Dracula_in_London

by P. N. Elrod

  Sabra's heart sank. This was bad. Very bad.

  The professor removed a portion of the putty so the girl could slip inside the tomb, which she did, her ability to do so adding to their consternation. He replaced it, then announced that they would return on the morrow. They quickly left, taking the child.

  What a terrible little drama, Sabra thought, and alas for the grieving husband. He was the most shattered, but then who would not be? To have a loved one die, then return from the grave so hideously changed as to turn that love into loathing would break the strongest heart and will. She trusted that his friends would see him through the worst of it; there was nothing she could do for him but seek the source of his loss: the European.

  She left the cypress and tried the door of the tomb. Locked, and Sabra was not in the habit of carrying skeleton keys. On the other side she sensed the girl's roiling feelings: rage, frustration, confusion, pain, and terror, the mindless terror of an animal.

  With as much reverence as she could summon, Sabra peeled away some of the putty, then pressed her hands flat against the cold stone of the tomb.

  Come forth! she commanded.

  Strong as she must be in her new state, the girl had no defense against such a Summoning. Within seconds she'd seeped through the thin opening and stood trembling on the grass. She'd been pretty in life; in the death-that-was-not-death she was radiant.

  And from the look in her wide eyes, she was also quite mad.

  Once a helpless innocent, now returned to prey upon the most helpless innocents of all. She had no restraints and no reason left in her addled brain. Little wonder she'd reacted so foolishly to the hunters, seeking sanctuary in a place no longer safe. She was like a child pulling a blanket overhead to keep out the monsters.

  Sabra tried to fasten her attention with hypnosis, hoping to draw her from the darkness, but to no avail. What remained of the girl's mind was quicksilver elusive; she voiced only vague ramblings about being lonely and hungry. Her eyes focused once—on Sabra's throat—and she started eagerly forward, but Sabra put a stop to that with a rebuffing word and gesture, freezing her in place. The girl subsided, moaning miserably.

  Most of the converted made the transition with little or no shock to the mind. Of course, it helped when their lovers took the trouble to acquaint them with what to expect. Sabra asked the girl for the European's name, but she didn't even know that much. Less than the poor lunatic from the asylum.

  With no small disgust—for the European, not his pathetic victim—Sabra released the girl to return to her hiding place. She was malleable to some forms of suggestion, so Sabra took care to instruct her to sleep deeply for the next few days and nights. It would ease her sufferings. By then the old professor and his friends would have had time to return and deal with the wretch. She was entirely lost to insanity and the European's magic; death would at least free her spirit. A tragedy, but there was no other help for it.

  As for the heartless bastard who had done this to her…

  Sabra returned to her hotel, sleeping lightly until midmorning, when she donned her widow's weeds, paid the accounting, and set forth for Carfax, carrying a carpetbag of such items as she might need for an outdoor adventure. It would be only a slight rough-out for her; she'd camped in worse places in her varied travels. But, oh, the abbey was so filthy, the dust a foot deep in some places. Why were some men such pigs? She'd known wonderful exceptions over the centuries, but this European was not in their number.

  She gathered wood, twigs, and vines and made a broom, the first to cross the threshold in several decades. She swept out an inner room of the house, banished its resident nest of rats, and blessed it to make it a place of power. Then she sat cross-legged in the middle of the circle she'd chalked on the floor. Before her was the scrying bowl, its water muddied by earth taken from the boxes. There she focused the whole of her concentration, trying to contact him through that link. The possibility existed he would go to ground, but from his vile treatment of the girl and the murder of the ship's crew, Sabra judged he would be more curious than cautious. If he was that arrogant he might think himself immune to harm—a weakness she could exploit.

  Sabra lost track of time. She surfaced once, days later, drawn out one night by a strange commotion in the attached abbey. The hunters were there, apparently having followed the same trail of boxes as she, and busily opening them and blessing their contents. A convocation of rats turned up, one of the European's devisings meant to discourage burglars, but the men countered with some fierce terriers to chase them off, and continued with their work, placing pieces of the Host in each box. She smiled approval for their cleverness. It would not please their quarry.

