Dracula Lives (25 page)

The movement subsided as a small ripple of concentric waves flowed outward from the wristband. In a minute, all was still again. Quinn glanced up the stairs to make sure nothing was coming at him from that direction, then watched the decomposed metallic remains to be sure they would not come back to life. He left the wristband in the pile—a magnetic stake through the heart of the digital Nosferatu.

As he moved to head the rest of the way down the stairs, he wondered how much of what had just happened was controlled by Markov—or if none of it was. Or if reality lay somewhere in between. Whatever the case, in the fleeting glimpse which that malignant eye had given him into the soul of Nosferatu, Quinn had fathomed the depths of an evil that originated in the nethermost regions of the Pit.

Markov had gone to his apartment to choose the costume for his final scenes with Quinn and Johnny. But on the way to his wardrobe, he’d seen Quinn on the monitor that showed the stairs leading to the Garden—clearly getting ready to head down, even though he had been expressly forbidden to do so. Burning rage at such treachery had consumed any thought of including him in the final sequence.

I
am the star of this picture, not that double-crossing son of a bitch!

Thinking like a director, Markov had instantly come up with a new scene to fit the situation:

Decapitate Quinn with the halberd, then put his head beside Vlad Dracula’s as a brilliant display of irony: the obsessed pursuer of the origin of Dracula legend who had succeeded in his quest.
Be careful what you wish for….

But Quinn had ducked, then defeated the shadow Nosferatu. Markov looked at the special effect gloves and goggles that lay on the floor where he’d tossed them in disgust after his digital creation had fallen apart.

Quinn was proving to be a formidable foe. And Johnny could be. The two of them were not fools. If they
were
plotting against him, with her intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the castle—
and my mind
—they were clever enough to devise a plan that might work.

Johnny might be meeting Quinn in one of the blind spots to work out their scheme. I have to find a way to observe what’s going on without being seen.

Whatever they were up to, his best defense would be to keep them apart. Divide and conquer. He’d have to catch them each alone and eliminate them—by whatever means necessary. But they might even be anticipating that….

I’m going to need reinforcements. Strength in numbers.

It was time for Dracula to round up his strongest minions.

He went to his wardrobe to get into costume. Carefully taking off his crown and placing it on a shelf, he knew which costume would give the final sequence its maximum dramatic effect, but he forced himself to take a moment to consider all his options.

There was no getting around it. He put on tux and tails and went to his full-length mirror to see how he looked.

What he saw made him flinch. His instinct had been correct. His Dracula was disturbing on many levels, not the least of which was that such a hideous creature would actually think that stylish dress would make him acceptable in polite society.

The costuming choice was good, but the fact that he could see himself bothered him. A vampire should cast no reflection. His was faint, but he could still see it. He knew what was keeping the transformation from completion: the dying whispers of conscience from George Tilton.

Markov defiantly placed the Dracula crown back on his head. The whispers died out and he focused on what had to be his first priority as the new ruler: eliminating those who would usurp the crown.

He looked at the clock on his nightstand. Past five. After making a quick calculation on how long it would take to do everything he needed to do, he called Johnny’s cell phone. He spoke in his own voice, but it was Dracula who told her to tell Quinn to meet him in the Chamber of Horrors at six to go over the final sequence. “Tell him from here on out he’ll have to tend to his own needs. I need you to finish your rounds so you can help with the shoot.”

He hung up before she could respond. There was no time for snappy repartee. He needed to gather his prize Flowers, then eliminate Quinn and Johnny so he could consummate his life’s work without having to look over his shoulder. As dangerous as the confrontation scenes were sure to be, envisioning them brought a grim smile. They would add yet another layer of perfection to his version of Dracula. Quinn and Johnny would be his Van Helsing and Renfield, coming to vanquish the vampire. But in a final stunning twist, Dracula would vanquish them.

He needed to find out where they were and plan his strategy accordingly. The monitors would be no help; Johnny knew how to stay one step ahead of him on those.

Most likely they were in the Garden. He’d start there.

He opened a window and effortlessly climbed through it. The sun had already sunk behind the trees. Clinging to the castle wall, his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the moon. The werewolf inside him was not yet strong enough to get out, but it was strong enough to make the vampire open his mouth and let out a long, ululating howl.

Dressed as though going to a premiere, bathed in the red glow of the rising Blood Moon, the ancient drinker of blood fell into a predatory crouch and crept on all fours along the castle wall.

Ten minutes after crossing the Vermont state line, Max pulled off the Interstate and into the parking lot of the Olympian. He parked out of sight behind the theater.

His timing was perfect. There was only one car in the parking lot, and he recognized it as the director’s from the fading bumper sticker advertising some obscure Shakespeare Festival. After getting out of the car he stood looking at the sky for a moment.

The distant storm he’d noticed when he was at his mother’s grave was getting stronger and closer. It was still many miles away, but it was darkening the sky and bringing nightfall early. Hopefully he could outrun it. Most of the trip from here to the castle was Interstate; driving on the highway in the rain was no problem. It was those last ten miles through the woods that worried him. They were never fun, but in a storm … and the dark.…

He shook his head to cast out the negative thoughts and opened the trunk. He pulled out the sword and strode confidently toward the rear stage door, as though he were someone connected to the latest production. People in Vermont were trusting souls, so the door would probably be unlocked.

It was. He went in and took a moment to make sure no one was around, then headed through the scene shop to the hallway that led to the director’s office. Halfway down the hallway was a bulletin board with reviews of the previous season’s productions. The review of the one he’d auditioned for got his attention.

