by Syrie James
I turned and fled back down the stairs, but he was there again, one floor below me! I burst into the passage in between, returning whence I came, my feet echoing loudly against the stone floor as I gasped for breath. I had just reached the music-room doorway when he suddenly materialised in front of me and grabbed me tightly by both arms.
“You will never go back to England, Mina,” he hissed, his eyes flaming red, his teeth and fingernails long and sharp. “You will never see your husband again. You will be mine, even if I must kill you here and now, this very moment, and keep you by force. You are my destiny! We are bound by blood!”
His mouth lunged for my throat. I screamed and tried to pull away. Was that pounding footsteps I heard on the stairs or the sound of my own heart drumming in my ears? Just as I felt his teeth begin to puncture my flesh, to my astonishment, I heard a voice—Jonathan’s voice—cry:
“Let her go, you fiend!”
Dracula looked up in surprise. Suddenly Jonathan was there—I saw the glinting flash of his kukri knife—there was a struggle and a clatter—then Dracula was lifting Jonathan bodily in the air and hurling him against the passage wall, where he slid, stunned and motionless, to the floor.
I stared in horror. Then instinct took over. In the music room just beyond, I spied the long, sharp pieces of wood from the shattered piano top scattered across the floor. I darted in, snatched one up, and raised it as a weapon. Dracula followed. As he hurled himself at me with a hideous roar, his own violent momentum helped drive the wooden shard straight into his heart.
Dracula cried out in shock, astonishment, and pain and dropped to his knees, bleeding, clutching at the wooden stake as if he meant to pull it out, but he seemed to lack the strength. He slowly sank to the floor and lay there, paralysed. For a moment I stood paralysed as well; for before my eyes, as he lay on the floor, his blood spreading out beneath him in an ever-widening pool, he slowly began to age into a gnarled, wrinkled, waxen-faced old man.
I heard a scream of anguish, and realised that it had issued from the depths of my own throat.
My God! My God! What have I done? He was dying, and I had killed him! I was suffused with the heat of sudden remorse, and tears spilled from my eyes. Then my gaze fell on Jonathan, lying senseless—perhaps dead!—in the hall, the victim of this man’s hand; I thought of the innocent child growing within me, who deserved a chance to live; and I knew that I had done right. And I was not yet finished. I had one last, grisly deed to perform.
The kukri knife lay in the open doorway. Blinded by tears, I grabbed it and knelt over Dracula’s prone body, holding the terrifying blade over his throat. He stared up at me, unable to move, now an ancient, withered man whose only recognisable features were his piercing blue eyes. As my gaze met his, I saw deep regret and anguish in those eyes, as if his own humanity had at last resurfaced.
“Forgive me, Mina,” he whispered with great effort. “I loved you too much.”
I faltered. He was himself again. Anger had turned him into the monster who made him; yet there was so much good in him. I had loved him. I still loved him. How could I kill the man I loved?
I sobbed and lowered the knife, my heart breaking. “I cannot.”
“Do it!” Dracula whispered insistently. “I do not belong in this world. You do. Feel no remorse. Live the life that I was never allowed to have. Live it for the both of us!”
Tears coursed down my cheeks as I shook my head. “No. No.”
With what seemed to be a supernatural effort, he raised his hand and firmly covered my own hand with his, so that we clutched the knife together. “‘Our revels now are ended,’” he quoted softly, haltingly, looking into my eyes. “‘These our actors…were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air…and, like the baseless fabric of this vision…shall dissolve…and leave not a rack behind.’”
With sudden force, he rammed the great knife down across his throat. The blade slashed into his flesh; a ribbon of crimson blood arched into the air; and in a fraction of a blink, his entire body crumbled into dust and vanished from my sight.
My knees buckled, and I collapsed to the floor, staring at the bloody, empty space before me in stunned disbelief.
Dracula was dead.
