Incarnation Read Online Free Page B

started forward again. I extended both my arms, knit my hands together, and struck him so hard a blow that he flew across the street and landed up against the alley archway. Just then, the moon emerged from behind high threads of clouds. Throwing my head back, fangs gleaming in the cold white light, I howled defiance.
    The creature I had struck down did not move, but the other two did. They seized his arms and, dragging him, ran with all speed toward the shadows beyond the Strand. In an instant, I was alone. Only the silver chain, lying in the gutter, remained as mute evidence of the attack.
    Giving the weapon a wide berth, I willed myself to be calmand straightened my ensemble. My hair had come down during the struggle. It tumbled in thick auburn waves around my shoulders. I pinned it up again before recovering my valise and crossing the street. Swiftly, I found the door I sought. It was locked, but that was of no consequence. With care—there having been more than enough disorder that night—I lifted it off its hinges and leaned it up against the side of the theatre.
    Just beyond lay a dark passage. My eyes, keener than they had ever been during my human existence, made out trunks and baskets, backdrops, and bits of scenery stacked along the walls. At the far end, a sliver of light shone. I moved toward it, alert to the possibility that more of the strange creatures might be lurking, but none were in evidence. When I reached the light, I paused. An inner door stood partially ajar. I could see a cluttered office and a man working at a desk illuminated by a small gas lamp. I recognized Mr. Bram Stoker at once.
    Without hesitation, I pushed the door open and entered. Stoker looked up. His broad face with its thick brows and neatly trimmed brown beard appeared surprised but in no way alarmed. To him, I was simply an unknown young woman whose overall appearance suggested good breeding. My sudden presence in his theatre at night was certainly strange, but not an immediate cause for concern.
    “Have you lost your way, miss?” he asked courteously, apparently taking me for a patron incapable of finding the exits.
    My eye fell on a pile of identical leather-bound books stacked on a corner of his desk. To my horror, I saw that the spine of each was luridly inscribed with the title Dracula . I had not considered that he could have contrived to publish his hash of mangled truths and absurd fantasies so speedily, but apparently I had arrived too late to prevent him from doing so.
    “To the contrary,” I replied. “It appears that I have come to the right place.” I gestured at the books. “You are the author of this . . . work?”
    With misbegotten pride, he said, “Indeed, I am. I take it you are a fan.” He rose from his chair as he gestured me into one facing him. “Do sit down. I will be most happy to sign a copy for you, if that is what you wish.”
    I resisted the impulse to roll my eyes at his eagerness to claim such tripe. Still standing, I said, “That isn’t why I have come.” Moving closer to him, I said, “My name is Lucy Weston, not Lucy Westenra, as you so lightly veiled me in your so-called novel.”
    Stoker paled and fell back into his chair with the look of a man who has come face-to-face with his own worst nightmare. His eyes wide and dilated, he stared at me in horror.
    Holding his gaze, I tapped a finger on the topmost copy of his execrable book. “You will explain how you learned what happened to me and why you twisted the facts as you have done to conceal the truth.”
    It is said that in extremis, humans have one of two possible reactions—flight or fight. Apparently, Stoker knew better than to try to oppose me physically. Therefore, he took the only other option available to him. Barely had I finished speaking than he leaped to his feet and attempted to dash around me in the direction of the door.
    Hoisting him in one hand, I returned him to his chair.
    “This will go much better for you if