by Iva Viddal
“I-I’m sorry—” Nerma began, but the Count waved his hand to quiet her.
“Look,” he said, “she is already going back to sleep.” Indeed, the skunk had already curled back up by the hearth and was beginning to doze again. “She was knocked in the head by a hunter, and I’m afraid she hath recovered physically, but she th-till has a short memory—and a short temper.”
“I’m so sorry.” Nerma felt terrible.
The Count looked at her with a strange look on his face. “There is no need to apologize. All Thrangers are new blood. You cannot help it that you are as fresh and as foolish as a newborn.” He shuddered. “How I long for the taste of fresh blood.” His eyes, Nerma noticed for the first time, were the deep, inky red of pomegranates, and she found that she couldn’t look away.
15
Family Traditions
“Oh, how I do mith the taste of fresh blood,” the Count repeated. He closed his eyes, and his shoulders fell.
“That reminds me—” October reached into his jacket pocket and pulled from it the package Old Worm had given him.
The Count smiled. “Ah—good old Old Worm. What would I do without her Blister Draught?” He tipped a dark red-brown powder from the packet into a copper mug, added water to it, and stirred the mixture vigorously. He took a sip and sighed contentedly. “It ith not the same as fresh blood, but it ith close.” The sticky scarlet liquid clung to his lips.
Nerma blanched. “You . . . you don’t drink real blood anymore?”
The Count took another sip and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Red splotches blossomed on the white fabric.
“No,” he said. “In thith little hut of mine, no meat ith eaten. No real meat, that ith.”
“You’re vegetarians?” Nerma asked.
“Yeth. Look—” The Count lifted his upper lip with one finger to show her the empty space where his teeth should have been. “Dith ith vhere—” He let his lip drop. “Pardon me. This is where my fangs should be, but I lost them yearth ago. They were my Purpose. Without them, I am nothing, so I gave up the taste of flesh.”
Nerma touched her neck with her bandaged finger and shuddered. “How did you lose your fangs, Count?”
“Pleathe, call me Dracula,” the old vampire said. “My Count days are long past, I’m thorry to thay.”
October frowned. “My father was once the most important man in Small Hours.”
The Count waved a thin hand. “Please, thun. That may be an exaggeration.”
October shook his head in disagreement. “He was once the head of Corpescule College. He was a professor of anatomy, and he was also the Count of Wightworth Castle. So was his father and his father’s father. For generations, the title was passed from firstborn son to firstborn son. Until my father’s accident.”
The Count smiled sadly. “For forty-four years I lived in the lap of luxury and walked with confidence. I took it for granted. Then one day, without warning, it wath all gone.”
“What happened?” Nerma asked.
“I was th-tupid.” The Count groaned at the memory. “I was thoughtless, careless. I had become so used to floating through life without a care that I did not even notice when I th-tumbled.”
October grimaced. “It was an accident.”
“You stumbled?” Nerma sat up straighter. People in books sometimes said they “stumbled” after a run-in with the law, and she sensed a juicy story. “Did you become involved in a life of crime or something?” She pictured a deal gone wrong, a chase, a battle of wills between Dracula and a rogue sheriff.
“No,” the count said, raising a fuzzy eyebrow. “I th-tumbled. It happened when I was out hunting in the suburbs one night. I went in through the front door, thumped my way up the stairs like the lazy vampire I was, and when I leaned in for the kill, I tripped over a running shoe. A running shoe, of all things! I was so focused on eating my eventide meal that I fell flat on my face and knocked my teeth out”— again, he lifted his lip to show her— “against the edge of an ugly modern nightstand. People have no taste,” he groaned. “And now I’m th-tuck out here in No Man’s Land, drinking Old Worm’s Blister Draught.” He took a long drink and shrugged. “I love my menagerie, so perhaps I should not complain, but I miss life in Thmall Hourth. I miss my thun.” Tears welled in his eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Nerma said after a moment. “If someone loses their teeth where I’m from, they go to the dentist, or maybe they have to stop eating sugar, or they get dentures. They don’t lose their home and job and family. They don’t have to live . . . here.” She looked up at the hut’s sagging rooftop.
