And so I sit, equally overcome by excitement and fear. To-night, Vlad finally came to me—I have not seen him for almost a month, but was not surprised to find him further rejuvenated, with hair no longer white but pewter, and complexion faintly rosy. His expression was one of exultation mixed with condescending generosity.
“To-morrow night,” said he, smiling. “He is yours tomorrow.”
I feigned an expression of hopelessness and said sullenly, “You are abandoning me here to starve. Do not think I do not know.”
His brows arched in mock innocence; he placed a spread palm upon his lifeless heart. “Me? Zsuzsanna, have you in your crush for Elisabeth come to realise that I, not she, have been your benefactor all these years? No, my dear, I must go and see to the details of some very special property … in England. At long last, I have found a way to free us both. And I do not do so without first thinking of you: I shall leave you the English guest for your very own! When all is ready, long before you are hungry again, I shall return for you.”
I would not meet his gaze, but kept my own fixed upon the window … and the freedom beyond. In a low, hostile voice, I slowly proclaimed: “Arkady is gone.”
So consummate was his deceit that his expression of abject surprise, limned with fear, was quite convincing; but I was not fooled. “What?”
“It is true.”
Too terribly true. Knowing that the time would soon arrive when I would leave this castle for good—either through the vehicle of death, or the carriage that would bear me across the continent—I had gone down this morning to the subterranean vault, to bid my dear brother’s body farewell.
Gone; vanished. (I am too heartsick even to weep about it now.) No trace of the corpse, though the bloodless stake lay atop the bare earthen catafalque where he had lain. At the discovery, I had fallen upon the damp mouldering ground and sobbed to think of my sweet Kasha’s remains defiled in some evil attempt at magic by that monster. And like the Marys at the unsealed tomb, I demanded of Vlad now: “Where have you taken him?”
His grey brows knit together like rushing thunderclouds, and his colour grew livid as he shouted: “This is some new treachery, is it not? Some new plot for misguided revenge! You have been listening to Elisabeth’s lies—and I will give you no further warnings, since you have not believed the first. My only satisfaction comes from the knowledge that soon you will see your own stupidity in having trusted her and abandoned me.… And then all your pleas for help will be too late!”
He turned on his heel and stormed away, slamming the door behind him with such force that, with the ear-stunning sound of a pistol shot, the wood cracked in a lightning-bolt diagonal.
Through it all, I kept my silence. My revenge shall consist not of words or arguments, but of deeds which shall see him hurled down to Hell in agony.
So at last, we have parted—forever. I feel no sadness, no melancholy gratitude to him who gave me the immortal kiss. He has taken from me my mother, my father, my brother, my friend, my dignity; he has turned all my love to vengeful wrath.
Bastard! We shall meet again in England—England! It seems an unattainable dream, a mirage which beckons in the distance; and I worry that when I at last draw near, it will waver and dissolve into dust.
No. No fear, no doubt. I will find you in London. And there I will strike you down.…
7
Telegram, Abraham Van Helsing, M.D., D. Ph., D. Lit., Etc., Etc., Amsterdam, to John Seward, M.D., Purfleet, England
28 June
Dear and trusted friend,
Apologies in advance for the imposition: Need your help and discretion, and unpardonably soon. Am bringing psychiatric patient to Purfleet afternoon of 1 July and require lodging for us both—but need for secrecy paramount. No one else must know we are in the city.
My companion requires a barred and padlocked cell; I request same for myself.
Destroy this document at once.
Dr. Seward’s Dairy
1 JULY. The professor has come.
He arrived as expected in the afternoon, dressed in black with a broad-brimmed straw hat and looking for all the world like a village priest. I stood in the entryway and watched him step from the cab, then turn and reach out as the driver handed down a small, frail woman. She, too, wore all black, including a veil which obscured her features.
He carried her easily in his arms down the flower-lined path, as if he were long accustomed to doing so. When he spotted me on the porch, he grinned broadly, his blue eyes brightening at once. I strode forward and clapped his shoulder; the impulse to shake hands occurred to us both, but was rendered impossible because of the mysterious patient in his arms.
