Dracula

by David Thomas Moore

  Vlad grabbed at the hand at his throat.

  “‘I have to try,’” Bordchamp translated. “‘Despite everything, I have to try.’ And the other one says, ‘It’s no use. We’re too far gone our separate ways.’”

  Radu tried to smile, and added another sentence.

  “‘But I do appreciate the effort.’”

  His hand, until then pressed against Vlad’s throat, now slid up to cup his brother’s face. He started to say something more but was cut short by a low, rumbling shout in German.

  “In God’s will and His eternal glory!”

  Father Toth, whom we had all assumed dead, tottered towards the two vampires, brandishing his heavy silver cross like a dagger, longer side out.

  Before anyone had had time to react, Radu pushed Vlad aside and spread his hands, grabbing at Toth’s sleeve. The priest threw himself at the vampire with the last of his strength, striking a blow in the middle of Radu’s chest.

  A shriek cleft the night. It was a sound I cannot describe, and can only hope will never hear again. The sound of a vampire dying.

  And this, my love, is where I shall stop my story. There is almost nothing left to tell, anyway. The story of two brothers who fought over love and faith and power through centuries, yet somehow still loved each other, is not really mine to tell. Suffice it to say that, after the sound dissolved in the night, Vlad remained prostrate, his shoulders shaking. No one dared approach him. Ilan merely stepped between us and crossed his arms, his back turned to his master. After a while, Bordchamp joined him, still carrying the dog, and the three of them stood silent guard.

  I went over to see what could be done for Povšić. He will never regain the full use of his hand, but will have some movement—that little Austrian is a decent physician, and I provided him with poultices to prevent inflammation and rot. He will live because of me—in his hometown, not here. That was the deal we struck and, after everything that’s happened, it wasn’t difficult to talk him into leaving Varaždinske Toplice forever.

  Predialis Katych agreed that the events of last night would best be kept secret. He wrote a short report, merely confirming Dr. Pradl’s claim that we had all witnessed an instance of vampirism, but that the problem was resolved in a permanent fashion. He also agreed that a witch, provided she is discreet and benevolent, isn’t a matter to take up with the Court. Vienna cannot understand the way we do things here. It helped that his wife and both daughters are clients of mine, and that he now knows where the ointment with which he treats his own rheumatism comes from.

  He also wrote to the Diocese, asking for another priest. We debated on whether to paint Father Toth’s death as heroic, or dismiss it as accidental. In the end, we agreed that heroism would be closer to the mark. Yes, he was a hypocritical, lying, greedy scoundrel; but he has three sisters and a younger brother back in Szeged, and they have done nothing wrong. Let them have a pleasant memory, at least, and what small pension they can get from the Church.

  All of this was arranged at our house, where we had retreated after the eventful night. Yes, including the vampire, Vlad Dracul, Prince of Wallachia. He is more than three hundred years old, he says. I don’t know if it’s true, and I don’t care. He apologised for his brother’s behaviour, and insisted on paying for my services and the physician’s. Before they left, he took me aside and asked if there was a cure known to witches for consumption. His man, Bordchamp, suffers from it, and His Highness suspects he thinks becoming a vampire could be a solution.

  “That is not a fate I would willingly impose on anyone as kind-hearted as he,” said His Highness in a quiet tone. He looked through the window. In the back yard, Bordchamp was sitting, wrapped in a blanket, still holding the frightened black dog in his arms. The two seemed to take comfort from each other.

  “Why do you care?” I asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why do you care? If you are more than three hundred years old, how can the life of a mere human being mean anything to you?”

  At that, he smiled and nodded towards the man and dog in the yard. “Did you ever have a pet, Mrs. Hranić? In my country, witches are famous for it.”

  So I gave him the list of herbs for Bordchamp. They will not cure him—there is no cure for consumption that I know of—but they will diminish the symptoms; if he sticks with his medicine and takes care of himself, he will have a long, fruitful life. I have told His Highness as much, and he told me to add another Taler to my bill.

