Dracula_in_London

by P. N. Elrod

  On the third night, she returned to me, a little parcel of clothing in one hand. We met outside, the moonlight glittering on her tears.

  "Are you hurt?" I asked, ready to kill the one who raised a hand to her.

  "Yes. No… no. Really, I'm not."

  "But you cry?"

  "My husband learned of everything. I don't know how. He only said, 'Well, at least no one knew your name. Next time I'm gone, I'll lock you in your room and pay someone to watch you.' I cannot live that way. I will not. And then I thought of you, so kind and so helpful and so in need of a pair of daylight eyes."

  "And you think I will take you in to help me?" I asked, carefully, praying her answer would be yes.

  "Yes… and… no, to let me be with you, only you. Let me stay here and work for you. Make me as you are."

  Then she did something I could never forgive. She kissed me, betraying her vows and the loyalty and obedience she owed a husband.

  I have been wronged by too many women, and they have all met the same fate. Would that Sarah had been stronger. But, out of respect for the help she had given me, one quick blow to the head and she was unconscious. I fed, and when she died I buried her beneath the crypt where I slept, using the box she had brought here as her coffin.

  Tonight, I laid a jewel over the fresh-turned earth. And though I doubt God will listen, I said a quick prayer that, even though she broke her vows, he spare her soul. Then I went through her bag and found a letter addressed to you but never sent. It is a beautiful journey from Purfleet to Mayfair for one such as me. London. So beautiful. And so alive.

  No, it will do you no good if you tip over the chair. There is no manservant to hear you, not any more…

  Dracula stood, moved close to his victim, inhaling the scent of hairwax and sweet tobacco and, just for a moment, of Sarah's perfume. "No, I do not understand you English," he said. "Such a woman, a prize among women, and you treated her as a servant. One bit of understanding and she would have loved you, passionately and forever. Instead you worried about little matters, and lost her.

  "It is right to dispose of a woman who does not obey, to put her in the hands of God mercifully and quickly. But what of the man who pushed her away? What fate should await him?

  "No mercy. Had you means to speak, you might even agree. No mercy. Fool! Perhaps she will be allowed to judge you in the next life."

  And so the Count moved, silent as the mist to his bound prey. The last thing the man saw were long pale fingers coming toward his face, shifting swiftly into something more powerful, a beast to push his head back. No fangs here, nothing as soft and almost pleasant as fangs. No, it was the wolf who devoured him, feasting long after he had life to care. Licking the blood from furry paws.

  With a quick, mournful, howl, he was gone, padding away from the blood-soaked room, the silent Mayfair house. East he padded toward his retreat in Carfax. As he did, the almost-human part of him vowed that the next woman he took would be different—softer and sweeter, younger, and above all, obedient to her master.

  When he reached Carfax, he found Renfield hiding just inside the gates. Seeing Dracula, he rushed out and gave a low bow, the solemnity marred by his laughter.

  Better, his master thought, far better than the other.

  Good Help

  K. B. Bogen

  Not again! Dracula leaped from the sill and flew across the lawn toward the nearby trees. He landed amidst the small stand of English oaks at the same time the slender, cloaked figure entered the house at the Crescent. Shifting into human form and turned to watch the window he had just vacated.

  That irritating woman and her meddling! If she had continued her wanderings just a short while longer, I could have finished what I started. And if Renfield had not gotten himself incarcerated in that hospital, there would have been someone to waylay the nosy brunette. What a nuisance.

  He really ought to do something about replacing the old lunatic.

  At home, he had never required a full-time manservant to take care of everyday tasks. Anything that could not be done at night, the gypsies would do. For a modest fee, of course.

  But here in England, it was different. So many people. So many annoyances. He really needed someone to prevent all the unnecessary interruptions. He simply detested having to eat and fly. It was bad for the digestion.

