by P. N. Elrod
A gag was tied around his mouth and his hands were fastened to the chair arms by leather straps, the same ones used to restrain the more violent patients. A necessary evil for them, but an utterly barbaric violation of my poor friend.
I resisted my initial angry urge to charge in and free him. My time in India hunting tigers had not been wasted. I knew a tethered goat when I saw one.
Searching the shadowed corners of the room, I was able to spy a man-sized shape standing just beyond the door. Had I come through it, he'd have been able to bushwhack me neat as neat. As it was, I stood well silhouetted in the window frame, just as easy a target.
I fell back and faded away, then sieved inside. Guessing the distance, I crossed the room until certain I stood behind him, then materialized, arms out to seize.
But instead of Van Helsing, I captured an artfully draped coat tree.
Even as I realized my mistake, piercing light caught me square in the face and there was a loud, flat explosion, very close. A giant's fist smashed into my body, flinging me hard against the wall. I dropped to the floor, heavy as a brick, and just as unable to move. A terrible fire seared deep in my shoulder, tearing a groan from me.
The light splintered into my eyes, blinding. I heard a distant confusion of sounds, shouting, pounding. The light was turned away, allowing me to see. I squinted up into Van Helsing's face.
To think I'd once thought of him as kindly and good.
All I saw there now was steel, bitterly cold and hard.
He looked long at me, then made the sign of the cross and in Latin called on God to bless what was to come.
"There's no need for this," I said, my voice thin as straw.
"Yes, there is, my poor friend, though you know it not." In one hand he carried a new electric lantern, in the other, what looked to be an old muzzle-loading pistol. He'd probably had the bullet blessed. That would have helped him against Dracula, maybe even killed the old warrior; for me it hurt like hell, which was more than enough.
I lay on my back, in agony from a wounding such as I'd not felt in years, even from a bullet. High on my chest, barely a hand's breadth from my heart, a slender wooden shaft was solidly imbedded in my flesh. It was like a short arrow, but without feathers. Here was the source of the paralyzing pain. I could not understand at first how it had gotten there. How had he fired an arrow from a gun?
"Professor . . ."
"Hush, you will soon be free. A moment of the bitter waters to reach the sweet."
He'd prepared himself well. He put the pistol and lantern on a table and exchanged it for a knife—wicked, sharp, and heavy—the kind used to carve through joints.
This Dutch butcher would use it to cut my head off.
Art was banging on the door, throwing himself against it from the sound of things; Bertrice shouted my name. At the desk, Jack Seward had raised his head, his eyes bleared and dull, but waking to awful alarm. There was no help for me but that of my own making.
I struggled to vanish, but the wood in my body prevented that.
Van Helsing knelt, raising the knife high. He would shear right through my neck with one blow.
Absolute terror roused me to movement. In blind panic I surged up and threw off his aim. Weak as I was, I had a small edge of strength, and overbore him. We rolled across the carpet, ending with me on top. Bringing the knife up, he gouged a cold furrow along my ribs. He tried a furious stab, but I fixed my grasp on his arm. I couldn't hold him for long. The damned thing in my shoulder was drawing the very life from me.
With an effort born of desperation, I raised away enough to do some good and plowed my right fist as hard as I could into Van Helsing's belly. Bereft of air, he lost all ability to fight, buying me a few precious moments. I pried the knife from his fingers as he lay gasping, his eyes wild with loathing.
Crawling away, I made it to the door, turned the key, and collapsed. I caught some bruises as Art forced his way in. He nearly tripped over me in his forward rush; Bertrice was in his wake, carrying the cricket bat. She made a rending wail of anguish as she called my name and threw herself down next to me.
"Stay from him!" Van Helsing ordered, breathless, but harsh and angry.
"You murderer!" she screamed.
Sounds of a scuffle. Art yelled something. A crash. Van Helsing grunted and cursed coarsely in his own language. Art must have won.
