Страница 63 из 170
Someone said, "Get out of town, or I'll make you wish you
was dead." There was a sharp click. The pressure on Quincey's belly increased, and a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder.
The hand of Count Dracula. A European nobleman and scientist. Stoker had split him into two characters-a kindly doctor and a hellborn monster. But Quincey knew that the truth was somewhere in between.
"Start movin', Quince. Otherwise, I'll spill your i
The count had only held him. He didn't make idle threats. He didn't use his teeth. He didn't spill a single drop of Quincey's blood. He let Seward do all the work, jabbing Quincey's arm with the needle, day after day, week after week.
That wasn't how the count handled Lucy, though. He had a special way with Dr. Seward's most combative patient, a method that brought real results. He emptied her bit by bit, draining her blood, and with it the strength that so disturbed Lucy's mother and the independent spirit that so troubled unsuccessful suitors such as Seward and Holmwood. The blind fools had been so happy at first, until they realized that they'd been suckered by another outsider, a Transylvanian bastard with good ma
They'd come to him, of course. The stranger with the wild gleam in his eyes. Told him the whole awful tale. Cut him out of the straitjacket with his own bowie, placed the Peacemaker in one hand. A silver crucifix and an iron stake jammed in a cricketing bag filled the other.
"You make your play, Quince," Owens said. "I'm not goin' to give you forever."
"Forever is a long time."
"You ain't listenin' to me, Quince."
"A moment's courage, and it is done."
Count Dracula, waiting for him in the ruins of the chapel at Carfax. His fangs gleaming in the dark…fangs that could take everything…
The pistol bucked against Quincey's belly. The slug ripped straight through him, shattered the window behind. Blood spilled out of him, ru
"This is my town," Owens said, his hand still heavy on Quincey's shoulder. "I took it, and I mean to keep it."
Quincey opened his mouth. A gout of blood bubbled over his lips. He couldn't find words. Only blood, rushing away, ru
He sagged against Owens. The big man laughed.
And then the big man screamed.
Quincey's teeth were at Owens' neck. He ripped through flesh, tore muscle and artery. Blood filled his mouth, and the Peacemaker thundered again and again in his hand, and then Owens was nothing but a leaking mess there in his arms, a husk of a man puddling red, washing away to nothing so fast, spurting red rich blood one second, then stagnant-pool dead the next.
Quincey's gun was empty. He fumbled for his bowie, arming himself against Owens' compadres.
There was no need.
Mrs. Danvers stood over them, a smoking shotgun in her hands.
Quincey released Owens' corpse. Watched it drop to the floor.
"Let me get a look at you," Mrs. Danvers said.
"There ain't no time for that," he said.
Dracula chuckled. "I can't believe it is you they sent. The American cowboy. The romantic."
Quincey studied the count's amused grin. U
"Make your play," Quincey offered.
Icy laughter rode the shadows. "There is no need for such melodrama, Mr. Morris. I only wanted the blood. Nothing else. And I have taken that."
"That ain't what Seward says." Quincey squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. "He claims you're after Miss Lucy's soul."
Again, the laughter. "I am a man of science, Mr. Morris. I accept my condition, and my biological need. Disease, and the transmission of disease, make for interesting study. I am more skeptical concerning the mythology of my kind. Fairy stories bore me. Certainly, powers exist which I ca
But Quincey could see. He could see Dracula, clearer every second. The narrow outline of his jaw. The eyes burning beneath his heavy brow. The long, thin line of his lips hiding jaws that could gape so wide.
"You don't want her," Quincey said. "That's what you're saying."
"I only want a full belly, Mr. Morris. That is the way of it." He stepped forward, his eyes like coals. "I only take the blood. Your kind is different. You want everything. The flesh, the heart, the…soul, which of course has a certain tangibility fueled by
your belief. You take it all. In comparison, I demand very little-"
"We take. But we give, too."
"That is what your kind would have me believe. I have seen little evidence that this is the truth." Red eyes swam in the darkness. "Think about it, Mr. Morris. They have sent you here to kill me. They have told you how evil I am. But who are they-these men who brought me to your Miss Lucy? What do they want?" He did not blink; he only advanced. "Think on it, Mr. Morris. Examine the needs of these men, Seward and Holmwood. Look into your own heart. Examine your needs."
And now Quincey smiled. "Maybe I ain't as smart as you, Count." He stepped forward. "Maybe you could take a look for me…let me know just what you see."
Their eyes met.
The vampire stumbled backward. He had looked into Quincey Morris' eyes. Seen a pair of empty green wells. Bottomless green pits. Something was alive there, undying, something that had known pain and hurt, and, very briefly, ecstasy.
Very suddenly, the vampire realized that he had never known real hunger at all.
The vampire tried to steady himself, but his voice trembled. "What I can see…I believe."
Quincey Morris did not blink.
He took the stake from Seward's bag.
"I want you to know that this ain't something I take lightly," he said.
FOUR
He'd drawn a sash around his belly, but it hadn't done much good. His jeans were stiff with blood, and his left boot seemed to be swimming with the stuff. That was his guess, anyway-there wasn't much more than a tingle of feeling in his left foot, and he wasn't going to stoop low and investigate.
Seeing himself in the mirror was bad enough. His face was so white. Almost like the count's.
Almost like her face, in death.
Mrs. Danvers stepped away from the coffin, tucking a pair of scissors into a carpet bag. "I did the best I could," she said.
"I'm much obliged, ma'am." Quincey leaned against the lip of the box, numb fingers brushing the yellow ribbon that circled Lucy's neck.
"You can't see them stitches at all," the whiskey-breathed preacher said, and the seamstress cut him off with a glance.
"You did a fine job, Mrs. Danvers." Quincey tried to smile. "You can go on home now."
"If you don't mind, I think I'd like to stay."
"That'll be fine," Quincey said.
He turned to the preacher, but he didn't look at him. Instead, he stared through the parlor window. Outside, the sky was going to blood red and bruise purple.
He reached into the box. His fingers were cold, clumsy. Lucy's delicate hand almost seemed warm by comparison.