Return of the Wolf Man (38 page)

Stevenson’s forehead and hands were damp with perspiration as he reached for the knob. He turned it slowly. The door wasn’t locked. When he heard the latch bolt click free, Stevenson released the knob and gave the door a tap. It swung in heavily on squeaking hinges.

The foyer was empty. Stevenson shut the door behind him and walked in on the toes of his shoes. The overlay floor creaked with every step as he made his way down the dark corridor. There was a faint odor of mildew, which grew stronger the further he went. He finally discerned what looked like a cavernous room ahead. It was probably a study or a library, though he reminded himself that in this house the smell of rot might not be coming from old books but from animated corpses.

The blackness deepened the further he got from the entrance. The bold slivers of moonglow that crept under the door and past the drapes shed no light over here. Stevenson hadn’t wanted to turn on his flashlight and reveal his presence, let alone his precise position. But the viola-string give of the floorboards had probably done that already. And for all he knew, Dracula’s minions could see perfectly well in the dark. He stopped and pulled the key-chain flashlight from his pocket. He wrapped his fingers around the jangling keys and turned the light on.

The yellowish beam was weak but it illuminated the blond hair and wide, staring eyes of Caroline Cooke. She was standing several paces away, inside the door of what turned out to be a large library. Her arms were hanging limp at her sides and cobwebs clung to her clothes. Stevenson also noticed two glistening marks on her throat. But before he could examine them more closely something glinted to her left. Stevenson shifted the flashlight to that side.

He recoiled.

The
sarpe
Andre was standing immobile just a few feet away from him. His arms were not at ease, however: the wrists were tightly crossed in front of his bare chest and there was a machete in either hand, the blades framing his face at opposing angles. The
sarpe’s
gaze and expression were vacant and he didn’t move, didn’t blink, even as the flashlight shined in his eyes.

Stevenson pointed the tip of the smallsword at the zombie’s throat. He didn’t know if he could actually use it, but he wanted to have that option. Then he shifted the light toward the door so he knew exactly where it was. Turning toward it, he shut off the light, put it back in his pocket, and reached out his left hand. He groped for a moment until he found Caroline’s fingers. He folded them within his own and gave her a gentle tug.

“Come on,” he said quietly.

She didn’t move.

“Leave her,” the
sarpe
said.

Stevenson didn’t move. The sweat from his forehead trickled into his eyes. He listened in the dark for sounds that the zombie was moving. All he heard was the thudding of his own terrified heart. His sides ached fiercely and his legs were trembling.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of the smallsword and held it as steady as he could. Once again he pulled on Caroline’s hand. This time he didn’t speak.

“Leave her,” the
sarpe
repeated without emotion.

Stevenson had had enough. He touched the blade to the
sarpe’s
leathery flesh. He wanted him to feel its pinch.

“This is none of your business,” Stevenson said. “Stay back or I’ll use this, I swear I will.”

Andre’s arms uncrossed in a flash and the machetes slashed outward. The attorney snapped his head back, screaming from the pain in his neck, just as the blades whooshed past him. They nicked both of his checks. The
sarpe
stepped forward again, turning the blades onto their sides and slashing back toward his center.

They slashed over Stevenson’s head as he released Caroline and dropped to the floor. The attorney screamed as the injuries he’d suffered in the mill sent ribbons of pain around his chest and down his legs. His arms dropped and before he could raise the smallsword in front of him the zombie stepped on his wrist. He crushed Stevenson’s forearm to the floor.

Stevenson clawed at the
sarpe’s
foot. It felt like concrete, inflexible and unmovable. “Caroline!” he cried. “Please help!”

The woman didn’t reply.

Panicked and groaning with pain, Stevenson continued to scratch and pull desperately on the zombie’s foot. He stopped only when the machetes came down on his arms, just below the elbows.

His first scream filled the library.

His second scream, higher and longer, tore through the still night.

His third scream, the loudest, was also his last.

THIRTY-TWO

T
he gray wolf snapped and clawed as the giant pressed its neck to the earth. Shading quickly into his human form, the vampire extended his ashen fingers toward the Monster’s throat. Dracula raked at the hard, creased flesh with one hand, tearing off curled, dry slivers with his sharp nails. When that failed to drive the Monster back, Dracula clawed desperately at the giant’s eyes. He managed to force his nails into the soft flesh beneath them and pressed hard.

Shrieking and rubbing his eyes, the Monster staggered away. He stumbled over the wooden pole from the mill and landed on his back. As he lay there, pushing against the grindstone and attempting to get back up, Dracula hurried to the mill doors. He pulled them open, faced the field, and spread his arms. A few moments later six panting, red-eyed wolves ran toward him. They gathered around the vampire, their bodies sunk low in a hunting posture. Turning, his cape swirling around him, Dracula walked toward the Monster. The wolves padded next to him, three on either side.

Sitting up, the Monster snarled and waved a hand angrily in front of his face. He managed to get to his knees and struggled to rise. His wounds as well as his ungainly physique made it difficult.

Dracula’s brow lowered as he watched the Monster. Then he nodded silently and, as one, the animals leapt.

Startled, the Monster flailed at them. They landed on him and threw him back, beside the broken mill handle. As the wolves swarmed over him, snapping and rending, he grabbed the pole, pulled it around, and swung it at them. He managed to strike two of the animals but the other four beasts continued to attack with their teeth, biting and gnawing on his arms, legs, and throat.