I wept; but there was no time for grieving. I forced myself up and raced to Jonathan’s side, where I knelt and took him anxiously in my arms. To my intense relief, I ascertained that he still breathed. I kissed him repeatedly, calling his name as I gently stroked his face. He soon opened his eyes. Stunned confusion quickly gave way to alarm as he struggled to rise.
“Where is he?” he cried.
“He is gone,” I said, holding Jonathan tightly in my embrace, my cheeks still wet with tears. “I killed him.”
“You killed him?” He was both astonished and relieved.
“Yes.” I told him all that I had done, leaving out only the detail of Dracula’s last, impassioned message. “I never could have done it without you. How did you come to be here?”
“I was uneasy all evening. Something about you was different, Mina. I was not certain I believed the Count was dead, and if not, he might still have you in his power. When I awoke and found you gone, I was afraid he had taken you. I rode up immediately. The door was open, but the castle seemed to be deserted. I looked everywhere. I raced upstairs, and then I heard his voice. He was threatening to kill you. I rushed in at him with my knife, but—” Jonathan flushed a deep red. “That is the last thing I remember.” Quickly, he added: “I did not recognise him. Are you certain it was he? He looked so young.”
I chose my words carefully. “He has appeared to me that way in the past.”
He stared at me. “Did he give you that dress?” At my nod, he asked: “Did he hurt you?”
I paused. My heart felt as if it had been broken in two, a rent that could never be repaired. Dracula had inflicted that deep wound; but I could never share this truth with Jonathan. “No,” I whispered. “Nothing that will not heal in time.”
“And he is truly dead now?”
“Yes. And thank God you came when you did, my husband, or I would be dead—and so would our child.”
Jonathan sat up now, looking at me in wonder. “Our…?”
I nodded, unable to hold back a tearful smile as I took his hand and placed it over my womb. A look of such pure happiness crossed my husband’s face, that I thought my heart would melt. In one breath, I both laughed and sobbed; then Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me.
WE RETURNED TO CAMP BEFORE THE OTHERS AWAKENED. JONATHAN and I agreed that it was best not to mention the events that had occurred at the castle. Better to let the men go on thinking that Dracula had perished at their own hands the evening before, and that Mr. Morris had died a hero. And so it was that in all the journals we kept at the time, it was written that Dracula died at sunset on the 6th of November, dispatched by the blades of Jonathan and Mr. Quincey Morris.
The next morning we all began the long journey back to England, stopping to bury Mr. Morris in a quiet, respectful ceremony in a churchyard in Bistritz. I had become so accustomed to hearing Dracula’s voice in my mind that its absence left a hollow, aching void. At times I wept unceasingly, and nothing Jonathan or the others said could comfort me. They attributed this dearth of emotion to what they called “my delicate condition.” But I could not stop thinking about him, about everything he had meant to me, about the final words he had spoken.
Did he choose to die as a penance for his last evil act? Did he force my blade because he wished me to live on, unencumbered by what he saw as his unhealthy obsession? Oh! If only I had possessed the strength to stop his hand! For in spite of what he had done, and what he meant to do, I had not wanted him to die. I was steeped in guilt, and I knew that I would grieve for him every day for the rest of my life.
NOT LONG AFTER WE ARRIVED HOME IN EXETER, A SMALL PARCEL was delivered for me. To my astonishment, it contained a letter with the Sterling family seal:
Belgravia, London—16
November 1890
My dear Mrs. Harker,
Please forgive my delay in writing to you. Since the evening when I encountered you so unexpectedly in my entry hall, you have never been far from my thoughts. I believe I was speechless at the time, so taken aback was I at seeing you. My housemaid, Hornsby, shared the purpose of your visit and gave me your address. I can only imagine what you must think of me. Lest you harbour any misconceptions, I wish to acquaint you with the truth.
