Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  Dracula came in some little while later, though I didn't notice. Sharp as my hearing was the man could move quiet when he wanted to, though I wasn't paying mind to anything in my present state of misery.

  "I said good evening, Mr. Morris," he intoned in such a way as to catch my attention.

  I slowly crept up from the pit I'd dropped into and refrained at the last moment from pressing a protective hand across my always-hurting stomach. "G-good evening."

  He'd paused by his work table, which was littered with many papers and books, then walked over to put his back to the fire, as though to seek its heat. He peered closely at me. "Do you desire some refreshment?"

  "No, thank you," I replied.

  Then did he make his statement about his cook.

  "Yes, I was down to the kitchen just a little bit ago." No point in denying it.

  "This was just after sunset?"

  "That's right."

  "Might I draw your attention to the mantel clock?" He nodded in its direction.

  Finding difficulty focusing my eyes, I stared long at its face and finally worked out that it was nearly three in the morning. "It hasn't been wound," I said.

  "The clock is quite correct, the problem is with yourself." He turned and got busy with building up the fire, which was now very low.

  "I must have fallen asleep." It seemed the most natural way to account for the lost hours.

  "Sleeping as others do is not something you may indulge in when the sun is down. You know that." He straightened and looked at me again.

  "I'm sure I dozed off."

  "You were in the thrall of a trance. When food is scarce in the winter certain animals do much the same thing. So it is with us."

  That made a kind of sense, though it wasn't anything I wanted to hear.

  "Mr. Morris, a good host allows his guest freedom, but also looks after his welfare. When I see someone under my protection trying to walk off a cliff, then it is my solemn duty to prevent him from harming himself."

  "I'm all right," I muttered.

  "I will risk giving offense and say to you that that is a complete lie."

  I hadn't the strength to argue.

  "Of course, you yourself are giving me much offense by your refusal to deal with a very simple matter. This denial of your need puts me in a position where I must either let you continue to injure yourself or force you to take action. Both would be unmannerly."

  "This is not something I want," I whispered.

  "Which is very obvious. You've shown a great will in fighting against it. A great will. Few would be capable of such and still be sane. But no matter how much you desire to have things back the way they were, it shall never be so. You are what you are. You must face that."

  "But to drink . . ." I trailed off, shaking my head.

  "Blood. Say it."

  Damned if I will.

  "You attach much importance to it, which can be a good thing, for blood is life to us. Attaching a negative importance is . . . destructive. To you. To anyone who crosses your path."

  "What?"

  "When your appetite finally exceeds your self-command you could kill. I'm sure you would not wish to murder."

  I rallied enough to glare at him. "That will never happen."

  "Never? You have not lived long enough to know the word has a most . . . flexible meaning." He clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly up and down the room. "Does your head hurt? Is your vision clouded? Perhaps a decided weakness plagues your limbs?"

  "Why? You got patent medicines to sell?"

  His eyes narrowed. "These are serious manifestations, Mr. Morris, and jests are out of place. A Nosferatu of my breed may go without blood for long periods of time and not suffer. One of your kind cannot." He paused before me. "There is no point resisting this. It is only blood."

  "Only?"

  "Blood, Mr. Morris, not soul. And animal blood at that. A nourishing food they produce with their bodies. Like milk. If you think of it in such terms perhaps it will be easier for you."

  "It's repulsive."

  "Only in your mind. You must find your way past it."

  "I will not give in."

  "That is something outside your power. I've a responsibility toward you as my guest, but also toward those who serve me. I will not allow them to be endangered."

  "I won't touch them. I swear it."

  "You will come to a point where you won't be able to help yourself."

  "No."

  "It is an inevitability. You will lose control. I would prefer you sate yourself on an animal than on one of my servants. Would this not be preferable to you as well?"

  "I'd rather try the cook's soup again."

  "This is your broth now." He pushed back the sleeve on his arm, and turned up his wrist. The skin was whiter than bone. Beneath its thin surface the blue lines of his blood vessels were clearly visible. With the sharp nail of his index finger he dug deeply into the flesh, breaking it. His blood welled up, bright as a ruby.

  "Don't," I whispered.

  "You can smell it, can you not?"

  I turned my head away, stopped my breath, but the insidious scent was already within me, ripping my self-mastery to shreds.

  "You may wish to refuse it, but with good reason your body tells you otherwise."

  Yes, its betrayal was well begun. I felt my corner teeth descending to their full extent. I could see nothing but the blood. Lurching from the chair, I stumbled toward the door, trying to escape the overwhelming temptation being offered. I made it halfway before my legs gave out.

  Dracula stalked over, looking down from a great height it seemed. With me watching, he put his wrist to his mouth, sucking on the wound he'd made as one does to close a simple cut. He did it quite deliberately, his gaze on me the whole time.

  Again, I smelled the blood. Cramp took me. I doubled over on my side, wishing for a knife so I could cut out the pain. A long time later it eased. Slightly. I could see again. Dracula was still there.

  "Enough of this foolishness," he said, pushing his sleeve down. "I've better things to do with my time than look after your troubles."

  "I'm not asking you to."

