"What?"
"Because of the reason for my coming to Paris, alone, at the age of fourteen."
"Ah." Something was coming; whatever it was, she must not be allowed to fear that it was going to matter to him. "Go on, Mellie."
"Well… it was years after you and your mother had departed for Martinique… there was a young man who loved me—yes, he truly did! Even though he was only sixteen at the time, and I was even younger…"
"I think that I begin to understand."
"You do? Philip, I have a son, ten years old."
"My poor dear—you could have told me—"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The figure of Mr. Graves (what could he be standing on to look in that high window?) now raised one finger to its smiling lips, enjoining silence.
Radcliffe complied. He even held his breath. But then, with the desperate certainty that silence wasn't going to be good enough, that the figure at the window was likely to be soon discovered by those inside, he tore his gaze away, lest the people around him should begin to wonder what he was staring at. What he ought to do, inspiration urged, was to create some distraction so that the villains in the house with him would have their attention diverted away from the intruder, at least for a critical few seconds.
When Philip had complained that his arm was bleeding, the knots on the cord that had bound his arms were undone, and his right arm completely freed. Now he should be able to untie and unwind the cords holding his left arm and his legs, but he would need at least several seconds to do so.
He started to untie himself, but the heroic distraction proved unnecessary. A moment later, the glass in three windows simultaneously came crashing in.
* * *
The crucial phase of the break-in, which involved getting all the attackers into their chosen positions, had been timed for the moment when the attention of everyone inside would be on Philip and his horrified reaction to the beheading of an animal.
Vlad Dracula had delayed his assault until Radcliffe was brought out to the barn; but he would not have delayed it much beyond that, even if Radu had been late in coming.
It was also exquisitely timed with regard to Radu, to catch him just after his arrival, when he was gloating over his prisoner Radcliffe, at a moment when he'd be relatively off guard.
A moment later, one door of the old barn burst in as well.
People were screaming, roaring, in what sounded like more different voices than there were people present. All of the figures breaking into the barn, through several doors and windows at the same time, were masked—no, all save one.
Neither Radu nor Mr. Graves were any longer to be seen. Instead there were two wolves, two great beasts locked in a snarling, sparring swirl of fur and teeth and glowing eyes.
One mask-face standing in a doorway raised a shotgun, and an instant later a double blast tore splinters from a roof-supporting beam standing ten feet from where Radcliffe sat tearing frantically at his bonds. The body of the man standing beside the post, he who had been drinking cat's blood a minute earlier, was flung violently away.
Moving in ones and twos and threes, the masked breathers on Joe Keogh's combat team were forcing their way in. Vlad Dracula's entry, too, came with smashing force; and he was immediately occupied in a one-on-one struggle with the minor vampire.
The majority of Radu's associates in the barn had carried weapons with them from the house. Despite being taken by surprise, some of them fought back fiercely; one even had an assault rifle within reach.
All of the enemy fought desperately; not one, apparently, thought only of getting away.
The instant the last loop of cord fell free, Phil rolled out of his chair, and continued rolling across the floor. Meanwhile bullets were pounding into the barn's walls above him, loosing a hail of splintered wood…
His progress was not unopposed. One of the villains moved to intercept him, aiming a pistol at his midsection. Moving without thought of either fear or bravery, Phil flung himself forward, grappling for possession of the firearm. When he suddenly found he had control of it, he raised the metal weight and used it to hit his opponent over the head. The man slumped down, and Phil ran on.
The twilight, inside and outside the barn, had now come alive with gunfire. Muzzle flashes spasmodically brightened the dimness inside the barn. It seemed that several members of each force were armed with automatic weapons.
First one and then another Coleman lantern was shot out. Glass shattered and fuel spilled, but no fire caught on the stone floor.
Someone or something tripped Radcliffe, and he went down hard. He realized that a woman had tackled him, and now a man was coming to help her out—the effort still seemed to be to capture Phil rather than to kill him. In the midst of his own struggle, Radcliffe caught a freeze-frame impression of Graves, in a form half-man and half-wolf, still grappling with his major enemy. The brothers seemed oblivious to the combat among lesser beings that raged around them.
The acrid smell of burnt ammunition drifted in the air, a haze of wood-dust, and the residue of smokeless powder.
The woman had let go of Philip's legs; he saw her writhing on the floor and realized that a bullet had likely hit her. The man fought on doggedly but lost ground, gasping, lungs wheezing with the burden of a carload of cigarettes.
Phil at last got a good grip on his throat and banged his head against the concrete floor.
Then he was on his feet again. His own lungs were gasping now, but he wasn't going to stop for breath. One more human obstacle loomed up. Radcliffe ran into a small man with his shoulder, ramming his foe with all his force, and knocked the villain sprawling.
At last an open door was just ahead, and Radcliffe went out through it as if all the devils in hell were after him. He wasn't armed or trained for combat, not this kind anyway, and he had no heroic notion about hanging around to claim a bigger share.
