Everyone, myself very much included, gaped at her as she retreated, wailing, with Lord Burce trying to catch up. No one moved for a long moment.
I was stunned as you can get and still be awake. I didn't know what to think.
It seemed best to stay put, though I was well aware of all the people starting to turn their shocked attention on me, particularly Bertrice. I felt just about the same as they must, but more of it. How had Sholenka picked up on my being a vampire? There was no other explanation for her pitching such a fit. I looked at my hands, but they were the same as ever. Not in the least like Dracula's. Now if she'd acted that way over him it would make sense. Given the right circumstances, he could set most anyone off like a box of dynamite.
"What's wrong with her? What did she see?" several asked, peering at me, suspicious. The good humor filling the room moments before had quite vanished. I could tell they were blaming me for it, too.
"Excuse us, ladies, gentlemen." Bertrice seized my arm. We made an ignominious retreat. People in our path got out of the way. As we left the dim room, I heard them starting to talk.
Bertrice didn't stop until we were nearly to the foyer, then rounded on me. "What the devil was that about?" she demanded.
By now I was fairly shaken too, like descending a staircase too quick and finding there's one less step than you expected. "Blamed if I know. Was she joshin' me with an act?"
"Shola is a very steady sort. She saves the hysterics for the stage, and she's not that good at them. That was real fear. Why was she babbling about death and graves?"
I shook my head, very troubled and uncomfortable. "I can't say. That was the dam—well, I've never seen anything to beat her. I'd apologize, but I don't think she'd welcome it."
"Maybe I should go see her."
Wyndon Price, drawn by the commotion, rushed past, holding the skirts of his ball gown high. He did not notice us.
"Seems to me things are under control. Or will be," I said. I wanted to get clear of this homestead before Sholenka talked too much more. "They'll likely give her smelling salts and brandy, and she'll be right as rain."
"I hope so." Bertrice's eyes went narrow. "What did she see about you?"
I spread my hands. "I couldn't say that either."
"Really?" She expected an answer, one I dared not give.
"Maybe I should be heading out, if you don't mind. Seems like my continuing to be here might spoil things for some, and I wouldn't want to do that."
She seemed about to ask me more, then swallowed it back. "What an excellent idea. I'll go as well."
"Please don't deprive yourself of staying on my account."
"It's for me. I've said hello to those who needed it, eaten a good meal, and know when to make a proper exit. What a surprising evening this turned out to be."
I could wholly agree with her. Damnation, but why did it have to end this way?
Bertrice found another guest who was also about to leave and skillfully arranged a ride for us in his four-wheeler. He was tottery from drink and dozed on his bench, while she and I sat opposite and made sure he didn't entirely fall off. I wondered why she did not maintain a carriage in town for herself, since she could well afford it. Perhaps it would not be in keeping with her pretense as a struggling artist and actress.
She didn't say much during the ride, and I could tell the woman was simmering herself up for something. She was likely angry that I wouldn't answer her, maybe having seen through my lie. It made for a very chilly journey.
The driver paused at my hotel. I got out, bade Bertrice a simple goodnight with a chaste kiss on her hand. She responded with a regal nod and a piercing look. I trudged inside, weary in heart. The palm-reading incident had had a decided cooling effect on our once-easy conversation. I wondered if she'd ever want to see me again.
Such were my glum thoughts just before dawn when, divested of my evening clothes, I sieved inside the traveling crate and settled on top of the bags of earth there. Dracula had said I could pretty much resume the same life I'd had before—with some changes. Did those changes include forsaking Bertrice?
I very much wanted to become much better acquainted with her, but how to do that without explaining myself? I'd been warned not to trust my secret with just anyone. If I hypnotized a lady into acceptance of my condition and instructed her to keep quiet about it, then would I be fairly safe. But making so free with Bertrice just wasn't honorable. This wanted sleeping on, though simple sleep I could not achieve.
Between one thought and the next the sun had come and gone. My only clue of its passage was a subtle feeling of having rested and a change in the sounds of activity around me. Instead of the early morning staff quietly placing the guests' cleaned boots outside doors, I heard the modest bustle and conversation of those guests going about their business. To have such excellent hearing was a mixed blessing, as I'd learned during my stay in Paris, but I'd also learned to ignore such jabbering.
My own room was quiet, meaning it was safe for me to slip clear of the crate, which I did. The maid had been and gone, for the bed was made up. I'd taken the trouble to lie in it to make things appear normal, and that's as much as was needed here for my safekeeping. So long as I maintained such simple ruses and drew no undue attention all would be well for me. With strangers, anyway. Despite my rest, I was no closer to a decision concerning what to say to Bertrice, and it would have to wait.
