Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

"Then I will. Van Helsing's a stubborn old coot who can't bear to be proved wrong."

  "Quincey! Really now!"

  "Then what else would you call it? I was standing there big as life holding the Host itself and bellering out the Lord's Prayer without one hitch and he accuses me of blasphemy and calls me a devil."

  "I'd no idea. That's so unlike him. I've never seen him that way before. And attacking you with that lance, like one of my patients gone berserk."

  "He's a smart fellow, I've never seen his match when it comes to his kind of book learning, but he's got himself a little too set on being right all the time. In this case he doesn't dare allow that he might be wrong about me."

  "Why is that? If you're a different breed . . . what harm could there be for him to be wrong? I should think he would delight in the research possibilities."

  I gave out a heavy sigh, taking my time before drawing breath to answer. It was an ugly answer, painful to me, and would be doubly so for Jack. He'd not had time to walk along next to the idea and get used to it.

  "Quincey?"

  "All right. I won't dress it up in varnish, but the plain fact is he has to have me as foul as Dracula . . . because of Lucy."

  His face fell at mention of her name. He puzzled a moment, trying to work out the connection, then shook his head. "What about Lucy?"

  "You saw the terrible change Dracula's touch wrought on her, and how she was freed afterward. Well, Van Helsing has to believe that I am in the same devil's thrall as she was. If he admits that I am different, that I am truly a safe sort to be around, then he might have to admit he was wrong about her."

  Jack went white to his lips. "No . . ."

  "But he wasn't! He was not wrong, neither were we. If not for our intervention she'd have gone on hurting those innocent little mites, and possibly killed one or more of them. What we did was necessary, and don't you ever think otherwise!"

  He took a flask from his coat pocket and drained off a healthy swig. He tilted it toward me; I declined with a shake of my head. He put the flask away, oblivious. This told me much about his acceptance of me.

  "Poor Lucy," he said. "If we'd waited. Talked to her as I'm talking to you—"

  "No!" I snapped. I had to be sharp to pull him out of that pit. I'd been there too many times myself. "That . . . creature was not Lucy! Not the gentle little girl we loved. It was all that was left of her, like that photograph on Art's desk. It wore her face and form, but the sweetness of her soul was gone or held prisoner. We freed her."

  "Yes . . . I know. Truly I know that. But sometimes I doubt. Then I see that awful scene all over again, her sufferings . . ." He bowed his head.

  "Then don't look at it any more, old partner. Remember instead the peace on her beautiful face when it was all done." I was having trouble speaking, now. My throat was trying to choke up. How I wished I could have the use of a jigger's worth of Jack's liquor.

  He straightened up a bit. "You're right. I should not dwell on the darkness. I tell that to my patients often enough; far be it from me to ignore my own advice."

  "That's the right trail to take. You've a tough time ahead with the professor. I hope he sees sense, but you've got to be mighty careful."

  "What are you on about? He wouldn't hurt me."

  "He could—if he thinks I've got you under my influence. Just don't back him into a corner of any kind. Always give his sort a way out. If a man thinks he's got no escape he gives up all and drags anyone next to him down as well."

  "Quincey, he's a highly-educated, well-respected scholar who wouldn't hur—"

  "He did his damnedest to skewer me like a chicken not two hours past! Don't ever forget that. You talk to him, but keep a distance between you. I know you set a store by him, but so long as he's this het up he could do you some serious mischief."

  Jack was none too pleased by my talk, but he needed to hear it. Maybe he'd forgotten that it was Van Helsing who had gone into Dracula's sanctuary and driven stakes through the hearts of his three mistresses. He it was who had then severed their heads. Dreadful task, but he had done it. Jack would be cautious, but I worried that the high regard he held for his mentor might work against him. Van Helsing could be persuasive and was as dangerous as any man I'd run up against, and that included Dracula himself.

  Until the professor was won over, I would never be safe.

