The last, the absolute last thing I expected in all the world was for my friend to be anywhere near. Certainly if our places were reversed I'd have departed this unfriendly land as soon as possible for home once the hunt for Dracula was finished.
Then it struck me that for Art, the hunt was not at all finished. I watched him from the shadows, my jaw all but scraping the ground as I realized why he'd remained behind. Though this proof of the depth of his friendship raised a lump in my throat fit to choke a horse, at the same time I was furious at him for taking such a risk. Dear God, but he had no idea what he was tempting—Dracula's limitless wrath.
And where had he gotten to? I glanced around, but saw no sign of him. That meant nothing, though. He could be anywhere, including right next to my friend.
Poor battered Art finally struggled to his feet, holding his left arm close. From my vantage I could discern little more than that, though it was reassuring. If he could stand he was probably all right. We'd been in some tight spots in our time, and he was tough enough when he had to be.
He carefully scrutinized the surrounding forest, probably on guard for more wolfish ambushes. None jumped out at him. He followed the four-footed trail Dracula had left, but only a few paces before giving up and trudging back again, missing my tracks. Apparently he'd had ample excitement for one night. When he was well within the trees, I vanished, speeding noiselessly over the open ground after him.
A damned convenient way to travel this was, leaving no mark. Art was nearly as good at scout work as I, and for his sake I wanted no evidence of my presence around. I'd not forgotten Dracula's deadly intention toward his former hunters should his survival be discovered. Toward that end, I would have to keep my promise to him and remain dead to them as well.
This could go remarkably bad if I was not careful.
Sensing the bulk of a large tree in my path, I drifted close to use its cover, then materialized for a quick look.
Art was some twenty yards ahead, moving slowly.
Now I made myself like the second image on one of those double photographs. Even as I faded, the forest faded to me. I was faint enough to see through, yet could use my eyes, though it was like trying to peer through thick fog. The darkness hid what showed of me to normal human vision, leaving me nearly invisible, and I still had the advantage of leaving no prints in the snow. Thus did I follow him, drifting wraithlike just above the ground.
His was a dark gray figure against a gray background. With all the tree trunks in the way I had to keep the space between us short lest I lose him and hurried, slowing when only ten yards off. To improve my vision I allowed myself to become just a bit more solid. Now was I able to see he was on a faint path, fighting against the rising wind.
It was becoming quite a nuisance. Little seemed to affect me in this form, except the force of a strong breeze. I had to struggle to maintain my course, yet keep far enough back to avoid Art discovering my presence. If he did, it would mean his certain death, but I wasn't sure my caution would make any difference. His shooting of the wolf had set Dracula off like ten kegs of gunpowder. I'd read in history books about how some old kings were so selfish of their range they'd kill anyone else who trespassed looking for venison. Maybe Dracula held the same views, though it did not seem likely. He had no use for deer meat. Besides, Art hadn't been after . . .
Uh-oh.
So that was why Dracula had taken it so badly. God knows I'd feel the same if some hunter got it into his head to use my ranch dogs for target practice. It was probably worse for Dracula considering how close he was to the pack that roamed this part of country. No wonder he'd been ready to rip Art's arm off.
He still could.
Art had slowed considerably. It was hard to tell whether his obvious weariness was from the hurt he'd taken, the press of the wind, or pure exhaustion. Bad going for him were it all three. I debated intruding myself. In my beard, borrowed coat, and with the hat pulled low I could pass for one of the Szgany in the dark. If need be I could approach and by gestures offer help. But Art knew me too well; there was a good chance he'd recognize me, which would seriously complicate things for us both. Yet I might have to try if he didn't find shelter soon. The storm was limbering up. Snow fairly rained down on us, thick, sticky flakes to blur one's sight and confuse direction. I hoped he knew where he was headed.
Then my problem happily solved itself when I spied a second figure, not quite as tall as Art and a bit more sturdy in frame, emerging from the grayness ahead. With a joyful shock I realized it was Jack Seward. Of course, he'd stayed as well, not being one to leave a friend to fend for himself in the wild. He lifted one arm and hailed loudly, and for an unpleasant instant I feared he'd seen me, but his greeting was meant for Art.
Art continued to trudge on, either not hearing, or too tired to respond. Jack got close enough to startle him from his stupor. I let myself go completely solid and peered at them from behind a tree.
