The Dark Missions of Edgar Brim Page 20

  “I told you, I don’t know,” says Edgar. “He had his back to me.” Through the window, he sees Driver standing in the distance on the moors, his black horse at his side, staring after them. He grows smaller.

  “But he was tall?”

  “Very.”

  “Complexion?”

  “I didn’t see his face, though I remember seeing the tip of a long, aquiline nose.”

  “That could be anyone,” says Jonathan. “It could be Henry Irving, for God’s sake!”

  “Do you think he knocked the novel off the bookstand on purpose?” asks Lucy.

  “He doesn’t know,” snaps Tiger. “He already said that.”

  “Give me the book!” says Lear. He opens it and starts reading at top speed, scanning the first page, flipping to the next. “It wanted you to read this.”

  “The villain in it is undead,” says Edgar.

  “Male or female?” asks Lear.

  “The main one is male.”

  “Main one?”

  All five of them are avid readers. They all know the stories about these creatures, from The Vampyre novel to Varney in the penny dreadfuls and Sheridan Le Fanu’s creepy tale of a female fiend. Edgar knew how these monsters were often depicted—frightening figures with manners and wealth, foreign with bloodless faces and fang-like teeth, who live in crypts during the day and come out at night to suck the essence from the living, turning them into fellow demons. But there had never been one like the thing in this book. Edgar can see him now: wide awake in his coffin.

  “The boy, Newman!” exclaims Lear. “The way he died!”

  “Thank God you severed the head,” says Tiger.

  “But there were no marks on his neck,” says Lucy.

  Edgar’s mind is racing. “The creature in the novel is from the Carpathian Mountains in eastern Europe. This one can’t be seen in a mirror.”

  “Really?” asks Jonathan, leaning forward.

  “And he is somehow connected to a ruler from the fifteenth century in Wallachia near Transylvania, someone named Vlad the Impaler from the Draculesti family.”

  Lear swallows. “He was one of the cruelest human beings in history. He liked to drive stakes through people while they were still alive—women and children as well as men—and watch them writhe on the grounds of his castle.” Lucy turns away.

  “There are all sorts of victims in the novel—Count Dracula gives a child in a sack to female vampires to drain and kill.”

  “That’s enough, Edgar,” says Lucy.

  “No, tell us,” demands Tiger. “We need to know this.”

  Lucy puts her fingers in her ears.

  “Dracula imprisons the hero in his castle at first and wants to suck his blood, but needs him for other things. Three females try to go at him at once, their mouths on his neck as he sleeps.”

  “Really?” asks Tiger.

  “But the Count preys on women … young ladies.” Edgar tries not to look at the girls.

  Lucy glances at Tiger. “I think we’ve heard enough,” she says.

  “I thought you weren’t listening,” says Tiger.

  “Is there garlic and stakes through the heart and head severing and that sort of thing?” asks Jonathan.

  “In spades: a man drives a huge stake right into his wife-to-be in a crypt.”

  “Really?” says Tiger again.

  “Because she’s been infected by this thing—they actually saw it, on top of her, attacking her in bed before they chased it off. She sucked on his chest too.”

  “What is going on in Mr. Stoker’s head?” asks Jonathan.

  Lear gazes out the window. “These creatures are really just fantasies that people have brought to life because of human fears. All this stuff that Polidori and Le Fanu came up with, and I suppose Stoker now, that’s the modern version. But the undead is an ancient idea. Human beings have always been frightened about what happens after death. That’s why we still have bells on coffins with a string going inside to the corpse, in case we aren’t truly dead. What if some of us come back to feed on others? That’s what all this comes from. It was there in the Dark Ages, in the days of the Goths and the Huns, though they used to call them revenants. They used to dig up unusual people and kill them again with stakes through the heart or some other gruesome method. Skeletons have been found with objects driven through the chest.”

  “They’re just creatures we’ve made up,” says Lucy, as if trying to convince herself.

  “They come from the same anxiety that gives us ghosts and witches,” says Lear, “and people with evil powers. But now the revenants in stories have black cloaks and canine teeth; they used to have ruddy faces, full of blood from sucking others.”

