He turned away from his books, and looked at the sword. He looked at Hertz, and nodded sharply. Sorcery had failed. Subtlety had failed. Now, the Order of the Dragon would ride out. And Hell would follow with them.
Ruthven sat in a lumpy chair in the grimy flat in the Latin Quarter, and watched as flies began to gather on the dead man’s eyes. Sarah and Elizabeth sat nearby. They had all fed, and well. Sarah had even managed to pry the bullets out of her sternum, with the aid of a knife. Now, as morning crept on, his two companions grew sluggish.
“Who were they?” Elizabeth asked, drowsily.
“Bolsheviks, I believe. Or agents of that lot, at the very least,” Ruthven said. “They were planning to snatch Dracula’s remains at the train station, come today, according to that one.” He flicked a finger to one of the bodies, more bloody than the others. “He was watching our pigeons as they got off the train, and made to follow them. While you two followed Harker, I followed him.” He frowned. It hadn’t taken him long to break the man, and find out where his companions were staying. “Though what that bunch of anarchists would do with the bones of Dracula, I have no clue.”
“Perhaps they merely wished to see that others do not possess them,” Sarah said, idly licking her bloodstained fingers. Some of it was hers, most was not. She had been hungry, and had ravened among the astonished Bolsheviks like a wolf among sheep. “Liatoukine would know, the filthy Cossack. We should ask him.”
“Alas, we must wait until we reach Budapest for that,” Ruthven said. He glanced at the window and winced. The sun didn’t bother him as much as some, but it still wasn’t pleasant. The blinds had been drawn, but even so, thin lines of light crept across the floor. “And in any event, he is seeing to the clearing of the game board from his end. Budapest is rife with factions, and Liatoukine is good at playing them all against one another.” He pulled a pocket watch from his vest and opened it. “I have made arrangements for your trunks to be taken to the station, and loaded in the baggage compartment while you both sleep. In the meantime, I shall keep watch on our pretty prey.”
“Harker, you mean,” Elizabeth said, with a yawn. Like Ruthven, she could withstand the sun, but she required some rest in her home soil, as did Sarah. That soil now occupied their trunks. Ruthven required only the kiss of Hecate, and the sweet nectar of the moonlight to revivify him.
“Quite,” Ruthven said. He pressed his fingers together and stared at the corpses. Even now, the memory of the taste of their blood faded, and the old hunger rose wild in him. A bit of flesh, perhaps, to satiate his inner demon. “The half-breed has likely already made common cause with the Royal Occultist.”
“Such a sweet lad,” Elizabeth said, smiling slightly.
“He is dangerous,” Sarah said. “Couldn’t you feel it? Like a fire, threatening to spread out of control.” She clenched her hands until her knuckles popped. “We should have dealt with him on the ferry.”
“No,” Ruthven said, though privately he agreed. He’d faced one of that lot, once before, and had no wish to do so again. “He would have destroyed you both, or Harker would have. She was likely on the ferry as well, remember? She’d have been at your back the minute you went for his throat.”
“She’s nothing—a filthy mongrel!” Sarah snarled. The scars on her pale throat flushed purple, and her lips peeled back from stained teeth.
“She is indeed a mongrel, but hardly nothing,” Ruthven said. “We could kill her, but it would take time and effort I am loathe to spare.”
“Coward,” Sarah hissed.
“Possibly. Then, I’m not the one with the marks of the gallows on my neck, am I? Better caution than courage, any day,” Ruthven said serenely. He’d had centuries in which to learn how to hide the rage which boiled up in him at her tone. Barbarians like Sarah Kenyon would never understand such control; how a creature like her had survived so long would never cease to puzzle him.
Elizabeth laid a hand on the other vampire’s arm, calming her. “That was unkind, Ruthven. Sarah is a simple soul, at heart. From a more innocent time. Not like us.”
“No? How old do you think I am, my dear?”
