Authors: Robert Ryan
The Baron had created a new bloodline. A race of half-human, half-vampire, in whose veins flowed the elixir of life.
One fatal flaw remained.
The vampire blood was becoming dominant. For this new race to overcome death without having to prey upon the living, more human blood was needed to purify the strain.
In 1462, Vlad Dracula was captured and imprisoned. The Baron visited him often, each time smuggling in some of the new blood to drink, and drawing a sample of Dracula’s blood to test at his laboratory. The tests confirmed that his blood was becoming the elixir.
Upon his release from prison he resumed his reign. Only the Baron and myself knew that my father was no longer simply Vlad Dracula, Prince of Wallachia.
He was Dracula, patriarch and perpetual ruler of a new race that could cheat death.
Immediately upon his accession to the throne he summoned me to the castle. He confided that I was his favorite son and the only one he could trust. As his most highly skilled warrior, he wanted me by his side in the upcoming campaign to repel the invading Turks. I was introduced as one of his Moldavian bodyguards and known only by my
nom de guerre
as Andrei. He charged me to preserve his immortality in the event of his earthly demise. We drank a small amount of each other’s blood each day to keep our bloodline strong. The Baron instructed us that human blood must also be ingested once a month to maintain the proper balance of the elixir flowing in our veins. This could be done through simple bloodletting rather than the gruesome violation of the vampire. It became my duty to collect this blood—either from a peasant for a token payment, or from the impaled.
A month ago bitter enemy Mehmed II, Sultan of Constantinople, sent his army to usurp the Wallachian throne. As always, I was by my father’s side during the battle. To my eternal shame, an assassin, disguised as one of us, bulled his horse through our phalanx and beheaded my father with his most prized possession: his own sword, which had belonged to his father, Vlad Dracul.
In one fell swoop the villain escaped with head and sword, shouting, “Trophies for my Sultan!”
I collected as much of my father’s blood as I could and rode like the wind for Constantinople. When I reached Mehmed’s palace, my father’s head was staked upon his sword for display. Under cover of darkness, I hid my horse and slit the throats of the two guards.
The elixir had kept the head alive, and it had been dipped in honey so that it would keep. I secured head and sword and fled for home, stopping often to let my father drink the life-giving elixir.
And so began the eternal vigil to keep Dracula alive. No longer Prince, he is now something much greater: Patriarch of the new race of immortals.
I shall seek out the Baron to see if his magic can find a way to attach the head to some other body. Whether yes or no, I must take whatever remains and disappear. If that is with only the head, I will do all I can to keep it alive.
I will have children, and they will have children, and though they will not bear the name of Dracula, they will be of his blood, and they will be charged with the sacred duty of maintaining his bloodline. The head shall be passed on to these descendants in a chain that must not be broken, along with the sword and the log containing the Baron’s formula and record of his experiments.
These are the instructions for keeping Dracula alive until one day science can find a way to make him whole again:
Preserve the head in honey, which must be replenished when it begins to lose its strength. Each day let him drink of the elixir. Test the elixir once a month to ensure that the elements are properly balanced according to the Baron’s formula. Should the vampire blood again begin to dominate, human blood must be added.
This blood must be gotten from willing subjects, never through the foul bloodsucking of the vampire. If the quest for immortality is to be worth pursuing, the inhuman practice of stealing the life of an innocent to perpetuate the life of a fiend must be expunged from this new race. The evil ways of the vampire cannot be ours.
I close this decree with a forlorn hope.
I have succeeded, but is it too late? Have I condemned my beloved father to an eternity of torment? Is this life? To keep the brain alive but not the body? Not the soul?
May my watch not become a wake.
Sitting at the control panel in her apartment, Johnny had been watching and listening on the monitor that continually recorded the area around Vlad the Impaler’s showcase. When Markov had left Quinn alone with the letter, she’d seen her chance to talk to him privately.
She’d barely gotten out her door before Markov intercepted her.
“Come with me,” he said.
