Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  I spread my hands. "I suppose it was too unbelievable. If he'd started telling you this when it was happening you'd have bundled him off to Jack Seward's asylum in a strait-waistcoat."

  She bristled. "I would not. I'd have asked for proof and seeing poor Lucy would have been proof enough. He should have said something to me!"

  "But at the time your dear father was ill as well. I'm thinking Art would have held back because of that, too. You were all going through a terrible time. You didn't need any more grief laid on top."

  Again, she nodded. "Yes, that must have been it, but for him to carry such a dreadful weight alone . . . and it is because of what this professor told you about vampires that you felt so badly about becoming one yourself?"

  "At the time what he said made a lot of sense. I believed Van Helsing with my whole heart, for there was no doubt that Dracula was evil. We were on a holy crusade to destroy him."

  "For killing Lucy, yes, of course, the same as one would hunt down any murderer."

  My voice dropped. "Bertrice, there's more. It's pretty bad."

  "How bad?"

  "It's to do with what happened to Lucy after she died."

  "Dear God, you mean she . . . came back?" The color left Bertrice's face. She uncoiled from her chair to put her feet on the floor, looking suddenly fragile.

  When I got through that part of the story, about what we found in the Westenra vault and what we had to do about it, Bertrice was pale enough to faint, but fought it. I found her drinks cabinet and poured her a brandy. She could manage only a sip, then hiccuped into a near sob. I gave her my handkerchief and felt almighty helpless.

  "Damn, I hate when I get like this," she said. "Give me a moment. That is the m-most appalling thing I've ever heard."

  I gave her a moment and more, my respect for her growing even greater as she fought to overcome her shock. She erupted from her seat and paced around, eventually excusing herself to go through to the outer room for awhile. The cold air would help her, that, and looking at the familiar sight of her paintings. I'd opened a door to a dark and wholly frightful world; she needed to get her bearings before I could say more of it.

  But her response when she came back surprised me. Her eyes were positively blazing.

  "That bastard! That consciousless, cowardly bastard!"

  Her anger was like a physical thing. I'd not felt its like since facing down Dracula. "He's gone, now. We—"

  "He is? I thought he was at Purfleet."

  "Who? Dracula?"

  "No! That craven, cruel, bloody bastard of a professor!"

  "Van Helsing?"

  "Yes! How dare he put my brother through such a nightmare? To force him to kill his own fiancée? It's obscene! My God, poor Arthur!"

  She wasn't too coherent, stalking around the room and using language that would shame a sailor. I was very shocked by it, then flooded with shame of a different kind. Shame for my part in the . . . execution. I abruptly saw things from her view of them and went cold inside.

  "How dare he!" she raged.

  During these last months I'd always made myself push the dreadful image of Lucy's second death from my mind's eye. Each time it appeared, I'd dodge away and distract myself. Even in the cold fastness of that tower in Dracula's castle, while I debated on whether to kill him or not, I had avoided thinking about what we'd done to Lucy. At the time, Van Helsing had us convinced we'd freed her soul to go to God. At the time, we'd had no doubts. I still had no doubt of it, for she'd truly become a monster, preying on helpless children. She had to be stopped. There was no other way around it, which was cold comfort at best.

  But for Art to be the one to do the deed . . . and that had been the professor's idea. He'd made it seem like an honor, a holy duty. How Art had steeled himself, responding as he was expected to, assuming so heavy a millstone and later kissing Van Helsing's hand in gratitude, blessing him for the privilege.

  I felt sick.

  Staring at the floor, not seeing it, I sensed something above. Bertrice stood over me, high color in her face now from her anger, but she'd gone quite still.

  "Oh, Quincey, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. How wretched it must have been for you, too."

  "For us all," I murmured.

  She put her hand on my shoulder, then was sitting next to me, arms around me. It happened all of a sudden, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to catch her up and pull her in close and hard. There we stayed for a long while just fiercely clinging to each other. I felt safe yet recklessly protective all at once, as though all the problems of the world could be solved just by holding her.

  Then we were kissing. I wasn't sure who started it. It just happened and swept us along, two entwined leaves spinning on a fast tide.

