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

by Doug Lamoreux

Constantin merely stared into the fog.

  “I'll take the wheel, sir,” the big man said.

  The first surrendered it without a word.

  “Is this our heading, sir?”

  Without replying, the mate started for the deckhouse.

  “Mr. Constantin?” Olgaren called after him. “Are you all right?”

  The officer disappeared, leaving Olgaren alone, ignorant of the strange occurrences on deck, and unsure even of the ship's course. He checked the compass, making sure of his bearings, and corrected for N.N.E., the last course as far as he knew. There was nothing else to do. He stood, stricken, holding the wheel, blind, deaf and dumb.

  * * *

  Time went by too slowly for the nervous Olgaren. The fog was making him claustrophobic. He missed his shipmates. He missed his friend Amramoff. He was terrified in his loneliness… until he felt the presence of another and his real terror began. Nothing about the deck had changed. All was as it was before. Yet he felt another in his midst.

  A gap opened in the fog, and a beam of brilliant moonlight sliced through setting the rear of the deckhouse aglow. In that ray of yellow light, at the mouth of the port companionway, a young woman emerged. He thought he must be dreaming. The clouds of mist rolled as she moved and Olgaren saw she threw no shadow on the deck. She was fair, as fair can be, desperately thin and pale, with short and abruptly cut golden hair and eyes that seemed almost red in contrast to the light.

  She wore a flowing white dress stained with what looked like blood. Her face was familiar, though he could not recollect when or where he had seen it. Then it dawned! The face was that of Funar, the injured deck boy. An instant later, it all flooded back; the boy had been no boy at all, but a girl, a stowaway who was injured and not seen again on deck. That explained the blood.

  “You should not be on deck.”

  There was something about her that made Olgaren uneasy. He'd come to know her as a boy, had forgotten her altogether, and now saw her as a woman. Though she was thin, with little in the way of a shape, still he saw now she was every bit a woman. He felt like a monster for his sudden evil thoughts. Worse, on top of longing for the girl, he also felt a deadly fear.

  She smiled at him with brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against her ruby lips. Olgaren felt a stirring, a wicked desire for her to kiss him with those red lips; a strange mixture of terror and an agony of delightful anticipation.

  She stared at him for several long seconds, then whispered, “I don't know what to do.”

  “What?” Olgaren said. “I do not understand you.”

  She laughed, a silvery, musical laugh, and said again, “I don't know what to do.” Only then did the big Russian realize that the girl was not speaking to him. A blind fear swept over him as Olgaren became aware of another presence on the deck. No sooner did he recognize he and the girl were not alone than another figure appeared out of the fog starboard of the deckhouse.

  It was the tall man. His tall man! He was real! He had not been a hallucination! Or had he, Olgaren wondered? Was he hallucinating now?

  “What do I do?” the girl asked.

  “Feed,” Dracula told her.

  “But…how?”

  Dracula gestured toward Olgaren. “As you will.”

  Olgaren did not speak Romanian, the language they seemed to be speaking to one another. But he didn't need to. All of his, what others referred to as `dulled', senses were sending out alarms. He was terrified. But, despite his fear, Olgaren could not take his eyes off the dark couple. “I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of ghosts!” In spite of his declaration, Olgaren's knuckles were white as he strangled the spokes on the ship's wheel. “Neither do I fear stowaways pretending to be ghosts.” He nodded as if he'd made a discovery. “You've made monkeys of the others, but you won't make a fool of me.”

  Ekaterina looked to her master. Dracula gave no indication he'd heard Olgaren. He simply gestured again urging her forward. “He is yours.”

  She laughed again and stared intently. Then the laughter faded and her look of innocence disappeared. She leaned into a subtle crouch and moved to the bulwark on her right, her step as silent as a cat. She continued in an elliptical circle that brought her back toward the wheel on Olgaren's left. The tall man, the Russian saw, was doing the same on his side, mimicking her movements. As they closed in, Olgaren heard a rumbling in the base of the tall man's throat and a feral hiss from the girl.

