Incarnation (31 page)

Unless, of course, none was expected and the whole effort was nothing more than a ploy to conceal the room’s true purpose. A patient confined within the tank would be unaware of anything happening outside. A person of sufficient authority to conduct such an experiment—de Vere again—could come and go with impunity. And keep everyone else away.

I was about to continue searching the room when a low knocking stopped me. At first, I thought that I had imagined it but the sound came again. It was so faint that had I not been possessed of acute hearing, I would never have noticed it. But there it was once more. Coming from the direction of the tank.

No, from inside it.

Horror filled me. It was all well and good to theorize about how the tank was used, but to confront the reality of someone actually being trapped inside it was considerably different. Without pausing to think, I grasped the handle of the lid and tried to open it, only to discover that it was locked. For reasons I did not pause to consider, that infuriated me. I tightened my grip, pulled my arm back, and wrenched the lid completely off its hinges. It flew from my hand and slammed into the far wall.

At first, I could only make out a shape slightly paler than the darkness of the surrounding water. Then it moved and I realized that I was looking at a . . . person? A hoarse voice whispered, “Please . . . let me out.”

For an instant, I wondered if I could possibly have found Mordred, but I had no sense of him at all. I made to reach
into the tank to help whoever was in there when a face swam into view. I stared into the red-rimmed and bleary eyes of an unshaven young man who appeared as shocked to see me as I was to see him. He was naked, his skin as pale as that of a cave-dwelling worm with the unhealthy puffiness that comes from being too long exposed to water. His gaze appeared feverish with inner demons.

Dreading that I might have come upon another sensitive, I was actually relieved when he chortled suddenly and in a high-pitched voice said, “My best hallucination yet! Won’t the doctor be pleased? I must remember exactly what you look like so that I can tell him. La-la-da-tra-la such a good boy is Jack!”

Was Jack his name? Was he truly mad or had he been made so? The water was deep enough to come to his shoulders when he was lying down, as he promptly did again, folding his hands over his chest in the pose of one already dead. And still he continued to sing after a fashion in the voice of a child.

“La-la-da-tra-la Jack shall eat beans and mutton. La-la-datra-la a fine pudding there’ll be for Jack. La-la-da-tra-la . . .”

“Stop!” The discordant sound was unbearable. I reached into the tank and tried to grasp hold of him. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you out. You’ll be safe now—”

“No!” Without warning, he began to struggle, trying at once to fend me off even as he squirmed as far back in the tank as he could get. “Jack is a good boy!” He curled his hands into fists and began to beat them against his head hard enough to damage himself. “Get out! Get out!”

Fearful that he would be harmed, I stepped away. As with the caged animals, there was nothing more I could do, at least not then. A sense of helplessness swept over me, followed hard by fury.

I might not be able to help poor Jack, but I knew the best possible way to stop de Vere. Find Mordred.

As the young man continued his fractured song, I made a circuit of the isolation room. Remembering what I had seen Marco do in Stoker’s office, I tried rapping on the walls, but with no results. They gave every evidence of being solid stone. The floor was slate, and though I looked for signs of a hidden entrance to a lower level, I found none. Finally, with no other possibility left, I returned to the tank.

I could still hear Jack as I bent over, peering at the space between the bottom of the tank and the floor. That there was a space at all surprised me. Straightening, I laid a hand tentatively against the end of the tank farthest from the drain and pushed very lightly.

At first, nothing happened. I had to try again a little more firmly before I felt a slight motion. Convinced that I was on to something, I pushed again, only to gasp as the entire tank moved readily, pivoting on the end toward the drain. With very little effort, I rotated it ninety degrees from its original position.

Beneath where the tank had been was a trapdoor. I opened it to reveal worn stone steps leading down into utter darkness.

Now was the time to summon Marco and Stoker. But that would take precious minutes that I might not have. With only the briefest hesitation, I lowered myself into the bowels of the earth beneath Bethlem.

Keen as my eyes were, I needed time to adjust to the almost complete absence of light before I was able to make out a passage just barely tall enough to stand in. It must have been created centuries ago when the priory stood on the spot, yet the walls were lined with stones that showed no sign of wear.
When I examined them more closely, I realized that they contained the same flecks of dolomite found in the basement beneath the Serjeant’s Inn.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to block the ability of vampires to sense one another. More convinced than ever that Mordred had to be nearby, I proceeded quickly. As the last glimmers of light from above faded away, I regretted not having the foresight to bring one of the new electrical torches or even an old-fashioned kerosene lantern. As it was, I would have been hard-pressed to continue had I not become aware of a pale luminescence coming from the stones themselves. With that assistance, I was able to locate a metal door at the far end of the passage. It was locked.

Girding myself for whatever lay on the other side, I took hold of it as I had the lid of the tank and attempted to wrench it free. This proved more difficult than I had expected, the door being unusually thick and heavy. I had to assume the quite undignified posture of one foot pressed high against the adjacent wall while the other remained planted firmly on the floor. With both hands, I simultaneously pulled and twisted. At first, my only reward was a slight creaking. I persisted as my palms burned and pain shot up through my arms to my back. The handle itself began to fold under my grip, making it all the harder to hold on. But finally, just when I thought I might truly be thwarted, one hinge popped loose. The other followed swiftly. I barely managed to jump out of the way as the door crashed to the ground.

Stepping over it, I looked ahead anxiously. Not far from the door was a long, low table similar to those I had seen in the labs above. A bank of electric lights was positioned above it. I was about to try to turn them on when a low moan from
the far end of the room froze my hand. Something stirred in the darkness. The movement was so slight that I could scarcely credit it as real. When it happened again, I approached, but cautiously, uncertain of what I was about to confront.

