by Various
She gently laid a finger across his lips. “Hush. We will find him, and I will slay him. He may be more powerful than the vampires we’re used to, but we have faced demons and other abominations both powerful and well-versed in magick.” She traced her finger along his jawline, raised his face to hers. “We have so little time together,” she murmured. “Let’s not waste it in worry over the unknown. The future must wait.”
“The Slayer is as wise as she is mighty,” he whispered, just before their lips met—
And they were interrupted by Patch’s excited shouts. “There’s been another one!”
V
The corpse of the latest victim lay half concealed in a patch of trees and tall grass near one of the Crystal Palace’s Dinosaur Islands. The swarm of lookie-loos was thick, keeping Angelique and her friends from getting close enough to see anything in detail. By the murmured comments of the crowd, however, it was obvious that the unfortunate was a woman, another member of high society. They hung back on the fringes, next to a statue of a four-footed Iguanodon, half-hidden in thick, eddying ground mist silvered by moonlight.
Professor van Helsing had not accompanied them this time, choosing to remain in the Lair and conduct more research.
“The second member of the upper classes to be claimed in as many days,” Molly said as they watched the body being removed.
“True,” said Gordon. “Dracula appears to have fairly specific tastes. No doubt he prefers cleaner throats and blood less tainted with gin than he’s apt to find in the rookeries.”
“Which means,” Angelique mused, “he must look enough like his prey that he can move among them and put them at their ease before he strikes.”
“According to the Professor, Dracula’s intent was to relocate to England permanently,” Molly said. “No doubt it still is.”
“Didn’t the Prof say he was a nob before he got turned?” came from Patch.
“He did indeed—a Count, no less. He also said that it isn’t enough for Dracula to simply avoid the sun; he must pass the daylight hours asleep, resting in his native soil.”
Gordon pressed the knuckle of his index finger to his chin. “He’d be looking for a home near the toffs, then, with room enough to hide some boxes of dirt. Someplace private.”
Angelique looked at Patch, who nodded in response. “Me ’n’ me boys’re on it,” he said. “I’ll hav’t sussed out before dark, or me name’s not Archibald Oglevy.” He raced off into the night.
* * *
Even slayers need some rest, and so Angelique passed the remainder of the night in her bed. But she did not get much quietude.
She anticipated the possible return of her nocturnal visitor—whether he had been a dream or reality she still was not sure—tensely at first, a stake clenched in her hand and a cross and phial of holy water on the table nearby. But gradually, as the hours wore on, she found herself relaxing. This was due partly to exhaustion—the tracking and eventual slaying of the Tethyrian demon posing as Springheel Jack had gone on night and day for over a week—but she had to admit that there was something more: an eagerness, perhaps even a yearning, subtle but unmistakable. At one point she rose and opened the windows, looking out over the sleeping neighborhood. She could faintly hear the exotic cries of various animals in the nearby Zoological Gardens, but nothing else.
Just before dawn she dosed off out of sheer exhaustion. She awoke with a start to the maid summoning her for breakfast.
Patch, hands and face uncharacteristically scrubbed at Cook’s insistence, was buttering a scone and grinning a self-satisfied grin. Molly, Gordon, and the Professor had arrived before her. “It appears Patch has come through for us again,” Gordon told her.
Angelique listened as Patch described an old mansion in Mayfair, recently sold to an anonymous buyer who would only sign the documents after dark. He spoke with a “foreign sort o’ way,” according to the errand boy who worked for the mortgage company. The place was secluded, spacious, and had a huge wine cellar.
“Excellent,” Gordon said. “So, then, a hearty breakfast, a glance through the morning Times, and then heigh-ho to kill the vampire before tea.” He helped himself to another rasher of bacon. “We’ll have this wrapped up in no time.”
Van Helsing set his coffee cup down hard enough to spill it. “Again I counsel you, Angelique. This should be the work of the Slayer alone. You cannot risk having your attention divided by—”
“Calm yourself, Professor,” Angelique said. “You will upset your digestion again.”
