The Infernal Express Read online

  “I say, I saw you at the train station,” he said.

  “And I saw you. And them,” the woman said. “Lower your weapon,” she added, to Gallowglass. The latter laughed.

  “Go chase yourself,” Gallowglass countered.

  “This is my house, and you will both lower your weapons.” Andre pushed himself up from his seat and held up his hands. “I have already roused what was better left sleeping twice tonight. I would like to not have to do so again.”

  The newcomer frowned, and then, slowly let the barrel of her weapon sink down. Gallowglass uncocked her Webley and holstered it. The woman kicked one of the bodies. “It’s hard to tell, given that its black stitched on black, but the marking of their order is on their clothes, for all the world to see…the Signum Draconis. The symbol of the Fraternatis Draconem, also known as der Drachenorden.”

  “The Order of the Dragon,” St. Cyprian murmured. “Well, that explains that.” He looked at the woman. “And you are…?” His third eye twitched, and he caught a glimpse of her aura—all strangled colors and muted glare, like a fire trying to catch beneath a blanket of ashes. He knew what she was, though he’d never met one in the flesh. Dhampir—the child of the living and the dead.

  “Harker. Miss Lucy Harker,” Harker said. “I…work with Lord Godalming. For the Westenra Fund.” She lifted her chin.

  “Ha,” St. Cyprian said. Things began to click. He recognized the name from Stoker’s book, and from what he’d heard about the Fund’s activities. One of its founders had been a solicitor of that name, though he’d died not long after. Nerves, they’d said, but St. Cyprian knew enough to read between the lines. Some men didn’t take well to a confrontation with the abhuman. Harker…of course. Well, isn’t that the cat’s pajamas, he thought. “I should have known. I pegged his lordship as the sort who couldn’t resist meddling, whatever he claimed.”

  “It’s only meddling if it’s unnecessary,” Harker said. She swept an arm out. “Clearly, despite the Ministry’s assurances, you need my help.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” St. Cyprian said, fishing out his cigarette case. “I’m guessing your unhealthy pallor isn’t entirely related to albinism, is it? And your name—though a name is easy enough to claim—speaks to an intimate knowledge of our…burden.”

  “What? Who is she?” Gallowglass demanded, looking back and forth between them.

  “My mother’s maiden name was Murray. And my father—well—he’s squatting there, in that box. And long may he stay there,” Harker said, with a frown. St. Cyprian blinked. Well, ruddy well didn’t expect that, he thought, somewhat alarmed. “But he won’t, if these lunatics have their way.” She gestured sharply to the bodies.

  “Indeed not. You’ve heard of them, of course, Charles?” du Nord asked.

  “What sort of Royal Occultist would I be if I hadn’t? Though, admittedly, I thought they were more like, say, the Freemasons and less like the Red Hand.” St. Cyprian looked about at the dead men. “They’re wearing armor for God’s sake.”

  “Didn’t do them much good,” Gallowglass said, flipping a body over with her foot. “Oi, I’ve seen this one before, I think.” She dropped to her haunches. “He was in one of those cars that tried to send us into the drink,” she said, grabbing the dead man’s chin and tilting his slack, shrunken features towards her. “Yeah, that’s him. One with the barker, I’m sure of it.”

  “Another question answered, then,” St. Cyprian said, deciding not to ask how Gallowglass could tell anything from what looked to him like a shrivelled apple peel of a face. He ran his hands through his hair. “I’d wager that they were behind the excitement on the ferry as well. Though where they found a demon…”

  “You really don’t know much about them, do you?” Harker said.

  Andre held up a hand to forestall St. Cyprian’s protest. “Be at ease, Charles. Der Drachenorden have always been more a European problem, like the Thule Society or that fiend, Fantomas. England is beneath the scope of their ambition, and to their mind, it’s not worth starting a war with the Order of the Cosmic Ram, or those devils who call themselves the Sisterhood of Rats. Or even the Westenra Fund, of whom even the members of the esteemed Calmet Society speak with respect,” he added, nodding to Harker. He rubbed his hands together, as if he were cold. “They are not shy about summoning devils, Charles. Far from it. The tools of Hell are at their disposal, thanks to—”

  “Dracula,” St. Cyprian said, looking at the valise, now closed, all of its grisly contents safely locked away again. For a moment, he had an image of the broken shards of skull twisting and rattling into a leering smile. His hand ached where the fangs had torn his flesh. He flexed his fingers, trying to push the ache aside.

