Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  A moment's shame filled him. Was he just jealous?

  No. Drago was... evil.

  No matter what, that word returned to haunt him.

  Tim, Jeannie, and David Drago were back in the living room. Even Jeannie was accepting a whiskey, suggesting that Anne join her. Anne wasn't fond of whiskey, but she cared deeply about Jeannie, just as she cared about Cissy, and the woman seemed to need the drink, so Anne joined her.

  Michael noticed that Drago only pretended to sip his own whiskey.

  He didn't drink it.

  Jeannie politely asked Drago about the progress on his house.

  "Oh, it's coming along very well," he said.

  "You must be quite busy," Jeannie said. "We never see you during the day."

  "Ah, yes, well, I am busy."

  "And a man all alone! You'll have to come for dinner," Jeannie chided him.

  Drago bowed. "A pleasure."

  Besides the fact that the man wasn't drinking his whiskey, Michael noticed that he was watching Anne—like a spider about to pounce.

  He disliked the fellow more and more.

  And Anne! Anne, damn her! She was smiling just as sweetly as could be. "I guess we should all help in that area," she murmured politely. "You'll have to come to dinner at my place too—" she began.

  Something in Drago changed. His eyes glittered like gems. He seemed about to burst with pleasure. With... triumph.

  But then, Anne added, "—sometime. In the future. We'll have to set up a real invitation at a later date."

  The glitter left his eyes.

  The man was angry, furious, Michael realized.

  Drago set down his untouched drink. "Mr. and Mrs. McAllistair, thank you so much for your hospitality. Anne, Colonel Johnston, good night." He bowed deeply, and started to leave.

  To his own amazement, Michael suddenly excused himself. Anne stared at him reproachfully. He ignored her, and chased after Drago.

  He was down the front porch steps when Michael closed the door behind him. "Drago!" he called.

  Drago turned.

  In the light of the risen moon, his skin seemed to carry a true tint of blue. And his eyes were surrounded by that other color. He looked as angry as a starved lion.

  "Yes, Colonel Johnston. What is it?"

  Michael figured he might as well be blunt. He didn't like Drago. Didn't trust him. And he never would.

  "You're showing an interest in Mrs. Anne Pemberton. I just wanted to let you know that it's a mistake. She's going to marry me."

  Drago was smiling again. He took a step toward Michael.

  "Oh, no, little man!" Drago whispered huskily. "I don't think so." Then he went on to amaze Michael with bluntness of his own. "Anne Pemberton is mine!"

  Michael curled his fingers around the porch railing, fighting to control his anger. He reminded himself that he slept with Anne, that he loved her. That she loved him.

  "Drago, you're mistaken."

  Drago shook his head. "No, I'm not. You see, Colonel, I'll best you. Come what may, I will best you, sir. I have the power. It will happen."

  A dizziness swept over Michael. Jesu! That was what Dancing Woman had said, that the evil would be more powerful...

  His fingers bit even more tightly around the rail. What the hell was the matter with him? He was staring at a stranger and believing in his threats!

  He needed faith. That's what Dancing Woman had told him.

  "No," Michael said firmly. "I will not let you best me."

  Drago started to laugh. "I will best you! But I will enjoy the fight, I assure you! You have afforded me tremendous entertainment already, Colonel! I bid you good night."

  He started away again, into the dark street. Michael ran after him, suddenly determined to have it out then and there.

  But it wasn't to be. Suddenly he couldn't see Drago. There was nothing but a dark shadow in the street.

  And the shadow seemed to fly. To touch the moon.

  Swearing softly, Michael walked back into the McAllistair house. He and Anne stayed a little while longer, then they walked back to her house.

  He was silent, and she took his hand. He glanced her way to find her smiling at him. "I'm sorry, Michael, I really am. It's just that sometimes you seem so sure of yourself with me. I couldn't help teasing you, just a little. Please don't be angry."

  He shook his head, looking at her, marveling at how much he loved her. She was beautiful to look at, but beyond that, there was something even more beautiful in the warmth of her smile. Anne cared for everyone. She even understood when he tried to explain how they had to find peace with the Indians. He had seen her hold and cradle little Apache babes and never once condemn them for their race.

