Dracula: The Un-Dead

CHAPTER IV.

It had been thirty years since Seward last traversed these waters, and it had been daylight at the time. He rowed the boat he had “acquired” into the port of Villefranche-sur—Mer, after traveling by cart to Antibes from Marseilles. It would count as stealing only if he were caught.

He had to get to Paris. Even if he had enough money for the fare, the train would not depart Marseilles until ten o’clock in the morning, arriving in Paris at eleven o’clock at night. It was imperative that he reach the Théâtre de l’Odéon by eight the next evening.

Using a slipknot to secure the boat, he stumbled along the wooden dock until his land legs came back. The sight of the old Lazaret made Seward brighten. As an idealistic young physician, he had become involved with research funded by the French government, working with brilliant scientists like Charles Darwin. The study attempted to correlate the behavior of animals such as chimpanzees, rats, and mice to that of humans, hoping further to validate Darwin’s theory of evolution. During his time there, Seward had become fascinated with the one or two percent of the test subjects whose actions could be considered anomalous. Why did these anomalies exist? Could the anomalous behavior be corrected? Seward smiled, recalling walks along the sea with other scientists from the Lazaret during which they had debated and challenged the archaic views of the Church about creationism. Their studies were so controversial that the government had decided to put an end to the work, and converted the building to an oceanographic laboratory. To keep them quiet, the scientists received financial compensation. This was the money Seward used to purchase his asylum in Whitby.

Seward continued up the hill overlooking the port. As he surveyed the familiar seaside town that had hardly changed since he left, he recalled the groundbreaking work he had done on the R. N. Renfield case. Seward had diagnosed Renfield with the rare mental condition of zoophagy, or “life-eating.” The fact that Mr. Renfield had spent his entire young adult life as “normal” before showing signs of mental illness made him the perfect test case.

“Renfield,” Seward muttered aloud. He had been so hopeful when Renfield came to the Whitby Asylum. Once a promising barrister, Renfield had suddenly de-evolved into a raving, insect-devouring lunatic. If Seward could have cured Renfield, he would have proven that mental illness was a disease and was not inherited, which would have proven his theories from his days at the Lazaret and helped to strengthen Darwin’s arguments that all mammals evolved from a common ancestor. Poor Renfield, a hapless pawn taken too early in the game, had sadly become yet another addition to a long line of Seward’s failures.

Within a short distance from the port, Seward would find his old friend Henri Salmet, whom he had first met at the turn of the century when he had just lost everything: his asylum, his practice, and his family. They had most recently crossed paths four summers ago, outside Le Mans at an incredible historic event: the Wright brothers’ demonstration of their successful flying machine. The series of flights lasted only two minutes, but a new era had been born in Europe. Seward shook his head in bewilderment at the rapidly changing world around him. The French might have an antiquated railway system, but they were investing heavily in the race for the sky.

Withdrawal fatigue began to overtake his system. He could feel every bruise and cut from his tumble off the villa rooftop. He was getting old. Valiantly, he fought the urge for a fix, certain he would need his wits about him for the battle to come.

From the top of the incline, he beheld the familiar sight of Henri’s farmhouse nestled in foothills of the Alps. The once-prosperous vineyard had been plowed to create a runway. The barn now housed planes and a workshop rather than livestock. Mounted on the roof of the barn, the weather vane had been replaced by a radiotelegraphy tower.

A light flickered in Henri’s kitchen window.

“Thank God, my friend is home.”

“Jack Seward!” Henri Salmet opened the door of his modest farmhouse. “Where is the rest of you? Mon dieu, what happened to your hand?”

“Bonsoir, Henri,” Seward said. He looked down and saw that the blood had soaked through the handkerchief. “I know the hour is late, but…”

He couldn’t help but notice that Henri had hardly changed. His handlebar moustache is a little longer. This was the last thought to cross the doctor’s mind before he succumbed to his fatigue and passed out.

Daylight forced Seward’s eyes open. He was drenched in sweat. He focused on the fresh bandage wrapped around his hand. He had to get to the theatre. Seward jerked himself out of bed and stumbled out of the room.

“Henri?” he called out. “How long have…?”