When they passed the entrance to the Chamber of Horrors, her heart fluttered in despair at the thought that Quinn was in there but she couldn’t get to him.
Now father and daughter sat facing one another in the seating area of his quarters. Markov dispensed with his customary formalities and abruptly began.
“The moment of truth is upon us, Johnny. The arrival of this particular person, at this exact moment, is the hand of fate sending us the lead for the climax of our film. I have given him the option to leave, but I know his curiosity will not let him. He is a seeker of monsters, and he knows that what he might find here will exceed anything he can find in the real world. He is in our movie now. The sun is coming up, and I need some time to write him into the ending. I want a climax that will make
Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man
look like child’s play.”
He leaned forward and gave her his most intimidating stare. “I need you now more than ever to make sure all is in readiness. Minutes are going to count. Everything must be gotten on the first take. Nothing must be left to chance. If the ending of our movie goes as planned, we will both be free.”
Our movie.
It was never their movie.
“Free,” Johnny said, a hint of mockery in the word. “To sleep? Perchance to dream?”
She saw him wince and knew that the words from Hamlet’s famous soliloquy had pierced the armor around his heart. All the nights they’d read Shakespeare or Poe together, all the movies they’d watched, laughing as they’d acted out the parts…. It had not all been horror. There had been some happiness, even moments of hope….
Ancient history. The only thing left was to prepare for the end.
“We’ll get plenty of sleep when we’re dead,” Markov said.
“’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,” Johnny said.
Markov impatiently waved the repartee aside. “We have both learned our lines well. But rehearsals are over. It is time to shoot the ending.”
“How can I play my part when I haven’t even seen the script?”
“I haven’t finished it. I’m trying to concoct a scenario that will put our guest in grave peril without harming him, but when one creates monsters, there are risks. The Blood Moon is fast upon us, and the creatures are beginning to stir. I cannot be certain that whatever comes after him will be under my control.”
“What exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Your role may be more as my head of security. No matter how carefully I plan, other forces are at work. Have your complete arsenal at the ready for whatever mayhem might develop: magnetic wristbands, bear spray, wolfbane, garlic, stakes, silver bullets, even the spear gun.”
Whatever mayhem might develop
. For him to describe his monster rally that way—and to specifically mention those weapons—powerfully reinforced what Johnny already knew: there was no way she could stop him and his monsters alone. Her only hope was to find Quinn as soon as possible and see if he would help. “I’ll take care of it,” she said.
“I assume you’ve been keeping a close watch on the Garden.”
“Since our guest’s arrival, the …
flowers
… have been more lively.” She made no effort to remove the contempt from her voice.
“Check on them every few hours from here on out. This man’s energy waves have upset the delicate electromagnetic balance. I have not come this far not to have the ending that will give me true immortality. It is the culmination of my life’s work, and nothing or no one shall keep me from it. Is that clear?”
He waited, unblinking, for a response.
A small reluctant nod.
“Are all the doors locked?”
She nodded again while staring at the floor.
“You must check all the props, the robotics, the special effects to make sure everything is working properly.”
“I understand.”
He leaned closer, their faces barely a foot apart. “Do you? Since our guest arrived you have seemed distracted.”
Johnny’s gaze shot up to meet his. “Perhaps if I say it as Renfield it will reassure you: I am loyal to you, Master!”
Markov recoiled from the defiant response but recovered quickly. “Very amusing. But of course Renfield was lying. He had already betrayed his Master.”
“He was a fictional character. This is real life. Events will unfold as
destiny
has decided they must.”
“Indeed,” Markov said. “And I am the master of my destiny.” He stood. “I shall leave you to tend to your duties, while I tend to mine.”
Quinn re-read the five-hundred-year-old letter and considered the bizarre light it cast on one of the many missing links in the elusive history of Vlad Dracula III—
if
the letter was genuine.
