Dracula's Secret

by Linda Mercury

  “Making a vampire is tiring and difficult,” she retorted. “There is a one in ten chance of a potential surviving. By the time you create an army, I’ll be long gone.” She shrugged in a way that did not disturb her stake’s aim. “I could kill you now. Your legacy will make you a hero. Your lieutenants might even carry on your ambitions.”

  “My ambitions are my own,” Radu replied. He took a long drink of his brandy. “Why don’t you join me? We could use someone of your drive.” He gestured to his empty room. “And planning skills.”

  “I like his vision better. Do we have a deal?”

  Radu extended his aura to look at hers. The woman’s sins were as dark as any Radu had seen, but a core of guilt lay in her heart. She really did have an inflated sense of her self-importance. What kind of obsessed idiot thought that killing someone else would ease her conscience?

  Obviously, the kind of obsessed idiot who thought all PNCs had to pay for the crimes of the past.

  “Lighten up,” he murmured. “You are not the most damned creature. The Fallen still rule in hell, not you.”

  She smiled, her mouth a little grim. “So speaks one as full of pride as can be.”

  “And you aren’t?” Radu thrust the purple of his aura against her blackness. “Isn’t it pride that fuels this quest to kill your own? The humans have done a fine job bringing war criminals to justice. You think them so incompetent that only you can wash away the crimes of our people?” He snorted.

  She looked away, conceding his point. “Do we have a deal?” she repeated.

  Radu raised his glass in a toast and turned his back. “Do as you will.”

  A swish of black and she disappeared from the balcony.

  She’d done it.

  A whole new undeath stretched in front of her, as clean as fresh snow. For the first time in her entire existence, she had nowhere to go, nothing driving her. Her clothes would no longer get ruined by blood, ichor, and body parts.

  Valerie stretched her back and stared at the distant night sky. The dark called her; deep and mysterious and whispering of secrets it could teach her. There were more lands to see, more skies to look at. She’d never been to Tibet or China. She could go back to Turkey and Albania, see the lands of her youth and find peace of mind. Nothing held her. Except whom she wanted to hold her.

  Who said she had to be alone when she traveled?

  She lowered her body onto a convenient park bench and let the light rain cool her face and throat. Young lovers of all kinds walked past her, some laughing, some quiet, all holding hands. A female human in dreadlocks and tattoos caressed her lamia partner’s cheek. The lamia, dressed in a tidy pink twin set and pearls above her brightly colored snake tail, giggled and kissed her mortal. Their easy affection spurred Valerie’s envy.

  She wanted that.

  She wanted that with Lance, that stubborn, luminous, Higher Calling man.

  After all, he’d been right. Killing Radu was completely unnecessary. She did not have to live in the shadows any longer.

  Valerie turned her back on the dark to walk back to the warmth of the city, toward Lance’s bright soul.

  Redemption left her feeling something new.

  Hope.

  Time to celebrate.

  Valerie examined the headless body in front of her. This might be the most difficult thing she had ever faced. She touched the pit of her neck, the rest of her petrified by the sight.

  The dressmaker’s dummy, dressed in exquisite sunset orange European silk and cream-colored lace, paralyzed her.

  Lucy’s Mystery was a tiny, unassuming, and thoroughly intimidating lingerie store. Inside, mirrors on top of pink and gold fabric lined the walls. Fat bunches of vermilion ribbon substituted for crown molding.

  They’d never be able to get blood out of that white carpet, either. She shook her head at her militaristic thinking. Time to act.

  The vampiress pushed the door open.

  Let him live. She would let him live. Furious, Radu paced out to his suite’s balcony. This vampire had eliminated hundreds of their species and thought she controlled the moral high ground? The sheer arrogance of her actions lent Radu’s legs extra power.

  “Fuck it.” He spider-walked his way to the roof of the building, hoping the rain and the lights would give him perspective.

  The television still blared below him.

  “Father Lance Soleil is about to make a statement to the press concerning the accusations leveled against him today.”

  His rage gave way to curiosity. Radu squatted on the overhead rails covering his balcony. What could the man possibly say to get out of the predicament that Radu had created?

