Dracula The Un-Dead

by Dacre Stoker

  “My time is almost done, devil,” Van Helsing said as he stared into the painted eyes of Vlad Dracula. Arranged on a nearby table were crosses, wafers, holy water, a wooden stake, a bowie knife, and a crossbow armed and ready to fire. “Come to me and we shall die together. Not of old age, but in glorious battle.”

  Without warning, Van Helsing felt his chest tighten as if the Grim Reaper had come calling. He could feel the cold touch of death. No! Not now! I just need a few more days!

  He leaned on the table for support. With trembling fingers, Van Helsing reached for the brass pillbox. Taking care not to drop one this time, he wobbled a lifesaving nitroglycerine pill under his tongue.

  As death’s grip melted, Van Helsing’s strength returned. The good Lord was sending him a message: His time was even shorter than he thought. He looked once again upon the etched face of his mortal enemy, Prince Vlad Dracula. Van Helsing stood erect, his arms outstretched to the heavens as he cried out his challenge.

  “DEMON, I AWAIT YOU!”

  CHAPTER XXX.

  They journeyed northward toward London. Quincey sat opposite Basarab in the carriage. Basarab’s warm demeanor had faded to a cool silence after Quincey had informed him of his last telephone conversation with Hamilton Deane. Bram Stoker had put his foot down. He did not approve of Basarab, and had gone so far as to wire Barrymore in America, trying to coax him to return. Quincey hoped that once Basarab arrived in person and put his considerable talents on display, Stoker would have a change of heart. As they drew closer to the theatre, Basarab became ever more contemplative. Outside, the weather worsened and the fog seemed to thicken. Quincey thought it best not to disturb him. Before the driver could pull the carriage to a full stop, Basarab was already leaning out of the door. He spoke to Quincey, but his eyes, like his mind, were trained on the theatre entrance.

  “I will speak with Stoker alone,” Basarab said, the layer of ice in his voice making Quincey uneasy. “Make sure we are not disturbed.”

  “What if Deane doesn’t cooperate?” Quincey touched Basarab’s arm to stay him. There was a flash of hot rage in Basarab’s eyes, and Quincey snatched his hand away. He was reminded of Arthur Holmwood’s reaction when he had done the same thing. He was not certain what Basarab wanted or expected of him.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had flared, the anger was extinguished by a calm smile. The actor altered course and sat down next to Quincey. “Prince Vlad Dracula once led forty thousand men against a Turkish invasion of three hundred thousand, the greatest army ever amassed to kill one man. But, when Dracula rode out at the head of his army with a forest of thirty thousand impaled Muslim prisoners writhing on their bloody spikes at his back, his enemies on the battlefield rode off in terror.”

  Quincey shifted uncomfortably in the carriage seat, deeply disturbed by Basarab’s praise of the man who had murdered his father. The memory of the hand-drawn illustration of his own father, dead and impaled in Piccadilly Circus, came to him. He reminded himself quickly that his mentor’s adoration was for the living man, not the un-dead demon that Dracula became when he chose to forsake God. Now was not the time, but Quincey knew that Basarab would fight that evil with him when the hour came.

  Basarab continued: “That great day, Dracula saved his country. He saved the Christian world. Dracula used the only weapon he had . . . fear. That’s right. Fear can be a powerful tool, young Quincey. Embrace it.”

  The cabbie opened the carriage. Basarab retrained his eyes on the theatre, and calmly stepped out. Quincey followed him up the front steps of the theatre, Basarab’s words circling in his mind. Was Basarab insinuating that he should use intimidation to succeed? It was not the way he had been raised. But Basarab was a self-made man of proven success. It dawned on Quincey that maybe Basarab was trying to teach him a valuable lesson.

  The night guard was waiting for them at the front door. Inside the dark lobby, Quincey took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The comforting smell of greasepaint lingered. The night guard unlocked the door leading into the auditorium. Quincey moved quickly to follow Basarab’s lead.

  Once inside the auditorium, they marched down the dark aisle. The houselights were only on half power. Hamilton Deane stepped forward, draped in shadows, with his hand outstretched to greet them.