“Older than the hills, but younger than the seas, ducks,” Elizabeth said, smiling prettily. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t compare years with you. A woman’s privilege, and all that…you know, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” he said. “We will wait until the Cossack and the others join us, and then we will be six and we will take them. Until then, Sarah, you may content yourself with the slaughter of the…unnecessary complications.” He gestured to the bodies on the floor. “There will be more, I assure you. Dracula might be dead, but he is a beacon none the less, and there are more sorcerers in the world than simply the Royal Occultist. Others besides those mortal lapdogs of Dracula’s will seek to deal themselves in, and we will cull them as they make themselves known.”
That was the will of Sepulchre, and of the Countess Zaleska. Dracula was to be returned to the city of black jasper and tolling bells, there to be interred in stone and silence forever. His madness could not be allowed to endanger the city or its people any longer. The world had changed, become more dangerous for their people, and was slowly returning to sanity. Only now, with the memory of artillery fire receding into the recent past, could mortals forget the horrors that had been stirred by the drums of war.
“And what about the Order, hmm?” Elizabeth said.
“They have had their chance.” Ruthven smiled. “This is a game for immortals, and I’ll deign to give not an ounce of mercy to those mayflies who seek to interfere.”
11.
In the darkness, something that stank of blood and rot flapped leather wings. St. Cyprian ran through a forest, his breath harsh in his ears. It was raining, and it was hard to maintain his balance. He was frightened. More frightened than he had ever been. Terrified, gripped by something he could not name.
He could feel its breath, burning the skin on the back of his neck as he ran. The thunderous crack of its wings deafened him, and the rain got in his eyes. He moved by touch, and by smell. The trees were smooth and round and regular and he wove through them, water and mud squishing beneath his feet. He wondered how it could fly through the trees, how it could chase him.
The stink enveloped him. He gagged, looking up in terror. Faces looked down at him. Men, women, children. Faces locked in screams, jaws broken wide, eyes boiled to a creamy white. Bodies danced on the air as blood and worse things rolled down the smooth wood of the trees—no. Not trees. Stakes. St. Cyprian jerked back, falling, screaming.
No trees. Only stakes. A world of impaled bodies, dancing in a hot, black wind, their thin, shrill screams echoing down. St. Cyprian covered his ears, but was unable to close his eyes. Unable not to see. Blood rained down, splashing over him, and the world began to drown around him. Blood, as far as the eye could see—an ocean of gore.
Wings snapped. It hung above him, looking down, a face out of a nightmare, teeth like swords beneath eyes like rubies, leather wings pushing the wind down, buffeting him, driving him deeper into the blood that now lapped at his limbs.
St. Cyprian screamed.
His eyes snapped open. Heart thudding, he looked around wildly, not recognizing his surroundings. His hand ached abominably, and he clutched at it unconsciously as his eyes roamed around his compartment on one of the sleeper cars of the Orient Express. It was warm inside, thanks to a central heating system which ran from the engine. The walls and door were paneled with teak and mahogany inlays and the armchairs were covered in soft Spanish leather, embossed with gold.
As he tried to focus, hands reached for him out of the dark, a cloth reeking of chloroform clutched in one. He gave a strangled yell and kicked out, catching his would-be attacker in the belly. There was an exhalation of air, and a wheezy curse, followed by a crash as whoever it was stumbled over a piece of luggage. St. Cyprian jerked upright, nearly cracking his head on the bottom of the bed above, as he pulled his Bulldog from beneath his p
illow and cocked it.
“Stand and deliver,” he said hoarsely, aiming the pistol in the general direction of the intruder. The compartment was still dark, and his brain was still fogged with the shadows of the nightmare. He blinked rapidly, trying to fully wake up. “Wrong car, perhaps? If you back out now, we’ll call it even-stevens and say no more about it.”
A burst of rapid-fire French, mostly curses, filled the air as a knife suddenly flashed into sight. St. Cyprian shoved himself back and made ready to fire, when there was a rush of sound and a second shape caught up the first. There was a muffled crackle, and then a body collapsed over his legs, head the wrong way around. The knife stuck upright in his mattress, perilously close to his thigh.
