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

by Doug Lamoreux

  Then came the night…

  Ekaterina snapped awake and sat up claiming she was better. That was it, as if someone lit a candle and drove away the darkness. A jubilant Harrington told her how worried he'd been. His elation was short-lived. He gently restrained her when she tried to rise, pleading she rest. She declared a need for air and argued to be allowed from the room. He refused and Ekaterina became agitated.

  “I'm delighted you are feeling better,” Harrington said. “That does not alter the fact you have been terribly ill all day. You've neither stirred nor taken any nourishment. You are not fit and are not allowed to go out.”

  “This is ridiculous!” She seemed in full vigor, though her skin color and pained-looking eyes belied the notion. “I need some air.”

  “I'll happily open the port hole and let in all the air you want. But you are not going anywhere. You may as well be resigned.”

  “You do not own me! You do not control me! I will do as I wish!”

  “The master of the ship has ordered that you are to remain below deck. Your condition, and your gender, are to be kept quiet. You will do as you are told; as we all must while we are at sea.”

  Ekaterina stared coldly, with an anger Harrington had never witnessed before. Then, to his surprise, and perhaps even to hers, she laughed in his face; a joyless, frightening laugh. Harrington had never heard the like and it made him very uneasy.

  * * *

  Hours later, Ekaterina finally slept – deep enough that Harrington felt safe in leaving her. He gathered his kit and headed for the crew's sleeping quarters. Four steps in, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized how good he'd had it in the old cabin.

  The odor was foul! Until now, he'd used the facilities in the head of the ship. Here, Popescu's polished chamber pots were in vigorous use and the room smelled as if one was in each bed.

  As to the beds, his was now a sailor's bunk, neither deep enough to comfortably roll over, nor long enough to completely stretch out. Most of the crew slept in their clothes to one extent or another, several wore their hats, others their boots. As uninviting as the situation was, Harrington realized he was stuck, and he was exhausted. He found an empty cot in the dark and collapsed onto it dressed. There he lay, serenaded by snores, thinking of Ekaterina; her strange illness, her unnatural temperament, and those curious wounds on her throat. Eventually, thankfully, sleep eased his mind.

  * * *

  Feliks Petrofsky walked the starboard deck forward of the foremast on watch – and miserable. They were short crew and now constantly on watch, or so it seemed. Add in a fog from nowhere for more grief and trouble. A dangerous situation on deck and an opportunity for a repeat of that morning's debacle. Smirnov was a wreck since the boy had been found injured. Could the same thing, Petrofsky wondered, happen to him? What had happened to the child? When – and why? What was Funar doing on deck at that hour? Who in hell would appear on deck this night, in this weird fog, to make things worse for him? Everything fell on Petrofsky!

  Then, unbelievably, in a sudden flash to his right, it did!

  In an instant the movement, in the form of a man, vaulted up and over the gunwale into the bow. Just appeared out of nowhere; out of the sea! A middle-aged man, dressed in black, with wide bursts of gray hair at his temples, and a dark mustache streaked with gray on a white face. He moved quickly and, wherever he'd come from, wherever he was going, scared the living hell out of the marlinspike.

  It took an instant for Petrofsky to realize he'd seen this man before. Yes! It was the old man who'd abandoned ship in front of him. Only younger, much younger!

  The man, seeing Petrofsky with red-glinting eyes, seemed startled to find someone on deck. But he hesitated only a tick. He recovered quickly, then struck, grabbing the sailor by the throat in a vice-like grip. Petrofsky could neither catch his breath nor scream. He grasped at the hand, scratched at the cold fingers, to no avail. His wrapped hand was useless and his other failed to find a hold, so tightly did the dark man clutch him.

  The stranger grabbed Petrofsky's injured hand. He ripped the bandage away and, with a vicious growl, sank his teeth into the flesh, tearing the sutures and reopening the wound. Blood spurted. He clamped Petrofsky's hand like a terrier would a rat. The Russian struggled desperately, grabbing the dark man's hair, pulling at his cloak, panicked to free himself. So blinded was he by terror, Petrofsky overlooked his one ever-present weapon, the marlinspike hanging from his wrist. Somehow he thought of it now. He whipped the lanyard around, flipped the tool into his hand, and plunged it into the villain's throat.