  Too fast. My corner teeth were out. And I wanted her.

  Still kissing me, she began to undo the buttons of my coat, slipping her hand inside to attack those of my shirt.

  Wrenching as it was, I gently pulled away, hating the action.

  She was startled a moment, then gathered herself, trying to calm her breathing. There was a lovely flush on her cheek, but if things continued, I'd drain that rosiness from her quick enough.

  "Don't you want to?" she asked.

  "Too much."

  "And perhaps this is the wrong time."

  "We can't. Ever."

  "Why not?"

  I shook my head and went to stand by the mantel. More than just the glow from the fire heated me. "We just can't."

  "I've been given to understand that such congress can be most . . . stimulating, You find me attractive, do you not?"

  I'd heard that question before on the lips of many women, and woe to me if I ever answered it wrong. Sometimes I've had to lie, but this was not one of them. "I do indeed. In a respectful way."

  She quirked her mouth. "Just what does that mean?"

  "I admire you very much."

  "Admiration and attraction need not be mutually exclusive—and I see that I've made you uncomfortable again. I'm a direct woman, Quincey; respect that I would like an honest and direct reply. Are you attracted to me?"

  "Yes, I am, but—"

  She held her hand up. "Let's stop here. I know that `but' means you're trying to be a gentleman."

  "Uh . . ."

  "Because you consider me to be a lady."

  "Yes, miss. Bertrice."

  "Then I will make a suggestion: let us eschew `gentleman and lady,' in favor of `man and woman.' Would that not be more agreeable?"

  "To what end?"

  "A physical union," she stated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "What? Is there anything wrong with two healthy adults consenting to enjoy one another?"

  "But . . . we're . . ."

  "Not married? Not engaged?"

  I nodded.

  She waved her hand. "I no longer believe in marriage so you may omit that objection."

  "But you . . . you're . . ."

  "What? Not a woman of easy repute?"

  "No! You're my best friend's sister!"

  That took her aback. "What on earth has Arthur to do with us?"

  "How could I look him in the eye, if I—if we—"

  "Quincey, anything that I choose to do in my private life is none of Arthur's business. Were I not related to him, what might your reaction then be to my suggestion of an intimacy between us?"

  Well, that put a new face on things, but still . . . "You don't know what it's like with me. I—I go about things differently than I did before."

  "Because of your change?"

  "Yes. I am well able to . . . but I'm . . . that is, I'm not . . . fertile in the usual sense." Though everything worked nearly the same, I did not throw off seed during my crisis. The strangeness lay in the fact I did not miss it, for I was more than amply compensated elsewhere.

  She shrugged. "I've no complaint against that. On the contrary, I find it a relief not to have to worry about conceiving."

  Such brutally honest speech on such
a subject should have shocked me, but I think I was getting used to her way of speaking her mind. Very well, honesty she would get in return. "My achievement of pleasure requires that I drink your blood."

  "Obviously you had no objection when Miss Jones did this to you. Apparently you found her way to be . . . satisfying?"

  I felt myself going red to my roots. Then I was suddenly smiling. Couldn't help it. "Yes. It was. Very."

  Bertrice smiled back. "I'm only asking if you would like to share that experience with me."

  "I don't know." God knows I wanted to, but Art would not be pleased. You don't take advantage of a man's sister. It just wasn't done. But what to do when the sister is trying to seduce you?

  She continued. "If you were unchanged, would you accept my invitation?"

  "If I were unchanged, would you invite me?"

  Her eyes sparked. "Oh, yes. Absolutely. I found you to be a most singularly attractive man from the moment I met you."

  My turn to be taken aback. "Really?"

  "Of course, I could say nothing at the time. It would not have been right. The funeral, you know. I'd rather hoped to meet you again later, but it never worked out. And then to hear you'd died . . . I did cry for you, you know."

  "You did?"

  "It was a shock, after all. But had you returned, none the different from your journey, I think we would have had this conversation regardless." She came to me, standing close. She turned her head just a little, lifting to me.