  “Quincey! Mr. Basarab! Welcome.”

  Deane shook Basarab’s hand first. He flinched slightly, as if Basarab had gripped too hard, but brushed it off and continued to smile. “Let’s talk business, shall we?”

  Quincey acquiesced to Deane’s gesture to follow, but Basarab did not move. An ominous look in Basarab’s eyes skewered Quincey. He was trusting him to act on his behalf, testing him to see how well he could follow his mentor’s instructions.

  “No disrespect of course,” Quincey said, “but Mr. Basarab first wishes to speak privately with Mr. Stoker.”

  Deane seemed confused by Quincey’s sudden boldness and answered sternly, “The decision to hire Mr. Basarab is mine. Mr. Stoker will just have to live with it.”

  There was a tone of finality in Deane’s voice. Quincey was at a loss of what to say or do next. Deane had agreed to let Basarab play the role, but Quincey knew that his mentor wanted his time with Stoker. He had to help make that happen. He was an actor, so he decided to act. He stepped forward, far too close for comfort, and looked Deane straight in the eye. As if playing the part of a reprehensible villain, he confronted Deane by mimicking Basarab’s icy imperiousness. He could tell by the look in Deane’s eyes that the man was unsettled. Basarab was right. Fear is powerful.

  Quincey was about to see how far this new tactic would take him when Basarab placed his hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.

  “Please, Mr. Deane,” Basarab interrupted, “I wish to avoid any unpleasantness. Allow me the opportunity to win over Mr. Stoker with my unique interpretation of his remarkable character, free from the unavoidably contentious eye of the money changers. With your permission?”

  Quincey was baffled by Basarab’s now-honey-laced words. Had Basarab intentionally manipulated him to look like the villain? No, he realized; Quincey was the stick and Basarab was the carrot. Once intimidated, Deane was more readily acceptable of Basarab’s polite request. He was a genius. There was much Quincey could learn from him.

  Deane smiled as he gestured to the door leading backstage. “With my blessing.”

  In a gentlemanly manner, Basarab bowed his head in thanks and disappeared.

  Quincey looked back toward the stage. How fortunate he was. It was obvious the great actor knew how to achieve what he wanted. With every passing moment he spent with Basarab, Quincey was sure he would learn more of the tactics he would require if he was to exact the revenge he had in mind.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  Using his cane to steady himself, Bram Stoker sat at his desk in the sanctuary of his office. Stoker had precious little time to spare if he was going to coax John Barrymore back to London. Barrymore had responded to Stoker’s last message, informing him it was simply too late for him to return. Ethel Barrymore, John’s sister, had arranged for John to join her cast of James M. Barrie’s A Slice of Life, playing at the Criterion Theatre on Broadway. The show had a limited run and would be closing at the end of the month, at which time Barrymore was to continue to California.

  Thanks to his experience with Henry Irving, Stoker knew that the way for a writer to entice any actor was through great words. He was going to pen a soliloquy for the character of Dracula that any actor would kill to recite. Barrymore’s tremendous ego would force him back to the Lyceum, not wanting any other actor to gain credit for the work. Stoker would quickly send the pages to his friend George Boldt, manager of both the Waldorf and Astoria in New York, the two closely connected hotels that John Barrymore always lodged at whenever he was working on Broadway. Mr. Boldt would personally give Barrymore the new version of the play.

  Memories of Irving filled every corner of Stoker’s cluttered office. Lobby cards
and posters adorned the walls, and a life-sized wooden mannequin stood in a corner, clad in Irving’s Mephistopheles costume that he’d worn in their hugely successful production of Faust. Bram glanced up at Irving’s portrait hanging on his wall—wearing the same diabolical attire. Irving should have played Dracula, not Barrymore or that Basarab fellow whom Deane had gone behind Stoker’s back to acquire. Irving was a fool. If Irving had listened to him, he could have ended his life with one last great role instead of fading away ruined by drink. Then, as always, Stoker had put aside his own ambitions for the sake of another’s wishes. This time, he would be true and honorable only to himself. By God, Bram Stoker would choose who would play his Dracula!

