by Jeff Rovin
“Caroline won’t still be on the boat,” Talbot said.
“No, I don’t imagine so,” Stevenson replied. “But I’m guessing that someone there might be able to tell us where to find the owner.”
Talbot looked up at the tower. The two men inside were looking out the window at them. “I have a better way,” Talbot said. “Wait here.” Talbot walked to the tower, opened the door, and went inside. He was gone for just over a minute. When he returned, he was wearing a wry smile.
“What did you do?” Stevenson asked.
“I just saved us some time,” he said. “I asked them if they could direct us to the residence of Count Dracula.”
“Why did you do that?” Stevenson asked. “They’ll alert him.”
“They can’t,” he said. “Not while it’s still light out.”
“What did they tell you?” Stevenson asked.
“That they never heard of him.”
“A lie, of course.”
“Not exactly,” said Talbot. “Dracula often assumes other names, such as Count Alucard, Baron Latos, or Dr. Lejos. So I asked the gentlemen if they would direct us to the master of the island. Whatever he called himself, Dracula would have established himself as that.”
“And what did they say?”
“They said they knew no such man, only this time they weren’t indifferent.” Talbot looked up at the window. One of the men was gone. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Where to?”
“The harbor,” Talbot replied. “I’m betting that by the time we reach it, someone will be there to meet us.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The harbor of Marya Island was busy without seeming to be hurried. Bare-chested, slow-moving stevedores loaded sacks of raw cane sugar onto the small freighters while fishermen returned with the morning’s catch. Men in loose-fitting white shirts and shorts and straw hats offered the handful of sightseers tours of the islands on their motor launches. Their manner was easygoing, their pitches low-key. Because it was nearly lunchtime, food carts were beginning to line the jetty, with men and women selling everything from spicy pepper steak to soda from America.
Stevenson paused to buy chunks of chicken and onion on a stick and a soda.
“Do you want anything?” he asked Talbot.
“Thanks, no,” Talbot replied. “I never eat—chicken.”
The truth was, Lawrence Talbot had consumed nothing but human blood and flesh since the bangers and sauerkraut he’d wolfed down on the night he went to the Gypsy camp with Gwen Conliffe and Jenny Williams. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep cooked animal meat down. To the wolf spirit or whatever it was that possessed him, that would be the equivalent of cannibalism.
The two men made their way to the motor yacht. They walked slowly, making sure to point at it and make their interest in the vessel clear. No sooner had they reached its gleaming bow than a man approached, stepping from behind a stack of crates on the other side of the ship.
The man stood several inches taller than Talbot, about six-foot-six. He was dark-skinned with a bald head, tight, sunken cheeks, and large, rusty hands. He wore dirty sandals, an open white shirt, and ivory-colored trousers that reached to just below his knees. His chest was bare and hairless. The newcomer also carried a silver smallsword stuck through his hemp belt.
When Stevenson saw the weapon he poked Talbot in the side. Talbot nodded. He too recognized the blade Dracula had wielded in LaMirada.
But what interested Talbot most were the heavily lidded eyes of the newcomer. They appeared to stare past rather than at the men. There was something unwholesome about them and he just now noticed what it was. They were dry; the man did not blink. Typically, the eyes of Dracula’s slaves were red due to the excess of blood in their bodies. The dryness of this man’s eyes, and the fact that he was abroad in daylight, indicated that he was enslaved by something other than vampiric means.
“Is there something I can do for you?” the tall man said. His voice was strong but monotone and strangely muted, as though it were coming from inside his chest and not from his throat.
“That depends,” said Talbot. “Who are you?”
“My name is Andre,” he said. “May I know who you are?”
“We’re acquaintances of your employer. We’d like to see one of his guests, Dr. Caroline Cooke.”
“I am sorry,” Andre said without emotion, “but Gentleman Singe does not entertain callers.” Andre pronounced the name “sang”—as in “sanguine.”
