You think lightning will drive me out? I am the master of the storm, Dracula shrieked in his mind. St. Cyprian screamed as the demon’s lightning coiled about him, searing him. Dracula was somehow protecting him—or his body, at least—from the worst of the demon’s fury, but it was still agony. Nonetheless, he refused to drop the statue. His skull throbbed, and the air reverberated with the thunder of monstrous wings as the black presence of Dracula flung itself into battle against the demon.
The demon screamed in fury. Trapped half in and half out of the world by Wolkenstein’s abortive summons, it was vulnerable to the raging vampire-spirit. But not for long. Soon it would slip back into whatever nether realm it had been summoned from, and Dracula would turn his attentions back to his true prey. St. Cyprian staggered towards the pool of water—holy water, that’s what she said, he thought. A sacred spring. Lightning crawled across his limbs as he pitched himself forward, into the water.
Pain tore through his body, even as the water enveloped him. The water boiled as the demon lashed out in apparent agony. Dracula’s ranting degenerated into a wordless howl as St. Cyprian sank. He lost his grip on the statue and it fell away from him, vanishing into the dark below. It pulled the lightning with it, leaving him shrouded in watery smoke as the demon’s roars faded. Whatever holiness was in the water seemed to have banished the entity. His lungs burned, and the world began to turn black at the edges. No, Dracula snarled, No. You will not do this. I will not surrender to the darkness again. Dracula is not conquered—he conquers!
In his mind’s eye, a great bat, vast and dark and the color of clotted blood, rushed towards him out of the darkness. Its wings battered at him and it bit and clawed at his soul, as if trying to tear him apart. He fought back as best he could. It was not the first time some fell spirit had tried to invade his mind, but he was tired and weak.
Ignoring the ethereal talons which tore at his mind, he ripped the bandage from his hand. His chest began to heave for want of oxygen. Blood pooled in the water, and his arm felt as if it were being cooked from inside out as the pure waters of the spring did their work. Dracula gibbered in his mind, cursing and threatening him.
He could feel the vampire-spirit trying to make him swim, but he resisted with every ounce of willpower left to him. He’d drown first. It wouldn’t be a bad death, all things considered. Better than spontaneous combustion or a sniper’s bullet. At the very least, he’d take the self-proclaimed King of the Undead with him, down into the dark.
Do you hear me, Voivode, he thought. King and country, old leech. The Royal Occultist defeated you once, and he’ll do so again…
No. No! NO, Dracula shrilled. Monstrous shapes swirled about him in the water, as Dracula tried to make him move. St. Cyprian threw his head back, his lungs screaming for air. His fingers moved, tracing shapes on the swirling waters, even as he called out, in his mind, to the only beings who could help him now.
And with a vast sigh, the dead answered. All the dead of the monastery, every spirit still residing within its walls was suddenly there, drifting through the water towards him. Withered faces and fleshless skulls, ragged robes and clutching bony hands, reaching out as if to take hold of the spirit that sought to hollow him out.
Away, spectres! Get back, Dracula roared, and his attentions turned away from St. Cyprian to this new threat. Ghostly hands reached for him, and St. Cyprian let them. He screamed as he felt something tear within him, and a black, tarry liquid filled the water around him. He heard Dracula screaming as well. His body was pulled this way and that, with bone shaking force. He heard ancient voices, as dry as the tomb, murmuring in Romanian and Latin, their words drowning out Dracula’s curses.
All at once, the vampire-spirit tore itself from him. A frustrated scream shivered through the water. It boiled black and malignant before his eyes for a moment, before it dispersed, leaving him to drift empty and hollow. Strength all but gone, he could do little more than reach towards the light above. It was impossibly distant. Everything began to go dark.
Then, a flash of motion. Two eyes—not red these, but yellow, perhaps—and finally, light, as he surfaced. Air. He gulped air into his lungs as the petite shape of his assistant hauled him to shore. Gallowglass, hatless and coatless, soaking wet, helped him stumble up out of the pool. “Your—your timing is as impeccable as ever,” he coughed, spitting up water.
