Night of Dracula Page 5

“Worst of all is the need to continually feed.” Vladamir stared into Jonathan’s eyes with a look of hunger—of quiet desperation.

  “Then the antibody is worthless?”

  “Worthless?” Vladamir appeared amused. “Take a good look at me, Doctor. How old do you think I am? Thirty? Thirty-five, perhaps? I am one hundred and seventeen years old!”

  “But how?”

  Vladamir shrugged. “There are things even I don’t understand. Somehow, the antibody slowed the aging process to a near halt. The cells regenerate themselves at an amazing rate. Look for yourself . . .” Vladamir picked up a letter opener from his desk and stabbed his own palm. Blood trickled from the wound, but quickly stopped. The small cut sealed itself. In less than a minute, there was no trace of injury.

  Vladamir grinned. “How can you say the antibody is worthless?”

  “But if you require constant blood transfusions . . . ?”

  “A small price to pay for immortality, wouldn’t you say, Doctor? Besides, I take only from the wretched of society. You might say I have provided an important service to humanity over the years. During World War II, for example, I eliminated many high-ranking German SS officers, who were responsible for much suffering in Paris during the occupation. The French could’ve cared less about my nocturnal feedings. In fact, many of them helped in my search for donors. I must admit to a particular appetite for those who would harm a child or a woman. There is nothing more pleasing to the palate.”

  “So this antibody gives you the power to determine guilt or innocence,” Jonathan retorted.

  Vladamir offered him a rather sinister smile. “I should warn you, Doctor. I find those who would oppose me quite tasty as well. Don’t tell me you have never done something questionable to achieve a greater good, if only for your own sake, Dr. Steward.”

  “Then no one is truly safe from your ‘nocturnal feedings,’ ” Jonathan replied. “Food for the gods? Is that how it works, Vladamir?”

  Vladamir turned his back on Jonathan. “If you’re not interested in my business proposal . . .”

  Jonathan turned to face Renfield, who stood on the staircase leading to the landing with Vladamir’s desk. “A deal with the Devil?” Jonathan asked Renfield loudly. “Isn’t that what you called it in the hospital, Carl?”

  Renfield only stared back at the doctor, with dread.

  “All right,” Jonathan said to Vladamir, without looking at him. “What are your terms?”

  Vladamir stepped behind his desk. He sat down, then crossed his arms in front of his chest, making himself more comfortable. “I thought you would ultimately see things my way, Doctor. In exchange for providing me with suitable donors, I will give you part of the formula. In time, you will have the entire antibody, which will work quite effectively with your AIDS patients.”

  “Time?” Jonathan’s head snapped up. “How much time?”

  Vladamir stroked the tip of his chin. His smile broadened. “That will be for me to decide, Doctor.”

  Jonathan rose and stepped closer to Vladamir. “I could turn you over to the police. I could obtain a court order for samples of your blood. That would give me virtually everything I need.”

  Vladamir laughed. “Like the vampire, my world is formless, Doctor. It is an existence filled with magic and miracles you will never understand. I obey no laws of time or space.” He pointed a finger at Jonathan, “If you ever betray me, I shall wreak a terrible vengeance on you and those you love! You shall come to truly fear the night. You will have a reason to fear falling asleep!”

  “And should I refuse to make a deal with you?” Jonathan asked cautiously.

  “You’ve already made a deal. Refuse me, and you’ll never reach the front door—not alive! You know too much, Doctor. No! Our contract is sealed: you will fulfill your end of the bargain. In return, I shall give you all I know.”

  Jonathan nodded, complying with Vladamir’s terms. He had no other choice. Jonathan turned and descended the long flight of stairs, feeling as if he were going down into the flames of Hell for the sins he was prepared to commit.

  When Jonathan reached the last step, Renfield grabbed his arm. “It’s not as bad as it seems, Dr. Steward. Trust me. The Master truly is a man of his word.”

  Jonathan yanked his arm away. He stared into Renfield’s frightened eyes, but said nothing. He walked to the front door without looking back.

  TEN

  Mina met Jonathan with a perfunctory kiss at the front door. “Detective Dixon is waiting for you in the living room,” she whispered. “Did he speak with Heather?”

