Dracula Lives (31 page)

Quinn needed to find something to restrain her with before he left. Even in her weakened state, she could pose a threat. He grabbed her by the arm and squeezed. “Come with me.”

She swung her free arm at him. He blocked the feeble attempt and squeezed harder. “You can make this hard or easy. But I don’t care if you’re in league with Satan himself, you’re coming with me.” He squeezed harder. She howled in pain as he dragged her to the kitchenette. Still holding onto her arm, he rummaged through drawers and cabinets. When he opened the knife drawer, she shot her free hand into it and tried to grab a knife. He slammed the drawer on her hand.

She let out a sound that was half moan, half scream, and looked at her hand as though she thought it might fall off. Rage blazed in her eyes. “You’ll pay for this.”

He ignored the threat and kept searching. Under the sink he found a clothesline still neatly coiled in its original cardboard holder. He jammed it into his waistband and dragged her to the four-poster bed. He swept her up onto it, then pinned her by sitting on her with his knees on her arms. Her feeble struggle lasted only a moment before she became still. Quinn pulled out his knife and cut the line into four pieces, easily overcoming her resistance as he tied her by the wrists and ankles to the four posts.

At the foot of the bed he took a last look to make sure she was secure. “Rest in peace,” he said, and headed for the door without waiting for a response.

On the way to the door he noticed the two canvas bags full of weapons he and Johnny had left there. One was filled with magnetic bracelets and bear spray; the other had a hammer and stakes, wolfbane, garlic, the flamethrower, an extra can of fuel, and the pistol with the silver bullets.

Wanting to be ready for anything, he grabbed the bags and exited the chamber.

As eager as he was to find Johnny and finish Markov, Quinn needed to get out of his wet clothes first. They were sticking to him and impeding his mobility, which could get him killed.

He sprinted down the corridor in the direction of his chamber. As he neared the corner where this hallway intersected the next, a warning jolt of adrenaline brought him to a sudden stop.

The Grim Reaper was gone.

Markov had removed the wolfbane so his undead could escape … freed Elinore to become his mummy … the Creature from the Black Lagoon was alive … the pterodactyl … now this….

Clearly Markov’s monster rally had begun. And he was in the middle of it.

Moving warily past the Reaper’s empty pedestal, he eased around the corner just far enough to see if Death was waiting for him.

The corridor was empty. Quinn moved cautiously to his door several steps away. He hesitated before entering, thinking of all the things that could be waiting on the other side of the door: the Grim Reaper with its scythe; the suit of armor with its halberd; the severed hand. The undead could have come up the secret stairway and be hiding behind the bookcase.

Anything was possible. Nowhere was safe.

He had to press on and find Johnny.

He set the bags down and pulled out his flashlight. He opened the door to his chamber slowly, probing the darkness before entering. When he saw nothing moving and heard no sound, he followed the beam of light a few cautious steps into the room. To his right, on the far side of the chamber, faint moonglow in the oriel was the only other illumination. Everything else was cloaked in darkness. He pulled the bags inside and closed the door. Continually casting his light about, he went to his wardrobe and reluctantly set the flashlight on a shelf to free his hands.

He grabbed a towel and dried himself off, then quickly changed into a dry version of what he’d been wearing: long-sleeved T-shirt under a pullover, cargo pants, fresh socks and hiking shoes. He transferred the multitool from the wet pants to the security zipper pocket inside the waistband of the dry ones. When he reached the door, he opened the bag with the magnetic bands and bear spray. He fastened three fresh bands around each wrist and ankle, filled his pockets with the bands and spray, and closed the bag. Before exiting, he made one more attempt to reach Johnny on her cell phone, knowing it would probably be futile.

It was. The line was still completely dead. He put the phone in an empty pocket and took a moment to decide where to begin looking for her.

They had originally intended to overpower Markov in the Chamber of Horrors. Even though that plan had been shot all to hell, it was the only thing he had to go on. He would start there. He picked up the canvas bags, exited his chamber, and began moving quickly down the long corrridor. A short distance past the entrance to Johnny’s apartment, a disturbing sight made him stop.

