The vampire’s lips peeled back in a wide, lascivious smile as he glanced down at his auburn-haired victim. Her alabaster skin shone brightly in the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window, the pale flesh highlighted by the warm glow of fiery locks that framed her face. At first glance, one could almost believe she was sleeping peacefully–a frost-hued maiden wrapped gently in the arms of Morpheus–were it not for all that blood staining the bed sheets, and the wide-eyed death mask into which her comely features had contorted.
“Such magnificent terror,” Orlock whispered. He reached out a bony hand to caress her icy cheek–an albino spider scuttling across a snowy field, yet leaving no trace of its passage. “How I wish I could preserve its beauty.” The vampire shrugged, then turned from his cadaverous work of art and slithered toward the open window through which he had entered the apartment–just in time for his bat-like ears to detect the whisper-soft sound of heavy fabric fluttering in the breeze. Curious, he parted the lace curtains and gazed out at the moonlit sky above the slumbering metropolis.
Yellow-tinged eyes widened in astonishment. “What is this?” he croaked.
A giant black bat soared high over the streets of Berlin–or at least that was Orlock’s first impression of it. As he looked closer, however, he could make out a human form suspended beneath the wings. Another vampire? he wondered, then shook his head. No, if any of his undead offspring, his victims turned night’s children, were in this city, he would have immediately sensed them. This was something else, something unknown. Something to pique the interest of an immortal creature that fancied it had seen just about everything during its two centuries of existence.
And then the bat banked sharply to the right, and the moonlight shone down to expose the monster’s true identity.
“A woman,” Orlock purred, admiring the soft curves that were accentuated by the tight-fitting garment she wore. “One who plays the role of nosferatu this evening, it would appear.” He ran his tongue along the edge of his upper teeth, already imagining how hot and sweet her blood would taste as it filled his mouth. “Perhaps she would be interested in dining with the genuine article,” he muttered, then cackled hoarsely at his jest.
He crept over the window and quickly crawled down the building’s brick façade, making his way to the empty, shadow-draped lane below. Yet before he reached the sidewalk, his body had begun to transform–becoming smaller, more compact, more animal-like in shape. Coarse hair sprouted from the top of his bald pate to his malformed toes. His hawkish nose grew longer, flatter, joining with an increasingly widening mouth to form a muzzle. Hands and feet became paws. Even his funereal attire–black waistcoat and matching slacks–metamorphosed, changing from dark fabric to brownish pelt. When the transformation was complete, it was not a vampire that stood in the middle of the cobblestoned street, but a hyena.
A thrust of powerful leg muscles and the beast was off at a full run, chasing the bat shape that glided toward the center of the city.
The hunt had begun anew.
For Irma, the flight across night-shrouded Berlin had been terrifying and exhilarating and far more stimulating than Wilhelm’s awkward attempts at lovemaking. The bracing chill of the night air that prickled her skin, the rush of wind in her ears, the certain knowledge that an errant breeze could collapse her wings and send her plunging to her doom–never had she felt so alive, so carefree, so unfettered. Here in the sky her life was her own, with no one to answer to, whether spurned lover or ego-driven crime lord. Given half a chance, she would have preferred to chase the Moon over the horizon and never set foot on Earth again, mission be damned. She doubted, however, that the Great Vampire would be quite so understanding of her feelings.
Irma smiled wistfully. Another time, perhaps, she thought, although she had little doubt that time would be long in coming.
Tilting her body to the left and extending the wings forward, she swooped down and began her approach to the museum... and its unguarded roof. Silent and unobserved, like the proverbial thief in the night. It was just the way she liked to conduct her business... and her affairs, as Wilhelm might willingly attest. Irma shook her head to clear it; best to leave such ruminations for later–or never.
A flash of movement in the street below her caught her eye–a welcome distraction from her darkening thoughts–and she glanced down to see who might be watching. So much for traveling unobserved, she mused. But who could it be at this hour? Some late-night reveler staggering home to bed–or worse, a police officer walking his patrol?
