That thought scares me more than death, which I do not fear anymore: it is not the worst that could happen to me. I think daily of poor Lucy. Did she know what happened to her? I hope not, for her good, sweet nature would be horrified if she knew what she became. Thank goodness for the brave men who saved her and who try so valiantly to rescue me. Even I know they cannot save this mortal body though; I was marked for another life when that monster’s foul fangs touched my throat and there is no hope left for me.
It is Jonathon who frightens me most, he has a look in his eyes that makes me afraid he would willingly follow me into another life, and I do not want him to do that. I want him to be happy, to wed again, and live a long life, until we are reunited beyond the grave. It is all I can wish for him now; we will not live together in peace raising our children as I had dreamed for so many years, that time has gone now. All I do know is that our dear friends will care for him as they have for Arthur, and that he will never be alone while they support him.
This Count Dracula that we pit our wits against is stronger than us all; only my husband and Van Helsing are fully aware of his power. I did not understand it myself until I entered his head and what I saw turned my skin as cold as if I were already the Undead. His brain is a seething mass of images, linked together by threads of distant memory. He has been a vampire for hundreds of years: feeding, killing. Now he needs fresh blood to expand his foul empire.
He does have human memories: flashes of what he once was. I see men bowing before him. I feel the rush of wind against my cheek and the pounding of a horse beneath me. Once he was a great warrior — a leader of men, but certain elements of his personality were always there; he was a hard leader, scarifying his people to gain land and riches.
It was power that drove him to the flesh-eaters, he saw their strength, their eternal life, and decided to be one. I did not choose, neither did Lucy — both of us would have selected death over becoming one like him.
Other women have made the decision to put a desire for power and cruelty first. In his memories I have seen a blonde woman crouched before him on the floor of a large tent; head bowed — yet when she raised her face, there was a cruel twist to her mouth and wanton look in her eye. She is of his mind, desiring power and money, and he knows it. I see her as clear as if I were in the same room — I am in his head, I know what he knows. Some of his thoughts are guarded but this one is clear; he thinks of it often.
The girl is the daughter of a chief; the proud tilt to her head and rich fur robes are not those of a peasant. Her hair is fair, gleaming under the firelight, pulled back into two braids that wind around her head and she has high cheekbones, with the slight hollowing of someone who has known hunger. I can see from her expression that she is a survivor who will destroy others in order to live.
Now she is offering herself to the Count, and while she is on bended knee, I know it is not humility that drives her to adopt such a position, she knows the effect it is having on him, on a man who desires control.
Dracula remains seated on his heavy wooden chair, his own fur robes hanging from his shoulders and pooling across the floor. Mixed in with the pelt, I see faces, tiny with sunken eyes and furry ears, stitched into the mantle. Around them are the walls of the tent, adored with hangings and lit by braziers, casting shadows across the walls. The floor is lined with fur, and on a low table are dishes of food, scented with spice.
By the door are cross pikes and swords, stabbed into the earth, and not far from Dracula’s hand is the hilt of a weapon, shining under the flicking of flames, casting a long shadow across the floor. He has dismissed his guards, yet is not foolish enough to trust her.
“My lord?” she said, looking up at him, with a smile. “My lord? May I get up?”
“Are you armed?” he said. “Are there daggers hidden in that cloak?”
“I have none.”
“Show me.”
I shake my head, desperate to be away from such a dream. There are some things I do not wish to see, even if it helps our quest. Who is this woman? Certainly she is no innocent, her skin flushes at the command, but her eyes shine with excitement rather than shame. She stands up and raises her hands to the long, fur cloak, a bright gold buckle fastened the top, close to her throat, and she loosens it, drawing out the sharp pin. Carefully, she places the valuable object on the floor, bending neatly at the waist.
Straight again, she pushes the mantle from her shoulders, so it falls to her feet and underneath, she wears a white linen shift, which is bound at the waist by a thin gold girdle tipped with a green stone, flashing under the firelight. Her body is narrow, breasts high, and hips flaring beneath her waist. He likes what he sees. He licks his lips and stares.
“Are you wed?” he asks.
“No, lord. I am here for you.”
“Come here.”
She steps up to the dais his chair stood on, the thin material of her shift showing an outline of her body. Reaching forward, he touches her mouth and she parts her lips to kiss his finger, making him smile.
He draws his finger down her face and towards the top of her bodice, which has a high neck, so he breaks the laces to push it down, baring her breasts. He lowers his mouth to her skin, nipping each rosy mark with his lips, while she wiggles, throwing her head back.
His hands drop to her belt, which he unclips, dropping it carelessly to the floor and her gaze darts to it, before he takes her chin and raises her face to his.