“He’ll entertain us,” Talbot said confidently. “You see, I know who your employer really is. His name is Dracula. I also know what he is.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Fine,” Talbot replied. “If you won’t help us find Caroline we’ll have to do it on our own.”
“You will not trespass on any of the lands belonging to Gentleman Singe,” Andre warned. His voice didn’t change in volume or tone, yet there was menace in it.
“You don’t scare us,” Stevenson said. “I’m an attorney and I’ve had experience in international law.”
“Have you had experience with wolves?” Andre asked.
Stevenson frowned. “Are you threatening us?”
“Not at all, sir,” Andre said. “I am warning you. The wolves roam the fields of the Gentleman. They roam . . . freely.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Talbot replied, “but I’ve had experience with wolves. We’ll be all right.”
“No,” Andre said. “You will die.”
Talbot fixed his gaze on the other man. “Not unless the wolves have silver teeth,” he said.
As Talbot watched, the expression on the Maryan Islander’s face changed slightly. There was a very slight dip in his thin eyebrows as well as a barely perceptible downturn at the edges of his mouth. It was as if he were undertaking an almost palpable, seemingly painful process of reasoning. It was followed by a visible relaxing in the shoulders, arms, and legs.
“I will take you to the residence,” Andre said suddenly. “The conveyance is this way.”
“Thank you,” Talbot said.
Andre extended a powerful arm. His finger rose slowly and he pointed across the old, uneven cobblestone road to a long, low-lying warehouse. On the far side of the structure, barely visible, was an old wooden cart. Hitched to it was a large black draft horse with an exceptionally long mane.
Moving with somnambulistic slowness, Andre crossed the road and stepped up into the driver’s seat. He sat down slowly as Talbot and Stevenson climbed into the back. There were no seats so the men sat facing one another with their backs against the dark, weathered wooden sides.
The horse snorted deeply and shook its matted mane. It started out even before Andre had picked up the reins, clopping along the road and turning right at the end of the warehouse. There, the ancient cobblestones gave way to dark soil and the road curved away through a curious collection of flora. These ranged from tree-sized prickly pear cacti to tall bamboos and palms. Lower to the ground were slender foxtails and bushy orchard grass. Insects flitted amongst them in thick, buzzing clouds. They did not come near the wagon or its occupants.
As soon as they were on softer ground—where they wouldn’t have to shout to be heard—Stevenson leaned toward Talbot.
“All right,” he said softly. “You want to tell me what happened back there? What made Andre change his mind?”
“I believe that Dracula was listening to what we said.”
“Listening! But how?”
“Through Andre. I suspect that even in his coffin Dracula could hear us.”
“Then he knows who we are—who you are.”
Talbot nodded.
“But why bring us to him?”
“So he’ll know exactly where we are,” Talbot said. “So he can have his servants destroy us or hold us until he wakes. Given how little time we have, it seemed the best way to reach him.”
Stevenson looked at the late afternoon sun. “At least we’ll have one advantage. Tim
e to prepare.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” Talbot said. “As I said, Count Dracula enjoys the hunt as much as the kill. I don’t think he’ll let his people harm us. He’ll reserve that pleasure for himself.”
Talbot looked over at the driver. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, his hands raised in front of him, the reins lying limp in them.
Stevenson followed Talbot’s gaze. “Speaking of servants, this man’s clearly not a vampire. He’s moving about in the sun.”
Talbot nodded.
“Then why is he like this? Is he hypnotized?”
“The islands of this region are home to a variety of voodoo religions,” Talbot said, “black arts whose practitioners use blood and incantations to raise the newly dead as zombies. I believe that Andre is such a creature.”
“How are . . . zombies different from vampires?” Stevenson asked. He was still looking at the driver.
“Zombies require no sustenance and no rest,” Talbot said. “They feel no pain and they can only be destroyed by fire or beheading. I believe they were originally bred as warriors. Later they were used as slave labor.”
