Herr Wolf ripped open his collar, bared his neck to the cool, damp air.
— Do your duty, Colonel, Herr Wolf ordered, instantly promoting the man.
— And may God protect us, said the Colonel.
He stepped forward and laid one hand on Herr Wolf’s head, another hand on the opposite shoulder, whether to steady himself or Herr Wolf was not exactly evident.
The Colonel opened his mouth to reveal two wet fangs, shiny white teeth, sharp and deadly looking. He lowered his head. At the first touch of these teeth Herr Wolf sprang back, maybe instinctively.
He ordered the Colonel to cease, that this action must be considered a bit more. Herr Wolf was too important to the Reich to risk his life precipitously. He decided that it would be better if the Colonel would accompany Herr Wolf back to Berlin. There they would decide the proper way to proceed.
This pause was difficult for the Colonel. Herr Wolf could see the sanguine craving in the man’s countenance. But slowly, through sheer force of visible will, the soldier brought himself under control.
Herr Wolf proceeded to the door, lifted the bar, and ordered Colonel R to proceed ahead of him, as the Colonel knew the way.
They had not walked far when they encountered a breathless Lieutenant G, who, with great agitation, announced that the castle was under attack and reported to the Colonel that his troops were close to being overrun.
The Colonel instantly took command and declared that the Fuhrer must be evacuated immediately. Herr Wolf reminded the Colonel that he was under orders to accompany Herr Wolf to Berlin.
Herr Wolf followed the two loyal soldiers up and through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms, both large and small. The Lieutenant kept glancing back at his Colonel, eyeing his superior officer with puzzlement, then concern and apprehension. Herr Wolf, too, had noticed the change in the Colonel—a difference of appearance, of course, the bloodshot eyes and strange pallor—but also there was a certain carriage, an effortless motion that Herr Wolf had not noticed before.
Gunfire could be heard, becoming louder as they ascended the stairs. The castle was indeed under siege. Herr Wolf suddenly became aware that he was in jeopardy. He must not be captured!
At one recalcitrant door, the Colonel opened it with such prodigious force that he tore it off the hinges and tossed it aside like a discarded newspaper.
They entered a rather large vaulted room that was apparently being used to store ammunition and military supplies and ordnance, the familiarly marked crates and boxes stacked everywhere. Herr Wolf was pleased to see how neatly the provisions were arranged, a tribute to the professionalism of the Colonel and his command.
One wall was decorated with implements from the castle’s medieval origins; shields and weaponry, halberds, maces, long and short swords. Lieutenant G walked directly to a massive, ornately carved mahogany bench, the back taller than a man. With a slight push it slid away from the wall; the ease with which he accomplished this was facilitated by a set of cleverly concealed wheels. A passageway was revealed, a dark, brick-lined tunnel of ancient construction.
The Lieutenant explained that this was an ancient secret escape tunnel to the road at the base of the mountain.
The Colonel led Herr Wolf across the room toward this subterranean passage, but this short journey was interrupted by the arrival of another.
The Vampire. Dracula!
The monster’s focus was entirely fixed upon Herr Wolf, who felt a bleak dread clutch his heart in cold fingers.
— You. The Vampire pointed a long finger at Herr Wolf. — Your war is at an end.
His stride toward Herr Wolf was purposeful and laden with ill intent.
But then the brave Colonel R stepped between his Fuhrer and the Vampire. He drew his silver sabre and faced Dracula, a Siegfried for a modern time.
— Take the Fuhrer to safety, the Colonel commanded. — That is your priority!
Lieutenant G took Herr Wolf by the arm and drew him into the mouth of the tunnel.
Herr Wolf hesitated at the opening, not wanting to abandon the transformed Colonel, this chance at immortality. Still, there was the danger of Herr Wolf’s imminent capture. That could not happen! He paused to watch the Vampire snatch a sword off the wall and step toward the Colonel’s challenge. The Lieutenant rudely pulled Herr Wolf into the tunnel and pushed shut a thick concrete door, the hinges protesting with a screech of rusty steel.
