The Mammoth Book of Dracula (60 page)

I sat down on a chair and took a shuddering breath and although I knew the veil must be torn from the face of truth, nevertheless curiosity fought a bitter battle with dread. Eventually I asked:

“What’s all this in aid of, miss?”

How the little bitch laughed. Came right up close and ran one large beautiful hand down my leg, so that the desire I had kept so well under control, broke free and flooded my loins with liquid fire. And the safety pin must have come unfastened for the torn Jersey slipped down from her shoulder and I could see one rounded breast—and oh, my God! I didn’t know where I was or what kind of machinery was ticking away in my body, and the house was saturated with evil—well it must have been, only what the hell is evil?—because how else were such thoughts belting around in my brain. Then her low, thrilling voice with its slight accent, spoke again.

“Oh, come off it. Don’t tell me you don’t know the score. Been in the house for three months or more, looked at him, smelt him, and not known him for a second-generation vampire? The count’s son? Sooner or later you’ll be down under him taking the shagging of a lifetime, so that in around a year you’ll drop a little humvam.”

I screamed, “No!” and her laughter should have choked her.

“Yes. Yes ... yes ... yes. He likes the over-ripe, retarded type. The spark in the belly waiting to erupt into a mighty flame. After a session with my Lord the Prince Rudolph, my sort of uncle, a stallion won’t satisfy you. But,” she leaned over and inserted one long finger into the crease between my breasts, “guess what. He, descended from the most ancient line in the world, is ashamed of being what he is. Son of the vampire king. He won’t partake from the neck, or even intake vital essence from a bottle. Makes do with pig’s blood and rich mince. That’s why he looks so weird. And all he’s got to do is imbibe once—and, oh boy, you’ll see the difference. He almost gives way when I get to work on him, but no way. I don’t mind slap bot and fumble, but no give with the vital. Well, it wouldn’t be decent.”

I took a firm grip of my reeling senses, drove a shaft of iron through my quivering soul and transformed a spoonful of courage into a little spear of anger.

“You’re a dirty little trollop, miss. At least that’s what my old mum would have called you. You must have a mind like a cesspool, only it’s probably so twisted you can’t tell the difference between fact and fancy. Me, I’m going to hang on to my sanity and assume that dirty old man is over the edge, or if you prefer, up the pole, then get the hell out of this place.”

She patted my cheek and I smacked her hand away. “You can’t. No way. You’ve let him come real close and the smell of him is in your blood. And just supposing you were real strong and managed to get away—the pack would get you. The pack of shadmads. Or maybe as you’re someone special—vammads. They’ve been watching the house since you arrived. Looking after you. Once they get on your track they never let up until you’re a flabby bag of nothing in the gutter. No hume ever lives to spill the beans on the family.”

I closed my eyes and muttered a kind of prayer.

“Let me disbelieve now and know I am protected by invisible angels and can never be pulled down. Never.”

Her giggling flooded my being with cold wavelets and for the first time I knew my soul was confined in a castle that crouched half way up a flame-tipped mountain, where it waited for death to set it free. And in the valley there waited the demons, the unnamed, who feed on immortal essence, and breathe their fire-dreams into our sleeping brains.

Large beautiful hands stroked my naked thighs and I screamed total, absolute surrender.

“Take me to him,” I screamed. “Take me to him.”

She purred a soft little chuckle.

“That’s why I came. Uncle Rudolph must be up and around soon, there’s so much for him to do. Help bend time for example. And he must have that what is essential for him to look young again.”

She was behind me, her hands on my breasts, guiding me out of the room, down the stairs. Realization of what lay in store made me struggle when we crossed the hall, and the mere sight of him -immortal son of Dracula—seated on the desk, exploded a fear bomb in my stomach and I passed into a fire-streaked darkness where the five senses merged into one, or took on an extra.

Tell me, sir, you might know, is it possible for all of us to have extra senses that sleep within our bodies, but could be awakened if the conditions are right—or wrong?

