Part 6 (2/2)

At the sound, Stefan, who had taken the driver's hand up and swung one foot inside the carriage, paused to glance behind him.

Despite the distance, I knew the face was not my brother's. Certainly the clothes were his, and the hair, but in that strange moment of revelation I saw the build was somewhat smaller, the gait not quite the same. Even the hair was not precisely the same, but slightly longer, a few shades lighter.

”Stefan!” my mother cried, as the impostor slipped inside and the carriage rolled away.

I stood dumbfounded, uncomprehending; and as I stared after the carriage, I caught sight of another man -bald and bespectacled, with a curling white mustache -running down the street in pursuit after them as he signalled for a cab.

None of it made sense to me-but my mother seemed quite sure of what had transpired.

She clutched my arm. ”They've taken Stefan!”

”But that was not he,” I whispered.

She took my other arm and gave me a shake, as though I were a stubborn, inattentive child.

”Follow them! They've taken him!”

Bewildered, I dashed outside in my s.h.i.+rt sleeves, waving my arms in hopes of procuring a cab. I ran, staggering through the mud, an entire block without success, until my lungs burned from the cold, sharp air. By that time the diva's carriage and the cab that followed it had both disappeared from view; impossible to guess which direction they both had gone.

I returned, gasping and defeated, and ran back inside, past my mother, wife, and wailing son, into my father's medical office, into the examination room. I had no idea what I was searching for-Stefan, perhaps (as if he could have missed hearing our repeated cries for him!).

There was, of course, no sign of my brother. But in the examination room where he had met the red-haired diva, I detected a faint, irregular odor. And on the carpet near the examination table lay a crumpled lace handkerchief. I squatted down to retrieve it and was nearly overwhelmed by the unmistakable smell of chloroform.

It was at that moment that my confusion transformed into honest fear. I still could make no sense of the events, but I knew something evil had occurred. I raised my face from the handkerchief to look up at my anguished mother and puzzled wife, both of whom stood in the doorway.

”We must call the police,” I told them.

”The police cannot help us,” Mama said, with such sorrowful conviction that I knew she was withholding some secret, some key that would unlock the mystery.”Then tell me what else I can do,” I countered. When she did not reply, I rose. ”Please tell my patients that I will be unavailable until to-morrow.”

So I seized my coat and walked down-not to the police house, as was my initial intent, but to the hospital. I hoped, I think, that my eyes had somehow deceived me-that it had truly been my brother who had carried the diva to the hospital, and that I would find him there overseeing her case.

But no one there had seen Stefan that day, and Iso, discouraged, I made my way to the police.

It was a waste of time. I do not mean to be uncharitable, for I have friends there who have shown me kindness; but my report was challenged, and insinuations made that Stefan and the lady were lovers and had eloped together.

Then I told them of the bald mustached man who had taken alarm and followed. They listened with greater interest there, for they knew of him; he is a retired detective of sorts, and known to the locals. But again, they made more insinuations: that perhaps the lady was married, and her husband had hired the detective.

At any rate, they agreed to hunt down the detective and question him. But until then, there is nothing that can be done to help Stefan.

Dusk had fallen by the time I returned home. All the way, I nursed the foolish hope that Stefan might have returned during my absence. But the house was silent, except for the sound of Gerda in the kitchen.

Mama met me at the door. I knew at once from her face that my brother was still lost.

More lost than I knew; for Mama gently took my arm and, in a low voice lest Gerda should hear, said, ”I must talk to you alone.”

She bade me follow her upstairs to her room. I did, and she sat in the rocking chair before the fireplace- the place where she had so often held my brother and me, comforting us when we were children. I sat across from her, in my father's chair, and for some moments we were silent.

At last she spoke, in a tone that was soft but somehow colder, firmer, more determined than I had ever heard her use.

”My son,” she said, ”you will think me insane for telling you this, but you must believe. We are involved with powers which cannot exist-but they do. They are not human, but they draw their sustenance from humans and cannot survive without us. And your brother is in grave danger from them.”

”It is my fault. All my fault for not going to him last night, when I had the chance. For not telling him . . . and you, when you both had a chance to flee the danger.”

She rose, went to her dresser, and took from the top drawer a small tattered book I had never seen. With a sense of reverence, she handed it to me, saying, ”These are true events, recorded by my own hand more than twenty-five years before. This is no fiction; you must read, Abraham, and believe.”

I read.

I read, sitting in my father's chair while my mother stared, disconsolate, tormented, into the fire. I read, but I cannot believe.My mother is the calmest, the steadiest, the sanest person I have ever known; in truth, I would trust no one-not even dear Papa, when he was alive-more than I would her.

But the story contained in her journal-it is the raving of a madwoman, a tale of inhuman monsters, of life beyond the grave, of pacts with the Devil himself.

And these forces have stolen my brother in hopes of digesting his immortal soul?

No. I cannot believe. I cannot believe. . . .

The Journal of Stefan Van Helsing 21 NOVEMBER.

I woke this evening to a new existence, a new world where the laws of science and reason no longer apply. Insanity reigns here; nothing is as it seemed, and the small misery that had been my life pales in comparison with the grand, sweeping horror it has become.

I am not even the man I thought I was-Stefan, son of Mary and Jan Van Helsing. No; I am a catalyst for disaster.

Let me return to that hour when I first laid my eyes upon this new world: Full consciousness took its time returning. For some time, I remained in a grey fugue state, neither awake nor asleep. I had a strange dream- which I now realise was no dream at all-of someone undressing me as though I were a sleepy child, removing sumptuous furs and silks, then reclothing me in my own trousers and waistcoat.

Eventually I grew aware of movement, of a rumbling vibration against my back, my legs, my head; later, I recall peering out a window to see an indistinct dusk landscape rolling past.

But attempting to focus my blurry gaze prompted a sickly headache and dizziness, and so I closed my eyes and yielded to darkness for a time.

When again I came to myself, I found I was sitting in a private compartment of a train with my hands bound behind me; a glance out the window revealed nothing but fast-moving blackness. Across from me sat a young man reading an aged tome bound in worn black leather ent.i.tled, in French: A True and Faithful Relation of What Pa.s.sed for Many Years Between Doctor Dee and Some Spirits. He was dark-haired, a stranger: but the face seemed oddly familiar and feminine, with smooth beardless skin and straight perfect features. I detected a smudge of kohl around the blue eyes.

”Who are you?” I whispered. Speech was difficult; my throat was parched and sore. I struggled against my invisible bonds and felt cold metal against my wrists; the nausea provoked by movement soon made me cease.

The man closed his book and set it down on the seat beside him. With a tolerant, faintly condescending smile, he said, ”Behave yourself, please. No harm will come to you. In fact, my own safety depends on it.”

The voice-it was deeper but still French-accented; I recognised it at once. ”The woman.

You're the woman who came to the office.”

Indeed, my captor seemed effeminate. I could not decide whether he was a woman now dressed as a man, or a man who had masqueraded as a woman, for his (her?) build was androgynous, tall and willowy, with no decidedly masculine or feminine traits.

The instant of recognition brought with it a memory of what had transpired in Papa's office: As I turned away from her following the examination, the red-haired woman had drawn close, had reached out with a gloved hand and clamped something over my nose and mouth.

I recalled, with a fresh wave of nausea, the stink of chloroform. I had struggled and been surprised to find my opponent's strength matched my own.

It made no sense, no sense at all. ”What could you possibly want with me?” I demanded weakly.

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