I rushed in and began tugging to unbuckle the stiff leather strap that held his arms wrapped around his body.
Art mumbled, struggling to stir himself.
"It's Quincey," I said in a low, reassuring tone that I did not feel. In fact, I was mad enough to spit rattlers. "I'll get you out of here, old partner. Don't you worry about a thing."
"Quincey?" He sounded very weak.
"What has that devil done to you?" I demanded.
"Mm . . . ?"
"Wake up, damn it! Come on!"
I got the strap parted clear and dragged the canvas restraint from him. Beneath he wore the rumpled remains of his evening clothes. He lay like a beached fish, limbs flapping randomly. I helped him sit up. Under a long day's growth of beard he was a dreadful green color, and I feared he'd go sick on me. His coat was missing, along with his shoes. I told the student to go fetch some spirits.
"That must have been . . ." Art rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"What must have been?"
He blinked sleepily.
"Art?"
He stared blearily at me, gulping a deep draught of air. "God, my head's bursting. What a sleep I've had. Nightmares too. Dreamt I was shut away in a box like Lucy. Awful stuff."
"Look around, it's not much better."
He did, his thoughts making a visible progression over his features. "What in the world . . . ?"
"Tell me about Van Helsing. What do you remember about last night?"
"I'm . . . last night?"
"You had dinner with Jack and Van Helsing."
"Don't know. My mind's too muzzy. I must have some coffee."
I grimaced. "All right, then, don't trouble yourself just now. We'll get you out of here first."
The student returned with a small bottle of brandy and I gave Art a good sample from it. He was having a hard fight to bring himself back, but looked to be winning. After a few moments he was on his feet, swaying a little, but able to walk under his own power. We got him outside and seated at the student's table. Art availed himself of the contents of a carafe of water there. Some of the green cast left his face.
"God, but I was thirsty." He sounded much more awake.
"You hungry?"
"Dear heavens, no!" Some of his old manner had returned, which was a relief. Beyond an expected state of confusion, there was no sign of the collapse such as Jack had described, only the usual ailing from too much drink. "I'm trying to remember. All I can see is the professor's face. He did this. He put me here this morning I think. Had those bullies of his shove me into that coat. Too many to fight. Kept calling for you. Thought you'd come bursting in like that time on the waterfront in Marseilles. . . . How the devil did I get here? Where's Jack?"
"Someplace in the asylum. Van Helsing took you from Ring last night."
"I don't remember. God, I was so drunk . . ."
That explained his "collapse" of last night. Staid and sober as they come, Art could put on a hell of a rip when the mood struck him. A couple of doctors used to the antics of lunatics might think him in need of restraint, but Jack should have known better. This had to be Van Helsing's doing, though why he saw fit to lock Art up and hog-tie him, I couldn't say. "What do you recall?
"Um . . . dinner. I was too nerved up to eat. Every noise made me think you'd arrived. I wanted to tell them the good news about your being back, but couldn't, so I kept pacing. And drinking. I fear I had more brandy than was good for their peace of mind. Jack kept watching me like I was one of his patients. He knew something was up."
"What about the professor?"
"Yes, he had that same look. Asked me if I was anxious about anything for God's sake. He was just a shade too nonchalant for my taste, for I could see he was hanging a lot on my reply. I finally told them that we were to have another guest as a surprise and that I'd promised not to reveal his identity. That held them for awhile, but it irked me that they were still watching. Put the wind up me, I tell you. I thought to shift the subject and asked them about that paper they were writing. They weren't forthcoming, but I kept at it. Jack deferred to the professor, and he said they were putting together the record of our hunt for Dracula, trying to get everything into order."
"They must have thought talking of it would upset you. Did it?"
"No more than usual. But while the topic was open they asked me for some details on my side of it, and got me to thinking things out again. Then I started asking about Lucy. I couldn't help myself. I had to know."
"Know what?"
"If . . . if I'd murdered her."
Oh, dear God.
"Y-you're back, you and she both came back. Why did she have to die again? Were we too swift to judge her?"
My heart ached for his anguish. "Art . . ."
"Quincey, you returned without bringing harm to others, why not Lucy?"
"We've gone over that. I told you I'm different."
"But could she not have been rescued from the darkness?"
I took his hand in both of mine and looked long at him until I knew he was under my influence. My emotions were high; I had to fight to keep myself level so as not to injure his mind. "Art, when she returned she was no longer the Lucy you loved. You know that. We all saw it. Remember your loathing? That thing just wore her form."
