by P. N. Elrod
It took a little more persuasion to pry the location of the necklace from him. Once I did, I couldn't get him to be quiet. He proudly told me how he had taken the necklace, promising its return to the duchess as part of a dividend payment. Instead, he would be using it to pay off a rather substantial gambling debt. His creditor had said something about using the proceeds from its sale to construct an air gun which could be disguised as a walking stick. Ingenious, but I let his rambling stop at that point. I instructed the underhanded Mr. Danielson to return to my table and finish my glass of wine. Slowly. That should hold him while I performed my errand.
I took the form of a bat and made my way to his East End lodgings. The necklace was where he said, under a floorboard. It contained a single brilliant ruby. The setting was simple, allowing the gem to shine in all its brilliance. Such a jewel would sparkle upon any woman's bosom, and it crossed my mind to simply retreat to my rooms and keep it for myself. It would look stunning on Lucy. But I had already started other events in action, so I hung the jewel around my neck and reverted to the form of a bat, keeping to the shadows so the light would not flash upon the ruby.
Upon my return I found Mr. Danielson seated at my table, dutifully obeying the suggestions I had left with him. I handed him the necklace and bade him to return it to the duchess. Return it he did, but I was unprepared for the noblewoman's quite earthy reaction. She began to beat the man about the head and shoulders with her handbag with such fury that two waiters were required to separate the pair. Presently a policeman arrived and the duchess proffered her charges.
The great scientist Tesla, seemingly engrossed in calculating the volume of his coffee pot, looked up at the commotion and approached the duchess after the leech had been taken into custody. Although the incident was not directly of his doing, he offered his most sincere apologies for any distress caused to her person. As he spoke, his eye was drawn to the ruby necklace dangling from her hand.
"Madam, would you allow me to examine your ruby?"
She understandably demurred.
"You may hold onto the necklace. Please, hold only the gem up to the light." He gestured in the direction of a gas lamp. He studied the stone for a long moment, inspecting the way in which the light refracted through its facets. He thanked the mystified duchess for her kindness then returned to his table, his thoughts still clearly with the ruby. Next he took a long, slow sip of coffee then proceeded to arrange the spoons at his place in precise alignment with the salt cellar. The waiter delivered a brandy snifter, the volume of which Tesla absentmindedly calculated. He took a sip, then recalculated the remaining amount of liquid. After a moment a smile began to play upon his lips, and his eyes shone with the brilliance of scientific thought.
"Gentlemen," he addressed the somewhat startled assemblage at his table, "what do you suppose would happen if you were to shine a very intense light through a ruby which has been cut so as to precisely focus that light?"
"A very focused red beam of light?" ventured one fellow.
"That could be quite useful during your magic lantern slide presentations," concluded another.
"The world is not ready," Tesla sighed as the waiter refreshed his snifter, then addressed the man. "Did you know that you have precisely forty-two ounces of brandy left in your decanter? I'll double your gratuity if you can divide that equally between the glasses at this table." There was a hearty laugh all around as I retreated to my own place to settle up my bill. My heart sank as I noticed the waiter had refilled my wine glass and brought a fresh, steaming bowl of soup.
Ah, well. I would simply leave a generous tip and explain that a recent sea journey had left my stomach unsettled. I had learned that there are as many excuses as there are long, lonely nights in London.
An Essay on Containment
Gene DeWeese
(From the Secret Journal of Radoslav Coulson)
London
August 7, 1893.
I greatly fear there will soon be trouble for us all. The so-called Count has made landfall, I know not where.
For days I have sensed his approach, so powerful is his aura. But it is not his power that is the source of our peril, it is his damnable ego, his utter lack of discipline.
We have known of his existence for more than a century, so perhaps the current dilemma is as much of our own making as it is of his. We should have acted decisively decades ago and not continued to place naive confidence in his obvious intellect and the instinct for survival that we all share. It is apparent that our quiet counsel, even our more pointed warnings, have gone unheeded. Had he paid the slightest attention to our words, he would at least have contacted one of us to help prepare the way for his journey, not one of them, with whom he must always be on guard, ready with justifications for behaviors that to them are bizarre but to us are only what our nature demands.
But perhaps I am being unduly alarmist. Perhaps those very contacts will cause him to apprehend the danger more clearly, to begin at last to act with the discretion that is essential in dealing with the ever-increasing perils of the modern world. Such, at least, is my hope.
Nonetheless, we shall begin our preparations immediately. I only hope that our skills have not atrophied in the decades since we were last called upon to make extensive use of them.
August 9, 1893.
Once it was determined by consensus which of our unwitting accomplices to employ in this matter, it required only a single night to verify that our choice was viable. The extensive conditioning he was given nearly half a century ago in his youth still holds sway. He has become precisely the person we intended, precisely the person we knew we would someday need. Now preparations for our little drama can begin in earnest.
August 12, 1893.
As I had hoped and expected, the initial phase went remarkably well.
