Dracula in London Part 4

and vast puzzlement.

Good. It was about time he noticed her.

He delayed answering. In all likelihood he'd never encountered one such as herself.

Another few days pa.s.sed before prudence surrendered to curiosity, and she sensed hisapproach to Carfax not at night, but at noon. Perhaps he thought that like his own, her un-natural powers would be at their lowest ebb in the sun, and preferred to keep things on a physical level where he would have the advantage.

She went down to the abbey to greet him, perching primly on one of the boxes, not so much to make a point, but because it wasn't layered with dust like the rest of the stinking sty.

The great door opened, and he paused on the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness within. It left him beautifully silhouetted. If Sabra had a crossbow in hand and been so minded, he'd have much regretted the error.

Tall and thin, with a cruel sensual face, and a fierce intellect alight in tiger green eyes... yes, that poor girl had stood no chance against him at all. Few would. There was a poisonous aura around him that boded ill to any who brushed against it, like a carrier of plague.

He came in slowly, his harsh, red-flecked gaze fixing on her like a fiery arrow. He took in the boxes, certainly aware that they'd all been interfered with, made useless to him.

"Did you do this, woman?" he demanded, his voice rumbling so deep with suppressed fury that it stirred a breeze around him. The place was in need of such; the air was unbreatheably thick with grave-stench.

"I'm not responsible," she replied, holding to an even tone. "But we must speak-"

"Who are you, woman?"

Well, she did not care for that contemptuous address. As though being a woman was a weakness. And she would never give him her true name. Names held power; he had quite enough already. "You may call me Miss Smith. And you?"

His red lips twitched. Amus.e.m.e.nt or scorn? Probably both. "I am the Count de Ville. I own this place. Why are you here?"

He had a sense of humor to go with his arrogance. With but a small shifting of accent one could p.r.o.nounce it as "Devil."

"Very well, Count de Ville. In the name of Queen Victoria I command and require that you give an explanation for your activities since you've come to this land."

His stare was priceless. "What?"

I've never been very good at presenting credentials, she thought. "I shall be brief, but you must listen and think most carefully. The evidence is that you committed murder on the high seas, the ship on which it occurred is still at Whitby Harbour, along with its logs. The evidence is that you did seduce and willfully murder a young woman, but not before transforming her against her will to become one of your own breed, the motive as yet unknown. These are most serious crimes, Count de Ville, and they must be answered for."Another long stare, then a roaring bark of laughter that filled the room. "You do not know with whom you are dealing."

Hm. Romanian accent. Probably one of those minor princes so used to having his own way that he'd forgotten how things were done in the outside world.

"I may also make the same observation," she responded. "I remind you that you are not in your homeland, but mine, and are answerable to her laws."

"English law?" He spat.

Older than that. Much older.

De Ville looked carefully around, scenting the heavy air.

"There are no others here, sir," she said. "You will find this to be a most singular court."

"You have me on trial?" He seemed ready to laugh again.

"Indeed, yes. Use your common sense and respect what it tells you about me."

He glared. She felt an icy hand caress her protective wards. His gaze turned inward as he concentrated, eyes rolling up in his head, palms out as he delved past surface appearance. "You have Knowledge. But it is not such as to help you here."

"Count de Ville, you are a man of great intelligence, yet you are ignoring some very important danger signs. I strongly suggest you heed them. Would I be here alone with you if I could not take care of myself? Would I have even been able to call you here if I did not have considerable skills at my disposal?"

He was silent, thinking. Past time for it, too.

"Now, sir, let's us get to the business at hand. Explain yourself."

"I will not."

There were ways around that. She fixed him with her own gaze, tearing past the protective hedges now that he was close enough. What she found was revolting.

He was old, but not ancient, and another name was in his mind... Vlad, Son of Dracul, yes, that was it. She'd heard of him, quite the vicious devil against the Turks in his day-and his own people. He was decidedly savage to any who challenged his authority. She swiftly closed off a random vision of a forest of writhing bodies impaled on stakes and moved on to his present-day concerns. He had plans to establish himself in England. The British Empire, right or wrong, was the seat of real political influence for the world. He'd once been in the center of such a maelstrom in his distant land between the forests. He wanted to resume that sort of absolute control again, but on a much larger field. He had some very specific plans on how to do it, too. Sweet G.o.ddess, if he ever got to the Queen or the Prince of Wales...Frozen with surprise, he gave a start and tried to throw her from his mind. She withdrew at her own speed, leaving him panting from the effort of trying to hurry her.

"What are you?" he asked, when he'd recovered.

