Love in Vein Read online

  Quincey moved on. He stopped off at Murphy’s laundry, asked a few questions about garlic, received a few expansive answers detailing the amazing restorative power of Mrs. Murphy’s soap, after which he set a gunnysack on the counter. He set it down real gentle-like, and the rough material settled over something kind of round, and, seeing this, Mr. Murphy excused himself and made a beeline for the saloon.

  Next Quincey stopped off at the church with a bottle of whiskey for the preacher. They chatted a bit, and Quincey had a snort before moving on, just to be sociable.

  He had just stepped into the home of Mrs. Danvers, the best seamstress in town, when he glanced through the window and spotted Hal Owens coming his way, two men in tow, one of them being the sheriff.

  Things were never quite so plain in England. Oh, they were just as dangerous, that was for sure. But, with the exception of lunatics like Arthur Holmwood, the upper crust of Whitby cloaked their confrontational behavior in a veil of politeness.

  Three nights running, Quincey stood alone in the garden, just waiting. Finally, he went to Lucy’s mother in the light of day, hat literally in hand. He inquired as to Lucy’s health. Mrs. Westenra said that Lucy was convalescing. Three similar visits, and his testiness began to show through.

  So did Mrs. Westenra’s. She blamed Quincey for her daughter’s poor health. He wanted to tell her that the whole thing was melodrama, and for her benefit, too, but he held off.

  And that was when the old woman slipped up. Or maybe she didn’t, because her voice was as sharp as his bowie, and it was plain that she intended to do damage with it. “Lucy’s condition is quite serious,” she said. “Her behavior of late, which Dr. Seward has described in no small detail… Well, I mean to tell you that Lucy has shown little consideration for her family or her station, and there is no doubt that she is quite ill. We have placed her in hospital, under the care of Dr. Seward and his associates.”

  Mrs. Westenra had torn away the veil. He would not keep silent now. He made it as plain as plain could be. “You want to break her. You want to pocket her, heart and soul.”

  She seemed to consider her answer very carefully. Finally, she said, “We only do what we must.”

  “Nobody wants you here,” Owens said.

  Quincey grinned. Funny that Owens should say that. Those were the same words that had spilled from Seward’s lips when Quincey confronted him at the asylum.

  Of course, that had happened an ocean away, and Dr. Seward hadn’t had a gun. But he’d had a needle, and that had done the job for him right proper.

  Quincey stared down at Mrs. Danvers’s sewing table. There were needles here, too. Sharp ones, little slivers of metal. But these needles weren’t attached to syringes. They weren’t like Dr. Seward’s needles at all.

  Something pressed against Quincey’s stomach. He blinked several times, but he couldn’t decide who was standing in front of him. Owens, or Seward, or…

  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 hell-born monster. But Quincey knew that the truth was somewhere in between.

  “Start movin’, Quince. Otherwise, I’ll spill your innards all over the floor.”

  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 manners who was much worse than anything that had ever come out of Texas.

  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 strait-jacket 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.”

  “One 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, running down his leg. Lucy’s blood on the count’s lips, spilling from her neck as he took and took and took some more. Quincey could see it from the depths of Seward’s hell, he could see the garden and the shadows and their love flowing in Lucy’s blood. Her strength, her dreams, her spirit…

  “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, running down his leg, spilling over his lips. It seemed his blood was everywhere, rushing wild, like once-still waters escaping the rubble of a collapsed dam.

  He sagged against Owens. The big man laughed.

  And then the big man screamed.

  Quincey’s teeth were at Owens’s 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’s compadres.

  There was no need.

  Mrs. Danvers stood over them, a smoking shotgun in her hands.

  Quincey released Owens’s 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. Unnatural canines gleamed in the moonlight. In the ruined wasteland of Carfax, Dracula seemed strangely alive.

  “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 cannot explain. But I cannot explain the moon and the stars, yet I know that these things exist because I see them in the night sky. It is the same with my special abilities—they exist, I use them, hence I believe in them. As for the human soul, I cannot see any evidence of such a thing. What I cannot see, I refuse to believe.”

  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 th
e 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’s 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 carpetbag. “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.

  Quincey nodded at the preacher. “Let’s get on with it.”

  The preacher started in. Quincey had heard the words many times. He’d seen people stand up to them, and he’d seen people totter under their weight, and he’d seen plenty who didn’t care a damn for them at all.

  But this time it was him hearing those words. Him answering them. And when the preacher got to the part about taking… do you take this woman … Quincey said, “Right now I just want to give.”

  That’s what the count couldn’t understand, him with all the emotion of a tick. Seward and Holmwood, even Lucy’s mother, they weren’t much better. But Quincey understood. Now more than ever. He held tight to Lucy’s hand.

  “If you’ve a mind to, you can go ahead and kiss her now,” the preacher said.

  Quincey bent low. His lips brushed hers, ever so gently. He caught a faint whiff of Mrs. Murphy’s soap, no trace of garlic at all.

  With some effort, he straightened. It seemed some time had passed, because the preacher was gone, and the evening sky was veined with blue-pink streaks.

  The piano player just sat there, his eyes closed tight, his hands fisted in his lap. “You can play it now,” Quincey said, and the man got right to it, fingers light and shaky on the keys, voice no more than a whisper:

  Come and sit by my side if you love me,

  Do not hasten to bid me adieu,

  But remember the Red River Valley,

  And the cowboy who loved you so true.