"Arthur, what in heaven's name do you think you're doing out here?" Jack demanded, his tone expressive, balanced between angry exasperation and heartfelt relief—something I myself felt for them both.
Art mumbled something I didn't catch and indicated his injured arm.
"A wolf? Good God! How bad?"
More mumbling.
"I can't do anything about it in this murk. Come along so I can see to this and get some brandy into you, you're half frozen." He took the Winchester in one hand and threw his arm about Art, leading him back along the path. "Sweet heavens, what were you thinking going out at this hour?"
I heard Art's voice, but still could not distinguish the words.
Jack responded. "If you couldn't sleep, then you should have told me. I'd have given you something for it. Running about like this at night is suicidal. No, it's nothing to do with meeting vampires. You could have fallen into a crevasse or gotten lost or worse, you great blockhead. And look at you now, you're all in. If I hadn't heard your shot and come running . . . "
His words were harsh, but delivered as the sort of scolding an affectionate nurse might bestow on a mildly wayward child. The doctor in Jack could be fussy at times, but had never been so toward Art. There'd never before been a need.
Resuming wraith-form again, I tagged along until their track ended at a small windowless structure that must have served as a shepherd's hut in the summer. Smoke drifted up from its stone chimney, and firelight leaked from cracks and chinks in its crudely constructed walls. As a shelter, it looked only slightly better than being outdoors. Three horses were tethered on its lee side, heads hanging low, all looking miserable in the increasing cold.
Jack got Art in the hut, and I went solid, pressing close to one of the larger chinks for a look within. It was as primitive as could be expected, being a single bare room. The only beds were their sleeping rolls, the only comforts the supplies they'd brought and the blaze in the small fireplace. The sight of my two dearest friends settling in brought sharply back the memory of a hundred other nights when we three had made camp in similar rough places. Their being here gladdened my heart beyond measure, at the same time tearing it in two, for I longed to join them, to let them know I was all right.
Impossible, of course.
Jack got Arthur's coat off for a look at the injured arm, but the span of my view within was limited, and I could not hear them so well with the wind playing up. Chewing my lip for a second to think it through, I decided to take the chance. I vanished, located the chink, and flowed inside.
What a relief not to have to fight to hold myself in one place. Until I was out of the wind I'd not appreciated how strong it had gotten. They were not the only ones needing shelter. I felt my sightless way to a far corner by the ceiling, held there, and listened. My need to hear their voices far overwhelmed any shred of caution left to me. I had to find out if Art was all right. After a moment, I (figuratively) breathed a sigh of relief.
"Nothing broken, just a bad bruising," Jack pronounced. "You can thank God for the thickness of your coat sleeve, for that's the only thing torn. If he'd bitten though . . . well, you need not worry about rabies, my foolish friend."
"Rabies?" Art queried in a rather flat voice. He sounded used up and little wonder.
"Indeed. No normal wild animal would attack a man, so it may well have been mad. There's a course of treatment for hydrophobia, but it's not at all pleasant, so thank God again that you've been spared."
"I do, but what if it had been one of those damned vampires? They can change themselves to wolves, can't they? So—"
"The professor said they were all destroyed, and we've no reason to believe otherwise. He told me he went through every room of the castle and sterilized it. Except for you shooting everything in the countryside, all has been perfectly quiet since, has it not? Here, have a sip of this and steady yourself. You're in sore need of rest."
Arthur was quiet for sufficient time to have a drink. When he spoke again, he sounded stronger. "I bagged another one of the brutes, at least," he announced. "Here's a fresh tail for our collection."
"A round half dozen, then. Excellent."
"It's a start."
"So you've been saying."
"I warned you. I said I'd not stop until the whole cursed pack was dead, even if it took all winter."
"As well it might. I hardly need point out to you that this is the first sighting you've had of any quarry for some time now."
"They're not stupid animals, Jack. Even if they aren't one of those damned monsters in disguise they've more intelligence than you give them credit for. That's the other reason why I went out at night."
"Meaning they were purposely hiding from us during the day?" Jack sounded skeptical.
"Yes! If you'd done more hunting you'd see it, too."
"What you see as cleverness probably has more to do with instinct than intellect. They know there's another predator in the area and are avoiding you."