"You already have the answer, but my apprenticeship was very much elsewhere than in the h.e.l.l-depths of the Scholomance."

"What know you of that?" His shock was such that he'd lapsed into Romanian. Still in tune with his mind, she was able to translate.

"I know much. I know that you are gifted with the Talent, but you do not see beyond the gratification of your own needs. You do not see forward to the consequences of your actions on yourself or others or the general balance of all things. That is blind and blatant irresponsibility. You've grown careless and foolish or you are simply mad. And your ambitions are such that I cannot allow you to continue unchecked."

"You have not the strength to stop me."

d.a.m.n. He possessed more arrogance than wisdom. She'd hoped to be spared the ordeal of her dream. "Sir, let it suffice to say that I am used to dealing with real monarchs, not some incognito lordling with delusions of his own importance. You are an invader here, I see that now, and, by the authority of the queen I serve, I command and require that you immediately leave and return to your homeland."

She did not remotely imagine he would go quietly. From her touch on his mind she understood there was only one way to deal with him, only one thing he would respect. And she also understood the play of her initial dream, why it had ended in that manner.

He reared to his full height, like a cobra preparing to strike. "Ah, but I see it now.

Talent and power you do indeed possess, but as for delusions of importance... you are nothing more than an escapee from that ridiculous madhouse across the way. Unfortunate for you, young woman. But you are comely, and for that I shall make it pleasant."

The first wave of it stole suddenly over her like a heady perfume. Sweet, but that was meant to mask the underlying bitterness. It was most potent, though, and deeply compelling. Sabra felt her body willingly respond to his seduction, though her emotions recoiled. She could physically fight it, but it would do her no good, for he was bigger and stronger. She could magically fight it, and win, but he would have to die. She had no objection to killing, having done her share in the past, but her Sight told her his was a different destiny, entwined with that of the hunters. She knew better than to fight Fate.

He drew close, looming over her, eyes flaming with hunger, desire, and triumph. She smiled dreamily, as that poor girl must have smiled, and waited as though enspelled for him to take her.

He did indeed make it pleasant, murmuring softly in his own tongue, tilting her head to one side with the light touch of a fingertip. His breath was warm on her bare throat, his kiss gentle. Under other circ.u.mstances she might have welcomed him as a lover, but theywere too far apart in spirit for that.

Then he held her close and tight, and bit into her flesh. Though he did not rend it like the wolf in her dream, the effect was the same. She gasped from the sudden pain, felt her blood being strongly drawn away, as though he were taking life from her soul, not her body.

Perhaps he fed on souls, enjoyed corrupting innocence. That would explain his lengthy torture of the girl.

Nothing like that for me, Sabra thought. He intended to drain her dry. He pressed hard upon her, drinking deep.

She allowed it, waiting.

He was not the only one adept at blood magic.

But... hers was far older.

All that was of the divine-no matter the faith-was his bane. He'd chosen his dark path and thus made it so. And if the Host repelled him then so would...

His strangled scream, when it came, made it all worth it.

He reeled away from her, hands clawing at his mouth and throat. Staggering, he crashed against one of the boxes and fell. She watched his sufferings, showing no expression, but with a great lifting in her heart. Sometimes justice could be most satisfying.

Vlad, son of Dracul, writhed in the dust, choking and groaning his agony. She'd seen such symptoms before, but then the effect had been from strychnine, the convulsions so strong that the victim broke his own bones from his thrashings.

"In my veins runs the chill doom of Annwyn's hounds," she explained, rubbing her throat as the flesh knitted up. "They will harry you forever, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of the Scholomance."

He shrieked, twisting.

"You feel also the holy fire of Cerridwen."

Another shriek, his back arching, then he abruptly collapsed and went still.

Sabra stood over him, taking in the ravages her blood had executed on what remained of his soul. He yet lived, but the fight had gone out of him. When he finally opened his eyes to her, they were suffused with terror.

"Return to your own land, dragon's son," she whispered. "This place is not for you."

Telegram from Mina Harker to Van Helsing: "Look out for D. He has just now, 12.45, come from Carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the south. He seems to be going the round and may want to see you: Mina."

The Dark Downstairs

Roxanne Longstreet Conrad

Here, now, Nora, dry your eyes. I know it's a sad day, but we should all get about our duties now. She's in a better place.

What, you want to hear about Dracula? At a time like this? Go on with you, you must've heard the story a dozen times by now, what with Mr. and Mrs. Harker and all the rest of 'em in and out of the house-oh, I know, they don't gossip to servants, but still, who notices us? Stand just outside the parlor, ear to the door-I know the tricks, missy, don't think I don't.