“Professor Van Helsing!” I called heartily, while behind him, the driver set two large suitcases upon the ground. I hurried over and took care of the tip at once; my mentor is not very well off financially, from what I can gather. I believe he routinely undercharges his patients or charges them not at all, and I would be a gentleman of leisure now were it not for my “hobby,” the asylum.
At my greeting, the professor’s grin faded and some of the light left his eyes. He pursed his lips as if to hush me into silence; had he not borne such a burden, he would have also raised a finger to them. I heeded the warning and immediately lowered my voice to a whisper.
“It is good to see you again.”
The smile and brightness returned immediately. “And you, friend John. Though you are looking rather pale and underfed. We shall have to find a young lady to fatten you up and lure you out for walks in the sunshine!”
I averted my gaze briefly down at the riot of yellow and crimson zinnias edging our path, but maintained a pleasant expression. Anything that evoked thoughts of Lucy was still painful, so I did not reply.
At once his tone softened with compassion. “Ah … I see I have blundered directly onto the problem’s source. Forgive me, my friend; I am a blind and foolish old man.”
I believe I blushed, which only increased my discomfort, as it is for me an uncommon reaction. Then I glanced shyly at the silent patient, wondering how lucid she might be, and whether she had registered the exchange. How could I manage a dignified introduction now?
Once again, Van Helsing seemed to have read my thoughts. “Have no worry, John. She suffers from catatonia; her mind is far from us. Even if it were not, she would be unable to divulge your troubles, for she does not speak.”
“You are far from old, and most certainly not blind,” I told him. “Frankly, you are the most perceptive person I know.” Indeed, he has been this way since I first met him. Sometimes, his ability to guess what I—or another person—am thinking is astounding. It is not simply that he knows me well; I have seen him do the same with strangers. Over time, I have developed two theories: one, that he has honed his observation skills to preternatural perfection; or two, that he is psychic.
The latter is difficult to prove, though of late I have become keenly interested in occult phenomena and the teachings of a local organisation known as the Golden Dawn. (My readings have led me to conclude that the professor is privy to much, or all, of their knowledge. This is based on countless comments he has made during our close eight-year friendship. Esoteric phrases such as As above, so below—a quote from our mutual acquaintance Hermes Trismegistus. And dozens more such opaque—at the time, anyway—remarks.)
More than that, the professor radiates an aura of power—not so much the physical sort as the mental. Like me, he was a wunderkind, but I do not speak of intelligence here, which he has in abundance; I speak of the metaphysical. In public—except when he lectures—he takes on the persona of the good-natured bumbler, the clown. I have even heard him affect the most outrageously comical foreign accent, even though his English is quite excellent. It is as if he wants to prevent the world from seeing the true man: the scholar, the genius, the philosopher.
Yet when alone in my presence, he sometimes permits me glimpses of an immensely brilliant and knowledgeable occultist beneath the fool’s mask. He
has never labelled it as occultism, of course; this is what I have gleaned. But now I remember a long-ago holiday in Amsterdam, when I inadvertently wandered into his private library and discovered inside a closed cabinet a treasure-trove of treatises on magic—The Greater Key of Solomon, The Goetia, the Sepher Yetzirah, and A True and Faithful Relation of What Passed for Many Years Between Doctor Dee and Some Spirits.
This is the man I met again to-day, though he had successfully adopted the guise of a not-so-educated country priest. But I saw beneath the simple guilelessness that veiled the wide blue eyes, beneath the cheerful expression. He looks older than when I last saw him; more of the red-gold hairs have faded to white, and he, like me, has lost weight and looks drawn about the cheeks and jaw. Despite it all, he radiates even more of that impressive internal strength, that deep sense of wisdom and calm even the fiercest tempest cannot shake—paradoxically making him—the real, interior man beneath the costume of flesh—seem far younger than when we last met.