  “That is too much.”

  “I’ll pay it in Silbergroschen,” he said. “That way, when next you need it, you will have ammunition.” He smiled again, and of a sudden, I understood full well where myths of vampiric charm came from.

  I was glad that he was leaving, my love. Not because I couldn’t live with being grateful to a vampire—life is strange, and one has to take help where one can find it. But because I knew that, should he stay, I would become just as loyal to him as the others in his entourage. Not a bad fate for some, perhaps, but not one I would have wanted for myself.

  So, now you know everything, my love. Your sacrifice was not in vain: despite his lucid moments, Radu was too far gone to ever regain control of himself. He was indeed a danger, a pest that had to be dealt with. But Vlad… Vlad is different. And far away. If he does lose control at some point, he will be someone else’s problem.

  You can’t save everyone, as Mother Bara used to say.

  I shall stop here. I still love you more than I can say, still miss you so much it hurts. Still, forever, remain yours, and yours alone.

  Love,

  Magda.

  Expenses report, from Marcel Bordchamp’s effects

  Expenses incurred, 7th to 12th of March:

  For the dog, Garo—46 Kr. (you can take that out of my salary)

  [in the margin, black ink, wide hand]

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  [all the following have check marks next to them, in black ink]

  Donation to the Diocese of Warasdin—1 T

  A new axle for the coach—6 Gr.

  Fee for the coachman who drove it to Topliss—1 Gr.

  Total: 1T, 7 Gr.

  Addendum No. 268-46 to the dispositions of the Medicinal Office

  From the desk of Simon Aigner, Esq., Medicinal Office Assistant.

  In accordance with Addendum No. 34-46 to the dispositions of this office, and with the reports received from Topliss (see attached file)

  I hereby request the approval of the payment of the sum of 20 Taler, to be paid to one Erhard Ferdinand Pradl, for the finding and destruction of a vampire reported to pester the area of Warasdin and Topliss.

  This being a total of... 20 Taler.

  In Vienna, on the 2nd day of February, 1747.

  [signed, left, with seal]

  Simon Aigner,

  Medicinal Office Assistant

  [signed, right, with seal]

  Count Friedrich Wilhelm von Haugwitz,

  Head of Directorium

  FOUR

  CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT

  Interlude

  From: Jonathan Holmwood (jwlh1947@amol.com)

  To: Dani Văduvă (bornwithteeth@webmail.com)

  Date: January 16, 2018

  Subject: Re: Mina Harker?

  Hi Dani,

  Thanks for your patience. Last section!

  Just one long letter, this time, this one supposedly from D—’s own hand. I can imagine you’re sceptical about this—trust me, so was I—but my father swore by it all his life.

  He never told me exactly why, mind, only that it had come to him “through work” and the source was good. He worked for the Home Office in the ’fifties and ’sixties (my father was Alastair Holmwood, if you want to look him up), so my best guess is this was either seized by the police at some point or fell into his hands in political circles in Whitehall. Neither possibility is hugely reassuring. I enquired discreetly among some of his old friends, but came up blank; either they genuinely hadn’t h
eard of the letter or they were keeping schtum.

  I’ve looked for “Bogdan” before, in any number of ways, and never with any luck. Whether he’s still around, still in London, or still has any sort of influence—whether he ever existed—I can’t say.

  And that’s a thought that’s kept me awake more than once.

  Jon

  CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT

  Emil Minchev

  DEAR BOGDAN,

  I hope my long overdue letter finds you in high spirits and excellent health, as befitting a true heir of our most noble race. I received your last communiqué more than a century ago and much has happened in my beautiful land since you chose to leave it for the English city of London, uprooting your entire family and substituting sacred heritage for vulgar modernity and peaceful serenity for busy cacophony. For you should know, my friend, that a single drop of noble Székely blood has more intrinsic value contained within it than the entire bloodworth of that sprawling metropolis you now call your home. You, who are a direct descendant of Bulgarian Kings and Queens, are a god among insects in the teeming streets and overcrowded squares of that accursed city. You, who fought the savage Turks alongside me at the battle of ______ and dealt a mighty blow for Christianity against the Sultan’s insatiable lust for conquest, must feel like a great warrior prince mobbed by unenlightened rabble in that beehive of a city.

