by Dacre Stoker
He wondered if he was wasting his time settling Jack ’s affairs. After all, they hadn’t spoken in many years. Jack had got it into his drug-soaked, raving brain that their demon might still be alive and had demanded to speak to Mina. Jonathan had thrown him out on his arse. That was the last thing Mina needed to hear. Jonathan had always assumed he would one day receive a letter from a new attorney stating that he was no longer executor of Jack ’s estate. Since no such letter ever appeared, he was duty bound as a member of the bar to carry out Jack ’s final wishes.
On the third day, Jonathan awoke from a drunken stupor to find that a telegram had been delivered to his office. Blearily, he opened it and read that there was a change in Jack Seward’s postmortem wishes. The author of the telegram claimed to be a witness to a verbal amendment requesting a burial instead of donating his body to science. Jonathan was somewhat relieved, as he had never been comfortable with Jack’s original request. The unknown benefactor had also wired money to Child & Co. Bankers, one of England’s oldest private banks, situated at the foot of Fleet Street. The telegram further instructed Jonathan to use the money to ship Jack ’s body back to London, and to pay for the necessary burial arrangements. The remainder of the sum was payment for Jonathan’s service. There was no proof that what this benefactor wrote was true, yet Jonathan believed this to be the right thing to do. The benefactor instructed that Jack be buried in Hampstead Cemetery next to the Westenra mausoleum. Jack would finally find eternal rest next to the woman he’d loved. Jonathan couldn’t help but wonder who this benefactor was, and how Seward might have known him.
Jonathan had always felt guilty over how he had treated Jack the last time they met. He should have tried to get him help, but seeing his old friend disturbed him greatly and he had not acted completely rationally. Jack was yet another reminder of that journey into hell, from which none of them had ever quite returned. Jonathan looked about his barren office, recalling the first time he met Jack Seward. It was the day his life changed forever.
“Dr. Jack Seward,” corrected the short, muscular man as he stood up to shake young Jonathan Harker’s hand.
“Dr. Seward is a friend of the Westenra family,” added the portly barrister, Peter Hawkins, as he sat back down in his leather office chair. “He is here to treat Mr. Renfield.”
“What exactly has happened to Renfield?” Jonathan asked.
“It’s still a mystery,” Hawkins said. “He was found half naked in the snow in a cemetery in Munich.”
“Munich?”
“My guess is, he was passing through on his way back from meeting a client.”
Dr. Seward added, “He was found screaming in a fit of hysterics, and chanting verses of scripture.”
“Mr. Renfield did have a habit of quoting from the Bible,” Jonathan said.
“Not like this,” Hawkins replied. “He was screaming text from the Book of Revelations and babbling on about having looked into the eyes of the Devil.”
“Good heavens, what caused such a sudden outburst?”
“We cannot be certain until I begin treating him at my clinic in Whitby,” Dr. Seward answered. “Meanwhile, I can only assume that he witnessed a great horror and his mind manifested some kind of devil image as a coping mechanism to suppress the reality of what he saw. Don’t worry; I have the best facility in all of England.”
“In the meantime, Mr. Harker,” Hawkins said, “I need you to complete Mr. Renfield’s business.”
“Me, sir? I’m only a clerk.”
“Don’t be modest; it’s most unbecoming.” Hawkins laughed. “You’ve been much more than a clerk at this company for some time. In the single year that you have been with us, you have been instrumental, invaluable even, on many cases. Most notably, that case with the two young girls. They owe you their lives, and the publicity surrounding the case has generated a great deal of business. Your partnership with that Mr. Murray from the Daily Telegraph was the work of a master legal mind. A great solicitor need understand not only the law, but politics and the fourth estate as well.”
Jonathan smiled. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“I know the best way you can thank me. After you are called to the bar, when you pass your exam on Friday—”
“What if I should fail my bar exam?” Jonathan said.
