though both are forged of silver. I can only assume he has found some way to counteract the tests known to and utilized by me. The Devil is very crafty in his ways. Perhaps this is some kind of natural evolution, that he has developed an immunity to the weaknesses usually plaguing the undead. If such is the case, I am increasingly horrified, for at some point this immunity may become unstoppable. I plan to test this premise further, when given the chance. I am curious to see what will happen if Bram ingests holy water. I shall slip it to him without any advance warning to determine if these immunities are unconscious or if they require him to arm himself in advance.
I feel I am deceiving my friend Thornley Stoker, but these are things I must do. His judgment is compromised in all matters regarding his wife and his brother. The disease they carry cannot be allowed to spread, and if I must feign friendship with the afflicted in order to ascertain the weaknesses inherent in this disease—and then to destroy it and those infected by it—so be it.
I have no doubt this Ellen Crone is the key.
My driver has been sent to fetch Oliver Stewart. I have known Stewart for a number of years and I trust in him fully. As a practitioner of the dark arts, he has helped me in the past locate objects as well as people, and his discretion will prevent him from asking questions. I eagerly await his arrival.
There is—
THE DIARY of THORNLEY STOKER
(RECORDED IN SHORTHAND AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)
14 August 1868, 4:10 a.m.—I awoke to my sister screaming. It startled me, and I nearly fell from the chair alongside my wife’s bed as Vambéry raced past with his cane in hand, rushing down the hall towards my guest room. Bram and I nearly collided as he bounded up the stairs. We poured through Matilda’s open door to find her standing beside the window, her finger pointing towards the glass.
“He’s outside!”
“Who is outside?” Bram asked.
Vambéry went to the window and peered into the inky night.
Matilda covered her pale face with her hands and shook her head. “It was dreadful! I awoke to a tapping at the glass. When I went to the window, I saw Patrick O’Cuiv’s face pressed against the pane. He smiled at me and tapped on the glass again with his fingernails. His nails were long and yellow, hideously so. Oh, and his teeth! He had these . . . they were not normal. His lips were curled back like those of a snarling dog, and his teeth were like fangs. He licked at his lips and said my name. He said it so quietly, as if mouthing it, yet I heard him perfectly, as if he were right next to me. God, it was horrid!”
“He is still out there,” Vambéry said, looking out the window. “And he is not alone.”
Bram and I both went to the window and looked out, and there he was. Patrick O’Cuiv, the man who died not once but twice, the man whose autopsy I witnessed personally. He was now fully intact again and standing in the grass down below. I had no doubt Matilda had seen him at the window, even though we were on the second floor and there was no way for him to reach us from outside. But I also had no doubt that man could reach us as easily as I could reach my brother next to me.
“He cannot get in, not unless invited,” Vambéry said. “I am more concerned about them.”
I followed his gaze and felt my heart jump at what I saw. Not one but two large wolves, both black as night, stared up at us from the corner yard with ruby-red eyes. One wolf walked over to O’Cuiv and sat at his side, not once taking its eyes off us. “Where did you put my gun?” I asked Bram.
“Bullets will do little good here,” Vambéry said. “Only one made of silver would serve any function, and only then if it pierced the heart. Anything less just slows them down, nothing more.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Sunrise is an