by Syrie James
“You look beautiful,” he said softly; then with concern, he added: “You are well, I hope?”
“Yes.” I fought to master my pounding heart, determined not to betray the apprehension that coursed through me. “I am just unaccustomed to these sudden and rather dramatic appearances. Last night it was mist. To-night it is—dust?”
“I have a variety of modes of transport at my disposal.” He moved in close and touched the velvet band at my throat. “A gift from Lucy?”
This reference to my dear departed friend put me instantly on the defensive. Bitterly, I replied: “Yes.”
“It suits you.”
Abruptly, I said: “How did you get in here last night? I thought a vampire required an invitation to enter a place the first time.”
“True. Mr. Renfield provided that service—a bit reluctantly, I think. God knows how that madman became attuned to my presence, but he seems to have been expecting me before I even took residence at Carfax. At first, he sought me desperately and was quite an annoyance. Now he seems to fear me. The man is truly insane.”
“For that, I pity him.”
“You should beware of him, Mina. He has designs on you. Do not trust a thing he says.”
As he moved towards me, he passed in front of the looking-glass. I saw that he cast no reflection, and despite myself, I gave a sudden, startled gasp. Seeing my reaction, he quickly moved out of the mirror’s line of sight.
“I despise mirrors,” he said testily. “They are a sign of man’s vanity, and a reminder that I—” He broke off, his dark brows furrowing. “Does it bother you?”
I swallowed hard. “What? That you have no reflection? It—is very disconcerting. I do not understand it.”
“It is one of those mysteries that cannot be explained. It just is. Which is particularly unsettling, I know, in this great scientific age, which demands explanations for everything.” As Dracula spoke, he picked up my black shawl and wrapped it about my shoulders. He now gazed down at me and insisted urgently: “Come with me.”
“Come where?” I asked.
“To my house next door.”
Alarm spread through me. I had not anticipated this. “I cannot leave!” I insisted. “The men are all down-stairs.”
“They will be locked up in that study for hours. They think you are asleep. Come. I have something to show you. I promise to have you back before they miss you.”
“Surely you must understand that I dare not go anywhere with you.”
He moved closer, cupping my chin with his fingers (once more as cool as summer rain) and raising it until my eyes met his. I had promised myself that I would not let him touch me, that I would not allow myself to fall under his spell; but with his eyes on mine, and his touch against my flesh, I was powerless to resist, as putty in his hands. “What are you afraid of?” he said tenderly. “That I will take advantage of your virtue? Or that I will bite you and feed a bit too long and avidly?”
Both, I thought. Aloud, I said breathlessly: “Should I fear these things?”
“Perhaps you should. I cannot deny it: I have long desired both your body and your blood. But had I wished to take you by force, Mina, I could have—and would have—long ago. I am willing to wait as long as it takes to possess those parts of you which mean the most to me: your mind and heart.”
The heart he spoke of continued to hammer in my chest, in close proximity to the vial of holy water which I had hidden between my breasts. “If you hoped to endear me to you with such a speech, you have failed,” I said, my breathing shallow and laboured. “You have only increased my fear.” But was it really due to fear? Or was it due to something else?
He winced at that. As if annoyed with himself, he lowered his hand and stepped back, his gaze still holding mine. “Forgive me. You were never afraid when I was Mr. Wagner. Do not fear me now. I am the same man, Mina. Nothing has changed, except your perception of me. Trust me when I tell you: I love you, and I would never harm you.”
The affection in his eyes and the sincerity in his voice were nearly impossible to resist. It took every ounce of will-power I possessed not to say yes to him at that very instant. Sensing my hesitation, he said:
“Come or not; the choice is entirely up to you. But I truly hope you will.”
I guessed what lay unspoken: that he could employ his hypnotic powers of persuasion if he wished, but he had chosen not to. For better or worse, I made my decision. I fought back my fear and took the hand he offered. I expected him to lead me to the door. Instead, to my surprise, he effortlessly swept me up into his arms and carried me outside onto the balcony. “Hold on tight.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, startled.
“I am taking you home.”
FOURTEEN
I FELT A SUDDEN BLAST OF ICY WIND, ACCOMPANIED BY THE sensation of rapid movement, a flash of colourful images, and a great, whirring vibration in my ears. All at once, we were standing in the moonlight on what appeared to be the back porch of an immense, old, stone mansion: the house next door.
“How did you do that?” I said, dumbfounded, as he set me on my feet.
“A simple matter of physics.” With affection, he brushed back a lock of my hair that had blown loose, adding: “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
Although wobbly and still struggling to regain my wits, I recognised the quote from Hamlet. I shook my head in disbelief. “But—we were up on a first-floor balcony—and there is a high wall separating our properties. Can you fly?”
He laughed. “Not as a man. But I can leap, and move faster than the human eye can follow. I cannot do so for great distances, however, as it saps much of my strength.”
