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Vampirella #4

Blood Wedding

By

Ron Goulart

Prologue

The naked girl moaned faintly in her sleep.

The early morning breeze, which had come drifting across the blue ocean, fluttered the pale yellow curtains. A slant of sunlight cut across the circular bedroom, touching the sleek tanned skin of the sleeping girl and the pale yellow sheet that partially covered her long slender body. She had begun to breath unevenly, her breasts rising and falling in a broken rhythm. Her long night-black hair was swirled around her head on the pale yellow pillow. Her mouth was slightly open, revealing very even, and exquisitely sharp, teeth.

As she tossed more violently from side to side, the covering sheet fell away completely from her torso. Her right breast, on the swelling curve above the sharp purple-black nipple, had a strange mark on it. A small birthmark, perhaps, its shape suggesting a spread-wing bat in flight. “Adam!” she cried out, sitting up in bed, wide awake, heart pounding.

Kicking free of the sheet, she left the bed. At the window, one hand pressed between her breasts, she stared out at the beginning day. All was quiet and calm out there—a slim, contented boy of ten whistling, barefoot, along the yellow sand of the not distant beach, five unbelievably white gulls skimming and whirling over the brightening Caribbean.

“A dream,” she decided, tossing her head, long hair brushing at her bare shoulders. “That’s all it was, he’s all right.”

There was a knock at the door connecting her room to the one adjoining. “Vampirella?” called an inquiring, and rheumy, voice. “Vampirella?”

“Yes, I hear you. Come on in, Pendragon.”

“Are you decent?”

She caught up a silken robe and shrugged into it. “As much as I’m likely to be. Come in.”

The lock rattled, the door knob squeeked, and then a sharp-featured gray-haired man of sixty tottered in. “I heard you screaming, child,” he told her, his voice still hoarse.

“A nightmare,” Vampirella said, “a bad dream.”

“I’m a bit fuzzy,” said the magician, “since I rushed in here without first doing my usual morning exercises. These consist, as you may know, of lifting a glass of Scotch to my mouth several times, vigorously. Excuse me, dear girl.” From the sagging pocket of his tacky flannel bathrobe Pendragon produced a pint of Scotch.

Vampirella strode to a steamer trunk near her bed. “A little food might help you,” she said, inserting the key in the trunk lock.

“Nonsense, child, haven’t you heard how nutritious Pendragon’s Instant Breakfast is? Equal to three fried eggs (ugh!), a rasher of bacon (whatever a rasher might be), and a big pile of hash brown (ugh! ugh!) potatoes.” He uncapped the bottle and drank directly from it.

The dark-haired girl tugged the trunk open, her silken robe parting at the effort.

“Ahum,” said Pendragon, shading his eyes with one barely shaking hand. “I know you regard our Earthly attitudes toward nudity as nonsense, but I’m still a bit taken aback when you challenge me like that…”

Vampirella, with an impatient sigh, clutched the robe together again. From inside the trunk she took a parcel wrapped in green paper and tied with thick twine. “For a man who’s spent a good part of his life backstage, you’re pretty prim and proper.”

Pendragon lowered the bottle he’d been about to take another swig from. “I thought you were going to let everything in that trunk be shipped. We can’t carry much on the plane.”

Vampirella knelt, opened a small suitcase, and thrust the parcel in. “I’ve decided I want to have this with me on the flight to Venice.” She stood, one hip outthrust and a hand resting on it. “I may need it.”

The magician sank into a chair. “I know what’s in that dreadful bundle,” he said, staring into his bottle. “It is that vile book, The Crimson Chronicles.”

“Yes, Pendragon, you’re right.”

“Would that I’d never seen that filthy tome, would that I’d never heard of The Crimson Chronicles.”

“Life might be much simpler,” the girl said. “However, that’s not the world we live in.”

“Ah, yes, that I know,” he said. “You’ve had, I take it, some sort of hunch, a premonition, a glimpse of the future?”

Vampirella ran her tongue over her upper lip, eyes narrowing. “Perhaps it was only a bad dream,” she answered, “but if it wasn’t…”

“And I thought this was going to be a lark coming up,” said the magician, forlornly. “A long engagement at a posh club in that lovely city of Venice. But now you’re getting premonitions, anticipating yet another confrontation with the Companions of Chaos.”

“I’m sorry, Pendragon.” She folded her arms under her upthrust breasts.

“Well, child, I’d best go pack some bottled courage.” He groaned up out of the chair. “I’ll also purchase a copy of that Thomas Mann book to read on the plane.”

“Which book?”

“Death in Venice,” replied the magician.

Just that one footstep.

The sole of a boot, softly crunching on the crusted snow.

That was all she heard, the only warning. It told her she was not alone on the twisting village lane, that someone shared the chill midnight with her.

She was a blonde girl, pretty, not more than twenty-five. Her name was Anne Fayer. Over the dark blue cocktail dress she’d worn to the party was thrown an oversize ski parka, grabbed from the cluttered closet as she hurried out. Whose coat it was she had no idea. Didn’t matter, Tisa would know. Tomorrow she’d return it, apologize for getting so annoyed with that idiot ski instructor.

Not slowing, Anne looked back. She saw no one. The snow fell, gently, straight down across the deep black night. The street lamps, not so close together as she’d have liked them to be, glowed a fuzzy yellow. Everything else was white silence.

“But I did hear it.” Anne thrust her hands deep into the slash pockets of the hastily borrowed coat. Her fingers encountered all sorts of unfamiliar objects. A pipe, a nearly empty pouch of tobacco, a roll of cough drops, a balled handkerchief.

Another footstep, closer.

She stopped, turned around. “I can hear you,” she called out. “I know you’re there.”

Mostly shops and small warehouses in this part of town. Probably no one asleep in any of these dark, tile-roofed buildings. No one to be disturbed by her shouting, no one to come and help.

“Nothing to see.” Nothing behind her but the silent snow patiently falling.

Still nearly a mile to cover before she would reach her hotel. “That’s what you get for having such a temper, Annie. You could be sitting in front of that big, deep fireplace of Tisa’s right now, sipping a—”

He was suddenly in front of her.

A great black smear across the intense whiteness. A tall man, his thin face a gray-white color, his clothes and his cloak a somber black. And he was smiling.

The smile made Anne’s hands come up, press into fists against her breasts. The smile made her feel cold way deep inside herself. The smile made her realize her life was over, that it would end here and now.

But that simply wasn’t fair. There should be years more. Anne tried to cry out, to scream for help. The words got lost inside her someplace. All that came through her parted lips was her breath, turning into shreds of mist.

The snow didn’t seem to touch the man in black. “You are mine now,” he told her, “there is no possibility of escape.”

Still the words would not come. But they had to, she must speak out. She had—

He ripped the jacket from her, and his hands gripped her bare shoulders. He bent close.

There was a graveyard smell closing in around her, a smell of turned earth and decaying flesh.

His teeth sank into her throat, and his rough lips closed over the wound.

A single drop of blood escaped. It fell to a drift of snow beside the cobblestone street, staining the white a deep scarlet for a moment.

Chapter 1

The entire city was upside down. The lanterns, the ornate palaces, the towers and spires. Everything reflected flickeringly in the black water of the canal.

Pendragon, plaid cloak wrapped around him, stood on an arched stonework bridge, watching the reflection of nighttime Venice in the water below. A motorboat, filled with bright-clothed and laughing people, went by and its foamy wake cut the city in half. “Another good reason for not drinking water,” he said, sniffing.

Vampirella, wearing her leopard-skin coat, was standing with her back pressed against the stonework and not sharing the view with the magician. The night wind made her raven-black hair flutter and dried her lips. She moistened them with the tip of her tongue. “A very old city,” she murmured.

Pendragon noticed first. “Gad,” he said, “I’ve heard of polluted waters, but…Vampirella, look there!” He caught hold of her sleeve.

A body had floated out from under the stone bridge after the motorboat passed. The body of a young man with long golden hair, floating on his back.

” ‘Lord, lord! methought what a pain it was to drown, What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!’” muttered Pendragon as he followed the running Vampirella down to the canal.

“He didn’t drown,” said Vampirella. She stopped at the canal edge, halting opposite a row of candy-striped mooring poles.

The bullet hole was visible now, a black, puckered indentation next to the eye.

“Shot and dumped,” said the magician. “A Mafia-style killing, eh?”

Vampirella bent, kneeling on one knee. The coat and short skirt fell away from her long tan leg. “Nobody killed him, he took his own life,” she said, reaching out toward the slowly drifting body.

“How can you tell that, child?”

At the first try Vampirella caught the dead man by the hair. She tugged, pulled the body closer to the slimy stones, and then grasped his shirt-front. “It’s not a deduction,” she said, “only a feeling.”

Nose wrinkling, Pendragon said, “Here, I’ll help you.”

The body seemed incredibly heavy, but they got it away from the pull of the black canal and laid it out on the stones.

Vampirella stood up and away from the golden-haired young man. “We’re going to be involved,” she said.

“Naturally, if you’re going to fish bodies out of canals, you have to expect—”

“More than the police,” she said. “I sense…something…evil.”

Three Italians, middle-aged men in business suits, came strolling by. They halted, talking to each other and glancing over at Vampirella, Pendragon, and the dead man. The word morto was repeated several times.

“Yes, he’s dead,” Vampirella said to them. “Can you find us a policeman?”

The three Italians consulted, looking dubious. Finally one of them stepped closer, saying, “I will go, signorina.”

As he hurried off, Pendragon crouched next to the dead man. “By Jupiter,” he said, “do you know who this is?”

Vampirella shook her head.

“You should be more diligent in your attention to Variety, dear child. This is Rex Trice. The rising young cinema actor.”

“You’re sure?”

“Almost positive,” said the magician, rising. “Yes, it’s Rex Trice.”

One of the remaining Italians asked, “You know this poor fellow, signore?”

“Not personally, no. He’s an actor in American films, named Rex Trice,” said Pendragon.

“Ah, an actor.”

“Ah, an American,” said his companion.

“That explains it,” they both said.

The blind man opened the newspaper, turned to an inner page, and tapped at a particular story with a gnarled forefinger. “Here’s the latest murder,” he said.

Adam Van Helsing was used to his father’s extrasensory perceptions by now; he didn’t ask him how he knew exactly where the story was. A tall, wide-shouldered young man, good-looking in a slightly roughhewn way, he crossed the verandah in swift strides to look at the paper himself. “You mean the vampire killings you were telling me about?”

Old Van Helsing handed him the paper. “Yes, the unfortunate young woman described in this article was undoubtedly the victim of a vampire.”

Adam read the account. “Sounds like it, yeah,” he agreed. “Location fits, too.”

“The four killings have all taken place in towns and villages in the Dolomite Alps,” said the old man. “Obviously the work of the same man.”

“Man?” Adam dropped the newspaper into an empty lounging chair. “Then you’re not trying to blame these killings on Vampirella?”

“I believe we’re dealing with an older, subtler foe,” said his father. “But, Adam, I want you to know that since you’ve come back to be with me here in the Caribbean…”

“I came back temporarily, Dad. To make sure you were recuperating okay.”

“Well, at any rate, Adam, I want you to know that even though you and I disagree as to the true nature of that girl…well, we needn’t discuss her any more.”

“Meaning you’re going to leave her alone?”

“There are more important things to concentrate on, and considering the way you feel about her…”

How he felt about Vampirella. It wasn’t something you could calmly analyze, what he felt about the raven-haired girl. Not that he hadn’t tried, especially in those sleepless patches of night that usually come around three in the morning. He loved her, he was certain. And he wanted her. The physical pull of her, it was unlike anything he’d experienced with any other woman. But some of the things he felt about Vampirella…it was almost as though she belonged to someone else. Years ago there’d been a girl, the wife of one of his professors. He hadn’t realized until he was long gone from school that he could have slept with her, but all along there’d been that attraction and the feeling of something forbidden and at the same time tremendously desirable. That, in a way, was what—

“…the castle,” his blind father was saying.

“Sorry, Dad, I didn’t catch that.”

“In those mountains where the vampire has struck,” Van Helsing said, gesturing at the fallen newspaper, “there is a castle. A castle which, though little known, has been in the possession of a certain family for centuries. I’m convinced someone is again using that castle as a base of operations.” His hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “I want to go there, Adam.”

“Do you think you’re sufficiently—”

“I must go, I shall go,” the old man told him. “Will you accompany me?”

After a moment Adam replied, “Yes, okay, I will.”

Nothing filtered in from the outside, except the smell of the canal. There was no sunlight, no sound of the ancient city of Venice in the huge shuttered and draped living room of the Palazzo Umberto. The heavy furniture, the thick carpets, all were deep in shadow. On a carved wood table a single lamp glowed orange, and just at the edge of its circle of light sat a woman. Once she had been beautiful and bright with youth. Long ago, before time and illness had taken hold of her. She was thin now, her flesh a pale, pale olive, her dark eyes ringed with sooty circles, her hair hanging straight and touched with gray. She sat very still in the heavy, ornate chair. Directly behind her on the wall hung the oil portrait of her as she looked in happier times.

“You’re feeling better?”

“Of course she is. You have the word of Dr. Benvenuto on that.”

Duke Umberto, a heavyset man of nearly sixty, went a few steps nearer his daughter. “You know me, Angelica?”

“Yes, father.”

“Of course she knows you. The worst of it is over, as I promised.” Dr. Benvenuto was a small man, not quite five feet high, bent and bald, with three distinctive moles, each tufted with hair—one on his chin, one on his forehead, and one high on his bald, freckled head. “She is well on the road to recovery.”

“It has been a long time.” The duke ventured closer to Angelica, taking her hand. It was very cold.

“I am,” said his daughter, “very sorry to have caused you so much worry and concern, you and mother.”

“Child, your mother has been—”

“No need to go into details yet, my dear duke,” cautioned Dr. Benvenuto.

The duke nodded, avoiding a direct look up at the painting of Angelica as she had been, so long ago. “My concern for you was only natural,” he told her. “You need feel no guilt, Angelica.”

She reached out and placed cold fingertips to her father’s cheek. “You know what I’ve been thinking, Father? Thinking of since I…came back to myself.”

“Tell me, dear.”

“That I would like to see people again, all our old friends. Those I have not seen since my illness began.”

“Eventually, Angelica, yes. Though I don’t believe—”

“I am very anxious to see them. Such friends of our family as the Princess di Pozzi, Dr. Lazarillo, Count Guzzman and the countess, and…well, I shall write you a list.” She paused, a faint smile coming to her pale face.

“Angelica, the princess—”

“Draw up the list, dear Angelica,” said Dr. Benvenuto.

“Father, I would like very much to have them all come to a party,” she continued. “Yes, a glorious party to celebrate my…return. A masked party, a costume ball.”

“Surely you are not yet sufficiently—”

“Nonsense,” cut in the tiny doctor, “a costume party is exactly what is called for. I’ll make sure all those you wish to see will be here, Angelica.”

“That would be most pleasing, doctor.”

“But we have not entertained since—”

“Please, Father.”

The duke glanced from her to the doctor. “Very well. We will plan to have a party a week from today, next Friday evening,” he said. “Now we’d best allow you to rest again, dear Angelica. We will have dinner together if you’d like.”

“Yes, Father, very much.”

After bowing toward her, the duke took hold of the doctor’s arm. “We’ll leave you, then.” When he and little Benvenuto were beyond the thick wooden door in the long shadowy hallway he said, “This is foolish, doctor. Angelica has been ill such a long time, and only now is herself again…or at least a sad shadow of herself.”

“The party will do her no harm.” Dr. Benvenuto stroked one of his moles.

“She seems so weak, so very fragile. I can’t see how—”

“Do you recall when I was called in to take over this case from my unsuccessful predecessors late last year, my dear duke, you said you would give anything if only Angelica would revive?”

“Yes, to see her lying there in a coma for so long…I would have done anything.”

The little doctor rubbed at another of the moles. “I have given her back to you,” he said. “You will, however, be required to do a good deal more yet.”

“The Umbertos have always paid their bills, doctor, for several centuries. If you doubt—”

“Money.” Dr. Benvenuto laughed, a tight-lipped laugh. “Money is only a small part of it, my dear duke.”

“I don’t under—”

“There is no need to understand, yet. If you will instruct your social secretary to cooperate with me, I’ll see to making up the invitations to next week’s masked ball.”

“But the Princess di Pozzi and old Lazarillo…they’re dead. Angelica doesn’t realize how long she slept.”

“Leave all the details to me. You have the word of Dr. Benvenuto it will be a truly splendid party.”

“What a lousy thing,” said the fat man in the white canvas suit. He stepped over the cocoa-brown, naked girl who was sunning herself directly in front of him on the vast roof of his rented palazzo. “That’s a really lousy thing, that stupid bastard blowing his brains out. Three days before we’re supposed to start shooting The Vampire of Venice.”

“Very sensitive,” said the smaller, paler man who was following Seymour Zull around the sprawled girls and umbrellaed tables. “Rex Trice was supposed to be very sensitive.”

“Where? In his backside?” Zull sat down at one of the round metal tables. “Why can’t we get this…Kreath? What’s his whole stupid name…Beau Kreath? Why can’t we get him?”

“He’s got to do retakes in Angola on that Western of Dodge’s. No way to get him here for at least three weeks.”

Zull waved at the frail Italian who was serving as bartender. Frowning at the hazy blue afternoon, he said, “In three weeks I want to be gone from Venice. The canals didn’t smell this bad when we made Affair in Venice here.”

“Ten years ago, that was. Things can smell worse in ten years.”

“Another martini, signore.” The bartender placed it on the table.

Zull gulped it down, then spit out the olive. “What say we go with that faggot as the nobleman?”

“Which faggot?”

“What’s his name? Jak Stone. Him.”

“He’s not gay.”

“Anybody spells Jak that way, he’s got to be. Anyhow, get him.” The producer folded his hands over his stomach, ignoring the view of Venice spread out on all sides of him.

The smaller, paler man, whose name was Rummonds, said, “I’ve heard a few things, Mr. Zull.”

One of Zull’s shaggy eyebrows raised. He said nothing.

“About Rex Trice, I mean,” said Rummonds. “About, that is, the reason he killed himself.”

“He killed himself, he’s dead. Who gives a shit why? What I want to hear is how soon that faggot can get here to take over his part.”

“But…this may have something…something to do with the others.”

“What others?”

“Actors, actresses…in the cast of Vampire.”