Hush, now, keep your eyes on your work. There's Mrs. Bannock, she'll have the hide off of us if we don't finish these by teatime. What was we talking about? Dracula, indeed.

Well, Nora, I never did see half what they say happened at Hillingham, and believe me, I was in the thick of it. No dogs, nor wolves, nor any of that foolishness. Dracula? Yes, I figure as I saw 'im, but believe you me, he weren't he worst of it. Not by a long chalk.

They'll never tell that part of it, 'cause it doesn't concern the Quality.

Who does it concern? Us, of course. The downstairs. The servants.

'Ere, you need that knife? Give it over. Now, where was I? No, I'm not telling about Dracula, I'm telling you about Elizabeth Gwydion.

First thing you have to know about Hillingham is that it's been in the Westenra family for centuries, a good old country house in Whitby, near the sea-the family come down from London every season for the summer. By July Mrs. Westenra and Miss Lucy had arrived, along with Miss Lucy's friend Mina Murray-yes, Mrs. Harker, but she was Mina Murray then-and they brought Rose with them as ladies' maid. In the house there was Mr.

Gage, the butler, and Mrs. Ravenstock, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Brockham, the cook, and of course me upstairs, and Penny, and Jeannette the parlor maid and Alice the downstairs maid and Kate the tweeny, and Mary in the scullery, and Joseph the boot-boy, and George the footman- What do you mean, a large staff? Small enough, for the size of Hillingham, I can tell you. Up at five, bed at midnight; some things never change, eh? For all Dr. Van Helsing's such a kind man, still things have to be done, don't they?Where was I? Oh, yes, the staff. Well, that was the staff at the start of July, but it didn't stay that way, 'cause of Rose, who got herself in trouble with a young man. Well, you can well imagine, Mr. Gage sent her packing without a reference. Poor Rose, she were crying something awful. Elizabeth Gwydion showed up the very afternoon, to Mrs. Ravenstock's relief-Welsh, they said, neat as a pin, a bit foreign-looking, skin like the finest, palest cream. Pretty? Oh, if you like. Too pretty, to my mind.

I was polishing the hamster rail when she came sweeping up, head high, the way great ladies do; she was looking at those stairs as if she'd bought 'em whole. I knew she was going to be trouble-did you know, she wouldn't even let us call her Liz? No, it had to be Elizabeth, like the Queen herself. And Mrs. Ravenstock thought she hung the moon.

She had skills, I suppose. She was good with stains; when Miss Mina cut her finger and got blood on her best blue gown it was Elizabeth who took it away to clean it, wouldn't give it over to the laundry maid Gracie at all. 'Twas Gracie who carried the first tale about her, I suppose. She whispered to me as how she saw Elizabeth sucking the blood out of that dress, like a half-starved woman licking at spilled soup.

Poor Gracie. Dead two days later in her bed when I went to wake her, her skin blue and cold, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. No sign what killed her. Mrs. Ravenstock said it was her heart, but the poor little bint was only fifteen. Poison, I say. But as n.o.body sent for the constable, it'll never be proved.

With Gracie gone the work got harder. Soon enough we found we was washing the sheets as well as ironing them, and doing most of Elizabeth's work as well. Mrs. Ravenstock told us to stop our complaining. She took Elizabeth's part every time, no matter the cause; the way she looked at that girl fair gave me a turn. And Elizabeth looked at her like Mrs.

Ravenstock was a cream pastry at afternoon tea.

Dracula? I told you, I'm getting to him. Now be quiet and listen, stop wiggling like a wet puppy. All right, now, where was I? Oh, yes, Gracie was dead, poor soul, and upstairs, Miss Lucy was having her own troubles. Sleepwalking, the way she used to as a child.

Nothing to fret over, I said at the time, but of course I was quite wrong about that.

I made an enemy out of Elizabeth Gwydion about then. It was over a little thing, really, sounds ever so stupid. It was over me being Catholic. Mind you, now, the others tolerated it right enough. "Oh, Mary Margaret, she's heathen," they'd say cheerfully, though not where the Mistress could hear. Mr. Gage knew I kept to my faith, and he said nothing about it. I even wore a crucifix, under the neck of my dress, of course. That was what caused the trouble. I was bent over scrubbing the floor and my crucifix must have slipped off, it fell on the floor and I didn't notice it.

Well, Miss High-and-Mighty Elizabeth stepped on it as she walked by, and screamed like she'd put her foot on a nail. Hissed some foreign words at me and all but slapped me, she did; kicked over my bucket, water and soap everywhere, and flounced off with her cap-ribbons bouncing. Well, naturally, I complained of it to Mrs. Ravenstock, but she told me I must have overset the bucket myself and to mop up the mess and not to carry tales.