October reached down to pet the fox. “My father tried to get his teeth fixed. He went to Doctor Mapple and Doctor Leech. He had saved his broken teeth after the accident, so it should have been an easy repair. But Doctor Mapple was sure that my father had removed the teeth intentionally.”
Nerma’s brow creased. “Wait. Doctor Mapple thought your dad took his own teeth out? Why would he do that?”
The Count smoothed his mustache with a gaunt finger, his eyes on the flickering flame of a candle. “It is rare—though not unheard of—for people with loose souls to try to remove their Purposes. For some haunted individuals, it ith as though their Purpose hath become too heavy a burden to bear.” He shook his head slowly. “From time to time, I almost understand that feeling. Even with my wonderful friends here, it can be lonely so far from town. The Diviners stop by now and then, and I know you visit as often as possible, October, but I am not the man I used to be. I was once a Man of Purpose. I knew who I was. Thometimes, I dream that my fangs have grown back, and I remember who I really am. But then I wake up again and I am still here, fangless—a man who cannot even pass the traditions of the past on to his son. October should be the ninetieth Count of Wightworth Castle, you know?” He finished his Blister Draught and tossed a sliver of cabbage to Elena, who snatched it up greedily.
“After my accident,” he continued, “Doctor Mapple claimed that there were marks from a saw blade on my fangs. He accused me of removing my fangs intentionally. With a saw.” He shivered. “Because he believed that I had tampered with my Purpose, he refused to re-implant them and gave me twenty-four hours to leave Thmall Hourth. There ith nothing more that can be done. But I am content here with my friends and garden—and with Old Worm’s brilliant concoction.”
He refilled his mug and offered more tea to Nerma and October, who accepted gratefully.
“Now, tell me about yourself, Nerma. It appears that my son hath tried to give you a Purpose.” The Count tapped Nerma’s web-bound spoon.
Taking turns, Nerma and October filled the vampire in on the events of the past few days, starting with Nerma’s arrival on Harmony Hill and ending with the Oracle’s peculiar psychic reading. As they spoke, the animals gathered around to eat their vegetable stew and eavesdrop.
When they had finished their tale, the Count hummed to himself, lost in thought. “The Girl without a Purpose,” he mused after a moment. “It thounds like the title of a horror novel.”
“Danger!” the raven cried out.
“Hush, Elena. Please, the Thranger is our guest.”
But the raven ignored him and swooped down from her high perch to grab at Nerma’s spoon. The bird tugged at it, her wings beating furiously at Nerma’s head.
“Elena!” The Count raised his voice, and the bird gave one final tug at the spoon before retreating to the far end of the room.
“I am afraid she cannot help herself around shiny things.” The Count shrugged his hunched shoulders.
Nerma kept her eyes on the raven. She might not fit in on Harmony Hill or in Small Hours, but she wasn’t about to let a bird start bullying her. She decided to change the subject.
“October, you didn’t tell me that you’ll be the next Count of Wightworth Castle.”
He smoothed his hair. “No, because I will not. My father was the last one.”
“But then . . . who is the Count of Wightworth Castl
e?”
“No one. My father is a Hermit now. And I am a Webber.”
“What about the castle?” Nerma asked.
October shrugged, and the Count answered for him. “It’s been sitting empty these past years. At least, that is what the Diviners tell me. October and I are forbidden to set foot on the grounds.”
“Why don’t you just go back?”
Father and son stared blankly at her. “Because I have no Purpose,” the Count finally answered. “I cannot go back.”
“Why can’t you have a new Purpose?” Nerma asked.
October laughed, and the Count shook his head. “Only a Stranger would say such a thing,” he chuckled.
“Well, if you can’t go to the castle, why can’t October be the next Count of . . . of Wightworth Hut, then?”
October raised his eyebrows. “Wightworth Hut?”
