She caught sight of two familiar faces, at the rear of the coach and hid a frown. Elizabeth and Sarah sat, pretending to eat. Elizabeth chatted gaily with the passengers who shared their table, while Sarah glared about her, like a wolf chained among sheep. St. Cyprian sat down with a sigh, after pulling her chair out for her. After they had ordered, she said, “It is not healing.”
“What?”
“Your hand. It is not healing.”
He looked down at the limb in question and made a fist. “You’re a doctor then, on top of everything else?”
“No, but I can smell it. You are infected.” She said it bluntly. She wondered whether Ruthven’s two dogsbodies could smell the stink of Dracula on him as well. She was tempted to ask, if only to flummox them.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said. He set his hand down and reached into his coat. He withdrew a silver cigarette case and flipped it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. He offered it to her. She shook her head and he extracted one, set it between his lips. As he lit it, he said, “I was wounded in the War. Turned quite nasty.”
“This is not that sort of infection,” she said. She looked at his hand, and saw it twitch. The bandages were stained now, and his skin was pale.
“No it isn’t, is it?” he said, not looking at her. Their drinks arrived a moment later. He looked at his, and then at the tables around them. “It’s a wonder, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“This. All of it. A civilised repast, provided for you as you speed across a continent that was only at war just last year.” He hesitated. “That still is at war, in some places.” He looked at her. “What did you do, during the War?”
“Who says I did anything?” she said. Memories rose, of German zeppelins over London, raining fire down even as she hunted through the city for a sunken-eyed nightmare in a beaver-skin hat. Vampires everywhere had either been driven into hiding or into a killing frenzy by the wanton carnage of the war. Some had fought for one side or another, others had simply made nuisances of themselves, using the destruction as a cover for their own nocturnal predations.
“We all did something,” St. Cyprian said. “They had to change the height requirement, you know,” he added, after a moment. “For the army, I mean. Malnourished, your basic chap. Bad food, poor clothing, living in dingy row houses, crammed together like mice in a pot. Working themselves to death to fatten the wallets of us upper class parasites. Any wonder so many turn to Bolshevism, and the teachings of Marx?” He blew a plume of smoke into the air above Harker’s head. “Flirted with it myself, in halcyon days of yore, at Old College.” He smiled and flexed his bandaged fingers. “Towery city and branchy between towers, cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmed, lark-charmed, rook-racked, river-rounded, the dapple-eared lily below…” he recited. “Hopkins, donchaknow?”
Harker was unable to look away from his hand. She could almost see the strands of black poison growing and stretching beneath his skin. Dracula was as much a sickness as a monster. She could smell a reek, growing stronger the longer they travelled. He always comes back the old Dutchman had said, whenever he’d been the worse for gin.
He’d killed Dracula more than once, or so he’d claimed. He’d trapped him in a cage of hawthorn, and sunk him in the ice of the Dnieper. He’d staked the voivode, shot him and fed him to wild pigs, but Dracula always came back, rising out of the mists of time like a memory better forgotten. And every time he did, people—good people—died.
She wondered what she would do with him, when she had him. There were places she knew of where he might be safely interred. One, a monastery not far from Budapest, would be the easiest to reach. There was a holy pool there, or so it was said. She shook her head and asked, “And what happened? Why did you shed the dreams of Marx?”
“I learned that there were gradations of abomination,” he said, in a mild tone. “And that no matter how bad it is, it can always get worse.” He rubbed his hand unconsciously.
“That I can agree with,” Harker said. She looked out the window, examining not the world rushing past, but the reflection of the dining car. There were gaps in the crowd, where she knew the vampires sat, watching her, watching them. They would make no move until she did. She didn’t intend to be the first to break the Purfleet Accords.
“How many?” he said, softly.
She blinked. “What?”
“Vampires,” he said. He was looking out the window as well. “I’m not a complete fool, whatever your opinion of me. And I’m certainly not inobservant. I can feel them, watching us. Have felt them, since the ferry from Dover. The living aren’t the only ones with a vested interest in Dracula. So, how many?”