The look in her eyes was like she'd had herself an opium pipe. Well, I wasn't content to be leaving it at that-after all, I'm not a clumsy cow, and there was no call for Elizabeth to dosuch a thing. The row brought Mr. Gage, who called Elizabeth down.

She lied, of course, but Mr. Gage didn't believe it. He gave her a dressing-down such as few of us had ever heard, and when she looked at me there was a smile on her lips, but murder in her eyes, and I knew that wasn't the end of it.

The next morning there was broken gla.s.s scattered on the floor next to my bed. I might've cut my feet bad except that I got up on the wrong side to pick up my Bible, which had fallen off the nightstand. When I struck the candle I saw the gla.s.s glittering like ice, and my skin crawled, I can tell you. I hadn't heard a thing, not breaking gla.s.s, not someone creeping around in the dark. I could well imagine Elizabeth Gwydion's pale hands scattering that gla.s.s, her bloodless face bending over me as I dreamed.

What do you mean, what did I do? Got a dustpan and cleaned it up, of course. And smiled at her nice when she pa.s.sed in the hall as I was sweeping wet tea leaves on the carpet to lay the dust. Smiled for all I was worth, I did. Confusion to the enemy!

The next day there was something in my tea. I barely touched it, but still it made me sick, sick enough that even Mrs. Ravenstock let me take an hour to lie down in the evening after supper. That was when I dreamed.

I dreamed there was an adder in the house. A black shining adder as glided from room to room, winding around the feet of the servants. An adder that wound itself around Mrs.

Ravenstock's ankle and oozed up under her skirts. I fair screamed the house down in my dream, but n.o.body heeded. She went on with her mending, and all of a sudden her eyes flew open and she jerked hard, as if somebody had pushed her, and then she was lying on the floor and the adder was crawling away toward the stairs.

Mind you, my gran had dreams. She dreamed of a cave-in at the mine, and it happened just the way she said. I don't hold none with imagination, it's destructive to a woman's character, but I didn't imagine this. I dreamed it, and that's a different thing entirely.

Mrs. Ravenstock? Next day she was hale and well, except for that opium distance in her eyes. And doting on Elizabeth. But the day after that Mrs. Ravenstock caught her heel in her dress hem and fell down the service stairs, and broke her neck.

So. After Mrs. Ravenstock's death-which was accident, sure enough-you can well imagine things changed. For one thing, we were already short a laundry maid and now a housekeeper, and next thing you know the bootboy Joseph had given notice, and so had the scullery maid Mary. Now, you can't hardly run Hillingham on so few servants; Mr. Gage was fair desperate, I tell you. Meanwhile, things were bad upstairs, too. Miss Mina left to meet her fiance Jonathan, and the whispers came round that Mrs. Westenra was in poor health.

Miss Lucy's sleepwalking had gotten so bad it scared us half out of our wits. Yes, even me, though I don't hold with nonsense.

One morning as I came around the corner with my broom and tea leaves-mind you it was well before six in the morning- I saw a ghost floating white in the hall. I froze, my breath locked in my chest, and after a second or two I realized the floating white ghost was Miss Lucy.She was dead asleep on her feet, her gown fluttering in a cold draft that poured out of her room, her fair hair lifting and twisting around her pale face. As I watched her, her head fell back, and her lips parted, and she spread her arms wide. She let out this long, low sigh that frightened me ever so much more than a scream-something immoral in that sigh, I can tell you. Desperate. She pressed herself against empty air, her whole body arching.

Well, it was indecent! And frightful! I tore my eyes away from her and saw that Elizabeth Gwydion was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Pale as something drawn with pen and ink, and her lips were stretched wide in what I couldn't have ever named a smile.

Well, the only thing I could think was dear sweet Mary save us all. So I did what any good Catholic girl would have done. I crossed myself.

Miss Lucy's eyes flew open, wide and blank as a winter's sky, and she collapsed to the carpet in a froth of wind-whipped gown. Downstairs, Elizabeth Gwydion shrieked; when I looked to her she was staring at me, and the hate of it fair burned me where I stood. Her eyes smoked, I tell you, and I thought she might strike me dead in my shoes.

Right then Mrs. Westenra came out of her bedroom, her hair still in night-braids, and cried out at the sight of her daughter spilled on the carpet. Poor dear lady, I remembered what Mr. Gage had said about her health; she looked fair to drop. But she got down on her knees and took Miss Lucy's pale hands in hers, and said, "Mary Margaret, fetch some brandy. Immediately."