Nerma shrugged.
“Are you referring to my father’s cottage?”
Nerma nodded.
October frowned. “Wightworth Castle has seventy-two rooms, eight conservatories, three kitchens, four ballrooms, and even an outhouse,” he answered.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Nerma pointed out.
“This is a one-room cottage, a hut, as you say.” October gestured about at the close quarters of the cottage.
“But it’s your father’s, isn’t it?”
Father and son again stared at her, until the Count, at last, cleared his throat. “I think your Thranger friend is smarter than she appears. Indeed, thun, what is stopping you from being the next Count of Wightworth . . . Hut? I cannot pass our ancestral home on to you, but—perhaps, perhaps—it is my right to pass my title on to you.”
“Father, such things are not up to us to decide.” October glanced at the windows, as though he were worried someone might be listening.
“Danger!” the raven cried.
“Yeth,” the Count nodded. “A dangerous idea indeed. Thun, go get the dagger.”
Nerma watched apprehensively as October retrieved a case of polished walnut from a drawer in the desk. The Count opened it with great care. Inside, nestled in a bed of jade velvet, was a dagger that looked as old as time to Nerma. Into its hilt, a W had long ago been carved.
“Tom,” the Count addressed the shrew. “Get the Oil of Yew, pleathe.” To Nerma’s surprise, the little rodent seemed to understand his request, and Tom scurried beneath the iron stove and emerged with a murky blue bottle.
“Father—” October began, but the Count held up a hand.
He stood, straightened his back as far as he was able, and called his menagerie to attention. He asked that every animal gather round to observe a sacred ceremony that few had ever been witness to. The animals solemnly circled around, and the Count gestured for Nerma to join them. She sat on the floor beside Gina the marmot, and Milton the snake slithered into her lap, where he coiled like rope.
The Count tamed his gray hair, cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “I, Dracula Quantavius Oscuridad—the former Count of Wightworth Castle, eighty-ninth of my name, son of Vlad the Victim and grandson of Hardknock the Crusher—accept the title of First Count of Wightworth Hut.” He bowed and Nerma clapped her hands softly. The Count turned to October. “Kneel,” he said.
October knelt before his father and grinned at Nerma.
“As Count of Wightworth Hut, I hereby bestow upon my son his rightful title.” The Count raised the ancient dagger with both hands. Slowly, he lowered it, until its sharp tip touched the dome of October’s head. “I dub thee”—he touched the dagger to October’s shoulder— “the Second Count of Wightworth Hut.” The dagger glinted in the firelight as the Count moved it to October’s left shoulder. He took the small bottle of Oil of Yew from the shrew and dipped the tip of the dagger into the thick, blue liquid before touching it ever so gently to the tip of October’s index finger. Then he raised the dagger high above his head and began to chant in his raspy voice:
As sun goes ‘round the earth,
And as babes to mums are birthed,
As long as fire burns and ice freezes,
And powdered pepper causes sneezes,
So does the Countship of Wightworth change hands
From father to son, on these wondrous lands.
One-and-two-and-three,
May the Count fulfill his duty.
When the odd incantation ended, the Count threw his head back and laughed. “These most wondrous lands,” he said, repeating himself. “I am sure this hut with its little garden could never be called ‘wondrous lands,’ but in the darkest hourth of the night it ith quite pretty.” He paused as though weighing his next words. “The most important part of being a Count, however, ith not the lands—nor the castle, nor the ancient treasures, nor the servants, nor the scrumptious banquets with dish after dish of the most exotic beasts and fauna—no! The most important part of being a Count, October, is the duty. Duty to one’s subjects, to one’s fellow beings.” He patted Tom’s little head. “Being a Count means always doing one’s best. Remember that, thun. It is a family tradition.”
October nodded solemnly. “I will not forget my duty, father.”
The Count stretched and glanced out the window, which was just beginning to grow silver with the hint of dawn. “But now,” he said, “I believe it ith time for us to rest. You are staying the night?”