The Professor cast a dark look at Gordon, who affected not to notice. When he spoke again, his voice was low and compelling. “Beware Dracula,” he said to the Slayer. “He is never where you think he is. He is never who or even what you think he is. Do not put too much confidence in the rituals and strictures which bind him. His hypnotic abilities are stronger than anything Mesmer could imagine. He knows of all the forces which empower you. You cannot even begin to imagine those which empower him.”
After breakfast the Slayer outfitted herself, making sure that the hidden holster belt was lined with stakes, that a cross hung about her neck, and that a silver throwing knife was easily accessible from a sheath in one of her kid boots. She also slipped into a pocket a small cruet of holy water. Then the four set out.
Angelique reflected much upon her watcher’s words during their journey. She understood his concern, even shared it to a great degree. She felt very responsible for the welfare and safety of those who stood beside her against the night. But, as she had told herself many times, they had chosen to live this life. She had not.
The mansion was indeed as secluded as Patch had described it. Though it was not dilapidated, yet it gave the impression of being in disrepair. The mighty oaks and yews surrounding it blotted away the sun, creating a pervading gloom even though the morning was bright.
They moved cautiously, entering the huge house in a manner designed and practiced to minimize attack. Angelique kicked open the door, and Patch and Molly went in behind her, Patch crouched low with cross extended and Molly with her crossbow ready to fire. From behind them Gordon shined a torch, quickly and expertly illuminating the shadowy corners and nooks. Once they were satisfied no threat was in evidence, they moved on. In this way they gradually investigated every room of the manse’s upper and ground floors.
They found no vampires. Nor did they find any boxes or containers of soil, which Professor van Helsing had said would be a sure sign of the vampire lord. At last the only place left to investigate was the cellar.
They slowly descended stone steps into the darkness, Gordon’s torch barely serving to show them their way. The shadows seemed almost alive, crepitant and hungry, pressing in from all sides with malign force. Though Angelique was thoroughly familiar with crypts, sepulchres, and other underground domains of the dead, still she found this cellar as unnerving as any mausoleum. It seemed to whisper to her, the darkness did, in a cold thin voice she could not quite understand, no matter how she strained her ears. A glance at the white and set faces of her friends told her without question that they felt it too. There was no doubt that evil, ancient and unspeakable, had walked the mossy stone floors of this place.
They found huge and empty wine casks, furniture piled in corners, and other domestic detritus, but no caskets of earth. At last Angelique reluctantly declared the mansion empty of the undead.
Patch was disappointed that his lead had yielded no results. There were indeed other places to investigate, but only this one had fulfilled all the criteria. Angelique headed back for the stairs, motioning the others to follow. “Let’s be about it, then,” she said. “We can surely get one more place checked out before—”
They all heard the sound at the same time: the unmistakable creaking of long-unused hinges. They froze, then slid into formation with practiced ease. Gordon moved the light, letting its beam slide over the seeping walls, past a stack of wooden buckets, to come finally to rest on a thick, iron-hasped door that th
ey had somehow missed previously.
The door was slowly opening.
Quicksilver-fast, Angelique plucked a cross from its sheath, twirling it momentarily around her fingers before letting it settle securely in her grip. To her right, Molly raised her cross bow; to her left, Gordon partially unsheathed his sword cane; crouched in front of her, Patch loaded a slingshot with a holy wafer.
The door creaked open further. An aperture appeared, revealing utter blackness.
Something leaped out of the darkness toward them.
Molly fired. The wooden shaft struck the wall just above the cat’s head. The coal-black feline changed course with a yowl, fleeing into the dark cellar depths.
Angelique, Patch, and Gordon relaxed, looking at each other somewhat shamefacedly. “Bloody hell,” Patch gasped. “Thought for sure it was Dracula at first.”
“How do we know it wasn’t?” Molly asked.
The vampire hunters looked at each other in sudden apprehension.
“He can change himself into a bat or a wolf,” Molly said. “Are other animals in his repertoire as well?”
