Diaries Of The Family Dracul - Children Of The Vampire Part 13

Arkady saw where my gaze rested finally, upon the dragon impaled by a double cross, and again he spoke; I glanced over at him, startled, and saw with my own eyes that his lips never moved.

The Order of the Dragon. During my life, I foolishly believed it had been a secret political organisation, nothing more.

We moved on and at last arrived deep in the castle's windowless interior, in a corridor lit by more flickering sconces. Soon we pa.s.sed one open door that revealed a richly appointed bedroom with a roaring fireplace-yet here, too, the furniture and coverings spoke of decadence and faded glory. My guide slowed his pace, growing even more intent and stealthy, until at last we stood in front of another door left ajar.Arkady paused, the private distress he felt at entering this particular place telegraphed by his pale clenched fists, by the arms held tightly at his sides, as though he fought the urge to physically recoil. At last he stepped inside and I followed, to find that this much-dreaded chamber was but an ordinary drawing-room, brightly lit by a modern lamp and warmed by a fire, with three high-backed chairs-two gentleman's and one lady's-angled to view each other and the hearth. Between the two larger chairs stood a table, upon which rested a cut- crystal carafe and three matching goblets, each containing pale spirits poured from the carafe and glittering with the orange light cast by the fire. Two of the goblets were full, untouched, but the third had clearly been drunk from; it was only a quarter full, and lip prints showed clearly on the crystal rim.

The whole scene seemed innocuous enough, but Arkady hesitated at the sight of the third gla.s.s. His expression darkened so that I knew at once, without hearing, what he thought: that we were indeed too late.

Still, he turned away from the sight, away from the fire, towards a closed door gilded with a ribbon of light. And as he did, I heard his voice once more inside my head: They surely know you are here; we cannot prevent that. But stand aside, and do not enter until I call you. And above all else-do not look into their eyes. You are not yet strong enough.

Obediently, I stood behind him to one side, my right hand grasping my doctor's bag, my left the pouch containing the other crucifix-which, I swore to myself silently, my brother would soon wear (for my little son would be in my arms, protected by the cross on my own breast)-and the blessed communion wafer, which I had decided to use to seal the door behind us mortals once we made our escape. And in my right pocket lay the ether-soaked cloth-protection against more human foes.

Arkady straightened and grew utterly still; he was preparing himself for the strike, I knew, and though I could not see his face, I got the impression he had closed his eyes and slipped deep into a trance.

Suddenly he spoke silently once more inside my mind.

The room beyond . . . it has been sealed off on three sides by the placement of holy relics.

A trap for me-but let us use it against Vlad instead.

And when I addressed to him the thought that I understood, I sensed, rather than saw, that he faintly smiled in acknowledgement. But his tone immediately grew grim again.

It means that he has utilised a mortal agent recently- one who is, even now, nearby. I hear breathing, the rustle of clothing. . . . Be prepared for attack, mortal or immortal, from any quarter.

Another instant of stillness; and then I felt a cold force like a bitter winter wind sweep through the room. It howled down the chimney through the hearth, extinguishing the fire, pinning me shivering to the wall as it whipped my clothing and hair against my skin, then blew beyond me, past Arkady-who, though his hair and cloak were ruffled, stood immovable, straight and still and regal as an ancient bas relief of an Egyptian G.o.d.

With a powerful gust, the door in front of him slammed open, cracking the wood with an ear-splitting bang.

I was once a rational man, a man of science, proud that, since childhood, I had never entertained a single superst.i.tious thought. But in that moment reason deserted me, for that door opened not onto another room; nay, it opened onto another world, which I knew-not saw, nor smelled, touched, or heard, but knew-contained such brazen decadence, such pure evil, that the skin on the back of my neck turned to gooseflesh, and a chill coursed down to the base of my spine. I suddenly understood how desperation had provoked ancient man to rely on charms and superst.i.tions and prayers as protection from danger. At that moment, all scepticism deserted me, and I was profoundly grateful for the black pouch Arminius had pressed into my hand. Its presence alone brought comfort.

Even so, widi the door open, I could see nothing beyond Arkady, save an empty narrow foyer lit by the glow from an interior room. Fearful of being seen, I advanced slowly, timidly as he entered, his movements swift and strong and unafraid. While I hid, peering around a corner of wall, he pa.s.sed through the foyer into a grand high-ceilinged chamber, a place that might have served as a mediaeval banquet hall-or a cathedral, in this case one dedicated to the worship of wickedness.

On his left as he entered was a black curtain that hung from ceiling to floor, concealing an area large enough to be a small theatre; directly before him, a grey stone wall with a closed door leading to another chamber.

