The Seven Deaths of Prince Vlad

By Jack Finn

In 1896, Abraham Van Helsing commissioned a tale covering up the murder of Transylvanian Prince Vlad Lupescu by Van Helsing and his accomplices. here is the story of Prince Vlad's death at the hands of the unscrupulous Van Helsing and the Romanian secret society of priestesses, the Voal Negru, who call upon dark magic to return Prince Vlad from

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anuci Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989619856

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The Seven Deaths of Prince Vlad

Jack Finn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Jack Finn

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [e-mail].

First paperback edition September 2023

Anuci Press edition January 2024

www.anuci-press.com

Book design by Jack Finn

ISBN 979-8-9896198-2-5 (paperback)

For Roxana, my inspiration for all things great and small.

The spirits of the dead who stood in life before thee are again in death around thee—and their will shall overshadow thee. – Edgar Allen Poe, Spirits of the Dead

Author’s Preface

Like all good tales, this story has a strange beginning. All children receive that inevitable phone call that a parent has passed, moving them to the front of the long line of ancestors that have come before them. Then comes the grief, the funeral, and the handling of the dearly departed's—in my case, my father's—affairs. The dividing of assets among siblings and sorting through old photos and cherished items.

I discovered an old army footlocker in my father's attic during this process. The faded stenciled letters on the footlocker bore my paternal great-grandfather's name. What little I knew of him passed down to me from my father and grandfather. My great-grandfather had been a young man at the turn of the nineteenth century, a journalist by trade, and a new father at the time of the Great War. Like so many young men that went to war with the intent of returning a war hero, he came home in a pine box, killed in the Somme in 1918.

My grandfather was too young to know his father, and this footlocker had passed from him to my father and now me. I opened the old wooden box. Someone had thought to place mothballs inside, and the smell of must and mothballs wafted when I opened the lid. Inside was my great grandfather's army dress uniform, an old camera, and an envelope of old, yellowed pictures. I thumbed through the pictures; they looked like his pre-war travels through Eastern Europe. Photos of the smiling man that bore features reminiscent of my own, landscapes, ancient structures, even one of a man in a cowboy hat with his left hand raising a drink to the camera. In the corner was a stack of old books, mainly works of fiction from back then, but also an old leather-bound journal.

I opened the journal containing and found it filled with notes and interviews my great-grandfather conducted with a man during his travels to Bucharest, Romania, in 1905. He must have intended to compile it into a published work. Then he met my great-grandmother and, like other men his age, started a family, then the war and the Somme. His notebook and this tale lay untouched and, as far as I know, unread until this publishing.

Now this story can finally be told.

Jack Finn

Chapter 1

I'm going to pour myself a bit of rum. This is a long story, and I don't want my mouth to run dry during the telling. I thank you kindly for the bottle. I've never been able to develop a fondness for the pálinka the locals here drink.

He laughed sardonically as he spilled almost as much as he got into my glass. "This left arm of mine has not got used to doing things quite yet. The right arm was always the workhorse. Poured my drinks, shot my pistol and wielded my cavalry saber. Hell, even wiped my ass. That was all before it became the useless bag of bones you see today. Nevertheless, I'm getting ahead of myself.

"There was a time when I was quite the officer and a gentleman—Captain Jack O'Rourke of the United States Army 4th Cavalry. If I had a hat, I would tip it to you here and now. My younger brother, Liam, and I joined up together and spent our youth in Arizona chasing the Apaches off land that was more than rightly theirs in the first place. Old Geronimo had surrendered in '86, but some of his nastier braves didn't think that surrender applied to them, and they kept with their killing and raiding ways. I can't say I blame them.

"One hot summer day, some of those braves got the jump on Liam's patrol. Shot the colors sergeant right through the belly. That's a lousy way to die if you've never seen it. The patrol turned tail and ran, cowards—all except Liam. Liam wasn't the kind of man to leave a fallen soldier behind. As I heard it, he stayed back and tried to get the wounded sergeant back on his horse. Those Apaches were right mad, and I guess Liam and that old colors sergeant were the only ones around for them to take all that anger out on. When I arrived with the relief column, the Apaches were all gone, and Liam and the sergeant were dead. Best as I can tell, they had roasted the old colors sergeant alive. Liam had a front-row seat; they tied him to a wagon wheel and skinned him alive. Not even eyelids left to close his eyes. Just those eyes staring out at the colors sergeant roasted like a pig on a spit. It looked like Liam died screaming, his mouth and face contorted into a mask of horror, though I don't imagine he made much of a sound without a tongue.