  Armed with this new advantage, Sabra later returned to her room with a fresh handful of reconsecrated soil and added it to the scrying water. When she sent her thoughts forth—now and finally!—she encountered his solid presence, and the jolt she sent him struck like an electrical shock. The returning echo carried his reaction: reflexive rage… and vast puzzlement.

  Good. It was about time he noticed her.

  He delayed answering. In all likelihood he'd never encountered one such as herself. Another few days passed before prudence surrendered to curiosity, and she sensed his approach to Carfax not at night, but at noon. Perhaps he thought that like his own, her un-natural powers would be at their lowest ebb in the sun, and preferred to keep things on a physical level where he would have the advantage.

  She went down to the abbey to greet him, perching primly on one of the boxes, not so much to make a point, but because it wasn't layered with dust like the rest of the stinking sty.

  The great door opened, and he paused on the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness within. It left him beautifully silhouetted. If Sabra had a crossbow in hand and been so minded, he'd have much regretted the error.

  Tall and thin, with a cruel sensual face, and a fierce intellect alight in tiger green eyes… yes, that poor girl had stood no chance against him at all. Few would. There was a poisonous aura around him that boded ill to any who brushed against it, like a carrier of plague.

  He came in slowly, his harsh, red-flecked gaze fixing on her like a fiery arrow. He took in the boxes, certainly aware that they'd all been interfered with, made useless to him.

  "Did you do this, woman?" he demanded, his voice rumbling so deep with suppressed fury that it stirred a breeze around him. The place was in need of such; the air was unbreatheably thick with grave-stench.

  "I'm not responsible," she replied, holding to an even tone. "But we must speak—"

  "Who are you, woman?"

  Well, she did not care for that contemptuous address. As though being a woman was a weakness. And she would never give him her true name. Names held power; he had quite enough already. "You may call me Miss Smith. And you?"

  His red lips twitched. Amusement or scorn? Probably both. "I am the Count de Ville. I own this place. Why are you here?"

  He had a sense of humor to go with his arrogance. With but a small shifting of accent one could pronounce it as "Devil."

  "Very well, Count de Ville. In the name of Queen Victoria I command and require that you give an explanation for your activities since you've come to this land."

  His stare was priceless. "What?"

  I've never been very good at presenting credentials, she thought. "I shall be brief, but you must listen and think most carefully. The evidence is that you committed murder on the high seas, the ship on which it occurred is still at Whitby Harbour, along with its logs. The evidence is that you did seduce and willfully murder a young woman, but not before transforming her against her will to become one of your own breed, the motive as yet unknown. These are most serious crimes, Count de Ville, and they must be answered for."

  Another long stare, then a roaring bark of laughter that filled the room. "You do not know with whom you are dealing."

  Hm. Romanian accent. Probably one of those minor princes so used to having his own way that
he'd forgotten how things were done in the outside world.

  "I may also make the same observation," she responded. "I remind you that you are not in your homeland, but mine, and are answerable to her laws."

  "English law?" He spat.

  Older than that. Much older.

  De Ville looked carefully around, scenting the heavy air.

  "There are no others here, sir," she said. "You will find this to be a most singular court."

  "You have me on trial?" He seemed ready to laugh again.

  "Indeed, yes. Use your common sense and respect what it tells you about me."

  He glared. She felt an icy hand caress her protective wards. His gaze turned inward as he concentrated, eyes rolling up in his head, palms out as he delved past surface appearance. "You have Knowledge. But it is not such as to help you here."

  "Count de Ville, you are a man of great intelligence, yet you are ignoring some very important danger signs. I strongly suggest you heed them. Would I be here alone with you if I could not take care of myself? Would I have even been able to call you here if I did not have considerable skills at my disposal?"

  He was silent, thinking. Past time for it, too.

