The Mammoth Book of Dracula - [Anthology]

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  To have once again a substantial library pleased me greatly and I resumed my studies: languages, history, politics, the arts and the sciences, I absorbed all with equal facility.

  Within several weeks of taking residence in Paris I asked for an appointment to meet Madame Charmaine, the brothel keeper. Reaction at first was cool, the procurer—obviously with ideas far above her station—accepting visitors only on the basis of personal recommendation. By return I sent a sealed packet containing an appetite-whetting sum in louis d’or, which must have been sufficiently personal for the woman for she consented to meet with me almost immediately.

  The establishment was in a large mansion house, florid and gaudy with many formally attired servants and a resident orchestra. Décor in the public areas was crimson and gilt rococo and the furnishings plush, the whole well lit by magnificent Italianate chandeliers. A pompous butler with a sergeant-major’s moustache and side whiskers led me to the proprietor’s sitting-room, which was in very much better taste.

  Madame Charmaine herself was a handsome fleshy woman who would probably have made good feeding if that had been my agenda for her. But as with Jeanmaire, I needed her as a friend for now. She offered me an elegant hand which I took, fleetingly touching my lips to it. I saw that my letter with the small heap of gold coins lay on a fine Louis Quatorze desk at one side of the room.

  “Please be seated, sir,” she invited and when I had taken a chair continued, “And how can I serve you, Herr ... Szekely?”

  “I wish to purchase occasional services in your house,” I told her. “My needs and tastes are unusual and while not prepared to discuss them, I will pay handsomely. Before I proceed, are you prepared to accept me as a client?”

  “M’sieu, very many of my clients pay handsomely to satisfy bizarre needs and tastes,” the woman said. “My only conditions are that I am satisfied of your ability to pay and that none of my little ones suffer permanent damage.”

  I placed a bag containing more gold in her lap and she blinked rapidly when she had loosened the drawstring and examined the contents. “As to the other condition,” I said. “You must accept the word of a ... gentleman. You will find that your employees may need to rest for several days after a visit from me, but my fees will compensate for their lost time.

  “And now I must set certain conditions of my own.” She nodded acquiescence and I continued: “I will come here infrequently, perhaps three or four times a year and then only with ample notice. The sex of whichever employee you choose is immaterial but they must be young, strong and in perfect health. Do not deceive me on this point.

  “Under no circumstances will I use the same employee twice. Whomsoever I patronize is to wear neither jewellery nor ornament of any kind, neither is the allocated chamber to have any kind of mirror, ornament or picture. For what I will pay you, I consider these conditions reasonable. I hold you personally responsible for checking them when I am to visit. Do not be tempted to act contrary to my instructions, for then you will incur my displeasure and I assure you, Madame, you would not enjoy that. I will contact you in the very near future; until then, I bid you goodnight.”

  In time I made similar arrangements with a superior house in Berlin and so I lived for more than ten years, contented with my books and my studies and my occasional light feedings.

  In my feedings I took every precaution to ensure that there would be no future embarrassments. I would place my companion in a deep trance and take little more than half-a-litre or so of blood. Then—satisfied if not sated—while my companion still slept I treated the wounds with holy water which I had bribed a mendicant to obtain for me. The water I kept in a gold flask and was very careful that it did not spill upon my own flesh.

  It was in 1911 that the first sign of a long-term purpose altered my apparent course in life. I had paid one of my visits to the brothel and was about to leave when the butler approached. Bowing low, he told me that Madame wished to confer with me in private. This was a singular event. In the time that I had been visiting her house, we had made little contact which is how I had wanted it. We both adhered to our pact and the stated conditions and there was no reason for us to meet. At most we exchanged reserved greetings if we happened to pass each other on the stairway or in the salon.

  With some asperity I agreed, and the servant led me to Madame’s sitting-room. When he had gone and the door was firmly closed, Madame Charmaine politely offered me a glass of wine. With equal courtesy I declined.

  “Forgive me,” she said with a coquettish laugh. “But of course you do not wish for wine. After all, you have just feasted on blood, have you not?”

  A surge of rage sprang into my breast, a feeling that I had not experienced for many years. In the old days, that emotion was the precursor to a frenzied killing. Controlling an impulse to rend and tear the impudent creature, I asked: “What do you mean by that?”

  There was an audible tremor in her voice. “After all ... Herr Szekely…You are undead, are you not?”

  I have heard that when fury shows in my face it is a frightening sight, demonic in its intensity. So must it be, for the woman flinched back from me, her face turning white beneath her mask of rouge. She edged her way to the desk and pulled an accursed cross from the drawer. With an effort I held back from her.

  “What is this to be?” I snarled. “Extortion?”

  “Not at all, m’sieu!’ Her voice was terrified but she stood her ground, certain of the power of the object in her hand.

  “Then what? And how did you know? I have conditioned your employees to remember nothing.”