"I tell you they understand more than they should. It's not natural. There's something about them, about this whole country that's not right, else we'd have found some sign of poor Quincey by now, but there's been nothing. Not one bone, not even a scrap of clothing."
"There's been plenty of snowfalls since that night. He's probably long covered."
"God, if only I'd stayed awake. To think of him lying abandoned and graveless—"
"Then don't. My comfort is thinking some peasant found him—or will find him—and do the decent thing. This place is so backward, we may never hear of it, but it will happen."
Art made a sort of refined snort, indication that he had little confidence in such chance. "Damned wolves. The one that attacked me was lying in wait. He'd buried himself in a drift of snow and—"
"What?"
Arthur found it necessary to provide full details of what had befallen him. Despite such earnestness, Dr. Jack Seward was reluctant to come around.
"You see it one way, I another," he said after some little discussion over the behavior of the wolf. "Did it not occur to you that the beast might have curled up under the snow to keep warm and you stepped on it while it slept?"
"That's not what happened! If I'd merely trod on it I should have known. I'm telling you the bloody thing waited and then came right up at me!"
"But it broke off and ran, which is what one might expect of an animal."
"No—there was something else as well. I heard a man shouting at the same time. Only when he yelled did the thing stop its attack."
"You're sure? You heard someone? Who?"
Art groaned. "That's the madness of it. My God, Jack, it was Quincey!"
Silence. For quite a long moment.
"You don't believe me?" Art demanded.
"I believe you heard a man shouting. But it had to be a peasant or some passing Gypsy."
"Shouting in English?"
"Really, Arthur!"
"Yes, really! I swear it. I can still hear his voice, and it was Quincey bellowing away in that unfortunate Texan accent of his."
"Arthur . . ."
"What? I'm not one of your pet lunatics, so don't give me that look."
"My dear fellow, I apologize for the look, but you can hardly blame me for it. Just listen to yourself."
A heavy sigh. "I know what I must sound like but it is the truth, I swear. Believe or not, as you please."
"Look, old man, you've had a nasty physical shock, and you're very tired, and I know for a fact that lack of sleep distorts one's perceptions."
"I'm not inventing this. I heard Quincey."
"And it could have been wishful thinking."
"Pah!"
Some moments went by, then: "Art, I miss him, too," Jack said in a much-subdued tone.
I gave a groan myself, silent, of course. It took all my resolve not to materialize right then and there before them in a foolish attempt to cure their grief and my own as well.
"Shall we have a drink to him?" suggested Art, his own tone much quieter now.
"Yes. Absolutely."
They made a simple toast to me, which I found powerfully affecting for its very restraint. With them being British and all, the less spoken the greater the meaning. Though nothing had been settled between them about what Art had heard, they'd found something to agree on and would hopefully leave it at that.
Jack the physican was still one for practicality, though. "You were very lucky tonight on many things, but I must insist you not repeat this hunting after dark ever again," he said.
"I'm no child."
"But you are being infernally discourteous. When that shot woke me and I saw you'd gone, I didn't know what to think and hardly dared to try. I can understand you being restless, but please have the decency to inform me of your intent and spare me undue worry."
"There's nothing hereabouts to cause concern—or so you insist."
"Nothing out of the ordinary, I'm sure, but mad wolves aside, those Szgany villains are doubtless still in the area and might harbor objections to our presence. After the fight we gave them I rather think they'd want to pay us back."
"Humph. They're the ones who owe us after what they did to poor Quincey. They're probably far away from here because of it. Believe me, were I to catch sight of any one of those murdering swine I'd serve him the same as I did this wolf."
"You don't mean that," said Jack, sounding shocked.
Art fell silent, giving me to understand that he did mean it. While deeply moved by this declaration I was also quite appalled. Not for the world would I want my friend to have the deaths of others on his conscience resulting from his intent to avenge my demise. Something would have to be done, but I had no idea what.
"Let's get some sleep, Arthur—"
"And things will look different in the morning?"
"I should hope so."
"Nothing will change for me."
"No, but after some rest we'll both feel improved. Trust me, I am well trained on this."
"Yes, from those lunatics under your care. Were that true, then a bit of sleep would fix them up nicely and you'd lose your position."