Tears quivered in his eyes. "Yesss . . ."
"You did right. You are not a murderer. Don't ever think otherwise. There was no other path. Dracula was the one to take her from you. It was by your hand you delivered her soul to God. I know she's with the angels and watching you now. Don't give her cause to grieve by tormenting yourself with doubt."
He bowed his head. "I'm sorry."
I let him go, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, old partner. I know it hurts."
He recovered some and swiped his sleeve over his eyes. "I wish you'd been there to tell them. You have a way of making it all right. I got very upset, and by then I'd had a lot to drink. I asked Van Helsing if he knew of more than one kind of vampire. He wanted to know why I would ask such a thing, but I wouldn't say. Then he and Jack started speaking over me as though I wasn't there and that made me angry, and I thought the devil with them and went upstairs. Jack followed me. I had some idea I might be able to reach him. I was babbling by then, couldn't seem to stop. My nerves haven't been the best of late. . . ."
"I'm not holding it against you. You had a lot to look after in too short a time, so be easy about it."
"Be easy? I'm embarrassed as hell. I was positively ranting; don't know how I shall face either of them. They must have thought I was right off my head. No wonder they put me away."
"Now, I can't believe that Jack Seward would agree to having you trussed up like a turkey and locked in with the loonies."
"Neither can I, but he's taken Van Helsing's side for this."
"Not any more. He and I had a long talk on the ride over here. He knows all about me, now, same as you."
"Really? How did he react?"
"A sight surprised at first, but he got used to it. When I left here to go to ground for the day, you were in a room upstairs and Jack was trying his best to bring the professor around on me. It all seemed safe enough, but I suppose the old buzzard never listened. He's got this place locked up like a fort with crosses all over the windows."
"What?"
"Just as I said. There's a cross painted on every piece of glass in this whole pile."
"But how did you get in?"
I gave him a look. "We went all over that the other night."
"I meant past the locks."
"Oh. That little disappearing trick of mine is mighty handy. A shut door is nothing to me."
"Well, I'm damned."
"I think not. I wonder now if Van Helsing didn't serve Jack the same as you, only kept him closer to hand."
He sat up. "Something's afoot! We must find him!"
"I'll find him. You rest up, and I'll bring him here."
His eyes flashed fire. "I'll do no such thing! I'm not staying in this hellhole a moment longer!"
I made a hushing gesture lest he bring the professor down on us. "Very well, old partner. We've been in tighter spots than—" I broke off, thinking I'd heard something. The sound—a voice—came again. Someone frantically shouting Art's name. It was from one of the other cells farther along the hall. My knees turned to jelly for just an instant, then I snapped around to the near-forgotten student. "Where is she?" I roared.
He flinched at the force of it, as though I'd struck him.
I grabbed his keys and tore my way to her, heart in my throat.
"Arthur! Are you there? Arthur, come help me!"
Following her voice, I found the right door and fumbled to get the right key in the lock. There was a flap over the window grid, but I didn't waste time with it. Instead I managed to fling the door open. This padded chamber was pitch black.
Bertrice shot from its horror like a bullet, nearly knocking me over when we collided.
"Quincey? Oh, God!" Her face crumpled, and she threw her arms around me.
"It's me, little girl. Don't you worry." I held her shaking body close and snug.
I'd wondered if anything could ever daunt her, but heaven forbid that it should become a reality. Being locked up in a padded cell in a lunatic asylum had done just that, though. She fought down a sob or three. I kept her wrapped up until the worst of it passed.
"It's all right," I told her, stroking her hair. It smelled of her spice scent. "We'll get you out of here."
"Yes, yes, but I heard Arthur. Take me to him."
There was no need. Arthur had recovered enough to shamble toward us. He looked like I felt, aghast and outraged. "Bertie, dear God! What—how—?"
I released her to go to him. They clung together a long while, seeming to take strength from each other. He eventually looked over her shoulder at me, his face grim and eyes cold. "I will kill that bastard for this," he stated.
No need to gainsay him, I was ready to do the same.
Bertrice pushed away. "You will not! Not until I've had my turn!"
He twitched a smile. "Whatever you want, Bertie."
We three walked back to the alcove where the student was starting to look too alert for my peace of mind. Without reinforcement or further orders they can wake up all on their own. I told him to resume whatever he had been doing and to forget about us. He obligingly went back to his studies, ignoring our presence.