“I bloody hate water!” she snarled, dropping him face-first onto the ground. “You know I hate it. What the bloody hell were you playing at?” she hissed, as she helped him sit up. He coughed up more water, and she thumped him on the back, harder than necessary. “Were you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Perish—perish the thought,” he wheezed, swiping water out of his face. “Just trying to—ah—to get clean, as it were.” He peered at her. “I say, I thought your eyes were brown. Only for a moment…I could have sworn…”
“What are you babbling about? Did you conk your dome?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. It was a close run thing, I will admit,” he said, as she hauled him to his feet. He swayed, unable to stay upright. Gallowglass caught him around the waist, and she pulled his arm over her shoulder. He looked down at her. “Speaking of close run things…what about you? The last I saw of you, you were squaring off with a decidedly ravenous wolf.”
“It bit off more than it could chew,” Gallowglass said. She hauled him away from the water and towards Harker’s body. “What about her?” she asked, nudging the body with her foot. She yelped as Harker’s hand caught her ankle.
“Wh—what about me?” Harker coughed. Gallowglass jerked her leg free of the woman’s grip and hopped back, balisong in hand. St. Cyprian waved her back.
“I was wondering whether a sword through the sternum would put you down for good,” he said. He held up his hand. “Look…” His flesh was dimpled by a pale scar, the only sign that he had ever suffered Dracula’s mark “Nothing up my sleeve,” he added. Harker stared at him for a moment, and then pushed herself up into a sitting position. There was blood all over her, but the wound had evidently closed. Something to take note of, for the future, St. Cyprian thought. “Dracula is back where he belongs,” he said.
“And so? We still have the same problem,” Harker said. She glared at them. “I won’t let you give those bones to the Turks, or anyone else.” She made to rise, but froze as Gallowglass tensed. “I don’t want to kill you,” Harker said, “but I will…”
“Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough,” Gallowglass spat.
“Nobody is having a go, hard or otherwise,” St. Cyprian said. He reached up to straighten his tie, and realized that it was gone, save for a few charred fragments hanging from his burnt collar. He sighed and gestured to the walls, where several centuries worth of skulls grinned at them. “There is an amiable compromise here, if you take a moment and think about it. A solution which appeases all parties save one—and frankly, he deserves little consideration.”
“What are you talking about?” Harker said, as she rose to her feet.
“A bit of misdirection,” he said. He motioned to the valise. “Ms. Gallowglass, shuck our sanguinary oyster, would you?”
“Right,” she said. Gallowglass stooped and snatched up the bag holding Dracula’s burnt remains. “What now?”
“Give it the old heave-ho, what?” St. Cyprian said. He looked at Harker. “Unless you’d like to do the honors?”
“I still don’t understand—you can’t mean to throw it into the spring?” Harker asked.
“Holy waters, as you said,” St. Cyprian said. He held up his hand, displaying the newly healed wound. “It did the trick for me, I have no doubt it’ll bally well keep our mutual friend there quiescent. Chuck the blighter in, and we’ll replace his bits and bobs with one of these fine fellows—I’m sure they’d be willing, if they understood the situation. Even if the Turks check, well, what are they going to do about it? It serves everyone’s interests if Dracula is lost—it’s jus
t that no one could agree as to who got to do the losing.”
Harker stared at him for a minute. Then two. Then, slowly, a smile crept across her face. “Oh jolly good,” she said. She laughed and clapped her hands. “Oh well done, that man!” She caught his wrists and whirled him in a circle before bounding towards Gallowglass, who hurriedly tossed the bag to her.
“Ta-ta, father dearest,” Harker said, as she spun about and slung the bag towards the center of the pool. “Rot in the dark, with the rest of the monsters!” She turned back towards them, a wide smile on her face.
St. Cyprian nodded and rubbed his hands together. “Now, let’s find some bones and get on with this. I’m sure our friends in Istanbul are simply dying to make the good voivode’s acquaintance and I’d hate to disappoint them.”
The Turks were waiting for them, when they left the cave.
