by Dacre Stoker
Bram’s arm begins to itch, and he reaches out and touches the edge of Ellen’s crate.
“What is it?” Matilda says.
“He’s not alone. I think they’ve been following us for some time now. A dozen of them, maybe more.”
Vambéry reaches into the satchel at his feet and wraps his hand around the stock of the rifle without removing it.
Bram closes his eyes, his mind listening to Ellen. “They’re only watching; I don’t think they intend to hurt us.”
“They do not look like locals,” Vambéry points out.
“I don’t think they are.”
“Are they undead?” Matilda asks.
Vambéry shakes his head. “Not if they are out in the daylight.”
The man is gone when Bram opens his eyes, having vanished into the woods. But Bram can still feel his presence, though, him and others all around.
They continue forward, the hours passing in silence, the cypress and yew trees growing dense by the foot. Tall and thick, the old trees sway with the increasing wind and bitterness of the approaching storm—a storm that moves slowly, seeming to follow them rather than passing overhead.
“We must be getting close,” Vambéry says, pointing at the ground. Bram glanced over the side of the wagon and sees the remains of a stone foundation of an old building long lost to the elements. Another building, smaller in size, stands about a hundred feet farther down the road.
They pass the place where they saw the man and find no sign of him. No footprints, no trampled weeds, nothing.
Another wolf howls in the distance, much closer than the last. The horses begin to strain and rear, but Thornley speaks to them soothingly and they quiet down.
The road winds through the trees, and soon they come upon a low stone wall and follow it down to the floor of the valley.
The remains of the village appear before them. One moment, there is nothing; then they turn a corner and the ruins appear from behind a wall of tall cypress. Old stone structures, the thatch and wood roofs long since rotted away, dozens of them, all clustered together. The name Dreptu pops into Bram’s mind, probably from Ellen. He knows it isn’t a German word, and it isn’t the name of this place, yet it is there, now known to him.
At the middle of what is probably the village green stands a black coach and four horses, their coats glistening and dark as coal.
THREE HOURS UNTIL NIGHTFALL
“Is that his coach?” Matilda asks, her eyes fixing on the black vehicle sitting silently in the center of the village ruins.
“Where’s the driver?” Bram asks. There is no sign of whoever drove the coach here. The windows are covered in dark velvet, holding back all light—Bram can’t see inside. He might be in there or he might be somewhere else in the village. He may be watching them right now.
“There’s someone lying on the ground,” Thornley says, climbing down from the wagon. Vambéry and Bram follow.
The weeds around the coach are tall, and at first Bram can’t see anyone. Then he does, a body lying near the front right wheel. Unmoving. Bram starts towards the coach.
Vambéry grabs his shoulder. “Wait.”
Vambéry retrieves the rifle from his satchel. He also retrieves three wooden stakes, the ends sharpened to wicked points. He hands a stake to Bram, another to Thornley, and retains the third for himself.
“I see at least three other corpses,” Matilda tells them, standing in the back of the wagon. “Two behind the coach, the legs of another around the other side.”
Bram sniffs the air, confirming that the bodies around them are, indeed, all dead.
He crosses the village green with the other two men at his back. As he approaches the coach, he again tries to peer inside, but the curtains are not only pulled tightly shut but are tacked to the frames of the windows. If someone is in there, Bram cannot tell.
The body beside the coach is dressed in the same garb as the man they spotted on the road earlier. His eyes and mouth are open, locked in an expression of extreme fright. There is a small tear at his neck, still sticky with drying blood.
“This happened recently,” Bram says. “No more than a few hours ago.”
Vambéry shakes his head. “That is not possible. The strigoi do not hunt during the daylight hours; they lack the strength. Look at the size of this man. He could have overpowered Dracul easily if his life was threatened. Dracul would never risk such a confrontation.”
Thornley next kneels beside the two bodies behind the coach. “These two are the same, drained of all blood. Their bodies are still warm.”
Bram is now at the fourth corpse, his fingers slipping over the two small punctures at the neck. “What if they died willingly?”
“What do you mean?” Vambéry frowns, puzzled.
“What if these men gave themselves to Dracul, allowed him to drain them in order to give him strength for whatever is to come? He knows we travel with three undead.”
“If he fed,” Vambéry says softly, “he has the upper hand.”
Bram nods.
“What about the one we spied on the road?” Thornley points out. “Is he with them, too? If such is the case, how many living men does Dracul command out here?”
Bram tightens his grip on his wooden stake and goes to the door of the coach.
“Wait!” Vambéry calls out.
Bram does no such thing. Even though the lock is engaged, he twists the handle with such force that the metal snaps with a pop. He tugs the door open, flooding the interior with light.
Vambéry is at his side in an instant, his stake held high and the rifle dangling from his shoulder.
The coach is empty.
The black horses whinny at this encroachment, and the coach lurches forward, the front wheel running over the arm of one of the dead men before returning to a halt.
Bram stares at the interior; his arm begins to itch again.
He was here.
Dracul is close, even now.
But how can that be?
