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

      Philip’s billfold, including the modest amount of money in it, was soon returned to him. “I am not interested in your money. You are not being held for ransom. You may as well believe me; what reason could I have for lying to you on that point now?”

      Philip had been aware for most of his life, ever since he had grown old enough to be aware of such things, that some people after looking at him and hearing his name tended to assume that he was wealthy instead of moderately prosperous. Some even assumed he was immensely wealthy. He was at a loss to understand this, except that the cause had to be something in his name, or in his looks.

      “All right,” he demanded of his kidnapper. “If you don’t want money, then what?”

      “Believe it or not, our only object is to save your life. You are now in protective custody.”

      “If that’s all it is, you can let us both go. I don’t need to be protected.” Why do some of them take pains to hide their faces, while this man and woman don’t care? Could the others conceivably be people I would recognize?

      The other appeared not to have heard that comment.

      “You expect me to thank you? I didn’t know that either of our lives were in any danger.”

      “You have put your finger on an important point. Your ignorance, through no fault of your own, is indeed something of a problem.” Even as he spoke, Dracula kept looking over his shoulder. Consciously or not, he gave the impression of a man on guard against the pursuit of an opponent he obviously considered extremely formidable. “And whether you eventually express your gratitude or not is a matter of indifference. What I have sworn, I have sworn.”

      “What exactly have you sworn?”

      “That you will be protected.”

      Radcliffe thought that over for a little while. The explanation seemed to be going in a circle. Trying to get back to practical matters, he asked: “Where are you taking us?”

      “To a place where, for the time being, you will be relatively safe.”

       “Well be safe at home.”

      “Alas, no.” Slowly the dark, unmasked man shook his head. “Unfortunately that is not the case, for either of you. Not just now. But if all goes well, you should be safe at home in only a few days.”

      “Why do all your helpers wear masks, and you don’t?”

      “They are masked because you might, if all goes well, someday see them again. If you were to recognize them, an awkward situation could arise.”

      “But I’m never going to see you again?”

      The other smiled faintly. “Probably not—but to me it is a matter of indifference whether you do. It will make no difference if you someday describe me and complain about me to the police.”

      “Oh, it won’t? And to Constantia? If that’s her real name.”

      “She and I, as you may have observed already, are different from the others.”

      “Different how?”

      “That is part of the explanation to which you are entitled. But it will take time.”

      A little time went by before Radcliffe asked: “Safe from who? From what?”

      “From a certain man, one who has vowed not only to cut off your head, but to drink your blood.”

      Radcliffe couldn’t think of anything to say in response. Up front Connie, or someone else, was driving; he could see only the faint outline of a head. The vehicle roared on. Maybe they’d be lucky and a speed cop would pull her over.

      June asked: “Is that the ‘Radu’ you mentioned earlier? And does he want my head too? To drink my blood?”

      Their captor nodded solemnly. “I know him well, and he is quite capable of doing both. I would not be surprised to see that he had the guillotine all ready.”

      That silenced June for the moment. Phil stepped in: “You know this Radu. All right, who is he?”

      “Someone I have known for a long time.”

      “How long?”

      The other appeared to be considering his answer carefully. Finally he said, clearly: “More than five hundred years. Alas, he is my brother.”

      That put an end to all conversation for almost a quarter of an hour.

* * *

      The sun was on the verge of rising when the vehicle at last pulled into a scanty patch of woods, between a pair of sandy hummocks, and rolled to a stop in front of a pair of small mobile homes. It was the kind of housing Radcliffe would have expected to see provided for workers at a small isolated mine—not that there were any visible signs of mining activity near.

      Here two more masked kidnappers were waiting. The victims were bidden to get out of the van. By this time, both Radcliffes had recovered to some extent from the original shock, and each had begun trying to think of some way to escape from their kidnappers.

      They got out of the van to smell a chill and dusty wind, and find themselves standing in front of a small, dimly lighted mobile home. A few yards away, the shaded windows of a similar dwelling gave out a muted glow. The night was gone, the day was here, the sky still marked by a thin rising moon, and those stars bright enough to survive the early stages of the change. Mountains, ghostly shapes along the newly revealed horizon, loomed in several directions, the closest no more than twenty miles away.

Both little houses were set directly on the ground and appeared to have settled into their sites, as if they had been in place for some time.

      A power line, looking out of place, came marching on its small poles across the desert.

      A small, primitive landing strip was in view behind the buildings. A faded windsock hung limply. No aircraft were in sight at the moment.

      Radcliffe and his wife were watched carefully but treated gently, like valuable objects, as they climbed out of the vehicle. While Mr. Graves watched the sky, as if suddenly interested in the weather, one of his masked helpers led Philip and June to the smaller