Mrs. Dracula: Vampire Anthology Read online

  She turns her attention to her surrounding neighbourhood, her eyes picking out movements, her keen nose scenting what cannot be seen. In the filthy alleys behind Le Papillion Bleu she thinks she’s found what she’s after. She leaps, from the edge of the roof. Cat-like, she turns in mid-air, catches the edge of the iron guttering with her fingertips and scrambles down the brickwork. She darts between the hedges and in and out of doorways. She’s quick, but not quick enough.

  A young man, just a boy really, lies on the filthy ground. The butcher’s lad. A local. Not a transient who won’t be missed. Not a soldier whose life is worthless. The boy looks up at her, but his eyes can’t see her anymore. It’s a messy kill. The throat ripped and torn. No finesse.

  A white fury explodes inside Elizabetta. There are unofficial rules among her kind regarding hunting. Elizabetta chose Poperinge as her sanctuary a long time ago. It is far enough away from the big cities that it allows her to evade attention and remain anonymous. Her husband has no interest in such provincial areas, and he has not visited her here. He prefers the glowing lights of the metropolitan areas: high-brow European culture, the foppish aristocracy and their hedonistic society, so bankrupt of morality. She wishes him well, but has no desire to join him.

  The kill is fresh, the scent of the hunter lingers. Elizabetta follows her nose like a bloodhound, winding her way back through the alleys. She notes that her target was moving quickly, possibly alarmed. Good.

  The trail leads out of Poperinge, along a rough track, the ground muddy and pitted where wagon wheels have turned the earth over. Elizabetta doesn’t need to scent anymore, she knows exactly where she’s going. The Red Cross field hospital.

  Set up three miles from the Front Line, the hospital receives fresh casualties almost constantly. It comprises a large number of canvas tents, one of which is the makeshift morgue, while the others house the doctors and nurses and supplies. There are several sturdier buildings, if corrugated sheeting and sandbags can be defined as sturdy, that contain the operating theatres and wards for the recuperating and the dying.

  Elizabetta slips into the canvas morgue and examines her surroundings. There is no light in here, but she can see everything she needs to. The ruined bodies of young men lie mouldering beneath sheets, awaiting removal to provisional graves in temporary cemeteries. In among the victims of war, she finds what she’s looking for, a neck wound. A vampire’s kill. A soldier who might have survived had he not ended up as supper. It’s all the evidence she needs.

  Keeping to the shadows, Elizabetta slips around the footprint of the camp, hopping easily over the ropes, her senses keenly attuned for the one who has affronted her. She is easy to find. Elizabetta parts the flaps of a quiet tent and enters. In the stuttering light of a gas lamp, Elizabetta observes an impeccably turned out nurse, sporting her grey and white uniform, ostensibly tending to a wounded man. His eyes are bandaged, his head turned to one side. The nurse laps at a wound on his throat, her eyes burning with greed.

  She is startled by Elizabetta’s approach and stands to attention, unsure whether to stay and fight or flee. Either would be foolhardy; she is no match for Elizabetta. She chooses to stand her ground, defiant but apprehensive.

  Elizabetta does not know this woman. One of the new breed, no doubt. The Count has been careless. Those he spawns, spawn equally. There is no attempt to control them. Little wonder there are increased numbers of vampire killers.

  “Who are you?” demands Elizabetta.

  “Gwendoline,” the other replies. Two drops of blood drip from her unshielded fangs. They blemish her otherwise pristine apron.

  Elizabetta can hardly hide her disgust. “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long. It’s the perfect hunting ground. Convenient.”

  “This is my territory. You are not welcome here.”

  Gwendoline shrugs as though she is unafraid, but a shadow of uncertainty crosses her face and Elizabetta seizes it. She flies across the room, closes in on the luckless Gwendoline, her nose inches from the younger vampire. “Let me make it perfectly plain,” she whispers, the deadly intent thick and obvious, “I will not have you here, littering my home with your wretched prey.” She grips Gwendoline’s neck, her claw-like nails digging deep into the flesh, seconds away from ripping the woman’s head off.