  What a lot of words are in a single kiss. She gave me a week's worth of talk in that brief touching.

  * * *

  How incredibly good it was to be with a woman eager for me, but how much better that the woman was Bertrice. I felt myself the luckiest man in the wide world to know the taste of her mouth, to know the heat of her flesh under my hands. We took our time, getting acquainted with each other's wants, which happily were in accord. She wasn't shy about telling me what she liked, which sharply reminded me of Nora. I told her my likes in turn, murmuring in the darkness.

  She was different from any woman I'd been with since my change. I thought it would ever be my lot to pay for my pleasure and then influence the girl into forgetting what I'd done to her to achieve it. No such necessity here with Bertrice. She understood what was coming and teased me into it, drawing my head low to kiss her throat, pressing my lips against the pulse point there, moaning when I teased her to greater excitement by only nipping lightly, or lapping her smooth flesh with my tongue.

  It's always better to wait, I'd found. She grew feverish from it, from the anticipation, urging me on, but I delayed things until her heart pounded fit to burst. By then I was inside her, pressing things in that manner until she could no longer hold herself off. She clawed at my back, pulling me close and hard. Her strong body arched in one vast spasm, her cries echoed off the walls in time to my thrusts. I reveled in her reaction, in a strange manner caught up in its rapture as well. Gradually she subsided, until she lay relaxed, breathless, and exhausted, hardly able to move.

  I breathed myself, to embrace her many scents, that rare spice of her perfume, the deeper musk of her womanhood, the sweat drying on her. I was still enfevered, having delayed my sating. But it hovered close, very close.

  "Why didn't you . . . take from me?" she asked. "Why? I thought . . ."

  I lightly touched my fingers to her lips, hushing her. "Because I wanted you to know what I've always done to please a lady. May I inquire if you're satisfied?"

  "God, yes. But—"

  "Now you just hold onto that feeling. There's more to come."

  "How? I mean—that is . . . you . . ."

  "Just proving to you I'm yet a man in the traditional sense. But now . . ." I kissed her long and sweet, then went lower, nuzzling her dear flesh. Her heartbeat pounded heavy in my ears, quickening at this delicate touch. We were yet joined together, and I felt her reaction down there as well.

  "Now?" she asked, wonderingly. "Will you now?"

  "Yes . . . just be very still."

  I lingered long over her pulse point. Savoring. Holding the moment. She was so precious.

  "Please, Quincey."

  "Yes . . ."

  I bit into her throat. Cleanly. Hard. My corner teeth cutting painlessly.

  Her cry was faint, hardly more than a long sigh, then it became a short, sharp gasp. She spasmed under me all over again as it seized her, seized us both. She shuddered the length of her body, as did I at this taste of her blood. After that first glorious swell of outpour I sipped slow, pulling away to kiss her soft mouth, then returning to those small, flowing wounds again and again. Her life was hot and vital, filling me to the brim with her unique fire.

  "How much . . . more?" she whispered. "I-I'm still . . . it's still . . ."

  "For as long as you wish it to last," I whispered back, then wholly buried myself in her essence.

  "Oh, God . . . !"

  And then she was beyond speech.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I returned to my hotel a scant quarter hour before dawn a telegram from Art Holmwood awaited me, almost as though he'd found out what had occurred between Bertrice and myself.

  I experienced a very strong twinge, if not of guilt, then of high discomfort. Of course, it was impossible he should know, but the foolish notion galled until I opened and read his message.

  "Professor and Jack visit tomorrow to stay overnight. Excellent time for your talk. Please advise if you're free. Holmwood."

  This was damned annoying.

  I scribbled a reply, cursing mildly.

  "Expect me in study after dinner. Q."

  The world and its mundane concerns still existed. For a time I'd quite happily forgotten such dreary worries as I lay next to Bertrice, watching her sleep. She'd roused a little as the approach of sunrise forced me from her side to dress. She watched, her eyes heavy with drowse, a smile on her lips. We shared a loving farewell kiss, then she slipped back into deep slumber. I wanted to ask her to marry me right then and there, but it would have to wait. She'd want to be full awake when I proposed.