  "Then you will look after them yourself? Excellent. I'm most delighted. Come, and I'll show you the way to the stables."

  It wasn't as though I accompanied him by my own choice. He clapped one of his lean arms about me and hauled me up, walking slow so I more or less stayed on my feet. If I fell again he'd just carry me. That would have been too humiliating.

  The journey seemed to take forever and at the same time passed in an instant, such was the befuddled state of my mind. I was no stranger to hunger and knew it could do odd things to your thinking, but I'd never experienced anything like this waking nightmare.

  Dracula paused before one of the big black horses in its stall. The animal was calm enough, probably well used to its master's needs. It didn't budge a muscle as I all but dropped at its feet. I managed to pull myself up a bit, and there I was, in close proximity to the vein on its leg.

  I could hear the deep, regular thumping of its heart. Smell the blood.

  "This you must do to live," said Dracula, an edge of impatience in his tone as I continued to hesitate. "Take it now, before madness takes you."

  Slumping, I finally gave in to the inevitable.

  It was as bad as I'd anticipated, worse even. The touching of the tough hide with my lips, my sharp teeth working to cut the skin, finally breaking through. I made a mess of it with the stuff flowing onto my face, staining my hands and clothes—

  Then the first taste of it struck my tongue.

  Changing everything.

  My realization that I'd been a fool would come later, when I could think again. For now all was sensation as the blood welled into my mouth and I swallowed again and again. It was different from all the other pleasures I'd ever known before, intense as any and comparable to none. I was aware of the living heat flooding through me, erasing the awful cold within. It was
better than a shot of the finest whiskey and far more intoxicating. There seemed an unending supply, and I drew on it greedily, a starved child whose hunger is at long last appeased.

  I had no judgment over how long it took, having lost all accounting of time, nor did I care. It mattered not. I drank my fill and more.

  When I finally took command of myself and drew away, I was quite alone except for the horse, which seemed none the worse for what I'd done. My host had departed, probably back to his library and whatever concerns he'd left there while dealing with me. I was glad of the privacy. It would give me the chance to organize my thoughts before seeing him again.

  I owed him a profound apology.

  * * *

  He accepted it graciously enough, showing the sort of manners that would please even an Englishman.

  "You had to discover for yourself," Dracula said with a slight wave of his blunt fingers. He was seated at his table before a drift of papers, pots of ink, and several goose quill pens. To see him, a deadly Nosferatu, amid such prosaic articles lent a bizarre note to my changing perception of what life was like for him. One moment he's urging me to drink blood, and the next he's working away at some dull-looking business task.

  "I'll allow the truth of that, sir. You've been uncommonly patient."

  "It is an acquired virtue for me, I fear. Happily you did not exhaust it before coming to your senses. May I now safely conclude that you've achieved an acceptance of your condition?"

  I eased into the chair by the fire, opening my palms to its heat out of habit rather than need. Prior to coming up I'd washed away the blood from my hands and face and donned a clean shirt from a supply of clothing my host had provided. All proved to be of English make, and I could guess that it had been the stuff left behind by Harker when he'd made his escape from his prison of a room last summer.

  "I accept that I must drink blood to live," I said.

  Something like disappointment shimmered in his eyes. "Ah. Well. It is a beginning. Small steps are best when one is mastering a new thing."

  "Providing one is willing to master it."

  Dracula folded a sheet of paper up and sealed it, impressing the soft wax with a ring on his left forefinger. He added the finished document to a growing stack of similar items in an ornate metal box. "Until another dilemma makes a fever in your brain?"

  He did have a point. "This takes some getting used to; I'm sorry to cause you inconvenience."

  "Bah. You've done better than others I've seen. Some have gone mad from the change, but then they were of my breed. I was uncertain if you would adjust yourself, but this little progress is good."

  "And if I'd gone mad?"

  His heavy brows quirked and his mouth twitched. "Then I'd have dealt with you as with them. You may take some comfort in the knowledge that you would have not suffered."

  His matter-of-fact manner on the subject of my death almost riled me, but I could see his side of things too well. If I'd gone mad, especially with my formidable new strengths and abilities, then I'd need killing. Best to leave that dog lie. Or wolf, as he might have referred to it.

  I understood that I'd probably come up with other aspects of my change to object to, but feeding on blood had been the real cork in the bottle. It worried me now how I'd changed my mind so quick after such determination to starve. One taste of blood and suddenly I'm feeling right as rain, all my misgivings faded to nothing. Having seen how a syringe full of morphine could quiet the most violent lunatic in Jack Seward's asylum I wondered if the blood had done something similar to me, affecting my very thoughts. If I made myself go without again, would I return to the kind of thinking I'd had before?

  Looking at the situation, with my head clear and the grinding pain in my belly vanished, I deemed it unlikely that I'd even try. Pure stubbornness had kept me going down that road. Since it hadn't led to anyplace good, I'd have to admit I could do nothing constructive for myself there and strike out in another direction. It just rankled that Dracula had been right about it all. At least he wasn't being smug.

  "You're apparently well revived now, which is all that matters," he said. "Your color is better and your eyes are not so dull. What of your spirits?"

  "Improved."