  The tall man released Petrofsky's shredded hand. He gasped, blood pouring from beneath the imbedded tool. Yet, despite the horrible injury, the blow merely enraged him. He yanked the marlinspke from his throat and hurled it clattering to the deck. He hissed through bloody lips, eyes blazing hellfire, and snapped at the seaman's face with gore covered fangs.

  Then, in less time than it takes to tell, the inconceivable happened.

  Without thought, driven simply by animal rage, Dracula transformed himself into a swirling gray mist. That mist, as if forced from a bellows, slammed into Petrofsky's face. The ethereal gas, under pressure, entered the sailor's mouth and nostrils. It raced down his esophagus, into his stomach, his intestines. It raced down his trachea to his lungs, left and right bronchioles, alveoli; expanding, forcing the air out. The mist forced itself up Petrofsky's nose and through the sinus cavities in his head, the dural venous channels in the brain. It poured, through the gaping wound in his hand, into the damaged blood vessels, through the circulatory system, the chambers of his heart. In an instant, the mist tunneled insanely into the marlinspike's body. Petrofsky would have screamed from the intense pain but the gas prevented it. It pushed the air from his lungs, blocked his vocal chords, disallowed even a breath. The helpless seaman stumbled off-balance. He would have fallen had not whatever was inside of him held him up-right, bloating him beyond reason or belief. The pain was excruciating.

  Then Dracula resumed his human form.

  Petrofsky's body, bludgeoned by the internal pressures, exploded like a Chinese firework. With little more than a pop and the rat-a-tat of out-of-season hail, a mist of blood, bits of flesh, and minute shards of fractured bone rained down on the deck and into the sea.

  On the space, occupied the instant before by the agonized Petrofsky, Dracula now stood alone - soaked from head to foot in the marlinskpike's blood. Shaken, he dropped to a knee. Reeling, dripping Petrofsky's gore, the vampire laid a hand on the deck to steady himself. He'd never done anything of the kind before and, just now, could not imagine ever doing it again. He caught his breath and transformed back into a cloud of mist. It floated, swirling above the deck for a pregnant moment, then slowly darkened, solidified, and took the shape of the Count again.

  Dracula stood on the deck, renewed, the nausea and agitation passed, his person clean of Petrofsky's blood. He stepped aft of the main mast then turned and, concentrating, passed his hand over the bow. A moment elapsed, then a shift occurred as the bottom fell out of the wave beneath their bow. The vessel pitched suddenly forward (causing the ship's bell to ring). From an otherwise calm sea, a heavy wave lipped the starboard rail – shipping water and washing the deck. Blood, bone, and even the offending rope tool floated toward the bulwarks, out the scuppers and into the sea. The ship righted herself, her deck free of evidence that Feliks Petrofsky had ever existed at all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Coffee or tea, lad?” Swales asked, setting out two cups.

  “Both, I think.” Harrington looked wearily over his shoulder, ensuring the mess and companionway were empty and the cook's ears the only pair about, then added in a whisper, “I'll drink whichever she doesn't. If she'll drink at all.”

  Friday morning, 16 July, was upon them. Swales, in the midst of breakfast, paused to tend to Harrington with a tray of sugar, ship's bread, butter, molasses (in hopes the lass would brighten to a treat), and one steaming cup each of
strong coffee and weak tea. “How is she?”

  “I was going to ask you to look in.” Harrington shook his head. “Last night I thought I'd need to tie her down. Today, she seems dreadfully ill again.”

  A rap at the door silenced both as the first stuck in his head. Constantin knew their secret but whether or not he was alone was anyone's guess. He looked the mess over without giving either more than a passing glance. “Has Petrofsky been in?”

  “I haven't seen him…”

  Without waiting for Swales to finish, Constantin was gone.

  Swales and Harrington shared a shrug and returned to their business. “Try to get somethin' into arr patient,” the cook said, handing him the tray. “I'll be right along.”

  * * *

  The mate popped out the deckhouse door. The captain, speaking with Smirnov, bid him good morning. He replied hurriedly, heading forward.

