The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3) (15 page)

The monks moved quickly, hurrying out of the woods. Arrows started whistling through the air around us. One cracked the glass of the windshield. A little more force behind it and that arrow would have buried itself in my forehead. Another struck the rear wheel, and the truck sagged.

“Goddamn it,” I muttered. “Those monks are trouble. But at least we’re past them.” The truck kept speeding down the road, zooming past trees and gaining ground. But the truck’s engine didn’t roar alone.

“Mort?” Weatherby asked. “I’m afraid you’ve spoken too soon. And I don’t believe all of the Order’s tools are from the Medieval Ages.”

I checked the rear view mirror. Sure enough, the monks were coming, roaring after us on bulky pre-war motorcycles. Dirt rose from the wheels of the bikes, and the monk’s brown robes fluttered like sets of wings. They were gaining ground quickly, firing crossbows and silver bullets from their bikes. The truck started ringing as more and more shots collided. I cursed. I needed to drive and shoot and I couldn’t do both.

I let go of the wheel and kicked open the door. The wind tore at my face in a hundred tiny claws. “Take the wheel!” I told Weatherby, as I stepped out on the runners. I raised the heater, swinging its strap around my neck. I took aim.

“What?” Weatherby demanded. “I don’t have any license, I’ve received no lessons, my father never even owned a vehicle of this type and—” The road was bumpy, jouncing us around as it rumbled on. The Bike Bats and the monks were exchanging gunfire, pistols trading shots with crossbows and swords.

“Just keep us on the road!” I cried, knowing that would be hard enough for the kid. I raised the sub-gun and started shooting. I kept it in short bursts, aiming for the motorcycles instead of the monks riding them. My conscience wouldn’t let me kill priests, even those intent on doing the same to me.

One motorcycle got close, the rider swinging a crossbow around to sink an arrow into my skull. I put a round through the front tire of his bike. It popped and the bike reared up, tossing him hard into the dirt. It wouldn’t kill him, but he wouldn’t be getting up any time soon. I kept shooting, as another bike sped toward me. The rider drew a curved sword from a scabbard on his side, and leaned over to hack me in half.

I pulled myself back. The blade struck my lower leg, drawing blood and making me lose my grip. I gulped and tried to hold on, then swung a foot straight into the monk’s face. Teeth and blood left him, and then he let go of the handlebars and went down, crashing into the dirt.

That was enough. The truck was speeding ahead of the Reprobus monks, and out of range, while the Bike Bats did the rest. I pulled myself back into the truck. Weatherby gratefully let me take the wheel. His knuckles were white. He looked up at me, his eyes flashing to my wound.

“It’s just a scratch,” I muttered. “And I think we’re out of the woods. For now at least.”

“Wonderful.” He gave me a weak grin. “And how was my driving?”

“You’re a natural, kiddo.” I leaned back, listening to the sounds of gunfire fading behind us. The road ahead was clear. Castle Dracula was coming up.

We reached it right at nightfall. The vampires had timed it perfectly. The forest thinned out a bit, leading to a craggy chunk of dark rock, sticking out of the earth and reaching up like a spear aiming for the moon. And there, resting near the sheer rocks, was Castle Dracula. It was a skeletal mass of ruins, with towers of dark stone, a narrow drawbridge over a sharp chasm, and populated only by cobwebs, rats and bats.

I parked the truck at the foot of the hill, and helped Nails and the Bike Bats get the coffins out. The bloodsuckers inside were already waking up, pushing at the lids and moving around in their pine boxes. They stepped out, one after the other, walking in the dark dirt and stretching. They all looked at the craggy ruined castle, some dropping to their knees. For the vampires, Castle Dracula was a holy place. Weatherby stood away from the coffins, looking up at the castle with his eyes wide and fearful beneath his spectacles.

We pulled Balthazar Greeley out last, and he smiled as he looked up at the castle. “Ah,” he said, breathing deeply of the cold mountain air. “Here we are. Nicely done, Mr. Candle. You’ve lived up to your reputation.” He looked back at his fellow vamps. “Get out the supplies! Get into the castle, and go to the basement! That is where Count Dracula rests!”