  "Yes, a good meal is always a help there. You did enjoy it?"

  What an inadequate word, enjoy. "Once I'd started. Yes."

  "No more revulsion? Ah. So excellent. But for the future I must advise you not to become too lost in the pleasure of it as to be unaware of what is around you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The time will come when you wish to leave my home, and the wide world is not so understanding of these things as are the people here. Should some stable lackey chance upon you while you are engaged in refreshing yourself his reaction may not be—ah—convenient to you."

  "So I need to take care not to get caught."

  "Exactly. A little caution will save you much trouble and probably your life."

  His quill scratched over a fresh sheet of paper at irregular intervals as he made notes from an old book. I wondered why he did not avail himself of a modern steel pen, or even a typing machine like the one I'd gotten Mrs. Harker, but perhaps such items were scarce this far into Transylvania. Certainly I'd seen plenty of evidence that the advantages of living in the nineteenth century had not progressed far into this corner of the world. These days even in the wildest parts of Texas you could unexpectedly come upon a well-to-do household with a piano on proud display in the parlor, the whole family and the hired help having enough schooling to be able to read their Bible. Not so here. From the look of things the land and people hadn't changed much since the Dark Ages.

  That was clearly in Dracula's favor. With everyone in the strong grasp of fear and superstition he had little need to worry about the peasants making trouble for him. He was fairly safe from any local sneaking up to the castle during the day with a stake and hammer.

  Of course the same went for me, which was something to rejoice in, for I was far more vulnerable. Dracula could be up and about with the day if he chose or if necessity dictated. No such luxury for what I'd become. As soon as the sun made its first lance of light over the horizon I ceased to be aware of anything until it set again. Had I gone mad from my change, then that would have been the best time for Dracula to deal with the problem. At least then I'd have been oblivious, and as he'd said, I'd not suffer.

  My thoughtful host had given me a secure enough place to retire. He'd provided me with the key to a windowless chamber high up in an otherwise abandoned tower. The oak door was a stout thing nearly a foot thick, and if the lock was very old then it was also quite formidably huge. There was also a heavy iron bar I could slip between two massive rings set in the stone on either side of the door. Even if someone got past the lock they'd still have to break through that obstacle, which would take hours, and the noise might draw attention from the other inhabitants of the castle.

  I'd been rather curious on how Van Helsing had been able to enter this fortress so easily to make his executions of the three vampire women, until I got a look at their resting place on my first night. Dracula had led the way into his castle through a series of passages that he assured me Van Helsing had quite missed. Finally, my host pushed through a ponderous door that opened onto his family crypt.

  The vault was so dismal and hideous, the air so fetid with the smell of sulfur, rot, and death that only a vampire with no need to breathe would dare penetrate such dreadful depths. Little wonder the Szgany servants avoided it even in the day, and little wonder they'd heard nothing of the violence that had taken place there.

  We passed on to the old chapel. Dracula looked turn-on-turn into three empty tombs, but found naught there but dust.

  And drying blood. The smell of it permeated the chamber. Butcher's work had been done here, brutal, audacious butcher's work. Even knowing the implacability of his nature, I could hardly attribute this horror to Van Helsing, but there were the man's own square-toed boot prin
ts scuffed into the grime on the floor next to each resting place.

  Dracula offered no comment, and apparently no prayer. He only heaved a great sigh, put his back to his sorrows, then guided me up into the castle proper and eventually to the tower room. After a brief discussion where he determined that I had absolutely no desire to lie in anything resembling a coffin, he saw to it that a supply of earth was brought up along with a simple pallet for a bed. As I still possessed the blanket that had wrapped my body, I lay it upon the dirt to spare my clothing.

  Without irony he bade me goodnight and departed, pulling the door shut with a solid bump. The room became too silent and lonely for my peace of soul. I dropped to my knees and prayed as I'd not done since a child, pouring out my misgivings and terrors to a hopefully kind deity. Not knowing if I was heard or not did nothing to ease my low spirits. I remained on my knees until an awful sluggishness abruptly stole over me. Through the thick stones of the wall my body had sensed the risen sun. I crawled onto the pallet and for the first time assumed my portion of death for the day, unmindful of the discomfort of the hard floor.

  My spirits were no better when I woke in pitch darkness. For a few moments panic overcame my hunger until I blundered my way to the door and hauled it open. The faint light that shone up the spiral passage helped steady me. I was ashamed of my fear, but did not know what to do about it, so I pushed it away for the time being.

  Dracula had promised more agreeable amenities, and on the second night my room had a proper bed (with the earth spread between the linens and a fine feather mattress), a table, chair, oil lamp, and candles. No fire was possible, but that was of little concern to me since I now seemed to be fairly indifferent to the cold so long as I was out of the wind.

  After inquiring, I learned that in ancient times the room was meant for use as a sort of final bolt hole should the castle be overrun by enemies. There would the women lock themselves away until they either greeted their triumphant defenders, surrendered to their conquerors, or killed themselves. Dracula made no mention which of those events might have happened in the castle's long history, only saying that I would be perfectly safe there. Certainly it was proof against anyone but my host, who could change himself into mist and slip through the cracks if he chose.