The Infernal Express Read online

  Something yowled. Gallowglass’ eyes opened, and she jerked back in surprise. The cat perched on the head of the statue yowled again, tail lashing in annoyance. Slim, sinuous bodies wound round her feet and flat skulls bumped her shins, as more of the animals clustered about her. She looked around, heart thudding, and was met by a circle of flat yellow gazes. The cat perched on the statue hissed, ears flattened back, eyes gleaming.

  Gallowglass reached for her revolver. A hand caught hers, just before she drew the weapon. She looked up at du Nord, who smiled apologetically. “You must forgive my friends, they are not used to guests,” he said. She jerked away from him.

  “I bloody hate cats,” she said.

  “They do not appear to be all that fond of you either, I must say,” du Nord murmured, stroking the one still crouched atop the statue. “Or at least not at the moment. A few moments ago, they seemed quite happy to bask in your presence.”

  “Sneaky beggars, innit?” Gallowglass said, stepping back. She pulled her coat tighter about her and turned away. She didn’t like cats and she didn’t like the way du Nord was looking at her, like he knew all her secrets.

  “Indeed, and powerful, in their way. Cats are the guardians of dreams and one who sleeps amongst them need never fear nightmares,” du Nord said, moving after her. She glanced at him.

  “Got a lot of those, then?” she asked. She wasn’t really curious. She wanted to change the subject. Anything to get off the topic of cats, and away from the memories that threatened to surge forth like the Nile over its banks. Those days were done, and she owed nothing to anyone, human, cat or otherwise. Her mind and soul were hers and walled off from such things as best she could make them.

  “Most of us do. Charles does, I’m certain. Maybe he should get a cat,” du Nord said.

  “Why would I need a cat? I have her,” St. Cyprian said. He peered past Gallowglass at the glower of felines still sitting at the foot of the statue. He looked at her, and she shook her head. He looked as if he wanted to ask anyway, but he didn’t. She didn’t honestly know what she’d say, if he ever did. Part of her wanted him to, but the other part…wanted things to remain as they were. Simple. Uncomplicated. If he asked, she would tell him about Bubastis, and Maahes and her mother, and he might want to help.

  And if he helped, he would die.

  “Yeah, and a bloody good thing too,” she said, shoving the thought aside. Problems for another time, she thought, focus on what’s in front of you, not what’s creeping up behind. That was the lesson she’d learned in the tunnels. Just keep going forward fast enough, and you’d leave what was in the dark behind. “Are you ready to do this…whatever it is you’re doing?”

  “The word you are groping for, my esteemed apprentice, is ‘séance’,” St. Cyprian said, drawing out the vowels. “From the Old French seoir, ‘to sit’.”

  “Assistant,” Gallowglass said, taking the bait. “I’m your assistant.” St. Cyprian smiled benignly at her and inclined his head. It was an old joke. The Royal Occultist always had an apprentice, someone to take over when the inevitable occurred. But she’d never agreed to that. She was his assistant, nothing more. After all, he couldn’t die without an apprentice. And as long as he didn’t die, she could pretend it was all a game for just a little while longer. She knew enough about philosophy to know that logic was as crooked as an arthritic’s fingers, but it was all she had at the moment.

  “Then by all means, assist, assist!” St. Cyprian said. He turned, hopping awkwardly as the cats flooded past him, heading for the open door of the conservatory, and the moonlit garden beyond. “That’s right, go, you ungrateful tuna filchers,” he called out.

  “They know better than to stay where the dead are stirring,” du Nord said, mildly.

  Gallowglass twitched. She felt it as well, though she hadn’t realized it until now. There was an ugly…something in the air. She’d felt it once, in Java, just before a hurricane. Like pressure building far out to sea, promising destruction.

  The valise was open, in the center of a small circle. That circle was surrounded by a larger one, and the latter was ringed about by sharp sigils and words in what she recognized as a mishmash of Enochian, Candarian and Latin. Three languages, three circles, threefold protection. St. Cyprian and du Nord were taking no chances. She pretended to be thick when it suited her, but she’d picked up a trick or six since she’d made St. Cyprian’s acquaintance. And she’d stirred up the dead herself, more than once.

