Reckoning (18 page)

I replaced the sheet. It was not Sergeant Hopkins.

I removed the drape from the next figure. The corpse beneath had only part of its face remaining, its swollen tongue exposed by a missing left jaw. I gagged at the sight of it and quickly flicked back the sheet to cover it once more.

Fear was beginning to erode my resolution. I took a deep breath to steady myself, but the stench of death filled my nose and my lungs burned with the acrid tang of the mortician’s chemicals. I pressed a trembling hand over my mouth to block the noxious odours. As I did so, a flicker of movement caught my eye. It had come from the sheet-swathed shape on the gurney at the end of the row.

I clenched my fists, fighting to gather my senses, praying that I might have imagined the movement. But no—there it was again—the twitch of a foot under the sheet. And a little stronger this time. Sergeant Hopkins was beginning to reawaken.

Dusk must have fallen already. I cursed myself for wasting so much of the day cowering and writing in my room—I should have come here earlier!

I had to act now.

I picked up Van Helsing’s bag and approached the last gurney, taking out a stake and the mallet as I did so. Placing the bag at the foot of the bed, I carefully drew back the sheet to reveal the now-waxen face of poor Sergeant Hopkins. I remembered how he’d smile and joke to cheer the other men when despair threatened them, and pity for what had since
befallen him welled in me. I pushed the sentiment away. In a gesture of determination, I flung back the sheet and quickly positioned the stake over his heart.

Sergeant Hopkins’s eyes flickered open, as if he were awakening from a long sleep. I gasped as his gaze slowly turned toward me, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Every fibre of my being cried out against the task I must perform—and perform immediately if I was to stand any chance of surviving. I had done it before, but not while the corpse watched me. And yet I had to. Sergeant Hopkins’s soul rested on my resolution.

Hopkins glanced down and saw the stake. He hissed at me like a cat, baring two long, sharp fangs. Swallowing away the rising bile in my throat, I lifted the mallet, and with all the strength I could muster, I struck the first blow. The stake penetrated the cold flesh of Sergeant Hopkins’s chest, and I shuddered as I heard his rib cage crack.

Sergeant Hopkins shrieked. He writhed in agony, his eyes fixed upon me, wide with terror. He tried to grasp my wrist as I moved to strike again, but his flailing hand missed its target. I drove the stake deep into his heart. He let out a scream so piercing I thought the small room would shatter like the walls of Jericho. I felt bile and tissue spatter across my face but hammered again and again, refusing to meet his gaze. Sergeant Hopkins’s cry slowly gave way to a desperate gurgling, and then, finally, he lay still.

“Nurse Seward!” A shout of horror sounded at the door. I turned wearily to see Dr. McLeod standing in the doorway, Sister staring past him, her face contorted by shock and revulsion.

I staggered back, the mallet slipping from my hand and clattering to the floor.

“What in God’s name have you done?” Dr. McLeod bellowed.

Sister pushed past him and strode toward me. I felt the room spinning as shock possessed me, giving me no resistance as Sister grasped me and shook me. “Have you gone mad?” she demanded.

“If only that were true,” I whispered.

A smell of burning began to permeate the room, and I turned to look at Sergeant Hopkins’s body. His flesh was shriveling into blackness. As I watched, Sister and Dr. McLeod gaping beside me, Sergeant Hopkins’s bones then began to crumble—until all that remained on the gurney was the wooden stake and a pile of grey ash.

Sister released me, staring at what was left of Sergeant Hopkins in disbelief.

Dr. McLeod staggered forward, his gaze transfixed. “I—I do not know what is going on here,” he stammered. “But surely it is against nature.” He slowly turned and stared at me. “What have you unleashed in this hospital?” he murmured. “What is this”—he struggled for words to describe
what he had just witnessed—“this abomination!” His eyes burned with angry accusation.

I flinched beneath his glare. How could I explain? How could I deny my role in attracting darkness to this place?

Sister, too, stared at me as though I was the evil one. How could I convince her that my brutality was justified? She knew nothing of the evil that had caused me to take such action.