“But here,” I continued, gesturing towards the entry. We both headed for the open door, I reaching as if to take the motionless woman in his arms. As expected, he refused any aid. “Let’s go inside at once and relieve you of your burden. I will call the attendant to carry her—”
“No!” The sharpness of his reply made me jerk my head to stare at him at once. More mildly, he added, “No attendants yet. The time may come when she requires one, but to-day, let us maintain as much privacy as we can.”
I agreed, and told him I would wait to ring Thomas to fetch the bags until both he and his patient were settled into their rooms, then have the bags left outside the cell doors to guarantee their anonymity. Once we had stepped over the threshold, I convinced him to let go of his jealously guarded prize and deposit her in a high-backed wheelchair. It is the newest model, specially equipped with restraints for the more violent patients. As he tucked her with tender solicitousness into the chair and paused to regard the straps, I commented softly, “I doubt she will need those.”
“Not at the moment.” The jovial mask slipped again for an instant, no more. This time I saw a darkly troubled man, one who bore the weight of all the world upon his soul. “But the time may come soon. We must remain alert.”
He insisted upon pushing the chair himself. I led him directly to the lift (a necessity here; dragging a violent patient upstairs or down is dangerous work). In the absolute privacy of the lift, I awaited an explanation of his “secret mission,” but none came. So I made small talk and inquired after his mother, a true English gentlewoman whom I have met and come to fondly admire.
“She is dying,” he said, in his blunt, matter-of-fact Dutch manner. “Ulcerated tumour of the right breast. She has had it more than a year, but her time is short now; it affects her brain. My concern is that she might die while I am away.”
I put a hand upon his shoulder. I have rarely touched him other than to shake his hand in greeting or parting, and he acknowledged the gesture with a grateful glance. (Does anyone like to shake hands more than his countrymen?) “I am sorrier than words can say. She was so very kind to me when you both came to visit; I came to think of her as my own grandmother, since I never knew either of mine.”
At that last comment, he let out a soft gasp as if struck in the stomach, and looked away; I think emotion had finally overwhelmed him. After a moment of silence, he said, “I do not mean to burden you, friend John, with my own difficulties. You have borne more than your share in your brief life. You are too young to have experienced so much loss; too young. At my age, it is to be expected.”
He referred, of course, to the death of my father some sixteen years ago, and my mother three years ago this fall. The family estate is too vast and lonely for a single heir to occupy, so now I share it with my patients.
At last we arrived at the two cells closest to my own bedchamber, which I prefer to keep unoccupied unless the asylum is filled to capacity. As we have only three resident patients at present, one of whom I expect to release shortly, the closest inmate was a good half-dozen cells away. Van Helsing will have his privacy.
“Here we are,” I said, unlocking and then flinging open the doors to each room so that the professor could peer in. One cell was windowless and contained the standard furnishings: bed, night-stand, and a gas lamp mounted so high upon the wall that it could be turned on or off only by an attendant with a special contrivance attached to a long broom handle. The other I had personally prepared for the professor. The barred window looked directly down into the flower garden (which is particularly bright and lush this summer), and I had covered the bed with a quilt sewn by Mother. I had added, too, a writing-table and comfortable chair which faced the window, and beside the unreachable gas lamp had left a long pole so that the professor could control the light as he wished.
I removed two keys from the jailer’s ring on my belt and handed them to him. “This is yours … and this is the key to the lady’s chamber.”
“Ah,” he said, gazing down at them and then back up at the rooms. “This”—and he gestured at the sunnier, more cheerful room I had fixed for him—“I will let her have. The other is suitable for me.” And before I could protest, he wheeled her past me into the cell, lifted her from the wheel-chair, and deposited her in the more comfortable seat looking out onto the garden. It was rather frustrating, for if the lady was indeed catatonic, the view would be quite wasted, and I was not at all happy leaving Mother’s heirloom quilt in the safekeeping of a mad-woman.
