European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman (The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club Book 2)

by Theodora Goss

  “Yes, ma’am!” said Catherine. “You know, I’d forgotten how annoying you can be.”

  “You too, but I’m glad to see you and Beatrice all the same. Honestly, I feel much better about all of this now that we’re together again. As Beatrice once said back in London, we’re stronger together than apart. As long as we don’t kill each other, that is.”

  “Agreed. And we really were afraid the three of you had simply vanished into thin air. Disappearing without a trace like that! What were you thinking?”

  “Well, it wasn’t our fault,” said Mary. “Kidnapped, remember? Kidnapped means we didn’t have a say in where we were going.”

  “Miss Jekyll, Miss Moreau, if you are ready?” The Count was waiting to hand them in to the brougham.

  “After you, Miss Moreau,” said Mary, trying to sound as much like Lady Tibbett as she could. Catherine rolled her eyes again.

  Yesterday, she had walked through the back streets of Budapest. Today, she was driving along grand boulevards, with ornate buildings on both sides. The areas Mary had seen so far had been smaller, more modest, but this part of Budapest was as spectacular as Vienna.

  “What in the world are those?” asked Catherine.

  Mary, who was sitting in the middle, leaned forward and looked where Catherine was pointing. What were those indeed? They looked like individual train cars moving along a set of tracks down the middle of the avenue. It was—it must be— “A tram system,” said Mary. “But there are no horses moving the trams. How do they run?”

  “On electricity,” said the Count. “There is a cable under the street that delivers electricity to the cars, so they appear to run as though by magic! Although of course it is science.”

  “We don’t have such a system in London,” said Mary.

  The Count smiled. “When I was in England, I noticed that Englishmen generally assume the east is uncivilized, incapable of technological innovation. But you see it is not so. We have innovations here in Hungary that you do not have in your country. When Jonathan Harker came to Transylvania, he noticed the peasants in colorful garments. He did not notice our up-to-date farming equipment or advanced irrigation techniques.”

  Mary stared at the trams. How strange that they should share the street with carriages and carts! But no stranger, perhaps, than Carmilla’s motorcar driving through villages that had never seen such a contraption before.

  “I’ve noticed that about England,” said Catherine. “When I wrote my first story—‘Astarte and the Spider God’ that was, which I’m now turning into a novel although I’ll probably have to call it something different—I created an Englishman, Rick Chambers, who thinks everything English is the best. Until he falls in love with Astarte, of course!”

  “Ah, Miss Moreau, I found your story delightful. Mina pointed it out to me in Lippincott’s Magazine. I particularly liked the portion where Rick Chambers tries to rescue Astarte from the spider-god, and she must rescue him!”

  “You read my story?” said Catherine. Her voice sounded curiously toneless.

  “Yes, and enjoyed it very much! I believe Mina saved that issue. Perhaps tonight you can autograph it for me?”

  Mary watched Catherine’s face slowly flush. Goodness, who knew the Cat Woman could turn so red? She mumbled something that sounded like “sure” and then stared resolutely out the window. Authors were certainly strange beasts! Shouldn’t she have been pleased by the compliment?

  But Catherine said nothing more until they arrived at the Café New York, alighted from the brougham, and walked through the front entrance. Then she said, “Oh. My. Word. What is this, some sort of temple to coffee?”

  Marble columns rose to high ceilings painted with classical scenes—there were a lot of cherubs. From the central hall, she could see two floors filled with small tables. At those tables sat men in suits, or sometimes military uniforms, and women in afternoon dresses, wearing hats with sweeping feathers, carrying beaded reticules. Chatter, cigarette smoke, waiters bustling to and fro—and gilding everywhere, casting a sort of golden haze around the customers so they looked as though they were sitting in an enchanted place, a Mount Olympus of coffee. The smells of coffee, cigarettes, perfume. Suddenly, Mary wondered what it smelled like to Catherine, with her cat’s nose.