The Grim Reaper lay in a lifeless pile on the floor, its skull smashed to dust. Johnny’s spear gun lay nearby. It had been fired. A little farther down the corridor was the scythe Death used for harvesting souls.

Johnny must have confronted Markov here.

A horrible vision of her writhing on his impalement stake inflamed Quinn’s seething anger. He kept it in check by telling himself she might be somewhere safe, that she might have defeated him.

He pulled a canister of spray from his pocket and shoved it into his waistband, then continued down the hallway, hesitating when he reached the entryway of the Chamber of Horrors. As much as he needed to have the weapons with him, if Markov was in there, and saw him walk in with the bags, the element of surprise—Quinn’s only real advantage—would be gone. Markov might even be lying in wait on the other side of the door, which made it imperative that Quinn have both hands free from the moment he walked in.

He pulled out the flamethrower and left it within easy reach. He shoved the pistol with the silver bullets into his waistband beside the bear spray and concealed them under his pullover, then placed the bags in the far corner and went to the entrance.

Flickering shadows cast by the gaslights animated the painted gargoyle leering down into an eerie semblance of life. Dante’s inscription at the entrance to the Inferno flashed in Quinn’s mind: Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

He tore his attention away from the lurid mural to prepare himself for whatever might await beyond the door. Steeling himself against the possibility that Markov might already have defeated Johnny—and was waiting inside to do the same to him—Quinn entered cautiously, pausing inside the door while his vision adjusted to the movie monsters forever poised on the brink of attack. In Markov’s impossible otherworld, any one of them might start moving … might even come after him.

He scanned the shadow-filled room for any sign of movement. Nothing seemed to be amiss. For a moment he was struck by Markov’s skill at lighting. In the discreetly hidden and carefully focused illumination, his collection of monsters appeared to be—like Nosferatu—emerging from a sinister world of shadow on an eternal hunt for humans to satisfy their unnatural cravings.

As he weaved his way through the Chamber, Quinn’s senses remained on full alert, even as he thought of the thousands of hours Markov must have spent in here. His movie world, his forbidden planet, inhabited only by monsters and demons. At the far side of the room, Quinn approached the exhibit that represented the origin of the Dracula mythos, and its continuation in the warped vampiric realm of his spiritual descendant. Set apart from the others in the far corner, the internally lit display case cast a surreal glow. The stark contrast between the lighted showcase and the surrounding darkness made Quinn think of the infamous tenant as a disembodied soul, doomed forever to be poised at the threshold between the dead and the living.

He reached the exhibit and peered into the gloom to see if Markov was lurking there. He wasn’t. Quinn’s attention was drawn into the showcase of Markov’s most prized relic.

Even with its eyes closed, the face behind the glass exerted a mesmeric pull. Quinn wondered how much of the irresistible attraction was due to simple fascination with the Dracula story, and how much had to do with Markov’s claim that this was the severed head of Vlad Dracula himself.

The subdued spotlight brought the faintest trace of color to the deathly pallor, but there was no sign of life. Still, Markov had insisted this was not a sculpture, but the real thing. And that it had been kept some semblance of alive for over five hundred years.

If Markov’s story were true, Quinn was staring into the face of a ruler whose altered blood continued to flow in the veins of a demented carrier of his vampiric bloodline. A ruler who, besides lopping off countless heads himself, had spilled a sea of blood during a reign of unspeakable cruelty. A reign that had included thousands of impalements, the stakes usually driven through the anus or vagina and coming out the mouth.

He tried to pull himself away to continue his search for Johnny, but as he probed the face for any sign of life, his gaze kept being drawn to the eyes. With his focus narrowed onto the closed eyelids, he wasn’t sure if he’d seen a slight movement lower on the face.

Had the lips just twitched?

Perhaps it had been a shadow caused by a flicker from the spotlight bulb. He kept his attention centered on the mouth while widening his field of vision to include the bulb.

It continued to burn steadily.

This time there was no mistaking it.

The lips were moving.

Another movement behind the eyelids.

They sprang open.

Accusatory eyes locked onto Quinn.

The mouth opened and a long, shuddering groan oozed out. The fierce gaze sharpened into a piercing beam of hate.

