Child of the Night by Scribe Summary: I have decided to attempt a slash version of Dracula.

This will not cleave to any one interpretation of the story, though the classic Universal version, and Oliver Stones version will be the greatest influence. I have cast my story, using a mixture of actors and actesses. Feel free to substitue your own favorites, but these are mine. In fact, Id be interested to hear if anyone is going to be wathing a different actor in a particular characterizattion, and why. Blame Tinn for getting me started on classic slash. Submitted through the Makebelieve_YG mailing list. Rating: FRAO - Adult Fandoms: Dracula, slash fiction Characters: Draculea/Lucian, Draculea/Nicolae, Draculea/other, Draculea/Rill, Draculea/Simion, Nicolae/Draculea, Vlad/Nicolae, Vlad/Rock Genres: Slash Warnings: Angst Challenges: None Series: None Published: 12/14/04 Updated: 12/17/09 Index Chapter 1: Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460 Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Romania, The Year of Our Lord, 1460, a week later Chapter 3: Part 3 Chapter 4: Chapter Four--Substitution Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Ambivelance Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Courtship Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Suitor Chapter 8: More Chapter 9: Persuasion Chapter 10: Coercion Chapter 11: Care Chapter 12: Concern Chapter 13: Seduction Chapter 14: Part 14: The Claiming Chapter 15: Chapter 15 - Dominance Chapter 16: Part 16: Lulling Chapter 17: Part 17: Passage Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Traveling Chapter 19: Part Nineteen: Ablution Chapter 20: Part 20: Retribution Chapter 21: Part 21: Marriage Chapter 22: Part 22: Mating Chapter 23: Chapter 23: New Union Chapter 24: Part 24: Rough Justice Chapter 25: Part 25

Chapter 26: Part 26: Thwarted Chapter 27: Part 27: Mourning Chapter 28: Part 28: Balances Chapter 29: Part 29: Frustration Chapter 30: Part 30: Confrontation Chapter 31: Part 31: Poison, and Passing Chapter 32: Part 32: Reunion Chapter 33: Part 33: Preparations Chapter 34: Part 34: Forbidden Fruit Chapter 35: Part 35: Bad Judgement Chapter 36: Part 36: Calamity Chapter 37: Part 37: Foreboding Chapter 38: Part 38: Tragedy Chapter 39: Chapter 39: Reawakening Chapter 40: Chapter 40: Revenge Begins Chapter 41: Chapter 41: Torture Chapter 42: Chapter 42: Looking Forward Chapter 43: Chapter 43: Routine Chapter 44: Chapter 44: Horizons Chapter 45: Chapter 45: Trysting Chapter 46: Chapter 46: Meeting Chapter 47: Chapter 47: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought Chapter 48: Chapter 48: Connecting Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Intervention Chapter 50: Chapter 50: Siring Chapter 51: Chapter 51: Restrictions Chapter 52: Chapter 52: The Third Chapter 53: Part 53: Suspicion Chapter 54: Part 54: Alliance Chapter 55: Part 55: Payment Chapter 56: Chapter 56: Love Realized Chapter 57: Chapter 57: Deadly Discovery Chapter 58: Chapter 58: The Third, and Retreat Chapter 59: Chapter 59: Rebirth Chapter 60: Chapter 60: Early Years Chapter 61: 61: Entering The World Chapter 62: Chapter 62: Fascination Chapter 63: Chapter 63: Stagnation Chapter 64: Chapter 64: Delegation Chapter 65: Chapter 65 Chapter 66: Chapter 66: Meeting Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Novelty Chapter 68: Chapter 68: Household Chapter 69: Chapter 69: First Night Chapter 70: Chapter 70 - Enticements Chapter 71: Chapter 71 - The Photograph Chapter 72: Chapter 72 - Communication, and Impressions

Chapter 73: Chapter 73- Harsher Methods Chapter 74: Chapter 74- Substitution Chapter 75: Chapter 75 - At Last Chapter 76: Chapter 76 - Blood Bond Chapter 77: Chapter 77 - Testing the Water Chapter 78: Chapter 78: Dreams Chapter 79: Chapter 79 - Strange Familiarity Chapter 80: Chapter 80 - Degrees of Madness Chapter 81: Chapter 81 - Suitors Chapter 82: Chapter 82 - Exploration Chapter 83: Chapter 83 - Confronting Chapter 84: Chapter 84 - Found Love Lost Chapter 85: Chapter 85 - Swept Away Chapter 86: Chapter 86 - Out of Reach Again Chapter 87: Chapter 87 - Disposal Chapter 88: Chapter 88 - Evacuation Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Pursuit Chapter 90: Chapter 90 - Homeward Bound Chapter 91: Chapter 91 - Journey, Part I Chapter 92: Chapter 92: The Journey II Chapter 93: Chapter Ninety-three: Sacrifice Chapter 94: Chapter Ninety-four: Preparation, and Visitation Chapter 95: Chapter Ninety-five: Responsibility Chapter 96: Chapter Ninety-six: Settling In Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Old Enemies Chapter 98: Chapter 98: New Arrivals Chapter 99: Chapter 99: Gathered at Last Chapter 100: Chapter 100: Reunion Unaware Chapter 101: Chapter 101: Dinner

Chapter 1: Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460

Child of the Night by Scribe Cast Dracula (Vlad Tepes Draculea).......................Peter Lucas Mina Murray/Elisabeta Draculea (nee Varga).........Wynona Ryder Abraham Van Helsing..............................Peter Cushings Dr. Jack Seward......................................Val Kilmer Lord Arthur Holmwood.................................Hugh Grant Quincey P. Morris...................................Clint Black Lucy Westenra....................................Drew Barrymore Jonathan Harker/Niculaie (Nicu)Calugarul (Varga)...Keanu Reeves R.M. Renfield........................................Dwight Fry Bride One/Thomas...............................young Tom Cruise

Bride Two/Rill....................................River Phoenix Bride Three/Rock................................Joaquim Phoenix Chapter One: Romania, The Year of Our Lord 1460 "My lord, you must marry, and soon." Count Vlad Tepes Draculea, Romanian nobel, slammed his gilded goblet down upon the table, dark red wine sloshing from its side to stain the rich linen table cloth. He scowled at the old man his father had, before his death, charged with advising him. "Why, Stefan? Why must I?" The old man sighed wearily. The young count was a headstrong man, much as his father had been. That was why the elder Draculea had placed much of the power of his estates in the hand of his trusted steward before he passed away, leaving it to his son, Vlad. Vlad was not a stupid man, but he was self indulgent, for all he was a fine warrior. He had avoided marrying and bringing a rich dowery to his family for far longer than most youths of the nobel class. He was in his early thirties, middle aged for this day and time. And he was not doing his duty to his bloodline. He had no heir, either legitimate, or born on the wrong side of the blanket. This rather puzzled Stefan. His father had left a liberal scattering of bastards among the peasants, though thankfully all had been girls. A boy child might have been...awkward. And, while Vlad was far from sedate, he did not seem to have his fathers bent for womanizing. While Stefan approved of the fact that he did not go a-whoring, he was still surprised that the palace wenches seemed to be safe from his attentions. While his companions disported themselves, wallowing in the carnal delights of female flesh, Vlad seemed to be content to roister with his friends and vassels. Still, he MUST marry, and an heir MUST be produced. More than one, if possible. The infants died so easily these days... "I have explained before, my lord. It is your sacred duty to produce more of your line. Your family has always been dedicated to the service of the holly Church. To deprive them of more servants of your bloodline would be a sin. And, wealthy though you are, the family coffers would benefit from a fat dowry." Vlads scowl deepened. The count was a strikingly handsome man. He was tall, taller by a head than most men, and his body was kept lean and hard from the daily practice of his warriors arts. His arms were strong from swinging the heavy double edged sword, his legs and back from learning to move quickly in the heavy battle armor. His hands were large and callused from gripping sword, spear, and mace in countless hours of practice, his fingertips roughened from drawing bowstrings in archery practice. His hair was thick, falling over his shoulders in glossy black waves and curls that would be the envy of any daughter of Eve. His eyes were the crystaline blue of the sky in winter, unusual among a generally dark eyed people. These features might have made him look feminine, but instead they only enhanced his pure, masculine beauty. He had the face of an angel, with a lightly cleft chin, and a strong jaw. No, perhaps not an angel...unless it was a fallen one. The mouth was wrong for a celestial creature: far too sensuous, and often cruel. Taken all in all, he was the sort of man to lead even the best of women (poor, weak creatures that they were) to temptation. And yet he was unmarried at an age when many men were already expecting their first grandchild. This would not do. Draculea snorted. "So, you will have me tie myself to a cow, to produce whelps to carry on the name? And while I am at it, choose one who will give rich milk." Stefan sighed. "Marriage is mans natural state, my lord. You fly in the face of God by scorning it, inasmuch as you have not taken Holy Orders. The bible admonishes up to be fruitful, and multiply. I cannot understand your reluctance. It will not tie you down. You know as well as any how a marriage in your class can be. You have your parents for an example, if nothing else." Yes, his parents certainly HAD been proof that marriage need not mean one was bound to their spouse in

aught but legal terms. His parents had occupied the same castle, but they might as well have lived in seperate worlds for all they interacted. His mother had been raised in a convent, as was customary for many women of gentle birth, and had known nothing of men till she was presented to his father on their wedding day. The wedding night had convinced her that she wanted as little to do with men as possible thereafter. Unfortunately, this included the son she bore almost nine months to the day after she was painfully, and messily deflowered by her groom. His mother had her ladies, and he saw her every few days, for a few moments. Occasionally there were pats on the head, and vague inquiries about lessons and training. These died to a trickle, then ceased when he became a teenager, and took on the physical aspect of a man. When his mother finally died of some form of fever or other, he had not seen her for almost a year, and they had been living in the same castle. Vlad grew up in the rough company of his father, his fathers friends, and his fathers soldiers and servants. A mans world. Oh, there were women. Where ever there are men who follow the path of war, there will be women of less than pure virtue to satisfy their physical wants. Vlad had, of course, sampled their charms. His father had pushed him into bed with a plump whore when he was all of fourteen, and he ad acquitted himself well. It had been a mildly enjoyable experience, and he repeated it from time to time. Trully gratifying sexual pleasure had been found...elsewhere. Still...a son. Yes, he would like to have a son. A child to be raised and taught. "All right, Stefan. I grant you your wish. I will marry." Stefan beamed in relief. "Excellent, my lord? Who is the lucky woman you will grace with your offer?" He shrugged, sipping his wine again. "Oh, I do not particularly care. As long as she is not too damnably ugly, or too poisonous of temper. Young, I suppose, since you want heirs. Of noble blood, of course. A long bloodline, and a fat dowry would help. Have you any suggestions?" "I do, in fact. There is one very likely candidate I would like to offer for your approval." He rolled his eyes. "And who would this marvel be?" "Elizabeta Varga, daughter of Baron Ernestu Varga. While, of course, they do not have the illustrious history of your own family, my lord, they are noble indeed." "Hm. And what virtues does this woman possess to make her worthy of the Draculea name?" "Aside form her proud family name, her father offers near two hundred acres of rich crop land, a cash dowry of three hundred gold pieces, a full wardrobe, five fine horses, and a choice of servants from his own household to attend her in her new home." "Well, her material goods are acceptable. What of her person? Her personality?" "It is said that she is quite beautiful, my lord. She is just eighteen, all her childbearing years ahead. As to her temperament...I cannot say. I do know that she can read and write, a rare enough accomplishment for a woman, and one I am not sure is exactly pious, but in this case I think is probably harmless." "So you think I should marry her?" "I think you should consider it, my lord. Carefully." "Hm." He drained the last of his wine. "I suppose youd better arrange a visit to her fathers house so I can see if I will be able to stomach her. Her father would be agreeable to the match?" He bowed. "Her father would be most eager. She is the youngest of his children. The others are already established in life, and he wishes to push this last fledgeling out of the nest." "Write him, then, Stefan. At his earliest convenience...Beg his hospitality..." Stefen bowed again. "I hope you are not offended, my lord, but I have already sent a message to Vargas. He will be delighted to receive you and whatever party you bring. I suggest we leave tomorrow, and we can be at his home in less than a week." Vlad paused in the act of pouring more wine. "Dog!" he growled. "And how long have you been planning this?" Stefan mearly smiled. "Judas, you are a sly one. Very well, begin arrangements." "At once, my lord."

As he was leaving, Vlad called send in one of the footmen." "Any particular one, my lord?" He waved lazily, sipping. "It makes no difference." Stefan left. A few minutes later, a burly man dressed in the colors of the Counts servants entered the room. He stopped at the door, head down, waiting for his lord to acknowledge him, and instruct him. Vlad looked him over absently, noting the sturdy limbs and clean skin. He looked a little familiar. "Lock the door and come here." The man obeyed, and came to stand before the table where Vlad was seated. "No, no. Around here, by me." The man came around the table. The count turned in his chair to face him, and again studied him. "I know you." "I am Dmitrie, Lord. Mlord has been pleased to use my services several times." "Yes, I remember now." *Good skin, clean hair, all of his teeth. Hell do.* The older man worked the laces on his pants, opening them. Reaching in, he eased out his cock. It was half hard, but pulsing quickly toward a full erection. "I require your ministrations again, Dmitrie." Without a word, Dmitrie sank to his knees before the other man. He moved forward and began licking the flushed, swollen head of his masters prick, then took him into his mouth and suckled gently, listening to the appreciative groan. Settling in, he began to service Count Vlad Tepes Draculea in a manner that would never have occured to his illustrious father. To be continued... end part 1 THE REST OF THE STORY: This story has reached 92 chapters, and it still isnt done. The very thought of uploading all of those makes my head hurt (since I have already htmled them, and Id have to go through and remove all < P > marks and links to make them look right here. So Im just going to post a link to the rest of the story on my site, Scribe Scribbles Look for it in the slash section. Back to index

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Romania, The Year of Our Lord, 1460, a week later
Part 2 Note: My good friend, krss (a Romanian) pointed out that Nicoluiae was not a true Romanian name. At her suggestion, I am substituting Nicolea (which I like better, anyway.) Translations of Romanian terms at end of episode. Romania, The Year of Our Lord, 1460, a week later. On their journey, they passed through the land that he would receive in dowery, if he chose to marry Elizabeta Varga. Vlad was pleased. It was well tended, and looked as if it would produce abundant crops. He also spotted a few fine flocks of sheep, and some cattle. He assumed that these would be part and parcel in the bargain. That was how such things were usually done. He had a large household, and extra provisions were always welcome. Vargas castle was a good bit smaller than Castle Draculea, but well made, well fortified. In the courtyard, vassals ran to take the reins of their horses. The small party dismounted, and Vlad studied the area as the animals were led away. A group of people came through the front entrance of the castle, a plump, gray haired man in their lead, his hands outstretched in greeting. "Maria Ta Draculea!" He bowed deeply, and Vlad returned a polite tilting of the head. "I am honored that you will consider my sweet Elizabeta for your countess. Please,

Domn, grace my humble home." Vlad droned the proper response. "It is I that am honored that you will allow me the possibility of asking for the hand of your precious child." He glanced over the small crowd that had come out to greet the visitors, but did not see anyone who looked as if they might be the youngest daughter of the household. He did, however, see SOMEONE interesting. It was only a glimpse, really, of someone who hovered at the back of the crowd for a moment, watching the heavily armed men of Vlads entourage with something akin to dismay. He was a slender youth in a coarse brown smock, the shapeless garment belted at the waist. Vlad wondered that Varga would allow his household servants to dress so poorly. He caught the boys gaze for a moment. The lads eyes were large, velvety brown, and seemed to tilt just the slightest bit at the outer corners. Does eyes. He slipped back into the castle, and Vlad stared after him, letting his hosts fulsome welcoming speech wash over him unnoticed. Who had that been, he wondered. Footman? Steward in training? He was a bit old for a page. A stable lad or assistant to the gamekeeper or hawkmaster would not have been allowed in the house. He was led inside, and shown immediately to his room. It was, of course, the most impressive in the building. Ernestu had probably moved out of it only the day before, so that his noble guest might have fitting accommodations. "You will wish to rest and refresh yourself before the feast this evening, Domn. Please, ask for anything you need or crave. My servants are your servants." *How comforting to hear, Ernestu,* he thought. *For I have a definite craving for one of your servants, I think. Yes, I believe I need him quite badly.* When the older man was gone, Vlad spoke to Simion, his aide. "I saw a young man among the household, Simion. Tall, slender. Short, dark hair. Sixteen or so. Great brown eyes. Bring him to me." Simion smiled, bowing. He had been with the count many years, and knew him well. The master must be smitten indeed to call for the boy so quickly upon his arrival, not even bothering to pretend patience. The boy would find himself walking awkwardly soon, if Simion was not wrong. He rather hoped that the lad would be able to appreciate what a boon the attention of Vlad Tepes Draculea was. He asked about, only to be met with blank stares. No, no young male household servant of that description. Unwilling to return to his master empty handed, he prowled the servants quarters, and the kitchens. Nothing. Reluctantly, he returned to Vlads room. He found his master ready for his desired charmer. He had doffed his heavy travel clothes, and wore only a thin, white robe. He looked even more angelic than ever, until one noticed that the cloth, when he moved, molded itself to a very human and needy erection. When Vlad saw that his servant returned alone, his face darkened into a scowl. Simion said hastily, "My Lord, I tried! He is nowhere to be found. All the servants deny knowledge of him." "Im not blind, Simion, nor a fool. I know what I saw. That boy is here, somewhere." He didnt add, *And I mean to have him.* There was no need. Simion knew. "Patience, Domn. If he is here, I will find him." *Boy,* thought Simion. *I only hope you delight in men. Otherwise your life will be most uncomfortable for a while. Vlad does not like to be denied.* Simion continued his inquiry as discretely as he could, while seeing that his lordships party was situated, and their animals well cared for. The servants of this household, he noted with satisfaction, knew to give the utmost care to the belongings (material, human, and animal) of the visiting nobleman. But he still had no luck when the time of the feast had arrived. Vlads expression was nearly as dark as the somber formal wear he donned for the banquet. But, when he entered the hall, he arranged his features into a pleasant expression. He had little love for the social politics of his class, but he knew what was necessary. The tables were set up in a U shape, the place of honor being at the end bar. The ranks of the guests descended as one moved toward the ends of the table. Vlad was escorted with much ceremony to the place

at the right hand of his host, who sat in the very center of the upper table. The room was already filled with guests, standing behind their seats, and awaiting the arrival of the favored suitor. Vlad was introduced to them with a short, but excessively flowery speech. He replied with a few courtly thanks. Then Ernestu said proudly, "Now, Domn, my treasure, my Elizabeta." The young woman swept into the room, followed by a few nervously giggling maids, and made her way to the head table. Vlad watched her, with a wry appreciation of the chits sense of self presentation. This was no trembling, shy flower. She had a sense of her own worth. Elizabeta stood on the other side of her father, and curtsied low. The square cut neckline of her ruby red velvet dress showed the tops of small, high breasts, the milky white sought by all noblewomen. She had raven black hair, twisted into a smooth coil at the base of her neck and covered by a small chaplet of knotted gold cords. Her eyes, when they met his, were a bit of a shock. They were the very eyes of the youth who had caught his fancy: large, dark, and slightly tilted. There was even a touch of resemblance in the face, with the high cheekbones. But her mouth was smaller, where his had been generous, almost lush. There was something peculiar going on here, he thought. Being a proper daughter, she did not speak, because she had not been given permission to do so. On this, their first meeting, she was seated on her fathers other side. Later she would be allowed to sit beside Vlad, so that they might become at least nominally acquainted. As the entire company was sitting down, one last guest slipped into the room, taking a seat at the very end of one table, the humblest seat in the room. There was no mistaking the slender figure with the close cropped dark hair. It was the youth he had seen in the courtyard. *So...not a servant,* Draculea mused. No serving boy would ever dare sit at table with his lords. *What a pity. Ill have to be a bit more cautious in my pursuit. Still, he must be a very low ranking member of this house. Ill just have to move a bit more slowly.* Vlad kept up the polite illusion of interest in the woman who would possibly be his bride, passing remarks to her over her father, half listening to the replies. His eyes kept straying to the end of the table. The boy ate slowly, almost daintily, pulling his food to tiny pieces before consuming it. Rather than licking his fingers as most of the lords and ladies did, he wiped them often on a cloth he kept draped on his lap. When a servant tried to pour wine for him, he covered his goblet with his hand, shaking his head. Another brought him a carafe of water, and that he accepted. No one spoke to him as he dined. He was generally ignored, and he seemed content with this. Stranger, and stranger. Low rank, modest garments, abstinence, short hair... Possibly a cleric? Hm, that might make things more difficult. But not impossible. Vlad smiled to himself. If the boy practiced celibacy, it would be a real treat to unleash the energy he was keeping bottled up. Vlad said conversationally to Ernestu, "You keep a priest? I may wish to make confession later." "Of course, Domn, of course. The report of your piety prebends you." Vlad lifted his eyebrows skeptically. He observed the formalities of his religion, but he hardly had a reputation of saintliness, and he knew it. Ernestu gestured toward a bald man in black robes sitting a little farther down the table. "Father Mircea is always ready to perform his holy offices. You can generally find him in the chapel...or the library." He said the last word with the slightest hint of dismissal. Vlad sat a bit straighter, interest piqued. "You have a library, Vargas?" His host looked puzzled, but continued smiling. "Yes, Domn. Some very fine volumes." Vlad knew what he was thinking. The Draculea were renowned warriors. They were not expected to be interested in anything as soft as literature or learning, unless it involved the martial skills, philosophies, and tactics. But in fact, Vlads ancestors had respected, perhaps even revered knowledge. There was an impressive collection of books, papers and scrolls housed in Castle Draculea. They were sadly neglected these days, as the last librarian had died in his fathers time, and had never been replaced.

Elizabeta, eyes demurely on her plate, ventured, "We will have more, as time passes. Nicolea works so hard, every day..." Ernestu grunted. "Thats all hes good for." "Father, please. It is what he was trained to do. You can hardly expect him to be a warrior or huntsman with the way he was raised..." "You cant blame that on me, girl. I had no idea hed turn out so soft." From the sound of things, this was an old bone of contention between them. Vlad found it interesting. Till now Elizabeta had been the model of a meek daughter, willing to bend to every whim and command of her father. What was this Nicolea to her, that she defended him? Elizabeta was continuing. "What did you expect when you sent him to live with the friars? You knew they were scholars. If you had wanted him to be a warrior, you should have sent him as squire to a knight. But of course..." her tone was bitter, "You would have had to outfit him, and that would have been much more expensive. All that was required at the monastery was a few coarse garments and a pittance for his food." "Beta! Enough. You act as though he were your brother..." Her eyes now flashed up at him. *Well, this one has spirit after all* Vlad thought. "He IS my brother!" Elizabetas voice was low and hard now, completely different from the gentle fluting she had used before. "Albeit we were not nurtured by the same womb, we spring from the same seed, Father." *Ah, that explains it. A bastard.* Common enough. The situation seemed a bit unusual, though. From what he was hearing, it seemed as though Elizabeta and this Nicolea had been raised together, at least during their early years. Her affection was obvious. Noblemen often provided for their by-blows, especially if the mother were anyone above peasant stock. But very seldom was an illegitimate child allowed contact with a legitimate one. Vlad didnt think much of Ernestu so far, but he seemed to have done more than his duty for this child. He had apparently raised it for a time, then fostered it in a place where it would be safe, and learn a trade. Few would have done as much. "He reads?" Vlad broke in, and both father and daughter looked at him a little blankly. They had been caught up in a long running argument. "I admire those who make the effort to learn. I myself enjoy the library at Castle Draculea." Elizabeta, sensing a possible champion for her favorite, nodded eagerly. "And he writes, too. Not just copies, but writes his own thoughts. Oh, he has a beautiful hand! So clear, so perfect. It is an art..." "May I meet this artist?" It was a way to earn favor in the girls sight, and irritate her father. He dared not refuse his guest anything, no matter how it might annoy him. Ernestu sighed heavily, and beckoned to a footman. "Bring the librarian." The footman started down the table. With each step he took, Vlad felt his heart begin to beat faster. The servant passed the ranks of nobles, and each turned to watch his progress, curious as to who was being summoned to the table of honor. He walked all the way to the end of the table, and stopped by the dark haired boy in the rough brown garments, speaking to him quietly. The boy turned from his plate to listen, then looked up toward the table, his large dark eyes questioning. There was a dab of some sort of dark sauce on his lips. The summons must have made him nervous because, unmindful of his napkin, his tongue darted out to lick away the smear. Vlad felt himself begin to grow hard beneath the table. The boy stood up and came around the end of the table, walking up the space between the two sides. The room was very quite as the other diners watched him pass. Vlad could hear the soft pad of his slippered feet. At last he stood before them. His gaze flicked over Vlad, moving away quickly to the man who was his father in the flesh, if not the spirit. Then he looked at Elizabeta, and his eyes grew soft and warm. A small smile graced his face,

making him look even younger, and so desirable that Vlad ached. For a moment, he almost hated the girl who could win such a look from him. Then he looked back to Ernestu, his smile fading, and dropped his gaze. His voice was quiet, respectful. "You commanded my presence, sir?" "Our honored guest has expressed a desire to meet you." Ernestus tone said *though I cannot fathom WHY*. The boy again looked at Vlad, then quickly at the floor, a hot flush rising to stain his cheeks. The way the visiting lord was looking at him was most...disconcerting. *My God, he is beautiful* Vlad marveled. He spoke kindly. "Look at me, boy, and tell me your name." The youth raised his eyes hesitantly. The counts eyes were blue, and blue should be a cool color. Why were they so intense, so hot? He barely managed to lift his voice above a whisper as he spoke to Count Vlad Tepes Draculea for the first time. "If it please my lord, I am called Nicolea Calugarule." *Ah* thought Vlad. *So, Varga will not risk any of his estate by claiming the boy as a Varga. Nicolea the Monk, eh? I shall have to see if I cannot make certain that the name does not remain...fitting.* Translations: Maria Ta : Your Highness Domn: lord To be continued... Back to index

Chapter 3: Part 3
Part 3 summary: Vlads infatuation with Nicolae grows. notes: In this era, the common people had few rights, and bastards almost none at all. Thus Nicus plight. white-livered was a term used to denote a coward, someone reluctant to act like a man. rating FRAO warnings: m/m relations Vlads gaze roved hungrily over the young man standing before him. But he was a seasoned noble, able to conceal his true emotions when necessary, so he kept his voice mild, and his expression bland. Only the boy himself seemed to be aware that the counts interest was more than cursory, and that was only a suspicion. "The Lady Elizabeta sings your praises, Calugarul. She believes you to be an artist with the quill." Another fond glance at the young woman caused Vlads hand to tighten on his goblet. "The lady is most kind and generous. I like to believe that I have some small skill." "She says that you do not merely transcribe. You do not simply copy what you see, but can write to express your own thoughts." The boys blush deepened, and Vlad realized why when Ernestu snapped, "With the price of parchment these days?! He had best not! Ill not be wasting good paper on the meanderings of a white-livered stripling." Now the boy paled, and Vlad saw his fists clench at his sides, almost hidden by his robe. *So, you havent grown a thick skin yet, boy. The old warthog can still sting you with his words.* Ernestu was continueing. "You havent been up to such foolishness again, have you, boy? I hope the last beating taught you the error of such folly." Vlad looked at the older man sharply. Yes, servants were beaten for disobedience, and for wasting their masters resources. But this... Even if Ernestu were the sort who believed in raising his children by the

rod, it seemed a bit severe for a few sheets of paper. Nicolaes gaze dropped again, and there was a barely discernable tremor in his voice. "No, Marie Ta. I have not forgotten." His shoulders hunched slightly, as if in memory of the painful lesson. "I would like to see your work, Calugarul. Will you show it to me tomorrow?" "Of course he will." It took an effort of will to keep from back handing the other nobleman. Vlad ignored the older man. "When will be a convenient time for me to come to you in the library?" Again the boy was not allowed to answer for himself. "Any time you please, Domn. It is not as though he has an important schedule to keep. The scribblings can be done at any time." Draculae ignored the man again. "Calugarul?" The youth bowed slightly. "Whenever it pleases you best, Domn. I am there the greater part of each day. If not there, I am usually in the chapel, or the garden. I am not difficult to find." "Good." Vlad wanted to continue talking to the boy. Hell, he wanted to pull Nicolae down onto his lap and plunder that wide mouth with kisses, till he was gasping and sweetly squirming. But he simply waved a dismissal. Nicolae bowed again, and made his way back to his place at the end of the table. For the rest of the evening Vlad was a man half distracted. He responded to Ernestu and Elizabeta, and whoever else was brave enough to speak, with reflexive courtesy. But his mind was on the young man at the end of the table. When all the food was cleared away but the sweetmeats, the entertainers came in. The rank of seating was relaxed, and guests moved about, forming small cliques to watch the minstrals and jugglers. Ernestu himself moved, finally allowing his daughter to sit beside the man he hoped she would marry. Seeing his chance, Vlad laid a hand on Elizabetas arm, a gesture that was considered rather bold. He said, "Lady, I believe you miss your young companion. Why not call your Calugarul to sit here with us?" Her eyes were grateful, but she said, "You are kind, Count. But my father will not allow him to sit with me." "I believe, though, that he will not object if I request his company." Vlad raised his voice above the hum of conversation. "Calugarul!" Nicolae stood up again. "My lord calls?" He gestured. "Come sit with me." Whispers followed the boy as he made his way around the table, up to the place of honor. When he came near Vlad, he paused, looking at Elizabeta, and Ernestu questioningly. Elizabeta smiled encouragingly. Ernestu scowled, and indicated with a jerk of his head that Nicolae was to fulfill the guests desires. Vlad slid a little to the side, baring a narrow portion of the bench he was seated on, and patted the smooth wood. "Here, boy. The best seat, I think. You will be able to see everything, here." Nicolae sat tentatively. The space he had been left was little more than a sliver. He found his side pressed against the older man beside him. He couldnt put any more space between them without risking falling. Nicolae wasnt... exactly uncomfortable. He was just very aware of the other man. The count was so big. Nicolae, though rather slender, was tall himself. Few men of this age could stand flat footed, and look him in the eyes. But Draculea was at least a half head taller than he, and broader. No, not bulky. He was too well proportioned for that. But... solid. Very solid. As the minstrals began a tune about two lovers sneaking off for a moonlit tryst, Nicolae dared to slip a glance toward his neighbor. He was horribly embarrassed when he found that Vlad was staring back at him, and he dropped his gaze quickly. It was very bad form to look a superior in the eyes, bordering on insolence. And insolence was punished. But the count made no remark, and Nicolae began to relax a little. *He is a handsome man,* Nicolae thought. *At least Beta will have that. She was so afraid that her father would wed her to a fat, ugly, graceless old man. The count is none of those things. And he is rich, and powerful. Beta will be a great lady. Good. She deserves it. But I will miss her...* "What are you thinking of?"

The question was softly spoken, but it startled Nicolae, nontheless. He jerked, and lost his balance. He would have fallen, and he had a moment to think *No, please, not before all these people. Ernestu thinks me enough of a fool as it is.* But he didnt fall. A strong arm went around him, catching him and dragging him back safely onto the seat. Surprised, he turned to meet the counts gaze, purposefully this time. Those light blue eyes were once again warm. "I am sorry, Domn." "For what, boy? You were startled, nothing more. It was my fault for being so abrupt. But answer me. What were you thinking of, to put such a pensive look on your face?" It never occured to Nicolae to lie. "I was thinking of the Lady Elizabeta, sir." "Oh?" There was a coolness in the voice that was at odds with the heat in his eyes. "Yes, she is such a one to haunt the mind of a healthy young man, such as yourself." Nicolae blinked. What an odd thing to say. "She is my sister, Domn. I will miss her when... If she leaves." "I see." The chill was gone from his tone now. "You are great friends, are you not?" "She is the only one who has ever loved me," he said simply. His eyes grew wider as he felt the older mans arm tighten around him. Vlads thumb stroked the boys arm slowly. Beneath the coarse cloth he felt the slightly rounded firmness of his bicept. His outward appearance was a little fragile, but Vlad guessed that, unclothed, he would prove to be sturdy, and well built. He very much wanted to see if his surmise was correct. "That is sad, Nicolae." For the first time, the count used his Christian name. Nicolae could not restrain a small shiver, but for the safety of his soul, he would not have been able to say WHY. "Some day..." The hand drifted up, and rested for a moment on his head, smoothing the sleek, dark hair. "Someday, you will be loved. Deeply." "It is the fondest wish of every mortal man, Domn." "No, Nicolae. Not every man. Perhaps only the very foolish, and the very wise." As they spoke, the minstrals had given way to a man with a trained monkey. Noticing the two so seemingly deep in conversation, the man urged his creature toward them. The tiny monkey leaped to the table before the two men, squealing. The younger gave a start, and would have toppled over if the elder hadnt caught him again, laughing. The monkey bounced before him, chattering. It touched a plate of candies sitting before the two men. Then it dropped to its knees and clasped its tiny four fingered hands in an attitude of begging. Nicolae burst out laughing, along with the rest of the company, covering his mouth. Vlad nudged him. "Feed the supplicant, Nicolae." Having been given permission to make free with the foodstuffs that he had not paid for, Nicolae chose a glazed chestnut, and offered it to the little simian. It snatched it away, stuffing it in its mouth to bulge its cheek. Then it threw its hairy arms around Nicolaes neck, pressed its wrinkled lips to his cheek, and bounded away again. The company shrieked with laughter, none more so than Nicolae. Tears of mirth streaked his smooth cheeks. It was all Vlad could do not to grab him and lick the damp tracks away, then swallow the laughter with open mouthed kisses. Seeing that he was watching again, Nicolae choked, "It... Oh, dear. I fear my love has come. And... " He could scarcesly speak, "And I had so hoped for someone a bit more handsome!" Now the room truly exploded with laughter. No one, except Simion, stationed near his lord, noticed that the prospective bridegroom did not join in the merriment. He did not laugh, but he DID smile. And his eyes never left the flushed face of the boy sitting beside him... To be continued...

Back to index

Chapter 4: Chapter Four--Substitution

Child of the Night, Part Four The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Wallachia Substitutions Somehow Vlad managed to restrain himself through the rest of the evenings entertainments. It wasnt easy. The heat and scent of the boy beside him was a constant temptation. The Draculs had kept their primitive blood, with their dedication to the way of the warrior. Vlads first instinct was to simply claim the boy, tossing him over his shoulder and carrying him back to some private place to ravish. As he was guest of honor, protocol demanded that the other guests not retire until he did. He was reluctant to part from his new infatuation, but when he noticed the boy swaying slightly, and covering yawns that made him look heartbreakingly young and innocent, he excused himself. Hed beaten down his carnal impulses, but at a price. He was grateful for the fashionable cloak he had chosen to wear. When he stood to leave, he could wrap it around himself, and disguise the massive erection that thrust against the straining fabric of his breeches. Though it would most likely please Ernestu, as he would think I am lusting for Elizabeta, and that is what he wants. In his quarters, Simion moved to help divest him of his clothes. He was a little surprised when Draculea pushed him against the wall, and pressed his long body against him. It was, of course, impossible to mistake the iron hardness pressing against his leg, but it had been some time since his lord had favored Simion with this sort of advances. Vlad rubbed against his servant roughly, stimulating himself even more. Simion, without needing to be ordered, spread his legs to allow Vlad to move into the V, bringing their crotches together. The prince gripped his aides shoulders and humped against him. Simion felt his own cock stir in answer. Simion had his choice among the footmen and other sevants of the castle, but he had always found his lord and master a most attractive man. And, due to his station, he had never felt he could be the initiator in these encounters, so he had to wait for the times when Draculea decided to favor him. Vlad continued for a moment, the hot thrusts making Simion feel his knees begin to weaken, then he growled in frustration and pulled away. Simion immediately resumed the task of stripping the nobleman. "My lord is lusting tonight." Vlad gave a bitter laugh. "Aye, Simion. As hard as ever I have since my sap first started to rise. The boy..." His eyes narrowed, and he looked toward the door of the room, as if wishing for the object of his desire to appear. "Yes, Maria Ta, the boy. Shall I bring him to you? He will come. He seems an obedient lad." Vlad sighed. "Yes, he would come. And I could have him, but... I do not think he is ready, Simion. I suspect that he has not yet felt a carnal embrace. I would not frighten him, if I can avoid it." Simion looked at the floor to hide his smile. So, Vlad Draculea, Vlad, Son of the Dragon. You have found someone who can make you think with your heart as well as your dick, have you? I wish you luck with this one, my master. I think you will find the walls around his virtue both high and strong. Aloud, he said, "My master is most kind, to worry about the childs sensibilities. So, in the mean time..." He had stripped the older man naked by now, and his fingers gently skimmed the hot length of his rampant prick. "How may Simion serve you tonight?" Vlad went and sat in a chair, sprawling naked, and indicated the thick shaft between his thighs. "You can demonstrate your skill as a horseman by riding this stallion, Simion. Ride it till it is lathered."

Simion quickly removed his own clothing, knowing that his lord would wish him nude. Draculea loved the feel of skin on skin. And, though Simions lightly furred body was not the smooth one he had been lusting for, it would serve well enough for now. Simion found the small bowl of sweet oil that had been placed beside the bed earlier in the day, placed in anticipation of the boy his lordship had glimpsed in the courtyard. He was about to prepare himself, when Draculea held out his hands. "Come, Simion. I want to do that tonight." Again Simion was surprised. Always before he had prepared himself to receive his lordships staff. After the first time or two with a fresh lover, Vlad grew bored with performing the little intimacies, and merely wished to be serviced. Who would deny him? At his lords direction, Simion placed the bowl on a table at Vlads elbow. Then he lowered himself across the strong thighs of his master, face down, and spread his legs. Vlad dipped his fingers in the cool, greasy liquid, coating them well. With one large hand, he spread the buttocks of the man lying across his lap, and stroked down the deep crevice. Simion shivered slightly. Vlad took more oil, massaging it into the tender skin, He found the puckered ring of Simions anus, and began to stroke around it, kneading the taut flesh. Under his attention, the tough muscles gradually relaxed. "Its been awhile," Vlad said, sliding the first finger deep into his ass. Simion gasped, "Yes, mlord. But mlord knows he has but to command, nay, only indicate a desire, and I am his, joyfully." "An admirable sentiment, Simion." Vlad pulled back, then pushed in, finger fucking him. He worked another finger in beside the first, listening with satisfaction to the half lustful, half pained whine his vassal made. "Damn, youre still almost as tight as the first time I fucked you. You were almost a virgin then, werent you?" "With men, lord. I had been with women aplenty, but you were only my second man." "Um." A third finger quickly joined the other two. Simion winced a little at the abrupt stretching. Vlad was, indeed, impatient tonight. But there was a certain allure to his urgency. "You seemed surprised enough when I threw you on the bed." "I had never dreamed such a great man would desire one as humble as myself, lord. It was... a shock. But a most welcome one." He concentrated on the feel of Draculeas fingers moving in his ass, probing and twisting. This was going to be very quick tonight, but there was no reason why he couldnt enjoy it, too. Especially in the position the lord seemed to want. Simion would have some control over angle, depth, speed, and force. He should be able to bring Vlads prick in contact with that magic spot deep in his own bowels that gave such pleasure when it was caressed. Vlad pulled his fingers free of the clasp of his servants body. Then, feeling almost playful, he laid a brisk smack on one muscular cheek. Simion jerked slightly, yelping, but Vlad felt the mans cock twitch against the inside of his thighs. He graced the other buttock with a like blow, watching the almost imperceptible pink flush rise, and feeling the warm streak of wetness against his leg from where Simions swollen cock had begun to leak the clear fluid that accompanied arousal. He pushed the stocky man off his lap, and spread his legs even wider, slipping further down on his spine. His prick jutted up invitingly, long and thick. It, too, was drizzling with the glistening syrup of lust. Simion eyed it, licking his lips unconsciously. He would have enjoyed tasting Draculea, but that wasnt what his master wanted right now. Simion gestured toward the little bowl. "Master, if I may... ?" Vlad grunted. "Hurry." Simion dipped up a generous amount of the cool oil, and slathered it over Draculeas quivering prick. He worked quickly, but carefully, being sure to annoint the broad, dusky rose head lavishly. That had to slide into him, and he wanted to ease the way as much as possible. When he noticed Vlads fingers beginning to

thrum on the chair arm, he heeded the warning. Turning away from his master, he bent and reached back taking hold of the thick, fleshy rod. He felt Draculea spread his cheeks again, and help him guide the knob to rest against the loosened ring of his anus. Then Simion took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to sink back. He gritted his teeth as he was slowly spitted on Vlads prick, the engorged flesh filling him to capacity. When the head passed over that special spot in his bowels, he threw his head back, whimpering in pleasure, and heard his master laugh, a deep, chesty rumble. Finally his buttocks settled against his masters groin, and Vlad lifted his knees, setting his feet flat on the floor, so that his flesh-spitted lover was cradled. Vlad allowed him a moment to adjust, running his hands up and down Simions back, reaching around to toy with the other mans dripping cock. Simion trembled at the sensations, breathless. He had forgotten how full he felt when Draculea was inside him. Despite the intensity of the sensations he was experiencing, a smile ghosted across his face. There was that nickname his master had acquired, from a favored method of dealing with enemies. The act of piercing the unfortunates anally on sharpened, mounted stakes, and leaving them to dangle their lives away. Vlad the Impaler. He almost laughed. Oh, they dont know how appropriate the name is. Simion felt an insistant tug at his genitals, and knew it was time to begin. He braced his feet, tensed his leg muscles, and rested his hands on Vlads wide spread knees for support. Then he slowly lifted himself a few inches. He bit his lip as the cock inside him passed again over the tiny bump that was capable of giving such joy, but he kept his pace slow. He continued the upward glide till only the bulbous glans were still trapped in his body, then he began to lower himself again. Vlad groaned as his vassals body settled around him once more, swallowing his lust heated flesh. Simion might not be the pinnacle of his imaginings, but he was a solid, reliable fuck. He would give Vlad what he needed to be able to sleep tonight. Vlad closed his eyes and let the other man work his body up and down on his straining shaft. His hands drifted to his own chest, teasing the hard nubs of his nipples as he imagined that it was another who touched him. In his mind, a lean, graceful body straddled him, willingly taking his cock into honeyed depths, and long, artistic fingers roamed over him. Dark eyes, slightly tilted at the corners, shone down at him, and a wide, beatutiful mouth was softly open in desire. Simion, rising and falling steadily, glanced back to see how his lord was faring. Draculeas head was back, and his eyes were closed. Odd. Simion knew that part of Vlads pleasure usually came from watching his own prick spearing into the body of his chosen lover, seeing the way he stretched the submissive flesh. Vlads lips moved silently, forming one word over and over, and Simion nodded to himself. Of course. It might be Simions body in which Draculea would spill his seed in this world, but in his imaginings, he was fucking the young librarian. Well, then, my lord. I must see to it that your little lover does not disappoint you, at least this first time. He began to move more quickly, giving his hips a minute twist to increase the friction. Draculea grunted at the increased sensations, plucking roughly at his own flesh. He was moving quickly toward his climax. Simion began to fear that he would have to leave quickly and quietly when his lordship was done, so that he could soothe his own needy cock. But then Vlad could keep still no longer. Strong hands seized Simions hips, holding him still, and Vlad began to thrust up into his bowels. Simion wasnt allowed to move. He had to just crouch there, and accept the stabbing insertions. He didnt mind. Vlads prick rubbed constantly against his prostate, washing him in a continuous wave of pleasure. Since he was held firm, he could release his hold on Draculeas knees, and he put his now free hands to good work, masturbating quickly. He need not delay his own release to ensure his masters. In fact he came before Vlad. His sperm fountained from the tip of his prick, splattering his hands. He

groaned, his ass muscles spasming around the thick staff that had given him such pleasure, milking it. It triggered Vlads own orgasm. With a gutteral cry he jerked Simion down on his stiff cock almost viciously, forcing it so far up into him that the experienced man winced with pain even as his orgasm continued to roll over him. And Vlad held him there, panting, as his dick pulsed, throwing his heated lust juice into the snug, accepting back channel of his servant. They stayed like that for a minute or two, both heaving from their exertions. Vlad idly petted Simions sweat damp back, silently commending him. Simion dropped his head in an equally silent acknowledgement, and thanks. Then Vlad once again smacked his ass, and Simion stood up. He winced again as the now softening cock slid out of him. A little shakily, he went to the table, and poured water into the basin provided. He brought it back to where Draculea still sprawled, knelt between his legs, and gently cleansed him, wiping away the spunk, and traces of shit and blood. He would clean himself once his lord was comfortably abed. Once Draculeas genitals were damp and clean, Simion dared to press a small kiss to the now smaller, pale pink head. He felt a hand rummage in his hair with rough near-affection, and rested his face for a moment against the strong inner thigh. He had known from the first time that Draculea took him that he would never be this magnificent mans love. The most he could hope for was to be his servant, perhaps his occasional bed partner, and, hopefully, his friend. He was willing to settle for this, and was content. He spent his life trying to facilitate Draculeas happiness. If it would take this boy to ensure that, then Simion was willing to do all in his power to push the boy into Draculeas arms. Still naked, he got up and filled the warming pan with hot coals from the fire that flickered low on the hearth. He passed it quickly between the sheets, removing any chill that might linger, then watched as his master slipped into the bed, settling down for the night. Long years of closeness gave him the boldness to speak without being bidden. "Will you be able to sleep tonight?" "I think so, Simion." He reached out. One hand lazily caressed the other mans hip. "Thanks to your attentions." He yawned. "Theres no one like you for taking the edge off. Good night." Simion bowed low. "Sleep well, Maria Ta Vlad." Draculea smiled faintly at the mixture of respect and familiarity, his title with his given name, and turned over, burrowing into his pillow. Simion watched him for a moment more, then washed himself quickly, donned his clothing, and slipped from the room. As he made his way to the lonely bed that had been assigned to him, his body aching, but replete, he reflected that he was a fool to love such a man, when there would never be anything more than this in return. But as long as I have this, it is enough. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for awhile, finally drifting off to sleep with the thought, Boy, I only hope you appreciate him. TBC Back to index

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Ambivelance

Child of the Night, Part Five The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Later That Night Castle Varga, Romania Ambivalence Nicolae wished he could have spent a few moments speaking with Elizabeta after the feast, as he was eager to learn what she thought of her suitor. But Ernestu father made sure that was not possible. He

herded his youngest daughter from the room the moment the prince left, scowling darkly at his bastard son. Elizabeta and Nicolae had both been born on the same day, only hours apart. Ernestu still couldnt imagine what had possessed him to allow the boy to be raised in his own household. Perhaps his mother had been a witch? It would be nice to think so, because he wouldnt feel so obligated toward the boy. Some how Christina, his wifes lady-in- waiting, had persuaded him to keep the boy on. On her death bed, she had extracted a sworn vow that little Nicolae would never be thrown out into the world to starve. So Ernestu was stuck with him, unless he could find the boy a substantial position elsewhere. Nicolae hadnt had a very happy childhood. Oh, the actual abuse wasnt so bad, not compared to what it could have been, or to what others of his station suffered routinely. He knew that, and dutifully thanked God in his prayers. But it had been... lonely. Ernestu was indifferent, his wife hated Nicolae as proof in the flesh of her husbands infidelity, and the servants either couldnt be bothered, or were afraid of incurring her displeasure. The only ones who were kind to him were the religious brothers employed to tutor him and Elizabeta, and his half-sister herself. Elizabeta was the only mortal to ever express open, personal love for Nicolae. And Nicolae had to admit that between the two of them, his love was the greater. He tried not to fault her for it. It was the world into which they had been born, he told himself. The world functioned on a strict hierarchy, ranging from God in Heaven, down through celestial beings, to Man, to the Beasts, and down into the Crawling Kingdom. Those of a higher order were always aware of the gaps. A relationship, even one as benign as sororal love, was not really permitted between a high born lady and a bastard of dubious gentility. So he watched sadly as his sister swept out of the room, surrounded by her giggling entourage. She seemed happy. He was glad of that. He sat for awhile longer, picking at the plate of sweets before him. This was one thing he had missed in the monastery. The food there was usually ample (unless there was a fast decreed), but so plain. Nicolae feared that one of his secret sins was gluttony. He just couldnt resist the cakes, pies, and confections that Ernestus cooks turned out so steadily. Nicolae had no idea how charmingly young he looked, rummaging among the sugared almonds and candied fruit. Several of the women, and not a few of the men, watched him covertly. He was very tempting: so young, beautiful, and innocent. But he was in Ernestus disfavor, and no one was willing to risk that to try to sample his charms. A few remarked, though, that perhaps the visiting Prince would not be cowed by Ernestus disapproval. Hed certainly kept the boy close enough throughout the entertainment. Nicolae finished his meal, still refusing all offers of wine. It had been hotly argued in the monastery as to whether or not wine should be consumed outside the Holy Sacrament. Some advocated complete abstinence. Others pointed to the miracle of Our Lord changing water into wine at the wedding feast. Surely he could not object? Nicolae, as in most things, felt it was better to err on the side of self restraint. He hadnt seen all that much of the world, but he knew that strong drink could lead some men to act in a less than godly manner. He remembered a certain incident not long before he had been required to leave his sanctuary and return to the castle. One of the laymen who occasionally helped the friars had found the medicinal brandy that their healer kept in the still room. Nicu had found the man, drunk, on the floor. The proper thing to do would have been to alert a senior brother immediately, but... The man, some ten or fifteen years older than he, had been kind. He had treated Nicolae with rough good humor, making a few mildly coarse jests that had left Nicu blushing in confusion, and amused the man even more. Nicolae had stared at the man, sprawled on the cold stone in a drunken stupor. His tunic was rucked up around his hips, exposing sturdy, hairy legs, marked here and there by a scar acquired in his labors. It must be cold, Nicolae had thought. He doubted that he could help the man up and to his bed, but perhaps

he could make him more comfortable. He squatted beside the man and gently tugged at the hem of his garment, trying to pull it down for the sake of warmth, and modesty. He had been shocked when the hard, callused hand had closed over his wrist. The laborer wasnt as drunk as Nicolae had thought, it seemed. Or was he? Nicolae looked into blood-shot eyes, and the man slowly smiled at him. "Well, hello, pretty." he slurred. Nicolae said quietly, "Its all right. I want to help you." "Oh, aye, lad, aye. Ye can help me well." Nicolae froze in surprise as the man pulled his own tunic up higher, and dragged Nicolaes hand down into the wiry thatch of hair at his crotch. He formed the boys fingers around the thick tube of flesh that was just beginning to stir there. "I been wondrin when ye would come ta me, but yer worth waitin for." Nicolae shivered violently, and the man apparently mistook it for passion. Hed been hoping that the dark-eyed male beauty, who moved among the plain friars like a thoroughbred colt among a herd of plow beasts, would prove willing, and now it seemed his wishes were being answered. "Aye, lad, for you. Youre the prettiest piece, man or woman, Ive seen in dogs years." "No, please," Nicolae whispered desperately. "You dont understand." Now the mans hand was moving up under Nicolaes robe, running along the outside of his thigh. "Salright, m lovely. I understand. A sweet bit like yerself, locked up here with these dry sticks... Only ta be spected youd want a taste of a real man." Nicolae was horrified to feel a stirring in his groin. It was one that usually only came to him late at night, or else he awakened to it. He started to feel light headed as his blood began to pound in his veins, seeming to rush directly to that one point between his legs. The man was moving Nicolaes hand now, using it to stroke himself. The flesh under Nicolaes palm felt heated, and it swelled ever greater by the moment. Nicolae felt the other mans hand slip around to tickle at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, fingers crawling upward toward the center of his heat. He moaned, and the other man chuckled, a perfectly evil sound, "Thats right, mpretty. Ah, if ye only had a set of teats, yed be just about perfect." It was like cold water thrown in Nicolaes face. What was he doing? He tore his hand away, falling backward, landing on his bottom. The other man whined in protest, and started to try to crawl over to him. His penis was now engorged, thick and long, and a clear stream of liquid drooled from the head. It swayed pendulously as he crawled toward the boy, who was scooting away. "Come back to me, pretty. I wont hurt ye, I swear. Ill be gentle..." Nicolae scrambled to his feet and fled. He ran to the chapel, and crouched at the alter in supplication, then went to kneel before the blessed Madonna, lifting his hands in wordless appeal. He was in turmoil, more frightened than hed ever been in his life, because part of him had wanted to remain there on the still room floor, had wanted to allow the drunken, lusting man to crawl over him, and had wanted to find out exactly what he had meant when he said he would be gentle... Nicolae prostrated himself, lying on his face on the cold stone, arms outstretched to either side, and tried to pray. But he was too aware of the heat of his cock, erect and throbbing, pressed between his belly and the floor. He couldnt even manage a rote Hail Mary, or Our Father. All he could do was whisper, over and over, "Please, God. Please, God. Please, God." Eventually the insistent swelling abated, and his flesh cooled, if his mind did not. He got on his knees and spent the next hour begging for forgiveness for his lustful thoughts. But he did not dare tell the priest about them during his next confession. So far he had confessed them only to the Blessed Virgin. He hoped she understood, and wished that she would grant him peace from the images that had begun to plague him. Because he kept seeing that swollen shaft of flesh, swaying proudly, glistening... Nicolae shook his head, looking around the banquet hall. It was almost empty now, most of the revelers

having gone off to bed: theirs, or anothers. Past time for him to be abed, also. The Prince might wish to come to the library early tomorrow. Nicolae padded through the twisting corridors, ever lower into the depths of the castle. He often tried to console himself that since his room was beneath the dank earth, it would mean he was best protected if the castle was ever attacked. He would have liked a window, though, so he could catch a breeze, or see by something other than lamp and candle light. In his tiny room, which really wasnt much different than his cell at the monastery had been, he lit only one candle. It was all he needed for his evenings devotions, and to see himself to bed. Sitting on the edge of his plain, narrow cot, Nicolae read a chapter from his bible, choosing Proverbs He liked that book: such simple, clear directions for life. Then he knelt on the cold stone floor and prayed his rosary, letting the drone of words and click of beads soothe him, as it always did. He was a little ashamed that his mind did not, perhaps, always remain fixed on the Divine Mysteries as he chanted the prayers. In penance, he said the beads again, feeling his knees go numb on the hard floor, and feeling the twinge in one calf that warned of an approaching cramp. Luckily, he finished before the muscles tensed, and arose. At last he stripped off the rough tunic. He decided to keep on the smooth linen under drawers that Elizabeta had given him. She had been horrified to learn that he went nude under his robes. He had been near dead of embarrassment. It seemed that one of her ladies had gossiped that the order he had stayed with felt that undergarments were an unnecessary vanity. Indeed, Nicolae could see how the garments could be considered a temptation for the earthly clay. They were wonderfully sensuous, cool and smooth against his skin. He felt almost guilty for his enjoyment of them. Nicolae blew out the candle and crawled under his thin blanket. He pillowed his head on his arm and tried to sleep, eventually succeeding... to a point. He dreamed. Hed had such dreams before, and they were more sensation that sense, more feeling than thought. He felt washed by waves of delicious warmth, as if strong hands were stroking the length of his body. He turned on his belly with a sigh, and his now tumescent cock pressed into his thin mattress. His hips moved unconsciously, rubbing the sensitive flesh against the smoothness of his drawers. Nicolae hummed in his sleep, long body writhing slowly to the rhythm of his dream. He felt an aching emptiness in his body, as if something were missing, as if there was a void that needed to be filled. In his sleep, he buried his face against the mattress, feeling phantom hands caress his back, his sides, his neck. Unconsciously, his legs spread... ...and he awoke with a start, feeling the warm gush of fluid that bathed his belly and began to soak into his bed. He sat up with a cry of shame and distress. Standing, he quickly stripped off his drawers. There was water in the basin for his morning wash, and he rinsed the soiled garment, then spread it carefully on his one crude chair to dry. Nicolae turned his mattress, putting the damp patch on the other side, then started to lie down again. But he stopped, biting his lip. The dream was still too close. If he slept now, it might return. Instead, he knelt again on the rough stones, naked this time, and began to pray. He tried to keep his mind fixed on good works, virtues and charities. But for some mad reason, all he could think about were blue eyes... TBC Back to index

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Courtship

Part 6: Courtship pairing: None this episode disclaimer: Bram Stoker, Universal and Hammer Studios, and Oliver Stone own the rights. summary: Vlad begins to show his interest in Nicolae, much to the boys confusion and initial dismay. notes: Vlad is spending some time at Castle Varga to determine whether or not he wishes to marry Elizbeta Varga. Royalty of this time often did not have this luxury, as marriages were often political arrangements, set up with the two subjects never having met. rating: FRAO warnings: The description of how Vlad disposed of some of his enemies isnt as graphic as it COULD be, but it is DEFINITELY disturbing, and reveals his cruel side. Beta: Thanks, krss. Ill remember Maria Ta eventually. I know, my Moms name is Marietta, so if I change ONE letter... Castle Varga, Romania 1460 Vlad was an early riser, had been all his life. As a prince, he could have theoretically lain in bed as long as he wished. Being a practical man, in most matters, he knew this was not wise. If the people thought that their ruler was lazy, it might give certain factions dangerous ideas. Vlad cultivated the impression that he slept little, if at all. He arose, as was his custom, in the grey light that signaled the coming dawn. As early as he was, Simion was up before him. His servant was poking the slumbering coals of last nights fire into life, feeding it carefully. He glanced back over his shoulder as Vlad swung his long legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. "Good morning, Maria Ta Draculea." In the light of day, he was back to the formal mode of address. "You slept well?" "Well enough, Simion. It would have been more satisfying had I someone sleek and warm curled close beside me." Simion nodded. "Soon, master, I am sure." "I hope so, Simion. The boy was raised in a monastery. What might those sexless drones have done to his spirit?" Simions smile was arch. "They arent all sexless, mlord. I believe you know that from experience. I seem to recall a certain young abbot..." Vlad chuckled at the memory. "Well, he was an exception. There wasnt an altar boy in the province he hadnt debauched, and half the priests as well." His eyes darkened. "It was a shame he was a traitor. I really hated having to spear that sweet ass with hard, sharp wood instead of a good, solid cock." The cleric in question had been foolish enough to have dealings with the Turks, even hiding some of them in his monastery. He had to die for that, no matter his previous relation with the Prince. If Vlad had allowed him to live after such a blatant betrayal, it would have seriously undermined him in the eyes of his people. So the fair abbot, along with several of his Turkish friends, had writhed his life away on a tall stake, as thick as a brawny mans arm, set up in front of Castle Draculea, He had thrashed, naked, as his weight had slowly forced him down on the sharpened wood driven up his anus, while the man who had fucked him with such passion not a month before dined placidly at a table that had been set up before him. He had no way of knowing that Vlad, in his own way, and as much as he felt able, was being kind. The stake had been sharpened, so that it would pierce more quickly. The Turks had been impaled on blunt stakes. It took them much longer to die. Simion saw that he had led Vlad to a memory that darkened his mood, exactly what he had wished to

avoid. He set a kettle of water on the hob over the flames to warm, and stood up. "Will you breakfast before you take your morning ride, Domn? I have brought something, if you wish." Vlad stood up and stretched, distracted from the unpleasant memory by the thought of food. He hadnt eaten as much as he might have last night. Hed been too preoccupied with observing Nicolae. "Yes, Simion. I can eat." He slipped into the simple morning robe that Simion held for him, and went to the table. There was bread, cheese, sausage, and apples laid out for him. He munched his way pensively through the simple repast as Simion bustled about the room, setting the bed to order and laying out his clothes for the day. When he was finished, Simion brought a basin of steaming water, soap, a cloth, and the razor. Hanging the cloth over Vlads shoulder, he worked the fine, scented soap onto his princes face, bringing up a lavish lather, and began to shave him. Most men of this age, if not clerics, preferred to grow beards, or at least moustaches, rather than struggle with the daily chore of shaving in an age when only the wealthy could afford to keep fine, keen edged razors. Simion suspected that the religious did it as a form of penance, using dull blades to scrape the stubble from face and head. Shaving was not an ordeal for Prince Vlad. Simion made sure the razor was kept stropped to a hair fine edge, and he used a special soap, formulated by an apothecary to soothe his princes skin, prevent scrapes, and speed the healing of any cuts. But there were never cuts. Simion was an expert with any kind of edged instrument. He could either coddle, or destroy. With his prince, he was meticulous. Vlad was probably aware of the expertise and care, but he took it as only his due. He waited till Simion was wiping lather and stubble on the cloth to say, "I wonder if he shaves yet?" Simion did not need to ask who Draculea was referring to. "I expect he does, though that baby skin might give me the lie. In any case, it cant be necessary more than twice or thrice a week." Simion returned to his task, carefully working his way along the strong jaw. "I asked around a bit in the kitchens, since I knew who to inquire after." He said nothing more as he cleared a patch on Vlads cheek, daring to tease his prince. When Simion again went to wipe the razor, Vlad blurted. "So? What have you learned? Tell me!" Simion stilled him by again setting the razor to his face. He smiled inside. This was the only way he knew he could silence Draculea, and he didnt dare push it too far. Vlads temper was volatile, and uncertain, and he was very, very focused on the boy right now. "There is not much to tell. Im sure you gleaned most of it from the conversation at table last night. He is Nicolae Calugarul, Nicolae the Monk. Though he hasnt taken Holy Orders... yet. He is the son of Varga and one of his late wifes ladies. She must have had a bit of a hold on him, because he waited some years before fostering the boy out. Nicolae lived here, and even spent time with Vargas legitimate get, till he was ten." More speckled foam was deposited on the cloth, and Vlad took the opportunity to speak. "He sent the boy to live among those drones? Criminal." Simion tilted Vlads chin up, stretching his throat. It was a monumental show of trust for the royal to allow him to glide that glistening blade over the gently pulsing veins in his throat. "You must remember, my Domn, that Varga does not see the boy through your eyes. Much to the lads good, I might add. He could very well have taken him to his bed in rank incest. It wouldnt be the first time that a noble seduced his own lower born get." Vlad grimaced, thinking of his own father. The senior Dracul had more than likely tumbled a few of his own daughters among the peasants. Simion almost laid a tiny cut on his chin. "Please, Domn!" he scolded mildly. "Im sorry, Simion." Vlad muttered absently. Anyone outside his circle would have been flabbergasted. A prince, apologizing to a servant? It didnt happen often, but it happened. "The boy is older than you think. He was prepared to take orders and enter the monastery as a full brother.

But Varga learned of the gift that was expected, and called him home. The lad was very upset. He had his heart set on being a friar." "But WHY?" Vlad snatched another cloth and impatiently wiped away the last specks of soap. He allowed Simion to wipe his face with a damp cloth, then apply a cooling ointment. "Why would anyone with blood in his veins choose such a life?" "I think, Domn, that it was preferable to what he had here. He was not well cherished. Among the brothers, he received attention, even affection and praise. He is, to all accounts, a very bright lad. He might be brilliant, if anyone cared to nurture and promote his intelligence. Alas, that requires effort and expense, and no one is willing to offer either." He began to assist Draculea into his clothes. "Varga made a vow on his mistress death bed that the boy would be cared for. When it seemed he would have to expend a bit of his gold to keep the boy in the monastery, he had him brought here and installed him as librarian. This way he has a keeper for his books and papers without having to pay, and he fulfills his promise by not allowing the boy to starve." Vlad straightened his shirt carefully, looking thoughtful. "A rather cold life, I would think, Simion." Simion bowed. "I cannot help but agree, my prince." "A life he might, perhaps, be persuaded to trade for one with more... warmth?" "Very possibly." Simion smoothed a wrinkle from the butter-soft leather of Vlads breeches, stroking down one strong thigh, and chose his words and tone carefully. "If the persuader is patient... and gentle." "Simion," there was a touch of silky menace in Draculeas voice. "Are you accusing me of being an impatient man?" "My prince is, on rare occasions... impulsive." Draculea laughed. "Had you been higher born, Simion, I do not doubt that you would have excelled in politics. You can say the rudest things in the most civil, tactful way." Not waiting for his manservant, Draculea quickly ran a carved ivory comb through his long, unruly dark hair, arranging it as well as he could. He examined himself in the looking glass, a luxury afforded only to nobility and royalty. Cocking his head, he studied himself, taking in the strong, stubborn features, the light eyes, and the large, hard body. "What do you think, Simion? Will I lure him, or scare him away?" "Only ignorance and fear, or innocence, could hold him back, Maria Ta." Vlad shrugged. "In any case, I must see to exercising Lucifer before I go hunting my little lamb. I cant allow my best war horse to grow fat and lazy, any more than Id allow myself to do the same." ********************************** Nicolae had taken his meager breakfast from the kitchen and brought it to the library on the second floor, as was his habit. He spent as much time in the room as possible. He was not disturbed here, and the presence of the tomes and scrolls around him soothed him as the company of people never could. Nicolae pushed open the heavy window and climbed up on the wide stone sill, arranging himself comfortably with his back against one side, knees bent so that his long legs would fit. He cradled his bread and cheese in his lap and began his repast, staring out into the slowly gathering light. The window faced the east, and he could watch the sunrise. The horizon gradually lightened, going from dark blue, to pink, to lavender and gold. The trees, bare now of leaves, held stark black branches against the changing colors, like dark lace on a ladys satin gown. He could hear the occasional sleepy twitter of a bird from the castle garden, around the side of the building, and the stamp and whinny of horses from the stable on the other side of the courtyard he was seated above. Nicolae liked this time of day. It was now that he felt both most alone, and most at one with the world. Peculiar, but true. It was easier now to turn his mind toward God, and the Divine Mysteries. Although, he thought guiltily, he seldom did that. Like today.

As he slowly chewed the slightly tough bread, his mind wandered to the banquet last night. What a feast that had been! They didnt actually skimp on his victuals here, but it was made clear to him that every mouthful was a charity provided by his reluctant sire. That was a rather bitter sauce for any meal. Last night he had been able to eat without curbing his natural appetites, and he had been a bit greedy. He blushed now, remembering the relish with which he had devoured fish, fowl, flesh, bread, and sweets. Oh, the sweets! He closed his eyes for a moment, face lighting with the memory. How he loved them. Could he really consider himself a man when he kept this childish love of confections? Varga *father* sneered at him, asking on occasion if he didnt want a sugar teat, like they made to quiet the infants who were sprouting their first teeth, or being weaned from the breast. Nicu broke off a piece of the bread with a sigh, opening his eyes and dropping his gaze idly to the courtyard... ...and found himself gazing into sharp, light blue eyes. Prince Vlad Draculea stood in the courtyard, dressed in dark leather riding breeches, high boots, and a loose black shirt. An hostler was leading the lords great black stallion to him, the magnificent beast prancing eagerly, breath steaming faintly in the cool air. Vlad had been in the process of drawing on a riding glove, but he paused, staring up at Nicolae. ************************************ The boy was perched in the second story window like some casual faerie prince, amusing himself with watching the mortal world, his back to the stone, his long legs curved up before him. The cassock he wore was pulled up, showing strong, pale calves and surprisingly delicate ankles. Nicolae had a bit of bread half way to his mouth when they noticed each other, and he froze there. Vlad let his gaze run over the boy without restraint, not bothering to try to hide his interest, now that there was no one nearby to note it. He returned his look to the velvet brown eyes, and smiled slowly. When the boy licked his lips nervously, the smile faded, his expression growing intense. Not knowing what else to do, Nicolae finished the breads journey to his mouth, and nibbled at it tentatively. He saw Draculea shut his eyes, and a tremor seemed to pass through the long body of the prince. Then he snatched the reins of his horse from the stable lad and vaulted into the saddle. As he landed, he set his spurs to Lucifers side, jerking back on the reins. The temperamental stallion took immediate offense, rearing with a squeal of rage. Nicolae gasped as the huge beast slashed viciously at the air with its front hooves. The stable lad dodged to safety, narrowly missing having his skull split, but that was an occupational hazard. The midnight black beast plunged and capered, and Nicolae expected at any moment to see the headstrong Prince dashed to the cobbles beneath him. But it didnt happen. Vlad kept his seat as the animal writhed, doing everything it could to throw him. Slowly the beast quieted. At last it stood still, trembling, its sides damp and heaving. Draculea bent over, whispering in the flickering ear, stroking the sweat lathered neck, gazing up once again at Nicolae. He smiled again at the boy. *You see?* his eyes seemed to say. *I am master. Nothing stands against me for long. All can be broken, but I prefer a bit of spirit in my mounts.* He turned the beast, and cantered out of the courtyard. Nicolae watched him go, round eyed, and hugged his knees. "Oh, Beta," he whispered. "Are you sure hes what you want? We are alike in many things, but I have led an humble life, dear sister. I know humility. I do not think that you have it in YOUR nature to submit as such a man would demand." To be continued... end part 6

Back to index

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: The Suitor

Part 7: The Suitor pairing: Vlad/Nicolae disclaimer: Characters and concepts (except Nicolae, Simion, and minor characters) belong originally to Bram Stoker, Universal and Hammer Studios, and Oliver Stones version of the story. summary: Vlad finds himself more interested in his potential fiances brother than in the girl herself. notes: rating: FRAO warnings: Slash (m/m sexual interest) Romania, Castle Varga Year of Our Lord 1460 Vlad rode Lucifer long and hard, challenging his mount. Lucifer, as always, met the challenge with enthusiasm. He flew over the countryside, leaping hedges and ditches with scarcely a touch of his masters spurs. Peasants leapt from the narrow roadways as the Wallachian prince thundered past on his great black steed . A few cursed, but most merely shook their heads in admiration. When Vlad felt that he once again had a bit of control, when he knew that he would be able to meet the boy without throwing him to the ground and ravishing him, he turned back to the castle. An ostler came running to take the reins as he dismounted. Before walking away, Vlad grabbed the peasants collar and said quietly, "See that hes walked to cool him down, and be sure hes dried and combed. If you let him drink too soon, and he founders, youll learn firsthand why I earned the name Impaler." The man was trembling as the prince entered the castle. There had probably been no reason to threaten him: there was no cause to believe he would neglect his duties. But Draculea operated on the principle that it was always sound politics to let your people know exactly where you stood, and what you were capable of doing. It was still very quiet in the castle. Only servants were in evidence: Ernestu and Beta were apparently still abed. *Slugabeds, eh? Good. Ill have to make at least a show of attentiveness when they are awake and about. But I can devote this time to my sweet scholar.* He smiled to himself as he mounted the stairs, going in search of the library. *And I have never objected to a bit of a cuddle in the light of day.* He remembered the location of the window in which Nicolae had perched , and found the room easily enough. Vlad paused outside the thick door, listening for a moment. No sound. But then, how much noise did copying out script make, he reproved himself. He paused to run a hand through his ride-disarranged hair, swearing softly when he found that hed forgotten to remove his gloves. *The boy already makes me addle-headed. I can only hope that once Ive slaked my lust I will regain my fled senses.* he thought wryly, as he tucked the gloves in his belt. Once again he passed a hand through his hair. He considered seeking out Simion to have his vassal brush him down for travel dust, but *Simion, you speak the truth* he was too impatient. Instead he hastily slapped at his sleeves and ran a handkerchief briefly over the smooth surface of his trousers. There. That was as presentable as he would make himself. It wouldnt do for the lad to get the idea right away that Vlad was taking pains for his sake. As he lifted the latch, it occurred to him to wonder at himself for being so concerned for the boys opinion. It had never mattered to him all that much in a bed partner. He knew his own worth, and did not feel the need for others to reflect it back to him. But for some reason, he very much wanted to impress this obscure novitiate.

If small, the castle was well-maintained. The heavy door swung open silently on well-greased hinges. Draculea stood for a moment in the doorway, peering in. It was a good-sized room. Each wall was lined with shelves, which were loaded with books, scrolls, and neat piles of manuscripts. The only free space was the large window. It stood open, admitting a fresh morning breeze, scented by the late blooming flowers in the nearby garden. The sweet smell would be lost soon as the blossoms drooped and died in the coming cold. But now the scented wind was a delight, and it ruffled the silky hair of the boy sitting at the table before the window. His back was to the door, and his dark head was bent over the piece of parchment stretched out before him. Vlad entered the room silently, his boots making no sound. For a large man, he could move with stealth when he wished, and now he wanted a chance to observe the boy unawares. He moved up almost beside him, a little away, and studied him He was not noticed. The rest of the world had ceased to exist for Nicolae. He was so absorbed in his task that the roof would needs have crumbled on his head for him to notice. His eyes were intent as he scanned the tattered document stretched to one side. He ran one long finger along a fading line of script, lips moving silently, brows drawn slightly together in concentration. Then he dipped the quill he held into a small pot of ink and set the nib to the fresh sheet of paper before him. He began to write. Draculea watched the graceful motion of the slender, strong hand as it formed the careful curves, loops, and strokes of the letters. His script was meticulous and clear, but somehow... Somehow his personality shone through it. Elizabeta was right: it was a work of art. Mindful of smears and smudges, Vlad waited to speak till the boy sat back to regard his work. "You are at your occupation early this morning, little monk." Nicolae gave near imperceptible jerk of surprise, almost dropping the pen. He stood up hastily, bowing to Draculea. Even a noble did not remain seated when a prince entered the room, much less one as humble as Nicolae Calugarul. "Yes, Maria Ta. I was taught in the monastery that industriousness is a virtue to be coveted." Vlad looked at him solemnly. "But boy, isnt covetousness a sin?" Nicolae felt a wash of dismay. It was true! The Commandments themselves said so... Then he noticed Vlads smile, and realized with a start that he was being teased. No one but Elizabeta had ever done so. Not knowing how to react, he turned to the always comforting solidity of his work. "Maria Ta, if I could beg your indulgence for a moment... The ink needs to be set on this paper." "Of course, boy, of course. Finish your work." When Nicolae began to move the chair out of the way, Draculea said, "No." He urged him down into the seat with the press of a hand on his shoulder, letting it linger there for a moment more than was needed. "Sit. No need to stand on ceremony. We are alone." He moved a second chair close beside Nicolae and sat. He noticed that the boy shivered slightly when he said the last three words, and he smiled to himself. Yes, there was something there. Nicolae opened a small wooden box. It contained dust -fine sand, and he scooped up a small amount and began to sprinkle it over the wet ink slowly and carefully. Vlad watched the precise movements, the way the long fingers flexed as he sifted the grains over the paper. Nicolaes hands were very pale, and there was a dark smudge of ink on his thumb. Draculea imagined taking that thumb into his mouth, wondering if the tang of the ink would overwhelm the taste of the boys skin. At last Nicolae was satisfied. He dusted his hands, nodding. "Now it must sit and dry, so that the ink is properly absorbed into the paper." Not looking at the article in question, Vlad said, "It is a handsome effort." The boy blushed slightly. "Thank you, Domn." He gently touched one corner of the document. "It is an important work, part of the writings of St. Paul. When I have completed them all, I hope that my... my patron will send them to the monastery to be bound."

*He was going to say father* "Dont librarians usually possess that skill?" It had been an idle question, meant only to keep the boy speaking. But he bit his lip, looking away, and said quietly, "I was to begin learning that from Brother Teodor when I took my vows. The materials are so precious that they would not risk them on a mere novice." Draculea knew very well that Nicolae had not left his sanctuary by choice, but he pretended curiosity, "So, you decided that the life was not for you, eh? Too quiet, too sterile..." "Oh, no, Maria Ta!" He turned earnest eyes on the prince. "It was... it IS my greatest wish to enter the brotherhood. Ambition is vanity, and vanity is sin, but that is my ambition. I pray for God to forgive me for it, and to send me the patience to accept my lot in life, but..." He trailed off. "It is not easy to give up the dream of something you truly desire, is it?" Nicolae looked down at his hands, toying restlessly now with the little box. *This man is so strange. Why do I feel that he SAYS more to me than just the words he speaks?* Aloud, he said, "Dreams are... a luxury for some of us, Domn. What we wish counts little in this world." "It should not be so, Nicolae." Vlad removed the box and set it aside, then held the boys hand. "Why can you not join with your little brown friars?" Nicolae was bewildered. A royal did not have physical contact with a vassal unless he was receiving some sort of service. But then, a vassal did not protest a royals touch. The intimacy of Draculeas gesture confused him greatly. But he was being asked a simple question, and it was not in his nature to evade or lie. "Because my patron finds the required gift to be too expensive. He does not feel I am worthy of the expenditure, and so he calls me here to serve him." "I notice, Nicolae, that you say calls me here. Not home?" "This was ONCE my home, Domn, when I was very small, when my mother lived, and I shared my life with Elizabeta. But my mother died, and Elizabeta became a lady, and I was no longer fit company for her. The brothers welcomed me into their family. I was accepted there." His expression crumpled slightly. "I... thought I was. I had hoped I might remain as a lay brother, if I could not take my vows. I think my lord would have allowed that. But the abbot said there could be no exceptions." "Poor Nicolae." Draculea was stroking the smooth skin on the back of the boys hand, petting him. "Poor child." His other hand came to rest across the back of Nicolaes neck, just below the wisps of dark hair that graced the nape, and he rubbed gently. "The world has not been kind to you." The situation was peculiar, but the gentle touch was soothing. No one touched Nicolae, save Ernestu when he administered a cuff or a beating. This was so different. Nicolae found his eyes half closing, his head bowing to allow that strong hand better access. His voice was unsure, small. "Why should the world favor me, prince? I am low born, poor, a bastard..." "You are beautiful." Nicolae froze as the hand at his neck was replaced by Prince Draculeas mouth. He gasped as the older mans lips nibbled softly at the sensitive skin. A tingle shot through his body, causing his scalp to prickle, and he felt a stir of warmth in his groin. Draculea laughed quietly at his startled sound, pulling back from the delicious temptation he had been nuzzling to gauge the boys reaction. He looked utterly astonished, but there was a dawning awareness in the velvet depths of his eyes. Vlad started to lean forward, wanting to take his mouth now. Nicolae, his heart beginning to thud, his sex half hard beneath his cassock, stared into Vlads eyes. *Blue eyes, oh God help me, blue. Like last night.* "Domn..." "Hush." Vlad touched his lips lightly to Nicolaes, not pressing or demanding, though it took an effort of will. The wide mouth trembled under his own, soft lips pressed shut. Vlad stroked them with his tongue, asking silently for entrance, wanting desperately to taste the younger man. For a moment, he thought the boy would surrender. But then Nicolae jerked away from him, bolting from his chair. He stood shaking, hand pressed to his mouth, and eyes wide and shocked above the fingers. Vlad

was perplexed. The boy had been responding; Vlad had lain with enough men, and women, to know the signs. If he needed any more proof, the evidence was there, tenting the front of his robe. "Boy?" He held out his hand. But his tone was inquiring, not commanding. "I..." Nicolae swallowed hard. His voice broke when he spoke. "Forgive me, Domn, I did not mean to tempt you." "Nicolae, youve done nothing wrong. You cant help being what you are, and what you are is a strong, fair, desirable young man. I want you. Dont be afraid. Come." Again he beckoned. Nicolae was shaking his head rapidly. "Please, Domn, you dont mean it. Satan whispers to you, he whispers to us both. We must be strong." Draculeas laugh was a bit harsh. "Is that horned bastard whispering in your ear, sweet Nicolae? Shall I thrash his fork-tailed ass for daring to try to cosset you, my little one?" He stood up and reached for the boy. It hurt more than he could have imagined when the librarian cringed back from him. "Oh, Domn," Nicolae mourned. "You dont know what you say, truly you dont. This... what you ask for is... is wrong. It is condemned by the Holy Church as unnatural." Draculea scowled. "Rules made up by men who deny themselves the pleasures of the flesh, and believe all should share their abstinence. Men who believe that sex should be only for whelping more mortals, to add more souls for them to direct." Nicolaes expression was horrified as he listened to the older man. The words stunned him, striking at the beliefs he had desperately clung to for a bit of stability in his life. It wasnt so much that he believed them, but that he HAD to believe them. Otherwise, he had nothing. Draculea, if he had realized how stricken the boy was, would have stopped. He would have waited for another day, given the boy time to think, and perhaps come to terms with what he was feeling, what was happening. But he was, as Simion had said, an impatient man. He wanted Nicolae, and if the boys guilt had to be appeased, so be it. He thought he knew how. "In any case, why do you trouble yourself? Enjoy what I have to offer. Then, if your spirit troubles you, sit behind the screen and confess to that shaven-headed gelding who sat at table with us last night. He will give you absolution, and after you have recited the prayers he requires, you can return to me. But come to me now, Nicu." He undid the lacing on his breeches, pulling out his fleshy staff. It was eager and swollen, the first clear drops of the liquid of passion oozing from the tear shaped slit in the dusky head. "You see, sweet one? I need you." Nicolae stared, mouth dropping open softly. He swayed, and a tiny moan escaped him. Vlad moved toward him slowly, thinking. *The table? Or the chair? If its his first time, it should be in a soft bed, but Im damned if I can wait for that...* With a small cry, Nicolae turned and bolted. Vlad was so taken by surprise that Nicolae had the door open before he realized what was happening. "Boy!" Nicolae never hesitated, but fled like a deer flushed by the hounds. Vlad started after him, but the sound of voices coming along the corridor made him realize his state of undress. Swearing violently, he forced his near painful erection back into his breeches, lacing them again with a little difficulty, as the voices neared. A prince could do many things without fear of chastisement, but chasing a terrified boy through public halls in broad daylight, the evidence of his thwarted lust swaying before him, stiff and drooling, was a bit much even for royal privilege to excuse. As Elizabeta and Ernestu Varga entered the library, Vlad quickly turned the gloves tucked in his belt so that they hung in front, disguising at least a little the insistent mound at his crotch. Ernestu smiled unctuously. "Prince Draculea, we thought we might find you here. My lord is up with the very sun." Ernestu looked about, frowning. "Where is that lazy excuse for a servant? Why isnt he here to show you

the library? I would have thought theyd thrashed the laziness out of him in the monastery, but if they havent, I can..." "He was here, long before I arrived," Vlad broke in coldly, wondering why he was bothering to champion a tease who had just left him aching. "He left suddenly." Vlad paused. "Perhaps he was ill, not used to the rich food of last night." "Oh, poor Nicolae!" Elizabetas smooth brow wrinkled in concern. "I can get him something from the still room to ease his belly. Perhaps some ginger and lemon tea, with honey. He DOES like his sweets." She smiled fondly. "Or a few cloves. Oh!" She clapped her hands. "I know the perfect thing! A few drops of peppermint oil on a lump of sugar! If it doesnt cure him, it will make him forget..." "Beta, youre not going to run play nursemaid to that pup!" "But father..." "No! The idea, a girl of your station. Dont think I dont know that you visit him in the garden. Ive allowed it, but youll not be going to his rooms to tend to him. What would the prince think?" "He would think," Vlads voice was as hard and cold as steel, "that she was a kind and compassionate young woman, who cares deeply for an unfortunate boy." Ernestu flinched. Vlad really didnt want to let him off the hook, but it would be better to leave their company as quickly as possible, before they noticed his state of arousal, because it wasnt going away. "Now, if you will excuse me. I have ridden well this morning, and am none too fresh. I am not fit company for a gently bred lady." He bowed, ignoring Ernestus protests, and left the room. Vlad was tempted to take the route the fleeing boy had chosen. Nicolae was somewhere nearby. He had to be. But common sense and expediency won out narrowly over lust, and he instead went to his room. There a very surprised Simion received his second buggering within twenty-four hours. He enjoyed it heartily, but as his master thrust his loins against Simions buttocks, his hungry cock splitting his servant again and again, Simion couldnt help but wonder. *What on earth sort of game Is that dark-haired librarian playing with my lord? And does he have any inkling of how very dangerous it can be? To be continued... Back to index

Chapter 8: More
Child of the Night, Part Eight The Year of Our Lord,1460 Later that Day Castle Varga, Wallachia More "Simion, is it possible to be driven mad in so short a time?" Simion was washing the dust and sweat, the latter accumulated as much from the rigorous fucking hed just experienced as from the Princes morning ride, from Vlad Draculeas body. Vlad stood in the large copper basin while Simion poured water over his back, washing away the soap. The servant enjoyed the sight of the foam sliding off the firm, muscular rounds of Draculeas ass to stream down his long legs. He chose his words carefully. "There are only two types of madness that I know of that can spring up so quickly on first meeting, mlord." "And what are these two madnesses?" "The first is the most common, and it is a madness of desire. One wants the new inamorato so intensely

that a fever heats the blood, and drives away good sense for a short time." "It has a ring of familiarity. And the second madness?" "That one, Maria Ta, is much rarer, and far more dangerous. It can steal a mans sense, as well as his senses. It can steal his soul, as well as his heart." "Witchcraft?" "Of a kind, Domn, but nothing to do with Satan. It is merely love." Draculea snorted. "Love? Ive had love aplenty, and never felt quite so at a loss." "If you will pardon me for my boldness, my lord, no." "No? What do you mean, no, Simion." Vlad stepped from the tub, and Simion wrapped him in a thick bath sheet, beginning to dry him. "No, my prince, you have not had love. You have had lust, desire, infatuation, even a bit of friendship and affection. But you have not had love." "You speak like a woman, Simion." Vlad grumbled, pushing him away, irritated. "There are some truths that, perhaps, women understand more readily than we, my prince." Vlad scowled, reaching impatiently for a fresh pair of breeches, and handing them to his servant to hold while he donned them. "In case you have not noticed, Simion, I am not a woman." Simions voice was warm. "A fact of which I am well aware, and for which I have often thanked God, my prince." Vlad stood in silence while his vassal continued to dress him. At last he said, "It must be the first sort of madness, Simion. I doubt I am susceptible to the second." Simion shrugged, arranging a gold pin to hold closed the throat of his masters shirt. "You fault my view of myself, Simion?" "Would I do that, Domn?" "Not out loud, no." Draculeas voice was dry. "I am sure you are right, my lord. Doubtless this attraction you have for the librarian is nothing but a craving of the flesh. Satisfy it quickly, and have done with it. The next time you encounter the boy, drag him somewhere private and ride him, fast and hard." Vlad frowned. "But Im sure hes still untouched. It would be hard on him." Simion cocked his head, hands on his hips. "And this matters because...?" Vlads lips twitched. "Do you see, Maria Ta? Never before have I known you to worry about whether the stallion you chose had been broken to the saddle or no. What makes it different this time?" "I do not know, Simion," he confessed. "But it IS different." He sighed. "It seems the boy will require more courting than the wench. She seems willing enough, and her father is more than eager for the match." "Will you marry her, Domn?" "Yes, I think so," he said casually. "Shes young, healthy, of good bloodlines, and inoffensive to the eye. The only drawback I can see is her father, and I need not deal with him once the marriage is consummated. Shell do. I should be able to produce a child with her quickly, then my duty will be satisfied, and we each can follow our own pursuits. Ill offer today, and give her a day or two to prepare, then bring her back to Castle Draculea for the wedding. After I speak to the girl, Ill send a rider back, and they can begin preparations. It will be near ready when we return." "A bit hasty for a wedding of state, my lord." "Im marrying at their wish, not mine, so Ill not cater to their need for spectacle by parading myself like a prize bull. If the people must have a gala celebration, they can plan one for the first anniversary. We should have an heir to celebrate also by then." Vlad once again examined himself in the mirror. Simion assured him, "You are enough to win the heart of any maid, my lord." He laughed cynically. "I dont need her heart, Simion. Just her womb. And it isnt a maidens heart I seek

to ensnare." He checked the library on his way down to the ground floor, but it was empty. The manuscript Nicolae had so carefully copied out was still stretched in the sunlight, the ink near dry. Draculea skimmed one fingertip a hairs breadth over the lines, tracing the graceful swoops thoughtfully. As they had that morning for Nicolae, the sounds of the world outside drifted through the open window. Draculea heard two voices in the garden that lay out of sight around the castles corner: a male, and a female, both young. So, Nicolae. That is where you ran to, eh? Natures beauty, instead of the miserable cell I am sure Vargas has allotted you. Yes, good for you, boy. You belong in the sunshine. You are too pale. He went down the stairs, and Vargas met him at the bottom. He looked like a hound that has been recently kicked: wary, but still willing to lick the boot that bruised him. Draculea bowed to him stiffly. "Sir, I ask permission to offer my hand to your daughter, Elizabeta." And I should, perhaps, kill you for that look of triumph you sport now, you fool. "Dear prince, of course. I am humbly grateful. My dearest wish for my child has been answered by your..." "Yes. Shes in the garden?" "I believe so." "I will speak to her." He bowed again, so shortly that it was more of an insult than a courtesy, and left. The garden was large, and well tended. Most of the flower beds lay fallow at this time of year, but here and there a patch of color and fragrance bloomed. Vlad followed the murmuring voices to a great flowering bush, thrice the size of a large carriage. A hollow had been pruned in the branches, just large enough to hold a small bench, and those who might choose to hide themselves in the recess. He approached from the side, quietly, and the two sitting there did not notice him. "There, Nicu! How handsome you look." Elizabetas voice was light. "Sister, why waste these lovely flowers on me? They are better adornment for you." Nicolaes tone was fond, and Vlad found himself gritting his teeth. "No, do not dare to remove that! It pleases me to see you wear it." "Then, if it gives you pleasure, I will abide." "You are feeling better now, Nicu?" "Yes, Beta." "The prince said you were quite ill. What do you think caused it?" "I... do not know, Beta. It came upon me suddenly. I think... I hope I am over it now." "Prince Draculea made father allow me to tend you. He must be a kind man, though one hears such stories." This was fascinating. Vlad moved forward cautiously. "I am sure he is a fine man, Beta. Though you must understand that royals do not operate by the same code as you and I. Sometimes their acts are hard to explain, or understand." His voice was bewildered. "Will you marry him, if he asks?" "Of course, Nicolae. Why should I not? I would be a princess!" "You are already a princess, dear sister," Nicolae said warmly, and Draculea heard the girls careless laughter. To have such devotion, and to hold it so lightly... He cleared his throat, and there was a sudden hush from the little alcove. He stepped around to the front, and regarded the two young people. Elizabeta and Nicolae sat side-by-side, very close because of the narrow bench. On his brow, Nicolae wore a woven wreath of leaves and white flowers. With his almost other-worldly look, and his humble brown garments, Vlad thought he resembled one of the wood spirits of ancient myth. "It does my heart good to find youth and beauty expressing such joy." He smiled at them both, but his eyes

lingered longest on Nicolae. "Well met, prince." Elizabeta smiled up at him. "Are you refreshed from your ride?" "Yes, I thank you, lady. I was quite tense after my morning exercise, but cold water took care of that matter." Nicolae blushed beneath his pointed stare, looking at the ground. "Lady Elizabeta, I should go now." "Yes, yes, Nicu. I will see you at table tonight." Nicolae stood, slipping from the alcove, close to Vlad, and started for the castle. "Boy?" The voice was soft, but there was a hint of steel in it. Nicolae turned reluctantly. "Yes, Maria Ta Draculea?" "Do not go far. My business with the lady will soon be done, and I wish to speak to you further about your... talent." The boy paled, but bowed his head humbly and went to stand by the door leading back into the castle. Vlad seated himself beside Elizabeta. "Elizabeta, you know why I came to your home." It was a statement, not a question. "Aye, prince." She looked demurely at her hands clasped in her lap, but she was smiling. "Would the match be agreeable to you? I would not have a reluctant bride." "Aye, Prince Draculea, it would be most agreeable to me." Draculea tapped his knee thoughtfully, studying the girl. At last, rather curious, he said, "It does not trouble you, lady, that I do not speak of love?" "No, prince. Love is usually a luxury in unions of your station, and often for those of my ilk as well. Love would be... nice. And perhaps it may come, in time." "You are a most sensible and practical girl, Elizabeta Varga. What would you expect from marriage to me?" Elizabeta did not hesitate. This was obviously something she had considered long and hard. "The title of Princess, of course. To be housed, and clothed, and fed in a manner worthy of your wife. To be accorded respect for my station. If you will take a mistress, then a bit of discretion..." Vlads eyes widened. The girl was practical, and had a very realistic outlook. "And a child. At least one, to continue my line, and establish myself in the eyes of the people, the church, and the other courts of the land." "That is all?" "Well..." She cocked her head. "Personal servants of my own choosing, amusements. I would not wish to live like a nun, Prince Draculea, no matter how exalted my station." He smiled. "I think all these things can be agree upon." "Then it is settled?" "Yes, it is settled." "Good. Be sure that you receive from my father my entire dowery. He wishes this marriage, but he is a miserly thing, and will cheat you if he can." "I have no intention of that happening. I will send word ahead to Castle Draculea this very day, so that they may begin preparations. Begin gathering your things, and decide who you wish to take with you. Your father has said I may commandeer any servant I think will benefit our household." Beta brightened, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to her. "Oh, Maria Ta, please!" "Yes?" "Would... would you consider taking Nicolae?" She spoke in a rush. "You have said that you have a library, and he is so good at his work. He is so sad here, and Father will not let him return to the monastery." "Would that please you, Elizabeta?" "Oh, yes, please!" "I will... consider."

"Thank you, my lord. That is all I ask." Draculea looked at the proud tilt of the girls jaw. It may be all you ask now, Elizabeta, but I somehow feel you might be a bit more insistent if things do not go as you wish. That is not unacceptable. Perhaps youll bring strength to any child we breed. Elizabeta misinterpreted the interested look, and smiled coyly. "We are betrothed now, my lord. You may kiss me, if you wish." Draculeas eyebrows climbed. So, he was being given permission? That was novel. He wondered if the chit realized that he would have had her here, on the bench, if he had been so inclined, without worrying about being given leeway. *Let her keep her illusions. They do no harm.* He touched his fingers under her chin, lifting it slightly, wishing for the slight rasp of fresh barbering. Then he leaned forward and gravely touched his lips to hers. She closed her eyes as he did. A lady did not boldly stare into her lovers eyes at a moment like this. Thus she didnt notices that Vlads eyes moved past her to seek her half-brother where he stood by the castle. Nicolae watched the prince kiss his half-sister, knowing that this signaled the sealing of their pact to wed. His emotions were in a turmoil. He felt glad for Elizabeta. This was what she wanted more than anything else in the world: a powerful marriage. God bless and forgive you, little sister. You are an ambitious woman. May you be content with the bargain you have made, for I fear you may have been dealing with a devil. But even as he thought this, Nicolaes feelings toward the Wallachian prince were confusing him so that it made his head ache. Draculea was a great man, this was indisputable. History would remember him for his strong leadership, his loyal service to the Holy Church, and his ruthless suppression of the heathen forces who threatened his land. Nicolae now knew first hand that he was, indeed, a man, and not some high flown ideal. He was a man of distinctly earthy and strong appetites, one of which he seemed determined to slake with Nicolaes own flesh. This must not be allowed. Any carnal indulgence, even within marriage, that was not for the sake of providing more souls to worship and serve God was frowned upon, but this... It could be nothing but pure lust, if something so base could even be called pure. How could Draculea make such advances when he was in the very act of courting Elizabeta? Elizabeta, who was so good, and pure, and beautiful. And desirable. I suppose. The last thought was a bit doubtful. Nicolae could recognize and appreciate beauty in all things. Prince Vlad Draculea, for instance. The man could not be termed simply handsome: the word was far too weak to do him justice. No, he was beautiful, in a hard, masculine way that sent an unexplained shiver through Nicolaes very core when he thought on it too long. Elizabeta... Nicolae had never understood the physical attractions of women. He had supposed that was a gift from God, suiting him all the better for the life he had chosen. Now, he was not sure. Nicolae watched, and remembered vividly the touch of those same lips upon his own. They had been warm, and firm, and they had moved. Elizabeta had kissed him before, childish tokens of affection he had never dared to return, but it had been nothing like that. And there had been the hot, wet touch of his tongue, drawn over Nicolaes lips. How odd. Why...? Nicolaes eyes widened as it occurred to him what Prince Draculea had wanted, and he felt his mouth flood with saliva at the thought. He felt a flush of heat begin to gather in his loins, and almost moaned in despair. Draculea pulled back from Elizabeta. Her eyes still closed, she was smiling smugly. Oh, you are very pleased with yourself, are you not, child? He let the knuckles of one hand gently brush her cheek, amused that the rabbit believed it had trapped the fox. Believe that, if you like. You will be all the easier to control. He stood up. "I will speak to your father and formalize the agreement. Stefan will need to speak to his lawyer, draw up the marriage contracts. And you," he laid a hand on her head in the sort of absent caress one would give to a pet in passing. "You will have much to do the next day or so. This will be your first test of your ability to organize a household, Elizabeta."

"I will not disappoint, my lord." "I do not expect you to." With that, he turned and walked toward the castle, to the boy who waited there. Back to index

Chapter 9: Persuasion
Child of the Night, Part Nine The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Wallachia Persuasion Nicolae was waiting nervously by the castle as Vlad approached. He walked past the boy with a subdued "Come with me." It wasnt easy to resist touching him or at least taking his arm, but he did. The younger man exuded a mouth-watering scent, the fragrance of the flowers mingling with his own faint, clean masculine musk. Just inside the castle, Draculea stopped, turning to him, and said, "The wreath suits you." Blushing, the boy pulled it off. "A harmless affectation of the lady, Domn. I did not have the heart to refuse her." "No, the lady was right. You look most handsome in it." Draculea took it from Nicolaes hands, fingering the delicate blossoms before setting it aside on a table. "Id say you looked like the god Pan, prepared to frolic with his nymphs but you havent the proper lascivious look about you. We will speak in the library." He started up the stairs. "You can check on your manuscript." Nicolae followed him reluctantly. He would have much preferred that the prince hold this audience in a public chamber but he dared not suggest, much less insist. Draculea knew his feelings because as he entered the room he said, "You may leave the door open, if it eases your heart." It did, but not much. Draculea gestured to the table. "Check your work, librarian." Even his nervousness could not mar Nicolaes devotion to his work. He examined the parchment minutely, seeing that the ink had dried well and unstudied over the entire document. He picked it up carefully and took it to the window. There he gently blew across it, dislodging the fine sand that had absorbed the excess ink, sending it out over the ledge. Draculea watched the pursing of his lips, and felt the familiar tightening begin in his groin. When he was satisfied Nicolae placed the paper on a shelf, moving weights on top of it to keep the edges from curling. Finally he no longer had an excuse to avoid the issue that had brought him here. He turned back to the prince, folding his hands and looking at the floor. "It is done. You wished to speak to me, Domn?" "Dont you think we have much to say to each other, Nicolae?" When the boy was silent, refusing to look at him, Draculea sighed. He sat and indicated the chair beside him. "Sit, boy. I will not strain my neck looking up at you as I speak simply to satisfy some silly protocol." Nicolae settled gingerly in the chair next to him. After a moment Vlad laughed, a little bitterly. "I am not going to eat you, boy." His tone gained a little warmth. "At least not in the manner you fear. I see that I was too eager this morning. I have intimidated my chosen lovers before, but I confess that this is the first time one fled like a flushed rabbit." Still Nicolae said nothing, looking down at his clasped hands. "I knew when I first saw you that you were inexperienced, but I feel I did not know the extent of your naivety. How old are you, boy?" "This is my eighteenth year, Domn." His voice was small. Draculeas eyebrows rose. "So old? You look scarcely more than a child. I would have though you had no

more than sixteen turns of the seasons behind you. But I think it must be your life behind the monastery walls that has kept you so untouched by time and the world. Are you untouched, Nicolae?" The boy turned his head away, pink staining his cheeks. *Holy Mother, he is so beautiful.* "I will ask you this, Nicolae, and you will answer me, and answer me truly. Have you ever lain with a woman?" "No, Domn." His voice was clear. "Have you ever lain with a man?" Now the boy did look at him, a single, stricken glance before his eyes dropped again. He whispered. "No, Domn." Draculea sighed. "I thought as much. A pure virgin. Nicolae, Im sorry if I frightened you. I didnt stop to think that such feelings might be fearful to you in their newness." Nicolae blinked in bewilderment. The prince was apologizing? To him? But perhaps it would be all right now, if he realized how wrong he had been. "It is nothing, Domn. It will be as if it never happened." Draculeas voice was gentle. "No, child, you misunderstand. Im not sorry that it happened, only that I didnt have the patience to move more slowly with you. I was wrong to approach you here." He laid a hand caressingly on Nicolaes arm. "Your first time must be in a great bed, with smooth sheets and soft pillows. There should be perfumes to scent the air and sweet oil to soothe the way when I slide into your body, so that there is scarce any pain, only pleasure." Nicolae was trembling. His great dark eyes were bright, but with tears or something else Vlad could not say. The boy did not try to pull away, but his voice was faint and pleading. "Maria Ta, I beg of you. Do not order such a thing. It is a sin." "How can it be a sin to love?" Vlad put his hand against Nicolaes chest, pressing tight, feeling the strong hammering of his heartbeat. "Is it a sin for me to want to be good to you, Nicolae? To want to give you pleasure, make your blood thunder, as it does now?" His hand slid across Nicolaes chest, and he felt the hard points of his erect nipples thrusting against the coarse cloth. He smiled as the boy moaned softly, his eyes half-shut. "How can anything so sweet be wrong?" "It is." But Nicolaes voice was the voice of a man desperately trying to convince himself of something, because to believe otherwise would be too shattering. "Domn, even though I have not been able to enter the order, I have dedicated my soul to God." "He may have your soul, Nicolae." Draculea stood, pulling the boy to his feet. "It is your body that I want." With one arm around the boys waist, Draculea reached between them with his other. Nicolae felt a large hand cover the mound that had begun to press against the front of his robe. He gasped as Vlad rubbed, pressing his fingers firmly against the rapidly swelling bulge that grew there. "This. This is what I want, Nicolae." The hand at his waist slipped lower to cup and squeezes one muscular buttock. "And this, and what lies hidden there most of all." Nicolae whimpered, torn between a desire to press forward into the grip that had formed around his near fully erect member, or back to the fingers that were stroking the crease of his buttocks, pressing in even through the fabric of his clothes. For a moment he just hung there, helpless in the hands of the man who had come to marry his sister. It was the thought of Beta that broke the sensual spell under which he was falling. He gasped, "No!" and tore himself away from Draculeas embrace, stumbling to the door. Draculea watched, dumbfounded, as once again the boy fled, almost in tears. "Damnation," he whispered, dropping back into the chair. *He wanted me, I know he did. Hell, his prick was like an iron bar, just taken from the forge. Given a moment I think he would have fucked himself on my hand. And then, pfft! He runs. Perhaps I am not the only mad one here.* Luckily this time his own need had not progressed to the point of painfulness, but it was still so frustrating. More than ever he was determined that he would have the boy. Nicolae would simply have to be helped over his inhibitions. But even as he thought about the delights to come, when he would finally be able to do as he pleased with that long, pale body, Draculea was thinking of how it would be to wake

each morning and see a gentle face close to his own, sweet, and slack with sleep. He imagined hours spent in a quiet room, watching a dark head bent studiously over a slowly moving quill as it spun out graceful script. *Simion, I think you were right. I lied to the boy. It isnt just his flesh I crave. I want his heart, too, and yes, I want his soul! You have so many, God; you can spare me this one small boy. And if you will not give him to me willingly...* Vlad scowled at the ceiling. "Curse you! I will take him." This time Nicolae ran directly to the chapel. He bruised his knees throwing himself down before the statue of the Blessed Virgin, lips moving in prayer even as he winced at the pain. Father Mircea, contemplating a holy book in his usual place near the altar, watched the boy as he swayed, his long, slim fingers quickly working the beads on his rosary. What had the child done now? Or, rather, what did he think he had done? Father Mircea sighed, shaking his head. Poor Nicolae. Whoever had been responsible for the boys religious training had given him all the fear and guilt, and none of the joy. Mircea knew that there was no real evil in the lad, but he was constantly begging forgiveness of the Divine Powers for some petty offense with which most of the world would scarcely trouble themselves. In truth, Mircea was secretly glad that Ernestu had refused to allow the boy to take his vows. Nicolae, he was sure, did not have a true vocation, no matter how devoutly the boy wished to believe it was so. Nicolae wanted the monastic life for the security and serenity it offered. His short life had been filled with uncertainty, and he knew that the brotherhood was one place where he would be assured continuity. He could spend his whole life there among people who knew him, and would support him, spiritually and otherwise. He felt that his freedom and the chance to have an intimate relationship with another were reasonable sacrifices for this. Mircea shifted enough to get a look at Nicolaes face, and frowned. This was not just a common bout of self-castigation. He could tell by the strained look on the boys face that he had a serious problem on his mind. Heeding his calling, he got up and went to where his favorite parishioner knelt. When he touched Nicolaes shoulder the young man started, turning anxious eyes on him. Mircea said gently, "Nicolae, you are troubled? Do you need to confess?" When the boy nodded mutely, Mircea helped him to his feet and urged him toward the confessional. They each entered on their own side, and sat. Mircea slid the panel open, exposing the carved screen behind which Nicolae sat. Immediately the boy murmured, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession." "So long?" Mircea meant it to be a gentle teasing, but the boy took him seriously. "Yes, Father. Sloth, that is my first sin. I should have been here before I went to bed last night, but I preferred to sleep." "I think we can pass over that, my son." "But I am guilty of gluttony also, Father. At the feast, I ate far more than I needed. The excess could have fed some poor soul well." "Again I think you are too hard on yourself, boy. But I will consider it when I give you penance. Anything else?" His voice lowered. "I have had disrespectful thoughts about my patron. I question his motives for offering the lady Elizabeta in marriage to Prince Draculea." This interested Mircea. "You do not think it a fit match?" "I do not think he loves her, Father." There was a pause. His voice had a curious timbre as he said, "I know he does not." "Well, boy, you must see that in marriages of this class, love often comes at last rather than at first. You must see what a blessing such a union would be for Elizabeta. She is a good girl and could do much for the people of the land in such a position." "Yes, Father. I just want her to be happy."

"An admirable sentiment, son. But that isnt all, is it? I sense that something else still weighs on your heart. Here you can confess all, Nicolae. Tell me." For a long moment there was silence. Mircea began to think that the boy would not respond. He was almost ready to give him absolution, when the low voice floated through the grill. "I have had impure thoughts." Mircea smiled to himself. *Well, boy, its about time! I was wondering when youd begin to notice the wenches about the castle. Ive had enough of them confess their dreams of you to me.* Aloud he said, "Go on." "I... I had a dream. When I awoke, I had... soiled myself." Unseen, Father Mircea covered a smile. *No, Mircea. This is serious to the boy. How can I make him see that this is the way of the world?* Trying to keep his voice steady, he said solemnly. "Did you touch yourself, Nicolae?" "Oh, no, Father!" he said hastily. "I see. You understand, it wouldnt necessarily have been a bad thing if you had?" Utter astonishment. "It wouldnt?" "No. God gives you these urges, and he has given you a means to satisfy them without corrupting an innocent girl. It is only a very tiny sin to pleasure yourself, Nicolae, despite what any may have told you." "Oh." Such dawning wonder in that one word. Mircea bit his sleeve, stifling a laugh. *Oh, lad! I know what will occupy you the next time you seek your bed!* But Nicolae was speaking again, and his voice was even more serious. "Father, there is more." Mircea sobered. "Tell me." "I... I did nothing. I do not think I did anything, but... But I must have. Otherwise he would not have... have approached me in that manner." Mirceas voice was sharp. "Who, Nicolae?" Mircea had his suspicions. He served Ernestu Varga as his spiritual guide and knew well enough that the mans feet had for many years been set firmly on the path to Hell. Unlike many of his fellow priests, Mircea did not believe that sin could be bought off with purchased indulgences. He believed that only true repentance could wipe away the stain, and Ernestu Varga had never truly repented of anything, unless it had somehow caused him discomfort. When the boy was silent, Mircea said gently, "Nicolae, you told me you have not lain with a man." "I told no lie, Father. He... touched me. And I felt ashamed, but it... it was so... " Words failed him, and he did not know how to express what had happened. " ...Pleasant?" The boys tone was so lost and aching that Mircea felt his heart swell in compassion. Mircea had voluntarily given up pleasures of the flesh, and he followed his vow of chastity and celibacy with a willing heart. But the boy had made no such commitment, and still he tortured himself. One thing, now Mircea was convinced that the man Nicolae referred to was not his father. If it had been Ernestu, the boys horror and terror of damnation would most likely have reduced him to gibbering. Remembering how the visiting prince had called Nicolae forward then kept him close by for the remainder of the evening, Mircea thought he could guess who had tried to seduce his young friend. *Well, Prince, can I blame you? He is good, and fair. His very purity would draw even the strongest. But he is still so much a child. But again...* Mirceas eyes narrowed in thought. *If you were to take him under your patronage his life could not help but improve. At least he would be away from the whoremonger who sired him.* Knowing he would not get an answer, he still had to ask again. "Nicolae, can you not tell me who has tempted you?" "Father, I am not the keeper of his soul. He must find his own absolution, in his own time." Mircea nodded. Hed never liked the directive to get each confessor to incriminate others. *We teach our

children not to bear tales, and then try to coax them into this.* "Fair enough, son. We will concern ourselves with you. Is that all you have to tell me?" "Yes, Father." "Very well. Your sins are not great, Nicolae. Be of good cheer. I think two more tellings of the beads before you sleep tonight will satisfy the Lord of your repentance." He made the sign of the cross, speaking the ancient Latin phrases that absolved the boy of his sins, and listened to the relieved and grateful response. Suddenly the curtain was whipped back from the other side of the booth. The light spilling in let Mircea see the pale profile of the boy lifted in shock. He heard Ernestu growl, "Finally!" Nicolae was jerked from the confessional with a small cry, and Mircea knew that Ernestu had taken a bruising grip on the boys arm to drag him along. Mircea burst angrily from his place in time to see the lord of Castle Varga dragging his bastard son up the aisle. "Varga!" The man stopped near the door, looking back impatiently. "You would profane the sacred office of penance?" "He was through, Father. I heard so myself. Remarkably lenient you are, these days." Nicolae had turned as pale as milk at the knowledge that his father had heard his confession. "And while you see to heavenly matters I have business here on earth to attend to. This..." He shook the cringing boy roughly. "I have been cursed with this responsibility. I see no reason why he should not be turned to my advantage, as I have seen to his shelter and upkeep all these years. And it seems that he has not the sense to realize what is best for all, so it must be driven into him by more than words." With that, he dragged his son from the chapel. Father Mircea, himself shaken, knelt and offered up prayers for the boy. Back to index

Chapter 10: Coercion

Child of the Night, Part Ten The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Wallachia Coercion Nicolae made no protest as Varga dragged him through the castle, headed for his study. The servants or lingering guests who saw the hurrying pair stayed back. They could tell well enough by the anger on Ernestus face, and the fear on Nicolaes, what was going to happen. In Ernestus private sanctum, Nicolae was finally released with a shove. Ernestu growled, "Was what you told the priest true? Did Prince Vlad express a special interest in you? And I dont mean did he ask after your work, boy. Has he handled you? Tried to bed you?" "Yes, Domn." "And you refused him?" "Yes, Domn." Nicolae had known that he would be struck sometime before this audience ended, but he was still not prepared for the vicious back hand that caught him across the face. He didnt cry out, knowing that would only earn him another blow. Neither did he try to wipe away the thin trickle of blood that ran from the small cut Ernestus signet ring had left on his rapidly bruising cheek. Trying to clean himself before Ernestu directed him to was a sure way of increasing his wrath. "Fool!" hissed Ernestu. "The richest, most powerful man in all of Wallachia lusts after you, and you are stupid enough to deny him?" He struck the boy again, the blow landing in the same spot, inflicting another

cut. "Domn, what have I done to displease you?" Nicolaes bewilderment seemed to enflame Varga. "What have you done? Only endangered my plans with your selfish priggishness. Didnt I instruct all the household that Vlad Draculea was to have everything, everything, he desired while he was here? Didnt you realize that included any sexual favors he might fancy?" "But Domn, what he asked was a sin." Ernestu threw up his hands in exasperation. "A sin! And I suppose that betraying your father is not a sin." Nicolae stared at him. Finally, his voice low, he said, "You have never named yourself my father before. Why do you now?" Eyes blazing, Ernestu raised his hand again, this time clenched into a fist. Nicolae flinched, shutting his eyes, wondering if his nose would be broken again. But Ernestu saw the bruise and cuts he had already inflicted and hesitated. What was he doing, marking the boy where it would be clearly visible? The prince might not be interested in damaged goods. "Why did you turn him down, stupid boy? He is wealthy, and powerful. He might have given you a rich gift. Princes often reward their favorites, even with titles and gifts of land." Secretly, Ernestu did not believe Nicolae could earn any such rewards, but the thought might prove an incentive. "I want nothing. You know that I am willing even now to take a vow of poverty." "Huh. It would be precious little change for you, boy. If not for the possibility of gold, then why not for the pleasure? Draculea is a handsome man." "Domn!" It was almost a wail. "He is a man!" "Pfft! Boy, do you expect me to believe you lived all those years among those tonsured fools, and none of them lifted your cassock even once? I wont believe it. What with no women, you would be the softest piece theyd have about. I would be surprised if you did not have a staff down your throat or up your arse every night, and twice on Sundays." Nicolae, both shocked and hurt, gasped at the crudity. "Domn, you mustnt speak so of the Holy Brothers!" "And now you will dictate my very speech?" He shoved Nicolae up against the wall, twisting his hand in his dark hair. "Listen to me well, bastard! I want this union for Elizabeta. Draculea has spoken for her, and usually that would be enough. But he is a prince, and princes make the laws. Nothing is final till the marriage contract is signed, and that will not be till just before the ceremony, at Castle Draculea. Till then, he must be cossetted and pampered. He must have everything his heart desires. Every passing whim and fancy must be catered to. You will do what you must to see to this." "I... I cant. You ask too much." "I ask my due!" Ernestu roared, bouncing Nicolaes head back against the rough stone. "For eighteen years I have seen that you had food in your belly, clothes on your back, and a roof over your head. I saw to it that you learned the religion you now would use as an excuse to thwart me. I even arranged for you to learn a trade, that you might not starve when I am gone." Ernestu conveniently overlooked the fact that what he had done was nothing more than common Christian decency, and that Nicolae would never need fear want if Ernestu was willing to acknowledge him, and make provisions for him. "You owe me your obedience, boy!" There was still a flicker of defiance in Nicolaes eyes, and Ernestu used his final weapon. His voice became more quiet. "If you will not do it for me, do it for Elizabeta." "Elizabeta?" "You want her to be happy? If Prince Draculea breaks the betrothal..." Ernestu shrugged. Nicolaes shoulders slumped, and Ernestu felt a stab of triumph. Surely the boy would acquiesce now. But Nicolae said, in a meek voice, "I cannot, Domn."

Ernestu trembled with rage. His hands itched to go around the boys throat, but murder would not serve his purpose. He doubted that Prince Draculea would be best pleased by a cooling corpse. No, the boy had to be warm, and alive, and beaten into submission. "Nicolae, bring me the rod." Nicolae had been white before, now he seemed almost green. "Domn, please." he whispered. "Get it, boy, or I add stripes for your recalcitrance." Nicolae swayed, then walked slowly to the cabinet set against the wall. He had not done this in years. The rod was Ernestus way of punishing particularly severe transgressions in his household, and Nicolae had felt it across his back on a regular basis before he went to live with the friars. But since his return his punishments had been limited to cuffs and kicks. He had hoped that he was safe from this particular bit of Hell. He opened the cabinet, and found the rod in its old place, hanging on the inside of the door. It was about as long as his arm, and made of springy willow, peeled clean. At its base it was thicker than his thumb, and it tapered to half the breadth of his smallest finger at its tip. It would have been a fearsome enough instrument of punishment if that was all. But Ernestu had wrapped it in thin, brazen wires. Nicolaes flesh crawled at having to touch it, but he had no choice. As he lifted it down from its place, he thought that the bare patches of wood peeking through the brassy strands seemed darker. Blood stained, even when it was quickly removed. His steps faltered as he brought it back to where Varga stood. Knowing the ritual required, he turned his back on the man and knelt. Then he bowed his head, and lifted the rod in the air over his head, holding it flat on his palms, like an offering. Ernestu took it from his hands, then walked to a table. There he poured himself a glass of wine, and said, "Make yourself ready." As he sipped, the boy silently loosened the ties that fastened the neck of his robe, and slipped it off his shoulders. It fell till it was caught by the cord about his waist, leaving his upper body naked. Then he clasped his hands behind his neck, bowed his head, and waited. Ernestu eyed him as he finished his wine. He was surprised to see a pattern of old scars across the boys back, white against cream. He hadnt thought he had marked him so deeply when he had punished him as a child. This wasnt good. There was no telling how tolerant Draculea was of physical imperfection. No, hed have to give the boy his medicine another way. "Not like that, dolt. Cover yourself." Nicolae obeyed, again silently. When the robe was in place, Ernestu said, "On your hands and knees, and lift the robe up, tuck it in your belt." The boy shuddered. His voice was pleading, "Domn, please..." Ernestu moved swiftly to cuff him on the back of the head. "Do as I say! And take down those fancy drawers I know Elizabeta gave you. After all, youd hardly want to ruin my daughters gift, would you?" Shaking in apprehension, Nicolae lifted his robe and tucked the hem under his belt, so it would stay out of the way. He unlaced his drawers and lowered them to puddle around his knees. Then he assumed the kneeling position Ernestu had demanded. Nicolae kept his legs tightly together, hoping that this would shield his most tender parts. He remembered his other beatings well, knew what to expect, and he was afraid. He wasnt a physical coward, but he knew that such an instrument in the hands of someone vicious could effectively geld a man. He closed his eyes as he heard the swishes that told him Ernestu was limbering up his arm. Then the first stroke fell. His body jerked with the sudden explosion of pain across his buttocks. He didnt scream, but his sharp intake of breath was almost a cry. The first bright splash of pain faded a bit, but it felt as if a brand had been laid upon him. Ernestu paused after the first stroke, watching the bright red line rising across the white flesh. *Damn, he colors up nicely. I expect a bare hand would quickly bring a pink flush to those cheeks.* He didnt pause to wonder that he was having such thoughts about his own son, but swung the rod again.

He watched with approval when the boy jumped as the lash fell, and another stripe grew below the first. "Do you begin to see your error, Calugarul? Do you see how you have failed me?" He struck again, and again, trying to keep the marks parallel. But he misjudged, and one of them overlapped. Ernestu watched, fascinated, as a bright bead of blood bubbled up at the crossing point, looking like a garnet set against white satin. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he wished for more wine, but did not want to take the time to get it. This was important, it needed to continue. His eyes narrowed, following the crimson drop as it began a slow trek down the back of the boys thigh. Yes, very important. *At least this time he does not make me count the strokes and thank him for each one,* Nicolae thought. The pain would begin to haze his mind soon, and a missed count would mean that they would have to start again. Ernestu sent the rod whistling through the air again to crack against quivering flesh. "Do you see how wrong you are to disobey? How wrong it is to deny me this thing?" Now every stroke fell across an earlier stripe, and blood welled at each juncture. Still the boy did not cry out, though he had bitten his lip raw with the effort. As the assault continued, Nicolae felt his limbs begin to weaken and tremble. He prayed that it would be over soon, before they gave way entirely and he suffered the added humiliation of taking the last of the beating face down on the stone floor. It was good that he had kept his legs together, because Ernestu did not spare the backs of his thighs. They, too, were liberally striped and dotted with blood. His entire lower body was one great, flaming pain by now. He had heard that those who endured great torture eventually became numb to it. If he had not yet gained that loss of sensation, he feared what he would have to suffer to attain it. Ernestus questions about his lack of filial duty had degenerated to muttered curses and obscenities as he swung the rod with all his might. At last he slowed, his arm aching, and he knew he would have to call for a soothing liniment tonight if he did not want to be stiff and sore in the morning. Damn the boy for making him exert himself so in his corrections! For the last minutes, Ernestu had been aware of nothing but the whistle and crack of the rod. Now the world came back to him gradually. He heard the soft sobbing of the boy who crouched before him, and saw the damage he had done. The stripes were so many and so overlaid that they could not be numbered. Blood ran in thick streams down the boys legs, staining the linen pooled at his knees. So, he had ruined Betas gift after all. Thoughtless child. He gave him another stroke for that carelessness. Ernestu walked around in front of Nicolae and presented the rod. This was another part of the ritual, an important one. Nicolae managed to raise his head shakily, and kissed the rod. His lips came away smeared with his own blood. He begged God that Ernestu would not force him to lick the instrument of his torture clean, as he had when he was a child. Instead Ernestu tossed aside the weapon, and Nicolae sighed with muted relief. But he was too soon. Ernestu tangled his hands in the thick, dark hair and dragged his head up, till his neck was straining and he looked his tormentor full in the face. What he saw frightened Nicolae more than anything hed seen in his life. Ernestus expression was twisted, his teeth bared, his eyes glittering. Beneath his breeches there was the clear outline of a lust-wakened prick, a damp patch showing at the head. Ernestu stared down into the handsome, tear streaked face, searching it hungrily for every scrap of fear and pain. He enjoyed men as much as women, but hed never felt this way when he had disciplined Calugarul when he was a child. Somehow the sight of his strong young body, so cowed and submissive, stirred Ernestus blood. He thought. *I think I understand what the prince sees in him. Maybe, just maybe... And how would he know? Such things cannot be tested, as they can with a woman.* "I hope this has been enough, boy. I do not want to damage you if it can be helped." He laid his free hand

on Nicolaes back, just above where his robe was tucked. "You must be good and faithful, and do as you are bid. It is a small thing I ask of you." "It is a great thing." The voice was ragged, breathless, and Ernestu ignored it. The boy wasnt saying anything he wanted to hear The older man reached farther, laying his hand on the heated flesh of the boys buttocks. Nicolae whined at the fresh pain. The salt in Ernestus sweat stung his raw skin. The soft, protesting sound made his patrons fever rise even higher. Ernestu stoked the firm flesh, feeling his fingers slide in the hot blood. His voice was hoarse. "You are very like your mother, boy." He gripped hard, letting his fingers sink shallowly into the cleft. "Very like her." Nicolae felt abject terror as Ernestu released his hair and reached for the lacings of his breeches. This could not be happening. Finally desperate enough to struggle, he threw out a hand to push him away, moaning, "Father, please!" He misjudged and his hand pressed against the hard bulge of Ernestus sex. Immediately, before he could withdraw it, his patron had seized his wrist, clamping down hard enough to bruise, and ground himself into Nicolaes palm. Varga stared down at the slim, long-fingered hand splayed over his arousal. It proved too much, far too soon. He was not a young man anymore, and his stamina was short. He came in a hot gush of liquid seed, his sperm seeping through the cloth, and running down to bathe his tight balls. With a cry of frustrated rage he struck the boy again, knocking him backward to the floor. He had a brief glimpse of Nicolaes loins: hair almost as dark and silky as that on his head, and a member that was impressive for one so young. But he was soft, quiescent, and for some reason this was what angered Ernestu most. Knowing his fathers rage, Nicolae had quickly rolled into a ball, hoping to protect himself. But Ernestu was spent, in more ways than one. "Get up, slut. Go clean yourself, and make yourself ready should the prince call for you." Nicolae untucked his garment, pulling it down to a decent level. Unable to bear the thought of anything against his torn skin, he completely removed his drawers, mourning silently when he saw the crimson stains that marked them. They would never be the same again. They would always bear signs to remind him of this day. Finally he made his way shakily to his feet, and moved toward the door. Ernestu had gone to the table for more wine. Now he called, "Boy! You forget yourself." Stifling a sigh, Nicolae went back to perform the final rite of punishment. He took Ernestus hand and kissed it, murmuring, "Thank you for correcting me, Domn." "See that the lesson remains learned." He gripped Nicolaes chin hard, studying the damp, flushed face, marking the rising bruise and the cuts. "You had best hope that Draculea will not mind a bit of color. And you will do all he requires. If he wishes you to whore yourself for him, then whore you will. If I hear differently, you will think that this has been no more than a fond caress." He shoved him away. "Go." Nicolae left the room. In the corridor, he began to limp painfully toward his own room, one hand braced against the wall for support. Any who passed him might have felt compassion, but they looked away. It was not wise to interfere with Ernestus vendettas, or his pleasures. And, in Nicolaes case, it was fairly obvious that the boy was both to his father. Back to index

Chapter 11: Care

Child of the Night, Part Eleven The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Wallachia Care Simion had taken his mid-day meal early, and was returning to his room in the servants quarters. He was planning on a quick, freshening wash when he saw the boy. Nicolae was in a corridor leading to an even more obscure section of the domestic quarters. Simion stopped at the turning, staring down the hallway, watching him. The young librarian was of interest to his lord, therefore he was of interest to Simion. The boy was standing motionless a little way down the hall. He had his back to Simion, and was leaning against the wall as if he needed support. As Simion watched, a small bundle of white cloth dropped from his hands, and Simion saw that it was splotched red. His eyes drawn downward, he saw several thick streams of blood crawling down the boys leg below his cassock. Simions gut clenched. "Oh, Master," he whispered. "Could you not wait? I think he would have come to you soon." Nicolae knew that he must be close to his room by now, but he was having trouble thinking clearly. The pain throbbed through his whole body. Hed been halfway down this hall when hed felt the grey beginning to close in on him, and had to stop for a moment. The stone wall was rough and cold, but it was solid. He was too dazed to be startled when the hand touched his shoulder. He was turned, and he found himself looking at an older man with ash blonde hair. "Nicolae?" He tried to straighten, but fell back against the wall. "I am he." The man pushed something into his hands, something soft. Looking down, Nicolae saw the red-stained cloth. "Oh," he said sadly. "Betas present." He looked at the man. "I ruined it." Simion took the boys arm and urged him back up the corridor. "Come with me. I will help you." "You need not trouble, Domn. If I can but get to my room... I know it is dreadful laziness in the middle of the day, but if I could lie down for a moment..." "Nicolae." The tone was chiding. A tremor wracked him, so violent that he would have fallen if the man had not put a strong arm about his waist. Finally giving up his pretense, Nicolae whispered, "Yes, please. Please help me." Thanking God that his room was close by, Simion led the staggering boy. All the while his mind was racing. This did not seem possible. He knew that Draculea had been eager for the boy, and if the librarian had struggled to preserve his virtue too strenuously, things might have become... rough. But this... Vlad Draculea was a lusty man, but to the best of Simions knowledge he had never torn a partner so. In his room, Simion helped Nicolae to lie on the bed, placing him on his belly. He wished for warm water but did not feel he should leave the boy to go to the kitchen, and there was no fire in his room. Cold would have to do. Luckily there was a large pitcher, filled to the brim, on his night table. While he poured the water and got a cloth, Simion studied the boys face. He noted the dark blue bruise rising along one cheek, and the cuts. This didnt feel right. Draculea had been so entranced by the childs beauty, it hardly seemed credible that he would mark him in this manner. When Simion went to lift the boys cassock, Nicolae held on to it desperately, giving Simion a pleading look that tore at his heart. "Its all right, Nicolae, Im not going to hurt you. But I must see what was done and cleanse you. You understand that, dont you? You must not risk poison setting in your blood." Reluctantly Nicolae released his grip on the garment. He turned his handsome, battered face into Simions thin pillow, gripping the soft cushion with trembling hands. Simion lifted the robe. Hed seen men who had been raped before, and violently. He thought he was

prepared for what he would see, but he wasnt. He couldnt hold back a cry of disgust, horror, and aching sympathy. The boy had been nearly flayed from the base of his spine to his knees. The skin was cut and torn in what had to be more than a hundred places. At the edges, Simion could see that they were the type of stripes caused by a slender rod, but across the center it was impossible to tell where one wound ended and another began. They were all very fresh, and most of them still oozed thick blood. There was no doubt in his mind now: Draculea had not done this. He knew his master could be cruel, but the vicious, deliberate torture of an innocent, inoffensive young man, especially such a beauty, was beyond him. Simion tried to keep his voice steady as he began to wash away the blood. "Boy, who did this to you?" There was no answer, only a quiet whimper as the cloth passed over the tattered skin. He tried again. "Nicolae, why were you beaten?" Nothing short of high theft or the assault of a noble could justify a beating like this, and Simion sincerely doubted Nicolae was capable of either. "I... displeased my guardian." Ernestu, of course. The bastard. "What did you do, Nicolae?" *And whatever it was, he is a monster for doing this to you.* To his shock, the boy gave a weak, almost hysterical laugh. "It is not what I did, Domn. It is what I failed to do. What I refused to do." Simion rinsed the rag. Seeing the water stained, he went to pour it out in the hallway. At the door, he froze as he heard Nicolaes soft response. "I refused the prince, Draculea." Simion turned back slowly, and went to pour another basin of water. He had refused Vlad? And his father had beaten him for not debauching himself. *Oh, Ernestu, you have made a grave mistake. Did you think my lord would be grateful that you tried to whip the boy into his arms and his bed? How little you know the Draculea, and his pride. Simion continued cleaning Nicolae. He pushed the robe up farther, to get it out of the way, and discovered the old scars. He touched them, running a finger along one narrow white track, and the boy shivered. "I see this is not the first time you have been punished, Nicolae." "Oh, no." His voice was flat, disconnected. "I was a sore trial to my patron when I was a child. A week did not pass that the rod was not taken from its place. I did not like it when I had to lick it clean. The blood was so salty." Simion had to stop for a moment, putting his hand over his face. Nicolae continued, unaware. "Since I returned it has not been so bad. Only a few blows, and hardly ever with his fist. Except the one time I did not want to copy out that bawdy story." He touched his nose. "He broke something here, I think. It was hard to breathe for a while." Simion did not want to cause the boy any more distress, but with what he had learned now of Ernestu and his relation with his bastard son he knew he had to check one last thing. He had to be sure that Nicolae had not been violated. The cuts he could tend to, but if he were injured inside... When Nicolae felt the hands grip his buttocks, he stiffened with a sharp gasp. But Simion said quickly, "Be easy, boy. My purpose is not carnal. I need to see if you are injured here." Nicolae buried his face again, his entire body shaking. Simion parted the cleft as gently as he could, and examined the boy. He was relieved to see that the blood seemed to all come from the surface cuts. The boys anus was a small, tender pink pucker. It was not the gaping, torn hole he had feared. Apparently he had been spared that horror, but by how much, Simion was not sure. He let the flesh close again, and got a small jar of medicinal ointment from his things. He always carried it, not trusting to local physicians. It had special herbs in it that would not only cleanse the wounds and protect them from the rot that could set in, but would soothe the pain a bit. As he gently began to smooth the lotion on the raw patches, Nicolae said, "Father... Father was going to do something very terrible, I think. But God protected me, and he spilled his seed before he wished."

"Wait, boy. I will be back." Simion stepped into the hall, shutting the door. Then he pounded his fist into the stone wall till his knuckles were bruised, biting his lip bloody to keep from screaming curses at the beast who would so ravage his own child. When he could at last control himself, he went back into the room. "I must go to my room. They may want me, and I must be there when they call," Nicolae mumbled. "No, boy. You are too ill to go now. You will sleep here." Simion poured a glass of brandy from a small flask. Out of the boys sight, he stirred a white powder into the amber liquor, making sure it was well dissolved. He urged Nicolae onto his side, and held the cup to his lips. When the boy saw that it was strong spirits, he tried to balk. But Simion said sternly, "Boy, I am your senior. You will drink this. God will not mind, and it will do you much good. It will help you sleep." Nicolae looked at him, puzzled. "But I will never sleep again," he said simply, as if this was a thing too obvious to deserve discussion. "Yes, you will." Simion tipped the glass to his mouth, and Nicolae drank. "And sleep will heal. At least a little." The boys system was in such shock that the drug acted even more swiftly and thoroughly than usual. In moments he was in a deep sleep, so deep that it was near unconsciousness. Simion then stripped the cassock the rest of the way from him, and covered him with a clean sheet. Then he went in search of his prince. He had much to tell him. Back to index

Chapter 12: Concern

Child of the Night, Part Twelve The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Wallachia Concern Simion was helping Prince Draculea dress for the second feast in his honor at Castle Varga. They were taking particular care with his appearance, as tonight Ernestu would announce the engagement to the local gentry. It was to be quite an affair, especially for such a rural area. The presence of the prince meant great prestige, and now one of their number was marrying into the royal line! On his way upstairs, Simion had done a great deal of thinking. He knew that his lord was only lukewarm about this union, but he also knew that it was necessary. If he did not wed and at least seem to be trying for an heir, there was a real danger of rebellion. Some factions in the land would hint that the Dracul were a thinning line, and it would be better to set someone else on the throne. Or perhaps topple the throne altogether? Usually Simion felt sure that Vlad could be trusted to look ahead and weigh the consequences of his actions. But when it came to this boy... Simion had a feeling that if the facts were presented too abruptly, too baldly, Draculea would not hesitate. He would seek out Ernestu Varga and murder him on the spot. The only question would be the method he chose to dispatch the whoreson. Simion had a feeling that in this case Vlad Draculea would only be satisfied with using his bare hands. And he could do it, easily enough. Simion had seen his master kill strong men in battle, using nothing but the strength, speed, and agility God had given him. One fat, lecherous old child-beater would present no challenge. But such a public and personal execution would cause a scandal that would spread throughout Europe. It

might weaken his support among the people, and other powers might see that as an opportunity to invade or attack. Ernestu had to live, at least until after the marriage. And then, if possible, his death had to be managed... discretely. Draculea might be able to make his way through the feast, sitting beside the man who had flogged his desired lover, but it was by no means a surety. "He ran from me again, Simion." Draculea was frowning, but his tone was more wistful than angry. "Must I court him with flowers and love sonnets?" Simion couldnt help smiling, picturing his lord reciting the intricate phrases that were popular in wooing maidens. Vlad saw, and made a face. "Not my style at all, eh, Simion?" "No, my lord. You are more direct." * Which is why I must be most careful in breaking this news to you.* "Hes close, I think. I almost had him earlier. A few more moments... He was hot and hard in my palm, Simion, with only that brown rag between us. He moaned so sweetly." Draculea closed his eyes briefly. "I want to hear him say my name in that tone." *No, my lord, I most definitely do not tell you what happened to your sweetling now.* As Vlad made his way to the great hall, Simion hurried to his room to check on Nicolae. He was as he had left him, sleeping heavily. The sheet had become flecked with blood. Thankfully the ointment kept it from sticking to the wounds. Simion smoothed on more ointment. As his fingers stroked over the welted skin of Nicolaes buttocks, the boy gave a quiet whimper. Simion looked, but his eyes were still closed. He slept. But as the older man continued to massage the tender, bruised flesh, the boys hips lifted, only a fraction, pressing up to his touch. *Poor child. So hungry for comfort and affection that you seek it even in your dreams.* Experimenting, Simion gently squeezed the abused globes. There was another soft sound that mingled pain and longing, and again Nicolaes hips lifted, more strongly this time. Simion sat back, thinking. Then he folded the sheet so that the stains were hidden, and laid it over the boy once again. Nicolaes breathing and heartbeat were strong and slow. Simion stroked his hair, which was matted with the sweat of his earlier ordeal. "I think I can do a service to both you and my lord, boy. He needs you to be willing, and you need to be absolved of responsibility." Again Simion poured out a measure of brandy, and mixed in the white powder. He shook Nicolaes shoulder. "Boy." No response. Again, "Boy?" Nicolaes eyelids fluttered. He gazed at Simion, his deep brown eyes unfocused, and made a questioning sound. Simion lifted his shoulders, turning him slightly, and put the cup to his lips. "Drink." This time Nicolae did not hesitate or protest. He drank as meekly as a child, sighing when Simion removed the empty cup. Again he looked at the older man, and slurred, "Domn? They... want me?" Simion eased him back to the mattress. "Sleep, Nicolae." As the boys eyelids closed, he murmured, "Yes, you are wanted." The company was seated when he slipped into the hall and took his place behind Prince Draculea. Vlad was pretending to listen to some rambling of Ernestu, but his eyes were fixed on the empty seat at the end of the table. When Ernestu turned his attention to Elizabeta on his other side Simion leaned over Vlad. Before he could speak, Vlad muttered. "He isnt here, Simion. Did I frighten him that much?" Simion could not tell him now, but the hurt in Draculeas voice hurt him also, and he felt he must say something. "It is not on your account, my prince. There are circumstances that keep the boy away." Vlad looked at him sharply. "After the feast, Domn. Remember your duty before your pleasure." Draculea had faced unpleasant experiences for the good of his country and people before, he could endure an hour or two of this for the same reasons. He looked pleased and proud as Ernestu, the braying jack ass, stood and announced their betrothal. He even managed to stand and say a few graceful phrases himself,

and look properly contented when Ernestu moved Elizabeta to sit on Draculeas right hand, where Nicolae had sat the night before. Vlad gave Elizabeta much more room than he had the librarian. As they ate, Vlad said, as casually as he could, "The dark haired boy does not join us tonight?" Elizabeta frowned, only then becoming aware of her half-brothers absence. She shrugged. "Perhaps he had a return of the malady he suffered this morning." She giggled. "Or he may be on his knees in the chapel, begging forgiveness for actually enjoying himself last night." Draculeas feelings toward the girl had been lukewarm at best. He could feel them cooling even farther now. Yes, he thought the boy agonized too much over his tiny transgressions, but it was through a good heart rather than foolishness or false piety. He did not like it that this girl, whom Nicolae obviously adored, could jest about something so important to him. Draculea did not like the spiritual strictures that helped keep Nicolae from him, but he respected the boy for them. Vlad graciously accepted all the fulsome congratulations as each noble in turn approached the table and wished him well in his marriage. There was much talk of strong sons and beautiful daughters, and Vlad thought, with mild interested, that Elizabeta did not smile quite so brightly during these. Finally he felt he had endured enough to leave without insulting guests or host, and he rose, making his apologies. He used the excuse that his future bride needed her rest so that she could attend to her packing the next day. The guests murmured at his boldness when he pressed a kiss to her hand before he left. The moment they were away from the hall, Vlad took Simions arm. "Nicolae?" "I will speak of him to you as you change, my lord. You must put away your finery." When Draculea started to protest, Simion said firmly, "Maria Ta, I have my reasons. Have I ever given you bad advice?" There was no need to answer that. Simion had been Vlads most trusted companion and advisor for many years. He trusted the older mans wisdom, so he did as Simion wished. In his room, Simion helped him strip out of his stiff formal wear and don simple breeches and shirt. "Now, you must come with me to my quarters. I have something to tell you, and something to show you." As they entered the servants area, Simion told him, "Distaste or fear was not the reason the boy was not at table tonight, Domn." "No?" "No." He stopped at the hall that led to his room. Draculea did not know which were his quarters, so it would be difficult for him to locate them without Simions direction, and Simion did not intend to lead him there until he had a promise from his lord. "Before we go farther, my prince, I must ask something of you." Vlad frowned. "You are grave, Simion. I have never denied you anything of great import. What do you desire of me?" "This, my lord, is something different. It is no material thing I ask for, but your solemn oath that you will not act rashly on what I will reveal to you." "Simion, of late you have showed little faith in my patience." "In this, Prince, I believe myself justified. This is of mortal importance. You must swear to me that, no matter your rage, your pain, or your heartbreak, you will not commit a violence. Not now." Vlads eyes narrowed. "Simion, I begin to suspect a great wrong. You fear that I will do murder." "Yes, my lord." "Is it so serious?" "Yes, my lord." His face paled. "Nicolae?" Simion drew a small crucifix from his pocket and held it up to Vlad. "Give me your word, my prince. For the sake of your country, your people, and your own soul." "Simion..." His voice was threatening.

"And for the sake of the boy." Draculea hesitated, then bent his head and kissed the cross. "I swear by the Most Holy Cross and the blood of Christ that this night I will not commit violence." He turned burning eyes on Simion. "Beyond that, my friend, I cannot say." Simion pocketed the crucifix. "It is enough, I think." He led the prince to the door of his room. "Wait a moment while I light the lamp. I did not want to leave a flame." Draculea waited impatiently in the hall. He heard the rasp of flint and steel, saw the sparks jump, and then the wick in the oil lamp caught, flickered, and the flame burned steadily. He stepped into the room. Simion moved behind him quickly, shutting the door. The room was tiny, and his eyes went immediately to the bed in the corner, and the figure lying on it. There was no mistaking the dark head lying on the pillow, face turned to the wall. There was also no mistaking the fact that he was naked beneath the thin sheet. Draculeas eyes flicked, surprised, to his servant. "He is willing, then? Simion, why did you not bring him to my room?" Simion was shaking his head. "He may very well be willing, my lord, though not fully aware of it himself. No, that is not why he is here. I found him earlier in the hallway, without the strength or sense to find his way to his own room." "What do you mean, Simion?" Simion gripped Vlads arm. "I charge you to remember your vow, Prince Draculea." Vlad shook him off, hissing, "What has happened?" He went to the bed and bent over the boy. "Nicolae?" No response. He bent farther over... and his gaze fell upon the swollen purple bruise that surrounded the two blood crusted cuts. Vlad jerked back violently, eyes wide with shock, and dropped to his knees beside the bed. Simion, who had come to stand beside him, reached down and lifted away the sheet. Vlad gazed at the ruin of torn skin, the thick pink-purple welts extending from the rawness like greedy, clutching fingers. The only sound he made was a sharp intake of breath. Draculeas eyes moved from the ravaged lower body and noted the criss-cross of old scars across the boys back. For a long moment he was as still and silent as if he had been carved from stone. Then Simion saw his hands slowly clench into fists at his side, and he threw himself in front of the door a split second before, with a low, keening cry, Draculea surged to his feet. There was no question, no doubt on his face as he stalked toward Simion. "Ernestu!" The name was a curse on his lips. "My lord, your vow!" Draculea had almost reached him. "You will not hold me to it, Simion. God will not hold me to it! The man died the moment he laid rough hands on what is mine." "I will hold you to it, my lord. Remember the boy!" Draculea stopped, only inches away from Simion. He was fairly quivering with rage. "How will it better his lot if that filth draws one more breath?" "Filth he may be, but he is the boys father..." Draculea snorted in disgust, but Simion spoke over him. "and you have seen how the child torments himself. If he knows that you killed Ernestu because of him, what will it do to him? Would you kill any hope you had of winning him along with Ernestu?" Vlad hesitated. Simion saw the rage and grief fighting against the cool logic of his words. Restraint finally won out, but only barely. His voice rough, Draculea said, "And what do you suggest, Simion? Surely he will know it is I, even if I delay." "He may suspect, my lord, if you do as I suggest. But he will not know. And, as his heart is good, he wishes to believe the best of every man. He will not condemn you unless he is sure. You need only contain yourself a few more days, until after the wedding. Ernestu is going to Castle Draculea for the ceremony.

Afterward he will return home. And there are many dangers on the road." Draculea was silent, staring at Simion. At last, he smiled. It was cold and cruel. Had Ernestu seen it and known it was at the thought of him, he would have soiled himself like an infant. "Simion, you are a treasure. This puts me in mind of a saying the Italians have." He walked back to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and resting a hand lightly on Nicolaes back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "What is the saying, my lord?" Draculeas eyes were the color and chill of a winter sky. "Revenge is a dish best eaten cold." Back to index

Chapter 13: Seduction

Child of the Night, Part Thirteen The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Wallachia Simions Room Seduction Draculea looked up at his patiently waiting servant. "He shouldnt be disturbed now, or I would have him moved. Simion, go to my room. Bring back whatever will be needed for Nicolae and myself to rest comfortably." "You will remain here tonight, Maria Ta?" "Yes, Simion. I will not leave him like this. You will take my room." Simion had expected no less. He hurried to the princes room and returned with all he thought they would need. He spread smooth sheets and a soft blanket over the sleeping boy, replacing the thin pillow with a fat one, stuffed with goose down. He carefully tipped Nicolaes face to the side when he did this, so there would be no danger of the boy suffocating in his sleep. Simion made sure there was another lamp, well filled, in case his lord desired light throughout the night. As his servant worked, Draculea said, "Simion, did the filth truly think that he would win my favor by beating the boy into my bed?" "It would seem so, Domn." "Good God. I can only hope that his daughter will not pass on his stupidity to our children. It astounds me that he would not realize that this is an insult. I have not needed anyone to pimp for me since the night my father chose my first whore. In any case..." Draculea stroked Nicolaes hair wistfully, "It doesnt seem to have worked, not in the way he expected. The boy has a stronger will than he thought." "The boy is afraid, Domn." When Draculea looked up sharply, he continued. "Oh, not of you, my prince. Well..." He smiled. "Perhaps a little. You can be overwhelming at times. He fears himself. He finds that he wants what he has been told all his life is wrong, and he fights the urges. He fights valiantly, but this is one battle he should lose. The question is, will he be forced into submission, or coaxed to surrender?" Vlad, from his campaigns, knew the difference. Some lands and people were taken only through bitter struggle. They preferred to destroy themselves rather than submit. Others welcomed their conqueror as a savior, placing themselves freely and joyfully under their new masters hand. Which would Nicolae do? Vlad desperately wanted the boy to do the latter. He knew from bitter experience how difficult it was to hold on to that which was taken in violence. Preparing to go, Simion said, "He should sleep till break of day, master. He may seem to awaken, but it will be a waking dream for him. The drug I have given him will keep him peaceful, but dazed." Draculea nodded his understanding.

Simion considered a moment, then took the jar of ointment once again from his bag and placed it on the tiny table beside the bed. "This is what I used on his cuts, my lord. It is soothing without being numbing. It is very slippery, so if you choose to tend the boys wounds with it, be careful of your grip when you are done." Draculea studied Simion, then looked down at the little pot of white salve. "I understand, Simion. Thank you. I will not need you further tonight." Simion bowed his head, and left the room. Draculea gazed thoughtfully at Nicolae for a moment, then shook his head. *No. I do not want a simple vessel for my lust. I want a warm and willing partner.* Unable to resist touching him somehow, he began to toy with the wisps of dark hair that feathered against his neck. They were as soft and fine as that of an infant. Vlad sat for awhile, but he soon decided that he must lie down. Tomorrow he must face Varga and pretend that he did not intend to kill him at the first opportune moment. Holding his temper would take all his will and strength. He should rest. Vlad removed his boots. After a moments thought, he removed his shirt, also. The boy was a limp, warm bundle when he lifted first his torso, then his legs, and moved him over in the bed, near the wall. Vlad would sleep on the outside, so that there was no chance Nicolae would fall out and hurt himself in his drugged state. He left the lamp burning: the low flame gave only dim light. Vlad slipped beneath the covers and stretched out on his side beside Nicolae. "This was not how I pictured the first time we would lie together, little one," he whispered as he laid his head on the pillow beside Nicolae. His breath seized in his throat as the boys eyes drifted open, dark lashes rising slowly, but they opened only halfway. His gaze was vague, his pupils dilated till the rich brown of his irises was a mere hair-fine ring around the black pools of his pupils. *Does he see me?* Draculea dared not move for fear of frightening the boy. *Simion said it would be nothing but a dream to him. Does he even know I am here?* Perhaps he did. His lips, bruised from where he had bitten them during his ordeal, moved. As close as he was, Vlad barely heard the whispered word. "Blue..." He thought it might have been naught but wishful thinking. But then Nicolae spoke again. "Blue eyes..." Vlad felt a soft touch on his chest. Looking down, he saw that Nicolae had laid his hand there. It rested limply, but then the long, slender fingers moved slightly. He looked again into the boys face, trying to gauge his consciousness. The gentle touch moved against his left nipple. He closed his eyes, drawing in his breath. *He does not know what he is doing. His touch is innocent.* But it came again, warm and lingering. Vlad felt his nipple begin to stiffen, drawing into a hard, pebbled peak. The fingers circled, squeezing. Sensual warmth spread from the teased flesh, drifting over to cause his other teat to begin hardening, and settling down to his crotch. Vlad bit his lip. *I swear that he is unaware, but his touch... It is as if he knows the very things that delight me.* The sensation was becoming too much for Vlad. He took the boys hand, holding and stilling it, seeing the same ink smudge he had noted this morning. It seemed long ago, and he followed the impulse he had then. Lifting Nicolaes hand, he took the thumb into his mouth and sucked it softly. As he had imagined, the tang of the ink was faint. It was overwhelmed by the sweet, meaty taste of Nicolaes flesh. He felt Nicolaes fingers fan against his face, settling along his cheek. Releasing the thumb, he instead drew the two middle fingers into his mouth and suckled them. He swirled his tongue over and around them, licking to tickle the sensitive skin in-between. Nicolae sighed quietly. Vlad removed the spit slick fingers, and drew them down again, settling them against his right nipple. Immediately the boy began to stroke and pinch in the same dreamy manner, and Draculea groaned, his lust

rising. "Nicu," he whispered. "Little one, do you know me?" "Strong." The single word was no louder than the others had been. Vlad might have been able to resist but for what Nicolae did next. The boys hand crept upward slowly, burning a trail along Vlads skin. It moved along his throat, then draped over his neck and ran up into his hair, and the boy whispered, his voice achingly humble and needy, "Love me?" Vlad felt as if his heart would burst in his chest. "Yes, Nicu. Yes, I do. I will. Yes." *But how? How can I pleasure you without causing you pain?* Vlad fumbled behind himself, blindly finding the little jar that Simion had left. Nicolae made a sound of protest when Vlad sat up and threw back the covers, but the prince stroked his back soothingly, and he quieted. Draculea coated the fingers of his right hand with the slippery ointment, and knelt on the mattress beside the boy who would from this night forward be his lover. Careful of bruises and welts, he gently spread the cleft of Nicolaes buttocks. The dark haired young man whined deep in his throat as Vlad stroked the cool, oily substance down the shadowed valley. Vlad murmured, "Hush, Nicu. Just a little cold, just a little pain. It will feel so good very, very soon." He rubbed, working the salve into the boys flesh, warming it with his own body heat. The whine died slowly. Vlad eyed the crinkled pink spot that marked the entrance to Nicolaes most private part. "So tiny, so perfect." He massaged, feeling the strong, springy muscle. "You will grip tight when I take you, dear one." He patiently ran his finger around the opening, coaxing the flesh to soften. It did not take much, the drug in the boys system had relaxed him. When he thought it was time Vlad pressed one finger to the virgin hole and pushed forward. He slid in slowly, not stopping till his knuckles were nestled against the stretched opening. Nicolae moaned, and his hips shifted slightly, but Vlad put his free hand on Nicus back, holding him in place. Soon he was still again, but his breathing was deeper. "Yes, boy," Vlad murmured. "You see? Not so bad." He pumped in and out, holding him so that he could not twist away. But he really didnt need to. Nicolae quivered, but he made no attempt to evade the thick finger moving in his back passage. Vlad dared remove his free hand long enough to dip it into the white cream again, and smear more around the loosening hole. He pulled out entirely, but then inserted two fingers, held close together. Nicolae took them with scarcely a murmur. Vlads prick was fully erect now, straining against his breeches insistently. "Why am I doing this to myself? I cant fuck you tonight, Nicu." The boy sighed, as if in answer, and began to hump shallowly against the mattress. "Oh..." Vlad pushed deeper, feeling, and found the small bump. Nicolae tensed slightly, probably as much as he was able in his state, and made a mewling sound of pure longing. Smiling fondly, Vlad caressed the boys most sensitive spot till Nicolae was gasping, his hips moving jerkily. Curious, Vlad slipped his left hand under Nicolaes body. His fingers closed around firm, hot flesh. "Sweet Nicu. You want me even if you do not know it. There must be some way." Nicolae had pushed his face into the pillow, hands fisting by his head like a sleeping child. Now he was moving as he had longed to this morning when the prince first caressed him. He thrust his hardened prick down into the large, hard hand, and pushed his bottom up onto the deliciously impaling fingers. When both were withdrawn, he whimpered with loss. "Wait, impatient one." Vlad stood, and stripped off his breeches, then went back to the bed, naked. His prick was fully and proudly erect. It was already slick with the first issue of the liquid that eases the way for a mans seed. Vlad maneuvered Nicolae onto his side, then moved farther into the bed and pulled the boy down on top of himself. He spread his legs, and settled the boy between his thighs, bringing their crotches together.

The younger man sprawled loosely, his head settling on Vlads shoulder. Vlad just held him, arms wrapped around his back, feeling the warm, living weight. It was so odd. The boy was a mixture of oblivion and awareness. His eyes had closed again, but Vlad felt the firm points of Nicolaes aroused nipples press against his own with each breath. Vlad again dipped his fingers in the salve. This time he reached between their bodies and smoothed it first on Nicolaes straining erection, then his own. Vlad guided the boys body with his thighs, shifting him slightly. His own prick had been lying up against his belly in its excitement, and now Nicolaes slick, heated flesh slid against it. Draculea put back his head, groaning, and began to thrust upward slowly, grinding himself against the pliant body above him. It was not all that he wanted, but it was very, very good. The boys head rolled, more than could be accounted for by the motion of their coupling. His eyes opened again. The pupils had shrunk a bit toward normal, but he was still drifting. He had some awareness, but no understanding. All he knew was that someone was holding him close. He could not remember anyone doing that except his mother in his dim and distant past. It felt good. Gradually he became aware that it felt very good. He scarcely felt the pain that had gripped him since he had received the first stroke of the rod. He was bathed in warmth that seemed to come from inside as well as out. Large hands, a little callused, stroked his back in rhythm to the rise and fall of his body. He felt the delicious heaviness in his groin that had always accompanied the dreams, the dreams that had left him weak and sticky when he awoke. He could remember the feel of his linen drawers against his swollen flesh, but this was different. It was hotter, and slick. The friction as what was beneath him moved was maddeningly pleasurable. Moved? Nicolae suddenly realized that he was lying on living flesh. It was a mans body that lay pressed beneath his own, and it did not just lie: it moved. They were both naked, and the mans loins thrust up to his own hot flesh, their arousals rubbing together firmly. A faint spark of panic flared deep in the boys hazy mind. His head was heavy, but he lifted it a little, wavering, to see who it was who was giving him such pleasure at the peril of both their souls. He looked down into hot blue eyes, set in a face handsome enough to make an angel weep. Nicolae gasped in dismay. "Domn." A hand cupped the back of his head and pushed him down till his cheek lay against the solid, shifting shelf of his shoulder. Nicolae began to struggle, but his efforts were kitten-weak. The one hand held his head down, and the other arm went about his waist. Again he squirmed, and felt a dart of shamed lust when the man below him made a greedy, approving noise. "Please, master, let me go." The words were husky, cracked. "Not yet, Nicu." The princes voice was thick. "Soon, sweet lover. I am very close." He never stopped moving. When Nicolae again tried to pull away, Draculea hooked his ankles over the boys calves, locking him in place, and began to pump against him more strongly. "I cant stop, Nicu. Dont you see?" Nicolae began to cry silently, tears streaking his face as the prince thrust against him, his hard dick streaking the boys belly and thighs. Then Vlads grip tightened, and Nicolae felt a gush of hot liquid coat his belly and his sex as Draculea found his release. The prince stilled, except for his heaving breath. His grip on the younger man relaxed into more of a caress. Nicolae managed to pick his head up again, and looked at Vlad. The princes face almost seemed to glow, and there was a serenity in his eyes Nicolae had not seen before. For a moment Nicolae hesitated, unsure. Could a man who had just committed what he had always been taught was a grievous sin look so peaceful? Vlad said quietly, "Why do you weep, my lover?" Nicolae did not know what to say. He supposed it was the brandy that the princes servant had given him

that made his senses reel and his head so light. Not really knowing what he was saying, he stammered, "Master, please... I... I didnt..." *Didnt want, didnt know, didnt consent...* But Vlad was nodding as if he understood perfectly. "I am sorry, pet. You will think me selfish." He pulled the pillow from beneath his head and put it against the wall, then rolled Nicolae off onto his side, so that he was propped comfortably against it. He brought his face up to the boys, and licked away the salt drop that was trickling down his cheek. "I understand. Do not worry." His hands were smoothing down Nicolaes torso, and the boy shivered at the sensation. "I will take care of you." He moved down on the bed. Nicolae cried out as Draculea flicked his tongue, darting it across the slick head of his sex. The feeling was like nothing he had ever experienced. It came again and again as Vlad lapped away the clear fluid that drizzled from his slit. Draculea seldom pleasured other men with his mouth. He far more often merely sat back and received service, but he wanted to do this. Nicolae was delicious, and he felt half starved for him. Nicolae could never have imagined anything more intense, and then Draculea took him into his mouth. All resistance, all thought of anything but the hot wetness engulfing him fled. Nicolae reached down and tangled his hands in Vlads hair holding him and pushing deeper. For some minutes it was like that. There was no sound in the room save the boys sobbing breath and the wet sounds of Draculea feasting on his manhood. Nicolaes climax, when it came, was not the abrupt spasm he had been used to in his involuntary dreams. It rolled through his body, long and sweet and hot. He felt his seed pour forth, surging into the man who held him deep, swallowing his entire shaft. The prince did not pull away, did not reject him. If anything, he pulled the boy closer, hands on Nicolaes jerking hips. *I am dying* Nicolae thought, dazed. *and it is so beautiful.* When the boy was spent, Vlad cleaned him with his tongue, licking away their combined sperm in voluptuous leisure. Nicolae lay quiet beneath his attentions. He did not speak again till the prince moved up in the bed and pulled him to lie against his side, tight in his embrace. Then the boy whispered dully, "Am I damned?" "No, Nicolae." Draculea pressed a kiss to the ruffled hair. "You are blessed." Back to index

Chapter 14: Part 14: The Claiming

Part 14: The Claiming The Year of Our Lord, 1460 The Next Day Castle Varga, Romania Nicolae came awake slowly. This was not unusual. When he had a deep sleep, he often spent a peaceful half hour in a state of drowse, moving gradually toward consciousness. This sleep had been deeper than any he could remember. It was as if he had dropped off into a pit at some point the previous day. He remembered his shock when the curtain of the confessional was suddenly whipped aside, and he remembered the rage on Ernestus face. After that, there was confusion, leading to blackness, more confusion, and more blackness. He wasnt really sure that he wanted to be aware of what had happened. Somehow he knew that much of it was very unpleasant. But oddly enough, he had the sense that some of it had been FAR from unpleasant. The first thing he knew for certain was that he was in pain. Ernestu must have beaten him again. Well,

there was no surprise in that. That had happened often enough for him to accept it as part of the natural order of things. He could tell that it was bad, but he had endured others not much gentler. The next thing he was aware of was that he was naked. That was unusual. Since Elizabeta had given him the drawers, he had slept in them. He had decided that in doing that, they became a help toward modesty rather than a vanity or sensual indulgence. Why was he not wearing the garment now? Eyes still closed, he tried very hard to think. There was something about the drawers, they... *I ruined them.* In his mind he saw red bloom on the white linen, like rose petals against snow. *Why didnt I take them all the way off? I might have saved them.* It never occurred to him to blame the man who had flogged the blood from him. *I need to get to the library. So much to do...* He tried to push himself upright, but failed on the first attempt. He was just trying again when the door opened. The princes manservant, Simion, came into the room, carrying a tray. He said sharply, "Boy! Lie back down. You are not fit to be getting up now." Nicolae was surprised, but he obeyed, because really, he was lightheaded with that small effort. "Sir," His voice was hoarse. "Please, you need not tend to me. I am..." He trailed off, taking in the details of the room. "I am not in my own room?" "No." Simion put the tray on the bedside table, drawing a chair up beside the bed. "This is my room. You could not be left alone. Move closer to the edge of the bed, Nicolae." Nicolae managed to scoot a few inches over, and Simion nodded approval. "You cannot sit yet, and you are weak. I will feed you." Nicolae blushed as he brought a spoonful of stew to his lips. "Please, Domn, I am not a child." Simion smiled sardonically. "No? In any case, I am not a Domn. I work for my living, the same as you. You will call me Simion. You may use sir if you wish. I am your elder, and deserve that respect. Now eat." Nicolaes stomach rumbled at the rich, meaty smell drifting from the bowl, but he felt queasy. "Please, sir. I do not think I can." "You will. You need nourishment, boy. You cannot have eaten since you broke fast yesterday morning, and it is near noon now. Take a little of the broth to start. Once you have something in your belly, the sickness will go." He still turned his head away. "Nicolae, the prince ordered me to see you well fed. Will you make me fail my duty to him?" Nicolae stared at the older man. But the next time Simion offered the food, he sipped the broth dutifully. After a few mouthfuls, his stomach settled, and he was hungry. Simion fed him, and the boy finished the entire bowl, and a good slab of bread spread with sweet butter. Licking away a last greasy smear from his lips, he said hesitantly, "The prince... the prince knows of my... misfortune?" Simion put away the bowl, and his eyes were unreadable as he looked again at the boy. "Yes, Nicolae. He is aware. And he knows why you suffered." The boys pale face grew whiter still. "How?" Simion crossed his arms on his knees, leaning forward to speak. "How much do you remember of yesterday?" "Not much." "You remember the beating?" "Some of it, sir." "Do you remember how you came to this room?" He shook his head. "If I troubled you, sir, I am sorry." "Stop it, boy. Do not apologize for something that was none of your doing. You were viciously abused, and you did not deserve what was done to you." "I angered my guardian. But sir..." One hand gripped the hem of Simions tunic, as he struggled to convince the man who needed no convincing, "I could not do as he wished!" *Why does he look at me so oddly?* "I cannot tell you what he wanted, but it was something that would lead me and another down a

perilous moral path." Simion sat back. "I know what he wanted you to do, Nicolae." The boys hand dropped. "But how?" "You told me, when I brought you here to tend you." He turned his face to the pillow. "You should not have listened to me, sir. I no doubt spoke little sense. And that should have been heard by none but my confessor." "Why?" The tone was so blunt that Nicolae looked back in surprise. "There was nothing for you to confess, boy. As I told you, you did no wrong." He stood up. "I must dress your cuts again. They are already much improved, almost all are closed. Still, you must be cautious for the next day or so, lest you tear them open again. And you will not sit comfortably for a week or more, I think." When Simion went to pull down the sheet, Nicolae clutched at it instinctively. Simions voice was amused, "There is nothing under there that I have not already seen, Nicolae. Think of me only as your physician. Now, stop fighting what I try to do for you. Do not make me report your misbehavior to the prince." He had only been teasing, but he saw the half-fearful look on the boys face as he released the sheet. Simion pulled down the sheet, and retrieved the little jar of medicine from the table. He examined it, and his lips quirked. Yes, there was a good bit less than there had been when he had left the room last night. That would have explained Prince Draculeas good mood and peaceful demeanor when he returned to his rooms this morning. It also explained the heavy, musky scent of the room when Simion had slipped in to check on the boy. But from the healing state of the cuts on the boys buttocks, his lord had not taken his pleasure in that manner. Still, something had occurred, but Nicolae did not seem fully aware of it. Simion wondered how much of it was because of the drugs and his shock, and how much had been willfully blocked out. Simion once again cleaned the cuts, and dressed them with the salve. "You heal quickly, Nicolae. It will not be long before Prince Draculea can show his devotion fully." The boy shuddered, and turned alarmed eyes on Simion. Simion spoke to him gently as he replaced the sheet. "Come, boy. You are innocent, and ignorant, but you are not stupid. If you care to, you can remember most of what happened last night. There is no reason why you shouldnt." Nicolae closed his eyes, whispering, "I had hoped that I dreamed. I have... odd dreams, sometimes." "No dream, Nicolae. I know not the details, but it is clear enough that Prince Vlad took his pleasure of you last night. And I cannot help but believe that you found pleasure with him, as well." "I am weak of spirit, and weak in the flesh. I should have stopped him. "Pfft. How could you? Even had you not been both weak and drugged, my lord is a powerful man, both in body and in will. You would have surrendered to him eventually, Nicolae. It is better that this first time was eased by the medicine I gave you." He touched the boys dark hair. "You see? It was not your fault, Nicolae. Your heart can be free of regret in this." "No, sir. I must bear this burden." "If you are troubled, Mircea will hear your confession, and give you absolution." "He cannot, sir. I cannot speak of this and ask for forgiveness." "But why, Nicolae? I do not understand." "Sir, the grace of absolution is granted on four conditions: confession, penance, sincere regret of the sin, and a determined purpose to not repeat the sinful act." Nicolaes expression was miserable. "I can comply with the first two, but the last two..." He swallowed hard. There was so much pain in his eyes that Simion felt the urge to take him in his arms and rock him like a child, soothing it away. "The regret, and the vow to never repeat the act? Simion, I do not think I can do that." Simions face relaxed into a smile. "Boy, you cannot know how happy that makes me." He took the tray and went to the door. "I must attend my lord at his mid-day meal. Rest, Nicolae. Do not try to leave this

room, not even the bed you lie on. There is a chamber pot beneath it, should you have need." Nicolaes head was low, hair hanging over his eyes, shadowing them. "As you said, Simion, I must work for my living. My patron does not notice me save to pick at my faults, and shirking my duties will earn me another beating." Simions voice was firm and cold. "He will not touch you again, Nicolae." He paused, and there was a significant tone to his next words. "In ANY way. My lord has claimed you, and no one hurts what is his." When the other man was gone, Nicolae lay, stunned by the import of his words. The prince claimed him? It wasnt possible. He was such a great man, he could command any servant, even any noble. Why would he stoop to concern himself with one so poor and obscure as Nicolae Calugarul. Even if it was only fleshly desire, there were others more beautiful, male and female, who would fly to him at the least hint of interest. *A passing amusement,* Nicolae thought sadly. *To him I am like a flower in a field. Walking past, it catches the eye for a moment. One may even feel driven to pluck it, and keep it for a little time. Perhaps it is tucked in the bosom for the sweet smell, perhaps worn in the hair for its gay look. But soon the freshness fades, and the flower is tossed aside. When I am tossed aside, where will I land? I will surely die if I am torn from my place and discarded.* He mused on this for awhile, finally deciding that his only hope was to try to forget what had happened. Indeed, it was half done. All he had was flashes and impressions. The clearest memories were these: the sense of something filling him, moving inside him and bringing a sense of wholeness and great pleasure, and the incredible warmth and wetness that had engulfed his sex just before he once again fell into blackness. And... tenderness. He had been held and caressed with gentleness that seemed to speak of caring. But he thought it better to forget these things. His life would be easier if he had nothing to regret losing. His hunger sated, he grew drowsy again, and drifted off to sleep. Vlad wished he could have avoided Ernestu. When he looked at the man, he felt a near overwhelming urge to take his neck in his hands and wring his head from his shoulders, like a chicken. But he restrained himself, for Nicolaes sake. Simion was right. If Vlad killed the man out of hand, he might escape punishment, but it would kill the boy inside, so Vlad held his temter. The beast would be allowed to walk the earth a few more days before he was sent to his justly earned place in Hell. The prince was scrupulously polite, but still Ernestu Varga was suspicious. Vlad had never been warm to him, but he had been cordial, if condescending. Now the stiff formality of his addresses and the coldness of his gaze told Ernestu that the Wallachian ruler was highly displeased about something. *Its that damn bastard, it must be! Either he disobeyed me and did not go to Draculea, or he was so clumsy in bed that the prince was displeased. Either way, Ill whip the skin from his body if he spoils Betas chances.* Ernestu wanted to do just that. He remembered the sight of the boy crouched before him, robe rucked up to expose smooth, pale buttocks. He remembered how the flesh had quivered and reddened under the stroke of the rod, and how soft and trembling his mouth had been as he pleaded with Ernestu. Most of all he remembered the hot, liquid rush when the boys hand had come to rest over his lust swollen flesh. Unconsciously, Ernestu licked his lips. He wondered why he had ignored the boy for so long. This convenient bit of flesh had been in his charge for eighteen years, and he had yet to taste him. *I have been wasteful. The boy can do more than copy out scribbles. When Beta is safely married and out of the castle, there will be time...* It had been some time since Ernestu had someone to warm his bed on a regular basis. Once he set himself to training the boy, Nicolae should serve admirably. Sitting across the table from his fiancees father, Vlad noted the flush rising in the thin cheeks, and the swipe of tongue across dry lips. *I know what you are thinking, you incestuous dog. Youll not have him. I will take him from you, and kill you with my own hands. I have men enough to kill at my bidding, but I will not deny myself that pleasure.*

They were in the process of negotiating the marriage contract. Vlad and Stefan sat on one side of the table, Ernestu and his lawyer, Ivan, on the other. They had already specified the lands that would be turned over to the prince, along with the people who tilled them, and the livestock thereon. Stefan had smoothly argued the gold of the dowery up to three hundred gold pieces. Ivan would have bargained, but Ernestu, a bad haggler, was eager to agree. His lawyer could only shrug and acquiesce. Ernestu proudly boasted of the rich wardrobe Elizabeta would bring with her. "You will not need to dress her for some time, Domn. She has dozens of garments, from the simplest to the richest. She will not disgrace you on any occasion, be it gracing your household from day to day, or a ceremony of state." Draculea only nodded, his expression never changing. Stefan studied the notes he had made. "Now we come to the final, and lesser part of the agreement. Elizabeta is to bring with her any servants the prince deems necessary for her comfort, or a benefit to the princes household." Draculea had been lounging in his chair, toying with a glass of wine. Now he sat up and leaned forward. He was suddenly interested in the proceedings. Ernestu nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. She will need some of her maids to attend her. I do not hint, Prince Draculea, that you could not supply her with adequate body servants, but some of these women have been with Beta since she was a little girl, and she would miss them terribly." "How many?" It was the first time Draculea had spoken since the negotiations began. "Well, no more than two or three. She must certainly bring Lena Albu with her. The woman has cared for Beta, and tutored her, since she was young." "Albu, and two others of her choosing," Stefan looked to Draculea, who indicated his approval. "Any others?" "No those are the only ones we ask that you bring. The prince is welcome to order whoever else he wishes." Stefan looked at Draculea, who appeared to be giving the matter consideration. "My lord, unless you have run across someone you simply must add to the household, there is no need. We have a fine staff, and others available from your own land, should the need arise." "Could you spare your priest, Varga? The lady would most likely be more comfortable with a confessor she knew." Ernestu agreed eagerly. "You are kind and thoughtful, Maria Ta. Yes, Mircea will be happy to accompany Beta, I am sure." "One of your better cooks, also, I think. They can teach my kitchen the dishes that the lady most enjoys." "Yes, my prince. An excellent thought. My second cook has been looking for a chance to travel, I think." "What else? It seems there was one more..." Draculea put a finger to his brow, frowning, as if in deep thought. At last he said, "Ah, I remember now. Elizabeta wishes to bring along the librarian, Calugarul." Ernestus expression fell. "I would grant you anything joyfully except that, Prince Draculea. The whelp must remain here." Stefan exchanged glances with Ivan. This was a complete turnabout. Till now Ernestu had fallen over himself in an effort to give Draculea more than he asked for. And to balk at such a trivial and useless thing as a librarian... "Your daughter expressly asked me to request the boy accompany us to Castle Draculea." "Perhaps he might be allowed to see her wed there, Maria Ta, but he must then return here with me. You would not want him in your household. Elizabeta is a good, kind-hearted girl, but it makes her foolish sometimes. Calugarul is not a fit companion for a lady of high birth." Vlad was silent for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table. At last he said, "Varga, I hope that you trust me to control my own wife once we are wed." His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it.

Ernestu felt himself paling. "I meant no disrespect, Prince Draculea." "That is good to know. Now, what other reason could there be for the boy not to leave your household and join my own?" "I... he is all I have to tend the library, my lord." "You seemed little impressed with his efforts before, Varga. If I recall correctly, you said that his scribbling could be done at any time, and was of no consideration." "I did not wish for your lordship to be inconvenienced by his absorption in his work. He seems humble enough, but there is a rebellious streak beneath that meek exterior, Domn. He needs constant correction to show him his place in the world, and his duties toward his betters. Choose any other of my people, and they are yours." "Varga," Stefan, alarmed at the quiet, hard tone of Draculeas voice, looked at him. The princes face was unreadable, but his eyes burned. "Are you refusing me this small thing?" Varga gestured helplessly. "I do not understand your interest, my lord. The boy is nothing, no one, practically useless." "And that is why you babble in an effort to keep him in your care?" There was a twist on the last word that escaped no one. Castle gossip moved swiftly. Everyone knew of the beating Nicolae had suffered the day before, and some suspected Ernestu of more than simple violence. "I will make this clear for you, Varga. Elizabeta wants the boy to come with her. I have a library at Castle Draculea that has been sadly neglected since my father died. He can be a companion to Elizabeta..." He paused. "...and he can serve me. I will have him, or there will be no union. Nicolae Calugarul must be included as part of the dowery." Stefan started to say something, and Vlad growled, "You will not question me on this." Ernestu studied the prince, seeing no softness or indecision in him. *He means this. The boy must be better than I thought. Damn, and I have not sampled him yet. Still, there is nothing to be done. There will be time, though, before we go to Castle Draculea, and before I must return home. Perhaps then.* Varga bowed his head, spreading his hands. "It will be as Prince Draculea bids. The boy is in my charge, to dispose of as I will, and I give him to you, with my blessings." *How wise, Ernestu, since you knew I would take him otherwise.* To Stefan he said, "Write. Get it down on paper." Stefan dipped his quill, and began to write, muttering. "Among the household goods included in the dowery are one cook, one ladys maid, two serving wenches, and... a librarian." "Use his name. Hes not just an object." Stefan blinked mildly, then wrote, "One Nicolae Calugarul." He looked up at Ernestu. "And by what authority do you make disposition of this man?" "He is the bastard child of a ladys maid who served my wife." "And you took charge of him? Rather generous, sir." Stefan observed. "No other reason? If the boy is free born, we cannot just order him from the control of one to another." "I have authority over him." "But what authority? Have you papers showing guardianship, given by the parents?" Ernestu was slowly passing from the red of embarrassment to the purple of mortification. At last he said stiffly, "The boy is mine. I sired him." Stefan nodded. A father could dispose of his children as he would. Draculea stared at his future father-in-law with barely concealed loathing. *It is good that you did not say you fathered him, Varga. You have been no father to the boy. No, sired is the proper term. You dropped your seed, then moved on, with no thought for what you had created, save how it inconvenienced you. Well, he is out of your charge now, dog. And some day you will have cause to regret ever emptying your balls into that poor woman who bore my Nicu. How a bag of pus like yourself could spawn such an angel, I will never know.*

TBC Back to index

Chapter 15: Chapter 15 - Dominance

Authors Notes: Pairing: Beta/Lena Disclaimer: Originally belong to Bram Stoker. Summary: Elizabetas relationship with Lena is explored. Authors Notes: Lena Abul is Betas ladys maid: a noblewoman of lower rank. She began tutoring and caring for the girl in her early teens, and seduced her later. Lena is ambitious, and plans to rise through her attachment to Beta. Warning: Graphic, rough f/f sex. Lena is maipulative, and a borderline pedophile, considering how young Beta was when their affair started. The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Wallachia Later in the day of the marriage contract Elizabeta sat beside Prince Draculea at supper that night, at his right hand as was befitting his betrothed. Beta had always been the highest-ranking female at her fathers table, but now the assembled guests seemed to look at her with even greater respect and admiration. At least it seemed so to her, and she was perfectly happy to accept the added attention. She deserved it, after all. She was going to be a princess. But in her new station, Elizabeta did not forget her obligations and promises. She leaned close to the prince and said confidingly, "The marriage contract is signed?" He nodded. "This afternoon. I put my seal to it, and it has been sent ahead to my castle archives. Your father retains a copy." "Did you ask him to let Nicolae come with me?" Draculeas smile struck her as a little odd. "The boy will come to Castle Draculea." "Oh, good! I am so happy. Now, I need only one thing to make my happiness complete." "And what is that, Elizabeta?" Vlad had no objection to keeping the girl happy, as long as it did not interfere too greatly with his own interests. "If you will but say that my dear Lena may come with me, I will be fully content." "Lena... Ah, yes, Abul, your maid. Yes, Beta, she was included in the marriage contract. As long as she is willing, she will be with you." "Oh, she is willing, my lord! She half raised me. She is my dearest friend and confidant. I could not have thrived without her. And she will be a benefit to your house. She is a very clever woman."

The most dangerous kind. Draculea frowned as this thought flitted across his mind. He dismissed it as unworthy. "Which one is she?" He was a bit curious as to whom his future bride deemed indispensable. "There, just down the table on the right." Beta pointed to a thin woman with jet-black hair. All ladies of the gentry tried to achieve a pale complexion, but this woman was so white as to be almost ghostly. In contrast, her lips were blood red. I do believe the wench wears cosmetics. I wonder that Ernestu would let a woman who paints near his precious child. Vlad shrugged the thought off. Lena Abul was of little concern to him. Instead he was anticipating seeing Nicu again in a few hours. The boy was still in Simions room, and Vlad intended to spend the night there again, with him. They would leave early in the morning, and it would be simply too indiscreet to have the boy too close when they encamped on the trip. That meant that unless they joined again tonight, Vlad would have to remain celibate till after his wedding, because the ceremony would take place the very day they arrived. "Have you finished packing?" he asked, not really curious. "Oh, yes! Lena was invaluable in that. She knows my possessions better than I do." "Really?" Not a trait I would trust overmuch in a servant. Well, any servant save Simion. "In the castle, Maria Ta, how shall I live? Do you wish me with you at all times? I must confess that I am used to my occasional solitude, and would miss it." "You will have your own room. There is a small hallway that connects it to mine, so that I may travel to and fro without making it known to all the castle." "And my maid?" "There is a dressing room that lets off yours that she may occupy. Or there is a trundle under your bed, which on which she may sleep when I do not visit you. It is your choice." "Oh, good. I do not think I could sleep if she was not near." It sounds as if Abul will keep you well occupied. That is good. It would not do for you to feel neglected, and I fear I will have little time for you. I suppose it is a selfish thing I do, marrying you when you might have some young man who actually loved you. But you are not being forced into this. I only hope you do not regret choosing rank over passion. Vlad had no way of knowing that Elizabeta was in no way giving up her passion for rank. She was pleased when the prince left the table early, explaining that it would be best for all of them if they retired, so to be fresh for their journey on the morrow. As usual, her maids accompanied her to her chambers, whispering and giggling excitedly. Elizabeta did not have as many attendants as some women of her rank, so the three maids she was being allowed to bring with her, and Nicu, were her entire coterie. In the bedchamber, Lena turned to the other, younger women. "Off to bed with you. I know you two, you will chatter the night away if I allow it, and we need our rest. I will attend my lady."

The other girls didnt mind. They shared a room, and intended to spend a good bit of time talking before they slept, no matter what their senior said. They left in a rustling of brocade and scuffing of velvet slippers. Lena turned to the young girl she had cared for over six years, smiling. "Well, Beta. So it is set in motion. Soon it will be accomplished, and you will be a princess." Beta smiled at her coyly. "Nicu says that I am already a princess." Lenas smile became stiff at the mention of the librarian. "Nicu is something of a fool." She did not like Nicolae. Well, she disliked anyone else who occupied a place of interest or affection in her Betas life. When she saw Beta begin to pout, she said quickly, "I only mean that he cannot see the practicality of things, Beta. You know very well that he lives in his own world." Beta sighed. "Yes, Lena, I know. But sometimes I envy him that world. It is so full of goodness and hope. He wants so much to believe the best of all people." As I said, my dear, a fool. But Lena did not say this aloud. She did not want to alienate Beta at this late stage. Her misguided affection for the boy would have to be dealt with later, subtly. Lena stepped behind Beta and began to undo the many buttons that closed her dress in back. "I suppose we cannot do without dreamers, but some of us must see to the practicalities of life. You, my Beta, you must think of your future. Yes, Prince Draculea has chosen you, but mens attentions can fade. We will have to be clever to keep your newfound position secure." Lena slipped the girls stiff brocade dress off her, leaving her to stand in her thin silk shift as she laid the dress aside in a trunk, prepared for the trip to Castle Draculea. Elizabeta went to sit on the side of the bed as she did this, kicking off her slippers. "Beta!" Lena scolded as she set the shoes neatly in the trunk (all the travelers would wear sturdy boots for the journey). "You still act like such a child sometimes." Beta had unfastened her garters, and was rolling down her fine wool stockings. Her shift was rucked high, and Lena had a good view of her pale, shapely legs as she pulled the stockings off. "But I am not a child, Lena. You know that," she said teasingly. Lena licked her lips. "No, Beta. You are a woman." Lena Abul was in her thirties, and had never married. She was considered by most to be a hopeless old maid. She was pretty enough, but of low rank, and poor. Even with these handicaps she might have made a fair match, if it was not for the fact that she was a clever, ambitious woman, and incapable of concealing either trait for long. Lena had early on determined that she would not be able to better herself through the common method of marriage. Well, then, if she could not rise through a mans help, then why not a womans? This suited Lena fine, as she had never felt desire for a man. Women were much more suited to her taste: the softer and more feminine, the better. Women actually admired her strength of character, and her intelligence, and did not view them as a threat. When Ernestu Varga had begun looking for a woman of gentle birth to teach his daughter to be a lady, Lena had presented herself. Ernestu was not tempted by Lenas physical attributes, and knew that she had no dealings with men, so he saw little potential for scandal, and engaged her. It never occurred to him that

there might be women who fancied other women, though he himself indulged occasionally with a fresh faced youth. Ernestu was, in many ways, a very stupid man. Lena took charge of Elizabeta when she was twelve. She was already a charming, pretty child, but Lena was scrupulously correct for the first few years. She made sure that Beta loved her. She was a friend, ally, and confidante. All the while she imbued the girl with the idea that the male of the species was somehow slightly ridiculous, and physically distasteful. Men were by nature crude, unrefined, and simply not worth the fuss that was made over them. True, they must be catered to, at least in public, but a cunning woman could usually get whatever she wanted from them without expending too much energy. She had told Elizabeta the facts of life when the girl first asked, a shockingly incorrect thing to do. She had made the girl promise not to tell anyone: father, confessor, or ladys maid. The act, as she described it, sounded messy and uncomfortable, if not actually painful. She provided Beta with sketches of the male anatomy, both at rest and aroused with desire. "I would not have you shocked into hysterics on your wedding night, child." she had said at the time. Lena saw to it that there was little chance for Beta to satisfy her natural curiosity. She made sure the girl was even more thoroughly chaperoned than most girls of her class. The only man with whom she was ever alone with was her father (thank heavens the pig had not formed a desire for his own child. Lena would not have put it past him. It was fairly obvious that hed developed a lust for his bastard, Nicolae. Maybe that could be fostered, to insure that the boy remained at Castle Varga instead of going along to Castle Draculea). Lena did not even trust Father Mircea. She sat in the nave while Beta made her confession, narrowly watching the priests side of the booth. Her attention and diligence had paid off--Lena was the most important person in Elizabetas life. It was to be expected that the girl turn to her when her physical desires began to manifest themselves. It had started when Beta was just past fifteen. Lena had allowed herself to be caught in the act of dallying with one of the younger maids. Beta had hurried into Lenas room to find the older woman with her hands up under the skirt of the youngest lady-in-waiting, a girl only two years Betas senior. The girls bodice had been open, her nipples stiff pink points peeking over the top of her shift, which seemed to have been pulled down to improve access. Beta had realized with astonishment that those little buds were wet and shiny. Since Lena had just been lifting her head from the girls bosom, it was apparent that the older woman had been licking or sucking them. Both of the other women were breathing heavily. The little maid had been flushed, but now a tide of red flowed from her neck up to her hairline as she frantically tugged at her clothing. Lena pulled her hands out from under the girls skirt, and Beta saw that the older womans fingers were also slick and shiny. Lena had patted the maid on the cheek, murmured to her reassuringly, and sent the girl out of the room. Then she calmly sat on her bed, looked at Beta, and said, "You have questions?" Beta came to sit beside her. "What were you doing with Elise?"

Lena smiled. "Just playing with her a bit. Making her feel good. Making myself feel good." "But what were you doing?" Lena reached out and touched the young girls throat. "Would you like to see? I think you are old enough now, Beta. You have your womans courses, your bosom has filled, your maiden-hair has grown. You are ready to learn about pleasure. I would like to teach you." Feeling breathless, Beta had said, "Yes, please." Lena had locked the door to her room, then slowly stripped both Beta and herself. There, on her narrow bed, she had explored the girls untouched body with hands and mouth till Beta was squirming and whimpering, her sex dripping with desire. Then Lena had knelt between her legs, parted the lips of her sex, and found the little bud of flesh that had become hard and swollen. She had lapped and nibbled at it till Beta was arching and crying out, then had thrust her tongue deep into the fragrant, wet slit and moved it vigorously till she felt the girls body clench and shudder in her first orgasm. From that moment on, Beta belonged to Lena. Beta grew to be a lovely young woman. She and Lena spent many nights cuddled together in Betas bed, whispering and laughing. Gradually, Lena taught her all the things that women could do together to give each other pleasure. Now the girl was almost as proficient a lover as Lena, Lena thought that shed have to tell the girl to act awkward and shy, if not frightened, on her wedding night. That should not be too difficult. Despite their lovemaking, Beta was still a physical virgin. Lena had made sure of that. Whenever she used her fingers, Lena was careful to penetrate the girls slit only shallowly, no matter how Beta begged her do go deeper, harder. "No, child. You must keep your maidenhead. If you do not bleed on your wedding night, there will be a scandal. Your husband will have just cause for annulment, and you will be disgraced. You know very well that your father will send you to wither in some convent if that happens. And much as I love you, pet, I could not wall myself up by your side." Beta still pouted occasionally, but agreed. She knew enough of the world to know that what her lover said was true. Now Lena sat on the bed beside Beta, reached behind her, and removed the pins that held the heavy coil of her hair in place. It tumbled down the girls back in blue-black waves. This was one way she resembled her bastard half-brother. They had the same coloring, and the same slanted brown eyes. Lena supposed that if it were possible for her to desire a man, Nicolae Calugarul would have been the one, since he resembled her. Lena kissed her, gently at first, nibbling at the tender, pouting lips. Beta parted her lips readily, silently inviting Lena. The older woman accepted, slipping her tongue in to explore the sweet, moist interior of the girls mouth, even as she tugged the shift down to expose her breasts. Beta sighed into her mouth, her nipples rising to stiff points as Lena toyed with them. She loved this so, and Lena never failed to satisfy her, but there was more that she wanted. Pulling back a little, she murmured, "Can we use The Staff tonight, love?"

"Of course, my darling." Lena stripped as Beta pulled off her shift and stretched out on the bed. From a hidden pocket in her skirt, Lena drew The Staff. It had been a gift to her from the concubine of an eastern vizier who had once visited court when she was younger. The barbarians in the east had remarkably novel ideas about sex. Since their women were shut away from all but their husbands or consorts, and since the men wanted the women to be satisfied enough not to seek other men, they were allowed toys. The Staff was a tapered cylinder of wood, about nine inches long. It was near four inches wide at the base, tapering to about two inches at the peak, and it was fitted in a smooth sheath of soft leather. Beta eyed it hungrily as Lena climbed on the bed, holding it. She was not allowed to use The Staff on herself: her virginity must be preserved. Lena had promised her that this would not be so, once she was married. "When you have been breached, my love, then... Then I will plumb your depths. I even have a belt and harness it will fit on, so that I may take you in the manner of a man. But I will be more careful of your pleasure than any of them will ever be. Untill that time, Beta could watch Lena use The Staff, or she could herself work it into the older womans soft, grasping hole, but that was all. Beta fondled Lenas tits, leaning down to suckle and nip at the womans dark nipples, which thickened at her caresses. "Let me take you tonight, Lena." "Yes, Beta. But first, sweet girl, taste me." She spread her legs wide, and Beta eagerly moved up between them. She parted the coarse, dark curls that covered the slit of Lenas sex. Pressing the crease open, she began to lick and suck. Lena lay back with a sigh. She loved this, loved having the young, beautiful woman, who was her superior in class and rank, service her like a common wench. Elizabeta ran her tongue over the pink folds of flesh, licking diligently till the small slit began to trickle with clear fluid. Then she pressed her mouth to the flow, flicking her tongue against the little opening till she managed to penetrate it. Lena groaned as Beta thrust her tongue in and out of her cunt, probing as deeply as she could. At last she said, "Now, Beta." "I wish we had the belt. I wish I could mount you." "So do I," she lied. She did not want Beta to fuck her in that manner. Lena enjoyed having the upper hand, but there was no harm in pretending that she was interested. She was sure that once she actually got The Staff inside Beta, the girl would be content to remain the submissive in their relationship. "Lie down. I will position myself so we can pleasure each other at once." Beta lay down, and Lena turned to face the foot of the bed, then straddled her charge on her hands and knees, her face hovering over the girls groin. The smell of musk was already heavy, and she could see the glisten of juice on the girls sparsely haired sex. "Now, Beta. Fill me, but gently at first." Beta pressed the tip of The Staff to Lenas hole and pushed gently. Her lover moaned as the false prick slowly speared into her steaming sex. Beta watched, fascinated as the dark leather disappeared between the pink lips into the white flesh. It amazed her how much of The Staff Lena could take inside herself. Beta was sure that she, herself, would split in two if she tried to do that. But the idea was intrigueing.

At last there was only a small bit of The Staff outside Lenas body, enough for Beta to hold. Lena lowered her head and began to delicately lick Betas genitals. She used her thumbs to press aside the pads of flesh so she could get at the marvelous little bud that gave such pleasure, and proceeded to drive the younger girl wild with desire. Beta began to move The Staff, pulling it almost all the way out, then thrusting again, deeply. As Lena tormented her with soft licks and sucks, she increased the speed and strength of her pumping, till she was shoving the dildo in and out of Lena in short, hard jabs. Lena enjoyed rough sex, despite her praise of the gentleness of women, and the older woman was panting so hard that she had to concentrate to keep devouring her lover. In reward for her diligence, Lena thrust her tongue deep into Betas cleft, licking toward her very core. Beta moaned Lenas name, pressing her streaming crotch hard against the womans mouth. "Your fingers, Lena! Please! I feel so empty, I need them!" "Then fuck me harder, pet, and I will give you what you need." As Beta drove The Staff harder and harder, jolting the woman on top of her, Lena plunged two fingers into Betas wet sex and began to pump. But she ignored the girls cries to go harder and deeper. She would not endanger the precious maidenhead, even in the throes of passion. Instead she used her other hand to pinch Betas clitoris, hard, while she fingerfucked her. She felt the girl begin to spasm around her probing fingers, as she wailed in release. And Lena found her own release, shuddering around The Staff as it plunged in and out of her body. Ah, there was never a man who satisfied as well, and The Staff was always ready for another round of pleasure. It did not try to command, it did not sneer at dreams or ambitions, and it could not plant a whelp in your body. How could it be more perfect? When they were done, Lena moved off the limp girl and lay beside her, the dildo still deep in her body. She rather liked to keep it there for a time, after they had made love. Occasionally her or Beta would reach down and give it a few lazy pumps, keeping the embers of desire glowing for long moments. She would remove it later, wipe it clean, and return it to the secret pocket. It wouldnt do to leave it lying about. Most castle inhabitants would not have guessed its purpose. But Ernestu had a small collection of indecent literature, and just might have known what it was. She couldnt risk that. Beta snuggled against her, but continued to complain about not being able to use The Staff herself. Lena finally grew weary of her whining, and thought of an amusing way to quiet her, and tighten her hold at the >ame time. The more humiliation the girl was willing to accept for Lena, the closer they would be bound. Lena said thoughtfully, "Well, if you really must try The Staff, there is a way to do so without losing your virginity." "How?" Beta sounded eager. "Do you wish to try it?" "Yes, please!"

"I warn you, it will be uncomfortable, perhaps as much as your actual deflowering will be at the hands of Draculea." She never missed an opportunity to critisize normal relations. "I dont care! Anyway, I dont see how it could." "Very well. You have committed yourself to this. I will not let you back down. Turn on your belly." Elizabeta obeyed. She watched as Lena moved the dildo in her dripping pussy for a moment, then removed it. It glistened with Lenas juices. "How can you put that in my sex and not break my maidenhead?" she asked curiously. "Foolish child. Dont you know that God gave you more than one hole?" As she spoke, she had spread the white globes of Betas ass. Before the girl knew what was going on, Lena had clapped one hand over her mouth. With the other, she rammed The Staff into the girls rectum. Beta felt a stabbing, burning pain. It felt as if she were being torn open, split in two. She tried to scream, but her lovers hand was tight against her mouth. Lena did not stop. She twisted The Staff, sliding it deeper into the trembling girls bowels. The only lubricant she had used was the oils from her own body, and she had not taken the time to gently tease Beta into relaxation, as Vlad had with Nicu. But then, Lena was not making love to Beta now. She was cementing her dominance. "Quiet, Beta. I know it hurts, but you wanted this. It will be easier to bear in a little while. After a few times, you will even come to enjoy it." Beta moaned as Lena once again began forcing the dildo in. It wasnt easy, given the dryness and tightness of the virgin passage. Lena reflected that it was a good thing that there would be a wagon or carriage to carry the women tomorrow, because her lady wouldn NOT want to mount a horse. At last Lena stopped, with about six inches of The Staff anally impaling her young lover. She wouldnt force the entire length into her tonight. That might cause damage. She finally took her hand away, and listened to the girl moan, her own sex growing even slicker. "Take it out, please Lena." There were tears streaking Betas smooth cheeks. "No, child. Now that you have it, you must get used to it. You will keep it inside you the rest of the night, and I will remove it in the morning." "Lena, please, it hurts." "I warned you, didnt I? Perhaps you will listen to me the next time. Now, be quiet, and sleep." She lay back, listening to the girl whimper. Every time Beta shifted to try to get more comfortable, the false cock would move in her ass, bringing fresh pain. She tried to sleep, but every so often Lena would grip the base of The Staff and move it a few strokes, fucking her ass. Gradually it did begin to hurt less, but it didnt become pleasureable, as Lena had said.

