The Infernal Express

by Josh Reynolds

  Ruthven’s arm was around Harker’s neck a moment later. He hauled her off of her feet and said, “Cease this childish display, girl. You might be a match for toothless yokels like that fool who haunted Croglin Grange, but we are your betters. Even your damnable father could not have defeated us.”

  “Steady on, Ruthven,” Elizabeth said. “Weren’t you the one calling him a hero, just a few short days ago?”

  “That was before I learned what he was up to,” Ruthven snapped. He shoved Harker into Elizabeth’s hands and glared at her. “Why are you here? What are you up to?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Harker said, struggling against Elizabeth’s grip. The vampire might look like someone’s plump aunt, but she was possessed of a hideous strength, far greater than Harker’s own.

  “Let me have her,” the raven-haired woman snarled. “I’ll make her talk.”

  “Calm yourself Sarah,” Elizabeth said, not looking at the other vampire as she spun Harker about. “No reason to start a fuss, surely. We’re all quite civilized here, I think.” She smiled, the very picture of jolly good humor, and lifted Harker’s chin with a finger. “Isn’t that so, dear?”

  “Not even remotely,” Harker said, as she booted the vampire in the stomach. Elizabeth’s eyes bulged and she stumbled back with a whooping gasp. Harker shoved her back and stood, surrounded by three of the deadliest vampires in all of England.

  She smiled and cracked her knuckles. “Well…come on then, you jobsworths. Some of us have things to do.”

  Dracula.

  The name shivered through St. Cyprian’s mind, smashing aside all certainties, quips and jests. It was a single black thought, impossible to deny or ignore. He had demanded the name, and Dracula had obliged, with all the vigor of the Morningstar himself. He had called, and the Devil had come for his due.

  He was on his knees, trapped in a swirling dust-devil of ash and bone fragments. The latter cut and slashed at him like ravenous insects, as if seeking to burrow into his flesh. The mangled skull clung to his hand like an anchor, holding him in place, unable to escape.

  He couldn’t breathe. He was caught up in a hot wind that seemed to swirl up from below. Only it wasn’t truly wind, but the thunder of distant wings, coming closer. Vast stakes cracked through the floor and thrust upwards around him, nearly knocking him from his feet. Bodies dangled from their grisly lengths, twitching and wailing loud enough to drown out his thoughts. His bones reverberated with the cacophony as red furred bats fluttered in massive colonies through the forest of pain, feeding on the bodies of the dying. Then, the woeful din was pierced by the clangor of battle—not the crack of gunfire, but the clash of steel—and the screams of horses and men.

  His gaze was drawn past the stakes. He could see men raising their victims on freshly cut poles. Their blood ran down the grooves in the wood and across the ground. So much blood, enough to drown the world beneath red waves and crimson tides.

  A horse grunted, and St. Cyprian turned. The man, thick of neck and stocky, looked down at him, full-lipped mouth twisted in a smile beneath long mustaches. A thin nose sprouted beneath two close-set dark eyes. St. Cyprian stared into those eyes, unable to look away. He could hear the wings, much louder now, sweeping towards him through air redolent with the screams of the damned. The rider leaned over his saddle. His face grew fat, spreading and puffing. The hair receded over ears that grew long and wide. The eyes grew larger. The nose bent up and became flat and flared like a leaf.

  A moment later, the horse screamed as the great red bat buried its mouth into its neck, and began guzzling the blood that gushed forth. The horse toppled and lay feebly kicking in the snow as the bat enfolded it in its wings. It looked up at him, tongue brushing over its wrinkled dark lips. Then, with a shriek, it sprang at him.

  Youuu aaare miiine.

  The voice was gloating, and then it was screaming as the red was suddenly driven back by the white. The red mist was seared into nothing by the growing light. “No, you shall not have him, old devil,” Andre thundered. Limned by the light, he held up his hands, fingers crooked, and shouted, “In the name of Baktiotha, the Great One, who is Most Trustworthy, the One Who is Lord over the forty and nine kinds of serpents, He Who Dwells In the Shadow of Koth, I compel thee to release him who thou hast harmed.”