Her heart skipped a beat, waiting for the alarm to be raised. But it was neither inebriate nor constable–nor, in fact, was it anyone human. On closer inspection, she realized she was being followed by what appeared to be a dog–a gangly, coarse-haired mongrel that was not only keeping pace with her, but even racing ahead at times, probably trying to determine where she might come to land. Irma chuckled softly. “You’ll have to run much faster than that if you hope to catch me, my canine friend,” she whispered.
And then the most remarkable–and blood-chilling–thing occurred: without breaking stride, the dog looked up and stared right at her, as though it had heard her comment. Bright-red eyes glowed in the darkness like twin coals, and its muzzle stretched wide from side to side, in a ghastly imitation of a smile.
Irma gasped and instinctively snapped back her head in fright, and in doing so lost control of her gliding apparatus. Her body rolled to the right, and suddenly she was hurtling earthward, like Icarus in the legends of old. But no Sun-warmed ocean waited to receive her, only a devilish animal that eyed her hungrily, its smile growing insanely, impossibly wider as the beast raced toward its prey.
But it would have to find its next meal elsewhere. Once over her initial shock, Irma quickly regained control of her wits, then her wings, and soared away from those slavering jaws and burning eyes; the beast howled in anger. With a stiff breeze again holding her aloft, she soon left the creature far behind and sailed the rest of the way to the museum without further incident. A slight twist of her body to set her feet before her, and she gracefully touched down on the gravel-topped roof.
A pleasant chill ran through Irma’s body as she freed herself from the support harness; it took all her willpower to keep from laughing with delight at her aerial adventure. Gazing at the flimsy apparatus that had carried her across the sleeping city, she grinned broadly, eager to take to the skies once more. But the sky would have to wait–first there was a bit of art thievery that required her attention.
From a pocket sewn into the harness she extracted the items she needed for the next step in her plan: tools to remove the painting from its frame, a collapsible tube in which to carry the canvas, and Wilhelm’s key ring. It took some trial and error, but eventually she located the key that unlocked an access hatch to reveal a ladder leading down to a catwalk suspended above the main hall. Irma smiled. “Why, I’m halfway there already,” she muttered.
She clambered down the ladder, then paused to assess her surroundings. The catwalk was 20 feet above the floor, set back far enough to provide museum workers with an unobstructed view of the hall without distracting visitors from admiring the colorful medieval tapestries that hung beneath the wooden planking. From where Irma crouched, she could see the door leading to the Munch exhibit–and the night watchman seated beside it. He appeared to be in his late sixties, portly and grey-haired, with a great bristling mustache draped over his upper lip; if his relaxed posture was any true indication, he was fast asleep.
Quietly, Irma slipped over the catwalk’s railing and climbed down the nearest tapestry, taking care not to shred the centuries-old artwork as she grasped handfuls of the delicate material to slow her descent. Then, with whisper-soft steps, she tiptoed over to the guard. The steady rise and fall of his chest was evidence enough that he still slumbered, and a close look at the metal flask of alcohol loosely clutched in one hand let her know he wouldn’t be waking anytime soon.
Dead to the world, she thoug
ht, and grinned. She crept past him, taking care to tightly grasp Wilhelm’s key ring in both hands, lest the rattling of metal roust the old man from his dreams, and then another round of infuriating selections followed before the right key at last turned the lock. Irma slipped inside, closing the door behind her. With any luck, she would be back at her hotel room long before the museum’s trusted guardian slipped free from the comforting embrace of Morpheus and raised the alarm.
She gazed around the darkened room, giving her eyes a few moments to become acclimated to the dim lighting provided by the waning Moon. It didn’t take her long to locate her intended prize from among the vast collection of Munch’s works on display–Vampire was the only one fully illuminated, as though the Moon wished to help her in accomplishing her task.