Many years ago, when I was a young man at University, I fell in love with a maid who worked at our house. Her name was Anna Murray. I loved her to distraction, and I believe that she felt the same way about me. I wanted her to be my wife. Unfortunately, love is not always enough in this world. We cannot always have what we want; other factors intervene. My mother learned of the relationship, and the next time I returned home to visit, I discovered to my grief that Anna had been dismissed. My mother said nothing about Anna being with child; she only impressed upon me the importance of duty, and that I must forget her.
In time, I married. I never heard from Anna again, but she was never far from my thoughts. Years later, when my mother lay dying, she admitted that she had sent Anna away because she was with child—my child! I made a determined effort to find her, and you. By then, Anna was dead; but my enquiries led me to the orphanage where you resided. I made an anonymous bequest, with the stipulation that the funds be used to finance your education. When you appeared before me a few months ago, I could not doubt who you were. Your mother was a beautiful woman, and your likeness to her is uncanny.
Needless to say, propriety forbids me from acknowledging you openly. But should you ever require my assistance in the future, you may contact me with discretion. Please know that in my deepest heart, I am proud to be your father.
I remain, yours truly,
Sir Cuthbert Sterling, Bt.
P.S. Hornsby asked me to enclose this book, which was a gift from your mother. She said it was one of her favourites.
I read this letter in silent amazement. It had been my own father who had financed my education! How strange and surprising life often turned out to be! Although I would never know my father, I owed him a great deal, and I would always be grateful.
For the first time in my life, I also felt a sense of peace with regard to the circumstances of my birth. My father said he had loved my mother to distraction, and this gave me great comfort. Had I not felt the same kind of burning, illicit passion that had driven my mother and father into each other’s arms? At last, I could forgive them, even as I struggled to forgive myself.
So engrossed was I in these thoughts that I almost forgot to look at the other item which the parcel contained. I removed the brown paper wrapping to find a slim book, cheaply bound, which was inscribed inside with my mother’s signature. I gave a little gasp.
It was The Complete Sonnets of William Shakespeare.
EPILOGUE
IT IS NOW THE SUMMER OF 1897, NEARLY SEVEN YEARS SINCE the events of which I have written here. It is time to bring my story to a close, time to return this journal once and for all to its eternal hiding place.
Our darling son, who was born eight months after our return from Transylvania, just celebrated his sixth birthday. We named him Quincey John Abraham Harker, in honour of all the men who participated in our perilous adventure all those years ago—but we call him Quincey. Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward are now both happily married to lovely young women, and from Dr. Van Helsing’s correspondence, he seems to be as crusty and energetic as ever.
I think of Lucy and her mother often, and with affection. Every summer, Jonathan and I go to London and put fresh flowers on their graves in Hampstead.
My husband and I love each other more with each passing day. Jonathan devotes himself to his work. He returned all those years ago from our trip to Transylvania in fighting form, and he has gained great respect as a solicitor. At the same time, with his encouragement, I have spread my wings. I am active in our community. I teach piano and dance. I belong to several ladies’ auxiliaries. On occasion, I write articles for the local newspaper. It is fulfilling work, and it makes me happy.
So far, my husband and I have not been blessed with other children, but we hope that will change. Our son Quincey is a good lad: sweet, curious, and remarkably intelligent. He seems to be stronger and brighter than other children his age, but perhaps that is a mother’s prejudice. Like his parents, his greatest pleasure is reading, and even at his young age, he has a talent for music and art. His hair is much darker than Jonathan’s, and he has deep blue eyes, which I suppose must come from Jonathan’s mother. Sometimes, however, when I look into their blue depths, I imagine that I see someone else—but I know that is impossible…
We spend our evenings with Quincey, playing music, reading aloud to each other from books on every possible subject, and quoting poetry. When Jonathan and I are alone, our intimacy has blossomed into something wondrously fulfilling.
“I am the happiest man in England,” Jonathan commented last night, as he took me in his arms. “I have all that a man could wish for.”
I returned the sentiment with heartfelt sincerity.
I love Jonathan dearly. He is my soulmate. How comforting it is to be with someone where everything is on an even keel! I am content, and very grateful for all I have.
