Diaries Of The Family Dracul - Children Of The Vampire Part 18

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing, Cont'd.

22 DECEMBER.

Arminius was correct. Though I never again partook of his strange brew, my keener perceptions and ability to sense and control auras have remained and in fact been strengthened through further exercises under his direction.

Days and nights bleed together. It seems I have spent a lifetime under Arminius' tutelage, but it has been only weeks. I am in a perpetual state of exhaustion similiar to what I experienced in medical school, but my grisly studies are now of an altogether different breed of cadaver.

Upon occasion I find myself mysteriously transported to cities and towns across Europe, both eastern and western; this I know is due to Arminius' intervention.

Most times, however, I resort to more mundane means of travel and spend many hours in trains and carriages in search of Vlad's malignant sp.a.w.n. I have visited towns and cities in Hungary, Roumania, Austria, Germany, but I know little of them beyond their nighttime streets and dawn mausoleums. And with the rescue of each potential victim from the vampire's maw, with the release of each trapped, tormented soul, I feel my own powers grow.

I have written Mama and Gerda to explain my absence, but there was no way to put such words on paper and make them sound sane. I pray my mother understands. Coward that I am, I could not relay little Jan's true condition; I told them a far kinder lie, that the child was dead. I could not also break to Mama the news about Arkady and Stefan. That I shall save until I see her face-to-face-if ever that time comes again.

And what of my poor wife? So long as Zsuzsanna exists, Gerda remains in danger because of the marks left on her throat. I cannot rest until my darling is freed, and our child avenged. .

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing 9 JANUARY 1872.

No respite. Stronger still. Though the task grows in some ways easier, the grimness of it pervades my soul. In the hour before dawn-the hour before I strike-the dark burden so oppresses me, I sink to my knees, silently crying out: Father, take this cup from me. . . .

But once stake and hammer are wielded, I and my victim release a final sigh, grateful for rest.

Justus et pius. I am harsh but just.

When finally I sleep-at odd hours parenthesised by sunrise and dusk-dreams of my family haunt me. Stefan, Gerda, Arkady-and most of all, little Jan. They cry out to me from their individual purgatories; they beg for help I cannot yet give.

Soon, my child. Soon.

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing 23 JANUARY.

After a month traversing eastern Europe, I returned to Arminius' den for respite and further study. He has brought to my attention an ancient ma.n.u.script known as the Goetia, or The Lesser Key of Solomon, a guide to the summoning of demons. "Understand this," he says, "and you will understand how pacts are forged, and how Vlad remains in communication with dark powers." It is a fascinating and frightening subject.

But I cannot remain.

I dreamt again last night of little Jan-as the mortal child he once was, with guileless, loving eyes and his grandmother's sweet, even temper. But surrounding him was the bleak grey stone of Vlad's castle; and as the image coalesced in more detail, I realised he was held fast in Zsuzsanna's lovely, treacherous grasp, struggling to break free, holding out his plump little arms towards me: Papa, come! Please, Papa. . . .

He smiled at first-the scared, tentative little half-grin he sometimes gave when fighting tears. But the more he reached for me, the more the vampiress tightened her grip, forcing down his little arms and pinning them until the poor boy could not move, could do nothing but break into helpless sobs.

Oh, Papa, come!

And in my dream I wept in anguished frustration as the woman leaned her head down to cruelly bite his neck, her long hair loose and spilling over him like a blue-black veil. The barrier hid him so I could not see; but I could hear his feeble wail as she pierced him.

The detail grew sharper once more. I saw they stood together on the stairs, beneath the portrait of the Impaler, wavering with candleglow. And as I watched, the green-eyed image in the portrait stirred, moved, and turned its haughty gaze on me.

Mocking laughter.

And then a hysterical scream: Papa, come!

He is only a child; he cannot speak with the eloquence of an adult, yet his frantic tone conveyed to me a wealth of heart-rending information.

His torment grows daily, and no one but I can free him. I must go to him. His trapped soul has cried out in its anguish and touched mine.I woke, weeping and convinced. The dream was simple and swift but possessed of such emotional power that Jan's image haunts me during my waking hours.

After a near-sleepless night, I spoke of it darkly to Arminius this morning, over a breakfast of gruel with sheep's milk.

He did not reply for some time, which is his custom; and when he did, his tone was careful, his dark eyes averted. "It is a common thing for a vampire to haunt the dreams of a loved one."

"Perhaps," I said, defensive. I sensed his disapproval, even though I could see no overt sign of it in his bland expression, hear no sign in his voice. "But that does not mean he needs me any less. I am strong now. Strong enough to defeat Vlad and put my child to rest."

He pushed himself back from the table, his eyes focussed on the oats in his bowl, and released a long, low sigh. There was no recrimination in it, yet I sensed a coming disagreement and tensed for an argument.

Again there came a pause. At last he lifted his gentle gaze and answered, "Abraham. You are strong, true; but not yet strong enough to defeat Vlad."

"But I am!" The helpless rage that had filled me in the dream overcame me again. I struck the table with my fist, causing the milk in my cup to slosh over the side. "For the past two months, I have done nothing except rid Europe of the scourge of the undead! And none of them-none of them-could overpower me. None could escape. Two months of my life, gone! How much longer must I wait? How much longer?"

He fixed on me a look of infinite understanding, infinite pity, and parted his lips to say one word. Years.

At that I jerked to my feet, incensed, raving. I screamed as I flung my terra-cotta bowl against the mantel and took angry satisfaction in seeing it break into shards. Milk and oats flew through the air, spattering onto the mantel, the hearth, and poor Archangel, who leapt up growling.

"You are asking me to let my son remain in that- that h.e.l.l, with those two demons. You are asking me to surrender his memory, to surrender my wife, to surrender my very life, and replace it for years to come with purgatory for us all! I am strong enough, I tell you! Strong enough, and I can bear no more. Vlad must be destroyed, and now!"

At the calm compa.s.sion in his soft brown eyes, at the quizzicalness in Archangel's white ones, I gulped in a breath. And when I released it, I was startled and ashamed to find it accompanied by ragged sobs, torn from my very core.

I collapsed back into my chair and covered my face, struggling to regain control. A warm hand touched my shoulder; the act of comfort only brought more tears.

"Abraham," Arminius said. His tone was gentle as a mother's, yet stern as a general's.

"There is no other way. Can you not see that Vlad manipulates you even at this distance?

He has grown weaker and fears for himself. So he has made your own son attempt to betray you-to draw you to him."

His last words rekindled my ire; had he not said them, I might have listened, might have been convinced. But his insult to my child made me even more determined. I rose again and glared down at him with tear-blurred sight. "Jan would never betray me! He is only an innocent child, and my son."He studied me in silence for a time. And then I believe he sensed my resolve, for he sighed in weary defeat. "You have free will, Abraham. Evil compells; goodness, by its very nature, cannot. I will not hold you here if you wish to go. But mark this well: I might not be here when you return."

When you return, he said, not if. He was that entirely certain I would fail and come back begging for his help. The thought again rankled, and in my emotional, exhausted state, I made no effort to control my temper.

Instead, I went straightaway to my cot and gathered up my belongings. And just as I had so long ago stormed from my house in Amsterdam, slamming the door on Mama and Stefan, so I now slammed the door on Arminius without another word.

Chapter 20.

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing, Cont'd.

With my cloak and my bagful of medicine and weapons, I strode out to the neighbouring barn, which housed sheep, a few chickens, and the two horses that had drawn my carriage. I fitted only one with reins and threw a blanket over her back in lieu of a saddle. The carriage I did not need. Though the last week had grown unseasonably warm and melted most of the snow, the mountain pa.s.ses were still treacherous and icy. My chances were better upon a single mount.

Thus I rode-foolishly, without provisions or water-until daylight waned. To my confusion, a journey that I remembered as taking no more than a handful of hours now took an entire morning and afternoon and part of the evening as well. By the time I reached Isten Szek- G.o.d's seat, the magnificently high snow-capped peak in the Borgo Pa.s.s-it was washed with the rose-orange tint of sunset.

Still I rode. And when, some hours later, I arrived upon Vlad's family estate, night had fallen utterly. Taking care to remain undetected, I went not to the castle but to the family home I had seen in a dream (or was it more properly a vision?), the night Arminius rescued me from an icy death.

There it stood in the moonlight, upon a slope of dead gra.s.s peeking through half-melted snow. Beyond to the north the forbidding stone turrets of Vlad's dwelling jutted into the heavens, their predatory blackness blotting out stars and light and indigo sky.

I entered the home of my ancestors with a deep sense of awe and obligation, with a sense of their presence. This was indeed a house haunted by restless, whispering ghosts. For when I at last managed to light lamps and tapers, their portraits stared beseechingly at me from the walls-pleading for help, for release from torment.

How could I refuse them? For my own son was among their unhappy ranks.

