DRACULA: the Un-Dead
DACRE STOKER AND IAN HOLT

For Bram, thank you for your inspiration, and your guidance

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

CHAPTER XL.

CHAPTER XLI.

CHAPTER XLII.

CHAPTER XLIII.

CHAPTER XLIV.

CHAPTER XLV.

CHAPTER XLVI.

CHAPTER XLVII.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

CHAPTER XLIX.

CHAPTER L.

CHAPTER LI.

CHAPTER LII.

CHAPTER LIII.

CHAPTER LIV.

CHAPTER LV.

CHAPTER LVI.

CHAPTER LVII.

CHAPTER LVIII.

CHAPTER LIX.

CHAPTER LX.

CHAPTER LXI.

CHAPTER LXII.

CHAPTER LXIII.

AFTERWORD

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

LETTER FROM MINA HARKER TO HER SON, QUINCEY HARKER, ESQ. (To be opened upon the sudden or unnatural death of Wilhelmina Harker)

9th March 1912

Dear Quincey,

My dear son, all your life you have suspected that there have been secrets between us. I fear that the time has come to reveal the truth to you. To deny it any longer would put both your life and your immortal soul in jeopardy.

Your dear father and I chose to keep the secrets of our past from you in order to shield you from the darkness that shrouds this world. We had hoped to allow you a childhood free from the fears that have haunted us all our adult lives. As you grew into the promising young man you are today, we chose not to tell you what we knew lest you think us mad. Forgive us. If you are reading this letter now, then the evil we so desperately and perhaps wrongly sought to shield you from has returned. And now you, like your parents before you, are in grave danger.

In the year 1888, when your father and I were still young, we learned that evil lurks in the shadows of our world, waiting to prey upon the unbelieving and the unprepared.

As a young solicitor, your father was sent into the wilds of Transylvania. His task was to help Prince Dracula conclude the purchase of a property in Whitby, an ancient monastery known as Carfax Abbey.

During his stay in Transylvania, your father discovered that his host and client, Prince Dracula, was in truth a creature thought to exist only in folktale and legend, one of those which feed upon the blood of the living in order to attain immortal life. Dracula was what the locals called Nosferatu, the Un-Dead. You may more readily recognize the creature by its more common name: vampire.

Prince Dracula, fearing that your father would expose the truth of what he was, imprisoned him in his castle. Dracula himself then booked passage to England on the sailing vessel the Demeter, spending the many days of his voyage hidden in one of dozens of crates in the hull. He concealed himself in this strange fashion because although a vampire may have the strength of ten men and the ability to take many forms, he will burn to ash if struck by the light of the sun.

At this time, I was staying in Whitby at the home of my closest and dearest friend, Lucy Westenra. A storm had blown in off the sea, and the treacherous Whitby cliffs were shrouded in a dense mist. Lucy, unable to sleep, saw from her window the storm-driven ship heading for the rocks. Lucy raced into the night in an attempt to raise the alarm before the ship was wrecked, but she was too late. I awoke in a panic, saw that Lucy was not beside me in bed, and raced out into the storm to search for her. I found her at the cliff’s edge, unconscious and with two small holes in her neck.

Lucy became deathly ill. Her fiancé, Arthur Holmwood, the son of Lord Godalming, and his dear friend, a visiting Texan whom you know as your namesake, Quincey P. Morris, raced to her side. Arthur called every doctor in Whitby and beyond, but none could explain Lucy’s illness. It was our friend who owned the Whitby Asylum, Dr. Jack Seward, who called in his mentor from Holland, Dr. Abraham Van Helsing.

Dr. Van Helsing, a learned man of medicine, was also acquainted with the occult. He recognized that Lucy was suffering from the bite of a vampire.

It was then that I finally received word from your father. He had escaped from Dracula’s castle and taken refuge in a monastery where he, too, was deathly ill. I was forced to leave Lucy’s bedside and travel to meet him. It was there in Buda-Pesth that we were married.

Your father told me of the horrors he had seen, and it was from this that we learned the identity of the vampire that had attacked Lucy and now threatened all our lives: Prince Dracula.

Upon returning from Buda-Pesth, we were told that Lucy had died. But worse was to follow. Days after her death, she had risen from her grave. She was now a vampire and was feeding on the blood of small children. Dr. Van Helsing, Quincey Morris, Dr. Seward, and Arthur Holmwood were faced with a terrible decision. They had no choice but drive a wooden stake through Lucy’s heart in order to free her poor soul.

Shortly thereafter, Prince Dracula returned in the night to attack me. After this attack, we all swore an oath to hunt down and destroy the vampire, and rid the world of his evil. And so it was that we became the band of heroes and chased Dracula back to his castle in Transylvania. There, Quincey Morris died in battle although, like the hero he was, he managed to plunge a knife into Dracula’s heart. We watched as Prince Dracula burst into flames, crumbling into dust in the light of the setting sun.

Then, we were free, or so I thought. But about a year after you were born, I began to suffer horrible nightmares. Dracula was haunting me in my dreams. It was then that your father reminded me of the dark prince’s warning and how he had claimed, “I shall have my revenge. I shall spread it over centuries. Time is on my side.”

From that day onward, your father and I have had no peace. We have spent our years looking over our shoulders. And now I fear we are no longer strong enough to protect you from his evil and I have made a terrible misjudgment in character.

Know this, my son, if you are to survive the evil that is now hunting you; embrace the truth I speak in these pages. Look deep within your young self and, as your father and I were once forced to do, find the brave hero within. Dracula is a wise and cunning foe. You cannot run, and there is nowhere to hide. You must stand and fight.

Good luck, my dear son, and do not be afraid. If Van Helsing is correct, then vampires are truly demons, and God will be at your side as you do battle.

With all my undying love,

Your mother, Mina

CHAPTER I.
OCEANS OF LOVE, LUCY.

The inscription was the only thing Dr. Jack Seward could focus on as he felt the darkness overtake him. In the darkness was peace, with no harsh light to illuminate the tattered remains of his life. For years, he had devoted himself to fighting back the darkness. Now he simply embraced it.

Only at night could Seward find peace with the memory of Lucy. In his dreams, he still felt her warm embrace. For a fleeting moment, he could go back to London, to a happier era, when he found meaning through his place in the world and his research. This was the life he had wished to share with Lucy.

The early morning din of milk wagons, fishmongers’ carts, and other merchant vehicles rattling hurriedly across the cobblestone streets of Paris intruded on Seward’s dream and thrust him back into the harsh present. Seward forced his eyes open. They stung worse than fresh iodine on an open wound. As the cracked ceiling of the stale Parisian flophouse room he had been renting came into focus, he reflected on how much his life had changed. It saddened him to see all the muscle tone he had lost. His bicep sagged, resembling one of those hand-sewn muslin tea bags after it had just been removed from a teapot. The veins on his arm were like rivers on a tattered map. He was a shadow of his former self.

Seward prayed that death would come quickly. He had willed his body to science, to be used in a classroom at his alma mater. He took comfort from the fact that in death he would help to inspire future doctors and scientists.

After a time, he remembered the watch, still nestled in his left hand. He turned it over. Half past six! For an instant, panic overtook him. Damn it to hell. He had overslept. Seward staggered to his feet. An empty glass syringe rolled off the table and shattered on the grimy wooden floor. A small, smoked brown bottle of morphine was about to follow the fate of the syringe, but he quickly caught the precious liquid, untying the leather belt from his left bicep with a practiced movement. Normal circulation returned as he rolled down his sleeve and returned the silver monogrammed cuff link to his frayed dress shirt. He buttoned up his vest and slipped on his jacket. Wallingham & Sons were the finest tailors in London. If his suit had been made by anyone else, it would have disintegrated ten years ago. Vanity dies hard, Seward thought to himself with a humorless chuckle.