"Seeing Liam that way caused me not to be myself for a while. I took leave of the Army, and myself, I suppose, and I tracked and hunted down those renegade Apaches with a primordial rage that I unleashed upon them in a way I kindly do not wish to recount. I was good with a gun in those days. Fast. Very fast. I guess I left quite a mess in my wake as I hunted each one down. In Arizona, in those days, few things will gain you as much notoriety as killing Indians, especially how I did to those who killed my brother. They called me Blackheart O'Rourke because only the blackest of hearts could do what I did. I was quite the boogeyman for all those Indian mothers to warn their naughty children about at night.

"Well, with all that killing, it wasn't long before the Army found me again. Had I been killing white folks, they would have shot me down like a cornered coyote, but since I was killing Indians, it was a different story. They sent me back east to a Presbyterian Hospital in New York City to rest.

"I awoke one night in my room in that fine Presbyterian Hospital, and Liam was sitting in a chair by my bedside. All sinew and muscle, just the way the Apaches had left him. I could see his heart pumping in his chest. Thump thump. He was sitting there reading a book. I called out to him, and he turned to me with those lidless eyes, dipped his head in greeting, and returned to reading his book. I leaned closer to see the book. He was reading Life Among the Paiutes by that Indian woman Sarah Winnemucca.

'Is that a good book, Liam?' My eyes watched his skinless fingers turn the page.

"He looked up at me. I could see the muscles around his mouth move into a lipless smile, and then he returned to reading. He didn't seem in quite the talking mood, so I left him to his reading and got myself back to sleep.

"The following day, I went out for a walk and found myself a bookstore, but it didn't have that book. It took me walking to three bookstores before I could find a copy. I brought that book back to my room at the Presbyterian Hospital and read it all through. Ms. Winnemucca was a Paiute Indian, and she wrote a compelling account of how the white man came, killing her people, stealing their land, and pushing them into a subhuman life on those reservations. I couldn't figure out why Liam was reading this book for the life of me. I'd never seen him read anything besides those dime novels about gunfighters and Indian hunters.

"So I read that book again and then a third time. After that, I sat there and thought about everything we did to the Indians, not just the Paiutes, but also the Cherokee, Cree, Comanche, Sioux, Lakota, the Apaches, all of them. I no longer blamed those Apaches for what they did to poor Liam, and I was downright ashamed at what I had done to them in return. They were doing what they had to do. We had stolen their homes, their land, and, in the end, even their lives.

"No, the people who killed Liam were those gold mining companies who sent the Army to take that land so they could have that gold from those Indians' mountains. They killed Liam just as surely as if they skinned him themselves.

"I can see by the look on your face that that wasn't the story; you came here and bought me this fine bottle of rum to hear. Fair enough. Let me get right back to it."

. . .

It was right about when I left the Presbyterian hospital in the fall of 1898 that I had myself a visitor, a right proper Mr. Ian Thomas. I had just started eating my breakfast of scrambled eggs and mash at the Barking Dog Tavern when this dandy of a man sat at my table. As if I had invited him to tea. He wore a finely tailored black suit with a round, hard-felt bowler hats, and he carried a gentleman's walking stick with a gold lion head atop it. He had beady gray eyes set in a face that made me think immediately of a weasel with a thin, waxed blonde mustache. He grinned a wolfish grin with a set of teeth that made me think there was undoubtedly some English blood in him.

The Barking Dog was a working man's tavern, mostly factory workers, trade smiths, and men from the docks. The lighting was poor, and it smelled like stale whiskey and beer on its best days. A gentleman dressed in such finery was a curiosity to those who quietly imbibed their morning spirits.

