Stoker's Manuscript (36 page)

“Do it,” he ordered.

I picked up the horseshoe and hesitated.

“Do it!”

I waved the horseshoe over the terminal and a spark spit from the battery, throwing the Gypsy onto his back. I heard the red light pop overhead. Nothing happened for a second.

Then a loud shriek came from inside the church, another thunderous cry that resonated for miles, but this time a cry of immense pain. And despair, even.

Another lightning bolt struck the area, nearer the outskirts of the village, and the ground shook from thunder.

I looked down and saw the Gypsy motionless, his burnt hands smoking. I couldn’t pick him up, so I dragged him over to the wall. As I eased him to the wet ground, Luc appeared at my side, a large hunting knife in each hand. I stared at him a moment, expecting the worst, but he set down the knives and helped me lift the Gypsy over the wall and into the foxhole, where we covered him. Luc handed me one of the knives. I nodded, and we both knelt against the stone wall, peering over it toward the church.

The noise from the church had ceased entirely.

Luc said, “At the dawn, we also wish to be just ashes, ourselves.”

Luc’s words finished the poet’s verse I had started in the carriage ride leaving Castel Bran. And as I turned my head toward him, I knew that we would be finishing this mission together.

“I had to scare you to make it look real,” he said.

I nodded, keeping my eye on the church. At that moment, the church’s front door exploded off its hinges and tumbled down the porch steps. Red eyes glowed in my direction. Dalca growled and stepped outside. He wore no clothes, but an arrow stuck out of his torso and blood ran out of the wound. The bolt had missed its target and the silver tip protruded from the left side of his chest near his shoulder, not the center shot I had intended.

In his current state, Dalca did not move in a vampirelike blur, but rather at mere human speed. Stepping my direction, he breathed like a man out of wind. He reached his right hand up to the arrow and yanked. It withdrew with a snap and pop. As I backpedaled behind the truck, Luc charged the Master and tried to thrust a knife into Dalca’s heart, but Dalca sidestepped his attacker and redirected the knife into Luc’s chest. From where I stood, I saw the blade emerge from Luc’s back, his body lifting off his feet from the impact. Dalca released him, letting Luc fall to the mud with a wet thump.

Dalca moved slowly to the truck, knelt, heaved mightily, and flipped it in my direction. It rolled once before landing near my legs.

I turned to run and felt his huge hand grab my shoulder and spin me to face him. I lifted the laser pointer and pressed the button. The red beam found his pupil. Instantly his face froze, and Dalca swung his head aside to avoid the light. I raised Luc’s other knife, knowing I would fail to find his heart before he found mine. But as I did so, suddenly Dalca’s back arched and his torso thrust forward, his mouth opening wide but speechless. His blood covered me. I stepped back.

It took a second to register, and then I saw the silver arrow sticking out from the middle of his chest. Dalca dropped to his knees and let out a shriek as loud as a train whistle. It hurt my ears, and I covered them.

Behind Dalca stood Radu, holding the long crossbow bolt. He withdrew it almost faster than I could see, then thrust it through Dalca’s heart once more.

With Dalca kneeling, Radu produced two daggers of his own, raised them to shoulder height, and drove them into Dalca’s sides, inward toward the heart. As Dalca cried in pain, Radu pulled another long knife from a sheath, raised it like a headsman’s axe, and swiped it across Dalca’s neck. Dalca’s head fell into the mire before his body flopped over.

Radu reached down and lifted his brother’s head to his own face, and after staring into his eyes for several seconds, spoke calmly: “Look upon the face of your killer.”

Dalca’s mouth tried to speak something, but nothing came out except blood. The last red glow of Dalca’s eyes faded to darkness just as a third lightning strike lit the area. Radu looked at me but said nothing. He pulled the silver arrow from the body and walked into the church. I stood at the door while he went into the hole. I heard a thump, followed by the sound of the stone slab sliding back into place.

The last I saw of Radu, he was walking over the bridge toward Dreptu carrying his brother’s head by the hair. The carriage followed him into the forest, the horses trailing their master. A distant thunder rolled.

I looked in the hole. Radu had placed the stone cover back over the tomb. The sword hilts were still in place. I could only guess at Erika’s disposition.

I raced to Luc, but found only his lifeless body, a fallen hero. I said a quick prayer: “Please, God, receive this soul. He died that others might live.”

Then I ran to the foxhole and shook the Gypsy. After a moment he stirred, smelling of singed hair and burnt skin. His hands had second- or third-degree burns, and I think he had soiled himself, but he was alive and regaining consciousness. Eventually I walked him back to his house before returning home to Sonia. When I walked in, she was praying. She gave one last offering of thanks before embracing me in a long hug.

“Is it done,
dragostea mea
?” she asked.
My love.

I nodded. But in truth, it wasn’t. I had a hole to fill.

T
he Hunter’s Moon is October’s full moon, in some places referred to as the Blood Moon. Normally the biggest of the birthday parties, it passed without any revelry in the woods. Despite the Master’s death and the northward migration of his Regulats, the locals still boarded their windows nightly, avoiding full moons altogether. I suppose they always will.

As I write this it is the dead of winter, a season much like the other winters I lived through in Chicago, though with slightly drier air here, and without lake-effect snow entirely. Still, it is a time for hot soup and fresh bread in the kitchen and logs for warmth in cast-iron woodstoves.