At last Beta said, "This wasnt what I wanted, Lena." "I know. You wanted me to fuck you. Very well, if it will make you be quiet." Lena got up on her knees, throwing a leg over Beta. Beta realized that she was crouched right over the protruding end of The Staff. "Lena! No!" "Be quiet, Beta." Lena lowered herself till the thick, blunt end of The Staff butted against her vulva. Then she pushed down, taking the short exposed end into her own sex and finding a narrow grip with the circle of her thumb and finger between their bodies. Holding The Staff, she began to move her hips. It drove the blunt end shallowly in and out of her own cunt. She began to pump back and forth, and soon she was plunging the dildo in and out of Betas ass as the girl moaned in pain and the beginnings of desire. Lena continued this till she orgasmed again, ramming the rod all the way into Betas cringing flesh this time. Leaving it embedded, Lena quickly pumped two fingers into the girls slit, and rubbed her clitoris hard till she came, muffling her scream by biting the pillow. Finally Lena lay back down again. "There, Beta. That is a little of what a man would do to you, given half the chance. I was only cruel to prepare you, you know that." Beta kissed her, leaving wet patches on Lenas face from her tears. "I know. Thank you, Lena. You always look after me." As the girl tried to go to sleep, despite the throbbing agony in her ass, Lena thought smugly. And you will take care of me, Beta, no matter who I have to deal with. TBC Back to index

Chapter 16: Part 16: Lulling

Part 16: Lulling The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Romania Simions Room Simion returned to Nicolae that afternoon, but had to leave him alone that evening, going to help Draculea prepare for the evening meal, and wait on him at table. He did not really like doing that: the boy was far too quiet and subdued to suit him. He had been expecting questions about his lord, the natural curiosity of a young man about a new lover. Nicolae scarcely spoke at all. He had his rosary, which had been tucked in his belt, and he told the beads ceaselessly, his lips moving silently. His eyes would be closed, and the steady, whispered stream would falter. Dark brows would draw together in dismay, or frustration. The brown eyes would open to dart around the room, then close, and the litany would begin again. *You have a hard time keeping your mind on your devotions, boy,* Simion thought. *I would hazard a guess that it is thoughts of my lord that draw your concentration from the spiritual paths.*

When Simion left, Nicolae got up and dressed, pulling on his cassock. He looked at the drawers, but left them folded. He was much better, but his bottom was still far too tender for any cloth close against it. Once he had this meager token of modesty, he thought about going back to his own room, or to the library. But Simion had told him that he was to remain here. "Your father has been warned, boy, but it would be better for you to stay out of his path as much as possible." Nicolae shuddered. Yes, that was wise. He had remembered most of what happened the day, and night, before, and it frightened him terribly. Ernestu had never shown a carnal interest in him before. It had never occurred to Nicolae that he might. Oh, Nicolae knew of his fathers debauchery. The castle was small. No doubt there were secrets there, but one had to work diligently to keep them. It was well known that Ernestu could not keep well-born pages or squires because of his proclivities. The base born servants, male and female, had no recourse. Most, if not all, had been tumbled in some fashion at some point. But Nicolae had never expected Ernestu to stoop to pursuing his own blood. He never had with his own children. *A mark, I suppose, of how close he feels to me,* Nicolae thought ironically. He was pacing again when the door opened. Simion frowned at him as he entered, carrying another tray. It was laden with a plate of rich foods, and a goblet of wine. Draculea came right behind him. Nicolae froze in the presence of the other man, feeling a wave of cold, then heat sweep over his body. Draculea observed him, his wide mouth quirking slightly. "Well, I suppose I could not keep you naked forever, though the thought is tempting." He indicated the brown robe, as Simion set the tray on the small table by the bed. "Simion, that rag is offensive. Find something more suitable for him for tomorrow, would you? No doubt one of the higher servants or lesser nobles will have something they will gladly donate." He gave the word "gladly" a twist, and Simion smirked. No one in the castle was likely to deny Draculea anything he wished. Draculea went to Nicolae and stroked the boys arm, murmuring, "Well have to make do for a little while, pet. Soon Ill have you dressed in more fitting style." Nicolae looked at the floor. "Domn, I could not repay you." "Not in coin, perhaps. But there are other ways to recompense me, sweet." He looked at Simion. "Some warm water, I think, Simion, then you may leave. I trust you to wake us in due time on the morrow." Simion bowed, leaving the room, and Vlad turned his attention back to Nicolae. "Did you sleep well today, pet?" Nicolae nodded. "You were very weary from your ordeal, and I..." He touched the boys cheek. "I am afraid I did not help you last night. Im sorry if I wearied you further, but you were quite irresistible." "Maria Ta..." Nicolae whispered. He turned away from Draculea, pressing against the rough stone of the wall. "What is it, little one?" Vlad stroked his shoulders, then his back, feeling the tension in his body. "You are grieving yourself. Why? I tried so hard not to hurt you. Did I hurt you, Nicu?" Nicolae shook his head numbly. "Oh, Domn." Vlad heard him swallow. "I had thought that I had overcome such wicked urges. Nothing but a little brandy, and the devil took hold of me." Draculea moved up behind him, and Nicolae drew a deep breath as Vlads larger body pressed lightly against the length of his own. "No, Nicolae. Do not blame either the spirits, or the devil. You may, if you wish, blame the Son of the Devil. I know that some call me that, though never to my face." He sighed, nuzzled the soft nape of the younger mans neck. It sent a shiver through the boy. Draculea whispered against his skin. "You have to forgive me, Nicolae. I should not have taken you so soon, not when you were only half aware and half able to enjoy. But I did my best to make it good for you, pet." He grazed his lips over to the side of Nicolaes throat, coming to rest over the spot where the pulse beat strongly beneath the skin. Simion came back in with a large pitcher of warm water. He was not surprised by what he found: he had

expected his master to begin seducing the boy as quickly as possible. And the pair scarcely seemed to notice him. Nicolae darted him a glance that was wordlessly pleading, but Simion only shook his head. *This is your situation now, boy. You can enjoy it, if you allow yourself.* He left quietly. Draculea was pressing against him more firmly, fitting his loins against the cushion of Nicolaes buttocks. The boy finally tried to squirm away, murmuring "Please, Domn." Draculea pulled back a little. "Im sorry, child. For a moment I forgot your hurt." He stroked Nicolaes rump lightly. "Is it still very painful?" Nicolae pulled away from his touch. "I... a little. But it is not that, Domn. You MUST NOT." Draculea ignored his protest. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots, then swung his long legs up and took the tray across his lap. Patting the mattress, he said, "Come. Sit and eat." When the boy hovered anxiously, he said patiently. "Nicolae, if I MUST order you, I WILL, but it would please me greatly if you would obey without a command." After another moments hesitation, Nicolae went and sat on the bed beside Draculea. He tried to stay at the edge, but that was not allowed. "Youll fall off, boy. Closer." Draculea put his right arm around Nicolaes shoulders, and drew him close, leaning back so they were both propped against the wall. "Can you sit like this for a while without discomfort?" "Yes, Maria Ta." "Good. Now," he indicated the tray. "I had them fix this from the food prepared for my table." He touched Nicolaes cheek. "Only the best for you, pet." "Thank you, Domn," he whispered. Draculea picked up a choice bit of meat and brought it to Nicolaes lips. "Thank me by eating well. Simion said he had to coax you this afternoon." Nicolae turned his head slightly away. "Domn, I can feed myself. I am not a child." "Oh Nicolae, how wrong you are. You are a child in so many ways." Draculea put his hand into the soft, dark hair and turned Nicolae back toward him. "You will not deny me this pleasure, Nicu." His touch and voice was gentle, but his eyes said that he would have his way. Nicolae opened his mouth, and Draculea tucked the morsel inside, then chose another as the boy chewed. Truthfully, Vlad was a little surprised with himself. Oh, he was generally thoughtful of his lovers, seeing that his servants made them comfortable and tended to their needs. But Nicolae was the first one he had ever felt the urge to care for with his own hands. Draculea spent pleasant moments feeding the boy. As the meal progressed, and the plate emptied, his fingers began to linger against Nicolaes mouth after he gave him the food. The last of the food was a small cake, soaked with honey, and smelling deliciously of orange-water. Vlad broke it into small pieces, and again fed Nicolae. This time the boy accepted eagerly, and Draculea smiled. "Yes, you like your sweets, dont you?" When the boy blushed, he said, "There is no shame in that, Nicolae. Your appetites are not so gross as you seem to believe." When the last crumb was gone, Nicolae sat back with a satisfied sigh, licking smears of honey from his lips. Draculea watched him, eyes almost glowing. Nicolae was surprised when Draculea again brought his hand to the boys mouth. He pressed his fingers to Nicolaes lips, and the boy felt the sticky smears. "Clean me?" Nicolae stared at the prince, his eyes going round. Vlad ran one slightly rough fingertip over the boys delicate bottom lip. When he spoke again, his tone was still soft, but firm. "Clean me, Nicolae." Hesitantly, Nicolae put out his tongue, and lapped at the sweet stickiness. Draculea watched as the boys warm pink tongue slithered over his fingers, wiping away the last traces of the dessert. As he licked, Nicolaes eyes drifted half shut. When the fingers pressed, slipping into his mouth, he did not pull back, or protest. Closing his eyes the rest of the way, he sucked softly. When the fingers were removed, Draculea cupped Nicolaes chin, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. "Are you thirsty, Nicu?" He offered the goblet.

Nicolae bit his lip. "I do not drink... wine, Domn." "No? This is not so strong, Nicolae." He wrinkled his nose slightly, and admitted. "It is not so much that. I do not like the taste." Draculea smiled. "I think I can teach you to enjoy the taste." Draculea took a sip of wine, then leaned across Nicolae to place the goblet on the table. But he did not sit back. He remained leaning over the boy, and pressed his mouth to Nicolaes. The younger man opened his mouth to protest, and Vlad let the wine trickle from his mouth to Nicolaes. Nicolae tasted the tartness of the wine mingle with the honey he had eaten. Then there was the taste of the prince himself as Draculeas tongue moved into Nicolaes mouth. The boy moaned deep in his throat. Draculea pulled away for a moment, "One moment, pet. Let me put this aside." He moved the tray to the floor, then reached for Nicolae again. Nicolae whispered desperately, "Maria Ta, please dont." He sighed, pressing his forehead against the boys. "Nicolae, you wont fight me, will you? I dont want to hurt you, I only want to give us both pleasure." His hand moved to the neck of Nicolaes robe, and his fingertip dipped into the hollow made by his collarbones. He bent his head and licked the sensitive little spot. Nicolae closed his eyes, feeling helpless. The heat was rising again, despite his fear and shame. "There are so many others who would gladly service you..." "Thats not what I want, sweet Nicu." Draculea moved over him, straddling Nicolaes thighs. He took the boys hand and pressed it to the front of his breeches, forming it over the bulge that grew there. "This is for you, Nicu. You are all that I want." Nicolae turned his face away, and his voice was bleak. "...now." If you mean it as a suffix to Vlads sentence, I might put an ellipsis on it, particularly before the word. The sorrow in the boys tone brought Vlad up short. For a moment he was surprised, then almost angry. But that quickly faded as he looked at Nicolaes pale face and downcast eyes. *Yes, what else could he believe? When a royal makes advances to one who is little better than a serf, what can he think but that it is no more than a dalliance? An amusement?* The trouble was, Draculea was not sure himself what this thing was that he felt toward the dark haired young man. He knew that he desired Nicolae more than he had ever lusted for anyone else, that much was certain. He also felt very protective of the boy. Ernestu would die for what he had done, and what he had almost done. He also wanted to care for Nicolae. He had some idea of how harsh and barren of comfort the boys life had been, and he wanted to do things for Nicolae, give him things. He wanted to see him clothed in soft garments, wanted to feed him rich foods. He wanted to see his eyes light up at the sight of the great library at Castle Draculea. He wanted to spend long moments watching his graceful hands move as they transcribed the wisdom of great men. Perhaps most of all, he wanted to be able to awake to find Nicolae in his arms, peaceful and safe. These were not impulses with which Vlad was familiar. He had taken countless men and women to his bed over the years. He had liked all of them, been fond of many of them, but there had never been anyone like Nicu. How had the boy crept into his heart so quickly? Draculea sat back on the bed, pulling Nicolae once more into his embrace. "I move too fast for you, dont I, little one? Its hard for me. I am not used to one so innocent and tender. Ive been ruled by my flesh for so long that it isnt easy to deny myself, Nicolae. So..." he added as he rested his chin on the boys head. "I must go slowly. Very well. Tonight all I ask is that you let me hold you. Can you do that, boy?" Nicolae nodded. "I... would like that." "Let me put out the lamp." Draculea arose from the bed and snuffed the lamp, then began to remove his clothes. Nicolae said, "Domn, you said..."

"I do not sleep clothed, boy. It is not healthy. Neither should you. Take off that rag. Do not fear. I will... restrain myself." Nicolae pulled the cassock over his head, dropping it to the floor. He blushed, even though he knew Draculea could not see him in the darkness. The prince climbed into the bed beside him, and pulled him into his arms. Nicolae turned to him, tentatively draping an arm across the mans broad chest, and Draculea sighed. As he lay there in the dark, Draculea thought, *Well, I am either mad, or a fool. I have the boy in my arms, and I do nothing.* In fact, Vlad was half aroused, just from the nearness of Nicolae. But he was determined not to do anything further to distance the boy, not this night. He was almost dozing, when he felt the touch. It was so light that at first he thought it was part of a dream with which he was to be gifted. Then he realized that Nicolae was brushing his cheek across Vlads chest. The boys skin was not quite as smooth as a girls. There was the first bare roughening of a beard, just enough to stimulate. Vlad held very still. It was the first caress Nicolae had offered willingly, and he was afraid to respond, lest the boy shy away. Nicolae hardly knew what he was doing. He only knew that Draculea had stopped this time when he protested, and he was grateful for the consideration. And it was so good to be held like this, almost as if someone actually cared. He only wanted to show his appreciation for the princes kindness, and understanding. It was such a simple gesture that he had not expected how he, himself, would react to it. The crisp hair on Draculeas chest tickled, and he smiled to himself in the dark, then repeated the gesture. The prince was so solid, so warm, so alive. Nicolae found himself rubbing his face against the broad chest, listening as the heartbeat that pulsed so close gradually sped up. Kisses were tokens of respect, werent they? Respect and gratitude. Nicolae placed a humble kiss on the firm swell of the princes chest. Then another seemed most appropriate. And another, and... Nicolaes lips brushed a small, stiff peak, and he paused. There was a groan from the man who held him, and Nicolaes immediate response was to soothe, so he repeated the kiss, making his lips soft against the hardened bit of flesh. Draculea shifted, groaning again. It wasnt enough? What else...? Of course. Hed seen animals tending a swollen and aching paw, and knew what to try next. He licked carefully, swirling his tongue over the thrusting point. Draculeas voice was hoarse in the darkness. "Jesu, Nicolae. Are you trying to drive me mad? I promised not to take you tonight." Nicolae moved up to bury his face against Draculeas neck, contrite. "I am sorry, Domn. You have been good to me. I wanted to tend your hurt." Now he sounded puzzled. "My hurt?" He gasped as Nicolae took his nipple between his fingers. "You see?" His free hand had been smoothing over Draculeas torso, and passed over the other nipple, fastening on the hard bud. "Oh, and here, too. Swollen, Maria Ta." He was astonished when he felt and heard the quiet rumble of Vlads laughter. "You must not laugh at sickness, Domn! Should I call Simion? He seems most skilled in tending hurts." Draculea wiped at his eyes. "Yes, boy, this is the type of hurt that Simion is quite skillful at tending, and he has done so for me, many times. Oh, Nicu, and you say you are not a child!" "I only meant to help. I am sorry if I am stupid..." "No, sweetheart. Not stupid. Only very young and very new to all this. There is nothing wrong with me, Nicolae. This is a most pleasant type of swelling." Nicolae squirmed as he felt Draculeas hand questing across his chest. "Here." The prince took Nicolaes hand and guided it to his own smooth chest. "Feel." Nicolae found that his own nipples were as swollen and straining as those of the prince. When he touched them, there was a sharp tingle of pleasure that washed through his body, down to his groin. No wonder the prince had moaned. "Oh..." Draculeas eyes had adjusted to the dark. His night-vision was excellent, and he could just see the boy.

There was an expression of pure wonder on his face as his long fingers plucked lightly at the hard tips of his nipples. Vlad felt his sex begin to harden as he watched the boy pleasuring himself. He reached down and touched himself, stroking his length firmly. Nicolae needed to be shown that there was no wrong, no shame in physical pleasure, that he could satisfy his desires without the risk of hellfire. Vlad looked down Nicolaes torso. The thick, pale shaft was beginning to rise from the dark nest of curls that cushioned it. Draculea licked his lips, remembering the thick trickle of fluid he had drawn from it the other night, then the hot gush. But he did not reach for the tempting sex himself. Instead he gently guided one of Nicolaes hands down the boys own body, pressing it to the warm flesh at his crotch. Nicolae moaned quietly, and Vlad hardened even further, till he was like stone. He continued to pump himself as Nicolae tentatively caressed himself. *He hasnt even done this,* Vlad marveled. *He doesnt know how to touch himself to achieve the greatest pleasure.* "Stronger, Nicu," he whispered. "Its all right. Youll know if you are too rough, but it will feel so much better if your touch is more firm." The boy gave his shaft an experimental squeeze, and suddenly bucked his hips, throwing himself into his own grip strongly, with a little grunt. Draculea chuckled. "You see? Touch the head, Nicu. Find the wetness that you have made, and use it. Your hand will glide." Nicolae followed his suggestion, smearing the pre-come over his straining flesh. His hand slid more easily, and he gave a cooing sound that made Draculea want to throw him over on his belly and ravish him. But he did not. Instead he watched as the boy brought himself to a long, shuddering climax, hips arching wildly as his seed sprayed forcefully. Draculea cupped his hand over the boys jerking prick, catching the spunk. Then, slicking it on his own fevered organ, he quickly found his own release. The boy, panting, lay watching him. At the very end, he mimicked Draculea, holding his hand over the princes sex as he spewed his lust. Vlad lay, catching his breath, and saw Nicolae peering at his fingers in the darkness. Then he sniffed at them delicately, looking thoughtful. Finally, he tasted the milky drops that clung to his fingers. "God, Nicu!" Vlad pulled him roughly into his arms, kissing him. The boys body was pliant, yielding, and Draculea tasted himself in the boys mouth. Nicolae, relaxed and sleepy, settled against the older mans side, again resting his head on his chest. *So, that is lust. It is not as horrible as I thought. But perhaps that is just because it was with HIM.* Nicolae sighed. It was such a shame that things could not be different. If he was a noble, perhaps this man could have loved him. *As it is,* Nicolae thought sadly, *I must plan for what I will do with Beta away. I cannot remain here after Ernestu... after what he tried to do. I fear he will not be stopped next time. No, I must return to the abbey. The abbot is a kind man. Perhaps he will let me stay on as a lay brother, helping in the labors. And if I work hard, they may let me see the scrolls, sometimes.* Nicolae knew that life would be rough, with little joy or comfort, but he honestly saw no other recourse. He listened to the sleep quiet breathing of the man who held him in his arms, and thought of how nice it would have been to be loved. TBC Back to index

Chapter 17: Part 17: Passage

Summary: Still unaware of his new status, Nicolae begins the journey to Castle Draculea, believing that he is only going to see his sister married. Child of the Night, Part 17: Passage by Scribe The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Varga, Romania Nicolae awoke the next morning to Simion jogging his shoulder. "Awaken, sleepy head. My lord has already broken his fast, and is seeing to the disposition of the goods his bride will bring with her." Nicolae sat up, yawning and stretching. He felt wonderful, completely relaxed. He hadnt known that feeling often in his life. But he was a little sad that the prince would be leaving today. The man had frightened him, but it seemed that he meant Nicolae no harm. And, a rosy blush rose in the boys cheeks as he thought of this, he had made Nicolaes body sing. "Yes, I must get up. Elizabeta would be angry if I were not there to say farewell." He was preoccupied with trying to spot his garment, and did not notice the questioning look Simion gave him. "Simion? My cassock?" "Has been properly burned. Its work here on earth is finished, and it has gone to its reward." Simion laid a pile of clothes on the bed, and set a pair of boots beside them. "This will serve till my lord can acquire more for you." Nicolae examined each garment. There was a soft, white linen shirt, leggings, loose, dark breeches, and a pair of drawers. He looked at the last item, and picked them up with a glad cry. "Betas present! I thought they had been ruined." "Blood is not easy to remove, but it can be done. Will those aggravate your wounds?" "I do not think so. I am much improved." "Let me see." When Nicolae hesitated, Simion said briskly. "We have gone over this ground before, boy. I have to be sure that the wounds do not become poisoned." Simion got the jar of ointment again. "Show me." Blushing, Nicolae turned on his side, moving the sheet up. Simion looked at the boys buttocks critically. "Yes, much better. They will heal smoothly, the scabs are already soft. It is now mostly bruising. Hold still." He once again smoothed the ointment on the abused flesh, careful not to press too hard. Then, under pretext of continuing the nursing, he slightly parted the boys cheeks and looked. His ass hole was still tiny and pristine. *I know my lord. Nature has gifted him generously, and no matter how gentle he was, there would doubtless be some tearing the boys first time. He did not take him like that last night. My opinion of his self-restraint rises every day.* He finished the treatment with a last dab, and went to wipe his hands. As Nicolae pulled up the pants and tied the lacing, Simion said, "Tie them tightly or you will lose them. I got a pair from the fattest man I could find in the household, so that they would not bind your hurts." Nicolae smiled his thanks, buttoning the shirt. "And try the boots now. I have to see whether or not they fit." Nicolae sat on the bed and picked them up, looking at them admiringly. "I am sure they will." "No guessing, boy. If they are too large or too small, I have to replace them immediately. You could not go long in ill-fitting boots without agony. Let me help." He knelt before the boy and eased first one, then the other foot into the boots. He allowed his hand to linger for a moment on the boys firm, shapely calf. It was a pleasure to perform such small, subservient tasks for one so pretty, and so appreciative. "Try them." Nicolae stood up, and made a few steps across the room. He turned quickly, grinning at Simion, and strode back, making the heels rap on the stone floor. Simion returned his smile. "Im guessing that those are your first boots."

Nicolae nodded, bending down to run a finger over the mellow, gleaming leather. "They feel wonderful. But I do not know how I will repay the prince for them, and I scarcely need anything so fine for the castle." "Nicolae, you could not possibly wear those flimsy sandals on the journey." "Journey?" Nicolaes face lit up. "I am to go see Beta wed?" *Then he didnt tell him. Did he just assume that the boy would know, after the last two nights? Well, if the prince has not seen fit to tell him of his new position, I will not.* "Yes, Nicolae. You will see Lady Elizabeta married." He clasped his hands together, almost bouncing in eager happiness. "I have wanted that so much! I even prayed to the Blessed Virgin to let me, if it was not too much trouble. But I did not think my patron would allow it." "The prince insisted. He knows how fond you are of the lady." "Oh, yes! There have not been many in my life who have been truly kind to me, Simion. Beta, a few of the brothers, and now you and... and the prince." "You think him kind, Nicolae?" Nicolae became very interested in the toes of his boots again. "I... was afraid of him. I still am... a little. But I do not think he means me harm. He has been... good to me." "Yes, Nicolae. Prince Draculea has it in him to be kind. It is simply that there are not many who bring out that side of him. Now, what do you want to take with you? You wont need much. No more than what will fill this sack." Simion shook open a canvas bag, and prepared to argue with the boy about the amount he was allowed to bring. Draculea wanted him to have as little as possible to remind him of this place. He wanted to provide everything for him. The young librarian gave him a sunny smile. "My packing is easily done, Simion." He took a rosary from the table, and said, "Come." *Only a dungeon could be in a more miserable section of the castle* Simion thought when he saw Nicolaes room. *My room was small and grim, but at least it was dry, and fairly warm. How has the child escaped sickness in this pit?* Nicolae took a bible from the table, dropping the book into the sack. Then he hung the rosary around his neck, kissing the crucifix before he dropped it under his shirt. "I will wear this." Simion peered into the bag, then looked at Nicolae. "This is all you want?" He shrugged. "It is all I own." "Boy?" "Truly, Simion. That and the cassock and sandals, but I dont want to scrape the ashes from the grate, and I have my boots now. All the scrolls, the ink, the quills... They belong to my patron. Really, this is all I have, but it is all I need. Now..." He patted his stomach. "I must go and feed the lion that has made his lair in my belly before it roars and scares the women." Simion slowly tied a knot in the bag, watching the boy go. *Would that your cheerful mood lasts once you know your new situation, boy. I have never known anyone who had such a low opinion of himself, and deserved it less.* He passed through the kitchen on the way to the courtyard, and found Nicolae eating bread and cheese, ignoring the bountiful remains of the meat pies that had fed most of the household that morning. "Nicolae, will you PLEASE stop trying to starve yourself!" Simion scolded. He set a well-filled plate before the boy. "Dont you realize how much harder you make it for me when I have to keep wheedling you to eat? You will need your strength for the trip, and if you fall away, I will never hear the end of it." Simion had judged Nicolae correctly. While the boy tended toward abstention, he could not bear the thought of causing trouble for someone who had done him a kindness. Simion left, satisfied that the boy would eat a hearty breakfast.

Draculea was in the courtyard, supervising the loading of the goods Elizabeta would bring with her. He sighed, indicating the crowd of wagons, draft animals, and mounts. "Youd think I was an Eastern potentate, bringing back a treasure train. I dont think I can justify not taking some of Ernestus men to help guard, but Ill send them back as soon as we arrive in my territory." He eyed Simion significantly. "My men can escort him back to Castle Varga after the wedding." Simion smiled his understanding. "So, are Nicolaes things packed and ready to go? I want to leave soon. Well be moving slowly, and I do not want to waste good daylight." "Aye, lord. His packing was done quickly." Draculea did not notice his servants ironic tone. He gestured to a sturdy horse that already had a number of bundles strapped to its back. "Will it all fit on this one, or do I need to order another beast?" "I believe it will fit." "Good. Take all the men you need to carry it. We are almost ready to go." "No need to trouble the others, Maria Ta. I can handle this myself." Simion stepped up to the horse and tied the bag to the cords that held the other burdens in place. Draculea looked at the limp sack, then at Simion. "Simion, are you jesting with me?" "I often jest with you, my lord, but not in this." "That is ALL?" "No, my lord. He has a rosary, but he prefers to keep it on his person. That is his bible." Draculea hefted the sack, feeling its meager weight, then looked again at the rest of the caravan. He turned burning eyes on Simion. *Varga, I did not think it was possible for you to fall farther into disfavor, but I believe you have managed it.* "A book and his beads, that is all he has to show in material goods for eighteen years on this earth? Simion, the trousseau Varga sends with his daughter fills two wagons and burdens three more horses, and THIS is all he gives his son?" Draculeas voice dropped to a growl. "It will be a joy to kill the vermin." "Softly, lord, softly." Simion glanced around cautiously, but those around them were busy. "Varga is unlikely to be loved by his people, but loyalty can be inspired by fear, also. We do not know how sharp the ears of his followers are, nor how diligently they guard his well-being. Such matters are better left unspoken." "Wise counsel, as usual, Simion." Draculea pulled on his gloves with vicious tugs, working his hands into fists in a manner that spoke eloquently of what he would like to do to his future father-in-law. "See to it that Nicolae is comfortably placed in the wagon with the cook. Ive had some cushions put in for him, and make SURE he doesnt give them all away to the other man. I know him well enough by now to know hell think first of the others comfort. I must go and escort my bride to her seat." Nicolae was already making his way to the courtyard, and Simion met him in the halls, urging him along. The boy was eating an apple, crunching as he hurried. Simion reflected that this was the happiest and most relaxed he had ever seen Nicolae. In his new clothes, well fed and cheerful, he looked as fine as any young noble. *It may be wise that my lord places him with the cook instead of with Elizabeta and her ladies. I think he would make a few hearts beat faster.* In the courtyard, Simion took Nicolae to the wagon that would be just behind the one carrying Beta and her ladies. The cargo wagon was open, not closed like the passenger one, but there was a heavy piece of canvas that could be secured over it in case of foul weather. As Draculea had predicted, the first thing Nicolae did after greeting the cook was try to press the fattest cushion on him. The cook noted Simions warning glance and refused graciously. Nicolae settled himself and watched the rest of the activity with lively eyes. Draculea came from the castle, leading Elizabeta by the hand. The girl was dressed in sturdy, but rich, traveling clothes, her hair modestly covered by a cloth to keep out the dust of the road. She was followed by her ladies, all similarly dressed, and so excited that Nicolae was surprised that some of them did not

faint. He felt sure that the excitement would fade after a few hours on the road. Elizabeta spotted Nicolae in the wagon, and threw him a quick smile as Draculea handed her up to her seat. The two youngest ladies noted her look, and began whispering to each other almost frantically. Surely that wasnt Nicolae the Monk? That brown, quiet librarian couldnt be this fair young man. They craned their necks to see him as they mounted the wagon, and Nicolae was perfectly innocent of the interest he had aroused. He had also aroused interest that he would have been better off without. Ernestu noted his daughters gaze. When his eyes lit on Nicolae, he frowned. The last time he had seen his bastard son, the boy had been bruised, bloody, and completely humbled. Now... The cook said something to Nicolae, and the boy laughed excitedly. He was a picture of youth, joy, and beauty. Ernestu had his pick of the servants in his household, but they were all of obvious peasant stock: coarse and sturdy. Nicolae... The blood Ernestu would have denied leant the boy a fineness that his harsh life could not erase. Before it had been just a craving based on convenience, but now Varga felt his lust rise up in earnest. There had to be some way for him to have the boy before he returned after the wedding. He would just have to look for his chance. At last they were ready to leave. Draculea, Simion, Ernestu, and the guards were all mounted. It was a matter of honor for Draculea to ride behind the advance guards, leading the party. Ernestu, as second in rank, came next, and the rest of the party ranged behind. As they moved out of the castle gates, Nicolae took his rosary from around his neck and calmly began telling his beads, letting the familiar litany lull him into a peaceful near trance as the wagon jolted and swayed down the road. The cook watched him curiously. So, this was Prince Vlads new lover. Everyone in the castle knew it, there were very few things hidden in such a close environment. When the cook had first heard it, he had been skeptical. He knew Nicolae as only a shadowy, humble presence in the castle. The librarian was scorned by Ernestu and his attendants, treated with off-hand, careless affection by Lady Elizabeta (when she could be bothered), and mostly ignored by the rest of the household. This young man seemed totally different. The cook could well imagine that he might become the favorite of royalty. *Well, good enough. He isnt so high and mighty as some might be. He seems to have a good heart. And it isnt beyond chance that he might remember kindness.* The cook took a small cloth from his bag of belonging, and nudged Nicolae. Nicolae finished an Ave, and looked at him questioningly. The cook opened the kerchief and offered it to him. "Sugared almonds?" Nicolaes eyes brightened as he reached for the offered candy, and the cook smiled. tbc Back to index

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Traveling

Authors Notes: Disclaimer: All characters except Nicolae, Lena, Simion, Ernestu, and some minor ones belong to Bram Stoker originally. Summary: On the road to Castle Draculea. Authors Notes: Dont be squicked by the reference to once-a-week baths. Hygiene was a lot different back then. Many people considered all over bathing to be actually unhealthy, and possibly sinful (as an example of vanity). Many people were bathed fully twice in their lifetime: when they were born, and when they were readied for burial. Nicolae is remarkably clean for his time.

The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Romania, On the Road Father Mircea was mounted also, having declined a place in one of the wagons. "I have a fine mule. Let the space go to someone else who doesnt." In any case, he liked the idea of being able to range up and down the length of the caravan, speaking with the various members of the party. Not long after they were away from the castle, he checked in on Lady Elizabeta and her women. The young girls were much more subdued than they had been when they boarded the wagon. Though it was the sturdiest, with the best balance and cushioning, and the road was well maintained, none of the gentlewomen were used to traveling. It was not unusual for someone to be born, live their entire lives, and die and be buried without going outside a ten mile span. Next he located Nicolae in the second cart. The boy looked wonderful. Mircea had always known that he was handsome, and the new clothes were a proper foil for his youthful good looks. But it wasnt just the garments that made a difference. Nicolaes features were animated, his eyes bright, as he chatted to the castle cook who shared the wagons bed with him. *Here is how he might have looked if he had never known his father,* Mircea thought. *Blessed Virgin, you look after innocents. Let this go well for him? He is such a sweet soul, and Ernestu will kill him, physically or spiritually, if he remains at Castle Varga.* Nicolae saw Mircea, and greeted him gaily. "Father, you fare well? You arent tired yet, are you? You can ride with us, if you are. There is plenty of room, and I have cushions..." "No, Nicolae. I do very well on Patience." He patted the mules neck. The beast stretched its neck toward Nicolae, large dark nostrils quivering, and gave a questioning bray. Mircea laughed. "Youve been feeding her treats again, Nicolae. Now she expects it." "Yes, Patience. Just a moment." Nicolae reached back into the wagon and came up with an apple core. He leaned out toward the mule, offering it on his palm. The beast took it from him delicately, velvet soft lips brushing his palm and making him laugh. "Nicolae." Simion rode up behind Mircea, frowning. "Careful, boy. If you fall and break you neck, the prince will break mine for not watching you." "Yes, Simion." The boy sat back dutifully, but not until he had stroked the mules nose again. Father Mircea nodded to Simion, and indicated with a subtle movement of his head that he wished to speak to him farther up, out of earshot of the boy. Simion followed him, drawing along side to pace him. Mircea studied the man for a short distance, then said. "You are the princes man." "I am that." "He entrusts you with many things, unless I am mistaken." "Yes." *The priest has something he wishes to say or know.* "Including the care of his possessions?" "That is so." *Yes, old man. Go on and speak what is on your mind.* Mircea stared over his mounts head, not looking at Simion. "Would that include Nicolae?" "It most particularly includes him." Simion waited for the disgust and outrage. It didnt come. "Good. He needs someone to care for him. Hes had little enough of it in his life to this point, and I fear things would only worsen if he were to stay at Castle Varga. Ernestu has scented him now, and the boy will have no peace in his keeping. If Ernestu can keep the boy in his power..." The priest flushed, but if it was from embarrassment or anger, Simion could not say. "...I would fear for his body and his mind" "Not his soul? I thought that was your main concern." Mircea looked at Simion, as if surprised that the man did not understand. "No one can touch his soul, Simion. That will remain as gentle, sweet, and pure as a dove. I wont say hes a saint." Mircea smiled. "He loves this world too much for that. No, he doesnt long to discard it so quickly in favor of the next."

"You care about him a great deal." Simions tone was mild, but Mircea heard the hinted question. "Like a favored child." He shook his head. "Your master has nothing to fear from me. I long ago crushed the embers of fleshly desires, and I will not try to turn the boy from him by railing of sin and hellfire. I only want Nicolae to be safe, and happy. Can your master give him that?" "He can, priest. He will, if the boy allows him." "But for how long, Simion?" Mircea glanced back at the wagon. Nicolae was once again telling his beads, his long fingers moving slowly, his gentle face placid. "If he knows tenderness, then is sent away, it will kill him. Even worse to be kept on and pushed aside in favor of another." "I can assure you of nothing, Father. But from what I have seen, I think you need not fear. Draculea is a worldly man. Though he has taken many to his bed, never has he taken one into his heart. Nicolae has a place there, if the boy is willing." "I will pray, Simion. The boy has so much love to give, and up till now no one to lavish it upon. Oh, theres Beta, but..." He sighed. "I dont want to speak ill of her, but the chit is self-involved to a fault. And she listens to the wrong people, people I fear have no great love for her brother." "So?" This interested Simion. But Mircea again shook his head. "Those are matters of the confessional, Simion, and may not be spoken of outside its holy confines." "As you will, Father." *It shouldnt be too hard to figure out. You seem worried of a continuing influence, and we do not bring many with us from her home." Simion rode farther ahead, pulling up to the wagon that contained Elizabeta and her ladies. There were shutters to cover the windows in case of foul weather, but these were raised. He peered inside. None of the four women looked best pleased by their situation, though the one called Abul seemed the most sour. "Ladies, you fare well?" Before Elizabeta could respond, Lena snapped, "We are jolted half out of our senses, and near choked with the dust. How long till we may take a rest?" Simions eyebrows climbed. "Lady, we have scarce begun. The prince will not call a halt till time to break fast at mid-day. Even then, it will be brief. Granted, the longer we take to arrive, the more preparations will be finished for the nuptials, but he is not a man who is patient with delays." Before Lena could protest further, he put his heels into his horses side and urged it forward. *That one will bear watching.* The day progressed, and the troupe moved more slowly than Draculea would have thought, or liked. At this rate they would have to spent two nights sleeping on the road, and would arrive at Castle Draculea at dusk or twilight of the next day. He was eager to get Nicolae to his new home, and his bed, and to get the nonsense and pomp of the wedding out of the way. At midday they broke their fast. The horses were tethered where they could crop lush grass, and the servants brought them buckets of water to slake their thirsts. Draculea was careful of every living thing in his care, Father Mircea noted with approval. Draculea had spent his time at the head of the line, fulfilling his duties as leader, but now he was ready to relax a bit. He moved among his men, saying a word here and there, slapping a shoulder, letting them know that they were appreciated. Draculea could be a hard master, but he was a fair one to those who served him with diligence and loyalty. At last he went to where a cloth had been spread in the shade of a great tree, and Elizabeta and her ladies were taking their meal. The priest and Ernestu sat with them. Vlad looked around for Nicolae, and finally located the boy, sitting with the servants. He frowned at this, but perhaps it was best. He was better off away from that whoreson, Ernestu. He gestured to the ladies to remain seated as he approached, in consideration of their weariness. "Please, ladies. We are informal, here on the road. Ceremony can wait while we are in the open air." Draculea did

not stop Ernestu from struggling to his feet, however, though he quickly motioned for him to sit again. He felt no urge to set the man at his ease. Vlad sank gracefully to sit beside his fiancee, accepting the goblet of wine she offered him. "How do you fare, Beta?" He noticed that she glanced at her senior ladys maid before speaking to him. "This is the longest journey I have ever taken, Prince, and I find it tiring and uncomfortable." Draculea shrugged. "Nothing more can be done, lady. Only the Eastern potentates, who are carried in litters, travel more smoothly than you. And as for the length of the journey, it is not even a third gone. You must gird yourself to endure." Lena looked darkly at the prince, but smoothed her expression when he returned her gaze. *That is not the right attitude,* she thought. *You will have to be more solicitous by far, Prince Draculea. But the training can wait until after the ceremony. I must not risk you simply sending us back, for you might very well do that, I think, despite what is expected of you.* Lena knew very well how lucky Beta, and by extension herself, was to have secured this marriage. If Draculea had chosen to take the time to consider all possibilities, he could have chosen among many women who were just as young and beautiful as Elizabeta, and perhaps more wealthy and well-born. Draculea ate a wedge of cheese while Abul leaned over and whispered to Beta. His future bride nodded, then turned to him. "We wish to bathe this evening, before the meal." Draculea cocked an eyebrow. *Mm. That had more the air of an order than a request.* His tone was equanimous. "An excellent idea, lady, if we can reach the area I am thinking of before even fall. There is a fresh spring there with a sandy bottom, perfect for bathing." Elizabeta looked startled. "Oh, no. Bathe in open water? No, the servants may set my bath up in the shielded wagon. My ladies may use it after me." "Bath?" Betas cheeks pinked. "My bath. The great tub of copper." "Oh, that. Yes, if I recall correctly the servants were packing such an item. I told them to remove it from the cart." "What?!" The exclamation was from Lena Abul, and she quickly lowered her voice. "I am sorry, Prince Draculea. I had seen to that particular item being included myself, and did not... did not expect to be countermanded." Draculea shrugged. "I am being most generous in allowing my bride to bring what she needs for a comfortable life, but she did not need that. There are baths enough at my castle, and we did not need an added burden on our journey. You need not fear for your modesty, lady. The spring is well shielded by brush and trees. The women can bathe first, then any man who wishes. Now, if you will excuse me." He stood, brushing his hands. "I want to see to the rest of our band before we proceed." Now, finally, Draculea went where his heart had been urging him. He strolled to the little knot of servants who were seated beneath another tree, at a fair distance from the gentry. All of these leapt to their feet at his approach; there was no question of lax etiquette here. Indeed, the more humble travelers would have been uncomfortable if Draculea had seemed overly familiar. Again he gestured for them to sit, and they did. Nicolae lingered a bit longer than the others before dropping back to sit. Draculea stood beside him, looking down. The bright sunshine picked out glints in his glossy hair, like the sheen on a ravens wing. Draculea tried to speak casually, but there was a particular warmth in his tone when he addressed the boy. "How fare you, Nicolae?" He tipped a shy smile up at Draculea that made the older mans heart catch. "I am well, Domn. This is a great adventure. Never have I been so far from my birthplace, not even when I went to live with the friars." "I am happy you enjoy this, Nicolae." He glanced back at the party he had left. "There are others among us

who are not at all content with their present state." Nicolae followed his look and, as was his habit, made excuses for his half-sister. "Well, Maria Ta, she is a woman, after all, and a lady. They are not used to such rigors. Can we fault her when it is we men who cosset them, and protect them from all the harshness of life that we may?" *Boy, should she spit in your face, you would claim she did it only to give you drink.* Draculea squatted beside him. He noticed the faint pink rising in the boys face, and thought, *Let it be because of me. Let my nearness bring the sweet blood to his cheeks.* Aloud he said, "I think tonight we camp near a spring, Nicolae. Would you like to bathe?" "Oh, yes!" he said swiftly. "Domn, I have missed that so much since I returned to Castle Varga. In the monastery we bathed each week, perhaps even more often if our labors had been great." "And you stopped at Vargas?" "I tended myself with my basin, lord." "But why not bathe?" "There was no means nearby, save for the pond in the garden." "Nicolae, I know that there was at least one bathing vessel in the castle. I have almost been scolded for leaving it behind." He regarded Draculea with surprise. "But that belonged to the family." He felt another brush of anger. "You were not allowed to use it?" He shook his head. "I asked once, when I first returned. My patron told me to bathe in the horse trough, as the chickens did." Draculea felt a sting of pain, and realized that he had dug his nails into his palms. Nicolae did not notice, but continued speaking. "That was far too public. But..." He looked at the ground, the blush rising even hotter. "I will confess that there were times when I couldnt stand it anymore. I had to feel the pure water all over my body. Late at night, while the castle slept, I would go to the pond and bathe." The image arose in Draculeas mind of Nicolae, naked under moonlight, bathing himself in the dark quiet of the garden pond. He knew that the thought would haunt him until he had seen it with his own eyes, instead of just imagining it. "You will have your bath tonight, Nicolae." Draculea arose and called his company back to their respective mounts or seats. It was time to recommence their journey. He was more determined than ever to reach the spring before nightfall. Author: Patience. I promis a little smut in the next episode. SKINNYDIPPING! Back to index

Chapter 19: Part Nineteen: Ablution

Child of the Night, Part Nineteen: Ablution The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Wallachia, On the Road It was dusk when they came to the area Draculea had been speaking of. There was a lush grove of trees and brush a hundred yards or so from the road. The party made camp quickly. The tent for the women was set up in the most sheltered area, under a large tree, with another beside it for Ernestu. The wagons were drawn up around them. "You have no tent?" Ernestu asked Draculea. The prince shrugged. "I saw no need for the added burden. I have often slept in the field with my men: this

will be no great hardship." He turned away, dismissing the man, to speak to Elizabeta. Indicating the grove, he said, "There is your bathing spot, Lady. I have been here before. It is small, but lovely: very clean, very clear, with a sandy bottom instead of mud." Elizabeta glanced at Lena, then said regally, "We will wait until we arrive at Castle Draculea. I will not bathe in the open air like... like a barbarian." "As you wish. I myself have no problem with a bit of barberism." His eyes glittered as he looked at Lena. "Or, indeed, with barbarity. I will bathe later, after supper. And speaking of that meal, I will go and check its progress." He knew well enough that the meal was progressing apace. The Varga cook had martialled his men to find wood and haul water, and was already preparing several tempting smelling dishes over two large fires. Nicolae hovered by him, fetching spices and herbs when asked. Draculea smiled when he saw the boy, sniffing hungrily, stretching his neck slightly toward the fire where a pot of something good bubbled. "Niclolae." He turned to the prince, and Draculea was gratified to see the small, shy smile. "My prince." He put a hand on the boys shoulder, turning him and pointing out the trees. "There. That is where the spring I told you of lies. I will bathe tonight. Come with me?" He nodded. "Yes, Maria Ta. I long to feel the water." Draculeas hand slid up to massage the back of his neck. There was no one nearby, and he whispered, "I long to feel you, Nicu." "Domn," Nicolaes voice was just as soft, but this time it was not as distressed as it had been the other times Draculea voiced his desires. "You should not." Draculea continued rubbing, watching as the boys eyelids slowly drooped to half-mast. "I think I make progress, Nicu. This time you tell me I should not, rather than I must not." He gave the boy a gentle shake before releasing him. "We shall see." That evening, Nicolae again ate with the servants, and Draculea ate with his bride and her party. He managed to remain civil, but it was a struggle. Elizabeta was turning out to be less than he had hoped. She seemed interested only in gossiping, and about the most frivolous subjects. Judging from her cutting remarks about some of the lesser members of her former household, her sweet, soft exterior hid something more stinging than Draculea had suspected. He noted that the Abul woman seemed to aggravate this fault, subtly goading Beta to ever more acid jibes against others. Then there was Ernestu. The older man had enough sense to not try to engage Draculeain conversation, but his very presence... nay, his very existence was gauling. And Draculea did not miss the way he watched Nicolae when he thought himself unobserved. All through the meal he stole glances at the boy as he sat a few yards away, laughing and murmuring with the common men. You hunger, old man, but not for the food in your dish. I know that you have your eyes on a more succulent, dainty morsel. Hes taken, dog. Hes mine, and you had best remember that. Your fate is sealed. You are dead, but I plan to let you see your daughter wed. I only hope you do nothing to force my hand before I am ready. When the meal was done, Simion approached Nicolae. "My master bids you attend him at his bath, Nicolae." Ernestu had been hovering nearby, waiting a chance to speak to the boy. "But are you not Draculeas man? Why do you not attend your lord?" Simions reply was chilly. While remaining scrupulously civil, it held warning. "I am Draculeas man, and so I do not question his orders." He turned back to Nicolae. "Come with me, boy." From one of the wagons, Simion took two large, soft cloths, and what looked like a stone. He led Nicolae toward the grove. "My lord often bathes in a stream or spring. His father..." Simion shrugged. "The elder Dracul was bathed when he was born, and when he died. He felt that bathing weakened the blood." "I have not noticed that, Simion, though I know full well that its lack strengthens smell." Simion laughed

in delight. When he had seen the broken, bleeding young man in the lower halls of Castle Varga he would never have guessed that he might hide an impish sense of humor. Yes, he would be good for Draculea. His master was entirely too grim at times. At the edge of the grove, Simion pointed out a narrow path that wound through the concealing brush and trees. "Follow the path, Nicolae. It will take you to the spring." "But Simion, you do not come?" "No, boy. I stay here to watch the path, and turn away those who might pry." As he spoke, he glanced back at the camp. Ernestu sat by the fire, staring after them. Simion pushed the cloths and stone into Nicolaes hands. "Take these to him." Nicolae draped the cloths over his arm. "These I understand well enough, but this..." He examined the stone curiously. It wasnt exactly a stone, he saw, but a lump of some smooth, pale, waxy substance. He sniffed experimentally, and looked at the older man in surprise. "It smells of flowers." "It is called soap, Nicolae. It is quite new, only now becoming fashionable in royal courts. Usually my lord does not bother with the passing fancies of society, but this he likes." Nicolae turned it over in his hand, intrigued. "What do you do with it?" "You use it to cleanse yourself." When he saw the confused look, he continued. "You wet it. Nicolae, have you seen beer foam when it is poured roughly?" The boy nodded. "The soap makes foam like that, and the foam cleanses the body." Again the boy looked at the soap doubtfully. He couldnt imagine cleaning with beer foam. Simion smiled at his bewilderment. "My lord will show you. Just remember, it becomes very slippery. Now go." Nicolae looked past Simion, his eyes straying to where his patron glared after him. Simion said softly, "Do not think of him, Nicolae." "But Simion, he is my guardian. He..." The boys expression puckered anxiously once again, and Simion sighed inwardly. "He is tolerent now, but when we return to Castle Varga..." "Nicolae." Simion touched the boys shoulder, drawing his gaze away. "Wipe him from your mind. Think only of the prince. Can you do that?" Nicolae hesitated, then said quietly, "I will try." He started down the path. Simion positioned himself in the center of the walkway, turning back to face the camp. The trees of the grove were close growing, their branches entertwining over Nicolaes head so that he seemed to walk down a narrow green tunnel. When he stepped out into the open air, he blinked. It suddenly seemed brigh, almost as bright as day, with the beams of the great, full moon streaming down to reflect off the water of the spring. Draculea was sitting on the sandy bank, arms wrapped around his drawn up knees, watching the fireflies that darted across the grass nearby. He looked up, smiling, when Nicolae approached, and gestured toward the silvered water. "What think you, librarian?" "It is beautiful, Maria Ta. So peaceful, almost as if we are the first men to venture here." He came slowly to where Draculea sat, his gaze roaming the clearing. "Or as if we were the only ones in the world." Draculea stood, his long body uncoiling from the ground, and looked down at the boy standing before him. He reached out to caress a cheek still smooth, unroughened by a mans beard. He tipped Nicolaes face up, and studied him. The great, tilted eyes were even darker in the moonlight, mysterious pools. "Yes, Nicolea, let that be the way of it. We are alone in the world at this moment. Nothing exists outside this place: neither country, nor man, nor God. Only we two." He bent toward the boy. This time Nicolae did not pull away. To Draculeas delight, he did not close his eyes, either. They remained open as their mouths touched. Draculea kissed him lightly at first, waiting to see his reaction. The boy just remained still, his breath warm against Draculeas lips. Vlad cupped the back of his head with one large hand, held his chin in the other, and pressed more insistantly. With a sigh, Nicolaes lips parted. Draculea ran the very tip of his tongue over them, then flicked it into

the the boys mouth, shallowly. Nicolae gave a small, muffled laugh. Draculea pulled back and looked at him, and the boy smiled. "It tickles." Draculea laughed, pressing his head briefly to the boys shoulder, then pushed him away and pulled his shirt over his head. "Remove your garments, Nicolae, and we will bathe." Draculea made quick work of his own clothing so he could enjoy watching Nicolae strip. Whereas the prince had discarded is clothes with the carelessness of one who has never had to concern himself with such matters, Nicolae carefully folded each article, laying them in a neat pile beside his boots. When he came to his drawers, he hesitated, glancing shyly at Vlad. Draculea said nothing, made no move, and finally the boy pushed the drawers down his slim hips and stepped out of them. In the weak lamplight of Simions room, Nicolaes skin had seemed like pale gold. Now it was silvered by the moonlight. Yes, he was all silver and black, with the darkness of his eyes and hair. As Draculea stared, Nicolae moved his hands to cover his crotch, shielding his sex from Draculeas hungry eyes. Vlad smiled. The boys modesty was fetching, but he would cure him of that soon enough. Vlad realized that Nicolae was returning his stare. He felt a spark of heat as the boys eyes roamed over him. Draculea did not hide himself as Nicolae did: he presented his body proudly for the boys inspection. He was not vain, but he knew that he had a body to be desired. He said quietly, "What are you thinking, Nicu?" The boys eyes flickered. "You called me beautiful, Maria Ta." "Yes, Nicolae. I meant it." "But my lord, you..." He lifted his hand, reaching toward Draculea. But before he touched him, he stopped, biting his lip. "You... The good book tells us that we are made in Gods image. Looking at you, Domn, I can truly believe." Draculea was tempted to pull Nicolae down to the sandy ground and take him, then and there. But no. Perhaps the boy would not fight him, but he would still be frightened, and unsure. Draculea wanted the first time he entered him to be nothing but pleasure. They would be at Castle Draculea tomorrow, if they hurried. He could be wed the next day, get the consumation out of the way, and turn his full attention on Nicolae. "Come, Nicolae." The boy followed him as he waded out into the water, stopping when it lapped up aboout his hips. Nicolae looked at the soap he was holding, then offered it to Draculea, skepticism clear in his voice as he said, "Simion says you use this to wash?" "You havent seen soap before, Nicolae?" "No, Maria Ta." He smiled. "You will like it. Give it to me." Nicolae handed over the lump, and watched as Draculea dipped it in the water, then began to rub it between his palms. The boys eyes grew round as the white lather spread over the princes hands. "Simion spoke truly. It foams like beer." He took the soap hesitantly when Draculea offered it to him, and mimiced the princes actions. He was amazed when the foam bubbled up to cover his own hands. "Now, like this." Draculea spread the lather over his shoulders and chest, and down his belly. Nicolae did the same. He grinned in delight as his hands slipped and slid in the lather. They passed the soap back and forth, scrubbing it over legs and arms. Draculea called Nicolae to him. He put the soap in the boys hands, then grasped them in his own, and worked the soap until both of their hands were thickly slathered in white and turned away from Nicolae. The boy understood, and began to wash his back. Draculea relished the boys touch as Nicolae rubbed away the tension that had settled in his back and shoulders during the days ride. Then Draculea abruptly sank beneith the water, ducking himself. When he came back up, the said, "Your turn now."

Nicolae turned from him, and Draculae worked up another lather, then tossed the soap on the grass. He put his hands on the boys shoulders, then ran them the length of his back. Nicolae shivered slightly, but did not move. Vlad washed him slowly, enjoying the shift of muscle beneith the velvety skin. He moved closer to the boy, and put his arms around him, letting his hands glide up and around. He found Nicolaes nipples, and began to stroke them softly. Nicolae sighed again. He touched Draculeas arms, but did not push them away. Instead, his hands rested lightly on Vlads forearms. Vlad pinched softly, bending to nibble at the junctor of his young lovers neck and shoulder. Draculea moved even closer. Nicolae gasped as the princes hard member nudged against his buttocks, and Draculea whispered, "No, sweet one. Not tonight, not here. That is for later." His hands glided down to cover the boys stirring prick. "I only want to touch you now. Relax." He stroked gently, his hands sliding easily in the soap. Nicolae pushed back the worries about how the Church would view such an act, and what Draculea might want from him later, and allowed himself to enjoy this moment. He was supported by the solid body behind him, and the strong arms around him. The hands that moved on his sex were warm, firm, and knowledgable. Soon he was thrusting his himself into the tight grip. Draculea paused in his manipulations to rub one hand quickly over Nicolaes buttocks, slicking them with the soap. Then he resumed pumping the boys turgid member, and began humping against the smooth flesh of his rump. Nicolae whimpered, his fingers digging into Vlads forearms as he felt the heated flesh slipping into the crease of his flesh. "Calm," Draculea whispered. "I promised you, Nicu. Not yet." He moved, relishing the tight press of the boys cheeks. "Soon, little one. Soon." Feeling his orgasm approaching, Nicolae instinctively ground himself against Draculeas arousal. The feel of the hard length of Draculeas prick sliding over the tender skin that lined his crease, brushing over the sensitive pucker that marked his back opening, was intense. He came, his seed glimmering milkily in the moonlight as it splattered the water. Draculea groaned, shifting his grip to Nicolaes hips, and pumped against him with hard, fast strokes. He had to move quickly, because the temptation to spear into the boy was so great. He came with a few strokes, clutching Nicolae tight and shuddering, spraying his semen in a hot wash over the boys buttocks. He held Nicolae for a few more moments, then dipped up handfuls of the cool water to wash away the evidence of their passion. He led the weak legged boy back to the shore. There he took one of the cloths and wrapped Nicolae in it, drying him tenderly. Nicolae sat on the grass while Vlad toweled himself. By the time he was done, the boy had curled on his side, dozing lightly. Draculea watched him for a moment, then shook his shoulder gently. "Mm?" Nicolae murmured. "Dress, child. You cannot sleep here." Nicolae stretched, then looked at Draculea with dreamy eyes. "You could lie with me, Domn." Draculea felt his heart squeeze. "Not tongiht, pet, but Id like that. We need to get back to camp, or tongues will wag." "Oh." Nicolae sat up quickly, suddenly awake, and reached for his clothes. Draculea noted the blush that flamed up the boys cheeks. He realized what the others of the party might think, and he was ashamed. It saddened Draculea. He wanted his relationship with Nicolae to be easy for the boy. Well he thought as he dressed himself, It will be different when I have him at home, and am rid of Ernestu. He will see that he is an honored member of my household. I will show him that he has a place in my court, and my heart. TBC

Back to index

Chapter 20: Part 20: Retribution

Authors Notes: Beta: Janet (Thankee) Pairing: Vlad/Ernestu Dont squick, its not what you think. Summary: On his wedding day, Draculea humiliates Ernestu in token retribution for his abuse of Nicolae. Authors Notes: What Draculea does to Ernestu is rape in its purest form: an act of violence and power: used to control and humiliate the victim. Vlad does not view this as a sexual act, it is punishment. Warning: Vlad and Ernestu pairning, but theres nothing romantic about this. Graphic coerced m/m sex. This is a cold, calculated act that may be disturbing for some. The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Draculea, Romania They arrived at Castle Draculea near sunset. Even in the waning light it was easy to see the frantic preparations taking place. The castle was thronged with extra servants and guests who had arrived early and would be staying the night. There was room for all: Castle Draculea was spacious, and the provender was always ample. Elizabeta tried to act unimpressed when she was shown her chambers but her pleasure could not be disguised. They were well situated, spacious, and richly appointed. A giggling maidservant indicated to her the discreet door in one corner that led to the short hall connecting her bedroom with Draculeas. Lena noted sourly that there was no lock on her door, but she ventured to guess that there was one on his. Beta finally got her bath, with Lena scolding the household staff to bring fresh hot water several times. She took her meal in her room, as Draculeas friends were having a bit of a celebration in the great hall, saying farewell to his bachelor state--nothing huge, since the wedding was to take place the next day. There were some twenty of what could be considered his closest friends and as many of his most trusted men in attendance. Ernestu was included. Draculea did not want him there, but did not very well see how he could exclude him without causing a scandal. Nicolae had tried to beg off. He was shy, and the idea of being in such a crowd of strangers (who would most likely be the worse for drink) made him uncomfortable. But Simion told him pointedly that the prince himself had requested his presence, so he could not refuse. The party was lively, though not as boisterous as some. There were many toasts to the groom, and to the bride, most of them only slightly obscene. Nicolae was kept in a constant state of blush by the ribald comments of the company, and the free-spirited groping of the giggling wenches who served them. At one point he found himself with a lapful of wiggling girl, and the room roared at his astonished expression. Draculea did not enjoy the festivities as he might have. He would have been perfectly content if he could have had Nicolae by his side or, better still, on his lap. But that would have been too indiscreet, so he allowed the boy to sit halfway down the table, and kept a close eye on him. As he had known, Nicolae was attracting attention. His good looks and simple modesty drew the more jaded members of Draculeas court, but Simion had let the household know that the new librarian was special to the prince, and there was nothing but speculation so far. Very few men were stupid enough to consider poaching on the territory of Vlad, The Impaler. They did, however, exist. Ernestu could not keep his eyes off the boy. I had that under my roof, and I never noticed. Damn. I might have bargained harder with the prince if I had known. Perhaps when he tires of the whelp I can have him back. Yes, Im sure that Draculea is a man of varied tastes. Hell tire of him

once his dewiness begins to fade, and that shouldnt be long. I can offer to take him off his hands. Besides, once he beds my daughter, Ive no doubt she can turn his interests. Hell be preoccupied with producing heirs. Nicolae soon rose, and bowed to the prince. "Prince Draculea, I beg your permission to seek my bed. I fear that I am not used to travel, and I would like to be fresh for the ceremony tomorrow." "You would leave me so soon?" There was a hint of wistfulness in Draculeas tone. Nicolae answered with perfect seriousness. "Oh, no, prince. It is not that I wish to leave your presence. It is only that this flesh with which the Lord has gifted me is weak, and needs slumber." "Go, then. Gentle dreams." Vlad watched him leave, longing in his heart. But he felt a chill, then a flush of hot rage as Ernestu got up and followed him out. Resisting the urge to spring after them and beat the man to death before all his guests, he called Simion over. "Simion..." "I saw, my lord. I will attend to it." "Just get him away from the boy, dont do anything... permanent. Leave that for me. I look forward to it." Simion hurried out. He knew where Nicolaes assigned room was, and he started for it. He found them not far from the great hall, and was glad that he had followed as quickly as he did. The change in the boys demeanor in the few moments he had been out of Simions presence was dramatic. The cheerful liveliness was gone. He was pale, and his eyes had taken on the alarming dullness that Simion had seen after his beating. Ernestu had hold of the boys arm, and Simion could see his fingers biting into the flesh. He heard the older mans hissing tones as he approached them. "...still your guardian, boy. Youll do as I say. I want you in my room in an hour. None of your false, blushing modesty. I know what youve been up to with the prince. Im not a fool." That, Simion thought, is highly debatable. "Nicolae, there you are." Both heads jerked toward Simion. There was a flare of hope in Nicolaes eyes, and a spark of rage in Vargas. Simion stopped near them, and bowed his head to Varga. "I thank you for stopping him, Domn. The prince has asked that the boy stay in my room, as there is pressing need for the one he was given. Come, Nicolae." He touched the boys arm, staring hard at Varga. Reluctantly the other man released his hold. "If you need an attendant, Varga, there are servants aplenty in the hall." Simion could feel the boy trembling as he led him away. When they were out of sight he said quietly, "Did he hurt you, boy?" "No." He rubbed his arm. "Not really, not my body." His expression twisted, and Simion wondered what had been said before he arrived. Given Ernestus proclivities and brutal nature, he could well imagine. Simion took him to his room. It wasnt in the domestic quarters, as Nicolae might have imagined. Granted, it was small, and simple, but it was not the room of a servant. Simion lit a lamp for him, and indicated the bed. "You should sleep, Nicolae. I doubt that pus-bag will dare come here, but there is a bolt on the door. I must return to the prince, and I will sleep in his room tonight." He put a hand on the boys shoulder. "You will stay here. You will not go to Ernestu, no matter what he said to you, no matter what he threatened if you did not." Nicolae sat on the bed, covering his face with his hands. "He... if I anger him, Simion..." "Nicolae, do not trouble yourself." He stroked the boys soft hair. "You are under the protection of Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea. None can hurt you and live while he extends his patronage. Bolt the door after me." Simion left, listening in the hall till he heard the bolt drop into place. Then he went to make his report to Draculea, and place another stitch in Ernestu Vargas shroud. Nicolae lay back on the bed, feeling numb. All his joy of the previous day had fled with Ernestus rude touch and loathsome demands. He had been graphic about what he expected from Nicolae, and it had been all the boy could do to keep from screaming. "While he extends his patronage," he murmured. Tears streaked his face. "Holy Virgin, what do I do when I go home?" If Draculea had known the depths of

Nicolaes distress, Varga would not have seen the next dawn. The only thing that allowed Draculea to sleep was the knowledge that he would soon be able to rid the world of Varga. That would have to wait until his future father-in-law began his journey home, but Vlad had decided to mete out a small punishment before that. The castle stirred early on the day of the nuptials. Servants scurried about madly with last minute cleaning and decorating. The kitchen saw more work than all the festive events of the previous year combined. The upper servants were driven near mad by the demands of guests for help with dressing and last minute touches to hair and wardrobe. Simion delivered new clothes to Nicolae before the ceremony. The boy was near speechless over the finery. It was all of the softest, smoothest silk. The close-fitting breeches were black, and the elegant shirt was a rich wine red that brought out the paleness of his skin and the darkness of his eyes and hair. There were new shoes of leather so supple that it felt like a caress. "I will accept them, Simion, because I must not shame Beta at her wedding. But really, I cannot continue to take things from the prince when I can never repay him." Simion sighed. "Nicolae, havent you learned by now that no repayment is expected, or wanted? Draculea delights in giving you things. It pleases him. Will you deny him this?" Nicolae blushed. "I am not ungrateful, Simion. It is just that... It hurts that I have nothing to give in return when he has been so good to me." Simion watched him dressing for a moment before leaving, shaking his head. The boy truly had no conception of the power he held over Draculea. If he wished, he could coax riches, finery, and titles from his lord. But that was not in Nicolaes nature, and this was part of what attracted Draculea. The boy never spared a thought for himself or his possible advancement. It was uncanny how different he was from his half-sister. Finally the appointed time drew near. The great hall was filled with guests, the chapel being too small for the gathered throng. The archbishop of the diocese waited at the upper end, ready to unite the couple in holy matrimony. All that was missing was the bride and her maids, who waited anxiously upstairs in Betas room. As it neared time, Draculea, in magnificent court clothes of a blue so dark that it was almost black, whispered to Simion. He sent an enigmatic look toward Varga, who was standing in the front ranks of the crowd, then went into a small room off to one side. Simion went to Varga. "My prince has an urgent matter to discuss with you before the ceremony can commence, Domn. He asks that you attend him." Varga, puffed with importance, followed Simion to the side room and passed inside. Simion closed the door, then placed himself before it, arms crossed. The message was clear: the princes business with Varga, whatever it was, would not be disturbed. In the private room, Ernestu approached Draculea, smiling. "You wished to see me, prince?" His smile faded as he saw Draculeas cold expression. "No, Varga, I do not wish to see you. It would give me the greatest pleasure if I never had to lay eyes on you again, but there is a matter that must be attended to before the marriage can take place." Ernestu felt a thrill of apprehension. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with this marriage. He was prepared to do anything, even kill, to see it through. "What is it, Prince Draculea? A legal matter? Shall I summon the lawyers? The priest?" "No, this has nothing to do with legalities, nor religion. Justice, though... Yes, it has to do with justice." "I... do not understand, prince." "What punishment do you deem fit for a man who would despoil his own male child?" Ernestu swayed, the blood leaving his head in a sudden, dizzying sweep. "Domn, I know not what the bastard told you..." Perhaps if Ernestu had not been within arms reach, Vlad might not have reacted as quickly as he did. But

the man was near. Draculea lashed out, his hand moving even before he had formed the intent to strike. Ernestu staggered back, clutching his face from the ringing, open handed slap. He would quite possibly have been rendered unconscious if Draculea had chosen to close his hand into a fist, but this was as humiliating as it was painful. It showed contempt. Draculea did not deign to use his full strength. Draculeas voice was grim. "Your son told me nothing, dog. I did not need his supplication to see what was going on." "Domn, I swear, I never touched the boy!" "Except to beat him?" Ernestu made no reply. He knew there was no way he could answer this that would ease his trouble. "You tried to whip him into my bed, Varga. Do I look to you as if I need a procurer?" "Domn, I only..." "Silence. I prefer my bed mates willing, Varga. And even if Im tempted to take one who is reluctant, I need no assistance. Lusting after your own flesh and blood, insulting me by pandering... These offenses are bad enough, but then you compound them." "What is it? What have I done, Maria Ta?" "Nicolae is mine, Varga. You know that. You have known it since the marriage contract was drawn, and still you covet him. Last night you would have ordered him to your bed, had I not sent Simion after you." "Lord, I..." "Do you deny it?" Varga made gabbling sounds, but could produce no sense. Finally he shook his head mutely, falling to his knees. He was certain that he was about to die. Draculea would kill him, leave his corpse in this small, obscure room, and go out to the great hall to marry his daughter while his blood still cooled. Draculea took the last few steps to where the man cringed on the floor, and loomed over him. Varga stared up at him, pasty faced, and managed to whimper, "Great prince, please. Do not kill me. Have mercy." Draculea studied him coldly, his fine mouth twisting in a sneer. At last he said, "I will not curse my wedding day by spilling blood. But you will commit an act of contrition, Ernestu." "Yes, Domn, yes!" he babbled in relief. "Anything! Rosaries? I can say many rosaries. Or a new stained glass window for your chapel? Ill hire the finest artisans." Draculeas expression was growing even colder. "Or a pilgrimage! I will visit every holy site in our land, if you will just spare me... and... and wed my Elizabeta." "You want that very much, eh, Varga? Very well. One act will spare your life this day and ensure the marriage." "Anything!" And Varga was sure in his own mind that he truly meant this. He was sure until Draculea began unlacing his breeches. "Prince Draculea? You... do not mean..." "You were willing enough to prostitute the boy to get what you wanted. You should be willing now to perform the same duties yourself." Draculea had pulled forth his prick, and was stroking it roughly. "Dont think I will enjoy this, Varga. You disgust me. But you will learn that when I decide on a course of action, nothing keeps me from it. Neither God, the Devil, nor my own mortal flesh." "But Domn, you cannot truly mean this." "If you do not drink my seed, Varga, I will go from this room and send the assembly home. You can carry your daughter back with you and see what luck you have finding her a decent husband once I have rejected her." Draculea had massaged his staff to semi-hardness. Now he pushed it at Ernestu. "It is your choice." Trembling, Varga reached for Draculea, only to have his hands struck down. "You will touch me with nothing but your lying mouth, swine." Ernestu leaned forward, and Draculea closed his eyes as he felt the first, dry rasp of his tongue. He wanted to flinch, but held himself. He had resolved to do this. It was the most humiliating thing he could think to do, save one. And I will kill him rather than fuck him. There was no desire in this act, only hatred and rage. Once he was aroused, that would be enough to carry him through, but he wondered if Ernestu could

give him enough pure physical stimulation for his body to override his minds revulsion. Draculea turned his thoughts to Nicolae. He would not imagine that it was his beloved performing this act: that would seem like a sacrilege. But he would think of him, contemplate his beauty and goodness. It did not happen quickly. The guests began to whisper and fidget in the great hall as Ernestu desperately licked and sucked at Draculeas reluctant member. But finally the thoughts of Nicolae turned the trick. Vlad imagined the boy nestled in his own great bed upstairs: safe, warm, and happy at last. He imagined slipping beneath the sheets and pulling the long, pliant body against him, feeling the stir of the boys member awakening against his own as he kissed him. He was a little surprised to open his eyes and find that he was fully erect. But that was a good thing. Now the punishment could proceed. He grabbed Ernestus hair, setting his hands in it tightly. "Open your mouth, whoreson. And mind your teeth, if you do not want me to snap your neck." Ernestu obeyed, and near choked when the prince roughly rammed into his mouth. He had no time to recover. Draculea pulled out, then thrust again, hard. This time he managed to force himself down Ernestus throat, bruising and even tearing tender tissue. The man moaned around the muffling flesh, and Draculea began to rape his mouth with short, vicious jabs. "You will remember this, Varga," he snarled. "You will remember this as long as you live. This," He said as he gripped the back of Ernestus skull and pounded into him, "is what you would have done to my Nicu. This, or worse. Do you like it? Is it pleasurable?" Ernestu whined in pain and submission, and the vibrations were a further stimulation. Draculea was a little dismayed that his prick could take such pleasure from congress with one such as Ernestu, but he realized that it was more his anger than desire that drove his rampant dick again and again down the throat of the man he hated. At last his climax approached. He jammed Ernestu down on his cock, holding his face against his body and commanded, "Swallow it, dog! Every drop you spill will earn you a blow." He closed his eyes as the first joyless orgasm hed ever experienced washed over him. All he felt beyond physical release as his seed spewed down the frantically working throat was a sense of bitter triumph. Finally it was done. He pulled free, shoving Ernestu so that he fell back on the floor. While the older man puked and moaned, Draculea went to a basin and cleaned himself, eager to get the mans spit and blood off his body. When he was done, he closed his breeches, wet a cloth, and returned to where Ernestu curled on the floor, retching. He threw down the cloth and said, his voice emotionless, "Clean yourself." Ernestu sat up, wiping his face and mouth. He groaned when he saw blood on the cloth. "It will heal in a few days, though I would not advise drinking spirits. They would be like molten lead on the raw spots. Get up. It is time to see your daughter wed. Youve got what you wanted, old man. Your daughter will be a princess. Your grandchildren will be of royal blood." With lips bruised, throat torn and raw, and the bitter taste of Draculeas come and his own vomit in his mouth, Ernestu followed the prince out to the great hall and took his place at the front of the crowd. Those who looked at him closely decided that Prince Draculea had been laying down the law to the man. What else could account for his pale features, and the terrified look in his eyes? TBC Back to index

Chapter 21: Part 21: Marriage

Pairing: Vlad/Beta (Hey, theyre married, okay? Its what people did. Be patient. Vlad and Nicolaes consummation will be in the next chapter.) Summary: Vlad weds, and briefly beds, Elizabeta. Nicolae, still unaware of his place in Draculeas household and dreading a return to Castle Varga, makes a decision. Authors Notes: About Betas gown, it is only in western cultures, and only in the last century or so, that white has been considered de rigeur for brides. Betas deflowering is uncomfortable, messy, and emotionless. But remember, this is just a chore for both of them. I have no idea whether or not the sort of witnessing I describe took place, but unbelievable emphasis was placed on a brides untouched nature, and in the case of a royal wedding it would have been even more important, due to the desire to protect the royal bloodlines and the line of succession. Child of the Night, Part 21: Marriage The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Later That Same Day Castle Draculea, Romania Draculea exited from the side room, and took his place before the archbishop. Simion came to stand beside him. At the princes nod, he gestured to a footman, who hastened from the hall. He ran up the great stairs to Elizabetas room, and gave them the news that it was time. A small group of musicians played on pipes, lutes, and guitars as the ladies slowly made their way down the grand staircase. As Elizabeta tread the length of the hall, moving at a slow, stately pace, there were admiring murmurs from the crowd. She was very beautiful in her gown of sky blue velvet. When she stood beside her groom, it was whispered that she looked like the morning sky, and he the sky at midnight. Nicolae watched as Beta passed, ready to offer her a smile of love and encouragement, but her eyes slid past him to fasten on the priest at the head of the hall. Nicolae felt a brief twinge, then told himself that of course her mind was elsewhere. This was the most important day of her life. And as his half-sister stood beside Draculea, and the prince took her arm, a peculiar feeling washed over Nicolae. He felt suddenly... bereft. *He is marrying her,* he thought. And he suddenly realized that he was not feeling worry for Beta, binding herself for the rest of her life to a man who was known to be hard, and sometimes cruel. He was feeling sorrow because Draculea was marrying her. *They will be husband and wife, forever. He will hold her, touch her, kiss her. Like he did...* Nicolae suddenly had to look down, pressing a hand briefly over suddenly stinging eyes. *Like he did with me. Foolish Nicolae. You knew this day was coming, why did you not prepare yourself?* The boy drew in a shaky breath that was dangerously close to a sob. The people beside him looked at him curiously. Oh, yes, he was a relative of the bride, wasnt he? How sweet for him to be so emotional at her wedding. *I will not cause a scene. I will not embarrass him before these people.* Nicolae lifted his head, dropping his hand, and managed a smile. All attention turned back to the bride and groom, where it should have been. The archbishop spoke the words of the ceremony, intoning them gravely. He spoke of duty, and faith, and honor. He did not mention love. At the end of the rite, Draculea slipped the traditional wedding band of the head of the Dracul family onto Elizabetas slender finger. Then, holding hands, they turned to face the crowd, and the archbishop introduced them for the first time as man and wife. While he smiled at the cheering, clapping crowd, Draculeas eyes sought for Nicolae. He found the boy among the minor nobles. Nicolae did not shout and clap like the rest of the throng. He stood quietly,

watching the couple at the altar. His face looked strained, but when Draculea lifted his eyebrows in question, the boy smiled faintly, nodding, and Vlad relaxed. He knew that Nicolae was romantic enough to believe that a marriage should be made for love, and hed worried about the boy objecting to his beloved half-sister going into an arranged union. The guests moved to the sides, and servants rushed in madly to set tables in place, then load them with food. It did not take long for the feast to be in full swing. The ceremony had finish close on the noon hour, and the celebration lasted well into the evening. Outside the castle, the Draculeas servants who were not needed to attend, and the local peasants and townspeople had their own celebrations. A great deal of drinking went on both inside and outside the castle, and there would be more than one chance-begotten babe born nine months after the princes wedding. The meal seemed to go on forever. Every man and woman with any pretension to gentility wanted to offer a toast to the couple, and Draculea and Elizabeta received them graciously. Finally, halfway down the table, Beta saw a familiar looking young noble rise, and hold up a goblet. "To Princess and Prince Draculea, the fairest of both their sexes. May God bless you both with long life, good health, and the love that you both deserve." The voice was familiar, and Beta finally recognized Nicolae. "Nicu, you drink wine ?" Her voice was teasing. He bowed his head. "To honor you, my lady. And my prince." Nicolae tipped his head back and drained the goblet like a seasoned drinker, and there was applause from the table. As he sat down, Draculea saw one of the younger nobles gesture to a servant, who quickly refilled the Nicolaes glass. The boy regarded it with an almost puzzled expression, then sipped. Draculea felt a twinge of unease. It didnt seem like Nicolae to drink in celebration. But the next well-wisher was rising, and he had to at least pretend to pay attention. He watched Nicolae through the rest of the feast. The men on either side of him kept his glass brimming, and the boy drank steadily. But he seemed to grow no more cheerful. The smile that he had offered with his toast was gone, and he looked almost melancholy. At last, when the night was not too far advanced, Draculea rose, taking Betas hand and pulling her to her feet. He bowed to the risen assembly and said, "We thank you for your attendance, and your kind wishes. If only a small part of the good things wished for us come to pass, we will be blessed indeed." He bowed, and Elizabeta curtsied gracefully, then they left. Some of the guests made their way out to the courtyard and stables, where horses and carriages were waiting to take them home. Others were to remain overnight at Castle Draculea. Most of these either repaired to their rooms, or went out to seek fresher, more earthy amusement among the local peasants. The castle grew quiet. Soon the only ones stirring were a few servants, clearing away the last of the feast, and a handful of the more libertine young nobles. They gathered before the halls great fireplace, the one that could easily have roasted a whole oxen. They were amusing themselves by getting the princes new favorite drunk. They whispered and laughed together as one of their number refilled his goblet, assuring the boy that the wine had been watered and was scarcely strong enough to addle the head of a child. They watched Nicolae with measuring, speculative eyes, and more than one wondered if the Prince would decide to share after the first flush of infatuation had worn off. He was quite delicious, they all agreed, but he seemed so sad. What did he have to be sad about? He was young, desirable, and the darling of a rich and powerful man. His life was good. Nicolae drank. He had found that the taste became more tolerable as the evening wore on. From his own observations, and his talks with the brothers, he knew that men drank both to make merry, and to drown sorrows. Nicolae wasnt entirely sure of his own reason for indulging in spirits tonight. He only knew that

neither goal was being accomplished. Ernestu, Simion, Stefan, and Ernestus lawyer moved past the little knot of revelers, toward the great stairway. Nicolae watched them, and said, "They pace so gravely, as if they go to perform some solemn act." There was much nudging and smiling among the other young men. One said, "Dont you know where they go, librarian?" Nicolae shook his head. "It is the princes wedding night. They go to bear witness to the consummation." When Nicolaes eyes widened in shock, he laughed. "No, no. They will not look upon the act itself. Though no doubt that would be an entertainment to remember." Laughing agreement greeted this statement. Enjoying Nicolaes confusion and embarrassment, the young lord leaned toward him, putting a hand on his knee and confiding. "You understand, dont you? They must be sure that the girl is pure, and that the marriage duty is done. There must be no doubt that every effort is being made to produce a legitimate heir. So, they wait in the corridor outside the bridal chamber. When the marriage has been consummated, the prince will present them with a token to prove that he was the first to..." He eyed Nicolaes dismayed expression, and had a little pity on the boy., "have congress with her." "Token?" Nicolaes voice was choked. "What token?" "Why, a cloth stained with her maidens blood, and his seed. All honest brides bleed on their wedding night." "And some not so honest," interjected another youth. "There are all sorts of devices they will resort to, if they have dallied before wedding. A tiny sponge soaked in animal blood has saved the honor of more than one girl." "And I have heard," said another, "that certain unscrupulous midwives will sew a stitch or two in the braver ones, so that they truly ARE torn when their husband comes inside them for the first time." Simion came back down into the hall. Looking about, he located Nicolae, and went to him. He glanced pointedly at the hand on Nicolaes leg, then turned hard eyes on the young man who owned the offending member. He withdrew hastily. Nicolae did not notice this silent exchange, and was startled when Simion spoke to him. "Nicolae, youve had enough. You are not used to spirits, and your head and belly will rebuke you tomorrow if you continue." He set aside the goblet. "Yes, Simion." "You should go to your room. YOUR room." "Yes, of course." He got up, swaying slightly, and Simion took his elbow. Leading him a few paces away, he said softly, "Make your goodnights, Nicolae. I do not think the prince will be long with his new bride." He looked searchingly into the boys eyes. *How much do I need to tell him? How much has the prince said? Surely my lord has explained things to him by now.* "Do you understand?" Nicolae nodded, and Simion gave his arm a squeeze before going back up to the little group waiting outside Elizabetas room. After Simion left, Nicolae stood for a moment, eyes closed in thought. The prince would go to Elizabeta, and after that... *After that, there will be no place in his life for me.* He remembered the feel of Draculeas hands on his body, the softness of his lips against his throat, the hot urgency in his voice as he whispered to him. He remembered the shock of sensation as the princes hardened flesh slid in the crease of his buttocks, and the shivering flash of pleasure as it had rubbed over the tiny pucker that marked the entrance to his body. At the moment that had happened, Nicolae had been seized by an almost overwhelming urge to push back. He had felt an aching emptiness that he somehow knew only Draculea could fill. And Draculea himself had promised that. "Not now. Soon," he had said. But now... Tomorrow, or the next day he would have to return to Castle Varga. He knew that Ernestu would not wait till he reached his home to take what he wanted. The first night they were on the road he would call the

boy to his tent. Nicolae shuddered as he contemplated what would happen. The idea of Ernestus hands, plump, but somehow still hard and hurtful, roaming his body as Vlads had done made him ill. "Librarian!" Nicolae turned back to see the young men watching him. One gestured, "Come, sit." Nicolae shook his head. "I have to go." "Surely you wont seek your bed so early? Your LONELY bed." There were chuckles at the suggestion in his tone. Nicolae only shook his head again and repeated softly, "I have to go." In his room he stripped off the wedding finery, then donned the simple clothes in which he had traveled, murmuring to himself, "I have to go. I HAVE to." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Upstairs, Simion went to Draculeas room, ignoring the other three men clustered outside the bridal chamber. Draculea was in a simple dark robe, pacing restlessly. His eyes glittered with anticipation, and Simion knew well enough that it was not for the woman waiting at the other end of the private hall. He stopped when his servant entered, and said, "Well?" "As you thought, my lord. The lordlings were amusing themselves by making him drunk. I do not think it would have gone any further, though. They show more wit than some of their elders. I sent him to his room." Draculea frowned, then shrugged. "Perhaps it is just as well if he has drunk a bit. It will make him more relaxed." There was no need to discuss why this was a good thing. Even the gentlest, most patient deflowering could be... uncomfortable. "The good thing about being with Elizabeta first is that I should be able to hold back longer with Nicolae." "How soon shall I bring him to you after you return here?" Draculea thought. "An hour. Give those old fools time to repare to their rooms and settle in. I wouldnt want the boy embarrassed by being seen coming to me so soon after I said my vows." He walked to the door that opened into the private hall. Putting his hand on the knob, he paused, sighing. "Well, I think Ive made a bad bargain with Beta, Simion. The only good thing about this marriage, I fear, will be that it brought Nicolae to me." He smiled. "But that is a GREAT good thing." Simion went out into the hall to join the others as Draculea entered the little hall. There were candles burning in the wall sconces, left by efficient servants. There was no fear of fire here, as the hallway was nothing but stone, with no paneling, tapestries, or rugs. Draculea walked the short distance to the door that led to his brides room, and paused. Now that the moment had come, the idea was distasteful. Oh, not disgusting, as his congress with Ernestu had been, but it was nothing that he wanted or needed. Still, it had to be done. Custom had to be satisfied, even if he were not. *Best to get this finished as quickly as possible,* he thought. *The girl, if she is anything like the others of her rank, will know nothing about pleasing a man, and will care even less about learning.* Draculea reached down and cupped his sex through the robe. It was quiescent, and he sighed again. He stroked himself a few times, but there was little response. He looked down at himself ruefully, muttering, "So shy?" A few more strokes brought little more response, only a very slight thickening. *Yes, I know. You are reluctant. But think of what we will have when this duty is done. Think of Nicolae.* He did, remembering the taste of the boys skin and the soft brush of his hair against Vlads cheek as he had leant trustingly against him in the spring. His staff began to fill with blood as he stroked it gently, imagining that it was Nicolaes hands on his hardening flesh. So far there had been only those few brief, drugged caresses that first night and the hesitant bathing on their journey, but now... *Now he will love me. He will not be afraid, and he will touch me and give himself to me.* Draculeas hand moved faster. He looked down to find that he was fully erect, his eager prick tenting the front of his robe and leaving a damp patch on the cloth. *Now we are ready.*

He entered the room. It was dimly lit by a good fire, and a few candles. It was empty save for his bride, her attendants having readied her and left. Lena had lingered the longest, giving her charge a brief, passionate kiss when the others were gone, saying, "Courage, my pet! He is only a man, so it will not last long. When he is done, tell him you are weary and ask that you be allowed this first night alone. I will come to you..." She stroked one small breast, "and soothe your hurts." Thus Lena increased Betas dread of the coming act, while holding herself forth as a comforter. Elizabeta lay in her great bed, dressed in the gown that had awaited this night since she was a small girl. She and her ladies had spent many hours stitching and embroidering dainty garments for her wedding. It was such a pity that there was no one to truly appreciate them. Her dark hair had been woven into a thick braid, and hung over her shoulder. She watched her new husband approach, her eyes huge and dark. *Like Nicus,* Draculea thought. *But not like his. His are warm when they look at me.* He stood beside the bed. "Lady. Are you ready?" Elizabeta sat very straight, and said stiffly, "I am prepared to do my duty, my lord." Draculea smiled ruefully. "Child, I have seen men go to the headsman with more good will." He tugged lightly on her braid. "I cannot promise you great joy. But I will be as gentle as I can, and as quick as I may." Elizabeta cast her eyes down. "I thank you, my lord. I confess that I am more than a little apprehensive." "You know what will happen?" It was not unheard of for women of Elizabetas class and tender age to be totally ignorant of the ways of sex. She nodded. "My maid told me, some time ago. It sounds..." She trailed off, making a face. "This is Abul you speak of?" Beta nodded again. "Yes, I can well imagine." Draculea pulled the robe over his head, dropping it on the foot of the bed. Elizabeta did not exactly gasp, but she drew in her breath sharply. The drawings that Lena had shown her did not prepare her for the living embodiment. She knew that The Staff was actually larger than the princes sex, but somehow it did not seem so. The fact that Draculea was warm, living flesh seemed to impart a greater stature. "Beta, there must be wetness for the union to be as painless as possible. Do you want me to try to draw it from you, or would you prefer that I use oil? That will be quicker, and surer. I could try to prepare you, but..." He shrugged. "There is no guarantee. You are young, and very nervous." Beta knew that Lena had no trouble making her wet. She could have her sex dripping with juice with only a few caresses, but the idea of Draculea doing the same revolted her. "The oil, please." "Sensible girl." Draculea took the small bottle that had been left on the table beside the bed and poured a generous dribble over his erection, rubbing it in thoroughly. Then he coated his fingers, and climbed into the bed with the girl. She stiffened, and he said, "Beta, try to relax. It will be much more painful if you do not, for both of us." She regarded him in surprise. "For you?" He smiled. "The bit of flesh I will be using is sensitive, Beta. It can be like battering myself. Spread your legs." She lay back on the pillow and did as he bade her. Draculea reached up under her gown and found the tangle of curls between her legs. *Huh. Nicolaes is softer than this.* The thought of Nicolae brought another pulse of blood to his staff, and he quickly stroked the oil down the crease of Betas sex, then probed till he located the tiny slit. "I will open you a little first, Beta." She gritted her teeth as he eased a finger up inside her. Lena had done this before, of course. How slim and elegant her fingers seemed in comparison to this. *It is good that I used the oil. She is as dry as dust. Its rather a pity that neither one of us is going to enjoy this.* Vlad moved his hand carefully, but there was scant softening or loosening. Finally he gave up on waiting, and forced a second finger inside. The girl seemed to clench even tighter, giving a small,

complaining moan. "I am sorry." "Please, prince. Just do it and be done." Suddenly Vlad lost patience. "As you wish, lady." He pulled free, jerked her gown up around her waist, and rolled on top of her. The girl made a startled noise, and he quickly braced himself to take most of his weight off her. He reached down between them, positioning the weeping head of his prick at the narrow opening, and said, "Breathe deeply. I will be quick." He thrust forward, not brutally, but firmly. He intended to breach her maidenhead in one stroke, and he succeeded. The thin membrane split before the fleshy intruder, and the unused walls of her sex were rudely forced apart as Draculea buried himself in her body. She shrieked in shock and pain. Out in the hall, the three older men looked at each other with solemn nods. Simion, behind them, rolled his eyes. Draculea moved quickly, pumping into the girl with short, strong strokes. It would have been less painful for her if he had gone more slowly, but neither one of them wanted to prolong this act. It lasted only a very few minutes, but that seemed an infinity to Beta. The hard flesh moving over her and in her brought no pleasure. Soon Draculea gave one last, hard thrust and went still. She felt the scalding wash of his seed with relief, knowing that it meant her ordeal was almost at an end. Draculea pulled free of her clasp quickly, having no desire to linger. He rested beside her for a moment, watching as she quickly pulled her gown back down. She said nothing, so he felt no need to speak. At last he got up and took a folded piece of white cloth from the table. He used it to wipe himself clean, then donned his robe once again. Finally he lifted the sheet once again, saying, "We need proof for the legal vultures who hover in the hall, lady." Reaching under Betas gown, he wiped the cloth the length of her slit. Then he went to the door to the outer hall and opened it. The lawyers and Ernestu looked at him expectantly. The prince threw the cloth at Ernestu, who caught it, startled. He handed it to his lawyer, who opened it. He and Stefan bent over it, examining it. It was thickly stained with blood and semen. They nodded, looking back at the prince. Stefan said, "The marriage has been consummated." The official pronouncement had been made. Draculea bowed to them ironically, and shut the door, then went back to Betas bed. Elizabeta was trying to think of how to best ask him to leave her for the night when he bent and dropped a disinterested kiss on her forehead. "I will leave you to your rest. I will also give you a few days to recover before I visit you again. Pleasant dreams, Beta. I hope you will be happy in your new life." Beta watched him go, just a bit disconcerted. *But,* she told herself, *I am HAPPY he did not wish to stay.* She settled back to wait for Lena to come to her. TBC Back to index

Chapter 22: Part 22: Mating

Authors Notes: Pairing: Vlad/Nicolae (yes, finally) Summary: Vlad misunderstands Nicolaes attempt to flee, but all turns out well. Authors Notes: This could have turned out badly for both of them. See, children, why we should communicate? The Year of Our Lord, 1460 The Princes Wedding Night

Castle Draculea, Romania When Draculea shut the door to the bridal chamber once again, Simion left the murmuring trio in the hallway. Draculea had said to give him an hour before bringing Nicolae to his room, but Simion wanted a chance to have a talk with the boy. He had a feeling that his master still had not made the situation clear to Nicolae, and he did not want to send the boy in unprepared. He knew that Nicolae was attracted to Draculea, and that there had been some small dealings between them, but... *But my prince has not fully taken him yet, and that opens a whole different world. I expect he has little idea of what will happen, and it must be a bit frightening for him. A few words may ease his fears.* Simion smiled to himself. *Hes had a glimpse or two, but hell be finding his true nature tonight.* Nicolae was not in his room. Simion frowned, but decided that the boy still might not have felt safe there. So he went back to his own room, but it was empty also. Feeling a tickle of unease, he went to the library, even though Nicolae had not been shown to it before. Draculea was reserving that pleasure for himself, and there had not yet been time. The great room was chill and dim, the shelves of books and papers towering along the walls that rose two stories on every side. There was a smell of dry dust and disuse in the air, and Simion reflected briefly that it would change, now that the place had a keeper. *Where else? Surely he wasnt still hungry?* Even so, Simion checked the kitchen. The few scullery maids tiredly washing the last of the dishes shook their heads when he asked after Nicolae. No, no one, noble or otherwise had come there. The unease was rising to alarm now, and the hours time was running out. There were still a few drunken young nobles before the fire. One of them, an ambitious pup, was sitting on Ernestus lap, his arms around his neck. Simion grimaced in distaste, and decided that he must watch this one. If he was hungry enough for advance to endure the fumblings of a pig like Varga, he might prove either useful or dangerous. Simion stopped before them and said, "Gentlemen, have you seen Calugarul, the librarian?" They all shook their heads. Ernestu, his hand moving in the loose, open shirt of the youth on his lap, said sullenly, "He left after you spoke to him." His eyes glinted maliciously. "I expect hes found some bed to warm." Such a remark would usually have won chuckles from the decadent group, but now they only exchanged nervous glances. The man was a fool, speaking so about the princes favorite to the princes closest confidant. Simion turned away without reply. He knew well enough that, even in the unlikely event that Nicolae had sought out someone else, the other few guests left in the castle were unlikely to have been foolish enough to accept his advances. There was still one possibility. Perhaps the boy had gone for a walk outside to clear his head after his unaccustommed drinking. Simion went outside and quickly searched the courtyard, and the stables. The boy was nowhere. Thunder rumbled overhead, heralding an approaching storm, and Simion worried. It would be a violent storm, from the sound of it, and he did not like to think of the boy outside when it finally arrived. The appointed hour had elapsed, and still he had not found Nicolae. A group of lower servants were sitting near the gate, drinking ale from a small keg that had been provided in celebration of the princes wedding. They were all more than half drunk, but they were the only ones who might have seen Nicolae. Simion went to them. When the men saw Prince Draculeas man approaching, they struggled to their feet. Two of them tried to clutch each other for support, and ended up dragging each other to the ground once again. The others swayed unsteadily. Simion said, "Have you seen a boy come from the castle? A dark haired youth, tall and slender, with dark eyes?" They thought, scratching their heads and beards. Finally one said slowly and uncertainly, "Aye, there were one what came from t castle a bit before now." He looked at his companions for confirmation, and received drunken nods. "Near purty as a girl, he were. Ast him to sit an share a pint, but he jus kep

sayin he ad to go." A shrug. "An he left." Simion was horrified. "You just let him walk off into the night by himself?" The man frowned. "I aint been told to hold no one. Figgered he were a guest off to home, or else a young lord goin to the festival in the village to look for a bit o sport." He nudged a friend, who almost fell over. "Plenty o sport to be had tonight. Why?" He tried to straighten. His tankard tipped, spilling ale. "You need us to go find im for some reason?" No, that wouldnt do at all. It was known that Draculea was interested in the boy, but it was one of those things that was not spoken of too freely in public. "No, go back to your celebrating." Simion headed back into the castle, beyond simple worry and moving into dread. What in Gods name was the boy thinking? Hadnt he known that Draculea would send for him shortly? Simion hadnt actually said as much, but surely he had known, surely he could guess... Simion stopped with a groan. *Why surely? I know how the boy was raised, and how little the world has touched him. If he was not told, how was he to know that Draculea has made a place for him here, and intends to keep him, and cherish him?* There was no other course of action left open to him. Draculea would have to be told that his young lover had run away. Simion started for the princes room, hoping that Draculea would not react without stopping to think. If he gave free reign to his emotions instead of listening to reason, then Simion greatly feared for Nicolea. Draculea had been more patient than Simion would have ever imagined, but that patience was worn thin. He wanted the boy with a hunger that bordered on obsession. And to be denied now, when he was so close... He never got to Draculeas room. The prince met him at the top of the grand staircase. He was dressed in simple clothes that looked hastily donned. His dark, wavy hair was disarrayed, as if he had run his hands through it in distraction, and his expression indicated this could well be true. He looked pale and distraught. Simion saw that he was holding the dark red shirt that Nicolae had worn earlier. Draculeas voice was hoarse. "You didnt come, Simion, and I became impatient. I went for him myself. Hes not there. Where is he?" Simion hesitated, unsure of how to break the news to Draculea. There was a very real old saying about those who killed the bearer of bad tidings. Simion did not fear for his life, but he knew very well that, in his anger, Draculea could strike out before getting control of himself. Draculea saw his hesitation. "He isnt with Varga." His voice was very soft. But then, Simon thought, death can come with a whisper as well as a shout. "No, my lord. Varga amuses himself with an ambitious noble in the great hall." "Then where..." His face tightened, and Simion watched with alarm as a fire kindled in his eyes. "Hes gone." He grabbed Simions arm, and the older man winced as iron fingers bit into his flesh. "Hasnt he?" "Yes, my lord. Men at the gate saw him leave but a little while ago. He cannot have gone far." Draculea released him, and Simion rubbed at the already bruising flesh. He watched, concerned, as the tall man swayed slightly, all color draining from his face. There was a tearing sound, and Simion looked down. Draculea had ripped the shirt in half, seemingly unconscious of what his own hands had done. Simions eyes flashed to Draculeas face in alarm. Vlads teeth were bared, and his handsome face was set in hard, cold lines, but his eyes burned. "He left me." "Domn, no! It is not like that, I am sure. Let me go for him. I will bring him back to you. I am sure that all that is needed is a few words, a bit of explaining..." The eyes Draculea turned on him were frighteningly lifeless, for all their heat. "He--left--me!" Then he was gone, racing down the steps and throwing open the door. Simion rushed after him. He did not call out: in this state, it was doubtful that Draculea would have heard him, but someone else might have. He knew where his lord was going, and prayed he would be in time at least to delay him long enough to let him cool down a bit. But he was almost run down by Lucifer as the great black beast burst from the stables, Draculea clinging

to his back. The horse shied at his nearness, rising on its hind legs to paw the air with a shrill whinny. Draculea stayed fast on the plunging animal, despite the fact that he had no saddle, only a rough piece of leather that looked like a stableboys cloak thrown over the beasts back. Simion called, "Prince, please! Let me go! Return and wait!" "No, Simion. Hes mine, I will retrieve him. And if you value your life, do not follow. This matter concerns no one but Nicolae and myself." Then he dug his heels into Lucifers sides, and the horse leapt away, thundering out the gate past the men who watched in stupefaction. They were so drunk that for years to come they would tell of how they had seen the devil ride out on Prince Draculeas wedding night. Draculea flew down the road, driving Lucifer through the darkness. Normally the road would have been bright with moonlight, but it was pitch black tonight. Not a singe star winked overhead: all were blanketed by angry black-purple storm clouds. The only illumination came from the lightning that laced the clouds in ever more frequent flashes. The wind was rising into cold gusts, and even the revelers in the nearby village and the estates of the prince began to seek refuge wherever they might. It was whispered that it was an ill omen to have such a storm on a wedding night. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nicolae paused as thunder boomed almost over his head. The storm was going to be a bad one, and he needed to find shelter. In the brief flash of lightning, he saw a small cottage up ahead by the side of the road. No light gleamed around the edge of the door, and he knew that the owners were probably either at the castle or in the village, roistering. He could take refuge there, and probably leave before they returned. Surely no one would be moving about in the coming storm, but would stay wherever they were. He took a few steps toward the cottage, but stopped again, listening. There had been something different about that last grumble of thunder. It hadnt stopped. It was continuing, and it was growing closer. *No, not thunder. Hoofbeats.* Feeling the fear welling up inside him, he gazed back up the road. At first he saw nothing. Then there was the barest hint of something, black moving on black. Another bolt of lightning split the sky with a crash. In that second the land was illuminated as bright as day, and Nicolae saw the approaching rider. At the distance he might not have seen the mans face, but there was no mistaking the huge ebony stallion: Lucifer. And there could be only one man the beast would allow to drive him with such violent kicks. "Draculea," Nicolae whispered. He felt numb. He had been found out, and the prince was angry that he was trying to escape his new in-laws service. Nicolae knew that there were harsh penalties for any man or woman legally bound to another who tried to escape. It was not the law he feared, though, but only what Ernestu would do now that he actually had an excuse to abuse him. As Draculea approached, part of Nicolaes mind screamed at him to run, to bolt for the forest on the other side of the road. There he might be able to lose his pursuer, or hide in some cave or hollow. But he couldnt move. *What is the point? I could never escape him.* The boy watched sadly as his destiny raced toward him. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He was there, standing beside the road. He didnt try to run, or hide. Beneath his anger, this puzzled Vlad. He was fleeing: why did he not continue? When he neared the boy, Draculea hauled back on the reins, and Lucifer skidded to a stop, dancing madly in excitement. Nicolea moved then, cringing back from the near maddened beast in alarm. Draculea thought, *You need not fear HIM, boy. You have other things to fear.* He threw himself off, landing neatly in a near crouch, and Lucifer skittered over to stand beside the cottage, his sides heaving. For a moment Draculea looked at Nicolae. Then he straightened up and came toward him. Still the boy did not flee. Draculea regarded the boy. NIcolaes eyes were downcast. At last the prince said, "You ran." The boys head drooped even lower, and his voice was meek. "I am sorry, my lord."

"Sorry?" He grabbed Nicolaes hair, jerking hard so that his head was forced back, and Draculea put his other hand on Nicolaes throat. His voice hissed. "You APOLOGISE to me, boy? You think that will be enough to right what you have done?" "It is all I can offer, Domn." He pulled harder, till the boys neck was arched sharply, and he squeezed lightly, till Nicolae gasped. "No, Nicu. You have much more to offer. Much more." A cold raindrop splashed on the hand that gripped the unresisting boys neck, and Draculea seemed for the first time aware of the approaching storm. "But not out here." He looked around, and spotted the cottage that Nicolae had seen earlier. He released the young man with a shove, pushing him toward the building. "Go inside and wait for me." As Nicolae went to obey, he led Lucifer to the small open shed that stood beside the house and tethered him in its shelter. It wasnt as warm or comfortable as his stables, but Lucifer was a war horse: he was as used to hardship as his master. Draculea went to the cottage. Inside, he saw that Nicolae had lit a lamp, setting it on the mantle of the fireplace. Vlad looked around the structure quickly. It was no different than most houses of the time: nothing more than one large room, with different areas for different things. There was a decent enough bed in one corner, and he saw with satisfaction that it had sheets, which even appeared to be clean. He looked at the boy waiting quietly beside the crude table, and turned, dropping the bar in place across the door. Then he turned back to Nicolae, voice toneless, and said, "We will not be disturbed till this business between us is finished." He walked to Nicolae and stood before him. When he lifted his rigid palm to the boy, Nicolae merely flinched and did not try to evade the blow he saw coming, making Draculea hesitate. *I cant beat him. God help me, I cant mark him like Varga did, even if he does toy with my heart. But I WILL have him tonight. Nothing will stop me: neither Heaven nor Hell.* He grabbed the back of Nicolaes neck, his hand hard, and ripped the front of his shirt away with one vicious pull. The boy gasped, eyes going wide. "Why, Nicolae? Tell me why you ran." "I... I was afraid, Domn." He removed the remains of the shirt with impatient jerks. "Afraid? Damn, boy, what have I done for you to fear me before this night?," he growled. "I have shown you nothing but kindness, nothing but gentleness and care." His heart should have been hardened by now, but when tears welled up in those dark, slanted eyes, he felt a stab of pain. "Yes, Domn. You have been so good to me, more than I could ever deserve. That was why I had to go." "Madness!" Draculea snarled. With his grip on Nicolaes neck, he threw the boy face down on the bed. Then, before Nicolae could move or arrange himself, he turned him onto his back, pulling him up to lie full length on the straw stuffed mattress. Then Draculea swiftly straddled him on his hands and knees. "Youve made me mad, too, librarian. What can I do but give in to this insanity?" He bent and kissed the boy roughly. No gentle coaxing this time. Draculeas mouth moved hungrily on Nicolaes, forcing his lips open so that his tongue could sweep inside. The boy made a pitiful sound that might have been protest, or pleading. Draculea ignored it. His hands moved to the boys chest, his thumbs stroking hard over the soft nipples. He rubbed, his fingers digging into the flesh at his sides as he plundered the boys mouth. Nicolaes hands fluttered up, but he did not try to push Draculea away. They settled against his shoulders, stroking timidly. When Vlad pulled up a bit to breath, the boy gasped, "Please, Vlad." Draculea froze. *My name, he called me by my name.* No one in his adult life, save his father, had ever dared call him that. It broke through the haze of angry lust that had possessed him, and he truly listened to what the boy said next. "Do not send me away. Let me stay and be your servant." "Send you away? What do you mean?"

"Please, master." He stroked Draculeas cheek timidly. "I can care for your library, make it the finest in the land, and I ask nothing. Only... only do not send me back to my father." "Varga? Nicolae..." he hesitated, a feeling of dismay washing over him. "You thought you were to go back with him?" Nicolae nodded. "Please, Domn. I will die. Either he will kill me, or I will commit self-murder from despair." Draculea closed his eyes. "Blessed Virgin, I am a fool." His voice was bitter, and Nicolae said hesitantly, "Domn?" "You said outside that you ran because I had been kind to you. What did you mean, Nicolae?" The boy turned his face away, unable to look in Draculeas eyes. "I had never known such tenderness before, master. To go from that to my fathers doubtful mercies... I could not bear it." "But why did you think you would be sent away?" Nicolae looked at him in surprise. "You have Beta now." "Nicolae, did you think you were a substitute? Did you think that I pleasured myself with you only because I did not yet have her?" His voice was small. "She is your wife." "Nicolae," He took his chin, forcing the boy to meet his eyes, and said deliberately, "Beta may be my wife, but YOU are my MATE. It is YOU I want." He kissed him again, gently this time. "It is you I love." "Love?" The bewilderment in Nicolaes voice made Vlad ache. Nicolaes eyes searched his anxiously. Draculea returned his gaze steadily, letting the boy see the truth of his feelings. Finally the worry drained slowly away, leaving a soft wonder. "You... love me?" "More than my own life, little one. When I thought you had left me..." He dropped his head on Nicolaes chest. "Forgive me, Nicolae. Can you love me, just a little?" He felt the gentle, long fingered hands move through his hair. Nicolae whispered, "How could I not love you?" Draculea sighed as the boy ran his hands over his back, stroking slowly. "You will return with me, Nicu. You will stay with me." "Yes, my lord." Draculea looked up at him. "You called me by my given name before. Say it again." He smiled up at him. "Vlad. My Vlad." "Yes. Yours." Nicolae reached up and pulled Draculea down for another kiss. This time his tongue shyly touched the older mans lips. Draculea opened his mouth eagerly, inviting him inside with a flick of his own tongue. Nicolae was hesitant at first, barely daring to touch but soon, with Draculeas obvious pleasure in his actions, he grew bolder . He licked almost delicately into his lovers mouth. learning his taste. Draculea was still on his hands and knees over the boy. Now Nicolae put an arm around his waist and pulled him down till he lay on top of him. He spread his legs so that Draculea settled between his thighs, bringing their groins together. Vlad moaned quietly, and humped against the boy. He reached between them, cupping his hands over Nicolaes sex. The boy was soft, but as Draculea touched him he gave a shuddering sigh and pushed up into his hand. Again he spoke the words he had said the first time Draculea had held him, and this time there was no drug clouding his mind. "Love me." He pushed again, and Draculea felt the first thickening. "Please." "Oh, God, Nicu, I want to. But I have nothing to ease the way, my darling. I dont want to hurt you." He craned his neck and bit very softly, his teeth rasping at the hinge of Draculeas jaw. "Please Vlad. I dont care. I need you." Draculea moved his hips, rubbing their arousals together. "This will be enough, till I can get you back to the castle."

He was surprised when the boy shook his head. "No! There is more, I know there is more." "Yes, pet, there is more." He bent his head and found Nicolaes nipple. The little bud was hard, and he kissed it, then drew it into his mouth to suckle. Nicolae arched to him, sighing. Draculea released the morsel of flesh with a tender bite. His hands slid under Nicolea, and he cupped his buttocks. "Here. Do you remember the first night, when I used my hands to pleasure you that way?" "I... a little, master. But there is MORE." "Yes. When you are ready, I will mount you, Nicu. We will truly be joined then, in flesh as well as in spirit." Nicolae clutched at his shoulders. "I want that!" "Nicolae, no, not now. I want your first time to be special." "It will. It cannot be anything less than that if I am with you. Please, domn. I ache. I feel so empty. Fill me." "Nicolae, please..." Nicolae grabbed his head, stared into his eyes, and said very deliberately. "I want you to fuck me." Draculea shivered. He had been hard, but now... Hearing the obscene plea from the sweetly innocent boy, he grew still more rigid. Nicolea saw his response, and knew that he was weakening in his resolve. He continued quickly, "Give me your staff, my lord. I want to feel you inside me. I want to feel you moving, feel the heat and hardness of your flesh plunging into me. I want to feel your seed..." With a groan Draculea began to strip off his clothes. Nicolae helped as best he could. When Draculea was naked, he removed the last of Nicolaes garments, and began running his hands over the boys smooth skin. "I still must prepare you, Nicu. Since I have no oil, there is only one way left. Get up on your hands and knees." Nicolae rolled onto his belly, then pushed up onto his hands and knees. He felt Draculea grip his buttocks again. This time he spread them, and his thumbs brushed down the crease. Nicolae jerked slightly when he felt a fingertip caress the puckered opening that guarded his back passage. "Easy, Nicu. You must be easy. Let me help you." Draculea bent forward. Nicolae groaned as he felt the soft wetness of his lovers tongue on the sensetive, crinkled flesh. Draculea kneaded the firm flesh of Nicolaes rump as he licked steadily, feeling the tight, muscular ring begin to relax. He pressed forward determinedly, working his tongue into the narrow passage, and relishing the soft noises that the boy made. The taste of Nicolaes flesh was earthy, but somehow clean. He pushed hard with his tongue, driving it in and out, mimicking the action he would soon perform with his sex. After a few moments, Draculea pulled back and spat into his hand, then rubbed it on the twitching entrance. "Breathe, Nicu." He put one finger to the boys anus, and pushed firmly. It slid in slowly. "Oh." Nicolaes exclaimation was breathy, and Vlad stopped, his finger buried deep. "Are you all right, my love?" "Yes. More, please." Draculea kissed his back. "Patience, my pet. Get used to this first." He moved his hand, pushing in and out slowly, and Nicolae hummed softyly, beginning to thrust back to meet him. Draculea laughed. "You like that, my sweet little wanton." He added a second finger, and the boy almost purred. "Oh, Nicu." Draculea worked his fingers, carefully stretching the resilient ring of muscle. Reaching under the boy, his other hand found the stiff prick that angled up along his belly, and he stroked it. Nicolae groaned. What his lover was doing made him ache a little, but it was a sweet pain that melded into pleasure, and he wanted even more. He protested when Draculea removed his fingers, but Vlad said, "Wait." He rubbed his fingers over the head of Nicolaes sex, gathering the slick moisture that oozed from the slit, then did the same to his own straining sex. He returned his fingers,and this time, with the added slickness, pressed three fingers into the willing hole.

Nicolae tried to impale himself even deeper, pleading, "Now, master, please! I burn." "Your legs, Nicu. Spread your legs." Draculeas voice was hoarse as he once again pulled free. The boy quickly parted his knees, bracing them wide, and looked back over his shoulder eagerly. He watched as Draculea got onto his knees and moved up between his legs. He put one hand on Nicolaes ass, once again spreading the cheeks. With the other he he gripped his sex and fitted the swollen, weeping head against the loosened ring. Draculea pushed, spreading the entrance and moving forward till the bulbous head of his organ pushed past the guarding ring and was swallowed in Nicolaes body. He paused, feeling the boy trembling, and wanting to give him time to adjust. But Nicolae had waited too long, and could not bear a delay. He thrust backwards, hard, and Draculeas thick staff slid deep. The boy cried out as his virgin passage was breached, the narrow, clinging walls of flesh spread apart. He paused, panting raggedly, sweat forming on his brow. Draculea was very still, fighting desperately not to spend himself while still only half inside his lover. "Youre so tight, Nicu, and so warm." "Please, lord. I... I cant do any more. You must be the one." In reply Draculea gripped the boys hips tightly, tilting them a little higher, and moved forward with a strong, steady pressure. He slid in slowly, and Nicolae whined as the firm head rubbed over a tiny spot deep inside, sending out a hot flare of pleasure. Draculea noted the point where the boy reacted, tucking the information away safely for Nicolaes future pleasure, and began to stroke into the boy. At first he moved slowly and gently, mindful that this act could cause pain as well as ecstasy. Once Nicolae became acquainted with the novel sensation of something moving inside him, he relaxed a little more, and Draculea could penetrate more easily. He mostly stayed buried deep, not wanting to cause fresh pain with forcing the passage to close, and open again. But every few strokes he drew back far enogh to pass over the boys anal gland, making him jerk and whimper with need. Nicolae was moaning continuously now. "Please, please, oh master. So good." He thrust back again. "Harder!" Drauclea answered his plea with a growl, slamming his loins against the boys buttocks. Nicolae shrieked in pleasure, his own hips working, frantically fucking empty space. Again Draculea bent and caught hold of his bobbing prick, stroking him in time to his thrusts. The prince felt the boys orgasm approaching first in the way that the sleek internal muscles rippled along his buried shaft. Then Nicolae gasped, "Vlad! I die..." and reached climax. His essence spurted from his sex in thick white streams, coating the hand that caressed him, slicking it so that it slid even more easily over his sensitized flesh. Draculea pulled free of his body, and Nicolae cried out, "No! It cant be over. Vlad, you havent spent yet. Give me your seed, I need it!" "Yes, little one, but not like this." He grasped the boy around the middle and flipped him onto his back again. Nicolae gazed up at him with lust glazed eyes. Draculea loomed over him, face flushed, body sheened with sweat, cock jutting lewdly from the tangle of dark hair at his groin. Nicolae licked his lips unconsciously. The prick was huge, glistening with his own bodys moisture and the clear passion liquid that dripped from its tip. Draculea gripped his knees and lifted, pushing them back. Nicolae realized what he was doing, and willingly lifted his legs to brace them over his lovers shoulders, opening himself for the mounting. With no hesitation this time Vlad thrust into him again. This time the way was open, and he slid all the way in smoothly, and began to ride the boy hard. "I want to see your face...," Vlad panted. "Your eyes, your beautiful eyes." Nicolae gave him that, never looking away or turning his head as Draculea drove into him. His cock had softened only a little. Now, with the astonishing resilience of youth, it was full and hard again. As the

other man fucked him, he reached down to grasp himself, jerking the turgid flesh. "Come, my lover," he crooned to the man working over him. Unable to any longer resist the sweet, hot grip of Nicolaes body and the whispered urging, Draculea let go and plunged to his own release. He shuddered as he let loose jets of hot semen, bathing the tender flesh that enfolded him. When he felt the liquid bursts deep in his rectum, Nicolae cried out in release and triumph, and came again. It was no more than a weak dribble, but it was intense, despite that. He felt drained in more ways than one. Draculea pulled out of Nicolae and sat heavily on the bed, then pulled the boy up onto his lap and held him, burying his face against his pulsing throat, whispering, "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful..." Nicolae leaned over him, draping over his body in a half-trance of satiation. At last he murmured, "We can do this again?" Draculea chuckled. "Not right away, boy. I am not so young as you are." Nicolae sighed. "No, I meant to speak of the future. We can do this again, in days to come? I will stay with you, and you will love me like this... often?" Draculea sat up, kissing him. "As often as I can will this mortal flesh to perform, boy." Nicolae smiled blindingly. "I will pray for you, my prince." Draculea laughed helplessly. But he felt a wetness on his thighs, and reached down to pass a hand over the boys rump, trailing his fingers down his crease. Nicolae winced slightly. When Draculea looked at his fingers, they bore traces of his own seed... and blood. He sighed. "Oh, Nicu. Im sorry. I didnt want to hurt you, my treasure." Nicolae kissed him. "Do not apologize, beloved. It is fitting." Puzzled, Draculea frowned. "Fitting? How so?" With a yawn Nicolae cuddled even closer in his arms and said sleepily, "I have heard that all honest brides bleed on their wedding night." TBC Back to index

Chapter 23: Chapter 23: New Union

Disclaimer: Major characters and concepts (besides Nicolae) belong to Bram Stoker. Summary: Vlad brings Nicolae back home, and prepares to exterminate a vermin. Authors Notes: Yes, I know youre anxious to see Ernestu get his. Next episode, I promise. I could have gone ahead and done it now, but it deserves its own chapter. I want to give it special attention. :) Before you think Draculea was a piker for leaving the peasant one coin to pay for the use of his house and the shirt, remember that it was not uncommon for the peasants of this time to go their entire life without actually touching real money. Most things in their class was done on the barter level. Child of the NIght, Part 23: New Union The Year of Our Lord, 1460 The Day After the Wedding Draculeas Estates, Romania Vlad came awake slowly. Half-awake, he analyzed his environment. It was always good to know what you were waking up into: sometimes your life depended on it. He was in a bed, but it was not the great,

luxurious bed of his castle. The sheets were a little coarse, not the silken ones he was used to, when he had sheets at all. But the single most important thing about this awakening was the body curled half over him. One long, bare lag was thrown over his own, two firm arms were twined about his neck. He felt the soft tickle of hair on his chest, and the warm, moist puff of measured breath. A sense of peace and joy settled over him. "Nicu." It was a whisper, barely spoken, but the body stirred against his own, and a sleepy voice said, "Master?" Draculea lifted Nicolaes head and planted a lingering kiss on lips that were still a little swollen from earlier kisses. The boys eyes had been shut, now they drifted open to gaze at him solemnly. Then a slow, sweet smile broke over his face, and he dipped his head to nuzzle at Draculeas neck. "I fell asleep." "I know. So did I." "I wanted to stay awake." "Why, Nicu?" "Just to be with you." Draculea stroked the silky hair, sifting the dark strands through his fingers. "You will be with me always, Nicu. You can sleep safely." "Our time is so short on this earth, Vlad. I do not want to miss a single moment I can be with you." Vlad sighed, and sat up, pulling the boy with him. This time he kissed his forehead gently. "So solemn, my love. So serious. We have many years before us, Nicolae. Do not worry about them. Just enjoy today." He made a tutting sound. "Listen to me. I counsel you to live in the moment, and now I must look to the future. We have to go, boy. We should be in the castle before daybreak to avoid wagging tongues." Nicolae did not protest. He merely got up and began dressing. Before they had lain back down that night, Draculea had kindled a small fire and warmed water, then washed them both. Nicolae had stood naked before the fire, the flames casting a golden glow on his smooth skin, and allowed his lover to clean away gently the marks of their shared passion. Now he finished slipping on his boots and stood, crossing his arms over his bare chest with a small frown. "Domn, I cannot go out like this." He picked up the rag that had been his shirt and eyed it. "And this is good for naught but wiping pans now." "You will have many more, my love. But for now..." There was a coarse shirt hanging on a peg, probably the only change of clothing the peasant who lived there owned. Draculea took it and handed it to the boy. "Wear this." "Stealing, Domn?!" Nicolaes voice was horrified. Draculea chuckled. "No, boy, not stealing. Look, you." He searched his pocket, and found a single small silver coin, showed it to Nicolae, then placed it in the center of the table. "Will this suffice?" Nicolae whispered, "Oh, Domn, your generosity..." "Nicu, please." He hugged the boy, then took the shirt and slipped it over his head. "You will learn some day that money means very little to me. I have taught myself to live simply when I must. Paying the owner of this cottage is the right thing to do, and I am happy to do it. I do not just take from those who have so little. Now come. Lucifer will have his morning exercise today, but I expect he is hungry. I did not see much fodder in the little shed." Lucifer was not happy about having a second rider, but he stood still and allowed Draculea to lift Nicu up onto his back, then climb up himself. Nicolae took hold of the steeds coarse mane as Draculea reached around him to take the reins. He leaned back against Draculea, resting against the solid comfort of his body as the horse ambled down the road to the castle. It was still dark when they arrived at the castle. The courtyard was deserted except for the two guards at the gate. They, valuing their lives, had taken no spirits on their watch. They watched curiously as the prince rode into the castle confines, the new young librarian perched before him, but they said nothing.

And they would say nothing later. Neither was a fool. Draculea dismounted near the stables, helping Nicolae down, then slapped Lucifer on the rump. The horse walked obediently into the stable, went to his own open stall, and began to munch grain. Draculea led Nicolae to the castle. Simion was waiting inside the great hall, pale and anxious. When the two men entered, his eyes searched Nicolae quickly. He saw the soft, adoring look that the boy turned up to Draculea, and he relaxed with a gusty sigh. He had been very afraid. Simion knew that Draculeas desire for the boy had been like a fever, burning in his blood, and when his masters blood ran high, he was dangerous. Simion put a hand on the boys shoulder, and Nicolae gave him a shy smile. "Simion, you were worried about me, werent you? I am sorry I behaved foolishly." "Not foolish, boy. Just..." He grimaced, looking for words, "ignorant of the facts. Ignorance is cured by knowledge." "Nicolae, can you find my room?" When the boy nodded, Vlad kissed him on the cheek. "Go and get into bed. You still need more sleep." Nicolae laid his cheek for a moment against Draculeas shoulder, then looked up at him. "You will come soon?" He stroked Draculeas chest, toying with the buttons of his shirt. The older man smiled. "I mean you to SLEEP, boy. Go." His eyes followed Nicolae as he climbed the stairs and turned down a corridor, then he looked to Simion. "So..." Simion tipped his head inquiringly. "From the look of him, I would say all went well when you met, and he understands now how things will be." Draculeas expression sobered. "I almost hurt him, Simion. I was so furious that he would leave me, my grief was so great..." "But you did NOT hurt him, Domn. You saw there was no malice in what he did." "But I came so close. And I could have handled him more gently." Simion snorted. "There are times for gentleness, lord, and you will have them with Nicolae. But the emotions you both felt were too strong to be held back this night. What happened had to happen, and the boy is happy. Look at that, and forgive yourself." Draculea nodded, and his expression grew even more grim. "Now that the marriage is official, and I have my Nicolae, there is but one more thing to be done." Now Simion smiled, and it was not a pleasant sight. "Yes, Domn. How will you do it?" "He leaves today for his own castle. I fear that poor Ernestu will meet with bandits along the road. Such a shame. You know, Simion, that I can usually control them here in my own lands, but, well..." He shrugged. "Even I cannot be everywhere at once, and tragedies DO happen." The two men started up the staircase. "And what are my princes plans for today?" "A few more hours sleep with my love, then I will see my father-in-law off, and wish him pleasant journey." Draculeas smile was cruel. "Then, I think, I shall go hunting." When Draculea entered his own room, it was dim. The only light came from the fire that barely flickered on the hearth. He made his way to his bed and paused at its side, drinking in the sight of it. Nicolae lay there, snuggled beneath the rich velvet coverlet, his hair very dark against the white case of his pillow. Draculea had been right about his needing rest, because he was already deeply asleep, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep slumber. Draculea stripped quietly, then slid between the sheets to lie beside his lover. Carefully, so as not to awaken the boy, he moved closer to him. As if sensing his presence even in the depths of sleep, Nicolae turned toward him, pressing against his side. Draculea felt the vibrant, living warmth along his body and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving before giving himself up to slumber. The second awakening with Nicolae was as sweet as the first. A servant had crept in some time before. A good fire blazed on the hearth., and candles were lit. When Draculea opened his eyes it was to find

Nicolae sitting up beside him, watching him. With his hair tumbling before still sleepy eyes, he looked all of fourteen. Draculea stretched. "Good morrow, Nicolae." He reached out and stroked the boys arm. "You slept well? I think you are not used to sleeping with another." "I am not, Domn, but I will greatly enjoy becoming accustomed to it. My sleep was most excellent." "Good." Draculea pulled Nicolae down for a kiss, which became two kisses, which became three. At last he moved the boy away with a sigh. "I am greedy for you, my love. The hunger seems to grow with the feeding." "May I always satisfy you, my lord." "You do. You will. But..." He sat up. "the other fleshly hungers must be attended to." He got up. "I will send Simion up with breakfast for you. I want you to stay here until I come for you, or send for you." Nicolae watched as Draculea dressed. "As you will. But..." His voice was doubtful. "I am not to stay here always, am I?" Draculea sat on the bed, pulling on his boots. "What, never leaving this room?" He smiled, ruffling Nicolaes hair. "It is a pleasing thought, but no. You are not a prisoner here, boy. You are not confined. It is only that I would have you untroubled, and the festering sore that sired you has not yet gone. He will soon, and then the run of the castle is yours." Draculea stood up. "I will see him on his way, then I will show you your new workplace." Nicolaes eyes lit up. "The library?" "You say that with the same voice that a zealot would use to say Jerusalem. Yes, the library." He bent for another kiss, and Nicolae threw his arms around his neck clinging to him. Vlad enjoyed the embrace for a moment, then gently disengaged himself. He touched Nicolaes face and murmured, "Soon, my pet. Soon you will be rid of him. Do not let him trouble your heart for another moment." His step was firm as he left the room. Draculea found Simion near the entrance. "How many men will accompany Varga, and where are they now?" "Only three, Domn. The rest returned yesterday. They are in the kitchen now." "Good. Come with me to the treasury." They made their way to a small room hidden deep within the castle, down among the crypts and dungeons in its bowel. The only thing to mark it as different from any of the others was the two men guarding it. They went inside. The walls were lined with chests and coffers. Draculea took three small leather sacks from a shelf and opened a chest. It was filled with gleaming silver coins. He dipped his hands into the mass, then hesitated, thoughtful. He shut the chest and opened another. This revealed an equally large mass of gold coins. Draculea scooped up a handful and began to fill the bags. "Did you ever execute that bandit that was captured last month?" "You did not specifically order it, my lord, so he still lives." "Good. I had forgotten about him, till now. He will be of greater use this day than he ever was in his previous miserable life. He would have rotted in his cell, but now he will be granted a swift death instead." Draculea finished filling the last bag, tied it shut, and shut the chest. He slipped the bags inside his shirt. "When we get to the kitchen, take some food to Nicolae and sit with him for awhile. He may wish to talk with someone, and I have business that needs attending before I return to him." In the kitchen Ernestus men were finished with their meal and happily harassing the kitchen girls. They bolted to their feet when the prince and his man entered the room. Simion directed the maids to go find tasks elsewhere, then gathered food for Nicolae and left his prince to speak to the men. Draculea regarded them. They were nothing special, about what he would have expected of Vargas household. If he was correct in his assessment of their character, or their lack thereof, there should be no problem. If he wasnt... Well, men died every day. It was the way of the world. Draculea folded his arms. "Are you free men, or are you serf?" They all straightened. The tallest, the leader of the trio spoke up proudly, "We are free men, Domn. Varga

is too proud, too niggardly to spend what he would need toward training his serfs. It is less expensive for him to hire mercenaries, such as ourselves. But our contract with him is over soon, and we will seek work elsewhere." "Let me guess. He is not over-generous." "As I have already said, Domn, he is niggardly. We would not have taken his offer had we not been desperate at the time." "Would you like to leave his employ early, and with enough money to live comfortably till you can find another post?" The men exchanged looks, wondering if the prince were offering them work. It did not seem likely. They knew that he already had many men to serve him, all better equipped and better trained than they. "That would be a most welcome opportunity, prince. But how could it be?" Draculea pulled a leather bag from his shirt and tossed it to the leader. The man opened it, and his eyes bulged at the sight of the coins. It was almost unimagined riches to a man who had never owned more than a few silver coins at any time. He showed it to his companions, who were as amazed as he. At last he looked back at Draculea. "What is it you wish us to do, lord?" "Your master is not long for this world." The man frowned. He looked longingly at the coins again, then tied the bag up, sighing, and offered it to the prince. "I am sorry, Domn. I cannot commit murder, even for so rich a prize." "I do not ask you to commit murder, fool." Instead of taking the bag, Draculea produced two more, tossing one to each of the other men. "I ask you to do nothing. That is exactly the point. You will do nothing, and then you will be free to go your own way, live your own life. All that you must do is leave this country after what happens and never return, speaking nothing of what transpires." When they looked doubtful Draculea said, "You know what manner of man Varga is?" They nodded grimly. "He has hurt one I love. I will see him dead, with or without your help. I would prefer "with."" His eyes glinted. "I will have enough blood on my hands." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In Elizabetas room Lena was helping her mistress dress. Beta was less than happy. "I wanted to sleep, Lena. I am a princess now, I can do as I please." "Like most you have the wrong idea of how a princes lives. A prince, perhaps, may do as he pleases, but a princess is like any other woman: bound to her duties. Your father is leaving, and you must see him off." "I dont see WHY," Beta said grumpily. "It is not as if either of us did not wish this. I am glad to be away from him, and he will shed no tears over my being gone." "Still the illusion must be kept up for the world, Beta. What IS matters little to the world beside what SEEMS to be. After this chore you will not need to have many dealings with him. A letter now and again, and perhaps a duty visit when your first child is born." Beta grimaced. "The thought of that gives me no pleasure, Lena." "The visit? He could come here." "No, the child. The idea of something growing inside me..." "I know, I know. But it cannot be avoided. You must produce an heir to seal your position. Just one, if it is male and healthy. Then... There are ways to stop the coming of a child, and I can find access to them easily enough." She wound Betas hair into a smooth coil at the base of her neck, pinning it securely and fitting a dainty net of silk cords over it. "There. You are so beautiful, my Beta. Draculea may rule Wallachia, but you will rule HIM." *And I will rule YOU,* she thought. The two women made their way down to the great hall, to find Ernestu sitting in a chair by the fire, dressed for travel. He rose to greet his daughter, dropping a dry peck on a reluctantly offered cheek. "So, Beta. You are a wife now. Soon to be a mother, I hope." His tone said that she had better devote all her energies to producing an heir as quickly as possible.

"As the Lord wills, Father." "No, as YOUR lord husband will, child. Remember that. Perhaps you think that you are free of constraint and control now. I warn you, daughter, to watch yourself. Do not take too many liberties, or you may find yourself slapped back into your place. The Draculea is not a man to be trifled with." He rubbed his throat absently. "I know." Draculea entered the great hall and approached the group. He made a short, formal bow, which Ernestu returned as the women curtsied. "Varga, your men are ready to accompany you." "I thank you for seeing to them, my lord." "It is nothing, Varga. I was happy to do it." They went outside to find the men waiting, each beside his horse, waiting for their master to mount. Ernestu kissed Beta once again, and she murmured dutifully, "Safe journey, Father." "Thank you, Beta. Be a good girl." He glanced back at the castle, an unhealthy light in his eyes, and said, "Tell Nicolae that I will be thinking of him, and not to pine. I am sure we will see each other again." "Yes, Father," said the bewildered Beta. Since when did Ernestu worry about his bastards feelings? Draculea had overheard his words, and his fists clenched at his sides, but he managed to give Ernestu a faint, false smile. "Good journey, Varga. May you safely reach the end that destiny has prepared for you." Ernestu blinked at the odd choice of words, but accepted the good wishes gracefully. He mounted his horse and tossed a last look at the castle, thinking of the boy hiding somewhere inside. As he turned his horse and rode through the gate, he was considering how soon he would dare write Beta and suggest that she send Nicolae home to comfort him, now that his other children were gone. Elizabeta was trying to think of a good excuse that would allow her to avoid Draculeas company when he turned to her and said, "Well, Lady, you will be wanting to get acquainted with your new domain. I will send Simion to you, and he can show you the castle and begin acquainting you with the household. Will this be agreeable?" The last question was, Beta knew, a courtesy. This was what he was expecting her to do, and it suited her well. "I would be pleased, my lord. And how will you spend your day?" Draculea smiled wolfishly. "I will hunt." Elizabeta shivered as she watched him leave, muttering to Lena, "Men and their blood sports." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In his room, Draculea found Nicolae talking excitedly to Simion, who listened patiently as the boy outlined his hopes and plans for the castle library. He was finishing with, "...of course I have not yet seen it, so I have no idea of what I will be working with, but I am sure it is very fine." "You will see for yourself now, boy." The smile that broke across Nicolaes face when he saw Draculea warmed the princes heart. "The traveling party is away, duty is done. Now I will show you to your sanctum, then go to my hunt. Come." Nicolae hurried to him, and Draculea said, "Simion, the princess and her maid await you in the great hall. I trust you to show her all she will need to know in her new position." His eyes said, *And no more than that.* As they walked through the halls Draculea told Nicolae, "You will have full charge here, Nicolae, and there will be much for you to do. It has been sadly neglected since my father died, I fear. You will make it live again. You said you wished to learn book binding?" The boy nodded eagerly. "Good. I can have tutors brought in to teach you. Any supplies that you need, you have only to tell Simion or myself and they will be provided. I have already ordered ink, quills, and parchment, but there should be some in the library for you to start. Here we are." Draculea opened the heavy door and urged the boy in before him. Nicolae stopped dead just inside the door, gazing around in near stupefied wonder. Draculea watched indulgently as the boys eyes roamed the great banks of shelves. His expression was the closest to greed, he thought, that it probably ever approached. Nicolae wandered to one case and reached out, touching the dusty volumes with hesitant reverence. He

said softly, "I... I think I should inventory it first, so that my lord will know exactly what he has, and be best able to determine what else he wishes to acquire." "Do as you wish, Nicolae. I already have everything I want, but if you think I should have anything in particular, then I will have it." He took the boys hand and turned it, kissing his palm. "This is your domain, Nicolae. I know you will take good care of it. Now I must go. I will be back this afternoon or this evening, and you must stop then, else I shall become jealous of your work. You will have your days to spend here as you wish, but your nights belong to me." Before Draculea could release his hand, Nicolae drew it to his own lips. "My nights, my days, my life, dearest Vlad. All yours." Draculea left quickly, feeling a suspicious sting in his eyes. He had never been one to believe in tears of joy, but Nicolae could almost persuade him that they existed. TBC Back to index

Chapter 24: Part 24: Rough Justice

Authors Notes: Disclaimer: Major characters and concepts (besides Nicolae) belong to Bram Stoker. Summary: Ernestu pays the ultimate price for his villany. Authors Notes: Yes, I know you would have prefered something that took Vlad several days to mete out, but this will have to do. Nicu is waiting for him back at the castle. Indulgence: at one point in time, the rich could make a donation to the Roman Catholic Church, and they would be officially forgiven of their sins. Nippon is used to refer to Japan, and Cathay to China. Rating: NC-17 for series overall The Year of Our Lord, 1460 The Day After The Wedding Castle Draculea, Romania Vlad went to his room and changed into his hunting clothes: leather breeches, a simple, dark shirt with the sleeves fastened up to leave his hands free, and sturdy boots. Then he opened a small chest that sat against one wall and studied the contents. It was a deadly array. There were several daggers of varying length and shape, a small mace with a lethally studded head, and other, less easily recognizable instuments of pain and destruction. After considering them for a moment he chose a large, heavy, single edged knife and hung it in its sheath on his belt. Another moments thought, and he locked the chest. Nicolae might return to the room. Despite the fact that he was not inclined to pry into the affairs of other, the boys natural curiosity about his new home might get the better of him, and Vlad knew that this evidence of his lovers cruel side would distress him. When he went down to the stable, two of his men were waiting to accompany him, standing beside their mounts with their bows and quivers slung on their backs. A stable lad held Lucifers reins, shifting occasionally to avoid the restive stallions hooves. Lucifer was as much a veteran as Draculea, and he could sense when there was to be bloodshed. Draculea took the reins and mounted, waiting for his men to follow suit before guiding his mount through the gates. Once outside the castle confines, he turned away from the road, and they entered the forest that surrounded the castle. They moved into the woods at a leisurely pace, weaving through the thickening trees. Out of sight of the castle, they came to a small clearing. There another four men waited. Three of them were Draculeas men at arms, and they bore bows and quivers slung across their backs. The fourth

was a different story. He was once a large, sturdy man, but he seemed wasted. Long months in Draculeas dungeons had leeched his skin of color and a scanty diet had made the once solid flesh fall away, leaving him almost gaunt. He was filthy, his hair and ragged clothes crawling with vermin. In truth, his state of cleanliness was not much different than it would have been had he been free the last few months. The man was lashed securely to his mount, unable to grasp the reins to keep his seat. His hands were bound behind him, and a none-too-clean rag was stuffed in his mouth and tied in place. The eyes above it showed surprisingly little fear. He had come to terms long ago with his fate. Draculea addressed the men. "I hunt today, but for very special prey. It is a beast that walks on two legs, mocking God and man. You all know that when I brought back my new bride I brought others of Vargas household." They nodded. "Among this number was one who is very dear to me." He did not need to speak Nicolaes name. His household was well aware of their masters enamorment with the young librarian. Simion had been careful to inform everyone so that there would be no clumsy mistakes that would provoke the prince by frightening or upsetting his lover. "This vile creature, Varga, has been the author of much pain and sorrow for someone I care for deeply. I would not count myself a man if I allowed him to continue to walk the earth. You may wonder why I chose to enact this justice in such a secretive manner. I am a prince: I may boldly chastise or even execute those I feel deserving. In this case I choose discretion. You see, my love is tender hearted. No matter how this beast has abused him, still he will grieve his death, and I must not be seen as the one who brings it about." There were murmurs of agreement. "Thus I allowed the scum to breathe for a few more days, and set his feet on the road to his home. He travels, I hunt the woods about my castle. Who will question me?" The men were silent. It would take a bold, or stupid, man indeed to suggest any direct connection between Prince Draculea and any mishap that occurred in his lands. "I spoke with Vargas men before they left. Unsurprisingly, they bear him no love. We will follow their band. Before our approach becomes evident, we will leave the road and draw nigh them under cover of the forest on either side. At my signal you," he smiled, "my bandits, will attack. Now this is very important: you may wound one or two of the men, but only lightly. There must be nothing life threatening, no serious hurt. Afterwards if anyone questions them they can show the mark to prove the truth of the attack. But on no account will you kill any of them. I have given my word. Fail in this, and your own life is forfeit." He spoke matter-of-factly, as if this hardly needed to be mentioned, and it scarcely did. His men were aware of the penalties for disobeying a direct order. "The men will flee, leaving Varga. I will," Draculeas lips drew back from his teeth in a humorless smile that made more than one of the men shudder, "deal with him myself. This," he gestured at the prisoner, "will be left to prove the bandit attack." The prisoner closed his eyes, but briefly. Knowing Draculeas history of dealing with his enemies this could be counted a merciful death. Better an arrow or a knife blow than twisting for hours, spitted on a wooden stake. They started after the small group. There was no banter among the men: this was serious work, and none of them felt inclined to frivolity. If they had been, one look at their grim faced leader would have silenced them. It was near two hours before they sighted the group, barely visible in the distance. At a gesture from the prince the group split, entering the forest on either side of the road. They moved slowly enough so that they would not be readily noticed from the road, and it took them almost another hour to draw abreast of the group. For a few moments they rode parallel to the men on the road. Draculea watched Varga, eyes narrowed. At last he motioned to one of his men. The soldier drew his bow, notched an arrow, and sent it hissing over the road.

The soldiers broke from the forest with bloodcurdling screams. It was over quickly. Vargas men milled in terror that was probably not entirely feigned. They knew how easy it would be for the prince simply to dispose of them, eliminating any chance that his plan might come to light. But the princes men had their orders, and obeyed as meticulously as ever. One of Vargas guards took an arrow in the thigh, another had a slash across his chest, so shallow that it would scarcely leave him a scar to show the tavern wenches he wanted to impress. In moments they were fleeing, disappearing through the forest. Ernestu had attempted to flee also, but he was cut off. Every direction he turned was blocked by a hard faced man with drawn bow, surely bandits. He called out, "Hold your fire! You want me alive, bandits. I can bring you a rich ransom if I am delivered to my home unharmed." As he spoke another horse came from the cover of the trees. Varga was so agitated that it had almost reached him before he recognized the rider. "My prince! Flee, for your life!" Draculea continued to approach, silent and unhurried. One look at his expression, and Varga knew. He tried to bolt. In his desperation, he managed to swerve around the men who would have blocked his way. They might have stopped him, but Draculea roared, "Dont touch him! Hes mine!" The chase was brief. His horse was no match for Lucifer, and the great stallion drew level with him quickly. Draculea was so close that he was able to reach out and catch the noble by the scruff of his neck. With one hard jerk he unseated the man, letting him tumble to the dusty road. The horse, happy to be free of a disagreeably heavy and demanding rider, cantered away, tail high. Draculea turned, circling back to where Varga was struggling to his feet. When Varga stood, he found himself surrounded again by the soldiers. If he moved in any direction he risked the stamping feet of their horses. He dodged from one side to the other, only to be driven back into the center, but none of the men touched him. Draculea entered the circle, then slid down from Lucifer, tossing the reins to one of the men. He paused and took his time pulling on a pair of gloves. Varga was trembling. As Draculea came toward him, he dropped to his knees. "My prince, mercy! Please!" It was so quiet that the gathered men heard the creak of leather as Draculeas hand curled into a fist at his side. Vlad had slapped Varga in the private room before the wedding, but his purpose then had been mainly to humiliate. Now he was bent on punishment. The backhanded blow knocked the older man sprawling. When he beat someone, Varga had always administered more blows when the victim attempted to rise after having been put down, so he did not try to get up, but he quickly learned that this tactic would not spare him when Draculea drove his boot into his side. "Get up, dog!" When Varga did not obey immediately there was another kick. "Up, I said! I could easily kill you like this, but I have other plans." Frantically hoping that he might yet escape death, Varga struggled to his feet and faced the prince. A purple blotch was already rising on his cheek, and he thought that perhaps a rib had been cracked by that last blow, but he could easily survive those injuries. Indeed, he would be grateful if those were all he had to deal with. "Please, Domn, whatever I have done to displease you, I truly repent." "And even now you would profess ignorance?" Another blow to Ernestus face, not quite as strong as the other, made him stagger back. He was nudged forward again by the large body of one of the horses. "What makes you think I crave your repentance, Varga? That is the province of the church: Im sure they would be happy to sell you an indulgence for whatever sins you have committed. I am not so easily satisfied. I am like the Lord rather than his earthly servants: I demand blood in atonement." He threw another blow, driving his fist deep into Vargas soft belly. When Ernestu bent double, Draculea lifted his knee, smashing it into his face. Even through the thin leather of his breeches he felt the cartilage crunch. When Varga stumbled back he left a bright smear of blood behind. Varga clutched at his ruined nose, and stared in horror at the blood that slicked his hand. The blood of others did not trouble him, but his own was a different matter. As he stood, stunned, Draculea wrapped his

hand in Ernestus shirt, holding him fast, and struck him again. The beating had begun in earnest. And it WAS a beating: it never approached the level of a fight. Ernestu, while a bully, had never been a warrior or even a brawler. He preferred to deal with those who were weaker than he, or those of a lower class who did not dare raise a hand in return, lest they face execution. He was not used to facing a man of equal, much less, superior strength, and he had never faced one who was determined to kill him. Again and again Draculeas hard fists smashed his face and gut. Vlad took his time, choosing his targets so that the maximum pain would be inflicted without risking fatal injury or unconsciousness. He wanted Varga aware through every last moment of his suffering in this mortal realm. Finally the only thing holding the older man upright was Draculeas grip, and he let him go. Ernestu slumped to the ground, whimpering in a manner that Draculea might have found pathetic, had he not known the man. He kicked Varga over onto his back, and broke another rib for good measure. Draculea stood looking down at the battered man for a moment. The princes breath had scarcely increased from the exertions. He regarded his victim almost dispassionately. *If I left him as he is now, perhaps having him dragged off into the brush, he would most likely die. It is doubtful that any who chanced to pass this way would find him, and if they did it is by no means sure that they would tend him. There are those who would claim that I was not truly guilty of his death, that I was leaving it in the hands of God to decide.* He spat on the ground. *But I am not one of those. Before heavens throne of judgement I will proudly claim this deed. And since I will take the responsibility, I will do it in the manner that will best please me.* Draculea sank to his knees beside the man on the ground, moving to straddle and pin his legs, the position almost a parody of one he had enacted with Nicolae during a tender interlude. But there was no gentleness in Draculea at this moment, and this passion was far different than that which he had shared with his young lover. There was shifting and murmuring among the watching men as Draculea drew his great hunting knife. Now it would be over quickly. The weapon was fearsome: honed to a razor sharpness that could split tough hide with the lightest flick. Draculea held the knife, blade down, in his fist. But instead of raising it high and plunging it into Vargas heart or slashing it across his throat as they had anticipated, he hesitated, the blade hovering. Then his hand darted forward. Ernestu screamed as the point was buried two inches in the meaty part of his right shoulder. Draculea held it there as Ernestus cry faded. Then he twisted the blade. A few of the horses, those who had not seen battle, shied at the piercing scream, and their riders had to fight them back under control. Lucifer gave them a jaundiced look, as if contemptuous of those who would be upset by a little thing like a man being stabbed. He watched calmly as his master withdrew the knife, its tip dripping gore, and plunged it into the other shoulder, giving him a matching wound. The scream was just as loud this time when he turned the blade. As he went on, though, the cries grew fainter. Arms, chest, belly, upper thighs... Draculea spared only the areas where he could not be absolutely sure that a shallow stab would not prove fatal. He used the gleaming blade to rip the tunic open and changed from stabs to slashes. There was less chance of killing him outright that way. He remembered the state of Nicolaes back, his legs and buttocks, and worked determinedly. As he drew the edge of the knife across Ernestus chest, he said, "Have you ever heard of the Death of a Thousand Cuts, Varga? It originated in Nippon, or perhaps Cathay. The orientals are wonders when it comes to cruelty, they quite put our humble efforts to shame. This method of execution can take days if it is administered by a skilled torturer, a true artisan." Draculea made the first cut on the mewling mans throat, being careful to avoid any vital veins or arteries. "The prisoner is slowly whittled away. They remove a fingertip here, an eyelid there, then perhaps an

earlobe or a bit of heel. Always the less vital parts of the body. Blood is staunched where necessary lest the poor bastard die from loss. The torturer who allows that merciful death may find himself on the other end of the blade." The knife flicked, and the tip of Ernestus nose was removed. He had breath only for a whimper. His hands clawed upward in a futile effort to defend himself. Draculea caught one wrist almost casually and drove the knife through his palm, continuing to speak. "That is the sort of end you deserve, but it simply isnt possible. You cant just disappear, and your death must appear to be thw work of bandits, though particularly vicious ones." He nodded to one of his men, and an arrow found its mark in the heart of the bandit prisoner. The man was dead before his body fell sideways to dangle in its bonds. One of the men removed the gag and bindings, then cut him loose. He tumbled into the road and lay, prepared to be a silent witness to an attack that never happened. "No Varga, I cant do as Id truly like. If I could, Id slice bits off you and feed them to my hounds, except that I would fear poisoning the beasts with your putrid flesh." The blade flashed again, and he flipped a severed nipple into the dust. Vargas eyes rolled upward, showing the whites, and he stopped shuddering. Draculea swore, and pressed his ear to the bloody chest. He came up with his face and hair gory. "Hes only fainted. Damn it, he wont get away that easily. Water!" One of the men brought Draculea a skin of water. The prince took a deep drink. Then he tipped it to his lips once again and spat a mouthful in Vargas face. The man trembled and moaned. Draculea poured more water, casting aside the empty skin, and slapped him briskly. "Waken, pig! Im not through with you yet." Some of the men looked away as Draculea went to work on Vargas face. They were used to the heat and clash of battle. This cruelty, cold and intense, was frightening to them. It served a purpose that Draculea had not considered: it insured that each man who witnessed it would do his utmost to please the prince. None of them wanted to risk arousing wrath in a man who was capable of what they were seeing. By the time Draculea began to feel that perhaps a little of Nicolaes suffering had been paid back, his gloves were soaked with gore, and it was streaked past his wrists. Splatters and splashes stained his dark shirt. The blood on his face and in his hair from where he had listened for Vargas heartbeat was beginning to congeal, becoming sticky. At last he reached back and wiped the blade carefully on Vargas breeches and resheathed it. He pushed at Vargas chin, noting the white gleam of bone throught the ragged flesh. "Can you hear me, vermin?" He was answered by a moan. "Good. You know, you still might live. If I were to leave you now, and someone came along very soon to treat you, you might. Of course, you would live as a horror that would make children scream, women faint, and strong men clutch their bellies in sickness. You wouldnt want that, would you, Varga? You prize beauty, dont you? You would not like if it was driven from you by your own hideous appearance." "No, I wont let you live. I could bring you a quick end now with the blade, but I wont do that, either. Your continued existence on this earth would be a betrayal of my love for Nicolae." He began to tug off the gloves. The blood had seeped through even the leather, and his hands were stained red. He tucked the gloves in his belt, saying, "I prefer this method. It is more personal." He closed his big hands around Ernestus throat and began to apply slow, steady pressure. "And do you know the ironic thing, Varga? Do you know what will happen when Nicolae learns of your death?" His grip tightened. "He will pray for you. He will light candles for your soul, and urge Mircea to say masses to shorten your stay in Purgatory. All in vain, Ernestu, all in vain. You are not bound for Purgatory. No, that is for souls who can be redeemed. You will fly straight to your rightful place in Hell." There was still enough will to live left in Varga to let him lift his hands to scrabble weakly at Draculeas arms, then his face. He even managed to gouge a shallow scratch on the princes cheek. Draculea did not flinch or pause in strangling the man. "I hope it scars. That way each time I look in a mirror I can

remember this day. Do you wonder, Varga, why I left your eyes untouched? I want my face to be your last sight on this Earth. I want you to carry it with you into an eternity of suffering." Ernestu tried to gasp, but could not draw even a sip of air. On his face, what little skin that was left unmarked flushed red beneath its skim of blood, then began to turn purple. His eyes bulged, and his tongue protruded. If not for his wounds, he would have resembled a fat, petulant child, making a rude gesture in his anger. His hands fell to pluck weakly at Draculeas fingers, sunk deep in the puffy flesh of his throat. "Why do you struggle? Dont you know that you are dead, Varga? You died the moment you laid rough hands on my Nicolae, the moment you turned your rutting thoughts toward him. The innocent told Simion that God protected him from your lust by causing you to spill your seed at a timely moment, before you could slake your foul desires. I will protect him in a more direct manner." He leaned forward, throwing his weight behind his grip. "You shouldnt have hurt him!" There was a crackling sound, and something collapsed in Ernestus throat. Even the faint wheeze he had been making stilled, and his body was racked by a fierce shudder. There was a sudden, foul stench as his bowels and bladder loosened and he soiled himself like a month old babe. His eyes rolled up once again, showing the whites. Still Draculea did not release his hold. He tightened it even more, nails gouging out flecks of skin, causing wounds that no longer bled because the heart had ceased to pump. He held on for another full minute. Finally, reluctantly, he eased his grip and put his ear once again to Vargas mutilated chest. The men were silent. Even the horses were still. Draculea listened with an intent look on his face, as if he were hearing the secrets of the unvierse whispered in his ear. Finally he pulled himself upright, and spat in the corpses face. "Done, Nicu," he whispered. "For you, but you will never know, my angel. You will never know, because it would break your gentle heart to learn I could do this, even for love. Especially for love." Once again Draculea drew his knife. He spread Ernestus limp, cooling hand flat on the ground and chopped off two of the fingers. When he picked them up, the men saw that there were rich golden rings sunk deep in the swollen flesh. Varga had probably been unable to remove them for years, and no self-respecting bandit would have left them. A quick search of Ernestus body revealed a small bag of coins. These were shared out amongst the men, the bag left in the road beside the body. The rings, still on the bloodless digits, were flung deep into the trees. A fox or weasel would find them soon enough. Perhaps a magpie would steal the rings to decorate her nest. In any case, they might be recognized, and so were to be left behind. Draculea mounted his stallion, and walked Lucifer over to Vargas body. Many horses were spooked by death: Lucifer hardly noticed. Draculea leaned down from his saddle. His men exchanged quick glances as he spoke to the corpse. Perhaps their master was mad? What they had just witnessed seemed to give creedence to that thought. But then, if he WAS mad, who would then be mad enough to point it out? "I have been called the Son of the Devil, Varga. If that is true, I charge my infernal sire to prepare a special pit for you and there let you spend eternity as the plaything of his foulest, most vicious demons. May what you experienced today seem like a brief moment of joyous serenity." He suddenly hauled back on his reins, setting his heels in Lucifers sides. The great beast reared and stamped in protest, his hooves crashing down on the body. If Varga had any spark of life left, it was snuffed out then. Draculea fought Lucifer into submission once again and started back to his castle, sparing no further thought to the lump of torn and crushed flesh in the roadway. They rode at a leisurely pace, and the light was deepening into the gold of evening when they returned to the castle. Nothing was said as Draculea dismounted and strode into the castle. The men who had accompanied him would not speak of this day, not even amongst themselves, not after what they had seen befall a man who angered Draculea.

Vlad went directly to his room. Simion was waiting for him there. When he saw Draculeas dusty, bloody appearance he said quietly, "So. It is done." "It is done." "Good." Simion did not ask if Ernestu had suffered. He could not look at his lord and doubt it. Draculea sat and held out his foot. Simion knelt quickly to pull off his boot as Draculea said, "How is Nicu?" "As happy as a spring lamb in a meadow of clover. He is probably more dusty than you, Domn, with shifting the library contents." Draculea smiled as Simion pulled off the other boot. "I want to see him, but not just yet. He has not seen me like this and I do not want to frighten or distress him." Draculea got up and went once again to the small chest against the wall. He unlocked it and laid the knife inside. Then he pulled the gloves from his belt and dropped them in on top of the weapons. When his servant raised his eyebrows, he shrugged. "A reminder, Simion. A memento. They served me well." He examined his red stained hands. "I did not bruise. That might have been hard to explain to the boy." He closed the chest and locked it once again. "I must wash before I see Nicu." Simion had one of the castles tubs brought to the princes room. There was already water heating in the kitchen, as he had guessed that his lord would wish to refresh himself after his exertions. Simion supervised the pouring of steaming buckets of water while Draculea relaxed with a glass of wine. When the tub was filled and the other servants gone Draculea drained the last of the wine and stood, going to dip a testing finger in the water. "Good. This heat will be welcome. I ache, Simion. I fear I am getting old." "Nicolae will keep you young, my lord," his friend assured him. As if in answer, the door burst open and Nicolae swept in. The moment he laid eyes on Draculea he began to chatter brightly about his day. But he broke off abruptly, his eyes growing wide with horror. "Vlad!" he cried, rushing to the prince. He touched the blood crusted scratch on the princes cheek, then began to frantically tug at Draculeas clothing. "Where? Where is it?!" Surprised, Draculea took hold of his arms, trying to calm him. "Where is WHAT, Nicu?" But Simion understood. He put a hand on Nicolaes shoulder and said firmly, "BOY! Its all right, the blood is not his. There is no wound." Nicolae looked at him, some of the panic seeping out. "No wound? Truly?" "Truly," Draculae assured him. He kissed the boys forehead. "I am safe, Nicu. As are you." Nicolae ignored the last words. His fingers plucked at the gore-damp shirt, them moved to touch his ruddy hands and his smeared face. "But the blood..." "Not mine." "No?" He wilted against Draculea. "Theres so much of it. I was afraid." "I know, pet. Thats why I didnt want you to see me like this. I planned to bathe, then come to you in the library." "And I just broke in." His voice was sheepish. "I am sorry, Domn. Its just that I wanted to share what I am doing." "Of course you did, and I wish to hear it. But first I must cleanse myself. And these are your rooms as well, Nicolae. You need not apologize for entering your own home." He had released Nicolaes arms, and now the boy embraced him. "Home is a beautiful word, isnt it, Domn?" Draculea gave him a squeeze, then let go. "Back to your library, Nicu, for another hour or so. I know that you are loath to leave it" "I will admit, Domn, that I leave it happily only for you or to perform my devotions, and..." he looked abashed, "I am afraid that I am not quite as enthusiastic for my devotions." Draculea laughed, and NIcolae

touched one large stain on the princes shirt, and frowned. "Was your hunt fruitful, Maria Ta?" "In a way, but I brought home no meat. The beast I killed was most likely diseased." Now Nicolae looked alarmed again. "Sickness? Simion!" He looked to the older man in appeal. "You will watch him, wont you? You are clever with medicines. He must not sicken, or take blood poisoning from the creature." "Never fear," Simion assured him. "I believe that the sickness this particular beast carried could not be spread." "What was this animal?" Draculea looked down into Nicolaes eyes: so soft and warm with love and concern. He found himself saying, "It was an old, dangerous creature, Nicolae. One that had lived far past its appointed time and done much damage. It was grizzled, and vicious." "But what was it?" He smiled gently, strokeing the boys hair. "It was a wild boar, Nicolae. It was a pig." TBC Back to index

Chapter 25: Part 25

Disclaimer: All previously established characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker Summary: Nicolae settles into his new life, Lena begins to see she may not hold as much influence as she anticipated, and Draculea makes a promise to Nicolae. Child of the Night, Part 25 Nicolae went down to the library to wait for his lover to finish with his bath. He surveyed the mess that he had made of the room that day, shaking his head. It always seemed that you had to create greater disorder to finally achieve order. Several of the shelves were empty, their contents piled on the large tables scattered through the room, and the great desk in the corner was adrift in loose documents. All would need to be sorted, cleaned, catalogued, and replaced in a logical arrangement. He let his eyes travel over the dozens and dozens of packed shelves. He had barely begun on one tiny section, and to do this properly would take months, if not years. Instead of being daunted by the thought, he was elated. He finally had something that would make him feel useful, as if he were truly using the talents with which he had been gifted. There was not much he could do in a few minutes about the piles of books and papers, he decided, but he wanted to make the room a little tidier for his lovers first visit to his new domain. The maids in the kitchen were a little surprised when the princes new favorite showed up asking for hot water and cloths. They were even more surprised when he turned down their offer to have a servant tend to whatever it was he wanted cleaned. "No, no," he had said cheerfully, hoisting the bucket of steaming water, the rough cloths slung over his arm. "You have quite enough to do. This is my business." The staff had exchanged bewildered looks. None could remember the last time any of the people they served had indicated that they thought the servants were amply supplied with tasks. Most seemed to believe the staff sat idle, and thus should be assigned more tasks each day. Nicolae had begun unconsciously to endear himself to Draculeas household. In the library Nicolae carefully scrubbed the emptied shelves, then wiped them dry. Finally he sat at one of the tables and began to wipe clean each volume, inspecting them for any sign of wear that should be

repaired and setting them aside if it was needed. He did not hear the soft footsteps that came up behind him, and was startled when a hand touched his arm. "Brother." Beta said, laughing. "Oh, Nicu! Your dress may be richer, but you havel not changed very much, have you? Still so absorbed in your work." Nicolae stood up quickly, a glad smile lighting his face. He started to take his sister in his arms, but paused, hands falling to his side. "What is it, Nicu? No embrace? No welcoming kiss? You love me still, do you not?" "Beta!" he chided. "You know that the sun will cease to rise before my love for you fails. But before your vows I was bold enough in my familiarities, considering the breadth of the gap between our stations. But now? Now you are a princess." "And I am still your sister." She put her arms around the tall young man, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. "There. I hardly think Draculea will scold me for that. And if he does--feh!" Nicolae laughed, but said, "You must not say such things, Beta. He is your lord husband, and you must obey him and seek to please him as best you may." He gently unwound his sisters arms, continuing, "I, too. He is my master now. All my obedience and respect is due to him, and I must do naught that would displease him." "It would be very difficult for you to displease me, Nicolae." They both turned as Draculea entered the library, coming to the table where they stood. He gave a short, formal bow to his wife, who answered it with an equally correct curtsey. "Elizabeta. Simion showed you all?" The question was for politeness sake: Draculea knew that Simion had shown Beta everything... that she was MEANT to see. "Yes. Your castle is very grand, lord husband. There are parts of it that are..." she hesitated, pretending to seek words to express herself in a tactful manner, "less cheerful than they might be." Draculea shrugged. "My mother died more than two decades ago, and the place has not known the presence of a lady during all that time. It has become a bit grim. You may, of course, do what you feel fit to make it more to your taste, lady. Within reason." Beta smiled, but inwardly she winced at those last two words. She had a feeling that Draculea and Simions idea of reason would be a great deal different from Lenas and her own. Still, there was no need to worry so soon. Thus far things had gone well enough. The wedding night had been distasteful, but not as bad as it might have been. At least he had not been difficult to get rid of. Once he was gone Lena had come to her. Lena had cleaned Beta, held her while she complained and wept a little, then made her forget him with judicious use of her talented tongue. "That reminds me, Nicolae. Have you found that you need anything for the library?" Beta smiled at the glow on Nicolaes face. He was so dedicated to his work, it was really quite sweet. It was too bad that he had not been of higher birth and able to indulge his interests, or that he had not turned his devotions to other more profitable pursuits. He was so charming that he might have made a life as a courtier, if only he hadnt been born a bastard. He is handsome enough to be the favorite of some great queen,*she thought. Watching his animation as he described the materials he was discovering in his work, she added wryly, *or perhaps a king. But no, he gave himself to the church, and the church would not have him. Poor Nicolae. Well, he will always have a home with me. I will insist.* Beta was not an observant woman. She had since childhood been so wrapped in her own concerns that she noticed very little of what went on around her if it did not directly impact her own comfort. She had known that her father disliked Nicolae and was occasionally harsh with him, but had no idea of the depths his abuse had reached. And now, seeing the gentle interest Draculea turned on her half-brother, all she thought was that he was being charitable, for her sake. Nicolae was saying, "Some of the shelves are cracked, Domn, and others have been attacked by woodworm. They should be replaced before they can break, or before the creatures can transfer their attention to the volumes. Some of the things eat paper and glue, and..." "Yes, Nicolae, the shelves will be replaced. I will send men to take the measurements soon. Also I will

have samples of wood brought, so that you may choose the most pleasing material." "You are too generous, Domn. There is no need to replace all. I can just find the ones that are damaged." "Nonsense. After all, Nicolae, it isnt as if this is a simple whimsy youve dreamed up. This library will be a legacy to my descendants." Beta watched as Nicolae showed Draculea the list he had begun of the librarys contents, one long finger running down the items as he explained each one. She marveled at her husbands patience. He even managed to seem to enjoy Nicolaes prattling. Well, Beta had made her duty appearance, and now she wanted to get back to Lena. She said, "My husband..." Draculea looked back to her and, for a moment, it was almost as if he had forgotten she was there. "Yes, Beta?" "I hope you will excuse me from joining you for the evening meal. I am a bit tired with the castle tour this morning, and would like to sup in my room." "Yes, yes, of course. As you wish. Simply direct the servants to bring you what you require. Sleep well." He turned back to Nicolae. "And this is a rare volume, you say?" Beta hesitated a moment, scarcely believing that it had been that simple to gain her freedom for the night. Though Draculea had said that he would allow her time to recover, she had half expected him to demand his nuptial rights again immediately. Draculea did not speak to her again, but Nicolae gave her a soft smile. "Rest well, dear sister. Do not neglect your prayers. We must both offer thanks for our new lives." "Yes, Nicolae. Good night." As she went to find a servant and order a meal for herself and Lena, she wondered when the last time had been that she had prayed. Oh, yes. Just before Draculea had arrived at Castle Varga. She had prayed that he would find her pleasing, and would make her his princess. Well, that had come to pass. Perhaps she should pray more often. When Beta left the room Draculea pulled the chattering Nicolae into his arms and stilled his lips with a kiss. The boy immediately clung to him, opening his mouth to receive the gentle invasion of his lovers tongue. His hands crept up to card through Draculeas dark hair, then cradle the back of his head as the kiss deepened. At last Nicolae pulled back a little, laughing breathlessly. "My lord! You act as if we had been parted for weeks." "And so it seemed, Nicu." He kissed him again, nipping lightly at the soft lips, making Nicolae moan and sigh. "Any parting is far too long." Nicolae rested his head on Draculeas shoulder, his hand stroking his lovers throat. "I would have gone with you. I am not a hunter, but I could have ridden beside you." "No, love. It was far too dangerous. The beast I hunted was vicious, and it might have turned on you. What would I have done had you been injured, NIcu? Besides..." He tilted Nicolaes face up so he could meet his gaze, running his thumb over one high cheekbone. "It would have grieved you to see even such an evil natured creature killed." "That is true, Domn. Though I can see the necessity at times, it does not stop the regret. Every creature that walks the earth belongs to God, and some of them he made violent." "Yes, Nicu. But some of them give themselves over to the Dark One willingly." He jounced the young man in his arms. "Enough of that! Come back to the room. Simion will have food there for us, and I am hungry." He kissed Nicolae again, drawing the boys tongue into his mouth and suckling it for a moment before releasing him. "Hungry for many things, Nicu." He took the now blushing librarian by the hand and led him away. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In her room Lena asked Beta, "So? He has agreed to let you do as you wish with the castle?"

"Yes, Lena. There was no trouble at all." Beta picked daintily at the platters of food that had been brought by the servants. "He gave you free reign? Anything?" "Yes, he said anything within reason." Lena groaned, shaking her head. "Beta!" "What is it?" "Those two words, Beta--within reason. Those two words may be used to block us." "Lena, he has set no limits." "Not to your face. It will be easier for him to simply deny you when you ask." "But surely it is only fitting that he set some boundaries?" "Not if he loves you!" Beta regarded her, puzzled. "He DOESNT love me. You know that." "He should. He COULD. You could MAKE him love you, Beta." "But Lena," she regarded her lover with dismay. "If he loves me, then I will never have peace. He will want to be with me all the time. He will come to my bed often. I shudder at the thought." Lena sighed. "I know, but sometimes sacrifices must be made. Perhaps all it will take is giving him a son. Men are absurdly grateful for such things." She thought. "It is a bit late tonight. You will make sure that he comes to you tomorrow." "Ugh! Must I, Lena?" She pouted. "I still ache. He is so rough." Lena regarded her with bitter tinged amusement. *La, child, how selective your memory is. Im sure Ive done worse to you, and will again in the future. But since Ive instructed you in what beasts men are, you cannot help but view them as such, can you? Such a willing pupil.* "You must, pet. Afterwards I will send for a bath to soothe your pains. Ill give you a massage. You like that." Beta smiled. Yes, she liked that. It always led to sex, and she would want something to wipe the memory of Draculeas touch from her. "All right, Lena. It shouldnt be too difficult. After all, the serving wenches here are uncommonly ugly. There will be little to distract him." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Draculea had pulled a chair away from the table and now sat in front of the fire. Nicolae sat before him, leaning back against his knees, staring into the flames. They were quiet. Nicolae finally seemed to be talked out. Draculea played with Nicolaes hair, combing his fingers through the dark silk, gently following the outline of his skull. Occasionally the boy would sigh, tipping his head back just a little farther. He thought Nicolae had gone to sleep, and was considering carrying him to bed, when he spoke. "Vlad?" Again Draculea felt the small, secret squeeze to his heart as Nicolae called him by his Christian name. "Yes, Nicu?" "You said that this is my room also. What of the one I was given when I arrived?" Draculea considered how to best explain the situation. "For shows sake, Nicolae. If anyone not of the household inquires after where you lodge, they will be told that you stay there." "Must we lie?" He sounded very young, and very sad. "Nicolae, sweet," Draculea bent over him, and the boy turned his head to gaze up at him. "Im sorry. I know it hurts you, but yes, we must. Certain things must be done for show. Even the greatest king does not officially lodge his paramour in his own chambers. It is a matter of respect for Beta. To the world you will have your own little room." He caressed Nicolaes face, then his throat. "But you will stay here, with me. It will not be too hard for you?" Nicolae got on his knees, turning to face Draculea and put his arms around his neck. "I can endure. I can endure much, as long as you love me." Draculea stroked his back. "Never doubt that, Nicu. Heaven may fall and Hell may rise, but I will always

love you." "You must not make such vows." Nicolaes voice was soft, but concerned. "Please, Vlad. You tempt fate." "The only thing I want to tempt is you, sweet love." He moved his hand into the open front of Nicolaes shirt, his fingers finding one small, soft nipple and squeezing. Nicolae gasped, arching toward his touch, and Draculea smiled as he felt the bit of flesh swell and stiffen. "Do I?" His hand moved to the other side, bringing the other bud to attention. "Do I tempt you, Nicu?" "Most sorely, master." "Would you please me, Nicu?" "With all my heart." Draculea released Nicolae and spread his legs, beginning to unlace his breeches with one hand. With the other he reached out and touched Nicolaes mouth, running a fingertip lightly over his lips. Nicolae opened his mouth, and the finger slipped inside, stroking his tongue. Nicolae licked it, gave it a brief suck, them pulled back. His head down, he peered up at his lover through a fringe of dark hair and said shyly, "With my mouth, Domn?" "Please, Nicu. If you will." "I will try, but you know my ignorance. You must guide me." Draculea had opened his garments. As Nicolae stroked the strong muscles of his thighs, he reached into the gap and lifted out his prick. The boy gave a shuddering sigh that started Draculeas blood pounding. Nicolae moved forward into the open vee of his lovers legs, and nuzzled his face against the still soft mound of Draculeas sex. The older man felt the smooth slide of high cheekbones and the faint rasp of stubble that was still too new to be harsh. Then Nicolae turned his head and dropped a kiss at the base of the shaft, just at the point where it joined his pelvis. Cradling the member in his palm, he began to kiss his way down its increasing length till he came to the tip. There he stopped and, with the very tip of his tongue, teased the first clear drop of pre-ejaculate from the sensitive slit. He lingered there for a long moment, lapping softly. Lifting the stiffening prick, he began to work his way down its underside. Now he brought his lips into play as well as his tongue, licking, then mouthing. By the time he had reached the root, Draculea was achingly hard, and pre-seminal fluid flowed copiously. He gripped the chairs arms as Nicolae paused at the base and worked on the small spot between his staff and balls. As he licked, Nicolae dipped into Draculeas pants, pulling aside the cloth, and eased his testicles out, rolling and squeezing gently. Draculeas breathing had deepened, and it came more quickly. "Ah, Nicu, if this is ignorance, then may you be preserved from wisdom." Draculeas hips gave tiny jerks as the boy placed soft, sucking kisses on first one testicle, then the other. "I do well, master?" His breath was warm against the moist skin. Draculeas laugh was a little rough. "The flesh doesnt lie, boy. You can see what you do to me. But as sweet as this is, it is still torture. Take me in your mouth, Nicolae." Nicolae pulled back a little, and ran his fingers over Draculeas shaft, biting his lip thoughtfully. "There is so much of you, my lord. I wonder that I was able to hold it all. I do not think I will be able to swallow such a great staff." "Take what you can, Nicu. It will be enough. Wrap your hands below your mouth." The young man gripped Draculeas staff gently, but firmly, bent, and fitted his mouth over the dark, engorged head. Vlad moaned, closing his eyes as the wet heat enfolded him. Nicolae sucked a little, then tentatively dropped lower, taking in another inch. He pulled back up, still sucking, then slowly lowered again, taking in another inch. He repeated the actions again and again, till gradually he managed to bury half of the straining staff in his mouth. Pulling free he said regretfully, "That is all I can manage, master. Im sorry." "Oh, God, boy! Do not apologize. That will do magnificently, but continue before I go mad." With a small smile, Nicolae obeyed. This time he immediately took as much of Draculea into his mouth as he could and

began sucking. Draculea tugged his hair gently, to get him to rise. Nicolae pulled off, looking up at him inquiringly, and Vlad fought down a chuckle. He mustnt laugh now, not when the boy was trying so hard to please him. "No, Nicolae. Up and down, and stroke the bottom." "Oh. Yes, of course," he murmured, returning to his task. Draculea put his hands in Nicolaes hair and urged him along with soft pushes and tugs till he had found a pleasing rhythm. Finally unable to remain still, Draculea gripped Nicolaes head firmly, whispering, "Be still a little, sweet boy. Let me..." Nicolae held onto Vlads thighs as his lover began to thrust, fucking his mouth with short, careful strokes. Vlad resisted the urge to ram deeper. Nicolae was willing, and he was talented. Vlad had no doubt that soon the boy would learn to take his entire staff down his throat, and would do so joyfully. When he climaxed, Vlad tried to pull free, not wanting to choke his lover. But the boy was not willing to relinquish his prize, and clung to him. His glans was barely captured between Nicolaes lips when his seed spurted. As he had anticipated, it startled the boy. He gave a muffled gasp, sperm spilling down his chin, eyes astonished. But then he gulped, trying to swallow the liquid gift. Laughing now, Draculea pulled him up onto his lap. He used the hem of his shirt to wipe Nicolaes face, saying, "You look like a kitten who has had his face pushed into a dish of milk." Nicolae hugged him, saying, "I will do better next time." "You will kill me with pleasure, Nicu. Now," He rubbed the boys crotch, finding him hard, "I must take care of you." "Please," he said simply, resting his cheek against Draculeas hair. "Yes, Nicu." The laces were opened, and he found the hot length of Nicolaes sex, and began to stroke. "I will always take care of you." "For as long as I live?" There was a haunting need in the boys tone. Vlad kissed him, stroking him firmly till the boy shuddered and cried out his release, spilling liquid heat over his hands. As Nicolae trembled in his arms, Vlad kissed him again, and his whispered words were a vow. "Beyond that, Nicolae. Forever." TBC Back to index

Chapter 26: Part 26: Thwarted

Disclaimer: Most main characters belong originally to Bram Stoker. Summary: Lena and Beta are finding that Draculea isnt as easily led as they had hoped. Child of the Night, Part 26: Thwarted The Year of Our Lord, 1460 The Next Day Castle Draculea, Romania "The gold gown, Lena?" "No, Beta." Beta pouted. "But it goes so well with my hair and eyes." "And it makes your skin sallow. What we want is a rich, jewel-like color. The burgundy, I think. Yes. This will compliment your hair and eyes also, and it will make your skin seem as white as the first snow of winter." Lena helped Beta into the chosen dress, then arranged her hair careful, knotting it just at the nape so that

the long curve of her neck would be accentuated. The long sleeves were tied at her wrists with white ribbons, and a swatch of matching lace was tucked in her bosom, discreetly masking her cleavage. She was the image of a well-bred, well-born, attractive young lady. Lena fluffed the lace carefully. "He is in the library with Nicolae, consulting with a craftsman about those damn shelves, I think. Go, and let him know that you would welcome him to your bed tonight." "But what will I say?" Beta whined. "Lena, give me one more day of peace before I have to give myself to that rutting beast again." "The sooner you are with child, the sooner you can turn away ALL his advances, Beta. As to what you should say, be subtle. The upper classes do not expect their women to enjoy the physical side of their unions, the fools. Act accepting, but not eager. He is sure to be looking eagerly for signs, so it shouldnt take much." Grumbling to herself, Elizabeta made her way to the library. She found Draculea and Nicolae standing together behind a squat, powerfully built man who sat at the librarys desk, sketching something on a sheet of parchment. The man was dressed in the neat, sober clothes of a guild craftsman, but his hands were rough from physical labor. Whatever his trade, he had learned it through experience. As she entered, he was saying, "You see, my prince? If these tables are moved away from the wall, and the vertical distance between the shelves is decreased only a little, you can increase the librarys capacity by more than a third." Draculea peered over the mans shoulder, then shrugged. "What do you think, librarian?" Nicolae was clasping his hands like a child being offered a treat. "Oh, yes, Maria Ta! The books are so crowded as it is, and there is no room for expansion. This would be ideal." "Then its done." *How easily you give in, my husband. And if you do this for my brother, what wonders will you grant your wife?* Beta fixed a smile on her face as she walked toward the men. She meant it to be indulgent, but instead it was condescending. "Husband." The word was uncomfortable, even distasteful on Betas lips, but Lena had said to remind him of his role and his duty at every turn. Draculea and Nicolae turned to her, and the craftsman sprang to his feet, bowing low. She nodded to him graciously, indicating that he could stand at his ease, then turned her attention to the others. Nicolae beamed at her, his pleasure in her company shining like a beacon in his smile, his eyes full of admiration. Draculea favored her with a small, formal smile. "Beta, good morning. You are lovely today." There was no extra warmth in his words. He might have been remarking that yes indeed, the sun HAD risen that morning. It was as if he assessed her, catalogued her points, and decided that she deserved the description, but it still meant little to him. She curtsied. "I thank you." "Was there something you wished?" "I..." Beta fumbled for words, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks. *What am I supposed to say to that? Yes, I want you to come to me tonight and give me a baby so that I may never have to withstand your touch again? In any case I cannot say anything with Nicolae here, staring at me.* "I only wanted to enjoy your company." Draculea raised his eyebrows. This was something new. Beta had not sought his presence at any other time during their short acquaintance. *Damn. I hope she isnt going to try to be my boon companion. Still, I cant very well run her off, especially not so soon after the wedding.* "I am afraid you may find it tedious, my dear, but you are of course welcome to stay. Nicolae, would you find a suitable seat for your sister?" Nicolae hurriedly looked about, chose a chair, and brought it nearer. He wiped the seat and back carefully with a cloth that had lain over a stack of dusty shelves that were waiting to be cleaned. "Im sorry, Beta. You should have a cushion, but the only ones here are so full of dust I fear they would ruin your fine

dress. I will find fresh ones soon, so that you may be comfortable when you visit me here." She sank into the chair. "How kind of you, Nicolae. But I hardly think Ill be spending much time here. There is so much to do with renovating and redecorating, and then there is the running of the household." *Which we all know you will leave mostly to Simion, unless you have some delicacy or luxury you wish provided,* Draculea thought cynically. He saw the slight hurt in Nicolaes eyes at her casual dismissal, and was torn. On the one hand he wanted the boy to have everything his heart desired. But on the other, he could not help but feel that Beta was perhaps not the ideal companion for his lover. Nicolae was devoted to her, but Beta had shown time and again how little she appreciated that devotion. He hoped Nicolae would find friends among his household. It might mute the hurt that was sure to grow when he realized that Beta needed him only as another admirer. "Nicolae." At his soft call the sadness melted from the boys face, and he turned to Draculea with a smile that showed the falseness of Betas expression. "You must oversee this alone for awhile. I need to go train with some of my men." "Train, Domn?" Draculea resisted the urge to stroke Nicolaes cheek. It wouldnt do to caress his lover in front of his wife. "I am a warrior, Nicolae. Skills grow rusty if they are not honed." "Oh." The boys clear expression clouded at the reminder of the violence that always hovered near. Then he said shyly, "Barnabas knows what I want. I could come watch you?" He spoke the last as a question. "Not today, not this training. I must practice with my hand weapons. It gets rough, Nicolae. You would be distressed. Perhaps you can come when I put Lucifer through his paces, or practice with the spear or bow and arrow, but not today. Stay with the carpenter." Nicolae sighed, but he nodded, acquiescing to his lords order. He turned back to watch the carpenter as he made tiny corrections to the sketch. Draculea gave Beta a small bow. "My lady." He was surprised when, as he passed her, she caught his sleeve, murmuring, "Husband, a word with you?" He paused. "Of course, Beta." She tossed a glance at the other two men, then looked back to Draculea. "Privately?" It took him a moment to realize that she expected him to dismiss the others. Draculea managed to control the frown that rose to his lips. If she wanted to hold audiences in solitary splendor, she had her own rooms. This place belonged to Nicolae, and Vlad was not going to chase the boy out at Betas whim. "Certainly." He offered her his arm. Beta hesitated, obviously wanting to explain to him that he had misunderstood her wishes. Then she looked at his eyes and realized that he understood her very well. She stood, placing her hand on his arm, and allowed him to lead her from the room. Neither noticed Nicolae watching them wistfully. Then he shook his head briskly, turning back to his work. He must not envy his sisters place at Draculeas side in the eyes of the world. Vlad loved him. He had said so, he had shown him. Draculea did not want to bother with the walk to Betas room, so he stopped in the entry hall, near the door. When Beta looked around he said, "We are alone here. My men are waiting, Beta. What did you wish to say?" She took a breath and said softly, "I am feeling well rested and refreshed, my lord." "I am most pleased to hear it." He waited for her to continue. Beta fidgeted. Lena had said he would need only a hint. "The rigors of the wedding were not as great as I had feared." "Again I am happy." "I thought... perhaps..." She floundered. *Good God,* Draculea thought wryly. *The chit is inviting me to her bed.* "I see, Beta." She sighed, obviously relieved. "The resiliency of youth is remarkable." He kissed her hand. "Perhaps in a day or two

we can again try to fulfill the order that the blessed Lord gave us to be fruitful. But not tonight." With that he went into the front courtyard, leaving Beta gaping in a most unladylike manner. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "I must wait." "What? Beta, I told you, you HAVE to do this, no matter how distasteful." "You dont understand, Lena. I tried. I told him I was feeling well, that the distress of the wedding night was past." "Perhaps you were too subtle. I would hardly credit, though, that a man like Draculea would mistake an invitation." "He didnt. He understood well enough, but he said not tonight. Perhaps in a day or so." "Perhaps?" Lenas eyes, already small, narrowed even more. "Perhaps. That is not good enough, Beta. Not good enough at all. We shall simply have to change his mind." Lena plucked the froth of lace out of Betas neckline, took hold of it, and pulled the fabric down, exposing the upper curves of her breasts. "Lena..." Beta smiled and leaned toward the older woman for a kiss, only to be pushed back. Puzzled she said, "But I thought you wanted..." "If he is not interested in subtlety, there are other tactics." She pulled the pins from Betas hair, letting it tumble free. Beta saw Lenas intention, and shook her head. "No, Lena! I couldnt do it. I couldnt make myself... common for him." Lena gripped her shoulders, squeezing hard. Still she was careful not to bruise the delicate flesh, not when it had to be on display for its legal owner. "Listen to me, girl! Marriages have been annulled because of the wifes infertility. I will not risk that happening to you. You WILL do this, Beta. For both our sakes." As always, Beta submitted. "Yes, Lena," she said meekly. She comforted herself with thoughts of how Lena would try to soothe her after the ordeal was over, and decided that it would almost be worth it. Almost. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Barnabas had finished the sketch and gone to begin searching for the proper sort of materials to build the shelves. Nicolae spent a few moments cataloguing, but for some reason was feeling restless. It was the fact that Vlad was training, he decided. Nicolae had known, of course, that his lover was a warrior. Prince Draculea had led his forces many times against the heathens, fighting at the behest of the Church. He had repelled attacks on Wallachia and, even during this time of relative peace, occasionally led his men in efforts to control the bandits that preyed on his people. With his sheltered life in the abbey, Nicolae had not seen much violence. There had been a few brawls among the lay workers that had resulted in bloody noses and split lips. There had been travelers, attacked by bandits, who had been brought to the brothers for their healing skills. Some of these unfortunates had even died. But for such a raw and violent age, Nicolae had witnessed very little actual mayhem. The thought of men deliberately inflicting pain on each other made him feel cold and sick, but there was still a certain fascination. After all, it was what Vlad DID. It was a part of him. Surely Nicolae should be acquainted with every aspect of the man he loved? He had found a window that looked out over the courtyard where the prince was training with a few of his select men. Nicolae crouched, peeping over the sill to watch the activity below. He didnt want Vlad to see that he was disobeying. Nicolae knew that someone with an easy conscience and a smooth tongue might argue that he was NOT disobeying, since he had not tried to join the men below. But Nicolae was scrupulously honest with himself. He knew very well that Vlad did not wish him to witness the rough swordplay. He silently hoped that Draculea would be too preoccupied to notice his spying, and that if he did, he would be forgiving. The combatants wore light leather armor, and their weapons were wooden swords. While the blades were

too blunted to cut or cause death, they left impressive bruises when wielded with the force of a powerful man like the prince. As Nicolae watched, Draculea and Simion fought. The older man did not have the princes size and reach, but he was quick, nimble, and cunning. And he did not hold back, that was important. There was always the chance that a training partner, fearful of inciting Draculeas famous temper, would check his attack, not putting forth his best effort. That enraged Draculea. "How can I expect to gain the skills I need to survive when they do not TRY? Do they think my enemies will be so considerate?" The wooden blades clattered and clashed as the men fought. Nicolae watched a heavy blow strike Draculeas thigh, and he winced. That would leave a bruise, even through the leather armor. He saw Draculea patting Simion on the back, congratulating him on a strike that would have effectively crippled the prince if they had been using standard weapons. Then the group of men turned almost as one to look toward the front of the castle. Nicolae flinched back, at first thinking he had been discovered, but then realized that they were watching someone who had come from the front hall. Nicolae wondered who could have garnered such undivided attention? Surely not a servant. He had his answer when the slender figure walked into view, approaching the men. Though her back was to him, he recognized her as Beta from her dress. But something was different... Then he realized what it was. Instead of being caught up in a neat, modest bun or snood, her long, dark hair was tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. Nicolae blinked in disbelief. A respectable, well born woman, past the freeness of childhood, did NOT appear in public with her hair loose. Even the household servants and peasant women, the ones with some pretention to respectability, only loosened their hair in their bedchambers. What was Beta thinking of, going out like this before men? Draculea, on the other hand, knew EXACTLY what Beta was thinking. The gown that had been so proper and fashionable earlier now looked decadent, the neckline exposing the rounded tops of her small, but well-formed breasts. Her dark hair flowed over pale shoulders in waves, and he thought briefly that he must ask Nicolae to let his own hair, so like Betas, grow out of its monkish crop. The idea of burying his hands in such a thick, silky mass as they made love was incredibly erotic. Even as annoyed as he was, he had to fight down a smile as she drew near. *She arrays herself like a whore to entice me and only succeeds in turning my thoughts to her brother.* But as she drew nearer the amusement faded to be replaced by anger. Her lips and cheeks were unnaturally red against skin that was even paler than it should be. The girl was wearing cosmetics. While it might be fashionable for the more daring court ladies, it was not something suitable for a princess, and most especially not for the eyes of anyone but her husband. Draculea went to meet her, not wanting her to come any closer to the small group of staring men than necessary. "Beta," he growled. "What in Gods name possesses you?" She flinched, then straightened her shoulders. Perhaps she could get this over with quickly. She made her tone silky and suggestive. "You tax yourself, husband. I only wish to offer you a bit of respite, and comfort." She steeled herself and reached out to gently wipe a bead of sweat off his brow. "Why not come stay with me for a while? My room is cool and quiet." "Then I suggest you go there. Perhaps you could have your Lena order a bath so that you might remove that paint." He took hold of her wrist, his grip firm almost to the point of pain, and said quietly, "You will not appear like this again. Do you think I want my men to see my wife tricked out like a tavern wench?" "I only wanted..." "I KNOW what you want, Beta, believe me. I will visit you when I feel it is fitting, not before. Do not worry, I fully intend to have a child with you, if God is willing. But neither you, nor..." his lips pulled back from his teeth, "any other will dictate my schedule."

There was a call from the man on watch at the gate. "My lord! Travelers approach." Draculea, still holding Beta, looked to the gate. "And why do you tell me this?" "Lord, I fear there has been another bandit attack. They bring a body across one of the horses." Draculea released Elizabeta and said shortly, "Beta, go inside." Beta moved as if to obey, and Draculea turned to go to the gate. But as the three horses entered the courtyard, she turned back and stealthily came after him, her velvet slippers making her steps silent. In the castle Nicolae hurried away from the window. He headed first for the chapel. There had been a body slung across one of the horses, covered with a cloak. Father Mircea must attend. If there was any spark of life left at all, the last rites must be performed. If there was not then prayers for the soul of the unfortunate should begin immediately. The two men who had brought the corpse dismounted and bowed to the prince. "Prince Draculea," said one. "We were returning to the village, and we found this poor soul in the road some miles from here. We came immediately, knowing that you would wish to know." "You did well. It looks as if it is the work of bandits?" "It would seem so," the man agreed, "though it is the most vicious attack I have heard of." He shuddered. "The man was not just killed: he was destroyed. In any case, there was an empty money bag beside him, and two fingers are missing, no doubt taken for their rings." Draculea nodded. *Well, Ernestu, I knew this would come, but I had hoped for another day or two.* "Do you know who he is?" "No, Domn, but he is either a noble, or a wealthy man. His clothing is rich." "I fear that one of the guests did not make his way home." He gestured for the man to remove the covering. Ernestu had not fared well during his time in the open. The ravens had taken his eyes, of course, and local dogs had found him. There was very little flesh left on his face. His teeth gleamed, naked, his lips haveing been stripped away by a fox who had been delighted to find such an easy meal. "Well," Draculea drawled, "We may have to wait until his people miss him, and begin searching..." There was a scream behind him, and he whirled to find a white faced Beta staring at the corpse. The rouge on her cheeks stood out starkly as the color drained from her face, and her dark eyes were enormous. "Father!" "What? Beta, no. Your father left here with three armed men, surely he would have been safe. You are distressed. I told you to go inside." "No, it IS Father." "Only God himself could recognize this poor wretch. If it will ease your mind I will send men to Castle Varga for news, but you must..." "NO!" She pointed a shaking finger, and Draculea looked. A necklace hung from the dead mans neck, swinging lazily as the horse shifted. Dangling at the end was a thick signet ring. "That is his sealing ring. He could no longer wear it, so he kept it on that chain. It must have been inside his shirt, and the bandits missed it." "Yes, that must be so." *And I should have thought to check,* Draculae thought sourly. *You would have thought that some beast or thief would have made off with it by now. Honest men can sometimes be a curse.* "Are you sure, Beta?" She held out her hand. Reluctantly he removed the necklace and dropped it into her palm. Draculea saw Nicolae hurrying from the castle with Father Mircea at his side. He gestured for the young man to stay back, but it was useless. As strong as his will to obey his lord was, it was outweighed by his instinct to offer aid and comfort. The girl examined the heavy seal as Nicolae approached, then looked up at Draculea with eyes brimming with tears. "Yes. It is his." She turned another horrified glance, one that contained more than a little

disgust, on the corpse. The two men reached the little tableau. Mircea went directly to the horse. Wetting his finger with holy oil from a small bottle, he drew a cross on the mutilated forehead of the dead man and began to implore God for mercy on his soul and forgiveness of his sins. Nicolae touched Betas shoulder. "Beta, you should not be here." "Take her inside, Nicolae," Draculea ordered, hoping to get him away before he had too close a look at the body. When Nicolae gently took her shoulder, Beta slapped at him, crying out, "Dont! I wont leave, he needs me." "Beta, please, you cannot help this pour soul, and you will make yourself ill," Nicolae chided. "Poor soul?! Fool! Cant you see?" She thrust the ring at his face. "It is Father, Nicolae. Father is dead." Draculea cursed silently. He had hoped that he would be able to break the news to his lover gently. Nicolae blanched, his eyes flying to the flayed face of the body. Bright tears pooled in his eyes, and the wide, soft mouth that Draculea loved so well trembled. But his voice was quiet and steady as he said, "Then we must go pray for his soul, Beta. Come." He tugged at her gently. "We must not think of ourselves now." The girl crumpled against his side, and he put his arms around her, supporting her. She sobbed. "Im sorry, Nicu. But Father..." "Sh, its all right, Beta. Come." He lead her back toward the castle, his strong young body supporting her. As they went he stroked her hair, murmuring words of comfort. Watching them go Draculea thought, *She does not deserve him. I do not deserve him.* He sighed. *The world does not deserve him.* Then he turned back to instruct his men on what to do with the corpse. "Take it to... Id say the stables, but it has begun to stink, and it might frighten the horses. There is a small room off the great hall. Put it there till we can arrange for him to lie in the chapel." As the body was lifted down and carried inside he thought, *Why not, Ernestu? Let one of your last habitations on earth be the room where your punishment began." TBC Back to index

Chapter 27: Part 27: Mourning

Disclaimer: All but original characters belong to Bram Stoker Summary: Betas and Nicolaes reactions to Ernestus death are different. Authors Notes: Okay, this will be a bit grotty. Ernestus body must be prepared for burial, and he IS in a bit of a state. Unshriven means that the person in question died with their sins on their soul, unable to make a final confession. The term scully (pl. scullies) comes from scullery, a small room off a kitchen (esp. in Britain) used specifically for cleaning kitchen utensils, and other rough work. Thus the ones did the lowest, dirtiest kitchen work were scullies. Child of the Night, Part 27: Mourning The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Dracula, Romania Draculea saw that the body was placed in the room, then ordered that it be washed and prepared as well as

was possible. The servants were already arguing over who would have the distasteful task when he left. It was not so much the fact of death that bothered them. No, in this age death was nothing rare. It was simply that after its time in the open, Ernestus body was particularly offensive. Finally, two of the lowest scullies were assigned to do the actual work, while a more senior servant supervised. The two women assigned to preparing the body protested bitterly that it was unseemly for them to handle a man, even when he was dead. The senior footman supervising them told them tartly that it was hardly an issue, since some scavenger had made off with the unfortunate mans sex long before his body was found. The wastes Ernestu had evacuated added their pungency to the ripe smell of flesh that was beginning to rot. The cleaning had to be done with cold water, lest they contribute to the destruction of the tissues with the heat. The two cleaners could not scrub for the same reason. The skin would slough away if they were too rough, though that might have been a good thing. The flies had found him quickly, and the maggots were beginning to make their appearance. The tiny, wriggling blobs would have to be removed. The women worked as quickly as they could while still doing a thorough job. More than once one of them had to leave the room for a moment. It was close in the little room, and the stench was almost overwhelming. The footman had a handkerchief steeped in vinegar and herbs which he held to his nose to make it more bearable. Once the initial bathing was done the body was drenched with the strongest brandy the castle had. The footman had been dubious about this, but Simion himself had brought the bottles. When his subordinate had looked at him questioningly, the older man had shrugged. "It is his brides father, after all. It would be good if the lady could sit with him without fainting." Most of the maggots writhed to the surface at the burn of the alcohol, and were easily wiped away. The women removed the rest with tiny picks, muttering to themselves. It would have been easier to shave the corpses head, but what little humanity remained had to be kept, so they washed his gore-clotted hair, combing gently with the finest toothed comb they had to remove the insects and larvae that had nested there. When they were done at last, Ernestu was, perhaps, cleaner than he had ever been in life. Spices were sprinkled liberally on his naked, ravaged body. When the women finally refused to do it, the footman himself stuffed the mouth and anus with herbs and spice to control the worst of the smell. While the cleaning was taking place one of the finest sheets had been carefully torn into strips. The footman bound the naked body, carefully cinching the legs together at ankles, knees, and thighs. Then he crossed the arms on the chest. The women were forced to handle the body once again, holding it up so that the footman could wind the strips that would bind the arms securely in place. Finally satisfied that the limbs would stay properly in place, he sprinkled the body with more herbs and wrapped it in a fine linen sheet, then wrapped another sheet around that. The castle seamstresses were summoned, and the shroud was neatly stitched closed. Laid out carefully on a plain wooden plank, the body was now ready to lie in state for as long as the prince deemed proper. Privately the servants all hoped that the late noble would be given only the bare minimum of time required by tradition before being interred. The footman notified Simion when the task was finished, and Simion went in search of Draculea. The prince was in his study, at his desk. As Simion watched, Draculea finished scratching a few words on a parchment, then sprinkled sand over the document to help set and dry the ink. Finally he sat back with a sigh, indicating a small pile of folded papers. "I dont know how Nicolae can do it for hours at a time. But then, I suppose he has more interesting subject matter." Simion eyed the papers. "Notices, my lord?" Draculea nodded, ticking off on his fingers. "Both of his sons, his other daughter, his lawyer, the head steward at his castle, and the archbishop." He sighed. "Ive probably forgotten someone, but I do not care to worry about it now. Has it been tended to?" "Aye, as well as could be. I would suggest expediency in its disposition, though, my lord." He wrinkled

his nose. "It is not pleasant." "Well, Ill have to let it lie in state here a day or two before I send it back to his own castle to await his eldest sons pleasure. Im sure the heir will be eager to take control of the castle and lands. I only hope hes sensible enough to abide by the agreement we drew up. Id hate to have to begin my marriage by killing not only my brides father, but also her brother." Draculea shook off the sand, examining the paper. "Bah, its good enough. If it smears, let them think it was from tears of grief." He folded the paper, then drew from his pocket a flat, oval stone, half the size of his thumb. There was a dragon embossed on the flat surface, and the letter D. Draculea took a red candle from its holder and tipped it over the paper. Several fat drops of was fell across the seam. When there was a thick puddle, Draculea turned the candle upright, replacing it. He waited until the molten wax had begun to congeal, then pressed the stone firmly to it. When he lifted the stone, the wax bore the imprint of the carving. Draculea tested the wax to see that the seal was firm, and nodded his satisfaction, repeating the process with the next message. Soon he had the small pile finished. He handed them to Simion. "Separate riders. Id just as soon we had this over with as swiftly as possible. I suppose Nicolae is in the chapel?" Simion bent his head in assent. "Since the body arrived." "Of course." Draculea stood up. "I think I can bring him away. If I do not make him rest he will try to rescue the bastard from purgatory through his prayers alone. Varga has already done Nicu enough harm, and I will not have him making the boy sick again." Draculea went to the chapel. As he expected, Mircea was at the altar just finishing a mass, while Nicolae knelt before the icon of The Virgin, quietly telling his beads. He was a little surprised that Beta was not in evidence, and that several of the castle servants were praying quietly in the back pews. He waited till one of them, a kitchen maid, finished, then tapped her shoulder. The girl blanched at finding herself the center of Draculeas attention. "Girl, what are you doing here?" "Maria Ta, I meant no harm! I only pray for the soul of the Domn who was killed." "Yes, I see that, and do not fear, girl. You are not in trouble. I am not angry, only curious. This man could mean nothing to you. Why do you pray for him?" "Yes, Domn, I did not know him. I only saw him when I served at table during your wedding feast." She frowned. "He pinched my bottom." Draculea repressed a smile. "Then why this solicitude for his eternal soul?" She hesitated, her eyes going to the front of the chapel where Nicolae knelt, whispering, beads slipping between his fingers. "The young librarian seems sad. I thought..." She gestured to the other servants. "we thought it might make him feel better if he were not alone in his prayers. We do not neglect our duties," she said anxiously. Draculea patted her arm approvingly. "Do not worry, child. I am pleased that you have been so thoughtful of his feelings. But he should not have been here alone in any case. Where is the princess?" The little maid blushed. "The princess left a while ago, after the first mass. She said that she was too delicate to face the strain." The maid peeked up at Draculea speculatively. Her next sentence took on a rising tone, making it a question. "She hinted that she was already with child, and that the babe could be marked by such emotional distress?" Draculea bit his lip. //Why, the callous, self-serving little minx! Well, Ernestu, there is the loyalty of the child you favored. Compare it to the one you beat and would have raped. Who prays for your foul rag of a soul now?// Aloud he said, "Possible, I suppose, but hardly likely. Are you finished?" She curtsied. "Yes, Maria Ta. The noon meal must be prepared, and today we bake bread. Then we must see to the pickling of that swine that was slaughtered this morning..." "Go, then." Draculea watched her bustle out, followed by the other kitchen servants. Their duty done to the dead, they were ready to turn their energy back to supplying the needs of the living. He nodded to

himself. Yes, it looked as if Nicolae was winning friends among the staff. Very good, since it seemed that Beta had become too fine to spend time with her family now, even to the point of slighting the memory of her father. Draculea walked to the front of the church. Mircea finished the mass and came down to speak to him. "Prince Draculea. Has Varga been prepared?" "To the best of our ability, though there was little that could be done. He should be... tolerable for a day or two. I fear we cannot allow him to lie in state for long without endangering the health of all who come near." "I know. I told the boy that. He understands." "And the girl?" Draculea noticed the brief grimace of disapproval before the priest could control his face. "I do not think Beta will argue too much. If his son wishes to observe the formalities he can do so at Castle Varga." Draculea looked at Nicolae and said quietly, "Has he been on his knees all this time?" Mircea looked at the boy also, and his voice was just as quiet. "Yes. This is nothing, my lord. I have seen the boy kneel and pray for hours on end. Bless him, when Varga forced him to return from the abbey he spent two full nights praying to be allowed to return. I forced him to rest after he fainted the second time. I have already urged him once to take a rest, but he would not. For such a sweet boy," he said wryly, "he can be very stubborn in some things." "I will have to try my hand at persuasion, then." Mircea watched as Draculea went to Nicolae and sank to his knees beside the boy. He folded his hands and began to whisper the Aves with Nicolae. The boy looked over at him, smiling a greeting, but continued his prayers. When he came to the end of the rosary and began to turn it to start again, Draculea reached over and took his wrist, stopping him. "Nicolae, how many rosaries have you said for Varga so far?" The boy frowned. "I... am not sure, Domn." "However many, it is enough for now." "But my prince..." "Nicolae, will Varga be released from Purgatory in your lifetime?" Nicolae did not hesitate. "No, Domn. None are innocent enough to escape so quickly." //Especially not that bastard.// "Will he be released in a hundred lifetimes, no matter how many masses or rosaries are said?" Nicolae thought. "I am afraid not, Domn. He was not... He died unshriven." //An excuse, Nicolae. He would have gone to hell had the pope himself been there to absolve him.// "So you see, Nicolae, you can send up countless prayers, and it will not lessen his time by any measure. There is no rush. You are weary, my love." He saw the boy glance quickly at the statue before them, guilt in is eyes. //No, Nicolae. I will not have that. I will not have you shamed by our love.// He touched his cheek, drawing his eyes back to meet his own gaze, and he put every scrap of love and warmth he felt into that look. As he knew he would, Nicolae melted. He touches slim fingers to Draculeas hand where he holds his wrist. "One more... Vlad." Again he felt an almost dizzy elation when Nicolae spoke his name, knowing that he was the only one who had ever heard that tenderness in his voice. Draculea kissed his hand, then released him and sat back on his heels as Nicolae once again murmured the ancient chant. When he was done Draculea helped him to his feet. Nicolae swayed slightly and Draculea, slipping an arm around him, helped him from the room. As they went to their room Draculea said, "If you must continue your prayers for him later you will do so in the comfort of our room, on soft pillows." "But Domn..." "No, Nicolae. Do the priests not tell us that God hears our prayers no matter where we are? Your voice

will be no clearer on the cold stone floor." He pushed Nicolae down into a cushioned chair and bent over him. "Listen to me, little one. Those who mortify their flesh thinking to please God are fools. He cannot truly want His followers to injure themselves in vain attempts to catch His attention. It is a childish way to show devotion. Rather they should live to do his bidding, and keep themselves strong to serve His will. It will do Varga no good if you make yourself ill, and it will hurt me. Do you understand?" "Yes." His arms went around Draculeas neck. "I would not hurt you, Vlad. Not for anything." "I know." He kissed Nicolaes forehead. "Tell me, pet. How is Beta?" The boy looked down, and said hesitantly, "She is distraught, Maria Ta. I... suggested that she go to her room." Draculea studied Nicolaes face. The boy could not meet his eyes. He sighed. "The only lie youve ever told me," Nicolaes eyes flashed up to him, stricken, and he continued gently, "and it is in defense of another. I cannot fault you, Nicu. I spoke with one of the servants." "But Maria Ta, if Beta is indeed with child she must not subject herself to anything harsh or distressing." "Child, I lay with her once, and that so lately. While it is true that she MIGHT have taken, it is not likely. Time will tell, but I suspect it was a convenient excuse to escape something she found tiresome." The boy seemed to droop. Draculea bit his lip, and decided that it would do no good to try to make Nicolae face Elizabetas shortcomings. He did not want to believe. Only time and further examples would convince him. Till he grew wise Draculea could only watch, and try to guard his heart as best he could. "Perhaps I am wrong. She has been through a painful ordeal." "Yes, Maria Ta," Nicolae agreed, eager to find some reason that would absolve his beloved sister of the indifference he had suspected. "To lose a father is a terrible thing." Draculea pulled the boy up, then sat in his place and drew him down to sit on his lap. "And you, Nicolae?" Nicolae gave him a puzzled look. "You have lost your father, also." There was a flicker in his eyes, almost of surprise, as if this had just occurred to him. "It is different for me, Domn. He was never really my father. I grieve for him as one Christian grieves for another who has met his end outside the grace of God." Draculea sighed, hugging him. "Good. I was worried, Nicu." He pressed his face against the boys chest, letting himself drink in the warmth and scent. Nicolae smelled of soap, ink, and beeswax from the candles he had lighted for Ernestus soul. They sat like that for a time, then Draculea urged him up, standing himself. "I will go speak to Beta. I must extend my condolences and tell her of the arrangements that have been made. If she wishes, she can accompany her father back to Castle Varga for his burial. Why dont you take a nap, Nicu?" He led his young lover to the bed and pushed him down on it gently, tucking a pillow under his head. "Rest. If you must, you may have Mircea say another mass this evening." "Thank you, Maria Ta." As Draculea walked toward the door that led to Betas room Nicolae called softly, "Vlad?" Draculea turned back. "Yes?" Nicolaes eyes were moist, his expression wistful. "Do you think he loves me now? Now that he is beyond earthly concerns?" Draculea did not think it was possible, but he found another reason to hate Ernestu Varga. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Elizabeta sat on a low stool before the mirror that hung on the wall. Lena stood behind her, slowly drawing a tortoiseshell comb through her hair. Beta cocked her head, studying her reflection. "This is one thing I like about Castle Draculea. My other mirrors have been so small that I could scarce judge my own appearance." "Yes, pet, it is quite an extravagance. I believe it belonged to the princes mother. When I saw it on our tour I knew that you must have it." She frowned. "The servants were remarkably stubborn about bringing

it. I had to slap one of them before they obeyed properly. I told them that the prince had given approval for any changes you wanted to make, but they wished to consult Simion in any case." The door to the private hall was off to the side, and the two women were so absorbed in each other that neither heard the light scrape of it opening. Draculea watched them for a moment, noting the intimacy with which Lena touched his young bride, and the familiar way the girl leaned back against the older woman. *Ah.* he thought. *I believe that I begin to understand.* His lips curved in a smile that was cold, and more than a little cruel. *You have thrown your lot in with the wrong one, Lena. You will never rule through her.* He quietly stepped back through the door, shutting it, then deliberately let his boot scrape against the floor. There was quick rustling and whispering on the other side of the door. He counted to three, then opened the door. Lena was nowhere to be seen, and Beta was stretched on her bed, holding a dainty handkerchief to her eyes, shoulders shaking prettily. *Somehow I think I would find that pretty scrap of silk quite dry,* he thought cynically. He went and sat beside the girl, and made his tone solicitous. "Beta, your maid is not with you? You should not be alone now, lest your grief overwhelm you." "I think she has gone to... to seek something to soothe my nerves." Draculea gestured to the carafe and goblet on the table. "The wine would not suit?" Beta was still a moment, cloth covering her eyes, and Draculea smirked inwardly, imagining how her mind raced for a suitable reply. At last she said, "She said something about brandy. I have not tasted strong spirits often, but if she thinks it best..." "You will of course do as she wishes," he finished for her. "Your fathers body has been prepared as best as can be. Im sorry, Beta, but I cannot allow him to lie in state here more than a day. He must be sent back to his home, and your eldest brother can take care of further arrangements there. He will return to the castle to claim his inheritance, no doubt." "Yes, though it may take him some time to make the arrangements." "In that case, do you wish to accompany him home? There should be someone of his blood to sit vigil with him until his burial, for forms sake." She sat up quickly, dropping the handkerchief as she exclaimed, "Oh, no!" Draculeas eyebrows rose, and she hastily amended, "I could not leave you so soon, and I know you cannot leave your duties here." She thought, and her face lighted. "We can send Nicolae!" The sudden coldness of Draculeas expression startled her. "Husband?" Draculea stood up and walked away to stand before the mirror. He studied himself as he said, "Nicolae stays here. Varga did not claim him in life, and the boy owes him no allegiance after death." He looked at her through her reflection. "Go or stay, as you please, but Nicolae remains." Turning his eyes back to his own image he said, "I see you have appropriated my mothers mirror." "I... yes. I thought..." "Its quite all right. Get what pleasure from it you may." He turned his back on it and walked to the private halls door. "I dislike mirrors. They are cold things, and they lie." Beta was puzzled. "My lord, they give the truest image of man." "No, Beta. They give the truest image of our mortal clay, but do not hint at what lies inside. Now, if ever a glass is made that will reflect a mans soul, that will be a true marvel. But sadly I think that what lurks inside most men..." he paused and glanced toward the door that led to Betas dressing chamber, where Lena no doubt waited, and listened. "or, indeed, women would shatter them." TBC

Back to index

Chapter 28: Part 28: Balances

Disclaimer: Recognizable characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker. Summary: Draculea and Nicolae come to something of an understanding about their relationship. Child of the Night, Part 28: Balances The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Dracula, Romania Ernestus body was placed on a bier before the altar in the chapel the next morning. Father Mircea spoke to Draculea as the bundle was settled in place. "My lord, generally I am not an extravagant man, and I know that incense is expensive, but..." "Burn all you need, priest, and I will have more brought from the village." He wrinkled his nose distastefully. "Use a years supply, if you must. Use two years worth. I know that Nicolae will insist on being here much of the day to offer up prayers, and I do not want the boy fainting from the stench." Mircea spoke carefully, "Domn, I know that you harbored no love for the man. I want to thank you for allowing the boy this time, for not trying to restrain his devotions. It will make this passage much easier for him." "There is no need to thank me, priest. I want nothing but what will be good for Nicolae, emotionally as well as physically. I have not known him as long as you, but I feel I know him well. As foul as Varga was, Nicu would grieve if he could not feel he was doing something to ease the dogs way in the afterlife." "Yes." Mircea studied Draculea. "Sir, we have not spoken before, but I have had words with your man, Simion." "Yes?" He watched the priest closely. The man could make things difficult, if he chose. Nicolaes devotion to the Church would leave him vulnerable to the priests influence. "I want to thank you for what you are doing for the boy." Draculea was surprised. He knew that many holy men were so immersed in contemplation of the next world that they were scarcely aware of what went on in this one, but Mircea did not strike him as that sort. He wondered if Mircea were aware of the true nature of his relationship with Nicolae, or if he saw him only as a generous and kind patron. His doubts were resolved when the priest said, in a low voice, "My prince, you do know how much this means to Nicolae? While most boys pass through different loves in their youth, I think that Nicolaes first love will be his last." Draculea looked toward the front of the church. Nicolae knelt before the bier, head bowed over his folded hands, lips moving silently. He said slowly, "It is possible for a man to live many years and be with many people without ever truly loving, Father." He looked back at Mircea. "Nicolae is not the only one whos first love will be his last." Nicolae spent the entire day in the chapel. In deference to his lovers wishes, he did not spend it entirely on his knees, as he would have otherwise. Instead he sat in the front pew, telling his beads, occasionally rising to light another candle. Beta dropped in briefly, joining him in a few prayers, then left to consult with a merchant. She explained to her brother that the man was not to be in the area for long, and she really HAD to choose the material for the new draperies NOW, else she would have to wait near half a year for his next trip. Nicolae did not protest, but watched her sweep down the aisle to meet Lena at the entrance. The older woman gave him a hard look as she put her hand on Betas shoulder and steered her out. Nicolae was

puzzled by Abuls attitude. To the best of his knowledge he had never done anything offensive to her, but she obviously disliked him. He sighed, turning back to his meditation. It had been so with all the servants at Vargas castle. They all took their cue from their master, and it was well known that Varga held no love for him. Still, he rather hoped that here it might have been different. The cook was friendly enough, and the other maids, though too giggly to make much sense, did not seem as distant as they had. *Ah, well. Draculeas people have been kind, and I cannot find favor with all of Gods children.* Simion managed to scold Nicolae out of the chapel long enough for him to have lunch, but couldnt persuade him to rest in his room afterward. Nicolae was sweet and apologetic, but so stubborn that Simion had to hide his smile. He might not think of himself, but when it came to his sense of what was best for others the boy had a steely core. That evening, when Nicolae did not appear for dinner, Draculea went directly to the chapel. He found Nicolae on his knees again. "Boy, enough. Come away." Nicolae glanced at him, then looked away. "Soon." "Now." "Domn, I have agreed not to spend the night here, as would be strictly proper..." "As would be foolish. You know very well that Mircea will be here. Nicolae, Vargas soul has fled to whatever fate is prepared for it and I promise you that there is no danger of his body being stolen. Come away." "Just a few more rosaries." Draculea grunted. "Your first defiance is like your first lie: done for anothers sake." Nicolaes shoulders stiffened, but he continued his prayers. Draculea sighed. "If this is how it must be..." Nicolaes voice faltered as Draculea squatted in front of him. The prince wrapped his arms around Nicolaes legs, put his shoulder to the boys belly, and stood. Nicolae gasped as he was lifted over Draculeas shoulder. He clutched at his lovers broad back, the rosary falling from his hand. Mircea came and retrieved the beads, handing them to the boy. "Goodnight, Nicolae." Draculea began to carry him to the door, and Nicolae called out, "Father! Speak to him!" "Goodnight, Prince. See that he sleeps well." Nicolae protested as vehemently as ever he had as Draculea carried him through the great hall. He stopped, going still and silent when they passed a curious servant girl. He let his head droop, his hair falling to conceal his face, and the blush rising in his cheeks, as Draculea carried him up the stairs. But once they were out of sight, in the hallway, he kicked strongly. "Let me go!" "As you said, Nicolae: soon." Nicolae was squirming so hard that Draculea did not dare loosen his grip when he reached his room. A brisk kick on the door brought Simion to open it. Simion watched, near astonished, as his master carried the wriggling librarian into the room and over to the bed, tossing him sprawling. The boys face was red with embarrassed anger. Simion was glad to see that Nicolae had a little spirit in him. The boy started to spring up off the bed, but Draculea pushed him back down, "Stay there and calm yourself." "YOU TREAT ME LIKE A CHILD!" "When you act like one, yes, I do! I will not have you endangering your own health, Nicolae." Nicolae was breathing heavily. Simion watched with interest. He had never imagined the boy angry, but it seemed that there was about to be a temper demonstration. He was correct. Both of the other men were astonished when Nicolae snatched up a pillow and threw it at Draculea. The prince made no move to ward it off, and it thumped softly against his chest, dropping to the floor. Vlad stared down at the pillow, then looked back at the boy sitting on the bed. "Well," he said mildly. "I suppose I should be grateful there was nothing heavy easily to hand."