  The young man on the bed moans. Elizabetta glances down, irritated. She will have to finish him off too. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Gwendoline twists free and backs away.

  Elizabetta snarls. “You can’t outrun me.”

  “Maybe,” Gwendoline responds, “but perhaps I can outlive you, Countess. You’ve had your time. Even the Count has tired of you. He has fresh companions now and leaves you out in the cold. People are coming after you. They’ll find you. Maybe I’ll let them know where to find you.”

  “I’ll kill you long before you get the chance.”

  Gwendoline laughs but without mirth. “You’re weak. I’ve seen you. Seen you with that human boy. You like him. He will be your downfall.”

  “Which boy?” Elizabetta asks, irritated by her presumption.

  “The one that plays the piano. I’ve watched you visit him in the trenches. I’ve seen him at your house. I’ve seen you … watching over him when he sleeps.” She wags her finger at Elizabetta. “You think you have him in your control but you have fallen under his spell.”

  “You’re a fool.” Elizabetta, tired of the woman’s drivel, steps forward, ready to separate Gwendoline’s head from her shoulders with one swift slash of her hand.

  “Wait!” Gwendoline shrieks, seeking time, her arms raised in supplication. “There’s something you don’t know. You’ve been too blinded by him. You don’t see.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The boy. The boy.” Gwendoline drops to her knees. “His surname is Helston. It is an Anglicisation of the name Van Helsing. You remember him? So hated by our kind. That family seeks to kill us all. This boy you are so fond of, he intends to start with you.”

  Elizabetta backs away from Gwendoline in consternation. “Is this the truth?” It cannot be. Surely she would have instinctively known that Francis was a vampire hunter.

  “I followed him to the library,” said Gwendoline. “I saw him searching for works by his late Great Uncle, and of John Seward too. He has been plotting your demise. Our demise. He wants to carry on the work of his forefathers.” Gwendoline’s voice is earnest. “I wanted to bring you this news, Countess. That’s why I came to Poperinge. To warn you.”

  It is fantastical, and yet Elizabetta knows that Francis spent time at the library. And his desire to be close to her, to seek her out, to call on her … what can it mean if not this?

  Elizabetta stares at Gwendoline, ascertaining the truth of what she says. Then she sighs, reaches for Gwendoline and with one smooth movement, grips her neck and pulls her to her feet. Gwendoline kicks out, but it is ineffectual. Elizabetta tightens her grasp and lifts Gwendoline from the floor, squeezing the hapless woman’s windpipe, crushing it between her fingers and her thumb. Gwendoline’s eyes bulge and darken, the petichiae bursting in the whites of her eyes. Elizabetta forms a tighter fist, and Gwendoline’s vertebrae pop and snap. Elizabetta digs her nails into the flesh, tearing it, then shakes Gwendoline like a rag doll, one, twice, three times. The woman’s head rocks back and forwards, back again, rips away, frees itself and falls to the floor with a heavy thud.

  Elizabetta is calm and efficient. The ice in her veins ensures she is practical in such situations. She glances around, spots a plain wooden chair, lifts it and smashes it against the floor. She picks out two of the legs, the ends cruelly splintered, takes one in each hand, and in rapid succession plunges the first into Gwendoline’s chest and the second into the chest of the young soldier. She watches the bodies twist and spit in agony. Gwendoline’s eyes fly open and she roars in rage, but in seconds both she and the soldier have dissipated into dust.

  When Elizabetta is sure ne
ither Gwendoline nor her victim will ever encroach on her territory again, she turns on her heel and melts into the shadows.

  Francis finds it difficult to sleep in the midst of the offensive. His commanding officer stands the men down in turn and bids them rest, but in spite of his exhaustion, Francis can only doze. When he does close his eyes, Elizabetta is there every time. In previous daydreams she has seemed troubled, but now her anger is evident.

  He wonders what he has done to enrage her.

  Francis reaches for her, to quell her misgivings, to take her in his arms, to explain to her how he feels, but in his dream she remains aloof and out of reach.

  There has been no response to his letter.

  “Men, take up your arms.”

  The trench is bustling with nervous energy. Behind Francis, one of his comrades is puking his guts up. The fear is palpable.