  Quincey listened to the words, holding Lucy’s hand, watching the night. The sky was going black now, blacker every second. There was no blood left in it at all.

  Just like you, you damn fool, he thought.

  He pulled his bowie from its sheath. Seward’s words rang in his ears: “One moment’s courage, and it is done.””

  But Seward hadn’t been talking to Quincey when he’d said those words. Those words were for Holmwood. And Quincey had heard them, but he’d been about ten steps short of doing something about them. If he hadn’t taken the time to discuss philosophy with Count Dracula, that might have been different. As it was, Holmwood had had plenty of time to use the stake, while Seward had done his business with a scalpel.

  For too many moments, Quincey had watched them, too stunned to move. But when he did move, there was no stopping him.

  He used the bowie, and he left Whitby that night.

  He ran out. He wasn’t proud of that. And all the time he was running, he’d thought, So much blood, all spilled for no good reason. Dracula, with the needs of a tick. Holmwood and Seward, who wanted to be masters or nothing at all.

  He ran out. Sure. But he came back. Because he knew that there was more to the blood, more than just the taking.

  One moments courage…

  Quincey stared down at the stake jammed through his beloved’s heart, the cold shaft spearing the blue-pink muscle that had thundered at the touch of his fingers. The bowie shook in his hand. The piano man sang:

  There never could be such a longing, In the heart of a poor cowboy’s breast, As dwells in this heart you are breaking, While I wait in my home in the West.

  Outside, the sky was black. Every square in the quilt. No moon tonight.

  Thunder rumbled, rattling the windows.

  Quincey put the bowie to his neck. Lightning flashed, and white spiderwebs of brightness danced on Lucy’s flesh. The shadows receded for the briefest moment, then flooded the parlor once more, and Quincey was lost in them. Lost in shadows he’d brought home from Whitby.

  One moment’s courage…

  He sliced his neck, praying that there was some red left in him. A thin line of blood welled from the wound, overflowing the spot where Lucy had branded him with eager kisses.

  He sagged against the box. Pressed his neck to her lips.

  He dropped the bowie. His hand closed around the stake.

  One moment’s courage …

  He tore the wooden shaft from her heart, and waited.

  Minutes passed. He closed his eyes. Buried his face in her dark hair. His hands were scorpions, scurrying everywhere, dancing to the music of her tender thighs.

  Her breast did not rise, did not fall. She did not breathe.

  She would never breathe again.

  But her lips parted. Her fangs gleamed. And she drank.

  Together, they welcomed the night.

  * * *

  Geraldine

  by Ian McDowell

  “And Christabel saw the lady’s eye,

  And nothing else saw she thereby,”

  —Coleridge

  Chris woke from a dream about her father’s penis to feel Joey fucking her from behind, his hips thrusting against her buttocks and hands gripping tightly at her waist. She often had difficulty sleeping with another person in the bed, but he’d gotten surly when she suggested he go home, so she’d doped herself with Actifed in order not to be kept awake by his tossing and turning. Now, her brain still clouded by antihistamine, she decided it would be less trouble to pretend to be asleep and let him finish, so she lay there on her side, listening to
the creaking bedsprings and staring blearily at a cracked patch of moonlit wall.

  Hurry up, she thought; come and be done with it. Of course, he might not be able to. Joey claimed rubbers made it difficult for him, and sometimes he never managed at all, or would lie there whining until she peeled off the condom, smeared K-Y on his penis, and took it between her breasts or against her stomach, rubbing it on her lubricated flesh until he ejaculated. He also disliked blow jobs almost as much as she did, although, thank God, he didn’t mind going down on her.

  This time he came quickly, and when she felt him do so, she realized he wasn’t wearing a rubber. “You fucker!” she yelled as she twisted away from him, completely awake now. Chris had long since given up the pill, hating how it played havoc with her mood swings and inflated her already large breasts to Russ Meyer proportions. Her one abortion since then had made the “no glove, no love” cliché an ironclad rule.

  She sat up and turned on the light, pulling the sheet over herself for psychological protection. Joey continued to lie there on his side, his face flushed and his smooth upper torso pale and glistening, his long brown hair a tangled mess. “Hi,” he said softly, giving her a sheepish grin.

  The grin, the cheekbones, the blue eyes; none of it would work this time. “Hi, nothing. Get your clothes on and get out.”

  He sat up then, shaking hair out of his eyes. “What?”

  “You heard me. Get out.”

  His smile wilted like his cock. “Oh, come on! Why?”

  She reached over and grabbed his penis, stifling the urge to twist or squeeze. “This is why. It’s bad enough that you started fucking me while I was out cold from Actifed, but you didn’t even have the courtesy to use a condom.”

  He gave her that shamefaced little boy look that she immediately decided she never wanted to see again, not on anyone. “Oh. I’m sorry. I was kind of asleep myself.”

  His penis was slick with more than just their own secretions; the tube of K-Y lay depressed and uncapped beside the lamp on the nightstand. “Bullshit, Joey. You were awake enough to get it all greased up so it could slide in easy. Now get out of here before I tear it off.” She did squeeze then, just briefly before letting go, and the flash of terror in his eyes was immensely gratifying.