Again Nicolae tried to get up, and again Draculea pushed him back down with a firm shove to his chest. "Nicolae, why do you defy me?" Nicolae was flushed, agitated color rising in his cheeks. His voice was hot, even though it trembled a little. "Am I so much your whore that you must direct my every move?" Draculea flinched. "Is that what you think?" With a scowl the boy threw himself on his belly, burying his face in the remaining pillow. "What else can I think?" Draculea moved to sit beside him. "That I care about you. Nicolae, you were weaving." The boy peeked over his arm at the prince. "I only wanted a few more minutes. I would have finished the rosary, then come with you with a willing heart. You gave me no choice." Draculea frowned, but he was feeling something alien: he was feeling ashamed. "You must understand, Nicolae. I am not accustomed to defiance. My reaction was instinctual." Nicolae sat back up. His expression was no longer angry, but it was still stern. "That is a reason, Vlad, not an excuse. As to your instincts... The Good Lord has given all men free will. Yes, our instincts run strong, but they need not control us. It is what sets us apart from the beasts." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Perhaps I have not made it clear how important my devotions are to me." He was silent for a moment, thinking. Finally he said, "For so much of my life, all I had was the Church. It gave me a place where I was accepted, if not loved. It was the one strong part of my life that I could always count on. It supported me in my past and led into my future, offering a clear, safe path. I was dragged from that path when Varga ordered me away from the abbey, and I have floundered since then, praying only that I might return to that which I knew." Vlad remembered that Nicolae had been trying to reach the abbey when he ran away. He felt a sickening stab of fear that even after what they had made together, he might regret having been brought back to Castle Draculea. "And now?" The boys lips twitched in a brief, but heartfelt, smile. "Now I am grateful that those prayers were answered no. This is where I belong, with you." Relieved, Draculea leaned toward him for a kiss. "But..." Nicolae held him away, but gently. "Vlad, you have to understand how important this is to me. I need it." He stroked Draculeas arm. "I love you, but it is a dangerous thing to make one person your entire life. That is why I do not feel jealousy for what you have with Beta." "There is no reason for you to be jealous, Nicu. The union is a brittle, shallow thing." "It will not always be so. When you have a child, you will not be able to help loving its mother, and that is as it should be." Draculea held his tongue. *God, Nicolae, and you think yourself aware of the world? I could point to so many examples that would prove your fond beliefs false, beginning with both of our fathers.* He said nothing, though. He was secretly pleased that Nicolae had the belly to stand up to him, but he felt he could not condone rebellion. Nicolae was continuing. "Domn, I will have passed my nineteenth year soon. There are men of my age who already have a family to care for, and it is past time for me to act like a man. You must trust me to find my own limits. You cannot guard me so closely that I never dash my foot against a stone." But that was exactly what Draculea wanted. The thought of Nicolae suffering any distress, physical or emotional, was like acid to his soul. Still, he knew that if he stifled the boy, restricting him and dictating his every move, it would kill a part of him. He sighed. "It is not easy, Nicolae. My family has protected Wallachia for generations. Protectiveness has been bred into my bones." Nicolae leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "You must learn to trust me with my own life, and, after all these years of having my every moment directed by either Church or patron, I must learn to make my own decisions, and live with them." He thought for a moment, then said, "I wish to hear one

final mass today. Father Mircea will not deny this." Draculea nodded reluctantly. "You, my prince, you should go to your bride." He scowled. "She has as little desire to see me as I have to see her." "Not so. Even one such as I could tell yesterday that she wished to coax you to her bed." To his utter amazement Draculea felt a faint flush rising in his cheeks, though if it was from embarrassment or irritation he could not tell. "She wants a child." Nicolae nodded. "As do you, also. And the people of Wallachia yearn for an heir to assure the bloodline. The quicker one is provided, the quicker certain tensions will ease." When he saw Draculeas look, he added, "No, I do not believe, as many do, that having a child will solve all problems within a union. Indeed, sometimes new problems arise. But it will at least ease some of the strain between you and Beta." He smiled sunnily. "And I like babies. I would like to be an uncle." Nicolae made his way back down to the chapel and asked a surprised Mircea to perform one last mass for Ernestus soul. During the ceremony the priest found himself casting glances at the entrance, wondering if Draculea would burst into the room to once again drag Nicolae away, but it never happened. The ritual was finished in peace. Instead of kneeling again to pray, Nicolae thanked him, crossed himself before the crucifix and the statue of the Virgin, and went back upstairs. *It would seem that they are reaching a compromise.* the priest thought as he put away his surplice. He hoped that this was going to work out well. There was no doubt of where the Church stood OFFICIALLY on such pairings. How they were openly treated, though, was another matter. Much depended on the position of the men involved, their usefulness to the Church, and their discretion. Draculea was a powerful man, who had done great services to the Church, and would probably do more in the future. Mircea wasnt exactly sure what he would do when Nicolae came to him for confession. He couldnt in good conscience just ignore what the Church considered to be a major sin, but he couldnt find it in his heart to completely condemn the relationship, either. Draculea was the only person Mircea knew of who had ever shown a genuine, personal care for the boy. And Mircea himself? He was fond of the boy, surely. Nicolae was one of the sweetest souls hed ever known, but the boy was so NEEDY. The priest had seen early on that when Nicolae loved, he would love with his whole being. As a priest, Mircea felt he could not allow that love to fix on him. His first dedication must be to God always, and Nicolae deserved someone who would put him first. If fate was merciful, he had found that someone. Back in the bedroom Nicolae found his lover relaxing before the fire with a glass of wine. Nicolae carefully put away his rosary and went to put his arms around Draculeas neck. When he felt the soft lips press to his temple, Draculea grunted. "Have you sent his soul to Paradise, Nicu?" He closed his eyes briefly, regretting his remark. But Nicolae only said, "No one can do that, my lord, but everyone should have at least one soul on earth to plead their case with sincerity instead of duty." "You know I do not believe he deserves your intervention?" "I know. Perhaps he doesnt. But if I do not pray for a lost soul, how can I ask for prayers when I, also pass from this world?" Draculea returned Nicolaes embrace. "Would you pray for me, Nicu? If I die, will you send your supplications to heaven on my behalf? If any could persuade St. Peter to open the gates for an imperfect one such as myself, it would be you." Nicolae went very still. "I wish you would not speak of such things, Domn. They make me sad." "I will not in the future, sweetheart. But answer me this one time. If I died, would you pray for me?" Nicolae pulled back. He smiled, but his soft eyes were infinitely sad, and Draculea wished he had left the question unspoken. "Yes, Vlad. I would pray for you." He looked into the fire, the smile fading. "For whatever time I had left on this earth, I would pray for you."

tbc Back to index

Chapter 29: Part 29: Frustration

Authors Notes: Disclaimer: All well known characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker. Summary: A year into the marriage, Beta is still not pregnant, and Lena is becoming impatient. Notes: catamite: a boy who has a sexual relationship ith a man. The Year of Our Lord, 1461 Castle Draculea, Romania "Lena, I need the cloths." Lena Abul, seated at her needlework in her mistresss bedchamber looked up and sighed heavily. "Oh, Beta, not AGAIN." "Yes, Lena, again, as it has been every month. I am as regular as the phases of the moon. My courses have come again, and do not begin chiding me. I cannot help it if I have not gotten with child." She was pouting. "It isnt as if I am trying to prevent it." "But it isnt enough, Beta. You must TRY." "And how, pray tell, may I do THAT, Lena?" Beta snapped. "I open my legs every time he comes to my room. I do not wash for a full day after he has me. I lie in bed so that none of his seed may be lost." She threw up her hands. "God forbid that a future prince should run down my leg." "BETA! That is unpardonably coarse. No wonder you have not conceived." Elizabeta laughed shortly. "You believe that coarseness makes one barren? Then explain the fecundity of the peasants, Lena. Now, will you get me the cloths, or will you have our nice, new rug ruined?" Lena sighed and set aside the delicate shift she had been embroidering aside, then went to a cupboard for the supply of linen cloths that were kept to staunch the flow of Betas monthly issue of blood. "I thought to have done away with this chore many months ago. It has been a year since your marriage, Beta. You should even now be nursing your first born." "I swear before God, Lena, you are worse than Stefan. Thank the lord that Draculea has not chosen to make an issue of this yet, but his advisor is more than making up for his lack of attention. You would think that the man expects me to produce either his own grandchild, or the messiah." "He wishes to see the bloodline assured. He only speaks aloud what most of the princes subjects think." "Im TRYING, Lena!" "Im not sure you realize how important this is, pet. You..." "Saints preserve me! YES, Lena, I know! You have told me often enough." Lena continued to speak grimly as she pinned a cloth to the inside of a pair of drawers. "You HAVE to conceive. If you prove barren he can find a way to annul the marriage and remarry." "But the Church would not allow it." Lena snorted, helping Beta into the drawers. "He is a prince, Beta. Surely you are not naive enough to believe that the Church would not find a way to please such a valuable servant? You must try harder, child." "Lena, he comes to me at least twice a week, and I can scarcely bear that." Lena gripped her chin hard. "You can bear much more for your position. He simply must come to your bed more often."

Beta pulled out of her grip, grumbling, "I do not think it is possible. The man is cold. I sometimes think he finds as little joy in the act of sex as I do." Beta looked at Lena in astonishment as the woman started to laugh. "What is so amusing, Lena?" "Draculea? While he can be cold in his dealings with those he dislikes... physically cold?" It was rather disconcerting to see the usually sour tempered woman tittering like a girl. "But its true. Lena, you know how little he cares for my embraces, and to the best of my knowledge he has no bastards among the peasants. He doesnt even have a mistress..." Beta stepped back in astonishment as Lena half collapsed on the bed, shaking with laughter. She realized that there was a bitterness in that laughter that was, at least partially, directed at her. Finally Lena got control of herself, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "God, child, how you can be so blind I will never know, but I suppose I should have expected it. You cant see past your own nose. If it doesnt affect you in the most direct, physical manner, you ignore it." She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, fixing Beta with a look that was amused, and a little cruel. "Has it occurred to you that perhaps the prince might keep someone OTHER than a mistress?" Elizabeta paced the floor in confusion. "I suppose that he might simply visit a whore in the village now and then instead of keeping a mistress, though I had thought him more refined in his tastes than that." Lena was shaking her head. "No? But what else IS there?" Lena rolled her eyes. "Beta, stop for a minute and consider yourself and me." She watched as Beta chewed this over, and the idea slowly dawned on her. "Lena, no! You... you dont mean that Draculea is... is..." Lena laughed again. "Oh, so shocked! Yes, he is a sodomite, a lover of his own sex." "But... but..." Beta was stuttering in her confusion. "He beds ME." Lena shook her head at the girls ignorance. "Just because a man prefers meat it does not mean he refuses a bit of fish now and again, Beta." Lena frowned. "It would not be so bad if he merely took his pleasure where he found it. I do not like the fact that he seems to have settled on one lover." "Who? One of his men? There are some handsome nobles who serve under Draculea." Lena snapped, "Girl, does your brain work at all save to plan your next change of gown? Who is the princes most constant companion? Whom does he coddle? To whom can he refuse nothing? Who looks at him with great, soft eyes whenever he enters a room?" I would say "Whom does he coddle?" Beta thought hard. At last she said, "It almost sounds like Nicolae." Lena raised an eyebrow. Beta laughed nervously. "Lena, no! Oh, how silly. Nicolae is so... so INNOCENT. So humble, so unworldly. For the Lords sake, he was almost a monk!" "Has he asked to return to the abbey since he came here? He has changed, Beta. You have been too involved in your own affairs to notice." "But THIS! Nicolae, a catamite? He spends time with the castle wenches, I know this." "He is teaching them to READ, of all the ridiculous notions. He has the idea that they can then teach their children, who will teach THEIR children, and so on. I dont mind telling you, Beta, I do not think it is either proper, or entirely safe. Perhaps you should mention it to the prince." Beta was quiet, contemplating what Lena had told her. Now that she thought about it, Nicolae and her husband WERE unusually close. She hadnt thought much about it, except to be grateful that he had some companion to keep him occupied and free her from the tedious occupation of amusing him. But the idea that Nicolae could ever form a passionate attachment was startling. She was so used to thinking of him as sexless that the revelation that he could desire anyone, much less one of his own sex, was a shock. "I suppose," she said slowly, "That it is almost a good thing. Nicolae is a sweet boy, and he deserves some happiness in his life." She brightened a little. "He IS happy. I remember how he used to creep about the castle, fearful of making the slightest noise lest Father be angered." "Your father was a harsh man, but he kept him in his place. I can understand Draculea using him to warm

his bed. He is a comely enough lad, I suppose," she said grudgingly. "But the man caters to his every whim. Nicolae has but to express a wish and it is granted. YOU have to beg for what you want." Beta shrugged. She didnt feel deprived, except when Lena brought such things to her attention. "He is more generous than most husbands." "And so he should be! But everything he gives you is like a sufferance. He gives to his little toy joyfully." Lena studied her charge. The noblewoman had never liked Nicolae, resenting the few crumbs of affection Beta gave the boy. Now she resented the fact that Nicolae was higher in Draculeas regard, in reality if not in show, than his bride. And since Lena estimated her own position in relation to Betas, that meant that the boy was usurping her rightful place. Nicolae was a thorn lodged firmly in Lena Abuls side. He knew that the woman disliked him, but had no idea of how deep the animosity went. While Beta might wish that the prince spend as little time with her as possible, Lena knew that the safest thing would be for the prince to love her madly. A man in love will go to great lengths to please the one he adores. Beta could be a beguiling little creature, but there was little chance that she could capture the princes heart while Nicolae was about: Draculea was besotted with the boy. Lena knew better than to try to turn the prince against his lover. Draculea had made it clear that he tolerated Lena only for Betas sake, and any direct attack on Nicolae, no matter how subtly presented, could be very dangerous. Lena had never been entirely satisfied with the explanations of Ernestus death, and had resolved to be very cautious in her own dealings with Draculea and Nicolae. Still, if she could turn Beta against the boy, she might eventually be able to insert a wedge between the two, especially if Beta produced the desired heir. So she began. "If the prince spent less time with his bed toy, you might conceive." "I hardly see how." "Really, Beta, such unmanly pursuits can hardly help but weaken his seed. And I know that the librarian has been talking about tutoring your child, once it is born. I hardly think you would want your precious baby under the influence of someone like him." "Oh, Lena, Nicolae is a good boy. He is one of the sweetest, gentlest people Ive ever known." "That may be, but he can hardly be considered a good influence, can he?" Beta shrugged. "It hardly matters, at least not now. There is no child, and not likely to be for months yet." Beta adjusted her dress. "I must go and tell Signor Vitelli that I cannot sit for him today, or indeed for the next few days." Signor Vitelli was the Italian painter Draculea had summoned to the castle to paint her portrait. All members of the royal family had to have a portrait. "He will simply have to find something to keep himself occupied." "That will not be a problem." Lenas voice was elaborately casual. "I expect he will use the time to work on Nicolaes portrait." Beta hesitated. "Nicolaes portrait?" "Yes, Beta. Didnt you know? The prince has commissioned a portrait of his librarian." This bothered Beta more than any other issue Lena had raised. Commoners did not have their portraits painted. What use would posterity have for them? She found the prince, Vitelli, and Nicolae in the library. Nicolae sat very still at a table loaded with books and parchments. The artist, a thin, intense man with a neat goatee, was sketching, his eyes flicking back and forth between Nicolae and his work. The prince sat to the side and watched the work, but his attention was mainly fixed upon Nicolae. Nicolae was the only one who noticed her. Again a sweet, pleased smile broke over his face, and she felt vaguely ashamed of herself. She didnt have much time for him, but he was always so happy to see her."Beta!" He jumped up to greet her, and the artist made a distressed noise. "Young master, I had almost finished."

"I am sorry, Signor, truly, You are very patient with me, and I promise to be as still as stone when you begin to paint, but a lady has entered the room. I cannot stay seated, can I?" The other two men noticed Beta at last. Draculeas expression was, as usual, unreadable, but the Italians showed clear reluctance. Still, his tone was civil as he said, "Ah, Princess! You are as lovely as ever. If the light holds today, I think I will make great progress." "The light is immaterial, Signor. I am afraid I cannot sit for you today. I am... indisposed." They all knew what she meant. The two older men merely shrugged, but Nicolae looked crestfallen. *I do believe that the boy wants the child as much as Lena and Stefan, and for much more unselfish reasons.* Beta thought. *Poor Nicolae. If what Lena says is true, it isnt likely that he will ever father children.* "Well, if the lady is not inclined to pose today, it will be an excellent chance to begin the young lords portrait." Beta frowned slightly at the title, and thought of correcting the painter when Nicolae spoke up. "Signor, I am no lord. The prince is kind enough to act as my patron, but I work for my bread." He looked around the library with shining eyes. "This is my work." Pride was not a common emotion for Nicolae, but he WAS proud of the library, and rightfully so. The change had been nothing short of wondrous. Where before it had been a dusty, damp, gloomy cavern, it was now a bright, airy place of comfort. He had persuaded Draculea to have two openings cut in the walls to allow light and air inside, and the prince had without urging installed rich stained glass windows. All the shelves were new, smoothed and stained. There were soft rugs on the stone floor and tapestries on the few sections of the wall that were not covered by books. The books themselves had never been in such good repair or order. As he had promised, Draculea had hired a bookbinder to teach Nicolae the skill, and the boy had spent many hours carefully stitching and gluing. All the books were ranked on the shelves in an array that was not only pleasing, but logical. Nicolae could find any given volume among the many, many hundreds in scant minutes Mircea, who had made a pilgrimage to Rome in his youth, said that, to his mind, only the Vatican had a better maintained library. Yes, the pride was well deserved, but still it bothered Beta. Nicolae was, after all, little better than a peasant, and what right did a peasant have to pride? The artist left to fetch his supplies, and Nicolae turned back to a manuscript he was working on, hoping to finish the page before he had to begin his enforced inactivity. He, himself, thought the idea of a portrait a bit above his station. But Draculea wished it, and there was little he could deny his lover. Beta beckoned her husband aside and said quietly, "Husband, is this wise? While I love Nicolae dearly, he is hardly a fit subject for a master artist." "Oh?" Beta knew immediately that she had made a mistake. The tone of his voice was cold and hard. "It is just that... that it is such an expense. Signor Vitteli commands a great price, does he not?" "You should know. I believe you looked more at the fees of the artists I suggested than the examples of their work that they sent. How is it that you are suddenly concerned about the state of my purse, Beta? It has not troubled you overmuch before. You have always been quick enough to ask that I open it. What makes this any different?" Beta was silent. She couldnt very well speak the truth: that those expenses were for the comfort of herself and Lena, therefor they should take precedence. Finally Draculea said, "I want this. That is the only reason that need concern you." As he began to turn away, Beta blurted, "You are very fond of Nicolae." Draculea stopped, turning to her again. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, but his voice was flat and almost challenging. "Yes, Beta. VERY fond." "You spend almost all your time with him." "A good bit, yes."

"It does not seem right that you should dally so much with a servant, wasting your time, while you have not yet given me a child." Draculea took hold of Betas arm and steered her quickly to the door, away from Nicolae. Once there he said quietly, "First, you will not call him a servant. Do you understand?" Now there was steel in his voice, and she nodded apprehensively. "Second, as to your barren state, I am TRYING give you a child. I make a greater effort than could charitably be expected, given your coldness and lack of interest." Beta gasped, but Draculea kept speaking, cutting off whatever she might have said, "And thirdly, I do not believe you would have come up with this unreasonable and selfish idea on your own. You would do better to change your counselors, Beta, before they lead you to mischief." "I only want what is rightfully mine." "You HAVE it already, Beta. You have the title, the position, the admiration of the masses, the luxury. What more you could want, I cannot say." She lifted her chin. "Your love?" Draculea blinked, then smiled slowly. It was not a kind expression. "Good God, girl, you do not want my love. You barely tolerate my TOUCH. You could be happy here if you simply allowed yourself to be. Many husbands and wives make long and peaceful marriages on less than this. No, Beta, you will never have my love. That belongs to another. And you are in danger of losing both my friendship, and my respect. Have a care." With that he turned to help Signor Vitelli, who was struggling through the door, trying to juggle an easel, a canvas, and various brushes and pots of paint. *So, it is in the open between us now,* she thought. *We will continue to play at the charade for the others, but now I know, and I cannot pretend ignorance to him.* She watched as the Italian artist fussed over Nicolae trying to get him arranged just so, in a manner that would make a pleasing portrait. Her half-brother saw her look, and smiled again, rolling his eyes expressively. Beta could not help but return the smile. She left the room thinking, *I hope I get pregnant soon. Perhaps then I will have some peace.* A last glance back into the library showed Nicolae sitting, relaxed and still, as the artist began to sketch on the canvas, Draculea standing close behind to watch the progress. *Let it be soon. I do not WANT to hate you, Nicolae.* end this part Back to index

Chapter 30: Part 30: Confrontation

Pairing: Very briefly, Lena/Beta Disclaimer: All but original characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker. Summary: Lena tries to blackmail Vlad into doing as she wants, but has the tables turned. Authors Notes: Sex toys are nothing new. There are records of them many centuries in the past. Child of the Night, Part 30: Confrontation The Year of Our Lord, 1460 Castle Dracula, Romania There were few things in the world that irritated Lena Abul more than seeing a man obtaining power and influence that she viewed as rightfully her own. With Nicolae Calugarul, the irritation had moved over into cold hatred. Despite her scheming and machinations, Beta had no more real control over the princes

household than she had when she arrived. That meant that LENA had no more control. Oh, if the princess gave a direct order, it would be obeyed. But if it was anything more than the most trivial task or request, the servants would go first to Simion for his approval. It did not escape Lena that Nicolae had only to hint that he wanted something, or desired some task performed, and the peasants practically fell over themselves, scrambling to please him. *The prince is not much different,* she thought disdainfully, watching the prince stand behind the young man as he carefully, thoughtfully, placed books on the shelves in the library. Vlad was holding a stack of volumes, handing one to him each time he held out his hand. It was disgusting. He was ASSISTING his own librarian. Lena approached as Vlad handed over the last book. Nicolae smiled his thanks and turned to place the last book on a high shelf. His head tipped back, and his hair swung down, brushing over his shoulders. He had stopped cutting it, no longer keeping it in the monkish crop he had favored before. And Lena could guess why. As she approached, the prince reached out, sliding his hand up under the silky fall of hair, letting it sift through his fingers. He caught the last few strands and tugged gently. Nicolae turned with a soft laugh, his hand going to Draculeas cheek. Lena deliberately scraped her foot against the floor, and the boy dropped his hand quickly. Draculea rubbed his arm, then turned cool eyes on Lena. "Abul. You bring a message from your mistress?" Lena curtsied. "No, lord. But I do have a matter of importance I would discuss with you." "So?" He looked at Nicolae. "You plan to visit Father Mircea, do you not?" Nicolae nodded. "Go now, then. I will come later. I suppose I should make a confession sometime soon." Nicolae beamed at him. "I will tell the father to expect you." His smile faltered, but did not die when he looked at Lena. "Lady Abul, my sister is well? I... have not seen her for some time now." *Of course you have not, boy. I take great care to keep you apart.* "She is in good health, Calugarul. Her spirits are another matter." His face fell, and he looked distressed. "What troubles her? Is there anything..." "Nicolae." Nicolae looked at his lover doubtfully. "I saw Beta last night, and she is as she always is: spoiled and marginally content. Go speak to the priest; it will calm you, as it always does." "Yes, Domn." Nicolae trusted Draculea not to lie to him. He might be mistaken, but he would not deliberately deceive him. "Lady, please tell my sister that she is in my thoughts each day and my prayers each night." "How sweet," Lena drawled. Draculea saw the flicker of pain in Nicolaes eyes as he started toward the door, and his own eyes narrowed. He waited till Nicolae was gone and went to sit at a table, beckoning Lena to stand before him. He did not give her permission to sit, so she remained standing before him. "Lena, I know you do not seek my company for pleasure, so what is it?" She stiffened at such a bald challenge. Lena had learned to use the subtle courtesies and facades of propriety to her advantage, and she disliked being forced to deal with anything directly. "As I told the boy..." when Lena called Nicolae a boy there was no affection in her voice, only contempt. "his sister is not in good spirits, and it is my duty to see to her comfort and happiness." "You take your responsibility seriously, Abul," said Draculea dryly. "Since your arrival in my household you have worked ceaselessly to change every facet of life here that you could. The furnishings are too heavy, the draperies too poor, the food too simple. The woman has had more gowns in a years time than most of my court ladies see in a lifetime. Under your gentle care she seems to have gone from a spoiled child to a difficult woman." Lenas voice was stiff. "I only remind her of what is due her station, prince." She folded her hands. "And what is due her station, my lord, is a child."

He studied her. "Abul, I tolerate such things from Stefan in deference to his grey hairs and exalted station as my advisor. If you were a man, you would even now be on the floor, and I would be considering whether or not I should continue your beating. It is only your sex and my wifes reliance on you that saves you from the thrashing that your impertinence has so richly earned." Lena paled even further, but she did not back down. "She frets about the security of her station, Domn. A child would cement that, and reassure her that she need not worry about being deposed from her position at court," she lowered her voice "as she has already been deposed from her position in your heart." He scowled, waving his hand. "Woman, do not play the fool, nor treat me as one. All but the babe at its mothers breast know that the chit has never had a place in my heart. She might have won one in my affections were it not for your influence, constantly goading her to discontent. As to the child, I have tried, Abul. I want a child, too, but it simply has not happened. I can command many things, but not that." "You could make a greater effort, prince." Draculea laughed harshly. "And now you would dictate my schedule for bedding your mistress? Good God, woman, is there no limit to your gall?" "When it concerns Elizabetas wellfare? No." "Im curious, Abul. I spill my seed into Beta on a regular basis. Nicolae and Mircea pray daily that we be blessed with a child, so heaven itself is on our side. How would you suggest that I better her chances of conception?" "Your regular basis is no more than twice each week, my lord." Her eyebrows rose. "I have cause to believe that you are capable of a greater effort." "I hardly think she would welcome that, no matter what you say." "She will be amenable. And there is no need to race away once the act is done. Closeness could not help but aid her quickening." Draculea stared at her in astonishment. Lena mistook his silence, and continued. "And if you would not squander your energy and essence on... other pursuits, then there would be that much more chance." Draculeas voice was low and dangerous. "What other pursuit would you have me sacrifice, Abul? Hunting? Our larders would suffer. Training? The Turks test our borders more and more, and we will have a confrontation soon. Would you have me soft and unprepared?" "I would have you chaste save for your rightfully bound wife, Domn. I would have you leave off your unnatural romps with your catamite at least until a legitimate heir is born." Draculeas hands tightened into white knuckled fists on the chairs arms. Lena truly did not know how close she was to death at that moment. Indeed, a year before, Draculea would have broken her neck with scarcely a thought, but now... While Draculea was not given to random cruelty, his wrath could be swift and terrible. Nicolae had been a gentling influence on his lover. The entire household had noticed this, but they knew Draculea well enough to see that the violence was still there, and they were careful not to provoke him, especially when the librarian was not there to act as a buffer. Lena, in her arrogance, thought herself in no danger. Draculea stared at the woman before him, fighting the urge to put his hands on her throat. It wouldnt do, though. Ernestus demise had been explained away in a reasonable manner, but Lena... It would be difficult to dispose of her in a manner that would not raise suspicions. And Beta was so dependent on the woman it was not impossible that she would fall into a decline without her. Despite Lenas worries, Vlad had not the slightest inclination to replace his wife. Though he would have preferred to live with Nicolae openly acknowledged as his mate, he was realistic enough to know this was impossible. The situation now was the best he could hope for: a wife who presented the proper image to the world while leaving him alone to enjoy the company of his chosen mate. In truth, there HAD been a few subtle hints from Stefan that perhaps the poor child was barren, and would be happier released from her vows. Vlad was well aware that what he truly meant was that perhaps it was time to free himself in

order to form another union that might bear fruit. Draculea ignored him. He supposed that a child would come eventually. If not, well... He could try with one of the court ladies. It wasnt unheard of for an illegitimate child to succeed, though only the royal families could expect such exceptions under the law. A substantial bribe, in the form of tribute, would have to be given to the Church, but it could be done. There was no hurry on that, but this should be dealt with immediately. He stood up and stepped close to her. "If you ever again refer to Nicolae in such a manner, I will strangle the foul breath from your body." Lena did not move away. She looked up at him. "Calling him by another name would not change what he is." The temptation was strong, but Draculea put his hands on her arms instead of her throat. He squeezed deliberately, and saw her flinch, sweat beading on her upper lip. "He is a good man, the most selfless and sweet natured I have ever known. I would much rather see you dead than see him suffer a moment of distress. Do you understand?" "I do. And YOU must understand, Prince Draculea, that if your unnatural attachment was ever spoken of publicly, ever presented to those outside your immediate influence, that it would hurt him terribly. You know what shame and humiliation would be heaped on him. You know the torment he would suffer when every religious leader save his own pet priest condemned him. Would you do that to him?" "Abul... do you dare to threaten me?" "I? Threaten you? Oh, prince, I am too humble, too lowly to be of any threat to you, surely." Her expression, a parody of hurt innocence, was grotesque. "You have nothing to fear from me. You need only fear the consequences of your own choices." She curtsied. "If you will pardon me, Beta will be wondering where I am." He watched her go, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side, then he began to pace. The bitch was threatening him in the only manner that had the slightest chance of succeeding. She had shrewdly guessed that, while he might brazen out any confrontation with his advisors, or even church officials, he would not want to risk Nicolae being hurt and shamed. The boys sense of self worth was still fragile, and he would be devastated if held up to public ridicule. It was even possible that someone ambitious in the Church or the legal profession would try to have him punished, because relations between men were officially illegal. He couldnt risk that, but he couldnt acquiesce to Lenas demands, either. It would be impossible for him to be near Nicu without touching him, loving him. It would kill both of them. There had to be a solution to this problem. Draculae went in search of Simion. He found his best unofficial advisor supervising the maintenance of his armor. As Draculea had mentioned, the Turks were being difficult, and they had to be ready. Still he left the task to a competent metalsmith and followed his lord back to his chamber. Once there Draculea told him what had happened, though his language was much blunter than Lenas had been. "The bitch says she will see to it that our love is a public scandal, voiced to man, state, Church, and God. I wouldnt give a damn, Simion, you know that, but Nicolae..." "Yes, Prince. This is indeed a sad situation. The wench may speak soft concern for her mistress, but it is her own position she seeks to bolster. She sees Nicolae as a threat." He shrugged. "She would see anyone who had any influence as a threat, and she knows that you only tolerate Beta, while you would do anything for Nicu. She wishes to separate you, and I think she believes that you will eventually turn to Beta, then she will influence you through her." He shook his head. "For an otherwise intelligent woman, her plan is remarkably stupid." "I cannot kill her outright, Simion." "No, prince. Even the most plausible accident would be suspect. While it matters little what the rest of the

world would think, Nicolae would suspect. Abul must be put back in her place without direct action." He smiled. Draculea returned his smile. "Judging from your expression, Simion, I would hazard that you have a plan." "Indeed, my prince." "What do you propose?" "It is simple. I think that Abuls own tactics should work very well." ****************** "Lena, its been so long since youve done it. Please." "Beta, you know we dont want to risk endangering any possible pregnancy." "My courses have just run, and he has yet to visit me again, so Im sure it is safe. He left to check the local supplies available on his lands, so there is no danger of him coming to visit me tonight. Please, Lena." "Very well, pet. It HAS been awhile since Ive taken you fully." In the narrow corridor between Draculea and Elizabetas room, the prince and Simion exchanged glances. Draculea settled himself comfortably against the wall and whispered. "You were right, Simion. They couldnt resist the opportunity. You are sure that Nicolae is occupied?" Simions voice was just as low. "I had one of the serving wenches ask him to teach her to write her name. She will be very stupid about it, and you know his patience: he will not give up until she succeeds." He smiled. "Not if it takes half of his parchment and all his ink, and you know how he prizes them." Draculea grunted, but there was a fond smile lingering about his lips. "My lord, it might be better to remove the woman from the castle, at least for a short time, after this. Abul will not like having her plans thwarted, and I do not trust the woman. Perhaps she could accompany her mistress on a short pilgrimage to one of the more fashionable shrines?" Draculea shook his head. "Impossible. It would be an excellent suggestion were it not for the unrest we have had lately. The bandits know that the army is focusing more on guarding our borders, now that the Turks are testing us, and they are much more active. It would not be safe for them, and as much as I loathe Abul, Beta must be protected while there is even the slimmest chance that she could be carrying my child. And you know how attached Nicolae is to her. I fear he would pine away if she were killed." "The boy loves strongly," Simion agreed. "Would that all he fixed with his affections were worthy." They were silent for a moment more. Now there were faint sounds coming from the princesss bedchamber, and Simion said, "I think it is time, Domn." He reached for the handle, but Draculea stopped him. "I think our entrance must be a bit more abrupt to be most effective, Simion. Allow me." He gently lifted the handle, disengaging it so that the door opened a scant crack. Then he took a step back, raised his foot, and kicked the door so violently that it slammed against the wall with a reverberating crash. He was through the door in a heartbeat, and Simion was right behind him. Both men halted after a few steps and stared at the tableau presented to them. They had expected to find the two women in an illicit embrace, but they were unprepared for what they saw. Both women were totally naked, a state seldom experienced by gentlewomen except when they bathed. Beta crouched on her hands and knees on the foot of the bed. Lena Abul stood behind her, grasping her hips. It took Draculea a moment to understand what he was seeing, and another moment to believe it. All Lena wore was a braided leather belt, slung low on her narrow hips. A dark object was attached in the front, and would have dangled there... would have dangled, but for the fact that it was buried deep in the slick pink folds of his wifes sex. Lena froze in horror, but Beta was in such sexual thrall that she did not immediately realize what had happened. Draculea watched in surprise as the girl gyrated and thrust herself back at her lover, moaning. She was showing more sexual heat in the space of those few seconds than she had during their entire

marriage. *Damn. If she had been like this, my weekly attempts at fatherhood might not have seemed such a chore.* Beta whimpered when Lena pulled out of her abruptly, and she looked back to protest. That was when her gaze fell on the two men who stood just inside the door, watching. Both women gave small screams. Both reached for the coverlet that had been folded neatly at the end of the bed, but Beta got it first, and wrapped herself in it. Lena threw herself on the bed, hiding behind her charge as best she could, trying to pull a fold of the material up to shield her nakedness. Surprisingly, it was Beta who first managed to collect her wits enough to speak. "How dare you! Leave at once." Draculea gave her a puzzled look. "Beta, you usually have better sense. I am your husband. No one can order me from your room, least of all you." He looked at Simion and said conversationally, "Simion, Abul called Nicolae a catamite. Tell me, is there a term for a female who engages in like activities?" "I do not think so, my lord. At least, I have never heard of one. I would suppose, though, that female catamite would do as well." Draculea walked over to the bed, followed by his advisor. "Well, Abul, it seems that I am not the only one whos private pleasures might not meet with universal approval." He gave her a hard smile. "And I hardly think that the world would grant you as much tolerence as I might expect." Her voice trembled. "No one would believe you. They would think it merely spite, an attempt to annul your marriage so that you could be with your..." His eyes flashed warningly, and she bit off what she had been about to say. "So that you could be free." "I have no desire to be free. Why cant you see that? If you will keep yourself to Beta and stop trying to make things difficult, if you will treat Nicolae with at least the bare minimum of courtesy, then I will be content. And as to not being believed..." He gestured at Simion, who bowed. "I have a witness. One of us might be discounted, but not both. So, Abul, you know what is necessary for you to continue in this comfortable life you have made for yourself?" She scowled. "I know." "Beta." He turned his attention to the girl, who looked confused, and softened a little. He believed that she was unaware of Lenas latest machinations. "Beta, I have no objection to your finding pleasure with your maid. I would be a hypocrite if I did. We never really pledged our love, but you DID pledge to remain faithful. It may sound strange, but I do not really see this as cheating. As long as you do not go to another MANS bed, I will have no complaint, but there must be no question of the legitimacy of whatever child you bear. Do you understand?" She nodded. "Good. No more will be said of this." He began to turn, prepared to leave, but he hesitated. Vlad stepped to the other side of the bed. Before Lena could avoid him, he caught her shoulder and threw her sprawling, back on the mattress. He planted a hand firmly on her belly, holding her in place, and turned a curious eye on the device she had been using to plunder Beta. It was a slightly curved, gently tapered cone of wood, sanded and varnished to a satiny finish. "No wonder I couldnt satisfy you, child." He touched one finger to the blunt tip. "You have here a cock that never flags. It would be hard for mere flesh and blood to compete." Draculea saw the malice in Lenas eyes. Leaning down, he whispered in her ear so that Beta could not hear. "If you are plotting revenge, consider this: if I survive, you will find yourself taking into your body a wooden skewer much larger and sharper than the one you use to fuck my wife." He turned without another look or word and went into the private hall, Simion following. In his own room, Simion poured wine for the prince. When Draculea accepted it, he directed his servant to take some for himself. "That should take care of it. The woman cares for Beta only to the point she can use her, and she will not risk her position now." Draculea shook his head. "I knew we would find them in a state that would allow me to blackmail her, but THAT... Ive heard of such things, of course, but I havent seen them. Just when I think I know the world, Simion, it surprises me."

As he sipped, a thoughtful, speculative expression stole over his face. "It was an... intriguing device. Simion..." he paused. "what do you think Nicolae would make of such a toy?" When his servant raised an eyebrow, Draculea cleared his throat. "Well, with the unrest, I may have to be away for a time. He could... I mean, if he liked... Im curious as to whether he would..." "He would prefer your touch, my lord. But I think that if he knew it would bring you pleasure, he would make a great deal of such a toy. I am sure that the workman who carved decorations on the new library chairs could produce one even finer than the one we saw. Perhaps even one more, shall we say, realistic? Shall I speak to him?" "Yes, do that." He smiled. "It can be a present for Nicolae. He does enjoy surprises." Simion chuckled. "I believe I can promise you that such a gift will most definitely surprise him, my prince." TBC Back to index

Chapter 31: Part 31: Poison, and Passing

Pairing: Nicolae/Vlad Disclaimer: All but original characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker. Summary: Lena continues to try to poison Beta against Nicu, and Vlad gives Nicu that gift he discussed with Simion. :). Authors Notes: A poppet is a doll. There were jointed wooden dolls in the middle ages. Warning: If sex with props squicks you, steer clear. Rating: NC-17 Child of the Night, Part 31: Poison, and Passing Time The Year of Our Lord, 1461 Castle Dracula, Romania "He doesnt love you." "Oh, God, Lena, I KNOW that! Why must you point it out to me at every turn? I rise in the morning, you tell me. I don my gown, you tell me. I break bread, you tell me!" "I would not have you ignorant of your danger, my love." The prince had broken in on them almost three months before. Lena had managed to keep to the standards that Vlad had set, mainly by avoiding Nicolae even more stringently than she had before. She was not sure how long she could keep it up. Beta twitched. Lenas constant harping on this theme was destroying her nerves. Testily she snapped, "I am in no danger!" "Whenever a woman of rank has a husband who loves another, she is in danger." Beta threw up her hands. "Lena, please, do not begin about Nicolae again. The boy himself would die before he saw harm come to me." "So he was once, Beta, when he was but an humble servant in your fathers house. Then he knew his place, and his devotion was almost... touching. But now... Beta, I fear that your husbands attention has turned the boy. Oh, I dont believe either of them meant you any harm when they began the affair." She shrugged. She was brushing Betas hair, drawing the elegant, ebony handled boars bristle brush through the shining fall. Each night she brushed Betas hair two hundred strokes. There were times when the back of the brush was used to drive home a lesson against Betas bare buttocks, also.

"Hes ambitious, Beta, and you know how dangerous ambition can be. If he werent, then surely he would have stopped the nonsense of his portrait before it went as far as it has. A few sketches, thats understandable. A master like Vitelli needs to keep himself fluid and practiced, but he spends at least as much time on the boys picture as he does on yours. Its a scandal." "Truly?" Beta looked concerned. "I had not heard. Does the court speak of it?" *Not as much as I would like. I dont understand why they seem so willing to ignore it. Its all I can do to keep the whispering going.* "Of course. Constantly. The fact that you still join him for devotions does not help matters, Beta." "But Lena, its practically the only time I spend with him now, and he enjoys it so much." "Is it for his joy that you hear mass and say prayers, Elizabeta?" Lena made her voice stern, though she knew very well that the devotions, with or without Nicolae, would mean little more to Beta than a routine, followed to satisfy convention. "Surely your contemplation would be deeper and more spiritual without his distraction." "I... suppose so." "I will tell Father Mircea that you will require a separate mass said each week--one that only you and I shall attend." As she had done most of her life, Beta refused the chance to think for herself, and turned the decision over to Lena. "Whatever you think best, Lena." ******************** Draculea went to fetch Nicolae from the library that evening, as usual. He was surprised when he found only Signore Vitelli, cleaning his brushes--"Signore, through so soon?" The artist shrugged. "I had hoped for another hour, after the young man returned from the chapel, but he cried my pardon. He seemed a bit upset for some reason." Draculea was instantly alert. He went directly to the chapel, and found Father Mircea just standing from lighting a devotional candle. He did not hesitate, but said bluntly, "What has upset Nicolae?" Mircea sighed. "Elizabeta has decided that she must make her devotions alone. She sent a prettily worded note saying that she feels the need for less distractions, that she felt this would draw her closer to God. Nicolae was waiting for her here. You know that her time in the chapel has become practically the only time they meet? When I showed him the note to explain why she would not be coming..." Mircea heaved another deep sigh. "He gave the most beautiful smile, saying that he was glad that Beta wished to seek God more fervently, but Prince, his eyes... He looked like he wanted to cry." The good father was startled by a short growl from the prince. "It will be Abuls idea. Damn! I dont see how I can correct this. If I order Beta to join him, Abul will make sure that he knows it was not her choice. Nicolae has made it clear that this is one aspect of his life with which I will not be allowed to interfere." Draculea stood, glowering, for another moment, and Mircea feared that his anger would override his logic. Finally the tall man shrugged. "Well, there is nothing I can do about this, at least not now. Ill have to see if I can cheer him up, and make him forget his abandonment, at least for awhile." "That would be the wisest course, Prince. How will you do this?" Draculea smiled slowly. "I have a belated Christmas gift for him. I would have given it to him last month, but I feared he would not think it appropriate for such a holy time. I will be required to leave the castle for a few days now and then to inspect my men, and he may find it a comfort in my absence." ******************** Nicolae was curled in a chair in front of the fire, staring into the flames, his knees tucked up under his chin, in the room he shared with Draculea. For the first time since he had come to live at the castle with his lover, he felt alone. He had known that Beta was moving away from him, had known it for some time. While he had lived at Castle Varga she had granted him odd moments of companionship, but now... He bent and put his forehead against his knees. *I just dont understand. What have I done? What have I

failed to do?* He had friends now: the castle servants and some of Draculeas men. They had all noticed that their master was more peaceful, more stable, since Nicolae had come into his life, and they knew that a calmer, more stable leader could not help but be a better leader. They were grateful, and they genuinely LIKED the boy. But it wasnt the same. Beta was the only blood that Nicolae had, the only blood he had ever FELT like he had, and now she had rejected him. He heard the door to the room open, but he didnt move. When the footsteps approached he knew who it was and, knowing who it was, could not stop a small, sad smile. When the hand fell on his shoulder he tried to make the smile sunnier when he looked up at Draculea. "My lord." "You are sad, my Nicolae." Nicolae shook his head with mild dismay. "Is there nothing I can hide from you, Domn?" "Nothing, Nicolae, though I confess that your secret was told to me before I came to you. Father Mircea is worried about you." "I must try to reassure him." Nicolae unfolded his legs, preparing to stand, but Draculea pressed him back down. "Peace, Nicolae. He knows you are all right--he is just saddened by YOUR sadness." He rubbed Nicolaes shoulder. "You cannot care for the entire world, no matter how you try, boy." Nicolae nodded, "I tell myself that, my lord, but the urge is still there." "Perhaps this is just a passing thing, Nicolae. She may return to her usual ways soon, but you must not grieve yourself over it. But tell me..." He knelt beside the chair so that he had to look up into the young mans face. "Is that all that troubles you?" Nicolae looked back into the fire. "Is it the trip I am to make?" Nicolae turned his eyes back to Draculea, and there was a pleading light in them. "Cant I go with you, Domn? I could make myself useful. I could help your cook, or care for Lucifer. He... he TOLERATES me now." "Nicolae, we have discussed this. The camps and fortresses I will visit are rough places, filled with rougher men. There are bandits roaming my land, and although we go well armed, there may still be trouble. I want you safe, where I need not worry about your physical safety." *And I will be leaving Simion to see to your emotional well being. He has my orders to do away with the Abul bitch if she steps too far above herself, or threatens you in any way, but you need not know this.* "I know, but Vlad, you will be gone for so long." "Only a bit more than a fortnight." "You may as well say forever." "Sweet." He stretched up as Nicolae leaned toward him, and they kissed. "I will miss you, also, but I have something that may help." He laid a cloth-wrapped bundle in Nicolaes lap. Nicolea picked it up, turning it curiously. "It is a gift. Just a toy, but I hope it may be some consolation to you while I am gone." Nicolae had no idea what Draculea could mean. It was about as long as his forearm, from palm to elbow, but from the feel of it, not as big around as his wrist. He felt it carefully, and said doubtfully, "I am rather old for poppets, Domn." "This, my love, is a most grown-up toy," Draculea assured him, a sly smile on his face. Nicolae unknotted the cord that bound the bundle and unfolded the cloth. When the contents were revealed, Nicolae studied it, frowning in puzzlement. It was a long cylinder--no, not a perfect cylinder. It was of pale wood, sanded smooth and it had been enameled a glossy cream. "What is it?" "Look at it more closely, pet. Touch it." Nicolae studied it more closely, running his fingers over it. The end was slightly bulbous, and there were thin, rounded ridges running up the side. Nicolae squinted at it. There WAS something a little familiar

about it. He picked it up and studied it from a different angle. "It almost looks like..." His eyes flew wide, his mouth dropped open, and red flooded his face. "Domn!" Draculea laughed. "Domn, it... it isnt...? Oh!" He put it down quickly. "What do you think?" his voice was teasing. "Oh, that is... is... wicked!" He gingerly touched it again with one fingertip. "It will not bite, pet." "Do not tease me, Domn," he said severely. "Where did you get this?" "I had it made." "But WHY? I mean... It IS... interesting." He ran his hand over it. Draculea wet his lips, watching the long, slim fingers move over the artificial phallus. "Beautiful, in a way." He turned an almost helpless smile on his lover. "But I can hardly put it up on display." "It isnt meant simply to be admired, Nicolae. Its for you to play with while Im away." "I dont understand." "Still the innocent." Draculea formed Nicolaes hand around the phallus, holding it beneath his own and began to move them both slowly. "Think, Nicolae." He nuzzled the boys neck. "How will you feel when I am gone?" "Alone." Nicolae whispered. "Empty." "I would prefer it to be me, love, but if it cannot be me, I want you to have some pleasure. This can fill the bodily emptiness, at least for a time." "Vlad, do you mean for me to take this into my body, as I do you?" The astonishment in his voice almost made Draculea laugh again, but he managed to control it. Nicolae was being as skittish as he had envisioned, and he did not want to add indignation to the boys already high emotions. "Do not be so horrified, my love. Not without thinking about it a bit." "I have ALREADY thought." He was staring at the object, round eyed. He tried to pull his hand away, but Draculea held it there against the staff. "No, pet. REALLY think about it." He stood, and put his lips against the boys ear whispering, "Feel how smooth it is? How hard?" He continued to move Nicolaes hand. The boys breathing sped up a little, and Draculea smiled to himself. "Feel." He guided Nicolaes finger along one of the wavering ridges. "The artisan carved the veins, and see at the end?" He indicated a tiny notch. "There is even the little slit that would spill the seed. Imagine, Nicolae. Imagine this sliding into your back passage, sliding deep, filling you. Think of it rubbing over that special place inside. Nicolae, if you control it, you can touch that special place repeatedly. Even I cannot do that for you every single time I enter you. And it will never tire, Nicolae. You could pleasure yourself for hours on end." "It would feel like I was betraying you," he whispered, but his hand was moving of its own volition now. "No, there would be no betrayal. I know you, my love." He licked Nicolaes ear delicately, and the boy closed his eyes. "If you do this, you will think of me. You will imagine that it is my cock moving inside you. I am vain enough to believe that it will not satisfy you like I can, but it might prove an adequate substitute. Will you at least try it, for me?" "Vlad, you are unfair," he murmured, turning his head to meet Draculeas lips. "You know how hard it is for me to refuse you anything that would give you pleasure." Vlad stood, taking Nicolaes hand to pull him up. "Then come and pleasure yourself, Nicu. That will pleasure me." He led the boy to the bed, then sat near the foot, dropping his hand. "Pretend that I am already gone, Nicu. You have spent the day in your beloved library, and it has been good, but you have not seen me for several days. Do you miss me?" "Oh, Vlad, you know I do." "Do you crave me, Nicu? Does your body ache for my touch." "Yes, Vlad." Nicolae was looking away from Vlad, and Draculea saw with satisfaction that he was,

indeed, imagining what it would be like when his prince was absent. "I need you." "But I am not there, I am far away. Poor Nicu. But you are not totally bereft, for you remember my gift." Nicolae looked down at the false prick, which he still held, and his expression was thoughtful. "Now, Nicolae. What would you do in such a circumstance?" "I would wish to dream of you, Domn. I would seek our bed, and hope that some scent of you lingered on the sheets and pillows." "You cannot go to bed dressed, boy." "No, Domn." Nicolae laid the staff on the bed and began to disrobe. Draculea watched avidly. He never tired of looking at Nicolaes body. He had changed only a little in the year they had been together. His muscles were a little heavier, a little better defined, but his skin was still almost as smooth and pale as it had been when Draculea first met him. The only appreciable difference was that now his hair swept down to his shoulders in a blue-black fall. When he was nude Nicolae stood for a moment, running his hands over his chest, his eyes distant and dreamy. He rubbed his nipples, and they rose quickly to hard nubs. "I would think, Domn, of how much I love the way you touch me." He pinched gently, his head dropping back. "Like this." Then he pinched even harder, biting his lip, and Draculea smiled. He had been surprised, but pleased, to find that sometimes Nicolae enjoyed rougher attention. "Yes, love, touch yourself." He watched as one of Nicolaes hands slid down his belly to brush the dark thatch of curls at his groin. "Feel, Nicolae, and you will see that the idea is perhaps not as distasteful as you first thought." Nicolae let his hand drop lower, and closed it around his cock. It was already half hard, beginning to rise from the cushion of his pubic hair. Draculea watched as he lifted his member, as if weighing it, testing its firmness. Then he ran his fingers down its length, as he had with the wooden prick, and Draculeas own hands twitched. One clear droplet of pre-ejaculate, like a glass bead, oozed from the narrow slit set in the pink cockhead, then another. As the young man slowly pumped his sex in and out of his fist, they ran together, drooling down to slick his shaft and make the glide of his hand even smoother. He paused, lifting glistening fingers to his lips, and put them into his mouth, sucking softly. He opened his eyes and fastened them on Draculea, then said. "It is not as delicious as your taste, my lord." Draculea smiled. "Sly Nicolae. It will not work, my love. I will not touch you now." He cocked his head. "Perhaps after you have tried your gift?" Nicolae did not quite smile, his expression rueful. "I think perhaps we know each other too well, Domn." He climbed onto the bed and gingerly touched the gift, which lay beside him on the sheets. "Its very large, my lord." "The ointment is on the table." Draculea undid the lacings at the front of his breeches as the boy reached toward the small pot that stayed beside their bed. Nicolae dipped his fingers into the cool salve, scooping up a generous blob of the white cream as Draculea pulled his own stiffened member free of his garments. "Prepare yourself well, Nicu." Nicolae lay back against the pillows at the head of the bed. He bent his left leg, and caught it behind the knee with his left arm, pulling it up toward his shoulder. Then he reached down with his right hand to the spread crease of his ass. His breath hissed slightly as he wiped the cool salve into his crease, spreading it generously over and around the pucker of his anus. He massaged, rubbing it in so that it warmed with his body heat, the white fading into a clear shine. Draculea began to masturbate, watching the slender finger circling the pink star. *He looks so tiny. I am always amazed that he can hold me so well.* When Nicolae slid the first slick finger in, they both groaned. Nicolae pushed deep, twisting his finger as he pumped it in and out, and quickly added a second digit. Draculea rubbed himself strongly, watching as his lover probed deeply into his own body. Nicolaes eyes were closed again, and there was an intent look on his face. Draculea murmured, "It isnt so easy for

you to find your own magic spot, is it?" Nicolae shook his head. "The toy, Nicolae. You can find it with the toy." When Nicolae opened his eyes, they were black instead of brown, the pupils dilated with passion. He picked up the wooden rod, and Draculeas pulse quickened. "Use the ointment, Nicolae. Grease it well." Nicolae reached into the pot again, then coated the bulbous head of the false organ. After a moments thought, much to Draculeas delight, he also smeared the cream far down the sides of the rod. Nicolae rubbed the tip of the phallus against his own straining cock, stroking the length, and getting used to the feel. It was not as warm as flesh, and it was harder--unyielding. But it was undeniably pleasurable, and now he was curious as to how it would feel inside him. He took a pillow and moved it under his hips, raising his ass a little, then spread his legs and bent his knees, placing his feet flat on the bed. Draculea shifted a little, moving to sit where he had a clear view up between Nicolaes spread legs. As his lover brought the phallus down and placed the carved head against his slightly spread hole, his hand began to move faster. Nicolae closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered, "Vlad." Then he began to push. It was something like when Draculea mounted him, but there was no solid, comforting bulk of a body pressing down on his own. The staff was a bit bigger than his lover, and, although he had prepared himself well, Nicolae felt a slight ache as the ring of his anus stretched to let the invader inside. Yes, it hurt a little, but the sensation caused by the friction was delicious. Nicolae pushed some more, and felt it slide in another few inches. He gasped, "Oh, it is so big, Domn! And unlike your cock, it is not so forgiving or considerate of my own weak flesh." "Take a moment, love," Draculea urged. "Just be still and feel it. Let your body become accustomed to it." Nicolae did as he suggested. It hadnt really felt BAD, and after a moment he began to be used to the unyielding feel. He turned it experimentally, and made a low hum of pleasure at the sensation. He could feel himself relaxing even more and, after a moment, dared to begin again. He applied more pressure, sliding it in an inch at a time. Suddenly there was a familiar burst of heat and pleasure in his bowels, and it swept quickly through his body, seeming to coalesce in his now throbbing sex. His hips arched, and he moaned. He heard his lovers voice say, "There! Ah, yes, sweet boy. You found it, didnt you?" Nicolae couldnt reply. During love play, at Vlads urging, he had tried before to reach that little nub that caused such intense pleasure, but he had never managed it. Draculea would always take pity on his frustration and seek it out with finger or cock. This was the first time he had ever managed to reach it himself. While he would have preferred his lovers touch, this was still good--VERY good. Eager now, he pulled back an inch, then moved it forward again. When he didnt immediately touch the sensitive spot again he whined impatiently, drawing soft laughter from his lover. Determined, he pushed harder. The feel of the hard, thick staff sliding so deeply into him distracted him from his pursuit. Hed always felt that Draculae filled him completely, but now he wondered. This toy was even larger than his love. Could he possibly take more than he did when Draculea fucked him? Curious, he exerted slow, steady pressure on the staff, feeling it move deeper, and deeper still. He heard a soft, wondering murmur from Draculea. "Damn, boy! Nicolae, so much." The sense of fullness was almost overwhelming, and he finally stopped, panting, feeling a heavy ache that was not unpleasant. He lay that way for some moments till Draculea, his voice tinged with concern, said, "Speak to me, Nicu. Are you all right?" When he spoke, the boys voice was a breathy drawl that reassured him. "M-a-aster..." He released his hold on the rod, his hands drifting up to glide dreamily over his own chest, tweaking the stiff buds of his nipples. His ass rose and fell lazily, and he purred at the feelings caused by the minute shifting of the phallus in his body. Draculea watched, feeling relieved even as his eyes followed the wavering of the short length of wood

protruding from Nicolaes taut stretched hole. He had thought for a moment that his lust to witness this act might have led his darling to injure himself, but it was plain that the boy was relishing it. "It feels good, Nicu?" "It feels... exquisite, but it will feel better." He reached back down, gripped the end of the staff again, and began to pull it out. Then he pumped it back in, slowly. He repeated the action, again and again, setting up a steady rhythm. Draculea moved only enough to reach the ointment, and slathered a generous amount on his rigid cock. With the added slipperiness, his hand fairly flew as he watched his lover fuck himself with the huge false prick. *I must use that on him before I go, but not this time. He has to learn a way to tend his cravings while I am gone. Ah, such a sight is almost enough to persuade me from my duties.* Nicolae suddenly lifted his hips, giving a soft cry as he again touched the special spot deep inside. Now that he knew where it was he was determined not to lose it again. He drew the wooden cock back a scant half inch, the gave it a tiny thrust, angling it. It rubbed over the spot again, and his next cry was almost triumphant. He began to work it in and out with short, hard motions, passing it over the little bump over and over. The pleasure moved from individual burst to a continual wave. With his free hand he gripped his lust-swollen sex and began to stroke himself furiously. The twin pleasures, prick and ass, robbed him of any coherent thought, and all he could do was strive frantically for release. Vlad felt that he HAD to touch Nicu, some way. He knelt between the boys wide planted feet. With his left hand he gripped Nicolaes knee, while he continued to squeeze and rub his rock-hard erection. Pre-ejaculate drooled from the slit in a steady stream, mingling with the ointment he had applied. He was tempted to pull the staff from Nicolaes body and mount him, burying himself into the hot channel that had been so well opened, but he did not. *Later, sometime before dawn, when he has rested, I will take him.* Nicolae wailed, hips thrusting upward. *I will take him HARD.* Nicolae grunted, and shoved the phallus into his back passage as hard as he could, at the same time reaching down to squeeze the tight, furry sac that rode just above it. His seed burst from him in a hot, milky stream, spraying past his belly, onto his chest. Even as he continued to work the phallus in his clenching ass, he smeared the warm, sticky liquid over the aching points of his nipples. He heard his lover groan. Draculea leaned forward so that his sperm bathed Nicolaes crotch. Nicolae gripped his own cock again, using his lovers essence to slick his flesh as he stripped the last of his own sperm. He felt the warm liquid dripping down to flow around the hard rod that impaled him, and he moved the phallus a few more times, drawing in a few drops of his lovers seed. Then his knees collapsed and he lay, panting, the phallus still sunk deep in his body. Draculea reached down and gripped the end of the toy, beginning to pull it out. Nicolaes legs moved a little, and he made a small purring sound. Smiling, Draculea pumped it gently a few times, and was rewarded with a quiet croon of sated pleasure. *I believe I could rouse him again, doing this, but we both need rest now." Draculea pulled the phallus out of Nicolae. Removing his own shirt he carefully wiped the instrument, reminding himself that he must warn Nicolae to clean it carefully after each use. Then he retrieved the cloth he had wrapped it in and swathed it, laying it aside. Stripping completely he climbed into the bed and lay beside Nicolae. The boy turned to him quickly, moving into his arms. Draculea held him for a moment, then pushed him back gently and began the slow, enjoyable task of licking their combined sperm from his body. When he was finished he again held the boy, one hand idly caressing his belly. "So, Nicolae. What do you think of your gift now?" He sighed voluptuously. "I still prefer you, my Vlad, but it will... will be amusing while you are gone. But WHAT ever possessed you to think of such a thing?" Draculea chuckled at the honest bewilderment in his voice. "Let us just say that we may learn things, even from our enemies."

TBC Back to index

Chapter 32: Part 32: Reunion

Fandom: Dracula Disclaimer: Only Nicu and Lena are my originals I make no money. Child of the Night, Part 32: Reunion The Year of Our Lord, 1461 Castle Draculea, Romania Draculea stroked Lucifers neck, and the great black beast snorted in appreciation. "Soon, old friend. We will sight home very soon." Lucifer tossed his head, as if offering hearty approval of this. He was a tough animal, but he was tired and eager to reach his own stall. His men and their mounts, none of them a match for their master and his steed, rode in weary silence. Draculea had set a break-neck pace.. The prince had many miles to cover, and he had been determined to make good time. He had a reason to hurry. This trip had been both heartening, and worrisome. It was not as disturbing as it might have been, because he had found that his men were well prepared. The bad thing was that the Turks were indeed beginning to press in on his beloved country, and this would not be the last tour. There were many more garrisons to be inspected, and it was important to demonstrate that the prince was both aware of the problem and willing to do something about it. His heart lifted as the castle came into view. When they rode into the courtyard, one of the guards at the gate (they knew better than to leave the entrance unattended, especially when they were under the eye of their lord) hurried inside, no doubt to announce his arrival. By the time he had dismounted and handed Lucifer over to an hostler, Simion had emerged. He bowed and said, "Welcome home, my prince," but the warmth in his voice softened the stiff formality of the gretting. "You have made good time. We did not expect you till tomorrow at the earliest." "Longing lends speed, Simion." As they entered the castle, Elizabeta swept down the staircase, with Lena not far behind. They both dropped curtsies, and his wife stepped forward to present her cheek. "Welcome, husband." Draculea regarded her dispassionately for a moment, then dropped a dry peck on the profferred cheek. "Greetings, Beta." "Well met, my lord. How fare our interests?" "Better than they might be, but not as well as we might hope. There is no great present danger, but it would be well to be prepared." She curtsied again. "I am glad to have you home, safe and well. If you will excuse Simion, I wish to speak to him about the household supplies. I have heard of a wine merchant passing through, and I think our cellar could be better supplied." Draculea thought of the hundreds of bottles laid up in the dark, cool rooms under the castle, but he nodded his agreement and watched as Simion climbed the stairs behind Beta. Lena was waiting at the head of the stairs. She stared down at him. When he did not drop his gaze she turned quickly to follow her mistress. Now that the formal greeting was out of the way, Draculea went in search of Nicolae. The library was empty. Draculea regarded the clutter on the main table with a slight frown. It was spread with a casual jumble of ink pots, quills, and parchments. The sheets were all covered with awkward scrawls that bore

only the faintest resemblance to Nicolaes elegant script. Draculea recalled that his lover had been teaching some of the castle staff to read and write. These, then, were their copy lessons. There was something not quite right here, and it took Draculea only a moment to recognize it. It was the mess. Nicolae had been raised in a monastery, and neatness had been ingrained. The young man always left his workplace tidy, even if he would be gone for only a moment. It would have rankled him to leave such disorder. Many times Draculea, come to fetch him, had waited and watched fondly while he quickly reshelved books and neatly stacked parchments. Only when the library was tidied to his satisfaction would Nicolae leave. What could have been urgent enough to persuade him to leave such an uncharacteristic mess? Draculea could think of three other likely places to search. He would try the chapel first, then the kitchen before going up to his room. Father Mircea laid aside his bible when Draculea entered. The prince exchanged greetings with the priest and related the state of military readiness. After the initial pleasentries, Draculea asked after Nicolae. He felt a thrill of unease as he saw Mirceas expression darken. "What is it? What is wrong?" Mircea thought, then said slowly, "You have been sorely missed, Maria Ta. The boy has tried to keep up a brave front, but..." He shrugged. "I have done what I could. Simion spent time with him, but it was not enough, I fear." Feeling alarm rising, Draculea said, "Is he ill?" "Oh, not in body," the priest assured him, "though he does not eat as he should, and he seems very tired. I think he has not slept well." Draculea understood. He had, himself, lain awake more than he would have wished, missing Nicolaes warm, quiet body sleeping beside him. The priest continued. "It is the state of his spirit that troubles me." When Draculea raised an eyebrow, the priest waved his hand. "No, not the state of his soul. But Maria Ta, he has become so QUIET, and you know how he chatters. At first his days moved at their normal pace. Then he began to spend more time here, praying for your safe return. But lately... Lord, he seems to be losing interest in everything. He has not worked at his copying for several days. He has even lost interest in teaching the servants, and he was always so patient about that." This was indeed troubling. Tending the library and helping others gave Nicolae such joy. It was not a good sign for him to neglect either. "His sisters distance is part of it," Mircea mused. "Beta scarcely speaks to anyone, except to complain or give orders. Well, anyone except her maids." Draculea scowled. This would be dealt with, but first he wanted... No, he NEEDED to see Nicu. "Where is he?" "He has taken to spending much time on the roof, Domn. He says he feels closer to God." "Huh. I would have thought he would have seen me arrive, and come down." "So he would, lord, were he watching the road. Had you not arrived today I have no doubt that dawn would have found him eagerly watching the road. Now, though, I believe you will find him at the back of the castle." Castle Draculea was built with its back close against the Vestalitz River. The river was deep and wide, and it offered protection on that side. Enemies could not approach, as the banks were steep and tall. In winter the river was rimmed with jagged ice, but it flowed too swiftly for the center to freeze over, even in the deepest cold. In spring it swelled with the melting snow, churning and foaming. Even when it was calmest the flow was swift and strong. Every year some unwary soul drowned. Even strong men thought twice before entering the water. The thought of Nicolae wandering high above the river was not comforting. Draculea hurried upstairs and went to the steps that led up to the roof. The moment he emerged through the open doorway he turned toward the back of the castle, and spotted Nicolae immediately. Draculeas heart clenched when he saw that the boy was siting on the low wall that rimmed the roof. Nicolae sat with his knees bent, his feet flat on the stone as he gazed out into the distance--a pose much

like the one at Castle Varga that had made Draculea compare him to a faerie prince. Draculea hesitated, trying to decide how to announce himself. Should he call out? Should he approach without speaking? Either way could be dangerous. If he were startled... He settled on allowing his boots to scrape on the stone as he approached. . Nicolaes head turned slowly, his black hair ruffling in the breeze blowing across the roof. Draculea halted, feeling a stab of dismay. Normally pale, the boy looked almost bloodless. The only real color in his face was the shadows under eyes that were far too weary. His cheeks looked slightly hollowed, and there was a sprinkle of dark stubble. When he saw Draculea, the listless eyes suddenly lit, kindling with joy. "Vlad!" His heart stuttered as the boy shot off the wall, but he flew toward him as straight as an arrow. As he came, the disturbing lassitude seemed to fall away. When he threw himself against Draculea, he rocked the bigger man back several steps. Draculea wrapped his arms around Nicolae, closing his eyes and sinking into the feel of the sturdy body pressed against him. Beyond the sensual pleasure he always felt at Nicolaes touch there was a quieter, more profound feeling--the soul-deep satisfaction of being with someone that he knew beyond doubt loved him. "Nicu." He whispered the boys name against his ear, burying his face in the softness of his hair. "Boy, what have you been doing?" The question was more than it seemed. He was asking more than the simple physical facts. Nicolae knew this, but answered simply, "Waiting for you." He squeezed hard. "You came back." Draculea frowned, and pushed Nicolae back a few inches so that he could see his face. He ran his thumb over one high cheekbone and said gently, "Did you doubt that I would? Nicolae, nothing but death itself could keep me from you." His eyes were fierce. "And even then..." Nicolae quickly pressed a finger against his lips, stopping words that he felt would border on blasphemy. He had warned his lover before of the folly of making someone else ones whole life. He had thought that he had avoided that particular danger. This last week had proven how mistaken that belief had been. He kissed Vlad, murmuring into his mouth, "Take me to our room. Take me to your bed." He pressed his cheek against his lovers and whispered, "Take me." Draculea drew his lover down the stairs, away from the disturbing drop on the other side of the roof. He led him back to their room. There he stripped both of them and, easing Nicolae back on the bed, began to make love to him. He tried to be gentle, but Nicolae was insistent, frantic, almost wild. For the first time in their life together he was aggressive, demanding. Draculea found himself thrown on his back by the younger man. He was hard, had begun to harden the second his lover had touched him, and his prick thrust from his groin in a thick, eager rise. Nicolae threw a leg over him and, without regard for oil or careful stretching, impaled himself. The sensation was incredible, but it always WAS with Nicolae. He was surprised when he slid deeply into his lovers body with little resistance. Nicolae was slick and already a little relaxed, and Draculea realized that Nicu had made extensive use of his last gift. Vlad watched the shift of emotions that flitted over his beloveds face as he sank down, filling himself. There was a brief flicker of pain in the young mans expression, but it passed almost as swiftly as it appeared, swalled in a look of almost sweet intensity. Nicu rose and fell, the long muscles of his thighs moving smoothly. It couldnt last. It had been too long for both of them. In only a few minutes both men reached a strong, shuddering climax. Nicolae spilled his seed over Draculeas belly and chest, even as he felt the hot pulse in his clenching back passage. Nicolaes body stiffened over Draculea, then slowly went limp, collapsing to lie loose-limbed atop his body. Vlad stroked Nicus back, feeling tremors slowly ease from his body. Nicolae murmured smething in a thick, sated voice. He would have been incoherent to anyone else, but Vlad understood completely. "I know, Nicu. I love you, too." In another moment Nicolae was asleep, deeply asleep. *Poor child. Hes exhausted. How much has he

slept this fortnight?* He waited another moment, then carefully rolled the boy off onto the mattress. Another moment and he gingerly extracted himself from Nicolaes embrace. He slipped on a robe and went to the door. As he had half expected, Simion was waiting in the hall. The blonde man entered silently and went to pour wine for the prince without being asked. He brought it to Draculea who, when he had taken the goblet, gestured for him to sit. Simion sat, tossing a glance at the slumbering boy, and said softly, "My lord, I would have told you, had there been time." "I know, Simion. What happened? I knew he was unhappy when I left, but this..." Simion shrugged, and his next words held something Draculea had never heard in the older mans voice--helplessness. "He pined for you, my lord. I did what I could. I even delegated many of my duties so that I could spend time with him, but..." He spread his hands. "I am his friend, but it wasnt enough." "What about his sister?" Simions expression hardened, and it was answer enough, but still Draculea said, "Tell me." ****************************** Beta was unpleasantly surprised when her husband came to her room not long after she had left him. Lena had been of the opinion that Draculea would be occupied with his bed warmer for some time. The ladys maid was dismissed with a silent glare that she dared not pretend to misinterpret. He indicated that Beta should sit, and brought her a goblet of wine, then sat across from her and began. "I dont ask much from you, Beta, but this I will DEMAND." Draculea watched the emotions flit across his wifes face. He thought that Beta was lucky to have married into her position. She would not have risen far, for she was not skilled in hiding her true feelings. Draculea could tell that she was torn between her own natural, if weak, affections for Nicolae, and the feeling of contempt and distrust that Abul tried to foster. At last Beta said haughtily, "You will dictate my companions?" Draculea sighed impatiently. "God, child, is that different from what most husbands do? Had I fully enforced my wishes, that viper that you nurse in your bosom would have long ago been scourged from my domain." Beta turned pale, but he continued. "I have stayed my hand many times, for your sake." *...and Nicus,* he thought. *Hes still so innocent in some ways. He would try to nurse a rabid wolf, and be surprised when it tore him.* "All I ask is that you spend time with him. Resume your communal masses, take at least one meal a day with him, visit the library. It will take scarcely an hour of your day, and it will mean the world to him." "he has Mircea, Simion, and the servants," she said sullenly. "It is not the same, and you know it. You are his blood, Beta." "My father never acknowledged him." Beta had been toying with her goblet--one made of rare Venetian glass. She gasped in alarm as Draculea snatched it from her hand and dashed it to the ground. It sent a spray of glittering shards and crimson wine across the rich rug--another recently acquired luxury. Any protest she had considered died in her throat as he seized her by the shoulders in a punishing grip, jerking her up from her seat. "Do you DARE speak so? When I came to court you I heard you chastise Varga for that ommision. You boldly declared Nicolae to be Vargas son, and your brother, and now THIS?" He shook her roughly. "Your tongue may wag, but I think it is Abuls words that you speak." What could she say? He was right. It occured to Beta that she could not remember the last time she had held an important opinion that had not been influenced--nay, dictated by Lena. Draculea continued. "My late absence was not easy on him, Beta. He showed me a cheerful face, but he was far too pale and thin. Simion has told me how it was for him. Before I returned he had even lost interest in his library and his students. He spent the last few days in either the chapel or his room--or on the roof."

His voice was quiet. "The news from the border is not good. The Turks are restless, and becoming more aggressive. I am going to be away more often, and I will not have him eating his heart out while I am gone. You will do this, Beta." Beta lifted her chin and said, "And if I don not wish to?" When he replied his voice was soft and chilly, and his eyes were frightening. "If you crave solitude, I can provide it. There are rooms in the castle, rooms you have not yet visited, where you and your creature, Lena, could spend the rest of your days in solitary communion. Of course, they are not as pleasant as these quarters. They are darker, and danker, and the servants seldom trouble with them. But I can assure you that once you take up residence there, you will not be troubled by Nicolae again." He paused, and when he spoke again the menace peeked through the civility. "Though I may visit you occasionally." Comma between "there" and "you". TBC Back to index

Chapter 33: Part 33: Preparations

Summary: Draculea reluctantly decides he must enter into diplomatic relations with the Turks. Notes: Please do not rail at me about the archaic concept of hospitality. You cant tell me that they dont still make compliant companions available to visiting dignitaries in some countries. Child of the Night, Part 33: Preparations The Year of Our Lord, 1462 Castle Draculea, Romania Nicolae had quickly returned to near normal once Draculea returned, and he did not seem too very upset when he learned there was to be another tour. However, the next time Draculea had to leave the castle to attend to affairs of state, Nicolae could not force himself to see his lover off. He left their bed before dawn, dropping a final lingering kiss on his lovers cheek, and went to the chapel. Father Mircea, also an early riser, found him there not long after, kneeling in prayer before the altar. He was already petitioning the Virgin and all the saints to intercede with God to give Prince Draculea a safe journey, and a safe return. His voice faltered just a moment when he felt the older mans hand come to rest on his shoulder. When he finished the prayer Mircea pulled him to his feet. "Up, boy. We will say a mass, yes?" Nicolae silently embraced the priest, and Mircea felt tears against his neck. Giving the boy a single, firm shake he said gently, "Despair is a sin, boy." There was a sigh, and Nicolae wiped his face as he stood back. Then his eyes shifted to a spot behind Mircea. The good father saw the tear-bright eyes widen. There was questioning, then disbelief, and finally a dawning happiness. Mircea turned. Beta was coming down the aisle, the rich brocade of her gown rustling softly. Beyond her he could see Lena lingering near the chapel door, then sitting in one of the pews. When Beta reached the men she hesitated, then bent forward and pressed a quick, light kiss on Nicolaes damp cheek. When she pulled back, Beta had to resist the urge to wipe the salt trace from her lips. She said, "Brother, shall we say a mass for the Princes safety, and the well being of our country?" There was an almost infinitesimal glance back at the scowling Lena, then she continued, "Will you pray with me each day, at least till he returns?" *What,* Mircea mused, *did the prince say to this woman?* ***********

The second trip was not as bad for Nicolae as the first. There were still long stretches of loneliness, but this time there was his sister, as well as his other friends, to help him keep the frightening blankness away. There was the gift for when the emptiness was more physical than emotional, and he clung to every faint trace of his lover he could find. He gently forbade the serving girls to change the cases on their pillows when they brought fresh bed linen. When it all got to be too much, he would hug Draculeas pillow, his face buried in the spot where his loves head had lain, deeply inhaling Draculeas scent. He wasnt happy, but it was enough. He found that he could survive his lovers absence, as long as he knew Draculea would be returning. Four tours were enough to inspect all of the border garrisons, and most of those in the interior. After the final tour, Draculea consulted with Stefan and his other advisors. "We are strong, but they are also strong, and they are many." He sighed. "As much as I hate to say it," he looked sourly at Stefan, "it may be time for diplomacy." Stefan closed his eyes in relief. "Thank God that you finally see sense, my lord." "Sense?" Bishop Alfred, the Churchs representative, said the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. *As it very well may,* Simion thought disdainfully. Alfred repeated the word, giving it an extra twist. "SENSE? Sense to bow to these... these heathen ANIMALS? These uncivilized CURS?" Draculea reflected on how the Turkish nobles, whose families could be traced back generations before Wallachia had come into being, who referred to the most sophisticated of his countrymen as infidels, would react to the bishops characterization. He said coldly, "Have I mentioned aught of bowing to anyone, Your Grace? If there must be war, then war there will be, but I owe it to my people to seek out avenues of peace if I may do so without showing weakness. Stefan, are they still offering to send envoys?" "They have never ceased, my Prince. Shall I send an invitation?" "You have not done so already?" When Stefan started to sputter, Draculea relented with a wry smile. "Yes, do so. Ill give them at least one chance to pull back. I would prefer not to go to war, but I will need compelling reasons." Bishop Alfred, obviously still displeased, said, "Prince Draculea, where will you meet these men?" Draculea waved vaguely. "Here, of course." "Of course? Of COURSE?" "Your Grace, have you been bewitched? You seem to be compelled to repeat what you hear. Yes, here, of course. It might be considered an insult to meet them in a lesser dwelling." Alfred spoke stiffly. "You will expose your wife to these barbarians?" Draculea thought. This could be a delicate matter. While the Turks would never present their own wives or daughters to westerners, would they view the same actions as reasonable, or as an insult? While he thought, the bishop said piously, "My Prince, the women must be protected. Let me suggest that the Princess Elizabeta and her ladies make a retreat to one of our convents. The Little Sisters of the Sacred Blood are close by, and can provide comfortable lodgings." "That sounds reasonable." He regarded the cleric coolly. "Can the sisters accomodate all the women of my household?" He waited a moment, watching the confusion grow in the bishops expression. "Ah, I see. You mean the LADIES must be protected, not the WOMEN." The bishops expression was still uncomprehending. Chivalry was fiercely upheld for nobles and royals, but common folk... Well, they were more important than cattle... at least in most cases, but one could hardly be expected to extend them such courtesies. In truth, concern for his servants welfare would not have occured to Draculea a year ago, but Nicolae had developed a fondness for the women and girls who served in the castle. Draculea beckoned Simion closer. "Simion, send the females away for the duration of this farce. Replace

them with men, and let them know that if they grumble at doing womens work, I can find an infinitely less pleasant way for them to spend their time." His other advisors exchanged glances. Though it was seldom officially admitted, in instances such as these, foreign diplomats were usually supplied with every comfort, including bed partners if they so desired. Only the most pious monarchs (and Draculea had never been numbered among them) formally prohibited carnal pursuits. Would the delegates have to practice abstention during their state visit? It would be most prudent to keep them in a good mood, but who would suggest such a thing to the prince? They relaxed when Draculea continued, "Bring a woman or two up from the village. And make sure you get seasoned ones--who knows what the Turks will want? Offer them silver--gold, if necessary." Most peasants went their entire lives without touching more than a few copper coins, and this sort of largesse could not fail to bring eager compliance. ******** Stefans formal invitation was quickly accepted. The Turks looked upon it as a chance to gain lands and other concessions without having to go to war. There was much discussion over who would go. It was a delicate matter. Delegates of too high a rank would indicate eagerness, while too low a rank might be seen as an insult. Finally two senior officials, Mahamoud and Ali, were chosen. They were crafty men who had survived many years of intricate political manuevering. After some mental debate, the sultan also sent one of his younger courtiers. Rahazad had not yet attained his third decade, and was, in truth, a former favorite. Rahazad had proven intelligent, at least to the point of making no difficulties when he was supplanted in his monarchs affections. This trip would lend prestige to his position at court. He was expected to listen, remain silent (save for pleasantries) while his elders negotiated, and present a favorable image of the Turkish court with his personal beauty and grace. ******* Nicolae was not overly sad that Beta would be away for a time, since Draculea would not be gone. The evening before she was to leave for the convent, he visited her in her chamber. Beta was grumbling, not an unusual thing. "I do not see why I cannot stay and entertain the envoys. One of the things that I looked forward to when I wed was the chance to meet the foreign diplomats. I thought I would be amused and entertained by the cleverest men from France, Britain, Italy, perhaps even the orient. So far there has been no one save that delegation of Russians." Her nose crinkled in disgust. "They wiped their hands on their hunting dogs, and I think they rubbed bear grease in their hair." "I expect there will not be much gaiety, Sister," Nicolae offered consolingly. "They will wish to concentrate on affairs of state." Now his tone became almost apologetic. "And politics are not within a womans scope, save in very special cases." Lena snorted. Abul was of the opinion that she, herself, could understand politics very well. "That is not why he sends her away, Librarian. He fears for her chastity, if not her very life." Nicolae frowned. "Lena, these are Turkish nobles. They will be the most civilized, cultured men of their court." "Pah. Calugarul, they are from a land where a man may have four wives, and may own as many whores as he can afford." She laughed harshly at his blush. "Saints, boy, have you not listened to the tales told by the young rips here at the castle?" She smiled cruely. "No, I expect you stop your ears and run to say a Hail Mary. You should be educated, so listen closely." Her eyes glittering, she leaned close to the young man, who had to fight an instinct to flinch back. "The Turks are the most carnal beasts to walk the face of the earth. To find their like, you would have to look back to the debauches practiced in Rome before the Blessed Church gained power. None are safe from their outrages--not women, men, children, or even," her voice lowered suggestively, "the beasts of the field, or so I have heard."

Nicolaes face went slack with horror. "No, not the children?" "Oh, aye, the children. Though I do not think they usually bother with suckling infants, as Tiberius did." Lena grinned as Nicolae covered his mouth, clearly ill at the implication. "No, I think they let them toddle and lisp before they take them. But the greatest prize, I have heard, is a fair skinned boy or girl who has not yet grown their adult hair." Nicolae was too shocked by these revelations to wonder much at Lenas crudity, or how she had learned such things. "It is good, then, that you and Beta and the others will be gone." Lena nodded, and went back to packing Betas trunk, layering in the substantial number of garments they would be taking. There might be no one there to impress but a few nuns (who had most likely taken a vow of poverty) but Beta would need to change at least thrice a day. "If I were you, Calugarul, I would be careful. One of the Turks may take a liking to your pretty face and slim body." She closed the case and cocked her head at him, saying maliciously, "Someone like you--pale, comely, well-spoken--you would fetch a good price on their slave block. The old men would fairly drool." "Lena, enough." Beta did not like the look in Nicolaes eyes. The older woman was clearly trying to frighten him, and she seemed to have succeeded. Lena only shrugged and smirked. Nicolae went to his room, telling himself that these were only rumors. Lena had heard, she had been told. Surely they were merely stories that had been magnified and distorted through many retellings. *I have never pre-judged any man, I must not do so now. If I had...* He smiled softly. *I would have fled from Vlad in shrieking horror after some of the things Id heard about him.* A part of Nicolae knew that the tales hed heard about his lovers previous cruelty and violence could not all be false. He also knew that if he asked directly, Draculea would answer him honestly. Finally Nicolae knew that he would never ask because he did not want to believe the man he loved was capable of the atrocities he had heard attributed to him. The main reason NIcolae would never confront Draculea was because he knew that no matter what Draculea had done, he would still love him, and Nicolae thought that could very possibly drive him mad. The women left that next morning, Beta and the court ladies going to the convent, or family estates, the servants going to the village or nearby farms. All would return when the envoys left. ****** The Turks were met a few miles past the border by an escort of Draculeas men-at-arms and courtiers. The message presented by the mixed group was that Draculea did not necessarily expect trouble, but he was prepared to meet force with force, if necessary. Stefan, despite his age, had made the journey. Greeting the three diplomats at the head of their own small group of soldiers, he marveled at how much could be communicated by show and symbol, entirely without words. They began the journey back to Castle Draculea, a trip that would take nearly a week, due to the more stately pace they would maintain in deference to their visitors. Stefan welcomed the time, hoping to lay the groundwork for a smooth agreement. He knew his master. Draculea seemed to have mellowed somewhat in the last year. At least there had been no more mass public impalings. Executions had been carried out quickly and cleanly, with a minimum of torture. But Draculea was a fiercely proud man, and viciously protective of all that was his. If he thought the Turks believed him to be a negligible threat, if they insulted him, even subtly... Well, it was entirely possible that the envoys would be returned to their sultan packed neatly in canvas bags, and Wallachia would be at war. Two days before the ambassadors were to arrive, a quartet of women arrived at Castle Draculea and were led, giggling, through the great hall toward the domestic quarters. Nicolea, in the library as usual, heard whispering female voices, and went to investigate. He found them huddled together near the door to the kitchen, and, curious, approached them. They fell silent as the handsome young man with the friendly smile approached. All bobbed clumsy curtsies, and he said, "Please, good women, do not bend your knees to me. I am no lord--I work for my bread tending the princes library."

The women relaxed slightly. From Nicolaes fine clothes and gentle speech they had assumed he was a noble, but the gentry never sought employment, save as attendants to those of higher rank. The eldest, Marguerite, a hard-faced veteran tavern wench approaching her thirtieth year, smiled back at him. "Well, now, if you was one of them they brought us here to service, Id say it could be scarcely counted as work." All of the women saw the incomprehension in Nicolaes eyes, and there were a few good natured titters. The older woman said, "Ive no idea why the castle wenches were sent away, but its more luck for us. What the Princes man offered will see me comfortable for near a year, if Im careful." There were murmurs of agreement. Understanding now, Nicolae studied the women. One could be counted a girl, as she was younger than he had been when he first met Draculea. But there was a certain... awareness about each of them. He did not tell them that they could refuse this duty if they chose, because he could see that it clearly WAS a choice. Instead he said, "I have been teaching the staff. I suppose you will not be here long, but if you so desire, I may have time to teach you to read and write your names." The women looked at each other, then at Nicolae with doubt bordering on disbelief. None of them could recall anyone ever encouraging them to learn anything beyond simple catechisms and prayers. At last the youngest ventured, "You are kind to offer, sir, but I am far too stupid to learn such things." "What is your name, girl?" "Jane, sir." "Jane. Come here, Jane." He led her to a table in the kitchen, one where a great trough of dough was rising. "I hope the cook will forgive me this mess." He sprinkled flour on the boards, then smoothed it into a thin film. "Do you fish, Jane?" *The poor, pretty man must be mad.* "I have, sir." "Can you draw me a fish hook?" She glanced at her companions, who shrugged, as if to say, "Give him his way. Where is the harm?" Hesitantly she touched her fingertip to the tabletop and drew it down, then curved shallowly up to the left. Nicolae smiled at her. "You have written the first letter of your name, Jane." "Sir! Do not tease me so!" "I do not. It is simple script, not the formal style of my manuscripts, but any who can read could tell it plain." He sketched in the flour as the others, curious, gathered to look. "a--n--e. Jane." The girl delicately touched each letter with a white dusted fingertip. "This... is me?" He nodded. The look she turned on him was so admiring that he blushed. Simion entered the kitchen, followed by two men bearing large buckets of water. The men poured the water into the great pot hung over one of the kitchen hearths, then began to stoke the fire under it. Simion came over and studied the letters etched in the flour. "Librarian, why am I not surprised?" Another two men carried a bathing tub into the servants quarters as Simion handed the women towels and lumps of soap. He bowed slightly to the women. "Ladies." The women were again surprised. There was no irony in his voice when he used the term. "Your first task will be to bathe." The eldest woman tried to hand her supplies back to him. "No need, sir. I wash my hands and face every day, and I washed my feet last Sunday." Simion folded his arms, refusing to take back the items. "Lady, the Turks are peculiarly fastidious. You must get into the tub and bathe all over." There were gasps. One of the women declared, "It is indecent! A mortal woman should be washed entirely twice--once at birth, and once before she is laid to rest. More is not only immodest but... but UNHEALTHY." Simion shook his head. "You are lucky we do not insist you be shaved, as I have heard they favor." Jane looked as if she might faint. "It will not harm you, and if you fear for your purity..." here there WAS a

touch of irony, "Father Mircea will hear your confession." "Really," Nicolae urged, "it is most pleasant." He touched the white, waxy lump that Jane held. "This is called soap. It is remarkable. It foams like beer, but..." With a smile Simion returned to preparing the castle for the envoys arrival. He had no doubt that Nicolae would charm the women, and they would soon be cleaner than they ever had been before, or would likely be again. *I only hope the bolder ones do not invite him to lend a hand. More than a year with my lord, and the roses still bloom in his cheeks at the slightest thing.* ******** Father Mircea was a bit surprised when Draculea came alone to the chapel and indicated that he wished to make confession, but he was more than willing to perform the office. He took his place in the box, and slid aside the panel when the prince was seated. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been more than a week since Nicolae last hectored me to confession with silent reproach in his eyes." Unseen Mircea smiled. Draculea continued. "Let me think... I have avoided sloth, gluttony, and avarice, but I suppose by boasting such I am guilty of vanity. I am afraid I have been proud, as usual. Anger...? Yes, I have been angry, and impatient. I have harbored uncharitable thoughts, particularly about one of my wifes maids, but that is nothing new." He fell silent. Sighing regretfully, Mircea said, "Is that all, my son?" The silence continued. Through the screen Mircea could see the stern, handsome profile of the prince. He dreaded the day that Draculea chose to confess his infidelity and fornication. Indeed, Mircea wondered if Draculea would ever make that confession, for he knew that the man did not see his relationship with Nicolae as a sin. Mircea was content to leave it at that if he could be sure they would live a long life together, and he could attend Draculea at a peaceful deathbed. He had no doubt that then the prince, to comfort his gentle companion, would perform the proper ritual. But with the present unsure state of affairs, he could not help but worry, and he had to ask. "Prince, is that all?" Draculea looked through the grate, and his blue eyes were chilly. "No, Priest. I have committed no other sins that need confessing." *For loving Nicu is no sin.* Mircea thought. *If I sin in this, may God forgive me, but I cannot help but agree, my Prince.* Bowing his head, Father Mircea began to speak the words of absolution. TBC Back to index

Chapter 34: Part 34: Forbidden Fruit

Authors Notes: Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker. Summary: The Turkish envoys arrive, and one of them makes a grave mistake. The Year of Our Lord, 1462 Castle Draculea, Romania Rahazad was not impressed by the first sight of Castle Draculea. Granted it was of imposing size, but seemed very rough compared to the sultans palace. He had kept his eyes open on the trip, noting men and fortifications. Both were more than he would have wished. Still, the bounty of the land they passed through convinced him that it was worth the risk.

He noticed the castles secure position, with the river at its back and its thick, high walls. A siege could be both tedious and dangerous if the castle were well supplied and word could be sent to Wallachian forces stationed nearby. Rahazad turned his mind from such practical concerns toward anticipation of easing the discomfort he had suffered on his journey. Rahazad had been raised to be a courtier. His training in the military arts had been mostly token efforts. He had never yet engaged in true battle. He was used to regular meals of carefully prepared delicacies, soft beds, and the attendance of comely servants who catered to his every need and whim. He had not been allowed to bring even a single concubine or body slave. Two dour men attended the three ambassadors. As they entered the castle courtyard, Rahazad looked forward to good food, decent wine, and the chance to bed a serving wench or lad. This was his first time among these infidels, and he found the idea of their pale skin exciting. So far, though, he had seen no women (not even in the streets of the village), and the men had been too rough, grizzled, or dirty to inspire attraction. His hopes rose when he saw the people gathered in the courtyard to greet them, but again there were no women. Still, as they dismounted he took note of several likely young nobles in the assembly. The Wallachian prince who came forward to welcome them was a handsome man. His stature was impressive, and he bore himself with grace, but more pride than dignity. There was a sense of barely leashed power about the man, and the elder statesmen took note. They had expected this to be an easy venture, believing from Stefans missive that they would find his master reasonable, if not eager to please. One look at Draculeas cold expression and the pale glitter of his eyes was enough to wipe away their hopes of subtly bullying the prince into concessions. Rahazad, more of a fool than his patron would have wished to believe, saw only that the prince was not to his particular tastes. Draculea moved forward to welcome the men officially. He studied them closely as Stefan made the introductions. Mahamoud, Ali, and Rahazad: two wise old dogs and a puppy. He watched the grace with which the young man made his deep bow, somehow managing to keep the red tassled hat securely on his sleek, dark head. That observation brought the ghost of a frown to his face. Soldiers, of course, were not expected to remove helmets, but it was generally held protocol to greet a monarch bare-headed. He had allowed the few Jews who came into his presence to retain their skull-caps, in tolerance of their religion, but this... He decided to give the Turks the benefit of the doubt. He could let it pass, seeing as they were out of doors. Draculeas manner of address was polite, but not in the least fawning or flowery. "My most noble and respected visitors. I make you welcome in my land, and in my own home." Mahamoud thought, He tells us that he might have received us in a lesser place, but chose to honor us in this manner. That is good. "May God grant that we reach an accord that will allow our hard-won peace to continue." He reminds us of the losses he has dealt us in the past, and they are considerable.

"May He also grant us the wisdom to recognize the path that will lead us to what He has planned for us." And that says that he will not be ruled by his advisors. If they conflict too strongly with his own feelings, they might well suffer for their importuning. We will have to step carefully with this man, but we must not appear weak. The company entered the castle, and Draculea excused himself to confer with Stefan. Simion took charge of the envoys. He bowed and invited them to follow him up the grand staircase. Most of the luxuries that Beta had accumulated during her marriage had been moved into the three rooms that the envoys would occupy. Nicolae, visiting the rooms the day before, had found the opulence nearly suffocating. The Turks took it as their due. The rooms were side by side along one corridor. In Mahamouds room, Simion informed them that they had only to ask for anything they needed. There would be a formal banquet of welcome that evening. Negotiations would wait until the next day. When Simion excused himself, Rahazad begged leave of his seniors and followed him out into the hall, saying, "You are called Simion?" Simion eyed him. He will not call me sir, but hesitates to call me slave. Arrogance and caution--an odd mix. Simion bowed. "So I am, Domn. Is there aught you need?" "I have a question." Simion lifted his eyebrows in an attitude of polite readiness. "How do you westerners produce children?" "I... Domn, I would assume in the same manner as you and your countrymen." "We require women for this, Simion. That is a commodity that your otherwise rich land seems to lack." Ah. "My lord, you have arrived at a time when our women folk habitually make a retreat in order to meditate and refresh their spirits. However, if you require the comfort and companionship that only the fair sex can provide, there are a few in the domestic quarters beyond the kitchen. One might be brought to you." "Is it permissible for me to visit them there?" He smiled. "Im sure you can understand my desire to see which of the fair ones would prove most congenial." You would pick and choose. Understandable. "Of course, Domn. If you would care to come with me now?" Simion led the young Turkish noble downstairs. They passed through the kitchen, dodging the men who bustled to prepare the banquet (none of them daring to mutter about the domesticity of their assignment). The women had been instructed to wait in a small common room, which had been furnished simply but comfortably. As part of their promised pay they had each been provided with a simple set of new, modest clothes--the sort that respectable women of the merchant class might wear. They all looked up when the men entered, then stood quickly. Simion they knew, so their attention fastened immediately on the other man. He was young, not long into his twenties. His clothes, though a bit dusty from travel, were of strange design. The trousers were loose and flowing, and the colors were brighter than any they had ever seen outside a flower garden. The effect was exotic.

He was handsome, though his looks were unfamiliar. The hair that peeked from under his cap was black and a bit coarse. His eyes were nearly as dark as his hair. He was clean shaven, with nut brown skin. His features were strongly drawn, with an arrogant thrust of nose and jut of jaw. The eldest whore regarded his wide mouth, took note of the faint, petulant droop at its corners, and hoped that he would not choose her. This young man believed that many, many things were rightfully his, simply because he was who he was, and he would not be easy to please. Rahazad looked the women over silently. Very poor. Even the merchants of Turkey have better slaves than this. Still, it would not do to disparage their hospitality. Two of them are not so bad, I suppose, thought they look well used rather than experienced. "Charming, Simion. Tell me, are there any young men of the court who are..." he considered his words, "sportive?" Three of the women looked confused. Marguerite rolled her eyes and murmured something about how lucky it was that most common folk did not share the nobles tastes, else it would be hard for a woman to earn her bread. "I expect, my lord, that one or two of the minor gentlemen in attendance would prove amenable. If you are patient for but a few more hours, I do not doubt that you will find companionship." He bowed. "Shall I show you back to your room? There are tasks to which I must see." Rahazad waved him on. "I can find my own way." Simion left, and he turned his attention back to the women. At last one of them ventured, "You speak our language very well." "I speak several languages. My Latin is probably the equal of your priests, and I speak French and German as well." His smile was both condescending and leering. "I have a talented tongue. Perhaps I will demonstrate my skills for you later." As he spoke, he put his hand into her bodice and squeezed, none too gently, testing the firmness of her bosom (and finding it disappointingly loose.) The door opened again, and he turned, expecting to find Simion, urging him politely to repair to his room. An unfamiliar voice said cheerfully, "Look, Marguerite, Ive brought you more parchment. You mustnt give up, now that youve made such excellent progress. Im sure... Oh." Rahazad gazed at the man who had just entered the room, and felt an immediate spark of interest. He was young, still several years younger than Rahazad. He was tall, and his simple clothes showed a trim body. Hair as dark as Rahazads own, but with a satiny sheen, tumbled low on his forehead and brushed his shoulders, longer than what seemed to be the current fashion in the land. His eyes were a deep, soft brown. They were large, with a slight tilt that would have made him suspect that the boy had Mongol blood, if it were not for the fineness of his features, and his complexion. Oh, his skin! Merciful Allah, the women in his court would kill for skin like that. Staring at Rahazad, the boy was blushing, and it was like milk and honey poured over rose petals.

The wide, dark eyes flickered away, and he stammered, "I... I am sorry. I..." He laid the parchment on a table and backed quickly toward the door. "Ladies, if you want, later... If you have time, I... The library. Im sorry." He was gone. There was silence for a moment, then Rahazad breathed, "Who was that?" Jane piped up, "That was Nicolae the Monk. He is librarian here." Speaking as if thinking aloud, Rahazad murmured, "He is beautiful." Then he slapped Jane briskly on the rump. "Come to my room tonight after the banquet." When he had gone, Marguerite said, "We should have told him." Another whore, named Anne, shrugged. "Its not our place." "But he might get himself killed." "So? If hes stupid enough to make advances to the princes sweetheart because his prick leads him on before he finds out whats what, its his own fault." "But shouldnt we at least warn Nicolae?" This gave the women pause, but at last one of them, Martha, shook her head. "I doubt hed believe it. Hell, he hasnt yet noticed that he gives us all damp drawers, has he?" She patted Jane on the shoulder. "Well, lass, youd best set yourself for tonight. I have a feeling that you may learn a thing or two from that heathen." Librarian. Rahazad liked that idea. Most courtiers made at least a token effort at training in the military arts--swordplay, archery, fisticuffs--but a scholar... The library was easy to find, but it was empty. Rahazad entered and looked about. He was impressed. The sultans ancestors had revered learning, and had built a large library of their own, but this surpassed it. Could the young man hed seen really be responsible for this? Rahazad examined several volumes, noting neat repairs. Sheets of copy work on the table showed meticulous, but elegant, script. Hes talented. Talented, and beautiful. No doubt intelligent, too. A true prize. If I could present such a treasure to the sultan it would be a coup. It is not unthinkable that a servant could be made part of the settlement. The door opened and the boy entered. He halted when he spotted Rahazad, watching him cautiously from under a dark fringe of hair. Rahazad gave him his most open, friendly smile. Nicolae could not help responding with a tentative smile of his own. Mindful of the visitors rank, he made a bow and waited to see if he would speak to him. The Turk touched his forehead in a greeting that was meant to flatter the young man (since he did not believe him of sufficient rank to deserve it.) "Greetings. I am Rahazad ibn Hamara. You are Nicolae the Monk?"

Nicolae bowed again. "Nicolae, sir. Calugarul, the Monk, is a title no longer appropriate. I left the monastery long ago, and will not return. I am custodian of this library. Is there anything I can do for you?" "There may well be, Nicolae." He indicated the table. "This is your work?" "Yes, Domn." He went to the table and began to neaten the already tidy contents. "I am now copying a book that details the life of Saint Francis of Assisi. When I am done, the book will be returned to their order." "You write a fine hand. Can you read as well?" Rahazad knew very well that one thing did not necessarily guarantee the other. There were many skilled copyists who were illiterate. "Oh, yes, Domn! It is one of my greatest pleasures." His eyes, shining, roamed over the well filled shelves. Rahazad stepped closer, and his voice was soft. "What are your other pleasures, Nicolae?" Something in the mans silky tone alerted Nicolae, and he looked at the Turk sharply. During his time at Draculeas court he had come to recognize when a man desired him. Oh, the nobles of the court never made any direct advances--they all had better sense than that. Still, Nicolae had learned to recognize the caressing glances and change in breathing. When Rahazad moistened his lips, Nicolae knew for sure, and he took a step back. "I pray, Domn." Rahazad did not take the implied rebuke. He moved closer, saying, "Then you are used to spending time on your knees. How fortuitous." Rahazad was between Nicolae and the door, and Nicolae began to try to edge around him. "If you will excuse me, Lord, I must go." Still smiling, he moved to block Nicolaes escape. "No, boy, I am not ready to excuse you." Nicolae kept trying to move around him, but Rahazad countered every move, seeming to be quite amused by the boys tentative efforts at escape. "Sir, please." "Youre not an innocent, boy. I will not believe that one such as you could escape untouched at any court, not even that of your own pope." Nicolae gasped in shock at the sacrilege. Rahazad said, "Come now, no need to be so skittish, pretty one. I wager I can show you more pleasure than your most skilled lover." Nicolae drew himself up with dignity. "Sir, you must not press me. I have pledged myself to someone. I belong to him, and I want no other." Rahazad made a dismissive gesture. "He will never know, and I can make you want me." He lunged suddenly, grabbing Nicolaes wrist and jerking the boy into his arms. The grip on his wrist was bruising. Nicolae felt the Turks free hand tangle in his hair, holding him fast as Rahazad brought his lips down on Nicolaes. Nicolaes cry of protest was muffled against Rahazads mouth, and the Turk took the chance to thrust his tongue deep into the hot, sweet depths of the boys mouth.

The envoy was enjoying the tensed feel of the body against which he pressed, relishing the librarians obvious reluctance, when the pain struck. He released Nicolae with a yell, clapping his hands to his mouth in astonishment, unable to believe what had happened. The boy had fled from the library before he could bring himself to admit that he had, indeed, been bitten. Stunned, Rahazad dropped into a chair. There was a coppery taste in his mouth. He put a finger in, gingerly touching his tongue. When he withdrew it, his fingertip was smeared with thin, bright blood. He grinned. By Allah, a fighter! How long has it been since I took an unwilling partner? He moved his tongue, sucking at the trickle of blood. Complete and immediate submission can become boring. He stood up and strolled out of the library, heading for his room. If I cant persuade the fools to include the boy in our agreement, perhaps Ill just take him. After all, he thought as he climbed the stairs, Draculea is hardly likely to endanger a favorable accord for one slave. TBC Back to index

Chapter 35: Part 35: Bad Judgement

Summary: Rahazad makes a huge mistake, setting in motion events that will lead to tragedy. Notes: I was going to go straight through to the event that leads up to the tragedy, but the chapter was already long, and I found what looked like a good stopping place. Forgive me. I promise the next chapter soon. Warning: Vlad has a nasty way of dealing with insubbordination. Special and long overdue thanks to my marvelous and patient beta, Janet. The story is most definitely better, due to her patient, thorough, gentle, and sometimes humorous correction. Child of the Night, Part 35: Bad Judgement The Year of Our Lord, 1462 Castle Draculea, Romania Nicolae paused as he hurried down the corridor, and spat violently several times, trying to get the salty tang out of his mouth. Hed bitten the Turk harder than he had thought, but hed been frightened, and it had worked. The few times Draculea had laid hands on him before he had recognized his own desire for the older man, he had been insistent, but not rough. Nicolae had known, even in his confusion and inexperience, that Draculea was being as thoughtful of Nicolaes feelings as he was his own. There was no sense of this with Rahazad. The Turk was thinking only of his own desires. The fact that Nicolae was not interested was not merely immaterial--it was an impetus. He started to Draculeas room, then hesitated, and turned down a side corridor. He went to the small, pleasant room to which he had been brought the day he arrived at Castle Draculea. He had only occupied it a handful of nights--when it was imperative that a seamless front be presented to outsiders. He had stayed there when the Russian diplomats had been in residence, and on the few occasions that Bishop Alfred had visited. To someone unaware of the true situation at the castle, it would not have seemed unusual. The sparce personal contents would have been put down to the occupants aesthetic nature. Aside from the bare

furnishings, there were only a Bible, a rosary, a crucifix on the wall, and a few clothes. Draculea had not told him that he should stay there, but Nicolae had himself decided that it was the best course. Now he wasnt sure. While he was nervous about being alone, he thought that it would not be wise to let his lover know that one of the diplomats was showing an improper interest in him. He had never witnessed the full force of Draculeas anger, but he knew from what he had seen that it would be formidable--perhaps even deadly. Nicolae dropped down on the edge of the bed, sighing. He put his elbows on his knees, then propped his chin in his hands. No, he couldnt tell Draculea. This treaty was important, much more important than his own feelings. He could not risk endangering it with complaints. He frowned. *Besides, can I count myself truly a man if I do not at least TRY to defend myself?* He sat and thought for awhile, and there was a tap at the door. "Come." Simion entered. "So, here you are. Hell be looking for you soon." "We agreed that Id stay here for awhile." "Yes, and he wont be able to spend much time with you for the next few days, but you know very well that he wont be able to stand keeping you away for so long." Nicolae absently rubbed his wrist. "I think that I might take my meal in this room tonight." "No, Nicolae," Simion said firmly. "You will not be able to sit beside him, but seeing you at the table will soothe him." "Im not sure..." Simion sat beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders. In a low voice he said, "Nicolae, you know him. You must realize that you are greatly responsible for his late tolerance and evenness of temper? We need him calm and reasonable." He gave him a small shake. "You must do your part." "I know, Simion. I will do what I can." Simion stood and ruffled Nicolaes hair. "History will record that Beta is Draculeas wife, but YOU are his true mate, and the mates of great men are often more of an influence than the world knows." He left, and Nicolae rubbed his face, thinking, *And the world does not know how heavy that responsibility can be.* ***** The banquet was much smaller than Draculeas wedding feast, but it was still far from intimate. All of the men of Draculeas court were in attendance, along with the local nobles. The diplomats were seated at the head table, on either side of the prince. Rahazad was delighted to find that mead was available. Since it was made from honey, it did not violate the Islamic prohibition of beverages fermented from fruit or grain. While his compatriots limited themselves to water, Rahazad had his first taste of intoxicating liquor--perhaps not the wisest act of a diplomat. No one, except perhaps the visiting dignitaries, was surprised that someone as humble as the castle librarian was sitting only a few chairs down from the head. Rahazad was very interested in this fact. He hadnt expected to see the pretty scholar at the meal. This must mean that he had an influential patron at court. A bed warmer was seldom allowed to attend state banquets. He supposed that the boys talent and education was what made him fit for such exalted company. *After all,* he reflected, *the most successful courtesans are the ones who can fascinate with their minds as well as their bodies. I really MUST bring him back with me. The sultan will surely abandon the chit he favors now if he can have one who will speak to him intelligently after he has sated his desires.* Rahazad made himself pleasant to the nobles who sat on either side of him. He followed the sultans intentions for him by presenting an impressive image of the Turkish court. He was handsome, charming, and witty, and he made no references to politics. That would be left to the senior diplomats, and they

would not discuss affairs of state at such an open event. Draculea made polite conversation with Mahamoud, on his right, and Ali, on his left, but those who knew the prince knew that there was something on his mind. He studied each of the diplomats carefully as the meal progressed. At last he said to Mahamoud, "Your manner of dress is pleasing, though strange, sir." Mahamoud bowed his head. "Our styles are distinct, your highness, but they suit our country and lifestyle well." "No doubt. I see that you have each donned a new set of garments for the feast." A bit puzzled, Mahamoud agreed. "It would be disrespectful of your station not to, your highness." He nodded. It was very true. Only peasants wore the same clothes over and over again, while a noble was expected to change often. It both demonstrated their own wealth and status, and honored those about them. "In fact, the only garment I recognize is your hats. They are the same as when you arrived." Some of the guests at the high table stopped eating and tried to be inconspicuous as they listened. Mahamoud thought he could see where this was leading, but he pretended that he saw no rebuke in the statement. "They are of a similar style, but different hats, your highness. The ones we wore for travel needed to be cleaned." "So you donned clean hats to present yourself for the banquet." "Yes, your highness." Draculea casually poked at a bone on his plate. "The Jews wear their skull-caps..." He frowned and turned his head to look at Simion, who stood behind his chair. "What is the word, Simion?" "Yarmulkas, Domn." "Yes. They wear them for religious reasons, something about covering their heads before their god. Tell me, is there such a reason for you wearing your hats?" Mahamoud hesitated. "No religious reasons, your highness. It is simply our custom." "Mm." The quiet had begun to spread down the table. His eyes roamed over the assembly. "I see no one else here with his head covered. You know, to the best of my knowledge, in all the courts of Europe and the orient it is the custom to greet the ruling monarch with the head bared--as a sign of respect." Draculea leaned forward a bit and looked at Stefan, only a little way down the board. "I am not mistaken in this, am I Stefan?" Stefan closed his eyes briefly. *Why didnt I notice? He is right, and he has executed men for less than this.* He remembered one incident in particular, near the beginning of his rule. Draculea had taken the throne by removing a distant relative who had a claim that was slightly more tenuous than Draculeas own. Not all of the officers of the Wallachian armed forces had been completely supportive. During his first review of the troops, one of the generals had refused to bow. Draculea had given him a second chance to perform the proper obeisance, and had been scornfully refused. The prince had remarked that perhaps the general needed help in learning to bend his back. The general was stripped naked. He was forced to bend double, and his torso was bound tightly to his legs, so that his face was against his knees, then he was strung up by his feet in the castle courtyard. Stephen did not remember how long it had taken him to die. A week? Ten days? The end might have come more quickly, but the prince had ordered that he be given a little food and water each day. Some might have thought this showed a hint of mercy, but Stefan knew that it was done to prolong the mans ordeal. The ropes had cut into the skin at his ankles quickly. It took a little longer for the binding ropes to do the same, but his weight had done the trick eventually. Blood had streaked down his body to moisten the ground beneath him, mingling with his own wastes. The ropes around his ankles had sunk deep into the flesh. The feet had swollen to monstrous size, darkening from blue, to purple, to black. The skin had split, and the fissures had leaked foul, yellow matter. The smell around the unfortunate man had become almost unbearable. The horses had shied when

they had to pass, and more than one of the men had to empty their bellies when they came too near. Stefan supposed that, had the man lived long enough, his feet would have eventually torn off, but it hadnt come to that. Someone had taken pity on the man, who was by that time quite mad, and had cut his throat during the night. No one had wanted to admit the act, as it could have been interpreted as treason. Draculea had calmly stated that if the one responsible did not want to confess he would simply kill every other soldier who had been under the mans command. A man had stepped forward to take the blame. The whole company had cringed, waiting to see what horror Draculea would decree. The prince had announced that he heartily doubted that this was the actual culprit. He was of the opinion that the man was confessing only to save his comrades, and that such loyalty should be rewarded. He had given the man the former generals position. Remembering this, Stefan prayed fervently that the Turks were not attempting a subtle show of power. Any monarch faced with such a blatant show of disrespect would be expected to take action. If Draculea did not deal with this it would be viewed by his people as a slight to them as well, and no ruler could afford that. Stefan took a deep breath and said, "In truth, my prince, such is the rule, though each monarch may decide the finer points of manners within his own domain, as he sees fit." *You do not HAVE to retaliate, my lord. Pray God you give these men another chance, so that we can at least TRY to reach an agreement with the sultan.* Draculea seemed to consider this. Not a morsel of food or a drop of wine was consumed as they awaited his pronouncement. Finally he said, "I was troubled that you did not doff your hats when we met, but I set the matter aside. You were weary, and we WERE still outdoors. But tonight..." He shook his head. "This is a formal occasion, and niceties should be observed." He looked again at Mahamoud, whose expression was grim and apprehensive. "Can you give me a compelling reason why you should NOT show me this respect?" If it had been quiet before, it was silent now. *Allah, the man WOULD confront us before all his court! How can we bend now? Word will spread swiftly of our submission, and it will undermine our position throughout the empire.* He considered all possible outcomes in a few heartbeats, and made his decision. Surely the penalty for such a comparitively minor offense would not be great, and they could continue with the negotiations. Upon their return he would warn the sultan to be especially cautious of all tiny courtesies in his future dealings with this man. Mahamoud inclined his head. "Your highness, it is the custom of our fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers before them. We honor our ancestors in this way." Draculeas voice was cool. "It is an admirable sentiment, but in honoring the past you must not slight the present, or endanger the future. I will give you a chance to consider where your priorities lie. I look forward to our next meeting with great curiosity." He stood. "If you will excuse me, I did not get a chance to exercise my horse today, and a war steed must not be allowed to grow too restive. The banquet will continue." Draculea made his way down the table, followed by Simion. He stopped here and there for a word with different guests. Rahazad, involved in draining his mead cup, did not note how Draculea, in passing, ran his hand gently across the shoulders of the young librarian. The banquet continued, growing more boisterous now that the prince had gone. Rahazad would have restrained himself had the ruler been present. As it was, he felt that is was safe to indulge. He would soon have to return to his homeland, and abstinence. Now he intended to revel. He became drunk for the first time in his life, and enjoyed the effect immensely. He wondered if he might be able to attain a posting in one of the barbarian courts, so that such amusements would be readily available. He watched as Nicolae excused himself to his dinner companions, rose, and made his way toward the chapel. *Such a gift to the sultan would, I think, incline him in my favor. Of course,* he smiled

to himself, *I should sample the gift first, to be sure of its quality.* He waited a few more moments, then excused himself. Mahamoud dismissed him, thinking with approval that if the young man was foolish enough to become addled with strong drink, at least he was wise enough to stop and take himself off to bed before he did something indiscreet. Rahazad tried to step carefully, though the floor was more unsteady than he remembered it being. Eyes followed him as he left the hall. Some wondered why he turned toward the chapel if he intended to go to his own room, but most KNEW why. These pondered having a word with the prince, but decided against it. While it might court favor to warn him of the young Turks interest in his little friend, there was also such a thing as killing the messenger... With the court still amusing themselves, there was no one about as Rahazad made his way to the chapel. He eased open the heavy door quietly and slipped inside. It was dimly lit. The candles that flickered on the altar cast a faint glow at the front of the room, only enought to illuminate the young man kneeling before the icon of the Madonna. Rahazad remained very still till he was sure that there was no one else in the chapel. When he was certain that he and Nicolae were alone he began to make his way slowly down the aisle. He focused on the kneeling figure, using it as his guidepost. He moved up beside Nicolae, his felt slippers silent on the stone floor. The boys eyes were closed, his lips moving in prayer as he slipped the beads of a rosary through his fingers. Rahazad feasted his eyes on the pale, handsome face, so peaceful as he made his devotions. He let his gaze travel down the smooth, strong column of Nicolaes neck, then turned his head to follow the long, straight line of his back to the tempting swell of his buttocks. Unable to resist he reached out and touched the candlelight gilded hair. Nicolae felt the touch, and smiled. How like Draculea to surprise him like this. They had both been apart for the whole day, and this was perhaps even harder to bear than Draculeas absence. Now they saw each other, but with the eyes of others so much upon them they could not touch. He leaned his head back into the cradling hand as he finished his prayer, then murmured lovingly, "Master." "Slave." Shock bolted through Nicolae, and his eyes flew open. Instead of his beloved he saw, looming over him, the Turkish envoy who had accosted him in the library that morning. The mans hand was in his hair, and the intimacy of the touch revolted him. He started to pull away, but Rahazad tightened his grip viciously, grinning at the boys faint cry of pain. "So, I find you on your knees, Nicolae." His voice was slurred, and the sharp smell of alcohol almost made Nicolae gag. "Domn, you are drunk! Let me go." With his other hand Rahazad caressed Nicolaes face. "Not so drunk that I cannot take you, sweet." Nicolae grabbed at Rahazads arm, trying to force the Turk to release him, but the grip only tightened. He gritted his teeth. "I told you, I am not free, and even if I were, I would refuse you!" Rahazad laughed. "Ah, so you would choose?" He shook Nicolae. "Proud slave. You should be broken of that vice. It will be my pleasure to teach you more fitting ways." He dropped to his knees, dragging Nicolae down till the other man was forced onto his hands and knees. He reached beneath him, seeking the lacings of his breeches. "No!" Rahazads grip in his hair was agony. Nicolae had not experienced comparable pain since his father had last beaten him, and the memories it raised panicked him. He tried to shove his attacker away, but he could not use his arms without putting more weight on Rahazads grip, and causing himself more pain. His upbringing had kept Nicolae from rough and tumble play with other boys, and his sheltered life at the monastery had protected him from the violence that was so much a part of everyday life for most of the people of his day. He was woefully unprepared to defend himself. Rahazad paused in his rummaging to give Nicolae an almost casual slap, then returned to what he had

been doing. "You may fight if you wish, pretty, but it will be more painful for you." He tore at the lacings, loosening them, and tugged at the breeches. He managed to draw them down the boys hips, half exposing the globes of his buttocks. "Ah, such a beauty! So pale." Rahazad brought the flat of his hand down on the firm swell, the blow resounding with a sharp crack and drawing a yelp from Nicolae. He watched in admiration as a pink flush rose under the white skin. Gripping Nicolaes hip, Rahazad bent over quickly and bit the delectable looking flesh, nipping him hard. "Mm, your princes banquet did not provide such sweet and tender meat." He began to shift, trying to manuever himself into position behind the boy. "Spread your legs, little whore. If you are good, I will spit to ease the way when I mount you." Rahazad was pulling back so hard that Nicolae feared his neck would break. Desperate, he twisted and kicked, ignoring the searing pain in his scalp. If Rahazad had not been so drunk, he would never have been able to land a blow, but Nicolaes heel sank deep into his crotch, smashing against his arousal. The alcohol Rahazad had drunk was not enough to dull the agony that exploded in his groin. He released his victim, groping instead for his injured privates. As he collapsed back, Nicolae scrambled up, clutching his garments closed even as he ran. The door was opening as Nicolae reached it, and he almost collided with Father Mircea. The priest caught the boys arm, chiding, "Boy! Such unseemly haste in the Lords house..." He trailed off as he heard a moan from the front of the chapel. He saw the man laying on the floor before the Madonna, and he recognized him as one of the visiting Turks. His gaze darted back to the boy beside him. He took in the wild eyes and the trickle of blood seeping from his hair to stain his forehead. He saw the disordered state of his clothes and felt the tremors that ran through the arm he held. "Nicolae, my boy! Are you all right?" "I... God was with me, Father." "In our very sanctuary?" Mircea whispered, horrified. "The prince will..." "NO" Nicolae clutched at him desperately. "You must not tell him, Father, please!" "But Nicolae, think. This man has not only sought to pollute holy ground with his lusts, he has violated the princes trust and hospitality in the foulest manner." His voice shook with anger. "And he has attacked a good and harmless young man." "I would not be the cause of any mans death, Father. Please." He saw the hard resolve in Mirceas eyes, and took the only course he saw open. He whispered, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a day since my last confession." "Nicolae..." Mircea saw what the boy was trying. Nicolae spoke over his words. "I have tempted the guest of my lord. I led him..." "No, Nicolae." When he would have continued, Mircea gently laid a hand against his lips and said firmly, "I will not hear false confession. You committed no sin, Nicolae. Do not claim what is not yours." He sighed. "I will not seek out Draculea." Nicolae gripped Mirceas wrist and fervently kissed his palm. "Bless you, Father. Our peoples peace is more important than my small distress." He lowered his eyes. "And Draculeas soul is more important still. I would not have him seek revenge in my name." His eyes flashed anxiously to the priests face. "Swear to me that you will not go to him with this." "I swear, Nicolae." Satisfied, the boy nodded, and slipped away. Mircea stared at the Turk, who was only now pulling himself upright. There was a puddle of vomit on the floor where he had emptied his stomach. Perhaps now he would be sober enough to make his way to his own room. *God forgive me for deceiving you, Nicolae. I will not go to Draculea, but if he seeks me out, I will not still my tongue.* TBC

Back to index

Chapter 36: Part 36: Calamity

Disclaimer: All but original characters belong to the estate of Bram Stoker. Summary: Rahazad pays dearly for his molestation of Nicolae. Warning: Gruesomeness Notes: Lutfen, Prens, merhamet--Please, Prince, mercy. Stoneless--Draculea is telling him that he acts like he has no balls. Part 36: Calamity The Year of Our Lord, 1462 Castle Draculea, Romania It had been some time since Draculea had riden Lucifer at night. For the last two years, he had had a compelling reason to stay in at night--Nicolae in his bed. He would have preferred to be with his lover, but if he could not, this was good. Lucifer was enjoying the exercise, stretching his strong muscles as he flew down the moonlit road. One or two peasants, out on some errand, stopped to watch the prince pass. Before, these nocturnal races had inspired superstitious dread. They had whispered that Draculea must indeed be the devils son. Clinging to the back of his ebony steed as it thundered across the land, he had looked positively demonic, but now... now the previous grimness was gone. Mindful of the work to be done the next morning, Draculea did not stay out long. The moon had not risen far before he returned to the castle. He dismounted and led Lucifer to meet the head groom as the man came to take charge of him. As he handed the reins over the groom said, "I am glad that you chose to take him out tonight, Domn. The grooms and stable lads throw lots to see who exercises him when you are too busy, and it is the loser who takes him, not the winner." Draculea smiled fondly as he patted the horses broad, warm neck. "Hes a one-man beast." "And speaking of that, my lord, I wish you would speak with young Nicolae. That horse of his is easy enough to exercise, but I swear that it sulks when he does not come to visit it." Draculea had provided his lover with a beautiful white gelding, and it was as sweet-tempered as his master. The groom continued. "We can always tell when a new book comes into the library. He is either absent, or spends only a few moments petting and cossetting Sugar. He hasnt been to the stable for two days now, my lord. Please entreat him to come before that foolish beast of his dies of loneliness." Draculea laughed. "I will. When I tell him the horse is pining, he will fly to it with gifts of apples and sugar lumps." He gave Lucifer a last stroke, then went into the castle. He glanced in on the banquet, but did not enter. The two elder diplomats were still at the table, their heads together. *There will be more than one of my men with an aching head tomorrow, but Stefan will have been long in his bed by now,* he thought. *He will gird himself for tomorrows meeting as well as I gird myself for battle.* At the head of the stairs he hesitated, then turned down the side corridor and went to the little room that had been assigned to Nicolae so long ago. He lifted the latch, but the door did not open. He tried it again, wondering if the wood had swollen with damp. At last he tapped softly. He heard Nicolaes voice from the other side. "Who is it?" Draculea frowned. There was a nervous edge in the boys voice that he had not heard for a long time, and why had he locked the door? "Nicolae, let me in."

"Vlad..." The relief was evident in his tone. He heard the bar being lifted inside, and the door opened. Nicolae stood in the doorway, staring at him. He could see that the boy was fairly quivering with the need to throw himself into his arms, but he looked nervously down the hall. Draculea knew that he was worried that someone might see, and he would embarrass the prince. Draculea stepped into the room and pulled Nicolae into his arms. Unmindful of the door still open behind them, he kissed Nicolae gently. When they drew apart he said, "Why did you bar the door?" Nicolae pressed his forehead against Draculeas shoulder. "I know not, Domn." He paused, then said, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, "This room is strange to me. If I could not have your arms around me, I needed something to make me feel secure." "You are safe here, Nicolae." He smoothed Nicolaes hair back, then frowned. There was a small raw patch near his hairline, the edges still damp with blood. He touched it, saying, "Sweetheart, what is this?" "Oh." Nicolae reached up quickly to touch the wound, and Draculea caught his arm. Pushing his sleeve farther up, he examined the dark marks on his wrist. "And this. Youre bruised, Nicolae. How did this happen?" Nicolae took a deep breath, then smiled. "It was my own foolishness, Domn. When I visited Lucifer today I tried to lead him out of the stall. I should know better by now. I had the reins turned around my hand, and... and he was temperamental. He reared. I was lucky that the reins were not wrapped too tightly, else I might have been dragged. As it was," he touched his head again, "I fell against the wall. Nothing but foolishness and clumsiness." He bit his lip. "You will not blame Lucifer?" Draculea was very quiet as the words of the groom ran through his mind. *Hes lying to me. Why? He only lies to protect others.* He hadnt let go of Nicolaes arm yet, and he was studying the bruise closely, prodding the discolored skin. *Ive seen marks like this before, and they werent caused by a strap. They were made by a hand.* He lifted his eyes to Nicolae and said quietly, "Is this the only injury you sustained? You do not need to see Simion?" "I... No, Domn. Nothing else. I must be more careful in the future." "Yes, love, be more careful. I do not know what I would do if aught happened to you." He kissed him again. "I must go now." "Yes." Nicolae squeezed him almost fiercely before letting him go. "You must be fresh for tomorrow. It is important work you will be doing." "Perhaps some of the most important of my life," he agreed. Draculea went out into the hall and started toward his room. When he heard the boys door close he stopped and thought, *He did not have those injuries earlier--they are very fresh, no more than an hour or two old. In whom might he have confided?* He was unsure of where Simion was at the moment, but he knew of one other likely confidant. He found Father Mircea in his room, just behind the chapel. The priest admitted him with a grim look. "I had hoped you would come tonight, Prince." Draculea entered and sat in the one chair. "Nicolae has been injured, priest. He told me a fairy tale about a restive horse, when he has not been near the stable for days. The only reason he would lie to me would be to protect someone." "Perhaps, Prince, but more likely someTHING." "What would this something be?" Mircea sighed. "I promised him I would not go to you. I feel I cannot tell you directly, but..." "I see." Draculea said, slowly and deliberately, "Nicolae has become fond of many of the gentlemen of the court." "Aye, Prince. They are for the most part fairly sensible young men." *Not a courtier.* "He has not gotten to know the local nobles very well, I think." Mircea agreed, saying, "Yes, none of them have grown close to the boy."

*Not one of my nobles.* "He gets on well with the servants." "They all like and respect him." *Not a servant. That leaves only...* "I have been considering introducing him to the Turks." Mirceas expression hardened. "That might not be the wisest thing, Lord. Their ways are strange, and the boy is impressionable." Draculea nodded. He needed to ask no more questions. Mahamoud and Ali had still been at table--only Rahazad had been missing. The prince remembered him. Most particularly he remembered the way Rahazads eyes had lingered over the young men of his court. "I see. Yes, I see very well." Hearing the tone of Draculeas voice, Mircea became apprehensive. "Nicolae did not wish to endanger any accord we might reach with Turkey." "That would be his way." Draculea stood up. "Do not fear, priest. The Turks themselves will decide how this fares. From what I have seen, though, I do not hold forth much hope for these negotiations. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to speak to Simion before I sleep." ***** The next morning Nicolae left his room early and went to the kitchen for breakfast. There were a few sleepy men moodily preparing food. It was a great change from the usual warm, cheerful bustle. Mornings were one of his favorite times, as the kitchen staff had made him a particular pet. The cook or one of the girls always had a sweet for him, and he enjoyed watching the efficient activity as he munched his treat. Today he quietly gathered some of the cold remains of the previous nights meal and sat out of the way to eat. Simion came in and sat beside him, accepting a portion of the food. He watched Nicolae and asked casually, "You are well, Nicolae? Draculea said you had a dispute with Lucifer yesterday." "Im not a horseman, Simion. I should have learned that by now, I suppose." He sighed. "They begin the discussions today." "Perhaps--if the Turks are reasonable." He saw the worry in Nicolaes eyes, but the boy tried to sound calm when he spoke. "What could block them? Surely there is no obstacle." "We must hope not, but you remember how the Turks lack of courtesy troubled the prince. Recall what he said. He is giving them a chance to come to him humbly. If they do not..." He shrugged. "he must not back down. Surely you can see that?" Nicolae did. If Draculea did not insist on the respect due him as a ruler, other countries would interpret it as weakness, and a country with a weak ruler was vulnerable. It would not be only Turkey they had to fear. Simion was continuing. "They will meet with Draculea in the great hall, with the court in attendance. If all is well, they will go somewhere more private to begin the real negotiations." He hesitated. "It would be better if you did not attend." Nicolae lowered his eyes, then looked up at Simion. "Does he forbid me?" "No, Nicolae, not directly, but things may become... nasty. It would be better if you remained in your room, or the library." He laid his hand on the boys shoulder. "I say this for your own sake. The ways of politics can be violent, and you..." he took Nicolaes chin in his hand, "you bleed for the world. Please, stay away." "I will not go to the hall, Simion." "Good." He patted Nicolaes cheek. "Whatever happens, this will not last long." He stood up. "I must go now, and speak to the castle carpenter." "Why, Simion?" "Because our lord has asked me to make certain preparations. They may not be necessary, but I must be ready."

***** Nicolae went to his room after his meal, but he could hear the other occupants of the castle passing through the halls, going down to the great hall. His curiosity overcame him at last. The upper floors of the castle were deserted, and he made his way half down the stairs. From there he could see a little way through the entrance, into the great hall. *I told Simion I would not go to the hall, and so I do not.* He glanced up toward heaven. *Forgive me for paring my meaning so closely, Lord.* Nicolae settled himself on a step and craned toward the entrance, listening. ***** Draculea had no official throne, but a fine chair was drawn up on the dais at the end of the great hall. Here he sat, hands resting loosely and easily on the arms. Simion stood at his usual place, just behind his master. His court and those nobles who had remained at the castle after the banquet lined the sides of the hall. The room was quieter than might have been expected of such an assembly. The men spoke, but in hushed tones. All knew of the directive that the prince had given the Turks the night before. Nicolae, listening to the quiet murmur from the hall, did not hear the Turks approaching until they were starting down the stairs. Hearing the scuff of their slippers, he realized that he had been mistaken to think the upper floor deserted. He jumped up quickly, pressing back against the wall to allow them passage. As they came abreast, Nicolae dropped his head humbly. The two elders, leading the way, passed him without notice, but Rahazad paused before him. "Little whore." The dark eyes flashed up at Rahazad, flicked away, then returned to his face, and Nicolae lifted his chin. "Still proud, I see. You would not have escaped last night, had I not let the drink dull me." He leaned closer, and Nicolae flinched as his hot breath bathed his face. "I am not drunk today, pretty." "Rahazad!" The others had reached the bottom of the stairs, and Mahamoud was gazing up at him impatiently. "Leave your dalliance. We have important matters to which we must attend." "I come, sir." When he saw that the others had turned back to the great hall, he quickly put his hand on Nicolaes chest. His fingers found one nipple through the thin cloth, and he pinched viciously. Nicolaes face twisted in pain, but he bit his lip, making no sound, and no movement. "Soon, little whore. Very soon." He went down the steps to join his companions, and Nicolae sank back to his seat on the stairs, rubbing at the ache. As he watched them disappear into the great hall, he murmured, "They wear their hats. Oh, Lord, why did you not send them wisdom in the night?" ***** The Turks entered the hall, and whatever little talk there had been was silenced. They walked up the center of the hall, their pace slow and calm. Their heads were high, their backs straight. They came with all of the pride of their nation and their race--and all of their arrogance. When they stood before Draculea, they bowed, and Mahamoud said, "Prince Draculea, greetings. The Sultan of Turkey sends his regards and is prepared to discuss means to retain peace between our two great nations." There was no reply. Draculea stared at them, one finger tapping slowly on the chairs arm. His gaze passed slowly over Mahamoud and Ali, lingering significantly on their hats. When he looked at Rahazad, though, his eyes locked on the young mans face. Rahazad returned his gaze. *In his own way, he is as beautiful as the slave, but he is so pale, his expression so cold and hard. Allah, if I did not see his chest rise with breath, I would think him a statue carved of marble, with sapphire eyes. I think that Mahamoud may have misjudged. We should have removed our hats.* Draculea tented his fingers before his face, bending to rest his forehead against them. Then he lowered his hands and said quietly, "Gentlemen, I see that you have seen fit to ignore my directive." *So, it comes down to a game of bluff,* Mahamoud thought. "Prince Draculea, as I told you, we wear

these hats to honor our fathers. Surely you would not ask us to disrespect them?" "No, of course not. I cannot but admire your determination to hold to your resolve. If this is so important to you, more important than showing proper respect for the ruler with whom you came to council...," He gestured. Rahazad broke out in a sweat as several burly men-at-arms moved through the crowd to surround the Turks. "...Then I feel I should help you follow your precious custom." He gestured again. As he stepped down, Simion took a cloth covered tray from a nearby table and brought it to him. While they had been speaking, Draculeas soldiers had quietly surrounded the few men that the Turks had brought with them. When the envoys were seized, the Turkish soldiers found swords at their throats. All they could do was watch with the others as the scene unfolded. Ali and Rahazad began to struggle, but Mahamoud stood still, though all color had drained from his face, leaving him as pale as it was possible for a Turk to be. He realized that he had made a mistake, but it was too late to back down now. "Think, Prince Draculea. Is such a small thing worth war?" "Mahamoud, somehow I think that, in your own court, a like offense would not be viewed as small. I have heard that your own sultan had a mans feet cut off when he dared to tread on the head of his shadow." His voice was quiet. "There will be no negotiations. I was wrong to ever agree to them, as it is clear that your lord intends to take what he can. You will return to your sultan and tell him this, but first..." He flipped the cloth off the tray. "First I will make it so that you are never again in danger of offending your fathers by losing your hats." On the tray there was a hammer with a flat, broad head, and a dozen spikes. They were slender--about the length of a mans thumb, sharp and shiny. Draculea picked up the hammer and one of the spikes, and stepped toward Mahamoud. The older man said no more as Draculea pressed the point of the first spike against the hat, near the brim. He closed his eyes, whispering a prayer to his god as Draculea raised the hammer high. ***** Something was happening. There was no unusual noise from the hall, but Nicolae could FEEL it. The few people he could see at the back of the room were all staring fixedly toward the front, shifting uneasily. *What will he do to them? Justice is so harsh. Will he have them beaten? The oldest one might not survive. He might remove their ears, because of the hats...* There was a thudding sound, and a wavering scream. Nicolae winced. *A beating, then.* There was another thud, and a weaker scream. The third and fourth blows were followed my weak moans. There was a pause, and another voice, an elderly voice, rose, babbling in Turkish and his own language. He could understand only part of it. "No! I beg you, sire! Merhamet. Lutfen, Prens, merhamet!" Again there was the dull thunk, and a scream. Something about the sound set Nicolaes teeth on edge. It was not a meaty sound, like a fist striking flesh, nor was it cracking, like an open handed slap. *Do they use clubs?* Again there were three more blows, followed by shrieks and groans. *He has set the punishment at only four blows apiece? That is surprisingly merciful. But... but the SCREAMS. I would think that such proud men would not scream easily.* As he thought this there was another scream from the hall. There had been no preceeding blow, and this scream was different from the others. It was not of pain, but of panic, and it was vigorous and lusty. It spoke of terror. Surely a simple beating should not inspire such fear? *My prince, what are you DOING?* ***** Mahamoud hung limply in the arms of the soldiers who held him. He was already dead. *His age,* thought Draculea. *Ali is doing better. He has not even lost consciousness.* The heads of both men hung low--but the hats stayed in place. Blood pattered to the floor in thick drops. Draculeas left hand, the one that had held the spikes, was splashed with gore nearly to his wrist, and his face was sprinkled with tiny droplets. The wounds tended to spray when the points first pierced the skin. *Head wounds are always bloody.*

He turned his attention to Rahazad. The young man had been staring in horror at his companions, unable to believe what was happening. Moments before they had been honored guests. How had things changed so quickly? When he saw that Draculea had fixed his attentions upon him, he howled with terror. Draculea snapped. "Saints! If this is an example of the sultans fighting men, we have no cause to fear." He stepped closer to the struggling Turk and growled, "You have made your choices, now accept the consequences like a man instead of a stoneless dog." There were four spikes left on the tray, and he lifted one of the gleaming slivers. Rahazad screamed again, and thrashed. His hat fell to the ground, and he looked to the prince with wild hope, but one of the soldiers picked it up and placed it back on his head. He tossed his head so violently that the man grabbed his ears to hold him still. Draculea moved close and settled the point of the spike against the soft red felt of the hat, on the left side of the brim. He looked into the Turks eyes and said, "Carry this message back to your master: I will not be mocked." He leaned even closer, and his voice dropped to a hiss. "And I will not suffer what is mine to be taken." Through his haze of terror Rahazad suddenly realized who was the pretty librarians protector. As Draculea lifted the hammer high over his head he screamed, "Forgive! I did not know..." The hammer swept down. Draculea put all his force into the blow, all the power of an arm made strong by wielding weapons of war. When the story was passed on later, some witnesses would swear that they saw sparks fly when the hammer struck the spike. There was a muted crunch, and blood sprayed again across Draculeas face. He licked it absently from his lips as he struck a second time, seating the spike even more firmly. The scream of the Turk even made some of the battle hardened soldiers pale. Draculea took another spike and set it at the right side of the brim, then drove it home with two swift blows. The extra strokes were not lost on the witnesses. Rahazad was paying for more than rudeness and pride. In quick succession, Draculea affixed the final two spikes in back, then stepped away, tossing the hammer down. It rang against the stone, bouncing. Simion sidestepped quickly, barely dodging the gory tool. "Are their mounts ready?" "They are, Domn. They wait outside the front door, complete with provisions to help them on their way," Simion replied. "Let them return to their master. Send men with them to the border--I would not want them delayed on this journey. Send swift riders to all my forces, telling them to be ready. Somehow I think that the sultans response will not be long in coming." He looked down at his gore stained hands and frowned. "And have a basin brought. This diplomacy is messy business." ***** The screaming had died away, but by then Nicolae was pale and sweating. He stood as he noticed a stir in the hall. Someone was coming out. Nicolae covered his mouth and moaned as he saw the limp body of Mahamoud carried out. One soldier carried his arms and another his legs. His head hung almost to the floor, but the hat remained in place. Ali was carried out, then Rahazad. Both of them were still moving feebly as they were carried out the door. Simion came out of the hall, intent on seeing that the envoys were sent on their way, and the messengers were sufficiently motivated, but he paused, looking upward. Nicolae stood halfway up the stairs, staring after the Turks. He was swaying slightly. With a quiet oath, Simion hurried up and took the boys arm before he could fall. "Nicolae! You said you would not come here." The young mans voice was weak. "I said that I would not go to the great hall, Simion." He leaned back against the wall, holding his belly. "God punishes me for lying through misdirection." "Sit, before you fall." Simion helped him to sit on the steps once again. "Stay here. Do not dare try to

move until I return, and speak to no one." Nicolae nodded, and Simion hurried to perform his allotted tasks. Many of the nobles passed through the entry as they left. They were all in a hurry to reach their own homes and begin preparing. There were trying times ahead, and they all had much to accomplish before the sultans now inevitable response. Some of the courtiers saw Nicolae, and stopped to speak to him. The boy only shook his head respectfully, and they did not press him. All knew that what had happened was due at least in part to Rahazads ill-considered pursuit of the librarian, but none of them blamed Nicolae. His devotion to Draculea was unquestioned--he would not have encouraged the Turk. All knew of his gentle nature, and were convinced that he would not have sought revenge either, no matter how grievous the offense. No, in their estimation the Turks had invited their fate through their own arrogance, and their sore miscalculation of Draculeas desire for peace without confrontation. When Simion returned he found the boy staring numbly at the thick trail of blood that stretched from the great hall out the front door. When he touched Nicolaes shoulder, he did not look up. His voice dull, he said, "The entry rug will be ruined. Beta will be so angry." "Come, my friend." Simion pulled him to his feet and helped him upstairs, holding him steady when he faltered. When Nicolae would have turned aside, he led him to the room he shared with Draculea instead, knowing that he would need the comfort of familiar, beloved surroundings. Once there he made the unresisting boy lie down, and brought him a cup of wine and a cool cloth. After Nicolae had drunk, Simion sat, pulled the boys head onto his lap, and wiped his face gently. "You should not have seen that, Nicolae. When your master or I ask you to do a thing, we have reasons." "Yes, Simion. I am sorry." He closed his eyes. "Oh, I am most heartily sorry." They were quiet for a moment, then Simion said, "You do realize that he had to do that?" "I know that he had to do SOMETHING. I am not quite as ignorant as I was when I came to Castle Draculea, Simion. I know he could not let such a slight pass without damaging himself, and our country, in the eyes of the world. But Simion..." He swallowed hard. "Oh, it was a fearsome lesson he taught them." "Our master is a hard man, but that is what our nation needs on the throne. A gentle man would not long hold the crown, and the Turks would not be merciful if he allowed them to go unopposed. Draculea has spent his entire life playing the game of power, as did his father, and his grandfather, and many generations before them. He has been born and bred to it, and we must trust to his decisions." Nicolae turned, throwing his arms around Simion and burying his face against the older mans stomach. He had lain this way many times with Draculea, but this was different. Then he had caressed his lover--now he was as a child seeking solace. Simion knew this, and treated him as such, petting him comfortingly. The boy whispered, "We will have war." Simion sighed. He stared off, as if already seeing the carnage that was to come. "Yes," he agreed sadly, "we will have war." TBC Back to index

Chapter 37: Part 37: Foreboding

Authors Notes: Pairing: Nicolae/Draculea Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, neither do I make any profit from this venture. Summary: War is coming, and Lean works on Nicolae. Notes: commode (plural commodes) noun 1. chair with chamber pot: a chair or box-shaped piece of furniture holding a chamber pot covered by a lid 2. portable washstand: a movable washstand with a cupboard underneath containing a chamber pot or washbasin 3. decorated cabinet: a low cabinet or chest of drawers, usually elaborately decorated. The Year of Our Lord, 1462 A week later Castle Draculea, Romania They sat in the library, the two women working on bits of embroidery, as usual. Nicolae was holding a book, staring at the pages. Only that--he never turned a page, his eyes never moved. It was silent until Beta heaved a deep sigh. Nicolae did not seem to notice, and this irritated her. He is usually so attentive to my needs, she thought sulkily. Now he scarcely notices me. She sighed again, more pointedly. It could be nothing more than a bid for attention. Lena looked up, her expression sardonic, but Nicolae seemed oblivious. At last Beta said, "Nicolae?" He blinked, and turned on her a gaze that was vague with distraction. "Yes, Sister?" "Nicolae, I will ask you again--what became of the entry rug? The servants have washed it until the threads are frayed, and still it is stained. Did you and Draculea muck out the stables, then scuff it with your filthy boots?" "No, Beta. I told you--something was spilled." "Something? What, Nicolae? Did they roll a leaking wine barrel through the hall?" His voice was sharp. "Beta, do not plague me about this." Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Nicolae, snapping at her? And of course, he could not bear it. Contrite, he said, "Im sorry, Beta. I didnt mean to be harsh, but Im worried." "Why should you worry, Calugarul?" Lena asked. "You do not go to war. You remain here--with the women." She felt a secret satisfaction at the hurt look in his eyes. No, Nicolae would not go to battle. The idea was foolish. He was a scholar, not a warrior. "Ah, but of course! You worry about the prince. Yes, if he should die, things would be hard for you, wouldnt they, librarian? Such rich patrons are not easy to come by." Lena knew what had happened while she was away--she made it her business to learn everything. While she might not be loved by the servants, she was adept at bribery and bullying, and it hadnt been too hard to learn the details.

Beta, as usual ignoring the distress that Lenas words caused her brother, stood up, saying pettishly, "All these preparations for war are quite wearying. I will have a nap, I think." "Yes, Your Highness," Lena said, sarcasm lacing her voice. "Why, you scarce closed your eyes last night with your great worry." Beta had slept like the dead, her mouth open and issuing unladylike grating noises. Nicolae looked concerned. "Beta, if you cannot rest, you must speak to Simion. He has a medicine that can ease you into slumber. You must not be weak or vexed, lest you conceive, and the child suffers." Lena started to speak, then changed her mind and instead picked viciously at a line of tiny stitches she had somehow set crookedly. Draculea had not visited Beta for almost a year, but it had been made clear to Lena that she was not to mention it. Oh, Draculea still came to her room on occasion--the show of a normal marriage was maintained. When he did, he would pass a half hour or so drinking wine, perhaps chatting idly with his wife. He did not touch her. While Beta was more than content with the arrangement, Lena seethed. Two years. Two years, and still their position was not assured, all because of the doe-eyed young man watching Beta with such pathetic concern. If only he would die, but he was most disgustingly healthy. Direct physical action was out of the question--Lena was a physical coward. She had considered an assassin. After all, she had extorted a substantial horde of silver and gold coins from the merchants she recommended to Beta. Payment would be easy, but there were risks. She knew that if his lover were killed, Draculea would tear down the very gates of Hell to reach the murderer. If he did find the killer, he might not dispatch him on the spot. The dungeons of Castle Draculea were deep, the torture rooms well equipped, and a man would tell all that he knew, under the right persuasion. There must be a way. War provides so many opportunities. Abul did not worry over much for her own safety. She was confident that if the Turks triumphed, Beta would be spared. High-born ladies with rich relatives were ransomed, not killed, and Beta would make sure that Lena was protected as well. Lena realized that she had been musing, and Beta was staring at her expectantly. "My lady, I crave your leave to remain here. I wish to finish this bit of work." Such a thing would never have been allowed of any other maid, by any other lady, but Beta merely nodded, and left. Nicolae got up and restlessly began to straighten the already neat books, shifting them minutely. Lena watched him, pretending to take a stitch now and then, calculating the best way to torment the young man. At last she said, in a falsely contrite voice, "Im sorry, Nicolae. I shouldnt tease you like that." He turned toward her, his expression surprised, but hopeful. "Its all right, Lena." She shook her head. "No, its too bad of me. I know why you are so distressed. You fear what could happen to Beta, should the Turks overrun the castle."

His hand fell away from the shelf as he took a step toward her. "Lena, dont you think that she should be sent away? She could stay with her brother, at Castle Varga." "Oh, I think not, librarian. It is not so far that the safety would be greater than it is here, and it is not so well fortified as Castle Draculea." Besides, Beta hates her sister-in-law. She would not be able to stand living under the same roof with a woman who held more authority over the household than she. "She is as safe here as she could be anywhere in Wallachia." "Yes," Nicolae agreed. He spoke to Lena, but his thoughtful look made it seem as if he were thinking out loud. "The walls are high and thick, and the river is at our back. The gates are strong, and even now the carpenters and smiths work to make them stronger still. Each hour brings more stores, in case there is a siege. Draculea has promised to leave a goodly number of his best men here when he goes into battle. Surely we will be safe." "We can but pray to God," she said with mock piety. Now to see if I cannot put a bit of fear into your sweet existence, boy. "Though I am afraid that the Turks will be implacable. I hear that the sultan was enraged." At Nicolaes sharp look she nodded, and shrugged. "Yes, I know what happened, but I will not tell Beta. I do not care to deal with hysteria." She laid aside the embroidery and folded her hands in her lap. "The second eldest envoy survived the trip, but died when he was brought before the sultan. I understand that the younger one--Rahazad, was it? He will live, but he is... damaged. I suppose the sultan will have one of his eunuchs strangle him, as a gesture of pity. They do not countenance the feeble. It was a high price to pay for pride, and both our countries will continue to pay for it." Straightening her sleeve, Lena said casually, "The Turks were here for such a short time. Did you see much of them?" Nicolaes voice was strained. "No, not much." "I am rather surprised. I hear that they are adept in seeking out the most physically pleasing. Since there were no women in the castle, that would have been you." "I stayed in my room or the library. There was no good reason for me to meet them." "No? I would have thought Draculea would have wanted to display you. We all know how proud he is of his... library." Lena watched with satisfaction as the blood mounted in Nicolaes cheeks. He makes it so easy, taking everything to heart. I wonder... I believe I can frighten him into fleeing, and he would not survive long without Draculeas protection. I could be free of him. "Have you heard the latest news?" Nicolae nodded, looking troubled. "They did not wait long. Three villages were attacked before the soldiers could come to their aid." "Aye, well, that is the way of war. The innocent and helpless suffer... and suffer... and suffer. Bad enough that they slaughtered the villagers, but what they did to them before..." She shook her head in feigned distress. "Children spitted on spears. Infants torn from their mothers arms, their brains dashed out on the ground, then the mothers ravished beside the tiny corpses. All this done in the sight of their captured or dying menfolk."

Nicolae crossed himself, thinking that he must increase his prayers, petitioning for all who had been struck down with their sins still heavy upon them. Without the Last Rites, their time in Purgatory would be long. "Gods ways are sometimes harsh, and hard to comprehend. May He grant us strength to accept." "Pah! There is no understanding of war. And as to God, it seems to me that war is more from the will and folly of men. If women ruled we would have peace." She scowled. "We would have peace now, if the Church had ordered Draculea to seek it. He has always obeyed the Holy Father. But the Church fears losing Its lands and revenues, and It is willing to sacrifice Its faithful to retain Its earthly kingdom. After all, " her voice was bitterly ironic, "the faithful can always produce more souls for them." "Lena, you are in peril of committing blasphemy!" Nicolae gasped. She sneered, "I must remember to mention it in my next confession." She considered. "You should go, librarian. Leave the castle. Perhaps you would be safer in your old monastery." "I cannot. I cannot leave Elizabeta alone now. She will be so troubled when the prince leaves for battle." Huh. You would give her your own fears, Calugarul. "Perhaps if she came with me..." "You know she cannot. She must encourage her people by demonstrating her confidence in Draculea." The truth was that Beta had begged to be allowed to remove herself to the court of France, or perhaps Germany, until the conflict was done. The opulence and ease of one of the more powerful courts would have suited her and Lena well. Draculea had informed her coldly that he would not have it known that his wife did not trust him to protect her. "She would want you to be safe, though she will not mention it. She fears to offend you by seeming to doubt your courage," Lena continued. *As if she considers the feelings of anyone save herself or me. Lena moved closer. "You should leave. Hae you any idea what will happen to you if the castle falls?" He cast his eyes down. "I will die. I fear death, but my soul belongs to God." "I suppose you would die... eventually. But as I have told you--the Turks desire men as well as women. The only question is this--if the troops find you, will they turn you over to their officers, or keep you for themselves? If they keep you, I have heard that some captives have been taken by more than a hundred in succession." She seemed to think. "They usually die at some point, though that does not necessarily stop the abuse." She watched as Nicolae, pale, sat down heavily. "But do not fret. Their officers will surely not allow a choice morsel like you to remain in the hands of the rabble. Yes, you will only be required to service the highest ranking officers, perhaps only a dozen or so. Of course they will have more exotic tastes, and be harder to please. When they grow tired of you..." She shook her head. "No, they will not kill you then. You will still fetch a fine price on the slave block, especially since you will have been well trained by then. Or perhaps they will make a gift of you to the Sultan himself! Oh, what an honor that would be, Nicolae! Though he would most likely castrate you. How else could he allow you in his harem? But then, a favorite eunuch can become quite powerful."

Nicolae sprang up, covering his mouth, and rushed to the little commode that Draculea had provided for his comfort. He jerked it open and emptied his belly into the glazed earthenware pot therein. Luckily it had been emptied of slops earlier. Lena watched, well pleased. "Oh, I am sorry if I distressed you, but I feel you should know the truth. You must be warned, so that you can decide on your best course." She gathered her work and left the shivering boy. It should not take much more. A week later "He is quiet of late, Simion. When I ask him what troubles him, he only smiles and speaks of something else. When I tried to press him last night..." He smiled almost reluctantly. "he silenced me with kisses." "He knows you well, Domn. He has not confided in me, either, but I think it is only natural care. He knows that the battle you join tomorrow will be fierce." Simions eyes were grave. "He does not want to think you might fail. I try to assure him." Draculea sighed. "I wish I could allay his fears, but there is a chance..." "You will return triumphant, Lord." Simions voice was firm. Draculea smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Faithful Simion, unwilling to admit the chance of my failure. I am grateful, but a prince must see the world as it is, and know his own limitations. I may not return." Simions voice was intense. "Let me go with you, Domn! Let me fight beside you, as I have before." Draculeas hand tightened. "I would permit it, if not for one thing. This time I must leave behind that which I hold most dear. I need you to stay with Nicolae," Almost as an afterthought he added, "...and see to the protection of the castle and my wife." Simion did not fail to notice the way Draculea had ordered his charges. Draculea hesitated. "Simion, you know what the Turks are like, what they are capable of. If rumor of what Rahazad tried has reached the sultans ears, Nicolae..." He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were bleak. "If I fail, and they come to the castle, you must..." Draculea, the strongest man Simion had ever known, the man that the world believed incapable of an emotion softer than rage, could not complete the thought. Simion gripped his hand and said gently, "I understand, Master. We will have a few hours warning. To please me, he will drink wine if I suggest it will soothe his nerves. The draft I gave him when he was hurt will ease him beyond danger. No pain, no fear--only sleep." He half drew the knife that hung at his belt. "I will follow him, quickly and cleanly." "Thank you, Simion." He embraced the older man. "I can go into battle now with a measure of peace." Simion dared to return the embrace, and thought what he could not speak. For love of you, my prince, and for love of Nicolae. I could have envied him, but not when he means so much to you. I know that you care for me as much as your nature will allow, and I am content. I can take my pleasure well enough with others, but my heart and soul will always belong to you.

Draculea released him. "I must go forth at dawn. One more night. I will have at least one more night with my love." "Yes, my lord. Love him well. Whatever rest you may lose, it will matter little. Being with him will give you strength." Draculea took his evening meal with the officers who would accompany him, eating only because he knew that he must show no weakness. Beta sat at his right, and Nicolae at his left. Beta ate well, but Nicolae only moved the food about on his plate. The boy excused himself early and Draculea remained not much longer. He opened the door of his room to find it lit by many candles, with a lusty fire leaping on the hearth. Nicolae was bending over a bathing tub in the middle of the room. His feet were bare, and he had removed his shirt. He set aside the bucket he had just emptied, then dipped his hand in the water. "It is a pleasing temperature, Domn." He lifted his hand, wiping it across his chest, and the light glistened on his wet skin. He held out his hand. "Come, master. Let me serve you tonight." Draculea shut the door and went to him. He stood quietly as Nicolae began to undress him. Nicolae opened and removed Draculeas shirt, then sank to his knees before the prince, holding out his hands. Draculea put his hands on Nicolaes shoulders and lifted first one foot, then the other, allowing his lover to remove his boots. Draculeas hands still on his shoulders, Nicolae slowly untied his lovers lacings, then pushed down his breeches. Draculea stepped out of them, and was naked. Nicolae looked up at him, and his voice was teasing. "My lord, what must I do to persuade you to wear drawers?" His hands slid up his Draculeas thighs. "Would you prove the Turks claim that you are a savage?" Draculeas grip tightened, and he pulled him upright, pressing against him. "You make me feel like a savage--a heathen with no though but my own pleasure." "Not so, Prince." Draculea shivered as Nicolae ran his hands up his sides, skimming his ribs. "You think of me. You always think of me." He pulled away gently. "Please, Domn, else the water will be chilled." Draculea stepped into the water, and let his hands glide down Nicolaes chest. His fingers came to rest on the boys dark copper nipples, and he rubbed softly. "Join me." Nicolae lifted each hand to his lips, kissing them in turn. "Not tonight, Domn." He muted his refusal with a promise. "When you return." Draculea sat in the steamy water. Nicolae knelt beside the tub. Cupping his hands, he trickled the warm water over Draculea, then picked up a lump of soap. He smiled as he worked it between his palms, creating a thick, fragrant lather. "Domn, do you recall when we traveled from Castle Varga? Do you..." "The spring? Yes, Nicolae, I remember. How could I forget?" Nicolaes hands moved over Draculeas body, more caressing than cleansing. "When we were done, you lay on the grass and would have slept there, under the stars." He reached up and touched Nicolaes cheek. "You were still so shy, yet you invited me to lie with you. I wish I had."

"No, my love. Things progressed as they had to. You must have no regrets, as I have none." He rinsed away the soap. When Draculea stepped dripping from the tub he wrapped the prince in a large, thick cloth, patting and rubbing to dry him. Then, smiling mischievously, he took the ends of the cloth and tugged Draculea, still wrapped, to the bed. He turned suddenly, swinging Draculea around as if he were in a sling, and let go, so that he fell back across the bed. Then he threw himself on top of his lover. Nicolae lay atop him, bracing on his hands so that he could look down, and his expression became grave. "How long will you be gone?" Draculea reached up to hold his waist. "I do not know, Nicolae. It will not take many hours to reach the battlefield, then..." He shrugged. "Who can say?" His hands tightened a little, his thumbs stroking over Nicolaes abdomen. "Their force is large. It may be all day. I may not return until nightfall." Neither of them would admit what they both thought--that he might not return. Nicolae settled against him again, resting his head on Draculeas shoulder. "I want to love you, Vlad. But later, before you go... will you hold me? When I am in your arms, I feel safe. Nothing of this world can touch me." Draculea gripped his hair, tipping Nicolaes head back so that he could reach his lips. "Of course, Nicolae. I will always hold you when you are afraid." He kissed the boy, then let his mouth trail down his throat. He paused for a moment, his lips against the warm skin, feeling the strong pulse of his blood. He knew that with a word or a touch he could speed that blood to a thundering pace, or calm it to a peaceful throb. He felt humbled by this power that the boy had granted him. Slowly and gently, he began to touch Nicolae. Nicolae answered every kiss, every caress. They turned on their sides, Nicolae shifting till his head was toward the foot of the bed, and feasted on each other. When Draculea had drawn the essence from Nicolae, he pulled away, despite the boys protest that the prince had not yet reached fulfillment. He made Nicolae lie on his belly, and carefully oiled and loosened his back passage, seeking out the tiny spot that made the younger man arch and cry out. At last Draculea mounted him, sinking into the accepting flesh. He almost wept when he heard Nicolae whisper, "I am complete." He took Nicolae slowly and tenderly. When the boy would have bucked, speeding the joining, Draculea pressed down on his hips, holding him firmly, and continued his steady strokes. Again and again he touched the pleasure spot buried so deep in his lover. When Nicolae was whining and shaking with need, he rolled them over onto their sides. Then he took Nicolaes rigid, weeping cock in his greased hands and stroked him to completion. Only when he felt the hot surge of the boys sperm did he loosen his control, and finish with three hard, stabbing thrusts. When it was done, Draculea held Nicolae, as he had promised. He even managed to sleep, his head on Nicolaes chest, as the steady beat of his lovers heart lulled him. Not moving, Nicolae lay awake, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, and prayed. TBC Dont worry. I have the next chapter beta-ed, and will post it as soon as I have the corrections made. It may be less than an hour.

Back to index

Chapter 38: Part 38: Tragedy

Authors Notes: WARNINGS, PAY ATTENTION TO THIS!: I am putting this at the very beginning because I feel it is important, so please heed it. Major character death, and I think you know who I mean. Hell be reincarnated later, but he dies now. Please do not send me bills for keyboards ruined by tears, because youve been warned. This is the end of the first of three sections. The next section will begin Draculeas unlife. LENA WILL GET HERS, I PROMISE YOU, but you have to wait till the next chapter. Ill try to make it worthwhile. Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, neither do I make any profit from this venture. Summary: Tragedy. The final chapter of the first section. The next chapter will begin Draculeas life as one of the undead, and his revenge on Lena. Warnings: Character death, death, destruction, and religious statements that may upset some. These do not reflect personal beliefs, but are for the sake of the story. The Year of Our Lord, 1462 Castle Draculea, Romania The next morning, as the darkened sky turned pearl grey to the east, Nicolae left before Draculea was buckled into his armor. He slipped away to join the people who had assembled in the chapel. There Draculea would receive a final blessing from Bishop Alfred and Father Mircea, then would bid farewell to his household and go forth with their well-wishes and prayers. Beta, looking a bit groggy, stood before the altar with the clerics. As princess, she had place of honor. Nicolae slipped to the side, standing near the font of holy water. The princes officers waited, standing between the pews. All were solemn, and silent. The doors to the chapel swung open and Draculea strode down the aisle, his tread measured--dignified, but purposeful. Nicolae watched him, his eyes soft and wondering. He had seen Draculea before in the leather guards that he wore to spar with his men, but the sight of him in full battle dress was something else--it was awe-inspiring. Surely any Turk that does not flee before him is not brave, but a fool. Looking neither right or left, Draculea came to the altar, and knelt. It was a tribute to his strength that he did not require assistance to do this in his heavy armor. After Bishop Alfred had intoned a solemn blessing and sprinkled him with holy water, he arose, again without assistance. Making the sign of the cross, Alfred intoned, Go with God, my son. You fight His battle, and you shall prevail. Mircea echoed the bishops gesture, and sentiment. He had wanted to go, also--not to battle, but to administer the Last Rites to those who would surely fall. Draculea had forbidden him, telling him that his place was at Castle Draculea, tending to the needs of his little flock.

Beta stepped forward now. She placed a hand gingerly on the cold metal that covered her husbands arm, rose on her toes, and kissed his cheek. Go with God, husband. After a pause, her voice slightly flat, she said, I love you. Draculea stared at her. Thank you, Beta. Be assured that I love you fully as much as you love me. He started toward the doors, and his men began to step into the aisle behind him, preparing to follow. But Draculea stopped. He turned back and walked swiftly to the front of the chapel, brushing aside those who did not move quickly enough. Nicolae had closed his eyes as Draculea began to leave. His head drooped, tears spilling down his cheeks, but he made no sound. He had clasped his hands, already beginning the first prayer, when he heard heavy footsteps approach. A hand under his chin tipped his face up, and he opened his eyes to find Draculea looking down at him. Without a word the prince bent and pressed a fervent kiss to the boys mouth. He smoothed Nicolaes hair off his forehead, then gently brushed away a tear, all the while staring deeply into his eyes. Nicolae sighed, and gave him a trembling smile, putting his hands on either side of Draculeas face. Then he reached up and returned the kiss. There was thick silence in the chapel. Finally Draculea stepped away from Nicolae. He turned an ironic glance on the stunned Bishop Alfred, then went back up the aisle without further hesitation. When he was gone, Nicolae went to Father Mircea and said quietly, Father, will you hear my confession? Of course, Nicolae, he said, his voice gentle. Beta, Nicolae caught his sisters hand as she began to move away. Make confession, too. Perhaps later, Nicolae. I want my breakfast. Sister, please. We do not know what today will bring, and our souls should be made clean. When she frowned, his hand tightened, and he said in a low voice, I do not ask for much, Beta. Do this, for my sake if not your own. She rolled her eyes. Oh, very well! Let me go first, then. It will not take long. As the priest and girl entered the confessional, Nicolae turned to Lena. And you, after her, Lena. Abuls voice was cold. Not I, librarian. Nicolae looked distressed. But Lena, you must not risk dying unshriven. See to your own soul, boy, she said harshly. It may be required of you before the day is out.

Lena, please... Beta was already emerging from the confessional, muttering her allotted Hail Marys and Our Fathers under her breath. She paused beside Nicolae, saying testily, Satisfied? He sighed with relief. Thank you, Beta. Perhaps you can persuade Lena to do the same? Beta shrugged. I cannot direct her devotions, Nicolae. With no further words she swept out... following Lena. He frowned, but took his place in the confessional box. Father Mircea said, Well, Nicolae, you can hardly have much to forgive. I heard you only yesterday. Nicolae put his face in his hands, and was silent for a long moment. At last, voice muffled and not looking up, he said, Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have lied to you, and to God. Mircea closed his eyes. He only hoped that the boy would not be too severe in castagating himself. Tell me, my son. Nicolae cleared his throat. I... I have not made a good confession for over two years. I have taken communion with sins still on my soul. Not wanting to hear what was nothing less than the boy ripping his own heart out, but knowing that he must, Mircea said, What are these sins, Nicolae? I have lusted for one of my own sex, Father. I have lain with him. I have fornicated in ways deemed unnatural by The Church. His voice dropped. He is wed. I have made him commit adultery. Nicolae, no one can force another to dishonor their wedding vows. It is a choice. He paused. Can you tell me the name of this person? As he had so long ago when he first confessed to Mircea the new longings that so confused him, he said, No, Father. I can confess only my own sins. He must look to the care of his own soul. Nicolae, Mircea said carefully. Who has this relationship hurt? Silence. If it is as I think, not even the wife of this man you love has suffered. And it is love, isnt it, Nicolae? It is not just base, animal lust. Your heart is taken, not just your body? Oh, yes, Father! His voice was firm. Then be at peace. Eight rosaries tonight before you sleep. He paused. Besides your usual prayers. Again, as he had so many times, Mircea spoke the words of absolution, smiling at the relief and gratitude in the boys voice. He shook his head as Nicolae went directly from the box to kneel before the altar and begin his penance. Mircea sat back, thinking, Alfred must have left the room, else he would be berating the boy. Huh. He has little room to chide others, with the five bastard children he supports, along with their three mothers.

Mircea smiled. I thought he would choke on his beard when the prince kissed Nicolae. Men do kiss dear friends and comrades, but that... No, that was the parting kiss of two lovers. Mircea closed his eyes and offered up his own prayers. You may punish me when I come to judgment, Lord, but I cannot condemn them. Bring Draculea home safe, Lord, because I think that Nicolae will not survive without him. *** While Draculeas force was fewer than the Turks, they were fighting to protect their land, their homes, and their loved ones, and they were led by a man so fierce and powerful that they could not help but be heartened. Draculea led the initial charge, mounted on Lucifer. The great beast had been restive as they neared the battleground, prancing and snorting eagerly. He knew that they were going to war. He had been born and bred for this, and he had missed it during the late peace. He quivered with excitement, waiting for the call to battle. Draculea raised his sword, the trumpets blared, and the horse leapt into action. The huge black stallion raced into the front line of the Turks. In seconds he was rearing and plunging, squealing with rage. He lashed out with his teeth and iron clad hooves. Skulls were crushed, chunks of flesh ripped away. The horse alone would account for more than a dozen kills before the day was done. And his rider... The Turkish officers had tried to downplay Draculeas power and presence, telling their men again and again that the name Son of the Devil or Son of the Dragon was due only to his membership in the Order of the Dragon. But the big man in the gleaming armor fought like a demon, wielding a huge sword that seemed too large for even two men. The closest he came to being injured was when a lucky mace blow knocked him from his saddle. There was a moment of danger while he struggled to his feet, but his men closed around him, protecting him until he was upright and had found his sword again. When his sword was knocked from his hands, he snatched a spear from a Turk and used it to spit a charging foe, lifting him into the air, before he retrieved his sword and fought on. The battle raged through the morning and afternoon, into the evening. Thousands died, and uncounted men were wounded. The Turks sent wave after wave of soldiers into the fray hoping to overwhelm the Wallachians, but it was like waves breaking on a rocky shore. The forces of Draculea never faltered, never gave ground. They advanced, and the ground behind them was littered with corpses, severed limbs, and the brains and entrails of the unfortunate. So much blood was spilled that the ground grew spongy, and the men ended up fighting in scarlet-brown mud. Finally the Turks broke, and ran. Some surrendered. Those who had died in battle were more fortunate than they. There were plenty of sturdy spears, and Draculea once again demonstrated why he was known as The Impaler. The battlefield soon grew a gruesome forest of spitted bodies. Finally, smeared with blood and filth, Draculea stood in the midst of the carnage as his men slaughtered the remaining enemies. He raised his sword and cried, God be praised! I am victorious! Then he lowered his weapon slowly, looking up at a sky that seemed to blaze, and whispered, Nicolae...

A horseman was sent to bear the good tidings to Castle Draculea, and they began to gather up the casualties for the trip back. *** Simion was pacing in the courtyard when the messenger arrived. The young soldier slid from his sweating, trembling mount, and fell into Simions arms. He gasped, Sir, we are victorious! Simion resisted shaking him. What of Prince Draculea? He is well. Our lord is unharmed, and triumphant. He will return soon. But sir, we have many who are sorely wounded. Yes. The danger is past, else I would not dare leave my post. I will get my supplies and come at once. He turned the messenger over to the other soldiers, and went to collect his medicines. The Turks knew they were going to be defeated hours before they battle ended. They formed an insidious plan to exact revenge. A soldier broke through the lines and made his way back to Castle Draculea, slipping through the forest. When he neared the walls, he loosed an arrow, aiming it over the castle wall. The men Draculea had left to protect his home were alert, and their archers immediately took aim on the spot from which the arrow had come. The Turk fulfilled his mission, but he died bristling with well aimed shafts. Simion was informed. Closing the case that contained his herbs, drafts, and a goodly supply of bandages, he hurried to the courtyard. Lena had been there when the message was brought, and followed closely, curious. Simion approached the arrow, handing his case to a stable lad to be loaded on a cart. He eyed the parchment tied to the arrow, then untied it, and opened it. He read the message. At first he frowned, then he gave a harsh bark of laughter. Fools! What is it? He glanced at the woman, surprised and irritated. It is nothing but a desperate, futile ploy, meant to hurt and panic us. It says that the prince is dead, killed in battle. He crumpled it into a ball. I received word not an hour ago that he is well, and triumphant. There can be no mistake. He threw the parchment to the ground. Say nothing of this to anyone. It is better that no one know of this until the prince has returned to prove the lie. The cart rolled out the gate, Simion sitting in the back and tearing a sheet into strips. Lenas eyes glinted as she watched them till they were out of sight. When they were gone, she bent and picked up the parchment, smoothing and studying it. A slow smile spread over her thin face. Oh, how sad. I think Nicolae will take this hard. She rolled the parchment up again, tied it to the arrow once again, and went into the castle. Father Mircea had persuaded Nicolae to return to his library. Lena found him there. He sat at the largest table, staring at the wall.

She went to him, schooling her expression to be anxious. Calugarul, look! She showed him the arrow. This came over the castle wall not five minutes ago. I cannot find Simion, and someone must see what this is. Please... Apprehensively, Nicolae took the arrow and untied the message. He unrolled the parchment, and read. Lena watched avidly, and was gratified to see the color drain from his face, and his eyes grow huge and wounded. Is it bad news, librarian? Unable to speak, he handed the page to Lena. Lena pretended to read the message, and cried, No! Oh, my poor lady, so young a widow. And you, Nicolae. Her voice was sly. You have lost your patron, and protector. Let me advise you. When the Turks take the castle, choose the most powerful and offer yourself to him, lest the common soldiers rend you to bits in their passion. She gave him a sorrowful look. If only there were some way you could escape this fate. I must go and be with Beta. She left, repressing a chortle. Nicolae remained where he was for a long moment, staring in horror at the message which had torn his world apart. Vlad. The single word was a bare whisper, forlorn and lost. I should be crying, but I cannot. I have no tears, I am empty. He thought of what Lena had told him about the Turks, and he shuddered. I might live, but if I did, it would be even worse. How could I bear it if they did the things that Vlad has done, but with nothing but lust and hate, no love? No, it would be better to die. He closed his eyes. I am dead already, though I still breath. Why should I wait for what will come, and suffer? He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him, then took up a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote. When he was done he carefully blotted the parchment, then folded it and tucked it in his shirt. He picked up the fatal message, left the library, then hesitated, gazing up the stairs toward Betas room. His mouth tightened a bit. Nicolae went to the chapel and found Father Mircea sitting in the front pew. He sat beside the older man and said, Father, I must ask you a question. It is very important. Ask, Nicolae. I will answer if I can. If a person is murdered, if they have made a good confession, and performed their penance, will they go to heaven? Mircea nodded kindly. Most assuredly, Nicolae. The boy sighed, obviously relieved. He patted Nicolaes knee. You need not fear, boy. I do not think you will die today, but if you do, your soul is clean. If a person takes their own life, though, Father? Mircea frowned. Suicide is a mortal sin, Nicolae. Even... even if the person will die anyway, and in great and terrible pain? Yes, Nicolae, even then. Death is meted out by God alone. Man cannot usurp that power without endangering his soul. He suddenly noticed the boys pallor. Why do you ask me these things?

I am sorry, Father. Nicolae, what is wrong? He noticed the parchment in the boys hand and took it. Nicolae neither tried to prevent him, nor tried to aid him. The priest read the message, then gasped, looking back at his young friend. Nicolae looked back at him with dull eyes and said softly, I am so sorry, Father. He suddenly grabbed the priest, lifting him as he stood. Boy, what are you doing? Bless me father, for I have sinned. I have despaired. He wrestled the protesting priest toward the confessional. Mircea struggled, but Nicolae, though inexperienced, was young and strong. He shoved Mircea into the box and quickly shut the door. I have planned murder. He had the cord that had bound the message to the arrow, and he used it to bind the handles of both sides of the confessional together. Mircea threw himself against the door, and could not budge it. My love is dead, and I must follow him. Nicolae! I have not hurt you, Father? I... no. But Nicolae... Can you give me absolution? Boy, you know I cannot! Please, be sensible. Open the door, and we will pray together. Bless you, Father, but it will do no good. You may pray for my loves soul. Pray for Beta. She confessed only this morning, and her time in Purgatory will not be great. Mircea cried out in horror, but Nicolae continued with almost eerie calm. I cannot help Lena. She would not confess, and I cannot save her from the Turks without risking damning her soul. Try to protect her. And... and pray for me? Who knows, perhaps God may forgive me... someday. He went up the aisle, ignoring the priests entreaties, his step firm. Nicolae went first to Simions room. Most of his stores were gone, but he located a few precious things. One of them was the sleeping draft. He went to Elizabetas room. Lena frowned at him, thinking, Huh. I do not know if his remaining means that he is a brave man, or a coward. She gave Nicolae a warning look, but the boy shook his head, telling her silently that he would not tell Beta about the message. Beta was sorting through a small pile of lace. She glanced up at Nicolae absently, and said, You have news, Brother? No, Beta. She looked up at him, curious. His voice, always soft when he spoke to her, was peculiarly tender. I only wish to spend a little time with you.

Yes, well, I am rather busy. Nicolae walked to the table that held the wine carafe and glasses. Just take a glass of wine with me? My nerves, I fear, are unsteady. It will make me feel so much better if you and Lena will join me. Oh, very well. Turning his back to them he poured two goblets of wine, then glanced back at the women. Lena had gone to Beta and leaned over her, their heads close together as they debated the merits of a swatch of Venetian lace. He slipped the parchment twist from his sleeve. He poured a small measure of powder into one glass, then emptied the rest into the other. Picking them up, he swirled the crimson liquid gently, then brought it to the women. He handed one glass to Lena, and the other to Beta. When Beta looked at him questioningly he said, There was enough for only two drinks. I should not have wine. I have allowed my habits to become lax of late. The two women drank. Lena finished her goblet in two quick drafts, then set it aside. Beta sipped hers more daintily. Nicolae watched with some apprehension. She only drank about half of the wine before setting it aside. He frowned. Would it be enough? And it had to be soon, else someone was likely to release Father Mircea, and learn of his plan. Soon Lena was yawning hugely. My lady, I think I must rest. I am unaccountably weary. Yes, Lena. Beta yawned more daintily, covering her mouth. You may take the bed. Nicolae, you must go. Not yet, Sister. He watched as Lena stretched out on the bed. She began snoring, almost immediately. Just a few moments more. How do you feel? Beta blinked, looking a bit dazed. In truth, Nicolae, I feel odd. My head swims. The room is too warm and close. You need fresh air, Beta. You have taken no exercise for a long time. He took her hands, pulling her upright. Come, I will walk with you. She whined. I do not wish to. Let go, Nicolae, and let me lie beside Lena. Soon, Sister. But come with me just this little while. Please? Oh, very well! she grumbled. He led her out into the hall. When she would have turned toward the stairs leading down to the ground floor, he urged her in the other direction. No, Beta. It would not be safe to go out into the courtyard. We will walk on the roof of the castle. There you will be safe. Feh! I will most likely catch a chill.

No, Beta. I promise you that. He had to help her up the stairs, because she was swaying by now. Nicolae, I think I should go back to my room. I... I am really quite dizzy. Soon, Beta, soon. Come to the back wall. The breeze is cool and refreshing there, and the view is magnificent. He half carried her to the low wall at the back of the roof. Do you see, Beta? The mountains rise all around, and the forests seem to go on forever. Can you help but feel the presence of God in the face of such beauty? Yes, I am sure. I want my bed, Nicolae. She gave a small cry of surprise as Nicolae gathered her into his arms. Always before she had been the one to offer physical intimacy. Nicolae had humbly accepted whatever absent embrace or petting she had seen fit to offer him. She looked up at him, and was alarmed at the his expression. It was so gentle, but sorrowful, and there was a strange brightness in his eyes. You will rest soon, Beta. Nicolae... I know that you would have wished for Lena to come with you, but she would not go to confession. I could not condemn her to meet God with her sins still black upon her soul. He moved suddenly, climbing up on the wall, lifting her with him. Dear God, Nicolae! Her panic fought with the strange heaviness which weighted her limbs, yet made her feel light headed. What have you done? What are you doing? Hush, Sister, it is all right. I spoke to Father Mircea. You are innocent, and your soul will fly to God. Will you speak for me when you are in heaven? She beat at him feebly. Nicolae, why are you doing this? I alone am left to see that you do not suffer at the hands of the invaders. They will ransom me, you fool! He was shaking his head sadly. Draculea is dead. What do I care? I did not love him. There was silence, save for the wind whistling around the two young people perched on the wall, high above the rushing river. At last Nicolae said softly, Poor girl. Your grief has made you mad. Do not fear, Beta. I will be strong for us both. As the girl began to struggle more strongly, Nicolae lifted his face to the sky and murmured, Father, we come. Closing his eyes he whispered, Vlad, I come. ...and he took a step backward...

*** Simion met Draculea halfway. The prince rode at the head of an only slightly diminished force. The well helped the wounded to limp along, while the ones who could not walk were piled in creaking carts. Draculea said, Good, you got my message. You need not go on to the battlefield. We have brought all those who survive, and they can be best tended in the castle or village. He smiled. How did Nicolae receive the news? Simion looked abashed. My lord, I did not tell him. I made haste to treat the wounded. But think of his joy when you stand before him. Draculea smiled, imagining the boys face wet again, but this time with tears of joy. Yes. Let us hurry. Simion mounted one of the carts and began to bind wounds. Draculea paced an oddly calm Lucifer alongside. The great horse had suffered a few small wounds, but his hooves, clotted with drying blood and brains, proved that he had dealt more blows than he had received. As he worked, Simion said, The dogs tried one last ploy to put fear in our hearts, Domn. They sent an arrow over the walls with a lying message, saying you were slain. I left it wadded on the ground, like the trash it was, but perhaps you would like to preserve it as a memento. You assured everyone that it was false? No one else read it, so there was no need. He frowned, tightening a bandage. Well, no one of import. Abul was there, but I told her plainly that there was proof of its lie. Lena? Draculea frowned, feeling a tickle of unease. If mischief can be done, that woman will find a way. If she has frightened Nicolae... He trailed off, a sudden sense of alarm washing over him. Simion, if the boy does not know of my triumph, and reads that filth... Simion froze, the same idea occurring to him. No, my lord, surely not. I left the castle only an hour ago. Much may happen in an hour. Draculea set his spurs to Lucifers sides, and the great horse, even as tired as he was, leaped into a gallop. Simion commandeered a horse from one of the officers, and followed Draculea. Though the horse was no match for Draculeas steed, it was fresher, and Simion managed to draw near as they came to the castle. Draculea knew that something was wrong as he came through the gates. There was both agitation, and a strange stillness over the castle. He was not greeted by the cheers that would have been normal on an occasion such as this. The men guarding the gate turned their eyes away. He flung himself down from Lucifer and burst into the castle. A group of serving girls huddled near the door, clutching each other and weeping. When they saw him, their wails rose. Draculea took a step toward them, hoping to find out the meaning of the strange atmosphere, but he hesitated, and looked down. The entry rug, the one that had been stained by the blood of the Turks, was stained now with water. It was almost sopping near the door, and the damp trail thinned as it led into the great hall.

Feeling a nameless dread, Draculea followed it through the great hall, to the doors of the chapel. There he hesitated. He had known no fear when he went forth to face the Turks, but now his heart felt swollen with terror. He thrust the doors open violently, and strode into the chapel. At the front, Bishop Alfred, two of Betas maids, and a weeping Father Mircea looked up at him. Stretched on a bier before the altar lay Beta, or rather what had once been Beta. Draculea came forward slowly. She was drenched, her long hair trailing down the single step that led up to the altar, her clothes streaming. Her face was twisted in a last, petulant grimace, and Draculea thought numbly that if she were to lie in state, the ones who prepared her would be hard put to make her features pleasant again. As he came closer, he said, How? What was she doing near the river? She hated it. Father Mircea seemed about to speak, but Bishop Alfred intoned. You must be strong, Prince. Your poor bride was most foully slain. But be at peace. Mircea tells me she had made confession earlier, and a murder victim bears no stain of sin. His eyes hardened. But the one who slew her was a suicide. Almost to the front now, Draculea caught sight of something small and dark huddled to the side, and his gaze was drawn there. He staggered, struck and wounded as no foe had ever done. The black hair covered his face, but Draculea could not mistake him. He knew every curve of that body, every plain and angle, every square inch of skin. No. It was a whisper. Simion who had come up behind him, flinched in horror. He reached to take Draculeas arm, to offer what support and comfort he could. The big man shook him off and stumbled toward the still figure. When Mircea tried to stop him, he threw the priest off with no more effort than a man waving away a fly. He went down on his knees beside the still body, then reached out a trembling hand and pushed the hair back. Draculea experienced a curious burst of memory. Images of the face of his beloved, in all its many moods, flashed before him. He remembered the panicked look when he had fled at Castle Varga, the quiet suffering after his fathers attack, the rapt devotion as he prayed, the tenderness as he held a servant girls child. He recalled the flash of bright temper when he declared his intention to have some say in his own life, the smile when he made a simple joke, the concern when Vlad had come from his drill, nursing bruises. He remembered that face burning with passion, glowing up at him, or turned, flushed and sweaty, to gaze at him over his shoulder as their bodies joined. But most of all he remembered how he had looked after love, when sleep overtook him, and he lay peaceful in Draculeas arms. That was the expression now. Tired, and peaceful, and very young. He was paler than Draculea had ever seen him, though, and there were lavender shadows under his eyes that told that he would not awaken refreshed from this sleep. Draculea touched his cheek gently, and jerked his hand back from the damp, cold flesh. Nicolae. When his hand dropped, it touched something, and Draculea picked up the sheet of parchment. It was wet also, and the ink ran, streaking the paper with black, but he could still recognize Nicolaes precise, elegant hand. My prince is dead. All is lost without him. May God unite us in heaven. Oh, Lord, no! Draculea gathered the limp body into his arms, rocking it against his armored chest. He held Nicolae as he had so many times, but there was no stir, no response. Simion had to bite back a cry of pain when the prince desperately lifted the boys arms around his own neck, only to have them fall back.

