by Jeff Rovin
The Monster regarded Dracula for a moment. Then his head turned slowly toward Stevenson.
“Friend . . . ?” the Monster said.
“Go back!” Dracula said. He stepped between the Monster and the unconscious Stevenson. “Go back where you belong!”
“Belong . . . with friend,” the Monster said piteously.
In a flash of anger that came like lightning, the Monster bent his left shoulder down and swept his arm outward. He struck the vampire hard, throwing him aside. But as Dracula stumbled backward he spread his cloak. His hands became claws and, instead of falling, he soared into the musty air on great wings. His eyes grew small and round, his nose became a snout, and his ears flared dramatically. Within a heartbeat his body had shrunk and, after hovering for a moment, he swooped back at the Monster as a large, gray bat. His claws dug into the giant’s shoulders and his great wings folded tight around the Monster’s eyes. As the giant struggled awkwardly, the vampire’s thin, powerful teeth gnawed great chunks of burnt, dead flesh from the back of his neck.
The giant reached back over his head. His chalky, powerful arms moved one way and then the other as he tried to grab the bat. His fire-blistered fingers finally found the creature’s body and he wrested it from his neck. Yet while it was a bat that the Monster ripped free, it was Dracula who landed on the ground. The vampire was crouched low beneath his cape, his fangs bared and his eyes flaring.
Moaning and slapping at his painful wounds, the Monster stumbled over the millstone base. He fell heavily against the wooden arm.
“Stay where you are!” Dracula shouted. “I command you!”
The giant snarled and waved his left hand violently in front of his face. He rose slowly.
“Vollin! Benet!” Dracula shouted. “Come here!”
The sarpes standing outside had not moved until they were summoned. Now the two large men turned and stepped in through the open door. They made no indication that they saw the Monster.
“Shut the door and go to the shed,” Dracula said quietly. “Get chains. Restrain the Monster.”
“Yes, Master,” the men said flatly, in unison.
The men dutifully shut the mill door and then walked toward the back. As they approached the millstone, the Monster’s eyes shifted from Dracula to the sarpes. He watched them warily.
“You will obey me,” Dracula said to the Monster. “I am the one who restored you to life.”
The Monster’s eyes snapped toward him.
“I am your master.”
The Monster shook his head slowly. He touched the back of his neck where the vampire’s teeth had torn his flesh. “You . . . are not.” He jabbed a finger toward Stevenson. “Friend.”
“No,” said Dracula. “He is human. He and his kind fear you and destroy you. Our way is different.”
“Friend,” the Monster repeated insistently. He turned toward the unconscious Stevenson. “Friend!”
As Dracula and the Monster spoke, the sarpes quietly approached the creature from behind. They were carrying the heavy length of chain from the block and tackle. Each man held an end of the chain in one hand, an iron spike in the other. As soon as the two were within range, they threw the chain over the Monster. It landed around his chest and they immediately pulled back hard.
Roaring, the Monster fell on his shoulders. The sarpes knelt on either side of him and with a single sweep of their arms they drove the iron spikes through the links into the ground. Their aim was accurate, the thrusts deep. Screaming with rage, the Monster expanded his chest and lifted his arms; the sarpes had to lean their full weight on his wrists to restrain him.
Dracula approached the Monster. “Listen to me!” he commanded. “Dr. Cooke will repair your wounds. You will be even stronger!”
The Monster shook his head as he continued to fight against the sarpes. Then, with a cry that rose from centuries of torment and oppression, the Monster lifted his arms. He raised the sarpes with them and threw the zombies off. Then he reached for his chest. He snapped the chain and threw the two pieces aside. Rising, he grabbed the wooden pole from the millstone and broke it off in rage.
As the Frankenstein Monster swung the pole at the zombies, smashing bone and skull, Dracula sprang at the giant. But they weren’t hands that struck the creature’s chest, they were large, powerful paws. And the jaws that clamped themselves around his neck were not those of a vampire those but of a wolf. The gray-furred beast bayed loudly as his teeth ripped at the dead flesh. The Monster fell back again, dropping the pole as he struggled to pull the ferocious animal from his chest.