Bram turns to the sky, at the threatening clouds churning above, blotting out the sun. “Is that enough to protect him?”
Vambéry thinks for a moment. “He would not risk remaining in the open for very long. But a storm could offer concealment and distraction.”
“So if he arrived during daylight, perhaps a few hours before us, he wouldn’t stay in the coach out in the open because that would be suicide. He would find someplace to rest until nightfall,” Bram says, surveying the surrounding village.
Vambéry’s focus is now on the cemetery behind the few remaining structures of the village. “He would seek out a grave, which would be freshly dug since he would have to be buried during the daylight hours. And we know he has other men out here to accomplish the deed.”
Thornley rounds the coach. “We need to find him and kill him while we can. You said that was the only way to save Emily. Drive a stake through his heart and end his hold over her.”
“This may be what he wants,” Bram says. “We should be searching for Deaglan O’Cuiv’s heart, not Dracul. We have less than three hours until sunset; that isn’t much time.”
“My only concern is saving my wife,” Thornley tells him. “We kill Dracul, Emily is saved, and we then have all the time in the world to find Deaglan’s heart.”
Vambéry shakes his head. “If we truly intend to save Deaglan O’Cuiv, that will not work. He will become mortal the moment Dracul dies. If that happens before he is whole, before his heart is beating within his chest again, it will surely mean death.”
“We will try to do both,” Bram says. “Search for Dracul while we try to find the heart. Then we strike him down the moment we are able. We have no other choice.”
Thornley and Bram start back for the wagon. Vambéry drops to his knees beside one of the dead men.
“What ar
e you doing?” Bram asks.
Vambéry pulls a curved blade from the sheath at his hip and begins sawing off the man’s head.
“Arminius!”
“If we do not remove their heads, they could become strigoi with the coming night. Then we would be outnumbered for sure. This is the only way to save their souls. If we are to hurry, you must help me.”
Bram glances at Thornley. Vambéry’s request seems extraordinary, but they simply cannot risk the four becoming strigoi. The two brothers do as they are told. When they are done, Vambéry stuffs the mouths of the severed heads with garlic and rolls them under the coach.
Back at the wagon, they again scrutinize the village, the decayed, collapsing structures. “Where to begin?”
Bram climbs into the back of the wagon. “We must wake Ellen.”
TWO AND A HALF HOURS UNTIL NIGHTFALL
Bram climbs up into the wagon and removes the tarpaulin covering the crate containing Ellen. “Hand me the hammer.”
Thornley roots around in one of the satchels, produces a hammer, and hands it to his brother.
“Be mindful of the trees. We do not know how many of Dracul’s men are out there or where they hide, but I am sure they are nearby,” Vambéry says, the Snider–Enfield rifle at the ready.
Bram edges the hammer under the lid of the crate and tugs. The nails give with a loud squeal. He works his way around until the lid comes free, then sets the hammer at his feet and eases the lid to one side. Ellen’s face is concealed beneath a thin layer of soil, her body buried deeper in the crate. He brushes the dirt from her eyes and pale cheeks, then quietly says her name.
Ellen’s eyes open with a start; red, piercing. Bram is reminded of a memory from childhood: What color would they be today?
All of them watch without a word as she sits up, the soil crumbling away from her. She turns to the sky, realizing night has not yet fallen, then reaches back and pulls the hood of her cloak over her head, shielding herself from the muted sun.
“Should we wake the others?” Bram asks, eyeing the two other crates.
“No, they must rest,” she replies. She is weak, and her entire body is trembling.
“Are you able to do this?”
She slowly takes in her surroundings, her red eyes darting over every surface. She freezes at the sight of the coach, the deceased surrounding it.
Bram tells her that it is empty, what they found.
“You were right to wake me; we haven’t much time.” She climbs out of the crate, more dirt falling away, and drops down from the wagon while Bram holds her arm, steadying her.
Ellen’s head snaps up and she sniffs at the air, her gaze on the forest. “There are many eyes upon us.”
“How many men?” Vambéry asks.
“Perhaps a dozen, maybe more.”
She studies the decaying village, her eyes fixing on a house about two hundred feet to their left. Half the roof is gone, but all four walls still stand. “Bring Deaglan there.”
Before Bram can ask why, she walks off towards the house and disappears inside.
Matilda climbs down from the wagon and trails after her while Thornley and Bram lower the trunk containing Deaglan O’Cuiv’s remains to the ground and carry the box behind her, their leather satchels piled on top.
Inside the house, Ellen clears off a table, the empty plates of a meal long forgotten. “Set it there.” She points at the floor beside the table.
Bram and Thornley do as she says, and she kneels before the box, carefully unlatching its clasps. She lifts the lid, and Deaglan O’Cuiv’s unblinking eyes stare back at them through a film of dirt.
Exhibiting the gentleness of a mother with her newborn child, Ellen begins removing her beloved’s body, one piece at a time, and placing him upon the table. She starts with his head, then his torso, then both arms and legs. Bram and the others watch all of this in silence, her eyes moist with crimson tears as the pieces she retrieved from all over the continent slowly come back together.
