Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage

by Doug Lamoreux

  Harrington laughed too, quietly, as he shushed her.

  “The neckline is high, the sleeves puffed at the shoulders. There are ruffles at the elbows and a cincture running here.” She passed a delicate hand over her stomach.

  Harrington swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “You're lovely in it.”

  Ekaterina's mouth fell open. “But you have never seen me wearing it. I've… never worn it.” Sadness moved in behind her bright eyes. “Except to try it on.”

  “Yes,” he said, in equal melancholy. “On the night I… ran. I saw you, through your window, a white angel, when… somebody started shooting.”

  “Trevor, I'm so sorry.”

  “It's all right.” He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, and knew he dared not. Not here. He forced a laugh, to cheer her. “You got a new dress, I lost an old hat. What could be better?”

  “It's so lovely…” She paused and began to cry. “It looked so lovely against my hair.”

  Hacked stubbles of gold peeked from beneath Funar's knit cap. Ekaterina's gorgeous mane, once pulled forward in a fashionable pompadour, braided behind to her shoulders, passed through a bow, and draped to her slight hips, was only a memory. Still brilliant, it seemed less so chopped to a pawltry inch atop the head of a deck boy. Harrington laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “It's all right.”

  “Is it?” Ekaterina kissed his hand. “After last night, I wonder.”

  “You're not letting Petrofsky's fantasies, Popescu's evil spirits get to you? Sailors are superstitious by trade.”

  She nodded. “Still, I admit, I am afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “We rush through the dark and, though it is the Mediterranean in summer, something cold and unfathomable threatens all around. The night is filled with fearful sounds. Have we a destination or are we fooling ourselves? Are we merely drifting from that we know and love to things dark and dreadful? Oh, Trevor, I can't help but feel that something terrible is going to happen.”

  “Darling.” Harrington could resist no longer. He grabbed Ekaterina, held her and, when she looked into his eyes and kissed him, passionately returned it, as if his life depended upon it.

  Had it not been for an accident they would, there and then, have been found out.

  The mate, quietly walking the deck alone, tripped as he rounded the deckhouse and caught a rain barrel to keep from going down. The thud, the slosh of water, and the shouted oath alerted the pair. They had just the time to straighten themselves before Constantin came upon them in the dark.

  He stared at the innocent looking duo, more suspicious now than on the previous night. “A bit late for another meeting, is it not?” the mate asked. “What have you two to meet about?”

  “Funar and I merely stopped in passing, Mr. Constantin,” Harrington said. “There's nothing more to it than that. The happenings aboard this ship that stir your suspicions, I would guess, are the same ones keeping me from sleeping.”

  “And Funar?”

  “I was just talking, sir,” the boy put in. “Conversing, as I seen Mr. Harrington here.”

  Constantin nodded noncommittally. “Rada, you will not be excused for lack of sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Harrington, a word with you, if you will.” It was not a request and Constantin didn't wait for an answer. Fully expecting their passenger to follow, he headed into the shadows aft.

  Harrington and Ekaterina shared grimaces, smiled and mouthed good night to each other. Then she waved him away. He smiled and left to catch the mate.

  She watched him go and was again alone in the gloomy bow – completely unaware of the large gray bat hanging inverted in the sail rigging above. Suspended from the lines on the foremast yard arm, the shadowy creature pinched the canvas of the fore main sail with the protruding thumbs on its folded wing-stalks, released the lines above from the grip of its clawed feet and quickly, noiselessly shimmied across the surface of the billowing sail.

  It came to a stop above her head.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first mate led the way into the mess as if it were his private office. Harrington, despite being a paid passenger, followed, head hanging like a naughty child entering church.

  “What exactly is going on?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Constantin, I do not understand your question.”

  “This is the second time I have discovered you and the boy on deck, after hours, where you have no business. I want to know what is going on.”

  “There is nothing `going on', I assure you.”

  “I do not accept your assurance.”

  “Sir?” Harrington asked indignantly.