  “No. I told him she was asleep and you didn’t want her disturbed.” Mina glanced over her shoulder, then back to Jonathan. “What’s going on? Where did you go?” Jonathan merely patted Mina on the shoulder, then walked directly into the living room. He didn’t bother removing his gray wool overcoat and scarf, as he normally did on entering the house.

  Jonathan reached out to shake Dixon’s hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Detective.”

  “We’ll discuss that later, Doctor,” Dixon replied, skipping the usual pleasantries. “I want to speak with your friend right now.”

  Jonathan shook his head. “That’s out of the question. She’s been through a horrible ordeal. As a physician, I insist she get some rest.”

  “First thing in the morning, then.”

  “It depends on how she’s feeling.” Jonathan strolled to the portable bar in the living room. He peeled off his black leather gloves, then poured a brandy, trying to appear as relaxed as possible. “What did you find?”

  Dixon perched on the couch and crossed his legs. “Two suspects—both with histories of assaulting women. The dead one had an outstanding warrant from Florida.”

  Jonathan’s eyes widened. The glass of brandy nearly slipped from his fingers. “But . . . both men were dead, weren’t they?”

  “Nope. One of them had his neck snapped, just like in the other murders, but his accomplice . . .” Dixon pulled a brown notepad from his jacket pocket. He thumbed through the pages. “His name is Wilton Brewer.”

  Jonathan’s face was pale white. “What’s his condition?”

  “He’s busted up pretty bad. Bleeding internally—his liver, lungs. The bones in his right shoulder and arm were broken in half a dozen places, but he should be able to give us a description of the man who assaulted them. We’re hoping he can also explain the bags of blood packed in dry ice. . . .”

  “Blood? Dry ice?”

  Dixon nodded his head. “Yeah, blood. We found several pint-sized plastic bags of blood packed in dry ice. No return address. No letter, note, nothing. The box has a UPS bar code. We shouldn’t have any trouble tracking down the sender.”

  “Are you sure they’re related?”

  “I don’t know what to think—not until I’ve spoken with your friend and Brewer.” Dixon studied the way Jonathan took a long, steady drink of his brandy. “What’s the matter, Doctor? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Jonathan cleared his throat and forced a smile. “Of course not. I’m just concerned about Heather.”

  Dixon leaned forward. “This friend of yours, Heather . . . I understand her husband is in the army. Was he with her tonight?”

  “Ron?” Jonathan laughed. “He’s stationed in Frankfurt, Germany. Besides, he’s a physician, not a damn Green Beret.”

  “Jack the Ripper,” Dixon replied. “Scotland Yard suspected he might have been a surgeon.”

  “They never caught Jack the Ripper, did they, Detective?”

  “Nope.” Dixon slowly stood. “But I will catch my suspect. You can take that to the bank, Doctor!” Dixon started toward the front door. “I’ll notify Heather’s husband in Germany.”

  “I can do it,” Jonathan replied. “It would be best, coming from a friend.”

  “I’ll still want to speak with him. Tell him to expect my call tomorrow.”

  Jonathan’s smile slowly faded. He remained quiet while Dixon and the unif
ormed officer headed to their vehicles. When he was certain they had left, Jonathan stepped into his study.

  From a dark corner of the room, a frail voice said, “So, you’ve made a deal with Dracula.”

  Jonathan turned on the lights. Van Helsing sat in a wing chair, his hands clasped over his chest.

  “How did you get in here?” Jonathan snapped.

  “You’ve made a deal with him,” Van Helsing repeated. His wrinkled lips formed a smile. “You don’t really believe he’ll fulfill his end of the bargain, do you?”

  Jonathan stormed over to Van Helsing. “I want you out of here, now!”

  “And if I don’t leave? What will you do, Doctor? Call the police?” Van Helsing reached for the telephone on the side table next to his chair. He handed Jonathan the receiver. “Be my guest.” Van Helsing’s smile broadened. “Go on, Dr. Steward. Ask for Detective Dixon. Let’s both have a chat with him, shall we?”

  Jonathan took the receiver and quietly replaced it in its cradle. “What do you want?”

