Diaries Of The Family Dracul - Children Of The Vampire Part 19

I followed her gaze to see the peasant woman-but not as I had ever before seen her.

Though she wore the same dress, her face had taken on the unearthly beauty and youth of the vampiress, and the reddish cast to her long, dark hair now gleamed as though infused with the brilliance of the setting sun. At her mistress' order, she raised an arm to strike from a distance, as Zsuzsanna did once more.

I knew I could not survive another blow, much less two from either side. But before the fiendish women could strike again, I heard a roar like that of a mighty storm and another rus.h.i.+ng of wind.

"Harm him and die!" Vlad thundered at the women, hurling Zsuzsanna herself at the opposite wall. Despite his frailer appearance, his strength was far greater than hers; she struck the stone with an ear-splitting crack. But it was not the sound of immortal bone breaking, for she slid down to the floor in a heap of black and white, revealing a long, jagged fracture-a lightning-bolt in stone-behind her.

The blow would certainly have killed a man at once. But Zsuzsanna was merely stunned and fell forward, propping her upper torso up with her arms, skirts and legs sprawled behind her upon the floor, dark hair spilling down over her livid face.

"I swear to you," she hissed at me, lips contorted downwards to reveal a razor-keen row of lower teeth, chin tucked to reveal a face consumed by large blazing eyes, "there will be payment for this! I shall relish every moment of your torment, your suffering, your corruption. And the day your soul joins your father's in h.e.l.l, I shall rejoice!"

"Silence!" Vlad commanded, with a rage that outshone hers as the sun outs.h.i.+nes a single candle flame. "What is the one thing I demand above all others, Zsuzsa? That you should never harm him, never speak ill of him, never bring him sorrow! And what have you done?

What have you done? His son is lost to us and for that we must now pay!"

She turned her face from him, sullenly mute.

As he shouted, I pushed myself onto shaking knees and crawled back to my child, only steps from where the Impaler stood. Beside my black bag, Jan still lay on his side, pale and silent in death, untouched by the force that had torn me from him. Had it not been for Arkady and all the past and future generations who looked to me for rescue, I would have surrendered gladly to the monsters-if only I could complete the task that would give my little son rest.

And in the time it took me to draw a single pained breath, Vlad's tone abruptly changed, grew warm, loving, beautiful to the ears, like the sweet high sound of a nightingale on a quiet starlit eve. "Abraham," he said softly, for the first time acknowledging the man I had become rather than the babe who had escaped him, "your child is not truly dead. I alone have the means to revive him. And I will, should you do one small thing: Come to me now.

Perform the ritual with me, and you and your child will be free to return to your home."

He spoke with Arkady's voice; and the sound of it so moved me that I forgot myself and glanced up from my child's body to the Impaler's countenance and saw it s.h.i.+ft, transforming itself to that of the father I had never known.

I struggled to maintain the protective glow around my heart; blinked, and saw behind the illusion the Impaler's malignant, skeletal features. With one hand, I fumbled in my bag without looking and drew out the sheathed blade."Enough of suffering," he said, and I stared into Arkady's soft, compa.s.sionate eyes once more. "Dear Bram, enough! Must you give up everything? Your own life, your wife's, your son's? No! Cast aside the cross and hand me the boy. I shall restore him to you; restore also the happy life you once knew. I ask but one small ritual, one brief exchange, and all can become as it once was; take the boy home to his mother, and let the joy of that reunion restore her as well. You have sacrificed enough . . . Look at him, Bram! Look at what you have done to your own blood, how cruelly you have mutilated his innocent little body! What sickness bids a father to so defile his own flesh? Do you wish him to remain thus-or become again a happy, living child?

"Cast aside the cross; grant me this one small thing. And the grim darkness your life threatens to become will turn to day, and you can once more rest in the love of your wife and son."

His words pierced me more thoroughly than any blade could; I gazed down at Jan's tiny corpse and fought back a wave of grief so powerful I feared it would wash away the last remnants of my defense. I felt myself surrounded by the inky darkness of Vlad's aura, felt my own glow engulfed, consumed.

I closed my eyes; unshed tears burned behind the lids. And with a desperation beyond any I have ever experienced before or since, a desperation that transcended time and place and physical frailty and rent the veil separating earth from Heaven, I cried out mentally -no, I prayed, to Arminius and Arkady and the generations dead and to come: Help me!