And on his right stood an ancient throne, set upon a dais of dark gleaming wood; and each of three steps leading up to the royal seat was inlaid with gold to spell the phrase: JUSTUS ET PIUS.

The throne was flanked by candelabra as tall as I, each bearing more than a dozen flickering tapers, and upon it sat the man I had just seen in the portrait, dressed now in flowing robes of scarlet and an ancient handwrought crown of gold and rubies. But he had changed, aged: his mustache and the hair that flowed onto his shoulders were now snow-white, and his face was so pale and gaunt, with the skin stretched tight over bone, that it appeared skeletal.

There was not a speck of colour to him except for his lips (which were as deeply red as the jewels that glittered in his diadem) and his eyes.

His eyes . . . My instinct, when first I saw him, was to turn in disgust from his bloodless, ghoulish appearance. For he lacked Arkady's compelling handsomeness-I knew at once I looked upon a monster, an unnatural fiend. Whatever magical glamour he might once have possessed had long faded; or so I thought, until I gazed upon those eyes.

Even at the distance I stood from him, they commanded notice. Their colour was utterly remarkable: evergreen, dark and eternal, yet as brilliant and flashing as the jewels in his crown. To look upon them was to be lost in that forest, entirely unmindful of the fearsome countenance in which those gems were set. I found them almost too beautiful to bear-and as seductive as the sirens' song, impossible to turn away from. But Arkady's advice returned to me, and reluctantly, I forced my gaze away . . .

To the golden chalice, studded with a single large ruby, which rested in his bone-white hands.

To my brother-dear G.o.d, to Stefan!-unharmed and whole, still dressed as he had been when I last saw him. He sat upon the stone floor a short distance from the throne, at the base of the three stairs. The room's chill seemed not to bother him, for his waistcoat was unb.u.t.toned, his arms behind him, propping him up, his legs sprawled out in front. The effort to sit up seemed almost too much for him; his head lolled drowsily, his dark hair tousled, uncombed, as though he was fully exhausted-or inebriated.

Yet his gaze was fixed on the occupant of the throne-until Arkady approached, causing Stefan to turn his face towards the intruder.

Ah, the love in that gaze! The utter grateful devotion! I thought it was directed at Arkady, his rescuer, and felt a surge of emotion that brought me close to joyful tears.

Then Stefan turned again to face his enthroned captor, and I saw-with a thrill of the bleakest horror -for whom that rapt adoration was meant.

"Arkady," the Impaler said in a voice as musical, as hauntingly lovely as his eyes, and just as incongruous coming from such a ghastly, lifeless face. "We have been expecting you. For it is the duty of every father to deliver me his son, just as your father so long ago brought you here to this room and with his own hand pierced your flesh, that you might be tied to your destiny-to the covenant."

When he uttered those last, I realised that upon his lap lay a dagger-silver, gleaming, bloodied. And round my brother's wrist was wrapped a white kerchief, stained with a single crimson blot.

The Impaler, Vlad, continued: "But you are late, Arkady; you should have come here the very day Stefan was born. Even so, we have waited, so that we might share with you our moment of familial celebration." And he raised the chalice in his hands like a priest offering consecrated wine to Heaven. "Stefan, thus I tie you to me, and this I swear: You and yours I shall never harm, so long as you support and obey me. Your blood for mine."

While he spoke, Arkady moved with immortal speed towards Stefan-who still stared with oblivious, drunken devotion at Vlad-then past him, towards the throne, clearly intent on retrieving the golden goblet. Before he could succeed, a small dark-haired woman in Roumanian peasant garb stepped between them, a crucifix held high in one hand.

Arkady recoiled at once and cried aloud: "Abraham!"

I was already in motion, propelled by love and fear, dashing into the midst of that conflict as fast as will and body would permit. My goal: to fling myself upon the woman and remove her from Arkady's path. For I remembered my mother's diary and Arkady's warning- that once Vlad drank of Stefan's blood, he would possess his will and know his every thought.

How, then, would we ever protect him?

But I was late, too late; ere I reached her, there was a flash of gold as Vlad upended the chalice and drank -and a sudden harsh cry from Stefan who clutched his skull in pain, as the talons of Vlad's control seized his mind.

At the same instant, the peasant woman lifted her other hand to raise one more protective relic-this one made of wood and bright, gleaming steel. And before I could halt my progress towards her, she leveled the pistol at me and fired.

I had advanced to where my brother sat-some few feet in front of my opponent-before the bullet struck at close range. It grazed the side of my left shoulder, gouging its way through flesh and deltoid muscle before pa.s.sing through.

