VROLOK

by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  Isabella threw the onlookers a nefarious glance. “Go back to your dinner,” she hissed. Every person who had noticed the Vampires turned away and went back to eating their meals with no recollection of what they had just seen.

  Nicolae now rushed towards Isabella, fearing for her safety. He kicked Lizzie away from her and this final blow ensured she was dead. After he had dispatched Lizzie he continued to help Isabella. He held Van Helsing down while Isabella let blood drip into his mouth. After the vengeful deed was done, the two Vampires let Van Helsing go. Isabella looked at Nicolae and smiled; he returned her smile warmly.

  “Tell me this…” Nicolae began, “if I am ever killed, will you do this to avenge my death?” Isabella nodded.

  “If you were ever killed, I would be merciless,” Isabella answered.

  Van Helsing ran about the streets in agony and despair. His father was a Vampire and he was a Vampire. These were the creatures he despised. He saw up ahead of him iron railings encircling a church. He threw himself on to them and by God‘s grace, he died.

  REMEMBER YOUR OATH

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Before they departed for England, Isabella and Nicolae searched Van Helsing’s rooms; she found several journals, newspaper articles, and a copy of the Demeter’s ship logs. This was the ship on which Vlad had traveled to England. When it was pasted together it created quite a detailed account of Vlad’s entrance and departure from these people’s lives. It was the only thing Isabella took from Van Helsing. But then again, it was the only thing that Abraham had that was worth anything.

  Isabella read the accounts over and over again trying to learn about her prey, trying to get to know the Harkers, Arthur Holmwood, and Jack Seaward. She was looking for clues in order to execute her revenge. Isabella promised herself that she would think of the worst possible punishment for each of them.

  There were references in these pages to Vampires being repelled by religious symbols, wafers, crosses, and holy water. Vlad had always despised religion and shrunk from it, but there was no mythical power guarding people who hid behind these ancient expressions of faith. The weapons that Holmwood, Harker and Seaward had used were all dangerous weapons to mortals but not to Vampires and Van Helsing knew this. He had placed a few drops of his blood onto the weapons and when the end was near he added a lot more than that to make sure that Vlad Dracula died. He had smeared a drop or two on the wafer that he had pressed on Mina Harker’s head. When it burned they all knew that she had turned. Isabella destroyed any reference that existed regarding a Dhampir’s blood; she didn’t want there to be a written record that held the key to the destruction of a Vampire’s existence.

  Months later, Isabella was again in London. She had not yet forced herself into the lives of those she hunted. She had to establish herself once again in British society so that she could kill or destroy each one of them in turn, without suspicion. Isabella and Nicolae had to be invited to meet the Harkers, Holmwoods, or Seawards. It had to seem as if they had met purely by chance and that nothing had been prearranged. In the meantime, while she waited for that precious invitation to arrive, she amused herself by hunting through bookstores looking for stories that interested her. Isabella had never lost her thirst for knowledge.

  It was a dark winter’s day when she found herself in an old and forgotten bookstore near the theatre district. As she was looking through the various books she couldn’t help but hear two men standing across from her having a heated conversation.

  “I would give it up, Bram; you will never write anything that anyone would be even remotely interested in,” one of the men stated.

  “Henry, you are being unkind. I will write a great novel someday…I just need to find a story to inspire me.”

  “Perhaps, Bram, but you won’t write anything skulking around bookshops.” Henry left the shop and Bram stayed behind leafing through the books, looking for the inspiration for an original idea that so far had eluded him. Isabella was now standing beside him. The Vampire and the aspiring writer both reached for the same short story. Isabella’s hand was on the book before Bram’s. Bram gently brushed Isabella’s hand. Isabella quickly drew her hand back from Bram’s touch.

  “I am sorry,” Bram began. “You take the book; I have read it many times before.”

  “You have.”

  “I have it’s a great story.”

  “What is it about?”

  “A Vampire.”

  “I had guessed that from the title.”

  “Yes but this one is different. He mingles with society, totally free from suspicion. In fact he is quite an alluring Vampire, unlike any other vampiric creatures we have read about before.”

  “What have Vampires seemed like before?” Isabella enquired.

  “They have always been described as parasites with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, no personalities. Skulking around in darkened alleyways, hissing like cats as they pounce on their unsuspecting victims. What makes Ruthven so dangerous is that he can pass for one of the best us…”

  “Ruthven?” Isabella queried.

  “Yes, Lord Ruthven—he is the villain of the story.”

  “I know that name,” Isabella said, looking at the man before her. He was a middle-aged man. He was quite tall, well-groomed, with a beard and a kind face. Isabella thought to herself that this man deserved to get his novel and she decided that she would give it to him. “I couldn’t help but over hear that you are trying to write a novel.

  “I am. I have been for years.”

  “I have a story for you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Not here, not now. Meet me tomorrow outside the British Library.”

  “A secret rendezvous with a younger woman. My wife would not approve.”

  “Your wife has nothing to worry about.” This woman intrigued Bram Stoker; he would meet her at the British Library at least to hear what she had to say.

