Mina (42 page)

harsh, but Brother
Michael's candor made them seem no more than truth.

I considered how to
begirt, then said, "A year ago, my husband, a solicitor from London, came
to this country at the

request of one Count Dracula, whose castle is in the Borgo Pass.
While he was there, he was attacked by strange creatures who live in that
castle. It is of those creatures, called
nosferatu
in your language, that /
wish to speak. "

"Those creatures
are legends. Whatever your husband saw was a dream."

"You asked me why I wished to speak to the abbot. I told you.
Now, please, go and convey my reason to him. " "He will agree with
me." "Is he a holy man, a truly holy man?" "Truly? That is
between him and God, but I believe him to be holy."

"Would you tell him
that I do not expect him to believe in the things I saw with my own eyes. I
only wish him to hear my

confession, and to bless
me when I am through. "

My sincerity must have
been clear to Brother Michael. He excused himself, leaving me alone in the sun
that bathed the

front wall of the
church.

He returned a short time
later, carrying u brown hooded cloak much like the one he wore. "Put this
on," he said. "Pull

the hood over your hair
and follow me."

Once the monastery had been a fortress, he told
me. The original design was still evident as we walked through the center
court, past the dining hall and the kitchen, past the rooms where the monks
received guests, to the long, dim passage that led to the tiny quiet cells
where they slept and meditated and prayed.

I had expected to see an office such as our
ministers at home use. Instead, Brother Michael led me into a cramped room with
only a pallet, a table and chair and a single candle for light. The wax had not
begun to melt. It had just been lit for my sake.

"Brother
Sandor?" I asked.

I could not see his face
or his hands beneath the protective cowl and shapeless sleeves, but I had a
sense of age in the

way he sat so stiffly on
his bed, the way his head was moved up and down in a slow assent.

"Will you hear my
confession?"

Brother Michael
translated. The monk on the bed replied in a whisper. "He said he cannot
give absolution,” Michael told

me.

"I do not believe in that sacrament, but there is a proverb
in my country. Confession itself heals the soul." Another exchange. “ He
said to sit and speak."

Each time I told the
tale, it became longer, more complex. This telling took well over two hours.
When I had finished, I

began to ask Brother
Sandor detailed questions about his faith.

TWENTY-SIX

Gance had
never lied so beautifully as he had in his final note to Mina. In the days they
had been thrown together, he had given no

indication of the reason for
those lies or the quiet panic that had gradually taken hold of him.

Every physician who examined Gance's wound agreed that he had lost
the use of one lung. Their advice was likewise similar-if he wished to live a
normal life span, he would have to get adequate sleep, avoid nervous exhaustion
and be careful not to exert himself physically or emotionally. They also added
that sexual relations would be imprudent, and that if he must have them, he must
practice great restraint.

The prudery
of old men, Gance thought. He was young, vital, and he would not be condemned
to a voyeur's existence. That night

in Paris he felt well enough,
and had gone to Mina as he had so many times before. She had learned so much in
their times together

just how to touch him for the
perfect arousal.

And then, in
the midst of his growing excitement, he had felt his heart begin to race, found
himself gasping for breath, smothered

by his own excitement. He'd
willed himself calm. It had taken far more effort than he ever cared to expend
again.

He could
easily picture himself in his mortal future. He would be seated at one of his
many fetes, wearing black to make him look

even weaker than he was. People would crowd around him to listen
to him, admiring him for his perfect wit, his perfectly orchestrated socials,
his cryptic remarks on the exploits of his past. The story of how he had
defended a lover against a lunatic and paid with his health would be so perfectly
romantic. He would have cherished an acquaintance such as he would become. And
yet he knew he could never exist in his past. Better to die than go on for
decades, trapped by caution and fear.

Mortality
should be the concern of old men and the infirm, not someone as alive and vital
as he. Gance considered this often as he

traveled from Varna to
Bukovina on the most desperate quest of his life-and quite likely his last.

The coach was nearly empty but
reeked of sweat from previous passengers. A drunken old man rode on top with
the driver, singing with keyless enthusiasm. The man beside Gance was a
well-dressed Austrian taking the scenic route back to Vienna. Across from him,
a little Romanian girl lay sideways on the seat, sleeping with her head on her
mother's lap. The woman had a hood pulled down on his face. Often he saw her
peering at him from beneath it with curiosity and fear.

Mina had
warned Gance to expect this kind of scrutiny. Strangers were few in this land,
and his coloring would remind them of

the nosferatu who ravaged it.

Gance leaned
against the window frame, letting the fresh breeze beat over his face,
consulting his map frequently as landmarks

came into view. "The
Borgo?" he asked the woman and pointed to a break in the jagged peaks.

She nodded
and made the sign of the cross on her sleeping child's forehead.

Yes, Gance
thought. Dracula's country.

Bukovina
would have been called a town only in an area of the world such as this. In
England, it would have been considered no

more than a crossroad with
its three small cottages with neatly thatched roofs and its stone-walled public
inn and stables.

The owner of the inn was a Hungarian
of an age Gance's father would have called somewhere between sixty and the
grave. As Gance had assumed, the man had horses to sell. "Choose
one," he said as Gance eyed the collection grazing in the corral behind
the inn. One seemed too spirited for Gance to trust on the climb, and the
second was lame, which left only a sturdy bay mare. "That one,"
Gance said and pointed to it.

"You
will want it in the morning?"

Gance
recalled what Mina had told him of the first journey. It would take a day at
least to find the right road to the castle. "Yes,"

he replied. "I need to
purchase tack and bedroll and some food as well. I intend to be in the pass for
some days."

