Read Online Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl by David Barnett - Free Book Online
Authors: David Barnett
Tags: Fantasy
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afraid I cannot join you in your research today. I wish I had time to speak to you in person, but that is one thing I just do not have. I now believe the search for your Count Dracula to be a blind alley. There is indeed an undead monster on the loose, but not the one you think. Perhaps the enclosed story-paper might prove illuminating. I have gone to London to engage the services of Captain Trigger. Yours, Gideon Smith.
Also in the envelope was an issue of World Marvels & Wonders, folded open to a Captain Lucian Trigger story. Stoker glanced at the periodical and put it unread to one side, pondering over his lunch of dressed crab. He had upset Mr. Smith. He had been careless with his words, given the young man the impression that he was merely on a jolly adventure while for Gideon it could not have been more important.
A story, Gideon had said, with distaste. Research. A novel . He would have liked Mr. Smith’s strong arm at his service, but he had let Gideon down, so it wasn’t to be. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Bram Stoker was stepping outside the comfortable confines of artifice and fancy, and tipping himself headlong into what he now knew to be a very real, very dangerous escapade. He would make amends. He would track down Vlad Dracula himself, and vanquish him. Stoker smiled as he finished his lunch. He had never felt more alive.
The police had, of course, combed the moors in search of the dog, but they pronounced it gone. And relieved they seemed about it, too, thought Stoker. With murders and mysteries to be solved, a wild hound was low on the constabulary’s list of worries. If it had run off toward the next police division, so be it. Stoker, of course, knew otherwise. The vampire had merely gone to ground and shed its transformed state.
He took a meandering route, making his painstaking way along the beach and scrambling up the rocks. He surveyed the moors rolling away from the coast, the farms and small holdings dotted around the patchwork landscape, any one of them potentially providing shelter—or a hearty meal—for Dracula. But why here? According to Le Fanu’s account, Vlad Dracula was a Transylvanian nobleman of an ancient pedigree, and while the guise of a black hound might be suitable for effecting entry to England, surely rampaging like a rabid dog would not be the count’s style.
Stoker’s path took him back toward the abbey, and he knew from there he could descend the famous 199 steps down to the town. He resolved to sit in the ruins of the abbey and eat his provisions while he pondered his next move.
In the gathering dusk, just a hundred yards from the abbey, came a farmer, openly weeping and dragging a hessian sack. Stoker stopped him and said, “Good heavens, man, whatever is the matter?”
The man simply pulled open the neck of the sack and bade Stoker look inside. He did, then drew back in horror. There was the severed head of a sheepdog in there, the blind, milky eyes of the collie staring up at him.
“My old Shep,” wailed the man. “He’d been missing all afternoon. He never goes missing. I found this yonder, near the abbey. What sort of monster would do that to a dog?”
What sort of monster indeed. His mouth set in a grim line, Stoker strode toward where the farmer had found the remains of his dog. The abbey. He fumbled in his satchel and took out a handful of stakes and his hammer, juggling them at his chest as he also delved in for the crucifix. In the gloom he slipped on a patch of dark wetness, which closer inspection revealed to be blood. His breath caught in his chest. The blood was before a dark opening, just off what must have once been the nave of the church, which led down half a dozen steps to an old cell or storage room. Stoker lit his small oil lamp with a painfully loud match strike. Was there a sudden movement from within? Holding the lamp high in one hand and clutching the stakes, hammer, and crucifix clumsily in the other, he descended, as
Also in the envelope was an issue of World Marvels & Wonders, folded open to a Captain Lucian Trigger story. Stoker glanced at the periodical and put it unread to one side, pondering over his lunch of dressed crab. He had upset Mr. Smith. He had been careless with his words, given the young man the impression that he was merely on a jolly adventure while for Gideon it could not have been more important.
A story, Gideon had said, with distaste. Research. A novel . He would have liked Mr. Smith’s strong arm at his service, but he had let Gideon down, so it wasn’t to be. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Bram Stoker was stepping outside the comfortable confines of artifice and fancy, and tipping himself headlong into what he now knew to be a very real, very dangerous escapade. He would make amends. He would track down Vlad Dracula himself, and vanquish him. Stoker smiled as he finished his lunch. He had never felt more alive.
The police had, of course, combed the moors in search of the dog, but they pronounced it gone. And relieved they seemed about it, too, thought Stoker. With murders and mysteries to be solved, a wild hound was low on the constabulary’s list of worries. If it had run off toward the next police division, so be it. Stoker, of course, knew otherwise. The vampire had merely gone to ground and shed its transformed state.
He took a meandering route, making his painstaking way along the beach and scrambling up the rocks. He surveyed the moors rolling away from the coast, the farms and small holdings dotted around the patchwork landscape, any one of them potentially providing shelter—or a hearty meal—for Dracula. But why here? According to Le Fanu’s account, Vlad Dracula was a Transylvanian nobleman of an ancient pedigree, and while the guise of a black hound might be suitable for effecting entry to England, surely rampaging like a rabid dog would not be the count’s style.
Stoker’s path took him back toward the abbey, and he knew from there he could descend the famous 199 steps down to the town. He resolved to sit in the ruins of the abbey and eat his provisions while he pondered his next move.
In the gathering dusk, just a hundred yards from the abbey, came a farmer, openly weeping and dragging a hessian sack. Stoker stopped him and said, “Good heavens, man, whatever is the matter?”
The man simply pulled open the neck of the sack and bade Stoker look inside. He did, then drew back in horror. There was the severed head of a sheepdog in there, the blind, milky eyes of the collie staring up at him.
“My old Shep,” wailed the man. “He’d been missing all afternoon. He never goes missing. I found this yonder, near the abbey. What sort of monster would do that to a dog?”
What sort of monster indeed. His mouth set in a grim line, Stoker strode toward where the farmer had found the remains of his dog. The abbey. He fumbled in his satchel and took out a handful of stakes and his hammer, juggling them at his chest as he also delved in for the crucifix. In the gloom he slipped on a patch of dark wetness, which closer inspection revealed to be blood. His breath caught in his chest. The blood was before a dark opening, just off what must have once been the nave of the church, which led down half a dozen steps to an old cell or storage room. Stoker lit his small oil lamp with a painfully loud match strike. Was there a sudden movement from within? Holding the lamp high in one hand and clutching the stakes, hammer, and crucifix clumsily in the other, he descended, as
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