"You're being unkind, which I forgive because the mangling you got has put you in a temper. In any case, I should be delighted if all my patients woke up restored. It would make my reputation in the field and be worth the loss of custom."
"Certainly there's no end of mad people in the world," Art grumbled. "I'm sure your asylum would fill itself again in no time."
This comment made Jack chuckle. "To sleep with you. I'll build the fire up. Damn me, but I think it's gotten colder."
"It is colder. Hear how the wind howls. Like those damned wolves."
I listened as best I could, then slipped outside and made myself solid again to hear better. My fears were thankfully for naught, for it was indeed only the wind and not wolves behind all the noise. The idea that Dracula had rounded up his pack to make some kind of assault on my friends had stabbed through my mind, but the absurdity of the notion soon asserted itself. He had no need to resort to anything like that so long as this storm continued to build.
The snow fell so thickly I could see no farther than a dozen feet. The wind drove it hard into my eyes and soon my face was coated white, forcing me to constantly brush it clean. I'd survived blizzards in my time, but this one promised to be worse than anything even Siberia had thrown at me. Van Helsing once said Dracula could command the weather, and I had the growing conviction that my missing host was behind this particular event.
If so, then Jack and Arthur stood little chance of surviving without help.
As they seemed to be all right for the present I made my way back to the castle, first following the fading tracks of my friends, then soon picking up my own. By the time I reached the point where I'd found the wolf's carcass nearly every trace was obliterated by snow, but from here I knew what direction to take to return.
It was something of a startlement, though, to discover the carcass was quite gone.
One set of faint tracks—of the two legged variety—led away from the spot. I guessed that Dracula had retrieved the body, for what purpose I could hardly conjecture. A talk with him about this night's events was necessary; I might ask him then. The prospect of a showdown held no appeal for I knew he'd still be furious, but there was little point to postponement. I trudged in his wake, hoping to reach his destination before fresh snow filled in all trace of his passing. He'd headed straight back to the castle, but veered around its rocky base in a direction I'd not gone before.
This new path finally led to a very narrow opening, easily missed if one were not aware of it—or close on the trail of another who was familiar with the area. A vertical slab of rough stone, looking to be a normal part of the mountain, thrust out at a shallow angle in such a way as to appear to be haphazard rubble fallen from above. His tracks went right instead of left, bending toward the base rather than going around the outer side along the path. The stone acted as a massive shield to what appeared to be a natural cleft no more than a few feet deep and of no particular interest. I knew better than to trust such semblances around a structure of this age. Its ancient builders would have left nothing overlooked in the design of this fortress, and I pressed through, gratified to find I was correct in my suspicions. A sharp turn into a forbidding shadow revealed a narrow doorway and tunnel driving up into the mountain.
It might have once served as a secret escape route during a siege. The cramped passage zigged and zagged as it climbed, cutting off all outside light. I had no liking for blundering about in the dark and resorted to partially vanishing to spare my toes and shins. Feeling my way forward in this manner was only slightly less nerve-wracking. The familiar gray that my eyes could yet perceive in this form was now a profound and unrelieved black and so disorienting that I traveled close to the ground lest I lose all sense of what was up or down.
Again was I reminded of swimming in a murky pool, though I hadn't much experience at that since deep bodies of water of any kind are unknown in the part of Texas where I was raised. A trip to Galveston in my youth had given my pa the opportunity to provide me with that quick, unforgettable swimming lesson, but the green ocean was bright as a ballroom compared to this.
It occurred to me that it would be better to retrace my route and wait in the library for my host's return. Dracula might be as determined to speak with me as I with him. On the other hand, I had no way of knowing when he would turn up or whether he was finished with my friends for the night. If he took it into his head to seek them out again, then I was their only protection.
For what it was worth.
I could guard them after dark, but during the day . . .
They would still have their crucifixes with them, of that I was sure. As we'd all had ample proof of their effect against the Un-Dead—or at least Dracula's particular breed of Un-Dead—Art and Jack would hold fast to such defenses, even if the danger seemed past. For all they'd been through it would likely be a habit they'd retain for the rest of their lives; such would have been my intent had I not been so abruptly cut from the herd by a Szgany knife.