Bertrice held her shaking hands out to me, palms up, wanting to help, but not knowing what to do. "Arthur, find a doctor for God's sake!"
"Jack's right here. Let me get him out of these beastly straps."
"Hurry! Quincey? Oh, do be still. We're getting help."
I tried to catch hold of the damned thing in my shoulder. My fingers twitched uselessly, merely brushing it. My strength flowed from me as swiftly as my blood. Too much and I would swoon away and perhaps never come back. "Please . . ."
"Quincey?"
"Take it out," I managed to croak.
"You'll bleed to death."
That was already happening. "Out!"
"What are you doing?" Art called from behind her, alarmed.
"He wants me to pull this—"
"You'll kill him!"
"Please!" I rasped. "Now!"
She must have understood better than he about my nature, perhaps from gossip at Lord Burce's house. Before Art could intervene, Bertrice used both hands and pulled hard on the arrow, her cry and my own merging as one as she dragged it free.
The hurting didn't altogether cease, but retreated quick, thank heaven. I slumped and moaned out relief, then had to fight to remain solid. My body wanted to flee into healing nothingness. This was not the time. I must keep control.
Bertrice holding me helped. I was sorry she was forced to do and see such fearful things, but for all of it she showed a rare bright courage. Her pale face burned like the sun. I basked in it, smiling and squeezing her hand to ease her.
"Better," I said.
"Quincey?" Art peered down at me. He looked deathly, perhaps afraid of losing his friend all over again.
"It's a'right, ol' pard. She di' th' right thing by me."
"Please God, I hope so," said Bertrice. She blinked tears. One splashed my cheek.
"You sweet English rose," I murmured dreamily, forgetting my pain.
"What?"
"Hm?"
"Arthur, is he—?" She looked to her brother. He was struggling with the last bonds on Jack.
"I'll be all right," I quietly assured her, squeezing her hand once more. For her sake I had to stay conscious and corporeal.
"But you're bleeding!"
"No, it's closing already. I heal fast." I was weak, though, lightheaded, and suddenly famished, my corner teeth extending in reaction to my need. I had to have blood to replace what I'd lost. Lots of it. Soon.
"Lie still," she ordered.
"Where's the professor?" I didn't want him to renew the fight just yet.
She shifted so I could see the room. Van Helsing lay on the floor next to the toppled coat tree, moving a little, in recovery himself from whatever damage Art had inflicted.
I smiled, lips closed, and winked at my now-trembling friend as he came over. Not that he was scared, but his dander was up and all that dash had to go somewhere. "Now there's a good night's work. How's Jack?"
"I'll live," Jack answered for himself. Free of his bonds and successfully fighting to rouse himself from his stupor, he seemed otherwise unharmed. He found his feet and came around to look me over. "You need to lie down, though."
"I'm fine. Just a scratch."
"From this?" Bertrice sounded incredulous. Well she might. In her hand was the instrument of my wounding, the wooden rod with one end sharpened to a point. It was all over with my blood, the scent hanging heavier on the air than the garlic.
"What is it?" Art wanted to know.
"It goes with that pistol of his," I said, with a nod toward the professor. "Looks like an old dueler. That's what he used to ram the powder and ball down the
muzzle, only he left the rod in when he fired at me. Shot it out better than an arrow."
"It could have exploded in his hand, the fool! Quincey—?"
I waved him down. "I'm fine. The Dutchman might could use some smelling salts, though."
"To the devil with him," Art snapped.
Van Helsing picked himself up, becoming the focus for us all. For a very fleeting moment he seemed strangely bewildered with the four of us ranged against him all-accusing. He raised his hands, as though to tear his hair, fingers like claws in his frustration. "Mein Gott! Can none of you see?"
"Very clearly," said Bertrice, all ice. Face like a thundercloud, she surged from my side, marched up to him, and gave him a resounding slap. "That's for what you did to me!" Another slap. "And that's for what you did to my brother in poor Lucy's tomb!"
