Diaries Of The Family Dracul - Children Of The Vampire Part 6

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing 20 NOVEMBER. Between this night and the last, the whole world has gone mad. The people I trusted most have all taken leave of their senses, and I dare not even trust my own.

I know only that my poor brother is lost to me, whether by his own design or someone else's.

After a dreadful night, I woke wanting nothing more than to convince myself that the scandalous tableau I had witnessed had been only a dream. But what I had seen was all too real; the image of it haunted me so that I rose before dawn and left early for the hospital, unable to face Stefan or my wife.

I immersed myself in work for some hours, which brought some relief-after all, the charity cases are so pitiable that my own problems pale. Who am I to compare my suffering to that of an indigent man blinded by excess sugar in the blood and about to lose his leg to the same cause? Or a twelve-year-old orphan dying of consumption? But too soon, the time came to return home for my afternoon appointments. The temptation was great to stay away and later claim some emergency had prevented me. Stefan, after all, shared my practise and would make sure no patient was turned away.

But I am a miserable failure as a liar; and I knew that sooner or later I should have to face my wife and brother again. Unlike my mood, the day was bright and sunny, the chill tolerable, and so I walked home and arrived there at my customary time, just before one o'clock.

I did not go at once to the kitchen, where I could hear from the clatter of dishes and the click of high-heeled slippers against the wooden floor that Gerda was preparing dinner. For some reason, I could not look upon her first. Instead, I went back to the medical offices and found Stefan, who sat in the examination room, surrounded by anatomical charts, apothecary jars, a human skeleton-the accretion of Papa's forty years of medical practise.

He was sitting at our father's desk, his elbows propped upon the shining polished mahogany, his head lowered, his hands clutching his forehead, his pale long fingers combed into his dark hair. The posture spoke of such abject misery that, strangely, my own eased; I found that I could gaze on him quite steadily-if not with forgiveness, then with pity. All the cold anger that I feared would betray itself in my voice melted away, and I said, quite softly and with honest concern: "Stefan? Are you well?"

He glanced up, startled by my presence. My brother is far better at dissembling than I, but even he could not hide his guilt; he looked away, unable to meet my eyes.

"You look tired," I said. In truth, he looked ten years older than the day before. Older, certainly, than the shadowy image of the lover who had- I censored the too-painful thought immediately.

But a flicker of emotion must have crossed my face then, for Stefan managed a sidewise glance at me and replied, very quietly, "No more than you."

I caught his eye at last, and we shared a troubled look. In that moment, much pa.s.sed between us without words; I have no doubt that he understood that I knew, but we were each too cowardly to speak directly to the matter. I opened my mouth, determined to end my complicity in this silence.

But before either of us could speak, the office door rang. We both looked up towards the sound; he jumped up as if prodded.

"I'll handle it, Bram. Have your dinner; I've already eaten.""Are you sure?"

In reply, he went to open the door.

I paused for a moment and watched from the corridor as he escorted the caller inside. A woman-I caught no more than a glimpse of her before I turned to leave, but what a spectacle! She was young and quite beautiful, dressed in furs and brocades and diamonds, with a sable m.u.f.f and matching cap perched atop a cascade of long red curls. And strikingly tall-the same height as my brother. I took her for a diva or an actress, for her china blue eyes were lined with kohl, and her lips were stained dark red.

Her voice-deep and sultry, heavily accented- marked her as a foreigner, a Frenchwoman.

A chanteuse, I remember thinking to myself, as it carried down the hall, for it was rich and melodious. A travelling chanteuse who had come to consult a doctor on the care of a much- abused throat, I suspected.

I left her with my brother and made my way to the kitchen, where Gerda and little Jan waited, she setting the plates upon the table, he flailing in his high-chair and crying out happily at the sight of me-holding out his arms, while his mother stood, preoccupied, with her back to me.