He had to hurry if he still wanted to make the train. Where was that address? He had put it in a safe place. Now, when he needed it, he could not recall where exactly that was. He overturned the straw-filled mattress, inspected the underside of the wobbly table, and peered under the vegetable crates that served as dining chairs. He sifted through piles of aged newspaper clippings. Their headlines spoke of Seward’s current preoccupation: gruesome stories of Jack the Ripper. Autopsy photos of the five known victims. Mutilated women posed, legs open, as if waiting to accept their deranged killer. The Ripper was deemed a butcher of women—but a butcher is more merciful to the animals he slaughters. Seward had reread the autopsy notes countless times. Loose pages of his theories and ideas written on scrap paper, torn cardboard, and unfolded matchboxes fluttered around him like windblown leaves.

The sweat flowing from Seward’s brow began to sting his bloodshot eyes. Damn, where had he put it? The Benefactor had taken enormous risks to get him this information. Seward could not bear the thought of disappointing the only person who still believed in him. Everyone else—the Harkers, the Holmwoods—all thought he had taken leave of his senses. If they could see this room, Seward knew, they would feel justified in that belief. He scanned the crumbling plaster walls, which bore the evidence of his morphine-induced rants, his wild insights handwritten in ink, coal, wine, even his own blood. No madman would be so obvious. He was certain that these writings would one day prove his sanity.

Amidst it all, there was a page torn from a book, stabbed into the wall with a bone-handled bowie knife whose blade was stained with old blood. The page featured a portrait of an elegant, raven-haired beauty. Beneath the picture, an inscription: Countess Elizabeth Bathory circa 1582.

Of course, that’s where I hid it. He laughed at himself as he pulled the knife out of the wall, seizing the page and turning it over. In his own barely legible handwriting, he found the address of a villa in Marseilles. Seward removed the cross, wooden stake, and garlic wreaths that hung next to Bathory’s picture and scooped up a silver knife from the floor. He placed everything into a false bottom in his medical bag and covered it all with standard medical supplies.

The train left the Gare de Lyon exactly on time. Seeing it pull away just as he was paying for his ticket, Seward sprinted across the flood-stained building to reach the chugging behemoth as it left the seventh bay door. He managed to catch the last Pullman car and hoist himself on before it had a chance to pick up speed. His heart surged with pride as he made the daring leap. He had done this sort of thing in his youth with the Texan Quincey P. Morris and his old friend Arthur Holmwood. Youth was wasted on the young. Seward smiled to himself as he recalled the reckless days of his innocence…and ignorance.

The doctor took a seat in the elaborate dining car as the train lumbered southward. It wasn’t moving quickly enough. He glanced down at his pocket watch; only five minutes had passed. Seward lamented that he could no longer pass the time by writing in his journal, as he was unable to afford the luxury of such a thing. They were not scheduled to reach Marseilles for ten more hours. There, he would finally have the evidence to prove his theories and show those who had shunned him that he was not mad, that he had been right all along.

These were going to be the longest ten hours of Seward’s life.

“Billets, s’il vous plaît!”

Seward stared wide-eyed at the conductor standing over him with a stern look of impatience.

“Forgive me,” Seward said. He handed the conductor his ticket, adjusting his scarf to cover the torn breast pocket.

“You are British?” the conductor asked with a heavy French accent.

“Why, yes.”

“A doctor?” The conductor nodded toward the medical bag between Seward’s feet.

“Yes.”

Seward watched the conductor’s gray eyes catalogue the threadbare person in front of him, the ill-fitting suit and well-worn shoes. He was hardly the image of a respectable doctor. “I will see your bag, please.”

He handed over the bag, for it was not as if he had much choice in the matter. The conductor methodically pulled out medical bottles, read the labels, and dropped them back in with a clink. Seward knew what the conductor was looking for and hoped he wouldn’t dig too deeply.

“Morphine,” announced the conductor in a voice so loud that other passengers glanced over. He held up the brown bottle.

“I sometimes have to prescribe it as a sedative.”

“I will see your license, please.”

Seward searched his pockets. Over a month ago, the International Opium Convention had been signed, prohibiting persons from importing, selling, distributing, and exporting morphine without a medical license. It took him so long to find it that by the time Seward finally produced the license, the conductor was about to pull the cord to stop the train. The conductor examined the paper, frowning, then turned his steely eyes to the travel document. The United Kingdom was the first to use photo identification on their passports. Since that picture had been taken, Seward had lost a tremendous amount of weight. His hair was now much grayer, his beard wild and untrimmed. The man in the train bore little resemblance to the man in the photo.

“Why are you going to Marseilles, doctor?”

“I am treating a patient there.”

“What ails this patient?”

“He’s suffering from a Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“It is a psychological instability causing the patient to inflict predatory, autoerotic, antisocial, and parasitic control on those around them. As well as—”

“Merci.” The conductor cut Seward off by handing him back his papers and ticket with a deft flick. He turned and addressed only the men at the next table. “Billets, s’il vous plaît.” Jack Seward sighed. Replacing his papers in his jacket, he checked the pocket watch again, a nervous habit. It seemed as if the interrogation had lasted hours, but only another five minutes had passed. He rolled down the fringed window shade to shield his eyes from the daylight and reclined into the plush, burgundy upholstered seat.

Oceans of Love, Lucy.

He held the beloved watch close to his heart and closed his eyes to dream.

It was a quarter century ago. Seward held the same watch up to the light the better to read the inscription: “Oceans of love, Lucy.”

She was there. Alive. “You don’t like it,” she said, and pouted.

He couldn’t break his stare away from her green eyes, soft as a summer meadow. Lucy had an odd idiosyncrasy of watching a speaker’s mouth as if trying to taste the next word before it passed by his lips. She had such a lust for life. Her smile could bring warmth to the coldest heart. As she sat on the bench in the garden that spring day, Seward marveled at how the sunlight illuminated the loose strands of red hair that danced in the breeze, haloing her face. The scent of fresh lilacs mixed with the salty sea air of Whitby Harbor. In the years since, whenever he smelled lilacs, he would remember this beautiful, bitter day.

“I can only conclude,” Seward said, clearing his throat before his voice had a chance to break, “since you wrote on the gift card ‘Dearest Friend’ rather than ‘Fiancé,’ that you have chosen not to accept my proposal of marriage.”

Lucy looked away, her eyes moistening. The silence spoke volumes.

“I thought it best that you hear it from me,” Lucy finally sighed. “I have consented to wed Arthur.”

Arthur had been Jack Seward’s friend since they were lads. Seward loved him like a brother, yet always envied how easily everything came to Arthur. He was handsome and rich, and had never in his life known worry or struggle. Or heartbreak.

“I see.” Seward’s voice sounded like a squeak in his ears.

“I do love you,” Lucy whispered. “But…”

“But not as much as much as you love Arthur.” Of course he could not compete with the wealthy Arthur Holmwood, nor was he as dashing as Lucy’s other suitor, the Texan Quincey P. Morris.

“Forgive me,” he went on in a softer tone, suddenly afraid he’d hurt her. “I forgot my place.”