  “Dracula was a student of the Scholomance. The Black School in the High Mountains. He learned sorcery at the knee of Satan himself, and inflicted it on mankind, in pursuit of conquest. Some say it was Satan who engendered in him his thirst for blood as well…a tuition, of sorts.” Harker smiled thinly. “Others say that came later, at the fangs of a creature older even than man, one who had stalked the streets of Atlantis itself, in dim bygone days.” She shrugged. “Whatever the story, he was one of them…”

  “A vampire, you mean. Like you,” Gallowglass said.

  “I am not a vampire,” Harker said. “I am nothing like them. Nothing like him.” She looked about challengingly, though whether the challenge in question was directed at Gallowglass, himself or the dead thing in the valise, St. Cyprian couldn’t say.

  “She’s not a vampire, Ms. Gallowglass,” he said, softly. “She’s something much rarer, unless I miss my guess.” Harker met his questioning gaze, but said nothing. He felt a stab of sudden pity. He held out his unwounded hand. “And given the situation, if you wish to join us, I’ll not say no.”

  “Don’t I get a say?” Gallowglass asked.

  “No,” St. Cyprian said, mildly. “But I’m sure you’ll venture an opinion regardless.”

  Gallowglass subsided, muttering under her breath. Harker watched her for a moment, like one predator eyeing another at a crowded watering hole, and then looked at St. Cyprian. “Not going to protest?” she asked, as she took his hand. He could feel a cruel, cool strength in her fingers, and he recalled the touch of fire-blackened fangs on his hand, and he repressed a shudder.

  “What purpose would that serve?” he said. “You’ll follow us regardless. I’d rather have you in the tent, than out, as the saying goes.”

  “That’s not how the saying goes,” Gallowglass said.

  “Yes, well, vulgarity is not my forte,” St. Cyprian huffed. He turned. “Well now that we’re all chums, I think it’s time to see just why we’re taking these infernal remains to Istanbul.”

  10.

  “Well,” Andre said heavily, scanning the memorandum for the third time in as many minutes. “I thought it must be something like that.” The French occultist looked worn down and tired. Then, St. Cyprian suspected that they all looked the same, given that the first rays of the sun were poking up over the rooftops, and banishing the dark from the streets of Paris. They all sat around a wooden table, in Andre’s kitchen, before a softly grumbling fire. Coffee had been had, and nerves were somewhat settled. “A wonder they never thought of it before,” Andre went on.

  The ‘it’ Andre referred to was the ostensible purpose behind their mission. St. Cyprian had had little time to peruse the documents since arriving in Paris, but what they revealed made sense, after a fashion. Dracula’s earthly remains were being remanded to the custody of the voivode’s oldest enemies—the Turks. And not a moment too soon, in St. Cyprian’s opinion.

  “Obvious, really, when you think about it,” he said, flexing his bandaged hand. “Dracula bedevilled the Ottomans for years, even after his death. First death, I should say. Of course they would want him back. Carnacki mentioned once that there had been several attempts by the Turks to—ah—’repatriate’ the remains, in the years leading up to the War. Some through dip
lomatic channels, some decidedly not. They have their own odds and sods, of course. Bit of the old Anatolian know-how, and such. Last of the Janissaries, or so they say, though I never met them.”

  “I have,” du Nord said, softly, as he handed the memorandum to Harker. “I’ve even had the displeasure of meeting their commander, the Black Chorbaji. Terrifying old man. They’re not a friendly lot, Charles. They were the secret sword of the Special Organization, up to dirty tricks out in the trackless deserts and high in the mountains during the War. The Auspicious Incident of 1826 saw most, if not all of the Janissaries dead. But some had survived because even then, the Sultan knew there were certain enemies only Janissaries could face.”

  “This is idiotic. What is Morris thinking?” Harker snarled. She tossed the papers down on the table. “I knew we shouldn’t have warned him about the attempt to steal the blasted things. We should have just taken the matter into hand. My mother was right—men only complicate things.”