Just before the door was closed, Herr Wolf saw a woman enter the room, a red-haired beauty, fierce of visage, a Valkyrian vision, brandishing a long-barrelled Luger. She rushed toward him, her fiery eyes fixed upon Herr Wolf’s own, her determination much in evidence. And then she was gone as the closing door obliterated this amazing tableau.
EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I
by Lenore Van Muller
Lucille searched every room, dashing about the castle like a rat in a pantry, ripping open doors, poking her head inside rooms, darting to the next, trying desperately to find the Prince. All to no avail. So many rooms. So many empty rooms.
Well, one room, a large linen room, was occupied, a German soldier with his pants around his ankles atop a girl, not much more than twelve or thirteen. She had her skirts bundled around her waist; he was plunging at her like he was driving a spike into a tree.
They both were startled. No more so than when Lucille shot the Kraut in the head and shut the door behind her. Lucille heard a small squeak from the girl. Then she moved on with her quest, which seemed to grow more futile by the moment. She heard the gunfire, the explosions of a major battle outside, but continued her hunt for the man she was now bound to, trying not to give up all hope.
She stopped for a second, to get her bearing in the labyrinth of the castle. The surety of her purpose was strong as ever, but she was completely lost in the castle’s depths, having no idea where Prince Vlad had gone. The realisation stunned her, overwhelmed her, and she stopped dead in her tracks.
Then she felt a sudden heat on her chest, like a hot ember had fallen between her breasts. She quickly jammed a hand down her shirtfront, found her fingers clasping the leather pouch given to her by the mysterious gypsy woman in the caves.
She pulled it out, lifted the cord off her neck. The pouch was warm in her palm, like holding a little bird. She untied the neck and emptied the contents into her hand. A reddish powder, like rouge poured out, inert but warm. What was she to do with it? What were the gypsy’s words?
“For when you lose your love”? At the time Lucille thought it was some spurious love potion that the gypsies foisted on the bourgeois. But what if . . . ?
The sound of explosions interrupted her musing, reminding her that other lives were in jeopardy. She had no time to dawdle, to muse over some useless powder.
Raising her palm to her face, she blew the dust off her hand. It formed a small, scarlet cloud and she was about to walk away when she noticed that the dust was not settling. The cloud hung in midair, the dust swirling inside the brume. She walked around this curious sight, then said, “Find him.” Where the words came from she had no idea, neither the why of her actions. She just somehow knew what to do.
The cloud spewed a red finger that shot down the corridor in front of her. Lucille ran after it.
She began following a thread only she could see, a trickle of scarlet fog leading her onward to her love. She moved forward in a mad rush.
So fast was her progress that when she opened the door to what appeared to be a storeroom and saw the Prince at en garde with a Nazi officer, she at first closed the door, ready to move on, and even took a step away before the sight finally registered. The red cloud had evaporated, further affirmation that she had found him.
She quickly stepped back and re-opened the door. Yes, Dracula was here. Something else caught her attention, movement across the room, another doorway. A man stood there, short, dark hair hanging over his forehead, that little patch of mustache . . . Could it be?
My God, it was
him! Dracula had told the truth.
Hitler!
“Get him!” Dracula shouted to her and she rushed across the room, but as she ran the door slid into place. It slammed shut inches from her face, almost trapping her outflung fingers. She clawed at the door but was unable to gain purchase, much less pry it open.
She cursed, turned back toward the Prince and his opponent. They were circling each other, sword tips making delicate arabesques in the air, eyes wary.
There was something about the German officer that forced Lucille to give him further scrutiny. His eyes, his skin, the manner in which he moved. A chill coursed through her body, her skin goose-pimpled.
He was a vampire.
Then she noticed the bloody smear on the German’s neck, a black-red stain on the collar of his uniform. He had been bitten. And survived. Lucille now remembered his name: Reikel, the murderer of the Mayor, Janos, and so many of her friends.