Lucy reached out and patted his hand, as one would a beloved pet. “I will always be here.”

Back in the present, he stirred in his sleep. If he could just see the beauty in Lucy’s eyes…The last time he had gazed into them, that terrible night in the mausoleum, he had seen nothing but pain and torment. The memory of Lucy’s dying screams still seared Seward’s brain.

After leaving the train, Seward walked in a torrential downpour through Marseilles’s labyrinth of white buildings and cursed his timing. Of course, his quest brought him to the French Riviera in March, the only rainy month.

He slogged farther inland, glancing back to see Fort Saint-Jean standing like a stone sentinel in the indigo harbor. Then he turned about to study the Provençal city, which had been built around a 2,600-year—old village. Artifacts of the city’s Greek and Roman founders were found throughout the streets. Seward lamented that he was in this picturesque haven for such a sinister purpose. Though it would not be the first time malevolence had made its presence felt here: Over the last century, this seaside town had been marred by plague and pirates.

Seward stopped. Looming in front of him was a typical two-story Mediterranean villa with large wooden shutters and wrought-iron bars on the windows. The winter moon peering through the rain clouds cast a spectral glow on the traditional white walls. The roof was covered in red terra-cotta tiles that reminded him of some of the old Spanish houses he had seen when he visited Quincey P. Morris in Texas so many years ago. It created a decidedly foreboding ambience, even unwelcoming, for an ornate villa on the French Riviera. It appeared entirely devoid of life. His heart sank at the thought that he might be too late. Seward looked again at the address.

This was it.

Suddenly, he heard the thunderous approach of a horse-drawn carriage splashing along the cobblestones. He ducked into a vineyard across from the building. There were no grapes on the dripping, weblike branches. A black carriage with ornate gold trim sailed up the hill, pulled by two glistening black mares. The animals drew to a stop without a command. Seward looked up and, to his surprise, saw there was no driver. How was that possible?

A strapping figure emerged from the carriage. The mares nipped at each other and squealed, necks arched. Then, again to Seward’s amazement, they moved off, in perfect step, with no coachman to direct them. The figure held a walking stick aloft with one black-gloved hand, and dipped into a pocket with the other for a key, then stopped suddenly as if becoming aware of something.

“Damn,” Seward muttered to himself.

The person at the door cocked his head, almost as if he heard Seward’s voice through the rain, and turned slowly toward the vineyard. Seward felt waves of panic and adrenaline wash over him but managed to hold his breath. The gloved hand reached up to the brim of the velvet top hat and Seward choked back a gasp as he saw the top hat removed to reveal sensuous locks of black hair cascading onto the figure’s shoulders.

His mind reeled. It is she! The Benefactor had been right.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory stood at the doorway of the villa, looking exactly as she had in the portrait painted over three hundred years ago.

CHAPTER II.

Lightning danced across the sky, illuminating the raindrops like gems on black velvet cloth. Seward knew he should move for cover, but he could do nothing except stare, entranced, at the exotic—and dangerous—beauty before him. Bathory’s fair skin contrasted sharply with her midnight hair, and she moved with the silent grace of a predator. Her icy blue eyes searched for any movement in the street as another flash of lightning brightened the grounds before her. When she turned toward the vineyard, he quickly threw himself into the mud to avoid detection.

There, he held his breath, trying not to move and ignoring the cramp in his legs. He desperately longed to glance up, but the lightning flashing on his pale face would reveal him immediately, and so he remained pressed to the ground, his nose a mere inch from the mud. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally allowed himself to look up, half expecting Bathory to be waiting next to him like a cobra ready to strike. But she was nowhere to be seen.

Fighting his rising fear, Seward freed himself from the mud’s grasp with a revolting slurp. Too loud. His eyes darted. He needed to move, but he had to wait for the blood to flow back into his legs. He felt like wet burlap, with his oversized clothes weighing heavily on him.

The wind whistled, and he turned with a start. Still no one in sight. Setting his resolve, he took a determined step toward the stone building—and felt wet mud soaking his bare foot. Seward looked back to see one of his shoes stuck in the mud. He cursed under his breath and nearly toppled over while balancing to replace it. He continued, stumbling, across the marshy laneway and tripped into a palm tree. Seward was certain he was making a terrible amount of noise but hoped the rain would drown it out. At last he reached the tree adjacent to the villa. He had been good at climbing trees when he was a schoolboy, but five decades later, that was hardly likely to be the case. But there was nothing for it. He took a deep breath and hauled himself up onto the lowest branch.

From the tree, he was able to hoist himself to the roof of the front walkway. The clay shingles were slick with rain. Seward steadied himself by gripping the decorative wrought-iron railing for support and glanced about, terrified that Countess Bathory was laughing in the shadows as he made a fool of himself. He spotted an awning over one of the second-story windows and scurried to its shadow for protection, taking a moment to catch his breath. He listened, and heard nothing except the pounding of rain beating in time with his heart.

He peered into the window and found that it overlooked what must have once been a grand ballroom. Now, devoid of life and full of shadows, it unnerved him. It was like looking into a museum at night. Or worse…a tomb.

His thoughts were interrupted by two glowing white figures moving across the ballroom floor. They glided effortlessly and seemed to be carrying something that resembled a crate or chest. Wary of staying in one place too long for fear of being spotted, he gripped the rails, hoisted himself from one balcony to the next, and edged his way to another window.

On this level, the only light came from a few scattered candles and the embers in the fireplace. It was enough for Seward to see that what had seemed like two spirits were in fact beautiful young women dressed in flowing, sheer white gowns. Where was Bathory? Seward still couldn’t get over the creeping dread that she was standing behind him.

His heart threatened to burst from his chest at the sound of the French doors flying open. Countess Bathory swept into the ballroom. Seward, relieved, shrank back into the shadows.

Bathory untied her cloak from around her neck and tossed it carelessly over her shoulder, revealing her full statuesque form. She was dressed in an evening jacket, complete with fitted, starched white, wing—collared shirt and black tie. In its severe lines, her tailor had found a way to accentuate her voluptuous feminine figure while projecting a masculine strength.

She strode toward the other two women. “My sweets,” she greeted them; and beneath the languorous tone of her voice, Seward detected something infinitely more sinister. He shivered as Bathory kissed each of these “Women in White” on the lips passionately.

“What toy have you brought me?”

The blond woman broke the heavy padlock on the captain’s chest with her bare hands, a shockingly casual gesture for one so delicate in appearance. She opened the lid with a flourish, like a waiter proudly presenting the main course. Inside the trunk was a young woman, bound, gagged, and clearly terrified.

Bathory reached into her boot and unsheathed a curved metal blade. Seward immediately recognized the knife: It was a medical amputation lancet.

The young woman’s eyes widened at the sight of the blade. In a movement too fast for Seward to see, Bathory sliced the lancet toward the young woman. The gag and the ropes binding her hands fell to the bottom of the chest. Bathory placed the blade’s tip under the girl’s chin. Seward gripped the handle of his silver throwing knife.

Instead of inflicting a bloody wound, Bathory used the blade to gently guide the girl out of the box. Seward relaxed his grip. The girl touched her face and wrists to feel whether the blade had cut her. There did not appear to be even the slightest scratch.

Seward watched the countess walk around the young woman, appraising her attire. She was dressed in a French teal wool dress, chastely covering her from her neck to her ankles. He felt enraged at the thought of what Bathory’s eyes must be seeing—a beautiful package just waiting to be unwrapped.