“The familiars of witches have been known to take the semblance of black cats,” Gordon pointed out.
Angelique turned toward the stairs. “Outside, quickly, while we form another plan.”
* * *
She felt somewhat better when they were out of the house. The sun rode through a high mist, its blaze obscured to the point where the disc was visible. But still it was sunlight, which meant they were safe for the moment from the undead.
“We must turn to our second choice for Dracula’s lodgings, Patch,” the Slayer said.
The lad looked chagrined, but before he could reply, they all reacted to a sudden sound, a sort of whistling crack, from beyond the trees. Looking up, the Slayer saw a small egg-shaped object hurtling overhead. It arced and then started to fall. “Look out!” she shouted, shoving Gordon to one side. “Take cov—”
Before she could finish the sentence, the object burst and a thick cloud of gas diffused rapidly from it. It settled like a pall over the yard, enveloping them. Angelique heard her friends coughing.
The gas was obviously a soporific of some sort. She saw Gordon and Patch collapse on the sward. She could not see Molly.
A figure loomed before her, indistinct in the mist. She lashed out with one leg, a high snapping kick that would have felled a quarryman. But the haze made it difficult to judge distances, and the strike missed.
She saw he had a gun.
Angelique performed a series of backflips that carried her into a sheltering copse. She heard the gun fire, heard the bullet sear the air nearby. She crouched, trying not to take deep breaths, feeling the numbing effects of the gas seeping into her lungs nonetheless. Her slayer stamina would keep her conscious longer than her friends, but ultimately she too would succumb.
The clouds were beginning to thin. Angelique heard a peal of demented laughter.
Through the diminishing vapor she saw the figure again. There was something familiar about him; she knew she had seen him somewhere before. Obviously he was not a vampire.
“You were warned, Slayer!” The cackling voice echoed about her. “My master is far too smart for you and your pathetic cadre! It was easy for him to anticipate your reasoning and arrange for me to meet you here. You will never find his resting place—he lies with the legends, and his power dwarfs even theirs. Take heed—there will not be another warning!”
The Professor’s words echoed in her head: He may be helpless during the day, but he can bend humans to his will, force them to be his myrmidons.
A sudden breeze cleared the remaining mist. She could see her enemy clearly now.
It was Detective Peasbody, the Scotland Yard investigator.
Angelique stared in shock. The man was normally meticulously neat and something of a dandy. Yet now his clothes were torn and muddy, his hair matted, and the look in his eyes was that of utter madness.
She tried to launch herself forward, to grab him and force him to tell him where Dracula was. But her muscles would not obey her. The narcotic gas had finally had its effect, and the Slayer fell forward into darkness.
VI
Images of fire and ash . . .
Graveyard dust, stirred in a forgotten tomb . . .
Cruciform light strobing . . .
Angelique blinked against the light. After a moment she recognized the chamber she was in: a drawing room in the Professor’s house. Van Helsing, Gordon, and Patch were looking down anxiously at her. “What is your name, my child?” the Professor asked.
Angelique blinked again, in puzzlement this time. “Angelique Hawthorne,” she replied. “And what is the point of asking me that, pray tell?”
“Good, good,” the Professor said in relief, more to the others than to her. “I feared an injury of the brain, but she seems whole. Now—”
She interrupted him, sitting up suddenly. “Molly?” The room seemed to shudder and shift, and she felt a stab of pain behind her forehead. It cleared quickly, however. “Where’s Molly?”
Gordon and Patch glanced at each other. Van Helsing kept his gaze on Angelique. “This we do not know. We must assume that she has been taken by Dracula.”
She pushed them aside and rose. “Taken? How?”
“No doubt to insure your noninvolvement in his affairs. It is as I have said before: a slayer is vulnerable through those she loves.”
She looked at him, expecting to see rebuke in his eyes, but finding only compassion. “Then we find him,” she said. “We find him, kill him, and rescue her.”