Grateful for at least my child's welcome, I went to him at once and scooped him up. He was laughing with exaggerated glee as he pulled at my beard, then released a hearty giggle that came from his belly. His joyful little heart is the one constant in this world, the one truly good thing that has not changed. It was pure balm for my wounded soul, and I indulged in it freely.

"Papa fly!" he crowed. "Papa fly!"

It is our special game. I stretched my arms up, up, so that I held him high above my head, and asked: "Are you an angel, Jan? Papa's little angel?"

"Papa_/?y!" he demanded.

"And so you shall," I said, and tossed him up into the air. He shrieked with delight, waving chubby, dimpled arms and legs as I called, "Fly, little angel! Fly!" and caught him.

Gerda always scolded us fondly, saying, You 'II hurt him, Abraham! Be careful! But to-day she only watched with a pale smile and, when I turned to look at her, glanced swiftly away and went back to the stove.

"Where is Mama?" I asked, over Jan's repeated demands for more.

She frowned down at the steaming cauldron and, without looking at me, replied shortly, "Resting. She will be down later."

I gave up all attempts at conversation then, knowing they would be in vain. Gerda has always been given to periods of darkness and is sometimes silent and brooding, especially since Papa's recent death; I have learnt not to be overly concerned by it, but that day it gnawed at me, for I felt I finally knew its cause.

She brought me my dinner, but I could not eat it. Instead, I picked at it and watched as she sat beside me and fed the child; he has become our shield from each other. In fact, I was grateful for her concentration upon him, for I was oddly close to tears at the sight of her.

She is so beautiful, so young, with her waving brown hair pulled back with ribbon, like a girl's, and ending just above her tiny waist in one long, loose curl. I know her heart: it is as simple and sweet as little Jan's. There is no guile in her, and no shame, only unremitting sorrow. I knew she sensed my pain and felt it as her own. I wanted to reach out, to rest my fingers upon the hand that fed my son, and ask her for the truth: Did she love my brother more than she loved me? Did she long for freedom?

It cannot happen, of course; Gerda herself would never permit it. She is a devout Catholic, and at best we would only separate, but never divorce.

As we sat in that uneasy silence, laughter came from the medical office: a woman's laughter, in a throaty, flirtatious contralto.

Gerda looked up sharply at the sound and, for the first time that day, spoke to me. "Do you think she is beautiful?"

Her question took me quite by surprise. "The patient with Stefan?"

She nodded. "I saw her from the window."

I hesitated. "She is pretty, yes." I turned towards my wife and fastened my gaze full upon her so that there was no way for her to avoid it, short of closing her eyes. "But it is a-vulgar sort of prettiness. Not true beauty."

And I took her hand. For one brief dazzling moment, she smiled shyly up at me; then the pain crossed her features again, and I thought she would burst into tears.

Just as suddenly, her expression shifted to one of alarm. She jerked her head in the direction of the office and looked up, frowning. "Did you hear that?"

I considered the question, and decided in retrospect that I had heard a thump of sorts, elsewhere in the house.

Gerda pushed to her feet. "Someone fell."

Her fearful conviction was so utter that I dashed to the edge of the stairs and called up to Mama.

She stepped from her room and came to the landing, looking so troubled, so haggard, so suddenly aged that the very sight of her disturbed me more than the mysterious thump.

"Yes, Bram? What is it?"

"Gerda thinks she heard someone fall." And at her look of confusion, I added, "Perhaps Stefan's patient fainted. I should go see if he needs help."

The sound of sudden heavy footsteps, a panicked shout, the slam of a distant door- I whirled. As I did, Mama came down the steps so quickly, she nearly lost her balance and fell. I looked back at her to find her expression one of utter panic, her hand upon her heart.

I clasped her arm to steady her, and together we ran back through the kitchen, towards the doctors' offices in the back of the house. Gerda scooped up little Jan, who began to wail, and followed.

I ran to the outer waiting room, where the door stood flung wide, letting in the chill winter air and revealing the busy street. On the other side, I espied my brother; he hurried away, his back to me, carrying the unconscious diva, her red curls spilling down over his arm.

