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

tendency to curl. John in fact looked slightly older than Mr. Graves, whom he once absentmindedly addressed as “Uncle Matthew.”

      Even while John had been wearing a mask, either of the prisoners might have noticed that the little finger on each of his hands was missing. John had considered wearing gloves to avoid that problem, but gloves could draw attention too, especially in hot summer weather, and stuffed glove fingers would not look particularly natural. So far the gamble had paid off; eyes drawn continually to the mask, neither of the Radcliffes had yet noticed his mutilated hands.

      Everything in the conversation between Vlad and Joe Keogh, who now removed his mask and wiped sweat from his face, confirmed that it had deliberately arranged, with Connie’s connivance, for Philip to get away and for June to be left behind,

      Joe, reluctant to put on his rubber mummy-mask again after making his report—they were the devil to wear when it got hot—rubbed his fingers through his sweaty gray hair, and looked at himself in a nearby mirror—Mr. Graves did not object to the breathers’ having them in their residence—and wondered whether he himself was maybe getting a little old for the rough stuff. The prospect of some very tough action indeed was looming ever closer.

* * *

      Joe Keogh, out of curiosity and because he thought he had the right, dared to ask a question about Radu, and the origin of the bitter hatred between the brothers.

      Vlad, reminiscing while they waited for other matters to be organized, recalled with bitter anger the circumstances of his own youth, his rivalry with his brother Radu, called the Handsome, their lives as hostages in the power of the sultan, and their early estrangement.

      “Have I ever told you about my brother, Joseph?”

      “Something about him, yes.”

      “A cautious answer to what was, I fear, a poorly phrased question. What lies between us began in the fifteenth century; and how many more centuries it will go on, I do not know.”

      Joe Keogh nodded.

      But Vlad Dracula was not looking at him, only gazing into the distance. “I see two young boys, young princes, sons of old Vlad Drakul, or as the historians will call him, Vlad the Second. His two offspring held hostage by the Turks to guarantee their father’s good behavior.

      “Two princes in a tower that was very different indeed from the Bastille.”

      “Yes, I bet it was.”

      “My lifetime’s allocation of fear was entirely used up, before I was old enough to grow a beard.” Vlad was calmly stating a fact.

      “I believe you,” Joe Keogh said.

      “Radu did not, does not believe me. He has always thought that I am lying about that, that my fearlessness depends on some hidden magic.”

      Vlad sighed, a faint reptilian hiss. “It was always so with him, I think. Determined that there must be some hidden trick in everything, a key of magic, available only to the elite. Radu the Handsome. Always he has welcomed men, as well as women, eagerly into his bed—in truth I believe that he prefers children, of either sex, to adults. Anything human, provided it is young, and … but in this case I accomplish nothing by becoming angry. I think perhaps that my brother was transformed into one of the nosferatu by one of his Turkish bed-partners, when he was hardly more than a child himself.”

      “It sounds like he’s a sadist, then,” said Joe. “I mean, a genuine, compulsive…”

      Mr. Graves nodded. “Despite the common misconceptions regarding the nosferatu, this affliction is about as rare in vampires as it is in breathers. But I have no doubt that my brother is one.”

      Joe was silent, as often he was when in this man’s company.

      His companion appeared to be lost for a time in memory. Then he added: “Whether or not Radu ever became a Moslem is more than I can say. But I am sure that any oaths he swore in matters of religion were false, for the truth is not in him, and has never been.”

      Keogh, shivering as he listened to Vlad’s smoldering anger, was extremely glad that it was not directed at him. Joe had now known this man for almost twenty years, and for most of that time had called him friend. But he had never entirely ceased to fear him.

* * *

      June was once more left alone and with no one paying her close attention. Glowering at the peacefully sleeping Connie, she thought that she would try to take the shoe off the painful foot and see if that helped. It was a natural reaction. Though the ankle still hurt like blazes, at least it wasn’t noticeably swollen. But she hesitated to try to take off the shoe. She feared that the ankle would swell and keep her from putting a shoe on again—damn it, she couldn’t put up with being a helpless cripple!

      Joe Keogh, masked again, came to see how the patient was doing, and looked carefully at the enchanted shoe.

      “Let me help you get that shoe off; I think it’ll feel better.”

      June winced involuntarily when the kneeling man gently began to take off her shoe. Once the laces were loosened and the innocent-looking encasement of leather and plastic was removed from June’s foot, the pain disappeared with amazing rapidity.

      Hesitantly June wiggled the foot, then stood up. She set the foot down flat on the floor, and then gradually shifted her whole body upon it. Hesitantly she took a turn around the room. The pain had vanished, like some kind of an illusion, leaving not a trace behind. Nothing was wrong now.

      Her masked attendant, who squatted watching her, with his head a little on one side, did not seem at all surprised.

      For some reason she felt defensive about the cure. “It really was hurt. But now…”

      “I believe you.” He nodded sagely. I’ve seen things like this a few times before, when Mr. Graves is in action. Let me tell you, lady…”

      “Tell me what?”

      A benevolent chuckle came from inside the mask. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

*