  He shrugged and stared at the figure slumped on the window-sill until she stirred, moaning. After a few seconds, she rose and stumbled toward her bed. Soon, my dear, he thought to her, soon it will be all over. He ran his tongue over the points of his teeth, thinking how nice it would be when the time arrived.

  A moment later, another woman appeared beside the first.

  His eyes on the two women, he took a step forward—and fell the last ten feet. Hellfire! After all these years, he should have learned to land on the ground instead of the lower branches. He glanced around to see if anyone noticed. No? Good.

  He wiped the dirt from his trousers and cloak, then spit out the dead leaves that had found their way into his mouth. After satisfying himself that nothing was torn or broken, he peered through the gloom at the two figures in the window.

  The dark-haired woman, the one called Mina, put her arm around her sleeping-walking friend. The vampire listened intently, straining to pick out Mina's whispered words at that distance.

  "Come, dear Lucy, we must get you back to bed. You'll catch your death in this damp, chill air!"

  Dracula laughed to himself. Somehow, I do not think the damp, chilly air will have anything to do with it.

  Mina gently helped her friend to her bed, still murmuring words of encouragement. As they left the window, Mina threw one furtive glance toward the trees, and Dracula quickly faded into the darkness.

  He sighed. This Mina might prove an interesting diversion in the future. At the moment, her untimely return had proven—inconvenient. Miss Westenra would have to wait. There were other matters of importance to attend to.

  His errand took him to the docks, past the row of darkened warehouses. The air smelled too much of salt and fish and waterlogged wood, but the gloom of the docks suited his mood as he stalked down the aisles between the crates. He was still seething about Mina's sudden return. Damned inconsiderate woman! He had been so close, and yet…

  At last he found what he sought. Ethan Soarsby. His kind had been called many things over the centuries, but Dracula thought "wharf rat" suited him best. The little man might be just the distraction he needed. Dracula had been studying him for several days. He had potential.

  Soarsby stood by one of the packing crates, pry bar in hand as he plied his trade. A moth-eaten wool jacket lay atop the crate, muffling the sound of splintering wood. A matching wool cap covered his head, leaving visible a fringe of mousy brown hair. On the ground beside him lay a pile of sacks.

  A sudden crash at the end of a row of crates sent Dracula into the shadows to investigate. The last thing he needed was a witness. But the culprit turned out to be a cat hunting among the boxes, nothing more.

  Satisfied his actions would go unnoticed, he returned to the now-open crate, but Soarsby had gone. Not far, though. Empty sacks still littered the ground and Dracula could feel the man's presence. The little thief was near. Very near.

  What was the best way to catch a predator? The vampire knew that answer from years of experience. Pretend to be prey.

  He grinned and stood quietly, letting Soarsby step in behind him, a lion playing with a mouse.

  The thief stepped silently into position. Silently to normal ears, at any rate. Dracula waited for him to make his move.

  A hand snaked around his neck and a knife-edge pressed against his flesh above the collarbone. The thief's skin was clammy and his breath reeked of onions and fish.

  He noticed Soarsby had also had garlic for dinner and almost laughed out loud at the thought of that old wives' tale. How many times had he met with some would-be adversary who thought it was the bulb of the plant that would vanquish a vampire? So f
ew people realized it was the flowers he found revolting. He really preferred roses. But, back to the business at hand…

  Centuries before, a knife at his throat might have caused Vlad Tsepes a moment's nervousness. But many battles and many lifetimes had passed since then. As it was, he found the situation— entertaining.

  Seconds ticked by while he waited for the thief to make the first comment. Finally, Soarsby thought of something to say.

  "Don't move a muskle, or ya won't be able ta move a'tol." Soarsby emphasized his threat by pressing the knife deeper into the flesh of Dracula's neck. Considering their height difference, the action was as much of a stretch as the threat itself.

  "Really? How amusing." He deliberately kept his tone light. "I have a better plan."

  The Count took the thief's wrist and gently forced it down as he turned to face the little man. Soarsby's features contorted from the effort as he tried to keep his knife raised. He failed.