  There were things her mother had shown her, down in the dark. Ancient stone naves, where silent mummies lay, waiting for the questions of pilgrims. She still remembered the voices of the dead, though she wished she could forget them. She looked at the valise, and its grisly contents, and wondered if maybe there weren’t another way. Maybe she could just fling it into the Seine and be done with it. “Maybe this ain’t a good idea,” she said, without thinking. St. Cyprian looked at her.

  “It’s assuredly not, but we must know that the rag-a-bones in that case are what Morris claimed, before we continue on. I do not intend to fight my hardest for the bones of a common pickpocket. If this is one of Morris’ schemes, I want to know about it before it blows up in our faces. Savvy?”

  “Yer,” Gallowglass muttered. “But don’t come cryin’ to me if it bites you in the posterior.” She shook a finger at him. “Not like last time.”

  “That was a simple miscalculation, and I thought we weren’t going to talk about it ever again,” he said. Gallowglass smiled mirthlessly.

  “You said you weren’t going to talk about. I said nuffin’ of the sort.” She grabbed the chair that stood near du Nord’s desk and dragged it towards the circle. With a flick of her wrist she turned it around and sank down, leaning across the back. “Now, go talk to the bleedin’ ghost, if you’re in such a hurry.”

  “She’s right, Charles. The night rolls on, and the fell hour doth approach,” Andre said. St. Cyprian made a face and nodded. He wondered why Gallowglass looked so worried. Something was bothering her. Normally she was up for even the most foolhardy lark, but something about the situation had made her more reticent than usual.

  “Gad, you’d think we were up to something terrible, the way you two are acting. Just a bit of a poke and a prod to whatever force still clings to these bones, if such a force is there to be found. Hardly necromancy,” he said with forced cheerfulness, as he stepped into the circle. Whatever was bothering her, it would have to wait. For the train, perhaps…maybe later. Right now, they needed to know if they were carting around the real Dracula, or an imposter.

  “That’s almost the textbook definition, Charles,” Andre said, as he joined St. Cyprian in the outer circle. “And I only agreed to help, because I’m curious as to why those gentlemen tried to run us off the bridge.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” Gallowglass said, from outside the circle. St. Cyprian held up a finger without looking at her.

  “Hush,” he said. “None of your nay-saying, please. Don’t disturb the aetheric vibrations with your negative waves.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gallowglass stick her tongue out at him, and he chuckled. Andre snorted and unbuttoned his sleeves, rolling them up deftly.

  “You know how this works, Charles—stay in the outer circle, and ask your questions when I rouse our spectre. Ms. Gallowglass, you will be safe enough outside…whatever comes should not notice you. The circles are its world, and whatever is outside them will be beyond the scope of its awareness.” Andre hesitated. “Theoretically.”

  “Theoretically,” Gallowglass said.

  “Nine in ten, I’d say. You bet on worse odds at the races,” St. Cyprian said.

  “Only the horses aren’t going to try and eat me if I lose a bet, innit?” Gallowglass said. She frowned. “Except for that one time.”

  Andre raised his hands, and brought them together loudly. “Quiet, the pair of you. Now is the time for silence.” With that, he began to chant, roughly at first, then more smoothly, his voice like th
e rumble of a car’s engine. For a time, there was only the sound of his chanting. Then, little by little, other sounds joined in. Small sounds at first, like the scampering of mice in the eaves, then other, stronger sounds which sent a tingle of primal worry through St. Cyprian.

  There was a sound like scales rasping over stone, louder than the others, as if some vast serpent were coiling about the circle. St. Cyprian kept his third eye closed, knowing better than to try and see what terrible forces were creeping about the outer curve of the protective circle. He concentrated on Andre’s words, and took some comfort from the other man’s voice. It rose and fell like a strong wind as du Nord incanted the ancient Sumerian syllables. He looked at the valise, and the leather bag within.

  The bag was an odd thing, older by far than the case, and stitched with strange patterns. It reminded him of something he’d once seen in the possession of a Laplander of Carnacki’s acquaintance, and he wondered where Morris had found it.

