The next night I blinked fully alert, though I had to put a hand to my face to be certain about the blinking. The smothering inkiness was absolute, and too much like my first waking wrapped head to toe in that blanket. I sat bolt upright to reassure myself I could still move about.
Such forced blindness didn't suit one bit and I quickly lighted a candle. As before, the little flame was too much of a comfort. I was a grown man of nine and twenty, and lying in the dark should not have disturbed me so. I'd either have to get used to it or find a way to have a light burning each evening when I woke. Perhaps a candle large enough to last through the whole of a day would do. Amid all this stonework there was little need to worry about a fire getting out of hand.
I stood and stretched, more out of habit than need. The instant I succumbed to the day-sleep I moved not a single muscle for the whole time, yet felt no crimp or cramp. It wasn't natural, but then I'd have to give up that kind of thinking.
Nothing much about me was a close cousin to natural, now.
I'd learned the truth of it well enough the night before with my first real taste of blood, and indeed it was my first. I could not count that which Nora had shared with me all those years past. Then I'd had only human-normal senses with which to appreciate the pleasure, but those limits were shattered forever. Part of me was delighted, part was dust-spitting angry for having had no choice in the matter, and a very great part was still afraid.
Just how afraid I didn't know until the moment when Dracula bared his arm and pierced it. The sight, the very smell of that blood had near-maddened me. Though I wore a human-appearing body, the changes within had enhanced everything. It was as though when I'd cast off that shroud of a blanket I'd shed a thick, unsuspected skin as well. All my senses were vibrantly aware, alive, and demanding stimulation. The absolute need to drink had near-overpowered me. The one thing to hold me back was knowing I'd be drinking from him, taking his blood into me. That, for reasons I dared not to think about, would have been unbearable, but still I nearly lost control and seized what was offered anyway. Only at the last second did I find the strength to turn away and run.
We all fear loss of control. Sometimes it's a rare, fine kind of fear you willingly challenge, like climbing onto a mustang that's never known a saddle. You either break him or he does his damnedest to break you with a wild bone-jarring ride as you settle up your differences. Falling off or not isn't as important as the fact that something else is in charge of things for a few moments.
But other times it's a sick-making kind of fear when disaster bushwhacks you, and no matter how hard you try you can't work things in your favor. That's what nearly happened last night. I'd gotten too close to the edge of giving in to mindless need.
And that just had to do with my hunger. What other ugly surprises awaited? I feared for myself and for others. Should I not master this change before leaving here, what harm might I bring to some innocent in my path?
The whole of the world was new again with fresh, cruel rules to learn. Whenever I ran up against a contrast between the old and the new it gave me something like an electrical jolt. I'd have to get past feeling so surprised and grim all the time or I'd not be able to do anything for myself.
The best way to stop being such a tenderfoot was to ply Dracula with as many questions as possible and absorb whatever advice he might care to hand me. Thinking over that which he'd already given, it made a load of sense, but I needed more from him. I was all too aware of my own desperate lack of knowledge.
One could adjust to anything, with enough time. Certainly Miss Nora Jones had done well for herself. Along with many other engaging attributes, she'd struck me as being a confident woman full of high spirits and happiness. There was nothing of the grave clinging to her that I could recall. If she could do it, then so could I, but I wondered how long it would take.
And . . . would I always be afraid of the dark?
Though the chill winter days sped swiftly by unmarked and unnoticed by me during my rests in the tower sanctuary, the nights were long and fully occupied as I set about learning how to be a vampire.
First and foremost I took special care never to let myself get hungry again. I could see now what a foolish risk I'd taken, so to avoid all possibility of losing control I kept myself well-stocked and full to the brim. As it turned out I didn't need all that much blood to be feeling my best. So far as I could judge, my first feeding had been the heaviest. A trip down to the stables every third evening seemed to suit my needs. The fine taste of horse blood was more than enough compensation for any lingering aversion I had about biting into the flesh of a living animal. For variation and to increase my skill I also fed from the Szgany's cattle. I thought I might sample one of the chickens, but decided against it. I could soothe and quiet the other animals, but none of the fowls. Besides, they really didn't look big enough to provide me a decent meal and still survive the experience.
That necessity seen to, I applied my energies toward getting used to other important particulars about my condition. I could move astonishingly quick when I wanted, but often with misjudgment, which made me clumsy. It was like being a boy again and going through a growing spurt. At about twelve I shot up a whole foot in height in one year and ate like any three field hands, and for all that time I seemed to be nothing but elbows, knees, and two left feet, forever bumping into things and knocking them over. Ma told me to be careful so often that I kept outside as much as possible for fear of breaking anything in the house.
I sought the same solution now, spending a good portion of the night exploring beyond the castle walls. There could I find the room to indulge my need for physical drill by clambering about the rugged country, testing my strength against the land. Running, climbing trees, scaling impossible cliffs, pushing myself beyond that which I'd known before helped me to reclaim command over my own body. It took a deal of concentration at first, same as when I'd grown out of my youthful awkwardness by learning to ride, rope, and shoot. There were moments back then when I thought I'd never get the art of it, but the hard realities of ranch life made such expertise needful for survival. To give up was not in the cards, so I'd kept at it until I forgot what it was like not to know how, until I was the best hand on the whole blessed range. So did I work myself once more.