  It has been a busy day for the British front line. Heavy artillery rained fury on the Germans all night and most of the day, apparently pummelling the enemy into submission. Shortly after 3pm the guns fell silent, and the first of many waves of British soldiers poured over the top and disappeared across no-man’s land.

  Since then, the sound of light artillery, rifles and machine guns has filled the afternoon. Francis concentrates on the sharpness of those noises; the cracking and spitting is preferable to the shrieks and screams, the desperate yowls of agony, the pitiful cries for help. Even so, his breathing is shallow, and his stomach is knotted with an unbearable tension.

  And now his unit is being sent over. He pulls his tin helmet tightly onto his head and hefts his rifle, bayonet fixed.

  The officer wishes them luck, then gives the order to go over the top. Francis prays, not to God but to the woman who has his heart. His legs are shaking as he climbs the rickety ladder two rungs at a time. He throws himself headlong into a cauldron of hell.

  Elizabetta finds him there, hours later, his mangled legs twisted on the razor wire, his right arm missing below the elbow. His pale face is spattered with blood, his or the sprayed remains of a comrade, it is difficult to tell. She kneels next to him and sees him smile when he recognises her scarlet coat.

  “You came,” he murmurs. “I knew you would.”

  “How did you know?” she asks, and her voice is cold. Here is the man who wishes to destroy her after all, and she has come to oversee his demise.

  “I believed you would.” He reaches for her hand, and his touch is almost as icy as hers. “Elizabetta,” he says, “I love you. I cannot die without telling you.” She glowers at him, and he mistakes her distrust of him for a denial that he is about to meet his maker. He tightens his grip. “Since the moment I first saw you, I have loved you.”

  “Then why do you seek to destroy me and my kind?”

  Francis shakes his head, a tiny movement, a look of puzzlement on his face. “Destroy you? Your kind? What do you mean? I have no argument with you, Elizabetta, or anyone else from Romania. You must believe me.” It is Elizabetta’s turn to look confused. “It is this war. It is evil. It puts murderous thoughts into gentle men’s heads. Pits European against European. But I would never hurt you.” It is an effort to talk. He coughs.

  “Your surname–”

  “Hampstead?”

  “Hampstead? Not Helston or Helsing?”

  “No, no… why?” He moans as a spasm takes him, then he coughs again, and this time blood stains his lips. It is a beautiful rich red.

  Elizabetta takes his slender hand in both of hers, his talented musician’s hand, and her freezing touch warms him. Gwendoline lied. Elizabetta fell for it. Now Elizabetta’s eyes burrow into Francis’s soul and she sees the truth therein. Here lies a man she could have loved, whom she would freely have shared immortality with and who would have been likely to share it with her, but it is too late. She cannot mend his broken body. She cannot bring him back from the dead once he has gone.

  “Say you love me too,” whispers Francis, his voice fading, his eyes no longer seeing her or the stars that shine above her head.

  “I love you,” she says, and her voice is low, aware of this, her betrayal to her husband. But as his hand relaxes in her grip, and the light fades from his face, Elizabetta knows it to be the truth. She does love Francis and it is too late to grant him eternity.

  TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE

  Tracy D. Vincent

  —1—

  Charleston was humid this time of year. The days were balmy, sultry even. The nights were much cooler and more to Mina’s liking. The breezes coming in from the Atlantic almost made one forget that they were in the Lowland South.

  The city was under reconstruction after Hurricane Hugo ripped through it the year before, but Mina didn’t think that all the scaffolding and closed businesses cost the city any.

  She actually preferred these areas.

  Less people meant fewer questions, and the last thing Mina needed was questions. She had to leave her last home rather quickly, which irked Jericho to no end. He still complained about some of the things he left behind.

  A sneeze drifted her way from across the alley near the Omni Hotel on Meeting Street. She snuffed out her cigarette and pushed off the wall and began sauntering her way over.

  There were a few clubs on King Street that she was going to have to go to eventually, but tonight, she was in the mood for some fine dining.

