Blood of the Impaler (51 page)

H
e stood at the foyer window of the Harker house on Granville Place in Forest Hills Gardens, looking out at this strange new world into which he had awakened an hour before. He pressed his rough tongue against the tip of one of his fangs, and then he closed his eyes and whispered in his ancient Balkan tongue, "Ordogh! Come to me!"

There was silence for a moment, and then the soft voice answered him, the voice that he had known for so many centuries, that had kept him company through the long years of imprisonment in his own dust. "I am here, Little Dragon."

"How many people, Ordogh? How many did you say?"

"Legion, Little Dragon, legion. Millions upon millions in this city alone, hundreds of millions in this country, billions upon the face of the earth in this time."

The Voivode laughed. "Truly, Ordogh, this is a pleasant awakening."

"Yes, Little Dragon."

"And I am not known in this time?"

"Ah, but you are famous, Little Dragon. Yours is one of the most famous names in all the world. Every detail of your conflict in England a century ago is known."

A smug smile curled upon the Voivode's dead lips. "And it is all mythology."

"Yes, Little Dragon."

"And I am a hobgoblin, a fairy tale with which to frighten children."

"Yes, Little Dragon."

"And the nosferatu is dismissed as nonsense."

"Less than nonsense, Little Dragon. This is an age when men hide their deepest fears and instincts behind a mask of
rationality. Mankind has become a herd of sheep which does not believe in the existence of wolves."

The Voivode laughed louder. "A wonderful age for one such as I, Ordogh."

"Yes,
Little Dragon," the voice said. "Even Christians who believe in my Enemy and in Heaven tend not to believe in me or in Hell. And it is a violent age, Little Dragon. Men slaughter each other by the tens of million in wars and in death camps and upon city streets, and they have weapons so destructive that by comparison a cannon is but a stone knife."

The Voivode gazed again out at the street. "So I can kill as I please, torture as I choose, and no one will suspect."

"As I have said, it is a violent age, Little Dragon. It is not likely that anyone will notice."

He smiled, again flicking his tongue against his sharp teeth. "In this as in all things, you have been a faithful ally, Ordogh. I thank you."

The soft voice seemed almost to laugh as it said, "I assure you, Little Dragon, that the pleasure is all mine."

The voice faded away into nothing, and then Vlad Dracula turned and went back to the stairs that led down to the basement.

They were all still there, just as he had left them a short time before when he went to commune with his dark mentor. Quincy Harker stood at the foot of the stairs, holding his grandson Malcolm by the wrists. Jerry Herman was on the floor, sitting up against the wall, and Holly Larsen stood beside him, Rachel Harker firmly in her grasp. Lucy Westenra stood in the center of the room, near the spot where the pile of dust had once lain. All around her were open coffins.

Open, empty coffins.

Lucy was conversing in low, amicable tones with her three onetime suitors: John Stewart, Quincey Morris, and Arthur Wellesley. Wilhelmina Harker was standing beside her husband, Jonathan, their flings dinting their lower lips as they smiled at their great-grandchildren in a perverse parody. A familial affection, their eyes alive with appetite and the lust for blood. Professor Abraham Van Helsing was staring down at Jerry Herman, his pudgy dead fingers stroking his beard contemplatively. His aged eyes, though as red as those of the other nosferatu, burned as much with curiosity as hunger. But the hunger was there, too, and Jerry was shaking violently in his terror.

The Voivode descended the stairs and laughed softly as he said in thickly accented English, "And so, my old friends. Together again, after all these years." The six creatures whose dust and bones he had soaked with his own demonic blood an hour before now echoed his laughter. They had lost and the Voivode had won; but his greatest victory, his most exquisite triumph, was that they now were beings like himself, that they thus were joyful in their own horrible fates.

The Voivode walked over to Van Helsing and said, "You have caused me no end of trouble, my dear Professor, I must admit; but you had certain qualities I admired during our, ah earlier acquaintance. I have long anticipated the pleasure of hunting with you. We will have an interesting association in the centuries to come."