Of course, if he did not go himself, Dracula had servants who could ignore the cross to carry out their master's orders. Perhaps they were not armed with modern Winchesters, but a few had long rifles that were just as deadly given the right circumstances. But those were hardly necessary. One man sneaking up on the hut with a burning brand could set the poor structure afire in mere seconds.
With that terrible thought I decided I had entirely too much imagination and it was downright gruesome. Maybe the atmosphere of this place had gotten to me after all. No matter, I would speak to Dracula before the night was finished and try to head off further trouble.
The tunnel gradually leveled and widened, so I paused, allowing myself to become solid again. All was as black as before; I concentrated on listening. Naught came to me but a faint unidentifiable noise that might have been some trick of the wind except for the air being wholly still. I sniffed and determined that it was quite stale, being musty from bat droppings and the stench of old rot, indication that I was close to the tombs if not there already. I recognized it instantly from my initial visit that first waking night; it is not the sort of fetor one forgets.
Again, that faint sound came to me, like the catching of a breath. It lay ahead somewhere . . . in that unknown darkness.
Though part of the dread ranks of the Un-Dead I felt an awful chill settling over my whole being that had nothing to do with winter weather. This was the kind of basic fear that few ever really leave behind with their childhood. For me it was like my sunset wakings in that tower room, only a hundred times worse. There I knew where light might be found and should that fail I could always rush to open the door and seek escape from my inner terrors that way.
No such luxury here. I was in unrelieved blackness surrounded by the dead, the true dead. Little matter they were all gone to dust, their essence remained behind. Harker had sensed them, and now it was my turn.
My body, giving in to unvoiced desires, vanished away. I took foolish comfort for a few moments, before wondering if I might not now be even more vulnerable to whatever lay invisible about me. If I could float about like a wraith, could not a real ghost be able to . . .
To what? I finally asked myself in a surprisingly steady inner voice.
No answer presented itself, indication that I'd finally reached the limit of my idiocy.
I was in a dark tunnel, nothing more, and just because vampires existed was no reason to think the same was true for ghosts. And before my fear could make any argument against that point, I pressed forward.
My hearing was muffled, so if the sound repeated I did not notice. The way ahead occasionally rose, but remained more or less straight. Once I encountered a second opening to the left and farther down another to the right, but ignored them for the main path. After a while I worked up sufficient courage to go solid again.
It was better this time. I perceived some extremely welcome light. The glow was far away and very faint, being a mere reflection off a turn in the walls ahead. As an ordinary man I'd have missed it. Now I rushed forward, eager as a dying sinner about to grasp unexpected salvation.
That is, I rushed for all of two steps before my shins caught against something hard and nearly sent me flying head over heels. A rock or a sarcophagus, it mattered not, and I didn't care to know, anyway. Before coming to grief I vanished once more and was spared a hard, noisy landing. When I stopped tumbling about, I gradually solidified to the point where I could see the light again and drifted toward it at a more dignified pace and in a much safer form.
It grew brighter with each turn until I knew one more would put me upon its source, so I slowed, curious as to what lay ahead, but not averse to caution. Going solid only at the last, I peered around the final corner and beheld that the tunnel opened into a proper chamber, very wide and long and low of ceiling. Stone columns supported the roof and were thick enough hold up the whole of the castle above. The floor had been more or less leveled and smoothed, but was cluttered with many different kinds of funerary boxes, some of wood and rotted away, the pitiful bones within visible, other boxes of stone, both broken and whole. This was obviously another part of Dracula's family vault, and it had been well-filled over the centuries.
The death stench was thick enough to cut; I was glad of having no need to breathe.
A single candle that made more shadow than light rested on the end of a stone sarcophagus. Seated on the other end was Dracula. He was turned away from me and huddled over something in his lap. I couldn't make it out for a moment, then with a shock realized he held the body of the dead wolf—not merely held, but cradled it, gently, as a mother might enfold her sick child in her arms.
Then did I hear that strange sound again. It came in conjunction with a shudder that seized Dracula's whole body. The back hairs rose along my neck. I could scarce believe what I saw and heard, but it was unmistakable: this great master of the Un-Dead was entirely caught up in the throes of a profound grief.
He did not weep openly, but rather seemed to smother it within himself until it overtopped his control. Only then did his sorrow find release in a long-drawn keen of pain. He rocked back and forth, sometimes lifting his face high, sometimes burying it in the matted fur of the wolf.