“One,” she said.
“One too many, if you ask me,” he said. “I’m surprised that they let us get this far.”
“They’re worried,” she said, without meaning to.
“About us, or about our friend in the valise?”
She hesitated. He nodded, as if she’d answered. “I thought so.”
“You don’t know as much as you think you do,” she said.
“I should say not. Your lot do so love your little games of death and deceit. I can’t count the number of times Morris or one of his ilk has sent me all but naked into the arena.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Secrets and lies, complicating already complicated situations.”
“You’re one to talk,” she said, more harshly than she’d intended. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I agree, for what it’s worth. But this is bigger than either of us.”
“Me, certainly. For you, however, it’s quite personal,” he said. He pointed his cigarette at her. “Tell me—are you really here because you were ordered to be, or because you can’t abide him getting out of your sight?”
He smiled as he spoke. It was a nice smile, full of warmth and humor, and she felt a flash of guilt. How long before that smile vanished, subsumed by the cruel leer which tormented her mother’s dreams. I should kill you now, before it’s too late, she thought.
Instead, she simply sat, and said nothing.
12.
Ruthven watched them, from his table in the corner. He’d followed them through the train, marking the compartment they’d come out of, but stayed well back and downwind. Harker shared many of his folk’s abilities, but he’d had centuries to learn how to hide from his fellow predators. He took the opportunity to study his opponents. Harker was a known quantity; she was the bound devil of the Godalming’s pestiferous cabal—a blunt object, wielded by barbaric hands. Strong, fast, determined, with all of her father’s arrogance. He smiled at the thought. What did you get from your mother, I wonder?
Charles St. Cyprian, on the other hand, was a cipher. Ruthven had matched wits with another to bear the title of Royal Occultist. That had been in the early days of Victoria’s reign, well before Dracula had decided to declare war on the British Empire. Aylmer Beamish had been a disreputable creature, long-lived and wily—a Byron in soul, if not in feature. There had been something of the Kindly Folk in that one, Ruthven suspected. St. Cyprian, fortunately, was all too human.
But it wouldn’t do to be too confident, he thought. Humans had bested Dracula, after all. Humans were very good at killing the things that wanted to kill them. So, he sat and watched, taking the measure of the man. As he did so, he noted the presence of Elizabeth and Sarah, both watching from the other end of the coach. Elizabeth blew him a kiss. He sighed as he realized that it had been for Harker’s benefit. The dhampir had seen him.
He raised his wine glass in Elizabeth’s direction. Thank you for that, my dear, he thought, not without annoyance. Sarah was a savage, but Elizabeth was cunning. She was neither as strong or as fast as her compatriots, but she was quicker of thought. Ruthven prided himself on his cunning, but even he was forced to admit, if only to himself, that she was his superior in that regard. Games within games…the only kind the citizens of Sepulchre knew how to play.
For a moment, he allowed himself t
o think of that great necropolis, its great domes of black jasper and white marble cloisters bathed in the silvery light of the moon. Soundless, motionless, breathless. He thought of the great porphyry tower of the Ageless Ones, standing erect at the city’s heart. It had been centuries since he had last set foot within it, and it would hopefully be centuries more, before he did so again.
Harker was speaking softly and quickly to her companion. St. Cyprian glanced his way, his face neutral. What do you see, when you look at me? Beamish had claimed that he could see the cinders of Ruthven’s soul, and he wondered if St. Cyprian saw the same. The Royal Occultist rose and left the coach, after finishing his drink. He did not look at Ruthven as he strode past. Harker made to follow him, but Ruthven thrust his leg across her path.
“I beg the pleasure of your company, my dear,” he said.
“You can take your pleasure and spin on it, Ruthven,” she said.
