Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  Another stream of bad-tempered German or Dutch. His collar popped open, his shirt pulled nearly out of his trousers, and his jalousies had snapped clear of their buttons, threatening the proper placement of those trousers.

  "Quincey! Professor! Stop it! Stop this instant!" Jack hovered just out of reach of the struggle, clutching the lance.

  I was willing to leave off, but Van Helsing was stubborn, fighting like his life depended on it. Sooner or later he'd tire out, but I worried for his heart lasting the course.

  Jack Seward quit shouting and took action. He went to the desk where stood a vase of greenhouse flowers next to Lucy's photograph. He tore the flowers clear and dashed the water square into his former teacher's face. I got a good splashing as well, but it was worth it. The professor sputtered and ceased to struggle. I dragged him over to a chair by the fire and pushed him down onto it.

  "Damn, Jack," I said, ineffectually swabbing my face with a handkerchief. From the open doorway I heard a nervous titter. The maid, along with what seemed to be most of the household staff was there, the whole herd clustered close together to watch. I scowled and slammed the door in their faces. "Now we will be the talk of the county. I hope your reputation can stand it."

  Jack stared at me, mouth opened, then snapped it shut and put the lance back up on the wall. "My God!" he said, rounding on us. "Professor, what in heaven's name were you thinking?"

  Van Helsing—for once—had nothing to say for himself. He glared defiance, after he rubbed the water from his eyes.

  I put some distance between us, going over to Jack. He seemed to have caught his breath, but nothing more; there was a lost look to him. Well did I understand the feeling. I clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  "It'll be all right, old partner, some things just take a passel of time to get through."

  He gave me a sharp eye, searching my features, for what I could not say. I gave him a wink, grinning. Then all of a sudden, his face twisted, and he threw his arms about me in a bear's hug. "It is you!"

  "None other, I swear," I said, pounding his back and laughing. Relief surged over me. My other friend had returned.

  "But how? Did Dracula—" He pulled away to check my face again.

  "No, he's got nothing to do with it. Didn't Art tell you?"

  "He was in no condition. He babbled bits and pieces, enough to put the wind up myself and the professor. He took charge and had the servants here running about rubbing garlic on all the windows."

  I shook my head. "Guess I can't blame him, seeing the confines of his experience. You have a tangle with a vampire as wicked as Dracula, it kind of colors your view. But as God is my witness, Jack, I am not like him."

  "Then what are you? And how did you come to be this way? I've a thousand questions."

  "So did Art. Where is he? No, don't answer, it might set him off again." I gestured toward Van Helsing, but his chair was empty, the study door just closing. Jack started after him, but I held him back. "Where will he go?"

  "Back to the asylum, I expect. I hope he'll speak to me again. Everything just got so out of control . . ."

  "You did right, but he's gonna be mighty angry. He's not the kind to forgive too quick, if at all, and now he may think you've gone over to the devil's own side."

  He groaned. "What am I to do?"

  "I don't rightly know, but these things have a way of working out. After he's cooled down some you'll be able to talk to him. He might not listen to you, though. He sure as hell wasn't hearing me."

  "But why? He's the most logical reasoner I've ever known."

  "Mend your fence first, and figure the rest out later. What about Art? Did you take him to the asylum?" I was only making a guess, but it was a good one.

  Jack went very sober. "Not yet, but we plan to; it's the best place for me to care for him. He's still here in the house."

  "He is? Then I want to see him."

  "I'd advise against it. When we arrived here this afternoon he was very agitated. His eyes were so bright I thought he'd caught a fever, but he was in a very merry, happy mood, as though he'd finally broken free of the grief that's held him all these months. He'd invited the professor down for supper, you see, and I decided to tag along and make a party of it. All was well, until just after dinner. Art kept running to the windows and peering out. Then he excused himself and went upstairs for a bit. He never returned. Just when I was curious enough to go find out why we heard such an awful shrieking laughter from his room."

  "What happened?"