  “Mr. Constantin.” The call arrested the first mate's progress as if he'd met a wall. “Will you come here, please.” The mate turned, displaying nerves unseen at his previous speed, and approached the wheel. The commander eyed him warily. “Mr. Constantin… what are you looking for?”

  The mate looked from Nikilov to Smirnov. The seaman averted his eyes, wishing he could disappear. The captain, saving him the trouble, led the first to the rail. “What are you looking for?”

  “Petrofsky,” Constantin croaked. He cleared his throat and started again. “I'm looking for Feliks Petrofsky, sir. He had watch last night but was not on deck when his relief came. I wanted to question him regarding his dereliction of duty. But he is neither in his bunk nor in the mess. He is… missing.”

  “He must be somewhere.”

  “Aye. That is why I'm looking.” Aware of his tone, Constantin rephrased, “Forgive me, sir. I am unable to account for Petrofsky's absence. Have I your permission to continue the search?”

  “No.” The captain shook his head. “We'll do it right. Gather the men.”

  * * *

  In minutes the ship's compliment surrounded the helm, taking in the captain's speech. “Feliks Petrofsky is missing from his watch. His absence must be accounted for. We are therefore going to search this ship; every corner and cupboard, every crack and crevice, from stem to stern, until we have found him.” Nikilov hesitated, then solemnly added, “Or until we are certain he is no longer aboard.”

  That notion had not occurred to them. Constantin crushed their murmur into silence with a growl and an icy stare.

  The captain continued. “Misters Amramoff and Popescu will search with me. We'll take the ship's stern, heading forward; Bogdan on deck, Pasha, you below with me. Mr. Eltsin, Olgaren, you will go with the first mate. Mr. Constantin, you will search the bow top to bottom and move aft.”

  The mate nodded. “Georgiy on deck, Olgaren, below with me.”

  “Mr. Swales,” the captain said. “I trust a search can be conducted without disturbing the, eh, boy?” His hesitation was lost on the others but the cook, Harrington, and the mate had to study the pine boards in the deck to avoid eye contact.

  “W' respect, cap'n, t'will certainly disrupt a sleepin' patient. An' the… lad is restin', all right. But a search o' that cabin is no' necessary, sure? Mr. Harrin'ton an' I will both avow Petrofsky is no' there. An', if the cap'n pleases, we'll, one o' us, stay w' Funar while the ship is seen to.”

  “Herr Harrington then,” the captain answered, “you, Swales, turn your galley and mess upside down.” Then, to the whole of the group, “If anyone finds Petrofsky shout the alarm.”

  The Scot and the scholar headed below. Behind them, the meeting broke with the master shouting final orders, “Mr. Smirnov, mind the helm. Mr. Constantin, throw off the battens and block the doors and hatches open. May as well bring light and air to the matter while we go.”

  So it played out, as ordered, for the next hour. The hatches were opened, light and air stole in where it rarely ventured, as the search was carried out. Nikilov and his men scoured her from the rudder forward. Constantin and his examined all she held from the figurehead aft. Each group ignored the passenger's cabin, secure its contents were accounted for, passed Swales a-midships going over the mess with a fine-toothed comb, and came up empty on opposite ends when all was done and dusted.

  Feliks Petrofsky was no longer aboard Demeter.

  * * *

  Truth, in Captain Nikilov's opinion, usually brought with it equal amounts of joy and sorrow; knowledge, but rarely satisfaction. They now knew Petrofsky was not aboard ship. They could infer where he (or his body) was. But a world of questions had been opened as to why? The search created a bigger mystery than it solved and generated new emotions. When, following the search, the crew met again, their anxiety levels were palpable. The crew was growing fearful.

  “Is there anything,” Nikilov asked, “anyone can tell me about last night that can help us discover what happened? An accident? An argument?” His glances were returned with silence. “Things happen between men, that's understood. I assure you, any and all details will be taken into account.” No one had anything to report. “Was there anything in the recent past, of which any of you are aware, that would suggest a reason Feliks might take his own life?”

  Murmured negatives, shaking heads.

