Lord of the Vampires

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  We have even bought a house, a great French château in the most affluent part of the city, which Elisabeth has filled with servants. I have a wonderfully handsome coachman, Antonio, offspring of a black African mother and Italian father. For sport, I engage with him in what he believes to be a most scandalous affair.… Little does he know just how strange it is for a lowly coachman to be dallying with this particular princess.

  But the house, the house, the house is beautiful. There are cut crystal panes in the windows which refract sunlight into rainbows and fine Turkish carpets, and peacocks strutting on the grounds, and flowers and gushing fountains and statues of Bacchus and Pan and Aphrodite.…

  We are the exotic new darlings of society, the Hungarian and Roumanian representatives of royalty. People call on us, and we serve (and eat!) the finest French pastries —the tiny decorated ones, of the type I had seen in Vienna’s Konditorei but could not savour.

  I devour it all. And I suckle on the city’s rich and powerful elite—mostly men, who contrive to get me alone. How cheerfully I let them … and then, how cheerfully I drink.

  But a pall is cast upon this bliss when I contemplate Vlad’s arrival. He will try to find someone to try to kill us, just as we have enlisted Mr. Harker’s aid. We left our Englishman in Buda-Pesth, raving in delirium. It will make for a nice excuse, especially since he will remember nothing of us women but everything of Vlad. His people will think him sick all this time with madness or brain-fever, no doubt, so that when he does resurface in his Exeter, no one will be suspicious.

  And we will find a way to bring him to London.

  But I have waited so many years to enjoy my freedom in this fair (but dirty) city that I dread the interruption of my happiness. I feel like saying to Elisabeth: You go, and wage your metaphysical war against Vlad; leave me here!

  She seems happy, but has been preoccupied the past two days. She has enjoyed our socialising and indulging in sexual peccadilloes with those upon whom I dine; but yesterday and to-day, she closeted herself away beyond my reach, using a magic so strong I cannot detect where she has gone. I assume she is preparing for the confrontation with Vlad, or enlisting the Dark Lord’s aid. But when she emerged yesterday, she was grim-faced and silent, and sent me out to shop alone.

  To-day she did so again. When I arrived home late, I found her down in the cellar, where she had unwrapped packages sent from her home. The contents?

  Dear God, the contents.… A woman-sized Iron Maiden—naked, the nipples on its hard breasts painted gaudy red, its wide leer filled with human teeth of various sizes and shades of white, yellow, brown. From its head flowed long golden hair; upon its pubes was coiled the same.

  Nearby stood another obscene creation: a narrow cylindrical cage—again, just large enough to hold a woman’s body. From its iron bars emerged long, sharp spikes … turned inward, so that any prisoner who struggled or tried to flee would soon find herself impaled. I stood and watched in silent horror as Elisabeth directed Dorka and a manservant upon a ladder as they suspended it from the ceiling, then threaded the rope through a pulley.

  “What is this?” I asked, in a low voice that trembled. I knew the answer already; the devices’ purposes were patently clear. But I had to hear Elisabeth’s explanation.

  She whirled smiling to face me, her eyes bright with predatory anticipation. “Zsuzsanna, darling! Welcome to our little dungeon.” Her sulkiness was entirely gone, replaced by great good cheer; she reached for my hand and pulled me to her, then planted a fervent kiss upon my lips.

  I stood stiff and unyielding, for I was quite distraught: I could only think of how desperately I had always hated Vlad’s Theatre of Death, where it pleased him to torment his poor prey without mercy. I have dined on the blood of strangers too long to feel any remorse for it—but vampire or no, I have never shared Vlad’s predilection for torture. Bad enough the poor fools should die, so I long ago vowed that I would send them to Hades on clouds of ecstasy.

  Most times, I have managed to do so. But when I saw Elisabeth’s horrific devices, I panicked. I had judged her to be like me, a woman of generosity and kindness, capable of sympathy towards her supper; had I run from the Impaler’s arms into the embrace of another as secretly cruel as he?