  Another sneeze sounded out, followed by cursing. Mina couldn’t see the guy who was suffering, but her ears were sharp enough to pick him out over the din of city traffic and nightlife.

  She quickened up her pace, occasionally crunching one of those nasty palmetto bugs that seemed to be everywhere in Charleston. Mina wasn’t exactly sure what it was, other than it looked like an overgrown cockroach and was almost impossible to kill.

  A depraved smile lit her face when she caught sight of her sneezer. He was tall and fit. Not overly muscled, but he obviously took care of himself. His hair was cut short and in the typical businessman haircut. Side part, fixed so it wouldn’t move in the gentle breezes. It had been the same style in varying lengths for almost a century now. He was wearing a black suit, tailored to fit.

  “I don’t care what you say, Bobby, Charleston is a cesspool. The only reason I’m here is because of the profits that can be had after Hurricane Hugo swept through.”

  “I know you don’t like it, but I’m telling you, the girls are right on, get one of those goth chicks and she’ll do all sorts of kinky shit.” The one who must have been Bobby chuckled and punched his friend in the shoulder.

  Mina wasn’t interested in Bobby. He smelled off to her. She only ran across a few in this past decade or so who oozed that particular stench of off, but it was happening more and more frequently.

  Mina followed the two at a sedate pace, keeping up without creeping closer. She wanted to wait until she was through the throng of people. Once they turned down Market Street, she nudged a little closer.

  As she passed State Street and headed toward the Customs House, she knew that she was going to lose them in the throng of goth kids that liked to hang out on the Customs House steps and all along East Bay Street and down East Battery.

  Jazz drifted along the soft breeze to Mina’s ears. Though she loved spending time in Henry’s, she was on the hunt. She wanted the man in front of her and she couldn’t let the decadent sounds and smells of the open windows deter her.

  Just as the men got to East Bay Street, Mina cleared her throat. “Hey, would either of you men happen to have a cigarette I can bum?”

  Mina knew that she sounded like she’d barely come from the school room. Her small figure added to that idea as well. Though she was much older, she played it up. Besides, most men only cared about one thing anyway, and they didn’t care about the age of the woman giving it to them.

  Both men stopped and turned around to look at her. Bobby eyed her appreciatively, while her target seemed more indifferent. That was okay, though, Mina always did like a challenge.

&nbs
p; “Those things will kill you,” the one who held her interest said.

  “You’re a fine one to talk, Jake. Give her one of yours.”

  Jake cut his eyes to his friend Bobby and heaved a sigh. “If I give you one, what do I get in return?” When he turned his eyes back to Mina they started at her boots and made their way up her cut fishnet stockings, to her short skirt and band T-shirt, and ended up staring at her deep wine-colored lips.

  Mina’s mouth curved to one side as she sauntered closer to him. She reached for the lapel of his blazer and tilted her head back to look at him. “Oh, I’m sure between the three of us, we can figure something out.”

  Jake’s mouth slowly spread into a wide grin. “Yanno, Bobby, I just might like Charleston, after all.”

  —2—

  Jericho’s bones ached all the time anymore. He was surprised he could make it out of bed some days, regardless that they had to come to a humid place. At least it wasn’t cold. Last winter they stayed in Vancouver, Canada.

  It wasn’t like Jericho didn’t like Charleston. He did. He was just so tired, and he had noticed that he was looking more yellow than normal.

  He went to the doctor last week while Mina was sleeping. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to worry her. And the news he got today at his return visit was worse than he ever imagined. He was still gone by the time Mina left for the night.

  He’d left her a note saying he might be late because he was planning on going to the grocery store. Which was a good thing because he’d spent hours at the doctor’s office discussing his options. The doctor had said liver cancer. And Stage 4. There weren’t many options. Most of which involved end-of-life care. He told the doctor that he didn’t want any of that. But he was sent home with the brochures anyway.

  He was still sitting up at the kitchen table when Mina walked in at the wee hours of the morning. She staggered into the room and flopped down on the chair next to him.

  He looked at her. She was still so beautiful. He remembered when he first met her. He was going to college and she was in his class. Her porcelain skin and auburn hair and her bright, brilliant, blue eyes.