She caught his stare, stepped toward him with eyes aglow, and raised her arms for an embrace. He turned away and gestured toward the box. “You were never buried,” he told her. “The soil from my homeland shall be yours. Find your rest.”
She returned his stare in marked confusion. Angry, lonely, and fearful, Demeter's newest vampire did as she was told. She climbed into the box and lay upon the moldy soil. Count Dracula lowered the lid and closed her in.
* * *
Midnight, and Sunday became Monday morning, 2 August. The fog did not frighten Amramoff but it was frustrating. How could he maintain a decent watch when he could not see a thing? He was making his way slowly forward around the deckhouse when he thought he saw something near the hatchway to the cargo hold. What it was he didn't know.
He raised his lantern, moving stealthily in that direction, and panned the mouth of the hold and the foredeck. There was nothing as far as he could see. He held the lantern, diffused and glowing in the fog, over the open hatch and peered into its depths. Nothing but darkness and the ghostly outlines of tarps, lines, boxes, and barrels. Yet, he was certain (he was not the sort whose eyes played tricks) he saw something. It was his duty to ascertain what. He started into the hold.
“What the hell?” The carpenter stared, in shock, startled by the disaster the hold had become; barrels shoved open, oil and sawdust spilled, dirt poured out, scorches on the ceilings and overhead, and the tarps thrown off of half the cargo.
He saw something, a gray mist, swirling above one of the stacks of boxes and one box in particular. He approached throwing light on the ghost-like cloud with the lantern. The mist looked to be dissipating but, upon closer examination, he saw that was not the case. The swirl was disappearing like water down a drain through the fissures in the box, forcing itself inside.
Amramoff stood gawping and unable to move. Then his sensibilities returned. He spun on his heels, lifted the lantern, and scanned the hold looking for… There! He grabbed a heavy iron bar from the floor and turned back to the cargo set to batter the box open. Then he froze -
At the sound of a deep, spine-chilling voice, “Rats. Rats. Rats!” that echoed through the hold. There followed a series of high-pitched shrieks, and the voice again, “Rat. Rats! Rats!!” And they came out of the shadows!
Georgiy Eltsin had told him all about it; how he should have been there that morning, in the hold, to see it. How the Turks, while inspecting the cargo in the Bosphorus, had the living hell scared from them by rats that appeared out of the dark. Now here they were again. There was nothing new about rats on a sailing ship. But what was the voice, calling for them!
Now again, he watched as they came squeaking, scratching, closing in.
A rat squealed, leapt on Amramoff's arm, and sank its teeth into his flesh. The carpenter shrieked in horror. He jerked his arm back and, without thinking, swung the bar at the vicious rodent. The rat dug its claws into his wrist and jumped to his shoulder, avoiding the iron switch. Amramoff smacked himself, snapping the bones in his forearm. He screamed in agony, dropped the tool with a clatter and, as he tried to turn, tripped and went down. There was a collective shriek, a riot of high pitched cries. A riotous rush forward. They attacked in a wave, scratching, tearing, biting. The seaman fought his way to his feet. His broken armed dangled uselessly, but he fought the rats off, threw them off, with his good arm. He fought to reach the ladder.
Monstrous shadows danced about the hold to the tune of squeaks and screams. The rodents bit Amramoff as he gained the ladder, clawed at him as he climbed, tore at him as he dragged himself out of the well and crawled onto the deck. On hands and knees, he moved away with rats clinging to his clothes, his limbs, his flesh. Behind, the rats poured up and out of the hold like a waterfall flowing in reverse. Red-eyed and squealing, they skittered across the deck after the carpenter.
Amramoff was up again, unable to scream for he was unable to catch his breath. Still the monsters came on. Dozens of them, shrieking, clawing, tearing. His clothes, those that remained, already damp from the fog, were now soaked with blood. The feral rodents, having tasted his flesh, were ravenous for more.
