The Mammoth Book of Dracula (37 page)

“Soon, it will be different from anything we have known previously. I truly believe that before long, there will be a great war in Europe—and perhaps more than one—which will have worldwide implications. Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany is ambitious and acquisitive and Austria-Hungary will dance to any tune that he plays. I can see a threat of we undead becoming extinct, even if only by accident, in such a war, and it is better that we are isolated from each other so that one at least has a chance of survival.”

“There is probably much in what you say,” I agreed. “Thinking myself to be alone I have worried little about the possible effects of human folly. As long as they remained unaware of me, I was happy to let them do what they would to each other. You are forcing me to reconsider, Richelieu. What would you have of me?”

“Thank you, my lord Dracula.” Richelieu bowed. “We. would ask you to go to America. The tentacles of a European war are unlikely to reach there and we could thus ensure that one of us—the greatest of us—remains safe. Those of us remaining here will take all possible steps to ensure our safety and I will certainly remain in correspondence with you. One day, and that day may be in the very distant future, our time will come. What do you say?”

I mused upon what Richelieu had said for some time, weighing the options, and eventually decided that he was right on all points. And America was a burgeoning land, probably destined to become a power like any unknown before. Furthermore, were I to make my home in America the chances lessened considerably of Van Helsing and the others discovering that I lived. Finally, America was a young country with a mass immigration policy and the temptation of all those teeming souls was hard to resist for
Nosferatu,
even for one determined to tread with care.

I reached across to clasp Richelieu’s hand in agreement.

~ * ~

As it happened, almost another two years elapsed before I set foot in the United States. Careful planning was required and Richelieu—who had established an enviable network of corrupt human officials, a skill honed during his life as Louis XIII’s Prime Minister—and I worked closely together. We arranged a network of Swiss bank accounts for me, transferring some of my fortune into these. Agents smuggled the rest of my gold into America, secreting it in a number of caches known only to themselves and me. Needless to say, it was necessary for all of these agents to suffer fatal accidents.

And finally we disposed of my French and German real estate. But that was near to the end of my days in Europe. I regret that Monsieur Jeanmaire and his German counterpart also died mysteriously, as did the brothel master in Berlin. Madame Charmaine was sufficiently in Richelieu’s power to be permitted to live, for the time being.

During my remaining time in Europe I met with some other
Nosferatu
of Richelieu’s band and we formed ... well, we
Nosferatu
do not have friendships as such, but we formed powerful bonds and alliances. I was particularly taken with the Borgias, for their iron control of Italy had not been unlike mine own in my lands. Rodrigo, who in the latter days of his human life had been Pope, was breathtaking in guile and hypocrisy.

I told this powerful group about my sally into England and of the troubles which had beset me there, warning them to be wary in all ventures lest Van Helsing and his band of compatriots were again aroused by the passion of the hunt.

Although I would be entering America in non-human form, I was provided with skilfully forged papers showing that I had been granted status as an American citizen in 1895. And so it was that towards the end of my fifth century in this world, and like other emigrants before me, I departed my native continent to begin a new life.

I travelled packet rather than passenger, on a boat called
The Maine King,
its crew comprising hard-headed Yankees rather than superstition-ridden fools such as had manned the
Demeter
when I took passage to England. The captain had been instructed that I was an elderly and eccentric invalid who would spend the whole of the voyage in the seclusion of his cabin. Meals were to be left outside my cabin by the steward; these were sent through the porthole to the fishes during the hours of night.

The journey was uneventful but not too irksome, for with the passing of centuries one learns a certain patience. I whiled away the long hours of day and night, the long, long sea-miles, studying literature and maps of my new homeland, so that by the time we made landfall I probably knew as much about the continent and her great cities as did most of her native sons.

The first port of call in the United States was the city of New Orleans where one of my many caches of gold was stored. I slipped ashore at night—the tide being on the turn—in the form of a great wolf, easily evading the officials and labourers who, with startled cries, tried to corner me. Some shots were fired but the only bullet which struck passed through my body as if through a shadow.

I needed sustenance, for I had fasted very many months prior to embarking on
The Maine King,
and this was provided fortuitously by a huge dog which attacked me as I loped through mean and noisome dockside streets and alleys. The blood of animals is not so richly satisfying as that of humans—rather like, say, cornmush when one is accustomed only to the finest viands—but it fills the belly and has the added advantage that animals, being soulless, do not in their turn become as we
Nosferatu.

I will not weary you with details of how I found a home. Suffice to say that I discovered an old and derelict property a little way out of the city and purchased it. Although they are nothing like Europe, I did enjoy the Louisiana wilds with their strange mists and bustling animal life and the swathes of Spanish moss draped from the trees like huge spider webs.

Again, I made arrangements at a brothel to satisfy my need for food. This time the whoremonger was a native-born American of Sicilian descent, a member of the Black Hand. Unlike his European counterparts he cared nothing for his employees, regarding them as no more than money machines. I would be safe from unwanted enquiry.

A few more years passed uneventfully. The Great War raged in Europe but my fellow
Nosferatu
survived and Richelieu corresponded regularly, addressing his letters to Mr Newman, Poste Restante, New Orleans. Two pieces of news gave cause for elation. One was that Van Helsing had died in old age, choking on a piece of blood-sausage, a delicious irony I am sure you will agree. The other was that both Lord Godalming and Dr Seward had perished in the war: one at Ypres; the other at The Somme. The war passed in time and the world again lapsed into peace, although Richelieu said that all European countries were less happy places now.

It was in 1922 that I once again became obsessed with a woman, overwhelmed by that occasional mad lust to conquer, to engulf, to become as one for an eternity. Not since Lucy and Mina had I so desperately wanted a woman to become my blood consort.

