Incarnation (5 page)

Even as I struggled to absorb this astounding information—and to wonder how Stoker possessed it—I plunged on. “The way you described them, how much of that was true?”

“They have many of the characteristics that I recounted, although not that business about turning into a bat. They
don’t do that, at least so far as I know, although they can defy gravity so as to appear to fly.”

“Fascinating . . . and that creature ‘Dracula,’ did you draw him from life . . . so to speak?”

“Not really. In fact, making him foreign was part of the deception. Still, the public seems to find him appealing.”

“But I did encounter someone, the one who transformed me . . .” The singer in the opera house. The being in my dreams. He who called me forth from the grave.

Stoker’s gaze, which had been wandering in his agitation, abruptly sharpened. “What do you remember of him?”

“Very little . . . fragments . . . impressions, nothing more. I only know that I must find him.”

“Why? To what purpose? After all, he left you to your fate, did he not?”

“Yes, he did.” Left me to the stake and the grave. But he had also returned in some manner that I could not understand to call me forth. As he was still calling me, a summons from which I could not turn away. Rather than reveal any of that, I said, “As you are so knowledgeable about my kind, tell me, where should I seek him?”

“Paris,” Stoker said too quickly. He was sweating again. “Numerous reports attest to the presence of vampires there. Also in Vienna and points east. In fact, now that I think of it, your best course would be to book onto the Orient Express and take the train all the way to Istanbul. I have heard stories about vampires there that—”

“I have no intention of leaving London.”

He looked aghast. “But you must! Surely, you understand . . . I explained, a matter of the security of the realm.” He paused a moment, then added, “If it is a question of funds,
I can be of assistance. The book is proving to be very lucrative and—”

“How kind,” I interjected. “But did you not say that you made Dracula a foreigner as part of your deception?”

“I don’t know . . . I shouldn’t have . . .”

“Then the one I seek is English, isn’t he? Before I hurry off to the ends of the earth in search of him, wouldn’t it be more prudent to look first right here in London?”

Stoker’s expression made it clear that he regretted having told me anything. But it was too late. He had revealed sufficient knowledge of my kind to convince me that he possessed far more. Rather than attempt to choke it out of him, I tried a different tack.

“I will be glad to leave you in peace, sir. Only tell me where in this city a vampire is to be found.”

“How would I know that?” he protested. “I told you, I was approached by intermediaries. They—”

“Then where are they rumored to be? Where do the stories place them, the legends, if not your informants? You have knowledge of that, do you not?”

Reluctantly, he nodded. I stood as though preparing to leave, my hope being that he would do whatever he must to speed me on my way. I was not disappointed.

“I have heard of a place—” he admitted.

“What place?”

“A club, a gathering spot of sorts, called the Bagatelle.” With trembling hands, he scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “It is off Fleet Street, near the boundary between the old City of London and Westminster. If the rumors are true, you will find others of your kind there.”

I took the paper, glanced at it briefly, and nodded.

“But be duly warned,” Stoker said. “There are those who will tell you that the place is a veritable cesspool of intrigue and treachery.”

I scarcely heard him. Whatever he meant to say, my course was set. Before caution could get the better of me, I turned and went quickly down the cluttered passage to the door through which I had entered. At the back of the theatre, I peered out, mindful of the need to avoid the Watchers, but none were in sight. Fog lay heavily over the city. The smell of sulfur was strong. Of the hooded creatures, there was no sign. Stepping out into the night, I turned in the direction of Fleet Street.

CHAPTER 2

S
ubterranean waters murmured beneath my feet where the ancient river still ran, long buried by the street that had taken its name. Nothing else moved. The newspaper offices that crowded both sides of Fleet Street were shuttered, as were the shops squeezed between them. To the east, where the sun would rise in a few hours, I could just make out the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral wreathed in the ever-present fog. A dirigible floated nearby, but otherwise nothing moved.

A quarter mile behind me light and noise still poured from the pubs and restaurants, but here silence hung over all. I was alone, or so I hoped. For a being possessed of the skills that had so terrified Stoker, I was remarkably uneasy. And not only because I felt compelled to keep an eye out lest the hooded creatures appear again brandishing their silver chains. For all that he was genuinely afraid of me, the Irishman had given in too easily. Stoker’s promise to keep silent about my presence in the city would likely prove as false as the story about me that he had foisted upon the world.

Yet I had no choice but to rely on the information he had provided. Referring to the scribbled address, I searched for the vampires’ lair. Though I went slowly and looked everywhere,
I failed to find anything other than darkened windows and sealed doors.

Walking the empty streets alone, far from the comfort and company of others, a hollow longing took hold of me. Not for the first time, I reflected how much I had taken for granted in my previous existence. The domestic routine of family life had chaffed on more than one occasion, but I would have given almost anything to be nestled within it once again, seated around the table debating the news of the day with my father or laughing at one of Amanda’s stories about her society friends.

Where had my family gone? How had they coped with my disappearance? What did they make of it? The Whitby house had the air of sudden abandonment, as though they had not been able to bear being there after what had happened to me. Were they now in London or had they fled to the Continent in search of solace? Had Amanda married as planned? I had been “dead” for not yet six months, scarcely enough time to allow for her to emerge from mourning. But was so unnatural a demise subject to such considerations? Whether she had married or not, I could not see her floating down the aisle, the happy bride she should have been.