“What? Drugs? Screwing?” Zull frowned. “What was Trice into?”

“I don’t have all the details yet, Mr. Zull.” Cautiously Rummonds wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Trice was…a member of some kind of cult.”

“Cult? What kind of bullshit is this?”

“It’s what I hear, Mr. Zull. Some odd sort of cult, something he joined back in the States. He wanted to quit, but they wouldn’t quite let him and…well, that’s how he came to die.”

“Who else?” Zull rested a fist on the tabletop. “Who else that’s working for me is mixed up in this cult?”

“Right at the moment I don’t know.”

“Find out.”

“Yes, I will as—”

“By tonight.”

Chapter 2

The sharp-featured, gray-haired man scurried across the square stones of the vast piazza, cloak fluttering behind him and pigeons scattering in his path. “This is not the town to appreciate my pulling-a-pigeon-out-of-a-hat illusion (shoo, you toplofty twits),” he muttered as he approached a bright, circular table at one of the outdoor cafés which ringed St. Mark’s Square where a lovely raven-haired girl sat, watched by every man who sat at a table within ogling range. “Ah, good afternoon, dear child. Forgive my tardiness.”

Vampirella glanced up at him. “An hour and twenty minutes overdue makes you more than tardy, Pendragon,” she said huskily, and every ogler strained to hear. “Where’ve you been?”

The magician seated himself opposite her, with a flourish of his cloak. ” ‘I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structure rise as something something and so forth,’ ” he said.

“Okay, that takes care of today’s poetry reading. Now get to the alibi.”

Pendragon was trying to attract the attention of the waiter, but he was gazing soulfully at Vampirella. “I still haven’t learned the Italian word for Scotch.” Turning back to her, Pendragon said dramatically, “I have opened up whole new vistas, taken a giant step toward fame and fortune.”

“Is this more poetry?”

“This has nothing to do with poetry, my dear. I’m talking about money, cash, lire.”

Vampirella asked, “Honest money?”

“Well,” replied the magician, “its movie money.” He succeeded at last in getting a waiter. “We don’t have a contract, or even an appointment for a screen test (though I gave the lad enough views of the famed Pendragon profile to render a screen test superfluous in any case). What we have, my sweet, is a request to be at a party being given tomorrow by one Seymour Zull. You should, if you kept up to the quaint custom of reading Variety, be familiar with the name of Zull.”

“Owns Zull-Artistic Productions,” said the girl. “Supposed to be a toad.”

“Now, now, Vampi, a man may be a toad and still have a lovely bank balance. At any rate, a representative of Zull’s dropped by our hotel just as I was rinsing my mouth (with Old Mother Pendragon’s Remarkable Elixir of Booze) and offered us the princely sum of five hundred dollars to appear at a small party at Zull’s rented villa tomorrow evening. After our last show at the Club Gondola.”

“Is that where he caught our magic act?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps the fast-growing fame of the Great Pendragon and his beautiful cohort has penetrated even to venerable Venice.”

“Will you be in any condition to do an extra show tomorrow?”

Pendragon lowered the freshly arrived glass of Scotch. “My reflexes, child, are akin to those of an airline pilot, an astronaut, a gifted Swiss brain surgeon.”

Vampirella shrugged. “Then we’ll do it.”

“There is,” said the magician after a few sips of his drink, “one other thing I ought to mention. Zull and his crew of actors, actresses, and sycophants are here to make a motion picture. The epic will be entitled…The Vampire of Venice.”

After a few silent seconds Vampirella said, “So?”

“What I’m trying to determine, my dear, is whether you’ll be unsettled by hearing a lot of chitchat about vampires. One must assume Zull and his followers will probably mention their latest opus while we are there.”

“That won’t bother me,” she said, then added with a wry lift of an arched brow, “as long as Zull doesn’t offer me the title role.”

Pendragon finished his Scotch. “As an interesting footnote I mention the fact that the chap who was to play the vampire in question was found floating in one of the city’s aqueous thoroughfares a few days ago. Dead as the proverbial doornail.”

The girl frowned. “I know about that somehow, but no, I can’t quite…” She shook her head.

“What is it?”

“A feeling, there was something about this young man who died,” answered Vampirella. “A sort of extrasensory hunch, but I haven’t the Van Helsing knack for crystal-clear visions.”

“You mean this defunct cinema idol was involved in…in something supernatural?”

“I’m not sure.”

” ‘Twill enliven the party, if Zull’s group turn out to be demon-worshippers or voodoo devotees or—”

“Probably nothing of the kind, forget it.”

The magician was signaling for another drink. “Speaking of Adam and the senior Van Helsing…have you heard from the lad?”

“Yes, he’s still looking after his father.”

“Old boy on the mend?”

“Seems to be,” said Vampirella. “He’ll probably be sturdy enough to come hunting me quite soon again.”

“Surely Adam can persuade him to abandon the notion you’re…well, his strange ideas about you.”

“They’re not really strange.” The girl looked away from him, watching the high campanile tower which rose up nearby. “I am just what Adam’s father thinks I am.”

“You were.”

“Without the blood-substitute serum I still would be.”

“Child, it’s wizened old bottle imps like me who’re supposed to cry in their beer,” the magician told her. “A lovely girl like you has no need to be maudlin and self-pitying. After all, Adam loves you, he—”

“He loves me, but I’m in Venice and he’s in the Caribbean someplace holding his father’s hand.”

“Ah, there’s the rub. There’s the reason you’re feeling like the first cousin of Little Girl Blue. Take my advice, dear child—Vampirella, what’s wrong?”

The girl’s face had grown pale. She was staring across the square, at something in the shadows of one of the arches. “It’s…there’s someone watching me.”

Pendragon chuckled. “Men have been known to ogle you in most of the civilized countries of the world.” He looked around at the entranced men in the café. “And in Italy they try harder. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you collect a few pinches and—”

“No, it’s not that kind of look…” She shivered. “It’s…I don’t know. There, I think I can see him. Next to that column, the man with the black hair. See?”

“Where?” Pendragon half rose, squinting.

“He’s right…no, he’s gone.” Vampirella pushed her chair back.

“Surely you don’t intend to give chase?”

“No, but I’d like to go back to the hotel,” she said. “Some place where it’s warm.”

“It’s perfectly warm right here in the piazza, child.”

“No,” Vampirella insisted, “no, it isn’t.”

Chapter 3

The waters of the wide canal began to darken, and the sun vanished behind an ornate tower. Little Dr. Benvenuto’s highly polished shoes clicked and clacked on the flagstones as he hurried toward his destination. Swiftly he turned down a lane, and slipped inside a narrow curio shop.

The shop interior was dim with unlit lamps and clocks and tables pressed close together. Empty jewel boxes, century-old books, once-bright peacock feathers, pieces of yellowed ivory, tattered silken fans, Roman coins, old bones and a lacquered skull sprawled on the table tops. Behind the cluttered counter, half hidden by a gold balance scale, sat a monkey. Dressed in a harlequin suit, he busily and carefully nibbled nuts from a white paper bag.

The little doctor passed on by the counter and eased through a beaded curtain into the back room of the place. There was a strong smell of minestrone in here, and an equally strong smell of dust. “You’re prompt,” said Benvenuto. “An unusual thing in an actor, since vain people tend to be—”

“Skip the crap, dottore,” said the handsome, deeply tan young man with curly dark hair lounging in an ancient purple armchair.

“You don’t understand the European—and more especially the Italian—mind, signore Knight.” The doctor stroked one of his moles before sitting on a shaky stool. “Everything is done at a more leisurely pace, in the full knowledge that in a civilization which is several thousand years—”

“Is your end of things all set?” asked Biff Knight.

“The masquerade will occur tomorrow evening,” replied the tiny doctor. “I’ve arranged for some very interesting guests. At midnight, of course, the supreme surprise.”

“Okay,” said Knight. His suede-booted right foot kicked at a plaster Venus next to his fat chair. “I’ll see that my people are delivered to the Palazzo Umberto sometime before midnight.”

“You foresee no problems, signore?”

“Nope, Zull’s parties are never that terrific. By midnight plenty of people will be ready to head on to another one.”

The doctor rubbed at a mole with a thumb knuckle. “Won’t all this disrupt your career?”

“Not a lot, not if we handle it the way we planned,” answered the actor. “And this is much more important.”

“Much more, yes.” Dr. Benvenuto hunched on the stool. “These sacrifices must be made. To pay for the benefits one is given, to keep the Seven Servants from…well, the case of your late colleague, Rex Trice, is a good example.”

“I told Rex he couldn’t back out. Once you’re in, you’re in.”

Nodding, Benvenuto said, “Ah, but he apparently believed he could outwit them at last by taking his life. Very foolish.”

“Yeah, all that meant is they got his soul a lot sooner.”

Out in the shop the monkey began chittering and squealing.

The little doctor hurried to the bead screen. “What is it, Benito?”

The monkey grew silent.

“Here, a fresh sack of nuts.” Throwing the little paper bag to the monkey, Dr. Benvenuto returned to the stool. “I anticipate a very successful evening tomorrow.”

“You still haven’t explained everything to Duke Umberto, huh?”

“Not yet, no.”

“He’s going to be surprised…when the real festivities get going.”

Dr. Benvenuto said, “The duke was desperate when he hired me. ‘I will give anything to have Angelica up and around again, dottore.’” The tiny man laughed. “Anything, he told me. Well, the beautiful Angelica walks once again, and it is time to collect.”

“The old guy doesn’t know…?”

“That Angelica is dead?” said the doctor. “Oh, no.”

Rummonds, Seymour Zull’s righthand man, moved quickly away from the curio shop window when the monkey began making all that noise inside there. He made his way back along the twilight lane. “I’ll have to find out who that little guy is,” he thought. “Obviously Biff came here to meet him.”

He stepped into a dark doorway. He’d be able to watch the front of the shop from here. In a way he hoped he wouldn’t find out any more about the whole business, about the cult Biff Knight and some of the others were involved in. Every time he brought in some new piece of information, Zull ranted and raved.

“That son of a bitch. Someday I’m going to tell him…” No, no use pretending. He knew he would never do that, he’d stay working for Zull until the son of a bitch fired him.

“The little guy is obviously local. So this cult must have ties in Venice.”

As if there wasn’t enough to worry about without all this, Jak Stone’s agent was asking for even more than they’d offered Rex Trice. They had to have somebody. You couldn’t shoot The Vampire of Venice without somebody playing the damn vampire.

And the goddamned technical adviser, another of Zull’s inspired hirings. Count Mordante or whatever his name was. Never shows up till practically sundown, criticizes everything when he does. “This isn’t right, that’s not accurate, this is an anachronism.” We’re only making a horror flick, for Christ sake. Don’t need a technical adviser at all.

“Why, good evening, Mr. Rummonds.”

He blinked. “Hello.” It was Kay Damson, who was playing the vampire’s unsuspecting fiancée. Not tied in with this cult at all, far as he’d been able to find out. But what was she doing here?

“There are certainly some interesting shops in this part of Venice, aren’t there?”

“I hadn’t really noticed.”

“Aren’t you here to browse?”

“No, I’m meeting someone,” said Rummonds. “There’s always one more thing to arrange, and some of these Venetians have very odd ideas about where and when to conduct business.”

The slim blonde girl joined him in the doorway alcove and reached around him to try the doorknob. “This shop seems to be closed,” she said. “A pity, they have some fascinating lace in their window.”

“Well, you’ll probably have better luck at one of the other shops.”

The girl brought her large straw purse up in front of her and thrust a hand into it. “I almost get the impression you’re trying to get rid of me.”

“Not at all, Miss Damson.”

“You don’t seem like a bad guy,” she said. “It’s really a shame you grew so inquisitive.” She slid a knife from the purse. “You’ve learned all you ever will about the Cult of Chaos!”

Before he could speak or cry out the knife sliced into him.

Chapter 4

“I can hear you,” shouted Seymour Zull above the roar of the shower. “Keep talking.”

The young attorney, clutching the handle of his briefcase with both hands, stood just outside the partially open door of Zull’s huge marble and brass bathroom. “The authorities won’t wait much, beyond tomorrow. They want to talk to you, Mr. Zull.”

“Huh? Talk louder.”

“The authorities want to talk to you!” yelled the young attorney.

“Why? It’s not my fault Rummonds got himself knocked off by some Venetian mugger.”

“They don’t think it was a mugger.”

“Well, I think it was a mugger. And it’s no concern of mine.”

“Nothing was taken; Mr. Rummonds wasn’t robbed.”

The water ceased flowing. Zull’s wet feet slapped on the marble flooring. “Jesus, is this stuff slippery!”

“Mr. Zull, the police believe there’s a possible connection between Rex Trice’s death and that of poor Rummonds.”

“You don’t have to scream, the water’s off.”

“They want to talk to you, because they think the two deaths may be linked.”

“How? That faggot blows his own brains out, then Rummonds gets a knife stuck in him by some mugger. They’re both dead, that’s the only link.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Zull they insist on talking with you.”

“I didn’t catch that last.” His electric razor had started buzzing.

“I can’t stall them beyond tomorrow. I really believe the simplest course, Mr. Zull, is to talk to the police.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll see if I can fit them in.”

The young attorney shifted his grip on his briefcase. “Was Rummonds on some errand for you, Mr. Zull?”

“He worked for me. Maybe he was checking on something. When you make a movie in the midst of a bunch of foreign idiots you got a lot of extra problems. He was on the go most of the time.”

“Should there be some trouble, something which has nothing to do with the film, Mr. Zull, I think I ought to be—”

“You let me worry about things like that.” The razor cord was jerked out of the wall. “Now I’ve got to get dressed. You can tell the cops I’ll see them tomorrow. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“At the damn party. I’m having a party, remember?”

“I assumed, because of Mr. Rummonds’s unfortunate death—”

“That’s no reason to call it off. Now get out.”

Pendragon deftly opened the gilded box and tipped it toward the guests crowded in the large smoky room. “You will observe, dear people (those of you who are not too stewed to see anything), that the trio of golden eggs has vanished,” he said. “They have been scattered hither and yon by deep mystical forces beyond our humble comprehension.” Handing the empty casket to the scarlet-clad Vampirella, who drew it to her bosom and with it the eyes of the crowd, he moved into the audience. “Ah, yes, here is one of them.” He plucked a gold egg from behind Biff Knight’s ear. “Here, I do believe, is yet another.” This one he lifted off Kay Damson’s lap. “The final gold-hued sphere, unless my keen occult powers are playing me false, reposes in the potion being swilled by our amiable host.” He made his way to Zull and took his glass of vodka from him. Holding the glass up, he pointed at the gold egg which sparkled among the melting ice cubes. “I suggest, Mr. Zull, you order a fresh drink, and while you’re at it, one for your obedient servant, the Great Pendragon.”

The magician stepped back to where Vampirella stood, her almost bare body bannered with satin. Thick yellow smoke swirled up from the floor. Soon it engulfed both of them. When the smoke cleared a moment later, they were gone.

Zull’s guests applauded.

“That’s not the finish to the act I’ve heard about,” complained Knight. “There’s a terrific illusion they end with. The girl turns into a bat or something. Friend of mine caught them in the Caribbean.”

“Because of the equipment involved, we were forced to refrain from our famed transmogrification finale.” Pendragon had reappeared next to Knight’s chair, a glass of Scotch in his hand. “However, you may witness it nightly at the Club Gondola.”

“Biff would like to witness your assistant again,” said Kay.

“She’s really something to look at,” admitted the actor. “Say, Mr. Pendragon, I wonder if you and Vampirella would care to tag along with us tonight?”

“What further revels do you have in mind, my lad?”

The actor checked his platinum wristwatch. “Some of us are going to drop in on a certain Duke Umberto in a while,” he explained. “The Palazzo Umberto has a long and illustrious history, and the duke hasn’t thrown a party for years, I hear. This is a rare opportunity. Going to be a costume party, so we’ll borrow a few of the costumes from The Vampire of Venice, unbeknownst to our amiable host.”

“I imagine my present attire is flamboyant enough to pass muster at any masquerade.” Pendragon adjusted his cloak and gazed around the room. “Let me consult my vivacious associate and convey your kind invitation, Mr. Knight.”

“Do that.”

Vampirella, her leopard-skin coat thrown over her bare shoulders, was in a far corner talking to the young attorney. He leaned forward looking deeply into her glowing eyes, drawn by her curving mouth, but he still held onto his briefcase.

Pendragon excused himself and guided the girl into an unoccupied alcove. “You’ve made yet another conquest, my child. The illustrious idol of the silver screen, Mr. Biff Knight, has invited you, and your doddering dueña, to abandon Mr. Zull’s fête in favor of a masquerade at the fabled palazzo of one Duke Umberto.”

“Yes, we’ll go,” answered Vampirella in a low, even voice.

One of the magician’s eyebrows rose. “I sense some undercurrent here, my sweet.”

“It’s only a hunch,” the girl said, flinging her black hair from her thoughtful face, “but I have a very strong feeling Knight is involved with something.”

“Something like what?”

“Like the Cult of Chaos.”

Chapter 5

Even the glow of the great crystal chandelier could not clear the shadows out of the corners of the ballroom. A chill musty smell hung in the air, drowning out the mingled scents of perfume and cigarette smoke. The five dark-suited and gaunt men who made up the orchestra played with a frenzied concentration. Very few of the fifty or more costumed guests danced. They stood, rather, in small groups and clusters, talking in subdued voices. Watching them all was the pale Angelica, who sat stiffly in a carved wooden chair. She wore a ballgown of white lace, a black domino mask over her eyes. Beside her, one hand resting on the high back of the chair, stood her father.

“A very nice party, Angelica,” he said.

“Yes, Father, I am enjoying myself. It’s pleasant to see some of our old friends after so long a time. The Princess di Pozzi is looking quite well. Though her mask hides a good deal of her face.”

“The Princess di Pozzi can’t be—”

“But there she is, Father, with the scarlet mask covering her face. She seems deep in conversation with Dr. Benvenuto.”

A frown touched the duke’s face. “She does indeed remind me of the princess, yet…”

“What, Father?”

“Nothing, Angelica, nothing.”

The pale woman said, “I’m also pleased to have a professional magician among our guests.”

“A friend of Dr. Benvenuto’s, apparently—he came with those cinema people.”

“The girl accompanying him is very striking,” remarked Angelica. “Perhaps we might ask them to entertain us later in the evening.”