Art and Bertrice, of course, could not ignore what I'd just done. Questions rose on their faces, but I put a finger to my lips, and motioned for us to leave. We shuffled toward the demarcation door; I unlocked it with the keys I'd kept, ushering us through.
"What was that?" Art demanded.
"Just something I can do," I said. "It's like hypnosis, only stronger."
"But how can—oh, bother, later. We'll work it out later. Bertie, how in God's name did you come to be here?"
"Quincey and Dr. Seward telegrammed me that you'd taken seriously ill, and I came as soon as I could. Thank heaven you're all right. You are, aren't you? You look awful."
"I suppose I do—but you're not surprised Quincey's alive?"
"Um, our paths crossed in London a few days ago . . . he told me everything, Arthur."
Already pale, he blanched even more. "H-how much of everything?"
"All of it. Including what that bastard Van Helsing put you through in regard to poor Lucy."
"Oh, I say!" Art stared at me.
I shrugged. "Not settling for anything less, she deserved to hear all. Besides, she'd already figured out about my change. I had to make a clean breast of it. Your sister's a real Sherlock Holmes."
"Loveday Brooke," she corrected.
"Who?" asked Art.
"Never mind."
"But how is it you even guessed about Quincey? How could you have heard of vampires?"
"Really, Arthur, one hears everything in London, you know that. Is there someplace else we may talk? I'm cold."
We tried doors, taking over an empty examining room that had a fire laid and ready for morning rounds. I put match to the kindling and stood back as they crowded close to warm themselves.
"I'd murder for some tea," Bertrice muttered.
The brandy bottle had found its way into my pocket, and I offered that instead. She had no complaint for the substitution.
It took us a short while to get ourselves caught up on each other. I explained how Art and I had come to be here, then Bertrice had her turn. She'd sent several telegrams asking Seward for information on Art's condition, but received no replies.
"So when I could get away I took the early train and hired a trap to bring me here. When I arrived that Dutch professor greeted me. He was polite, but I don't think he liked my walking clothes. He tried to put me off, saying Arthur was too ill for visitors, even family."
"Wrong thing to say to you," muttered Art, shaking his head.
I agreed. "Art would have been confined to the lunatic wing by then. Van Helsing could not let you know that."
"I'd suspected something was wrong," she said. "His odd behavior confirmed it. Then all the servants were starting to leave, which was very strange. When I asked to see Dr. Seward I was told he'd been called away on an emergency case. Now I've not been on stage for very long, but I know a false performance when I see it. He'd have been booed from auditions for that reading, but I pretended to accept his lie, and said I'd wait. He didn't much like that, but I put on my `high lady' act—you know the one, where I impersonate Aunt Honoria—and there wasn't a thing he could do to budge me."
I chuckled. "I'd have paid good money to have seen his face."
"It was beyond price. As we were at an impasse and stuck with each other, he seemed to try to make the best of it. He did readily answer my questions about you, Arthur, and appeared to be honestly worried, but he refused to let me even look in. Then I made a mistake. I asked if your collapse might have had anything to do with Lucy."
Art shrank in on himself a little. "Why on earth did you do that?"
"Because sitting there, pretending to be oh-so-civilized, I was quietly losing my temper with him. He was insufferably high-handed. My brother is ill and this stranger is keeping me at bay like I'm some invading army. And after what Quincey told me about him I was ready to believe the worst had happened." She snorted. "Had I but known the worst was yet to come."
"What did he do?"
She sighed. "He rang for tea, my great weakness. I think it was a ploy to shut me up. I had begun to ask questions about Lucy that he would not answer. I asked why there were crosses painted all over and about the garlic smell, pressing him. He got very red about those, I must say, and I pressed even more. I suppose I can thank chivalry that he didn't knock me down then and there. He hides it well, but he has a very ugly temper, especially toward anyone who disagrees with him. If I'd been a man we'd have been brawling like drunken Irishmen on the consulting room rug. He certainly looked ready to explode. Then he wanted to know how I'd come by my knowledge, so it was my turn to play the sphinx. When the last servant brought in the the tea cart I think by then the professor had made up his mind I was a dangerous liability."
That, or guessed that she'd had contact with me. Anyone I'd spoken to would be suspect in Van Helsing's imaginings. God help us all if he found out about our intimate liaison. Happily, Bertrice had on a high, concealing collar.