Indeed, it is at times like this that I can understand what drives the Count to engage in his reckless behavior. There is undeniably an incomparable satisfaction to be taken in exercising one's mental powers, causing memories to shift and alter by mere whispered suggestions in the night. As I observe the intricate patterns of change we weave within the minds of our oblivious subjects, I can imagine that the feeling we experience is not unlike that which their master musicians achieve when giving a virtuoso performance for an appreciative audience.
My only regret is that for our virtuoso performances there can be no audience save ourselves unless it becomes necessary for the subjects to act out the scenario dictated by those deceitful memories. Contrariwise, my dearest hope is that, for the sake of us all, such actions are never required and that the memories themselves, untended, will gradually retrogress, unnoticed, until the minds that housed them are left only with dull reality.
We shall see.
August 17, 1893.
Carfax!
The fool has actually moved into Carfax, bringing with him not one but fifty boxes of his precious native soil, a needless luxury at best! If he persists in such recklessness, he might as well shout his nature from the rooftops!
I should not have delayed even these few days. I should not have allowed myself to entertain for even a moment those same false hopes that had already kept us from acting for nearly a century. I should have paid stricter heed not only to the power and the undisciplined nature of his aura but also to his shameful record of almost mindless self-indulgence. I should have seen that, like anyone, he is shaped by his past experience, and that his past experience consists of centuries of indulging his every whim without concern for the effects. For centuries he "lived" alone in a backward and isolated area where superstitions of all kinds were so deeply ingrained in the mortal populace that no one would even think of defying even the most ludicrously unlikely creatures who claimed, let alone openly demonstrated, supernatural powers. Drink a little of their blood while they slumber unaware, steal one of their daughters and bend her to your will, causing her to rise in the night in answer to your silent summons, and they cower in their hovels, sc
rupulously avoiding any show of defiance or even of discontent for fear that anything short of servile obedience would only worsen their situation.
The civilized world which he has invaded—our world—is far less deferential, as he is already discovering. If he alone were involved, we would not devote a moment of time to his plight. If he wished to draw attention to himself and himself alone, I would wish him well and quietly await his demise, which would surely soon be upon him. But his antics, his foolish attempts to "live" as he had "lived" in that welter of mindless superstition that is Transylvania, will call attention to us all. Here in the civilized world our strength—and our safety!—lies not in our modestly superhuman powers but in our anonymity, in the fact that our kind is rarely believed to be more than the fevered imaginings of superstitious fools and that when one of us is found to exist, he is easily destroyed if only you follow certain arcane and nonsensical rituals. If ever we lose that advantage, our already meager numbers will quickly dwindle to nothing.
Tonight it begins.
Sept. 1, 1893.
It is with considerable relief that I record the fact that our elaborate preparations have not been in vain. Dr. Seward, one of many who benefited from our recent ministrations, questioned none of his recently acquired memories when he was called in to examine the unfortunate young woman the Count has become enamored of. Nor did he hesitate to immediately contact our chosen accomplice, ostensibly his "old friend and master" from school days and, fortuitously, an expert in the very maladies of the blood from which the young woman is suffering.
Dr. Van Helsing arrives tomorrow, and I am confident that, with our clandestine assistance, he will meet with spectacular success in ridding the land of this creature that menaces us all.
Berserker
Nancy Kilpatrick
Here, it is so unlike your homeland. The land where your blood and that of your father and his father before him rusts the soil. Where you can rest untormented, and be at peace.
But this place! Even the brilliance of daylight cannot disguise an obscenity: the parody of life. Around you swells a perpetually flowing, ever-renewing river of unawareness from which you intend to slake your thirst at will. But rampant mindlessness offends you. Do they not deserve your scorn?
Such pathetic trees! Scrawny as the Cockney children racing by. Feeble roots cling to the island's soil. So bare, as if stripped of life's nourishment. These denizens of the modern have cleared and clipped the bushes as though natural, wild beauty is repugnant. What a society! What a mockery! Cutting vegetation into the shape of animals! These mortals have too much time on their hands! Time is their enemy, even as it has become your friend.
So this is what you have read of, what the British call "civilization." A "park." You came to this place for several reasons, not the least of which is that you seek refuge, a temporary respite, a few moments where you may recapture for refreshment's sake the comfort of nature's calming familiarity. But it is a sham! An illusion. You have been tricked. This is not the verdant growth of your homeland. The tight green carpet beneath your feet screams in distress. These short hairs resemble the preposterous mutton-chops stuck to the cheeks of the mortal males surrounding you. They look ridiculous, foolish, and yet these beings have the nerve to call your countrymen barbarians! Madmen! Once you have supped on their blood, and they have tasted your wrath, truly they will come to know what the word "barbarian" means.
"Good day!"
"Good day," you reply to the just-so gentleman in the summer frock coat, accompanied by a timid, plain woman and two frightened children.
He and his family stop, wanting to continue this pointless exchange with a stranger. "The weather has turned for the better," he remarks.