There were several vehicles parked nearby, the same ones that had been parked here at the time of his arrival. Fighting down the nightmarish feeling that he had been through this before, he thought that if he could get to one of them, and then get to June—
Before he had taken more than a couple of outdoor steps, a car he recognized as belonging to Graves's faction came roaring up and screeched to a halt in a cloud of flying gravel. From the driver's seat a figure beckoned to him—he recognized Constantia.
Philip ran for the car, had almost reached it, when the woman inside reached out a powerful hand that swept him off his feet and pulled him in. A moment later they were roaring away, bouncing down the pitted and eroded road.
I believe it necessary to report to the reader that one of my gallant breathing allies was killed in the gunfight in the barn, and two more were wounded—professional help was standing by to give them care. At this writing I am not at liberty to name names. As victors we carried away with us our dead, as well as our wounded, when we withdrew from the field.
The habitation effect prevented my getting into the house. There was no compelling reason for my presence inside; I simply set fire to the building, and waited outside to finish off the small handful of Radu's breathers who had been in the house when we attacked, and who preferred encountering me in the open air to burning to death. The inmates were about evenly divided in their choice. Ruthlessly—and why not?—I exterminated all who came to light. I suppose that one or two might have remained hidden in the basement of the house—to which the fire had soon spread—and come through alive. But I considered that the time and effort necessary to dig them out would have been a poor investment.
Eventually we considered it best to burn the barn as well. But I made sure that the guillotine was carried to safety first. My brother had been taken alive, and the machine was going to be needed.
Joe Keogh commented that when law enforcement eventually reached the scene, which might not be for many days, they would readily enough account for the killings by the presence of drug paraphernalia—another deal gone sour, nothing t
oo much out of the ordinary, except for the numbers involved. In a house of drugs and violence, some overtones of satanism would be no great surprise to the investigators either.
Again Radcliffe was driven across several miles of desert, including a stretch or two of offroad travel. Connie at the wheel chattered brightly through most of the journey.
Once again on this ride, as on the first one he'd taken with these same people, the last embers of sunset were fading. How many sunsets ago was that? He couldn't remember.
The fight, which had seemed to go on forever while it was in progress, had actually taken only a few minutes.
Inside the vehicle, the atmosphere was upbeat but still tense. Connie, looking in her driver's mirror, murmured to Radcliffe: "You're not safe yet. You won't be, as long as Radu is still alive." She sounded dead serious for once.
"At the moment, this feels like being safe."
"Something of a rough time, huh? Sorry about that." My own fault. Maybe he thought the words if he couldn't yet bring himself to say them. "What's happened to June?"
"Little wifey is just fine."
"Thank God for that!"
Gradually giving way to the shock of all that had happened to him, Philip clung to his wife when they were reunited in the mobile home that once had seemed a prison. At one point he blurted out to the masked Joe Keogh: "I thought—I thought I saw a—a guillotine just now. Set up right outside the window."
"Oh?" Joe sounded only mildly surprised. "I wouldn't worry about it. I expect it won't be there when you look out again." And he reached out and closed the drapes.
The Radcliffes listened to an explanation of how Mr. Graves and his associates had induced him to run away by leaving the window grill unlocked, and how they had kept June with them by working a little mild magic with a shoe. Tracking Phil had been easy, thanks to the wonders of modern electronics.
Gradually, after sleep and food, he got up the nerve to look out of the window again, June standing beside him.
The guillotine was gone, if it had ever really been there. In its place sat their own car.
Chapter Thirty
Radu, still gloating over the delicious memory of Philip Radcliffe's decapitation, decided that it might be very amusing to look up Melanie Remain, Radcliffe's lover. He knew the young woman was employed at the wax museum. Perhaps she would be in a mood to accept the kind of consolation he might offer; and today, properly clothed, under what appeared to be a dependably cloudy sky, he felt secure in going out.
He knew that Curtius maintained one exhibition, or museum, at the building which had once been the Palais Royal. But far bigger and more important was his main establishment on the Boulevard du Temple. He had read one of the advertisements:
A collection of wax figures representing famous personages, living and dead, attired in their everyday costume, and exhibiting their usual pose and attitude… known as a "Cabinet de Cire."
For all Radu knew, the relationship between Melanie Romain and Philip Radcliffe might have started years ago, and the child she was so concerned about now might well be Radcliffe's.
That was of interest, too. Radu was fond of children.
* * *
Turning over in his mind various plans for amusing himself with Marie and her small son Auguste, the younger Dracula approached the museum at No. 20, Boulevard du Temple.
At this hour the place was busy with people engaged in various activities; but a child who wishes to be alone, to play a game that is not approved by the authorities who rule his life, will find a place where he can be alone.
In the rear of the property at No. 20, Boulevard du Temple, stood a kind of shed, almost abandoned, and enclosing a small deserted yard once used for repairing wagons and the like.
Radu took his time, and looked things over. Then he decided that he should first take a look through the museum.
The latest exhibits currently showing, along with several of those which had recently been dismantled, were being considered as items to be sent on a grand tour of India, where interest in such matters was currently very high.
