by Syrie James
“What happened after you left the Scholomance?”
“I went home and lived—or should I say existed—in that damned castle with my accursed sisters and watched the centuries fall away. Feudalism died out with the plague, but Castle Dracula and all its holdings belonged to me. I earned my income from the peasants who worked my land. My sisters and I aged very slowly. We took on new identities for each succeeding generation. I travelled whenever I could. But I was gone for too many years. My sisters grew strong in their own right and became more intolerable every day. They were not discreet in their activities. The locals soon feared and shunned us.”
“My God. It is all so incredible. Is there nothing in the history books about what happened to you? Anything I could cite, to clear your name?”
“Not even a footnote. I am the forgotten son. The atrocities that Vlad Tepes committed are well-documented, however. He is the Dracula that history remembers.”
NINETEEN
THAT NIGHT, AFTER DRACULA TOOK ME BACK TO THE asylum, my mind was so full of all that I had learned, I could barely close my eyes. I believe I had just started to drift off when I was awakened by Jonathan, who was eager to get on with the day’s proceedings.
Despite my attempts to engage in the early-morning banter at the breakfast table, I was obliged to stifle several yawns, and I nearly nodded off a few times. More than once, I saw the men’s gazes fix upon the scar on my forehead with troubled frowns. Dr. Van Helsing insisted that I return to bed, promising that my health was more important than anything they might discuss that day. I did so, although I slept fitfully, beset by frightening dreams of war, vampires, murder, blood, and demons.
When I awoke, it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. I went down-stairs, and heard voices from within the study. Dr. Van Helsing was saying: “Jack: there is something that you and I must talk of alone, just at the first at any rate. Madam Mina, our poor dear Madam Mina is changing.”
I paused outside the door, listening.
“I have noticed that myself,” came Dr. Seward’s voice.
“You heard how Madam Mina defended the Count with such passion yesterday?”
“I suppose it is some of that horrid poison which has got into her veins, beginning to work?” Dr. Seward answered.
“Yes,” was Dr. Van Helsing’s reply. “With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned before things go too far. I can see the characteristics of the vampire coming into Madam Mina’s face. It is now but very, very slight; but it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice. Her teeth are some sharper, and at times her eyes are more hard.”
Oh! I thought indignantly. What rubbish! I had tried to dissuade them from pursuing Dracula, yes—but my teeth were quite as usual! I had not changed physically at all—there was no reason why I should have!—but of course they did not know that.
“There is more,” the professor was saying. “There is to her the silence now, as it was with Miss Lucy.”
“I saw that too, at breakfast,” Dr. Seward replied. “Mrs. Harker barely said a word. It is as if her tongue is tied in some mysterious way. I hate to think of dishonouring such a noble woman; but I know that she forms conclusions of her own about all that is going on. From our past experience, I can only guess how brilliant and true her thoughts must be. Yet for some reason, she now will not, or cannot, give them utterance.”
Idiots, I thought. I did not speak at breakfast because I was exhausted!
“My fear is this,” Dr. Van Helsing replied in an anguished voice. “That if she can, by our hypnotic trance, tell us what the Count see and hear—is it not true that he, so powerful a being, can compel her mind to disclose to him what she know?”
“You mean he might be able to read her mind?”
“Precisely.”
“If that is true, he would be privy to everything we are thinking and planning.”
“We must prevent this. We must keep her ignorant of our intent. This is a painful task. Oh! So painful that it heart-break me to think of it; but it must be. When to-day we meet, I must tell her that for reason of which we will not speak, she must be no more of our council, but be simply guarded by us.”
“We will have to tell Harker. He will not be happy about it.”
I did not stay to hear more. The whole thing was too absurd. I might as well beat them to the punch, I decided.
After dinner, as Jonathan and I freshened up in our chamber, I told him that I would not be joining him at the meeting that evening.
“But why?” he said, with surprise and concern. “Are you not feeling well?”
“I am fine, I assure you,” I replied as I straightened his tie and collar. “But I see the way everyone looks at me now. I think it better that you should all be free to discuss your movements without my presence to embarrass you.”
Jonathan nodded silently and went off. When he returned some hours later, to my dismay, his manner was very different. He was silent and removed, and he could not meet my eyes. Obviously, he had been indoctrinated by the others.
He stayed up past midnight, writing in his journal. When I bent to kiss his dark head before going to bed, I felt him flinch at my touch. He did not even bid me good-night.
“IT IS RIDICULOUS,” I TOLD DRACULA LATER, AS WE STROLLED through the trees in his moonlit garden, hidden behind his great wall. “My husband treats me like a leper. They all think I have changed—but it is my scar that has prejudiced their minds and allowed their fears to infect their imagination.”
“They see what they want to see,” Dracula agreed with a frown. He took my hand, adding, “I heard your dreams last night. I was afraid my story would frighten you. I am sorry that it did.”
“I am glad you told me.”