Whether the dead and absent heard me, or whether my genuine prayer summoned help from within my own soul, I know not; but an act of emotional alchemy followed. The dross of my despair was trans.m.u.ted into the gold of a determined will. Physically, I was dangerously weak and dizzy; the agony provoked by drawing a breath had only increased, and with it came a sense of heaviness in my lungs. I worried they had been punctured, and that I would collapse ere I dragged myself from the castle.

Nevertheless I found the strength to gather Jan's body into my arms and rise, unsteady and gasping, to my feet. The poor boy was heavier in death than ever he had been in life.

"Bram," Vlad wheedled, coaxing, still affecting Arkady's voice and visage; yet I glimpsed the decadent monster behind the facade. "Come, bring him to me."

I disobeyed, staggering instead to the doorway, past the peasant vampiress (who dared not touch me, nor meet her master's eyes) and into the throne chamber. Vlad followed alongside, still sweetly soothing: "You are a stubborn man-but weak and tired. Surrender your suffering, Bram. Surrender your burden. . . ."

I made it past the implements of torture, past the bloodstains, past the throne, on sheer will alone. And when at last I emerged into the long, narrow corridor that led down to the stairs, I leaned heavily against the cool wall. The large stake protruding from Jan's small body sc.r.a.ped against the stone, leaving a s.h.i.+ny trail to mark our pa.s.sage.

My pain increased, as did my light-headedness; but to allow myself the luxury of unconsciousness would mean failure. As I staggered down the stairs, I suddenly saw Arkady waiting upon the landing, his arms spread in welcome: Abraham, my son, you are tired! Give me your burden. . . .For a fleeting instant, I felt a surge of hope, thinking that Arkady had somehow been spared and had come to aid our escape. But then I blinked and saw behind his smiling countenance Vlad's malevolent features. Again I prayed to Arminius and my ancestors; again I found strength.

Grimacing with pain, I s.h.i.+fted my son's weight to my left arm and with my right hand held aloft the crucifix that hung over my heart. Pain and necessity eclipsed all fear; I approached my nemesis boldly, ready to touch the relic to his flesh if need be.

Indeed, I came close to doing so; I was less than an arm's length from him, close enough to smell his foetid breath before he stepped aside.

Thus did I progress raggedly through the castle- growing weaker, dizzier, yet more determined with each step. And at last I arrived at the open door that led to the day beyond. With a sense of triumph, I stepped into a pane of bright sunlight.

Before me, the door slammed shut, pushed by a sudden gust of wind; a heavy black iron bolt slid through the lock.

Vlad's voice behind me, faintly harsher now, commanding: "Put down your burden, Abraham. Surrender to the inevitable and rest."

With a burst of energy that exhausted all my reserves, I moved to the door and, with my son still in my arms, leaned my forehead against the cool wood. I tried to s.h.i.+ft Jan's weight to my left arm so that I might unbolt the door; but weakness and pain overcame me. Brow still pressed against the wood, I slid to my knees and gasped.

The Impaler approached, smiling, no longer bothering to maintain Arkady's appearance.

There was no need; I was too physically weak to struggle. I tried to raise a hand, to lift the cross, but my arms were as heavy as the stone that surrounded us. Only one thought gave me hope: Perhaps I was dying. And if that was so, then my death would purchase Vlad's destruction.

The Impaler was right to sense my craving for peace, for silence, for rest. How pleasant, to surrender all emotion, all joy, all suffering, all love, all hatred. All striving ... I need only close my eyes and yield to the void.

This I did. But a light shone in the midst of that darkness; and as I watched, an image coalesced.

It was Arminius, with s.h.i.+ning white hair and beard. Strangely, his features looked precisely as they always had; but I realised for the first time how much they resembled Arkady's-as if this were my father, somehow still immortal but redeemed.

Get up, Abraham. Get up and save your son. Save us all.

The very thought of movement made me sigh with weariness-which brought a sharp, fresh surge of pain. That pain bade me open my eyes, which by chance were directed downwards to the pale still corpse of my son.

Vlad stood beside us now, his feet planted beside little Jan's head, his hands reaching out to grasp my child.

I clutched the black iron handle of the door and pulled myself up, then unbolted the door and flung it open.

Bright sunlight streamed in, caressing my face with its warmth, spilling over me, my child, the Impaler's crouching body.Vlad gave a low cry that was a wordless curse and recoiled instinctively. I took advantage of his hesitation to seal the doorway with a bit of the Host, then lift my son and stagger outside into the blue brilliant day.

