Immortality

***
Twelve

The morning came, thick and black and filled with a dread he felt was almost tangible. He was awake, as he had planned, at shortly after half past four, and all he remembered as he dragged himself to full consciousness was that he had dreamt. The dream itself was gone. As was Dorian.

He stretched out his arm and the opposite side of the bed was empty, cold' he understood then that something was wrong but kept himself from guessing what exactly it was. Then he fumbled with the matches from the bedside cabinet until one of the lamps was lit, as his eyes adjusted to the dim glare of l, he, he saw that Dorian was gone though that vacant pillow still retained the scent of his hair. Then he looked around, peered down over the side of the bed and saw the contents of his bag tipped out onto the floor. The realisation dawned on him as he left the bed and sorted through what remained; the bastard had stolen the book.

He pulled on his trousers, left the room and hammered briefly on Dorian's door, though already convinced he wouldn't find him there. There was no answer and when he forced the door he found no single trace of him. Apart from the ache in his muscles that went down to the bone and an acute sense of betrayal, there was nothing at all to suggest that Dorian Gray had even existed. He sighed deeply, cursed himself, and returned to his room. He should have trusted his instincts.

His bag took just over two minutes to repack; he washed quickly, dressed and left the place, dropping the key to the room that he'd abandoned, along with the money he owed for it, on the desk befleavleaving. He stepped out into the cold early morning air, the buckles of his leather coat jangling. He didn't feel the cold as he stepped up into the carriage sent there by the Vatican and nodded to Carl. As they pulled away, he made a mental note: as soon as he returned from Transylvania, assuming he did which was a chilling thought, he would find Dorian Gray. He could think of several ways to make him pay.

They left from the port outside of Rome two hours later, on a boat called the Valparaiso. It was small, with a crew that looked at Carl with a kind of wonder that Gabriel could not quite find amusing. He had a feeling that their passage to Varna would be very long indeed.

He settled down in his bunk and slept, fully clothed. When he woke with a crick in his neck to the sound of Carl tinkering with his crossbow at the table, he felt ill. He'd never liked to be at sea, especially with a hyperactive friar. He couldn't eat; Carl and the men offered him food constantly but more often than not he refused. Sleeping left him unrefreshed. All that left for him was conversation.

Carl was interesting company to say the least, with inexhaustible tales of life in the Vatican, maintenance tips for Gabriel's various weapons and excruciating jokes that rather required the listener to have at least a passing knowledge of the Latin language. At least, however, he'd managed to steer him away that first day from the topic of the mysterious book that had apparently intrigued him, and Dorian Gray. After that it was plain sailing, so to speak.

For part of each day Carl spoke with the ship's crew; apparently they were quite devout Spanish Catholics for the most part, and though ancient maritime tradition wasn't exactly resoundingly in favour of having men of the cloth on board, the sailors were positively ecstatic that he was there. That meant that for at least two hours a day while Carl pottered around with a Latin Vulgate and half the crew, Gabriel was left alone, feeling green and perpetually unsteady on his sea legs. He preferred travel overland. And when Carl left the room that gave him too much time to think.

He'd been duped. By a pretty face and flattering interest, though he'd been more driven to the act by annoyance than seduction. All that time... three countries and more than a week playing a part the entire time. He was starting to wonder if hinghing that Dorian said had been true; if that was even his name, if Abraham Van Helsing even existed or if it had all been one large and curious trick from the start. Had Dorian helped to kidnap his brother? Did he *have* a brother? What on earth was so important in that book, and why had Maria Kurtz had to die? He had a feeling he would never know, now that Dorian was gone.

And then of course there was the small matter of Dracula. Gabriel had killed him, seen him die, and yet apparently he had returned. For a moment he wondered if there hadn't been some mistake, that none of it was true, that Dracula was just as dead as he'd left him and Cardinal Jinette was wrong. He even wondered if it could be a trick, as Dorian's very presence had been, and perhaps the cardinal was in on it. But that was just his paranoia talking, spurred on by the endless rolling of the sea.

He stayed in his bunk below deck, not even setting foot out there in ten ten days they spent at sea. The only time he went above was when they came at last, following what had seemed to him an eternity of the worst seasickness of his life, to the Black Sea port of Varna, on the coast of Bulgaria. It was dark when they docked, the sky a fathomless black in which he could see no stars; he'd hoped that they would land in with daylight to welcome them, but he was pleased despite the dark, as they'd made good time. Perhaps in fair weather they would have landed sooner, but in the winter months and crossing mountains they could have been held up for weeks.

With Carl lagging behind he went ashore, lugging his bags. The town was quiet as they left the ship and its crew behind with a brief goodbye and headed for the boarding house by the seafront where they'd both stayed before. He knocked, loudly, and as he waited for the owner - who was probably rising from bed - he tried not to look out to sea. The calm black waters chilled him more efficiently than the frigid air, their ominous depths evoking in him a distinct feeling of unease, and perhaps a little dread. It was as if he saw his own doom in the blackness.

