A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) by Fred Saberhagen (book suggestions TXT) 📕

      Lying for the moment with his eyes closed, oblivious to the curious stares of those who had befriended him, he thought: Let me lie here all day unmolested, shielded from the blasting sun, and at least I will not die before nightfall. He would remain too weak, though, to do much more than survive. Unless he could find nourishment.

      Dracula’s host, a long way from perceiving the fugitive’s peculiarities, offered his strange guest first bedding, and then food—though of course it never occurred to him to offer sustenance of the only kind that would have been of real benefit.

      “Again I must ask you—would you not prefer a bed?”

      “I tell you no.” The voice, though somewhat stronger, was still no more than an agonized whisper. “If you would truly help me, let me be as I am.”

      “Very well. At least you had better let me see to your wounds.” And the American wondered if his guest might be delirious.

      But his next speech sounded entirely rational. “If you wish.” Pause. “I thank you for your help. There is no doubt that you have saved my life.”

      The servant who had been sent for water and bandages now returned, and Melanie, the physician’s daughter, with Radcliffe’s somewhat awkward assistance, undertook the job of binding up the patient’s wounds.

      Weak as their bearer was, these had started to mend already, so to the uninitiated they appeared to have been made several days ago—but they were not as far restored as they would have been had not the spearpoints that made them been poisoned.

      She muttered, uncomprehendingly: “This looks as if you had been—gored, by some horned animal. Or stabbed with a sharp stick.”

      The victim had nothing to say about that. There were other spots where his pale skin looked bruised and swollen, as if he had been beaten with some blunt object.

      Melanie, who had been her father’s frequent assistant in medical emergencies, firmly and naturally took full charge of the job of washing and bandaging, in which she had both skill and experience.

      Radcliffe watched her working on the gash in the visitor’s right side. “Ugly gash,” she muttered. “I would think it needed stitches, and the one in your forehead too, but already they seem halfway healed. How did you get them? It must have been days ago.”

      “Would you believe I suffered a hunting accident?”

      The American shook his head. “Not without a considerable effort. Were you hunting with spears and swords? And you said that you might be pursued.”

      In reply the victim only grinned, stretching the taut skin of his face, making it even more skull-like.

      They offered him various items from their modest supply of food and drink—Old Jules’s granddaughter had made delicious soup—but the patient firmly declined. Even in his condition, he could be very firm. When pressed, he rinsed out his mouth with a mixture of wine and water, then spat out the red stuff violently.

      After sunset came, the main event of the evening, as far as the weakened, hunted vampire was concerned, was the return of the doctor’s daughter. Melanie was accompanied by the servant girl, who was carrying a lantern, a jug of water, and some soup. Even at midday the room remained very dim.

      The servant girl paused in the doorway, while Melanie, advancing across the room, knelt down on the stone floor and murmured softly: “Is there anything I can do for you, Citizen Legrand?”

      “You and your husband have done very much already. You have saved my life.” The victim’s voice was stronger than his deathly appearance suggested.

      For some reason Melanie thought it necessary to make the situation clear. “He is not my husband.”

      The visitor only looked at her, and again she felt it incumbent upon her to explain.

      She sat back on her heels. “Philip and I are friends. We knew each other as children. Philip is an American now, but he was born here on this estate. The land is—was—in his mother’s family. Before she took him to America, he and I often played together in this house, on these grounds … that was almost twenty years ago … so we are old friends.” Pause. That is all.”

      “Ah.” And something in her listener’s eyes seemed to alter. “I think that ‘Radcliffe’ is not a French name.”

      “Philip was telling me about that last night. His mother married an American called Radcliffe years ago, and her young child took that man’s name.”

      After a moment’s pause she added: “Philip’s natural father was Benjamin Franklin.”

      Almost any resident of France would have been interested at the mention of the late American celebrity, who had lived in France for so many years, and the wounded vampire was no exception. His low voice murmured: “Now that you mention it, our host does bear a certain resemblance to Franklin, around the eyes.”

      “You were privileged to meet the great M’sieu Franklin, then?”

      “Once, years ago, I had that honor … and how is the elder statesman now?”

      “I regret to say that he died four years ago, across the sea in Philadelphia. I am surprised you did not know.”

      “It is the world’s loss.” A thin arm bent and straightened in an elegant gesture. “One falls out of touch with many things.”

* * *

      With the situation now a little clearer to both Vlad Dracula and Melanie (though in fact each still labored under a fundamental misunderstanding), the kneeling woman at last slid closer and reached out to inspect the patient’s bandages. At her gesture, the silent young girl who had been hanging back in the doorway now brought the light closer. The patient made no effort to sit up, and to examine him the doctor’s daughter was compelled to sit right down on the stone floor, which she did with a natural and very non-aristocratic movement.

      But it was an awkward position in which to try to work, and in a moment she asked irritably: “Can you not sit up?”

      The patient shook his head slowly. “At the moment, you must believe me, I am vastly