Upon entering the kitchen, he found himself in the company of Henri, his wife, Adeline, and three children who had grown much since he had last been there. The children sniggered at the sight of him; Seward was not quite presentable. He could feel the blood rushing to his face.

“Regardez, Adeline,” Henri chuckled. “From death he has finally risen.”

“I need to get to Paris,” Seward stammered through the withdrawal symptoms that were causing his entire body to shake. He prayed Henri would think he was merely tired.

“You wish to fly to Paris?”

“I know that reaching Paris is impossible, but as close to it as your aeroplane can reach…perhaps Lyon…”

“I think you do not know what you ask. But I have always said I would do anything for a friend in need. First, you stay and rest for a few days. You frightened us last night.”

“I appreciate your hospitality, but I need to get to Paris by tonight.”

“Tonight!” cried Henri, trading an incredulous look with Adeline. “You are so worn out, you can barely stand. What could possibly be this important?”

“It’s a matter of life and death, a patient.” The lie sprang all too easily to Seward’s lips. “If she doesn’t receive a special elixir from my medical bag by…seven o’clock tonight…I fear the worst.”

Henri looked at his wife again. She nodded. “Very well,” said Henri. “A life is at stake and it’s our Christian duty to act. Sit and eat, regain your strength. We leave in an hour.”

Seward sat in relief at the table, quickly relenting to Henri’s wisdom. “I cannot thank you enough, my friend.” Adeline shushed him by placing a heaped plate of food before him.

Henri turned to his children. “Come help your papa prepare for his flight.”

One hour later, Seward carried his medical bag into the barn. He had not eaten so much in years. He hoped the food would give him the strength he needed to hold off his intensifying morphine withdrawals.

A mechanic carried metal canisters of petrol out to the field. Henri, bent over his wireless telegraph, glanced up when Seward appeared beside him. “I am wiring a friend to expect us at his field in Vichy,” he explained. “It is the halfway point, and we’ll need to refuel there.”

“May I send a message as well?” asked Seward.

“Of course.”

Seward retrieved a small card from his pocket book. “It needs to reach a person at this private wireless station at the Théâtre de l’Odéon. The post code is on the card.”

Henri tapped the wireless key. “And the message?”

TELEGRAM—Dr. Jack Seward to Basarab,

Théâtre de l’Odéon—Paris

COUNTESS BATHORY IS IN PARIS. BEWARE.

Moments later, they were walking toward Henri’s Bleriot monoplane. From a distance, Seward thought it looked like one of Da Vinci’s designs, pieced together from papier-mâché and string. He could see that the “skin” was fitted plywood. Two bicycle wheels supported the cockpit, and the propeller had only two blades. “There she is,” Henri said, beaming. “Fifty horsepower, and capable of a height of two thousand feet.”

Seward choked on his response as Henri’s son took his medical bag and strapped it into a storage compartment at the back of the cockpit, then helped him into the rear passenger seat. Seward was giddy with delight as he watched Henri kiss his wife and two young daughters and march boldly toward the plane. He could hardly believe that he would be in the air in only a few moments.

“Put on the goggles!” Henri called out, placing his own large goggles over his eyes. Seward copied him. “And keep your mouth closed as we take off. Unless you enjoy eating flies.”

Henri’s son spun the propeller, and the engine grumbled slowly to life. The mechanic held up the tail section as Henri lurched the craft forward. This might have been a very bad idea, Seward thought, watching the machine move ever closer to a dangerous precipice. His jaw clenched in terror. But mere seconds before reaching the edge, the aircraft jolted unceremoniously upward, causing Seward to feel as though all of his internal organs had dropped into his legs. Scanning the coastline, he recognized the familiar shape of the Chateau d’If, the famous prison off the shore of Marseilles. It had taken him several hours to row from Marseilles to Villefranche-sur—Mer. And now, in a matter of minutes, they were soaring above it. He knew that Bathory, like all the un-dead, enjoyed the power of flight. Now he did, too.

