Blood of the Impaler (24 page)

Rachel shook her head. "It's a long story, Daniel, and it's one that I probably should have told you years ago, but I just don't have the energy to go into
it
now."

"Well," he began, and then stopped. Having expected a more illuminating reply, he was now nonplussed. "Well," he repeated.

"You said you were going to see Harry Stevenson this afternoon, weren't you?" she asked as she once again picked up her coat and began to put it on.

"Yes. What of it?"

She sighed. "You'll be home by dinnertime, won't you?"

"I suppose so." Daniel frowned. "Now, see here, Rachel—"

"Later, Daniel. Later I'll explain everything." She went
to the door of the house and pulled it open. "You have a right
to know, I suppose."

"A right to know what?" he asked, but she had already shut the door behind her. Daniel Rowland turned to old Quincy and repeated, "A right to know what? What is she talking about, Grandfather?"

Quincy Harker seemed not to have heard the question. In any event, his response had nothing to do with it. "I don t feel too well, Daniel. Help me up to my room, would you please?"

"Certainly." Daniel helped the elderly man to his feet and lent him an arm for support as they made their way slowly toward the stairs.

"Just remember," Quincy said, panting slightly. "When I die, I want a simple funeral. No viewing, no expensive casket, none of that wasteful fuss."

"Yes, Grandfather."

"You make sure of it, Daniel, if Rachel and Malcolm forget."

"Yes, Grandfather."

As Quincy Harker was slowly mounting the stairs toward his bedroom, his granddaughter was walking around the corner and drawing close to St. Thomas's Episcopal Church. Rachel was, even at her lowest ebb, very well organized and very methodical. Having done all that she could do for the time being, she saw no reason not to proceed with her Saturday just as if her brother had not called her—just as if she did not know that Malcolm had unleashed a vampire upon an unsuspecting world, just as if she was not worried to the depths of her being about her brother's going to Rumania in search of the remains of the creature that had been the source of so much sorrow to her family.

She walked up the few steps that led to the large oaken doors at the entranceway of the Gothic-style church and leaned back as she held on to the brass door ring, using her weight as an aid in pulling it open. The church was never locked, though it had been burglarized a number of times and the church council was forever debating the issue. As a matter of security, either Father Henley or his assistant, Father Langstone, were always in the building during the day on Saturday, knowing that the ladies of the Altar Guild would be coming in to prepare for the next day's services.

Father Henley heard the heavy door close and got up from behind the desk in his office to see who had entered. He smiled at Rachel and said, "Good morning!" as he saw her walking forward down the aisle between the rows of pews. "Father," she said, and nodded in response, hoping that he was not in a conversational mood.

He was. "Have you heard from Malcolm?"

"Yes," she replied, trying to mask her disquiet. "I've spoken to him on the phone."

"How is he enjoying England? Has he gone to the cathedral at Canterbury?"

"I don't believe so, Father, but he probably will before he leaves."
He isn't there to sight-see
, she thought to herself.

"Well, he certainly should go there while he's in England," Henley said, walking with Rachel back to the storage room where the candles and altar cloths were kept. "Travel can be such a broadening experience if you make a point of seeing the right things." He heard Rachel emit a curt, humorless laugh, and he looked at her closely, noticing for the first time that something seemed to be amiss. "Rachel?" he asked. "Is everything all right? You seem troubled."

She shook her head emphatically. "No, I'm fine, Father. Everything is just fine."

Henley was not persuaded. "You're worried about Malcolm, aren't you?"

She grimaced. "Yes, I suppose I am."

He took her hand and patted it comfortingly. "Well, I don't think you should be. He's a good boy deep down. He'll turn out just fine, I'm sure of it."

"Yes, I know," she replied without conviction. She withdrew her hand from his and turned away.

"This isn't unusual, you know. We all have periods of doubt and temptation." Henley laughed softly. "I seem to recall that you had your moments yourself, when you were a teenager. Remember?"

"Yes, Father. I remember." Rachel gazed distractedly at the wall as she took the folded altar cloth from the shelf.
I remember, Father Henley
, she thought.

I remember how suffocated I felt in my grandfather's home. I remember how absolutely stifling the piety and the propriety seemed to me as I entered my teenage years.

And I remember how much in love I was with Billy Malone when I was fifteen. He was eighteen, practically a grown man, and he made me feel so special, so different, so grown up. A bad boy, Grandfather said. A bad influence. I remember that big argument the day I ran away from home, ran away with Billy, went to live in Manhattan with him and his friend . . . what was his name? Frank? Fred? . . .

I remember, Father Henley. I remember how delightfully wicked it all was, how exciting and Bohemian and roman
tic. I remember that bottle of chianti we drank up on the roof of that run-down tenement. I remember lying on my back on the warm, prickly tar, staring up at the moon as I gave myself to Billy and clutched his shuddering body tightly to mine.

A woman and free. Fifteen years old, and I felt myself a woman and free.

I remember.

And then I went home to confront Grandfather, to demand a recognition of my freedom and my womanhood. He wept so hard, so long, so bitterly, but I was adamant. I would not be moved.

And then he told me everything. And then I read Mina's diary.