The night before I'd written a telegram to Art at Ring, instructing the hotel's night man to see to its delivery. I'd done this to assure that Art would be home when I came calling, careful to give no clue to my identity:
"My dear friend, it's been too long since we've shared conversation. Please be home tonight after dinner that we may catch up on past adventures. I wish to surprise you, so I will sign myself only as—An Old Comrade."
I'd wanted to intrigue him and knew this would turn the trick. If he was still feeling low, then would this spark his curiosity, hopefully in a pleasant way.
When I had readied myself for the trip to Ring, I went downstairs to find a reply had come that afternoon, left in care of the hotel. It warmed my heart enormously.
"Dear Old Comrade, whoever you are, you are most welcome to my home. Will be waiting. Arthur, Lord Godalming."
The train schedules in England being vastly more reliable than those on the Continent, I was able to board my car in the full confidence of arriving just after the dinner hour. I carried a small travel case, heavy with a quantity of the earth so necessary to my rest. There would be no return trains until the following night, so I'd have to find a place to shelter for the day. Once Art and I had had our talk, though, I was sure he would provide one for me.
If all went well.
It had taken Dracula an astonishingly short time to bring me around to a different way of thinking about vampires. But then I'd become one, so that did have a powerful influence over the quickness of my conversion. Art would be a tougher nut to crack, but there was a good possibility he would see reason, once I got him past the first awful hurdle. I'd decided to take the least unpleasant path and hypnotize him from the start.
It was cowardly, but I saw it as a way of sparing him from needless distress. He might eventually forgive me, for we were old friends.
As a small salve to my conscience, I determined never to take any such liberty with Bertrice. In this instance with her brother I had a tolerable excuse, but she would ever be spared from my lack of resource. How things would unfold between us, if they were there for the unfolding, was up to the Fates, and thus I prayed that those capricious sisters would be kind to me.
My arrival at the little station went unmarked. No one met me, which was satisfactory. If I'd wanted a carriage and driver waiting, I'd have requested it in the telegram, knowing Art would oblige and likely be there himself. That would never do.
Valise in hand, I walked from the station to Ring, it being a half-hour's leisurely stroll away, and the countryside was pleasant—in the summer. At this time of year, though the land was strangely green from winter wet, the charms of a walk were less appealing, but the wind was not so bad, and it was not raining or cold enough for snow. My thoughts were more on the coming interview than anything else, even Bertrice.
Art and I were as close as any two men who were not born as brothers. Even though we'd had vastly different upbringings, back in Texas we'd formed that kind of instant bond that sometimes happens between people. We thought alike on many things, disagreed on others, but respected our differences and celebrated our similarities.
How long ago it seemed to me, those days, those years of tramping all over the world, testing ourselves against its countless obstacles and winning. It seemed as though nothing could stop us then. How changed was our world now that our view was tempered by so many sorrows, one sorrow in particular. As much as I mourned Lucy, Art had the greater grief, for he had been the one she'd chosen. I'd seen his love for her bring about a nobility of spirit in him that ran beyond the limits of his inherited title, but at what price?
That I was about to discover.
I passed through the great gates of the estate. They were always open, England being long past the days when such defenses were needed. A curving graveled drive led to the huge old house. It looked bleak, for the surrounding trees were bereft of their foliage except for a stand of evergreens off to the west. There I took myself, seeking their shadows.
On this side of the gray stone pile was Art's study on the second floor. The windows were shut, of course, but the curtains were open. He usually forgot to draw them unless one of the maids chanced to do it.
Had my heart been beating it would have given a leap, for a figure now appeared at one of the windows. I could not make out his features, but guessed it to be Art himself. A servant would not have stood there looking out for so long. I wanted to rush forward, shouting, but firmly held back. I had a plan on how to go about this reunion and would stick to it.
I concealed my valise under the low branches of a fir that had grown crooked, marking it in my memory. Should the evening go badly and I found it necessary to retreat, I wanted my earth in a safe, easily found place. Not that I expected trouble, but damn me if Sholenka's strange card reading hadn't left me thoroughly unsettled. It is all well to discount such things as superstitious nonsense, but I'd seen too much. There was more to the world than most of us are aware, and having experienced—if not become a part of—that hidden side, I'd be a fool to ignore it.
Leaving the fir stand, my eyes peeled for stray gardeners making rounds, I walked straight to the west side of the house to stand beneath the study window. From here it was only about twenty feet up. That had not seemed so much from a distance, now it looked impossible, though I'd scaled taller cliffs in Transylvania. On the other hand, those had not been composed of smooth, mortared stone.