  She was his life. She was everything good in it. And at that moment he realized just how deeply Anne was endangered.

  "Anne," he said hastily, "I'm not angry. But I don't know how to make you believe me! I don't like Drago. I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid of what he might do to you."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "Michael! You're not afraid of anything."

  "I'm afraid of Drago."

  "The man is just different, Michael. He's a newcomer. You're not being fair, and it isn't like you!"

  He paused suddenly, chilled. Then he took her arm, hurrying her along. "Let's get inside before we talk more, all right?"

  She sighed with exaggerated patience. "All right, Michael, but—"

  She never finished. Michael was pulling her along until she had to run to keep up. There was a shadow behind them, he was certain of it. A shadow that was following them, ready to swoop down upon them. It was coming closer and closer...

  "Michael!" Anne cried out.

  He ignored her. They were almost at the house. All that they had to do was reach the porch and get through the door.

  The darkness! He could feel it descending...

  The door to Anne's house suddenly opened. Jem was standing there, beckoning to them urgently. "Come on, come on!"

  Michael jerked Anne up the stairs and into the house. He slammed the door behind him.

  The shadow, he was certain, lifted.

  "What in the hell is the matter with the two of you?" Anne exclaimed furiously.

  "Bats!" Jem said.

  "What?" Anne demanded incredulously.

  "Oh, yes!" Jem said. "I thought I saw some giant fruit bats, hovering right over you."

  Anne turned to stare at Michael. "Bats?"

  He nodded. "Well, there was something out there."

  She leveled a finger at them. "You have both lost your minds!"

  Jem shrugged. Anne shook her head. "Listen, you two, you just go on ahead and discuss your bats. I'm going to bed."

  That was it. Nothing more. She turned and headed for her room.

  Michael had a feeling it meant that he wasn't invited. Not tonight.

  He didn't give a damn. He'd stay anyway.

  Jem was looking at him. "Michael, I've got to talk to you."

  He nodded. Jem seemed to... to know something. After all, he'd been at the door waiting for them as if he'd known there would be... a shadow after them.

  He was losing his mind, Michael decided.

  "Sure," he told Jem.

  Jem walked him back to his own room at the far end of the hallway. He gestured for Michael to sit at the foot of the bed, then dug in one of his desk drawers for an album. There were tintypes and photographs and drawings in it. And letters.

  He sat beside Michael, flipping pages. He picked out a letter and handed it to Michael.

  "What—" Michael began, staring blankly at the page. It had been written in a foreign language.

  "Over, over! It was translated by my English I-don't-know-how-many-greats-grandmother."

  Michael flipped the letter over. The words were in English.

  "Read," Jem said.

  It was an interesting letter, tearstained and very old. It had originally been written in the late sixteen- hundreds, he realized. Someone had written about a
young girl named Helga. She had been beautiful, sweet, innocent. She had died, Michael realized quickly. By her own hand. She had jumped from a castle tower.

  Although tears blurred some of the fine print, he was able to read it.

  He says that he will not give up, that he will search for all eternity, that he will find her again. Oh, how do I explain to the others how strong she was? They refuse her a hallowed grave, for she was a suicide. They do not know her strength in fighting eternal damnation. And now, though my precious daughter is at rest, I am afraid, for he has the power to fight time. Perhaps he can even fight death.

  Michael looked at Jem. "I don't understand."

  "You don't want to understand."

  "Dammit, I do!" Michael exclaimed. He stood, then began pacing the room. "Jesu, Jem, you weren't there when they found the Indians. You didn't see old Smokey's body. You—"

  "You know that there is a connection with Anne, don't you?" Jem demanded.

  Michael sighed in exasperation. He didn't know anything except that he'd been plagued with the strangest damned feelings!

  "Jem, what the hell are you talking about?"

  "Drago is a vampire," Jem said with certainty.

  "A what?" Michael almost shouted.