  The bones rattled and shifted in the bag, as if some force were moving amongst them. A red mist began to spew from the open mouth of the bag, and as it thickened it began to spread, covering the floor within the inner circle like wine filling a glass. The rattling sound intensified, and soon, St. Cyprian lost all sight of the bag and the valise. The red mist rose in a swirling column, and the tiniest pinpricks of sound escaped from it—brief scrapes of noise, like aborted screams, or cries carried across some vast, hellish distance to thrust themselves against his straining senses.

  Andre was still chanting when St. Cyprian smelled the charnel odor which spread outward from the inner circle, and heard the distinctive click of bone striking wood. Further clicks followed, an arrhythmic clatter, as of something moving steadily closer in an awkward fashion. He kept his eyes on the column of red mist, trying to pierce its depths even as something black and terribly, hideously unformed moved through it.

  Bony fingers tore from out of the mist, quick as the strike of a serpent. They struck the curve of the protective barrier and curled into claws which traced sparks of white fire down its length. The fingers were attached to no hand, or not much of one. Ash swirled about their discombobulated lengths, forming the ghastly memory of a palm, of an arm. More bone fragments, charred black by a long ago fire, joined them, as if some unseen form were leaning forward out of the mist.

  The skull, when it came, was the worst of it. Black, stripped clean of all flesh save charred gristle, cracked and missing chunks, it was nonetheless a skull, and its jaws snapped soundlessly in obvious frustration. Fangs the color of tar bristled from thick jaw, and the high dome of its crown stretched back into a swirling haze of ash and soot. Hell-sparks danced in the eye sockets, roiling madly within the hollowed out caves of bone. St. Cyprian met the dead thing’s gaze without meaning to, and found himself held. His head ached as a sound like the thunder of bats leaving their roost for the night crashed over him, drowning out du Nord’s voice. The rumble of thousands of wings, beating madly in the still of the night flooded his mind and the fire in the skull’s eyes seemed to flare and swell, until it was all he could see.

  Whhhhho…aaaare…youuuu?

  The voice scraped against his mind. It probed and pulled at his thoughts like the greedy fingers of a starving man, and St. Cyprian winced as he felt the terrible strength of will behind it.

  Whhhho…?

  “The better question, my friend, is who are you?” St. Cyprian hissed, forcing the words through numb lips. The thunder of wings faded for a moment, and then surged back, stronger than before. The fragmented, skeletal thing twitched and shuddered as if it might fly apart at any moment. Dimly, St. Cyprian heard Andre’s voice falter, and grow hoarse. Then all he could hear was the rough crackling voice of the dead thing in the circle.

  I…aaaam…I…

  “Who are you?” St. Cyprian demanded, gesturing sharply. “By the fourfold kings of the winds and the ninety-nine legions of the ninth circle, I demand that you answer my question…who are you?”

  The broken skull undulated in place, like debris riding an ocean wave. For a moment, St. Cyprian wondered whether it was laughing. Then, with a sound like a gunshot, it struck. The burnt bones hurled themselves at the circle like a crossbow bolt. There was shuddering crescendo, and he felt the world lurch around him. He flung out a hand, stunned. Somehow the dead thing, whatever its name, had broken free of the circle. He cursed himself for a fool—Andre had warned him. The thing was too strong to be treated like a common ghost.

  Hhhh…hahaha…those naaames haaave no power over me…

  Pain shot through him as the crumbling jaws snapped shut on his hand. He screamed, unable to help himself. He staggered back, arms windmilling, the skull clinging to his hand like a poisonous serpent. St. Cyprian fell backwards, the roar of a great wings buffeting his mind, and pain echoing up and down his spine. And most terrible of all, the words which punctured his thoughts even as the fangs tore his flesh.

  I…aaaam…DRACULA.

  8.

  Rue d’Auseil, 5th Arrondissement, Paris

  Lucy Harker was standing across the street from the house when Dracula’s psychic scream of awakening ricocheted through her soul. She bit back a scream as she felt Him stir, and clutched her head, her every nerve twisting in agony, as the creature responsible for her existence rose up out of whatever hell had contained him, and smashed his way back into the world with all the fury of a sudden storm. What had those fools done?