I struggled to rise above my amazement as he unlocked the door and motioned for me to enter. It was pitch-dark and very cold inside. As I shivered in the dank air, he lit a candle. In its flickering light, I saw that we were in a large, old, empty vestibule. The floor was blanketed with a thick layer of dust, and the high walls were laced with cobwebs that hung down like flags, thick with dust.
“Please excuse the deplorable lack of housekeeping. This house is vast and has been empty for quite some time.” It was all I could do to keep up with him as he bounded up several long flights of stairs. “I have put all my energy into making one particular chamber habitable. Thankfully, it appears to have been undiscovered by your men’s search party last night.”
We reached the top floor of the building. Midway down the long, dark corridor, he waved his hand and part of the panelled wall slid back.
“Welcome to my parlour,” he said.
We entered. I stopped and stared in abject wonder. Whatever I had expected to find upstairs in this ancient, part-medieval mansion, it was not this. The room was warm, inviting, and elegantly panelled in oak, with long, dark red velvet draperies shrouding the tall windows. Candles glowed in several tall candelabras, accompanied by two gas-lamps, which combined to fill the room with a soft golden light. The furnishings and thick Turkey carpets looked expensive and luxurious. I was most surprised, however, by the oak bookcases lining two long walls from floor to ceiling, which were half-filled with books of all sizes and descriptions. A sea of boxes lying open and scattered on the floor contained more books, as if they were still in the process of being unpacked. The volumes seemed to number into the tens of thousands.
“It is more like a library than a parlour,” I said, thunder-struck, glancing at the titles of some of the books on the shelves, many of which appeared to be very old. They encompassed a wide variety of topics, including history, biography, philosophy, science, medicine, poetry, and fiction—from the ancient classics to the modern—both the popular and the obscure. There was also, I noticed, a collection of volumes on witchcraft, alchemy, and superstition. Many of the titles I had never heard of, and I found myself longing to take them up and read them.
“Where did you get all these books?” I asked.
“They are from
my castle in Transylvania. This is but a tiny portion of my library there. Did you really think it was only earth in all of those crates I brought with me?”
I nodded, speechless—yet wondering why I should be so surprised. Mr. Wagner and I had, after all, discussed literature often and at great length. The two halves of the man I knew were coming together for me now to make up a fascinating whole—and there were more surprises to come. On a table near-by I spied a typewriter, along with Gregg’s book on shorthand, and a flurry of sheets which revealed attempts at practicing both techniques.
I glanced at him with a confused smile, and he shrugged: “I thought I might teach myself these arts, which were of such interest to you.”
His expression caused a heat to rise to my face; a heat which made me realise, all of a sudden, that I was no longer cold at all. As I removed my shawl, my attention was drawn to a substantial fire burning brightly in the hearth, which gave off a comforting heat. “Oh!” I cried in alarm. “Are you not worried that someone will see the smoke?”
“It is a smokeless fire.”
Indeed, as I studied it again, I saw that the flames blazed more red than yellow, and that although they appeared to be consuming real logs, they emitted not a single puff of smoke. “Just another simple matter of physics, I suppose?”
“Something like that.”
I stared at him in wonder. Was all this just another one of my strange dreams? But no; something deep in my bones told me that I was fully sentient. Upon first entering the room, I had been aware of a unique, pungent smell which was at once rich, deep, and oddly familiar. I now caught sight of the source: an easel was set up in one corner, with a canvas upon it that faced the opposite way. Beside the easel, a table held jars of oil paints, pencils, brushes, mineral spirits, sketch-books, and a palette dotted with multiple colours. This discovery was so entirely unexpected that I blurted rather unnecessarily:
“Do you paint?”
“I dabble.”
I crossed to the easel and turned to stop in full view of the canvas. It was a portrait in oils—still fresh and new, and so perfectly and exquisitely rendered, that it might have been a work by Rembrandt or Leonardo Da Vinci. I stared at it, stunned.
It was a portrait of me.
In the painting, I was dressed in a beautiful, emerald green evening gown, with a low-cut bodice adorned with elaborate beading. My blonde hair was swept up high upon my head, exposing my pale throat. I was smiling demurely at the viewer, as if in happy possession of a secret. There was no doubting the artist’s affection for his subject; for although I clearly recognised myself, he had somehow made me appear far more beautiful than I believed myself to be. It was then that I noticed, on the table beside the easel, the tiny photograph of me which Jonathan had taken a year before. The faded, sepia-toned print seemed pale and lifeless in comparison with the glowing woman in the portrait.
I heard him move up close behind me.
“Do you like it?” he asked quietly.
My pulse quickened at his nearness. “Yes. When did you paint it?”
“I began many weeks ago, when I first arrived here. It was my solace.”
I hardly knew what to say. “You are a wonderful artist.”
“One can become proficient at most anything, I find, with a modicum of aptitude and an eternity to indulge it.” He closed the gap between us now, his body resting against the back of mine, his hands settling on my shoulders. This was my moment to move away, I knew. I must insist on maintaining a safe distance between us. I must steel myself against him. But his touch made me feel weak with sudden longing, and I could not bring myself to do it.