With lamp and bag in my hands, I found my way up the stairs to the little chamber I knew was waiting: The nursery, with dried-out braids of garlic framing the window, and its poignantly empty cradle. Here I took my rest for the night, on the floor beneath a Byzantine wall icon of Saint George the dragonslayer. I lit the votive candle and whispered the prayer I remembered from my mother's diary: Saint George, deliver us. . . .

But I could not help feeling I prayed only to myself.* * *

And on a morning bright and blue and bitter cold, I went to the castle. I took great care to prepare myself mentally, adjusting my aura so that not even the Devil himself could hear my breath, my step, or smell the scent of my warm living blood. I crossed the short distance between home and castle on horseback, trying not to remember the single short word Arminius had spoken, the word that had sparked my ire and frustration: Years.

I was convinced of my ability to destroy Vlad, still angered at the mere thought of the accursed existence that word doomed me to.

As I rode, I marvelled at the view that had been earlier hidden by the night. In the distance stood the wintry white peaks of the Carpathians, sparkling in the sun as they spiralled high into the heavens: an awesome sight for one accustomed to the flat broad expanses of Dutch polders. This was not the drab colourless landscape it had seemed the night before; the soft hills and steeper mountains were bright with evergreen. Indeed, there were trees everywhere, more than I had ever seen in one place: gigantic pines in the forest, and orchard after orchard of bare-limbed fruit trees surrounding the estates. In spring, the area must be fragrant with bloom.

Overall, it was a scene as cheerfully blue and white as the Swiss Alps-until one looked to the northern sky and saw the huge sinister grey towers of Vlad's castle overshadowing the estate.

Soon I arrived at the castle's main entrance. The looming structure sat on a great three- sided cliff, so that on all but its front face was a sheer dizzying drop down to thick evergreen forest; beyond those wilds lay the steepest mountains in the Carpathian chain. The building was indeed a fortress, impenetrable from all sides save one.

Once I gained entry, I did not hesitate but found my way quickly to the terrible throne chamber. It was empty, devoid of any sign of the violent struggle that had once taken place.

The corpse of the aged woman, Arkady's body, Stefan's, had all been removed. No trace of their final agony remained, save for the large dark brown stain upon the stone where my brother had died.

I did not linger at the sight, nor permit myself the luxury of sorrow at the memory it evoked. My brother would be better served by my hardening my heart and completing the task at hand; the time for mourning would come later.

So I stepped quickly, lightly, soundlessly through the great chamber, to the door that led to the much smaller room within-the room from whence Zsu-zsanna and little Jan had emerged. It lay half ajar, as though in invitation.

I entered without fear, without hesitation, without thought other than attention to maintaining my protection and silence.

But had I not been so prepared, the sight that greeted me would surely have filled me with unease. Against the windowless room's far wall stood an altar draped in cerements of black, upon which a single candle burned. Before that candle, carefully arranged, sat the golden chalice and a round medallion on which was etched a five-pointed star.

The malignance, the evil that issued forth from that altar provoked from me an involuntary shudder. For it was surrounded by an aura the likes of which I had never seen: one of such utter darkness that it did not glow but rather seemed to emit a hunger, an unalloyed darkness that consumed all that came near it-all light and life and love. And before that altar lay two coffins: both polished ebony but of different size, the larger being draped with a banner bearing the emblem of the winged dragon. From each issued the unmistakable blue-black glow I had learned to a.s.sociate with the vampire; but the smaller's aura was feeble compared with that of the larger, which radiated a dark streaming brilliance to match the glory of the setting sun.

I stood some time before those coffins as I contemplated Arminius' warning. Should I yield and make no attempt to destroy Vlad now, instead limiting my attack to the safer, less cunning target of Jan? Or should I surrender to instinct and risk the danger, in hopes that Vlad's second death would free my little boy from his monstrous existence, without his suffering any further pain?

Reason could find no hold in this father's heart.

Softly, I placed my bag upon the ground and retrieved from it the stake and mallet. With my mind set upon the cross shielding my heart, and the stake held aloft in one hand like a spear, the mallet in the other, I lifted the coffin lid.

Inside lay Vlad-completely white-haired, with skin pallid and drawn so tight over sharp features that he had lost his illusion of handsomeness. His eyebrows had grown wild and bushy, his ears faintly pointed at the tips. His normally ruby lips had faded to pink and were slightly parted to reveal the darkly yellowed fangs of an ancient predator. He looked altogether like the monster he truly was.

And upon his chest, sweetly aslumber, lay my son.

I quailed, tempted to lower the stake, to let it drop to the stone, to surrender. But the memory of Stefan and Arkady, of the dream where Jan begged for my help, bade me hold it fast. Summoning all my protection, all my courage, all my resolve, and banishing all sympathy and familial love, I placed the tip of the stake -as tall as he, poor child!-above my sleeping son's heart.