And what of my parents? My mother despised black, claiming that it aged her horribly. She would cross over to the other side of Regent Street rather than pass in front of Jay’s, the leading emporium for all mourning requirements. How was she coping? How was my father?

When I thought of them, I missed them terribly. Yet I had to admit that there were long stretches of time when I did not think of them at all, as though they no longer existed for me. Even as I longed for the life I had known, I could not deny that
in my new incarnation the world was brighter, sharper, more intense, as though I was truly experiencing it for the first time. Nor was that all. My senses were keener, my strength greater, my stamina unlike anything I had ever known. The workings of my mind were swifter and more decisive, unfettered by the complex and often contradictory tug of human emotions.

The temptation to accept what had happened to me, even to rejoice in it, was very strong. Yet I resisted. Some contrary part of me still clung to my humanity that, for all its innate fragileness when compared to my new state, seemed more precious the further I became from it.

But for the moment nothing mattered so much as finding others of my kind. Only through them would I have any hope of finding the one who seemed to call to me more powerfully with each passing hour. Since my arrival in London, the sense of
him,
the singer in the opera house of my dreams, had only grown stronger. I was convinced that he was nearby, yet where? Why did he withhold himself from me? When I did find him—for I could not conceive that I might not—what would he require of me? Would I obey him willingly or would I resist, and at what price?

All this and more swirled through my mind, round and round without cease, even as the seemingly simple task of finding a particular address continued to elude me. Again and again, I retraced my steps, my heels ringing sharply against the cobblestones, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings as my frustration mounted. Finally, the sheer futility of my actions brought me to a halt. Standing in the middle of the empty street, I fought a sense of hopelessness. I had to find the one who had done this to me. I had to—but what if I could not . . . ?

“Penny for a poor old woman, dearie?”

I jerked around. The voice came from deep within the shadows of a doorway, but I could see no one.

“Who’s there?”

The whisper of shuffling, the flutter of movement. A hunched figure emerged slowly from the darkness, leaning on a twisted cane.

“Why, dearie, it’s only Little Alice. Ye know me.” She smiled, revealing pointed yellowed teeth.

The creature stood scarcely higher than my waist. Her face was gnarled like the bark of an old tree. Tendrils of matted gray hair trailed from her balding, splotched skull. I could not make out her eyes; they were buried within folds of wrinkled skin, but I could smell her. The miasma of dank, fetid odor made me gag.

I am not so shallow as to be repulsed by the natural effects of age. But Little Alice was, in a word, hideous. Yet there was also something undeniably pitiable about her. She seemed not entirely whole, as though her very being was clinging to this world only by the thinnest of threads. When I looked more closely, I saw that she was almost transparent.

Stiffening my spine, I said, “You mistake me for someone else. We have not met.”

The creature cupped a hand to a pointed ear from which bristled tufts protruded. “Heh? What’s that ye say?”

I tried again, more loudly. “We haven’t met.”

She pulled back and squinted at me. Her thick brow furrowed. “Who are ye then? And while we’re at it, where’s me penny?” Glaring, she thrust out a filthy fist. “Don’t think yer crossin’ me bridge without ye pay the toll first.”

I found a penny in my purse and dropped the coin into her hand. “What bridge?”

“The one used to be here ’fore the humans buried the river, and may the old gods curse them for it.”

Bridges . . . tolls. I had sensed the presence of others in the city who were not human, but I had not considered that I would confront them. “You’re a—?”

“Troll, of course. I can still say that, though for how much longer is anyone’s guess. As for ye—”

“I’m . . .” I hesitated.

There was a time not long before when I could have blithely said who I was. A beloved daughter, a future wife, a girl with no responsibilities and no cares beyond what gown to wear to the next gala. I remembered what it had meant to be that Lucy, but increasingly those memories had the gossamer quality of dreams. The thought that I might lose them entirely terrified me.

“I know what ye are,” the troll said. “I can see those baby fangs yer tryin’ to flash. What I don’t know is why yer roamin’ about alone.”

Her derision stung, but I contained myself. If I could keep her talking, perhaps I would learn something of use. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“’Course not. They train ye up before they let ye out on yer own. Least that’s the way it’s always been. What makes ye different?”

“I don’t know.” Until a short time before, I had not known that there were others of my kind apart from the one who transformed me. If I truly was set apart from them in some way, what hope did I have of ever finding the help I needed?

“Well, ye best figure it out, dearie. Take it from me, somethin’ t’ain’t right.” She leaned a little closer, her nostrils flaring. “Off yer feed, are you? Is that the problem?”

Quickly, I said, “Never mind about that.” I fumbled in the pocket of my skirt and held out the crumbled paper Stoker had given me. “I’m looking for this place.”

She peered at it. “Aye, the Bagatelle. I know it right enough, but ye want to think twice before ye go waltzin’ in there.”

“Why?”

“It’s not exactly an ingénue ball, dearie. It could go badly for ye.”