Unknown to both Monster and beast, the figure on the other side of the millstone stirred.
THIRTY-ONE
Tom Stevenson awoke to the sounds of an awesome struggle.
The millhouse was filled with bellowing cries, snapping jaws, and the stomp of heavy feet. His neck hurt worse than before and now his back was stiff and painful; it hurt every time he breathed. With slow, brittle moves he raised himself onto his elbows and looked over at the source of the sounds.
The dim light of the full moon slipped through the chimneys. In it, he could see the Frankenstein Monster engaged in battle with what appeared to be an enormous gray dog or wolf. The Monster had his arms around the animal. One muscular arm was locked about his neck, the other was wrapped about his body. The jaws of the maddened wolf were locked on the Monster’s throat. Sprawled on the ground behind them were the two zombie guards. They were twisted and broken, like disassembled store mannequins. The broken handle of the millstone lay between them.
Could that wolf be Talbot? Stevenson wondered. It looked nothing like the two-legged creature he’d seen the night before, but that probably didn’t mean anything. Logic and consistency seemed to have little to do with the sights that had been assaulting him during the past twenty-four hours.
Stevenson turned away. He had seen human and animal savagery at its worst many times and in many places. He didn’t need to watch hell unleash its brutality as well. He peered through the other side of the millhouse and his eyes stopped on a silhouette near the back.
It was Talbot. Stevenson’s spirits rose—until he noticed that the man was lying facedown with the hilt of Dracula’s smallsword sticking from his shoulder. He did not appear to be breathing.
Pushing away from the stone base of the mill, Stevenson moaned as a sharp pain punched through his back; he was certain he’d suffered at least a couple of broken ribs. But he forced himself to crawl ahead, just as he’d done when the seal hunters had pummeled him with fists and clubs on the icy floes of the Arctic Ocean. Throughout Stevenson’s life pain had always been the reward of a job well done. And it had always inspired him to press on.
The attorney felt the blood-muddied soil before he reached Talbot’s side. He stopped beside the body, lifted Talbot’s wrist, and felt for a pulse. There was none. After several seconds he gently laid the wrist back down and held two fingers beneath Talbot’s nostrils. There was no hint of life.
The attorney squeezed Talbot’s hand. He hadn’t been very happy in this world. If there were an afterlife, he hoped that Talbot would find peace in it.
Stevenson climbed to his knees and leaned over Talbot’s body. It occurred to him that he might need a weapon if he were going to get Dr. Cooke away from here, and Dracula’s smallsword was the only one handy. Putting his left hand on Talbot’s bloody lower back, he grabbed the hilt in his other hand and pulled. The smallsword slipped out smoothly. The attorney made a face as he wiped the blood and bits of sinew on the straw beside Talbot’s body.
With monumental effort, he stood and turned back toward the monsters. It was like a tableau from a hellish painting by Hieronymus Bosch. Frankenstein’s creation had managed to wrest the wolf from his throat. Now he was attempting to pin it to the floor with one hand while striking it with the other. The wolf continued to bark and snap at the Monster’s pale flesh. Stevenson wished he could help the sad, dumb giant. But this was not a fight for men. Clench
ing his teeth to keep from crying out, he crouched very low, walked past the grindstone, and hurried out the millhouse door.
Moonlight lit the way as Stevenson made his way to the mansion. Except for moths drawn toward the amber light at the front entrance, he encountered nothing living or dead as he crossed the yard and the path. He stepped onto the portico, the sword held in front of him. The drapes were drawn at the windows and he made his way quickly to the front door. He stood to the right of the double doors and listened. He heard nothing, not even the shuffle of feet.
Stevenson’s forehead and hands were damp with perspiration as he reached for the knob. He turned it slowly. The door wasn’t locked. When he heard the latch bolt click free, Stevenson released the knob and gave the door a tap. It swung in heavily on squeaking hinges.