They—Mr Acrudal and the young bitch—did something to me, for it seemed as if I slid down a tunnel through days, weeks and months, even years, and only allowed me to pop my head up through a ventilation hole, once now and again.

Did they bury me? If not, then how is it I can still remember the cloying dampness pressing on me everywhere; breathing rich soil that gave me a joyous half-sleeping life. Every now and again I became aware of one of their faces gazing down at me, his grown strangely young, glowing with a special kind of beauty that I suddenly realized had always been lurking just beneath the surface.

My blood gave a deeper red to his lips, my vital essence lit candles in his eyes; weakness fought tingling strength in my veins, blood had been replaced by something more interesting. Strangely, I cannot remember during that twilight period being other than happy. Or if not happy, then blissfully content. I became dimly aware that somewhere along the road to eternity I would take a dark turning and never come back, but even that prospect could not mar the safely insulated present.

I came to understand, sir, that fear and even dread can so easily change from black to bright red. Can you understand that?

~ * ~

The birth pangs were muted.

Like having a tooth pulled when the cocaine hasn’t quite taken effect. I mentioned that dread had changed from black to bright red, well, during the birth I existed in a red mist. I could see the young bitch (only she wasn’t young), moving about, feel her hands on me, forcing my legs apart, but when she and Mr Acrudal spoke, their voices seemed to come from a long way off and I couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

The explosion that tore my guts apart rocketed me into full consciousness for around two minutes and I felt the agony, the pure seething terror and knew ... knew—knew exactly what I was giving birth to, but then he, Mr Acrudal, Prince Rudolph, filled my brain with wonderful pictures, so that fear, the pain, the knowledge, were banished and I was permitted to sink back into my nice cosy insulated happiness.

~ * ~

I awoke in my own bed.

That which had come from my body was confined to a black wooden cradle and when it raised its head and spat at me, I screamed and strained at the broad straps which only permitted limited movement. Even now, sir, when more immediate horror whimpers just beyond that door, a cold shudder sends limb-freezing dread down my body, when I think of that tiny face twisted up into a grimace, hissing like a snake, then spitting ... No, please don’t ask me to describe it. Please don’t ... Thin and white, two jutting teeth, black gleaming eyes ... yes, like those of a snake. A black mamba ... Rudolph was very gentle with me—the young bitch had disappeared for the time being—and he explained over and over again that
it
would improve beyond recognition in time, become beautiful, as did the entire race down to the fourth generation. The right nourishment took care of that. But... but—I will be all right, sir, in just a minute—but I must tell you ... must ... he said for the first few weeks I must ... feed ... feed it ... but ... he explained wonderfully ... it was not milk it needed ... so it wouldn’t suck ... but bite ... chew ... chew ... sometimes nibble ... nibble ...

~ * ~

After two weeks they took the thing I had bred away from me, which may have saved the remnants of my sanity, for it had begun to develop tiny claws on fingers and feet, although I was assured that they would soon disappear, being in fact the equivalent of milk teeth.

Rudolph—how beautiful he had grown—fed me on stewed mince and maybe because I didn’t think about it too much, it tasted quite nice and most certainly did me good. I put on weight and when I was quite strong—and not before, for he really was most considerate—the Prince took my left hand in his and explained all I needed to know.

Actually all he wanted was to live a quiet eternity writing a history of his illustrious family, but it would seem it was his duty once now and again, to father an offspring, which would be a half-breed, but help spread the Dracula blood among the humes. Only a woman who could remain in that dreadful house for not less than three lunar months, was suitable for vam breeding.

Rudolph bared his sharp white teeth in an engaging smile that I found to be so irresistible. “You are to be congratulated, my dear. Many were interviewed, few were chosen.”

“And what happens to me now?” I asked.

