by David Wood
He sprinted after it, but Petran, in his usual style, took the carriage from a dead stop to a full gallop. The coach raced out onto the bridge and was half way to the other side of it before Wagner could even make it across the courtyard.
“Damn!” he swore to himself.
He stood panting and looking at the carriage as it receded on the other side of the bridge and then swept into the dense forest.
I’ll find you, Anneli. If I have to travel to the end of the Earth, I will find you, and I will make that man pay.
Petran and the Count were gone, so the only possible threat remaining in the castle might be the waitress—and it was day, so he prayed he would be okay to run back inside and grab a few things that might aid him. He encountered no resistance inside, and he soon found himself back in the courtyard, wearing his small leather pack—the electric device and a few other small tools inside—and holding a pickax. He had a long way to go to get into the village, and Petran had taken the only horses.
Wagner set out across the natural bridge. He did not look back at the castle behind him, and planned to never set eyes on it again. He would track Petran and the carriage, find his wife, kill both Petran and the Count, and then he and Anneli would travel far from this accursed land, to Germany or beyond.
He had tried to run the whole way, but soon found himself winded. The walk felt interminably long. The last time on the road he had been in the full grip of enjoying the nature around him. This time, every dark conifer looked sinister, and the closeness of the trail, which Wagner could now see lent itself nicely to an ambush, was in no way comforting. On the positive side, he knew he could make it to town with many hours of daylight to spare, and the length of the walk gave him time to think about all he had seen. Many things changed in his mind, in light of recent events. The fire damage at the castle meant there had been battles before. The debris that had appeared to be an intentional obstacle, probably was. The strange, hindering architectural design of the castle, the wine racks in the cellar, and the bookcases in the library, most likely were meant to slow an intruder’s passage. Dracula probably did not entertain many guests at the castle, but when he did, Wagner could now see that they were not meant to leave it.
His anger swelling with every step, Wagner realized the reasons for the villagers’ hostility and xenophobia—particularly when he had told them at the tavern that he would be working for the Count. He eventually came to the edge of the small village prepared to demand the help of the townsmen. But first he would stop off to see Henning. The man was older, and the closest thing to a friend in the village he had. He might not receive physical assistance from the Bavarian, but he could at least count on honesty.
He hoped.
As usual, the clustered buildings of the village were quiet, and no one was in sight. Wagner slipped cautiously to Brandt’s all-purpose store and opened the door. As soon as he did, he knew something was wrong. The place was filled with a stench unlike anything Wagner had known before. Like rotted cabbage, trash, and human waste. He moved cautiously into the gloom of the store, making his way past the twisting rows of racks cluttered with every imaginable good and a healthy dose of dust on each shelf. He crept across the floor in slow segments, looking around him and up—always up—as he went, expecting an ambush. The pickax was clutched tightly in his now sweating hands, and he had its metal head up and ready for battle.
There was nothing moving in the place, and as Wagner strained his ears for any sounds, all he could hear was his own quiet breathing. As he neared the stairs leading down to the basement and the books, the smell got stronger, and he began to suspect what he might find in the stacks.
He walked down the steps, and immediately spotted Brandt.
The rotund man was standing against the end cap of one of the bookshelves—his prized collection of books. He was not moving. He stood stiffly, and as Wagner got closer, he saw the man’s eyes were opened wide, and his mouth was open as well. Blood had dripped out of his mouth and down the side of his cheek. He had been dead for some time; the blood had dried on his face and crusted to a rust-colored stain.
What filled Wagner with rage was the large metal railroad spike that had been driven into the man’s forehead, where most of the blood had leaked out. The spike went through the Bavarian and into the wood of the bookcase. It was likely what was holding up the man’s corpse.
The method of killing this pleasant shopkeeper spoke of hatred, not just expediency. Also, his throat did not appear to be molested. The pool of blood on the floor was wide and tacky—Wagner had just stepped into it before he stopped in horror and fury at the spike. This man was not killed by the Count.
This was Petran.
Wagner could see it. The slight downward tilt of the spike. A taller man had done this. The bruising around Brandt’s throat indicated very long fingers.
Another thing for which the servant now had to answer.
Wagner turned and stormed up the stairs, walking through the stacks to something he had seen on his first visit to the shop. It was just where he remembered it. A black, Swiss service revolver, and next to it, a slightly crumpled looking box of ammunition. He threw the pickax to the floor and picked up the pistol, checking it over quickly. He knew how to shoot, but he had never held one of these Swiss pistols before. Still, he quickly figured out its mechanism, and said a silent thank you to the portly Bavarian for keeping the thing well oiled and in working condition. The shelves might be dusty, but everything on the shelves was well tended.
Wagner loaded the gun and turned to stomp out the door and across the road to the tavern.
This time, he noted the large silver cross over the door to the tavern, and understood its significance. They knew, he told himself. They were hoping God would protect them. He ran up to the door and rammed his foot out, his boot connecting with the tavern door’s handle. The door flew open and Wagner stalked into the room.
“God won’t protect you bastards from me.”