  “The real question that today’s events have raised is not one of the perfection of the individual, but the perfection of the idea they champion.

  “You may disapprove of what I do or have done. You may disapprove of what Glenath Tempesta did in the name of love. Does that mean that the goals of peace and equality are forfeit?”

  Lucifer’s leathery wings, did this human not know how to give up? Radu flicked a pebble at the street below. His frustration sped it into the concrete, embedding it under the surface.

  “We have breaking news. A man calling himself John Janté has come forward, claiming that our information about his illness is incorrect. Mr. Janté?”

  What. The. Hell?

  Radu swung off the roof into his room. This could not be.

  A suave and relaxed Frenchman smiled easily at the cameras. “As you can see, I am perfectly unharmed.”

  “Do you deny you spent years in a nursing home?” The interviewer had the shark eyes of a reporter on the trail.

  “Of course I was injured in that long-ago attack. Recovery was not easy, but Lance always assisted my family in the expense. And since I earned a Ph.D. and am now a systems engineer at the premier research facility in the world, no one can say I suffered any permanent damage.”

  No. No. It was not possible. The human was supposed to be crippled and disfigured. Not an impossibly debonair Dean Martin look-alike.

  Frantically, Radu changed channels. There had to be something left of his triumph.

  “For our viewers’ information, Mr. Tepes can appear in dim sunlight. According to renowned vampire expert, Dr. Constance Brodhacker, Bram Stoker’s Dracula is an excellent general description of most vampiric powers, allowing for individual differences, of course …”

  Radu choked on his brandy. That book.

  That fucking book.

  Chapter 26

  London, England

  The Lyceum Theatre, 1885

  “Well, look at him,” an usher mocked. “There’s a swell toff slumming.”

  Late-working Bram Stoker walked to the door of the business office and scanned the street full of arrivals to see Faust tonight. The usher jerked a thumb toward a man wearing a very expensive evening jacket and trousers. An ermine-lined cape draped from his shoulders. Perfectly polished boots flashed against the brick. Bram looked down at his own serviceable, scuffed shoes. He shuffled his feet.

  The man escorted three scandalously clad beauties out of a carriage. Each woman was a different color and size, each more notorious than the other for their unashamed antics.

  A heady mix of roses and musk hit his nose all the way inside, and Bram knew their powered décolletages radiated the sensual brew. The men in the crowd stared at the women’s barely covered breasts. The more modestly clad, respectable women turned and ignored the little ménage.

  The decorated entrance could barely contain their combined glory. Their glittering pride filled Bram’s eye, and for a moment, he yearned to be that beautiful, that admired. And he despaired, for such elegance was surely beyond ordinary mortals.

  The usher’s disdainful snort broke his reverie. “Like two-year-olds, they are.”

  Bram shook his head to clear it. In light of the other man’s cynical assessment, Bram studied the quartet more closely.

  The man cast off his gleaming
cloak with the kind of flourish that only comes from long practice. As the luxurious garment fluttered toward the floor, a harried manservant dashed to catch it before it touched the floor. The cringing run told Bram that the servant’s hide depended on not letting that white fur touch the ground.

  The women loaded their own cloaks—one mink, one snow leopard, one tiger—onto his arms until he looked like a pile of furs with legs. The servant tried to wend his way to the cloakroom.

  The lovely mulatto woman in her bold orange dress minced past a shy-looking younger woman in an elegant white gown. A quick twitch of the courtesan’s elbow, and the girl’s red wine cascaded from her bodice to hem.

  The blond prostitute pushed her way to the front of the refreshment line, leaving a trail of disgruntled patrons. The tallest of the three, a full-blown brunette with the largest bosom, bent over until her breasts threatened to escape and pulled her skirt up to reveal a delicate ankle dressed in sheer silk. Diamonds on her shoes drew everyone’s attention to her action.

  Still outside, the debonair man watched their antics until an annoyed pinch between his perfectly formed eyebrows told Bram trouble brewed.