The girl kept perfectly still. The lancet sliced. Her dress and undergarments fell away like puzzle pieces, leaving her delicate skin unscathed. Despite the young woman’s frantic efforts to recover the fabric, more fell away until she was completely revealed.

Bathory’s eyes did not blink once as she drank in the sight. Shivering with fear, the girl pulled herself back into the shadows, covering her body. The Women in White laughed.

Seward moved to the next window to get a better view. Once there, he noticed Bathory’s eyes narrow. Flickering candlelight reflected from the small gold crucifix around the young woman’s neck. Bathory’s lancet flashed forward and back so quickly that Seward almost doubted it had moved at all. But there was no mistaking the ting of the cross hitting the marble floor, the broken chain gathering around it in a smooth pile. The young woman gasped in surprise—a small drop of blood glittered like a gem at the base of her throat. The Women in White leapt upon her like wild dogs.

“Mary, Mother of God, protect her,” Seward prayed, the words coming out as a plaintive whine under his breath. He watched in horror as the Women in White hoisted the naked young woman and hung her upside down by her ankles on a pulley system, suspending her from the ceiling. The dark-haired demon handed Bathory a black leather cat-o’—nine—tails, with curved metal hooks tipping each lash. The countess’s red lips curved into a humorless smile, her otherworldly eyes remaining focused on the single drop of blood now sliding down her victim’s chest. With a quick flick of her wrist, Bathory stung the flesh with the whip, watching eagerly as the blood began to flow more freely.

Seward turned away from the sight, but he could not shut out the screams. He clutched the cross around his neck, but it gave him no comfort. His instinct was to rush in to save this poor girl—but that would surely be a foolhardy decision. One old man was no match against these three. They would tear him apart.

No matter what you see or feel, nothing must distract you from your duty. That had been the last message from the Benefactor. Seward finally gathered the nerve to look again though the windowpane into the depraved insanity of the villa.

Bathory was maintaining a steady momentum now as the metal lashes whined through the air. The force of each blow caused her young victim to sway like a pendulum. The blood dripping from the young woman had turned into streams. The Women in White, meanwhile, lay upon the floor beneath her, their mouths open to catch the precious crimson drops that fell like some hellish form of rain.

Seward knew that he was witnessing true madness. When the sun rose, these three creatures would be lying in their coffins, asleep and vulnerable, and it would be his only opportunity to rid the world of their evil. He would drive the silver-plated blade into their hearts, sever their heads, stuff their mouths with garlic, and burn the remains.

Yet he felt tormented by the guilt of standing idle while this innocent girl was tortured. He curled a hand around his blade, squeezing until drops of blood seeped from between his own fingers. If he could not spare this young woman her pain, the least he could do was share it. The girl’s screams had finally quieted—but they continued to echo eerily in his head, evoking painful memories of Lucy’s second death. A death that Seward himself had helped bring about. Again, the memories came rushing back to him: the anger he had felt at the desecration of his beloved’s tomb; the shock of discovering her body still warm and rosy, apparently full of life; the sight of Arthur driving the stake into her heart, as the creature that looked like Lucy cried out in bloodcurdling screams; and the tears he had quietly shed as he stuffed the monster’s mouth with garlic and soldered her tomb closed for good. Yet none of these emotions were as shameful as the one he had hidden all these years, even from himself—the secret satisfaction of watching Arthur lose Lucy. If Seward could not have her, at least no one else would. It was a horrible emotion, and every bit of the darkness that had fallen upon his life after this was well deserved. Accepting this final mission was his act of contrition.

He was drawn swiftly back into the present by the sudden silence. In the ballroom below, the young woman had passed out from the pain. He could see her chest still heaving, so she was not yet dead. Bathory threw down her whip, as irritated as a cat when the mouse will not play after its neck is broken. Seward felt hot wetness on his face, and touched his cheek only to realize that he was crying.

“Prepare my bath!” Bathory ordered.

The Women in White propelled the young woman across the pulley system’s metal track and thus transported her into another room. Bathory turned to follow, purposefully stepping on the gold cross as she did so, twisting her foot and crushing it beneath her heel. Satisfied, she continued into the adjacent room, stripping off her clothes one by one as she went.

Seward leaned out over the balcony to see if there was another window looking into the adjacent room. The rain pattered to a stop. Its din would no longer hide his footfalls on the clay shingles. Slowly and cautiously, he made his way over to the next window and peered through. The pulley system ended directly above a Roman-style bath. Dozens of candles now illuminated the sight of Bathory slipping delicately out of her trousers. For the first time, Seward had a clear view of her—without a stitch of clothing. She looked nothing like the prostitutes he had encountered in the back rooms of Camden district brothels. The wanton curves of her body, white and smooth as porcelain, would have distracted most observers from ever noticing the calculating cruelty of her eyes—but not Seward. He had seen a gaze like that before.

Yet nothing in the doctor’s bleak past could have prepared him for the macabre scene he witnessed next. The young woman, pathetic gurgles issuing from her throat, was suspended above the edge of the empty mosaic bath. Bathory stood at the bottom; arms outstretched, neck arched back, magnificently naked. She turned her palms upward. It was a signal. In that instant, the dark-haired Woman in White used her fingernail to slit the young lady’s throat and pushed her to the end of the track just above where Bathory waited. Seward saw Bathory’s fanged mouth open wide as she orgasmically bathed in a shower of blood.

Damn them all to hell! His thoughts were inflamed as he reached into the false bottom of his medical bag for a small crossbow, loading it with a silver-tipped arrow. If this rash decision should be his death, so be it. Better to be dead than to allow this perverse evil to continue a second longer.

Seward aimed the crossbow between the wrought-iron bars and prepared to fire on Bathory. That was when he spotted something. His eyes widened in shock. There was a large advertisement poster lying on the desk by the window. The poster seemed to glow eerily as if it were painted by moonlight. The oversized embossed letters stood out:

William Shakespeare’s

“The Life and Death of King Richard III”

7 mars, 1912

Théâtre de l’Odéon

rue de Vaugirard 18

Téléf. 811.42

8 heures

Paris, France

Avec l’acteur roumain

BASARAB

dans le premier rôle

He took an involuntary step back, forgetting the incline of the roof. The tile under his foot cracked and slid down to shatter on the cobblestoned walkway below. He froze.

In the grand ballroom, the blond Woman in White spun at the sound outside. She flew to the door, her soulless eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of life. She saw no one. Remaining in the shadows, she moved around to the side of the house from where she had heard the noise. Again, she saw nothing and was about to return inside the villa when she spotted a broken clay tile on the ground—stained with a drop of fresh blood. Human blood. Its pungent aroma was unmistakable. She tasted it eagerly and immediately spat it out. The blood was polluted with chemicals.

With reptilian agility, she scaled the wall to inspect the villa further. On the rooftop, she spotted a bloodstained silver knife beneath one of the windows. Only an inexperienced vampire hunter would be naïve enough to carry a silver blade.

But the Woman in White knew that her mistress was no longer safe. They had to flee Marseilles tonight. She quickly scurried back into the house.

Seward knew that Bathory and her banshees would not stay in Marseilles this evening. They would assuredly flee to Paris and, once airborne, the dead travel fast. But thanks to the advertisement he had seen, Seward realized he once again had the advantage. He knew their plans. Countess Bathory and her companions would be at the theatre tomorrow night.

He allowed himself a grim smile. That is where the battle will take place.