“I have no doubt that you will pass. And, as soon as you do, I will need you at your best to assist Mr. Renfield’s former client. He’s an Eastern European prince, you know, and he has some property acquisitions to complete here in London. We can’t afford to lose the business of a man such as he.”
“A prince, you say, Mr. Hawkins?” Seward said. Then, to Jonathan, “I believe congratulations are in order, Mr. Harker.”
This was more than Jonathan could hope. He couldn’t wait to tell his fiancée, Mina. She was working across the street at the Daily Telegraph office. As soon as he could break away, he would rush over and take her out to dinner for celebration. This was a momentous occasion. Meeting this prince could change their lives forever.
“Here is the necessary paperwork that you should take with you,” Hawkins said, handing Jonathan a leather folder. “The rest of it has already been posted to the prince.”
With that, Hawkins patted Jonathan on the shoulder and went back to his desk for a cigar.
“I dare say, Mr. Harker,” Seward said as they stepped out of the door to Fleet Street a minute later. “I would be honored if you would join me at my home tonight for dinner. It would be most helpful if I could impose upon you to tell me about Mr. Renfield as he was before his breakdown. And, since this is such a momentous occasion for you, I shall break out the finest champagne from my cellar and make it a celebration.”
“Would you mind if my fiancée were to join us?”
“I would be delighted to meet her, and hope that we three shall become fast friends.”
After Seward and Jonathan shook hands and parted from each other, Jonathan inquisitively opened the folder Mr. Hawkins had handed to him, and read the name of his royal client.
“Dracula.”
Jonathan was shocked by the sound of his own voice in the empty office. He had not said the name in twenty-five years. It left a vile taste in his mouth. Dracula’s memory had been ever-present, driving a wedge between Jonathan and his family. Jonathan’s bloodshot eyes focused on a framed photograph upon his desk, of Mina and a very young Quincey.
Quincey. Jonathan hadn’t wanted to give his son that name, but Mina insisted out of respect for their fallen friend. Jonathan only ever wanted to please his wife and consented without argument. It was not that Jonathan was so cold that he did not want Mr. Morris to have a namesake. But rather, he wanted his son to be free from any of the terrible past that Jonathan tried so hard to forget.
After Quincey was born, Jonathan felt that his life was complete and, for a time, was able to suppress the horrors he had experienced. Quincey was the most special gift in his life. He wanted the best for Quincey, and it drove him to work harder. What had happened to that little boy who had once loved him so dearly? The little boy who would wait quietly in the bushes outside the front door of their house as Jonathan strolled up the path. Quincey would jump out and tackle Jonathan, smothering him with hugs.
As time went on and Jonathan aged and Quincey began to grow up, it became painfully apparent that Mina did not seem to have grown a single day older in the last quarter of a century. Jonathan was surely the envy of most men who wished that their wives would remain young and beautiful forever. But the cost was too much for Jonathan to bear. Even though Mina’s outward appearance had not changed, something inside her had. She became insatiable in the bedchamber. Again, not something most men would complain about, but Jonathan found it physically impossible to keep up with her. So much so that she started to remind him of the three vampire women in Dracula’s castle. He felt such shame that they had been his first sexual experience, not his beloved wife. When he and Mina married shortly after his escape
from Dracula’s clutches, the overwhelming guilt made it difficult for him to consummate their marriage. Then came that fateful night, when his son was about thirteen years of age. While trying to make love to his wife, Jonathan discovered through a slip of his wife’s tongue that it was Dracula who had taken Mina’s virginity. Dracula, with centuries of experience, first introduced her to passion. He’d left such a profound impression on her that Jonathan, no matter how hard he tried, could never match it. He had also heard many times in the public houses, and believed it to be true, “The man with whom a woman shares her first sexual experience will always live closest to her heart.” Jonathan’s bitterness and guilt only intensified, and Mina’s longings throughout the years grew, and her face remained as beautiful as ever. The bottle provided his only solace.