The carpenter retreated, tripped and fell again, screaming before the rushing monsters. He fought to rise and retreated to the port rail. When there was nowhere else to run, he fought his way up onto the gunwale. What terror, compared to the bloodthirsty rats, held the sea for him? Covered in the clinging, writhing beasts, he found the breath for one final shriek of terror and fell into the pitching froth. Though no one heard him, Pasha Amramoff thanked God for a death in the cold sea.
Chapter Thirty-three
The captain woke to a scream.
He had not been long abed; a scant few minutes. Not long enough to dream. He was… mentally disheveled; his vision, his hearing, his brain all were cloudy. That said, he knew he was right. It was a cry, a shocking mixture of pain and terror, near by. Just outside, it seemed. But the passageway was silent now.
He rose, considered a dose from the quack's tonic bottle as his heart was racing, then decided not to take the time. He headed up, quickening his pace with each step and, by the time he reached the deck, was nearly in a panic. He burst through the deckhouse door and ran into a figure moving in the fog. They grabbed one another, ready to fight.
“Iancu!”
“Captain! I heard someone cry out. I ran up as quickly as I could.”
“Have you seen…”
“The night watch?” Constantin asked. “Not a sign.”
“Come,” Nikilov said. “We will find him together.”
Like phantoms themselves within the fog shroud, they searched the deck. To no avail. The watchman was nowhere to be found. Amramoff was…
“Gone,” the captain said, a tremor in his voice. “One more gone. Lord, help us!”
“Just after I made the deck,” the first mate said. “Just after I heard the man scream…” At the rail, he pointed out over the port bow. “The fog… It lifted for a moment. I swear, captain, I could see clearly for an instant. We're past the Straits of Dover.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “We're past the straits. We must be.”
Nikilov stared at Constantin, dumbfounded the man had so quickly forgotten the missing carpenter. Yet, he could also understand. They were lost at sea. Could it be that land was indeed nearby? He followed the mate's indication, to the surging but invisible sea, seeing only the same gray nothingness that had been their constant companion for days. If the fog had lifted, it had fallen again immediately and surrounded them completely; a swirling pall.
“I'm certain I saw the North Foreland,” Constantin persisted. The captain heard it now, in the mate's voice; not excitement but agitation, rising terror. He was still looking to the port, but aft now, where there was nothing but fog. “I saw it,” the mate said. “If so, if I'm right, we are now off… in the North Sea.”
“Do not let us jump to conclusions.”
“Conclusions? Do you not see it, Mikhail? Do you not feel it? The Devil is driving this ship!”
“Stop it, Iancu. What is the matter with you?”
The first turned staring, his swollen eyes glistening with tears, and Nikilov could see what the matter was; his first mate was frightened to death.
In matters of discipline, he'd always tried to be fair, but Nikilov had never coddled his men. The notion of having to nursemaid the fiery Constantin would not have occurred to him. But here the man stood, distraught, bewildered. What could he say? “We've been in bad weather before.”
The first nodded absently and started slowly away.
“You know we have, man,” the captain shouted, suddenly desperate to convince him. “How many times coming into the Bosphorus have we been unable to signal anyone? Or hail a soul for the weather as we drew nigh the rock of Gibraltar? It is bad weather, Iancu. My God, that's all it's been all along, just bad weather!”
“Bad weather?” Constantin repeated. He shook his head in disbelief. “From Cape Matapan to here and now
… not a moment's rest. The Devil's breath in the sails every instant. Rain and seas, rain and pitching seas until hell wouldn't have it. And every time it ends… comes a frightening calm as dead as hanging Judas and this miserable, suffocating fog that holds us, travels with us! If we are traveling anywhere at all!”
Nikilov could hardly argue. Even as he spoke, the fog curled in closer making Constantin all but invisible; a shadowy phantom in the gray swirl with the voice of his first mate.
“Nine days since we entered the Bay of Biscay! Eight to pass through the English Channel, through rain and blasting wind. It's unheard of, by any reckoning! In all that time, not a headland, nor a port, nor a ship, nor a single living soul to see anywhere along the way. And six men dead! Vanished, from the ship and the earth, as if they'd never existed! At least six for that's just the crew. When is the last time either of us saw your Englishman? Or the girl?”