You, the man pointed a long, neatly trimmed finger at me. You are Blackheart Jack, are you not?

Thinking back now, I should have shot him dead on the spot. However, a movement to my right caught my eye, and Liam sat at the table beside me. He cocked his skinless head towards Thomas as if pointing out my rudeness in not answering the man.

I don't go by that name. Never have. It's Jack. Jack O'Rourke.

Well, Mr. O'Rourke, it's excellent to meet you. I am Ian Thomas of the banking trust of Anders and Holt. He extended his hand in greeting. I'm sorry for interrupting your meal like this.

Yet here you are, I said, with my best go-screw-yourself smile.

Liam frowned at me.

I shook Thomas's hand, and he called the bartender to bring him a brandy.

Mr. O'Rourke, I have a business proposition for you.

I can't think of any business I have with bankers, Mr. Thomas. I slipped a big forkful of eggs into my mouth.

"Well, I have some business that requires your, shall we say, special talents. Have you heard of this unfortunate business with the La Bourgogne?" he sipped his brandy in a way that irked me. He bore a nearly pained expression as if drinking cheap brandy from a glass of questionable cleanliness was abhorrent to him.

The ship?

"Why yes! She collided with the Cromartyshire last month. Dreadful business. Over five hundred died, all of the children and almost all of the first-class passengers. Did you know that of the three hundred women onboard, only one survived?"

I think I read something about that in the papers.

The crew acted in a most heinous manner. They refused to help passengers in the water, even stabbing them with knives and striking them with oars.

I glanced over and saw that Liam's gaze followed one of the barmaids around the tavern before returning my attention to Thomas.

Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Thomas, but what does this have to do with me?

"Why, yes, of course, Mr. O'Rourke. The one woman who survived the tragedy on the La Bourgogne, Mrs. Mina Harker, is a very special client of Anders and Holt. Her husband, Jonathan, God rest his soul, perished in the disaster." Thomas took his bowler hat off and placed it over his heart in a feigned gesture of solemnity.

"Mrs. Harker is here in New York and plans to transport her husband's body back to England aboard the Mount Olympus three days hence."

I cleaned my plate of the last eggs and swallowed it with a long gulp of bitter black coffee as Thomas stared expectantly at me.

Mr. O'Rourke, I would like to hire you to protect Mrs. Harker until she arrives safely back in London.

Liam raised a sinewy eyebrow.

I'm sorry, Mr. Thomas. Am I supposed to stop another ship from crashing into her?

The man stomped his walking stick on the ground and let out a raucous laugh.

Mr. O'Rourke, I like you! No, no, this job will not require any nautical expertise. Mrs. Harker is a wealthy widow now, and the world is full of people who would take advantage of such a woman. A family friend, Quincey Morris, from Texas, and one of my associates from the bank will escort her back. A mutual business partner of the Harkers and Anders and Holt has contacted us from Romania and asked that we ensure Mrs. Harker's safe return to London.

I glanced at Liam, who seemed to shrug his skinless shoulders at me. Thomas must have taken this pause as hesitance on my part.

The bank will pay quite handsomely, Mr. O'Rourke. We're prepared to pay you twenty dollars for your services. Plus expenses.

That's quite a bit of money to protect a widow and coffin on a sail across the ocean.

Well, Mr. O'Rourke, let's hope it's the easiest money you have ever made.

. . .

Thomas's associate, Matthew Tierney, showed up at my rented room above the Barking Dog later that evening. He was a short man in his late twenties with slicked-back dark hair. When the light hit him just right, I saw he colored his hair with some dye to hide his bright red locks. The banking trust of Anders and Holt expected their gentlemen to look a certain way, and looking too Irish was not what they expected. He was a bookish fellow with small wire-rimmed glassed and a tweed suit that lacked Thomas's expensive cut and material. He explained that he worked in the bank's accounting department and would keep track of our expenditures in this little adventure.

Tierney informed me Anders and Holt had hired four other men, two large Italian men who spoke little to no English as far as he could tell, a former police officer named Braun, and a man from out West called Calico Jim Tewl. Now, that was a name I knew. Calico Jim was a gunfighter of some renown in the Texas and Arizona territories when I was out there with the 4th Cavalry. Liam even had a dime novel about his fighting off a band of Comanche warriors from the ruins of an old adobe church, if memory served me correctly. Well, at least there would be someone to play cards with on the voyage.