Rubber soles whispering against the tiled floor, Irma fairly glided across the exhibit hall, then paused to admire the painting anew. Huddled in the dark as they were, the man and woman looked even more forlorn than they had in broad daylight. Irma shook her head. How anyone could ever think a portrait of such intense sorrow represented a far more nefarious purpose was unfathomable.
She sighed, then stepped closer and held up the pouch of tools. “Don’t worry,” she told the couple. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”
It was while she was slipping the painting into the protective tube that she noticed the eyes staring at her from the other side of the hall.
Burning like twin coals, they hovered about two feet off the floor–roughly the height of a dog, she realized. A guard dog? Perhaps, but it was unlikely–during her previous visits to the museum she had seen no evidence that dogs were used to patrol the grounds. But if not a guard dog, then what could it be? The beast that had pursued her? Impossible! She had left it far behind in the street; besides, how would it have ever gained entry to the museum?
Fighting the urge to run–if only to prevent damaging the painting during what she knew would be a mad dash for the door–Irma affixed what she hoped looked like a comforting smile on her face and slowly took a step back. “Such a good doggie,” she cooed. “So vigilant. Your masters must be very pleased with you.” Another step back, then another, the eyes tracking her every movement. “I wish I had a biscuit to reward you with. Would you like that? A tasty biscuit for a good dog?”
“Not when there is something far more delectable on which to feast, my beauteous morsel,” the beast growled. Its muzzle pulled back in a familiar, hideous smile.
Irma froze, her eyes widening in shock. “W-what...?”
And then the eyes began to rise, as though the animal was attempting to stand on its hind legs–but then they continued upward, going higher until they towered above her. Beneath the black body stocking, her arms prickled with the sudden rise of goose bumps.
“What... what are you?” she whispered hoarsely.
A man stepped from the shadows–no, Irma considered, not a man. A reanimated corpse–or a monster. Certainly nothing human. Its emaciated body hung loosely within a black velvet frock coat, the sleeves of which ended several inches above slender wrists; the black pants legs, too, did not reach all the way down to cover those pipe cleaner-like lower appendages. It was as though the creature had outgrown its clothing–or stolen them from some shorter, unfortunate victim.
“I am Count Orlock, of Transylvania,” it said with a brief, mannerly bow of its head. “And you are the bat-winged girl who soars through the night skies, like those of my kind.”
“Y-your kind?” Irma asked. She tensed her leg muscles–priceless painting or no, she was running for the door. One glance into those burning eyes as they lasciviously studied every curve of her body told her all she needed to know: that any punishment The Great Vampire might devise for her failure on this mission paled in comparison to whatever the abomination on the other side of the room no doubt had planned for her.
“Yes. My kind.” Moonlight sparkled along the tips of hideously sharpened teeth as it grinned. “Nosferatu. The undead.”
“Oh. Of course,” Irma said flatly. And then she was running for her life, silently admonishing herself for having ever closed the door; now, taking the time to open it would rob her escape of precious seconds.
The vampire, however, was faster. Orlock swept across the hall with such incredible speed that Irma was unable to alter her course as he came to a halt directly in front of her. She ran straight into his arms.
Orlock grasped her firmly in a crushing embrace, driving the air from her lungs. Irma tried to draw breath, only to inhale the stench of the grave–a pervasive, stomach-churning odor that swirled about her captor like a fog. Her senses reeled, yet she forced herself to remain on her feet; she knew that fainting now, like some imperiled heroine in a “penny dreadful” magazine, would only hasten her death. There had to be a way to escape...
She glanced toward the door. “The guard...”
“Dead to the world,” the monster replied with an unnerving grin. His worm-like tongue swept across teeth that gleamed with the bloody flecks of his latest meal.
Irma gasped. “No...”
Spider-like fingers scuttled across her face, the cracked, yellow-tinged nails finding purchase in the tight hood covering the top of her head. With a deft turn of his wrist, the vampire tore away the thin material, freeing her dark hair from its confines–and baring her neck. His fingers took hold of her tresses and pulled hard, yanking her head back so that nothing obscured his view of the jugular vein that pulsed so invitingly just below the tender flesh.
