by P. N. Elrod
The rough bark of the ancient oak dug into his back, as though to remind him that it deserved more respect at its age. Hah! Dracula himself had been alive almost two hundred years when the tree was a mere sapling. Still, it was good to know some things could last more than a few short decades.
Leaves rustled high in the branches, sending forth their earthy summer scent to mingle with the decay of their forbears already moldering on the ground. Shadows fluttered around him, caressing his face reverently, like sycophantic demons. He ignored them all. Life was fleeting illusion; shadows he was accustomed to; demons he would confront at another time.
He took a deep breath and leaped into the sky, changing shape as he did so. As he landed softly on the sill outside Lucy's room, he looked around. The window was open. Surprised, he cautiously stepped down from the ledge—and fell again.
Damn! I must be worried about something. That is the second time in less than a week I have done that. The windowsill was a little too tall for a bat. He transformed quickly and entered the room.
Lucy lay on her bed, the covers strewn wildly across its surface. She eyed him hungrily, her eyes burning. And she was alone.
"Please, come to me!" She beckoned to him as she reclined against the pillows, trailing one delicately manicured finger between her breasts. Her gown slid open, drawing Dracula's attention to her naked body beneath the silky material. The soft scent of lavender rose from her warm flesh.
This is different. He approached her slowly, a little suspicious.
She bit her lip in anticipation while an odd, almost predatory expression played across her face. "I am ready, my love." She leaned forward, head tilted, mouth open slightly.
Wrong move. Some latent, lingering shred of teenage rebellion asserted itself and he hastily revised his plans. He did not like being rushed. Especially by the victim.
He sat on the edge of her bed. Leaning forward, he caressed her cheek and whispered, "Not this time, I think." Always leave them wanting more. "Tell me, where is your friend Mina?"
"She received a message that her fiancé Jonathan Harker is in Buda-Pesth. He is in a monastery or some such, and very ill. She left to join him there." Her hands clutched at the edge of Dracula's cloak. He pulled away while he considered the implications of Lucy's news. Lucy pouted.
So—Jonathan Harker survived his final night in Castle Dracula. Bad news. He might serve as witness to the Count's true nature. He certainly must have some idea what the vampire planned for his new homeland.
And Mina had left to be with him. That was good. She would be out of the picture for some while.
On the other hand, they were certain to return to England as soon as Harker recovered from his illness. The two lovers would have to be taken care of when the time came.
To top it off, the girls were probably upset that their dinner ran away. If they ever managed to track Harker down, they would certainly find the Count as well. And he would be in almost as much trouble as his solicitor for failing to keep the young man properly contained.
Too preoccupied to dine, he left Lucy sleeping restlessly and headed back to Carfax.
When he landed outside the entry to the chapel, he found it cracked open and the sound of a struggle inside alerted him that Soarsby was not alone.
"… not yours! I am to be the one…" It was Renfield's voice.
Something thudded against the old oak, knocking it shut. There were several crashes. Splintering wood. A muffled cry of rage or pain.
Dracula burst through the door and found Renfield fighting with Soarsby. Soarsby seemed to have some idea of what he was doing and several times the thief got the upper hand. But Renfield fought like a demon. The older man was winning.
Dracula waded into the fracas and pulled the men apart. Twice. Finally, he shouted, "Stop this right now!"
They stopped.
He gave them both a shake before releasing them. "You should be ashamed of yourselves." He felt as though lie were lecturing a pair of children. They stared at their toes, afraid to look Dracula in the eye.
"Who started this?"
"He did!" They replied in unison, each pointing to the other. Maybe the comparison to children was not far wrong. It reminded him of all the times he and his brother Mircea fought for their father's attention. Dracula took a step backward, glaring at the two men. "You two have got to learn to get along. Now, shake hands and make up."
Soarsby started to say something negative as Renfield shouted.
"Never!" The old lunatic pulled a knife from his waistband and dashed toward Soarsby, slashing wildly.
"Renfield!" Definitely a strong resemblance to the relationship between himself and his brother. Including the mayhem and bloodshed.