"I have hunger, Count," Van Helsing said hoarsely, his accent different from the Voivode's, but equally thick. "Why can I not have this boy?"

"Oh, come now, Professor!" the Voivode exclaimed. "After all that he and Lucy have meant to each other, that would hardly be fair. No, we shall all go hunting together shortly"—and he allowed his cruel eyes to drift from Jerry to Rachel to Malcolm—"after we have finished here."

Malcolm's hands were beginning to get numb from Quincy's tight grip, and he made yet another unsuccessful] attempt to pull away as he said, "You haven't beaten them, Count. Sure, you tricked them and escaped from them, and you beat us, but they lived and died natural deaths while you were trapped in your own remains. These poor things aren't Van Helsing or my ancestors or the others. They're just walking dust."

The Voivode approached Malcolm. "Everyone is but walking dust, my boy. Don't you read your Bible? Ah, no, you don't, that's right." He smiled. "And how fortunate that was for me."

Malcolm knew that death and its unspeakable consequence awaited him, and he refused to allow himself to be killed without first making the Voivode see how empty was his victory. "Go to any graveyard and dig up any bones, Count. Pour your blood on them and you'll have creatures just like these, and you won't have accomplished anything beyond what you've accomplished here. You failed, Count, and even though you survived that attack a hundred years ago, they still won, Van Helsing and Mina and Jonathan and the rest. You wanted Mina to be yours while she lived, and she wasn't. You wanted to kill the men who were protecting her, and you couldn't do it." Malcolm snorted arrogantly. "Why, you couldn't even get back into your castle before they caught up with you."

The Voivode shook his head sadly. "Oh, Malcolm, Malcolm. So poor an attempt to offend me."

"You've beaten me," Malcolm repeated, "but they defeated you. In the ways that matter to you most, they
defeated
you!"

"Oh, yes, in a sense they most certainly did," the Voivode said calmly. "They did better against me than you did, at least."

He turned when he heard Rachel Harker's derisive laugh. "Don't try to minimize what Malcolm is saying," she insisted, squirming against Holly's powerful grasp. "With all the powers you have and all your centuries of experience, you should be ashamed of how close they came to destroying you . . ."

The Voivode raised his thick eyebrows. "I am impressed, my dear Rachel. You and your brother are about to face death and undeath, and yet you do not cringe, you do not beg, you do not plead." He turned back to Malcolm and leaned slightly forward, baring his fangs as he smiled. "Even though I cannot admire your limited intelligence, I do admire your courage. I have always admired brave men, even when I hated them, even when they were my enemies. Yes, Malcolm, I admire you and your sister, even though I am unmoved by your pathetic attempts to insult me."

"Really? Well, let's give this a try," Malcolm said, and then spat in the Voivode's face.

The rage that erupted in the eyes of the vampire lord was awesome in its intensity, but it subsided in an instant. "It is true that condemned men dare much," he muttered. "You know what is about to happen to you, and you know you have no means of escape, and so your petty pride attempts to incite my wrath. But think on this, little Harker; I know that you carry the consecrated host in your pocket. I had intended to remove your shirt before I gave you to your great-grandmother, but now I shall not. You shall awaken to undeath with the agony of that wafer burning into your flesh. I shall remove your shirt before it burns down to your heart, and I shall let you heal, and then I shall inflict it upon you again and again. I know the pain you suffered from the sacrament in recent months. I assure you that it shall be as a pinprick when compared with what awaits you."

Malcolm shook his head. "That's all just bravado, Count. You can't touch the consecrated host, and we both know it."

"I don't have to touch the host, you little fool. All I have to do is touch the shirt."

Malcolm thought back on the agony he had experienced. He tried to imagine it magnified a thousandfold, and his already pale face grew whiter.

