Dracula in London

Wolf and Hound

Nigel Bennett and P. N. Elrod

Sabra stood on the cliff overlooking the sea, scenting the rising wind for magic. She braced against cold updrafts buffeting her small body, her long hair torn free, whipping about like Medusa’s snakes. She braced and let it come until she could determine if it was the simple spice of some minor weather-wizard or the dank reek of deeper sorcery.

As the church bells below tolled midnight the air abruptly went still, waiting. In the fields behind her she heard the dolourous bleating of sheep. In the town below a dog frantically barked warning. Then the storm itself burst upon sea and land. She could see the very color of its force on the wind, angry red streaks shot through with a violet so deep as to be black.

Spreading her arms wide, she sang into the night, her clear voice going out to the rocks below, then dancing across the wild gray waters of a harbour to a mist-hidden horizon. The returning echo against her soul confirmed her suspicion. The quickening wash of the gale had real spellwork behind it: old, dark, and dangerously powerful.

Blood magic it was.

Blood magic… and death.

Out there beyond the breakwater… a drifting schooner. That was the source. Did it carry plague such as she’d seen ravaging all the world in those short centuries past? If so, then there was little she could do to stop it. A rare stab of true horror pierced her, but only for an instant. Great would be that calamity, but it was part of the natural cycle of the earth. This was decidedly un-natural. Which brought it within her sphere of influence.

By miracle or curse, the ship found its way into the harbour, going aground, causing much activity among the locals who ran to its aid. She wondered if any of them marked the black shape of the huge wolf that leaped to shore from the deck. It charged straight for a sea cliff and the darkness of the churchyard above. The beast did not pause, but continued past the church, heading for the shelter of a broken abbey, heading directly toward Sabra.

The wolf found its way up the last steep rise, gaining level footing not five paces away.

Much larger than any she’d seen before, it was big as a calf, a match for any of the hounds of Annwyn. Raw hate gleamed from red eyes. Swinging its heavy head in her direction, long teeth bared in a growl, it advanced on her. She did not move, except to hold out her hand in a placating gesture. She spoke Words of Calming in the Old Tongue. The creature snapped in reaction, ears flat, hackles up as though she’d clubbed it instead. Beneath the thick fur, muscles bunched, and it leaped at her, its reeking jaws closing upon her throat, ripping flesh like paper. She fell backwards under the weight of its body and kept falling. Both of them launched spinning from the cliff, dropping into empty, roaring space…

Sabra awoke fully from the dream.

She lay inert, eyes shut, only mildly aware of the ornate bed in which she’d slept the day through, and tried to hold fast to the last shreds of the vision, seeking more details. Clearest of all was that picture of herself standing on the cliff overlooking Whitby Harbour. Sweet Cerridwen, but she’d not passed through Whitby in decades, why now?

Used to all sorts of nightmarish dreams, her gift of Sight was usually more forthcoming with meanings to explain the mesh of images, but not this time. Whether the wolf was a literal or symbolic danger she could not tell. Whatever was astir knew how to cloak itself, which meant a formidable magical skill. She could not ignore such a strong, if murky, portent and made the necessary arrangements for the long rail journey home.

Taking advantage of certain modes of this century’s fashion, Sabra covered her pale skin in long gloves and a heavy cloak, and draped a dense black veil over a wide-brimmed bonnet. Warm for August, but it protected her from the burning sun and offered welcome isolation. She appeared to be a recently bereaved widow in deep mourning. None would question why she took no meals in the train’s dining car. Those feedings she sought elsewhere from willing and forgetful companions. No more dreams of blood magic disturbed her day-sleeps, which was frustrating. She wanted more information.

It took days of travel to reach England from St. Petersburg where she’d been keeping an eye on Victoria’s granddaughter, Alexandria. By then the storm Sabra had envisaged had come and gone, the mystery of it cold, though gossip was still rife. The macabre tale of a dead captain sailing his deserted ship into harbour confirmed to her that she’d done the right thing leaving the Russian court to investigate this. Whatever had been aboard boded ill for the realm she’d pledged to guard.

She spent a week in Whitby, sensing nothing useful, learning little of import except that the wolf had also been real enough, though all thought it to be only a large dog. According to a newspaper report, it had fled the ship following the same path she’d seen in her dream, vanishing into the night, perhaps to prowl the moors, alone and afraid.

Or so people assumed.

Shape-shifters were not unknown to her. Most were harmless, but this one was different, else its magic wouldn’t have drawn her attention so strongly.

She sought and found information about the ship’s cargo and its final destination, tracking it to Purfleet. Taking to the rails again, she followed the same route to King’s Cross station, and ultimately to the badly aging mansion attached to old Carfax Abbey.

The place was deserted save for a number of boxes in the ruined chapel which proved to be filled with earth.

So… that was it. One of the European Breed come to settle in England. She had no objection to them, so long as they conducted themselves with wisdom and discretion. Thus far she was unimpressed. This one—if she drew the correct conclusion from the captain’s log printed in the papers—had killed the entire crew of the ship on which he’d sailed. Why had he not simply cast his influence upon them to make them forget his presence? All those of undead blood had that talent, but this had been vicious and barbaric beyond reason.

Then there was the matter of the magic.

Whoever this newcomer might be, he commanded powers beyond those of his peers. The Europeans had sufficient supernatural strengths within their inherent natures, but to combine those with black sorcery made for a frightening potential. Before she could return to Russia, Sabra would have to determine their extent—and his intentions.

Still in the convenient isolation of widow’s weeds, Sabra took rooms at a nearby hotel. In the days to come she maintained a loose vigil on Carfax, primarily after dark, as she judged it to be the most likely time for him to return, but that proved a disappointment. The only activity she marked was noting one night that nearly half the boxes were gone, the signs left in the thick dust indicating the invasion of a carting firm going about its prosaic business.

Then there was the occasional excitement when one of the lunatics from the sanitarium next door escaped. He always came to Carfax, crying pitifully to gain entry to be with his “Master.”

The poor brute was touched by the moon all right, his disturbed mind reacting badly to the European’s strong psychic trace. She visited the fellow once in the late hours, speaking through his barred window in hope of learning something useful. Alas, his madness was something even her powers of influence could not pierce. All she got was his insistence that “the Master was here,” to which she assigned its broader meaning. If the European were on the immediate grounds, she’d have sensed him.

Growing impatient with the wait—for August had long vanished and September was nearly gone—Sabra tried a scrying ceremony one night while the moon was still at full. The results, as she stared hard into the mirrored surface of a black bowl filled with water, were mixed. She saw the delicate shadow of a young woman, but nothing