CHAPTER III.

“I charge thee to return and change thy shape,” cried out a young man in a bowler hat, arms stretched out imploringly, speaking in a determined yet trembling voice. “Such is the force of magic and my spells: No, Faustus, thou art conjuror laureat, That canst command great Mephistopheles: Quin regis Mephistopheles fratris imagine.”

A hiss. A wall of smoke. Then flames erupted out of thin air. From the surrounding gas lamps sparked an extra roar. The small crowd that gathered in the Luxembourg Gardens gasped in unison.

Quincey Harker, his back turned to his audience, felt a surge of pride at his ingenuity. With a whiplash smile as he threw off his bowler hat, stuck on a false goatee, placed a pointed hat upon his brow, threw a cape over his shoulders, and, in what seemed a well-practiced continuous motion, leapt up and spun around onto the edge of La Fontaine Medici. The perfect setting for a one-man pantomime of Faust, for the Medici family had been a prominent Florentine family, patron saints of avant-garde artists and long rumored to be in league with the Devil. Quincey, completely at ease on his makeshift stage, reveled not only in his performance but also in his cleverness.

He did what was known as chapeaugraphy—changing hats to change characters. It was a well-known but seldom-used performance technique due to the high level of skill required and was thus attempted only by the most talented actors…or the most arrogant.

Quincey used the shadow cast by the figures on the fountain to ominous effect as he spread his cape and held himself with poised menace and growled in a deep, devilish voice, “Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do?”

Quincey paused, expecting applause from his audience. There was none. This was odd. Quincey glanced up and was surprised to find the audience distracted. Something was drawing their attention to the north end of the park. Quincey tried not to let this momentary diversion throw off his concentration. He knew his talent was up to the challenge. He had performed this part at the London Hippodrome, and was so good that he’d even managed to secure the “deuce spot” just before the main attraction, Charles Chaplin, a master of physical comedy. Rumor had it that Chaplin was going to leave London to find his fortune in America. Quincey had hoped to win Chaplin’s spot. But Quincey’s overbearing father, Jonathan Harker, had smashed that dream by paying off the theatre manager and shipping Quincey off to a Paris prison with no bars—to study law at the Sorbonne.

Panic set in for Quincey as his meager audience began to disperse, heading off to investigate the commotion at the park’s north end. Checking his false beard to see if it was crooked, Quincey hurriedly bellowed one of Mephistopheles’ soliloquies as he ran down the fountain steps, in a desperate attempt to regain his audience’s attention. “I am a servant to great Lucifer, and may not follow thee without his leave: No more than he commands must we perform!”

For a moment, it appeared as if the power of his performance would recapture his audience, but all hope was lost when Mephistopheles slipped on the fountain’s wet stone, crashing onto his arse. Laughter erupted as the last of the crowd walked away.

Quincey pounded his fist on the ground and ripped off his beard, thankful for once that at the manly age of twenty-five, there were no whiskers beneath. That was when he saw him, laughing with that familiar sneer. That most loathsome waste of flesh, Braithwaite Lowery, Quincey’s fellow lodger at his digs at the Sorbonne. What was he doing here? The clod had no appreciation for anything artistic.

Braithwaite peered over his spectacles at the few scanty coins the audience had carelessly tossed about the cobblestones. “Daft as a brush. Are you aware of how much a real barrister earns in a day, Harker?”

“I don’t give a fig for money.”

“That’s because you were born under the comfort and protection of an inheritance. I am the descendant of Yorkshire fishermen. I will have to earn my fortune.”

If only Braithwaite knew what Quincey had had to give up to secure his family’s financial support.

“What do you want?” said Quincey as he scooped up his earnings.

“This post arrived for you. Another letter from your father,” Braithwaite replied with venomous glee. The sod enjoyed watching Quincey squirm as he received the scolding letters from his father. “Do you know what I like about you, Braithwaite?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Neither can I,” Quincey said as he snatched the envelope from Braithwaite’s grasp with a flourish, and waved him away with the other hand.

LETTER, JONATHAN HARKER, EXETER, TO MASTER QUINCEY HARKER, THE SORBONNE UNIVERSITY, PARIS

29 February 1912

Dear Son,

I have received a most disturbing letter detailing your progress, or lack thereof, in your studies and have been advised that you are once again devoting far too much time to your extracurricular activities off campus. This is unacceptable. Though you have not been home these past three years, a fact that has injured your dear mother deeply, I should remind you that it is my money that is paying for your studies and lodgings. Should you fail this term, even my connections will be unable to prevent your expulsion. Of course this would mean the immediate termination of your per diem and

Quincey stopped reading. More and more people continued to hurry past him going northward, and he was only too glad for the distraction from hearing his father’s condescending voice in each typed word. His fingers rifled through the rest of the letter. Blast! Thirteen pages! The Harker family was famous for their voluminous letters, yet their dinner table was void of any conversation. Another gaggle of people hurried past. “Whatever is going on?”

Without breaking stride, a man called over his shoulder, “Basarab! He’s arriving. Here! Now!”

Basarab? Quincey recalled reading some weeks ago in Le Temps that Basarab, the great Shakespearean actor who billed himself under a single name, was due to perform in Paris. And although he longed to see the world-renowned actor on the stage, he had put it out of his mind, knowing he could never justify the cost of a ticket on the expenditure report he filed monthly for his father to audit. He had lied so many times before that his father knew all of his tricks.

What good fortune! Or was it fate that Quincey should be here at the moment of Basarab’s arrival in Paris? Suddenly, he felt at ease, realizing that it was not his performance that chased away his audience. He had simply been upstaged by a true star. Forgetting his props and costumes upon the fountain, he found himself running along with the crowd, hoping to glimpse the magnificence of the great Basarab with his own eyes.

Quincey emerged from the park onto the rue de Vaugirard and found a throng of people crowding the street. They were turned toward the Théâtre de l’Odéon, a white building with Roman-style columns adorning the front steps. The moonlight made the brass-lettered name of the theatre glow as if illuminated from within.

Quincey tried to move closer and found himself trapped in the roundabout, pressed against the monument to French playwright Émile Augier. Undeterred, he scaled its pedestal to get a better look.

A Benz Tourer motorcar circled the roundabout toward the theatre’s front steps. It honked, clearing a way through the crowd. Quincey climbed higher. The car stopped short of the front steps, and the driver walked around to the other side of the vehicle to open the door for his passenger. During the two years Quincey had struggled as an actor, he had come to the realization that since Shakespeare’s days, the profession was considered the vocation of sinners, drunks, prostitutes, and vagabonds. Yet here before him was an actor who was regarded like royalty, and all of France seemed to have turned out for his arrival.

The dashing young Romanian stepped out of the car and stood on the ride rail. Quincey recognized the dark hair and chiseled features of Basarab from the picture in Le Temps. The actor was wearing a cloak similar to one worn by Prince Edward, yet his was cut from crimson-dyed leather, very decadent for a mere actor. Reporters with cameras mounted on wooden legs waited on the steps to capture the first images of his arrival. When he turned to them and smiled, the flash powders ignited like lightning. After a few moments, Basarab stepped down from the motorcar and moved through the crowd with arms outstretched, palms up, allowing the adoring public to touch him. Quincey laughed when a woman touched Basarab’s elbow and fainted. If only he could evoke this sort of reaction from a crowd.

