Stoker relaxed. He knew this sort of fellow. He would wait for his prey in the boneyard of the abbey, scare the tourists with a ridiculous tale, then demand coin. He was a modern-day bard.
Still, there was something about this man that made him uneasy, ran little skitters of alarm up his arms. Stoker stood. “I imagine it is quite a story. Sadly, it’s getting late, and I must be off.”
Stow looked away from him, out to the sea. He whistled once, sharp and low, held out his arm. “Good day to you, Mr. Stoker. Do not forget to visit the library. It is really critical to you and your career.”
The bird landed hard on the man’s fist. He gave her a treat and bowed his head toward Stoker, then stood and turned away.
Stoker shook his head, rubbed his eyes. Impossible. Impossible. It seemed from one moment to the next, the man and falcon were simply gone, disappeared.
He was tired from the journey, exhausted from managing Irving. He was hungry and thirsty, and now he was seeing things.
Yes, he needed a rest.
He took a last look around the abbey and started toward the stairs. Supper and sleep, and he’d explore the rest of the town in the morning.
He felt eyes on him, and he whirled back to look at the bench, at the grounds of the abbey, at the cliff, but no one was there. He saw a mist move through the boneyard, obscuring the gravestones. It moved toward him, closer and closer. He was frozen until the mist began to curl around his feet. As if released from a trance, he ran down the stairs, not looking back.
Later that evening, as he made plans to visit the town’s library, he was compelled to record a name in his notebook—why, he didn’t know.
Mina. And I will name my heroine Mina.
THE FIFTH DAY
SATURDAY
Dracula, a 1897 Gothic horror novel by Irish author Bram Stoker, introduced Count Dracula and established many conventions of subsequent vampire fantasy. The novel tells the story of Dracula’s attempt to move from Transylvania to England so that he may find new blood and spread the undead curse, and of the battle between Dracula and a small group of men and a woman [Wilhelmina “Mina” Murray Harker—Jonathan Harker’s wife] led by Professor Abraham Van Helsing. . . .
After Dracula learns of the group’s plot against him, he attacks Mina on three occasions, and feeds Mina his own blood to control her. This curses Mina with vampirism and changes her but does not completely turn her into a vampire.
—WIKIPEDIA
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Sky News London 6:00 a.m.
We’re coming to you live with breaking news. There was a bombing last evening outside the Prince Edward Theatre, resulting in the death of Corinthian Jones, Lord Barstow, prominent consultant to MI6.
“Also, a military helicopter was downed on the grounds of the home in Twickenham of the genius scientist and founder of Radulov Industries, Roman Ardelean. Mr. Ardelean is being sought by police to answer questions for a variety of charges, including the assassination of Lord Barstow last night. We start the news now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
A feather-perfect hawk, sitting on a clean perch, with well-greased jesses and a clean leash, in proper accommodation, is a pleasure to behold. Hawks wearing poor and ill-kept furniture, sitting on filthy blocks and perches and in no proper accommodation are a disgrace to the falconer and, indeed, to the sport.
—Emma Ford, Falconry: Art and Practice
The Savoy Hotel
Strand, London
Roman Ardelean called Radu’s personal line. There was no answer. He called Iago’s phone. No answer. What had happened? Had he taken all of Marin’s blood in his greed to be cured immediately? He called one of the house lines, but it appeared to be dead. He felt fear begin to thrum deep. And then he turned on the television to see his face plastered at the bottom on the newscaster’s desk. And he heard about the helicopter crash at the Old Garden.
They’d found him. They’d found Radu. Where was his brother? Had they taken him into custody? How to find out?
Roman had killed Barstow, the sodding bastard, so that was something, but now he didn’t care. Where was Radu?
Would they find him here at the Savoy? He’d used the Laurence Bruce disguise and a fake name. But they’d found out everything else. He listened to the news talk about the man with Lord Barstow, who had escaped serious injury—Harold Drummond, consultant to MI5.
He kept dialing both Iago’s and Radu’s private phones. Still no answer. He was worried, too, about his cast. He had instructed the cast to fly north to the estate, but Arlington refused to be parted from him. She’d flown to him last night without his calling her, her talons digging into his arm, drawing blood, and he’d had to smuggle her into the hotel under his coat. What did she know that he didn’t? Did she have some sort of extra-sensory ability to sense danger to him?
She sat now on the back of a chair, her talons gripping the silk, watching the television, as he was. He’d ordered room service for them both, asked for pheasant, raw, and a juicy steak, rare. The hotel, circumspect as always, delivered both without comment. He was grateful for Arlington’s steadying presence. He stroked her feathers, and she rubbed her face against his hand. He thumbed another dose of LSD onto his tongue.
He wondered if Barstow had confessed all to Drummond, if he’d admitted to his role in screwing over Radulov using Temora, and if Roman had met him at the Prince Edward Theatre, he knew he would be dead or in custody now. He had to assume that Drummond, that his son, Nicholas, that all of them, knew everything. He couldn’t afford not to assume that. Where was Temora? Could he find him? Find out if he’d tried to warn him by sending the video, or taunt him? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter. In the end, Temora was the tool Barstow had used to destroy Roman.
He thumbed another microdose onto his tongue, then another. A strong, hard voice filled his head, his voice. Screw Temora, he was always jealous of you, he was taunting you, not trying to save you. No, you have to save yourself. You have to save Radu.
His company was in ruins, the stock price plummeting, his drone army was unpaid for, his brother deathly ill—ah, but they had Isabella and the pages. She would cure Radu. But it was time to flee. They’d take her with them, and she’d be his permanent blood bank. All would work out.
He thought of the billon pounds he’d never get now. Where had Barstow stashed the money? In foreign accounts, of course. He’d never find them.
Still, none of that mattered anymore. They were hunting him now. Why wasn’t Radu or Iago answering their phones at the Old Garden?
Finally he tapped into the house server, on his mobile, only to find someone had locked him out. Of his own server. His own house.
What was happening?
He patched in through a coded back door they wouldn’t be able to follow. From what he could piece together, Drummond, Caine, and a DI from Scotland Yard had dropped onto the house from a helicopter, and Roman’s elaborate defense system had worked perfectly. The antiaircraft missile hidden in the chimney had shot down the helicopter. The guns, gauntlet, and oubliette had all been triggered. All his defenses had worked as they should. But what had happened? Had Drummond stopped Isabella from giving her blood to Radu? Worry clawed and dug deep. He thumbed another microdose to slow his heart rate, to allow him to think clearly.
The internal cameras mounted inside the walls of the house had never been used before, and he’d forgotten all about them, until now. Radu hated the lack of privacy, but Roman had insisted there be a way to check on him when he wasn’t there, when he was traveling, or when he was hunting with the cast. In case something happened. In case he had a bleed and they couldn’t control it. In case Radu felt the pressure of his loneliness and opened a vein.