He tried to get between the men, but Renfield was too fast. In a second, the old man had plunged his blade into Soarsby's chest.
"Heh heh! I am the one, the one who will be Yours forever! It is—" Soarsby's "alarm" went off again.
Renfield darted through the door, slamming it shut as he charged his pursuers. Dracula heard the sound of a vicious battle through the thick wood. Continuing to give ear to the fighting in the courtyard, he knelt beside the body of his erstwhile assistant. Soarsby lived. Barely.
He considered his alternatives. How disappointing! The thief had proven to be a very valuable aide, but Dracula had no intention of spending eternity with him.
What to do? He stared thoughtfully at the door, listening to the battle raging on the other side. "My dear Renfield, you certainly know how to make things difficult. I shall have to attend to you presently." He looked down at Soarsby's gasping form. "But for now, I think it is time for my morning repast."
He sank his fangs into Soarsby's neck, savoring the last few drops of life in the man's body. Leaning back, he eyed the pool of blood forming beneath the hilt of the knife.
Too bad Renfield had to go and waste Soarsby like that. He licked the last few drops of sweetly metallic liquid from his lips. Good help is so hard to find.
Everything to Order
Jody Lynn Nye
The bell rang precisely at the appointed hour of eleven. As the porter swung wide the door, Miss Violet Carr peered out at the three well-dressed women standing on the steps half-clad in darkness. At first she was cross with the porter for not lighting enough lamps, but she realized that the visitors were hanging back in the folds of the thick fog that wrapped around the London night. Miss Carr curtsied and dipped her beautifully coiffed head with the deferential half-bow she reserved for members of the titled class. They all wore heavy coats of velvet lined with the most expensive sables, with more furs wrapping them to the ears. Their hats were also black fur, from which depended thick black silk veils. The outfits must have been sweltering on an August night. "Welcome to the House of Feldon, ladies," Miss Carr said, with deference and cordiality. Silently, the shrouded figures slipped one by one over the threshold. Once inside, they lifted their veils. Miss Carr scanned the faces and hesitated slightly, conscious of the possibility of making a dreadful faux pas and starting the evening out on the wrong foot. "I… I beg your pardon for asking—which of you is Countess Dracula?"
"We all are," the eldest said. She gave Miss Carr a smile as curiously undefinable as her accent. She didn't seem to be very much older than the youngest, who seemed as though she could boast the same number of years as Miss Carr herself, twenty-four.
Violet Carr was young for a vendeuse, but was grateful for the opportunity that the owner of the House of Feldon had bestowed upon her, to oversee showings of the house line to clients, to take orders, and to supervise fittings of the chosen garments. It was a position of trust, and she already had two—two!—titled clients who asked particularly for her when they came to the House of Feldon. She hoped to increase her status this very evening, if it meant she had to stay up until dawn.
"We must thank you for your indulgence in allowing us to come to you so very late," the eldest countess said. "We keep late hours. It is not an English
custom. All of your shops are closed before sunset. How are we to make our purchases? Other houses of fashion of whom we made this little request were unable to accommodate us. It is most inconvenient."
"We endeavor to please," Miss Carr said, pleased for Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs's sake. It surely would be worthwhile having remained. These ladies were possessed of fabulous wealth. The necklace about the neck of the youngest countess was composed of real diamonds, each stone the size of Miss Carr's thumb tip. Such jewels had to be worth the value of a steamship. Those other couturiers would regret having refused, and Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs would have reason to be smug.