"Well," she continued, "I poured, and he distracted me with some nonsense about the windows, claiming he saw a bat flapping against them. It was still light out, so that was absurd, and I'm most embarrassed to admit that it was successful. He had to have slipped something into my cup when I turned to look. I suppose when one works with mad people one learns to be very sly, for I quite missed it. I thought he was trying to test my reaction to bats, perhaps use that as a means bring up the topic of vampires. He struck me as being very unsubtle, but my interpretation was off. I drank my tea and almost immediately realized what had really happened. My bones went all heavy, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. When I next became aware of anything it was my waking in the dark in that frightful padded room."
"He will pay for that," said Art.
"We'll nail his hide to the barn door," I promised.
"It was alarming, but I am unharmed."
Art fondly brushed back a strand from her hatless and rather tousled hair. "Oh, Bertie, no need to be brave, you were scared to death."
She pursed her lips a moment, then finally nodded. "Yes, I was. I didn't know what he would do, and he could have done anything, commit me, make me disappear, slip more sleeping draughts into my food—if he even bothered to feed me!"
"God! I shall strangle him."
"Arthur, I'm fine now. I just had a few bad hours in a dark room. When I heard your shouting I knew things would be all right. I didn't expect Quincey, though I should have since I knew he might be here."
"Yes, he's the hero for finding us."
I shrugged. "Well, I didn't exactly expect to find either of you. Not in that part of the house. I just wanted to talk to one of the staff. . . ."
They wouldn't hear any of it and elected me champion of the moment. Art thumped my back a couple times, and Bertrice kissed my cheek, which caused that pleasant humming between my ears to return full force. But now wasn't the time to give Art any hint that I was planning to marry his sister. After all, Bertrice had the right to hear it first.
"We still have to find Jack," I reminded them, which dampened the celebration.
"And have a few words with the professor," said Art. "Do you think he'll still be in the consulting room?"
"It's a place to start."
"No, Jack's study is the place to start," he insisted.
"I've been there, it's deserted."
"I must go, anyway. It's important."
"We can try, but if we run into Van Helsing you two duck low and let me do the talking. My guess is he's hiding in wait somewhere for me to show. He's liable to go off like a hair-trigger, so I do all the parley."
They allowed the sense of that, but Art led the way out. Bertrice lingered a few steps behind, long enough to take my hand and hold it tight. The brightness of her eyes warmed me better than any fire. "Quincey . . . I adored the roses."
My abrupt flush of pleasure at this news was such that I broke into what must have been a wholly foolish grin. It was still fastened in place when we tiptoed into the hall, hand-in-hand. My heart was singing so loud I couldn't hear myself think. All was right with the world, or would be soon.
We silently traversed the house, taking a side stairs to the upper floor, and managed to avoid running into anyone. That was a relief, for Van Helsing was absolutely serious in his game. To have gone to the horrendous risk of locking up Art and Bertrice and done who-knows-what to Jack smacked of desperation. I thought of my warning to Jack about not pushing the professor into a corner, but what to do when he created the corner himself?
We passed the door to Van Helsing's room along the way. I paused and listened, then shook my head when it was clear no one was there. How simple for us had he been within. Pressing on to Jack's study, we eased inside and Art went straight to the desk. He rooted through one of the drawers for a set of keys then went to a tall oaken cabinet built into one wall and unlocked it. Propped at attention on individual brackets were the very Winchester repeating rifles I'd brought along on our Continental journey. They'd been well cared for, the barrels clean and oiled, the stocks buffed and shining.
"I'd wondered where those had gotten to," I said, delighted.
Art grinned. "I kept one as a remembrance and thought Jack should have the rest. I was afraid the professor might have armed himself. Thank goodness he did not. "You'll have them all back again, of course, and this as well." He drew out a box, opening it, but cried out in dismay upon finding it empty.
"What is it?"
"Your six-shooter was in here."
So that's what had become of it. "Jack might have it in his room."
"Never. He always keeps his firearms locked in this cabinet. With his patients he can't afford to be careless. Van Helsing must have taken it."
"To use against me?"
"You and I daresay anyone else who disagrees with him. He's quite capable of violence, Quincey. After the way he treated us . . ."
"But—"
"He may hesitate shooting me, but not you. I'll wager he's blessed each of the bullets. He once said they would kill a vampire in his coffin or something like that."
I suppressed a shudder, remembering. Dracula had told me a different tale I was more inclined to believe, but it was cold comfort at present. The thought of that crazed Dutchman lurking downstairs . . .