Fortunately, my forward momentum continued to carry me to her, and the gun's report threw her off-balance. I knocked her from her feet, staining the front of her white ap.r.o.n with my blood. Both weapons clattered to the floor.

I stumbled down onto one knee and grabbed the kerchief soaked in ether. Before she could rise or retrieve the pistol, I clamped it down over her nose and mouth. With my other hand, I pinned her waist to the floor.

She flailed, pummelling my brow, my cheek, my chest. I managed to hold fast until her writhing grew feeble, then ceased altogether, and when her eyes closed and her head rolled limp to one side, I lifted the cloth, lest she inhale a fatal dose.

The act left me dizzied and groaning in pain. I sank onto the floor before the throne, struggling to retrieve my wits, to flee from the intoxicating fumes of the ether, unawares at that instant that the woman's fallen crucifix-and I, with my cross-lay between Arkady and Vlad.

Vlad's drink, Stefan's cries, the pistol shot, my struggle with the woman: all had taken two seconds, three, no more. I lay with my head on the cold stone, blearily aware of Arkady on my left side, calling for me to rise, to move aside, and Vlad on my right. Through pure force of will I pushed myself to a sitting position and saw: Vlad flinging the chalice against the wall, with such force that the gold rim was dented with a loud clang. Rising, gripping the gleaming dagger with such force that the ivory bones appeared to emerge from the skin, emerald eyes transforming, literally, impossibly, to the dazzling brilliant red of flame.

"Liar!" he screamed, in a voice no longer music, but the deafening rush of thunder, of all- consuming h.e.l.lfire borne on wind. His face was contorted beyond recognition, his ruby mouth a rictus, spewing spittle, revealing the sharp deadly teeth of a predator. Of a serpent; of the dragon. "Betrayer! Deceiver!"

In my daze, I knew not whether he spoke to Arkady, to Stefan, or to me . . . but now I believe he addressed us all.

I crawled at last to one side. Immediately, Vlad flew from his throne towards my brother- moving so swiftly that I believe he actually flew, for a blur of scarlet glided down the JUSTUS ET PIUS steps without ever seeming to touch them and collided almost at once with the hurtling blur of black and white that was Arkady.

The two struggled-again, travelling at a pace almost too fast for the human eye to record, the sound of their movements like the rushing of wind, the sound of their blows like the ring of stone against stone, not flesh against flesh. Around the chamber they spun, until at one point Arkady hurled his older, frailer nemesis against the black curtain, the gold and ruby crown falling with a loud clatter and rolling across the stone. The weight of Vlad's body upon the curtain caused it to tear with a loud rip; half remained hanging, but half dropped silently in a heap, to reveal a macabre vision in the shadows: A mediaeval torture chamber, equipped with rack, strappado, oiled glistening stakes of various sizes; and upon the wall, a set of black iron manacles, from which hung- G.o.d give me strength to write it, to set it down. It was a sight so obscene, so pitiful, I turned my eyes away at once as though stung by vitriol.

A woman; a poor elderly woman hung from the manacles. Naked and quite dead; bare, blue-veined feet swinging ever so gently in the air. Her arms were spread to form a wide V, at the base of which her head hung forward, blessedly hiding her face. But I saw her hair- still neatly braided and coiled and pinned, the grey-white hair of a grandmother, the same colour as her bloodless flesh, as the large drooping b.r.e.a.s.t.s whose nipples pointed downward to a soft, ample belly. That flesh bore red stripes-jagged lacerations inflicted by a particularly cruel nail-studded whip, a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Though I looked away, her image will be forever imprinted on my memory.

Arkady paused, stricken by the sight; a second, no more, but it was time enough for Vlad to recover and whirl towards us all.

And from the depths of his scarlet robes, he raised an arm, white and sinewy, and hurled the dagger.

So quickly had he moved when he descended the throne, I had not realised he had taken it.

Amazed, I watched the silver flash as it flew past Arkady as he turned in dismay to follow its path-and saw a blur of black and white as he vainly tried to s.n.a.t.c.h it from the air. I watched until it found its mark: not Arkady, no; he was not Vlad's target.

Not Arkady, but my brother's heart.

My brother's heart.

Stefan, my brother, you have done no wrong that can equal my failure to save you; that can ever outweigh your sacrifice.

The act seemed to me pure madness, for everything I had understood about the covenant suggested that Vlad would do anything to protect Arkady's son; that Stefan's mortal wound had just signed the Impaler's death warrant. Such pure madness it was that Arkady and I froze, unable to do anything but watch in horrified disbelief.