  "That's the devil of it, we don't know. We ran up to him and found him collapsed, laughing his head off, and raving about your having come back from the dead."

  I felt cold inside. What had I done to my friend? "And you believed him?"

  "We did when I pried a piece of crumpled note paper from his fist. My heart all but stopped when I recognized your handwriting. He stuttered out enough for us to piece things together, then drifted off into a heavy doze. The professor went very grim and took charge of the house. You know the rest."

  "I wish I didn't." Suddenly weary, I found my way to one of the fireside chairs and dropped into it, rubbing the back of my neck. "My return must have brought on his attack, but why? If anything, it should have made him better."

  "The mind is capable of reacting in any number of unexpected ways from that which we'd prefer. I think the strain was too much and he simply gave in."

  "I can't believe that. I'm going to see him."

  Jack looked ready to object, then shrugged. "Very well. But I would not be too optimistic."

  He opened the door. Waiting on the other side were a dozen or so of the house's male servants, each one armed with some deadly implement ranging from golf clubs to fireplace pokers. Jack gave out an exclamation at the sight, half-jumping out of his skin.

  "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, quite outraged. "Foster?"

  Art's butler, a formidable old snob, lifted his chin, the better to look down his nose. "If you please, Dr. Seward, the foreign gentleman"—his emphasis was more indication of sarcasm than respect—"insisted we take up arms against this other foreign gentleman. We none of us wants any trouble, sir, but we are placed in a very difficult position."

  "I'm sure he did not mean to, but you may be assured that all the trouble has been sorted out. Mr. Morris is not to be assaulted, is that clear?"

  Foster nodded and the rest of the rag-tag army of footmen looked highly relieved. "Very well, sir. May I inquire if this is the same Mr. Morris who was killed in foreign parts?"

  "Yes, but it was all . . . a mistake."

  He sniffed. "Then may I offer my congratulations on your recovery, Mr. Morris?"

  "Thank you, Foster," I said, doing my damnedest to keep a sober face on.

  "Are there any other orders, Dr. Seward?"

  "Just go about your usual business, Foster."

  "Very good, sir." Regally, he turned and surveyed his troops, and dismissed them with a word. They shuffled away slow, reluctant to leave, and obviously full of questions, but they'd just have to do without. God knows what answers they'd supply to themselves once they reached the servants' hall.

  As soon as they were out of earshot Jack and I fell into a quiet fit of laughter. We were like two schoolboys who had just put one over on a strict teacher. It was absolutely the wrong time and place for it, but we just couldn't help ourselves. If Van Helsing reappeared brandishing a stake and hammer, I'd have not been able to fend him off.

  "God, but I needed that," confessed Jack, wiping his eyes. "Hysterics has a place in one's recovery, it seems. Come on, then."

  He led the way to Art's room, which was toward the end of the hall. Some few of the household lingered about the stairway, pretending to work. Jack knocked twice on Art's door, then carefully opened it.

  "Professor?" he asked, holding to this side of the threshold. Perhaps he expected Van Helsing to be standing just out of sight with another Comanche lance.

  "Let me," I said, moving past hi
m, my senses all alert. If there was a piece of bushwhacking at hand, I'd be able to react quick enough to head it off.

  But the room was empty.

  No sign of Van Helsing, no sign of Art.

  "He's taken him away," whispered Jack in disbelief, as shocked as I'd ever seen him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "What's his game?" I cast about the room, trying to find a sign of what had happened. The bedcoverings were tossed around; other than that the place was in good order.

  Jack's face was a prairie thunderstorm ready to cut loose. He crossed over to the bed and yanked on the bell pull next to it. Presently, Foster came up.

  "Sir?"

  "Where is Lord Godalming?" he demanded.

  "The foreign doctor took him away, sir. While the rest of us were arming, he had two of the footmen carry his lordship down to your carriage, then he had the driver whip up the horses."

  "While Mr. Morris and I were—oh, for heaven's sake, this is quite too much! Why did you not tell me?"