  Stoker had stirred himself up into a frenzy. Now was the time to write. Fury would surely drive his pen to greatness. He sat at his desk and dipped his quill into the ink.

  Moments after he had begun to write, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Stoker slammed the quill down on the desk. After the row they’d had, Deane knew better than to disturb him while he was writing. Before he had the opportunity to dismiss his intruder, the door opened and in drifted a tall man with piercing dark eyes and coal black hair. Although the face was obscured by shadow, Bram was certain that the specter of Irving had come back to curse him for ruining his theatre. As the figure stepped farther into the room, Stoker realized that it was merely a man.

  He was lean, with the long, imperial features of Eastern European royalty. His dark, deep-set eyes fixed on Stoker, who felt abruptly as if he were being watched by a bird of prey. There was something very strange about his face; the eyes were vicious but the mouth was smiling. Stoker recognized the man from the promotional pictures that had been left for him. Basarab. He remembered something that Ellen Terry, one of Irving’s leading ladies, had once said: Never trust a smiling actor, it’s just a mask they wear.

  “Last-minute rewrites?” Basarab asked.

  “I’ve been expecting you.” Stoker covered the page he was writing. He had been dreading this moment since meeting the Harker lad. How much did the boy know? Stoker knew this visit was more than happenstance. The longer Deane associated with Quincey and Basarab, the greater was the risk of exposing the true origins of Stoker’s book. He’d tried to banish the feelings of guilt. After all, he had not committed any wrongdoing. All Stoker had done was merge his own story with the fantastical tale that had been told to him in a pub.

  He had been working on his own vampire novel with little success. Stoker cursed his years in the legal world for killing his imagination. Then, one night, he’d met a strange man in a pub who was more than willing to talk so long as Stoker supplied drink. The madman’s implausible ravings had inspired him, persuaded him to change the name of his villain from Count Wampyre to Count Dracula. The name reminded Stoker of droch-fhoula, the Gaelic word for “bad blood,” and sent a chill through his veins. How could Bram have known that some of the people in the madman’s tale were real? But he also knew that the theatre could not afford any sort of controversial gossip now. Damn Quincey Harker, why did he have to appear now?

  Basarab’s smile dissolved. He turned and closed the door behind him. “I see pleasantries are out of the question, so I’ll get right to the point.”

  “If you must.”

  “Your book is a financial failure. You need this play to be a success. Why challenge me? I can help you.”

  The words were like a wooden stake piercing Stoker’s heart. He did not need this patronizing, pompous actor to inform him of his novel’s lackluster sales.

  “If Deane wants a war, he’ll have it,” Stoker said, trying to subdue his simmering blood. “I’m the manager of this theatre. I’ll close it down before I give you the lead. The role is already cast.”

  Basarab laughed and shook his head as he removed his gloves and coat. Stoker frowned at the way this unwelcome guest was making himself at home.

  “Of course, if I was to take the part, there would have to be some changes made to the play, and a new edition of your book to reflect these changes.”

  “You really are as arrogant as they say!” Stoker roared. He could see through Basarab’s act. The actor was auditioning for the role of Dracula by behaving like the count to win him over. It wasn’t working. Stoker’s Dracula would have tried to ensnare with fear, not arrogance. Stoker was more certain than ever that Basarab was wrong for the role.

  “Your book is ripe with inconsistencies, false presumptions, and bad imagination,” Basarab snapped. He picked up Stoker’s yellow-covered book from the lamp stand.

  “I have heard of the great Basarab’s legendary arrogance, but now I think you may also be mad,” Stoker said as he stood to confront his guest. He had thought he would find anger in Basarab’s hawklike eyes, but instead there was nothing but exasperation and sadness. Basarab seemed almost earnest. Or perhaps this Romanian was a better actor than he thought.

  “Why do you provoke me?” Basarab asked. “My intention is not to do battle with you.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Because my intention is for you to get the hell out of here!” Stoker sat back down and spun the chair, turning his back on the actor. He had wasted enough time with this fool.