Bishop Alfred, watching the scene with distaste, decided it was time to summon the prince back to his duties. After all, the boy had been only a plaything, and here lay the princes bride. He has taken his own life. His soul cannot be saved. He is damned. It is Gods law. The bishop started when Draculea threw back his head and screamed in denial, even as he gently lowered the body once again. He lunged to his feet and lashed out. The font toppled, the heavy stone bursting apart as it struck, and the holy water flooded the floor. Before the bishop could react to this, Draculea had turned on him. Pointing at Alfred, eyes blazing the pale blue of a candle flame when a lost soul passes by, he screamed, Is this my reward for defending Gods church? Sacrilege! gasped Alfred. Draculea scowled at him, and the cleric cringed away, lifting his cross in defense. There was an unholy light in Draculeas eyes, one that caused more than physical fear. Glaring at the frozen bishop, Draculea snarled, I renounce God! If he can damn one as innocent and good as my Nicolae, I renounce the hateful being. I shall rise from my own death to avenge his with all the powers of darkness! He had dropped his sword when he spotted Nicolae, but now he took it up again. He lunged over the altar and jabbed the blade at the cross carved into the stone wall. Such was the force of his grief and rage that the blade smote through the stone, sinking in easily a third of its length. He left it quivering there. As he turned back the witnesses gasped in horror. Mircea and Alfred instinctively crossed themselves, and all others but Simion fled. Blood spurted from the stone, as if Draculea had thrust his blade into living flesh. It streamed down the wall and began to gather in a crimson puddle. Suddenly, though the day had been clear, thunder boomed overhead. Snatching the communion chalice from the altar, Draculea held it beneath the grisly flow, letting it fill with the scarlet liquid. He raised the chalice high and shouted, The blood is the life, and it shall be mine! Then he threw back his head and drained the chalice. Again there was thunder, as if the very sky would split. The blood from the cross increased, flooding down to wash against Betas corpse, thinning but little when it struck the water that had dripped from her garments. Bloody tears began to stream from the eyes of the Madonna, and all the other small icons and carvings. The very walls of Castle Draculea shook and groaned. Bishop Alfred fled in babbling fear, crossing himself even as he ran. Never again would he be persuaded to come within even a days ride of Castle Draculea. As the Bishop hurried out of the chapel, Draculea screamed, the chalice falling from his hands. He ripped at his armor, slicing his hands as he tore it from his body, snapping the straps that held it in place. His entire body felt on fire, as if he was being burned from within. Simion shuddered when he saw that his masters eyes were no longer cool blue, but blood red. Draculea turned and staggered back to where Nicolae lay. He dropped to the floor and once again pulled the dead boy into his arms. Gently caressing the pale face, he whispered. Do you see what I have done, Nicu? I have damned myself for you. Now you must return. I know it will be hard, little one. You are wandering in cold and dark, and it will not be easy to find your way back, but you must try. All you have

to do is return to this world. Draculea could feel himself weakening. Just come back to this earthly realm, Nicu, and I will find you--this I swear. I will wait for you, Nicolae, no matter how long it takes for you to find your way home. Darkness was closing in. He touched his lips to Nicolaes cool mouth. When he sat back, blood was a vivid smear against the boys pale lips. But you must come back. As he slid into unconsciousness, Draculea murmured, We belong to each other. Simion approached them slowly. He touched Draculeas back, then his throat. Finally he cupped a hand before Draculeas face, covering his mouth and nostrils. He looked to Mircea, his expression devastated, and moaned, He is dead! Mircea, crossing himself over and over in a gesture he scarcely seemed aware of, whispered, No, Simion, I doubt he is truly dead. What do you mean, priest? I will see to the burial of those other two poor creatures. Beta will lie in the Draculea crypt. Nicolae... he closed his eyes in pain. He cannot lie in consecrated ground, but I will not have him cast out into the rough wilderness. I will see him placed somewhere he can rest with a bit of dignity, Mircea grimaced, if he can rest at all. Then I will leave this place. As Mircea moved to begin his tasks, Simion caught his arm and said fiercely, Tell me what you mean! My lord is dead! He does not breathe, his heart does not beat. I tell you, he is dead! Mircea gently pried Simions hand away, And I tell you, Simion, that though he does not live, he is not dead. When Simion would have protested this nonsense, he looked at the priests grieving face, and stopped. Before he left, Mircea said sadly, God is not mocked. Do you think that He would allow Draculea to escape so easily? TBC Back to index

Chapter 39: Chapter 39: Reawakening

Authors Notes: Pairing: Draculea/Simion Summary: Draculea awakens into his new unlife. Notes: Promise, Lena buys it in the next chapter. Warnings: vampirism The Year of Our Lord, 1462 Castle Draculea, Romania For a long moment Simion could only stand and stare at the two still figures intertwined on the now gore-flooded floor. Mircea returned in a moment with two shaking soldiers, bullying them along with threats of divine retribution if they neglected their duties through cowardice. Mircea gently disengaged Nicolae from Draculeas embrace, and the soldiers carried the limp body away.

Draculea was now stretched out on the floor, his arms extended after the leaving men, as if still reaching for his lover. He looks so alone. Simion gathered himself. He stripped off the rest of Draculeas armor, so that he would be able to lift him. He did not try to call for assistance. If they are such cowards that they will abandon him now, then curse them all, he thought fiercely. It was not easy. Draculea was bigger than he, but somehow Simion managed to heft the limp body over his shoulder, and thus carried him upstairs to his room. There he laid Draculea on his bed, and once again examined the prince. He frowned. There was no breath, no fog when he held a brightly polished piece of metal before his nostrils. He opened the princes shirt and laid his ear against his broad chest, holding his own breath as he listened. No sound, and the blood-smeared flesh seemed already to be cooling. The priest said that though he does not live, he is not dead. I have heard of men who have taken fits and seemed dead, then awakened in their graves. He shuddered. That will not happen to you, my prince. I will sit beside you till you either awaken, or the rot sets into your flesh. The water from the previous night was still there. In normal times that negligence would have earned someone a beating, unless kind Nicolae had pleaded their cause. Simion would have preferred hot water, but he would not leave Draculea, lest he be away when his master revived. Instead he stripped Draculea and washed him carefully, removing the blood of battle, and the blood of the chapel. His hands stayed steady, but inside he quaked. He was a brave man, but the grisly sights in the chapel had shaken him badly. All that held him steady now was his sense of duty--Draculea needed him. When he was done, he covered Draculea with a clean sheet. He began to draw the sheet up over his head, then hesitated, looking at the pale, stern features. Finally he folded the sheet neatly down over his breast, pulled a chair up beside the bed, and sat down to wait. Some time later there was a knock at the door. Simion did not respond at once. When it came again, he arose and went to the door. He was a little surprised--he would have thought that the castle staff and Draculeas men would have fled by now. Most of them were a superstitious lot, and news of what had happened would have spread quickly, attaining even greater violence and eerieness as it was passed. I would not be surprised if by now they had Satan himself appearing in fire and smoke to present Draculea with a contract for his soul, to be signed in blood. Outside there was a swarthy man--one who did not seem as nervous as Simion would have expected. Simion examined him closely. "Yes?" The man bowed low. "Sir, we have caught a thief." "Why do you bother me with this now? You know the penalties." Again he bowed. "Yes, sir, but this case is different." The man had a thick accent. So, this was one of the gypsies. While most people drove the gypsies from place to place, cursing them for thieves and scoundrels, Draculea had welcomed many of them into his service, and decreed that they were under royal protection. The gypsies did not forget such kindness, and were loyal to the prince. "A woman was caught in the stable, trying to steal one of the princes horses. Not a peasant woman, sir, nor yet a court lady. She is the personal servant of the dead Princess Elizabeta. She had a goodly quantity of silver and gold with

her, and we fear she may have stolen it from the castle, though she claims it is her own, and offered to pay for the horse." Lena? I thought perhaps Nicolae had done away with her, too, but it seems I was wrong. The man shrugged. "We would have executed her, but I remembered that..." he cocked his head and said consideringly, "that Prince Draculea was not fond of her. We thought that perhaps the prince would like to deal with her himself." Simion nodded slowly. "You did well. Yes, he will most definitely wish to tend to her if..." Simion shook his head slightly. "When he awakens. Take her to the dungeon. No one is to touch her, mind, without express orders. See that she has food and water, for now." He gave a small, cold smile. "Garnish it as you wish." The man snickered as Simion shut the door. The fastidious Lena, so picky about her food and drink, would find it less than perfect now. If she could not handle the taste of spit, piss, and possibly shit, she could starve. He had a feeling, though, that she would not turn down whatever was offered for long--her desire to survive was too strong for her to allow herself to starve simply because a guard dirtied her food. Simion sat back beside Draculea. I promise you this, Domn--If you do not awaken, I will see that her food holds more than what the guards gift her with. I have certain drugs that can kill as well as cure. For your sake, and Nicolaes, I will see that she takes hours to die. She will think that her belly is full of broken glass, and her veins are full of acid, and I will stand and watch each shudder until the Devil comes to snatch her black soul to hell. Simion sat and waited. The fire that had been built earlier burned down to embers, and the embers burned down to ashes. Occasionally he would hear distant footsteps, or whispering voices, but not nearly as many as one might expect in a castle the size of Castle Draculea. Not in a living house, in any case. I think that the same fate that has befallen our master has taken the castle. It is fit, since he is so much a part of this place. The dawn came, and the day began to pass. Twice silent gypsies brought food to the room. They would place it near Simion, stoically study the still form of the prince, then leave. Simion knew that, though all the others had fled, the gypsies would remain until he told them that there was no hope for their master. He ate, only because he knew that he must retain his strength, the better to serve Draculea. If Draculea was indeed dead... He had told his master what he would do in that case. He kept his knife at his belt, ready. The day wore on. He knew that night was approaching when one of the gypsies came and built another fire on the hearth. This time the man approached Simion and waited patiently to be noticed. Simion decided that the man had enough sense not to bother him unless he had important information, and he gestured at him to speak. "Sir, I thought you would wish to know. The masters young companion has been buried below the castle. My men dug the grave, for the old priest would never have managed."

"I thank you. So shall the prince, when he returns to us." The man shrugged. "It is not necessary, sir. It was our duty, and the men liked the boy. He was always courteous and kind," he smiled grimly, "though he did plague us to learn his scratching. The priest said some words over the grave. It was not the full burial ceremony, but he blessed the boy, and said a prayer for his soul." Simion shook his head. "I knew that Mircea would do all that he felt he could. He is gone now?" "Aye, after he laid the princess to rest." Simions voice held a touch of grim satisfaction. "So, she received full ceremony, but he buried Nicolae first. Good." He waved the man away. "Two more days, friend. If Draculea has not come to his senses by then, we will bury him, and your people are released from fealty." He bowed, saying, "Sir, my people do not swear allegiance lightly. Should the time ever come when we are no longer needed by the House of Draculea, we will know." He left, and Simion turned his attention once again to his fallen master. Aside from his pallor, he does not look dead. He seems only asleep. Asleep, but not at peace. The look of calm he had achieved with Nicu is gone. Simion closed his eyes, remembering his lord in all his many moods. He did not see the faint twitch of movement beneath Draculeas eyelids, the subtle shifting that was so like that which accompanied a dream. There was a minute lifting under the sheet as long fingers spread slightly, and flexed. There were many infinitesimal motions, but the chest never rose, and the skin above his pulse points did not vibrate with the throb of flowing blood. Draculeas eyelids lifted. The eyes that stared up at the ceiling were as flat and cold as stone. Then there was a spark in their depths. Rage and grief flared, bringing the dead stare to life. Simion had been slipping into a doze when he heard a scream that sounded as if it came from the pits of Hell. Even before he could open his eyes he felt a body collide with his own, knocking him from his seat and carrying him to the floor. Simion fought frantically, but it was as if the thing on top of him had the strength of ten men. Cold limbs wound with his own, pinning him so that he felt as helpless as a child. There was a low, inhuman snarl close above him. He opened his eyes to find a face both familiar and hideously strange hovering above his own. It was his master, Draculea, but something souless looked out from his eyes. He glared down at Simion. His well-cut lips wrinkled back like those of a wild dog scenting prey, and Simion moaned when he saw that the canine teeth had grown. They were fangs, near an inch long, the needle points glistening. "Nosferatu!" he whispered. Simion was further shocked when Draculea agreed in a harsh voice, "Nosferatu." Simion had thought that all that had been Draculea had fled, leaving only a fleshy shell, inhabited by a demon, but he could see that the essence of his master still remained, though he was not at that moment in control.

A large hand seized Simions hair, dragging his head aside and stretching his neck while the other hand ripped at his shirt collar. Simion used the freedom of his hands to try to fight, but the dread being ignored his struggles with near contempt. Simion recalled the legends of the Nosferatu. These creatures awakened into their new existence with an obsessive desire to feed. Only those who had the greatest will in life retained a shred of sanity or reason beyond death, and even they were mad until they had their first sup. It seemed hopeless, but if he hoped to avoid slaughter, he had to try. The mortal gasped, "My prince, mercy! Let me live, that I may serve you." "You may serve me beyond the grave, human," he said thickly. He pressed his face to Simions throat. Though he did not breathe, he drew in great lungsful of air, enjoying the rich, warm scent of life. Simion could feel cool saliva against his skin, and the hard press of fangs above his jugular. Simion, desperate, cried out, "Nicolae will grieve when he returns, if you kill me." The body above him stiffened. Draculea lifted his head and stared into Simions eyes, mouth slightly open. Simion watched in amazement as the fangs slowly, agonizingly withdrew, shrinking into the gums till they were of normal length. Draculea, voice still rough, said slowly, "Yes. Yes, he will." Moving slowly, as if every motion hurt him, Draculea crawled off of Simion and sat on the floor, his back against the bed. Simion sat up, rubbing his throat, resisting the urge to scramble away. Draculea stared off, not looking at his servant. At last he said, "You should go. I cannot account for my actions now. I do not want to kill you, but..." He closed his eyes. "Simion, I burn. I feel as if I have not eaten for years, and I thirst as if I have never moistened my tongue with a drop of drink. Molten lead pours through my veins, and I know that only one thing can ease this torment." He slid his gaze toward Simion and said quietly, "Leave, old friend. Flee, lest I lose control of the beast that has awakened inside me, and slay you." "Not so, lord. I bound myself to you many years ago, of my own choice." "You do not know what I would require of you to remain in my service. I free you. Go." "No, my prince. I know well what you need. Did I not witness your vow in the chapel? Have I not heard tales of the Nosferatu from my youngest years?" Simion pulled himself to his knees before Draculea, and drew his knife. Draculea gave a humorless laugh. "Do you seek to shorten my suffering, Simion? Then you did not pay much attention to those tales you mentioned, unless that knife is pure silver. Even then you would be hard pressed to kill me, my friend." Draculea bent his knees up, wrapping his arms around them, as if chilled. "The undead are not easy to dispatch." "Nay, prince. I do not seek to kill you--I intend to aid you. I can give you what you need now." Simion slashed the blade across his left palm, the one closest to his heart, and dropped the knife. Blood began to flow thickly from the wound, and he brought his hands together, cupping them, before it could spill on the floor.

Draculea watched in amazement. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to throw himself on the man and take what he needed. But Draculeas will was as steely in death as it had been in life, and he resisted, though it made him tremble with strain. As the blood welled and pooled in his hands, Simion said, "I swore a blood oath to serve you, prince. This is but the next step." He lifted his hands toward Draculea, offering them. "Drink, Maria Ta." When Draculea hesitated he said softly, "Please, Vlad. Let me give you this gift." Draculea moved so swiftly that Simion flinched, but he did not lose a single drop of the precious blood. He felt cold, inhumanly strong hands grip his wrists. Draculea studied his face, and Simion nodded gravely. Slowly Draculea lowered his head. The smell was driving him mad. He could feel the ache as his fangs began to lengthen again. He could sense the hot, sweet pulse of blood just below the skin of Simions wrist, and he could imagine ripping the flesh open and drinking from the crimson flood. But a pool of the life giving elixer was just below that throb, and it was being offered freely. Draculea bent his head lower, put out his tongue, and dipped the tip into the blood. A bolt of heat and pleasure, something much more than the enjoyment of taste or the anticipation of satisfying bodily hunger, swept over him. He pursed his lips and sucked up a mouthful. It was warm, salty and sweet all at once--it was delicious. He swallowed and hastily sucked up another mouthful. The liquid traced a line of heat down to his belly. The sharp pain that had settled there eased almost immediately, and when the second mouthful joined it, a warm glow began to spread. Draculea continued, eagerly sipping the blood till the liquid was gone. The wound had stopped seeping and all that was left was the film over Simions palms and fingers. The insistent edge of Draculeas hunger and thirst was gone--now he was simply savoring the taste. He pulled Simions hands apart, not releasing his wrists, and began to lick the last of the blood away. There had been a change. When Draculea had first gripped Simion his hands had been icy. Now... They were still not normal, but the flesh seemed to have warmed a bit. It is the blood, he thought. It warms him. I think that if he took enough he would be as he was--warm, with the color of life. But I fear that taking that much from a single victim would mean death. As he thought this, Draculea was licking his palm. Simion bit his lip at the cool, wet caress. The heat of the blood he had drunk spread through Draculeas body, igniting a familiar fire in his loins. Now that one appetite had been sated, he found himself beset by another need. For so long he had shared this desire with Nicolae alone, but before that, Simion had often cared for him when his lust rose. He moved to take one of Simions fingers into his mouth, sucking it strongly. Simion drew in a deep breath as he felt the sharp edge of one fang, but Draculea was careful. He curled his tongue around Simions finger, sliding it slowly in and out between his lips, staring at his servant. He released one wrist and let his hand drop to Simions crotch. He murmured in approval when he found the warm bulge of his erection. Draculea was not the only one who found this sharing erotic. Draculea murmured, "I still hunger, Simion."

The older man reached up and touched his face softly, and said, "Then take what you need, my lord." Simion began to unlace his breeches as Draculea turned back toward the small table beside the bed. The bowl of scented oil was still there. Had it been only two days ago that he had used it on his beloved, gently and patiently stretching him so that he could accomodate Draculeas lust-swollen flesh with ease and pleasure? Simion was throwing aside the breeches when Draculea turned back. The prince spread the sheet that had covered him, needing only a few quick motions, then urged Simion over onto his belly on the floor. Simion spread his legs as he lay down, and Draculea moved between them, kneeling. As he spread the other mans buttocks he said quietly, "Im sorry, Simion. I will not be able to hold back for long, I fear, and my flesh is still cool. It may be... uncomfortable." Simion reached back blindly. His hand briefly gripped Draculeas forearm, and he squeezed. "I want this, prince, more than you can imagine. Let me help you in this way. I promise you that, in doing so, I take also what I need." He gasped as the first well-greased finger slid deep into him, but it passed over his pleasure spot at the first stroke, and the gasp became a moan of pleasure. Draculea worked quickly, his touch hard, but not brutal. After only a few strokes he added a second finger, and a third followed quickly. It was a little uncomfortable, because Simion had not indulged for some months, but this was his beloved prince, and it was welcome. Draculea took another portion of oil, anointing his rigid cock liberally, then stretched himself over Simion. The servant closed his eyes as he felt the slick, cool nudge of Draculeas cock at his back entrance. Then Draculea breached him with one long, smooth stroke, entering him fully. It was a bit of a shock. The familiar heat was absent, but he was still as long and thick and filling as ever he was--and still as active. He began to thrust quickly, letting himself rest fully on the man beneath him, his weight carrying him deeper, and deeper still. Simion grunted with pleasure as the broad head rubbed over his special spot, sending waves of ecstasy through his body. He wormed his hands beneath his body. His palms were still damp with Draculeas cool saliva and his own warm blood as he gripped his own stiff prick and began to stroke himself. Draculea grabbed his hips and pounded into him, striving against the man who writhed beneath him, pushing back to take as much of Draculeas cock as he could. Despite what Draculea had said, he did not falter, nor did he slacken. Simion cried out, spilling his seed as Draculea continued to fuck him. The blond man lay limp and shuddering as his prince continued to rut, never slowing. Draculea continued to strike the sensitive spot deep inside, and Simion, much to his own astonishment, found that he was growing hard again. Simion quickly came a second time, and still Draculea stroked into him. When he felt his body weakly beginning to stir a third time, Simion pleaded, "Please, lord. I cannot do more. Take your pleasure of me." In response, Draculea put his arms around Simions waist, and reared back. He rose to his knees, pulling Simion with him, and reached around. One hand closed around Simions cock. The servants sex was tender, but still engorged. His flesh was slick with the seed that had alread been spilled, and Draculeas hand moved easily. Draculeas other hand closed over Simions throat and squeezed. Simion gasped, but the grip did not tighten. Draculea held him there, immoble, in a grip that was almost gentle, but hinted at

untold power. Draculea squeezed and pulled firmly at Simions sex while he pumped strongly into the mans anal passage. Suddenly he stiffened. As Simion felt a warm pulse of liquid in his bowels, he also felt Draculeas teeth sink into his neck, just where it joined his shoulder. He screamed with mingled pain and pleasure as his final orgasm, weak, but still stronger than he could have imagined, forced the last few trickles of sperm from his body. He fell unconscious. When he awakened he was fully naked, stretched out on his belly in Draculeas bed. The prince lay beside him, and he was idly licking an aching spot on Simions neck. Simion felt weak, and Draculea was warm against his side, his color high. He has drunk. Simion listened to his own body for a while, sorting through sensations, and came to the conclusion that he was in no danger of dying--at the moment. Draculea rested his head on Simions shoulder and whispered, "I am sorry, old friend. I thought I could control myself." "You did, Maria Ta," Simion said thickly. "If you had not, I would not have awakened." Draculeas voice was grim. "Or you would have awakened, but you would have awakend as I did. I almost..." Draculea hesitated. He had been about to say killed. Instead he said, "I almost turned you." "But you did not." He sat up, a little painfully. Glancing at the prince, he saw that Draculea had retrieved and donned his breeches. Simion took hold of Draculeas wrists and turned them, examining his hands. "Domn, you cut your hands in the chapel. I saw you slice them on your armor." Draculea looked. "Did I?" he said vaguely. The skin was unbroken now, save for a few old scars. He shook his head, as if it mattered little. Rubbing his knees, he said in a low voice, "I went to the chapel while you slept. Where have they taken him?" Simion put his hand comfortingly on the princes back. "I am not sure, but not far. Mircea said that he would see Nicolae decently buried. He could not have done it alone, and the gypsies will know where he lies. He is beyond any trouble of this world now, Domn, but you have things to which to attend." The look Draculea turned on Simion was sardonic, as if questioning that the servant would direct the master. Simion said simply, "Lena." Draculea jerked, throwing his head up, eyes wild, much as Lucifer had when he had first scented battle. Simion watched in amazement as a red spark flickered in the depths of the princes eyes. A soft, rumbling sound emanated from his throat. "Le-e-na." It was almost a sigh. "We have her, Domn. She is held safe in the dungeon, awaiting your pleasure." Draculea looked at Simion, and smiled. Simion flinched. There was something... wrong. The plains and angles of Draculeas face seemed subtly shifted. The brows were thicker, arched in peaks, the cheekbones highter, the jaw wider, longer. He smiled, and Simion saw that again the canine teeth had elongated and sharpened into fangs that would have shamed those of the most fierce wolf ever to have been taken down in Wallachia. He was still unmistakably Prince Draculea, but it was as if his features swam behind others--behind a face that could only be described as demonic.

His voice was soft. "Awaiting my... pleasure." And again, he smiled. TBC Back to index

Chapter 40: Chapter 40: Revenge Begins

Summary: Vlad begins his revenge on Lena. Warnings: Het. Rape as punishment. This, though sick, is accurate, both historically and (sadly) in some misguided areas of the modern world. I in no way endorse this, and you really shouldnt have to be told that. Its included because Vlad is a cruel man when it comes to someone hurting his love, and he knows just how effective this will be with Lena. Child of the Night, Part 40: Revenge Begins The Year of Our Lord, 1462 The Dungeon, Castle Draculea, Romania Lena shivered, pulling her gown more closely about her. The heaped, musty straw, her only bedding, was filthy and vermin-ridden, but she would soon have to settle into it for warmth. They had taken her traveling cloak when they brought her down here. No doubt some gypsy bitch was draping it over her sleazy rags even now. *Damn. So close. Another few minutes and I would have been gone. I had enough money to make me welcome anywhere. I could have presented myself as a lady, found another position as a companion. It wouldnt have been as good as it was here, but it would have been at least as prestigious as the one I had with Varga.* The stone floor was damp and dirty, but there was not a chair or stool in the room, and her legs were beginning to ache. Reluctantly, she sat down, and leaned back against the rough wall. *I cannot believe my luck! I was hoping that the false message would convince that fool, Calugarul, to flee. His suicide was an unexpected pleasure, but why did the bastard have to take Beta with him? It isnt likely that Ill ever find someone as weak-willed as she in such a position of power.* Lena was worried. She was sure that all they could have against her was the attempt to steal the horse, but that was a serious offense. She sighed. Well, it was a good thing that Draculea had that fit. There was no proof that she had had any hand in the librarians death, but Draculea was not notorious for his scrupulous need for physical proof. From what she had overheard, though, the prince was either dead or in a deep stupor from which he was unlikely to recover. That meant that there would be a scramble to see who would inherit the throne. To the best of her knowledge there was no clear-cut successor. Different factions would back their favorites. It could be months before there were an official declaration. Her case would probably not be reviewed until it was settled, and she had to hope that someone would remember her. Otherwise she might sit in this pit for the rest of her life. The door opened, and Lena looked sullenly up at the man who came in. He tossed her a lump of bread and thumped down two battered metal cups. One held water and the other held a thin, greyish fluid, with a few lumps floating in it. The dark skinned man smiled at her, and grabbed lewdly at his crotch, massaging himself. Lena spat on the floor. He laughed, stepped on the bread, and left. Grumbling, Lena picked up the bread and brushed it off, then tried to pick off most of the filth. She hated to lose even those crumbs, but she wasnt desperate enough to eat it--yet.

Next she examined the cup of mystery fluid. Lena sniffed it speculatively. It smelled sour, but there was a faint aroma of meat. It must be some form of soup. She poked suspiciously at the lumps. They might be vegetables, she supposed, but she couldnt be sure, and there was a sharp smell that reminded her strongly of chamber pots. She decided not to risk it, and poured it out in a corner, covering it with straw. The last time shed refused to eat what she had been given, two of them had held her, one had pried her jaws open, and a fourth had poured the stinking mess down her gullet. Shed sicked it back up, and had her face rubbed in the mess. Lena nibbled the bread, trying to ignore the occasional grit. She was careful not to look into the cup of water as she sipped it. If one of them had spit in it again, she didnt want to know. *To think that only days ago I had the finest brandy and wine. I had my choice of hundreds of bottles--French, Italian, German. Now this.* How long had she been down here? More than a day, she was sure. Two days? It might have been longer, but she couldnt tell. There were, of course, no windows. The only light in the cell what filtered through the tiny barred opening in the cell door. She certainly couldnt tell by her feedings. She finished the bread. After a few moments, she picked up the least offensive crumbs and ate them, too. It still wasnt enough. Her belly was going to start protesting soon. How hideously common. She sighed. Well, she might as well school herself to patience. Shed have at least a week or two before someone came along to review her case. *Now, since the prince is out of power, that means that his men will also be out of power. I should be able to convince anyone who comes to take over that I should be released. Perhaps I can even keep a position here. That would be preferable. I almost have the servants trained to my taste. Simion wont stay around with the prince gone, and without him to balk me, I should be able to...* The door opened, and she tensed. It couldnt be another meal so soon, and she was suspicious of any other reason they might come to her cell. The gypsy who entered grinned at her, then hung a lamp on a hook near the door and stepped out. Lena was puzzled till the other man came through the door. He was so tall that he had to bend his head to pass through the portal. When he lifted it, and she saw his face, she gasped. "Prince Draculea! You, here? You live!" Draculeas smile was sardonic. "I am, in any case, here. In that you are correct." Simion entered and placed a chair near the door. Draculea dropped into it. "Did you think I was dead, then, Lena?" *Careful, Lena,* she thought. "My prince, there was a message sent over the walls, and then I heard such strange things about what happened in the chapel. I did not know what to believe." "But you thought it best to steal one of my horses and flee?" She lowered her eyes. "One thing I knew for sure, my lord. My lady was dead--cruelly murdered." If she had been looking at Draculea instead of pretending sorrow and despair, she might have noticed the hardening of his lips, and the spark of anger in his eyes, but she was too caught up in her subterfuge. "My only thought was that I no longer had a place here, and the murderer might seek my life also, so I fled. My lady had promised me the gift of a horse, and I did not think... I would have willingly paid, of course." "Of course." He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "This false message--you knew it was false?" "I... had no way to be sure, Prince. It seemed very real." "But Simion says that he told you that he knew it was a lie." She darted a sharp glance at the servant. "I knew that he could not have seen the proof. I thought that he had been deceived when he was told you had triumphed. It..." She trailed off. Draculea finished the thought for her. "It did not seem likely to you. So, you hugged this terrible thought to your bosom? You told no one?" "I did not want to be the one to spread panic through the castle." "Then how did Nicolae come to believe that I was dead?" Her eyes shifted. "Some servant may have overheard, and spoken to him." She could not stop the slight,

contemptuous curve of her lips. "You know how close he was to the peasants." "Yes, I know. They loved him, and looked after him. That is why one of the gypsies told me just now that he saw you enter the library carrying the message. Simion had discarded it, but it had been bound once again around the arrow." He waited for her to reply, but Lena remained silent. Her mind worked feverishly, but she could not come up with a plausible explanation. At last Draculea said quietly, "You took it to him. You presented it as the truth. You made him believe I was dead, and he was bereft." He stood and stepped toward her. Lena cringed back in the straw. "You knew how... fragile he was. You must have known how he would react." "My lord, it was a jest. I was going to tell him shortly. I thought only of how great his joy would be once he saw that you were safe." Draculea lunged. He gripped Lenas shoulders with hands that were like talons, and dragged her upright, slamming her against the wall. "BITCH! You KNEW! Perhaps you thought he would do no more than run away, but even that would most likely have meant his death, with the land in turmoil." He pushed, and Lenas toes lifted off the floor. She was pinned, dangling. "When he killed himself you thought Why, so much the better!, but you did not expect him to take Beta." Lena squirmed. The pain in her shoulders was crushing, but she did not want to show her distress to the prince. He wasnt one to be softened like that. "He murdered her!" Draculeas face was agonized. "He thought he was saving her. He sought to spare her from the Turks by sending her to God, and he did it knowing that it would lay another sin on his own soul." His grip tightened. "He would have done the same kindness for you, Lena, dog that you are, but you would not make confession. He would not damn your soul." Draculea gave a bark of laughter. "Poor boy, he did not know that you had done that yourself." He threw Lena back on the straw, and loomed over her. She touched her aching shoulder and was astonished when her hand came away bloody. There were rips in the fabric of her dress, puncture wounds beneath. Hed had no weapon--how had he done this? In the dimness of the cell she did not see that his nails were unnaturally long and sharp. He wiped his hands on his breeches, as if her touch had befouled him. "You killed my Nicolae as surely as if you slit his throat, Abul." "No, Prince, I swear! I had no way of knowing..." He took a step toward her, and she shrieked, "Mercy! He would not want you to kill me!" Draculea stopped. His voice was low. "You are right, Lena. He would have pleaded for your life. But he isnt here now. Hes dead. Give me a reason why I shouldnt tear out your throat." Shuddering, Lena opened the bodice of her dress. Her bosom was small, but it was white and firm. She tried to give Draculea a seductive look. This should at least buy her some time. After all, this was what men wanted--a willing hole in which to bury themselves. She knew that the prince had been with women before he found Nicolae. Draculea stared at her, then said slowly, "You offer yourself to me, Lena?" She nodded. "You are willing to give up your body, even if it will save your life for only a little while?" "Life is sweet, Prince. I would do much to retain it." "Life CAN be sweet, Lena. But it can be a burden, as well." He reached out and touched her breast. She winced. His hand was like ice. He cradled her breast, as if weighing an apple in his hand. He squeezed, and Lena cried out as his nails punctured her milk white skin. She looked into his eyes and saw how gravely she had misjudged him. He hissed, "Do you believe I would lie with you after what you did to my lover? Even though I know that, with the pain and disgust I could cause you, it would be a cruel punishment, I will not soil the memory of what I shared with my love in that way." He let go, throwing Lena back into the straw, and resumed the chair. His voice was acid, "No, Lena, I

wont fuck you. But since you seem to so earnestly desire to pay for what you have done, there are other ways." He glanced up at Simion. "Three of them--for now." Simion stepped out of the room, and Draculea watched with cold eyes as Lena began to re-fasten her dress. She hesitated when three of the gypsies entered the room. They all stared at her. One of them, who had a certain air of authority about him, looked at Draculea questioningly. The prince nodded. The man smiled, and spoke to the other two in Rom. They broke into gap-toothed grins and advanced, opening their breeches. Lena started to scream. ***** The man with his cock up her ass was grunting like a pig. The one who was raping her in the natural hole was quieter, but he thrust more fiercely. She was glad that the one who had thrust his prick down her throat had finished quickly--she had been sure she was going to suffocate, or choke on his bitter seed. Now he knelt beside them in the straw, stroking his sticky sex, speaking in his own barbaric language. She thought that he must be urging his companions on to greater efforts. Draculea was watching, too, his face stony. Simion stood behind him, arms folded. They both observed, but neither made a move to pleasure themselves. Their expressions were impassive, but fierce lights flickered in their eyes. The man in her cunny sighed and spilled his seed. They had been lying on their sides, so that both men could have access to her at once. Now he moved away, and the man sodomizing her quickly took advantage. He rolled her onto her belly and dragged her up onto her knees, so he could stab into her more deeply. Finally he, too, climaxed, smacking her ass smartly as he shot his seed into her bowels. He pulled out with a laugh, and Lena moaned in dismay as her oral rapist, hard once again, moved into his place. This time he was not quick. He fucked her slow and hard, grinding into her narrow back channel, moving her this way and that to find the exact angle that would be most pleasing. When he was done he pulled out of the moaning woman, poking a finger teasingly at her stretched, oozing ass. All three men bowed to the prince and left the room. Lena saw a pair of boots step up beside her face. There was pain as a hand was set in her hair, and her head was dragged up. "I understand that you told Nicolae that he would most likely be raped to death if the Turks captured him. Really, Lena. You know, if the rapes are not accompanied by beatings, a victim can withstand a tremendous number without mortal damage." He let go of her hair. "Send in the next three." ***** Shed vomited when the one whod sodomized her thrust his shit-, blood-, and come-smeared cock into her mouth. The man had drawn back his hand to slap her, but a sharp word from Draculea had stopped him. He grumbled, used her hair to wipe himself clean, then thrust it into her mouth once again, muttering words that she was sure were promises to cut her throat when the prince wasnt looking, if she did it again. Lena didnt. The second group of men was replaced by a third, then a fourth. Sometimes her rapists grew hard again before their companions were finished--then they would have a second try at her. She lost count of the violations. They took her in the cunny, the ass, and the mouth, seemingly without prejudice (though she thought vaguely that they seemed to prefer sodomy). When the fourth group was done, Draculea said, "It is near dawn. That will be enough for now." She heard one of the gypsies question him, and Draculea replied, "No. Let her rest today." He went over and squatted beside the woman, running his eyes over her dispassionately. Lena was smeared from head to knees with congealing come, which had become matted with straw and filth. The last few rapists, far from fastidious, had even been wrinkling their noses as they fucked her, and there were comments about the sloppy looseness of her ass and cunny.

"You are a mess, Lena. Would you like me to have your bathing tub brought?" She moaned. "No? But you are so fond of it. I remember how annoyed you were when I left one behind at Castle Varga. Ah, well, it WOULD be a burden on the servants. We dont have many left, Lena. Most of them fled after my... after what happened in the chapel." He stood up and spoke to the gypsy guard. "Sluice her down. Her stench is offensive. And give her some fresh straw. Im going to be dealing with her, and I dont care to smell any more stink than I have to." They left the room, and Draculea addressed Simion. "See that shes fed. Shove it down her throat if you must. Im not having her die of starvation. Also, tend her if she needs it. I dont want her bleeding to death from some internal rip, either. Ill be back to deal with her again tonight." "Yes, my prince. You will go to your room?" Draculea turned haunted eyes on his friend. "No, Simion. I will go to Nicolae." Simions heart clenched as he watched the prince leave the room. //Oh, my dear prince. You tear at your own heart by going there, but I know you can do no less.// Draculea made his way through dank hallways beneath Castle Draculea. The underground part of the castle was even more vast than the upper--filled with rooms that had not been seen by man for years, reached by doors and passage ways that could be found only by those who knew where to look for them. In a dirt-floored room, in the deepest part of the underground, Draculea came to a place where the earth had been recently turned. It was heaped in the unmistakable form of a fresh grave. A simple stake was driven in at the head, with a board that bore the crudely painted legend Nicolae Calugarul. Draculea touched the sign gently, running his finger over the letters. There had been a cross, but he had directed Simion to remove it. He could not look upon the cross, much less approach it, without feeling that his blood was burning in his veins. He knelt beside the grave and began to speak. "Hello, my love. I am sorry that I have been away from you, but there were things that had to be done. Things are much changed here at the castle, and they will change even more in the future." "You must forgive me for having the cross removed. I could not come to you otherwise. Do not fear--I will replace this poor marker with something more suitable--something grander. I can give you an angel. Would you like that? An angel for my angel." He hung his head. "You must not chide me for what I do to Lena, Nicu. The woman is more of a monster than I ever was, or am now. Whatever I do to her, it will not be enough. It will never be enough. I know that you watch me, but I beg you to turn your eyes away from this. Do not torment your gentle soul, my love, with this earthly punishment." Draculea moved, stretching out on the damp, soft soil, face down. "I would call the name of God, but I have given up that privilege. Oh, Nicu. I am so alone." He pressed his face to the dirt, and cried. His tears were drops of blood. "Come back to me, my darling. No matter how long it takes, you must come back." As the sun rose, Draculea closed his eyes and became still. His arms were curved, embracing the mound as tenderly as he had once embraced a warm, living body. He dropped into a sleep that was not sleep, and even then he had no peace, for it seemed that his soul wandered in darkness, calling plaintively for one who could no longer answer. TBC Back to index

Chapter 41: Chapter 41: Torture

WARNING: PAY ATTENTION, PEOPLE! When I put the WARNING at the head of the story, you can know that I mean business. This is a very dark, very violent, very NASTY chapter. Vlad has reverted to WORSE than he was before Nicolae, and he takes his revenge on Lena VERY thoroughly. This chapter will include graphic scenes of torture--mental, physical, and sexual, also death and blood drinking. If you are at all squeamish, PLEASE be cautious in reading this. You might want to be careful about eating this near or just after mealtime. You may want to skip it. If you decide to go on, you have been warned. Consider having something funny or light and sweet to read or watch just after this. It has images that would be very heavy to carry in your mind the rest of the day. Pairing: Draculea/other Notes: You can see examples of the heretics fork and inquisitional chair at this url http://www.torturamuseum.com/instruments.html Other instruments mentioned can be viewed at http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Basement/9560/tdevices.html To anyone who thinks I was too vicious and graphic: I didnt use The Pear *shudder* Summary: Dracula accomplishes his revenge against Lena. Child of the Night, Chapter 41: Torture The Year of Our Lord, 1462 Castle Draculea, Romania It was quiet, so quiet. Draculea opened his eyes. He had been awake for some time, perhaps an hour, but he had experienced an unfamiliar lassitude. It had seemed just too much of an effort to open his eyes, much less arise. Suddenly the sense of weakness was gone. It did not seep away--it simply vanished, and Draculea felt as vigorous as he ever had. He sat up, brushing dirt from his tunic, and spent a moment listening to his body. Hed done this before, particularly when he had been wounded in battle. He would sit quietly and concentrate, sensing how his body was functioning, seeking out unfamiliar pains, or numbness. He would feel the pace of his heart and breathing, checking for unnatural rhythms. Now... now there WAS no rhythm. It was odd. Before, he hadnt been very aware of these things, taking them for granted. Now their abscence was disturbing. He hadnt realized that his pulse had been a gentle thrum at the edge of his hearing, and his own breath a soft whisper. Now the room he occupied was silent save for a scratching in one corner that hinted at the presense of a rat. Draculea touched his still chest. //I dont feel warm, but I dont feel cold. Still, would I realize it if I did?// He thought about it, and drew in a deep breath. He did not exhale. He waited, and waited. Minutes ticked by. Vlad felt no strain. Finally he consciously made himself exhale. Draculea stood. It was more than dark in the room. When he had arrived here there had been a torch burning in the hall that had offered dim illumination, but it had burned out long ago. Vlad knew that it must be pitch black, but somehow it didnt seem to make any difference. He could still see quite clearly. He touched the rough name board once again, then looked around. He noticed a red glint off in the far corner, and he looked more closely. Yes, hed been right. It was a rat--a fat brown one. They were controled in the upper levels of the castle, but they had free reign down here. This one was a bold creature. It was sitting on its haunches, watching him with every evidence of curiosity. Again Draculea noted that he could smell, even though he did not breathe. He could smell the rats scent: earthy and feral. Mingled with that animalistic smell was another that he would come to recognize as the scent of life, of blood, and that scent triggered something primitive in him.

He wasnt even aware of moving. All he knew was that suddenly he was in the corner and the rat was in his hands. It squirmed and cried out, its tone thin, almost like screaming. It was plump, but there were strong muscles and sinew under the layer of fat. Still, Draculea held it easily. He did not flinch or loosen his grip as the beast scratched and bit at him, its long, chisel-like teeth slicing into his hands. Draculea brought the rat near his face. The scent of blood hit him again, and he felt the ache of his fangs extending. Without thinking, he brought the beast to his mouth and ripped at it. Blood spurted into his mouth. It was foul. Simions blood had been thick and rich, salty-sweet. This was thin and bitter, but he couldnt stop. He drank, kneading the rats body to force out the last few drops as it went still. Then he threw it from him, so violently that it was smashed into an unrecognizable lump when it struck the stone wall. Draculea bent, arms crossed over his belly as he felt cramps. He thought that he might spew forth his grisly meal, but he did not. Though revulsion was overtaking him, his body knew what it needed and held onto it. The nausea passed. For the first time since this nightmare had begun he felt a little shaky. Vlad wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wishing for some way to rinse the distasteful flavor from his mouth. The hunger hed felt upon awakening had abated. *I wonder if I can live off the blood of animals? The thought is disgusting, but it would solve many problems. There may not always be a more palatable alternative.* He left the room and made his way out, moving toward the more populated areas. Lighted torches lined the hall farther on. He came to his treasury room, and was pleased to see that the guards were still there. They watched him with no surprise, and bowed to him respectfully as he passed. Simion was waiting for him in the prison section of the underground. He bowed to Draculea and said, "Greetings, my prince." "Simion." Simion hesitated, then inquired, "Did you... sleep, my lord?" Draculea shook his head. "Not as I once did, Simion, but I rested." The servant nodded. He rubbed at his palm and said in a low voice, "Do you need...?" "No, Simion, I have supped already." At Simions questioning look, Draculea said, "And no, we have not lost a guard, though there is one less rat in this world." At Simions grimace, Draculea shrugged. "If I can live off them at least part of the time, its all to the good. Im a warrior, Simion, so killing is nothing new to me, and this is survival. Still, if I slake my thirst every night with the blood of men... A wise predator does not kill off all his prey. He allows them to flourish, lest he find himself without." "What have you planned for tonight, Domn?" Draculeas smile was cruel. "I will need your services, Simion." ***** Lena had tried to escape when they brought her mid-day meal, making a mad dash, naked, for the door. The guard had caught her easily, and tossed her back into the straw. When she tried to rise and flee again, he had slapped her down, and reached for the lacings of his breeches. He had been stopped by a few sharp words from his companion. He had merely spat at her before they left. *He must have ordered them to leave me alone. But why?* The door to the cell opened again, and Draculea entered, two of the guards following him. Lena dragged more straw over herself. Draculea stopped a few feet away. "Why so modest, Lena? You have nothing that hasnt been seen by everyone here in the prison." He smiled, eyes glinting. "Surely youre not afraid you will raise my desires? Even if I wanted a woman, I would sooner mate with a snake than with you." As much as she hated asking any man, and most particularly Draculea, for anything, Lena forced herself. "Do not give me to them again, prince. I..." Her face twisted with obvious reluctance. Draculea noticed, and prompted her. "Yes, Lena?" "I..." she spat out the words, "I beg of you."

"Such a meek and gracious request. No, Lena, you will not suffer that again." "Will you release me?" He laughed. "Oh, Lena! Perhaps there is more to you than I thought, if you can jest while in such a situation." He was silent. Draculea knew that sometimes silence and guessing could be more effective than threats. He was right. Finally Lena said fearfully, "Then you will beat me." Draculea shook his head. "No, no. Much too crude. And much too easy for a badly-landed blow to cut your punishment short." He gestured to the two men. Lena tried to scramble away but they caught her and forced her up onto her knees, each holding an arm. Draculea knelt before her, and drew a huge hunting knife, then held it before her eyes. "Regard this knife, Lena. A wonderful weapon, dont you think? I used this on Varga." Lena flinched. "Come now, Im sure you had your suspicions. I used it on him, but I did not kill him with it--that I did with my hands." He lifted the knife, and she screamed. "Stop your howling, bitch. Save your breath for when you will have need of it." Draculea grabbed a handful of her hair, twisted it around his fist, then sawed it off close to the scalp. "A womans hair is her crowning glory. Prostitutes and heretics have their heads shaved. I think it only appropriate that you do, also." Lena bit her lip. Draculea was not gentle, jerking and hacking at the hair, whacking off thick chunks. She only cried out when she couldnt help it. When he was done Lena had only uneven tufts covering her skull, none longer than one finger joint. In one or two places there were raw, oozing patches where Draculea had jerked some hair out by the roots. At last Draculea rose and left the cell. Instead of being released Lena was, to her horror, pulled out into the corridor. She managed to get her legs under her so that she could walk instead of being dragged. They walked for a good way, taking turns here and there. At last they stopped in a low room, lit only by one torch and several braziers of coals. "This is a room you and Beta were not shown when Simion gave you the tour. It did not concern you--then." Draculea sat, and gestured to a second chair. "Sit, Lena." She stepped toward the chair, then cringed back. It was covered with spikes: back, seat, arm-rests, leg-rests, and foot-rests. She had heard of such things, but never seen one. Draculeas voice was cold. "Sit." She tried to back away, shaking her head, but the guards forced her down into the chair. The woman screamed as her flesh was pierced in more than a hundred places. Bars were fastened across her legs, wrists, and chest, forcing her back against the spikes. She tried to squirm, but that only worked the spikes in deeper. Finally she sat still, quivering. Blood began to trickle down, curling around the legs of the chair to puddle on the floor. "Its a bit drab here, I know, but Im afraid there will be no time to decorate it to suit your tastes. You see, it hasnt had much use in the last two years. Nicolae mellowed me." Simion entered, carrying a tray which bore a basin of water and a folded towel. He placed it on a small table near the chair and bowed to Draculea. "I am sorry, Domn, but I couldnt seem to find any soap." "Oh, I dont think that need matter." Simion took Lenas chin in his hand and turned her head this way and that, like an artisan studying his materials before he sets to work. He clicked his tongue as he prodded an oozing patch. "Impatient, as always, master?" "I havent your skill, Simion." Simion unfolded the towel, and Lena gave a thin shriek when she saw the razor lying on the white cloth. Even in the dim light, its edge glinted wickedly. Simion said sternly, "Quiet, woman! How can I shear you properly if you insist on making that racket?" "If you are still, he can do the job without cutting you," Draculea assured her. "You wouldnt want that.

Scalp wounds bleed terribly." Lena tried to jerk her head away. Simion said, "I suppose Ill need to use the heretics fork if Im to keep her still." He picked up a device that seemed to be a pair of two double pronged forks, set vertically, end to end, and fastened on a strap. He shoved Lenas head back and strapped the device on. Her neck was stretched, with one fork against her chest and one dimpling the soft flesh just under her jaw. "There. Keep your head up, Lena, and keep it still. If you do not, the tines will pierce you. I doubt they would kill you, but it would be very, very unpleasant." Simion took a dripping cloth from the basin and wet Lenas head, soaking the scant fluff that remained. The chilly water trickled down her naked body, and her nipples grew hard with the cold, and fear. Simion took up the razor and said, "From the back to the front, that is the proper method." He set the edge of the blade to the nape of her neck, and began. He shaved with short, firm strokes, working slowly and steadily. After each pass he would wipe the razor clean. Once he paused to strop it on a piece of leather, testing the edge against his thumb till it satisfied him. Lena did not squirm or fight, but she couldnt help shivering. The feel of that keen blade scraping over her bare skin--firm, yet delicate, was horrible. At last Simion wiped her head and stood back to consider his work. Lenas pate was completely clean. Simion indicated a couple of new spots that seeped blood. "I am sorry, Domn, but I came upon these moles suddenly." "It isnt your fault, Simion. The womans hidden ugliness is physical as well as spiritual." Lena was weeping silently. Draculea sneered, "Tears of humiliation, Lena? Yes, a shaved head is a badge of shame for any woman. But be cheered, it is not as bad as it could have been. I could have had Simion shave your womans hair, too. I understand that style is much favored in the harems of the east. But do you know why I did not? It would be hard for you to be held still for such a thing, even with many guards and straps. There was a chance that Simion, as skilled as he is, might slip, and cut too deep. I have no desire for you to bleed to death quickly." He sat back in his chair. "No, that would be a relatively painless death. I understand that it is almost like going to sleep. You dont deserve anything that peaceful, Lena. Simion?" "Yes, Domn?" "Are you ready?" "I have been ready since the moment I saw your Nicolaes poor, drowned body, Domn." Draculeas face twisted in a spasm of pain. "Then show Lena your other skill with the blade." Simions hand flicked. Lena felt a warm liquid trickle down her neck and a soft touch on her shoulder, as if someone had tapped her gently. She twisted to look down. Blood was flowing down her neck and over her chest, like a thin scarlet ribbon. Resting on her shoulder, just where she had felt the touch, was a tiny white gobbet of flesh. When she felt the flare of searing pain an instant later she recognized it as her earlobe. Far down the passage, two of the guards looked up as a scream rang out. One said to the other, "I hope they gag her. My ears will ache if I have to listen to that." His companion shrugged. "Even if they dont, she wont be able to stay that loud for long." In the torture chamber Draculea said calmly, "Lena is upset, Simion. You know how careful she is of her appearance, and now she looks... um, unbalanced." "Yes? I can remedy that." The blade flashed again, and Lena felt another sting as Simion amputated her right earlobe. "There." He waited for the second scream to die down to whimpers, and looked at Draculea inquiringly. "Nothing vital, Simion. None of the great veins. And leave her eyes. I want her to see what she becomes." Simion nodded in understanding, lifted the razor, and began.

****** The guard down the hall had covered his ears a long while ago, muffling the screams from the torture chamber. Eventually, as his friend had promised, they died away to hoarse croaks. Simion wiped his razor and set it aside, then washed his hands in the basin. The water turned pink, then red. Draculea examined the woman tied to the chair. Her breathing was rough and shallow, but it was steady. Blood dripped slowly into a growing pool under the chair. Lenas body was cross-hatched with cuts: some long and delicate, barely splitting the skin, others short and deep. "Excellent work, Simion. I believe there is no patch of skin larger than my palm left unmarked." "In front, Domn. For me to do the job properly you will have to have her strapped face down." "Perhaps tomorrow. That is enough for today." He frowned. "I think perhaps you went a bit too deep when you removed her nipples. The bleeding still hasnt stopped." "Im sorry, Domn, but that area is rich in blood in any case. Recall how they stiffen and swell during arousal." "Youre right, of course. Still, I think the bleeding should be staunched. I dont want her to bleed to death while I sleep." He pulled a poker from one of the braziers and examined it. The tip glowed white hot. "Cauterization is in order." Lenas throat was bloody, and all she did was moan when the burning metal touched her flesh once, then again. There was a sizzle, and a smell similar to roasting pork filled the air. Draculea examined the charred skin with some satisfaction. "Yes, thats done it." He put away the poker and said, "I doubt shell eat, and I dont want her forced. It would be too easy for her to choke. Give her wine, though, and make sure she drinks it. I dont want her to slip into the senseless state that comes with some injuries. I want to be sure that shes awake and aware when I come for her tomorrow." Lena was unstrapped from the chair and dragged back to her cell. Draculea reached out and touched the seat of the chair. His finger came away smeared with blood. He lifted his fingers to his face and sniffed. Again there was the dark, rich scent that made his belly clench. He wiped his hand on his shirt, thinking, *Id just as soon drink her piss.* The hunger was back, though. He had a feeling that he would not have felt the desire so soon if his last meal had been human blood. Hed have to remember that. It seemed that the blood of beasts could sustain him, but it would not really satisfy him. The others had left, save for one young gypsy, who stood at the entrance to the hallway. Draculea studied him. He seemed strong, and healthy. He beckoned, and the young man came to him, bowing low. "Would you serve me?" "You gave my people a home when all the world drove us away. Yes, I would serve you." "Would you give me your blood?" "Yes, Domn. I would die for you." "That will not be necessary." The young man stiffened as Draculea took hold of his shoulders. The prince gazed deep into his eyes and said softly. "Do not be afraid, my good servant. I only need a little of your strength. You will not die, and you will not suffer." When the prince stroked his throat, the young man obediently turned his head aside, stretching his neck. Draculea bent and pressed his face to the gypsys neck. There was a hint of sour sweat, and he felt stubble rasp against his lips, but that warm, sweet scent overrode it all. Wanting to make it as easy for the guard as possible, Draculea reached between them and squeezed the mans crotch firmly. The gypsy groaned quietly. After a moment of rubbing, Draculea felt his response. A firm bulge grew under his massaging palm. He pushed his hand under them mans waistband and found his cock, stroking it till he felt the pre-ejaculate fluid oozing across his fingers. Then he bit the man. Hot blood gushed into his mouth, and he sucked hard, swallowing great gulps of the delicious fluid. The

man was whimpering, thrusting himself rapidly into the princes tight grip. Then he cried out, his seed spilling over Draculeas busy hand. When he did, Draculea reluctantly drew back from his feast. The man swayed slightly, eyes glazed. A thin trickle of blood ran from the two punctures in his throat, and his rough linen breeches were wet over his softening cock. Draculea handed the discarded towel to him. As the guard wiped himself clean, Draculea said, "See Simion about something for that wound. We do not want to risk poison setting in." He patted the mans shoulder. "Take tomorrow to rest. You have done well, and I am grateful." His step firm, Draculea made his way back to the room that held Nicolaes grave. Once again he lay upon it, and spoke softly to his beloved until dawn brought unconsciousness. ***** She thought she had become used to the pain. She thought that there was nothing that could be done to her that would be more horrible than what she had already endured. She was wrong. On the second night of her ordeal she was placed on the rack. She was stretched taut, then the restraints were tightened just a little more, and she was left alone. Whatever wounds had begun to scab over split open. Occasionally someone would come and turn the gear another notch or two. She was sure that her limbs would part company with their sockets, but before that happened she was released and thrown in her cell again. She spent the daylight hours drifting in and out of a troubled doze. Periodically she would have an uncontrolable spasm, waking herself up as her body jerked and quivered, muscles and joints screaming with pain. ***** When they took her out the third night she was offered her choice of the rack or the inquisitional chair. When she refused to pick, Simion began slicing off her fingertips, one at a time, till she chose the rack, reasoning that it would be less painful than the chair. Draculea entered just as she was being strapped down. As Simion moved a small table near the rack, Draculea said, "I hope you havent felt neglected, Lena. I had some work to do. Letters had to be written to the church and various officials and, as you know, I no longer have my scribe. Now, though, I can give you my full attention." Lena looked at the table, running her eyes over the instruments laid out there, and lost control of her bladder. Draculea picked up a thumbscrew, saying mildly, "My, what a nasty bitch you are, Lena." He didnt speak to her after that, prefering to concentrate on his work. The room was silent save for the womans groans and strangled screams. She had long ago ceased pleading for mercy. Simion stood nearby, watching. Like most royals, Draculea had always employed men who were trained in dealing pain, and he had not participated himself. Still, he had watched enough to have a working knowledge of the tools, and he used them very well for an amateur. Oh, it wasnt difficult to use the needles, or the small pot of boiling oil, but it took finesse to tear at the flesh with the spider or cats claws without causing the victim to lose consciousness. The pan of hot coals under the opening that exposed Lenas ass helped with that. Finally Draculea paused. Lena was looking at him, her eyes gleaming dully from the mass of cuts and scorches that marked her face. "What, Lena? Do you have something to tell me?" He leaned closer. "You must speak up, woman. My hearing has grown more acute of late, but still you must make SOME sound for me to be able to understand you." Her voice was a rasping whisper. "Kill me." Draculea smiled. "Do you know, Lena, I dont HAVE to do that? It is within my power to hold you beyound death for years, not just days. Perhaps even for centuries, even unto eternity. I could keep a form of life in your carcass and while away decades in pleasant pursuits like this."

He noted the horror in her eyes, and shook his head. "But as Simion has pointed out, I am impatient. Yes Lena, I will kill you." He put down the pincers he had been using and asked Simion, "How many hours till dawn?" "Four, I think, Domn." "That should be enough. Bring her to the courtyard." He left the room as the guards were untying her. Lena was dragged through the corridors, up to the first level of the castle, then through the great hall to the courtyard. It was well lit by many torches, and some two dozen of Draculeas gypsy servants stood near the gate. As she made her way to the spot she noticed that there was a comfortable chair sitting a few yards from a small, but deep, hole. Draculea was waiting beside it. When she was brought to him, he looked at Simion. "You inspected it yourself?" "Aye, Prince. It is to your specifications: sturdy ash, and half again as long as a man." He circled his thumb and forefinger. "No broader than that at the end, but as wide as my forearm at the base." "Perfect. Bring it in." Two of the men came from the stables. Between them they carried a long wooden pole, its fresh peeled surface gleaming in the moonlight. Lena wailed, "No!" "What? Did you think it would be something simple and clean, like beheading? I suppose it would be suitable to cast you into the river, but I told you that I have a more personal justice in mind. Not all the rumors you spead about my life before I met Nicolae were false, Lena." The woman was lifted and held horizontal, dangling by her arms and legs. Even though she was weak from her days of torture, she still managed to struggle. It was no use. Her legs were spread wide. Draculea lifted the pole and moved closer, placing the blunt tip against the lips of Lenas sex. "Come now, Lena. I made sure that the end is no sharper than that toy that you delighted in ramming into Beta. Surely you can take it into your own body." He pushed hard, and Lena stiffened. He continued pushing till almost a foot of the staff was buried in her body, then he stood back. Some of the gypsies grabbed the base of the pole and manuevered it over to the hole. They heaved, and the men holding Lenas body pushed up. The end of the pole slid into the hole, and slowly it swayed upright. The men gathered to hold it while some of them quickly filled the hole, tamping the dirt to make it firm. When they stood back the pole swayed a little with the womans thrashing, but not much. Draculea had done this sort of thing many times, and he knew how to do it properly. The prince went to his chair and sat, crossing his legs comfortably. He watched. His handsome face was set in a blank mask, showing no emotion as the woman who had killed his lover slowly sank lower on the spike, the weight of her own body impaling her. It would have been over in only a few minutes if the stake had been sharpened, but Draculea had ordered it left blunt. Thus it took over three hours for the spike to force its way through Lenas womb and up into her vitals. She stopped screaming long before it did. By the time one could see a rounded knob pressing against the soft expanse under the remains of her breasts, she had been reduced to a slight trembling of the limbs. At last she was still. Simion asked Draculea, "Shall I go check, Domn?" Draculea shook his head. "No, Simion. There is no need. My new state has enhanced my senses. Her heart no longer beats. If she had a soul, it has fled to its dark master." He stood up and kicked a little dust over the thick puddle of blood and bodily fluids that had collected at the base of the pole. "Leave her there." "For how long, master?" "Till her bones fall, and the dogs fight over them. Then throw what is left in the river." Simion nodded. "That will make a fitting end to this."

Draculea was looking toward the east. A faint brush of color showed along the horizon, a hint of the coming dawn. He turned bleak eyes on his friend. "An end? How can this be ended until Nicu is in my arms again? No, Simion. This is only the beginning." With that Draculea began to make his way back into the castle, down to the darkness that had become his home. TBC Back to index

Chapter 42: Chapter 42: Looking Forward

Summary: Draculea begins to settle into his new life, and discovers a way to keep a friend with him through the ages. Child of the Night, Part 42: Looking Forward The Year of Our Lord, 1462 A week later Castle Draculea, Romania Draculea sat in the great hall, sprawled in a chair before the fireplace. He held a goblet of wine and gazed into the fire that leaped on the hearth. Occasionally he touched the goblet to his lips and licked the film of wine from his mouth. He did not drink. No food or drink but blood had passed his lips since he had reawakened in his bedroom. Simion came in, pausing at the entrance. The cavernous room was lit only by the flicker of the flames. Shadows and dust gathered in the corners. Without the diligence of the castles former staff an air of neglect was settling in. It would not be long before the castle looked deserted. Simion approached slowly and was gratified when Draculea looked up at him. Since Lena had died, the prince had spent most of his waking time brooding, scarcely seeming to be aware of his surroundings. He would sit for hours in the library, in his room, or on the roof--places where he had spent time with Nicolae. Simion had watched him running his hands over Nicolaes scrolls, clothes, and books. The boys rosary had been buried with him, or Simion thought that the prince would have caressed it also, even if it had burned the flesh from his bones. Simion had feared that the princes waking times would become little different from his sleeps. There had been times lately when Draculeas gaze rested on Simion with such blank indifference that it chilled his soul, but now he seemed to be coming back to himself, at least a little. Simion bowed. "Domn." Draculea gestured at the chair beside him. "Sit, old friend. You have news?" Simion took the offered seat. "Yes, Domn. It is as you anticipated--you have been declared slain. They claim that you died from the wounds you received in the last battle. They even have witnesses who tell of how you battled on, refusing aid, till you dropped, your sword buried in the vitals of a Turk." Draculea grunted. "At least they did not have me die in bed. And the succession?" "Your second cousin, Teodore, has been crowned. Since you had no issue, he was most immediate to the throne." Vlad nodded. "He will be a competent ruler, if not a brilliant one, so long as he has the support of the Church." He cocked a sardonic eye at Simion. "I assume that he DOES?" "Oh, yes, my lord. Bishop Alfred himself champions him." "Understandable. Alfred has always been good at recognizing where the power will lie. What of the

castle?" "Good news there, also. Alfred has declared that Castle Draculea is cursed. The new prince will choose another royal residence, far from here. We will be left in peace, at least officially." "That is good. If Teodore had come here... Well, I would not enjoy killing one of my own bloodline." Draculea stared into his goblet. "Am I mad, Simion, to believe he will return?" He looked back up at the older man and said, his voice quiet, "Even if it IS madness, it is something I cannot deny." Simion thought. Draculea was not a man to suffer insincerity, even if it was meant to comfort. "No, my lord, I do not think it is mad, nor foolish. The Hindi have believed in rebirth for centuries, and they had formed a civilization while we had not yet learned to tan hides or till fields." "It is a comforting thought," Draculea mused. "To be given a chance to right what went wrong in a previous life." "It is not quite so straightforward, my lord," Simion cautioned. "Each soul follows its own path. Not all are reborn as mortal man. Some, who have not fulfilled their potential, are forced to spend their next lifetime in the body of a beast, and must hope to advance with their next death. The rebirth does not necessarily respect the former bodys sex." He studied Draculea. "Could you love Nicolae if he were reborn as a woman?" Draculea stared at Simion. The idea had obviously never occurred to him. At last he said slowly. "If it were still Nicolae, the flesh he inhabited would not be so important." A faint smile curved Draculeas lips. "He was biddable as a man, but I fear he would be a headstrong woman." He sighed, the smile fading. "I fear he will be a long time coming, Simion." Simion touched Draculeas hand. "Perhaps, Prince, but you have the ability to wait for him, if you will. You just must school yourself to patience. It may be several lifetimes before he can return. It may be longer." "You have chided me about impatience before, Simion. Now I will have no choice." He set aside his goblet. "But I will need finance for this long wait. I know that my treasury was well filled when this happened. Do you think there is any danger that Teodore, or more likely Alfred, will attempt to retrieve it?" "There is always that chance, lord. I think, though, that they will try to be discreet. They will not send a large group of men, because it would cause comment that they would be hard put to answer. I think we can handle any small number. It might even be better if they DID send a few treasure hunters. Their dispatch would warn others off." "I doubt that they will come at night, but the gypsies will keep watch for them. Make sure that they are taken care of messily. A few examples should be effective. Well, the funds that I have should last a long, long time." He smiled grimly. "I will not have many expenses now, I think." "You will not receive income from your lands now, Prince. That will go to the false prince, and we cannot touch it. I think it would be wise to begin investing. The gypsies can almost assure safe traffic, if we should choose to trade. They always know the safest routes. The bandits usually ignore them, because they see them as fellow rascals, and the government officials ignore them because they believe them too be too poor to be valuable victims." Draculea nodded. "Look into it, Simion. I trust your discretion--you know more of the workings of commerce than Stefan did." "There is no hurry, my lord. We are well situated, and I can take time to consider the best course." "Time." Draculea sighed. "Yes, I have plenty of time." He looked at Simion thoughtfully. "But do you?" "Domn?" "How long do you have, Simion? How long will I have you to aid me, care for me, give me companionship?" Simion bowed his head slightly. "Who can say? One of the gypsy grandmothers read my palm once, and

foresaw a long, long life. She said that the line that foretold my years on this earth scarcely had an end, running into the line that circles my wrist. I must say that, though I know the Rom know many things hidden to others not of their race, I cannot put much stock in their ability to predict the future, save in the vaguest way." Draculea stared at his friend for a long moment, then said slowly. "Ive lost Nicolae--I dont want to lose you, too. I had expected for us to grow old together, Simion. Now it seems that I will not grow old." "I will stay with you for as long as there is breath in my body, Domn. You know that. But all things must die." Draculea gave a harsh bark of laughter, and Simion smiled wryly. "Yes, I suppose that you DO give the lie to that. But I am not you, lord. I can see no way around this problem, so there is no reason to worry about it." "Simion, what else do I have to occupy me, save my grief? At least this is something practical. Ill think on it. Now, how does the search for a sculptor fare?" "Ive sent a letter to Signor Vittelli. You were pleased with the portrait he did, and I think he may be able to recommend a sculptor who will please you. Ive also sent out word that we need a good block of marble. There are several dealers within a days ride. When they notify me of a possibility, I will inspect it personally. It was white marble that you desired?" "Yes, of course. The purest you can find. If you have no luck with that, try alabaster." "That might be more difficult. The alabaster pieces are usually smaller. You did want it to be life-sized?" "Yes, or a bit larger." Simion had been examining Draculea, then said bluntly, "Have you eaten?" Draculea grimaced. "The rat population is smaller." Simion shook his head. "Lord, I know that you hesitate to take blood from your followers, but you should not deny yourself. The rats blood may keep you going, but you do not thrive on it. You need HUMAN blood. Your gypsies are willing to give you what you need, and if you do not want to turn to them..." He shrugged. "I have experienced your needs, lord. You can take sustenance without taking life, and the villagers are as much your people as the gypsies. It is not wrong to take what you need to survive." Draculea looked thoughtful. "No, I do not thrive on the blood of animals. Simion, I have a thought. It seems that different blood has different strengths. Human blood is more enriching than the blood of vermin. I think perhaps that the blood of the higher animals would impart greater or lesser strengths. So, Simion, what of MY blood?" "Your blood, my prince?" "Yes." He smiled. "Dont give me that look, Simion. I DO have blood of my own--I learned that when one of my meals, more fiesty than the rest, gashed my hands. I bled. Granted, it was thick and slow, but I bled. I think that the more blood I consume, the closer my own blood will resemble that of a mortal man. Have you noticed? After I have fed, I am warmer--I have some color. Once I take in the blood, it mingles with mine. What strengths does it gain?" He brought his hand to his mouth. Simion winced as he watched the razor sharp fangs slice into the pale flesh. As Draculea had claimed, he bled. But also, as he claimed, it oozed sluggishly, almost as thick as syrup. And the color was wrong--too dark. Draculea cupped his hand, letting the liquid pool in his palm. He dabbed a fingertip in it, as if testing the warmth. Then he leaned forward, extending the finger to Simion. Simion stared at the red smear on the white flesh. He looked into Draculeas face. Vlad said nothing. This was an invitation, not an order. Simion bent forward and licked the blood from Draculeas finger. There was a burst of taste, like rotten salted meat, and he felt his gorge begin to rise. Then it was gone, and a sweet, exotic flavor, rather like spiced wine, spread through his mouth. It brought a sense of warmth that traveled down his throat to his belly. Draculea slid that hand back into Simions hair, holding him, then brought his cupped hand to the other

mans mouth. Without hesitation, Simion bent and drank eagerly. There was only a few swallows--the cut healed quickly. But by the time he had licked Draculeas palm clean, the warmth had suffused his body, and he had felt a faint stir of lust. Draculea released him, letting his hand trail down Simions cheek. "Old friend, you look refreshed." He sounded a little surprised. "You have looked very tired of late. I have worried, because I know that you have been working in the day as well as keeping me company at night." "I felt weary," Simion confessed, "but now... Domn, I feel as if I have had a week of leisure. I confess that I felt low when I came to you this night, but now I feel... It is hard to describe, lord. There has been a twinge in my left leg the last two years, a reminder of that time I was careless with Lucifer. I do not feel it now." "Good." He stood, clapping Simion on the shoulder. "We will remember this, Simion. When you are weary, or when you feel age and wear creeping up on you, come to me. This may not be a tonic to keep away all ills, including age, but I think it may be something very like that." He started out of the room. "I think Ill ride Lucifer, if hell still have me. He must be near mad with restlessness by now." Draculea walked out to the stables. They were near empty now. Where there had been more than two dozen horses, there were only two now--Lucifer and Simions mount. It was just as well--the grooms had fled with the rest of the servants, but the gypsies worked well with horses. Both of the remaining mounts were fine beasts, and the gypsies saw their care as a pleasure rather than a chore. He hadnt realized how much noise there had been in the stable at night, but without the shift and stamp of the horses, and their occasional whinnies, it was strangely quiet. Lucifers stall was in the middle of the stable, in the warmest, snuggest part. As he approached, he saw Lucifers head appear over the door of his stall, and he smiled. The animal had learned long ago to recognize the tread of his master. As he approached, Draculea saw the large ears of the horse flicker, then lay flat against his skull. The horse stretched his neck, and Draculea could see his nostrils flare as Lucifer scented him. The ears flickered again, and Lucifer stamped, tossing his head with a shrill sound that wasnt quite a whinny. It held a warning note. Any of the grooms who had heard that sound would have given the stallion a wide berth until they were sure that he had calmed down. Draculea went on, walking slowly, speaking as he came closer. "Yes, old friend. It is I, but Im not entirely as you once knew me. Im still your master, though. Ive lost what I hold most dear, and I face the possible loss of all else. Im not ready to give you up yet, Lucifer. Youre still mine. Ill teach you that, if I must." The stamping increased as he came closer. The shrill cries became enraged screams as the horse reared and twisted. He struck out, and his hooves crashed against the door, knocking boards free. Draculea stood before the stall, speaking softly. Gradually the animals agitation quieted till he was only shifting restlessly. Draculea caught his eye, and held the contact, whispering. Finally Lucifer made a questioning noise and stretched his head out toward the creature that looked and sounded like his master, but did not smell or FEEL like him. His muzzle nudged Draculeas shoulder, hard enough to make him stagger back a half step. He knew that he was taking a risk. It would be easy for Lucifer to rip a chunk of flesh from his neck or face. It could even kill him, if the horse managed to tear one of the larger veins, but Draculea did not move. Lucifer sniffed him questioningly. His ears flickered again, and he sniffed Draculeas face, his breath warm and moist. Finally the horse made a satisfied grunt and started to impatiently nose his hands. Draculea stroked him. "Yes, old friend. I am restless, too." Draculea opened the stall door, letting Lucifer out. He didnt bother with the saddle or tack. Instead he gripped the coarse, black mane and sprang up onto Lucifers back. The moment that he settled, Lucifer bolted. As Draculea had thought, the great horse had been going near crazy. The gypsies cared for him,

but none were bold enough to try to ride the animal, so Lucifer was starved for exercise. It was not too different from the night rides Draculea had taken before Nicolae had come into his life. He flew down the road, Lucifers iron-shod hooves thundering. Now and again the horse would release a squeal of pure excitement, and the sound ringing through the night might have been a banshee scream. At least this was what the peasants, cowering behind bolted doors thought. They had heard whispered rumors of what had happened at the castle--tales embroidered by the superstitious wenches and varlets who had fled after the time of blood and thunder. The prince, the lord of the castle, was dead--many had seen his body. He was dead, and yet he rode the night once again. There was a difference between this ride and the ones that had come before. Before, Draculea had stayed on the road, he and Lucifer expending their ferocious energy in a straight run. This time, though, the peasants shuddered as they heard the great horse outside their cottages, moving just beyond their thin walls. And some of them... Some of the young men and young women, the youths and maidens... Some of them shivered with more than fear. They heard more than the stamp and snort of the mysterious horse. They heard... DID they hear? None of them discussed it with anyone--parent, priest, or friend. But there was something. It might have been their imagination, fired by the tales theyd heard, mingled with the folk tales passed down by their elders. The close, frightened atmosphere in each home could inspire flights of fancy. But several of the young people thought that they heard a voice, a soft, seductive, persuasive voice, telling them that there were things in this world of which they had never dreamed, but that they could see them, if they were willing. TBC Back to index

Chapter 43: Chapter 43: Routine

Pairing: Draculea/OMC Rating: NC-17 Summary: Draculea is adjusting to his unlife, learning more about his state. Warnings: m/m rape Child of the Night, Part 43: Routine The Year of Our Lord, 1482 Castle Draculea, Romania Simion poked the logs on the hearth till they blazed steadily, then put the poker back in its stand and held his hands out toward the fire. He glanced around the great hall. The glow of the fire added to the light of the few candles hed brought barely illuminated the corners. The dust and cobwebs were not so very noticeable in this dim light. *Ill have to start building a fire in here during the day instead of waiting for sunset. It takes too long to drive off the chill, now that winter has settled in. Id best check the supply of wood, too. The gypsies have been good about that, but it never hurts to be cautious. I do not want to run out during the deep snows. My lord does not mind the cold, but I most certainly DO.* Fires were lighted in very few rooms of the castle these days. What would be the sense of it when they were seldom occupied for even the briefest moments? The kitchen was kept warmed, as the gypsies used it, preparing food for themselves and Simion. The great hall was, because Draculea often sat there with Simion. Simions room was, because Draculea insisted that Simion was not to deny himself whatever

creature comforts the prince could still provide. Other than those, the rooms were allowed to lay chill and neglected. *No, not all of them are neglected,* Simion corrected himself. Draculea had not asked him to, but Simion had taken it upon himself to keep the library and the princes former bedroom as they had been before tragedy overtook the House of Draculea. These were the rooms where Draculea had spent the most time with his beloved Nicolae, and they were where he went when he wanted to feel close to his lost love. Simion did not flinch as the cold hand dropped onto his shoulder. He had become used to his masters silent movements. "Cold, my friend?" "Only a bit, my lord. The chill will soon be gone." "I have told you, Simion, that you are not to neglect yourself. We are still not sure that the blood will protect you from all ills." Simion bowed his head, acknowledging the princes directive, but said, "Daily I become more convinced that nothing but dire violence will truly harm me, lord. Even my small wounds heal more quickly than they did before." He smiled slightly. "And I seem to be escaping the more subtle violence of the years." "Yes." Draculea ran his hand through Simions hair. There was no gray in the thick ash blonde mass, despite the fact that the man was now in his mid-sixties. "Yes, age has not touched you these past two decades, and I think it will not, if we continue." He gripped, and shook the mans head gently. "I think we may be sure, now. I would say God willing, but I doubt if He would listen to my voice." Simion laid his hand lightly on Draculeas wrist, the gesture of physical affection easy and familiar. "Shall I send one of the men to you?" "Not tonight." Draculea released Simion. I think it is time to take that little sweetmeat I have been observing in the village. She should be ready to meet me." "The Tedesko girl?" Draculea nodded. "She is to marry soon, is she not?" "In a day or so, I think," Draculea said negligently. He smiled. "Her husband may find her a bit wan and disinterested on their wedding night." Draculea went out to the stables and saddled his horse, one of Lucifers grandsons. Lucifer himself had died years ago. Draculea had tried to preserve him but the great beast, though obeying his master in all other things, would not drink his blood. Draculea had even tried soaking lumps of sugar in his blood, but the stallion had refused them. Lucifer had lived long, losing little of his vigor and none of his spirit, but he had died more than ten years ago. One night when he went to the stable Draculea had found Lucifer lying in his stall. The great heart had simply--stopped. There would never be a horse to match him, but Tempest resembled him greatly, both in look and temperament. The only real difference was that he was a bit smaller than his grandsire, and a white star bloomed on his forehead. Draculea rode from the castle, headed for the nearby village. His nerves were thrumming with anticipation. It had been some days since he had drunk from a human, and he found his mouth watering at the thought. The Tedesko girl, Anna, was just nineteen. A union had been arranged between the eldest son of a local merchant. It was a good match--better than any for which her widowed mother could have hoped. The boy, Lucian, had been sent away to school at an early age, and had only recently returned from university in Budapest. Draculea had been curious about the man who was to wed the girl he had selected. He had spent some time outside his fathers house, searching the minds of those within. That was another skill that came with his new state. He could sense the thoughts of the mortals, when they were unguarded, and this young mans mind was very open. He would have few secrets in his life. Draculea was interested. Lucian was not overjoyed with his arranged engagement, but he was not angered by it either. He thought that every man needed a wife, and Anna would do as well as any other. She was comely enough, biddable, and seemed intelligent enough to keep from disgracing him. Draculea thought

with amusement that the young mans attitude was not too far from his own when he decided to consider Elizabeta as a bride. *They will remain in the village after the marriage,* he thought as he neared the town. *Perhaps Ill have a chance to visit him, too. ***** Draculea had found, through experimentation, that he did not need to eat every day, and that human blood could sustain him longer than animal. If he drank from a human, he need not feed more than once a week, and he need not draw enough blood to prove fatal to his victims. This had been important--he knew that the peasants were likely to flee the area if he took too many. In fact, Draculea had not killed any of his honest subjects. He felt no such restraint in dealing with the bandits who had once again begun to roam the countryside once they thought the prince dead. He had killed the first one less than a month after he had begun his new existence. Hed come upon the thief during one of his midnight rides. As he passed down the road he had caught sight of movement in the trees, movement that he recognized as human. He dismounted in a flash and had reached the scene in an instance. He could hear the crash of someone stumbling away through the bush, but for the moment he turned his attention to what lay on the ground. It was the body of a young man, scarcely more than a youth. The torn belt about his waist, the kind that usually held a money pouch, told Draculea what had happened. The boys throat had been cut and his head lay in a pool of gore. His pale hair was full of leaves and twigs, and eyes that might have once been brilliant blue were dull and filmed. Draculea lifted the boys hand. It was still warm, but limp. He released it with a sigh--he knew death. "Such a waste," he murmured. He turned cold eyes toward the depths of the forest, in the direction of the rapidly fading sounds. The bandit crouched in the midst of a thicket, trying to muffle his gasping breaths. There was no sound of pursuit, but it was better to be safe. He had thought himself safe when he took the foolish traveler. Ah, that had been a stroke of luck! Travelers were not as plentiful as they had once been--they knew that the roads were not safe, now that Prince Draculea could not keep watch over them. The bandit had been thrilled when he found this lost lamb wandering. Hed expected no more than a few coppers and perhaps a change of clothing, but the boy had been carrying a heavy purse. He opened it now, and drew in a hiss of approval. Silver--at least twenty pieces. He could buy himself a horse with this, and still have enough money to live comfortably for a month. He was thinking of this when the cold hand closed over the back of his neck. He didnt scream. He was a tough man, hardened by a life of violence, and he did not frighten easily. He had run only because it seemed prudent. When he had realized that he was discovered, he had not known if it was by a single man or a group, so he had retreated. Now it seemed that it was a single man, and he had been foolish enough to follow. He pulled his knife, so recently cleaned of the boys blood, and twisted, stabbing back at his capturer. He felt satisfaction as the blade sank deep, his fist coming to rest against the strangers body. He expected a scream, and quick release. Instead there was a quiet curse, and he received a cuff to his head that half stunned him. He was turned, the knife being ripped from his hand, and he found that he was in the grip of a tall, pale, dark-haired man. Could he have been mistaken? Had he indeed missed his thrust? No. To his astonishment he saw that his knife was sunk deep in the mans side, buried to the hilt. The mans shirt was black and the night was dark, but still he should have been able to see the blood flowing from the wound. There was none. As he watched the man used his free hand to withdraw the weapon. The bandit saw that there was... SOMETHING on the blade. The stranger examined the knife, his expression disdainful, then flicked it away, his gesture contemptuous. The knife struck a tree, sinking several inches into the hard wood. Then he turned his attention back to the bandit.

The bandit struck out, battering at the mans face and gut. The blows seemed to have no more effect than a childs swats. When he struck the man in the belly he felt liquid smear his hands. Had he wounded him after all? But it was cold, and thick... The stranger allowed the bandit to fight for a minute, then struck him again, almost casually, bringing him close to unconsciousness. Finally the bandit felt fear. This was not natural. Why hadnt he heard this man approach? Why hadnt the knife wound killed him? It should have been fatal for any man. Any... MORTAL man. Suddenly he remembered the strange stories that were whispered about this area. "Do not kill me," he gasped. "I have money." "Money you took from that poor boy you slew?" The voice was as cold as his ice blue eyes. "What does it matter? It is money, and I give it to you. Here..." He pulled the bag from his bosom, jerking it open. "See? Much silver..." With a snarl the stranger struck his hand, knocking the bag away. The coins spun off into the darkness, glittering in the moonlight. The stranger paused, looking at his hand, his face taut with pain. Draculea stared in consternation as the reddened flesh as a blister bubbled up on the back of his hand. *So. I heard that silver was anathema to the undead. It seems that tidbit was truth instead of legend. Ill have to remember this.* He turned his attention back to the murderer and said quietly, "These are my lands." "I am sorry, mlord, I didnt know. Spare me and I will go. I will never return." "You think this will suffice, after what you have done?" "I--I didnt mean to kill the boy. He fought. All he had to do was give me the silver, but he fought." "Liar. You would have killed him anyway." "Please, do not turn me over to the villagers. They will kill me for this." "I have no intention of turning you over to them. As I said, these are my lands, and I am the law here. That boy was on my land, so he belonged to me. Dont you know that poaching on royal grounds is punishable by death?" The tall man crushed him close, and the bandit thought that he would try to strangle him, or break his back. But the strong hand on his neck jerked his head back. The man bent forward, and the bandit felt a rending pain in his throat. There should have been a hot gush of blood down his chest, but there wasnt. Instead he felt the mans mouth against the pulsing wound, and he heard greedy gulping sounds. He realized with horror that his attacker was drinking his blood. Death came quickly, but not before the bandit realized, to his terror, that he was meeting his end at the hands of something not of this world. Draculea did not restrain himself that time--he drank his fill. He DRAINED the man. The wound itself was dry when he finally stopped. Draculea lifted his head from his feast, licking the last of the blood from his lips. He shook the man, none too gently, and the body flopped loosely. Dead. *My first kill.* Oh, not really that. He had killed many during his previous life--hundreds in battle, thousands, if you counted the executions he had ordered. But this was the first victim to fall to his blood lust. This raised a question. What was he to do with the man? Had he just created another of his own kind? Some of the stories claimed that those killed by a vampire also joined the ranks of the undead. Somehow that had never made sense to Draculea. If all who were killed by vampires became vampires themselves, wouldnt there soon be too many vampires for any population of mortals to support? Surely becoming Nosferatu involved more than this? There was one way to be sure. He tossed the mans body up over his shoulder and carried him back to where Tempest waited in the road. He laid the body across his saddle and rode back to the castle. There he carried the corpse into the basement. He would not have it contaminate his sleeping chamber, but there was a small, secure room close by. He unceremoniously dumped the body in it, then bolted the door and went about his business.

For two weeks he checked the body two or three times each night. There was never the least change of position, and soon it began to putrefy. He showed it to Simion, saying, "Well, now we know that I need not fear to finish one of them off. There is a way to make others of my kind, I am sure, but simple killing is not it. Have that removed." The body was tumbled into the river. From that time on Draculea did not hesitate to kill the scum who preyed on his people. ***** The widows cottage was on the edge of the village. All was quiet--no lights shone in her cottage, or the ones nearby. There was a small shed behind the building, but it was empty save for one small, plump cow. It was tethered in the single stall, with its bucket and a churn nearby. Another night Draculea might have used the animal to slake his thirst--hed found that cow blood was a bit better than that of rats or rabbits, but tonight he stalked better prey. The cow was paralyzed with terror, but when Draculea untied it, it scampered away. Vlad tied Tempest in its place, then went to the cottage. Like most of the humble village homes, there were no windows, but Draculea could sense where the girls bed lay. He stood outside, laying his hands against the thin wall that separated him from Anna. He had been considering Anna for some time. Her personality was pliable, her mind suggestive, and he had no doubt that he could have her without much effort. Still, a vigilant husband would be an annoyance, and now was the time to claim his due. He reached out with his mind, speaking to the girl on the other side of the wall. Anna stirred in her narrow, chaste bed, hearing the soft voice in her mind, thinking it a dream. She had been hearing the whispers in the dark for almost a year. The mysterious voice wound itself around her body, and her mind. It offered her experiences and sensations so different from what she could find in her simple life. Tonight it said that she could finally claim these gifts, if she would only come. Her mother slept on, not hearing when Anna rose from her bed, unbarred the door, and slipped out into the night. There was one, though, who noticed. Lucian was a suspicious man. He had noticed a distance in his betrothed. Her thoughts often seemed to be far away, and the only thing he could imagine was that she had another lover, and she yearned for him. Lucian was proud, and he would have none of another mans leavings, so he had set himself to watch the girl. Tonight he thought that his suspicions would be confirmed. What else but a lovers tryst could lure her from the shelter of her home so late at night? He would watch, and wait, and catch the couple in their illicit congress. He watched as Anna made her way around the cottage. Moving stealthily, he left his place of concealment to follow her. She entered the small, open shed in back of the house. It was dark inside, the pale moonlight not reaching back into its depths, but he could see the shadowy silhouette of a man waiting for her. Anna moved toward the stranger, ghostly in her white gown. She stood before him. Lucian heard nothing, but he had the sense that they were communicating somehow. The man lifted his hand to touch her face. He put an arm around her slender waist and drew her close, pushing aside her thick, fair braid with his free hand. He did not kiss her, as Lucian had anticipated, but instead bent and pressed his face to the pale column of her throat. They stayed like that for several long moments. At last he rose from the kiss, releasing her. Still silent, she swayed, then turned and began to make her way to the cottage. Lucian was puzzled. Was that all? What had it been--a leave taking? A final, farewell meeting? He puzzled too long on this, and Anna had come to the corner of the cottage before he could think to find cover. He drew himself up sternly, ready to confront her with her infidelity. He would allow her to speak first, then crush her feeble attempts to explain such a betrayal of trust. But Anna did not speak. She brushed past him, as if he was not there, and Lucian saw that her brown eyes were dull and blank. He had heard of people who could rise and walk without regaining their full senses, but he had never expected to encounter it. Anna calmly went back into the cottage, and Lucian heard the

bolt fall across the door again. He felt confused. What to do now? When he looked back at the shed, he saw that the stranger had not yet left. He stood beside a larger, shifting shadow that had to be a horse--his horse, and the Tedeskos would never have been able to afford such a beast. Lucians wide mouth firmed in determination. He would at least have the satisfaction of facing his rival. He approached the shed, ready to leap aside if the stranger should hear him and try to escape on his horse. The man did not notice, but the horse raised its huge head, staring at Lucius and snorting. The man continued stroking the sleek black neck, murmuring to his mount, as Lucian neared. Lucian halted several feet away from him. Surely he had heard Lucians approach? Why did he not react? At last the man turned his head slightly, and Lucian saw a sliver of his profile. "Well, boy? You have something to say to me?" The cool arrogance of his tone stung Lucian. "I wish to know what business you had with Anna." The man gave the horse a final pat, then turned to face Lucian. "It neednt concern you." "No? She is my betrothed." He nodded. "Yes, youd be Lucian, then." He cocked his head, studying the boy. "Well, Lucian, youve grown. I havent seen you for eight--no, nine years." The young man was bewildered. Why wasnt this man explaining, apologizing? "I do not know you." "We have never been introduced, thats true enough. But I know you, Lucian. We spoke together before you were sent away to school." "I... I think not. I would have remembered." "The memories are there--you simply choose to ignore them. We spoke late at night, in the dark." A memory, faint with the passage of time, faded with his determined efforts to forget, drifted back. A voice... HIS voice, echoing in his mind. His father had found him struggling with the bolt at the front door. When Lucian had told him that the prince wanted him to come out and play, the older mans face had gone white. The next day, though his mother wept, Lucian was sent away to school. The man was continuing. "You forgot me, did you? I didnt forget you, Lucian." There was something about his voice, something that seemed to make his thoughts drift. Lucian shook his head, trying to clear it, and said, "Have you dishonored my betrothed?" "Do you mean have I lain with her? No, Lucian, I have not. You cannot use that excuse to break your pledge." Lucian felt he should be indignant, but there was no heat in his voice as he said, "I do not seek to break our engagement." "No? But you are not over-anxious to fulfill it, either. Do not worry, Lucius. When you go to her on your wedding night, you will be the first to take her flesh. She will stain the bridal sheet, though perhaps not," he smiled, and there was a touch of cruelty in his expression, "as copiously as she might have before this night. No, I took nothing from her that you might miss." He moved toward Lucian. The boy thought to step back, but he didnt. There was something in those eyes that held him. The soft voice seemed to curl around him, stroking him. "Im glad that you came, Lucian. I suppose I would have come for you eventually, but I like the idea that you have come to me." "I did not come to you." "Believe that if you wish." He moved closer. Lucian found that he was trembling. "I will go." "No." The man reached out and touched his cheek. His fingers were cool. "No, you will stay here with me, for a little while." "What do you want?" Lucian whispered. "Nothing that you cannot safely give. First I want what I took from your betrothed..." his hand slid down Lucians throat, "then I want you."

"Who are you?" "Does it matter?" He ran his hand over the boys shoulder. "I have told you, Lucian--you know me, though you might not want to admit it to yourself. Who am I?" Lucian knew. He remembered from his childhood, and he remembered the tales of the village elders. He whispered, "Draculea..." The other man smiled, sharp teeth glinting white in the dimness. Lucian jerked away from the mans touch, turning to run. He did not get far. The man caught him before he could escape the shed. Draculea dragged the struggling man back into the shed. He slammed him hard against the rough wall, grabbed his hair, and jerked his head to the side, exposing his neck. Hed drunk well from the girl, but the hunger was so seldom fully satisfied, and he could not resist. The boy was young and strong, and his blood would be rich with his fear and what Vlad sensed to be his incipient arousal. The boy still struggled, but he could not escape. Vlad sank his fangs into the tanned throat, exulting in the first hot gush of blood. He drank deeply, relishing the salt-sweet flow, but stopped himself long before the youths life was in danger. Lucian groaned as the prince lifted his head, and he let his head fall back in unconscious invitation. Draculea laughed softly and said, "No, no more of that, boy. But you can provide other delights." He threw the boy down on a clean pile of straw. The boy rolled over, blinking up at Draculea, and the prince paused for a moment, admiring him. Lucians hair was as golden as Annas, made even brighter by the contrast to his tanned skin. His eyes were as green as new leaves. He was not like the man that Draculea loved, but he WAS desirable. Lucian tried to rise, but the prince fell on him, driving him back down into the fragrant straw. Draculea claimed his mouth in a rough kiss. When he found the boys teeth clench, he squeezed his jaw till they reluctantly parted, Lucian gasping at the bruising pain. Then his tongue swept into the depths of his reluctant lovers mouth. Lucian gagged at the taste of his own blood, even as a fire ignited deep in his belly. He tried to throw the prince off, to no avail. He felt a hand slip inside his shirt, rubbing and pinching at his nipples, which grew hard under the peremptory caresses. Lucian jerked his head away, panting harshly, and moaned, "No!" A warm hand settled over his crotch, squeezing and he was dismayed to find himself hard under the rough palm. Still he protested. Draculea made a sound of dismissal. "You dont even know what you want, boy." He ripped open the mans trousers, shredding his drawers, and gripped his rigid cock, stroking it firmly. "You have to be shown." Draculea jerked the clothing off, leaving him naked from the waist down, then opened his own breeches, exposing his engorged sex. He flipped Lucian over on his belly and gripped the mans firm, white buttocks. Lucian cried out again and tried to scramble away, but Draculea looped one strong arm around his waist, holding him. "The more you struggle, the more it will hurt, boy. Relax, and I can make it pleasurable for you." Lucians answer was to fight all the harder. Draculea grunted. "Very well--rape instead of seduction." Vlad would have preferred a willing partner, but the boys will was a bit stronger than he had anticipated, and he did not have the time to lull him into acceptance. He hadnt expected to have such an opportunity, and had brought no oil with him. He suspected that Lucian was still a virgin to this manner of sex, and he did not want to take him completely unprepared, but the boy would not stay still enough for him to prepare him orally. He cast his gaze around the shed, and his eyes fell on the churn. He stretched and managed to dip his hand over the rim. Vlad smiled, feeling his fingers slip is a soft, greasy paste. "Well, Lucian, it seems that your intended is a bit of a slut--she did not clean her churn." He scraped up a thick, pale yellow blob of butter. "That is to your advantage tonight, though. I will not have to take you dry." Lucian shuddered as he felt the slick paste being wiped down his crease, then cried out as a thick finger

breached his anus, probing deep. Draculea worked the finger in and out briskly, growing harder as he realized how very tight and hot the boy was. He quickly forced a second finger in. Ignoring Lucians pleading groan, he pushed and wriggled his fingers, spreading them to loosen the tiny, muscular ring. "I told you, boy--relax, and the pain will fade. Here..." he crooked his fingers, feeling, and found the small bump. Draculea caressed it, and this time Lucians cry was of pleasure, mingled with shock. "Yes, boy, it can feel good." His movements gentled a bit. "I did this for my lover so many, many times." He rubbed the special spot again and again, till Lucian was weeping with sensation and confusion. Draculea pulled his hand free. Before the boy could react, he moved up behind him, pressed his slick cockhead against the loosened hole, and thrust. Lucian threw his head back. He did not cry out this time, but his green eyes were wide with shock, and his breath nearly stopped. Draculea took him with hard, quick strokes, driving his prick to the very limit in that hot, tight ass. This was not love making--it was rutting. There was no more tenderness than when a stallion mounted a mare. He came quickly, spilling his seed into the boys molten core. Lucian collapsed onto the straw, shuddering and whimpering. Blood smeared the white globes of his ass, trickling thickly from the crease. The first time he had seen this had been the second time he lain with Simion after he had risen. Hed been near distraught, certain that he had hurt his friend no matter how Simion had protested that he was in no pain, save for a pleasant ache. Simion had told him of what he had seen in the great hall--the single bloody teardrop. He had caressed Draculea with quick assurance and, sure enough, the essence that spurted from the princes sex had been as bright and red as if he had sliced open a vein. It seemed that it was merely another aspect of his new state. For a moment he considered simply mounting Tempest and leaving. Instead he closed his pants and sat back beside the trembling boy. He was more vulnerable in this state, and Draculea knew that he could influence him now. He took the boys still erect sex in his hand and began to pump gently, speaking to him. "Listen to me, Lucian. You are dreaming. When we finish here you will go back to your home. You will move quietly, so that none know that you have been out." With his other hand he gripped the boys chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. He poured all his will into the gaze, and Lucians pupils dilated till his eyes seemed black rather than green. "You will do this for me, Lucian." "Yes, master," he whispered. "Sweet boy." Draculea smoothed back the sweaty, tangled hair. "You will clean yourself, and hide all traces of what has passed between us." His hand moved smoothly. The boy moaned and thrust up into his grasp. "Yes, master." "This will seem a dream to you, but you WILL remember." Draculea bent and took Lucians cock into his mouth, sucking strongly. The young man thrashed, making a thin, keening noise as he spilled his seed down Draculeas throat. When the last drop was drunk, the prince released him, licking the last pale drops of his seed from his lips. He petted the softening flesh. "I doubt that your Anna will be willing to do this for you, Lucian. You will want more, but you will not be sure of what you want, or WHO you want." Draculea pulled the dazed man to his feet and helped him to dress again. Again he looked deeply into Lucians eyes, planting the suggestion--no, the order. "You will not remember with your waking mind, but if I desire you again, you will come at my call." He stroked the boys face. "Who do you belong to, Lucian?" Lucians voice was faint. "You, my lord. I belong to you." "Go." Draculea watched as the soon-to-be-bridegroom staggered from the shed and made his way toward his own house. Then he untied Tempest and led him out into the cool night air. He mounted, then tugged affectionately at the horses mane. "A good night, Tempest. A very good night." Feeling as close to peace as he had been able to get since he had ridden to that fateful battle, Draculea

made his way back to the castle. TBC Back to index

Chapter 44: Chapter 44: Horizons

Summary: Simion coaxes Draculea to get out of his rut. Child of the Night, Part 44: Horizons The Year of Our Lord, 1502 Castle Draculea, Romania Draculeas eyes opened slowly. *Ive become accustomed to waking in darkness. When did that happen?* Hed found after his change that his night vision had become very acute, but this blackness was total, and he couldnt see anything, even a few inches above his face. He put up his hands, resting his palms against the satin covered boards above him. Simion had provided him with a simple, but elegant, coffin. It was made of highly polished oak with brass handles, and it was lined with white satin. Hed spent his first time inside it in what was very like a restless doze. Hed awakened feeling scarcely rested. The second time, just before dawn, he had stalked around it, unable to force himself into it. Then he had turned and begun scooping loose soil from Nicolaes grave into the casket. When he had a layer an inch or so deep, hed climbed in and lay down. He had pulled the lid closed, then dug his fingers into the soft grit beneath him, and had gone to sleep. Now Draculea pushed on the boards. A rim of light appeared. Simion saw to it that there was always a torch in the hall outside his chosen resting place. Vlad could never bring himself to sleep in the bed he had shared with Nicolae. He had only agreed to accept the coffin after Simion had tactfully suggested that this would lend a bit more dignity to Nicolaes repose. Vlad sat up, brushing dirt from his shoulders, and turned, resting his elbows on the coffins rim. His gaze went immediately to the statue. In the dim light of the underground room it almost glowed, milky white. Most of the castle was slowly smothering under dust and cobwebs, but this was as clean and pristine, as the day it had been set in place more than forty years before--Draculea saw to that. Each day either he or Simion carefully washed it, wiping every fold and crease that had been carved into the great block of white marble. Vlad stood, stepped out of the casket, and went to the statue. He sat at its base and stared up at it. The statue was over six feet tall, the slightly spread wings rising several inches over the slightly bowed head of the angel. Draculea studied it. The marble hair lay on broad shoulders. There was an enveloping robe, but somehow the sculptor had managed to suggest a strong, straight body. The angels arms were open, palms flat in a gesture that was gentle and somehow accepting. Draculea reached up and touched one cool, hard hand. "Good evening, my angel. Have you slept? I know that you wander, Nicolae, but you must rest sometime." He threaded his fingers through those of the statue. "You always tried to do too much, and I doubt if you have changed." He lifted himself, resting his cheek against the marble hand. "Is that what you do, Nicu? Do you watch over the lost and helpless in your travels? Do you whisper words of encouragement and comfort?" Simion came to the rooms entrance and hesitated when he saw his master. He had witnessed this before,

but it was never any less painful. He could not make out the exact words, but he knew what Draculea was saying. "Yes, it would be so like you, my love." Vlad stood, pressing close to the statue. He leaned in, staring at the angels face... ...or where the face should have been. It wasnt completely blank. There were shallow, shadowy depressions where the eyes would have been, a vague ridge that might have been the beginning of a nose, a bare line where the mouth should have been. The sculptor had been almost offended when the prince had directed him to leave the face unfinished. He protested only once, though. The princes expression had been as cold and hard as the marble he had carved. The artist had taken his generous pay and had gone. Draculea pressed his cheek to the stone face for a moment, then turned his head so that his mouth brushed the forever sealed seam of the statues lips. His voice was a bare whisper. "Why not me, beloved? Why cant you speak to me?" Simion watched as Draculea pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, then wiped the statues cheek, cleaning away the red streak of his tears. Then he wiped his own cheeks, put away the stained cloth, and turned to Simion. He walked over to the doorway. Draculea paused before his friend. He reached out and silently gripped his shoulder, then passed on into the corridor. Simion followed behind his master. Draculea paused at a dark intersection, glancing down the side hallway. He darted suddenly to the side, and Simion heard rapid scrambling, and a shrill squeak. Then there was a soft, slurping sound. Simion waited, a faint look of distaste ghosting over his features. He didnt like it when Draculea limited himself to animal blood. Oh, it wasnt a personal disgust. He knew that blood was necessary for his master to survive, and rats would have done well enough--in an emergency. But Draculea had an ample supply of human... donors available. The gypsies saw it as an honor. He could wipe the memory of it from the minds of the villagers, leaving them with nothing but vague, disturbing feelings. No, he didnt like it for Draculeas sake. Vlad was a prince. Even had he not been born to the Draculea line he would have been a prince. He deserved more than what he allowed himself these days. It had been years since Draculea had taken human blood, and the effects were beginning to show. Though he seemed only a little less strong, Simion had noticed changes. There were fine lines around his eyes now, and gray in his hair. Simion was worried. Human blood always seemed to rejuvenate the prince, but was it possible for him to take himself too far, beyond the healing power of the blood? It never occurred to Simion that his own existence might be endangered by Draculeas refusal to take his proper unnatural nourishment. Draculea emerged from the shadows of the side hall, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He moved a little more briskly, but Simion could see the torchlight glinting on threads of silver in his hair. *He is allowing himself to die a little at a time, pining for Nicolae. At this rate he will never survive till the boy is reborn.* Simion thought this without a hint of doubt that it WOULD happen--he was as sure as his master. They had entered the great hall, then made their way to the library. Nicolaes portrait, painted by Senor Vitelli almost forty years before, was hung in the center of one wall, and Draculea had taken up his accustomed place before it. As Simion entered, Draculea was pulling a chair up before it and sitting down. *He needs something to occupy him while he waits.* Draculea had, in life, been an active man, well involved in the affairs of his country. *He needs...* "Travel." Draculea turned his head, looking at his friend. "What, Simion?" "Travel, Domn. You should travel." Draculea snorted, turning his attention back to the portrait. Simion came to stand near him. "You have seen some of the world, but there is so much that you have not, Domn.

Before, you were limited--you could not go far, because the ropes of your duty held you. Now they have been cut, and you are free." Draculae laughed shortly. "Oh, aye, Simion, free as the air. Yes, I can travel. Of course, I will only be able to travel west, and I must race so fast that I outstrip the rising of the sun, staying always in darkness." "Not so, prince. The sun is not fatal to you--we know that." ***** The lesson had been a fearful one. Draculea had been on one of his night rides. In fact, he had been visiting Lucian. Hed become rather fond of the young man he had debauched before his marriage. It amused him that Lucian always protested, but always came at his summons, and experienced as much pleasure as any of Vlads bed partners ever had. That night Draculea had used him long and well, taking him on the floor of his front room while his wife and children slept only a few yards away, forcing him to choke back his cries of passion and release, lest they hear. Vlad had emptied himself twice into the mans ass, and that had been all he had intended. He had then taken a leisurely meal of the mans lus-heated blood, leaving him mewling with the combined pain and pleasure. But as he rose to go, Lucian had tottered up onto his knees, wrapping his arms around Draculeas thighs, and burying his face against the vampires spent cock. Hed never done this with the human before, and the hot licking and sucking was too delicious to pass up. He enjoyed it for a long while. When he came, though, he pulled the man violently off his cock, spilling his bloody issue across his chest. His seed and his blood seemed to be the same now, and he was not going to let this mortal drink either. That was reserved. True, he allowed Simion, but Simion was special, and he no longer drank his friends blood. In any case, it was much later than he had planned when he left the village. He could see what seemed to be a rim of fire along the eastern horizon. For a moment he had stared at it, and he had thought that this might be a way to end everything. If he simply didnt go back to the castle... *But what of Nicolae? When he returns, and I am not here... No! I cannot abandon him!" Hed set his heels into Tempests sides, and they had flown toward the castle. The sky was turning gray as he approached. He could see Simion pacing outside the gates, gazing down the road anxiously. The sun broke over the horizon before he reached the gate. The first rays struck him, and he heard Simion calling to him with frantic worry. But... It wasnt fatal. Oh, it wasnt pleasant at all, but it wasnt exactly painful either. There was a sudden buzzing sensation on his skin, and an abrupt draining of energy. Tempest stamped to a halt at the gate, and Draculea slid off, almost falling. One of the gypsies took the horses reins as Simion ran toward his swaying master. "Domn! Hurry!" He had a cloak, which he threw over Draculeas head, shielding him. With the sun blocked, Draculea felt a little of his strength return. He held Simions arm, letting his friend lead him into the cool, dim interior of the castle. Simion did not remove the cloak until he had Draculea in his underground sleeping room. Draculea had immediately crawled into his coffin and gone to sleep. The next night he seemed to have suffered no ill effects. So, while sunlight might not be fatal, it was far from healthful for him. ***** "Simion..." "We have wagons, and a good carriage--a nobles carriage. It will be easy to carry your coffin. If you believe that that would be too conspicuous, then we could use a big trunk. A wealthy man is expected to travel with a lot of luggage." Draculea studied the other man, then said slowly, "You have been thinking of this for some time, havent you?"

Simion bowed his head. "Domn, it makes good sense on so many levels. I have set up business agreements in other lands--France, Italy, Germany. They do well, so far, but it is always prudent to have a present eye in business dealings. It keeps ones partners honest. Your investments have begun to pay off, but they must do well if you are to have funds sufficient for the time you may have to wait." "Practicalities, Simion? This wouldnt have anything to do with what Im sure you see as my melancholia?" Simion examined Draculea shrewdly, and used the tact he thought most likely to succeed. Keeping his voice mild, he said, "So it does not trouble you that Nicolae will return to an old man--on sunk so far in his brooding and memories that his flesh has begun to fall away, along with his spirit?" Draculea sat up abruptly, glaring at his retainer. Simion continued calmly, "A room grows stale if it is not aired, water stagnates if it is not refreshed, and soil loses its fertility if it is not turned and enriched. You yourself have spoken of men who let the juice of life be sucked from them by walling themselves away from the world. Though you take your pleasure now and then, lord, this castle has become as sterile and lifeless as any monastery." Draculea looked at the portrait again, then his eyes drifted to the door, and Simion knew he was thinking of the grave in the cellar. There was no sarcasm in his voice when he spoke. "But what of Nicolae, Simion?" Simion knelt beside the chair, putting his hand on the princes arm and gazing earnestly into his face. He was about to say something that might have earned another death, but he had to. There was no other way. "It is only his dust that is here, my lord. Your gypsies will watch over his bones for as long as need be, and none will disturb his rest, but he will not rise from the grave, as you have done. He will be reborn, and who can say where?" Draculea lifted his head sharply. "My God," he whispered. He smartly slapped himself on the forehead, groaning. "Simion, I have been blind! You are right, of course. Souls enter this world in every land, and who can say where Nicolae may slip through? It would be like him to find some poor creature in a backward culture, just so he could try to help those around him." He nodded. "Youre right. Ive been letting myself get soft, just sitting here, waiting. Ive always been a hunter as well as a warrior, eh, Simion?" Simion smiled. "Yes, my lord." Draculea stood and began pacing. "Ill have to rely on you to make the arrangements. Im afraid Ive let myself become... hm... disaquainted with the world outside my own small domain." "Where would you wish to go first, my lord?" He waved his hand negligently. "It hardly matters, does it? I have a feeling that I will see much of the world before Im done. You choose." Simion stood, cocking his head thoughtfully. "If we leave soon, we can reach Italy before the end of spring." "Italy? Rome, Venice... One of the cradles of antiquity. Yes, Simion. That sounds interesting. Ill see it by moonlight. I have a feeling, though, that I will find that the mortals are not much different in any part of the world." He clapped Simion on the back, and his voice was a little lighter. "I hear the Italians are very fond of garlic. Do you suppose it will affect the flavor of their blood overmuch?" He wrinkled his nose. "Ive always found garlic distasteful, and lately it is positively offensive. Rank herb." Simion shrugged, his mind busy with plans. "The peasants attach some mystical significance to it, lord, Im not sure what." "Come to think of it, I HAVE seen garlands hanging on doors and windows in the village the last few years." He shook his head. "I couldnt even avoid the smell by holdong my breath because..." He smiled. "Because you do not breathe. How inconvenient." They both laughed, and Simion sat at a table, beginning to compose a letter to their business contacts in Rome.

TBC Back to index

Chapter 45: Chapter 45: Trysting

Pairing: Vlad/Simion/OMC Summary: Vlad and Simion spend time at a villa in Florence. Warnings: Multiple partner sex, no protection used, but this was the middle ages, people. Notes: My information about Italian Renaissance gardens was obtained at http://www.arts.monash.edu.au/visual_culture/projects/diva/kent.html. Information on midnight gardens from http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Pointe/1406/gardenmidnight.html. Please understand that the aristocratic concept of a garden was much different then than it is now. Our idea of a private garden generally only encompasses a few flower and/or vegetable beds, with paths and an ornamental birdbath if we are being extravagant. Back then a noblemans garden could encompass acres of land, with areas both carefully cultivated and deliberately left wild. Definations: Orti Oricellari--Garden of Oricellari, Immediatamente--immediately, perdonillo--forgive me, poco un dolce--a little sweet Child of the Night, Part 45: Trysting The Year of Our Lord, 1516 The Villa Rucellai, Outside of Florence, Italy Simion finished folding the last of Draculeas shirts and tucked it away neatly in the dresser, then closed the drawer. He nodded in satisfaction. They had traveled a great deal since theyd first left Castle Draculea, and he never felt entirely comfortable till he had all his masters belongings squared away in each new location. Simion looked about the room with a critical eye. Hed spent his entire life in service to royalty, and though the prince (being a warrior) was used to rough surroundings, Simion himself thought that the prince deserved only the finest. He could find nothing to criticize here. Signor Cosimo Rucellais villa, while not rivaling that of the Medicis, was quite sumptuous, and the room provided for Draculea fit his position. Simion was still a little tired from the ride to the villa, and he decided that he deserved a bit of relaxation. He went into the hall and glanced around. There was a footman seated at the midpoint, and he stood quickly, looking to Simion inquiringly. Many of the better appointed houses kept a man or maid stationed on each floor for the convenience of the family or guests, to save the tedium of seeking out a servant when they needed some errand run or chore performed. Simion beckoned, and the young man hurried over. "Yes, Signor?" Simion smiled at the title. While he was also technically a servant, the other man was acknowledging that he stood higher in the domestic caste. Servants could be just as snobbish as the nobility. "Your name?" "Adamo, Signor." "Adamo, bring some wine, please." The young man was used only to curt orders, and he blinked at the courtesy, then nodded eagerly. "Yes, Signor, immediatamente. Does the Signor wish to have the wine cooled? Signor Rucellai keeps a few bottles in the spring for the pleasure of his guests."

"That would be pleasant, but you need bring only a goblet. The prince himself does not drink much wine." The footman hesitated. This was not for Draculea, then, but for the manservant himself? In such a case he would usually have fetched a drink from the keg of rough, new wine shared by all the household servants, but now he wasnt sure. This Simion was obviously not a common servant. He had been given his own, small room near his masters, instead of being required to sleep in the common room with the footmen of the household. Actually, Adamo was not envious of this privilege. The sleeping room was crowded enough as it was. He examined the older man shyly as he thought, *I would not mind sharing a bed with this one, but with the others in the room, what good would it be?* "You think much, Adamo." The boy blushed. "Perdonillo, Signor. I go." He bowed and hurried off, his pace almost a trot. Simion shook his head, smiling, as he shut the door. *That one is susceptible, I think. It will be easy to make sure, and I will enjoy the task.* The boy was in his late teens, but small and slender, with fine, light brown hair and clear grey eyes--unusual for Italy, even this far north. Simion sat on a small love seat, and rested his hand on the large trunk. Draculeas two gypsy servants, who cared for the horses and carriage, had carried it to the room, refusing the help of the households servants. Rucellais steward had been reluctant to have such rough men in the house, but Simion had told him firmly that the princes luggage was to be handled only by the princes men, and while they were on the subject, no maids were to come to Draculeas room--for ANY reason, unless summoned. Simion would be attending to the princes needs, including tidying his room. The maids were torn between gratitude at having their duties lightened, and hurt pride that they were not to be allowed to serve royalty directly. He tapped softly on the polished surface. Sometimes his master dozed, and sometimes he slept deeply, and Simion was never sure if Draculea would hear him. "I think I may have found a playmate for you, Domn--young and tender. Before you rise I will see if my estimation is correct." While Draculea had been outraged that Ernestu had dared to try to force Nicolae into his bed, Simion often steered willing partners to his master, usually after sampling them himself. While he was still perfectly capable of finding bed partners himself, if he was going to be living in close quarters with others for any period of time, it was safer and more convenient to let his friend arrange things. Simion had a keen sense of who would welcome advances and who would shy away--he was seldom wrong. There was a tap at the door, and Simion called, "Come." Adamo entered, and shut the door behind himself. He brought a fluted glass, one of delicate Venetian design, to Simion and presented it, eyes properly downcast. Simion accepted it, and the boy waited for him to taste it and give his approval. Simion sipped the ruby liquid. It was excellent--the Italians had a flair for wine. He nodded his approval. When the boy started to turn away he said, "Stay a moment." Adamo paused, and said anxiously, "I have done something wrong, Signor?" "No, boy, not at all. Do your duties permit you to spend a little time with me?" "I... yes, Signor. I am at your service for as long as you desire." "Good. Go and bolt the door." Adamo blinked, but he obeyed readily enough, then returned to stand beside the other man. Simion touched the seat beside him. "Sit, boy." When he hesitated, Simion said, "Is your reluctance because of distaste, or do you fear to trespass beyond your station?" "Distaste? No, Signor!" He seemed surprised. "It is only..." He waved at the seat. "To use Signor Rucellais furniture..." "You will not contaminate it, Adamo. No one will know, and even if they did," he shrugged, "I bid you do it. You may even say that I ordered you. You have been told to obey me?" He nodded. "I do not order you, but I invite you, Adamo. Sit with me." The boy sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. Simion was gratified

to see that the lad did not put great space between them. Simion sipped the wine, enjoying the taste. "Are you happy in your masters service, Adamo? Do not fear to answer honestly--nothing you say will leave this room." "Yes, Signor, quite happy. There is great room for advancement. I will be head footman in a few years, I think. If I am diligent, and fortunate, I may be chosen to be trained to serve one of the young gentlemen personally." "No complaints?" "Not with my master, Signor. The household..." his voice trailed off. Simion casually put his arm around the boy. Adamo did not flinch, or even tense. "Are the other servants hard on you? It is not unusual for jealousy to be turned against one so fair as yourself." "No, Signor, they treat me well, but..." he sighed. "I am lonely." "The other men-servants are not friendly." "None are friendly enough, Signor." He glanced sideways at Simion, lowering dark lashes significantly. Simion stroked the boys hair, and held the half full glass to Adamos lips. The boy sipped daintily. When Simion withdrew the glass, he licked his lips slowly, and Simion felt his breeches tighten across his crotch. Setting aside the glass he said softly, "Would you like for me to be your friend while I am here, Adamo?" "With all my heart, Signor." Simion unlaced his breeches, opening them, then drew the boys warm, steady hand down to the gap. When Adamo slipped his hand inside to grip Simions hardening cock, the older man began to untie the footmans laces. In a moment both men were exposed. "Slowly, Adamo," Simion whispered, as he began to stroke the boys slender, half hard prick. With his free hand he gripped the boys chin and kissed him. Adamo had not expected that. In his previous encounters there had been no kissing--that was something he thought was reserved for women. Still, as Simion slipped his tongue into Adamos mouth, and he felt it stroking over his own tongue, hot and wet, the boy found that he liked it very much. Simon tasted the wine, and the boys own fresh flavor. Adamos response to the kiss was clumsier than the skilled motion of his hand, and Simion found that charming. *This one will be perfect for you, master. He is beautiful and knows a little of life, but is not yet jaded.* Before long the boy gasped and trembled, coating Simions fingers with his seed. He did not flag in his caresses, though, and soon Simion himself reached fulfillment. He sat back, content to let the boy bring a wet cloth from the rooms wash basin and clean them both. When their garments had been rearranged Adamo bowed. "I thank you, Signor. Not every partner has been concerned with my pleasure. If you no longer require me..." "Do not be in such a hurry, Adamo. Sit again." The boy sat, clearly puzzled. He was not used to his partners wanting him to remain once he had satisfied their desires, not since his initial explorations with his cousins. Simion stroked his cheek. "You are a sweet little thing. How old are you?" "I will be nineteen soon, Signor. I know I seem younger." He sighed. "It is a problem. No one takes me seriously." "As you grow older it will be less of a problem and more of a blessing, child. Did you truly enjoy what we did together?" "Oh, yes, Signor! I hope you will find more time for me before you go." "It is clear that you are no virgin, Adamo, but how much experience have you had? Have you been with many men?" The boy shrugged, a peculiarly Italian gesture. "Who can say? Many for a monk, few for a whore. Enough to know what I like." Simion rubbed a thumb over the boys soft lips. "Do you use your mouth?" He let a hand slide down Adamos back, and one finger slid under his ass, probing gently at the cloth covered crease. "Your ass?"

The boy said, "I have done both, Signor." He frowned. "Though it has not been so very pleasant the times that I was mounted." Simion squeezed his arm. "Much depends on your rider, Adamo. One who is too selfish or brutal can indeed make the act unpleasant, but it does not necessarily have to be so. You know of my master?" Adamo nodded. The entire household knew of Simions master--Prince Vlad Draculea, though no one knew MUCH of him. He had been welcomed some dozen or more years ago into Italian society, and was a much sought after guest. His pedigree had never been completely traced, but it was assumed that he was a minor royal in the Romanian monarchy. The few ambitious nobles who had sent questions to the Wallachian court had received only vague references to a branch of the current kings family, fallen into obscurity. No one denied his high station, and he certainly traveled and lived like a blue blood. His carriage and horses were the finest--his chosen residences small and often isolated, but plush. Since he was of the upper class, his eccentricities, which were many, could be overlooked. It was rumored that he never appeared in public before sunset. No one knew whether this was for some reason of health or merely a whim. He did not dine with others, either, and he would not enter a room that held a mirror. If he had been hideous this would have been understood--many less than beautiful patricians did not care to be reminded of their physical flaws. But it was said that he was not old, and that his appearance was pleasing to the eye. Adamo had been very curious, but he had not caught a glimpse of the noble visitor--none of the household had. He had arrived at the villa that morning just as dawn was breaking, and he had been swathed from head to foot in a hooded cape. And as to his accommodations... The princes servant had refused the large, sunny room at the front of the villa, instead choosing a smaller one at the back. It had only one window, and he had requested (nothing so direct as a demand, but it was fulfilled without delay) heavy double draperies. These peculiarities, far from alienating people, drew them. The aristocracy viewed them with approval. After all, they could do whatever they liked, simply because they wished to. What better measure of worth was there? "It is said, Signor," Adamo said slowly, "That the prince is a handsome man." "Quite true, Adamo, and he is a lusty man. I think he could show you how pleasurable that particular act can be. Would you be willing?" Again the boy peeked at Simion through his lashes. "Will he like me, Signor?" "Oh, yes, boy. Most assuredly." ***** Draculea was not in the best of moods when he awoke. He rapped sharply on the lid of the trunk and listened as Simion unlocked it. He disliked this precaution, but he knew that it made good sense. The lock could not keep him in if he wanted to escape, but it might very well foil the curious or the greedy. The lid lifted, and he stood up, stretching. It was more habit than anything else--he thought that he would have to lie cramped for a very, very long time before he became stiff. He glanced around the room, noting the well covered window, as he brushed grit from his clothes. "Good evening, Simion." "Good evening, Domn. I have your clothes laid out for you. If you wish, I can have water brought." "Perhaps later, Simion. I am eager to meet my host and his other guests." As he began to dress, Simion said, "Had we come a few years earlier you might have met the Medicis, but they were ousted when Florence reverted to a republic." Draculea shook his head, sighing. "What is the world coming to, Simion? The masses thinking they are wise enough to rule themselves..." Simion shrugged. "Not all people have good rulers, Domn. Perhaps if more leaders studied the writings of Machiavelli they would not be in such a rush to take their fates into their own hands. Many want the fruits of self-determination, but few want the responsibilities."

As Simion helped Draculea don his boots, the prince said, "Have you given them any explanation for my appearance?" "I told them that you were attending to business nearby, and would arrive this evening. Claudio has your horse waiting in the woods--you need only to ride up to the front of the villa." "Good." He went to the window and opened the drapes, gazing out into the night. It looked out on a smooth expanse of lawn toward a small woodland. Draculea was pleased to see that there was only a sliver of moon. No light escaped from the house. Even had the windows not all been draped for the night there would have been little illumination--the candle and firelight did not pierce the darkness for many feet. "There should be no trouble in reaching the trees unnoticed." His keen vision detected a faint movement at the edge of the forest. "Yes, I see Claudio." He threw open the window. Before he climbed out Simion said, "My lord, you need not seek companionship tonight, unless you wish." Draculea paused, looking at Simion. "Yes?" He smiled. "What have you found for me?" "Poco un dolce." Draculea laughed. "My good friend! You take such care of me. Thank you, Simion. Will I see this sweetmeat tonight?" "I think not, Domn. He has not yet reached a station exalted enough for him to be allowed to wait on the household intimately. I may find a way to bring him under your eyes before the evening ends, and you can decide if he is to your taste." "And your tone says that he WILL be. Thank you, Simion." Draculea swung his leg out the window, sitting on the sill, and visually measured the distance to the ground. One story--not far, and the landing would be on grass, not cobbles or stone. He sprang out and down. Draculea landed lightly, sinking into a crouch to absorb the shock. Almost before his downward motion ceased he pushed off and ran, sprinting toward the woods. Simion watched him go. He could do this only because his masters blood had gifted him with a weak version of his powers. No one else would have been able to see the black clad figure racing across the shadowed lawn. ***** "Twelve years. He took TWELVE years to paint the chapels ceiling. Cities have been built in less time. And the artist used drunks and laborers as models for the saints. I wonder that the pope did not have the rogue thrown into prison, or even excommunicate him, for such sacrilege." Draculea nodded gravely to the elderly contessa who had been monopolizing his company most of the evening. His hand strayed down beside his chair, out of her sight, and he gestured at Simion, who came to him swiftly. When the old lady paused to draw a breath, Draculea said, "Fascinating, Contessa. Youre quite right, of course. Simion, I wish to present my gifts to Signor and Signora Rucellai. Fetch them." Simion bowed, and their eyes met in understanding before he left the room. The contessa bent his ears for a few moments more till Simion returned. Everyone had heard of his errand, and conversation in the salon quieted in anticipation. Draculea rose and went toward the door to meet Simion... and the young footman. Since there were to be two gifts, Simion had the perfect excuse to bring the boy into the salon--it would not be properly respectful of the gifts, or those who were to receive them, for a servant to seem to juggle them. The gifts were nicely arranged on small velvet pillows--pink for the lady and wine red for the gentleman. Draculea first took the ladys gift from Simion. It was a cut glass bottle of perfume--the golden liquid seeming to shimmer. Draculea presented it to her. "My lady--a scent to enhance your beauty. It contains ambergris, and was distilled from the blossoms of an entire field of roses. Pearls were ground to dust and mixed with the perfume, so that they may add a greater luster to your skin when you choose to use it." She murmured pleased thanks, unstopping the bottle. Immediately the room was filled with the scent of

roses and spice. Draculea watched as she delightedly allowed her ladies to sniff the stopper. His nose wrinkled at the heavy aroma, but that was the sort of fragrance fashionable these days, and he was not trying to please himself. Next he went to the young footman to get Signor Rucellais gift. He gave the boy a swift appraisal, and was pleased with what he saw. His only indication was a quick glance at Simion, but his friend knew that Draculea approved of his choice. The boy did not look up as the prince took the gift from the pillow and presented it to Rucellai. "I understand that you are a writer, as was your father before you, and his father before him. May this be of use to you, and a reminder of my esteem." It was an inkwell. When Signor Rucellai took it, he knew by its weight that it was solid gold. It was decorated with enamel work and small gemstones--garnets and opals. Rucellai studied it with satisfaction. "It is magnificent, Prince Draculea. I am honored." Draculea smiled, and many of the guests noted a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I have loved someone who took joy in writing, Signor. I would have given such a gift to my dear one, had not death robbed me." There were murmurs of sympathy. Few people were as romantic as the Italians, and the thought of this handsome, proud mans tragedy touched the guests. The conversation continued for awhile longer--the men discussing weighty matters of politics and finance while the women gossiped about fashion and certain people who were not in attendance. Finally the guests began to excuse themselves to make their way to their beds. *Or in some cases,* thought Simion, watching the flirtation between a very married lady and a younger gallant, *to the beds of others.* Signor Rucellai spoke to Draculea. "Prince, I have something I think will interest you, since you are forced to forgo venturing forth in the light of day. I have turned part of my grounds into a midnight garden, dedicated to flowers that bloom only at night and plants that are pleasing to the eye under moonlight." Draculeas interest was piqued. "I have heard of such things, Signor, but never seen one. I would be most grateful." The two men said good night to the few remaining guests, and Rucellai led Draculea outside. As they left, he bid Adamo (who had remained shyly in the background, awaiting orders) to remain at the door. The household was being secured for the night, and he did not wish to be forced to call a servant to unlock the door when they returned. Simion followed the pair, a few paces behind, like the faithful servant that he was. "My garden is my greatest joy, Prince," Rucellai said as they walked. "I have even taken the conceit of naming it--Quarrachi. My grandfather gave the peasants permission to use certain parts of it, and I have continued the tradition." At Draculeas raised eyebrow, he smiled. "Yes, I know. I have been berated by some of my peers for giving the lower classes ideas, but truthfully, I benefit. The people were grateful for my grandfathers generosity that the parish voted to keep and maintain the gardens beauty and refinement at their own expense." His eyes twinkled. "I have to spend very little on gardeners. It is an excellent business tactic." "I will show you only my moonlight garden now, as it would take some time to view the entire estate. You are, of course, welcome to wander as you wish. I have fruit trees of all kinds, exotics, fragrant herbs, statuary that has been collect through generations of my family, fountains, pools, a hedge maze..." He sighed. "I love my time here. I wish I could retire to the country, but politics and business will not allow it." He shrugged, smiling wryly, "Dwelling solely in the country is a bit suspect. As they say, the country makes woods... worthy men are made in the city." Draculea was enchanted by the artfully arranged nocturnal garden. It had been more than half a century since he had seen a blooming flower, and he did not realize how much he had missed this till he saw the masses of phlox, evening primrose, and columbines. They were all open, the petals in shades of cream, lavender, and pale pink almost glowing in the dim moonlight. An arbor was covered with fragrant

honeysuckle and wisteria, the latter plant dripping clusters of blossoms that looked like bunches of grapes. "There are plants that look their best by moonlight." Rucellai indicated a fern like plant whose leaves were silvery white. "That one has a most charming name. The peasants call it Dusty Miller." They spent a little time admiring the garden, then Rucellai said, "I must retire, as I am expecting to meet with some of my estate managers tomorrow. Please, Prince, stay as long as you like. A servant will remain at the door to await your convenience." "I thank you. I wish to spend some time exploring the maze we passed on our way here. It looks fascinating." "Have a care." Rucellai laughed. "Some of our ladies have lost themselves in it, and required rescuing." Draculea smiled. "I trust my own sense of direction." Rucellai left Draculea and Simion at the entrance to the maze. After his host had entered the house, Draculea said, "I have a fancy to meet my little playmate under the benevolent eye of the moon, Simion." He looked down the corridor formed by the tall hedges. At the end, where it branched off, stood a tree whose thick foliage had been clipped in the form of Rucellais coat-of-arms. "Mazes like this always include open areas for relaxation and contemplation." "Shall I send the boy to you, Domn?" Draculea studied his friend, then said slowly, "No, Simion--bring him to me. He seemed quite young, and a bit in awe of his betters. He may be easier with someone along who is more familiar to him." Simion watched Draculea disappear into the maze, then went back to the house. Adamo was waiting outside the door, and he straightened as the older man approached. Simion noticed that the boys eyes moved past him, and he looked disappointed when he saw that Simion was alone. He bowed to Simion, then said, "I am to wait for the prince?" "No, boy. You are to come with me. He is waiting in the maze, and he is most desirous to make your acquaintance." Adamo glanced back at the door behind him, and Simion knew that he was thinking of the beating he would receive if it was learned that he had left the unlocked door unattended. Simion waited to see if his desire would override his doubts, and it did. He followed Simion toward the maze. As they walked the boy said hesitantly, "Signor Simion, the prince is a very great man." "Yes, Adamo, but he is still a man." They stopped at the entrance to the maze, and he turned to the boy, putting his hand on his arm. "Are you afraid, Adamo?" "N-no, Signor, not really. But I have never been with such an exalted person before. I am worried..." "You think that you might not please him?" The boy nodded. Simion stroked his hair. "So very young. You have only to be willing, child. And do not fear--my master believes in affording his partners as much pleasure as he may. He is not a selfish lover." They went into the maze. It was a fantastic construction, with hundreds of yards of pathway winding between neatly trimmed box hedges that rose more than a foot higher than the head of a tall man. Occasionally, at the turns, they came upon antique statues, or trees clipped in the forms of cardinals, animals, and mythical creatures. There was even one that Adamo told Simion was supposed to be Cicero. Simion said, "I would have thought that the servants would not be allowed here, except to tend it." Adamo shrugged, smiling, and Simion thought *Of course. He has been in service here for some years, and what boy could resist exploring a place like this, even if it was forbidden?* They turned a corner, and the path opened out into a small patch of smooth, green grass. In its center, Draculea sat on a low marble bench. Simion led Adamo over to the prince, and they stopped before him. The boy stood quietly, his eyes fixed humbly on the ground, waiting to be instructed. Draculea examined the boy. He was quite beautiful. It was surprising that he had not been placed as a page boy in some noble house, but had been relegated to the more servile position of footman. He had no doubt that someone would soon notice his charms, and he would, indeed, rise in the world of domestic servants.

"Look at me, child." The eyes that were raised to him were of such a pale gray that they looked almost silver in the moonlight. His skin was pale, and his features were almost as delicate as a girls. Draculea reached out and touched his cheek. Though he was approaching manhood, he had apparently not begun to shave, for there was only the faintest trace of down, as soft as peach fuzz. "You know why I have summoned you here?" He nodded. "You may speak, Adamo. You need not hold to proper silence when we are alone." "Yes, Signor." His voice was almost a whisper. "You... you seek comfort." Draculea smiled. "Indeed." He gripped the boys waist and drew him between his spread knees, then urged him to sit. Adamo found himself perched on one firm thigh, with Draculeas arm about him. Draculea petted the boys face, and Adamo shivered. He said quickly, "It is not that I do not enjoy your touch, Signor, but your hands..." "I know. The chill is part of my condition, like my aversion to sunlight. Fear not, it is something peculiar to myself, there is no danger to you, and I will be warmer soon." As he spoke, one hand had moved up to stroke his throat, and the other gripped the back of his neck, massaging firmly. Despite the coolness of Draculeas touch, Adamo found himself beginning to relax under the gentle, rhythmic touches. Draculeas voice was low and soothing, and it lulled him even further. "Simion tells me that you have not enjoyed taking a man into your body. I think I can help you find how wonderful that act can be. Are you willing?" "Yes, Signor," he murmured. "Very willing." "Sweet boy." Draculea brushed cool lips against his cheek, then his lips. "Simion and I share many things, Adamo. We would like to share you. Have you ever been taken by two men at once?" "I... no, Signor." "Does the prospect frighten you?" "No, Signor. It excites me." Draculea chuckled. "Good." He slid his hand up into the boys soft hair, pulling his head forward. "Kiss me." Adamo bent forward and touched his mouth to the princes. When he would have pulled back, Draculea held him there, licking at the seam of his lips till they parted and allowed him entrance. The probe was soft and cold, but still exciting. The boy felt his cock begin to stir. Draculea sensed the quickening of his blood, and he pulled back as saliva flooded his mouth. Adamo made a soft murmur of loss, but Draculea began to kiss his throat, and he sighed happily. Simion watched as Draculea sucked and nibbled at a small patch of skin, drawing the blood to the surface in a passion bruise, just like any mortal lover. The boy was beginning to squirm and moan, and the front of his breeches was tented over his erection. When the boy at last became bold enough to slide his arms around Draculeas neck, holding him, Vlad knew that he was ready. He whispered against the smooth skin, "Adamo, there will be a little pain now. Only a little, and then it will be very good, and you will have rendered me a great service. Do not be afraid." He sank his fangs into the boys throat. Hot, salty-sweet blood immediately filled his mouth. The boy stiffened, moaning, but did not struggle. Draculea stroked his back and hair soothingly as he fed, and even his small protests stilled. Draculea took only as much as he needed, not wanting to weaken the boy over much--he might want to sup from him again before he left. When he was done he licked the wounds, as he had found that this speeded the healing. By morning there would be only a bruise and two small punctures that might be mistaken for insect bites. When he was done the wounds no longer seeped. Draculea slid his hand inside Adamos shirt, his fingers finding the hard thrust of his nipples. "You see, Adamo?" he whispered. "My touch is warmer now, is it not?" "Yes." The boy arched to his touch as he lightly pinched one firm bud. "Ah, Signor, so warm."

Draculea pushed him off his lap. He swayed just slightly, and Simion gripped his shoulder to steady him. "Simion, disrobe the boy." Simion removed Adamos garments, slowly revealing each portion of his slim, pale body for Draculeas pleasure. When he was done he ran his hand down one smooth flank, saying, "He is more perfect than Signor Rucellais Greek statues." "Prepare him for me, my friend." Simion removed a small bottle from his pocket. When Adamo looked at it curiously he said, "Sweet oil, to ease the way." At the boys frown he said, "What? Adamo, what have your other lovers used." "Nothing, Signor." He hesitated. "Well, my cousin spat in his hand and used it to slick himself before he entered me." Simion shook his head. "No wonder you have not enjoyed it before. This will be different. Lie across the bench on your stomach." Adamo positioned himself beside Draculea. His hard cock was trapped between his body and the cold, smooth marble, and his rump jutted temptingly. Simion parted the pale buttocks and dribbled a stream of oil down the crease, then coated his fingers. He began to stroke the length of the deep valley, pausing at the top each time to massage around the tiny pucker of his asshole. Adamo shivered with pleasure. No one had ever caressed him like this. His other lovers had mounted him as quickly as possible, not caring if he was ready, and had pounded their way to their own fulfillment. More than once he had been left with a sore and bleeding ass, forced to stroke himself to climax if he wanted release. When the first greased finger slipped inside him he felt only pleasure, and he wiggled, rubbing his cock against the stone. Draculea rubbed the boys back as he watched Simion work the second finger into Adamos anus and begin spreading his fingers to stretch him. "You are doing well, Adamo. If you are patient, I think Simion will find your special spot." "My special spot?" Draculea laughed softly, "Oh, boy! You have a great discovery before you. Simion?" "I will try, Domn." He pushed deeper, curving his fingers and feeling along the boys internal walls till he found the small nub he was seeking. Adamo squirmed, giving a soft, surprised cry. "There, boy. That is a pleasure denied women--only men may know it." "Then I thank my fate that I was born a man. Oh, please, Signor, again!" Simion rubbed the same spot again and again. The boy moaned and began to push back, trying to drive the probing fingers deeper. "He is ready," said Draculea. While Simion pulled free, Draculea unlaced his breeches and freed his cock. It jutted from the open slit, thick and leaking. In the moonlight, the boy could not see that the fluid, instead of being clear, was blood red. "Up, Adamo, then bend over." Adamo obeyed, bending at the waist to present his ass. Draculea squeezed his ass cheeks. "I will mount you now, sweet boy. Simion?" "Lord?" "Adamo has a pretty mouth." "Yes, lord." "Wait till I am seated." Simion went to stand before Adamo, opening his breeches and freeing his own member. He had become aroused while caressing the boy, and was very ready. He watched as Draculea moved closer to the boy, fitting the dark head of his cock against the glistening, well-opened hole. Draculea pushed slowly into the boy, hissing in pleasure as he was encased in hot wetness. Since he had passed over he found the internal heat of his mortal lovers even more intense, and this boy was exquisitely tight. Adamo whimpered, but it was not with pain. There was only the slightest ache, and it was overwhelmed by the delicious feeling of fullness. When the princes cockhead passed over that sensitive place inside he jerked slightly, his cock twitching with pleasure. When Draculea was buried to the root he paused, and

Simion stepped closer to Adamo. He placed the boys hands on his hips to help him balance, then held his cock toward the boys mouth. Adamo licked at his glans, then took half of Simions cock into his mouth and began sucking. Simions eyes closed in pleasure as his young lover began to bob up and down. Draculea began to fuck the boy slowly. He used full strokes, pulling back till only his glans was still inside, then sliding forward till his groin pressed against Adamos round ass. He looked across and watched as his friend enjoyed the boys eager oral attention. Simion held Adamos head and thrust shallowly. He did not want to risk choking the boy, but Adamo was proving quite skilled at this art. He managed to take the older man completely, easing the rigid prick down his throat again and again. Simion was the first. Adamo drew his climax from him, and easily swallowed Simions thick spurts of semen. He would have kept the softening prick in his mouth, sucking him back to hardness, if Draculea had not waved his servant away. His voice thick, he said, "I think you need to be away from his teeth now, my friend." Simion understood and pulled free of Adamos mouth, but gripped the boys shoulders to help support him as Draculea began to pump more strongly. Adamo embraced Simion, leaning into his sturdy body as Draculeas thrusts increased in speed and power. Vlad pressed on the small of the boys back, causing him to lift his hips a fraction. His cockhead rubbed across the sensitive spot, and Adamo gasped. He had found the angle now, and Draculea hit the spot with every thrust. Soon Adamo was mewling with pleasure as waves of heat and ecstasy washed over him. The prince reached beneath him and caressed the boys quivering member as he drove into him. In a moment, the young footman was bucking helplessly, his seed spraying the grass. When he felt the hot wetness on his palm Draculea stabbed once more into the sweet tightness that encased him and came, flooding the boys back channel with seed that was only a little cooler than that which the boy had known before. When he had emptied himself, he withdrew gently. The boys knees gave way, but Simion had hold of him, and helped him to sit rather than fall. Simion used a cloth he had brought to wipe Draculea, then, as the prince rearranged his clothing, he sat on the grass beside Adamo, urging him over onto his belly. He parted the boys pale buttocks and used the cloth to wipe away the bloody traces of Draculeas passion, not wanting the boy to be frightened later. Draculea squatted beside Adamo, studying the boys face. Adamo was smiling faintly, his eyes dreamy. He seemed drugged with pleasure, and Draculeas influence. Draculea caressed his cheek. "Simion, see that he gets back to the house and safely to bed. Leave the window open for me." Simion nodded. He knew that his master could scale almost any wall as easily as a lizard. "You wish to wander a bit more, Domn?" Draculea stood. "This one is too sweet to drain, Simion, so I will feed elsewhere. Those woods nearby should hold plenty of game." He ran his eyes over the pale length of the youths body. "I want him to stay lively while I am here." Simion watched as Draculea left the open space, striding into the shadows between the hedges without hesitation. He had no doubt that his master would unerringly find his way to the outside. He got Adamos clothes and touched the boys shoulder. "Up and dress, Adamo. You have done very well tonight." Again he looked toward where Draculea had disappeared. "You have given sustenance in many different ways." TBC Back to index

Chapter 46: Chapter 46: Meeting

Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None Summary: Vlad encounters two men who will become part of his life. Notes: rout--a fashionable assembly, or large evening party, musicale--a program of music performed at a party or social gathering, dross--Waste matter; any worthless matter separated from the better part; leavings; dregs; refuse, forint--the basic unit of Hungarian currency. Child of the Night, Part 46: Meeting The Year of Our Lord, 1698 Budapest, Hungary "Not tonight, Roland, please." "What have I told you to call me?" The dark haired young man sighed. "Im sorry--Rock. But you told me that I would have tonight to myself." "Its Saturday." Rock examined his black velvet jacket critically. He thought that he saw a bit of wear in the nap at one elbow. He needed to replace it, and he certainly wouldnt get the money for that by letting his little brother lie about on his ass. "But you said that when I turned twenty I could choose one other night a week besides Sunday to rest. You said that by then wed have enough money saved to invest in a tavern. How much do we have?" Rock thought of the small handful of silver he had in his purse. Hed always meant to put away part of Rills earnings, really he had, but there was rent, and food, and clothes... He had to dress nicely if he was going to approach the wealthy gentlemen to offer his brothers services. Then he had to buy drinks occasionally in the taverns and bawdy houses, or the other pimps would lose respect. It was hard enough as it was, promoting Rill properly. There had been others whod thought they could take the boy into their own stable, and hed had to correct those notions, and that brought on ANOTHER expense. Besides the usual payoffs to the local authorities hed had to add a little to help them look the other way when hed protected his property. That ate up profits. "Not enough, not nearly enough, laddie." He leaned down and ruffled Rills dark curls. Rill was a bit slow, and it usually didnt take much to coax him into doing whatever Rock told him was best. "Come on, now, dont sulk. You know that you dont have much of your prime working years left. It wont be long before the fancy gentlemen arent interested, and the fees drop. Once that happens you have to make up the amount in volume, and that wears a person down so quickly. I want you to go out on top, Rill, while youre still taking on nothing but the elite. I dont want you to end up on your knees in an alley, sucking off the carters and porters when they get their pay. No, by then well OWN the tavern in front of the alley, and if the whores want to use it, theyll pay us." Rills full mouth still drooped. "Maybe if you worked, too..." Rocks face hardened, and his voice grew cold and dangerous. "You saying that I dont work?" Rill realized hed made a mistake. He should know by now not to suggest that Rock should be doing any of the actual fucking, or, God forbid, manual labor. "No, Rock, I didnt mean..." "You think what I do for you is EASY, laddie-buck? I suppose you think all I do is loll about in the houses and taverns, swilling drink and talking big?" *Thats EXACTLY what you do.* "No, but..." "If it wasnt for me, where would you be? Ill tell you..." Rill bit back a sigh, knowing that he had to be

careful. When Rock reached this stage there was always the chance that his temper would slip. He was careful not to hit Rill in the face, because he knew it could cut back on their profits, but he wasnt shy about putting a few marks on his ass or back. Some of the customers LIKED that. "If it wasnt for me coming back for you, youd be either starved or worked or beaten to death on the farm. That was if our prick of a sire hadnt sold you into prenticeship, where youd have had the same. If I didnt work hard to find you the right sort of customers, youd be letting anyone with a few coppers ride your ass, and all of that would go for bad food and a worse room." He waved around their quarters. "Look at this! Finer than any in our family has ever had. No fleas, no rats, not even a mouse. And clean. I dont make you clean it, do I?" "No, Rock." "No. I have that slut across the way keep it nice for you. I put food in your belly and clothes on your back..." *All with money that +I+ earn ON my back, or knees. Oh, God, hes getting wound up. If he moves on to how he protects me...* "And do I let them mistreat you? No, I dont. There was that one who would have paid gold, GOLD, if Id let him take a crop to you, but I REFUSED. If it wasnt for me another pimp would have snapped you up the second you came to the city. Youd have been locked away somewhere and they would have sent the men in, one after another, till they broke you. Ive seen it done, lad, and most never really recover, sad little sluts. And I dont make you service a dozen or more each night, I only..." There was only one way to stop him. Rill lifted himself and, hooking his arm behind his brothers neck, brought himself close to Rocks flushed, angry face and murmured, "Yes, brother, yes. Im sorry. Im ungrateful." Rock gripped his chin, hard. Rill didnt wince, and he didnt struggle. He gazed up into Rocks hot blue eyes, making his own dark ones as liquid and pleading as he could. It was a whores trick--one Rock himself had taught him, and it worked. He closed his eyes as Rock kissed him, making his lips soft and trembling, parting them quickly at the first touch of his brothers tongue. Rock had been so irritated with him the first time hed kissed him like this, and Rill had spit afterwards. Hed shaken the thirteen year old boy till his teeth chattered, hissing that he had to LEARN, dammit! Learn your craft. After a few moments of soft licks and sucks, Rocks hand gentled till he was caressing Rills face. When he pulled away he said gruffly, "Its all for you, you know. I could have taken any of them, but I only wanted you." "I know." Theyd left behind two smaller brothers and three sisters, all bearing the marks of their fathers drunken rage, and the eldest girl already big with their fathers child. Yes, whatever Rock had led him to, it was better than what he had had at home. "I tell you what." Rock stroked his cheek. "Why dont you put on your best, and you can come along and have a drink or two while I find someone suitable?" "Really?" Rill brightened. He didnt get out much. Rock was afraid that he would tan or freckle if he was outside too long. Then there was always the chance that some jealous whore or pimp would catch him alone and slash his face, or worse. Usually Rill just waited in their rooms for Rock to bring back a customer, or else he accompanied his brother to an assignation. "Youll have to be sure to watch yourself with the drink, mind. Just one or two. The one I find may want you to perform." "I know, Rock," he said meekly. "And dont be getting too cozy with anyone or they may expect you to give away what we can get good coin for." Rill started to sigh, but stopped himself. Rock wouldnt like it. *But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to do it with someone just because I wanted to.*

Rock slipped into his jacket, and handed Rill a silk stock. "Give me one of those fancy knots, Rill. You do them so pretty." He caressed Rills hands as his brother looped the fabric around his neck and began to form an intricate knot. "Youre so good with your hands. Ill go to Theresas place tonight." Rill frowned as he teased a loop through a space. "But you have to pay her to troll there." "I know, but the pickings are richer. One good customer will make up for what I pay her, and well profit handsomely." He used his fingers to comb Rills dark curls down fetchingly across his forehead. "And Ill promise you this--since youre being good and giving up your free time, no fat old puffers for you tonight. Ill find you a handsome man, eh, little brother?" ***** It was called the House of Earthly Comforts. This amused Vlad. Any other bawdy house would have called itself the House of Delights or the House of Pleasures. And to be honest, comfort DID seem to be what this establishment strove to provide. While the appointments were lavish, they did not sacrifice comfort to opulence. The furniture was upholstered in sleek satin or soft velvet instead of the stiff and sometimes prickly brocaide that was fashionable. The seats were neither too low, nor too high and stiff backed. There were divans at convenient heights, spread with just enough cushions to allow proper reclining, not enough to overwhelm the occupants. The decor was neither dazzling, nor richly gloomy. The lighting was enough to allow the customers to view the charms of the staff honestly, but soft enough to give an atmosphere of relaxation. There was music, but it was soft and discreet. Drink was offered, but not urged. The resident ladies were not naked, but their charms could be quickly and easily displayed. Draculea had attended this particular house for the last two nights. He could easily have accepted any number of invitations to join parties in the homes of Budapests nobility--there was always a rout or a musicale, and the hostesses vied in their attempts to attract the mysterious, handsome Romanian prince. He had attended a few events when he first arrived in order to prevent gossip about his reclusive nature. Unfortunately, they viewed this as exclusivity, and he was even more hotly pursued. He found that he preferred the taverns and bawdy houses of the city. Their denizens were much more open about their envy, their avarice, and their currying of favor. Vlad had settled in the corner of a small parlor. It was not one of the main rooms, but it still saw enough traffic to keep him amused. He had chosen a chair because the girls here were well trained enough to not sit on ones lap unless they were invited. He made sure, though, that a small divan was close by, so that he might have occasional companions to pass the time. He had spent the evening so far watching the nobles and rich merchants who patronized this establishment as they sported with the wenches. There were several other sofas in the room, and at least one was always occupied by some couple or threesome in the early stages of their revels. At present the center sofa was occupied by two gentlemen and a slender young woman who looked scarcely old enough to have grown her womans hair. This house did not provide children--Vlad would not have stayed in that case. In fact, he had more than once gone back to visit a man or woman who was pimping children. It did little good. When he wiped out one, the little ones were only taken over by someone else. A young man, not yet thirty, paused in the doorway, scanning the room. His eyes flicked off the trio on the sofa, then came to rest on Draculea. Draculea returned the gaze calmly. Strangers seldom made eye contact in such places. It usually meant one of two things--they wanted to offer their services, or extol the services of another. Vlad waited to see which this would be. This establishment, unlike some others, offered only women, but they allowed pimps and their male whores in to solicit--for a fee. They werent too worried about losing business, as most men preferred to settle for what was readily available, rather than risk finding something less pleasing elsewhere. This one wasnt Vlads preference, but he was comely enough. He was in his late twenties, fair-skinned, with light

blue eyes and reddish-blonde hair. The man advanced into the room, coming to Vlads corner. He paused before Vlads chair, eyes on the floor, and gave a small bow, tilting his head questioningly toward the vacant sofa at Draculeas elbow. Draculea waved at the sofa. "Please, young man, sit." "I thank you, sir." He settled himself on the sofa with a sigh. "Tis busy here tonight. I feared I wouldnt find a place to light, and Madame Theresa is not generous with returning fees." Draculea considered a moment, then offered his hand. The young man was clearly of a lower class, but Vlad felt no need for formality in this place. "I am Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea." Vlad watched the young mans expression. He no doubt thought that he schooled his expression to blandness, but he couldnt hide the sudden greed that flickered in his eyes. Rock could feel his eyes widen. *A prince, and a handsome one. Wouldnt Rill like that?* "I am honored, Highness. I am Rock." *His hand is cold. Well, he is of royal blood, and I hear that sometimes it runs thin.* He ran his eyes over the prince. *Though it is only the chill that hints at thin blood in this one.* "Rock?" The firm mouth curved slightly. "A hard name. Was it given, or did you choose it?" He cocked his head. "Possibly it was earned?" "Some of us must be hard in this life, Highness, especially if we must care for others who are weaker. Can you understand that?" Draculea thought of Nicolae. He remembered the feel of Ernestus throat in his hands, and the gritting sound of a nail punching through felt and bone, and said slowly. "Yes, sometimes it is necessary. You have someone to care for?" "I do. My younger brother, called Rill. We earn our living together." Draculea stroked his chin, studying Rock. *So, not a whore, but a pimp, and of his own blood. Low, but how low we have yet to see.* "How old is this brother?" "I will not lie, Highness--he is no child. He has seen twenty years, but he seems much younger." *Twenty. Ill let you live, then.* "What is he like? Golden hair, I suppose." "No, sire." He tossed a derisive glance at the young woman who writhed between the two men on the couch. "He could have, like that one--gold on top and dross beneath. No, he has dark hair, but it is as sleek and curled as any infants. And his eyes are brown, but as soft and wide as any does." Draculea felt a twinge of interest. "Does eyes? Tell me, do they... slant, at all?" Rock was no fool. He nodded quickly. "Just the slightest bit, sire." He sighed pointedly. "It has lost some business, Im afraid. Some of the gentlemen think he has Cantonese blood. How they can be so foolish when his skin is so smooth and fair..." He shook his head. "You sing his physical praises well, Rock. What of his nature?" "Biddable," said Rock promptly. "Rill is a good boy, sire. He does as hes told, with a gentle, gracious will. Hes still fresh, but hes... accomplished." Vlad tapped his fingers on the chair arm, studying Rock. Attractive he might be, but Vlad didnt like him. He knew that there might not be many jobs available that paid as well as this, but there was work to be had. Rock was young and healthy--he wouldnt starve if he bothered to exert himself. Instead it seemed he was content to live off of what he could get from peddling his brothers flesh. "He has experience, then?" "Enough, sire, enough." His expression tightened marginally. "But I must warn you, sire--I am careful of who my brother goes with. He is not to be beaten, or abused in any way." "That is not how I take my pleasure, but I cannot promise to be an easy patron. I want what I want, and I confess to being a bit impatient if my partner is too obstinate." He watched Rock, waiting to see if he would withdraw the offer of his brothers service. "And youve touched my hand, youve felt my condition. It might prove uncomfortable, if not distasteful for him." "You are a good looking man, sire. You are strong, and of a good age. Rill would be pleased," he said firmly.

Vlad was silent for a moment more. "The price?" "It depends, sire. His time is valuable. I could bring him a dozen gentlemen a night, but I care for him too much to do so. I limit his clients to three a night, or..." he regarded Draculea from under his lashes, "if one gentleman is willing, he can purchase the entire night. There are added costs then. Besides the extra time, I must take lodgings for myself, and there is the fee I pay Madame Theresa to be recouped." "How much?" "One hundred forints for the night." Draculea raised his eyebrows. A small family could live with relative comfort on ten florints a week. "Hes worth it, sire. You wouldnt regret the expense. We have a nice room nearby--clean and free of vermin," He smiled lewdly, "with a very nice bed. Soft sheets." "What if I wanted the boy to come to my residence?" Rock shook his head quickly. "No, sire, I could not allow it. It is not that I doubt you personally, but in general... in general it would simply be too dangerous. But I realise that this is a substantial sum, even for one as high as yourself. You need not decide blindly, sire. Rill is in the tavern next door. It would take only a moment to meet him, and decide." Vlad decided. He felt the need for both food, and companionship, and either this one or his brother could provide those. He stood up. "Ill meet him." Rock jumped up, beaming. "You will be pleased, your Highness." The girl on the sofa snorted. "You and your kind take the bread from poor working girls, Rock." His reply was cold, "Be satisfied with your bread, slut. My brother and I take meat and cake. We EARN it." ***** Rill took a swallow of mulled cider. It cost a bit more than the ale, but he liked it so much better--it was sweet and spicy. He watched the other customers with near fascination. He was so often alone that any crowd interested him. He had only a few more coins, and they would disappear quickly if Rock took very long, but he could nurse a drink a long time. He sat beside the fire, but it was weak and smoky, and he could barely see across the room, but he knew when the door opened. He knew because there was always an immediate and raucous demand that it be shut again. This time, though, the clamor died away quickly. Rill could barely make out the height of the man who had entered, and understood why the rabble had stilled so quickly. He squinted a bit, trying to see more of the newcomer. He liked big men--if they were gentle. He saw the glint of Rocks hair as he made his way between the tables toward him. His brother was smiling, and Rill knew that he had found a rich customer. He prepared himself to be pleasant, and hoped against hope that this one wouldnt be too bad. If he wasnt too bad, then Rill could begin to hope that hed want to spend the entire night. "Brother, I have someone I want you to meet." Rock stepped aside, and the tall man who had just entered moved closer. Rill looked up slowly. Yes, this one would be wealthy--his clothing might be sober, but it was rich. There was something in the casual grace with which he moved, and the ease with which he stood that indicated rank as clearly as his attire hinted at money. *Big man, big hands. Oh, if only you are fair, and kind.* He dared to raise his eyes to his face. Draculea had felt a strange stillness come over him when he glimpsed the figure sitting beside the fire. The long limbed, graceful body struck a chord of familiarity, and the faint flicker of the fire made his hair gleam like a ravens wing. If his heart could still beat, it would have been thudding in his chest. He said quietly, "Nicu?" The boy looked up at him, and the illusion vanished, leaving Vlad feeling even more empty. No, the shape of the face was wrong, and the eyes did not tilt, no matter what Rock had said. But mostly it was the expression in those dark eyes that told him that this body did not hold the soul of his beloved. Their expression was weary, and too old for the smooth face. And there was a certain sad, knowing look that

Nicolae had never shown. For all the passion they had shared, something inside him had remained innocent, and this boy had lost that long ago. Rill glanced at Rock, but he had learned long ago how to please his gentlemen. He said quietly, "My name is Nicu, if it pleases you, sire." Draculea shook his head and said roughly, "No, boy, it would not please me. Your own name is good enough. Will you go with me?" Again Rill looked to his brother, and Rock nodded. Their price would be met. "Yes, sire." Draculea reached out and touched Rills face, stroking his cheek with the back of his hand. Rill repressed a shiver. *Cold. Hes so cold.* "Do you WANT to go with me?" When Rill started to look at Rock again Vlad said sharply, "No, boy. Do not look to your brother. Look at me, and answer me truly." Rill could feel Rock beside him, willing him to give the proper answer, but this time he was determined to speak what he really felt. "Will you... will you be kind, sire?" Draculea almost flinched. Rills expression might have been old, but his voice was that of a plaintive child. *His body has grown, but I think his mind has not followed. I think he may be a little slow.* His opinion of Rock fell even farther. "Yes, boy. I will be kind, if you will be good." He smiled shyly. "I can be good, sire." He tentatively touched Draculeas sleeve. "You are a very handsome man, sire. It will be a pleasure to serve you." Draculea looked at a very smug Rock. "The bargain is struck. Where will we go?" "It is nearby, sire," Rock assured him. "Let us go, and you can make payment at our room." He cast a disdainful look around the tavern. "You must not bring out your money here. There are too many scoundrels here." Draculea, slipping an arm around Rill, looked at Rock coldly. "Yes, far too many scoundrels." TBC Back to index

Chapter 47: Chapter 47: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought

Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Draculea/Rill Summary: Draculea and Rill spend some time together. Warnings: vampirism Notes: The hose spoken of here are more like silk socks, going up over the knee. This was pre-elastic, so they were held in place by garters. I havent seen any mens garters, but I expect they werent as frilly as womens. There was also a belief that being physically close to someone young and healthy would impart strength and health. Child of the Night, Part 47: Comfort Sought, Comfort Bought The Year of Our Lord, 1698 Budapest, Hungary The three men moved through the dark streets, one before and two following. Rock carried a lamp to show the way, and Rill walked with his customer. He would have preferred to move up closer to Rock, and the light, but he knew that his brother would drive him back to his renter with harsh words and slaps. Rill hugged himself as they walked. He didnt like the dark--hadnt liked it since he was tiny and had learned

why his sisters whimpered when their father went to them at night. One of the advantages of Draculeas state was the ability to see clearly when others would be blinded by shadows. He studied his companion as they walked. No, he wasnt Nicolae, but he was handsome, quiet, and sweet. He would hold the worst of the loneliness at bay for a little while, and he would satisfy Draculeas physical hunger, at least. Draculea knew when someone was afraid, and that was not what he sensed from Rill now. It was more like nervousness. *This isnt really his choice, even if he thinks it is. Hell never be able to choose for himself with his bastard brother holding onto him. Im tempted to rip the pimps throat out before dawn, but if I do, what will happen to this one? If he survives at all hell fall to another jackal. Ill have to think about this.* Rill looked at the prince and said softly, "My lord, you look so stern. What have I done?" Draculea slipped an arm around Rill, pulling him close as they walked. "Nothing, child. You have done nothing. I have many sad memories, Rill. Sometimes I brood." When the young man pressed closer, even as he shivered with the chill of Draculeas body, Vlad wrapped his cloak about him. "I lost the one I loved long ago, and I await his return." "That is sad." Rock stopped before one of the tall, narrow houses. While he knocked at the door, Draculea looked around. The stench of sewage was very faint, not like it was in the worst sections, and the streets were almost free of litter and garbage. This was quite a good neighborhood--for the bad section of town. Still, if Rills usual earnings were anything like what Rock was asking for tonight, they SHOULD be able to afford better. "We have the ground floor front," Rock said proudly. When there was no immediate response to his rapping he scowled, banging harder, and called. "Clothilde! Dammit, if you want your rent youd best let us in!" He looked back at Draculea appologetically. "The wench who owns this house demands blood money, then expects to lie back and do nothing to make it worthwhile." There was the scrape of footsteps inside, and the grating of a key in the lock. The door opened to reveal a fat, slatternly woman, wrapped in a stained robe. "Youre back early, Rock. She peered past him, studying with gimlet eyes the tall man beside Rill. "Well, youve netted a big one tonight. For your sake, I hope his purse is as big." "Shut your filthy hole, woman," he snapped, ushering the two other men into the hall. "And dont leave that candle out in the hall again. We dont pay for the chance to be burned alive." They entered the room, and Rock bustled about, stirring the coals on the hearth to life, then feeding them with wood till a good fire blazed. He lit another lamp on the table, then rubbed his hands together. "Youll be comfortable here, sire. The room will warm quickly, the bed is comfortable, and there is plenty of water. I have placed the jug on the hearth, so that it will be warm when you require it. For another florint I can provide a nice bottle of wine." *At the prices you charge you should hand over the keys to a first rate cellar.* "Ive had plenty tonight, but Ill go the price," he rubbed Rills arm, "for my new friend." Rock smiled as he took a bottle and some glasses from a cabinet, but he gave Rill a sharp look. Draculea knew that unless he urged the boy, he would decline the drink in order to save Rock the expense. "Now, as much as I hate to appear mercenary..." Rock let his voice trail off. Draculea removed his cloak, and Rill took it without being asked, hanging it neatly on a hook by the door. Vlad took his purse from his belt and opened it, reaching in to stir the coins. He was watching Rock from the corner of his eyes, and the blonde mans ears almost seemed to prick at the clink of precious metals. He chose a gold coin and held it out to Rock. The pimp eyed it greedily, then said, "Sire, if I may, I would prefer silver. This poor area, you know. It is difficult to find someone who has change for such a large sum." "Youll take this. I do not carry silver. And here is the extra for the wine."

Rock took the gold coin, and the copper one. "Sire, this is a five florint piece, and I am afraid that I have no change." He looked at Rill. "Surely you didnt spend all the money I gave you for your drink?" Rill started to hunt through his pockets. Disgusted with the older brothers miserliness, Draculea said, "Leave it." His voice grew colder. "And leave us." Rocks smile didnt falter, but his eyes were hard. "Of course. I know you are anxious to become closer to Rill." He went to his brother and gripped his chin, none too gently. "Be a good boy for the prince, brother." "Yes, Rock." Rock leaned down, his lips against Rills ear, and whispered. Draculea, on the other side of the room, nevertheless heard him clearly. "This one smells like he might be a return customer. If you play your cards right, perhaps hell even want to keep you. Wouldnt that be nice? Only one man to please." He held the back of Rills head and kissed him, deeply and roughly. "Dont spoil it, Rill," he commanded. He bowed to Draculea and left. Rill locked the door. Still facing it he said, "Will you take wine, sire?" He was startled when a cool hand settled on his shoulder. He had thought that the prince was on the other side of the room, and he hadnt heard him move. He was turned, and found himself looking up at the man. He closed his eyes, waiting resignedly. *Hes waiting to be ravished,* Draculea thought. He felt anger at Rills brother, and all the others who had drained this childlike man to the point where he expected nothing but use. He took his hand off the boy. "Go sit, Rill." When Rill opened his eyes, his expression confused, Draculea said quietly, "We have all night." Rill sat on the edge of the bed and watched as the prince went to the table and returned with the wine and a glass. Draculea poured a glass and set the bottle on the small stand near the bed, then offered the wine to Rill. Rill watched him carefully, trying to understand what he wanted. A few of his customers enjoyed making him drunk before they took him, relishing his even greater helplessness, but most of them demanded that he be fully aware, so that he could better cater to their wishes. "You neednt drink if you do not want to, but I thought it might help relax you," Draculea explained. Rill blinked. A client, concerned for him? Though he hadnt wanted the wine before, he now took it and drained the glass gratefully. He even accepted a second glass when the prince offered it. thinking, *It is almost as if he is trying to seduce me, as if he was not already assured of my body, but had to coax me.* The thought of being courted warmed Rill more than the wine. He declined a third glass. There had been times when he would have welcomed the dullness and distance that drink brought, but now he did not want his senses impaired. He put aside the glass and murmured. "Let me make you more comfortable, my lord." He stood, then sank, slowly and gracefully, too his knees before Draculea, holding out his hands. Draculea lifted his booted foot into Rills hands and watched as the boy removed first one, then the other. After that Rill undid his garters, then peeled down his hose. Finally Rill was holding his bare foot. He made a soft sound of concern. "You are like ice, my lord!" He rubbed the foot briskly, trying to stir the blood. Draculea allowed it, though he knew it would do no good. When he had spent long hours reviewing his troops or inspecting his lands, Nicolae had done this for him--kneeling to gently massage the ache from his feet. He watched, his eyes fixed on the sleek, dark head as it bent over him, his heart full of longing. Rill frowned as he looked up at him. "It isnt enough. Perhaps..." He sat back on his heels and opened his shirt. It closed with a series of lacings, and he untied them all, baring himself. Draculea drew in a breath. The young mans torso was pale and smooth--not muscular, but not effeminately soft. He lifted Draculeas feet again and rested them against the flat plain of his belly, hissing with the chill. Draculea watched as his pale brown nipples drew tight with the chill that seemed to seep into his body. At last he said, "You mean well, but that will do no good, child. Come sit beside me." Rill obeyed, sitting

close to Draculea. The prince eased Rills shirt down his arms, removing it. The boy reached to begin unbuttoning Draculeas shirt. He fingered the top button admiringly. Most poor folks had only lacings, or perhaps hooks and loops--buttons were still reserved mostly for the well-to-do. Draculeas were of polished onyx, and the black stone glittered, despite all logic. Draculea pulled the boys hand away, kissing his fingers. "Not yet, lad. I will be warmer soon, and it will be better for you. Wait a little while." Rill nodded. He did not understand, but then, there was so much in the world that he didnt understand. When Draculea gripped his shoulders and pushed him back on the bed he went with no resistance. But instead of falling upon him, Draculea leaned close and began to speak to him in a soft, soothing voice. "Rill, I know your life has been hard. Everyone wants something from you, yes?" The boy nodded. Draculea sighed. "I wish I could say that Im different, boy, but I cant." "Its all right," Rill said in a small voice. "Rock says that we all have our places in the world, and this is mine, and I must do my best." He flinched at the sudden hardness in Draculeas eyes, but the prince shook his head. "Im not mad at you, Rill. Not you." He began to stroke Rills brow, slowly and rhythmically. "Youre a good boy, and Im going to be good to you. I can make you feel wonderful things, Rill." They boys pupils were expanding, his gaze becoming vague. Draculea was not surprised--he had learned long ago that simple minds were more easily dominated. "I can fill your blood with heat, but first you must do the same for me." "Yes, lord." Rills voice was faint and distant. He laid his hand on Draculeas chest and let it slide down to begin working at the lacing of his breeches. Again Draculea removed his hand. "Not yet. Just turn your head, boy, and close your eyes." Rill obeyed. He felt the cool touch of the princes mouth against the skin of his neck. There was something wrong, but Rill couldnt quite think of what it was. Perhaps if he had not taken the wine he would have known, but it was by no means certain. It was entirely possible that Rill still wouldnt have realized that he did not feel Draculeas breath. Rill felt the edge of the princes teeth. He tried to brace himself without tensing up, and hoped that the man would not be vicious. He knew what biting was like. There had been another client who enjoyed biting. When Rock had seen the half-moon bruises and raw scrapes the man had left all over his body he had refused to accept the man again as a customer unless he was present in the room. When the man had again bitten Rill, Rock had stopped the session and thrown him out, keeping the fee. Rill had hated being with the biter, but this was somehow different. There was a sharp pain, but it faded quickly, replaced by a sense of warmth and pleasure that spread through his body. The prince sucked strongly, and Rill found himself reaching up to hold him by the shoulders, arching his head back to allow the prince greater access. Draculea made a pleased noise against the small wound he had made in Rills neck. He had intended to take only a few mouthfuls, but the boys sweet surrender seduced him into taking more. He drank slowly, letting the salty-sweetness flow into his mouth and down his throat, warming him and igniting a sensual fire. Rill felt himself drifting. This was different from the times he had taken too much wine. It was dreamlike, but he did not feel cut off from his body as he had those other times. He felt more alive and aware than he ever had. The prince stopped sucking and began to lick the aching spot. "Please," whispered Rill, reaching up to slide his hands through the princes dark hair. Draculea kissed his throat, his lips now warm, and said, "No, sweet boy, no more of that tonight. But there are other delights we can share." Rill murmured in pleasure as Draculea stripped him, then himself, and moved to cover the young mans body with his own. Rill parted his legs wide, inviting Draculea to lie in the space, and Vlad settled against him. Both men were aroused, their members hard, and Draculea began to thrust against Rill, rubbing their

lust-swollen flesh together. It wasnt long before Rill was humping up against him, his feet hooking over the back of Draculeas legs. Draculea felt the hot gush of the boys seed against his belly, and suddenly Rill was trembling, his breath hitching. Vlad looked into his face and was surprised to see dismay. "Boy?" "I am sorry, my lord! I tried to hold back, truly, but I couldnt. Please dont be angry." "Angry? I dont understand, Rill." "I know I should have waited for your word, lord. I can do better, I promise." "You thought you were supposed to wait for my permission to find release?" Rill nodded. "Rock says that I must wait. That some of the gentlemen do not want me to, or that they do not want me to unless they are inside me, so that it will increase their pleasure. Rock made me practice with him so many times, and I usually can, but tonight..." Draculea kissed him, stilling his babble. When he lifted his head he said, "Hush, child. I begin to truly dislike your brother." "But Rock..." "I said hush." Rill closed his mouth. He was used to obeying orders. "I am pleased that I made you spill your seed, Rill. It is one of the most flattering things in the world--to know that you can cause someone to lose control." He reached between them and slid his fingers in the slippery semen, then licked them clean. Rill watched, round-eyed. "We have hours, and you are very delicious--all of you." Draculea proved his sincerity by beginning a leisurely tour of Rills body. His mouth traced a long, gentle trail. He dipped his tongue into the hollow of his throat, again feeling his pulse as a soft throb. He moved down, lavishing attention on each pouting nipple. He licked and sucked, nibbling till they were flushed and pebble-hard. Rills breath was coming faster and deeper as he stroked his lovers back and head. Draculea stroked Rills sides, feeling each rib as a delicate ridge under a thin padding of skin and muscle. *Hes too thin. Does the bastard starve him to keep him slender?* This hint of fragility made Draculea feel protective, and his touch became tender. He slid his hand down Rills heaving belly, combing through the surprisingly silky nest of pubic curls to fasten around the boys cock. Draculea looked up at him, smiling. "There, you see? Almost ready for another frolic." He stroked the half-hard flesh slowly, and Rill made a tiny sound that was half chuckle, half moan. Draculea reached up to stroke his cheek, and Rill turned his head to press his face into the caress. "I want to be inside you. Would you like that?" "Yes," Rill breathed, and though he had answered that question many times in the past, this time it was the truth. "How will you take me, my lord? Like this, or shall I get on my knees?" "Just turn on your belly, boy." Rill rolled onto his stomach, pulling a pillow under his chin. "There is oil on the bedside stand, my lord." He paused. "If you want it." Draculea stroked the length of Rills back, tracing each bump of his spine. He kept his voice casual as he asked, "Do they often take you without preparation?" Rill shrugged, and his voice was flat. "I am tighter that way." *And you are in pain that way.* Draculea found the small bottle on the table and coated his fingers with oil. When he was done he looked back to find that Rill had already parted his legs, spreading them wide. Draculea took a moment to massage the boys buttocks, relishing the smooth firmness. But he could feel the tenseness in Rills body, and saw the boys hands working at the pillow. "I see that I must relax you, Rill." He stroked the length of his crack, smoothing the oil into the tender skin. "Youre so beautiful, little one," he whispered. "It was a generous fate that brought me to you." He rubbed firmly over the tiny pucker, feeling the taut muscle begin to soften. Rill squirmed, rubbing his face against the pillow in a confusion of pleased embarrassment. He had been told often, in the crudest terms possible, that he was desirable, but those men had really been commenting to themselves, not complimenting him. Rill knew that Draculea was speaking to HIM, and that he meant

what he said. He sighed happily as the first finger slid into him and began to slide back and forth. The prince had relaxed him so well that there was no initial pain, nor even discomfort. He felt Draculea rubbing the small of his back. "Does that feel good?" "Oh, yes, my lord. More, please?" Draculea laughed quietly. "I knew another one who could be greedy for this." He carefully pressed a second finger in beside the first and began to stretch the tight hole. "Was it your sweetheart?" His hand did not stop moving, but Draculea closed his eyes briefly in pain. "Yes, it was my Nicu." A more sophisticated man would have left it at that, but Rill was still a child in many ways. "What happened, my lord? I cannot believe he would want to leave you, you are so kind. Was he taken away?" Draculea shuddered, and his voice was not quite steady. "He was lied to, and frightened, and he ran away. He will come back to me, I know, but it has been so long..." He stopped. Rill was looking back over his shoulder, his eyes soft and sad with commiseration. Draculea managed to smile. "I do not wish to speak of this any more, Rill. Do you understand?" The boy nodded and turned away again, but he said, "But I will pray for him, my lord, and for you. He will come back." "Nicu would like you, Rill. Are you ready for me, sweet?" "Yes, my lord." Draculea knelt between Rills thighs. He spread the boys buttocks and fitted the swollen head of his cock against the loosened opening, then pressed forward. Rill murmured, "Slowly, please, my lord. Please?" "Yes." Draculea entered him gradually, an inch at a time. The urge was there to just slam into the tight hotness, but he held back for the boys sake, and was rewarded with a mewl of delight as his cockhead rubbed firmly over Rills pleasure spot. Draculea braced himself over Rill, holding most of his weight off the boy, and began the long, slow joining. He was patient, and before long Rill was lifting his ass eagerly to meet his lovers strokes. The boy thrust back, then forward--first impaling himself more deeply on the hot, thick staff that filled him so deliciously, then rubbing his own hard, leaking member against the sheets. Usually his customers took their pleasure without a thought for him, and when Draculea reached beneath him to caress him, he almost wept with gratitude. Draculea found his release, spilling himself deep in Rills core. He rolled them both onto their sides, staying buried inside the boy, and continued stroking Rill till he shuddered and came, whimpering. After experiencing two climaxes in such a short time Rill was limp and sleepy. He rubbed Draculeas hands where they were clasped over his belly. "Shall I clean you now, lord?" Draculea kissed his shoulder. "Rest--I will do it." Rill was puzzled, but accepting. Gentlemen had many foibles. There had been one or two who amused themselves by pretending that they were serving him, and if that was what the prince wished, he was happy to comply. Draculea blew out the lamp, leaving the room lit only by the dying flicker of the fire. He poured warm water into the basin and brought it to the bed, took a cloth, and gently, but thoroughly, swabbed Rills ass, belly, and thighs. Then he cleaned himself. He examined the now stained rag, frowning, then squeezed it as dry as possible and threw it onto the coals. It hissed, and began to char. Disdaining to dress, Draculea carried the water out into the hall and poured it into the slop bucket at the back. As he was going back to the room, the door across the hall opened, and Clothilde peeked out. When she was confronted with the nude man she did not shriek or slam her door--she took a good, long look. Draculea gave her an amused glance, then ignored her, going back into Rills room. Clothilde shut her door, shaking her head and muttering about shameful wastes. Rill was sleeping when Draculea returned. For a long moment he just stood and watched the boy. Rill was hugging one of the pillows as a child might cuddle a favorite toy. In sleep he did, indeed, look like a boy. Slumber smoothed away the worry and the confusion. He would have looked innocent if not for the deep

bruise on his throat--a mark that could only have been made by passion. Vlad climbed back into the bed, stretching out beside him. Still asleep, Rill shifted till he was in the curve of Draculeas arm, his head reasting against the older mans chest. Draculea stroked the tumbled dark curls back from Rills forehead, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing. He closed his eyes, the better to savor the quiet, and something very unusual happened. For the first time since he had closed his eyes in death, he fell into a natural sleep. ***** The room was almost dark when he awoke. Rill didnt mind the dark so much when Rock was there. After all, Rock protected him. He hated it, though, when a gentleman spent the night and he awakened before dawn. No matter how warm the room or how close the customer held him, he still shivered. But not tonight. He remembered the gentleness and concern of this man. He remembered that he had not felt degraded, or used, but appreciated. Prince Draculea had made him feel like a lover rather than a whore. Rill wanted to do something to thank him. He turned, moving down, feeling. His hand found the curve of a hip, and he used that to guide him. Rill bent, his other hand groping, and found the soft, warm column of flesh he was seeking. He began to nuzzle against it, kissing and mouthing Draculea lightly, occasionally putting out his tongue for a tiny lick. The older man shifted, sighing, but did not awaken. Rill smiled, thinking *I can be a dream for him.* When he had the prince half-hard, he graduated to more thorough licking, paying particular attention to the head, reaching down to fondle the heavy sack hanging below. Finally he judged the prick to be fully erect, and he took the head in his mouth, suckling softly. The fluid that bathed his tongue tasted a little different--saltier than any other hed encountered. But the flavor was intriguing, and Rill found himself flicking his tongue over the head in an effort to coax more from the tiny slit. He bobbed his head, gradually taking in more of the thick staff. He had become quite accomplished at this, but it was infinitely easier without someone tugging at his hair or trying to force him down more quickly than was comfortable. Left to proceed at his own speed, Rill quickly managed to take all of Draculeas cock down his throat. He had only done this a few times when he felt his lover begin to stir. He smiled mentally, imagining how the prince would feel when he realized what was happening. Draculea awoke to what felt like a fist enclosed in hot, wet satin massaging his near bursting prick. Not fully conscious, he thrust up into the clinging heat, moaning with pleasure. Then he realized that this was not a dream. He opened his eyes to see Rill crouched beside him, dark head bobbing over his groin. He hadnt experienced this since he first realized that his seed was mingled now with his blood. He knew what effect the blood that flowed from his veins had on Simion, and he hadnt been willing to risk what might happen if a mortal drank his seed. He said hoarsely, "Rill... Boy, you must not." Rill didnt stop. He sucked even more strongly, and his grip tightened on Draculeas stones, rolling them gently, but firmly. Vlad couldnt help it--he closed his eyes and shoved himself even deeper, letting his sperm burst from him. Rill swallowed quickly, drinking his essence. When it was done he pulled off and smiled shyly at Draculea, his lips bathed crimson. Draculea watched as he licked the bloody smears away. Vlad silently held out his arms, and Rill crawled back up to nestle in them. "I wanted to make you happy," he said. "Did I surprise you?" "Yes, Rill. Such a sweet surprise." He kissed the boy gently, and held him for awhile, then got up and began to dress. Rill watched him, and said sadly, "You paid for the entire night. There is still at least an hour before dawn. Dont you want to stay with me?" Draculea was picking up his cloak, but he went back to the bed and ruffled Rills hair. "Yes, Rill. I very much want to stay with you, but I must go. I cant explain why." He opened his purse and placed a gold coin on the table. Pointing at it, he said, "I am purchasing your time for another night. I will be back after sunset. Tell your brother that he is to make no other appointments for you."

Rills smile was brilliant. "You will come back tonight!" Draculea smiled. "Yes, boy. Tonight, and perhaps the next. And perhaps..." he trailed off, smiling with a shrug. "who can say? Sleep well today." He bent and kissed Rill again, long and deep. "You will need your rest." Rill watched him go with a mixture of sadness and joy. He was going. *But he will be back.* Rill settled back and, for the first time in a long while, fell asleep with a smile on his face. TBC Back to index

Chapter 48: Chapter 48: Connecting

Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are courtesy of Bram Stoker. Summary: Simion spends time with Rill and finds himself not only attracted, but growing fond. Child of the Night, Part 48: Connecting The Year of Our Lord, 1698 Budapest, Hungary The house Draculea had taken as his Hungarian residence was on the margin of the fashionable section of Budapest. It had belonged to an elderly count, a bit eccentric, who had allowed it to fall into disrepair. At his death, his son ignored it, prefering a house in a more desirable area. It had stood vacant for years. When the Romanian princes man contacted the heir about renting it and asked only that a few rooms be repaired and refurbished, he had been happy to strike an agreement. Simions room was near the front of the house, next to a small study, in case he had business to which to attend. Draculea had a larger room at the back of the house. It had been convenient that all the windows had been securely boarded up long ago. The owner had thought it odd that they specifically requested that none of the windows be cleared, but then the minor royal families of Europe were notorious for their little eccentricities, and this one was harmless. Simion had not accompanied his master on his rounds the last few nights. They had business in Budapest, and he wanted to be fresh to deal with their agents. The trading he had instituted more than a century ago was flourishing, and he had begun investing his masters money in properties that would bring a steady income. The prince was as rich as he had ever been--the treasure stored deep in Castle Draculea had scarcely been touched over the years. Tonight Simion was sleeping peacefully. He was not aware of Draculeas return until he felt the cool hand touch his shoulder and awoke to find Draculea sitting on his bed. He studied his master in silence for a moment. Draculea had been restless the last few weeks. Bored and impatient with the the upper crust of Budapest society, he had gone exploring in the darker levels. It had amused him--to a point. Simion knew, though, that they would have to move on again soon, because this place was becoming stale to Vlad. But tonight something was different. The tension that had seemed to draw him as tight as a spring was gone. *Hes fed on human blood, but its more than that. I think he may have found someone he actually likes. But the sadness is back. No,* he corrected himself. *it never goes away, but it had receded for a time. How is it that it has returned when otherwise he seems pleased?* Simion propped himself on his elbow. "You met someone tonight." Draculea smiled. "If I did not know that you loved me, I would fear you, Simion. You know me too well. I have met two. One, I think I will most likely kill before we leave Budapest."

"Thief? Seller of young flesh? Murderer?" Simion knew that Draculea might take what he needed from almost anyone, but he did not kill the innocent. "He has done his best to kill a soul, to his own pleasure and profit." "And the owner of that soul would be the second." Draculea told him about Rock and Rill. Simions expression grew hard. "The world would not mourn his loss, but what of the other--Rill?" Draculea sighed. "That is a problem. He cannot be left to his own devices--he would not survive long. Well, there will be time to consider. I am in no hurry to leave." He stood up and began to pace the room. "I want you to go to their place today, Simion. Ive left the address on the desk. Im not sure I trust his brother to let him rest today. He strikes me as the greedy sort who wouldnt be able to resist an extra bit of cash if the chance came his way." He grimaced. "Hed be the sort to think I wouldnt notice." He walked toward the door. "Bring him some food, or take him to a tavern to eat. I think his brother rations his food, trying to keep him even more dependent and childlike." Draculea paused. "Spend some time with him, Simion. As much as he is with others, I think he is lonely." Draculea went back to his room. Simion slept for another hour, then arose. He breakfasted and spoke to the gypsies. They usually lounged back in the kitchen, but with Simion away one would stay in the front office and one would wait outside the Princes door. His sleeping place must be guarded at all times, for he was vulnerable while the sun rode the sky. He went out and attended to a few errends. It was just before noon when he made his way to the address Draculea had left. Simion wrinkled his nose as he stepped around a bloating animal corpse on the cobbles. From the size he judged it to be a dog rather than a cat, but it was so swollen that it was hard to tell. *Civilization. The prince might have been called a barbarian by many, but he never would have tolerated carrion lying about, drawing pestilence.* He remembered rows of stakes bearing bloody, fragrant burdens, and amended his thoughts. *Not animals, in any case.* He knocked on the door and glanced around. There werent many people on the street, but he knew that there were many more peering from behind curtains. His dress was by no means rich, but it was fine for this neighborhood. He might be considered a target, if not for three things: his strong body, his hard expression, and the knife worn boldly on his belt. The door was cracked open, and a blousy woman peered out at him. He said curtly, "I have business with your tenants, the brothers." She eyed him. "Rock didnt say he was expecting anyone. Hes choosy about who sees Rill, an dont usually take customers off the street." Simion said nothing, just staring at her. "He aint here now, anyway." Simion frowned. "Hes left the boy alone this long?" "Oh, he came back a bit ago, but he went out again." She chuckled nastily. "Rill done him proud last night. His pockets are full and the coins is fair burning." "In any case, he is not the one I want to see." "Oh, I couldnt let you in to see Rill if Rock aint here and didnt leave word. Hed mark me up, and if anything happened to Rill, it would be more than my life is worth." Simion said softly. "The boys time has been purchased. Move aside and let me pass." Clothilde studied him and decided that Rock could go hang. This one looked as if it would not bother him at all to handle her roughly. She stepped aside. "As you please, but I warn you--youre likely to remain this side of his door. Rock has him well trained." Once inside Simion stared at her till she went back into her room. He knocked, and waited. There was no response, but he heard furtive movements inside. He knocked again and called, "Rill?" After a moment a soft, timid voice replied. "I am Rill. But you must go away, sir. My brother is not here." "I did not come here to see him. Open the door, lad." There was another pause, and the voice was now apologetic. "Sir, truly I cannot. He would be so angry."

"Rill, I was sent by Prince Draculea." "The prince?" There was a lift to his voice, a hint of hope. "He sent you to me?" *He sounds like a child.* "Yes. I am the princes man, and he thought we should meet." There was another hesitation, then he heard a key in the lock, and the door opened slowly. The young man who looked out at him was tall and pale. *Yes, the master would like this one, with his dark eyes and hair. There is something a bit like Nicolae here, at least in the physical sense.* The boy gave him a small, shy smile. "Does the prince send me a message?" "Only that you are to spend the day with me." The smile faltered, then returned, but this time it was painful. "Of course, sir." Rill reached out and touched his face delicately. "Whatever you wish." Simion stood still in surprise as the hand moved down his throat to stroke across his chest. Rill cocked his head and lowered his lashes, then looked back up at Simion as his hand slid down toward his crotch. "You have only to express your desires." Simion wanted to flinch. The practiced seductiveness was false, and totally at odds with the openess the boy had expressed before. Simion took hold of his hand, pulling it away. "You misunderstand." There was a flash of confusion in Rills expression. He bit his lip, obviously thinking, then his eyes grew bright with dismay. "Oh, sir, I AM sorry! I did not mean to offend. Please understand, I thought..." Simion patted the boys hand before releasing it. "It is all right." *You thought you were to be used again. Its all youve ever known, so why should you expect anything different now?* "The prince thought you would appreciate a bit of companionship. Come, change your clothes and we will take our mid-day meal in a tavern." "Change?" Simion shrugged. "Well, your shirt is stained, and your breeches a bit ragged." "Oh." He frowned. "Rock doesnt like me to wear my good clothes, except when I am presented to a gentleman. But if the prince wants it..." He opened the door wider. "Please come in." Simion cast a look about the room as Rill closed the door. The room was clean, but shabby. Rill took his arm, urging him into a chair. "Sit, sir. Take your ease. This will only take a moment." Simion watched half amused, as the boy stripped and began to don a new set of clothes. He peeled off the clothes with a complete lack of self-consciousness, as if he were alone in the room. *Yes, any hint of true modesty would have been crushed long ago. His brother would have no use for a modest whore.* Simion felt a stir as the long, slim body was revealed. He had no prejudice against patronizing whores, but he would not risk either bringing one back to the house or going to their rooms. These days he usually slaked his physical needs with the gypsies. It was... adequate. The sight of the smooth curves of the boys ass kindled a fire in Simions belly. Then Rill looked back at him with a timid smile, and the heat melted into something gentler. He watched as Rill sat on the bed, struggling to tug his boots on. The tip of his tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. When he finally managed to squeeze into them his face was pinched with discomfort. Simion said, "Too tight?" Rill nodded. "Rock says it took me forever to stop growing. If I do well this month, he may buy me a second pair of boots." "He could outfit you handsomely with what Draculea gave him last night, and have money to spare." Rill shrugged. "He is saving." He drew himself up proudly. "We will have a tavern, and I will not have to go with the gentlemen unless I WANT to." As they left the room Simion said, "That would mean much to you, wouldnt it, boy?" "Sir?" "Not having to go with the gentlemen." Rill shrugged, looking at his too tight boots as they walked. "Doesnt everyone wish to find an end to their labors, sir?"

Simion took the boy to a respectable tavern, one that was more than a swilling hole. It was clean and well ordered, and the clientele was no more than half-drunk at this time of the day. Simion enjoyed watching Rill enjoy himself. The boy was different away from his rooms. He showed a lively interest in all that went on around him, chattering to Simion about everything. Simion thought that Draculea must be right about Rill being kept on short rations. The boy ate a meal worthy of a plowman, exclaiming over how delicious the food was. When dessert was offered he refused, saying that Rock told him he mustnt become fat. But the boy eyed the apple tart with such longing that Simion ordered a wedge. He took two bites, then coaxed Rill into finishing it so it wont go to waste. He didnt have to wheedle very hard. The boy was happily chasing crumbs around the plate with his finger when a sharp voice called, "Rill!" Simion watched as the young man flinched, almost seeming to shrink before his eyes. He cast Simion an anxious look as an angry young man stalked across to them. His face was flushed, and his blue eyes snapped. He might have been considered handsome, but his expression was pinched and mean. He spoke as he came, and each hard word seemed to beat Rill down even smaller. "What have I told you about leaving the room? Do you have any idea how I felt when I returned and you were not there? Then the slut told me youd gone off with a stranger. I wouldnt have found you yet if Rufus hadnt seen you going in here and been so eager to tell me that you were flaunting my rules. What if Id brought someone home, Rill? Would you humiliate me like that?" "But Rock..." "Quiet!" Rock glared at the man sitting with his brother. "His time isnt free, you know. Even if all you want to do is feed him, you pay. He could be earning instead of stuffing his face. And did you eat sweets?" Rill quickly tried to push the empty plate away. "Just... just a few bites, Rock, I swear. You said I shouldnt waste food. I was only..." Rocks face was darkening toward brick red. "NO SWEETS! The gentlemen wont want you. If they want fat asses theyll just plow the sluts. What do I have to do to make you learn?!" He raised his hand, palm flat, and Rill ducked his head. Before the blow could land Rock found his wrist caught in an iron grip. His other hand doubled into a fist, but then he took a better look at Rills dining companion. The stocky, fair haired man had half-risen. His rough-hewn face held an expression of cold rage, and the look in his eyes was flat and dangerous, but his voice was calm. "You will not strike the boy." "What business is it of yours what I do with my property?" The other mans eyes narrowed. Rock heard a slight scrape. Looking down he saw that the older mans free hand was tight on the handle of a wicked looking knife, and he had half drawn it. Simion kept his voice level, not wanting to frighten Rill. "Your BROTHERS time was paid for by my master, Prince Draculea. It is his wish that I spend the day amusing Rill. Do you object to this?" Rock carefully uncurled his fist and fixed a false smile on his face. "Well, why didnt you say so? But really, sir, youll spoil him." Simion released Rocks wrist, and settled his hand gently on Rills bent head. The young man looked up and saw that he was no longer in danger of a cuff. He gave Simion a faint smile, full of gratitude, and Simion felt his heart squeeze. He wondered what it would be like to see that same smile given sweetly, without the tinge of obligation. Simion sat back down, regarding Rock with contempt that he did not bother to disguise. "You may go now." Rock did not like being dismissed, but he had made good money from the prince and hoped for more, so he was reluctant to offend the princes representative. "Yes, sir. Might I ask when I can expect my brothers return?" *I wish I could tell you never, you dog.* "You spend the night away when a gentleman wishes to stay

over? I doubt youll see him before the morrow." "Very well." He sketched a short bow. "Rill, behave yourself." There was a warning in his voice that made the young man cringe again, offering his brother a placating smile that made Simion want to cut Rocks throat. When Rock was gone Rill quickly regained his good spirits, and the rest of the afternoon was spent pleasantly. He took Rill shopping, and the young man treated the modest shops like Aladdins treasure cave. At first he protested over the items that Simion bought him, insisting that it was too much, they were too fine. But his delight was too great to be contained, and soon he was eagerly agreeing to anything Simion suggested. Simion found himself enjoying it immensely. He bought Rill two new suits of clothes and a good pair of boots. While they were being altered he let the boy lead him to a shop that was crammed with all kinds of toys. Rill almost danced with excitement when Simion bought him a few brightly painted tin soldiers. "Oh, thank you! Ive always wanted some, but Father and Rock said they were foolish wastes of good money. Now I can play war." He traced the tiny sword held in one figures hand and said matter-of-factly, "The prince is a warrior." Surprised, Simion said, "Yes, boy--a great warrior. But it has been a long time since he went to war. How did you know?" Rill shrugged, examining the miniature cannon that had come with the set. "He just is. Hes different from my other gentlemen." Simion took the cannon from him and replaced it in the paper that held the rest of the toys, giving it to the clerk to tie up. "How is he different?" Simion asked carefully. Rill was watching the clerk to be sure that none of the precious toys were left out. He shrugged. "The other gentlemen are so rough. Push, pull, squeeze, slap. Do this, do that, lick me here, spread your legs." The clerk paused in knotting the string, his eyes wide. At a look from Simion he bent back to his task. "I think that they worry because they find pleasure with me, and they need to feel that they are still men. For some reason being harsh to me helps them. But the prince..." He smiled. "The prince does not doubt that he is a man. He can be gentle." "You know, Rill, I think that you know a great deal more than some would suspect." He laughed. "I? No, sir. I am very stupid. I know this." Simion shook his head. "Perhaps you do not have knowledge, Rill, but I think you have a sort of wisdom, in some things." TBC Back to index

Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Intervention

Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Rock/Rill Archive: If I sent it to you. Disclaimer: Recognizable characters courtesy of Bram Stoker. Summary: Rock makes Rill suffer after his interlude with Draculea. Notes: I had fully intended to have Rock and Rill vampirized by the end of this chapter, but my muses ambushed me and knocked me over the head wiht Rocks assholeness. By the time I regained consciousness the episode was 4/5 finished, and it would have been WAAAY too long if Id gone on. Next time, promise. Vlad sires!

Child of the Night, Part 49: Intervention The Year of Our Lord, 1698 Budapest, Hungary Rock awoke with a foul taste in his mouth and an even fouler disposition. He sat up, peeling dank sheets from his body and pulled the chamberpot out from under the bed. He scowled when he found it half full of a noxious mess, including his latest companions vomit. He got up and went, naked, to the window. Throwing it open, he dumped the contents without bothering to look. An obscene shout from the street told him that some unwary passerby had timed his morning walk very badly. Rock ignored the clamour, shutting the window and relieving himself in the empty, but still odorous, pot. He began to get dressed as quietly as possible, shooting glances at the young man who was snoring on the other side of the bed. What was his name again? Gregory? Emory? Hed been pouting because his pimp had turned him out, and Rock had started buying him drinks, listening to him whine. It had occured to Rock that Rill had almost reached the point where he could no longer market him as a youth. Profits were bound to fall. With what he was earning from Prince Draculea he thought he might be able to afford taking on one or two younger whores. This one had seemed a likely prospect, but now he wasnt sure. The boy was about sixteen, and his cheeks and brow were marred by angry red eruptions, topped with yellow pustules. They were even sprinkled down his neck and across his shoulders and upper back. They were aggravated by the boys tendency to scratch and pick, and this was why the pimp had decided that the boy couldnt earn enough to be worth his while. Rock had to agree, given his present state, but he had checked the boys sex carefully before he fucked him, and was satisfied that the eruptions were not due to a disease. It was merely the normal skin trouble that attacked so many boys in their teens. Rock felt that if the boy was forced to clean his skin properly, and if he was kept from eating sweets and greasy meats, it would probably clear up. Given the petulance and self-indulgence the boy had shown last night, it would be a struggle to force him to behave. Rock smiled cruelly. He rather liked the idea of forcing the boy to live according to his rules. Rill had always been docile--not much of a challenge. Rock pulled on his boots, still contemplating the boy. *If it wasnt for the rash, hed be a fine looking boy. His hair is gold, and his ass is round and tight. He could be good, if I handle him right. What IS his name?* Rock shrugged. *If I take him on, it will be what I say it is.* Rock poked the boy, none too gently. The lad yawned, (good teeth) and opened murky blue eyes. Rock fished a copper coin out of his purse and offered it. "Here." The boy frowned. "I usually get silver." Rock scowled. "This is for your breakfast--I told you last night I wasnt paying for a tumble. You can consider last night as an audition." The boy pouted, but he took the coin, bouncing it in his palm. "How did I do?" "Fair. Ill need another demonstration, perhaps tonight. Wash your face before I see you again." Rock was turning away, when he heard the boy sniff and mumble something sarcastic. He turned back swiftly and caught the young man by his hair, shaking him. His victim squealed in pain. "None of your sauce, boy! Some of the customers may find that amusing, but I do NOT!" "Yes, yes, all right! Im sorry." Rock shook him again. "Truly, sir, Im sorry. Ill wash. I... Ill wash all over." Pleased, Rock loosened his hold, smoothing the thick hair back. "Dont forget your hair. Soft, clean hair is a good selling point." The boys blue eyes were now bright pain and alarm. A tear trickled down his cheek, and Rock caught it on his thumb, then sucked it off. "You look good like this. What is your name, boy?" "Emory." Rock raised one finger, as if in instruction. His voice was warning. "If it please you, sir."

