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.”