Art took out one of the Winchesters and began loading it from a box of cartridges.
"Just what do you have in mind?" I asked, eyebrows rising.
"Oh, not to worry, I won't wave it recklessly about; I only want it handy in case there's more trouble than we anticipate."
"Art, you and I both know that whenever a man decides to heel himself with any kind of shooting iron, then he will meet up with trouble."
"This is only insurance, a preventative. After what Van Helsing's done to us—"
"I agree," said Bertrice. "The man should be locked up in one of those damnable cells. He'll not be one to go quietly."
"You're right," I said. "But hear me on this, he's going to be more nervous than a ginger cat at a fox hunt. I don't want to give him an excuse to make either of you into a bull's-eye. Besides, wherever he is, I'm going in first. I will talk to him the same as I did that fellow down in the dungeon."
"Hypnosis?" asked Art. "Such as what Van Helsing did with Mrs. Harker?"
"A deal more effectual and a lot faster, I promise. Give me a few minutes and I'll have him on all fours baying at the moon if you want."
"I'd rather dangle him by his heels from a cliff, preferably over a pit of crocodiles."
"Using a very frayed rope," Bertrice chimed in.
What a bloodthirsty family, but I could understand why and side with them. "Sounds fine to me, but let's think of Jack Seward. This place is only as good as his reputation. If there's any shooting here he couldn't get a job selling snake oil in a medicine show for the scandal."
That made them stop and think. If there's one thing the English have a respect for, it is scandal. It's an entertaining thing to gossip about at a club or party, but only from a safe distance. Jack was practically kinfolk.
"Very well." Art reluctantly unloaded the rifle and put it back. "Mustn't tempt fate. I should feel better with some sort of weapon, though. Jack has a cricket bat in that cupboard, I think."
As he locked up, I tried the cupboard and found a very battered flattish paddle a couple of feet long that must have dated from Jack's university days. He and Art had taken me to a few cricket games, and I'd found it to be a surprisingly pleasing summer diversion. My friends had been kind enough not to disturb me while I caught up on my sleep.
This time I took the lead. We made it to the lower landing of the main stairs without meeting anyone, but I heard some activity in Jack's consulting room just off the central entry hall. It was there he usually received patients or spoke with their families. If luck was with us, then Van Helsing would have taken it over.
We eased slowly up to its closed door to listen. Whoever had been speaking was silent now. Even my keen ears heard nothing more than the vague suggestion of someone's presence. I leaned close to whisper to Art and Bertrice.
"I'll go outside and have a look through the windows. Stay here until I'm back."
They nodded agreement.
I hurried through the entry. The front doors were locked, but proved to be no barrier as I dissolved into nothing to get outside.
No orderlies stood guard this time, and just as well. I struck off to the left, ducking through an arched opening in a high hedge that enclosed Jack's private garden. It was bare now from winter, but showed signs of tending, the paved walk being swept of leaves. A table and chairs usually stood in the center, allowing him to enjoy his tea outside when the weather permitted. Those were stored away now, removing any cover I might have made of them as I approached the tall windows of the house.
They were of the kind to open out like doors, locked now, each pane embellished with a white cross. I sniffed. Even from here the garlic smell was pronounced on the cold air. Jack would be weeks getting rid of it.
The window curtains were drawn back. Once close enough I could see the whole of the room, though the crosses and reflections from the pale sky confused things. All was dim and dark. A single small candle illuminated the desk in the center. Seated behind it was Jack Seward. He was slumped forward, eyes shut as though asleep.
A gag was tied around his mouth and his hands were fastened to the chair arms by leather straps, the same ones used to restrain the more violent patients. A necessary evil for them, but an utterly barbaric violation of my poor friend.
I resisted my initial angry urge to charge in and free him. My time in India hunting tigers had not been wasted. I knew a tethered goat when I saw one.
Searching the shadowed corners of the room, I was able to spy a man-sized shape standing just beyond the door. Had I come through it, he'd have been able to bushwhack me neat as neat. As it was, I stood well silhouetted in the window frame, just as easy a target.
I fell back and faded away, then sieved inside. Guessing the distance, I crossed the room until certain I stood behind him, then materialized, arms out to seize.
But instead of Van Helsing, I captured an artfully draped coat tree.