Chapter 21.

The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing, Cont'd.

How I managed to climb upon the horse with Jan's body and ride the long, torturous distance back to Arminius' cottage without fainting and falling off onto the icy ground, I cannot say. I only know that when I arrived there, I was as close to death as I have ever been; had my little son's soul not required my further help, perhaps I might have succ.u.mbed.

It was early twilight when we arrived at Arminius' sheltered glade. I dismounted and laid my child's body beneath an ancient fragrant evergreen. The dying coral rays of the sun streamed down upon us as I performed the grisly deed that put him to rest; only then did I enter the cottage to seek Arminius' help with the burial.

But the rooms were empty, the charred ashes in the fireplace cold and dark. I called for Arminius, then in my desperation for Archangel; the only reply was the echo of my own frantic voice.

I was too ill and exhausted to do more than build a fire and fall fast asleep by the hearth. In the morning when I woke, I made a pyre with logs from the woodpile and set my little boy's remains atop it. As it blazed, I watched the dark smoke carry Jan's soul heavenwards.

I sit once more before the fireplace, writing it all down. No detail must escape my memory, for I am sure this record shall be of use to me in the future.

I will remain here a few days to regain my strength and hope for Arminius' return. If he does not come, I intend to take with me the Goetia and certain other texts I have found, and carry them back to Holland. I know I am meant to return home; but my life there will not, cannot be the same.

Staring into the fire, I need no magical intervention to see a vision of my own future in the flames. I see two paths divergent, as though I stand at a fork on a fogbound forest road: The one path is the future now denied me, the life of a man loving and loved, surrounded by children and a wife who grows contentedly old by his side. A lifetime of laughter and arguments, of tears and ten thousand good-morning and bedtime kisses, ten thousand stories recounted by candlelight, ten thousand slammed doors and ten thousand unwilling apologies. A lifetime of watching my children grow to proud adulthood and raise families of their own. Grandchildren, a life well lived, a gentle death, and interment at my Gerda's side: All this might have been mine.

But for the sake of those I love and those I never knew and never shall, I cannot be that man. I see too clearly now the fate that lies before me: A life alone, eschewing love lest I bring forth another heir to be broken and destroyed. Ten thousand days spent in cold silent graveyards murdering those long dead, ten thousand nights on squalid streets, in villages and cities where I come and go a stranger.Ten thousand nights so the day might come when I am the stronger and can complete the task I was born to do.

I go willingly down this road, never before trod by human foot, so that the other path might be safe for those who travel it; so that the dreams of other men might be sweet.

And for my own lost family, whose blood cries out to me as it drips from the Impaler's hands: Justus et pius.

I will be avenged.

EPILOGUE.

The Diary of Mary Tsepesh Van Helsing 13 FEBRUARY 1872.

Bram has returned at last.

Writing those words should bring joy. After all, my heart's greatest fear never materialised; the child for whom so much was risked, so much gladly sacrificed, is safe, and here with me once more.

But at what price? At what price?

Gerda shares my room now-I am too fearful to let her spend the night unattended. Many nights, in the heavy hours before dawn, I am wakened by bright, tinkling laughter and sit upright in bed, heart pounding because the voice does not belong to my daughter-in-law, but to Arkady's sister. Sometimes, the voice turns petulant, then shouts in anger.

I know with whom Zsuzsanna fights: Him. He still walks the earth, and many an hour in the darkness, I have lain weeping silently, listening in vain for news of those beloved by me.

Little more than a fortnight ago, Gerda emerged from her self-imposed silence to shriek again, in Zsuzsanna's voice, leaping from her bed to stand like a distraught ghost in her white night-gown, elbows akimbo, hands clutching skull, dark eyes two fathomless voids in that pale, pale face. Murderer! You 've killed my child . . . ! And now you will pay in kind. . .

And then she collapsed to her knees, sobbing, cupped hands to eyes as she moaned, "Jan . . .

Jan . . . my sweet little Dutch boy . . ."

I listened with a horror, a grief beyond the reach of tears. For some time I could only lie stunned and sweating, wrapped in linens and wool, feet pressed against the now-cold brick bedwarmer as a burning chill ascended my spine. But the question that consumed me became painfully tangible, so much so that it pounded in my ears until I could not bear to remain in bed, but rose and padded in woolen socks across the cold floor to ask it of her: "Dear G.o.d, who has killed Jan? Gerda, I must know ..."