Very well, I had another way of gaining entry. I wanted to avoid the front door. The servants knew me too well. Instead, I vanished and lifted my incorporeal self higher and higher, using the hard face of the house as a guide. When I sensed a change of its surface, I went just solid enough to see I was level with the window. Art, thankfully, had drawn the curtains by now. What he'd have done seeing me floating ghostlike against the sky did not bear thinking about.
Vanishing utterly, I sought and found my way through the cracks in the casing until I was fully within the room. So much for Van Helsing's lore that a vampire could not gain entry to a house without invitation. Then again, perhaps my original welcome to Ring made when I still breathed was yet in effect. No, but that lore was false as well. I'd had no trouble walking into Lord Burce's home. Maybe the restriction only applied to Dracula's breed.
I dismissed speculations in favor of acquainting myself with the lay of the land. I knew it well, having spent many hours here yarning away with Art over a bottle or two from his rich cellars. Over there was the big fireplace; he would have it blazing in anticipation of his guest's arrival. Near his desk stood his drinks cabinet, probably open for the same reason.
Well, I mustn't keep him waiting.
I felt my way across the large room, and yes, sensed Art's nearby presence. He was in his favorite chair by the fire, no doubt filling the time by reading the papers or some book as he was wont to do. I brushed rather too close to him, for he made a sudden exclamation and left his chair. At first, I couldn't apprehend what he was up to, but muffled sounds soon explained his actions. He'd piled more wood onto the blaze. How his servants would be scandalized, with their master looking after his own comfort, but he'd picked up some very bad habits from his travels.
This reminded me that my coming too close had given him a profound chill, which I'd not meant to do. I backed away, trying to find the door leading to the hall. That accomplished, I passed beneath it, finally becoming solid again on the other side.
The hall was very dim, even for me. There was only a faint glow from the stairs at the far end where lamp light seeped up from the front entry. Had I come in by that means, a butler or footman would have guided me up here with a candle.
The darkness suited me fine. I was covered by a good heavy Inverness cape I'd bought to disguise my form if not my height. Now I took a moment to deal with my face, donning the half-mask I'd thrust in my pocket the night before. Over the lower part of my features I wrapped a woolen muffler, for Art would know me in a beard. On top I perched a low traveling cap. It was all highly dramatic, but necessary.
I softly tapped on the door, as a servant might, and received permission to come in.
He was back in his chair again and just turning 'round. Possibly he expected it to be a footman sent to announce the arrival of his guest. Certainly by Art's expression he did not expect the guest himself, nor a guest done up in so fantastical a manner. He quickly stood, his face a mix of guarded expectation fighting with amusement.
"Well, old comrade," he said after a moment to look me over, "you've flummoxed me. I give up. Who are you?"
Hearing his voice again, sounding the same as always brought me close to choking on the sudden lump in my throat. How I wanted to tear away the disguise and rush forward to seize him up in a back-thumping bear's hug. I made myself go slowly, my hand outstretched to take his. We shook, formally, like gentlemen.
"Will you not speak?" he asked, still with a smile hovering about his lips but puzzlement in his expression.
I shook my head, then went to light the lamps. He'd not been reading, for the only other light came from the fire, which was not enough for my purposes. I recalled what Bertrice had said about his moping about. This could not be good.
He watched my every move. I could tell he was holding himself back, allowing me to have my own way until I had things arranged to my satisfaction. One aspect of his character I could always count on was his ingrained politeness, but it could not be pushed too far.
"Sir, I have been eaten up with curiosity all the day, will you not ease it?" There was the faintest edge of exasperation beginning to creep into his tone.
To this I made a calming gesture, and motioned that he should seat himself again. In turn I pulled a chair close to his, that I could look him right in the eye. When I sat, he sat, but was barely able hold himself in place. I could hear his heart thumping away.
He was much thinner than when I'd last seen him, almost gaunt; the change was alarming, unhealthy. His face was very pale and drawn, with lines of care beginning to etch themselves into his otherwise youthful flesh. The intervening months had not been kind to him, and little wonder. Why had not Jack Seward done anything?
Catching Art's gaze with my own, I extended all of my will toward him until he seemed to relax. His eyes bore only the faintest glazing, though.
I put my hand over his. "Please," I whispered. "Do not be afraid of me."
"What . . . why . . . ?" He was stout of spirit and will, not one to easily surrender to suggestion.
"Art, remember that I am your true friend. I won't hurt you."
A flickering in his features, and I heard his heartbeat suddenly quicken. Aside from Jack Seward, I was the only one who ever called him "Art."
"Be at ease, all is well. I swear it."
He made a long, awful exhalation of breath such as you only hear from the dying.
This was more difficult than it should be, but the explanation stood on the table next to his chair: a brandy bottle and two glasses. He'd apparently been imbibing prior to my arrival.