He glanced at me in the white light of the moon as we walked along. “I have been listening to your thoughts all afternoon. I see that there is still a great deal more about me that you wish to know.”
“I admit, Nicolae: I am curious about many things.”
“Shall I tell you now?”
“Please do.”
“All right, then. First: you wonder how I transform myself into mist or dust.”
“Yes!” I cried, fascinated. “How is that possible?”
“It is corporeal displacement, a matter of controlling the mind and certain forces of nature—not easy to explain.”
“Physics again.”
“Yes. Even the new vampire can vanish through cracks no wider than a knife-blade. The mist and dust is something I learned much later.”
“What does it feel like to move as a mist?”
“It is a bit like being a ghost. I can see and hear, but I cannot touch or feel.”
“What about animal forms? Can all vampires do them?”
“No. It took me 130 years to master the wolf. Another eighty to perfect the bat.”
For some reason, that made me laugh. “Show me one. Become a bat!”
“No.”
“Why not? I have already seen you as a bat before, several times in fact—although I did not know it was you.”
“Then that will have to suffice.”
“Why?”
“Bats have their uses, but they are ugly little creatures. Seeing such a transformation—it would only repulse you. I do not wish to leave that image in your mind.”
“All right then. Become a wolf.”
He shook his head, amused. “I will not.”
“You cannot do it, can you?” I teased. “That is why you refuse. You can only become the lowly bat.”
“I can become a wolf, I assure you,” he bristled. “It is the primary form I take when I wish to feed undisturbed on animal life.”
“Oh. I see. Can you become any other animals?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
He hesitated, then pulled me to him. “I think we should leave this subject at present.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said softly, “I prefer that you th
ink of me as a man.” He kissed me. My arms wound around him. Desire rose within me; my heart began to race; but suddenly he was pushing me away. His eyes grew hard and his entire body shook, as if he was struggling with every ounce of will-power against some powerful inner force that threatened to overcome him.
“You wanted to see a wolf,” he said, when at last he regained control of himself. “If we are not careful, you will.”
We stood in silence for a minute, as I willed my heart to return to its normal pace. I noticed that we had wandered to a side of his great house that I had not seen before. In the moonlit darkness, I perceived an adjacent building of ancient grey stone that looked like a small church. It had a row of tall, arched windows that were inset with stained glass, and a great, iron-bound, oaken door.
“Is that your chapel?” I asked.
“It is.”
“Will you permit me to go within? I have heard so much about these earth-boxes of yours. I would very much like to see one.”
Nicolae frowned. He seemed unhappy about taking me there, but at my insistence, he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the chapel door. We entered. A musty, earthy smell pervaded the place, and it was very cold inside. He quickly found and lit several candles. In the flickering darkness, I could see that it was a good-sized chapel, perhaps as large as some old country churches. The high stone walls and beamed ceiling were thick with dust and cobwebs which hung down like tattered, fluffy rags, as was the altar and the carved stone figurines which adorned it.
As Nicolae raised a candle, I could see that the room was filled with great rectangular chests, more than two dozen of them. The boxes looked to be sturdily made of some unfinished hardwood—the type of crate that might be used to deliver large goods or furniture, or a coffin—but they were plain and rather ugly. The lids of all the boxes had been pried off and were scattered haphazardly across the floor. Nicolae took my hand, and we moved together towards one of the wooden boxes. I gazed down at it, taking in the layer of earth which lined the bottom with a sense of repugnance.
“Do you really sleep in a box like this?”
I felt him flinch and sensed his discomfiture at my reaction. “I do not actually sleep. It is more of a trance. And I only resort to a bed of this kind when I must: when I am away from home.”
Now I noticed the pieces of crumbled wafer—the Holy Host—which were sprinkled about inside the box. I recoiled, remembering the excruciating pain when a similar wafer had touched my forehead. Nicolae glanced at me in sympathy and silently squeezed my hand.
“Does the Host affect you the same way?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What about the crucifix?”
“I avoid them, the way I avoid the direct rays of the sun. They both make me feel nauseous, sap my strength, and have the power to burn my skin.”
“And garlic?”
“I was averse to garlic in the early days, when I was first changed; but I think it had more to do with the smell than to any uncanny powers the plant possessed. It seems to be an enduring superstition, however.” Abruptly, he added: “Have you seen enough?”
I nodded. We left the way we had entered and strolled out onto his grounds. He led me to a path of sorts that meandered through the high grass and weeds among the trees. We walked in silence for a while, as I tried to envision a distant future in which I might be required to sleep in one of those boxes of earth—an idea which filled me with mild disgust. A sudden thought occurred to me, and I said:
“If I was Un-Dead, would I need to rest by day on English soil?”
“It depends on where you die. A vampire needs to rest on the soil native to the region where he was made.”
“Doesn’t that present a problem?”
“How so?”
“You said we would be together for ever. If you must rest on Transylvanian soil, and I die here—”
“A mere technicality, my love, and one which is easily resolved—as long as no one is hunting us. I still have enough soil of my own here, safely hidden. Or we could take a shipload of English dirt to Transylvania.”
