Dracula Lives (24 page)

“Remember me?” he said. “I auditioned for Macduff. The one who must behead Macbeth to stop his insane quest for power. I
lived
that part, fool. I
am
Macduff. Yet still you did not cast me. I was compelled to show thee the error of thy ways.”

He turned the head to face him and leaned close, delivering his lines with his best Shakespearean diction to the final flicker in the fast-dimming eyes:

“Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. Cool it with a baboon’s blood….”

He filled his fountain pen with the blood still flowing from the neck, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and scribbled hastily.

There are many vampires among us. Those who suck blood are easier to detect, but it is the psychic vampires, who suck the life force from us, who do the most harm. Bloodsuckers like this one. Who have no talent but presume they can recognize it in others.

They must be stopped. I have begun the grim task. You can follow my trail of head crumbs instead of bread crumbs—ha HA!—but it will do you no good. By the time you find me, the worst of the vampires shall be headless, and I will happily join him in death.

The un-dead shall live no more.

In the Chamber of Horrors, Markov stood looking up at Vlad the Impaler like a worshipful follower. He spoke to his Prince in Latin.

“I can no longer serve you. The time has come for me to fulfill my—”

“Destiny,” Dracula breathed in the raspy voice of the grave.

“You know about my belief in destiny?”

“Yes. We all have our destiny. From the first moment of this unnatural existence, I knew mine was to wear the Crown of Dracula until a worthy successor could be found. Someone to perpetuate the line of Dracul.”

Dracula III’s eyes bore into those of his disciple. “My destiny and yours have become one. All these years, I have only been able to listen as you came to me—torn, seeking guidance, because you used your vampire blood to vanquish invaders into your territory. Now that I can speak, here is my decree:

“All who try to usurp our Crown must die. By whatever means necessary. I chose impalement. You chose the way of the vampire. Even better, because it gave us the blood for the elixir that kept us alive. The blood that will make us a race of beings to reign supreme for eternity. Not just over Wallachia, but
over all
.”

A hint of affection softened the fierce gaze. “You were the most loyal of my followers, and have become like a son unto me. Therefore, I hereby pass the Crown on to you.”

Markov stood transfixed, awestruck by the realization that his love of Dracula had led him to this. Returning Vlad’s affectionate gaze, Markov held up a finger. “Please, give me a moment, Milord. I have something for us.”

He opened a cabinet beneath the showcase and pulled out two small vials of the elixir, then walked around to the access panel on the back. He opened it and stepped through to stand facing the head. He removed the caps from the vials and held one near Vlad’s lips. “A toast to the new world kingdom of Dracula.”

“I hereby proclaim you Dracula IV,” said Dracula III. “My reign is at an end. Drink them both to give you the strength you will need to go forth and fulfill
our
destiny.”

Markov did as he was commanded and emptied the vials in two swallows, then reverently removed the crown and placed it on his own head. He felt the elixir surging through him as the vampire blood began to overtake the human. More of George Tilton’s soul was absorbed into the pit of darkness that was Dracula’s soul.

The eyes in the severed head bore into him. “The man you call Quinn mocks you. He cannot be trusted. Neither can your Johnny. They both must die.”

Markov—Vlad Dracula IV—grinned. “I will see to it forthwith, Milord.”

“Wear the crown well,” Dracula III said, a hint of a smile flitting across his lips. “You must see that our line never dies.”

Markov felt the weight of the crown settling onto him. Before leaving the Chamber he retrieved the impalement stake and looked at himself on the overhead monitor.

All traces of Lugosi were gone.

He
was Dracula now.

Standing in the wardrobe of his bedchamber, Quinn finished changing into cargo pants. From one of the suitcases he fished out the multitool he always brought with him when he was working in the field. A Boston detective had given it to him as a Thank You for helping crack one of their more difficult cases.