  "Shush, shush!" Jem said. He rose and closed the door to his room. "Listen to me, Michael Johnston. If you love my niece, listen to me! These;... are family papers. I've carried them with me for most of my life. I spent years thinking that it was just a legend, that the letters didn't mean anything. Then the other night, right out of the blue, I felt that breeze, that strange breeze, and I knew. I knew that there really is some kind of strange evil in the world. I knew that Drago is a vampire."

  "A vampire," Michael said blankly.

  Old Jem shook his head. "I guess you don't know anything about the creatures out here. But they know them real well in the old country of eastern Europe. Some say that the first nosferatu, or vampire, was an evil prince named Vlad Dracul, or Vlad the Impaler. He lived years and years ago and—"

  "Jem, you're making no damned sense!" Michael cried.

  Jem shook his head vehemently. "Michael, you've got to listen to me, you've got to understand. This is the New World, the Wild West. No one else is going to help or understand us, or even believe us! Hell, the damned Indians seem to be the only ones with any sense."

  "Jem—"

  "I'm getting to it, I'm getting to it. First, let me explain the creature. Vampire. Undead."

  "Undead!"

  "Listen, Michael—undead, evil spirit, what difference does it make? No one really knows when the first one existed, but a vampire is a creature of evil, of hell, of the night. He must rest by day because sunlight can send him to hell for eternity. He must drink blood to survive. He finds the blood of the young and the innocent the sweetest, but any blood will do for a good meal. This creature had a banquet with the Indians. Then Smokey. Then—"

  "My God, my God!" Michael breathed, slumping down, running his fingers through his hair. "I've felt like a lunatic, Jem! But you sound like you want to turn me into a madman!"

  "Well, I don't—and you've got to listen and use your senses instead of your mind!" Jem warned him, speaking quickly. "I'll try real hard to make it all clear. My father was Irish, but my mother and her family came from a small place in Romania. Near Transylvania. Right from the area where this Vlad Dracul lived, where he impaled his enemies, where the original legends were all born."

  Michael shook his head. "Jem—"

  "All right, so you don't understand. You didn't grow up with the legends. But the Transylvanian people knew—"

  Michael sank down to the foot of Jem's bed, a headache pounding in his skull. "You're trying to tell me that David Drago is—a vampire?"

  "The Indians were decapitated, right?" Jem said.

  Michael paused. "Yes."

  "That keeps them from joining the;... ranks of the undead. He wanted to feast, not to create other vampires. The same with Smokey. I'm willing to bet he was headless."

  Michael threw up his arms. He couldn't tell Jem that he'd been so damned scared himself. Couldn't tell him that all he'd been able to think when he was anywhere near the man was... evil.

  "I can help you, Michael. Just listen to me. You're not going to believe me, but listen to me. He's come for Anne. I think he started on Cissy because Anne is still strong. Dammit, don't you see, boy? Anne is Helga reborn! Maybe God is giving her a second chance for her faith, for seeking death rather than damnation! But Drago wants her now just as he did then."

  "Jem, this is madness! Why would this fellow have come for Anne? You have to be crazy!" Michael insisted.

  Jem solemnly shook his head. He reached into his bedside drawer again and produced a locket. Like the letter, it was very old. It was beautiful, crafted in very fine gold.

  Jem tripped the lock to let it open, There was a picture inside. A tiny, tiny oil painting of a woman.

  It could have been Anne. Anne in the full, stylish clothing worn by the wealthier classes of the sixteen- hundreds.

  "I don't believe this!" Michael whispered.

  "Fine. I'm mad as a hatter. Don't believe it. But don't leave her at night, Michael. And don't let her invite him in. Ever. He hasn't been able to touch her yet only because she hasn't invited him in."

  Damn, he felt so uneasy! He'd known this morning when he had left her—some instinct had warned him—that she shouldn't let anyone in.

  Were they all losing their minds?

  Or did old Jem really know the truth, as impossible as it seemed?

  There was no mistake, no doubt about it. The portrait in the locket was an exact replica of Anne. His Anne.

  "Helga?" he whispered.

  Jem nodded.

  "Vampire," Michael said, repeating the strange word.