“Iancu…”
“Are they dead too, captain? Do you even know?”
“Iancu…”
There was no answer. Nikilov could no longer see Constantin for the fog. Whether the mate was still there, whether he'd walked away, or whether he'd simply vanished like the others, the captain did not know. “Iancu?” He stared wordlessly into the fog.
A man of faith, his only comfort for days had been his knowledge, his belief, that he and his crew were in the hands of God. Now his mind was playing tricks, telling him he was alone. But he knew better. Constantin had merely left the deck. Frightened and despairing, he had walked into the fog, gone off to be alone, nothing more. He, Mikhail Sergeyevich Nikilov, was not alone. Iancu was still aboard. His passengers were still aboard. And the Lord, his Lord, still held sway. To that end, he would be steadfast in his belief, in his duty. “God,” the captain told himself, “is guiding us.”
But the fog continued to swirl on the dark, cold deck… and Nikilov, despite his faith, felt desperately alone. Something black as the night, palpably evil, something outside of his body and soul was shouting at his mind, worming its way into his heart, insisting, God has deserted you!
* * *
The figurehead of the goddess Demeter undulated through the night. Beneath her, white foam burst from the blackness highlighting the crests of arcing seawater that twinned her bow as the schooner cleaved the surface of the cold North Sea. The gray fog parted by the bowsprit, the triangular flying jib, the jib, and the fore staysail, swirled in again around the tall, darkly-robed form behind the anchor capstan. Count Dracula stood like a statue, his hands raised in concentration.
While his body stood in the bow, riding the bucking deck as if he were attached, Dracula wasn't there at all. Beneath his physical being, all that constituted the vampire was in Whitby, in the Crescent, in Lucy's bed, Lucy's body.
He'd left her alone, undisturbed, for much of the week and the initial jolt was considerable. It took a moment for Dracula to recognize that he had again achieved the transition. In that thrilling instant he started as he took in the surroundings. There was a marble-topped washstand over a small section of brick floor (to catch the jets of splashed water), two small chairs, a large elbow-chair covered with dimity, a chest of drawers with brass handles, a dressing-table with a looking-glass and, on the far side of the room, a large window; its heavy curtains drawn back, its lace curtains aglow with a blue beam of moonlight stealing in. The initial sensation passed, and he recognized his surroundings for what they were, Lucy Westenra's bedchamber. Dracula lay in a clumsy British four-poster, in the softness and warmth of her bed-clothes, of her body, feigning sleep and studying the dark room. A canopy stretched above like the lid of a sarcophagus, lined with chintz, a fringed valance depended all around like spiders' webs, with curtains drawn back to the posts. A coverlet and blankets shrouded him in the warm fragile body he inhabited. He stretched, gripped the round buttocks, ran her hands up over the sharp points of her hips, felt the flat softness of her stomach, and over the swell of her breasts. He squeezed her lovely soft breasts and relished the sensation. He slipped her hand inside the top of her bed-clothes and was cupping the breast again when…
He looked up to see Mina, staring at him, staring at Lucy in curiosity, as she squirmed upon the bed fondling herself in her sleep. She too was in her night frock, flaxen hair draping over the shoulders, with soft points and softer curves interrupting the flow of the fabric from beneath. Dracula was overcome with bloodlust. More, with lust. He reached out to her… and remembered he was in Lucy's body. He was, at that moment, neither man nor vampire.
He could see it in Mina's eyes, the confusion, the growing fear; aware something was different about her friend, but unsure what. Then a wariness came over her as if suddenly she knew Lucy was watching her.
In a flash, Dracula was back in the bow of the schooner, surrounded by damp fog, sprayed by sea water, in his own body, cold as the grave.
He looked to the sky, concentrating. The roommate, Mina, needed a diversion. “Lucy,” Dracula called aloud, summoning the woman that had a moment before been his physical host. “Lucy. Prepare for me. I will soon be there. Prepare ye the way of the master.”