  “Ha! Too right,” Gallowglass said. She pulled the papers towards her. “I say let them have ’em. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Off hand, I’d say that some bright spark gets the idea to resurrect the beast, and employ him as a weapon. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. If not the Turks, then the Russians, Bolsheviks or otherwise, would love to get their hands on Dracula. A name to conjure with, as they say.” St. Cyprian rubbed his bandaged hand as he spoke. “In fact, I suspect there are already more players on the board than we suspect.” He looked at Harker. “Have you noticed anyone else, in your prowling? Any other hounds on our trail, besides the Order of the Dragon?”

  Harker glanced in the direction of the garden. Some small part of the early morning hours had been spent interring the remains of their uninvited guests in Andre’s garden, where the other occultist had assured them that they would be put to good use. While St. Cyprian doubted the efficacy of corpse-mulch in an herb garden, and resolved to avoid Andre’s cooking in future visits, he had seen no better alternative. Besides, if there was one thing a du Nord knew about, it was how to deal with the inconvenient dead. After a momentary hesitation, Harker shook her head.

  Ah, and we were getting along so well, he thought. She was lying, or, at the very least, omitting something. He glanced at Gallowglass, who hid her frown behind her cup of coffee, as she drank the last of it. They couldn’t trust Harker, he knew that. The Westenra Fund might have agreed in public with the Ministry’s decision to send the bones on, but they obviously weren’t happy about it. Harker might have been there to help, or to hinder, but she would have to be watched.

  He sighed and sat back, knocking on the table with a knuckle. “Right-o, well. Our train leaves in a few hours. Direct to Istanbul, with stops in Strasbourg, Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest and finally, Istanbul itself. According to Morris,” he said as he tapped the papers, “we’ll be met by a Turkish representative in Istanbul, where they will take custody of the remains, and we are expected to report to the British consul, post haste.” He looked around. “Three days, give or take. Seems a shame not to indulge in the trip, and stop over for a few nights here and there, but haste is the order of the day.”

  “What could happen on a train?” Gallowglass asked.

  “A lot of things,” Harker said. “And if something does, there’s nowhere to run.”

  “Mmm.” St. Cyprian leaned forward. “Then, that cuts both ways. A confined space might be to our advantage, if the players begin to increase in number. It’s a given that we’ll be passing through hostile territory…as close as the War still is for us, it’s even worse for those in those regions we’ll be passing through. The French are still rooting out German resistance fighters, and the mountains of Hungary have never been the safest of places, even before the War. That’s not even taking into consideration whatever forces the Order of the Dragon can muster. Hopefully, they’ll all get in each other’s way, and clear a path for us,” he said, as he gathered up the papers.

  “And if not?” Gallowglass asked.

  “Then, assistant-mine, we play whatever hand we’re dealt, and try and uphold the honor of the office as best we can.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, who’s for breakfast, before we catch our train?”

  Frederic Wolkenstein, Grand Master of the Order of the Dragon, sat back in his chair and stared across his desk at the man standing nervously before him. Wolkenstein’s heavy face shifted with glacial inexorability, falling into a grimace, as he tapped blunt fingers on the desk. “How many dead?” he asked ponderously.

  “At least eight, Grand Master. Perhaps more…we were forced to scatter. Some have still not reported in,” the man—his lieutenant, Hertz, said, hesitantly. “The necromancer, du Nord…he—he was ready for us. There were…things waiting for us—they attacked and…and it was all we could do to escape with our lives.”

  “No. You could have died, as your oath demanded,” Wolkenstein rumbled, pushing himself to his feet. He was a big man, heavy with slabs of muscle and fat, hidden beneath a sedate dressing gown. He turned to the wall behind him and reached for the heavy sword that hung there, in a tattered, crumbling sheath of leather. The sword had been in Wolkenstein’s family for generations without number, since its forging in a black cave somewhere in the Harz Mountains. His ancestors had carried it into battle, first against the enemies of the Church, then, when the Church had turned on them, against the dogs of the Papacy. Fingers pressed to the sheath, which was made from the flayed skin of an abbot, Wolkenstein asked, “What of the demon? Was it of no aid?”