  Basarab slid up behind Stoker. His hands gently cupped Stoker’s shoulders as he leaned to his ear and spoke in a whisper. “I warn you to take care. You are making a dreadful mistake.”

  Stoker struggled not to let his face show his fear, but the chill running up his spine caused him to tremble. Basarab could surely feel the shudder. Stoker had betrayed himself.

  Quincey could sense that Deane was still a little apprehensive of him after their earlier encounter. He kept his distance while standing onstage, giving Quincey a tour of his newly installed facilities. Deane killed the houselights, plunging the theatre into darkness. Quincey thought it odd that he could still see Deane on the stage, fumbling about for another switch. There might have been a dim houselight for the crew, but he could not see where it was coming from.

  There was a spark and a loud electric hum as Deane pulled the second switch. “Behold the marvel of the twentieth century,” he said.

  Electric footlights illuminated the stage. Quincey was enthralled to see a magnificent three-color lighting system using white, red, and green stage lights.

  “Now observe this.” Deane dimmed each of the colored lights to different levels.

  Quincey was in awe. This was something that could never be accomplished with gaslight. It would enable them to add a malevolent mood never before seen on the stage. He found himself laughing like a child in a sweetshop.

  Bram Stoker’s Irish-accented voice resonated through the backstage catacombs. He was yelling, heated and angry.

  “That’s my cue,” Deane exclaimed. “I had better get in there.”

  Make sure we are not disturbed. Basarab’s words echoed in Quincey’s memory as clearly as if he were standing beside him. Quincey could not fail him. As Deane started to move toward the backstage door, he leapt onto the stage and blocked his path. Deane started back, surprised by Quincey’s speed.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Basarab does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “I have a lot riding on this,” Deane said. “I’m not going to let Stoker ruin it.” He put his hand out to push Quincey aside, but the younger man stood firm. Deane was taken aback. The argument backstage intensified.

  “Out of my way!” Deane cried. In his fury, his gentlemanly demeanor had vanished. He moved to force his way past Quincey.

  “I’m sorry, but I must insist,” Quincey said. He put out a hand to stop Deane.

  Although the touch was light, Deane was thrown completely off balance. He flew back, and fell flat on his back in the middle of the stage. Quincey saw a flash of surprise and fear on Deane’s face. He scuttled back along the floor and picked himself up. Deane flashed Quincey a glare and retreated off the stage.

  Quincey could only watch, bewildered. I barely touched him. He looked at his hands, disgusted by his ow
n actions. It was now Quincey who was afraid . . . of himself. Was this the man that Basarab wanted him to become?

  Stoker kicked the desk, shoving the chair back and throwing Basarab’s hand off his shoulders. He swung the chair around. “I don’t care who you are. Do you think you can intimidate me into granting you this role?”

  Basarab ignored the question. “You are a fool and your writing is reprehensible. Your Dracula walks about in daylight. You falsely accuse him of murdering Lucy Westenra’s sick and elderly mother and feeding a live infant to his brides. You call him a count when he was a prince. This is an insult to my nation.”

  “Your nation is still in the Dark Ages. I’m not sure if the average Romanian can even read.”

  Basarab’s eyes flashed. He slammed the yellow-jacketed book on the desk. The whole room seemed to shake. “You write casually of things you do not understand or believe, of people you have never met. You are a talentless oaf.”

  Stoker stammered, “I will not defend myself to you. Dracula is merely a character in a story born out of my own head.”

  “If Prince Dracula is such a villain, why did he allow Harker to live when he had him captive at his castle?”

  “You speak of these things as if they were true events,” Stoker said.

  “If you had bothered to check with the harbormaster at Whitby, you would have discovered that a ship named the Demeter crashed upon the rocks during a storm in 1888, not 1897, as you claim in your book.”

  Stoker needed to end this, and end this now. He rose up into Basarab’s face. “I demand you leave—”

  “The crew of that ship died of plague brought on by rats,” Basarab interrupted. “They went mad, killing one another. There was no hapless dog, and not a single throat was torn out, as you had written, by a savage claw.”

  Stoker’s left eye twitched in anger. He prayed it would go unnoticed as he pointed at the door. “Immediately.”