And something died inside me, some glowing ember was extinguished, some flame flickered and was snuffed out. Perhaps it was the evil dying. Perhaps it was the blood sinking back into the cold darkness of oblivion.

Or perhaps what I felt was the cold steel of chains wrapping themselves around my soul, locking me up within the prison of fate, stripping away all happiness and all freedom.

Possibilities. That was what I had felt die in me, possibilities. It was the end of joy, the loss of hope, the death of dreams.

Yes, I remember.

Henley was speaking to her, and she turned abruptly in his direction. "I'm sorry, Father. What did you say?"

"I said that we all go through dangerous times in our youth, but we come through them, with God's help, just as you did. Your life could have turned in a tragic direction. But just look at you now."

"Yes," she muttered as she took the candles out of the cardboard box which rested on the shelf beneath the altar cloths. "Just look at me now." Henley seemed about to speak again, but her tone and demeanor had a cold finality about them and Henley felt himself somehow dismissed. He went back to his office, wondering what was bothering her.

Rachel went about the process of preparation with her customary efficiency, and soon the candles had been replaced, the citorium and chalice polished, and the cloths upon the altar, lectern and pulpit changed to the colors appropriate to the Sunday on the church calendar.

When she was finished she sat down in the front pew and stared silently at the large golden crucifix upon the altar. Then she crossed herself, closed her eyes and began to pray "Lord, protect Malcolm," she whispered. She could feel the tears roll down her cheeks despite her attempt to prevent herself from crying. "Don't let anything happen to my little brother, Lord, don't let anything happen to my little brother . . ."

Father Henley stood at his office door, quiet and motionless, watching the weeping woman, listening to the soft and unintelligible sounds of her muttered prayer. His assistant, Father Terrence Langstone, came up beside him and whispered, "Matt, is something wrong? Mrs. Rowland seems very upset."

"It appears so, Terry," Henley said softly.

"Is it her brother again?"

"I thought so at first, but I get the feeling it's something else. I don't know. She doesn't seem to want to discuss it with me, and I don't want to intrude unless she brings her problem to me herself. She's communing with God, and He can be more help to her than I can." The two priests disappeared behind the office door and left Rachel Rowland to the privacy of her prayers and her fear.

"Be with him, Lord, be with Malcolm. Protect my little brother, Lord, don't let anything happen to my little brother . . ."

…
W
hen I could see again, the driver was climbing into the caleche, and the wolves had disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending. Suddenly I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit sky . .
.

"I don't want to hear it anymore, man!" Jerry shouted, grabbing Malcolm's copy of
Dracula
from his friend's hands and throwing it on the floor. "I just don't want to hear it anymore!"

"Jerry," Holly said sympathetically, "try to calm down. Of course you're upset by all of this, but—"

"Upset!" he shouted. "Why the hell should I be upset? Lots of people get bitten by vampires!" He shook a closed fist at Malcolm and spat, "I swear to God, man, if we get out of this alive, I'm gonna kill you!"

Malcolm returned Jerry's furious glower with a steady, impassive, almost indifferent look of minor irritation. "If we're to be certain that we've come to the right place, Jerry, we have to check and review all of the references in the book.
I was only reading it aloud so as to invite your comments, that's all." He sniffed. "Sorry if it annoyed you!"

"You want a comment?" Jerry shouted. "Okay, here's a comment! How could you get the two of us involved in this thing? You stupid son of a bitch, don't you realize what's happened to me?"

Malcolm reached down and picked up the paperback book. "I've already apologized, Jerry," he said softly.
"I
don't know what else I can say."

"Apologized! What good does that do me?"

"All right," he said testily. "If you're so damn angry at me, why did you continue on with us? Why are you here in this hotel with us in Rumania? Why aren't you back in the United States?"

"Because this isn't a game anymore! I had to come with you to make sure you don't fuck anything up! I mean, we're talking about
my
life now!"

"And we were talking about my life before," Malcolm pointed out.

"The hell we were! We were talking about some nutty obsession of yours, some stupid story your crazy old grandfather told you! We weren't talking about anything real!"

"Yes, we were," Holly sighed. "We just didn't know it." She walked over to the window and pulled aside the drape that Malcolm had closed earlier to shield his eyes from the brilliant sun of the Carpathian summer. She did not open the drape but merely parted it slightly so that she could look out at the town square of the small Rumanian city of Oradea.

It had taken them a full week to get from London to Bucharest. The actual travel time, of course, was a mere five hours by plane, but the preparation for departure had taken six days. A two-hour wait in line at the Rumanian Tourist Bureau offices on Halsworth Road in London had been their introduction to the almost Byzantine complexity of the Rumanian bureaucratic labyrinth, made all the more frustrating by the fact that there were only two people ahead of them dealing with one apathetic, lethargic clerk. It had required another five days for Malcolm, Holly, and Jerry to obtain the neces
sary entrance visas, transit visas, exit visas, auto insurance card, and temporary driver's permit, to which was added the mandatory security checks, questionnaires, and itinerary verifications. Malcolm had made certain that the latter were left somewhat flexible, for he was not entirely certain at that
point where they would be going. He knew that Bran Castle near Brasov and the Snagov Monastery were two places that they had to examine, but he was aware of the strong possibility that other areas might need to be visited if the remains of the Count were to be found.