Another, far less ordinary skill also required my most careful attention: learning to vanish—and, while bodiless, to move about in that state.
It took some powerful getting used to, I'll say that for the experience. Not that it was so difficult to disappear; the trick of it had to do with believing I was indeed capable of doing it. Dracula was of great assistance there, guiding me—in his own unique manner and method—through my first intentional attempt.
The lesson began in his library. One evening he traded all that writing for reading, giving me to understand he'd lost interest in it for the time being. When I once chanced to inquire about the nature of his labors, he simply replied he was making a memoir for himself about his life. The task had been somewhat inspired by the exhaustive diaries kept by my friends. He was more than willing to share additional details, for he quite enjoyed talking about the wartime exploits of his ancestors—or rather one-time contemporaries—and bent my ear for hours on end without running down. Tonight I thought it best not to raise the subject as I had the feeling I already knew more about him than was good for me.
He was very much at his ease in an old chair, his long legs stretched out before the fire and crossed at the ankles, hands steepled over the book on his chest, his head thrown back so he could stare at the wavering shadows on the ceiling. Though his face still retained some youth, his hair was quite gray now, becoming shot through with streaks of pure white, as was his lengthening mustache. It was trimmed away from his hard mouth, and I was fairly certain he'd used a touch of wax for neatness of appearance. How he could keep himself so well groomed without the use of a mirror was beyond me; perhaps one of his Szgany was a barber. The first time I tried to shave by touch was my last. After gaining a motley collection of nicks (which healed remarkably fast) I decided to just let my beard grow.
I bade him a good evening and mentioned my interest in learning how to vanish. He reminded me in turn that I'd already accomplished the task, which would make things easier.
"One can hope so," I said. "But you'll pardon me if I have some doubts. I don't know how I did it."
"You must believe that you can. Then will you master it."
"I'll allow the truth of that. What must I do?" I half-expected him to get up and give a demonstration, but he continued to stare at the ceiling.
"You must try to recall how it was for you in the forest," he said. "What were you thinking at the time?"
"I can't say that I was thinking of anything except getting away from you."
"A very understandable reaction given the circumstances. Immerse yourself in that moment again."
I tried, conjuring up as best I could the memory of being surrounded by wolves and facing their dread master, but nothing happened. "Maybe I'm not feeling as inspired now as I was then."
"Perhaps I could call on my wolves to come and chase you about the room until inspiration strikes you once more."
That raised a smile from me, until I realized he wasn't making a joke. "No, thank you."
He straightened slightly, directing his gaze toward one of the tall windows, his forehead puckering.
"What?"
"Listen."
I did, for he seemed to be entirely distracted by whatever he was hearing. Far below I only heard the servants going about their business, the soft scratch of cellar rats, the wind sighing outside, and the creak and tick of trees bending to it. All was normal. I shook my head. "What is it?"
"The wolves."
It didn't take much to catch on. "They're quiet."
He grunted agreement. "They've not hunted in the last few days and should be hungry. The moon is high, yet their song is silent. Something must be wrong."
He left the comfort of his chair and book and swept from the room with me right behind him. I'd grown so used to the nightly singing of his children that I'd ceased to note it. Its absence might mean nothing, but was worth checking. Back home when the wild things went hush it was generally for a good reason and best to be on guard.
I followed him up the stairs that led to my tower room, but we passed its entry and continued on until the ceiling pressed close. The stairs ended at a formidable trap door in the roof; he threw the inside latch and pushed. The hand-span thick oak slab boomed back on its hinges, and we climbed through.
Icy air stung all my exposed skin as we emerged onto the roof, but was not uncomfortable. If I chose to linger without sensible coverings, then might the cold wind begin to affect me, but all was well for now.
The sky was an intense dark blue such as I'd never been capable of seeing before my change, its vast field silvered with a dense net of bright stars. In my time I'd seen many sights that could be described as breathtaking, but this was the corker. I knew in my bones that no matter how long I lived I'd never get tired of it or lose the sense of wonder it inspired. This was decidedly one of the more agreeable aspects about my change.
The tower wall was low, extending itself only a foot above the roof's snow-dusted wood beams, which looked to be fairly recent compared to the rest of the castle. I would guess by their weathering they'd been put in place only in the last hundred years or so. The time of wars in this area was long past, else any sentry placed here would be too exposed to enemy fire. On the other hand it would be take a rare shootist to accurately reach this far, though a good Sharps rifle would put things in his favor.
Dracula stood at the edge right next to the low wall, the strong wind at this height tearing at his clothes and whipping his hair flat along his skull. He faced into it, scenting the air. I did the same, breathing in and catching only the chill, clean snow, pine, wood smoke, and sometimes the earthy whiff of stale leaves that had escaped the last storm. His senses may have been sharper than mine or he knew better what to seek, for I took no clue from it. After a moment he gave up and walked slowly all around the limits of the wall to view the lands far below.