The foyer was empty. Stevenson shut the door behind him and walked in on the toes of his shoes. The overlay floor creaked with every step as he made his way down the dark corridor. There was a faint odor of mildew, which grew stronger the further he went. He finally discerned what looked like a cavernous room ahead. It was probably a study or a library, though he reminded himself that in this house the smell of rot might not be coming from old books but from animated corpses.
The blackness deepened the further he got from the entrance. The bold slivers of moonglow that crept under the door and past the drapes shed no light over here. Stevenson hadn’t wanted to turn on his flashlight and reveal his presence, let alone his precise position. But the viola-string give of the floorboards had probably done that already. And for all he knew, Dracula’s minions could see perfectly well in the dark. He stopped and pulled the key-chain flashlight from his pocket. He wrapped his fingers around the jangling keys and turned the light on.
The yellowish beam was weak but it illuminated the blond hair and wide, staring eyes of Caroline Cooke. She was standing several paces away, inside the door of what turned out to be a large library. Her arms were hanging limp at her sides and cobwebs clung to her clothes. Stevenson also noticed two glistening marks on her throat. But before he could examine them more closely something glinted to her left. Stevenson shifted the flashlight to that side.
He recoiled.
The sarpe Andre was standing immobile just a few feet away from him. His arms were not at ease, however: the wrists were tightly crossed in front of his bare chest and there was a machete in either hand, the blades framing his face at opposing angles. The sarpe’s gaze and expression were vacant and he didn’t move, didn’t blink, even as the flashlight shined in his eyes.
Stevenson pointed the tip of the smallsword at the zombie’s throat. He didn’t know if he could actually use it, but he wanted to have that option. Then he shifted the light toward the door so he knew exactly where it was. Turning toward it, he shut off the light, put it back in his pocket, and reached out his left hand. He groped for a moment until he found Caroline’s fingers. He folded them within his own and gave her a gentle tug.
“Come on,” he said quietly.
She didn’t move.
“Leave her,” the sarpe said.
Stevenson didn’t move. The sweat from his forehead trickled into his eyes. He listened in the dark for sounds that the zombie was moving. All he heard was the thudding of his own terrified heart. His sides ached fiercely and his legs were trembling.
He tightened his grip on the hilt of the smallsword and held it as steady as he could. Once again he pulled on Caroline’s hand. This time he didn’t speak.
“Leave her,” the sarpe repeated without emotion.
Stevenson had had enough. He touched the blade to the sarpe’s leathery flesh. He wanted him to feel its pinch.
“This is none of your business,” Stevenson said. “Stay back or I’ll use this, I swear I will.”
Andre’s arms uncrossed in a flash and the machetes slashed outward. The attorney snapped his head back, screaming from the pain in his neck, just as the blades whooshed past him. They nicked both of his checks. The sarpe stepped forward again, turning the blades onto their sides and slashing back toward his center.
They slashed over Stevenson’s head as he released Caroline and dropped to the floor. The attorney screamed as the injuries he’d suffered in the mill sent ribbons of pain around his chest and down his legs. His arms dropped and before he could raise the smallsword in front of him the zombie stepped on his wrist. He crushed Stevenson’s forearm to the floor.
Stevenson clawed at the sarpe’s foot. It felt like concrete, inflexible and unmovable. “Caroline!” he cried. “Please help!”
The woman didn’t reply.
Panicked and groaning with pain, Stevenson continued to scratch and pull desperately on the zombie’s foot. He stopped only when the machetes came down on his arms, just below the elbows.
His first scream filled the library.
His second scream, higher and longer, tore through the still night.
His third scream, the loudest, was also his last.
THIRTY-TWO
The gray wolf snapped and clawed as the giant pressed its neck to the earth. Shading quickly into his human form, the vampire extended his ashen fingers toward the Monster’s throat. Dracula raked at the hard, creased flesh with one hand, tearing off curled, dry slivers with his sharp nails. When that failed to drive the Monster back, Dracula clawed desperately at the giant’s eyes. He managed to force his nails into the soft flesh beneath them and pressed hard.
