Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 3: The Dead Travel Fast

Despair weighed him down like a blanket of heavy snow, cold and bitter and fiercely pale. He raised his hand to his face and wiped the tears away, then stepped up to the latticed window, unlatching the casement and swinging it open. Far below, beneath the castle wall and a steep cliff was the river. It was deep, and the current was strong, he knew. He had thought perhaps the waters would reflect the blush of this final sunset, but they were black. Nightmare waters, revealing only the termination of pain but no further comfort.

He stepped out of the window and onto the narrow stone ledge, teetering on the edge of the precipice.

Let it all end. There was no reason to continue, not for all the earthly pleasures or eternal punishments. Nothing mattered, now that he was gone.

The old songs spoke of heartbreak, of people falling victim to it just as they might die of the plague or an arrow to the throat. He'd never understood it, never truly believed in it until now.

"There is a reason why things are as they are."

Will turned his head. A woman stood on the ledge next to him, dressed in the poor, ragged clothes of London street folk. She gave him a tired smile.

Polly Nichols.

He tried to speak, but found his voice dried up in his throat.

Suddenly, Polly's placid, accepting expression twisted, contorting into a grimace of pain. Blood soaked through her dress, staining all up and down her chest. With a groan, she fell, plummeting headfirst down into the river valley.

Abel Gideon stepped out onto the ledge, a bloody knife in his hand. "And did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand, Inspector."

"I don't want to see," Will pleaded, or tried to. His words were barely whispers forced from his lungs.

"See. See...?"

They reached for one another at the same time, with the same motion, as though they were the twinned reflections in a mirror, the glass and sheen of silver separating them. And they were falling...

***

Will woke up, sitting up so fast he heard his spine crack in several places.

The innkeeper's wife was knocking on the door. "I'm up," he called roughly, and she went away, muttering under her breath in Romanian. Will leaned over and picked up his pocket watch, flipping open the cover. It was almost a full hour later than he'd asked to be awakened.

"Figures," he growled, getting up to dress as quickly as possible.

The Golden Krone's innkeeper and his wife had proven to be of dubious reliability. Will supposed it could be a cultural difference and was willing to accommodate, but it still struck him as strange. No one thus far on the journey had acted the way they had.

After reading Count Lecter's letter the previous evening, Will had tried asking the innkeeper about the details concerning his reserved seat on the coach. The man had suddenly decided he didn't understand German, when up until that very moment, Will had been able to communicate with him without issue. The woman was the same way. The pair kept glancing at one another, brief sidelong looks that Will read easily, without activating the sixth sense in his mind that allowed him to enter the emotions and perspectives of others. They were afraid of something. Perhaps they'd skimmed some of Count Lecter's money off the top and he wasn't to have the requested seat, not that he cared much.

Will prodded, asking if the innkeepers knew anything of Count Lecter or his castle, or the village near it known as Cerbul Negru. They insisted they knew nothing at all and refused to speak further, indicating they had work to do. Will noticed the old woman furiously crossing herself as she went back into the kitchen.