Screaming from pain and fear, the Monster folded his arms in and then threw them out again and again, trying to toss off the wolves as he attempted to rise. Still howling and struggling, he crawled toward Dracula, the source of his suffering. The vampire stood before him, imperious and confident, his eyes burning.

The other two wolves recovered quickly and jumped onto the Monster’s back, throwing him forward. Wailing, he struggled beneath their great weight. But with each pinch of their savage jaws he grew weaker, experienced sensations unlike any he’d ever felt. This wasn’t like fire or ice, which affected only the hard, dead, unfeeling surface of his skin. These were awful, burning sensations that dug into his waist, his shoulders, his neck, his thighs. All he wanted to do was swat at the pain, to make it stop. But he couldn’t use his arms. The wolves hung tightly to them, making them impossible to raise.

Whimpering, the Monster suddenly became aware of an unfamiliar sensation. It was not the quiet of sleep, the shutting down of his body. It was the anguish of destruction. Within moments the terrible pain was constant. It attacked every part of him. He turned and watched helplessly in the dull moonlight as the heads of the wolves jerked from side to side. As they did, their jaws flung bloody bits of him onto the straw, leaving agony in their wake.

Reaching Dracula was no longer important. Stopping the wolves was not possible. All the Monster craved now was an end to the suffering.

Suddenly two of the wolves left the pack and jumped at his throat, one on either side. They burried their muzzles deep. The Monster’s sad eyes looked up at the white face of the vampire. The son of Frankenstein tried to form words. But his lower lip merely shook as a single tear spilled from each eye. The white face became a crooked streak, an echo of the lightning that had given him birth.

The Monster silently bade the source of all life to take him back. And then his eyelids shut and the spark was gone and with it went the pain.

THIRTY-THREE

C
ount Dracula stared at the gutted and dismembered carcass of the Frankenstein Monster. The wolves continued to poke at it, their muzzles matted with gore as they rent without respect the organs and tissue that Dr. Frankenstein had so meticulously assembled.

“Enough,” the vampire said quietly.

As one, the wolves retreated from the body. The dark red blood of the Monster, once deeply veined within his thick flesh, coated their fur as well as some of the straw. Though the vampire felt no pity, he was sorry to lose this creature—at least for the present. In a short while his new mistress, Dr. Cooke, would have begun transforming the flawed brain and the damaged body. She would have transformed the Monster into a perfect guard for the tomb. If not for the foolish interloper who had come here with Talbot, in a few days Dracula would have possessed a strong and utterly devoted servant. Now it would take longer, and perhaps more skill than Dr. Cooke possessed, to repair the damaged Monster. The vampire’s one consolation—and it was a very satisfying one—was that by now Andre would have wreaked a terrible vengeance against the otherwise inconsequential man who had caused this to happen.

As Dracula turned to leave, he stopped. The sense of bitter contentment left him as he felt a presence behind him, something primal and strong. Something with inhuman blood racing through its body. Something that moved with the spectral silence of a supernatural predator.

It can’t be,
the vampire thought.
I’ve just destroyed him.

But the wolves sensed it too. Whining softly, they shrank into their haunches and withdrew from the millstone. Very little surprised the vampire but he was startled to see his ferocious guardians, his masters of the hunt, backing toward the wall, their proud tails held low. Dracula glared at the animals, his harsh gaze challenging them to remain where they were. They seemed oblivious to him. They stopped for a moment when they reached the wall. Then they turned away, slunk toward the front door, and vanished into the blue-white moonlight.

Dracula silently vowed to have the beasts impaled slowly, their craven bodies left to rot in the hot sun. He stepped away from the remains of the Frankenstein Monster, away from the distraction of the creature’s dead flesh and spilled blood. Then Count Dracula stood absolutely still—listening, looking, feeling. And he knew immediately who was with him.

The vampire peered past the mill to where he’d left the body of Lawrence Talbot. The moon shined on an empty patch of earth and straw. The vampire saw the spot where Talbot had been, where the tip of the smallsword had struck the soil after penetrating his chest. Talbot’s reckless companion must have removed the sword to protect himself, perhaps without even realizing what he’d done.

Dracula’s wary eyes shifted to the back of the millhouse, near the shed. There, low to the ground, he saw two small eyes and a sharp-edged line of ivory-white teeth appear from behind the millstone. He heard the familiar driving heartbeat, smelled the characteristic odor of musky human sweat and animal fur.

The Wolf Man began moving forward slowly—a primal force, like the moon-governed tides. The werewolf was crouched extremely low, his right arm cocked tightly at his side and his left arm rigid, extended straight up. The large left hand was gripping the broken arm of the millstone. The great, thick stone moved as the Wolf Man did, grinding threateningly.

The full, very bright moon threw a panel of oblong light through the front door and nearly to the millstone. The vampire moved toward it. He would escape and hide elsewhere on the estate. There were only two creatures on this part of Marya Island who would satisfy the Wolf Man’s bloodlust: Talbot’s accomplice and Dr. Cooke. The werewolf would kill one or both of them. Their deaths would sit heavily on Talbot’s fragile conscience until the next night, when Dracula would take pains to destroy him once and for all time.