Lord of the Vampires (25 page)

As I sat and petted him, my mind grew steady enough to return to all that I had learned from Lucy Westenra, and thus Vlad.

The manuscript; the manuscript. I had no logical reason to believe it, but my instinct was adamant: its very possession must confer power. Had Elisabeth once possessed it, only to lose it to Vlad when we were all still in Transylvania? He seems far stronger now, however, than she was then.

The lines are six; the keys are three. To the east of the metropolis lies the crossroads. There lies buried treasure, the first key

Lines and keys: of them and their number I could derive no sense, only the obvious deduction that treasure lay buried at a particular crossroads, perhaps east of London. It was clearly a riddlebut to what end?

The damned key! It
must
be here

Most assuredly not Lucys thoughts, but Vlads, who intervention. So the treasure at the crossroadsthe first key, whatever meaning that might havehad not yet been discovered. Yet Vlad was desperate to find it.

A horrible thought seized me: If the manuscript itself conferred astonishing power, then what would possession of the first key confer? And the second?

And Elisabeth had followed him in hopes of regaining the parchment.

By this time, Friend had grown bold enough to lie down with his chin upon my lap; I sat stroking him for a long time, thinking of how the world would be if Vlad retained his amazing strengthor if Elisabeth took it from him.

At the moment, I could remember only Vlads cruelties and Elisabeths kindnesses. Yes, she had kept the truth from me, but not for any malicious purpose; her worst crime appeared to have been a lack of faith in my trustworthiness, but she had not known me long enough to understand that I am interested not in power, but in peace and pleasure. So I rose and bade Friend remain, and went in search of Elisabeth, prepared to reveal all that I had learned that day.

She was not in any of her habitual places: the great drawing-room, the bedchamber we shared, her favourite sitting-room, the formal French garden. I went back to Antonios quarters on the main floor to see if he was there; he was not, which made me think that perhaps he had taken her on some social errand.

But if she had seen Antonio, she would know that I had returned, and it was most unusual for her not to greet me and praise whatever I had bought, especially since she seemed so desperate to stay in my good graces.

So I continued my search of the house, until at last only one room was left: the cellar, which Elisabeth so affectionately referred to as the dungeon. An odd sense of dread overcame me the moment I set foot upon the landing leading downward, and touched the handle upon the iron-bound door; my reaction was to veil myself from all detection, for I think now I instinctively knew what I should find.

So I walked in silence down the stairs, and when I arrived upon the bottom step, I saw what I had always seen: the dirt floor, the long-unused fireplace, the terrible blond Iron Maiden, and the great hanging iron cage, with long sharp spikes directed inward. And surrounding it all, vast, empty darkness.

Yet I thought I espied upon the Iron Maidens lip a drop of blood, and so I moved over the cold ground, forward one deliberate step, then another, then another

Until at last I caught a flash of feeble indigo, and a glimpse into the circleElisabeths circle, from whence emanated screams so fierce, so hoarse, so hopeless in their abandoned agony, that I knew not whether they came from male or female, adult or child, human or animal throat.

And in the centre of the vast dungeon, the fireplace blazed brightly, while nearby, the iron cage swung suspended the height of two women from the ground. At the pulley stood Antonio, chest bared and glistening with perspiration from the fires heat; at the sight of me, he grinned, baring teeththe Devils own inviting smile.

Nearby, between the fire and the swinging cage, Dorka stood heating a long poker in the flames, her sweat-shining face reflecting fireglow and transformed from its usual sour expression to one of pure ecstatic transcendence. And when the metal grew white-hot, she hoisted it by the attached broom handle and jabbed it up into the black cage.

Or rather, at the prisoner within: a young, naked girl whose spiralling auburn curls spilled to her thighs and mingled with the blood streaming there. She was a lovely creature, slender, tall, and long of limb, with small and beautiful breasts, but in her death-agony, she had been reduced to a graceless, shrieking thing. She was far too beside herself to notice my entrance; her only concern was the approaching poker. It found the tender skin of her leg, and her screams grew impossibly shriller as she flailed, recoiling. Alas, her efforts to avoid pain only increased it: she had already been gored by two long metal spikes inside the cage, and her movements only served to drive them deeper into her tender flesh, and enlarge her terrible wound. The spikes pierced the length of muscle between her right ribs and hip, and held her fast. In a pitiful effort to free herself and avoid further impalement, she had wedged herself sideways between the row that pierced her and the row in front of her; the latters spikes she gripped with her hands and pushed against.