Her eagerness must have showed upon her face, because the eldest countess smiled. She had a most interesting face. It spoke to Miss Carr of high breeding and quality. The cheekbones were particularly beautiful, not too protruberant, yet with a piquant shadow beneath. Her nose was high-bridged, narrow as a hawk's beak, and she had large, deep brown eyes that seemed to be a blend of black and red, and black-brown hair swept up into sleek folds around her head. She wore black velvet sewn with jet beads and fringe that swayed gently as she moved. The second lady was very much like her, the lineaments of her dark-complected face spare as a sculpture, with large dark eyes. Her dress, also of velvet, was blood red, trimmed in jet and garnets. The third lady, clad in heavy blue velvet, was equally striking, lovely in a more English manner, with masses of blonde hair, fair skin, and large, luminously blue eyes. At least their beauty would be more pleasant if these ladies had the bloom of health upon them. They were all so very pale. Perhaps in Rumania ladies of quality were not permitted or encouraged to take the air very often. It was on the tip of Miss Carr's tongue to ask, but good manners took over. It was not a question she would ever ask of an Englishwoman. She must not allow her training to desert her even though these were only foreigners.
Pages, yawning openly due to the late hour, assisted the countesses in removing their coats and hats, and vanished with the garments to the cloakroom. Miss Carr took the lead, escorting her visitors into the salon. She heard a murmur of approval from behind her as she stepped aside to allow them to enter the chamber ahead of her. The room, the most superior of the five that Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs maintained, had walls covered in Regency-striped oyster silk with dark wood trim and doors. A vase of lilies stood on one occasional table, and a vase of ostrich feathers adorned the other. She was pleased to see that the porter had raised a good fire in the marble-lined grate, and begged the visitors to make themselves at home. The second-eldest countess took the most comfortable chair, a luxuriously padded, chestnut-coloured upholstered leather armchair with mahogany legs that sat at one side of the fireplace, and was chased from thence by a glance from her senior. Strangely, the eldest did not sit down in it herself, but left it for their fair-haired junior, who sank into it with the grace of a queen.
"How may our establishment assist you?" Miss Carr asked, standing before them a trifle nervously. In light of the byplay she had just witnessed, she did not quite know which one to address.
"We do not wish anything that has been worn before by anyone else," the eldest said, settling herself at one end of the bottle-green velvet couch at the other side of the hearth. "We are here for haute couture, nothing less. This house has produced handsome wares in the past. That is what we wish."
"Made-to-measure, then," Miss Carr said, inwardly jubilant. Bespoke gowns were worth to the establishment ten to twenty times the value of off-the-rack garments. She tried not to look excited as she opened her tiny notebook and raised her gold pencil. "Do you perhaps have a concept of what particular needs in your wardrobe you wish to fill?"
The youngest, enthroned in the great leather chair, waved her hand dismissively. "We have not had new wardrobes in ages, not ages! The whole ensemble, if you please. Evening dresses, walking dresses, night dresses! We wish to see it all."
Less explosively, the others agreed. "Yes, show us your current line, if it is not too much trouble."
"Not at all," Miss Carr said. "We are pleased to do anything that will suit your convenience."
The eldest countess smiled her enigmatic smile. "I am most delighted to hear you say that."
Miss Carr bowed herself out to go to the robing room where the mannequins were waiting to hear what garments they should don.
The girls sitting on couches and benches in their altogethers in the cloth-draped chamber looked up at her as she entered. They had been drinking tea and coffee to stay awake. A few of them had taken naps, but many of them were worn and a little pallid, looking older than their ages, which were from sixteen to twenty years. They had all expressed themselves willing to work late for the bonus wages Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs offered for this night. It was hardly a respectable time for young ladies to be out, but the owner constantly impressed upon her staff that the customer was always right, and three ladies who wished to be fitted for entire ensembles was not an opportunity to be missed.
"The whole line," she said. Excitement brought roses back into the girls' cheeks as they hurried to help one another dress. "The first walkthrough should begin in ten minutes," Miss Carr announced, pitching her voice slightly to carry over the hubbub. "Make your change in time for the second walkthrough and wait for my signal. Repeat your promenade in the same order until I inform you to stay or go back to your first costume." The girls didn't look up at her, busy as they were with corsets and petticoats, but she knew they heard her.
She returned to the salon, clasped her hands together nervously and beamed at her guests.
"We shall be ready to present our line to you shortly. In the meantime, may I offer you refreshment?"
"Thank you," said the second-oldest, raising her hooded eyes to Miss Carr. The glance was piercing and disquieting. Miss Carr suppressed a shudder. "But not just now."
