by P. N. Elrod
DRACULA IN LONDON
Edited By
P. N. Elrod
CONTENTS
Introduction - P. N. Elrod
To Each His Own Kind - Tanya Huff
Box Number Fifty - Fred Saberhagen
Wolf and Hound - Nigel Bennett and P. N. Elrod
The Dark Downstairs - Roxanne Longstreet Conrad
Dear Mr. Bernard Shaw - Judith Proctor
The Three Boxes - Elaine Bergstrom
Good Help - K. B. Bogen
Everything to Order - Jody Lynn Nye
Long-Term Investment - Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
"Places for Act Two!" - Bradley H. Sinor
Beast - Amy L. Gruss and Catt Kingsgrave-Ernstein
A Most Electrifying Evening - Julie Barrett
An Essay on Containment - Gene DeWeese
Berserker - Nancy Kilpatrick
Curtain Call Gary - A. Braunbeck
Renfield or, Dining at the Bughouse - Bill Zaget
About the Authors
The Contributors
Julie Barrett… Author of Quantum Leap A-Z and several short stories
Nigel Bennett … Winner of the Gemini Award for his portrayal of vampire patriarch LeCroix on the series Forever Knight
Elaine Bergstrom … Author of the vampire novels Blood to Blood: The Dracula Story Continues and Mina
K. B. Bogen … Holds a degree in Computer Science and Engineering and has a taste for the macabre
Gary A. Braunbeck … Prolific short story writer and author of the critically-acclaimed collection Things Left Behind
Roxanne Longstreet Conrad … Author of seven novels including Exile
Gene DeWeese … Former technical writer who has authored over thirty novels
P. N. "Pat" Elrod … Author of over sixteen novels including the continuing Vampire Files series, and editor of two vampire anthologies
Amy Grass … Award-winning poet and professional scriptwriter
Tanya Huff … Author of over sixteen novels including the Victoria Nelson vampire series
Nancy Kilpatrick … Award-winning author of fourteen novels, over 125 short stories, and editor of seven anthologies
Catt Kingsgrave-Ernstein … Prolific short story author
Jody Lynn Nye … Author of twenty-two novels including four collaborations with Anne McCaffrey
Judith Proctor … A Shakespeare- and theatre-inspired author who lives in England
Fred Saberhagen … Author of the popular Berserker science fiction series, and the famous vampire novel, An Old Friend of the Family
Bradley H. Sinor … Short story writer and media tie-in author
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro … Author of the acclaimed Saint-Germain vampire novels, cartographer, musician, and tarot reader
Bill Zaget… First-time author who lives in Ontario, Canada
Ace Books by P N Elrod The Vampire Files
BLOODLIST
LIFEBLOOD
BLOODCIRCLE
ART IN THE BLOOD
FIRE IN THE BLOOD
BLOOD ON THE WATER
A CHILL IN THE BLOOD
LADY CRYMSYN
RED DEATH
DEATH AND THE MAIDEN
DEATH MASQUE
DANCE OF DEATH
Dracula in London
Edited by
P. N. Elrod
ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DRACULA IN LONDON
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the editor
PRINTING HISTORY Ace trade paperback edition / November 2001
All rights reserved. Dracula in London anthology copyright © 2001 by Patricia Nead Elrod and Tekno Books.
Introduction by P. N. Elrod copyright © 2001 by Patricia Nead Elrod.
"To Each His Own Kind" by Tanya Huff copyright © 2001 by Tanya Huff.
"Box Number Fifty'" by Fred Saberhagen copyright © 2001 by Fred Saberhagen.
"Wolf and Hound" by Nigel Bennett and P. N. Elrod copyright © 2001 by Nigel Bennett and P. N. Elrod.
"The Dark Downstairs" by Roxanne Longstreet Conrad copyright © 2001 by Roxanne Longstreet Conrad.
"Dear Mr. Bernard Shaw" by Judith Proctor copyright © 2001 by Judith Proctor.
"The Three Boxes" by Elaine Bergstrom copyright © 2001 by Elaine Bergstrom.
"Good Help" by K. B. Bogen copyright © 2001 by K. B. Bogen.
"Everything to Order" by Jody Lynn Nye copyright © 2001 by Jody Lynn Nye.
"Long-Term Investment" by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro copyright © 2001 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.
" 'Places for Act Two!' " by Bradley H. Sinor copyright © 2001 by Bradley H. Sinor. "Beast" by Amy L. Gruss and Catt Kingsgrave-Ernstein copyright © 2001 by Amy L. Gruss and Catt
Kingsgrave-Ernstein.
"A Most Electrifying Evening" by Julie Barrett copyright © 2001 by Julie Barrett. "An Essay on Containment" by Gene DeWeese copyright © 2001 by Gene DeWeese.
"Berserker" by Nancy Kilpatrick copyright © 2001 by Nancy Kilpatrick.