  “It’s just fear,” says Edgar firmly.

  “But what if someone,” asks Tiger, “just once, just one single, solitary time actually didn’t die? And then maybe needed blood to survive? Could that happen?”

  “And maybe such a being isn’t what these fantasies say,” says Edgar. “Maybe it has been seen once or twice and the legends have expanded from those glimpses? What if what it really does is suck blood through a hole in the chest directly from the heart?”

  “A vampire,” whispers Lucy.

  “Now we’re sounding worse than Shakespeare,” says Tiger, trying to smile.

  “But something abnormal killed our father,” says Lucy, “and something strange killed Scrivener and Newman, and both had chest wounds. They all died of unexplained heart failure.” Edgar thinks of his father. He still can’t believe it. Lucy’s eyes well up. “It must have been hideous!”

  “And now,” says Lear, “it is daring us to come to London.”

  “It threw the novel on the floor in front of me,” says Edgar quietly, “told us where to find it.” He pauses. “But it wouldn’t draw us to London if it thought we had any chance of destroying it.” Fear is rising inside him.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” says Lear. “It is certain it will kill us.”

  The rest of the trip to Edinburgh is quiet. No one says that they should stop their pursuit, though they all think it more than once. When they reach the great Scottish metropolis, the sun has long since set. They get out and sit on an old wooden bench in the clammy station, leaning against each other, falling asleep. When they hear the first locomotive’s whistle in the wee hours of the morning, they rouse and buy breakfast at an all-night tea room in the station and take an early train south.

  When they arrive in London it is past noon hour, and as they walk through Euston Railway Station toward the street, they pass the W.H. Smith bookstand: a stack of Dracula sits there, yellow and blood red, the sign still advertising it.

  They head south down Gower Street past the university and the British Museum under a cloudy sky. Edgar regards the beautiful stone building, remembering those long-gone days in the library and his father searching for the truth about stories.

  Their first stop is in Drury Lane, number 173, J. Sainsbury’s grocery shop, with its tall glass windows and fruit and vegetables in baskets right out on the footpath. Rows of plucked chickens and geese hang head-down on hooks from the ceiling. Lear is sure this place will have what they need. Not all shopkeepers in London would stock such a thing, some think it foreign. But sure enough, upon request, one of the gentlemen servers, dressed in the company white shirt and tie with a long blood-stained apron, fetches what they need.

  The five friends leave with a small brown sack filled with heads of garlic on strings.

  Next they move farther down Drury Lane to the office of the Crypto-Anthropology Society. They find Shakespeare engrossed in his studies, of course, but sitting beside him is a new book, well-thumbed already. Dracula.

  “A little light reading?” asks Jonathan.

  “It is disturbing,” says Shakespeare.

  Lear nods at it. “That’s what we may be after.”

  Shakespeare stands up and staggers back. “Lear, I’m not sure you should. I talk about such things, but if it were actu
ally real, then my God!”

  “We have reason to believe it is.”

  “There will be others! They will come after you!” The madness is rising in him.

  Jonathan smirks. “Not that again.”

  “Lear, you killed Grendel!”

  “I killed something, my dear old friend.”

  “No, you killed Grendel, and now this,” he points at the book, “has come for you.”

  “We don’t know that’s how these things work,” says Lear, but his voice is low and he sounds worried.

  “If you kill this one, and there is little chance you will, and if he is the vampire … then what will—”

  “Not THE, my good man, just A—” says Jonathan.

  “THE vampire!” shouts Shakespeare. “You have not so much brain as earwax! I have always believed that if there is one of that kind of creature, then there is only one. If it multiplied the way the fantasies claim, we’d all be infected by now!” William sits down with a bang in his chair.

  Jonathan smirks again and rotates a finger in a circle near his temple.

  “We need money,” says Lear.