  CATHERINE: Absolutely foul. How people can stand to stink up their environment in that way, I don’t know.

  It’s . . . a little overwhelming,” said Mary doubtfully.

  “Can I just curl up in a dark corner?” asked Catherine. “I don’t know how anyone can hear anything in this din.”

  “The Café New York opened several years ago,” said the Count—said or shouted, it was difficult to say which. “It is the most fashionable coffeehouse in Budapest, a place to see and be seen, as the English say. I do not come to such places myself, but this is where Leo asked to meet us.” He said something in rapid Hungarian to a passing waiter, who pointed him toward the back. “Come,” he said, gesturing for them to follow him. They made their way through that noise and spectacle. Mary was grateful that when they reached the back of the coffeehouse, it was a little quieter.

  “There,” said the Count, pointing. “But he is not alone.”

  At the table where he was pointing sat two men. One, the younger, must have been in his late thirties or early forties. He was exceptionally handsome in a way that would have made any woman turn to look at him on the street—as though the Apollo Belvedere had stepped off its pedestal and put on a modern suit. But there were the beginnings of lines over his forehead and under his eyes, and his hair, golden and curling, was peppered with gray. The other was perhaps twenty years older, and his opposite in every way—short, broad-chested, pugnacious-looking, with a heavy beard and a nose that had at one time been broken and healed badly. Whereas his companion was more attractive than most men, he could with justice have been called ugly—although in an arresting way that drew your eye. He was smoking a rather large pipe.

  “Hello, Dracula,” said the man with the golden hair. “You seem to have brought companions. Ladies?” He rose and bowed. At the same time, his companion rose just enough for politeness and nodded. He did, however, place his pipe in an ashtray.

  “Miss Jekyll, Miss Moreau,” said the Count, gesturing toward the Apollo, “this is Leo Vincey. And his companion, whom I did not expect to see here, is Professor Horace Holly of Cambridge University.”

  “Jekyll! Moreau!” exclaimed Professor Holly. “Then you’re the result of those damned experiments.”

  “Holly!” said Leo Vincey. “Where are your manners?”

  “Forgive me, ladies,” said the professor, although he did not sound particularly penitent. “I am, as Leo can tell you, deficient in the social graces. I must admit that as a scientific man, I am fascinated to meet you—particularly Miss Moreau. I have always felt that I myself am half ape—a throwback, an atavism, in some sense. It is delightful, therefore, to meet a young lady who is half cat. If it were not infernally rude, I would ask to study your physiognomy. . . .”

  “But it is, in fact, infernally rude,” said Vincey. “Dracula, fascinating as your companions may be, what I’m interested in is your message—what is this danger to Ayesha from Professor Van Helsing? And I may as well tell you that Van Helsing has preempted you—I received a message from him yesterday morning. He seems to think you’ve kidnapped his daughter from a mental institution. He says she has a persecution complex—believes her own father is turning her into a vampire. Evidently, she has inherited her mother’s mental instability. Is this true—have you indeed kidnapped Miss Van Helsing?”

  “It is most certainly not true!” said Mary. “He really was turning her into a vampire—or trying to, anyway! He and Dr. Seward have been conducting experiments in biological transmutation. Their goal is to revive the English branch of the Société des Alchimistes. Tell them, Catherine.”

  “If the society doesn’t vote to allow research into biological transmutation again, he intends to take ove
r the society,” said Catherine.

  “Take over? How? He doesn’t have the votes.” Vincey looked skeptical.

  “With an army of vampires that he controls through some sort of mesmerism,” said Mary. “At least, that’s what we think he’s doing. Arminius Vámbéry is helping him.”

  Vincey looked at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “My dear Miss Jekyll, that sounds like the plot of a penny dreadful. I don’t trust Van Helsing any farther than I can throw him, but he is a gentleman and a man of science. If you’ll forgive my asking, why should I trust him”—he pointed at the Count—“who has betrayed us in the past, and the two of you? Dracula may be manipulating you, or you may be manipulating him for all I know. I have no reason to trust the daughter of Dr. Jekyll—who, may I remind you, also betrayed the society, and whose whereabouts remain unknown—and the creature who killed Dr. Moreau. Have either of you actually seen this supposed army of vampires?”