“Of course, Father,” October answered, clearing his throat. The ceremony had clearly left him feeling emotional.
“You had better cast, then. The morning looms.”
October flicked his wrists, and gossamer webs flew from his thumbs. While he wove a bed in one corner of the hut, Nerma rubbed Gina’s soft belly.
“Nerma,” October called, “it is time.”
“For what?” She hadn’t imaged she’d be spending the night in a vampire’s cottage on the edge of this bizarre world.
“To be webbed in. I told Doctor Mapple you would be webbed at night, and so you shall. I will free you at dusk.” He waited. “You must climb up.”
Nerma was wary. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Well, I will cage you in with webbing. Obviously. I should have done it last night, but I was not thinking. It is my duty as Webber.” He shrugged.
Nerma glowered. “It’s not like I’m going to run off! I don’t even know how to get home!”
October was surprised by her irritation. “It is nothing personal, Nerma. It is just the way things are. You may not be a danger to society, but a promise is a promise. You heard my father. Duty is important.”
“Nerma,” the Count said, picking up the sleeping skunk and smoothing her silky fur, “I understand that you do not want to be locked up. October and I know that you will not harm anyone, do we not, October?” October nodded. “But my thun is duty-bound to follow Doctor Mapple’s orders. He will let you out at dusk. You have my word.” He set the skunk back on the chair. “As for me, it is time for me to lock myself away.”
He turned to the tall sarcophagus with the haunting face painted upon it and unlatched it. “My bed chamber,” he joked. He wished the two young people goodnight and with a flourish shut himself away in the wooden box.
Reluctantly, Nerma allowed October to pull her up onto the corner web. He walled her in swiftly with a thick network of webbing, and afterward she peered out at him from between the gaps in her cage.
“I am sorry,” he mumbled. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Nerma didn’t respond but watched as he prepared his own bed across the room, against the bookshelves. His bed was far smaller than her own.
Below, the animals of the menagerie settled into corners and between books, and soon the little hut was full of the gentle sounds of snoring and dreamy sighs, but it took Nerma a long time to fall asleep. Across the room, October was no more than a shadow.
Outside, the moon had long ago set, but through the window Nerma could just make out a distant shape, like the giant hump of a camel’s back, and at its very t
op a light glowed brightly.
16
The Artists
October was awake before the sun set. The conversation last night had given him nightmares, ones that took place in a topsy-turvy world in which he played both villain and prey. He remembered chasing himself ruthlessly through an underground world, trying to get back something that he had stolen from himself.
He put his glasses on and looked around his father’s small hut.
Nerma was still asleep, and two of the squirrels were curled at her side. He still found her plainness strange and unsettling, but he knew that she didn’t belong in a cage. Silently, he climbed down from his woven bed and removed the webbed bars from around her. She stirred, disturbed by the movement, and looked about.
“It’s sunny out!” Her eyes, puffy with sleep, glowed with excitement.
October motioned for her to keep her voice down. If his father emerged from his sarcophagus before sunset, October wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.
Quietly, the two young people pulled the webbed bedding down and disposed of it, then made their way outside into the glowing twilight. October shielded his eyes and squinted, but Nerma seemed to revel in the sun’s toxic rays.
“There, look!” she cried, gripping his arm. She pointed past the two large trees that led back to the stream.
“Where?” The tangerine sky reflected off the trickling water.
“Look, higher!” Nerma pushed him to the stream’s edge and pointed into the distance.
There, far off, was a hill. He had never before noticed it, yet there it was, towering in the distance—beyond the stream, beyond the woods, and beyond the spires of Small Hours. He thought he could make out the spiraling outline of a road upon its sides.
“It’s Harmony Hill!” Nerma cried.
October was dumbfounded. Nerma had told him—repeatedly, in fact—that Harmony Hill was real, but he hadn’t really believed her. He had wanted to believe her, of course, but in the back of his mind was the unshakable idea that Strangers couldn’t belong anywhere.