  Shakespeare nods toward a painting of the three witches in Macbeth. The professor goes to it and takes it off the wall, revealing a safe with a combination lock. He opens it quickly, obviously knowing the numbers. He pulls out a stack of bills and stuffs them into the pockets of his greatcoat. Shakespeare appears to be in another world, staring off into the distance. Lear closes the safe, replaces the painting and motions for them all to leave. But partway over to the stairs he turns and takes several crucifixes from a chest of drawers, putting them into his big pockets too.

  They head out into the street and find another place to buy a quick meal. Pickled herring on bread, some roasted fowl and a little ale will have to do for their late-afternoon repast. They take it to Lincoln’s Inn Fields and eat outdoors, sitting on a wrought iron bench. The gray sky is darkening. After they have finished, Lear leads them to the Liberty department store on Regent Street to get them properly attired—ready-made silk dresses for the girls at more than twenty pounds each and evening dress for himself and the boys at nearly the same steep price. They take their new clothes to the Langham where they get rooms and prepare. The girls should feel like princesses preening for a ball, the boys their beaus, but it seems more like the day before a hanging or going off to war. Lear hands out the crosses. Edgar writes a note to the Thornes, saying he is at the Langham for a few days with friends. He has to let them know why he hasn’t arrived at their Mayfair home. It seems like a farewell.

  There is a sort of electricity in the air outside the Royal Lyceum that night, as there is every night the master is upon the stage. Every performance of Faust has been sold out and tonight’s is no exception, another reason Lear needed so much money. They find the five poorest-dressed theater-goers—in threadbare suits and dresses and wearing rented top hats and bonnets, pretending they have not paid a month’s wages for their passes—and give them sums that are twice the value of the tickets.

  And then they are in.

  Despite his deep concerns, Edgar can barely contain the thrills that run through him. At first, he even forgets to keep an eye out for Bram Stoker. The sight of the huge staircase ascending to the fabled auditorium takes Edgar’s breath away. Up all five of them go, way up to seats in the highest levels against the wall. Edgar wonders if he is sitting near where his father was the night before he died. The scene below nearly makes him faint. The theater shines in blue and green colors like a peacock, the ceiling turquoise and gold, the cavernous room lit by candles in red shades, the stage with its shimmering golden curtain otherworldly in the shelled footlights. And up rise the seats in every direction, nearly 2,000 of them, the balconies hanging above. And there Edgar is, dressed in a black evening suit and cravat, Lucy on his arm, casting admiring glances his way. She’s in a glowing white gown that makes her look, to him, almost perfect.

  He scans the crowd. Jewelry glints from this far away. The men with their mustachios and broad shoulders in tight suits and the beauty of the women in their low-cut gowns is dazzling too. Edgar takes out their pocket binoculars and surveys the people in the front rows and in the grand boxes that hang almost over the stage. Imagine sitting there, that close to Irving on the prowl! One young lady draws his attention. He doubts he has ever seen a more beautiful girl. She is perhaps eighteen, dark hair and snow-white skin, her lips glistening red, her eyes flashing when she turns to look up to the balconies. Edgar watches her for a while, feeling guilty but unable to turn away, noticing her lovely mouth move as she talks to her handsome young gentleman. Then the orchestra begins. The lights go down. There is a hush.

  It opens on a black-and-white background but soon something red appears, materializing in Faust’s study from a puff of smoke. Irving! He moves like a freak across the stage, dragging a leg, in ghoulish makeup, the devil. Mephistopheles! A mysterious blue light moves with him. His voice is electric too, pronouncing words in strange but musical ways. Edgar believes every evil word he says. He is mesmerizing. Time slips by. Edgar forgets they are there to search for signs of the demon. He feels as if he is in a dream world. Soon, it seems Irving is talking directly to him. Then he knows he is really dreaming for he sees the beautiful girl actually on the stage beside the great actor! He thinks he sees a man there too, tall and strange, with a nose like Irving’s and Driver’s, looking down upon the girl, who is lying helpless at his feet. He sees the man rip her dress open at the chest and descend upon her. The excitement is overpowering. But then the hag appears! She is coming over the balcony and up the steps toward his seat. Her red eyes are glued on him and he feels his heart pulsing fast, too fast, as if it will kill him. He can’t breathe! She stops at his row and steps over others, who seem to notice nothing, her talon hands tearing at the seats, about to climb onto his chest. He resists, and suddenly, as if emerging from a deep lake into cold air, awakens from his visions.

