Stoker's Manuscript (22 page)

She paused before answering. “Yes. It would have to in order to avoid extradition.”

I felt a net drawing around me, held by Dalca and Arthur Ardelean, who sat there without expression. Danger might be described as when you’re caught behind the eight ball. But real danger is when you’re caught behind the eight ball and didn’t even realize you were at the billiards table.

“I’d like to think about it.”

“Mr. Barkeley,” she said, leaning toward me, “if the
are out in the lobby, you are extradited.”

If so, I could escape the inevitable confrontation with Dalca.

Arthur spoke up. “
Avocat
Pope, would it be possible to have your client sign such a document in anticipation of filing?”

She nodded.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“We have the forms in this office,” she said. “You could sign the renunciation forms, and I would hold them in anticipation of your call to file them. You will have to carry a copy of them with your U.S. passport.”

“But you won’t file until I call?”

“That’s correct. I will do that . . . for Mr. Ardelean, of course.”

It took the better part of an hour for me to read the forms, interpret, and clarify before concluding our meeting and putting my signature on the documents. Romania was my home for the foreseeable future. My world shrank to the size of Oregon.

“Please notify Mr. Ardelean of your whereabouts at all times, and know that only the neighboring countries have complete reciprocal agreements with Romania regarding citizenship laws.”

I shook her hand and thanked her. “
.”

Ms. Pope gave me what must have passed, for her, as an empathetic look. “I am not going to tell you that it’s all going to work out or be okay.”

Like I didn’t know that.
I nodded and returned to the vehicle while Arthur concluded his visit with Pope. The driver opened the door for me and I took a seat in the back, next to Luc.

“So,” he said, “we sit beneath the same old oak tree.”

There is an old Romanian fable about sitting in the shade of an old oak tree and watching the walls of your coffin grow. Such fatalisms being the staple of Romanian lore, I knew what he meant—that our efforts shared a common end point.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “it’s an old-growth forest.”

I hoped.

T
he drive back to the castle was uneventful, quiet, paranoid. Every vehicle looked suspect, as did the one I was riding in, the only large black American SUV on the road. Certain phrases circled the drain in my mind:
death penalty
,
ritual killing
,
occult killer
,
Joliet Joe the Impaler
.

Back in Castel Bran, my escorts led me to my guest quarters in the corner tower, and when Arthur asked if there was anything else I needed, I told him I wished to visit with Dalca to discuss his ultimatum. He replied that if there was a meeting to be called, it would be at the insistence of the Master, and that my wishes were as insignificant as the
sânge
(
blood
) of slaves. Further, I was to address Dalca with the title and formal diction befitting a prince.

“How does he wish to be addressed?” I asked.

“He does not wish, he insists on
Master
.”

Luc remained with me after Arthur departed. His look had not softened the entire day, and he explained why. “Look, Barkeley, you had your itinerary and tickets in hand. When you left me and chose to run personal errands, did it occur to you that I was in charge of getting you to and from the airport?”

“No,” I said, “it did not. And I paid for the ticket changes myself.”

“Well, in case you hadn’t figured it out yet, you got me on the wrong side of the Master with your stunt, and now I have to stay with you for as long as you’re here.”

I knew the consequences of outliving your usefulness to the family, and as long as we were stuck together I thought it wise to apply a little salve. “I’m sorry I didn’t discuss my plans with you. I didn’t know you had anything at stake. I just wanted to see my hometown.”

Luc did not exactly accept my apology. “I don’t mean I have to stay in the same room, or even the same building. But I have to be able to locate you at all times.”

“Okay.” That loosened things only slightly.

“Look,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “not every meeting with the Master is hostile. Some can actually be pleasant . . . even invigorating. He is patient, and sometimes he can be pretty open about things he’s seen over the years. And he can be very, very generous.”

“Maybe when he wants something. Everyone has it in them to be pleasant then.”

“My point exactly,” he said, pointing at me. “So as long as he thinks he can get something from you, and you don’t disappear, then I still serve a useful purpose to him.”

“I got it,” I said. “Your neck is tied to my ankle.”

“As long as we understand each other.”

“In the meantime, can you see about getting me out for a few walks around the neighborhood? I need the exercise to stay sharp.”

Luc shook his head. “It’s not up to me.” And he left.

A night passed and then a day and another night was in progress when I awoke from a sound sleep just after midnight. Someone had entered the room, and my nose recognized the odor. The strongest link to memory is the sense of smell, and I knew it was Dalca before adjusting my eyes to the shadows and streaming moonlight. A pair of red eyes emerged over in the parlor section of the suite.

His strong voice reached across the space. “I wish to discuss my proposal.”

Sitting up in bed, I slipped into a robe and shoes and moved to the seat across from where he sat. I could see no more than his outline and eyes, which shone a lesser shade of red that evening.

“Yes,” I said. When he did not respond, I added, “Master.”

“Cover yourself.”

I looked down to see if I was exposed and realized my crucifix was in full view. I tucked it into my shirt.
“
-ma.”

I waited for him to start the conversation, and in a dismissive tone he said, “Pity . . . about your friends.”

Immediately my blood pressure soared.

I heard him breathe deeply, his nose in the air and mouth open, a long finger tracing his chin. “I smell . . . fury. It crowds your fearful heart.”