At the same time, every now and then, I cannot help looking back. I cannot help asking myself: was it wrong to have loved Dracula? I do not know. But it happened, and I cannot alter it. I can only treasure what was, understand that it was never meant to be…and try to learn from it. Some relationships, no matter how real and vital, are too extreme, too dangerous, too exhausting to survive.
On occasion, against my will, I still dream of him—erotic dreams in which Dracula comes to me in my sleep and makes love to me. I sense his presence in every mote of dust and every appearance of mist. At the oddest moments, I have been startled by the certainty that I spotted Dracula’s face in a crowd. I cannot shake the feeling that he still exists, that he is out there somewhere, watching over me; but I know that that is impossible, too…
I do believe one thing: that whatever destiny man may possess, my life was meant to be one thing up until him, and then radically, magnificently another—and now that he is gone—another still. All three versions of me (before, during, and after him) are different beings, each as unlike the other as the root differs from the blossom when the seed is sown. If all the days and nights in the world were to cease to be, I still hold that we were meant to meet and to love and to know the pain of violent disillusion.
I will always love him. I will never forget him. He changed me for ever, and I will be for ever grateful. My life is filled with infinite sweetness both because I knew him, and because he let me go. My life is now my own, and I know that it is better this way.
A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS & MORE…
FROM
SYRIE
JAMES
AND
AVON A
Q & A with Author Syrie James
What inspired you to write Dracula, My Love?
I loved Bram Stoker’s brilliant novel, and the unforgettable characters he had created. And yet, the story left me unsatisfied. His Dracula—one of the earliest literary depictions of a vampire—is an evil, ghoulish old man, endlessly discussed and feared, but rarely seen after the first few chapters. The two female characters in the book are sweet, feminine, and sexless, and their encounters with Dracula are almost entirely off-stage and shrouded in mystery. We know nothing of Mina’s courtship or early life, other than a single, vague reference that she never knew her parents, and the fact that she and Lucy are close friends. We get theories about Dracula’s origins, but never hear the true story from Dracula himself.
The book also leaves many unanswered questions. Who is Dracula? How did he acquire his uncanny powers? Who are the three vampire women at his castle, and what are they doing there? Why does Dracula choose Whitby as his port of entr
y into England, if Purfleet is his intended destination? After encountering Lucy in Whitby, why does he seek her out again in distant London, a city of “teeming millions”? Why doesn’t Lucy’s body crumble to dust when she is slain? And why does Mina become Dracula’s prey?
The fact that Dracula’s residence in Purfleet is next door to Dr. Seward’s asylum is highly convenient and never explained. If Dracula can move about by day like any man, why does he need to be taken all the way back to Transylvania in a wooden box? Does he really die at the end, even though his attackers don’t wield a wooden stake? Why does it take so long for Mina and Dr. Van Helsing to reach Castle Dracula? And what about the mental connection that’s established when Mina drinks Dracula’s blood? Stoker never uses that connection other than to give us Mina’s repeated, hypnotic sightings of “lapping waves.” Why don’t Mina and Dracula ever utter a single syllable to each other telepathically? This seemed like a missed opportunity to me. What fun it would be, I thought, to imagine the telepathic bond between those two, and see how it played out!
As I re-read Dracula, I saw that there existed a wonderful opportunity to fill in the voids that Stoker had created—a way that I could answer all the unanswered questions, explain away all the inconsistencies, and bring a fresh perspective to this timeless work. Stoker’s novel is told entirely through a series of letters, telegrams, newspaper clippings, and journal entries, which I could dramatize and bring to life. Instead of five different narrators, I could employ just one. I envisioned a new and more romantic interpretation of the story, told entirely from Mina’s point of view, which would stick closely to the facts of Stoker’s novel, but open it up to include the untold story: the secret account of Mina’s passionate love affair with Dracula which occurred off the page, and was too scandalous to reveal.