  Dracula halted his step while the girl continued on, gloating. Olgaren's eyes locked on hers. Then he found, despite his best effort, he couldn't turn away. His entire frame was both thrilled and repulsed in the same instant. As the fog swirled back in, the curtain of yellow moonlight faded, and the darkness overtook them, the last thing Olgaren saw was the glint of moisture as she flicked her tongue and licked her red lips and sharp white teeth.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Endless, billowing fog was the only thing visible from the captain's porthole. It was Tuesday, 3 August, just after midnight by his clock. He'd lost track of the watches, if they could be called that any longer, and wondered who was at the helm. The first now, Nikilov thought.

  He gulped a draught of heart tonic, grateful for the awful taste (at least something was normal). He laid the bottle back in its drawer, beside his last, empty, prescription bottle and suddenly had an inspiration. He tore several blank pages from the back of his Ship's Log, wrapped them around a pencil, and slid the roll into the empty tonic bottle. He tucked all into his pocket. He was going up with no notion of when he'd return. No reason now he shouldn't continue his observations.

  Nikilov left his cabin and toured the between-decks. The passenger's cabin was empty. Where Harrington and the girl had gone, he did not know. He couldn't remember now when last he'd seen either. There was no one in the mess, and no food, coffee or tea. They could dig something out later, salted meat, raisins… Nikilov did not remember the last time he'd eaten. It did not matter, he wasn't hungry. But how he would love a hot cup of tea.

  He crossed the companionway into the crew's quarters and found he'd been mistaken about the steersman. Constantin was there, unconscious in his flannels, one hand and one foot draped on the deck. Olgaren, he decided, was probably at the wheel.

  Nikilov massaged his forehead. “What is happening to me?” He'd never lost control of a ship. Now he seemed not to know whether he was coming or going. He paused, struck. Of course, it had to be Olgaren at the wheel. There was no one left!

  He exhaled, fought back the tears, and pricked his ears to listen. The mate was breathing. Of course, he was. He was sleeping. Thank God for a deep and well-earned sleep. Constantin bucked, moaned and the captain saw how fitfully he slept. Nikilov burdened his God further, silently asked Him to grant his mate peace. Hoping (rather than believing) He might, the captain decided to let Constantin sleep. He would take the first mate's turn at the wheel.

  * * *

  He stepped from the deckhouse into a gray pea soup of fog. Strange too, for the wind was strong and steady; he could feel the vessel running smoothly before it. He peered through the clouds, in the direction of the helm, but saw nothing. He touched the boom and headed aft. But as he drew near, his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open. His heart stopped and the blood froze in his veins. The wheel lolled gently with the roll of the ship, untended and untied.

  “Olgaren?” he croaked, barely audible. He cleared his dry throat and tried again. “Moisey Olgaren!” He took the wheel and shouted forward into the night air. “Olgaren!”

  He would wait. Olgaren would return.

  Hours passed…

  During which Nikilov worried for the big Russian and fought his fears alone. Finally, when he could no longer simply stand there, he lashed the wheel and took the starboard companionway past the deckhouse. Minutes later, he returned on the port side, having seen no one and nothing but fog.

  Back on the aft deck, he leaned on a rum barrel to consider a full search. But what would be the point? How
many times had his schooner been searched? To what end? Nothing had ever been found. Olgaren, the captain feared, would not be found either. He returned to the helm and took the wheel in hand. He was in command and would not, could not, leave the helm untended again. He remained there the rest of the night, the events of the cruise mixing with the swirling fog to stimulate his fears and play tricks on his mind. As dawn approached, Nikilov could contain those fears no longer.

  “Constantin!” he bellowed. “Mr. Constantin!”

  Scant seconds elapsed, certainly not a full minute, the deckhouse door BANGED on the bulkhead. The fog parted and the ship's mate appeared wild-eyed and haggard. He wore only the flannels he'd slept in, not having bothered to dress, and ran his hands maniacally over his dome.

  The captain was concerned his mate's reason had given way.

  Constantin spied the captain, recognition dawned in his crazy eyes, and he stepped toward him. He gripped the master's coat sleeve, drew to within an inch of Nikilov's ear, and whispered, “It is here.”

  The captain, without a clue to his meaning, told him, “Moisey Olgaren is missing.”