The vampires busied themselves. They started taking magical supplies out of the truck, ranging from blood-red potions in fat decanters and bottles to bronze scepters tipped with rubies. As they prepared, some of the vampires were already going up to the castle, taking pickaxes and shovels with them. Greeley watched it all, and then walked over to me.

He pulled out another envelope. “You’ve done your job, Mr. Candle. Perhaps you’d better leave now.”

I took the money. “Thanks but no thanks.  I’ve invested a lot of time into this. I’d like to see how things turn out with Dracula.”

I saw Greeley’s eyes dart down to my bleeding leg. I bent down and bandaged it with a spare roll of gauze from my pocket. “Suit yourself,” he replied, already turning to walk up to the castle.

Weatherby and I followed him and the rest of the vampires. We walked past the drawbridge and up through the open castle doors. Time hadn’t been kind to Castle Dracula. The walls were crumbling and cobwebs, dust and rat crap lay thick on the ground and walls. Bats hung from the ceiling, and they started fluttering away when we approached, zooming in black squeaking clouds out of the windows and gaps in the walls.

In the center of the main hall, the vampires were getting the ceremony ready. Four bloodsuckers came from the basement, holding an old stone sarcophagus on their shoulders. They set it down. It fell heavily to the stone floor, sending up clouds of dust. They pulled off the lid and took a look inside.

I stood tall, trying to see over the shoulders of the vampires. There wasn’t anything inside but an old skeleton, yellow with age and crumbling, and tons of gray dust and ash. The vampires stared at the remains, more of them sinking to their knees and looking away out of reverence. A Bowie knife stuck out of the skeleton’s chest, the ancient rusty blade lying right where the Dracula’s heart would be. With shaking hands, Greeley pulled out the blade and tossed it away. It clattered on the stone floor, the sound ringing through the great hall.

Weatherby stood next to me, and we watched together as the vampires poured out the red liquid into the coffin, draining bottle after bottle until the bones and ashes were totally submerged. They began to stir them with the shining bronze rods, muttering to themselves in hushed whispers of strange and ancient words.

I turned to Weatherby. “So what exactly is this Dracula guy like?” I asked. “And why are they so keen on bringing him back? I’ve never read the book. I preferred Edgar Rice Burroughs to any Gothic junk.”

The chanting of the vampires grew in volume as Weatherby explained Dracula’s history. “Well, before he became a vampire, he was the most feared of the Transylvanian Warlords. He utterly destroyed his enemies, and was known as ‘The Impaler’ for, well, brutally impaling his foes on wooden stakes, and eating his meals around their writhing corpses.” The vampires held several burning red candles over the coffin, dripping the wax into the liquid. “At the end of his reign, he transformed into a vampire, leaving behind a legacy of evil to become an immortal – and achieve limitless power.” Weatherby looked up at me. “They say his name means ‘Son of the Dragon.’ But it also has another meaning – Devil.”

“Sounds like a sweetheart.” I couldn’t take my eyes off of the sarcophagus.

In the coffin, the red water started to stir. The vampires kept stirring with the wands, their chants rising. The chant then became one word, repeated endlessly. “Dracula… Dracula… Dracula…” It was a breathy, whisper of a word, like a wind tearing through some narrow canyon. They said it louder and louder, as the ripples in the water grew. Weatherby shivered and I put a hand on his shoulder. The bats flew and shrieked above us in the darkness, their wings flapping like a tornado of wind.

Then something emerged from the water. It was a body, terribly thin and covered in red liquid. The figure stood up, and the vampires fell silent. The blood slowly dripped away. The man standing there was tall and imposing, his dark hair slicked back and going grey. He had a sharp aquiline nose and piercing eyes, which shone blood red in the low light. He looked around at the vampires, sucking in air and breathing heavily.

“Yes!” Count Dracula cried, throwing up his hands to the dark sky. “I live again!”