  “How did I know, m’sieu? After all these years? There were so many signs, and I am not ignorant of those.

  “The pallor of your flesh and its dreadful chill that one time you kissed my hand. Never the same whore twice. Your insistence on the lack of personal and room decoration—terrified, I suppose, that you would be faced with a crucifix or a religious painting. Always the tiny scars on neck or breast or wrist, as if cauterization had taken place. It adds up. And besides, did you believe that you are the only “one?”

  “What do you mean?” I stepped forward, prepared almost to risk the white-hot touch of her cross.

  “One other of my regular clients is an undead, m’sieu. And he has once or twice brought a guest. He wishes to speak with you. He is here, in my boudoir. I will leave you together and you can rely on my total discretion. The other pays me well, has done so for more years than I have known you. I keep the cross only to ensure that he does not forget himself.”

  In bygone days I had heard of other Nosferatu using human servitors, holding them in thrall with the promise of immortality to come. I have never done such a thing for I would not trust a human to that extent. The madman Renfield was an exception to my rule and then only as a means to an end, a dupe rather than a servant.

  I stared intently at the woman until she nigh swooned with terror, then I nodded abruptly. She turned and tapped on the boudoir door before leaving the room, making sure to give me a very wide berth as she exited.

  The inner door opened and a figure emerged. I can only imagine that what I saw was like gazing into a mirror. The man was tall and thin, with an aquiline nose, piercing eyes and full ruddy lips which showed a slight protrusion of sharply-pointed teeth. His shoulder-length hair, his small moustache and the neat Van Dyke beard were all iron-grey in colour. But whereas I favour all black raiment, the other was clad in a white ruffled evening shirt with scarlet trousers and smoking jacket. There could be no doubt, though; this man was Nosferatu.

  “Good evening.” He bowed his head slightly, one equal to another. “I take it that you have been using an alias here. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

  I inclined my head in return. “I am Vlad Dracula, Prince of Wallachia.”

  “Ah, I know of you. This is an honour for me, my lord Dracula; I had heard that you were destroyed but I take it that human cunning was no match for your own.” He smiled. “I am ... I was in li
fe Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu.”

  “Vanity, vanity,” I muttered. “I have always supposed myself to be alone, save for my offspring and they are now destroyed.”

  Richelieu gestured me to a chair, waiting with respect until I was seated before sitting down himself. “No, not alone, although there are but few of us,” he said. “I am in regular correspondence with the others, all men of power in their lifetimes. In your Transylvanian mountain fastness you were isolated—the others of us were rather more at the centre of things, being in European countries of international importance. We have been aware of your movements for several years now and your discretion has been exemplary.”

  “And who else is there?” I asked.

  “Perhaps six or seven, though we constantly watch out for others. But their quality and lineage must be perfect. Although unaware of your true name, your conduct indicated to us that your antecedents were almost certainly noble. Undead of lesser status we destroy as unworthy, although they are few now. And who have we among us? Well, in Italy there are the Borgias, Rodrigo and Cesare. In Germany my contemporary Wallenstein of Bohemia, in Russia Gudonov, the Spaniard Torquemada, a couple of others.” His smile was grim. “All of us combinations of princes, statesmen, warriors and religious leaders. How came we, I wonder, to be gifted with Unlife?

  “Still, let us not concern ourselves with that for now—let us be thankful for what is.” His manner became businesslike. “I wished to meet with you, my lord Dracula, for two reasons. The first obviously being to ascertain your identity, to determine whether you should live or die.” Again, the grim little smile. “I am thankful that we did not have to pit ourselves against you, for I can only believe that you might well have prevailed.

  “The second reason was to ask of you a special favour. It is that you leave France, for a very long time, if not necessarily forever. And to leave also any other place you may visit regularly in Europe.”

  “Why should I?” I sneered. “Do you consider these lands to be exclusively your demesne?”

  “Not at all, you misunderstand me,” Richelieu said, “Such is my respect for you that I would not have the temerity to stand against you. I ask you this for the common good. Please bear with me, lord Dracula, for what I have to say is of paramount importance.

  “As I have said, we are few. And we are all old undead, discreet in our predations and careful to ensure, at this time, that we do not create any new Undead. In France and Germany at least, you have been acting in a similar way. For now, I believe it to be essential that we continue in this manner for the world is changing and rapidly.

  “Soon, it will be different from anything we have known previously. I truly believe that before long, there will be a great war in Europe—and perhaps more than one—which will have worldwide implications. Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany is ambitious and acquisitive and Austria-Hungary will dance to any tune that he plays. I can see a threat of we undead becoming extinct, even if only by accident, in such a war, and it is better that we are isolated from each other so that one at least has a chance of survival.”

  “There is probably much in what you say,” I agreed. “Thinking myself to be alone I have worried little about the possible effects of human folly. As long as they remained unaware of me, I was happy to let them do what they would to each other. You are forcing me to reconsider, Richelieu. What would you have of me?”