“It is very nearly midnight,” her father reminded. “You shouldn’t be staying up—”

“Oh, I don’t intend to retire just yet, Father.”

Across the room Pendragon helped himself to another drink from the amply stocked sideboard. “Having had many requests to repeat my famed disappearing booze illusion, I will now prepare for it.” He carried his glass back to the corner where Vampirella sat, poised and sinuous, radiating life in this strange assembly. “Not the most lively group of revelers I’ve ever found myself amongst.”

“They have other reasons for being here,” she said.

“You still maintain (excuse me while I soak my tonsils) that the dashing young Biff is a member of that dreadful cult?”

“I feel it very strongly.” As she spoke, Vampirella dug her scarlet fingernails into her large shoulder bag, momentarily. “There are several other members here now, all around us.”

“Ironic that a man with my many and varied gifts has not one ounce of extrasensory ability,” the magician said after another swallow of Scotch. “I could be in a room full of starving cannibals who were about to break their fast with me and not one tingle of warning would I get up inside the old headbone.”

A pirate, black-bearded and black-masked, danced by with a peasant maiden all in yellow.

“Putting an end to the Cult of Chaos is desperately important to me. It has almost become an obsession,” said Vampirella. “Perhaps that makes me more sensitive to them.”

“Lord knows I’m no fonder of them, after all I’ve suffered through, than you are, dear child.”

The Cult of Chaos had been in existence for many long centuries, dedicated to the worship of the demon god Chaos and his Seven Servants. Witches, sorcerers, and black magicians through the ages had sought aid of Chaos and the seven lesser demons who served him. Demons who could cross from the Nethervoid, where Chaos ruled, to grant favors and to collect the payments those favors called for. The cult had all but vanished in the 19th century, and many believed it had died out altogether. This was not true, for the worshippers of Chaos flourished once again. Vampirella, a refugee from the dying planet of Drakulon, had encountered and bested covens of the Cult of Chaos almost from the moment of her arrival on Earth. She and the reluctant Pendragon had fought the cult in many parts of the world, from the serene English countryside to the voodoo jungles of the Caribbean. Now, Vampirella was nearly certain she had found another branch of the cult here in Venice.

“You’re not going to let her die, are you?” Kay Damson asked Knight. She wore the 19th-century evening gown she was to wear in The Vampire of Venice.

They were both standing near the orchestra dais, watching the others in the ballroom. “Does seem a shame, doesn’t it?” Knight’s eyes were on Vampirella. She was deep in conversation with Pendragon, her body tense, her booted legs set wide apart, her eyes flashing.

“Can it be you’re getting sentimental, like poor departed Rex?”

“Rex was stupid. He never really understood what the cult was all about. He was content enough to take all the benefits, but he wouldn’t keep his part of the bargain.”

“She is very pretty, and that costume doesn’t let you forget it.”

“Stop needling me, damn it, Kay. I invited Vampirella and that rum-dum magician here for one reason.” Knight lifted his black mask up off his eyes. “When the time comes for the ceremony, those who aren’t members of the cult…just don’t worry. I have no intention of ending up like Rex.”

Dr. Benvenuto drew his gold watch out of his vest pocket, consulted it, pursed his lips, rubbed at each of his hair-tufted moles in succession, returned the watch to its pocket, and crossed through the costumed figures to Duke Umberto’s side. “I would like a word with you, my dear duke.”

“Let me first ask you, dottore, if it is good for Angelica to sit up so late?”

“No harm will come of it.” The tiny doctor led the duke to an embroidered silk-covered sofa. “Sit down, we have much to discuss.”

“Who is that woman in the crimson mask? Angelica thinks it’s the Princess di Pozzi. Since the princess is several years dead, I know that cannot be true.” Duke Umberto, weary, dropped onto the sofa. “Yet I must admit she carries herself very much as the princess did. Who is it?”

“The Princess di Pozzi.”

“She is dead. How—”

“The di Pozzi family made an arrangement with me some years ago,” explained the little doctor. “I was able to perform for them a service similar to the one I have recently performed for you, dear duke.”

The duke stared at the woman in the crimson mask. “What are you saying, dottore?”

“You had best listen carefully to what I have to unfold.” Dr. Benvenuto took another look at his round gold watch. “Your daughter died seven months ago, shortly after I took over her unfortunate case. It’s a miracle she lived for as—”

“Angelica is right there!”

“Yes, and the princess is right over there,” said the tiny doctor. “Both of them are dead. True, they can move and talk and think. They are, nevertheless, quite dead.” He placed a hand on the duke’s knee, grinning up at him. “You said you would give anything, dear duke, to have Angelica leave that bed upstairs where she’d spent so many years. Very well, I have worked just such a miracle for you.”

The duke breathed in gasps, his mouth slightly open. “What you are telling me…these things are impossible!” He suddenly made the sign of the cross. “God would not allow it.”

Dr. Benvenuto laughed. “Your family is old, Duke Umberto, and our beloved Venice much older. The church in which you believe is nearly twenty centuries old,” he said. “But I tell you that before there was an Umberto family, before there was a Venice or a church, before there was a Rome…before there was even time, there were beings of great power. This world of ours was their domain, and they still wield great power here. They can grant great boons and favors.”

The duke did not speak. He watched his daughter sitting so white and straight in her chair.

“For those who know how to reach them, how to communicate with them, they will do many things,” continued the tiny doctor. “There is, as you might suspect, a price.”

Duke Umberto remained silent.

“Tonight, my friend, the price must be paid,” said Dr. Benvenuto. “We must make a sacrifice to Chaos and his Seven Servants for what has been given to you and to the beautiful Angelica.”

“No.”

“Chaos must have lives, souls to carry across to the Nethervoid. We must provide them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have seen to it that there are two sorts of guests at your splendid masquerade this night, dear duke. Those who are Companions of Chaos and those who will be sacrificed to him.”

“Sacrificed? Are you insane, Benvenuto? You mean you would kill—”

“I have killed many times in the past,” the doctor told him. “I will continue to do so.”

“No, never!” Duke Umberto rose up. “Nothing like that shall happen here.”

“They will take her from you again,” warned the tiny doctor. “You will lose your Angelica forever, for good and all.”

“I lost her already, months ago, if what you say is true.”

Dr. Benvenuto lurched to a standing position. “There can be no backing out, duke. There are other reasons why sacrifices are needed, needed tonight.”

“My friends, listen to—” A hand clamped over Duke Umberto’s mouth. At a signal from the doctor, Biff Knight had come up behind him and waited.

“The doors should all be securely locked by now,” observed Dr. Benvenuto. “We can begin.”

Chapter 6

Wind rubbed at the round stained-glass window, a window heavy with flakes of crisp snow. The small, curly-haired man turned his attention from the snowy night to the ample blonde-braided waitress who was serving him his afterdinner coffee. The fire crackling in the nearby stone fireplace made her regularly rosy cheeks glow even rosier.

“A pilgrim such as I,” he said to the pretty blonde girl, fluffing his substantial mustache as he did, “a wanderer far from home, is more in need of company than some of these other lads.” He indicated the ski-sweatered, wind-burned young men at the other tables, only a few at this relatively late hour. “I’m from a hot country. You’re accustomed to ice and snow, Inger.”

She smiled down at him. “Your problem isn’t really the climatic shock of your transition from the Caribbean to the Dolomite Alps, Mr. Zanka,” Inger told him. “Although I imagine a small amount of jet lag and cultural shock is involved in your current dilemma.” With the flat of one hand she brushed crumbs off the checkered tablecloth into the palm of the other. “I think what’s at the root of your attraction to me is the age-old Nordic Aspiration Syndrome.”

“Lord, a brainy one,” murmured the curly-haired Zanka. “I never have any luck with the brainy ones. What, Inger, is the Nordic Aspiration Syndrome?”

“You’ll find, Mr. Zanka, that most small Latin peoples are attracted to larger fair-haired peoples. It’s a quite common form of attempted social betterment and, indeed, I believe it was the basis of the barbarian sacking of—”

“This sort of thing, Inger, this looking deep into the causes of relations between peoples, is that your main interest in life?”

“At the Stockholm Free Form College I’m majoring in Roots of Social Interaction,” admitted the big blonde.

“Well, then, here’s an opportunity for you to do some field study. When you return to far-off Stockholm you’ll be able to tell them you actually spent time with one of the worst cases of Nordic Aspiration Syndrome known to man. The advantages of such—”

“You’re a charming little fellow, Mr. Zanka,” the pretty waitress told him. “However, it’s against the policy of the Cozy Mountain Inn chain for the help to fraternize with the guests.”

“Even to further the study of Social Interaction? Sounds to me like something you could get a grant for.”

Inger smiled down at him again. “I must return to the kitchen.” She walked, buoyantly, across the wood-paneled dining room.

Zanka tried his coffee and found it cool. “The smart ones never relate to me,” he said morosely into the cup.

Wind howled louder and snow came swirling into the hallway. Two men, bundled in overcoats and scarves, walked in out of the alpine night.

After another unenthusiastic sip at his coffee, Zanka sat up straight. “Do these old private eyes of mine deceive me? No, indeed.” He got up and scooted out to the inn’s registration desk.

Adam Van Helsing was helping his blind father out of his snow-flecked black overcoat. “What was that you said, Dad?”

“We’re about to meet an old friend of yours.”

“Here at the Cozy Mountain Inn?”

“Here in this very snowbound hallway,” announced Zanka, grinning. He waited until Adam was finished with the coat, then held out his hand. “Good to see you again…” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “Can I use your real name, or are you on a case where you’d prefer—”

“We are here to investigate something,” said Adam. “But we’re not incognito.”

“I trust you’re feeling well, señor Van Helsing?” the curly-haired detective inquired of the old man.

“Very well, all things considered,” replied Van Helsing. “And what brings you so far from your native island of Côte de Soleil?”

“A case,” said Zanka. “Could be, Adam, you and I have similar reasons for being here. We ought to talk.”

“Yeah, I think so. Meet me in the bar in about fifteen minutes.”

Nodding, Zanka returned to his cold coffee. “I bet Inger will like Adam, suffering as she does from the Big Handsome Six-Foot-Plus Syndrome.”

Zanka clicked his brandy glass against Adam’s. “Basically, you know, I’m a plain, everyday private investigator,” he said. “I do, though, have some rep as a specialist in cases with occult overtones. But I’m glad you’re here, Adam, you’re a real occult detective.”

“I’ve had some experience in that area, yeah.”

The barroom of the inn was a small, dark-wood place. A long blond man with his left foot in a cast sat close to the small fireplace, staring at it as though it were a television set. The wind still worried at the windows.

“You and your father are here because of the vampire business, aren’t you?”

“Right, Dad’s got one of his hunches.”

“So have I,” said Zanka. “I’ve been over all the newspaper accounts, I’ve talked to some people, and I got a look at a couple of the autopsy reports. Very little doubt about it, we’ve probably got a vampire roaming in this area of the Alps. Although I want to do some more checking before I report that to my clients.”

“Who are they?”

“Sebastian Banderado and his wife, a very wealthy plantation family on Côte de Soleil,” replied the detective. “Their daughter, Ramona, was killed here three weeks ago. When her body got home and their local priest got a look…Well, they decided they wanted to know more about how the girl died. They want to know whether there’s a possibility she’ll be a vampire herself.”

“What have you found out since you got here?”

“Only arrived the day before yesterday, and it took me most of my first day in the friendly ski village of Sciolto and environs to find out which officials to bribe for information.”

“All of the vampire killings have taken place in an area of about a hundred square miles.”

“Yes, and Ramona was killed right here in Sciolto, which is almost smack in the middle of the area.”

“So far we’ve only seen newspaper accounts,” said Adam. “What have you dug up that didn’t make the papers?”

The curly-haired detective shook his head. “Not much. Most of the police and civic officials I’ve chatted with think there’s a vampire loose in these parts. They don’t want to be quoted.”

“There’ve been vampire murders in these parts before.”

“I heard about them, from one of the cops and from a local bookseller. But, Adam, the last wave of similar killings took place around 1900.”

“1901.”

Zanka tugged at the ends of his moustache. “You think it’s the same guy, then and now?”

“That wouldn’t be unusual, for a vampire,” Adam replied. “My father has a pretty strong hunch that the same man is involved.”

“Ah, yes, I was forgetting you have the advantage of a psychic pop.”

Adam rotated his brandy glass. “Heard anything about a place called Castle Mordante?”

“Sure, the place is about fifteen miles from here, in a wild stretch of mountains where nobody skis much,” said Zanka. “My antiquarian hinted at dark deeds done there in the past. The current Count Mordante is supposedly a harmless fellow, somewhat of an occult scholar himself. Matter of fact, he’s been in Venice the past week, acting as a consultant on some goosepimple flick.” Zanka laughed. “Be funny if he was a vampire and they hired him to—what’s the matter?”

“Vampirella is there, in Venice. She and Pendragon are playing some club.”

“Notice how discreet I’ve become? I never even so much as mentioned the young lady. Now that you’ve brought up the name…what’s going on ‘twixt you and Vampirella?”

“I’m not sure,” answered Adam after several silent seconds. “You know, how my father felt about her, but I think he may be changing.”

“Getting even two people to agree on anything can be tough,” said the detective. “Maybe you ought not to wait until you and your father and Vampirella all agree on everything.”

“Maybe,” said Adam.

Zanka watched the fire, though not as intently as the man with the broken foot. “We were talking about this Count Mordante. Does your father suspect he might indeed be a vampire?”

“Yeah, he does.”

“And you think?”

“I want to find out more about him.”

“That might involve your going to Venice.”

“It might, yeah.”

Zanka took a slow sniff at his brandy. “Let me change the subject again,” he said. “What do you know about the Nordic Aspiration Syndrome?”

Chapter 7

The lanky, suntanned young man in the devil suit leaned, almost casually, against the main door out of the ballroom. There was a .38 revolver in his hand. The lights of the immense dangling chandelier had been extinguished, and only a dozen candles illuminated the vast room. The musicians had fallen silent. Duke Umberto, gagged now, hands tied behind him, sat slumped on the silken sofa. His daughter, Angelica, watched the people in the room, as straight and calm as ever.

Dr. Benvenuto, flanked by Knight and Kay Damson, stood facing the guests who’d been herded to one side of the enormous room. The tiny doctor had trouble remaining still. He paced, strutted, rubbed at his moles, tugged his ears, and scratched himself while addressing the thirty some masqueraders who were to be the victims of the Companions of Chaos.

“…a rare honor, my dear friends, to be sacrificed to the ancient demons who rule our world,” he was saying. “You must understand that while Chaos has given us much, he in turn demands much. He demands souls, he demands blood and lives!”

“Whoa now, my diminutive chum,” put in Pendragon, who stood next to Vampirella, “surely you’re not deluded enough to believe you can slaughter, or, to borrow your rather euphemistic term, sacrifice dozens of people right here in the middle of modern-day Venice and have even the smallest chance of getting away with it.”

The tiny doctor laughed, pacing more rapidly, scratching at his ribs. “We have offered many sacrifices to Chaos and his Seven Servants, sir, and we still roam free,” he said. “In this particular case, the terrible fire which is going to ravage much of this splendid old palazzo will safely hide the manner in which you all died.”

“They can’t destroy this fine old palace,” protested one of the victims, a fat man dressed as Robin Hood.

“To hell with the palace,” said Pendragon., “it’s my neck I’m worried about.”

“Too much talk.” Kay slid a hand into her blouse and drew out the knife which had been sheathed between her breasts. “They don’t need to know anything. We must proceed.”

Dr. Benvenuto said, “You should learn patience from the ancient gods, young woman.” He signaled to two men on his right.

One of the men hefted a heavy golden urn and placed it on a pedestal in front of the tiny doctor. As the other man touched a glowing taper to the pungent oil in the urn, soot-tipped orange flames shot up.

Raising his hands high over his head, Dr. Benvenuto said, “Oh, Great Chaos, you who dwell eternally in the Nethervoid, send us one of your Seven Servants. Send unto us, the devout Companions of Chaos, one of those mighty demons who shares infinity with you. Send unto us Nuberus, that he may take with him to the Nethervoid the souls we offer to you tonight.”

“Send him unto us, send him unto us,” the others chanted. Knight, Kay, the young man in the devil suit, the men who stood near the intended victims with guns trained on them all chanted. “Great Chaos, send him unto us.”

The flames rising from the golden urn danced far to one side, and the candle flames around the ballroom flickered. A new kind of darkness was among them, spilling out of the shadowy corners and moving toward those who were to be sacrificed. The air grew chill.

“He comes,” whispered the Princess di Pozzi behind her crimson mask.

“Tonight, Great Chaos,” continued the tiny doctor, “we offer you many new souls. Souls sacrificed in blood, sent to you—”

“Look at me!”

The doctor inhaled sharply. The sudden command had startled him. “You can’t—”

“Look at me!” repeated Vampirella. She had stepped clear of the huddled prisoners of the cult and raised her arm to point at Benvenuto. Standing there in her scant scarlet costume, Vampirella said, “You have no choice. You will look at me. You will listen to me.” Her eyes glowed.

The little doctor crouched and tried to turn his head away. But the girl’s eyes held him. He had to look, and in a moment there seemed to be nothing else in the room, only those glowing eyes. The words he heard next were heard by no one else; they echoed inside his head as Vampirella hypnotized him.

“Your cult is at an end. You will do exactly as I say.”

Benvenuto, mouth hanging open, eyes half closed, nodded, mumbling, “I will.”

“We are all to be released. You will—”

“That bitch!” cried Kay. “What’s she doing to him?”

“Look out!” warned Pendragon.

The blonde girl charged toward Vampirella, knife held low at her side. “You’ll be the first! The first to die for Chaos!” The knife rose as she leaped at Vampirella.

Vampirella was not there. She sidestepped and thrust out a booted foot.

Kay fell, sliding along the polished ballroom floor, but she held on to the knife tightly. She stumbled to her feet, then dived, knife slashing, again at Vampirella.

Vampirella caught the blonde girl’s knife hand by the wrist, swung her around and sent her, staggering and hopping, to crack into the wall. At the impact, an oil painting of an 18th-century Umberto came crashing down.

“Come, Nuberus,” Dr. Benvenuto was crying, “come unto us and take your sacrifices. Destroy this girl.” The distraction had allowed him to break the hypnotic hold.

The chill increased; the shadows thickened.

