Ellen glances down at the stake. “Leave it here, there is no need for it.” She studies the other faces in the room, particularly Matilda and Thornley, before turning back to Bram. “If you come with me, you will be safe. But the others must remain here.”
“I am not going anywhere with you.” He tightens his grip on the stake.
“Take me instead,” Thornley says. “I want to be with my wife. Even if only for a few more minutes. Take me and I promise I will not be any trouble.”
For the first time since arriving here, Dracul appears confused. Then: “Oh! You have not told them?” This seems to thrill him. “Did you believe the outcome might somehow be different? That your little group could somehow battle all my children and emerge unscathed, the heart of your paramour intact, that all would be well? Why would I stand for such an outcome? You are so na?ve, the whole lot of you. The only reason any of you are still alive is because I have need of you, no other reason. The day that my need ends is the day you must fear most.”
Vambéry produces a bottle of holy water—from where, Bram does not know—and holds it behind his back, his fingers fiddling with the cap.
Amused, Dracul waves a hand at him, and the sacred liquid in the small vial begins to boil. Vambéry drops it at his feet, cursing.
Dracul continues. “Bring the boy and let us be on with it, before I grow bored and burn this little shack to the ground and end all of them.”
“Bram, please,” Ellen pleads. “You must come.”
He stands firm, just inside the door.
The anger within Dracul burns. “Enough of this nonsense!” He snaps his fingers, and lightning strikes a nearby cypress tree. The undead surrounding it jump back as a branch cracks and bursts into flames. Dracul retrieves the burning branch and holds it inches from the wooden beams of the tiny house.
“Don’t!” Bram cries out. Whether or not it will burn in the rain, he doesn’t know. But he can’t chance it. “I’ll go! I’ll go.”
And before the others can object, Bram drops the wooden stake at his feet. He steps through the door of the house into the raging storm.
* * *
? ? ?
THE UNDEAD FALL IN behind Bram, blocking any possible retreat. There is no turning back now.
Dracul drops the burning branch in a puddle, the flame fizzling out. Then he turns and starts ascending the hill, leaving the small house behind.
Bram tries not to listen to Matilda’s cries, her shouts, his name on the wind. He can only hope that Thornley will hold her and Vambéry can keep them all safe until the morning.
Ellen reaches back and takes Bram’s hand in her own. He allows her this gesture, although he is not certain why. Ellen’s skin is cool yet dry to the touch, untouched by the rain, as are Dracul and Emily. He himself feels every drop, though, icy pricks against his skin. His shoes produce a sloppy sucking sound in the mud as they climb the hill—his shoes alone, for the others make no purchase with the ground and leave behind no tracks.
There is no moon out tonight, and Bram knows it is Ellen’s blood in his veins that allows him to see at all, the life she has bestowed on him, this gift of time.
All around them, the undead stand. Unmoving save for their eyes, which serve as witnesses to what is about to come.
They cross over the hill, and the cemetery comes into view, the large white mausoleum and a hundred crooked tombstones. Ellen squeezes his hand, his arm itches, itching more than it ever has before.
If Bram is now marching to his death, so be it. He has been granted years that did not otherwise belong to him. Ellen has seen to that gift, regardless of her motives. Without her, that seven-year-old boy would have died in his little attic room, the world beyond his window remaining unknown to him.
At the foot of the cemetery, Dracul waves his arm and blue flames