“Our SWAT teams use these,” Jack Thompson had said. “They’re like a Swiss Army Knife on steroids.” It had come in handy so many times on Quinn’s explorations he’d come to consider it a good luck charm. Thinking they’d need all the luck they could get, he inserted the tool into the pocket for concealing valuables—a cushioned zipper pocket inside the back of the waistband. He adjusted its bulk until it rested comfortably just below the small of his back, then stuffed Johnny’s cell phone and the skeleton key into the pocket with his flashlight.

Back in Johnny’s apartment, he fastened two magnetic wristbands around each wrist and ankle, then filled his baggiest pockets with as many wristbands and canisters of bear spray as he could without looking conspicuous. He left the bags of weapons in Johnny’s apartment for now—the one place that was off limits to Markov’s cameras.

Quinn exited Johnny’s safe haven and hesitated in the recessed entryway outside her door. Johnny had said she’d disable the cameras, but after ten minutes, Markov might get suspicious. The ten minutes had to be almost up. The cameras might be back on. Quinn wanted to sprint, but he’d have to walk at a normal pace in case Markov was watching.

He took a deep breath and entered the corridor.

Quinn had barely entered the corridor when something clamped onto his ankle.

He looked down in disbelief at a severed hand.

It was one of the webbed hands of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. He’d seen one in the barn with the models of heads.

One.

It couldn’t be digital. The hand had clamped itself over the two magnetic bands on his ankle and they were having no effect.

But it couldn’t be real.
The original Creature had only been a man in a suit.

The clawed fingers were squeezing hard enough to cause pain. Alarmed, Quinn stooped to pry them loose. As he reached for them, he took a quick glance into the opening at the wrist to see if there was a mechanism he could disable.

Thin wires ran down into the fingers.

Robotic.

No time to figure it out.

The hand squeezed harder. Its long sharp claws dug into his flesh. He doused it with a forceful stream of bear spray.

The jolt sent the hand flying. It landed palm up, clutching and flexing until it flopped itself over and began scrabbling erratically across the floor. Burrowing itself into a corner of the entryway, it kept flexing while rubbing itself against the wall, as if trying to scrape away the pain. Finally it came to rest on its back.

It couldn’t be entirely robotic if the pepper spray affects it….

The hand began to stir. Struggling for a few seconds, it managed to flip itself over. It advanced a few inches toward Quinn, then stopped and retreated to the safety of the corner, apparently wary of getting sprayed again.

Quinn moved to douse it with more spray. The hand must have sensed him coming, because it scrambled past him and skittered down the corridor. Quinn gave chase for a few steps before stopping. He had no time for chasing a mechanical hand all over the place.

Was Markov controlling it? Was this his way of trying to keep Quinn from discovering what was in the Garden?

He retreated into the entryway, hoping he wouldn’t be seen while he considered his situation. Markov had said these things were taking on a life of their own. Whatever, whoever was controlling it, the hand was not just another harmless example of his genius with special effects. Those claws had been intent on inflicting serious physical harm.

The questions still nagged. Had it merely been defending its territory? Or had Markov been sending a message—the director letting his actor know there must be no deviations from the script?

It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was meeting Johnny in the Garden and carrying out their attack.

Markov had repeatedly warned him not to go down the stairs by the Chamber of Horrors, but that was the quickest way to the Garden. He’d have to risk being seen.

Quelling the urge to sprint, he walked down the long corridor at a normal pace. It occurred to him that the attack by the hand could have been the beginning of Markov’s monster rally sequence, so he continually scanned the floor and his surroundings in case the hand or anything else might suddenly appear. A moment later he reached the top of the staircase. Standing in front of the suit of armor, Quinn took a last look around for any lurking monsters, then turned his attention to the staircase that led to the Garden.

He’d only taken a step toward it when from behind he heard a
whoosh
.

Something was sailing through the air toward him. He ducked. A rush of air ruffled the hair on his head. He sprinted a few steps down the stairs and turned back to look for the source of the sound.

The suit of armor had just swung its halberd. If he hadn’t ducked, it would have decapitated him.

The weapon returned to its upright position, and the suit of armor became still.