"Emory, if it please you, sir." "Well see. Be here tonight. Dont make me search for you." He left, and a trembling Emory wondered if his former pimp would take him back if he were properly humble. ***** It was just past dawn when Rock went back to his house. Clothilde grumbled when she let him in. "Not a moments peace for an honest woman." Rock snorted contemptuously. "And who would this honest woman be?" The landlady ignored the insult. Rock paid steadily, so she was willing to take a certain amount of rudeness. "It aint been an hour since I had to let your brothers high-and-mighty sweetheart out--now you." Rock frowned. "Hes gone already? I dont understand. He pays for the full night, and he seems to like Rill well enough. Why doesnt he stay?" Clothilde shrugged, but just before she slammed and locked her door she cooed, "Maybe he dont want to meet with you." Rock was in just the mood to raise a welt on her cheek, but she was too quick for him. He rapped sharply on his own door. When there wasnt an immediate answer he pounded on the slats with the heel of his hand. "Rill! Stir your lazy ass!" He waited a moment, then used his boots, kicking his door. "RILL!" "I come, brother." The voice was faint and clogged. Rock heard the key turn in the door. He didnt wait for Rill to open the door. Instead he twisted the knob and shoved it open. If Rill hadnt been turned he might have gotten a broken nose. As it was the door slammed into his shoulder, and he stumbled back. His feet slipped, and he fell sprawling. Rock shut and locked the door. "Get up, you clumsy fool." Rill climbed to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. He moved slowly, using a chair to brace himself. "Whats the matter with you? You move like an old man." Rill blinked at him mildly. "I am sorry, Rock. Its just that Im so tired." He went to sit on the rumpled bed. Rock gave him a tight, nasty smile. "So, even if he leaves early, the prince takes full value." Rill nodded, smiling dreamily. Something about his brothers contented, sated expression irritated Rock. He went closer, examining Rill. Rill was naked, and his skin was so white that it seemed to glow in the rooms dim light. Even his normally pink lips and cockhead seemed pale. He thought that there were faint lavender shadows under Rills eyes. That was his only color, save his dark hair and eyes... and the bruise on his neck. Rock took hold of Rills jaw, turning his head for a closer look. It might be a passion mark--it was about the right size. It was oddly colored. The center was a deep purple, but it faded out to wine-red, and the edges were the faint yellow-green of a healing bruise. And in the center... he squinted. There were two ragged, raw patches--like two healing punctures where someone had picked away the scabs. "Boy, what did he do to you?" Rill touched the mark with a wistful smile. "Nothing." "Nothing? Youre marked. Thats going to cost him extra." He scowled. "If we see him again." "I will." Rill pointed to the table. There was another gold coin on the table. "He left money." "Thats a good start, but hell have to pay more for damages, and more still for monopolizing your time." Rill frowned. "But Rock, I dont mind." "What does your opinion matter, idiot?" He took another look at the table, noticing the glittering aray of in soldiers, and pointed. "What is this?" Rill smiled. "It is supposed to be the Battle of Sovegny, in 1551, but I do not have any Turkish soldiers. The prince said that Simion could buy me some today, and we would do it properly tonight." He yawned. "Im very sleepy. I dont know if I want to go out, but I really want those soldiers. I saw some tiny horses,

painted all different colors, and..." "Boy, have you lost what little mind you have?" Rock angrily swept the toys off the table. "If he wants to spend money on you, have him buy you jewelry. We can sell that." Rill sadly looked at his treasured toys, scattered over the floor. "I dont want jewelry. I like toys." "You..." Rock took a step toward Rill. His foot came down on a soldier. It rolled, and his foot slipped. He fell. He heard a faint titter from Rill and his control, never strong, snapped. He leaped up and fell upon his brother. He slapped Rill several times, hard and fast. Rill instinctively rolled into a ball to escape the stinging assault, but then Rock doubled up his fist and rained blows on his sides and back. Rill knew better than to scream--it made Rock angrier. He whimpered. "What did I do, Rock? What did I do?" Finally he sobbed. "Im sorry! Im sorry!" The blows stopped, but Rill shook as he heard the faint rasp of cloth on cloth that told him that Rock was unlacing his breeches. He tried to stop crying. Crying usually made Rock stop beating him, but his brother didnt want him to cry when he fucked him, and that was what was coming next. It almost always did. Rock smacked his ass, and Rill quickly got up on his hands and knees. The bed dipped behind him as Rock crawled up between his spread knees. *He didnt take off his boots. I hope he didnt walk in the gutter, or Ill need to get fresh sheets from Clothilde for the prince tonight.* Rock roughly parted Rills cheeks and examined him. His back entrance was still a little loose and pink, but clean. "Im glad to see that you remembered to clean yourself." "Draculea does it." "You mean he washes you when hes done with you?" Rock snorted. "He pays premium rates and then what does he do? He plays body slave to a whore." Rock was fully erect--disciplining Rill often made him hard. It was lucky that the same one who had made him burn could be used to quench the fire. He gripped Rills hips and entered him fully with one brutal lunge. Rill cried out softly, muffling it against the pillow lest Rock be angered even more. Draculea had again been gentle, but their coupling had been long, and he was still tender. Rock knew this, but it made no difference in the way he took his pleasure. He pounded into his brothers ass with all his strength. The prince and his man were coddling Rill, and Rock was determined to remind his brother exactly who he belonged to. Luckily Rock was the worse for his previous nights drinking and debauchery, and he did not last long. After a few dozen stabbing thrusts he spewed his seed into Rills core, grunting his satisfaction. When he pulled out there was a trace of blood on his cock, but he wiped it away, saying, "Youre becoming sloppy-loose, Rill. Perhaps I should get old Dervil to take a stitch or two in your ass to tighten you up." As Rock stepped off the bed Rill collapsed, his trembling arms and legs giving out. If Rock had bothered to pay attention, he would have noticed that his brothers breathing was far too rapid and shallow, but he was more concerned with the gold coin lying on the table. He picked it up and admired it before slipping it into his purse. "That ugly bastard who came for you yesterday, will he be back again today?" When there was no answer, Rock cuffed Rill on the back of the head. "Well?" "Yes. Simion will come to take me to eat." His voice was a whisper. "He said I could see the puppet show in the marketplace, if I wanted." "A waste of time, but the prince is paying for it. I may be hungry when I come back tomorrow, so have him buy some food--bread and cheese, sausages. Tell him you want another bottle of wine--a good one." "There is still some wine." Rock cuffed him again. "You might think of ME occasionally, you self-centered slut. Tell him that he has to leave more this time, understand? Half again... No, twice as much. Yes, double the fee if he wants you again after tonight." Rock left without another word or backward glance. Rill curled into a ball, pulling both thin blankets up to his chin, and still he shivered. He was so cold since the prince had left. His poor mind, usually a bit

confused, was whirling now, but his jumbled thoughts didnt keep him awake. He dropped quickly into a deep, exhausted sleep that was almost unconsciousness. ***** Clothilde grumbled as she admitted Simion. "You lot will fair work me to death. This used to be a nice, quiet house, and now Im up and down at all hours of the day and night." Simion ignored her and knocked on Rills door. There was no answer at first, and he felt a tug of impatience. He found that he was looking forward to seeing the boy, and he didnt like the delay. When another round of knocking did not bring him, either, he turned to Clothilde, who had lingered. "Has he gone out?" She shook her head. "I let them in and out. His brother left, but Rill wasnt with him. Hes in there all right. Mayhap hes drunk." She giggled meanly. "Mayhap he lost what little wits he had an..." She trailed off at the cold look in Simions eyes. "I can fetch a key, in case the lad is doing poorly." Simion tried the door, and found it unlocked. "That wont be necessary. Go about your business." He waited for her to shut her door before he went in. The little room was warm and dim, but Simion could make out a figure huddled on the bed. "Rill?" It shifted slightly. Simion lit the table lamp and went to the bed. "Time to get up, boy, if you want to eat before you see that show." All that was visible above the blanket *no, blankets. He must be sweltering* was a tumble of dark curls. Simion put his hand on Rills shoulder to shake him, and felt the shaking. "Rill!" The face that peered up at him was nearly as white as the pillow behind it, the eyes huge. Simion could see the sticky tracks of tears on his cheek. "Simion..." Rills voice was a whisper. "Im sorry. I think Im sick. I dont think I can go out today." He sat up, slowly and painfully. Simions face pinched in anguish when he saw the bruises mottling the boys slender shoulders and back. *Draculea did not do this, and that leaves only one other.* Simion touched one purple patch and Rills head drooped. He said quietly. "I fell down. Im clumsy." Simion cradled his chin, tipping it up so that he could look down into Rills face, and said, "Why did Rock beat you?" Rill gave up pretense. "I shouldnt have laughed when he slipped. I know he doesnt like that. If I hadnt laughed, he wouldnt have had to correct me." Simion bent over him, slipping his arms around the boys neck. Rill threw his arms around Simions waist, pressing his face to the older mans body, burrowing against him. "I feel so cold, Simion." Simion stroked the boys hair. "I have to leave you for a few minutes, Rill." When he tried to pull away the young man clung to him, and he reluctantly peeled the arms away. "Ill be right back, I promise." Rill wiped his face with the back of his hand. His voice hopeless he said dully, "Rock promised me I could have two nights off." "This time, boy, the promise will be kept." He pressed a kiss to Rills forehead. "On my blood." In the next block he found a street urchin who was willing to take a message to Draculeas house for the promise of a copper coin upon his return. He went back to sit with Rill, and Clothilde had the good sense not to make any comments when the gypsy arrived not much later. Simion met him at the front door. Tossing a coin to the boy, who promptly disappeared to spend his booty, Simion spoke with the swarthy man, using the Rom dialect, then they both went inside. Simion wrapped Rill in the bed covers. "You are going for a ride, Rill. Im sorry that it isnt a carriage, but Ill sit with you in the back of the wagon." When Rill looked reluctant he said, "Im taking you to the princes house." Rills expression crumpled. "Oh, Simion, I cant! Im ugly now. Maybe by tonight the bruises will go away, but I cant let him see me like this." "He will not return till sunset," Simion assured him. As he and the gypsy helped Rill to his feet he said

grimly, "And he MUST see you like this." TBC Back to index

Chapter 50: Chapter 50: Siring

Fandom: Dracula Archive: If I sent it to you. Disclaimer: All recognizable characters courtesy of Bram Stoker. No profit made. Summary: Draculea must make a decision when he goes too far with Rill, and then he must deal with Rock. Warnings: vampirism. Child of the Night, Part 50: Siring The Year of Our Lord, 1698 Budapest, Hungary The first thing that Draculea saw when he opened the lid of his box that night was Simion. His friend had pulled a chair up before Draculeas resting place and was waiting patiently, arms crossed, expression grim. "What has happened?" "My lord, if you think back, you will remember a time when I asked you to promise me that you would not act rashly. I must make the same request." Draculea frowned, getting to his feet and stepping out of the box. "Simion, the last time I can remember you extracting that promise was..." His mind went back to a small stone room, to Nicolae lying in a drugged stupor, his back and buttocks ripped and bruised. Simion watched as a red tinge suffused his masters eyes, and the planes of his face seemed to shift subtly. "What has he done to the boy?" "Will you promise me, lord?" Draculea flexed his hands, and Simion saw that his nails were like talons. "Simion, I listened to you before you left us last night. You harbor no love for that dog." "No, but I care about the boy, and if you kill his brother out of hand, he will suffer. He will see it as his own fault, no matter how richly the piece of filth deserves to die. Besides, now is not the time. You need to see Rill." Draculea scowled, but kept control of himself. The red faded, and in a moment he looked no different than he usually did, except perhaps more deadly. "Very well. Show me." "He is in my room." Simion led Draculea down the hall to his chamber. There was a strong fire roaring on the hearth, and the room was very warm, but Draculea could see that the covered figure on the bed was still shivering. He went to sit beside the boy on the bed, touching his shoulder. The boy moaned softly, but did not open his eyes. Rills lashes were impossibly dark against his pale cheeks. Draculea shook him gently. "Rill. Open your eyes, boy." Rill opened his eyes. They were vague, but when he looked at Draculea they became a bit more focused. "My prince," he whispered. He moved, curling his body so that his head rested on Draculeas thigh, and he gazed up. "Is it night time already?" "Yes, boy." "Oh." He frowned. "I have slept all day. What a lazy slut I am." "Dont say that, Rill," Simions voice was rough.

Rill smiled and said, "Simion will hear nothing bad about me." He lowered his voice confidingly. "I think he likes me." Simion cleared his throat. "I will go prepare some food." He left, going back to the kitchen. "Simion told me that youve been hurt," said Draculea. Rill pressed his face against Draculeas thigh. "It need not matter. Blow out the lamp, my lord. The bruises will not trouble you in the dark." "They cannot help but trouble me, but not as you fear, little one. Let me see." He pulled the sheet down. He said nothing, but his eyes grew hard when he saw the marks on the boy. "They are ugly," Rill murmured. "Yes," Draculea stroked his bruised back gently. "But you are as beautiful as ever." Rill gripped the front of Draculeas shirt and pulled himself up. "Show me." Draculea closed his eyes for a moment. "Rill, you need to rest." "Please, lord?" He buried his hands in Draculeas hair, pulling him down and craning up, kissing him softly. Draculea was beginning to pull away when Rills tongue slid over his lips. He thought to chide him gently, to explain that he must refuse intimacy not through distaste, but from concern. But as his lips parted, Rill slid his tongue in, and the boy was both sweet, and skilled. Rill put all his gratitude and longing into the kiss. It was the last that began to seduce Draculea, but he tried to fight his nature. He pulled back a little, but Rill clung to him breathlessly. "Take, my prince." He didnt really understand what it was that Draculea needed from him, but he knew he could provide it, and he wanted to do just that. "Boy," Vlads voice was strained. "Sweet boy, you dont understand." "I know. There is so much that I do not understand, but I have helped you, havent I?" "You can never know how greatly." "There isnt much I can do. Let me serve you this way." "Rill..." The boy was not strong--Draculea could have stopped him. But when Rill dipped his head back, arching his throat, Draculea allowed himself to be pulled down. Still he tried to resist. He kissed Rills neck, gently mouthing the deep bruise. He licked the half-healed holes. Before, when he had finished feeding, this had speeded the healing, stopping the blood. This time it was different. Whatever he meant to do, his physical self realized how close he was to a rich source of nourishment. There was a trickle of warm liquid across his tongue. He groaned, his fingers flexing unconsciously on Rills bruised shoulders. Still he might have fought off the urge till Rill made a soft, pleading sound and pressed him even closer. Draculea moaned. As gently as possible he sank his fangs into the yielding flesh, re-opening the wounds. Rill whimpered with a mixture of pain and pleasure as the prince began to feed. Always before Draculea had drained his villainous victims quickly and ruthlessly. The blameless victims he visited no more than twice in a row. Hed never taken so much blood from one person, but Rill offered himself so humbly and warmly. The ecstasy of feeding washed over Draculea, and he did not realize there was anything amiss till the boys hands loosened, then fell. Draculea stopped immediately, lifting his head. Rills face was so white, but his smile was wistful, and his gaze clear and direct. His pale lips barely moved. "Thank you, my prince. I dont feel cold anymore." His eyelids fluttered rapidly, then closed. "SIMION!" Draculeas shout rang through the house. Simion had been warming soup in the kitchen. The spoon clattered to the floor as Simion raced to answer his masters call. His heart sank when he saw Draculea cradling Rills limp, still form. Draculea looked up at him with burning, anguished eyes. "Simion, help him."

Simion bent over the boy, feeling his pulse, checking his breath. He peeled up one eyelid and made a distressed murmur when the pupil remained wide, not shrinking at all. He lifted rills upper lip with his thumb and noted the paleness of the boys gums. Without a word he hurried over to his chest and threw it open. He rummaged frantically, finally coming up with a small bottle. He uncapped it, saying, "Hold him up, my lord, so he does not choke." Draculea lifted Rills torso. Simion tipped back the boys head, and held the bottle to his lips. "Rill, drink this." There was no response. His voice rose. "You must drink, please!" He dribbled the liquid between Rills lips, but it spilled out again. "RILL!" He lifted Rills chin, pouring in the last of the liquid. He closed Rills mouth, trapping the liquid. Simion stroked Rills throat. "Swallow, Rill, please." Rill coughed, spewing the sharp smelling liquid. "Simion..." he rasped, voice faint. "I dont like strong spirits." "Boy, its your only chance." "Please, Simion, let me sleep. Im tired now." His voice faded. Simion sighed resignedly. "All right, Rill." He stroked Rills face as the boys eyes closed. "Sleep. May you awaken somewhere warm, and safe." Draculea laid Rill back on the bed, arranging him gently. He pressed his hand flat on the young mans chest, feeling the infinitesimal rise and fall slowing. "I didnt know. Simion, I swear to you that I meant him no harm." Simion rubbed his eyes. "I know, my lord." He bit his lip. "I think... I think that he just wanted it to be over." When he saw Draculea start he said, "No, my lord, not his congress with you. I meant his life. In a way, it was a mercy. If we could not take him away from this pest hole, and the animal who used him, it was better. But I wish..." He bit off the word, shaking his head. He cupped his hand over Rills mouth and nose, and felt no stir. He laid his head on the boys smooth chest, and heard no stir. Sitting up with a sigh, he said, "Domn, I beg permission to bury him. I know it is a risk, but I cannot bring myself to leave him in some back alley, like refuse." Draculea looked at the still form, and said slowly, "Not yet, Simion." "But my lord, the longer we wait, the greater the chance of discovery." "I know, Simion. But wouldnt you like to sit with him for awhile, as you did with me?" Simion studied Draculea, a strange suspicion, rather like hope, creeping over him. "What do you mean, Domn?" "Im not sure, Simion. You know that even now I am learning about my state, what is and is not possible." Simion nodded. Almost from the first Draculea had known that he had influence over certain animals. In the last decade he had been slowly developing the ability to transform himself even beyond the subtle shifting of the flesh that Simion had observed. "You know the effects my blood has on you, Simion--how it preserves and invigorates. And you know that when I find release, i emit blood. Simion, Rill drank my seed, and not just once, but several times." "My lord! You... you think...?" "I dont know, Simion." "But... he is dead." "So was I." There was silence while the two men stared at each other. Finally Simion said, "My lord, CAN we wait?" "I think we must, Simion. After all," he carefully arranged the boys hair. "this may be my first childe." Rills body was carried to Draculeas room and laid out on the bed, a clean sheet drawn up under his chin, and again Simion settled himself for a vigil. ***** "What do you mean, they took him?!" Rock growled at Clothilde.

Her latest lover, a carter who was twice Rocks size, was standing behind her, and she wasnt feeling very impressed by Rock. "Just like I said. That blonde man what came here before came again. A little later he called up some dark heathen, an they carried the poor half-wit off. He looked poorly, Rill did." She cocked her head. "He looked like hed been beat. Funny, though, I didnt hear no fight--not after he arrived." Rock fumed. Hed come home, anticipating another TWO gold coins. Thered been no money, and, even worse, thered been no Rill. He wasnt worried at first, thinking that perhaps the princes man had just come by early. But as the day wore on and Rill did not return he became first angry, then worried. He searched through all the local taverns and shops, but no one had seen him. Finally he went back to the house and confronted the slut. She had told him the news with smug pleasure, and he would have thrashed her if not for the hulking brute standing behind her. The rough behemoth fondled her ample buttocks, scowling at Rock in warning. "Damn him! He knows hes not to go to the customers houses. Theres too much of a chance that hell find himself with one of the vicious ones. He could be damaged so badly that hed be near useless." Clothilde and her lover exchanged looks of distaste. Clothilde said dryly, "And he might even die, and then hed be no use to you at all." Rock gave her a venomous look, but he could do nothing. It was beginning to get late. He spent the evening asking around the taverns and bawdy houses, trying to find the location of Draculeas home. He had no luck. He found Emory again, but the boy was settled close beside the pimp who had driven him away before. The man had a reputation for protecting his charges fiercely, and all Rock could do was drink and stew. He stumbled up to a rented room fairly early, clutching a bottle of brandy. It was good that he did. Draculea was hunting him that night. The next day Rock went to the police. More exactly, he went to the policeman who accepted money to allow him to pursue his work. The officer listened to his ranting accusations, shaking his head in sympathy. "You say he was abducted by a nobleman--a royal? A rich man? Are you sure he didnt just go with him willingly?" "He knows better! He knows what I would... How upset I would be. He wouldnt leave me willingly. He loves me." Rock said it with complete assurance, but no warmth. That night he slept in a tavern, lying across a bench in the corner, in a drunken stupor. Draculea had been looking for Rock from the moment that Simion was settled in beside Rill. The first night he went through all the public houses he could find. The second night he had gone back to the narrow little house where he had met Rill and stood outside the front door. Rather than knock for the landlady he used another of the powers he had discovered in the last century. This power was not infallible. He had found that there were barriers he could not transcend. For some reason, he could not enter a private home unless he had been invited. Here, though, there was no problem. He concentrated, willing himself lighter and lighter... insubstantial. Then he flowed forward. Clothilde, had she been awake, would have thought that the city was experiencing a particularly thick fog, or perhaps she would have panicked, thinking that a fire was causing smoke to drift under the door. The fog swirled along the floor of the hall, then disappeared under the door of the room rented by the two brothers. In only moments the hall was clear, and Draculea sat in the darkness of the room, waiting. He had to leave without accomplishing his purpose, hurrying through the streets, even as the sun rose. In his room, he put his hand on Simions shoulder. "My friend, did you sleep at all?" Simion shook his head. "I fear, my lord. He is so still. Do you truly think he will awaken?" "I think there is a good chance, Simion. Look, here." He lowered the sheet. "See here? The bruises are fading. Have you ever known a corpse to heal? And this." He lifted Rills hand high, and it dropped back, bonelessly. Simion turned hopeful eyes on the prince. "He is still supple!" "Yes, the after-death stiffness has not come. He shows none of the signs of death save the lack of breath

and a heartbeat. I really think that there is a chance." Simion looked at the boy, with a softness in his eyes that was unfamiliar to his master, and it touched Draculea. *I hope for your sake this is so, my friend.* Simions eyes were hard again when he looked back at Draculea. "You didnt find him?" "No." "Just as well. I am not sure, my lord, that you would have brought him here undamaged." "Im still not sure if I should let him live even a little while." "We have discussed this, Domn. If... When Rill awakens, he will be frightened and confused. If we want him to be happy, we need the brother to give his blessings--whether he wishes to or not. Once he tells Rill that he is to go with us, you can dispose of him out of Rills sight." Draculea scowled. "Only for the boys sake. If I thought it would not distress him, I would rip out the bastards throat the moment I saw him." "You may have your chance, my prince. It may take a day or two, till the boy becomes accustomed to his new life, though." Draculea made a doubtful sound, then said, "Ill have to bring someone back tomorrow. It shouldnt be hard to entice some thug back." "Why, my lord?" "Simion, you remember how I was when I awoke. Rill will not have had food for over three days. He will be ravenous, and he wont have even the little preparation that I had. I do not believe he will be able to feed without killing, at least this first time, and a suitable meal must be provided. I wont risk you or the gypsies." Simion nodded agreement, then tenderly tucked the sheet back up over Rills shoulders. "Domn? Would it be very terrible if I lay down with him? I think I could sleep, if he was close." "No, Simion," Draculea said quietly. "I think he would like that." Draculea watched as Simion stretched out beside the cold body of the young man. He lay his head on the same pillow, turning on his side beside him, and curved an arm over the still chest, and closed his eyes. Draculea watched them for a moment, then settled into his case, lowering the lid for his daily rest. ***** Rock had started drinking around noon. He had only finished a few drinks when he sensed someone watching him. He looked up to find a ragged beggar child staring at him. Rock started to snarl at him, then paused, examining him with a calculating eye. *Almost thirteen. Old enough.* His voice was almost cordial. "What do you want, boy?" "Aint you been askin around bout where that Rill went?" Rock sat up, suddenly alert. "Yes. Do you have news for me?" The boy scratched his arm. "Yesterday the princes man sent me with a message to the princes house. He called for his wagon." He cocked his head slyly. "I know where he lives." Rill clenched his fist, thumping the table with savage triumph. "Tell me!" The boy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together significantly. Rock was tempted to beat the information out of the brat, but there were people around who might object. Scowling, he pulled a coin out of his purse and offered it. The boy just stared at it. "I want silver. Theyd most likely pay me moren that NOT to talk." Rills voice was a growl, "Or they might slit your grubby throat." He tossed a silver coin to the boy. "Now, show me the way." The boy laughed, tucking the coin in his breeches. "And have you take back your money when you know, or even do what you said the prince might? No, Ill tell you where it is, and Ill stay here." The boy gave him the directions, then scampered away. Rock considered following him, but the chance to get back his financial mainstay was too pressing. He went directly to Draculeas house. He was surprised when he saw the place. *The man seems to be richer than God, and he lives in this hulk? Even my place is better than this--not so grand in size, but in better repair. Still, if he can afford to live

here, he can afford to pay handsomely. Im not averse to letting him have the simpleton, but by God I WILL be recompensed.* Rock made his way through the small, overgrown patch of garden to the front door, and banged smartly on it. He was about to knock again when the door was opened. A stocky, dark skinned man, roughly dressed, stared at him questioningly. "I want to see the prince." When the man continued to stare blankly, he raised his voice. "Dont act the fool with me! I know you understand, otherwise the princes lackey could not have sent word to you." The man shrugged. "The prince, he not here." The gypsy laid his hand casually on the handle of the knife he wore at his belt. "You go." "If I come back, Ill have the police with me. Kidnapping is a crime, you know. And when I tell them how he debauched my poor, innocent, simple brother the scandal will ruin him." The knife slide an inch or two from its sheath. "You GO!" "No." They both looked back to see Simion coming down the hall. "Let him in. This princes toady can see to him." Staring at Rock suspiciously, the gypsy stood aside to let him enter. Simion led Rock into a small office just to the left. The older man sat beside the desk, and gestured Rock into another chair. "Well?" "Do no play games with me, sir, and pretend ignorance. I have come for my brother. The landlady saw you taking him away," Rock accused. Simion inclined his head. "You admit it?" "It is the truth. Why should I lie?" "I told Prince Draculea the first night that all business was to be transacted at our residence! Rill had strict orders not to go to the homes of his gentlemen. Its too dangerous." Simions voice was sharp. "From what I have seen he ran a much greater risk in his own home." Rock flushed. "The simpleminded, sir, require a strong guiding hand. In any case, it is none of your affair. I want him back, and I want recompense for my lost earnings, and my anguish." Simion was staring at him in disbelief, scarcely crediting the mans enormous nerve. "Suppose," Simion ventured, "that the boy does not wish to go with you?" "That will not happen," Rock said flatly. "In any case, it would signify nothing. I am his guardian, he must be returned to me. Unless..." his voice was crafty. The greed in the pimps manner was palpable. "Unless?" Rock shrugged. "If it amused the prince to take charge of the boy... I know that rulers once kept all manner of touched folks to entertain them, and Rill can certainly do that. I might sign over guardianship of the boy... for a consideration." *So, you would be a literal slaver, rather than simply one in spirit.* "I cannot answer for Prince Draculea in such a thing. He will return in a few hours, though, and you can discuss it then." Simion smiled coldly. "He wants to talk to you." Rock felt a thrill of nervousness, and stood up. "It would be better to meet him somewhere public--say an inn." He started edging for the door. Simion got up, following him--stalking him. "No, I believe he wishes this discussion to be private." Rock turned to hurry for the front door. As he stepped into the hallway he was seized by two gypsies--the one who had admitted him, and another who was almost his twin. Rock began to struggle immediately. "Let me go! Let me go, you bastards! Ill have you hanged. Ill..." Following Simions gesture, the gypsies threw him into a room across the hall. When tried to escape, one of them cheerfully struck him across the face, half stunning him. Before he could recover the gypsy had taken his knife, and the door had been locked. Rock threw himself against it, to no avail. The one small window was thickly boarded over. He was trapped. He screamed for awhile, but though the old building was in bad repair, the walls were still thick. It was unlikely that anyone outside the house would hear him. Eventually he gave up and settled down to

wait in a worried silence. ***** When Draculea awoke, Simion was waiting, smiling grimly. "You need not seek a meal for Rill, my lord. One had provided itself. Rock came looking for his property." Draculeas smile was wolfish. "Oh, excellent." He went to Rill and examined him. The smile gentled. "Soon, I think, Simion." He laid a hand on Rills forehead. "I can feel him struggling toward the light. He will be with us soon. You must not stay here." Simion agreed, remembering how Draculea had been when he awakened. "Well, I suppose that Rock wants to see his brother. We should let him." Rock considered rushing the door when it opened, but decided against it. It was well that he did. Both Simion and Draculea were in the hall. Draculea gave him a glittering smile that radiated contempt. "I understand that you have come to sell me your brother." "You took him, and that isnt right, sire. I have a right to some profit, after all the time and trouble Ive spent with him. I could have left him with our father. Hed have been up the boys ass at least once a week, taking him in turn with the others. And hed have worked him till he dropped, and beaten him till he could scarce move..." "And your treatment of him is that much better?" Rock seemed indignant. "I trained him to make a good living for these times. What else could a simpleminded peasant do? I kept him from starving." "Save your justification--it makes me ill. Tell me, before you bargain for him, wouldnt you like to see your brother, and satisfy yourself about his wellbeing?" Rock seemed a little surprised. "Yes, of course." "Such tender fraternal concern moves me. Come." Rock stepped out of the room. Draculea laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and directed him down the hall. "Rill has been resting in my room." At Rocks smirk he said coldly, "Resting. Listen to me, dog. I will see that you are well paid. Yes, you will be paid in full, but you must tell your brother that he is free to come with me. Indeed, you must tell him that you WISH him to, that it will make you happy. I do not want him to pine for you. And do it quickly." At the door to Draculeas room Rock jerked free and faced him defiantly. "Before I give him my blessing to go with you, Ill know what you will give me for him. Ill not do it unless the fee suits me. You can deal with his whining and moping for all I care." "Name your price." Rock hesitated, trying to gauge his chance. Draculea did not even seem inclined to bargain. How much did he dare ask? He was wary of naming a price too low, and losing the chance of gain. He considered. The prince had been willing to pay one hundred florints for one night. He watched the prince closely as he said, "Ten thousand florints." Draculea did not blink. "And a good horse and carriage." "Is that all?" Rock, delighted by the princes largesse so far, considered demanding a small house, but decided not to risk it. Perhaps if Rill had been normal he would have felt safe in asking for more. But Rock felt that he was being well compensated. With what he could earn from this he would be set up. Perhaps hed make a trip back home and see if his other two younger brothers had grown comely enough to be assets. "Yes, that will be sufficient." "Very well. Now you will see your brother, and you will do all in your power to comfort him, and ease his mind." Simion unlocked the door, and Rock said to him, "Im doing this for him as well, you know. He can have a rich life with you." Simion dipped his head, his voice stony, "Some slaves do benefit from a change of owners." The room was more lavishly appointed than the one that had imprisoned him. Rill reposed on the great bed, sleeping peacefully. Rock went to the bed and sat beside him. "Rill." There was no response. "Rill,

wake up. I have something to tell you." He shook Rills shoulder. Two things struck him at once--the chill of the flesh under his hand, and the limp manner in which Rills head rolled on the pillow. He leaped up, horrified and enraged. How could he profit from a dead body? Hed be worth barely ten florints to the medical school. He turned on the other two men. "Hes dead!" "In a manner of speaking." Draculea said calmly. "You... youll pay for this, prince! Your rank wont save you from this. Oh, its not likely that you would be executed, but youll be jailed!" He straightened his jacket, calming a bit, then said, "Was it an accident?" Draculea nodded. "Yes. I never meant to hurt the boy, but things went too far. Before I realized it he was slipping away. Though, perhaps, if he had WANTED to live, if there had been anything to keep him here, it might not have happened." Unsurprisingly, Rock saw no condemnation for himself in this. "If it was an accident, perhaps the authorities need not be brought into this. Only provide me with what I ask, and give Rill decent burial, and that can be the end of it." Draculea and Simion were watching the body that lay on the bed behind Rock. There was a faint twitching beneath the sheet. The tip of Rills tongue crept out to sweep over dry lips. Simion said, "I believe there will be no end to this. Look to your brother." Puzzled, Rock turned back in time to see Rills eyes open. He cried out in alarm, stepping back. "He was dead! I have seen death before, and I know. He was COLD." Draculea caught him before he could get to the door. "And he still is, but that will be remedied." As he spoke Simion shut and locked the door, then hurried to the bed. Draculea said sharply, "Careful, Simion!" "He will not harm me, lord." Simion bent over the reawakened boy, who was blinking confusedly at the ceiling. His voice was gentle. "Rill, welcome back." "Simion?" Rill whispered. "Have I slept long?" "Yes, a long time. How are you?" The boys face twisted. "Im cold, Simion. And Im hungry." His voice rose plaintively. "Simion, I feel starved, and Im so thirsty." His voice was becoming rougher. "I need..." Now he wailed. "I dont know!" "Hush," Simion pressed a kiss to his brow. "Its all right. We will get you what you need. But first, your brother is here to see you." Apprehension and joy flickered over Rills face. "Is he angry?" "No, child. Dont worry." Rock was struggling to escape Draculeas iron grip, panting, "Let me go! He was dead, I tell you! This isnt natural." "As though your dealings with him were ever natural, scum! You will do as we agreed." "I wont go near that monster!" Draculea turned quickly, putting his body between Rill and his brother, and put his hand on the pimps throat, squeezing. "You dare call HIM a monster? Do as I say, or I will tear out your throat and have my men throw your body in the nearest pig sty." Rocks eyes bulged with fear and indecision. "Consider, Rock. Who do you fear most, Rill or me?" Rock thought of all the years that Rill had cringed at his displeasure, and said, "Very well." Draculea thrust Rock toward the bed, and Simion got up to allow him to sit. Rock hesitated, but slowly sat when he saw the unyielding expression on the older mans face. He was stiff as he stared at the boy lying beside him, but he slowly started to relax. This was, after all, Rill. "Well," he said roughly. "youve landed yourself in the jam pot, havent you, Rill? Prince Draculea has become very fond of you." Rill smiled shyly, but it faded quickly. "I know I wasnt supposed to leave the room, Rock." His brow

puckered. "Im not really not sure how I got here." It went against his nature to allow Rill leeway in his obedience, but Rock forced himself. "Dont trouble yourself about it. So, do you want to stay with him?" Rill looked at Draculea, then Simion. His eyes lingered there longest. His voice was sad. "I like him very much." He looked back at Rock. "But we need each other." Rock shook his head. "Dont be silly. Theyll take good care of you, and I can always find someone else to earn for me." Rock watched in shock as beads of blood trickled from the corners of his eyes. "You dont need me?" "Stupid boy, Ive never needed you." Rill was trembling now. He reached up and grabbed his brothers shoulders. "No, dont say that." "Let go, idiot!" He tried to pull away, but Rills grip tightened. Rocks eyes widened as he realized how strong it was. Rill had never been strong, and judging from his wan appearance he should be almost fragile by now, but his grip was like iron. And his expression... It was sorrowful, but there was a feral hunger surfacing. "Dont, Rock. I need you. You have to help me. You always take care of me. Im so hungry, Rock." Draculea had come up behind Rock. Now he grabbed his red-blonde hair, pulling his head back till his neck was stretched. One sharp nail stabbed into the straining white column, making a shallow puncture. A thick, crimson drop oozed out, then drooled down his throat. Rills eyes, enormous, fastened on it. His lips pulled back, exposing wicked, glistening fangs, and Rock screamed. Draculea commanded, "Feed, childe. Take what you need." Rill lunged with a growl. Draculea released his hold, and watched as Rill threw Rock back onto the bed, swarming over him. Rock thrashed and shrieked, but he could not dislodge his brother. His head was shoved back into the pillow, and the cold, heavy body above him pressed him down, nearly smothering him. He felt totally helpless-- shocked, confused, and terrified. Rock had a moment of ironic clarity when he knew that this might be something like what Rill had experienced the first few times he took him. Then the revelation was wiped away by pain as sharp teeth ripped his throat open. Rill was too famished to be neat in his first feed. Rill sucked fiercely, gulping the hot blood in great mouthfuls. The gnawing hunger began to ease, and the thirst disappeared at once. The harsh fire that had seemed to consumed him settled into a warm, pleasant glow. The body beneath him gradually ceased to fight, growing still, but he continued to feed. Simion looked at Draculea and said, "We should stop him." "Why?" "The same reason a mother does not let her child gorge when he first leaves the breast for real meat. It may not be good for him." Draculea sighed, "Very well, but you stop him. I do not want to spoil his joy." Simion went to the bed and touched Rill. "Rill, you must stop now." "Mmm, Simion... Just a little more?" The boys voice was muffled against Rocks throat. "No, Rill. Youve had enough for now. You can have more later." "Promise?" Simion smiled. "Yes, I promise." Rill was now simply lying on Rock. He lifted his head and smiled at Simion. His mouth and chin were wet with blood, and he licked his lips, then giggled. "Rock doesnt like me to have sweets, but this is so good. Maybe if he tastes some, hell understand..." His voice trailed off, eyes widening, and he looked back at Rock. "Rock?" Rill shook him. There was no response, save for a faint flicker of eyelids. Rill shook him again. "Simion, Rock is sick. You help him." Simion tried to pull him away. "Come, Rill. He needs to rest."

"No! Simion, I... I..." He cried out, seeing the blood that was soaking into the pillow. His hand went to his mouth and came away smeared. "What have I done?" He turned wild eyes to the other two men. "My prince, Simion, what have I done to him?" Bloody tears began to course down his cheeks, and he wailed. "I hurt him! I killed my brother!" Draculea managed to pull him away from Rock, gathering the sobbing boy into his arms. "No, Rill, no." "I did!" His voice rose in a scream. "Im wicked! I killed him. I didnt mean to, I swear." He turned anguished eyes on Simion. "Dont hate me!" Draculea handed the hysterical boy over to his friend, and watched as Simion cradled him, trying to soothe him. "Rill, no. I couldnt hate you. You did nothing wrong." "I killed him! Oh, Simion, I should die. I WILL die. How can I live after doing this?" Draculeas face hardened as he made a decision. Simion watched over Rills bent head as Draculea brought his hand to his face and used his fangs to rip a gash in his wrist, Then he pressed the wound to Rocks gasping mouth, muttering, "Drink, you filth. Its more than you deserve, and be sure that Ill see that you pay for what youve done to the boy, but drink now. He cant lose you just yet." Rocks throat worked--feebly, but he managed to swallow several mouthfuls before he stopped, his half-open eyes glazing over. Draculea came over and said firmly, "Rill! Listen to me." The power of Draculeas personality moved through the bond that his blood had created with the boy. Rills sobbing slowed, and he lifted his head to look at Draculea. The prince said quietly, "He isnt dead." Rill looked at his brothers corpse doubtfully. "I tell you that he isnt dead, Rill. Do you trust me?" Rill nodded slowly, rubbing bloody tears away with the back of his hand. "He sleeps, my lord?" "Yes, Rill," Simion assured him. "He has been a little hurt, and must rest and recover. He sleeps very deeply. He will sleep a long time, as you did. You felt much better when you awakened, didnt you?" Rill considered his raging hunger and thirst, but he never retained things for long, and the unpleasant memory was already fading. He nodded again. "Three days, little one," Draculea assured him. "Only three days, and your brother will be back with you." He eyed the bloody, sprawled figure on the bed and said wryly, "and I can assure you that he will be much more amenable." TBC Back to index

Chapter 51: Chapter 51: Restrictions

Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Vlad/Rock Archive: The lists Ive sent it to. Disclaimer: Only minor characters and Nicolae are mine. Others originally created by Bram Stoker. Summary: Rock reawakens into his unlife--and is not pleased. Warnings: Non-con, but its Rock, and if anyone ever deserved it, he does. Notes: black beetles--nasty form of cockroach Child of the Night, Part 51: Restrictions The Year of Our Lord, 1698 Budapest, Hungary "Simion?" "Why arent you asleep, Rill? The sun was up an hour ago. Arent you sleepy?"

There was a huge yawn. "Yes." Simion urged the young vampire back into his room. "And I told you to stay out of the hall. If the front door opened and sunlight fell on you, you wouldnt like it, believe me." "Yes, Simion." Rill stretched out on Simions bed again, and the servant drew a blanket up over him, tucking it around his shoulders. "But I was wondering--are you sure Rock is comfortable? I mean, that room you put him in is awful cold and dusty, and he has only one blanket." *Hed have less than that if not for you, boy. Id have happily dumped him naked in the cellar with the rats and black beetles till he awakened.* "He doesnt feel anything, Rill, remember? Now, go to sleep. Rock should wake up tonight, and you want to be well rested to greet him." There was a knock on the front door. "I have to answer that." He held up a warning finger and said sternly, "No more getting up." Rill smiled at him sweetly, turning over to snuggle down under the blanket. Simion stared at him for a moment, then gently stroked the boys dark curls. He barely touched the tresses, but Rill made a pleased murmur deep in his throat. Simion bit his lip and carefully removed his hand, then went out, shutting and locking the door. When he was sure there was no chance of a stray sunbeam finding his charge he opened the front door. A short, scruffy, thoroughly disreputable man was standing on the front step. There was a small terrier, as dirty and scroungy as its master, sitting near his feet, and there was a burlap sack slung over his shoulders. The surface of the bag was jerking and twitching, and muffled squeaks came from inside. The burlap was also spotted with blood. The man on the steps briefly raised his dirty cap, bobbing his head to Simion. "Mornin, yer worship. Had a fine night, did me an Tipper. Got a good lot of fat uns for ya." Simion indicated the blood stains on the sack. "Are they all alive? I told you, I dont want dead ones--theyre of no use to me." Clement, the rat catcher, nodded agreeably. "I understands, yer worship, an theyus all right frisky when they went inter the bag. Now, bein as I aint the good Lor imself, I cant promise yer that all the beasties are still wigglin. Theres a few what may ave gone on ter rattie eaven by now, but Id think only a few. Surely not enough for yer to dock my promised fee." Simion held out his hands, and Clement passed the bag over. Simion carefully felt the contents through the material, feeling for still, limp masses. All of them seemed to be vigorous. His fingers were sharply pinched a time or two, but the rodents teeth couldnt penetrate the rough burlap. Finally he nodded, took a silver coin from his purse, and tossed it to Clement. Clement snatched it out of the air with practiced ease, and grinned at Simion, showing teeth remarkably like the those of the beasts he hunted. "Thankee, yer worship. You be needin more tnight?" "No, this should be sufficient." "Wull, yer just remember Clement if yer ever need ratties again." He hesitated. "If yer dont mind me askin, sir, what DOES yer need the vermin for?" He snickered. "My best customers be tanners fer the hides an meat pie shops fer the rest." "Let me just say that I need neither the hides, nor the meat, but that your last customers purposes arent THAT far off the mark." He shut the door. Clement considered this, tossing the coin on his palm. Finally he shrugged, tucking the coin into a rag and stuffing the rag in his shirt. "Well, Tipper, who are we to wonder about the oddities of the rich an well born?" The dog yipped. Clement rubbed his hands together. "Meat an ale for us both, an a proper bed tnight, me lad!" and he led the dog away. Simion carried the twisting, squeaking bag through the house, to the pantry just off the kitchen. He set the bag down long enough to unlock the door. The lock on this door was as sturdy as any in the house, due to the previous owners suspicions of his servants. He had been determined that they would have no more than their meager allotment of food, and had been assiduous in counting potatoes and measuring leftover

butter. More than one servant had been dismissed if a sausage couldnt be satisfactorily accounted for. The pantry was long and narrow, dark and dusty, and lined with shelves that now held nothing more than rubbish. What few supplies Simion and the gypsies required were stored out in the kitchen. Simion dropped his bundle next to the two other bags sitting near the door. As it thumped next to them he was gratified to see them stir. Their occupants were no doubt hungry, but didnt seem to have started to feed on each other. There wouldnt be too many dead by the time they were needed tonight. He started to go back out, but paused, then walked slowly to the back of the room and squatted beside the blanket-covered figure that huddled there on the floor. Simion flicked back a corner of the blanket and stared at Rocks cold, still face. He looked dead. *But then, he IS dead--has been these last two days. Theres no way of knowing for sure, but I think hell awaken tonight. Damn me if Im not torn. Rill will need him for at least a little while, but I think hell be more trouble than hes worth. Hes a willful thing.* Simion shrugged. *Well, even before he found his new talents, my lord was a forceful man. Hes dealt with stronger and more treacherous men in his day--hell handle this one.* Simion studied Rock a moment more, remembering the marks of violence on Rill, which were only now disappearing. He spat in the mans face, tossed the blanket over him again, and left the pantry, locking it. He stepped out into the hall, thinking that he might go lie beside Rill for a few moments. Even when he didnt sleep, just being close to Rill seemed to soothe and refresh him. "Simion?" Draculea was standing at the door of his room. "My lord?" Simion went to stand before him. "I want you to take Rill out tonight, as soon as it is safe." At Simions questioning look he said, "Yes, I know. It IS early for him to be going out, but I trust you to take care of him, and I dont want him here when his brother awakens. I think it will be noisy, to say the least." Simion nodded his understanding. "Find him something to eat, something that wont distress him. He cant keep using my servants forever." Rill had been feeding from the gypsies, a mouthful here and there, carefully supervised by Simion or Draculea. He was treated like an infant--frequent small meals, and he seemed to be thriving. The gypsies occasionally provided a meal for their master during times when it was not convenient for him to hunt, so this was nothing new to them, and while Draculea was never brutal, he had become matter-of-fact in his feeding. After his initial feeding frenzy they had had to coax him. Rill had been so hesitant and gentle as he took his nourishment that it seemed to have touched even these stolid men. Simion had seen one of them smiling, stroking Rills head softly as the boy fed. Simion nodded. "I can get him one of the serving wenches, or whores." "Good. None of my usual fare--at least not yet. I have a feeling the boy wont kill unless in error, or if he is forced, and we dont want any of the villains running about half-drained. They could cause trouble." Simion knew what he meant. Draculea seldom made mistakes, but it did happen. Hed been surprised once in the middle of a kill. His victims partner had followed them, and had slipped a dagger between his ribs. While Draculea was snapping his assailants neck and removing the dagger, the half-dead victim had managed to make his way to a tavern. Draculea would probably have been able to fight his way free from the mob that boiled out of the tavern if he had not been wounded, but he thought it prudent not to risk it. It had taken almost two weeks for the wound to heal. The rim of the sun was just slipping below the horizon when Simion woke Rill that evening. "Come, Rill. We are going out." Rill rose obediently, but with a small frown. "But Simion, Rock is to wake up tonight." "Yes, boy, but he will do so if you are with him or not, and our master bids us do this. We will be back before the sun rises, and you will see your brother then." Simion made this promise, and almost hoped that Draculea would not find it necessary to kill the bastard, lest Rill be disappointed. He led Rill out into the dim street. They were out of hearing range when the screaming started. ~~~~~

Cold. That was what he was first aware of, even before he noticed how very, very dark it was. Rock felt as if he was drifting, but it wasnt the pleasant sensation he associated with restful sleep. No, this was frightening. It was as if he had been cut adrift from his body... from the world itself. And so COLD! Had Rill taken the blankets? Had he allowed the fire to go out? Hed have to punish him for that. Punish him... Yes, hed done that not too long ago, hadnt he? He remembered the satisfying feel of his fists on his brothers back and shoulders. It was almost as satisfying as the feel of his cock plunging into his cringing body. Even as he thought this, he seemed to rise, spinning upward so quickly that it was as if he were falling instead of rising. At that moment he was engulfed by a hunger that seemed to burn, despite the cold. He felt himself sucked and squeezed into a tight, chilly, uncomfortable space that he realized, with horror, was his body. He remembered what had happened. He remembered Rill, cold and dead, oh yes, undeniably dead--but still moving. He remembered the cold touch, the ripping pain, and the heat of his own blood bathing his skin. Then the gradual fall into the cold darkness. But before he could sink beneath the surface of blackness that he somehow knew was death, a thin trickle of cold, sweet fire had seared its way down his throat. Then nothing. Now this. Rocks conscience burst back into awareness, and he opened his eyes, screaming. A booted foot caught him in the side, and a voice hissed, "Quiet!" Rock screamed again, and gave in to his first natural instinct--he attacked. He sprang up, throwing himself on the half-seen figure that had been standing beside him. Hands closed firmly around his throat, ripping him away from his target, holding him easily. He was shaken, much as Tipper the terrier shook rats when he caught them for his master. "Stop it, you fool, or I swear I will find a way to kill you, despite your brother." Rock continued struggling till he was shaken again, and the man demanded, "I command you to STOP!" Rock was alarmed to feel the compulsion to fight drain away. No man had ever been able to order him about, not since the last time his father had tried to thrash him, and he had fought back. Now he quieted, but the rage, resentment, and fear still boiled inside. His captor sensed his resignation, and the grip was eased. It didnt occur to Rock till much later that he should have been gasping for air. A few quick glances showed him that he was in some sort of small storage closet. This revelation puzzled him because there was no source of light, yet he could see. Prince Draculea stood before him, his eyes narrowed in distasteful contempt. He took quick stock of himself, and almost couldnt blame the prince. His clothes were ripped and filthy. He would never credit it, but he seemed to have soiled himself. *How long have I been unconscious?* There was a mass of caked dirt around his throat and shoulder which he unconsciously scratched at. Then he paused and brought his fingers to his nose, sniffing. A musty, tangy scent filled his nostrils. He couldnt name it, but at the same time it was shatteringly familiar. His mouth flooded with saliva, and he quickly sucked the mess from under his fingernails. The taste was rank, but it sparked his already gnawing hunger till he was ravenous. He stared at the silent prince with accusing eyes. "What have you done to me?" "Nothing that I had first intended, I assure you." "Am I dead? Am I in Hell?" Draculea smiled cruelly. "Not quite dead. As for Hell..." He made a gesture. "There are those that believe that each man has a private Hell, fashioned just for them. This may very well be yours. You are Nosferatu, Rock, like your brother." Rock swayed at the revelation. Part of his brain was shrieking in denial, but the other part accepted the situation. Rock could adapt. Hed always been a survivor. "Like you?" "Hardly. I created you, Rock. I am your master." "No man is my master," Rock snarled.

Draculea struck him. The blow threw him back against the wall, breaking his nose. Indeed, it would have killed him--had he not already been dead. Again the princes hand went around his throat, pinning him to the wall. "Again I call you fool. Idiot! Have you not yet learned that I am NOT a man? I am Draculea, Nosferatu, Prince of Darkness, and I AM your master. You will obey me, or you will suffer." He leaned close to Rock and purred, "Im not yet sure of how the undead can be killed. There are various legends, and I could try each one till I found an effective method, but I want you to think of something, Rock. This body you now inhabit can withstand much abuse. I could spend long years learning just HOW much." Rock, much to his anger and shame, found that he was trembling. He had no doubt that Draculea spoke the truth. He forced out the words, "Do not hurt me--master." Draculea released him. Hating the thought of asking rather than demanding, Rock said sullenly, "Master, Im hungry." "No doubt, but there are some rules to be discussed first. If you wish to continue your wretched existence, you had best listen carefully. The sun is your enemy now. I have only felt its rays for a moment at sunset or sunrise, and that was like scalding water on my skin. Its full strength might very well kill you. Silver burns as well, as do all holy objects, but I dont suppose youll miss the last so very much." "And I must drink blood." Draculea smiled grimly. "Only if you want nourishment. Im not sure if we can starve to death, but going without can be agony. That brings us to another rule--prey. You will limit yourself to scum--murderers, rapists, and the like. Those you can kill, though it is better to be careful when we are in such close quarters with the living. Until such time I feel you can control yourself, you will feed only under my supervision." Rock was twitching now, ravenous. "Yes, master. But please, take me to one now." "No. It would be too much of a risk to bring one here, or to take you out while the first feeding frenzy is upon you. Youll have to make do with something else." He picked up a sack that had been lying near the door and began to unlace the mouth. "Here is another nugget of information about your new state, Rock." He upended the sack and a horde of rats tumbled to the floor, squeaking and scrabbling madly. Draculea watched in amusement as Rock screamed when the first fat rodent ran over his foot. "It need not be human blood." ~~~~~ Rill sat before the fire in a tavern, staring in puzzlement at his flagon of mulled cider. "I dont understand, Simion. It still tastes good, and I want to drink it, but..." he shook his head, "but I DONT want to drink it." "A taste or two will do you no harm, Rill, but you dont need such things anymore," Simion explained. "If you eat anything you may be, um, uncomfortable till your body expels it." He patted the boys hand. "Best to stick with what is good for you." Rill touched the tip of his tongue to his lips, and Simion felt warm. The boy sighed, "Yes." He turned dark, liquid eyes on Simion. "I AM hungry." "I know." Simion scanned the room, then pointed to a handsome, hard-faced woman who was sitting by herself, sipping an ale. She smiled at every man who passed, but there were younger, prettier girls about, and none of the men paid her much attention. "Shall I ask her to join us?" Rill blinked, then said, "Simion, she is a whore. I know--I can tell my own kind." "Stop it!" Simion said sharply. When Rill winced, Simions voice softened. "Rill, I dont like to hear you talk about yourself like that. No matter what you once were, that is behind you. You are Prince Draculeas childe, and my young master." Rill looked at him shyly. "Id rather be your friend, Simion." Simion felt his heart swell. "Id like that, very much. But what about the woman?" Rill shrugged. "If you want her, Im sure she has a room here. I can wait." "No, boy. I meant for you."

If Rill had still been warm he would have blushed. He whispered, "I... Ive never been with a woman, Simion." Simions smile was gently skeptical. "What, never?" Again the boy shrugged. "Rock could never find a lady who wanted me enough to pay." Simion looked away briefly so that Rill would not see the anger in his eyes at hearing how rigid had been Rocks control of every aspect of his brothers life. Rill spoke again, bringing his attention back. "I really dont think I want to." "Not for that. You said you were hungry, didnt you?" Rill brightened, looking again at the woman. She caught his eye and smiled at him. Rill, always a friendly boy, smiled back. "Will she feed me, Simion?" Simion had noticed the silent exchange between the two. He curled his finger at the woman, and she got up, coming toward them. "Yes, Rill. You only have to remember to be careful, and gentle." ~~~~~ Rock crouched on the pantry floor and tossed the twitching, dying rat against the wall so forcefully that the beast died of a snapped neck before it could die from blood loss. His stomach heaved once again, but he did not vomit. Hed done that once before, much to Draculeas amusement, and his partially sated hunger had come roaring back. Hed been forced to begin quenching the blood thirst again. It was a good thing that Simion had laid in a plentiful supply of rats--Rock had needed them all. "I hope youve had enough," Draculea said, "because there arent any more. You will not be allowed to hunt tonight, and Im not sacrificing my servants or my horses to your appetite if you cant hold down what youve already taken. Get up." Rock stood, and Draculea turned to unlock the door. Rock tensed, considering if he would be quick enough and strong enough to break the princes neck. Draculea paused and said, "Try it, if you must, Rock." Rock froze in astonishment. Draculea laughed, "No, I didnt read your mind--not quite, anyway. But a sneak attack at the first opportunity is EXACTLY what would occur to you, Rock." When he turned back, his eyes glowed red, and Rock flinched. "Youre very predictable, Rock. That means that you may be dangerous, but youre not as dangerous as you think." Rock followed Draculea out into the kitchen. The gypsies were emptying a final bucket of water into a large tub. They silently bowed to the prince, smirked at Rock, and left the room. Draculea indicated the tub, then a pile of fresh clothes on the table. "Youre filthy. Strip and clean yourself. I want you as presentable as possible when your brother returns." When Rock still hesitated Draculea said impatiently. "Go on! Hades, man, I know you were a prostitute before you debauched your poor brother. It isnt as if you had never been naked before another man, and you might as well become accustomed again." Sullenly Rock removed his clothes and stepped into the tub. The gypsies hadnt bothered to warm the water, but he scarcely noticed. He washed quickly and efficiently, very aware of the princes eyes on him. In other circumstances he might have been aroused. Draculea was an attractive man, and Rock had always been attracted to power. But he didnt like being UNDER someones power. Hed had enough of that in his childhood, and had vowed that he would never again be subject to anothers will. Now it seemed he had no choice. Draculea watched the former pimp bathe, and desire began to rise. But it was an oddly detached sensation. He could admire Rocks physical beauty, but he despised the man himself. He was everything cruel, crude, and petty that Draculea hated. *But he is fair of body and face, no matter how foul his mind. And I have never been with one of my own kind. I have a feeling that he would be able to take much more than my mortal lovers.* A slow, cruel smile played about Draculeas lips. *It should be awhile before Simion and Rill return. I think Ill find out.* ~~~~~ The prostitute was congratulating herself on her luck--two men, both comely and clean, with ready

money. She smiled to herself as she locked the door to her room, glancing at the pair as they waited patiently by the bed. *And the youngest a virgin, if you can credit that. This is almost a treat.* She strolled back to the men, making her hips sway enticingly, and held out her hand, palm up, fingers wriggling. The older man pressed two silver coins into her hand, and she almost whooped with glee. She couldnt wait till one of those younger bitches tried to brag about how much they could pull down in one night. She tucked the coins into her nightstand and began to unlace her bodice. Simion was whispering to Rill. "Just stay calm, and go slowly. Talk to her, pet her, caress her. Your touch and voice can soothe, if you only try, Rill. When she is lulled, then... then you can take what you need." She came back to them, smiling. Nodding at Rill she said, "That your boy?" "No, not really. Were just good friends, and Im helping him." "Ah. Its just that I thought that would be kind of sweet--a father teaching his son about women. So," she took Rills hand, pulling him to sit beside her on the bed, "youre Rill." She gave him a kiss on the cheek. She was a seasoned whore, well able to conceal her true feelings, so she made no sign that she realized how cold the boy was. "What a pretty boy you are, Rill." Rill smiled shyly. "Youre a pretty lady." He stroked her cheek, and his hand was cold, too. "So very pretty and warm." There was something odd here, but she could not say what it was. His hand trailed down her throat, and the touch was becoming more tolerable every moment. He moved lightly down to her bosom, and she felt her nipples begin to harden at the soft, cool touch. "The prettiest lady Ive ever seen. Your skin is so smooth and white." The whispered words and the gentle, insistent touch lulled her. Soon she felt she was half-dozing. Simion watched as Rill murmured and petted the woman. He wondered if this were a talent shared by all Nosferatu. He had a feeling that the personality of each one might shape their strengths. Rill was such a simple, beguiling creature that he could hardly help but enchant all who were in the least susceptible. Rock, he thought, would be more likely to take by force. The whore was leaning limply against Rill, her head on his shoulder, her eyes half closed. Rill said quietly, "Can I kiss you?" The woman smiled. "Id like that. Been a long time since I been kissed by anything as sweet and pretty as you." She tipped her face up toward him, her eyes drifting shut. Rill looked questioningly at Simion, who gestured for him to go ahead. He bent down and touched his mouth to hers in a chaste kiss. The woman, thinking him shy, smiled beneath his lips. The smile broadened as he kissed her cheek, then moved down to press his cool mouth to the side of her throat. She moaned at a sharp pain, but the moan turned to a sigh as she felt the gentle pull of the boy sucking at her throat. So, the little thing wanted to mark her, did he? He might be innocent of the ways of a man with a woman, but he had good instincts. Simion watched as Rill fed. If Rill did not finish soon, Simion would have to stop him. But after a few more swallows the boy stopped sucking and began licking the wounds, as Draculea had taught him. The bleeding stopped quickly. Rill pulled away from the woman and eased her back on the bed. "You should sleep now. You were so good to me, you made me feel so good. Thank you, pretty lady. But you seem so tired now. You should sleep." "Sleep," murmured the woman, her eyes closing. In a moment she was breathing deeply and evenly. Rill looked at Simion, eyes shining. "Did I do good, Simion?" He smiled, moving to hug the boy. "Perfect, lad, perfect. You took only what you needed, and you did not make her suffer. Indeed, tomorrow she may be a bit tired, but she will be very pleased with herself. Shell brag of how she stole the cherry of a beautiful young man, and was paid for the privilege. Now, come. I think its time we returned home." ~~~~~ Rock finished his bath and stepped from the tub, reaching for a towel. Draculea said, "Best spread that over the end of the table."

"Why?" Draculea plucked the towel from his hand and spread it on the table. "The surface is splintery." He began to unlace his breeches. "It will make it more comfortable when you bend over it." Rock took a step back, fists clenching at his sides. "No." Draculea raked his eyes over Rock, watching the lamplight glinting on the smooth, damp skin, seeing the wet red-blonde hair plastered close to his head. "If you fight me, youll regret it." Rock turned to run, perfectly willing to run out into the streets naked. He never reached the back door. Draculea caught him easily, seizing one arm and dragging it up behind his back till the smaller man yelled in pain. "I can break this with little effort. Do you know, if we break a bone, it must be set, just as with a mortal. We heal much more quickly than they, and if we dont take care of it they will heal awry. You might not have noticed it, but my right little finger is a bit crooked. I ignored it for a day or so, and now Id have to break it again to straighten it. If youre satisfactory, when Im done, Ill straighten your nose for you, so that it doesnt end up crooked." "Lick my ass!" Rock snarled. Draculea tightened his hold, lifting the arm higher and wringing another yell from his captive. "No, I wont be doing any of that, though YOU will, soon enough. I see youll have to be forced the first time. How regretful." Using his hold on the younger mans arm, he turned Rock and slammed his upper body face down on the table. Rock squirmed, trying to escape, but Draculea leaned his weight on Rock, pinning him and straining his arm nearly to the breaking point. With his free hand he gripped his rigid cock and pressed it to the narrow crease of Rocks ass. He couldnt release his grip to spread the mans buttocks, so he simply pushed forward, using one finger to guide his prick. Vlad slid the head of his prick up and down the narrow cleft, pushing, while Rock struggled and swore. Finally the glans moved over Rocks anus at the proper angle, and lodged shallowly. Draculea gave a growl of triumph and thrust hard, sinking deep into the tight coolness of Rocks body. Rock howled, thrashing. What Draculea had said was true--he HAD been a prostitute when he first came to the city as a youth. He had rented his mouth and ass to any who had the coin, and the hatred of being possessed by another, even for a moment, had grown to an obsession. He hadnt allowed another man to penetrate him since he had brought Rill to the city more than eight years before. The vigorous, dry mounting was physically painful, but the psychic pain was agony. Draculea fucked Rock hard and fast, not bothering to restrain himself in any way. With Nicolae he had made love, with his other lovers he had had sex, with Rock he rutted. He allowed his lust full release for the first time in a many years, pounding into the cool tightness, feeling the thick gel of Rocks half congealed blood slick his way as the delicate tissues of his anal passage tore under the furious assault. Rock finally stopped fighting, concentrating on just enduring the assault. Draculea gripped his hip with his free hand and lifted him slightly, to give himself a deeper penetration. His cock passed over Rocks tiny pleasure nub, and the young man shrieked as a hot burst of pleasure flared deep inside him. This meant nothing to Vlad, but in this position he received more stimulation, so he continued. Again and again Rocks pleasure spot was jabbed, and soon he was erect, his stiff cock wavering beneath him as he was buffeted. Draculea came, releasing his sperm into the now quivering man. Rock groaned as he felt the liquid gush. It seemed to freeze, even as it burned. Hed forgotten what this felt like. To Rock, it felt like being owned, and he hated it. Draculea pulled out almost casually, releasing Rock. He took the bath cloth and cleaned himself fastidiously, wiping away blood and shit. Rock stood up stiffly and painfully, turning. His cock was hard and leaking. Rock glared at Draculea and said sullenly, "What about me?" "You have permission to finish yourself," said Draculea negligently, closing his breeches. "When youre

done, clean yourself, then get dressed. Then come to my room to wait for your brother." He started to leave the room. "And by all means, try to leave, if you wish. Id rather enjoy hunting you down and punishing you." With a snarl Rock gripped his cock and brought himself to completion with a few hard, fast strokes. He screamed again when he saw the bloody semen spurt from his dick, but since there was no pain he calmed quickly. Another unpleasant aspect of his new existence. It was the most unsatisfying climax hed ever had. Cursing, he wiped himself clean and began to dress. *I suppose Ill have to cosset Rill not. It sounds as if the prince has made a pet of him, but Im to be his bitch.* ~~~~~ When Rill and Simion entered the house, they saw Draculea standing at the end of the hall, before his room. The moment he saw the prince Rill was almost vibrating with excitement. His desire to fly down the hall was palpable, but he held himself back, waiting to be summoned. Draculea smiled, waving to him, and Rill raced to him. "Rock?" he said anxiously. "Prince, has Rock awakened?" "Yes, little one. Your brother is with us again, and he is eager to see you." Draculea stepped aside. "Go to him." Rill entered the room and saw Rock sitting on the bed, looking so much better than he had before, but he was scowling. Rill stopped short, staring at him hopefully. Rock looked past his brother to see a grim-faced Draculea. Rock had been carefully instructed on how he was to act toward his brother from this point on, and had been just as carefully informed of what he might expect if he caused his brother any further misery. Rock forced a smile and held out his arms. With a glad cry Rill ran to him, throwing himself into his brothers arms. "Im sorry Rock. I didnt really hurt you, did I?" "No, little brother, of course not." "I was so afraid. I couldnt have borne it if Id hurt you." "Well, dont trouble yourself." "Rock? Were to stay with Prince Draculea now." "So I have been told." A touch of frost had crept into Rocks tone, but Rill didnt notice it. "I wont have to go with the gentlemen any more, and you wont have to work. Isnt it wonderful, Rock? We will be taken care of." *YOU will be taken care of. And perhaps you will not have to go with the gentlemen," he caught Draculeas cold eyes over Rills shoulder, and his insides knotted with hate and outrage at the injustice, "but I most assuredly will.* "Yes, Rill. Its wonderful." TBC Back to index

Chapter 52: Chapter 52: The Third

Summary: Draculea has moved on to the court of the Louis XIV, and meets his third bride-to-be. Notes: Okay, I know that Ive been telling you from the start that the third bride would be named Thomas, but I changed my mind. Hey, Im a woman, its my prerogative. Besides, I decided that he would be French, and I couldnt find a French equivalent. Found a wonderfully appropriate sounding name with my character namer, though. So in this chapter I will introduce Sinn Barbee--ambitious, scheming, and vain young noble in the court of Louis XIV. Louis extravagance put his country deeply in debt, and helped pave the way for the French Revolution. Draculea

is amused by Sinns name, knowing the English connotation of sin, and Sinn uses the semantics to charm and disarm. Sinn still looks like a young Tom Cruise. BTW, all other names so far are my own creation (where they arent Brams). Child of the Night, Part 52: The Third The Year of Our Lord, 1713 Versailles, France The Palace at Versailles Monsieur Jacques Destoup, Head Steward of the Palace at Versailles, was not pleased. King Louis usually liked all his court about him at the evening meals, and Destoup had garnered the rarely given boon of permission to sup privately. He had been entertaining a charming lady of the court, one of the very minor ones who was seeking alliances to promote her position in the glittering throng of nobles. Perhaps she thought that Destoup might bring her to the attention of the king himself. After all, he might very well tire of his current favorite, Madame de Maintenon, if he were presented with someone fresh. The king was old, but he wasnt dead. Destoup had been coaxing the giggling mademoiselle into a third glass of wine, admiring the smooth perfection of her shoulders as they rose above the fashionably low neckline of her gown, when the summons had arrived, brought by an almost cringing footman. The servant was loath to disturb Monsieur, he said, but foreign royalty had arrived--a Transylvanian prince. He must be presented to the king, and this was not a task for a lowly footman, nor even one of Destoups aides. Grumbling, Destoup left his wished-for morsel, bading her to go on to the dining hall and find herself a place. There would be no time for a tete-a-tete now. After the prince had been presented to the king Jacque would have to arrange suitable quarters for him and his servants. That would entail moving several of the courtiers, since there was currently nothing fit for a prince (even a minor foreign one) available at present. La, there would be fussing, ranting, and pouting, and HE would have to deal with it all. These nobles were all so careful of anything they thought signified their rank. Machiavellian schemes had been enacted simply to gain banquet seating a few places nearer the king. Destoup had a servant re-powder his hair, then changed into a more elaborate vest and jacket. After a moments hesitation he had the servant replace the silver buckles on his shoes with the carefully hoarded gold ones. He did all this very quickly, thinking it unwise to keep the guest waiting if he did not know his true rank. He might be a prince, but there were princes, and then there were PRINCES. The proper reverence had to be shown to royalty, even down to being sure that ones dress was rich enough to honor them. Destoup was not sure yet how powerful this man was, but with royalty it was better to be safe than sorry. One never knew when they might take a fancy to have one thrown in prison for an imagined slight. As they made their way through the halls the footman told Destoup that the two lower servants had accompanied the princes carriage and horses to the stable, and they would be given quarters there. Aside from them, the prince had only a companion and two upper servants. Destoup was relieved to hear this. Royalty tended to travel with an entourage, and the smaller the group, the less trouble it was for Destoup. Hed had SUCH a problem telling a German princess that she would have to make do with the palaces seamstresses and laundresses, instead of keeping her own. They were waiting in a small salon, decorated in cream and gilt. The two servants were easily identified by both their positions and their garb. An older and a younger man, they stood near their masters, dressed in sober, simple clothes. The younger one, a handsome brute with bright red-blonde hair, must perform something other than domestic services. He couldnt think of any other reason he could keep a position with that sullen attitude.

The two men who had been taking their ease on a small sofa looked up as Destoup entered. The younger one, a dark-haired youth with large, deep brown eyes, gave him a winning smile. *That one will be popular at court,* thought Destoup. *Hell do well for himself, if hes clever.* The elder servant stepped forward as the taller of the two gentlemen stood. He said formally, "I present to you Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea, of the royal house of Wallachia, or as you say, Transylvania." Destoup bowed low. "Your highness, I am Monsieur Jacque Destoup, principle steward to His Majesty, Louis XIV. I welcome you to Versailles. I apologize for your inconvenience, but I am afraid that there was a breakdown in communications. I was only now informed of your arrival, and I had no previous notice." "We were invited by the Comte de Amestoy. We became acquainted in Paris this spring." The prince gestured to the elder servant, who handed over a letter. "Indeed." *Amestoy? That old villain? Yes, he was spending some time in the city, waiting for that scandal about his valets child to blow over. Theres been no word of him for months, though. Ah, well, the seal on the letter looks authentic.* He read the letter. To the Court at Versailles. My deepest regards to Your Majesty, from his humble servant, de Amestoy. I beg Your Majesty to extend hospitality to a friend, and representative of Wallachia. This is to introduce His Royal Highness Vlad Tepes Draculea, prince of the royal blood, Transylvania. Prince Draculea is a man of taste, refinement, intelligence, and discretion, and cannot help but be a beneficial addition to the society of the court. I look forward to the day I may once again bask in the light of your presence. Till then I remain your faithful servant, Dupin, Comte de Amestoy. "Everything seems to be in order, your highness. And this young man?" Draculeas hand rested on Rills shoulder. "My childe, Rill. You will be responsible for our quarters?" When Destoup nodded, Draculea said, "I have two directives in that matter." Destoup, used to dealing with the demands of his superiors, nodded slightly, wondering what demands would be made, and how difficult his life would become trying to fulfill them. "They are simple requests. First, and most importantly, there must be no windows." Destoup raised an eyebrow at that. Generally, the rooms with many windows were considered the most desirable. "This is not a frivolous request--our health is at stake. If you cannot provide this, we will find a tavern that can." Destoup was shocked. The idea of someone going to a tavern when they could lodge at Versailles was startling. "There will be no problem." *In fact, that will make my task easier. The ones in windowless rooms are generally of lower rank, and will not be so inclined to protest a change.* "Secondly, our rooms must be together--side by side, if not interconnected." He rubbed the nape of Rills neck. "The boy becomes nervous if we are much apart." As he led them through the palace to the royal dining hall, Destoup considered that last touch, and the tender tone in Draculeas voice. The French nobility were not, as a rule, very close to their children. King Louis required his court to live at the palace, but he was not overly fond of children. The sons and daughters of the nobles were left on their country estates in the care of nursemaids, governesses, and tutors till they were sufficiently grown to be of the greatest interest and least trouble. Even then there were not many nobles who cared to call their children up to court. But Draculea seemed to have a warm regard for his son, VERY warm. *Well,* thought Destoup, *it wouldnt be the first time a relationship had grown TOO close between parent and child, particularly in a royal family. They can usually have whatever they want, and they get bored.* Draculea felt at home when they entered the dining hall. It was so like the banquets he had known in his early life, before he became Nosferatu. The room was a bit brighter, the dress of the attendants a bit more refined, but it was much the same. The twitter of conversation, mainly gossip and flattery, was familiar. The lowering of voices and curious stares were familiar, also. Whispering arose when the assemblage saw that Draculea and Rill were being led to the king. Louis had been engrossed, as usual, with Madame de Maintenon, but he turned his attention politely to the new

arrivals as they were presented. He perused the letter presented by Destoup, then smiled genially at the prince. "We are pleased to welcome you and your son to Versailles, Prince Draculea. We hope that your stay will be a pleasant one. This is not a state visit, I take it? I believe I would have been warned if this were so." Draculea bowed. "No, Your Majesty. The fame of what you have created here at Versailles reached even into my mountain home, and I wished to see it for myself. I also wished to show my childe the glitter and elegance of the French court. He has led a simple life up till now, and I felt it was time that he saw a little of the world. You see, Your Majesty, my bloodline suffers from a health peculiarity that somewhat limits our pursuits. While we are long lived, there are restrictions we must follow to remain healthy and comfortable. Sad to say, we are morbidly sensitive to the sun, and must spend most daylight hours resting. Direct sunlight can be dangerous to us." There were a few sympathetic murmurs, but this revelation didnt cause much of a stir. Odd physical imperfections were not uncommon in royal families--too many marriages among cousins--or even closer relations. One line suffered from free bleeding, several others produced feeble minded children on a regular basis. Destoup was dismissed to prepare the quarters, taking the two servants with him, and room was made for the prince and Rill near the top of the kings table. Both men declined food, but accepted wine. Though they brought the goblets to their lips occasionally, the level of wine never dropped appreciably. An observant person might have noticed this--one did. Vicomte Sinn Barbee was seated halfway down the table, across from the new arrivals. He adroitly managed to keep up conversation with his two dinner companions and still observe the two men. *Mm, a great improvement over the last foreign visitors. The German duke was as fat as a Black Forest boar, and the Italian Marquis was old enough to be my grandfather. The courtiers will be thick around them. I may have to work to get close and make myself noticed.* Sinn watched as the young one, Rill, tried to talk to the giggling lady sitting beside him. He didnt know much French, and the woman knew no... He was suddenly even more interested. Hungarian? The boys natural language seemed to be Hungarian. How odd. Sinn knew that the second language of most foreign courts was French, so how did the son of a Transylvanian prince end up speaking Hungarian? *This may be turned to my benefit,* Sinn mused. He smiled to himself. *And Father thought that learning more than one language would be a waste of time.* Besides his native French, Sinn was fluent in German, Hungarian, Italian, and English, and he had smatterings of several other languages. His tutors had despaired when he refused to turn his mind to science, mathematics, or theology. His final tutor, though, had not long tried to persuade the young man to devote himself to one particular field of study. He had recognized the burning ambition and vanity at the young mans core, and had realized that he would never be good at anything that he could not turn to a personal advantage. After the meal the assemblage scattered to various pursuits: cards, dancing, conversation, or dalliances. As Sinn had anticipated, the lords and ladies flocked about Draculea and his young charge. The prince was at ease with the crowd, but Sinn noticed that Rill was shrinking gradually into the background, speaking less and less, beginning to look anxious. *I think I can get to the prince through his son, and it will be a very pleasant detour. But first I must speak to the prince, to pave the way.* He managed to work his way close to Prince Draculea, risking offending some lesser nobles by slipping in ahead of them. He bowed to the Prince, saying, "Your Highness, may I present myself? I am the Vicomte Sinn Barbee." Draculea had scarcely been paying attention, he was awash in the warmth and life that surrounded him. The scent alone was intoxicating. But the young mans words caught his attention, and he focused on him. The first thing he noticed was his eyes--bright green, like fresh new leaves. There was no telling his hair color, as he followed the fashion of wearing a powdered wig, but his brows were as dark as ravens wings.

Sinn saw that he had the princes attention, and he poured his charm into a smile. Prince Draculea had been sober till then, but he returned the smile. The young man said, "Something has amused you, my prince?" "A small thing, young man. A play on words. Your name..." Sinns smile widened. "Yes, my name. I think you refer to its meaning in English." He leaned a little closer, his voice dropping. "I assure you, it is not indicative of my character. No, I was named for a town near my birthplace--St. Clair." "You know English?" "Among other languages. For instance, your highness, I am fluent in Hungarian. I noticed that young Rill has trouble with French." Draculea sighed. "He tries very hard, but I have had little time to teach him, and my servant does not know much more of the language than Rill." "If I may be so bold, I would consider it a privilege and an honor to assist him." Draculea considered young Barbee. He was a smooth, handsome young man--very attractive. Rill would like him, and this would bring this interesting boy closer. "I would be most grateful, sir. My childe is... very young for his age. I protect him as best I can, and my steward, Simion, does the same, but we cannot be with him always. He could use a friend." Rill had been effectively backed into a corner by a trio of women. They chattered at him non-stop, giggling at his increasing confusion. Sinn came up behind them, tweaking lace-draped sleeves and prodding rustling, bouffant skirts. He scolded, "Mignon, Therese, Fleurette! You should be ashamed of yourselves, teasing the boy! Run to your beaus, before they tire of your fickleness and find other sweethearts." Pouting, the girls drifted away. Sinn smiled at the relieved boy and spoke to him in Hungarian. "Do not let them harry you, young sir. They havent a brain between them." "You speak my language!" Rill exclaimed delightedly. "Oh, how wonderful to have someone to talk to." He suddenly looked contrite. "It is not that I do not speak with the prince, or Simion, or Rock, but so often they are busy, and... and..." his voice became shy, "it is good to make new friends." *Hes simple. How perfectly delicious. Sweet clay, to be molded as I wish.* "Yes. Can I be your friend, Rill?" The boy nodded eagerly, and Sinn led him toward a secluded corner. Draculea watched the exchange. *Barbee is not so guileless as he pretends, I think. Still, Rill has been improving in his hunting techniques. This one should provide excellent experience. So, Monsieur le Vicomte Barbee, I think this time you are more the prey than the stalker.* The Contessa who had been trying to engage the prince in gossip about what he had lately seen in Paris wondered what had inspired that cool, rather grim, smile. TBC Back to index

Chapter 53: Part 53: Suspicion

Fandom: Dracula Summary: Rock is discontent, and a bit about Sinns obsession is revealed. Warnings: Brief reference to Satanism. Notes: lawn--A light cotton or linen fabric of very fine weave, mon petit--my little one. Sinn is being a bit condescending here. After all, he believes that Rill is only a very little bit younger than he. Rating: NC-17

Child of the Night, Part 53: Suspicion The Year of Our Lord, 1713 A week later Versailles, France The Palace at Versailles "It isnt fair!" growled Rock. "Were in the thick of this human herd, and I must feed off the four footed beasts." Simion, stitching another frill of lace at the wrist of one of Rills jackets, didnt bother to look up. "You know why. There are no suitable victims here. If you had learned to curb your impulses as your brother has, you would be allowed to sup from the gentle lords and ladies. But no, you cannot sip lightly," He bit the thread through, examining his work, "you must glut yourself each time," he turned disapproving eyes on the sullen young man. "I would have thought that the thrashing our lord gave you when you drained that poor stable lad would have taught you. But no, it takes you a week to recover, and again you drink an innocent so dry that they die within a week." It had taken Rock nearly a full season to recover from the beating that had followed his second transgression. He felt that he might have starved if Rill had not caught rats and brought them to him. At first his brother had to tear the squirming beasts open and hold them over his brothers mouth, letting the blood drip between his torn lips. It would have taken longer, Rock thought, if Rill had not sliced open his own wrist when Simion was not looking and fed Rock with his blood. There was only that one time. Rills self inflicted wound healed quickly, but not before Simion saw it, and took the boy to task. "Hes being punished, Rill, you know that. You know what he did was wrong, and he has to learn." Rill had apologized, but he was so hungry, Simion. Simions expression had softened, and hed agreed not to tell the prince, as long as Rill did not do it again. Rock healed much more quickly after that. Somehow it made him resent Rill even more. Simion hung the jacket on the back of a chair, stroking his hand across the shoulders slowly, as if the boy were wearing it. "You should sleep more. You know how debilitating it is for you to be up during daylight hours. The weaker you are, the worse your thirst will plague you." They were in the room that Rill and Rock shared, which connected to the one occupied by Draculea and Simion. To the court, Rock was valet and companion to the princes son. There was a trundle bed for his use, and the sheets on it and the master bed were mussed each day. Now Rill was sleeping in the larger bed, burrowed into a pillow. If Simion was to be away from the rooms, though, he slept in one of the large boxes that were replicas of Draculeas. Rock stared at his peacefully sleeping brother. As Rock watched the boy, who was sleeping nude, stretched, twisting to lie on his stomach. The sheets slipped down, and the crease between his cheeks peeked from the top. Rock had to restrain a growl. He hadnt been allowed to touch Rill since that last satisfying fuck before Simion took him to Draculea. While Rock might rebel in other ways, he believed Draculea when he said that molesting his brother again would inspire the prince to find a way to kill him. The only sex Rock had was with Draculea, and in that he always played the bitch. It was driving him mad. Simion was still preoccupied with Rills wardrobe. The young vampire would rise soon, and he wanted to have things ready for him. Rock, his eyes narrowing, watched the older man moving about the room. He usually preferred someone younger, more vulnerable, but Simion was an attractive man, and he knew that Draculea still sometimes took his pleasure with him. But Simion was not the sort who could be easily taken without his consent. Rock had seen the older man fight. One night in Germany the two younger vampires, Simion, and the gypsies had been driving between towns, Draculea having gone on ahead. They were attacked by bandits--at least a dozen of them. The highwaymen had thought that they would be easy meat. How wrong they had been.

They lost one of the gypsies to a gunshot wound at the beginning. (That was annoying in itself--it took weeks for a replacement to be summoned from Wallachia.) After that it was close fighting, with fists and knives. Had the traveling party been normal men no doubt they would have been slain, but the villains had not expected two vampires and one man strengthened by the blood of the Nosferatu. It had been quick and bloody. Rock had slain four himself, ripping and tearing with fangs and talons. He had taken the opportunity to gorge on his last victim. During the fight he had seen Simion slit the throats of two men, and gut another two. His knife was caught in the body of the last when a bandit had leapt at him from behind, and gentle Rill had made his first kill. He had caught the attacker and broken his neck with one hard twist. Then he had cried. That had been one of the few truly satisfying meals Rock had known since his change, but he remembered the incident more for what it had revealed about Simion. The man might act as a servant, but he was a soldier. With his strength enhanced by his blood tie with Draculea, he would be a formidable opponents, and Rock preferred to look for easier prey. Still... When Simion passed Rock again, the younger man reached out and ran his hand down his arm. Simion paused, looking at Rock. Their eyes met. Rock let his fingers massage the firm muscle of Simions arm. Simion gave him a small, cold smile. "You must be joking." Rock scowled, his grip tightening. "He hasnt forbidden it." "No, he hasnt. But I am free to choose my own companions, Rock, and you are not my choice. You never will be." Rock let go with a small shove. Only a small one, he did not dare more. "You dont fool me. Youve got your eye on Rill." Simion stared at him, but didnt answer. Rock nodded his head, smirking. "Its the way you watch him. Havent done anything about it yet, though, have you? You dont dare. Hes Draculeas little pet, and hed do something nasty to you if he caught you sniffing around, wouldnt he?" Simion shook his head. "Youre more of a fool than I thought, Rock. You can only see things from your own viewpoint. Draculea cares for Rill, and wants him to be happy. He would not forbid the boy anyone he truly wanted to be with." Rock frowned. "But you havent had him yet, Im sure of it. Why?" "Is there no end to your stupidity?" Simion hissed. "I will not make advances. Good God, the child has known nothing but use his entire life. He would give himself, because I have been kind to him, but I dont want that. If someday he comes to me, that would be different. But I will not ask." There was a small sound from the bed behind him, and Simion gave Rock a warning look before turning to a yawning Rill. "Good morning, young one." "Good morning, Simion." Rill sat up, throwing off the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, entirely unselfconscious about his nudity. "Good morning, Rock." Rock grunted, and Simion handed Rill a pair of drawers. "Dress, child. Your friend Barbee has been by twice already, looking for you." Rill donned the underwear and the stockings and pair of breeches that Simion had laid across the foot of the bed. As he was putting on his fine lawn shirt he said, "Simion, did you get a chance to...?" Simion smiled at him, showing him the jacket. "There." Delighted, Rill fingered the snowy falls of lace. "Oh, Simion, its beautiful! It looks just like the one Sinn wore yesterday." Simion felt a twinge. Rill was spending a lot of time with the young vicomte. *Its normal, I suppose. After all, Barbee is charming and attentive. The boy had little enough of that in his life since he came to us, and we... Well, the master is so often melancholy, thinking of Nicolae. And I... I am no courtier.* "Yes, Rill. Youll show up well beside him." Rill fingered one dark curl. "Do you think the prince would let me powder my hair?" Rock rolled his eyes, but Simion answered gently, "You can ask, if you wish. But Rill, your own hair is so

beautiful, why would you want to hide it under that white dust?" He considered. "I could wear a wig." "Youd have to have your head shaved or your hair cropped very short for it to sit properly." Simion put aside the jacket and took Rills hand. "Im going to tell you something that I dont want you to mention to the prince, then Im going to ask you do something for me, Rill. Pay attention." Rill nodded, round-eyed. He knew that he could sometimes be forgetful, but if he paid close attention, he could remember as well as anyone. "You have heard Draculea speak of his lost love?" Again Rill nodded, and his expression softened. "Nicu. I look like him a little, dont I, Simion?" Simion, surprised, said, Yes, a little. How did you know this, Rill? You have never seen the portrait that hangs in Castle Draculea." "It is the way he looks at me--like hes trying to look beyond my face. Like it hurts him sometimes." "That is what I am speaking of, Rill. You see, when they first met Nicolaes hair was cropped very short. If you do the same, I am afraid the sight will tear at the masters heart, though he would not admit it. Please do not adopt this style. Besides," he tousled Rills hair fondly, "why would you want to imitate all the fashionable dandies here at court when you can stand out just by being yourself?" There was a knock at the door, and Rock opened it. He found Sinn Barbee waiting in the hall. The young nobleman was dressed in what passed for casual clothes here at court--trousers instead of knee breeches and a simple shirt with only a touch of lace at the collar and cuffs. Instead of the usual richly buckled shoes (Rock had noted with amusement that he followed the custom of wearing built up heels to increase his height--Sinn Barbee was not a tall man) he wore knee boots. The boots would normally have been gleaming, but now they showed odiferous evidence that he had been around horses. Sinn gave the sullen servant who opened the door a quick glance, then looked beyond him. Rock, his name was. He was interesting in his own right--the soft, bright color of his air at odds with the hard handsomeness of his features. He was undeniably common, but the common were very good at satisfying the grosser appetites. He intended to get better acquainted with the servant later, but he mustnt neglect his main interest. Things were coming along nicely with Rill. He brushed past Rock and came into the room, smiling at Rill. "Rill, I was surprised you werent at the stables this evening." To allay gossip, the vampires occasionally appeared before sunset, but they stayed inside as much as possible, keeping themselves well muffled with cloaks on the very rare, very brief occasions they went outside before full dark. But yesterday had been a rainy, overcast day, with not a ray of sunshine visible, and Rill had ventured out more boldly. "Didnt the kittens hold your interest?" Rill became even more animated. "Oh, Simion, I forgot to tell you! Sinn showed me where one of the stable cats hid her kittens! Theyre just the most perfect, tiny little things--all of them as black as night." He laughed. "They barely have their eyes open, and they have no teeth, but they hissed at me when I picked them up." Interested, Rock came closer. "Where are these kittens?" Rill looked alarmed. "No, Rock!" The servant gave Rill a nasty smile. Rill looked appealingly at Simion. Simion said pointedly, "No." Sinn watched the exchange, interest growing. Rill did not react to Rock and Simion as a young master relates to his servants. *Theres a more intimate bond between these three, I think, but Im not quite sure what it is. It might be best not to be too imperious with them till I know how things stand.* Sinn addressed Rill. "Oh, Im sure he wouldnt do anything to harm the kittens." Rill looked doubtful, and Rock looked disgusted. "Not when he knows how much you like them." *Mmm, more doubtful still. Whatever is between you two isnt all pleasant, is it?* "I came to speak to the prince about your progress." Sinn smiled at Simion, knowing that what he knew, Draculea knew. "Hes doing very well. Already he has a good vocabulary, but the grammar sometimes

escapes him. Soon he will be able to make himself understood fairly well." Simion nodded. "That is good to know. Proficiency in different languages can be very useful, especially with the way the prince has travelled." "About that," Sinn sat on the bed beside Rill. The young man had become enthralled by the jet buttons on the jacket Simion still held, playing with them. "When the prince first arrived, I had the impression that he had come fresh from his home in the Wallachian mountains, and he spoke of Rill having led a simple life, yet speaking with you I would believe they had travelled the world for the last few years." "Im sorry if I have confused you, my lord. It was not my intention." *And that is all the explanation I will get,* thought Sinn. *Very well. It is time to begin fishing for information from my simple friend.* Rill showed the jacket to Sinn. "See what Simion has done for me? Look." He ruffled the lace. "Yes, Rill, very elegant." "Just like the butter yellow one you wore two nights ago. Will you wear it again tonight?" he asked eagerly. "We can look alike." Sinn smiled. "Not tonight, cheri. I could not wear the same jacket so soon--the gossip would be vicious. And besides, I will not be at court this evening. I have an errand elsewhere." Rill looked disappointed, then perked up. "Can I come? I could help with your errand." "Not this time, mon petit." He gave the boy a considering look. Madame Tisane would like him. The old hag always had use for the innocent, and the gift of a strong, handsome young man who was simple enough to be led would please her greatly. It might even inspire her to greater efforts in achieving Sinns particular aims. Sinn Barbee was only in his mid-twenties, but he had been seeking the secret of eternal youth for several years. He was obsessed with preserving his own physical beauty, and was willing to go to extremes to avoid the ravages of time. First he had tried conventional medicine, reading extensively and investigating every quack and physician that came to his notice. He had considered magnetism, mesmerism and bleeding. He had followed with interest the fad that had swept through the nobility of taking a regime of various (and increasingly bizarre) enemas. Hed come to the conclusion that conventional, and even fanciful, medical treatments were useless. Then he had gone on to consult alchemists, researching the effects of powders, pills, infusions, and unguents that contained ingredients both arcane and distasteful. He had kept track of people who tried all different kinds of concoctions. None of them improved, there was no evidence that the mixtures had even slowed their physical decay, and some of them... Well, some quite frankly had died. Sinn had finally resorted to mysticism. The Catholic church was of no use, exhorting its followers to accept their mortality. He had found Hinduism, with its round of rebirth, more acceptable, but even they believed that one had to die to regain youth through reincarnation. Sinn wanted to hold on to his present form. So he had finally turned to Satanism. It wasnt so much that he BELIEVED in it--there was very little Sinn believed in, aside from himself. But right now it seemed like the likeliest solution, and he was perfectly willing to try it. There had been no visible gains so far, but it was no more expensive than any of the other methods hed tried, and he intended to give it a real try. He hoped that he wouldnt be required to do anything too dreadful. So far hed only been required to pay the crone, and to make love to her a few times. It was quite nauseating, but hed managed it by thinking of an eternity of youth. He only hoped that he wouldnt be required to smear himself with blood or dung, as hed heard some supplicants had, or supply her with an unbaptized infant. *No, I wont bring Rill to her. This one would be missed, Im sure, and I do not think that Prince Draculea would be easily put off.* "Where is the prince?" "I believe he is in his room," Simion offered.

"Really? I knocked, but there was no answer." "Sometimes the master sleeps deeply." "And sometimes he simply ignores a summons." The door to Draculeas room had opened, and Draculea entered. "Good evening, Barbee." Sinn stood up quickly. "Good evening, my prince. I am sorry if I came by too early. I just wanted to explain that I will not be able to keep Rill amused tonight. I have some business to attend to." Draculea nodded. "Very well. We are grateful for your kind attentions, but of course you must not neglect your personal life." Sinn bowed. "I will be going, then." He hesitated. From the corner of his eye he could see the blonde servant lounging to the side. Rock was watching him, his gaze much hotter than was entirely respectful. "I have a few little things I want to give you, Rill. Just a set of buckles that would go well with the jacket, and some simple cuff links for when you wear a plain jacket." He gestured casually at Rock. "Let your man come with me, and I will send them back to you." "Thank you!" Rill gripped Sinns hand, squeezing it ecstatically. Sinn winced at the pressure. *Good God! He is stronger than he looks!* The grip continued to tighten, the sensation going from discomfort to actual pain. In a moment it was agony. It felt as if bones were about to crack. "Rill," he gasped, "my hand!" "Oh!" Dismayed, Rill released him, then petted the abused limb. "Im sorry." It took Sinn a moment to uncramp his fingers. He wiggled them, thinking, *Ill be damned if I dont think Ill have bruises!* He looked more carefully at Rill. *This isnt natural.* He noticed how carefully Draculea and Simion were watching him, and schooled his expression into breezy dismissal. "No damage, Rill. You just startled me." He started toward the door, saying, "Come along." Rock trailed after him, smiling. Simion and Draculea exchanged looks. Draculea said, "Perhaps I made a mistake in encouraging young Sinn to spend so much time with us. He appears to be more perceptive than most." Simion cast a significant look at Rill. "Simion, come into my room and help me finish dressing. Rill, do not leave without us." The boy nodded obediently, and the other two men went into the next room. Once the door was close, Simion said, "Do you believe he may become aware of the true state of things?" "I dont know. It is possible. Hes been spending so much time with Rill. The boy would never purposefully expose us, but, well..." He shrugged. Rill knew that their secret must be kept, but his childlike nature made him vulnerable. "Besides, Sinn does not have the generous, caring nature that he presents to the world. He sought our acquaintance for a personal reason. Im not sure what he hopes to gain, but he DOES intend to gain, make no mistake about that." "Should we eliminate him, lord? It would be simple enough. This place is so huge, the population so thick, that anyone who was not of the kings inner circle could simply disappear without too great an uproar." Draculea thought. "Not yet. It may eventually become necessary, but Rill is fond of him." Draculea shook his head. "I havent been able to find a time to get rid of that scum brother of his, and I dont have the heart to deny him this companion unless it is imperative. Well wait and see." "Very well, lord," Simion acquiesced. *But I will watch him. I feel that Barbee will either draw down his own death, or force us to exit Versailles abruptly.* end Back to index

Chapter 54: Part 54: Alliance

Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Rock/Sinn Archive: Lists, and I may ask to have it removed if I can interest a publisher. Disclaimer: I believe Dracula is public domain now. Original characters are mine. Summary: A bond forms between Rock and Sinn, as much as either can have with anyone. Rated: NC-17 Child of the Night, Part 54: Alliance The Year of Our Lord, 1713 Versailles, France The Palace at Versailles Sinn, though popular, was still a minor noble, and his room was in one of the more remote parts of the palace. He preceded Rock down the hall. While he resented being relegated to walking behind as if he were a pet dog, this time Rock was content because it gave him a good view of Sinns rump in his tight breeches. Sinn did not look around, but he knew what was happening. He could feel the servants gaze on him like a touch. *A hungry touch,* he thought. *Perhaps letting him satisfy his hunger will satisfy my own. That satin livery the prince dresses him in cant hide that delicious rough edge.* He stood back when they reached his room to allow Rock to open the door for him. The taller man glowered at him for a moment, then opened the door and stood aside with a clearly mocking bow. As he went into the room, Sinn reflected that such insolence, even though it was unspoken, often earned the offending peasant a beating. He found it promising. Rock followed the little lordling into his room, shutting the door quietly. This one was interested--he could smell it. The scent of desire was thick and musky, and it was making him hard. *Mustnt touch,* he thought sullenly. *Draculea says I mustnt touch the pretty lords and ladies. He says that if he finishes first as he rides my ass, I shouldnt complain when he leaves me to satisfy myself afterwards. Well, may your master, the devil, take you, Prince Draculea. This one wants me, and I damn sure want him.* Sinn paused in the center of the room, looking about, tapping his chin with one finger. "Now, where did I put those trinkets?" Rock approached him slowly, and Sinn pretended not to notice, stepping away to idly move some items about on his dresser. Rock wasnt adverse to a bit of a pursuit, and he smiled as he followed the younger man. "If you wish, Vicomte, I can return later." "No." Sinn turned to find Rock only inches away. His eyes widened in surprise. He wouldnt have thought the rough young man could move so quietly, but he had been as silent as a cat. "No," he said quietly. "I dont want you to go." "No?" Rock moved even closer. His chest brushed Sinns. "What DO you want, my lord?" "What do you have to offer, Rock?" Rock took his hand and pressed it to his fly. Sinn could feel the hard lump outlined beneath the cloth. Sinn gave the erection a leisurely feel, molding his hand around it and squeezing lightly. "Yes, I think this would do very nicely--if you arent afraid to use it." "There are few things I fear, pretty boy." Rock sank his hands into Sinns hair on either side of his head and kissed him hard. Sinns lips parted instantly, and Rock plunged inside, eager to taste the young man. Sinn almost choked in surprise. *Hes COLD. Not just his hands, but even his tongue, and what an odd, salty taste...* Rock was probing roughly, exploring Sinns mouth with ruthless enthusiasm. *But he DOES know what hes doing.*

Rock growled softly as Sinn responded to his advances by sucking on his tongue. Rock fumbled at the tiny buttons that closed Sinns silk shirt. They refused to slip from their holes, and he pulled back far enough to curse. When the servant wrapped his fist in Sinns shirtfront, Sinn touched his hand, saying, "Gently, Rock--at least till Im undressed. I dont have as much to spend on wardrobe as Id like, and this is a costly garment." The smile became sly. "Id rather not have to let some fat old courtier fondle me to earn a new one." Rock released his hold, pushing him away with a small shove. "Then if Im not to be your valet, strip--and do it quickly." Sinn began to unbutton his shirt. "Why Rock, one would think you were used to giving orders." Rock watched greedily as Sinn removed his shirt, his eyes stroking over the smooth, well-defined chest. He could just see the shallow dip of Sinns navel, set on an admirably flat belly. Sinn pulled off his boots and stockings, then began to unbutton his pants. He did so slowly, despite Rocks earlier admonition. Sinn knew well that, if he teased enough, his soon to be lover would have the rough, impatient edge that he now craved. The pants were laid neatly on the chair upon which Sinn had draped his shirt. Barbees drawers were made of silk so fine that it clearly outlined his engorged sex. He followed Rocks hot gaze down to his own crotch. Making a tsking sound, he touched a dark, damp patch forming just over where his glans rested. "Damn, I hope the laundress will be able to get this out." He smiled at Rock. "Do you think it will stain?" Rocks answer was a snarl. He grabbed the waistband of the garment and tore it away with one violent jerk. Sinn gasped, eyes widening in surprise. Before he could draw breath to comment or protest, he was seized, spun around, and pushed up against the wall--hard. Rock pressed against Sinns back, pinning him to the wall, and began to rub his crotch against the tempting curves of his bare ass. The walls of Sinns room were covered in elegant wallpaper that was flocked with a velvety design of fleurs des lis. Sinns nipples were hard, and the buds scraped first over the smooth sections of the paper, then the fuzzy patches of flocking, sensitizing them even more. Rock pulled back just far enough to be able to reach his fly. He unfastened his pants with sharp, motions, freeing his straining cock. When he felt the cold fingers prying his buttocks apart, Sinn thought of the small vial of oil he kept beneath his pillow, but things were moving too fast for that. He knew that Rock would be too impatient to take the time to prepare him, and he shuddered in anticipation that held an edge of fear. This was going to hurt deliciously. Rock DID prepare him, after his own fashion. Hed never been all that worried about not hurting his partners, except occasionally with Rill. He had tried to be a bit more careful with him, because if he was damaged it meant a loss of profits. Rock spat in his hand, rubbed it briefly against the pucker of Sinns anus, the pushed the leaking knob of his prick against the little pucker. Sinn flinched at the cold touch, but didnt have time to try to relax himself. Rock rammed home, sheathing himself fully in the liquid heat of Sinns body. At the same moment he pressed a hand over Sinns mouth, stifling the shriek that he couldnt hold back. He hissed, "Quiet, slut! I dont want to have to kill you." The chuckle chilled Sinns blood even as the steady plunge of Rocks hard cock heated it. Rock pushed up and in with each stroke, and his glans bumped over Sinns pleasure spot. The young lords knees grew weak with the combination of pain and pleasure, but Rock held him up with the press of his body. Barbees own erection was pressed tight between his belly and the wall. It slid back and forth with each lunge Rock made into his body. Later the maids would debate with each other exactly what had caused the odd streaks on the expensive wallpaper.

Rock brought his lips close to Sinns ear as he fucked him, whispering, "This is what you need, all you high and mighty nobles. The prince wouldnt be so haughty if he took a cock up his ass now and then." Sinn moaned his agreement. They might come from different worlds, but he could understand the servants philosophy. Rock pounded into Sinn in a near frenzy. It had been fifteen years since he had taken another man, and he used this chance to work out all his resentment and hatred of Draculea, punishing Sinn for the princes transgressions. Sinn was delighted. The only men hed found who had the arrogance and drive to use him this way had been old and unattractive. He was going to be very sore for a day or two, but it was worth it. Rock nipped him sharply on the shoulder, then the back of the neck. Sinn almost swooned with pleasure, a tiny corner of his mind hoping that hed be able to cover any passion bruises with a high collar. Rock was approaching his release, moving more quickly and more strongly. He used his hand across Sinns mouth to pull his head back and to the side, stretching his neck, and sank his fangs into the pale, soft flesh. Sinn screamed against the muffling hand as the burning pain ripped through his throat. He had come away from rough sexual encounters with distinctive half-moon scraped bruises inflicted by lovers either too careless or selfish to restrain themselves. Indeed he had often pleasured himself, stroking his prick as he traced over the marks, reliving each wound. But this... The man must have drawn blood. *If he scars me Ill see that he ends his days in the Bastille.* The hot blood gushed into Rocks mouth, and he gulped greedily. Oh, so good! Hot and rich and thick after the thin, foul blood of beasts. He drank deeply, slaking the almost constant hunger that his limited diet could never satisfy. He could have happily drained him, literally fucking him to death, but a primitive survival instinct caused him to slow, and finally stop. With a grunt and another brutal thrust he climaxed, spilling his cold, blood-mingled seed into Sinns abused ass. Rock leaned heavily against the still Sinn. He would have been gasping, if he had needed to breathe. He watched a crimson ribbon trickle down his partners neck and begin to dribble down his back. Rock idly licked it up, like a man savoring an after-dinner sweet. Then he tilted Sinns head again and gave the oozing wound a few licks to begin the healing, but he did this as a grudging afterthought. Now it was time to remove the incident from his victims mind. The man was limp, and Rock wondered if hed have to wake him up to mesmerize him. Then the alarming possibility that he had, despite his efforts, gone too far made him quickly turn Sinn, anxious to be certain that he had not slipped into unconsciousness, or worse. Sinn was pale, so pale that hed have no need to use rice powder to achieve the white skin so beloved of the French court. Even his pink lips had paled. His eyes were closed, and the lashes lay thick and dark atop his cheeks. Rock slapped him sharply. "Barbee! Damn you, dont you DARE die now! Im going to want you again, and I dont want to fuck a corpse--at least not an inanimate one." Sinns eyes fluttered open, the usually-clear green as cloudy as a stagnant pond. Then he blinked hard and his hand reached up to touch the only patch of color on his face--the pink smudge left by Rocks blow. Sinn stared at Rock blankly for a moment, then a slow, cat-like smile spread over his face. He leaned forward in Rocks grip and kissed him softly. Rock pulled back, staring at the Vicomte in disbelief. He looked like a rape victim, but he was acting like a sated lover. Rock glanced down and saw the mans flaccid cock, and the long, sticky strings of semen that streaked his leg. He gave a bark of laughter. "Ill be damned! What a perverted little whore you are." Sinns smile did not falter. "When you grow up in the aristocracy, particularly in a court as decadent as ours, it is easy to become jaded with the simple pleasures." His voice dropped to a purr. "I seek more exotic amusements."

"Aye, well, you found a bit more than you expected, didnt you?" "That is my very great good fortune." His knees began to buckle, and Rock caught him, dragging him to the bed. "Sit, before you fall." Sinn settled gingerly on the edge of the mattress, wincing as his ravaged ass touched the sheets. Rock sat beside him and took Sinns chin in his hand. Sinn said dryly, "As much as I enjoyed it, I dont think either of us is ready for another go-round." "Look at me, lordling. Look into my eyes." Willing to humor Rock, especially since he hoped to have another tumble with him before the prince and his entourage left court, Sinn obliged. The faint, ironic smile faded, and Sinns eyes widened as the vampire reached out to his mind, exerting his power. Rock touched the wound on Sinns neck. "You will forget this. It is nothing, an insect bite that you worried in your irritation. You brought me to your room, we fucked, and that is all. Do you understand?" Sinns voice was distant. "Yes." Agains Rock touched the wound and said in a conversational voice, "Sinn, what happened here?" Sinn blinked seeming to return froma revery. He touched the aching spot on his throat, and frowned. "This? Its nothing. An insect bit me. The sting was painful, but the itching almost drove me mad, and Im afraid I scratched myself raw before I could stop." "What a pity." Rock refastened his pants and looked at the still slightly-dazed young man. "There were some things you wished to send to my lord, Rock?" "Hm? Oh. Oh, yes." Sinn got up and went to his dresser, moving nonchalantly, as if he didnt realize that he was naked and streaked with come. "Yes, here." He went to his dresser and removed a pair of etched silver buckles and a pair of square cut gold cufflinks, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and handed the bundle to Rock. "Give these to Rill with my compliments, and my admiration." Rock bowed slightly, then left, not bothering to back out as an upper servant was trained to do. When he was gone Sinn sat down on the bed once again and spent a few moments staring at nothing. His hand drifted up again to his throat and he ran his fingertips over the raw patch, frowning. At last he arose and went back to the dresser. Pulling a small mirror from the upper drawer he held in up, tilting his head to examine his reflection. Yes, there was an injury. But why had he thought that it was caused by an insect, and aggravated by scratching? The mark was clear--two puncture marks, an inch or two apart, and a little ragged around the edges. Sinn stared, noting the faint line of bruises strung between the two marks. It looked familiar, but he couldnt quite place it. He put the mirror away, went to the wash basin, and began to clean himself. *I think something very strange happened, something other than a good fuck, but I have no idea what it is,* he thought as he absently wiped blood and come from his ass. He shrugged mentally. He rinsed the cloth, watching the water as it was tinted pink, not really caring about that. *I will.* TBC Back to index

Chapter 55: Part 55: Payment

Fandom: Dracula Archive: Lists I send it to, but I may ask for removal if I find a publisher. Disclaimer: I believe Dracula is in the public domain. However all recognized characters were created by Bram Stoker. Summary: Sinn pays a visit to Tisane, the witch, who has demanded special payment for a certain

object--one which will strengthen the vicomtes suspicions about Draculea and his brood. Warnings: Non-consensual, but non-violent, sex. Intimations of Satanism. Notes: nefiresc faptura--Romanian for unnatural creatures, aici a exista monstus--here there be monsters Warnings: Non-consensual, but non-violent, sex. Intimations of Satanism. Notes: nefiresc faptura--Romanian for unnatural creatures, aici a exista monstus--here there be monsters Child of the Night, Part 55: Payment The Year of Our Lord, 1713 Versailles, France A Cottage in the Woods Near Versailles "Monsieur le Vicomte, are you sure of the way?" Sinn paused, turning to look impatiently back at the boy who was following him. "I have walked this path a hundred times, Rustan. I could find my way there blindfolded. Now, stop dragging your feet. I dont want to be all night about this." "But sir, I brought a lantern. If you will let me return to the horses and fetch it..." "For the last time--no!" Sinn snapped. "Havent you learned yet, boy, that there are things that are best done in the dark? There is enough light to see where we are going." And, indeed, there was--just barely. Enough silvery moonlight sifted down through the branches for Rustan to be able to just make out the path, and the man who strode along before him. Still, there were far too many shadows to suit the boy. Rustan was the son of the Barbee familys head groom, and had grown up in Paris with his mother. When Sinn had come to court he had been sent along to care for the two horses and carriage that had been the Comte Barbees parting gift to his son. He was proud of the responsibility (not many seventeen-year-olds were so trusted), and he liked life at the bustling palace well enough, but the untamed countryside around it made him nervous. He had often prepared his masters mount for nighttime excursions, and waited for his return till the small hours of the morning, but this was the first time Sinn had demanded his company. Sinn hurried along, mentally cursing his lagging companion. Bring a friend, Tisane had said. A boy--a pretty one. He thought briefly of Rustan, with his dark copper hair, creamy skin, and dark blue eyes. *Well, he certainly fits the bill, and hell do what I say if he knows whats good for him. God knows what the old slut has planned. If Im lucky her attentions will be directed toward the groom, and I will be able to take my purchase and go.* Thinking of the item that might be waiting for him, Sinns heart beat faster. He hadnt even been sure that the book existed, but Tisane swore that it did, and that she could obtain it for him. Sinn knew this area as well as he claimed, but he was still startled when he came upon the cottage--he always was. The path wound between close-growing brush, and opened out suddenly into a small clearing. Sinn halted just at the end of the path, eyeing the small building before him. It was no more than a lighter shadow against the surrounding dimness. There were no windows--windows were still a luxury. No sliver of light escaped from beneath the rough door, but Sinn could just make out the wisps of smoke from the chimney as they drifted across the face of the moon. Rustan whispered, "Who would live in such a lonely place?" Sinn turned back to him with a not-very-nice smile, widened his eyes and whispered, "A witch!" Rustan swallowed hard. He knew that the Vicomte was teasing him, but he couldnt help being a little frightened. His old grand-dad had once seen a witch burned at the stake. He swore that a bat had flown from her mouth as the flames engulfed her. Sinn was watching him, wondering if he should have made that last remark. The little idiot might bolt, and then what would he do? Tisane wanted a second playmate, and if she were denied, she would not be easy

to deal with. "Youre not afraid, are you?" Rustan squared his shoulders. "No, mlord. Such things are only superstitions." Sinn nodded. Let him believe that, if it made him braver. "Im sure are right. She is only a strange old woman, but she has something I need, so you will help me humor her." He laid a heavy hand on the boys arm. "You will do EVERYTHING I tell you. Is that understood?" Rustan nodded. "Im serious, boy. I may ask you to do something you find distasteful. You must not hesitate." Rustan nodded again, more slowly. "Good. Dont worry, Ill not ask you to do murder. Come." Rustan knew that Sinn was being sarcastic with him, but it DID ease his mind a little. The nobility expected unquestioning obedience from their servants, sometimes even unto death. Sinn led the way to the cottage and rapped peremptorily on the door. Rustan hovered behind his master, casting nervous looks at the surrounding shadows. A cracked voice called from inside, "Who asks entrance at such a late hour?" Sinn scowled, but he answered civilly. Tisane liked to play her games, and it would not do to spoil them for her. She could be pettish if she was not humored. "One who seeks knowledge, wise woman." He glanced back at Rustan. "One who brings a fee, and a gift." "This gift you speak of--is it pretty?" "Very pretty, Madam." He heard the scrape of a bolt being lifted down, and a moment later the door creaked open. A golden glow spilled out, making Rustan blink and shield his eyes. Sinn had been expecting it, and had turned his face away to avoid being blinded, but still the figure in the doorway was nothing but a silhouette to him. He sensed rather than saw the woman looking past him, studying the blinking boy. Then she stepped back. "Enter, young ones." Sinn started forward, then looked back at his companion. "Well? Come along, boy." Rustan followed reluctantly. As he passed the tiny figure, averting his eyes respectfully, he felt a sharp pinch on his ass and jumped away, yelping. There was a dry chuckle as the door was shut and barred. He found himself in a typical peasants cottage--perhaps a bit cozier and cleaner than the average. It was warm, and there was a heavy, spicy smell in the air. He thought it might come from the bunches of dried herbs and roots hanging from the ceiling, but the smoke that rose up the chimney smelled of more than burning wood. She must have tossed some herb on the fire to scent the air. Rustan began to feel a bit light-headed. Sinn was talking to a tiny, ancient woman, their voices low. The Vicomte gestured toward him, and small, shrewd eyes turned to study him. She came toward him, her movements slow, but there was no unsteadiness in her movements. She moved the way a cautious person would approach a skittish child. "Well, now," her voice was high pitched, but strong. Rustan saw now that she might not be as old as he had first thought. The wispy hair that straggled from under her mob cap still had dark strands mixed with the gray, and the lines that marked her face had more to do with dissipation than age. "Tisnt often I have TWO such fine visitors. Whats your name, child?" Rustan started to answer, but had to clear his throat before he could get the words out. "Rustan Dubois, mlady." She cackled, raisin eyes twinkling with merriment that wasnt the least reassuring. "Mlady! Oh, thats rich, that is!" She reached up, and he flinched as she pinched his cheek. "Its a polite little thing, too. Would you like a sip of wine, my dear?" "I..." The place was clean enough, but the thought of eating or drinking anything this woman had handled made him feel a little queasy. "No, thank you, mlady." Tisane looked at Sinn, who said curtly, "Would you shame me by refusing her hospitality?" "No!" Rustan said hastily. "Yes, thank you." "Sit, then, the both of you." She took two crude mugs from a shelf and went to a bottle sitting on the table.

When Sinn made no move she spoke again, her voice a bit harder. "I said sit, lordling." He reached for the table. "Not there." The only other place was the rough bed against the wall. Wrinkling his nose slightly, Sinn sat on its edge. Rustan shifted uneasily till Tisane motioned to him. "You, too, boy." Rustan looked at Barbee doubtfully, but his master sighed and patted the mattress beside him. "Come, Rustan." He cocked an eyebrow sardonically. "Unless my nearness is distasteful to you?" "Oh, no, mlord!" Rustan sat beside Sinn, but the lightheadedness was beginning to take on a sense of unreality. Hed never before sat in the presence of an aristocrat, much less shared a seat with one. He noticed that the young nobleman was wearing some sort of scent. That wasnt unusual, as many courtiers preferred to use perfume rather than to bathe. What was different with Sinn was that there was no sour body odor underlaying the spicy scent. Tisane had filled the cups. Now she gave Rustan a sly smile. "I wager you like sweet things, eh boy?" When Rustan nodded, she laughed. "Well, Ill give you a bit of a treat then." She opened a small pot and spooned thick, golden liquid into one of the cups. "This honey is special. The bees feed only on the sweetest of clover, and they yield their honey only to me. Anyone else who tried to steal their treasure would sorely regret it." She stirred, then brought the drink to them, giving Rustan the sweetened wine. Rustan started to sip, then said shyly, "Vicomte, you did not want honey?" Sinn tipped a cynical look at the old woman, who smiled. "I do not need the honey to make me desire my refreshment, Rustan." They both drank, and Sinn watched the boy over the rim of his cup. Lowering the mug he licked his lips slowly, his eyes traveling lazily over his groom. "I find it sweet enough." Sinn set the empty cup on the floor and said, "Madame, you have what we discussed?" "Patience, Barbee, patience." She sat down in the chair at the table. "Entertain me a bit before we do business." She paused, smiling as her eyes flicked to Rustan, who had finished his wine and was setting aside his own cup. "Tell me the court gossip." Sinn sighed and began, "Well, theres a rumor that the king is thinking of taking another mistress." He clicked his tongue. "Seventy-five, and still he must play the rooster in the henhouse. The court beauties are driving their hairdressers and seamstresses mad..." Rustan sat, letting Sinns drawling voice wash over him. He found it interesting--as a stable worker he was not privy to all the gossip shared by the servants who worked in the palace proper. Like most of his class he was fascinated by the doings of his betters, and he wanted to absorb all that he could. Hed gain status among his fellows if he could relate a few juicy tidbits. Rustan tried to pay close attention, but he found his mind wandering. The room was very warm, and the air seemed almost thick. *Is the chimney blocked, so that the smoke seeps back into the room? The old woman doesnt seem to notice, nor does the Vicomte...* "...feeling well?" "Sir?" Rustan blinked at Sinn. Sinn gave him a condescending smile. "La, boy! A few sips of wine and youre addled." Rustan shook his head, trying to clear it. "I am sorry, mlord. I feel a little dizzy." Tisane held up her hands, her expression sorrowful. "Sinn, we are corrupting the innocent. What was I thinking of, pressing drink on him?" "Oh, Rustan is fine. A bit of wine is good for the body, and the soul. Youre swaying, Rustan." Rustan realized that he was listing, and drew himself up. "The room is spinning." Sinn chuckled. "No, that is only your head. Here, lean on me." He put his arm around Rustans shoulder, pulling the boy against his side. "Put your head on my shoulder." He pressed the bright head down on his shoulder and held it there, his touch familiar as he began to tell Tisane about the gambling debts that a certain Duchess had paid in a most intimate and unusual manner. Rustan, his senses swimming, relaxed against his master. He had enough self-awareness left to wonder at

his own boldness. While Sinn was not a cruel master he had never encouraged closeness, there was a good chance that hed regret allowing this casual contact, and punish Rustan later. Rustan let his eyes drift closed and his mind wander. The gossip Sinn was relating was quite scandalous. Rustan was surprised at the crude terms the Vicomte used. He had thought that only the lower order of street scum used obscenities with such ease, but the filth spoken in Sinns soft, cultured voice was oddly compelling. He blinked as he was gently shaken. "Rustan! It isnt polite to sleep during a visit." The room looked even hazier, and his surroundings seemed oddly drained of color. The only color was the vibrant green of Sinns eyes, and those were very close. "I am sorry. Perhaps if I took some air it would wake me up." He started to try to stand, but he lost his balance and fell back against Sinn. "Youll break your fool neck," Sinn scolded. He shifted, pushing Rustan back till he lay on the bed, then sitting beside him. "Lie down for a few moments. Rest." "Rest..." he murmured. "Yes, relax." Rustan closed his eyes again. He heard Sinn and Tisane whispering together, and he caught the words ...promised me... and ...show first, then.... "Very well." Sinns voice was annoyed, but he gently brushed the boys hair back from his brow. Rustan felt the warm fingers move over his face, stroking his cheeks and lingering on his lips before one fingertip pushed between. He was so relaxed that the invading finger slid deep into his mouth, stroking over his tongue before he realized what was happening. Before he could gather his wits it stroked sensuously over his tongue and Sinns voice, near his ear, whispered, "Suck, little boy. Lets see if you have any talent before we go any further." Rustan obeyed instinctively, tightening his lips around the finger and sucking softly. It slid in and out slowly, and Sinn sounded pleasantly surprised, "What was it you gave him, Madame? I would have sworn that he would have run like a startled rabbit by now." "My own concoction, Monsieur. I do not share my recipes, but it has been used more than once at your court, and I have been well paid." Her voice was amused. "Are you enjoying that?" "More than I expected. Hes a softer sort than I usually like, but he has possibilities I hadnt recognized." The finger was withdrawn, and Rustan sighed with loss, his tongue darting out to lap at his lips in search of a final taste. He heard Tisane laugh. "He likes it! Well, you may thank me for finding you a new playmate, Sinn, but youll not enjoy the pleasures of the boys throat tonight. I need his essence--BOTH of your essences, and I want every drop." Rustan felt tugging at his trousers, then a brush of warm air on bare skin. Sinns voice was amused. "Hes not wearing drawers. How deliciously low." Rustan, with a concentrated effort, managed to open his eyes. His master was leaning close over him. "Sir..." he whispered. "What...?" "Sh, Rustan. Youve fallen asleep. You are dreaming. Youve dreamed of me before, havent you?" It didnt occure to the boy to deny it, and he missed Sinns satisfied look when he nodded. "Then relax. A dream cannot hurt you," Rustan gasped as a warm, firm hand closed around his prick, squeezing, "but it CAN bring you pleasure." Again Rustan closed his eyes, feeling himself harden as the knowing fingers stroked and gently pinched. When they were withdrawn he moaned in loss, reaching out. There was a laugh, and a womans voice said, "Greedy slut. I like him, Sinn. You must bring him again." There was the rustling of cloth. "Dont plan ahead, Tisane. I promise nothing till you have fulfilled our bargain." "Sinn," he voice was chiding. "I have always dealt fairly with you, have I not?" "As fairly as any snake may."

"Bold lordling," her voice was silky. "I could punish you for that. Suppose I asked you to slit the throat of that pretty child while you pleasured yourself with him." There was silence, save for the distressed sound Rustan made. He was not so drugged that he did not understand the menace in the womans words. Rustan felt Sinns hand on his cheek. "Hush, boy. Shes teasing." Sinn gave the crone a hard look. He knew that she wasnt, that she was fully capable of demanding such a foul act. He also knew that he was capable of doing it, if he saw no other way to keep her favor, but he didnt want to. It wasnt so much for moral reasons--Sinn had the morals of a Paris alleycat. No, it was more for practicality. The boy was known among the palace servants, and would be missed. He let his hand move, stroking the warm, firm flesh that filled his hand. "You wont ask that, Tisane--not when hes so young and beautiful, and could be used again in the future." He had opened his own trousers. Now he eased out his own stiff cock and stroked himself in time with his ministrations to Rustan. "Must I continue like this? I know I cant fuck him because you need the seed, but I might as well enjoy this." "As long as none of the spend is wasted, I care not." A dry chuckle. "Enjoy yourself, pretty. You always do." "Just be ready to catch it when I tell you." Sinn got on his knees, shoving the limp legs apart, and lowered himself to his body. He sighed at the first brush of their sexes, and began to rub himself against Rustan. The boy had a good sized prick, and Sinn was tempted to rise up and spike himself on it, riding him like a stallion. Perhaps later... Rustan was moaning steadily now. There had been dreams before, but never one so vivid. He had never consciously thought past an embrace, or perhaps a kiss. There had been more in dreams, but they were confused--muddled images and sensations that had melted away with the morning light. He could never have imagined such pleasure, but he was frightened as well as excited. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice was whispering that he had been given no choice in this. Sinn humped against the weakly moving boy. If he could not have a strong, masterful lover, then taking his pleasure with someone so helpless was almost as stimulating. He gripped the boys waist, thrusting against him hard, relisishing the way the boy trembled beneath him. Feeling the boys hips begin to give tiny jerks, he called, "Hes close. Hurry if you want it, woman." Tisane snatched up a small jar from the table and hurried over. Sinn reared back on his knees, bent the boys rigid prick till the head pointed into the container, and stroked him, hard and fast. Rustan gave a choked cry, back arching, and warm, white sperm spurted into the jar, splattering with the force of the jet. When he had milked the final drops, Sinn lay back down on him and fucked against his body with increasing speed and strength. Finally he knelt back up again. Tisane held the jar and caught his spunk as he climaxed, his handsome face tense with concentration. When he was done she fitted a lid over the jar, gloating to herself while Sinn refastened his clothing, and Rustans. The vicomte poured himself more wine and drank it, then said wryly. "At least with your method theres little need for clean-up." He eyed the boy, who was still save for the rise and fall of his chest. "How long till hes fit to travel?" "Oh, not long, not long. His activity will have burned most of the drug out of his blood. Id watch him when you go, though, to be sure he doesnt fall from his horse. His balance is apt to be a bit weak for an hour or two." Sinn nodded curtly, setting aside the cup, and looked at her expectantly. "The book?" "For one who pursues his ends so meticulously, you can be quite impatient." She held out her hand. "The rest of the payment?" Sinn removed a small bag from his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it and peered inside. Seeing the glint of gold she once again closed it and tucked it in her withered bosom. "Arent you going to count it?" Sinn asked.

"Nay, lad. I know you have enough sense not to try to cheat old Tisane." "I could have miscounted." "As careful as you are? I doubt it." She went to a cupboard that was closed with a padlock. Pulling a key from her pocket she unlocked it and reached inside. She withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle and handed it to Sinn. Sinn stroked the cloth, then carefully unwrapped it. It was a book--a book that was at least two hundred years old. The binding did not hint at its antiquity. No, it had been carefully preserved over the years. Generations of owners had kept the leather oiled and supple. He opened it gingerly, but there was no cracking. The pages inseide were yellowed parchment, and the ink had faded from black to grey over the years, but the writing was still clear. " Nefiresc Faptura. Aici a exista monstus." He frowned. "Monsters? You said this would tell me about imortal creatures, perhaps give me clues that would lead to my own immortality." "And so it may. Immortality can be a monstrous thing, little lord." When Sinn turned a disbelieving look on her, she shrugged. "You are as yet young, and have not seen as much of the world as you think. Believe me, immortality can be both a blessing and a curse. Where is the wonder in seeing all that you know and love wither and die? Ah, forgive me!" She smiled cynically. "That would not be a problem with you, would it?" Sinn gave her a blank look. He knew, objectively, that he SHOULD care about others, but hed never really felt it. He was talented, though, and had learned to sham the emotions that others expected. Hed long ago abandoned pretense with Tisane, though. They recognized each other as cold opportunists, and there was a peculiar kind of respect between them. There was a soft sound from the bed. Sinn re-wrapped the book, went over, and prodded Rustan. "Wake, boy. You had my permission to doze, but must you snore?" The boy sat up groggily, and Tisane offered him a wet cloth. He wiped his face, shaking his head in an attempt to clear away the mental cobwebs. "I beg your pardon, sir--lady." He looked around in bewilderment. "I do not understand. I have had wine before, more than this, and it never affected me so." Tisane patted his cheek flirtatiously. "Ah, but this was MY wine, sweetling. I promise you that youve never had its like." *And never wish to again,* Rustan thought fuzzily. *My head aches, and why do I feel chafed in the crotch? What an odd reaction to drink.* He was happy that Sinn was ready to leave. Though there was no one thing he could point to, the place made him uneasy, as did its mistress. He decided that if Sinn ever asked him to come again he would find some excuse to demur, even if it meant punishment. The walk back to their horses helped bring Rustan back to alertness. By the time they had reached the other end of the path there was no danger that he would fall off his horse. When they reached the palace, they dismounted outside the stables. Rustan took both sets of reins, preparing to lead the mounts inside and settle them for the night, but Sinn halted him with a hand on his arm. "Rustan, you are not to speak of this to anyone. My business with Tisane is just that--MY business. If you tittle-tattle and gossip spreads among the servants, I will hear of it." His hand tightened warningly. "I will not be pleased." Rustan nodded. Of course he would keep his piece. Servants who spread information about their masters lost their positions, and sometimes their heads. Sinn scarcely glanced at the yawning footman who opened the door for him. The footman did no more than bow to him and ask if he needed an escort. He knew better than to question the nightly rambling of any noble. Sinn waved away the offer and hurried to his room. He lit a few more candles, stripped to his drawers, and seated himself comfortably in his bed with the book. He ran his hands over the cover, enjoying the smooth feel of the leather, then opened it and began to read, easily translating the Romanian. *Herein the serious scholar will find all the knowledge known to man concerning beasts and creatures that do not conform to the laws of God or Nature. Some are harmless, while others are clearly the minions of the Evil One, and should be killed, or avoided where

killing is impossible. Yes, yes. But are any of them immortal, and can their secrets be stolen?* He flipped pages, scanning them. *Banshees, Faerie folk, Mermaids, Ghouls, Succubi and Incubi...* He smiled at those, licking his lips. The illustration was quite interesting. *Unicorns. Didnt I read somewhere that drinking or bathing in the blood of a unicorn would restore youth, or stop aging? I must study that more closely. Lets see... Shapeshifters, Nosferatu..." He paused, blinking, his gaze becoming far away for a moment. His hand crept up and touched the bruised, raw spot on his throat. It had been more than a week, and it didnt heal. Somehow it seemed significant. He had a nagging feeling that there was something he could remember, something he could UNDERSTAND, if he could only concentrate. His eyes drifted back down to the book, and he frowned. The sketch showed a cadaverous creature with great fangs bending close over the bared throat of a swooning maiden. *This is important. This MEANS something.* Sinn settled back against his pillows and began to read. TBC Back to index

Chapter 56: Chapter 56: Love Realized

Fandom: Dracula Archive: Lists it was sent to, but I reserve the right to ask for its removal if I find a publisher. Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were created by Bram Stoker, but I believe they are in the public domain now. Other characters are the author creation. Summary: Rill and Simion admit and consumate their love. Rating: NC-17 Child of the Night, Part 56: Love Realized The Year of Our Lord, 1713 Versailles, France The Palace As Simion was helping Draculea with his boots the prince noticed a paper wrapped parcel sitting on the table. "What have you there, Simion?" "Nothing, my lord. I think its time for a new pair of boots for you. Would you prefer black or brown this time?" Draculea smiled, nudging Simions shoulder with his toe. "Whatever you feel best, as usual, and that was a most clumsy dodge. Is it a present?" Simion stood, dusting his hands. "Yes, Domn." Draculea waited. "And no more information. It isnt for me, is it?" "Im afraid not." "Then its for Rill," Draculea said decisively. "I wont press you about it." He smiled. "Ill see it soon, anyway." Simion answered his smile. "Indeed, lord. The boy cannot help but share his joy." Draculea stood, and Simion draped the silk cravat around his neck and began to tie it. "He has told me some of his previous life, even before his brother brought him to Budapest." He was silent for a moment, teasing a loop out to perfect fullness. Draculea laid a hand on his friends wrist, and Simion looked into his eyes. "I know. He has spoken to me, too. It helps him, I think. He is much more peaceful these days." "He deserves peace, my lord. I only wish that the bastard who sired him was still alive." There was the

hint of steel in his voice. "I do not envy you many things, prince, but this I do--you killed with your own hands the one who hurt your beloved." Draculea squeezed his shoulder, then dropped his hand. "He should be up by now. I think," he gave Simion an odd look. "I think Rill may have a present for you as well." "That would not be so unusual, Domn. The boy is always bringing me a night blooming flower, a feather hes found, or a pretty pebble. When we stayed near the seashore he offered shells, starfish, and sand dollars. Once, I was forced to persuade him to free a small crab." But all the other tokens, Draculea knew, were carefully preserved in a small box that went everywhere with Simion. The look that Draculea gave him was both amused and pleased. It was as if he knew a secret. "Hes very excited about this. Its something special." "And you wont tell me?" Draculea shrugged, indicating the package, and Simion shook his head wryly. "Yes, secrets must be kept." "Not all, my friend, and not forever." "Do you wish for me to send Rock to you?" Draculea sighed. "Not now. Ive promised to play cards with the prime minister." Simion pursed his lips, fighting a smile, and Draculea shrugged. "Hes lost over a thousand francs to me, and hes determined to win some of it back." Simion helped him on with his jacket. "So, how much will he owe you when you return?" "At least twelve hundred," Draculea smiled. He adjusted his cuffs. "Tell Rock he can have the evening off. Im a little surprised that he hasnt misbehaved since we have been at court. I didnt think hed be able to resist, with all these soft throats surrounding him." Simion had his own ideas about this, but he kept them to himself. Rock sat on the bed watching Rill with a tolerant expression as the younger man sat at the rooms desk, scratching industriously with a quill. There were at least a dozen pieces of papers crumpled on the desktop. Rills head jerked up as Simion entered, and he quickly tucked the paper under some others. "Does the prince need me, Simion?" "No, Rill--he is busy tonight." Simion looked at Rock. "Your evening is free." "Good." Rock stood up, stretching. "I think Ill go hunting. Im tired of making my meals off the peasants cattle." His tone was sarcastic as he left. "Perhaps I can catch a nice, healthy rabbit." Rill sighed, and Simion said, "He probably wont bother with the rabbits, Rill." "I know," the boy said matter-of-factly. "Hes too lazy." He brightened. "Will you play soldiers with me tonight, Simion?" "You wont be going with Sinn?" Simion carefully kept his voice neutral. He was trying not to resent the young nobleman, but Rill spent so much time with him. Simion had been used to having Rill mostly to himself during their journeys. The time he spent with Sinn Barbee rankled Simion, despite how he told himself that it was good for the boy to have a companion closer to his own age, even if that was only through appearance. Rill looked down at his feet. "You dont want to?" His voice was small. Simion went to him, touching his shoulder to make him look up. "I always want to spend time with you, Rill. You know that." He was rewarded with a bright smile that made his heart feel full. "But before we get the soldiers, I have something for you." He offered the package hed brought from Draculeas room. "Oh!" Rill took it happily. "I was wondering about that, but I didnt want to ask. It isnt even my birthday." Simion held his smile steady, despite a twinge of anger at the boys long dead father. The fact was that neither Rill nor Rock knew their own natal days. It hadnt been deemed important enough for their family to mark. Simion decided that they would choose a day and celebrate it from now on. Rill sat on the bed and turned the package over several times, then he slowly began to pick apart the knots

of the string that bound the paper. Simion sat beside him to watch. This had surprised him about Rill--his care and patience in unwrapping a treat. Given his childlike nature, Simion had expected him to eagerly rip and tear the wrappings from his gifts. Simion noticed that the boys fingernails had lengthened and sharpened *the better to help him deal with the string. Rill has adjusted to his state quite well, in his own quiet way.* Rill removed the string, then unwrapped the paper and gave a glad cry at what was revealed. "Lucifer!" he gasped. "Its Lucifer, isnt it, Simion?" It was a remarkably lifelike wooden horse, about the size of one of the tiny lap dogs so favored by the court ladies. It was posed on a base, rearing fiercely, hooves ready to strike out. Both Simion and Draculea had told Rill stories about the Princes great battle stallion, and the beast had achieved the mythical status of Pegasus in Rills simple mind. Simion had found a talented local craftsman and commisioned the toy, refusing the first two efforts as too stiff or not muscular enough. This one was almost a portrait of the long-dead steed. It was painted shiny, ebony black. The mouth was open to reveal white teeth, bared and ready to bite. The hooves were shod with steel, and the eyes were sparkling glass. Simion reached out and traced a finger over the carved swirl of the wild mane. "Yes, Rill--are you pleased?" Simion was startled when the boy suddenly threw his arm around his neck, burying his face against his shoulder. "Oh, YES, Simion! Hes beautiful! Ill love him forever." Simion patted his back awkwardly. "Im glad." Rill didnt move away, but he turned his head to look up at Simion. He wasnt smiling, as Simion had expected--his expression was solemn. "You always think of me, Simion." He reached up and touched the older mans face, his fingers soft and cool. "No one else ever has." "The prince cares for you, Rill." Rill shrugged, letting his hand slide down to play at Simions collar. "The prince is good to me, he cares about me, but he doesnt LOVE me." Again the boy turned wide, dark eyes up to Simion. "YOU love me, dont you?" And there it was, as simple as that, and he couldnt lie to the boy. His voice was a little hoarse. "Yes, Rill. I love you." The smile that Rill gave him made him want to cry. "Wait." He stood up and went to the desk. Setting the horse down, he reached under the stack of papers and removed one sheet, then brought it back to the bed and shyly extended it to Simion. Simion took the sheet and looked at it. There was a single line of words in the center of the page, the letters large and carefully formed. I love you, Simion. "Oh, Rill," he said softly. He felt tears well up in his eyes. Rills smile faded into anxiety. "I... Im sorry, Simion." "No!" He quickly wiped away the treacherous droplet and smiled back at the boy. "Oh, no. Im crying because Im happy, Rill." The smile returned, relieved. "Truly? I do that sometimes, when I think of how good you and the prince are to me. Does it really please you, Simion? I tried very hard to get it perfect. I got the prince to write them out for me so I could copy them." His voice was apologetic. "Im afraid it smudged when I hid it under the other papers, but I didnt want you to see it." "I think its beautiful. Perfect. Ill keep it forever." "In the box, with my other presents?" "Oh, you know about that, do you?" He ducked his head. "You left it out once. I wasnt spying." Simion reached up, touching Rills hand. "I know." Rill bent toward him slowly. Simion stayed very still, but he closed his eyes as Rill touched his mouth to

his own. The kiss was soft, sweet, and tentative. Rill pulled back a little and studied his face questioningly. "Is it all right?" "Its more than all right, Rill. Its what Ive wanted for a long, long time." Rill smiled joyously and sat beside Simion again, putting his arms around him. "I asked the prince, and he said that if you felt the same way, he would be very happy for us. I mean..." he hesitated, "if you want to be with me. Like Draculea was with his Nicolae?" "Rill," said Simion softly. He took the young vampires face between his hands. "Youre so brave." Rill blinked. "Me?" "I never would have had the courage to tell you how I feel." He kissed Rill. "Thank you." Rill buried his face against Simions neck, and they just held each other for a long moment. Finally Rill whispered, "Simion? Can I love you?" Simion closed his eyes. "Of course you can, sweet boy. Only tell me what you want." There was a moment of silence. "You can tell me, dear heart. Anything that gives you pleasure will pleasure me." "I... I want... But maybe you wont. I never have." Simion lifted his chin to look in his eyes. "Do you want to mount me, Rill?" He knew that the boy would have blushed if hed eaten recently, but instead he just nodded. Simion hugged him again. "Yes. I want that, too. I want it very much." "Rock always said I wasnt enough of a man to do that." "Rock is a vicious fool, child. He has no bearing on what is between us, so forget him. You are a man--a beautiful, strong, gentle man, and I desire you." Simion went and locked the doors, then came back to where Rill waited on the bed. He stood before the boy and began to remove his shirt. Rill watched, wide-eyed. When Simion dropped it to the floor, Rill embraced his waist, pressing a nipping kiss to his belly that ignited a fire in his groin. Rill pulled back and stood, beginning to remove his own clothes while Simion finished stripping. Simion had imagined this so many times. By the time they were both naked he was completely aroused, his cock so hard it almost ached. He was gratified to see that Rill was just as excited, his cock jutting eagerly, the head already slick with a thin film of reddish pre-ejaculate. "How do you want me?" Simion asked. "Id like to see your face," Rill replied decisively. He smiled slightly. "I want to be able to kiss you." Simion stretched out on the bed, moving a pillow under his hips to ensure that both he and Rill would be comfortable. For a long moment Rill stood beside the bed, staring down at the other man, slowly stroking his own prick. At last he said quietly, "I like to look at you. Youre beautiful." Simion felt himself blushing. *Oh, God, the eyes of love.* "You have ointment or oil?" Rill nodded, reaching into a drawer on the bedside table. "I havent used it much. The prince does not come to me often these days, so there is plenty." He set the open pot on the table, within easy reach, then climbed on the bed with Simion. Simion spread his legs, and Rill settled in the vee. They embraced and kissed. As Rill moved his tongue into Simions mouth he began to undulate against him, rubbing their arousals together with a slow, sensuous friction. Simion groaned, wrapping his legs around the boys slender waist, pulling him as close as he could. Rills flesh was chilly, but Simion had learned to find this erotic. He let his hands wander over the smooth, cool skin of the boy humping against him, relishing the liquid shift of muscle. After a few moments Rill pulled back, kneeling between Simions legs, and reached for the jar. He coated the fingers of his right hand with the white, sweet-smelling ointment. When he turned back, Simion lifted his legs, curving his back and hooking his knees over the boys shoulders. Rill paused for a moment, looking down at Simion, his left hand stroking the other mans thigh. Simion knew what he was seeing, knew that he was spread out for him, open and vulnerable. The idea excited him even more.

Rill reached down and wiped the ointment down the spread crease of Simions ass. Then, smiling, he caressed Simions rigid cock, spreading a thin film of the slippery ointment over his heated flesh, giving him a few squeezing strokes. When he moved his hand back down, Simion gripped his own erection and began to masturbate slowly. Rills fingertip settled against the pucker of Simions anus, and he begans to massage it with slow, circular motions. Simion did not instruct him to be careful and slow. Rill had suffered often enough at the hands of unconcerned lovers to know what hurt, and had been with Draculea enough to know what brought pleasure. Simion trusted him. Rill rubbed gently till he felt the tight ring of muscle beneath the crinkled skin soften, then pressed the tip of his finger to the opening and pushed slowly. Simion sighed as the digit sank into him. It had been a long time since hed done this. Draculea had limited his physical cravings to Rock and Rill, and if Simion was with any of the anonymous men he met during their travels, HE was the aggressor. How sweet to be the one who was taken, and cared for. Rill stared down, watching as he worked his finger in and out. When he judged it was time he carefully pressed a second finger in alongside the first and continued to stroke in and out, then started to spread them apart. Simion made a tiny grunt, and he said anxiously, "I didnt hurt you?" "No, its fine. It feels good." Rill nodded. "I know. The prince told me about a trick, but maybe only he can do it. I want to try to do it for you." Simion felt Rills fingers curve slightly, edging along his internal walls. "He said it was just a tiny, little bump." Simion felt a touch on his special spot. His back arched involuntarily, and he made a quiet noise. Rill laughed in delight. "I did it! I did it!" He rubbed again, watching as Simion writhed on the impaling fingers. "Oh, doesnt it feel GOOD, Simion?" "Yes!" Simion clamped his hand around the base of his cock, squeezing hard to prevent an immediate orgasm. "Please, Rill! I want to feel you inside me now." Rill pulled his fingers out and moved closer, settling Simions legs more firmly. Simion shuddered as he felt the cool, smooth touch at the entrance to his body. He braced himself. He would not flinch when the boy entered him. Rill must not suspect that he had even a passing discomfort, because that was all it would be--passing. Rill bit his lip and pushed forward slowly, sinking in an inch at a time. His eyes drifted half shut and his mouth dropped open, his head tipping back as he settled into the liquid heat of Simions body. When he rested against him he held still, feeling the heat seep into his own cool flesh. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, oh, Simion." Simion squeezed, giving the boy an internal caress, sending his muscles rippling along the buried length of the boys prick, and Rill cried out softly, his hips jerking. He bent forward till he could press his lips to Simions and began to move, fucking him with long, slow strokes. The coolness faded as his own body heat warmed Rills flesh. Simion buried his hands in the boys soft hair and put his lips to his ear, whispering, "Yes, so good. Show me your love, Rill. Let me feel it. Im strong, sweet one. Let yourself go." Rills head was down beside Simions and he didnt lift it, but he began to move more quickly, more strongly. Soon he was pounding into his lover with hard, fast strokes, hitting the special spot with almost every pass. Simion was jolted with pleasure. It was different somehow than what he had shared with Draculea. He knew that the prince valued, respected, and cared for him, but it was the same as it was for Rill--the prince did not love him as he had loved Nicolae. Simion knew without doubt that Rill DID love him, with all his simple, generous heart. He intended to spend the rest of his life showing the boy that it was returned. Rill had never experienced anything to match this. He had been sucked before, and had enjoyed it greatly, but it was nothing to compare to this. Simion was so tight and hot, and he MOVED. He cradled Rill in his

body perfectly, and Rill knew that this was where he was meant to be. As he moved he panted, "Simion, later... later you will do this, wont you? I want you to do this to me, too. We can do so much together." "Yes--everything. We have so much time, Rill." "Youll love me forever?" Simion strained up to kiss him again, sucking Rills tongue into his mouth and biting it gently. When he released him he said, "For as long as I draw breath, my lover. Yes, forever." Rill whimpered and ground against him, straining to plumb his depths, and Simion felt a gush of cool liquid bathe his bowels as he found his release. Rill pushed Simions hand away, gripping the older mans cock and stroking. "You, too! You, too, Simion!" Rill was still sunk deep inside him, Simion gave up fighting and let his climax sweep over him. His seed spurted strongly, bathing his belly and Rills quick moving hand. "There!" Rill said exultantly. "I did that, didnt I? I made you spend." Simion laughed. He dropped his legs far enough to wrap them around the boys waist, letting Rills softening prick slide out of his body. Then he rolled them over till they were both lying on their sides. Rill squealed with surprised laughter, then began peppering Simions face with tiny kisses. Finally they both lay still, grinning at each other. Rill said, "We wasted a lot of time." Simion nodded. "Arent we silly?" Simion hugged him. "Not really, Rill. I think we were both just a little shy." "Not any more," Rill said firmly. "Can I sleep with you now?" "When it will not endanger you. When we are where there is no chance that a stranger will intrude." Rill started to pout, and Simion took his nose between his two middle fingers, pretending to pull it till the boy giggled. "You know better than that, boy." Rill sighed. "Yes, I know." He snuggled down beside Simion. "You take such good care of me." "Its my life, dear one. And its enough." TBC Back to index

Chapter 57: Chapter 57: Deadly Discovery

Archive: Lists it was sent to, but I reserve the right to ask for its removal if I find a publisher. Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were created by Bram Stoker, but I believe they are in the public domain now. Other characters are the authors creation. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Summary: Sinns curiosity finally leads him to disaster. Notes:merde--shit Rating: NC-17 Child of the Night, Part 57: Deadly Discovery The Year of Our Lord, 1713 A week later Versailles, France "Sinn, your glass!" Sinn jerked, his eyes snapping open. The wine glass hed been holding had tilted in his slack hand, and the wine slopped out when he started. He cursed as an alert footman hurried forward and began to dab at the mess on his trouser leg. "Leave it! Theyre ruined now. Merde, it HAD to be on my new white satin."

Rill, who had been sitting beside him, said, "Im sorry. I should have caught it for you." He forced a laugh. "Dear boy, it is not your fault that I dozed off." He shook his head. "I dont understand it. Ive never become sleepy this early in the evening before." He yawned. "Im so TIRED." "Are you ill?" Rill asked, concerned. "Youre very pale lately. If youre sick, you should speak to Simion." The boys voice wasfond. "Hes very good at medicines." "Is he?" Sinn said. "You think a lot of him, dont you, petite?" Rill smiled, looking down into his glass. "Hes my friend." *Mm, and from that caressing tone Id say hes MORE than that. I wonder what the prince makes of that, if he knows at all? And surely he knows. He isnt an inobservant man.* "Well, Ive wasted my wine." He indicated Rills full glass. "But you havent even tasted yours." "Oh, this is my second glass," said Rill glibbly. "You were dozing, and I took another." "Did you? You must be careful that you do not become tipsy." *The level in the bottle hasnt dropped at all. Now, why would he lie to me about that?* He stood up. "Well, I must go change." "Will you be coming back?" "Probably not. Im going to stop by the library and pick up a book before I go to my room." "Yes? The prince likes the library. He spends a lot of time there." "So I have noticed." *I made it my business to learn his habits, and yours. He spends time in the library, but he does not read much. It is as if he finds the atmosphere comforting.* Rill continued, "I wish I could read better. Simion has taught me my letters, and I can read a little, but..." He turned his glass in his hands, staring into it. He sighed. "So many words in the big books." Smiling, he added, "Sometimes Simion reads to me. I like that. He read me one about a witch who ate children." He shuddered, whispering, "Monsters and witches. I used to be afraid of monsters, but the prince says there arent really any." Sinn stood up, ruffling Rills dark curls. "No monsters, perhaps, but there ARE witches. But dont worry, pretty one." He pinched Rills cheek. "I wont let her get you. Goodnight." Sinn made his way slowly to the palace library. It was seldom used, unless the a particularly large ball filled the other rooms, then the card games spilled over into it. Oh, occasionally some of the older courtiers would make their way there to peruse some book of philosophy, or an adventurous lady might search for a racy novel, but it was generally empty--of readers. More than one amourous couple had been surprised among the shelves. He was hoping to find a book that would tell him something about Wallachia. Try as he might, he hadnt been able to scrape up much information about Prince Draculea. Hed called on all his sources and had been given only scraps. No one could even say how Draculea stood in the royal line. For some odd reason the Wallachian nobility seemed reluctant to discuss the prince. Sinn had familiarized himself with the library early in his stay at court. He seldom read, but he was not adverse to a little research when it might help his interests. He located the books about other countries. There were plenty about the larger countries like England and Germany, but volumes about the smaller countries were few. Sinn located a single book--a history. *Ah, well, better than nothing. I can at least converse with the prince intelligently about the history of his nation. That should win a bit of favor.* He took the book back to his room and settled in to read it, hoping that he could make headway before he fell asleep. He was so tired lately. He went directly to the chapter that detailed the royal lineages. The book was not so old that it would be before Prince Vlads time, and Sinn hoped to finally determine his exact status in the Wallachian royal family. *Mm. Their rulers were called voivodes. Bogdan I, 1324-1352. Mircea cel Batran... cel Batran? Ah, the Old. 1360-1418. Draculea, Vlad Tepes, 1456-1462... So he was named for his ancestor. But why, then, is he not called the second, or the third?* Sinn considered the generations that lay between the first

Draculea and the present. *Or even the fourth or fifth. Well, heres where I start my study. Most people like to discuss their family trees.* There was an entire chapter devoted to Draculea, and Sinn flipped to it. As he began to read, dim memories began to stir. Vlad Draculea, Son of the Dragon. *Or Son of the Devil. I wonder if his pursuits were like mine?* The Impaler. This brought back more vivid memories. One of the servants had delighted in telling him tales of the monsters of the past, both real and imaginary. Sinn had found it fascinating. The servant had actually been disappointed when the boy lost no sleep over the blood-curdling tales. It seemed that the tales hadnt been mere fancy. The princes atrocities were set down as fact. Supposedly hundreds had died by his own hands, and most assuredly thousands had died at his order. *What a bloodthirsty family line you have, Prince,* Sinn thought. *And I cant help but think that a bit of it has been passed down to you, despite your charming demeanor.* There were illustrations--woodcuts that showed the forests of impaled victims set up by the ancient ruler. One showed the prince dining in a table set amongst the stakes. Sinn flipped the leaf and came to a full page portrait of Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea. He studied it, frowning. It, too, was a woodcut, though the text said that there was an oil portrait. He wished he could see the painting--the print was so stylized that it could have been any one of a number of people. Except... He frowned. *The mustache. The mustache does not belong.* Sinn went to his dresser and rummaged among the jars and pots till he located a small container of white paste. It could be used to impart a pale complexion if one did not want to go through the danger and discomfort of being bled or taking arsenic. Sinn had used it only once, then discovered that it contained lead. He hadnt thrown it away, thinking that there might be some future use for a toxic substance. Now he dipped his finger in the paste and painted it over the dark patch that represented the moustache. It took him two coats before it was thick enough to blot out the distracting image. Once it was done Sinn wiped his hand clean and squinted at the page, tilting his head, trying to make allowances for the paler color of the makeup. He blinked, and something seemed to shift. He knew that it could be nothing more than his perception, but it was almost as if the lines of the picture had changed subtly, and he was suddenly certain that he was looking at a portrait of the PRESENT Prince Vlad Draculea. *I know that family resemblence can be great, but to have the very image of one appear two hundred and fifty years later...* Sinn turned the page, interested to read the rest of the first Draculeas life. *Married to Elizabeta Varga in 1462. He seems to have mellowed a bit after that. There arent any incidents of violence mentioned till 64.* Sinn read a bit more and shuddered. *Good God! Im all for protocol, but the man took it beyond the limits. Spikes! Brrrr. And that, of course, helped trigger the Turkish aggression. You can hardly blame them. The woodcut of the battle is quite vivid, also.* Sinn turned the page, eager to hear what end the prince had come to. This was not the sort of man likely to die a peacefully, in his own bed. *Judging from the hints about his private life it might have been in someone ELSES bed, killed by a jealous lover. Im beginning to wish it WAS him here at court instead of his descendant. The blood usually thins out down the line.* Sinn read further. His smooth forehead slowly wrinkled in perplexity. *Well, Ive read a good bit, but Ive seldom come across such a run of obscurity and misdirection.* He read the passage again, and it made little more sense. *Why, they dont actually say that he died. The ground trembled with a great rushing of wind when the Son of the Dragon spoke his blasphemy, and the Prince fell down as one dead. All God fearing Christians fled the castle, and thenceforth the place was cursed, haunted by Nosferatu.* "Furthering your education, Sinn?" Barbee dropped the book in surprise, but Rock snatched it before it hit the floor. Sinn gaped at the young man, then tried to regain his dignity. "I didnt hear you knock." "Perhaps thats because I DIDNT knock." Rock idly ruffled the books pages. "I never took you for an

intellectual." Sinn reached for the book. "Just some light reading." Rock held the book away from him. "Youre a bit anxious to get this back, arent you? I wonder why?" He took a few steps away and turned the pages more slowly. "Thats of no interest to you." Again he tried to take the book back. This time Rock shoved him back casually. "I CAN read, you know." "I dont doubt it. I never said you werent clever. Now give me that!" He tried to snatch the book. Rock put his hand on the young lords face and pushed him down on the bed. In a flash he was over him, kneeling on his arms. Sinn thrashed, but couldnt budge him. Damn! When had he become so weak? Rock stared down at him. "Youre entirely too eager to get this away from me, Sinn. That makes me curious." He looked at the book again. "The History of Transylvania, Also Known as Wallachia." He looked down at the now unresistant Sinn, studying him. "So, researching the prince?" "Thats a history, Rock. It doesnt cover the present situation." Rock turned the pages. He paused at one, and his eyebrows rose. He touched the page, then examined the pale smear that came off on his finger. "The king wont like it, your dirtying his books." He wiped the face paint casually on Sinns shirt, then continued reading. Rock went very still. The only movement was his eyes, flicking back and forth. Then his lips slowly formed the word Nosferatu. Rock dropped the book to the floor, then lowered himself till he was stretched along Sinns prone body, blanketing him. "Sinn..." his voice was chiding. "Oh, Sinn. Havent you ever heard the old saying about curiosity and the cat?" Sinn, for the first time in his memory, was truly afraid. "The book isnt very useful. I wanted facts, and it gave me fairy tales." "Did it? Ive always enjoyed a good fairy tale. Tell me." Sinn licked his lips nervously. "Just the usual folktales that the ignorant peasants whisper to each other. Ghosts and loup garous." Rock settled even more. "Shapeshifters? Surely an intelligent man like you doesnt believe such nonsense." "No, of course not." Rock stroked Sinns hair almost gently, and Sinn shuddered at his cold smile. "Now, the undead..." "Superstition," Sinn whispered. "Lies. Myths." Rocks smile widened. Sinns heart started to hammer as he saw the glint of fangs. The young mans eyes were red. "Not all of it." Before he could scream Rock lunged. As Rock tore into his throat, Sinns cry died before it could be fully voiced. Sinn shoved weakly at the monster crouching on top of him, but his struggles faded quickly. He felt so weak, his head swimming. *This has happened before,* he thought dazedly. *Oh, God. The pain, and the weakness, and... and...* The heat. There was a wave of erotic pleasure mingling with the pain and terror. He wasnt getting hard, and he realized vaguely with dawning horror that it was because he didnt have enough spare blood to achieve an erection. As he began to slip into darkness, his last coherent thought was, *Nosferatu. Perhaps... perhaps I shall live, even though I die...* Rock felt him die. He sensed the sudden stillness in the body beneath him, the subtle shift in the flavor of the blood, the minute difference of odor, and he jerked back, alarmed. Barbee lay beneath him--limp, his green eyes dull without the spark of life to illuminate their glance. "Fuck!" Rock hissed. Enraged beyond sensible thought, he shook the body roughly. Sinns head rolled and jerked bonelessly and, with his enhanced senses, Rock could feel his flesh beginning to cool. He dropped the corpse back on the bed with a snarl. His first instinct was to flee. Draculea would surely kill him for this. The prince was adamant about their

limiting themselves to criminal victims, ones who would not be missed by anyone who could make trouble for them, but Barbee... Barbee was a well-known, popular member of a powerful court. He got up and paced, wiping his mouth absently. *I have to go, I should have left long ago.* He paused, glaring at the body on the bed. *But I cant just leave him here. This place is so crowded it will be a day or two before anyone is certain that he is missing. If I hide him well enough, I should have time to disappear.* He wrapped the cooling body in the beds coverlete. No one would question a servant walking the halls with what looked like a bundle of laundry. Indeed, it was unlikely that any of the nobles would even remember seeing him. He made it out of the palace without being confronted by anyone. He hefted the body over his shoulder, grateful for his enhanced strength. Sinn wasnt big, but he was solid, and hed have been a real burden before Rock had been turned. There were several cottages on the outskirts of the palace grounds, occupied by groundskeepers. He found a horse tied up behind one of them, and appropriated the animal, slinging the body across the nervous animals back and going deeper into the woods. When he thought he was far enough, he looked about. There was a great, hollow log on the ground, some long ago felled forest giant. This would do for Barbees tomb. Rock carelessly stuffed the body into the log, then mounted the horse and rode. He knew that he needed to find some safe hiding place before sunrise, and he wanted to put more distance between himself and Versailles--or more particularly, Draculea. He felt no twinge at abandoning his brother. Rill was nothing now but a source of envy and frustration. Once he was free of Draculea, he should be able to acquire his own servants. Yes, with his new powers he should be able to lead quite a satisfying life. As he rode on, it never occured to him that even after two hundred and fifty years, Draculea had not learned the full extent of his condition. Rocks arrogance easily convinced the young vampire that he knew everything. He and his lord were about to learn just how strong the bond between a childe and its sire could be. TBC Back to index

Chapter 58: Chapter 58: The Third, and Retreat

Fandom: Dracula Archive: Lists its sent to, but I may ask to remove it if I find a publisher. Disclaimer: I believe Dracula is in the public domain. Original characters are my creation, and copyrighted. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribble and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluve Summary: A new vampire awakens, and finds a place, and Draculea grows weary of the world. Warnings: Intimations of Satanism. Notes: mon porcelte doux--my sweet piglet, petit--little one, que je suis faire avec vous?--what am I to do with you? Rating: NC=17 Child of the Night, Part 58: The Third, and Retreat The Year of Our Lord, 1713 The Next Night

Versailles, France Rills eyes were worried. "He never came back, my lord. I fear for him." Draculea regarded the boy, seeing how troubled he was. Simion sat beside his young lover, his arm around him comfortingly. "Be calm, Rill. Perhaps he found himself farther afield than was safe when dawn approached, but he knows well enough what he must do to remains safe. Surely he found some dark place where he would not be disturbed." Despite his words, Draculea was not at all sure of what he had said. Rock followed the rules set down for his safety only grudgingly. He hadnt yet felt the sting of sunlight and might not yet really believe it could be so dangerous to his kind. Draculea no longer ventured from his inner rooms on even the most overcast or rainy days. He suspected that the longer he existed in his present state, the more vulnerable he was to the ravages of the day. If this was true then he risked much more than a simple burn if sunlight struck his skin. Rill wiped his nose, sighing. "I suppose so. He just WONT take proper care, though. I dont suppose Id be so upset if I wasnt worried about Sinn, too. I was going to ask him about Rock. Sometimes they are together," he said matter-of-factly. He didnt notice the look exchanged by Simion and Draculea. "so I went to his room, to see if Rock was there. But Sinn wasnt there, either. I asked the girl who takes care of his room, and she said she hadnt seen him. That might not mean anything. I mean, Sinn doesnt have much to do with the servants. But none of the courtiers remember seeing him, either." The look he turned on Draculea was both anxious and hopeful. "Do you suppose they are together?" Simion gave him a squeeze. "I wouldnt be at all surprised, love. Dont trouble yourself about him--hell turn up." Draculea ruffled the boys hair. "If it makes you feel better, I shall look for your friend and your brother." Rill gave him a bright, grateful smile. "Thank you, my lord." He nodded. "You will find them." His trust was simple and complete. "Now, I know that you are not comfortable with the court, Rill, but you need to keep occupied while Simion and I search. There is always a group of elderly ladies in the small blue salon--go sit with them. You know enough French now to make a little conversation, and they will be pleased to have a handsome young man seek their company." Rill rolled his eyes. "They always want to pinch my cheek or pat me on the knee. Very well." He gave Simion a kiss, then left. Draculea watched as Simion smiled softly after his lover. "Its good to see you two together, Simion. I have never seen you so content." "He completes me, lord," Simion said simply. Draculea nodded sadly. He could well understand how his friend felt. If he still prayed, he would have petitioned God to keep Rill safe--for Simions sake. He knew the agony of losing a soul mate. "Can you tell me anything about this mystery, Simion?" "Sinn and Rock have been intimate, my lord. It would not be surprising if they were together, but I am at a loss as to where they might have gone." Draculea grunted. "I have suspected that they had formed a liaison. I am not as inobservant as either of them believes. I also think that Rock has been supping from the Vicomte." Simion scowled. "Against your express orders? I wouldnt have credited him with the courage." "Oh, it isnt courage, Simion. Its more arrogance, and stupidity. Ive noticed how pale and languid young Barbee has grown lately. While it is fashionable to take arsenic to achieve the delicate pallor and air, Sinn is too careful of himself to risk his health. He wants to live too badly. I wouldnt put it past Rock to try to ensnare Barbee, and use him to finance his escape." Draculea laughed shortly. "Hes chosen badly. Sinn puts up a good front, but his funds are limited. He makes do on an allowance from his father and whatever gifts his admirers provide." His eyes narrowed. "If they HAVE fled, they wont get far. Still, we had best

exhaust all local possibilities." "Yes, lord. I will search the domestic quarters. I will cause no suspicions there. But what shall we do about the private rooms?" "We need not enter them, Simion. The bond between a Nosferatu and its childe is strong, and grows stronger with time. If I reach out with my mind, I can sense Rill and Rock. I know that it works when they are nearby, but I cannot be as sure it will succeed if Rock has put a great distance between us. I cant help but feel, though, that it cannot be broken. I need only stand outside the rooms and FEEL for him--then I will know if he is there." They began their search. Simion spoke with the servants, and none had seen Rock since the previous day. Draculea brought Sinn up with every courtier he met, and it was the same. Vlad either entered or paused outside every room in the palace, reaching out with his inner being, but he found no trace of Rock. No PRESENT trace. His wayward childes scent was thick in Sinn Barbees room. Draculea stood in the center of the room, turning slowly, searching the atmosphere with every fiber of his being. Simion came to the room and found his master sitting on the neatly made bed, staring blankly. "Master?" "There has been death here, Simion. I smell it." Simion cursed quietly. "There is no sign of either of them, my lord. It looks as if Rock killed him, then fled." "I have no doubt of that." Simion paced. "Someone will notice Barbees absence soon, and there will be questions. Everyone knows how close he has been lately with Rill." "Remain calm, Simion. Nothing will happen to your lover--I wont allow it. But I think it best that you begin packing, and notify the gypsies to be ready to move at a moments notice. We may have to leave quickly." "We cant go with that bastard still running loose." "I know that, and we wont. It may take a day or so, but I believe I can find him. But not now--the sun will be rising soon. How is Rill?" "Near frantic with worry that Rock has still not returned. When will he be free of this compulsion, my lord? The filth did naught but use him, and still he is loyal." Draculea sighed. "The most abused can love the deepest, Simion, even where the love is undeserved. Nicolae grieved for Ernestu, when most others would have danced on his grave. Try to keep the boy calm for awhile longer, Simion." ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** The next evening Draculea found himself faced with a determined Rill. "I want to go with you." "No, Rill," Draculeas voice was gentle, but firm. "I dont know how long I will be gone. If I were caught away from the palace, it would be too hard to find shelter for us both. Besides, Rock or Sinn might return. You should be here when they do." Rill nodded reluctantly. Draculea thought it very unlikely that Rock would return on his own, and he was now sure that Sinn COULD not. The ambitious, smooth young courtier was probably resting in a shallow grave, if Rock had taken the trouble to bury him. It was likely that hed already provided a meal or two for some forest scavenger. But Draculea was wrong in that. As he mounted his horse and set off with one of the gypsies in search of his runaway childe, Sinns body was still quite untouched. The hollow log Rock had chosen for his final resting place had been the home of a large, ill-tempered badger. It had been very displeased when it had returned to find the cold, cloth wrapped bundle stuffed in its lair. In fact, it had worried at the sheet until it had ripped a hole in it, exposing two pale, bare feet. Hed been about to bite when hed stopped, nostrils flaring. An old denizen of the woods, he was familiar with carrion, and its scent, but there was something different here.

This smelled dead... but not quite. There was something wrong here, something so wrong that he backed out of the cozy den and waddled off into the woods, seeking shelter elsewhere. Later a fox came sniffing around the log. It jerked back, bushy tail bristling, large bat-like ears lying close to its skull, then ran away, whining. Sinns body lay undisturbed while the blood of the Nosferatu, the blood hed ingested many times while drinking Rocks seed, percolated through him, changing him. ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** Draculea had been forced to take shelter with the rising of the sun, taking a room at a small inn. His gypsy sat up, guarding him while he slumbered. By the next evening his frustration was intense because hed managed to pick up the trail of his errant childe. Hed come across the carcass of a cow, its throat ripped. At a wayside tavern, hed heard babbled gossip about a red-eyed devil that had tried to attack a young couple walking home. It had only been driven off when a group of men in the tavern had heard the screams and gone to investigate. As it was, the young man was unconscious for hours, and the girl suffered a great wound in her neck, nearly bleeding to death before an old granny woman had stopped the flow with an herbal poultice. *The fool! Two nights away from my supervision and he has the countryside in an uproar! Killing innocents, and so boldly that he is nearly captured. Hell be the ruin of us all if he isnt stopped. Well, he cant be far. Damnation, its time I took him back to Transylvania. At Castle Draculea hed be isolated enough that he could cause no trouble. Im weary of this traveling, anyway. Id hoped that I might find Nicolae, but it seems a fruitless dream. I might just as well go home and await his return. Hell find some way to come to me.* Draculea set off again, knowing that Rock had to be nearby, feeling his presence at the edge of his awareness. The gypsy followed as best he could, though he had to stay on the roads. He was driving a small, light wagon, which carried Rocks sleep box. Beside it in the bed of the wagon were also several lengths of chain and stout padlocks. Draculea did not intend to allow Rock to escape once he was captured. **~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~ Sinns awareness burst up through layers of nothingness, and he knew immediately that this was not an ordinary awakening. He came awake to cold, and utter blackness, and raging, consuming hunger. And he found that he couldnt move. Oh, that wasnt strictly true--he COULD barely move his arms and legs, but he was restricted. He was wrapped in some sort of cloth, but beyond that, there was a more solid barrier. *I died,* he thought. *This cloth is my shroud, and the walls beyond my coffin. How shall I ever get out if they buried me deep?* Most people would have panicked, going over into hysterics, but Sinn was not most people. Despite the thirst clawing at his throat and the hunger gnawing at his belly, he was able to assess his situation. *Im not breathing. Good--I wont have to worry about suffocating at least. That means I have a little time.* For a few moments he lay, considering all the details he could gather. Gradually he concluded that he had not been buried. He could hear things that he wouldnt have been able to if they had been muffled by soil. And he wasnt in a coffin. The barriers on the other side of the cloth seemed rounded instead of squared off, as a casket would be. He felt a slight shifting of air around his feet and his head, so that meant there were openings. He wiggled, shifting himself minutely ahead. Luckily, the sheet hadnt been wrapped too tightly around his head, and he was able to gradually work his way out of it. When his head was clear he paused to look around. *I shouldnt be able to see anything, as dark as it is, but I can, and this is NOT a coffin. What did that dog do to me?* He continued working his way forward. First, his head was clear, then his shoulders. He was outside, in the forest. *The bastard! He tossed me away like trash!* He got his arms free, and was able to pull himself the rest of the way out.

Sinn stood up, brushing dirt and twigs out of his hair, swearing softly. *Well, the pants were already ruined with the wine. Now Ive lost the rest of the clothes, and...* He paused, his eyes widening, then he laughed. *I died. I came back. I am a Nosferatu, immortal, and Im worrying about my wardrobe!* He sat on the log to think, wrapping his arms around his belly in an attempt to calm it. *I cant stay at Versailles now, not unless I have someone to keep watch while I sleep.* He tipped his head, thinking. *If Rock is Nosferatu... He cant be the only one. Yes, I remember now. That illustration in the book HAS to be Draculea himself. So, Rock is Draculeas creature. Does that mean that I am Rocks?* He frowned. *I dont think I like that. If I have to belong to someone, it should be someone more powerful. I need to get the prince to accept me. I think I could spend eternity safely under his patronage. But he hasnt been so readily charmed. Rill will plead for me, Im sure. Rill...* He shook his head, recalling the chill of the boys flesh, the strength of his grip. *Damnation. A clutch of vampires living at Versailles, and no one aware of it! And Louis prides himself on the intellectual level of his court.* The hunger finally overwhelmed him, and he got up and began walking through the woods. He knew what Nosferatu fed on, and there should be someone nearby he could use to slake his thirst. He hadnt gone far when he came upon a path that looked familiar. Sinn paused, grinning. The moonlight glinted off fangs, and his green eyes momentarily sparked red. This path led to Tisanes cottage. "Perfect," he whispered, hurrying along the path. ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** A thin wail pierced the incense thick air of the cabin. "Oh, hush, brat!" snapped the witch. "I know youre hungry, but I have nothing for you. In any case, theres little point in feeding you now." She poked a long, bony finger at the naked infant who squirmed on her bed, and she smiled horribly. "The Master wont care if your belly is empty when I send you to him." The little girl, no more than two or three days old, blinked and wailed again. Her first two days had been relatively pleasant and peaceful. Her young mother had nursed her and cared for her, even rocking her gently to sleep. Shed cried when the great, rough man, her grandfather, had taken her away. The infant, who had not even been officially named, hadnt understood their words, but the mothers father had assured his daughter that the baby would be placed with a respectable family, who would raise her as their own, without the stigma of illegitimacy. That was what the baby broker had told him, and perhaps he even believed it. In any case, the man who had taken the baby as a favor had sold it to Tisane for a purse of silver. He wasnt unaware of the significance of the thirty coins, or what the evil looking crone might have planned, but he wasnt overly concerned about it, either. Tisane left the baby on her bed, confident that it was not yet old enough to move to the edge. She wouldnt want it to fall and kill itself. No, no, that wouldnt do at all. The proper ritual had to be observed for her master, Satan, to receive the childs soul. Otherwise, it would simply fly off to Limbo to await the Second Coming. Any spell in which she used the body parts would have much less chance of working properly, and she intended to render down the fat for another try at that invisibility salve. She got a large, ancient book down from the shelf and opened it, muttering to herself as she read the recipe. She needed to have most of the potion ready in the cauldron, so that the blood could be added immediately, while it was boiling. She began to throw in various herbs and items. There was a knock on the door, and she looked up, cursing. She had no appointments scheduled for tonight. Whoever was brave and foolish enough to bother her now would be sent packing, perhaps with a smarting head to remember her by. She hobbled to the door and called, "Who troubles a poor old woman?" The voice that answered was familiar. "Madame, it is I--Sinn Barbee." "Sinn?" She frowned. After his first visit she had told him that he must make arrangements, and could not just show up at her door. He was usually more careful about obeying directives, knowing that he needed to stay on her good side. "What do you want, boy? I am busy tonight."

"Something has happened, Tisane--something marvelous! Let me in, so that I can tell you." Tisane glanced back at the baby, who had grown quiet, save for a few low whimpers. Perhaps she SHOULD let him in. If she got him to participate in the ritual, it would bind him even closer to her will. Once he had damned himself by committing infanticide, he wouldnt dare try to pull away from her influence. Besides, she thought with a hard smile, she enjoyed causing others to commit cruelty. She unbarred the door and opened it, stepping back. He had moved back, just beyond the reach of the feeble light that came from the cottage. All she could see was a vague outline, a shadow. "Well?" "Ask me to come in, Tisane." The voice was a whisper. She snorted. "You need an invitation after all this time? Very well." She swept him a mocking curtsey. "I bid you enter, young lord." "Thank you." He stepped into the cottage, shutting the door behind himself. "I wasnt at all sure Id be able to get in without your permission. Some of the legends say that we cant." Tisane didnt understand what he was talking about, but wasnt about to admit it. "What was it you wanted to tell me, boy?" She frowned. "And what has happened to you?" She took in Sinns appearance. The young lord had always been very careful off his appearance. Now his clothes were filthy--stained and rumpled, even torn in places. His hair was full of leaves and twigs, and... She blinked. His feet were bare, the pale arches streaked with mud. Had he been walking through the woods BAREFOOTED? Now she noticed how pale he was. "What has happened, Sinn? Were you robbed?" "No." He took a step toward her, and she instinctively moved back. He was smiling, teeth gleaming in his dirty face. "Well, I suppose I was, in a way. I was robbed of life, Tisane. I was killed." She laughed harshly, but quieted when he laughed with her--a silvery, unearthly sound. "What are you playing at, boy?" "Dont you believe me?" He came toward her, and she continued to back up. "Come, Tisane! You worship the devil--surely you believe in his creatures?" "You... you are a ghost!" she said faintly. "No. Ghosts are incorporeal--Im quite solid." He gripped the edge of her heavy table and heaved it over with an easy gesture. "You see? A ghost might scare you to death, but that would be all. They cant touch you. Nosferatu, on the other hand..." He smiled. Firelight glinted off long, sharp fangs. Tisane screamed and fell back against the wall. There was no more room left. She crossed herself frantically, and Sinn sneered. "Oh, PLEASE, Tisane! It isnt as if you BELIEVE in the power of the cross." Tisane cast her eyes upward and cried, "Master! Master, I have served you faithfully. I have sent you many souls! Protect me!" Sinn paused, cocking his head, a faint smile curving his lips. "Why do you look to heaven when you pray to the devil, you foolish woman? In any case," he reached out quickly and seized her throat. She screamed, clawing at his hands, and he ignored her efforts. He whispered, "Ive been to hell. Ive seen your master." His smile was cruel. "He told me to remind you that he is the Father of Lies. You expected a high place in Hell? Youll be the lowest slut in Hades, Tisane. The demons will bugger you, when they arent busy roasting your withered carcass. And now its time to go to your reward." He jerked her to him, shoving her head to the side, and sank his fangs deep into her wrinkled neck. Sinn wasnt sure what he had been expecting. Tisane was so old, so debauched, so wicked, that he had thought her blood would be thin and sour. But it filled his mouth in a great, salty-sweet gush, and he found himself drinking eagerly. She managed to pull her head away once, and he growled his anger and frustration, pinning her against the wall so violently that her rib cage was crushed. It didnt matter--she wouldnt need to breathe for much longer. He drank until the woman stopped struggling, then kept on drinking until the stream of blood ran weak.

Shed stopped breathing by then. He pulled his mouth away from the wound in her neck, and it barely seeped. There was not enough blood left in her body for it to flow freely. As he held her there, he felt the faint throbbing beneath his hands cease. She was dead. Sinn pressed his bloody lips against the dead womans forehead. "You didnt give me what I wanted, Tisane, but I suppose you helped me find it. Enjoy your eternity in Hell. Perhaps Ill see you there someday, though I hope its not for a long, long time." He whispered, "You know what I said about the demons buggering you? I rather think I might like it." He dropped her and just stood for a moment. The raging hunger/thirst that had plagued him since his awakening was gone, and he felt pleasantly sated, almost like he did after sex. He thought he was going to enjoy this unlife. But he couldnt stay here. People sought out Tisane, and though few would complain officially if anything happened to the old woman, private inquires would be made. He had to establish himself firmly with Draculea, and hopefully talk him into leaving Versailles. He heard a thin cry and looked down at the crumpled body of Tisane, nudging it with his toe. No, she was quite dead. He walked to the bed and peered down at the naked baby girl. Then he looked at the bedside table. It held a deep basin, and a very sharp knife. Sinn looked back at the dead witch, and murmured, "Why, you filthy murderess." There was more surprise in his voice than condemnation. "I wonder how many tiny bones Id find if I dug up your vegetable garden?" Sinn reached down to pick up the baby. The infant stiffened, and began to whimper. Sinn clicked his tongue. "Ah, la! Yes, my hands are still cold, arent they, mon porcelt doux?" He flexed his fingers, examining them. "Though I think they are warmer than when I awakened." He pulled the slip off the pillow and wrapped the baby in it, then picked her up. "There! Better, cheri?" The baby quieted, and regarded him with wide eyes. He bounced it gently. "Que je suis faire avec vous, le petit?" He cradled the baby close and rubbed his nose against the babys cheek. "So soft, so warm." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he felt his fangs pricking at the inside of his lip. "So sweet..." ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** This wasnt how it was supposed to be. Rock picked straw out of his hair as he contemplated the unfairness of the world. Why hadnt he thought to steal a few trinkets from Sinns room before he left? Surely, a snuffbox or a pair of gold cuff links would have supported him nicely for a few weeks, until he could set himself up somewhere and start a stable of whores. Instead, here he was. He looked around at the dim, ramshackle building. After that fiasco outside the tavern hed known he couldnt afford to stay at a public place, so hed taken refuge here. The old stable was half collapsed, and hadnt been used for some time. He had been certain that no one would bother to pick their way through the tumbled maze of trash and fallen beams, and the roof at the back was still solid. Just in case, he had built a lean-to against the wall, sheltering himself even further. *This is too much! I never slept this rough, even when I was still in that hellhole where I was born. I need to find someone with a bit of coin tonight.* He started to pick his way toward the exit. *And Ill need to get myself another horse, too. Damn that nag for running. I should have just drained it when...* As he stepped out into the open a hard hand fell on his neck. He was lifted and thrown back into the derelict building. He was half stunned when he landed. The door hed come through was a lighter square against the surrounding blackness, and a tall silhouette--a silhouette with two glinting red eyes, suddenly blotted it out. "Did you really think you could escape me, fool?" Rock realized he had no chance of besting Draculea, and he leaped to his feet, seeking to run. Draculea caught him by the back of his coat, threw him down, and jumped, landing on his right knee. There was a muted crack, and Rock screamed at the bolt of pain. Draculea repeated the action on his other leg. "Perhaps this will help remind you not to run from me."

Rock tried to scoot away from him. Draculea frowned, then stamped again, breaking his right leg at the thigh. As Rock howled Draculea said, "We add hard-headed to your list of faults." He broke the left leg again. "Stop trying to escape, dog. Take your punishment." Though Rock had learned something of fighting during his time in Budapest, he would have been no match for a warrior who had been training regularly for centuries before he was born, not even uninjured. It would have been frightening if Draculea had been fighting in hot rage, but instead he attacked with a cold silence that was terrifying. The methodical nature of the attack was inhuman. The beating hed received when he killed the stable lad years ago had been bad. Hed been afraid he was going to die, then hed been hoping that hed die, but this... Rock had never experienced such pain in his life. As Draculea continued to pummel him, he realized that this was going to be much, much worse. Had he been living he would have died quickly. The blows from the elder vampires fists and feet crushed internal organs, tore sinews, and splintered bone. Finally, Draculea stood above him, fists clenched at his side, and waited. When Rock stirred and tried to crawl away Draculea beat him again. Finally Rock lay still. Draculea squatted beside him. "Do you still live, Rock?" He was answered by a small groan. Draculea nodded to himself. "So I thought. The legends are specific in the methods that must be used to kill a Nosferatu--a stake through the heart, the removal of the head... I think Id finish with burning, just to be sure. But Im not going to do that, Rock. Do you know why?" Somehow Rock managed to form words, "...hate me..." "No, I dont hate you. You disgust me, you fill me with contempt, but you arent significant enough for me to hate you. One reason Im letting you continue your miserable existence is the same reason that I created you in the first place--I dont want your brother to suffer. But do you know the main reason?" Draculea put his hand in Rocks hair and pulled his head up. There was the faint grating of bones. "Youll live because youre mine, Rock, and I dont throw away whats mine. Youre going to survive, and heal eventually, and serve me again." Draculea stood, keeping his grip in Rocks hair, and used it to drag him out of the stable. The wagon was pulled up nearby, the gypsy waiting patiently on the front seat. He stepped down into the bed of the wagon and opened the lid of the box. Draculea unceremoniously dropped Rocks limp body inside, and the gypsy dropped the lid. He silently offered the prince a hammer and a handful of nails, but Draculea shook his head. "Ill let him out--eventually." Instead, he wrapped several lengths of heavy chain around the chest, from side to side and end to end, securing them with the padlocks. When he was done, he rapped on the box. "Can you hear me, Rock? You had best become accustomed to that space--its your new home. Ill probably let Rill feed you, like he did before, but it will be awhile. Im not worried about letting your hunger build. Im sure that when I allow Rill to bring you rats youll still not have healed enough to be of much trouble." Draculea mounted his horse, and they started back for Versailles, riding quickly to reach the palace well before dawn. ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** The second gypsy was waiting at the stables. Draculea directed some of the palace stablemen to put away the wagon and horses, then he followed the two men as they carried the box into the palace. There was much speculation among the men as to what sort of treasure the prince had brought back. It must be very valuable indeed to merit the chains. He had them take the chest to Rills room. He was sitting with Simion on the bed, and looked up quickly when they entered. His eyes fastened on the box, then flicked questioning to Draculea. "Leave it," Draculea told the servants. They deposited the box, then left. Rill came over and knelt beside the box, putting his hands on it. "Rock?" he said softly. He pressed his ear to the lid. "Rock, can you hear me?" From inside there was a faint moan.

Rill looked up at Draculea, wide eyed. "I had to, Rill. You know that." Rill nodded sadly. "Yes. He has to learn." He stood up and hugged the prince. "Thank you for not killing him." Draculea patted him gently, then pushed him back. "Rill, I have sad news for you. Im afraid that Rock killed your friend, Sinn." Rills eyes grew large, and red tears welled up in the corners. He looked at the box. "Rock, how could you? Sinn was my friend." The door to Draculeas room opened. "I hope I still am your friend, Rill." For the first time in a long, long while Draculea was surprised. He would have wagered that Sinn Barbee was at least three days dead, but there he stood. He was dressed in simple clothes, and looked freshly scrubbed, his face pale and glowing. "Sinn!" Rill ran to him and threw his arms around him. Simion stiffened in displeasure, but he said nothing. He knew that Rill only felt friendship for the young lord, but it still rankled. "The prince said Rock killed you." Sinn smiled gently, patting his cheek. "He did, mon petit." Draculea stalked over to him, pushing Rill aside. He gripped Barbees arms and stared into his eyes. Sinn remained still, unperturbed. His smile broadened, and there was the glint of fangs. Draculea cursed, shoving the young man away from him. "He turned you!" Draculea kicked the box. "I should have killed you when I had the chance, you snake!" Sinn smoothed his sleeves. "Yes. I dont think he intended to, but he wasnt thinking very clearly. You see, Id found a book in the palace library. It had a rather good picture of you in it, though I must say that youre much more handsome without the mustache." Draculea rounded on him again. "Youre too damn calm for a newborn. Who have you killed?" Sinn didnt try to deny it. "Tisane the Witch." Draculea scowled. "Some harmless old madwoman?" "Mad perhaps, but hardly harmless, prince. I think I can prove her worthiness of death and my worthiness of life to you." He gestured toward the room behind him. "If you will just look?" Draculea went into his room, followed by the others. When he looked at Sinn questioningly, the young vampire indicated his bed. Draculea went to it. There was a tiny infant, swaddled in a cloth, sleeping on the bed. "I stopped in the kitchen and got some warm milk for her. She was very hungry." He smiled. "The kitchen maids didnt want to let her go. I suspect that they think she is my bastard." When the others looked at him sharply, he shook his head. "No, Ive been careful of that. Shes just some nameless waif, a castoff I found in Tisanes cottage." Sinn tossed a knife down on the bedside table. "I found this near her, and there was a cauldron on the fire. Do you know what witches do with unbaptized babes, prince?" Draculea scowled. The spells that called for the bones, fat, or flesh of an unbaptized baby were notorious. Sinn was still speaking. "I burned the cottage before I left. Tisane kept plenty of oil, and the place burned merrily. I could have left this mite there on the bed. Or I could have supped from her." Rill made a horrified moan. "No, child, I didnt harm the baby. Ill admit I thought of it, but no. Prince Draculea, to prove to you my willingness to submit to your will, I bring her to you. You decide what to do with her." Draculea went and sat in his desk chair, watching Sinn. Rill lay down on the bed, examining the baby with rapt attention, and Simion sat beside him, watching his lover. Draculea said slowly, "Youve been trying to ingratiate yourself from the very beginning, havent you?" Sinn shrugged. "I do not deny it, my lord. I admit that it was because I thought that perhaps I could be an important man in your court rather than an insignificant one here. Now... Now I want to be with you because I am your kind. I know only enough of this new life to know that I need to learn more. I want a protector, Prince Draculea. In return I offer my loyalty and my service," he smiled seductively, "in any

manner that you choose." Draculea rubbed his face, sighing. "I never intended to make more of my own kind. Rill, though I have come to love him, was an accident. I made Rock only for Rills sake, and now you... You were made through selfish ignorance. Still..." He sighed again. "youre here. You restrained yourself from killing an innocent, and Rill likes you. Hell need someone else for company till his brother heals enough to leave that trunk." He stood. "Ive had enough of the world for now. Well be leaving tomorrow night for Transylvania." Sinn nodded. "I can be ready with no trouble. Ill just leave a letter with Destoup to send to my father. Ill tell him Ive been given a place in your court. Hell be happy, as hes been wanting me to take some sort of position. Once he thinks Im settled, I doubt that hell bother about me anymore." "My lord?" "Yes, Rill?" "Can we keep her? Shes very sweet." "Rill," Simion said gently. "She isnt a kitten we can adopt. She needs to be with a family, a mama and a papa." Rill gave him a blank look. "I didnt like it when I was with my mama and papa." Simion hugged him. "They arent all like that, Rill. There are some good ones." "I have a suggestion," said Sinn. "I have a groom named Rustan. His mother and father work in my fathers house. I need to get rid of him, in any case, if Im to go with you. I can send her home with him." "Will she be safe with them? Will they welcome her?" Rill asked. "I believe so. I seem to recall that they are fond of children, and they are so respectable that it is almost painful." Draculea thought about this. "Yes. Ill send a purse along to pay for her care for the next few years." Simion tugged Rill up off the bed. "Come, Rill. The more you stay with that baby, the harder it will be to say good-bye. Come help me pack. My lord," he addressed Draculea. "I will send word to this Rustan that he must attend his master here." They left. Draculea regarded Sinn silently for a moment. He reached out and touched the young vampires cool, smooth cheek, looking into his bright, deep green eyes. He seemed to be talking to himself. "I never wanted a bride. I was forced by state duties to take one. Then I met my true love. He was no spouse, he was my mate, and I lost him. And now... now it seems that I have again, in a fashion, wed myself to others. I have bound you three to me with ties of blood, but there is no true love. Our souls do not touch. No, none of you are a mate--you are only brides." end part 58 TBC Back to index

Chapter 59: Chapter 59: Rebirth

Fandom: Dracula Archive: Yes to lists its sent to, but I may ask for its removal at a future date if I find a publisher. Disclaimer: The Dracula characters were created by Bram Stoker, but are now, I believe, in the public domain. Summary: More than four hundred years after his death, and thousands of miles from where he died, Nicolae Calugarul (Nicu), Draculeas tragic lover, is reborn as Englishman Jonathan Harker. Warnings: This is a short chapter, but I didnt want to lessen it by adding to it, if you can understand that.

It accomplishes what I set out to do. Notes: Gemini--The Twins. May May 22 to June 21. Traditional Gemini traits--Adaptable and versatile Communicative and witty Intellectual and eloquent Youthful and lively. Negative traits-- nervous and tense... inquisative. Dual-natured, elusive, and complex. The sign is linked with Mercury, the planet of childhood and youth, and its subjects tend to have the graces and faults of the young. When they are good, they are very attractive. They are affectionate, courteous, kind, generous, and thoughtful towards the poor and suffering. Most Gemini have a keen, intuitive, sometimes brilliant intelligence and they love cerebral challenges. Their mental agility and energy give them a voracious appetite for knowledge from youth onward. And yes, I HAVE left most of the negative aspects out of Nicolae. :) My creation, my priviledge. Rating: Series, NC-17 Child of the Night, Part 59: Rebirth June 3rd, The Year of Our Lord, 1875 London, England "Almost there, love, almost there! Rest a bit, now." Catherine, panting in a most distressingly unladylike manner, fell back against her pillows, groaning. "Good God. And William wishes for us to have at least five children! Im not having it, I tell you! Never again. If I have to sleep with a pistol beside me, hell not do this to me again!" Her mother gasped in distress, but the midwife, Mrs. Soffle, shrugged, smiling. "Youll forget the pain once you hold your baby, maam," she assured the sweating, panting young woman. "Why, youve only been on for six hours now, and Im sure the babe will come before another hour is out. Youve had it quite easy." "How many babies have you had?" Catherine snapped. "Six, young lady, so I know what I speak of." "You DONT! You dont know how it feels for ME!" A fresh pain struck her, and she screamed. "Give me laudanum, for the love of God!" Mrs. Drebbin, Catherines mother, patted her hand, saying, "Cathy, we cant! It wouldnt be right. Woman was cursed to bear her children in pain and sorrow, and..." "Nonsense," said Mrs. Souffle sternly. "The reason I will not give it to you is that the drug affects the baby as well as the mother. There is no way to judge how much will be too much, and Ill not risk it because youre feeling a bit of pain, girl." Cathy felt her abdomen squeeze, muscles rippling in agony, and she shrieked, "I hate you! I hate him! I hate the baby!" "Cathy, no!" cried Mrs. Drebbin. Down in the sitting room, William Harker looked up at the ceiling, frowning. What a fuss the woman was making! Oh, he knew it must hurt a bit, but such hysterics were too much, even for a lady. He might have expected it from some delicate, simpering Frenchwoman, but Cathy was of good, sturdy, Saxon stock, damn it. He certainly hoped that his son didnt take after his mother. He couldnt stand the idea of breeding a weakling. An hour later Mrs. Drebbin came to the head of the stairs and called quietly. "Mr. Harker, come and see your son." "A boy," William said quietly. He nodded to himself in satisfaction as he went up the stairs. Of course, a boy. He had no objections to girls--once he had two or three sons. He was so pleased that he decided to allow Catherine at least a year of rest before she had the next one. There was a disturbingly strong, ripe scent in the room. William was tempted to throw open the windows, but it was still very early spring, and almost as cold and wet as it had been in autumn. It wouldnt be safe to expose an infant to the cold and damp--not till he was two or three at least. Catherine, as pale as cheese, was propped up on her pillows. He noted her untidy hair and rumpled gown,

but decided to be tolerant this time, and didnt mention it. The midwife stood beside her, holding a tiny, cloth-wrapped bundle. She was trying to hand it to Catherine, but his wife was shaking her head, refusing. Her voice was peevish, "No. Ill feed him later, but I dont WANT to hold him now. Im tired and Im sore." Mrs. Soffle saw the father enter the room and turned to him. "Sir, here is your son. Oh, and a fine, healthy little boy he is! A bit small, but hell fatten right up, Im sure." She offered the baby to William Harker. He put his hands behind his back and leaned forward, looking down at the baby. "Do they all look so squashed and red?" Mrs. Soffle stared at him. "Yes, they do. Hes a beautiful baby." William stiffened and said coldly, "Not beautiful, madam! I refuse to have a beautiful son! He is... handsome." Mrs. Soffle looked down at the baby. He was small, yes, and he had the reddened skin and slightly pinched look of all newborns, but he had a full head of black, silky hair. And his eyes, instead of the indeterminate, murky blue natural to most babies, were a rich brown, so dark it was almost black. He was quieter than most babies shed delivered, regarding the world with solemn intensity. *Bless him. Its like theres an old soul in that little body. I hope so. Hell need all the inner resources he can muster with these two for parents.* William said stiffly, "Well, Mrs. Harker, youve done quite well. Well have the christening as soon as youre able to attend." Mrs. Drebbin knew that she needed to do something to get the mother to bond, however shakily, with her child. "I need to go wash my hands, maam." Before she could protest, the midwife thrust the baby into Catherines arms and hurried away. Catherine held the baby awkwardly, away from her body. They stared at each other. William was speaking. "The Bellamys have agreed to be godparents. Well name him Jonathan for my father, and Hugo for yours." Catherine slowly pulled the baby closer. One tiny hand waved, then settled against her gown, fingers spread. She touched it gently, marvelling at the perfection of the minute nails. "No, not Hugo." William frowned. "But wed agreed." "Ive changed my mind." "You were perfectly happy with Hugo as a second name yesterday." She shrugged, letting the babys fingers curve around one of her own. "It doesnt suit him." "For... Hes less than an hour old, woman! He hasnt GOT a personality for his name to fit. And what, exactly, would you suggest, if not Hugo?" She didnt hesitate. "Nicholas." She hadnt really known what she was going to say till she spoke, but once shed said the name she knew it was right. She nodded. "Yes. Hes a Nicholas." "Poppycock. I wont have my son saddled with such a frivolous name." "Hes my son, too, and I say his middle name is Nicholas. Im letting you choose his given name, so you can do this for me." "I wont have it. Hugo will do him very well." Catherine held the baby a bit closer and looked up at her husband, her usually mild blue eyes narrowing, her generous mouth thinning. William had never seen a bit of hardness or determination in the quiet, mild girl hed married. Shed always been the perfect wife, compliant with all his wishes. Her voice was firm. "Nicholas." "Catherine, dont be ridiculous. I am your husband, and I say..." "I can make your life miserable in a thousand ways, every day of our married life." He stared at her in astonishment. "I dont understand this." She shrugged. "What in Gods name has made you change your mind so suddenly?"