  "I was given to understand that you already knew, sir."

  "You should have stopped him!"

  "It wasn't my place, sir, seeing as how he'd taken charge of things earlier, and though a foreign chap, he is still a doctor. I had the understanding that it was an emergency on behalf of his lordship and it seemed best not to hinder him. He promised he would see to his lordship's recovery."

  "What else did he say?"

  "I could not even guess, sir, as it was not in the Queen's English. He was most excited, though. In a great hurry."

  "I expect he's taken off for Purfleet, then."

  "Sir, may I ask if his lordship's relations should be notified of his condition?"

  An exclamation broke from my lips. "Tarnation, yes! Someone needs to tell Ber—Lady Bertrice. I'll do it."

  Jack stared at me. "You? But she heard you're—that is, she thinks you're—"

  "Well . . . no, she doesn't. We sort of ran across each other in London; I'll explain later. But maybe it's best if you sent her the telegram, just make it quick, we have to get cracking to Purfleet."

  "Quincey, it may be better for me to go alone. If I can talk to Van Helsing under less . . . upsetting circumstances I might persuade him to reason."

  I could see the sense of it. "I'll want to be close by, though. I'll come along, but will keep out of sight."

  "Of course. Foster? Telegram forms?"

  "His lordship keeps them in his desk in the study, I believe."

  "Fine. I'm going to have to borrow Lord Godalming's carriage for a day or so. Could you have it made ready?"

  "I will have it seen to, sir." Foster left, and though his face was frozen as an old fish, I got the idea he was pleased to have Jack giving the orders now. He returned to the study, while I went after Foster.

  "Did you see his lordship?" I asked. "What condition was he in?"

  "Sir, it is not my place to make judgments on his lordship."

  "If you don't tell me I'll gossip with the footmen instead."

  That absolutely appalled him. "Sir, it—that is—"

  "Just say it."

  "Well, sir, to put it charitably, I believe his lordship was drunk. He was in a very good mood, but the doctors . . . they seemed to read something sinister into his behavior."

  With all their dealings with lunatics I could see how they could make such a mistake. I hoped it was a mistake. Nodding a thanks to Foster, I went to the study. Jack was writing out the telegram to Bertrice. I browsed through the drawers and found a small leather-bound diary.

  Nothing of note was in it, just addresses—including Bertrice's—and brief entries to remind Art of social appointments. My visit was one of them, written as Guest—?!—after dinner. Drinks. For tonight he had: Dinner, J. & V.H. Q. Later. Long talk!!! His handwriting for both was a little hard to decipher, wandering and uneven. His fist was usually very strong and readable, but I suppose when a man writes to himself he can be as careless as he likes.

  When Jack had finished, I composed my own message to Bertrice. "Regret another unavoidable delay, must be in Purfleet with Seward to look after Art. Will write you from there soonest. Your faithful friend, Quincey."

  * * *

  After I'd quietly retrieved my valise of earth from the fir stand, Jack Seward and I got into Art's closed carriage and off we went. The ride to Purfleet proved to be long and uncomfortable compared to covering the same distance by train. The roads in England weren't much better than the tracks and trails in the wild back country of Texas, just a little less bumpy and with no prairie dog holes or bandits. Jack and I had shared rougher transportation on some of our travels with Art, but never passed the time with a yarn more strange than the one I spun now. It was more or less identical to what I'd told Art, with me being careful to leave out any hint about Dracula's survival, focusing instead on my helpful mythical hermit. The difference between this telling and the last was Jack's inability to keep from interrupting with dozens of questions, mostly of a medical nature, concerning my changed condition.

  "I shall have to get a blood sample from you," he said at the end. "It's not my specialty, but I'm sure I can find someone conversant in—"

  "But isn't Van Helsing a specialist?"

  "I don't think he will be especially amenable at this present time. He's in quite a state to make him resort to kidnapping Art. I'm sure he thinks he has the best of reasons, but . . ." Jack left off with a shrug. "Van Helsing can be an eccentric fellow. This is very disappointing to me that he should go to such an extreme, but perhaps later we can bring him around. If I propose your case to him as something to be treated as a rare disease in need of a cure, that might turn the trick with him."