Four hours later, they were in a farmer’s field in Vichy, refueling the monoplane. It took all three men to roll the barrel of petrol on its side from the barn out to the field where Henri’s aircraft had landed. After the exertions of standing the barrel up on end, it was Seward’s task to use the hand-pump mechanism to siphon the petrol from the barrel. The farmer held the hand pump’s hose firmly in the aircraft’s tank, monitoring its fuel level carefully. The fumes of petrol mixed with par— affin stung Seward’s eyes. Turning his head away, he caught sight of Henri walking around his aircraft, checking every bolt and the delicate plywood skin for any damage. Seward’s mind wandered, his attention drawn to the creeping shadow cast by the monoplane as the sun moved across the midday sky. The shadow of the aircraft’s wings resembled a large bat gliding low across the ground. It was then that the darkness overtook him again.

“Don’t stop pumping!” Henri called out to Seward. “We need to be airborne before the wind changes direction. We won’t have enough fuel to reach Paris if we’re fighting a headwind. I don’t know about you, mon frère. But I don’t want my destiny to be dying by crashing into some stranger’s barn.”

The petrol overflowed the aircraft’s tank. Henri motioned for Seward to stop pumping and cried out, “C’est tout!”

Seward snapped back from his dark thoughts.

CHAPTER V.

After the plane came to a rolling stop in a horse farm’s grazing pasture, Seward untied himself, tumbled onto the ground, and kissed it.

“I am never going to fly again as long as I live,” he said shakily as the engine cut silent. He glanced up to see Henri Salmet dancing on the fuselage like a child on Christmas morn.

“From our last fuel stop, I have estimated we have flown two hundred and fifty miles,” he cried. “We did it!” Henri began to calculate aloud. “Now, how far would two hundred and fifty miles be from Paris?”

“I believe London,” Seward said somberly, thinking of his home as he retrieved his medical bag.

“Now that I know for certain she can reach the distance, I will fly to London and have the press meet me there to document that I will be the first man to cross the English Channel and fly from London to Paris. It will make me très fameux! I must hurry into the city and purchase much petrol. How the devil am I going to get it out here?”

“Thank you for everything, Henri,” Seward said, forcing a smile.

“Bon chance, mon ami.”

Henri kissed Seward on both cheeks and pumped his hand.

Seward watched as Henri ran off toward the road. He knew this could well be the last time he’d set eyes upon his friend’s cheery face. He could think of no words more meaningful, so he kept his farewell simple and called out as he waved, “Good-bye, old friend!”

Seward turned in the opposite direction and checked his pocket watch. There was barely enough time to return to his room, gather his arsenal, and double back southward to the theatre. He would meet Bathory and her harpies fully armed. As the sun continued to set, he stopped to stare at the magnificent color in the heavenly sky. For too long, he had taken such grandeur in the natural world for granted, living alone in darkness. Tonight, he was glad, one way or the other, that he would at last bask beside God in His light.

Quincey arrived early at l’Odéon to purchase his ticket and took his time walking through the foyer of the old theatre. Each wall was adorned with busts, medallions, and portraits of actors. He drank them all in, recognizing a large portrait of Sarah Bernhardt mounted in a gold-leafed frame. Beneath the photo were her name and the title: La reine de l’Odéon. Quincey stopped at the photograph of Sir Henry Irving from his touring production of Hamlet. Irving was considered by most to be the greatest actor ever to voice Shakespeare’s prose. Most actors used their talent to affect the emotions of their audience through the strength of their own emotions. They watched for opportunities to tear the heartstrings of their listeners. In contrast, Irving approached a character from an intellectual perspective, taking into account the author’s intention and the character’s personal history. Though greatly ridiculed by other actors, Irving’s new approach captivated audiences. Much of the press said the same of Basarab; one reviewer had even raved that Basarab had inherited the mantle of “World’s Greatest Actor” from Sir Henry Irving.

Quincey became aware that he was still holding the envelope that he had carefully put together. He had purchased fine writing paper and paid a few francs for a local street artist to decorate the envelope with theatre masks in blood red. With fine calligraphy, an art he’d learned from his mother, Quincey addressed the envelope: To Basarab—from Quincey Harker, Esq. After seeing the pandemonium of adoring fans the night before, Quincey needed to make his envelope stand out from the countless other letters of admiration Basarab was sure to receive. He hoped that it would look important, and prayed it was not too much.

Quincey saw a short, elderly, uniformed man with a large set of keys in one hand and an electric torchlight in the other. Quincey knew this must be the head usher.

