Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
Читать онлайн книгу.
skin sizzled and blistered. Their terrible wails echoed through the corridor.
While the Women in White ran off, flailing in pain, Seward dived toward Basarab’s door and pounded on it. “Mr. Basarab! Save yourself!”
Basarab turned to Quincey and pointed to the large steamer trunks. “For your safety, stay behind those.”
Quincey swiftly did as he was commanded. Screams and commotion came from outside the door. Basarab grabbed a large steel broadsword from behind his desk. If Quincey hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the blade was deadly real, not a dull prop weapon. Basarab swung the dressing room door open, raised his sword, and leapt out, ready for a fight. But, except for a few terrified stagehands, the hall seemed free of danger. The actor focused on the fallen sandbag, and snapped his head up to the rafters.
Looking left and right down the hall, he moved cautiously as if he expected another attack: Could the screams and banging on the door have been only a diversionary tactic?
Quincey wondered what secrets Basarab was hiding.
Seward chased the Women in White along the backstage corridor, and caught up to them on the stage behind the closed curtain. Seeing a shadow fall across the floor, he dropped down just as one she-devil’s scimitar hummed past his head. The pale-haired demon rushed at him from the other direction.
Drawing his bone-handled bowie knife from its sheath, Seward cast it at her heart. With reflexes and speed far superior to any human, the Woman in White was able to dodge the blade’s killer thrust so that it missed her heart and struck deep into her shoulder. The dark-haired vampire grabbed Seward about the throat, but she inadvertently touched the silver chain around his neck, which had an assortment of small religious icons dangling from its length. Hot steam leapt from her blistering hand where she touched the chain, and Seward felt a terrible glee. He wore the chain for situations such as this. The wounded pair fled, bursting through the main curtain, and Seward’s pride swelled. For the moment, the weak old man had the advantage.
The Women in White tore through the red velvet theatre curtain and leapt from the stage into the seats, bounding like wild cats on all fours from seat top to seat top. Seward jumped from the stage, twisting his ankle as he landed. He continued the pursuit, hobbling up the theatre aisle.
The head usher, whom Seward had earlier followed into the backstage area, appeared at the top of the aisle and demanded in understandable bemusement, “Qu’est-ce qui ce passe?”
The pale-haired woman hurled him out of her way, smashing his body into a nearby column. As she fled, she pulled the bone-handled bowie knife out of her shoulder. Seward paused by the man for an instant, but when he had determined the fellow was not too badly injured, he continued his chase.
Seward stopped on the top step of the Théâtre de l’Odéon’s entrance. Smoke escaped from his mouth as the cold air clashed with his hot breath. Through the thick blanket of fog that had rolled into the Paris night, he could barely make out the shadowy figures of the Women in White across the street; but he could see by the flickering reflection of their steel knives in the gas lamps that they were waiting for him in ambush behind a monument that held a stone bust upon its central pillar. This was Seward’s moment at last. He caressed his beloved watch for courage. He would kill one of these demons in the name of Lucy and the other would die in memory of the poor girl slain in Marseilles. Seward drew his sword. He was God’s madman again. God’s soldier.
With a battle cry, Seward raised his sword over his head and raced down the stone steps with surprising agility, ignoring the pain in his ankle. The two vampires watched his charge, making no effort to move. They smiled as he reached the bottom step and raced onto the rue de Vaugirard.
A horse whinnied and Seward whirled in horror to see the error of his strategy. He had been so focused on attacking the two pawns that he had forgotten the black queen could attack from any direction. Out of the fog, the driverless carriage descended swiftly upon him. With no time to react, Seward was thrown down amidst trampling hooves and carriage wheels.
Lying battered and beaten, he instantly knew he had not only failed the Benefactor, but he had also failed God. The shame he felt was even greater than the pain in his broken body. Through stinging tears, he saw the Women in White deftly catch up to the racing carriage and bound effortlessly onto it. The dark-haired demon turned to laugh at him before climbing inside the coach.
Seward saw his watch lying on the ground nearby. He tried to retrieve it, but when he moved, the pain was too great. He coughed up blood, fighting to scream. A man loomed over him, and Seward tried to signal the man to give him his watch. The man followed Seward’s eyes and picked up the cherished timepiece. He said softly in French, “You won’t need this where you’re going.”
As life slowly ebbed away, Seward watched helplessly as the man ran away with his most prized possession.
Antoine hurried Quincey out through the front of the theatre, where the young man was shocked to see the mangled body of a man lying in a pool of blood on the cobblestones. Pedestrians ran, calling for police and a doctor.
“My God,” Quincey said, “what happened?”
Whistles sounded from all directions as policemen headed for the scene. Antoine pulled Quincey down the front steps, attempting to usher him away as quickly as possible. “As I understand it, a crazed man attacked two women in the theatre.”
Quincey saw a vagabond leaning down to talk with the injured man on the street and was alarmed to see him grab the victim’s watch and run off. Without thinking, he yelled, “Thief!” and charged after the fellow, pushing past Antoine.
It was too late. The thief had run up the street, out of Quincey’s range. Flustered at his lost chance at heroics, Quincey was forced to join the other mild-mannered pedestrians pointing the thief out to the arriving policemen. Within moments, two policemen had tackled and apprehended the vagabond and retrieved the silver watch.
Antoine grabbed Quincey by the arm, dragging him away. “Mr. Basarab charged me with taking you safely back to the Sorbonne. Come with me right now, young man; this is no place for you.”
Like Antoine, Quincey would not dare disobey Basarab’s wishes. As they shuffled through the crowd, he whispered, “What about Mr. Basarab?”
“Surely you cannot expect a famous public man like Basarab to be seen around such a tragedy? Think of his reputation.”
Quincey nodded, but he could not help but wonder what had really happened backstage, and why the great actor had remained behind when there could still be danger. The policemen were clearing the area now, allowing the injured man room to breathe. Quincey glanced back, finally able to glimpse the victim’s face. The man seemed oddly familiar.
Looking up into the night sky, Seward realized that he felt no more pain. With his last gasp, he uttered a single word.
“Lucy.”
The driverless black carriage raced across the Seine by way of the boulevard du Palais bridge. The City of Lights sparkled in the night. Poets have written that when those lights shine, “Paris is a city for lovers.” But Bathory had lived long enough to know that the sparkle was just an illusion, like love itself.
Countess Elizabeth Bathory had become her aunt Karla’s willing student, doing anything Karla asked for fear that the instruction might end. Yet, as the countess embraced who she was and found herself at last happy, safe, and content, she realized that she might find more bliss with someone her own age, in particular Ilka, the kitchen maid. Ilka was young, beautiful, innocent, and sweet. More importantly, Ilka always spoke of the future, unlike Karla, who often dwelled on the past. With Ilka, Bathory had someone with whom to share her youthful energy, to run in the fields and seek adventures. Bathory meant no harm to her aunt, and justified the dalliance by believing in her newfound philosophy that love could never