“Sit,” Ruthven said, more firmly. “Have a bite. This cheese is delightful.” He gestured. “Sit. We have much to discuss,” he said. Harker hesitated, but sat. He peered past her and smiled. “So, that was Carnacki’s successor. Handsome enough, I suppose. Sounds a bit of a blithering ass, though.”
“You’d know,” Harker said.
Ruthven pressed a hand to his chest. “Your insults do rip my heart in twain.” He took a sip of wine. “You can’t protect him, you know. There are three of us and one of you. And more besides…a dozen foreign agents, at least, from a variety of acronyms, servants of various cults, and worse things waiting.”
When Harker didn’t reply, Ruthven laughed softly. “Then, you’ve already dealt with a few of them, haven’t you? How many bodies litter the track, hmmm?”
“Not so many that a few more can’t be added,” she said. Her milky white hands were flat on the table. Ruthven reached out and carefully pulled the cutlery out of reach.
“Yes, well, it doesn’t have to come to that.” He speared a chunk of cheese with his knife and popped it into his mouth. One of his few pleasures in life was food. Unlike many of his kind, the pleasures of a mortal repast, albeit in moderation, were not denied him. As he chewed, he took note of a moustachioed Turk sitting near the door, watching him quite brazenly. The man was armed, and he stank of sorcery. The cheek of it, Ruthven thought, not without some anger.
The Janissaries were dangerous, even now on the back end of a disastrous war. And their long-nurtured enmity with Dracula was a sore point. They were all-too willing to spill blood to capture those bones. However, the Turk’s presence was an oddity, given the Royal Occultist’s ostensible mission. Perhaps they did not trust the English—or, more likely still, they wished to ensure that their prize reached its destination safely.
Ah my friend, you will be sore disappointed in that regard, he thought. He looked at Harker. “In Budapest, our numbers will grow further still, as will those of our competitors. Things come to a head, and it is in no one’s best interests that the remains of your departed pater reach Istanbul. The Janissaries cannot be trusted.”
“So I should—what? Turn them over to you?”
“Who better?” he said. “We both want the same thing, and I would hate to kill you, my dear. But rest assured, I will happily twist that pretty head right off if you continue on this course. Out of courtesy, I will give you until we reach Budapest. After that…well.” He smiled. “This is a game for true immortals, woman. Not for mere humans or half-breeds.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Ruthven,” Harker said, as she pushed her chair back and stood. “This isn’t a game at all.”
Ruthven watched her leave. He could smell the anger radiating off of her. Lovely, he thought, and popped another bit of cheese into his mouth.
Selim Berker watched the vampires talk, and knew that they knew that he was doing so. It did not bother him as much as it might once have. Just because the tiger could see him, did not mean that it was going to try for his throat. He was a Janissary, and beyond fear. So he sat, quietly, and observed.
Reverence and silence had been the first lessons he had learned, after swearing loyalty to his fellows on a tray containing salt, the Koran, and a sword. As a boy, he had learned the arts of the bow and blade, of the rifle and garrotte; and other, darker lessons as well. The harsh, growling language of Those Folk, and the ways of devils. He had hunted the hungry dead in the wilds of Greece, and burnt clean ancient ruins tainted by cosmic horror.
His was a select order, formed in 1526, amid the dead and dying at a place called Stregoicavar. In that place, the servants of Suleiman the Magnificent had met the very devil and thrown him back into the void. And from that day, they had done what was necessary to defend the empire from all those who sought its destruction.
But among the ranks of infamy, one abomination stood head and shoulders above the rest. One demon who returned again and again to plague them—Dracula. He had been their enemy in life as well as in death, and his ferocity had only grown with age.
That the English claimed to have killed him was nonsense. Dracula could not be killed, only contained. And the English could not contain him. Only those who knew him of old could keep his evil from escaping into the world. And at long last, the English agreed.
One good has come of the war, at least, he mused, as the English vampire stormed past him and out of the compartment. The empire had been partitioned by the victors, torn asunder, its bounty scattered amongst the unworthy. The National Movement was attempting to take what had once been only God’s to give, even as the British occupied Istanbul. Mustafa Kemal had fled, and the Bolsheviks were scheming to incite open war between the Nationalists and the Allies.
