After the Revelation (some day I might cease to feel the need to capitalise that word, but it still seems too momentous to me now), my relationship with the Count has changed. Not much, but in several significant ways. I am not even sure if it is for the better: now that he no longer needs to keep the mask on for me, I sometimes see glimpses of the creature that can overturn a twelve-seater in a fit of rage. His attitude towards the rest of the world, which has always seemed filled with dry humour and a trace of disdain, now comes to me without the veneer of politeness he previously maintained. And yet, when something goes well, I see him smile, and his satisfaction, when I earn it, is given just as freely. It seems strange. Ilan tells me it is normal: in his first life, the Count had been a warrior, and at the battlefield, nobility is judged by deeds, not blood. It is not that he doesn’t believe in his superiority, of course—he has every reason to. But he appreciates mere humans who help him navigate the profoundly changed world of new centuries. Sometimes it makes me feel like a favourite dog, or a performing monkey. I would be lying, however, if I didn’t admit it is flattering to be considered worthy—not only by a nobleman, but an immortal one, at that.
I am learning Muntenian, the Count’s mother tongue, in which all of his servants communicate. It is not as difficult as I had expected; there are many similarities with Latin and French. Of course, there is also the purely selfish aspect of it. I have been thinking on it for several days now, but I am still not brave enough to bring my proposal to the Count. I should probably wait until we are done with whatever it is we’re going to do in that Godforsaken place.
The following note, in the wider hand, was pressed between the pages of the diary:
Bordchamp,
Have you found a decent coffin yet? We are leaving in two days. I do not intend to deal with local craftsmen. And you know that there can be no delay. Do not make me regret that I have spared your life. That can always be remedied.
V.D.
Letter from Father Andreas Toth to Magdalena Hranić
Varaždinske Toplice, 24th of February 1746
Dear Mrs. Hranich,
Thank you for your contribution. You are, I am sure, aware that it is not nearly all that is required. Being the understanding person that I am, I shall not make a big deal out of it. I do, however, feel obliged to remind you that it is my duty as shepherd of our small flock to protect it from all untoward influences, even if that might force me to appeal to higher authorities. As Heinrich Kramer teaches us, evildoers do exist in our world, and must be eradicated. If you wish to convince me of the sincerity of your agreement with these sentiments, dear Mrs. Hranich, I have no doubt that you will find a way to do so—let us say, perhaps, by the end of next week?
Yours in Christ,
Father Andreas Toth
Letter from Erhard Ferdinand Pradl to Anneliese Lehner
Warasdin, 2nd of March
Dear Liesel,
I have arrived, finally, to my destination, and my first act was, of course, to sit down and write to you. Literally: as I write this, I am sitting in my landlady’s salon, waiting for the final preparation of my rooms to be finished. As you can imagine, I have as yet nothing of interest to say about the town or about my work, but I thought you might find a little note about the journey itself of interest.
I will not bore you with detailed descriptions of my travels, even though some of the scenery was lovely, and I do believe we should one day visit this part of the Empire, merely to enjoy the nature, which is often quite virginally untouched.
But when we do that, we shall travel slowly. Lovely views are no compensation for spending a week cramped in a carriage! I would never subject your delicate constitution to hours upon hours of sitting still and having to suffer whatever company happens to appear at one station or another. From Tattendorf, I shared the coach with the most boring couple, who insisted on telling me stories about their grandchildren—at one point, I seriously considered taking a horse at the next post station and continuing my journey in the saddle, regardless of the difficulties.
Luckily, I did not do so, for we ran into a savage storm soon afterwards, and the horrible weather followed us for two days. Now, not only was I forced to listen to stories of precocious children, I had to do it while suffering bitter cold and pervasive moisture that neither the coach nor the blankets with which our drivers supplied us seemed able to keep out.
And then, around Lockenhaus, we had a bit of excitement. At the post station, we encountered two gentlemen who had been travelling in a private coach, but their horses had apparently slipped in the storm, so the coach overturned and their axle broke. Faced with the choice of waiting for the repairs or continuing on the public coach, the two gentlemen decided to join us. At first, I was less than enthusiastic—it was cramped enough with just the three of us in the coach, and now only one seat would be left unoccupied—but I soon changed my opinion, for the two gentlemen made the rest of my journey a lot more interesting.
One of them presented himself as Count Dragonneau (Comte Dragonneau, I suppose, since he pronounces the name à la française, although his accent doesn’t ring quite French to me, so it may be affectation), travelling to Topliss to take the waters there, for apparently they are quite famous. Time permitting, I shall visit the baths myself, to see what they have to offer. Herr Doktor van Swieten claims that Roman medicine can teach us a lot, and might appreciate my account of the baths. That would perhaps make it easier to catch his eye.