“I will give you gold,” he said.
She smiles, standing still as he slides her gown from her shoulders so it drops to the floor, leaving her wearing nothing except a pair of soft, leather slippers, encasing her narrow feet. Her skin is golden and she parts her legs, pushing her shoulders back, so he can gaze at her long limbs, flat stomach, and fair curls.
“Turn around,” he says.
She twists to face the opposite way, her bottom high and slightly dimpled, the skin gleaming under the yellow light. Even deep in my dream, I breathe in a musky scent and wiggle restlessly. He motions her closer and pulling her limbs either side of his thighs, he opens his knees, spreading her legs open. She trembles briefly, then moves closer, letting her arms drop to her sides and closing her eyes. The fur mantle he wears looks soft against her legs, but his fingers are white and cold looking, as he draws them down the outside of her hips and along her inner thighs. She shivers and moistens her lips.
His hand cups her sex, then trails his fingers over the skin, opening his legs still wider to stretch her and grasping his shoulders with her hands, she breathes deep, pushing herself against his hands as extending two fingers, he thrusts them inside her, causing her to gasp and arch back. His hands are wet when he draws them out, and he smiles, pushing them back again, reaching up high while she squirms.
Repeatedly, he stimulates her, so she gasps and clutches herself against him, burying her face in the fur of his mantle. He kisses her breasts again, the touch suddenly tender, and lowers his lips to hers, as if realising that she has a mind similar to his own. In that brief touch, I see the glimpse of another man: a flash of what he would have been like before battle and corruption ruined him, a man who could love.
She reaches for his robes, moving them apart to caress the skin of his arms and throat, then pushing her back, he rises to his feet, dropping his own mantle to the floor, wearing underneath a tunic top, belted at the waist, and long breeches, tucked into riding boots. I want to see his face, to gaze at those features that we now see ravaged by cruelty, but I can only see through his eyes, as he undresses. His legs are strong and powerful, criss-crossed with white scars, his stomach and chest hard and muscled. This man is indeed a warrior.
He kneels down in the furs and motions her to join him. After a brief pause, she sits in front of him, and he spreads her legs, reaching down to use his mouth and tongue on the place he so recently worked his fingers. She groans, raising her knees, then turns so she can reach for him. Her head jerks as she caresses his length, while he re
aches deep inside her with his tongue.
“My queen,” he murmurs.
He pulls her onto his lap, her legs aside him and with a hard thrust, enters her while she groans, her fingers clutching at his back, digging into his muscles, as he moves against her, hands cupping her bottom, so he can penetrate deep.
I struggled in my dazed state, a hot sensation between my legs, understanding why I have been desperate for this act since he bit me. He is a man of strong desires, and part of that blood is now in me, inflaming my senses. A strong warrior, he is also a cruel monster, and no matter how many of these memories he makes me watch, I will never become one of his women voluntarily since my mind is not the same as theirs.
If I ever feel myself weaken, I will remember Jonathon and sweet Lucy, who he destroyed. Against this man’s power, I have my own weapons — love and friendship, which I will fight him with until he has been destroyed.
• • •
30 October, 7 A.M. — We are near Galatz now, and I may not have time to write later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all. Knowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance, Van Helsing began his passes earlier than usual. They produced no effect, however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still greater difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose. The Professor lost no time in his questioning.
Her answer came with equal quickness, “All is dark. I hear water swirling by, level with my ears, and the creaking of wood on wood. Cattle low far off. There is another sound, a queer one like … ” She stopped and grew white, and whiter still.
“Go on, go on! Speak, I command you!” said Van Helsing in an agonized voice. At the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun was reddening even Mrs. Harker’s pale face. She opened her eyes, and we all started as she said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost unconcern.
“Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can’t? I don’t remember anything.” Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said, turning from one to the other with a troubled look, “What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing, only that I was lying here, half asleep, and heard you say ‘go on! speak, I command you!’ It seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if I were a bad child!”
“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, sadly, “it is proof, if proof be needed, of how I love and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more earnest than ever, can seem so strange because it is to order her whom I am proud to obey!”
The whistles are sounding. We are nearing Galatz. We are on fire with anxiety and eagerness.
• • •
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
30 October. — Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been ordered by telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since he does not speak any foreign language. The forces were distributed much as they had been at Varna, except that Lord Godalming went to the Vice Consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate guarantee of some sort to the official, we being in extreme hurry. Jonathan and the two doctors went to the shipping agent to learn particulars of the arrival of the Czarina Catherine.
Later. — Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away, and the Vice Consul sick. So the routine work has been attended to by a clerk. He was very obliging, and offered to do anything in his power.