“Well, quieter than a gunshot I suppose,” he said, after clearing his throat. He uncocked the revolver and set it back under his pillow.
“A thank you would be nice,” Harker said, staring down at him with distaste. She flexed her fingers, and he repressed a shudder. She’d snapped his attacker’s neck with a brief flex of those cruel digits. He wondered for a moment, how much of her father was in her, and was glad it wasn’t as much as it might have been.
“Thank you,” he said, extricating his legs. “Where’s Gallowglass?”
“Hunting the others,” Harker said, grabbing the back of the dead man’s coat. “We noticed them lingering in the corridors. The others were heading for the rear baggage car, likely to see if you stowed the bones back there. You didn’t, did you?”
“No,” he said. He didn’t elaborate.
Harker hefted the body one-handed, once again displaying the sheer, inhuman strength that was her birthright. She lugged it to the window and opened it, letting in a shrill wind, and the clackaclacka of wheels on track. With a grunt, she snapped the body’s spine, and shoved it out the window as if it were a sack of refuse. Some wild beast was going to have a fine meal, he supposed.
“Who was he? Do you know?”
“No,” she said, as she closed the window.
“He spoke French.”
“Paris is full of men who can be had for some small amount of money. Likely the Russians,” she said, in an offhand manner. “Or even whatever is left of the Kaiser’s secret service. We just left Munich, after all.”
“Did we?” he asked, bewildered. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Hours,” she said. She looked at the window. “It could have been the Bavarian Illuminati,” she mused.
“Wonderful,” he said. He cradled his head in his hands. His body ached. He wondered if he was getting sick. He looked at his hand, and saw that the bandages were stained slightly pink. A tremor of pain ran up his arm and set of sparks behind his eyes. “Is there anyone who doesn’t want these blasted bones?”
“Two less now,” Gallowglass said, as she stepped into the berth. She closed the door behind her. There were spots of red on her trousers and coat, the only sign that something untoward might have happened.
“Three,” Harker corrected, holding up a finger.
“You killed them,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Gallowglass shrugged.
“They might be dead,” she said. “I pummelled them a bit and showed them the door.” She clapped her hands together, as if cleaning them. “Cursed like blooming sailors, as they went.”
“French?” he asked.
“Polish, and Belgian,” Gallowglass said. “Here, your hand is bleeding again.” She pushed towards him and reached for his hand. He winced as she caught it and began to expertly unwind the bandages. She looked at Harker. “Make yourself useful and get that kit du Nord gave us.”
Harker stared at the bloody bandages, her nostrils flaring. Gallowglass uprooted the knife that was still sticking out of the mattress and pointed it at the other woman. “Get the bandages and stop standing around like a dumb dora, hey?” she said, gesturing with the knife. Harker blinked.
“What did you just call me?”
“You heard me.” Gallowglass looked down the length of the knife. “First cut goes across your bangs, second spills your pipes if you don’t get that look off your face. Get the kit, chickie,” she said quietly, menace bleeding from every word.
Harker opened her mouth, closed it, and turned to look for the kit. St. Cyprian said nothing. In a way, he was flattered. Not every chap that had the ladies fighting over him. Granted, it wasn’t exactly the way he might have hoped, but he was flattered all the same. Gallowglass saw his smile and dug a thumbnail into his palm, eliciting a yelp. “What are you grinning about?” she growled.
“Nothing, nurse,” he said. Then, more softly, “Harker says we’ve passed Strasbourg. You should have woken me.”
“You were out,” Gallowglass said, not looking at him. “Think that argy-bargy on the ferry wore you out more than you expected?”
“That’s not it and you both know it,” Harker said, handing Gallowglass the little tin medical kit du Nord had gifted them before they left Paris. “It’s that mark on your hand. Dracula’s mark.”
“It’s not infected,” Gallowglass said. “He just keeps pulling it open.” She glared at St. Cyprian. “Should have let me stitch it.” She opened the kit and pulled out a jar of salve. Du Nord had sworn that it would keep any infection at bay, and it stung like the blazes as Gallowglass smeared it on his hand.