The rattle of rifles being readied greeted them and St. Cyprian held up his hands. “Well, I guess we know who won that little donnybrook,” he said. Harker and Gallowglass followed his example. Arrayed on the tiny, man-made path were a dozen Janissaries, dressed much as Selim had been. Many bore wounds or sported bandages. The fight against the Order of the Dragon had taken its toll. St. Cyprian wondered how many bodies they’d left in the forest. Too many to go away empty-handed, he suspected.
Their ranks parted, and an old man, clad in a bearskin coat and leaning on a cane, stumped forward. His face was round and lined, and he wore long, white moustaches. “You are the Royal Occultist?” he asked, in impeccable English.
“And you must be the Black Chorbaji,” St. Cyprian said.
“It does not matter who I am. Give us the bones of the Dragon, and you may go free,” the old man said, pointing his cane at them. His voice was soft, but stern. St. Cyprian met his gaze and, after a moment, nodded.
“Harker—I do believe you should give the man his bones.”
Harker opened her mouth, as if to protest, then shrugged and slung the sack towards the old man. He caught it deftly, with a speed that belied his age. He held it up, weighing it. Then he nodded. “A wise choice.”
“We were bringing it to you, you know,” St. Cyprian said. “Hands across the water and all that.”
“Good intentions do not a triumph make,” the old man said. “And we have learned to leave nothing to chance.” He patted the bag. “Have a pleasant journey back. Allahaismarladik—I leave you to God’s care.”
“Go well, and may God’s peace be upon you,” St. Cyprian replied, as the old man turned away. One by one, his men followed him down the path and away. Engines started up below.
“They could have at least given us a ride,” Gallowglass muttered.
“Pish. Not that far back to the train. And in any event, the walk will do us good. Look at that view,” St. Cyprian said, looking out over the forest. “Makes you wonder why the old devil ever left, if this was his hell.”
“No, I don’t wonder that at all,” Harker said, softly.
St. Cyprian looked at her. “No, I suppose you don’t, at that.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “Well, I wasn’t looking forward to visiting Constantinople anyway. We’ll need to check on this place every so often, you know.”
Harker nodded. “The Westenra Fund has many continental interests. I think we can add one more to the list,” she said. “He will not escape again.”
“Yes, well. Never say never, and all that,” he said. He’d felt the bright flame of the vampire’s determination in his head, and he knew that dead or not, hidden or no, Dracula would not rest easy. He resolved to check on the place himself, in a few years. He had no authority here, but there was nothing in the rules against a little walking trip, every so often. He glanced back at the cave, and rubbed his hand.
Yes, best to make sure. Besides which, one never knew what the future held. He thought of what Dracula had shown him, of the future that the vampire had claimed to have foreseen, and shivered. One day, he might even regret leaving Dracula down in the dark.
Not today, though.
“So, now what?” Gallowglass asked. “After we get back to the train, I mean.” For a moment, she looked uncertain, as if something had frightened her. Then, her normal expression reasserted itself, so quickly he almost didn’t notice. Something about this affair had upset her, he thought, and wondered whether it had simply been his own near death. Regardless, he knew better than to ask. She would tell him, or not, in her own time.
St. Cyprian paused, considering the question. Then, he looked at Gallowglass and smiled. “Rotterdam, I think. I hear there’s a churchyard, there, haunted by a flying hound of some sort. I’ve never seen one of those, that I can recall.” He laughed. After a moment, she joined him.
“Should be dashed good fun, if nothing else.”
EPILOGUE
London
“So, the Turks have their old foe in hand at last,” Saxon Amadeus Dorr murmured, as he set the telegram aside. His agents had watched the hand-over at a safe distance—St. Cyprian and his associates, much the worse for wear, had met the representatives of the Janissaries in a side street coffee house, where the valise containing Dracula’s remains had been handed over without further incident.