  * * *

  We could not have been too far behind Van Helsing. At each turning we'd half-expected to catch up with him. Riding singly on a couple of Art's fast hunters, we might have done so, but had chosen the carriage in case we needed to remove Art home again. Purfleet was mostly asleep by the time we arrived. We rattled over the deserted roads before finding the even quieter lane that a few miles later led to Jack's asylum.

  The building, with its tree-shaded grounds, was nearly as big and rambling as Ring, but more plain. Once it had been a grand country house for someone with more money than sense at the gambling tables. Sold off to pay the debt, it was eventually converted into its present state as a haven for lunatics, and Dr. John Seward put in charge.

  He was very young for the job, I understood, but no one could find fault with him on his energy or abilities. There was also the consideration that perhaps no one else wanted the position, but that was unfair to my friend. Taking care of mad people wasn't nearly as prestigious as purchasing a fine practice on Harley Street, but such things didn't matter to Jack. He was ever a student, ever a researcher, more devoted to his patients than his social position. This was the perfect post for him.

  Jack had some very modern ideas about how to deal with mad people. Rather than just keeping them shut away as hopeless cases, he was willing to listen to their ravings to find clues to their delusions and hope for a cure. He was a kindly keeper, which sometimes worked against him as in the case of Renfield, who had on occasion been very violent. Fortunately most of the other charges were of gentler temperament.

  The place had a sinister reputation locally, though, which was only to be expected. Few people could welcome the placement of a madhouse in their midst. The necessity of high walls, barred windows, and isolation from the rest of the world gave rise to all manner of rumors, from ghostly hauntings by dead patients to human vivisection with bodies stacked like cordwood in the cellars.

  Jack's reaction was that of distress tempered by amusement. In an effort to quell local fears he once opened the doors to a select group of the town elders inviting them to inspect the facilities. Of course, they were far more interested in gaping at the lunatics than anything else, but Jack would not indulge their morbid curiosity, citing the necessity of respecting the patients' privacy. If somewhat disappointed, they departed, full of sweet-cakes and good feeling from the sumptuous tea Jack provided instead.

  That helped his relations with the neighbors, but mothers and nannies would still point him out on the street to their children with the cheering warning: "If you're not good, he'll lock you away with the loonies." He felt badly about that and opined that such maternal manipulations were likely to supply him with more patients in the future once the terrorized infants were grown.

  Like some of his Continental colleagues, he leaned (quietly) toward the radical idea that how we're treated when very young dictated the kind of adult we'd become. It made sense to me. A drunken wife-beater usually fathered another drunken wife-beater. Jack said that was what the Bible really meant about the sins of the father being passed down through many generations, in terms of spiritual and emotional punishment.

  That also made powerful sense, as I wasn't one to believe that God would have much use for holding a grudge for so long. If my great-grand pap had robbed a bank, what was that to me that I should suffer for his crime? But if he decided to take a buggy whip to his wife and kids, that was something else to consider. There are some family traditions that should never be passed down.

  The patients' wing was dark, but the central area where Jack and others of his staff had living quarters was lighted up and active
. We peered through the carriage windows, curious, at the goings on. Two orderlies were posted at the outside of the entry, holding clubs. A number of other staff members within were busy at the windows, vigorously scrubbing at them.

  "What do want to wager that that is garlic being rubbed around the frames?" Jack asked with a sigh.

  "Not one penny," I replied. "Did I mention to you that garlic doesn't hurt me?"

  "I suppose it wouldn't, if you don't breathe except to speak. My poor asylum will smell like a French kitchen for weeks."

  "Considering the cook you've got it might be an improvement."

  "What's wrong with my cook?" He was suddenly querulous.

  "It's not my place to say a word against her, but why do you think Art always takes you out to the local hotel to eat whenever he comes for a visit?"

  "He was just being—well, really! I've never complained about his cook."

  "That's 'cause she knows what she's doing."

  "But—oh, the devil with it!" He leaned out the window and called for our driver to stop before reaching the front door, then turned back to me. "I think it's best that you stay out here for the time being."