The portly figure of André Antoine, the theatre manager of l’Odéon, waited on the top step to greet his star. A man with a wooden film camera stood close by and wound the handle like an organ grinder as Basarab mounted the steps to shake the manager’s hand. Next to the handsome form of Basarab, Antoine’s pleasant face seemed like a dot in the center of his large round head. The crowd cheered Basarab’s name. Caught up in the frenzied energy, Quincey found himself chanting along: “Basarab! Basarab! Basarab!”

No wonder people adore him, Quincey thought. Even he was in awe. Basarab had not uttered a single word, yet he controlled everyone before him. How magnificent he must be to watch onstage. He would bring such life to Shakespeare’s words.

Basarab motioned to Antoine, and the two men disappeared into the theatre. The crowd lingered for a moment as if waiting for an encore. A small man emerged from within to announce that the box office would be extended for the night, selling tickets to the performances of Richard III.

The crowd turned into a mob as people pushed their way toward the door. Quincey’s spirits sank. Now he would never be able to put it out of his mind again. He desperately wanted to see Basarab perform, but he had not a franc to spare. The per diem his father gave him was measured out barely to cover the essentials—in order to prevent Quincey from wasting money on what Jonathan Harker would see as frivolities. Bloody hell. What is life without the theatre?

Quincey counted the coins he had made from the earlier performance. He was young enough to take risks, even if it meant dipping into his per diem and spending the last franc he had, even if it meant enduring his father’s wrath. He would attend Basarab’s opening performance at the Théâtre de l’Odéon tomorrow night.

CHAPTER IV.

It had been thirty years since Seward last traversed these waters, and it had been daylight at the time. He rowed the boat he had “acquired” into the port of Villefranche-sur—Mer, after traveling by cart to Antibes from Marseilles. It would count as stealing only if he were caught.

He had to get to Paris. Even if he had enough money for the fare, the train would not depart Marseilles until ten o’clock in the morning, arriving in Paris at eleven o’clock at night. It was imperative that he reach the Théâtre de l’Odéon by eight the next evening.

Using a slipknot to secure the boat, he stumbled along the wooden dock until his land legs came back. The sight of the old Lazaret made Seward brighten. As an idealistic young physician, he had become involved with research funded by the French government, working with brilliant scientists like Charles Darwin. The study attempted to correlate the behavior of animals such as chimpanzees, rats, and mice to that of humans, hoping further to validate Darwin’s theory of evolution. During his time there, Seward had become fascinated with the one or two percent of the test subjects whose actions could be considered anomalous. Why did these anomalies exist? Could the anomalous behavior be corrected? Seward smiled, recalling walks along the sea with other scientists from the Lazaret during which they had debated and challenged the archaic views of the Church about creationism. Their studies were so controversial that the government had decided to put an end to the work, and converted the building to an oceanographic laboratory. To keep them quiet, the scientists received financial compensation. This was the money Seward used to purchase his asylum in Whitby.

Seward continued up the hill overlooking the port. As he surveyed the familiar seaside town that had hardly changed since he left, he recalled the groundbreaking work he had done on the R. N. Renfield case. Seward had diagnosed Renfield with the rare mental condition of zoophagy, or “life-eating.” The fact that Mr. Renfield had spent his entire young adult life as “normal” before showing signs of mental illness made him the perfect test case.

“Renfield,” Seward muttered aloud. He had been so hopeful when Renfield came to the Whitby Asylum. Once a promising barrister, Renfield had suddenly de-evolved into a raving, insect-devouring lunatic. If Seward could have cured Renfield, he would have proven that mental illness was a disease and was not inherited, which would have proven his theories from his days at the Lazaret and helped to strengthen Darwin’s arguments that all mammals evolved from a common ancestor. Poor Renfield, a hapless pawn taken too early in the game, had sadly become yet another addition to a long line of Seward’s failures.

Within a short distance from the port, Seward would find his old friend Henri Salmet, whom he had first met at the turn of the century when he had just lost everything: his asylum, his practice, and his family. They had most recently crossed paths four summers ago, outside Le Mans at an incredible historic event: the Wright brothers’ demonstration of their successful flying machine. The series of flights lasted only two minutes, but a new era had been born in Europe. Seward shook his head in bewilderment at the rapidly changing world around him. The French might have an antiquated railway system, but they were investing heavily in the race for the sky.

Withdrawal fatigue began to overtake his system. He could feel every bruise and cut from his tumble off the villa rooftop. He was getting old. Valiantly, he fought the urge for a fix, certain he would need his wits about him for the battle to come.

From the top of the incline, he beheld the familiar sight of Henri’s farmhouse nestled in foothills of the Alps. The once-prosperous vineyard had been plowed to create a runway. The barn now housed planes and a workshop rather than livestock. Mounted on the roof of the barn, the weather vane had been replaced by a radiotelegraphy tower.

A light flickered in Henri’s kitchen window.

“Thank God, my friend is home.”

“Jack Seward!” Henri Salmet opened the door of his modest farmhouse. “Where is the rest of you? Mon dieu, what happened to your hand?”

“Bonsoir, Henri,” Seward said. He looked down and saw that the blood had soaked through the handkerchief. “I know the hour is late, but…”

He couldn’t help but notice that Henri had hardly changed. His handlebar moustache is a little longer. This was the last thought to cross the doctor’s mind before he succumbed to his fatigue and passed out.

Daylight forced Seward’s eyes open. He was drenched in sweat. He focused on the fresh bandage wrapped around his hand. He had to get to the theatre. Seward jerked himself out of bed and stumbled out of the room.

“Henri?” he called out. “How long have…?”

Upon entering the kitchen, he found himself in the company of Henri, his wife, Adeline, and three children who had grown much since he had last been there. The children sniggered at the sight of him; Seward was not quite presentable. He could feel the blood rushing to his face.

“Regardez, Adeline,” Henri chuckled. “From death he has finally risen.”

“I need to get to Paris,” Seward stammered through the withdrawal symptoms that were causing his entire body to shake. He prayed Henri would think he was merely tired.

“You wish to fly to Paris?”

“I know that reaching Paris is impossible, but as close to it as your aeroplane can reach…perhaps Lyon…”

“I think you do not know what you ask. But I have always said I would do anything for a friend in need. First, you stay and rest for a few days. You frightened us last night.”

“I appreciate your hospitality, but I need to get to Paris by tonight.”

“Tonight!” cried Henri, trading an incredulous look with Adeline. “You are so worn out, you can barely stand. What could possibly be this important?”

“It’s a matter of life and death, a patient.” The lie sprang all too easily to Seward’s lips. “If she doesn’t receive a special elixir from my medical bag by…seven o’clock tonight…I fear the worst.”

Henri looked at his wife again. She nodded. “Very well,” said Henri. “A life is at stake and it’s our Christian duty to act. Sit and eat, regain your strength. We leave in an hour.”

Seward sat in relief at the table, quickly relenting to Henri’s wisdom. “I cannot thank you enough, my friend.” Adeline shushed him by placing a heaped plate of food before him.

Henri turned to his children. “Come help your papa prepare for his flight.”

One hour later, Seward carried his medical bag into the barn. He had not eaten so much in years. He hoped the food would give him the strength he needed to hold off his intensifying morphine withdrawals.

A mechanic carried metal canisters of petrol out to the field. Henri, bent over his wireless telegraph, glanced up when Seward appeared beside him. “I am wiring a friend to expect us at his field in Vichy,” he explained. “It is the halfway point, and we’ll need to refuel there.”