Even as I realized my mistake, piercing light caught me square in the face and there was a loud, flat explosion, very close. A giant's fist smashed into my body, flinging me hard against the wall. I dropped to the floor, heavy as a brick, and just as unable to move. A terrible fire seared deep in my shoulder, tearing a groan from me.
The light splintered into my eyes, blinding. I heard a distant confusion of sounds, shouting, pounding. The light was turned away, allowing me to see. I squinted up into Van Helsing's face.
To think I'd once thought of him as kindly and good.
All I saw there now was steel, bitterly cold and hard.
He looked long at me, then made the sign of the cross and in Latin called on God to bless what was to come.
"There's no need for this," I said, my voice thin as straw.
"Yes, there is, my poor friend, though you know it not." In one hand he carried a new electric lantern, in the other, what looked to be an old muzzle-loading pistol. He'd probably had the bullet blessed. That would have helped him against Dracula, maybe even killed the old warrior; for me it hurt like hell, which was more than enough.
I lay on my back, in agony from a wounding such as I'd not felt in years, even from a bullet. High on my chest, barely a hand's breadth from my heart, a slender wooden shaft was solidly imbedded in my flesh. It was like a short arrow, but without feathers. Here was the source of the paralyzing pain. I could not understand at first how it had gotten there. How had he fired an arrow from a gun?
"Professor . . ."
"Hush, you will soon be free. A moment of the bitter waters to reach the sweet."
He'd prepared himself well. He put the pistol and lantern on a table and exchanged it for a knife—wicked, sharp, and heavy—the kind used to carve through joints.
This Dutch butcher would use it to cut my head off.
Art was banging on the door, throwing himself against it from the sound of things; Bertrice shouted my name. At the desk, Jack Seward had raised his head, his eyes bleared and dull, but waking to awful alarm. There was no help for me but that of my own making.
I struggled to vanish, but the wood in my body prevented that.
Van Helsing knelt, raising the knife high. He would shear right through my neck with one blow.
Absolute terror roused me to movement. In blind panic I surged up and threw off his aim. Weak as I was, I had a small edge of strength, and overbore him. We rolled across the carpet, ending with me on top. Bringing the knife up, he gouged a cold furrow along my ribs. He tried a furious stab, but I fixed my grasp on his arm. I couldn't hold him for long. The damned thing in my shoulder was drawing the very life from me.
With an effort born of desperation, I raised away enough to do some good and plowed my right fist as hard as I could into Van Helsing's belly. Bereft of air, he lost all ability to fight, buying me a few precious moments. I pried the knife from his fingers as he lay gasping, his eyes wild with loathing.
Crawling away, I made it to the door, turned the key, and collapsed. I caught some bruises as Art forced his way in. He nearly tripped over me in his forward rush; Bertrice was in his wake, carrying the cricket bat. She made a rending wail of anguish as she called my name and threw herself down next to me.
"Stay from him!" Van Helsing ordered, breathless, but harsh and angry.
"You murderer!" she screamed.
Sounds of a scuffle. Art yelled something. A crash. Van Helsing grunted and cursed coarsely in his own language. Art must have won.
Bertrice held her shaking hands out to me, palms up, wanting to help, but not knowing what to do. "Arthur, find a doctor for God's sake!"
"Jack's right here. Let me get him out of these beastly straps."
"Hurry! Quincey? Oh, do be still. We're getting help."
I tried to catch hold of the damned thing in my shoulder. My fingers twitched uselessly, merely brushing it. My strength flowed from me as swiftly as my blood. Too much and I would swoon away and perhaps never come back. "Please . . ."
"Quincey?"
"Take it out," I managed to croak.
"You'll bleed to death."
That was already happening. "Out!"
"What are you doing?" Art called from behind her, alarmed.
"He wants me to pull this—"
"You'll kill him!"
"Please!" I rasped. "Now!"
She must have understood better than he about my nature, perhaps from gossip at Lord Burce's house. Before Art could intervene, Bertrice used both hands and pulled hard on the arrow, her cry and my own merging as one as she dragged it free.
The hurting didn't altogether cease, but retreated quick, thank heaven. I slumped and moaned out relief, then had to fight to remain solid. My body wanted to flee into healing nothingness. This was not the time. I must keep control.
Bertrice holding me helped. I was sorry she was forced to do and see such fearful things, but for all of it she showed a rare bright courage. Her pale face burned like the sun. I basked in it, smiling and squeezing her hand to ease her.
"Better," I said.