  Van Helsing crossed his arms in front of him. “That’s more like it.” He cocked his head. “What exactly did he promise you, Doctor? Wait. Let me guess. The antibody. Am I right?”

  Jonathan said nothing. He refused to even look at Van Helsing.

  “And what will you give him in return, Doctor?” the old man continued. “Blood for blood?”

  “Enough!” Jonathan demanded.

  “Enough? No, Dr. Steward. There will never be enough. There will be no end to his demands.”

  Suddenly Van Helsing no longer appeared amused. He leaned forward and rested an aged hand on Jonathan’s arm. “I can help, if you’ll let me, Doctor. I’ve come not to destroy him, but to take him home again—back to the land where he belongs. But I need your help. I’m too old—too weak. This tired, aging body is no match for his strength.”

  Jonathan sat on the couch next to Van Helsing’s chair and stared into space. His lips moved soundlessly. Finally, Van Helsing heard him whisper, “I am so very sick of death! Everywhere I look—death!”

  Van Helsing smiled warmly. “There are things in this world far worse than death, I assure you, Doctor. Death is God’s mercy.”

  “But if there’s a chance for a cure? Surely . . .”

  Van Helsing shook his head. “To never see the sun rise or set again. To watch the ones we love grow old and die. This is not a cure—it’s a curse! Make no mistake! Dracula is the Devil himself, Dr. Steward. To make a deal with Vladamir is to sell your soul. Like the Prince of Darkness, he will lie to you. He knows your weaknesses. But he can be defeated! I swear this to be true.”

  Jonathan’s shoulders sagged. He looked ashamed. “I need that antibody,” he sighed. “Forgive me, dear God—forgive me. But I need that antibody.”

  “At what cost, Doctor?” Van Helsing asked solemnly. Jonathan turned his head to peer into old, clouded eyes. “My immortal soul!”

  ELEVEN

  The line that separates good from evil is not so clearly defined with Dracula, who stalks his prey without mercy. He kills, and boasts of it with a gleam of delectation. He expresses no remorse or revulsion. In fact, he is rather proud of himself. His philosophy of life might be considered admirable, under different circumstances. Dracula is a killer, nevertheless. True, he requires the blood of his victims to perpetuate his own existence, but there is no need to commit murder. That he does out of sheer pleasure. Undoubtedly, such hatred was encouraged by a pathological force Jonathan had yet to discover. Case in point: Mr. Brad O’Sullivan . . .

  On December 12, 2000, at approximately 9:37 P.M., O’Sullivan was transported to the emergency room at St. Mark’s Hospital. He was suffering from a bullet wound to the right leg, incurred in an exchange of gunfire with the Atlanta Police. Jonathan Steward, accompanied by Dracula, quickly moved O’Sullivan to a secluded room, where the doctor could begin fulfilling his end of the bargain, providing Vladamir with fresh blood.

  “Why should you care about this man?” Vladamir asked, noting Jonathan’s hesitancy to strap O’Sullivan securely to a gurney. “He’s a self-proclaimed white supremacist. He set fire to a local Afro-American Baptist church. Four parishioners died, during a bible study session in the basement, no less.”

  “I thought we were only performing a blood transfusion,” Jonathan replied nervously. “I’m afraid of what you’ll do when we finish.”

  “So you sympathize with such a man?”

  Jonathan took a deep breath, then shook his head, appearing sick to his stomach. He couldn’t help but think of that young woman’s death by his own hands, years ago, in New York. Still, he whispered, “No. No sympathy.”

  “You heard this man say, ‘To hell with the blacks! Burn all their churches down!”

  Jonathan nodded, but still felt disgusted.

  “Then get on with it!”

  Before Vladamir put an end to O’Sullivan’s repulsive existence, Jonathan had the opportunity to witness how he drained the blood of his victims firsthand. Vladamir used the same device he’d developed during the viral outbreak that had swept through the villages of the Carpathian Mountains. It was a crude but effective piece of equipment, kept in a hinged wooden box that Vladamir carried with him at all times. Two needles were affixed to opposing ends of a rubber tube approximately thirty-six inches long. A small glass bottle in the center of the rubber tube allowed the antibody to mix with the donor’s blood. The antibody solution was olive green, with the density of common tap water.

  One end of the catheter was inserted into O’Sullivan’s carotid artery, accounting for the puncture wounds found on his victims’ necks. Vladamir inserted the other end into his own subclavian artery—on the left shoulder.

  When the transfusion was complete, Vladamir grabbed O’Sullivan by the back of the head and the lower jaw. He gave the head a rapid jerk to the right, shattering the cerebral vertebra. The neck snapped like a dry chicken bone. Apparently Vladamir had acquired a taste for bigots, as well as child molesters, rapists, and drug dealers.

  TWELVE

  Heather fidgeted with her cloth napkin as she sat at a table with Mina and Jonathan. Her eyes darted around the crowded, swank nightclub in downtown Atlanta. “This wasn’t a good idea,” she said. “I don’t think Ron would approve.” “Nonsense, dear,” Mina reassured her. She placed her hand over Heather’s. “This was an excellent idea. It’s just what you need: dinner, music, a little dancing. What Ron doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  Jonathan smiled to put their friend at rest. “I have to agree with Mina, for once. Except for the part about not telling Ron. Not to fear, you’re perfectly safe.”

  “And look at all these gorgeous men . . .”

  “Mina!” Heather covered her lips to keep from laughing. “I swear, you’re terrible. Think of poor Jonathan.”

  “It’s all right,” Jonathan replied. “If only I could find a wealthy, handsome man to take her off my hands . . .”

  Mina playfully smacked Jonathan’s chest. “Quiet! We only brought you along to pick up the check.” The three broke out laughing. It felt like old times again, when they used to have so much fun.

  Suddenly Jonathan stopped laughing. Across a sea of crowded tables, he saw Vladamir moving through the room toward their table, like an eerie shadow against a moonlit sky. Mina also appeared upset when she spotted him, but Heather was thrilled.

  When he reached their table, Jonathan immediately stood and glared at him. “Funny, I don’t remember inviting you,” he said to Vladamir.

  “I don’t remember needing your permission to go where I please, Doctor.”

  Jonathan whispered in Vladamir’s ear. “We shouldn’t be seen together, and you know it!”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” Vladamir answered aloud. He appeared lighthearted—rather jovial. He reached out his hand, staring into Heather’s eyes. “Come. Dance with me.”

  Heather slowly rose and took his hand. “Of course.”

  Jonathan raised a hand in pr
otest. “Our drinks should be here soon.”

  Vladamir ignored him. He strolled with Heather to the center of the dance floor. Every woman in the room turned to stare at him affectionately: the deep blue eyes, his tall frame garbed in black, the untamed black hair . . . Dracula, true Prince of the Night.

  They cut through the crowd of dancers, then paused to look into each other’s eyes.

  “My hero,” Heather whispered, when she felt able to speak.

  “My love,” he replied passionately.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “You saved my life . . .”

  Vladamir held her hands gently. “I would die for you!”

  “I feel I’ve known you all my life.” For some strange reason, Heather felt it natural to be with him. If only she could remember.

  Heather shook her head, as if to clear it, then smiled warmly at him. “I should warn you, I’m not a very good dancer.”

  “Of course you are.” He stared deeper into her eyes. Suddenly, Heather’s legs seemed to have a mind of their own. “Tango?” Vladamir suggested.

  Heather glanced up. “This doesn’t sound like tango music.”

  “We can do something about that.” Vladamir held up his left hand and snapped his fingers. The music, a slow-paced waltz, unexpectedly changed to a Latin beat.

  Vladamir’s smile broadened. “Shall we?”

  Heather answered by stepping into his arms.

  He spun her in a circle, and then they did the tango. Other dancers stepped aside in admiration. Vladamir was the man every man on the dance floor wanted to be. Vladamir was the man every woman wanted desperately to be with.

  When he spun her a second time, Heather reached up to unclip her barrette. Long, silky black hair dropped to her shoulders. She had never felt so free in her life, so alive.

  As she turned in a circle, she closed her eyes, swept away by the sounds around her. It was as if she had been carried off into the night—carried up to the stars, no longer chained to the earth, among mortals. Vladamir was a god, and she was his goddess.