  "I know you think I'm crazy. Hell, you must think you're crazy! But you've got to think with your heart and your senses now, boy, not with your mind and logic. And most important, you've got to know that he's strong. Very strong. Very powerful. But he can be killed. As strong as he is, he can be killed. Not with bullets, not with a sword. With a stake."

  "A stake?"

  "A wooden stake. Right through his black heart. Or with sunlight. And, most importantly, with faith."

  Dammit! Dammit! That's just what the Indians had said!

  Evil spirit...

  Vampire.

  He couldn't believe it.

  But how the hell could he deny it?

  He rose on shaky feet. "I'm going—"

  "Don't leave. Promise me you won't leave."

  Michael smiled. "I'm going to be with Anne," he said softly. "I won't leave her." Then he hesitated. "Jem, doesn't Anne know anything about this family legend?"

  Jem sighed deeply. "Stories, yes, she's heard the stories. But none of us ever paid them much mind. Sure, Anne knows that she looks like Helga. She thinks it's an amusing family resemblance. She thinks vampires are really just very seductive men whom innocents fall for a bit too easily. That's the stuff of legend to Anne." He shook his head. "That's why we almost argued this morning. She thinks we're cruel and snobbish, that we're assuming that because he's a foreigner he might be evil."

  Jem had a point there. Anne always stood up for the underdog. If she thought that they were being unfair to poor foreign Drago in any way, she'd defend him all the more.

  Jem said, "My sister, Anne's mother, never believed in the legend. Neither did Anne's father. Of course, they both died right before the war, so all that's left of the family, that I know of anyway, is me and Anne. She's all I've got, Michael. And as crazy as I've always thought all of this to be, I'm the keeper of the truth at the moment. You've got to help me. Don't leave her. And believe me. I think I know enough to help you beat Drago, but I can't take him on alone."

  "I won't leave Anne," Michael assured him. He nodded stiffly and he walked down the; hall to Anne's room. He paused, then quietly twisted the knob and entered.

  He half-expe
cted to feel a terrible chill in the room, to discover that evil had already entered.

  But the window was closed. The room was in darkness.

  "Michael!" Anne whispered.

  He strode across the room to her. She was lying on her bed, clad in white, her raven hair streaming all around her. Her beautiful, warm smile beckoned him. "I love you!" she said.

  He took her into his arms. Passionately, tenderly, he made love to her.

  No shadows touched them that night. He woke feeling as if the sunlight would allow him to get a grip on the world again.

  But he had barely taken his first sip of coffee when word came to him with a message that plunged his heart and soul back into terror.

  That morning Billy knocked at Anne's door once more.

  Cissy McAllistair had died during the night. Would they both please come?

  Chapter 5

  It was incredibly painful to see Cissy in her coffin, Anne thought. The young were not supposed to perish, and certainly not someone as young and vivacious as Cissy.

  She looked beautiful. Perhaps that added to the sadness. She looked as if she was sleeping, as if she might take a breath at any second. As if her beautiful, blue eyes would fly open, and her lips would curl into a smile.

  Michael stood beside Anne in the McAllistair house. Instinctively, she groped for his hand. She looked to the window, blinking. Just last night, Cissy had opened her eyes, she had smiled, she had laughed. But this morning...

  Anne was startled when Michael leaned past her, smoothing back Cissy's long blonde hair. He was looking for something in particular, she realized.

  Nervously, she glanced around them. The McAllistairs weren't in the room at the moment. Doc Phelan had sedated Jeannie, who was lying down. Her husband and her sons were with her.

  But they weren't alone in the room. Doc Phelan, gray and grizzled, a veteran of the war like so many of the men, was watching Michael with sharp eyes. Billy was there, too, staring at every move Michael made. Even Mort was there.

  Then Anne saw what Michael had been looking for. There were little marks on Cissy's neck. Several of them. Mort had covered them with powder, but they were still visible.

  Anne closed her eyes. Dear ClodGod, no. They were all going to start believing in the impossible. She'd known that Jem had cornered Michael last night and tried to tell him about the family legends. Now Michael was going to be convinced that there was a vampire in town and that Drago was it. If they weren't careful, they'd cause an awful panic. It might lead to a lynch mob—just because Drago was a foreigner.