“May I send a message as well?” asked Seward.

“Of course.”

Seward retrieved a small card from his pocket book. “It needs to reach a person at this private wireless station at the Théâtre de l’Odéon. The post code is on the card.”

Henri tapped the wireless key. “And the message?”

TELEGRAM—Dr. Jack Seward to Basarab,

Théâtre de l’Odéon—Paris

COUNTESS BATHORY IS IN PARIS. BEWARE.

Moments later, they were walking toward Henri’s Bleriot monoplane. From a distance, Seward thought it looked like one of Da Vinci’s designs, pieced together from papier-mâché and string. He could see that the “skin” was fitted plywood. Two bicycle wheels supported the cockpit, and the propeller had only two blades. “There she is,” Henri said, beaming. “Fifty horsepower, and capable of a height of two thousand feet.”

Seward choked on his response as Henri’s son took his medical bag and strapped it into a storage compartment at the back of the cockpit, then helped him into the rear passenger seat. Seward was giddy with delight as he watched Henri kiss his wife and two young daughters and march boldly toward the plane. He could hardly believe that he would be in the air in only a few moments.

“Put on the goggles!” Henri called out, placing his own large goggles over his eyes. Seward copied him. “And keep your mouth closed as we take off. Unless you enjoy eating flies.”

Henri’s son spun the propeller, and the engine grumbled slowly to life. The mechanic held up the tail section as Henri lurched the craft forward. This might have been a very bad idea, Seward thought, watching the machine move ever closer to a dangerous precipice. His jaw clenched in terror. But mere seconds before reaching the edge, the aircraft jolted unceremoniously upward, causing Seward to feel as though all of his internal organs had dropped into his legs. Scanning the coastline, he recognized the familiar shape of the Chateau d’If, the famous prison off the shore of Marseilles. It had taken him several hours to row from Marseilles to Villefranche-sur—Mer. And now, in a matter of minutes, they were soaring above it. He knew that Bathory, like all the un-dead, enjoyed the power of flight. Now he did, too.

Four hours later, they were in a farmer’s field in Vichy, refueling the monoplane. It took all three men to roll the barrel of petrol on its side from the barn out to the field where Henri’s aircraft had landed. After the exertions of standing the barrel up on end, it was Seward’s task to use the hand-pump mechanism to siphon the petrol from the barrel. The farmer held the hand pump’s hose firmly in the aircraft’s tank, monitoring its fuel level carefully. The fumes of petrol mixed with par— affin stung Seward’s eyes. Turning his head away, he caught sight of Henri walking around his aircraft, checking every bolt and the delicate plywood skin for any damage. Seward’s mind wandered, his attention drawn to the creeping shadow cast by the monoplane as the sun moved across the midday sky. The shadow of the aircraft’s wings resembled a large bat gliding low across the ground. It was then that the darkness overtook him again.

“Don’t stop pumping!” Henri called out to Seward. “We need to be airborne before the wind changes direction. We won’t have enough fuel to reach Paris if we’re fighting a headwind. I don’t know about you, mon frère. But I don’t want my destiny to be dying by crashing into some stranger’s barn.”

The petrol overflowed the aircraft’s tank. Henri motioned for Seward to stop pumping and cried out, “C’est tout!”

Seward snapped back from his dark thoughts.

CHAPTER V.

After the plane came to a rolling stop in a horse farm’s grazing pasture, Seward untied himself, tumbled onto the ground, and kissed it.

“I am never going to fly again as long as I live,” he said shakily as the engine cut silent. He glanced up to see Henri Salmet dancing on the fuselage like a child on Christmas morn.

“From our last fuel stop, I have estimated we have flown two hundred and fifty miles,” he cried. “We did it!” Henri began to calculate aloud. “Now, how far would two hundred and fifty miles be from Paris?”

“I believe London,” Seward said somberly, thinking of his home as he retrieved his medical bag.

“Now that I know for certain she can reach the distance, I will fly to London and have the press meet me there to document that I will be the first man to cross the English Channel and fly from London to Paris. It will make me très fameux! I must hurry into the city and purchase much petrol. How the devil am I going to get it out here?”

“Thank you for everything, Henri,” Seward said, forcing a smile.

“Bon chance, mon ami.”

Henri kissed Seward on both cheeks and pumped his hand.

Seward watched as Henri ran off toward the road. He knew this could well be the last time he’d set eyes upon his friend’s cheery face. He could think of no words more meaningful, so he kept his farewell simple and called out as he waved, “Good-bye, old friend!”

Seward turned in the opposite direction and checked his pocket watch. There was barely enough time to return to his room, gather his arsenal, and double back southward to the theatre. He would meet Bathory and her harpies fully armed. As the sun continued to set, he stopped to stare at the magnificent color in the heavenly sky. For too long, he had taken such grandeur in the natural world for granted, living alone in darkness. Tonight, he was glad, one way or the other, that he would at last bask beside God in His light.

Quincey arrived early at l’Odéon to purchase his ticket and took his time walking through the foyer of the old theatre. Each wall was adorned with busts, medallions, and portraits of actors. He drank them all in, recognizing a large portrait of Sarah Bernhardt mounted in a gold-leafed frame. Beneath the photo were her name and the title: La reine de l’Odéon. Quincey stopped at the photograph of Sir Henry Irving from his touring production of Hamlet. Irving was considered by most to be the greatest actor ever to voice Shakespeare’s prose. Most actors used their talent to affect the emotions of their audience through the strength of their own emotions. They watched for opportunities to tear the heartstrings of their listeners. In contrast, Irving approached a character from an intellectual perspective, taking into account the author’s intention and the character’s personal history. Though greatly ridiculed by other actors, Irving’s new approach captivated audiences. Much of the press said the same of Basarab; one reviewer had even raved that Basarab had inherited the mantle of “World’s Greatest Actor” from Sir Henry Irving.

Quincey became aware that he was still holding the envelope that he had carefully put together. He had purchased fine writing paper and paid a few francs for a local street artist to decorate the envelope with theatre masks in blood red. With fine calligraphy, an art he’d learned from his mother, Quincey addressed the envelope: To Basarab—from Quincey Harker, Esq. After seeing the pandemonium of adoring fans the night before, Quincey needed to make his envelope stand out from the countless other letters of admiration Basarab was sure to receive. He hoped that it would look important, and prayed it was not too much.

Quincey saw a short, elderly, uniformed man with a large set of keys in one hand and an electric torchlight in the other. Quincey knew this must be the head usher.

“Excuse me,” he said, extending the envelope toward him. “Could I ask you to deliver this backstage for me?”

The head usher read the name on the envelope, shook his head, and answered simply, “Non.”

Quincey’s mind raced. “Very well, I must speak to Monsieur Antoine at once.”

“André Antoine? He cannot be disturbed.”

“I think the theatre manager would like to know why Basarab won’t be performing tonight.”

The head usher studied Quincey. “What are you talking about?”

“Monsieur Basarab is expecting this letter. He is so anxious, I fear that he may be too distraught to perform if he doesn’t receive…”

“Very well,” the head usher interrupted, stretching out his hand. “I will take it to him.”

“Merci.” As Quincey gave him the envelope, the head usher’s hand remained outstretched until Quincey gave him some money. Then the man retreated. The lie had come so easily to Quincey.