  Several emotions played across the thief's face. Surprise. Anger. Hatred. Fear. The fear won. His eyes widened as he began to understand the kind of force he was fighting.

  Dracula continued amicably, "I have a proposition for you, my friend…" He swept his cloak over Soarsby's shoulders and led him back toward the warehouses.

  "It will be back by dawn. See that everything is in order."

  "Yes… Master." Soarsby rolled the word around on his tongue, as if tasting it for the first time. In fact, he was. That vintage of it, at least.

  Dracula left through the ironbound door, wincing as its rusted hinges screamed protest. It had been two days since his last visit to Lucy Westenra, and he looked forward to it. She was so— giving. He smiled at the thought.

  He returned just before dawn, in much better spirits than on previous mornings. His visit with Lucy had gone well. Her friend Mina had not even noticed him. Having Lucy sit beside the window had proven to be a very good tactic. As long as she never left her bed chamber, her friend felt she was safe.

  He landed just inside the wall surrounding the abbey. He was in such a wonderful mood, he felt like walking. A few wispy clouds trailed across the moon and a light fog had developed, lending Carfax an ethereal quality.

  He took a deep breath, enjoying the salt/flower scent of the ancient apothecary roses that hugged the crumbling walls of the chapel. He was so engrossed in the smells, sounds, and flavors of the night that he completely missed the pile of rubbish some cretin had left by the corner.

  Metal and wood scattered noisily as he stumbled through the pile of discarded building materials. A broken timber smashed into a pane of glass with a loud crash.

  "What the—?" Considering the manner in which the things had been arranged, it almost looked intentional. But who would have done such a thing?

  He limped toward the chapel, cursing in four different languages. Some of the words had not been heard in over three centuries.

  As he approached the entrance, he paused, steeling himself for the whine of the hinges. But there was no sound.

  He opened and closed the door several times, experimenting. Neither a squeak nor squeal. Soarsby had located Renfield's underused oil can.

  "Nicely done." Dracula entered the chapel quietly for the first time since his arrival at Carfax. He looked around, amazed.

  Soarsby had dusted the spider webs from the corners, fixed the holes in the shutters and fastened them securely against the coming daylight. He had even removed the coffin lid and smoothed the soil within.

  A fresh earth scent rose from the box, to mingle with the smells of old wood and wool in the ancient chapel. And there was something else. In the shadow where the lid overhung the edge of the coffin was a gift: Soarsby had left a bedtime snack in the form of a large rat in a wire cage. How thoughtful.

  "Things are looking up," Dracula mused as he lay down for his nap. The picture on the inside of the coffin lid was a nice touch, too. He would have to remember to suggest to Soarsby that he replace the raw steak with one of those French postcards. Scented.

  "Will ya be visitin' tha pretty miss this night, Master?"

  "Not tonight. I have other business this evening.

  There is a stack of papers to go over and a libretto I, um, borrowed that I hoped to read. I shall be upstairs, if you require instructions. Miss Westenra will keep for a day or two." Besides, he was a little weary of trying to avoid Mina's notice.

  The papers were, as expected, boring. Real estate contracts, accounting records, and reams of legalese he had not managed to escape for the last two hundred years. It constantly amazed him how many ways mankind had found to increase their load of paperwork. It got worse every century. Maybe he should start a campaign to save the trees and put an end to the document craze. Or invent something to take the place of paper. He dwelt on that thought an extra moment. It might be worth looking into.

  Meanwhile, all that legal babble had given him a headache. Perhaps the play would prove more interesting. The title certainly looked promising: The Pirates of Penzance. Pirates were good.

  An hour before dawn, a flustered Soarsby hesitantly entered the room Dracula had adopted as his office. He waited for his master to acknowledge him.

  Dracula just chuckled and turned another page.

  "M-master?" The laughter apparently confused the ex-thief. As if evil, bloodsucking monsters were not allowed to have fun once in a while.

