Free Anno Dracula by Kim Newman

was impressed.
    Though the permits had still not come through, Francis had ordered the crew to erect and dress the castle set. This was a long way from Bucharest and without Georghiou, the hand of Ceauşescu could not fall.
    From some angles, the castle was an ancient fastness, a fit lair for the vampire King. But a few steps off the path and it was a shell, propped up by timbers. Painted board mingled with stone.
    If Meinster’s kids were in the forests, they could look up at the mountain and take heart. This sham castle might be their rallying-point. She hummed ‘Paper Moon’, imagining vampires summoned back to these mountains to a castle that was not a castle and a king who was just an actor in greasepaint.
    A grip, silhouetted in the gateway, used a gun-like device to wisp thick cobweb on the portcullis. Cages of imported vermin were stacked up, ready to be unloosed. Stakes, rigged up with bicycle seats that would support the impaled extras, stood on the mountainside.
    It was a magnificent fake.
    Francis, leaning on his staff, stood and admired the edifice thrown up on his orders. Ion-John was at his side, a faithful Renfield for once.
    ‘Orson Welles said it was the best train set a boy could have,’ Francis said. Ion probably didn’t know who Welles was. ‘But it broke him in the end.’
    In her cardigan pocket, she found the joke shop fangs from the 100th Day of Shooting party. Soon, there would be a 200th Day party.
    She snapped the teeth together like castanets, feeling almost giddy up here in the mists where the air was thin and the nights cold.
    In her pleasant contralto, far more Irish-inflected than her speaking voice, she crooned, ‘It’s a Barnum and Bailey world, just as phoney as it can be, but it wouldn’t be make-believe if you believed in me.’

26

    On foot, Harker arrives at the gates of the castle. Westenra and Murray hang back a little way.
    A silent crowd of gypsies parts to let the Englishmen through. Harker notices human and wolf teeth strung in necklaces, red eyes and feral fangs, withered bat-membranes curtaining under arms, furry bare feet hooked into the rock. These are the Szgany, the children of Dracula.
    In the courtyard, an armadillo noses among freshly severed human heads. Harker is smitten by the stench of decay but tries to hide his distaste. Murray and Westenra groan and complain. They both hold out large crucifixes.
    A rat-like figure scuttles out of the crowds.
    RENFIELD: Are you English? I’m an Englishman. R.M. Renfield, at your service.
    He shakes Harker’s hand, then hugs him. His eyes are jittery, mad.
    RENFIELD: The Master has been waiting for you. I’m a lunatic, you know. Zoophagous. I eat flies. Spiders. Birds, when I can get them. It’s the blood. The blood is the life, as the book says. The Master understands. Dracula. He knows you’re coming. He knows everything. He’s a poet-warrior in the classical sense. He has the vision. You’ll see, you’ll learn. He’s lived through the centuries. His wisdom is beyond ours, beyond anything we can imagine. How can I make you understand? He’s promised me lives. Many lives. Some nights, he’ll creep up on you, while you’re shaving, and break your mirror. A foul bauble of man’s vanity. The blood of Attila flows in his veins. He is the Master.
    RENFIELD plucks a crawling insect from Westenra’s coat and gobbles it down.
    RENFIELD: I know what bothers you. The heads. The severed heads. It’s his way. It’s the only language they understand. He doesn’t love these things, but he knows he must do them. He knows the truth. Rats! He knows where the rats come from. Sometimes, he’ll say, ‘They fought the dogs and killed the cats and bit the babies in the cradles, and ate the cheeses out of the vats and licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles.’
    Harker ignores the prattle and walks across the courtyard. Scraps of mist waft under his boots.
    A huge figure fills a doorway. Moonlight shines on his great,