  The applause comes as a shock to him. Relieved and thrilled, he stands and whoops with the others. Beside him, Lucy, Jonathan and Tiger are ecstatic. He cannot believe he has just passed two hours in the Lyceum Theatre under the master’s spell.

  Edgar wishes he could stay and enjoy the atmosphere. He is worried that he may never come again, but he is whisked from his seat by Professor Lear. He looks down toward the front rows and sees the beautiful young woman staggering out of her seat looking pale and ill, leaning on the arm of her young man, who seems concerned. Edgar smiles. Irving has deeply affected her. What surpassing art!

  “Come, Edgar!” cries Lucy.

  They move down the big stairs to the vestibule and quickly out into the street. Lear wants them to see Irving in the flesh and out of character, and Bram Stoker too. He hopes it will tell them something. The monster must be near. The two girls have their crosses tucked into their dresses; the boys have them in their pockets.

  There is a little crowd attending at the side stage door, excited and breathless.

  An hour later, most are still waiting. Finally, a hansom cab comes out of the night and Henry Irving is suddenly among them. He emerges from the side door briskly, top hat on, walking stick in hand and wearing a cape, noticing no one. Stoker and two other men have slipped through the door with Irving and are shielding him from onlookers. A few women seem like they may swoon and a young man cries out, “Irving is God!” Edgar and his friends watch closely. They search for marks on Irving’s and Stoker’s necks, but their collars are high and tight. The great actor appears pale and tired, his black eyes dull as if he were drugged, vacant in his famous stretched and angular face, marked with thick brows and long center-parted hair with streaks of gray, a cruel slit for a mouth. Stoker, in contrast, is energized, as if still moved by what he has just witnessed.

  Edgar is nearest the carriage. Irving approaches. Edgar could touch him if he wanted, smell him too, but there is no scent. He searches for sweat on the brow, but there is none. Up close, Irving is white and p
asty; he looks ill. Undead. A woman puts her hand on his arm. He moves past without acknowledging her and up into the carriage. “Can’t you control these people, you fool!” he mutters at Stoker. But when he sits in the cab, he motions for his manager to come to him. Edgar can hear Irving’s hiss. “I am him again! I am the devil, Stoker!”

  His manager nods and steps back with a smile. The hansom cab pulls out. Everyone disperses, except the five friends and Stoker, who stands there watching Irving’s carriage move away.

  “A great man,” says Lear to Stoker.

  The gray eyes that light on Lear’s contrast with the red hair and beard. He is burly and ruddy faced, full of blood it seems, yet so ordinary, so able to fade into a crowd. There is something in his expression, though—wariness, anger or resentment—something.

  “He is a bastard sometimes,” says Stoker, a hint of Irish in his voice, “but God, what talent, what art! Sometimes I wonder if he’s really done it—sold his soul to the devil!” He turns to go.

  “Mr. Stoker,” says Edgar, “may we have a moment?”

  He regards them, as if surprised that someone knows who he is.

  “We need to speak with you,” says Lear.

  29

  Stoker’s Art

  Stoker looks as though he will send them away.

  “I am an admirer of your novel,” says Edgar quickly.

  The big man’s eyes soften. “You are?”

  “We all are,” says Lucy.

  “I would be honored if you would consent to discuss it,” says Lear. “I am a professor of English literature at a highly respected school for boys.” It is only a slight lie.

  Stoker’s eyes are smiling now. “But, of course.”

  “It is hard to believe we are meeting you,” says Tiger, affecting a gush.

  Stoker bows slightly to her and then turns back to Lear. “Would you and your party like to come in?” He holds out his right arm and motions toward the door. “Hawkins,” he says to one of the Lyceum’s young attendants dressed in a crisp evening suit, “the door, please.”