At the first sight of the being chained upright to a rack against the far wall, a scream bubbled up in my throat. Not of fear, for the wretched creature was far beyond being able to harm anyone, but rather of horror that anyone, regardless of who or what, could be subjected to such torment. Only with the greatest effort did I manage to remain silent.

He was taller even than myself but severely emaciated. His head hung forward onto his chest. A mass of dark, thick hair hid his features. He wore the remains of what must have once been elegant evening garb, but it had been sliced to tatters, exposing his arms and chest. His skin was crusted over with dozens of wounds. I shuddered at the thought of what had caused them.

Hardly daring to speak, I mouthed his name. “Mordred?

When there was no response, I tried again, even going so far as to touch his shoulder lightly. “Mordred?”

Slowly, the head lifted. I steeled myself, waiting. . . . A high, pale forehead . . . the dark slash of brows . . . eyes . . .

I took a quick step back, staring into eyes that glowed red in the darkness. Eyes filled with pain and rage inhuman in their intensity. His nostrils flared, taking in my scent. Parched, cracked lips moved, emitting little more than a hiss.

“Lucy?”

I had to bend a little closer to hear him but there was no mistaking my name. Nor could there be any lingering doubt as to his identity. Relief flooded me.

“We have to get you out of here.”

He tried to respond but the effort proved too much. His
head slumped forward again as he sagged in his chains, insensible. I struggled to decide what to do—go for help or try to deal with the situation alone—before remembering that de Vere might appear at any moment. Under ordinary circumstances, I could defeat him or any other mortal easily. But I dared not forget that he possessed a vampire’s heart.

Without a key, I had no hope of freeing Mordred from the chains quickly. The only possibility was to work him loose from the rack, but the moment I attempted to do so, I realized how de Vere had managed to hold the vampire king for so long. The rack and the chains were crafted of silver. The moment I touched them, I felt the searing heat they inflicted. Even standing close to them drained my strength.

With a cry of frustration, I jumped back. No choice remained but to seek help. As quickly as I could manage, I returned to the isolation room and stepped out into the corridor. To my great relief, Marco and Stoker were approaching already.

“Hurry! I’ve found him.” Without waiting for them, I hurried back to the trapdoor. Over my shoulder, I said, “He is held by silver chains. I can do nothing with them.”

Marco understood at once. He stared at the lid of the tank that I had wrenched off. Nearby lay the handle itself. Scooping it up, he followed us into the passage.

I remained outside the cell while Marco and Stoker worked to free Mordred, so I cannot attest to their reaction at finding him. I did hear several grunts as they labored, but it was done quickly enough. Silver is not quite as soft a metal as gold, but it is malleable enough to bend and snap with the proper application of force.

Marco emerged carrying Mordred across his shoulders.
Stoker followed. Together, we made our way back up the steps. While we waited, the Irishman stuck his head out the door of the isolation room.

“The corridor is clear,” he reported. “However, I cannot think where we go beyond that. We can hardly stroll through the central hall and out the door in the company of the vampire king. Even if no one other than de Vere has an inkling who Mordred is, his obvious distress will attract immediate notice.”

He was right, of course, and I should have thought of it, but with all my attention focused on finding Mordred, I had given no consideration to how we would escape from Bethlem with him. Fortunately, a solution was at hand.

As the three of us—I cannot count Mordred as he was unconscious—stood about considering what to do, Jack leaped from the tank and ran past us. I had only an instant to perceive that he was completely naked before he was gone down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. A moment later, I heard him clattering up them.

Stoker, whose eyes had widened considerably, said, “We should go after him.” Even as I considered that the Irishman’s instinct for human compassion was to his credit, he added, “His presence above will cause an uproar. We can use it to slip out.”

His assessment proved correct. By the time we reached the central hall, pandemonium reigned. Jack was dashing back and forth, still entirely in a state of nature, while pursued by attendants, all trying to get an arm around him or, failing that, throw a sheet over his nakedness. Meanwhile, visitors descending from the upper floors were riveted by the spectacle. Some shouted in dismay, while several ladies made a
convincing show of fainting. For however brief a time, Bedlam showed its older, darker side.

I was not without sympathy for the poor young man. Whatever his mental state had been originally, the “treatment” to which he had been subjected would drive anyone to madness. I could only hope that the attention being drawn by his plight would result in better care, but until de Vere was exposed for the monster he was, that could not be guaranteed.

Marco wasted no time but made haste across the hall and past the admittance desk. He had almost reached the doors when one of the attendants noticed us.

“Hey, you there, stop!”

In the Jack-induced chaos, few eyes turned in our direction. Nonetheless, the attendant hurried to block our exit. In an instant, I stepped between Marco and the man. “Leave this to me.”

He hesitated but Stoker did not. Gripping Marco’s arm, he drew him out the door. The attendant made to go around me only to stop abruptly when I took hold of him with both hands and lifted him off the floor. I smelled his fear but beneath it was the hot, coppery tang of blood. Hunger stirred. My fangs slipped free. Confusion turned to terror. The man screamed and struggled to escape.

I held him long enough to be sure that Marco had gotten Mordred out, then tossed him against a nearby wall. My last sight of Bedlam was of Jack still cavorting with the attendants in pursuit as visitors and staff alike milled about in disarray. De Vere was nowhere in evidence, but I was certain that he was close by or would be shortly, as soon as he received word of what had happened. He would pursue Mordred with all means possible. The Watchers, the dirigibles, the omnipresent
cameras, all would be searching for us. Nor could I forget Lady Blanche. Word of what had taken place would reach her as well. When she realized that a halfling, a Protector, and the author of
Dracula
had freed an unknown personage from the bowels of Bedlam, she would reach the only possible conclusion. We had to find a place of safety, and quickly.