"And there is more," the Voivode went on. "You do not know—yet—the pain of needing to feed and being kept from feeding. But you shall know this pain, Malcolm Harker, for I shall starve you. And unlike the living, we cannot starve to death, for we are already dead; and your starvation shall torment you to a madness that will have no end." He drew himself up haughtily. "You are a peasant, little Harker, and you must learn your place. Were this five hundred years ago, there would already be a stake pushing its way out from your mouth." Malcolm lapsed into silence, and the Voivode looked over at Rachel. "And you guard your tongue, madam, lest I rip it out while you yet live."

Jerry Herman coughed softly. "Uh, excuse me . . . ?" He seemed to shrink from the burning eyes that snapped in his direction, but he continued to speak with his trembling voice. "Look, sir. I really don't have anything to do with any of this . . . I kinda got mixed up in this by accident, you know? . . . I'm not a member of the Harker family, and I promise that I won't tell anybody anything if . . .
"
His words trailed off into silence.

The Voivode stared at Jerry as one might gaze at an insect, and then, without even bothering to respond, he turned to Lucy and said, "Kill him."

Jerry screamed and tried to escape from Lucy as she began to walk toward him, but this was impossible with his hands tied behind his back and his legs tied together. All he managed to do was to push himself along the floor of the basement. "Let's not be troublesome, darling," Lucy said as she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. "We have reached our rendezvous with destiny, as they say."

"Don't . . ." Jerry pleaded. The dead mouth came closer and the fetid breath assaulted his nostrils, "No, please don't . . . please don't . . ."

Lucy licked her lips as she pulled Jerry's head back, and he cried out when she pressed her mouth against his throat. She drove her fangs into his flesh and began to suck greedily of the river of his blood. Jerry blinked and swayed and seemed to be growing weaker as she drained the life from him; but he was still conscious when he felt the fangs withdraw from his throat, and he heard an annoyed Lucy say, "And what is so amusing, Malcolm, if I may ask?"

Jerry looked over at Malcolm, and he realized that his friend was laughing, laughing loudly and deeply, laughing so hard that his entire body was quaking with the violence of his laughter. Quincy Harker maintained his relentless hold on his grandson's wrists, but the old man's face bespoke his confusion at Malcolm's behavior.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lucy demanded.

"You said that I'm stupid, that I don't remember things." His laughter was so overwhelming that it was a few moments before he could speak again. "I remember basic biology. I remember how long it takes the human body to metabolize and eliminate alcohol. I remember that the more you drink, the longer it takes." He collapsed into peals of laughter.

Lucy turned to her master. "What's wrong with him?"

"He is raving," the Voivode replied. "It has all been too much for him. His mind has snapped."

"Well, no matter," Lucy said, and shrugged. "He'll be one of us soon enough." But then she paused. She frowned and placed her hand upon her forehead.

"Lucy? Is something wrong?" the Voivode asked.

Lucy's eyes went wide with pain and shock and her pallid face grew suddenly very flushed. "No!" her voice rattled. "No!"

"Yes!" Malcolm shouted through his laughter. "Yes, Lucy,
my dear
!"

Lucy lost her hold on her victim, and Jerry fell to the floor as she stumbled backward, her eyes darting madly around the room. He managed to push himself over to Malcolm's feet, saying, "Mal, what . . . what . . . ?" And then he suddenly realized why Malcolm was laughing so hard, and he began to laugh along with him, crying, "That's right! That's right!"

The Voivode looked angrily from the two young men to Lucy Westenra. He grabbed her by her quivering shoulders and said, "Lucy! What . . . ?" but then he hissed and jumped back. Lucy's flesh had burned his hands.

"Consecrated wine!" Malcolm shouted, still laughing. "Not six hours ago Jerry drank an entire flask filled with consecrated wine, and it's still in his bloodstream. You just drank the blood of Christ, Lucy! You've just taken communion! You've"—and his laughter overwhelmed him again—"you've just gone to mass!"

Lucy Westenra clutched madly at her stomach and at her chest, opening her mouth to scream, but no sound issued forth save a low, gurgling moan.