But, to get back to my story: the Count is exceedingly interesting in appearance. He is tall, but also rather large of shoulder, and walks with the easy self-confidence of people who have command in their blood; he may only be playing at being French, but that he is an aristocrat born and bred, I do not doubt. He has a pale face, cut by a long nose and topped with deep-set eyes that seem to look right through you. I know, I sound fanciful, don’t I? Believe me, dear girl, the Count’s presence has that kind of effect. Even the boring couple kept their mouths shut after the Count gave them one of his profound gazes.
To make things even more interesting, he is not at all aloof: as our journey dragged on, I exchanged views with him on many a subject, and he listened to me with profound concentration and offered intelligent commentary, not merely pretending to attend to me for politeness’ sake. Of himself, he spoke very little, but his conversation left me with a most favourable impression of both his mind and his manners. A true example of nobility, if I ever saw one!
His secretary, a certain M. Bordchamp, is a different story altogether. His accent genuinely sounds like he might be of French or similar origin, but his German is poor, and his Latin overly complex and near-unintelligible. He also coughs a lot, always careful to put a kerchief before his face, and seems to be rather poorly. Yet he never complained once, and seemed grimly determined to see this journey through. In the normal course of things, I would have expected to have more in common with him, as he is merely a burgher like myself and, I suspect, closer to me in age than his master, who might be anything between 30 and 50. But the fellow barely spoke to me at all, and eyed me constantly with a frown, as if I were a potential threat. There is no doubt that he is fiercely loyal to his employer, and perhaps that is the reason the Count keeps him by his side.
In any case, once the two newcomers joined our company, the journey seemed to go quicker—helped, I suppose, by the weather clearing; we arrived at Warasdin in glorious sunshine. I invited the Count to join me in a short stroll around the town’s main square while the coach changed horses, but he declined, claiming tiredness and a great sensitivity of the eyes. Only then did I remember that he was on his way to what is, after all, a medical establishment. Can you imagine, Liesel, dear? Me, a doctor, forgetting that I was travelling with an invalid! I was so visibly embarrassed that even the ever-scowling M. Bordchamp felt pity for me, apparently, for he offered to walk a while with me.
This was the first time that the Count showed his more capricious side: he immediately cu
t the plan short, speaking in a language I did not recognise. Whatever it was, it did not please M. Bordchamp, I can tell you. He turned to his master and seemed about to argue, but one sharp gesture stopped him. We said our goodbyes then, and I promised the Count I would come and visit him in Topliss as soon as my work here allowed it. And I intend to keep that promise, my sweet girl: I have a strong suspicion no one I could meet in this poor corner of the Empire will be half as interesting as the good Count.
And now they are calling me, which means, I hope, that I can finally get out of my travelling clothes and take a few hours’ rest on a bed with clean sheets. I shall write again this evening, when I have something to report.
I hope you are doing fine in my absence, and are not too unbearably bored. Please, also, extend my regards to your parents.
Kissing both your sweet hands,
Erhard Ferdinand Pradl
Letter from Magdalena Hranić’s effects
My dear Matko,
My dear, dear Matko. I miss you so much, I don’t know how to put it in words. That is why I’m writing this: if I went to visit you and started speaking to your grave, people would think me crazy and put me away. They’re half waiting for an excuse to do so anyway. And, I must confess, it is disheartening to try and talk to cold stone. Yes, I did try it. Don’t worry: I did it at night, and wore a thick shawl over my head so no-one could recognise me. But it was just stone, Matko. You were not there.
Where you are, I know not, but in this way, writing to you, I can at least pretend that you are merely travelling, away from home for a few days, and will be back soon enough to laugh away all my sighs. Kiss away my frowns. Wipe away the tension from my body. Oh, Matko. When I think about the way you would hold me when we haven’t seen each other for a day or two, I can only (next few lines illegible, as the handwriting becomes too shaky and irregular. Legible portion continues below)
There is, I must confess, another reason why I’m writing. I am deeply, deeply troubled. I fear… saints in Heaven and all the godlets of every brook and hill, it’s scaring me to even write this! But Matko, my love, I fear that I can sense another one of them.
Letter from Marcel Bordchamp’s records
Very esteemed Count Dragonneau,
On behalf of our establishment, I wish to express our most heartfelt welcome. We hope you enjoy your stay.
Attached to this note are the keys to the small house you have requested be put at your disposal. It is situated a few dozen paces south from the Palace, at the very edge of the grounds. Despite your secretary’s claims, I have instructed our Majordomo to set aside appropriate servants for the upkeep of the house. Should you wish to avail yourself of their services, you have but to ask.
Also, as per your request, I am leaving you the most detailed map of the area I could find. I have taken the liberty of marking (in red pencil) a few of the paths that would provide you with the most charming views and the greatest calm. I hope this is satisfactory.
Should you require anything else, please do not hesitate to tell me. I have been warned of your nocturnal habits by your secretary, but I assure you, I shall personally forego my rest every night to provide you with all the comforts you can desire.
With our sincerest regards,
Hauptdirektor Bartol Povšić
Report to the Gentlemen’s Bird Appreciation & Observation Association, Topliss
Report on observations, pertaining to the night of 2nd to 3rd of March, 1746.