  Faster than Bram believed possible, the well-dressed man tripped the servant, forcing him to drop his burden of costly pelts. A riding crop appeared in the gentleman’s hand. The air in the theater stilled as he slammed the leather five times into the servant’s back.

  As he put the crop away, the room stared in silent shock. A magnificent dowager, impeccably dressed and respectable, turned her back on the outburst and the sobbing servant. One by one, the crowd cut the shining quartet. Finally the servant gathered his now-muddy burden and stumbled to the cloakroom.

  Shunned, the man and his seraglio entered their box seats.

  Bram stroked his chin thoughtfully. This one loved being the center of attention. Every move, every word made sure he never left the eye. The women, normally the cause of all comment, were merely planets to reflect the glory of his sun.

  Bram foretold a long evening of whispered demands from the spoilt party to compensate for their vanity being crushed.

  For a long time, he’d wanted to write a story of such a man. And here was his character, right in front of him.

  At the end of the night, Bram pushed open the theater’s back door. It had been, indeed, an exhausting show. Fortunately, Bram had been able to stay in his office and take notes on his new character. The poor ushers hadn’t been so lucky. The entire staff had heaved a collective sigh of relief when the frightful foursome finally left.

  Papers safely in briefcase, he closed and locked up the rest of the theater. Time to head home.

  Hooves clopped and echoed right outside the backstage entrance. Bram froze, then opened the door a tiny crack. In the alley before him, a carriage the color of old blood stood on the street. One of the two large black horses shifted from leg to leg, but no driver held them. A long, low groan pierced the night.

  The carriage door swung open silently on its hinges. The selfish man from earlier stepped out.

  Wiping his lips with a pristine white handkerchief, the vain man offered his hand to the mulatto woman. She emerged, her gown wrinkled beyond repair and bosom fully exposed. Bram ran his finger under the too-tight collar of his shirt.

  Tugging at her bodice, she gestured to the other two. The blond and brunette women exited the vehicle. They clustered on the street, giggling and kissing each other. The man joined them in the lewd acts, his hands roaming their high breasts and tight nipples. Bram’s eyebrows rose to his hairline at the shocking sight even as his trousers constricted his arousal.

  The women clustered around the man, making pleading gestures. He shook his head. They displayed their charms even more freely, lifting their skirts to show him their quims. He shook his head again. Sighing, the women slumped.

  Each pulled her dress over their magnificent bosoms. The gentleman reached into the dark interior of the carriage and pulled out a pile of wet blankets. Carelessly, he tossed the roll onto the street. The sodden heap bounced and thudded against the building.

  The women stuck out their lower lips as he shooed them into the carriage, but they slowly ducked back inside.

  Nothing signaled the horses, but they stepped out in unison. The smell of blood accompanied the driverless carriage past Bram’s hiding place. A final giggle pierced the night as the horses clopped away.

  As the last echo melted, Bram left the safety of the theater.

  Stunned, Bram slowly walked to the roll of blankets. He twitched a corner back and gasped.

  The man servant lolled against the wool, his shirt undone and his open pants crusted with semen. His penis was missing, the wound jagged as though a bear had bitten it off.

  His glistening mouth lolled open like a man caught mid-orgasm. Blood crusted from bite marks covering his neck, chest, wrists, and groin.

  He was also completely dead.

  The night after the fun at the theater, Radu suckled from one of his maids as the clock struck six. The dear thing had come to build his fire when he woke a little early. He’d sat her on his first erection of the day and pierced her areola with his teeth. Blood poured down her nipple and into his mouth as he fucked her. Her little noises excited him further. Her hot mortal vagina quivered around his cold cock. Like mother’s milk, her hot blood warmed his empty stomach. He sucked harder. Oh, how lovely human heat was.

  A knock interrupted his pleasure.

  “What?” he demanded, furious his breakfast had been interrupted.

  His butler’s muffled voice came through his bedroom door. “One Mr. Stoker to see you, sir. He claims to be from the theater and to have something of value for you.”

  At least his brides still slept in their downstairs quarters. They normally disliked his fun with the female servants, but today they couldn’t complain. The sport they’d had last night with the footman should keep them satisfied for a few days.