  Hertz shifted nervously. “It was…unhelpful after the incident on the ferry. I thought it best to not chance its fury. I thought—I assumed men would be enough.” As he said the last, his voice fell. He had made a strategic decision, and it had backfired badly.

  Then, the enchanter, du Nord, was a dangerous man. The demon might not have been effective. Wolkenstein had never crossed swords with him, but du Nord had a pedigree that was steeped in the stuff of sorcery, and he had faced down worse monsters than any Assyrian refugee. Nonetheless, that decision had not been Hertz’s to make. He gripped the sword and pulled it from the wall, grunting slightly at its weight.

  As he took it down, he heard the other man’s intake of breath. The price of failure was well-known, and Hertz had no illusions as to his fate. Yet he had come regardless. Such was the loyalty of the sons of the Dragon. “It does you credit that you came here,” Wolkenstein said, as he turned and set the sword on his desk. “I thank you, brother.”

  He continued to speak, as he carefully unsheathed the blade. “But you were warned about du Nord. He is dangerous. And we face more foes than just him. Legions without number are arrayed against our Order, seeking to prevent us from fulfilling our destiny. The English vampire-killers, even the hounds of Sepulchre…all seek to stop us from returning the Prince of All the World to his throne.” He lifted the blade in two hands, and sighted down its length. “They shall fail. We shall revive Him, and he shall lead us in war against the Moslem and the Christian, against all of the gods of milk and honey who infest this world.”

  “Ave dominus Dracula,” Hertz said, lowering his head. He was trembling. Wolkenstein could almost smell his fear. It was like the sweetest of nectars, and he closed his eyes for a moment, glorying in its heady aroma. Hertz had served the Order faithfully for years.

  “Yes, hail Lord Dracula, the Black Goat of Mendes, the Blood Red King,” Wolkenstein said softly. He opened his eyes. “Blood for Dracula, blood for the Devil’s best begotten son.” He stepped around the desk, and raised the blade. “The price of success and failure are the same, brother…blood. Always blood.” The blade fell. Hertz’s head rolled free of his slumping body, his eyes still closed. Blood spread across the Persian carpet, soaking it.

  Wolkenstein looked down at the body, and then at the sword. He slid his finger along its length, and then raised the bloody digit to his lips. “For the blood is the life,” he murmured. He set the blade asid
e. He would clean it at his leisure, but for now, he would let the ancient weapon enjoy the feeling of blood coating its bite.

  Hands clasped behind his back, he moved towards the great shelves which lined the study of his Parisian home. He had others—six, in fact—but this one was his favorite. That was mostly down to the library, which was far more expansive than the ones in his homes in London and Vienna. Wolkenstein ran his fingers along the spines of the books, murmuring the titles of each. Centuries of knowledge, both terrestrial and otherwise, were contained within the pages before him. And all of it, but the merest babblings of mountain hermits, as compared to the knowledge which lurked within the blasted, black brain of Dracula.

  Such knowledge had been put to good use, once. Dracula had led the Order in its wars, both open and secret, lighting the world with the fires of Hell. It had been Dracula who had shown the knights of the Order the hideous truth beneath the world’s mask, and taught them the Devil’s secrets, learned in the cavernous depths of the Scholomance. Secrets they had used to grow their Order’s strength, and conquer their enemies.

  A great man, the Voivode. A great leader, whom knew the price of power, and the fate of all things, should that power be given over to the weak. Only Dracula could defeat the great enemies which threatened to grind mankind underfoot. Only Dracula had the will, the strength, and the might to lead the children of Adam and Eve through the fires that threatened to consume them.

  Wolkenstein had seen those fires firsthand in the War. He’d led the Order into the madness, seeking glory and profit. But for all the carnage of the Somme, of Ypres, it was but the merest match-flame to the conflagration which awaited humanity. There were others who recognized its approach, but none of them understood the truth of it, the way that the Order of the Dragon did. They thought to bargain with the creeping doom, or to throw it back entirely. But only a spirit who would neither bend nor break could see mankind through the darkness to come. Only a spirit which had sat at the right hand of both God and the Devil could stand against the horrors to come.