  “Popescu, you were at the wheel last night. What did you see and hear?”

  “Nothing, captain.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No, sir, no.” A sheepish look overtook the Romanian's face. Then, barely audibly, he added, “Nothing real,” and crossed himself.

  “What does that mean?” Constantin barked. “Nothing real! What the hell are you doing?”

  A frightened smile betrayed Popescu. He tried to wave it away. “For an instant, last night, I imagined I saw something – that I could not have seen – but it had nothing to do with Feliks. It had nothing to do with anything. When you stand the wheel… you see things in the dark.”

  “Bogdan,” the captain said. “What did you see?”

  “A boot.”

  “A boot? What boot?”

  “It was there.” He pointed, past the ship's bell, to the roof of the dog house that protected the apparatus for the ship's wheel; the lines, blocks and gears working the rudder. “Just there.”

  “You heard someone… saw someone… atop the housing and did not report it?”

  “No, captain. No, I did not hear anything. Not exactly. I just… felt it. It felt as if someone were behind me, up there, on the roof. But you cannot report a feeling. What's to report?”

  “You said you saw a boot?”

  “I, eh, don't know. It was suddenly foggy. Petrofsky had gone forward some time before. I heard nothing at all. But I felt something – behind me. Then, I thought I seen the end, the toe, of a boot. Over my shoulder, beyond the bell. As if someone up there were about to step off. Then it was gone.”

  “There was no one attached?” Amramoff asked, laughing.

  Popescu reddened, feeling as silly as the question. “It moved too quick. I didn't see.”

  “It just vanished?” Constantin demanded, failing to hide his distain.

  “There was a sound, a flutter, like a kite in the wind. The boot was gone and, for an instant, what looked like a black kite arced up to starboard. It vanished in the fog over the rail as if it had never existed.” He looked the group over, ship-mates to officers, pleading. “Well, it hadn't, had it? I imagined it, I'm sure. The fog plays tricks. Could I report, `Here, sir, is what I imagined last night?' Would anyone report such a thing?”

  Popescu shrank, feeling Constantin carving him with his eyes.

  “What do you know of Petrofsky?” the captain asked, breaking the silence. “His personality? Any of you? Would he have jumped overboard?”

  “No,” Constantin said with finality.

  It was like the mate, Nikilov thought, to conclude with absolute knowledge but no evidence. Still, the crew seemed to agree. “Out of the question,” the second said, making it unanimous. �
��It had to have been an accident. I know it was calm but… it must have been.”

  “Very well.” The captain considered the sky for a moment then, solemnly, said, “I will conduct a service for Feliks, forward on the larboard side, at six bells.”

  “Service?” Popescu put in.

  “He is not on the ship,” Nikilov said, wearily sad as Petrofsky had long been with him. “That means he is in the sea; and that means he is dead.”

  “I agree,” the Romanian said with undisguised incredulity. “But it may not have been an accident. He may be dead by his own hand! If he committed suicide, he is not entitled to a Christian…”

  “Be silent!” The captain shouted, cutting him off. His blue eyes glared daggers through Popescu. “I am not a priest! Accident or suicide matters not to me. He was one of my crew and will receive a proper burial.”

  * * *

  Seven o'clock that evening brought the entire crew, save two, to Demeter's port rail forward of the deckhouse. Popescu was excused to steer (and protect his moral compass by avoiding rites on behalf of a possible suicide), while the injured Funar was in his sick bed. Having looked in on the patient, Harrington was the last to arrive. He took his place, out of respect rather than belief, on the end of the half-circle of sombre men.

  The officers wore dress coats, made deeper blue by the glow of sunset, while the sea-green clouds to the west darkened to black. Nikilov, clutching a worn bible, saw the rain coming and hurried to start. He cleared his throat and said, “We stand here for Feliks Petrofsky. The sea has his body. Now it will have our prayers.”

  Constantin removed his hat, rubbed his dome, and covered his heart. With a twisted look of annoyance, he yanked off the carpenter's knotted kerchief and shoved it into his chest. Amramoff nodded sheepishly and bowed his cornet head. The rest followed, the huge Olgaren already crying, as the captain turned to the sea.