Quincey turned to see that the wealthy and cultured, dressed in their best evening attire, had begun to pour into the opulent theatre. He knew that most of them were here to be seen rather than to see the play. Many of them shared his father’s view that actors were vagabonds and heathens. Hypocrites. His father was the worst of them; he seemed to have forgotten he was the son of a cobbler, a mere clerk at law fortunate enough to inherit the firm upon the death of its owner, Mr. Hawkins. The senior partner, Mr. Renfield, who had been destined to inherit the firm, had committed suicide in an insane asylum. Quincey suddenly felt a cold sensation as if the temperature in the room had dropped significantly. He glanced about, wondering where such a blast of cold could have come from, when a striking vision caught his eye. A woman had entered the foyer, towering over all others. The nearby crowd hurled disapproving glares. She was dressed like a man, in an extremely well-fitted dinner jacket.

Elizabeth Bathory could hardly believe this was le Théâtre de l’Odéon. She rested her hand on the gilded column as she looked about the theatre. The last time she had been here was March 18, 1799. The night of the great fire. The theatre rebuilt seemed smaller now. She glanced upward at the glass painting on the ceiling, which was illuminated by new electrical lights. In Michelangelo-style artistry, the painting depicted dancing women who seemed to be floating in the air. Some of the women were cloaked in virginal white flowing robes, chaste and angelic, but most were in various forms of undress, and yet appeared more like little girls than women capable of desire. Of course, the artist did not understand that women were sexual beings, with needs like men. Only a God-fearing man would depict a woman with such contempt.

Bathory’s eyes were fixed on the image of a raven-haired young maiden running with her white robe carelessly trailing behind her as if she had not a worry in the world. Bathory knew well enough from her own dark past that such a creature did not exist.

A fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Bathory had gasped in horror as her bejeweled wedding gown had been ripped violently from her body. Her terrified eyes had looked up at her assailant as he groped her breasts—her new husband, Count Ferenc Nádasdy, a fat, drunken slob of a man more than twenty years her senior.

“You are my wife…As such you have an obligation to God to consummate this marriage…Bathory!” slurred Nádasdy, and his wine-drenched breath was rancid. The way he emphasized her surname confirmed he was still outraged that she was allowed to retain her maiden name since her family was more powerful than his. When she didn’t move quickly enough, he struck her backhanded across her face, the full weight of his girth behind the blow. The signet ring on his hand had cut her lip. She tried to scream, but the bastard covered her mouth. She could still smell the manure since he had not cared to wash his hands after coming in from the fields. That had been the very first time she tasted blood and it had been her own.

In her youth, she had read countless books and poems written in Hungarian, Latin, and German. The stories always portrayed “romance” as a magical fairy tale sealed with a kiss. At fifteen she knew nothing of sexual intercourse or the pain of losing one’s virginity. Such things were meant to be handled gently and with care. Every young girl dreamed of their wedding day. But for Bathory the dream had become a living nightmare from which she could not wake up.

Hers was an arranged marriage, to secure military alliances and lands; romance had no part in it. For Count Nádasdy, she was nothing more than a bucking mare to be broken. Every orifice in her body became his plaything. Her flesh meant no more to him than paper to rend and tear.

After the fat oaf had fallen at last into intoxicated slumber, Bathory had stolen away from her wedding chambers and tried to flee into the night. The Castle Csejthe, which was his wedding gift to her, was situated deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Unlike the lively, edifying estate where she had grown up in Nyírbátor, Hungary, this picturesque setting offered a bucolic tapestry of small fields and meandering stone walls. The castle itself was set high among the jagged outcrops of the frozen mountains. It was May, but at this altitude, it was as cold as winter. Bathory had stood naked, exposed, the freezing air soothing her wounds, her blood frosting on her skin. To freeze to death would surely be better than life with the grotesque monster to whom she had been given. But even in this, God had shown her no mercy. The servants ran from the castle and covered her with blankets. When she fought them, they subdued her and forced her back to her master. There was no escape. Bathory was a prisoner in her own life.

“What is it, mistress?” the pale-haired Woman in White asked, concerned. Her touch startled Bathory back to the present.

She said nothing, but as her rage boiled, she was haunted by the lie of the blissfully ignorant, raven-haired girl running in the painting above. They say blood will have blood, but everything in its time. My vengeance has just begun.

Could it really have been nearly two days since Seward had last taken his “medicine”? His hands shook violently. Time was running out. He needed his fix soon, or he would be too ill and weak to mount an effective assault on Bathory.

He was grateful to find that the Benefactor had left a complimentary ticket for him—a seat in the orchestra section, under his name at the box office. The Benefactor must have received the telegram and anticipated his needs. In his deteriorating condition, sneaking into the theatre would have been impossible. Alas, in spite of the excellent seat, he would not have the luxury of enjoying the play as a spectator. He was sweating profusely and felt nauseated as he stumbled up to the door beneath a sign: “Personelles du Théâtre seulement.” It was locked. He was about to search for another door leading backstage when he spotted Bathory and the two Women in White at the back of the theatre.

He was not ready! He peered from behind a Romanesque column, his clammy hands clutching it for support. He saw Bathory staring at the ceiling and he followed her gaze to a magnificent Renaissance-style painting. One pale, painted figure caught his attention. She was taller than the other women in the scene, with piercing blue eyes contrasting with her flowing black mane. A dark-haired Aphrodite, the perfect stand-in for Bathory. It seemed that Fate had decreed this theatre to be the ideal setting for the immortal to meet her end.

The sound of rattling keys startled him. He turned to see a short man approaching, carrying an envelope adorned with red illustrations. The man looked nervous as he unlocked the door and went inside. Seward slipped his toe in the door before it closed again. Making sure no one was watching, he strolled through as casually as if he belonged there.

Half-dressed performers dashed about. Men carried papier-mâché boulders to the stage. A seamstress sewed a costume onto an actor as he did vocal exercises. Seward had to find a safe place before he was discovered and thrown out.

“What are you doing back here?” a Russian-accented voice called. Seward spun so quickly that his eyesight momentarily blurred. Had he been caught?

His teary, bloodshot eyes focused on the Russian, who stared down at the small man with the keys—obviously the head usher. Seward was safe…for now. Not wanting to press his luck, he ducked into the shadows behind a high-backed prop throne.

The head usher looked up at the large Russian and said, “I have a delivery for Monsieur Basarab. He is supposedly expecting it.”

“I will take it to him.” The Russian snatched the decorated envelope. He stalked toward a door marked with a star and the name Basarab carved in it as the head usher scurried back the way he had come. The Russian knocked and slid the envelope under the door. Seward, near the point of passing out from the need for drugs, remained hidden by the throne. His strength quickly ebbing, he looked up into the rafters, which were filled with ropes, pulleys, and sandbags. He would await Fate’s fortune above, but first he needed a fix.

He thought of a fitting quotation from the play that was about to begin as he quietly drew his medical bag from under his overcoat. “Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a word that cowards use.” Safely obscured on the floor behind the throne, he withdrew a leather belt and tightly cinched it around his sagging bicep. He filled a glass syringe with morphine. Only half a dose this time. Merely enough to quell the nausea. Seward knew that doping up was a gamble, but he could no longer function without the morphine. He felt the drug surge through his veins. It took only a few minutes for him to regain control of his body, and once he felt his legs were steady enough, he began his climb into the rafters.

While the War of the Roses played itself out on the stage below with wooden swords and fake sugared blood, Seward would set the stage for the truly bloody battle. He drew his weapons from a hidden compartment in his coat. The pieces were set, and now the game was in motion.

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