"Of course," Miss Carr said, feeling her heart flutter. "I…
Countesses, how shall I address you to distinguish among you? Are you perhaps sisters?" she asked, though she couldn't see how the third woman might have been related to the first two. "Or are your husbands brothers? Cousins?"
"We are all the wives of the great Count Dracula," said the second woman, with great pride.
"Our ways are not your ways, I know," the eldest countess said. She smiled, showing her teeth. All three had red, lush lips framing perfectly white teeth.
"I hope you will not think that I am questioning your ways!" Miss Carr exclaimed, shocked.
"No. Of course you are not," the eldest Countess Dracula said, with a smile.
"Indeed, it is a fascinating concept of those of us in England," Miss Carr went on, "that a man should have three wives, rather like a Turkish sultan." The ladies, to her great surprise at women of such elegance, all spat on the white silk carpet.
"The Turks," said the eldest, disdainfully. "The Turks are barbarians."
"I apologize," she said hastily. "I did not mean to offend."
"It is not you," said the second-eldest countess. "It is the Turks who offend by their existence."
Miss Carr was relieved having just experienced an inner vision of the countesses sweeping out of the salon and into the night, outraged; and herself, standing on the very same stoop the next morning, unemployed, having wasted resources of the House of Feldon, then driven away the customers. She supposed that her grandmother might have made a similar gesture regarding the French, so perhaps the ladies' reaction was not so outrageously exotic as it at first seemed. What an odd thing it must be to be a co-wife, she thought, like those people who lived in the American states. What were they called, Mormons? Miss Carr had thought that the religion was new, but it might have originated in the Balkans, for all the proponent was a man called Joseph Smith. Perhaps there was a Rumanian equivalent of the name.
Mannequins swirled into the room like a bouquet of flowers. Each turned this way and that before promenading slowly around the room clockwise, then counterclockwise. In all, each spent nearly ten minutes displaying the dress she was wearing. The girls may h
ave come from the poorer classes, but each one was attractive, perfectly groomed, and bore herself with the carriage of a queen, full tribute to Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs's rigorous training.
"You must tell me, Countesses, if there is any dress that appeals to you that you would wish to try on yourselves. We would be more than happy to assist you during the second showing."
The visitors chatted excitedly among themselves in their own tongue, leaving Miss Carr to watch the mannequins. One young woman was particularly good. Miss Carr recalled that her name was Claire Stimson, and that she was new to the House of Feldon. The dress she wore was Miss Carr's favorite of the season's line. The cream-silk evening dress daringly displayed a good deal of long, slender neck and the upper curve of the bosom before falling into becoming puffs of satin around the bust and shoulders, fitting tightly at the waist, and bustled with Alençon lace at the rear of the smooth skirts. Though the décolletage was much lower than a modest lady might find comfortable to wear, Miss Stimson still managed to assert dignity. Miss Carr watched her with approval. The three countesses sat up and showed great interest in Miss Stimson's ensemble, eyeing the model hungrily.
"Ah!" one of them exclaimed, in English. "Yes, this is precisely what we have come for."
They seemed particularly taken by the demeanor of the mannequin herself. Miss Carr thought that she would recommend the girl for promotion when the new line was brought out in the spring. The lovely gown concealed beneath it, Miss Carr happened to know, an entirely new kind of corset that Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs had designed for not only bestowing the wasp-waist so vital to the year's fashions, but subtly lifting the bosom. The undergarment was not yet complete, and had to be pinned together. It was surely very uncomfortable, yet Miss Stimson carried herself with aplomb.
"Ye-es," said the eldest, slowly, avidly, staring as Miss Stimson turned and pirouetted. "Exactly, exactly so." The mannequin looked to her employer. Miss Carr nodded, indicating she was to remain in the room. How could Miss Carr possibly send her away, with all three Countesses Dracula staring at the model gown with such interest that their mouths were slightly open. Miss Carr was faintly troubled by their very red lips. Such vivid paint was not the fashion for respectable women in England, but foreign customs were different.