Markov conducted himself with such authority that everything he said had the ring of truth. But there was also madness in the air, and its dark clouds were thickening. His Dracula-obsessed mind could easily have driven him to create that bust—worship it—and to have written this letter, all as backstory for his movie. Concocting such a scenario might also have been a salve for his conscience, allowing him to claim that his “bad deeds” were done at the behest of Vlad the Impaler.
Or … the unthinkable—Markov’s entire story, including this—could somehow be true.
Quinn was mildly startled when Markov eased into the seat at the opposite end of the table.
“So?” Markov said.
“Now I understand your comment about the origin of a species Darwin never dreamed of. Not the
dhampyre
of folklore, which result from the union between a vampire and a human. Viktor claims Dracula’s race of semi-vampires, if they even existed, achieved their immortality asexually—by ingesting a blood mixture created by the one alchemist who had succeeded, where countless practitioners of that pseudoscience had failed for centuries. The one alchemist who had achieved the goal that humans had been seeking before alchemy even existed. He had created a magic potion that would keep us from getting old and dying. The elixir of life, no less. When you sum it all up, it sounds rather far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“I fully understand your skepticism,” Markov said. “I can only tell you the path I have taken since becoming custodian. As we venture ever deeper into the nethermost regions, we get further from things the world would consider possible. All horror stories require a willing suspension of disbelief. Mine will put yours to the supreme test.”
“As one who spends his life investigating and debunking the most bizarre legends and superstitions,” Quinn said evenly, “I always require undeniable proof before I can declare them to be fact. Which is almost never. But be assured I am willing to suspend my disbelief if you can furnish that proof.”
“Fair enough. I shall present the evidence that made a believer out of me. And that I am confident will make a believer out of you.
“The first thing I did when I got the head home was to remove a tissue sample from the ragged flesh along the neck and examine it under a microscope. I’m no biologist, but I know enough to recognize live cells from dead ones. Not only were the cells continuing to reproduce, but when I removed the sample, there was bleeding.
“This went a long way in convincing me that the story in Viktor’s letter was true. That the alchemist’s elixir had kept Dracula alive, at least on a cellular level. Since blood is the key ingredient, I quickly made myself an expert in the handling of blood. I purchased equipment for drawing it, testing it, preserving it, and so on. I then began mixing my blood with Dracula’s, according to the instructions in the letter.”
He stifled a sigh. “I could not resist the lure of immortality and began to increase the percentage of vampire blood in the elixir. I can offer no greater proof that it works than what you can see with your own eyes.” Markov leaned so the light fell more fully on his face. “I am over a hundred years old, yet I have scarcely aged for the last fifty years.”
“I
can
see that. If everything you are telling me is true—that you’ve been ingesting Vlad Dracula’s blood—then, in a sense, that would make you his descendant.”
“Yes. Almost like a son, since some of his genetic material now flows through me. And while I take full responsibility for my actions, I have always felt that—despite Viktor’s noble instruction against the ‘foul bloodsucking’ of the vampire—it was the Dracula blood in the elixir that drove me to the same wanton disregard for life he proudly displayed against his enemies. I have always been enthralled by the Dracula mystique, yes, but I was never overcome by my ‘mindless primitive’ until …” he nodded toward the head “… that came into my life.”
He made a dismissive wave. “And yet … some other force compels me to do the things I do. Something that comes from
me
. As the elixir in my veins has gotten stronger, I have come to believe that some of Vlad the Impaler’s bloodthirsty soul has mingled with the digital bits of Lugosi’s Dracula inside me, to create the vampiric monster
I
have become. A digitally remastered and enhanced Dracula.”
“You seem to be avoiding the word vampire, choosing to call yourself vampiric instead.”
“I am
not
a vampire, but the vampire’s craving for blood sometimes overtakes me. When I can no longer resist, I roam the woods at night. Sometimes as Dracula, sometimes as the Wolf Man, and …” shame flickered across his face “… I
feed
. On sleeping campers, hunters. Never with the intention of killing them or turning them into vampire slaves. Whatever spark of human decency still burns within me prevents that. When I finish, I simply leave them there and hope my violation will not have dire consequences.”