A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) Fred Saberhagen (free ebook reader for iphone txt) 📖

nonsense. You will not refuse to escape. However important this Romain woman may be to you, you cannot help her much while you remain locked up—or if you find yourself a full head shorter than you are.”

      Having said that much, I glared at him. God knew what fresh villainy my brother might be preparing to launch against me, whilst I was entangled in these distractions. And, regardless of whether or not any of these breathers lived or died, I was determined to best my brother. He should not compel me to dishonor any of my vows.

      Radcliffe met my gaze defiantly for ten seconds or so—it usually takes a strong-willed person to do that—then slumped and turned away.

      “I could do with a drink,” he whispered hoarsely, sinking back on his narrow bed.

      Long experience brings foresight, and I happened to have a small flask of brandy in my pocket, which my client accepted gratefully.

      “Then your feelings with regard to Melanie Romain are serious indeed,” I remarked. And I wondered whether Radcliffe even suspected what I had recently discovered: the existence of Melanie’s child. Melanie herself had assured me that he did not know.

      He lifted his head. “They are. Unhappily, I did not fully realize how serious until I was locked up in here.”

* * *

      My next encounter with Melanie took place at a celebration in honor of the Supreme Being, a politically convenient deity whose existence had recently been discovered by no less an authority than Robespierre himself. Like a great many other folk, Marie was not attending by choice, but had been sent to look out for some of Curtius’s wax heads, heroes and villains of the current political establishment, which were to be carried in a procession.

      “You!” she breathed, when I silently confronted her. “Were you able to see Philip?”

      “I was. He has asked me to convey to you his greetings—and his love.” Perhaps this was not strictly true. I raised to her my glass filled with untasted wine.

      “Ah! He used those words?”

      “Just as I have said.”

      “But he does not know—you did not tell him—”

      “About your child? No, that is your duty. No doubt some suitable moment will arise.”

      For a time Melanie continued to be suspicious, but I held forth the promise of Radcliffe’s being rescued. “How do you mean to accomplish that?”

      “The final choice of means, from several alternatives, is what I have come to discuss with you. But rest assured that, one way or another, I intend to accomplish it. I am firmly determined that he shall regain his freedom.”

      “I bless you for telling me that, if it is true.”

      In the course of this conversation Melanie passed on to me a piece of news from the countryside that had only recently reached her ears: the murdered, horribly mutilated body of the servant girl, Marguerite, had been discovered in the grounds of the old chateau.

      “Radu,” I murmured. In all likelihood, Radu.” In truth I believe that my vanity had been pricked, and I felt outraged that that slender girl whose veins had afforded me such delight and healing would nevermore embrace me, or any other, in the fashion of woman with man. Another score against Radu, for which due punishment would have to be administered.

* * *

      After visiting Radcliffe in his cell again, to report to him on the status of his beloved, I made my exit from the prison before dawn, turning myself into bat-form before the moment of sunrise. Later than that, and I would be forced to retain that shape all day.

      Of course I might if necessary have come to my client by day, approaching his cell door in the ordinary way, dressed in the clothes of a lamplighter or some other common functionary.

      This time Radcliffe on recognizing me struggled to control his reaction. I could see him, this time, watching me carefully to see how I got in. He succeeded in this endeavor, at least to the extent that he could tell no deception was involved. I was outside the cell, and then I was inside, and neither lock nor bar nor door had moved by a hair’s-breadth.

      “I cannot believe what my eyes have shown me,” he breathed, and rubbed at the organs mentioned. “You must explain it to me, somehow.”

      But I had decided to leave the bulk of that task to Constantia, who had a real talent for such matters, when she chose to use it properly.

* * *

      Constantia was on hand and ready, more or less, to be of help. But, as the reader may already have deduced by now, rarely did I ever work with her in any important matter when I had any reasonable alternative. This was because of a certain lack of dependability which she was wont to demonstrate.

      But it was she who had the brilliant idea (as it seemed to me then) of converting our client’s cell into a genuine habitation, which would then be vampire-proof except by invitation.

      “But how does one make a prison cell a home?”

      “Maybe, Vlad—maybe if a loving couple were to inhabit it—even if only one of them was there most of the time—”

      “It is worth a try. Do what you can. Philip Radcliffe must be protected at all costs.”

      As for myself, I was fully occupied with labors of a more aggressive nature.

* * *

      After dark, Constantia and I ghosted together through the prison, melting into mist-form every time some guard, worker, or visitor approached, and in between such episodes regained a semblance of solidity, the better to read the labels on the cell doors or beside them. I wanted her to understand the lay of the land as thoroughly as I did. With this in mind I paused from time to time to read from the list I had borrowed of names and corresponding cell numbers.

      “Whose cell is this?”

      “Evidently what we have here is the foreigners’ wing. The tag here reads CHARLES DARNAY. Not the man we want … here’s Percy Blakeney, citizen of England …