He began to recoil, trying to pull his hand from my grasp.
"Don't move," I ordered, and it wrung at me to use so sharp a voice with him, but I'd learned that the more emotional I was while working hypnosis, the more telling the results.
His movements ceased, but his heart yet boomed away fit to burst.
"You're not afraid," I said, feeling desperate. "You must not fear me."
"No . . ."
"Art, it's all right. I came a long way to talk with you, so please don't collapse. I wouldn't know what to say to that old snob you have for a butler."
He gave a short gasp, almost like a laugh; it lacked mirth, but served its purpose. It had pulled his thoughts sideways to something out of our past, something normal. "Q-Quincey?"
"Yes, my friend. It's me. And everything's all right." I held tight to his hand with both of mine now. He trembled like a fever victim. "You just settle yourself, and I'll explain everything."
"You're a ghost," he said in a thin, lost voice.
"Oh, lord help us, no. Be sensible, Art, there're no such things."
"There are, I've seen them."
"Yes, well, enough of this stuff will make you see all kinds of whatnot. I'll take the risk and give you a bit more, though, as you look to be in sore need." I let him go and gave him his brandy glass. Thank goodness, he didn't bolt from the room.
He finished it off in one swallow and coughed, staring at me the whole time as though I might vanish if his attention wavered. Slowly, so as not to affright him further, I undid my muffler and removed the cap and mask, piling them on the table. If he'd had any shred of disbelief left, this ripped it fully away. He groaned as if in great pain, his eyes rolled up, and he started to pitch forward.
I caught him in time and pushed him back in his chair. "No, you don't, Art Holmwood! You wake up this instant and face me. Come on, man!"
It took a few moments to fully bring him to again. I'd not thought any of this would be easy and was sorry it was living down to my expectations. He clutched at my arm.
"You seem solid enough," he allowed. "Not a ghost? Then tell me how you recovered, for the two of them pronounced you dead on the spot that awful night."
For an instant, I thought how easy it would be to give him a lie. To say that Jack Seward and Van Helsing had both been mistaken and that I'd somehow recovered from the knife wound. How much easier it would be on him. On us both.
But I'd been raised to be truthful, which made me a very poor liar to those who mattered to me. I could make him believe whatever I wanted, but that would set up a whole other passel of problems. One of the good points about speaking the truth is you never have to work to remember what you've said.
"It's a long story," I told him. "And I won't say word one of it until you've gathered all your wits."
"What a weary wait that shall be, I-I think they've fled the country."
That was what I wanted to see: his old humor coming back again. He sounded frail, but it was a beginning. "Tell you what, you catch your breath and look at me all you want until you finally believe your eyes."
So saying, I quit my chair and shrugged out of the Inverness, throwing it onto a nearby settee. As I expected, his gaze never left me, giving me an idea of what a zoo animal's life must be like.
"Nothing's changed here, I'm glad to see," I said, making a slow round of the room. "I feel like I've returned to my second home."
One thing was new: there was a photographic portrait of Lucy on his desk. It must have been taken shortly after announcing their engagement. I remembered that particular dress and how radiant she'd looked in it at the celebratory dinner party. Some of her sweet beauty shone out even from this meager memory of her true self. I had to turn away. It hurt too much.
"You look well—for a dead man," said Art. He was not smiling.
"I reckon I do."
"How did you . . . survive? Recover? For God's sake, Quincey, speak to me or I shall go mad!"
"Don't go flying off the handle, this isn't exactly an easy thing for me, either. I've much to tell and you may not believe any of it. What you must believe is that I am the same old Quincey and your true friend."
"What happened to you?" His voice rose, tight with nerves. He stood and came toward me. He walked almost like a puppet, arms and legs jerking, barely under control, unsteady.
My heart sank. He would not be able to deal with the truth. Not now. I would have to draw him into a deep sleep and convince him my intrusion had been only a dream.
Then he wasn't looking at me, but at something over the fireplace. All the color drained from him, and he seemed ready to faint again.
"Dear God Almighty," he whispered, and though his family was and always had been strictly Church of England, he crossed himself.
"Dear God, indeed," I said, and felt myself go pale as well. Over the mantle, so much a part of the study that I'd forgotten its presence, was a large mirror in an ornate gold-leafed frame. It showed him to be alone in the room.
He fumbled at his neck. His fingers twitched almost too much to work properly. His collar button popped off, then suddenly he produced a crucifix on a chain. No, by God, it was a real rosary, the very one he'd worn all during our hunt for Dracula.
Holding it before him seemed to bolster his courage. He stood straight, and determination returned to his expression. I was very glad that he did not have a weapon just then.
"Stay back," he said, his voice firm.
