Lory Dracula Returns

Book One in the Series
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-4835-5348-1
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 91 Seiten

They finished him off in 1883, and he stayed finished for almost a century when wealthy wheelchair-bound Damien Harmon is given a unique opportunity: Revive the Count and use him as a terrifying weapon against crime in New York. But revival is one thing, control is another. Harmon has science and paranormal powers on his side. But this is Dracula!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lory, Robert

Leseproben

PROLOGUE: TWO INCIDENTS
“We have him! We have him now!” The shout that echoed through the still air of the pre-dawn night was one of encouragement and warning. The man who had called out pointed up the craggy hillside. He halted his climb just long enough to be sure that the three others in his party had seen the direction of his stabbing index finger. On the great stone structure capping the highest pinnacle, a lone running figure was now silhouetted against the pale moon. The shout, in English, sounded foreign in this land, but the other three understood it. All were foreigners themselves; three, including the girl, were British and the fourth a Dutchman. The figure they pursued would have understood the language too, had he heard the Englishman’s words, but he did not. “Only a little way now—then he is ours!” the lead man urged. “When the sun rises, you mean,” the second Englishman corrected. “Aye, when the sun rises. But it will be up by the time we reach the castle. Hurry now!” They hurried, the four of them keeping their eyes focused on the fortress-like walls above them as they scrambled upward. The figure they were pursuing soon was lost to their view, but each had seen the limping gait with which he ran. Each knew that it would have to be tonight—or possibly never. The alternative was ghastly, under the circumstances. The climb was not an easy one, would not have been for a professional athlete. None of the four fell into that classification. Two of the men had had mountain-climbing experience, but that had been with proper equipment and unencumbered by two complete amateurs. At points in their upward struggle, the footholds reduced themselves to inches. At other points, the wall of stone ahead was sheer and behind them there was nothing but empty space. The blackness concealed the sharp and deadly ground below. It would have been a difficult ascent even had the pace been leisurely. But the pace was not leisurely, even though logic told each of them that it could be. There was no need to be overly hasty; they had him now. He could go nowhere but into the stone fortress that was his home. He would have to be inside the castle—and inside the other thing, too—before the coming dawn light. Yet they hurried, urgently, ignoring logic. After all, he himself was not included in the logic of things, was he? And after today, he would be included in nothing at all…. The first rays of the rising sun showed themselves in dull orange shafts as the four paused before the high oak doors that barred their entry into the great reception hall that lay beyond. They had been inside before and knew that the massive doors were fastened by a thick iron bar. They hoped that in his hurry he might not have stopped to fasten it. But he had. They pushed, but opening the oaken gate would not be accomplished that simply. Their shoulders crashed brutally against its solidness. “The windows?” the girl suggested. “Barred, all of them,” the Dutchman countered. “It has to be the door. This one. All the others have bars as well.” “It looks rather old,” commented the senior of the two Englishmen. “Perhaps a battering ram of some sort—” The four fanned out, then regrouped again when the younger Englishman called that he’d found something that might do. It was one of a collection of long logs that had been piled in back of the main house outside the kitchen. They selected the heaviest and tried it against the back entrance. It stood fast. They moved around to the front of the structure again to the older door. “Those hinges look to be rusted,” the older Englishman commented. With a grunt he lifted the rear end of the log and joined in the rush toward the oak barrier. The shock of the jar dropped him onto his back. “Look—we’ve done it!” the Dutchman cried. “What luck!” the young Englishman said. “The wood has rotted. Just two or three good hearty thrusts—” It took a total of six. Then the bottom of the right door caved inward with a crash that reverberated throughout the interior of the house. The sharp jagged gap in the rotten wood was large enough to allow the four intruders entry. The reception hall was as silent as death. Reaching now inside his jacket and extracting two strange items, the Dutchman led the way. Any of the four could have gone first. They all knew where they were headed, where the object of their quest was located. Even had they not known, the dim sunlight