  “Come, Mr. Harrington. You are the subject of a monarchy, I of an empire. Neither of us have the right to democratic feelings or expectations of autonomy. Most especially not you. We have a chain of command here and you, Mr. Harrington, are not on it. You will follow the captain's orders aboard this vessel and, in his absence, mine, or you will regret it. Do you understand?”

  “Certainly. I had no other intentions.”

  “I am gratified. This crew is suddenly on edge about - something. I do not understand it, but I don't need to. I need to put an end to it. I will, by insisting upon normalcy. Whatever you and Rada Funar are up to, it is not routine on this ship. It is a mystery.”

  “Our being on the deck was nothing more than a coincidence.”

  “Twice? After hours? No. I do not believe in this coincidence. Whatever you are about, I do not appreciate your interference with the crew and I will not have it. Walk the deck all you please, but these meetings are at an end. The mystery is over.”

  Ekaterina hesitated in the bow, afraid for Trevor. Not that she believed he was in any physical danger. She knew he wasn't. The first mate was prickly, but a fair man. He'd certainly been good to her. She was (rather Rada Funar was) the only crewman the mate called by his Christian name. He, along with the second, had seen to Funar's instruction as a good seaman, taught him his duties, even taught him how to steer, and looked out for his well-being. He cared about the `boy'. That said, the first could be a hard man, brutal when it came to discipline. She hoped he was not being too hard on Trevor; that he was not throwing lightning bolts to protect his protégé.

  She'd been ordered below, and knew she ought to go. But Ekaterina paused a moment more to look into the black Mediterranean, to see the ghosts of white caps on the breaking waves, to hear them slapping the ship. To listen to the wind in the sails. At least that was what she thought she was hearing.

  What she actually heard was the dark gray creature, its leathery wings folded, on its stalks, its clawed thumbs pinching the canvas as it shimmied down the sail, lower and closer. She did not hear the thing let go; didn't hear it drop. She was oblivious that, as it fell, the creature transformed…

  Her senses, alive with the beauty of the Mediterranean night were, an instant later, overwhelmed with horror. For something, someone, fell in a blur, landed behind and grabbed her with hands of ice. A wave of revulsion washed over Ekaterina. Cold hands, one over her mouth, the other snatching her wrists together, held her in an iron grip. A peripheral flash in the amber gloom of the face of an old man. The putrid smell of rot and decay, an awful hot breath, stifling her as her attacker's head dropped below her line of vision. A wire-brush burn as his thick mustache scratched her soft white flesh. The intense pain as razor sharp teeth violated her throat; tearing tissue, crushing capillaries, piercing a vein. Ekaterina screamed silently into her attacker's palm as her blood flowed.

  Count Dracula, lusting, long starved, drank deeply.

  * * *

  In the first week of the voyage the crew had come to know one another and, while no great friendships emerged, the entire compliment seemed to get along. The single glaring exceptions were Popescu and Smirnov. The former, it was no secret, was no favorite of anyone. The latter, while odd, got on well enough. Both did their duty and avoided the lash of Constantin's tongue. That said, it was clear
that between the grumbling Romanian and the slight Russian there was no love lost. No outright hatred, but certainly no meeting of the minds. Popescu had taken to loudly and frequently barking, “Tu fundul prostie!,” at the little Russian. Smirnov, having secured a translation, had had enough of being called a silly ass before his shipmates. That would be nothing compared to the blow Smirnov's ego would suffer as Wednesday night's watch turned into Thursday morning, 15 July.

  Owing to the scarcity of crew, the captain had the previous day extended the normal four hour watches to six. It complicated things, making hands seem to come and go at random, but afforded each a longer rest when their chance came. Thus Popescu relieved Smirnov at 6 am instead of 4 (four bells instead of eight) just before dawn. The Russian reported “All's well” in the monotone that generally passed between them and went below. Less than ten minutes later, Smirnov found himself back on deck – and in the dog house.

  After taking the watch, Popescu, as was his routine, headed forward on the starboard to look over the bow and sails. Normally, he returned by the port completing his circuit at the helm. He didn't get that far. As he passed into the bow, he spotted something on the deck at the foot of the foremast. He drew near and recognized it as the body of Funar. He kicked the lad's boot and called his name but the boy failed to stir. He could not hear and barely felt the lad's breath.