Selim smoothed his moustache. Such events were beyond his remit. Or, rather, beneath them. It did not matter to he or his brethren who ruled, only that they were allowed to do as they must. Case in point, he thought, and took a sip of his coffee. There were representatives from at least six factions on the train currently, not counting the English. Some had already been dealt with, either by himself or by the English. The vampires had done the same in Paris, but they were beasts and hardly efficient.
His brothers were waiting in Budapest. They would arrange to stop the train, before it entered the sad remnants of the empire’s territories. Then, they would take the bones of Dracula into their custody, before the English lost them.
He lifted his cup in silent salute to the vampire sitting at the table. And as Allah is just, we shall hoist you and all your foul kin on stakes before we depart.
Vienna
“How many were lost?” Frederick Wolkenstein asked. A fire crackled in the fireplace of his study. The great house sat on the outskirts of Vienna, away from the coffeehouses and music halls with their bickering philosophers and political agitators.
“Fifteen. The Bavarians lost more. They are out of the game, my lord,” Kaunitz said, with satisfaction. “The Illuminati will trouble us no more.”
“Not in Budapest, at least,” Wolkenstein murmured. He tapped the desk, considering. The Order’s shadow stretched across the continent, but its power was nowhere close to absolute. They were being bled white, despite their victories. How many would remain, when Walpurgisnacht came round at last? “What of the Cossack? Have we learned where he lairs yet?”
“We assumed it was with the Bavarians, but…” Kaunitz trailed off, embarrassed. Wolkenstein had expected as much. Boris Liatoukine was as wily a Cossack as had ever ridden the steppes, living or dead. The cat-eyed vampire was a nightmare made flesh, and more cunning by far than any living man. He served openly at the pleasure of the rulers of Selene, the city of the damned dead, and the Order had clashed with the disreputable fiend more than once in the years since Dracula’s death.
“No,” he said, after a moment. “No, he will be elsewhere. Perhaps not even in the city at all. It is useless to try and find that one, when he does not wish to be found. When our lord is returned to us, come Walpurgisnacht, he will lead the hunt for the Cossack himself.”
/> “But why pit us against the Bavarians?” Kaunitz asked.
Wolkenstein grunted and sat back. His family sword leaned against the desk, and he traced the Order’s seal on the pommel with a finger as he spoke. “A blind. Using us to thin the herd. Even as he used the Bavarians to eliminate the Bolsheviks and the Bolsheviks to eliminate whoever else. Very cunning, these beasts. He is not acting alone.”
“No, he isn’t,” a soft voice said, from somewhere in the room. Kaunitz rose from his seat with a curse, his hand flashing to the pistol holstered at his side. Before he could draw it, two great, pale hands clamped tight to either side of his head and squeezed. His body fell, and the shadows twisted as a tall, heavily built man stepped into view. He caught up Kaunitz’ chair, spun it about and sat down. He stared at Wolkenstein.
“My brother, Jean,” the soft voice said. “Impressive, non?”
“Very,” Wolkenstein said. “And you would be Ange. Jan and Ange Ténèbre.” He caught sight of the voice’s owner a moment later, out of the corner of his eye. The little man joined his brother before the desk. Where the bigger one was dressed as an officer in the Romanian military, complete with sabre and pistol, the smaller wore the habit of a priest.
“You know us then,” Ange said.
“Educated men say that there are two graves on the Great Hungarian Plain, covered by slabs of black stone. Under them is said to be two French noblemen, who came to help John Hunyadi defend Christendom against the Turk.”
“And what do uneducated men say?” Jean rumbled.
“That under the one slab lies an eater of flesh, and beneath the other a drinker of blood,” Wolkenstein said. “And that the brothers Ténèbre have been hanged in a dozen different places in Hungary, and seven times impaled in Turkish territory.”
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