His castle stood proud on a high cone of rock. One side faced a terrible drop into a black valley where the pines stood guard like raised spears, the other a steep but less alarming descent which would still have been easy to defend from attack. From this vantage we had a fine broad view of the snow fields and dense stands of trees for miles in every direction. Clearly visible to my night-accustomed eyes was a thready depression marking the road my friends and I had used in the final stage of our hunt. I hoped they had a safe journey back to Galatz, and at the same time felt a deep twinge of guilt for their sorrow at my seeming loss. First my life taken away and then my body, the former bad enough, the latter making a sad situation all the more awful. At least with a body to bury one could make a true farewell and move on.
When I did return to civilization, it would have to be done with the greatest of care and doubtless be difficult, particularly in legal matters. Art, perhaps with Harker's help, would take upon himself the dismal task of notifying what kinfolk I had and my bankers. Due to cholera, the grippe, various wars, tornadoes, blizzards, summer heat, and other like incidents that were part and parcel of living in Texas I had no real relatives left, only some very distant cousins in the east. They'd had sense enough to stay put and thrived.
Seven years ago, when Pa passed on, the whole kit came to me, a vast ranch, more cattle than I could count, and more work than any one man needed in a lifetime. On advice from my Galveston bankers I leased the running of the place to some English investors—which was how I met Arthur Holmwood. His father had sent him as his agent to Texas to have a look at things; we struck up a fast friendship, and Art planted in me the temptation to see what the rest of the world was like. I turned the daily ranch business over to some trusty foremen to look after and the money counting to those who were good at it and took off. Because of the railroads and a new meat-packing plant, the old place kept turning a tidy profit even in bad years, leaving me free to roam.
That's how it enabled Art and me to circumnavigate the globe before my twenty-fifth year, hunting big game, paying our respects at various embassy parties, raising hell where and when it was appropriate, and otherwise having a good time. Whether sweltering in the Amazon or freezing in Siberia we collected enough experience for a dozen explorers in an astonishingly short time. That our tramping about together should come to an end here in the deeps of Transylvania was unthinkable, but end it did—this part of it, anyway. Going back promised to be uncommonly complicated.
But I'd worry about that later. Dracula was looking mighty annoyed as he glared out over the forest.
"Something is indeed wrong," he said in reply to my question. "There is no sign of them I can see or feel."
"Maybe the deer hunting wasn't so good and the pack moved on," I suggested.
"Were that true I would hear complaints from the peasants about missing sheep. Nay, but there is something else afoot. I know not what it could be, but I will find out."
"Tonight?"
"Why not? Ah, your promised lesson. Very well, we will continue, but not for long. First I will—wait a moment." He paused and stared intently into the night. "That should not be there."
"What?" He was rather closer to the edge than I, as I'm not overly fond of heights and the wind was a nuisance. Still, I took a pace or two forward as he extended one hand to point.
"There? Do you not see it? A line of smoke about five or six miles distant."
I peered down the length of his arm, trying to see. Just as I was about to say no I felt something slap me smart and solid between the shoulders. The force of it launched me tumbling headfirst down the castle wall. I shrieked and clawed empty air, legs thrashing, sight blurring as the ground rushed up to smash me to pulp.
Then . . . nothing.
I still felt the sickening motion of falling, but not like before. This was strangely slow and suspended. I was lost, sightless and deaf in a void, with no sense of up or down, with no body at all.
He's killed me, I thought. This was death, true death, and this time I'd not be coming back.
Anger flooded me, or whatever wisp of consciousness remained that could be flooded. He'd gotten all that he'd wanted of me and in this way had disposed of an inconvenience. I'd never return home to carry the tale that he yet lived. The treachery of it was beyond comprehension. I wanted to scream my outrage, but had no mouth, no lungs; instead I seemed to roll in the nothingness like a stray piece of cloud at the mercy of the gales. Soon I'd be blown to shreds and drifting forever . . .
But another something blocked my way.
I was sensible of the wind buffeting me about, and now became aware of being pressed against a wide uneven surface. It was like swimming in murky water where you could only feel your way around things. Perhaps I'd found the bottom of the pond.
Only then did I dimly realize what had actually happened.
It did not mitigate my rush of anger, but I managed to push it aside for the moment, which was just as well for all concerned. The world came back to me, though it was more correct to say I came back to the world. My dulled senses reestablished themselves with such suddenness and painful clarity that it took awhile before I sorted everything.
The black bulk of the castle loomed above me, for I lay flat on my back atop a drift of snow at its stony base. How I got there without injury I now fully understood. The method Dracula used to spark the process had been—no jest intended—Draconian to say the least.
Where in hell had the bastard gone?
Peering up, I made out a flurry of motion where he'd been standing on the tower. He was no longer there, but I did spy a bizarre, sinuous patch of darkness floating against the rich blue sky. This larger than man-sized patch was by no means opaque, for the stars were visible through it.
It drifted off the rampart and came spiraling lazily down toward me. As it got closer I saw it was made up of tiny specks like dust or a thick swarm of small insects. If you didn't know where to look it was nearly invisible. Only when certain bits caught the moonlight did it become easier to see and even then one might blink and find it gone.