She did not hear me. I put a hand beneath her chin and lifted her face towards me: but the eyes were blank, the lips faintly moving, but producing no sound. She had retreated again to vacancy, to muteness, unable to answer my question.I already knew my grandson to be dead; I wanted now to know the name of his murderer.

For I had received only days before a terse letter from my eldest son saying that his only child had been killed, and offering no details-not even mentioning Stefan's death. And in the midst of my weeping over the death of my grandchild, I found myself besieged by a mother's hope: If Bram had not mentioned Stefan's death, then perhaps he, at least, was still alive, and Gerda mistaken. . . .

But in the meantime my grief was mixed with fury. I was certain that Vlad was directly responsible for the loss of our little angel, and this added kindling to the fire of my hatred.

"Who has killed him? Who? Speaks I commanded, this time with such vehemence that Gerda's dark, empty eyes flickered, and the moving lips produced a faint, low whisper before they fell silent again: "Abraham . . ."

I staggered backwards from her and sat upon my bed.

Of course Bram had not harmed his own child; that I did not doubt, even at that horrible moment. But Zsuzsanna apparently thinks my son a murderer. And if the poor child had died by the time Abraham wrote to me, then why had Zsuzsanna waited so long to mourn him?

The only answer is too horrible to contemplate.

Yet, I see it reflected in Bram's eyes. Only five days before, I received a letter announcing his imminent arrival, post-marked from Hungary.

Two nights ago I sat alone in my room (alone, though Gerda slept quietly nearby), staring into the dying fire and grieving as I had the night-so long ago, it seems-Arkady returned to me.

Two swift knocks, soft yet insistent, at my bedroom door. The sound made me at once raise a hand to my startled heart: for I had heard no footfall in the corridor, on the stairs. Yet the cadence was unmistakable; I released a cry and hurried at once to fling open the door.

There stood Abraham, as he had so many months before the dark night of the past had descended on us.

This was my son-and yet it was not he, but a stranger. In the instant before I threw my arms round him, I drew back, fearful. This was indeed the same man who had come to my door only months before; for these were the same bright blue eyes behind thick spectacles, the same wavy, copper-gold hair.

And yet this man was not the same. There was an air about him that was new, an air of great power and mystery and sorrow. The bright blue eyes were tinged with hardness, such hardness as I had never seen in him before, nor thought him capable of.

"Moeder," he said, and his speech was different, too, possessed of authority and a weariness deeper than any which can be borne by mere mortals.

Undead, I thought in a moment of dizzying horror, for there was an aura of the unearthly, the esoteric about him. Undead, or tainted like poor Gerda . . .

But no; his haggard features revealed no immortal glamour, only shadows and lines and the burden of a responsibility that had aged him far beyond his years.

Stricken at the sight, I touched fingertips to his face- warm, still warm-and saw it soften ever so slightly.

I took his hand, as comfortingly warm as his cheek. "Bram," I said, my own voice trembling as I searched his eyes to find therein even one small spark of hope. I had meant to welcome him properly, but had languished in uncertainty too long. "You told us of Jan, but your letter did not mention Stefan or Arkady. . . ."

He briefly averted his eyes and drew in a breath-a small, hitching sigh, but that instant's hesitation revealed the horrid truth more than any words could. I pressed both hands to my heart and wailed a mere second before he answered softly, "Dead. Both dead. But Vlad still lives."

How shall I ever mourn them all?

Arkady, my darling, would that I burned in h.e.l.l in your stead! Yet can there be greater torment than mine: to live knowing that your pure soul suffers unjustly while the monster still walks the earth, revelling in the blood of innocents? Knowing that your death and d.a.m.nation have failed to free our child from a life in the Impaler's shadow?

And how shall I mourn the loss of the one now called Abraham? He has returned and lives here with us in this house, but much of the night and the day he is either absent or closeted in his study, poring over strange ma.n.u.scripts. He speaks little, and will not talk of Transylvania at all. When he does speak, he does so absently, with his gaze focused elsewhere-on the shades of his brother, or his father, or his son, in this house full of ghosts both living and dead.

Bram is here, but he is not with us. My son is lost to me, as surely as if Vlad had plucked him from my arms the day he was born. . . .