  "Now, sir, let's us get to the business at hand. Explain yourself."

  "I will not."

  There were ways around that. She fixed him with her own gaze, tearing past the protective hedges now that he was close enough. What she found was revolting.

  He was old, but not ancient, and another name was in his mind… Vlad, Son of Dracul, yes, that was it. She'd heard of him, quite the vicious devil against the Turks in his day—and his own people. He was decidedly savage to any who challenged his authority. She swiftly closed off a random vision of a forest of writhing bodies impaled on stakes and moved on to his present-day concerns. He had plans to establish himself in England. The British Empire, right or wrong, was the seat of real political influence for the world. He'd once been in the center of such a maelstrom in his distant land between the forests. He wanted to resume that sort of absolute control again, but on a much larger field. He had some very specific plans on how to do it, too. Sweet Goddess, if he ever got to the Queen or the Prince of Wales…

  Frozen with surprise, he gave a start and tried to throw her from his mind. She withdrew at her own speed, leaving him panting from the effort of trying to hurry her.

  "What are you?" he asked, when he'd recovered.

  "You already have the answer, but my apprenticeship was very much elsewhere than in the hell-depths of the Scholomance."

  "What know you of that?" His shock was such that he'd lapsed into Romanian. Still in tune with his mind, she was able to translate.

  "I know much. I know that you are gifted with the Talent, but you do not see beyond the gratification of your own needs. You do not see forward to the consequences of your actions on yourself or others or the general balance of all things. That is blind and blatant irresponsibility. You've grown careless and foolish or you are simply mad. And your ambitions are such that I cannot allow you to continue unchecked."

  "You have not the strength to stop me."

  Damn. He possessed more arrogance than wisdom. She'd hoped to be spared the ordeal of her dream. "Sir, let it suffice to say that I am used to dealing with real monarchs, not some incognito lordling with delusions of his own importance. You are an invader here, I see that now, and, by the authority of the queen I serve, I command and require that you immediately leave and return to your homeland."

  She did not remotely imagine he would go quietly. From her touch on his mind she understood there was only one way to deal with him, only one thing he would respect. And she also understood the play of her initial dream, why it had ended in that manner.

  He reared to his full height, like a cobra preparing to strike. "Ah, but I see it now. Talent and power you do indeed possess, but as for delusions of importance… you are nothing more than an escapee from that ridiculous madhouse across the way. Unfortunate for you, young woman. But you are comely, and for that I shall make it pleasant."

  The first wave of it stole suddenly over her like a heady perfume. Sweet, but that was meant to mask the underlying bitterness. It was most potent, though, and deeply compelling. Sabra felt her body willingly respond to his seduction, though her emotions recoiled. She could physically fight it, but it would do her no good, for he was bigger and stronger. She could magically fight it, and win, but he would have to die. She had no objection to killing, having done her share in the past, but her Sight told her his was a different destiny, entwined with that of the hunters. She knew better than to fight Fate.

  He drew close, looming over her, eyes flaming with hunger, desire, and triumph. She smiled dreamily, as that poor girl must have smiled, and waited as though enspelled for him to take her.

  He did indeed make it pleasant, murmuring softly in his own tongue, tilting her head to one side with the light touch of a fingertip. His breath was warm on her bare throat, his kiss gentle. Under other circumstances she might have welcomed him as a lover, but they were too far apart in spirit for that.

  Then he held her close and tight, and bit into her flesh. Though he did not rend it like the wolf in her dream, the effect was the same. She gasped from the sudden pain, felt her blood being strongly drawn away, as though he were taking life from her soul, not her body. Perhaps he fed on souls, enjoyed corrupting innocence. That would explain his lengthy torture of the girl.

  Nothing like that for me, Sabra thought. He intended to drain her dry. He pressed hard upon her, drinking deep.

  She allowed it, waiting.

  He was not the only one adept at blood magic.

  But… hers was far older.