"England possesses a most fortuitous clime," you comment.
"Yes," the wife responds nervously, glancing furtively at her husband as though seeking approval for her vocalization.
She is plainer, that is certain, yet she resembles Lucy—fair hair and eyes, arched brows, high cheekbones, long, slim throat…
The man leans upon his ivory-tipped cane, content with his lot in life, the world his oyster, it seems. "I take it you are from Europe." His face smiles, yet you are keenly aware of the distrust beneath this facade. He has encountered a foreigner. One alien. He must assess you rapidly, fit you neatly to a slot in order to "know" you.
"Indeed," you say, "you are correct. I am Transylvanian."
The woman, eyes dulled by incomprehension, stifles a gasp. The girl child a yawn. The boy his urge to run with the pack of children from the lower class, their shirttails flying, short breeches dirty. Children his mother looks on with disapproval.
The man repeats, "Transylvania…" scanning a mental map. You see that he has pegged you. "Eastern European," he now says confidently. "Northeastern Balkans, correct me if I am wrong."
"You are not wrong," you inform him, although the satisfied nod is annoying. He feels he now has you classified and can rest. He wears the mask of intelligence laced with safety and certainty. A veil of correctness that hides control. Control born of fear.
Perhaps you should inform him that this meaningless exchange will not assure that blood remains in his veins. That if you had a mind to bleed him dry like an enormous leech, you would do so, could do so. His destiny rests in your hands.
"James Holbrook," he says, extending a hand. "Barrister-at-law."
You shake his hand, the current custom here, adopted from North America apparently, and revel in the warmth of this mortal's flesh and the throbbing cauldron ablaze beneath that epidermis. These sensations cause you to tremble slightly with anticipation. "Count Dracula," you inform him.
His thin eyebrows lift. He is impressed with your station, as he should be, and yet more relieved. Here he is, in the presence of what he deems to be his own class, no, a class to which he aspires. "My wife Elizabeth," he says informally, adding, "my son John junior, and my daughter Caroline," and he pats the little girl on the top of her head of yellow curls. Caroline stares up at you with large eyes that provide no challenge, since she is already under the natural spell of childhood.
"It is a pleasure," the wife says, beginning a curtsy, which she curtails because of indecision. She is not quite certain what to do with foreign royalty.
In the distance, a familiar howl, one you recognize. The sound sends a shiver through the woman. She is as one entrapped behind a glass prison, a prison whose panes you could easily crash through and shatter—
"I take it you are a visitor to our England," the man says crisply. "Am I correct?" He asks questions as if they are statements, as though he is in a courtroom, before a judge, arguing a case rather than engaging in a dialogue.
"I am."
"We are very proud of our city of London. And the gardens here. I hope you've been enjoying your stay in our fair land, taking in the sites, the marvels of the modern, civilized world." His hand sweeps with a gesture of ownership, as though he not only possesses but has created all of which he speaks.
You have been on this unfamiliar soil but a short while and yet you far prefer the ruggedness that is your heritage to the cultivated "marvels" he so obviously idolizes. In Transylvania, the harsh beauty reminds you that survival is always a struggle. The environment itself forces a warrior to be alert to danger, rather than lulling him into a torpor which leads to demise. This man is surrounded by a hundred dangers yet has convinced himself he is invincible. Your attitude, the one you were born with, the one you died with, the one you continue to rely on in this existence is in tune with nature— for are not the animals, even the insects, on guard always, alert to predators? That is nature's way. What is wrong with these Englishmen that you can walk among them, speak with them, touch them, and their every sense is dead to danger?
They laugh and talk and ignore you, other than the odd glance or remark focused on your foreignness, which always fosters comments to prove they are superior. They delude themselves with silly thoughts that suggest supremacy. It
is their weakness, and will be their downfall.
"Have you been to Piccadilly?" the wife ventures.
You stare into her faded eyes, a bold gesture, and watch as conflicting emotions dance within her— she is trapped by your gaze. Attraction and repulsion vie for position. Paralysis is the outcome.
The man instinctively feels this threat and takes her elbow, which causes her to look away. Her cheeks redden with embarrassment.
"Well then," the man says. "We shall be off. The children want to ride the carousel, you know. And we would hate to impinge."
You feel a twinge of respect for him now. At least he has the sense to recognize peril in one regard.
He tips his hat, and you return the gesture, glancing at him, bowing slightly to his wife, who seems afraid to look at you again, and that causes you to smile. The distracted children are like barely ripe plums, not ready yet for the brandy maker. But the woman…
The family turns by rote at the cue of the man and begins to wander toward the carousel. You watch them stop at the cotton candy vendor. The children receive a cone each of pink sugar fluff. The wife surreptitiously glances back in your direction.
"Yes, my lovely," you whisper. "I could easily shatter the walls of your prison and you would belong to me as you so long to."
A delicious look of lust and dread flickers through her eyes, and she turns away abruptly.
