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want no more …’” Yet in his mind,

in his heart, he saw the dozens of glass tumblers begged singly from Langmore and I tardy, with his

painstakingly collected flies buzzing beneath them. Saw the crumpled sorry boxes of spiders, the

hard-won fragments of his great work kicked aside by fools and Fate, as in the opera the sword

Nothung had been shattered, beyond his poor power to re-forge.
    “’What was good, straightway I gave them,’” murmured that deep, harsh voice from out of

the shadows. “’Spoke, and strengthened their minds.’”
    Renfield whimpered, “Lord . . .”
    His head bowed into his hands, he only heard the sough of the great cloak as that column of darkness

stepped forward-as Wotan the Wanderer, lord of the gods, stepped forward-and smelled the rank,

intoxicating stench of graveyard earth and de-caying blood. The hand that rested on his head was heavy,

cold as the hand of a corpse.
    “’Behold, the bridegroom cometh,’” said Wotan’s voice, in the dark at the back of Renfield’s

mind. All around them the waters surged against the boat’s wooden hold, but though the lightless space

stank of rats, not a single whisper of their skitter-ing did Renfield hear. “’And ye know not the day

or the hour.’ But I come. Then those who are known to me shall have their reward.”
    It seemed to Renfield then that he was back in his bed in Rushbrook House, back in his opiated sleep.

But his mind was awake and aware, aware of everything: of the voices of Lang-more and Simmons as

they played their endless, stupid games of cribbage at the little deal table at the far end of the hall; of the

kitchen-cat hunting in the long grass and poor old Lord Alyn in the next room crying and mumbling over

and over to himself how he did not deserve to live, how great his sins were and how powerless he was to

stop himself … Of the soft deadly clinking in the study directly below him, as Dr. Seward made up for

him-self his now-nightly injection of chloral hydrate, so that he could enjoy the sleep he so blithely handed

out to his patients. He was aware of the fog that lay on the marshes, of the boats moving down the broad

estuary to the sea.
    He was aware of the sea. Of a small ship with tattered sails, driven on by storm-winds that moaned in

its rigging, of the pounding of waves on distant rocks. It seemed to him that he could rise from his bed
    and fly on the wings of that storm-on the crest of that darkness.
    Fly to the ship, where Wotan waited … where the Wanderer God sat in darkness, with all his power

and wisdom gathered into his strong hands, to help those who did as he willed.
    Fly to Catherine …
    He saw her, auburn hair half-untangled from its nightly braid, face peaceful in sleep. Like the Prince in a

fairy-tale, he thought he stood over her, her beauty breaking his heart as it always did, always had, since

first she’d stood up at that theosophical lecture and questioned the lecturer about the astral plane. So

many nights when she would turn over and sleep, after their final good-night kiss, he had simply sat

awake, looking at her slum-bering face by the glow of his little reading-lamp, relaxed and so young with

all its small daily worries sponged away. Joy be-yond joy.
    I will save her, he thought. Wotan will help me. I will make him help me.
    The thought of that terrible ally filled Renfield with dread, for he knew to the marrow of his bones that

the thing in the hold of the ship was not to be trusted. I will make him help me, but I cannot, must not,

ever, ever let him know where Catherine and Vixie are hidden.
    He didn’t know quite why this was so, or what the nature of the danger was. But the column of shadow

within shadow, dark-ness within dark, had glowed with a nimbus of peril.
    I will be clever, he vowed. Clever and strong. I can get his help without his knowing. I can keep

that secret, buried in my heart. Then no one will put my Catherine or our beautiful Vixie