Last year he had swallowed what was left of his pride to come up here and audition for this community theater production of
Dracula
, drawn by the chance to play another of the roles he’d been born to play: Van Helsing, the vampire killer. But the director was a gutless stooge who cast the arrogant star of the company, a rank ham, in the role. The spineless amateur had sent his stage manager to offer Max—a professional—the minor role of the buffoonish guard at Seward’s sanitarium. Seething at the indignity of not getting yet another part he was perfect for, he’d turned it down and vowed revenge.

He eased down the wide hallway and stopped just short of the open door to the director’s office. He heard rustling inside, the sound of someone at their desk. Max called out the director’s name, to be sure he had the right person. “Walter?”

“Yes?”

“Hello,” Max said, remaining out of sight while placing both hands on the hilt of the sword and raising it into the ready position.

“Hello?” came the director’s voice.

Max said nothing and remained still, waiting.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“The Grim Reaper.”

A chair scraped as the director got up to come see who it was. The instant he came through the door, Max took a vicious swing.

The sword sliced cleanly through the director’s neck. His body toppled back into the doorway and his head fell straight to the floor. Max knelt down to stare into eyes open wide in shock.

“Arrogant fool. You had a chance to cast someone with the blood of Dracula himself running through his veins.”

The eyes showed confusion just before their light went out. Max watched as a film came over them like a curtain coming down. He felt no remorse, only satisfaction that another psychic vampire would no longer be sucking the creative juices of others to enrich his own. Max knew he needed to get going in case the police were on his trail, but couldn’t resist taking a moment to savor the expression of ultimate defeat on a face that had been so smug and condescending.

He filled his fountain pen with the blood spilling out from the neck and left his final note:

By the time you read this it will be too late to stop me.

Since a severed head has perpetuated the bloody reign of Dracula, it seems fitting to use beheading rather than the stake on this stealer of souls. Especially fitting when the beheading is done with the blood-soaked sword used by Vlad Dracula himself.

The final swing of this accursed sword shall remove the head of the last loyal subject of Vlad Dracula, the twisted follower who carries out his bidding.

My father.

And then we all must die. The foul vampiric bloodline of Vlad Markov must end.

He stuck the note on the bulletin board on top of the Dracula review.

Now aware that any manner of horror could appear at any time, Quinn clicked on his flashlight and followed the spear of light down into the black gloom of the staircase. Other than unlit gas torches along the walls, nothing revealed itself among the eerily dancing shadows created by his light. As he continued his winding descent, he thought of the labor and expense required to carve this staircase out of the solid rock upon which the castle had been built—more stark evidence of Markov’s crazed pursuit of his demented vision.

Quinn rounded another coil of the spiral and his beam revealed the last section of the staircase. At the edge of his light, he could see the earthen floor of the castle. He descended the final stairs and entered the forbidden chamber.

A few steps onto the barren hard-packed dirt, he stopped to get his bearings. Somewhere to his left, far beyond the range of his light, was the staircase he had come down before, the one that led to his bedchamber. He estimated the distance between here and there at fifty to seventy-five yards. This staircase had deposited him close to the castle wall that faced the access road and the lagoon.

The same faint moaning he’d heard on his previous descent began to penetrate the tomblike silence.

As he strained to determine the direction the sound was coming from, he detected the same smell he’d noticed before. Earthy. Some kind of weed or plant matter.

He pulled out a canister of bear spray and followed his flashlight toward the sound, staying close to the wall to keep from becoming disoriented in the black void. He knew from his walk outside that this wall was about fifty yards long. Forty-six steps later he reached the back wall.

The moaning grew louder, coming from somewhere to the left, farther along the rear wall. As he walked toward it, the smell became more pungent, and made Markov’s description of whatever was in his Garden as Flowers of Evil seem more apt. This was not the pleasant bouquet of a flower. More like the offensive odor of a weed.

He came to a wrought iron gate. It was so large he needed to move several steps back to get a better perspective.

Through the bars, at the edge of a shallow antechamber, he saw a large opening. Another set of stairs, much wider than the others, continued the descent.

Quinn pulled the skeleton key from his pocket. Expecting a lock that might be frozen from years of neglect, he was surprised when the key turned easily and he heard a click. The hinges groaned a mournful protest as he pulled the gate open.

He crossed to the opening beyond and looked down. A short section of stone steps led to a landing. Quickly scanning for anything unusual, he saw nothing and went down. The landing opened onto another, larger chamber carved into the rock. As he cast his light about, a disturbing sight met his eyes.

A dungeon. The barred doors of three large cells ran along the wall to his right. At first he thought the moaning might have been coming from a prisoner, but the cells all appeared to be empty. The moaning was coming from somewhere to the left.

He went to the nearest cell and unlocked it. The woeful groan of these hinges was worse than the sound of the gate, almost as though the soul of the last inmate were crying for release.

As he got deeper into a cell about thirty yards square, he saw something on the floor near the rear wall. Several steps later he was looking down at a horror that triggered a memory: Markov’s response when Quinn had asked him what haunted his castle.

“Bad deeds. Remnants of things I have done.”

Moldering remains lay on the floor, a collapsed pile of bones and dust clad in the moth-eaten clothes someone had died in. The fetter that had held the prisoner chained to the wall hung loosely around one skeletal ankle. The decaying clothes—tie-dyed T-shirt, jeans, hiking boots—sparked another memory.

In researching this area before coming, Quinn had found mention of a hippie commune that had disappeared in the early ’70s.

How far back and how deep did Markov’s sickness go?

Quinn shone the flashlight on his watch. 5:19. He closed the door to the cell and made a quick inspection of the others to make sure no one alive was in them, then hurried along the rear wall of the castle toward the sound of the moaning. Forty paces later, he came to a much larger wrought iron gate and aimed his light between two of the bars. It penetrated ten yards or so into the gloom and revealed only barren earth. Faint light glowing from a considerable distance beyond gave Quinn the sense that this antechamber opened into a chamber that was huge.