But before she could free herself, Dorka jabbed again; I winced at the hissing sound of searing flesh and the accompanying howl. The girl struck out valiantly at the poker with her hands until, inevitably, one of them became impaled; then she began to kick as if there were still a remote chance of survival. But there could be no hope; blood streamed from the mortal wound at her side, from the singed puncture upon her strong white thigh, from a cut upon her otherwise perfect forehead. At the sight of her, I felt bitter pityand also a strange pride that she who was so clearly defeated would not yield to her enemies until the very moment of death. She could not be far from it, for she had lost an impossible amount of blood; it streamed down her thighs, her legs, her feet, onto the floor of the cage. Had she not been held fast by the spikes, she would certainly have slipped.

I had never before taken notice of the cage floors special design; it was flat everywhere and rimmedexcept for one place where it slanted downward into a spout, forcing the blood to spill in a narrow stream.

Beneath that stream sat my erstwhile lover, her face tilted upward to greet the gentle crimson rain. I have seen Elisabeth enflamed with passion; I have seen her in the moment of sexual release. But never had I seen her wear an expression of such infinite bliss, infinite satisfactionindeed, she looked up at her unwilling benefactress with all the adoration and love I had long searched for in her eyes, yet never found. Upon her lap she reverently held her victims clothing: a plain grey gown with white cotton apron, a servants humble frock.

As for the blood that dripped down upon her face, her hair, her bosomshe rubbed it into her skin with abandoned relish, her excitement mounting so quickly that I expected her to cry out any moment in ecstasy.

All this I watched with such keen revulsion that for some time, I could not quite believe what I saw; and then, when I believed, I could not think, could not move, could not intervene. What should I have said? What should I have done? Should I have freed the poor dying girl and killed her to stop her pain? The only death I could offer brought no true rest.

She would die honestly soon enough, without the loveless torment that undeath brought; so I did nothing, nothing at all.

Nothing at all save let a single tear of horror and pity spill down my cheek, for both the dying girl and Elisabeth. And at the surge of emotion, my control flickered; too stricken to struggle, I simply let it go, and stood unprotected and unveiled before the actors in that hellish tableau.

The girl was too far gone to detect my presence. But at last, Elisabeth sensed a change in her surroundings, and looked down to see me. Zsuzsanna! Darling! Her voice was shocked, exasperated, annoyedand finally, terrified; her blood-painted face was a ghoulish mask darkening rapidly to violet-brown. She held out scarlet-spattered arms to me, beseeching, beckoning. Do not judge me harshly, dearest. What I have done, I do for you. Come to me, and let me teach you the truest sweetness; come to me, and trust that this is all for the good.

I said not a word. I merely stood motionless and returned her gaze without hatred, without anger; but the revulsion in my eyes was its own rebuke.

I lingered upon that vile, unconsecrated ground no longer than the span between two beats of a human heart. Then I went upstairs, gathered Friend into my arms, and left forever.

Chapter 11

Dr. Sewards Diary

7 SEPTEMBER.

For the past five days, I have sat up through the nights with
Lucy;
never have I performed a more bittersweet task. During the whole time, I heard nothing from the professor, but each day sent him the requested telegrams on Lucys conditionto a Mr. Windham at the parents old cottage in Shropshire. The covertness of it all makes me feel rather sheepish, even though I understand the necessity for it.

For four days and nights, Lucy got along quite well, and began to markedly improve; the professors magic was working. But on the fifth night, exhaustion took its toll on me; and Lucy (who was feeling more her merry self) insisted that, rather than continue my vigil, I sleep in the adjacent room upon a comfortable old sofa. I refused, but as I could not altogether resist Morpheus lure, and since Van Helsings unnoticed silver crucifix was still safely in place above the window, I allowed myself a brief nap in the chair.