I took it as something of a compliment. No one was more surprised than I at my newfound ability to harbor such rage. And that anger spawned a sense of calculation, for I instinctively knew that I had to buy time, not just to find his answers, but mine as well. Still, how does one manipulate a man who embodies cold calculation himself? A monster whose heart never entertained empathy or remorse?

“Know, Christian boy, that your friends’ lives are on your head. When I insisted that you keep your mouth shut, did it not occur to you that it might be for your own good as well as your client’s?”

“No.” I looked down. “It did not.”

“And once you knew what you were looking at, did it not occur to you there may be powerful competing forces that would be willing to go to war for it?”

For a brief moment I wanted to believe what he was implying, that I had been taken for a fool—and my friends’ lives literally taken—by someone else.

“Here I invite you into my house, even into my sanctuary, extend a financial offer more generous than you could ever attain in your lifetime of work. Yet you fail to adhere to the most rudimentary of demands—simple silence.” He breathed in again. “And now you feel . . .
prost
.”
Foolish.

He tried to sound convincing, yet he was anything but.

Dalca continued, “You already have the blood of my family flowing through your veins. Once you have completed your mission, I am prepared to offer you my own blood, the Noble blood . . . of eternal life.”

I felt insulted. Briefly I recalled the Don’s message: “Your soul is the only thing that is yours eternally. Protect it.” With that, I felt the strength of proclaiming my faith and love of God, and reached to my chest and revealed the crucifix. “Only my Savior gives me eternal life.”

His red eyes flared and he looked away. I returned the cross to its place, and Dalca stood and strolled over to the window. Looking out at the night, he pointed to the valley floor. “My family and I watched your Christian Crusaders march through this very yard on their way to slaughter infidels and sack great cities in the name of this God of yours. Oh yes, they were all dressed up with their painted shields and amulets and pointy sticks, eating their way through the land like locusts and thinking their little crosses would protect them. Just like you there. And for what? A disagreement over whose book was right? Fools. Dead fools.”

“This crucifix cannot hurt you,” I said, subtly redirecting the conversation to put him on the defensive. “Yet the sight of it repulses you.”

“That thing holds no power over me.” He dismissed it with a wave.

“Does the sight of God remind you that you were born with no soul?”

“Christian!” He spat out the word. “A dead man hung on a cross in shame by humans. You think that is the face of your Creator?”

“You will never see His face,” I said.

“What is this God that watches wars and does not lift a finger to stop them?” He drew out God’s name under a heavy breath, as if it pained him. “What is this . . .
thing
 . . . that creates superior mortal sons, then flaunts His new . . . beloved . . . creation? What reaction would you expect, human?”

“So you resent our Lord.”

In an instant Dalca was standing behind me, bending toward my ear. “Every sense given you, my kind is superior. You are slow, stupid, pathetic. It takes you years before you can even feed yourself.”

“But we were given souls.”

“Only to force you to behave or else suffer eternal torment. I would rather be destroyed.” His voice was just over a whisper, going back and forth behind me to each ear.

“God grants eternal companionship to those of us who love Him.”

“And for those who despise Him?”

“Eternal death,” I said.

“There are differences,
orfan
—you are awake in your eternal death, forever tormented. But you . . . you have the opportunity to choose your fate. Not I. What kind of
loving God
would create life without such a chance?”

“So you choose to destroy that which He loves.”

“I
hate
Him.” He drew out a full-breath
h
on
hate
as he breathed on the back of my head, parting my hair. It smelled. “And I hate you, human . . . simply because you exist. I want to
hurt
Him. I want to know He cries watching His children lured to the other side and dying in torture, freely choosing evil. He spurns my children; I reject His equally.”

“If you are already condemned, then you are lucky to be mortal.”

“We were not condemned until your kind came along.”

I stiffened as he sniffed the back of my neck.

“I smell . . . pity. I forbid pity.”

I turned around and looked at him, his eyes glowing a brighter shade of red. “You think you know me. You think you know what I feel. Pity? Not for you. Fear?” I shrugged. “I might fear you, but I don’t fear death. I know God will be just to me.”

He lifted his lip to show his long sharp teeth and sound a low growl. Through a clenched jaw he hissed, “Don’t threaten me, human. I could force you to
not
die, to live as my personal slave. Until I choose otherwise. And don’t challenge me,
orfan
; you have already seen your fate.”

“It’s only a matter of when,” I said, “and since I don’t want it to be tonight, I accept your ultimatum, but not your offer of blood.”

“Oh, come now,” his voice soothed, and he ran a hand down the side of my face. “Ultimatum sounds so . . .
. Now, let us discuss your progress.”

I said, “There are notes throughout the manuscript, as you know. Some direct the reader to places where more clues might lie, and then to other places. Whoever assisted Bram Stoker had knowledge of events and did not want them handed off to your family. The paper he used provided as much of a clue as what he wrote.”

“So what is it you want?”

In that moment his leash loosened ever so slightly, for it was the first time he ever asked me a question. Up to that point he had only given me statements and directives, and I knew I needed to make it convincing. “My research will take me to where I think those clues are. First to Belgrade. I’m not sure after that.”

He nodded. “Just remember, I am patient only so much, boy. You will be protected, of course.” Then he pointed to my chest. “As long as you wear your little pagan amulet.”