A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) by Fred Saberhagen (most read book in the world .TXT) 📗

her old friend Vlad, and having some fun at the same time, announced herself ready to make repeated visits to the prisoner Radcliffe. Maybe even one visit would be sufficient to achieve his conversion, if it was handled properly. He would have to drink deeply of the vampire’s blood, as she did of his.

      No matter how strongly the breathing youth was devoted to someone else, Constantia considered that the task of seducing him lay well within her powers.

      Connie was visualizing the scene for Vlad: “And when his dead-looking body was discovered—then excitement! Turmoil, uproar! The prisoner has taken poison, committed suicide in his cell. Unusual but by no means unheard of.

      She began to argue for some form of the conversion scenario. “A little searching by Philip’s friends among the day’s fresh corpses in the cemetery, and his head and body could be found and reunited, with the result that he’s as good as new.”

      “Some might say better.”

      “Should we try fitting his head on backwards? I wonder what would happen…”

      Vlad scowled. “My object is to repay a good turn, not to confect a monstrous joke.”

      But maybe Radcliffe, on regaining his consciousness and understanding, wouldn’t look at it that way. If Constantia had, accidentally or playfully, fitted the young man’s head on backwards, probably it would, in time, work itself around to the proper position through the natural malleability of the nosferatu physiology. Or could be put in place with a hearty wrench exerted with the strength of some friendly vampire. A temporary interruption of breathing would not matter in the least.

      Constantia and Vlad would no doubt feel insulted when their client, for whom they were doing so much, complained to them about having been converted, or protested that he did not want to be.

      Vlad might feel somewhat affronted, but at least he would not be surprised to discover such an attitude in a breather.

      Vlad to Constantia: “You have told him too much, and at the same time not enough.”

      She sulked. “Maybe you should do it then. Or get someone else.”

      “Come, come! No one can do such things any better than you, if you will only concentrate on the job at hand.”

      Vlad and Constantia assured their worried client that a man once changed to a vampire could never be changed back.

      “That will not happen in this world.”

      Radcliffe, gritting his teeth and about to undergo his fate, murmured some heartfelt prayers for the safety of his dear Melanie.

      Did he fear that he, as a vampire, would be condemned, compelled by his own nature, to do harm to the woman he loved?

* * *

      I considered one rescue plan after another, running each one through, in my imagination, to several possible conclusions. And then, when I felt that we were running out of time, I made my choice.

Chapter Twenty-Two

      There came a time, on what Phil Radcliffe calculated was either the third or fourth day of his and June’s captivity—they were beginning to lose track—a time when Graves had been gone longer than usual.

      Philip had gotten nowhere in his attempts to guess or learn where the chief kidnapper went during these absences, or by what means of transportation. Vaguely the young man had the idea that Graves couldn’t be going very far, for there were never any sights or sounds of vehicles departing or arriving. The small landing strip had remained unused since their arrival.

      Of course he had tried asking. “Where does he go? Graves?”

      That’s no secret.” Connie tossed her head. In keeping with her seeming determination to keep people off balance by her behavior, she had just come in through the window, unlocking the barred grating from outside and then swinging it tightly closed behind her on its heavy hinges.

      “Why don’t you tell us, then?”

      “He’s looking for a way to save your little … neck.” The gamine smile again. “I almost said, save your ass. But in this case, ‘neck’ is really the right word.”

      Today Mr. Graves’s chief assistant was carrying with her a plastic garment bag, too thin to contain more than a dress or other single change of clothing. It crunched and crackled faintly when she tossed it down on one end of the sofa. When she saw her captives looking at it, she smiled and told them it contained some of the earth of her homeland.

      The couple exchanged looks. “Why do you carry that?” June asked.

      “It lets me sleep. I really can’t sleep without it.”

      “Where is Graves today?” Phil tried again. “Come on.”

      This time the question was a little more successful. Maybe Constantia’s thoughts, as usual, were tending to drift away from the matter on hand. “He goes out looking for his brother. He thinks Radu will be not too far from where you are!” And she giggled, touching the tip of Radcliffe’s nose with a playful forefinger.

      “Does he drive? I never see or hear any traffic, any engines starting up.” In fact the silence here, after dark particularly, struck Radcliffe as eerie.

      “Sometimes he does. Sometimes he flies.”

      “You mean a plane lands and picks him up? But we never hear that either.”

      No answer, except a smile.

      “Have you ever met his brother?”

      “Yes. I have.” Connie gazed off into the distance. For the first time that Philip could remember, she looked sad.

      Somehow Radcliffe hadn’t been expecting an affirmative. “Well, is there any truth in what Graves says about him? I mean, what’s this Radu really like?”

      For once Connie seemed at a loss for words. “Please, stay here,” she urged after a time. “Do what Mr. Graves tells you.”

      Shortly after dawn, Constantia’s eyelids were evidently growing heavier and heavier. Looking more than ever the part of the gypsy girl, she slumped down with her crackling plastic garment bag beneath her slender body.

      Looking as if she were about to yawn, but not quite doing so, she closed her eyes, folded her hands across her denim-clad tummy, and announced that she was tired and deserved a rest.

      Phil pointed toward the bag. “You say this is earth of your homeland? Where’s that?”

      “Far, far