  St. Cyprian heard a frustrated scream and felt the pain lessen. The skull’s grip loosened and he tore it from his hand with a convulsive motion. He sent it tumbling across the floor, and cradled his bloody hand to his chest. The swirling fragments of bone and ash fell to the floor as the light grew blinding, and then faded, leaving him blinking spots from his eyes. “Charles, are you…?” Andre said, rushing to his side.

  “I feel a bloody fool, but I’m fine Andre,” St. Cyprian said. He whipped his handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his hand. It quickly became soaked through with blood. “You don’t happen to have a such thing as a first aid kit about, perchance?”

  “What the bloody hell happened?” Gallowglass said, stepping over the protective circle, as the last of the red mist seeped away. She had her revolver in hand, and her eyes were wide. She grabbed his wounded hand and looked at it. “Bleeding nora, it did you a turn,” she murmured.

  He winced and pulled his hand out of her grip. “A fair price for hubris, I’d say. I made an assumption, assistant-mine, and I paid for it.” He looked at Andre. “Thank you, Andre. I shudder to think what that…creature’s endgame was.”

  “The blood is the life,” Andre said grimly. “I have a first aid kit on my shelf. I will retrieve it and—”

  The remainder of his statement was interrupted by a crash, as the conservatory windows erupted in black-clad figures. There were at least a dozen of them. They were clad in black robes, mask-like hoods and black-stained chainmail, and they wielded a wide variety of archaic weaponry—swords, axes, morningstars—with murderous intent. They smashed through the windows and clambered into the conservatory, then charged towards St. Cyprian and the others. Gallowglass cursed and grabbed St. Cyprian’s collar, jerking him back, out of the way, as she fired her Webley-Fosbery.

  One of the interlopers went down, punched off of his feet by Gallowglass’ shot. The pain in his hand momentarily forgotten, St. Cyprian clawed for the Bulldog in his coat pocket, even as another charged towards him, sword raised for a killing blow. He fired the revolver without removing it from his pocket as his attacker bore down on him, having no time to extricate it. The man staggered, but kept coming.

  St. Cyprian rolled aside as the blade hammered down, embedding itself in the floor. Desperate, he kicked out and caught its wielder in the belly, knocking him back. The man lost his grip on his sword as he stumbled back, and St. Cyprian lunged for it. He grunted in pain as he caught the hilt in both hands and wrenched it free of the floor.

  Before his would-be killer could react, St. Cyprian whirled the blade up and out, sending its tip licking across the man’s throat. Black cloth tore, and blood gushed as the body fell. St. Cyprian heard Gallowglass shout and turned just in time to parry the bite of an axe. He backed away, until his back touched Gallowglass’, and he glanced at her. She was reloading her revolver briskly, and her grin was ebullient. “Berries, innit?” she chortled, as she snapped the Webley shut.

  “I have no idea what that means,” St. Cyprian said, as the intruder with the axe sidled towards him, weapon raised. Gallowglass made a disgusted sound, but didn’t reply. A swordsman lunged for her, and her pistol barked. St. Cyprian lost sight of her as his opponent came for him again, axe looping out towards his head. He swatted the axe aside, and nearly dropped his sword as his hand spasmed in pain. Blood was slick on the hilt, and he felt lightheaded. He sought out Andre, and saw him wrestling with one of their attackers.

  The latter tried to stab du Nord with the spear he was carrying, only for the occultist to catch hold of the weapon just behind its head. They surged back and forth, the spear caught between them. St. Cyprian called out, “Andr
e! I do believe that the situation calls for reinforcements.”

  Andre booted his opponent in the belly and tore the spear from his grasp. Spinning it about, he clubbed the man off of his feet. With a great cry, he drove the weapon point-first into the floor. Then, speaking a dialect of French which had gone out of fashion with the Merovingians, he spread his hands wide, as if welcoming guests into his home. Black-clad killers converged on him, but before they could reach him, pale strands of mist began to creep up from between the floor boards. The strands wove about the men in black, gripping them like coiling snakes or clawing hands. Some broke free and fled back out into the night, running as if their lives depended on it. Others were not so lucky.