Bram cannot help but look at the junctures where this pitiful man was pulled apart. The ragged flesh at the shoulders and the thighs, the neck. The empty cavity in his chest where Dracul had punched through and pulled out his heart. Bram can’t imagine the pain such an atrocity would have inflicted. And knowing that this poor man still feels that pain even to this day, hundreds of years later, it is almost too much to comprehend.
Ellen leans over the man’s violated remains and kisses him gently on the lips. “Soon, my love. Soon you will be back in my arms.”
TWO HOURS UNTIL NIGHTFALL
“Someone must stay with him,” Ellen says, covering the body with the tarpaulin from the wagon. “He’s not safe with those men out there.”
“I need to find Emily,” Thornley says, already looking out the empty window at the deepening storm. “And what about Patrick and Maggie?” he asks. “They’re still on the wagon.”
“Bring both in here as well,” Ellen instructs.
Thornley nods at Vambéry and Vambéry reluctantly follows after him.
Bram turns to his sister. “You need to stay here with Vambéry.”
“I will not.”
Ellen is shaking her head. “I don’t trust that man to be alone with them.”
“I need to go with Ellen, and Thornley will never agree to stay; that leaves the two of you,” Bram tells Matilda. “I need you to stay, to watch over the O’Cuivs. Please.”
“Vambéry will attempt to kill them all the moment they are alone,” Ellen insists.
“I don’t think so—and certainly not with Matilda there.”
Matilda nods tentatively. “Bram’s right, I can keep in his favor, if not with charm then with force of might. He is only a man, after all.”
Bram goes to one of the satchels and fishes out a Webley revolver, checks the chamber to ensure it is loaded, and hands it to Matilda. “At any trouble, fire a shot, and we will come running.”
Vambéry and Thornley return with the first crate, then fetch the second, placing them side by side in the corner of the room. “If Dracul’s men are out there,” Vambéry says, “they are not making their presence known.”
“They’re out there,” Bram says, sensing them as Ellen had, their eyes no doubt locked on the small house.
Bram tells Vambéry he is to stay and Vambéry agrees after some persuasion. Vambéry tries to hand the rifle to him, but Bram tells him to hold on to it. He has his bowie knife and a stake.
Vambéry gives Thornley the curved blade he used on the men outside, along with a small bag of garlic. “Look for a fresh grave; that is where he will be resting. He arrived while the sun was up, which means he could not turn himself into mist to enter the grave, he would have been buried, I am certain of this. If you find him, you must drive a wooden stake through his heart and sever his head from his body and place the garlic in his mouth, like we did the others.”
ONE HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES UNTIL NIGHTFALL
Bram, Ellen, and Thornley step out of the house and return to the village green. Although the sun is now lost behind thick clouds, Ellen appears weak. Her skin has taken on a grayish cast, and her eyes are hazy, no longer bright red, as when she woke, but a dull, faded blue-gray. She pulls the hood of her cloak out over her head once again and disappears in its shadows.
Bram feels the men around them, human beings, lurking in the trees and behind the ruins, but he cannot see them. These men will not be seen until they want to be, but they are there, everywhere. Bram quickly comes to the realization that they are there only to observe—for now anyway. If they planned to attack, they would have surely done so by now. Whether they are in the evil thrall of Dracul remains to be seen.
Ellen falls still, her eyes fixed on the ground.
When Bram looks down, he understands why. Amongst the weeds, beneath the twisted vines and overgrown foliage,
the earth is littered with splintered and broken crucifixes.
“How are you able to stand among them?”
“This place is unholy, the whole lot of it,” she replies. “They were buried, but the graves were never consecrated. These relics are unblessed.”
“These are graves?” Thornley asks.
Ellen nods. “When Dracul hid my beloved’s heart here, he killed everyone, the entire village. He placed a curse upon the land. The few remaining survivors buried their dead and moved on; they left this place to rot away, to be forgotten.”
“Not the plague,” Thornley states softly.
“It was never the plague. People believe only what they can understand.”
Thornley is surveying the village green, as well as the land between the buildings and the land beyond the village. Bram knows what he is thinking for he saw it, too. The crosses are everywhere; the bodies are everywhere. “How will we ever find the right grave?”
Ellen points to her left. “The original cemetery is beyond that hill. He would have hidden the heart there, before all these people died, not out here.”
They cross the village green and mount the hill. As they come to the crest, a large structure looms into view: a great marble tomb surrounded by dozens of stone markers.
MATILDA
ONE HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES UNTIL NIGHTFALL
“I don’t understand; why did she unpack the body?” Vambéry asks, staring at the tarpaulin on the table. “Would it not make more sense to get the heart and leave this place as quickly as possible? Go somewhere away from Dracul, someplace safe, then try to bring him back there?”
Matilda opens her mouth, prepares to argue, says nothing.
Vambéry continues. “Even if this works, and I am doubtful that it will, he can only be made whole again after sunset, probably with an infusion of large quantities of blood. Have you asked yourself where she is going to obtain that blood? At last count, her only viable sources are you and me or your brothers.”