"Quincey?" Art peered down at me. He looked deathly, perhaps afraid of losing his friend all over again.
"It's a'right, ol' pard. She di' th' right thing by me."
"Please God, I hope so," said Bertrice. She blinked tears. One splashed my cheek.
"You sweet English rose," I murmured dreamily, forgetting my pain.
"What?"
"Hm?"
"Arthur, is he—?" She looked to her brother. He was struggling with the last bonds on Jack.
"I'll be all right," I quietly assured her, squeezing her hand once more. For her sake I had to stay conscious and corporeal.
"But you're bleeding!"
"No, it's closing already. I heal fast." I was weak, though, lightheaded, and suddenly famished, my corner teeth extending in reaction to my need. I had to have blood to replace what I'd lost. Lots of it. Soon.
"Lie still," she ordered.
"Where's the professor?" I didn't want him to renew the fight just yet.
She shifted so I could see the room. Van Helsing lay on the floor next to the toppled coat tree, moving a little, in recovery himself from whatever damage Art had inflicted.
I smiled, lips closed, and winked at my now-trembling friend as he came over. Not that he was scared, but his dander was up and all that dash had to go somewhere. "Now there's a good night's work. How's Jack?"
"I'll live," Jack answered for himself. Free of his bonds and successfully fighting to rouse himself from his stupor, he seemed otherwise unharmed. He found his feet and came around to look me over. "You need to lie down, though."
"I'm fine. Just a scratch."
"From this?" Bertrice sounded incredulous. Well she might. In her hand was the instrument of my wounding, the wooden rod with one end sharpened to a point. It was all over with my blood, the scent hanging heavier on the air than the garlic.
"What is it?" Art wanted to know.
"It goes with that pistol of his," I said, with a nod toward the professor. "Looks like an old dueler. That's what he used to ram the powder and ball down the muzzle, only he left the rod in when he fired at me. Shot it out better than an arrow."
"It could have exploded in his hand, the fool! Quincey—?"
I waved him down. "I'm fine. The Dutchman might could use some smelling salts, though."
"To the devil with him," Art snapped.
Van Helsing picked himself up, becoming the focus for us all. For a very fleeting moment he seemed strangely bewildered with the four of us ranged against him all-accusing. He raised his hands, as though to tear his hair, fingers like claws in his frustration. "Mein Gott! Can none of you see?"
"Very clearly," said Bertrice, all ice. Face like a thundercloud, she surged from my side, marched up to him, and gave him a resounding slap. "That's for what you did to me!" Another slap. "And that's for what you did to my brother in poor Lucy's tomb!"
Now was he truly shocked, but his surprise instantly transformed to rage. "Blind! You know nothing! That poor child was imprisoned by the darkness. It was a blessing to her that Arthur was the one to set her free."
"If it was such a blessing, then why didn't you do it yourself? And who are you to speak of dark prisons? Have you any idea what it was like for me to wake up in that pit?"
"It was for your own safety, young woman. To save you from the harm beyond your imagine did I there put you. All that I did, my misled friends, was to protect you!"
"Then God spare us from more of your protection!" She turned on her heel and came to stand over me like a lioness.
Van Helsing glared, very unused to being spoken to in such a manner. Certainly being slapped was also an unpleasant novelty for him. His near cheek was red from the force of her work. Next his gaze fell upon me, and it flared with righteous malevolence. "You it is who has taken them over, corrupted their better nature, making them to be in your godless army of Un-Dead. You have used their love of you to bring them to this betrayal of all they knew was right."
At my quiet request, Bertrice and Jack helped me up. My head went light again, and the room dipped, but the spell quickly eased.
"I have done nothing," I said, very softly. "But you keep talking, and I just might turn you inside out."
Some hint of my suppressed anger must have gotten through to him. I still had that butcher's knife in my fist. Or maybe he saw my teeth. I didn't try to hide them. He shut himself up fast.
"Professor," said Jack wearily, "it is time you listened. We know you're trying to help, but it is misplaced. Quincey is a vampire, yes, but he is not the same breed as Dracula. I've told you this a hundred times, and here is the proof. Were he evil, do you think he'd have spared you? I saw your fight. At any moment he could have killed you, instead I saw him doing his best to avoid harming you."
"He has plans of which you know not."
"Please, don't embarrass yourself with that vague threat of what might happen. Quincey? Have you any plans?"
"Well, I'd not mind a wash and change of clothes since these are all ruined. Beyond that, I'd be pleased if the professor would only live and let live."