  These began to scream and thrash, but their weapons did nothing, passing harmlessly through the wispy limbs which caught and clutched at them. St. Cyprian pushed Gallowglass back, away, as their foes were snared and pulled away, out of the room. Useless weapons fell to the floor, forgotten, as the pale shapes solidified, revealing tattered features and hollow eyes. Men and women, clad in lace and steel, bearing cockades and periwigs, furs and Roman robes, surrounded the intruders. No sound came from them, but their mouths were open impossibly wide and they clung to their struggling captives like leeches.

  Andre continued to speak, his words practically tripping over one another as he held his hands extended. Sweat rolled down his face, and his eyes were wide and staring as he watched the ghosts roll over those who remained like a wave. After a moment, St. Cyprian looked away. He met Gallowglass’ confused gaze and said, “Andre’s family has always had something of a way with the dead. When a du Nord calls, the dead come.”

  The last of the remaining invaders fell, then. His body slumped with a rattle of chainmail and he made a noise like air being let out of a balloon. The ghosts hunched over the pile of bodies for a moment more, looking for all the world like feasting jackals. Then, one by one, they began to fray and fade, before finally stretching into nothingness, leaving behind only the withered remains of their meal.

  “No wonder you wanted his help,” Gallowglass murmured.

  9.

  Rue d’Auseil, 5th Arrondissement, Paris

  “Well?” Harker said, looking at the vampires. “Come on then.” She reached for the pocket of her coat, where the solid weight of a Colt M1911 .45 calibre pistol rested. It had been a gift from an ardent American admirer, though one she rarely used. Her speed and strength were often weapon enough, but against the three monsters now confronting her, she needed every advantage. “Come and have a go,” she said, more loudly.

  “No need for that, I think,” Ruthven said. He spread his hands. “One must assume that you are, in fact, here for the same reasons we are, half-breed. That is the only reason I can think of that you might be outside of your bailiwick.” He waited for half a beat and then said, “You felt it, of course.”

  Harker nodded tersely. “So did you,” she said.

  “Oh quite. And even if I hadn’t, well, those chaps in the black chainmail would have tipped me off. I know them of old, the cheeky monkeys. The Fraternatis Draconem,” Ruthven said. “Sometimes known simply as the Order of the Dragon. Himself’s old playmates, as I’m sure you well know,” he continued, glancing slyly at Harker. “They can feel him stirring in the dark, and they come scuttling like roaches to the feast. Loyal knights, answering the call of their king. Come to rescue him from his captivity.”

  “How did they know where he was?” Harker said, before she could stop herself.

  “Simple—someone told them.” Ruthven hesitated. “And, I suspect, told others as well. Not all of the attempts on Dracula’s resting place were made by the Order. We are not alone in wanting to lay hands on the old monster—there are others…the White Russians, the Turks, even the heathen Chinese, who would seek to utilize those moldering bones for their own ends. Dracula is a weapon like no other.”

  “And you know this how?” Harker said, watching warily as Elizabeth climbed to her feet. Sarah joined her, and they circled Harker, watching her. Ruthven smiled.

  “I had it from the horse’s mouth, as it were. Over the course of a few pleasant hours.” He shrugged. “They’ll find his body floating in Cheapside before long, I wager.” He gestured sharply. “You see? We’re on the same side, my girl. Neither your detestable band of fearless vampire killers, or our own folk, wish to see Dracula return to the stage. Why fight, when we can pool our strengths and be finished with this vile business soonest?”

  Harker laughed. “Do you think I’m a fool, Ruthven?” She pointed at him. “You ask why not? Because I know you.” She turned slightly, trying to keep the other two vampires in sight. “I know all of you, even as I know him, though I never met him. You lie with every breath, and your presence breeds falsehood like rot breeds flies. You may not want him back yet, but one day you might—and I will not take that chance!”

  With that, she spun, drawing the automatic from her coat as she turned. She fired, catching Sarah in the gut as the vampire lunged for her. She sidestepped Sarah’s falling body and fired again, tracking Elizabeth as she leapt into the air. The vampire seemed to swim upwards, until she disappeared into the dark above the rooftops. Harker’s foot flashed down, trapping Sarah’s neck and pinning the vampire to the street, even as she twisted to meet Ruthven’s charge.