Chapter 29
“I hope that He will, indeed, protect me,” a man at the opposite side of the room said, “and if He does not, then it will be my time, and that is all.”
The old man with the long flowing white beard and hair sat in a chair facing the door, as if he were patiently waiting for something, or someone. The rest of the room was empty, with no sign of Miklos or any of his other customers. Now that Wagner looked carefully, he recalled the old man sitting in the corner on his first night in town. The man had appeared to be napping that night, but now his eyes twinkled with life and something else…curiosity?
“Where is Miklos?” Wagner asked the old man, keeping the revolver trained on him.
“They have gone. All of them. You have no enemies in this room, Herr Wagner.” The man leaned back in his chair, and Wagner could see that he wore a black robe of some sort, under the all the flowing white hair.
“Who are you? How do you know me?” Wagner checked the ceiling and around the room, then moved over to the front desk to look behind it, all the while keeping the gun trained on the old man.
“Very good, sir. You remembered to check the desk and the ceiling. They like ceilings don’t they? But you seem to know that now. I am going to stand up, if you will allow it. Please do not shoot me.” The man stood slowly, using one hand on the flat of the tabletop to support him as he groaned to an upright posture. “To answer your questions, I am the village priest, and I know you, sir, because every man, woman, and child in this town knows your name. You had the unfortunate role of alerting us all to the fact that the castle was once again occupied by a thing of evil.”
Wagner came back around the desk, keeping his eyes on the old man, but he lowered the pistol.
The priest, for his part, slowly took hold of his long white beard and raised it slowly, revealing a starched white collar at his throat, above the black tunic. Wagner noticed that a large silver cross rested on the man’s chest, hanging from the beefiest chain Wagner had ever seen.
&nbs
p; “Have you been bitten?” the priest asked, as he lowered his beard.
“What?” Wagner was shocked.
“Have you been bitten?” The priest stepped forward with a pronounced limp, but the power in his voice and his bearing made it clear which of the two of them was in charge, despite the presence of a weapon between them.
“No,” Wagner said. “But another has.” He was thinking of Gretchen now.
“Your wife?” The priest asked, softer this time, and with some sympathy.
“No, a friend. She was bitten, and died. Then my friend Fritz was murdered. His head crushed,” Wagner took a breath to steady his nerves, then continued the tale. “Dracula put me in a hole, but I escaped.”
“A hole?” the old priest asked.
“An oubliette. There were rats,” Wagner told him. A wave of revulsion washed over the priest’s face. Wagner knew he did not need to elaborate with the man.
“Petran loaded Dracula and my wife into a carriage and they escaped before I could get her.”
The priest limped forward to inspect him. Wagner realized the reason for the man’s initial question—he was still covered with blood, some of it his. He also had small bite marks from the rats, and he suddenly became alarmed.
“I was bitten by the rats. Are they infected with something? Will I die from the same wasting and blood loss Gretchen did?” Wagner looked around himself as the priest quickly examined his injuries.
“You have much to learn, young Andreas, and we have very little time to prepare you. You say he kept your wife alive?” The old man moved toward the stairs leading up to the rooms, and Wagner followed him.
“The Count? Yes. He said he would make her one of his concubines to replace the one we killed.”
The priest whirled around, his long flowing hair and beard flying in the arc. A gleam of mischief and mirth danced in his eyes. “You say you killed a vampire? Good. Tell me, boy. How did you do it?”
Wagner described the incidents leading up to the battle in the corridor. He explained that the waitress had been turned into a vampire. The old man was not surprised. Wagner eventually lead up to how Fritz had shattered the other vampire woman’s head with the bed posts. The old man nodded approvingly, then turned and ascended the stairs. “You were very lucky, and your friend, although not lucky, must have been incredibly strong. I understand how upset you must be over his death, but you must recognize that Fritz saved your life with his actions. He aroused the anger of the Dracula creature, and if he had not, you might all be dead.”
“Wait, Father. Where are we going? I need to catch up with that coach. That bastard has my wife.”
“Have a care with your patience, Herr Wagner. He will not get far with your wife. To travel long distances, Dracula must rest in soil from his homeland. He must also have complete protection from the sun, which could kill him, if he were directly exposed to it.”
The priest continued his lecture as he ascended the stairs. “So Dracula has many small houses and waypoints, where he might rest safely and protected from the sun. Inns and rest stops if you will. Sometimes innocuous places, and other times hives of evil. I have spent the last few days traveling far and wide to the four points of the compass. I found his rests stops, and I destroyed them. As soon as he reaches the first, he will know what has happened, and he will return in haste back to the safety of his castle. So you see, we know exactly where he is going, and approximately when he will arrive. Your wife will be safe throughout the journey. Come.”
At the top of the stairs, the priest went into a room, and Wagner followed him, then stopped dead in his tracks.
The room was full of crosses. Every wall was covered in crucifixes, from small necklaces to giant crosses the likes of which would normally be seen on an altar in a church. For that matter, one wall held what appeared to be an actual altar. The room held a small wardrobe, and a tiny bed, on which were arrayed twenty or more wooden sticks sharpened to a wicked point. It was a corner room and one window held an array of glass vials and bottles with clear liquid in them. The other window had several garlands of garlic hanging from nails above the frame. On a small table was a collection of needles, bandages, journals, quills, ink bottles, and a large wooden crossbow.