Shrieking and rubbing his eyes, the Monster staggered away. He stumbled over the wooden pole from the mill and landed on his back. As he lay there, pushing against the grindstone and attempting to get back up, Dracula hurried to the mill doors. He pulled them open, faced the field, and spread his arms. A few moments later six panting, red-eyed wolves ran toward him. They gathered around the vampire, their bodies sunk low in a hunting posture. Turning, his cape swirling around him, Dracula walked toward the Monster. The wolves padded next to him, three on either side.
Sitting up, the Monster snarled and waved a hand angrily in front of his face. He managed to get to his knees and struggled to rise. His wounds as well as his ungainly physique made it difficult.
Dracula’s brow lowered as he watched the Monster. Then he nodded silently and, as one, the animals leapt.
Startled, the Monster flailed at them. They landed on him and threw him back, beside the broken mill handle. As the wolves swarmed over him, snapping and rending, he grabbed the pole, pulled it around, and swung it at them. He managed to strike two of the animals but the other four beasts continued to attack with their teeth, biting and gnawing on his arms, legs, and throat.
Screaming from pain and fear, the Monster folded his arms in and then threw them out again and again, trying to toss off the wolves as he attempted to rise. Still howling and struggling, he crawled toward Dracula, the source of his suffering. The vampire stood before him, imperious and confident, his eyes burning.
The other two wolves recovered quickly and jumped onto the Monster’s back, throwing him forward. Wailing, he struggled beneath their great weight. But with each pinch of their savage jaws he grew weaker, experienced sensations unlike any he’d ever felt. This wasn’t like fire or ice, which affected only the hard, dead, unfeeling surface of his skin. These were awful, burning sensations that dug into his waist, his shoulders, his neck, his thighs. All he wanted to do was swat at the pain, to make it stop. But he couldn’t use his arms. The wolves hung tightly to them, making them impossible to raise.
Whimpering, the Monster suddenly became aware of an unfamiliar sensation. It was not the quiet of sleep, the shutting down of his body. It was the anguish of destruction. Within moments the terrible pain was constant. It attacked every part of him. He turned and watched helplessly in the dull moonlight as the heads of the wolves jerked from side to side. As they did, their jaws flung bloody bits of him onto the straw, leaving agony in their wake.
Reaching Dracula was no longer important. Stopping the wolves was not possible. All the Monster c
raved now was an end to the suffering.
Suddenly two of the wolves left the pack and jumped at his throat, one on either side. They burried their muzzles deep. The Monster’s sad eyes looked up at the white face of the vampire. The son of Frankenstein tried to form words. But his lower lip merely shook as a single tear spilled from each eye. The white face became a crooked streak, an echo of the lightning that had given him birth.
The Monster silently bade the source of all life to take him back. And then his eyelids shut and the spark was gone and with it went the pain.
THIRTY-THREE
Count Dracula stared at the gutted and dismembered carcass of the Frankenstein Monster. The wolves continued to poke at it, their muzzles matted with gore as they rent without respect the organs and tissue that Dr. Frankenstein had so meticulously assembled.
“Enough,” the vampire said quietly.
As one, the wolves retreated from the body. The dark red blood of the Monster, once deeply veined within his thick flesh, coated their fur as well as some of the straw. Though the vampire felt no pity, he was sorry to lose this creature—at least for the present. In a short while his new mistress, Dr. Cooke, would have begun transforming the flawed brain and the damaged body. She would have transformed the Monster into a perfect guard for the tomb. If not for the foolish interloper who had come here with Talbot, in a few days Dracula would have possessed a strong and utterly devoted servant. Now it would take longer, and perhaps more skill than Dr. Cooke possessed, to repair the damaged Monster. The vampire’s one consolation—and it was a very satisfying one—was that by now Andre would have wreaked a terrible vengeance against the otherwise inconsequential man who had caused this to happen.
As Dracula turned to leave, he stopped. The sense of bitter contentment left him as he felt a presence behind him, something primal and strong. Something with inhuman blood racing through its body. Something that moved with the spectral silence of a supernatural predator.