“He comes, he comes!”

From within her shoulder bag Vampirella snatched a book. It was a very old book, ancient, bound in what might be leather.

Knight knew what book it was. “The Crimson Chronicles!”

It was the perverse bible of the Cult of Chaos, and Vampirella had acquired this copy during the terror-filled time of her meeting with Pendragon. The magician hated the book, feared it, but he knew it could be used for dismissing the Servants of Chaos as well as summoning them.

Vampirella opened the book, eyes glowing again. “You will not interfere!” she ordered Dr. Benvenuto.

He struggled and writhed, but he was entranced. He had to obey.

Vampirella began to read from The Crimson Chronicles.

“You idiots,” Knight called to the guards, “how long are you going to stand around? Stop her!”

“Tut-tut,” said Pendragon to the guard nearest to him as the young man raised his pistol to point it at the nearly bare, glistening flesh of the dark-haired girl. A metal-tipped wand appeared suddenly in the magician’s hand. He used it first to knock the gun to the floor and next to whack the guard over the skull.

A second guard started for Vampirella. One glance from her blazing eyes, and he halted in his tracks.

She continued to read from the ancient book. Gradually, then more rapidly, the shadows vanished and the chill was gone. “All bargains are at an end,” she said, “no more souls will be surrendered. Everything will be as it was.”

A strange scream tore from the lips of the fat Robin Hood. He had happened to be looking at the Princess di Pozzi, and now he could not tear his eyes away.

The bargain with Chaos, made years ago by Dr. Umberto, had been canceled by Vampirella. Life had deserted the princess, and she was all at once several years dead. The ballgown fell from her. Within it a skeleton swayed for an instant before clattering to the floor. The head detached, bounced, and rolled over the glistening floor. The crimson mask dropped away, and the skull came to a stop against the carved wooden leg of a chair.

“Horrible, horrible, my god.” The fat man in the Robin Hood costume began plucking at his throat, then trying to find his rosary beads.

On the silken sofa Duke Umberto moaned. Angelica no longer sat stiff and straight in her chair. She had slumped far forward. Within the spotless white lace dress a corpse decayed, the corpse of the woman who had died many months ago.

By the time they removed the gag from his mouth, her father could no longer speak.

Chapter 8

Seymour Zull brooded in the center of the long, high-ceilinged bedroom while the two tall, languid girls in bright bikinis, aided by a perspiring Italian in a blue suit, packed suitcases and trunks. “How rotten things can get,” he observed, fist pressed against chin.

One of the tall girls, the red-haired one, started over to console him. “Poor Sy,” she began.

“Pack, bimbo,” Zull ordered her, making a shooing gesture with his many-ringed right hand. He sank deeper into the leather chair. “I’ve had actors get arrested before…for smashing up a car, or screwing some broad. But I’ve never had actors picked up for being devil-worshippers. That’s really one for the books.”

“Poor Sy,” said the other girl, the blonde one.

“Fill the trunks, stupid. We got to be out of here by six.” He poked a fist into each jaw and watched a beam of sunlight knifing across the afternoon bedroom. “Whole damn movie down the drain. That’s truly lousy.”

The redhead made a small gasping sound.

Zull scowled, then followed her gaze to the door.

A lean man, face blue-white, hair intensely black, stood in the doorway, framed by shadows. He wore a black blazer, black turtleneck, and black trousers. Bowing very slightly, he entered. “I am glad to be able to catch you before you departed Venice,” he said to Zull.

The producer said, “The accounting people were supposed to settle with you, count. We’re not going to make the film, so—”

“I know The Vampire of Venice is, shall we say, in limbo at the moment,” said Count Mordante. “You must be aware by now that my interest in the motion picture was not a financial one. To see a true and accurate film about the undead, about those for whom the blood is the life, was my object in offering my services to you originally.”

“I appreciate the help you did give us, count,” said Zull. “Today, though, every bum in town’s been showing up with some bill or other. We got one this morning for two hundred swans.” He attempted to straighten up in the chair, thought better of it, and returned to slumping. “It’s nice you should drop in.”

“Perhaps some day you will return to Venice to—”

“Not very damn likely,” Zull assured him. “When we take Vampire off the shelf, we’ll shoot it in Hollywood.”

Count Mordante shook his head. “That is unfortunate,” he said. “Venice is a very beautiful city. Regrettably you had an unpleasant time.”

“Unpleasant? I guess so! My male lead blows his brains out, my female lead stabs my righthand man, my second lead tries to kill some weird old duke and a roomful of his guests, my studio tells me to quit and come back home. It’s lousy, all around lousy.”

The count had a flat package, something wrapped in green paper, under his arm. “As a memento of our working together,” he said, “I’ve brought you an inscribed copy of my most recent book, The Vampire Throughout History.”

“That’s really very thoughtful, count.” Zull accepted the proffered book. “I’ll read it on the goddamn plane going home.”

“Let me then wish you a safe voyage.” Count Mordante bowed and silently withdrew from the room.

When he was gone, the redhead said, “He’s kind of creepy.”

“You think anybody who doesn’t grab your ass five minutes after he’s met you is creepy.” Zull tossed her the wrapped book. “Pack this thing away somewhere.”

“I thought you were going to read it on the plane.”

“Vampires are the last thing I want to think about on the way home,” said the producer.

“And well you may gasp with awe (or are you yawning, you nitwits?), my beloved admirers,” Pendragon said to the audience who watched from the dimness beyond the spotlight. “For the illusion you have witnessed has stunned the crowned heads of Europe (and crowned many a stunned head). Others may saw a fair and nubile maiden in half, some may even attempt quartering; but only the Great Pendragon cuts her into eight separate and distinct pieces and then reassembles her.” He unfurled his cape by holding his arms out at his sides. “Sadly this far-famed diversion is the penultimate one in our evening’s performance, dear hearts (and you, too, with the fat cigar and the big mouth).” A gold-tipped wand appeared in his right hand. “Now then, if my stunning assistant, the famous Vampirella, is ready, we shall proceed to astound you with the final illusion of the evening.”

Vampirella, voluptuous in her clinging scarlet costume, nodded at him and smiled conspiratorily. She turned to include the audience in her smile, but suddenly the smile deserted her face.

“Yes, you are about to see the most amazing transformation ever attempted by any magician, wizard, or sorcerer (What’s the matter, child?).”

Vampirella shook her head, very briefly. “Nothing, go on.”

“This trick is so utterly amazing, astounding, and fantastic that I, the Great Pendragon, have offered the kingly sum (princely after taxes) of ten thousand U.S. dollars to anyone who can successfully duplicate it.” He pointed the wand at Vampirella. “Before your very eyes (gritty and bloodshot as they may be) I will change this enchanting maid into a fearsome creature, a terror of the night and darkness. Watch closely, but remember that no matter how closely you watch, you will never learn the secret.” He waved the wand in a series of tight circles. “Zelo Zeppo Zitella!”

Vampirella’s body quivered. Then she simply wasn’t there any more. But in the smoky air over the spot where she’d stood a large black bat circled and dipped.

The audience remained absolutely silent for almost half a minute before commencing to applaud, whistle, and shout, “Bravo!”

The great bat flew away and was lost in the darkness.

“Remember,” said Pendragon, “the only real thing in life is illusion.” He bowed as green smoke exploded up all around him to hide him completely.

He was back in their dressing room pouring warm Scotch into a tumbler before all the smoke had cleared. Glass in hand, Pendragon crossed to peek behind the dressing screen. “You’re pale all over, my child. What’s bothering you?”

Vampirella, tying the belt of her short terry robe, emerged. “I noticed someone in the audience.”

“Admittedly,” said the magician after gulping down a few ounces of liquor, “there are some pretty dreadful specimens of the creator’s handiwork wandering around loose, still you should—”

“The same man I saw that day in St. Mark’s Square.” She sat in the chair in front of the bulb-framed makeup mirror.

“Lecherous chap, is he?”

“He wants me,” Vampirella said slowly. “But not in that way.”

“My I.Q. is like the stock market. It must have dropped several points today. I don’t quite understand.”

“Again, it’s something I sense. He’s…evil.”

Pendragon refilled his glass. “Zounds, I thought we got rid of all the evil in Venice when we shut down the local branch of the cult.”

“He may be tied in with them; he may not. I’m not certain. I only—”

There was a knock on the door.

Pendragon started so sharply that at least a finger of Scotch sloshed out of his glass. “See what comes of telling me spooky stories?” He went to the door. “Autographed photos are a dollar each, minimum order a half-dozen.”

“A note for the signorina Vampirella.”

“I’m her baby-sitter, you may hand it to me,” said the magician as he opened the door and plucked the envelope from between the fingers of the shaggy-haired busboy.

The busboy turned his hand palm up.

“Here’s a little something for you, my lad.” After depositing the letter in his hip pocket, Pendragon closed his hand and then opened it. He dropped the resultant carnation into the busboy’s hand and shut the door.

“Buffone!”

“A missive for you, child.” Pendragon placed the buff-colored envelope on the dressing table next to Vampirella’s resting elbow.

She nodded. “Yes, it’s from him.”

“Your secret admirer?”

“Open it, will you?”

“Well, since I haven’t had much fan mail of my own during this engagement…” A few quick swallows of Scotch preceded his taking out of the letter. “Ah, a family crest, no less. This is a step above the tablet paper my followers favor. Ahum…‘I regret I missed meeting you at signore Zull’s party a few nights ago. I can truthfully say I have never been more impressed by a performance. You are most gifted indeed. You would truly bestow a great honor on me if you and your highly talented partner (fellow shows excellent taste, for a villain) would have a late supper with me this evening. Most respectfully, Count Mordante.’” Pendragon crumpled the page into a ball. “Shall I inform the count he can go peddle his embossed papers?”

Vampirella spoke to Pendragon’s reflection in the mirror. “No, you can tell him we accept.”

“Accept? Surely we don’t have to dine with a chap who gives you gooseflesh.”

“I have to face him eventually,” she said. “I think I’ll eventually have to destroy him. I may as well make my first move in the game tonight.”

“Very well,” said Pendragon. “Who do you think the fellow is?”

“A vampire,” answered the girl running the tip of her tongue along her scarlet lips, “like me.”

Chapter 9

The warm rain drifted down over the towers, steeples, and tiled roofs, pelted the dark water of the canal, and made a pinging sound on an empty green wine bottle which was floating by. Adam Van Helsing hurried into the lobby of the hotel, loosening the belt of his black raincoat as he went striding toward the desk.

There she was!

Adam stopped and changed course.

No, it wasn’t Vampirella, after all. For an instant, from the back, the dark-haired, slim-waisted girl had looked like Vampirella.

He went no closer to the girl, and an all-talking-at-once group gathered around her.

“You haven’t behaved like this since high school, Adam old boy,” he said to himself. “Seeing the girl you’re in love with everywhere. Very romantic, but a trained detective should know better.”

A sweet-smelling young man leaned behind the registration counter. The lower part of his face had been powdered very white in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal a worsening case of stubble. “Good evening, signore. You have a reservation?”

“I’ve already registered elsewhere,” Adam told him. “What I’d like to know is whether Mr. Pendragon and Vampirella are in.”

The clerk, very slowly, glanced back at the key-holding cubbyholes. “Both of them appear to be out, signore. Would you care, perhaps, to leave a message?” A memo pad was pushed across the marble desktop toward Adam.

“You’re sure neither one of them is in?”

“Quite certain.” He pushed the memo pad closer. “They’re entertainers, you know. A magical act, as I understand it, though I haven’t seen them myself. A dear friend of mine saw them earlier in the week and reports their act is rather mundane. Mr. Pendragon’s attempts at humor left my friend cold, and he found the girl vastly overrated.”

“Your friend is most likely a hopeless idiot.” Adam pushed the memo pad back toward the clerk with such force it flew clean off the desk.

“Speak the truth, and the world is your enemy,” sighed the sweet-smelling clerk as he stooped to retrieve the pad.

Leaving the hotel, Adam walked rapidly through the rain to Club Gondola, a half-mile or so from the hotel. A tourist fell out of a gondola with a great splash when Adam was halfway to his destination. He gave the accident only a passing glance.

In front of the club the headwaiter was sitting on the stone canal edge next to a weeping man wrapped in a great black cloak. “Can it be so bad, duke?”

The weeping duke let it rain on him for a while before replying, “Much worse, Giacomo.”

“Ah, but eventually, no matter where we wander or where we roam, a man must return to his home.”

“I know, Giacomo. That’s what’s so terrible.”

Adam tried the door of the club and found it locked.

“Closed, signore,” called Giacomo, jiggling keys in his tuxedo pocket. “As soon as I persuade the duke that home is where he ought to be, I, too, will depart the vicinity.”

“Never again,” the duke sobbed, “will I go home.”

Adam explained, “I’m looking for Pendragon and Vampirella.”

“The last performance concluded over an hour ago. You should have arrived earlier.”

“My train was delayed.”

Giacomo shrugged. “There will be two more shows tomorrow night.”

“I’d like to catch up with them tonight—we’re friends. You have any idea where they went?”

“You might consult their hotel.”

“Just did.”

Shrugging, spreading his hands wide, Giacomo said, “Then I fear I can be of no further help to you, signore. Now then, duke, we will both die of exposure if we don’t get up. soon. You must wend your way homeward.”

“Vampirella,” said the duke unexpectedly. “She’s dining at Antonio’s Restaurant tonight with an aquaintance of mine. I was having dinner there myself when the reservation was made for a late supper.”

“Okay, I’ll try Antonio’s. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Count Mordante,” replied the duke. “A member of a very old family in…” But Adam was already jogging away over the wet stones.

“Real magic,” said Count Mordante, “has been one of my life-long studies. Perhaps you’ve read my Myth and Magic in the Dark Ages?”

“No, but I’m on the waiting list for it at the lending library,” said Pendragon as he lifted the champagne bottle out of its ice bucket.

“You write about real magic,” said Vampirella, leaning toward him, her dark evening dress only partially concealing her breasts. “Do you believe in it, count?”

The count, very carefully, smiled. “We live, Vampirella, in the waning years of the 20th century. A belief in magic, black and white, would hardly be appropriate, would it? Therefore I will admit only an interest in what others believed in less enlightened periods.”

Their table was against the far wall of the huge, candlelit dining room at Antonio’s. The immediate tables were all vacant. “You’ve also made a study of vampires?” Vampirella asked, her eyes intense.

“I’m still in the process.” The table candle had burned low, casting deep stripes of shadow on his blue-white face. “It is a continuing endeavor, probably an endless quest. Most of the authorities—Montague Summers, Lewis Spence, Professor Farmer—have done scarcely enough.”

“How about scholars such as Seymour Zull?” asked Pendragon.

The count made a sound which might have been a laugh. “Zull, or more likely one of his lackeys, had read a book of mine. I was, therefore, invited to give technical advice on the ill-fated Vampire of Venice.”

Vampirella asked, “Do you believe there are still vampires in the world?”

“Many people believe so,” he answered evasively.

“What do you believe?” Vampirella pushed for an answer.

Count Mordante leaned back in his chair, his face lost in shadow. “Here we sit in a very fashionable restaurant in a highly sophisticated city discussing things peasants talk of around cook fires in the remotest of mountain villages,” he said. “I have often found that more sophisticated people are reluctant, even embarrassed, to talk of the really important things in the world. Death, the grave, the tomb…” His voice faded away. Resting his elbows on the crisp white tablecloth, he said, “I believe that vampires exist, that they have been able to cheat death. Oh, yes, Vampirella, it’s a much more miraculous world we find ourselves in than we like to admit.”

Pendragon set down his empty glass and eyed the champagne bottle speculatively. “Perhaps a bit more to fortify against the inclement night,” he murmured. “Rain can—”

A chair fell down at one of the empty tables.

“Am I intruding?” Adam, ignoring the chair he’d knocked aside, came up to their table.

Traveling in his wake, at a cautious distance, was one of Antonio’s waiters. “Uh…signore…um…”

Vampirella rose and stretched out her hands to touch him. “Adam, I didn’t know you were in Venice.”

“Apparently not.”

The trailing waiter decided to pick up the fallen chair. He gave a good deal of time and attention to returning it to exactly the same position.

“Adam, my boy, it’s good to see you again.”

“Is it?”

Vampirella put her hand on his. “I’d like you to meet our host.”

“I don’t want to meet—”

“Adam, please.”

His face remained grim for a moment, and his wide-shouldered body swayed. Then Adam exhaled and said, “Yes, excuse me for barging in on you.” He turned to nod at the still seated Count Mordante.

“Not at all,” said the count. “Please sit down and join us.”

Adam took the chair next to Vampirella and she slid back into her chair. With a touch that was a caress as well as a gesture of introduction, the girl said, “Count Mordante, this is Adam Van Helsing.”

“Ah, I have heard of you and your father, Mr. Van Helsing.”

Adam said, “And I’ve heard of you, Count Mordante.”

“Good, very good,” said the count. “I’m certain we will all be friends.”

Chapter 10

The phone rang, fuzzy and far away, the sound all mixed up with the patter of rain and the murmur of dream voices. Pendragon, huddled far over on one side of his bed with a sheet twisted round his middle and a blanket over most of his head, grunted.

The phone persisted.

“One moment,” he murmured, “while my astral body comes home.”

At last the magician got himself sufficiently awake and untangled to pick up the phone and place it somewhere near his face. “Yes, hello?”

A girl’s husky, urgent voice said, “Pendragon, you’ve got to come and help me, right now.”

“Vampirella, child, is that you?”

“Come to 72 Via Ammazzare. Quickly or—” The phone went dead.

“My dear, what…?” He blinked, brushed his gray hair off his forehead, yawned, and hung up. “There seems no recourse but a trip to the Via Ammazzare.” He stumbled off the bed. “Well, there’s one advantage to passing out while fully dressed, you don’t have to spend time putting your clothes on when you get up.”

Less than five minutes later, he was on the rainy night street. The time was a few minutes short of five A.M. The rain had turned cold, misty. He turned up the collar of his plaid cloak as he hurried along the empty street. The Via Ammazzare was within easy walking distance, even for a second-hand magician. Once Pendragon slowed, sensing something behind him. He saw nothing but shadowed doorways, not another living soul.

“Stop using clichés like that, m’boy. You’ll scare yourself. There aren’t any dead men trailing you, either.”