  At my coldness, Elisabeth merely laughed, and jovially pulled me to her side so that she could wind an arm round my waist. “Silly Zsuzsa! Don’t be frightened of them! They’re merely … tools. Means to an end.” Then she pressed her lips to my ear and whispered, so that neither Dorka nor the manservant could hear: “In time, dearest. In time, you will understand. Do not judge before you see for yourself.…”

  “I do not want to see,” I said stubbornly, and pulled away.

  That was the extent of it; neither she nor I have spoken of the secrets in the cellar since. Frankly, I do not wish even to think of them, for when I do it spoils the sublime happiness of being here in London with the one I love. Tonight we met a group at a restaurant—a baronet and his wife, and a lord and lady!—and dined on a fine British supper of champagne, oysters, beef Wellington, and trifle. Food is such a delight!

  I will do my best not to judge Elisabeth until I see what she intends with these implements. I cannot imagine anything good, but I must trust her.…

  Dr. Seward’s Diary

  21 JULY. After speaking to Van Helsing about Renfield, a patient, I have granted his request to privately interview our life-eater in his cell. I suspect the professor believes—dare I say it?—vampires are involved. Since he decided to remain here, he has spoken to me of his “mission” here only twice, and then in the vaguest terms. My belief still wavers from time to time; I suppose I will never be convinced until I have irrefutable physical evidence of the existence of such creatures.

  Last night’s musings about our zoophagous patient affected me more than I had realised. Upon retiring quite late, I fell at once asleep, into vivid, gruesomely detailed dreams of Renfield regurgitating the bloodied, half-digested corpses of sparrows, cats, large dogs—even a horse, which emerged from his gullet impossibly whole. And everywhere floated feathers, painted with blood in more delicate, intricate designs than could ever be wrought by the hand of Nature.

  Abruptly, over this nauseous spectacle fell a great darkness—the all-consuming evil void from the recurring nightmare I had relayed to Professor Van Helsing. It spread like a shadow over the vomiting man until he was entirely eclipsed. That sight evoked again in me an intense terror, a terror that grew to unbearable proportions when, even in the midst of my dream, I understood its meaning:

  The Darkness is like Renfield—an Eater of Souls, desperate to consume life after life after life after life. And it means to devour Van Helsing … and me.

  The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing

  24 JULY. Dracula draws near. This instinct and evidence tell me; in fact, I took the liberty of hypnotising John’s “zoophage,” Renfield, and am convinced that his newfound obsession with consuming “life” is in some way a sinister influence of the vampire’s approach.

  In fact, Vlad should have arrived in London a fortnight ago. Thus far, however, Gerda will not corroborate this. In Zsuzsanna’s voice, she speaks only of one other—the mysterious Elisabeth, who seems to be neither mortal nor vampire. Of Vlad she says: “Hmph! Who cares about him? We shall see him soon enough.…”

  I can think of one possible explanation: that Vlad and Zsuzsanna have had a falling-out, and took separate routes. For a moment this notion caused me some terror, as it could mean that Vlad is headed elsewhere in England, or to another country altogether.

  But no; Zsuzsanna says that she will “see him soon enough.” And I know that she is here in London. Where, I do not know; but I must learn soon and find her, before she finds me.

  8 AUGUST. At last, at last! Word from Gerda: “He is come,” she said this afternoon—and that is all I could coax from her. Then, like a little girl, she drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest; and turned her face from me and pouted. I confess
that despite the chill I felt knowing that Vlad had arrived (and with him, great danger), I smiled. Not at my poor wife, but at the perfect mental image I had of the immature Zsuzsanna sulking. Everything Gerda has told me so far fits: all the condescending references to Vlad and to her freedom, and now this unhappy reaction at the arrival of him whom she had once adored. My guess is right; they have had a falling-out.

  But will Vlad join Zsuzsanna here? His arrival took more than a month, which means he must have come by sea. I had pressed Gerda on this, asking, “Where is he now? London?”

  She would say nothing, merely shook her head.

  I can only hope that he makes amends and returns to Zsuzsanna—else my task will prove much more difficult, indeed. Without Gerda as my compass, I am lost.