How long I stood agape and stared I could not say, so great was my surprise, but eventually I woke from the astonishment and determined to quietly remove myself. Anything else would be an unthinkable intrusion. Our talk could wait.
I went nearly transparent and started to drift backwards, but my intent was headed off by the sudden appearance of his wolves coming up behind me. They'd made their way unerringly through the darkness, probably in response to some inner call he'd sent out. Dozens of them blocked the tunnel, their great eyes catching the feeble candlelight and throwing back green sparks. They were aware of me but paid little mind, simply rushing past to get to the chamber. Maybe Art was right and they were more intelligent than others of their kind.
Why are they here?
Again, to answer my curiosity, I had to risk resuming solid form—for holding a semi-transparent state was fatiguing—and waited several moments for things to resolve.
The animals milled about, whining. Ears flat and tails tucked under, they sniffed and licked at their fallen pack member, which Dracula yet held close. They swarmed around him when he finally stood. He stooped and gently laid the body into the open sarcophagus.
For some time he gazed down in silence, his stillness of manner spreading to the pack, to his children of the night. A few restlessly paced, but most sat gathered about him, watching his every move, waiting.
The transformation was swift and noiseless: one moment he was a tall man dressed in black, the next, a huge black wolf. This time I noticed that the fur on his muzzle was pure white, such as you might see on a very aged dog.
He roamed among the others, and they, with soft whines and tucked tails, greeted him. His movements were very like to theirs, but with my eye sharpened on what to look for I noticed subtleties marking him as being different from the rest. Where an ordinary animal might wander randomly, he was most deliberate, bestowing specific time and attention upon each of them turn-on-turn. Some he quickly nuzzled, others received lengthier, more elaborate welcomes. Throughout, there was from him an attitude of what I could only perceive as a sort of tender affection.
Caught up as I was in this strange spectacle, an errant thought began nagging me just then. It teased at the edge of my mind, and however dangerous it might prove to remain here I knew I must do so for the idea to come forth.
The wolves made a rough circle around the sarcophagus. Dracula sat in their midst and lifted his head high. From him came a full throated howl that turned my spine to ice. I winced, trembling head-to-toe, unable to help myself. The awful lament reverberated through the crypt, eerie beyond belief; I could scarce hold in place. My instinct was to turn and flee, but I fought it, needing to see more, to learn more. There was something important here I should know.
The truly terrifying part was how close this sound was to his earlier keening. Much louder, much more free in its expression of sorrow, but bizarrely similar. The others joined in his song of grief, their many voices rising and falling, interweaving, growing until the very walls seemed to shake from the clamor.
But this, all this for one dead wolf?
Not just one, though; there were six of them. Rites would doubtless follow for the rest when their bodies were found. The survivors would gather here with Dracula and mourn the loss, cleaving the dank air with their heartbreaking wails.
Never in my life had I ever experienced such a hellish chorus, yet it nearly made me weep to hear it. I'd stood strong at many a graveside service and held my peace, but this one was different. A man may go to his death with some understanding of the why of it, but not so for an animal. Within them lived a kind of sublime purity. That was what affected me so deeply now, their absolute innocence over matters that often troubled humans for the whole of their time on earth. The poor dumb brutes meet death knowing nothing of meanings and wherefores. But were things different and their perceptions raised, would they be any better off?
Perhaps this was why I'd stayed to watch, for seeing it all in this way was new to me. I lingered a little longer, testing the notion, then dismissed it. There was some other reason nagging me, if I could but grasp it.
The dirge continued, setting my teeth on edge. A mad desire seized me to join in their song. I pushed it away.
Dracula was no longer a participant. He threaded his way throughout their circle again, making contact with each, but finally stopping with a tightly gathered group of three. They were also black of coat and larger than the others, and though obviously very much of this pack there was a certain aloofness to them. The rest had deferred to them much as they did to Dracula. I thought they might be this year's crop of cubs, still benefiting from having been the center of lavish attention from their guardians.
But there was something more . . .
The look of them, their manner. What was I seeing?
Then all three stared right at me, their eyes flashing green. They stared . . . and I felt my legs go to jelly. Were my heart not already stilled forever it would have stopped in that instant as the realization struck home.
My God . . . they really ARE his children!