  Dracula looked up from his papers. "May I help you?" he prompted when Soarsby seemed reluctant to proceed.

  "There be someone beatin' on the door, askin' fer ya. Tha back door."

  Now who would… oh. Renfield. The Count reluctantly left his desk and that delicious libretto, and headed for the entrance to the chapel. Soarsby followed a few steps behind.

  Renfield stood in the entry, fidgeting, clad in only his nightshirt. When Dracula started to widen the opening, Renfield protested.

  "No, no! Leave it, Master! Leave it closed. They're after me."

  Dracula pushed the door to and opened the small window set into it. He peered down at the old man pressed against the wood. "They are?"

  "Yes, and they'll find me, soon enough. That they will. But tell me, who—who was he, the man who first answered my knock?"

  Dracula paused, considering carefully his response. "He is Mr. Soarsby, my—assistant."

  "Assistant? A replacement? Oh, no, Master! I am your faithful servant, still. You need not find others."

  "Renfield…"

  His cries became more fervent, even hysterical. "You shall not have another! Not while I draw breath."

  "Renfield…"

  "No, no! I shall…"

  "Renfield!" If only the old man would let him speak…

  Nearby, they heard a loud crash, followed by men cursing loudly. The refuse Dracula had tripped on the previous morning had been Soarsby's idea of a warning device. It worked very well, as the Count knew from personal experience. Now someone else knew, too.

  Renfield listened to the sound for a moment, then continued, his voice soft, but still tinged with hysteria.

  "I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave…"

  Oh, no! Not that "I deserve everything because I have given everything" speech again. This could take a while.

  Dracula leaned against a handy wall, arms crossed, stifling a yawn. He thought of interrupting Renfield's diatribe, but the ranting seemed to keep the old man happy.

  "… await your commands…"

  He nodded off a couple of times, then shook himself awake. Dawn was fast approaching.

  "… in Your distribution of good things?" Renfield finally wound down and his voice trailed off into a whine.

  More crashes and cursing brought Dracula out of his doze. Renfield swung around to face the cause of the noise as a group of men appeared around the corner. The Count recognized the leader as the doctor from the asylum next door. Doctor Seward.

  With a loud cry, Renfield rushed them. He fought like a tiger, flailing wildly and without thought for the
consequences. The men with Doctor Seward had a rough time bringing the old man down.

  Renfield smacked one of the attendants with a piece of wood. Another tripped and thudded to the ground gasping, with Renfield's hands clutched around his throat. Blood trickled down the old man's cheek from a cut on his forehead. It was a circus, but it kept their attention away from Dracula and the chapel.

  The fight seemed to go on forever, but finally they forced Renfield to the ground and wrapped him in a straight waistcoat. As they carried him away, he risked one last look in Dracula's direction while his lips twitched into a knowing smile.

  The Count watched them retreat toward the asylum. After a while, Soarsby broke the silence.

  "Who were that, Master?"

  "A mistake, Mr. Soarsby. One I should, perhaps, rectify in the very near future."

  "Rec-ti-fy?" He stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

  "Fix."

  "Oh, ya mean yer gonna kill 'im."

  Dracula glared at Soarsby. Then he relaxed and nodded. "Possibly, Mr. Soarsby, possibly."

  The whole situation was quite unfortunate. Renfield would have been a perfect assistant, if he could have found two coherent moments to rub together. And he did not seem very pleased at being made redundant. If those fools at the asylum could not contain him, it might become necessary for the count to take care of the problem himself.

  He arose the next evening thinking about the events of that morning. He was still wondering how to solve the trouble with Renfield as he neared the Crescent. He also needed to decide what to do about Mina. It seemed a waste of Soarsby's talents to use him to prevent the woman from interfering with his visits with Lucy.

  Dracula reached the edge of the wood near the house where the Westenras had rooms and stopped where he could see Lucy's window. He leaned against a large tree to watch for company.