Now was he truly shocked, but his surprise instantly transformed to rage. "Blind! You know nothing! That poor child was imprisoned by the darkness. It was a blessing to her that Arthur was the one to set her free."
"If it was such a blessing, then why didn't you do it yourself? And who are you to speak of dark prisons? Have you any idea what it was like for me to wake up in that pit?"
"It was for your own safety, young woman. To save you from the harm beyond your imagine did I there put you. All that I did, my misled friends, was to protect you!"
"Then God spare us from more of your protection!" She turned on her heel and came to stand over me like a lioness.
Van Helsing glared, very unused to being spoken to in such a manner. Certainly being slapped was also an unpleasant novelty for him. His near cheek was red from the force of her work. Next his gaze fell upon me, and it flared with righteous malevolence. "You it is who has taken them over, corrupted their better nature, making them to be in your godless army of Un-Dead. You have used their love of you to bring them to this betrayal of all they knew was right."
At my quiet request, Bertrice and Jack helped me up. My head went light again, and the room dipped, but the spell quickly eased.
"I have done nothing," I said, very softly. "But you keep talking, and I just might turn you inside out."
Some hint of my suppressed anger must have gotten through to him. I still had that butcher's knife in my fist. Or maybe he saw my teeth. I didn't try to hide them. He shut himself up fast.
"Professor," said Jack wearily, "it is time you listened. We know you're trying to help, but it is misplaced. Quincey is a vampire, yes, but he is not the same breed as Dracula. I've told you this a hundred times, and here is the proof. Were he evil, do you think he'd have spared you? I saw your fight. At any moment he could have killed you, instead I saw him doing his best to avoid harming you."
"He has plans of which you know not."
"Please, don't embarrass yourself with that vague threat of what might happen. Quincey? Have you any plans?"
"Well, I'd not mind a wash and change of clothes since these are all ruined. Beyond that, I'd be pleased if the professor would only live and let live."
Van Helsing positively sneered. "That will never happen. Vampire." He said the word like a profanity. To him it was.
I sighed, worn beyond words by the man's foolish stubbornness. Though the bleeding had ceased my shoulder and ribs ached miserably. If only I had a chance to vanish . . . "Would someone please light the lamps?"
Art did the honors, recalling, perhaps, that I'd wanted plenty of light at our first meeting.
The professor watched, frowning, knowing something was up, but uncertain what it might be. He shot a glance at the open door, but Bertrice darted there first and locked it, taking the key away. Her smile was grim with triumph. He looked to Jack next, but his former student and colleague had taken charge of the cricket bat and stood guard by the windows.
Every lamp and candle now burned, the place bright as a ballroom.
Not relishing what was to come, I paced slowly toward Van Helsing. I'd have preferred for us to be alone, the better to concentrate, but didn't trust my ability to control him without Jack and Art close by.
I paused a short arm's length from the old man. He glared hatred strong enough to wound. I fixed my gaze hard on him. He dropped back a step.
"Quincey . . ." began Jack.
"Stay where you are," I said, keeping my voice even. "All of you. Don't move an inch." I eased forward, getting closer. Still holding the knife.
God knows what was in my expression, but it must have been bad. Van Helsing kept backing until forced by the wall to halt. His heart thumped loud, but you couldn't tell by his face. He showed defiance, not fear, but I could smell it on him all the same. He slid sideways. I followed. He reached a far corner and again had to stop.
Jack and Art held themselves ready just on the edge of my vision. Bertrice was there as well, by the door. Good. Very deliberately, I turned the whole of my attention on the task to hand. I had to hold all my attention upon Van Helsing, hating it, wanting to run myself. I got close to him, raising the knife even with his throat.
"Professor Van Helsing. Listen to me."
He stared at the blade. "You would murder, yes. It is in you now to kill, just as I have said. Friend John—"
I stopped his appeal, gently putting the steel edge against his throat. He sucked in air and went still, eyes popping. "Not another word. You listen to me or I'll cut you in two."