“I don’t fear you,” the Nazi addressed Dracula and punctuated the statement with a dry laugh.
“You should,” Dracula warned.
“I have your powers,” the German said, grinning in triumph.
“You have some,” Dracula answered. “But power is oft not enough, as many a tyrant has discovered.”
Lucille observed that one of the Prince’s arms hung limply at his side, the same arm from which she had removed the silver bullet.
The Nazi attacked. Swords slashed, clashed, Dracula parrying adroitly. The contact lasted but tiny bits of seconds, the thrust and parry of blades at a speed no human could match or even follow. To Lucille it was but a bright scintillation of metal against metal, then a withdrawal and more circling. They were testing each other.
“I was the captain of the Olympic Fencing Team representing Germany; I have won medals all over Europe.”
“I do not know of what you speak,” Dracula said.
“A contest. For medals. Have you ever seen a German officer with a scar on his cheek?” the German asked. “Dueling scars? They brag about them.”
“I do recall a Hun with such a scar,” Dracula answered.
Another thrust and counterthrust at blinding speed.
“We who know the sword call such men losers.” The German smiled. Lucy could see his new fangs. “I have no scars. I make scars.”
“I see. You have no scar.” Dracula returned the grin. “Well, then we shall give you one.”
And he did just that. With an almost invisible flick of his sabre, he cut the Nazi across one cheek. The SS officer was shocked, touched the cut. There was no blood, just a dark seepage.
Then Dracula attacked, driving the German back.
“You see, I fought no duels for medals. Or for vanity,” the Prince declared. “I fought to defend myself, to evade death. A better teacher, do you not agree?”
And he slashed the German across the chest, slicing through uniform and skin.
“To maim,” Dracula said as he managed another slash, this one across the German’s forearm.
“To kill my enemy.” This cut rent the Nazi’s pants, exposing Reikel’s thigh.
Lucille could see the sudden astonishment and growing panic in the German’s eyes. He was forced to back his way across the room then retreat along the wall until he reached the door opposite.
Opening it with his free hand, still engaging the Prince with his sabre, he mounted a short attack and then ducked into the next room.
Dracula followed and Lucille was close behind.
This room was the ballroom Lucille had passed through earlier. It was a long rectangle, one wall completely mirrored like a ballet studio, the ancient glass corroded with brackish rivers and tributaries. In the near corner, a mirrored bar was set, a hint of modernity contemplated by the gilt-winged cherubs flitting about in the sky-blue ceiling.
The other wall was interrupted at regular intervals by ornate windows, starting waist high and extending to the ceiling.
Twenty German soldiers were now stationed at the opened windows, weapons aimed outside. As one, they all turned their attention from the castle grounds outside to the two men who were dancing across the parquet floor like a scene from a Douglas Fairbanks movie.
Lucille stepped back into the shadows of the doorway before the soldiers took their attention from the fencing pair toward her. She ducked behind the bar.
Dracula and the Nazi officer fought, blade clashing upon blade, the two combatants oblivious to their audience as Dracula drove the German down the length of the room. The SS men at the windows watched, mouths agape at the sight.
Reikel took another cut, a slice across his torso that made his tunic flap open to reveal his pallid chest. The officer was suffering from a dozen cuts, small and large, and he was tiring.
He turned to the troops at the windows.
“Kill him!” he screamed at them.
The soldiers turned their guns toward Dracula and began to fire.
Some of the bullets struck the Prince, knocking him back like invisible punches, hindering his attack on their commander.
Many of the shots hammered instead the mirrored wall, shattering glass that waterfalled to the floor in a crystalline deluge with an accompanying din that pained Lucille’s ears.
The Germans stopped shooting for a second and stared in awe at a man who had just visibly been hit by a dozen bullets and showed no adverse effects except the impact.
Seeing the Prince battered by the gunfire, Lucille aimed her long-barrelled Luger and began picking off the Germans. Some of them turned their fire onto her, smashing the bar’s mirrored cladding and tearing through the wood beneath.