"I dont know. I held him, and looked at him, and just knew that he had to be called Nicholas." William threw up his hands. "Fine--flaunt tradition! I dont suppose it makes all that much difference, since your father is deceased. Ill leave you to your rest." He almost bumped into Mrs. Soffle as he left. Mrs. Soffle smiled to herself as she noticed the young mother cradling the baby. It still wasnt the sweet doting that she usually saw, but it was an improvement. "How is the laddie?" Catherine stroked the downy head. "His hair is like satin." She touched one plump cheek. "Hes very quiet." "Yes, well, you must remember that there will be times when hell cry. Its all that babies know." "I dont think hell cry much. Hes so solemn. Whats today, Mrs. Soffle? Whats his birthday?" *Just like one of these sheltered middle-class ladies to not even know the day of the month. Ah, well, I dont suppose she can help it if she was raised to be near useless.* "Its the third, maam. June third." "June third. Lets see, that makes him Aries... no. No, that makes him Gemini." She bounced the baby. "He almost seems to understand, doesnt he? Youre a Gemini, Nicu." "What was that, maam?" "Hm?" She was preoccupied, opening the blanket to check the childs feet, to see if his toes were as perfect as his fingers. "That name you called him." "Nicu." "Yes. Ive never heard that used as a pet name for Nicholas." "You havent?" she said absently. "It just seems... right, somehow." end part 59 Back to index

Chapter 60: Chapter 60: Early Years

Fandom: Dracula Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Status: WIP Archive: Lists its sent to. May ask to have it taken down if I get a publisher. Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were created by Bram Stoker, but I believe they are now in the public domain. Others are original, and all are copyrighted. Websites: Summary: Vignettes of Jonathans early life Rating: NC-17 Child of the Night, Part 60: Early Years The Year of Our Lord, 1874-1890 London, England Early Years 1874 William frowned in distaste, handing his son back to his wife. "Lord, Catherine, WHEN will you have that boy trained?" He regarded the damp patch on his pants leg angrily. "Honestly, William," Catherine took Jonathan gingerly, holding him away from her body lest her own clothes be stained. "The child can barely walk and hes just beginning to communicate! I believe it will take another month or two before he can be trained to use the chamber pot." She carried the baby upstairs to their bedroom, murmuring, "Well, Nicu, hell be bothering with you even

less now. You know he only wants you when youre clean, dry, fed, and quiet." She laid the baby on the padded table, and cocked her head, studying him. "Did you do it on purpose, little one? I know that I try to avoid his attention as much as possible." Jonathan Nicholas Harker gazed back at his mother solemnly, and kicked his legs. She stripped off his gown and removed his loose pants, then unfastened his diaper. "If you ever want to get out of petticoats, youll have to learn to control your bodily functions, my lad." She quickly cleaned him and changed his cloth, dropping the wet one into the covered tin bin that had been a present from her mother. She sighed. "Really, Nicu." She regarded her hands, frowning. "I doubt my hands will ever be smooth and pale again after scrubbing all your cloths." Jonathan cooed at her, waving plump arms. Her lips twitched into an almost reluctant smile. "Well, you cant help it, can you?" She picked him up for a brief cuddle, and the baby burrowed against her happily, enjoying the rare intimacy. "After all," she murmured, "It isnt your fault that your father isnt successful enough to hire a decent staff." ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** 1876 "A book, Catherine? Or should I say ANOTHER book? The boy is only three years old. He cant read yet. I should think that you would have gotten him a more sensible birthday present." Catherine stared at William coldly. "As sensible as a cricket bat that is longer than he is tall? Yes, very sensible, William. And it wont be long before he can read. Hes already trying to copy out the alphabet. Hell be a scholar." William rolled his eyes. "Dont set your heart on that. It isnt as if I can afford to send him to a prestigious school, and what good are those musty bookworms, in any case?" "You will be able to afford the school if you will only TRY. Push yourself a bit harder at work. We can begin setting aside the money now." He glared at his wife irritably, snapping, "I ought to just apprentice him to some respectable tradesman." Catherine stood bolt upright, her hands fisted at her side so tightly that her knuckles were white. "YOU WILL NOT MAKE MY CHILD A COMMON LABORER!" William was taken a bit aback. "Calm down. I was only joking. Of course, he wont go into trade. Well find some profession for him. Perhaps hell enter the army, or navy. I might be able to save up enough to buy him a small commission." "No! That would be even fouler than thinking of him sweating for his bread. My boy is not meant to be a soldier." "Damnation, Catherine! Hes only just learned to keep his sheets dry at night. How can you say what he is and isnt meant to be?" She started for the door, and paused before she left. "I havent noticed that hindering you from planning his future. Besides, I just KNOW. He isnt a warrior." **~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~ 1880 Catherine was up late because her stomach was troubling her. It HAD been troubling her for some time. Lately she had been having pains, and had begun to take a little laudanum to ease it. She kept the laudanum down in the kitchen, believing that she would be less likely to resort to it if it was not close to hand. Tonight, though, she would have walked barefoot in her shift through the public streets for a soothing draft. In the kitchen, she took one of the plates out of the stove, took the poker, and stirred the embers until the glow dimly lit the room. She mixed the dose, measuring the medicine carefully, drop by drop. She dipped the dropper back into the little brown bottle, and hesitated, considering it. Perhaps just another drop? The last dosage had only dulled the pain, rather than easing it. After a moment, she quickly screwed

the lid tight and put the bottle away on a high shelf, where she was sure it would be out of Nicus reach. Catherine drank the mixture and rinsed the glass, then leaned wearily against the counter, waiting for it to take effect. Minutes ticked by, and the pain receded only a little. Finally, she took down the bottle again and mixed up a very weak solution. Once she downed it, she felt a little relief. Catherine made her way back upstairs, her movements languid. She didnt really like the floating, disconnected feeling that the drug gave her, but it was preferable to the alternative. On the upper floor, she paused before the door to the room she shared with William. Then she went across the hall and opened the door to the second bedroom. It should have been dark, but the room was lit by silvery moonlight. The shade, which should have been decently down, was raised. Jonathan was kneeling before the window, his little chin just high enough to be propped on the sill, gazing out the open window at the night sky. Catherine entered the room quietly, stopping just behind him. He didnt move. He was so still and pale as he knelt in the moonlight that he reminded her of one of those sad little statues that the sentimental loved to put on the graves of children. If it were not for the darkness of his hair and eyes, Catherine would have thought him carved of marble. "Jonathan?" she said softly. There was no response. "Nicu?" He blinked, and looked back over his shoulder. For a moment, his gaze was far away, then he smiled at her. "Hullo, Mama." She knelt beside him. "Son, what are you doing? You know very well that you should be in bed. And what would your father say if he knew youd opened the window after dark? You know he believes that the night air is unhealthy." He shrugged, looking a little ashamed. "Im sorry, Mama. I thought I heard someone calling me." She glanced out at the night sky. "Someone out there?" He nodded. "But they were very, very far away." He frowned, looking distressed. "Oh, Mama, hes so very sad. He wants me to come to him." She stroked his hair. "You were dreaming, dear. Its utter nonsense, you know." Her words were gruff, but her tone was kind. *Poor child. I do what I can, but hes so lonely.* Jonathan shook his head again. "No, Mama. You see, this isnt the first time Ive heard him." "Yes?" The laudanum made her feel indulgent. "Who is this person?" Now he looked confused. "I dont know, but he says I belong to him." Catherine felt a thrill of unease. "You know that cant be so. You have no male relatives other than your father." Jonathan regarded her doubtfully, then turned to look out the window again. "He says I miss you. Youve been gone so long, my love. Come back to me, Nicu." Catherine suddenly felt icy. No one ever called Jonathan Nicu, no one but her. William had insisted that she never speak the pet name before others. She stood and slipped her hands under Jonathans arms, pulling him to his feet. "Come away from there, child." She quickly closed the window, locking it and pulling down the shade. She took hold of Jonathans shoulders and said slowly. "You are not to do this again, do you understand?" He nodded, eyes wide. "I mean it, Jonathan. You must give me your solemn promise that you will not open the window again at night." She glanced nervously at the drawn shade as she urged him back into bed and tucked the covers around him. "There are dangerous things in the dark." ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** 1881 "I dont want to, Father." William bent to whisper in his sons ear. "You will NOT disgrace me like this, Jonathan! It is your duty." He shoved the sticky clod of earth into his sons hand. "Go!" Jonathan, his eyes swimming walked slowly to the raw, rectangular hole. Ropes snaked up to lay coiled on

the damp grass, two on each side. The gravediggers had used them to lower the coffin. When they were ready to shovel the great pile of earth back into the grave, they would pull them out. Jonathan forced himself to the rim of the grave and stood there a moment. Finally, he managed to force himself to look down. The coffin wasnt very large. He had heard the undertaker speaking to his assistant, and he had said that they could almost have used a childs casket, "But the poor lady was so wasted away at the end." Yes, she had been wasted. At the end, she had seemed to be nothing more than sticks, pale skin, and huge, over-bright eyes. When he was tiny, he recalled, his mother had smelled of sandalwood. Before she died, she had carried the sickly-sweet medicinal smell of laudanum, and the bright coppery tang of blood. He felt a sharp poke in his back, and he let go of the clod. It thumped hollowly on the caskets lid, rolling to fall into the shadows beside the box. Jonathan looked at his father beseechingly. William Harker pulled the flower from his buttonhole and dropped it on the casket. When Jonathan didnt move, he snatched the boys carnation and threw it after his own, grabbed his hand, and jerked him along toward the waiting carriage. In the hansom he stared coldly at the huddled, sniffing boy. "For heavens sake, Jonathan, be a man! Do you want your mother to look down from heaven and be ashamed of you?" Jonathan shook his head, pulling out a tiny, clean handkerchief to wipe his nose. His voice low he said, "No, Father. I want her here, with me." William sighed in exasperation. "Youll have to face reality, boy. The dead do not return--its just a fact of life." He was silent for a moment. His voice grudging, he said, "She was a good enough woman, but she was far too soft on you. Youre through being coddled. Ive made arrangements for you to board at the East Wyndham Anglican School. Usually they do not take pupils under the age of ten, but they are willing to make an exception since I am an alumnus, and your mother is gone." He nodded to himself. "Theyll put a bit of steel in your backbone." "Im going to live there?" Jonathan asked quietly. "Of course you are. Arent you grateful? There are many poor boys who would do anything for such an opportunity." "Yes, sir. But Im to live there all the time?" William shifted. "Ill be getting a housekeeper now that your mother is gone, and it will be difficult enough to get one who is efficient and affordable without requiring her to take care of a small boy as well. I suppose," he said reluctantly, "you can spend holidays at home, at least occasionally." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Jonathan looked out the window, watching as the buildings seemed to roll by. He wondered if he would be allowed to leave his window open at night when he was at school. **~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** 1882 "Im sorry that I couldnt have you home over Easter, Jonathan. I was invited to go to the country, and Mrs. Llwellyn wanted to spend some time with her family." "I understand." Jonathan dipped his spoon into his soup, being careful that it did not chink against the dish. His father scowled terribly if he made any noise while he ate. "Ive arranged for you to spend your summer months with a vicar in a little parish just outside London," William continued. "Hell help you with your Latin and Greek. Youll get food and board, and all I have to do is look at the parish books each quarter." He looked down at his own soup, avoiding his sons large, dark eyes. The boy had no cause to look so... so... He wasnt sure what it was about the boy, but there was just something that wasnt quite straightforward about him. He wasnt bluff and hearty, like an English boy should be. He only participated in sports at school because it was required. His teachers told William that Jonathan would spend his entire day cooped up in the library, if he was allowed. Maybe placing him

with an elderly cleric wasnt the best way to turn him into the sort of son he wanted. **~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~ 1885 William studied the slender boy standing on the hearth before him. He resisted the urge to shake his head. Jonathan was far too slender and pale. "Have you given any thought to what you wish to do with your life, Jonathan?" "Yes, sir." That surprised William. The boy had never expressed a strong opinion on anything that he could recall. It never occurred to him that he spent very little time with his son, and when he did, the boy was encouraged to be quiet, so there was little chance for him to express himself. "Good. A man needs to know where hes going in life, so he has some purpose. What profession have you chosen?" "I want to join the church." "WHAT?!" William tried to collect himself. A gentleman did not make outbursts, no matter how startled or irritated he was." Jonathan was nodding. "Yes. I want to be a minister. I could teach, or help the poor." "My Lord, I havent heard anything so ridiculous since your mother insisted on naming you Nicholas! Dont be foolish, boy. You know very well that I havent the money or influence to get you a good parish assignment, and without that... Jonathan, do you want to spend your life dispensing pap to country bumpkins, or risking your very life bringing blankets and the gospel to urban scum?" "I want to help others." "You must first help yourself! No, its quite out of the question. Well see where your talents lie this next year, and that will direct your study. If youre strongest in mathematics, you can be an accountant. If you do well in languages, I might be able to get you a place as an aide to a gentleman, or perhaps even a low level post in the diplomatic corps. If you can grasp history and economics, the law might do." "If I cant be a minister, cant I be a librarian, or a teacher?" William stood up. "No. Unless you become a don at one of the better colleges, theres no future in teaching." The boy looked so sad that he found himself saying gruffly, "If you become a secretary to a lord, you may be given charge of his estate library. Some of them are quite impressive." The boy smiled, his thin, pale face lighting, and Williams faint sense of guilt disappeared. There was no way that hed allow the boy to mire himself in such a common profession, but if it made him happy to believe there was a chance... **~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** 1888 There was an arrangement between the Bridger School for Young Ladies and the East Wyndham Anglican School. Since it was popularly accepted that all young gentlemen and ladies must have a degree of social grace, there were parties and dances several times a year for the older students. Attendance was mandatory. Mina Murray, one of Bridgers brightest, if not richest, students, called to her friend excitedly. "Lucy? Oh, Lucy, DO stop primping! You look perfect, as you well know. Come and help me. This dress is beautiful, but when WILL Mama learn that I do not have a maid to help me do up buttons in back?" Lucy, a vivacious, pretty blonde, had all the wealth and social standing that Mina lacked, but still she had chosen the other girl as a friend. She stood behind Mina, deftly fitting the tiny buttons into their slots. "I dont know why you are so excited, Mina. After all, it will only be the boys from the Whyndam School. There are absolutely NO peers among their students--nothing but tradesmens sons." "Lucy, really! I know very well that you are not so unkind." "Perhaps not. Theres nothing wrong with them, of course, but I intend to marry someone quite distinguished and wealthy, so its really just a waste of my time." She giggled, squeezing her friends

shoulder. "Except that some of the lower class boys can be quite entertaining. They try to impress me so hard, bless them." "Youre quite heartless. How does my hair look? Should I use the comb that my mother gave me for my birthday?" "Ive never seen you take such trouble before, Mina." Her friend laughed. "Are you trying to catch the eye of anyone in particular?" Mina blushed. "There IS!" Mina sat on the bed, biting her lip. "Oh, Mina, tell, tell!" "You werent at the Christmas party, Lucy. It was his first time to come to one of the gatherings. Hes so different from the other boys. Hes quiet, and thoughtful. He lost his mother when he was young, and I think that has made him a bit shy of women, but I managed to get him to talk to me." "Is he very handsome?" Lucy sat beside her, playfully looping her arms around Minas waist. "Is he dashing? Does he make your heart thunder and your thighs tremble?" "LUCY!" Mina gasped, her cheeks reddening even as she giggled. "Oh, you are WICKED! Hes... hes beautiful. His hair is as black as pitch, and it looks as soft as your sable cape. Oh, and Lucy, he has the most enormous dark brown eyes. And they tilt at the corners, like does eyes." "Mm, he sounds exotic. Is he a Turk, or Russian?" "Dont be silly. You know very well that the Whyndam School wouldnt take a foreigner. No, hes of good, old English stock--perfectly respectable." She leaned her head toward Lucy confidingly. "I listened to the others talk. Hes one of their best students--an absolute whiz at languages. I overheard his Economics teacher speaking to our French mistress, and he said that a law office has already taken an interest in him. If he continues to do well, theyll offer him a position when he graduates! Think of it, Lucy. Hes only fifteen, and already his feet are set on the path to a good career." Lucy laughed. "And you tease me about being ambitious in my matrimonial ambitions! Youve set your cap for him already, havent you?" "Ive spoken to him, and hes very sweet. Hes handsome, intelligent, respectable, and he has excellent prospects. I think hed do very nicely." "Oh, yes, very nicely indeed. Is it love, then?" The dark haired girl shrugged. "I suppose it could be." "And what is the name of this paragon?" Mina smiled. "Jonathan Harker." **~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~ 1890 William Harkers superior had a son who went to school with Jonathan. Though he hated the idea of the expense, William had decided that it would be good business sense to have a birthday party for the boy, and invite Jonathans schoolmates, and a few girls from local families. If the parents brought the young people around, they might be persuaded to stay for tea and conversation, and THAT would be an excellent opportunity to make business and social contacts. Besides, Jonathan had mentioned a girl--Wilhemina Murray. Harker knew the Murrays. They were about on the same financial and social level as the Harkers--very respectable. Hed glimpsed the girl, and she was presentable enough. Shed make an adequate wife for Jonathan, he supposed, and it would be best to get the boy settled down early in life. He made sure that Mina Murray was invited to the party. A half dozen boys and girls, carefully chosen by William, had been invited, and all of them had accepted. Since Jonathan was approaching adulthood, William arranged an informal dinner party, and there were to be party games after. He knew that it would have been more fashionable to have dancing, but he had not room large enough, and he would have had to hire muscicians. None of the parents had time to linger. They simply delivered their children, made polite noises to

William, and went on to affairs of their own, promising to send carriages before midnight. The young people were obviously pleased with themselves. Not many of them were yet allowed to attend parties alone, and this was considered a treat. Disgruntled that his plans had fallen through, William turned the party over to Mrs. Llewelyn and went out to his club. The dinner went well. Jonathan, as the birthday boy, was seated at the head of the table. Mina sat on one hand, and Lucy Westrenra sat on the other. While Jonathan knew that a gentleman paid attention to both of his dinner partners, he had been hoping to spend most of his time talking to Mina. He wasnt allowed. Lucy had decided to charm him. By dessert, Mina was almost fuming. *The poor thing seems bewildered by Lucys attention. How dare she flirt with Jonathan? She knows very well that I like him.* Mrs. Llewelyn came to the table when the guests were idly picking at the nuts and bon bons. "Can I speak to you, Master Jonathan?" "Certainly." He got up and followed her back into the hall. Once away from the guests her deferential manner faded. "Look, you. Ive only one girl to help me clean-up after this lot, and I dont want to be up till dawn, so I cant be hanging about in the parlor acting as chaperone. Youll be on your own." Jonathan said, "But Mrs. Llewelyn, it isnt proper for young men and women to be unchaperoned." She waved her hand. "Boy, this is the modern world. Its only for an hour or so." She smirked. "So long as you stay out of the bedrooms there should be no problem. Just tell your friends not to mention it to their families. Im sure they wont mind. Theyll be happy to be putting something over." She bustled away to begin her clean up. Jonathan went back to the table. He stood uneasily at the head of the table, waiting for the group to quiet down. They payed him no mind. Finally Lucy took pity. She rapped her spoon against her glass, scolding, "Stop talking, you inconsiderate things! Our host has an announcement to make." She turned a bright smile on Jonathan. "There you are." He blushed as all eyes turned to him, and said awkwardly, "Mrs. Llewelyn cannot chaperone us tonight..." He was startled by the whoop of several of the other boys. "Ladies, if you wish to go home, there is usually a man waiting at the corner to take messages. We can send for a carriage, and..." "Nonsense!" cried Lucy gaily. She stood up and went to Jonathan. Much to his shock and the amusement of all but one of the guests, she pressed a kiss on his cheek. Minas hand twisted in her napkin as Lucy burbled, "What a clever thing you are, arranging for us to have a little time away from the adults and their prying eyes." No one was interested in leaving early. There was nothing to do but lead them into the parlor. It really wasnt so scandalous, Jonathan thought. The only real difference from when they were chaperoned was that the boys and girls sat a little closer, talked a little more boldly. They played Packing My Trunk, and there was much laughter over some of the eccentric choices, Mina arguing spiritedly with one of the boys that he most certainly could NOT pack a hound for the letter H because the poor beast would suffocate. That game was perfectly respectable. Jonathan was a bit more leery of Gossip, since it involved the participants putting their lips against the next players ear to whisper the chosen sentence, passing it along. Then one of the boys, Jamey Roswell, disappeared for a few moments. He returned bearing aloft a bottle. "I KNEW I saw this on the sideboard! And before you faint, Harker, its only tonic water, and its near empty. Now we can play Spin the Bottle!" Jonathan protested. "No, really! If my father found out I allowed that..." "What?" Jamey was clearing some knicknacks from a small table near the center of the room. "Would he beat you?" "He hasnt struck me before," Jonathan said thoughtfully, "but something like this... It would cause a

scandal, and he hates scandal." "Well, if anything is said, tell him it was my idea," said the boy cheerfully. He was a gregarious blonde boy, the class clown. Jonathan had been a little surprised that hed accepted the invitation. He was one of the most popular boys in school, and he seldom had time for the quiet scholars, like Jonathan. "Now, gather round, my lords and ladies." "What are the rules?" asked Mina. Several of the guests laughed. "Now, now!" said Jamey sternly. "You mustnt tease the innocents. Its very simple, Miss Murray. One person spins the bottle, then they must kiss the person that it points to." One of the other girls gave a small, dramatic shriek. "Oh, I COULDNT! Kiss a boy, in front of all these people?" "It might not be a boy," said Jamey. When there were shocked titters he said calmly, "Im quite serious. It makes no matter if the bottle points to a man or a woman, you must kiss the chosen. But if it is difficult for you, well say that the couple will step out into the hall for a bit of privacy. Agreed?" Everyone agreed. Jamey spun the bottle and led a tiny, blushing blonde girl out into the hall. They returned a moment later, the girl giggling, and Jamey licking his lips in a showy manner that sent everyone into gales of laughter. When Lucy spun the bottle, it pointed to Mina. Mina frowned. "Oh, what utter nonsense!" Lucy took her hand, tugging her toward the hall. "Come, Mina, dont be a stick. It isnt as if we havent kissed before, you know." When the others laughed Mina protested, "But were friends! Theres nothing wrong with girl friends kissing. Its a sign of our affection for each other." "I quite agree," drawled Jamey. His eyebrows wiggled. "I have absolutely no objection to seeing girls kiss." Some of the older boys snickered knowingly. Jonathan felt as bewildered as the other girls looked as Lucy tugged Mina out of the room. They were gone for several moments. Some of the guests started giggling. Jamey leaned close to Jonathan and whispered, "Whatever do you suppose they are up to out there?" He squeezed Jonathans arm. "Should I go look? I can tell you what I see." He stared at Jamey, uncomprehending, and the two girls returned. Lucy looked smug, and Mina was flushed. Her hair had been impeccably groomed, but now she was smoothing errant strands back in place. There were another two turns, and then it was Jonathans turn. He put his hands behind his back. "No, I shouldnt." "Oh, come on, Harker!" said Jamey. "You HAVE to. Youre the HOST, you HAVE to amuse us." The others urged him on. Before he could lose his courage, Jonathan grabbed the bottle and gave it a quick spin. It twirled, the glass flashing in the gaslight. It slowed, and slowed, and finally came to a stop. The girls shrieked, clapping their hands. It was pointing directly at Jamey Roswell. "Oh, my!" said Jamey mildly. "Dear, dear, dear." He walked to Jonathan, a slow smile curving his lips. "Well, host of mine, we cant very well back down after insisting that the ladies go through with it, can we?" "I... I think Im a little old for this," Jonathan said stiffly. "Too late to back out now." Jamey took Jonathans arm and started to march him toward the door. He lowered his voice and whispered, "Chin up, old lad. It wont be so bad, and if you cry off now, the other boys will never stop teasing you about it." He pushed Jonathan ahead of him into the hall, peeked back into the parlor, saying archly, "No fair peeking," and shut the door. Mrs. Llewelyn must have turned down the gas in the hall. The jets showed only tiny blue points of flame, and the hallway was dim. Jonathan said, "Jamey, this is silly. We can just wait a moment, then go back in, and theyll never know the difference. You dont have to kiss me."

"Mm, I suppose I dont. But the thing is, Harker," he took Jonathans other arm and backed him up against the wall, "I WANT to kiss you." Jonathan was dumbfounded, then smiled weakly. "Oh. Youre such a joker, Jamey." "Yes, I am. But not now." Though he was still smiling, his blue eyes were serious. He reached up, stroking Jonathans hair, then sinking his fingers into the soft mass and gripping. "Ive wanted to kiss you for some time now. Im leaving school at the end of this term, so I think Id better go ahead and make the most of this chance." He started to bend toward Jonathan. "Jamey, dont..." The other boys lips came down on his, pressing firmly. Jonathans eyes snapped shut at the touch, and his whole body stiffened. He waited for Jamey to pull back, but he didnt. Jameys mouth moved on his, lips nibbling gently. Jonathan felt the other boy press against him, his body warm and hard against Jonathans own. Jamey bit his bottom lip gently, then sucked it. Jonathan had never kissed anyone, aside from the childish pecks hed given his mother each night. This was blindingly different, and he found to his near horror that his body was responding. He felt a wave of heat wash over him, seeming to pool in his groin. Jonathan gasped, and Jamey quickly took advantage, licking eagerly into the younger boys mouth. Now Jonathan moaned at the hot, wet invasion. His knees went weak, and it was a good thing that Jamey was pressing him against the wall, or he would have slid to the floor. Jamey muttered against his mouth. "Yes, I knew youd be sweet." He humped against Jonathan, and the other boy moaned again, feeling a firm prod at his thigh. "Oh, damn. I wish we had more time. Why didnt I suggest Seven Minutes? I could have dragged you into a closet then, and had my way with you." He humped again. "I can do it that quickly, sweetheart." He chuckled darkly. "Of course, its better when I do it slow." There was a knock at the parlor door. They heard Lucy call, "Whats keeping you two?" There was laughter in her voice. "Have you decided to set up housekeeping together?" Jamey moved against Jonathan once more, then again, his hands tight on the other boys arms. Jonathan whispered, "Jamey, please." Jamey sighed. He didnt release Jonathan, but he took a step back. He studied his blushing host shrewdly. "Youre still a virgin, arent you?" When Jonathans blush deepened, he shook his head regretfully. "Oh, if Id only thought of this while we were boarding on the same floor." He released Jonathans arms and patted his cheek. "Theyre sending me to the Continent. Perhaps when I come back we can see each other, eh?" Jonathan looked down, murmuring, "I dont know." Smiling wickedly, Jamey pressed his hand quickly to Jonathans crotch, molding his hand over the warm firmness he found there. His voice was soft. "You know, Harker. You know." He opened the parlor door and went inside, lifting his voice. "Oh, Im a wicked, wicked man! But I swear, getting a quick peck from him was like trying to wrest the virtue from a cloistered nun." There were horrified screams of laughter. Jonathan leaned weakly against the wall, staring blankly at the carpet as some of the heat drained from his cheeks. His thoughts were a swirling muddle, only barely coherant. *That wasnt right. Hes not the right one. I dont belong to him.* end part 60 TBC Back to index

Chapter 61: 61: Entering The World

Fandom: Dracula Pairing Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Sequel/Series: Archive: Lists I send it to, but I may ask to remove it if I find a publisher. Disclaimer: Major recognizable characters were originally created by Bram Stoker (now, I believe, in the public domain). Others are the authors original creation. No profit was made from this. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Summary: Jonathan has finished his formal schooling, and is about to enter the real world. Terms: Solicitor - This is the British word for an attorney. Barrister - An attorney that would represent you in lower court, and handle civil legalities. Notes: The events from here on take place four years earlier than specified in the Coppola movie. Oh, well. :) I have started an alternate storyline involving the character Jamey Roswell, who was introduced in part 60. It is called Not the One, if you wish to read it. It does not affect this story at all, and should be completely ignored as to character development and plot. In other words, in this world, it doesnt happen. More notes: Jonathan carries a parcel of food because paper bags were possible, but not common. They had to be pasted together by hand, and were by no means a secure way of carrying things. Part 61: Entering The World The Year of Our Lord, 1892 London, England Entering the World "Well, Jonathan, you did quite well." William Harkers voice was dry, almost grudging. "Id have been happier if youd taken more interest in the manlier activities at school. It would have been nice to have a few athletic ribbons or trophies to put up beside my own." Jonathan didnt reply--no reply was needed. His father had always been a great believer in the theory that children should be seen and not heard. He continued to eat, being careful not to clatter his utensils or drop a crumb. "Yes, I suppose physical achievements wouldnt be that much of an advantage in your chosen profession." William sounded as if he didnt really believe that, but was willing to try to convice himself. *He says that with no irony whatsoever,* Jonathan thought. *As if I actually chose the law.* "I had told you that there was no place for you in my firm, since they dont care to take on any but the most promising young men as clerks, ones they feel sure have the potential to become barristers. Well, I have good news for you. Due to my long standing service, they have consented to give you a position." Jonathans hand tightened on his fork, and he paled slightly. As usual, his father didnt notice. "You can start Monday. Normally theyd pay three pounds a week, but since they are doing this as favor to me they will start you at two. Ill only require two shillings a week for your keep. If you work hard youll most likely have a bit of a raise in a year, and if youre frugal," he looked at Jonathan sternly, "as I expect you to be, youll be able to begin saving." He sat back, obviously waiting for Jonathan to express his pleasure and gratitude. Jonathan took a sip of water. "It might have been better if youd spoken to me before accepting on my behalf, Father." William blinked. "What do you mean--better?" "Im afraid it may be a bit embarrassing for you to tell them that I wont be accepting their generous offer." If anyone else in the world had spoken that same words they would have been sarcastic. Jonathan just sounded a touch apologetic.

"Wont be...? What do you mean, wont be accepting? Surely you dont expect to just laze about and let me support you? I wont have it, boy!" "No, sir. You neednt worry about that. I already have another place. Ill be starting as a junior clerk in the office of Hawkins and Thompkins next week. They have offered me four pounds a week." William opened his mouth, then closed it slowly. It was a better salary than hed had the first two years of his own employment. As much as hed emphasized becoming financially responsible, William couldnt complain about Jonathans job choice without looking foolish. That made him even more angry. "Congratulations," he said coldly. "They are quite a reputable firm." He cleared his throat. "Since you will be earning more, its only fitting that you contribute more to the household. Four shillings a week should be sufficient, for now at least." Jonathan wiped his lips neatly, then folded his napkin. "I couldnt continue to be a burden to you, sir, now that I can become self-supporting. I have located a house near my future place of business-- owned by a pleasant couple named Hallifax. They have offered me nice room, with linen once a week and two meals a day for two shillings a week," he smiled, "and Mrs. Hallifax offered to pack me a lunch for only a few pence a day, if I choose." William sat back, feeling a bit stunned. He had expected to have Jonathan under his close control for several more years--at least until he married, and quite probably afterward. Many young couples lived with their parents when they began life together. William had spend the last nineteen years seeing that his son was not underfoot, dealing with him only enough to assuage any feelings of guilt about neglect. Now Jonathan was removing himself from Williams sphere of influence, and instead of feeling relieved, William found that he resented it. How dare the boy take control of his own life before William was ready to relinquish it? "Very well," he said coldly. "But I warn you, Jonathan, not to expect to come creeping back here when you find that the world is a cold, hard place." He was startled when the boy stood up abruptly, his chair scraping on the floor. There were spots of color high on Jonathans cheeks, and his wide mouth was uncharacteristically pinched. His voice low, he said, "Sir, I did not need to leave this house to find out what a hard, cold place the world can be." He gave a stiff little bow and left the room. His father, for once in his life, was stunned speechless. ~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** "Here you are, sir." Mrs. Hallifax ushered her new boarder into the room. "I AM sorry about the trunk, but Mr. Hallifax simply isnt up to heavy lifting, and our maid is a wispy little thing. Oh, shes energy enough for two, but she simply doesnt have the brute strength to..." "Please, Mrs. Hallifax, its no trouble. Im sure the trunk will be fine in the storage closet, and it would have been underfoot up here. It wont take me long to carry my things up," Jonathan assured the landlady. He set his case on the bed and looked around at the small, neat room. His voice held satisfaction. "This is lovely. Its very nice of you to give me a room that looks out on the garden." "Of course. Youre a nice young man, and we want you to be happy here." She watched as the young man opened the window, sniffing appreciatively at the cool, scented breeze that wafted in. Hed had excellent references from his headmaster and the vicar with whom hed been rooming, and she had heard of the firm for which hed be working. It would be nice to have a young man in the house, especially such a steady, polite one. "Im just afraid that you wont be with us for long." When he gave her a questioning look, she smiled. "Your age, you know. Youll be finding yourself a girl and marrying soon, then youll want a place of your own." She saw a faint blush rising in his cheeks, and thought, *Ah! Theres already someone. Too bad. I think hell make a good boarder--it will be a shame to lose him.* It had been arranged that Jonathan was to take breakfast and dinner with his landlords. By the time dinner was over hed so charmed them with his genuine respect and attention that hed been invited to take tea on the afternoons he was at home, and Mrs. Hallifax had decided that there really was no need to charge him

extra if he cared to bring a bit of lunch with him each day. The next morning he breakfasted well and was sent off with his new job with a parcel of cold chicken, bread, cheese, and pickles. The Hawkins and Thompkins offices were only a dozen blocks away, and Jonathan rather enjoyed the walk through the brisk morning air. The streets were bustling with vendors making their morning rounds, servants on errands, and men hurrying off to their jobs. Hawkins and Thompkins were located in a substantial three story building, with the partners located on the ground floor, the law library on the first, and the clerks offices on the second. The front room had several chairs and settees, and a desk. A young man, a few years older than Jonathan, was seated there, using a typewriting machine with near frightening efficiency. He looked up as Jonathan entered, his expression neutral, but courteous. "Yes?" Jonathan took off his hat. "My name is Harker. Im to report to Mr. Thompkins." "Oh." The neutrality shifted to subtle, but definite, hostility. The mans voice was cool. "Youre the new clerk, then." He stood up. "Mr. Thompkins is out. He told me to take you to your place, and Renfield should be able to get you started." He went to the door and pulled a key, one attached to a chain that draped his belly, from his pocket. When he noticed Jonathans look he said, a bit snappishly, "I cant very well leave the door unlocked while Im away from my desk, can I?" He gave Jonathan a disdainful look as he led him back toward the stairs. "Theres no telling what might wander in off the street." They trudged up the stairs, Jonathan thinking that he wouldnt have to worry about getting exercise while he worked here. There were four doors on the upper hallway--two on each side, and the clerk led him to one in the front right corner. He didnt bother to knock, but just pushed the door open and looked in. "Renfield, you get the new boy--Harker." Jonathan heard a slightly peevish voice from inside, "Corliss, cant you give him something to do?" "Dont try to fob him off on me. You knew very well you were getting a trainee when they put that second desk in." "Yes, and just about pushed me through the wall with it. Theres scarcely room to breathe in here now." "Complaints, complaints, complaints. At least YOURE a clerk now. IM still stuck as a secretary." Jonathans spirits were sinking as he listened to the snappish conversation. Hed been so looking forward to this job, hoping that his efforts would finally be appreciated. Now it seemed that no one here really wanted him. "Im far too busy to be babysitting right now," the unseen Renfield said. "Dont try to push him off on me, Renny! I have my own work to do. Just give him some drudge work till youre ready to show him the ropes." "Oh, all right! Send him in." The secretary, apparently named Corliss, sourly jerked his head toward the door. "Thats your place. Do whatever he tells you to." Without waiting for a response he went back downstairs. Jonathan hesitated out in the hall, reluctant now to enter the office where he so obviously was not wanted. An impatient voice called, "Well, dont lounge about in the hall all day! Come in." Jonathan stepped into the room. It was indeed small, not quite as large as his room with the Hallifaxes, and it was crowded. There were two battered desks crammed into the room. The empty desk was along the back wall, and the other was along the right wall, both facing into the room. With the book case and filing cabinet there was barely room to ease around each desk to reach the seats. The right hand desk was occupied by a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had light brown hair and a pale face, which was at the moment pinched with irritation. He didnt look up as Jonathan entered, continuing to make notes as he glanced at a sheet of paper covered with figures. His jacket hung on a wall hook nearby, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, though his collar was still tightly buttoned. Jonathan waited patiently. Finally the man, not looking up, said, "Harker, is it?" "Yes, sir. Jonathan Harker." The other man looked up, and Jonathan smiled at him hopefully.

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~** "Jonathan Harker." The voice was soft, but not the nervous tremble Renfield would have expected from a schoolboy fresh to his first job. Renfield looked up and suddenly found his gaze captured by dark, liquid eyes--eyes that seemed to tilt just a bit at the corners. After a moment he realized he was staring, never a good idea, and blinked quickly. He noticed other features--the heavy, dark hair, the almost smooth cheeks... *He cant have been shaving for more than a few months. Good God, theyve hired a boy.* He stood up and offered his hand. "Im sorry--I didnt intend to ignore you. Im R.M. Renfield." They shook hands, and the young mans grip was smooth, but firm. Renfield took in Harkers long, slender body, realizing that Jonathan was a half-head taller than he. No, that wasnt a boys body. The smile was genuine, and relieved. "Im pleased to meet you, sir. Im sorry to interrupt your work. If youll just set me a task, Ill try not to bother you." "Youre not a bother, young man. I suppose I must have sounded terribly rude when I was speaking to Corliss." Jonathan shrugged, a little sheepishly. "Yes, well, Im sorry about that. There never seems to be enough hours in the day to get the work done, and Im afraid that occasionally Im not the most pleasant of people. Just let me make a few more notations and I can take a little time to show you about the building and explain how things work." "Thank you, sir." Renfield indicated the empty desk. "That will be yours. Why not get acquainted with it?" Jonathan went and sat behind the desk. Renfield went back to his work, but found his mind only half on the task at hand. His attention was drawn continually to the other desk as Harker explored it, openeing each drawer, familiarizing himself with the pencils, pens, blotter, ink well. Finally he opened the bottom drawer and placed the brown paper parcel hed been carrying in it, closing it and sitting back with a look contented look. It was the look of someone who was marking a place as their own. When hed found that he was to share his office, Renfield had resented it mightily. He found that resentment seeping away. He finally finished the work and put it away. "Now, then, come along and Ill introduce you to the other drudges." He introduced Harker to the two other clerks who worked on the top floor--Burrows and Danvers. Both greeted the new employee with guarded politeness. The staff of Hawkins and Thompkins was not particularly close, and the clerks tended to view each other with suspicion, as rivals for an eventual partnership. The partners liked to set them against each other in competition to see who could do the most work, make the greatest profit for the company, holding advancement over their heads like the carrot used to tempt a donkey to greater efforts. When they left the last room, Jonathan said quietly, "Mister Renfield, may I ask you something?" "Certainly. How can you learn if you dont ask?" "Its not about the law, its just..." he hesitated. "Is there any reason why Corliss should be mad at me? I only just met him." Renfield snorted. "Thats his usual demeanor, unless he thinks you can do him either good or harm, and yes, theres a reason." He smiled, not very nicely. "Hes been here two years, and he believes that he should have been advanced into your position." "Oh, no!" Jonathan looked distressed. Renfield shook his head. "No, Harker. If it wasnt you it would have been someone else. Theyre never going to promote him to clerk-- he just doesnt have the stuff. Hes good at following directions, typing reports, and keeping things tidy, but he hasnt the brains or the talent to make a success in law." "Talent?" "A successful solicitor has to have some skills in dealing with people, Harker. Corliss cant seem to speak to anyone without fawning, stuttering, or being vaguely offensive." He showed Jonathan the miniscule washroom (really a great concession for this day and age), then the law

library on the first floor. He watched Harkers face light up as he prowled through the rooms, running long, elegant fingers respectfully over the leather bindings. *He looks at home here--like he belongs among books.* Jonathan noted his look and smiled. "I would have liked to be a librarian, but my father would never have allowed it. I notice that they have a great many books besides law volumes. May we read them?* Renfield was a little taken aback. "I suppose so. Id almost forgotten that Thompkins stores part of his library here. Youll have to be careful, though. Anything damaged will have to be replaced." "Of course, but Ill take good care of them." Jonathan had taken one, a book of poetry from the looks of it, and was gently turning the pages. He looked up at Renfield with shining eyes. "Im careful of nice things." Renfield found his mouth going dry, and his voice was a little hoarse when he replied, "Yes. Yes, I can see that." end part 61 Back to index

Chapter 62: Chapter 62: Fascination

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Archive: List archives I sent it to. I may ask to have it removed if I find a publisher. Disclaimer: Recognizable characters were originally created by Bram Stoker. I derive no profit from this work. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Notes: bubble-and-squeak: mashed potatoes and cold greens (cabbage, mustard greens, etc.), mixed together and fried. The name supposedly comes from the sound it makes cooking. Rating: NC-17 Part 62: Fascination The Year of Our Lord, 1892 London, England The room was quiet, very quiet. Renfield was used to silence when he worked, aside from the muffled tapping of typewriter keys from the ground floor, but now there was something else. There was the quiet scratch of another pen, the occasional rustle of paper, and, if he was still and listened very carefully, quiet breathing. But what he waited for was... There was a quiet hum, the soft noise lifting slightly at the end, as if in question. Renfield continued writing, but he was waiting. There was another rustle of paper, then a sigh. He carefully kept his eyes on his papers, but he was aware... Oh, yes, he was aware. Just at the corner of his vision there was a slight movement that told him that Jonathan had lifted his head, and was looking at him. *Now hell pause, because he doesnt want to disturb me. Hell look at the problem again, trying to decide if he cant solve it himself. Ah, hes scratching his head. This must be a poser. And hes frowning. Oh, so serious.* Finally there was the muted scrape of a chair being pushed back and soft steps. Then Jonathan was at his elbow, saying, "Excuse me, Mister Renfield?" Renfield purposefully finished writing a line, then put down his pen and looked up at Jonathan. "Yes, Harker?"

"I hate to bother you, but Im having a little problem with the tax tables. Im supposed to estimate the rates for some Staffordshire properties, and there seem to be two different listings." He held out his hand. "Let me see." He took the paper and scanned it. "Heres your problem. Look here." Jonathan could have seen it easily enough, but now he bent closer. Renfield could feel the younger mans breath against his cheek. He fought the urge to close his eyes and bask in the warmth, and pointed to the paper. "This only applies to properties that are owned by private individuals, this applies to jointly-owned properties, and THIS refers to corporate properties. You see?" He turned his head to look at Jonathan. Jonathans eyes lit up in understanding. "Oh, yes! Thank you, Mister Renfield." Renfield allowed himself a small, tight smile. "Weve been working together for over three months. I believe you can call me Robert when were in private." The boys pleasure was unfeigned. "Thank you! Please, call me Jonathan, also." Renfield nodded, and Jonathan went back to his own desk, studying the paper. Renfield watched as he sat, then turned his attention back to his own work. *Another step closer. Another small intimacy. God, why do I do this to myself?* He should have known, should have known from the moment that he looked up into those dark, tilted eyes. *Why didnt I ask Danvers to take him on? I could have claimed that I had too much to do. I know that Danvers has charge of fewer accounts than I do, it would have been plausible.* Renfield shook his head minutely, knowing himself a little better than that. He never would have turned Jonathan over to another supervisor; it was foolish to think that he might have. Especially not Danvers--the man was cold and snappish with anyone he saw as a subordinate. He wouldnt have wanted to leave Jonathan to Danvers tender mercies. Jonathan noticed Renfield shaking his head, and felt his stomach drop. *Oh, no--Ive annoyed him. I should have been able to figure that out by myself. He must think Im a terrible dolt. Hes so patient with me, and I keep bothering him.* They worked in silence for another hour, then Renfield began to gather his papers. "Luncheon, Jonathan." Jonathan continued writing. "Yes, sir. Soon." Renfield regarded him. Jonathan was bent industriously over his work, a lock of hair falling in his eyes. Renfield felt a compelling urge to go over and gently brush the hair up, smoothing it back into place. When he spoke, his voice was a bit sharper than hed intended. "Now, boy. Youll be of no use if you become faint with hunger this afternoon." Jonathan stopped, blushing, and put his papers aside. "Yes, sir." "Oh, for heavens sake! Im not scolding you, Jonathan. Your industriousness is commendable, but you mustnt push yourself so." *What will I...* "What will we do if you make yourself ill?" Jonathan looked slightly puzzled for a moment, then gave a small laugh. "You know, I think someone else once said much the same thing to me. Its odd, but I cant quite remember who, or when." His expression, for a moment, was almost sardonic. "It certainly wasnt my father." Then he brightened. "Do you have any plans for lunch, Robert?" "Oh, nothing unusual. This it Thursday--theyll have bean soup and bubble-and-squeak." He grimaced. "They make it too far in advance, and it gets a bit cold and greasy." "Could I entice you into sharing my lunch? Mrs. Halifax always sends too much, and today..." He smiled. "I guess I must have been looking particularly thin lately. She outdid herself. I have fresh bread, baked ham, and good Cheddar cheese... Oh, and she sent an absolutely huge slice of plum cake!" His expression was as animated as a childs, discussing an expected treat. "How can I turn down such a generous offer? Id be happy to join you." Jonathan retrieved a sizable paper-wrapped bundle from his bottom drawer and opened it on his desk. He shared out a good portion of the food to Renfield, and they started to eat. They talked as they ate. Jonathan would have been surprised to find out that Renfield was considered by

most people to be a rather cold and distant man. The older man wasnt quite as casual as some might be after working with someone for over three months, but he wasnt unfriendly, and Jonathan found that he liked the man quite a bit. Jonathan stood up rolling his head from side to side to ease the tension that had started to stiffen his neck. "I hope you dont mind, but I need to move around a bit." "Of course not." Renfield gestured with a small wedge of cheese. "You need to stretch those long legs of yours." Renfield quickly took a bite of cheese, berating himself for speaking so familiarly. Jonathan didnt seem to think the remark unusual, but comments about another mans physical appearance were not a general part of conversation, at least not among other men. Jonathan paced the room, munching a piece of bread. He paused, leaning against the wall. "I wish we had a window here. It would be nice to see the sky." He smiled; looking at the bread, not noticing the way Renfield watched him. "I like to look out a window when I eat. I have done ever since I was little. My mother used to ask me why." His eyes grew distant. "I told her it was because you could see the most beautiful things, looking down from a window." *Its almost as if hes gone into himself.* "What, Jonathan? What sorts of things?" His expression was dreamy, and Renfield had the oddest feeling that the boy wasnt aware of who he was speaking to, or what he was saying. "People. Sometimes... sometimes you can see your destiny. I always thought that Id see the person I would marry from a window." Renfield felt a sour stab of annoyance. His voice was clipped. "Was that how you first saw Miss Murray?" Last week Jonathan had told him that he had become engaged to a Wilhelmina Murray. He had shown the older man a miniature daguerreotype. She was a fairly pretty girl, with eyes and hair almost as dark as Jonathans. It had been all Renfield could do not to hiss with jealousy. "Hm?" Jonathan blinked, then seemed to focus. "No. It was at the first social I was allowed to attend. I was delegated to help the ladies with their wraps." He smiled. "I had my arms full already, and her friend Lucy decided to tease me. She draped her cloak over my head. I thought I was going to either suffocate or trip and break my leg. Everyone was terribly amused, but Mina had pity on me and took the cloak off. Thats when I first saw her. So, the first thing I knew of her was a kind act." Renfield suppressed a derisive snort. He knew that young ladies, even well bred young ladies, often amused themselves by tormenting shy young men. It wasnt unlikely that one who was being simply decent would seem to be a paragon of kindness. "I suppose it was love at first sight?" Jonathan hesitated. "I..." he thought some more, then said slowly, "Im very fond of her. We have a common background, and she likes the same things I do. I think well get on very well together." His voice trailed away almost doubtfully. "But you DO love her?" "Im fond of her," Jonathan repeated. *And thats the most you believe you can hope for, because thats the best that youve seen,* Renfield thought. He looked at the boys slightly melancholy expression. *God, he deserves so much more. I almost wish I wasnt such a coward, but I could never say anything to him. He wouldnt hate me, I know that. I dont think hes capable of hate. But if I saw pity in his eyes, I think it would kill me.* To distract the boy, Renfield pointed toward the remaining food. "You havent had your dessert." Jonathan came back to the desk and began to divide the cake. "No," Renfield said. "No, thank you." Jonathan frowned slightly, obviously not able to understand why anyone would turn down dessert. "Im not used to rich foods. You have it." "If youre sure." He was looking longingly at the cake. "I am. Please, youll do me no favor by pushing it on me. Though Im sure it is excellent cake, Im just as sure that my digestion would keep me awake tonight if I indulged." He watched as Jonathan bit into the

dark, dense cake, and couldnt hold back a thin smile when the boy groaned quietly with pleasure. "That good?" Jonathan spoke with his mouth full. "Heavenly!" He suddenly realized what he was doing and gulped. "Oh, Im sorry!" "Dont be. Its good to see such honest enjoyment." Jonathan shrugged sheepishly. "I cant help it. Ive always been too fond of sweets. Father said that Id become fat, and my teeth would fall out." He looked thoughtful. "You know, I believe hes disappointed that neither of those things have happened." His expression darkened a little, and he sighed. "Thats nothing novel. Hes been disappointed in me all my life." "Many people feel that way, Jonathan." Jonathan finished the cake, dusting crumbs from his hands. He looked decisive. "Well, I dont have to worry about pleasing him anymore." He straightened his vest, smiling. Renfield regarded him shrewdly. "So now you will please your Wilhelmina." Jonathan blinked, seeming surprised by this. He said, "Mina is proud of me." There was a hint of doubt in his voice. But then his jaw firmed and he said more steadily, "She says there arent many young men my age who have managed to get a position of responsibility in such a well established firm." "Thats so. Youre doing quite well for someone of your age," Renfield agreed. "Tell me, does Wilhelmina have experience in running a household?" Jonathan sat back at his desk. "Im not sure. She has spent most of her time at school these last few years. I suppose her mother has been training her." "Good, good. Shell need to be frugal to make a home on your salary. But Im sure she wont mind doing without new dresses and hats for a few years." "She doesnt really care about those things," Jonathan protested. But he was thinking of Minas friend, Lucy, and the way the privileged girl was always lending Mina her finery, taking her to the parties that she might not have been invited to on her own. Could it be that Mina was developing a taste for luxury, one that he would in most likelihood never be able to satisfy? "Yes, yes, Im sure youre right. Has she spoken yet of when you become a partner?" Jonathan didnt quite gape. "Yes, she has--the last time I took tea at her mothers house. She seems to think that I could become a junior partner in two or three years. I tried to tell her that it was quite unlikely--that in situations like this an employee could spend his entire career working for wages." "And she said she believed in you." Jonathan sat back, eyeing him. "Robert, how did you know that?" Renfield smiled. "Brides-to-be have not changed much down through the centuries, Jonathan. Most women are ambitious, and since our society does not endow them with power, they seek it through their husbands." He saw the troubled look on the boys face, and he almost felt guilty for raising such doubts about the girl Jonathan had chosen to marry--almost. "Thank you for the luncheon, Jonathan, but wed best get back to work." "Oh, yes. Of course." Jonathan turned back to his papers, but it was several minutes before the wrinkles smoothed from his forehead. The hours ticked by, and the work day came to an end. Renfield donned his hat and coat, calling to the still working Jonathan, "Thats enough for today, boy. You cant win your promotion all in one day, you know." Jonathan sighed, pushing away from the desk. Renfield handed him his hat, then held Jonathans coat for him. Jonathan accepted the courtesy without thought, and didnt notice that Renfields hand smoothed over his shoulders as he shrugged into the garment. Renfield pulled back, mentally cursing himself for his foolish boldness, but there was no condemnation in the younger mans eyes when he turned back to him. Then Jonathan frowned, and Renfield stomach

squeezed in apprehension. "Are you all right, Robert? Your cheeks are flushed." Renfield touched his own cheek, feeling the heat of the blush that had risen there. "Its a bit close in here." Jonathan nodded. He put his hand on Renfields arm, guiding him down the hall to the stairs. "You should be all right once you get outside and get a bit of air." At the stairs he paused, looking concerned, and his grip on Renfields arm tightened. "Are you sure youre all right? Now youre going pale." Renfield swallowed hard. The feel of those long, slender fingers, firm on his arm, were making his knees weak. "You ARE ill!" Now Jonathan gripped his other arm. "Let me help you back to the office. Ill get you some water..." *Oh, God! I cant be alone with him now!* "Im fine!" Renfield broke away from Jonathan and hurried down the stairs, calling back, "Youre right, I just need air." Jonathan hurried after his friend, ignoring the arch look that Corliss tossed him. He found Renfield on the street, standing a few yards down from the building. He was leaning against a lamp post, breathing a little raggedly, but his color seemed to be more normal. Renfield offered him a weak smile. "There, you see? Im quite all right now. I spend too much time indoors." Jonathan nodded. "Indeed you do. I was planning on taking Wilhelmina to the park next Sunday for a picnic. Why dont you come along, too?" Renfield shook his head. Yes, he wanted to spend time with Jonathan, but not if it meant keeping company with the silly girl he was going to tie himself to. "Thank you, Jonathan, but youll want to spend some time alone with your fiance." Jonathan was silent. "Wont you?" More silence, the Jonathan smiled. "Yes, of course. Its just that... Well, when we are married, well have our entire life to be together." He glanced around at the people who were hurrying around them, headed for home. "Are you certain youll be all right? I could help you back to your flat--perhaps sit with you for awhile till you are sure." Renfield thought about it. He thought about drooping a bit, letting Jonathan wrap his arm around his shoulder. He thought about leaning on that straight, strong body as they made their way to his flat. Thought about having Jonathan in his rooms, alone. Perhaps he could lie down, ask the boy to bring him a cool cloth... perhaps sit beside him? *And then what, Robert? Pull him down? Kiss him? Ask him to hold you, touch you, take his pleasure of you? How do you think he would react? Do you honestly think that such a young, beautiful creature would welcome your advances? The only question is whether he would react with horror or merely disgust.* "No," Renfield said slowly. "No, Jonathan, I thank you." "Well," he studied Renfields face, then nodded. "But really, Robert, if you need help, you must not hesitate to ask for it. Remember," he patted Renfields arm again, "if I can help you in any way, you have only to ask. Ill see you tomorrow." "Tomorrow." Renfield watched the boy disappear into the crowd, and he sighed. "I have only to ask. Oh, God." end part 62 TBC Back to index

Chapter 63: Chapter 63: Stagnation

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None this chapter Archive: Only to lists. Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Website: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles Disclaimer: Some characters originally created by Bram Stoker. Should have entered public domain in 1982. Warnings: None Summary: Rill and Simion try to rekindle Draculeas interest in life. Rating: NC-17 Part 63: Stagnation The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Castle Draculea, Transylvania "Rill?" The dark haired young vampire hesitated, his hands creeping behind him as he put his back to the wall, and gave Simion a wide-eyed look. "What have you been up to?" Rills eyes darted. "I was just... I was looking for rats downstairs." "Ah. And did you catch one? Is that what you have behind your back--a particularly plump one?" Simion studied his younger lover. Yes, hed eaten recently, because a faint pink tinge climbed in his cheeks, his stolen blood raising a blush. Simion held out his hand. "May I see it?" Rill bit his lip. Simions voice became stern. "Rill?" Reluctantly, Rill pulled his hands from behind his back. He was holding several cleaning cloths--some dusty, some smeared with dark stains. Simion took them and sniffed one. He sighed. "Youve been cleaning again. AND youve been in the treasury." Rill liked to play with the coins, polishing the gold, silver, and copper--stacking the coins neatly, only to topple them again. Rills eyes brimmed with red tears, and Simion put an arm around his shoulders, giving him a comforting squeeze. "Its all right, love--you arent in trouble. But Ive told you before, youre not to clean any but the few rooms we use on a regular basis." "Why, Simion? I dont understand why the prince lets his castle be so... so neglected. Sinn says he could command a dozen or more of the Rom to tend the castle, and keep it as clean and comfortable as any in the land." "So he could, dear heart." "But why DOESNT he?" Simion sighed. "I think that its mostly that hes very sad, Rill. When youre sad, you dont want to be around brightness and gaiety." Rill cocked his head and said doubtfully, "I suppose so. Its been such a long time since Ive really been sad that Ive forgotten." Simion smiled softly. This was what hed tried to achieve all these years here at Castle Draculea. Rills life was mainly untroubled, though Simion or Draculea occasionally had to whip a little consideration into Rock. "Simion? Whats wrong with Prince Draculea? I mean, I know hes sad--hes been sad ever since I knew him. But lately..." he frowned. "I think its been going on for a long time, but Im not sure how long." He gave his lover an apologetic smile. Rill had a very simple understanding of the nature of vampiric life, and Simion was sure hed be rather surprised to learn that he had been dead for close to two hundred years. Rill frowned. "Hes getting OLD, Simion. I thought we werent supposed to get old. I havent, nor have you, or Sinn, or Rock."

Simion sighed. "I know, and I dont understand it, either." The look his young lover gave him said clearly that if SIMION didnt understand it, it was probably unfathomable. "I think it is partially that he will not take the nourishment he needs. It has been many years since he last supped from a mortal, and he takes only enough blood from the beasts to survive." Rill looked distressed. "Ive brought him rats--good fat ones, but he wont eat. He just pats my head and tells me to have them. He says it does him good to see me eat. But Simion, NOTHING seems to do him good. He doesnt even ride anymore--the gypsies must exercise the horses. All he does is roam the rooftop or the underground, or sit in the library--sit and stare. Sometimes he doesnt even hear me when I speak to him." Rill looked down, full bottom lip trembling. "Im afraid. What if he dies? I mean, REALLY dies?" Simion took Rill in his arms, and the vampire snuggled against him, burrowing his face against Simions chest. Simion and Draculea were the only love and security hed known in this world, and he clung to them. *Poor child. Hell be devastated if anything happens to the master.* His arms tightened unconsciously, and Rill made a small, pleased sound, reaching up to put his cool lips to the side of the older mans throat. *Simion, Simion. You speak of Rills distress. What of your own? What would you do without Draculea?* He sighed softly as he felt the familiar, sweet sting of Rills fangs piercing his skin, then the gentle suckling. *Yes, I would still have my Rill, but what would become of us? Wed be left to the tender mercies of those others, and I cannot be sure that Id be able to do for them before they hurt us. Already Rock has grown more bold, more careless of how he treats his brother. If Rock should ever see Draculea as weak...* He felt a little light-headed, and realized that Rill had been feeding for some time. He gently squeezed the boys shoulders. "Enough, child." Rill stopped immediately, licking the holes hed made till they began to heal. When he looked up at Simion there was a healthy pink flush in his cheeks. He looked more alive than he had when Simion had first seen him, all those long years ago in Budapest. "The prince is in the library. Lets go to him. He may not speak, but I think that it comforts him a bit to have us there." They made their way to the library, passing through the dusty, dimly lit cavern of the great hall. They had long ago ceased to maintain most of the rooms of the castle. Only the ones occupied by Simion and the brides were kept and cleaned--that, and the library. The library was well lit, with many candles, and a good fire in the fireplace. A great chair was drawn close before the hearth. All that could be seen of the chairs occupant was one hand, resting on the arm. It was still big, but the knuckles were a bit swollen, and the skin had taken on the thin, transparent look of tissue, lightly dusted with tan age speckles. Simion felt a tinge of sorrow, seeing it. Draculea had always seemed so young and powerful. Draculea had embraced his curse long before the period when Simion would have seen the first sign of weakness and age. Once Draculea had become undead, Simion had thought that he would never have to witness the natural deterioration that came to all flesh, and it saddened him. He patted Rills shoulder, and the boy went to the chair. He knelt beside it, looking up at the man who had brought him over to his present existence. He knelt like that for a long moment, quietly waiting to be acknowledged. Finally he bent his head, reached up, took the pale hand, and settled it on the back of his head. The hand lay there for a long moment, so motionless that it might, indeed, have belonged to a corpse. Then there was a tiny movement, the long fingers sinking deeper into the boys soft curls. After a moment Draculea was slowly stroking the boys dark hair, the gesture absently affectionate. Knowing that Draculea was at least a little aware of the world outside his own brooding, Simion approached. Simion studied the figure that sprawled in the chair. Draculea had lost none of his bulk, Simion knew that, but still there was a subtle sense of... He wasnt sure how to put it. Of wasting away--decay. He was still a handsome man, but his features had become more gaunt, almost stark, the cheeks slightly hollowed. He had long ago lost patience with his toilet, and Simion had to coax him to be allowed to occasionally trim the thick mustache hed begun wearing some time ago. It was snow white--the same color as the hair that spilled over his shoulders to trickle down his back, almost to his waist. Hed stopped trimming his nails,

also. The fingers of the hand that combed idly through Rills hair were tipped with nails almost an inch long--ivory colored and strong, like claws. The only thing that hadnt changed was the eyes--they were still the pale, chilly blue of a winter morning. But now they were so often distant, or blank. The fierce heat of life that had always burned there had been absent for a long time. The eyes were lifted, directed above the fireplace. Simion did not have to look to know what his master was gazing at so raptly, but he still he looked. It was the portrait of Nicolae that Signor Vittelli had completed so long ago. Draculeas portrait hung, dust-shrouded, over the long cold fireplace in the great hall. Elizabetas rested somewhere in the castle. Draculea had found it, years after his first death. It had not survived that meeting intact. Simion had taken it and hidden it away, intending to burn it at a later date. Then they had gone on their travels. He had quite forgotten where it lay, and disdained to expend any energy to find it. Simion studied the picture. Vittelli had been a genius--it was strange that he had never found the fame that he so richly deserved. The expression in Nicolaes eyes, the soft smile... The artist had captured the look of someone gazing at the one they loved, and Simion remembered the long hours that Draculea had spent standing behind the painter, watching as the love of his life posed. Simion looked back to Draculea. "My lord." There was no response. Simion waited another moment. "Lord Draculea." Draculea did not look around. "Yes, Simion?" His lips barely moved, his eyes never wavered. "You have not eaten for a great while, my lord. You do not thrive, and I fear that you are actually falling away." There was an almost inaudible grunt, and one shoulder lifted a fraction of an inch as if to say so?. Simion shook his head. "It isnt right, my lord. If you let yourself fail, then you fail others." Draculeas other hand made a small, vague gesture. "You are all well cared for. The businesses still bring in ample funds. The gypsies remain loyal. The local people will not come to this place, so you are safe." Simion made his voice stern. "Lord, you have abandoned us while never leaving this castle." He took a breath and said something that would have been hazardous in years past. "I never knew you to fail in your duties before." Draculeas eyes lifted to his. For a moment, Simion hoped. There was a flash there, a spark of the old fire. Then Draculeas eyes, once again distant, drifted back up to the portrait. For the first time in his long life with Draculea, Simion felt truly helpless. "Master?" Rills voice was timid, soft. There was no response. The boy took hold of the hand rummaging slowly through his hair, and pressed a kiss into the palm. "Master?" "What, pet?" Draculeas voice was as distant as his gaze. "Have you stopped loving him?" The simple question brought a reaction where Simions words had not. There was a sudden flash of... not anger--perhaps pain, in Draculeas eyes. He looked down at the boy. His hand turned, engulfing Rills more slender hand, and Simion tensed. It would be nothing for Draculea to crush bones, but the grip did not tighten, and Draculea said quietly, "Rill, why do you ask me that?" "You never speak of him anymore. I used to like to hear you talk about him. I have never met Nicolae, but I feel as if I know him--as if he were my friend, and now I will never meet him, because you have stopped loving him." Draculea reached over with his free hand, touching the boys cheek. For the first time in years, it seemed that he was truly SEEING someone else. "Rill, I still love Nicolae. I will ALWAYS love him, and I WANT you to meet him. I think you two could be great friends." "But how can I ever meet him, my lord, if you will not go find him?" Draculea closed his eyes. He whispered, "I searched so long, little one. So long." Rill pressed his hand over the one that rested on his face. "Too long? What is too long when you seek the one you love, master?" Draculea shuddered, a fine tremor passing through his body. Simion fought the urge to reach out and

snatch Rill out of the older vampires reach. *Why did I let him turn Draculeas mind back to Nicolae? If I have placed him in dangers way...* But Draculeas touch remained gentle, and he opened his eyes. For the first time in many years, a faint smile graced Draculeas stern visage. "You shame me, Rill." "I did not mean to, prince." "I know, child." He patted his leg. Rill, face lighting with joy, scrambled up and seated himself on Draculeas lap. He drew Rills head down to lie on his shoulder, then looked up at his friend. "Simion, your sweetheart can see things more clearly than most men." Simion nodded. "I believe it is so, master." He is right--there is no time too great to wait for one you truly love. I should search again." "Yes, lord. Have you an idea of where you would like to seek?" "Hm... we thoroughly covered Europe, and Im loathe to return till other possibilities are exhausted. Theres the orient, India... I understand that theyve even managed to civilize most of that great continent the Spanish explorer found." "America, lord." "America? Odd name. Well try there. I think that travel might even be easier than it once was. The old beliefs may not be as deeply rooted there." He thought. "Ah, I almost forgot. I suppose I ought to try Britain first. It will take awhile to cover the entire country. I wont want to neglect Scotland, Ireland, or Wales." He smiled. "I understand theres still a bit of wild country in the north. I rather look forward to that." He patted Rills knee. "Would you like that, boy? Would you like to travel again?" Rill nodded eagerly, then ammended, "So long as I am with you and Simion, lord." "Good. I know Sinn will be overjoyed with the chance to practice his wiles on a fresh audience. I only hope that Rock will have enough sense to behave himself. Id rather not have to keep him in his box the entire trip." He frowned. "He becomes quite abusive after a few weeks." "If I might suggest, my prince, that you begin your journey in London? The port has grown to remarkable size. London itself is one of the great cities of the world, and it should be easy to establish yourself there. Then you could explore the surrounding country at your leisure." Draculea nodded. "Wise advice, as always, old friend. Do I own any properties there?" "No, lord, but I have had dealings with certain people in that city, through your interests in Europe. We have exported a fair amount of goods to the London market. There is a certain firm that has been instrumental recently in obtaining permits. I believe they would also do to find the properties you desire." "Very well. Up, boy." Rill stood, and Draculea rose slowly, pushing up from the chair. "Ill write to them and request that they send an agent with information about suitable properties." He went to a table that was stacked with books, several sheets of parchment strewn on the polished surface, and a neat tray of quills set beside a pot of ink. Draculea paused at the table, staring down at it, and ran his hand caressingly across the back of the chair drawn up before it. The desk was exactly as Nicolae had left it, after penning the heartbreaking note that he had taken to the river. When Draculea had recovered from his first madness, he had come here and sat for long hours, gently touching the items that his lost love had last handled. He gave orders that the library was to be meticulously cleaned, but otherwise unchanged. The desk was dust free, but the parchment sheets were brittle and yellowed with age, and the ink had long ago dried to a fissured crust. Simion watched apprehensively, worried that the prince would once again sink into his ennui. But Draculea sighed, and moved over to sit at a second table. He trimmed a quill, dipped the tip in ink, and drew a fresh sheet of parchment forward. "Tell me the name of this firm, Simion." "Hawkins and Thompkins, lord." end part 63

Back to index

Chapter 64: Chapter 64: Delegation

Authors Notes: Disclaimer: Based on original characters created by Bram Stoker. Copyright covers material for seventy years past the authors death. Bram Stoker died in 1912, and thus Dracula came into public domain in 1982. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Summary: Renfield is assigned to go to Transylvania, and cant resist the temptation to take a memento of Jonathan. Notes: daguerreotype--an early photograph produced on a silver or a silver-covered copper plate Rating: NC17 Part 64: Delegation The Year of Our Lord, 1892 London, England Randal Thompkins read the letter once again. *Odd. I havent seen paper like this, except in some of the older documents I studied at university. And he used sealing wax instead of a gummed envelope. Well, he belongs to one of those old, decaying lines of European royalty, so I suppose hes entitled to his eccentricity.* "Well?" He looked up at Clarence Hawkins, his long time partner. "Its an excellent opportunity--if hes serious." "I believe he is." Hawkins reached out and tapped the parchment with one long finger. "We did some business with his aide a few years ago, arranging import from a winery he owns in Italy. Ive bought a case of it myself--its quite good." Thompkins frowned. "A merchant?" Hawkins laughed softly. "You old snob. As if we dont get a goodly portion of our living from merchants. No, not a common merchant. I believe he truly IS a prince, though the line has become obscure, and I doubt if anyone except a few decrepit retainers swear fealty to him now. But," he held up a finger, "hes rich--quite rich. He has land holdings in Italy, France, Transylvania, Germany, Spain... Probably some others that Im not aware of. He owns commercial property in Budapest, Paris, Hamburg... His income from them alone must be substantial." As Clarence had spoken, Randals eyebrows had climbed. "Well, it certainly SOUNDS as if it would be worthwhile to pursue his business." His eyes gleamed. "This is a fat order--half a dozen good sized properties in and around London. The commission would make us both quite comfortable. And even if it isnt completely a cash transaction..." Hawkins was nodding. "We might arrange to take some of his foreign properties in trade. I know of several people who are looking for properties in Paris, and the choice there isnt exactly abundant. We could make a substantial profit on resale..." "Dont start counting the coin yet, old friend," cautioned Thompkins. "He has asked us to send a representative, but its by no means assured that hell be an easy sell. I dont mind telling you, I dont want to let this slip through our fingers. Id go myself if it wasnt for my health." His partner nodded. "If it were someplace nearer, like Paris, or a bit more civilized, like Italy, Id go myself, but... In any case, I have work here that I cant leave unattended. So, whom shall we send?" Thompkins sighed. "There isnt much of a choice. Most of the clerks we have now are competent enough

for domestic matters, but this is going to require a more thorough knowledge of the international aspects of the title transfers. And theyll be dealing with royalty--we cant send anyone too common." "As I see it, there are only two options--Renfield or Harker." Thompkins frowned. "Yes, I can see why you mention Renfield. Hes a bit of a cold fish, but wonderfully efficient. The man seems to have no life outside his work--an admirable trait in an employee." He gave a small, cold smile. "And hes ambitious. Hes not as vocal about it as some of the others, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. But Harker? Hes not much more than a boy, and he hasnt even been with us a year." "Yes, but hes proved himself marvelously clever already. The boy has a quick mind. I dont think hes really oriented toward business, though, and thats a shame. Hes forever borrowing from the library--poetry and histories, of all things, but hes already proved that he knows a good opportunity when he sees it, and besides, he speaks Hungarian, and I think a smattering of some of the other Slavic languages. Hed likely be more at ease on the necessary journey." Thompkins snorted. "Not that his comfort is of such great importance, but the more at ease he is, the more confidence he shows, the more likely we will strike a good bargain. Still..." He thought, then shook his head. "No, hes simply too young. The prince is likely to think us cavalier, not giving his affairs the proper attention and respect. I think that Renfield is our best bet." "Agreed. I suppose that well have to advance him some funds to cover expenses. He should be able to leave quickly." Hawkins took another drink. "After all, it isnt as if hell have a great deal to settle before he leaves." *****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~~******~~~~~*****~~~~~ Jonathan had gone out at lunchtime, and was unnaturally evasive when Renfield questioned him as to where he was going. Renfield stared discontentedly at the piece of cheese hed been eating. He just didnt have an appetite without Jonathan here. *It isnt like him. Hes so open about most things. What could inspire such secrecy? Its almost as if hes sneaking off to see a lover.* It was the faint pattering sound that brought him out of his reverie. He found that hed squeezed the cheese so hard that it had crumbled, and the bits were dropping on the paper that held the rest of his modest lunch. "Damnation." He took out his handkerchief and cleaned the smears from his fingers. *No, that isnt it--CANT be it. Ive seen that milk-white ninny hes gotten himself engaged to. That one wont let him touch bare skin till hes tied to her, all legal and proper, not till shes absolutely sure that she has him. Cow.* The door opened, and Jonathan entered. He took off his coat, then his hat, hanging them on his allotted hook. The gaslight gleamed off the sleek darkness of his hair, and he tossed Renfield one of those casual, but genuine smiles--the kind that made his heart beat a little faster. "You werent long." "No--it wasnt far. Ill have time for my lunch, if I hurry." Jonathan went to his desk and pulled out his own lunch, eyeing the remains of Renfields. "You werent hungry? You have to eat, Robert, to keep up your health." *When was the last time someone worried over my health?* Because he knew it would please his friend, Renfield finished the food, and was rewarded with another smile. As they were putting away the wrappings, he said, "Are you going to tell me about your mysterious errand?" Jonathan laughed. "Was I being mysterious? Im sorry, I didnt mean to. It isnt you Im keeping a secret from--its Mina." "Oh?" This was interesting. What could he be hiding from his fiancee? "Do tell." "Well, its a present." "Oh." His voice was flat. When Jonathan looked at him curiously, Renfield said, "Whats the occasion?" "No real occasion. Now that were engaged, its all right for us to exchange gifts, but her parents are very proper, so it couldnt be anything too..." He grimaced. "Well, of course clothing is out of the question, and jewelry should wait till were married. Things like books and stationery are a bit too impersonal."

"Youve piqued my curiosity, Jonathan. What CAN you have gotten her?" His smile was shy, pleased--but he was beginning to blush. "Im afraid its a bit vain. I got her a photograph of myself." Renfield was silent for a moment. *God, does the damned woman KNOW how lucky she is?* There was a hint of doubt in Jonathans voice as he looked at Renfield. "You dont think its too egotistical?" "No, Jonathan. I think its... sweet." Jonathan blushed even more deeply. "Im sorry, but it isnt meant as sarcasm." "I know. You wouldnt be so nasty, Robert." The door opened, and Corlis stuck his head in. "Harker, there are some papers for you to take to Lord Carbury. Renfield, the partners want to see you." He left, shutting the door a little more vehemently than was needed. "Hm, cheerful, as always," said Renfield dryly. As they started for the door, he said, "Jonathan, arent you going to take your coat and hat?" Jonathan sighed. "Oh, bother. I just got out of them, and really, its hardly cool enough to justify the extra clothing. Still, this IS Lord Carbury, even though Ill probably only see his secretary. Perhaps just the hat." He took it from the hook, and they went downstairs together, Jonathan going to the front of the building to collect the papers from Corlis, and Renfield going back to where the partners had their personal offices. The door to Thompkins office was standing open, so he went there first. His employers were seated, Thompkins behind his desk, and Hawkins in a plush chair, conversing in quiet voices. They looked up as he entered. Was it his imagination, or was there more than the usual weighing in their eyes? "Ah, Renfield." Thompkins waved to him. "Come in, come in, and close the door. Corlis might be lurking about, and I have no doubt that there are keyhole marks on his ears." Renfield closed the door without comment and stepped closer to the older men, waiting expectantly. He knew better than to take a seat without being expressly invited to, and he also knew that he would NOT be invited. Therefore he was surprised almost into being stunned when Thompkins gestured toward the empty chair and said, "Sit." He did, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the seat. Hawkins handed him a sheet of thick, creamy paper, which was covered in aggressive, spiky writing. "Read that." Renfield scanned the missive, quickly but thoroughly. Then he looked at his employers questioningly. "What do you think of that?" *Good God, he cant POSSIBLY want my opinion.* "I think that its an almost unbelievably good business opportunity. You gentlemen could make enough off this one venture to... well, if you liked, to retire comfortably, though I doubt if either of you could bear to stay out of the game for long, no matter how fat your bank accounts were." Thompkins laughed shortly. "A backhand sort of flattery, Renfield, but true enough. Youre tactful when its best, but blunt where it will do more good. There isnt a scrap of nonsense in your nature. Thats one reason why weve chosen you to handle this." *I will not gape like an idiot child,* Renfield thought. "You are, of course, our most senior clerk, and if it wont give you an inflated opinion of yourself, youre one of the most efficient men Ive ever known in handling the transfer of property," said Hawkins. "I dont suppose I have to tell you, Renfield, that this is the sort of venture that can make a mans career in one blow." Renfield nodded. "In fact," he glanced at his partner, who nodded, "if this comes off in a satisfactory manner, a junior partnership wouldnt be out of the question. How would Hawkins, Thompkins, and Renfield sound?" *It would sound like I would be taking on a great deal more work and responsibility for precious little money, and a title that wont impress anyone with half a grain of business sense. No one except... perhaps Jonathan. Yes, hed be happy for me, and proud, I think. And I might have the power to choose my own

assistant. I could do things for him, assign some of the better clients. He might even be grateful.* "Im honored, sir. Id be pleased to take care of this for you both." "Good," said Hawkins. His tone said as if we expected anything less. "The prince is eager to make the transaction. How soon can you leave?" Again the tone said more than the words, warning Renfield that his time had best be at the firms disposal. "I can leave as soon as I have the necessary papers and information, and passage to Transylvania," he assured them. "Excellent. It wont take more than, say, a week to gather everything we need. Well book passage for you, and make arrangements for transportation, and lodging along the way. I understand that both the roads and the carriages are rough in that area, so wed best count on at least a week for you to make your way there." Hawkins stood up, offering his hand. As Renfield shook it, he said, "Delegate your current responsibilities as quickly as possible. Is there anything pressing at the moment?" "No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary." Thompkins stood and leaned over the desk to shake hands also. "Perhaps young Harker could take some of them, then. Id rather like to see how he deals with added responsibility. Well," he cleared his throat. The next words almost seemed to pain him. "Why dont you go on and take the rest of the day off? Im sure there are, er, personal matters youll need to clear up before you leave. After all, you might be gone for three weeks, perhaps as much as a month." "Thank you, sir." *They ARE serious, if theyre giving me a half-holiday.* "You wont be disappointed." They were still smiling, but there was a glint of warning at the back of both the mens eyes. "Yes, I hope so," murmured Hawkins. "I truly do." ~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~~******~~~~~*****~~~ Feeling a little numb, Renfield made his way up to his office. Sure enough, Corlis had been lurking in the hall when hed exited the office, and hed given Renfield a disgruntled look that told him that he was already aware of what had been decided. The office was empty, Jonathan still on his errand. *Not surprising. When we go to the nobility, we await their pleasure, and most of them are quite convinced that we have nothing more important to do than clutter up their hallways--or a parlor, if theyre feeling generous.* Renfield leaned back against the door, trying to take it all in. Travel--travel to the far off, exotic sounding Carpathians. Travel into a world where the hold of the less civilized past was still strong. Hed only been outside London a handful of times in his life. The prospect was both exhilarating, and frightening. *Travel.* He frowned. *Away from Jonathan, for as much as a month.* The young mans coat hung on its hook beside the door. Renfield reached out and touched it gently. He stroked the length, imagining that Jonathan was wearing it, that he could feel the firmness of that long, strong back beneath his palm. Then he noticed the bulge in the pocket. *The picture.* It had to be. Renfield was not normally a curious man, but where Jonathan Harker was concerned it was a different matter. *He could be back at any moment,* he thought, even as he reached into the pocket. *Ill have to hurry.* ~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~*****~~~~~ Jonathan hummed cheerfully to himself as he entered the office building. Lord Carbury had turned out to be a very pleasant man, who had ordered tea for him while he looked over the papers. Jonathan tried to observe everything without seeming to stare. Mina would want every detail the next t time he saw her. Her fascination with the upper crust worried Jonathan a bit. But surely shed settle down and accept their station in society once they were married. Corlis looked up from his typewriter as Jonathan came in and snapped, "And just what do YOU have to be so cheerful about?" Jonathan blinked in surprise. Yes, the man was never pleasant, but he was seldom so openly hostile.

"Nothing in particular. Its just a nice day, is all." Corlis sniffed. "Oh, yes, nice for SOME people! And I wager they wont even let me try my hand at any of Renfields duties when hes gone." Jonathan felt his stomach plummet. "Gone?" *Thats right, they wanted him. Oh, please, no!* "He hasnt been sacked?" Corlis looked up sharply, then gave Jonathan a shrewd smile. "Oh, I couldnt say--they dont confide in me. But I believe I DID hear something about him leaving by the end of the week." "Damn!" True, it was a mild swear, but it still left Corlis looking shocked as Jonathan sped up the stairs. His long legs made short work of the two flights, and he was scarcely breathing hard when he reached the upper floor. He raced down the hall and threw open the door to his office so briskly that it thumped against the wall. Renfield shut his desk drawer with a snap, giving Jonathan a startled look. "It isnt true, is it?" "I... I was just..." Jonathan went to him quickly and bent over his friend. Part of him was scolding that he was acting with far too much familiarity, but the possibility of losing one of the few friends hed ever had overwhelmed it. "It cant be true, Robert! Youre worth two of any of the others. Theyd be cutting off their nose to spite their face if they let you go." "Let me go?" Renfield had an odd expression on his face. "Boy, what are you talking about?" Now Jonathan was confused. Renfield looked a bit agitated, but not as upset as he would think a man whod just lost his job would be. "Your position. Corlis said that youd be gone in a week." Renfields eyebrows lowered. "Oh, he DID, did he? Why, that poisonous little toad! Im going to have a few words with the bosses about office gossip before I leave--see if I dont." Jonathan put his hand on Renfields shoulder, trying not to grip too hard, though he was beginning to feel desperate. "Of course I know youd have no trouble finding another position, Robert, as fine a clerk as you are, but it just isnt fair..." Renfield couldnt refrain from a small shudder at the feel of those long, graceful fingers gripping his shoulder, and of course Jonathan misinterpreted it. "Why are they doing this? You havent made any mistakes, I KNOW you havent. They..." Renfield put his hand over Jonathans, allowing himself the touch. "Calm yourself, Jonathan. Im not being dismissed." Jonathan drew in a sharp breath. "But Corlis said youd be leaving in a week." "And so I shall, but not to seek employment elsewhere." He patted Jonathans hand, then gently removed it. He didnt dare allow the contact to go on any longer. "And Corlis is a jealous snake. He phrased his words precisely to upset you. Im going to Europe on business, Jonathan." He allowed himself a small smile. "Im being entrusted with a very important transaction." Jonathan leaned back against the wall, head tipped back and eyes closed, and took a deep breath. He couldnt see the light in his friends eyes as he watched. "Oh, thank heavens! Robert, I was so worried." "Yes, I could tell. But why, Jonathan?" "Why?" Jonathan looked at him, truly puzzled. "Id miss you." Renfields voice was very quiet. "Would you really?" "Of course. Youre very important to me, Robert. Youre my first adult friend, and I most certainly dont want to lose you." "That wont happen. But AM I your first adult friend? What about your Wilhelmina?" Jonathan frowned a little. "Oh, yes. Yes, youre right. Id almost forgotten. I wonder why?" He brightened. "Oh, let me show you the present!" He went and reached for his coat pocket. "Im terribly pleased with how it turned out. You cant really smile, you know, since it takes so long for the picture to be exposed, but at least I dont look like Im sucking a lemon drop." His hand was in the pocket, rummaging. He frowned, turned the coat, and felt in the other pocket. Renfield watched silently as he

continued to search the garment, with increasing anxiety. "Its not here. I dont understand, I had it safe in my pocket when I left the studio." "Perhaps it fell out on the way back?" Jonathan looked doubtful. "I suppose it COULD have, but I dont see HOW. Ive never lost anything like that before." He searched the pockets again, and his shoulders drooped in defeat. "I dont believe it." "Cant you get a copy of it?" "I suppose so, and it should be less expensive, since he already has the plate, but still... Its going to be several weeks before I can save up enough money for another one. Drat." He sighed. "Well, I have to make a quick trip to the washroom." "Ill say good day then. Ive been give the rest of the day to start getting my affairs in order." He snorted. "How long does it take to speak to a landlady?" "When its mine? Quite a while. Shes a talkative soul. Ill see you tomorrow, then?" There was a touch of apprehension in Harkers voice that touched Renfield. "Yes, yes. I told you, it wont be for a week yet." When Jonathan had gone out, Renfield opened his desk once again and drew out a flat, paper-wrapped parcel. He quickly slipped it into his coat pocket and donned his coat and hat. Downstairs he paused at the front desk. Corlis tried to ignore him, but Renfield waited patiently till the other man looked up, expression sour and questioning. Renfield leaned down. "Corlis, if youre going to listen at keyholes, youd best learn to report your gossip with more accuracy. That was a petty trick you pulled on Harker." Corlis shrugged, but smiled nastily. "Was the poor thing upset? Dear, dear." "Watch yourself, Corlis. If you give him any more trouble, Hawkins might learn why his last bottle of brandy tasted weak. Really, if youre going to refill what you drink with tea, you ought to restrain yourself. It gets a bit noticeable after the third glass." He watched as what little color the secretary had drained away, then left without another word. In his rooms he locked the door and removed the package from his coat, laying it on his bedside table. Then he studiously ignored it as he changed out of his work clothes. He removed the starched collar and cuffs with impatient jerks, dropping them carelessly on his dresser, then tossed his tie next to them instead of hanging it carefully. He chose his most comfortable trousers and a loose shirt, and didnt bother to put on his slippers once hed removed his shoes and socks. Finally he went to his wardrobe and removed a bottle of whiskey. He regarded it critically. How long had he had this, anyway? Yes, it had been a present from a grateful client one... no, two Christmases ago, and it was still more than half full. He carried it to his bed and poured an inch in the water glass he sensibly kept there. After a moments thought, he added another inch, and placed the bottle on the nightstand, instead of putting it away again. Renfield sat, arranging himself comfortably on the bed, and took up the drink. He sipped slowly, hardly noticing the smooth bite of the liquor. He didnt really enjoy alcohol, aside from an occasional beer or glass of wine, but he needed this now. He wasnt by nature a devious person, and he had just committed his first act of theft. As he drank, he eyed the parcel. He hadnt opened it. After hed taken it from Jonathans coat, hed just sat at his desk, holding it and staring at it. In fact, hed almost gotten up and replaced it, losing his nerve. Then Jonathan had burst in, and thered been no chance. He couldnt bear to have the boy know that hed violated his implicit trust by taking something from him, even though he knew that Jonathan would have just marked it off to friendly curiosity, then unwrapped it to show it off. *I really AM unused to drink,* he told himself as he set aside the empty glass. There was already a bit of lightheadedness. *I must remember to be careful while Im in Transylvania. Those Europeans are very free with their wine, and it wouldnt do for me to become drunk in the presence of a client." He reached for the parcel. *Ill bring it back tomorrow. Ill tell him that I found it in the street, and hell be so

pleased.* Renfield unwrapped the parcel slowly. The crumpled paper fell to the floor, unheeded as he stared at what he had revealed. It was small, not much larger than his palm, and it had been prepared nicely in a plain frame, with glass in front. *That cost him extra,* Renfield noted absently, *but he wouldnt go half-measures--not on a present for someone he cares for.* The gaslight cast a sheen on the glass, showing nothing but a white expanse. Then Renfield tilted the picture, and the glare faded. Renfield made a soft, unconscious sound. There was Jonathan, in his neat business suit. He was sitting in a velvet chair--straight, but not stiff, his hat held on his knee. He gazed out at the world, and Renfield almost felt that he could actually see him. He thought that there was a smile about to break through that grave expression. Despite the sepia tones of the picture, you could still tell the fairness of his complexion, the black gloss of his hair, and the rich darkness of his eyes. "No," he breathed. "Oh, no. I cant give you up, Jonathan. Youll have to forgive me, dear boy, but I need this far more than your little lady friend." He reached out and touched a fingertip to the glass, delicately tracing the lines of Jonathans face. "I need YOU. God, youre so beautiful, and so innocent." Renfield feasted his eyes on the image, drinking in every detail, reminding himself of what he looked like in real life. It would be so much better if Jonathan were here beside him, warm and breathing, but since that was impossible, this was the next best thing. He let his touch trail down the center of the image, stroking over the pictured Jonathans chest, wishing that he dared do the same thing to the real Jonathan. Jonathans hands rested quietly on his thighs, his knees slightly spread. Renfield wet his lips, and slowly drew his finger down till it touched the shadowed vee of Jonathans crotch. There was a tiny corner of his mind that railed that he was being ridiculous, pathetic, but it didnt matter. He rubbed slowly, imagining that it was warm, cloth covered flesh he touched instead of hard, cold glass. "Jon," he whispered. *I could be good to you, sweet. I could give you as much pleasure as that bitch to whom you would tie yourself--more. I wager shed be reluctant to give you her mouth. I would do that for you, Jonathan. I would make a feast of you, and draw such ecstasy from you that you would know, you would know with whom you belonged.* With one hand he opened his breeches, reaching inside. He moaned as his hand closed over the heated mound of his erection, and he began to squeeze rhythmically. Now he used his thumb to stroke the picture, while he caressed himself with the other. "Oh, Jonathan, Jonathan." He lifted his hips, roughly pushing his breeches and his drawers down his thighs. His cock rose from the thicket of his pubic bush, rigid and eager. He stroked himself slowly, sliding the skin over the firm core, then peeled his foreskin back, baring the deep rose head. Already a clear bead of fluid was oozing from the tiny slit, and it dribbled down as he began to masturbate. "Do you see? Do you see what you do to me?" He turned on his side, propping the picture carefully against the headboard, so that he could still look at it, but have his hands free. His cockhead was weeping freely now, and he smeared the fluid down his shaft, slicking his flesh. Then, as he continued to massage his hard-on, he reached behind himself. He bent one knee, putting his foot on the mattress, and spreading his own buttocks. He shuddered as he trailed his moist fingers over the pucker of his asshole. He didnt close his eyes, unwilling to lose sight of Jonathans image even for his own fevered imaginings. *Touch me, Jonathan. Yes, like that.* A moan broke from his lips as he slid one finger deep into his own body, and began to saw it in and out. Both hands moved more quickly and strongly. He imagined a long, warm body moving up behind him, pressing against him, a hand reaching around to push his own away, to caress him. His touch would be gentle, tender, caring. *But strong. Yes, so young and fine and strong.* He pushed deep into his back passage, twisting and probing. There was a spot... If he could just reach it. His fingertip glided over a small bump, firmer than the rest of the soft, clinging flesh, and he cried out with pleasure, his eyes finally closing. He rubbed firmly, his body arching with the sensation, and he shoved deeper, moaning, "Take me, Jonathan. Fuck me, please, oh God. Anything for you, anything..."

His release washed over him, and he thrust back onto his own impaling finger as his seed spurted, coating his hand. Eyes still closed, he raised his hands to his lips and licked away the bitter droplets, thinking, *His. His.* He lay like that for a moment, then pulled his finger from his now aching ass. When he regained his breath, he went to his washbasin and cleaned himself, then went and lay back down. He made a small sound when he noticed the pearly drop that had spattered on the glass, resting just over Jonathans right hand. Renfield got a cloth and carefully wiped it clean, polishing the glass, thinking that he couldnt return it to Jonathan soiled. He sighed. *Oh, Robert, stop it. Youre not going to return it--you know that.* He bent forward, for a moment resting his forehead against the glass. *If Im lucky, youll never know, sweet Jonathan. Youll never think me more than a friend, and I wont have to see the unease in your eyes, I wont have to watch you become uncomfortable in my presence. I wouldnt cause you a moment of distress, Jonathan.* He carefully placed the picture on his nightstand, giving it one last, lingering touch. *This will have to be enough.* end part 64 TBC Back to index

Chapter 65: Chapter 65

Authors Notes: Summary: Renfield is off to Transylvania. Notes: During this time, queer did not have the same connotation that it does today--that of indicating homosexuality. Back then it simply meant odd. I had very little luck finding reference material on travel, particularly train travel, during the Victorian era, so I just estimated as best I could when it came to time. If anyone has more precise information, Id welcome it. The Grand Tour was an extended tour of the Continent that was formerly a usual part of the education of young British gentlemen. The Bible quotation is from Mark 8:36 Translations: These are from online translations, so I wouldnt be surprised if there were some mistakes. Dont bite my head off if there are. :) Corrections would be welcome. Nagyanya, azrt ne harapd le a fejemet!--Grandmother, dont bite my head off. Nzd csak!--Just look. Biztos vagyok benne alapjban vve j ember--I am sure that at heart he is not bad. Dumnezeu a proteja pe el--God protect him. Rating: NC17 Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Part 65: Abroad The Year of Our Lord, 1892 In Transit from London to Transylvania Renfield stepped out of his lodging house, and the door snapped shut behind him, almost quickly enough to catch the tail of his coat. Well, he couldnt blame his landlady too much for her irritation. The woman was no sluggard--she rose with the sun each day to tend her home and boarders. Asking her to get up even earlier so that she could let him out and lock the door again behind him had been a bit of an imposition. *Though one might think her irritation would be moderated by the fact that Ill be paying her for the time

Im not occupying my room,* he thought sourly. Renfield paused, looking about. He heaved a sigh. "Good God--pea soup." Even though there was a streetlamp nearby, he couldnt see more than a few feet in either direction. Hed known there would be fog--it had begun creeping in before dusk, filling the streets and bringing on dark early. He hadnt realized how thick the fog had grown, since his room had no window and, even had he desired to sit under his landladys jaundiced eye, the curtains in the front parlor would have been decently drawn. Renfield put down one of his cases and pulled his coat collar a bit higher, then picked it up again and started for Victoria Station. He had almost an hour before his train left for Dover, and hed need all of it, what with this fog. If he took a wrong turn hed be hopelessly lost, miss the train, and spoil all the travel plans that had been so meticulously laid out. It might not be irreparable, but it would definitely be a bad start to an effort that he hoped would assure his career. The streets were not entirely deserted--they seldom were in a city the size of London. In some neighborhoods there would have been any number of workers hurrying to Covent Garden or the docks, but in this neighborhood such traffic was limited to an occasional dairy or bakers wagon, making deliveries to sleepy scullery maids and cooks. Hed only gone two blocks when he heard footsteps. Renfield paused, gazing about suspiciously. Who else would be walking at this hour, in this mess? Likely no one who was up to any good. The steps were behind him. His first instinct was to hurry on, but haste in this fog would probably get him hopelessly lost. If he took a wrong turn into a blind alley or bad area, then whoever was pursuing *IF theyre pursing* would have the advantage. It was better to show no weakness in a situation like this, so he gripped his cases tighter and waited, wishing that he had one of those weighted walking sticks that the nobility had favored a few years back. They made passable weapons. The steps came closer, and he could barely discern the figure approaching. It was a man--tall, but not big. Still, Renfield knew that hed better hope he meant no harm. He was moving at such a clip that Renfield knew hed have little chance of outrunning him. Then he heard them call, "Robert! Wait," and he relaxed, an unconscious smile breaking out. Jonathan approached out of the fog, slightly breathless and flushed. "Oh, thank heavens I caught you! Im sure Id have never been able to find you if youd gotten to the station. It scared me half to death when your landlady said that youd gone." He made a face. "She isnt always that sour, is she? I cant imagine its very pleasant there if she is." He found himself wanting to laugh. "No, shes generally a good sort, but shes irritated when her sleep is disturbed. She wasnt best pleased with having to get up early to lock up after me." "Really? My landlady is ever so obliging. When I told her what I had planned, she insisted on getting up early to make breakfast for me, and to fix this for you." He held up a sizable parcel. Renfield examined the neat package, with its glazed paper and carefully knotted twine. "What is it?" "Well, she said that in her experience, young men seldom got up early enough to have a good meal when they were traveling, that the food on trains was abominable, and she wasnt even sure if they HAD refreshments on the boat crossing the channel. We had a lovely ham and veal pie last night, and she sent a good third of it, along with some cheese, bread, biscuits, a couple of apples, and I believe she tucked a bottle of ginger beer in with it." Renfield was shaking his head, but his expression was fond. "Well, come on, then, or Ill miss the train." They both set off through the fog, walking close together. "I appreciate this, Jon, but really, youre too reckless, coming out like this." Jonathan frowned. "But werent you expecting me?" Renfield said nothing, and Harkers expression was a little hurt. "You didnt. But Robert, this is what friends DO." "Im sorry, Jon. Its through no lack on your part, I assure you. Its just that, well, I havent had a great deal of experience with what friends do and do not, and sometimes you take me by surprise."

"Really?" He seemed to like the idea. "Pleasant surprises?" "Very pleasant." They walked for a few more moments, and Renfield couldnt resist teasing the boy. "Tell the truth, Jon--ALL the food was your idea, wasnt it?" He was blushing, and Renfields heart caught at the sight. "No, really! She wanted to do it. Shes..." Renfield was giving him a skeptical look. Jonathan sighed. "Yes, I know, Im a dreadful liar. All right--I suggested it, but she agreed wholeheartedly. And the biscuits WERE my idea alone. She was just going to send the apples, and Im very fond of fruit, but they just dont count as sweets to me." Now Renfield did laugh. "You and your sweet tooth." Jonathan insisted on taking one of the cases. "Im stronger than I look," he assured Renfield. The street traffic increased as they came closer to the station. There was always plenty of activity at Victoria Station. Even if there were no passengers arriving, there were boxcars to be unloaded. They found Renfields train easily, with several minutes to spare. Jonathan boarded the train with Renfield. When they found his seat, he helped his friend settle his luggage, and arrange himself comfortably for the trip. "Theres one good thing about taking such an early train--you can spread out as much as you like." Then he looked worried, "But you wont have anyone to keep you company, and train journeys can be so tedious if you havent a companion." He sighed. "I only enjoyed the first few trips I made too and from the country when I began spending summers there. Theres only so much scenery a child can enjoy, though Id love to see new lands now." He smiled at Renfield wistfully. "I wish I were going with you." *With me. He said with me, and not instead of me. God bless you, boy, but you will break my heart.* For once, Renfield dared to speak at least a little of what he truly felt. "I wish that, too, Jon. Id love to have you travel with me." The answering smile was like a reward, and he couldnt help continuing, "I think that you are what Ill miss most about England." As he said this, there came the call of the porter, "All aboard! All who are not passengers please leave the train. Departing in two minutes. Please, leave if you are not a paying traveler." Jonathans eyes were shining with happiness at Renfields confession. More than anything in the world, the boy wanted a true friend, and now he felt that hed found one. He lifted his hands. For one mad, terrified, hopeful moment, Renfield thought that the boy was going to embrace him. If he did, hed be lost. He knew that he would sink into those arms, melt against that strong young body, and turn his face up for a kiss that would surely never come. Instead Jonathan clasped his arm firmly with his left hand, and took Renfields right hand in his own. He gave a firm shake, but did not let go, holding the smaller hand as he said, "Ill miss you, too, Robert. Ill have no one to make me laugh when Corliss gets snippy. Please take care, and hurry back, and... and..." he hesitated, biting his lip. "What is it, Jon?" Renfield was grateful to hear that his own voice was steady. "I know its asking a lot, but... but could you write to me while youre gone? I know the posts must be dreadful over there, but I could write you, also." He smiled nervously. "Keep you informed on the firms gossip. Tell you all the exciting details of my daily round of mad socializing." "Id like that, Jon. Id like that very, very much." *And God help me, Ill probably keep the letters tied with a ribbon, and theyll find them, all dusty and faded when I pass away, and think of what a queer, pathetic thing I was. But I dont care. Ill have something of you.* ***** The parcel of food was very welcome during the trip. As Jonathans landlady had surmised, Renfield hadnt bothered with breakfast, other than a piece of bread and butter and a cup of weak tea, fixed by his own landlady with an air of martyrdom. As he munched the rich meat pie, noting the flaky crust, tender meat, and savory gravy, he wondered idly if Mrs. Hallifax could find room for another boarder, but thats all it was--fantasy. He didnt give it serious consideration for one reason--it would mean living under the same roof as

Jonathan, and he wouldnt be able to bear being so close without eventually making some slip--touching him too intimately, or making some careless remark that would bring suspicion into those gentle brown eyes. It would kill him. The train arrived on time, the boat left on time, and Renfield managed the crossing with no upset to digestion or nerves. He was surprised to find that he seemed to be a good traveler--at least so far. There was a long journey ahead, and he had steeled himself for discomfort and annoyance. He operated on the theory that it was best to prepare for the worst. If it didnt come, then one could be pleasantly surprised. Renfield had to wait several hours in Calais before he could catch his connecting train to Paris, and it was evening when he arrived. The driver who took him to his small hotel tried several times to recommend this club or that cafe ("Very gay, Msieur. Many ladies, and some," he had winked, "no better than they should be."). Renfield had turned him down coolly, and then the man had suggested slyly that there were usually a few BOYS who were, perhaps, naughtier than those he was likely to find in England. Hed received such a frosty look from the stiff Englishman that hed quickly subsided, and concentrated on getting him to his destination. At the hotel, Renfield had written a short letter to Jonathan, letting him know that he had arrived safely. He almost wished that he HAD gone out for a bit of entertainment, so that he would have something cheerful and interesting to relate. But his humble lodgings were near a much more elegant hotel, and from his window he could watch the rich carriages that picked up and deposited the fashionable men and women. *If nothing else, he will have a bit of tittle-tattle to interest that chit whos snared him,* Renfield thought sourly. But he handed the letter over to the clerk, along with the exorbitant price of postage. Jonathan WANTED him to write, and so he would. He continued to write, from every overnight stop he made. When he stayed on the train for an extended period of time, he would hurry out at a station and post a letter before rushing back to take his seat. More than once he almost missed his connection, running to catch the train as it began to pull away, but he wouldnt stop. He kept picturing the way that Jonathans face would light up when a letter came in the mail. It was worth whatever risk there was. There was finally someone thinking of Renfield, wanting contact, and he wasnt going to deny him. Every night Renfield took Jonathans photograph from his luggage, tenderly unwrapping the cushioning tissue, and spent long moments studying it. More often than not he caressed himself, imagining Jonathans slim, elegant fingers stroking him, piercing the small pucker of his asshole with gentle passion, then Jonathan possessing him in a long, sweet joining. The days passed, the miles rolled away. Bern, in Switzerland, Budapest in Hungary, and then... then into country that seemed not to have changed for centuries. It had taken him ten days to reach the border. Perhaps a first class passenger would have arrived sooner, but Renfield had no complaints. Even the enforced stay-overs and delays in waiting for a connecting train had been welcome. By the time he reached Budapest he was exhausted--a greater pace, with no chance to rest might have brought him to the point of collapse. In Transylvania, the railway came to an end, and he moved on by coach, deeper and deeper into increasingly rough land. The towns dwindled to occasional villages, and the villages became smaller and smaller. The roads became more rutted, less maintained, and the accommodations were simple in the extreme. Near the end of the journey, Renfield was forced to share a room with a fat, snoring man--a clock seller who insisted on demonstrating his cuckoo clock, near driving Renfield to violence. He was sure that the only thing that saved his sanity was the fact that this was the last time hed have to use public accommodations for a while. He gathered that Prince Draculea lived in a genuine castle, his ancestral home dating back to the thirteenth century. *Ill have to remember to take notes. That will interest Jonathan to no end. Hes always reading histories about these wild regions,* Renfield thought as the carriage stopped for an early dinner at a small tavern.

They had been driving through increasingly hilly country, and now the mountains proper were looming just down the road. There were several people at the tavern, waiting to board the coach for its journey through to the next village, and they all sat down to dine together. The dining was communal, something that Renfield did not particularly enjoy. He was seated next to a rather pretty young girl, no more than eighteen or nineteen, who was accompanied by a dour woman in her sixties. Judging from the protective, glaring look the crone gave any man who glanced at the girl, Renfield guessed her to be a grandmother, or other relative, acting as chaperone. When the meal was served, the others at the table, had bowed their heads, muttering their way through what seemed to Renfield to be a very lengthy prayer, spoken in their native tongue. Out of courtesy, Renfield refrained from helping himself to any food, even dipping his head a little in respect. The girl noticed this. When the grace was over and the diners began to help themselves to food, she turned to Renfield and said shyly, "You do not pray?" Renfield gazed at her in near shock. It was terrible manners to mention religion to a complete stranger. But there was no condemnation or hostility in the girls manner, so he replied. "Not often, no." The elderly woman gripped the girls arm, muttering fiercely in Romanian as she glared at Renfield. The girl shook her off, saying sharply, "Nagyanya, azrt ne harapd le a fejemet!" When the old lady looked offended, the girl sighed. Her voice softening, she gestured to Renfield and said, "Nzd csak. Biztos vagyok benne alapjban vve j ember." The woman grunted, giving Renfield one last, suspicious glance, then turned to help herself to potatoes. The girl smiled charmingly at Renfield. "I am sorry, sir. My grandmother is an old-fashioned woman. She would have me speak to no man save my blood relatives until I am married--and then I should speak only to my husband or a priest." She rolled her eyes. "I try to tell her that this is almost a new century, but old people..." She shrugged. "Yes, quite," he said dryly. "I know good English, but I wish to improve. You will speak to me, please? Help me to practice." There was no way to turn down the plea without being unutterably rude, so Renfield found himself making polite small talk with the girl as he made his way through his dinner. When they were done, there was still a few moments left before, and the company sat on the rough benches before the tavern, enjoying the cool, late afternoon. Renfield was glad that he hadnt packed his coat away--it would be chilly in a few hours. As the coach, harnessed with fresh horses pulled up, they rose to their feet to board. The girl was telling him of how she was returning from her stay at a girls school, ready to take up a position as teacher in her village school. "And you, sir? You are on vacation, yes? You decided to see more of Europe than what they show on the Grand Tour." Renfields smile was a bit sardonic. "Im afraid not. Its just business for me. Im to arrange some rather extensive property sales for a Romanian nobleman." The girl brightened considerably, and even the old lady looked interested, making Renfield think that she wasnt quite as ignorant of English as she pretended. "How exciting!" the girl exclaimed. "Who is it?" "I believe he is from a minor branch of the royal line," Renfield found that he was enjoying the implied respect that his announcement had brought. "His name is Prince Draculea." The reaction startled him. Besides himself and the women, there were two other men in the coach. All his fellow passengers froze, then all but the girl quickly crossed themselves. She just stared at Renfield with round eyes. "What is it?" "I... I have heard that name," she said faintly. "When I was a small child, my mother told me that I must not go outside after sunset, or Draculea..." Her grandmother grabbed her arm, and this time her grip was harsh. She hissed to the girl in rapid Romanian. When the girl started to protest, the old woman shook her and muttered, "Nosferatu!" The girl turned even paler, and Renfield asked, "What is it, Miss?" If there was some local rumor about his

client, it might be helpful to know the details. The girl shook her head. "It is nothing, sir. Only superstitions, and old wives tales." She smiled, but it was weak. "We are modern, yes? We have no use for such stories." But she became very quiet after that--they all did. Renfield, who usually passed through life unnoticed, experienced the discomfort of being the focus of attention. The sun was low, near sinking behind the mountains, when the coach drew to a stop. Renfield looked out and frowned. It was a crossroads. One fork led to the east, the other to the north. He knew that the next stop on the route was to the west. Why were they stopping here, in the middle of nowhere? He was startled when the driver called, "You, Englishman." He opened the door, leaning out to look up at him, and the man was unstrapping his luggage. "I say! You mustnt do that till we reach my destination." "Here you stay." The man had one case loose, and was working on the other. Renfield looked around. There was nothing there, no sign of life. Nothing but a weather beaten sign pointing down the eastern path that said BORGO. "Im to be dropped off at the Borgo Pass. It was arranged." The man shook his head. "No. This is as far as I take you." "But... Dash it all, its only a few more miles. Whats the sense of...?" The driver pointed North with his whip. "We not go Borgo Pass. We go that way to next stop." "That doesnt make any sense. It will take you miles out of your way." The man offered him the cases, and Renfield said stubbornly. "I paid for the full trip." The man dropped the suitcases to the ground. Renfield scrambled out with a protesting cry, hurrying to examine them, happy when he saw that they seemed undamaged. When he looked up to protest again, the man flung a few coins at his feet. "There. Paid." Renfields tiredness and nerves added anger to his indignation, and he moved close to the coach. "I wont stand for this! Its not only wrong, its insulting." The driver waved him away. "Back." Renfield scowled. "Back, Englishmen! I do not want to hurt you. Sunset approaches, and I will not be here when the light is gone! I will go over you if I must!" "I dont understand this! It would only take you a few minutes to take me to my proper destination. It will be difficult to walk there with my cases. They arent scheduled to pick me up till late evening, anyway, and they may not be able to find me if Im not there." The mans voice was flat. "He will find you, Englishman." "Sir?" The girl was leaning out of the door, her face anxious. Her grandmother was clutching at her dress, speaking to her frantically, but the girl shook her off. Renfield stepped closer. The girl said, "Sir, come with us to the next village. Tomorrow you can hire a wagon and go to the Castle Draculea, if you must. But do not go tonight." There seemed to be genuine concern, and Renfield was baffled, but gratified. "Im sorry, but I must. My whole career may rest on this, you see." The grandmother muttered something. "What did she say?" "She quoted the Bible, sir. What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?. Must you go?" Renfield nodded. The girl sighed, then lifted a thin silver chain from around her neck and held it out to Renfield. A tiny silver crucifix dangled at the end. "Then here--take this." "Oh, really--Im much obliged, but I couldnt. It wouldnt be..." The old lady leaned over her granddaughters shoulder. Her small, dark eyes were no longer hostile, but looked concerned, and almost... pitying? In thickly accented English she said, "Please. Wear it for your mothers sake." Stunned, Renfield accepted the necklace. The two women watched intently as he slipped it around his neck, dropping it beneath his shirt. The old lady nodded, and gently pulled the girl back to her seat while one of them men shut the door. Renfield stepped back as the driver slapped the reins on the horses backs.

Above the thud of hoof beats and the rumble of the coach wheels he still heard the old lady say, "Dumnezeu a proteja pe el." end part 65 TBC Back to index

Chapter 66: Chapter 66: Meeting

Authors Notes: Summary: Renfield arrives at the castle, and meets his host. Translations of Romany (caution: taken from online dictionary. May have some mistakes): Si tut bocklo?--Are you hungry?, Chavaia!--Stop!, Guajo--non-gypsy, chavo--boy, kushti--good, fine, nice, all right. Misto--well, all right, mooi--mouth, odjus--lovely, beautiful, mic--little (this is Romanian. I cant find it in Rom), hai shala?--do you understand? Rating: NC17 Part Sixty-six: Meeting The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Borgo Pass, Transylvania Renfield stared after the departing coach, stunned into immobility. *Good Lord, Ive been abandoned. Of all the bloody cheek!* The coach disappeared around a curve, and Renfield sighed, looking around. As he surveyed the area, his annoyance began to give way to apprehension. The area was thick with trees and shrubbery, the plants creeping up to the edge of the road. It made Renfield nervous to have that thick vegetation at his back. He was a city man--the little parks scattered here and there in London were quite enough for him. Here the only signs of humanity were the badly rutted road and the sign he stood beside. Other than that the area might have been virgin, untouched by man. Renfield shivered. Dusk was drawing on quickly, here among the mountains. He looked up the road that led to Borgo Pass. The trees almost met over the road, and the shadows were gathering thickly beneath them. *Theyre expecting me at some sort of stop IN Borgo Pass. If Im not there, will they think to come here to look for me?* He sighed in frustration. *And if they do, it will STILL look bad. It will reflect on my ability to get things done if I couldnt get a coach driver to take me where Id paid to go in the first place. Well, it shouldnt be too far. If I start now, perhaps I can reach the agreed upon place before they arrive.* He buttoned his coat up to his throat, picked up a case in each hand, and began to walk up the road to the east. It wasnt easy, and it wasnt pleasant--the road was on a distinct uphill grade. It wasnt that Renfield was unused to walking--since he had little money for cabs, he had to walk anywhere he wanted to go in the city, but there it had been over smooth sidewalks. He stumbled on the deep ruts, and cursed, wishing that hed invested in a pair of sturdy boots. *But then I didnt know Id have to be hiking the last few miles of my journey,* he thought sourly. Renfield felt more tired than he ever had in his life. Hed been jounced and rattled for days on end, the foreign food had not been kind to his digestion, and the sleeping accommodations had been less than ideal. He literally ached with weariness. *I only hope the prince takes this into account when I arrive, and doesnt expect me to be at my chipper best. Ill need at least a day before Im myself again.* He grimaced,

thinking, *And I wish I could have a bath before I meet him. The one I managed in Budapest was far from satisfactory--expensive, cold, and scanty, but at least thorough. Ive had to tend myself from a basin the last few days, and I cant be too fresh and appealing by now.* The road became steeper, and darker. Renfield came to what he considered must be the proper meeting place--a small cleared area by the side of the road. He was grateful, as the last rays of sunlight had finally melted away, and the moon had not yet risen. It became quite, quite black. There was a rock cliff backing the space, with several boulders scattered before it, and Renfield chose a conveniently sized rock to perch on. He carefully put the cliff at his back, because hed begun to hear noises in the surrounding forest. He told himself over and over that it was no more than rabbits and squirrels, perhaps a fox or stoat. He told himself that, but even his untrained ears could tell that they were made by something much larger, and probably not nearly as harmless. The moon rose, fat and silver, illuminating the land with its pale rays, but it didnt ease his worries. Hed never found the magic in moonlight that some people did--to him, London looked prosaic under any light. But here... He looked around nervously. *Its almost as if its a different moon--a wilder, colder moon.* He shook his head quickly. *God, I mustnt get fanciful now. This is the land of folktales and legends. If I let my mind ramble here, theres no telling what strange ways it may follow.* The sounds moved closer--furtive rustling and snapping. Renfield saw yellow glints in the forest across the road--moonlight reflecting off eyes. Even a city man like Renfield knew that. And the glints were distressingly high over the ground. They didnt belong to any low-slung weasel or fox. He grew tenser by the second, and wondered which would be most effective--trying to run, or scrambling up on the rock? He had no confidence in his own speed, especially over rough, unfamiliar ground, in the dark. But though a nearby boulder was higher, almost as tall as he, there was no guarantee that hed be able to get on top of it, or that it would be safe if he did. Just when he was ready to attempt the climb, he heard the sound of approaching horses. Relief washed over Renfield, then, for a brief second, he worried that they might not be coming for him. Then he dismissed that. *Who else would they be looking for at this time in this lonely place?* He dared to get off his perch and walk to the edge of the road, peering east. Nothing, and then, suddenly... a light. He realized that the carriage had come around a bend in the road, appearing from behind a screen of trees, or the hillside. The light separated into TWO lights as it came closer--lanterns set on either side. For a long time that was all he could make out. The carriage was only a quarter of a mile away before he could make out the least detail. It was a tall, old-fashioned closed carriage, and it was as black as the night that surrounded it. It was pulled by two blacks, and two grays--husky horses that still moved with eerie quiet. The thud of their steps was muffled, almost as if their hooves had been padded for silences sake, and the usual rattle and jingle of tack was subdued. Renfield began to think that there was something suppressive in the air, something that muted all normal sounds. For a moment brief, half-formed memories of whispered stories flitted through his mind--stories of ghost carriages, rolling down endless night roads on journeys that never ended. He shook his head quickly. Yes, it would be easy to let his thoughts turn fanciful in the strange, old land. As it drew near, slowing, Renfield saw that there were two men sitting on the high drivers bench. The driver was a blond man of early middle-age, stocky and sturdy. His companion was much younger, hardly more than a boy. When Renfield saw him, saw his dark eyes and hair, he felt a sudden pang of... not quite recognition. No, the boy was like Jonathan in only the most superficial way, but Renfield was missing his young friend terribly, and he seized on every likeness. He had the precious photograph tucked carefully in the small leather case that held the descriptions of properties and legal papers that he was bringing to Draculea. The carriage drew to a stop, and the driver looked down at him, eyes shrewd and assessing. The younger

man peeked around him, almost like a child hiding behind his parents when confronted with a stranger, but his expression was friendly. The driver said, "You are Mister Renfield, of Hawkins and Thompkins?" Renfield nodded. "Well met, sir. I am Simion. Prince Draculea sends his regards, and apologies that he did not come to meet you himself. He seldom leaves the castle these days." "Yes, no trouble." Renfield picked up his cases and stepped toward the carriage. "Sir, one moment, and I will help you with those." The dark haired boy laid a hand eagerly on Simions arm. "Simion, can I? Please?" "I thought that youd rather hold the reins. I know you like the horses." The boy nodded. "Yes, yes, I love them. But Simion, someone NEW! Please?" The man looked at his companion for a moment, and Renfield thought that he almost smiled. "I suppose you want to ride with him, too?" A full bottom lip was nibbled. Simion gestured. "Get on, then. But Rill," he held up an admonishing finger. "No nonsense." "Simion!" The boy boy sounded indignant. "I know, I know. I was teasing you, child." He patted the boys shoulder in apology, and Renfield felt an odd twinge as the hand lingered a moment more than was necessary. Rill leapt lightly down to the ground, landing with careless grace and hurrying around to Renfield (though he paused to stroke the noses of the lead horses). He came to Renfield and hesitated, smiling shyly, and bobbing his head in greeting. Despite his weariness, discomfort, and tension, Renfield found himself answering the smile. "Hello." The boy beamed, "Hello! Here, let me help you with those." He reached for the cases. "You only need take one. Theyre quite..." Rill took one of the cases from Renfield, handling it as if it were empty. He watched in surprise as the boy opened the coach door and stood on the step, settling the case on one of the seats. Then he held out his hand for the second, and Renfield had no excuse not to relinquish it. He shook his head as the boy stowed it. "I thought my arms would be torn from their sockets with the weight of those the last few miles, and you handle them so easily." Rill looked back at him in surprise. "You had to walk?" "Yes, the fool of a driver took the northern route, and refused to bring me here. I had to walk from the last fork." Rill turned questioning eyes on the driver, and the older man frowned, "Well, it isnt as if it was unexpected. Your pardon, sir, but the peasants hereabout are a superstitious lot." "You must be very tired," Rills voice was sympathetic. He extended a hand to Renfield. "Let me help you into the coach." Some other time Renfield might have stiffly declined the offer, but he WAS tired, and aching, and the boy seemed genuinely concerned. He reached up, setting his foot on the high step. Rills grip was shockingly cold, and very firm. Renfield found himself pulled up and forward so quickly and strongly that he stumbled, falling against the young man. They both tumbled back into the carriage, and he found that the boy, half fallen and pinned against the seat by Renfields body, was laughing. "Im sorry, young man." They sorted themselves out, and Rill said, "Oh, no! I should have told you I was going to do that." Rill had taken Renfields arms to help him up, and he moved the older man over onto the empty seat. "Sometimes Im too..." His brow puckered. "I..." He was searching for words. "You do things a little TOO strongly?" Renfield supplied. The boys forehead smoothed, and he nodded. "Simion says, moderation, Rill. That means not too little, not too much." He shut the door and rapped on the roof, then sat beside Renfield. The carriage lurched and began to move, swaying as Simion circled in the small cleared area, turning to go back up the road. The windows of the carriage were down, letting in the moonlight. Rill was almost as pale as the moonbeams, except for the dark of his hair and eyes, and the surprising redness of his lips. A cold wind blew through the window, and Renfield remembered the chill of the boys hands when hed helped him.

*Of course, its the cold.* While the driver had been wearing a coat and gloves, Rill wore neither, and his clothes looked more suited to mild weather. The older man seemed to care for the boy. Why was he allowing him out in this weather without proper clothes? "Youre cold." Rill blinked, looking down at his own hands, as if puzzled. "Im sorry. Yes, I am cold. I mean, I FEEL cold." He made a sound of exasperation, displeased with his explanation. "I feel cold to OTHERS." Renfield started to unbutton his coat. "Here, boy. You need this more than I." "Oh, no! No, sir." He pushed Renfields hands aside and did up the few buttons hed opened. Renfield sat still, surprised by the boys intimate action. "You need this, not I. You see, the cold doesnt bother me. It did once, but Ive become more used to it." Renfield regarded Rill, and came to a conclusion--the boy was a little slow. But like many who were truly slow, and not just stupid, he seemed to have a sweet nature. Renfield felt himself relaxing a little. "So, Rill, are you Prince Draculeas man, also?" The boy bit his lip again, lifting one shoulder, but said nothing. "You work for the prince?" "Um, I clean some. I help the gypsies with the horses." "He employs you? Pays you?" Rill studied him in silence, then looked out the window. "There are wolves in the forest, did you know that? The coach driver should not have left you there alone in the night. It isnt safe." *Hes trying to distract me.* Renfield thought this, and knew it was true, but it worked, nonetheless. "Wolves?" Rill nodded. "The come around the castle sometimes. The gypsies want to kill them--their fur is valuable, but the master says not to. He says that they belong to the land as much as the gypsies, and this is their home, too." "Ah, a conservationist." Rill gave him a blank, puzzled look. "The prince protects everything under his care?" The boys smile was brilliant. "Oh, yes! He takes care of Simion, and I, and Rock, and Sinn, and the gypsies, and... and..." his eyes flickered, "and the peasants." Had there been a bit of hesitation there? Renfield had read his history, and knew the feudal attitudes toward the lowborn. It wasnt hard to believe that they had survived to the present day in this out-of-the-way place. *Perhaps the prince helps himself to a maiden now and then,* he thought cynically. Renfield had been given the impression that Prince Draculea was a bit of a recluse, so the list of people in his care rather surprised him. *Still, I suppose someone of his rank would have a few retainers. Simion was obviously one of those. Rill... He looked at the boy again. With Rill, it was harder to tell. His clothing, though simple, was richer than Simions. A howl rose, wavering on the still night air. It was close-by. The animal couldnt have been more than a few yards from the roadway, hidden by the shadows and undergrowth. He tensed as the shrill cry faded. Rill noticed, and patted his arm comfortingly. "Dont worry. We have strong gates at the castle. They will close them before you leave the coach. Sometimes they come right to the gates." He turned his eyes toward the window, saying almost absently, "Sometimes they come closer." "Good God, arent you afraid?" Rill seemed to puzzle over this. "No. No, not really. They wouldnt hurt me." Renfield stared at Rill. *I didnt think he was THAT ignorant. But the driver is protective of him. I suppose that he is the boys keeper.* Rill bounced lightly on the seat, apparently too pleased to remain still. He said excitedly, "I was allowed to clean another room, just for you!" "You were allowed, were you?" He nodded. "I like it. I dont want to just sit around like Sinn, or..." his voice trailed off. "Rock has... has other interests, with Sinn, or sometimes the gypsies." From the tone of voice, Renfield had some idea of

what those interests might be, and he expected to see a blush rise in the boys cheeks. He was rather surprised when it didnt. Rill was continuing. Voice proud, he said, "The master even lets me clean in the library now." "Thats a privilege?" "Oh, yes!" Rills voice was sincere. "Usually he tends it himself, but I have been very, very careful, and he finally let me help, under his supervision." He sighed. "It took years and years and years to convince him. I think that Simion persuaded him. He wanted me to work with the master, so he would not be alone so much." "So you are his companion?" Many well-to-do people indulged themselves by hiring companions. These people lived with their patrons and were provided room and board, and usually a small salary. In return they were at the whims of their employers. Their days were usually spend fetching and carrying, performing any tasks the patron deemed too important to be allotted to a lower servant. Generally these positions were held by impoverished young ladies, dancing attendance on widows and dowagers. Rill considered this carefully. Renfield waited patiently. *You can almost see his mind working. Every emotion flits across his face. God help him if he ever tried to be deceptive.* Finally the boy nodded once, firmly. "Thats a good word. Yes, Im his companion." In his own world of London, Renfield would never have done what he did now. The rules of polite social conversation, what was and was not done, were too deeply ingrained, but things were so different here. This was a strange, wild place, and he found himself broaching a subject he would have never dared back in civilization, no matter how delicately he could have worded it. "What of Simion, Rill? Are you his companion, too?" The boy smiled, eyes shining. Then he bit his lip, lifting one shoulder in an eloquent shrug as he dipped his head, then slid another shy glance at Renfield. *He knows very well what I mean,* Renfield thought. *He isnt as slow as I thought--not about some things.* Renfield was considering asking another question when the boy said suddenly, "The castle." Renfield looked out the window, and blinked in surprise. How far had they travelled? How was it that he was so unaware of the distance and time? Both must have been considerably more than he had estimated, for the structure looming before him was massive. He heard a rushing sound, and realized that there must be a great river nearby, running beyond his scope, somewhere in the darkness. He saw that the castle was sitting before a steep drop, and thought that the river must run below. *A good position,* he thought. *Easily defended in the ancient days. But my God, the thing is huge!* It was surrounded by a great stone wall, and the coach drove through an open gate, entering the courtyard. On eather side Renfield could see heavy wood and iron gates, each as thick as a stout man. He was just thinking that they would be difficult to close when the coach cleared them, and they began to swing closed. In the moonlight, Renfield could see two men at each door, pushing them shut. The coach came to a halt, and two of the gypsies came to the coach. Renfield sat back a little as one of them opened the door and stood on the step, leaning in. He cast a brief smile at the boy, then turned shrewd, curious eyes on Renfield. Renfield found himself shrinking back a little, but the gypsy only reached over and took one of the cases, passing it out to his compatriot. He took the second case, and gave Renfield another measuring look. Then he smiled at Rill, jerking his head toward Renfield. "Kushti mic Guajo." Rill nodded. The gypsy studied the now apprehensive clerk more closely, then smirked. "Odjus mooi." There was something insinuating about his laugh. "Si tut bocklo, chavo?" Rill frowned and said sharply, "Chavaia!" He spoke rapidly the words running together so swiftly that Renfield couldnt follow. Then he said, "Hai shala?" The gypsy shrugged, and his tone was amused. "Misto, misto." He turned and hopped down, disappearing

from sight. "What was that all about?" Renfield asked. Rill was apologetic. "I am afraid that the gypsies arent used to dealing with outsiders. He just needed to be reminded that you are a guest, and to be treated with respect. He will warn the others." "Boy!" Rill looked up alertly, face lighting at the sound of the drivers voice. "Coming!" He turned to Renfield. "I will alight first, yes? Then I can help you down." "Really, Im not..." The young man was out of the carriage and reaching up toward him, his expression so openly friendly that Renfield let the rest of the sentence die, taking the boys cool hand and allowing him to assist him down. The gypsies were nowhere in sight. The driver was leaning over watching his passengers. "Rill, come help me get the horses situated. Mister Renfield, the beasts must not be allowed to stand in the cold while they are so warm from exercise." He pointed toward a set of shallow stone steps, which led up to a massive door. "You may enter through there." As he spoke, Rill quickly clambered up to sit beside him. Simion slapped the reins, and the horses began to move toward a nearby stable. He called over his shoulder. "Please go inside. The master is most eager to greet you." As the carriage rolled into the dim outbuilding, Renfield pulled his collar tighter about his throat and walked slowly to the foot of the steps. He gazed up at the door, undescided. *I cant just walk in unannounced. Perhaps I should wait for them to return?* He stamped his feet, which were beginning to feel uncomfortably numb from a combination of weariness and cold. *I hate the thought of ringing a bell or knocking at this time of night. The prince is supposed to be elderly, I think. It isnt good to disturb the rest of older folk, and...* His thoughts were interrupted by a low creak. The door was opening, swinging ponderously on its thick hinges. Renfield stood still as it inched its way open, absurdly fascinated by the almost stealthy movement. *Stealthy? What nonsense, Robert.* The open door way was filled with shadows, darker than the outside night. For a moment, Renfield had the chilling thought that there was no one there, that some ghostly hand had swung open the door, trying to lure a poor mortal inside. The someone stepped out onto the narrow landing. Renfield blinked, knowing that he was staring rudely, but not able to help it. The man, carrying a candlestick with flickering taper in one hand, was dressed in a long, red silk robe, the sort that Renfield imagined a high ranking nobleman would affect when he was feeling too ill to dress, but still needed to receive visitors. But on this man, it did not look affected--it looked right and proper, as if this were his normal costume. His hair was so white that it glimmered in the moonlight, and Renfield saw that it had been pulled back into a braid that fell far down his back. He was still handsome in a grizzled manner, the thick moustache unable to hide what must have once been strikingly handsome features, now blurred by age. Even with the slight stooping of his shoulders, the master of Castle Draculea was still a head taller than Renfield, still a most impressive man. Renfield, gaze fixed on the man who had to be his host, put his foot on the bottom step, then froze. Those eyes... For a split second they had seemed to burn yellow. Then the moment passed, and he realized that it was only that they were such a pale blue that they seemed silver in the moonlight. Yes, that was it. The man smiled. He extended his free hand toward Renfield in a graceful and gracious gesture of welcome. "I am Draculea. I bid you welcome." Apprehension fading a bit at this courtly greeting, Renfield went up to stand beside his host on the landing. "Prince Draculea--I am Robert Renfield, from the firm of Thompkins and Hawkins." Draculea inclined his head in a not-quite bow, then indicated the open doorway. "Enter freely, and of your own will, traveler."

A ring flashed on Draculeas finger, catching Renfields attention. It looked like an old fashioned signet ring--broad and thick, with an intricate design. But it was the hand itself that Renfield really noticed. It was a big hand. Though slightly disfigured with age, Renfield could readily imagine it handling reins, perhaps weilding a weapon... *or stroking firmly over smooth flesh* He blinked, wondering at that sudden image. Why had he thought that? This man was obviously long past the age of youthful rutting. He glanced quickly at the prince, hoping that he had not been rude, and was surprised by a smile that could only be described as knowing. Draculeas voice was soft. "Why do you hesitate, young man? Inside there is warmth, wine, a soft bed... many kinds of comfort await you." He took hold of Renfields arm. The young clerk saw the nails, thick and long, almost like talons, and his shudder was not only because of cold. But when the prince tugged gently, he followed him into the deep shadows of Castle Draculea, and the door swung shut behind them. Renfield chose to ignore that the quiet thud of its closing carried, somehow, an air of finality. end part 66 Back to index

Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Novelty

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Rock/Sinn Archive: The WWOMB. Otherwise, ask, and I will ask for removal when I get a publisher. Disclaimer: Bram Stoker, the original creator of the recognized characters, died in 1912, and copyright expires 75 years after the authors death. Therefore the work entered the public domain in 1985, and I have used the characters in this fiction, along with original creations. The whole is copyrighted by myself. I mean nothing but respect for the actors and actresses who were chosen for the cast gallery, and there is no understanding, legal or otherwise, with them. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Summary: Rock and Sinn react to the new arrival at Castle Draculea, both seeing possibilities. Notes: Sinn is more or less content with his life at Castle Draculea--Rock is still chafing under Draculeas control. Childre is the collective term for a vampires blood born offspring. Rating: NC-17 Part 67: Novelty The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Castle Draculea, Transylvania Sinn stretched as best he could with his hands tied to the headboard. He wondered idly, not for the first time, if Rock realized that the restraints were symbolic only--that hed have little trouble snapping the leather straps. Now, the chains in the dungeon--those were another matter. He was always a bit nervous when Rock wanted to play down there. That was part of the allure, of course, but Sinn didnt trust Rock to keep it to play. The boy was quite, quite unbalanced--it was one of his great attractions--so Sinn was careful to pretend great enthusiasm for the chains and the rack. Rock was less inclined to want to use whatever he thought gave Sinn the most pleasure. Sinn, knowing this perverse streak, could easily manipulate him into performing almost precisely the rough games and humiliations that he most craved. Hed spent the last hour or so with his knees lashed to the headboard above his bound hands, bent almost double, as Rock fucked him with vicious abandon. The older vampire had managed to tear some of the

tender internal tissues, withdrawing his prick decorated with dark, gelid blood instead of the shit he might have expected from a mortal partner. Sinn could even now feel the healing, like a vague, itching tickle, deep in his bowels. It was so familiar that he hardly noticed it anymore. When hed finished (Sinn had managed his own orgasm before Rock spilled himself--he knew from experience that if he didnt, hed be left hanging), Rock had slapped him a couple of times to express his displeasure in Sinn disobeying him by climaxing without his permission. Then, to further bring home Sinns transgression, hed left him tied while he went off in search of one of the gypsies for a quick meal. Draculea had finally given him permission to do so--if he could persuade the men to do it willingly. Sinn chuckled, thinking of some of the favors Rock had to exchange if he wanted to drink from a vampires most natural prey--a human. Sinn stretched his legs luxuriously, working out the last kinks. Before Rock had left, Sinn had pleaded to be allowed to remain strapped in his uncomfortable, legs-up position, giving Rock doe-eyes, and telling him that this position made him feel so SECURE. Rock had cut his legs free immediately. He sighed. Poor Rock, so predictable. Oh, he was reliable for a good, hard fucking, but there was no subtlety in the man--no finesse of cruelty. *No real power.* Sinn missed the days when Draculea took him to his bed. Not that the master vampire had ever been deliberately cruel to him, but he was so magnificent in his self-assurance and casual strength. Vlad Draculea was clearly meant to be a master of men in every realm--political, physical, and sexual. *Even now that he is finally aging,* Sinn thought. *Even with the wrinkles and white hair, he is more exciting than Rock at his most virile.* But it had been decades since Draculea had sought the embrace of any of this little clan. Sinn had stopped trying to seduce him after a few years, after meeting with blank indifference that was more cutting than violent rejection. Rock was relieved to be free of Draculeas carnal demands. Hed never really let himself enjoy being taken, clinging stubbornly to his resentment of any sign of possession. Sinn knew that Rill still tried, or had up until Draculea had entered his deepest, and most profound darkness of the soul. With Simions permission, even encouragement, the boy had gently tried to coax Draculea into intimacy. The elder vampire had allowed it, almost like letting a favorite puppy bumble about him, lavishing him with clumsy affection. Hed let the boy sit on his lap, caress him, even kiss him. But when Rills hands had moved to his crotch, Draculea would push him away gently, sending a bewildered and sorrowful Rill to Simion to be comforted. Sinn knew about Nicolae, of course. They all knew of the lost love of Draculeas life, though Draculea himself would never discuss him with his two youngest childre. Sinn had seen the portrait in the library, had read the reams of parchment, all carefully preserved, that were covered with the elegant script. Sinn had always been very skeptical of the concept of pining away for love, but now he wasnt so sure. It seemed he was watching it. Simion didnt trust him, but since hed never tried to use or hurt Rill, he treated the French vampire with much more courtesy than he showed the recalcitrant Rock. He would even spend time with Sinn, talking and playing chess or cards while Rill watched in rapt fascination. Sinn had gradually worked out the entire strange history of Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea--his cold childhood, his bloody reign, his reluctant decision to seek a bride, and his fateful meeting with Nicolae Calugarul, the Little Monk. Sinn had to smile, remembering that. The truly pure were so much fun, so tempting. Corruption of an innocent had to be one of the most delightful recreations. That was one reason why he was so hopeful about this upcoming visitation. The clerk was to be an Englishman, yes? Hed heard from the gypsies gossip that in recent decades the English had become a singularly prudish people, very repressed and horrified by anything they viewed as perverse, or even not normal. It had been a long time since Sinn had been able to practice his seduction techniques. He was quite looking forward to it. He found himself tapping his fingers against the headboard, feeling the first stir of impatience. Where was

that pigheaded peasant? He wanted to have a little time to freshen himself before he met this intriguing unknown. After all, first impressions were so important. ***** Rock had finished with his sketchy cleansing. Now he paced in his room, a cup of wine almost forgotten in his hands. He still enjoyed the taste, but hed never become used to taking normal food or drink, not like Rill. The boy had accustomed himself to the discomfort that followed each such meal, simply for the pleasure of enjoying the things hed liked when he was mortal. Simion clucked over him on the occasions he took too much and became nauseous, or got a belly ache, but he continued to indulge the boy, knowing how much he enjoyed the treats. It infuriated Rock, and he had no real recourse to relieve the rage and hunger that boiled up inside him. Oh, not the physical hunger--that physical need was met. He still had to take the majority of his meals from the beasts in the forest that surrounded the castle, but now it was supplemented by true nourishment. At least once a week he managed to cajole one of the gypsies into allowing him to feed. More often than not he had to pleasure his prospective meal before he could eat, but hed gotten proficient at that, and it was always over quickly. He planned to slaughter every one of the grinning animals some day. Rock stared at the wine, then made a sound of disgust and threw it into the fire. It hissed, tart-scented steam rising as it struck the flames, and he tossed the cup negligently on the table. Hed always dreamed of living in a fine house, wearing fine clothes. Now both wishes had been granted, but at a cost that galled him. He was not his own man--he was Draculeas creature. He wasnt even his pet--Rill held that favored position, and Sinn (up until Draculeas recent decline), had been a companion to the prince, conversing with him on subjects that Rock knew little of, and cared less about. Rill was Draculeas pet, Sinn his companion, and Simion his friend. And Rock? Rock was still his bitch--nothing had much changed from the first night of his unlife, when Draculea had taken him with the same sort of brutal indifference that Rock had usually shown his own bed partners. *Too long, too fucking long.* How long had it been since hed been able to REALLY have someone? He considered it. There was Sinn, of course. //But hes of no consequence. Hell, he ENJOYS it. I think if I fucked him to death hed just smile. There was that stable lad...// Rock smiled cruelly in fond remembrance. Hed been delectable--barely old enough to scrape the fuzz from his cheeks, so terrified... Rock hadnt meant to kill him. Well, he hadnt STARTED OUT to take his life. He only wanted his blood, and his ass. Hed been hunting away from the others when hed come upont the boy, sleepily relieving himself behind a bush near the stables of a manor house where Draculea had been visiting, trying to decide which memeber of the thoroughly charmed family he would select for his own delectation. Rock had stunned the boy with a quick blow, then carried him deep into the forest, knowing that he must be well away from the others if he was to have this treat. Then hed awakened the boy before taking him. What was the use in fucking an unconscious body? No sport there. The blood lust had mingled with the fleshly lust, and he hadnt tried too hard to curb his nature. Hed torn the boys throat out as he raped him, gorging himself on blood made sweet by terror and pain. He hadnt hidden the body well enough, and Draculea knew immediately what had happened. It was one of several times in this twilight existence that Rock had believed he was finally going to meet true death, but it hadnt happened. Even that one incident... It had been a lashing out, taking whatever he could, hardly by choice, so could it really be counted as an act of his will? So that would mean what? "A hundred and ninety-four years," he whispered. Unlike his brother, he was aware of every year that had passed. "A hundred and ninety-four years of being the taken, instead of the taker. Well, it has gone on long enough." He stalked to the window. This was one of the outer rooms--the windows had not been boarded up, and he could enter it only at night. He had caught the distant sound of a carriage. He stood at the window,

watching the courtyard, showing no more life than a carved statue. He still didnt move when he heard the carriage approaching. He stayed still during the long moments while the rumble of wheels and stamp of hooves drew nearer. *Hes coming closer--the outsider. He isnt of Draculeas blood, he isnt one of those under his hereditary protection.* The carriage entered the courtyard. He watched as the gypsies went to meet it. Simion was alone on the drivers seat--that meant that Rill had ridden inside with the new arrival. Yes, he would. Rock snorted softly. *Hes like a puppy, friendly with everyone who doesnt kick him aside.* The gypsy lingered for a moment on the carriage step. He was laughing, shaking his head when he jumped back down and took the baggage to the castle with his companion. Rock tensed a little, waiting, but it was Rill who emerged next. Then his brother turned, reaching up toward the open carriage door. Again Rock tensed, and this time he wasnt disappointed. He was a small man. *Hell barely come up to my chin.* He was wrapped in one of the heavy, muffling coats so beloved of the city dwellers. Words were exchanged, and Rill leaped back up to sit beside Simion as the retainer drove the coach to the stables, leaving the visitor alone at the foot of the steps that led to the great door. The Englishman looked at the castle, his eyes traveling slowly up the building. Rock knew that he was seeing more than the mortal was, because he was seeing with vampiric eyes. It was unlikely that this Renfield would see him, but he could see the mortal very clearly. He was pale in the moonlight. *So pale that he might be one of us,* Rock thought. The face... It wasnt feminine, but it was fine boned, almost delicate, and there was a nervous, melancholy droop to the well-formed mouth. Even he couldnt tell the eye color at this distance, but they were large and, he thought, intelligent. *Yes, hell have a mind--they wouldnt send a stupid man. So much the better.* His fingers flexed, but he was unaware of the deep pricks that his nails made in his own arms. *The stupid ones are too easy to break.* He rubbed his chin, watching as the man started up the stairs. He felt his fangs pricking at his lips, and thoughtfully sucked at the tiny wounds, nursing the tiny trickle of thick, cold blood. He smiled as the young man disappeared from view. "This could be very interesting." *Id better go release Sinn. Hell want to make himself pretty, and hell drive me mad with pouting if he isnt satisfied with how he looks the first time this Renfield sees him.* He started back to the room in which theyd been trysting. ***** Sinn had finally lost patience and decided that he was tired of waiting for Rock. Hed started twisting and testing his bonds, considering the quickest and easiest way to snap them. Hed almost settled on his plan when he heard Rock approaching the room. "About time, cheri," he murmured. He blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to moisten. Before Rock reached the room hed managed a single bloody tear. Satisfied that it looked suitably decorative trickling down his cheek, he began to pretend to struggle with his bonds. Rock shook his head as he entered. "Sinn, when are you going to learn?" He went over and sat on the bed beside the younger vampire, who stilled, watching him with damp, pleading eyes. Rock captured the single bloody teardrop with his thumb, then licked it clean. Again he ran his thumb along one of Sinns high cheekbones, then slapped him lightly. "I ought to just leave you here for a day or two. Rill wouldnt come in if I asked him not to." Sinn struggeld with his annoyance. *And Simion would most CERTAINLY come looking for me.* "Rock, please. You know that the prince will want to present us ALL to this clerk. I dont want him to be angry with me if Im not ready." He gave Rock a significant look. "I just dont know what Ill say when he wants to know why." Rock scowled. The style for wearing concealed weapons had passed long ago, but what did a vampire know of current styles? He kept a short dagger, the blade no more than three inches long, strapped to his

forearm, under his sleeve. He drew the weapon, and sliced the staps that bound Sinn to the bed. Sinn sat up, and examined his wrists, hissing in annoyance. "Cheri, please--the next time use the broader straps. The skin is cut near to the bone. La, I look like Ive been trying to make away with myself. Ill have to wear close-fitting, long sleeves." "Youd best make up your mind quickly," said Rock sullenly. "He arrived a minute ago." "Merde!" Sinn sprang up, snatching his clothes from the floor. He cursed in French as he hastily wriggled into them. "Thank God that I had narrowed the selection of my attire down to a mere dozen choices! I may even be able to make myself less than hideous before I am presented." He was out of the room before Rock could do more than blink. He shook his head. *I dont care how long he exists, he will always be a vain little flirt. Well,* he got up and headed for his own room. *Id best do something. If Draculea thinks that Im not taking care to put forth a good face for his new pawn, Ill suffer for it.* As he changed, he thought, *He looks like a tasty enough morsel--in many ways. Perhaps not quite as young and tender as he might be, but I think he has possibilities. The thing is, am I willing to share with Sinn? Hes going to be after the man like one of the wolves after a wounded rabbit.* He smoothed his hair, knowing that Sinn would seek out either him or Simion for a final opinion on his appearance. Vampires had a lot of advantages over mortals, but there was one thing they couldnt do--they couldnt check their reflections. Rock was still dressing in the style of his mortal life, stubbornly clinging to the last element of a time when hed been a free man, answerable to no one. As he smoothed a wrinkle out of his hose, he thought, *Yes, youll be after him, wont you, Sinn? Well, well see who fares the best with this little rabbit.* He smiled cruelly, fangs glinting, *the snare, or the hunting hawk.* end part 67 Back to index

Chapter 68: Chapter 68: Household

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: NC17 Summary: Renfield is introduced to the household. Archive: Lists and WWOMB, but I will ask for removal when I find a publisher. Sequel/Series: No Disclaimer: Copyright extends for 75 years after the authors death. Bram Stoker died in 1912, and thus Dracula is public domain. The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Castle Draculea With the moonlight cut off by the closed door, it was darker inside than it had been out. The only light came from the candle that Draculea carried, and its illumination was both dim and fitful. It did not penetrate more than a foot or two from its source. Indeed, Renfield found that his lower limbs were lost in shadow, but he sensed that the room was large. Judging from the outside it was probably huge, even by the standards of Englands manor houses. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, speaking of distant stonewalls and ceiling.

*Footsteps?* As Renfield followed slowly after his host, he found himself straining his ears. There must be some trick of acoustics, because he could detect only his own footfalls. The fact that Draculea moved so smoothly that he seemed to glide added to the eerie effect. Renfield stumbled over something. He would have fallen, but Draculea turned with the speed of thought and caught his arm, holding him steady. "Be careful, my friend. Im afraid that Ive neglected the upkeep of my ancestral home. The way is not as smooth as it might be." "Yet you walk as confidently as if it were high noon, with a clear path," Renfield remarked. "Yes, well, you must realize that I have lived here a long, long time. I am used to it--I know it well." "I can understand that. I can move about my own room in London quite easily without light. But this..." Draculea shrugged. "I actually see better with dim light than I do with bright--a peculiarity of my age that I have decided to view as a blessing, rather than a curse." Renfield found that they were standing before a tall, heavy door. "It isnt much farther now. We have only to go through the great hall. Ive had a smaller room readied to receive you. It isnt so grand, but it is much cozier." As he reached for the door handle, Renfield said, "Please, sir, allow me." He had no desire to see Draculea struggle with the door, and thought that it would only be right for him to help the other man, as he was not only his elder, but his host. He thought that he saw a hint of amusement in Draculeas expression as he said, "How gracious. Yes, if it pleases you." Renfield took hold of the handle and pulled. The door didnt budge. Not only was it massive, but the hinges were stiff with age and disuse. He gripped the handle with both hands and pulled harder, feeling embarrassed when a grunt escaped him before he could contain it. And still the door had moved only a scant few inches. He paused. It went against his grain as an Englishman, and his own personality, to be seen to struggle. "There is a trick to it," Draculea said quietly, brushing Renfields hand away. "Please, I know the eccentricities of my home." He opened the door easily, the hinges giving a low moan of rubbing metal that made the hair prickle at the back of Renfields neck. There was another trek through chill, echoing darkness, and they came to a much smaller door. Draculea opened it, and there was suddenly light, and dry warmth. The room he was ushered into was, indeed, rather cozy--at lease compared to the cavern theyd just crossed. It was about the size of a parlor in a middle-class English home--small enough to be well warmed by the great fire crackling on the hearth. But unlike the fashion that was becoming popular in his native land, the room was not crammed helter-skelter with overstuffed furniture and decorative bric-a-brac. The furnishing, though heavy, was sparse, and the objects of decoration were few, but rich with antiquity. "I say," murmured Renfield, relieved. "This IS nice." "I will convey your thanks to Simion and Rill. The child was quite beside himself, preparing this little place, and your room." Draculea placed the candle on a small table that had been drawn up to one side of the fire, then went back to where Renfield still stood, beside the door. "You must remove that muffling garment, Mister Renfield. The room is quite warm, and you will make yourself ill if you become overheated." "Yes, of course." Robert began to unbutton the coat as Draculea moved behind him to shut the door. He finished slipping the last button from its seat, and was startled to feel Draculeas hands on his shoulders. An even greater startlement was the princes voice beside his ear, saying quietly, "In my ancestors days this place teemed with servants, ready to satisfy every need and whim of the royal family. Alas, my familys power in this world has diminished." Draculea was easing the coat from Renfields shoulders. "Now I have only a very few retainers, and most of them..." Renfield turned to see Draculea folding the coat over his arm. The older man shrugged. "They are a fiercely loyal people, but... unfinished--rough." He smiled as he laid the

coat on a sideboard. "Oh, you neednt explain anything, sir. This is most pleasant and inviting. Now, if I can show you..." He made a sound of disgust. "Dash it! I left the case of papers in my baggage!" Draculea waved his hand dismissively. "I had heard that the English were a brisk, efficient race, and you would seem a prime example. Not tonight, Mister Renfield. There is plenty of time." His eyes seemed very old. "Believe me--I know this. There is ALWAYS time." Again Draculea settled a hand on Renfields shoulder, and began to steer him toward the table. Renfield thought that he had never in his life been so aware of anything as he was of that. *No, I must be honest. Jonathan--I am aware of him. His mere presence can set my nerves tingling--but not like this.* The touch was not heavy, but it was firm, and not to be denied. "Truly, sir, my lands are not what your countrymen would consider civilized, but I do what I can. You must be tired from your journey, and hungry. Please, accept this hospitality." *I cant very well refuse,* Renfield thought. He looked at the table, and saw that a simple, but very appealing, meal had been laid out--cold roast chicken, ham, fresh bread, butter, cheese, and fruit. *And I dont want to refuse.* "Yes, thank you. This looks splendid." He took the seat that Draculea pulled out for him, surveying the food with anticipation. "Oh, but theres only one place laid. Surely youll be joining me?" "I will most surely sit with you." Draculea took the chair across from Renfield, settling with ease that Renfield would not have expected, given his age. "But as to the food--no." He made a gesture. "Im afraid that my diet is rather limited--quite specialized. It is so with most of my household, but I enjoy watching others appease their appetites. Please, do not hesitate." Renfield reached for the cheese, then paused, remembering how grace had been said at every communal meal hed taken since he had come to this country. "I dont usually pray before my meals." Draculea chuckled. "Believe me, sir, you will find no offense here in that matter. Please, eat." He took a bottle of wine and leaned across, filling Renfields glass. "Yes, this is a land of superstitions, but that of The Carpenters church do not have a strong foothold in this household. Speaking of my people, youll have met young Rill and my man--Simion." "Yes." The cheese was of an unfamiliar sort, but very good, and Renfield found that he was hungrier than hed thought. He helped himself to several slices of chicken and ham. "I must say they were a welcome sight. That blasted coach driver left me by the side of the road. I was sure that Id end my days in the belly of some great wolf." "No," Draculea said, almost negligently. "There was no danger of that--the wolves would not have touched you. Not tonight, in any case, but I cannot vouch for your safety if you should leave the castle unescorted in days to come." "I dont want to doubt you," Renfield said slowly, "But how...?" "You are a civilized, educated man, Mister Renfield," said Draculea softly. "But some things cannot be quantified, nor explained scientifically--they simply are." Renfield didnt know how to respond to this pronouncement, so he merely took another sip of wine. It was excellent, much better than he had ever been able to afford. He reminded himself to drink sparingly. It wouldnt do to become addled. He heard something--a faint brush of sound, like the rustling of leaves outside a window, and he looked toward the door. The noise resolved itself into quiet voices, whispers, but still there was something so detached about the sound that it was hard to believe that it was human. The soft tap on the door was almost a shock. "That will be the rest of my household, come to view you." Draculeas tone was amused. He raised his voice. "Enter." Renfield wasnt sure what he had been expecting. Not any of the conventional servants--butler,

housekeeper, footmen, maids... Surely the prince himself would not have come to the door if hed had these domestics? In Renfields experience the nobility never performed such mundane tasks themselves, and royals... Two young men entered--dark and light. The fire and candlelight struck glints off the strawberry blond hair of the taller one, and the smaller one, the one more his size, had the greenest eyes Renfield had ever seen. Both approached the table and gave small bows to the prince, while keeping their gazes fixed on Renfield. Robert felt the urge to fidget. Never before had he been the subject of such concentrated study. Draculea gestured. "Mister Renfield, allow me to present Rock and Sinn. Rock, Sinn--Mister Robert Renfield, of Hawkins and Thompkins." Rock, the blond, grunted a greeting, but Sinn, the dark-haired one, greeted him with a bright smile and an outstretched hand. Rills hands had been cool, but Renfield hadnt thought much of that, since the boy had been riding on top of the coach. Draculeas chill flesh he had put down to his age and health. But Sinns hand was cold also, and he was young and healthy. Robert didnt have time to think of it much, though, because Sinn was squeezing his hand gently, and it felt... yes, it felt as if his thumb was stroking Renfields palm. "Mister Renfield, so pleased to meet you!" He let go, then shook a finger teasingly at Renfield. "You are going to be a breath of fresh air in this gloomy old place--I can tell." Sinn went to sit on his right, while Rock sprawled in the chair on his left. Renfield hesitated, looking down at his plate, and Sinn said, "No, no--finish your meal, please. Weve already eaten," he smiled at Rock. "Havent we?" Rock smirked, nodding. Sinn poured himself a glass of wine. "Though I will join you in a small drink, just to be sociable." Renfield resumed eating. He felt a little uncomfortable, but he was still too hungry to forgo the rest of the meal. Sinn propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand, and said, "I need your opinion, Mister Renfield. I try to keep abreast of fashions, but out here..." he waved his hand vaguely. "Any papers or gazettes we receive are MONTHS, if not years, out of date." He gestured at himself. "What do you think of this ensemble? Is it too terribly out of date?" Renfield swallowed, confused at being asked to render an opinion on the fashions of the upper crust. "I couldnt say, sir. Im afraid that I have very little to do with the fashionable set." Sinn looked disappointed. "Ah, me--and I was so hoping to pick your brain. Is there nothing you can tell me?" He dipped his head, giving Renfield a pouting glance. *Good God--if he were a woman, Id believe he was flirting with me.* "I HAVE seen a few of the firms clients recently. I believe that your mode of dress would fit in quite well with them. The tailoring seems excellent." Now Sinn smiled again. "Wonderful!" He smoothed a hand over his vest. "Though I must say that I miss the more vibrant colors. Hellas, the thought that one must restrict oneself to black, brown, and gray!" He made a face, then sighed. "When I look so nice in bottle green." Rock snorted, and Sinn said archly, "Not a word from you. You have not changed the cut of your clothes in..." There was a sharp, loud rap. Everyone looked over at the prince, who tapped his knuckles lightly on the table, staring at Sinn. Sinns smile tightened, and Renfield saw him dip his head a fraction toward the prince. Then he continued, looking at Renfield. "He simply does not change. The clothing is replaced by the same sort, with scarcely a stitch of difference. I would go mad if I did the same." Renfield had noted Rocks attire. He was used to seeing rather quaint costumes on the natives, but this was extreme. The man could have easily walked the streets a hundred years before without calling attention with his dress. *Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he IS a footman, and the prince has unusual taste in livery. The knee breeches, and the hose... Ill be damned if I dont think that those breeches lace instead of buttoning. How odd. And both of them... No one but the highest noble or the lowest guttersnipe would be

able to get away with wearing their hair that long in London. Or maybe theyre part of that aesthetic movement, where every other one fancies himself an artist or poet?* Renfield took another look at Rock. Though he was young and rather handsome, the lines of his face were hard, and there was a sort of frustrated, smoldering arrogance in his eyes. *No, not that one. Theres not a speck of poetry or artistry in him. He cant be a footman--the prince is gracious, but he wouldnt let propriety slip that far. What on earth sort of relation are they to him?* The door opened again, and Simion and Rill entered. Rill hurried to the table, going directly to Draculeas side. Renfield watched in surprise at the boy dropped to his knees beside the prince, reaching up to clasp the chair arm, turning an eager, expectant face to the older man. Draculea smiled indulgently, and reached down, his slightly gnarled hand caressing the boys smooth cheek. "You have had an adventure, eh, little one?" Rill nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, we had to go a LONG way!" He looked over at Renfield, and his eyes were distressed. "Sir, they left my friend out by the side of the road. That was bad." "Yes, Rill, very bad. But Mister Renfield is none the worse for it. So, already he is your friend?" Rill gave Renfield a shy, questioning look, and Renfield found himself nodding. "Good. He rises in my estimation. Im sure that you will spend many happy hours visiting with him while he is here." *I thought that Draculea was eager to transact this business,* Renfield thought. *He acts as if I have arrived for a vacation. I know that sometimes the Europeans address business differently than the English, but this is unusually casual.* Once again he wasnt given much time to contemplate this oddity. Sinn was leaning close to him. "Having you here will be a boon to all of us. The master will gain his property, Rill will have someone else to share his time, Simion can discuss business affairs with you, and I..." he shrugged. "News of the outside world is always welcome." His voice lowered. "As isolated as we are, I sometimes fear that my social skills will grow rusty." Rock snorted again, receiving a sharp glance from Sinn. The glowering young man made Renfield uncomfortable, but he knew that avoiding or ignoring the disturbing man might make an unfavorable impression on the prince. He addressed Rock. "And how will I be able to serve you, sir?" Sinn coughed. Rock stared at Renfield, cocking his head. Finally he said slowly, "Im sure that there will be occasion." Another rap from the prince. Rock hesitated, not looking at the older man, then finished, "Well see. A new face is always welcome." Rill said, "Would you like to see my soldiers?" "Soldiers?" For a moment Renfield had a vision of how Castle Draculea had been centuries ago, the courtyard busy with men who were skilled with bow and spear. "His toys," said Rock shortly, his tone dismissive. It was evident from the blond mans attitude that Rill was not a universal favorite--Renfield sensed Rocks resentment and envy. *But then I could say much the same for his attitude toward all of them. This cant be a peaceful household.* As he thought this, Renfield took up the loaf of bread. It was the long, crusty sort hed become accustom to here on the Continent, not the plump, tender English bread he was used to. Luckily they had provided a sharp knife, and he began to slice off a piece. "Rock doesnt play games," said Sinn. He smiled at Renfield. "Do YOU play games?" Renfield had never experienced the subtleties of seduction, but there was no mistaking the meaning in the young mans suggestive tone. Any peace hed begun to gain from the princes hospitality fled, and his hand slipped. He exclaimed in pain as the knife sliced into his thumb. "Damnation!" The pain was bright and stinging, and a thick line of blood welled across the pad of his thumb. He heard sharp, indrawn breath, and looked up, ready to assure his hosts that the injury was negligible. He wasnt prepared for the response. Simion was frowning. Rills reaction was the mildest, but he was staring at Renfield with eyes gone huge,

mouth slightly open. The prince seemed to be carved from marble, but once again his eyes looked silver in the firelight. Sinn, oddly enough, was regarding him with a tiny, bemused smile. It was Rock who had the most startling reaction. He had half-risen from his seat, leaning toward Renfield, his expression suddenly tight and feral. He began to reach toward Renfield. Suddenly Simion was behind Rock, hand on his shoulder, gripping hard enough for Renfield to see where the fingers pressed into the flesh. The room was far too still, far too quiet. Robert said, "Im sorry. That was clumsy of me, but its not so bad." He put his thumb in his mouth, sucking away the blood. Rock gave a shuddering sigh and sank back into his chair, tilting his head to glare at Simion. Simion looked at him grimly, and gave one final, warning squeeze before releasing him. Sinn said quietly, "Sir, if you will permit?" He held out his hand. Not knowing how he could refuse when the man was just trying to see to his well-being, Renfield allowed him to take hold of his wrist. There was a thin line of blood to mark the wound. "Yes, it has almost stopped bleeding. But truly, that is no way to care for a cut." Not releasing Renfields hand, he took his unused napkin, dipped a corner in the wine, and pressed it to the cut. Renfield jerked slightly at the sting, and Sinn said solicitously, "Yes, I know--it burns. But it is necessary, sir. If you try to treat such a wound as you did, sucking or licking away the blood, why, who can tell what infection might settle?" Rill giggled. "Oh, yes! It could..." Draculea put his hand on Rills head. "Hush." Rill looked up contritely, and Draculea said, "We dont talk of such things, Rill." Draculeas eyes *blue, just blue* flicked to Renfield. "Not before outsiders." "Im sorry." Rill looked at Renfield. "I didnt mean to laugh at you. You arent really hurt, are you? Simion is wonderful about taking care of hurts." "No, Im fine." This gave Renfield an excuse to take his hand from Sinns grip. He showed it to Rill. "You see? It was shallow. I wont even need to bandage it." "Let me see." Simions touch was different from Sinns--brisk and efficient. "Perhaps not. Well leave it open tonight, and see how it is tomorrow. Ill bring a salve to you before you retire that will ward off infections, and keep it from scarring." Renfield looked doubtful, and Simion smiled. "We have no doctor here, sir, but I DO have some small skills. Trust me on this." Robert nodded hesitantly. "Prince Draculea, I dont want to be rude, but could I be shown to my room now? I find that Im more weary than I thought." "How remiss of me. Of course, you must be near exhausted after your journey, and your final walk." Rill bounced to his feet. "I can take him!" He looked at Renfield proudly. "I helped prepare it with Simion." "Rill is a good worker," said Simion fondly. "He always looks for ways to help." He gave the other two young men a jaundiced look, as if to say unlike some others. Rock smirked, and Sinn gave a tiny shrug. Renfield stood. "Well, Id best retire. Im sure youll want to get an early start reviewing the properties tomorrow, and..." "Not at all," Draculea interrupted. "I am afraid that there are a few eccentricities you must accommodate, young man. This is a nocturnal household--we sleep during the day. My line suffers from a peculiar sensitivity to the rays of the sun, and we avoid them wherever possible. You need not bend to our ways, but only Simion and the gypsies are about during the daylight hours. It might be more fruitful for you if you school yourself to sleep in the day while you are here." "I wont be here long enough to make that great a difference, will I?" Renfield protested. "How long do you anticipate it will take for you to make your decision?" Draculea waved negligently. "Who can say? There is no hurry, Mister Renfield. I have been waiting for this opportunity for a long, long time--longer than you could imagine. This venture will be quite profitable for your firm--Im sure they will spare you as long as it takes."

"Perhaps," said Sinn, "he has someone anxiously awaiting him. Have you a wife, Mister Renfield?" His voice lowered teasingly. "A lover?" "Sinn." The single word from Draculea was firm. "No, its all right, prince. In fact, Im at your disposal. As long as the deposit I left to hold my rooms lasts, my landlady will not pine. Aside from that, I have only a friend at the office. I wanted to ask you, is there a way to get mail out? Id like to write him." Renfield did not notice the looks exchanged by Rock and Sinn at the word him. Draculea said, "Yes, certainly. Any time you need to post a missive you have only to give it to Simion. He will have one of the gypsies bring it to the nearest village. In fact, it would be good if you would write to your friend and employers tomorrow, assuring them of your safe arrival. Take the opportunity to say that you will be with me here for some days, perhaps even weeks." "Weeks?" As careful as he was of etiquette, Renfield could not keep the hint of dismay out of his voice. "I will, of course, explain this to your employers--and compensate you for your time. I wish you a restful repose, Mister Renfield. Should you be awake and about before evening, you are welcome to explore the castle. Go where you will--if a room is off limits, it will be locked. Two places only are forbidden--the lower levels, and the roof. Both are dangerous, in their own way. You could easily become lost in the bowels of this old place, and there can be no attraction for you there. The rooms below the castle have seen much suffering and blood. The atmosphere there is unpleasant, at best, and the roof..." his voice faded, his gaze going distant, and full of pain. He was silent for a moment, and Simion went to him, touching his arm. The prince blinked, then said, "I apologize, Mister Renfield. You see, I lost someone very dear to me in a fall from the roof. It is my desire that no one goes there now." Renfield stood, and the prince stood also. Again Renfield was struck by the elder mans height. So many big men diminished with age, but Draculea seemed to have lost little of his stature--he was still an impressive man. "Rill, take our guest to his quarters--I need to speak with Simion." "Come," Rill said, his voice excited. "It isnt the grandest room, but its very nice. I cleaned it very carefully, and I was allowed to choose any furnishings I liked from the rest of the castle." He opened the door, and Simion said, "Rill, the candle. Mister Renfield doesnt know the castle as you do--he will need the light." Renfield made his goodnights while Rill took the candle, and they left. The door closed, and the men left in the small room were silent for a moment, listening to Rills chatter, and Renfields quieter responses as they faded. Finally Draculea said coolly, "Will I have to restrict you two to your rooms to ensure that your loose talk does not alarm our guest?" "Does it matter?" said Rock. "It isnt as if he can depart without your leave." "I need this man co-operative, fool." "You could compel him easily enough." "Aye, I could enslave his mind, though it might cost his sanity. And he must communicate with the solicitors in England to make the transaction. There can be no hint of anything amiss in his letters. Though he has told us that there are none who would be troubled by his disappearance, we have no way of knowing if this is so. This is too important to me to risk it through your carelessness." His voice was hard. "Or your lusts." "But Master," protested Sinn. "A bit of cosseting might bend him more fully to your cause." "Oh, I wasnt speaking of you, Sinn," said Draculea dismissively. "I know where your tastes lie, and thered be no likelihood of you damaging the man. Seduce him, if you wish--I know that you yearn to exercise your wiles on a fresh subject." Sinns face lit up. "But you, Rock--I know your inclinations as well. Youre to keep your hands off him, at least for the time being." He looked at Simion. "Though I doubt that he could get into any mischief during the day, it might be better if Mister Renfield adjusted himself to our schedule quickly." Simion bowed his head. "Yes, lord. When I bring the salve I will also bring him a bedtime glass of

wine--fortified with something to, um, help him sleep." Rock pushed Sinns foot with his own. "I suppose youll spend the time till sunset tomorrow plotting your conquest." "Do not pout, cheri. You are quite attractive when you are sullen, but pouting? It does not suit you." He sighed happily. "It has been a long time since I had someone so untried to seduce." "And what makes you think the Englishman is untried?" Sinns voice was disdainful. "One has only to observe, cheri. I dont say that the delicious Mister Renfield has never enjoyed the pleasures of the bed, but really..." he chuckled. "I only hope that I will be able to coax him into performing." He stood, stretching lithely. "Ah, well. If I must, I can strip him down, tease him into fullness, then mount and ride him like a stallion." He smiled. "I think Id like that." end part 68 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 69: Chapter 69: First Night

The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Castle Draculea Part 69: First Night Rill and Renfield were passing through the Great Hall, very slowly, in Renfields case. Rill moved before him chattering brightly, gesturing to items that Renfield could not see in the gloom, and relating their stories and histories. "And that tapestry there--the one with the unicorn? It was embroidered by the princes own mother, years and years ago. Simion said that she wanted to remain a unicorn catcher all her life, but had to marry the elder Draculea." Rills voice was puzzled. "Simion wouldnt tell me what you had to do to be a unicorn catcher. He just laughed, and said that no one at Castle Draculea had possessed the necessary asset for a long time." Rills keen ears caught a small, muffled thud, and a nearly inaudible curse. He turned quickly, hurrying back to where Renfield was rubbing his toe. The clerk said ruefully, "Im sorry, but I didnt expect a chair to be sitting so far out in the room." He looked around doubtfully. "We are in the center of the room, arent we?" Rill shook his head. "What kind of host am I? Wait a moment." He hurried over to the wall and pried a candle loose from its sconce, easily wresting it from its thick bed of wax drippings. He went back to Renfield, lit the taper with his own candle flame, then offered it to Renfield. "Just hold it tipped forward, so that the hot wax doesnt drip on your hand." Hed begun to turn, but now he hesitated. "Unless you like that?"

Startled, Renfield said, "Good lord, no! Who enjoys being burned with hot wax?" Rill shrugged. "Sinn calls it a different kind of kiss. We go up these stairs. I was going to put you in the room that the princess once slept in, but the master said that youd probably have nightmares. I dont think he liked her very much." With the second candle, there was just enough light for Renfield to pick his way safely after Rill. The boy kept up a running commentary. As they mounted the stairs, he told Renfield of how the hall rug had once been stained with the blood of the Turkish diplomats who had been foolish enough to offer insult to the crown of Wallachia. Renfield shuddered as Rill described the punishment they had received; marveling at the matter-of-fact way the boy related it. "But you cant see the blood now. The princess was angry about it, so they had to change it. Simion called it foolishness, worrying about household decorations when the land was on the verge of war." They were making their way down a corridor that was so dark it almost seemed like a tunnel. "You learn your history from Simion?" Renfield asked. "Yes! Its just like hearing stories when he tells it." "Almost as if he witnessed it himself, eh?" "Oh, but he..." Rill stopped abruptly, casting a worried glance at Renfield. There are too many abruptly ended sentences in this place, Renfield thought. "Yes?" "Here is your room." Rill opened the door, ushering Renfield in. Renfield stopped just inside the door, looking around. "Oh. Oh, my." If this was one of the less grand rooms, what must the staterooms be like? There was huge bed--easily big enough for a family to sleep comfortably, and it was piled with pillows and soft, thick spreads. A heavy desk of dark, carved wood sat at one wall, with a well padded, leather chair before it. A small table, with an equally comfortable chair, was nearby, decorated with a small vase of flowers. The desktop held neat stacks of paper and envelopes, pens, inkwells... Everything Renfield might need in his work. There was a fireplace, with a cheerful blaze leaping behind the screen, and the floor was covered with a thick rug, its pattern woven in rich, muted colors. "Do you like it?" There was pride in Rills voice, but also a hint of anxiety. "I... I hardly know what to say. Its quite magnificent, Rill. Thank you." Rills smile spread to a grin of satisfied relief. "Do you like the flowers?" "Yes, theyre very pretty. I dont believe Ive seen them before." "They only bloom at night. I picked them just before we went to fetch you." Renfield spotted his bags sitting at the foot of the bed, and almost drooped with relief. "There they are!" He hurried to them, hefting one up onto the bed, and opening it.

Rill followed him over, peering into the opened bag curiously. "I can help you unpack." Renfield started to demur, but then thought thered be no harm in it, and it would make the boy happy. He handed over a small bag. "Here, these are my shaving things. You can put them over on that dresser, by the basin, if you wish." Rill took the bag and went to the dresser, while Renfield put the second bag on the bed and opened it, looking for his case of documents. He heard the quiet clatter and click of the boy setting down his various shaving supplies--then there was a gasp, and the sound of shattering glass. He turned quickly to see a small pile of glittering shards near the boys feet. The look Rill gave him was apologetic, but somehow opaque. "Im sorry. It startled me." "Startled you?" repeated Renfield, bewildered. "Its been such a long time since I saw a mirror. We dont keep them here at Castle Draculea." He noted Renfields puzzled expression and shrugged, smiling. "Sinn is always complaining. I think that he used to really enjoy looking at himself. Hes always fishing for compliments. If you really want him to like you, flatter him. Hell think that youre doing it for some personal reason, but hell like it." The boy may be simple, but he seems to have an instinct for some things. "Thank you, Rill." Rill toed the glass shards. "Simion will clean this up. I dont like to touch them." He went over to the bed and peered into Renfields case with childlike curiosity. He was so blissfully unmindful of whatever offence this could cause that Renfield hadnt the heart to be annoyed. Rill pointed into the bag. "Whats that? It looks important." "It is indeed." Renfield lifted his case out and brought it to the desk. There he unfastened the latch, opened it, and began to unpack the papers inside. "This is all the information about the properties I want to recommend to the prince." Rill poked at one of the pages. "Are they in the city? I dont like big cities much." "Some of them are, but there are others that are outside London. Most have enough land for you to keep horses, if you wish. I have pictures of them all. Would you like to see them?" "Yes, please!" Renfield reached into the case, feeling for the packet of pictures. It seemed to have gotten wedged into a corner at the very bottom, and he unloaded everything, trying to make enough room to get a good grip on the packet, so he could pull it out without risking a tear in one of the photographs. There was another gasp from Rill, but this one sounded more wondering than startled. "Oh!" "What is it?" Renfield followed Rills gaze, and felt a sudden flash of embarrassed guilt. It was Jonathans photograph. Rill reached toward the portrait, and Renfield felt the urge to grab his wrist, keep him from touching it, but the boy stopped short of contact. "How did you get a picture of him?"

Now it was Renfields turn to be surprised. From the way the boy spoke, one would think that he knew Jonathan--but that was impossible. "He gave it to me," Renfield lied. "Just before I left London--as a remembrance till I returned." Rill cocked his head, turning his gaze from the photograph to Renfield. "Hes your friend?" "Yes." "Is he your close friend?" Renfield stared at Rill. "What... are you asking me, Rill?" "You know." Renfield was spared the mortification of answering, or the effort of evading. There was a polite tap at the door, and Simion entered, carrying a glass of wine. "How do you find your room, Mister Renfield?" "Its marvelous. I feel like visiting nobility rather than a poor clerk," said Renfield gratefully. Simion caught sight of the broken mirror and made a tsking sound. "I see theres been an accident. I hope there were no injuries. No? Good." Simion set the glass on the table. "The prince has sent this final glass of wine from his special stock, to ease your sleep after your journey, and Rill, leave off tugging at my sleeve. Ive seen the mess, and Ill take care of it." Rill had hurried to Simion, and had been insistently tugging on his shirtsleeve, demanding attention. "Not that, Simion! Come see." He pulled Simion toward the desk. Simion gave Renfield a commiserate look, as if to say, What can we do but humor him? But Rill snatched up the picture of Jonathan before Renfield could move to stop him, and thrust it into Simons hand. The older man glanced down at it--and his expression froze. He was silent for a long moment. Rill held his arm, laying his head against the older mans shoulder. "Its him, isnt it?" "Hush, Rill," Simions voice was faint. "But Simion..." "I said be quiet," he snapped. Then instantly he turned his head, dropping a kiss on the boys dark curls. "Im sorry, Rill, but youre too impulsive." He looked at Renfield, and there was a speculation in his gaze that hadnt been there before. "Your friend bears a small resemblance to someone Rill has seen before. May I ask you his name?" Renfield stared at the two men. What possible interest could they have in Jonathan? The intensity of the stocky man unnerved him, and he was reluctant to tell him. An old superstition flitted through his mind: to know someones true name is to gain power over them. Simion seemed to read Renfields emotions, if not his thought. He handed the photograph back. "Yes, youre quite correct--its rude of me to inquire." He indicated the photograph with a flick of his finger. "But I would suggest that you keep that safe in your documents case, Mister Renfield. I am sad to say that

there are certain persons who are not shy about appropriating anything that takes their fancy." He gave a short bow. "Sleep well. The prince will be available after sunset tomorrow." He patted Rills arm. "Come, boy." Rill bade Renfield goodnight, and followed his friend out. His lover, thought Renfield. Im almost sure of it. He sat on the bed, cradling Jonathans portrait almost tenderly, gazing at the handsome, gentle features. He traced the lines of the well-loved face, and murmured, "And no one here seems to find it disgusting, or even odd. What would that be like? To be able to love, and not hide it?" He sighed, slipping the picture under his pillow, then went to the table for the glass of wine. He removed his jacket and tie between sips, then sat at the desk to go over the papers once again. But he found himself nodding. When he jerked upright after his head had almost touched the desktop, he gave up, got into his nightshirt, blew out the candles, and went to bed. He was dozing almost before he had the covers pulled up.

Rill followed Simion down the hall to the landing. Simion paused there, staring off at nothing as he thought. Rill waited patiently for several moments. He knew that his lover would not purposefully ignore him, and he had only to wait till the older man sorted through his thoughts. Finally Simion looked at him. "Im sorry I spoke harshly, Rill, but really--you must be careful what you say." "Im sorry. I was just excited." Simion cupped Rills cheek. "I know. You ache for the prince as much as I do. You want him to find his lost love again." "I want him to be happy--like we are. But it is Nicolae, isnt it?" Simion closed his eyes briefly, and a hundred living images of Nicolae raced through his mind. Dead for more than four hundred years, the boys memory was still living to Simion--and one other. He looked at Rill. "I dont know, Rill. I cant be sure--but oh, God... It was like looking at the portrait in the library. The same hair, eyes, mouth, expression..." "Can I tell the master?" His younger lovers voice was eager. "No, child, no. Dont disturb him tonight. There arent many hours till dawn. Hes come back to himself a little since he began this project, but he still needs more rest. And to spring this on him suddenly..." Simion shook his head. "You must let me tell him. You wouldnt want to risk your new friends life, would you?" "But Draculea wouldnt hurt him!" protested Rill. "He might not mean to, my love, but..." Simion sighed. "Hes waited so long, and the hurt has gone so deep. If the hope was suddenly presented--he might not be able to control himself, and in his desire to get Mister Renfield to tell him where this person is..." Simion gripped Rills hair and shook his head gently, saying chidingly, "Mortals are fragile creatures, Rill. You know this."

Rill giggled. "Yes. We dont want Mister Renfield to break." He frowned suddenly. "Rock wont play with him, will he?" "The prince has forbidden it." "That doesnt always stop Rock." Rill thought for a moment, then said, "But he usually behaves, and I think he knows that the prince would be very, very angry if he hurt my new friend. Sinn would, too." "Yes," said Simion dryly. He saw the French vampire coming up the stairs. "Sinn would be quite annoyed if his own amusement was spoiled by Rocks selfish destructiveness." Simion raised his voice, speaking to Sinn. "Hes probably asleep by now, Barbee, so hell be of little use to you." Sinn didnt stamp his foot, but his voice was pettish enough to indicate that he wanted to. "Pah! You are right, Simion. I have no desire to handle a limp, unresponsive body. Molesting the unconscious might be Rocks style, but it is not mine." He straightened his cuffs. "I am not a lover of the dead." Rill said innocently, "But you are. Rock is dead, and so is the prince, so..." Simion was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Sinn rolled his eyes. "One is constantly amazed at your literal turn of mind, cheri. So, there is to be no sport tonight--bien. I can wait. But Simion, I would ask a favor." Simion raised an eyebrow questioningly. Sinn shrugged. "A small thing, but when I am ready to rendezvous with the little Renfield, it would be nice if I could caress him with hands that provoked a shiver through desire, and not chill. Could you...?" he trailed off inquiringly. Simion snorted softly, but said, "Well, the master just gave me drink this evening, so I suppose so. Come to me before you go to him." Sinn gave him a sunny smile, rubbing his hands together. "Thank you, Simion! You are a man of the world, and a gentleman. Now, I must go and check to see that all of Rocks most recent, um, decorations have faded." He bustled off, muttering to himself about the difficulty of checking ones back for bruises when one could not use a mirror. Rill watched him go, his expression puzzled. "Simion, why does Sinn always want to be told how beautiful he is? Doesnt he know it by now?" Simion hugged the boy. "Its just as well that you do not move in society, my love. You are far too honest." "But isnt being honest good?" "Generally, yes. But there are some things that we simply do not say, because it is easier all around if they are left unsaid. Then there are some things that SHOULD be said, but only at a certain time. That is why we will not tell the master about that photograph--not yet. Now," he slapped Rills shoulder lightly. "There is still an hour or two before you must go to your rest, and I have no duties. What shall we do?" Rill thought. "The soldiers?"

"Very well." They started toward the room that Draculea had given to Rill to house his toys. There was usually a huge battle set up over most of the floor. As they walked, Simion said casually, "Though I thought you might prefer to make love." Rill stopped abruptly, eyes widening as he stared at his lover. Finally he said, "Cant we do both?" Simion laughed, putting his arm around the boys shoulder as they continued. "If I remember correctly, there is a fine couch in your game room, so I dont see why not..." end part 69 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 70: Chapter 70 - Enticements

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Renfield/Sinn Rating: NC17 Summary: Sinn seduces Renfield, rather aggressively, and the clerks slide into insanity begins. Archive: List archives and the WWOMB. I will ask for removal when I have a publisher. Disclaimer: Copyright extends for 75 years past the authors death. Bram Stoker died in 1912--thus Dracula is in the public domain. I mean nothing but respect for the actors and actresses who portray the recognizable characters in various movies. Warnings: Non-consensual sex. Renfield may have a physical response, but hes devastated by this. Notes: moue--pout: a look of discontent with the lips pressed together and forward, poupee--doll mais non--but no rien--nothing helas--alas la peu de tache magique--the little magic spot mon petit amoureux--my little lover le cheval de passe-temps--the hobby horse, literally the horse of pastime frottage--friction, the term for sexual stimulation through rubbing mon dieu--my god (notice the non-capitalization--Sinn isnt much of a believer in God).

The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Castle Draculea Rill was still sleeping peacefully, lying on his belly with his face buried in a pillow. Simion had awakened

a little while before, and now sat up in bed, watching his lover sleep. *If only there were breath, you might think that he still lived,* he thought. He remembered Rills vigorous loving last night, and smiled. *Well, though he might technically be dead, hes lively enough.* There was a tap at the door to their room. He got up, pulling on his trousers, and went to the door. Sinn Barbee was outside, as meticulously dressed as ever, and with an eager gleam in his eyes. "Im sorry if I awakened you, Simion, but you DID promise me a bit of a warm-up before I go to Mister Renfield." "That I did." Simion stepped into the hall, shutting the door quietly. "Well need to make it quick--Id rather that Rill didnt see it." "Piffle. You know very well that the boy will not think you are cheating on him. He will merely view you as a model of generosity." Simion offered Sinn his wrist, and the vampire made a face. "Must it be like that? It seems so impersonal." Simions voice was dry. "Youre taking a meal, not seducing me, Barbee. Be happy with what you are offered." Sinn shrugged. He took Simions arm, gripping it firmly--one hand just below the older mans elbow, the other holding his hand. He bent, and Simion winced slightly as the needle-pointed fangs sliced into his flesh. Sinn was quick and neat. He opened a wound only big enough for his purpose, sealed his lips around it securely, and drank. Simions blood was quite tasty--very rich from its frequent mingling with Draculeas. As he supped, Sinn wondered idly what the proper designation would be for Simion. He was not Nosferatu, but surely he couldnt be considered wholly human after all these years of mingling his blood with his masters. Sinn stopped before Simion felt the need to halt him, giving the wounds a brief, efficient lick to speed the healing. When he lifted his head, there was a rosy flush in his cheeks, his lips were cherry red, and his green eyes sparkled. Hed never looked so attractive--not even in life. Simion reached out and patted one smooth cheek. "Poor Renfield--he hasnt a chance against you, Sinn." Sinn bowed, giving him a cheeky smile. "Thank you, Simion. Those words are praise indeed from you." "They arent meant as praise--Im simply stating facts. Hell never have encountered anything like you in his dry, narrow life. Youre going to be a revelation to him, but sometimes revelations can be devastating." ***** Renfield had never been one of those who awoke bright and cheerful. *But it usually isnt THIS hard for me to wake up.* Hed been lying in bed for several moments, trying to will himself to sit up, or at least open his eyes. His head felt too heavy to lift. *Good God, I didnt think Id drunk that much. Was that wine fortified with stronger spirits? Ive heard of some drinks that taste like fruit punch, but still addle your head.* He managed to sit up, then promptly lay down again, his head spinning. *Ive never been drunk in my life, and if these are the after-effects, I dont WANT to be.* His head cleared a bit after another few moments of rest, and he managed to sit up. The room was dim, illuminated only by the last tiny flickers of the dying fire. Since there was no window, there was no estimating the time. He groped on the night stand and found his pocket watch. Popping the lid he examined the face, then sighed in relief. *Only six-thirty. I havent slept too very late.* Someone had been in his room recently, because the water in his pitcher and basin was still warm. He disliked the idea of someone creeping in his room while he slept, but he was grateful for the water. He stripped out of his nightshirt and drawers and quickly used the basin for a thorough sponge bath before he put on fresh clothes. He remained barefooted, leaving his shirt open as he prepared to shave. He didnt want to risk getting foam on his shirt front--he had only one other change of clothes. He stirred up a thick lather in the shaving mug, and was about to dab the soap on his face when he stopped with a mild oath, eyeing the empty space on the dresser. He had no mirror--Rill had broken it last night.

And he said that they didnt keep mirrors in the castle--another of the princes eccentricities. Now what was he going to do? There was a tap at the door. Distracted by his dilemma, Renfield called, "Come in," without thinking. Sinn entered, and he smiled when he saw Renfields casual state of dress. "Your pardon, Robert. I did not mean to intrude before you were ready to receive visitors." "Oh, no, its fine. I was just going to shave." He ran a hand along his jaw line, feeling the rasp of stubble. "Is there something special in the air hereabouts that promotes virility? Id swear that my beard has grown out more than it usually does overnight." Sinn laughed delightedly. "I cannot vouch for any special properties in the atmosphere. Helas, virile men are not so easy to come by here." He came closer. "Oh, the peasants have a certain crude strength, but to be truly attractive, a man needs a bit of civilization." Renfield was startled when Sinn reached out and let one fingertip follow the same trail that Renfields had. "As to why your whiskers seem more vigorous, you must consider the extra time, cheri." "No, this is about the time I usually make my toilette." He indicated his watch, lying open on the dresser. "Never later than seven, in any case." Sinn cocked his head. "That would be seven in the morning?" Renfield nodded slowly. "You dont mean to tell me...?" "But yes, cheri. The sun has just set." Renfield dropped the shaving brush into the mug. "I dont believe it! Ive nearly slept the clock round." Renfield scrubbed a hand unconsciously through the hair hed so carefully combed a few minutes before. "I feel like a bloody fool." Sinn shrugged. "But you fit in well with this household, monsieur. Now, what is it that has you so peeved? Perhaps I can help." Renfield sighed. "Thank you, but I doubt it. Rill accidentally broke my mirror last night, and Im afraid Ive never been very deft. If I have to shave without a mirror, I may very well slice myself to ribbons." "Mais, no! We cannot have that, Robert. While an occasional scar can be intriguing, you have no need of such an exotic adornment. Youre much too charming as you are for me to allow that." He pulled the chair over from the table and tapped its back. "Sit, and I will play barber." Renfield stared at Sinn. *He must be joking.* Indeed, the younger man wore a faint smile, and there was a glint in his green eyes. "Thank you, but I couldnt possibly let myself be such a trouble." "It is no trouble, my friend. In fact, you will be doing me a favor. I coaxed Simion into teaching me this skill, and I never get to practice it. Rock is too impatient, Rills cheeks are so smooth he scarcely ever needs it, and when he does, Simion claims that privilege. And as to the prince," he picked up the straight razor and gestured with it. "Draculea trusts no one but Simion to touch him with a blade." Sinn ran his thumb lightly along the razors edge, and Renfield hissed in shocked sympathy as a thin line of crimson marked Sinns pale skin. But the other man only smiled at him. "They can be weapons as well as tools, and the prince has too much warrior in him to be careless of who brings such things near his person." He popped his thumb in his mouth for a second, cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucked away the blood, his eyes never leaving Renfield. He drew it out slowly, then licked his lips. Renfield realized that he was starting to get hard, and he flushed with shame and arousal. Sinn noticed the blush, and knew very well what was causing it. He put a hand on Renfields shoulder and pressed down, urging him into the chair. "Sit, Robert--and relax." He set aside the razor, draped a towel over Renfields lap, and once again took up the shaving mug and brush. He dipped up a thick blob of lather on the bristles, and began to dab it on Renfields cheeks. "Im no match for Simion with a razor, but I have my skills." Renfield had treated himself to a trip to a barber shop occasionally. Hed always felt a bit decadent,

letting someone else groom him. And there was another reason. The barber he visited so infrequently was a brawny, coarsely handsome man, and the firm, confident touch of his hands on Renfields face and head as he shaved him or cut his hair was... More than once hed been glad of the concealing, voluminous sheet draped around him. This was much the same, but different. Sinns touch was not as forceful as the other mans, but it was more deft, and not nearly as impersonal. When hed finished lathering Renfields face he took up the razor again and braced his left hand high on Renfields cheek, pulling the skin taut. He leaned close, and Renfield twitched involuntarily. "Please, mon ami!" Sinn scolded. "Even an artist cannot create if his canvas moves." He set the edge of the blade to Renfields cheek and drew it smoothly upward, leaving a clean path. "There." Sinn wiped the blade clean, then rinsed it briefly. "You see, petite? I will take good care of you." He made the second stroke, and the third. Renfield found that his breath was coming more quickly. Sinn wasnt shy about touching him to shift or hold his head the way he wanted. He cleaned Renfields cheeks, then denuded his chin and upper lip with almost delicate strokes. Sinn cleaned the razor, studying Renfield with a small smile, noting the rising flush in his now smooth cheeks. "I missed a tiny bit of soap." Sinn rubbed his thumb over his space just under Renfields nose. Renfield froze as Sinn let his thumb drift down, and pass over his lips. "What a beautiful mouth you have, Robert." His fingertip pulled gently at Renfields bottom lip. Renfield swallowed, unable to look away from Sinns dancing green eyes, but he kept his lips firmly closed. Sinn made a moue, and said, "No? Ah, well." He set his left hand in Renfields hair and tugged. "Stretch your neck for me, poupee." Sinn slowly finished shaving Renfield. By the time he finished he had his arm around Renfields neck, reaching around to hold his chin so that it could be counted as nothing less than an embrace. He rested his cheek against Renfields hair as the razor made its way along the tensed bow of the mans throat. When Renfield started to speak (though he had no idea of what he was going to say), Sinn shushed him. "I must concentrate, yes? You concentrate also, cheri." Renfield could feel himself trembling. He was awash with alternating waves of heat and cold--sensual pleasure at Sinns touch, and near terror. He had never felt so vulnerable. His very life pulsed only a hairs breadth beneath cold, sharp steel, and the man who was wielding it was as odd as he was enticing, but there was more to it. *He knows,* Renfield thought in confused desperation. *God help me, he knows--what I want.* Some part of Renfields mind sneered in disdain that he could not name his desires--not even to himself. Sinn laid aside the razor. Never releasing Renfield, he lifted a dripping cloth from the basin that sat nearby on the dresser. "I was quite careful in wiping the razor, Robert, so the water is still quite fresh." He squeezed the cloth, droplets pattering down into the water. "Now to clean you a bit." He wiped Renfields face gently, only moving his hand from its grip on the other mans chin to allow passage of the cloth. Finally he tossed the cloth back, ignoring the small splash. "Voila--it is done." He caressed Roberts cheek. "And a magnificent job, if I do say so myself--as smooth as if you were still a little boy. Ah, but you are a man, yes?" He kissed Renfield. Robert made a quiet noise, a combination of protest and yearning that inflamed Sinn. There was nothing quite as sweet as seduction, and seduction of a reluctant innocent... "How delicious you are, Robert," he murmured. "Sinn..." Renfield could not recognize his own voice. It was husky, almost pleading. "Ive never..." He trailed off. Sinns laughter was silvery, and Renfield tensed. "Non, petit--you mustnt take offense. I do not laugh at you--I laugh at the world. It is so stupid, to let one such as you pass through untouched. Bless you, you

cannot even express what is, or what you wish to be." He moved quickly. Renfield gasped as he found Sinn straddling his lap, facing him. His first instinct was to leap up, throwing the presumptuous young man onto the floor, but the solid weight pressing down on his thighs seemed to sap his strength. This time Sinn took Renfields face in his palms, and drew him forward for another kiss, but in a moment Sinn drew back. "Robert, you kiss like a child. Open your mouth, my sweet." He kissed him again. Still Renfields lips remained pressed closed. *So we use shock tactics, *Sinn thought. He reached down and pinched Roberts thigh hard. Renfield gasped at the sudden sting, and Sinn quickly licked between his parted lips, sealing his mouth over Renfields. He held Renfields head firmly, not letting him pull back. Renfield pushed at Sinns shoulders, pushed hard--but he couldnt budge him. Sinn hooked his feet under Renfields legs and clung like a limpet, still kissing him. It was very warm, very wet, and shockingly //active//, in so many ways. As the slippery tongue moved in his mouth, Sinn was rubbing against him like a cat determined to coax a caress. Sinn murmured against his mouth, "What is wrong, sweet? I will not believe you are so cold." He pulled back a few inches, and gave Renfield a knowing, coquettish smile. "Is it that you feel you will be cheating on your friend?" "No! He--it isnt like that. Hes ENGAGED. He... hes just a friend." "But you wish for more." It was a statement, not a question. "Robert, how can you expect to win his heart if you are so ignorant of the ways of flesh? Fine words and romantic notions work well with young girls, Robert, and must not be forgotten, but among men..." Renfield head fell back as Sinns long, clever fingers closed over the mound of his erection, squeezing firmly. "Between us men, it is best if things are more direct." He began unbuttoning Renfields fly. "Let me show you." "I cant, Sinn." Renfields voice became more desperate as he felt the young mans hand move into the gap hed created. "I swear. You MUST leave me alone." His voice died away as he felt, for the first time, anothers hand on his cock. Sinn stroked carefully. He was very pleased with the treasure hed unearthed. Renfield was not physically impressive at first sight, but he sported a fine prick. It was quite nice to begin with, and it was growing quickly with his attentions. "I cannot, Robert. You see? You are already aroused, and it would be cruel of me to leave you unsatisfied. What of this? Suppose you close your eyes, and pretend that it is your friend who touches you." Robert shook his head firmly. "All right, but you would not be the first to enjoy a fantasy lover while with a real partner. Believe me, it has made my life tolerable many times." Renfield had assumed that Sinn was widely experienced, but this statement made it all very real. He heaved, managing to stand. Sinn had to unhook his legs to avoid the indignity of being dumped on the floor. "Sinn, you have to go! This is wicked. I cant do this under the princes roof." Sinn had relinquished his clasp of Renfields flesh, sparing him pain, but now he grabbed Renfields open shirt, pulling it back and half-way down, trapping his arms. "I have no objection. Would you prefer the stables, or down by the river?" "Stop teasing me!" Renfield cried. He tried to free his arms, but Sinn was holding the edges of the shirt tightly together, and the effect was to bind his arms very neatly. "Truly, I do not understand you, Robert," Sinn scolded. He glanced down to where Renfields half-erect prick jutted from his fly. "You want me--of that you cannot lie. Why would you deny both of us this pleasure?" "ITS WRONG!" Sinn smiled slyly. "There speaks a man trying frantically to convince himself." Using Renfields shirt, he tugged the stumbling man over to the still rumpled bed, then pushed him so that he sprawled across it.

Renfield would have jumped up, but Sinn was upon him with astonishing speed. To the stunned clerk it was almost as if the young man had simply FLOWED on top of him. Then he spun around, and Renfield found Sinns knees pressing his arms to the mattress, while his hands rested on Renfields thighs. "I think I can persuade you of your folly, cheri." He bent down. It wasnt till later that he realized that he hadnt felt the first sensation that he unconsciously expected. He SHOULD have felt the brush of Sinns breath--but he didnt. The first sensation was the scalding, slick swipe of Sinns tongue across the head of his cock. Renfield tried to thrash, but he was trapped, and it only made Sinn giggle as Renfields increasingly rigid cock swayed. "You make a game of this, Robert! Now I must capture you." He spent a few moments darting his head this way and that, managing to land an occasional lick or gentle nip that Renfield found, to his horror, sent even more blood to engorge his member. Finally Sinn said, "This is most amusing, cheri, but it is time now." He pressed down on Renfields hips, ruthlessly pinning them down. Renfield cried out as his cock was engulfed by moist heat. The pleasure was shocking in its intensity, and instead of the sensation dropping off to a level that would allow him to think, it did what he thought was impossible--it increased. Sinn was blissful. It had been a very long time since he had tasted someone new--in this way. Oh, he had the blood, yes, and that was erotic in its own right. But there was nothing in the world like this. And he had not been only flattering Renfield--he DID find the little clerk delicious. He could taste so much of the man. There was his anxiety, bordering on fear. //No, not bordering. He IS afraid--but does he fear me, the princes wrath, societys censure, or himself? Intriguing.// Oh, and there was his lust, too. //Mon dieu, he has kept it bottled up for a long, long time. He attaches so much importance to this act. It is possible that he may find it--shattering.// The idea pleased Sinn. He took Renfields cock fully down his throat, pressing down till his nose was buried in crisp pubic hair, and feeling thankful that he didnt HAVE to breathe. Renfield experienced the curious sensation of feeling that he was both growing stronger, and weakening. His entire member was now engulfed, and the tight, soft heat seemed to be MASSAGING him. The hard press of Sinns teeth around the base of his cock horrified him, even as it sparked an added erotic tingle. From the few conversations hed had about things like this (smirking whispers exchanged in dark corners on his infrequent visits to pubs), hed assumed that a man who would suck another mans prick could be nothing more than submissive--weak. Why, then, was Sinn quite obviously the ravisher, rather than the ravished? These thoughts were driven away as Sinns hips dropped, and Renfield found a firm, cloth covered bulge pressed against his face. He jerked his head to the side. His cock was released and, though Renfield knew that the room was warm, it felt almost cold after the heat of Sinns mouth. "Robert, it would be only polite to reciprocate." Renfield strained his neck, trying to push his face into the sheets, away from that disturbing swell. "Very well. I suppose that frottage will have to suffice." Sinn bent once again to his task, and again Renfield felt the incredible softness of lips and tongue doing impossibly exquisite things to his turgid flesh. Meanwhile Sinn undulated his hips, and the firm bulge of his erection moved over Renfields cheek and jaw. The musky scent of arousal filled Robert, and he couldnt tell if it was this, or his OWN arousal that made it hard for him to breathe. Then there was dampness on his face, scant moisture that told him that Sinns cock was leaking with eagerness. It startled him, and his head jerked... and his mouth grazed the warm lump he had been trying to avoid. Sinn made a cooing sound, and fire seemed to flood Renfields loins. He had turned his head, and now he found himself opening his mouth. His parted lips pinched down softly, molding around the thick column that strained beneath the covering cloth. Sinn was shuddering with desire. Even more arousing than the simple caress itself was the hesitancy, the

almost dismay with which it was given. //I have him,// he exulted. Knowing that he was risking losing his prize, Sinn shifted, slipping his knees off Renfields arms, and loosening his grip on the other mans hips till it was a caress. Renfield was very still for a moment, then Sinn felt his hands ghosting shyly along his sides. He pushed his pelvis down encouragingly, and was rewarded with another tentative nuzzle. He could feel the heat and moisture of Renfields breath through his clothes, and it was glorious. //These mortals are so HOT.// Sinn braced himself on one hand and jerked impatiently at his trousers with the other, while he lavished licks on the flushed, slick cockhead before him, keeping Renfield distracted. He released his own cock, shoving his trousers half down his hips to give his new lover better access. He was irritated when Renfield didnt take the hint. Instead, when confronted with a naked, rampant cock, eager for his attention, he froze like a rabbit confronted by a serpent. "What am I doing?" he whispered. "Not nearly enough, cheri!" snapped Sinn. Renfield blinked as Sinn bounced off the bed, leaving him uncovered by cloth, or flesh. His hands flew immediately to hide his erection. Sinn was walking across the floor toward the dresser, and he said wryly, "You neednt try to hide yourself, Robert. To begin with, your hands are not large enough for the task." As he spoke, he kicked off his shoes, and stepped out of trousers, leaving himself naked from the waist down. He dipped his hands in the water basin, then lifted the cake of soap from the shaving mug, and began to massage it between his palms. "And to finish with, Ive already sampled your sweet staff--Im not likely to forget it." Renfields mind was whirling, his thoughts and emotions racing too quickly to be coherent. He wondered vaguely why Sinn was washing his hands? Was it proof that he thought what he had been doing was dirty? Sinn examined the thick, slippery coating of lather hed worked up on his hands, and nodded to himself, then walked back to the bed. "I can see that I must take an even more active role in this seduction." Renfield was astonished when Sinn put one foot up on the bed and bent, reaching back between his legs to probe into the crease of his ass. "What...?" Renfield couldnt voice the question. "Good lord." Sinns expression tightened in concentration. "Sh. This is not so easy as it would be if I lay down. Oh, I beg your pardon, Robert. Would you care to watch?" He turned and resumed his position. Roberts mouth went dry as he watched Sinn part his buttocks with one hand, smearing soap around the brown crinkle of his anus with the other. He watched in horrified fascination as the young man worked two stiffened fingers into the hole, spreading them slightly. Sinn pumped slowly, and his voice was a little breathless. "I know that I should have brought oil, since you were not likely to have any, but that just seemed..." he glanced back over his shoulder and smiled, "I think the word is presumptuous." He crooked his fingers and shuddered suddenly, eyes half closing. He moaned, and Renfield was sure he must have injured himself, but then he crooned, "Mm, la peu de tache magique. I pity women. They cannot enjoy the back way to pleasure as we can." He turned, eyes gleaming like emeralds, and gripped Renfields still erect prick. Renfield thought of scrambling away, but the grip on his most vulnerable flesh was firm, and not to be denied. And when he looked into Sinns eyes, he felt as if he were slipping away, falling into some fathomless pool, or perhaps being sucked into an endless fog. The only thing holding him to reality was Sinns touch upon his body. He couldnt move. He couldnt try to escape to save his soul. *And that may be what it is,* he thought numbly as Sinn slathered the slippery soap thickly over his erection, then once again crawled over him. Sinn knelt straddling Renfields hips. He gripped Renfields cock and drew the glans to rest against the spread ring of his anus, pushing down just far enough to lodge the very tip was lodged against the tight inner circle of muscle. He held it there with one hand. With the other, Sinn reached down, settling his hand tightly in Renfields hair, forcing him to look straight at him. "Look at me, mon petit amoureux."