The trip across the Atlantic should take us about fifteen days, the accountant explained. We shall meet up with the others promptly at 9 a.m. Wednesday morning, Mr. O'Rourke. Pier 13.

Pier 13. 9 a.m.

Mr. O'Rourke, here is nine dollars for any provisions you must purchase for the journey. Just sign here in the ledger book, please. He opened his book and pointed to the line entry for my signature.

I signed the ledger, and he handed me the small roll of bills, snapping the book closed and turning to head off quickly.

Pier 13, 9 a.m., Mr. O'Rourke. Please do not be late, he added as the door closed behind him.

The thirty dollars felt like a small fortune. The Army had continued to pay me at the reduced rate of twenty-one dollars a month while I rested at the Presbyterian Hospital, but the Army had since found better ways to spend its money.

As its depleted rum supply could attest, the Barking Dog was the significant beneficiary of much of my small fortune. Nevertheless, I responsibly indulged myself with a Colt New Service .45 revolver. It was the company's newest double-action model and a significant improvement over my old single-action Colt Navy .45. The gun's hefty black metal frame fit snugly in the new brown leather shoulder holster I had bought. While in the cavalry, I had worn my pistol butt forward. It was a more secure way for the gun to sit in my holster on hard rides and did not interfere with the saber I had worn on my left hip in those days. After several quick draws in the mirror, I felt like my old self again.

Liam's skinless form watched me in the mirror, the muscles where his eyebrows used to be, furrowed into a concerned frown.

Chapter 2

The morning we were to leave, I packed a deck of cards, some spare clothes, my bathroom accouterments, two extra boxes of ammo, a coat, and a bottle of dark Jamaican rum in my bedroll. The day before, I had picked up a black canvas frock coat with matching black canvas pants and waistcoat, just like I'd seen those fine New York gentlemen wearing. I even polished up my old cavalry boots real lovely. I looked nearly respectable, especially if you discounted my old brown Stetson Boss of the Plains hat. It had seen the best and worst times with me out in the West, and its weathered brown felt was a testament to that. With our first cavalry paychecks, Liam and I spent five dollars each on our Boss of the Plains. We wore them curled at the brim, with a cattleman-crease crown up top, and strutted through town like proud peacocks. I think of that day every time I put it on.

It was a short walk from the tavern to Pier 13, and stretching my legs felt good. The sun was shining. It was still warm for early October, and the streets bore an energy I had previously failed to appreciate from my view at the bar of the Barking Dog. New York was a bustling, chaotic city, and a teeming multitude of humanity speaking more languages than I could count streamed out of the tenements to fill the sidewalks. I would have walked in the street to avoid the crush of bodies, but the horse carriages that zigzagged through the dirt roads paid little mind to any passerby who stepped in their path. My fine new clothes drew every beggar and streetwalker in the city into my path. Little wonder I barely made it to the pier in time.

So good of you to make it, Mr. O'Rourke! a pleasant smile crossed Tierney's face.

The four men with him dwarfed the diminutive accountant, and his bowler hat barely reached the chins of the two men—the Italian brothers, I presumed, from their large mustaches and swarthy complexions—that stood on either side of him like gargantuan bookends. Both men wore matching brown canvas suits with battered black bowler caps that looked so small for their heads that I could not imagine their purpose. My eyes were immediately drawn to the sawed-off double-barreled shotgun each man cradled in their ham-sized fists. They stared down at me with deep-set dark beady eyes as I approached.

Tierney grabbed my hand and enthusiastically pumped it up and down. Let me introduce you to our companions. These gentlemen are Tommaso and Gaetano Manzella. He gestured to the two mustached behemoths.

In unison, the two stone-faced men dipped their heads in a barely perceptible nod of greeting.

And this is Mr. Alois Braun, formerly of the NYPD, Tierney gestured to a broad-shouldered blonde man with piercing blue eyes and the high hairline of a man well