“Excuse me,” he said, extending the envelope toward him. “Could I ask you to deliver this backstage for me?”

The head usher read the name on the envelope, shook his head, and answered simply, “Non.”

Quincey’s mind raced. “Very well, I must speak to Monsieur Antoine at once.”

“André Antoine? He cannot be disturbed.”

“I think the theatre manager would like to know why Basarab won’t be performing tonight.”

The head usher studied Quincey. “What are you talking about?”

“Monsieur Basarab is expecting this letter. He is so anxious, I fear that he may be too distraught to perform if he doesn’t receive…”

“Very well,” the head usher interrupted, stretching out his hand. “I will take it to him.”

“Merci.” As Quincey gave him the envelope, the head usher’s hand remained outstretched until Quincey gave him some money. Then the man retreated. The lie had come so easily to Quincey.

Quincey turned to see that the wealthy and cultured, dressed in their best evening attire, had begun to pour into the opulent theatre. He knew that most of them were here to be seen rather than to see the play. Many of them shared his father’s view that actors were vagabonds and heathens. Hypocrites. His father was the worst of them; he seemed to have forgotten he was the son of a cobbler, a mere clerk at law fortunate enough to inherit the firm upon the death of its owner, Mr. Hawkins. The senior partner, Mr. Renfield, who had been destined to inherit the firm, had committed suicide in an insane asylum. Quincey suddenly felt a cold sensation as if the temperature in the room had dropped significantly. He glanced about, wondering where such a blast of cold could have come from, when a striking vision caught his eye. A woman had entered the foyer, towering over all others. The nearby crowd hurled disapproving glares. She was dressed like a man, in an extremely well-fitted dinner jacket.

Elizabeth Bathory could hardly believe this was le Théâtre de l’Odéon. She rested her hand on the gilded column as she looked about the theatre. The last time she had been here was March 18, 1799. The night of the great fire. The theatre rebuilt seemed smaller now. She glanced upward at the glass painting on the ceiling, which was illuminated by new electrical lights. In Michelangelo-style artistry, the painting depicted dancing women who seemed to be floating in the air. Some of the women were cloaked in virginal white flowing robes, chaste and angelic, but most were in various forms of undress, and yet appeared more like little girls than women capable of desire. Of course, the artist did not understand that women were sexual beings, with needs like men. Only a God-fearing man would depict a woman with such contempt.

Bathory’s eyes were fixed on the image of a raven-haired young maiden running with her white robe carelessly trailing behind her as if she had not a worry in the world. Bathory knew well enough from her own dark past that such a creature did not exist.

A fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Bathory had gasped in horror as her bejeweled wedding gown had been ripped violently from her body. Her terrified eyes had looked up at her assailant as he groped her breasts—her new husband, Count Ferenc Nádasdy, a fat, drunken slob of a man more than twenty years her senior.

“You are my wife…As such you have an obligation to God to consummate this marriage…Bathory!” slurred Nádasdy, and his wine-drenched breath was rancid. The way he emphasized her surname confirmed he was still outraged that she was allowed to retain her maiden name since her family was more powerful than his. When she didn’t move quickly enough, he struck her backhanded across her face, the full weight of his girth behind the blow. The signet ring on his hand had cut her lip. She tried to scream, but the bastard covered her mouth. She could still smell the manure since he had not cared to wash his hands after coming in from the fields. That had been the very first time she tasted blood and it had been her own.

In her youth, she had read countless books and poems written in Hungarian, Latin, and German. The stories always portrayed “romance” as a magical fairy tale sealed with a kiss. At fifteen she knew nothing of sexual intercourse or the pain of losing one’s virginity. Such things were meant to be handled gently and with care. Every young girl dreamed of their wedding day. But for Bathory the dream had become a living nightmare from which she could not wake up.

Hers was an arranged marriage, to secure military alliances and lands; romance had no part in it. For Count Nádasdy, she was nothing more than a bucking mare to be broken. Every orifice in her body became his plaything. Her flesh meant no more to him than paper to rend and tear.