“Such a lovely throat,” Orlock purred. Then he whispered: “Do not worry. I promise I shall be gentle.”
Irma struggled frantically, but his grip was unbreakable, his strength superhuman. And so, as she felt the tips of his fangs brush her neck she closed her eyes and prayed for a quick death.
That was the moment when the door suddenly flew open, with a loud crash that seemed to reverberate throughout the entire museum. Vampire and victim turned to see a man stumble into the room on unsteady legs. He lifted his right arm with great effort, and pointed an accusatory finger toward Irma.
“Vixen! Temptress!” he bellowed in a slurred voice. “I’ve caught you red-handed!”
It took Irma a moment to recognize him, and to make sense of his words. “Wilhelm?” Apparently it was a night for impossibilities–the drug she had given him should have kept him unconscious for hours, yet here he was, his anger at her betrayal obviously helping him to combat the sedative’s effects.
He staggered forward, his right arm plummeting weakly back to his side; the sudden movement almost unbalanced him, but somehow he remained upright. “You seduced me against my will, had your way with me, and for what? So you could plunder my museum with your”–a sneer creased his mouth as he glanced at Orlock–“your homely lover?”
The vampire turned back to her, his right eyebrow–a bushy, tangled mess of wire-like hairs–raised in a quizzical fashion. “Who is this fool?”
Irma chose to ignore the question. “Wilhelm, help me!” she pleaded as she renewed her attempts to free herself from Orlock’s hold. “He wants to kill me!”
“Kill you?” Wilhelm came to an unsteady halt. “Why should he want to do that? Are you not...? I don’t...” The confused expression that contorted his handsome features was clear evidence that his drug-addled brain had become stuck between two choices: aid her, or watch as she quenched the vampire’s murderous thirst. But if he waited too long to decide, she would surely die.
Orlock glanced toward the window, and a low growl crawled up from his throat. Irma inclined her head to see what had captured his attention: the waning Moon had moved across the night sky on the latest leg of its eternal flight around the Earth, and in its wake, just above the Berlin rooftops, appeared the first glimmers of a red-streaked dawn.
“The sunrise,” Irma whispered. She had heard a little of the vampire legends during her travels across Europe–not that she had paid them any real attention–but now she remembered a passing mention
that sunlight was deadly to them. She turned to face her captor, a triumphant smile lighting her eyes. “You are to be denied your feast, monster. Dawn approaches, and now you must flee or be turned to dust.”
Orlock chuckled. “Quite true–but there is still time for one small... bite.” He opened his mouth wide, then swept his head down toward her neck.
“No!” Wilhelm roared, and launched himself at the Count. Curator and vampire collided, and Irma was sent tumbling to the floor, finally released from that crushing grip.
As she sat up, her gaze fell on the collapsible tube and its valuable prize, and she glanced toward the open door. Irma gnawed on her lower lip for a few moments, weighing her options. With the two combatants occupied, all she had to do was pick up the tube and race out the door–and yet she could not bring herself to abandon her rescuer. But was that because she felt grateful, she wondered, or guilty?
She watched as Wilhelm and Orlock struggled, but the outcome was never in doubt. Though young and virile, Wilhelm was still dazed from the sedative, too weak to put up a proper fight, and Orlock was an unstoppable demon. Wilhelm rained heavy blows upon the creature, but they had no effect; Orlock’s strikes, however, drew blood with each swipe of his sharp fingernails. And yet Wilhelm refused to give in; for a man scorned, he was putting his life in jeopardy to protect the very woman who had broken his heart.
Irma looked to the window. The morning sky was lightening, but not fast enough to make Orlock break off his attack. There had to be another way to kill him, otherwise, as Irma well knew, he would come for her as soon as Wilhelm had been removed as an obstacle.
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 28
