Читать книгу Dracula: The Un-Dead - Ian Holt, Dacre Stoker - Страница 13

Antoine hurried Quincey out through the front of the theatre, where the young man was shocked to see the mangled body of a man lying in a pool of blood on the cobblestones. Pedestrians ran, calling for police and a doctor.

“My God,” Quincey said, “what happened?”

Whistles sounded from all directions as policemen headed for the scene. Antoine pulled Quincey down the front steps, attempting to usher him away as quickly as possible. “As I understand it, a crazed man attacked two women in the theatre.”

Quincey saw a vagabond leaning down to talk with the injured man on the street and was alarmed to see him grab the victim’s watch and run off. Without thinking, he yelled, “Thief!” and charged after the fellow, pushing past Antoine.

It was too late. The thief had run up the street, out of Quincey’s range. Flustered at his lost chance at heroics, Quincey was forced to join the other mild-mannered pedestrians pointing the thief out to the arriving policemen. Within moments, two policemen had tackled and apprehended the vagabond and retrieved the silver watch.

Antoine grabbed Quincey by the arm, dragging him away. “Mr. Basarab charged me with taking you safely back to the Sorbonne. Come with me right now, young man; this is no place for you.”

Like Antoine, Quincey would not dare disobey Basarab’s wishes. As they shuffled through the crowd, he whispered, “What about Mr. Basarab?”

“Surely you cannot expect a famous public man like Basarab to be seen around such a tragedy? Think of his reputation.”

Quincey nodded, but he could not help but wonder what had really happened backstage, and why the great actor had remained behind when there could still be danger. The policemen were clearing the area now, allowing the injured man room to breathe. Quincey glanced back, finally able to glimpse the victim’s face. The man seemed oddly familiar.

Looking up into the night sky, Seward realized that he felt no more pain. With his last gasp, he uttered a single word.

“Lucy.”

The driverless black carriage raced across the Seine by way of the boulevard du Palais bridge. The City of Lights sparkled in the night. Poets have written that when those lights shine, “Paris is a city for lovers.” But Bathory had lived long enough to know that the sparkle was just an illusion, like love itself.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory had become her aunt Karla’s willing student, doing anything Karla asked for fear that the instruction might end. Yet, as the countess embraced who she was and found herself at last happy, safe, and content, she realized that she might find more bliss with someone her own age, in particular Ilka, the kitchen maid. Ilka was young, beautiful, innocent, and sweet. More importantly, Ilka always spoke of the future, unlike Karla, who often dwelled on the past. With Ilka, Bathory had someone with whom to share her youthful energy, to run in the fields and seek adventures. Bathory meant no harm to her aunt, and justified the dalliance by believing in her newfound philosophy that love could never be wrong.

Aunt Karla began to suspect her and confronted Ilka. Blinded by jealousy and rage, she had denounced Ilka as a thief and saw to it that she was swiftly hanged for her crimes. When Bathory retaliated by banning Karla from her bed, her aunt betrayed Bathory’s whereabouts to her family.

Days later, an armed escort arrived. When Bathory resisted, she was bound, gagged, hooded, and thrown over the back of a horse. She was told that her family was sending her back to her husband to fulfill her marriage vows before God and produce an heir for Count Nádasdy.

It was then that Bathory came to believe that love was just a temporary illusion created by God to heap more suffering upon his children.

Looking out now upon this so-called City for Lovers, from the driverless black carriage that raced away from the Théâtre de l’Odéon, Bathory swore she would one day burn Paris to the ground and stamp her boots upon its ashes.

She turned from the small opening in the curtains shrouding the coach’s windows. “We must expedite our plan more swiftly.”

“Your trap was ingenious, mistress,” her pale-haired companion said, with a hint of worry in her voice.

“The vampire hunter is now dead and can never reveal to anyone what he saw in Marseilles,” the dark Woman in White added, her pretty brow puckered.

“I knew him,” Bathory replied. “He was but one of many. Now the others will come. We shall strike first.”