Quinn’s heart pounded an angry warning in his chest.

Did Markov just try to kill him? Or was this another case of him losing control?

Quinn pulled a magnetic wristband from his pocket and made his way back up to the landing. As he cautiously moved toward the suit of armor, he saw two spots of red glowing through the eye slits. He extended an arm to direct the full force of the two magnetic bands on his wrist at them.

The spots began to dim. He looked for any hint of movement from the halberd. There was none, nor any other signs of life. He snatched the halberd from its gauntlet-covered fist and opened the visor. The dimming red spots quickly went out. The suit was empty.

Had the red spots been eyes? Or was the suit of armor just a cleverly disguised part of Markov’s obsession with security, the red spots merely sensors programmed to maim trespassers who dared to use the stairs?

Quinn shoved the thought into the messy pile of questions that he now knew would never get answered. All that mattered now was for he and Johnny to execute their plan to bring about
The End
.

He dropped a wristband into the suit of armor for whatever good it might do, and moved the halberd several yards down the corridor to get it out of the armor’s reach.

Unless the armor could walk….

Quinn dismissed the thought with an impatient shake of his head. He couldn’t anticipate every conceivable possibility in a world where the laws of nature no longer applied.

He crossed the landing to head below.

He had just placed his foot on the first step when the shadow of Nosferatu separated from the wall to block his path. The black silhouette did not morph into a full physical being, but even as a razor-thin shadow, the unmistakable features were still chilling: the hunched creeping posture, the pointed ears, the aquiline nose, the long, pointed fingernails. Standing ten feet below Quinn on the next landing, the vampire shadow kept cocking its head as though confused by what it was seeing.

Or is it waiting for its next command? Has Markov sent another of his digital minions to keep me from discovering his secrets?

Quinn used the shadow’s hesitation to decide on what action to take.

The shadow couldn’t be real. It had to be digital. But how much of Markov’s spirit was in control? Max Schreck’s portrayal of Nosferatu had obviously affected him profoundly. If Markov’s theory that some of his essence had seeped into his digital creations were true, that animating force might be especially strong in even a shadow version of Nosferatu.

The black silhouette began creeping up the stairs, arms extended in the familiar gesture of the vampire about to envelop its victim. When it came within a few feet, Quinn held out both wrists.

The shadow vampire stopped, wavering as if uncertain of the danger. The magnetism must be having an effect, but apparently it wasn’t strong enough to completely overpower one of Markov’s darkest shadows.

Quinn decided to try something. He yanked three wristbands from his pocket and used their Velcro fastenings to join them into one long one. Securing this around his neck, he enticingly exposed his jugular while pulling a canister of bear spray from his pocket.

The apparition kept leaning forward then pulling back. Finally, unable to resist the river of blood pulsing beneath the flesh, it closed in. Against every instinct, Quinn held his position, finger poised to shoot a stream of spray. The phantom mouth opened as it came ever closer to his neck.

Six inches. Five. Four. Three….

The head sprang back. Quinn moved toward the shadow of the vampire. As the specter reluctantly backed down to the next landing, something happened that didn’t make sense. Even though the head was closest to the magnets, it began to disintegrate from the feet up.

Maybe the head is the most powerful part….

The disintegration continued until only the disembodied head hovered in the air. One bulging eye materialized, the vertical slit of its jaundiced yellow pupil fixing Quinn with its baleful stare. Finally it, too, fell apart, until it joined the countless black bits of decomposed remains scattered about the floor—the digital ashes of a digital vampire.

Just as the tension began to drain from Quinn’s body, another horror assaulted his eyes.

Some of the bits began to twitch and wriggle about. Only a few at first, but their numbers rapidly grew until the movement spread like a nest of conqueror worms tunneling under the skin of their corpse. What had looked like a jigsaw version of a Rorschach inkblot began to take a more definite shape.

The shadow Nosferatu was coming back to life.

Quinn dropped another wristband into the middle of the coalescing pile.