  Constantin ignored him, as if he hadn't spoken at all, and repeated, “It is here.” He pulled away, looked the captain in the eye, and nodded at their shared secret. He leaned in again. “I know it now. On the watch last night I saw It. It was like a man, on two legs like a man, tall and thin. But it was ghastly pale. It stood in the bows, looking out forward, as if It could actually see the sea through the fog. And I thought I had It. For all of us!” He pulled away, remembering. “I drew my knife…”

  Nikilov drew breath, suddenly aware his mate was holding a keenly sharpened blade. He was afraid, not for himself, but for the sanity of his mate and friend. He tightened his grip on the wheel, warily watching as Constantin slowly carved the air.

  “Oh, so quietly, I drew my knife. I crept up behind It.” He viciously stabbed the air and shouted, “And I gave it my knife!”

  The ferocity vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The madness, if that's what it was, left his eyes. He looked to the captain in disbelief and utter dispair. When he spoke again, he barely muttered, “But the knife went through It. Just… right through It, as if his body were as empty as the air.”

  He didn't mention the cloud of mist. Did not tell the captain about the huge bat. Could not admit he'd run from the deck like a frightened child! There was no need, not now. If he had been cowardly, he'd already decided, he would make up for it now.

  “But It is here,” Constantin said going on. “…and I will find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm.”

  Constantin seemed not to care, or even realize, he had just issued an order to the master. With a look of warning, and a finger to his lip to ensure their shared secret, he turned and disappeared back into the fog. The deckhouse door was heard to close.

  For a moment, the captain was of a mind to follow but the wind was building again and starting to come in gusts. The fog remained but the sea was growing choppy. No, regardless of what the first was about, the captain knew he dared not leave the helm.

  A short time later, the mate re-emerged carrying Amramoff's tool chest and a lantern. He ignored Nikilov and disappeared around the deckhouse headed, if he followed his stated intention, for the forward hold. Constantin was mad. The captain was certain now. He was stark raving mad and it was no use trying to stop him. He could destroy the cargo, Nikilov realized, but why should he? He wouldn't hurt those big boxes hunting an imaginary fiend. To pull them about was as harmless a thing in his present state of mind as he could do. Let him go about it if the exercise kept him busy.

  The captain drew the bottle from his pocket. He unrolled the paper and pen and, beginning with his finding the helm untended and Olgaren gone, recorded these most recent events. There Nikilov stayed, minding the helm, writing his notes, feeling the wind pick up, and trusting in God that the fog would clear soon.

  If he could only see. He could steer to a harbor, any harbor.

  But he needed another plan. If the fog did not clear. Or, if the wind rose too much and he couldn't steer… Nikilov considered the matter. He could cut down the sails! Yes, close as he had to be, he could lie by and signal for help. Someone would eventually see him. If the wind got up, he had the option. One way or another, this hellish crossing was nearly over!

  Soon he heard Constantin, forward and below, knocking away at something in the hold. Let him pound. The work was good for him and (dared he hope?) might help the mate to come out calmer.

  Dawned arrived, softened to a glow by the stubborn fog.

  * * *

  The mate, panting with fear, pumping with adrenaline, dropped Amramoff's tool box into the hold with an explosive BANG and slid down the hatchway ladder. He collected a hammer from the scattered tools, moved immediately to the nearest stack of cargo and began smashing the top box. It was less a search than it was an attack. Wood cracked, splintered and the lid was pitched aside. Dirt flew. He kicked through the clods as if an evil stowaway might be hidden within any one of them, spreading mold and soil across the deck.

  Nothing! Nothing but dirt.

  Disgust registered on Constantin's mad face. He turned to a second box and again lashed out with the hammer. The lid burst open under his assault. Dirt flew, as did a startled rat that hit the floor running. Constantin ignored the squealing rodent as he rifled the box. Nothing.

  The first mate cursed an oath.

  He grabbed the handle on another, pulled it out and, even in his mania, reeled in horror. Stuffed behind, was the dead body of Moisey Olgaren. His mortal remains lay twisted, with waxen blue-tinged skin and a torn-out throat of sallow fat, red muscle, and white vocal chords. The eyes were a lusterless gray. The whole was drained of blood.