So it was that I fell into the sleep of the dead and did not wake until late morning, when I heard the anxious voices of the chambermaids:

Oh, my poor Miss Lucy!

The doctor! Wake the doctor!

I heard the words through the veil of a dream, but their content brought me to full alertness, just as an infants shrill cry provokes an immediate response from the sleeping mother. I leapt to my feet at once and followed the horrified servants gazes to the woman on the bed.

There lay my sweet Lucy, golden hair fanned behind her on the pillow, her skin and lips a dreadful ashen grey, her breath coming in gasps. The poor girl could barely speak. I rushed to her and took her hand, which was quite cool, then instructed one of the servants to bring a glass of port at once, but to say nothing to Mrs. Westenra should they encounter her
en route
. The other I sent off to the telegraph office, to send a message off to Mr. Windham, asking him to return to Hillingham at once. Lucy herself I ordered to remain silent, in part because I could not bear to watch her struggle so.

The next thing I did was to glance surreptitiously at the lintel over the window, as I completely expected that the small crucifix had somehow come loose from its place, fallen, and been swept up by one of the maids.

But no; I saw the glint of silver in the same place it had been the night before, and panicked. How could this be? I had trusted Van Helsings explanations utterly, but now one piece of the puzzle no longer fit. And if he was wrong about the security ensured by a talisman, might he be wrong about everything else?

There was nothing more to be done than sit by Lucys side and await the port, and, when it came, to put the glass tenderly to her lips and help her drinkshe looking up at me with an expression of such sweet apology that it pricked my broken heart. She did her best with the port, which was not much; and then she sank wearily back upon the pillow, sighed, and slept.

The maid brought me a piece of stationery from Lucys desk, and so I hastily penned a note to Art telling of his betrotheds setback, and had it sent out by mid-morning post.

The hours awaiting Van Helsing seemed to drag on forever, especially when night again fell and he had still not arrived. The worst of it was the fact that there simply was nothing more I could do for Lucy. In my desperation I considered attempting a very novel and experimental procedure, the blood transfusionbut since there was no one at Hillingham except myself, Mrs. Westenra, and three young housemaids, there seemed no one suitable to donate the blood except myself. Even if I had the equipment (which I did not), it would have been impossible to perform the procedure upon myself, as I might faint and thus lose both doctor and patient.

By early evening, we received a reply from Mr. Windham that he would be arriving on the early morning train. Even though my confidence regarding the crucifix talisman had been sorely shaken, I was nonetheless greatly relieved to hear the professor was well and was indeed on his way.

Thank God we passed an unremarkable night; this time, I allowed myself not a seconds sleep. The guilt I felt over failing my patientthe very one whom I most loved negated all fatigue.

So it was that the professor at last arrived. He was in a somber moodso somber that, in spite of Lucys terrible situation, I suspected that he had even greater sorrows on his mind. The first thing he whispered to me after Lucys mother (who seemed grateful to be kept in the dark concerning her daughters health) welcomed him into the house was:

The crucifix. Did one of the maids remove it?

No, I replied, as we began to ascend the stairs. You will see. It is precisely as you left it.

Then someone else must have invited him in, he said gravely. Not Mrs. Westenra

No, I seconded, surprising myself. Not she

Despite the situation, Van Helsing gave a faint, grim smile. You are quite the psychic talent, friend John. Most assuredly you do not take after me; what paltry abilities I possess came only after the greatest effort. The smile faded at once into a thin-lipped expression of unhappy determination. You are right about Mrs. Westenra. She has not been touched by those we fight; such things invariably show first in the aura, if only to the tiniest degree. But we must interview each one who slept in this house last night, even those who visited here after sunset. There we will find our answer to the mystery.

He fell silent as we two approached Lucys room, and the little chambermaid opened the door with a slight curtsy. We requested privacy for our examination, which the girl grudgingly yielded; a good thing, for when Van Helsing stepped inside and saw Lucy sleeping, he whispered: