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.
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.