With his head bowed, Greeley handed the Count a black robe. Dracula wrapped himself in the robe and stepped out of the coffin, stretching his body and running his tongue over his fangs. He limped to a stone chair at the end of the hall, which had once been his throne. Dracula slumped down, and the other vampires busied themselves trying to make him more comfortable.

Soon he had a set of trousers and a crisp collared shirt, and most of the blood was gone from his body. They gave him a large bottle of blood, and he sipped it like Coca-Cola through a straw. They gave him a sword, a curved scimitar, the same kind of weapon he had wielded in life. It seemed like ages before he finally spoke.

“So,” he said. “I have returned.” His Central European accent was faint. He could pass for any nationality on earth. “Tell me, has our race assumed its rightful place as kings of this world?”

Greeley and the other vampires exchanged a look. “Well, sir… not really.” He clasped his hands together, a gesture of prayer. “You see, our fortunes have not improved since you were destroyed. There are less and less of us each year. Most mortals do not believe we exist, and vampire hunters are dedicated to their job. Some of us have gotten greedy, trying to make deals with the mortals, and only receive death because of it.”

“So why have you summoned me?”

“We need your help,” Greeley whispered. “Or we shall be destroyed.”

“Oh yes.” Dracula came to his feet, swinging his sword in a practiced slash through the air. “You will be destroyed.” He turned to the vampires, his voice raising. “If not for that cursed Dutchman, I would have conquered England. The most powerful country on earth, laid low by one vampire! And you bring me to the future, and this is what I find?” He stalked forwards, and Greeley hurried back. “You should each be kings and emperors! Our kind should rule the world! But you stay here, hiding in the ruins, like rats!”

Greeley raised his hands. “Please, s-sir!” he cried. “You don’t understand this world, it’s—”

Dracula plunged his curved sword into Balthazar Greeley’s chest. He stabbed the blade right through the vampire’s heart. Greeley shook and coughed, his skin and muscle falling apart into ash and floating away from the blade. Dracula turned to the next vampire, his sword swinging. “You are like rats!” he repeated. “And like rats you shall die!”

Weatherby tugged my sleeve as Dracula hacked off the head of another vampire. “I think we’d better leave, Mort. This situation is spiraling out of control.”

“Sounds like a plan.” We turned and started running out of the manor.

Behind us, Dracula was slaughtering his way through the vampires that had resurrected him. Some of them ran away, leaping into the dark corners of the castle. Other just stood their ground and died, collapsing into dust like it was almost a relief. I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder for too long. Dracula spotted me. His eyes narrowed.

He pointed at me with his sword. “Mortals!” he roared. “They should lick my boot! I should drink of their blood!”

“Run!” Weatherby and I pounded out of the castle. Dracula followed. He wasn’t even bothering to run. We hurried out of the hall and pounded across the drawbridge. Bats flew above us in great black swarms, squeaking madly. Dracula was still close behind.

We got down the hill. I saw Nails Kenzie and the Bike Bats, hopping onto their motorcycles and revving their engines. I had time to raise a hand before Nails sped off, leaving us behind with the Count. He was walking slowly down the hill now, his sword dragging a furrow in the dirt. The bats danced above him.

“Damn it,” I muttered. “Nails has gone AWOL. Just when we actually need the bum.”

“The truck, Mort!” Weatherby pointed to the soviet vehicle that had brought us here. “We can use that!”

We ran to the truck. I pulled open the door and pushed Weatherby inside, then clambered into the driver’s seat. I slammed the key in the ignition and turned. Dracula was still walking down the hill. He wasn’t chasing after us at a run, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I doubted history’s most powerful vampire was lazy. He wasn’t chasing us because he didn’t have to.

The engine started and I allowed myself a sigh of relief, then backed up the car and twisted the wheel. “Hang on!” I told Weatherby, and I sent the truck rattling on the road. The big vehicle gained speed as it rolled away from the castle and through the forest. But Dracula was still behind us. He raised his hands. Seeing him before the ruins of his castle, the moon big and bright behind his back, I got the feeling why his people had called him the Devil.