“I see you have it all planned out.”
“I do.”
The wind rushed by in a sudden gust, and I began to shiver. Nicolae removed his cloak and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Thank you.” As I drew comfort from the cloak’s warmth, I glanced at him and noticed something small and white, like a scroll of paper, peeking out from his shirt pocket. “What is that?”
He touched the scroll self-consciously. “This? It is nothing. Just—a sketch I have been working on.”
“May I see it? Please?”
Reluctantly, he withdrew the scroll from his pocket and gave it to me. I stopped and opened it, studying it in the moonlight. It was a pencil sketch of me, which had clearly been done from memory. It portrayed me in a romantic posture, standing on a high bluff overlooking a dramatic coast line and the sea.
“It is the cliffs at Whitby,” I said, with a little smile.
“It is not finished. It is imperfect.”
“It is beautiful.” I carefully rolled up the paper and returned it to him. “Has any one but me ever seen your art?”
“A few people, over the years. I once gave a painting to Haydn.”
“Joseph Haydn?” I laughed. “You mean you really did know him?”
“I travelled a bit on the Continent in the previous century. It was an entrancing chapter of history. The music and dancing were dazzling. The fashions were magnificent, with the exception of the wigs and that detestable hair powder. Men and women alike wore brightly coloured silks and satins, and were bedecked in jewels. People attended lively parties all night long and slept by day, a schedule which, as you can imagine, fit in very well with my own habits.”
“How did you travel if you were obliged to sleep on Transylvanian soil?”
“A man can carry most anything with him, when he owns a carriage and cart.” Nicolae shared a story about Mozart which had me laughing into stitches. We talked on for a long while as we strolled his grounds, sharing anecdotes and past experiences, a subject which seemed inexhaustible, particularly in his case. I could have talked on in this way for hours; everything about him fascinated me. But there was a topic which had been worrying me for many days now, and at length I brought it up.
“Nicolae: there is something we must discuss. This double existence I am leading—it weighs heavily on my conscience.”
“I know.”
“I love you. Yet I also love my husband. I feel sick with guilt and shame about the way I have been deceiving him. You said I have a lifetime to decide whether or not to join you in Un-Death; but the truth is, there is a choice I must make now; and that choice fills me with such pain—”
“You do not have to make that choice yet, my darling.”
I sighed and shook my head. “But I do. I cannot go on meeting you behind his back like this any longer.”
“You will not have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have been waiting to tell you, fearing it might cause you grief or worry; but I have formed a new plan.”
“What plan?”
“We both know how much your husband hates me; and the professor’s thirst for my blood is as deep and unrelenting as my brother’s demonic need. I see now that the only way I will ever be able to survive in peace is if those madmen think that I am truly dead.”
I took that in. “What do you intend to do? Fake your own death, as your brother did on the battlefield?”
“Yes. Nothing else will satisfy them. I must give them the opportunity to kill me, and they must see me die—or think they have slain me—with their own eyes.”
“How will you accomplish that? Do you mean to stage some kind of battle here?”
“No. They think I have fled the country on a ship, and this suits me very well. I will let them follow that box of mine to Varna—and beyond.”
“Beyond?”
“I will have the greate
r advantage close to my home ground, where I know the geography intimately and can enlist the assistance that I require. I will leave ahead of you and the others. I have booked passage on a ship to Paris for myself and one large crate of earth. From there, I will travel by the Orient Express. There is much that I must arrange before your hunting party arrives. And there is something I must ask you to do, Mina, in the meantime.”
“What is that?”
“Continue to let Dr. Van Helsing ‘hypnotise’ you. Convince him that I am aboard the Czarina Catherine. Tell him the same thing every day: that you see lapping water, that I am in the dark hold of a ship. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
He stopped in an open patch of wild grass between two large elms and turned to me, the moonlight caressing his face as he touched my cheek with his cool fingers. “One more thing: you must insist that they take you with them.”
“Take me with them?”
“If you are in their company, I can use your mind to track your progress and your whereabouts. And I want you to be there with me, at the end.”
“The end!” I cried. “I do not wish to see them kill you!”
“They will not kill me, my love, I promise you.” He placed an affectionate kiss upon my lips. “Trust me. Just do as I have said, and all will be well. They will think they have dispatched me for good. After that, you can return to Exeter with your husband. We can see each other every now and then; and one day, if you wish it…we can be reunited.”
The cold wind rustled through the leafy branches of the trees surrounding us, and I glanced away, drawing Nicolae’s cloak more tightly about me. I tried to imagine the days and weeks ahead of me, and the role that he wanted me to play. How right Scott was when he wrote: Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive! It seemed that this charade I was involved in would never end. If only I could tell Jonathan and the others everything that I knew! But they would never believe it. I had already tried to convince them to call off the hunt, and that had proven hopeless. Perhaps Nicolae was right: only by creating the false impression of his death would he ever be safe. And he must be safe.