Jonathan blinked away a tear as he stared at the photograph. In his own way, he tried to protect his son. He had to keep Quincey safe. Yet, the more Jonathan tried to tighten his grip, the more his son slipped away. It was a bitter irony that Jonathan had hated his own father for his strict, puritanical upbringing, for in the last few years, he had recognized the same look of hatred in Quincey’s eyes for him. Jonathan knew he was a failure. To his business. To his wife. To his son. To his friends.
Jonathan looked out of the window at the five-story building with the words DAILY TELEGRAPH engraved in its stone. How different their lives would have been had he been fortunate enough to fail his bar exam. He would have never gone to Transylvania.
Mina had given up her writing career when Jonathan inherited the law company from Peter Hawkins. Using the knowledge of society that she had learned from Lucy, Mina had been able to blend into the life-style seamlessly. She hosted parties, dressed and coached Jonathan, and became not only his mouthpiece but a dutiful wife working tirelessly so that he could raise his status. Mina’s last words to him, three days ago, played back in his mind. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I love you. I always have. How many more times must I say it?”
She had sacrificed her own dreams and goals for him. Without Mina, he had not the breeding or sophistication to rise above his middle-class birth. Was this not the very definition of true love, to sacrifice yourself for another? Mina had chosen to live her dreams vicariously through Jonathan. She became the proper Victorian wife, something she loathed, so that he could succeed. Moreover, what if in the moment of truth, Mina had chosen that demon and not him? If it weren’t for Mina, they would never have been able to find and utterly destroy Dracula.
Jonathan threw the whisky bottle against the mahogany wall. “Damn! What a fool I am!”
Jonathan looked at his watch; if he hurried, he could still reach the 10:31 train back to Exeter, back to Mina, if she would take him. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, but he had to try to make amends. Perhaps together they would go to Paris to see Quincey. He needed to see his son. With Mina’s agreement, he would at last tell Quincey all their family secrets. Together they would lay all their truths bare so that, if forgiveness was still possible, they could all move forward. He owed this new understanding to his old, dear friend Jack. His death would not be in vain. Jonathan locked the front office and made his way along Fleet Street toward the Strand to find a cabbie to take him west to Charing Cross station. He needed to stay off the street, lest he be tempted. Blast! There was not a hansom cab in sight. It had not been twenty minutes since he had smashed his whisky bottle, and Jonathan was already thirsty. He thought of the half-empty bottle still in his desk drawer that he kept for “emergencies.” How weak he had become. He needed to hail a cab quickly.
He noticed an ornate gold-trimmed black carriage—no coachman on the box—left completely unattended, which was an odd sight at this time of night.
Two young lovers stumbled from the tavern, kissing passionately. Jonathan could not help but notice how the girl swooned at the man’s slightest touch. His thirst grew in strength. He could no longer count the times he had found himself in this very position. There had been many times over the years when he had reached the decision that he still loved Mina, beyond all else, and wanted to be with her, apologizing for all of his mistakes and forgiving all of hers. Then the reality took over. Sooner or later, they would find themselves alone in bed, and all of Jonathan’s shortcomings would rise once again to the surface. He did not know if it was the logic of his addiction speaking to him or sober calculated reason. His inability to satisfy Mina, his jealousy over her involvement with Dracula, and his horror of Mina’s eternal youth would always bring him back to depression. And back to the drink, which was always waiting for him, patient and forgiving.
“Would you like some warmth on a cold night, boss?” a silvery female voice called from behind Jonathan. He turned and saw a beautiful, voluptuous blond woman dressed in a flowing, virgin-white gown emerging from the fog. In her extended hand she held the temptation of a copper, apple-shaped flask.
It was so unfair. Jonathan had almost made it back to Mina. He was so close. The woman licked her red lips and tipped the flask back, taking a nip for herself. The liquid on those lips. It was more than his willpower could overcome. He knew how weak he was. He was not worthy of Mina.