He sighed deeply. “Why did you have to ask that question? Whatever answer I give is certain to hurt. I should put you down, but I lack the necessary ruthlessness. So, I am going to set you free. Whatever happens will not be the result of my action. Take my advice, get well away from the house. Travel by day. The pack are not happy in daylight and whimper most piteously when caught under the naked sun. I cannot give you hope for a long life, for that on reflection will not be desirable, but you may derive some satisfaction in evading the pack for a quite considerable period.

“Tell someone of your experience if you so wish and it eases your mind by doing so. No one will believe, but a version may be passed on and that will give birth—in the fullness of time—to an interesting legend. But of course should someone even half believe and start to investigate—more work for the pack.”

The pack.

He always pronounced that word in a peculiar way, as though it were distasteful to him and its implication something no gentleman would ever consider. Oddly enough, I did not even think about it, although at the back of my mind I knew what eventually my fate would be. The young bitch had told me plainly enough.

Instead, I began to wonder who prepared the wonderful meals that were served up on a wooden tray and came to the conclusion it must be Rudolph. A gifted family and, when necessary, domesticated. After all, the original count cooked excellent meals for Jonathan Harker and made his bed into the bargain. Yes, he actually gave me
Dracula
to read.

Then came the morning when he kissed me on the lips and as always my legs turned to jelly and you would never believe how young and beautiful he looked.

My luggage stood in the hall, but I couldn’t really believe I’d have a use for it—not now. The young bitch opened the door and I ignored her impudent grin, but I will confess I’d go to my end more happily after an hour alone with her, just supposing she was tied down or something.

“Goodbye,” Rudolph whispered. “There’s plenty of money in your handbag. More than you’ll ever need.”

A taxi stood waiting and someone—Rudolph I suppose—carried my luggage out and piled it at my feet. Then I was away and again knew nothing until the cab drew up outside a rather dingy hotel. The driver spoke over one shoulder.

“The Imperial, ma’am. That was where I was told to bring you.”

I must have blacked out or maybe time-jumped forward a few hours, for I remember nothing more until finding myself lying on a double bed looking up at a cracked ceiling.

And you want to hear something really weird? I was homesick for that awful old house and Rudolph and the young bitch. I think I must have passed around three days eating and sleeping, and quite possibly have remained in that hotel until my money ran out, if I had not seen them from my window.

It must have been early evening for the street was silver-gold with lamplight and I could easily see the black car standing opposite with three or four figures leaning against it, staring up at my window. Dressed entirely in black, with long dog-like faces; jutting mouths, black lips, flattened noses, tapering ears and gleaming red-tinted eyes. I breathed two words:

“The pack!”

I’d forgotten them.

I sat by the window and watched them all night. So far as I could see not one moved until the first streak of dawn lit the grey roofs. Then they all piled into the car and drove away.

I left the hotel ten minutes later and have been more or less on the move ever since. But the pack have never really been far behind and I’ve no doubt are somewhere in this vicinity now. I’ve seen them several times, but they keep their distance, because I suppose I’m not quite ready for the kill yet. When I leave, sir, it might be well if, for your own sake, you waited for a while before leaving. Don’t let them think you’re at all interested in me. But you may be safe enough, for Rudolph said I could tell my story, but it’s best not to take risks.

Well I’ll be on my way. Thank you for being such a good listener—and, yes, buying me that drink after that silly fainting spell. They’ll be calling time soon, so you can go out with the crowd. Lovely full moon tonight... wolf moon I’ve heard it called. Good luck, sir ... good luck ...

<>

~ * ~

GRAHAM MASTERTON

Roadkill

GRAHAM MASTERTON says that he has always been reluctant to write about vampires (“It is a physical impossibility to bite somebody in the neck and draw blood from their carotid artery without either killing them or putting them into the emergency room. They certainly couldn’t walk around Whitby in an empire-line dress looking interestingly wan”). However, he made an exception for “The Laird of Dunain”, which he wrote with “artistic licence”, and also for his recent novel
Descendant,
which follows the adventures of a vampire-hunter in World War II.