  “No, but—,” said Mary.

  “And did you kidnap Lucinda Van Helsing from a mental institution where she was receiving treatment?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And is she indeed mad?”

  “Well yes. But—”

  “Then give me one reason why I should trust you or your preposterous story.”

  “Because we’re trying to help you!” Mary clenched her fists. She would have liked to punch Leo Vincey in that beautifully classical nose.

  “You should listen to them,” said Dracula. “You do not know what has been going on. Ayesha does not know—”

  “She knows a hell of a lot more than you do,” said Vincey. He stood up. “Holly, I think we’ve heard enough. As for you, Dracula, I suggest you restore Miss Van Helsing to her father, or place her in some institution where she can be cared for as she ought to be. Do not contact me or attempt to contact Ayesha again. Good day, ladies.”

  “Will you at least tell her?” asked Mary. “Tell the president . . . tell Ayesha what Van Helsing intends to do.”

  “I shall do nothing of the sort. She has a conference to run and a speech to write—she does not need to be bothered with nonsense.” Vincey pushed in his chair, said “Come, Holly,” and walked away from them toward the front of the café, weaving between the small tables. Professor Holly gave them one glance before following him.

  “Well, that went splendidly,” said Catherine.

  “We tried,” said the Count, shaking his head. “If they will not listen to us, what more can we do?”

  They did not say anything more until they were halfway home, when Catherine burst out, “Moreau deserved it, you know. What I did to him, he fully deserved.”

  Mary put her hand on Catherine’s and squeezed it once, in a way she hoped was reassuring, then continued to hold her hand as the brougham made its way back to Múzeum utca. What now? Perhaps when they got back to Dracula’s house, Justine and Carmilla would have returned with some news about this army of vampires.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  The Mysterious Abbey

  How many of them are vampires?” whispered Justine.

  “All the ones in the pews,” Carmilla whispered back. “I can smell them. But not, I think, the two by the altar. They are not yet infected.”

  Silently, Justine counted the men kneeling in the pews below. Twenty-four. All vampires, if Carmilla was right, and Justine suspected she was.

  This morning, Mr. Justin Frank and the dashing young Count Karnstein had left 5 Múzeum utca and made their way to the Abbey of Saint Ignatius—Szent Ignác in Hungarian, Carmilla had told her. As soon as they had left the house and were walking down the avenue toward the Danube, Carmilla said, “Would you prefer to speak in French? I know it is your native language. It was the language of the nobility, when I was a child.” Justine had nodded, and so their conversations had proceeded in that language. Despite the danger and difficulty of their errand, it made Justine happy to be conducting it in her mother tongue. She had so few opportunities to speak French in London!

  They had decided on male attire because if they were caught breaking into the abbey, they might be able to pass it off as a prank of some sort—young men did that sort of thing, did they not? Young women trying to get into an abbey filled with monks would arouse more suspicion.

  It had been easy getting into the abbey itself. They had found the small back gate and Justine had bent open the bars, then bent them closed again after they had passed through.

  “We need a vantage point from which we can get a general sense of what is going on,” Carmilla had said. Luckily, the stucco on the back of the bell tower was broken away in places. Using those as handholds, she could climb up to the belfry and let down the rope conveniently concealed around her waist, under Count Karnstein’s jacket. It was just after noon—no one seemed to be around. Perhaps the monks were eating their midday meal? Justine had climbed up the rope. In the belfry, beneath the great brass bell, they had waited. There were windows on each side. From there, they would be able to see anyone coming and going.

  They did not have long to wait. Sooner than Justine had expected, a line of monks filed out of the dormitory and made its way to the church below. Why now? As far as she knew, it was not one of the liturgical times for prayer. She crouched down so that only her head was above the windowsill—she did not want the monks to see her.

