Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
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Basarab’s name.
He knocked. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur Basarab? The young gentleman is here.”
There was a long moment of silence. As Quincey began to think that he would not meet Basarab after all, the baritone voice resonated from behind the door, “Send him in.”
Quincey took a deep breath, swallowed his nerves, and stepped through the door. Basarab sat in front of his makeup mirror, reading Quincey’s letter. The actor did not look up, but, as he continued to read, he gestured gracefully and said, “Enter, please.”
Obeying as quickly as possible, Quincey closed the door behind him. He looked about the spacious dressing room. A neat stack of steamer trunks towered in one corner like a small fortress. Framed posters of Basarab’s previous productions were hung symmetrically against the wall fabric. Opulent furniture decorated the room, which was far more lavish than the standard assortment of spare, unmatched chairs normally found in an actor’s dressing room. An extravagant chaise longue that looked Egyptian was sitting next to a small, elegant pedestal table that was set for tea. Basarab kept reading. Quincey wondered if he was looking at the letter for the first time.
“Forgive me, Master Harker,” Basarab said, his tone friendly. “I was quite taken by your letter. So honored, in fact, that I wanted to read it a second time very carefully.”
It was as if Basarab could read his mind. Quincey said hastily, “I can’t believe I’m standing in your presence. I can’t explain it, but I see you and suddenly my entire life makes sense.”
Quincey wondered if he could possibly have said anything more idiotic, but to his surprise, Basarab smiled warmly.
“Forgive my ill manners.” Basarab laughed. “My father would disown me. Please, sit down and join me for some tea.”
Quincey was almost afraid to sit on the delicate antique Egyptian chaise, but he didn’t want to offend his host. He perched on its edge while Basarab poured tea into two elegant glass teacups. Quincey carefully picked one up to study its silver-covered base and handle, engraved with the initials I. L. The teapot, cream jug, and sugar bowl all bore the same monogram. Quincey wondered who I. L. was.
“Ivan Lebedkin,” Basarab said.
Quincey gave him a startled look; once more the actor seemed to be reading his mind. Then he realized that he was unconsciously tracing the initials on his cup. Basarab wasn’t clairvoyant; he was a keen observer of human behavior. No doubt one of the many reasons why he was such a magnificent performer.
Basarab continued, “He was the czar’s assay master. His initials verify that it is, in fact, silver.”
“The czar?”
“Yes. This tea set and the tea itself, Lapsang souchong, was a gift from Czar Nicholas. Enjoy. Na zdarovia,” Basarab toasted. He was about to take a drink from his cup when he realized his nose or, to be exact, Richard III’s nose, was in the way. He smiled, setting the cup down. “Excuse me for a moment.”
AS Basarab crossed back to his dressing table, Quincey couldn’t help but contemplate the odd ways of the world. A day earlier, he had been imprisoned at the Sorbonne. Now he was sipping tea—chosen by the ruler of Russia—with the most celebrated actor in Europe.
“I’ve seen you before, Master Harker,” Basarab said, pulling off the artificial nose, which had been fashioned from mortician’s wax.
“Truly?” Quincey wondered if he remembered him hanging from the statue the previous night.
“It was at the London Hippodrome. You were performing a one-man production of Faust.”
Quincey coughed so suddenly that the tea almost erupted from his nostrils. The great Basarab had been in that small, unassuming variety theatre over a year ago? “You have seen me perform?”
“Yes, I found you quite entertaining. Very original, and that is not an easy feat in this business. I proceeded backstage to congratulate you, but found you were in the midst of an intense argument with an older gentleman.”
He knew exactly which night Basarab referred to. That night, his father, Jonathan Harker, had also been in the audience. Quincey had no idea he was there until it was too late. He had tried to sneak out after the show, but his father had already found his way backstage and was yelling at the house manager.
“…and if you think you can stand in my way…”
“Father, please!”
“Get your things, Quincey!” Jonathan barked. “You will not be returning to this place.”
“You cannot stop—”
“What I cannot do is to allow you to pursue this avenue. You draw too much attention…on the stage you’re exposed…this is not safe.”
“Exposed to what? I am not a child. I can choose what I do with my life.”
“Very well. If that is your wish, fine. But, if you choose this course of action,” Jonathan said, coldly lowering his voice, “you will have to survive like your fellow performers, without any financial assistance from me.”
Quincey had wanted to stand his ground, but he was not yet in any financial position to meet his father’s challenge. He was defeated. His silence answered his father’s question.
“I thought as much,” Jonathan barked. “While you’re living off my money, you will comply with my wishes.”
The elder Harker wasted no time in contacting old acquaintances and former colleagues to call in some outstanding favors. The following week, Quincey found himself whisked away to the Sorbonne.
Quincey frowned into the exotic tea. The evening had been going swimmingly until the memory of that encounter with his father tainted it.
“Forcing you to study law? I assume, then, that your father is a solicitor himself.”
“Pardon? Oh, yes,” Quincey said as he realized he must have been speaking his thoughts aloud.
“Now I understand why I have not seen or heard of you since. A father wishing his son to follow in his own footsteps is far from rare. Alas, the story is as old as man’s dominion in this world. Perhaps you have a sibling who is more interested in the law, and can take your place?”
“I am an only child. No one else to share the burden.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” Basarab replied. “You could have had a younger brother whom everyone favored. Comparisons between siblings always spark rivalry.”
It had never occurred to Quincey that Basarab could have a brother. There was barely any information in the public arena surrounding Basarab’s private life. He cleared his throat and delicately inquired, “I assume your brother is not an actor.”
“You assume correctly. He and I are polar opposites,” Basarab said. He gestured to the crown he had worn onstage. “I dare say that King Richard and his brother had a better relationship…nay, Cain and Abel.”
Quincey laughed along with Basarab. The actor smiled. “Fate certainly has a strange way of bringing people with common bonds together.” As he was about to take a sip of tea, a banshee wail rang from outside the door. Basarab sprang to his feet.
Someone pounded on the door, and a man’s voice called out, “Mr. Basarab! Save yourself!”
With very few people left backstage to witness them, the two Women in White moved silently through the hallway, stopping at the door marked with the gold star. Faces bent in predatory grins, they licked their lips as they unsheathed their scimitars. Their eyes turned black; their fangs elongated. The dark one reached for the doorknob and the pale-haired harpy crouched like a cat waiting to pounce.
Suddenly, a sandbag fell from above and hit the blonde, sending her chin into the floor. In that same instant, Seward swung down on one of the many ropes from the catwalks above. As he swooped close,