  There were, however, certain passages in your last letter, my dear friend and brother-in-arms, which, when reread and reevaluated, piqued my interest and impressed upon me the need to rethink my hard stance against your desertion. I was impressed by certain new and exotic possibilities that you outlined with your typical prudent logic and eloquence. You claim that beings such as ourselves can live in happy abandon in a place the size and breadth of London, subsisting on its inhabitants, for what is one human drained of all life in a city as populous as an entire country? What are ten humans found dead and bloodless as compared to a famine that kills thousands, or a plague that takes tens of thousands?

  Here, people know me. Here people fear, detest and even fight me. The people of London know nothing of the ways of the old world. They are ignorant of my kind, ignorant of my awesome powers and ignorant of their true place in Nature’s order, which is, as you well know, under our undead feet.

  I must confess that at first the idea of leaving my ancestral home seemed perfectly foreign to me, akin to sawing off my legs or setting my magnificent fortress alight. My roots and the roots of my noble kind are buried deep within the sacred earth of this most beautiful and proud country. My blood has irrigated this land for hundreds of years, the bones of my ancestors form its sturdy spine. I am as much a part of the landscape as the great black mountains that tower over my castle and the deep dark forest that surrounds it.

  Notwithstanding my initial misgivings, certain unexpected events, which I will now relate to you, have forced me to reconsider the notion of joining you in England and taking full advantage of this new and richer hunting ground you so vividly describe. The prey might not be of the pedigree I am accustomed to, but my present situation requires some sacrifices. I am prepared, therefore, to live among the cattle and get fat on their blood. Principles and high ideals might be nourishing for the soul, but never the belly.

  THE UNEXPECTED OCCURRENCE of which I speak happened in December of last year, during the fiercest and most prolonged snow storm to ravage my country in decades. Angry black clouds rolled in from the frozen north and swallowed up the sky as far as the eye could see. The sun, my ancient enemy, dared not show its face for weeks. Roaring gales and icy darkness ruled the land. The winds blew so keenly that they could strip the skin off your body, and at night the cold became so severe that even I, who am darkness, felt its piercing chill.

  One night I went out for a stroll, as I adore violent and destructive weather and delight in Mother Nature showing her claws. After an hour or so the howling winds quieted and the storm subsided. I was walking back to the castle and admiring the sudden hush which had stilled the winter night when a cloud moved across the sky and the silver light of the moon revealed an unexpected sight by the side of the road—a shattered, overturned carriage which had obviously veered off the road and crashed into the frozen trees. Perhaps the coachman had been blinded by the snow flying in his face and had lost control of the vehicle on the narrow, treacherous road. I had known this road to claim the life of many a careless traveller and had, in the past, enjoyed its spoils in the form of maimed, helpless survivors only too glad to be rescued from the cold and accept the hospitality of my castle. The horses lay dead in the snow, their majestic bodies broken in the violence of the crash.

  I approached the grim wreckage, feeling somewhat like a scavenger, and peered inside. Rather disappointingly, there were no bodies within, only blood—dark red and already frozen solid. I saw a long curved knife on the floor with a shattered ivory handle, and a length of sturdy rope soaked in blood. Most peculiar. I decided to go around the carriage, and discovered a trail of fresh blood in the snow, leading from the wreckage to the trees, presumably left by the passengers, who had apparently survived the crash and crawled away to nurse their injuries. On closer inspection of the snow, however, I came to the conclusion that the people had been dragged away from the equipage, since I could see neither handprints nor shoeprints.