  "I'm for that, but you might be jawing with the professor all night. If that happens, I will have to find a safe place to lay out my roll for the day."

  "The hotel in town," he suggested.

  "I'll wait a half-hour, then skedaddle. Don't tell the professor that I'm here. If there's any news leave a message for me at the town telegraph office. I'll come by after sunset tomorrow."

  "Good."

  We shook hands for luck, then he opened the carriage door himself and went stalking off to the entry. He spoke calmly to the two men there, who were a lot more animated, pointing this way and that as they answered his questions. The impression they conveyed to me over the distance was vast relief at Jack's arrival.

  After some head-shaking, Jack gestured toward the building, and all three went inside.

  "Sir?" The driver called down to me.

  "Yes? What is it?"

  "Beg pardon, sir, but the horses are steaming and will need a cooling-down walk after that long road . . ."

  "You're right on that, old partner. I'll get out and you take them along to the stables and look after things."

  "Thank you, sir."

  I emerged from the carriage on the side facing away from the building. "The stables are around the back."

  "Yes, sir. May I inquire if his lordship is planning to return home tonight?"

  "I doubt it, being so late. Someone in the house will look after you, though."

  "Yes, sir. My old mum said I'd end up in one of these lunatical places. Never took her serious." He shook the reins and urged the blowing horses forward.

  I stood alone in the ensuing quiet, travel valise full of my hard-earned Transylvanian soil secure in hand. I'd not informed Jack what I carried. Another evening would suit to tell him about this other supernatural link of mine to the grave. Maybe.

  After finding a place to stow my earth, I slowly made my way around to Jack's study, keeping to the shadows. It was on the ground floor, and light showed through the curtains. Pressing my ear to the window, I heard nothing within, though I expected to, shortly. When a man is being social, he takes his guests to the drawing or billiards room; when a man has business, they go to his study.

  Van Helsing would have a study of his own. That's where Jack would likely find him. Where would it be? This was too a big place to go searching around haphazardly.

  Recalling that Van Helsing had chambers on the second floor, I vanished and floated up, reappearing inside an empty guest room. No sound came from the hall without, so I chanced remaining solid and tiptoed along, trying to remember which of the many identical doors might be the right one.

  Then I heard their voices, Van Helsing and Jack, both sounding very heated. And after I'd warned Jack to caution.

  I went to that door and shamelessly listened. The argument was about me, and neither of them giving an inch either way at this stage. Van Helsing had taken full charge of the asylum and set everyone to work with the garlic to prevent my entry, particularly in the patient's wing. Any one of the poor wretches there might be seduced into inviting me inside as Renfield had with Dracula. Thankfully, Jack did not disabuse Van Helsing of the notion that I required an invitation to enter a home.

  The professor was in high form, apparently having had plenty of time to think out his arguments on the journey from Ring. He had answers for every objection, and good ones. I'd not want to face him in a debate. Jack could be stubborn, too, though, and would not be swayed.

  "If he was as evil as you maintain, then why did he avoid harming us when you were trying to attack him?" he demanded.

  "He will have aims yet of which we know not," the professor countered. "Like him who must have created him, he makes long plans. His child-brain is most clever, we must not let our affection from the past allow him to do present mischief."

  "What mischief? What could he possibly want from us?"

  "I know not for sure, but it will be to no good for the world."

  "Professor, you have only vague assumptions that fly in the face of fact. With my own eyes I saw Quincey holding the Host and coming to no harm. He is not the evil creature you—"

  "He is Un-Dead! There is no such thing as harmless Un-Dead! Can you not see? They use any means they might to beguile us to good feeling, to pity, thus do they always find more souls to feed from, who then rise in turn to march ghastly in the night. He must be stopped!"

  This outburst rang through the room. Jack was silent for a long time. Lord knows what he was thinking, but it could not have been pleasant.

  "How do you propose to stop him, sir?" His tone was very mild. I did not sense that he'd given in, though.

  "That will come to me in time. He knows you here have arrived?"

  "He was with me when the butler reported you'd gone. I guessed that you would return here."