The mouth spoke with a Romanian accent.

“You … must die.”

A rustling noise made Quinn jerk his head around. Markov emerged from the shadowy void beyond the showcase, dressed in his familiar black.

Oh Christ. Where’s Johnny?

Markov wasn’t wearing the glove and goggles he used to animate his creations, but his portable master control was attached to his hip.

Vlad could still be one of his special effects. And whatever else he might have running around loose
.

Quinn pulled out the bear spray. His finger was poised over the trigger button. “Stop right there. Where’s Johnny?”

“Wait!”
Markov held out his hands to show he wasn’t holding a weapon. “I am not here to harm you.”

“Bullshit. I’ve just barely escaped being killed by a bunch of your monsters, while you were going after Johnny as Vlad the fucking Impaler.
Where is she
?”

“Below. I came to my senses at the last second. I locked her away to keep her safe while I came here to pull myself together.”

“Locked her away?”

“In the dungeon.”

Quinn wanted to empty every canister of spray he had on this madman, but that would enrage him, and rage was one of the triggers that could turn him into the Wolf Man or Dracula. If they were part digital, even the silver bullets might not stop them.

It took every ounce of self-control for Quinn to quell his anger. He shoved the bear spray back into his waistband. “Vlad just opened his eyes and looked right at me. He told me I must die. Is he one of your robotic creations?”

“No. This is what I wanted you to see for yourself. It cannot be just magnetism or some outside influence.” Markov nodded at the severed head that still watched them. “Who knows what forces I … he …
we
have unleashed in this cauldron that draws the lightning—as though my home were a relay between a digital Heaven and a digital Hell?

“All things generate energy. Perhaps the electromagnetic waves I have released into the ether have combined with—not only the electromagnetic and neurochemical impulses of my body, and the vampire blood of the elixir—but with my psychic emanations as well.”

Fire came into Markov’s eyes. “The energy coming from my very soul, Mr. Quinn. The essential It.” He thrust his face forward.
“The animating force of life itself.
”

Before Quinn could respond, Markov went on, pointing at the severed head.

“
He
is inside me now. Joining the others in taking on a life of his own. And it has been getting worse with each full moon. I particularly dread this one.”

“Why? You said ending your film on the night of the Blood Moon would add the final note of perfection.”

“And so it will—but only if all goes as planned.”

“Are you saying it might not?”

“I can no longer say anything with certainty—except that the monsters within me have been stirring.”

“The Wolf Man came after me an hour ago. Looking a lot like you.”

“It
was
me.”

“And then you became Dracula.”

“Yes. But that wasn’t the first time. I had made his lizard crawl from my chamber to the window of the Garden. I saw you and Johnny plotting against me.”

So he knew.
“The Garden. A very cute name for the place where you’ve hidden dozens of people you’ve stolen to prolong your unnatural existence.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“And so must Johnny and I. I’ve seen glimmers of the battle you seem to be fighting against the forces that drive you to kill. A battle you are clearly losing, which is forcing Johnny and I to do what must be done.”

“Can a soul be reclaimed from the Devil?” Markov asked.

“Yes. But the owner of that soul has got to want it. Which means that this alter ego you’ve created must cease to exist.”

Quinn’s gaze plumbed the depths of whatever the “essential It” was that had turned this man into Markov. “George Tilton,” he said, “if you are still in there, you must regain control of yourself before anyone else is harmed.”

Steeling himself against any reaction, Quinn waited to see if whatever was left of George Tilton was strong enough to overpower the Dracula blood coursing through his veins. Markov’s attempt at the defiant Lugosi stare quickly melted into acceptance of the truth. “Once again you have cut to the core of the matter. From the moment you arrived, Mr. Quinn, your voice of sanity and reason—your
humanity
—has made the Monsters from my Id feel threatened.”

He paused, not for dramatic effect this time, but simply to gather himself. His iron composure was crumbling, but he quickly regained it. “The toxic atmosphere I have created permeates the castle. It has seeped into Johnny and myself.” He gestured toward Vlad Dracula. “In that brain that I have so diligently kept alive, his brainwaves have become inextricably connected to mine. And try as I might,