Had Quincey hoped this would happen? Was that why he had let Sergeant Hopkins rise again—knowing that I would try to kill him and thus find myself expelled from the sanatorium? How he must hate me if he had ensnared me so intricately!

A sense of hopelessness darkened my heart. Every move I made seemed to enmesh me further in the nightmare.

I quickly picked up the mallet and put it back into Van Helsing’s bag. Dr. McLeod and Sister did not try to stop me as I walked over to the door and picked up my case. The gore on the mallet and my hands had also turned to ash, and I left grey finger marks as I pushed open the door.

As it swung shut behind me, I clutched my coat around my waist. Then I hurried out of the sanatorium to catch the next train to London.

I caught the night train to the West Country from London Waterloo and am writing here in my small wood-panelled
cabin. I telegraphed Lord Bathory from Waterloo to tell him that I was on my way. I will be as honest with him as I dare and pray he will be as understanding now as he has been in the past.

I leave Quincey Harker behind, until I can find a way to destroy him and his black heart.

Journal of Mary Seward

1ST
D
ECEMBER 1918

I have slept a little, lulled by the rhythm of the train. It is now early morning—though it will be a while yet before dawn will arrive. If I put an eye to a chink in my cabin curtain, I can see that stars still stud the huge black sky out there, and a silver crescent moon still bathes the land below. The smooth, rolling downs have now given way to a craggy, more rugged terrain. We must be crossing Dartmoor. I see no building or road. The landscape seems utterly desolate.

Ah—the guard’s voice has just called down the corridor outside. “Next station, Doccombe!”

That is the name Lord Bathory gave me. I am almost there.

L
ATER

To my huge relief, a carriage was waiting to carry me from Doccombe’s small railway station to Lord Bathory’s estate.

“I’m very pleased to see you,” I declared to the driver. “I was wondering whether I might need to find my own transport to Tregariss Hall.”

“Goodness me, no!” he puffed. “His Lordship would not have guests finding their own way!”

I followed him out of the station to a stately carriage that waited in the yard. The driver opened the carriage door and handed me in. A warm smell of leather and polished wood welcomed me, and I sank into the soft seat at the back. A rug had been placed there, and I drew it around me.

Did I doze again on the journey? I am not sure. But before I knew it, we were passing through the ornate gateway of a great estate. I peered from the carriage window to see the grounds, vast and beautifully sculptured, glowing frostily in the fading moonlight. A great house stood at the end of the winding drive, as elaborate as a French chateau, with turrets and arches and a sweep of worn stone steps leading up to the huge front door. The door was open, the entrance hall within lit so brightly it blazed before us like the altar of a darkened church.

A beacon of hope.

The carriage drew around and halted at the bottom of the
stairway, and a butler, immaculate in a black suit, hurried out with a lamp. Behind him, I recognised the figure of Lord Bathory, coming down the steps to greet me. I quickly gathered the rug from my knees, pushed it to one side, and stumbled down from the cab.

“Mary!” Lord Bathory took my hands in his, an expression of both delight and concern on his face. “It’s wonderful to see you,” he murmured, “but my dear, you look exhausted.”

His gentle tone unleashed all the anguish locked in my heart. I fell into his arms, a sob choking in my throat.

“Mary, what is it?” he asked, now anxious. “Come in, come in. Tell me all about it.” He guided me carefully up the staircase and into the house.

I wiped my tears away with my gloved fingers. “I am sorry,” I said. “Can we talk privately? I have much to tell you.”

When was it I decided to tell him all? On the train? In the carriage? The moment I saw his gentle, kind face? I am not entirely sure. But who else could I turn to? I had to believe he would not think me mad. Lord Bathory, after all, was a man whose mind was open to new ideas and possibilities.

He led me into a parlour where a welcoming fire roared in an immense grate. He ordered hot sweet tea for me and then bade me take a seat on one of the sofas, anxiety still
clouding that earnest grey gaze of his. “Now, what is wrong, Mary?” he asked, coming to sit next to me and taking one of my trembling hands in his. “What has brought you rushing to me in such a troubled state?”