Stefan gave a single sharp cry and fell back. That sound, that single dreadful moment of realisation, galvanised me like an electric shock; relieved my pain and lifted me to my feet, propelled my legs so that I staggered to my brother's side, dragging with me my doctor's bag.

Ah, but it could have done no good.

Arkady was already kneeling at Stefan's side; I knelt at the other and cried aloud myself to see the dagger's handle protruding from the centre of his chest. His shirt and coat were already covered with blood, which spilled onto the floor, onto my knees; the blade had pierced his heart, but it might just as well have pierced mine.

I did not remove it; it would only have caused him further agony. He was already grey- skinned, panting, with lips parted and eyes dimming yet still filled with bewildered love as he looked up at me.

He could not speak. I know not for whom that loving gaze was intended-whether he was still under Vlad's sway or whether he recognised my face. But I know now he meant his final loving act for me; so I claim that look as my own and prefer to remember that moment between us as unsullied, untainted by the evil surrounding us.

Arkady and I held his hands as he died, still wearing an expression of sweet devotion. In my sorrow I did not look up as a loud thump came from behind the closed door to the inner chamber, did not react as that door opened. Had any more of Vlad's human agents appeared, I should have sat, a willing target, while they emptied the pistol. Even the strange, evil new world I had entered had flagrantly disobeyed its own rules and gone insane; all meaning, all sense had vanished.

I glanced up at last at the sound of a feminine scream, to see in that doorway an astonishingly beautiful woman with long, dark hair and features that betrayed her relation to Arkady and Vlad. She gaped stricken at Stefan's death tableau, then up at Vlad, who now stood in front of his throne, blazing with wrath.

"Fool!" he shouted at her, with a vehemence that made her recoil. "Vain, witless harlot! You have brought me the wrong man!"

His words provoked from her, from Arkady-from me, despite my grief-a gasp. Again, my overwhelmed mind could not grasp his words, could not understand them; could not understand why he had not killed me instead of my brother, even when he stretched out his hand to me and, with once-more dazzling emerald eyes and the most dulcet of tones, said: "Stefan, my child, in this very house you were born; and fate has decreed that to this house you would return. Come to me now. . . ."Chapter 15 The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing, Cont'd.

I looked up from my brother's cooling body, from his vacant, slack-jawed face, his clouding eyes, emptied now of any trace of the love that had dwelt there, and was overcome by fury towards his murderer.

Towards myself. In the pa.s.sion of the moment, I still did not understand why Vlad had addressed me as my brother; I only knew that he was not worthy to speak Stefan's name, nor I to claim it.

"My name is Abraham," I told him bitterly.

Beside me-reaching out as if to shake me back to sensibility and stopped by the invisible shield created by the crucifix round my neck-Arkady urged: "Do not speak to him! Do not look at him!"

But I, in my foolishness, thought my hatred sufficient to protect me from that magnetic evergreen gaze. Too overcome to speak, to think of a curse vile enough, I glared at Stefan's murderer as though my eyes could pierce him like the dagger that pierced my brother.

Yet he responded to my hatred with the same beautiful voice and eyes, holding out his hand, beckoning. "No; that is the name your mother gave you-after she brought another child into your house, a child she has used cruelly, selfishly, to keep you from your birthright; to deceive us all. To deceive, I see now, even your own father."

I drew a breath, ignoring Arkady's pleas, which suddenly seemed muted, very far away.

"How-how do you know such a thing?"

"The truth is carried on the blood, my son. And I have tasted it. This false Stefan-this impostor-had been recently instructed by your conniving mother to deceive us both.

Justus et pius, my son; I am harsh, but just to those who betray the covenant. And the penalty for betrayal is death."

Reading what I have written now, I recognise that his words reveal his megalomania, his utter self-absorption-and a total callous disregard for the man he had just murdered. But hearing them then, I heard only the beauty in them, the logic, the love. His gaze had captured mine, and I felt myself falling, down, down into that same dark and sensual vortex into which Arkady had pulled me upon the train, when he had nearly taken my life. I felt a distant thrill of fear, of desire to struggle, to emerge from that void-but it was superseded by a dreamy euphoria, a sense of forbidden ecstasy. The effect was much like that of opium, yet far more intoxicating. My grief blessedly vanished, replaced by the deepest pleasure I had ever known. Why should I not remain there? Evil had triumphed; but was this really defeat? Vlad's actions were merited, given his situation-and he would never, never harm me.

I would be cared for here. I would be treasured . . . and if I wished, I would never need experience sadness again. Indeed, all my sorrows were the result of struggling against my proper fate; and if I yielded, if I embraced my ancestor, no more harm would come to anyone. And I could spend the rest of my life in this dreamy bliss. . . .