A critical emergency, I a.s.sumed, as I watched him head for a waiting cab, and was surprised that he had not called for a.s.sistance. I dashed to the doorway and shouted out:"Stefan! Shall I meet you at the hospital?"

He did not turn, did not slow his pace; if anything, my voice seemed to galvanise him to move more swiftly. Quickly, he deposited his swooning patient inside the cab.

"Stefan-" I called again.

At that instant, Mama came to a stop beside me and let go a cry so shrill, so piercing, so anguished that I shall hear it ring in my memory to my dying day.

At the sound, Stefan, who had taken the driver's hand up and swung one foot inside the carriage, paused to glance behind him.

Despite the distance, I knew the face was not my brother's. Certainly the clothes were his, and the hair, but in that strange moment of revelation I saw the build was somewhat smaller, the gait not quite the same. Even the hair was not precisely the same, but slightly longer, a few shades lighter.

"Stefan!" my mother cried, as the impostor slipped inside and the carriage rolled away.

I stood dumbfounded, uncomprehending; and as I stared after the carriage, I caught sight of another man -bald and bespectacled, with a curling white mustache -running down the street in pursuit after them as he signalled for a cab.

None of it made sense to me-but my mother seemed quite sure of what had transpired.

She clutched my arm. "They've taken Stefan!"

"But that was not he," I whispered.

She took my other arm and gave me a shake, as though I were a stubborn, inattentive child.

"Follow them! They've taken him!"

Bewildered, I dashed outside in my shirt sleeves, waving my arms in hopes of procuring a cab. I ran, staggering through the mud, an entire block without success, until my lungs burned from the cold, sharp air. By that time the diva's carriage and the cab that followed it had both disappeared from view; impossible to guess which direction they both had gone.

I returned, gasping and defeated, and ran back inside, past my mother, wife, and wailing son, into my father's medical office, into the examination room. I had no idea what I was searching for-Stefan, perhaps (as if he could have missed hearing our repeated cries for him!).

There was, of course, no sign of my brother. But in the examination room where he had met the red-haired diva, I detected a faint, irregular odor. And on the carpet near the examination table lay a crumpled lace handkerchief. I squatted down to retrieve it and was nearly overwhelmed by the unmistakable smell of chloroform.

It was at that moment that my confusion transformed into honest fear. I still could make no sense of the events, but I knew something evil had occurred. I raised my face from the handkerchief to look up at my anguished mother and puzzled wife, both of whom stood in the doorway.

"We must call the police," I told them.

"The police cannot help us," Mama said, with such sorrowful conviction that I knew she was withholding some secret, some key that would unlock the mystery."Then tell me what else I can do," I countered. When she did not reply, I rose. "Please tell my patients that I will be unavailable until to-morrow."

So I seized my coat and walked down-not to the police house, as was my initial intent, but to the hospital. I hoped, I think, that my eyes had somehow deceived me-that it had truly been my brother who had carried the diva to the hospital, and that I would find him there overseeing her case.

But no one there had seen Stefan that day, and Iso, discouraged, I made my way to the police.

It was a waste of time. I do not mean to be uncharitable, for I have friends there who have shown me kindness; but my report was challenged, and insinuations made that Stefan and the lady were lovers and had eloped together.

Then I told them of the bald mustached man who had taken alarm and followed. They listened with greater interest there, for they knew of him; he is a retired detective of sorts, and known to the locals. But again, they made more insinuations: that perhaps the lady was married, and her husband had hired the detective.

At any rate, they agreed to hunt down the detective and question him. But until then, there is nothing that can be done to help Stefan.

Dusk had fallen by the time I returned home. All the way, I nursed the foolish hope that Stefan might have returned during my absence. But the house was silent, except for the sound of Gerda in the kitchen.

Mama met me at the door. I knew at once from her face that my brother was still lost.

More lost than I knew; for Mama gently took my arm and, in a low voice lest Gerda should hear, said, "I must talk to you alone."