This extraordinary cloud came to rest a few steps from me, collected together into a rough vertical column a yard or more across, then gradually compressed until there was more solid to it than space. Eventually it turned into his face and form and held that way. Dracula looked down at me, arms behind his back like a schoolmaster, one eyebrow raised.
"I gather you found your lost inspiration, Mr. Morris?"
"How—" I croaked, so mad I had to break off to work enough spit into my mouth to talk. "How dare you?"
He gave a small shrug. "As we stood together up there I had a childhood memory of how I was first taught to swim. My loving father picked me up and threw me into the water. It was . . . effective."
"It's—" Again I broke off.
He gave me an earnest, inquiring look.
"Nothing," I snarled and got busy picking myself up, not without difficulty for I kept sinking into the snowdrift. "It worked."
"Do you think you can repeat what you just did?"
"I reckon I'd better. There's too damn many cliffs around here."
"Ha!" he said, his eyes flashing briefly with much amusement.
Cursing under my breath, I struggled free of the drift, dusting snow from my backside and sleeves. "When it happened did I look like you do? All black specks?"
He thought it over. "More like a dark gray cloud. But understand that others would not be able to see you, only those of our kind. Animals will sense you as well, so—"
"I know, be careful not to get caught."
He grunted a short affirmation. "Do you require any more instruction tonight?"
"I think I've had more than enough. I'll get the hang of the rest on my own, if you don't mind."
"Then I will bid you good evening and good practice." So saying, he made another change in himself. I recognized the roiling darkness that spun within the outline of his body, only this time it was reversed. He seemed to shrink, his upright posture swiftly wilting, the bones of his face stretching even as those of his limbs shortened. He dropped forward, but not from injury. Four sturdy legs supported his wolf-form now. The only wonder of it was the fact that his action was now no more alarming to me than if he'd picked up a hat and cane to venture forth for a stroll.
His huge green eyes caught the moonlight and flashed again; then with little sound his shaggy black figure trotted briskly off between the trees. He was probably going to have a little hunt around for his missing children.
I slapped myself down to make sure everything was still there and intact and with some success managed to shrug off the remains of my anger. He'd surprised and scared the hell out of me, but I could see the purpose behind it. His memory about learning to swim had capped things.
Damnation, but if that wasn't exactly how my pa had taught me.
With such an alarming start to grease the wheels, I worked to avoid any threat of his repetition of the harrowing lesson. He'd been right; belief accounted for most of the effort required. Before the night was out I captured the skill of vanishing and happily experimented for hours until the cold finally drove me back to the shelter of the castle. I made my entry by means of the gap between the door and the stone threshold, re-forming inside by slow degrees so I could watch my hands gradually regain solidity. I'd once seen photographs with double images, the second image being fainter and more ghost-like; so now did I seem to imitate them. This was completely amusing to me, though exhausting. By the time I climbed up to my room to sleep for the day I felt like a wrung rag and instinctively knew I'd feed more heavily when next I woke.
I lighted candles for comfort, settled into my earth-layered bed, and tried to fill the remaining time before dawn by means of a book. It was one of the many works in English Dracula had in his vast collection, but failed to hold my interest for more than a line or two. His pushing me off the tower had set up a train of dark thought that needed pursuing.
You see, I'd not yet forgotten about that problem of whether or not to kill him.
Truly kill him.
Inarguably, this was bald-faced ingratitude on my part. He'd helped me—in his own way—was continuing to help me, and I owed him quite a lot for that. But on the other hand, even if it was with the unwitting aid of Jack Seward and Van Helsing, Dracula had still contributed to poor Lucy's death. There was no getting around it.
I'd deeply loved the girl, still loved her, though she'd chosen another over me. That sort of loss I could understand and accept, but to have her taken by a lingering and unnecessary passing was the height of unfairness. She'd been cheated from the joys of an ordinary life, and if Dracula was truthful about being Nosferatu, she'd lost even that kind of existence as well. And there I'd been right in her tomb at her second death, in my ignorance helping them to kill her again.
If Dracula had only left her alone or if Jack had never called in the professor or if I'd known then what I knew now . . .
It was a path straight to madness to think such things, but I had to get through it all. Sometimes I'd tramp my way along every inch of it, pausing now and then to crash a fist against the nearby wall whenever my feelings got the better of my self-control.
Because I could still hear her screams.
Throughout all these active nights I'd been mulling this over, which is a very long while for me. In the kind of rough and ready life I'd been born to in Texas you learn to think fast or else find yourself tipping your hat to old Saint Peter at the gate. Out of sheer stubbornness I'd taken my time with that forced fasting, but for just about any other troublesome situation or individual I had a talent for coming up with a quick plan to deal with the difficulty. Then would I swiftly carry it through without hesitation—but not for this one. The situation was complex, and I would not approach the obvious solution lightly.
Along with Lucy, foremost in my considerings was Mina Harker. I was still in a worry about her, being mighty fond and respectful of the lady. She'd once called me her true friend, and that had struck deep and stayed in my heart. She had been most kind to me when I poured out my grief about Lucy to her, not something I could ever forget. I didn't want to let her down if I could help it; honor alone forbade betrayal of that trust.