  Determined to go on, the mate willed his terror into anger. He smashed the box with his hammer, busting through the lid. The broken slats parted revealing a pair of staring eyes within. Constantin shouted. It was the Romanian girl, wide-eyed and lifeless, looking up through the hole.

  The shock drove him back, physically from the box, mentally from the moment. In that instant, like one of the amazing Lumière actualités he'd seen in Paris, the past was projected before his eyes. It had been nearly three weeks since they'd caught her, disguised as a boy, making fools of everybody aboard the ship. She had paid for her lie, the evil in this hold had seen to that. If only he'd known… If only he'd listened to the score of experienced sailors who refused to sign aboard this cursed ship. Now, here lay the poor child, dead and buried away with the dirt and the rats.

  But, as the first mate stared, he realized that the seemingly lifeless form beneath his gaze was full of color, vivacious, almost bloated. Between her slightly parted, brilliantly red lips, the pointed ends of sharp canine teeth showed. Her staring eyes, even as he stood over her, had somehow altered. They were suddenly aimed in his direction and filled with hate. The girl was not dead! She had been possessed by the evil in the hold. She was one of those awful creatures Popescu had always been on about. The girl was one of the undead.

  In a panic, in a rage, Constantin screamed as he tore the lid off. There she lay, in a flowing white gown, a wounded throat awash in dried blood, herself a murdering monster that must be destroyed. He grabbed a handspike from Amramoff's kit and approached the box with gritted teeth. He raised the deck tool above his head and, with a trembling hand, drove it down and into her stomach.

  The girl came up in the box shrieking like a banshee and grabbing for him with clawed hands. The first mate struggled to free himself from her icy grasp. He yanked the handspike from her body then turned on the attack. He swung the hammer with one hand, blasting her solidly in her white forehead with a dull thwack, and stabbed her again with the handspike. Screaming and clutching at her wounds, Ekaterina dropped back into the casket.

  Constantin crossed the hammer and the blood-soaked handspike, one over the other, and bra
ndished this makeshift cross over the monster in the box. Screaming and hissing, Ekaterina did all she could to shield her eyes.

  He threw the broken lid over her, closing it as he was able. Beneath, visible through the crack, her hate-filled eyes gleamed, while her fangs were bared in a shriek. He laid the gory tools, still in the shape of a cross, atop the lid. Inside the box, the eyes closed. The fangs disappeared, as the shriek became a low moan, behind agonized lips. The motion within the box ceased.

  Constantin closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. His heart was racing. His hands were trembling. Stealing himself, he returned to Amramoff's kit, took up a pry bar, took another breath, and surveyed the depths of the hold. Whatever the girl had become… Whatever this thing was… it was trapped for the moment; caged if it couldn't be killed. But, the mate knew, she was not the cause of this evil. Somewhere in one of these caskets he still had the devil to find.

  Behind him came a riotous eruption, tumultuous sound and motion. Shadows danced, rats squealed, wood slapped hard against wood. Constantin spun, raising the bar defensively, to face the din. There stood the phantom, his feet still in one of the partially-filled boxes, the tossed-off lid laying half-way across the hold. He was young, vibrant, bloated with blood. He stared at Constantin with livid, hate-filled eyes that gleamed red in the dull light. And he spoke… “How dare you?”

  The first mate's eyes grew wide as saucers. His mouth fell open in a silent scream as his mind snapped. He dropped the pry bar with a muted clang. He backed away from the tall one, fell on the stairs, and scrambled to the between-decks above.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  A scream echoed throughout the ship, from the fore hatch, through the between-decks companionway and up the scuttles. The startled captain looked up from the wheel. His blood ran cold, the hair on his arms and the nape of his neck stood on end. “Dear God,” he whispered.

  The deckhouse door BANGED open! Constantin exploded from below as if shot from a gun. “Save me!” He landed on his feet, teetered, and would have fallen had he not grabbed the top of a rum barrel. He steadied himself, in body, but it was beyond debate the first was now a raging madman. His eyes darted and rolled, his face contorted with all of his wild fears. He looked about, caught sight of the captain through the shifting fog and shouted again. “Save me!”