He sank down slowly, his prick throbbing even more as he felt the thick, hot hardness spear up into him. Robert, eyes wide and more than a little wild, moaned the entire time, the sound rising to a whine like that of a panicked animal as Sinn came to rest. Sinn sat there for a moment, relishing the fullness. Renfield was muttering to himself, words running together under his breath. It was nonsense about sin, damnation, lust, someone named Jonathan, and forgiveness. At another time, Sinn might have been interested, because it sounded like something that could be used, but now all he was thinking about was finding his own release. He began to rock slowly, rising and falling only an inch or two. As he increased his speed, he increased the length of his strokes. Soon he was almost pulling free, only to slam down again, taking Renfields entire length each lunge. He reached back and down, finding the mans testes, and massaged them, shifting the balls inside the soft, furry sac. Renfield gripped the sheets so tightly that the muscles in his arms stood out, his knuckles bone white, as pale as his twisted face. He looked like a man caught in a mixture of agony and ecstasy, unable to decide which was more powerful. His hips were jerking helplessly as Sinn rode him, adding his own strength to the union, and delighting his partner. Sinn climaxed, his essence jetting across Roberts chest and belly in warm crimson streaks. Robert saw, and screamed, trying to throw Sinn off. His terror mingled with his onrushing orgasm, jumbling blood, sex, pain, fear, and death in his mind. Sinn swore, suddenly realizing that he had forgotten how this little peculiarity of vampire physiology might affect an unsuspecting mortal, but he wasnt about to relinquish his control of this encounter until he was fully satisfied--that meant that Renfield had to be coaxed into release. Sinn had to know that he could command this from his bedmate, even though he was frightened near to senselessness. He succeeded. Again he pinned Renfields arms to the bed, and drove down on him ruthlessly. His back passage had begun squeezing as he came, and now he bore down deliberately, milking Renfields embedded cock with his strong, well practiced anal sheath. Renfields scream turned into a howl as he had his first orgasm induced my another man. Sinn threw his head back, adding his own cries as the liquid that burst from Roberts quivering prick seemed to scald him. He froze, biting his lip, concentrating on the pulse, and squeezing, squeezing... Finally he collapsed on top of the now still Renfield. He hugged the man, almost purring in lazy satiation. "So good, Robert. So good." He was answered by whimpers. He rolled off the other man and sat up, examining him. Renfield stared up at the ceiling, lips working. "Why so distressed, mon ami?" Sinn dabbed his finger in the bloody semen that beaded on Renfields pale chest. "This? I should have warned you. It is only a personal peculiarity." He smiled. "Caused by something I drink, I believe. Do not let it trouble you. Now, shouldnt you get ready to meet with the prince?" When Renfield didnt move, Sinn sighed. He went to the dresser again, wiped himself clean with brisk efficiency, and dressed. Then he brought a cloth to the bed and gently wiped away all traces of sex, stuffing the dirtied cloth in the commode. One of the gypsies should be up to empty the slops later, and he would dispose of it. "He is a patient man, cheri, but after all... A prince is not kept waiting, yes?" When Renfield was unresponsive, Sinn finished dressing him, as if he were a doll, right down to his carefully starched collar and cuffs. He ran a comb carefully through the fine, light brown hair, and said, "There--most presentable." Renfield stared blankly, and Sinn sighed. "Rien." He slapped him. Renfield blinked, and his eyes seemed to focus. "Sinn?" "Are you ready to present your properties to the prince?" Renfield stared at the cool, immaculate Frenchman. *Did I just have a nightmare? I remember waking up, and starting to shave...* He touched his own cheek thoughtfully, and found it smooth shaven. "Um... Yes. Yes, of course. Did... I oversleep?"

Sinn smiled. "Not by this households standards. Gather your things, and go down to the little room in which we gathered last night." He paused at the door, smiling back. "If you have time later, seek me out. If you wish to play games, it need not be Rills soldiers. The boy has the most remarkable selection of toys, though." The smile grew wolfish. "I am most fond of le cheval de passe-temps." "Pardon?" "How do you say it in English? Ah! The hobby horse." For no reason he could pinpoint, Renfield felt a chill as Sinn laughed, and shut the door. end part 70 Back to index

Chapter 71: Chapter 71 - The Photograph

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: NA this chapter Rating: NC17 Summary: Draculea is finally presented with compelling evidence that his long wait may be at an end. Archive: Yes, but tell me where, and I will ask for its removal when I find a publisher. Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable media characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Bram Stoker died in 1912, and thus the copyright should have run out, and placed the Dracula material in the public domain. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Part Seventy-one - The Photograph The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Castle Draculea Rill had been sitting on the edge of the bed, yawning, when Simion entered their room after having left Sinn. "Was that Sinn?" He rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Hes up early." It was true--Sinn was as indolent as a cat. Had he still been a creature of the day, he would have been one who slept till near noon. "I expect its the novelty of having a stranger in the castle," said Simion. He opened a dresser and began taking out Rills clothes for the night. Rill stood and accepted the pair of linen drawers that his lover handed him. As he stepped into them, he said slowly, "Simion, Sinn wouldnt... wouldnt hurt Robert, would he?" Simion handed Rill a gold silk shirt--one that would set off his dark hair and eyes. "I think you must know him better than I, Rill. Do you think theres some reason he MIGHT hurt Mister Renfield?" Rill sighed, looking thoughtful as he buttoned his shirt. "Not REALLY, but... Well, sometimes Sinn is hard to understand. I get the feeling that maybe hes telling me things just because he knows its what I want to hear, not because he really means them." Simion stepped closer and reached out, cupping the boys smooth cheek. "You know, Rill, there have been many people the world consider quite intelligent who never realized that about Sinn. Wise child." Rill smiled, turning his head to press a kiss to Simions hand, and the older man felt a sweet twinge at his heart. *Wise, but oh, so innocent. You can see the possibility of cruelty, but you always hope against

hope that the person will follow a noble path, and resist the urge to hurt another. My poor love--so often doomed to disappointment.* He left the boy to finish dressing, going to check with the gypsies that had been on watch during the day. As hed expected, no one had come around. It had been centuries since any of the locals had dared come near the castle. Simion was more concerned about activities INSIDE the castle. The drug hed given Renfield had never failed before, but Simion was too practical to take it for granted. While he considered the consultation with the princes guards necessary, he knew that he was also using it as an excuse to take up a little time. He had to decide what he was going to do about that extraordinary photograph. He considered going into Renfields room, once he had gone to meet the prince, and taking it, but he discarded that plan. He had a feeling that Renfield kept the picture close by at all times. His protectiveness toward it had been very evident. *He feels something for that young man, and that worries me,* thought Simion as he went to the kitchen to see to Renfields meal. It would be brought to the meeting room, so that he could eat while discussing business with the prince. *He must be told. It is possible that this means nothing, but...* Simion shook his head, drawing a curious look from the gypsy who had been preparing Renfields food. The gypsy was curious, but he said nothing. The thoughts of the princes steward were his own, and it was best not to pry. Simions thoughts continued. *No. That would be too great a coincidence. That young man, whoever he is, is part of Draculeas destiny. It would be foolish to deny it. He WILL learn of his existence--Im sure that is fated. But HOW he learns is important. I fear what would happen if he saw the picture suddenly, with no warning. I think it might drive him mad--then God help us all.* Simion himself took the tray to the small room where they had gathered the night before. He had just finished laying the dishes out on the table when Draculea arrived. Simion noted that his master looked more aware, more involved with he world than he had for years. Even if the mysterious photograph turned out to have no meaning, his decision to resume his hunt for Nicolae was good for him. Draculea nodded to Simion, taking a seat at the table. "How is our visitor?" "I have not yet seen him, master, but I trust he slept well. Our gypsies say he did not roam during the day." He paused, then said, "Sinn is with him now." Draculea smiled faintly. "Yes, Sinn would be on him as quickly as possible. Hes grown bored with Rock. Sinn is no doubt waking him in his own inimitable manner. He has enough sense of self preservation not to feed from him, but I have no doubt that he will drain him in another manner." Simion smiled. "No doubt." "I only hope that our new friend is none the worse for it." Draculea frowned. "He struck me as... fragile. Oh, not PHYSICALLY." He pressed his palms together thoughtfully, fingers steepled before his face. "But I sense that Mister Renfield has been walking a thin line for a long, long time. I would not be surprised if Sinn caused him to stumble." Draculea watched Simion as he finished laying the table, carefully arranging every item. He said, "Old friend, something is on your mind." He gestured at a chair. "Speak to me." Simion sat in the chair, and Draculea waited patiently while he ordered his thoughts, knowing that Simion seldom spoke in haste. Finally the Simion said, "There is something, my lord--something that could be nothing, or of great significance. Last night Rill was helping Mister Renfield unpack, and he found something." His lips quirked in an almost-smile. "He is slow in some things, but he is very sharp about the things that really count." "What was this mysterious item?" "You have heard me speak of photography, my lord?" "Yes. The new way of making pictures, where there is no paint or canvas required."

"It shows everything exactly as it is--there is no personal interpretation involved, no softening or flattering--no distortion. Renfield carries one of these photographs with him--a portrait." Simion fell silent. "You begin to intrigue me, Simion." "The subject of the portrait is a young man, scarcely past his youth, with dark hair and dark eyes." He stopped again. Draculeas only reaction was a slight tightening of his grip on the chair arms, but his eyes were bright. "Go on." Simion took a breath. "There is a resemblance, my lord." He did not have to say the name. Draculea bent his head. It had been centuries since he had needed breath, but some emotional responses were so deeply set that they never died. He drew a deep breath and said, "How... how strong a resemblance?" "It is his very image, my lord," Simion said quietly. Draculea stood suddenly, the chair scraping as he thrust it back. In recent years he had seemed smaller, stooped by the rigors of his self-denial, but now he towered, as Simion remembered from years gone by. He whispered, "If this is true..." He turned, walking over to stare into the fire. "Could I be that fortunate, Simion? That such direct proof of his return could be BROUGHT to me..." His voice trailed away, then he said, "Do I dare believe this? It seems more likely that God is playing a cruel joke, to punish me for my defiance." "I cannot say, my prince. It may, indeed, be nothing--but it may be everything. You must see, then judge for yourself. Unfortunately, I do not think Renfield will be inclined to show the picture. He seems protective of it." "Yes?" Draculeas voice was flat, and Simion glanced at him quickly. His master was staring into the fire, expression unreadable. "He values this young man?" "He calls him a friend, lord. May I offer my opinion?" Draculea inclined his head. "I doubt that this Englishman has ever experienced much in the ways of the flesh--male or female. Sinn is with him now, and I would not be surprised if he is Mister Renfields maiden venture, but where his heart is concerned..." Simion shrugged. Draculea tapped the mantle, considering. "Well, there is no point in worrying until Ive seen the picture. And how shall I accomplish this, Simion? Must I have Sinn distract him while I slink into his room and search?" His voice was ironic. "I doubt that subterfuge will be necessary. He keeps it in his business case. He will need to open and unpack it when you consult with him--it should be simple enough to... um, discover the picture." Draculea nodded, and went to sit at the table. He stared at the food that had been prepared for his visitor, thinking that even after so many years, Rill still enjoyed actually eating mortal fare. He wondered if that would fade eventually, or if there as something in Rills simple nature that allowed him to hold on to a shred of humanity. *And myself--is there any left? I would say that my love for Nicu gives me claim to humanity. But is it still love, or is it only desire--and obsession?* Simion watched Draculea. To others he would have seemed impassive, but Simion could read his old friend where others couldnt. If Draculea was convinced that the man in the portrait was Nicolae come back, then how close he believed Renfield was to him might determine the clerks fate. Simion came closer and put a hand on Draculeas shoulder. When the vampire looked up at him, he said, "I ask you to make me a promise. I ask you to swear to me." Draculea frowned. He said slowly, "Simion, the last time I can remember you asking me to swear something to you was when the bastard Varga hurt my Nicolae. What do you ask of me now?" "I ask you to promise me that you will not act in haste with Renfield. Lord, you have waited so long... I know how you yearn for Nicolae, how it must burn in your heart. Your passions could override your

cooler sense of what it practical. I charge you to remember that this Renfield is only a mortal man, and one, I believe, who is fragile in spirit. Please, my lord--promise patience. Remember, if he dies, or descends too far into his own mind, you may never find Nicolae." "Once again you council wisdom, Simion. Yes, I will be patient--as much as I may. But if this thing is all you say..." He turned burning eyes up to Simion. "He WILL direct me to Nicolae." There was a noise at the door, and the two men looked toward it expectantly. It slowly eased open an inch, then moved quickly and smoothly to be fully open. The knew why when they saw Rill close behind Renfield. He had one hand on the clerks shoulder, and the other was against the door, casually moving the heavy weight. "You must not mind this, Robert. The hinges are quite tight with age, and it is difficult to move, if you do not know the trick." "Thank you, Rill." Renfield entered with the leather business case tucked in his arms as carefully as a mother might carry her firstborn child. "Good morning... Um, evening..." He trailed off, his tone questioning. Draculea shrugged. "Yes, it can be a bit confusing for one new to our schedule. But do not fear--the sentiment is clear, no matter the form. Please, come and break your fast." Renfield went and sat at the table, Rill taking a seat on one of the sides, near Draculea. As he had done before, Draculea caressed the boy absently, stroking his hair as Renfield ate. The prince inquired politely after how he had slept, and Renfield answered that he had slept quite well. "I was a bit surprised, Prince. I have not had a decent nights sleep since this journey began. Of course most of that can be attributed to jouncing trains, restless companions, or hellishly uncomfortable beds, but still... I would not have expected to sleep so soundly in an unfamiliar place." "You were exhausted with your travels, my friend," said Draculea. "Tell me, did you dream?" Renfield started to speak, then hesitated. "Yes?" "Well, its quite odd. I dont recall having dreamed while I slept, but there has been a distinctly dreamlike quality since I awakened." He shook his head slightly as he sliced a boiled potato. "I remember getting up. Someone came to my room to see if I was ready to come downstairs." "I came for you," Rill pointed out. "I know. But it seems like there was someone else." He sighed, and took a bite of potato, chewing slowly. "I suppose it isnt important." Draculeas eyes narrowed as he examined the oblivious Renfield. Had Sinn disobeyed, and indulged himself by supping from their guest? It was hard to tell. Renfield was naturally pale, and the shadows under his eyes COULD be accounted for by his recent journey. His high collar would hide any marks on his throat. *No, I do not think Sinn would trespass so. He has better sense, or at least a stronger drive for self-preservation. Rock would be a different matter, but I doubt he could restrain himself enough to keep any signs of his usage subtle enough to escape immediate detection. I think that Mister Renfield has just been a bit rocked by Sinns... exuberance. From what I recall, that is quite likely.* Rill was engaging Renfield in a conversation about the princes horses--which one was sweet tempered, which one was spirited, which one was the cleverest at finding hidden lumps of sugar. Draculea was pleased to see that the clerk was paying attention to what the boy had to say, and responding intelligently. Simion, of course, did the same, but Sinn tended to treat the boy like a yipping lapdog, and Rock... Rill still tried to involve his brother in his life. Draculea could only marvel at the boys ability to forgive. While Renfield was distracted, Draculeas eyes dropped down to the leather case that lay at his side. It was a simple object, surely no different from thousands of others. *Strange that such a common thing could hold the key to my fate.* "Have you finished your repast, Mister Renfield?" Renfield looked up, a little surprised that his till now perfect host would show the least impatience. But this man was royalty, he reminded himself, and had to be used to having his wishes or whims instantly

granted. "Yes, thank you." He wiped his lips as Simion began to remove the dishes to the tray. He reached for the case. Rill sat up alertly, eyes fixed on the case. Simion gave him a warning glance, but then his expression softened. Rill was too fixed on Renfield and his portfolio to notice the warning, but Simion knew that his automatic apprehension was undeserved. He had told Rill to be discreet, and he would do so. Rill would do anything for him. Renfield removed a sheaf of papers. "Ive brought the specifics of eight properties in, and around, London. Im sure that two or three should suit your needs. On the off chance that none of them strike your fancy, I can have information about more sent from my home office. It should only take a week or so." He started to stand, but Draculea gestured. "No, no--you remain seated. I become stiff if I sit too long, so I will come to you." Draculea stood and came around the table. He stood to Renfields side, and a little behind him. "Please, tell me about these properties." "Well... Here, sir, if youll look at this map. The first one is located here. Now, I wont lie to you--this is not a fashionable neighborhood, but it is RESPECTABLE, and quiet. The house is in good repair, though it hasnt been occupied for a year. You might be interested in doing a bit of redecorating, if you choose this one." "Words can go only so far. Rill tells me that you have pho... pho..." He looked at Simion. "Photographs, my lord," Simion replied. "Yes. Photographs of these properties?" "Yes, indeed." Renfield lay down the documents and reached into the case again. He pulled out a small stack of photographs and sorted through them. "Here." He offered one, the image of a handsome house, to the prince. Draculea took it, and forced himself to pretend interest. If there had not been the promise of something so much more interesting, he would have found the photograph fascinating. He had seen painted miniatures before, but this photograph seemed perfect in every detail. He handed it back, with no comment. Renfield did not show any worry over this--it was only the first offering, and the prince had not expressed a DISlike. "If youd prefer something with the air of the country, without the nuisance of the distance from the city conveniences, you might be interested in THIS property." He offered another document, and a photograph. "It is just on the outskirts of the city, and the property includes a wooded area, and even a small pond." Draculea took them and glanced at them absently. "Very pleasant, Im sure. It might save time, Mister Renfield, if you would just give me all the photographs. I will look through them and let you know if I find one of them appealing." *Trust a member of the nobility to be more interested in appearance than solid reality.* "Certainly." Renfield handed over the rest of the pictures. "If you find one that appeals to you, I can find the proper documents, and give you the details." Draculea pretended to study each picture, forcing himself to take his time. He came to the bottom of the pile. No portrait. A hot lick of anger rose above his disappointment, but he forced it down. *It exists--Rill and Simion have seen it, and I WILL see it, but this situation must be handled carefully.* He smiled graciously at Renfield, and selected a photograph at random. "This place. I find it interesting." Renfield took the picture and examined it. "Ah, yes, the Plummer estate. This would be an excellent choice, Prince Draculea, and I happen to know that the owners are eager to sell. Im sure they will be very reasonable, if we are shrewd in our negotiations." "Wonderful. You must tell me more of it. But first..." He picked up the case, "we should tidy away some of this." As he reached for the some of the documents, he casually, carelessly tipped the case, and a final photograph slipped out.

Renfield instinctively reached for the portrait, but Draculea moved even more quickly. He caught Renfields wrist with his free hand, his grip as firm and cold as steel. Draculea laid the case down, and picked up the photograph, but did not look at it. Instead, his gaze was fixed on Renfield, pinning him in place. Still Renfield protested. "Prince Draculea, that is a personal photograph--it has nothing to do with our business." "Perhaps not directly but this is an image of one of your friends, yes? I want to know something of a man, if I am to do business with him." He stared at Renfield. "Surely you dont object?" How could Renfield object? It was an innocent enough request, and he needed to stay in the Princes good graces. "No," he said slowly. "No, of course not." "And who is this?" "His name is Jonathan Harker--we work together." "Jonathan Harker." The name struck no chord, had no resonance, but... *Simion knew Nicolae almost as well as I. Could he be mistaken?* Draculea looked down at the picture... And the world fell away. *The eyes. By all the powers of Heaven and Hell, the EYES! HIS eyes.* They were dark and tilted slightly at the corners, wide and direct, staring out at the world with intelligence and humor, and more. *His soul looks out, and the goodness and sweetness shines through.* He tore his gaze away from the eyes to look at the rest of the image. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. The lean body, the thick, glossy black hair, the wide, beautifully formed mouth, the long, elegantly shaped hands, resting quietly on his thighs--all familiar, even after so many years. *He doesnt just look like him--he IS my Nicolae. He MUST be.* Renfield watched the prince examine Jonathans photograph, and apprehension began to creep through him. Draculea was holding the picture in both hands, gripping it on either side, his hands tightening slowly. The old mans expression was blank, but his eyes seemed almost to glow. *Good God, what does he see?* "Sir?" The prince did not respond. The prince seemed mentally sharp for a man his age, but then, Renfield had not seen much of him. Perhaps he had these... spells... regularly? He looked to Rill and Simion, hoping to gather some indication that this was a typical thing. Both were watching the prince intently. Rills face shone with happy eagerness, as if he were watching someone he cared for open a much desired gift. There was an edge of apprehension in Simions expression, but he, too, seemed to be anticipating some sort of strong reaction. Draculeas hands tightened again, and there was a brittle sound. The glass covering the photo had broken, splitting diagonally, completely across. Renfield didnt exactly cry out, but he made a distressed sound, and did the bravest thing hed ever done. He tried to take the photograph away from Draculea. Simion moved quickly, managing to catch Renfields arm before he could touch the photo--or Draculea. "Mister Renfield, please! Give him a moment." Simion raised his voice slightly. "My lord, our guest fears for the safety of his memento." Draculea blinked slowly. He touched the split in the glass, and said faintly, "Forgive me, Mister Renfield." When Renfield reached again for the photograph, Draculea casually brought it close to his chest. "I will, of course, see that the glass is replaced. It should take no more than a day or two." Renfield lifted his hand again, more in appeal than expectation. "Theres no need." "Nonsense. My clumsiness is inexcusable, and I WILL make reparations. Just be patient." Renfields hand dropped in resignation. "Your... friend. Again, what did you say his name was?" "Jonathan Harker." "That is all? It is only that I know how fond you English are of giving names. Isnt there usually a middle name?" Renfield frowned. "I think... Yes, he DOES have another name. I remember he told me that his father hated it, but his mother insisted on giving it to him."

"What was it?" Renfield thought. "Nicholas. I remember--I was teasing him one day, and I asked if she had any pet names for him--Nick or Nicky. He said that she called him Nicu." A hush fell over the room. If it had not been impossible, Renfield would have thought that there was not even the sound of breath being drawn. Feeling the need to break the silence he said, "Unusual isnt it?" "Unusual, yes," said Draculea softly. "But not, Mister Renfield, unheard of." end part 71 Back to index

Chapter 72: Chapter 72 - Communication, and Impressions

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Renfield/Sinn Rating: NC17 Summary: Renfield writes to Jonathan, and shows a touch of defiance in defending him. Archive: List archives and the WWOMB, but I will ask for removal when I find a publisher. Disclaimer: Dracula is an actual historical character, thus in the public domain. Bram Stoker wrote the most popularly known usage of the character. He passed away in 1912. To the best of my knowledge, copyright expires 75 years after the authors death, so it became public in 1987. There is a suggested cast list in chapter one. I have nothing but the greatest respect for all these actors, and the behavior of the characters in the story bears absolutely no relation to the real life of these people. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Warnings: Warnings will be placed where deemed necessary on individual chapters. Notes: Letters were a very important means of communications in the ages before telecommunications. Check any library and you will find the collected letters of historical figures. It is how we know a great deal of the everyday lives of our ancestors. Regarding Renfields consternation over the lack of last names at Castle Draculea--surnames are a relatively recent invention. From http://www.intl-research.com/surname.htm--European :"Surnames first occurred between the eleventh and fifteenth centuries <snip>. Prior to this time period <snip> people were largely illiterate, lived in rural areas or small villages, and had little need of distinction beyond their given names." This explains Simions lack of surname. Rock and Rill have discarded whatever surname they might have had, in order to distance themselves from their family, and Sinn simply doesnt bother. During the Victorian era, the use of the first name (or Christian or given name) was considered a privilege. To call someone by their given name immediately upon introduction was considered horribly rude and presumptuous. People might be on close terms for years and still use surnames. There are records of married couples referring to each other as Mister and Mrs. Such and Such for their entire married lives, at least in public. Conversely, servants and people who were considered of a lower class were often referred to solely by their first names. As a mark of how little consideration the upper classes had for the dignity of naming when it came to the lower classes, we can refer to the British mini-series Upstairs, Downstairs. When a new maid is engaged, the lady of the house casually informs her that she will now be referred to as Sarah, because they feel that her own name is unsuitable for someone in her position. Formatting: //Words between slashes represent writing.// *Words in asterisks are thoughts.* Translation: These are from babelfish. To any French readers, if theyre wrong, feel free to send me the correct translations. chien paresseux--lazy dog. reveillez-vous--wake up

The Year of Our Lord, 1882, Two days later Transylvania Castle Draculea //My dear friend,// //I mistrust the efficiency of the postal system in this barbaric region, and I have no inkling of when this message will reach you. Indeed, it is entirely possible that none of the letters I have sent during my journey have yet arrived. Let me assure you that I have not neglected my promise to you--I have posted a missive at every stop. I think it likely that they will arrive in clumps. Please refer to the dates, if you wish to have an accurate impression of my journey.// Renfield scanned the paragraph, shaking his head slightly. *I sound like an utter prig. Well, I suppose thats what I am, and he wont expect any different from me. Still, is it foolish to be pratting on about the letters not arriving when this one will probably arrive after the earlier ones?* He rubbed his forehead, trying to concentrate. *I wish I could clear my head. I seem to have been wandering in a fog ever since I arrived here. I would have expected it DURING my journey--one expects to be in flux during travel.* Again he read what he had written. *Lord, so much left unsaid, but how could I write what I feel without sounding like an utter lunatic? I used to feel so completely prosaic and grounded in reality. When did that change? When did this disconnected, floating feeling begin?* Though he loathed complaining, feeling it to be peevish, Renfield couldnt hold back at least one acid comment. //I must say that the transportation in this region leaves much to be desired. The final stage of my trip was quite ridiculous. I paid for transportation to a certain point in the mountains, where I was to be met by the Princes carriage. The driver absolutely refused to take me to my destination, insisting upon taking a route that would add a great deal of distance to the trip, solely, it seems, to insure his arrival at a village before sunset. I was forced to walk the last mile, carrying my own baggage, and then wait in a howling wilderness until it was quite dark. I use the term howling with no sense of irony, Jonathan. I swear to you that there were wolves. I believe that I narrowly escaped being savaged. If not for the timely arrival of the Princes conveyance, I would even now be nourishing some foul beast.// *Should I write that? I dont want him to worry unduly--and he WILL worry, bless him. Id better show him quickly that the danger has passed.* //I have been made most welcome at Castle Draculea. I know your interest in history, Jonathan, and you would find this place fascinating. It must be at least five hundred years old, and has been occupied by one family the entire time--a record that not even our own country can match. Sadly, much of it has fallen into neglect, with only a few rooms being kept clean and comfortable. I suppose it shouldnt be surprising. Few of the old, noble families can still afford the upkeep of lavish residences. Still, it is strange. One gets the feeling that the structure has fallen into disrepair more from disinterest than lack of means. It is as if the owners simply ceased to care about their surroundings at some point far back in its long history. One must wonder what could cause such a lack of concern for creature comforts.// //Youll want to know about the people Ive met.// *Hes so interested in... well, humanity in general. Ive never known anyone who has such genuine concern for others, and he takes such delight in closeness. I think that the boy must have been starved for human warmth most of his life.* //While the menial servants are a variety of gypsy, speaking an uncivilized dialect, I was infinitely relieved to find that the principle members of this establishment speak English. Their phrasing is a bit odd, but we are able to communicate easily.// //I was met by two members of the household--Simion, and Rill. Simion is by way of being the princes

aide--or perhaps steward is a more accurate term. In any case, he is in charge of the day-to-day running of the castle, and appears to be most competent in dispensing his duties. The situation of Rill, my other escort on the trip to the castle, is much harder to define. The gypsies do all the rough work, and Simion administrates. While Rill has indicated that he helps with some of the light cleaning, it is apparent that he volunteers for these chores, and is not expected to do anything other than provide companionship for the Prince.// *And Simion. Yes, that is QUITE apparent, but it will NOT be mentioned here.* //He is a young man of about your age--a simple soul, but good-hearted. I believe that, aside from yourself, he is the most friendly and open person I have ever met. But as open as he is, there are still moments when he seems to hold secrets.// *Dark secrets? Possibly. I have a hard time believing he would lie for any reason other than to protect someone else.* //Once at the castle I was presented with another two young men who seem to share Rills position--Sinn, and Rock. You will forgive me for not providing their surnames--they do not seem to possess them. You can imagine how uncomfortable that makes me feel, but I am becoming accustomed to it. Ive learned that Rock is Rills brother, but I can scarcely imagine two more dissimilar siblings. Where Rill is unfailingly cheerful, Rock is just as consistently sullen. He seems to occupy a lower position in the household, perhaps just above the gypsies. I suppose it is due to his surly disposition.// //The Princes third companion is called Sinn, and he is quite a contrast to the others. While they are obviously of humble origin, Sinn displays a level of sophistication and polish that could only be acquired through a lifetime spent among the gentry. He is what I would imagine an ambitious young diplomat to be like--very smooth and charming, but one can see a sharp mind behind his eyes. I think that there is very little in this world that Sinn could not turn, somehow, to his advantage. For some reason he seems to have taken a particular interest in me. I spend a good deal of my waking hours with the Prince, answering his questions about England, but Sinn is with me most of my free time.// *And I simply cant remember what transpires during most of that time,* Renfield thought helplessly. *Great chunks of time just seem to go missing. All Im left with is... is flashes.* He closed his eyes. *Ill suddenly seem to wake, when I know that I couldnt possibly have been asleep. Im so tired of late, as if Ive been taking strenuous exercise--yet I do nothing more vigorous than walk from room to room. I just dont understand it.* He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. *And how in Gods name have I acquired that chafing on my private parts? Its almost as if Ive handled myself too roughly in the bath.* Even though he was alone, a dull red stain crept into his cheeks at the next thought. *Or in some other activity. But I havent, not since London. Especially not now that I do not have my picture of Jonathan. When will Draculea return it? Ive asked him, but he always says something about how difficult it is to get the proper materials, how they will have to send one of the gypsies through the mountains, and he cant possibly spare one now. Well, hes promised to see my letters delivered, and there will be no excuse for not acquiring the glass then.* He set pen to paper again. //Prince Draculea himself is an interesting character. There is no doubt as to his breeding. He has the innate sense of command that can only come with a long and royal lineage. Though he is elderly, his frailty is solely physical--he rules his household with a firm hand. One can see that he must have been an impressive man in his youth. Jonathan, you know that I am not loquacious, and I have spoken more freely with you than with anyone else in my life. The Prince spends hours plying me with questions about life in England--in particular MY life. He says that as I am a typical Englishman he can learn what he wishes by studying me. The idea of being held up as an example is distressing...// "Busy, busy, busy." Renfield had been so preoccupied with his writing that he had not heard Sinn enter. When the dark-haired young man spoke almost in his ear, Renfield jerked, his pen skittering across the page and leaving a streak of ink. "Oh, la! See what I have done. And it was so pretty and neat." Renfield blotted at the ink, frowning. "Drat. Perhaps I should start again. Jonathan is very particular

about penmanship, though hed never think to criticize." "Yes, I have heard that of him." Renfield regarded him in surprise. "How could you?" "You told me, mon ami." "No, Im quite sure that I havent said anything about Jonathans minor obsession with precise writing." Sinn shrugged. "You must have." He smiled. "How else could I know, eh? Are you almost through with your correspondence? I can bring them to Simion, and he will see that one of the Rom get them to the nearest post." "I... Yes, nearly so." Sinn picked up the letter before Renfield realized what he intended. "I say! Thats private." "Cheri, there is very little in Castle Draculea that can be considered private--you will learn that." He was reading quickly. "Informative." Renfield blushed, remembering the less-than-glowing description of at least two of the castles occupants. Sinn noted his reaction, and laughed. "Do not be distressed, Robert. You are quite astute in your assessments, and you are fairly discreet." He put the paper down again and reached out to touch Renfield lightly on the chest, gazing directly into his eyes. Renfield felt the floating sensation creeping up on him again as the world seemed to narrow till nothing existed but Sinns green eyes. "Of course, I do not leave you much to remember, do I?" He began to unbutton the unresisting mans shirt. "Such a shame that I cant let you keep the sweet memories of our time together, but perhaps after my master has what he needs from you..." ~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~***~~~ Sinn was on his hands and knees, on the floor. "Harder!" Renfield, kneeling behind him, obeyed mechanically, strengthening his thrusts till his loins met Sinns buttocks with meaty slaps, plunging his turgid cock deep into the clinging coolness of the vampires body. His grip on the pale mans hips was bruisingly tight, but no bruises would rise because Sinn hadnt bothered to take a meal before coming to him. He had decided that since Renfield would be in a trance state during the encounter, and it would be wiped from his memory afterward, there was little need to keep up the pretense of mortality. Sinn grunted in pleasure as his lovers cock rubbed over his prostate, but it wasnt enough. "Chien paresseux! Show some spirit, damn you! Fuck me!" Renfield made a sound very like a sob and redoubled his effort, slamming into Sinn so hard that the vampires braced arms slipped, and he fell on his face. Robert didnt stop, plunging into him ruthlessly, his expression almost grieving. Sinn whimpered in happy abandon, relishing the demanded roughness. As he was jolted over and over again he thought, *Such sweet force. If only he werent normally so boringly gentle. He doesnt take well to the control. I fear that his mind may not be able to withstand much more of this.* Sinns orgasm swept over him, filling him with the phantom sense of nearly forgotten warmth as his cool sperm splattered the floor. *No matter. We only need him to stay sane long enough to find the location of Draculeas long-lost beauty.* Sated now, he slapped away Renfields hands. He sat, wincing at the pleasant pain in his ravaged ass, and turned to look at Robert. The little clerk knelt, trembling. He was flushed down to his chest, his hair lank with sweat, breathing heavily. His eyes were both wild, and glazed, as if screaming panic was behind them, only barely leashed. Sinn noted this all dispassionately, then his eyes fell to Renfields crotch. His cock still jutted out, swollen and straining. It was slick with the thick, dark blood that had oozed from the tears that Renfields reluctant roughness had caused. Sinn licked his lips thoughtfully, then cooed, "Poor Robert. Let me help you." He crawled forward, gripped Renfields hips, and delicately began to lick him clean. Renfield soon groaned, hips jerking helplessly. Sinn was quick, and managed to fit his mouth over the cockhead, catching and drinking every drop of hot sperm eagerly. He finished with a tiny, sucking kiss to the very tip, then sighed. "I may drink blood for nourishment, but this--this is for love." Then he

smiled ironically, knowing very well that he had never loved anyone--living, dead, or otherwise. He stood, and noted the scarlet splash his bloody sperm had left on the floor. He looked about, but there didnt seem to be anything convenient to use for clean up. Shrugging, he went to the bed. There was a small rug beside it, meant to save the sleeper from putting warm feet on an icy stone floor. He dragged it over and used it to cover the mess. He could have ordered Renfield to dress, but he preferred to do it himself, treating the man like a life-size, breathing doll. When he was done he guided the still-blank man back into his chair. Pulling a comb from his pocket, he carefully smoothed Renfields hair, then patted his cheek as he put the comb away. "Robert. Robert, reveillez-vous." Renfield gave his head a minute shake, emerging slowly from his mental fog. "You have allowed your mind to wander again." He pouted teasingly. "Honestly, one would think you found my company boring." "No--certainly not, Sinn. Im sorry. I dont know whats gotten into me lately." He shifted uncomfortably again. "Finish your letter." Renfield wrote quickly. //I wish this could be a longer message, but I find myself fatigued of late. It must be the climate. I will write again soon.// //Ever your friend,// //Robert Renfield// He folded the letter neatly, inserted it in an envelope, and addressed it. "I also have one for my landlady, explaining that she may need to hold my room a bit longer than I had anticipated, and one for my employers." He hesitated. "Sinn, the Prince DOES intend to buy, doesnt he? Ive presented all the specifics I brought along, but he will not commit himself. I dont want to be too aggressive, but..." Sinn was leafing through the envelopes. "Never fear, Robert. I can promise you that he has every intention of going to England. In fact, I can assure you that nothing on this earth could prevent him." He tapped the envelopes, gazing down at Renfield. "I notice that you have addressed your letter to your friend Harker to your place of employment." Renfield nodded warily, but didnt comment. "Wouldnt it be better to send it to him at his home?" Sinn picked up a fresh envelope and laid it before Renfield. "Go on." "I already have that one prepared--theres no need to waste another." "Cheri, if it is waste that bothers you, we can provide all the supplies that you require." There was a subtle, demanding tone in Sinns voice. Renfield stared stubbornly down at the blank envelope. "Id rather not. He lodges with someone, you know, and it... it would be rather presumptuous to send personal mail there." Sinn reached out mentally, giving Renfield a gentle push toward obedience. "Robert, address the envelope." Renfields hands clenched on the desktop. Sinn regarded him in surprise. So far the Englishman had offered nothing but the feeblest resistance. He pushed harder, concentrating. "Do it!" Renfield shivered, a fine sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. He bit his lip hard, but muttered, "No." Sinn gritted his teeth, slitted his eyes, and focused every ounce of will he had. "Robert, you will address that envelope--NOW!" Renfield winced. Hand shaking, he picked up the pen and scribbled on the envelope. Smiling in triumph, Sinn picked it up and read. "Merde! Exactly the same address as the first!" He glared at Renfield with a mixture of irritation and, surprisingly enough, admiration as he crumpled the second envelope. "You must love him very much, cheri. Very well, I will leave you in peace on this count." He touched Renfields cheek. "But believe me, I know what the Prince can unleash to persuade you, and you should have done as I asked." He stroked Renfields brow. "Remember nothing after you finished your letter. Now,

awake." He gave Renfields shoulder a little push, saying playfully, "Again you drift away from me! Really, Robert, I shall have to devise new ways to keep your attention." Robert stared after him as he left. He absent-mindedly adjusted his vest, wondering why he hadnt noticed before that it had been buttoned crookedly. For some reason he felt clammy, as if he had sweated, then put on his clothes without bathing, and he was exhausted. Still, over-riding these discomforts was the sense that he had somehow won some kind of victory. end part 72 Back to index

Chapter 73: Chapter 73- Harsher Methods

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Rock/Renfield Rating: NC17 Summary: Draculea is finally so determined to find Jonathans whereabouts that he gives Rock his way. Poor Renfield. Archive: I will ask for removal when I find a publisher. Sequel/Series: No Disclaimer: When I last checked, copyright extended for 75 years after the creators death. Bram Stoker died in 1912, so it became public domain in 1987. Warnings: Rape. Rock is a sick bastard. Part Seventy-three - Harsher Methods The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Castle Draculea The household had gathered once again in the small sitting room--Draculea, Simion, and the three companions. Rock and Rill had taken chairs across the table from Draculea. Simion and Sinn flanked the Princes chair as Sinn related his latest encounter with Renfield. He didnt go into detail about their physical congress, saying only that they had been intimate. Rock smirked sourly, but Rill beamed. His interpretation of intimacy was much different from the other two young vampires. He was glad that his friend Robert had someone to make him feel good, and feel special. Simion noted his lovers happy expression and sighed inwardly, hoping that this could all be resolved before Rill had to be disillusioned. That didnt seem likely, though. Draculea stared at the envelopes that lay on the table before him. He wasnt aware of it, but he had bared his teeth, and his fangs had appeared. They werent fully exposed, but the visible points were enough to startle anyone who didnt expect them. He reached out and tapped two of the envelopes, with a nail that was longer and sharper than it should have been. "I told you to be sure that he gave me the home address." Sinn, an observant man, had noticed the subtle changes in Draculeas appearance. The elder vampire was expert at concealing the physical aspects of his nature--he must have been very agitated to slip like that. It made Sinn nervous. "I tried." Draculeas eyes flashed up to him, and there was a spark of red in their depths. "I swear, my lord. I used my skills both as a human, and as Nosferatu." He shrugged. "I confess myself astonished at his resistance. Renfield certainly doesnt strike me as a tower of strength."

Draculea grunted. "Which of these is for the employers, and which is for the boy?" Sinn looked embarrassed. "I am afraid..." With a sound of annoyance, Draculea picked up one letter and opened it with one slash of his fingernail. He pulled out the sheet, glanced at it, and tossed it on the table, reaching for the second. He opened his one, too, but more slowly. He extracted the page and unfolded it slowly. "My dear friend." "It is a common greeting, lord," said Simion. "It is more intimate than I would like." Draculea read on, his frown deepening. "Im not sure how much longer I dare let this continue. Mister Renfield is quite an observant man." He studied the letter again, reading between the lines. "Observant, and suspicious." "Lord, we should send the letters," said Simion. "One can never tell how the English will react, and we do not want them to send someone after him." "Very well." He handed over the letters. "Send them. Sinn, have you done your best? Are you sure that you cannot extract the location from him?" Sinn normally would have immediately assured the Prince that he could perform any task that his master wished, but he hesitated. "As much as I am loath to admit it, my lord, I believe I have done my utmost. He has a stubborn streak, does Robert." "The stubborn can be broken." They all looked at Rock, who was lounging back in his chair. He stared levelly back at the Prince, and he gave a small, feral smile. Draculea said slowly, "Simion, take Rill with you to fix the letters." Simion regarded Rock, then silently urged his lover up, and led him from the room. Rill went willingly, happy to be on any errand with Simion. For a long moment, Draculea and Rock regarded each other in silence. Finally Draculea said, "Speak." Rock shrugged. "Sometimes cruder methods succeed where sophistication fails." "And, if I remember correctly, your methods are as crude as any." Rock bared his teeth in an almost-smile. Hed never claimed to be anything but what he was. "What do you plan?" "I do not know. How can I tell until I see how he reacts?" Draculea stared at him. He knew very well that Renfields fragile spirit was in the balance, but on the other side of the scale was Nicolae. There was no doubt as to which direction the scales would tip. "Be careful of him, Rock," Draculea warned. "If he dies, or if his mind is destroyed, then the purpose is defeated. And I would prefer that he remain... undamaged. Your brother is fond of him, and I would not have him distressed." Rock nodded, standing. His movements were quick, and he was almost vibrating with eagerness as he headed for the door. Draculea sighed. "And so another sin is laid to my account." He closed his eyes. *I do much for you, Nicolae. But you are worth it, my love.* ~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~ Renfield sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face distractedly as he stared at his pocket watch. *Oh, God, Ive lost more time. What is HAPPENING? I feel as if Ive been in a siege, as if Ive been battling something, or someone, long and hard. Im so tired.* He went to slip the watch back into his pocket, and hesitated as he felt something else. *Whats this?* He drew out a silver crucifix on a thin chain. *Oh, yes. That girl gave it to me. What did she say? Something about a man losing his soul in the pursuit of profit. And the old lady. Wear it for your mothers sake. They acted as if I were about to walk into a lions den.* Renfields head jerked up as a wavering howl sounded somewhere nearby. *Or maybe a wolfs.* After a moments hesitation, he donned the chain, slipping the crucifix inside his shirt. He let his hand rest over it, and wished he was a religious man. Perhaps it would make him feel more secure.

The door opened, and he looked up wearily, expecting Sinn again, or perhaps Simion. He would welcome Rill--the boys cheerful, sweet nature was soothing. He was the only one with whom Renfield could feel comfortable in this household. He was surprised to see Rock shutting the door behind himself. The blond man had been a sullen, near-silent presence during his stay. He seldom had anything to say, but Renfield was always aware of his watching. The mans gaze was like a physical weight. "Oh, Rock. Im sorry that Ive been so long. I just... I lost track of time." "That happens here." Renfield watched nervously as Rock turned the key in the lock, then leaned back against the door, staring at him. "Years can just slide by, before you know it. Decades. Centuries." "Yes, I suppose it can seem that way." "No seem about it, Englishman." He started over toward Renfield. "Have you any idea how long Ive been trapped in this hellhole? Trapped under the thumb of that devil Draculea, without a breath or a moment to call my own?" Renfield stood up, reluctant to be near the bed while he was alone with this man. He couldnt remember ever feeling sexually threatened, but he had no trouble recognizing it now. "You should leave, then." Rock barked with acid laughter. "Think I havent tried that? You dont know what he does when you run." His eyes narrowed. "I could SHOW you--if you run from me." Renfield back up quickly, his heart suddenly hammering so violently it seemed impossible it wouldnt tear through the fragile walls of his chest. He tried to keep his voice steady, knowing instinctively that a show of fear would only excite Rock. He ignored the last threat, saying, "Im sure you could find employment elsewhere." "You dont understand." Rock kept coming, stalking Renfield till the clerks back was against the wall. "Im not his employee. Im not even his servant, or his slave. Im his creature, Robert. Im owned, body and..." He smiled nastily. "I was going to say body and soul, but I gave up my soul a long time ago--probably BEFORE he killed me." "Youre mad," Robert whispered, appalled. Insanity was a terrifying thing. You never knew what a lunatic was capable of doing. Rock shrugged. "I suppose I am. It would be hard to go through the long years without going at least a little mad. But sanity aside, Robert, you and I have business together. You have something that the prince wants very, very much, and Draculea isnt one to be denied. Sinn hasnt been able to coax it out of you, so..." he reached out and fingered the soft collar of Roberts shirt, "theyve called for an expert in more forceful techniques." He tightened his hold, leaning in to force his mouth against Renfields. Renfield, terrified, reacted more violently than he ever had in his life. He brought his arm up, knocking aside Rocks arm. Rock didnt release his grip, and there was a ripping sound as Renfields shirt tore. The crucifix glinted. Rock fell back so quickly that he almost stumbled, hissing in anger and surprise. For a split second his face seemed to melt and reform into something monstrous. It was like the flickering of a candle flame, but it was too clear for Renfield to pretend it hadnt happened. "Oh, my God! What are you?" "You English--youre so enamored of the modern and the scientific that you scoff at the dark legends. You must know of Nosferatu, Renfield. Every country has its tales. Some of them are true." "Vampires? No, its not possible." But the clues were clicking into place--the households odd timetable, the shunning of mirrors, the dread of the locals. "As you say." Rocks smile was sharp. "Then remove that foul bauble. You believe in it no more than do I." Renfield shook his head. "I might be ignorant--horribly ignorant, but Im not stupid!" He began to try to edge toward the door. He had to get help, but whom could he trust? *Not Sinn. Hes part of this, somehow. And Draculea--I can see him being as dangerous as Rock says. Simion is Draculeas man. Rill! Rill will help me.*

Rock shifted, cutting off his escape route. "Take it off, Renfield, or youll suffer for it. Youll suffer even more than I had planned." Instead, Renfield lifted the tiny ornament toward Rock. Rock snarled, wavering as if undecided. Then he lunged. He snatched at the necklace. Renfield felt the chain snap. Almost in the same motion Rock hurled the necklace violently, howling in rage and pain. There had been a brief, sizzling sound, and a smell like rotten meat roasting. A thin curl of smoke wafted from the hand that had seized the crucifix, and Rock clutched it to his chest, muttering. Renfield could see that the flesh had been destroyed on his palm, charred in the shape of a cross, and with raw flesh showing through. There were also thin red lines on Rocks fingers and wrist, where the silver chain had lashed him. When he looked back at Renfield, his eyes glowed yellow. "It was a good try--silver and religious objects are among the few things that can harm a Nosferatu, and when they are combined..." He whined, and licked at the scorched skin, like a dog trying to soothe a hurt. "It was a good try, human. It burned like fire, but I can reach into fire for something I want badly enough, and I want you." Renfield tried to run, but Rock was on him before he could unlock the door. He shouted hopelessly as he was dragged back, and thrown face-down on the bed. A hard hand pressed down on the small of his back, pinning him like a butterfly to a corkboard. Like the trapped insect, Renfield thrashed and fought, all to no good. Not bothering with buttons, Rock simply tore the Englishmans pants down, ripping through the thick waistband as if it were gauze. Renfield felt cool air on his bare buttocks, and realized with horror exactly what Rock meant to do. Suddenly he was released as Rock reached to open his own breeches, and Renfield tried to scramble away. His legs tangled in his shredded clothing, and Rock caught his feet and dragged him back. "No, pretty boy, you wont get away like that. Youre mine, and Ive been waiting for a tender piece of ass for ages. Sinn says he thinks youre a virgin--at least as far as being mounted yourself. Are you?" "Please, let me go!" "Answer me, milksop! Ever had a man inside?" He grabbed Renfields ass, thumbs digging into the crease and spreading them roughly. "Ever had this sweet peach split?" "No! God, please, dont, please..." Renfield was degenerating into babbling and whimpers. "I didnt think so. Look at that hole--as pink, soft and tight as a rosebud." Rock used his knees to force Renfields thighs apart, dropping down on his body. "Time to blossom." There was a stab of pain that lanced deep into Renfields bowels--cold and burning, all at once, and he gave a thin scream. Rock roared with triumph and pleasure as he finally was once again buried in the hot, tight flesh of a reluctant victim. Rock pounded into Renfield, using his weight to keep the other man trapped as he plundered his body. He fucked ruthlessly, using long, powerful strokes, then short, brutal jabs, causing as much pain as he could. Finally Renfield was reduced to weak moans and squirms. As he felt his climax approaching, Rock grabbed hold of Roberts soft brown hair, forcing his head up and aside, then sank his fangs into the smooth, warm skin of his neck. A burst of hot, salty-sweet blood, rich with terror and shame, flooded his mouth, and he drank greedily. But he stopped himself long before it was too late, and satisfied himself with spraying his bloody seed deep into the now limp humans aching core. When he was done, he pulled out briskly, wringing another groan as his softening cock slid free of Renfields abused asshole. He flipped the smaller man over onto his back and studied him critically. "Huh. Still soft, little man?" Rock gave Renfields limp prick a cruel squeeze. "That will change eventually. I can make you learn to like it. But theres plenty of time for that. What I need now is information." Renfield stared up at him blankly, giving no indication that he understood. "Your friend, Harker. Draculea fancies him. Hes convinced himself that Harker is a long-lost lover--reborn. Just tell me his address," Rock stroked Renfields cock roughly, "and Ill see that you have a prize." "Jonathan?" Renfields voice was choked. "You want Jonathan?" Rock smiled lasciviously. "Oh, I wouldnt mind a taste--Ive seen the picture. But Draculea has plans for that particular sweetmeat. Hes bound to grow tired of him eventually, so who can say?" He bit Roberts

throat, not drawing blood this time--only bruising. "Perhaps we three can play games." Renfields eyes were huge, shocked and horrified. "No, not Jonathan." Rock frowned. "Yes. See here, Englishman--I may not be as accomplished in the finer arts of torture as Simion, but I can cause pain well enough. Youll tell me what I want to know eventually. The question is if youll survive the telling." Renfield shook his head vehemently. "No. I wont tell you. Id rather die." Rock said softly, "People say that all the time, but they dont know what it means. If you dont tell me what I want to know," he put his lips against Renfields ear and whispered, "I promise that you WILL understand." ~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~ Two days later Rill knelt before Draculea, looking up at him with anxious eyes. "Please, Domn." Draculea held the picture that had occupied so much of his waking time. He paused in its study and looked at the dark-haired Hungarian boy. "What is it, Rill?" "Domn, I cant find Renfield. I havent seen him for ever so long, neither have the Rom, nor Simion. Sinn just laughs and pats my head when I ask him. Im afraid something has happened to him." "Dont be distressed, child. He was warned to stay within the castle. Are you afraid the wolves have taken him?" Rill looked down at the floor. "No, prince. Perhaps the wolves would have been more kind. I havent seen Rock, either." When he looked at Draculea, there was nothing as sophisticated as suspicion in his eyes--only sad questioning. "Simion will not let me go to the lower levels. You told me he wouldnt be hurt." As necessary as he knew his decision to have been, Draculea felt heavy-hearted. "Rill, you know that I must find Nicolae." Rill nodded. This was a fact, nothing to be questioned. "Mister Renfield knows where he is, but he will not say. For some reason he believes that I mean his friend harm." "Harm? But Domn, you LOVE him." "Renfield doesnt understand this, Rill. He is--misguided. We have tried to persuade him, but were not successful." "But ROCK! Oh, Domn, could you not have let me ask? I could have explained it to him." "Boy," said Draculea grimly, "this is something that he would never have been able to grasp. I had no choice. Still, I gave Rock strict instructions that he was to be careful." He stood up. "I will seek your Renfield." He patted the boys dark curls. "Do not despair, child. Rock will surely have the answer I seek by now. If not..." He shrugged. As he started for the dungeon, he thought, *If not, I will TAKE the answer, but I fear you will be left with little more than a warm and breathing doll when I am done.* ~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~ Renfield was curled naked in a pile of dank, musty straw, hugging himself. He shivered, but could not tell if it were from cold, fear, or the pain, which never seemed to quite leave him. Rock never left him. During what had to be the daylight hours, he would fix Renfield to a rack or tie him to a cot while he slept the sleep of the undead. When he awoke, the torture would begin again. Rock favored rape as his chosen method of punishment, but beating was not neglected. When Rock could no longer will his flesh to perform, he had various devices he used as a substitute--bottles and polished sticks, thick, blunt metal clubs. Renfield had stopped crying a long time ago. Rock still questioned him. Occasionally he would pause from thrusting himself into Renfields cringing flesh, once again demanding Jonathans address. Renfield would shake his head, and the abuse would resume. Robert had long since realized that the question was only an excuse for Rock to take his pleasure. He didnt really care whether or not he got an answer. Robert had also accepted the fact that he was going to die. So be it, but he would leave Jonathan safe, taking the information of his whereabouts to

the grave. He heard a voice, and the ceaseless pounding into his ass stopped. He was bound across a table, on his belly, and a hard hand gripped his hair, lifting his head. Through his swimming vision he saw Draculea. The prince watched him with grim coolness. Finally he said, "Why do you resist, human? Dont you know that I will kill you if I must?" "You wont have him," rasped Renfield. There was a minute softening in Draculeas eyes. "You must love him very much, to defend him so bravely. But I love him, too, Robert." "Cant." All he could manage was a whisper. "Something like you. Soulless. Cant love him." Draculeas expression hardened. "I gave up my lands, my throne, my life, my very SOUL for him, human! I have waited for him to return to me, down through the centuries, in my loneliness and grief, and now that he is almost within my grasp I---will---have him!" His eyes began to burn, fixing Renfields gaze. "You will give him to me." Renfield knew there were only two things that could prevent Draculea from making good his promise. He would have to die, and as much as he wished that, he simply could not achieve it. He had tried many times during Rocks torture. He would have to die, or... Renfield took a deep breath, and chose the only other option. He let go. Rock frowned at the first low, ragged chuckles. They continued, building slowly. He had seen many unearthly things in his long unlife, and little fazed him, but this sound made the hair prickle at the back of his neck. Draculea could have understood almost any response, save this one. He shoved Renfields head back till the mans neck was arched like a bow. There was absolutely no tension in Renfields body--he was limp, almost inert. The only sign of life was the low, almost purring string of giggles that issued from his faintly smiling mouth. He sounded as if he was enjoying some clever, private joke... But his eyes were screaming. end part 73 Back to index

Chapter 74: Chapter 74- Substitution

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: NC17 Summary: With Renfield insane, the information Draculea seeks is lost to him, but the prince thinks of a way to have Jonathan come to him. Archive: I will ask for removal when I find a publisher. Sequel/Series: No Disclaimer: When I last checked, copyright extended for 75 years after the creators death. Bram Stoker died in 1912, so it became public domain in 1987.

The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Castle Draculea

"Im sorry, Rill." The boy silently looked up at Draculea. He was curled on the bed, holding Renfield, cradling him protectively. The smaller man accepted the embrace, but didnt return it. His head rested against Rills chest, and he stared blankly into the middle distance. Every now and then he giggled tonelessly. Each time Rill would pet him till he stopped, then return his reproachful gaze to the prince. "You have to know that I didnt want this." "I know. Now he cant lead you to Nicolae." The tone wasnt accusatory. Rill was only stating a simple fact--Draculea might regret Renfields breakdown, but it was more for the sake of his lost opportunity than anything else. Rill dropped a kiss on Renfields hair, then laid his cheek against it. "Dont be afraid, Robert. Well take care of you--Simion and I. I wont let Rock hurt you anymore." He didnt look up again, and Draculea finally left the two. Simion, Rock, and Sinn were waiting in the hall. Simion said, "It may be hard to believe, but he IS improving, Prince. He speaks to Rill, though he will not respond to me. He is gradually emerging from the darkness." "But he will never return to this world entirely." Draculea sighed. "I will never learn Nicolaes location from him now. Any further force will send him completely over the edge. It would be like sealing him in a windowless room, and leaving him to die." "You cant blame this on me," said Rock. "He was doing well enough till you tried to push him." Draculea grabbed Rock by the throat, slamming him against the wall. "I sped it, yes, but he was teetering on the edge when I came to him. I told you to be careful." Rock tried to force Draculeas hand away, choking, "Hes alive, isnt he?" Disgusted, Draculea shoved him away. Sinn was eyeing the door, speculation in his eyes. He found the idea of a making love to a lunatic exotic. "I should see if theres anything that they need." "Stay away from him, Sinn," said Draculea. "Just leave the poor bastard to Rills care. He wont have him for much longer, and hes going to be upset by that." Sinn raised his eyebrows. "I didnt think he was that badly off--or do you have plans for him?" "I do, but not what you think. Hes going to have to go back to England." Simion frowned. "Domn, is that wise?" Draculea shrugged. "Hes obviously mad--if he raves, no one will listen." "Yes, but those concerns aside, how can such a man travel?" "Ill have the Rom take him to his nations embassy in Budapest, with letters of explanation. They will see that he returns to England safely." Sinn said, "That is remarkably magnanimous, my lord." "Its practical, Sinn. I will also send a letter to his law firm, explaining the sad circumstances of Mister Renfields decline. Then I will express my desire to continue our transaction, so will they kindly send another representative? Mister Renfield has spoken highly of his colleague--Jonathan Harker." ~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~ The Next Day Rill was weeping, bloody tears streaking his cheeks. Renfield was crouched on the floor at his feet, holding him about the legs. "Dont let them take me. Theyll kill me, Rill." His eyes darted toward the two stoic gypsies standing near the door. One of them was the one whod met the carriage when he arrived, and Renfield hadnt forgotten his disturbing, suggestive manner. "Or something just as bad," he whispered. "Please. Not again. I dont want that to happen again." Rock and Sinn were lounging nearby, and Robert eyed the blond vampire surreptitiously. "It hurts." Rill caressed Renfields hair, glaring at Rock, who was slouching against the wall. "Im so sorry, Robert. It doesnt have to be like that." Renfield looked up at him with doubtful, confused eyes. Rill looked helplessly at Simion. "How can I explain it to him?"

"You cant, dear heart," said Simion gently. "You cant just tell him about it. Hes been hurt, and its going to take him time to heal." "He could do that HERE. Why must he go away?" "No, Rill. This place holds too many bad memories for him." He put one hand on Rills shoulder, and the other on Renfields head. Renfield flinched, whimpering and burrowing his face against Rills thigh. Simion lowered his voice. "Would you force him to face Rock every day? Let him go, my love. Perhaps they can help him in his own land. And who knows? We live long--perhaps he will find his way to you again. Our lord is at long last finding the one he has sought." "But hes so frightened," whispered Rill. Simion squatted down, bringing his face on level with Renfield. "Robert?" Renfield gave a high-pitched giggle. "Robert, look at me." Renfield turned his eyes to Simion, and the blond man had to fight down the urge to wince. Renfield had been an intelligent, high-strung man--a bit stuffy, but with no harm in him. What had happened to him disgusted Simion, but he could not find it in his heart to blame his master. He knew that Draculea had himself skirted the edge of madness in his grief, and would not have wished such a fate on any other. He had made a grave mistake in allowing Rock his way, and Simion knew that his old friend truly regretted what had happened to his guest. "Robert," he repeated gently. "Do not be afraid. We are sending you home--to England." A light sparked in Renfields expression. "To Jonathan?" "If he is the friend that I think he is, he will be waiting for you." Renfield ducked his head. "But I dont want to go with THEM. I dont like the way they look at me." "They wont harm you. Ill see to that." Simion walked over to the gypsies. He stared at them. "You will deliver that man safely to the British Embassy in Budapest. You will not touch him, save to insure his well-being. He is under the princes protection, and if any harm comes to him--you know what will happen." The two men nodded. The senior one spoke in Rom, and Simion returned to Renfield. "Rill, tell him what the gypsy said." Rill tilted Renfields chin up, so that he was looking into his face. "Robert, the Rom said that if they harmed you, the prince would not need stir himself, because their own blood would hunt them down and kill them. It is so. Go back to England--they will help you there." "But Im weak, Rill. I couldnt fight them--I couldnt fight ANYONE who wanted to hurt me." Rill hugged him. "Youre stronger than you think." Renfield was shaking his head. "Im nothing but a shadow of a man. How could I protect Jonathan when I cant protect myself? Im only half alive. I need strength. There has to be some way I could..." His gaze, almost lucid while he was speaking to Rill, was becoming wilder. His eyes fixed on the floor. "If I could take it in. If I could EAT life..." He lunged, scrabbling at something, and came up with a pleased cry. There was something dark pinched between his fingers, wiggling. It was a fat black beetle. "Just a TINY life, but I suppose I have to start small." He popped the bug in his mouth and chewed briskly. Rill covered his mouth in horror and nausea. Rock sneered, and spat on the floor in disgust. "Bah! I havent sunk that low, not even when I was starving for blood. Even I hunted for rats." Renfield looked up alertly. "Rats? Yes, yes--rats would be good, excellent. But Ill have to work up to them, Im afraid. Beetles, and flies, yes, many flies. Then perhaps some nice, plump mice." He looked up at Rill, smiling widely. "Theres blood in mice, and blood is life." "Oh, Robert, you mustnt. Youll be ill," moaned Rill. "Why? It makes you strong, doesnt it?" Rill couldnt deny it--blood WAS the only thing that could keep him alive and strong. Renfield nodded. "Beetles, flies, and... Oh, spiders! Spiders are FULL of life--so fast and agile. Then mice and rats, and then..." he grinned at Rill. "Ill get stronger--youll see. Blood is life." ~~~***~~***~~***~~***~~***~~~

Hawkins and Thompkins Law Offices London, England Two weeks later "Harker, more letters for you." Corlis handed Jonathan a thin pile of envelopes. "And I wish you wouldnt use the business address for your personal correspondence. Its hardly proper." Jonathan sorted through the envelopes eagerly, noting the exotic postal marks. "I gave Robert my home address. I dont know why he chooses not to use it--Im just happy that he writes." He smiled. "It looks as if he has written me from each stop. I should be getting a letter from his destination soon." Corlis grunted. "Dont count on it. The partners received one from that Romanian prince with the afternoon post yesterday. Speaking of which, youre to go right up to Thompkins room--no dawdling." Jonathan hurried to the office. He paused out in the hall, removed his coat and hat, and ran a quick hand over his hair, wishing he had time to go to the washroom and freshen up. Appearance was important when meeting with employers, but he had the impression that in this case, promptness would be even more important. He carefully arranged his coat over his arm, taking the hat in that same hand, and knocked. From inside he heard, "Enter." Thompkins was at his desk, with Hawkins occupying a comfortable chair at its side. Jonathan ignored the other chair, going to stand in front of the desk. "Corlis told me that you wished to see me, sir." Thompkins gestured at the free chair. "Have a seat, Harker." Jonathan blinked, but it would have been rude to express his surprise, so he merely said, "Thank you, sir," and took the seat, arranging his coat and hat across his lap. Both of the partners were watching him. *No, STUDYING me. I dont believe they looked at me this closely even when they interviewed me for the position.* Hawkins said, "How have things been for you the past few weeks, Harker? Taking over Renfields work hasnt been too arduous?" "No, sir." *Oh, that makes it sound as if Roberts efforts were negligible. "I mean, the other clerks have been helpful, and Robert left things in such good order that its been no trouble at all." He hesitated. "There havent been any... complaints?" Thompkins gave him a small, chilly smile. "No, indeed. Our clients are not effusive in their praise of anyone, but so far they have expressed no reservations as to your capabilities. In fact, we have it in mind to offer you the chance of taking on even more responsibilities--if you are willing." Now Jonathan was confused. Rapid advancement in a firm such as this was almost unheard of. While he was fairly confident that hed been doing a good job, he knew that by no stretch could he be called brilliant. "I would be willing to try, of course, sir, but I fear that if I was to take on much more, my other work would suffer." Thompkins smile widened a fraction. "At least youre honest. Dont worry about that, Harker. Your work will be distributed among the other clerks. This assignment will require all your time and effort." He glanced at his partner. Hawkins cleared his throat. "We have a situation here, Harker--a very grave situation. Renfield is not able to complete the transaction with Prince Draculea in Romania, and..." "Is there something wrong?" Hawkins was too well bred to look startled by Jonathans sudden outburst. It was almost unheard of for a subordinate to interrupt, but the sudden apprehension in the young mans worry was impossible to mistake. Jonathan continued, "He isnt hurt, is he?" His apprehension was growing. "Not... not... Sir, please, tell me!" "Calm down, Harker. Get control of yourself." He looked at Thompkins. "Are you sure about this? If the boy is this easily upset..." "This is a shock to him," Thompkins admonished. "Give the boy a moment to collect himself. Harker, calm down." He touched a letter that lay open on the desk. "Prince Vlad Draculea has contacted us,

explaining the sad affair. Mister Renfield has suffered some sort of breakdown, mental more than physical. The prince still wishes to purchase property in England, but Renfield will not be able to facilitate the sale. Apparently Robert had spoken very highly of you, and the prince specifically requests that you journey to Romania to finish the transaction." "Am I to bring Robert home?" *Hes being offered the opportunity of a lifetime, and all he can think about it Renfield. I dont know whether to think him noble, or foolish.* "That will not be necessary. He is already here in London. The prince graciously saw to it that he reached the British Embassy, and they saw him home--at the princes expense, I might add. When the man has acted so decently, it would be crassly ungrateful if we were not to respond to his request immediately." *Not to mention damned bad for business,* thought Hawkins. *He doesnt look at all convinced that he ought to acquiesce.* As if in answer to his thought, Jonathan said, "Sir, Im not sure that Im the man for this assignment. Im the most junior clerk here, and it might foster resentment." "Perhaps youre not sure," said Hawkins, "but Renfield seems to be. Remember, boy, HE recommended you in the highest terms. Surely you dont want to fail his expectations?" "I... no. No, of course not." "Good." Thompkins sat back in his chair. "How soon can you leave?" Jonathan rubbed his temple. "This is happening so quickly. Im sure that my landlady will help me pack. Then I only need to speak to my fiance--I can do that this evening." "Good, its settled. Well arrange for you to leave tomorrow morning." "But I must see Robert before I go." Hawkins was shaking his head. "Not possible, boy." Jonathans chin firmed, and he said with quiet finality, "I must." Thompkins noted the determination in Jonathans eyes, and knew that simply insisting would do no good. *Theres only one thing for it.* "Harker, you mustnt worry about him--hes being well taken care of. Hes at Dr. Arthur Sewards Sanitarium, and Im assured that it is one of the most modern and progressive facilities in England. You couldnt see him, in any case. Ive spoken with Seward, and he tells me that it will be some time before Renfield can be allowed visitors. Im sure that you wouldnt try to insist if it would be detrimental to Renfields health." Jonathan was wavering. "Go to Romania. It shouldnt take more than a few weeks, and Im sure that by the time you return he will be much improved." Jonathan was silent for a moment. Hawkins was wondering if they dared threaten the young man with the loss of his job if he refused. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the boy might actually give up his job in favor of his friend. "Renfield wouldnt want you to miss this chance." Jonathan wavered, biting his lip. He was torn, but it DID sound like something that Robert would want. *Hes always been so encouraging. Not as insistent as Mina, but I know that he wants me to do well for myself.* "It wont take long?" "Once you reach the castle, it should be no more than a day or two," Thompkins assured him. "Go home and make your arrangements. We will begin making the travel arrangements, and have the tickets and itinerary brought to you at your lodging." Jonathan stood. "Yes, sir." "Were relying on you, Harker," said Hawkins. "This business is important to us all." "Ill do my best, sir." He left. Thompkins sighed. "For a moment there, I thought he was going to refuse, simply to go spend time with Renfield." Hawkins shook his head. "I wonder if we should be trusting this to him. It seems, oh, Im not sure--frivolous."

Thompkins shot his partner a jaundiced look. "Or perhaps we have simply reached the point where common affection seems unnecessary?" Hawkins didnt answer. He thought that he had long ago earned the right to ignore such petty contemplations. "I feel guilty about not telling him the full story." "What point would there have been? As you said, Seward probably wouldnt want him to have visitors. What point would there be in telling Harker that Renfield was ranting that he mustnt go anywhere near Romania--that the prince and all around him were demons and monsters?" He sipped his drink. "Why should we destroy our chance at this plum for the ravings of a lunatic?" end part 74 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 75: Chapter 75 - At Last

Authors Notes: Summary: A reluctant Jonathan travels to Transylvania--and meets a mysterious prince. Finally. Archive: Ask, and I will probably allow a link. Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Status: WIP Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Notes: I only hope I can make this live up to yalls expectations, after youve waited so patiently. Ennui--boredom from lack of interest: weariness and dissatisfaction with life that results from a loss of interest or sense of excitement, trap--transport carriage: a light horse-drawn carriage with two wheels The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Draculea was pacing before the fire in his small meeting room, hands clasped behind his back. It was odd. After the near ennui of the last few decades, now he could scarcely contain himself. He couldnt keep still. He had to force himself to go to his coffin during the day, begrudging even the few hours of inactivity. Simion entered, trailed, as usual, by Rill. Draculea looked up sharply, and Simion smiled, offering him an envelope. "Yes, my lord. They must have sent this response by swiftest course the moment they finished reading your missive." Draculea almost snatched the letter, and ripped it open. His eyes flicked over the page, and Simion watched as his eyes began to glow. For a moment he was worried, but then he saw the slow smile, and relaxed. "Good news, my lord?" Draculea slapped the letter with the back of his hand. "The best, my friend! He is already on his way. If all goes well, he will be waiting at Borgo Pass the night after next." Simion gripped Draculeas shoulder. "It WILL go well, my lord. I cannot believe that God would deny you this." Cynicism seeped into Draculeas glad expression. "No? Simion, for Nicolaes sake I blasphemed, I damned myself, I have murdered..." Simion started to protest, but Draculea gestured him to be still. "No,

my friend, I HAVE. Though most of what has passed has been for simple survival, or to protect what I thought of as mine, I have taken Gods prerogative of life and death far too many times to count on salvation. All I have left to hope for is my love--my Nicolae." He sighed, dropping his hand. "I can only hope that I am not mistaken in this." Rill said eagerly, "Surely it is he, Master. I have seen the picture that Robert carried, and the portrait of your love in the library." His forehead puckered. "Is he one of us? He hasnt changed." Simion patted his shoulder. "No, my love. This Jonathan Harker is a mortal. Remember? We discussed this. We believe that Nicolae has been reborn, that his spirit has returned to earth, and been given flesh in the form that he wore long ago, when our Master first loved him." Rill nodded, then said, "But Simion, its been so long. What if he has forgotten?" Draculea sat down heavily, worry once again creasing his face, and Simion said quickly, "Rill, your memories of your life before the Prince are still there, though some of them have grown dim, yes?" Rill nodded. "When we speak of them, they become more clear. Perhaps Nicolae will not remember when he first arrives, but surely he will, once he has been here for awhile, here where he was so happy." "Yes, Simion--I see. Im sure that once we tell him how our Master has longed for him, and has waited so patiently..." "Rill, come here." Draculea extended his hand, and Rill went to him instantly. Draculea drew the young vampire down to sit on his lap. "Listen to me carefully. This is very important, and I know that you can pay attention and obey as well as the most learned of men, when it is necessary." He paused. "While I believe--I HOPE--that this is my Nicolae come back to me... As much as I hate to admit it, I may be wrong. Even if he IS Nicolae reborn, he will also be Jonathan Harker, with a full life behind him, complete with his own memories, loves, and attachments." He stroked Rills hair. "This must be considered. I think that even if Nicolae awakens and remembers, Jonathan will always be a part of him. Would I want my love to be forever conflicted, carrying a small part inside that feared or mistrusted me?" "Oh, no, my lord!" Rill looked at his own lover, adoration and trust shining in his eyes. "That would be terrible. There must be no shadow on your love." "So you will be discreet. You must make no references to his previous life with me. I know that you are eager for us to be together." He stroked the boys dark hair, smiling at him. "Bless you for you wish for my happiness. But you must not try to push us together. You know from your little pets--the kittens and the horses--that they must decide for themselves whom they will trust. You cannot push them, else they balk. Be his friend--Id like that. And if he truly IS Nicolae, believe me, he will gravitate to you. He always had a special place in his heart for the innocent. But remember, Rill--nothing of the years that have gone before." "Yes, Prince." Rill smiled brilliantly. "But it will be good to have him here, wont it?" Draculea returned the smile. "Yes, little one--very good." Rill touched Draculeas hair, lifting a stray, white strand. "Master, shouldnt you eat? You looked better after the last time one of the Rom gave you a meal..." He frowned. "That was a long time ago. But I remember--your hair was a little darker for some time after that." He touched Draculeas cheek. "And you werent quite so wrinkled. Dont you want to look good for Nicolae, like you did the first time?" "Rill!" scolded Simion. Draculea laughed. "No, Simion, hes right. Even after all this time, I learn more about my state. I had been wondering if refusing human blood could finally cause me to deteriorate to the point that I reached full death. I believe that I have been committing long, passive suicide." He gently pushed Rill off his lap. "It may take some time to reach my former glory," his lips twisted ironically, "but I should begin." He stood, rising to his full height, sinews creaking and joints popping as he strained muscles that had not been stretched for many years. "Send one of the Rom." "Prince," said Simion. He came to stand beside him. "Let me be your first." Draculea hesitated, and

Simion said, "Please, my lord--let me do this for you. I was your first when you returned to us, let me be the first when you prepare to welcome your love once again." Draculea glanced at Rill. "You two belong to each other, Rill. You will not mind?" Again Rill smiled. "But Master, BOTH of us are yours. How could I object?" Draculea caressed his cheek. "Ah, Rill, I once dreamed of having a son. You ARE my son, as well as my childe. I could never have hoped to sire anyone more loving." He pressed a kiss to the boys forehead. "Thank you." He looked back at Simion. "Yes, thank you, old friend." Simion unbuttoned his shirt, pulling aside his collar to bare the strong column of his throat. There were small, pale scars marking the tanned skin. Even the great healing power of the blood he supped from his master and his lover could not entirely wipe away the traces of the many, many times he had fed the prince and Rill. He bore the marks proudly, symbols of his love. Draculea held Simions shoulder with his right hand, his left going to cup the back of his skull. Simion closed his eyes, leaning his head back into the secure, cradling touch, arching his neck to ease Draculeas access. Draculea bent. For a moment he pressed his face to Simions neck, drinking in the long familiar scent and warmth. Through the long, dark years of his unlife, Simion had been the only constant, and he loved the man. It wasnt as he loved Nicolae--nothing could ever approach that--but still... He knew what he meant to Simion. The older man had dedicated his life to the prince, even knowing that he would never hold first place in his heart. Such loyalty and sacrifice was rare. Draculea was glad that Simion had found Rill--he deserved someone of his own, someone who would put him first in his heart. Draculea licked Simions neck, letting the long remembered taste of his skin fill him. Simion shivered slightly with the sensation, and in anticipation of what was to come. He could feel himself beginning to stiffen in his trousers. It was always like this. He couldnt help but think that this was something that Nature--or whatever it was that decided the fate of the Unnatural--had given this gift to the Nosferatu. If they chose, they could seduce all but the most determined to resist. Simion felt the first pain as Draculeas fangs slid through his skin. He gripped the vampires arms, steadying himself against the faintness that might come. He trusted Draculea to go so far and no further, but he could never be sure that the sensation wouldnt overwhelm him. It had been a long time. Draculea had been surviving for years on the thin, sour blood of rats and other vermin. The burst of strong, hot, sweetness was almost a shock, and he was gulping thirstily before he realized it. He felt Simion tremble, and forced himself to slow. It would do him no good to glut, and it could be harmful, if not fatal, to the one generous enough to give him this gift. Draculea drank enough to feel the first stirring of warmth and energy, then pulled back. He lapped the wound, beginning to close it, then kissed Simion gently on the cheek, leaving a moist smear of blood. "Thank you," he whispered. He reached down, and his palm covered the bulge in Simions fly. "Now, go and give this to your lover." He sat as they left the room, hand in hand. They would go to their room, and make love. Draculea felt the faint stir of long-absent desire, the warm flush of taken blood seeming to pool in his groin. He knew that, had he indicated the slightest wish, that both Simion and Rill would have welcomed him into their bed with joy. *No. He is close now, so close.* Draculea stared into the fire, letting the blood begin to work, fancying that he could feel the withered tissues of his body filling with strength and vigor. *I can wait.* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Two Days Later Jonathan trudged up the road toward the Borgo Pass, case bumping against his side. *Im not a swearing man, but I am SO tempted right now to use some of the words I learned from the upper class boys at school. They might have told me that they wouldnt be taking me all the way to Borgo Pass. I could have

rented a trap or a horse in that last village.* Darkness was fast approaching. *Damn it! Perhaps I should have done as the driver suggested, and gone on to the next village, then gone on to Castle Draculea tomorrow. Im not sure if that would have worked, though. Robert had the same trouble. I get the impression that the locals dont care to go too far into this section of the mountains.* As the shadows gathered, and he got farther from the main road, he became even more nervous. He moved from walking along the edge to the center of the road, knowing that he was in more danger of being attacked from the bushes than he was of being run down. *Robert said there were wolves. I only hope that they wont come into the road.* As he walked, his thoughts turned to the time before hed begun this journey. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* His landlady had taken over his packing, shooing him out of the house to go make a brief visit to Mina. "You cant be running off and leaving your fiancee without a word, no matter what your employers wish. The very idea!" Lucy Westenra had been visiting Mina when he arrived. He would have preferred to see his fiancee alone, but he couldnt very well ask Minas best friend to leave. He was a little hurt that Mina didnt ask Lucy to leave them alone when she learned that he would be leaving on a long journey the next day. Hed expected protestations from Mina, perhaps even tears. He hadnt been prepared for her almost gleeful acceptance of the situation. "Jonathan, what a chance! Just think, this could make you. Oh, most men have to wait YEARS for such an opportunity. Youre so lucky." "Mina! Im only going because of poor Roberts misfortune." Lucy had shrugged. "Yes, its very sad," she said in an off-hand manner, "but why shouldnt Mina be happy for what it can mean for you two?" When she saw him frowning, she took his hands and said coaxingly, "Think of it, Jon. If this does as much for you as I think it will, youll be able to wed much sooner than we expected. Wouldnt you like that?" She smiled at her friend. "I know Mina would." "Yes, of course." Jonathan looked at Mina doubtfully. Somehow there hadnt been a ring of deep conviction in her tone. "Now, you mustnt worry about Mina," Lucy assured him. Minas mother had died not long before, and Mina was, for the first time, living on her own, lodging in a small room only a mile or so from Jonathans own residence. "Shell come and stay with me till you return." Jonathan looked at Mina. "Wouldnt that interfere with your job, Mina? It will be a much greater distance to travel each day." Lucy waved gaily. "Nonsense! She never should have taken that position. Why, keeping accounts and doing office work for that dry goods store--its scarcely better than being a shop girl." Now Jonathan did frown. "Lucy, shop girl is an honorable job." "Yes, yes, I know. Goodness, Jonathan, one would think you were one of those socialists that father is always railing against. See here--Mina is my best friend--has been for years. Why shouldnt I do what I can for her?" How could Jonathan answer that? How could he say that he saw how Lucys lavish, careless lifestyle turned Minas head, gave her ideas? While Jonathan did not truly believe in keeping to ones station, he was realistic enough to realize that some things in life were difficult, if not impossible, to overcome. While he might advance in his career, hed never attain the heights that would make the likes of Lucy Westenra and her family sees him as an equal--that took the proper bloodlines, and wealth and position could never replace the proper pedigree. And Mina... Though she had been Lucys companion for many years, if she gave up her independence, Jonathan had the feeling that she would be reduced to the status of a pet, to be cosseted on a whim, or pushed away when Lucy found something more interesting. But Mina couldnt see this. She saw only Lucys generosity and

carelessly offered friendship. Was it possible that she couldnt tell shallow emotions from the deeper, true ones? Not for the first time, Jonathan wondered if he was doing the right thing. It seemed that hed FALLEN into this engagement, rather than entering into it clear-eyed and determined. He was fond of Mina, he knew that. Was it enough? He remembered how things had been with his own parents--seldom more than chilly civility. Then he thought of how things were between Mister and Mrs. Hallifax--the warm familiarity of old companions. It was pleasant, and he knew that they loved each other... *But I want MORE. I dont want just companionship or affection--I want love, and... and PASSION.* Lucy noted the faint blush creeping up Jonathans cheeks, and misinterpreted it. "Now, now, Jonathan, you mustnt be embarrassed. This isnt charity." She gave Mina a hug. "Friends do things for each other, and I know that Mina would do the same for me, if she were in my place. So you just trot off on your business and dont fret." She smiled. "Well have a jolly time gossiping about you and planning your wedding and life." Jonathan left with the uneasy feeling that they would do just that--plan his life--to suit themselves. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Jonathan came to the wide, cleared area that Robert had mentioned in one of his letters. He put the case down and seated himself on what had to be the same rock that Renfield had rested on. He looked around nervously. It was every bit as desolate as his friend had described it. Jonathan took off his hat and rested it on his knees, fingers nervously working on the brim. He heard furtive sounds from the brush across the road, but couldnt tell if it were from an animal, or the small, warm breeze that ruffled his hair. *I wish Id brought a pistol with me, like Mister Hallifax advised, but I dont know how the authorities feel about foreigners going about armed. Being jailed seemed like the greater risk before...* a twig snapped, *but now Im not so sure.* All he had was his small pocketknife. He took it out and opened it, then thought of what a picture hed make to anyone who came to meet him, so he hid it beneath his hat. He felt a little better--but not much. Thankfully, he did not have long to wait. In another ten minutes he heard a carriage approaching. Even at a distance, he could see the pale blur of someone leaning their head out the window, looking toward him. He quickly put away the knife, stood, smoothed his hair as best he could, and settled his hat once more on his head. He was representing his law firm, and he had to make a good impression. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* They had left the castle when it was barely sunset. Simion had insisted that, if Draculea were to come, he swath himself well before he went out into the dim dusk, to take the few steps from the castle to the waiting, closed carriage. Rill had wanted to come along, but he would have had to ride, at least at first, inside. "And the prince should be alone with him at first, Rill, dont you think?" Rills bottom lip had started to push out a bit, and Simion had said, "Think, my love. Imagine if we had been separated as long as they have. Wouldnt you want to be alone with me, at least at first?" Rill had to agree, so he waited back at the castle. He went into the library and kept himself busy for a little while. Then he sat where Draculea had spent so many hours, gazing up at the portrait of the dark-haired, dark-eyed young man, studying his gentle expression. "Nicolae... Jonathan? Hes been waiting for you so long. Please remember him." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Draculea had never in his life, or his long unlife, put his head out the window of a carriage unless he had thought there was danger of a bandit attack. But as he neared the appointed place, he couldnt help himself--he had to SEE. They were coming around a bend when he finally succumbed. He leaned his head out the window, gazing down the road... ...and there he was.

The figure in the distance, sitting on the case, could have been anyone. He looked toward the approaching carriage, and it was too far for Draculea to make out more than a blur of features. Then he stood, long body unfolding with unconscious grace, hand rising to sweep back dark hair, and he knew. He knew ever line, every gesture, as well as, when he lived, he had known his own breath and heartbeat. It was his Nicolae. He might be clothed in new flesh, but it was Nicolae nonetheless. The sudden rush of emotion crashed over Draculea so violently that even as desperate as he was to keep his eyes on the lone figure beside the road, he fell back into his seat. His hand drifted up to rest over his still heart, as if to calm a frantic pace. *Patience.* He closed his eyes. *Simion has always said that I am too impatient. If I have learned nothing else in the long, lonely years, let me have learned to control myself when I first meet Nicu face to face. If I can get beyond these first few moments without simply falling upon him, I think I will be able to hold myself in check. I seduced him, I made him love me once--I can do it again.* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ The coach slowed as it neared, then stopped only a few yards away. The man sitting on the drivers seat called down, "You would be Mister Harker." "Yes." Jonathan went to the carriage, standing near the horses. "Im sorry--I had hoped to get transportation to the castle and spare you this inconvenience, but..." "No trouble, sir, and you would never have found anyone willing to bring you that far." There was a howl nearby. The horses stamped and shifted nervously, and Simion tugged hard on the reins, calming them. Jonathan looked around nervously, but Simion never took his eyes off the young man. Yes, he was Nicolae to the life, hair clipped nearly as short as it had been the first time he had seen him. "I am Simion, Prince Draculeas steward. Can you pass me your case? I fear that I cannot get down. These horses are used to this area, but still, if the wolves howl again..." He shrugged. "Of course." Jonathan raised up on his toes, extending the case, and Simion took it. As he stored the case behind him, he said, "Please, young sir, enter the carriage. The prince is within, and he is most eager to make your acquaintance." Jonathan looked toward the carriage window, surprised. A member of royalty, no matter how minor, taking the trouble to come greet a simple law clerk? This prince must be a most unusual man. As he stepped up to the door, it opened. He could only make out a vague shape in the shadowed interior. "Prince Draculea. It is good of you to come..." The man in the carriage leaned forward, into the pale moonlight, and Jonathans voice died in his throat. He had heard the French term deja vu before, but had never expected to experience it himself. Later he wasnt even sure if that was the proper word for what happened next, but he could think of no other term that even came close. For just a moment, less time than it took for his heart to beat, he seemed to be somewhere else. Instead of the wilderness, there were tall stone walls, hard packed earth. There was the sound of many people, and many horses--much more than could be accounted for by the ones that he knew were here. And perhaps most frighteningly, there was light. For that scant space of time, he KNEW it was broad daylight, and not early night. There was a blur of movement before him, and he lifted his eyes to a big figure sitting high on an enormous horse. The sun *Dear God, there IS no sun!* was behind him, and all he could see was a silhouette, but somehow... somehow this was someone he knew--intimately. Then it was gone, and he was once again standing beside a carriage on a dark Transylvanian road. He blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes as he tried to clear the momentary illusion (for what else could it be?) "I... Im sorry, sir. I dont know what came over me. Perhaps I am more tired than I thought." "You are not ill?" The voice was deep, the accent at once exotic, and somehow familiar. "No, sir. As I said, it was only a moment of... of distraction." Nicolae looked back up at the man who was watching him. There was

another moment of dizzying unreality as he saw the mans face, and... *Blue. Blue eyes.* "I... apologize." The man was obviously elderly, but he was still sternly handsome. He was watching Jonathan so intently that the young man felt the urge to check himself again, to be sure that nothing in his appearance was awry. He felt, with unquestioned certainty, that this was a man who deserved to be offered only the best of anything-- goods or efforts. Hed never felt all that confident in his own worth. But somehow, looking into those pale blue eyes, he had not doubt of the truth of Draculeas next words. "Do not apologize. I am only happy that you have arrived safely." He smiled slowly. "You have no idea how long I have been waiting for you." end part 75 Back to index

Chapter 76: Chapter 76 - Blood Bond

The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Transylvania Draculea extended a hand. "I fear that the steps are rather high." Jonathan paused. It was a big hand. Though the joints were slightly swollen and the skin papery, sprinkled with faint age marks, it was still obviously strong. *But the nails... I know that the Mandarins keep long nails as a sign of status, but surely European nobles dont follow this fashion?* "Please, young man." Jonathan realized that his hesitation must seem rude. He gripped the proffered hand, and the fingers closed over his own. It was cool, but he had not time to think about this as the prince drew him up into the carriage. Yes, there was still strength in the elderly prince. He didnt strain, didnt even lean forward as he helped Jonathan up the steep step. There was a moment, just a moment, when it seemed as if Prince Draculea would draw Jonathan down to sit beside him. Then he released his grip, and Jonathan settled on the seat opposite him. "Thank you, sir." He reached into his pocket. "I have here my letter of introduction." "Do not bother." He smiled, and Jonathan felt a stab of admiration. Dentistry was gaining ground, but there were still very few people of the princes age who possessed such a magnificent set of teeth. *I suppose royalty can afford to take more care.* The prince was continued. "I can read it later if you like, but there are no need for such formalities. I know who you are." His eyes seemed to glitter. "Indeed, it is unlikely that you could be anyone else." "Yes, I suppose youre right. There wouldnt be too many people just wandering about in this wilderness at this time of night. I must say that this courtesy is most welcome after the rudeness of my previous coach driver. Robert Renfield had written me about the shocking state of their service, but I thought he might be exaggerating a bit, as travelers sometimes do." "Things are primitive in this region, Mister Harker--primitive, and wild. I will take this opportunity to warn you that you should remain within the castle walls during your stay. Beasts still roam the forests, and many of them are both vicious and bold." "I heard the wolves while I was waiting." He laughed nervously. "It gave me quite a turn. The largest predator Ive ever seen outside the London Zoo was when I was spending the summer in the country. A vixen got into my landlords henhouse, and it was quite a to-do." He noted the princes intent, but somehow amused, gaze, and felt himself flushing. "Im sorry. I know I run on..." "Do not apologize. I enjoy listening to you speak. I hope you will not limit yourself only to business in

the days to come. I am rather isolated. While the members of my household are congenial, I sometimes long for contact with the world outside my small sphere. Renfield was that for me, telling me much about your England--and about you." "Me?" Draculea nodded. "He considers you his best friend, Jonathan." He paused, seeing the surprise in the young mans face. "I hope you do not mind? I realize that using your Christian name so soon is a bit presumptuous, but I feel that I already know you." "No, its fine," said Jonathan automatically. Who was he to object if such an important man wished to use his given name? *Some people do that to those they see as their inferiors--servants, children, and pets, but it doesnt feel like that. It doesnt feel condescending.* The prince was continuing. "Good. And how is friend Robert? He reached home safely?" Jonathans expression grew troubled. "So they tell me, sir. I wished to visit him, but my employers insisted that there be no delay. They tell me that he has gone to a most reputable sanatorium. There, God willing, they can calm him, and bring him back to clarity. Im afraid that Robert has always been high-strung, and the stress of travel, and the responsibility must have proved too much for him." Draculeas eyes were hooded. "Yes. I feel great guilt that he came to such a state while under my care." "Oh, you mustnt blame yourself. Sometimes these things cant be fully explained." Jonathan glanced out the window. "Is it far to the castle?" "No, not far. We will arrive in less than an hour." "I rather wish I could arrive in the daytime, so that I could see the castle to its best advantage." He smiled. "Ive always liked the idea of castles. I even managed to visit one or two ruins in Scotland when a friend invited me to go with him on holiday." He frowned slightly. "I enjoyed it, but there was... I kept thinking how sad it was that they were deserted. I imagined what they must have been like when they were filled with people, busy. Not with the great machinations of history, you understand, but just normal people, going about their everyday lives. Silly, I suppose." "Not at all. Some of us feel great kinship with the past." Jonathan laughed. "I wish my father felt the same way. He says my mother infected me with her romanticism while I was an impressionable child. Why should I waste my time dreaming about ages gone by when I should be attending to the present--and the future?" "Some people--old souls--are drawn to the past." "Old souls? You refer to reincarnation?" He nodded. "An Oriental concept, but one I find too compelling to ignore. I suppose it conflicts with your own beliefs." "Um, officially, yes. The Church of England does not believe in the souls return to earthly realms, but I find that I cant completely hold with that. Reincarnation would explain many things." "I can see that we will have many things to discuss, Jonathan." "I look forward to it. My landlords are wonderful people, but their conversation is... I wont say its limited, but theres only so much I can say about the garden, and I refuse to discuss politics or religion with someone who owns the roof over my head." Draculea laughed. "Very wise. You must not feel limited when you are with me, though. I want to know all about you, Jonathan Harker." He leaned forward slightly. The dim moonlight smoothed the harsher marks of age, and Jonathan thought for a moment that this must be what the prince had looked like in vigorous middle age. Before he could censor himself he said, "And I, you." At the other mans smile, Jonathan said hastily, "So that I can better serve your needs." "Yes. I can see that you dedicate yourself to others." He studied his companion for a moment, then nodded, saying, "We are going to be important to each other, Jonathan." ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"We approach the castle," remarked Draculea. Jonathan started to lean out the window, eager for a glimpse of the castle, but he caught himself. "No, go on," Draculea urged him. "My heart still lifts when I come in sight of my home, even after all these years." Jonathan removed his hat and leaned far out the window, gripping the coachs side as he peered ahead. Despite what hed said before, he couldnt help but feel that Castle Draculea was very impressive by moonlight. The surrounding walls were tall, but the castle loomed behind them--at least three stories tall. It looked massive. *One could easily get lost in a place like that,* Jonathan thought. *Ill have to be careful.* The gate was standing open, and they drove through into a spacious courtyard. Jonathan noticed two swarthy, roughly dressed men standing just inside the gate, studying the carriage. When they saw him, they began whispering to each other hurriedly. He couldnt understand why they would look so curious. Englishmen were rare in these mountains, but surely theyd seen Robert during his visit. The two men hurried, grabbing doors on either side of the entrance, and pushing them to. They werent small men, but Jonathan could tell that they had to strain to move the heavy doors. There was a muffled thud as a bolt as large as a mans leg was dropped into place, barring the gate. The coach drew up before the shallow flight of stairs that led to the castles main door. Even as the horses stamped to a halt, the door opened, and three men came out. One (he looked like the youngest), hurried down the stairs. His face was alight with joyous curiosity, as if a visitor was the greatest treat he could imagine. He opened the door, jumping nimbly onto the step and leaning into the coach. His eyes, large and dark, fixed immediately on Jonathan, and he smiled, as if greeting a great friend, just returning from a long absence. "Its you! Oh, it IS you!" He looked at the prince, saying eagerly, "I knew it, Prince. He..." "Rill," said Draculea sharply. The boy stumbled to a halt, biting his lip contritely. Draculeas voice was not harsh. "This is Jonathan Harker, the young man that Mister Renfield counts as such a friend. Jonathan Harker," he said, slowly and distinctly. The boy stared at Draculea, then said slowly, "Oh, yes. Of course." He smiled at Jonathan, offering his hand. "Im Rill." Jonathan was used to the rigid social protocols of home, but instead of being offended by this brashness, he found it oddly endearing. "Hello, Rill." He shook hands, absently noticing that the boys hand was just as cold as the princes had been. "Rill is..." Draculea seemed to consider. Finally he said slowly, "My ward. He is one of three young men that I have taken into my care." Draculea shrugged. "It can be lonely when you have outlived most of your contemporaries. Rill, we should go inside now. I am sure that Jonathan is weary from his journey." "Oh, beg pardon!" Rill quickly stepped back down. "I will get the bag." Draculea gestured toward the door. "Please." Jonathan wasnt entirely sure on the proper order of disembarking, but if the prince wished to allow him to go first, then that was as it should be. The first rule of manners was that the upper classes MADE the rules. Rill gave him another smile as he stepped out, then the boy reached up to take Jonathans bag from Simion. Jonathan, mindful of the princes age and station, turned to offer him assistance. The prince accepted his hand gravely, but seemed to have little trouble with his descent. Simion jumped down off the seat, and one of the men from the gate clambered up, taking the reins and starting the coach toward a large outbuilding--obviously a stable. The other two men came down the shallow steps, and again Jonathan felt a moment of deja vu, though not as strong or as clear as the one hed experienced on the road. He had spoken of seeing predators at the London Zoo, and now that memory flickered through his mind. He had been very small, no more than five. He had stopped before the wolves cage, and two great,

shaggy beasts had risen from the shadows in the back and stalked toward the bars, their lambent eyes fixed upon him. They drew closer, closer... Black lips wrinkled back from ivory fangs. He hadnt cried, but he had turned, burying his face in his mothers skirts. She had stroked his hair, assuring him that the beasts were only attracted by the smell of the roasted peanuts that Jonathan had bought to feed the monkeys. He had not been convinced, but he had been comforted by her touch, knowing that she would let no harm come to him. *Why should that memory come back to me now?* he thought as the two men moved toward him. But there was no denying the sudden apprehension he felt. Then he felt a touch, and glanced to the side. The prince stood there, his hand resting on Jonathans shoulder, his pale gaze fixed on the approaching pair. The apprehension did not disappear entirely, but somehow, with the prince beside him, it eased. "This is Rock, Rills brother, and Sinn," said the prince. Jonathan shook hands with them both, and he wondered again at the coolness of their hands. He knew that England was considered notorious for its tendency toward chilly rooms, but Jonathan had always enjoyed his creature comforts. He hoped that the castle would not prove to be too damp and cold. The blonde man gave only a curt nod of greeting, but the dark haired one, Sinn, made a slight, courtly bow as he shook Jonathans hand. "What a pleasure to meet you at last! Ive been quite looking forward to this. Dear Robert was very free with his words in your favor, Jonathan." *It seems Im to be on familiar terms with the entire household,* Jonathan thought resignedly. *Well, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.* "Thank you. Robert wrote a great deal, but he was reticent about his hosts, not wanting to gossip. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you all." Sinns smile was brilliant, and just a touch off-putting. "I would like that very much," his eyes slid to the prince, and he tilted his head deferentially, "when you are not busy with more important matters, of course." "You must be cautious of Sinn," said Draculea dryly. "He flatters as naturally as most men breathe." As they entered the castle, Draculea said, "Are you hungry, Jonathan? Our fare here is simple, so it would be no trouble to provide you with a meal." "No, thank you. I made rather a pig of myself at the last way station, but the proprietress had a superb cake that I just couldnt pass up." The prince smiled. "You have a sweet tooth." It was a statement, rather than a question. "Im afraid so. My father says that Ill never grow up in that respect." He smiled. "Hes always predicted that my teeth would rot from all the sugar. I think hes rather disappointed that they havent." Jonathan was glancing around the great entrance hall. There were a few candles flickering along the walls, but not nearly enough to dispel the gloom that gathered in the corners. *What a shame that such an impressive place is neglected.* The prince noticed his look. "Yes, the castle is not at its best. The proper upkeep would require a veritable army of servants and, as you have noted, the locals are reluctant to come here." He shrugged. "We make do with the Rom," he patted Rills shoulder, "and Rill insists on helping." "I cleaned your room," Rill offered eagerly. "Its the nicest one in the castle." "How kind." *Hes exaggerating. The grandest room will belong to the prince, of course.* They were passing through the hall. Simion went ahead and opened a door to the side. Jonathan was relieved by the brightness and warmth that flowed from the room. It proved to be small, at least compared to the spaciousness of the other room, and very cozy. A fire snapped vigorously on the hearth, and several lamps burned about the room. As the prince ushered Jonathan into the room, he turned to the others. "That will be all for the night." His voice was firm. There were various reactions. Rock scowled and Sinn shrugged in blase resignation, but Rill was obviously disappointed. Simion took his hand, murmuring to him, and the boy nodded in acceptance. He

looked appealingly at Draculea. "Can I say goodnight to him?" Draculea nodded, and Rill went to Jonathan. "Do you like soldiers?" The question took Jonathan off guard. "I... I greatly admire men who will fight for their country." Rill laughed. "No, no! Toy soldiers." "Oh, you mean the tin and lead ones? Yes, I do. I had some when I was a boy." His voice was tinged with irony. "They were one of the few things of which my father approved." "I have a lot. Ive tried to count them, but I keep losing count. Would you like to see them tomorrow?" He looked at the prince. "If you have time?" The prince smiled at Rill, then looked at Jonathan, lifting his eyebrows. "Yes, Rill, Id like that very much." Rills smile was joyous. "Goodnight, then, Jonathan. I hope you sleep well." He hesitated. "You might dream--Robert did. If you dream, dont be afraid. The prince wont let anything hurt you." He turned and went to Simion, who put an arm around his shoulders and led him away. The prince shut the door. "You made Rill very happy." He gestured toward one of the chairs before the fire. "Please, sit." Jonathan laid his hat on the table and took the seat. "I was glad to do it." He smiled. "I like toy soldiers, but I havent thought of them for years. Rill... he hasnt grown up, has he?" Draculea studied him. "You are kind, Jonathan. Most people would be much harsher in how they characterized Rill, but I believe your view is right. He is still a child in many ways--good-hearted, and innocent. Will you take wine?" Jonathan hesitated. "Jonathan, we are not talking business now." "I do not drink much." Jonathans voice was almost apologetic. The prince moved to the sideboard that was against the wall behind Jonathans chair. "One glass?" The prince unstoppered a cut glass decanter, pouring the rich, red wine into a narrow goblet. "Just one, then. Is it very strong?" "Yes, it is potent." He glanced at the small ewer of water that sat beside the decanter. Jonathan had turned slightly in the chair. He was holding his hands out to the fire, drinking in the warmth. Draculea watched the turn of the long, elegant hands. He could see only a thin slice of Jonathans face, the barest profile. The flickering light gilded the strong, beautiful features, and Draculeas hand clenched on the ewer handle. "I could mingle it with water, if you like." "Yes, please." Draculea released the ewer, and brought his hand to his mouth. Never taking his eyes from the young man before the fire, he bit down, opening a small gash in the pad of his palm. The blood welled out, liquid and vibrant with the blood he had taken from Simion earlier. He held his hand over the goblet and let the blood trickle into the goblet, watching as the darker red swirled and dissipated in the crimson of the wine. Jonathan looked up to find the prince standing beside him. *He moves very quietly--they all do.* Draculea offered the glass. "This is a very rare vintage, and I want to get your opinion of it." Jonathan accepted the glass. "You wont join me?" Draculea sat opposite him. "I seldom drink wine. Certain pleasures have lost their savor, but others have taken their place. Try it." Jonathan took a sip. Hed never really enjoyed wine, and was trying to think of something complimentary, but not false, to say. There was the tartness hed been expecting, but even as he noted this, it seemed to change. It was the most complex, subtle taste Jonathan had ever experienced. There was sweetness, but a salt tang as well. There was also a hint of spiciness that he couldnt identify. He sipped again, hoping to gain some clue to the elusive ingredient. "Well, I believe that you enjoyed that."

Jonathan looked down, and was surprised to discover that he had drained the goblet. "Its very warming, but delicious. Ive never tasted anything like it. Is it spiced?" Draculea steepled his fingers under his chin. "There is a special ingredient." "What is it?" Jonathan was running his tongue over his upper lip, seeking a last taste, and was unaware of how the princes eyes lighted at the sight. "Perhaps I will tell you--soon." end part 76 Back to index

Chapter 77: Chapter 77 - Testing the Water

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Vlad/Jonathan Rating: NC17 Summary: Jonathan opens up a little to Vlad. Archive: Ask, and I will probably allow a link. Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Rating: NC17 Jonathan reluctantly set the empty glass aside. He would have liked another taste of the wine, but hed already specified one glass, and he knew he had to stick to that. He couldnt have the prince thinking that he was changeable. If he was going to be here for a number of days, perhaps hed have a chance for a bit more. "I know that Robert left the documents here, but the partners have sent along particulars on additional properties. If youd like..." Draculea was shaking his head, smiling faintly. "You English are such a conscientious race. Robert was just the same, ready to spring directly into business. I prefer to know a bit about the men I do business with, Jonathan. We can spend at least this first evening in conversation, dont you think?" "Of course, but," Jonathan chuckled, "Im afraid that you will be quite bored. Ive had a very conventional life." "But your are seeing it from the inside, my friend. I want to know all about you. Tell me about your parents." Jonathan smiled, "Well, my mother was a dear woman. She loved me very much," the smile faded, "and I lost her too soon. She died when I was six." "Your father raised you alone?" Jonathans expression became carefully controlled. "No, I didnt say that. Despite what he might tell you, he had very little to do with raising me. That was taken over by the school staff during term and the housekeeper or a paid host during the holidays. He bothered himself enough to pay my expenses, all the while making sure that I was properly grateful, and he was very free with what he called correction and advice. Ive thought about it a bit, and I think that complaint and criticism are much more accurate terms." Draculea folded his hands together, hiding them in his lap. He was fairly sure of his control of his expression, but sometimes his hands got away from him, and he knew that the answer to his next question

could very well make him careless. "He didnt beat you?" Jonathan blinked in surprise. "No, nothing like that. Not even when I was small, and I know from some of the other boys at school that was quite rare. No, he never struck me. He had other ways of showing his disapproval." He rubbed his arms unconsciously, remembering a few bruises that had been inflicted when his father took hold to emphasize a point. "The thing was, that was pretty much all he showed me." He paused, then shook his head. "I cant believe Im telling you this. Ive never spoken of it to anyone--not even Mina." "Who is Mina?" "Miss Wilhelmina Murray--my fiancee." Draculea was silent for a moment. Jonathan had no way of knowing the sudden, roaring anger that had leaped up inside the prince, for Draculea kept his expression carefully neutral. It took him a moment to be sure that he had control of his voice, though, and Jonathan became curious about the lag in conversation. "Sir? Are you...?" "Im sorry, young man. Im afraid that my mind wanders a bit. Its just that you seem very young to be contemplating marriage." Jonathan sighed. "Thats what my father said, among other things. Oh, he had no objections to Mina as long as we were just keeping company together, but when we told him that we wanted to get married..." Jonathan shook his head, his expression tightening. "He was insulting to Mina. He said that she might be respectable, but that I could certainly do better. I couldnt have that, so we left. I havent spoken to him since." "How long have you known this Mina? Were you childhood sweethearts?" "Not really. I met her when I was fifteen or sixteen, at a dance. Her friend Lucy was teasing me, but Mina was kind. We started to correspond after that, and we saw each other again at dances and on joint outings." "You fell in love." "I..." Jonathan could feel himself flushing under the princes intent gaze. "Sir, thats hardly an appropriate subject." Draculea sat back a little, and his face was shadowed by the tall side of the chair, but somehow Jonathan could still see his eyes--FEEL them. *He must speak of himself, so that I may know of this present life, and lead him to remember the former one. But the English are close-mouthed. Already he has allowed more familiarity than he is comfortable with. He has taken my blood, that should help.* Draculea reached out with his will, with his spirit. He exerted gentle force, making it more of a suggestion than a command. "But my friend, what could be more natural than to speak of your love, of the one with whom you will spend your life?" He hesitated. "Surely youre not ashamed of her?" Jonathan had felt the first stirrings of stubbornness, and had been prepared to refuse flatly any further discussion of his private life. But this statement required a response. Jonathan had never questioned loving Mina. In fact, hed never really thought about it--hed just assumed that he MUST, since they were getting married. "No! Its just..." *He wants me to speak about the woman I love. I should be bursting to sing her praises, and tell of how deep and sweet my love is. Only poets, romantics, and women speak of love.* Jonathan gave himself a mental shake. *When did I become my father?* "When did you first know that you loved her, Jonathan?" Jonathan was silent, staring at him. Vlad pushed a little harder, and could feel the change, though it was subtle. It was not so much a lowering of defenses as it was a thinning. It was like something inside the young mans psyche was stirring, pushing toward consciousness. "Yes, sometimes that is difficult to pinpoint," he smiled, "But some of us can point to it directly. We may not have recognized it when it happened, but when we look back, it becomes clear. If you cannot say when you knew that you loved her, then can you tell me of how you proposed?" He cocked his head. "It wouldnt be too personal?"

Jonathan thought, his expression crinkling in puzzlement, as much at his unexpected willingness to speak as to the thoughts that the princes questions had stirred. "You know..." he laughed a little nervously, "I cant remember ever actually saying the words. Mina kept talking about werent we great friends? Didnt we get on well together? Didnt I enjoy spending time with her? That was all true, and I always agreed. And she spoke of how wonderful marriage is, the natural state, and how everyone needed someone, and wouldnt it be awful to go through life alone? And I agreed with that, too. I told her that I felt that sometimes you just KNEW that there was someone special that you were meant to be with." His tone was apologetic. "I know it sounds dreadfully sentimental, but thats how Ive always felt--that there was someone I belonged to." "Belonged to..." It was almost a whisper. Jonathan blinked. "Did I say that? Im sorry, sometimes I ramble. I meant belonged WITH." "I see nothing wrong with your first choice of words, Jonathan." Jonathan shook his head. "Mina would have a fit if she heard me say that. Shes a bit of a suffragette, and would say I am advocating nothing more than domestic slavery." "Shes wrong. There is nothing wrong with belonging to someone--as long as they belong to you in turn." The young man looked into the fire. "That sounds ideal, but I cant imagine it happens often." "Not often, but when it does... Think of it--to be a part of someone else, and they a part of you--body, heart, and soul." "It would be glorious," Jonathan whispered. He sighed, then smiled thinly, "But I have to be practical. In any case, we kept talking, and one day she was telling me how happy she was, how happy shed make me, and should we be married in the summer, or the fall?" He shrugged helplessly. "How could I say anything after that? Shed already told our friends, and I couldnt let her be humiliated. And besides, a man must marry, so Ive been told." "The world has changed only on the surface, I fear. Too often marriage is still more duty to society and others than it is love, and I cant help but feel that love should come first." Jonathan shot a glance at him, and Draculea said, "This attitude surprises you?" "Frankly, yes. It isnt one that Ive encountered often from people your..." he trailed off in embarrassment. "Someone my age? You neednt be embarrassed, Jonathan. Yes, I am quite old, older than you could imagine. But the years have not faded my belief in love--its power, and its vitality. You have said that you feel that there is someone you are meant to be with. Can you tell me more about this person?" Jonathan thought. "Not really. Its all very vague. I think it was clearest when I was very young, before my mother died. Since then there has been so much..." He thought for a moment, trying to find the words to express what he felt, and the prince waited. At last he said. "Things seemed clearer then, even if I didnt understand it all. Its as if what I once almost knew has become buried under layers of time, and experience, till its very dim and far away. I knew that there was someone, one special person, that I was meant to be with forever. They told me so." Draculea tensed slightly. "How so?" Jonathan shrugged helplessly. "In dreams, I suppose. I seem to recall looking out the window at night, and listening to them. They were very faint, very far away, and they said that I belonged to them, that they had waited for me for a long, long time. That I would go to them someday. My mother found me at the window once. It frightened her, and she ordered me not to do it again. Now I can see why she was distressed, but then I couldnt understand it. You see, I wasnt afraid. The voice didnt frighten me--it made me feel safe, and wanted." He looked down at his hands. "She must have been right--it had to have been a dream."

"Do you dream often?" "Yes, I do. But you know, they dont seem to be like other peoples dreams. Theyre just dreams of LIFE--in a different time and place, but just an ordinary life. Talking to people, working... Working among books, thats very clear." He smiled. "I like that idea. It was one of my first choices for a career, after the Church, but Father objected, of course." "Somehow that does not surprise me. Tell me more about these dreams." *For the true self is revealed when the waking self is at rest.* "Well, theres never anything phantasmagorical about them," his face twisted briefly. "No, I lie. There has been blood, at least once. For some reason I remember long streaks of blood on a rich rug. I havent had that dream very often, thank goodness. The other one, the one that bothers me the most..." He took a breath. "Ive awakened in a cold sweat more than once, but I understand that many people have the same sort of dream, so I suppose that it isnt particularly significant." "What is it?" "Falling." Draculea turned his face away so that Jonathan would not see the spasm of pain that marred his features. The young man continued. "I dream of falling from a great height, never landing. And you know, the funny thing is that Im not frightened while its happening. I should be terrified, but theres another emotion that suffocates any fear I might feel." "Sorrow." Jonathan looked toward the prince in surprise. "Yes. It isnt simple sadness, either--its grief, and despair. I remember how I felt when my mother died, but this is even stronger. Its consuming. Its as if the grief will kill me before the fall can, and Ill welcome death as an end to the suffering. I dont know where this comes from. Ive led a good life. Compared to the tragedy that others have borne, Ive suffered little." Jonathan shifted uncomfortably, and Draculea could feel him pulling away, mentally and emotionally. The young man sensed something here, something deep and powerful, and it made him instinctively uneasy. It was time to end this conversation before Jonathan felt the intrusion into his will, and took alarm. "I fear that I have been a bad host." When Jonathan started to protest, Draculea said, "No. You are weary with your travels, and I have been selfish in keeping you up simply to amuse me. You are quite tired." "No, prince, truly." "But you are, my friend. Your eyes grow heavy lidded. I can almost see the drowse stealing over you." Jonathan did feel a lassitude creeping over him. *The warmth of the fire, and the wine...* he thought vaguely. He tried to push away the feeling. *I mustnt doze before the prince.* The prince was still speaking. "You look very young in this light, Jonathan--almost like a sleepy child. Very innocent." "Perhaps youre right, sir. I AM very sleepy." "Then you must to bed." The prince stood. "Come, and I will show you to your room." The prince took a candle and led Jonathan out once again into the Great Hall. Most of the candles had burned out, and it was very dim. The prince was not much more than a shadow as he moved before him. "Follow closely. The twists and turns of this old place can be confusing for one unused to it." Jonathan had thought that the walk would drive away the oddly sudden sleepiness, but it only seemed to increase. At the top of the stairs he stumbled and would have fallen if the prince hadnt turned quickly, catching his arm. "Im sorry. Im not usually so clumsy." "No," the grip on his arm was firm, but somehow gentle. "You are one of the most graceful people I have ever known." Before Jonathan could respond to this odd remark, the prince said, "Here we are." They stepped into the room, and Jonathan looked around. "My word. Rill said that I had been given the grandest room in the castle, and I thought that he was merely being polite."

"No, he spoke the truth." "But Prince, surely YOU should have this room." "No, young man. I have not slept here for ages." He looked around the room slowly, then let his eyes rest on Jonathans face. "There are too many memories." He set the candle down on a table. "I will leave this with you--I know this old place so well that I could make my way even if I should lose my sight. I hope your dreams are pleasant." The weariness was creeping back. He ran his hand over the beds velvet coverlet. It was old, but clean and smooth. The bed looked almost sinfully comfortable, and he felt an overwhelming urge to sink into its soft depths. "Thank you. Im sure they shall be." The prince bowed slightly, his eyes fixed on the slim young man standing beside the bed--new, yet so familiar. Then his eyes drifted to one corner of the room, where a tapestry hung, and he thought of the door behind the faded hanging--the door, and the hall that led to another room that did not hold the happy memories that this one did. He looked back at Jonathan and said quietly, "No dark dreams, Jonathan. Dream only of sweet things. Dream of that one person you are meant to be with." He inclined his head, and left the room, shutting the door softly. In the hall he hesitated a moment, then pulled a key from his pocket and locked the door. He would give the key to Simion, who would see that the door was once again unlocked before the sun rose. Rock had been warned in the harshest terms to behave himself, but... He had known for some time that Rock was insane. He believed that it had begun long before he became Nosferatu, probably during his first years, under the abuse of his father. Rill had escaped that, and his brothers abuse, with his sanity and sweet nature intact, but Rock had soured, and grown poisonous. The long years of enforced submission had made him even more unbalanced. After what happened with Renfield, Draculea was no longer sure that the blonde vampire was sane enough to consider his own best interests. And if he dared to harm Jonathan... There was no question--Rock would die. The only question would be how swift Draculeas vengeance would be. But for now, the locked door should keep Jonathan safe. Draculea waited for a moment, hand pressed to the door. After a moment he turned, walked a few yards down the hall, and removed another key from his pocket. The key grated in the long unused lock, but it turned, and Draculea stepped into the long sealed room that had belonged to the former lady of Castle Draculea--his long dead wife, Elizabeta. end part 77 Back to index

Chapter 78: Chapter 78: Dreams

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: NC17 Summary: Nicolae has not emerged from Jonathans subconscious, but Vlad cannot resist being closer to his love. Archive: WWOMB and lists, other wise ask and I may approve a link. Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Notes: About the sock garters. I may have mentioned this before. This is pre-elastic, folks. If you wanted socks to stay up, you wore garters. Ever SEEN mens sock garters? I have (vintage blue movies on cable--dont ask), and I howled. Not sexy, but then neither are boxers, really. It all depends on whos

wearing them. :) Men, especially businessmen, wore highly starched, detachable cuffs (to prevent their shirtsleeves from becoming soiled by smeared ink), and collars (talk about uncomfortable. Imagine wearing a stiff band around your neck for ten or twelve hours a day). Jonathan looked after the prince. *What an odd man. Odd, but theres something... I dont know. Perhaps compelling is the right word?* He yawned, stretching hugely. *I cant remember the last time Ive been so sleepy. I feel like Im weaving on my feet. I really ought to stay up long enough to go over the papers one more time, but..." He touched the spread again, fingers scratching at the thin velvet. *The household schedule is turn-about, though. I should have time to review the documents during the day. I suppose it will be all right.* He yawned again, and thought wryly, *It had better be, else Ill find myself asleep face down amid the papers.* He set his shoes neatly beside the bed, and sat on the bed to take down his socks. By the time hed tucked them and the garters in his shoes he was yawning again, eyes drifting shut. He shook his head, but it didnt help much, so he quickly removed his collar and cuffs, putting them on the bedside stand. He got out of his jacket, but it seemed like such an awful lot of trouble to get up and walk all the way over to the chair to hang it neatly. He draped it over the foot of the bed, and began to unbutton his shirt. The softness of the mattress seemed to be pulling him down inexorably. *Perhaps Ill just lie down for a moment, just to test it.* He stretched out on the bed, settling his head on the fat pillow. The last thing he thought as he drifted off to sleep was that Rill must have fluffed it for him, and wasnt he a thoughtful boy? ***** Vlad had never felt the urge to linger in the room of the lady of the castle--not when his late mother had occupied it, and especially not when his own wife had resided there. Still, he knew that he had to spend a bit of time there--he couldnt simply pass directly into his own room. Jonathan had already been tired, and since he was unused to strong drink, the wine should have worked with the suggestion of sleepiness that Draculea had planted. He moved about the room restlessly, the hem of his robe brushing the thick dust that coated the floor. He paused before a tall object, one that was shrouded in a thick cloth. He eyed it, thinking, *Simion must change the drapery occasionally. I think it would have rotted away by now if he hadnt.* He reached out and touched it. Despite what Rill had told Renfield, there WAS at least one mirror in Castle Draculea. Vlad had ordered the others destroyed not long after he had turned. He felt he did not need the empty expanses of glass to remind him of his new state, but for some reason he had had this mirror spared. It wasnt from any fond memories. His mother, despite her faults, was not a vain woman, and he could not remember her ever gazing into this glass. Elizabeta had been different. He knew that she had spent long moments sitting before the mirror while Lena brushed her hair, but he was fairly sure that Beta had watched her maid in the mirror, and not her own reflection. *She said that a mirror offered the truest representation of mankind, and I told her that they showed only the outer flesh. A mirror would serve no good purpose unless it could show what was inside, and if they could, what would be revealed would most likely horrify us all.* He stared at it a moment longer, then reached out, and pinched the fabric, pulling. It slid down with a whisper, and dust puffed up as it settled to the floor. Even in the darkness, Vlad could see clearly, and what he saw was... nothing. The room behind him was clearly reflected, and it looked as empty as it had been for the past centuries. *And for me it does not even show the flesh. Perhaps it now does what I speculated--and shows what is inside me--nothing.* He shook his head. *No. I might have believed that a month ago. I felt empty then--hollow. But not now.* His eyes turned to the small door in the back corner of the room. *Not now

that my Nicu has returned to me.* He was moving before the thought was fully formed. His fist smashed into the mirror. There was a brittle crack, and a line split the glass, running from corner to corner. The reflected image seemed to flicker slightly, shifting and distorting subtly as the reflecting surface was divided. The sound, and the shock of sensation up his arm satisfied something deep inside Draculea, some need that he hadnt even known he possessed, and he struck again--harder. The glass crunched, breaks spidering out from the point of impact. He was drawing back to strike again when caution made him stop. He knew very well that the walls of the castle were thick, and that the sounds generated in a room seldom traveled beyond, but he had no wish to test the possibility--not with Jonathan in the room next door. Instead he stood for a few moments, staring at the cobweb shape of breaks that radiated from the crumpled center section of the mirror. He flexed his hand idly, hardly noticing the sting of sliced skin. What did it matter? It would heal in a matter of hours. During the few days before Jonathan arrived, Draculea had begun to feed from humans again, but he did so sparingly, still taking most of his sustenance from rats, or the castle horses. Already there were changes. Faint sprinklings of black strands were shot through his hair, though still almost buried by the gray. The age freckles on the back of his hands were beginning to fade, and the knuckles were a bit less swollen now. Simion had noted the changes. He was sure that it was because the Prince was finally taking proper nourishment, and he thought that given time and enough human blood, Draculea would regain his youthful appearance, and vigor. He forced himself to wait a few more minutes, but knew that he could not long resist the compulsion. Still he tried, pacing the room like a caged wild thing. At last he thought, *The longer I delay, the greater chance I will lose all control when I am finally with him. Better to go now. If he is still awake, I can make some excuse about wanting to amuse him with the revelation of the secret passage.* He told himself this, though he was not at all sure that he would be able to resist reaching out for Jonathan, no matter how aware, or reluctant, he was. As Lena had speculated all those years ago, there was no lock on the door that led to the hallway. Draculea walked the scant yards, feet silent on thickly dusted stone, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the door at the other end. This one COULD be locked--but it was not. He had made sure of that himself before they went to fetch Jonathan Harker. The latch had been well oiled, and it made no sound. The door swung inward, and Draculea saw the back of the tapestry that hid the passageway. The tapestry was thick, but there was still a faint rim of light around the sides, and at the bottom. Draculea hesitated. *Damnation! The candle still burns. Is he awake? I would have wagered what life I have that he would be asleep by now. The wine, warmth, and compulsion should have seen to that.* Draculea listened carefully. The senses of the Nosferatu were keen, and he heard no sound of movement. He concentrated even more, willing himself to greater acuity. The room was still save an occasional muted snap from the fire, and... Yes, there... the gentle suspiration of breath, the steady rhythm suggesting deep slumber. Draculea closed his eyes for a moment. He had never before felt the need to enter this room with stealth, not unless it was in care that Nicolae not be awakened from a peaceful slumber. He put out his hand and swept aside the tapestry, stepping softly into the room. The light was nothing but a faint red-gold glow, from the low burning fire and the single candle, but it was enough. Draculea approached the bed slowly, almost fearfully. With the very reason for his existence within his grasp, he was almost afraid to realize his hearts desire. Then Draculea saw him. The clothing was different, and the hair. The first time he had seen Nicolae, the boys hair had been in a monks crop--no more than two inches long. The last time his hair had fallen over his shoulders in waves

of dark silk. Nicolae had let it grow solely for the pleasure it gave his lover. Now the hair was caught between the two lengths. Disturbed from its carefully combed style, it tumbled across Jonathan Harkers forehead, strands straying down to where his high collar would have risen, had he been wearing it. Instead of the drab brown monks habit, or the simple but rich clothes Draculea had once provided, he was clad in gray trousers and a severe white shirt, half-unbuttoned. Yes, some things were different. But so many more things were the same--the long, sturdy lines of his sprawled body, the firm curve of his mouth, the fairness of his skin, the sheen of his hair, the elegant shape of his hands as they lay open and relaxed--all these things, and more. He might bear a different name, this flesh might be new, but he WAS Nicolae. Draculea moved to the side of the bed and stood staring down at him. Jonathan was deeply asleep, but HOW deeply? Draculea knew that he would not be able to leave this room without touching his beloved somehow, but the boy must not awaken. Nicolae had to be coaxed to awareness gradually. If Jonathan was abruptly presented with the situation, he was unlikely to accept it. No, he would probably do what any reasonable modern man would do in a like situation--balk, and flatly refuse to accept the truth, no matter what his heart told him. So Draculea again reached out with his will, pushing Jonathans consciousness deeper into the fog of the unconscious. *Do not think, my dear one. Only feel. Let your instincts and your physical desires hold sway tonight. You are there, Nicolae--I can feel you. You have to know how much I need you. Please, my love. Give me tonight, and I will be able to be patient till you again find your way to awareness.* Draculea put one knee on the mattress. It dipped with his weight, but Jonathan Harker did not stir. Draculea reached out and lightly touched the sleeping mans hair, lifting a thick lock, and drawing it between his fingers. Draculea felt himself begin to tremble at the familiar smooth slide. He watched closely, but Jonathan slept on. Growing bolder, Draculea brushed the back of his hand gently down Jonathans cheek. He felt the very faint roughness of stubble, and smiled fondly. Nicolae had been so proud when his beard had finally become strong enough to justify shaving. It hadnt been required more than thrice a week, but Simion had patiently shaved him whenever he asked, assuring the prince that he took extra care, lest the delicate skin be irritated. Satisfied now that Jonathan was in a sleep so deep that it could rightly be called a trance, Draculea moved to undress him. This would be the test. If Jonathan awakened, Draculea could claim that he was just helping prepare his guest for bed. It would be a flimsy excuse, one that the Englishman would rightly suspect, but the desire to cause no strain on their business relation would probably keep him from demanding an explanation. Jonathan did not awaken. Draculea slipped off the shirt, peeled down the trousers and drawers, and dropped them carelessly on the jacket that already lay across the foot of the bed, then took a moment to simply savor the sight. Jonathan moved, and Draculea tensed, but it was the slow stretch of a sleeper. His toes pointed, and he rolled away from Draculea, onto his side, cheek snuggling down onto the pillow. Vlad was presented with the long sweep of his back, leading down to the pale double curve of his buttocks. Draculea swiftly pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling a groan. *I have to touch him, but how can I risk it?* Then he remembered that first time so long ago, after Ernestu had beaten him. He hadnt thought there was a way then, but somehow... He removed his outer robe and, still wearing his loose shirt and trousers, crawled onto the bed behind Jonathan, lying down close beside him. This close he could feel the heat of the young mans body, smell the scent of his skin and hair. He passed a hand over Jonathans shoulder and down his arm, barely skimming. Jonathan didnt react; his breathing remained deep and even. Draculea reached out and slipped an arm over Jonathans body, sliding it over his waist. Then he shifted closer till he was pressed against him. Then he became still, and simply experienced the joy of holding Nicolae in his arms again.

*I could stay like this forever,* Draculea thought, closing his eyes. *I could spend eternity content.* ***** Jonathan was dreaming. It was a familiar dream, one that he had come to look forward to, and hope for. He was no longer alone in his bed. Someone had joined him, cuddling up close behind. He had never shared a bed with another, and there was no reason why he should know this feeling, but he did. He could not remember a time when he had NOT known it, but it was buried so deep that it was only a ghost of a memory, except when he slept. He thought that other men must experience something like this, because there had been discussions when he was at school. Sniggering fellow students had whispered about their own night visitors--dreams that were so vivid that theyd awaken with their members stiff, or with cooling semen spread on their bellies or thighs. Jonathan hadnt joined in the talks, because while his dreams shared some of the same characteristics, there were distinct differences. For one thing, the body that moved up behind him in his dreams was not soft and rounded. It was hard and muscular. The hands that touched him, drawing such sweet responses, were large and firm, slightly rough. No, he never spoke of these fantasies, because he knew that they would be met with astonishment, or derision. But somehow they seemed RIGHT. He hadnt had the dream for a number of years, and he had missed it. Now it was back, and more vivid than ever. He welcomed it, unconsciously shifting toward the presence. ***** Jonathan sighed and squirmed slightly, pressing back against the prince, deeper into his embrace, and Draculea knew that he had been lying to himself. Just holding his reborn love would not be enough. His hands moved over the smooth planes of Jonathans chest and abdomen, stroking slowly, relearning his texture and form. His fingers found a soft nipple, and he rubbed and pinched gently, feeling it begin to stiffen. Jonathans breathing increased a little in speed. Draculea let his hand slip lower, till his fingers brushed springy curls. Finally he allowed his hand to close over the warm flesh at Jonathans crotch, molding his palm around the smooth column of the younger mans sex. He made a quiet murmur of approval when he found that the boy was already half-aroused. He closed his hand loosely around Jonathans cock and stroked lightly, feeling it begin to swell, filling his fist. *Sweet Nicolae,* Draculea thought. *Always so responsive to my touch.* He tenderly kissed the back of his lovers neck, and was rewarded with a small shiver, and a breathy exhalation. He couldnt resist any longer. Draculea stopped his ministrations long enough to unfasten his own trousers, freeing himself. Draculea had begun to stiffen while he was still standing in the passageway, anticipation stirring the blood he had taken only an hour before from one of the willing Rom. His cock was hard now, eager to seek the sweet sanctuary of Nicolaes body as it had so many times before. He couldnt do that--not yet. Jonathan Harker had tasted the blood of Draculea only once, and the prince wanted a more certain hold before he consummated their union. Till then he would have to content himself with less than a full joining, but all contact with his love was a joy--physical and emotional. Draculea pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and draped it over Jonathans bare hip, putting it where it would be ready to receive his seed. He parted Jonathans buttocks, and traced a finger down the cleft. Jonathan shuddered and moaned. The crinkled star that marked the entrance to his body flexed, as if trying to draw Draculea in. It was all that the prince could do to resist sliding a finger deep into the tempting passage, beginning the slow, delicious chore of stretching the tiny hole enough to accommodate his hungry flesh. But he did not. Instead he once again spooned up against Jonathan, laying the solid length of his sex between Jonathans buttocks, letting them cradle him in a snug embrace. When he was positioned to his satisfaction, Draculea again found Jonathans erection. He began to pump

the boy, slowly and firmly. At the same time, he moved his hips, thrusting against Jonathan. The damp friction was exquisite. Draculea felt a smear of warm liquid on his hand. Immediately he circled his fingers around the head of the boys penis, finding the ooze of pre-ejaculate that flowed from the tip. He used it to slick the velvety skin of Jonathans erection, letting it make his hand slide even more freely. Jonathans breathing had become ragged. His head tipped back, till it rested on Draculeas shoulder. The prince gazed down at him as he pumped the boys thickened flesh, and slid his own erection back and forth in the not-quite tight enough embrace of Jonathans cleft. Vlad could feel himself approaching his climax. He was both elated and dismayed. This was what he wanted--completion with his love--but it was coming so soon. The physical pleasure was sweeping through Jonathans dream. He whimpered with need, body moving with unconscious will to press more tightly to the shifting, thrusting presence at his back. His head dropped back even farther, twisting... ***** If only he hadnt moved, if only he hadnt made that soft, yearning sound, Draculea might have been able to resist. But the boy shifted back, as if begging for a firmer touch, and he arched his neck, baring his throat in a gesture of natural submission. All the need, longing, and hunger of over four hundred years rose up in an instant. Draculeas hand tightened around the boys rigid prick, stroking and squeezing roughly. The ache of his fangs extending only seemed a part of it all, as Draculea bent his head and sank them into the smooth skin of Jonathan Harkers throat. The pain in Jonathans throat mingled with the sudden burst of hot pleasure that rose from his crotch and spread through his body. The combination pulled him toward consciousness, and something else seemed to rise inside the young man. It was as if a splinter of something buried deep in his self, a part that had always been there, but always hidden and sleeping, had awakened also. For a brief second it struggled toward the surface, confused. Draculea drank from Jonathan, and it was the sweetest, most satisfying meal he had ever taken, nourishing him more than physically. He swallowed once, twice, three times... He allowed himself no more than a half-dozen strong pulls. When the young mans orgasm ended, his flesh beginning to soften in Draculeas hand, the prince forced himself to stop. He released Jonathans sex and snatched up the handkerchief, just in time to catch his own spend before it could streak the sheets and Jonathans flesh with blood that could not be explained away. As Jonathans breathing fell back to the slow pace of deep sleep, Draculea licked the seeping wounds on his loves neck till they no longer bled, and the healing had begun. Then Vlad licked his lovers essence from his hand, relishing every slick, slightly bitter drop. They lay there for a while longer, Draculea cradling the sleeping, sated boy back against his chest. How he wished he could simply drift off to sleep like this, then awake to find himself watched by a pair of dark, sleepy, contented eyes. But no, that was too much of a risk. It would be Jonathan Harker who awoke, not Nicu--and Jonathan wasnt ready for this. Reluctantly, Draculea arose. He looked at Jonathan again, seeing the flush of arousal slowly fading from his face and throat. So beautiful. The fire was very low now, scarcely more than embers, and the room might become chilly. Jonathan was lying on the bedspread, and to move him would be to risk waking him. After a moments though, Draculea turned up the side of the spread, just managing to enfold the sleeping man. Draculea refastened his trousers, then picked up his robe. He went to the tapestry, moving slowly, head turned to watch the bed over his shoulder. Jonathan never stirred. Finally Draculea moved aside the tapestry, stepped back into the corridor, and shut the door once again. He paused, leaning against the chill stone wall, letting his head drop back against the stone. It was ironic:

his love had finally returned, but in some lights he was still far away. He was close by, but Draculea could not embrace him, touch him, kiss him as he wished. Nicolae was still buried deep inside Jonathan Harker--there, and not there. Draculea straightened and went back down the passage, through the room, and out into the hall. Simion was standing at the end of the hall. He said nothing as his master approached, but he watched him keenly. There was fire in Draculeas eyes, but also the beginning of peace. It was a look that Simion had not seen for a long, long time. There was more energy in the princes step, and he thought he detected a faint flush of natural color in the usually paper-pale cheeks. The prince stopped before Simion, and they regarded each other silently for a moment. At last Simion embraced the prince. Draculea returned the embrace, letting his head rest on his old friends shoulder. Simion felt the big man begin to tremble. Draculea did not breathe, and the first hint Simion had that he was weeping was the warm moisture of bloody tears against his neck as Draculea whispered, "At last, at last, at last..." end part 78 Back to index

Chapter 79: Chapter 79 - Strange Familiarity

Authors Notes: Notes: Rough translations of Hungarian. Jo reggelt. Hol van a herceg?--Good morning. Where is the prince? Reggel? Az nem reggel. O alszik a alszik-bol csak, Angol ferfi. On beszel Magyar jol--Morning? Its not morning. He sleeps the sleep of the just, Englishman. You speak Hungarian well. The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Castle Draculea, Transylvania Jonathan slept a long time, but somehow he was still tired when he awakened. *Dreams,* he thought, sitting up a bit groggily. *That must be it. Very odd dreams, too.* He felt himself blushing, though there was no one else in the room to remark any embarrassment. He couldnt remember much of the dreams, but he knew they had been sexual. They always were when he awoke with the sticky feeling on his crotch. But this was different, too. The room was half-lit by a good fire, indicating that someone had been in while he slept, building it up. Jonathan pushed aside the cover and examined his own body, skimming his fingers over his belly and thighs. Yes, there was a slight tackiness, but not all that he would have expected. His fingers suddenly stilled on his leg. *How did I get undressed? I dont remember... Im certain I fell asleep atop the spread.* He pushed the coverlet further back, seeing that the edge had been turned up to cover him. He frowned. If he had been awake enough to do that, why hadnt he gotten decently into his nightshirt? Still wondering, he got up and went to the dresser. As hed expected, there was fresh water, soap, and cloths, and he quickly cleaned himself. Jonathans mother hadnt seen anything odd about his wanting to bathe every day, but he really hadnt been able to do that since he was a child. The vicars sister and his fathers housekeeper had complained bitterly about the trouble, even when hed offered to draw and dispose of the water himself, and it simply hadnt been possible at school. His current landlady was willing enough, but he felt selfish, asking the elderly woman (or her equally elderly husband) to carry and heat the water, and she insisted on doing it for him because, "After all, dear, youre the guest." He thought wistfully that perhaps there was a tub he could borrow, if he stayed more than a day or so. He was washing his throat as he thought this, and he winced as his hand glided over a tender spot.

Frowning, and wishing for a mirror, he carefully felt the area. It was sore, and... Was that a welt? He pulled back the sheets and examined the bed, but it looked beautifully clean, no sign of vermin. *Well,* he thought, puzzled, *perhaps I scratched myself during the night. If I could get undressed without remembering, I could certainly do that.* He dressed. After some hesitation, he left off the stiff collar and cuffs, leaving the soft cloth ones unadorned. Part of business, hed been told, was adapting your ways to fit in with those you served. From what hed seen himself, and what hed gleaned from Roberts correspondence, Draculea was more comfortable with a slightly informal atmosphere. He consulted his watch, finding that it was just after six oclock. He usually waited till the afternoon to wear more casual clothes, but, *I can change quickly enough if Ive misjudged,* he thought, combing his hair. Once he was dressed again, he paused. The emptiness in his belly was a good indicator that some time had passed, and food would be most welcome, but he felt hesitant about wandering around a private home. *Especially one this size. I think one could become lost here.* Still, he didnt want to simply sit in his room, waiting to be summoned. Finally he unlocked the door and went out into the hallway. He found that it was lit, a good number of candles flickering in sconces along both walls. He paused, looking at one of the fixtures. Reaching up to touch it, he found that the holder was thickly crusted with old, crumbling wax--and dust. It was as if hundreds of candles had been burned here, but not recently. Jonathan briefly considered exploring further into the castle, but decided it would be much more acceptable to stay in the more public portions of the building. He would be sure to encounter the Prince, or some of his household, in the rooms he had already visited. He made his way down the stairs into the Great Hall, and was a little surprised to find it occupied. One of the gypsies had dragged a chair right in front of the entrance, and was leaning back in it negligently. He watched Jonathan with a dark, unreadable gaze as he approached. Jonathan stopped nearby and said, "Jo reggelt. Hol van a herceg?" The gypsy was obviously surprised, but he answered, "Reggel? Az nem reggel. O alszik a alszik-bl csak, Angol frfi. n beszl Magyar jl." He smiled, and said in a thick accent, "But you not speak Rom, I think. They sleep still." He gestured toward the back of the hall. "Food in kitchen." Jonathan wasnt sure if he should be relieved or apprehensive that some of the servants could understand him. "Thank you." Before he left, he said doubtfully, "It isnt morning? How long have I slept?" Again the man shrugged. "Dusk soon. They stir then. You go eat." He smiled, and there was something disturbingly wise in the expression. "You need be strong." Feeling more than a little disoriented, Jonathan made his way to the passage that the man had indicated--a long, blank stone corridor that seemed to lead around behind the main rooms on the ground floor. He was grateful that there continued to be candles at regular intervals, because there were a few turns that led off in odd directions. It would be easy to get lost, he reflected, but now he could hear a faint murmur of sound, and he followed that. Finally he entered a spacious, low ceilinged room. It was much brighter and warmer than the rest of the castle, due to the three separate hearths, and two stoves. All the fireplaces were lit, and one of the stoves. There were several gypsies sitting at a large table, looking very comfortable as they smoked and chatted while another stirred a pot on the stove, and yet another turned a spit of sizzling meat over one fire. All conversation died as Jonathan entered. A familiar voice called, "Good evening, Mister Harker." Jonathan was relieved to see Simion, the princes steward, sitting among the men. He held a tankard of ale, but, though he looked completely relaxed, he also had an air of authority. It was clear that he was the one this group deferred to. Jonathan came closer. "Good evening. I think I amused the man on duty at the front when I told him good morning. Is it really so late?" "You must understand, sir, that for this place, it might as well be early morning." He said a few words to

the gypsies, and they got up, moving to another, smaller table. "Please, have a seat and let us provide you with food." "I couldnt ask them to give up..." "Mister Harker," he said quietly, "It is their way. Please, if you try to treat them as equals you will only puzzle and frustrate them." He shrugged. "It sounds feudal, I know, but their mentality is still lodged firmly in the past. Sit, and be served." Jonathan took a chair beside Simion while one of the gypsies began to fill a plate for him. "As to how long you have slept--you had been journeying for a long time, and I know the prince kept you up talking. You needed the rest. I know that you English are very fond of your schedules and timetables, but do not fear. Things move much more slowly here." The gypsy set a plate laden with rare, juicy lamb, roasted potatoes, and tiny green peas before Jonathan, then added a plate of bread, butter and cheese. Very hungry, Jonathan reached eagerly for his knife and fork, then hesitated, sitting back. "Will the prince or his companions join us?" As he finished speaking, his stomach gave a liquid gurgle, protesting his slowness, and Simion chuckled. "Again I tell you that we do not stand on formality here. Eat. The prince would be most annoyed if I allowed you to go hungry waiting for him." Mollified, Jonathan began to eat as Simion continued. "I have already dined. Rock does not take his meals here, but Sinn sometimes has a whim to sample what the cooks prepare. Rill will no doubt be here shortly, though, if you wish company." He smiled fondly. "He enjoys his appetites, that one." "And the prince?" Simions eyes were hooded as he took a sip of ale. "The prince took a meal not long ago--perhaps the most satisfying in years. But it is likely that he will seek us out, simply to enjoy your company." Jonathan was already finishing his food, eagerly mopping up the rosy meat juices with a chunk of bread. "Its good that you went ahead, else you might have fainted from hunger." Jonathan blushed. "Im sorry, I know its horrible manners, but," he quickly ate the sopping bread, "I cant help it. I feel like Im starving, and this seems to satisfy the most. Its funny--Ive always liked my roast well done. A good thing, too, since Father always ordered them cooked through and through, so that there wasnt the least hint of blood. He said that was the only civilized way." "Indeed?" Simion gestured, and the gypsy took Jonathans plate, beginning to fill it again. "Here there is no shame in being a bit of a barbarian. All the goodness is in the blood, Mister Harker. Burn it away, and you lose the strength it might give you." The slice of roast this time was bright pink and oozing. Jonathan set to with relish. "When you put it that way, it certainly makes sense." Rill, barefoot and dressed in loose, rumpled trousers and shirt, shuffled into the room, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He went straight to Simion and leaned heavily on the older mans shoulder. "You were gone when I woke up." His tone was disappointed, but not accusing. "Did I sleep so long?" Simion reached up to pat his hand. "No, but I had to be sure that our guest was seen to properly." Rill looked up at Jonathan, giving him a sleepy smile that the Englishman couldnt help but return. "Oh, yes." "You most likely forgot me, Rill," said Jonathan genially. "No, how could I do that, when weve been waiting for you for so long?" As he spoke, Rill was moving to sit in Simions lap. Simion held him away, and the boy seemed hurt and puzzled. "Whats wrong?" "Rill--our guest." Rill looked at Jonathan, then said, "Oh." He pulled out a chair on Simions other side, then leaned close to the older man and whispered, "Im sorry. I forgot. Its just that..." he chewed his lip. "Its that he seems right, sitting there. Like hes always been here." The same gypsy who had served Jonathan put a plate of food before Rill. Jonathan noticed that there were only a few potatoes--the rest was thick slices of steaming, barely cooked meat. Rill beamed as he pulled the plate closer. Simion cleared his throat, tapping the tabletop. Rill blinked, then picked up a knife and

fork and began swiftly cutting the meat into chunks. For a moment Jonathan had half expected the young man to dig into the bloody fare with his bare hands. Somehow the thought wasnt as appalling as it should have been. It would have been like watching a hungry child who was still too young to have been taught the civilized nicities of the table. Between bites, Rill questioned Jonathan about English school life. It was as if, being unable to absorb an extensive education himself, he found the concept fascinating. Having finished his own meal, Jonathan was happy to talk to the boy. *Its odd. I should feel undomfortable here. Lord knows its different from anything Ive ever experienced before,* he thought. Hed been too small to be much welcome in his mothers kitchen, since shed been quite ill by the time he reached the not underfoot stage. The vicars sister and his fathers housekeeper had made it clear that he wasnt welcome in their domain, not even when he offered to help with cleaning chores, and below stairs was out of bounds for students when he was at school. His present landlady had welcomed him into her kitchen, but still, this was different. There hed clearly been the guest--the lodger. Here... *Rill may have something. This place feels right to me. I feel comfortable.* Sinn, looking as dapper as ever, strolled in. "It seems that once again I am the sleepyhead of our little group." He dropped a casual kiss on Rills head, "Good morning, ma petit. Feh, how you can stomach such fare at this early hour never ceases to astonish me." As he sat, the gypsy handed him a steaming cup of sweet smelling brown liquid. "I cannot bear anything other than chocolate before I am fully awake." He drank deeply, leaving a creamy film over his upper lip. He slowly licked it away, eyes fastened lazily on Jonathan. "Chocolate is the near perfect food, nest pas? It soothes, but also stimulates." Jonathan shifted a little in his seat. While his life in the middle class had been fairly sheltered, he had been exposed to the minor nobility at school. There the sons of baronets and impoverished viscounts had delighted in scandalizing the lower class boys with their sly innuendos. He couldnt say that he disliked the Frenchman, but he definitely did not feel at ease with him, as he did with Rill. Simion was watching Sinn with a certain guarded wariness, and Rill patted his companions cheek to get his attention. The older man turned a gentle smile on the boy, eyebrows raised in question. "Can I take Jonathan to see my soldiers now?" Rill asked. "The prince may want him soon, and theres no telling when there will be time." "Id like that," said Jonathan quickly. He had a feeling that Sinn would not be inclined to stir himself from the warm comfort of the kitchen, and the prospect of spending some time with this simple, open young man sounded very agreeable. "Then of course," said Simion. "Take him, Rill. I will know where to find you, when the prince calls." Rill hopped up eagerly, taking Jonathans hand to pull him from his seat. "Theyre all lined up for inspection," said Rill happily. "Just like the prince used to do with his own army." Simions teeth clenched, but Jonathan only nodded, taking the words for careless chatter, assuming that the Draculea family was many generations away from military power. He relaxed as they left the room. Sinn looked after them, blowing idly on his chocolate. "I am surprised that our lord was not here awaiting his newly found paramour." Simions eyes drifted toward another door--one that would eventually lead to the underground chambers. "He had to speak to someone." There had been a time when Draculea had felt unable to enter this room. When he was in the upper levels of the castle, in the library, gazing at the painting of Nicolae, he could almost find a moment or two when the reality of his loves death was not quite so REAL. But here... Here there was undeniable evidence, cold and solid as the stone from which the statue was carved. He stood just inside the large, low ceilinged room, gazing into it, gazing at what waited for him there. The room was fairly lit by flickering torches--there were none of the more civilized candles down here (they were too feeble to hold back the almost primordial darkness). The ceiling was a series of domes overhead,

the light not quite reaching to the top, and he could hear faint noises in the shadows that nested there and in the fartherest corners--rustles and chittering that signaled bats above and rats below. Draculea moved onto the hard packed dirt floor, stepping slowly toward the figure that stood in the middle of the room, the torchlight lending its whiteness an ethereal glimmer that might mimic the tiny shifts of life, to someone who was not so completely aware of its inanimate nature. Draculea came to stand before the statue. There had been no wind or rain here, but over the centuries the slightly rounded mound that marked Nicolaes resting place had gradually eroded, worn away by the restless twist of Draculeas body during the many times he had lain upon it, seeking closeness. Draculea stared up at the face of the statue, eyes tracing the half-formed visage, loving memory filling in details. At last he reached up, touching the cool cheek, and whispered. "I have been away a long time. Forgive me, my love. I could not bear to see this... this proof that you were still beyond me." His hand stroked down the statues arm, imagining the feel of warm flesh beneath the marble garments. "This monument shows you as I imagine you have been all these years--pure, and beyond the reach of time and corruption. But it came to tear at my heart, Nicolae. I preferred to gaze upon your portrait, the one made by Signore Vittelli. It shows you as I remember you best, as you occupy my heart--warm, happy, and alive, my heart--so alive." He sank slowly to his knees, resting his forehead against the statues thigh. "And I have seen you so once again. I had nearly given up hope, Nicolae. It had been so long." He stayed like that for a long moment, eyes closed. There was a subtle sound. Logically he knew that it had to be a bat shifting overhead, but it could--it could have been the sound of garments shifting as a hand was raised toward Vlads head, reaching to give a comforting caress. Vlad looked up sharply, but the statue was the same as it ever had been, as he knew it must be. Still, he felt a soft peace, one that had been absent since his last night with Nicolae, stealing over him. Vlad, not expecting a visible or audible response, but somehow feeling that he had been heard, whispered, "You understand, my angel." end part 79 Back to index

Chapter 80: Chapter 80 - Degrees of Madness

Authors Notes: Notes: //written words// peignoir--noun: womans dressing gown: a womans loose-fitting dressing gown, bathrobe, or negligee The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Outskirts of London, England The Seward Asylum From the Journal of Dr. John Seward 10/10/82 //Thank God for the cooler weather. It costs us more in fuel and blankets than is comfortable, but the inmates are much less fractious than they are during the hot summer months. It has been a week since I was last forced to order the hoses turned on any of my charges, and I am grateful. I know forceful actions are sometimes necessary, but it grieves me to be rough with some of these poor creatures--especially the ones who are aware of their own damaged state.// //The relative calm of the inmates is a boon, since I am currently short handed. I had to let two of the orderlies go. I caught them tormenting one of the inmates, and this was not their first offence. Its hard to

get decent help. Sometimes it seems that only the lowest, roughest thugs are attracted to these sorts of jobs. I try to be careful, but theres only so much I can do.// //I feel its good riddance to bad rubbish with that pair. They always delighted in taunting the lunatics, handling them more roughly than was strictly necessary. I suppose I should have done something earlier, but as I said, labor is in short supply. They were too cowardly to provoke the stronger men, and they left the women strictly alone, because they knew that would not be tolerated. No, they delighted in harassing the weaker male patients, and Im afraid they found a perfect victim in one of the newer patients.// //Robert Renfield came to the asylum only a few weeks ago. He is a middle class male in his mid-to-late twenties. Accurate information is scarce because he has no family, and his employers and acquaintances seem to have been remarkably disinterested in his particulars. He has occasional clear moments, and I have cautioned the staff to alert me immediately whenever he appears to be lucid, but I have gained scant insight into his life or psyche. Whenever I think we will begin to make progress, he regresses into a more incoherent state.// //I must admit that I find his case fascinating. How a simple legal clerk could so quickly descend into madness is a puzzle that piques my interest. From all that I could gather he was a perfectly typical, if not boring, young man: perhaps more reserved and isolated than most, but exhibiting no overt signs of abnormality. The catalyst seems to have been a business trip to Transylvania.// //Accounts of what happened there are sketchy to the point of being non-existent. All his employers, who arranged his commitment, can tell me is that he was engaged in presenting possible estates to a minor Romanian nobleman. Apparently the clients domicile is located in a particularly isolated near-wilderness. They speculate that the rigors of travel and the stress of new responsibilities contributed to his collapse. Im sure these were important factors, but I cannot believe that they alone are responsible for such a dramatic breakdown.// //While Renfield is not violent or flamboyant in his madness, certain unique aspects have captured my attention. He has developed the obsessive belief that he can strengthen himself, and perhaps even prolong his life beyond a normal span, by eating life. This means that he believes that by consuming small, living creatures (such as flies, other bugs, and even mice when he can capture them), he absorbs their vital energy--along with their blood. I have witnessed the habit on several occasions, and, while it is disgusting in the extreme, the mans intense and absolute belief in what he is doing is weirdly compelling.// The letters had been growing fainter, and now the flow of ink ceased, leaving the nib of the pen scratching futilely on the page. Dr. John Seward sighed in irritation, then took a moment to sit back. He pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose. *Damnation. Dont they make spectacles that fit the face, but dont pinch?* He knew the answer--they did, providing one was willing to pay for a good fit, and patient enough to wait for manufacture. Both time and money were in short supply, and he preferred to expend them on other things, but it didnt stop him from being petulant about the ridge they were wearing into his flesh. He stretched in his chair, feeling sinews creak. *How long have I been at this?* He glanced at the grease smeared paper holding a few bread crusts and cheese crumbs. He hadnt had a dinner engagement, so once again hed had his meal at his desk, while he worked at his notes. He idly poked a crust, then pulled out his watch and consulted it, blinking at the time. *Good lord, almost midnight. Id meant to turn in hours ago. Cant do the poor blighters in my care much good if Im woozy. But I wanted to get a bit more down about Renfield. Maybe just a small pick-me-up?* He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, staring into it. Among other things there was an unlabeled brown bottle, and a small, flat leather case. The case contained an injection kit--syringe and rubber tubing. The bottle contained a mild solution of cocaine. *Very mild--weak, really,* he told himself. One finger stole down to stroke the cork that sealed the bottle. He sighed, shutting the drawer. *No. If I do, Ill never get to sleep tonight. Ill be so ragged out by the end of the workday that Ill be dropping by the time Im

expected at Lucys. Id need another injection just to keep my eyes open, and the last time I did that I ruined one of her gowns with tea--made a right prat of myself.* He reluctantly shut the drawer, then distracted himself by refilling the pen. As he wiped the nib on a blotter, making sure the ink would flow smoothly, he thought, *Just a bit more, then Ill sleep.* //Another interesting aspect of Renfields psychosis is his tendency to humanize both concepts and inanimate objects. In his ramblings I have heard reference to both a rock, which was cruel and evil, and a rill, which was gentle and kind. It makes an odd sense, associating a stone with harsh personal attributes, and the more gentle flow of water with a more benevolent aspect.// //The most interesting bit of all is his attitude toward sin. He claims that he was corrupted by sin, that sin seduced him and forced him to commit acts he would never have done on his own, that sin is both beautiful, and wicked. Yes, this is a common belief among the masses, but they believe that it is sin in the abstract that ruins their lives. Renfield does not refer to sin as it, but rather as he.// //He also claims to have met the devil, but this is of less interest, as it is a common delusion. His description the infernal one is different enough from most to note here. Rather than seeing him with horns, cloven hooves, and a forked tail, or as simply a dark man, he envisions him as elderly. The devil, he says, has long white hair, and blue eyes, and though his hands are gnarled, he could easily break a man. Another peculiarity: when I spoke to him about this manifestation, calling him by one of the devils proper names (Lucifer), he replied, "No, no. Lucifer was his stallion. Rill showed me."// His hand twitched, and a thick smear of ink flowed out. Swearing, John blotted it carefully, then sighed. If he was marring his notes, it was time to go to bed. He closed the journal, and sat back, staring into space for a moment. He was tired--very, very tired--but not sleepy. The thought of another night, alone in his bed, staring up at the shadowed ceiling was repugnant. He stood, walked to the small dresser beside his bed, and opened it, reaching for the bottle of laudanum. The Westenra Estate Lucy, her white silk nightdress covered by an oyster satin peignoir, was sitting at her vanity as her maid brushed out her hair for the night. It rippled over her shoulders and halfway down her back in soft, golden waves that could never be entirely smoothed. The maid was counting slowly. "Two-hundred, Two-and-one, two-and-two, two-and-three..." The young mistress of the house heaved a sigh. "Oh, thats enough, Jenkins." "But miss, you always do four hundred strokes, regular as clockwork." Lucy looked sharply into the reflection before her, capturing her maids gaze. "Are you my mother now, Jenkins?" The woman blushed and stammered, "No, miss, of course not. Im sorry..." Sure that the older woman was sufficiently cowed, Lucy gave her a sunny, forgiving smile. "Never mind. Its just that I havent the patience for it tonight. Trot along to bed." "Yes, miss." She stepped aside, putting the silver backed brush on the vanity. "Shall Miss Harker be wanting chocolate tomorrow morning? Im afraid she retired before I could ask, and I didnt like to disturb her." "No, Mina would think that hot chocolate in bed was dreadfully decadent. Shell make do with tea at breakfast, and probably at a shockingly early hour." Lucy half turned, to look her maid in the face. "So, dont you go slipping into her room tomorrow morning." "Wont she be needing me to help her dress?" Lucy gave a trilling laugh. "Mina? Oh, no, shes quite self-sufficient. When she graduated from school she stopped buying any dress that didnt button up the front, because she no longer had chums to help her with it, and she wasnt frivolous enough to purchase something that would require the assistance of a ladys maid." "Huh. Fancy that." Lucys eyes narrowed. She was well aware that some domestics were worse snobs than any of the

nobility. Many viewed a middle-class girl like Mina as a distinct inferior to not only those they served, but themselves. After all, they were linked to the rich and titled, at least in their own minds. The servant of a duke ranked higher than the servant of a knight, for instance, and servants employed by commoners were the lowest on the domestic social rung. Mina, untitled, rather poor, and willing, even eager to work, was looked at askance. The staff often whispered among themselves, wondering why a lady like Miss Westenra would choose such a girl as her boon companion. Some were of the opinion that her father had made a mistake in sending her to that London school to learn history and literature, rather than packing her off to a Swiss or French school, like most of her contemporaries, where she would have learned the more genteel arts of needlecraft, music, art, dance, and conversations... all the things that would suit her to be a proper wife to a man in her own social circle. Lucy said coolly, "Shes very independent. Its a quality I much admire." The maid caught the reproving tone, and quickly muttered agreement before hurrying out of the room. Lucy decided that shed have to keep a close eye on Jenkins. Maybe it was time to get rid of her and get a French maid, as her father had suggested. Lucy spent a few more moments fussing with her appearance. She opened her robe and slipped the sleeves of her gown down, then patted rice powder on her shoulders, examining herself in the mirror to be sure the perfect, milky pale color had been achieved before arranging her clothes once again. After a moments thought she caught her hair back loosely with a red ribbon, considered the effect, then changed it for a white one. Finally satisfied with her appearance, she went to the door and peeked out into the hall. If a footman or maid had been passing, she was ready with some quick errand. If it was a maid, shed demand fresh water for her ewer. If it was a footman, and he was handsome enough, shed ask him to come in and open one of her windows. She rather enjoyed doing that. The young ones blushed so, worried about impropriety, but excited at being near the young lady of the house while she was so casually dressed. The hallway was empty. Lucy went out, shutting her door softly, and walked the several yards down the hall to the room that had been assigned to Mina. The housekeeper, had it been up to her, would have placed Mina in one of the other wings, in a less desirable room, but she knew better than to show less than complete respect to Miss Minas little school friend. Mina was usually sunny and sweet, but she could be a right minx when her wheedling didnt get her way as quickly as she thought it should. She tapped once on the door, then slipped in without waiting for an answer. Mina was sitting at the rooms little writing desk. She was wearing a simple blue cotton robe, and her long brunette hair fell over one shoulder in a thick braid. She had been writing, and she looked up at Lucy, then pulled off her square, rimless glasses. "Well, arent you familiar, just barging in without waiting for an invitation." Her playful tone was at odds with her words. Lucy smiled, knowing that it would make her dimples flash. "Why do you object, Mina?" She walked over to the bed, lifted the spread, and peered under it suspiciously. "Have you got one of the footmen hidden in here?" Mina laughed. "Oh, no, of course not. Youre far too loyal to Jonathan. I know!" She clapped her hands. "Hes come home! He couldnt bear to be parted from you, so he flew back to be by your side. In a fever of mad passion, he disdained the front door and climbed the ivy to slip through your window." She peeked under the bed again. "Jonathan Harker, you rogue! Come out of there." She looked up at her friend, and noticed that Minas smile had faded. "Oh, dear." She went over to her friend and put a hand on her shoulder. "Poor, dear Mina. Youre missing him, arent you?" Mina nodded, patting Lucys hand, then screwed the top back on her inkbottle. "I hadnt expected to, but I am. Ive become so used to him, Lucy. Hes a very comforting presence." Lucy wrinkled her nose, and Mina smiled again. "Yes, I know--hes a bit boring, but hes so nice. And I am rather fond of him." Shed turned back to the desk, gathering the sheets of paper spread before her into a neat stack, and Lucy leaned down, resting her chin on the other girls shoulder. "Oh, thats a lovely foundation to build your marriage on--fondness."

"Its more than many have. What shall you build yours on?" "Position," said Lucy promptly. "Im going to have a title, and pots and pots of money. Oh, and he must be handsome and quite devilishly attractive, too." Amused, Mina said, "Anything else?" "Well, he has to have the right politics, and attend the right church. Oh, and he mustnt beat me." "High standards. What if hes unfaithful?" Lucy shrugged. "As long as hes discreet and careful. If he brings me some sort of horrid disease I shall poison his tea." Lucy pointed at the papers. "Mina, what is that?" "Im writing a letter to Jonathan. I cant let him believe that Im not thinking of him." "No that would be bad form. But I thought you were keen to use that dreadfully complicated typewriting machine." "I am, but you know what a racket it makes. Ill transcribe these tomorrow, and send it out with the afternoon post." She fidgeted a little. "Lucy, do you suppose theres any way I could get a London postmark on this?" "Why ever...? Oh. He doesnt know that youve quit your employment." Mina blushed. "Hed be so disappointed. I really didnt have any good reason, Lucy, but it all seemed to make such sense when we spoke of it." "And so it does, Mina." She took her friends hands, pulling her to her feet. "Really, the idea of you cooped up all day in that stuffy, dusty little back room," she caressed Minas cheek, "ruining your beautiful eyes by squinting at those tiny figures." She lifted one of Minas hands, kissing her fingertips, "Getting ink stains on you hands. It was too much to ask of you, Mina, really. And this is a legitimate job. Youll help me with all my correspondence," she smiled, "help me keep track of all my beaus, and my engagements." Mina made a helpless gesture. "Jonathan calls it dancing attendance. He says that a paid companion is a forlorn creature--neither fish nor fowl, gentry nor servant." "Are you certain hes not a socialist?" When Mina smiled, Lucy hugged her. "Dont worry about that now. Lets to bed. Ill need to get up early so I can go back to my own room before the servants start stirring abroad." Mina lowered the gas while Lucy turned down the covers, then slipped out of her peignoir and house slippers. "I almost miss our school days. No one thought anything of us sharing a bed then." "No, because thats what school chums do," agreed Lucy, sliding under the sheet. Mina removed her robe, tossing across the foot of the bed. "Weve only been out of school for about a year now. Why have things changed so?" "They just have." Lucy watched her friend as she slid into the other side of the bed, then she moved rolled toward her, throwing an arm across Minas slender waist. "Were supposed to have better things to do than lie in bed together, whispering and gossiping." "Oh, we do have better things to do." Mina took hold of the end of the ribbon and pulled slowly, untying it. She threaded her fingers through the bright silk, leaned over Lucy, and pressed a soft kiss to the other girls lips. She was answered with the flicker of a small, wet tongue. When Mina lifted her head, Lucy was smiling at her wickedly. Mina began to unbutton her friends nightdress, baring her breasts. "Much, much better things." end part 80 Back to index

Chapter 81: Chapter 81 - Suitors

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None this chapter Rating: NC17 Summary: More players in the drama are introduced. Archive: Mailing Lists and WWOMB. Others ask. Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Mina watched Lucy as she finished her primping, seated at her vanity. "Lucy, tell me you arent really doing it." Lucy glanced at her friends reflection in the mirror, her brown eyes wide and innocent. "Doing what?" "You arent having all three of those poor men over here at once." Lucy frowned slightly. "Goodness, Mina, theres going to be a whole slew of men over here today for tea. What three do you mean?" Mina slapped her shoulder lightly. "You are wicked! You know very well that I mean Arthur Holmwood, Jack Seward, and Mister Morris." Lucy pinched her cheeks vigorously, pinkening them. "But Mina, I could hardly leave any of them out. Jack lives next door, Arthur is the most prominent gentleman in the area, and Mister Morris is a distinguished visitor. It would be a deadly insult to leave any of them out." "And the fact that all three of them are courting you is of no consequence?" Lucy giggled, shrugging. "Oh, there IS that." She turned her head and glanced up at Mina, eyes sparkling. "All right, Ill admit that I enjoy having a fuss made over me, and with rivals present, there will be some very fancy attendance being danced." "And that means a lot to you, doesnt it?" Mina said wryly. "You need the attention, and the catering-to." Lucy shrugged. "Ive never pretended to be anything but what I am. Yes, its important to me." "The men?" Lucy heard the sharpness in Minas voice, and reacted immediately, getting up and going to her. She sat beside her friend on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. "The men, but only because that is where the power lies," she said softly. "You know that, Mina. While women have made great strides, we are still far from being equal to them, at least in the eyes of the world. We all play the game--even you. Do you deny that youre marrying Jonathan for more or less the same reasons?" Mina looked down at their clasped hands, then lifted them, turning Lucys hand, and kissed her palm. She sighed, "No. Hes a sweet boy, and I know hell be good to me, but the main reason were engaged is that its expected." She looked up at Lucy, brown eyes fierce, and said, "And I dont want to spend my life in a dusty office, typing my fingers to the bone. Or end like my mother, doing my own cooking in a tiny house, with no help but a girl to come in thrice a week for the heaviest work. Jonathan is personable, and clever. He isnt ambitious," her voice took on a hard edge, "but I am." Lucy kissed her. "And with you to guide him, he WILL succeed. Youll marry him when he returns from Transylvania?" "As soon as is decently possible." "Then I ought to go ahead and make up my mind." She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "I think I should be ready to make an announcement this weekend. Lets hurry down. It would be most impolite if we werent there to greet our gentlemen callers."

Lucys father, Peter Westenra, welcomed the two young women into the parlor with a good natured, "Ah, the flower of English womanhood!" He kissed his daughters cheek. "Youre just in time, my dear. Watkins just headed for the front door, and I believe that will be Jack." "Oops! This flower of English womanhood had best arrange herself, then!" Lucy quickly seated herself decorously on a small love seat. "Mina, quick! Act interested--we mustnt let him think weve just been waiting for his arrival. Hell get a swelled head." The butler led Jack Seward into the parlor, saying, "Dr. Jack Seward." Lucy held out her hands, face lighting in welcome. "Jack, how lovely!" She sounded as if shed just been given a surprise treat. Jack had been shaking hands with Lucys father, and now his smile was wide, and almost foolishly pleased. He started toward Lucy eagerly--too eagerly. His gaze was fixed firmly on Lucy, and he didnt notice the small footstool in his path. As he stumbled and fell, Lucy gave a small shriek that was as much laughter as it was distress. Still she hopped up and hurried to help him to his feet, exclaiming, "Oh, poor, poor Jack! Here, let me help you." Mina went to add her assistance, and between them they got Jack to his feet and shepherded him between them to sit on the love seat. He was overwhelmed by the feminine attention, protesting that he was perfectly fine, even as he rubbed at his aching shins. Lucy sat beside him, saying, "Mina, please get some sherry for my poor, wounded Jack." She batted her eyelashes at him. "Unless brandy would be better? I dont know about such things, but youre a doctor. You must tell me what is right." Jack was about to melt under the admiration. "Sherry would be..." "Sherry, Mina." As Mina went to the decanter on a nearby table, Mina continued, "Are you CERTAIN youre all right?" She touched his leg gently, and felt smug when she noticed his small shudder. "Perhaps I ought to check and see if youre bruised?" She gave a mock gasp, covering her mouth. "Oh! What you must think of me--suggesting that I look at your bare limb." "Lucy..." Watkins was again at the rooms entrance. This time he was accompanied by a tall, rugged man dressed in a Western cut suit, wearing boots, a string tie, and a dark Stetson hat. "Mister Quincy Morris." As Quincy shook hands with Mister Westenra, Lucy patted Jack again and said, "Mina, look after dear Jack. I have to be a good hostess and greet Mister Morris." She stood up and swept over to the American, hands outstretched, smiling brightly. Mina handed Jack the sherry, noting how his expression dropped with disappointment. *Poor Jack. You havent a chance, but you neednt be jealous of Mister Morris. Lucy would never marry any American--except possibly an Astor or a Rockefeller. Even those would be doubtful, since the Americans dont believe in titles. No, Quincy Morris isnt really your rival.* Quincy Morris was a cattleman from Texas. He owned a ranch larger than several English counties put together, and ran enough cows to comfortably feed the beef-loving population of several more many times over. He was also a good-hearted, rather simple man who held high regard for women in general, and ladies in particular. He was no match for Lucy. He had been charmed at first sight, and smitten in less than five minutes. Mina regarded him with almost as much pity as she did Seward. *Theres another one who doesnt stand a chance, and doesnt HAVE a chance. Its just as well. Lucy can barely stand being here in the country, away from the bustle of London. Shed never survive in the wilderness of Texas. Shed go mad, and drive him mad along with her.* She was flirting with him shamelessly, but doing it in such an innocent manner that she seemed totally unaware of what she was doing. Mina knew that Lucy was perfectly aware of the effects that her actions were having. Mina assessed the soft look in the Texans eyes, and found herself sympathizing, rather than pitying. Lucy could make you want to protect her and care for her. It was one of her greatest strengths.

Quincy said quietly, "Miss Lucy, we havent known each other long in days, but I feel as if I know you well. Sometimes... Sometimes when you meet someone, its as if youve known them forever." Lucy made a pretty little expression. "Oh, Mister Morris, that is the sweetest sentiment." "I was wondering... Do I dare hope...?" Watkins appeared once again, his bearing just a little straighter, his expression a touch more haughty, and began, "Lord..." The slim, dark haired man who strode smiling past him was greeted by Lucy with a squeal of, "Arthur!" as she abandoned Quincy to rush to the newest arrival. The enthusiastic greeting of another man must have stung Quincy. He had to have recognized the emotion and intention in it, because Mina saw the fragile hope die in his eyes. The truly sad thing, though, was that the deeper emotion (perhaps even love?) did not die also. Arthur Holmwood accepted Lucys greeting with the satisfied, smug smile of a man who took it as his due. Mina felt a jab of bitterness, but could she really fault him for this? It had been bred into him. All his life he had known nothing but power, privilege, and adoration. Hed never wanted for the most trivial of things, so it was difficult for him to consider that he might be denied anything important. Lucy and Arthur whispered together for a moment, then his smile broadened, and he went to speak to Lucys father. The two men left the room together, and Mina excused herself from a now forlorn Jack. She took a whiskey to Quincy, then hurried to Lucy. "Well?" Lucys smile was as smug as Arthurs had been. "Youll just have to wait, with everyone else." "You wicked thing! Well, I dont have to wait--I know." "What do you know?" "That youve chosen Lord Holmwood. The only possible reason for your father and he to scurry off together for a cozy private chat is that he is asking for your hand." Lucy smiled slowly. "I know you too well, Lucy. You cant keep anything from me." She laughed, leaning over to kiss Minas cheek. "I wouldnt want to, Mina. Dearest, dearest Mina." She took Minas hand, her voice lowering, and whispered, "I will marry Arthur, and we will get on well. Ill make him a commendable wife, I will give him an heir, and we will both live our own lives. Im very fond of him, but you--Mina, our souls belong to each other. Weve always known that. Its rather like Mister Morrison said--sometimes you meet someone and instantly, its as if you have known them from the beginning of time." Mina nodded, and the two girls embraced. The men in the room saw only two close friends sharing a warm moment. Mina, her lips close to Lucys ear, murmured, "Were so lucky, Lucy. We are unique. No one--no two people have ever shared anything like this." ~*~*~*~*~ "Prince Draculea, Rill has mentioned that you have a library." They were once again in the small room where Jonathan had spent his first evening. The prince, seated across from him at the small supper table, folded his hands. "Yes. Long ago, it was the finest private collection in this part of the world." "Id love to see it." "You like books?" Jonathan smiled. "My first ambition was to join the church, and the second was to be a librarian." "That sounds very like you." The prince studied the young man, his eyes unreadable. "Not now, Jonathan." Jonathan was a little surprised. So far, the prince had denied him nothing, sparing no effort to cater to Jonathans needs and, indeed, whims. The prince noticed his disappointed expression, and said, "I didnt say never. Just--not now." "I see." He didnt, though. He wondered if there was anything in the library that Draculea felt was unsuitable for the eyes of an outsider. *Perhaps its only that it has fallen into disrepair, like the rest of the

castle.* The thought of a fine collection of books lying neglected didnt exactly offend Jonathan, but it made him want to DO something about it. "I was wondering if youd come to a decision about the properties." Draculea sighed. "You are a conscientious young man. You wont rest till I give you an answer, will you?" Jonathan smiled. "There are several that I find attractive. I certainly want two in various parts of London, but I also want something a little farther out. What was the one you were telling me about--the one thats close to your fiances friends home?" "Carstairs Abbey. Its not in the best of shape, but it wouldnt take much to fix it up. If youre truly interested, my firm could contract the work out, and have it ready any time you wished to go over to England." "That will not be necessary." He made a vague gesture. "As you have seen, I am not overly concerned with such things. Please write your employers making the arrangements. Simion will see that letters of credit are arranged at the Bank of London to cover the transaction." Jonathan beamed. "Thank you, sir!" Draculea returned his smile. "This pleases you, my friend?" "It means that I have fulfilled the trust that my employers, and others, placed in me." "Duty. Yes, you would be devoted to that." Jonathan hesitated, then said, "Prince, you are a constant source of surprise to me. Are you really so wise, or am I so transparent?" Draculea chuckled. "Not precisely transparent." His eyes gleamed. "Its only that some people are easier to know than others. You have depths, Jonathan, but none of them are devious." Jonathan regarded the prince, and noted that there seemed to be more color in his face than usual. *Perhaps its the firelight. Ive always heard that firelight and candlelight was flattering to women. I suppose the same can hold true for men. He looks revitalized. Id almost swear that his skin is less crepey, and that his hair is darker. Hes a handsome man now. When he was younger, he must have been... beautiful.* They talked for a long time. Near dawn they parted, with Jonathan heading up toward his room. Hed reached the top of the stairs, when he was startled by someone stepping out of the shadows. It was Sinn. He noticed Jonathans startled look and gave him an ingratiating smile. "Did you have a nice chat with the prince?" "Our conversations are always most stimulating." "Stimulating--theres a word to conjure with." Sinn stepped closer. "He keeps you to himself. Weve hardly had any time together." Jonathan fought down the urge to step back. "The business..." "Piffle. You know very well that he could have conducted the business the very first day you arrived. No, Jonathan, you are being kept here as a... companion." "But he has companions--Rill, Simion, you, Rock..." "Were not the companions he wants. We cant give him what he needs, though heaven knows Ive tried," he smirked. He moved closer. "Rock hasnt made an effort, but he served a purpose, for a time. But hes been waiting for you..." He smiled. "For someone LIKE you, for a long, long time." He reached out, and Jonathan stepped back so quickly he almost stumbled. Sinn laughed. "You neednt fear me, mon petite. Im a sensible soul. I wont try to trespass, not when I know what the results would be. I just want to let you know that Im your friend." This time he did touch Jonathan, delicately straightening his collar. "Not everyone in this castle can say that, Jonathan. Remember it, wont you?"Still smiling, he backed away, moving into the shadows. The last Jonathan saw of him was the gleam of his smile, and a brief red flash. But that had to be a mistake. Sinns eyes were green, werent they?

end part 81 Back to index

Chapter 82: Chapter 82 - Exploration

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None this time Rating: NC17 for series Summary: Jonathans exploration of the castle leads to a troubling discovery, and the edge of danger Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB. Otherwise ask. Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable media characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Various minor characters (Nicolae, Lena, Elizabeta, Sinn, Rill, Rock) are the copyrighted creations of the author. Warnings: Cliffhanger ahead--a mother of one. Those of you who hate that might want to wait till the next chapter is out to read this. The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Castle Draculea, Transylvania "And the Turks are massed, just MASSED here, you see?" Rill waved at the ranks of tiny, painted men ranged on the big table. They were in a chamber deep within the castle. It must have at one time been an important room, for it was quite large, with a high ceiling. The walls were hung with pretty tapestries, and the floors covered with soft rugs. Jonathan had a feeling that Simion had prepared the room for his friend, making everything gay and comfortable for this sweet young man. "Yes, its quite a fierce horde," said Jonathan. He reached toward them. "May I?" "Oh, yes, of course." Rill hurried around the table as Jonathan picked up one of the figurines. The table was as large as the communal dining table at his former school, and the headmaster had assured the boys proudly that it was the equal in size of the one that the queen herself used for state dinners. The entire surface was spread with the toy armies, and Jonathan had no doubt that each warrior had been placed with judicial consideration. Rill pointed out the features. "Do you see the helmet, and the armor? The Turks wore leather armor, so its painted brown. And the face and hands... It took me forever to mix the paint to the right tint. Simion helped me, though. Hes seen lots of Turks. This one is a spearman." He frowned. "The spear isnt very sharp. I wanted to sharpen all the spears, but Simion said it wouldnt be a good idea. He said that if I tripped and fell on them it would be worse than falling into a patch of thistles." Jonathan winced at the thought. "Hes very right." Rill nodded vigorously. "Simion always is. Now," he indicated another, much smaller force, opposite the Turks. "Here are the brave Transylvanians." "They arent so many as the Turks, are they?" "No, but they are very fierce! They are fighting for their homes and families. This makes them brave." He examined the layout critically. "Theres one more thing they have that the Turks dont have, and its very, very important." He went to a cabinet and opened it. A moment later he returned with two objects, and showed the first to Jonathan. "Simion gave me this."

Jonathan took the toy and examined it. It was a carved wooden horse. It seemed very old, but well kept. Its surface was glassy smooth with handling and loving polishing. "Oh, my! Its remarkable, Rill. I dont think Ive ever seen anything so lifelike. He looks quite ferocious." "He was. This is Lucifer, he was the princes war steed. He was as much of a warrior as any man who served in the army. Simion said he once saw Lucifer save the princes life. Prince Draculea had struck at a Turk, and his sword was lodged in the mans bone. As he tried to free it, another Turk rushed to spear him. Lucifer bit at the man, and tore his throat out." "Thats absolutely terrifying." Rill nodded cheerfully. "But he had to be special, because he carried the prince." Rill showed Jonathan the second figure. It was wooden also, a man just the size to sit on the horse. Jonathan accepted this, also. It was a wonderfully clever object, with the limbs jointed so that it could be posed in any number of positions. The details of the carving were remarkable--from the hand that gripped a silver sword that was nearly as long as the figure was tall, to the straps of the armor. Jonathan stared at it. There was something so familiar about it. He searched his mind, trying to remember ever having seen an image like this--a big man, a warrior in full battle dress. For a moment Jonathan felt very odd, rather like he had on the road when he first saw Draculea. The feeling was familiar and alien at the same time. His eyes were drawn to the tiny face, half covered by the carved helmet. He found himself staring at it, mesmerized, as if he could discern the features. "Jon?" Jonathan shook his head slightly, the haze that had been creeping over him falling away. It was ridiculous. The face of the figure was no more than vague hollows and bumps, indicating the placement of eyes and nose. Hed have to be mad to think it actually resembled anyone. "What, Rill?" "Nothing. Its just that you went away for a moment." He handed the toy back to Rill. "But I havent left the room." "Not like that," said Rill. He touched his own forehead. "You went away here." He frowned, then touched his chest. "Or maybe its here." Jonathan started as a cool, slender hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked around quickly to find Sinn smiling at him. "For such a simple soul, it is amazing how fanciful Rill can be, yes?" "Its a gift to be able to look at the world with wonder," said Jonathan, a hint of reproof in his voice. Sinn shrugged. "It is a curse if that wonderment is disillusioned, but there is no reason that should ever happen to Rill." Sinn reached out and absently ruffled the boys curls. "Hes quite the pet here. Rill, youve been showing Jonathan your toys for hours now." Rill blinked. "Have I?" He gave Jonathan an apologetic look. "I often lose track of time. Simion says its to be expected, since time doesnt mean as much to us as it does to..." Sinn cleared his throat pointedly, and Rill hesitated, then said, "to people who have to... to deal with the outside world. Schedules and obligations. Oh!" His eyes flew wide. "I havent been to see the horses. Theyll be missing me." "The gypsies care for them well enough," said Sinn. "But they dont give them sugar or apples. Jon, do you want to come?" Before he could answer, Sinn said, "Rill, the weather is filthy. Its chilly, and theres a nasty fog. You dont want to risk our guest taking a chill." "No. Its better I go alone," Rill agreed. "But what if you take ill?" asked Jonathan. Rill gave him a puzzled look, and Sinn said, "We dont suffer from the usual physical ailments." He smiled. "Something in the water, no doubt." Rill started for the door, but then paused and looked back at the two men. He looked from Sinn, to Jonathan, then back again, and finally said, "Sinn, you come with me."

"Not tonight, Rill." "No, I think you should come with me." "I prefer to stay and keep our guest company." Rills voice was firm. "I think the prince would rather you come with me." Sinn gave Rill a sharp look, which the boy returned with a level stare. Jonathan had a sense of something unspoken passing between them, something very like an argument. Then Sinn seemed to relax a little, and his smile became indulgent. "If you wish." He gave Jonathan a rueful look. "You see that we refuse him nothing." They left. The prince had been gone when Jonathan awoke, and Simion said that he had decided to go riding--something that he had not done for some time. The steward was obviously pleased that his master was feeling more vigorous than he had of late. He thought about going to his room and writing a letter to Mina. He supposed he should, but somehow it seemed more like a chore than a pleasant activity. He decided instead to explore the castle a bit. He took a candle and stepped out into the hall. After considering for a moment, he turned and moved off into a section of the castle that he had not yet visited. He didnt have to go far before the surroundings were completely unfamiliar. Judging from the dust on the floors and the cobwebs near the ceiling, this area had been unoccupied for a very long time. He tried various doors along the hall. Some were locked, and some opened into rooms that were empty of everything but shadows. Finally, though, he came to one that seemed to be used for storage, and he entered. It was almost packed with heavy pieces of furniture. Jonathan squeezed between them, examining them as he went. All were obviously old, but also quite obviously neglected. He had the feeling that rough handling would cause many of them to crumble to splinters and dust. He noticed two interesting object against the far wall--two tall, flat, rectangular shapes draped in what looked like old tapestries. He made his way to them, and pulled the tapestry off the first. He jerked back in mild alarm as there was a flash of light, and someone seemed to reach toward him--then he realized that it was a mirror. The surface was tarnished and thickly coated with dust (it must have sat unattended a long time before it was stored), but it still reflected. Jonathan moved the candle closer to the mirror, and made a sound of disapproval. The mirror was broken, a thick web of cracks radiating from the center, and several shards were missing. He wondered why the glass had not been either repaired, or discarded. But judging from the mirrors place in the room, and the age of all the other discards, the accident had happened so long ago that no one living would remember it. He turned his attention to the other object, unshrouding it. It was a painting, a life-size portrait, but it had been destroyed as surely as had the mirror. It was of a woman--he could tell from the clothing. Unlike the mirror, there was no speculating that the damage had been caused by accident. All the ruin was limited to the head and upper body--that area was nothing but hanging flaps and strips of canvas. And it hadnt been torn--it had been sliced--or rather SLASHED. Someone had deliberately set out to destroy the image. Jonathan studied it, thinking, *This was done in a rage. Who was this person, and who hated her enough to want to do this?* He set the candlestick down on a close-by table, then reached up and began to carefully lift and arrange the various scraps. He held them together as best he could, but there were so many of them that one or two were always escaping his grasp. Just as he thought hed be able to get a good look at the subjects face, a section would fall away. Finally, though, he managed to get it as whole as it would ever again be, and took a look. His hands dropped in shocked surprise, leaving the portrait once again in disarray. "It isnt possible," he whispered. The seamed, distorted visage that had been displayed was more than familiar--it was known. As much as he wanted to deny it, he couldnt. It was the very image of Mina--as lifelike as if she had posed for it herself. Oh, the hair was dressed differently, but it was the same color. The eyes were the

same--dark, tilted, and self-absorbed. The mouth was shaped the same, with the same hint of petulance and determination. Behind the shock of this recognition was an admission that yes, those were the qualities he saw... had ALWAYS seen in Mina--and they were not attractive. *I cant believe it. My eyes have to be playing tricks on me. That woman has been dead for centuries, and Minas family doesnt even come from this part of the world, so she cant be an ancestress.* He started to reach toward the dangling strips again, then stopped, and slowly lowered his hand. Picking up the candle, he turned and quickly made his way back to the hall, resolutely turning his back on something that he couldnt, and didnt WANT, to understand. When he closed the door to the room, he felt a sense of relief, but his breathing didnt slow to normal till he had made his way back to a familiar section of the castle. He took a moment to lean against the wall, letting his head rest against the cool stone as he tried to order his thoughts. He had thought that Castle Draculea must hold many secrets, but he had never thought that some of them might relate in any way to himself. Again he tried to tell himself that he hadnt seen anything of significance in that stuffy, dim room, but somehow the words had a hollow ring. He made his way down to the ground floor, hoping to find Simion or the prince--someone who would offer sane and normal conversation--anything to take his mind off the feeling of unreality that had settled over him. Rock had followed Jonathan from the moment he left the playroom, staying far enough behind to blend into the shadows. Hed watched as the young man had entered the storage room, and hed felt a touch of satisfaction. So the princes new pet wasnt quite so perfect. Perhaps he hadnt been strictly forbidden to explore the more distant reaches of the castle, but the directive had been implicit. The very fact of anyone in this world being cared for or treated well rankled Rock. The fact that it was his master who had found someone to cherish enraged him. Rock had never been entirely sane. The early abuse at the hands of his father, and then what he had to endure as young man making his way among the predators of the world, had erased all of the tender emotions long before he fell under Draculeas sway. When he was resurrected as a vampire, there was no better nature there to keep him from becoming a complete monster, and in the intervening centuries, forced to live under Draculeas iron rule, he had been edging steadily toward uncontrolled madness. Hed come very close to the edge when hed been allowed to indulge himself with Renfield, and now the cautions that had bound him had worn thin, become fragile. He looked upon Jonathan, knew that Draculea considered the young man his own, and knew the best way to hurt his master, while pleasuring himself. He moved ahead of Jonathan, swift and silent, down to the great hall. He went straight to the library, took the key hed stolen from Rill, and unlocked it. He slipped inside and quickly lit some of the candles around the room. There wasnt time to light all of them, because he could hear Jonathans footsteps crossing the Great Hall. He hurried to the door and made sure that it was ajar, just a crack--just far enough for the dim glow of the candles to slip through. Then he went and concealed himself behind a tapestry hanging at the side of the room. Jonathan had made his way through the unlit hall so many times that his pace had grown much more steady and assured, but now he slowed down. There was something different--something small, but significant. A thin slice of light lanced into the room, coming from a barely open door. He paused, and considered for a moment. *Its the library. Ive never seen the library open before.* He started toward it, moving slowly. *Perhaps the prince has returned from his ride. Rill said that he spends a lot of time in the library. I imagine that it must be quite nice and cozy if its one of Draculeas favorite rooms. Id love to see it.* He was drawing closer. *But he said that I wasnt to see it now. That was yesterday, though. Perhaps hed be willing to show it to me now. He might not even be there. Simion might have just repaired it for him, lighting the candles.* He was standing before the door, within arms reach. *Perhaps he WANTS me to explore the library. He might have left the door open for just that reason.* Even as he thought this, part of his mind was scolding

him for the feeble rationalization. *Wishful thinking, Jonathan. If he wants you here, he will invite you, wont he? Yes, the door has been left open by mistake. Ill go on to the small room, and see if hes there. If he isnt, it will be a pleasant enough place to wait.* Jonathan started to turn away, but hesitated. Reaching out toward the door, he thought, *Ill just close the door for him.* His hand settled on the cool handle, he paused... ...and he stepped forward, slowly pushing the door open. end part 82 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 83: Chapter 83 - Confronting

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Not exactly Rating: R Summary: A confrontation in the library, and for Jonathan things become both clearer, and more confusing. Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB Sequel/Series: No Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, and I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. That said, no portions of this work are to be reproduced or archived without the express permission of the author. Some supporting characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena, etc.) are original and copyrighted, and are not to be used without the express permission of the author. Warnings: WARNINGWARNINGWARNING! Rocks a bastard, and this has an absolute MOTHER of a cliffhanger, but Im beginning the next chapter IMMEDIATELY. Well, after I get eight or nine hours of sleep. Im sorry folks, but Ive been working on this most of the day, and I HAVE to get to bed for health reasons. Im not sleepy, but Im TIRED. Besides, yall DESERVE the best I can give, and this is going to be an important chapter. I dontwant to shirk on it. Have patience, and have faith. The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Sewards Asylum, Outside London "Renfield." The slender man in the baggy inmate pajamas was standing at Dr. Sewards office window, leaning in close. Seward thought about saying something to him about it, telling him not to smear it, but he realized it wasnt really necessary. Renfield had been in his office several times, and he was always fascinated by the window, but he never touched it. He would stand with his nose a scant inch from the glass, his hands spread before it like pale stars, even close--but he did not make contact. Seward had learned that, despite his bizarre diet, Renfield was at heart a fastidious man. While other inmates wallowed in squalor unless the staff cleaned their cells, or forced them to do it, Renfield kept his tiny space immaculate. Seward reflected that he supposed a medieval monk would not have been

displeased with the scrubbed, austere room. While many of the unfortunates of his sanitarium collected pathetic bits of trash to ornament their cells, Renfield had asked for only one thing--a cross to hang over his glassless, barred window. Seward had rather hated to refuse him, but a wooden object was out of the question--too much potential as a weapon. Renfield had gotten around this in a rather ingenious way. When refused, he had asked for a bible, and that wish had been granted. Renfield had carefully ripped pages out, rolled them into tubes, and tied them together with thread. He made several, and they were now lashed to the bars of his window, slowly disintegrating in the moistness of the English climate. Renfield cocked his head, staring out at the deepening dark, and Dr. Seward spoke to him again. "Will you be wanting to go back to your room soon, Robert?" "Soon, but not just yet," said Renfield faintly. *Thats unusual. He doesnt like to be out of his room after sunset. Ive known some patients to begin to feel that their cell is their home, but not usually this soon after their commitment. Hes happy enough roaming the communal areas during the day, but when darkness falls, he wants to be in his cell, with the door carefully locked.* "You should go now." "No. I want to see the moon rise. I want to see if its like I feel it will be." "I could tell you." Renfield shook his head. "You wouldnt know. It wouldnt talk to you, like it talks to me." *One moment he sounds as sane as any young gentleman at a middle-class tea party, then next he sounds as mad as a hatter.* "What will the moon say to you?" Renfield turned back to him with a frown. "How should I know? Do you know what a friend will say when he comes to visit? Im not psychic, you know. I can only guess." "What do you guess?" He slipped Seward a sidelong glance, and there was a disconcerting slyness in his expression. "Oh, I cant tell you. Its a secret." "Tell me." Renfield shook his head, and Seward made his voice firm and no-nonsense. He couldnt afford to lose control of this relationship, but he wanted to give Renfield the illusion that this was a give and take affair. "Im good at keeping secrets, Renfield." "Are you?" He gestured at the leatherbound journal that laid at the edge of the desk. "You write it all down in that, and in your notes. All the secrets that everyone here tells you. What if someone were to read that--like I did?" Seward could feel the color draining from his face. "What do you mean?" "Do you remember that time we were having a talk, and the man who paces all the time tried to kill the woman who sings? You left me here while you saw to them." "But I told the warders to take you back to your room." "So they did--eventually." Renfield drifted over to the desk and skimmed one finger along the edge. "You can learn so much about a man by examining his lodgings, and his office. You spend so much time here that its rather two for one, isnt it?" He kept his chin tipped down, but lifted his eyes to Seward, peeking at him. "Youre a trustful man, Doctor--that rather surprises me. I would think that with what you see of human nature in here you would have become more hardened." "Were not here to discuss me, Robert." "Which do you use more often--the cocaine, or the laudanum?" Seward could feel himself paling. "Those are legitimate medicines, and I am licensed to prescribe them." "I never said you werent. Dear, dear--such defensiveness. One would think that Id accused you of something, Doctor." Now Seward could feel himself flushing. "You enjoy playing games." The change in Renfield was abrupt. He flinched, and the haunted look was back in his eyes. "No! I... I

dont like games, not the sort of games you mean--games of the mind--the will. No." He closed his eyes, expression going stiff. He whispered, "Sinn played games. I always felt something was wrong, but I didnt know... My thoughts were so clouded. But when I sleep here, there are dreams." He moaned softly. "Such dreams. And I know theyre true. They show me what he did to... What he made me do. Rough, hurtful things." He swallowed hard. "Sexual things. I never wanted to hurt anyone. All Ive ever wanted was to be... to be tender." *Heres part of his problem. He feels guilt over an entanglement.* "Robert, you have to realized that this person did not MAKE you do these things. Perhaps he persuaded you, against your better nature, but he could not have FORCED you." Renfield opened his eyes, and his gaze was bleak. "So you believe. Doctor--havent you ever met someone with a will stronger than your own?" For a fraction of a second an image of Lucy flashed through Sewards mind--that soft smile, with steel behind it. "Someone who could persuade you to do anything--to even violate your deepest reservations?" Seward said nothing. He knew that if Renfield had read his journal, he would have read about Lucy--his abject desire, which led him to continue pursuing her, even when it was clear that she saw him as nothing more than an amusement, someone to flatter and cater to her while she picked and chose among other men. Renfields smile was ironic, and sympathetic. "Im not sure that Sinn wasnt worse than Rock. Rocks torments were physical. He didnt touch me--not the REAL me. And I didnt let Rock have what he really wanted." Renfield frowned, cocking his head in thought. "At least I didnt give him what he asked for. But Im afraid that he got it anyway." "What did Rock want?" "It wasnt Rock, really. It was the devil. Ive told you that. The others are just his minions." "Then what did the devil want?" "What he always wants--an innocent. Someone pure and good to corrupt, to make his own, to win away from the light." "And you werent that innocent?" "Dont be stupid." Again Renfield seemed to have stopped drifting, and his voice was curt and pragmatic. "Ive known what I am for a long time, Doctor, and its not innocent. Not evil, but definitely not innocent." He went still for a moment, then said quietly, "Is the moon up yet?" Renfields back was too the window. Seward peered past him and saw that the sky had darkened completely, and the moon was beginning to peek over the nearby treetops. "Yes." Renfield drew in a deep breath, steeling himself, and went to the window, peering out. Fascinated, Seward watched as Renfield stared out into the night. Then he reached out, and this time he touched the window, pressing his palms against it, then resting his forehead between them. There was a tiny squealing sound, and Seward realized it was the sound of Renfields nails on the glass. It took Seward a moment to realize that Renfield was speaking. His voice was almost inaudible, scarcely more than formed breathing. "Nonononono. Oh, God, why are you so cruel? Couldnt you spare him that?" Renfield was silent for a moment, and Seward felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as the man nodded slightly. Seward could almost fancy that if he listened closely enough hed hear another voice, speaking to the madman. "Yes, yes, I see. I can understand. He would be loved, he would be cherished above all things, and he deserves that. I could be content with that. But the others there... Hes in danger. Theyll hurt him. He doesnt know." Renfield tipped his head back, gazing off into the black depths of the sky, lifting his voice. "Someone has to help him. Someone has to protect him. They have to." His voice rose in a sudden shriek. "THEY HAVE TO!" His hands jerked into fists and, before Seward could move, he smashed at the glass. There were few glass windows in the asylum--most were graced only with bars and shutters. What glass

there was had been special ordered, thicker and sturdier than most. Seward had seen a large man try to throw himself through a closed window and barely crack it. Renfields fists smashed through the glass, throwing off a glittering spray of shards. Seward leaped into action, dreading that Renfield might use the broken glass to slice his wrists open. "Guards!" he shouted, as he darted around the desk toward Renfield. Renfield jerked back his hands, the glass gashing the backs, and drew back to strike again. Seward caught him from behind, pinning his arms to his body. "Stop it, Robert!" Renfield was still screaming. Between Seward and the guards, they managed to buckle him into the jacket, though he fought them with surprising strength. When he was restrained, the guards prepared to drag him back to his cell. Hed degenerated into incoherence by then, but just before he was taken away, his eyes fixed on Seward and he said, "Doctor... Doctor, wouldnt the devil protect what was his? Wouldnt he protect his own?" The guards pulled him away, and his voice rose again in a scream. "Tell me he would! For Gods sake, tell me he would..." Castle Draculea Jonathan moved into the library, his step hesitant. He paused just inside the door, gazing around curiously. He couldnt see much. Though not on the scale of the great hall, the room was still large, and there were only a few candles lit, mostly near the door. Most of the room was lost in shadow, and he could only pick out vague impressions. He could tell by the feel and the sound of his few steps that the room was at least two stories tall, but the space above his head was so dark that he might as well have been looking up into an overcast night sky. But there was something different about this room from the other large rooms hed explored in the castle. This one had a feeling of life, and use. There was no dampness, no scent of dust or mildew. It smelled most pleasantly of wood smoke, beeswax, leather, and the slightly musty, indestinctive aroma of old books. He hadnt experienced this sort of atmosphere often, since his fathers office at home had felt somehow antiseptic--strictly a place for cold business, not relaxation, enjoyment, or contemplation. But he somehow recognized the aura of the room, and found it oddly comforting. He realized that it was the most at home hed felt anywhere since his mother had died. He looked around, trying to make out details. From what he could tell, the walls were lined with shelves, reaching up far over his head--perhaps to the ceiling. All the shelves seemed to be filled with books of all sizes and neat piles of loose papers. He took a step deeper into the room, then another, letting the door swing shut. He could make out the shape of a bulky piece of furniture before him. It didnt look like a chair or sofa. Curious, Jonathan turned back and pulled a candle from a sconce beside the door, then went toward the object. It was a table, obviously used as a work desk. Jonathan studied the contents, reaching out to touch an item here or there. There were several quill pens lying to one side, beside them a small knife that must be used to sharpen the nibs. Jonathan remembered his mother telling him that her own grandmother had been able to write an exceedingly fine hand, using the most elegant snow-white feather pen, and Jonathan found himself smiling at this quaint antiquity. He opened a small, delicately-carved wooden box to find blotting sand. Nearby was a heavy, burnished inkwell. The flickering candlelight glimmered on it mellowly, and Jonathan lifted it for a better look. He realized with no little surprise that it was gold--probably solid, not plated, if its weight were any indication. He put it down again, quickly but carefully. It wouldnt do to be found fondling his hosts valuables. He noticed a clear, fat bead of liquid wax trembling on the upper rim of the candle, and stepped back quickly, before it could splash down on the desk. He collided with someone--a cool, solid body, and whirled, startled. Rock regarded him, a small, secretive smile barely curving his lips. "I knew you wouldnt be able to resist this room forever."