  “Pasha!” Popescu shouted, calling aft in sudden fear.

  He stopped himself in mid-shout, remembering the hell Petrofsky had gotten for raising an alarm unnecessarily. Better to get help quietly and let the officers raise any clamor. He hurried back to the wheel where Amramoff was talking with the second.

  “What's the matter, Popescu? Seen a ghost?”

  Eltsin burned the steersman with his scowl. “Shut up, Pasha. You and your damned ghosts.” He turned to the agitated Romanian. “What is it?”

  “Not a ghost!” Popescu whispered. “A body. The deck boy's body, forward.”

  “He's dead?”

  “I don't think so. I think he is breathing… but only just.”

  Eltsin started forward. Popescu followed, trying to inform him, to defend himself, to steady his nerves.

  A red ribbon of daylight broke over the bulwark, pierced the gloom, and threw the foot of the mast into deeper shadow as they reached the collapsed boy. Eltsin crouched, his hand over the lad's face. “He's cold,” he said. “He hardly breathes.” He looked at Popescu. “Rouse the captain, quietly.”

  Popescu, trembling, mumbling the `Lord's Prayer' by rote while he recalled the superstitions of his fatherland, seemed not to have heard.

  “Bogdan! Go below and quietly get the captain.”

  Popescu, yanked from his trance, crossed himself and hurried aft.

  * * *

  Smirnov heard it all; the frightened Romanian barging down the companionway past the crew's quarters to the captain's cabin, his hurried rap on the door, his excited whisper requesting Nikilov on deck and, a moment later, the captain hurrying by in the opposite direction with Popescu on his heels.

  The first mate too was up and out of bed at the sound of their passing. More curious than alarmed, he grabbed his coat and followed without giving Smirnov a second look.

  The small Russian was alarmed. Afraid he'd missed something on his watch, Smirnov pulled his boots back on and hurried after the three. He stepped on deck to a frown from Amramoff at the wheel. The carpenter, who'd watched the parade, pointed him forward. He rounded the deckhouse and, near the foremast, saw the captain, the second and Popescu gathered round, and Constantin kneeling over…

  “Oh, hell!”

  Smirnov drew near and, in the early light, confirmed the body on the deck was that of Funar. “What's happened?” he asked.

  “Tu fundul prostie!,” Popescu shouted. “The boy is near death. He's cold as the grave. He must have lain here all night, while you were supposed to be on watch. Where were you?”

  Popescu may have been right. Sadly, for all Smirnov knew, the boy may have been there through his watch. Nobody knew but… he'd left the deck several times during the night. His back spasms had worsened and he'd needed, he'd taken, laudanum for the pain. He hadn't been gone long, but that meant nothing and he knew it. He'd abandoned his post. Worse, he'd returned to it under influence of drug. In the dark, in his laudanum-fog, he may have walked right past the boy. May have done several times, without seeing or stumbling over him.

  “Where were you?” Popescu was baring down on him.

  All Smirnov could do was drop his head. Perhaps the Romanian was right; perhaps he was a silly ass.

  Sunlight cleared the sail and bathed them. The boy came to. He groaned and raised a hand to cover his eyes, as if the light burned. He moaned in pain and rolled to his side. Constantin reached to unbutton Funar's shirt and the boy's head lolled over. The mate exclaimed under his breath.

  “What is it?” the captain asked, stepping forward.

  The first lifted his hand, showing a smear of blood on his fingers. He peeled back Funar's collar throwing light on a vicious wound on his throat; a fist-sized bruise around two punctures, white with red centers, oozing blood.

  “Dear God,” Popescu exclaimed, behind them. He crossed himself. “The devil is aboard.” He turned on Smirnov, livid, “And you let him roam the deck!”

  “Shut up, you fool!” Smirnov screamed. “Shut your filthy mouth!”

  “Be quiet,” the captain snapped. “Both of you.”