  24 AUGUST. From the small bits of information I have gleaned from Gerda, I believe I can triangulate the area where Zsuzsanna must be hiding: near the East End, or Piccadilly. I have scouted the area extensively both by cab and on foot and, so far, have failed to locate any properties suitable for vampires. The neighbourhoods there are havens for the wealthy upper-class; they contain no cemeteries, no crumbling chapels, nothing sufficiently gloomy to suit Vlad’s taste.

  I have no further word, however, regarding whether he will rendezvous with his consort. It may well be that I have a double task—to hunt down both him and Zsuzsanna separately. I pray that will not come to pass.

  I think it will not; for last night, we had quite a scare at the asylum which has convinced me that he is indeed come to London. John’s “zoophage,” Renfield, became so grievously obsessed that he scaled the asylum wall and ran onto the neighbouring property. (Fortunately, he did not get so far as to alarm the residents.) The disturbance drew me from my room, and when John returned (huffing and puffing), he told me all that had transpired.

  What caught my attention most was a comment the patient had made in his delirium, that the Master had come and he, Renfield, would do this Master’s bidding. As John reports it: “I have worshipped You long and afar off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands.…”

  Renfield is, as I have always suspected, exceptionally sensitive. (Madmen usually are—forgive me, dear Gerda, but it is true of you as well.) He feels the vampire’s evil presence nearing, and has incorporated it into his madness. But we must take especial care with him, for he has offered himself up to Vlad’s service. He is therefore of great potential danger to us.

  Vlad is indeed in the area; my guess is London, with Zsuzsanna. To-morrow, when Gerda is able, I will see if that guess is right.

  30 AUGUST. Everything points to a separation between Vlad and Zsuzsanna. When I question Gerda, she still refuses to say much about him; clearly, Zsuzsanna lives somewhere in the city with this Elisabeth, and no one else. But if she despises Vlad as greatly as her speech and demeanour suggest, why did she also choose to come here? Why not some other great European city, rather than share London with one she so hates?

  This makes my work doubly difficult, for I had meant to rely on Gerda’s knowledge of Vlad’s movements. It torments me to think that the vampire is nearby, feeding on innocent victims, while I am unable to find him, much less stop him.

  I see only one choice: to utilise Renfield as much as possible, in hopes that he possesses, somewhere in his troubled brain, information which can help.

  The Diary of

  Abraham Van Helsing

  1 SEPTEMBER. A slight change in Gerda. Under hypnosis, she seems crestfallen. Apparently Zsuzsanna has had some sort of falling-out with her friend Elisabeth; any mention of same, or of Vlad, elicits the vilest curses. But where Zsuzsanna is now, Gerda will not say.

  One interesting piece of information: At the same time she curses Vlad, she also speaks of a “manuscript” or “parchment.” This she does not elaborate upon, but from her expression and tone of voice, I gather she wants badly to obtain it—if only for the purpose of getting it away from Vlad.

  Dr. Seward’s Diary

  3 SEPTEMBER. Van Helsing and I paid Lucy Westenra a professional visit at Hillingham to-day (at his insistence, though I told Art Holmwood that I wanted to bring in an expert). Poor girl! It breaks my heart to see her in such a state. She has lost a good deal of weight and is now too thin, and her pallour suggests severe anaemia of the sort that often costs young people their lives. Still, she was as pretty as ever, sitting in her bedchamber near an open window through which streamed warm sunlight; it saddened me to see that she was too weak to properly enjoy one of the last days of summer. She wore a white frock embroidered with white satin thread, and her hair was tied back with a great white bow like a schoolgirl’s. In the sun, hints of gold in her dark ash hair gleamed becomingly.

  But she was clearly exhausted, lying upon a chaise longue against a plethora of pillows. Despite the day’s warmth, one wool blanket was tucked around her legs, and another draped about her shoulders. When the maid brought us to her, she did not lift her head, but with great effort raised her arm that we might take her hand. Weak or no, she managed to thoroughly charm Van Helsing … and me, of course.