• • •
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
30 October. — At nine o’clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called on Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of Hapgood. They had received a wire from London, in answer to Lord Godalming’s telegraphed request, asking them to show us any civility in their power. They were more than kind and courteous, and took us at once on board the Czarina Catherine, which lay at anchor out in the river harbor. There we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who told us of his voyage. He said that in all his life he had never had so favourable a run.
“Man!” he said, “but it made us afeard, for we expect it that we should have to pay for it wi’ some rare piece o’ ill luck, so as to keep up the average. It’s no canny to run frae London to the Black Sea wi’ a wind ahint ye, as though the Deil himself were blawin’ on yer sail for his ain purpose. An’ a’ the time we could no speer a thing. Gin we were nigh a ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and travelled wi’ us, till when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil a thing could we see. We ran by Gibraltar wi’ oot bein’ able to signal. An’ til we came to the Dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to pass, we never were within hail o’ aught. At first I inclined to slack off sail and beat about till the fog was lifted. But whiles, I thocht that if the Deil was minded to get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it whether we would or no. If we had a quick voyage it would be no to our miscredit wi’ the owners, or no hurt to our traffic, an’ the Old Mon who had served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no hinderin’ him.”
This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition and commercial reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said, “Mine friend, that Devil is more clever than he is thought by some, and he know when he meet his match!”
The skipper was not displeased with the compliment, and went on, “When we got past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble. Some o’ them, the Roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had been put on board by a queer lookin’ old man just before we had started frae London. I had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out their twa fingers when they saw him, to guard them against the evil eye. Man! but the supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly rideeculous! I sent them aboot their business pretty quick, but as just after a fog closed in on us I felt a wee bit as they did anent something, though I wouldn’t say it was again the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog didn’t let up for five days I joost let the wind carry us, for if the Deil wanted to get somewheres, well, he would fetch it up a’reet. An’ if he didn’t, well, we’d keep a sharp lookout anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and deep water all the time. And two days ago, when the mornin’ sun came through the fog, we found ourselves just in the river opposite Galatz. The Roumanians were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out the box and fling it in the river. I had to argy wi’ them aboot it wi’ a handspike. An’ when the last o’ them rose off the deck wi’ his head in his hand, I had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the property and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the river Danube. They had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to fling in, and as it was marked Galatz via Varna, I thocht I’d let it lie till we discharged in the port an’ get rid o’t althegither. We didn’t do much clearin’ that day, an’ had to remain the nicht at anchor. But in the mornin’, braw an’ airly, an hour before sunup, a man came aboard wi’ an order, written to him from England, to receive a box marked for one Count Dracula. Sure eneuch the matter was one ready to his hand. He had his papers a’ reet, an’ glad I was to be rid o’ the dam’ thing, for I was beginnin’ masel’ to feel uneasy at it. If the Deil did have any luggage aboord the ship, I’m thinkin’ it was nane ither than that same!”
“What was the name of the man who took it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing with restrained eagerness.
“I’ll be tellin’ ye quick!” he answered, and stepping down to his cabin, produced a receipt signed “Immanuel Hildesheim.” Burgen-strasse 16 was the address. We found out that this was all the Captain knew, so with thanks we came away.
We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi Theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. His arguments were pointed with specie, we doing the punctuation, and with a little bargaining he told us what he knew. This turned out to be simple but important. He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling him to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box which would arrive at Galatz in the Czarina Catherine. This he was to give in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky, who dealt with the Slovaks who traded down the rive
r to the port. He had been paid for his work by an English bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at the Danube International Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to the ship and handed over the box, so as to save porterage. That was all he knew.
We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him. One of his neighbors, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had gone away two days before, no one knew whither. This was corroborated by his landlord, who had received by messenger the key of the house together with the rent due, in English money. This had been between ten and eleven o’clock last night. We were at a standstill again.
Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that the body of Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of St. Peter, and that the throat had been torn open as if by some wild animal. Those we had been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the women crying out. “This is the work of a Slovak!” We hurried away lest we should have been in some way drawn into the affair, and so detained.
As we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. We were all convinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere, but where that might be we would have to discover. With heavy hearts we came home to the hotel to Mina.
When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina again into our confidence. Things are getting desperate, and it is at least a chance, though a hazardous one. As a preliminary step, I was released from my promise to her.
• • •
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
30 October, evening. — They were so tired and worn out and dispirited that there was nothing to be done till they had some rest, so I asked them all to lie down for half an hour whilst I should enter everything up to the moment. I feel so grateful to the man who invented the “Traveller’s” typewriter, and to Mr. Morris for getting this one for me. I should have felt quite astray doing the work if I had to write with a pen …
Dracula: The Wild and Wanton Edition Page 22