“Tell me everything,” the priest said. “I will prepare you, but I warn you. The journey is not to be taken lightly. It will take some time, and the preparations will be painful.”
“Show me.”
Once again, the old man assured Wagner he still had a very good chance of getting his wife back, safe and unharmed. Although they had been working for hours, the priest said they still had much to do, and it would not be safe for Wagner to go into battle at night, when Dracula would be at his strongest. They would stay in the protection of the room until daylight on the following day. Wagner knew the man was right, but he struggled to suppress his fear for Anneli.
The priest had listened to the tale of Wagner’s life since accepting the position at the castle, and Wagner made sure to include every suspicion and thought he had throughout the telling. The old man, whose name was Abraham, claimed he had done battle with the vampire years ago, and he told Wagner countless things the folktales had left out. Throughout their discussions, the priest blessed the bottles of ink and the needles, the crosses and the holy water. He blessed the garlic and the wooden stakes, then covered Wagner with the holy water, and made countless blessings on him.
“A vampire is a creature of the night. It might look like a man, walk and talk, but never make any mistake: it is a creature you are dealing with. It has an insatiable thirst for human blood, and it will manipulate any situation it can to get a bellyful of the crimson liquid.
“The sunlight and fire are fatal to the creatures. Any other typical way of killing a human being will be useless—your friend was exceedingly lucky with his blunt trauma tactic. A thing like a gunshot wound could not kill a vampire, and indeed, it might not even slow them down, so your pistol would be useless.” The old man looked meaningfully at the pistol Wagner had kept clutched in his hand through the conversation. Now he felt silly for having it out for so long. He set it down next to him, on the bed where he sat.
“Your other major weapon is the wooden stake. Through the heart, and then once the beast appears finished, you remove the head.” Abraham paused to ensure that Wagner had absorbed the information.
The priest was nearly finished preparing his body with his tools. The man had not lied. It had been painful. But Wagner could see the art to it, and understood how all the information and preparation would help him in the coming battle. They had been in the room for hours, with Wagner learning all he could from Abraham on ways to kill a vampire, and how they thought and acted. Many of his own observations about the tactical nature of the castle had been confirmed.
Abraham had remained in the village after he had thought Dracula dead, all the while keeping an eye on things and hoping never to have to impart his knowledge to another before he died. He, too, it seemed, had suffered an incredible fright that had turned the last of his hair white, and Wagner could see from the animation in the man’s face as he spoke authoritatively on the subject of vampires, that Abraham was a far younger man than Wagner had initially thought. Surely no older than sixty, yet with the long flowing white hair, the man could have easily passed for an octogenarian. Unfortunately, the man had a limp, and he would only slow Wagner down. The priest didn’t offer to come with him, but it was understood he would have been a physical liability had he done so.
“I am sending you at dawn with this bandolier of pouches.” The old man showed the leather sling to Wagner. “It contains garlic, several small crosses, and these spheres of glass filled with holy water. You can use them like grenades. Remember to keep Dracula and his female vampire at a distance as much as possible. If they get in close, their strength and speed could be the end of you. Do you understand?”
“Distance fighting, yes.” Wagner nodded.
“One other thing, Andreas.
Your friend, Gretchen, was it? You understand that Dracula might have turned her?”
Wagner looked up at Abraham in surprise.
“She might rise as one of them. It is unpleasant, but it is a possibility. If you see her and she is anything other than a deteriorating corpse, you must assume she has been turned.” Abraham stopped what he was doing, packing small vials into the last pouch on the bandolier. “If she has turned, you must understand that she is no longer the friend you once knew. She is now an animal. A beast, no different from an African lion or a wolf in the forest. She exists now only to murder you and drink every last drop of your blood. You must forget what she looks like, and dispatch her, as I have shown you. She will be a thing only, no longer human. You will not be murdering her, only stopping abuse of her corpse by this fiendish condition of demonic animation. You will be doing her memory a favor.” The older man paused again, looking Wagner in the eye to ensure comprehension.
“Your most trusted allies will be these crucifixes and your faith in the almighty. You will be able to hold Dracula at bay with just the sight of the cross. I’m giving you several. Try not to lose them. Be quick, be violent, be sure. The water will burn them like the sunlight. Treat the crypt as I described earlier, and if you can find your wife and get out without battle, it might be the better part of valor. But I would prefer you put the beasts down for good. Should you catch them sleeping, do it fast and efficiently.
“Most of all, you will need to watch out for the manservant. He will most assuredly be awake and waiting for you. Think on your knowledge of the castle, imagine where he might lie in wait and where he might set traps for you. On him, you should use your revolver. He is still human, and will die like any other man. Find him first, and kill him, or you won’t stand a chance with Dracula or the woman. Petran will guard them with his life, like a dog. More than just fearing his master, he hungers for the immortality the vampires possess, and he will do whatever he needs to do to ensure that the Count will eventually reward him.”