"Art . . . it's all right. I'll not hurt you. I'm not like he was, I swear it on Lucy's soul."
Rage flooded him. "How dare you speak her name!"
Damn, that had been ill-considered. "You'll understand when you've heard me out."
He shook his head. "No. You will leave. In the name of God I command you! Depart! Now!"
"And in the name of God I ask that you listen! I am not like that fiend we killed. If I were, would I be able to wear this?" I slipped my fingers under my own collar. I drew forth a silver crucifix on a long chain, the one that I'd worn during and since that fateful hunt. The same as Art, I could not bear to part with its comfort. "See? I am different!"
The truth took a while sinking into his brain, and when it did it made an ugly job of twisting his whole world around. I could almost read the mix of feelings as they marched over his face, for certainly I'd gone through them all as well.
"You died," he insisted. "You did die. You're one of them."
"Yes. But another breed."
"Breed?"
"That's the only word I have for it." A memory flickered. "Think of it this way: if Dracula was like a wolf of his kind, then I'm more of a hunting dog."
"You're a vampire, you kill."
"No! Never—I swear on this." I held up the crucifix.
"Impossible!"
"It is."
"You drink blood! Damn it, Quincey, you drink blood from the living!"
"Animal blood."
"But—"
"Animal. Blood. That's all. Please, believe me, Art. I would never for the world hurt anyone."
He said nothing for a long time, only stared, his face gone blank.
I used his stillness, fixing on him. "Art, listen to me. Calm yourself and don't be afraid, not of me."
There may have been too much brandy in him for me to have any luck getting past his agitation, but he did ease a little. "I'm not afraid. I am horrified. Sickened."
"So was I at first. Took a while to get over the shock. But this is not what you . . . Oh, hell, sit down and let me tell my story. Then if you still feel the same I'll leave." It wrung my heart to say that, and from his reaction he must have seen it; he suddenly looked awkward.
"All right."
I wanted to help him to his chair, for he was in need, but it was better to keep my distance. He sank into it jerkily, like an old man with bad bones. I took my seat across from him, sparing a glance at the brandy bottle.
He followed my thought and shook his head. "No. No more for now."
Probably just as well. He had to have his head clear, but dear heavens, how I wished I could have some for myself.
"It was pretty danged cold that night, wasn't it?" I said.
"Yes." He nodded. "I remember."
"That's about all I remember of it. That and the fight."
"What about your wounding?"
"Some of it. Didn't hurt all that much, sort of like a fist in the belly from a good roundhouse punch. I only knew how bad it was from the way the rest of you were acting, but my heart was light, truly it was, for I could see that we'd saved Miss Mina."
"Yes . . . but lost you."
I shook my head. "No. Not the way you think. Not to him. What happened to me goes much farther back. . . ."
And so I came to remind him of that embassy party years ago in South America and of Nora Jones.
"You're saying that that charming girl was one of them?" he asked.
"Well, a different kind of `them,' but yes, she was."
"Why did you not say anything?"
"Art, you of all people know that a gentleman never speaks of such things."
He looked like I'd just popped him one square between the eyes. Then he thought a little more. "She had you under some sort of enchantment."
"Only that of her beauty."
"But for you to become . . . she'd have had to . . ."
I touched my throat. "Yes, she did, and I did. And, yes, it was odd that I didn't think much about it at the time. I will say that the experience was profound, but I took no harm from it that I noticed. Quite the contrary."
Some color flooded his cheeks. It was more of a blush. "She did not . . . force you?"
Evidently he was recalling that awful tableau when we broke into the Harker's room to find Dracula and Miss Mina in such a compromising embrace. "No. I guess you could say I was caught up in the moment. It's hard to allow, especially here, thousands of miles away and years in the past, but at the time it was the right thing to do. I had no idea it would have so strange a consequence. She never told me. I wish I knew why."
"I never suspected she was . . ."
"That made two of us. Until I met Van Helsing and listened to his tales I hadn't thought twice about what she did. Then when I started thinking about her, I got scared."
"Why did you not say anything?"
"It would have done no good and the time was wrong. We were all busy with more important matters. My idea was to first see the hunt through to the end, then talk to the professor in private about my dilemma. Only that never happened."
"No . . . you died."
I heaved a great sigh, mixed with a soft snort of a chuckle. "Yes, I did. And I came back."
"You're dead. A dead man that lives."
"Art, I pledge to you, I'm the same as I ever was, and I feel alive."
"But the blood . . ."
"Animals provide my food, like a cow gives milk. It's same as you eating a pheasant for your dinner. It's what I have to do to stay alive."
"But to drink it?"
