by William Hill
When Van Helsing informed the prime minister of his intention to return to Transylvania, to secure the remains of Dracula and bring them home to be safely stored, a telegram had been sent to Moscow, inviting the nascent Supernatural Protection Commissariat to send a man to accompany the professor on his journey in the spirit of international cooperation that befitted the new century. And so it was that when the old man and his valet disembarked at the port of Constanta, they were met by Ivan Bukharov, who introduced himself to the professor as special envoy to the State Council of Imperial Russia, under the authority of Czar Nicholas II himself. The six men-Van Helsing, Henry Carpenter, Ivan Bukharov, and the latter’s three Russian aides-had spent the night in Constanta before making their way north via carriage, through Braila and Tecuci, where they spent an agreeable evening and night in one of the town’s three inns, through Bacau and Dragoesti, where they again took rest, and on to Vatra Dornei, where they left the carriages and advanced on horseback, pulling with them the low wooden cart that would ferry the remains of the dead back to England.
They rode up onto the Borgo Pass at first light, the mood of the travelers and the urgency of the journey far removed from the previous time Van Helsing had stepped onto the steep ridges of the Carpathian Mountains, when he had been chasing evil with one hand, while trying to protect innocence with the other.
Van Helsing recognized their destination when he was still more than a hundred yards away from it. A natural canopy of rock, not deep enough to be called a cave, that nonetheless offered protection from the elements to the souls sleeping eternally beneath it. He called for Bukharov to follow him, then urged his horse onward, its hooves clattering across the loose rock. He drew the animal to a halt and dismounted. His valet appeared instantly at his side but offered no assistance; the lash of his master’s tongue had taught him that it would be requested if it was needed. The old man lurched unsteadily as his feet touched the earth, but he did not fall.
Carpenter and Bukharov followed the old man at a respectful distance as he approached the rock doorway. He paused as he reached the threshold, then sank to his knees so suddenly that his valet ran forward, alarmed.
“Back,” hissed Van Helsing, waving an arm at him, and Carpenter did as he was told.
The professor knelt before the opening, his heart pounding, his throat closed by the terrible wave of grief that had driven him to the cold ground.
Beneath the canopy of rock lay the two flat stones that he and Jonathan Harker had placed there in 1891: a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. The one on the right was pale gray, and had carved upon it a simple crucifix, a narrow cross that Harker had chiseled with the end of his kukri knife, tears falling from his eyes as he did so. The one on the left was black, and it, too, bore a carved crucifix, only this one was upside down, the ancient mark of the unholy. Van Helsing had carved it himself, using Quincey Morris’s bowie knife, bitter satisfaction filling him as he did so.
“Professor?” It was Bukharov’s voice, low and full of worry. “Professor, you are being fine?”
The old man laughed, despite himself, a short bark of mirth. “Yes, Ivan, I am being fine.” He pushed himself back to his feet and turned to face the rest of the men. “It looks undisturbed. Have your men dig up the ground, but tell them to be careful. The coffin is large but it may be fragile, and it contains both sets of remains. I do not want my friend’s bones spilling out across this mountainside, is that understood?”
Bukharov nodded, then spoke a short sentence of Russian to his men and waved them forward. They set about their orders manfully, hacking at the hard ground with pickaxes and shovels, and Van Helsing retired to a flat outcropping of rock, where he sat and waited for them to complete their task. After a minute or two, his valet joined him, leaving Bukharov overseeing the excavation.
“All would appear to be going to plan, sir,” said Henry Carpenter.
Van Helsing grunted. “So far, Henry. It appears to be going to plan so far. There will no doubt be ample opportunity for the Russian half-wit to jeopardize matters before we have the remains safely on their way to London.”
Carpenter looked at Bukharov, who was encouraging his men with a steady stream of Russian.
“Do you believe the special envoy is truly slow-witted, sir? I suspect a sharp mind is at work behind his limited English.”
“Nonsense,” growled Van Helsing. “The man is a fool and a liability to this undertaking. And I shall be instructing the prime minister to convey my opinion of their man to the Russians as soon as we return.”
“I’m sure you are correct, sir.”
“As am I, Henry. As am I.”
After little more than twenty minutes, there came the heavy thud of metal on wood, and the three Russians dropped to their knees and began clearing the dirt away with their gloved hands. Van Helsing got to his feet and walked over to where Bukharov was standing, observing his men.
“Will remains be good condition still?” he asked Van Helsing, who shrugged.
“How on earth should I be able to tell you that?” the old man replied. “The elevation and the climate are certainly suitable for preservation, but I won’t know for certain until I see them.”
Under the canopy, two of the Russians inserted metal bars along the front edge of the coffin, and slowly applied their weight to them. With a long, high-pitched creak, the coffin that had carried Dracula across Europe and had become his final resting place lifted slowly into view. The men pulled it forward so its bottom edge lay on the lip of the hole they had dug around it, then joined their comrade at the rear of the canopy. Silently, they gripped the end of the box that still lay in the ground, lifted it, and pushed it forward.