Stevenson raised his ponytail off the back of his neck. He fanned his flesh with the other hand. “You know what the most frightening thing is about all of this, Lawrence? I can’t think of any explanations, other than the ones you’ve given, to explain all of this. It’s weird to think that what we knew instinctively as children, that there were things to be afraid of in the dark, was true.”
Talbot gave Stevenson a reassuring pat on the leg. It suggested confidence, which he himself didn’t feel. The farther from shore they moved, the more aware Talbot became that even in the daytime, the evil odor of the Lord of the Vampires permeated this place. It was in the strange character of the breeze, a warm air that disturbed nothing—neither grass nor insects. It was in the inexplicable lack of color, as though the foliage and the water and even the sky had been suffused with gray. It was in the musty smell that stuck in the nostrils, the scent of rot—of death.
As soon as the horse reached the dirt path it slowed down. The men could have walked as fast as the cart was traveling. Talbot felt eyes on them as they moved past the field of sugar cane—pale, cruel eyes. Wolf-eyes. After a few minutes the road turned north into the sprawling fields of sugar cane. There was no fence or wall between the fields and the plantation. There was clearly no need for one: the eyes were still upon them. Occasionally, Talbot would see workers cutting stalks with machetes, the same people he and Stevenson had seen from the air. The wolves did not bother them. The men and women were cutting the stalks close to the ground and stacking them on burlap sheets. Like the wolves, the workers moved with slow fluidity, apparently unaffected by exhaustion or heat. Talbot was sure that if he got close enough to look into their eyes he’d see the same parched deadness he saw in Andre’s gaze.
Stevenson didn’t appear to see the wolf-eyes or notice anything unusual about the workers. He was looking ahead, through the tall sugar cane, toward the distant plantation. The attorney’s body was in nearly constant motion though he was probably unaware of it. After sitting still for a moment he would anxiously move a hand or recross his legs or shift his body to a new position.
Talbot was concerned for Tom Stevenson’s safety. He was also worried about Caroline. She had to be located and taken away quickly. Otherwise, she and Stevenson would be facing at least two of the most malevolent spirits on earth—three if the Frankenstein Monster were also here. Talbot resisted the urge to look at Stevenson’s right palm. He didn’t want to know if the pentagram were there or not.
The house of Dracula loomed as the cart came around the field of cane. Like its owner, the plantation was born of another time. There was a large, flat roof and an off-white wooden portico that ran the length of the three-story structure. Eight columns fronted the mansion’s first floor and large bow windows dominated each side. Hanging just above the double doors were two lanterns with amber-colored panes and scalloped, black iron wings that swept from the outsides of each. A large guest house—probably used once to house slaves—was visible through the knotted braids of strangler figs to the east. Barely visible in the valley beyond was what appeared to be the top of the sugar mill. In the distance, to the west, the asymmetric Mt. Mord loomed tall and cold.
“This is quite a place,” Stevenson said. He looked ahead anxiously. “Well, Mr. Talbot? Exactly what kind of welcome can we expect from ‘Gentleman Singe’? Some of those wolves we were warned about? Zombies?”
“I’m not sure,” Talbot admitted. “Count Dracula has been known to set very comfortable traps. He’s also capable of arranging unpleasant welcomes. Whatever he does, the first thing we should do is use branches or pieces of wood to make crosses. We can use those to keep him at bay. We’ll also need to find wood to use as a stake.” He nodded toward the mill. “There, probably.”
“I wish there’d been time to make some of the preparations back at the harbor,” Stevenson remarked.
“If we’d armed ourselves there, Dracula might not have allowed us to get this close,” Talbot pointed out. “Dracula is powerful—but he’s also cautious.”
“Good point,” Stevenson said. “Tell me something, before we face him. Exactly how does Dracula control people? I mean—assuming one doesn’t look at him, what else can he do to make someone his slave?”
“He bites them and infects them with his blood,” Talbot said. “He makes two puncture wounds, usually in the throat. As he draws the blood of his victim, he salivates his own blood into the wound. Through it, he controls them.”