"Curtain Call" by Gary A. Braunbeck copyright © 2001 by Gary A. Braunbeck.
"Renfield or, Dining at the Bughouse" by Bill Zaget copyright © 2001 by Bill Zaget.
Cover art by Bill Dodge. Text design by Tiffany Kukec.
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Dracula in London
Introduction
Okay, I confess it—I love Dracula! He IS the man!
The first time I remember seeing him was in Universal's House of Dracula with elegant John Carradine in the role. I was instantly addicted. From then on, I couldn't get enough of all the variations out there, good and bad, sublime and silly. Umpteen years pass and it still gives me a charge!
Hence this book. I wanted to put together a collection of stories with the Count as the focus, not a mere cameo, and ask the question, "What ELSE was Dracula doing in London when he was not being chased by Van Helsing and company?"
I feel very fortunate that some of the best writers in the business decided to answer. To have the chance to read so many delightful variations on a theme has been a dream come true. My sincere thanks to all of you for contributing your time and imaginations to this project. It's been an honor.
* * *
In 1897 the original novel Dracula was published, bringing little note or notice to author Bram Stoker.
Writers hate when that happens.
But over the next century, as though to make up for it, Dracula turned into an honest-to-God cultural icon. You say the name nearly anywhere on the planet and you're bound to get a reaction of some sort. "What are the odds?" one might ask Mr. Stoker, who would likely be astonished. Or amused.
I like to think that somewhere he knows his tale eventually achieved an immortality greater than that which his character met in that dark and thrilling opus.
My hope is that he might well have enjoyed this "tip of the hat" collection of stories centered around his best-known creation.
P. N. "Pat" Elrod
To Each His Own Kind
Tanya Huff
London was everything the Count had imagined it to be when he'd told Jonathan Harker of how he'd longed to walk "through the crowded streets… to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity." Although, he amended as he waited for a break in the evening traffic that would allow him to cross Piccadilly, a little less whirl and rush would be preferable.
He could see the house he'd purchased across the street, but it might as well have been across the city for all he could reach it. Yes, he'd wanted to move about unnoticed but this, this was wearing at his patience. And he had never been considered a patient man. Even as a man.
Finally, he'd been delayed for as long as he was willing to endure. Sliding the smoked glasses down his nose, he deliberately met the gaze of an approaching horse. In his homeland, the effect would have been felt between one heartbeat and the next. Terror.
Panic. Flight. This London carriage horse, however, seemed to accept his presence almost phlegmatically.
Then the message actually made it through the city's patina to the equine brain.
Better, he thought and strode untouched through the resulting chaos. Ignoring the screams of injured men and horses both, he put the key into the lock and stepped inside.
He'd purchased the house furnished from the estate of Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. From the dead, as it were. That amused him.
His belongings were in the dining room at the back of the house.
"The dining room?" He sighed. His orders to the shipping company had only instructed that the precious cases be placed in the house. Apparently, here in this new country, he needed to be more specific. They would have to be moved to a place less conspicuous, but not now, not with London calling to him. He set his leather case upon the table and turned to go.
Stepping around a chair displaced by the boxes of earth, he brushed against the sideboard, smearing dust across his sleeve. Snarling, he brushed at it with his gloved hand but only succeeded in smearing it further. The coat was new. He'd sent his measurements to Peter Hawkins before he'd started his journey and had found clothing suitable for an English gentleman at journey's end. It was one of the last commissions Mr. Hawkins had fulfilled for him. One of the last he would fulfill for anyone, as it happened. The old man had been useful, but the necessity of frequent correspondence had left him knowing too much.
Opening the case, he pulled out a bundle of deeds—this was not the only house that English dead had provided—and another bundle of note paper, envelopes, and pens. As he set them down, he reminded himself to procure ink as soon as possible. He disliked being without it. Written communications allowed a certain degree of distance from those who did his bidding.
Finally, after some further rummaging, he found his clothing brush and removed the dust from his sleeve. Presentable at last, he tossed the brush down on the table and hurried for the street, suddenly impatient to begin savoring this new existence.
"… to share its life, its change, its death, all that makes it what it is."
The crowd outside on Piccadilly surprised him and he stopped at the top of the stairs. The crowds he knew in turn knew better than to gather outside his home. When he realized that the people were taking no notice of him and had, in fact, gathered to watch the dead horse pulled up onto a wagon, he descended to the street.
He thrilled to his anonymity as he made his way among them. To walk through a great mass of Londoners unremarked—it was all he had dreamed it would be. To feel their lives surrounding him, unaware of their danger. To walk as a wolf among the unsuspecting lambs. To know that even should he declare himself, they would not believe. It was a freedom he had never thought to experience again.
Then a boy, no more than eight or ten, broke free of his minder and surged forward to get a clearer look. Crying, "Hey now!" a portly man stepped out of the child's way.
The pressure of the man's foot on his meant less than nothing but he hissed for the mark it made on his new shoes. And for the intrusion into his solitude.