The subject of Mrs. Harker might be closed to my host but was wide open for me. Like it or not, I'd sworn to her face and before all the others that I'd see to Dracula's death, and her husband took my hand on it. Where I was raised a handshake's as sacred as any vow made in a church on a stack of Bibles. Though time had passed and my circumstances had changed, I still felt an obligation to fulfill my promise.
Van Helsing had been pretty clear that once Dracula was dead, Mrs. Harker would then be safe from becoming a vampire herself. At the time it made a lot of sense. But I wasn't so sure now after hearing what Dracula had to say about her being given a "choice" when she died. Though impossible to prove or disprove, it sounded reasonable. I'd learned that the professor had been sorely wrong about a lot of things concerning vampires, might he also be wrong on this?
The professor's version of vampires was dressed up with a lot of lore and what I would call superstition, and he and Jack Seward, both hardheaded scientists, seemed to have missed the main point of it all. If you looked at Mrs. Harker's blood-exchange with Dracula as being less like magic and more like passing on an illness, then the rules were different. Say a person with some fatal sickness infects you, then dies himself, does that mean you're safe from dying as well? Hardly. It struck me that whether he were destroyed or not, Dracula's blood was still in Mrs. Harker, his death would change nothing.
That rankled. We'd all done our best, and I'd willingly traded my life thinking to spare her soul from hell. In those moments when I drew my last living breath I'd wholly believed we'd saved her and had been profoundly thankful. All for naught, it seemed.
During one of our many talks in the library I'd raised the subject with Dracula about the terrible mark on her forehead, the burn she'd gotten when Van Helsing touched her with the Host. Its miraculous healing had been proof of our success, and thus had I'd slipped peacefully into the sleep of death. (Or so it seemed.)
Because of his link with Mrs. Harker Dracula had been aware of some awful injury befalling her, but knew nothing specific and pressed me for details. These I provided, completing my description of the incident with an obvious question.
"Was she indeed being shunned by God for her association with you?" I asked. "And if so, how could she be cured if you were not destroyed after all?"
He'd been silent for a very long time and finally shook his head. "How can I of all those who walk the earth answer you? Who am I to explain His works?" He twitched his fingers toward the ceiling. "Miracles are not so common as they once were, but they must still happen or faith would fade. She thought me dead, and perhaps it was enough for her healing. Beyond that I cannot say."
"But—"
"In truth, Mr. Morris, I cannot speak of such things. Long before your thrice-great-grandsire was born I gave part of myself to the Void. It is best you not know more of it, only understand that I am not one to consult on matters of faith."
For all that, I still wondered why it could be that he and his kind were able to sleep in hallowed ground yet must shun the cross, but I'd stirred him up enough with my questions and allowed that he would not welcome more for the time being. Perhaps he had no answer for that anyway.
The whole business was pretty complicated, and I wanted to be as impartial as possible, which is why I spent so much time sizing up the man to see how he compared with the monster I and the others had hunted.
Van Helsing had it nailed tight that Dracula was dangerous and resourceful as they come, but he'd missed on something he called the vampire's "child brain." I didn't quite catch the professor's meaning on that point at the time, for his accent and use of English took getting used to; I eventually worked out that he'd frozen himself on the idea that Dracula was missing a few bricks in his building when it came to new situations and worldly experience, giving us an advantage. He'd assumed that Dracula was all instinct, like an animal, and that his memory was flawed from lying around in his tomb for centuries on end. But I now saw this was pure lack of knowledge and perhaps wishfulness on the Dutchman's part, and we'd all foolishly fallen in with it.
The actuality was that Dracula was wily as anyone I'd ever met—which is saying a lot—and what I would call a long thinker. After all, he'd put years of preparation into his coming to England and would hardly let himself be thwarted by our little party. There was nothing amiss with his thinking or memory, and had he been of a different mind, he would certainly have found a way to kill us with ease.
We'd left ourselves wide open to him more times than we knew, as I learned when once he gave me the full tale of our hunt from his side of things, most of which I found to be irksome to hear because he drew such great amusement from it. But annoying or not, there was no denying that he could have picked us off one by one or all at once, such was his power.
We'd set our quarry on the run, but I came to realize he was never really in much danger from us. As the nights passed in his lonely castle, with me spending a good deal of it in his company listening to his apparently infinite hoard of stories, I soon saw that Van Helsing had severely underestimated our opponent.
If I did decide to finish the hunt, the task would not be easy.
Dracula wasn't in the library the next night, which was not unusual, for he frequently absented himself without a word. We weren't exactly roped together, so his comings and goings were none of my business, and it was a bit of a relief to be free of his company. I had plenty of distractions, such as taking the opportunity to steal a look at the papers he'd been writing on—only those on top, mind you, anything more would have been truly impolite. As it was he was safe from my curiosity since it was all written in his native tongue of which I had only the bare minimum of words. The stuff looked to be pretty heavy going, too, with many pages of closely written script. The books he had stacked round his writing area were, if I could judge by some of the Latin titles, histories of his country, which bore out his assertion he was writing a memoir of some sort. My curiosity satisfied, I turned my attention to a collection of month-old English, French, and German newspapers that had evidently arrived that day, along with a number of magazines. These items were obviously part of the research he'd done prior to traveling west to England.
