Mina Part 28

"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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sage 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 a.s.sent.

"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

I

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 s.e.xual 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 pa.s.sengers. 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 a.s.sumed, 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 st.u.r.dy 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ed 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 ma.s.sive carved doors were still hanging open as they'd been when Mina left this place. In spite of the months that had pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce. 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.

II

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 h.o.a.rd 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.

l.u.s.t. 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 them, he was a hunter who preyed on the unsuspecting and corrupted the innocent. Like them, he could only devour.

There was one difference. He sensed it in how the fairest of the three looked so coyly at him, how she covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed and, above all, how she backed away as he reached for her.

He thought of how young she had been when she'd been taken, and how cruelly she must have died. Since then, she might have killed, but he was confident that she had never used her victims for s.e.xual pleasure.

"Shall I be your first willing lover, Countess Karina?" he asked and held out his hand.

She took it, her own still a delicate child's hand, the nails sharp and translucent against the whiteness of her skin.

He moved his face close to her, whispering though he knew the others could hear. "Devour me slowly as he devoured you. Want me, as he wanted you, and I will give you all the pleasure I have learned to give. It is my gift. I know that compared to the one you can bestow on me, it is nothing, but I can offer you no other, Countess Karina."

Karina looked from him to the taller of the dark-haired women. She drew a breath into her lungs and asked in Hungarian, in a voice both eager and shy, "Is what he suggests possible, Illona?"

The woman nodded. "Use him as you wish, though I think you will be disappointed. Then let him live. Later, we will feast on him together."

Gance wanted to ask if they would share their eternal life with him, but Karina was already pressing close, her lips covering his.

They were so cold against his that he s.h.i.+vered. Illona turned her dark eyes toward the flames. As they rose, she vanished into the glowing yellow pool of their light.

The third woman remained, standing motionless in the shadows. A strange, mad smile grew on her face as she watched Karina slip her gown off her shoulders, watched it fall and disappear before it touched the dusty stone floor. With a quicksilvery laugh, she vanished, leaving the pair alone.

Karina floated toward Gance as if her body had no weight at all. Her arms drew him close. Her hands that should have been so innocent moved knowingly up his body, finally brus.h.i.+ng away the soft whisps of white hair that had fallen over his face. For the first time, he noted the color of her eyes: the brilliant blue of the daytime sky. He held her tighter, his desire real this time, and felt his arms close together, her presence leave him.

In the morning when he woke, her eyes were the last thing he could recall. There were no marks on him, no sense that he had done anything except sleep, and dream.

A piece of pale blue lace was caught in the splintered table leg. He reached for this joyfully, but as he fingered it, its ancient threads crumbled in his hand.

Perhaps the sc.r.a.p had been a part of Karina's gown once, but no more. She had died. They had all died. I'm as insane as Mina, he thought, then laughed aloud. At least now he could fully appreciate her terrible delusions.

No, he would not tempt insanity any longer. He gathered his things, intending to leave.

At the top of the stairs, Gance saw the light from open outer doors, halted and whistled. There was no sound of hooves on the hall stones, no tinkle of bridle chains against one another, no snort or whinny. Not certain what he would find, he pulled his revolver from his pack. Gripping it, he started downstairs.

He'd descended only halfway before he saw the horse lying on its side-its belly ripped open, its entrails savaged.

But there was no blood on the stones, no marks on the animal's forelegs to show that she had fought. Gance would have walked toward the carca.s.s, but a gray wolf padded between it and the stairs, eyeing him as if he were a rival moving in on the kill. As Gance stood motionless, the revolver c.o.c.ked and ready, the wolf sat back on its haunches. Six others padded through the door behind it. Three were nearly as large as the animal who apparently guarded Gance; three were half-grown.

Gance might have stood against one or even two, but a pack was more than he cared to challenge. Still facing the beasts, he retreated backward up the steps and down the hall to his room.

He waited until he was certain the bones must have been stripped and then opened his door again. The wolf that had first faced him as he stood on the stairs now sat in the hall outside. It stared at him with almost human confidence, then bared its teeth in a soundless warning. Gance slammed the door then pried open one shutter. The rest of the pack lazed in the sun-drenched courtyard below.

Gance could shoot the wolf outside, he thought, then wait for the others and take them one by one.

If they came at the sound. Most likely they would not, and he would have to face them in the courtyard, or on his flight-on foot, he reminded himself-down the mountain.

Gance had no lack of courage, but he knew the limitations of his strength. He closed the shutter, built a little fire and ate a bit of bread and cheese. He chewed slowly, savoring every mouthful and stopping as soon as his hunger pangs subsided.

If the wolves were still outside in the morning, he was a prisoner here. If so, the food he'd brought could be the last he would ever eat.

When he'd finished his spa.r.s.e meal, he lay down and closed his eyes. Tonight, when his beautiful jailors appeared-whether in flesh or in dream-he wanted to be alert and ready.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sundown! Karina moved from sleep to waking with all the swiftness of her first rebirth. For an instant the closeness of the s.p.a.ce, and the scent of the ancient earth beneath the silk and velvet of her coverlets, panicked her. When she had been alive, she had feared such places, and death had not vanquished that fear.