  And I do believe he charmed her, though he again took on the persona of the witless foreigner, the slayer of English grammar and syntax. I wish he would not do it—at least, not when I am around. It embarrasses me for his sake (it makes him, one of the world’s most intelligent and educated men, seem a bumbling fool), and sometimes his more outrageous locutions make me grin at the most inappropriate times.

  Nonetheless, as much as it troubled me, Lucy was clearly taken with him. And when the time came for him to examine her, I gratefully took the excuse to stroll about the grounds, that I might be spared further intentional barbarisms.

  When he had made his examination and we took our leave and headed for the station in the fly, his jovial mood disintegrated at once. In his troubled blue eyes I saw confirmation of my worst fear: that Lucy was in mortal danger.

  “It is serious, then?” I asked, as the driver steered the horse into the park. It was indeed a glorious summer’s day, full of sun and kissed with a delightful, cooling breeze; above our heads, birds sang in the lush, swaying boughs of trees.

  Yet to me, there was nothing of pleasure in that moment. I remember only the sense of horror that chilled me to the bone, despite the warm golden pool of light that bathed us both. For I had only imagined that the worst would be that Lucy was ill with pernicious anaemia; but the answer he gave was even more terrible to contemplate.

  He glanced at the back of the driver’s head an instant, as if making a decision. Then he said, “It is. She has been bitten.”

  “Bitten?” I was honestly confused, thinking along strictly medical lines in terms of a diagnosis. “But how could that—” I was going to say, But how could that cause such a great blood loss? It would have been such a massive wound that neither Lucy nor any of us could have missed it. In my concern for her, I had not allowed the professor’s obsession with vampires to enter my mind. But ere I had finished my question, I realised from his intense, unhappy gaze that that was exactly what he meant: a fanged creature had been suckling at Lucy’s sweet neck.

  Van Helsing no doubt detected my dismay, for a look of compassion came over his face and he asked softly, “You cannot yet believe, can you, John? Cannot believe with your whole heart?”

  The bright blue sky, the wind-rippled leaves, the sweet birdsong—all of it took on a hideously sinister hue. Nothing was as it seemed; all the beauty surrounding us was corrupt, a cheerful facade built to disguise evil.

  How long ago had it been—a fortnight, a month—since he had first spoken to me of vampires? I contemplated all that he had said, of course; contemplated it, yet found it so horrid and impossible that I could not mentally commit myself to it.

  And still, the dream of Darkness and my very instinct did not permit me to entirely disbelieve. Should I flee from my friend, reject his diagnosis, and direct him to other lodgings? Or should I distance myself from my own fears and skepticism? If I were to
tell any other of my medical colleagues that I sensed people’s “auras,” they would deem me mad; therefore, I determined at that moment not to do the same to the professor, who in all other matters has proven himself to be a reliable source of information.

  But to accept his claim was to open the mind to indescribable horror.

  “Yes, I have difficulty in believing. But I trust you, Doctor. And if what you say is true: what shall we do, then, to help her?” I finally said, with such desperation and anguish that I could not repress them.

  He tapped the side of an index finger against his lips and shot a pointed look at the cabbie; we two rode back to the station in weighty silence.

  The train was not overly crowded, and we managed to get a compartment all to ourselves, where we could speak more freely.

  “I must closet myself away,” the professor said the moment we were alone. “I need at least three days’ time where I can be guaranteed no disturbance.”

  “I have such a place—a cottage out in the country which is quite remote. Not a soul would bother you.”

  He brightened at once. “Excellent!”

  “But before I send you off with the key, you must answer a question for me first.”

  At that he grew silent and uncomfortable, but waited to hear it so that he could decide whether he could comply.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why are you so sure Lucy has been bitten by a vampire, and why must you go off by yourself?” Impertinent questions, to be sure, but if in fact we were truly dealing with such legendary evil, courtesy was our least concern.

  He sighed, looking like a man who knows that his answers will not, cannot, be entirely trusted or even comprehended. “To the first, I can only say that instinct tells me so. To the second—I must take some measures that will allow me to save Miss Westenra’s life, if need be. And I must try again to recruit one who can help me track Vlad.”