“It’s nothing that won’t heal by itself,” he said, wincing. “I feel fine. Bit groggy, but travel does that to me. Never been a fan of it, always puts me at sixes and sevens.” He looked at Harker. “So, aside from multinational mercenaries, anything else I should be aware of?”
She hesitated, and he smiled. She was still hiding something. There was no reason to make an issue of it just yet.
Gallowglass finished bandaging his hand and he stood. He could feel the vibrations of the train through his feet, and he sighed. It was a constant, numbing rhythm, enough to lull even the most paranoid mind into a dull paths. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, to keep his eyes closed until Istanbul. He glanced at the window, but not for too long.
This part of Europe, like much of the rest of it, had suffered terribly during the War. Fires had burned the fields to bare soil, and artillery had cracked ancient structures, which had outlived kings and emperors. Strasbourg had been traded between the French and the Germans, and had occupied a pivotal point in the Allied defenses. The old fortifications which ringed the city had been used both in battle, and then, later, as prison camps. He shivered slightly, recalling those camps, and the horrible things he’d faced in one of them, in the months after Carnacki’s death.
A sudden twinge of pain caused him to look down at his hand. Red was already creeping across the white of the bandages, and he thought of the blood lapping at his legs. An ocean of gore. He made a fist, and winced. He noticed Gallowglass staring at him, and he smiled weakly. “Bad memories,” he said. He gestured to the window. “Where to next? Munich, wasn’t it?”
“Munich, then Vienna,” Harker said. St. Cyprian was pale and sweating, like a man with fever. She looked at Gallowglass. “When was the last time he ate?”
Gallowglass made a face. “Too long.”
“Now that you mention it, I am a bit peckish,” he said, patting his stomach. “Shall we adjourn to the dining car?”
“You go,” Gallowglass said. “I’m going to check on our baggage.” She poked Harker in the chest. “Watch him, dora.”
Harker resisted the urge to rip the smaller woman’s finger off and smiled prettily. “My name’s not dora, ragamuffin,” she said, with forced gaiety. Gallowglass snorted and left the compartment. St. Cyprian smiled.
“You’ll have to forgive her. She doesn’t play well with others.”
“Nor do I,” Harker said. She gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
“Après vous,” he said. She sniffed and led the way. He was polite, at least.
As they moved through the train, she kept a wary eye out for loiterers and out of place faces. Even at the best of times, this ro
ute was lousy with spies and worse things. The restaurant coach sat in the middle of the train, and they only had to traverse two other coaches to reach it, but more than once, she was forced to stop as St. Cyprian leaned against a wall, whey-faced and breathing wrong. Other passengers squeezed past them, and none of them seemed to notice that anything was amiss, but she could hear the rattle in his lungs and smell the poisons in his sweat. “I could bring you something,” she said, finally. “You could lunch in your compartment.”
“And miss out on the full Express d’Orient experience? Perish the thought,” he said. “I just need a good stiff drink is all. Something fortifying, what?” He rubbed his hand, as if it pained him. “Didn’t get much rest, all things considered.”
“Bad dreams?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Always. You?”
“I don’t sleep,” she said. She started forward again, and he followed after, wobbling slightly as the train juddered across a rough section of track.
“Must be quite boring, that,” he said. “I used to quite enjoy a good snooze, in my days of decadence. Popped down the seventy steps to plumb the deepest vales of slumber, what? Nowadays can’t get more than twenty or thirty down before the birds are chirping, and I’m blinking bleary-eyed at Apollo’s chariot.” He looked at her. “Speaking of which, the sun doesn’t seem to bother you overly much.”
“It doesn’t bother me at all,” she said. “Neither does garlic, hawthorn or silver.”
“What does?”
“Questions,” she said. “Here we are.” The restaurant coach was large, though not especially spacious, with tables on either side. They took a small table near the window, one of the few not already occupied. The crowd was the usual spillage from the salon car—an opera singer of some note was holding court in a circle of admirers, and a group of minor diplomats from a dozen different countries, including Graustark, had confiscated a table for an impromptu game of poker.
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