Inside his dully aching head he saw a replay of the last moments of the Princess di Pozzi, all in color and slow motion—the skeleton, all that was left of her, crumbling and clacking, the skull bowling across the dance floor.

“And I’ve got one of those things inside me, too. Very unpleasant to contemplate. At least I won’t be around to watch my own skull bouncing hither and yon.”

A high stone wall surrounded 72 Via Ammazzare. Pendragon pushed, gingerly, at the wrought-iron gate in the wall. It opened just enough inches to let him go through sideways.

He found himself in a large courtyard filled with…what?

“Ah, good morning.” He rubbed his eyes and squinted, trying to see through the misty rain and his hangover.

Angels they were, big. All watching him, their wings unfurled. Over there a saint or two.

“Marble,” the magician decided, “marble statues.”

One of them moved.

Pendragon stopped still.

No, it was the rain, the way it was drifting down, that made it seem as though the figure had moved. An illusion.

He wandered among the tall still figures and found the door to the establishment that went with the wall and the statues. Next to a wooden door was a small metal sign. Pendragon managed to keep a match lit by cupping his hand over it. By its fragile flicker he read, “Macri Brothers, Funeral Directors,” in both Italian and English.

“Were I to vote on all the places in the world I would want to be,” he murmured, “a funeral parlor in Venice at five A.M. on a rainy morning would be unlikely to make even the top twenty.”

He tried the brass knob, and the thick door silently opened. “I was afraid of this.” His eyes were used enough to the dark to be able to discern what was in the room he’d entered.

Coffins. Black coffins with silver handles, bronze coffins with gold fittings, plain pine coffins. Floral pieces made of plastic hung around the walls, along with religious paintings. The whole room smelled strongly of flowers.

“I wasn’t aware that plastic flowers had any scent. What won’t they think of next?”

What was that outside? He spun to face the window that faced the courtyard. Again he’d had the impression one of the stone figures had moved. Absolute stillness out there, the rain flickering down.

Click!

The door he’d closed behind him when he entered had been locked, from outside.

“Can it be,” Pendragon inquired aloud, “I have been lured into a trap?” He surveyed the coffin-filled room.

There was one other door, in the far corner. Whoever they were, they’d probably appear through that.

They didn’t.

The lid of the bronze coffin opened wide, then one of the black ones. Two large swarthy men sat up and pointed .45 semiautomatics at him.

“Forgive me for awakening you, gentlemen,” said Pendragon. “You go back to sleep, I’ll quietly—”

“Halt exactly where you are, signore.” A third coffin, a pine box, had opened to reveal the largest gunman so far. A .38 revolver in hand, he climbed out onto the carpeted floor. “This one we’re going to use for you, padrone.”

Pendragon asked, “Are all these coffins full of hoodlums?”

“No questions will be answered.” His .38 swung around to aim at the magician’s chest. “This is real simple; we shoot you and put you in the box. Then we—”

The window exploded. Shards and chunks of glass came spewing into the room. Rain and chill morning air followed, then Adam Van Helsing.

He landed on the biggest gunman’s back and yanked him around so he was facing his two associates. A flat-handed chop knocked the .38 to the floor. The carpet was so thick the thud was barely audible.

Adam had his own revolver in his right hand. “You two, throw the guns down and then get back inside your coffins and close the lids.”

“We don’t want to do anything like that,” said the one in the bronze casket. “We had enough trouble breathing when—”

“Do it!”

The guns hit the rug, and the coffin lids snapped shut.

The magician, after brushing a few scraps of window from his person, bowed to Adam. “A most timely, if unorthodox, entrance, Adam.”

“The guy they left on the door outside dropped the key. Rather than look for it, I took the quicker way in here,” he said. He shoved the biggest gunman toward the pine box. “You can play dead for a while, too. Until the police get here.”

“I don’t want to do that, either, I’m really not up to this morbid—”

“In, get in, quick.”

He complied.

Pendragon said, “Shouldn’t we inquire who hired them to arrange my premature burial?”

“We can,” said Adam, “but I doubt they know the name of the man behind it.”

“Your tone of voice implies that you do.”

“I think Count Mordante would like to see both you and me out of the way. Something about the way he was looking at Vampirella last night…”

“I could argue with you…but I’m inclined to agree,” said Pendragon. “How, by the way, do you happen to be on hand to make such a timely rescue?”

“I decided I’d better watch your hotel.”

“Since this was a hoax to get me here, I assume Vampirella is still safely back at our hotel. Would that I had had the sense to go to her room before I sped over here to the undertaker’s.” The magician frowned. “You followed me from the hotel, which means no one is watching Vampirella.”

“I don’t think he’s harmed her,” said Adam, “not yet.”

“To think I actually drank two bottles of the chap’s champagne.”

“Three,” said Adam. “I don’t want you to let it appear that you suspect Count Mordante was involved in this thing at all. He’s got something in mind for Vampirella, and I want to find out what it is.”

“I’ll remain as silent as the…I’ll be discreet,” promised Pendragon.

Chapter 11

After wiping cocoa foam from his mustache, Zanka moved closer to the black potbellied stove in the small back room of the small bookshop. “So what else do you know about Count Mordante?” he asked the small shopkeeper.

“He’s an excellent scholar.” The man was nearly seventy, his hair a fluffy white. His swivel chair creaked as he picked a book from his cluttered desktop. “I found his latest work quite brilliant, though a bit eccentric. Like all non-academic historians he—”

“I was more interested in the count’s family,” cut in the detective, “and in the castle.”

The shopkeeper dropped his copy of Vampire Legends of Middle Europe onto his lap. “The present count has occupied Mordante Castle for only a year or thereabouts,” he said. “Prior to that, he resided at various of the other family estates about Europe. He also spent a year or two in America, I believe, as a visiting professor of occultism at Yale.”

“That much I can get from the blurb on the dust jacket. You don’t seem to be as overflowing with antiquarian lore as you were on my last visit.”

“I was too talky the other day, my friend. It might be best to let all this talk of vampires die out.”

“Did someone suggest you clam up?”

“Well, it does our town no good to get a reputation as a place ridden with vampires. Many of the merchants and hotel proprietors feel—”

“A vampire running loose in the streets of Sciolto isn’t going to encourage the tourist trade either.”

Zanka set his cup on a stack of old graphics magazines. “I’m going to find out who killed my client’s daughter. I think it was a vampire. I think you believe that, too.”

“I shouldn’t be open today at all, there are many new books to be priced.”

“I’m going to go take a look at the Castle Mordante. Thanks for the cocoa.” Zanka headed into the main room of the shop.

“Mr. Zanka.”

“What?”

“Be careful,” called the old shopkeeper, “very careful.”

Nothing happened until after Zanka parked his rented red sports car in a level clearing off the mountain road which climbed up to the castle. He popped out of the car and the late afternoon sky went from pale blue to sooty gray.

“Come on, don’t rain.” Zanka started working his way up through the wooded area bordering the castle grounds.

The sky above the zigzag line of mountains on his left continued to change color. Gray gave way to yellowish black.

Zanka increased his uphill pace.

Everything was waiting—small animals and birds he wasn’t aware of until they fell silent, the very air itself.

“This must be one of those expectant silences they talk about.”

According to the maps he’d consulted in the town hall, a structure which resembled a giant’s cuckoo clock, the castle lay a good two miles from the spot where he’d left his car. Since he wanted to be unobtrusive about casing the place, Zanka didn’t drive any nearer.

A drop of rain, another, a scatter of them splashing on the leaves and brush. Then it was raining full force, pouring straight down through the trees.

His clothes were soggy and sticking to him, his hair uncurling over his forehead when he noticed the cottage. It was sitting there among the trees, made of stone with a tile roof, the path to its sprung door all weeds and burrs.

“More than enough roof to keep me dry,” decided Zanka. “And at least it’s not made out of gingerbread.”

He trotted along the soggy overgrown path and pushed at the door. The door was frozen in its gap-open position. A few forceful nudges from the detective’s shoulder got it to scrape open a few more inches.

Something ran away and into the wall when Zanka stepped across the threshold. This first room once must have been a parlor. Remnants of a hooked rug were still visible on the dusty, droppings-littered floor; two chairs made of roughhewn logs sat at the edge of the stone-walled room.

Scarcely any rain had seeped in here, but near the fireplace a new pool of water was forming where many other rainfalls had made a deep black stain.

“Very cozy,” remarked Zanka. He shrugged and hunched out of his dripping jacket and walked across the ruined floor to hang it over the back of one of the wooden chairs.

There was a window next to the fireplace, its leaded window panes nearly all gone, shutters gaping. Zanka peered out.

A blonde girl in a white dress stood among the trees a few yards away, looking directly at him. Zanka ducked.

“Wait now,” he chided himself, “that’s a pretty chicken thing to do, cringing like this. Anyhow, she’s seen you.” He raised his head for a second look.

No one was there. Just trees, and hard rain falling.

“Not a bad-looking girl, the brief glimpse I had. Where the hell did she get to?”

Nobody lived in these parts. So she had to be somebody from the castle.

Zanka decided to gather up his soggy coat and head back to the car. Sneaking up for an undetected view of Castle Mordante didn’t seem like a good idea now.

There was a very gentle sound—a faint shuffling in the next room, someone moving quietly over the floor.

Usually the idea that a pretty girl was trying to get close to him would not have bothered Zanka. Here, though, in this ruined cottage with the rain drumming heavy on the roof…He grabbed up his coat and made for the front door.

She was waiting for him on the weedy path. Slim, in a full-length white gown, she watched him with glistening eyes.

Zanka swallowed. He had the momentary impression the rain was not touching her.

“Got lost in the storm,” he explained in a voice oddly unlike his own. “Thought I’d dodge it in the cottage here. Hope I’m not trespassing…” He didn’t bother to finish. The flesh along his arms puckered, and his stomach felt very odd. Zanka realized the girl he was talking to was quite dead. She was walking around, blonde and pretty, but she was dead. He just knew that.

Then the girl raised her hand, beckoning him to come with her. And she smiled at him. Her lips, he noticed now, were black and crusted with something. Her teeth were stained black, too.

“Dried blood,” mumbled Zanka.

Someone came out of the cottage and grabbed him from behind.

Chapter 12

The golden-prowed gondola glided along the wide canal, the gondolier ignoring his passengers to listen to the transistor radio plugged to his ear.

“I feel like a tourist,” said Vampirella.

“We’re all tourists,” said Adam.

“What is it about Venice,” asked the raven-haired girl, “that makes everyone so philosophical? Pendragon has been spouting epigrams and pithy sayings ever since we got here.”

“Must be the antiquity of the place.” He sat close beside her, his arm around her shoulders while she traced the veins on the back of his hand with a scarlet fingernail. “You mentioned having something to tell me.”

“I wanted to thank you for extricating Pendragon from what he calls the sneak preview of his own funeral last night.”

The afternoon sky was hazy, blue streaked with lines of pastel pink. “You’ve got more than that on your mind.”

“Are all you Van Helsings mind readers? I thought only your father—”

“You’re being evasive.”

Vampirella nodded, her eyes on the cloudy water they were drifting through. “I’m going to take a course of action you may not approve of, Adam. Before you try to argue me out of it, let me, please, explain some of what I feel.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“You know this is not my native planet, that I come from a far-off planet named Drakulon. You’re one of the few people who know. When I first arrived on Earth I had to do certain things in order to survive.”

“I know all this. You don’t have to re—”

“Yes, I do. I was a vampire—my physical structure is such that if I do not take in human blood at least once a day I will die. I’m selfish, and I was more so then. I needed blood to live, so I killed to get it.”

“We don’t—”

“I am still, though the word was unknown on my dying world, a vampire.”

“You’re not, not now, not any more.”

“Should I not take the blood-substitute serum that the late Dr. Westron invented for me…If I didn’t take it tonight, for instance, then I would have no choice. I would become, very quickly, what I was. A vampire.”

“That’s not going to happen again.”

“Perhaps not; I’m hoping it doesn’t. The point is, Adam, that while I am not the kind of vampire your people think of when they use the term, I am still a vampire. And I can recognize another.”

“If this is leading up to your telling me you think Count Mordante is a vampire, I already suspect him myself.”

“That’s part of it. I can sense what he is, and I believe he senses what I am.”

“He can be kept from bothering you.”

“I don’t want that. He’s someone I must confront, confront and destroy.”

“No, you ought to stay away from him.”

“Let me try to explain what I intend to do.” Vampirella took his hand and rubbed it against her cheek. “The count is returning to his castle in two days. He’s expecting several guests, and he’s invited Pendragon and me to Castle Mordante as both entertainers and guests. I—”

“You can’t go to that place.”

“Yes, I can and I will.” Her fingers tightened on his. “You know what he’s been doing, you told me yourself about the blood killings. I’ll stop him.”

“Listen, Vampirella, my father’s done a lot of digging into this guy’s background. There’s a very strong possibility Count Mordante has been around for centuries, that he really is one of the undead.”

“Even the undead can die, your father knows that.”

“Count Mordante must be a very powerful man.”

“Yes, there’s no doubt he is,” said Vampirella. “Adam, you must understand I do not fear him. In two days I’ll be a guest at his estate, I wanted you to know.”

Adam watched the sky again. “All right, I know you well enough to know I can’t really stop you,” he told her at last. “I’ll be going back to Sciolto tomorrow.”

“Yes, and I’ll be glad you’ll be so near.”

Adam leaned over and kissed her. She was warm and a woman, and the thought of the sharp, pointed teeth behind those pouting lips made her all the more desirable. My father, he mused, is not the only Van Helsing who finds vampires fascinating…

The blind man walked up to the registration desk of the inn.

Before he could speak, the clerk said, “Signore Zanka has not yet returned, signore Van Helsing.”

“Gone for nearly twenty-four hours,” said Adam’s father. “Not the impression I had of what he intended to do.”

“You’ll forgive me for being frank, signore. From what I’ve seen of him I’d wager it is not unlikely he met a young lady and…” He waved his hand in the air, smiling. Then realized the old man couldn’t see. “You know what I mean.”

“What about the car he rented? Has it showed up anywhere?”

“It has not. My cousin Federico operates the rental service and he, too, had the impression signore Zanka would return the vehicle last evening. His brother-in-law is with the police and thus he’s been able to have a little official help in searching for the machine. Niente.”

“Zanka was planning to drive out in the direction of Castle Mordante.”

“Not a sign of the car on that road, signore,” the clerk said. “Oh, I almost forgot. With all this speculation about signore Zanka I nearly neglected to tell you a wire arrived for you. Do you wish me to read the message to you?”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you. It’s from my son, telling me he’ll be back late tomorrow,” said the blind man. “Now I believe I’ll have a look around town. Good day.”

“Oh, yes, good day.” The clerk watched Van Helsing’s departure from the inn, and after he was gone he watched the door he’d used.

Chapter 13

The long, low black car hissed through the open iron gates and across the late-afternoon courtyard. Rain bounced off its highly polished hood; tatters of ground fog gave way. The big car halted in front of the oaken doors of the huge gray stone castle. Silently leaving his seat, the driver walked around the vehicle to open the rear passenger door.

“Weather always like this?” asked the fat, pink-faced man who grunted and puffed his way out of the leather upholstery.

“Not always, sir.”

When he was flatfooted on the flagstones, the panting fat man reached a hand into the car. “Hand me that briefcase, Miss Austen, and then hop out.”

A slender gloved hand held out a bulging time-worn briefcase. Miss Austen followed, a pale, blonde girl, unobtrusively pretty.

“I’ll see that your baggage arrives in the house, sir.” The chauffeur climbed back into the car and drove off toward a yawning stone garage.

“Not a very communicative fellow. Thought for the first few miles he couldn’t speak English at all.”

“Perhaps he knows his place, Professor Haggard.”

Haggard began struggling up the front steps to the door of the castle. “Nonsense, Miss Austen,” he told his secretary. “No matter what a fellow’s station in life, he can afford to be sociable, within reason.”

The heavy doors opened inward before the professor reached them. “Professor Haggard and Miss Austen, is it?” A red-bearded butler was peering out at them.

“Yes, that’s who we are.”

“Right this way, sir,” the butler invited. “I’ll escort you to your rooms, and after you’ve freshened up from your journey you may wish to join some of the other guests in the library for cocktails.”

“Don’t drink myself,” puffed Haggard, “but I like to talk to people.”

In the library already were five other guests of Count Mordante. The count himself had not yet appeared.

Studying the wall-high shelves of books was a thin, white-haired man. “Why, he’s got a copy of Cultes des Goules, in almost mint condition, too. Haven’t seen another copy of that since I did graduate work at Miskatonic University. Ah, and look here, a truly fine copy of De Vermis Mysteriis, in the original binding. What I wouldn’t give for that! Say, look at this, it’s The Necronomicon in the extremely rare Ishpahan second edition. Oh…and, look what we have here, a very early copy of…” Lazlo Toth was directing his remarks to his wife, a small faded woman who sat in a very large chair quite near the empty fireplace.

Mrs. Toth, beyond saying, “My, yes,” at regular intervals, paid little attention to her husband’s browsing.

At the other side of the large room, near an opaque leaded window, stood the three other guests—a black man in a white suit, and two attractive women, one quite young, the other at the edge of being old.

“I hadn’t realized Toth was such an idiot,” said the black man. “His books, though completely misguided, are quite entertainingly written.”

“He wasn’t invited for his conversational ability, Victor,” said the older woman. “This is much more than a weekend party, after all.”

“Ever the schoolmarm, Eva,” the Negro said. “One would think you’d overcome the urge to correct and slap everyone on the knuckles.”

“It must be something in you that brings it out, Victor.”

Laura, the other woman, was tall and auburn-haired. “Considering everything you’ve both received through the cult, it’s amazing how pretty you still are.”

“You ought not,” cautioned Eva, “to mention that in front of outsiders.”

Victor laughed. “See, you’re doing it to Laura, too.”

“I think I know,” said Eva, “why Laura’s so uneasy.”

“I’m not uneasy. I’m a good deal calmer than either of you.”

“It’s jealousy. The moment you heard the count had invited this Vampirella here, Laura, you’ve been acting like the runner-up in a cheerleader contest.”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said the girl, “I think it would be very foolish of him to change his plans now. There is no more loyal priestess than I am, not one who’s delivered so many sacrifices, and yet—”

“Please, Laura, not in front of outsiders!”

“Oh, they’re both too preoccupied to hear me,” she said. “Even if they should, what difference does it make? Neither of them will live beyond this weekend.”