“There’s less than an hour to sundown,” Gordon said. “We have no leads, no idea of where to search.”
Angelique began to pace furiously. “We can’t simply give up! If we don’t find her in time, Dracula will—”
She could not finish the sentence, but she could tell from their expressions that there was no need to. Van Helsing had been right, she knew, and now Molly was set to pay the penalty for Angelique’s defiance of the council’s law.
She realized she was breathing rapidly. She tried to calm herself, seeking her center, willing her racing heart to settle, but with little success.
“Let us not lose our heads,” the Professor said. “Even if we do not find him until after dark, the sooner is still the better. Dracula’s power waxes during the hours before midnight, and wanes—”
Angelique stopped pacing abruptly and turned to van Helsing. “Wait! There was something that Peasbody said.” She frowned in concentration. “ ‘He lies with the legends, and his power dwarfs even theirs.’ ”
The others watched her, knowing better than to interrupt her concentration. “Back in the East End,” she continued slowly, after a moment, “when we spoke with Peasbody, I noticed a curious scent about him. I thought it was pomade, but now I think differently. It was the residue of fumes clinging to his clothes.”
“What kind of fumes, then?” Patch asked.
“Paraffin,” Angelique replied. “Hot wax.”
* * *
Madame Marie Tussaud had first brought her fabled wax museum to London in 1835. By 1884 it had settled in Marylebone Road. The spacious, multichambered structure featured many different scenes to tickle the public’s fancy, all painstakingly sculpted in pliable wax. But its most popular attraction by far was a room set apart to protect those of nervous temperament, and called for many years simply the Separate Area—a collection of mannequins, death masks, and implements of torture culled mainly from the bloody history of the French Revolution. In 1846 a more appropriate sobriquet was given to it by Punch magazine, and it has been known by this name ever since: The Chamber of Horrors.
* * *
Angelique moved stealthily through the dark exhibition, one part of her mind marveling at how lifelike the wax effigies were even as she remained alert for possible attacks. She paused before an elaborate Grand Guignol exhibit, with a grinning executioner holding up the just-severed head of a Fre
nch aristocrat. The images and scenarios within her vision included the aristocratic Dr. Henry Jekyll and his bestial alter ego, Mr. Hyde; the American Lizzie Borden, caught in the act of raising her ax over her terrified mother’s head; and the recently finished reconstruction of Whitechapel showing one of Jack the Ripper’s victims lying in a pool of blood.
Peasbody had indeed been right to call them Dracula’s peers.
She had not reached the museum until after dark, due to the arrival of a heavy London “pea-souper.” Within an hour of the east wind’s rising, the evening light had given way to Cimmerian darkness as the air filled with a noxious combination of chimney smoke, marsh gases, and other effluvia. It had quickly become impossible to see more than an arm’s length ahead, and her hansom’s speed had been greatly reduced.
The museum had closed early due to the fog. Gordon and Patch had wanted to come with her, but Angelique forbade it. She would not take the chance of Dracula acquiring yet another of her friends as hostage.
Now she prowled, silently and cautiously, through the eerie corridors of waxen horrors.
The sound that alerted her could not have been heard by normal human ears, but the Slayer’s hearing was attuned for such frequencies. A soft sigh of air above her—she dived forward, rolled, and came up with a stake in her hand.
Nothing. No sound, no movement. Unless . . . did she hear the faintest echo of an amused chuckle? Or was it only in her mind?
A velvet curtain masked an alcove to one side of her. A few steps put her within reach, and she grabbed the thick material, yanked it back.
And exposed a coffin resting on a small dais.
It was a plain and simple oblong box made of dark wood. No insignia, no description. She had thought the resting place of Count Dracula, Lord of the Undead, would have been more elegant, more impressive. Nevertheless Angelique suddenly felt her throat go dry. The sick taste of fear rose like bile. A sense of dread, undefined but no less powerful for that, enveloped her. She had to force herself to move closer. Stake poised in one hand, she lifted the lid with the other, tilted it slowly back.