Though out of date, I spent the evening delving into them all. My last weeks in England had been hectic, and I'd not had time to read much of what was happening in the world. Sadly, little had changed when it came to the general kinds of troubles like wars, and I knew that nothing ever would. Having talked so much about the past with my Un-Dead host it was quite clear to me that century after century people kept making the same mistakes, the only variation being in the details. The idea that I would come to see like blunders unfolding again and again over an equally long span of time was both daunting and disheartening.
Living beyond the usual three score and ten seemed a right good thing at first, a sort of compensation for the inconvenience of only being up and about at night. But after thinking the notion through I realized that along with the sad march of history I'd also be watching friends not yet born age and die. Having spoken of it to my host, his suggestion was simple and practical: stay away from making close attachments to anyone. He'd apparently done so, but I was from a place where a man relies on his friends for his physical and spiritual survival. I wasn't sure I'd be able to harden my heart in the same manner.
Dracula also assured me I wasn't immortal, so much as ageless, and though extremely tough, I could yet be killed by those who knew how, those like Van Helsing. Certainly under his tutelage I'd learned all kinds of ways of dispatching vampires, which understandably horrified me now. Dracula's admonitions to keep my true nature a secret did not fall on deaf ears, but I wondered whether I'd be able to manage it all the time. My temperament was such as to rankle against isolating myself too much from the company of friends. I was already feeling hemmed in by the remoteness of this gloomy castle, and the more I read of the outside world the more I thought about rejoining it.
But before that could happen, I'd have to decide what to do about Dracula.
My instincts told me I still had to study him, and as he wasn't available tonight, my need for action drove me to borrow pen, paper, and a pot of ink from his stock. After two drafts, I was finally satisfied with a letter to be delivered to my London and Paris bankers, which would hopefully head off money troubles for me when I rejoined civilization.
Knowing that Art would notify them of my premature death, and gambling that he'd not be forthcoming on the details, I informed them that I had, indeed, suffered an accident that separated me from my friends. In good faith Lord Godalming assumed I'd been killed, which would account for any story he would pass on. I told them to treat him kindly, but absolutely not inform him of his mistake, as I planned to do it myself as a happy surprise to him and my other friends. In the meantime, the banks were to take no action regarding my accounts until my return. As proof of my identity, they were welcome to compare the handwriting of my letter to past missives.
I prepared a similar letter to my Galveston bankers, again instructing them to take no action regarding my will since I still lived. Things would be in an almighty legal mess otherwise. I'd heard tell of a Galveston man who'd been declared dead and had suffered no end of trouble trying to prove himself otherwise so he could get his property back from his relatives. It must have been a bad day for him shouting himself hoarse before a judge trying to convince the court he was indeed alive. His family was no help, for by all accounts he was a bad sort, and they didn't mind him being dead, and in fact preferred it.
As I had no near kith or kin to worry over, such an alarming turn did not seem a possibility, but I patiently scratched lines on the paper all the same. Better to be safe than sorry, I thought as I folded and addressed them ready for mailing.
Before I knew it midnight was upon me, so I stretched and determined to take the air. The wind blew strong as it whistled around the shutters and set them to rattling. I wasn't familiar with the manners of the weather in this part of the world, but was willing to wager that a storm was brewing up, and I might not see the outside of the castle for a while.
I found a long sheepskin coat and a fur cap to throw on as I intended to remain abroad for as long as possible to get some real exercise. A small side door in the courtyard opened onto a snow-choked trail leading down to the woods. The winds eased somewhat with my descent from the heights, but did not entirely depart. As I made the trees it continued to mourn through their tops, shaking pale flakes upon my shoulders. Except for its keening, the silence held complete rule here, and before I'd gone half a mile I felt the utter loneliness of the land closing over me like water on a downing man.
Shrugging it off as a fancy was useless, for the desolation kept circling back on me, refusing to leave. I thought of what Dracula had said of Harker succumbing to the dark atmosphere of the castle and wondered if it was finally working its way with me. Though alert enough to normal dangers, such subtleties of the spirit are usually lost to my perception. Until a few months ago my feet were planted square on the ground, no ghosts—or vampires—need apply to the world I knew.
That was the past, though, and this night world was crowded with far more things than I needed or wanted to know about. There wasn't much I could do to fix it back, either. The door had opened wide, and I'd been shoved right through, and like it or not would just have to get used to what I found there.
I stood for a long time with my back to one of the tall black trunks, listening to the forest. The heaviness in my heart lingered as I remembered other places where I'd taken watch in the late hours. This one reminded me sharply of the rare tough time Art and I had of it in Siberia being tracked by wolves. The pack had been so starved they'd not bothered wasting effort on howling themselves up for a hunt. I'd have preferred their noise, for then we'd have known where they were. Art had looked on the whole business as grim sport, keeping us morbidly cheered with a number of bad jokes mostly to do with welfare of the wolves. He maintained we had to keep moving to spare them from the indigestion they'd suffer should they eat us.