  Or she would have, had he done so. Instead, the vampire hadn’t moved. He merely watched her, a slight smirk on his pale, boyish features. She leveled her pistol at him, and waited. His nose wrinkled. “Garlic, mayhap? A dash of silver, perchance?” he asked. “None of that bothers me, you know.”

  “Glastonbury thorn,” Harker said, bluntly. Sarah writhed beneath her foot, snarling and whining as foul smelling smoke oozed from the bullet wounds in her belly.

  Ruthven frowned. “Hmp. However did you get your hands on that?”

  “As you said…fearless vampire killers,” Harker said. “You’re old, Ruthven, older than your name and older than London, maybe, but age doesn’t bring wisdom. Not for your kind. You shall not get your claws on him. I will see to it. Dracula is dead, and he shall not return, not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “And what makes you think you do, child?” Elizabeth’s voice echoed down from above. Whether she was hovering, or clinging to the rooftops like some great lizard, Harker couldn’t guess. “What makes you think you are anything more than an infant grabbing at shadows?”

  “Quiet,” Harker snapped. She peered down the length of the barrel at Ruthven, trying to formulate her next move. Before she came to any conclusions, however, she saw several black-clad shapes burst out from the thin passage between houses, running as if all the devils of Hell were pursuing them. She jerked aside as the men ran across the street, heading for the cars they’d only recently vacated. Sarah took the opportunity to weasel out from under her foot, and then Ruthven was speeding across the distance between them, his fingers snapping closed on the barrel of her pistol.

  Ruthven caught at her throat, and she twisted aside, driving her shoulder into his gut. He stumbled, and she tore her pistol free of his grip. Before he could fly at her again, she had the gun pointed at him. He smiled. “Truce?”

  Harker glanced over her shoulder and saw Elizabeth and Sarah nearby. She lifted her pistol and stepped back. “You can feel it, can’t you? Whatever sent those bully-boys running is worse than any of us,” she said.

  “Necromancy,” Sarah spat. Vampires, Harker knew, had an innate disgust of such crypt magics. What harmed the dead could just as easily harm a vampire, given their state of half-life.

  “Of a sort,” Ruthven murmured, straightening the hang of his coat. “But you are right. Perhaps it would be best to quit the field and start anew on another day.” He bowed shallowly and stepped back, hands spread. “No sense risking oneself, when it’s clear that chance is not in our favor, eh ladies?”

  “I, for one, was looking forward to riding on the Orient Express,” Elizabeth said, hooking Sarah’s arm. “Perh
aps we’ll meet again, girl. If you ever fancy a game of Whist, do look me up.”

  The vampires were gone a moment later, as surely as if they had never been and Harker was left alone. She looked at the house, considering. Then, with a hiss of annoyance, she started towards the alleyway. There was no profit to be had in playing the shadow any longer. If the vampire state was involved, then things had become far more complicated than she and the Westenra Fund had suspected.

  Not to mention far more dangerous.

  Gallowglass cursed softly and shook her head as St. Cyprian pulled the cowl from one of the dead men, to reveal a face like that of a man who’d been dead and sealed in an airless tomb for centuries. “I thought they were human?” she asked.

  “They were, until Andre’s watchdogs got hold of them,” St. Cyprian said, making a face. He had no doubt that the other bodies were in similar condition. It wasn’t a pleasant way to go, being drained of your vital fluids and energies. He flexed his injured hand, now securely wrapped in bandages thanks to Gallowglass’ less than tender ministrations.

  “The dead grow hungrier every year,” Andre said, as he collapsed into the chair Gallowglass had vacated. “And every year, there are more of them. Paris is awash in ghosts, all of them longing for but the merest sip of warmth,” he continued, hollowly, as he looked at his hands. St. Cyprian studied him, noting how pale he was, and the circles that had blossomed beneath his eyes.

  “You had no choice, old friend. We would have been killed otherwise,” he said. “The question I have is, who are they, and why were they after us?”

  “I should have thought that would be obvious,” a new voice intruded. Broken glass crunched beneath a light step, as a pale woman stepped through a broken window into the conservatory, a pistol in hand. Gallowglass stepped forward, her own weapon raised, and for a moment, the two women stared at one another over the barrels of their respective pistols. St. Cyprian blinked, momentarily befuddled.