"Think now, my friend, think of all the strange things we've dined on in our travels. You once raised a small objection when I offered you fried rattlesnake, but you changed your mind once you tasted it. What about that raw fish we had in the Orient? Or those fellows on the steppes who mixed horse blood with their rice?"
"You make my head whirl."
"Then maybe you should not worry about it. I don't."
"All that and yet . . ." He touched the cross that dangled from my neck. "Will you kneel and say the Lord's Prayer with me?"
The power of speech departed from me for an instant, swept away by surprise, which I hoped I concealed. I nodded, understanding why he needed this. When we hunted Dracula it was truly a quest of good against evil, where we all witnessed incontestable proof of the existence of both. "Yes, of course I will," I answered.
So there before his fire Art and I knelt. I said the words of that old prayer and found solace in it as I always did. In my heart I hoped that Art would also feel the same. When we came to the amen we paused, looking at each other, silent a moment, then on my own and without thought behind it, I began to say the Twenty-third Psalm. Halfway through it, tears rolled down Art's cheeks. He quickly stood and lurched blindly away. He stumbled against his desk and held onto it, needing its support to stay afoot. I continued until the end, then got up.
His weeping was silent, for men are not free to wail out their grief as are women, though the pain is just as piercing. Directly before him was the portrait of Lucy. I recalled we'd all recited the psalm at her service.
"I'm sorry, Art. I shouldn't have—"
"No. It's all right, really it is. I know it's all right now. You've convinced me. I just need a little time."
I stepped away and went to the window, drawing the curtain aside. The grounds were also as I remembered them from this vantage, gently rolling away from the house to a small tangle of woods, beyond which lay cultivated fields. Not far in the distance was an old eyesore of a stable that had been around since the queen was a young girl. It was long deserted, a roost for stray birds and other animals. I'd considered it as a daytime sanctuary should it become necessary. That possibility seemed lessened, but I had reservations. Maybe Art had accepted my changed condition, but I had to face the ugly possibility that he might later reject it in the brightness of day. I had trusted him on countless adventures with my life as he had trusted his with me, but this was different. I had no desire to test the strength of his acceptance just yet. Not until I saw a return of his old free and easy manner with me.
He blew his nose, cleared his throat, and in an almost normal voice invited me to sit again. I relinquished my post and gladly returned to the warmth of the fire. Maybe I didn't feel the miseries of extreme heat and cold as before, but there's a comfort in stretching your hands forth and feeling the glow soak into your bones.
"I want to offer you a drink," he said. There was a tinge of bleak chagrin in his tone.
"As God is my witness, I wish I could accept it." I gave a small shrug, shaking my head. "I do appreciate the thought, though."
"This is damned awkward, isn't it?"
"I reckon so, but we'll probably get over that hill when we stop thinking so much."
His eyes flickered in a familiar way, and I suddenly saw how alike he and Bertrice were on certain subtle mannerisms. I wanted to mention renewing my acquaintance with her, but this was absolutely not the time.
"I imagine things were also pretty awkward in the camp when I turned up missing," I said.
He drew his lips back in a brief grimace. "You still retain your gift for understatement."
"Everyone in a tizzy?"
"God, it was dreadful. We'd come so far and done so much and were in shock from your d—well . . ."
"I am that sorry, but it wasn't exactly my idea to get dragged away."
"Certainly not. We were appalled beyond words. Poor Mrs. Harker broke down completely. Harker and the professor saw to her while Jack and I tracked the wolves' trail, but they had climbed to some rocks and we lost it. I couldn't imagine why they'd taken your b-body so far a distance."
"Wolves are strange varmints, maybe even more so in that part of the world," I said dismissively. "What did you next do?"
"We got back to the camp around noon, tired and famished. The others had recovered somewhat, but we were all in a terrible state of mind and sick at heart. That was when Jack and I resolved to stay and continue the search for you. It was a wrench for the others. They wanted to stay, too, but Mrs. Harker was in need of a proper place to rest and recover from her ordeal. The professor would have stayed, but Jack sensibly pointed out to him that the lady might later require his professional help. I knew it was all a sham on Jack's part, for he could see Van Helsing was also in need of rest. He has a lion's heart, but isn't as young as he was. He must have seen through the sham, but accepted it as an honorable way out. Harker was willing to stay, but the professor took charge and insisted that his place was with Mrs. Harker, which was something of a relief to her."
"I thought that's how it might have worked itself."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll explain."
"I rather think you should. Immediately. How did you escape those wolves?"
"That I don't recall too well. I didn't really become aware of anything until they were gone, chased off by this old hermit who found me."
"A hermit? All the way out there?"
"I think that's the whole point of being a hermit."
"Was he one of the Szgany?"
