds soon explained his actions. He'd piled more wood onto the blaze. How his servants would be scandalized, with their master looking after his own comfort, but he'd picked up some very bad habits from his travels.

  This reminded me that my coming too close had given him a profound chill, which I'd not meant to do. I backed away, trying to find the door leading to the hall. That accomplished, I passed beneath it, finally becoming solid again on the other side.

  The hall was very dim, even for me. There was only a faint glow from the stairs at the far end where lamp light seeped up from the front entry. Had I come in by that means, a butler or footman would have guided me up here with a candle.

  The darkness suited me fine. I was covered by a good heavy Inverness cape I'd bought to disguise my form if not my height. Now I took a moment to deal with my face, donning the half-mask I'd thrust in my pocket the night before. Over the lower part of my features I wrapped a woolen muffler, for Art would know me in a beard. On top I perched a low traveling cap. It was all highly dramatic, but necessary.

  I softly tapped on the door, as a servant might, and received permission to come in.

  He was back in his chair again and just turning 'round. Possibly he expected it to be a footman sent to announce the arrival of his guest. Certainly by Art's expression he did not expect the guest himself, nor a guest done up in so fantastical a manner. He quickly stood, his face a mi
x of guarded expectation fighting with amusement.

  "Well, old comrade," he said after a moment to look me over, "you've flummoxed me. I give up. Who are you?"

  Hearing his voice again, sounding the same as always brought me close to choking on the sudden lump in my throat. How I wanted to tear away the disguise and rush forward to seize him up in a back-thumping bear's hug. I made myself go slowly, my hand outstretched to take his. We shook, formally, like gentlemen.

  "Will you not speak?" he asked, still with a smile hovering about his lips but puzzlement in his expression.

  I shook my head, then went to light the lamps. He'd not been reading, for the only other light came from the fire, which was not enough for my purposes. I recalled what Bertrice had said about his moping about. This could not be good.

  He watched my every move. I could tell he was holding himself back, allowing me to have my own way until I had things arranged to my satisfaction. One aspect of his character I could always count on was his ingrained politeness, but it could not be pushed too far.

  "Sir, I have been eaten up with curiosity all the day, will you not ease it?" There was the faintest edge of exasperation beginning to creep into his tone.

  To this I made a calming gesture, and motioned that he should seat himself again. In turn I pulled a chair close to his, that I could look him right in the eye. When I sat, he sat, but was barely able hold himself in place. I could hear his heart thumping away.

  He was much thinner than when I'd last seen him, almost gaunt; the change was alarming, unhealthy. His face was very pale and drawn, with lines of care beginning to etch themselves into his otherwise youthful flesh. The intervening months had not been kind to him, and little wonder. Why had not Jack Seward done anything?

  Catching Art's gaze with my own, I extended all of my will toward him until he seemed to relax. His eyes bore only the faintest glazing, though.

  I put my hand over his. "Please," I whispered. "Do not be afraid of me."

  "What . . . why . . . ?" He was stout of spirit and will, not one to easily surrender to suggestion.

  "Art, remember that I am your true friend. I won't hurt you."

  A flickering in his features, and I heard his heartbeat suddenly quicken. Aside from Jack Seward, I was the only one who ever called him "Art."

  "Be at ease, all is well. I swear it."

  He made a long, awful exhalation of breath such as you only hear from the dying.

  This was more difficult than it should be, but the explanation stood on the table next to his chair: a brandy bottle and two glasses. He'd apparently been imbibing prior to my arrival.

  He began to recoil, trying to pull his hand from my grasp.

  "Don't move," I ordered, and it wrung at me to use so sharp a voice with him, but I'd learned that the more emotional I was while working hypnosis, the more telling the results.

  His movements ceased, but his heart yet boomed away fit to burst.

  "You're not afraid," I said, feeling desperate. "You must not fear me."

  "No . . ."

  "Art, it's all right. I came a long way to talk with you, so please don't collapse. I wouldn't know what to say to that old snob you have for a butler."

  He gave a short gasp, almost like a laugh; it lacked mirth, but served its purpose. It had pulled his thoughts sideways to something out of our past, something normal. "Q-Quincey?"

  "Yes, my friend. It's me. And everything's all right." I held tight to his hand with both of mine now. He trembled like a fever victim. "You just settle yourself, and I'll explain everything."

  "You're a ghost," he said in a thin, lost voice.

  "Oh, lord help us, no. Be sensible, Art, there're no such things."

  "There are, I've seen them."

  "Yes, well, enough of this stuff will make you see all kinds of whatnot. I'll take the risk and give you a bit more, though, as you look to be in sore need." I let him go and gave him his brandy glass. Thank goodness, he didn't bolt from the room.

  He finished it off in one swallow and coughed, staring at me the whole time as though I might vanish if his attention wavered. Slowly, so as not to affright him further, I undid my muffler and removed the cap and mask, piling them on the table. If he'd had any shred of disbelief left, this ripped it fully away. He groaned as if in great pain, his eyes rolled up, and he started to pitch forward.