“This is the strangest prison fare I’ve ever had,” remarked Zanka. A plate with two glazed doughnuts and a carrot had just been shoved through the momentarily open door of his stone cell. “For breakfast it was a loaf of French bread, for lunch three apples, and now this.”

The curly-haired detective was fairly certain he was deep down inside Castle Mordante—not absolutely certain, since he’d been unconscious from the time he’d been slugged at the ruined cottage until he’d awakened here yesterday. His meals had been brought by the stonily silent man who carried the food in one hand and a .45 automatic in the other.

Zanka had tried yelling, pounding on the walls, and kicking the door. None of that had produced any results.

“Have you actually been in prison before?”

“Eh?” There was a small, barred opening cut in his cell door. A girl with long, almost silver, hair was staring in at him. “I hope you’re from the Prison Review Board,” he added.

“I’m a house guest of the count’s,” she answered.

“Splendid,” said Zanka. “You trot up and ask him to let me out. Apparently some of his underlings mistook me for a poacher or—”

“We know who you are, Mr. Zanka.”

He nodded and scratched at his mustache. “Okay, then how about phoning the village, ask anybody in an official capacity to come out here to—”

“As far as they know in Sciolto, you disappeared in the mountains beyond here, probably in an auto accident.”

He said, “Finally it dawns on me that you haven’t come down here to rescue me.”

“No, I came to get a look at you,” the girl said. “You have a reputation for having done a good deal of harm to our cause.”

“I’ve harmed more than one cause in my time. Who are you with?”

“The Cult of Chaos.”

“Oh. That’s not very heartening news,” said Zanka. “Let me see…if I know my Companions of Chaos, you folks are no doubt saving me to use as a sacrifice at your next get-together.”

“Very able deduction, Mr. Zanka.”

“When’s the next chapter meeting scheduled?”

“There will be a very special meeting tomorrow evening at midnight. Representatives from all over the world are arriving.”

“A regular U.N.,” murmured Zanka. “What’s special?”

“Chaos himself is to be summoned,” said the girl in a husky whisper, “a very momentous, and dangerous, occasion. He is to be offered a bride.”

“A bride?”

“At certain times throughout the long history of the cult, the great god himself has appeared and taken a bride to himself. These matings have produced strange and wondrous results.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” said the detective. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“It was to be Laura,” said his visitor. “Now—and Laura is quite agitated about this—Count Mordante has returned from Venice with the news that a new girl has been selected. A girl superior to Laura, which news Laura is not taking at all well.”

Zanka pulled an end of his mustache. “Venice? Do you know the girl’s name, the new one?”

“Yes, it’s Vampirella.”

Chapter 14

Adam went through the little pastry shop, which smelled strongly of chocolate at the moment, and into the small restaurant attached to it. “Nothing new on Zanka,” he said, sitting down at a round white table.

His blind father was buttering a section of nut-covered pastry. “He’s at the castle,” he said.

“Deduction or hunch?”

Van Helsing said, “I’ve been seeing a picture…Zanka locked up in a room…a stone room…no doubt in that castle of Mordante’s.”

“So, as we figured, they grabbed Zanka while he was nosing around.” Adam paused to order coffee from the plump waitress.

“You ought to have some of this,” his father recommended, indicating the pastry he was finishing up.

“Everybody eats too many carbohydrates,” said Adam. “Okay, he’s in there, maybe down in the old dungeons…I got a look at some old drawings of the castle. There’s quite a sizable underground network of rooms, used chiefly for holding and torturing prisoners back in the days when the Mordantes were more open about their activities.”

“I know.” Van Helsing pushed his dark glasses up on his nose.

“The police seem timid when it comes to Count Mordante. I doubt they’re going to investigate the castle simply on our suggestion that Zanka’s being held there.”

“When did you say Vampirella and that seedy magician were arriving?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” answered Adam. “Yeah, I should be able to talk to her at the train station and work out a way for her to sneak me into the place after dark.”

“That may not be necessary, Adam.” Van Helsing pushed a sealed cream-colored envelope across the tabletop. “This was delivered to the inn after you left this morning.”

“From Count Mordante, huh?” Adam tore the envelope open along one side. “What the hell is this?”

“A dinner invitation.”

“Yeah, I can read that…‘the pleasure of the company of two such illustrious occult researchers at a dinner party tomorrow evening at my castle…’ I didn’t expect he’d go on pretending to be friendly once he got Vampirella inside the castle.”

“He intends to kill us,” said his father matter-of-factly.

“Oh, so? First time I’ve ever had such a polite invitation to be murdered.”

The old man locked his gnarled hands together. “I’ve been seeing other pictures inside my head, Adam, visions of what’s to come,” he said. “Count Mordante has gathered a dozen or so people at his castle. I sense…that many of them are members of the Cult of Chaos. This is the sort of conclave which occurs only at rare intervals. Something very important is planned.”

“Any premonition as to what?”

“I believe they mean to summon up Chaos himself.”

“And Vampirella will be there when—”

“You will be there as well, Adam.”

“We’re going to accept the count’s invite, huh?”

“You are,” said Van Helsing. “I will be feeling too poorly to attend. I will be, however, quite near-by.”

“How does Vampirella figure in this? Why does he want her there?”

The blind man hesitated before saying, “I don’t know yet, Adam.”

The gutter on the roof of the brown-shingled train station was clogged, with leaves probably, and rainwater was spilling out and dripping to the platform at several wrong places. Adam stood under the eaves, hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat. A bewhiskered old man wearing a too-short overcoat over his lederhosen was the only person sharing the afternoon platform with Adam.

Vampirella hadn’t communicated with him since he’d returned from Venice. That annoyed Adam slightly, but he assumed that in the confusion of getting herself and the disorganized Pendragon packed and on the train she hadn’t had time to wire. The train that was due here in five minutes was the one she’d told him she was planning to take.

The long-bearded old man took something resembling an obese pretzel out of his overcoat pocket and began munching on it. Noticing Adam, he made a pretzel-breaking gesture and inquired, “You like some, please?”

“No thanks, I just put one out.”

The gutter sprang another leak, causing water to splash down on Adam’s shoes. He moved a few feet to his left.

The old man came over to him, frowning. “What do you mean, you just put one out? How does one put out a pretzel?”

“It was a jest,” said Adam.

“Beg pardon?”

“I was being whimsical, comparing cigarettes to pretzels.”

“Ah, I see. You’d like to borrow a cigarette?”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

The old man blinked. “What is it, then, please? Are you making sport with me?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Adam, “and if you don’t go away I’m going to give a big tug on your whiskers.”

“Ah, an American. That explains it.” The old man sighed, walked to the far end of the platform, and looked down the tracks.

The train whistle sounded now. A moment later the small mountain train chuffed into view. The whistle hooted again as the train slowed to a stop at the station.

Only three passenger cars. Adam moved out into the rain, trying to look into all three of them at once.

A chunky woman with a half-nibbled giant pretzel in her hand disembarked first. “Zumzum,” she called to the bewhiskered old man.

“Greta.” He ran to her and hugged her.

“I missed you, Zumzum.”

“I missed you, Greta.”

Nobody else got off except the conductor. He stood on the wet platform, yawned, and stretched.

Adam approached him. “Excuse me, I was expecting two friends,” he said. “A very pretty dark-haired girl and a gray-haired gentleman.”

The conductor stopped yawning, began chuckling, and made a bottle-tipping motion with his hand. “The Great Pendragon? Yes, he and his assistant were on board. They got off at San Norberto.”

“That’s five miles from here. Why do that?”

“Many of Count Mordante’s guests do that,” explained the conductor. “It is apparently easier to reach his castle by way of the San Norberto road.” He laughed, made the bottle-tipping motion once more, and stepped back onto the train. “If you see the Great Pendragon again, give him my regards.”

“If I see him.” Adam put his hands back in his pockets and walked home in the rain.

Chapter 15

Count Mordante sat behind the ornately carved wooden desk, slowly turning a crystal globe in his hands. The single oil lamp burning atop his desk tinted his face a pale yellow. “I do not wish to see you now,” he said without taking his eyes off the slowly revolving crystal.

The door to his study had silently opened. A girl stood in the deep shadows, watching him. “I want to see you, though, count,” said Laura. “I want to talk to you.”

“I needn’t remind you how important tonight is, Laura. I have no time to waste on—”

“I’ve seen her. I got a good look at her when she arrived an hour ago. She’s a slut!” The girl came stalking toward the huge desk. “You will talk to me now, count! You’ll explain why this slut from the alleys of Venice is to replace me.”

Dropping the globe to the desk, Count Mordante said, “Some months ago I began to hear rumors about this girl called Vampirella. She had appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, to bring ruin and destruction to branches of our cult. The man who called himself Dr. Tyler Westron was destroyed by this girl, as was Papa Jumbee…many others. They said she was a vampire, that she killed men and drank their blood.” He looked directly at Laura for the first time, his eyes yellow in the lamplight. “I suspected there was something more to it, and so I began to search for this Vampirella. When I learned she was to be in Venice I arranged, through members of the cult, to have a legitimate business reason to be there. I began to watch her, to study her, to—”

“I see what’s happened. You’ve fallen in love with her. That’s why you’re doing this to—”

“Laura, I do not fall in love,” said the count. “You don’t realize what she is, but I do. Yes, I sensed it almost at once. She is from another planet, a planet known as Drakulon.”

“That’s impossible. No one from another planet has ever reached—”

His laughter interrupted her. “How limited you really are, Laura,” he said. “You have witnessed incredible miracles since becoming a priestess of the Cult of Chaos, and yet you still have a prosaic little mind which balks at the notion of interstellar travel.” He twined his fingers together and leaned his chin on them. “I tell you that it is quite possible for visitors from another planet to come to Earth.”

“You…you seem very certain.”

“Yes,” Count Mordante answered, “because I am one myself.”

Pendragon watched the night rain pound against the window of his room. “Is this what real estate agents mean by a marine view, I wonder?” he muttered.

Vampirella, in costume, nestled in a large armchair like a sinuous cat at rest but poised to spring. “At least half of the people we met down there are members of the cult,” she said.

“I was expecting a more intimate gathering,” said the magician as he strolled to the sideboard to pick up a whisky decanter. “Better have a fortifying draft, otherwise I fear this is the sort of a night when I’m liable to drop all my cards and get bitten by my rabbit.”

“The count isn’t ready to try anything yet,” said the girl. She rose and stretched her amazing body.

“You mean you think he’ll wait until after our performance to try to do me in?” Pendragon, holding up the glass of Scotch, decided to augment it with a few more ounces.

“Something is going to happen—later tonight, maybe,” she said.

Pendragon drank most of his drink. “My powers of precognition are developing by leaps and bounds,” he said. “I can see into the future quite distinctly, or at least distinctly enough to see our host doing away with me.”

“I wish we’d arrived at the station where Adam was waiting,” said the girl, moving to the window the magician had vacated.

“You can always telephone the lad.”

“Not from here,” Vampirella said. “I was told, when I asked to use a phone, that the storm has downed the wires.”

“You know, my child, I have always, since that fondly recalled day when you saved me from a fate worse than death (or sobriety), had a great and enormous faith in your abilities.” He lifted the decanter once more. “You still feel confident about facing Count Mordante when he makes his move, do you not?”

“Yes, I do.”

Pendragon attempted a relieved sigh. “Well, then, there’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “Let’s set about planning our performance for tonight.” He dropped into the chair the girl had left. Balancing his glass on his knee, he eyed the beamed ceiling. “I’m wondering if we ought to end the act with a different trick tonight.”

Vampirella said, “I have no objection to that. What did you have in mind?”

“I was rather toying with the idea,” he said, “of concluding with my famous vanishing magician stunt.”

Chapter 16

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again,” said Count Mordante, with a slight bow in Adam’s direction. “I am, of course, sorry your father is too ill to join you. He is one of the most perceptive of investigators of the supernatural. I trust he isn’t seriously afflicted.”

“He was looking better when I left him.” Adam made another survey of the large circular conservatory. Neither Vampirella nor Pendragon was among the fifteen or so guests. “Pendragon and Vampirella arrived safely?”

The count pointed at the velvet-covered platform at the far end of the room. “In a few scant minutes they’ll be entertaining us all,” he said. “I thought it best not to let my guests see them until the time of performance. An actor should maintain a certain distance from his audience. Afterwards they’ll mingle and enjoy a cocktail with us before dinner.”

“I don’t think it would spoil anything if I dropped in on them before the show,” said Adam. “Since I’ve seen the—”

“I would prefer that no one break the spell, as it were.” Count Mordante smiled. “Here, allow me to introduce you to someone you’ll enjoy meeting. Professor Haggard, I have Adam Van Helsing with me.”

The pink-faced professor came puffing over to them. “Awfully young to have written so much,” he said, after appraising Adam. “And you must have been in knickers when you found the solution to the Boston werewolf case.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with my father.”

“I’ll leave you two to straighten this out.” The count went to the corner where Laura, arms folded tightly, was pouting. “You look like death at the feast, as the saying goes, Laura dear.”

“You are certainly charming tonight,” the girl said. “Now I want you to know the explanation you gave me about—”

“Not yet, not here,” he warned, taking a tight grip on her bare arm. “What you don’t yet understand you shall before the evening is over.”

“Who’s the attractive young man you were pretending to fawn over?”

“Why, he’s the true love of Vampirella,” replied Mordante. “His name is Van Helsing.”

“Van Helsing? He and his father have made considerable trouble for the Cult of Chaos.”

“Yes, haven’t they? I only regret we can’t sacrifice the two of them this night, but the old man is ill.”

“This one’s quite good-looking,” observed Laura. “Almost a shame to—”

“Excuse me, Laura dear. One of my servants is signaling me.”

A large man in dark livery stood in the doorway nodding his head.

Count Mordante moved to the front of the platform. “Dear friends, if I may have your attention,” he said. “As most of you know, I have been in Venice. While the motion picture I was to have worked on will not be made after all, I don’t feel my trip was a disappointment. For while I was in Venice I was able to see the two performers I am about to introduce to you. I have seen many magic acts in my time, but none so stunning as this one.” He gestured at the magic equipment sitting on the low platform as the lights in the room dimmed. “Permit me to introduce the Great Pendragon and the lovely Vampirella.”

Green smoke began billowing up from a spot in the center of the stage. Soon there was a thick cloud of the stuff twice the size of a man. Out of the smoke stepped Pendragon. He took one step too many, nearly tumbling off the platform. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you are prepared to be amazed, astonished, and confounded (and I hope your heads don’t feel like mine),” he said, his words slurred.

“He’s drunk as a lord,” Victor whispered to Eva.

Pendragon, one foot dragging, stepped to a trunk which had been placed on the platform. “Allow me to open this ancient Sudanese hope chest (I hope I get my hands to cooperate) to show you that it is absolutely and entirely empty.” He picked a sword from a velvet-covered table. “A real and deadly sword, one kept as a spare by no less formidable a warrior than Attila the Hun. I will probe the inside of the trunk to demonstrate to the most skeptical of you that it is completely uninhabited.”

The magician, swaying and shaking, raised the sword and then plunged it down into the open trunk. The sword dropped out of his grasp and clattered on the trunk bottom. Pendragon held onto the edge of the trunk for a moment. Shaking his head, somewhat violently, he bent and retrieved the sword. “As I was saying, dear people, the trunk is totally unfilled (unlike my wretched skull).”

He managed to slam the lid down and step back. “The application of a few choice magic words…Zuffa Zuppa Zecca! …and we should have a miraculous change.” He opened the trunk.

Vampirella stood up inside it, shrugged her bare shoulders seductively, and stepped out onto the platform. She smiled at the audience, particularly at Adam.

“Permit me to introduce,” said Pendragon, “that fabled young lady, that princess of magic and mystification…Vampirella!”

The raven-haired girl leaned close to him. “What’s wrong?”

“(Would that I knew, child. I haven’t felt this foul since they slipped me a Michael Finn in Cicero, Illinois, in 1931.)”

“We can put off doing the show.”

“(Nonsense. The Great Pendragon is not one to ignore the hallowed traditions of the theater. Let’s go on.)” He raised his hands high and shuffled over to the table. “For the first amazing feat of this damp evening we shall have the incredible mystery of the five golden rings.” He snatched up, after two tries, the five plate-size rings. “You will note that each of these rings is a separate and total entity, my friends. With not so much as a break. Yet when I fling them to my illustrious associate, thus…” One by one he tossed the gold rings across the small space which separated him from the scarlet-clad girl. “Behold what a strange and inexplicable merger has taken place.”

Vampirella displayed the rings, all linked together.

There was polite applause.

The girl smiled, bowed, and set the rings aside.

Pendragon bowed. The bow continued. His head went straight down, and he fell from the platform to the floor.

“Pendragon!” Vampirella jumped down beside the fallen magician.

“Gentlemen, the doors!” ordered the count.

The conservatory doors were slammed and locked.

Adam moved toward the count. But before he reached him, he was hit from behind. One of the count’s liveried footmen blackjacked him across the back of the neck. Adam fell to his knees, and a second blow pushed him down into unconsciousness.

Realizing Pendragon had been drugged, Vampirella stood up and away from his sprawled body just in time to see Adam fall. “Well,” she said, “the polite facade has dropped away.”

“What’s all this?” demanded Professor Haggard as he attempted vainly to rise from the deep armchair in which he was ensconced.

“Be quiet, you old bastard,” said his secretary. “You’re going to find out soon enough.”

“Miss Austen, what did you just call me…I can’t have heard rightly.”

“You did, you old bastard.” She reached over and shoved him down into his chair.

Vampirella, eyes starting to glow, drew toward the count. “Look at me!” she commanded.

A sardonic smile came to his blue-white face. “I’m afraid none of your little tricks will be of any use, Vampirella dear.”

“Look at me!”

Count Mordante continued to smile. “It will not work.”

He was right, she could not hypnotize him. “Maybe this will.” She charged him.

Mordante sidestepped and struck a chopping blow to her throat, then two more as she stumbled down.

Vampirella collapsed at his feet.

Lazlo Toth cried out, “What is going on here, count? I demand to know.”

“I shall be more than happy to tell you,” said Count Mordante.

Chapter 17

The hard rain did not bother him. Old Van Helsing walked forward, the wind flapping at his overcoat, the rain hitting his gaunt face and pelting the black lenses that covered his blind eyes. In his left hand he carried a black satchel.