Such a perfect, handsome boy, with his golden curls and the smooth, plump, impossibly soft and unblemished skin of childhood! With pale, blue-veined, gold-fringed lids that hid his grandmother's eyes, and his beautiful mother's fine features- Papa, come! Oh, Papa. . . .

I cannot write of the horror of that moment when I lifted the hammer above my head and brought it down in a mighty, ringing blow. Oh yes, it was swift and merciful, but there are no words, no words that can relay a father's anguish at such a deed. I am Abraham, and he was my Isaac; but this time, G.o.d did not rescue, did not provide a subst.i.tute sacrifice.

The weapon plunged deep into my poor child's body-but no farther, for my strength was not enough to also pierce the heart of him who lived by the stake and so richly deserved to die by it.

Jan screamed, a cry high and shrill and utterly inhuman, as he opened eyes afire with terror and rage.

It was not my son's voice, not my son's eyes; this was merely his sh.e.l.l controlled by a malevolent force. Yet I grieved for him just the same. Despite my precautions, despite my efforts to steel myself, I could withhold my emotions no longer but let forth a loud sob while my little boy writhed, thrashing limbs, champing teeth.

But of a sudden he fell still, and the evil glamour veiling his features parted to reveal a sweetly mortal face, like storm clouds scattered by the wind to reveal the sun's bright rays.

He entered peacefully into eternity with his blue eyes open wide, and I watched as the darkness in them gave way to the guileless, loving expression I had known.

His peace gave me strength. I raised the mallet to strike again-a blow that would echo throughout h.e.l.l.

A force, burning cold, clamped down upon my wrist: Vlad's hand. Startled, I looked beyond Jan's eyes to see a second pair-this one ancient and crafty and compelling.

Come to us, Stefan. . . .

I felt his dark aura surge forth and attempt to engulf mine. The grip on my wrist tightened until I thought it would crush bone; the mallet dropped from my hand and struck the floor with the bright clang of metal against stone.

Instinctively I sent a rush of energy to protect my heart and leaned lower towards my attacker, which caused the cross to dangle low over his face. He disengaged as though my flesh scalded like vitriol, and leapt from the casket. The act sent me tumbling backwards and poor Jan's staked body spilling out onto the floor in front of me.

I fumbled for my bag, then crawled towards his little corpse and crouched over it protectively, desperate to wield the blade and complete the act that would bring his young soul freedom. All the while Vlad stood before us, stretching out his arms, his voice soothing, beautiful, the voice of my true father: "Stefan. My child, look at me."

I disobeyed, refusing to meet that magnetic green gaze, instead keeping my attention fixed on the task at hand. But ere I could retrieve the knife, a fiendish shriek came from the smaller coffin as the lid was flung back.

Zsuzsanna sprang forth like the ills of the world escaping Pandora's box, jet hair now gilt with silver at the temples. Her appearance, though still formidable, had lost its freshness, like a rose that has begun to drop its petals. Her frame had lost its womanly curves and grown thinner, bonier, while her features had, like Vlad's, taken on a taut severity. Shadows had begun to gather beneath her sculpted cheeks, her eyes-eyes that had lost their soft brown-gold colour and now blazed h.e.l.lish red, like the eyes of an animal catching the lamp- light at night.

She was still beautiful, yes-a beautiful monster.

At the sight of Jan lying on his side, little arms flung forward, hanging limply above the cruel stake that emerged from his chest, she howled again, a sound that chillingly evoked Gerda's keening. And as I knelt behind my son, reaching for the knife that would free him, she struck the air in a sweeping gesture-with a fury directed at me.

I thought it an empty, frustrated gesture, as the cross held her at bay. But in the next instant, I was pummelled by a blast of wind that lifted me from my knees and slammed me backwards against the stone wall.

I struck it with a force that cracked ribs and skull. The sharp blow to my head knocked all thought from it as I slid, stunned, to the floor and pitched forward onto my elbows. But the worse pain was in my chest, when I attempted to take even a shallow breath. I closed my eyes and fought to gather myself, to find the strength to rise to my feet, even to my knees, while Zsuzsanna screamed: "Murderer! You've killed my child! And now you'll pay in kind!"

Her words cut through my disorientation; and despite it, they provoked such anger in me that I opened my eyes and whispered, though I yearned to shout: "He was never yours.

Never! Just as your life is not your own but stolen from other's."

But she was too lost in rage to hear my words; instead, she shouted out past me, at the doorway, "Kill him! Kill him-he has murdered the child!"