  She knew little about the Royal Occultist, beyond what Godalming and old Van Helsing had told her. The Crown’s own pet investigators of the outré, whose remit stretched far beyond the narrow red fields of vampire disposal. Godalming had been suitably impressed with Drood, but less so with the current holder of the office. ‘A bit of celery,’ was how he’d put it. That was why Harker had been sent, to see that the job got done.

  Watching his performance on the ferry had done a bit to improve her opinion of—what was his name?—St. Cyprian, but not by much. That he was skilled enough to put paid to a demon was all well and good, but Dracula was no mere demon. He was infinitely more horrible. And the incident on the Pont au Change had only solidified her desire to take the matter in hand, before someone else did. She had followed his friend’s motor car on foot, racing across rooftops and along avenues from the Gare du Nord, moving with all the dark speed of her father’s people. She couldn’t change into a wolf or a bat, but she could run like a cheetah, when the impulse took her.

  She shook her head, trying to clear it. She needed to get in there, to put a stop to whatever they were doing. Before she could move, however, a number of cars slewed into the street. They were of different makes and models, but their drivers and passengers were all clad the same-in black robes, and black-stained chainmail. She didn’t know what they had planned, but it wasn’t anything good, given the loose assortment of archaic weaponry they carried. No guns, only weapons such as might have been used in earlier, less civilized times. She watched as they hurried towards the narrow alleyway which separated the houses.

  All at once, she knew what they intended. There was a garden entrance to the house she’d staked out, for she’d seen it herself when she’d scouted the street upon arriving. It would be a matter of moments to force the rough wooden door, and enter the garden. Those inside would never see it coming.

  Harker made to cross the street in pursuit of the newcomers, when a hand suddenly caught her arm and spun her about. A blow struck her in the gut like a piston, lifting her off of her feet and knocking her flat. As she fought to catch her breath, she saw her attacker step into the watery glow of the streetlight. She recognized him instantly. “Ruthven,” she hissed.

  “Me,” Ruthven said. He aimed a kick at her head. She caught his foot and shoved him back. He wobbled, precariously balanced on one foot, and she lunged for him. Harker tackled the vampire, driving him back against the wall of the building opposite. She struck him again and again, as quickly as she could, with all the strength she could mus
ter. Ruthven reeled. She caught a handful of his cravat and swung him about, slamming him against a nearby lamp post. It shuddered at the impact, and Ruthven hissed.

  “Are you finished, half-breed?” he asked. Before she could answer, he caught her wrists, and pulled her close. “I trust you are. The Purfleet Accords do not extend to the wilds of Gaul, woman. And you are very close to annoying me.”

  Harker lashed out, bringing her skull down to meet his with a resounding crack. Ruthven snarled and struck her. She was flung into the street by the force of the blow. Ruthven started towards her, eyes wide, face contorted with rage. Limned by moonlight, he made for an eerie figure, at once slim and yet bulky, as if his form were swelling within his clothes. She scrambled to her feet as he drew close.

  Ruthven was dangerous. He was old, as vampires went, and cunning. He’d avoided the Westenra Fund for the most part, attracting as little attention as possible, but Harker knew enough about him to know that this wasn’t a chance encounter. The question was…whose side was he on? “I have no time for you today, Ruthven,” she said.

  “Make time, ducks,” a woman said. Harker spun, and saw a second familiar shape striding towards her. She knew the names and faces of every vampire in the British Isles, the way a detective-inspector knew the criminals on his beat. This one was Elizabeth Chaston, also dangerous, if not so old as Ruthven. Harker swallowed, and wondered what was going on. Why was Chaston here, and seemingly with Ruthven? Before she could even attempt to phrase the question, however, she heard a low, throaty growl. She whirled back, just in time to see a great, gray shape launch itself towards her.

  Harker caught the wolf in mid-leap, and dashed it to the ground hard enough to crack the cobblestones. It rolled to its feet and came at her again, slavering jaws wide. It was no natural animal. As her fingers sank into its neck, its form evaporated like a morning mist. When it reformed, out of her grasp, it was no longer a wolf, but a woman, raven-haired and pale, with an angry circle of scar tissue about her throat.