I warm my hands and feet and think of my brother, as I always do on full moons, hoping he is not some Regulat’s monthly diet. He had safely returned to Chicago and his parish, performing his normal ordained duties. I heard from him when a moving truck pulled into Dumitra with my inventory of books from Chicago—most of them, at least—and a brief letter. I stored the books in the church rectory until a suitable warehouse could be constructed on church grounds. Dumitra has no Internet service, so I set up shop by renting a private space in an Internet café in
. I commute there regularly with the Gypsy and take orders under an assumed name. I see Luc’s grave in the village cemetery every time we pass, and just like the locals, I make the sign of the cross with each passing.

One exceptional autumn afternoon, the Gypsy halted at the most scenic overlook and directed me off the cart. He peeled back the tarp that covered his inventory and proceeded to tap the largest container. He offered me a cup, and I realized that what he sold in town was not the copper pots but the plum brandy,
, which he brewed in his copper still.

The Gypsy swept his arm toward the valley and said, “It is beautiful day . . . American.”

It was my first drink on native soil.

My brother’s letter spoke of frustration with my choice that night in Dalca’s monastery tower. Bernhardt had been completely ready to die then, he wrote, though he offered me his forgiveness. I was not ready to accept the latter, for my mistakes did not result from a single decision, but many. I miss Berns badly, and if I could change places with him, I would do so without hesitation. I know that he understands that, but it makes my enduring guilt no easier.

Berns mentioned that one of the nuns had passed, not the Don, and it reminded me that I owed them a debt I could never repay.

My life continues quite separately, day to day, from the vampire world. At least for the most part. One morning, while I was working in the café, Arthur Ardelean arrived with news that he had a new employer; same family, just a different address farther north. Before leaving, he offered to let me know—for a price, of course—where I might be able to find something that would add to my rare books inventory, an item of great value. I thought of all the tragedy that manuscript had inflicted and passed on his offer. For now. I wished him luck but did not offer to keep in touch.

From Sonia I have had to get used to hearing
te iubesc
—
I love you
. See, I never heard it, or at least don’t remember hearing it in my life, until she said it. I have found my emotions sprinting toward her, but my nerve has not yet caught up to my heart. She understands. She always understands.

From time to time I hear shrieks in the woods at night, and while the villagers still cower, the original source of their fears is gone. I know, because I walked out to Dreptu in the days that followed and found it deserted. Not even the caretaker remained. What drew me out there? I don’t know. Maybe it was more than just one thing.

First, I did not want simply to sit in Sonia’s house and quake with each full moon and sunset. It’s bad enough visualizing what lies below the house’s foundation. Second, someone had to go check on the place and report back to the villagers, for they were more frightened than ever, the fear of change being immeasurably greater than the fear of the known. When I walked into the woods, Sonia reminded me that I was going there for the entire village, not just for myself. That gave me strength, even if I was never to return. In that case, at least, the villagers would know not to retrace my steps.

The monastery gate was open, and I walked into the courtyard, where amidst the medieval headstones a huge new mausoleum stood. An iron gate keeps out the curious, but I could see the stonework was fresh. Inscribed is his name,
Master Dalca Drakula
, spelled the original family way, and the year of his birth, 1438, but no date of death. Above the inscription was the family insignia, the dragon wrapped around a cross.

When I emerged from the woods, I walked to the church and rang its bells, and the entire village turned out to hear the news. Great skepticism preceded their relief as they waited for the next full moon to see if the nights would prove safe. By harvest time the village put on a great feast and I was welcomed as a citizen, a hero, though I felt as extrinsic as I had that first stroll through town. I really have little choice but to stay, though, as my legal troubles in the United States have made me a fugitive. And I hope the Field Museum is not still waiting for its fifty large.

It is said in the Bible that a wise man looks back after encountering a stumbling block. But what of the man who tumbles over them all? Is his foolhardiness not twined unto his fears? Such a man sheds all his friends, and in his aged years hears only the echo of his own thoughts. If only I had obeyed my brother’s warning and never come here. And still I cannot shake the images.

Many a time have I been tempted to call the number on the cigarette pack from Mr. Bena, but as of yet I have not. Like the convent basement in which I spent my youth, this may not be the best place, but fear of losing it keeps me from seeking other places. And Sonia would not leave.

Sometimes I look at Sonia and judge all my efforts worth it.

Do I miss America? Of course. I miss my brother most, and some of the conveniences of my adopted country, but mostly I miss my freedom. It is freedom that gives weight to dreams, and whether you lose that freedom by your own behavior or the usurpations of an authoritarian government, you find yourself living day to day without the adrenaline born of fantasy, of belief. And so with your freedoms depart your best efforts. At one time in my life, at the end of each day I petitioned God’s forgiveness when I had not given the day my best effort; I then asked for another day to prove myself. Now, without the freedom to dream of tomorrow, I simply pray to God to give me the chance to give my best effort.

I have not heard from Radu. Not yet, at least. Certainly I must have convinced him that I did not know his wife’s whereabouts or I would not be able to pen this. I know he broods up there in the northernmost Carpathians, ruling over his flock as Noble vampires do. I trust there will be a day . . . no, make that a night, when a knock will come at my door and I will be summoned to his presence. Or else the knock will come from the
, armed with extradition papers. But that day is not today, and with God’s grace it will also not be tomorrow.

As for the fake passport, I retrieved it and an envelope of traveling cash with another unsigned note that simply stated,
Never more proud.
I recognized the paper. I won’t use them unless Sonia goes with me. We shall see . . .

For now, I will close this account . . . and hope that no one knocks on my door.

the end