I often stalked the night—using my power to distract attention from where I was—observing the world about me. I would visit taverns and vaudevilles, concerts and plays, even the movies; I would eavesdrop, identifying those who held positions of power and riches; I would ascertain their dwelling places and their friends and servants; I would make sure of all of those snippets of information which might at some time prove advantageous to me.

Thus it was that on a certain night I was attending a society ball at one of the great ante-bellum houses outside of the city. Or perhaps attending is not quite the right expression, for I was outside of the building looking in on them, a predatory cat gazing into the window of a butcher’s shop. By and large, the guests seemed to be a tedious crowd, concerned largely with their places in the pecking order, grovelling or condescending depending on whether or not they were addressing their so-called superiors or inferiors.

An orchestra somewhere in a background salon played Strauss and Lehar and other waltz music for men in white ties and tails and women in ball gowns to dance to. My attention was caught by a burst of merry laughter from a group of younger women who were watching a similar group of young men preening and displaying in an elaborate social courtship ritual. Who says that we are so different from the animals?

The young women, richly varied in size and colouring, were all beautiful in their own ways, all of them flushed with the rich blood of life. I could almost hear the blood pumping endlessly around those lovely nubile bodies, almost inhale its warm rich coppery aroma, almost taste the thick succulence upon my palate. I turned away lest greed overcome me.

The night was fine and clear, the sky an ebony jeweller’s cloth displaying a richness of diamond stars. Except for where light spilled from the house, the vast garden was a patchwork of shadows cast by great clumps of trees and shrubbery. I sat upon a stone bench, listening to the darkness, its multitude of sounds—muted, nigh nonexistent, to humankind—a concerto to my ears.

Suddenly voices were raised in argument. From beneath a nearby group of magnolias I caught the whiff of a woman’s scent and the stronger odour of a young male in passion, and my night-keen eyesight picked out a couple struggling a little in the shadows. Her voice was filled with indignation, his with a drunken desire.

“Haydon Lascalles! You just keep your hands to yourself and leave me be! I’m just not interested in you that way!”

“C’mon, honey, you know you want it really,” was the slurred reply. “Stop making such a damned fuss and give me a kiss.”

The woman was now fighting harder against the beefy and immature oaf who was attempting to embrace her, his clumsy strength slowly prevailing. As I stood, preparing to intervene, the woman raised her hand and slapped his face hard, at the same time screaming aloud.

“You goddamned bitch!” he bellowed. He pulled her towards him with his left hand, in the same instant raising a massive right fist.

As I rushed towards them, I became aware of others pouring out of the house behind me and instantly quelled my intention to kill the importunate fool. Instead I seized his collar and threw him to one side. To one of my supernormal strength his bulk was nothing and he flew from me as if he were a child, landing heavily on his back.

He glared up at me and without moving from the ground blustered: “Fifty years ago I’d have duelled with you for that, old man!”

“And fifty years ago, I would have killed you,” I told him coldly. My face must have contorted into a dreadful mask for the pathetic wretch caught his breath in sudden fright and I could sense the blood draining from his fat face.

I turned to the woman and—were I human, you might have said that I had fallen in love at first sight. Latin races call it the thunderbolt. She had heavy dark hair falling about high cheekbones and slightly oval eyes which reminded me of the Slavic women of my native land. Cheeks were flushed with blood, full scarlet lips were parted slightly and her body radiated wrathful heat. But it was not just the outer beauty which called to me, for that never was an imperative consideration when choosing a mate. It was an inner and indescribable thing, something which always makes me certain that someone—man or woman—is a fit consort for
Nosferatu.
My hunger
screamed.

“What’s going on here?” The speaker was almost a caricature, the archetypal Southern colonel, tall, skinny and sun-withered, hair white and goatee beard long and wispy. His posture cried out suppressed rage as he glared from the sprawling youth to me. Another man, a similar type but shorter and somewhat stout, pushed his way through the small crowd to pull the young man to his feet.

The woman clutched at the Southern colonel’s arm. “Daddy, Haydon was molesting me and this fine gentleman very bravely came to my rescue.”

The Colonel’s face purpled and he stepped threateningly towards the miscreant. The second man stopped him. “I’ll deal with this, Deschamps. He’s my son. My sincerest regrets, Miss Josephine. When Haydon sobers up, I’m sure that he will be pleased to make a public apology.”

He slapped his son hard on the cheek. “Get home, you’re drunk and a disgrace!”

Haydon Lascalles retreated several yards then turned to point a shaking finger at me. “I’ll see you again some day. Then we’ll find out how tough you really are.”

“Excuse him, sir, he’s young and foolish,” said Lascalles senior. He pushed his son away, telling him once more to get on home.

I bowed slightly. “Does the tiger find it necessary to pardon the yapping of the jackal? It is forgotten, sir.”

The man called Deschamps grasped my hand and released it almost immediately, as if startled by its chilled strength. “My gratitude, sir. I am Georges Deschamps and this is my daughter Josephine.”

“Szekely. Count Szekely. A very recent resident of your beautiful and great land.” I bowed to Josephine Deschamps and took her hand to kiss the fingers lightly. It was as well that the still curious crowd had not dispersed, for I yearned to lap avidly at her blood.

“Again, my thanks, Count,” said Deschamps. “Haydon Lascalles is a boorish wastrel who merits a sound thrashing.”

“In my day I would have—” I stopped myself in time. I had been about to say that in my day I would have had him impaled and that had he taken less than two days to die, the executioner would have joined him on the stake. I smiled a little in the dark, relishing memories of those lost, cruel times. “In my day I would have been honoured to thrash him,” I concluded.