shook the image from my mind’s eye and crossed the room to her.
A growl. I found it disturbing that such a warning would come from my lovely Emily, but I was certain it had. A feral sound.
When I placed my hand upon her shoulder, her head snapped back in a motion so quick it was as if she had not moved at all. I saw the red around her lips, on her cheeks and chin. In her hand, she held the remains of a mouse. The head was ripped off, yet the tiny body still twitched in her fingers, blood dripping from the ravaged remains. Piled at her feet, against the wall, were at least six other little corpses, one with nothing left but a tail and a bit of meat. I watched as her tongue lapped at the bloody carcass, then licked her crimson lips, before she swallowed it whole, finishing off the nest.
NOW
The hiss comes from the right, from the corner of the room.
Bram pulls his bowie knife from the sheath attached to his belt.
The man is still staring up at him from his perch on the rock below, his hand still outstretched. He says nothing, but the look stamped on his face tells Bram enough. The man closes his eyes and straightens his finger, and the hiss punctuates the silence again.
Bram tightens his grip on the knife’s handle and picks up the oil lamp, cautiously inching towards the corner. He does not see the snake until he is nearly upon it. It raises its menacing head and lunges at him in a lightning-swift arc. Bram stumbles backwards and almost falls.
The snake hisses again.
Bram holds up the lamp.
At least two feet long and coiled, the snake at first appears black, but Bram realizes it is actually a dark brown. A zigzag pattern crosses over the slender body with an inverted V at the base of the neck, the eyes black as coal. In those dark pools, Bram’s own face stares back at him. The snake’s head moves back and forth like a pendulum, ready to strike.
Bram knows little of snakes, as Ireland is free of them, but he recognizes this one as an adder from books he has seen.
Adders are venomous, he is aware, but he is not sure if they are deadly.
Another hiss, this one from behind.
Bram turns to find a smooth snake on the floor in the middle of the room. Smooth snakes do not carry poison, he knows, and with one swift motion he severs its head.
Bram removes his coat and wraps it around his left arm, lunging at the adder. The snake jumps out and sinks its fangs into the makeshift shield, and Bram brings down the knife on the back of its neck, killing it instantly. He scoops up both snakes and throws them from the window, watching the pieces land at the feet of the man below.
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
14 August 1868, 12:58 a.m.—As the coach drove through Clontarf and on to Artane Parish, I had to wake Matilda. She had dozed off shortly after leaving the Hellfire Club. I could not blame her; neither of us had rested fully in days, and we only made stabs at it when not plagued with wild thoughts. She looked so peaceful in the moments before I woke her that I almost regretted doing it.
Vambéry said little. When he finished with his notes, he turned to the window and watched the city roll away outside and make way for the countryside. I had forgotten how quiet it was out here, even more peaceful than Clontarf and the coast.
The way to Artane Castle was well known, and the driver made good time with four horses traveling at a daring pace. When we came to a stop, the horses snorted and blew the night air. The leaders lunged forward; the wheelers held them steady, yet the carriage rocked. All four horses had seemed to enjoy what was surely a tiring gallop in contrast to their confined work in the city.
The coach door opened, and the three of us stepped out.
Artane Castle was gone.
I stared at the