All times recorded according to the clock on the church tower.
Left the house at: about 5.30 p.m.
Arrived at Park at: about 6.00 p.m.
Observation time: about 4 and a half hours
Birds observed:
Common nightingale
Nightjar
Scops Owl
Remarks:
After around 2 hours of being in the Park, I noticed, again, a very big flying creature, gliding with surprising speed just over the treetops. I am convinced it is a Siberian Fish Owl. First of all, the only other nocturnal bird that could, even theoretically, grow so large would be the Eagle Owl. Moreover, it was flying near the Public Baths—it is only logical to assume it was looking for fish.
I know that you will no more believe me now than you did before. But while I might have made a mistake—or even dozed off, as Lojzi suggested—once, this is the second time in as many months that I have seen the creature, and I am sure I did not dream it.
In the end, if you refuse to believe me, I shall be forced to kill the bird just so I could prove to you all it is not a figment of my imagination. However, I would like to conclude the matter amicably, and leave the magnificent beast to roam our night-skies freely. To that end, I intend to keep vigil in the Park every night until I repeat the sighting, and any member of the Association is welcome to join me.
Antun Sustar,
merchant of this parish
Letter from Magdalena Hranić’s effects, unaddressed
My dear friend,
I know you are not satisfied with the latest from the widow Hranić; neither am I. But we must be patient. I have it on good authority (Mrs. Tišljar, who makes it her business to know everybody’s business in the town, bless her bored soul) that a number of expensive things are gone from her parlour. It is reasonable to suppose she is selling things, probably in Varaždin. Let her, I say! She might have enough left for one more payment or two, but eventually, she will run out of possessions, and then she will have no option but to sell the house.
Trust me, please. Malleus Maleficarum is a powerful weapon and, although I doubt that was the intent of its authors, it is also very useful in the settlement of certain, shall we say, less spiritual issues. Just have patience. God’s hand cannot be rushed.
I hear that Vienna is now as afraid of vampires as it is of witches. Have you considered looking into that option? There even seems to be a reward of some sort. I dare not ask too many questions myself, for obvious reasons. You, however, can show as much curiosity as you want. See what you can find out—apparently, there’s a doctor in Varaždin right now tasked with looking into the matter. I am sure he could be persuaded to visit the baths. That might be all it takes, you know? Subtlety, my friend. In all matters, subtlety.
I shall see you on Sunday.
Excerpt from Marcel Bordchamp’s diary
HE CAN FLY. Never in a thousand years would I have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. He just stands straight, spreads his hands, and—flies. I look at the words I’ve written, and they seem absurd; yet they are true. Last night, he asked me to accompany him from the Palace, where our regular rooms are, to the small house we rented extra. Ilan and two other Muntenians were there, having finally driven the coffin over from France. He conferred with them for a few moments, and then took off. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming, or that my sickness had made me imagine things. Silhouetted against the night sky, he seemed more like a huge bat or a bird. Then I blinked, and in the next instant he was gone, just a suggestion of motion somewhere among the stars.
“You’ll get used to it,” said Ilan. I don’t feel like I ever will—but I would, I suppose. I am like a child here, lost in a world that, only a month ago, I wouldn’t have believed possible at all. Ever since my childhood, I believed that we were living in an exceedingly lucky time, the Age of Reason, when men are finally starting to discover the truths underlying the great clockwork of a world in which Our Lord has seen fit to put us. But now it all seems to be falling apart. I do not know how I feel about this—any of this. Sometimes it seems as if I had fallen into a swift, cold river, and the only thing I can do is swim along, or else I shall perish. Maybe, once I reach the shore, I will have time to think things through. But not now, not yet.
SO, TRYING TO keep my head above water… I am still in the dark as to what we are really doing here. I asked Ilan, but he is, or pretends to be, just as ignorant of our master’s intentions as I am. I do know that the coffin is partially filled w
ith dirt the Count keeps in the cellar of our house in Paris—he needs to sleep on the soil of his homeland every now and then, to keep his strength up. It is not simple, being what he is. I am still hesitant to write down the word.
He returned a few hours later, clearly frustrated and unhappy. He complained about the brook that runs nearby: apparently, those of his ilk can have trouble crossing water if the wind blows in the direction opposite the water’s flow. So we waited a little, until the wind calmed sufficiently, and then he flew off again. Whatever it was he was trying to do, he failed again, and returned just before dawn. Ilan tried to make him get some rest in the coffin, but he declined.
“It is not for me,” he said. If that is the case, who is it for? How many of them are there?
Document from Magdalena Hranić’s effects
TO PROTECT YOUR house from vampires, ghouls, incubi and other pests:
Take a little bit of your Moon’s blood, and put it in a box made of white birch alone, with no nails or metals of any kind.
On the first Thursday of the month, take the blood, still in the box, and put it in a bowl. Make sure that the bowl is not of metal, but it should not be wood, either. Around the box, put three leaves each of the following:
Dracula: Rise of the Beast Page 13