  I caught him in time and pushed him back in his chair. "No, you don't, Art Holmwood! You wake up this instant and face me. Come on, man!"

  It took a few moments to fully bring him to again. I'd not thought any of this would be easy and was sorry it was living down to my expectations. He clutched at my arm.

  "You seem solid enough," he allowed. "Not a ghost? Then tell me how you recovered, for the two of them pronounced you dead on the spot that awful night."

  For an instant, I thought how easy it would be to give him a lie. To say that Jack Seward and Van Helsing had both been mistaken and that I'd somehow recovered from the knife wound. How much easier it would be on him. On us both.

  But I'd been raised to be truthful, which made me a very poor liar to those who mattered to me. I could make him believe whatever I wanted, but that would set up a whole other passel of problems. One of the good points about speaking the truth is you never have to work to remember what you've said.

  "It's a long story," I told him. "And I won't say word one of it until you've gathered all your wits."

  "What a weary wait that shall be, I-I think they've fled the country."

  That was what I wanted to see: his old humor coming back again. He sounded frail, but it was a beginning. "Tell you what, you catch your breath and look at me all you want until you finally believe your eyes."

  So saying, I quit my chair and shrugged out of the Inverness, throwing it onto a nearby settee. As I expected, his gaze never left me, giving me an idea of what a zoo animal's life must be like.

  "Nothing's changed here, I'm glad to see," I said, making a slow round of the room. "I feel like I've returned to my second home."

  One thing was new: there was a photographic portrait of Lucy on his desk. It must have been taken shortly after announcing their engagement. I remembered that particular dress and how radiant she'd looked in it at the celebratory dinner party. Some of her sweet beauty shone out even from this meager memory of her true self. I had to turn away. It hurt too much.

  "You look well—for a dead man," said Art. He was not smiling.

  "I reckon I do."

  "How did you . . . survive? Recover? For God's sake, Quincey, speak to me or I shall go mad!"

  "Don't go flying off the handle, this isn't exactly an easy thing for me, either. I've much to tell and you may not believe any of it. What you must believe is that I am the same old Quincey and your true friend."

  "What happened to you?" His voice rose, tight with nerves. He stood and came toward me. He walked almost like a puppet, arms and legs jerking, barely under control, unsteady.

  My heart sank. He would not be able to deal with the truth. Not now. I would have to draw him into a deep sleep and convince him my intrusion had been only a dream.

  Then he wasn't looking at me, but at something over the fireplace. All the color drained from him, and he seemed ready to faint again.

  "Dear God Almighty," he whispered, and though his family was and always had been strictly Church of England, he crossed himself.

  "Dear God, indeed," I said, and felt myself go pale as well. Over the mantle, so much a part of the study that I'd forgotten its presence, was a large mirror in an ornate gold-leafed frame. It showed him to be alone in the room.

  He fumbled at his neck. His fingers twitched almost too much to work properly. His collar button popped off, then suddenly he produced a crucifix on a chain. No, by God, it was a real rosary, the very one he'd worn all during our hunt for Dracula.

  Holding it before him seemed to bolster his courage. He stood straight, and determination returned to his expression. I was very glad that he
did not have a weapon just then.

  "Stay back," he said, his voice firm.

  "Art . . . it's all right. I'll not hurt you. I'm not like he was, I swear it on Lucy's soul."

  Rage flooded him. "How dare you speak her name!"

  Damn, that had been ill-considered. "You'll understand when you've heard me out."

  He shook his head. "No. You will leave. In the name of God I command you! Depart! Now!"

  "And in the name of God I ask that you listen! I am not like that fiend we killed. If I were, would I be able to wear this?" I slipped my fingers under my own collar. I drew forth a silver crucifix on a long chain, the one that I'd worn during and since that fateful hunt. The same as Art, I could not bear to part with its comfort. "See? I am different!"

  The truth took a while sinking into his brain, and when it did it made an ugly job of twisting his whole world around. I could almost read the mix of feelings as they marched over his face, for certainly I'd gone through them all as well.

  "You died," he insisted. "You did die. You're one of them."

  "Yes. But another breed."

  "Breed?"

  "That's the only word I have for it." A memory flickered. "Think of it this way: if Dracula was like a wolf of his kind, then I'm more of a hunting dog."

  "You're a vampire, you kill."

  "No! Never—I swear on this." I held up the crucifix.

  "Impossible!"

  "It is."

  "You drink blood! Damn it, Quincey, you drink blood from the living!"

  "Animal blood."

  "But—"

  "Animal. Blood. That's all. Please, believe me, Art. I would never for the world hurt anyone."

  He said nothing for a long time, only stared, his face gone blank.

  I used his stillness, fixing on him. "Art, listen to me. Calm yourself and don't be afraid, not of me."

  There may have been too much brandy in him for me to have any luck getting past his agitation, but he did ease a little. "I'm not afraid. I am horrified. Sickened."