"I say, Quincey . . ." began Art. Someone shushed him. Bertrice maybe.
The room was so quiet I could hear all their hearts thumping away, filling the silence. "You listen very carefully to everything I . . ."
"Nein," Van Helsing snapped. Then he pulled my own Colt six-shooter from his frock coat pocket and fired point-blank into my heart.
The sound of Bertrice's shriek was louder than the booming report of the shot.
Arms flailing, I staggered back with a short surprised cry.
He fired again. Another deafening boom. Fire in my chest. Blood poured out.
The floor came up and grabbed me hard.
Through the haze of smoke I saw Art leap at the professor and drag the gun from him. There was no further struggle. The damage was done.
Bertrice and Jack were suddenly with me, she holding my head and weeping as he tore my shirt open. I fought to stay solid against the appalling burst of pain blazing through my core like a comet.
For a dreadful black instant I had a cruel return to my dying on that mountainside in Transylvania. Instead of Mina holding me it was Bertrice and hers the beautiful face twisted with grief and fear as my life bled out.
But this time the dying was absolute agony.
These were terrible wounds seared into my chest, right through it. Blood poured out above and beneath, stealing the last of my strength. Any man with a beating heart would be dead. Soon I'd be unable to . . .
But I had to hold on, just a little longer.
Bertrice sobbed out my name. Looking at her helped. I took her hand, squeezing it one last time.
"It's all right," I whispered. "Over now . . . wait and see . . ."
Van Helsing came within my line of view. What a remarkable change in him. Gone was his hatred for me. His stern features had softened into compassion.
Art stood next to him, staring down in helpless horror. He began to round on the professor, and there was murder in his eye.
"No!" I managed to call out in time. "Jack, don't let him—"
But there was no need for Jack to interfere. Art abruptly broke away and dropped to kneel by his sister, a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Quincey, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'll see you by-and-by, old partner. You too, Jack."
Van Helsing loomed over us all, his hand extended toward me in a gesture of benediction.
"Requiescat in pace, in nomine Patris, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti," he somberly intoned, making the sign of the cross.
To Bertrice I gave my last smile, winked, then gratefully laid my head back in her cradling arms, breathing out a last great sigh, closing my eyes. Utte
r stillness for a moment, then sweet gray oblivion stole over me, releasing me at last from the painful bondage of a mortal body.
Epilogue
That night, at Jack Seward's chill insistence, Van Helsing departed from the asylum, to return to Amsterdam. He expected no less. In striving to save Jack's soul from the dark influence of the Un-Dead, he had destroyed their friendship.
The same could be said for any fellowship he'd had with Arthur Holmwood.
Bertrice had simply removed herself, being unable to abide the sight of the man. She would accept no apology from him about her mistreatment, responding to his contrite overture with a promise to blow his brains out if he ever approached her again.
"She is yet young," said the professor, as she hurried away. "Soon she will realize it was for the best."
"I think not," said Arthur. He went after her.
Van Helsing turned to Jack. "Friend John, I will call you that still for the sake of what was past for us. For the future I do not hope the absolution, only that someday you may wake and understand."
Jack made no reply, his face like stone.
The professor concluded it was past time to go, went upstairs, packed a travel bag, and departed. With the staff gone no pony trap was readied to carry him; he had an ignominious walk back to town, there to finish the night out at a hotel. Jack would send the remaining luggage on later.
He locked the front doors of his house, then tiredly plodded to his consulting room to put the lights out. Only when he drew the curtains did I let him see me. I faded fully back into the solid world again by the door.
I did not mean to scare him half out of his skin.
He gave a terrific start, putting his hand to his breast, then sagging. "God, Quincey!"
"Sorry."
He laughed once. "Not a ghost."
I shook my head. "Afraid not, old partner."
"I don't care," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder as though to prove to himself my reality. "You're back, thank God. And you're all right?" He peered at my chest, then shoulder and ribs.
"Right as rain."
"The wounds are closed; it's as though you'd never been injured."