  “There are two men with them,” said Carmilla, who was crouched beside her. “I mean, men who are not monks.”

  Justine had not seen those, but then her eyesight was not as good as Carmilla’s. Now all the monks had filed into the church. In one corner of the belfry, there was a narrow stone staircase spiraling downward. Carmilla went to the staircase, disappeared down it for a moment, then reappeared and motioned for Justine to come as well. One spiral down, there was an aperture that allowed them to see what was happening below. They could see the monks, all but two of them, sitting in the pews. But those men in brown cassocks did not look particularly violent or vampiric, and she wondered whether Carmilla could be right—could her superior sense of smell really identify vampires at that distance? The other two were standing on either side of the altar as though waiting. For what?

  A side door opened, and in came a man who was obviously not a monk, because he was wearing an ordinary frock coat and trousers, although he had put some sort of chasuble over his garments. She recognized him at once from Catherine’s description the night before: “He looks like Father Christmas in modern dress.” So that was Professor Van Helsing! He had a white beard and a halo of white hair. From above, she could see the bald spot on the top of his head.

  After him walked another man—younger, trimmer. Was that Dr. Seward? He was clean-shaven, and Catherine had described Professor Vámbéry as having both a beard and mustache. Justine would have recognized Prendick from the last time she had seen him—administering ether to her on the terrible night when Adam had tried to replace her brain with that of another woman who would love him in a way Justine never could. She shook her head as though to drive the thought away—there was no time for that now. She must concentrate on what was happening below. The other man was most likely Seward. He was carrying the sort of ornate chalice used for communion.

  Now Van Helsing was standing at the altar. Seward, if it was he, placed the chalice in front of him, then stepped back toward the apse, leaned against one of the stone columns, and crossed his arms. For a moment, Van Helsing looked down at the chalice. Then, he raised his hands and started speaking—in German, so Justine could not understand all of it, particularly as it did not seem to make much sense. Rivers of blood—the day of atonement—feasting upon the heretics and blasphemers. His voice, which had the resonance of a frequent lecturer, echoed throughout the stone chancel. She looked at Carmilla, wondering if the Countess would have any clearer idea of what was going on than she did—after all, she spoke German. But Carmilla shrugged as though to say, I don’t know either.

  Van Helsing raised the chalice. He intoned something—wa
it, that was in Latin. The blood of our Lord—granted eternal life—take, drink. Those weren’t the words of the communion prayer! Or they were, but in the wrong order, saying the wrong things: no humility, no call to participate in the community of the church. They were all about eternal life, purchased through blood, granting glory forever and ever. Justine shivered—she had never had such a presentiment of evil. Not even Adam, who had murdered so many, had caused her to feel such a sense of dread. That any man should desecrate what was holy for his own purposes . . .

  Van Helsing’s oration ended. Now one by one, each of the monks in the pews rose, came up to the altar rail, and knelt on the cushion. Van Helsing went to each and held the chalice to his lips. As each drank, he looked that man deeply in the eyes and said something, too low for Justine to make out.

  “It’s not wine,” whispered Carmilla. “It’s blood. I can smell it even from here.”

  But somehow, Justine could have guessed that. It was all of a piece with this hideous mockery of the communion rite. Catherine had described to her how Moreau had perverted religion on his island. Here was Van Helsing doing it in the middle of a European capital.

  “Can you hear what he’s saying to them?” she whispered, but Carmilla shook her head.

  Twenty-two—twenty-three—twenty-four. Each of the monks drank, each returned to his place in the pews. Finally, Van Helsing spoke again in German. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, which is in you, now and forever. Amen.”

  Seward was still leaning against the column, watching casually, as though this were a theatrical performance and he were merely a spectator.

  Then, one by one, the monks in the pews filed out of the church, leaving only the two who had been standing on either side of the altar. They still stood there, hands tucked into their cassocks.