“Permanently?”
“Most victims can still be reclaimed after a night or two,” Talbot said. “They still possess enough of their own blood. After that, they bccome vampires and must drink the blood of others, just as Count Dracula does. Then their victims also become slaves of Dracula.”
“So the object, then, is for one of us to keep Dracula at bay with the cross while the other person . . . impales him.” The word stuck in his throat.
“If we can do that, yes,” Talbot said. “We must seize any opportunity to destroy him. Hopefully, we’ll be able to search for Dracula’s coffin while it’s still light. Perhaps we can strike before he rises.”
The wagon rolled slowly up to the imposing house. It didn’t stop but continued past the mansion, past the dark guest house and down into the misty valley. There, it followed the winding and rutted dirt path until it reached the mill where the sugar cane was processed.
The mill was a long building whose sagging wooden roof was literally a continuation of the earthen ledge above it. The mill walls were made of stone with high, smoke-blackened stone chimneys on the narrower north and south sides. A river coursed along the west side of the building, behind it, and there was a large wooden door in the middle of the east wall. The door was open and two men with machetes stood on either side of it. Both of them were Caucasian and nearly as tall as Andre. They were muscular and had longish, unkempt hair. They walked over as the wagon came to a stop. The pack of wolves also showed themselves, four of them moving silently from the cane, which grew almost to the south side of the mill.
“Jesus,” Stevenson said as the large, gray carnivores approached. “Does Dracula control them too?”
“Not while he’s at rest,” Talbot said.
“What do we do? How do we act?”
“Move as slowly as possible,” Talbot said. “See how they’re standing? Their tails are up and their heads are down. That’s a challenge. Don’t even make eye contact with them or they may perceive it as a threat.”
Stevenson acknowledged with a nervous nod. With labored slowness he followed Talbot from the back of the wagon.
Moving at the same languid pace as before, Andre put down the reins. He slid from his seat, as oblivious to the wolves as they seemed to him. He walked toward the men and stopped when he reached Talbot’s side. He pointed to the men with the machetes.
“Go with them,” h
e commanded.
“Come on,” Talbot said to Stevenson. “Slowly.”
Talbot and Stevenson began walking forward. As they did, the two men fell in next to them, one on either side. They moved with the same lazy motions as Andre. Behind them, the wolves padded even closer. Talbot could feel their breath on his hands. He was proud of Tom Stevenson; despite the way his arms and jaw were trembling, he kept his shoulders back and maintained his slow and steady gait.
As Talbot neared the door, he braved turning to the left to take a look at the sun. With sudden horror, he saw that it was sinking toward the mountain. That was why Dracula had chosen this island and this spot on it: because of the mountain, sunset would occur at least an hour before it did elsewhere. Though Talbot would not undergo his transformation until the moon had risen, Count Dracula would rise much sooner than that. Somehow, they were going to have lo get out of the mill quickly.
Talbot and Stevenson walked through the door.
As it closed behind them, Talbot sensed that they were not alone.
TWENTY-SIX
The black coffin was made of highly polished primavera with heavy iron hinges and fittings made of sardonyx. It rested on a high marble base with three steps on each side leading to the moist earth. The coffin’s white trimmings looked gray in the dark basement of the mansion, the only light coming from a lamp that was kept burning at the top of the stairwell. Spiders spun webs in the high corners of the cellar to trap unwary flies while rats moved through holes in the ancient baseboard. Despite the scurrying and furtive movement, all was silent.
The quiet was broken as the lid creaked and rose to the right. Long, thin, cadaverously white fingers emerged from the opening. Slow and wraithlike, the hand turned palm up to open the lid completely. Count Dracula lay inside. He was swathed to his eyes in his cloak, like a bat folded within its wings. A thin layer of dry, pale, dusty Transylvanian earth was spread beneath him. It was a glaring contrast to the damp earth of Marya Island and the rich white satin lining of the coffin lid.