  The next day Isabella was waiting for him and the pair went inside together. Isabella took him straight over to the historical section of the library. Bram stayed silent. He was trying to indulge the young girl in an innocent, paternal way. Isabella lifted up German texts and showed them to Stoker.

  “Have you ever heard of this man?” Isabella asked. Bram looked down at the German text. Although he could not read German, the words somehow seemed clear to him.

  “Prince Vlad Dracula.” Bram said quietly.

  “Yes, a Prince, a great and noble prince, the scourge of his time.”

  “You talk like you know him.”

  “I did.” Isabella looked up at him with a faint smile, touched his forehead and memories flowed into his mind. He saw what he instantly recognised as a great man, a Prince and a warrior, and he was standing at the top of a battlefield. He saw a young man approach him from out of the darkness. This adolescent bore a strong resemblance to the young woman he saw in front of him. Bram stoker fell back He was amazed at this vision, it was so clear. It seemed to him as if he was actually witnessing these events which he knew had occurred centuries ago.

  “In life he was a good man, in death he was the man I loved,” Isabella continued. Bram Stoker raised his eyes up to look at this woman again. She was possibly the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; her face was exquisite and Bram knew she had stories to tell, stories the like of which the world had never heard before. “I want to give you a present but before I do, I want to tell you a story,” she continued.

  At this Bram Stoker got up and took her hand and held it carefully.

  “Please I want you to tell me as much as you can.”

  “Sit.” Isabella gestured for Bram to sit down again. She began to tell a story, but it was not one of her stories—it was one of Vlad‘s.

  Eighty years before, when Vlad had been in England, he had left Isabella in Jakub’s care and was filling time before he had to go back to Holland to kill his son. Vlad had always liked England and he wanted a place to distract him from the grizzly task ahead. He deci
ded to stay there until he had to return.

  When he was in this country he had always used the same name, Edward Hawthorne. He did not think this name was appropriate anymore. He wanted a name that suited his morose mood and one that inspired a certain amount of fear. He called himself, Lord Ruthven.

  The Ruthvens had been Earls of Scotland; they had a reputation as assassins. The most infamous incident was when Patrick, the third Lord Ruthven, brutally murdered David Rizzio, Mary Queen of Scots’ chief advisor. He had been brutally slain in front of the Queen’s eyes. His son the fourth Earl had also tried to usurp the monarchy by imprisoning Mary’s son, James. After this, their Earlship was taken from them and had never been restored. Vlad took it upon himself to give them back their lordly status, even if it was only for the duration of his stay. He introduced himself as Lord Ruthven, Earl of Gowrie.

  He flitted from party to party unimpressed by the superficial society around him. His contempt was obvious at these affairs and yet he kept getting invited to them. No one knew much about him and his pale skin and black eyes always made him stand out from the crowd. There was an air of mystery that surrounded him and he attracted and fascinated most people. Some, however, were more cautious and were suspicious of this lord who came from nowhere.

  Vlad was never very sociable and he usually stood in the corner watching the exuberance of the other guests with disdain. He was not interested in his surroundings or the people that occupied them. However, one man kept trying to start a conversation with him. Vlad was reluctant to enter into any sort of dialogue and either snubbed or ignored him, but this man kept persisting. He suspected Vlad had stories to tell and he wanted to hear them. This curious man’s name was John Polidori.

  Polidori was a young doctor with literary pretensions. He attended these gatherings to see if he could converse with the likes of Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley and most especially Lord Byron. Polidori had initially noticed Lord Ruthven, simply because he seemed so unimpressed by these literary giants. While swarms of people gathered around these men like sycophants waiting on their every word, hoping they would break into verse and give an impromptu demonstration of their skill, Ruthven looked through them, not even acknowledging them.

  One evening Polidori, who always kept one eye on Byron and the other eye on Ruthven, hoped to one day see some sort of reaction from him. Ruthven had obviously become annoyed earlier than he usually did and he left the party long before midnight. Polidori was compelled to follow him that evening. He grabbed his coat and stayed a few paces behind.

  Of course Vlad was well aware of Polidori following him. He had left the reception because his hunger was starting affect him and he did not want to kill anyone so publicly. He wandered through the streets and with each step his pace grew slower. He was waiting for Polidori to catch up with him. They had wandered into a district that had a growing reputation for violence. Vlad had brought Polidori here purposely, with the notion, when Polidori’s body was found tomorrow, that it could be easily explained.

  Vlad stood on the river’s edge waiting for Polidori to come up behind him. He had decided that he would strike him then. Vlad, being very elegantly dressed, was a temptation for any thief who was watching, and one was watching him. This questionable character ran at Vlad, and he had a bludgeon in his hand. His plan was to knock Vlad out and take whatever he could find in his pockets. Vlad felt the rush of air as the thief struck out at Vlad, but of course his blow did not even make a mark. Vlad knew that Polidori had seen these events and was running towards Vlad to help him, but Vlad had no need of help; he had to feed.