"I'm not rightly sure who he was as he had no English and I didn't have but a few words of his speech. We each knew enough Latin to get by on a few things and the rest had to be acted out. Near as I could understand him, he saw the wolves dragging me along and scared them away before they could start in on me. He thought me dead at first, then I began to come around, so he carried me to this cave where he'd been living for years. He was mighty curious about me, and what a trial it must have been for him to hold it in seeing as how we couldn't talk much."
Art was riveted. Yes, I am a poor liar to those who matter to me, but I'd been rehearsing this story since before leaving Transylvania. I could now flatter myself that I was telling it well.
"He took care of me for awhile until I was on my feet again—"
"But was he not aware of your . . . your . . ."
"Condition? Yes, from the first. My clothes were all covered with my blood, so he was quick to figure I was not some ordinary lost traveler he'd rescued from hungry wolves. Soon as I was sitting up and asking questions he thrust a big crucifix into my hands and gave me a hard look. When nothing happened he tried an old Bible on me. I think it was a Bible, he treated it with a lot of reverence and signed for me to kiss it. I did, and after that we got along just fine."
"What an amazing man."
"He was indeed. Near as I could tell, he'd been living alone up there for maybe twenty years. I think he'd gone into the forest to get away from a war and decided he liked being on his own. He'd trap animals for their fur and trade the skins in some village for supplies."
"And he had no difficulty with your . . . condition?"
"Not that I noticed, just seemed to accept me like a beach does a shipwrecked sailor."
"What did you do for—?"
"Food? He kept some cows for milk and meat. They served."
"But how did you—no, I don't think I want to ask about that just yet."
Judging by the green cast to his skin he was wondering how I obtained the blood. "Perhaps not. He didn't seem to mind, and I did what I could to assure him I wasn't taking any samples from him. It was . . . an interesting time. Besides, he knew I'd be moving on, which I did a month or so after."
"Why so long? Why did you not immediately return to us?"
"You just hit on the rough part. When I woke and figured out what had happened I thought myself damned to hell then and there. I thought I should give myself up to the professor so one of you might free my soul, but what held me back was the old hermit and his crucifix and his Bible. They not only proved to him that I was not evil, but me as well. I was mighty confused, though, for the professor had drummed a lot of tall tales into our heads like they were pure gospel. Until then it hadn't occurred to me that there might be different breeds of vampires like there's different breeds of dogs, some more dangerous than others. I had to do some long thinking. I concluded that if I walked in on the camp you all would keel over from failed hearts or shoot me to hell and gone and then keel over."
"Or we might have heard you out."
"Art, what did we just go through in this very room?"
He chewed it over, then reluctantly nodded. "I begin to see what you mean."
"Now multiply that by five and put it in the wilds of the Transylvanian woods during the middle of the night. When it came down to it, my nerve failed me. I was in a pretty terrible state of mind as well, and I just couldn't face the rest of you. Not like that, not until I'd gotten square with myself about what had happened. So I stayed with the hermit, assuming you'd all soon go home again. Imagine my surprise when I found you and Jack Seward were still roaming around."
"You saw us? When?"
"Do you recall being attacked one night by a wolf lying under the snow?"
His jaw nearly brushed the floor. "My God . . . then it was you! I heard your shouting! Jack thought I'd gone mad and imagined it all. After a time I thought so, too."
I grinned. "That was me all right. Could have knocked me flat with a feather I was so surprised seeing the both of you there. I worked out the why of it, and it fair choked me up."
"Why did you not come to us?"
"I still wasn't ready. On the other hand, I was afraid you'd get yourselves froze to death. Me and the hermit were well set up, but all the two of you had was an old shack ready to fall down any minute."
"You spied on us?"
"Kept watch is more close. Then that blizzard hit, and I was sure you'd be trading calling cards with Saint Peter. I did what I could to help out, but so as to not get caught. Did the rabbit cook up good?"
He burst into a short delighted laugh. "You all along! We were thanking the wrong guardian angel for those miracles. Yes, it cooked wonderfully, the best rabbit I'd ever had, and the warmest fire. You truly saved us."
"I'm glad."
"If only we'd known."
I shook my head. "It wasn't the time."
"Yes, I suppose not. We left the next day. What did you do?"
"Said good-bye to my new friend the hermit and left soon after as well."
"That was ages ago, Quincey. Where did you take yourself?"
"I had a hankering to see Paris again and wound up there."
"Paris? What did you do?"