The dark wooden coffin slid out of the enclave of rock like a ship being launched from a dry dock. It rolled across the loose surface with the three Russians at its rear and came to a halt before Van Helsing and Bukharov.
“Henry,” said the professor, and the valet stepped forward.
Carpenter inserted a thin metal bar under the lid of the coffin and applied pressure to the lever. There was a moment’s resistance, before the lid separated from the box and slid to one side, exposing a narrow sliver of pitch black. The Russians approached and took three corners of the lid, as Henry Carpenter took the fourth. Then slowly, taking great care as they did so, they lifted it clear of the coffin and placed it gently to the ground on one side.
Van Helsing and Bukharov looked down.
Lying in the coffin, clad in the brown jacket and trousers he had been wearing when he died, was the skeleton of Quincey Morris. His bones were bright white, and the cowboy hat resting above his skull gave the gruesome tableau a comical feel, as though his mortal remains were a stage prop in some macabre play. On his chest lay his bowie knife, where Van Helsing had placed it before they had closed the coffin lid eleven years earlier.
Beside him was a large mound of gray powder, much of it piled against the sides of the coffin and in the corner nearest the two gravedigger’s feet. This was all that remained of the first vampire, the cruel, ungodly creature that had tormented Van Helsing and his friends and had sent Lucy Westenra to damnation.
The professor crouched painfully, examining the joins between the sides of the coffin and the base. They appeared solid, as he had expected; this wooden vessel had been built to carry its occupant across much of the European continent, unharmed.
“Joins are good,” grunted Van Helsing. “That should be all of him. Put the lid back on and fetch down the canvas.”
Henry Carpenter and the Russian aides hoisted the coffin lid back into the air and carried it delicately back toward the box. At the last second, before the lid was re-sealed, Van Helsing darted a hand into the coffin and pulled the bowie knife out. He didn’t know why he did so-he just knew that it seemed important. He attached it to his belt and stood back as the Russians hammered fresh nails into the lid, sealing it tight against the elements. One of them went to the cart and came back with a thick square of fold
ed green canvas, which he spread wide on the loose ground. The coffin was lifted and placed in the middle of the green square, which was then folded up and over the wooden box. Nails were driven in to hold it in place, then a long red candle was lit, and hot wax was applied to every open fold, sealing the parcel airtight. Finally it was lifted onto the cart and lashed down with thick lengths of rope.
The men mounted their horses, and Van Helsing walked his alongside Bukharov, who was watching his men make final preparations to leave.
“I understand you wish to accompany us back to London, to observe the examinations. Is that correct?” asked Van Helsing.
“Much correct,” replied Bukharov, a look of great excitement on his face. “Very much correct, Professor.”
“Very well. Whether I allow that will depend exclusively on the condition the remains are in when they arrive at Constanta. You would be well advised to communicate that to your men.”
Van Helsing spurred his horse onward, and Bukharov and Carpenter followed him. Behind them, the Russians began to haul the cart back toward civilization.
The journey back to Constanta was significantly quicker and less comfortable than the journey from the port had been. When they arrived back at the port town, shortly before dawn, men and horses alike were exhausted, but Van Helsing paid no attention to their suffering. He drove straight to the docks, left Bukharov and the Russians with his valet, and boarded the ship the British government had chartered for the journey, the Indomitable. He ordered the captain to make ready for sail, then descended the gangway to instruct Carpenter to oversee the loading of the remains onto the ship. The valet was standing by the cart with the three Russian aides, but there was no sign of-
Click.
The noise came from beside Van Helsing’s head, and he slowly turned in its direction. Six inches in front of his forehead hovered a Colt 45 revolver, the silver gleaming yellow beneath the oil lamps that were suspended above the docks. The gun hung motionless in the air, and holding it at arm’s length, smiling gently, was Ivan Bukharov.
“What is the meaning of this?” growled Van Helsing.
“I’m afraid my orders regrettably contravene yours, my dear Professor,” said Bukharov, his English suddenly smooth and flawless. “They are to bring the spoils of this journey back to Moscow for inspection by the imperial czar. Which means that I cannot allow you to return the remains to London, an inconvenience for which I sincerely apologize.”
You stupid fool. You underestimated this man because his manners were rough and his English was poor. Now you stand without a single card to play. Stupid old man.
Bukharov sidestepped in a tight circle around Van Helsing, the gun never so much as flickering in his grasp. He stopped beside the cart and regarded Henry Carpenter. “Please step back alongside your master,” he said, pleasantly.
The valet did so, walking slowly backward until he was beside the old man, revealing to the professor the identical revolvers held in the hands of the three Russian men, guns that had been pointing silently at the valet while Van Helsing descended the gangway.
Bukharov said something quickly in Russian, and one of his men holstered his pistol, before climbing up into the first of the carriages that had brought them to the docks. When he emerged, he was carrying the two Englishmen’s suitcases and traveling bags, which he placed on the ground before them. As the man bent to release the bags, Carpenter flashed a glance at his master and twitched his hand toward the pocket of his waistcoat. Van Helsing shook his head, so sharply it was almost invisible; the two-barrel derringer that the valet kept upon his person at all times would not be sufficient to extricate them from this situation.