Some work in preparation for the voyage (Marie was going to have to decide whether to risk sending her valuable property halfway around the world as scheduled) had been done within the last few hours.
After inspecting the regular exhibits—the skill of the artist was intriguing, if the subject matter was not—Radu surreptitiously made his way into a storeroom. Here, lined up or piled up for inspection were likenesses of all the villains and heroes—which was which depended of course upon one's point of view—who filled the ranks of the Revolution and made up its rapidly changing leadership. Wave after wave of them came to power, and in a matter of months, or only weeks, were denounced and carted away in batches of ten and twenty to the cemetery—pausing only briefly en route to have their heads chopped off. Folk rested more contentedly in the cemetery if that was done to them first…
In 1778 Dr. Curtius, exerting his masterly skill in modeling, had done several studies of Voltaire, posing perhaps the most famous man in Europe as The Dying Socrates. Now, the dying Curtius was still justly proud of the fact.
Another group in storage showed the late Royal Family dining in public, a ritual they had engaged in on occasion. Here were Voltaire, Rousseau, and dozens of lesser lights, including members of the first National Assembly. Some were clothed in garments worn by their originals, while others, according to no plan that Radu could make out, had been reduced to a crude and sexless nudity.
The fact that the figures were standing or lying in close proximity to one another seemed to make them all more meaningful. As if they were engaged in dialogue…
Standing in the lifeless room, he wondered briefly what famous man or woman might be the next unwitting recipient of this waxen, sham immortality. He was not impressed. The horrors depicted were such feeble, melancholy shadows of the real thing that Radu took no pleasure from them, but rather found them quite depressing.
The younger Dracula's ears brought him confirmation that his instincts had been correct: He could hear, proceeding from the disused shed and courtyard in the rear, the small click and minor thud that the toy guillotine made in its operation. He had seen and heard other Parisian children engaged in similar games, and recognized the sound. It seemed to him as he listened that the little blade was not falling uselessly, but encountering living flesh and blood.
Radu knew a pang of resentment and envy that his own childhood had been deprived of any such toys. Yes, it still rankled that Father had always favored Vlad.
Well, the world made progress, at least in the types of toys that modern youngsters had available.
And there was nothing wrong with the itch of resentment—he, Radu, had discovered centuries ago that it could always be scratched, quite satisfactorily, on the tender skin of someone else.
He had no indication that Vlad was anywhere nearby.
One could never be sure about that, of course, but a great part of the joy of life lay in taking chances.
He would be in no hurry to kill either Melanie or her son when he caught up with them. He intended to savor the sweet child-blood for a long time, before the boy's heart could pump no more… yes, ten was an interesting age. The endurance, as Radu had proven to his own satisfaction on many occasions down through the centuries, was much greater than at only five or six, for example.
The pleasure to be obtained from two breathers who were closely related to each other, if one could use them together, was more than twice as great as that to be had from what the total of the two might be in separation. Ideally the mother would, of course, be encouraged to watch what was happening to her baby. And then the mother's turn would come… or he could do it the other way around…
The trend of Radu's thoughts made the roots of his fangs ache in anticipation, and also brought back the Marquis de Sade into his thoughts. The sight of the wax figures he had just been looking at reminded him of the madman's pathetic, small collection. But he, Radu,
had more pressing matters to think about just now…
In a way it was too bad that Radcliffe himself had died so quickly. It would have been an interesting refinement to have him available now, to compel the breather to watch what now was going to happen to his woman, and to the child. But, alas, one could not have everything. And the guillotining itself had been supremely satisfying; once the man was dead, there was no way that even Vlad could bring him back.
Ke-chark. There went the model guillotine again.
Slowly, moving only when he was not observed, Radu made his way toward the rear of the establishment. Just before entering the deserted yard he paused once more, relishing the moment. His ears brought him the sound of a single set of childish lungs, breathing quite easily. Now and then a voice, readily identifiable as that of a little boy, murmured something. The judge and executioner of birds and mice was talking to himself, rehearsing for an adult role. Already passing sentences, no doubt, with the supreme self-satisfaction of the head of a tribunal. Somehow it must be instinctive in the race…
Entering the courtyard, he set the hook and eye that served as crude lock on the door by which he'd just come in. There was a good bit of shade inside the gloomy shed, and with a little luck he might hope to pass the remainder of the daylight hours here quite undisturbed.
I can call up some mice and birds to feed his guillotine, thought Radu suddenly. Hastily he began to revise his plans. First I shall speak winningly to the child, gain his confidence, and perhaps the two of us will be merry playmates for an hour. I will teach him the thrill of power, and the taste, the real taste, of blood, and then how to skin a small animal alive, so that it still breathes and suffers when its skin is almost entirely off. So that he shall be no longer merely innocent when the game is suddenly transformed… so he will understand his own fate when his own skin begins to disappear, a little patch at a time… when the smaller extensions of his own body begin to be tried, as to whether they will fit into his toy… Ke-chark.
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