I took a deep breath and then began. “I am sorry to worry you, my lord, but I did not know where else to turn.”

“I am glad you felt you could turn to me,” Bathory replied. He gave an encouraging smile, but his eyes retained their grave look of concern.

“Something terrible has happened,” I began. “Something hard to believe—hard for you to believe,” I corrected myself. “For me, it is a reality I have lived with for two years, but one that I had hoped to escape. . . .”

There and then I told him all—of Lily and Quincey, of John and me, of the nightmarish happenings at Castle Dracula—and now, of Quincey’s return. I even confessed my recent horrific act in the sanatorium morgue.

I did not tell him of my attempt to reform Quincey, though I fear it is shame at the passion I had felt for the fiend that compelled me to keep the secret.

Bathory listened silently throughout, his eyes never wandering from my face for an instant. And though shock and incredulity occasionally misted his gaze, he listened like a man intent on learning. Only when I’d finished did he lean back in his seat and breathe out a long, low sigh. “Oh, Mary . . .” he murmured.

I waited for his judgment, clasping my fingers around his to stop mine from trembling.

“Intellectual curiosity has led me to read widely,” Bathory went on, considering. “I have read European histories and folklore that support your story—have come across volumes on the dark arts that describe the creatures you have encountered. But I had, like most, I think, assumed that such writings were based on little more than superstition.”

“And now? Do you believe me?” I pleaded.

Bathory nodded slowly. “If you tell me it is true, then I must,” he replied softly. “If you say that you have seen it for yourself—a woman levelheaded and intelligent in all other matters—who am I to discount your testimony?”

I let out my breath. “Oh, Xavier . . . It is such a comfort to share this burden of knowledge with someone,” I confessed. “Since Father died, I have been alone with my fears.”

“Then you need feel alone no longer,” Bathory vowed.

I felt a sweet sense of release.

“We must be on our guard,” he went on seriously. “This Harker is clearly a determined fellow. I will hire extra guards. And I will be sure that we are well protected at all times.”

“Thank you,” I replied, the words coming out as little more than a sigh as relief began to seep into my bones.

Still holding my fingers gently in his, Bathory got to his feet. “And now I think that you should get some proper rest,”
he said. “You seem worn out, Mary. You look like you have not had a decent night’s sleep in days. Let me show you to your room.”

Giving him a faint smile, I nodded in agreement.

Bathory led me up the ornate central staircase and along a corridor into a breathtakingly beautiful room. “If you need anything, you have only to ring,” he said, and gestured to the bellpull that hung beside the mantle. “There is one in every room.”

“Thank you,” I replied, feeling myself slipping into an ease I had not felt for a long time. I stifled a yawn and then another.

Bathory smiled gently. “You see, I was right,” he said. “Sleep now, and I shall be waiting when you awaken.” With a small bow, he left me then, closing the door quietly behind him.

I looked around the exquisite room. The huge canopied bed beckoned, but I resisted the urge to crawl immediately under its satin eiderdown and close my eyes. First I pulled back the lilac velvet drapes a little to look outside, revealing tall French windows that opened onto a small stone balcony.

Dawn was breaking, and pale golden sunlight had begun to warm the stunningly beautiful vista beyond, making it seem quite different from the frosted silvery world I’d encountered an hour or so ago.

I let the drapes fall closed again and padded over the
thick, pale green carpet to my luggage, which had been placed by the lavishly mirrored dressing table. I took out my journal and pen. That updated, I shall now take Lord Bathory’s advice and rest. I feel I shall sleep well here, protected by him and far from the horrors of Purfleet.

Journal of Quincey Harker

1ST
D
ECEMBER 1918

Mary did not come to me tonight. Once again, I went to her bedroom window.

But when I tapped upon the glass this time, she did not answer. I saw that no candle burned within. Shock and frustration welled in me—the yearning for blood, squirming and gnawing like rats in my belly, fueling my rage.

I smashed the window, sending shards of wood and glass splintering into the room, and then yanked back the drapes to peer inside.

The wardrobe was open, half empty, and a case no longer rested on top of it.

