spite of my weariness,
arousing. I suppose that was their purpose, for any visitor who would wander so
far would be ready for the sensual trap the women would have waiting in their
chamber.
The room
where the women lay was as vast as the upper hall, yet signs of Van Helsing's
carnage were everywhere. Blood coated
the stones beneath the caskets and formed dark collars around the
heads that rested together on the ground. Their expressions made it clear that
the women had not died in peace. Rats, surprised at their feast, scurried away
as I walked toward the caskets. As I expected, the bodies had not crumbled
into dust. In horror, I stared at the wooden stakes pounded between their
exposed breasts, the blood covering their smooth flesh.
Throughout this terrible journey, I
had noted Van Helsing's obsession. Often he had hinted at some ancient hatred
he had for the vampire. I had no doubt that Van Helsing believed he served a
righteous purpose, yet I knew otherwise. The seductive power of these women
had unnerved him. A man such as him had no choice but to destroy.
I thought of
Van Helsing ripping open their gowns, stopping to marvel at the perfection of
their flesh. Had he touched them before
he began the killing? Had
their beauty made him pause at all? I doubted it.
I ran my fingers over the tips of
their delicate hands, then, bolder, over the cold breasts that might have
suckled children centuries ago. "I'm sorry," I whispered to each of
them. "Sorry that it came to this." I knew from the color of the body
which had been the fair one. She wore a silver filigree ring with a ruby
stone. I slipped it off her finger and onto mine. Then I kissed her
blood-soaked flesh. Though the blood still tasted sweet, it held no warmth, no
memories. I said a prayer for all of them and for myself as well, for I had
never felt such despair.
I looked around me, hoping to see some sign that what Van Helsing
had done had been justified. All I saw was a pile of animal bones, stripped
clean by the vermin. Recalling Jonathan's journal, I looked closely at the pile
but detected no remnants of human victims.
There were
no settlements in the area, I quickly reminded myself, nor even any farms. The
natives had vanished-fled or devoured.
I wondered why the women had not followed them, traveling as
Dracula had to London, instead of living on animals and occasional unwary
travelers.
The only other thing of interest in
the room was a wooden box on a table near the door. I lifted the lid and found
a book with black leather cover and parchment pages. It appeared to be a
journal, written in a delicate script in a language I did not know. The last
entry was not dated, yet the writing seemed fresh. Had one of them kept an
account as I did? What might she have recorded in all the years of her life? I
placed it in the inner pocket of my coat, vowing to find someone to translate
the account the woman had set down.
But there
was one thing more I had to do. I lifted the torch and set the tapestries that
adorned the room to burning. Without a
backward glance, I made my
way through the passage and started up the too-familiar stairs.
My soul was
mine, as Dracula had promised. My choice was mine, and he had promised that as
well. I could have died in that
room, by my own hand, and
awakened to his world. Instead I had chosen Jonathan and the world I knew.
I brushed my
forehead and felt the smooth skin. The scar left by the host had vanished.
I would be wife to Jonathan, someday mother to his children. And
yet I wonder. Is Dracula alive? I think of him beaten in one more battle,
utterly alone in his dark castle. He has had centuries to grow used to loss. He
will find others to replace the women Van Helsing killed, and in time he will
forget about me. But if he is indeed alive, what consequence is his blood in
me?
A crash in the chamber behind me
must have opened some passage directly to the outside, for suddenly the
stairway I climbed tilled with smoke. Holding
arousing. I suppose that was their purpose, for any visitor who would wander so
far would be ready for the sensual trap the women would have waiting in their
chamber.
The room
where the women lay was as vast as the upper hall, yet signs of Van Helsing's
carnage were everywhere. Blood coated
the stones beneath the caskets and formed dark collars around the
heads that rested together on the ground. Their expressions made it clear that
the women had not died in peace. Rats, surprised at their feast, scurried away
as I walked toward the caskets. As I expected, the bodies had not crumbled
into dust. In horror, I stared at the wooden stakes pounded between their
exposed breasts, the blood covering their smooth flesh.
Throughout this terrible journey, I
had noted Van Helsing's obsession. Often he had hinted at some ancient hatred
he had for the vampire. I had no doubt that Van Helsing believed he served a
righteous purpose, yet I knew otherwise. The seductive power of these women
had unnerved him. A man such as him had no choice but to destroy.
I thought of
Van Helsing ripping open their gowns, stopping to marvel at the perfection of
their flesh. Had he touched them before
he began the killing? Had
their beauty made him pause at all? I doubted it.
I ran my fingers over the tips of
their delicate hands, then, bolder, over the cold breasts that might have
suckled children centuries ago. "I'm sorry," I whispered to each of
them. "Sorry that it came to this." I knew from the color of the body
which had been the fair one. She wore a silver filigree ring with a ruby
stone. I slipped it off her finger and onto mine. Then I kissed her
blood-soaked flesh. Though the blood still tasted sweet, it held no warmth, no
memories. I said a prayer for all of them and for myself as well, for I had
never felt such despair.
I looked around me, hoping to see some sign that what Van Helsing
had done had been justified. All I saw was a pile of animal bones, stripped
clean by the vermin. Recalling Jonathan's journal, I looked closely at the pile
but detected no remnants of human victims.
There were
no settlements in the area, I quickly reminded myself, nor even any farms. The
natives had vanished-fled or devoured.
I wondered why the women had not followed them, traveling as
Dracula had to London, instead of living on animals and occasional unwary
travelers.
The only other thing of interest in
the room was a wooden box on a table near the door. I lifted the lid and found
a book with black leather cover and parchment pages. It appeared to be a
journal, written in a delicate script in a language I did not know. The last
entry was not dated, yet the writing seemed fresh. Had one of them kept an
account as I did? What might she have recorded in all the years of her life? I
placed it in the inner pocket of my coat, vowing to find someone to translate
the account the woman had set down.
But there
was one thing more I had to do. I lifted the torch and set the tapestries that
adorned the room to burning. Without a
backward glance, I made my
way through the passage and started up the too-familiar stairs.
My soul was
mine, as Dracula had promised. My choice was mine, and he had promised that as
well. I could have died in that
room, by my own hand, and
awakened to his world. Instead I had chosen Jonathan and the world I knew.
I brushed my
forehead and felt the smooth skin. The scar left by the host had vanished.
I would be wife to Jonathan, someday mother to his children. And
yet I wonder. Is Dracula alive? I think of him beaten in one more battle,
utterly alone in his dark castle. He has had centuries to grow used to loss. He
will find others to replace the women Van Helsing killed, and in time he will
forget about me. But if he is indeed alive, what consequence is his blood in
me?
A crash in the chamber behind me
must have opened some passage directly to the outside, for suddenly the
stairway I climbed tilled with smoke. Holding
Similar Books