I followed them inside, wondering whether it would be too rude to speak up, when the professor reached down and removed his patient’s hat and veil.
I drew in a breath. The woman was absolute skin and bones, but at the same time young and unnaturally pretty, with huge dark eyes and full dark hair coiled at the nape of her neck. And yet …
I blinked, and for a heartbeat found myself looking at a woman Van Helsing’s age, one with streaks of grey in her hair and crow’s-feet framing her eyes.
Another blink, and the lady was again young and beautiful, her hair a rich brown-black without a trace of silver. It was as if her youth was a veil which had lifted for an instant, then quickly lowered, masking the real woman beneath. The dreadful soulless vacancy in those half-closed, downcast eyes could not be hidden; yet beneath it I sensed a fathomless grief.
I looked up at last to find the professor studying me, his gold-and-silver brows furrowed intently. When our gazes met—his knowing, mine questioning—he said, “You are a sensitive, John. You see beneath the facade, yes?”
I was too taken aback to do anything but gesture my assent. Did I understand him aright? Was this a metaphysical case he had brought me, this strange, sad woman with the aged yet ageless face? The notion in itself was compelling enough. Still, there was more that drew me to her, some odd sense of kinship—a feeling that perhaps we two shared some secret sorrow.
To my disappointment, he revealed no more, but said, “And now we leave her to rest. I shall require some time alone with her at sunset.” At once he bent down onto one knee at her feet, like a gentleman proposing to a lady (the painful memory of Lucy again!). Gently, he lifted her limp gloved hand from her lap; this he pressed to his lips with such pure, loving devotion that I was honestly shocked. Their relationship was clearly more than doctor and patient.
So piqued was my curiosity that when we exited and the professor shut and locked the thick door behind us, I demanded outright: “Who is she?”
He looked ahead into the distance and sighed. “Gerda Van Helsing. My wife.”
I could not have been more astonished. I had known the professor for more than seven years, since I first arrived at university at the tender age of fifteen. A difficult situation: my first time away from home, and I so much younger than the other lads that I was constantly the butt of jokes and taunting. (Nor did it help that I looked far younger than my actual age.) Only the professor looked beyond my immaturity, at my talents, and took me under his paternal and professiona
l wing.
We were very close, perhaps because I had lost Papa early on, and I was grateful to find a father-substitute; of course, there was also the fact that we shared a passion for medicine, and that he saw much of himself in me. He, too, was a boy genius who had taken his medical degree at a very early age; thus he encouraged me greatly to pursue my medical studies, though I was surrounded by men almost ten years my senior. (The professor is also licensed to practice law in Holland, but he ruefully admits that was a mistake.)
Yet during our years of association—and during my brief one—day visit to his home—I have never heard him (or his mother, for that matter) speak of family or wife. In fact, I had always assumed he was a bachelor. I had never asked for a tour of his bedchamber.
“Professor,” I said, in a low voice, although we were quite alone and beyond anyone’s earshot, “what is going on? I get the perception that your wife’s malady is more than mere catatonia. Something else is involved; am I wrong to think it is metaphysical? Mrs. Van Helsing seems so young … yet I believe that she is not, that it is all illusion.”
He released a sigh of infinite weariness, and all his cheeriness fled for good. “We are both men of science, John, trained to rely on our eyes and our logic to explain how the world operates. But there are instances where modern science fails utterly. We must adapt and, like Democritus when he postulated the atom, must accept that there is more to this universe than eye can see or brain can fathom.” He paused, and seemed to consider whether or not to tell me everything all at once. To my disappointment, he apparently opted for the latter. “In time, I will explain more. But sunset will come in less than two hours; before that time, I must tend to Gerda.”
“First,” I said, “you must have a proper tea.” And so I led him off and we ate together. He seemed deeply preoccupied, and spoke no more of his wife or mother, so I did not press. Afterwards, he disappeared into the garden cell and did not emerge until supper. Again, he was uncharacteristically tight-lipped about his purpose in being here.
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