Where was he now? Back in England, probably, having brandy and a cigar at Ring or one of his clubs. He'd lift his glass in a toast to me. So much had happened to him, so many deaths in so short a time: his much-loved father, dear Lucy . . . and myself. I hoped John Seward would stay with him. A man might not speak of his grief, but having a good friend around was often solace enough in bad times.
During these musings I became aware of a tantalizing scent on the air. It was not constant because I wasn't consciously breathing. Only when speaking or by the normal motion of my body did my lungs get exercise. Now that my attention was snagged, I tried to focus on the source. After a moment I had a general direction and identified the smell. My curiosity up, I began walking toward it.
After a quarter mile I got to thinking I'd made a mistake. For me to pick up such a trail like a hunting dog and track it so far seemed ludicrous, but as it was apparently true, my senses were far sharper than I'd estimated or imagined. That, or my nose was just highly responsive to one special scent in particular.
Bloodsmell, Dracula had called it, and so it turned out to be.
Lying in the middle of a wide patch of churned-up snow I found the carcass of a gray she-wolf. No other predators had gotten to it yet, so it was complete except for the tail having been lopped off. A trophy for the hunter. There was a hole in its chest that had gone clean through the beast, as I learned when I turned it over. There was quite a lot of blood on the snow, still very red and fresh-looking. That's what traveled on the wind to tantalize me, bringing me to the kill like a hungry buzzard. My corner teeth began to lengthen despite the fact I had no intention of touching the pitiful creature.
To get my mind off my belly, I made a long study of the area. There were wolf tracks aplenty here, a fairly large pack on the move. I also picked out two sets of men's boot prints in the snow superimposed over the wolves' tracks. One was unfamiliar, but the other belonged to my host. I'd spent enough time in his company to know his sign very well indeed.
So far as I could read things, the hunter had bagged his prize no more than two hours ago, approaching from the west. His shot and kill must have scared the pack, for their prints tore off to the east through the trees. He'd used a very sharp blade to take the tail, wiping it clean of blood on the wolf's coat. That done, he walked away, following them east. The prints Dracula left were on top of the rest and so recent the edges were still sharp. He'd just come through and also traveled east, but only for a few hundred yards when his boot tracks completely stopped. That flummoxed me for a bit until I found a fresh set of wolf prints larger than any of the rest. He'd swapped two legs for four, probably for better speed.
What his intention was toward the hunter I didn't want to think about. He was mighty fond of his wolves, and to hear him talk he had more regard for them than anyone or anything else. He would take this worse than bad, I was thinking, and I could understand him, too. To just shoot an animal down and take a mere trophy was wasteful to me. Where I'd been raised, we'd have skinned the body for the pelt and eaten the meat so as to get full use of it, especially during the winter when it was most needed. But I had the feeling Dracula would take grim exception to that as well.
I pressed forward, at times wishing I could turn into a wolf as well. Vanishing would have been convenient, but I needed to keep my eyes on the trail. A good thing it was, too, for the hunter's prints suddenly veered off to the north, and I might have missed them and the single set of wolf prints following. When both reached open ground the boot prints continued, but the wolf's ended. He'd not turned back, so he must have changed to mist or a bat so he wouldn't be seen by his quarry. I kept going, half in the expectation of finding the hunter's carcass next, lying dead and drained in the path. If so, then it might decide me about what to do concerning the life or death of Dracula.
The trail entered another stand of trees, and began slanting toward the east again. The hunter must have guessed the pack would turn at some point and thought to get in front of them and upwind. It was madness to hunt at night, but not impossible, for the moonlight was strong. The wolves would show up well enough against the snow for a good marksman to pick off one or two if he had a sharp eye. I ran through the trees, but made myself pause before crossing the next open field. The sky was empty of bats or cloudy swirls, but Dracula could be anywhere.
Then one of the shadows a good distance ahead of me unexpectedly shifted. Even with my improved night sight I discern no detail. I'd have missed it completely if it hadn't moved against the wind just when my gaze fell on the right spot.
After a few moments I decided it was my hunter, and I was mighty interested in learning who he could be and why he chose such a strange hour to be out and about. My thought that he was trying to preserve the sheep population did not seem quite right. None of the locals, even the Szgany, ever came out after sunset. Generations of fear of the castle lord was bred into them, along with a much more ancient fear of hungry wolves. What the man was doing slogging around in the snow this late for trophies I could not guess, but he was tempting fate in a bad way and would need to be warned away quick.
To get closer without being seen, I vanished and flowed swiftly over the snow for several minutes. It was not unpleasant, for I'd made myself get used to the change of sensation this form imparted. I was aware of shapes and slopes, and could hear to a limited degree, but was quite blind. This was less alarming than it might have been, for when like this I had no need to fear crashing into anything and causing injury to myself; I either coursed around or went through it.