Van Helsing positively sneered. "That will never happen. Vampire." He said the word like a profanity. To him it was.
I sighed, worn beyond words by the man's foolish stubbornness. Though the bleeding had ceased my shoulder and ribs ached miserably. If only I had a chance to vanish . . . "Would someone please light the lamps?"
Art did the honors, recalling, perhaps, that I'd wanted plenty of light at our first meeting.
The professor watched, frowning, knowing something was up, but uncertain what it might be. He shot a glance at the open door, but Bertrice darted there first and locked it, taking the key away. Her smile was grim with triumph. He looked to Jack next, but his former student and colleague had taken charge of the cricket bat and stood guard by the windows.
Every lamp and candle now burned, the place bright as a ballroom.
Not relishing what was to come, I paced slowly toward Van Helsing. I'd have preferred for us to be alone, the better to concentrate, but didn't trust my ability to control him without Jack and Art close by.
I paused a short arm's length from the old man. He glared hatred strong enough to wound. I fixed my gaze hard on him. He dropped back a step.
"Quincey . . ." began Jack.
"Stay where you are," I said, keeping my voice even. "All of you. Don't move an inch." I eased forward, getting closer. Still holding the knife.
God knows what was in my expression, but it must have been bad. Van Helsing kept backing until forced by the wall to halt. His heart thumped loud, but you couldn't tell by his face. He showed defiance, not fear, but I could smell it on him all the same. He slid sideways. I followed. He reached a far corner and again had to stop.
Jack and Art held themselves ready just on the edge of my vision. Bertrice was there as well, by the door. Good. Very deliberately, I turned the whole of my attention on the task to hand. I had to hold all my attention upon Van Helsing, hating it, wanting to run myself. I got close to him, raising the knife even with his throat.
"Professor Van Helsing. Listen to me."
He stared at the blade. "You would murder, yes. It is in you now to kill, just as I have said. Friend John—"
I stopped his appeal, gently putting the steel edge against his throat. He sucked in air and went still, eyes popping. "Not another word. You listen to me or I'll cut you in two."
"I say, Quincey . . ." began Art. Someone shushed him. Bertrice maybe.
The room was so quiet I could hear all their hearts thumping away, filling the silence. "You listen very carefully to everything I . . ."
"Nein," Van Helsing snapped. Then he pulled my own Colt six-shooter from his frock coat pocket and fired point-blank into my heart.
The sound of Bertrice's shriek was louder than the booming report of the shot.
Arms flailing, I staggered back with a short surprised cry.
He fired again. Another deafening boom. Fire in my chest. Blood poured out.
The floor came up and grabbed me hard.
Through the haze of smoke I saw Art leap at the professor and drag the gun from him. There was no further struggle. The damage was done.
Bertrice and Jack were suddenly with me, she holding my head and weeping as he tore my shirt open. I fought to stay solid against the appalling burst of pain blazing through my core like a comet.
For a dreadful black instant I had a cruel return to my dying on that mountainside in Transylvania. Instead of Mina holding me it was Bertrice and hers the beautiful face twisted with grief and fear as my life bled out.
But this time the dying was absolute agony.
These were terrible wounds seared into my chest, right through it. Blood poured out above and beneath, stealing the last of my strength. Any man with a beating heart would be dead. Soon I'd be unable to . . .
But I had to hold on, just a little longer.
Bertrice sobbed out my name. Looking at her helped. I took her hand, squeezing it one last time.
"It's all right," I whispered. "Over now . . . wait and see . . ."
Van Helsing came within my line of view. What a remarkable change in him. Gone was his hatred for me. His stern features had softened into compassion.
Art stood next to him, staring down in helpless horror. He began to round on the professor, and there was murder in his eye.
"No!" I managed to call out in time. "Jack, don't let him—"
But there was no need for Jack to interfere. Art abruptly broke away and dropped to kneel by his sister, a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Quincey, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'll see you by-and-by, old partner. You too, Jack."
Van Helsing loomed over us all, his hand extended toward me in a gesture of benediction.
"Requiescat in pace, in nomine Patris, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti," he somberly intoned, making the sign of the cross.
To Bertrice I gave my last smile, winked, then gratefully laid my head back in her cradling arms, breathing out a last great sigh, closing my eyes. Utter stillness for a moment, then sweet gray oblivion stole over me, releasing me at last from the painful bondage of a mortal body.