The doctor had given him a pain-killing prescription, against the possibility of a recurrence, and that had been that. Dragosani should have been satisfied but was not. Far from it …
He had attempted to contact Thibor at long range. Perhaps the old devil knew the answer; even a lie might contain some sort of clue; but – nothing. If Thibor could hear him, he wasn’t answering.
He had gone over for the hundredth time the events leading up to his terrible pain, his flight, his collapse. Something had splashed on his neck from above. Rain? No: it had been a fine night, bone dry. A leaf, a piece of bark? No, for it had felt wet. Some filthy bird’s dropping, then? No, for his hand had come away clean.
Something had landed on the top of his spine, and moments later both spine and brain had been gripped
and squeezed! By something unknown. But . . . what? Dragosani believed he knew, and still hardly dared to give it conscious thought. Certainly it had invaded his sleep, bringing him endless nights filled with bad dreams – recurrent nightmares he could never remember in his waking moments, but which he knew were terrible when he dreamed them.
The whole thing had become a sort of obsession with him and there were times when he thought of little else. It had to do not only with what had happened, but also with what the vampire had been telling him when it happened. And it also had to do with certain changes he’d noticed in himself since it happened …
Physiological changes, inexplicable changes. Or if there was an explanation, still Dragosani was not yet ready to face up to it.
‘Dragosani, my boy,’ Borowitz had told him not a week ago, ‘you’re getting old before your time! Am I working you too hard or something? Maybe I’m not working you hard enough! Yes, that’s probably it: not enough to keep you occupied. When did you last bloody your oh so delicate fingers, eh? A month ago, wasn’t it? That French double-agent? But look at you, man! Your hair’s receding – your gums, too, by their look! And with that pallid complexion of yours and your sunken cheeks, why, you could almost be anaemic! Maybe this jaunt to England will do you good . . .’
Borowitz had been trying to get a rise out of him, Dragosani knew, but for once he had not dared rise to the bait. That would only serve to draw more attention to himself, which was the last thing he wanted. No, for in fact Borowitz was more nearly correct than he could possibly guess.
His hair did seem to be receding, true, but it was not. A small birthmark on Dragosani’s scalp, close to the hairline, told him that much. Its position relative to his hair had not changed in ten years at least; ergo, his hair was not receding. The change was in the skull itself, which if anything seemed to have lengthened at the rear. The same was true of his gums: they were not receding, as Borowitz had suggested, but his teeth were growing longer! Particularly the incisors, top and bottom.
As for anaemia: that was purely ridiculous. Pale he might be but not weak; indeed he felt stronger, more vital in himself, than ever before in his life. Physically, anyway. His pallor probably resulted from a fast-developing photophobia, for now he literally shunned the daylight and would not go out even in dim light without wearing dark glasses.
Physically fit, yes – but his dreams, his nameless fears and obsessions – his neuroses . . .
Quite simply, he was neurotic!
It shocked Dragosani to have to admit it, even though he only admitted it to himself.
One thing at least was certain: no matter the outcome of this British mission, when it was finished Dragosani intended to return to Romania at his earliest opportunity. There were matters, questions, which must be resolved. And the sooner the better. Thibor Ferenczy had had things his own way for far too long.
Beside Dragosani in the cramped three-abreast seats, but with a dividing arm up to accommodate his girth, Max Batu chuckled. ‘Comrade Dragosani,’ the squat little Mongol whispered, ‘I am supposed to be the one with the evil eye. Had you perhaps forgotten our roles?’