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

* * *

      The carpenter, Duplay, had only recently finished shaping and planing and sanding the wooden blade, of stout, tough oak, which Radu had ordered. Duplay had added a dark stain, which succeeded in making the finished product look almost like metal. The blades of la mechanique were changed fairly frequently, and it seemed unlikely that onlookers would pay this one any particular attention.

      Radu had secretly arranged with one of the younger Sansons for its substitution in the death machine, on the proper day. And when that day came and the wooden blade was used, on a converted Philip or even a tricky Vlad, Radu was determined to be in the audience watching. The victim’s head, vampire or not, was going to come cleanly off, and Radu would not have missed that sight for anything.

* * *

      Philip Radcliffe thought that he and the Reaper had been on intimate terms for some time now. He had a fleeting impression of familiarity when he looked into the face of Death, in the form of Sanson’s powerful assistant.

      And Philip, his hands now tied behind his back, with no sane reason in the world to expect anything but a dramatic passage out of the world within the next few seconds, was sent stumbling forward across the little platform. The long arms of the taller executioner reached out, and his hands seized Philip Radcliffe in a grip as tight as that of Death.

Chapter Twenty-Four

      Where’s your husband?” The questioning voice issued almost calmly from inside the monstrously lugubrious head of Frankenstein’s monster.

      June met the steady gaze of the almost invisible human eyes, inside the mask, with as much defiance as she could muster. “I don’t know.”

      The man straightened, putting his fists on his hips. The voice from the monster’s head was mild, conducting a casual inquiry. “Looks like you came out the window. I suppose he came out with you?”

      June said nothing, but stared with as much courage as she could muster at the artificial face looming over her. At last she announced, in a tightly controlled voice: “I’ve hurt my ankle. Do you suppose you could help me get back inside?”

      Reassuringly, the man’s posture altered suddenly, as if he hadn’t until this moment understood why she was sitting on the ground. His reaction seemed purely one of concern as once more he leaned slightly toward her. “Of course. Which ankle is it? But maybe you’d better just sit still for a minute. What happened?”

      She pointed to the throbbing limb. “Twisted it, falling out the window.” That one of the damned kidnappers should be concerned about her welfare seemed perversely offensive, and grated on her nerves. Baring her teeth, she indicated the exact location of the injury. “What do you think happened?”

      “Sorry about that.” The apologetic attitude seemed quite genuine. Then the mask turned, scanning right and left. ‘Where did Mr. Radcliffe get to?” But the question sounded casual, unalarmed.

      “How should I know?”

      Several other masks were now approaching, from different directions, and in a moment the newly formed group of rubber-faced monsters had begun a conversation among themselves. June, fearful but defiant, felt relieved and wept when her captors seemed to take the uncertainty about her husband pretty much in stride.

      No one hounded her with questions regarding Phil’s whereabouts. Presently two of the men, moving with the care if not the skill of ambulance attendants, picked June up and carried her solicitously back into the little house.

      In the living room, Connie lay stretched on the sofa, dead to the world. Ignoring her, the volunteer medics set the injured woman in a chair.

      June noted with mixed feelings that Connie was alive—the dark-curled head had turned a little to one side since the Radcliffes went out the window. But the gypsy woman slept on, her crunchy plastic bag beneath her as if she might be afraid someone was going to steal it. None of the renewed activity in the room disturbed her in the least, and the masked people in turn paid her no attention. If she had indeed fallen into some kind of coma, they evidently considered the condition in her case nothing out of the ordinary.

      One or two of the masked guardians hastily searched through the other rooms of the small house. At last the group began to murmur among themselves on the subject of Radcliffe’s absence. Then one hurried toward the other building as if to pass along the news.

      The rubber images of Hollywood horror who remained in the room with June stood facing her in her chair, but the postures of their bodies gave no clue as to what they might bethinking.

* * *

      Roused with some difficulty from his own trance in the other house, Vlad Dracula heard the news of Philip’s escape. Obviously it came as no surprise.

      “And the tracking device, Joseph?” he inquired.

      “It’s in place, and we’re getting readings.”

      The almost microscopic transponder earlier attached to Philip Radcliffe’s trousers was still faithfully emitting a signal when electronically prodded. A rotating antenna which had earlier lain concealed had been erected on the roof of the second mobile home. Inside, another breather, mask now off, was seated at a small desk, tracking Radcliffe’s location on a green-tinged screen.

* * *

      Among Vlad Dracula’s breathing helpers, Joe Keogh, at least, would almost certainly be in on any trick that was being worked. Joe thought that over the years he had earned that right.

      Joe Keogh on taking off his rubber mask stood revealed as a man in his mid-forties, his fair hair turned half gray. He was of average size, and sparely muscular, with a tough-looking face. Eyeglasses, acquired in the last couple of years, added a scholarly touch to his appearance.

      John Southerland, missing the little fingers on both hands, was the same height as Joe, a little under six feet, but twelve or thirteen years younger. Maskless, John appeared strong-jawed and sturdy, with light brown hair beginning to be touched with early gray and showing a