  Yes—she had stated that she never wanted to marry, didn't even believe in marriage, but women can change their minds easy enough. I was wildly in love with her, and that fact must and would count for much.

  Tomorrow night I had hoped to find a late-closing jewelers where I could order a suitable engagement ring. I'd already composed in my head a telegram to Art to excuse a delay for my second visit. Instead, I had to write to Bertrice care of the music hall—as I'd foolishly taken no note of her street address—and hoped she would receive it and understand.

  "Very much regret that wretched duty calls me away to Ring. May we please meet the following evening? Your true and devoted friend, Quincey."

  I also wrote instructions for a bouquet of roses to be delivered along with the telegram and paid over a suitable amount of cash. The night clerk who would see to the task seemed less than enthused, giving me to doubt he was up to the job. I forced my influence upon him to make sure he would remember and carry things out to the letter even if he had to take the telegram and flowers to the theater himself. Then I had to dash upstairs, racing against the sun, but confident of winning. So enthralled was I in good feeling that I forgot my dislike for absolute darkness when materializing inside my box. A pleasant hum had manifested itself between my ears. It meant I was in love, and that nothing else really mattered. I could deal with all obstacles. Easily.

  The hum was yet there when I awoke and slipped out again. I gave in to a hedonistic stretch, resisting the urge to run up the walls and do handsprings on the ceiling. How alive I felt, far more so than when I walked in the sun. All was right with the universe or would be after I'd spared a few light moments to deal with it. Once finished with my meeting at Ring I could turn my entire focus upon Bertrice—happy prospect.

  I readied myself for the train ride, again donning the fore-and-aft traveling cap and Inverness, the half-mask in my valise of earth along wit
h the wool scarf. While I did not think such a disguise would be necessary this time, it seemed wise to be prepared.

  Thoughts of Bertrice filled my mind and heart during the trip, seeming to shorten the time. It's amazing how love can make a clock's hour hand spin fast as a top or slow the minute hand to a complete halt. I would have much preferred to be waiting by the stage door for her, but could not shirk my friendship and obligation to Art. He'd obviously gone to some effort to bring Jack and Van Helsing to Ring, the least I could do was turn up and provide a bit of post-prandial entertainment.

  My humor darkened, though, the closer I got to my goal. By the time I'd left the local station and walked through the gates of Ring, my mood was quite sober regarding what was to come. The professor would be a tough nut to crack. He was utterly set in his ideas about vampires, and those had been right—insofar as our pursuit of Dracula had been concerned. Where I stood in his view of things promised to be on most shaky ground. He had years of learning and research on his side, I had only myself and who I was, and somehow that would have to be enough to convince him that not all vampires were evil incarnate.

  Also sharp in my mind was Bertrice's reaction to what I'd told her of the professor. His work that terrible night in the Westenra crypt now seemed to be subtle and ugly manipulation. I'd been right there, and part of me knew that he had acted in good faith, but another part was horrified at what he'd put Art through. There was no taking it back, nor was there anything I could do about it since all was past and over.

  Bertrice might give the professor a piece of her mind, about it though, should she ever meet him. After the way she flew off the handle last night I wouldn't put it past her to do more than that. She possessed a powerful temper and an acid tongue when it came to the righteous defense of her brother. Woe to anyone who crossed her concerning him.

  The lamps in Art's study were on, the curtains open. I took that as an invitation and, leaving the valise hidden in the fir stand, covered the open ground to the window. In less than a quarter minute I'd gone up the stone flanks of the great old house and made my entry through the tiny cracks in the framing around the glass.

  I floated for a moment, listening as best I could with my muffled hearing for signs of occupancy, finally determining the room was safely empty. Going solid again, I found the place generally unchanged from my last visit. Brandy, whiskey, and sherry bottles awaited on the table, along with the gasogene and several glasses. A carved humidor Art brought from India was also there, a souvenir of our tiger hunt with the reckless Colonel Sebastian Moran. What a time that had been. While everyone else sensibly stayed atop their elephants, Moran had descended to the ground to track his quarry, which is the most dangerous way of going after tiger.