One of the Germans emptied his weapon at her, causing Lucille to seek cover as the man sprinted past and out the door that led to the storeroom. She fired after him but missed.
Dracula turned from Reikel and charged the soldiers with his sword, slashing through swaths of grey uniforms as if they were cornstalks before a scythe. Men dropped to the floor, some not even realising that they had just lost an arm, just had a leg amputated, one not even aware that he was dead on his feet. Blood geysered from severed arteries.
Lucille killed three more, but then heard the dull click that meant her bolt was fixed back. She was out of ammunition and cursed herself.
But there was no need to worry. With a lightning slash, Dracula cleaved the last soldier into two pieces. He turned back to Reikel.
Lucille rose from her cover to watch them duel. She knew it was a fight to the death, but she had also seen the Prince’s superiority over the German and was not concerned. She relaxed to watch the show.
Then something caught the periphery of her vision. She turned to see the soldier who had fled step back into the room. Perched upon his shoulder was a Panzerschreck, what the partisans called a stovepipe, a long tube that fired an 88mm rocket. He must have appropriated the weapon from the armoury they had just vacated.
Fear stole her breath away. The Prince might survive a few bullets, but she herself had destroyed a tank with one of these rockets. This would obliterate him.
Instinctively, she raised her Luger to shoot the soldier and remembered that the pistol was empty. She dashed across the room to one of the fallen dead. The soldier with the rocket launcher struggled to aim his weapon at the Prince, who was in a dance of death that made him flit around the room.
Lucille ripped a pistol out of a dead man’s hand, flicked off the safety, and aimed at the German in the doorway. His hand was on the trigger.
She shot him. Twice in the chest.
He staggered. In his death throes he somehow fired the rocket. The round went wild, struck the ceiling with a tremendous explosion. Plaster and slivers of wood rained down.
The white cloud of plaster dust was just beginning to settle when there was a creak of strained wood and one of the thick beams overhead plunged to the floor.
It struck Dracula, pinned him to the floor.
Reikel leapt out of the way, recovered, and climbed over the debris pile to stand
over the helpless Prince.
Lucille shot Reikel. But besides his recoiling from the impact, the bullets had no more effect on him than they would on Dracula.
Reikel loomed over the Prince, raised his sabre high for the killing slash.
“Is it as the legend says, that a wooden stake through the heart kills the vampire?” Reikel mused sardonically. “Or does a silver blade suffice? Time for another experiment. I wish my scribe was here to record this moment.”
Lucille suddenly found herself on her feet and hurtling across the room, throwing her body over the Prince’s as the gleaming silver sabre descended.
She did not hear her scream as the blade penetrated her side, slicing through flesh and rib. She just felt all her strength drain from her body.
Dracula was struggling to free himself when Lucille’s face suddenly appeared only inches from his own. Then he saw her eyes go wide in shock, the exhalation of her breath on his skin.
He felt her pain as if it were his own, as if they were twins joined in mind and body. Empathy unbound. Pain beyond endurance.
Whether Dracula’s scream came from anguish, protest, or anger, he surged from under the beam that trapped him and charged after the German.
His attack was hampered, one leg injured, dragging behind him as he sliced at the Nazi, who was once again forced to back away from the onslaught.
Then Reikel attacked, wounding the Prince’s dead leg, finally scoring on the vampire. The German smiled at his success.
“One cut?” Dracula asked. “Learn this much. I welcome the pain.”
“Then I shall give it,” Reikel sneered.
Dracula received another cut, hissed in agony.
“Pain reminds one of what it was to feel human.” Dracula attacked toward the Nazi, receiving wound after wound while forcing the Nazi to retreat. “I embrace the pain.”
He drove the German to an open window. The Major’s legs were against the sill. He had nowhere to move; behind him were only open air and a deadly drop down the castle’s sheer wall. Dracula smiled and, with a twirl of his sword, disarmed Reikel.
Dracula vs. Hitler Page 48