She bade me follow her upstairs to her room. I did, and she sat in the rocking chair before the fireplace- the place where she had so often held my brother and me, comforting us when we were children. I sat across from her, in my father's chair, and for some moments we were silent.

At last she spoke, in a tone that was soft but somehow colder, firmer, more determined than I had ever heard her use.

"My son," she said, "you will think me insane for telling you this, but you must believe. We are involved with powers which cannot exist-but they do. They are not human, but they draw their sustenance from humans and cannot survive without us. And your brother is in grave danger from them."

"It is my fault. All my fault for not going to him last night, when I had the chance. For not telling him . . . and you, when you both had a chance to flee the danger."

She rose, went to her dresser, and took from the top drawer a small tattered book I had never seen. With a sense of reverence, she handed it to me, saying, "These are true events, recorded by my own hand more than twenty-five years before. This is no fiction; you must read, Abraham, and believe."

I read.

I read, sitting in my father's chair while my mother stared, disconsolate, tormented, into the fire. I read, but I cannot believe.My mother is the calmest, the steadiest, the sanest person I have ever known; in truth, I would trust no one-not even dear Papa, when he was alive-more than I would her.

But the story contained in her journal-it is the raving of a madwoman, a tale of inhuman monsters, of life beyond the grave, of pacts with the Devil himself.

And these forces have stolen my brother in hopes of digesting his immortal soul?

No. I cannot believe. I cannot believe. . . .

The Journal of Stefan Van Helsing 21 NOVEMBER.

I woke this evening to a new existence, a new world where the laws of science and reason no longer apply. Insanity reigns here; nothing is as it seemed, and the small misery that had been my life pales in comparison with the grand, sweeping horror it has become.

I am not even the man I thought I was-Stefan, son of Mary and Jan Van Helsing. No; I am a catalyst for disaster.

Let me return to that hour when I first laid my eyes upon this new world: Full consciousness took its time returning. For some time, I remained in a grey fugue state, neither awake nor asleep. I had a strange dream- which I now realise was no dream at all-of someone undressing me as though I were a sleepy child, removing sumptuous furs and silks, then reclothing me in my own trousers and waistcoat.

Eventually I grew aware of movement, of a rumbling vibration against my back, my legs, my head; later, I recall peering out a window to see an indistinct dusk landscape rolling past.

But attempting to focus my blurry gaze prompted a sickly headache and dizziness, and so I closed my eyes and yielded to darkness for a time.

When again I came to myself, I found I was sitting in a private compartment of a train with my hands bound behind me; a glance out the window revealed nothing but fast-moving blackness. Across from me sat a young man reading an aged tome bound in worn black leather ent.i.tled, in French: A True and Faithful Relation of What Pa.s.sed for Many Years Between Doctor Dee and Some Spirits. He was dark-haired, a stranger: but the face seemed oddly familiar and feminine, with smooth beardless skin and straight perfect features. I detected a smudge of kohl around the blue eyes.

"Who are you?" I whispered. Speech was difficult; my throat was parched and sore. I struggled against my invisible bonds and felt cold metal against my wrists; the nausea provoked by movement soon made me cease.

The man closed his book and set it down on the seat beside him. With a tolerant, faintly condescending smile, he said, "Behave yourself, please. No harm will come to you. In fact, my own safety depends on it."

The voice-it was deeper but still French-accented; I recognised it at once. "The woman.

You're the woman who came to the office."

Indeed, my captor seemed effeminate. I could not decide whether he was a woman now dressed as a man, or a man who had masqueraded as a woman, for his (her?) build was androgynous, tall and willowy, with no decidedly masculine or feminine traits.

The instant of recognition brought with it a memory of what had transpired in Papa's office: As I turned away from her following the examination, the red-haired woman had drawn close, had reached out with a gloved hand and clamped something over my nose and mouth.

I recalled, with a fresh wave of nausea, the stink of chloroform. I had struggled and been surprised to find my opponent's strength matched my own.

It made no sense, no sense at all. "What could you possibly want with me?" I demanded weakly.