Jonathan stepped forward with an outstretched hand. “Don’t mind if I do.”
It was only courtesy that kept him from consuming every last drop in one gulp.
“Shall we?” the woman said. She gestured to the labyrinth of alley-ways that headed toward the Victoria Embankment.
“As if I ever had a choice.” Jonathan offered his arm.
The woman laughed as she took hold of Jonathan’s sleeve. They walked into the privacy of the alleyway and found themselves enveloped by a curtain of fog.
Jonathan and the woman kissed ravenously. He pressed her against the alleyway’s filthy brick wall.
“Your name is Mina,” Jonathan whispered as he lashed his tongue between those red lips.
“Call me anything you like, boss.”
Jonathan ripped her bodice open, and kissed his way down her neck, massaging her ample breasts.
“Tell me your name.”
“My name is Mina.”
Jonathan hiked up her dress, snaking one hand between her thighs as he unfastened the braces holding up his trousers with the other. “Tell me how much I satisfy you, Mina.”
“Let me show you,” the blond Woman in White moaned. She spun Jonathan around savagely and slammed his back against the brick. She slid down to her knees, her face below his waist. Jonathan smiled in anticipation as she opened her mouth to accept him. He could feel her cold breath on his rising flesh.
To his horror, her eyes turned into solid black orbs. Her face grew wild as her incisor teeth elongated into fangs. Her mouth opened extraordinarily wide, as if her jaw had unhinged itself from its socket. With a hideous, inhuman growl, she threw her fanged mouth forward. She was about to bite off his manhood! Jonathan screamed. With all the strength that he could muster, he punched the Woman in White to the ground, yanked up his trousers, and tried to run.
Hissing with venom, the Woman in White snapped to her feet. She pounced like a cat, grabbed Jonathan, and tossed him into some wooden crates stored in the alley. The force of his impact splintered the wood. Jonathan lay immobile, his body racked with pain. Why had he not listened to his heart and gone home as planned?
With an animal growl, the vampire hauled him out of the debris. Jonathan tried to fight back, but she was too strong. He could not escape her iron grip. The Woman in White bent Jonathan’s head back, exposing his neck to her fangs. He cried out, “Please God, no!”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow moving swiftly toward them. Without any warning, the shadow shrouded the Woman in White, coiling around her. It tore the woman off Jonathan and hurled her through the air, smashing her against the wall. Jonathan was paralyzed with fear as he watched the dark shadow ominously rise over her.
The woman cried out in terror, “Mistress!”
Jonathan followed the track of her gaze.
It seemed as if she was calling out to an unearthly crimson mist that was slithering toward them. Suddenly, something cold and wet struck Jonathan in the face. Jonathan turned back to where the Woman in White had been on her knees. From within the shadow, bloody organs fell to the ground in a heap, severed limbs flung about. The wetness that had hit his face was the woman’s blood.
A male voice called on the wind: “Run, you fool! Run!”
Jonathan heeded the warning. He raced for Fleet Street. He glanced back once to see if the shadow was pursuing him. What he saw, he could not explain. The shadow had somehow blocked the advance of the crimson red mist that coiled and recoiled like a cobra and struck at the shadow, finally bursting through. The shadow flew apart and dissipated. It seemed now that the shadow had been his protector, and the crimson mist that sped quickly toward him must be his enemy. Whatever the shadow was, it was no match for the red mist. Jonathan turned his attention to the end of the alleyway where it joined Fleet Street. People were walking all around. Freedom was only yards away.
Jonathan heard a horse neigh. A driverless black carriage exploded out of the fog, almost running him over, blocking his path. The red mist was hot on his heels. He would not be able to reach the safety of Fleet Street this way. There was only one path left. He turned left and sprinted down another alleyway, screaming for help. He was out of shape, his body ruined by drink. He tumbled hard onto the cobbles, gasping for breath. The ominous crimson red mist encircled him.
