I could have pressed her hand to my silent heart but that would have been too intimate, too… well, I would not. With only an hour remaining, I made her swear not to scream. And I changed.
I chose wolf form. A large and dangerous animal, it is true, but it has been my experience that women are far more afraid of bats,
Dear Sarah! When I lay across the seat opposite her in the form of noble beast, my muzzle resting on my paws so I would look as tame as possible, her hands shook but she reached out and brushed them across my fur, then buried her face in the back of my neck. “How wonderful!” she cried. “How completely wonderful!”
Such a woman, Sarah Justin! She watched with interest, not fear, as I shifted first to mist then to my own form. “And to think I have traveled with you all this time and never once suspected!” she said as much to herself as to me.
Now that she believed my story, I went on to explain that any exposure to sun would burn me as painfully as flames would her.
She understood and said she would see my last two boxes safely to Carfax. I told her she need not do this but she insisted. “I think of the men on the train with their axes and all you have done for me. Of course I will see you safely to your new home. The train stops in Purfleet. I will arrange for cart and driver then catch a later train to London. I’ll have more than enough time to make it seem that I never left home at all.”
Then she sat, hands in her lap again, watching me with a curious expression. Was it hope? She seemed to like the wolf and I enjoyed the feel of her hands on my pelt. But such a form is dangerous. I lose some human control and to have her touch me as she would not dare were I in human form… no, it was better to stay as I was and follow her conventions.
To pass time, I asked, “Tell me what you know of London.”
She spoke of theaters and pubs and the banking district and the rest. I absorbed it all—particularly the places in your East End where one such as me can feed without arousing suspicion. Thanks to her, I feel almost at home in this marvelous city, and the hunting is excellent.
I left her just before sunrise, aware of her gaze following me. She had not given me her address. I had not asked for it. It would be better that way, for she belonged to another and I owed her too much.
When I rose again, I would see my new home. I was far too excited for sleep and so I was awake when my boxes were unloaded, feeling the sun even through the thick wood of my daytime refuge. I heard the rough voices of the loaders, the creak of a cart, the snort of a nervous horse, then Sarah’s sweet voice asking them to please be careful.
“Done this longer than you’ve been on this earth, Miss. Now let us be,” the man said.
I was being lifted, carried. I heard the train’s whistle, the horse’s nervous whinny, a crash, and last, Sarah’s loud scream.
For a moment, I tensed, waiting for the burning of the sun.
Nothing. It was the other box that fell, cracked, my precious soil mixing with the dung in the road.
“Should we scoop it up, Miss?”
Just go, I thought, and heard her echo my words.
It was a long drive. The wood absorbed the heat and made rest impossible. When my box had been safely deposited in the cool confines of Carfax, I felt her hand brush the top of the box, a finger run the length of it. “Goodbye,” she whispered, and was gone.
One night passed. Two. I found the old stone walls to my liking. I took the boxes of earth and scattered them through London, placing some in Belgravia and Bloomsbury and all the other places where foolish people walk the streets at night thinking there is nothing to fear. The rest, I hid on the Carfax grounds, a wild place with many hiding spots. And as I labored alone, I tried not to think of Sarah except to hope that her ruse had gone well and that she was happy.
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.