* * *
Across that great distance, his call roused Lucy from her bed but not from her sleep. She had, an instant before, stared in confused terror through red-looking eyes, his eyes, at the whipping sails above and before her on the fore of a fog-bound ship. She was frozen, wind-blown, horrified! Then it was over and she was back in her bed.
Now he was calling. “Prepare ye the way of the master.” She had no choice but to answer.
She was up immediately, in her sleepwalking trance, past the startled Mina and hurrying for the door. She turned the knob, found it locked, and began frenetically searching the room.
Mina could only guess at her goal, to find the door key, and followed on her heels. She was worried about her companion, but terrified of waking or frightening her. So worried, Mina was no longer even contemplating her friend's strange activities just a few moments since.
* * *
Constantin, walking the watch in the starboard companionway, paused at the corner of the deckhouse. He felt… something and strained his eyes, scanning the foredeck. He could see little in the fog-diffused lamplight, and nothing at all that appeared out of order. Still, he had that feeling. For an instant, he thought of Eltsin and his endless feelings. He started again, one slow, silent step at a time, stalking whatever was responsible for the palpable presence.
The fog seemed to part and, suddenly he was there; tall, thin and ghastly pale – the phantom of the ship. The tall man from the crew members stories. But which was this? Not poor Petrofsky's vision, for this man was far from old. His hair and thick mustache, striped with gray, but otherwise black as the night. Younger even than the man Olgaren reported. A third stranger! He stood in the bows, looking out to sea first, then strangely turning his attention to the deck beneath his feet. He was whispering and Constantin could only just hear him.
“Ekaterina,” the phantom whispered. “E-kat-erina… hear me.”
Constantin couldn't believe his eyes. In his agitated state, the phantom's words meant nothing to the mate. What the man was saying was of no consequence. What mattered was his presence. His? He? He… was not a man! Could not be, with the things he'd done. What then was – It?
Finished with It's chant, It stood like a statue looking out to sea.
The first quietly pulled his knife from its scabbard. Even in the fog the lamplight glinted off the blade as Constantin's hand shook. He inched forward, drawing a breath as quiet as he might, creeping up behind… It. Constantin gritted his teeth and, with a violent thrust, stabbed the creature in the back.
At least he tried.
The first mate's mouth fell open with horror and shock. For the knife met no resistance whatsoever and passed through the tall stranger as if he… It… were not there. It was as if the tall man were himself merely empty air. And, in that instant, It became empty air. Before Constantin finished the thrus
t of the blade, the dark man was gone. There was nothing, no one, there.
Constantin strained his eyes and only then saw a cloud of mist, lighter than the fog, hovering. Then it was gone. GONE! And, to Constantin's horror, a big gray bat beat the air in its place. Where it had come from, how it could have traveled this far out to sea, he could not answer. Nor did he have time to wonder, for the flying terror emitted a shrill screech and dove at him. Constantin covered his bald head and hit the deck. There was a flapping of its leathery wings, another shrill cry, then the bat too was gone.
Constantin breathed a sigh and listened intently. He heard the wind in the canvas, the sea pounding the prow as the vessel cleaved its way forward, and the creak of the ship as it rolled with the waves, but the hellish sounds of the gray monster were gone. Constantin pushed himself up to look around. He rose unsteadily. The tall man and the flying creature were gone.
* * *
Flabbergasted, the mate ran, tripping through the fog, back to the tied-off wheel. His mind raced but there was no way to release the tension for he was all alone. Who would believe him? He stared forward, as if he could see through the fog, untied the wheel and leaned heavily upon it. There he remained, trading unseeing glances between the fog before him and the deck planking at his feet.
He was still there hours later when Olgaren relieved him. The big Russian was a shell of his former self. He'd spent the day searching for Pasha Amramoff; searching in vain. A restless sleep followed and now, with nothing else to do, he reported for watch. Defeated and alone, Olgaren failed to notice the mate's stricken condition. He asked by rote if anything worth mentioning had occurred. The first mate said nothing. “Mr. Constantin?”
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 28