  The thief had now felt how strong Vlad was and was tempted to back away; he knew he could not subdue this man. Vlad turned around and looked up to the heavens.

  “Rain,” Vlad whispered. Rain started to pour out of the sky and winds started to stir up fog. The street quickly filled with it. Polidori’s vision was now unclear. Vlad caught the thief by the neck and bit into him, feeding quickly before Polidori could reach the scene. Polidori was within a few steps of Vlad and the thief was now dead. To cover up his actions and the dead man Vlad threw himself and the body into the Thames. To Polidori it looked as if there had been a struggle and the two men had fallen into the river as a result. The rain stopped and the fog dissipated. Polidori, who was now frantic, stood at the river’s edge, desperately looking through the darkness to see Vlad coming up for air, but the water was calm and still; there was no sign of him.

  Polidori dived into the murky water with the firm intent of saving Vlad’s life. Vlad had stayed underneath so that Polidori would presume him drowned, but Polidori was not so complacent that he would stand by and watch a man drown if there was a possibility that he could save him. Vlad remained limp and still and let Polidori swim towards him. He let him take hold of him and drag him back up to the surface of the water. Vlad made no effort to help him, believing that Polidori would eventually let go and leave him to drift down into the blackness of the water. He was wrong. Polidori dragged and pulled with all his might until he was almost drowned himself. He got onto the river bank and dragged Vlad’s body up from the water. He pressed down on Vlad’s stomach to try and get the water out of his lungs. He opened his shirt and placed his ear to his heart. There was no sound at all. Polidori was exhausted and scolded himself for not being fast enough. He walked away to try and report the drowning.

  “If I only I had been quicker, I could have saved him,” Polidori said to the policeman he found. “He is just over here.” Polidori pointed and jumped down onto the river bank. The body was gone. “It was definitely here,” he said.

  “Sir, have you been drinking?” The police man asked.

  “Yes, but…”

  “Sir, I suggest you go home and stop wasting my time.” With this abrupt reply the officer left and Polidori began looking around the riverbank completely puzzled. He started to walk home. It was just an hour before daylight and the streets were silent. All Polidori could hear was the sound of his own footsteps; he did not like this eerie silence. The events of this evening had unnerved him and he ran the rest of the way. He was frightened and he was right to be. Vlad had been watching him, deciding whether to kill him or not. He had eventually decided that this man had saved his life or at least he had tried to. Could Vlad really kill a man who had almost killed himself trying to save him? No, he would let him live for now, he thought.

  A few years passed and Polidori had worked hard at becoming a friend and confident of Lord Byron. Lord Byron had taken Polidori with him on a trip across Europe. They were travelling through France together and were invited to a house in which Byron was supposed to display his talent. Polidori as in all such occasions disappeared into the background of the party. He wandered through the building while Byron was entertaining the masses. These performances of Byron had lost some of their appeal for Polidori, for they had grown monotonous; the originality which he had seen in England was somehow lost in these bloated and arrogant exhibitions. However, what he had lost in respect for Byron’s literary talent, he had gained in friendship. He heard uproarious applause. It was obviously all over for another evening. Polidori headed back into recital hall and Byron called him over.

  “Polidori…come over here, I want to introduce you to someone.” Polidori walked swiftly over to Byron and smiled. “You may have met him before in England,” Byron continued. The man who was standing with his back towards Polidori started to turn slowly around. Polidori’s blood chilled to ice as the man he thought was dead was revealed to him. “Lord Ruthven,” Byron stated. “Do you remember him? We saw him at several parties I think, in London.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he stuttered.

  Polidori was sick with fear the rest of the night; he knew this man had been dead. He had no heartbeat, how was he still alive. Polidori kept trying to steal a glimpse of Ruthven without him knowing but every time he looked over at him Ruthven was staring back and smiling menacingly. Eventually Polidori could not stand it any longer. H
e had to get out of this place. He went over to Byron and begged his leave.

  “Go if you want Polidori, I will not be leaving for some time yet.” He knew this would be Byron’s response. He was not one to leave any place that he was receiving such high praise. Polidori went outside and got into the coach that was waiting for him. As he stepped up into the coach there was a sudden change in the weather. A mighty storm stirred in the sky and Polidori said to the coach driver.

  “Hurry, please I want to be home before this storm becomes destructive.”

  “Yes, sir.” Polidori heard the coach driver lash the horses with the reins and they sped off. Within a few minutes, lightning stabbed down from the sky to the earth below. Polidori remembered the weather of that other night in London. He dismissed these ideas trying to blank out these thoughts, but he couldn’t.

  Polidori’s mind was racing with thoughts that were only adding to his fear. When they were within a mile from where he was staying one last fork of lightening struck the earth. It split a tree in half and the tree collapsed in front of the galloping horses. The coach grounded to a halt.

  “I am afraid I cannot go any further,” the coach driver yelled down.

  “What?” Polidori retorted. “Nonsense, carry on,” Polidori said, scared out of his wits.