"Alone?"
The man stared at Gance's face. He seemed to be seeking some clue to Gance's
foolhardiness, or perhaps some proof

of his nature.

Gance
nodded, "Are they still there?" he asked, the question deliberately
vague.

The man
pretended not to hear.

Gance pulled
a pair of bills from his wallet. One he gave for the horse. The other he held
back and repeated the question. "You

might as well tell me,"
he said. "If only to warn me."

The man
looked curiously at him then took the second bill. "Who can know?
Sometimes they sleep. It is said that they can sleep

for months or even years then
wake when someone of interest comes."

"Do you
suppose I will interest them?"

"There
are easier ways to die," the man replied. Gance laughed then inquired
about meals and a room. The coach that had

brought him here left after lunch, but later a second, more
crowded, one arrived from Galati. That night, the tavern was filled with music
and life. Gance ate and drank more than usual, reminding himself that the
innkeeper's meals could be his last.

As he sat
listening to the conversations around him in languages he did not know, he
considered how carefully he had ordered his

life until Mina so radically
altered it. Did he love her? More likely what he felt was nothing but
self-delusion.

Yet he did
care for her, enough that he did not want to see the look of regret on her face
when she realized why he had been so

eager to come here with her.
Now he would stand in her place, and if luck was with him, he might win the
greatest prize of all.

He set out just after breakfast. By
noon, the castle was in sight, but it took nearly all the remaining light to
make the final climb to its walls. The mare had been an easy mount for most of
the journey, but as the shadow of the castle fell over her, she shied and whinnied.
Gance had never been troubled by heights before, but his wound made breathing
difficult. His head pounded. When he dismounted, his legs gave way and he had
to grab the saddle to keep from falling. A few shallow breaths steadied him,
and he led the mare inside and tied her bridle to a post near the entrance.

The massive carved doors were still hanging open as they'd been
when Mina left this place. In spite of the months that had passed since the
fire, the smell of smoke was still strong inside. Dust and soot coated the
stones of the floor. Dry leaves had blown into the corner by the stairs. The
droppings of bats and birds left lines on the floor below the rafters where the
creatures roosted.

Gance had come prepared to spend a
few days here, but the lower hall would not have been hospitable if he'd been
in perfect health. Hoping to find a room that had been more protected from the
elements, he climbed the stairs and tried doors on the second floor until he
found one that would open.

The room's tall, narrow window still
had its shutters. The fireplace appeared usable. Gance lit a cigar, blowing
smoke into the chimney to be certain of the draw. The straw mattress on the
bed, along with an old wooden chair and table, could be used to heat the
space. He returned to the courtyard and tended the mare. Concerned about the
wolves, he led her into the lower hall, then closed and barricaded the doors
as best he could.

Duty done, he returned to the room with the things he had
purchased. His bedroll gave him a place to sit. His candles shed a dim light.
In the darkness that grew more intense as night fell, he ate sparingly of the
food he had brought with him, then built a fire and with all the surety that
Mina had instilled in him, waited for the vampires to come.

Gance slept fitfully, dreaming of a
great weight pressing against his chest. By the time he woke, the first of his
candles had gone out, and the fire had died. He groped for his bag and lit a
second candle, then sat in the little pool of light, slowly reciting the
speech he had intended to make to the creatures that existed here.

"I am
Winston Gordon, Lord Gance. I have wealth. I have houses in London, in Paris,
in Bonn and in Budapest. I can give you

shelter there. I can give you
freedom from this place."

He thought
he heard a woman's laughter, followed by another's and another's.

He stopped, his eyes straining to
see in the darkness around him. The foolishness of what he did seemed terribly
obvious. Oh, he had fallen in love-that much was certain-not with Mina but
with her delusions. He had even been foolish enough to ignore his illness and
come here. The irony of it made him laugh. He continued in a lighter mood,
speaking to the air, he thought, seducing it as he might one of his shy
conquests. "Press your lips to my skin, your bodies against my body,"
he whispered. "Use me. Make me one with you."

As he spoke, the wind rose outside,
beating against the shutters of his window, howling through the cracks in the
outer walls as if his words had summoned a hoard of demons from the craggy
rocks beneath the castle. Downstairs, the horse whinnied with fear.

The castle itself seemed to
sigh, and though the door to his room was closed, a sudden draft of air blew
out his candle.

He reached
for it and groped for the matches he had dropped somewhere. Only the dim red
glow of the coals broke the

darkness pressing around him. In the silence, he heard his ragged
breathing, his racing heart beating faster, ever faster, fueled by his fear.

"Use
me," he repeated, less certain now that he meant the words. "Make me
one of you."

The fire on the hearth flared of its
own accord. The still-glowing wick of the candle ignited. Gance shut his eyes,
and when he opened them again, the women hovered around him. The forms had all
the substance of mist, the delicate hands solidifying as they reached toward
him. Bodies followed, flesh growing as he watched. Their teeth were too white
against the darkness of their lips; their eyes glowed red in the firelight.
Diaphanous gowns floated around them in the stillness of the room. If Gance had
not known what sort of creatures the women were, he might have thought them
ghosts, or dreams, for this castle seemed ideal for dreaming.

The three
were as Mina described-inhumanly alluring, impossibly beautiful-but their
collective expression he knew well.

Lust. Greed.
Hunger.

Yet he felt
nothing for the women beyond an admiration for their beauty and a desire for
the immortality they could give him. Like