Van Helsing cut through the rainswept woods confidently. He knew he was nearing Castle Mordante and was only minutes away from its stone walls and turrets.

He sensed something off to his right, a cottage in an overgrown place that had once been a clearing in the forest. Van Helsing frowned, deeper wrinkles creasing his face. He got an image of Zanka in the cottage and of someone luring him out…someone else hitting him.

“Yes, that’s what happened,” the old man said to himself. “They knocked him out and carried him to the castle.”

From the direction of the ruined cottage, loud enough to be heard above the fall of the rain, came the sound of sobbing. It was a girl, a young girl crying.

Shifting his grip on the handle of the satchel, Van Helsing started toward her.

She stood among the trees, quite near the cottage.

“What is wrong?” the old man asked.

“Oh…who…are you?”

“You can trust me. Is there some problem?”

It took the girl a while to steady herself, to stop sobbing. “It’s…it’s my father, sir,” she said. “There is…I am not sure…they are to do…evil things at the castle tonight…Men…two big men from the castle…they took my father…I…I’m afraid they’ll…kill him.”

“When did this happen?”

“It can’t have been…more than…oh, a half-hour, sir.” The girl came closer to him. “We were…alone…my father was about to retire…The door burst open…and they took him.”

“Be calm, young lady,” Van Helsing advised her. “I am going to the castle, and I’ll find your father.”

Her chill fingertips touched his rain-wet face. “I just…realized, sir…you are blind,” the girl said. “Forgive me…but how can…how can you stop a man…a powerful man like Count Mordante?”

“I have stopped many such,” he told her.

“Yes, you old fool, I know you have.” Her hands grabbed him on each side of the neck. Her rough lips chafed at his throat as she sought a place to sink her teeth. “But now you will die!”

“No, not yet.” The satchel flapped open and his right hand shot into it.

Though cracked and blood-caked lips roamed his throat, and strong fingers clutched tighter, Van Helsing drove his powerful hand upward. It gripped the wooden stake he had carried in the satchel.

She screamed, but not like a girl—like a terribly old woman, overwhelmed with the sudden realization of death.

Some of her blood splashed his hand. The drops were as cold as the night rain.

The stake made an awful rasping sound when he pulled it free from her ribs. That did not bother the old man. He wiped the stake, replaced it in the satchel, and closed the brass fastenings. “One less vampire to stalk the night,” he said.

Once, a long time ago when he’d had a wife as well as a son, the death of anyone, even a girl like this, would have touched Van Helsing. Once, a long time ago.

Suddenly Van Helsing dropped down to his knees and swung the satchel out.

The man who’d been sneaking up on the old man took the impact of the satchel’s swing full on the chin. He staggered back, smacked a tree trunk, and shook rain out of the branches onto himself.

Van Helsing found him again, and using the satchel as a club, he struck again and again. When the man collapsed into the brush and mud, Van Helsing stood away and listened, his mind searching for images.

“No, that’s all of them,” he decided.

He searched the man who’d tried to attack him. In an inner pocket he located a ring heavy with keys.

“I can put these to good use.” Dropping the keys into his own pocket, Van Helsing walked on through the forest.

Chapter 18

Count Mordante plunged the hypodermic needle into the flesh of Vampirella’s upper arm. “That should keep her docile until the proper moment.” Returning the needle to its case, he mounted the platform to face his guests. “Let me explain to you what lies ahead tonight.”

“This is outrageous, count,” said Professor Haggard. “Poor girl lying there, magician tossed there…I want the car brought around at once. You can send my luggage on to me. I intend to leave at—”

“You will not leave,” the Count said. “At least, not in the way you think.” He paused to summon two of his large, wide servants. “Take young Van Helsing and this sodden conjurer down to share quarters with their other friend. We will use them all tonight. I will attend to Vampirella.”

One of the men picked up Pendragon and swung him over his shoulder. The other, not able to accomplish that with Adam, dragged him from the room.

“Let me add my protest to Haggard’s,” said Lazlo Toth. “There has been enough—”

“There is some time remaining but not a great deal. I must ask you to be silent.” Count Mordante paced the platform. “You are to have a rare experience, one few other students of the occult have ever had. Let me first explain that many of us here are members of the Cult of Chaos. Therefore—”

“Cult of Chaos? Absurd,” said Haggard. “Entire organization collapsed a century or more ago.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Austen. “We’re still quite active, quite active.”

“You, Miss Austen, can’t—”

“Tonight,” Count Mordante resumed, “the most powerful god of the Nethervoid will be summoned here by the highest-ranking priests and priestesses of the Cult of Chaos. Chaos himself will cross over into our world…long enough to take a bride, this girl who will be offered to him. Long years, perhaps centuries, must pass before the signs and conditions are again right for such a visitation.”

Around the room those who were members of the cult began rising up and moving back from the others.

“Neither Chaos nor his Seven Servants may be summoned without ritual, without the aid of ancient spells and words of power.” He spoke now in a droning chant, eyes wide and glistening. “Neither Chaos nor his Seven Servants may be summoned without sacrifices, blood sacrifices which will deliver souls to them, souls to be carried to the Nethervoid.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of those who remained seated. “You, my learned friends, you who think you know such a great deal about the supernatural…you are to be the sacrifices.”

“You can’t possibly—” began Lazlo Toth. A blow to the head knocked him down before he could say more.

His wife screamed on and on as a servant carried her from the room.

Count Mordante dropped from the platform and lifted up the unconscious Vampirella. “It is time to descend,” he said.

Endless stairways of stone twisted down deeper and deeper into the earth beneath the castle. The light, from the hand-held burning torches, snaked down through the cold damp darkness with the procession of the Companions of Chaos and intended victims. Each of the priests and priestesses had changed to a long robe, and on the breast of each robe was sewn the lightning-severed circle which was the ancient symbol of Chaos.

Count Mordante led the single-file descent, carrying Vampirella in his arms. Her left arm swung limply, and one of her breasts had escaped the scarlet cloth of her costume.

“I will not allow this,” protested Laura, who followed close in the count’s wake. “The honor of being the bride of Chaos should be mine, not this outsider’s.”

“Listen to me, Laura,” he said in a voice so low only Laura could hear it. “I will tell you more of myself. Then you may understand, but even if you do not, you must remain silent and cease trying to interfere.”

“I’ve heard enough words already to—”

“Be still,” he ordered, “and listen. Far from this world, far across the black loneliness of space, is a planet called Drakulon. The people who live there must have blood, must drink it in order to live. But there on Drakulon a blood-like substance flows in gushing streams, much as water flows in rivers here on Earth. I am from that planet.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Nonetheless it is true,” said Count Mordante. “I am of Drakulon, but yet different from all my fellows there. For the blood I crave flows not from rivers like water. I must drink the sweet life’s blood from the veins of other men. Now Drakulon was, when I lived there, a planet far advanced in the technical and scientific areas. Advanced enough to have a spacecraft in which to rocket those they considered undesirable into space. Yes, I was banished thus. Your planet, your proud Earth, Laura, was but a dumping ground for my people. I arrived here on Earth in the last years of the 15th century, in the country known as Spain. It was a very dangerous time and place for anyone as unorthodox as myself, for the land was virtually ruled not by the king and queen but by that illustrious Grand Inquisitor, Torquemada. And yet, I was able to escape being burned at the stake and, indeed, to find acceptance among the sorcerers and alchemists who were worshippers of Chaos. They were men of great power, and it was there in Madrid, in 1492—yes, the same year poor old Christopher Columbus was occupied elsewhere—that I looked for the first time on the face of Chaos. It was there that I made my first bargain with him and first agreed to serve him. He granted me immortality, so long as I delivered him sufficient souls, so long as I did not displease him. Finding sacrifices was no great problem, for in those days my appetites were much lustier. I killed and drank of my victim’s blood with delightful frequency. These days, I only occasionally lust after blood. A very few victims are all I require. But, then, I suppose we all slow down with age.”

“You are telling me you have lived for centuries?”

“Yes, Laura dear, and lived extremely well,” answered the count. “For I have never displeased Chaos. I have always seen to it that all my obligations are fulfilled.”

“Then why deliver this inferior girl to him in my place?”

“Because she is superior to an Earth girl in every way,” answered Count Mordante. “Because she, too, is from Drakulon. I suspected that when I began to hear about her, and with very little observation, I confirmed the fact. So you see, Laura dear, we could offer no finer gift to Chaos than Vampirella.”

Laura made no reply.

They had reached a stone causeway leading through a stone arch into an immense cavern. Count Mordante carried Vampirella through the arch.

Chapter 19

“Forgive this trite inquiry,” muttered Pendragon, “but where am I?”

Adam was on one knee beside the extended magician. “In a dungeon.” He helped Pendragon to sit up.

“Stone walls are notorious for not a prison making,” said Pendragon while looking around, “but this place must be the exception. Good evening, Mr. Zanka. It is still evening isn’t it?”

“Yes, you’ve been unconscious for only about an hour,” replied the detective. “You and Adam were tossed in together. Me, I’m a long-time resident of the neighborhood.”

“Since the count has now become rather overt,” said Pendragon, “I assume he’s about to make his move. Whatever that may be.”

Adam aided him in his attempts to stand. “Zanka’s been filling me in on what he’s found out.”

Pendragon leaned against the stone wall. “Let me hear the worst. What does he intend to do with Vampirella?”

“This is a very special gathering of the cult,” explained Adam, fists clenched. “They intend to summon Chaos himself and to offer him…well, a bride.”

Pendragon sighed. “Yes, I see,” he said. “Vampirella is to be that bride…I should have argued more against our coming here. The child assured me, though, she was more than a match for Mordante.”

“Apparently she wasn’t,” said Adam. “I don’t know what happened up there. They slugged me while she was still bending over you.”

“At least the reason for the count’s continuing interest is now evident.”

“Vampirella was not the original choice for the job,” put in Zanka. “Some girl name of Laura, a priestess of the cult, had been chosen. The count came home from Venice to announce Laura was scratched, he’d found a better contender. Didn’t make this Laura happy.”

“One wouldn’t expect them to vie for the position.” Pendragon ran a hand through his tangled hair. “What about us?”

“Several sacrifices will be made from midnight on, before and after Chaos puts in an appearance,” Zanka told him. “The three of us, as well as some of the count’s unsuspecting guests, are the raw material for those sacrifices. Sorry, I don’t have a schedule of who goes when.”

Pendragon said, “I’m surprised you’ve learned as much as you have. Is there a prison grapevine in operation in this place?”

“One of the cultists, a blonde, paid me a couple of visits,” Zanka said “Outside-looking-in sort of stuff; I could never talk her in here. She’s the brainy type, and the brainy types I never completely succeed with.”

Adam asked, “Three of Mordante’s stooges dumped me and Pendragon in here, you said?”

“Three large fellows, yes.”

“If only three of them come for us, we’ve got a fair chance of overpowering them.”

“Those large fellows had guns,” the detective pointed out. “We, on the other hand, consist of one large fellow, one small fellow, and one magician with a hangover.”

Pendragon suddenly began to slap at himself around the chest and ribs. “Never underestimate the power of magic, my dear Zanka,” he said. “These louts apparently didn’t think to search me thoroughly. None of them realized I was wearing my trick suit. Voilà!” A bouquet of yellow roses appeared in his hand.

“Good,” said Zanka, “we can thrash at least one of them with that.”

“You obviously have never witnessed my fabled coffin trick, wherein I’m bound with several yards of first-class clothesline and deposited in a casket with this bouquet of flowers on m’chest.” Pendragon twisted the bouquet and a knife with a 6-inch blade dropped into his hand, “Here we have one weapon. Not, I admit, a gun, but effective if used in an atmosphere of surprise.”

Zanka took the knife. “It’s a real one.”

“I was also planning (for those ungrateful wretches) to do my rope-rejuvenation trick,” continued the magician, “for which I require this three-foot length of first-class rope and this sharp pair of scissors. One or two weapons, depending on what use we make of the rope.”

“My usual optimism is returning,” said Zanka, fingers tightening around the handle of the knife. “I’d go so far as—”

There came a faint tapping on the cell door.

Adam took the rope from Pendragon, looped an end around each fist, and pressed against the wall beside the door.

Keys rattled, and the cell door swung slowly outward.

“Adam?” The blind man stood in the dimly lit hall, his black satchel in one hand, his borrowed key ring in the other.

Adam reached out and took hold of his father’s arm. “Dad,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure of this last stretch of tunnel,” said the old man. “The image of it…wasn’t that clear…but I knew you were here.”

“I’d invite you in, sir,” said Pendragon, “though I’d rather you invited us out.”

“Yes, by all means,” said Van Helsing. “Come out, there’s much work to be done before the night is over.”

Adam joined his father and scanned the corridor. “How far from the outside wall is our cell?”

“A quarter-mile,” replied the old man.

“That’s from the south wall?”

“Yes, Adam.”

“Then I think I know where we are, if I remember those castle plans right.”

Zanka said, “Aren’t you going to ask your father how he got here?”

“Time for that later,” answered Adam. “Now we’ve got to stop Mordante from summoning Chaos across the void.”

“I think…” Van Helsing stopped talking and clutched at his chest. “The ceremonies have started. We won’t be able…to save them all…He’s offered the first sacrifice.”

“It wasn’t…?”

“She’s not to be killed, Adam. Vampirella is to be offered to Chaos.”

Pendragon said, “I believe I hear someone approaching from up around the bend in the corridor.”

Adam said, “Probably another of Count Mordante’s guards. Now’s our chance to try out these weapons Pendragon has provided.” The only light in this section of the dungeons came from a wire-shielded light bulb. With the point of the scissors Adam stabbed the glass to fragments. In the darkness he crossed to one wall and again grasped both ends of the rope.

The footsteps slowed. “Light went out,” said a voice.

“Always happens in these storms.”

“Give me your flashlight. I’ll see—”

“I didn’t bring my flashlight, didn’t figure to need it.”

“Why not, you just told me you expected the lights to go out down here every time there’s a—”

“I didn’t say I expected it, I said sometimes it happens. Anyway, I got a book of matches here on me some…oof!”

The loop of rope had caught him around the neck and pulled him over to Adam’s side of the dark corridor. Two jabs to the chin knocked him to the floor.

Before his companion could draw the pistol from his hip, Zanka was beside him with the knife.

“Our supply of weapons is multiplying,” observed Pendragon. “I take that as a good omen (and about time we had one).”

Chapter 20

Chanting, strange words echoing and reechoing. Acrid smoke spilling across the floor and rising to the ceiling. A voice screaming in fear, then in intense pain.

“The way is opening!”

“The way is opening!”

“Adramelech, Astaroth, Nergal, Baal!”

“Adramelech, Astaroth, Nergal, Baal!”

“Help us prepare the path!”

“Help us prepare the path!”

“Belphegor, Rimmon, Thamuz!”

“Belphegor, Rimmon, Thamuz!”

Vampirella wrenched her head from side to side. She was alone; the chanting and the screaming were in some other room. She was alone in a stone room, spread-eagled on a great stone altar, ankles and wrists chained to the four corners. Her scarlet costume had been torn from her, and she lay naked, defenseless against the most unspeakable and hideous of fates.

All around the walls and across the ceiling, illuminated by the light of two sooty wall-bracketed torches, were inscriptions and symbols. Dozens of phrases in dozens of languages, dead languages, and languages never spoken on this earth. Drawings of fiery pyramids, coiling serpents, goat-headed men, pentagrams. And everywhere among the words and symbols was emblazoned the circle cut across by lightning, repeated over and over, the mark of Chaos.

“The path opens wider!”

“The path opens wider!”

“Belphegor, Rimmon, Thamuz!”

“Belphegor, Rimmon, Thamuz!”

“Blood will clear the way!”

“Blood will clear the way!”

“Adramelech, Astaroth, Nergal, Baal!”

“Adramelech, Astaroth, Nergal, Baal!”

They were behind her. She could tell by the sounds and the echoes. Behind her, down a rock passageway.

“Mighty Chaos, we await!”

“Mighty Chaos, we await!”

“Astaroth, Baal, Rimmon!”

“Astaroth, Baal, Rimmon!”

“A bride awaits you!”

“A bride awaits you!”

“Amaymon, Gorson, Zimimar!”

“Amaymon, Gorson, Zimimar!”

“Count Mordante is going to try to summon Chaos himself,” Vampirella told herself. “Two guesses as to who’s cast as the bride in this little miracle play.”

The naked girl twisted violently on the stone altar and yanked at her chains. The manacles cut deeply into her wrists, but did not give. When she was restrained like this, she could not transform herself into the bat shape.

“More blood, more blood, more blood!”

“More blood, more blood, more blood!”

“Amaymon, Gorson, Zimimar!”

“Amaymon, Gorson, Zimimar!”

“You will never be the bride of Chaos!” Vampirella looked up into the brilliant eyes of an auburn-haired girl who stood over her, wearing a hooded robe and holding a silver-bladed knife in her hand. “You may be from Drakulon as he says, but you are no better than I am. I am the chosen one, you little slut!”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” said Vampirella. “Set me free and you can have the honor.”

Laura glanced anxiously back at the tunnel passage through which she had just entered. “I have no intention of releasing you,” she said. “I will give you to Chaos, but not as Count Mordante intends. No, I will give you to Chaos as a blood sacrifice.”

Vampirella looked up at the girl. Perhaps she was not able to hypnotize the count, but this girl was something else again. “You will not harm me,” she said. Her eyes began to glow.

“Yes, I’m going to…”

“You will look at me, you will listen to me.”

“…listen to you…”

“I control you. You have no other purpose than to serve me, to do exactly what I ask.”

“…no other purpose…exactly what you ask…”

“Do you have a key to these chains?”

“Yes, I was the one who locked you here. Count Mordante insisted on that.”

“Get the key.”

Laura, her eyes nearly shut, reached inside the robe and drew out a key.

“Unlock me.”

Laura did as she was told.

Vampirella sat up, massaged her arms and her wrists, and arched her bare and aching body. “I’ll need that robe of yours,” she said. “Take it off.”

Laura slid off the hooded robe, and handed it to Vampirella.

From the depths of the hood, Vampirella commanded, “You will wait here until I tell you to leave.”

“I will wait.”

Vampirella started for the escape tunnel, then came back to Laura. “I’ll need that knife,” she said.

