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, Nora, 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.
I was polishing the hamster rail when she came sweeping up, head high, the way great ladies do; she was looking at those stairs as if she’d bought ‘em whole. I knew she was going to be trouble—did you know, she wouldn’t even let us call her Liz? No, it had to be Elizabeth, like the Queen herself. And Mrs. Ravenstock thought she hung the moon.
She had skills, I suppose. She was good with stains; when Miss Mina cut her finger and got blood on her best blue gown it was Elizabeth who took it away to clean it, wouldn’t give it over to the laundry maid Gracie at all. ‘Twas Gracie who carried the first tale about her, I suppose. She whispered to me as how she saw Elizabeth sucking the blood out of that dress, like a half-starved woman licking at spilled soup.
Poor Gracie. Dead two days later in her bed when I went to wake her, her skin blue and cold, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. No sign what killed her. Mrs. Ravenstock said it was her heart, but the poor little bint was only fifteen. Poison, I say. But as nobody sent for the constable, it’ll never be proved.
With Gracie gone the work got harder. Soon enough we found we was washing the sheets as well as ironing them, and doing most of Elizabeth’s work as well. Mrs. Ravenstock told us to stop our complaining. She took Elizabeth’s part every time, no matter the cause; the way she looked at that girl fair gave me a turn. And Elizabeth looked at her like Mrs. Ravenstock was a cream pastry at afternoon tea.