  "What did Quincey do after? What did he say?"

  "He was as astonished as I. He wanted to come along, but I persuaded him to leave things to me."

  Very neatly done, I thought. Jack had managed to avoid a direct lie.

  "Where now could he be?" asked the professor.

  "Obviously not within these walls. You seem to have safeguarded all the entrances."

  "For now, for this night if God is with us, and we know He is. If the Un-Dead try to make the assault, then for him we are prepared to rebuff."

  "I am not going to do Quincey any harm. You, however, should sit down and think things through."

  "Ha! Still you believe not, my young friend. Did I teach you nothing? Or does the Un-Dead already have him a hold upon you?"

  "Don't be ridiculous, of course not . . ."

  This sounded like they'd be worrying over that bone for a good while to come. Easing away, I continued down the hall to another guest room where Art usually hung his hat when he stayed on overnight visits. I listened and determined that someone was within and softly knocked on the door.

  "Who is it?" asked an unfamiliar man's voice.

  "Dr. Seward asked me to check on the patient," I replied in a low tone, aiming for an English accent and probably mangling it. I could have sieved under the door, but wanted to conserve my strength.

  "We're fine here."

  "I also brought you tea. You'll want it before it gets cold."

  Had I offered a bag of money the ruse would not have worked better. I was rewarded with the sound of the key turning. The door swung open, showing me the startled face of one of the larger orderlies. His mouth popped wide in surprise; he had no time for anything else. I focused all my will upon him, fully capturing his attention.

  "Be quiet and listen to me . . ."

  He did just that, obeying my request that he back into the room and not do anything. I closed us in and turned. Art was fast asleep on his bed. He still wore evening clothes, but his collar and coat were off, his dress-shirt partl
y open, his shoes neatly tucked under a chair.

  I went to him. His brow was dry and cool, his heartbeat slow. I didn't know if that was good or not. At least his face had relaxed, smoothing out the lines of care. His breathing was labored and sodden, as if he struggled in some dream. I hoped he'd not been given a sleeping draught on top of his drink. There was a coverlet folded up at the foot of the bed. I pulled it over him. I wanted to do more, but Jack would be along soon to look him over, and I'd informed him that our friend was more likely to be in his cups than out of his mind.

  The orderly yet stood by, his eyes dull. He was a massive fellow, hired on to deal with the more cantankerous patients. Art was in no condition to give trouble, but perhaps Van Helsing thought he needed protection from me in case the garlic permeating the room did not work. Sure enough, there was a sturdy walking stick propped against the wall by the door. A good wooden weapon that would knock me senseless; not all of Van Helsing's lore was erroneous.

  I questioned the man, confirming my assumptions. Instructed to guard Lord Godalming, he was to invite no one in. Strictly speaking, he'd been faithful to his duties, having only opened the door to me. No formal invitation had been spoken.

  He knew nothing of Van Helsing's plans.

  A disappointment, but not unexpected. I told him to resume his guard duty and to completely forget my intrusion. He did so, and by then I was back out in the hall.

  The argument in the study had not progressed in either direction. Jack was a fair hand at debate himself and trying to pin the professor down onto what specific threat I posed. Of course, he could not get a proper answer. Van Helsing did launch into one of his lengthy call-and-response lessons, though, where he'd ask a question about some unrelated subject, and Jack's replies would lead through to a meaningful conclusion. That conclusion would somehow relate to the current situation, and require Jack's agreement in the end.

  Such manipulation worked fine when Van Helsing was in the right. When he was in the wrong it was just blamed annoying.

  I'd heard its like before. Soon after I'd inherited the ranch a fellow came by there to get me to invest in some sort of shares he was selling in a new business. He was quite good at painting a picture of the huge profits I would reap, but less than clear on the exact nature of his merchandise. Every time I tried to get him to spit it out, he'd slide away onto the profit potential and the shortness of time the opportunity would be available. As I was in a kindly mood that day, I only set the dogs on him to chase him off and did not play target practice with his toes.