revealed a trail of wet spots on the stone floor they trod. It was blood. Ironic, mused the Dutchman, that the fiend would leave a trail of blood. Their boot-heels clacked noisily on the stone, echoing through the high-ceilinged rooms as they passed from the reception hall into the old book-lined study where each of the men had at one time sipped great snifters of brandy with the master of the castle. Those had been pleasant hours which, if now remembered at all, were recalled with a sense of underlying horror. That they had actually discussed matters artistic and philosophic with this man who…. Man? A fiend was what he was. And was would be the appropriate tense, very shortly now. There was an Indian tapestry at the north end of the study. The Dutchman pulled it to one side, revealing the stone steps that led downward to the wine cellar. “We will need a light,” the Dutchman said. The younger Englishman borrowed a kerosene lamp from the ornate desk in the center of the study and lighted it. “And there was light,” he quoted jovially. The older countryman jerked his head toward the one who was holding the lamp. He was about to say something about this being no time for facetious remarks, but then thought better of it. It was a front. Under the circumstances, it was understandable, and possibly necessary to preserve the fellow’s sanity. God knew, the sanity of all of them would be in jeopardy before this deed was done, but done it must be. The younger man took the lead now, the lamplight casting black shadows which leapt crazily all around them as they descended the stone stairway. It led them circularly to the right, several feet down, where it met the stone floor of a room. The light of the lamp bounced grotesque forms back at them. Crouching beasts seemed to line the walls. It was as though demons had been awaiting them and, now that they were deep within the foul grotto, would spring at their throats. Intellectually, the squat shapes were recognized for what they were—wine casks that contained some of the finest yield that Europe could boast. But one could not fully use one’s intellect at a juncture such as this. Especially when one knew—or even suspected—what one would find in the place to the other side of the wine cellar. It was there in the octagonal-shaped alcove—centrally placed, almost perfectly in accord with the room’s geometry. Brightly polished wood with ancient-looking gold and silver ornamentation, it reflected the light splendidly, almost as if it had a source of illumination within itself. A handsome piece of work, the old Englishman caught himself thinking. Handsome? In craftsmanship, yes, but in everything else gruesome was the word. The girl stayed back in the shadows as the three men approached the closed casket. The Dutchman, noting the smear of blood on the side of the casket lid, raised the two items he held high into the air and nodded. Quietly, almost with reverence, the two Englishmen raised the lid and pulled it over so that it remained open. He lay as if dead inside, surrounded on four sides by the white satin that lined his resting place, but resting in fact, upon the layer of dark, rich earth that carpeted the floor of the elaborate box. A tear in his left trouser leg betrayed the slash of the young Englishman’s sword. He lay as if dead. But he was not dead; that was the job the four foreigners had come to accomplish. “Now,” the older Englishman said softly. With his left hand, the Dutchman placed the wooden stake over the heart of the one who lay in the casket. He swung back his other arm, back and high—as if he were gathering power from the heavens above—then the arm drove downward powerfully, the mallet in his right hand landing squarely on the top of the stake. There was deafening sound of wood meeting wood. A non-human scream rent the air. The human form within the casket half sat up. The face that had been that of a distinguished-looking member of an obscure royalty became, for an instant, alive. A handsome face, thought the girl, though she cringed in the shadows to avoid the stare of its baleful orbs. The eyes stared in disbelief that they would see no more; the eyes joined his lungs in the shock, the scream of injustice. Finally, they closed in death as the form slumped backward onto its earthen bed. “It is done,” the Dutchman said heavily. “There remains nothing more for us to do.” The older Englishman began a nod but halted before it was completed. From one of the eight corners of the room, two slits of light stabbed at him. Suddenly the others saw it too, and the shift of the lamp revealed what it was. A black cat, a rather large one, sat silently on its haunches, watching them. The girl shuddered. “Please, can we go now?” The three men muttered affirmation. The young Englishman led the way back into the wine cellar. It was there an idea he’d considered before recurred to him. “This wooden stake is supposed to end the trouble. But surely there is something more we can do.” “Namely?” the Dutchman...