After the fat oaf had fallen at last into intoxicated slumber, Bathory had stolen away from her wedding chambers and tried to flee into the night. The Castle Csejthe, which was his wedding gift to her, was situated deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Unlike the lively, edifying estate where she had grown up in Nyírbátor, Hungary, this picturesque setting offered a bucolic tapestry of small fields and meandering stone walls. The castle itself was set high among the jagged outcrops of the frozen mountains. It was May, but at this altitude, it was as cold as winter. Bathory had stood naked, exposed, the freezing air soothing her wounds, her blood frosting on her skin. To freeze to death would surely be better than life with the grotesque monster to whom she had been given. But even in this, God had shown her no mercy. The servants ran from the castle and covered her with blankets. When she fought them, they subdued her and forced her back to her master. There was no escape. Bathory was a prisoner in her own life.

“What is it, mistress?” the pale-haired Woman in White asked, concerned. Her touch startled Bathory back to the present.

She said nothing, but as her rage boiled, she was haunted by the lie of the blissfully ignorant, raven-haired girl running in the painting above. They say blood will have blood, but everything in its time. My vengeance has just begun.

Could it really have been nearly two days since Seward had last taken his “medicine”? His hands shook violently. Time was running out. He needed his fix soon, or he would be too ill and weak to mount an effective assault on Bathory.

He was grateful to find that the Benefactor had left a complimentary ticket for him—a seat in the orchestra section, under his name at the box office. The Benefactor must have received the telegram and anticipated his needs. In his deteriorating condition, sneaking into the theatre would have been impossible. Alas, in spite of the excellent seat, he would not have the luxury of enjoying the play as a spectator. He was sweating profusely and felt nauseated as he stumbled up to the door beneath a sign: “Personelles du Théâtre seulement.” It was locked. He was about to search for another door leading backstage when he spotted Bathory and the two Women in White at the back of the theatre.

He was not ready! He peered from behind a Romanesque column, his clammy hands clutching it for support. He saw Bathory staring at the ceiling and he followed her gaze to a magnificent Renaissance-style painting. One pale, painted figure caught his attention. She was taller than the other women in the scene, with piercing blue eyes contrasting with her flowing black mane. A dark-haired Aphrodite, the perfect stand-in for Bathory. It seemed that Fate had decreed this theatre to be the ideal setting for the immortal to meet her end.

The sound of rattling keys startled him. He turned to see a short man approaching, carrying an envelope adorned with red illustrations. The man looked nervous as he unlocked the door and went inside. Seward slipped his toe in the door before it closed again. Making sure no one was watching, he strolled through as casually as if he belonged there.

Half-dressed performers dashed about. Men carried papier-mâché boulders to the stage. A seamstress sewed a costume onto an actor as he did vocal exercises. Seward had to find a safe place before he was discovered and thrown out.

“What are you doing back here?” a Russian-accented voice called. Seward spun so quickly that his eyesight momentarily blurred. Had he been caught?

His teary, bloodshot eyes focused on the Russian, who stared down at the small man with the keys—obviously the head usher. Seward was safe…for now. Not wanting to press his luck, he ducked into the shadows behind a high-backed prop throne.

The head usher looked up at the large Russian and said, “I have a delivery for Monsieur Basarab. He is supposedly expecting it.”

“I will take it to him.” The Russian snatched the decorated envelope. He stalked toward a door marked with a star and the name Basarab carved in it as the head usher scurried back the way he had come. The Russian knocked and slid the envelope under the door. Seward, near the point of passing out from the need for drugs, remained hidden by the throne. His strength quickly ebbing, he looked up into the rafters, which were filled with ropes, pulleys, and sandbags. He would await Fate’s fortune above, but first he needed a fix.

He thought of a fitting quotation from the play that was about to begin as he quietly drew his medical bag from under his overcoat. “Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a word that cowards use.” Safely obscured on the floor behind the throne, he withdrew a leather belt and tightly cinched it around his sagging bicep. He filled a glass syringe with morphine. Only half a dose this time. Merely enough to quell the nausea. Seward knew that doping up was a gamble, but he could no longer function without the morphine. He felt the drug surge through his veins. It took only a few minutes for him to regain control of his body, and once he felt his legs were steady enough, he began his climb into the rafters.

While the War of the Roses played itself out on the stage below with wooden swords and fake sugared blood, Seward would set the stage for the truly bloody battle. He drew his weapons from a hidden compartment in his coat. The pieces were set, and now the game was in motion.