Then, with a clatter of locks, the door of the boarding house opened. The frustrated look on the owner's face was somewhat abated when Van Helsing thrust a generous sum of money into his hand, and he allowed them inside. With a satisfied grin he called for his wife and while tate ate from bowls of reheated stew - the most that Gabriel had eaten in over a week - their rooms were prepared. It made a change to be settling down to bed on a full stomach, in a room whose floor didn't tip and tilt sickly with the rolling of the waves.

As he slept he dreamed, though as he woke he had no time to remember. It was five o'clock by local time and the sky outside was still pitch black; he hadn't woken of his own accord but rather some noise or other, some disturbance had stirred him. He pulled the pistol from under his pillow, slowly, gazing around in the blackness, seeing nothing.

He slipped from the bed, almost silently, and felt his way to the door. There was a click down the corridor outside that he heard with his ear pressed to the door, like a lock; he inched open the door and stepped outside, his bare feet making no noise against the rugs that lined the corridor. There was slightly more light there, from the moon that shone outside the small, high window at the end of the hall, and by it he could have *sworn* that he saw the edge of the door to Carl's room clicking shut. He didn't take that as a good sign. He inched closer, and when he listened at the door there was a faint muffled sound came from inside. That was not a good sign at all.

As he cocked his gun he felt for the handle, then slipped open the door. For some reason he could not divine he thought of that man back there across Europe, the skeletal man that had died in the office of Maria Kurtz. He remembered the sunken hollows of his eyes as he'd shot the woman, remembered the expensive suit laid over stretched, thin skin. He'd seemed barely alive even before Dorian had slashed his throat. Dorian, who'd killed that man for no better reason that Gabriel could discern than to gain his trust. He'd been after the book all along; to Gabriel's shame, now he had it. Not that either of them knew what it contained - he felt sure of that, remembering how enthusiastic Dorian had been in his own way to have Carl translate it. And if he had, he would probably by lying dead in some dank Roman alley, dead as the man in Maria Kurtz's office.

His mind was stuck on that man as he stepped into Carl's room, on the sickening fact that he'd seemed most alive whilst he died. For a second he glanced at his boots to make sure that the blood was gone, then realised with a flash of self-mockery that he was barefoot and the blood had washed away in the rain that day just moment after it had touched. And that he should have been paying attention to the situation at hand. And that Carl was not alone in the bed.

"Carl!" he exclaimed, a little more loudly that he would have liked, if indeed he'd meant to speak at all. Carl and the girl sprang apart, and suddenly Gabriel understood the muffled sounds. "Carl... is that Elena?" The girl blushed and pulled up the sheets as Gabriel lowered the gun.

"Well... yes, as a matter of fact," said Carl with a ridiculous look of bewilderment on his face, blushing rather, his hair even more tousled than usual.

"Somehow I don't think our host would be impressed that you're bedding his youngest daughter." Carl blushed even more brightly and Elena scampered from the room, taking a sheet and her discarded clothing with her.

"Surely you didn't sneak into my room juo cao catch me with the serving girl, Van Helsing?" Carl asked, pulling his remaining sheet up just a little higher.

Gabriel coughed and rubbed at his eyebrows. Just when he'd thought he'd got away with it, interrupting, Carl had had to ask. Of course. "Well, I thought I heard... but it was..." He coughed again and backed toward the door.

"Ah, I see," Carl said. "Well, I'm glad you're on your guard." Carownrowned but almost smiled. "In fact, I rather..."

He didn't getfinifinish that thought. Gabriel was seized from behind and Carl's words died in his throat. The grip was maddening, a bony forearm barred across his throat, and in the second as he'd been yanked suddenly backward into that grip he'd dropped his pistol with a dull metallic thud. He couldn't catch his breath; he clawed at the arm but couldn't take hold of it, gasped dryly as he gaped at Carl, and felt his vision swim.

For a moment he believed he would die, honest to God, and have failed in his assignment, Dracula still roaming the earth. But then in one last, desperate attempt he lunged forward, dipping his shoulder and tossing his attacker in across the floorboards. He grabbed his gun from the floor, aimed, and fired.

As the shot rang out and he looked down at the man that he'd killed, he frowned. He could see his face clearly in the moonlight from the window, and what he saw unsettled him; he was almost sure then that it was the same man, the man from Berlin.

"You killed him!" Carl exclaimed from the bed, pointing.

Gabriel turned from the familiar corpse and cast Carl a sardonic look. "It might have escaped your notice but I was being attacked," he said. "I could have used a little help."

"Well, I'm naked", Carl said, as if that explained everything. "And you seemed to be doing so well..."

"The man was *strangling* me, Carl!" He sighed and rubbed his throat. "You'd better take my room tonigI'lI'll take care of this."

"But..."

"Go." So Carl left the bed, grabbed his clothes and headed to the door. "And leave the sheet." It hit the floor and Carl scampered away, closing the door behind him.

When the owner came to the room, Gabriel assured him that all was well, that he'd dropped his gun and it had fired by mistake. And when the owner was gone, he stood over the body lying there on the bedroom floor. He looked closer and he saw it wasn't the same man at all, though the gaunt angles of his face had a terribly familiar look. His sallow skin was stretched out tight over his bones, his eyes sunken, his body thin as a man starved to the point of death. They seemed so similar... and he had to dispose of him.

He sighed, coming to his knees and reaching out. It would be a long, long night.

***