  All that was of the divine—no matter the faith—was his bane. He'd chosen his dark path and thus made it so. And if the Host repelled him then so would…

  His strangled scream, when it came, made it all worth it.

  He reeled away from her, hands clawing at his mouth and throat. Staggering, he crashed against one of the boxes and fell. She watched his sufferings, showing no expression, but with a great lifting in her heart. Sometimes justice could be most satisfying.

  Vlad, son of Dracul, writhed in the dust, choking and groaning his agony. She'd seen such symptoms before, but then the effect had been from strychnine, the convulsions so strong that the victim broke his own bones from his thrashings.

  "In my veins runs the chill doom of Annwyn's hounds," she explained, rubbing her throat as the flesh knitted up. "They will harry you forever, you bastard son of the Scholomance."

  He shrieked, twisting.

  "You feel also the holy fire of Cerridwen."

  Another shriek, his back arching, then he abruptly collapsed and went still.

  Sabra stood over him, taking in the ravages her blood had executed on what remained of his soul. He yet lived, but the fight had gone out of him. When he finally opened his eyes to her, they were suffused with terror.

  "Return to your own land, dragon's son," she whispered. "This place is not for you."

  Telegram from Mina Harker to Van Helsing:

  "Look out for D. He has just now, 12.45, come from Carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the south. He seems to be going the round and may want to see you: Mina."

  The Dark Downstairs

  Roxanne Longstreet Conrad

  Here, now, Nora, dry your eyes. I know it's a sad day, but we should all get about our duties now. She's in a better place.

  What, you want to hear about Dracula? At a time like this? Go on with you, you must've heard the story a dozen times by now, what with Mr. and Mrs. Harker and all the rest of 'em in and out of the house—oh, I know, they don't gossip to servants, but still, who notices us? Stand just outside the parlor, ear to the door—I know the tricks, missy, don't think I don't.

  Hush, now, keep your eyes on your work. There's Mrs. Bannock, she'll have the hide off of us if we don't finish these by teatime. What was we talking about? Dracula, indeed. Well, No
ra, I never did see half what they say happened at Hillingham, and believe me, I was in the thick of it. No dogs, nor wolves, nor any of that foolishness. Dracula? Yes, I figure as I saw 'im, but believe you me, he weren't he worst of it. Not by a long chalk.

  They'll never tell that part of it, 'cause it doesn't concern the Quality.

  Who does it concern? Us, of course. The downstairs. The servants.

  'Ere, you need that knife? Give it over. Now, where was I? No, I'm not telling about Dracula, I'm telling you about Elizabeth Gwydion.

  First thing you have to know about Hillingham is that it's been in the Westenra family for centuries, a good old country house in Whitby, near the sea—the family come down from London every season for the summer. By July Mrs. Westenra and Miss Lucy had arrived, along with Miss Lucy's friend Mina Murray—yes, Mrs. Harker, but she was Mina Murray then—and they brought Rose with them as ladies' maid. In the house there was Mr. Gage, the butler, and Mrs. Ravenstock, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Brockham, the cook, and of course me upstairs, and Penny, and Jeannette the parlor maid and Alice the downstairs maid and Kate the tweeny, and Mary in the scullery, and Joseph the boot-boy, and George the footman—

  What do you mean, a large staff? Small enough, for the size of Hillingham, I can tell you. Up at five, bed at midnight; some things never change, eh? For all Dr. Van Helsing's such a kind man, still things have to be done, don't they?

  Where was I? Oh, yes, the staff. Well, that was the staff at the start of July, but it didn't stay that way, 'cause of Rose, who got herself in trouble with a young man. Well, you can well imagine, Mr. Gage sent her packing without a reference. Poor Rose, she were crying something awful. Elizabeth Gwydion showed up the very afternoon, to Mrs. Ravenstock's relief—Welsh, they said, neat as a pin, a bit foreign-looking, skin like the finest, palest cream. Pretty? Oh, if you like. Too pretty, to my mind.