  "How can you cure death?" I asked.

  "You did," he pointed out, with a meaningful look that shut me down for some time. "There must be some taint in your blood that has the capacity to . . ." His face screwed up from some hard thinking.

  "What?"

  "Well, I could speculate that whatever was introduced into your blood by Miss Jones brought about a drastic change in your entire physiology. Obviously it was very subtle, else you'd have noticed something odd in the years since. It may lie dormant, then during the ordeal of your wounding it kindled to activity. The effect of it dropped you into a profound trance while you were on the brink of death. You lay in this state until your injury healed. To us you had passed on, but instead you were in a coma so deep as to be indistinguishable from complete expiration."

  "That's a possibility, but for my own admittedly nonmedical judgment, I'm positive I died."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "You were there. You saw how much I bled out after the fight. Have you ever seen anyone recover from the kind of cut I got? I haven't, and I've been around and seen some pretty awful things in this world. When I felt the cold take hold of my feet and legs and start creeping up my chest I knew I was gone. All that was left was a quick prayer and sing a hymn over the body. But I had no regrets, not after seeing the good we did for Miss Mina." I tapped my brow to remind him of the burn that she had taken when Van Helsing had touched her there with the Host. Only when she thought Dracula had died had it vanished. "How does science explain that?"

  Chagrined, Jack shook his head, spreading his hands. "It was a matter of faith, something beyond science."

  "So maybe there are other things around as inexplicable as faith. Meaning myself."

  "Well, whatever is behind this, the price you paid for your . . . recovery—once awake—is this terrible addiction to blood-drinking."

  I took exception to that. "It's not terrible to me!"

  "Neither is the pipe to an opium slave."

  There were several more objections I could make to his assumptions, but held them in. He'd have to run with his theories first before being ready to hear the facts. I was certain my condition was quite supernatural and modern science would not stand. How else to explain the lack of a reflection and my ability to vanish? Those were well outside the
natural order of things.

  He looked all earnest. "Will you let me help you, Quincey?"

  "I'm in no need of help. I'm just as fine as I was before, better even." Especially in regard to fleshly pleasures, one of the advantageous facets of my state I'd not confided to him. I'd distracted him with the vanishing business and that had been fascinating enough—if tiring to me.

  Jack seemed almost hurt. "But you must surely want to be free of this affliction."

  "You think of it as an affliction. I don't."

  This was a new notion to him. A troubling one. Enough to give him second thoughts to Van Helsing's warnings?

  "This isn't a disease, Jack." I did my best to sound reassuring. "And if it is, then it's a benevolent one. I'm more hale and hearty than I've ever been in my life. The only drawback is how it shuts me away from dawn to dusk. Dracula could get out and about during the day. For some reason, I don't have that freedom. If you can find a way to restore the day to me, then I should be much obliged for your help."

  "I can but try. We'll make a start as soon as may be."

  He wanted to conduct an examination right there in the rolling carriage, but I persuaded him against it, as it was really too dark for him to see anything. We'd have to go through the whole business again later. I did allow him to take my pulse, and since I had none he was fair flummoxed.

  "You must have a heartbeat," he said, very unhappy. "You simply must."

  "Well, maybe that's why we're called `Un-Dead.' "

  "But it is physically impossible for you to be walking about with no heart to pump your blood or respiration to—it's not natural."

  I had to chuckle, which annoyed him. "In the scientific world, that must be so. But the professor introduced us to a different kind of world, a hidden one that should be impossible, but is not. Took him a long time to do it, too, which he did by showing, not talking, to you about it. He sets a great store over giving you something to look at, then asking you to draw a conclusion, doesn't he?"

  "That is his very method of teaching, yes."

  "Well, I tried it on him tonight, so why didn't it work?"

  "I cannot say."