The portly man turned at the sound, ruddy cheeks pale as he scanned the ground.
By the time he looked up, the Count had composed himself. It would not do to give himself away over so minor a thing.
"You aren't going to believe this," the man said without preamble, his accent most definitely not English, "but I could've sworn I heard a rattler." Then he smiled and extended his hand. "I do beg your pardon, sir, for treading on you as I did. Shall we consider my clumsiness an introduction? Charlie March, at your service."
The novelty of the situation prodded him to take the offered hand. "I am…" He paused for an instant and considered. Should he maintain the identity that went with the house? But no. The Count de Ville was a name that meant nothing; he would not surrender his lineage so easily. Straightening to his full height, he began again. "I am Dracula. Count Dracula."
The smile broadened. "A Count? Bless me. You're not from around these parts, are you?"
"No. I am only recently arrived."
"From the continent? I could tell. Your accent, you know. Very old world, very refined. Romania?"
The Count blinked and actually took a step back before he gained control of his reaction.
Charlie laughed. "I did some business with a chap from Romania last year. Bought some breeding stock off me. Lovely manners you lot have, lovely."
"Thank you." It was really the only thing he could think of to say.
"I'm not from around these parts myself." He continued before there was even a chance of a reply. "Me, I'm American. Got a big spread out west, the Double C—the missus's name is Charlotte, you see. She's the reason we came to England. She got tired of spending money in New York and wanted to spend some in London." His gaze flicked up, then down, then paused. "That's one hell of a diamond you've got stuck in your tie, if you don't mind my saying so."
"It has been in my family for a long time." He'd taken it from the finger of a Turk after he'd taken the finger from the Turk.
"Well, there's nothing like old money, that's what I always say." Again the smile, which had never entirely disappeared, broadened. "Unless it's new money. Have you plans for this evening, Count?"
"Plans?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so nonplused. In fact, he couldn't remember if he'd ever been so nonplused. "No."
"Then if you're willing I'd like to make up for treading so impolitely on your foot. I'm heading to a sort of a soiree at a friend's." His eyelids dropped to a conspiratorial level. "You know, the sort of soiree you don't take your missus to. Oh, you needn't worry about the company," he added hurriedly. "They're your kind of people." He leaned a little closer and dropped his voice. "His Royal Highness will be there. You know, the Prince of Wales."
About to decline the most peculiar invitation he'd ever received, the Count paused. The Prince of Wales would be in attendance. The Prince of Wales. His kind of people. "I would be pleased to attend this soiree as your guest," he said. And smiled.
"Damn, but you've got some teeth on you."
"Thank you. They are a… family trait."
The party was being held in a house on St. James Square. Although only a short walk from his own London sanctuary, the buildings were significantly larger and the occupants of the buildings either very well born or very rich. Seldom both, as it happened. It was an area where by birth and power he deserved to live but where it would be impossible for him to remain hidden. Years of experience had taught him that the very rich and the very poor were equals in their thirst for gossip, but the strange and growing English phenomenon of middle class—well researched before he'd left his homeland—seemed willing to keep their attention on business rather than their neighbors.
He followed Charlie March up the stairs and paused at the door, wondering if so general an invitation would allow him to cross the threshold.
Two steps into the foyer, March turned with his perpetual smile. "Well, come in, Count. No need to wait for an engraved invitation."
"No, of course not." He joined the American in remo
ving his hat, coat, and gloves, handing them into the care of a liveried footman.
"I expect you'll want to meet His Highness first?"
"It would be proper to pay my immediate respects to the prince."
"Proper to pay your immediate respects," March repeated shaking his head. "Didn't I say you lot have lovely manners. Where would His Highness be then?" he asked the footman.
"The green salon, sir."
"Of course he is, the evening's young. I should have known. This way then." He took hold of the Count's arm to turn him toward the stairs. "Say, there's not a lot of meat on your bones is there? Now me, I think a little stoutness shows a man's place in the world."
"Indeed." He stared down at the fleshy fingers wrapped just above his elbow, too astonished at being so held to be enraged.
Fortunately, he was released before the astonishment faded, for it would have been the height of rudeness to kill the man while they were both guests in another's home.
At the top of the stairs they crossed a broad landing toward an open doorway through which spilled the sounds of men… and women? He paused. He would not be anonymous in this crowd. He would be introduced and be expected to take part in social discourse. While he looked forward to the opportunity of testing his ability to walk unknown and unseen amongst the living, he also found himself strangely afraid. It had been a very, very long time since he had been a member of such a party and it would have been so much easier had the women not been there.
He had always had a weakness—no, say rather a fondness, for he did not admit weakness—for a pretty face.
"Problem, Count?" March paused in the doorway and beamed back at him.
On the other hand, if this man can move amongst the powerful of London and they do not see him for what he is… "No, not at all, Mr. March. Lead on."