  “Tell him I’ll be down in half an hour. Show him the study.”

  He licked the maid’s breast clean and adjusted her clothes. The wound could close quickly with the help from his saliva. Before she completely recovered, he shoved her into the hallway.

  A quick toilette and he sauntered into the study.

  A serious-looking bearded man with cautious eyes watched him enter. He carried a brown paper wrapped parcel tied with string in his hands.

  “Mr. Stoker, is it?” Radu sat at his mahogany desk, refusing to offer his hand. His blood ran from princes. He had no need of social niceties to a tradesman.

  “Mr. Turciful. How do you do? I manage the Lyceum Theatre.”

  Radu steepled his fingers. “What brings you here?”

  “I am here to offer you a trade.” The human placed the package precisely in the center of the desk’s protective blotter. Uninvited, he sat in the leather chair opposite the desk.

  The scent of blood wafted up from the package. Feigning disinterest, Radu cut the string and unwrapped the paper. Inside a box, a bloodstained oilcloth protected an oblong object. A quick flick, and his former servant’s shredded penis lay in plain sight.

  “I saw everything last night, Mr. Turciful. Give me what I want and I will keep your secret.”

  Radu rose, his fangs expanding. He stepped from behind the desk, letting Stoker see what exactly he baited. “What’s preventing me from killing you right now? I have no need of anything you might have to offer.” He braced his arms on the chair and blew blood-laden breath in the other man’s face.

  Unworried, the other man crossed his legs and looked directly into Radu’s eyes. “If I do not leave your door within two minutes, unharmed and whole, the street urchins I hired will burn your house down. You should pay attention where you feed. They notice when their friends disappear.”

  Radu walked to the window. A cluster of ragged children stood in the rain. Kerosene-soaked rags lined the foundation of his home.

  One of the dirty children saw him. The outrageous infant tossed
a two-finger salute. Another waved a lit lantern. The rest, an entire army, perched in various locations around the street, watched the house like vultures.

  Two minutes was not enough time to kill Stoker and all the damned children. The theater manager had done his research. Radu was boxed into a corner.

  Not turning away from the window, he ground out, “What is it you want, Stoker?”

  “I want a great book, Mr. Turciful. And you are going to help me achieve it.”

  An unusual offer. Radu was curious. “Call off your miniature army, Stoker.”

  The next evening, Stoker arrived, a carpetbag full of paper and ink. The butler showed him into the library where Radu waited, reading the evening’s news.

  Stoker sat, pulled the writing desk close to him, and asked, “Tell me, Mr. Turciful. How did you become a vampire?”

  Radu put the paper aside. “When my brother, Vlad, returned from the Ottomans, he was dead inside. We didn’t know how dead he truly was. Many years, he hid his secret, but then he bit me as well as his beautiful wife, Ilona. The change drove me to the woods for years, but I found my way back. We’ve played cat and mouse since.”

  Bram scratched his chin, leaving ink in his beard. “But not all people who are bitten become vampires. Your servant is most certainly dead.”

  “Ah! Therein lies the fiendishness of Vlad’s deed. Whenever a vampire bites, he can offer a choice. If a human tastes a vampire’s tears and blood, then he crosses over into the night. Vlad forced his fluids into my mouth after biting me. He did the same to my beloved sister-in-law.”

  The lie still tasted delicious on his tongue, like blood mixed with honey and whiskey.

  Radu sat back and stared into the fire. “Ilona and I wandered the world. Vlad killed her while in Spain as he served under the human monster, Napoleon. I still miss her.”

  Bram shook his head. “Only fitting that someone as horrible as your brother would serve with Napoleon.”

  For weeks on end, they spoke of vampires and vampirism.

  “What brought you to England?”

  “Money and a woman, what else?” Radu sucked on his cigar and blew smoke rings. A sip of blood and brandy chased the smooth flavor down his throat. “I have made it my life’s work to enter into great empires. I lived with the Ottomans in their glory. I lived in Spain under Philip II. After the Armada, I returned home to live quietly. But I got restless.”