  The question was, who or what had dragged them away? I stared at the woods where the blood trail vanished, suddenly apprehensive. My vampire eyes penetrated the darkness, but I could see no bodies anywhere. I sensed, however, a peculiar, unfamiliar smell in the frigid air—acrid and earthy, but at the same time sickly sweet. A hot-blooded, organic smell. The storm had started to rage anew around me and the trail was fast disappearing beneath a thick layer of fresh snow.

  I realized, then, that it had become unusually still and quiet, even for this time of the night. Every dark instinct told me that there was something lurking in these woods; something vile and eldritch, watching me from the gloom like an animal waiting to pounce. A creature, perhaps, of some dark and perverse origin, trespassing on land it had no right to spoil with its foreign presence, intent on savage acts it had no right to commit in my native country. A creature that had laid claim to spoils that by right belonged to me.

  A rival.

  Curiosity drove me forward. I ventured into the woods I considered my own, to investigate this supposed creature, presuming it to be the architect of the crash. The blood trail continued for some distance and soon I found myself deep within the quiet forest, where not even the piercing shrieks of the winds could reach me. It was pitch black and freezing cold, but my heightened senses helped me to find my way in the dark. The cold cannot hurt one who is not alive, of course, but the snow did slow me, as the drifts had grown monstrous during the long winter months. Finally the trail ended, rather abruptly and right in the middle of a clearing among the tall, majestic firs. It was as though the people had vanished into thin air! Thankfully I had enough presence of mind to look up, and what I saw shocked even one as ancient and powerful as myself.

  An enormous spider’s web, as big as a tent, hung from the thickest branch of the biggest fir tree, with four human shapes tightly wrapped inside it. I could see the dark outlines of their twisted bodies through the translucent tissue of the web. I must admit that in all my years on this earth I had never laid eyes upon such an otherworldly sight. Naturally I was anxious to examine the web and reveal its secrets, so I quickly climbed the tree and tore at the surprisingly thick, sturdy threads with my claws, all the while looking around for the thing that had spun it. The woods, however, continued to be deathly silent. I knew it must have been something monstrous in size and strength, in order to spin such a giant net. Some unknown—and unfamiliar—beast of the night who had caught four flies in its silken trap to feed on.

  An image of a gargantuan man-eating spider appeared, unwanted, in my mind, but I dispelled it at once, for I knew no such creature existed in these lands. I examined the bodies and
discovered that three of the people were dead—an elderly couple and their young son, judging by the similarity in features. The fourth victim was a girl, even younger than the boy, who also appeared dead at first, but my senses detected a thready pulse. I held my hand in front of her mouth to make certain of that and felt a weak, warm breath—probably the only source of warmth in the entire forest. Unlike the others, her thin body was neither broken nor covered in blood. She had escaped the crash with only a few superficial cuts and bruises to her cheeks, forehead and arms. I studied her features and concluded that she was the daughter of the family; her father, mother and brother were dead, but she was still alive, if only barely so. The woman and the girl were pale-skinned, fair-haired and possessed of a regal Nordic beauty, while the men were stout, short and swarthy, very much like the local mountainfolk.

  Gazing at the girl and her proud, queenly features, frozen in a state between sleep and death, I felt an unfamiliar pang in my gut that had little to do with hunger. The curiosity and bloodlust that had brought me here had all but disappeared, supplanted by a most uncharacteristic concern for the well-being of a creature who I would normally drain of life without hesitation. The hunger was there, aroused to a fever pitch by the blood and carnage, but it seemed that something had overshadowed it, even tamed it: perhaps curiosity as to the nature of a beast capable of such hecatomb, or maybe the serene, striking beauty of the lone survivor that had transfixed me so completely.

  Whatever the answer, I decided to rescue the girl from her silken tomb and bring her to my castle, rather than suck the life out of her, as I had initially intended. Perhaps I could restore her to consciousness and question her about the being that had attacked her carriage and slain her family. If indeed there was such a creature living in my woods and attacking my countrymen, I needed to know. These were my lands and my people, and I could tolerate no other monster preying on them.