Dorr wondered whether either party had mentioned the incident on the train. He thought not; the Janissaries refused to admit when they were wrong, and St. Cyprian was far too pragmatic to tweak their nose simply for the fun of it. The Royal Occultist and his party had departed Istanbul on the next train to Paris. A wise move, Dorr thought. Istanbul was in upheaval, and British citizens were not welcome there, whatever their purpose.
He wondered what the Janissaries would do with the remains. They wouldn’t risk destroying them—no, they’d inter them in some hidden oubliette, there to await some future gambit. Dracula was a weapon which had the tendency to turn on his wielders, but he was a weapon nonetheless, and a useful one. That was why Dorr had half-hoped that Wolkenstein’s gambit would prove successful. He sighed.
“A shame, but one must be prepared for such losses in this game.” He glanced at the stick-thin shape of Ketch, where the latter stood attentively in the corner of the room. Ketch stank of strange spices and preservatives, but that was better than the alternative. The dead could last a long time, with the proper care. And he had a use for Ketch yet. “Our young Charles has proven himself to be quite the scrambler, eh?”
Ketch’s spidery fingers twitched, as if in anticipation of tightening about a throat. Dorr smiled thinly. “Yes, quite the scrambler, that one,” he said, as he turned back to the telegram. “Our friends in the Order of the Dragon are in quite a state. Upset, I have no doubt, and I cannot blame them for that. They’ll be looking for vengeance. We must…dissuade them from that course of action, I think. That’ll be for you, Mr. Ketch. Throttle the few who remain in London, and the rest will keep their heads down, I warrant. They took their shot, and now Walpurgisnacht has passed. It’s time for them to bow out with what little grace remains to them.”
Dorr smiled again. He had warned Wolkenstein that retrieving Dracula’s remains would not be a simple matter of burglary, when he had passed along the whereabouts of said remains. Wolkenstein had been overly confident, and now he and his order had missed their chance. That was no matter; they still owed Dorr a debt, regardless of their failure, and they would pay that debt, in time.
“Still, things would have been quite interesting with our proud voivode back on the world stage, causing trouble. He would have made a powerful ally, if he could have been convinced of our cause. And even if not, he could have been of use.”
Dorr sat back, his eyes half closed. Yes, Dracula would have made a powerful ally, come the day. But there were others…Countess Zaleska, for one, and the Council of Sepulchre, with whom he’d also been in contact. He’d warned them of Wolkenstein’s plans, even as he advised the grand master of the Order of the Dragon on how best to accomplish his goal. And, obligingly, they’d sent their English agents to war.
Dorr smiled.
Ruthven had been sighted by his agents in Bucharest, heading south with all due speed. Elizabeth Chaston nee Amworth had returned to England, and vanished soon after. Sarah Kenyon was gone, vanished into the wilds. The remains of Boris Liatoukine had been confiscated by the Turks, and their agents were even now hunting the Brothers Ténèbre, who had, by all accounts, fled north.
For now, the city of black jasper remained at a remove from events, its schemes unravelled, its agents scattered. The day would come that its eternal aristocracy might decide to spread out beyond its walls once more, however, flooding the lands of men as they once had, back in the bad old days. If they could be made to understand, to see what he saw, they might prove of use.
And if not…well. There was always the stake, the sword and the fire. He pressed his fingers together and peered past them, at the shelves which lined his study. The shelves were occupied by books. Books stuffed to the seams with occult lore, some of which he’d written, under one name or another. The accumulated knowledge of a life spent in pursuit of a singular goal—the salvation of all mankind.
The moment was fast approaching when he and his consortium would be forced to act, for good or ill. The walls of time were besieged by unseen armies, and all of history shuddered at their assault. The old gods stirred in their enforced slumber, and the new gods of men shrank into irrelevance as the world passed them by. Mankind thundered towards oblivion, all unaware save for a precious few. Men and women of wisdom, who sought to throw back the inevitable, in whatever way they could.
He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling the weight of his years. He had lived longer than he ought, all in service to his cause. He had wrestled with devils and angels alike, to pry from them the secrets of eternity, so that he might divert mankind from its doom. He had gathered allies and tools alike, but they were not enough. He needed more time.
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