I felt his lips press against my hair, then move lower to tenderly kiss my neck. “Mina: for weeks, I have dreamt of bringing you here. I never imagined it could ever be so; yet here you are.”
My heart began to pound in earnest now. Did he mean to bite me again? I feared it; yet to my mortification, I wanted him to. I desperately craved the feel of his teeth piercing my flesh, and the intense, erotic rush of pleasure that I knew would follow. I closed my eyes, unable to prevent the anxious gasp that escaped my lips.
I felt him tense. “You are still afraid,” he said with deep regret. He let me go abruptly, and stepped back with a small, self-derisive laugh. “Forgive me. I told myself I could be with you and not be tempted. I was wrong. I will do my best to control my appetite hereafter.”
I stood in disappointed silence, attempting to regulate my breathing and slow the rapid cadence of my heart as I watched him cross the room. He opened a large wooden chest, from which he withdrew a stunning, beaded evening gown of emerald green silk—the same gown that I was wearing in the portrait.
“I had this made for you by a dressmaker in Whitby,” he said, bringing me the garment. “I thought the colour would match your eyes. I hoped to give it to you there, but—you left very suddenly.”
“Oh! It is exquisite.” I had never dreamt of owning anything like it. But it was too much; I felt as if all my senses were being assaulted by too many new and stunning wonders in too small a space of time. “But—you must know I cannot accept it. How could I ever explain it?”
“Perhaps you could indulge me, then, and wear it while you are here?”
“I had best not. But I thank you all the same.”
Disappointed, he laid the garment aside and led me to a small table in the centre of the room, which was elegantly set with gilded china, fine crystal, and heavily scrolled silver. He pulled out a chair for me.
“May I offer you some refreshment, then? I was not sure what kind of foods would be your favourites, so I have provided a variety.”
He lifted a silver cover from the plate before me to reveal a delicious-looking assortment of cold meats, cheeses, breads, and fruits, whose appetizing aromas made my mouth water. I was flattered that he had gone to much effort on my behalf, and suddenly realised that despite my nerves, I was famished, having been too tense to eat much at dinner earlier. I took the chair he offered. “Thank you.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“That would be lovely.” As I watched him uncork a bottle of Bordeaux—(Red, I thought: how appropriate)—my mind and emotions continued to spin in confusion. The refined gentleman before me was so interesting, so passionate, learned, accomplished. How could he be the same monster that we were all hunting: an other-worldly being who yearned to drink my blood?
“What are you thinking?” he asked, as he poured the burgundy-coloured vintage into a delicate crystal goblet.
“I was thinking how strange it feels to be sitting here as your honoured guest,” I lied, “and that…I do not know what to call you now. I still think of you as Mr. Wagner. Where did that name come from?”
He shrugged. “I admire his music.”
“Somehow, ‘Count Dracula’ seems too formal…”
“Call me Nicolae.”
“Nicolae.” I recalled seeing that name when I had studied the title deed to this property. Despite myself, my hand trembled a little as I took the glass he offered—a reaction he did not fail to notice.
With a frown, he sat down across from me. I cut a slice of cheese, placed it atop a piece of bread, and took a bite. It was delectable. He did not remove the silver cover from his own plate but sat watching me as I ate.
“Is it true that you cannot eat food?” I asked.
“Regrettably, that pleasure is denied to me.”
“Why? If you can swallow blood, why cannot you eat or drink?”
“Think: carnivore versus herbivore. My organs function in a similar manner to yours, but my body chemistry has been permanently altered. I can now digest only blood.”
I nodded. “What have you been…living on…since you came to England?”
“For the most part, I have taken what little I require as a bat or a wolf, by feeding on wild animals. Although I admit: both for pleasure and sustenance, I took the blood of several people whom I encountered alone on the street late at nigh
t. They were frightened at first, as always, but then they seemed to rather enjoy the experience; and I made certain they had no memory of it afterwards.”
I did not wonder that these strangers enjoyed the bloodletting, if they experienced anything even halfway similar to what I had felt. “But I remember everything that happened,” I said.
He looked at me with a silent raising of his eyebrows, making it clear that that had been his intention. I felt myself blush.
“So then: you never kill the people you feed from?”
“Only if I lose control and drink too much, or feed too often—but that very rarely happens.” He smiled and said calmly: “Do not look so worried: I promise never to overindulge or lose control with you.”
Apprehension speared through me. He made the promise so matter-of-factly; yet he was talking about my life! My life, which he could end in an instant, whether inadvertently or by intention. I tried not to think about that possibility as I went on:
“Do you breathe?”
“Sometimes. Out of habit, not necessity.”
“If I prick you, do you bleed?”
“Yes. But I heal so quickly, it is almost as if I was never wounded at all.”
It was all so incredibly uncanny. My stomach was in knots again. I put down the grapes in my hand, no longer able to eat.
“What can I do to set you at ease?” he asked gently.
“Talk to me.”
“With pleasure. Since the day we met, talking with you has been one of my greatest delights. It is why I brought you here. I imagine you must have many questions for me.”
“I do.”
“Ask away. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