“I wish you a safe and speedy journey home,” said Bukharov, the Colt still pointing squarely at the old man. “I’m afraid we must say our farewells now, as we have a ship of our own to catch and many miles to travel once we reach Odessa. But I would like to say that it has been an absolute priv-”
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” interrupted Van Helsing. “Those remains are quite likely the most dangerous thing in existence. They need to be studied and stored where there is no risk of their seeing the light of day again. I implore you; let me have them.”
Bukharov’s genial expression faded and was replaced by a look of cold displeasure.
“Such arrogance to assume that only in Britain can anything be studied or safely hidden. I can assure you, Professor, that once we are finished with our examinations, the remains will be stored where no one will ever be able to find them.”
36
THE SECOND INVASION OF LINDISFARNE
Lindisfarne Island, Northumberland
Two hours ago
They came from the mainland, when the island’s inhabitants were curled up in front of televisions or asleep in their beds.
There were almost forty of them, emerging from the mist that wreathed the causeway, some walking along the damp road, others floating inches above it. Alexandru led them, his long gray coat flapping gently around his ankles, his crimson eyes blazing with madness.
Behind him strode Anderson, a large object wrapped in a cloth sack over his shoulder. Further back was the ragtag group of vampires that had attached themselves to Alexandru, overlooking or ignoring his sadistic extravagances for the protection his favor afforded.
Two dark, silent men walked behind the rest. They scratched at themselves almost continually, and every few minutes, they cast furtive glances at the moon. It was hours from full and hung large and bright in the night sky.
They approached the island in silence. They could already see the distant lights shining through the windows of the houses and the amber glow of the streetlights, rising up the hill from the harbor that opened on to the North Sea.
Kate Randall woke with a start.
She had been awake since five that morning, helping her father prepare bait and line, washing the small fishing boat on which he spent his days, and she had fallen asleep on her bed as soon as she had finished dinner. She had no doubt she would have slept through until the following morning if something hadn’t disturbed her.
Kate sat up on her bed and stared across her bedroom at the open window above her desk. The pale yellow curtains fluttered in the night breeze, and the cold air raised goose bumps on her arms.
It’s just the cold, she thought, rubbing her arms with her hands, trying to warm the skin. Just the cold.
But she wasn’t sure that was true.
She had heard something out there in the darkness.
Something that sounded like a scream.
Kate climbed out of her bed, wincing at the temperature. She was still dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, but she reached for the dressing gown hanging on the back of her door regardless. As she slid her arms into the sleeves, she felt the air swirl as something moved behind her, near the open window.
She spun round.
The room was empty.
Fear rippled through her like one of the slate-gray waves that pitched her father’s boat. But she did not cry out.
Her father would be asleep by now, and if she had learned anything in her sixteen years, it was that she must not wake her father under any circumstances. This rule, this nonnegotiable law, had sunk so deeply into her that she obeyed it even now, as she stood trembling with fear in her own bedroom, no more than fifteen feet away from him.
Instead she walked toward the window.
She could smell the crisp, dry scent of a fire on the beach far below the small house she had shared with her father since her mother had died, could see a thin pillar of pale gray smoke rising above the small island, small clouds of sparks and orange embers floating lazily on the night air.
She could hear music, a classical piano piece, drifting out of the windows of her neighbors’ house. Mr. Marsden was away on business in Newcastle, and his wife was making the most of her opportunity to control the stereo. It was normally the heavy bass and driving drums of Metallica and Motorhead that echoed out of
their attic sitting room, at a volume that had led to more than one complaint.
Everything seemed to be normal. But Kate could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.
A dark shape, far too large to be a bird or a bat, swooped past her bedroom window, close enough to brush the blonde hair that fell untidily across her forehead, and this time she did scream, long and loud.
Kate staggered back from the window. In the bedroom across the hall, she heard her father swear, and then the thump of his feet on the wooden floorboards. She was so relieved to hear the movement in his room that she didn’t even worry that she had woken him.
Half asleep, Pete Randall pulled a T-shirt over his head and staggered to the wooden door of his bedroom.
Damn girl, he thought. If there’s a spider in there, I’m not going to be happy.
He had no idea that his teenage daughter had just saved his life. Or that he would never get a chance to thank her.
Pete crossed the small landing, his bare feet thudding on the uneven wooden floorboards of the old house, and pushed open the door to his daughter’s room. He did not even have time to close it behind him before she flew into his arms, burying her head in his chest. She wasn’t crying, but she had her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Christ, she’s shaking like a leaf, he thought. What’s going on in here?
“There, there,” he said softly. “You’re safe. Tell me what happened.”
Kate felt her father’s strong arms around her shoulders and immediately started to feel stupid for having woken him.
It was just a bird, she told herself. One of the big gulls. Stupid girl, scared of a bird when you live on an island. Now you’ve woken him up, and you know how hard he works, how difficult it’s been for him since-