Chapter 21

The count pranced, laughing exultantly. He wore a black robe with a crimson symbol of Chaos on its chest. The hands he raised high above him were smeared with red. His fingernails were crusted with red. Streaks of red forked down along his arms. Lowering his bloody hands, Count Mordante made his way to one of the dozen stone altars which formed a circle in the center of the cavern. With an obscene giggle, he wrenched the sacrificial knife from the limp body of the victim chained there.

“Here,” he shouted to Miss Austen, “we are ready to send Professor Haggard to the Seven Servants of Chaos.”

The robed girl, hood pulled down and hair undone and flowing, grabbed the knife and wiped the blood and flesh from its blade on the side of her robe. “I have waited long, a long time, to do this.” Her eyes bright and staring, lips pulled back from her teeth in a ferocious smile, the girl strode to the altar where the professor was chained.

“Miss Austen,” he said, “please, for the love of God, you can’t—”

“I can, with more pleasure than you can imagine,” she told him. “From the moment I joined the Cult of Chaos I have known that someday I would reach this moment. I’ve wanted you dead for so long…and now I shall have my wish. And Chaos will have you!”

“Please, in the name of mercy—”

The girl laughed. She lifted the knife to plunge it into his chest.

Something hurtled out from the darkness beyond the altars. It was Zanka. “No more killing!”

Miss Austen cursed him and slashed at him with the sacrificial knife. “You rotten little wretch, I’ll spill your insides all over the ground!”

“Another brainy one, I’m sure.” Zanka caught her wrist and slammed it and her knife hand against the side of the stone altar.

She cried out, cursed, and dropped the knife.

Adam, meanwhile, holding the pistol they’d taken from one of the ambushed guards, had entered the circle and halted near the blood-drenched count. “Everything stops now,” he ordered.

Count Mordante gestured at him with one crimson hand. “What can you do with one gun against a dozen of my priests and priestesses? Soon Chaos will come to us and then—”

“Not before the police,” said Adam.

Black Victor lowered his hood. “What’s he babbling about, count?”

“You all know the Great Pendragon,” Adam explained. “He’s gone, armed with another of our newfound guns, up into the castle to telephone the law.”

“Impossible,” said the count. “All the phones are out of order tonight.”

“Nay, not so.” Pendragon appeared in their midst. “I found one that worked perfectly. You can rest assured that the forces of law and order will soon be pounding at your doors.”

Zanka discovered some keys on Miss Austen and unlocked the puffing Haggard.

The girl, unwatched for a few seconds, dived and seized the sacrificial knife. With an angry cry she ran straight for Adam’s back.

She did not reach him.

Another robed figure cut her off, grasped her arm, and shook the knife from it. In the struggle the second girl’s hood fell back.

“Vampirella!” said Adam.

“I was about to save the professor when Zanka came flying by.”

Count Mordante grew more pale. “Who let you free?”

“Another of your friends,” answered Vampirella. “She had planned to kill me and take my place on that altar in there. I had to change her mind.”

“But the way has already been opened,” said the count. “Chaos may even now be…If he finds that idiotic Laura instead of you, he’ll believe I’ve failed him. He’ll—”

From the room where Vampirella had been came a harrowing scream. Whatever Laura had seen had been strong enough to break the hypnotic hold Vampirella had established.

The cavern walls began to shake. There was a deafening rumble.

“Chaos!” shouted Victor and began to run for the stone stairs. The other Companions of Chaos followed.

“Retreat, friends,” cried Pendragon. “The police will stop any of them from fleeing too far afield.”

Adam turned toward the magician. “All right, I’ll herd—”

“He’ll believe I failed him!” Count Mordante lunged and shoved at Adam. With a force that sent him stumbling into Pendragon, Mordante pivoted and went running after the other cultists, pushing his way through them and onto the winding stone stairs.

Vampirella ran after him.

Standing at the foot of the stone stairway was Van Helsing, almost covered with shadows.

“He’s mine,” the girl said.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I have seen what is to happen.” He did not move.

Chapter 22

They were hurrying, and yet they were waiting.

Hurrying to escape from the sacrificial chambers deep below the castle, and waiting to see if the full wrath of Chaos would be felt. The stone steps shook and the solid rock walls seemed suddenly insubstantial.

“I feel as though I’m inside a volcano,” said Victor.

“All Laura’s fault,” said Eva. “I warned her, but no—”

“I wonder what she saw in there. Do you think it was…was it Chaos?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.”

Count Mordante was the most anxious of all to escape, to get as far as possible from that room where Chaos was to have found his offered bride. He arrived at the door which led into the castle itself before anyone else. He yanked it open and ran into the library.

Sprinting across the room, the count reached the large hallway. He ran to the front doors of the castle and, pausing not at all, pulled them open.

Lights were approaching, floating hazy in the rain. As he watched, the rain stopped, the blackness began to drain from the sky, and the cars took shape out there, driving up to his castle.

“The police,” he sighed.

Back into the castle he would not go, and to cross the courtyard to the road meant he’d be seen and confronted by the police. Count Mordante would have to rely on an ability he shared with all of the natives of his planet. He shed the robe. His body shivered, then it seemed to fade away. In its stead, flapping a few feet in the air, was a giant black bat. The bat circled the courtyard.

From the broad steps of the castle Vampirella had witnessed the transformation. “So that’s how he guessed I was from Drakulon,” she said. The borrowed robe fell to the damp flagstones. She stood naked in the new morning for a moment, then vanished. Circling the spot her bare feet had touched was another bat.

As the first black bat rose into the lightening day the second took to its trail.

The two dark, winged creatures flew higher and higher into the gray sky.

The larger bat flapped its wings frantically, trying to rise even higher, but the second bat was upon it. Its teeth sank into one ribbed wing. Both of them plummeted downward together. Yards from the tree tops, the larger bat spun away and began to climb again.

The second bat followed.

Adam stood in the courtyard, watching the sky.

He could see the two black shapes wheeling and diving across the new day. With a perverse thrill, he thought, “One of those creatures is the woman I love…”

“The earthquake seems to have subsided,” said Pendragon. He emerged from the castle, noticed Vampirella’s discarded robe, and picked it up. “Your father is of the opinion that Chaos has returned whence he came, angry, but not ready to destroy everything hereabouts.”

“Dad may have had a hand in that return,” said Adam, his eyes scanning the sky. “After we came up here, he stayed down in the cavern. He knows most of the spells in The Crimson Chronicles.”

“Everyone I know is reading that blasted tome,” said the magician. “First thing you know, it’ll be coming out in paperback. That’s Vampirella up there, I take it?”

“Yeah, and the other one is Mordante.”

“Oh, really? He has talents I never suspected.”

The smaller bat again struck at the larger. Again they went falling down through the sky. This time they did not stop at the top of the forest, but swooped down in among the trees.

Adam waited a full minute before saying, “They’re not coming out again.” He started running across the courtyard, dodging the many newly parked cars.

Pendragon draped the robe over his shoulders. “Cold,” he said. “A very cold morning.”

“On the ground I can still best you, Vampirella,” taunted Count Mordante, once more in his human form. Crouching slightly, he faced the girl across the small forest clearing.

Vampirella was also herself again. “I doubt that,” she countered. “Your power is waning.”

“Is it indeed? No, I think not.”

“If you were sure of yourself, you wouldn’t have fled the castle.”

“It’s the police I wish to avoid.”

“But it’s Chaos you’ve failed.”

Scowling, the count said, “Yes, I have failed him. For I had promised him you in place of that inferior Laura. Her terrible vanity is the root of all this trouble.”

“Why did you think he’d be more pleased with me?”

“Because you are from Drakulon and not Earth,” replied Mordante. “All of us who come from that planet are superior to any human on this planet.”

Vampirella nodded. “I knew you were from my planet,” she said.

“Of course.” He watched her, thoughtful. “You realize, Vampirella, I never intended you to die. What I had arranged for you was a great honor. That is not to be, but there is no reason why you and I have to part.” He stroked one pale hand with the other. “We could stay together, the two most remarkable people on Earth. What could we not do as a team? I tell you, frankly, you are the most interesting woman I have encountered in several centuries.”

“You have gained immortality, then?”

The grayness was leaving the morning; sunlight was touching the sky.

“I came here, banished from Drakulon, in the 15th century,” he said. “By entering into a pact with Chaos and his servants, I gained the gift of eternal life. Why are you looking at me in that way, Vampirella?”

“I believe Chaos has tired of the bargain,” she said. “He is taking back his gift. You were right about his being displeased with you, count.”

Count Mordante looked down at his hands. They were gnarled and leathery, shaking. “My face…is my face like this?”

“The face of an old man, a very old man.”

He put his quivering fingers to his cheek and gasped. The flesh was thin and dry, sunken in on his bones. “I never wanted this, this cruelest thing that can happen to a man,” he protested in a voice grown dry, rattling. “To grow old, to wither. And Vampirella dear, to lie in a grave and never…” He shook more and more, his bent and hunched body vibrating as though hit by a fierce wind. “I can’t…accept…the grave…Don’t you understand…To have it all…simply end…Chaos, hear me…we…had…a…bargain…” The last word sighed out of him. He fell forward on knees that were now only bones, trying to push himself up with skeleton hands. Then it was all over.

Vampirella turned away.

She walked only a few hundred yards, then sat down on the damp grass. “I knew I would face him and that he would die and I would live,” she said. “And yet…”

Chapter 23

Adam found her wandering near the ruined cottage. “I think,” he said, “there’s a local ordinance against roaming around naked in the woods.”

“Adam,” she said in a quiet voice.

He took off his coat and held it toward her. “Here, you can—”

“Oh, save that for later.” She put her arms around him and pressed herself to him. “Hold on to me, I want to forget something. I want to remember I’m alive.”

“What a dilemma,” said Pendragon as he roamed the vast rooms of the castle. “I stand in dire need of a fortifying draft of the elixir of life, more commonly known as Scotch. Yet I fear the count may have spiked every damned decanter in the place.” He halted in front of a sideboard in one of the lesser dining rooms. “Still now, the stuff he slipped into my room tasted fine going down. It wasn’t until an hour or so passed that I started getting wobbly and exhibiting a pronounced tendency to fall down.” He grasped a decanter and poured himself a glass of Scotch. “What I’ll do is have a shot or two and then pin a note to my garments which will tell anyone who finds me to set me someplace soft until I awaken. Every castle needs a resident sleeping beauty, anyway.” He drank, with scarcely any hesitation, downing half the glass.

“Ahum.” Zanka had come into the room. “Am I interrupting some religious rite?”

“I’m trying out a new liquid toothpaste,” said the magician. “Tastes a bit too much like booze, I fear, to ever capture the public fancy. Though it does provide one with a dazzling smile. See?”

“I’m dazzled,” said Zanka, shielding his eyes. “Don’t you think, whilst the minions of the local law are doing their duty here in the castle, we ought to go see what’s become of Adam? Not to mention Vampirella and the count.”

“I was contemplating just such an action, Zanka, when I chanced to encounter Van Helsing.” Pendragon finished his drink. “While he’s a dour old gentleman and not given to bursts of confidentiality, I got the impression he was not worrying about his son.”

“You deduced he’d had another of his hunches and knew everything was okay?”

The magician refilled the glass before answering. “Exactly,” he said. “He’s had a very high percentage of right guesses in the past.”

“Okay.” Zanka put his hands in his pockets. “Well assume all is well.” He strolled around the dining table. “I have the feeling the first thing Van Helsing thinks of when he hears I’m around is the fly swatter; still I’m glad he’s here with us.”

“Yes, I noticed the police are very respectful to him.”

“Seems the mayor of Sciolto has read all of the old man’s books, and so have a couple of the cops.” said Zanka. “So when he tells them what they have here is the dregs of a cult of demon-worshippers, they make an effort to believe it. If I told them, they’d snicker.”

“They’ve gone through all the underground rooms?”

“Not all, that’s going to take a few hours more,” said the curly-haired detective. “They located a few more folks the count had locked away to use as future sacrifices. All in relatively good shape.”

“What about that horrific ceremony we walked in on? How many died?”

“Three,” said Zanka. “We just didn’t get there in time. Neither did Vampirella. But at least we saved some of them.”

Pendragon drank his second drink more slowly. “Where was the girl who was jealous of Vampirella?”

“They found her,” answered Zanka, “in that back room where Vampirella’d been chained. She was dead…they’re not, by the way, going to talk about Laura much. Because if they do, they’ll have to explain what killed her and nobody wants to go into that. They found her pressed into one corner, eyes wide open, mouth open to scream again. She just died right there.”

“The face of Chaos,” said the magician. “Did she, I wonder, look on the face of Chaos?”

Zanka said, “I think I’ll go outside for a while.”

Wrapped in Adam’s coat, Vampirella sat on the steps of the ruined cottage. Adam was next to her. “We must go on,” she said.

“That doesn’t seem necessary,” Adam said. “There’s really no need for you and Pendragon to travel all over the world. At least, not you. I’d like to see you—”

“There are a couple of good reasons,” she said. “One is that this is how I earn my living. The other is that it’s a very good cover for us to use while hunting down the Cult of Chaos.”

“Look, those people back there at the castle are among the highest-ranking leaders of the cult, all over the place. With them locked away, the cult’ll probably die.”

She looked at him. “Do you really believe that?”

Adam said, “I’d like to. I’d like to so that we could settle down and forget about the Companions of Chaos.”

“Not yet, Adam,” Vampirella said.

“Okay, so we all keep on. You pretend to be the assistant to the Great Pendragon, I go on being the crack occult detective. A chip off the old block.”

“How does your father feel about me now, Adam?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’ll never really forgive me, never give up the idea that I’m exactly like Count Mordante,” said Vampirella. “And that’s another reason why this is no time to—”

“No, I won’t plan a life like that—waiting until a parent dies before you do what you want to, or waiting until he’s been safely stuck away in an old folks’ home.”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I think he’s just not ready to accept your opinion of me.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Adam insisted. “I don’t need a note from home to—”

“Adam? Vampirella?”

The girl stood up. “We’re here, Zanka.”

“Don’t mean to intrude,” he said. “But I, not having the gift of second sight, was getting worried. All is well?”

“As well as can be expected.” Adam and Vampirella joined Zanka at the edge of the overgrown clearing.

“This is the place where I almost got initiated into the vampire club,” said Zanka. “Also got a nice bop on the head.”

“Seems like a nice enough place,” said Vampirella, reaching for Adam’s hand.

“I’m also curious about Count Mordante.”

“He’s dead,” said the girl.

“All right. The police will want to know.”

Adam told him, “I think we’ll tell the police he escaped.”

“When they trip over his dead body, won’t they think we maybe took advantage of them?”

“They’re not likely to think the body they find is his,” said Adam.

“How come?”

“Because it is the skeleton of a man who should have died about five hundred years ago.”

“Oh,” said Zanka. “Well, don’t tell me anymore about that right away.”

“If only I’d know you were here,” said the small fat mayor of Sciolto, “I’d have brought my copies of your books, Mr. Van Helsing. One doesn’t think one’s going to need books at a murder investigation.” He glanced up at the old man’s black glasses. “I would very much like to have you autograph them before you depart. You can still write, with your affliction?”

“Yes, and a few other simple things.”

“Forgive me,” said the little mayor. “What I have seen here at this castle this morning…I am rattled and forget my tact.”

“That’s understandable.” The two men sat in the library of Mordante Castle.

The mayor had a notebook open on his knee. “You are relatively certain that the murders in this area in the past few months were the work of Count Mordante?”

“Of Count Mordante and his followers,” said Van Helsing. “There was at least one other vampire, a true one, I believe. She took her orders from the count.”

“A girl? Where is she now?”

“Dead, with a wooden stake driven into her heart.”

The notebook fell off the mayor’s knee. “How did that come about?”

“I drove the stake,” replied Van Helsing, “after the girl attacked me in the forest last night.”

The mayor picked up his notebook. “You…killed her? Killed her…by driving a stake into her?”

“It’s the only sure way to kill a vampire. A stake in the heart.”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I’ve heard that said by the country folk.”

“You’ll also find it stressed in many of my books.”

“Yes, of course. I’m rattled and forgot.” He closed the notebook, then opened it again. “Where will we find the body of this vampire?”

“I doubt you will. I have a feeling the guard whose keys I took may have carried the body off someplace. You can have your men hunt, but…”

“Yes, of course.” The mayor got up. “When we catch the count and lock him away in a prison, then we may safely assume the vampire killings and other activities of this cult…will stop?”

“Count Mordante is dead,” said Van Helsing. “So you need not worry about him further.”

“You didn’t…with a stake…?”

“No, I had nothing to do with the count’s death, as much as I would have liked to.”

“How do you know he is dead? He fled here as we were arriving, and you have been here all the time.”

“I simply,” said the blind man, “know.”

The mayor closed his notebook for good. “I truly appreciate your help, Mr. Van Helsing. Without you…this would have been a maze indeed. Even with you to guide us…well, I will get back to overseeing the police investigation.”

“Thank you for your kind words,” said Van Helsing.

Chapter 24

“Eh?” Pendragon cupped his hand to his ear as he strode across their dressing room.

“I said I got a telegram from Adam today,” said Vampirella, who was behind the screen changing out of her scarlet costume.

“The reason I’m having trouble hearing is because of that deafening applause we got tonight,” the magician said. He sat down at the makeup mirror and stared into it. “Is this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burned the topless something and so forth? How’s Adam?”

“He and his father are investigating a case in the south of France.”

“Fancy that.” He stared more intently at his reflection. “I can’t decide whether to take my stage makeup off or to put more on. I think I’ll have to drink while I cogitate.” He eased up out of the chair, dropped his scarlet-lined cloak from his shoulders and fetched the Scotch bottle out of its drawer in the wardrobe trunk. “I, too, received a telegram today. Not a love letter, alas, but an offer of a job after we finish our engagement here at the Club Gondola.”

Vampirella stepped from behind the screen, dressed in a navy-blue pants suit. “Where?”

“The Riviera, my child.”

“That might be interesting.”

“Why the glum look? I thought you would do a little jig of glee at the news we’d be again in the vicinity of handsome Adam Van Helsing.”

“And his vampire-hating father,” said Vampirella. “But that’s not why I…I don’t know. I have a premonition that there’ll be more trouble, a good deal more, when we get to the Riviera.”

Pendragon located a glass under the makeup table. “In that case, I’d best begin fortifying myself right now.” He filled the glass to the brim.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24