  Funar began suddenly to gasp. To aid his breathing, Constantin pulled his shirt open. Under it, he found the boy's chest and mid-section wrapped in a cloth brace very like Smirnov's. The mate grunted at the oddity. Surely, Funar was too young to also suffer back troubles? The captain stared, traded shrugs with the first, and said, “No wonder he can't breathe. Take it off.” Constantin unbuttoned Funar's shirt to his belt, then started on the wrap. He loosened it, lifted the boy with one arm and pulled the material from around his torso – once, twice, a third time.

  Behind the mate, the pressure of the morning, coupled with his fears, pushed Popescu beyond endurance. With neither reason nor excuse, the superstitious Romanian slapped Smirnov across the face. The startled Russian replied with a fist. That quickly the pair were trading blows. Eltsin and Nikilov, shouting, had no choice but to jump between them.

  Ignoring their row to concentrate on the patient, Constantin pulled off the last of Funar's chest wrap. His mouth fell open. He froze in place - except for his shocked and widening eyes.

  Eltsin, ordering him to stop, held the heavily-breathing Popescu pinned against the foremast. Smirnov's hair and mustache, meanwhile, were a riot. Nikilov, having given him a shake that should have sent his head flying, likewise demanded he desist. The sailors regained their senses and the fight was halted. No sooner had a quiet descended, than it was exploded by Constantin, on the deck forward, sputtering, “Good Christ!”

  The commander, still holding Smirnov, barked, “Mr. Constantin! You will not take the Lord's name…” He stopped in mid-sentence. The mate, the most unflappable character the captain knew, blushed crimson in the dull light, deeply shocked. Nikilov moved to trade places. “See to the men,” he ordered the first. “I'll attend to Funar.”

  Constantin, stunned, tried to warn his commander in passing. Too angry to listen, the captain pointed at the sailors (separated by the second) and told the mate, “See to those blackguards!”

  “Mr. Eltsin,” the first said, “Take those men to the helm! Wait there for orders! Go now!”

  The second started aft, pushing the seamen before him.

  Nikilov bent to Funar. He saw the bloody wounds on the child's throat and the cloth wrap loosened to help his breathing. He pulled the shirt open, pulled the wrap down, to see what other injury had elicited Constantin's outrageous reaction. Then he gasped too. Beneath the clothing and tightly bound chest wrap, Rada Funar, their last minute crew hire, their hard working deck boy, had been hiding a small but lovely pair of breasts.

&n
bsp; * * *

  The captain entered the crew's quarters, where only two hands lay abed, and barked, “Up! Wake up! All hands on deck!” The lumbering Olgaren sprang up, while the athletic Petrofsky growled and rolled out like a hibernating bear. The grumbling ended the instant he saw who roused them. Nikilov ordered them dressed and out, and followed them into the between-decks companionway, shouting, “Mr. Eltsin is waiting for you at the helm.” They disappeared up the stairs and the captain breathed a sigh of relief.

  He needed the compartment; to go somewhere with the… injured… crew… person. To tend her and to keep her secret. The crew was already agitated and ill-prepared for more shocks. It made sense to get them out of the way and, with Popescu and Smirnov having traded fists, Nikilov had an excuse. Eltsin could discipline the lot, in the name of those miscreants, keep them busy and give Constantin and him time to solve this new dilemma.

  With the companionway clear, he opened the door to the forehold. Constantin, having dropped through the fore hatch, was waiting on the stair landing with the injured child in his arms. Nikilov nodded and the first hurried out. He ducked into the crew's quarters and, as the captain followed, laid Funar gently on a bunk. He pulled… her shirt… closed and held it tightly between pinched fingers. For her part, the girl appeared to have lost consciousness again.

  “Do you think they saw anything?” Constantin asked. “Popescu? Smirnov? Georgiy?”

  “They saw the blood,” the commander replied. “That was all. They were too busy with their own foolishness to… to see the… to see Funar's…” He couldn't find the words. He looked from the deck boy… the girl… to his first mate in time to hear Constantin put the day's question into words.

  “What in hell are we going to do?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nikilov needed to think.

  He stared at the… heavens, what could he call her? Who in the… Who was she? He couldn't call her anything. He certainly could not let her sex be known - with the ship already in its strange uproar.