She had fled!

I went straight to the sanatorium to see what I could find
out. I walked boldly over the checkered floor of the reception area, my footfalls echoing around the walls.

The young woman behind the desk looked up and smiled. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

She was an appetising blonde and not easy to resist. I was so hungry, but I kept to my purpose. “I’ve come in search of a nurse who works here,” I replied, returning her smile.

The blonde glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten. “It’s a bit late to come calling, isn’t it?” she commented. Then she eyed me coquettishly. “Besides, Sister doesn’t approve of the nurses fraternising with their beaus when they’re at work.”

My hunger tore at me and left me with little patience. Summoning every ounce of self-control I possessed, I leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. “I am no beau,” I promised her. “I simply want to thank her for nursing me when I was brought here wounded a while ago.”

I was gratified to find that my sufferings had not entirely robbed me of my charm, for she blushed and said, “Well, then, let’s see what we can do. . . .” She picked up a large duty rota from one side of the desk and fluttered her eyelashes foolishly at me. “What is the nurse’s name?” she asked.

“Her name is Mary Seward,” I replied.

The words seem to restore the girl’s senses like a dowsing in cold water. She straightened, her easy manner gone. “I’m afraid you are too late,” she said abruptly. And then she
lowered her voice. “There was a bit of a to-do. Last night, in fact. She left without notice, under a bit of a cloud.”

“What happened?” I queried casually.

The blonde dropped her voice even lower. “No one knows for sure,” she replied. “But to tell the truth, I think she’s better off where she is. . . .”

I fought hard to conceal the frustration I felt with this young woman’s vague insinuations. I wanted to grasp her by the throat and force the facts from her. But I kept my temper and, arching an eyebrow, adopted the same confidential tone she was using. “And where exactly is Miss Seward?” I asked.

She leaned closer to me. “Well, Fred, one of the porters here, has a brother who does some taxi work,” she began. “And when he met Fred in the pub last night, Fred told him about the to-do with Mary Seward. And he told Fred that he’d taken Mary Seward to the railway station. She told him she was going to the West Country to stay with a friend. But of course everyone in the sanatorium knows who it is: I have a cousin who works at the Royal Hotel in Purfleet, and she saw Mary Seward dining there with one of their guests on more than one occasion—a Lord Bathory, up from the West Country. Imagine that—a lord! And her, just a country doctor’s daughter . . .”

I turned and marched from the building, waiting to hear nothing more.

Fury pulses through my veins—why did she flee to Bathory?

I shall not lose her so easily.

I must find strength for what lies ahead.

Journal of Mary Seward

1ST
D
ECEMBER 1918 (CONTINUED)

I awoke in the early afternoon, feeling quite the most refreshed I had felt in a long time. I washed and dressed, luxuriating in the sense of peace that had enfolded me since I’d confided in Lord Bathory, and then ventured downstairs.

Johnson, the butler, informed me that his lordship was out on official Parliament business. It was an added relief to find that Bathory was content to carry on with his business unhindered by my presence. How discomforting it would have been to have him fussing over me. I was even gladder now that I had come.

“His Lordship told me to assure you that he would be back for dinner, miss,” Johnson added as he drew back a chair for me to take a late luncheon in the sunny dining room. “He suggested that if the weather is clement, you take
a stroll through the grounds.” He glanced outside at the clear blue sky. “The dogs are in their kennels, so they shall not bother you should you wish to go out for a walk.”

A turn in the sunshine might help restore some brightness to my soul, I decided. “A walk would be lovely,” I told Johnson. “Are the grounds very big?” I inquired.

“They are extensive, miss. But as long as you keep the house in sight, you will not get lost,” Johnson assured me. “The keeper lets the dogs loose at dusk to guard the property. But he will not release them until you are safely returned.”

I shuddered. “I will not linger out past dusk,” I promised him, my skin pricking at the thought.

The walk was delicious, the air fresh and bracing with still a hint of the sea where it blew up off the coast. I find myself refreshed, and as the sun sets behind the trees, I am looking forward to Bathory’s return.