I resumed solidity and got my bearings. The wind had affected my course, pushing me farther east than I'd wanted, but I was considerably closer and could see much better, spying my man again. He continued forward, his movements slow and cautious, his posture distinct and recognizable; he was stalking something. I watched to see what held his attention, and in the far distance saw yet more movement. Several dark forms showed themselves against the snow: wolves.
He reached a satisfactory spot where a thick branch came down low enough for him to rest his gun muzzle. He was less interested in sport than in bettering his chances to make a kill with careful aim. His figure went quite still, and I knew he'd be trying to match his sights up with his target, getting one to mesh with the other, and in between one heartbeat and the next he'd pull the trigger.
This did not happen, though.
After he settled in—and it was obvious his entire being was consumed by making his shot—a blur of black and white erupted from the snow just in front of him. It took a full second before I realized what it was and his awful danger. The great dark form of a wolf burst from where it had been hiding under a drift and leaped up at him, knocking him flat. His gun went off, the shot going wild. My belly turned over as I recognized the distinct sound of its flat crack in the emptiness.
That clinched everything. With a shout I pelted toward them as fast as I could.
The wolf, which I assumed was Dracula, since I'd never heard of wolves burying themselves in snow banks to wait for prey, paused its attack and looked right at me. I wasn't close enough to hear his growl, but saw a flash of white teeth against the black muzzle. He wasn't pleased by my interference. The man he loomed over was twisted quick to face his danger. He still clutched his rifle and started to bring it around. The wolf went for it, strong jaws clamping down. I heard a thin cry as gun was dragged from his fingers. The great wolf then seized his arm, held tight, and easily hauled him several yards over the ground like a child might drag a cloth doll. The man fought. His terror and rage combined and compressed themselves into a appalling shriek that tore right up my spine so hard I damn-near pitched headlong off my feet in my haste to reach him. The last time I'd heard a screech like that had been in India when a man-eating tiger had taken a pilgrim from the road not ten yards in front of me.
I doubled my speed and shouted again. The wolf broke off and started directly toward me, confirming his identity. A true wolf would have fled.
The man stopped his noise as soon as he was released. He yet moved, but was feeble about it.
At a run far faster than I could ever achieve on two legs, the black wolf pelted toward me and blocked my path, head lowered, fangs bared, and rumbling a deep growl of warning.
"I have to see if he's all right," I said, not feeling a bit foolish for addressing the animal. I knew he understood me.
He only growled, advancing slowly. By God, even knowing that this creature was my host in a different skin, I couldn't get past the fact he was a scarifying sight. I backed away a step before catching myself.
"Let me go to him," I insisted.
Another growl, but this time accompanied by a completely unexpected gesture. He shook his head, not as a dog, but as a man would, deliberately from side to side. The message was clear: if I took another step I'd be the one he'd tangle with next.
"I can't let you kill him and that's flat. Sir."
The growl ended, and damn me if I couldn't almost see Dracula's own lowered-brow expression on this thing's lupine face. He bounded forward and butted his body hard against me, forcing me back. He wanted us out of there, and since he was leaving his quarry be, I decided to agree to a retreat. I threw a last glance at the man, who was just starting to sit up and look our way, then hurried into the thick of the trees with the wolf at my heels. Hopefully, the hunter would miss seeing us in their stark gloom.
Once we were well into forest shelter, the wolf paused and made its change back into man-form again. As a human, he looked no less ferocious. Harker had once vividly described one of Dracula's rages; I could see now he'd made something of an understatement.
"You overstep yourself," Dracula whispered, his lips hardly moving, but the soft sound cut like a saw. He quivered all over as though barely holding himself back from tearing me apart.
"I could not let you kill him."
"Nor could I let him kill. Nor shall I allow him to do so again. You shall not interfere."
"I'll do whatever is necessary."
He made a half step toward me, fists raised, and I braced for whatever was to come. He held himself in check at the last instant, but it must have been taken a lot of effort. I could feel the heat of his anger washing over me. We glared at each other for I don't know how long, until my head began to ache from the strain of meeting his eye. He took another step forward, but as he did his body shimmered darkly and faded. The countless specks that took its place swarmed all around me, seemed to flow right through me. My very bones seemed to turn to ice as its touch brushed them. . . . Then it was gone.
I whirled and caught a passing glimpse of his shapeless progress over the snow, like the shadow of a shadow. It moved quickly and with purpose, not in the direction of the fallen hunter, I noted with relief, but back the way I'd come.
A few seconds later the wind abruptly rose with a raging force that I'd only known standing on the castle tower. It clawed at me and sent dry surface snow skittering up in tiny cyclones. More snow came loose from the trees and rained down, creating an instant storm. I ignored it and walked to the edge of the stand so I could see how the man was doing.
He was trying to find his feet again and looking all about. His left arm hung straight at his side; he had to hold the rifle one-handed. I'd recognized the sound it made firing aright; it was a Winchester, one of the several I'd brought for our late expedition. I also belatedly recognized the man holding it: Lord Godalming—or as I knew him—Art Holmwood, and what the hell he was still doing traipsing around in Transylvania in the dead of winter was the devil's own guess.