I rose, scarcely mindful that the knees of my trousers, my legs, were soaked with Stefan's blood; and that the shoulder and arm of my jacket and coat were soaked with my own.

Scarcely mindful of Arkady's shouts, both within my mind and without, I took a step towards the throne, then paused and, with my right hand, pulled the gold chain of the crucifix over my head. I held it out at arm's length, and for a tantalising moment-feeling like a ready virgin who holds the last obstacle to her seduction-watched it dangle in the foreground of my vision, against the backdrop of Vlad-waiting, himself fascinated, mesmerised by the turn of events.

Nothing could have penetrated my trance, or prevented me from dropping the cross and taking my place beside Vlad: not Arkady's cries, nor his desperate presence as he stepped between me and my distant ancestor, nor the sight of poor Stefan's corpse. . . .

Nothing, save the faint sound of my son, in the other room wailing . . . and his subsequent appearance in the lovely vampire woman's arms.

I turned towards the inner chamber to see her in the doorway, holding Jan. He was beaming, my little son was, beaming at the sight of me-and perfect, unharmed, his pale skin glowing with health, his round cheeks faintly flushed. Such a welcome sight! It drew me from my stupour, so that my grief over Stefan's death, the ache in my shoulder, came flooding over me once more; but alloyed with that pain was tearful joy.

I withdrew the arm that held the cross and kept it in my one hand as I held both arms out to my boy and cried his name.

And he chuckled, a sound that was pure balm to my stricken heart, and reaching for me in response, he called out: "Papa! Papa! Jan fly! Jan fly!"

To my dismay, Arkady again stepped between me and the object of my desire. With a wrath as blazing and awesome as Vlad's, he shouted at the woman: "Zsuzsanna! How could you betray me thus? You, my own sister!"

I cried out in disappointment, tried to move around him to my child as I called Jan's name.

With blinding speed, Arkady moved again, again, again between us, blocking me from the reunion I most craved, calling out to the woman: "Why have you betrayed me? What heartless creature have you become, Zsuzsa, that you are capable of this? You are indeed nothing more than his wh.o.r.e, for him to command!"

Little Jan wriggled from her arms, falling to the ground but regaining his balance at once with unchildlike grace. Meantime, the woman's exquisite face had grown livid with wrath in response to her brother's accusation. Yet despite her fury, her great dark eyes filled with tears, which soon spilled down her cheeks.

I expected, from her magnificent rage, that she would strike out at him. Instead, she drew herself up with dignity.

"And what of you, Kasha?" she hissed, which such vehement force that her words seemed to lash out at him like a whip. "Have you remained so n.o.ble and untouched all these years?

How many have you killed in the name of your martyr's vengeance? Do you drink their blood only out of the desire to save your son-or do you continue to walk this earth because you, too, find this unlife seductive? Because you, too, cannot let go? Or are you truly so eager to experience the eternal delights of h.e.l.l?"

Her words struck him with far greater force than any physical blow; he fell silent and hesitated an instant, no more.

It was enough. Enough for me to surge past him, to open my arms once more to my child, who cried out again, with heartfelt glee: "Papa, flyl"

"My little angel," I murmured happily as he bounded to me-for a toss over my head, I expected, for his favourite game. But instead, my child leapt up and-impossibly-hurtled towards me with preternatural speed through the air."Papa! Jan fly-"

He came to a sudden stop, his tousled curls mere inches from my outstretched hands, and there he hovered, his sweet brilliant smile turned into a grimace of aghast fury.

I stared back at him, heartbroken, spellbound, not by the mesmerising embrace of his bright blue eyes- his oma's eyes-but by the very horror of what he had become. Still holding the cross aloft, I closed my own eyes before that gaze engulfed me, and sensing Arkady beside me, I heard at last his words: He is lost, Abraham. For all our sakes, we can do naught but leave.

"But I cannot abandon my child," I whispered. "How can I leave him here-in such a place?"

They can hurt him no further. Nor, at this time, can we help.

Still I wavered, torn, and opened my eyes to see Jan hovering in the air before my hand- the hand that held the cross-like a malignant cherub. Testing, I lunged forward with it, shoving it into his face; he recoiled, hissing like a threatened cat, baring his teeth to reveal tiny fangs just as sharp, but far more deadly.

"Leave him!" Arkady ordered, giving me an abrupt shove--though he never touched my flesh; but the ripple created by his hand sweeping through the air almost made me lose my footing. "Leave, Bram! There is nothing we can do: Your child is dead."