  “Thank you, my lord Dracula.” Richelieu bowed. “We. would ask you to go to America. The tentacles of a European war are unlikely to reach there and we could thus ensure that one of us—the greatest of us—remains safe. Those of us remaining here will take all possible steps to ensure our safety and I will certainly remain in correspondence with you. One day, and that day may be in the very distant future, our time will come. What do you say?”

  I mused upon what Richelieu had said for some time, weighing the options, and eventually decided that he was right on all points. And America was a burgeoning land, probably destined to become a power like any unknown before. Furthermore, were I to make my home in America the chances lessened considerably of Van Helsing and the others discovering that I lived. Finally, America was a young country with a mass immigration policy and the temptation of all those teeming souls was hard to resist for Nosferatu, even for one determined to tread with care.

  I reached across to clasp Richelieu’s hand in agreement.

  ~ * ~

  As it happened, almost another two years elapsed before I set foot in the United States. Careful planning was required and Richelieu—who had established an enviable network of corrupt human officials, a skill honed during his life as Louis XIII’s Prime Minister—and I worked closely together. We arranged a network of Swiss bank accounts for me, transferring some of my fortune into these. Agents smuggled the rest of my gold into America, secreting it in a number of caches known only to themselves and me. Needless to say, it was necessary for all of these agents to suffer fatal accidents.

  And finally we disposed of my French and German real estate. But that was near to the end of my days in Europe. I regret that Monsieur Jeanmaire and his German counterpart also died mysteriously, as did the brothel master in Berlin. Madame Charmaine was sufficiently in Richelieu’s power to be permitted to live, for the time being.

  During my remaining time in Europe I met with some other Nosferatu of Richelieu’s band and we formed ... well, we Nosferatu do not have friendships as such, but we formed powerful bonds and alliances. I was particularly taken with the Borgias, for their iron control of Italy had not been unlike mine own in my lands. Rodrigo, who in the latter days of his human life had been Pope, was breathtaking in guile and hypocrisy.

  I told this powerful group about my sally into England and of the troubles which had beset me there, warning them to be wary in all ventures lest Van Helsing and his band of compatriots were again aroused by the passion of the hunt.

  Although I would be entering America in non-human form, I was provided with skilfully forged papers showing that I had been granted status as an American citizen in 1895. And so it was that towards the end of my fifth century in this world, and like other emigrants before me, I departed my native continent to begin a new life.

  I travelled packet rather than passenger, on a boat called The Maine King, its crew comprising hard-headed Yankees rather than superstition-ridden fools such as had manned the Demeter when I took passage to England. The captain had been instructed that I was an elderly and eccentric invalid who would spend the whole of the voyage in the seclusion of his cabin. Meals were to be left outside my cabin by the steward; these were sent through the porthole to the fishes during the hours of night.

  The journey was uneventful but not too irksome, for with the passing of centuries one learns a certain patience. I whiled away the long hours of day and night, the long, long sea-miles, studying literature and maps of my new homeland, so that by the time we made landfall I probably knew as much about the continent and her great cities as did most of her native sons.

  The first port of call in the United States was the city of New Orleans where one of my many caches of gold was stored. I slipped ashore at night—the tide being on the turn—in the form of a great wolf, easily evading the officials and labourers who, with startled cries, tried to corner me. Some shots were fired but the only bullet which struck passed through my body as if through a shadow.

  I needed sustenance, for I had fasted very many months prior to embarking on The Maine King, and this was provided fortuitously by a huge dog which attacked me as I loped through mean and noisome dockside streets and alleys. The blood of animals is not so richly satisfying as that of humans—rather like, say, cornmush when one is accustomed only to the finest viands—but it fills the belly and has the added advantage that animals, being soulless, do not in their turn become as we Nosferatu.

  I will not weary you with details of how I found a home. Suffice to say that I discovered an old and derelict property a little way out of the city and
purchased it. Although they are nothing like Europe, I did enjoy the Louisiana wilds with their strange mists and bustling animal life and the swathes of Spanish moss draped from the trees like huge spider webs.

  Again, I made arrangements at a brothel to satisfy my need for food. This time the whoremonger was a native-born American of Sicilian descent, a member of the Black Hand. Unlike his European counterparts he cared nothing for his employees, regarding them as no more than money machines. I would be safe from unwanted enquiry.

  A few more years passed uneventfully. The Great War raged in Europe but my fellow Nosferatu survived and Richelieu corresponded regularly, addressing his letters to Mr Newman, Poste Restante, New Orleans. Two pieces of news gave cause for elation. One was that Van Helsing had died in old age, choking on a piece of blood-sausage, a delicious irony I am sure you will agree. The other was that both Lord Godalming and Dr Seward had perished in the war: one at Ypres; the other at The Somme. The war passed in time and the world again lapsed into peace, although Richelieu said that all European countries were less happy places now.