Here was I finally able to impart some real truth to my story, but I did leave out all the time I spent in the brothels. A gentleman doesn't talk, after all. For now Art was overwound just getting used to having me back and didn't need anything else added to the heap. Speculations about how I now enjoyed pleasures of the flesh could be put off for the moment. Instead, I answered his questions about more mundane pursuits, like how I got my bankers cooperating. I did have to mention my ability to hypnotize, for he was very familiar with the ways of bankers and how pigheaded they can be without the right persuasion. In turn, that led to him asking if I could turn myself into a mist or a bat. I said no, but explained the business about being able to disappear, finally giving a demonstration. Lots of them. He was fascinated, but as the hands spun around on the mantel clock into the wee hours I could see he was near-exhausted.
"I'll ring for some cafe noir," he said, when I suggested it was time I go. "There's so much more I must hear."
"Art, your poor skull must be ready to burst from what you've already got tonight. Give yourself a good night's sleep to sort it out."
He sensibly gave in, sinking back in his chair. "Yes, you're right. But you must stay, I'll have Foster turn out your old room—"
"No," I said, maybe a touch too sharpish. "I can't stay. I have reasons, good ones. I must ask you to trust me on this."
His disappointment was almost like that of a child, but he quickly recovered himself. "Very well, of course I will respect your wishes."
"That's all I want. I'll be able to explain more later."
He visibly brightened. "Then you'll return here tomorrow?"
"The day after. I mean night after. Tomorrow evening I've an appointment to meet someone."
"May I ask who?"
"Another friend I ran into in London. Doesn't know I was killed, and there's no need to let 'em in on the secret. Wants to do a little yarning and catch up on old times is all."
"So you're not in hiding?"
"Why should I?"
"Well, because . . . oh, damn. I don't know. This is so strange."
"Art, I've done nothing wrong, and I do nothing wrong so there's no reason for me to skulk around like a thief. I have an ordinary room at a respectable hotel, and keep to myself, which is pretty much how I've always dealt with things."
"But don't you need a box to rest in and consecrated earth?"
"I did trouble to pack along some earth in a shipping crate, but don't know if it's been consecrated or not."
"Then you do need something of the grave with you."
"Yes. I am its prisoner during the whole of the day, completely unconscious until the sun is gone. And that can be damned inconvenient, let me tell you."
He made a helpless little gesture. "You speak of it all so normally."
"Because for me it is normal. Now. But I've had months to get used to it, you've had but a few hours."
"I'm not sure I ever shall."
"You will. Sleep on it and I'll see you night after tomorrow."
"What about Jack Seward? Are you going to see him?"
"I plan t—"
"And the professor? And the Harkers?"
"Whoa, there and slow down. One at a time! You're not the only man in need of a rest. I'll get around to them all, but you must let me handle it my own way. If you should see them, you mustn't say anything about me."
"Then I'd best play the hermit myself, especially where Jack is concerned. Once he sees me he'll know something's up. He can read people like a book, comes from dealing with all those lunatics."
"So he's back running that place again?"
"Yes. Keeps himself busy. Van Helsing looked after the asylum while Jack and I were in Transylvania, but things are as they ever were before. The professor is on a sabbatical from Amsterdam, though, and staying at Purfleet with Jack. They're working on some sort of paper together, I think. He doesn't talk about it, so I imagine it has to do with Dracula."
"In what way?"
"You'll have to ask them. I don't wish to know or be reminded. For myself, I would give anything to get through a single day without thinking of that monster and what he did to us all."
"I feel the same. Truly I do." I meant it. Though in a strange way I'd forgiven Dracula for Lucy, Miss Mina, and even poor old Renfield, I could not let it go. The horrors of that time still clung to me.
"Who will you speak to next?" he asked.
"I was thinking Jack, but perhaps I should speak sooner with the professor. If I can convince him as I have you, then he will make things easier for the others. But . . ."
"What? Tell me."
"Look, it's been very hard on you tonight, much harder than I ever imagined. I don't wish to cast more sorrows on our friends. For me to reappear again, and bring up a load of old griefs they may have finally buried—"
"Don't you dare think that! Yes, you've given me a hellish turn tonight, but I'm over it. Once they get past the shock, they will be overjoyed."
"But will they accept me like this? Returned as an incarnation not unlike our worst enemy?"
"Quincey, it won't matter. I'll make them see reason and so will you. We will make it all right for them, I promise. Just swear to me you won't go off without a word, I couldn't bear it!"
"Very well. If you're behind me on this, then I'll see the business through."
"Absolutely."
How relieved I was to have my friend back. The gladness of the moment was sweet, but how long would it last? I went to his desk, drawing forth pen, ink, and paper and wrote a short note. After blotting, I gave it to Art.
He read: " `Yes, I really was here, and all will be well, Quincey,' What means this?"
"Just in case when you wake up and in the cold light of day think you had more brandy than was good for you."
Then he laughed, a real one. Perhaps the first he'd enjoyed in months.