"I didnt mean to intrude..." "Oh, youre not intruding--intruding indicates that the person youre speaking to is annoyed by your presence. Im not, so you arent intruding. You are, I believe, trespassing. Didnt the prince ask you not to come in here?" Jonathan could feel himself flushing. "Yes, youre right. I shouldnt have come in. I didnt intend to, truly. The door was open, and I was just going to shut it, but somehow..." He lifted his hands helplessly. "No need to explain to me. Personally, I see no sense in him denying you entry. After all, this IS your room." Jonathan had found Rock a bit strange from the moment he met the sullen young man, but hed always made sense before. "I beg your pardon?" "Its your room. He made it for you." "I dont understand." His eyes flicked toward the walls of books. "It must have taken generations to build this collection. The prince didnt know I was coming until less than a month ago." "Oh, hes been expecting you much longer than that. Hes been expecting you for... lifetimes." *Hes making no sense at all.* "I really shouldnt be here now." He started to move past Rock toward the door. Rock put out his arm, blocking Jonathan. "Not just yet. You havent seen the centerpiece of the room. You really must see it--its a true work of art. Sinn says that it would be welcome in any museum in Europe, and Sinn knows about these things." Jonathan stared back at him, body beginning to tense, and Rocks smile widened. "It will only take a moment--its just on the other side of the room. And I swear to you, its an experience youll never forget." He took hold of Jonathans sleeve. "Come." Jonathan had stiffened, but he allowed Rock to lead him deeper into the room, thinking that it might be better to humor the man. They came to a fireplace, and Rock gestured at a large painting hanging over it. Jonathan squinted up at it, but all he could make out in the fitful light of the candle was that it was a life-sized portrait. Rock was studying him, something disturbingly avid in his expression. Jonathan looked at him and said politely, "Yes, its very fine." Rock snorted. "Id forgotten how feeble human eyesight can be. Give me the candle." He took the candle impatiently. A splash of hot wax fell on the back of Jonathans hand, and he gasped at the sting, lifting it quickly to his mouth to suck on it. While he tended to the small hurt, Rock used the candle to light a small oil lamp on the mantle. A soft, golden glow illuminated the immediate area. "There--that should be sufficient. Look now." Jonathan glanced up at the picture. It was obviously an antique, and done by a true artist, not just a painter. Even the style was vaguely familiar. Jonathan felt that if he had time to study it, he might be able to name the artist. The subject was sitting at a table, and Jonathan realized with a tiny thrill of emotion that it was the very table behind him. It was almost identical, down to the items scattered on its surface. The sense of history was almost enough to inspire awe--knowing that he was about to see the image of someone who had actually used that table, worked at it, perhaps dreamed at it, so many years ago, when it was still new. He looked farther up, his interest piqued. The dark hair flowing past the shoulders at first made him think that it was a portrait of a young woman, but then he looked closer. The wide mouth was firm, and the finely cut features masculine. The hair tumbled low on the forehead, and Jonathan could imagine one of the long, scholars hands pushing it absently back into place. The eyes were large and dark, and seemed to slant slightly. The expression was warm and lively, as if the subject was gazing out of the picture, looking directly at someone very important to him. The portrait was well illuminated, but somehow Jonathan felt as if it werent quite in focus. He frowned,

studying it intently. Suddenly something seemed to shift. It was as if a layer of gauze had been ripped away, leaving a clear, undeniable image. Jonathan froze, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest, his head light. *Its me. It doesnt just LOOK like me, it IS! Aside from the hair length, it couldnt be a closer likeness if Id posed for it myself. Good lord, its as true a likeness as the photograph I had taken. I think its actually better, because this one has the tint of life...* A hand tightened on his arm, throwing him out of his stunned contemplation. "Yes, you recognize yourself, dont you?" There was dark satisfaction in Rocks voice. Jonathan whispered, "My family doesnt even come from this area--my ancestors are all English. My father never lets me forget that fact. This is impossible." "And yet here it is. You still havent learned, have you? What might be impossible elsewhere is not even improbable here, Nicu." Jonathans head swiveled around toward Rock. "What did you call me?" Rocks smile widened to a sharp grin. "I think the proper name is Nicolae, but the pet name, the lovers name, is Nicu, yes?" Jonathan jerked away. "Its my mothers name for me. Shes the only one who has ever used it." Rock was shaking his head. "No, not the only one--not even the first one. Cant you remember anyone else using it? Try. Think very, very hard. A voice whispering in the dark, or calling from far away..." Jonathan shuddered as a brief memory flicked through his mind. He was very small, kneeling in the darkness of his bedroom, before an open window. He had closed his eyes, and a breeze had moved against his cheek, like the soft caress of cool fingers, and he heard... *Didnt I hear? Mama was there, and she didnt hear, but then why was she so frightened? Someone was calling me, and the voice sounded so sad.* Again he felt a cold touch on his face, but it wasnt gentle. A hard hand gripped his jaw, pushing him back against the face of the fireplace. "I never met you your first time on Earth--if it WAS the first time. For all I know you and that devil have been dancing with each other from the beginning of time, and will continue till Armageddon. I dont care. Youre here now." Rocks touch softened till he was cradling Jonathans face, and his voice was almost thoughtful. "And youre beautiful. All that nonsense about fate and destiny aside, I can see why he wants you." Jonathan had been alarmed, but the look in Rocks eyes brought on a flare of true fear. "Youre mad." Rock nodded agreeably. "Yes." end part 83 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 84: Chapter 84 - Found Love Lost

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Not exactly Rating: R Summary: Rock gets his, but not till something very bad happens. Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB Sequel/Series: No Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, and I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who

portray them. That said, no portions of this work are to be reproduced or archived without the express permission of the author. Some supporting characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena, etc.) are original and copyrighted, and are not to be used without the express permission of the author. Warnings: Graphic violence, but believe me--Rock deserves it all. And another cliffhanger. Sorry. Hopefully there wont be any more as hairy as this one. Rating: NC17 The Year of Our Lord, 1982 Castle Draculea, Transylvania Jonathan pulled away. The fact that Rock LET him go, with no attempt to hold him was, ironically, more frightening than reassuring. His mind was racing, but there was no order to his thoughts. Uppermost was the desperate need to get away from this madman, but there was so much more--brief images and impressions, too quick and insubstantial for him to grasp firmly. A slashed portrait in a musty room, his own face looking out from an untouched portrait, a voice calling in the night, pale blue eyes that were somehow familiar, a smashed mirror, a sweet-coppery wine that was somehow too thick, a musky scent, and an alien, but somehow familiar and delicious ache deep in his body... Jonathan shook his head violently. He wasnt sure what he was protesting, but he felt as if he were on the verge of either plunging into madness, or rising to a new level of awareness. He edged away from the blonde man, watching him warily. He wanted to get away, not only to seek safety, but to find a little quiet and privacy to try to understand what was happening to him. Rock watched the young man as he tried to sidle away, and he felt a surge of vicious glee. Renfield had been good, but in the end, unsatisfying. He had only been important to Draculea as a means to find... this one. For centuries Draculea had held sway over him, crushing Rock to his will, using him when he desired, beating him when Rock annoyed, or disobeyed--OWNING him. And now... Now the center of Draculeas existence stood before him--vulnerable. Rock felt two physical sensations--his lengthening fangs pricking his inner lips, and his cock stiffening. He wasnt sure which lust he wanted to slake first. "Where are you going, Nicu?" Rocks voice was soft, but it sent a shudder through Jonathan. Jonathan continued to inch toward the door, but he responded almost unconsciously. "Dont call me that." Rock was reaching toward him, and Jonathan blurted, "Dont!" "Mustnt touch the pretty one? Yes, thats how its been. The only one Ive been allowed for ages was Renfield." Rock gave a guttural laugh that chilled Jonathans blood. "Oh, and he was tasty. He fought me for a long time, and I rather enjoyed that. Sinn had him first, though. You--Id wager youve never been with maid, nor man." As distracted by apprehension as he was, Jonathan could feel the blood rising in his cheeks. "Ah, yes," Rock crooned. "Id always heard that the English were carnal laggards. Youll be better than Renfield. Youre still fresh." Jonathan had always acquitted himself well in his school athletics, and hed kept himself fit, but Rock sprang at him so quickly that he felt slow, and dull-witted. Suddenly Rock had him by the throat, grip not quite tight enough to crush, but tight enough to control. Jonathan found himself shoved back, sprawled over the table. Rock moved swiftly, kicking the Englishmans feet apart, further unbalancing him. He fell upon the young man, wedging himself between his spread thighs. Jonathan jerked in shocked horror as he felt the hard nudge of Rocks erection against his crotch. This maniac was AROUSED. Rock let go with one hand and reached down, wiggling between their bodies, and began to rip at Jonathans fly. Jonathan clutched at the hand on his throat, gaining no slack. As he felt buttons rip away, he balled up his fist and punched Rock in the face as hard as he could. Rocks head snapped back, but he didnt loosen his hold. When he looked back down at Jonathan...

Something was wrong--terribly wrong. The face was still recognizable, but as a freakish parody of Rocks normal visage. It was ridged, distorted, with blood-red eyes. He grinned at Jonathan, and there was the gleam of fangs. The creature pressing him down on the table cooed, "Whats wrong, sweetness? Am I too cold? I can remedy that, but Ill have to feed first, and I cant be sure that Id have enough self-control to let you live through that." His laugh was raspy. "Not that it would stop me from fucking you." Jonathan did not lose himself to madness as Renfield had, but it was too much for him. Fear led to hysterics. He began to fight frantically, and loosed all his breath in a long, desperate scream. There was a thunderous crash as the library door swung open violently. It was so loud that, as intent as he was on his victim, Rock looked around. Rill stood in the open door staring at the struggling pair, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Rock snarled, "Get out!" His brother had never failed to obey him when he used that tone. Oh, Rock expected him to run to Simion, or the prince, but all that meant was that hed have to be quick in taking what he wanted. He turned back to Jonathan, ripping his shirt open to bare his throat. Rock didnt see the transformation that came over his younger brother. The hurt and dismay melted away, replaced by outrage. The attack took Rock completely by surprise. The weight on top of Jonathan suddenly doubled, almost crushing him, but only for a moment. Over Rocks shoulder he caught a brief glimpse of another nightmare face. But like Rock, the new creature was still recognizable, and that wrung another scream from Jonathan. It was Rill, it HAD to be. Hed never seen the young man with anything but a sweet, gentle expression, but now... Now the features were twisted with both the transformation, and blazing rage. Rill dragged at Rock, and all three men tumbled to the floor, thrashing. Rill was shouting, "No, Rock! Hes the princes love. Hes my friend, my FRIEND! You hurt Robert, you hurt Jon, you hurt ME! You hurt EVERYONE! Youre bad, Rock! You have to stop." "Get away, you worthless simpleton," Rock snarled. "Hes mine now, and Im not giving him up. Im going to take away the one thing Draculea loves, and nothing is going to stop me." "I WILL!" Rill rose to his feet, locking his arms around Rocks waist, and literally tearing him off of Jonathan. "Run, Jonathan! Run to Draculea." As the two creatures grappled, Jonathan hastened toward the door, crawling till he could get his feet under him. He was still in the grip of panic, and all he could think of was escape. Rock had been surprised by his brothers aggression--Rill had never dared to oppose him physically. What Rock hadnt counted on was that Rill wasnt fighting for himself--he was defending someone else. Prince Draculea had rescued Rill from a life of pain and degradation, he had brought him to Simion--the love of Rills life--and now Rock was trying to hurt the only person that could make Draculea happy again. Rill knew exactly what Rock was capable of, and he was determined that the Masters reborn beloved would not suffer. But the memory of all the beatings, rapes, humiliations, and exploitation that Rock had inflicted on him rose up, too, and poured forth in Rills attack. They rolled on the floor, scratching and biting, snarling like animals, smashing at each other. They staggered to their feet just as Jonathan jerked open the door and made his way out, and Rock managed to throw Rill off, determined to follow his prey. Rill reached out instinctively, groping for a weapon, and his hand closed on the knife once used to trim quills. Rill leaped on Rock, burying his free hand firmly in the other vampires strawberry blond hair, and jerking him back hard enough to snap a mortals neck. The blade was small, but very sharp, and Rill reached around, slashing it across Rocks throat. Had Rock been human, a spray of blood would have fountained out, and he would have bled to death in a matter of minutes. Instead dark, thick blood welled out of the wound as Rock shrieked in pain and rage. There was no heartbeat to propel it, so it dripped down, soaking his shirt, but slowed almost immediately. Rill realized the futility of his gesture, but wasnt prepared to give up. He released Rock, and his brother

staggered, swearing and wiping at the gore, vowing to kill Rill, and Simion. The threat to his lover only spurred Rill on. His groping hand fell upon the heavy gold inkwell, and he snatched it up. Rock had only gone two steps when Rill smashed the inkwell against the back of his head. There was a dull thud, and ink sprayed out, dying Rocks hair. Rock staggered, and Rill struck him again in the same place, bringing him to his knees. Rill knocked him prone, straddling him, and raised the inkwell high, then brought it down with every bit of strength he had. Jonathan heard a second thud, and this time it mingled with a sickening crunch. It was followed by another, and another. He fled blindly into the darkness of the great hall, only to once again run against someone in the dark. This time the hands that gripped his arms were warm, but he still screamed. "Jonathan, what it is?" Simion exclaimed. His eyes flicked over the young man, quickly taking in his torn clothing and his wild eyes. His expression hardened, and he hissed, "Rock?" "I dont know." The whisper was bewildered. "I dont know what he is." Simions eyes jerked toward the open library door, as he heard deep sobs, mingled with angry cries. He had comforted Rill through many nightmares in the early days, when his brothers past abuses had come back to haunt the young vampire. The sounds were familiar. "Go lock yourself in your room." "I have to get away from here." "Harker, think! Remember the wolves. Youd never survive to reach sanctuary. Go upstairs--youll be safe there. Let me go help my lover." He set Jonathan aside and ran for the library as the young man began to grope his way toward the stairs. The scene that greeted Simion when he arrived was as gruesome as any hed ever seen. Rock was sprawled on his face, with Rill on his knees, straddling his back. The younger vampires arm was rising and falling in an erratic rhythm as he pounded Rocks head. Simion recognized the weapon as Nicolaes prized inkwell. There were dark splashes spread around Rocks head, and it was hard to tell what was ink, and what was vampiric blood. Simion briefly thought that it was ironic justice that Rock was being beaten to a pulp with the possession of his intended victim. At the sight of his beloved finally giving back a small portion of the pain hed endured, a fierce exultation rose in Simion. But this wasnt Rill, and Simion knew that he needed to stop this. When the red rage left him, Rills gentle nature might torment him. "Rill." No response, and the inkwell descended again. Simion strode over to the pair and caught Rills arm as it rose. "Rill, stop!" For the first time in their life together, Rill turned to Simion as Nosferatu--his face distorted, eyes blazing, fangs exposed. "Rill!" The boy responded instantly, the ridges of his face softening almost to normal, and the frenzied light going out of his eyes. "Simion, he was going to hurt Jonathan." "I know." Simion took the inkwell from him. It was somehow slick and sticky, all at once, matted with gore, hair, and pulpy gray matter. He laid it aside, and pulled Rill up into his arms. "You saved him, Rill." "I did," he murmured, almost wonderingly. Then his voice strengthened. "I did." He looked down at his brothers body and said quietly, "Did... did I kill him?" "I dont know." Simion squatted down to examine Rock. The back of the vampires skull was a mush of flesh, old, gelid blood, and bone chips. The blood didnt flow, and there was no movement of breath--but that was normal for a vampire. Simion shoved at him roughly. The mutilated head rolled limply. Rock face had relaxed to its normal state. His eyes were open and unblinking. "Its hard to tell. I think he might well be." He looked up to find Rill biting his lip. "You will not chastise yourself if he is," he ordered. "No," Rill agreed--but his tone was sad. "Simion, I think we need to go tell the prince what happened. It might not be good if he just walked in on this." "I think youre right. He should be returning from his ride any moment now. Come, well meet him on the steps." They went out to stand before the castle entrance. They could hear hoof beats approaching at a

leisurely pace, and Simion smoothed Rills ruffled hair back, running his fingers over the fast vanishing sharp contours of his face. "Hes going to be very proud of you, my love. Almost as proud as I am." In the library, there was a low moan. Rock twitched. Limp fingers flexed, then scratched weakly at the stained rug. Gradually, painfully, the living corpse worked its way to its knees, head hanging like that of a sick and weary animal. He clutched at the table, and managed to stand, but when he let go to take a step, he fell again. It didnt stop him. He crawled on his belly, dragging himself through his own blood. When he reached the door, he used it to rise. This time when he relinquished his brace he staggered, but did not fall. He made his way out into the great hall, driven only by his madness and his consuming need to inflict death on someone--anyone. Jonathan had intended to go to his room and lock himself in. But he realized that he had never felt secure there. Like most young people of his social class, he had read trashy Gothic novels, which had featured grim castles not unlike Castle Draculea. Those haunted domiciles had always been well supplied with secret passages, and somehow Jonathan could not dismiss as rubbish the idea that this place was a real reflection of those fictional places. Rill, no matter what his state, had saved him from Rock. Simion had directed him to safety. He didnt want go any farther from their tenuous protection. He crouched in the shadows at the top of the staircase, staring down into the hall. There was a candle in a sconce at the foot of the stairs, casting a small, watery pool of light that barely illuminated the front door just beyond it. After Rills cries had died away, the castle had become very quiet. Jonathan heard a faint sound, a sort of scraping thud. It came again, and then was repeated. A figure shambled into the light. It was Rock, but there was none of the lithe assuredness hed shown before--now he moved like a lame drunk. His head hung so that his chin rested on his chest as he clung to the banister. He moved further into the light, and Jonathan got a look at the ruin of his skull. He cried out involuntarily, and Rocks head jerked up suddenly, dull eyes locking on Jonathan. He smiled horribly, and started up the stairs, his movements now purposeful. ~*~*~*~*~*~* Draculea rode into the courtyard, a little surprised to see Rill and Simion waiting for him. He pulled to a stop before them and dismounted, tossing the reins to the Rom who ran to take them. He was in a good humor, but it quickly dissolved as he noticed details. Simion was scowling, and Rill looked almost stricken. Draculea smelled blood, and noticed that Rills hands were befouled with it--vampiric blood. Considering Sinns devotion to avoiding all conflict, Draculea knew whose blood it was, and that told him the probable reason that blood had been shed. He growled, "Where is he? What did he do?" "In the library," said Simion. "I think he lured Jonathan there." He could see the rage filling Draculeas eyes and said hastily, "But Rill stopped him." He took hold of the boys wrist and held up his hand, showing Draculea. Draculea reached out, cupping Rills face in his hands. "My good, brave boy." Rill smiled tremulously, but there were bloody tears at the corners of his eyes. "I think I killed him." "What did you use, Rill?" "I cut his throat, and... and..." He curled his hand into a fist, and made violent smashing gestures. Draculea frowned. "It isnt enough." Simion said, "I examined him, Domn. There was no response at all." "Simion, Ive studied on the mortality of my kind, and found the prescribed methods of execution. What Rill described would not be enough. Oh, it would no doubt incapacitate him for some time. You remember how long it has taken him to recover from some of his more severe punishments. No, Rill--Im fairly sure you havent actually killed him." He wanted to sigh when he saw the relief in the boys eyes. "But youve slowed him down. I thank you for that." He turned his eyes toward the door. "It will make it

that much simpler to..." A terrified scream split the air. Draculea surged past the other two men, darting into the castle. The hall was empty. His eyes fell upon a dark smear on the banister just as another scream came from upstairs. He charged up, a red rage taking hold as he ran. Jonathan fled from his grisly pursuer. He didnt know where he was going, he was just desperate to get as far from this unholy thing as he could. He went up another staircase, and found his way blocked at the top by a heavy door. Sure that it must lead to a tower room, Jonathan turned to go back down. There was no chance to retrace his steps, though. Rock appeared at the foot of the stairs, gazing up at him with a mixture of animal lust and smug triumph. Jonathan turned and threw himself against the door. It swung open, and he stumbled out into open air. He was on the roof of the castle, rough stones stretching out in every direction. It was like finding himself on a desolate plateau. He could hear the heavy fall of footsteps as Rock climbed toward him. As the vampire emerged into the moonlight, Jonathan began to back away, looking around frantically for any means of escape. He retreated as Rock advanced, edging closer and closer to the side of the castle. Jonathan found himself against the low wall that rimmed the roof. Behind him he could hear the liquid rush of the river, far below. Staring at the horror approaching him, the sound of the running water was beckoning, almost seductive. "Come here, pretty," Rock rasped. His voice was thick, sounding clotted. "Come to me and Ill be merciful. Ill just kill you instead of turning you." Jonathan had only a suspicion of what the vampire was threatening, but that suspicion edged him even further into hysteria. He scrambled up onto the low wall, balancing there precariously. As he stood upright, he saw Prince Draculea come through the door. His gray hair and his long cloak were whipped back by a sudden strong breeze, and there was something shocking familiar about the image. "ROCK!" It was a howl full of loathing and promised agony. Rock looked back at Draculea, and his face was a rictus of hate and insanity. Still sneering at the prince, he reached back toward Jonathan. Jonathan saw the hand reaching toward him, and shifted, trying to avoid it. The ancient stone of the wall crumbled beneath his heels, and he began to overbalance. Jonathan knew what was happening. The moment seemed to freeze as his eyes found those of Draculea. Instead of windmilling his arms in what would have been a futile attempt to gain balance, he found himself extending them toward Draculea, and an unconscious cry broke from his lips as he began to fall. "DOMN!" Draculea had heard Nicolae speak that word so many times in so many ways--warm, tender, teasing, scolding, loving. In this single horrible, wonderful moment, he knew that it WAS Nicolae before him. Then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness as he plunged from sight. Draculea crossed the remaining space with preternatural speed, falling on Rock with four hundred years of rage and grief. In the second it took him to reach the other vampire he had transformed fully, and was more demon than man. His hands were like talons, the nails as hard and sharp as small daggers. As he seized Rocks throat, they stabbed into the pale flesh. His thumbnails drove into the wound that Rill had opened with the penknife, and Draculea jerked. The nails ripped through flesh and the tough fibers of Rocks larynx. Any curse or cry Rock might have made was reduced to a wheezing gargle. Draculea shook him like doll, twisting his fingers in the wound, probing deeper, till his nails grated against bone in the back. Then his shoulders tensed, and he twisted hard. There was a crack as Rocks spine broke. With a roar, Draculea wrenched hard. There was a wet, meaty sound, and Rock dropped limply. His head, however, remained in Draculeas hands, but not for long. The entire beheading had taken only seconds. Draculea tossed the head aside impatiently and lunged to lean over the wall, eyes desperately probing the darkness below. There was the sound of running water, then a splash, and a faint cry. "Domn... please..."

Without another thought, Draculea launched himself over the wall, into the night. end part 84 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 85: Chapter 85 - Swept Away

The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Near Castle Draculea, Transylvania He should have done as Rill had advised. He should have run to the prince. Draculea was old, but still undeniably powerful, and he controlled Rock--that much had always been evident. Instead Jonathan had waited at the head of the stairs, too afraid to go in search of the mysterious master of the castle, and it had cost him dearly. The horror that was Rock had shambled after him. He should have been dead, he HAD to be dead--no man could have continued to walk with that red ruin where the back of his skull had been. But that was the point, wasnt it? No LIVING man... Jonathan had fled, but there was nowhere to go but deeper into the castle--and higher--farther from any true means of escape. Then hed found himself on the roof, surrounded by open space, but with nowhere to run. Deep falls yawned on all sides, and still the creature came for him. Hed retreated as far as he could, in his desperation finally climbing up on the low wall. If worse came to worst, there would be that escape. He had no doubt that the fall would be kinder than whatever the Rock-creature planned to visit on him. But he hadnt reached that point when the door to the roof burst open once again, and Draculea strode out. He was coming to save him--Jonathan had no doubt of that. The prince glared at Rock, calling him with the voice of a righteous executioner. Here under the open sky his flowing hair seemed darker, and his wrinkles seemed to disappear in the moonlight. This must have been how he looked in his prime--dark and fierce, strong and proud. But Rock was still defiant. He reached back toward Jonathan, and the young man knew that he would be as vicious and hurtful as possible, his hatred of Draculea spurring him on to even greater violence. Jonathan moved instinctively--he had no intention of killing himself. He was only trying to avoid that clutching hand, but... Ancient stones, leaning an inch too far, perhaps a slight wind... Fate conspired, and he started to fall. He couldnt say why he did it, but it was instinctive. He reached out to Draculea, feeling that he was the only being in the world that could save him. He was the only one who had EVER saved him, ever made him feel safe, and happy... and loved. The single word that burst from his lips somehow encompassed all the strange, strong emotions welling up inside him. "DOMN!" It was a plea, a demand, a cry of fear, a declaration of belief and trust... Then he was gone, hurtling through rushing darkness, his breath being torn from his lungs as the last of his sanity was temporarily ripped from his mind. It didnt feel as if he fell into the water--it felt as if the water rose up and struck him. Now the terror of what had pursued him joined with the terror of drowning. Jonathans only experience with swimming had been in the shallow, placid pond at his summer retreat. It had been surrounded by tall trees, their branches stretching out to meet over its center. The only part open to the sky was quite small. It was always so smooth and calm that it reflected the clouds passing above as if it were a mirror. In all the times he had visited it, Jonathan had only seen the water disturbed once, spreading ripples marking

where a frog had leapt from his lily pad. How different this was. There was nothing gentle or serene about this water. It pounded, it roared, it sucked him deep, only to toss him up again. Each time he broke the surface, Jonathan struggled desperately for air, dragging in what he could before he sank again. He would have tried to rise, but he was tossed and spun so that he had no sense of direction. He caught occasional glimpses of flashes of light, but had no way of knowing if this was the starry sky, or merely the a result of lack of air. He truly did not know in which direction to strive. All he knew was that he was being swept along at a dizzying pace. It was icy cold, so cold that the sting from the chill rapidly began to fade to numbness. As frightening as that was, perhaps it was a bit of a blessing. The pain when he began to bang against the river rocks wasnt as intense as it might have been. Once or twice he bounced off large boulders, and each time he rebounded into a section of the river where the current was not quite as strong--and flowed toward the banks. There came a time when he was tumbling over stones, being rolled over them. Finally the force of the water was not enough to move him from where he had come to rest--and there he stayed, too dazed and weak to move. He was barely conscious enough to roll onto his back, bringing his face up out of the water. Then he gave up the struggle, and allowed himself the escape of oblivion. He lay there for a few moments, his dark hair waving gently on the ripples that washed along his body. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ He had never flown. He did not believe it was possible, despite the legends. Draculea knew better than most how a man could rise to extraordinary efforts in certain situations. If it had been possible he was sure that he WOULD have flown now. As it was, his descent toward the river was not a fall--there was purpose behind it. Every fiber of his being strove downward, toward where his beloved had disappeared. Draculea entered the water cleanly, and immediately began to swim. Yes, the current swept him along, but it wasnt as wild and uncontrolled as it would have been for anyone else. He had a goal. As he swam he used all his enhanced senses to try to locate Jonathan, seeking the warmth of a living body, the pale flash of a frightened face, a faint cry for help. There was nothing. Draculea did not, COULD not give up. Jonathan had been swept this way--no mortal man could have forced his way back against the current. Draculea had to find him, and find him before the breath of life had left his body. Vlad hadnt really planned exactly how he would keep his reborn love in his life, hadnt planned out the exact direction their reunion would take. He had felt their bond the moment hed seen the photograph, though it had been distant, and a little dim. The wine he shared with his guest each night had been mingled with his own blood, and hed felt that bond growing stronger and deeper. Perhaps he would simply continue, once the young mans spirit awakened to the true nature of their relationship. After all, Simion had survived the entire span of separation as youthful and healthy as he had been the day of Draculeas entry into the world of the undead. But Simion had been vigorous and uninjured when he first drank from his master. If Jonathan was dying when Draculea found him... Could he do it? Could he bring his beloved over into his own dark world? Nicolae had been such a child of the light, so bright and beautiful, full of life, devoted to his God. Yes, Draculea knew that he had held the boys heart, that Nicolae had loved him above all things on this Earth, but would he want to give up the sun on his face, and his assurance of a new life beyond this one? There was no time to agonize. If Jonathan was near death, then Draculea would gently bring him the rest of the way, trusting that he would have time to make up any loss that his love might feel. But first, he must find him. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Father Josef made his way along the path that ran beside the river, his steps slow and heavy. He was very weary tonight. One of his parishioners had died tonight. He had only been guiding this flock for a few months, but hed come to know the old lady well, and the loss saddened him.

Lukas, the parish porter, followed behind the priest. He was a big, hardy man, with little fear in his nature, but now... Now he almost crept along, eyes darting constantly among the surrounding shadows. "Father," he said quietly, "please, speed your steps." "Peace, Lukas," Josef said tiredly. "You have been as nervous as a cat since the moment we left the rectory. I had to send you into the next room so that old Maria would not be disturbed in her final moments." He paused and turned to look back at his houseman. "Youve never been like that before. The other death beds I have attended did not seem to disturb you so." "They were attended while Gods good sun blazed above, Father. I fear nothing in the light of day." As tired as he was, Father Josef found himself chuckling. "Come now, Lukas. Surely youre too old to fear the dark?" The look that the man leveled at him was serious. "You were born and bred in cities, Father, and you havent lived among us long. There are things in these mountains, things that roam the night, that are not to be trifled with. Fear is not foolish if there truly is something to fear. Now please, hurry. I would not have accompanied you if Maria had not been my own mothers sister." This disturbed Josef. Lukas was devoted in his service to the Church, and the Churchs representatives. He worked tirelessly to keep the chapel and rectory in good repair, and did all that he could to see that Father Josefs life was comfortable and untroubled. The thought that Lukas might refuse to assist him at a parishioners deathbed would never have occurred to him. But now that he thought about it, Lukas never went ANYWHERE after sundown. When hed first arrived in the village, Josef had been waiting for the time that hed have to discipline his porter for spending too much time at a local tavern (hed been warned about this by the older priests before he left the seminary to take up this position). That had never been a problem. Come dusk, Lukas was settled in for the evening. *And no parishioner visits me once the sun has gone down,* he thought with growing surprise. *Id prepared myself to be disturbed at all hours of the day and night, but it hasnt happened here.* "Father, please." Josef noted the mans anxious expression, and nodded, turning to resume his walk. Theyd only gone a few yards, though, when he stopped again. Peering off toward the nearby river, he said, "Lukas, what is that?" Lukas glanced over, then said quickly. "Nothing, Father. Moonlight on the water." "No, youre wrong. Theres something washed up into the shallows." He took a few steps off the path, squinting toward the mysterious object. "Then its a some poor creature that fell into the water and drowned." The man gripped Father Josefs sleeve, tugging at it. "Come!" Josef stiffened in surprise. "Lukas, thats a man!" He started down the gentle slope toward the riverbank. Lukas called after him, "We cannot help him now, Father! Let us go back to the rectory and pray for his soul, then we can come back in the morning." The priest did not turn, did not even hesitate. Lukas glanced desperately up the path. Only a few hundred yards away he could see the soft gleam of light from the rectorys windows, signaling safe haven. He looked back to see the priest splashing into the shallow water toward the body. With a groan, Lukas followed. Josef squatted beside the young man, groaning with dismay and compassion. He was young, surely not much beyond twenty. There was a nasty bruise and gash marring one pale cheek, and Josef knew that the rest of his body would probably bear evidence of rough contact with river stones. "Sir!" There was no response. One limp hand drifted slightly as another ripple moved toward the bank. "Heavenly Father, please, let him still be in this mortal realm." The hand was cold, but when he pressed his fingers firmly to the wrist, Josef felt a strong pulse. "Praise be!" He looked back to find Lukas approaching. "Lukas, he lives! Help me." The man stopped, staring at the young man with a curious intensity. "Are you certain, Father?"

"What? Lukas, what difference would it make if he were dead? We could not, as Christians, leave him here." "Father," the mans voice was harsh, "Is he warm?" "What...? Lukas, the river water..." "Does he breathe?" Josef made his voice sharp with command. "Lukas, come here and..." "DOES HE BREATHE?" Josef stared at his porter in astonishment. Never before had Lukas shown anything but respectful deference. But now there was something both frightened and determined in the mans eyes. Josef laid his hand on the mans breast, and felt the slow rise and fall. "Yes, Lukas," he said quietly. "He breathes." Lukas hesitated, and his eyes drifted up the river. Higher up the mountain, the castle was silhouetted against the moon. There was a moment in which the priest sensed a fierce inner struggle in his houseman, then Lukas hurried down. "Move, Father. This must be done quickly." Josef stepped back, and watched as the big man bent and pulled the limp body into his arms. He turned immediately and started up to the path. "Follow quickly, Father. You do not want to be outside blessed walls if someone misses him, and comes ahunting." The priest almost had to run to keep up with Lukas. He was surprised to see Lukas turning toward the chapel instead of the rectory. "Lukas, no. Take him to..." "We take him here, Father. A pew will serve as well as a bed for one in need." He gave him a hard look. "Trust me on this, priest. There are things that they did not teach you in your school." His expression softened at the bewilderment and irritation on Josefs face. "Father, if you want him to live--more importantly, if you are concerned for his immortal soul, do as I say." There was such quiet conviction in the porters voice that Father Josef found himself unlocking the chapel door with no further protest. The interior was dim, lit only by a few guttering votive candles before the icon of the Virgin. Lukas quickly deposited his burden on the front pew, then shoved past Father Josef as the other man went to check on the man. Josef heard Lukas locking the door. He looked up in surprise, though, when he heard the dull thud of the crossbar being dropped into place. The crossbar, which effectively bolted the chapel off from the outside world, had been kept as a symbol of sanctuary. Josef had never heard of an instance in which one had actually been USED. "We need more light," he directed. Lukas chewed his lip in indecision. "Father, the windows are undraped. It would be better if we did not give evidence of our presence." The usually mild mannered priest had to bite back an oath. "I need light to tend to him!" Lukas reluctantly fetched several candles from their mounts upon the walls. He lit them, then fixed them upright at each end of the pew, giving weak, but sufficient light. "Theres a heavy cloth from when you whitewashed the vestibule last month. Fetch it." While Lukas did so, the priest checked the young man once again, making sure that his pulse and breathing were strong. It was a miracle that he hadnt drowned, or been beaten to death against the rocks. Hed had a look at the parishs records, and every year they lost one or two people to the river. He was determined that this man would not share that fate. Lukas returned with the cloth. As Lukas placed it over the back of the pew, Father Josef said, "Theres blood in his hair, but I dont think the wound is serious. The bone beneath seems whole, and the bleeding has stopped."Lukas silently leaned past the priest and pulled open the young mans collar, staring intently at his exposed throat. His eyes seemed fixed on a slight bruising, and Josef said, "The rocks." He pulled open the shirt, working it down the victims arms, and removing it. "Look, here, and here." He pointed out livid bruises and scrapes on arms and torso. "I recognize him now. He was on the coach that came through..." "I remember. And I know where the driver said he let him off, and why," Lukas grunted. Then he did an

odd thing. He pulled his crucifix out of his shirtfront, bent down, and pressed it against the mans shoulder, holding it there firmly. Josef was shocked when the man jerked, murmuring in discomfort, but did not regain consciousness. Lukas pulled back, and Josef was even more shocked to see a deep pink cross etched on the mans white skin. It reminded him of the time, long ago, when hed unthinking picked up a poker too near the point. He hadnt been injured, but a bar of tender, reddened skin had graced his palm for several hours. Lukas was saying, "No blistering, no charring. I suppose hes harmless enough." *What does he mean? How could this poor creature be a threat to anyone while hes in this state?* "Lukas, there is still unblessed wine in that cabinet--the plain bottle. I need to try to bring him around." Lukas went for the wine while Josef stripped the young man to his drawers, then used the cloth to begin drying him. He rubbed vigorously, trying to draw the blood back into chilled areas. It seemed to be working, as the skin gradually took on a healthier tone. Soon the man was rolling his head slightly, making soft, troubled sounds. Lukas had found an unsanctified cup in the cabinet also. Now he filled it with wine and handed it to the priest, slipping his arm gently under their patients neck to lift his head slightly. The mans lips remained closed, wine trickling down his throat, and Josef said, "Young man? Please, you must drink this. It will give you strength." His lips parted, and Josef carefully dripped the wine between. There was a brief, frightening moment of choking, then his throat worked, and he swallowed. A slight frown creased his forehead, and Josef was elated to hear him speak, even though the words were faint, and made little sense. "Other... want the other." Father Josef quickly fed him more, and he swallowed obediently. But once he had finished, he murmured, "Want the other wine. Sweet... warm..." Josef set aside the cup and slapped the young mans cheek lightly. "Listen to me. You need to open your eyes now. Can you?" The mans eyelids twitched, then opened a slit. "Good! Very good." "What...?" There was such pained bewilderment in his voice. "Youve had a bad accident, my son, but youre safe now." "Safe? What... what happened?" "We pulled you from the river. It is only through Gods grace you were not drowned, or dashed to bits. What is your name, young man?" "Ni... Ni..." He winced, a hand fluttering to his head. "It hurts." Confusion washed over his face, then cleared, but only a little. "Jonathan. Im Jonathan Harker." Suddenly his eyes flew wide, and he tried to sit up. "Oh, God! Where am I?" It was Lukas who pushed him back down, holding him firmly, but carefully. "Youre safe, Jonathan Harker. Youre safe on consecrated ground." "How did you come to this sad state?" asked Josef. "You spoke of wine. Did you take too much? Is that why you fell into the river?" "No," Jonathan said firmly, then, more hesitantly, "I dont think so." Suddenly a look of horror entered his eyes. "No! He... it was going to kill me, I know it. Kill me, or do something unspeakable." "Tell me what happened," Josef urged. "Im not sure," said Jonathan helplessly. "I cant remember. I have no idea how I got into the river." "Then tell me what you DO remember." Jonathan scowled. "I was looking for someone--my host, I think." Neither the priest nor Jonathan noticed Lukas cross himself quickly. "The library was open, and I went inside. I was looking around, and... and..." He made a small sound of frustration. "I keep thinking that I looked into a mirror, but why would there be a mirror there? Then something happened. I dont remember what it was--I just know that Ive never been so afraid in my life. I was in danger. I was going to die. I ran. Its all a blur after that." "Do not trouble yourself," the priest soothed. "You have a head injury. Some memory loss is not unusual."

"Ive heard that," Jonathan agreed. He lifted troubled eyes to the priest, "But I still dont understand this. You see, I desperately want to remember, but somehow Im afraid, too." His expression crumpled. "Its as if remembering could either save me, or damn me." end part 84 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 86: Chapter 86 - Out of Reach Again

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: R Summary: Draculea locates Jonathan, but he is held at bay. Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB Sequel/Series: No Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, and I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. That said, no portions of this work are to be reproduced or archived without the express permission of the author. Some supporting Characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena, etc.) are original and copyrighted, and are not to be used without the express permission of the author. Rating: NC17 The Year of Our Lord, 1882 Near Castle Draculea, Transylvania *The river has taken him. I must let the river bring me to him.* Draculea stopped fighting against the current, and let it take him. The buffeting current carried him toward the bank, tossing him till he touched bottom, then stumbled even farther toward dry ground. *He must have been thrown up here. As far back as I can remember the river has given up its victims. Its as if it is proud of its conquests, and wants those left behind to have proof of their loss. Jonathan must be on the bank, somewhere near here.* Draculea waded up onto the bank and stood still, head swiveling, fiercely searching the night with all his senses. He reached out with those which were known to man, but far beyond a mortal mans power--sight, scent, and hearing. Nothing. The dark and the cleansing water seemed to have washed away any trace of Jonathan, so Draculea reached out with his other sense--the blood bond that tied Jonathan to him, that which he felt was the mingling of their very spirits. He felt him. It was faint, but it was true. He was alive. Draculea eagerly homed in on the sensation, feeling it almost as the faint brush of warm fingertips, pulling at him. There was a faint track that led up to a path running beside the river, and he climbed to it swiftly. Standing on the path he looked this way, then that. It was dark all around, no light to indicate habitation in either direction, but he turned unerring to follow the path onward toward the outskirts of the village. His steps hastened as he went on, the feeling growing stronger with each pace. Jonathan was up ahead, and he was alive, but he sensed pain and confusion. His love needed him. He hadnt gone far before he saw a faint gleam of light, and moved even more quickly, breaking into a

run. The people in this region did not normally leave their windows undraped at night. This unshielded light indicated that whoever was responsible for that light had other, more important, things on his mind. Sure now that the building at the end of the path held his lover, Draculea did not realize exactly where he was going till he was almost upon it. The moon came out from behind a cloud, visible just behind the buildings roof. A cross, stark and black, was silhouetted against the silver disk of the moon. Draculea cried out, jerking back. Had the moonlight been strong enough the vampire would have been caught, seared by the shadow cast by the holy symbol. For a moment he stood staring at the simple building before him. The deepest part of him wanted to flee, every instinct of his undead nature screaming at him to escape. But Draculea had always been determined to be master of his own fate. Hed overridden natural impulses before, enforcing his will, and now would be no different. Still, he moved more slowly as he approached the little chapel, stalking toward it on stiff legs. He went to the door and stood before it, staring at the weathered boards. He could feel himself trembling. In his life, Draculea had not feared the Church--neither in its physical manifestation, nor its spiritual, but now... The chapel at Castle Draculea had been locked even before he rose into his unlife, and he had never approached it again. He had purposely pushed the very awareness of the holy place from his consciousness, but every time he passed it a small prickling chill ran up his spine. It seemed to threaten and rebuke him with its simple, silent existence. He reached out slowly and gripped the metal handle, then waited for what would come. Nothing happened. There was no ominous thunder, no righteous flash of lightning, no divine voice condemning him. The metal under his palm did not burn with cleansing, holy heat. Instead it was simply night-cooled metal, inert, waiting to perform the duty for which man had formed it. Taking a deep breath, Draculea tried the handle. Inside the chapel, Lukas head shot up, swiveling toward the door as he heard the latch rattle. Father Josef, wiping the blood from Jonathans gashed scalp, said absently, "Someone at the door, Lukas." When the porter did not respond or move, Josef looked up. His dawning impatience died when he saw the mans expression. "What is it?" Lukas hissed at him, then whispered, "Quiet, Father!" The rattle came again, then a light, almost questioning thud as whoever was outside pushed at the door. "Lukas, its just one of the parishioners. Let them in--we can use the help," said Josef. The look Lukas gave him was a little wild, a shocking mixture of disbelief and something resembling contempt. "Theres nothing out there that would help any of us, Father." There was another thump from the door. This time it was not tentative, but firm. Whoever stood outside was not going to be turned away if the door was merely stuck. The bar did its job, holding fast. There was a moment of silence. The priest looked down at Jonathan. The young man was lying back on the pew, but his eyes had turned toward the chapel entrance. He whispered, "Who...?" There was a knock at the door, three hard, sharp raps. The blows were authoritative, the action of someone who expected to be obeyed. Jonathan flinched at each thud. "Open." The voice from outside was as hard and self-assured as the knock had been. Lukas crossed himself quickly. "I know you are there, there is no need to prove yourself a fool by trying to pretend you are not." "I am the priest of this village. Who are you, and what do you want?" called Josef. He was startled when Lukas made a low sound that was almost a growl. For an instant, he thought that the porter, a man with one of the strongest, simplest faiths hed ever known, might actually strike him. There was silence from the other side of the door, and Lukas whispered, "Father, you do not speak to such things unless you CANNOT avoid it. If you would not freely converse with the devil himself, then do not

hold speech with his minions." The dark voice came again. "You are the new priest? They havent told you about me, have they? No, they do not like to admit to what an outsider might believe is childish superstition. Fools. If their care was more than their pride they would have educated you better. Who am I? I OWN this land, priest. It has been mine since before your great-grandsire first suckled his mothers milk. I own this land and all that sit on it, or indeed WALKS it. And as for what I want--you have something of mine. I can tell hes there--I feel him. You may very well be responsible for his life, and for that I am grateful. My gratitude can prove very advantageous, but I warn you--my displeasure can be terrible. Open the door and bring him out to me. I swear to you that I will do all in my power to tend his needs." The priest hesitated. Though there was something about the unseen speaker that sent a warning tingle through him, there had been the sound of absolute conviction in that last promise. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and he looked up at Lukas as the other man shook his head. "But this man could be injured beyond our capacity to help him. If this man can better care for him..." "Better he should die than you hand him over to what waits outside," Lukas said firmly. Josef looked back at Jonathan. The young mans brief moment of lucidity seemed to have passed, and he once again looked dazed and bewildered. The pounding came again, and again Jonathan winced with each blow. Then the outsider called once again. "Jonathan? Jonathan, can you hear me, my friend?" Jonathan drew a breath, but the porter said fiercely, "No! I dont know what sway he may hold over you, stranger, but dealing with him will only make it stronger. Do not speak, do not even acknowledge his existence." "Dont listen to those fools, Jonathan. You know I am your friend. Im sorry about what happened. Ive never regretted anything more in my life than not killing that bastard before he laid eyes on you. But hell never hurt you again, I swear. If he isnt dead yet, by all thats unholy I will FIND a way to be sure that hes consigned to his infernal master forever. Can you get up? Try, Jonathan. Come to me." There was something strange about the last sentence. The princes voice passed from concern to... command. It was gentle, but it was there. Without thinking, Jonathan tried to rise and obey. His battered body protested, and he sank back with a groan of pain. "It hurts." "I can take away the pain." Outside the chapel, Draculeas hands were clenched into fists as he heard the strain in his lovers voice. He kept remembering the sight of Nicolaes body on the floor of the castles chapel. Hed been surprisingly untouched, as if the river had been loath to destroy his beauty against its rocks. But Vlad had seen others who had suffered the same plunge, and knew the abuse that the wild waters could cause. Jonathan would be badly bruised and shaken, lucky if no bones had been broken, no internal injuries sustained. Draculea could not pray, but he fervently hoped that his blood, the blood he had slipped into Jonathans wine, the same blood that had kept Simion strong and healthy for centuries, would have protected his love, at least a little. "Just come to me." The voice pulled at Jonathan, and he again tried to sit up. Lukas moved quickly, shoving him back down roughly. When his head struck the pew he gave a cry and fell unconscious once again. The sound of that one faint cry brought forth fury from the other side of the door. There was an enraged roar, and a thunderous crash at the chapel door. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" "Youll not have him, Nosferatu!" called Lukas. "This is one that well save from you." The response to this declaration was terrifying. The priest found himself cringing beside the pew, covering his ears from the snarls and howls. It sounded as if someone was using a battering ram on the door--he could see it shiver in its frame. Lukas squatted beside him, tipping his head to look into the priests face. "Do not fear, Father. He cannot enter a private home unless invited, and though this church is public, it is sanctified ground, and that will keep him at bay. Dawn comes soon, and he cannot remain while the sun rides the sky. When he is forced to return to his lair, we can remove this unfortunate to someplace far away, where he will be safe." He glanced grimly

at the door. "However I fear that the village will have to be doubly vigilant and careful for a long time to come. He will not easily accept being denied." ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ Simion had followed his prince up to the roof, arriving just in time to see Draculea drop what was left of Rock, and leap over the edge of the roof. He knew in an instance what had happened, and he felt as if his heart would burst with sorrow for his master and his masters beloved. But he had no time to grieve. He had no doubt that Draculea would find Jonathan again, but in what state? If the young man was gravely injured, he would need assistance in returning him to the castle. The coach was prepared in minutes, the Rom working like men possessed. Rill wanted to go along, but this time Simion was firm with him. Though he knew Draculea cared for Rill and would be loath to hurt him, he had no idea in what state he would find their master. He would not risk his lover. Simion rode out alone, whipping the horses fiercely. As he rode, he reached out, feeling along the strong bond that linked him to Draculea. With all the blood they had shared, given and taken, over the years, it seemed that he carried a bit of the prince with him always. It wasnt hard to find his master. Draculea was in a state of high emotion by now, and Simion felt himself drawn toward it as iron might be drawn toward a lodestone. As he approached the edge of the village, the feeling grew stronger, and he drew back on the reins, slowing the team. The chapel came into view, and Simion knew instantly that he was right. Draculeas figure, standing before the church door, was unmistakable. There could be no doubt that Jonathan was within the church. Simion hauled back on the reins, drawing the coach to a halt. The horses were restless. Though they were to some extent used to being around vampires, having been raised in the princes household, they still realized the present danger. They stamped and snorted, ears laid back flat against their skulls. Simion dismounted and, not daring to be stranded by a runaway team, cinched the reins tight to a stout tree. While he did this, the prince prowled around the outside of the church, seeking another way in. He came around the corner just as Simion finished his task. Red eyes fixing on his steward, he stalked over to Simion and grated, "Hes there, Simion. Hes in there, hes hurt, and the bastards wont GIVE HIM to me!" As much as he loved Draculea, there had been times in his life with the prince that Simion had feared him. There were times, both before and after his transformation, when Simion knew that anyone approaching the prince took his life in his hands. This was one of those times. It had been a very long time since Simion had seen Draculea in such a wild and dangerous state, but he did not show his fear now. "But he lives, my lord, and while he lives, he is yet within your grasp. Do not despair. You have waited for so long--do not let a few more hours trouble your spirit. Let me speak to these people." Simion went to the church door and rapped. His knock was firm, but not as violent as his masters. "Who is in there?" Simion did not mingle with the villagers, of course, but he kept himself appraised of what went on there. It was part of his duty to be aware of what transpired on his masters land. "Priest? Who else is with you?" He thought for a moment. "You have no brother priest, so perhaps your porter? Yes, Lukas. Ill speak to you, Lukas. I know that the priest is not one of us..." "There is no us, dog!" Lukas called, voice cold. "We claim no kinship with your unnatural sort." Simion would have smiled, if not for the seriousness of the situation. "Deny it if you must, but we have lived here since long before your kind scratched a living from this land. As I said, the priest is an outsider, and I cannot expect him to understand our ways, but you... You know who you defy, Lukas. You know what you may expect to reap. It has been generations since your people felt his wrath. Will you be the one to risk bringing it down once again?"

"Speak on, dog. Make your threats. Your master cannot touch us while we stand on sanctified ground, and it will be dawn soon. Gods good sun will drive vermin back to their dark holes." Draculea was growling dangerously, and Simion gave him a sharp look, silently asking him to restrain himself a little longer. "What you have said is true--to an extent. But the sun is not as effective a barrier as you have been led to believe by your legends. It is not easy or comfortable, but Draculea can, in some circumstances, brave the light of day. And in this case, believe me, the motivation is great enough to make great suffering bearable. And besides," he lowered his voice, "my master is not the only being you need fear. I am not bound by your protective rituals, mortal." In the chapel, the porter paled even more, and chilly sweat broke out on his forehead. "No, nor are the Rom, and you know where their loyalties lie. Only common doors and bars can keep us out, and how effective can they be? You do not have a fortress. A way can be found into any building in these mountains." As he spoke, Simion noticed that a faint rim of light had appeared along the Eastern horizon. As the porter had stated, dawn was approaching. Cursing mentally, Simion realized that there was little chance of persuading the stubborn mortal inside to follow sensible course. He turned back to Draculea, saying, "My lord, we cannot stay." "Are you mad, Simion?" Draculea hissed. "Do you believe I will leave this place without him?" "Please, my prince, I can see no other way. What the porter says is true. Were you at your best, you might be able to break down the door. Were the place not sanctified, you might use your powers to find another way inside. I do not want to leave young Harker here, either, but I see no other way. We know where he is. Come back to the castle. I can speak to the Rom and have them gather their kin. I believe that the rest of the villagers will be much more realistic than this porter. If we make it clear to them what they risk, I believe they will be happy to deliver Jonathan." "How can you ask that of me?" Draculea whispered. Simions mind was racing. Draculea was not strong enough to brave sunlight. He would need to fortify himself with much rich, human blood before he could withstand the rays. But Simion would need something vital to draw the prince away from his imprisoned lover. "My lord, what of Rock?" Draculea stopped pacing, looking at Simion with hard, hot eyes, fangs bared. "Yes, I saw what became of him, and had I the time, I would have spat on his remains. But think, lord--are you SURE that you have disposed of him? Think of what he has already survived. Consider his insane fixation on Jonathan. He attacked him when he KNEW the consequences. I cannot help but believe he will continue, if he is able." The sky was lightening. It would be only moments before the sun peeked over the horizon. Simions voice became more vehement. "You have learned all the legendary ways that Nosferatu may be destroyed. If you cannot reach Jonathan, neither can Rock, so he is safe for the moment. Shouldnt you take care of the threat before your lover emerges from his dubious sanctuary?" Draculea wavered, and Simion pressed his last argument. "My friend, I do not think you could survive the sun now, and if you die... I do not believe that you would be allowed to return, as Nicolae has. You would be finally and irrevocably separated, and I know that no torture the devil could invent for you in Hell could compare to that. And would you leave him alone and unprotected because you could not wait a little longer?" Draculea stared at Simion. His voice was strained. "Again you chide me for my impatience, Simion?" Simion was silent. Draculea sighed. "You proved right all those other times." He closed his eyes, and a bloody tear escaped, trickling down his cheek. "Simion, how can I leave him?" Simion put his hand on Draculeas arm. "My prince, you share a bond with him. Tell me--will he survive?" Draculea nodded. "Yes. Hes hurt, but not mortally. I can feel that much." "That is how you can leave him. You know that he will live. As long as he lives, you will find him again." He squeezed the princes arm hard. "It is Fate. After all you have both been through, my lord,

down the long years and over the weary miles--it is Fate." As the sun broke over the rim of the earth, Draculea climbed up into the coach, and Simion shut him into the sheltering darkness. Before he once again took the drivers seat, he went once more to the door of the chapel and called. "Lukas, listen to me. You have a little time to think, but only a little time. I will not tell you that you should not count this as a victory. I believe that you know enough to know what you face. Once again I will tell you--that young man does not need to be protected from the prince. The world has not dealt kindly with him, Lukas. Give him back to someone who will prize him above all things. Do it for his sake--and your own." Simion turned the coach and started back toward Castle Draculea. There were noises coming from inside the coach--snarls and curses. But mingled with these animalistic sounds of rage was another very human sound--weeping. end part 86 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 87: Chapter 87 - Disposal

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Rating: R Summary: Rill tries to be helpful, in a rather gruesome way. Archive: Mailing lists and WWOMB Disclaimer: This is a reworking of an original idea by Bram Stoker, which has now entered the public domain. This work is original, and copyrighted. Warnings: Gets a little grisly. May be disturbing for sensitive readers. Notes: brusqueness (n)--roughness, asperity, terseness, abruptness, offhandedness, lack of warmth, unfriendliness Rill paced the great hall nervously. Things had been going so well. Jonathan had been warming to the prince--Rill could tell. He had begun to imagine the future. He could envision an endless span of nights which he would spend with Simion, and the prince would spend with Jonathan. It would be a time of peace and contentment. The prince would be happy with his beloved, and all would be well with his household. Even Sinn would be happy, spending his time in sparkling conversation with Jonathan and Draculea... Rill stopped his pacing, frowning as it occurred to him that Rock had been nowhere in these pleasant fantasies. No, even if he was not actively fomenting trouble, his sullen presence would be a blot on the castles atmosphere. Rill didnt realize it, but he had somehow known that his brother could not be a part of any happy future. What of Rock now? Rill paused and gazed up the staircase. There hadnt been time to get much information out of Simion when the older man had hurried back downstairs, shouting for the Rom to prepare the coach. While the team was harnessed Simion had told Rill what had happened--Jonathan had gone over the edge of the roof, in an effort to escape Rock. Draculea had attacked Rock, and then gone after Jonathan. Now Simion had to go after him, to help with Jonathan, and to see that they both returned

to the castle safely. Rill understood this, and he accepted the fact that he could not go, too. Since being with Simion and the prince, he had learned his own worth, but he had a practical streak--he knew he had limitations, and he would only have been a hindrance on such a mission. Perhaps there was still something he could do. If the prince had not thrown Rock over the edge of the roof, his remains would still need to be dealt with. *I can help,* he thought. *Ive talked with the prince, and learned some of the things that must be done.* He started up the steps. *If nothing else I can bring him inside, so that Simion doesnt have to.* He went to the roof and stood just outside the door, scanning the area. A mortal man might not have seen the dark figure sprawled across the roof, but Rill was not a mortal man. He approached cautiously. Though Rock was an impulsive sort, he was cunning, and quite capable of lying in wait till a victim came within reach. As he got closer, though, he moved with more confidence. Rock didnt look as if hed be much of a threat now. Finally Rill squatted down beside the body. He cocked his head, studying it. Hed seen death many times in his long life with the prince. Though a gentle soul, hed dealt death himself during fights with over-ambitious mortals. Once or twice, when protecting Simion, hed reached a state of viciousness that could match anything his brother was capable of. Rocks head was lying a few feet from the body, tilted over so that one pale cheek rested on the cold stone. Even from this angle, Rill could see that the back of the skull was still a mess of brains, bone chips, and thick, congealed blood. Rocks eyes were slitted, showing a bare rim of white. Rill found that curious. Considering the method of his brothers final death he would have expected a much more violent, or at least alert, expression. "De-cap-i-ta-tion," Rill said slowly. He nodded. *Yes, the prince said that this might be one way to kill our kind." He frowned. "He wasnt sure if it was enough, though." He watched Rock a moment longer. "It LOOKS like it was enough. But if it takes three days for us to rise the first time, might not there be a lag, then a resurrection, when something like this happens?* "Rock?" he whispered. He poked the body in the chest. There was no rise or fall, but of course that meant nothing. After all, Nosferatu only needed to breathe in order to have breath for speech. He poked again, and still there was no response. He looked over at the head speculatively, then stretched out his hand and prodded it. "Rock?" The cool flesh gave slightly at his touch, but nothing more. He was almost satisfied. One more attempt... "Rock, are you there?" He poked the pale cheek again. The half-closed eyes suddenly snapped open. Eyes that should have been dim and unseeing darted back and forth, then fixed on Rill. The boy was so startled that he sat down suddenly, thumping gracelessly onto his backside. "Oh! Rock, youre still... Youre not really dead." The head bared its teeth, and Rill frowned. "And youre still being bad. You know very well you deserved what you got." Bloodless lips writhed, but without lungs Rock could not draw air to create speech. He seemed to realize this, and his expression showed rage and frustration. "You did!" Rill insisted. His expression hardened. "Youre still alive, so you deserved MORE. The prince will be angry when he finds out you didnt stay decently dead." Again Rocks lips moved, forming unspoken words. Rill had no trouble understanding his meaning, though. His brother had verbally abused him with exactly the same terms often enough for him to recognize the form without the tone. Rill caught a small movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head for a closer look. The fingers of Rocks headless body were twitching. As Rill watched, the twitching strengthened, and the hands lifted slowly, wavering in the air above the body. "What are you doing, Rock?" asked Rill suspiciously. He looked over to find that Rocks eyes had fixed intently on his corpse. He was staring at it with fevered concentration, gnawing at his bottom lip. One of the hands started to grope across the stones in the general direction of his head, and his expression grew even more determined.

Puzzled, Rock looked back and forth between the two parts of his brothers body. Sudden understanding struck. Rock wanted to put his head and body together once again. If the head was pressed to the stump of the neck long enough... Rill had never heard of such a reattachment happening, but who could say? He knew that no human could ever have recovered from some of the punishments Draculea had inflicted, but Rock had. Oh, it had occasionally taken months, but he had eventually been his old self again--physically. The insanity and bitterness had grown with each injury, and after something like this... Well, it was unlikely that hed ever be even marginally safe company. "No, Rock," Rill said firmly. He reached out and picked the head up by the hair. Rocks expression became even more agitated, mouth working hard. He repeatedly cut his eyes toward his body, and Rill caught the meaning easily. "Im not putting your head next to your body--Im moving it farther away." He carried the head back to the door, but hesitated before going inside. He sat down to think, crossing his legs, and holding his brothers head in his lap. Rock glared up at him, but Rills returned stare was steady. After a moment he said, "I have to think about this, Rill. Youre supposed to be really dead. I cant imagine the prince would have done this if he didnt mean for you to be really dead." He watched Rocks lips work, then heaved a sigh. "No, I agree with him this time, even if you are my brother. What should I do?" Rock closed his eyes in frustration. When he opened them again, he began to form words very slowly and clearly. Rill shook his head. "I dont believe you. I dont believe youd go away and never bother us again. And even if you did," his voice hardened, "youd hurt other people. You like hurting weak people, Rock. Youll never stop--not until you ARE really dead. The prince shouldnt have to worry about you when he comes back. Hell need to give all his attention to Jonathan. No, you should be finished when he gets here. Maybe I can help." Ignoring Rocks horrified and enraged expression, Rill set the head down near the door. Rocks gaze went immediately to where his body lay near the edge of the roof. Rill noticed, and looked back. The beheaded body was twitching feebly. As Rill watched, one knee bent slightly, and a tremor passed through the thigh as the corpse braced itself, readying for a try at getting upright. The leg collapsed quickly. Rill, curious, said, "Can you still direct the rest of you, or is it doing it by itself--like a snake after the head is cut off?" The body kept moving. Rill shrugged. "Better not to take a chance." He turned the head so that it faced the blank wall. "There. You cant give it directions now." He went back into the castle, thinking, *Now, what were the methods the prince said would be most likely to work? A sharp spear of wood through the heart... I think if the prince had used a silver edged blade, it might have done the trick. Then theres fire...* What thoughts passed through Rocks mind in the next few minutes, no one can say. Theres little doubt that there was hatred and anger--that had never been absent for long during his time on earth. But now there was something different--something that might be a sense of impending mortality--something he long ago had ceased to consider. Now it brought fear, and panic. Rill returned shortly, carrying a bag and lit candle, and trailed by an interested looking Rom. The gypsy almost skidded to a halt when he got a look at what was waiting for him on the roof. His eyes darted from the head near his feet, to the body lying in a small pool of nearly-black blood at the edge of the roof. The Rom who served Prince Draculea were the chosen of their clan, raised with the knowledge of the Princes ways, and hardened to them, but this... Rill noticed that his companion had fallen behind, and turned back to him. There was a touch of impatience in his voice as he said, "Hurry! We dont have forever, you know, and I need your help. You know theres part of this I cant do." The gypsy nodded, fumbling in his pockets. "Hai, Domn." "Good." Rill started away, then turned back. "Youd better peel it, just in case." He started off, but turned back again. "But it might be the peel that does the trick, mightnt it? Peel some of them, but leave

the others whole." The gypsy gave him a look that said that all gorgio were a little crazy--even his masters. "Hai, Domn." "Lots of them." Rill bustled off again. The Rom and Rock regarded each other warily. Rock was well aware that he wasnt well liked by the Princes followers. They all knew what he would do to them if he was given free rein, and they were aware of his history with the gentle Rill, who was considered more of a pet than a superior. Rock heard a clatter that distracted him from these thoughts. He couldnt turn to look, but by rolling his eyes he could just glimpse where his body lay. What he saw sent another bolt of terrified panic through him. In a pile at Rills feet was a pile of objects--what looked like a flask of lamp oil, a heavy mallet, and a piece of wood that had been sharpened into a stake. A crinkling sound drew his attention away from this horrifying scene, and he looked back at the Rom. The gypsy was flicking away what looked like nearly transparent wisps of paper, and a pungent scent assaulted Rills nostrils. Even though he no longer had a stomach to be affected, he felt sick at the smell. The gypsy noticed, and smiled. He reached down and picked the head up by its hair. Rock opened his mouth in protest, and the gypsy poked in the first bulb of garlic. ~*~*~*~*~*~ As he approached, Simion noticed the smoke rising from the castle. He frowned, wondering. While fires werent forbidden, they werent encouraged, either. The less evidence of occupancy they provided the outside world, the better. In any case, the source seemed to be the roof, and he couldnt imagine any reason for kindling a fire there. He made a note to himself to check on it as soon as possible, but the prince had to be settled first--if that were possible. At first it didnt seem it would be possible. Two of the Rom came out to take care of the coach, and Simion escorted the blanket draped prince into the cool, dim interior of the castle. Draculea had barely entered the shadows before he threw off the cover, as if it were smothering him. He stalked a few paces, then turned, staring back at the door, and Simion said quickly, "No, Domn!" "I believe I could do it, Simion." "You might survive, my lord--MIGHT. But by the time you once again reached the village you would be so weakened that its unlikely that you could retrieve him from the chapel. And I believe you would be so weakened that you might fall prey to those who now have him." Draculea glared, and Simion made his voice sharp. "Would you do that to him? He believed once that he lost you, and the pain drove him to an act which he thought would eternally damn him." Draculea whirled away from him, lashing out. There was a tall candle stand nearby, and he smashed it aside, the thick metal bending with the force of his blow. Then he stood with his back to Simion, fists clenched at his side, body tensed, and trembling. Finally, voice low, he said, "Impatience?" Simion went to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Your will is stronger than any I have ever known, Domn," he said quietly, "and your love is the same. But all--ALL of us--must bow at last to physical limits--even you. You neglected yourself for far too long, and it will take a little time for you to regain your strength. Your Rom stand ready to help you, even unto sacrificing themselves--as do I." Draculea drew a deep breath, gathering himself. "I know, Simion, but I wont do that." He turned back to look at his friend, and there was wry pain in his voice, "But not for noble reasons, Im afraid. I might have used brute force in my time, but I have been trained in strategy as well. As much as I long to rush, to personally wrest my love away from those dogs, I know that such an attempt might well fail. Youre right--I must regain my vigor, at least a bit of it. In the meantime, I can do what a prince does--I can send my troops. Send some of the Rom to keep watch on the village." His eyes narrowed. "I dont trust them not to do something foolish. Then send three of the Rom to me." Simion nodded. He would warn the gypsies of what to expect. All had been donors to slake the vampires

thirsts, and to serve the prince was seen as a particular honor--but within their memory, Draculea had not taken more than a few mouthfuls at a time. Vlad would not drain them--hed said as much--but the volunteers would be weakened for a few days. "To the basement, Domn?" "No, to my old room." He turned and started up the stairs, muttering, "Ill feel closer to him there." Simion relayed the Princes orders. Before the gypsies scattered to obey, he spoke to them. "As I returned, I saw smoke from the roof. What does this mean? I can think of no reason for it." "It was your sweetheart." Simion turned to find Sinn lounging in the doorway. "You didnt bring back the young beauty? What a shame. Those peasants cant possibly appreciate him as he deserves." Simion ignored these drawling observations, concentrating on the first declaration. "Are you sure? Rill has always been cautious of fire." "Oh, Im quite certain." "But why?" Sinn smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant expression, and Simion felt a chill, because he knew how amusing Sinn found anything ugly or hurtful. "I think you ought to ask him that yourself. Hes still up there." At Simions alarmed look, he amended his statement. "No, not outside. Last I saw he was on the upper landing, keeping watch on his little blaze from that vantage point. Hell be safe enough as long as he doesnt lean out, though I dont imagine hes very comfor..." Simion hurried out. "Well, this place has never been a sanctuary of fine manners." The Rom werent listening--they were rushing to obey their orders. Sinn sighed. "I suppose Id best resign myself to complete brusqueness for awhile." ~*~*~*~*~*~ As Sinn had said, Rill was at the very top of the stairs, in the tiny hallway that led out to the roof. The door was open, and later in the day his chosen spot would have been dangerous. But in the early morning the sunlight slanted in at too steep an angle to reach where he sat. He was gazing out into the daylight, squinting in concentration. As Simion neared, Rill spoke, without turning. "You didnt get him, but he isnt dead yet." Simion went to stand behind him, gazing down at his dark, curly head. "How do you know that?" Rill shrugged, then touched his chest, over his heart. "I can feel it. I felt it when the prince once again was close. Hes still so sad, and angry--very angry. But he isnt despairing, as he would be if Jonathan had died, so there must still be hope." "Some of the villagers took him in. Persuading them to return him to us may be--problematic. Rill, as I returned I saw smoke from up here. Sinn says that you set the fire." "Yes." He twisted his head to look up at Simion anxiously. "I was careful that it was on the bare stone, with no wood near." "Yes, thats the way to do it. But why, Rill? The night was mild, and even if it were chilled, there are always fires lit at the castle hearths." "Oh, it wasnt for warmth. I was trying to destroy something." He frowned. "I dont know how good a job I did. I cant go check on it." Simion turned his gaze toward the object of Rills attention, and felt a sudden jolt. *Im preoccupied by the princes worry, but thats no excuse for taking so long to realize what is going on,* he chided himself. Even at this distance he could tell that it was a body. More specifically, given its location, it was ROCKS body. "Rill, what have you done?" "As I said, tried to destroy it. He wasnt QUITE dead, Simion. I remembered how he walked out of the library, and I decided Id better make sure. It was a good thing, too. Do you know, he was trying to find his head?" A smell like roasting rotted pork drifted to Simion. The headless body was well charred, but far from being reduced to ashes. The fire was almost out. Simion saw an occasional tiny flame licking over blackened flesh. "Sometimes dead things will still move for a little while, Rill. You remember, youve

seen it--snakes, lizards..." He made a dismissive gesture. "Thats just thrashing. Theyre not trying to DO anything. Rock wanted to stick his head back on, and I think if he could have held it on his neck long enough, it just might have happened. Lizards grow new tails, you know." The thought hadnt occurred to Simion, but it made sense. Still... Rill was continuing. "I was going to burn him and throw the ashes in the river, but he burned, but he didnt BURN." "You should go to sleep now." "But the job isnt nearly finished." "I will see to it from here. I have things to do, but I can take care of this. Go and rest." Rill got to his feet. "If youre sure." He hugged Simion. He sighed, and rested his head on the older mans shoulder for a moment. "I just cant seem to do anything right." Simion returned the embrace. "Dear one, youve done all that you could. Youve been very thoughtful, and very ambitious. You cannot know how much the prince will appreciate this, once things have settled a bit." He released him with a gentle push. "Now, go and sleep." When Rill was safely away, Simion turned his thoughts toward the offal on the other side of the roof. The thing to do would be to bundle it up for removal. He was considering the best method when he noticed a rough sack on the floor near his feet. That would be ideal. He should just be able to cram Rocks body into it. He picked up the sack, and realized that it wasnt empty. There was a sizable lump resting in the bottom. Curious, he opened the sack and peered inside. He caught a glimpse of blood clotted strawberry blonde hair. He reached inside. Rocks eyes were half closed, and faded, unfocused stare told Simion that this might very well be the final death for him. The vampires mouth was slightly open, giving him a rather stupid look. Simion caught a glimpse of something pale between his lips, and frowned. It should be far too soon for maggots. Could it be a broken tooth? Simion lifted the head for a closer look, poking experimentally at the mystery object. There was a soft thud as something fell near his food. He glanced down, and saw what looked like a small lump of wax. Curious, he picked it up and examined it. It was slick and springy to the touch. He squeezed it experimentally, and jerked his head back from the pungent scent. "Garlic!" Simion hooked a finger into Rocks mouth and pried it open a fraction. The mouth was crammed with garlic. At his rummaging, several more cloves fell from the ragged neck stump. Simion threw back his head and laughed. Finally he stuffed the head back into the sack and wiped his eyes. "Oh, my love! And some would call you stupid." end part 87 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 88: Chapter 88 - Evacuation

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: R Summary: Lukas acts to remove Jonathan from Draculeas grasp. Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, and I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. That said, no portions of this work are to be reproduced or archived without the express permission of the author. Some supporting

Characters (Nicolae, Simion, Rock, Rill, Elizabeta, Lena, etc.) are original and copyrighted, and are not to be used without the express permission of the author. Notes: As far as I know, there is no convent, or order, such as I have used in this section. Okay, no one write me about the marks on Jonathans neck. "Hey! You didnt mention that before! Where did they come from?" Duh. I havent told you EVERYTHING that happened at the castle. Gawd, my hard drive would explode. If you remember, when Jonathan first arrived, Vlad was with him in their old room, and he took blood then. Well, that hasnt been the only incident. Jonathan has been pale and interesting since his arrival at the castle. :) Rating: NC17 The Year of Our Lord, 1882 The Village Chapel Chapter Eighty-eight - Evacuation Lukas stood, listening alertly to the sound of the carriage driving away. Father Josef was bent over the once-again unconscious Jonathan, examining him anxiously. "Lukas, you should not have been so rough with him! He had already hurt his head. I only hope that he regains his full sensibility when he awakes--IF he awakes." The stewards reply was terse. "Better he died than I allowed him to give himself to that thing, Father. I believe theyve gone." He sat down, rubbing his chin as he looked thoughtful. "But theyll be back. Youd best warn everyone in the village to take extra precautions. Have them do everything they can think of--hang garlic and crucifixes, get you to anoint the door sills and windows with holy water or oil." Father Josef looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you giving me instructions, Lukas?" "I wont be here to help you, Father. One of us is going to have to get this man away from here, and frankly, I dont think youre up to it." "Lukas, are you mad? We mustnt move this young man any farther than the nearest bed. Traveling in even the finest coach would probably be too rough, and to be jounced along in the wagons we have available could well prove fatal." "Dont you understand yet, Father? Death would be preferable to what might await him if he stays here. Youre charged with saving souls, so stop arguing and let me help you with your mission." "But you cant just... just run off with him. You dont even know who his people are." "It wont be hard to find out." He dug his hand into Jonathans pockets. When the priest started to protest he was brushed off with irritation. "Im not robbing him--Im just looking for some evidence of his identity. These English are mad for papers--there should be... here." He extracted Jonathans card case, opened it, and extracted a card. The case was of excellent design--the cards were only slightly damp, and still quite legible. "Jonathan Nicholas Harker, of Hawkins and Thompkins, Solicitors." He squinted at the card, and smiled. "Theres even an address. It will be easy to contact them." Looking into the determined eyes of his steward, Father Josef was suddenly realized that it was Lukas who kept things running smoothly in his parish. Oh, Father Josef attended to all the spiritual matters, but without Lukas, none of the practicalities would be taken care of. And Josef was aware of just how much he deferred to Lukas judgment, when he should, perhaps, have stood firm in his own opinions. But the priest was so tired and confused now that he was not going to go against habit. "What do you intend to do?" "I will borrow the wagon of the innkeeper. He will not mind lending it--and if he does, he will oblige us, all the same." Lukas tone said that the innkeeper would be foolish indeed to not be eager to help. "I must leave immediately, if I am to get him far enough while the sun still rides the sky. You might gather all the blankets and pillows you can, Father, to make his journey more comfortable." Lukas started for the door.

"But where will you take him? I must know." Lukas paused, his hand on the crossbar. "No, Father, you must NOT know. While you would not mean to reveal his sanctuary, there is no way of knowing what means the fiend might use to find him. It is better if you have no information to give. I will say only that it will be no more than a days ride, and he will be secure there, until he is well enough to be sent back to his homeland. I will not return until he is safely off our soil." He smiled a little grimly. "Im sure you can run things without me for a little while." He left, and Father Josef stared after him in dumb astonishment. ~*~*~*~*~*~ They came just after noon. A half-dozen grim faced Rom rode into the village, with Simion leading the way. It was deserted--truly deserted. Doors stood open. There was cold, half-eaten food on plates, hastily smothered embers still glowing on some hearths. A much loved doll lay forlornly in the street, and somewhere a bereft child was crying, being hushed by nervous parents. The group stopped in the small square that held most of the businesses. The horses milled as the men looked about, awaiting instructions. Simion dismounted and went to the inn. He tried the door, and was a little surprised when it opened easily. The dim interior was eerily quiet, except for a liquid, pattering sound. Simion followed it to the bar, and leaned over. The first thing that met his eyes was a red pool of liquid, and for a moment he thought that Draculea might indeed have slipped away and preceded him here. Then he smelled the sharp, fruity scent, and bent farther. He saw the keg sitting below the counter, with its spigot open, and a thin stream of wine dripping down to splash on the floor. Feeling a little relieved, he reached down and twisted the spigot shut. An empty box lay in the pool of spilled wine, a single copper coin beside it. The story was easy to read now. There had been a hasty and frantic evacuation, with the alarmed visitors grabbing nothing but children and valuables before they fled. Simion leaned back, resting one hand on the bar, drumming his fingers. *The rats have deserted the sinking ship. They show more wisdom than I would have expected. Good. Ive lost my taste for torture over the years. But what will I tell Draculea?* "Simion!" The shout from outside startled him, and he hurried out. The Rom, still on their horses, all pointed up the road. Simion directed his gaze, and his eyebrows slowly rose in surprise. The man coming down the road could not be anything other than a priest. He was wearing the traditional long black robe, with a high, white, solid collar. His hands were held before him at chest level, clasped tightly around a crucifix. His expression was apprehensive, but his step was determined. As he watched the man approach, Simion thought, *This would be Father Josef. He doesnt believe--not in Nosferatu, in any case. But he realizes that there is danger here, and still he remained behind. Brave man. Brave, but woefully ignorant.* Simion started out to meet him. Father Josefs resolve quailed when he saw the leader of the group coming toward him. He could see that each of the men from the castle was armed. All of them had huge knives at their belts. One of the horses was nervous, dancing in a circle. As the rider controlled it, his jacket belled out, and Josef saw the gun strapped to his body. He was tempted to turn and run back to the security of the church, bolting himself in, but he fought down the urge. Hed had enough courage to stay behind when the villagers were fleeing--now he prayed for the courage to continue. The priest and Simion met in the middle of the road. They studied each other silently for a long moment, then Simion bowed slightly, keeping his eyes on the other mans face. "We spoke this morning, Father. Or rather your steward spoke for you." The priest inclined his head. "You know why I am here." Josef fought to keep his voice steady. "He is not here." Simions expression hardened. "I feared that, but I hoped you would not be so foolish. Was he fit to travel?" "I did not think so. He was still unconscious when Lukas put him in the wagon and drove him away."

Simion gritted his teeth. "Fools! If he should die..." He took a deep breath. "Priest, in times gone by I would not have come here to try to resolve this. Draculea himself would have ridden down upon your pathetic village, and very likely have wiped it from the face of the earth. It is quite possible that your people would have entered history as another sad example of the folly of denying Vlad Tepes Draculea anything he desires." "It is our Christian duty to protect the helpless..." Simion laughed shortly. "That young man is less in need of your protection than anyone else on earth. Draculea would destroy anyone who meant him harm, and die himself before he hurt the boy." "After what you have said of him, what Lukas and the other villagers have said, how could I believe this?" Simion sneered. "Another who believes that it is only creatures of the light who can love." Simion gestured at the crucifix the man had. "Do you believe in the power of that which you hold?" "I believe in the power that faith lends it." "You may not believe this, but in my life I have served the Church. Long ago I was as faithful in my observances as any of your parishioners. While I have fallen away from the teachings, I still acknowledge the power and spirit behind them." He held out his hand. Josef hesitated. "It is said that the touch of holy objects is as acid to the damned." Simion crooked his fingers. "Believe it or not, priest, there are degrees of damnation." Josef handed over the crucifix. He was not a superstitious man, but still he looked closely to see if the holy object burned or corrupted the flesh it touched. It did not. Simion lifted the crucifix, kissed it, and said formally, "I swear upon the cross of Christ that the Englishman Jonathan Harker need not fear death or injury from myself or any other in the employ of Prince Draculea. I further swear that Draculeas sole desire it to care for and cherish the boy." He handed the cross back to Josef and continued, "Sadly, I must also promise that if I am not told where the young man has been taken, I cannot promise that this village and those who inhabit it will escape the wrath of my master." Josef nodded. "I cannot tell you where he is now--Lukas would tell no one. But I can tell you where he WILL be. Lukas is going to arrange for him to be sent back to his people in England, as soon as he is able to travel." Simion stared at him, and he said, "As God is my witness..." "No need, priest. I can see the truth in your eyes. You would hold back information to protect yourself, but you will not risk the safety of your flock." Simion thought a while longer, then said slowly, "I believe that my master will be too involved in retrieving his love to expend time and energy on punishing those who took him away. I BELIEVE that--for now, at least, you are safe. But I tell you truly that I would advise anyone who intended to come back, even in the future, to consider it carefully. There may come a time when he has more leisure, and remembers old debts." Without another word, Simion turned away from the priest and went to mount his horse. Father Josef watched the group ride off toward the castle, then went back to the rectory to begin packing. He had a feeling that the man had given wise advice. He would send word to the villagers, and as for himself... He thought that a long, devout retreat was called for. ~*~*~*~*~ A novice would have been considered too lacking in discretion to keep the gate at the Little Sisters of the Five Holy Wounds convent. Sister Maria Mercy had been given the responsibility. She was one of the youngest, and most vigorous, of the nuns. When she heard the bell ring, she hurried to the small opening set in the front wall. Unbolting the shutter, she peered out cautiously. She was looking down on the area before the gate. The gatekeeper had a raised vantage point, so that the single lookout would be beyond the reach of anyone seeking admittance. Since their order worked to be of service to travelers in the area, guests WERE admitted, but as a community of women, they were careful about who they allowed in. There was a rough wagon drawn up before the gate, drawn by a single, weary-looking horse. The driver

stood near the bell pull, gazing up at the window. Sister Maria studied him carefully. He looked rough and dirty, but that could be attributed to a long journey. His clothing was respectable, though dusty. When he saw that he had her attention, he bowed respectfully. "Sister, I am Lukas--steward to Father Josef, in Tepeslau. Your order is well known for its kindness to travelers and those in need. Night is fast approaching, and I beg sanctuary." "Traveler, perhaps it would be better if you lodged at the farm that is just down the road." "No, Sister, please! It must be here." "While we do not wish to seem harsh, our hospitality is dedicated to those in greatest need. You are a young and healthy man, and the farmer will be happy to take you in." "I do not ask so much for myself, but for the one in my charge. I have with me a gravely-injured young man, Sister. He needs the protection and care of your holy order." Lukas went back to the wagon, hopping up into the bed. He bent over what Sister Maria had thought to be a pile of sacks, and lifted away the covering blanket. Maria almost gasped. A young man lay unmoving on a pile of blankets. His handsome face was darkened with bruises, and the Sister saw what looked like dried blood clotted in his hair. "Wait! I must have permission, but I will be swift." She slammed the shutter closed and raced across the courtyard, lifting her habit to an indecent level over her knees, in order to avoid tripping. She left startled and shocked sisters in her wake as she raced to the abbess office. Once there she took a moment outside the door to collect herself, then knocked. A quiet voice called enter. Sister Maria entered, hands folded, and eyes properly on the floor. The abbess of the convent, Mother Ruth, looked up from the text she had been studying. "Sister..." she frowned. "Your cheeks are flushed, and your breathing is ragged." Her voice was stern. "If I did not know better, I would think that you had been indulging in unseemly exertion." The nun curtseyed. "Please, Mother, I have urgent news. A traveler seeks hospitality..." "Send him to the nearest farm, Maria. We must be cautious about admitting men." "But Mother, he is not alone. There is another one, and he is injured." Now the abbess looked more interested. "Are you sure, Sister?" "I saw him. Mother, he seems to be unconscious, and he looks as if he has been beaten. I truly believe he needs our help." "Very well." The abbess stood, striding purposefully out to the hall. She caught the attention of a passing novice. "Go tell the sister in the infirmary that we have two guests, one of them badly hurt. I trust her to do all in her power to help the unfortunate creature. Quickly, now." She turned to the gatekeeper. "Will he need help in getting the patient to the infirmary?" "I dont think so, Mother." Sister Maria unconsciously wrinkled her nose. "The driver seems to be a... robust man." "Go let them in." Mother Ruth went to the infirmary, checking to be sure that one of the cells near it was prepared to receive a guest. The man would surely want to stay near his injured friend. She stepped out of the small, bare room just in time to see the arrival of the men. As Sister Maria had said, the healthy one was a large, vigorous man. He was easily carrying his friend. Though the nun had come to regard any man from the outside with caution, she thought that this one might be safe. He had the solid, subdued aura shed come to expect from those who truly respected the Church and its servants. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the other man. She gasped. "Merciful God! That poor creature." The boys guardian looked toward her quickly, and she gestured toward the infirmary. "Hurry. We have a place for him." In moments the patient was stripped and settled into one of the beds in the healing room. The old nun who was in charge of tending the health of the convents population had examined him with never a blush or

shudder, familiarizing herself with all his injuries. "What happened to this boy?" she asked Lukas. "We pulled him from a river. Before that, I cannot say," said Lukas. The old nun looked at him sharply. "Cannot, or will not? There is something very odd here. The worst of his injuries is here." She touched his head gently. The hair was damp, where she had washed away the dirt and blood. "Hopefully he has not cracked his skull. It is well that there is a lump, instead of a depression. How long has it been since he was taken from the river?" "Last night." "Then this is wrong," she said bluntly. "He is far too pale and cold. It is as if he has bled heavily, but I find no wound that could account for it." She eyed Lukas suspiciously. "Has he awakened at all since you found him?" "Yes, Sister. He conversed with good sense soon after we rescued him." "Thats good. If he wakes up again soon, he should be all right. If he does not awaken on his own within the next few minutes, Ill just help him along. Id better check my smelling salts." She bustled away. When she was gone, Lukas looked at Mother Ruth. "You were hesitant to let us in." When the abbess didnt answer, he continued, "I understand. But it is your Christian duty to help and protect those who are in danger. Sister, that young mans danger is more than physical. Are you from this region?" "Yes. My people have lived here for well beyond a century." "Are you familiar with the tales about Tepeslau, and the castle just beyond?" The old nun became very quiet, then said softly, "I am aware. My mothers family lived not far from there." "Then you have heard of... Nosferatu." Lukas reached out and drew down the sheet, tipping Jonathans head gently to the side. He indicated a livid bruise on the side of the young mans throat. Looking closely, one could see two dark, half-healed punctures nearly lost in the purple-red of the bruise. His voice was earnest. "Please, Mother, you must believe me." Mother Ruth closed her eyes, swaying slightly. Eyes still closed, she crossed herself, then took hold of the rosary that hung at her belt. She said softly, "My grandmother lived a long life. She was one of the wisest souls, male or female, holy or lay, that I have ever known. She told me that once, when she was a very, very small girl, she saw the devil ride. That he looked at her with eyes that burned blue, like a candle flame in the presence of the restless dead." She opened her eyes. "Grandmother lived in Tepeslau. You and your friend are welcome here for as long as is necessary. Our entire order will pray for you both." "Bless you, Mother. Tomorrow I will leave him in your gentle care. If all goes well I will return in a few days, with news of how we can return him to his native land, and safety." "Native land? He is not our countryman?" "No, Mother. He is an Englishman, named Jonathan Harker." Lukas, weary, went to his room. The nursing sister returned with a tiny bottle. She uncorked it, and looked at Mother Ruth. "Pray for success, Mother." She held the bottle under Jonathans nose. For a moment there was no reaction. Then the young mans expression wrinkled in distress, and his eyes fluttered open. Mother Ruth leaned over him immediately. "Mister Harker?" "No." His voice was weak. To her astonishment, he spoke Romanian. "I am Nicolae, blessed Sister." The nuns exchanged worried glances. It seemed that his mind was affected. "My head hurts. Where is Vlad? I want..." Mother Ruth took the smelling salts and pressed them closer under his nose, forcing him to inhale more of the acrid fumes. At the same time she said sharply, "Jonathan!" He winces, eyelids fluttering. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at her, bewildered. "Yes, Im Jonathan Harker. What... whats happened?" Mother Ruth handed the smelling salts back to the other nun, then carefully stroked the dark hair back from Jonathans pale forehead. "You have made a wondrous escape, my child. A wondrous escape, and

we shall make sure that you REMAIN safe." end part 88 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Pursuit

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Implied Simion/Rill Rating: Series NC-17, this section R Summary: Draculea makes plans, and Dr. Seward is strangely drawn to Renfield. Archive: Mailing lists Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Warnings: Unethical actions of a care giver. Improper doctor/patient relationship. This is FICTION, folks. Notes: //written// *thoughts* The Rom who took Simions horse had a fresh wound in his neck, and so did the two that he passed in the great hall. This worried Simion a little, but only a little. None of the men seemed physically or emotionally distressed, so the prince must not have gotten more than a few mouthfuls from each, but it had been many years since Draculea had taken sustenance from a human. It had not even been within the lifetime of these men, but service to the prince was hereditary--they had known what might be expected. Vlad knew their worth, and was grateful for their fierce loyalty. In all the long years of their servitude, the Rom had never lost a man to the princes anger, or carelessness. But Draculea had never been so close to achieving his hearts desire. Simion hurried up to Draculeas room. When he entered, the prince was bent to the neck of another Rom. The servants head was thrown back, his teeth bared in a combination of pleasure and pain as his master fed. Simion hesitated, wondering if he should speak. It didnt come to that. After a moment Draculea lifted his head, licking his lips. A thin trickle of blood escaped from the wound, winding its way below the mans frayed collar. Draculea pulled out his fine linen handkerchief and pressed it to the punctures. The servant didnt move, and Draculea said quietly, "It is enough, my good servant." The man shook his head slightly, his eyes clearing. He reached up to take hold of the cloth, and realized what it was. "Dom, I cannot..." Vlad interrupted him, "Your wound was honorably earned. I thank you." Even with his recent loss of blood, the man flushed with pride at Draculeas praise. Bowing, he left the room. Simion knew that the handkerchief would be carefully preserved, and probably passed down to the mans son. Simion stepped further into the room and said, "My heart is heavy with sorrow, my lord." Draculea had turned his back to Simion, and he did not look around. His voice low, he said, "You do not need to tell me, Simion. He is not with you." "The villagers moved swiftly, Domn." "Of course they did. They were protecting an innocent from a fiend." His tone was flat, but dripped with irony. One hand lifted slowly to rest on the heavy, wooden post of the bed. "I would think better of them

if that were all it was, Simion. But I cannot help but think--is it possible that what drives them to such measures is more the desire to deny me that which I so clearly desire?" Something very strange was happening as Draculea spoke. The air in the room seemed charged, as if sparks might leap at any moment, and Vlad was the center of that unseen energy. Then Simion noticed his hair. It hung halfway down the princes back, freed from its customary braid. It had been white for many years. Since Jonathan had come to the castle, and Draculea had resumed taking human blood, Simion had noticed it darken a little, and then it had gone from white to iron gray, with darker strands appearing at his temples. Simion wasnt sure what had been making the change--the nourishment of the body--or the soul. But it had been clear that Draculea was regaining some of the vitality that had slipped away in ennui. As Simion watched in wonder, it seemed that dark ribbons twined through Draculeas hair, streaking from crown to end before his very eyes. In moments the hair was a thick, healthy salt-and-pepper mixture. And his hand... The sleeve of Draculeas robe had slid down, baring his wrist. The wrist was thin, with prominent tendons, and the hand looked almost too big for it. It was a little bony, knuckles swollen, and was mottled by age spots. Now the blemishes faded as the skin, which had been loose and finely wrinkled, like tissue paper, tightened, and smoothed. But it wasnt that the skin was tightening, but that the flesh beneath was firming and filling out. The hand no longer seemed too large for a frail limb. It once again looked strong and capable. The nails, which had been yellowed and curved, like a Mandarins, were once again blunt and no-nonsense. Draculea turned back toward Simion. In that one motion he seemed to grow several inches. Nicolae had known Draculea in his prime. Jonathan Harker had met an elderly man. What stood before Simion now was something in between--a man in vigorous middle age. Nicolae would know him, because he had dreamed of sharing his life with Vlad. It was doubtful that Jonathan would even recognize him as the same man he had known. Simion tried to speak, but his voice failed him. Draculea smiled. "Am I so changed, old friend? I have felt it racing through me. For a long time I have not been at home in this body--my spirit has ridden uncomfortably in my flesh--but now..." He closed his hand into a fist, looking down at it, considering. "I had no reason to go on with this sham of life. Now I do, so life is returning. It is well." Simion nodded. Many men might have turned and left quickly, but Simion knew Draculea, and knew his friend would not think less of him for the tears that slipped down his face. ~*~ Rill awoke to warmth, and he smiled, eyes closed. He burrowed closer against the sturdy body beside him, and felt strong arms tighten around him. "Simion," he murmured. "Yes, sweet boy." Simion stroked Rills hair. "Are you hungry?" "Mm." Simion cradled the back of his head, pulling the boys face to nestle against his throat. He shivered as Rill sniffed him, then licked delicately. He felt the edge of Rills teeth, but not the points of his fangs. There was a brief pinch, then Rill removed Simions hand and sat up. He gazed down at his lover and said, "No, youve given to the prince several times in the last few days." Simion reached up, trailing a hand down Rills cheek. "I am strong, my love." Rill took his wrist, and kissed his palm. "I know. And I know youd let me drain you if I needed it, but I dont need it. Ill visit the stable in a little while." The castle horses had been born and raised here. They had known Nosferatu all their lives, and they were not terrified of them. They would stand quietly if one of the vampires they knew needed a meal. But they still carried faint traces of warhorse bloodlines. Anyone unfamiliar--natural or otherwise--took a risk approaching them. He turned, sitting on the edge of the bed, and said, "You didnt find him." "They had sent him away before we arrived."

Rill looked up at the ceiling, his attitude one of someone listening carefully. Again Simion thought that though Rill was simple by the standards of the world, he had always been gifted with sensitivities that the normal world could never share. Rill turned his head, looking back at him, and his expression was relieved. "The prince... I was afraid for him, if you didnt bring Jonathan back. But he... he hasnt fallen back into despair." "No." Simion moved up behind Rill, putting his arms around the boys waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. "I feared that, Rill. I wouldnt have credited it, but it seems to have revitalized him." "He has something to strive for now," said Rill. "Hes going to go find Jonathan." "Yes, he is. We dont know where he is right now, but we know where he will be taken. They are sure to return him to England. Before I came to bed, I sent letters to his Jonathans firm in England, authorizing purchase of several of the properties. Some are in London, near where he worked. One is near where his fiance is staying. They will bring him to one of those places. My guess is the country. I have seen his letters. His Mina stays with a wealthy friend--a lady. She will wish to have him near, so that she can care for him." Rill muttered, "The prince wont like that." Simion smiled against his back. "No, he wont. He wishes for Jonathan to receive the gentlest care, but not from one who has the boldness to think of him as her own." "He shouldnt be jealous. Jonathan thinks he loves her..." he frowned. "No, that isnt right. He thinks he SHOULD love her. But part of him knows who he belongs to." Rill turned back to Simion, embracing him. "Simion, Robert is in England." "Yes." "I know that the prince will go to England to find Jonathan. Could I go, too, and look for Robert?" "Rill, this will be a long trip, and there will be risks. The prince will not have time to look for Robert." "I know, thats why I want to go. I can look for him, while you and the prince look for Jonathan." "Alone?" The idea horrified Simion. Rill had been sheltered during his unlife, never without protection. "I can stay close to you and the prince, but explore on my own." He turned in Simions arms, embracing him. "It isnt right, what happened to Robert. Im not mad at the prince--he didnt mean for Robert to be hurt. But it happened, and hes alone now. Please, Simion. Hes my friend." "Ill ask him, Rill, but it must be his decision." "I understand. Tell him I wont be a bother. Im strong, and fast. I wont hold him back." "I know, Rill. Youve never been any trouble." "I want this, Simion." Rill looked into his eyes, his expression serious. He wasnt wheedling or coaxing, he was expressing a direct, sincere desire. "He needs me. I can take care of him." Simion felt his heart swell. With all the abuse and exploitation he had experienced in his youth, Rill had developed a love for all things vulnerable. He was the gentle champion of kittens; he nursed the stoic Rom when they were injured. Simion still remembered his wistful tenderness with the baby that Sinn had rescued from the witch so long ago. While Rill had no doubt that Simion loved him, he knew that Simion didnt NEED him--not in a practical sense. Renfield was a different matter. The Englishman had never been strong--physically or emotionally, and now he was broken. Rill was right--he needed SOMEONE. He needed to be cherished, not just provided with the basic necessities of life. Simion had a feeling that he wasnt likely to get what he needed in England. "Ill do what I can, Rill." Rill smiled brightly, then clapped his hands. "Im going to England!" Simion laughed, but it was a little rueful. What a wonderful and terrible thing it was to be trusted. ~*~ From the Journal of Dr. Jack Seward //Renfield has quickly become my most fascinating case. The mans delusions are elaborate--bordering on

the baroque. Just when I think I have plumbed the depths of his madness, a new layer of fantasy is revealed. Now he believes that he is communicating with someone in Transylvania--the country where he experienced his breakdown.// //I have encountered many patients who believe that they have communication with God, the Devil, or demons and angels. Some patients complain of being bothered by the voices of mysterious others--unseen people who whisper to them.// //The odd thing is that these communications do not distress Renfield. After that one incident in my office, he has been much calmer.// Jack Seward put down his pen and took a sip of brandy. Calm, yes--but still far from sane. Despite his best efforts, the man still continued with his disgusting ingestion of every insect or spider he could capture. And the warders told him that they had confiscated a mouse from him. Renfield had protested vehemently that it was a pet, and indeed, the little creature had been remarkably plump. Jack had seen asylum mice before, and they tended to be tiny, scrawny creatures. Jack had asked Renfield if perhaps he had been fattening the little beast. The man had become sullen, then smiled slyly and said that it was all right--mice and rats were all right. Even the master ate those. Seward closed his eyes, remembering that smile. It had been almost feral, but there was a bright, disturbing intelligence behind it. That was frightening--the thought of an intelligent madman. He was fairly certain that Renfield was no danger to anyone, save possibly himself, but there was always a chance. Seward had begun to wonder if he was justified in spending so much of his time with this particular patient. But Renfield was such a fascinating case... *Hell, no ones here to see, so why not admit it? My interest went beyond clinical a long time ago. Its personal.* Seward dealt with the intricacies of the mind. He had admitted to himself long ago that, while his preference was for women, he could occasionally consider a man with sensual appreciation. But why Renfield? Lord knows he wasnt the most physically beautiful man hed ever met. He was small and pale, slender almost to the point of delicacy. His face was all points, and angles, and big, dark eyes. The eyes... That was part of it. The eyes of his patients were most often clouded by confusion, or empty of any real spark of awareness. Renfields eyes showed so much more. They were by turns wounded, thoughtful, and amused. Perhaps it was the amusement that intrigued Seward the most. What in Gods name could the man find amusing in his grim situation? Sometimes Jack suspected that HE was the cause of Renfields secret mirth--that the little man looked upon Sewards attempts to analyze him, and found him ridiculous. Perhaps it wasnt so strange that he found Renfield attractive. After all, he loved Lucy, and SHE found him ridiculous. Oh, she was always sweet, when she could be bothered. When there was no one more interesting around. And every time he was ready to pack it in, to finally admit to himself that loving her was hopeless, she would once again turn her teasing attention his way, and he would be captured again. A deeply buried part of himself realized that this was a game to her--that she would keep him on her string for as long as she could, while searching for someone more suited to her taste--and then he would be cut adrift. No, hed never have Lucy. He drained his brandy, and poured another. He wasnt sure exactly how much he drank--more than was usual, more than was good for him. He wasnt even aware that he was drunk till he found himself walking across the main floor, bouncing the master ring of keys in his palm. The warder who was patrolling the upper level paused and looked over the rail, watching the doctor. Seward stopped before one door and stood staring at it, swaying slightly. This was curious. Seward did not make night visits to the inmates, not unless he was called for some emergency. Then Seward shifted, one hand ghosting down, rubbing his thigh, and the warder smiled. So, that was how it was. The doctor dismissed those two for interfering with the inmates, and now he was

going to have a bit of sport himself. Ah, well--he wouldnt be rough with the poor creatures, like those others had, so where was the harm? He turned away and resumed his rounds. ~*~ He stopped before Renfields cell, and hadnt he somehow known that this was his destination? He just stood, looking at the blank door, with its shuttered window. He tried to will himself to turn around and go back to his rooms. A dose of laudanum would take away these tangled feelings. Then he heard the whisper from the other side. "Why are you waiting, Doctor?" Jack blinked. *How did he know? How did he even know anyone was here, much less that it was I?* Then he shook his head slightly. *A guess. He might be insane, but hes still clever.* "Please, do come in. Id admit you myself, but..." He chuckled, and Seward felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Still, he fitted the key into the lock. The cell was dimly lit by the moonlight that streamed through the bars of the open window. Renfield, dressed in the rough nightshirt that was given to all patients, male or female, was sitting on the edge of his cot. His hands were folded neatly in his lap. He smiled cordially, and aside from his attire, and the glitter of his eyes, he might be any man sitting in his own front parlor, receiving a guest. "Im afraid that I cant turn up the lights--no gas, you know. And no lamp, or candles." He chuckled again, and Seward could hear the undercurrent of madness below the jovial sound. "Id complain about the accommodations, but when I consider the fact that I pay no rent or board, it hardly seems grateful. In any case, Im afraid," he gestured toward the window, "youll have to make do with ambient light." He quirked an eyebrow. "Unless youd like to leave the door open?" Seward stepped into the room, shutting and locking the door behind himself. "No, I thought not." Seward slipped the keys into his pocket. Renfield patted the mattress beside him. "Please have a seat. Im afraid that this is the best I can offer you." He dipped his chin and looked up at Seward, murmuring, "I know it seems terribly familiar, but what can one do?" Seward lowered himself to sit beside Renfield, and Robert said, "Now, then. How lovely to have an unlooked-for visitor. To what do I owe this pleasure?" "I... I just came to see..." "Yes?" "I thought Id check to be sure the bad dreams hadnt come back." Renfield had been troubled, off and on, by hideous dreams, nightmares that brought him awake screaming and crying. They had become fewer within the last several days. "Ah, the nightmares. No, not for the last two nights." Renfield propped his elbows on his knees, then his chin in his hands. He glanced sideways at Seward. "Ive had dreams, yes." He smiled, and Seward was shocked to see the tip of his tongue peep between his teeth. "But not unpleasant ones--oh, my, no. Would you like to hear about them?" Seward was silent. "Thats part of your profession, isnt it?" Seward cleared his throat. "If it will help you." "Its a very simple dream. Im here, in my own little room, and its night, just like it is now. So dark, so quiet. And then someone is outside my door. I dont know who it is, but Im lonely, so I ask them in. Some visitors must be invited in. Theyre either too shy to take the initiative, or..." His voice faded, and for a moment his eyes were unfocused, his gaze far away, "or they cant, for some reason." Just as suddenly he was back. "I invite, and he accepts. He comes and sits beside me." "Who is this visitor?" Seward could scarcely recognize his own voice. It sounded thick. "I dont know," said Renfield pensively. "Hes a stranger to me." He lowered his lashes. "But a handsome one. I can tell that he wants something, but he wont say what it is. Maybe he CANT say it. Ive never been able to. Then I realize what it is. Hes hard, you see. Like this." Seward felt frozen as Renfield lifted his gown up around his waist. Robert was aroused, his rigid member jutting between his spread thighs. Seward tried to avert his eyes, but found that he couldnt. He watched,

fascinated, as a clear drop of fluid welled up from the slit at the tip. Then Renfields hands were at his fly, undoing the buttons. Seward grabbed his wrists, and Renfield said quietly, "But doctor, dont you want to know the rest of the dream?" Sewards hold loosened. Damn it, he DID want to know the rest. Renfield turned his hands, taking hold of Sewards own hands, and moving them to his side. Then he went back to opening Sewards trousers. "As I was saying, hes hard, and I know that hes come for me." "Are you afraid?" Renfields smile was soft. "Oh, no, no. I know hes going to be gentle with me--not like the others. He wont strike, or bite. He wont make me... make me do the same. I dont like that. I only want to give pleasure, and the other two havent let me. But he will." Roberts hand slipped inside the gap hed created, and Seward closed his eyes as soft, warm fingers found his heated flesh. Robert was whispering as he bared Sewards cock. "You see, I cant have the one I want. I realize that. I never really thought that I would, I never dared hope that high. No, I cant have him," Renfields hand curled around Sewards staff, stroking slowly, and Jack bit back a moan. "But my dream visitor... Yes, I can have him. Or rather, he can have me. I think hell be kind." Renfields hand moved slowly, his thumb rubbing at the damp head. The madmans voice was low and seductive, and Seward wondered vaguely if he was being hypnotized. The cold, clinical voice in the back of his mind scoffed at this. *Nothing so scientific, Seward. Youre just drunk, and lust-dazed.* Renfield was masturbating as he caressed Seward, and it WAS a caress--his touch almost tender. Then Sewards eyes snapped open as he felt a warm breeze ghost across his cock. He looked down to see Renfield bent over his lap, lips pursed. "What are you doing?" Seward wasnt a virgin, but hed never been with anyone but prostitutes, or the asylum laundresses. These women were quick and efficient, bringing him to erection with their hands, and letting him find completion with a few quick jabs in their slick flesh. Their mouths... There had been a kiss or two, but it had been perfunctory. Theyd never offered more, and hed never dared suggest it, though he HAD wondered. "Im showing you. He tastes me--like this." Renfields tongue crept out and swiped, almost shyly across Sewards glans. The bigger man shivered at the sensation, groaning deep in his throat. "I think he finds me sweet, because he does it again." Renfield repeated the action, his agile tongue curling around Sewards cockhead. "Im leaking, and he treats it like nectar." The tip of Renfields tongue flicked into Sewards slit. When it passed, a heavy bead of clear fluid oozed out, spreading in the saliva that Renfield had left. Renfield lapped softly several times, then whispered, "He treats me like a sweetmeat." He slipped the head between his lips, sucking. "Oh, God," Seward moaned, letting his head fall back against the wall as Renfield slowly devoured him. There was no hurry in Renfields courtship, no furtiveness. He licked and sucked with deliberate relish, pausing now and then to inform Seward of what he was going to do next, holding the rigid, spit-slick penis against his cheek as he spoke. At first Seward might have told himself that he was only allowing Renfield to have his way in order to get an insight into the mans illness. But when Renfield rummaged deeper in the doctors trousers, talking about how his dream lover had moved down to lavish attention on his stones, Seward had found himself eagerly spreading his legs to give him better access. Soon the hot, soft mouth was sucking and plucking at the velvet soft skin of his testicles. A scrape of teeth sent a bolt of terror up Sewards spine--but he didnt wilt. It was immediately soothed with lavish licks, and then one of his balls was actually drawn into the hot cavern of Renfields mouth, while the lunatics hand moved strongly on his straining cock. Renfields voice was breathless. "And when he could feel that I was close, he took me fully." Renfields head dropped, and Seward cried out as he was engulfed from tip to root. Renfields hand tightened on his

balls, nails pricking lightly, and he worked his throat muscles. Seward gasped deeply, thrusting even deeper, feeling the little man choke. But Renfield didnt pull back. He held tight, sucking strongly. Seward felt as if he were dissolving as his climax washed over him. His seed burst out, thick and strong, and Renfield swallowed greedily, drinking it down. Seward didnt quite lose his senses, but for a moment he wasnt really aware of what was going on. When he came back, Renfield had allowed his softening cock to slip free. Now he was cleaning it with short, lazy licks, removing every drop of semen, his fingers kneading at Sewards thighs, almost like a contented cat. Seward noticed that his partner must have found his own release. Renfields cock was only half hard now, drooping down, and there was a new, glistening puddle on the floor before him. Seward felt suddenly sober, and cold. He was sitting in a cell at an asylum, trousers open, with a lunatic obscenely caressing him. He shoved Renfield away, and the little man fell back, boneless. He didnt seem offended, though. He stretched, then pulled down his gown as Seward stood and swiftly made himself decent again. Renfields voice was complacent. "And then he goes away. Hes gotten what he needed, you see. But I think hell be back." "No." Sewards voice was shaking as much as his hands. Renfield shrugged, but he didnt look convinced. Seward went to the door, but turned and looked back at Renfield, and said simply, "Why?" Robert propped himself up on his elbow, and his gaze was direct, with no hint of pretense. "Because blood isnt the only fluid that carries the essence of life." He smiled, and licked his lips. Seward shuddered, and suddenly recalled Renfields hands wandering over his body. He dug frantically in his pocket, and felt a burst of relief when his fingers closed around the keys. The relief seeped away when Renfield giggled and said, "No, I didnt pick your pocket. Why should I steal your keys?" He lay down, closing his eyes. "After all, theyll be coming for me soon..." end part 89 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 90: Chapter 90 - Homeward Bound

Authors Notes: Notes: Since the first telephone directory was issued in England in January of 1880, Im assuming that by 1892 it would not have been unreasonable for a well-to-do legal partnership (and the partners privately) to have telephones. I expect they still made the less sophisticated servants very nervous, though. :) The Year of Our Lord 1892 Hawkins and Thompkins, Atts. At Law London, England Chapter Ninety: Homeward Bound Corliss was unlocking the front door when the messenger approached. "Ive a telegram here for either Hawkins or Thompkins," he said. Corliss grimaced. "At this time of the morning? Good lord, you dont expect their nibs to be in, do you? Well be lucky if they roll in by nine or ten."

"I cant hang about till then," the boy protested. "Im paid by the number of runs I make." Corliss held out his hand. "Then give it over." The boy clutched the envelope to his chest. "Are you either of them?" "If I was a posh partner, do you think Id be opening up the shop at the crack of dawn? Look, I handle all the correspondence that comes here." He smirked. "If youd come when they were here, I promise you that youd be cooling your heels down here for an hour or two till they felt like seeing you." He crooked his fingers. "When I give it to them, Ill tell them you just dropped it off." The boy hesitated. Corliss expression hardened. "Look, you--dyou think we receptionists dont talk to each other? I can see to it that any time you have a message to deliver within a five block range, youll be kept waiting." The boy reluctantly handed over the envelope, and said hopefully, "Tip?" Corliss snorted. "Dont make me laugh." He went in, and the boy spat on the sidewalk, muttering, "With that sour face Id wager that a month of Sundays at the best music hall in London wouldnt raise a smile." Corliss locked the door behind himself, and went directly into the small supply closet near his desk. The clerks would begin arriving soon. Theyd expect to see him at his desk, attending to various bits of paperwork and correspondence, but he felt it would be prudent if he were not seen reading a telegram directly addressed to the partners. He slit the envelope with a pocketknife and pulled out the message. //British Embassy Budapest Dear Sirs: Have information your representative. Harker injured in possible attack Castle Draculea. Possible connection with previous Renfield incident. Details sketchy. Please contact soonest as to arrangements for Harker return.// "Bloody hell," Corliss muttered. Theyd recently installed one of those new telephone instruments, and he stared at it for a long moment. The senior partners didnt like to be bothered at home except for the most important emergencies. He had to consider whether or not this would be considered an emergency. Jonathan was, after all, simply an employee. But then, the partners had been very jovial about resent correspondence from Prince Draculea confirming large purchases of real estate, and the prince had been very complimentary about young Harker. That might favorably dispose the partners toward him. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then went out to his desk. Considering this to be an emergency would be a good explanation for why he had opened the message in the first place. As he reached for the telephone, his mind was racing. *Isnt this just marvelous? Two of the fair-haired boys in a row. Maybe Ill finally get my chance to move up in the ranks.* ~*~*~*~*~*~ An hour later both Hawkins and Thompkins were in Randal Thompkins office. Such an early arrival was unusual enough to cause a buzz of gossip among the staff. Clarence Hawkins studied the telegram, then said, "Well, if this isnt the most blasted run of bad luck Ive ever heard of. Perhaps the folklore is true, and that area is cursed." "Dont talk nonsense," scoffed Thompkins. "Its still almost wilderness out there, so theres bound to be more risk involved in traveling." "But neither of these incidents occurred while the men were on the road. Both took place once they were lodged at Castle Draculea." Thompkins stared at his partner, then said softly, "Clarence, need I remind you that we have just made a very sizeable commission off Prince Draculea? Its not very sensible to go tossing speculation about. There are no details. Its entirely possible that both Renfield and Harker were attacked while wandering

the countryside near the castle." "Do you think thats likely?" "It might not be probable, but it is possible. The embassy doesnt seem to think that theres cause for any intense investigation, and who are we to second guess them?" "Were the ones who sent a second man into a situation that we already knew might be dangerous." "Come, now. We couldnt know..." "Dont try to disclaim knowledge with me, Randal. Im a lawyer, too, and though perhaps--perhaps--we couldnt be held legally accountable, we are ethically at fault, and you know it. We were aware that something was very wrong in Transylvania, but we let our greed overwhelm our caution, and we sent young Harker. Now hes been injured--not badly, I hope to God. The very least we can do is see that hes quickly, safely, and comfortably returned to his family. Then we can begin praying that they dont decide to sue us." "I suppose it would be the decent thing to do. But I believe the boy was estranged from his father. Do you think hell be willing to take care of him, or are we going to be forced to pay for his stay at an invalid home, as well as footing the bill for Renfields asylum stay?" "Your generosity is so touching. His father might make difficulties. It would be better if we could turn him over to someone else." "Well, first things first. Well wire funds, and instructions for them to send him back as quickly as possible. They ought to be able to supply someone to care for him on the trip over." He went to the speaking tube on the wall and turned a knob. A small buzzer went off downstairs, and a moment later he heard Corliss voice through the tube. "Yes, sir?" "Ill need to send a message to Jonathan Harkers next-of-kin. Get his records." "I took the initiative of doing that, sir. I have them right here." The partners exchanged looks. Corliss didnt bother to be subtle about his ambition. "You have his fathers address?" "Um... no, sir. Actually, in the spot for whom to contact in case of emergency, he has listed Miss Wilhelmina Murray, his fiancee." "Really? Come up. I need to dictate a telegram to Miss Murray." He shut the speaker tube. "This could work out to our advantage. Women are much less likely to make difficulties." He smiled coldly. "And if shes going to be marrying him, well, she ought to be willing--even eager--to take up the responsibility." ~*~*~*~*~*~ Little Sisters of the Five Holy Wounds Convent Transylvania Lukas had left the morning after bringing Jonathan, promising the abbess that he would return for him as quickly as possible. That had been two days ago. At first Jonathan had slept most of the time, and his waking moments had still been vague. But now he was much more aware, and lucid enough to be dreadfully confused by his situation. "I dont understand whats happened, Mother," he said to the abbess as she sat beside his bed the first day. "I remember being very, very afraid. Someone was chasing me--someone very terrible. You know, I didnt think it was possible to fear anything more than death, and it wasnt exactly death that was threatened. But whatever it was seemed so much worse than death." More came to him later. "It was Rock who frightened me so. Hes the companion of the man I was sent to--Prince Draculea. He... Im certain hes mad." "Draculea?" This seemed to startle, even shock Jonathan. "Why, no. The prince was a bit eccentric, but he treated me with nothing but courtesy and kindness. I cant understand why hed have someone like Rock in his household. The man is obviously unbalanced. It still isnt very clear, but I know that he attacked me, and I

ran from him." Jonathan nodded, wincing at a fresh ache in his bandaged head. "I fled to the roof of the castle. I think I fell over the edge trying to escape him. The funny thing is, right before I fell, I had a sense of safety, as if someone was coming to my rescue." He tried to concentrate, but that made his head hurt even more. "I dont know. Perhaps it was Simion. He seemed very competent. It couldnt have been the prince. Though Im sure he has a brave heart, hes an elderly man--much too fragile. Sister, Im worried. I need to get word back to the prince that Im all right." The nun patted his hand gently. "Youre not to worry about that now, young man," she said soothingly. "But he may well think me dead, and I dont want to distress him any more than is necessary." Jonathan looked up curiously as a burley man entered the room. He was the first male hed seen since hed awakened in the infirmary. Mother Ruth said, "Ah, Lukas. You have made a speedy journey." "God leant me speed, Mother." He studied Jonathan. "Youre much improved, Englishman. Do you know me?" "No. Im sorry." Lukas shrugged. "There is no reason why you should remember me. You might have been awake, but you were far from aware. I was with the good priest when he found you, and I carried you to the church. I have been making arrangements to send you back to your homeland." Jonathan felt relieved. "Thank you, sir. It will be good to go home. But I think that first I should go back to the castle and speak to the prince. He was so kind to me. And Rill... Rill might not understand..." "There is no need. I went there first, and spoke to the prince. I told him you were injured, but doing well. I told him what I planned to do to see you home, and he gave his blessing on the plans. He offered to do anything needed to ease the way." Jonathan relaxed slightly. "And Rill? Did you speak to Rill?" "He was sad that he couldnt speak to you again, but he understood that it would be best for you to return home as quickly as possible. I have visited your embassy. They contacted your employers, and they will provide funds for your transportation. Since it is not safe for you to travel alone, I will accompany you. We will leave early tomorrow." "Then he should rest," said Mother Ruth. She stood. "Come, Lukas. I will take you to your room. Sleep, Jonathan." They stepped out into the hall. As they walked, Ruth said softly, "You made no trip to Castle Draculea." He shook his head. "Lukas, I fear that you should visit a priest soon for confession. Lying is a grave sin." "True, Mother. Im lucky that the good Lord offers forgiveness through penance. I will have to work hard to come up with true repentance, though." She shook her head. "Add to your list of sins tempting others to sin. Now I will have to confess a sin of omission for not telling the boy what you have done. However," the continued walking, "The father is not due here till another two days, and I dont think Ill be calling him in early." ~*~*~*~ Jonathan was able to walk when it was time to leave the next morning. Jonathans employers were perhaps feeling a bit guilty over having a second employee come to harm on a trip on their behalf. They had provided a carriage that had been carefully fitted to make transportation of an invalid as comfortable as was possible. A platform with a raised edge, comfortably padded, had been fixed inside the carriage, so that Jonathan could recline during the trip. The journey wasnt as long as it might have been. It had been decided that they would leave from the closest seaport, rather than driving to one of the larger harbors. It was evening when they arrived, so Lukas checked them into a small inn. Their ship would be sailing early the next morning. The captain had told Lukas that they were welcome to sleep on board, but the porter had declined. He felt sure that there was no way he could make himself and his charge secure on the boat. In fact, he would

have preferred to spend the night in a church, or rectory, but by the time they arrived there was no time to make arrangements. Sunset was almost upon them, and Lukas would not risk being outside a secured place for one moment after the sun went down. It was probable that the Nosferatu had no idea of where they were, but it would be unwise to take chances. Once he had Jonathan in bed, he quickly prepared the room. Jonathan watched in bewilderment as his escort chalked crosses above the door, and on the window frames. He leaned out the window and drew crosses on the shutters before closing and latching them. Then he hung a string of pungent smelling bulbs so that they hung against the glass, before drawing the curtains. "Are those onions?" Jonathan asked. "Garlic," Lukas corrected him. "From the garden of the blessed sisters." He hung another string on the doorknob. "It keeps away troubled spirits." "Thats superstition," said Jonathan mildly. Lukas shrugged. "If it is, it does no harm. Troubled spirits bring bad luck, and youve had enough bad luck, eh? Why take chances?" He pulled a small vial from his pocket, uncorked it, and dribbled the fluid carefully along the doorsill, muttering under his breath. "And what is that?" asked Jonathan. Only half jokingly he said, "Dew gathered from a fairy ring, under a full moon?" "Only holy water." "What?" Jonathan sat up abruptly. "Stop that! Its blasphemous." Lukas resealed the vial, replacing it in his pocket. "Calling on something holy for protection is never blasphemous, sir," Lukas assured him. "Look, I dont have a problem with the garlic, but the crosses, and now this... It makes me very uncomfortable." "Im sorry for that," said Lukas quietly. He sat on the other bed and regarded Jonathan calmly. "But you see, Mister Harker--youve become something of a crusade for me. My family has lived in Tepeslau for generations. There are things... Stories that I half-heard when I was a child. Theyd never speak of some things before me, but the adults would talk among themselves when they thought I was asleep. I only caught vague bits and pieces, but Im sure of one thing: whatever drove you from Castle Draculea has had dealings with my family long, long ago, and nothing was ever done about it. Im not going to let whatever or whoever it is triumph this time. You are going to be saved, Mister Harker." His eyes glittered, and Jonathan felt a twinge of apprehension. They were the eyes of a zealot. "Yes, you will be saved, despite yourself, if necessary." end part 90 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 91: Chapter 91 - Journey, Part I

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Status: Wip Archive: Only at lists sent to Summary: Two journeys begin Notes: Since the first telephone directory was issued in England in January of 1880, Im assuming that by 1892 it would not have been unreasonable for a well-to-do legal partnership (and the partners privately) to have telephones. I expect they still made the less sophisticated servants very nervous, though. :)

Rating: PG Notes: Character is another word for references or resume. Right about now there may begin to be major plot differences between any movie or book version you are familiar with. Writing me with You were wrong--in the movie it was--- will be totally fruitless. Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-one The Year of Our Lord 1892 Western Port, Transylvania Chapter Ninety-one - Journey, Part I "You understand why you are going on board in your box, Rill? You see why it is best that the crew does not know that you, Sinn, and the master are on board?" asked Simion. They stood a little distance from a guttering gas lamp, near the dock where The Celestine, the ship that would take them to England, was berthed. Beside them the Rom were unloading narrow, long boxes from the back of a wagon, while the horses stamped restlessly. Most of the boxes were sensibly nailed shut, but three of them had hinged lids, and were latched. Rills arms were crossed--a sure sign of displeasure, but he said, "Yes, Simion, I know. I remember when we used to travel before. I understand, but it doesnt mean I like it. Theres at least an hour before the sun rises. Id rather go on board, and get in the box just before dawn, but if we really need to keep secret from the crew, Ill do it." The boys tone was grumbling. Simion kissed his forehead. "Im sorry, Rill, but thats the way it must be. Id rather have you in my cabin, but its just too dangerous. You should be able to sleep safely down in the hold. And the nights will be very dark, since the moon is no more than a thin sliver now. You should be able to come on deck without much risk of being seen." "Im sure the prince can. Ive seen him walk right past one of the Rom, and the man never even blinked, but Im not as good at that as he is. Im better with animals, and Sinn is better with people." Simion frowned. "Yes, thats why the prince is bringing him along, too. I would have been easier if hed been left behind. I dont like to think of the sort of mischief he can get up to among the warm blooded." "Im sure hell be good," said Rill, his voice hopeful. Simion patted his back, nodding, and though, *Hell try, because he knows what Draculea will do to him if he spoils his chance to get Jonathan back. But Sinn was a predator of sorts long before that idiot Rock turned him. I dont know if hell be able to resist all those flawed and vulnerable people out there. I just hope that he keeps his games less than lethal.* Sinn strolled up to them. His elegant traveling suit was a little rumpled, and he straightened it meticulously, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully blotted his mouth, removing a trace of red. Simion said, "Were leaving in a few minutes. I thought wed have to leave you behind." "Oh, no, mon ami. Im not about to miss this trip, but I thought it wise to take a meal before we embarked. Sea air has always given me an appetite." When Rill frowned, Sinn pinched his cheek. "Do not be displeased, cheri. He was a nasty bit of work. The barman at the tavern told me this one could supply me with the sweetest little girls and boys for whatever my interests. The world is well off without him." He glanced at Simion. "And I have been discreet. I should be very surprised if anyone finds him for two or three days, considering the stink already generated by the refuse in that alley." He sighed, eyeing the boxes. "Mon Dieu, I hate those things. I wouldnt mind a proper casket so much, but I always end up with a tear in my garments when I lie in one of those. Ah, well--what cannot be helped must be endured." He gestured to one of the Rom, who lifted the lid of one of the boxes. "I think I will go on and have a lie down." He patted his flat stomach. "A full belly makes me drowsy." There was a thin pad on the bottom of the crate, covering a layer of dark, dry earth. Sinn stepped into the

crate and settled down, stretching out. It was a comfortable fit, since he was not a large man. He folded his hands on his belly and nodded at the gypsy holding the lid. As it was put in place he yawned, closing his eyes. Simion fitted a lock in the hasp, closing it firmly, then looked at Rill. "Its time you did the same." "But what about the prince?" Rill asked anxiously. "You neednt worry about Draculea," said Simion. "Hes taken care of himself for a long, long time." "And Ive had Simion to take care of me most of that time." Rill looked eagerly toward the familiar voice as Draculea stepped out of a nearby alleyway, into the light. Rill put a hand to his throat, eyes soft and wondering as his mind went back to the night, so long ago, when hed first seen Draculea. Hed been sitting by the fire in that low tavern in Budapest, waiting dully for Rock to bring him another gentleman. Then the door had opened, seeming to let in the night. Greater darkness flowed into the dim room, a tall, black figure stalking toward him--and then Draculea had stepped into the light. Rill counted that moment as the beginning of his life. Over the years hed sadly watched the great mans decline, and now... Now he was just as he had been then--tall, strong, and beautiful. But this time his eyes were different. Then there had been a shadow of sadness. Now they burned with life, and determination, and Rill knew why. Then he had lost his love, and now he was going to him. Draculea came to them, and rubbed Rills head. "But I wont tell you not to worry about me--thats your nature, after all. Now, into your box, child." With no more protest Rill settled into the box that had been prepared for him. Before he lay down he looped his arms around Simions neck and gave him a kiss. "Youll come down and see me? I wont see you, but sometimes I can feel you there." "Yes, my love. And I will be beside you when you awaken. The voyage will be short. Only three sleeps, if the weather remains fine." "And I wont have to stay in the box all the time?" "Of course not! But you must not come out unless I am there. These sailors are a surly lot, and theyll think you a stow away." He patted the box. "They wont know that youre legitimate cargo." Rill laughed and lay down. He gave Simion a little wave as the lid was lowered into place. Simion latched the lid and nodded to the Rom, who lifted the box and carried it toward the ship. Simion gazed after it, and felt Draculeas hand on his shoulder. "Hell be all right," said the prince. "Rill is a good traveler." "I know." Simion was silent for a moment, watching as the crate was carried up the ramp to the ships deck. "Have I ever thanked you for him, my lord?" "Perhaps not in so many words, old friend." "Then I do so now. He has made me understand your pain a little better, I think. I find it hard sometimes to believe that there is a just God. I think if there was, Rill would have lived a long life of no pain and simple joys, and then died and gone to an even better place, long ago. But if that had happened, I never would have known him. Im left in the odd position of being both glad, and outraged, that God seems to have neglected him." "He didnt neglect him, Simion. The Devil was let loose in the world long before our time, and the innocent suffer--thats just the way it is. But we were sent to him, and hes been happy with us." "May I confess to you, domn? I want to bring back Jonathan for him almost as much as for you. And Id like to find Renfield again, too." He smiled. "Rill and I cant have children together, of course, but caring for the weak is so much a part of Rill. You saw how he was with the baby that Sinn brought to us. That child would have eventually grown, aged, and died. But Renfield..." He looked at Draculea. "It neednt be like that with Renfield." It was more of a question than a statement.

Draculea smiled at him. "Our household has recently decreased by one. I see no reason why we shouldnt take in someone else who could fit in so well. Well see. Well, after pushing Rill to not delay, Id best follow my own directive." A third box was opened, and Draculea climbed in. He was a big man, and he fitted more snuggly in the box than the other two had. He gazed up at Simion and said, "Bring one of the Rom down with you this evening. I think it best that we stay below at least the first night." "As you say." Simion himself closed the box, carefully locking the lid down. Then he nodded to the Rom, who had just returned from the ship. They hefted the box and carried it toward The Celestine, with Simion pacing them. *Three days,* he thought. *As long as hes lived, it should seem like no more than a flicker. But he knows that Jonathan is on the other side of this journey. I have a feeling that its going to seem almost endless to him." ~*~*~*~*~*~ The Westenra Estate Outside of London Lucy came into the dining room, yawning daintily. "Ill have you know, Mina, that you are the only person for whom I will rise at the crack of dawn." Amused, Mina looked up from her plate. "Lucy, its gone eight oclock. Your father breakfasted an hour ago, and has gone for a ride." Lucy sat across from her and took a piece of toast from the rack in the center. She spread it thickly with butter, then reached for the marmalade. "Anything before ten oclock is the crack of dawn, Mina. Be mother--pour me a cup of chocolate." Mina took up the chocolate pot and poured out a cup of thick, fragrant chocolate, then picked up the cup and saucer and offered it to her friend. Lucy took it, and Mina took up the newspaper folded by her plate. She watched at Mina dropped a couple of sugar lumps into her cup. "Lucy! Youll give yourself diabetes." "Nonsense. Im frighteningly healthy." She munched her toast hungrily. "You have no idea how hard it is to keep the men convinced of my fragility." The butler came in. He was carrying several envelopes and a letter opener on a small, silver tray. He offered it to Lucy. "The morning mail, Miss Lucy." "Mm, drat," she mumbled around a mouthful of toast. She swallowed, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and took the envelopes. "Shall I wait for replies, Miss?" "What? Oh, no. No, of course not. Im not going to snatch up paper and pen and dash off replies now." She took the letter opener, then made flicking motions at him with it, "Ill let you know later." The butler gave her a shallow bow and left the room, thinking that it was a shame that employers werent required to have references. Hed have had an interesting thing or two to write in Miss Lucys character. "Anything interesting?" asked Mina. "Oh, its the usual lot of invitations and duty notes thanking Papa and I for visits they paid us. Oh. Mina, heres one for you, and its not from Jonathan, or your mother." Mina put down the paper, interested, and reached for it. "Its from a law firm. Mina, what HAVE you been up to?" Mina read the outside of the envelope. "Its from Jonathans employers." She accepted the letter opener from Lucy and slit the envelope open. Lucy saw her friends apprehension and said, "Perhaps Jonathan has had a great triumph, and theyre bringing him home with a salary rise and an advance in position." "How little you know of business," said Mina. "A letter from an employer is seldom good news." She started to read.

Lucy watched a series of emotions flit across Minas face. She got up and came around to her side. Putting her arms around Minas neck she said, "What is it, Mina, dear? Is it really bad news?" "I..." Mina clasped Lucys hand with her free one. "Its both bad and good. Lucy, Jonathan has been hurt." "Oh, poor Mina!" Mina took a deep breath. "It isnt good, but they think hell be all right. Theyre sending him home. Lucy, could..." "Of COURSE hell come here! We can get nurses to watch him day and night." "But Id want to..." "Yes, youll want to nurse him yourself, but you cant do it all. And Im sure that dear Arthur will be happy to see to him personally." "That may be necessary. They say that he has had a head injury, and he was unconscious for several days." Her hand tightened on Lucys. "He... he might not come back to himself. Lucy, what will I do?" Lucy kissed her. "Its going to be all right. Im sure hell get better. You know that you can stay here as long as you like, and if Jonathan needs help... Hes special to you, Mina, and so hes special to me. Now, stop troubling yourself. It may not be as bad as you fear. Hes well enough to travel, isnt he?" "Yes." Mina wiped her eyes. "There is that." She hugged Lucy. "I dont know what Id do without you." Lucy stroked Minas hair. "When will he arrive?" "Theyre not sure, but soon--two or three days. A man, some sort of church servant, I think, will be accompanying him." Lucy rang a small hand bell on the table, and the butler came quickly, "Well be receiving Miss Minas fiance soon. Hes been injured, and will convalesce here, so Ill need a comfortable room made up for him. One in the back of the house, I think, overlooking the garden. Yes, the blue room--the one with the balcony. Then when hes well enough he can sit out in the sun. Theres a little dressing room adjoining, perfect for a nurse. Have it prepared at once. Oh, and tell Cook to be sure that she has plenty of food thats suitable for an invalid--lots of strong, clear soups, puddings, cereals, white meat of chicken--you know the sort of things." She again made shooing motions at him. "Go! Hurry!" The butler bowed and left to carry out the orders, thinking, wryly, *Shell quite wear herself out with giving directions.* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Onboard The Celestine First night out The captain poured the ships owner another tot of rum and watched narrowly as the older man swilled it down. He was sick of working under the sot, and so were the other three men on the crew. Theyd discussed things in their last layover, and had come to a conclusion. The next time they had a rich enough cargo, theyd simply disappear. Piracy was well past its heyday, but it would never completely die out--not as long as men such as he still sailed. The captain had connections. With the co-operation of the crew it would be easy enough to take the ship, sail it to a discreet little dock that he knew of, and dispose of both the cargo and the ship itself. But of course the owner, and any passengers, would have to find a snug berth at the bottom of the sea, and if he was going to be committing a hanging offense, he wanted to be sure that the gain would be worth the risk. "What is it in them crates, then?" he asked. The owner glanced at him before returning his gaze to the bottle. "Never you mind. All you need to know is that were being paid well to move them." "Must be being paid VERY well, if thats all you took on. We could have waited another day or two and shipped fully laden."

"And Id have been a poor business man if we had. The customer is paying me near triple the usual fee for a fast passage." The captains eyes widened at this, but he carefully avoided any other reaction. The owner must be even drunker than hed though to let that fact slip. None of the extra money would find its way down to the crew--not unless it was taken. "Well, I cant imagine what could be needed so urgently in England. Dont think medical supplies or equipment would be packaged so crudely." The captain snorted. "Did you think that the men in charge of it LOOKED like doctors? Gypsies!" He spat on the floor. "Though the man who commands them might actually have a bit of quality. The old rich--they dress like that. Quiet and simple, but good quality." "So you think that he might be a toff? Wouldnt he be on one of them fancy liners, then? They have room enough for his crates. Theres only... lets see... Nine. Yeah, one of the fancy ships could handle that easily enough, and hed be nice and comfortable in one of those state cabins. Hed be among his own kind." The owner held up a finger. "Ah, but what if he doesnt WANT to be among his own kind? I think hes laying low, this one." The captain pressed more rum on the owner, and continued his probing. He got no more information, and came to the conclusion that was indeed all the captain knew. Hed have to find out a bit more on his own before he decided whether or not to move. It might not be easy. So far there had been at least one of the passengers standing watch by the cargo hold at all times. He left the owner laying across the table, snoring, and went up to the wheel. The first mate was on duty. He looked at the captain expectantly, saying, "Well? Are we to remain honest seamen?" The captain laughed. "Im not sure yet. Theres some cash to be had. The old fool took on," he hesitated, "double his usual fee, and I know that he must have brought it with him. But thats not worth the risk. We need to know whats in those crates." "I think it might be something good," said the mate. "The cook knows a few words of Romany, and he was listening to the gypsies talk over supper. He heard em mention a prince." "Well, now! Yeah, theres still a good number of them minor royals out there. Probably from some tiny little country weve never heard of. Their fortunes are nothing compared to Victorias, but they do well enough by the standards of such as you and I." "Maybe one of them has decided to buy himself a nice manor house to go with his castle. Maybe hes bringing over some of his royal hair-looms. You could fit a lot of silver knickknacks into those crates." The captain nodded, and thought, *And not just silver. Ive heard tales of the types of golden, jeweled gewgaws the blue bloods like to gift each other with. One or two of those fancy Easter eggs couple set a prudent man up nicely.* "I think this may be the time to find our independence, but Id like to be sure. Have the cook keep his ears open, and tell the others to look for a chance to get below and sniff around a bit. But tell them to be careful. Those Rom look rough--they probably wont have a problem with defending their masters property." "Nice to hear you being so worried about their safety." The sarcasm was unmistakable, and the captain shrugged. "Docking isnt easy when youre short handed, but its possible. Besides, fewer shares mean bigger shares, eh?" The mate grinned at him. They understood each other. end part 91 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Back to index

Chapter 92: Chapter 92: The Journey II

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: R Summary: The journey to England continues, and vicious greed is punished. Archive: Mailing lists, and pre-approved archives Disclaimer: Based on characters and concepts created by Bram Stoker, now in public domain. Notes: enfer--hell. Youll notice an occasional difference in how the Rom speak. When they are more fluent, theyre speaking their own dialect. When its less grammatical, theyre speaking English. The Year of Our Lord 1892 The Celestine Chapter Ninety-two: The Journey II The First Day out Just before sunset, Simion and one of the Rom came out and stood on the deck. While the Rom walked aft, Simion glanced up toward the bridge, where the first mate stood at the wheel. He didnt like the man--he had a crafty look. So did the captain--and for that matter, the rest of the crew wasnt any better. The ships owner seemed honest enough, though a bit vague. He drank--that much was obvious. In Simions experience such men had little control of their subordinates. Given the type of men he employed, that might be dangerous. Simion would have preferred to charter a different ship, but his requirements had left him little choice. Hed needed someone who could leave quickly, and who wouldnt ask questions. *I have a feeling that there will be trouble before this voyage is over,* he thought, walking back toward the cargo hatch. The two Rom were conversing quietly. He spoke to the one who had been standing guard. "The crew?" "Interested, but keeping their distance," he replied. "They may not continue to be so distant." The guard nodded in understanding. Simion gestured, and the guard opened the hatch. He started down the short ladder. After descending several rungs, he reached over and felt along a small shelf that was fixed to the wall. He found a pack of matches and struck one, then used it to light the lantern that hung on a nearby hook. Simion left the lantern hanging, rather than taking it down. It did not cast much light, but it was enough--a dim glow pooled around the three crates closest to the ladder. Simion pulled a key from his pocket and opened the locks that he had hooked through the latches last thing before hed left the crates below deck that morning. Then he drew a stool up next to one of the outside boxes and sat beside it. "Do you still sleep, my love? The sun was kissing the horizon as I came down." He reached out, running a hand lightly over the top, his touch as gentle as if it were passing over smooth skin. "You know, I was a soldier, and I could sleep anywhere, if need be. Soft bed or hard ground, it made little difference. But I have grown so used to holding you, or you holding me... Sleep does not come easily if you are not by my side, Rill." There was a minute sound from within the crate, and a smile broke over Simions face. Most of the world saw him as grim, but a few had seen his expression soften with love, and pride. "Yes. Time to get up, my little one." The lid of the box lifted slowly--one inch, two... Pale fingers curved over the edge, gripping, bracing...

Then the lid rose fully as Rill sat up, pushing it. When the lid had reached its limit, and would stay open, Rill let go and scrubbed his hands over his face like a newly awakened child, yawning. Then he looked over at Simion and smiled. He slumped, draping his elbows over the crates rim, clasping his hands, and resting his chin on them. "Hello, Simion. I missed you." "I also missed you, my heart. Did you sleep well?" "Yes. I dreamed that we had found Jonathan and brought him home. He played soldiers with us, and the prince was so young, and strong, and happy." "We will see to it that it was a prophetic dream." He stroked Rills hair. "Hungry?" The boy nodded. Simion stood and went to the ladder. Rill climbed out of the crate as Simion called up to the deck. The second Rom climbed down and went immediately to Rill. "Not much," Simion cautioned him. "Remember, you cant go hunting while were on board." "I know," said Rill, taking hold of the gypsys shoulders. He smiled at the man. "Hello, Salazar. Im glad you came with us." Salazar nodded cheerfully. "Yes. You drink good." He tapped his fist against his chest. "I eat much meat to be strong for you." Rill beamed his thanks, then bent his head, and sank his fangs into the mans freely offered throat. Among the Rom it was an honor to be chosen to serve Draculeas household, and the highest honor was to give drink to the master, or his companions. While the men respected Draculea to the point of awe, Rill was their pet. Salazar sighed, closing his eyes. If it was done gently, the vampires kiss was pleasurable, and no matter how hungry he was, Rill was always considerate. As Rill fed, Simion unlocked the other two crates. By the time Rill had finished and was, as he had been taught, checking to be sure that his donor did not need any medical help, the second crate opened, and the prince emerged. "All goes well, master," Simion informed him. "The weather is fine." The Rom stepped forward, offering his throat, but Draculea shook his head. "Not yet. Perhaps tomorrow night." He smiled. "I relish an edge of hunger now. It makes me feel alive. You may go. Rest." The Rom bowed, then made his way up the ladder. Draculea glanced around. "Sinn?" Simion shrugged, then gestured toward the third box. "You know how he is." Draculea leaned over and rapped sharply on the lid of the box. "Get up, slothful." The lid lifted, and Sinn sat up. His voice was slightly aggrieved. "I only thought that you three might like a little time together alone. I dont enjoy intruding." "Save your pathos for someone who does not know you so well," said Draculea dryly. Sinn looked offended, but made no comment as he climbed out of his resting place. Once hed stepped out, he brushed himself down, examining himself carefully. "Sacre! Look at this!" He showed Rill a small rip in his left sleeve. "What did I say? Always some damage." "When we arrive you can arrange to get yourself a suitable coffin," said Draculea. "You know that when we travel a plain crate attracts less attention." Sinn frowned. "But wont our place in England have proper beds? Enfer, I dont want to sleep boxed up any more than I must." "Im given to understand that the property isnt in the best of shape. It may be that your crate will be more comfortable than whatever beds are available. Dont make a face. You know very well that location is much more important than condition in this case." "Ah, well. Heaven knows I am not one to complain. Why did you send the Rom away so quickly? I havent yet had my breakfast." "You were complaining of being too full before we came aboard, glutton," said Simion. Sinn put his hands on his hips and huffed, "I am guilty of many sins, but I have avoided gluttony." "That meal should last you another day or two," said Draculea. "I want the Rom strong and alert for the next few days. I dont feel easy about this crew." "Theyre far too curious for my liking," said Simion. "They remind me of the bandits that used to roam

around the castle." Sinn smiled nostalgically, and a glint of fang showed in the dim glow of the lantern. "Ah, they were some good eating--very robust. And so considerate. One had only to stroll along a moonlit road, looking rich and unwary, and they would come to you. You think that these men might be foolish enough to attempt something, even with our faithful Rom so prominently on guard?" "The captain and mate look sly," said Simion, "so its possible." Sinns dismay was patently false. "That would be such a pity. Perhaps I should go topside and pre-empt their possible mistake?" "While were still so far from our destination?" snapped Draculea. "Have you ever sailed a ship this size into harbor?" Sinn looked at him as if he were deranged, but his tone was mild. "No, I have not." "None of us have. If anything is done at all, we need to wait till we have almost reached our destination. What if the ship should sink through our ignorance, Sinn? Im fairly sure that vampires cannot drown, but do you really want to test that theory?" "No, I do not. Even if it were not fatal, I have no doubt that it would be very unpleasant. We remain below?" "For the time being." "So be it. Well just have to amuse ourselves." He rummaged in his pocket, then made a sound of surprise as he pulled out a deck of cards. "Now, how do you suppose those got in there? He shuffled the cards with lazy dexterity. "What shall we play, mon petite? Piquet, baccarat, German whist..." Rill clapped his hands happily. "Old Maid." Simion hid a smile as Sinn looked pained. "A fine game, but wouldnt you rather play baccarat?" "No. You always win at that, because you get impatient with me when I try to keep count. Old Maid." Sinns tone called everyone to witness his martyrdom. "Very well." He picked a queen out of the pack and started shuffling again. "Old Maid it is." He glanced over at Simion and Draculea. "I dont suppose you two would care to join us?" He received smiles in return. "I thought not. Rill, if I am left as the Old Maid, and you tease me, I will be very displeased." Rill gave him an innocent look. "I wouldnt do that." As Sinn started dealing, Rill gave Draculea and Simion a secret, gleeful smile. Simion stifled a chuckle, and Draculea whispered, "Well, he wouldnt do it if he hadnt caught Sinn cheating more than once--AFTER he promised not to." The Second Day Out Salazar joined Simion at the stern that afternoon. "These men, Domn." He spat over the rail. "Not only cutthroats, but stupid ones. They think because I do not talk to them, I do not know their language, so they speak of what they will do to us while I am in the very room." Simion grunted, staring out at the sea. "I was afraid of this. All of them?" "All but the ship owner. He is not part of this, but he is weak. He knows nothing but the bottle." "Hell be of no use." "None." "Did you hear any specifics?" "No, Domn, but I think that they will wait as long as they think they can. The thought of killing does not bother them, but risking death themselves does." Simion considered for a moment. "So, the captain and his five against you, your friend, myself..." He smiled slowly. "And Rill, Sinn, and the master." Salazar smiled sharply. "My grandfather saw them beset by bandits once. He used to tell me the story often." "Its impressive, but still its an experience I hope you do not witness. Our mission is important, and the

less fate throws in Draculeas way, the better." The Rom thought, then said, "Take them out first?" Simion considered for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No. Its important that we get closer to England--close enough to be sure that the ship will reach land even without trained sailors to guide it. I believe we can get ashore safely if it runs aground, but if it turns back out to sea things may be difficult. No, we wait." He sighed. "I just hope that they hold off for awhile." The Julyan Jonathan shifted restlessly on the bunk, feeling the fitfull roll of the ship. There was no porthole in the cabin, so he could not see how the weather was, but the sea seemed more restless than yesterday. Unable to remain still any longer, he sat up and swung his legs over the side. He stood, carefully clinging to the edge of the bunk. It good that he did. His head swam a little, and his knees were weak. He sat down before they had a chance to give way, and decided hed best wait a moment before trying again. Hed wanted to come on board under his own power, but Lukas wouldnt hear of it. The porter had hefted Jonathan into his arms like a child and carried him from the wagon, up the gangplank, and into this cabin. Jonathan had no trouble with being cared for if he truly needed assistance, but he hated being treated as if he were fragile. He had been tempted to struggle for release, but the crew of the ship had been watching, and the reluctance to cause a scene was too strongly ingrained. Hed been deposited in this bunk and ordered to rest. Lukas brought him food, or a chamber pot when it was required. His attendance was careful--and smothering. Jonathan scarcely had a moment to himself. Lukas slept on a trundle bed pulled from beneath the bunk, and he spent most of the day sitting at Jonathans bedside, reading scripture--occasionally out loud. He brought their meals to the cabin. The only time he left Jonathans side was to relieve himself. No, that wasnt true--he had stayed on deck a few moments, and Jonathan was sure that hed spent the time scanning the horizon, looking for some unknown threat. Lukas was making one of his rare trips outside now, and Jonathan knew that he needed to get on with it if he wanted to get out of the room. Lukas would never approve of his charge ambulating about unsupervised. Jonathan was clad in pajamas, as he had been since awakening in the convent. He desperately wanted to put on some decent clothes, but he wasnt sure if Lukas had even brought any. There were a few of the porters own garments, but they were likely to fall off Jonathans more slender frame. In any case, he decided that he couldnt take the time to find out. Jonathan stood again, and this time his head stayed clear, and his legs felt firm under him. Still, he moved slowly and carefully as he made his way toward the door. No more than a dozen steps, and he was there. Feeling a lift at the prospect of going outside, he grasped the door handle--and found that it was locked. He regarded it with disbelief, and tried it again. Locked. He knocked on the door. "Hello?" He heard footsteps outside, and rapped again. "Hello!" A voice he didnt recognize said, "Yeah? You need your man?" "No. The doors locked. I want out." "Huh. Dont know bout that. Him what brought you said this door was to stay locked." There was a snicker. "He seems to think someone be after you." For a second the image of Rocks face--pale and mad--appeared in Jonathans mind, then he shook his head. "Thats ridiculous. Were at sea now. Unlock the door." "Cant do it. I aint the one with the key. But Ill tell your friend you want him, eh?" "No, you dont need to..." The footsteps were fading, and Jonathan sighed. He thought briefly, then went and sat on the bunk again. Hed barely been seated when he heard the key turn in the lock, and Lukas entered. Seeing Jonathan, he

scowled and hurried over. "Young man, what are you doing? The crewman told me he spoke to you at the door. Tell me you werent so foolish as to be trying to move around." "The door was locked." Lukas was lifting Jonathans legs up onto the bunk. "Lie back down. I know it doesnt seem like much, but a fall out of bed can do much damage." "Im not going to fall." Jonathan had allowed himself to be maneuvered into lying back down, but now he started to sit up again. "You locked me in!" Lukas pushed him back, and the hands on Jonathans shoulders were not entirely gentle. "That isnt how it is, Mister Harker. Im locking something OUT. This is done for your protection." "Protection from what? Lukas, this is ridiculous. Were in the middle of the ocean. Unless youre worried about the crew, theres nothing that can harm me." Lukas just stared at him. "Is there?" Lukas brushed the hair off Jonathans forehead, and Jonathan fought down the urge to flinch. "Ill keep one from them. One innocent." "Lukas?" The man blinked. "You dont want to know, Mister Harker. Just relax, and accept that Im doing whats right for you." He pulled the sheet up, tucking Jonathan in, then sat and picked up his Bible. "Let me read you something to take your mind off things. Perhaps something from the Song of Solomon..." Jonathan thought of the distant look in Lukas eyes a moment ago, and decided that now was not the time to protest his forced bed rest. The Celestine The Third Day Out They knew that the storm was coming just after dawn. The captain put up all the sails, hoping to outrun it, since he believed that they should reach land before nightfall. The storm came on more quickly than they had anticipated, catching them before noon. Thick gray-black clouds curdled overhead, obscuring all trace of sunlight. The sea rose and fell, great waves washing up over the deck as rain slashed down, so thick that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. One could not see from one side of the ship to the other, much less from stem to stern. The captain and first mate met again on the bridge, and they had to raise their voices to be heard over the sounds of the storm. "Wed best wait till the storm passes," said the mate. "Its getting worse. Im going to tie myself to the wheel--I dont want to risk being washed over." "Sounds sensible," said the captain. "But the storm is our ally. The confusion will make it easier to take them, Im sure. Only one of them guards the hatch now, and the storm should cover any approach. The other two are staying within their cabin--we can catch them there." The mate made a noise that indicated he was unconvinced as he took a length of rope and began lashing himself in place. "Are you sure that they wont be better able to defend themselves in a small space?" "Calm yourself--youre not the one at risk. All you have to do is stay here and steer. Once weve eliminated the guard, Ill send in all three of our shipmates to take care of the others." He smiled nastily. "If we lose one of them, or even two..." He shrugged. "Im not sure about this," said the mate. "Why dont we just dock as we planned, and let the passengers go on their way? Then we can take the passage money from the captain. You said yourself its a tidy sum." "Its a pittance compared to what we could have." "But you dont KNOW whats in the crates. You say treasure, but it could just as well be what it looks like they were built for." "And what would that be?" "Bodies. Maybe theyre trying to smuggle bodies into England. You know that the government wouldnt allow them to bring in anyone whod died of something contagious. What if some rich man died of

cholera, or the plague, or leprosy, and his family wanted to bury him at home? They might very well hire someone to try to smuggle the body back like..." "What an imagination you have. No, its something very valuable--Id stake my life on it. You just stay here and tend the wheel. You wont have to dirty your hands, and Ill still give you a share in what we take." The captain touched the long knife that hed tucked in his belt. "You might want to plug your ears, if your nature is so delicate." The captain met the other three crewmen, two sailors, and the cook, a little farther down the ship. "You two--one of you take care of the owner. He wont be any trouble, unless it bothers you to kill someone whos blind drunk?" The men gave him blank looks. Why should they mind that? Didnt it make it easier? "Once hes dead, take care of the other two, and be careful. They wont be as easy meat as the owner. You," he indicated the cook, "come with me. I want you to go along the other side of the ship. Keep out of sight. Ill engage the gypsy on guard, and when hes well distracted, you come over the hatch and take care of him. If were quiet and quick, this should come off with no fuss or muss. Then we just adjust course a bit to sail to a quiet spot I know, and we all live like gentlemen on whatever we take." They separated. One of the crewmen slipped into the owners cabin. In a way it was amazing that the man had lived so long, considering how unsuspicious he was. Had he locked his cabin door, he might have survived a bit longer--but perhaps not. Its very likely that what soon transpired would have been too much for his heart. Hed fallen asleep in his chair, his head thrown back, and his assassin didnt even have to lift his head to bare his throat for the knife. The owner slipped from sleep to death with nary a flicker. It isnt known if he awakened into some other life, but if he did, he was most likely very surprised. The deed done, the murderer went to join his comrade in the narrow hall outside the passengers cabin. The cook crept down the far side of the ship, careful to stay close to the walls. It was as much for safety as stealth. The waves that slammed against the ship and broke over the deck didnt rise any higher than his knees, but that would be plenty to sweep the unwary away. The gypsy was sitting on the hatch, clinging tightly to the metal rings that were used to help lift it out of the way when the ship was unloaded. His back was to him, and the cook fidgeted with the knife hed brought--the longest one in his galley. The only killing hed ever done was in a tavern brawl, when a bottle had proved to be harder than his enemys skull. He wasnt sure what would be the best target, make the cleanest kill. He wanted it to be quick. He didnt think hed be able to do it if the man really struggled. He was sure that the captain would be able to finish the job, but he didnt want to think of what might happen to him if the captain thought he hadnt put every effort into his part of the plan. The Rom on guard didnt see or hear the captain approaching till the man had almost reached him. With the cover of the wind and rain, it was hard to say if the man had been being purposefully stealthy, but the Rom tended to think the worst of people--it was the safest way. He squinted against the rain, watching the man carefully as he approached. The captain eyed the Rom, then pointed back up toward the bridge, and said, "Your master wants you." The man regarded him silently. Working on the usual theory of the ignorant that something was more readily understood if it was stated in a louder tone, he raised his voice. "Your master! Go to him." He jabbed his finger forcefully in the direction of the prow, then jabbed the Roms shoulder to help make his point. That was a stupid thing to do, but the captain was getting impatient. The Rom released his hold on one of the rings, striking the captains hand away, while cursing him in his own language. That was the moment that the cook chose to attack. He broke from hiding, lunging across the hatch toward the Roms unprotected back, knife upraised. Centuries of inbred caution served the Rom well. Perhaps it was a small sound, perhaps it was a small displacement of air, but he sensed something rushing at him from behind, and twisted around. His hand came up in time to catch the cooks wrist, stopping the

downward sweep of the knife. At the same instant his free hand dropped to his belt, pulling his own knife. Though the rain was cold, the cook suddenly felt a burst of warmth in his belly--painful warmth. He tried to pull back, but the gypsy had an iron grip on his wrist. The gypsy shifted, and the pain increased. The Rom was glaring at him, and he was smiling. It was horrible. The cook saw his own death in that smile. Suddenly the Rom sported another smile--this one below his chin. A red curve swept across his throat, from one side to the other, drooling crimson. The man looked surprised, and he let go of the cooks wrist, reaching up to touch the red liquid that was quickly rinsing away in the driving rain. Then he collapsed, his knife falling from his hand, and the cook saw the captain standing behind him, knife clenched in his white knuckled fist. "Help me get him overboard." "I... I cant," the cook whimpered. He clutched his own side, and felt the warm seepage of blood between his fingers. "He got me bad. I think Im dying." "Youve got breath enough to complain, havent you? Stay there. Once the others are through with the passengers, theyll be here to help you. Im going below and see what weve won ourselves." As the captain lifted the hatch, the cook moaned, "Dont leave me here!" The ship gave a particularly nasty roll, and he barely managed to cling on. "Ill be swept away." As the captain made his way down the ladder, he muttered, "Then thats one less bit of trash Ill have to clean up." He took the lantern from its hook, but waited till he was down in the hold to try to light it. It took him several tries, but somehow he managed it despite the spray that came through the hatch. He put the lantern on the floor near one of the cases, rubbing his hands in anticipation--until he saw the locks on the crates. *Damn it! Well, theres a crowbar here somewhere.* While the captain searched for the tool, the other two crewmembers decided that they neednt wait to finish off the two passengers. After all, theyd have the element of surprise on their side, wouldnt they? They debated in whispers whether they should just burst in, or whether they should enter quietly. If the passengers were in their bunks because of the rough weather, they might be able to finish them off with as little trouble as they had the captain. They decided on stealth. Luckily, the door was unlocked. The first crewman eased it open quietly, peering in. The room was dark, the light from the flickering lantern hung in the hall barely illuminating the interior. All they could make out were vague shapes, but the darkness had to mean that the men were asleep. The sailor could only see one of the two bunks, but there was a figure in it, lying with his back to the room. So much the better. Just a few steps and a quick stab... He stepped into the room, raising the knife. ~*~*~*~*~*~ Down in the hold, the captain had found the crowbar. It took only one good, solid blow to knock the lock loose, and then a quick wrench to pry it completely free of the box, so he performed that operation on each box in swift succession. He tossed the crowbar aside and paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together. This was his moment of triumph, and he wanted to savor it. "Now," he murmured, "what riches await?" He bent and lifted the lid of the first box, then almost leaped back in astonishment. No silver plate. No rich antiques. The box contained, as the first mate had speculated, a corpse. It seemed to be a very fresh body, but he was dead, nonetheless. The captain stepped a little closer, studying him. In life he had been a big, sternly handsome man in his forties. His dark hair lay over his shoulders, and he had a thick, luxuriant moustache that made him look fierce. Remembering what the mate had said about cholera or plague, the captain let the lid drop, and moved away again. But the man looked far too healthy to have died from either of those illnesses, and there were still more boxes to investigate. Hoping against hope, he opened another. This corpse was much younger--the man scarcely more than a youth. His dark hair was curly, and his

smooth face had a childlike cast. He looked almost like a little boy, napping. By now he had little hope, but the captain opened the third box. The man in this one was a little older physically than the boy, but he looked ages older in experience. There was something about him that suggested indulgence, and a predisposition toward vice. *Damn! It looks as if all Ill get is the passage money and the price of the ship. Ah, well. Perhaps I can relieve these of some trinkets they wont be needing any more. I saw a nice ring on that first one, but Id wager that this one has some interesting gold gewgaws in his pockets.* He knelt beside the box and began to search the dead man. Through the clothes he could feel the chill of dead flesh, but it seemed remarkably supple. He was just trying to worm his left hand into the corpses right trouser pocket when its brilliant green eyes snapped open, flicking over to fix on him, and a cold, hard hand closed around his wrist. "What do you think you are doing, thief?" Sinn hissed. Acting instinctively, the captain lashed out. He slashed down, burying the knife deep in the mans chest, just between the two sides of the ribcage. He stabbed so deep that the blades tip wedged in the spinal column. Sinn yelled, jerking in pain as the man fell back, sitting clumsily. The captain waited for his victim to die so that he could retrieve his knife. "Son of a dog!" gasped the man. He grabbed the knife, tugging at it. "Youve ruined my traveling jacket, and one of my best shirts!" The captain gaped as the former corpse tried to remove the knife, cursing lustily in French. He heard a sound and looked over to find the other young man standing up in his box, rubbing his eyes, and yawning. "What time is it? It cant be sunset yet, can it?" A spray of water hit him, and he shivered. "Oh, a storm. That explains..." He looked over and saw Sinn trying to pull the knife out. Understanding immediately, he scowled at the captain. "That wasnt nice," he accused. "Sinn didnt do anything to you." "Oh, stop correcting him, Rill. Well deal with him in a moment, but come and help me now. I cant get this thing loose on my own." Rill stepped out of his box and, ignoring the captain, went over to Sinn. He braced one foot on the crates rim, taking hold of the knife with both hands. "Hold on." Sinn grabbed the sides of the box, and Rill heaved. Sinn yelled in pain. "That hurts!" "I know. Im sorry, but I think its stuck on a bone. Im going to have to wiggle it." "Merde!" Sinn glared at the stunned mortal, and the bones in his face seemed to shift slightly. When he spoke again his voice was a snarl, and he showed fangs. "Youre going to pay for this, pig. Do it, Rill." Rill worked the knife back and forth, pulling hard. It came loose with an unpleasant grinding, slurping sound. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ As the first sailor stepped hesitantly into the room, Salazar, who had been standing behind the door, grabbed his arm and jerked him the rest of the way in. The instant that he did, Simion rolled over on his bunk and fired the two shot pistol hed smuggled on board. He didnt shoot at the crewman who was struggling with the gypsy--that would have been too dangerous for the Rom. No, he fired through the open doorway. The bullet smashed into the shoulder of the second sailor, throwing him back against the wall. While the sailor and Salazar struggled, Simion jumped up, prepared to finish the job, but the wounded man had rushed out onto the deck. Trusting the Rom to finish any fight where hed started off with an advantage, Simion pursued the other sailor out onto the deck. ~*~*~*~*~*~ Down in the hold they heard an explosion. It was different from the rolling boom of thunder, and it wasnt accompanied by the bright flash that meant a crack of lightening. No, this was a gunshot, and it

had come from the front of the ship. Rill reacted immediately, screaming, "SIMION!" He threw down the knife and swarmed up the ladder without a single backward glance at the captain. As he disappeared through the hatch, the third box opened. The captain wet himself as that boxs occupant seemed to float erect, rather than stand. He stared down at the shuddering seaman with eyes that reflected red in the lamplight. After a moment he said flatly, "So, you couldnt resist. Fool." Draculea looked over at Sinn. "Youre a mess." Sinn responded with a gravelly snarl. "What of the others?" "I dont know. I doubt the guard has survived, if this one managed to get down here. Something is happening with Simion. There was a shot, and Rill just flew out of here, off to the rescue." Draculea frowned in concern. "Id better go see." He started to climb the ladder. "What about this one?" Sinn called. Draculea paused halfway up the ladder, and looked back at him, slightly annoyed. "I trust I dont have to instruct you there." "Oh, no." Draculea continued, disappearing into the wet night. The captain scrabbled on the floor, grabbing up the knife. He held it toward the undead creature before him, his hands trembling. Sinn stared at him coldly, then said, "Do you really want to do that? Youve already made me angry." The captain hesitated. In that split second Sinn was on him. The killers final scream died away in a liquid gurgle... ~*~*~*~*~*~ Something was happening. The first mate knew that, but he could see nothing through the rain. He could hear, though. True, the sounds of violence were muffled and distorted by the weather, but the gunshot had been unmistakable, and that scream from near the stern had been blood chilling. He dug a rosary out of his pocket, and wondered if his time in Purgatory would be less since hed only failed to prevent murder, and had not committed it himself. ~*~*~*~*~*~ The sailor Simion had shot headed back toward the hold, thinking hed have more help from the captain than from the first mate. Simion emerged soon after him, and braced himself for another shot. The ship pitched, though, and the bullet whizzed harmlessly past the would-be murderer. Simion cursed and fumbled in his pockets for more shells. The sailor had paused to grab hold of the rail when the last wave broke on the deck, and he saw Simion trying to reload. With an evil grin, he darted toward Simion, knife ready. A heavy body crashed into his back, knocking him sprawling, as someone screamed, "NO!" The knife was wrenched from his hand so brutally that the bones in his wrist snapped, causing the hand to flop at an unnatural angle. He had no time to think of this pain, though, because his attacker had a hard grip in his hair, and had begun smashing his face against the deck. "My Simion! Mine! You wont hurt him, I wont let you!" Again and again he was pounded on the hard planks. His nose broke, and his cheekbones, and all he could do was thrash weakly. Blood filled his nose and throat, and he started to drown in it. He didnt live long enough for that to happen. His head was jerked up and back, and sharp fangs slashed into his flesh. Simion continued to load his gun (he needed to be ready, in case Salazar found his own attacker a nuisance), but he felt no need to hurry as he watched Rill feed on the dying sailor. After a moment the boy stood up, lifted the feebly twitching body, and heaved it over the side. Then he went to Simion. Simion tucked the pistol in his belt and embraced his lover, patting the distressed young vampire soothingly. "There, Rill. Im all right." Rill hugged him back. "He was going to kill you."

"Yes, but he didnt have a chance--not with you protecting me." "They killed the gypsy who was guarding us, Simion. I stepped over him." "He died as he would have liked--protecting you and the master." "I know, but it still makes me sad. One of them stuck a knife in Sinn." Rill pulled back a little and gave Simion a round-eyed look. Even though his expression still showed traces of his vampiric rage, it made him look innocent. "Oh, he was SO angry. You should have heard the language he used." "Hell get over it." Draculea approached. "Especially since Im letting him deal with the fool. I found another one dead near the hold. My faithful Rom may have died, but he took one with him to the other side." Salazar emerged from the hall, wiping his knife on his shirt. He said, "Did any of you kill the ships owner?" When all shook their heads, he said, "Then they killed him, too. Whoever we kill, were saving them from the hangmans noose." Sinn joined them, emerging from the rain. "I was so angry that I couldnt really enjoy that. I put what was left over the side--I hope you dont mind." "No, very practical," said Draculea. "Let me think--one in the hold, one by it, yours Rill, and yours, Salazar. There was a crew of five, and the owner. That leaves one unaccounted for." He looked forward. "I would assume hes steering the ship. Simion, how close are we to land?" "I dont know, Domn, but we were due in port early this evening." He pulled a watch from his pocket and checked it. "We should be well within sight of land by now--if we could see anything." "What do you think about our pilot?" "He was in on it," Simion said flatly. Salazar nodded. "Perhaps he didnt attack us, but he did nothing to warn us, or prevent what he knew would be murder. No, he planned on sharing in the spoils." "Then he dies like the others," said Draculea. He turned his eyes back toward the bridge. "The only question is when." Of one accord, with no other words, they all started slowly toward the bridge. end part 92 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 93: Chapter Ninety-three: Sacrifice

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: R Summary: Jonathan becomes even more disturbed about Lukas--for good reason Disclaimer: Based on characters and concepts created by Bram Stoker, now in public domain. WARNING: Quite a squick ahead. This one caught me by surprise, dear ones. I hadnt planned on it, but suddenly the Muse grabbed me by the throat and mentioned a way to bump Lukas craziness and danger up into an entirely new universe. Description of, er, body modification. Notes: glans--the tip of the penis. From Latin acorn, for its shape. You learn something new every day. Hee hee. Good info for slash stories. "You arent kidding anyone, Spike. You KNOW you want to cop Xanders acorn." I cant believe I wrote that...

Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-three The Year of Our Lord 1892 Onboard the Julyan, Bound for England Chapter Ninety-three: Sacrifice Jonathan had never really sailed before. There had been a quiet pond near the vicarage where hed spent his summers as a boy, and hed spent many lazy hours drifting on it in a small rowboat, occasionally supplementing the household larder with a few fish. Now he had a chance to find out that he wasnt much of a sailor. The weather had turned bad--very bad. They were riding out a storm. He still hadnt been allowed on deck, but by the pitch and roll of the ship there was no mistaking the state of the weather. Jonathan found himself clutching the sides of the bunk to keep from being ejected onto the floor. He could feel vibrations shiver through the wood at every boom of thunder. Jonathan heard the scrape of the key in the lock, and the door opened. Had he been more sure of his legs, and had Lukas been a bit slower, his rising anxiety about the storm might have inspired him to attempt an escape. As it was Lukas was in the cabin and relocking the door before he could fully form an intent. "For Gods sake, dont lock the door! If the ship goes down well be trapped." "If that is Gods will, so be it." Lukas had an oilcloth wrapped around his shoulders for protection from the storm, and he unwrapped it now, dropping it to the floor. Water began to pool immediately, seeping across the rough boards. Lukas pocketed the key, and walked over to the bunk. He staggered slightly as the ship rolled, putting out his hand to brace himself on the top of the bunk. "Believe me, Mister Harker, there is a greater anger in leaving the way open." Jonathan made a sound of frustration. "I am beginning to believe that you are a little mad." Lukas did not take offense. He shrugged, saying, "Im sure that the prophets and martyrs were thought mad in their day. Move closer to the wall, Mister Harker, so that I may sit." When Jonathan hesitated, Lukas said, "There is no other seat. Will you force me to ride out the storm on my feet?" When said that way, Jonathan being Jonathan couldnt help but feel he was being unreasonable. He shifted closer to the wall, and Lukas sat down. Lukas had not covered his head when he went outside, and his hair was plastered to his head in wet hanks. It exuded a peculiar smell that reminded Jonathan of when the vicars pet spaniel used to come in after a romp in the pond. Despite the oilcloth, the spray seemed to have found Lukas. The space that Jonathan could clear was very narrow, and Lukas was not a small man. Jonathan found himself crowded against the wall, and every spot where they touched was damp. Jonathan would have expected Lukas to be chilled, but instead the man seemed to be radiating heat. It was suffocating, and Jonathan tried to gain a little space between them, with no success. "You need not worry--the worst of the storm has passed. It has delayed us, but we should land in England in the afternoon. Do you feel well enough to go directly to your friends, or should we spend the night in London, then travel the next day?" "I feel well enough," Jonathan said quickly. The thought of spending another night with Lukas hovering was oppressive. "That is good." Lukas studied him. "You are much improved. When I first saw you, I thought you would surely die. God must, indeed, have plans for you." Jonathan shifted uneasily. "Talk of the Lord makes you uncomfortable?" "Im a Christian, but my beliefs are very personal." "As are mine." Lukas laced his hands over his belly and stared at the wall. Jonathans heart sank as he realized that the steward was settling in for a discussion--or rather a discourse. "Each mans spiritual beliefs are formed not just by his own life, but by the lives of his family, and the lives of those in his

community. By extension, the lives of THEIR ancestors pass on their influence. No one escapes the touch of those who have gone before--save perhaps the poor orphan, and even they are gifted or cursed with the influence of those who have their care." He looked at Jonathan. "Havent you felt this, Mister Harker? Havent there been times when you felt something reach out to you from the past?" Jonathan stared back at him, feeling consternation. He knew that Lukas was the steward of the church of the tiny village near Castle Draculea. Such a position would usually be filled by a simple man--a peasant with little education--someone who would have few thoughts past his day-to-day routine. He definitely wouldnt expect such a man to philosophize as Lukas was now. And the strange thing was that what Lukas was saying was striking a chord. Hadnt he felt on occasion that there was SOMETHING from outside his immediate life reaching out to him--affecting him? A dim memory stirred in the back of his mind. *I was very small. I had to be--I know Mother was still alive. It was night, and I was at the window. Mother didnt want the window open. It frightened her. Was she afraid Id climb out? I was kneeling at the window, looking out, and someone was whispering to me. I cant remember what they said, but... but I felt so lonely--and loved, at the same time. How is that possible?* Jonathan realized that Lukas was watching him silently. "I have felt... something similar." Lukas nodded at this confirmation. "History touches us all. For some of us the more distant past reaches out. How far back can you trace your lineage, Mister Harker?" "Im not sure. The Harkers are not a great family. I believe that my father considered having our family tree researched, but he didnt want to spend the money. The family Bible only records as far back as my great-great grandfather." Lukas grunted. "A young family. My bloodline goes back to the thirteenth century." "Thats... thats astonishing." "I suppose it is. But Mister Harker, in my country the people belong to the land, and they very seldom leave it. Though my land has seen turbulent times, my people stayed. But the bloodline has grown thin down through the centuries. I am the last. I am the repository for all that has come before." Lukas eyes had taken on the glitter that they held when he spoke of protecting Jonathan. It was unnerving. Lukas continued, "It is a great responsibility, Mister Harker--especially when all those who came before did nothing--NOTHING," Jonathan flinched at the vicious twist Lukas gave the word, "to redress the... the atrocities visited upon us." "I dont understand," said Jonathan. "These terrible deeds, they happened that far back?" "Four hundred years." "And you think to avenge them now? Thats madness! I dont know what could be so horrible that your family would carry it down through the ages, but Lukas--anything that you could do now would be pointless. Whoever was responsible is long gone to whatever punishment God provides, and if you were to seek out their descendants it would be nothing more than a blood feud, and that is a sin." "Indeed you do not understand, Mister Harker." "Then explain it to me." There was a heavy silence. "I cannot. I cannot speak of such filth to an innocent such as yourself. My family was... DEFILED, Mister Harker. They were dirtied in ways that you cannot begin to imagine. I have known this since my youth, and to my shame I have done nothing. But now..." He touched Jonathans hand. "Now, through you..." Jonathan jerked his hand away. "Dont." Lukas seemed puzzled, then he saw the unease and fear in Jonathans eyes. "No!" He held up his hand in protest. "No, Mister Harker, you must not think that of me, ever. After what happened to my ancestors, I couldnt. I have sworn a vow to refrain from the carnal my entire life. I have dedicated myself to purity of body, mind, and spirit. It is hard, yes, but I have taken steps."

He stood, and reached for the fastenings of his breeches. Jonathan felt panic creeping up on him. "Lukas, no!" "But I want to assure you." Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut as Lukas shoved down his breeches. *If I scream for help, will they hear me above the storm? Even if they hear me, will they come?* "Look, Mister Harker. Look, and youll know." "I swear, Lukas, Ill have you up on charges." "Only look, and Ill leave you in peace. I just want to set your mind at ease. I take no pleasure in this." "If I do, youll leave me alone?" "I will stand guard in the hall for the rest of the voyage." Reluctantly, Jonathan opened his eyes. "Oh, dear God." Lukas drawers and rough trousers were down around his knees. Jonathan was not ignorant of natural human anatomy. He had lodged a good portion of his life in an all male school, so hed seen his classmates in various stages of undress. He hadnt seen many other men completely naked, but there had been enough so that he knew roughly what a healthy set of genitals should look like. Judging from the mans heavy beard growth, and the hair on his arms, Jonathan would have expected Lukas to have a heavy pubic growth, but that wasnt the case. It was thin and sparse, like that of a boy just approaching puberty, and in the midst of that... There were not testicles, not that he could see, and the penis was no longer than a thumb. Jonathan was aware that some men were not well endowed. Had he thought that was the case, he wouldnt have felt so horrified. But the size was not natural. The organ was not fully formed--there was no evidence of the glans. The only conclusion was that it had been amputated. Now that he realized this, he could make out the scars beneath it. Below the base of the mutilated cock were thick pads of shiny, pinkish flesh. Lukas was speaking. "At one time the choir boys with the sweetest voices were granted this, so that they could remain pure, and able to praise and glorify the Lord with the gift of song. But they do not do this anymore--not openly, in any case. And though I would praise God with all my being, he did not choose to bestow that talent on me. Still, I wished to remain above fleshy desires, and I asked that they remove the parts of my body that would be the most likely to lead me to sin." "They didnt understand. Even the good priest tried to tell me that God would prefer that I marry and have children, bring new souls into the world to serve him. I tried to tell him that my bloodline was tainted--that it would be best for everyone if my line ended with me, but he wouldnt listen. They wouldnt help me, so..." Jonathan knew what was coming. He felt nausea wash over him. "Stop, Lukas, please." "...so I had to do it myself. I went into the woods, and took the sharpest knife from my mothers kitchen. First I took my stones, so that my seed would never bear fruit. So that our dark past would not be passed to another generation." His voice was mildly wondering as he touched the scars. "It didnt hurt as much as I expected, but there was so much blood." Jonathans gorge rose in protest of the images these words conjured up. He leaned over quickly, spattering the floor with sickness. He felt a hand in his hair as Lukas said, "Poor boy--the storm has made you ill." Jonathan jerked back from the touch, thudding against the wall, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. "I almost stopped there, but even at that young age I knew that it was not just the ability to sire children that I needed to avoid. I had already experienced the quickening of the flesh. I had awakened with evidence of my sexual nature matting my sheets, and it had to stop." He touched the pathetic stump that dangled at his groin. "I left myself enough to pass water. The blood then was even more than after the first cut." He lifted blank, curious eyes to the pale man before him. "I thought I might die, then, and that couldnt be allowed. Accidents are innocent, but I had done this with my own hand, and when they found

me, they might have thought that I had committed the mortal sin of suicide. I made my way to a road before I fainted, and I was found." He shrugged, and reached to pull his trousers up. "I lived." Now Lukas frowned. "It was not as complete as I would have wished. I still have troubling thoughts occasionally." He bent his head. "I suppose mortal man can never entirely escape the urges that were brought into our nature by Eve, but at least now I know that I can never act on them." He smiled at Jonathan as he refastened his breeches. "I could not harm you in that manner, Mister Harker, even if I so desired. I no longer have the physical means." He smiled. "So you see, you have nothing to fear from me. Ill just clean up that mess before I take up my place outside." He left the room. Though Jonathan had been longing for freedom, this time he would have himself locked the door, if he could have locked it from the inside. "Nothing to fear..." he whispered. Nothing to fear from a madman who believed that self-castration would save his soul. Jonathan had not prayed regularly since his mother had sat on the side of his bed and listened to his nightly chant of, "Now I lay me down to sleep...", but he prayed now. end part 93 Back to index

Chapter 94: Chapter Ninety-four: Preparation, and Visitation

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: FRT Summary: Quincy reflects on why hes really interested in Lucy, and Vlad finally arrives in England. Disclaimer: Characters and concepts borrowed from, and inspired by Bram Stokers Dracula, which is now in the public domain. Original characters and the story are copyrighted by the author. Do not distribute without authors permission. Notes: childe--youth of noble birth (pl. childes). Isnt this how Draculea would view his children--Rill and Sinn? The Year of Our Lord 1892 Westenra Estate, Outside London Chapter Ninety-four: Preparation, and Visitation While the Storm Rages at Sea... "Hold still, Lucy. Ill never get this bow even if you keep turning for a look at the back." Mina was standing behind Lucy, trying to tie a symmetrical bow in the sash of the apron her friend was trying on. One of the housemaids was short an apron now, and the housekeeper was none-to pleased about having to replace it. Shed had a fine time assuring the upset girl that the cost of the new apron would not be stopped from her wages. "There," said Mina. "Thats as good as possible. One cant do much with slender bands--they tend to flop." Lucy stood sideways, so that she could get a view of the bow in her full-length mirror. She frowned. "The loops droop terribly. Ill just have to have the seamstress put on a wider sash." She smoothed her hands over her waist. "That will be much more flattering." "It isnt meant to be flattering. Its meant to be practical," said Mina, amused. Any self-respecting household that could afford steady help required them to wear certain types of clothes, and only the wealthier families absorbed the cost (though occasionally the middle class would use Christmas as an

opportunity to gift their domestics with the material to make the required uniforms). The apron Lucy was trying on was typical of the sort to protect the uniforms. It was full length, completely covering the front of her body from neck to hem, and it was plain, sturdy cotton. Lucy continued frowning as she examined the garment. "Its very plain, isnt it? It needs sprucing up. Ill have her put a nice, deep ruffle along the bottom--no, two rows of ruffles. And she can lower the neckline just a bit, and fill it in with some of that Belgian lace Father brought back from his trip to Paris. What would you think of a nice applique pattern of flowers and vines on the bodice?" "Id think it was foolish. If youre serious about helping nurse Jonathan..." "Oh, but dont you think it would HELP him to have something pretty and cheerful to look at?" She patted Minas hand. "Besides you, dear. Youre very pretty, but you havent been cheerful lately, and I know how youre going to fret over him." She looked down at the apron again, and sighed. "This is just impossible as it is, but Im sure that the seamstress can have it fixed in no time. Ill want this ready when Jonathan arrives, so shell just have to let all that boring old mending wait. Come along, Mina. I want to go show Father how I look as a nurse." Mister Westenra usually spent a good part of the day in his study, and this was where the girls went first, but it was empty. The family butler, Watkins, was passing through the front hall, and Lucy stopped him, "Watkins, wheres father?" "Your father is in the main salon, Miss Lucy. Hes..." Lucy, true to her impatient nature, wasnt waiting for the full explanation, but had already started for the salon. "But hes receiving a gentleman guest!" He was ignored, of course, as the two young women hurried away, though Mina did give him a wry, vaguely apologetic grimace. When he was sure Lucy was out of hearing, Watkins muttered, "Cheeky chit! It simply isnt DONE!" Well-bred young ladies did NOT break in on their parents, especially when there was a male visitor who had not been formally presented to them. Lucy swept into the salon, chattering away. "Father, you simply must give me your opinion on the alterations I have planned for this apron. I want to... Oh!" She stopped short, frowning prettily. "You have a visitor. How lax of Watkins not to warn me. Im so sorry to intrude." Mister Westenra and his guest were seated on a small sofa, and both men stood as the girls entered the room. "Lucy, dear, you know youre always welcome, but really, you should have inquired first." "But I DID, Father. I asked Watkins where you were, and he directed me here. Im sure he didnt say a word to me about a guest." As she spoke, she was studying the man standing beside her father. She hadnt known him long, but he was hard to forget. While Quincy Morris wasnt what she would have considered of her own generation, he was still young enough--no more than early thirties--and quite handsome. He was tall, over six feet, and had a rangy build. He had dark eyes, and when he smiled they crinkled charmingly at the corners. His hair was thick and black, and though it was of an acceptable length, it was not tamed back into a smooth style, but tumbled naturally. It was obvious, even before he spoke a word, that he was not an Englishman. Quincy couldnt have denied his origin, even if he had not been too proud to ever consider it. If nothing else, his clothes would have given him away. The suit was obviously well made, and decently sober, but there was something about it that said it had been tailored more for comfort and practicality than fashion. But there were three things that truly told his origin--the shiny boots, the odd string tie, and the huge knife hanging in a sheath at this hip. Lucys eyes widened when she saw that last accessory--he hadnt worn that before--and she glanced up at his face quickly. What she saw there calmed any momentary apprehension. It was the same old look--the one that shed inspired in almost every man shed ever met since she had been allowed out of the schoolroom. She smiled at him. "And he certainly didnt mention how fascinating he is. Hello, Mister

Morris" She went to her father, taking his arm. "Now, dont be a stuffy old bear. Weve been properly introduced long ago, so you wont drive Mina and I away, will you?" Mister Westenra sighed ruefully. "Itll be no use trying to get any sense out of him if I just send you away." Lucy extended her hand, "How delightful to see you again, Mister Morris. And how bad of you not to have presented your compliments to the lady of the house first." "I beg pardon, Miss Westenra. I wasnt sure if it would be proper. In Texas there are some that might think such familiarity warrants close acquaintance with a horse whip." Lucy giggled, looking at Mina. "Mina, doesnt he have the most delicious accent? And we know each other far too well for you to stand on such ceremony here." She tipped her chin down and glanced up at him through her lashes (a move that never failed to enchant her gentlemen friends), "In fact, I think it is high time that you referred to me by my Christian name." Quincy blushed hotly, and Mina thought, *Poor man. He doesnt stand a chance.* The familiar used of her first name was a privilege that Lucy granted much more easily than most young women of her station. "Lucy..." Oh, dont scold, Mina. Father isnt scolding." "It isnt because I think its entirely proper, Lucy." Mina was surprised to hear that there was actually a note of disapproval in Mister Westenras voice. It didnt last long, though. "But I suppose its all right." Lucy looked back to Morris. "And youll let me call you Quincy, wont you?" "Lucy!" gasped Mina. Now she WAS scandalized. Such a request bordered on brazen. Quincy was blushing even more hotly, and he gave Lucys father a helpless look. Mister Westenras color was rising, and Mina had a feeling that Lucy was going to hear more of this later--but that would be in private. Mister Westenra was too well bred to chastise his daughter in front of a guest for indecorum. He said stiffly. "That would be acceptable, if Mister Morris so chooses." Quincy bobbed his head. "Id be honored." "Oh, dont worry, Father. Well keep the proper titles, wont we, Mister Quincy? Father, since youre doing business with Mister Quincy, wouldnt it be more convenient, and more hospitable, if you invited him to stay with us for the rest of his stay in England?" Her father raised an eyebrow, but said, "Theres no need to wheedle, my dear. I had intended to invite Mister Morris to stay with us for the next week or two. Ill be able to introduce him around, and see that he makes the proper connections. What do you say, Quincy?" He spread his hands. "Theres plenty of room, and Id enjoy the company. Im sure that Lucy and Mina would, too. Girls always like to have another young man around to dance attendance." "Thank you, sir. I accept your kind invitation." "Good. You can have your valet pack your things and bring them over." "Im afraid I dont have a valet, sir." He smiled sheepishly. "My Daddy didnt believe in them. He said a grown man ought to be able to dress himself." "Very Democratic. Ill have MY valet take care of the job, then." "Wonderful!" said Lucy. "Mister Quincy, you may begin your duties as a guest by telling me what you think of this apron. I assure you that it isnt my usual attire, but we have an invalid coming to stay with us soon." She spread the hem of the apron. "Confess--I look dreadful, dont I?" "Miss Westenra," he said sincerely, "you look like an angel of mercy." "How sweet." She slipped her arm under his, looking up at him. "Let me show you our garden, Mister Quincy. I know I havent given you a tour yet, and Im very proud of our roses." "Yes," said Mina dryly. "The gardeners work wonders with them." Quincy seemed so enchanted by Lucy that he missed the annoyed look she shot Mina. "But should you, Lucy?" She indicated one of the windows. The landscape outside was thickly shadowed, much darker than it should have been at that time

of day. They could see the branches of the trees waving almost briskly. "Theres a storm blowing in from the sea. You could be drenched." "Im not worried," said Lucy carelessly. "There are umbrellas in the stand in the hall," she moved closer to Quincy, snuggling against his side. "And Im sure that Mister Quincy will be willing to hold one, to protect me." *No,* Mina thought, feeling a little sorry for Morris. *Not a chance in the world.* ~*~*~*~*~*~ The storm still lashed the Celestine, but the sea behind it was beginning to clear a little. The ship was running with the last of the storms strength. If the mates calculations were correct, it was running too fast. Theyd need to lower the sails and drop the anchor if they didnt want to run aground. The others had better finish their work quickly. A figure appeared out of the rain, starting up the short flight of stairs that led to the bridge. "Captain," he called eagerly, "is it done? Is it over?" "Yes." The voice was strange. "It is over--for him, in any case." The man coming up the stairs was like something out of the mates worst nightmares. He was unnaturally pale, so much that his skin seemed almost luminous, and his dark hair was plastered to his shoulders in wet ropes. He might have been a drowned corpse, tossed up from the depths, draped with seaweeds. But while time spent at the rough mercy of the sea might account for the oddly misshapen look of the mans face, it would not explain the lambent red glow of his eyes. He would have screamed, but fear drove the breath from him. The other men followed the first looked more human, though two of them sported the same bright eyes, but none of them looked less than menacing. "I did nothing!" the man said, voice shrill with terror. "I have not left this wheel." "Defense, even before accusation. If you claim innocence, then you must know what evil was attempted. What did you do to prevent this?" "Please, dont kill me." "At least you have enough intelligence not to try further protest. How long before we make landfall?" "I... Im not sure, but soon. Very soon. Im sure wed have sighted land by now, if not for the storm. I can bring you into port safely, if you just let me live." Draculea stepped closer. "I can smell your lie even through the storm, human. You never intended to take us to our destination, and if you take us to the port you chose, there will probably be more of your kind waiting for us. Ive no doubt that my childes and I could deal with them, but Ill not risk my mortal servants if I can avoid it. Id rather risk an unguided grounding." "We may have little choice, my lord," said Simion. "Listen." Draculea looked back, facing the same directing in which the wind drove the ship. There was a new sound, scarcely audible over the fury of the storm. "Waves striking land?" Simion nodded. "We must be close, Domn." "Look!" Rill pointed ahead. Faint specks of light were barely visible through the rain. "If we are so close that we can see the lights of the houses even through this downpour..." Draculea looked back at the mate. "We dont need you any longer." He started toward the cowering mate, then drew up short with an angry hiss when he saw the rosary the man clutched. Simion saw the problem immediately. He stepped forward, pulling his knife from his belt. The mate began trying to pull free of the ropes he had used to bind himself to the wheel, babbling, "Mercy! I harmed no one, have mercy." "Did you show pity to the man who guarded my master? Would you have shown mercy to him, or myself, or even my dearest one? Do you DARE ask for mercy now?" The knife flashed, and the mate screamed. The rosary dropped from fingers rendered numb when Simion sliced through the tendons in the back of

the mans hand. Simion kicked the rosary away, and it slid off to disappear into the wet shadows that lay thick on the deck. As Simion sheathed his knife, the mate stared at him in mute, agonized surprise. "No, I will not kill you." He stepped aside, and the last thing the mate heard as Draculea loomed over him was, "That is not my right." ~*~*~*~*~*~ Quincy Morris was seated beside Lucy Westenra at supper. The young lady kept up a bright chatter all through the meal, and by the time sweets were served, Quincy was feeling more than a little dazed. He realized with some surprise that Lucy had deliberately set out to charm him. He wasnt used to that. Quincy had been raised on the American frontier. Women were women the world over, he supposed, but the women he grew up with tended to be practical, and straightforward. There average of women to men was still very low, and even the plain girls could count on a fair number of beaus. There simply werent many old maids in Texas--women were in too short a supply. The fact was that Quincy had been sent abroad more-or-less to find himself a bride. His mother had decided that it was time that Quincy settled down and set about continuing the Morris bloodline. Since none of the local girls tickled his fancy, perhaps he could find one back East, or in Britain, or Europe. He had strict orders to return with a fiancee. Quincy had every intention of doing just that. After all, that was what men his age, in his station, DID--they found themselves a wife, and had children--so that was what Quincy would do. He couldnt very well tell his mother that the thought of bedding even the most beautiful woman inspired no enthusiasm. His mother would never understand that a plump bosom could never fire his loins the way a muscular ass did. There simply hadnt been many girls around while Quincy was growing up. It wasnt unusual for him to go for months at a time without seeing a female near his own age. But there were plenty of other men--and given the lack of women, it was hardly surprising that some of them shared Quincys interest in their own sex. But none of them, not even the ones who had no interest in women at all, were open about their preference for men in bed. It was much safer, and more comfortable, to keep up appearances. Quincy just had to marry and impregnate a woman--he didnt have to delight in it. He intended to find a suitable, pleasant girl, marry her, start a family, and continue to satisfy his carnal desires with the same discretion hed shown thus far. It occurred to him that Lucy Westenra would fill the bill nicely. She was of a respected family, one whose wealth put her on the same social plain as the Morrises. She was intelligent, stylish, and well spoken. His mother would enjoy presenting such a girl to her circle of friends back home. And she was so pretty and flirtatious that no one would wonder at Quincy asking for her hand after such a short acquaintance. Another plus was that Quincy sensed that Lucy would be satisfied with the more courtly demonstrations of romance. While she might wish for her suitors to make love to her with gifts, flattery, flowery declarations, and occasional kisses, she would probably prefer to avoid the earthier aspects. She would be the sort who, as the joke went, closed her eyes and thought of England. Quincy thought that as long as her husband was discrete, treated her with respect, and saw to it that she was indulged with whatever luxury she desired, Lucy would be quite content to look the other way. In other words, she would be the perfect wife for Quincy. Hed decided to propose shortly after hed first met her. Then hed done a little observation, and listened to a little servants gossip, and realized that he was by no means the only stud horse in the running. Lucy had been dandling that mind doctor--Seward--on a string for some time. It was obvious even to an outsider like Quincy that shed never marry him. She wasnt suited to be a doctors wife. That nobleman--Lord Arthur Holmwood--was a much more serious rival. He had the money and position to offer Lucy the sort of luxury and prestige shed want. Still, Quincy thought that all was not lost. There had been no formal announcement of an engagement. If he could convince Lucy that in Texas she wouldnt be just one young society matron

among many, but the queen bee of an extensive social set... Well, it was often better to be a big fish in a small pond, and he could use that to his advantage. Quincy let Lucys chatter wash over him, watching her with a carefully charmed expression, and began to calculate how long he could safely wait, and whether he should approach Lucy, or her father first. ~*~*~*~*~*~ "I can understand why you want Rill back in the box--he cant swim--but I see no reason why -I- should have to be crated up as well," growled Sinn. "Because getting ashore will be hard enough without having to worry about you," snapped Draculea. "My patience is wearing thin, Sinn." "Oh, very well." The French vampire grumbled under his breath, but he climbed into one of the spare boxes. The lids had been damaged on the first three crates, and they had decided that the presence of the broken locks might be enough to make whoever found the ship curious enough to open them. Once Sinn was in place, Salazar nailed the lid shut, using far more nails than were strictly necessary. Simion was holding Rills hand. "You understand why this is necessary, Rill?" "Yes," said Rill. "Because the ship might sink before it grounds, and if that happens, the box will float me to shore, like a boat." "If we sink, Ill see to it that happens. If we ground, Salazar, the prince, and myself will go ashore and make our way to a safe house. Then we will return for you and Sinn as soon as we may. It should be no longer than a day. If the ship is not discovered, Salazar and I will hire a few discrete men to help us. If it IS found," he patted his pocket, "I have a letter proving that I am the princes representative here in England, and have rightful claim to this ships cargo. Dont worry." "I wont," said Rill placidly. "You always take care of me." He kissed Simion and lay down in his box, giving his lover a last smile as Salazar lowered the lid and began nailing it in place. Draculea watched the concern on his friends face, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Im sorry it must be like this, Simion." "There is no other way, Domn. If any of us are found on this ship, the authorities will want an explanation of what happened to the crew. While you would do well enough without your box, the other might not, and we just cant be completely sure we could find a resting place for all of you before the sun rose. No, this way is best. I believe we will run aground soon. You, I, and Salazar should be able to make it to shore safely. From what I heard from those scoundrels, we should land close to one of the properties you purchased." The ship had been in constant motion since the start of the storm, but now there was something different. Instead of the accustomed rocking, the ship lurched, and there was a grinding sound. The boards beneath their feet vibrated. Simion and Draculea exchanged looks, and before either could speak, it happened again. "It seems that out landing is at hand," said Draculea. "Salazar, are they secure?" The gypsy tossed down the hammer and patted the lid of Rills makeshift coffin. "Tight and secure, my lord. I took extra care. Even should the sea reach the hold, he should stay dry inside his nest till we can collect him." The ship shuddered and jerked again as the three men climbed the ladder, and they had to cling tight to the rungs to avoid being pitched back into the hold, but they made the deck safely. They went to the prow of the ship, and now they could see land. The shoreline was clearly visible through the rain that had concealed it before. They could make out the foam of waves on sand no more than a hundred yards away. The ship jerked again, throwing the men against the rail--then was still. The force of the waves was dying, and they werent enough to shift the bulk of the craft. It was well and truly lodged against the oceans

floor. It would take a particularly high tide to release it, and even that would not be certain. Simion pointed to a cluster of lights. "That looks like a village. There should be an inn there, where we can make inquiries." There was no response from Draculea, and Simion turned to look at him. The vampire was staring in another direction, toward a smaller cluster of lights. This looked more like one large building. "Master?" Draculeas facial features had melted back into their mortal form, and now he looked thoughtful. His eyes narrowed in concentration, then widened. He looked at Simion, and said, "Renfield." Simion frowned. "Are you sure?" "Yes. We bonded when I helped heal him after Rocks attentions. The connection isnt as strong as that between you and I, but I feel him." He closed his eyes, and concentrated. "Hes calling me." "Will you go to him, my lord?" Draculea opened his eyes. "Jonathan will be here in England soon." He did not continue, but Simion knew what he was saying. When Jonathan arrived, Draculea would turn all his attention and efforts to wooing and winning his reborn love. "Rill wants him so, Domn. And I do, too. He needs us, and you have placed him under your protection." Draculea sighed. "You shame me by reminding me of my duties, old friend. You will have your little clerk, but I cannot promise that it will be soon." "I understand, my lord. There are priorities." "Can you and Salazar lower the small boat, and make your way to shore?" "Im sure we can easily." "Good. I dont care to wait." Draculea took a step back from Simion, and spread his arms. Simion had an idea of what was coming. He had seen Draculea transform before, but it never failed to fascinate him, and he paused to watch. The rain had been slackening, and now a mist began to gather around Draculea. It thickened till he was completely obscured, curtained in a soft gray fog. Simion was expecting the fog to drift out over the water, toward land, but instead it began to dissipate. A figure gradually came into view--but it wasnt what Simion would have expected. The silhouette was large, but hunched, and as he watched, it crouched even farther, till it seemed to be on hands and knees. Then the last wisps drifted away, and the moon came out from behind the clouds. A creature, about Draculeas size, was revealed. It was covered in coarse gray fur, and the limbs were formed so that it could run more quickly on all fours than upright. The jaw jutted, and black lips wrinkled up to show rows of long, sharp teeth, meant for tearing. Large pointed ears flattened back against an elongated skull. The creature standing before Simion was clearly more lupine than human, and for a moment he was afraid. Then he looked into the creatures large, golden eyes. Whatever the outer form, the mind--the SPIRIT--gazing back at him was that of the man he had loved and served for centuries. Draculea threw back his head and howled, a savage, chilling sound. Powerful muscles bunched in his haunches, and he sprang over the rail. Simion looked over the side and saw the wolf creature swimming easily, its rugged body cutting cleanly through the waves. In moments it reached shore. The figure that trotted up onto the sand was even more changed. It looked like nothing more than a magnificent specimen of forest wolf. It paused for a moment, looking back at the ship, then bayed once, turned, and disappeared into the shadows, heading toward the lights that Draculea had pointed out. Satisfied that his master was safely started, Simion turned to begin helping Salazar lower the boat, ready to begin his own mission. end part 94

Back to index

Chapter 95: Chapter Ninety-five: Responsibility

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Rating: FRM Summary: Vlad visits a shut-in. Archive: Mailing lists and archives that have already received author approval. Otherwise, ask. Disclaimer: Characters and concepts borrowed from, and inspired by Bram Stokers Dracula, which is now in the public domain. Original characters and the story are copyrighted by the author. Do not distribute without authors permission. Notes: I probably dont have to say this, but here cuffs means sort of slaps, and not police bracelets. :) The Year of Our Lord 1892 The Seward Sanitarium Chapter Ninety-five: Responsibility The Seward Sanitarium looked as placid as any large house in England--on the outside. On the inside... The term Bedlam had been used to describe confusion and uproar for a long time. The fact that the Sanitarium was another lunatic asylum made it even more appropriate. An occasional howl could be heard even beyond the thick walls. Inside the babble of raised voices went far beyond the usual cacophony. The noise bounced around the large, open, three-story main room, echoing and intensifying. The inmates milled about the space, some wandering the walkways that rimmed the room. Here and there one of them stood, fingers hooked in the chicken wire that was used to screen the walkways, peering down on the confusion below. Two of the attendants, the steel security cages locked around their heads, stood near the stairs, glumly watching the inmates. Prosser heaved a sigh, and muttered, "I hate it when theres a storm. The place gets like a bleedin ant hill whats been stirred up." Bamford nodded, wincing slightly as the rim at the neck hole of his cage bit into the back of his neck. "Yeah, but the ants have more brains." He raised his voice in a shout. "SHUT UP, YOU LOT." There wasnt even a lull. "Shite. I dunno why I even try. When they get like this, nothin will quiet them but a rag in the mouth, or a good knock to the head." "Or a dose of what the doctor keeps by his bed," said Prosser slyly. Both of the men chuckled. "And speakin of the doctors bed..." Bamford nudged his friend, flicking a finger at one of the inmates. Robert Renfield was an island of stillness in the churning mob of patients. The former law clerk was seated on one of the heavy benches that were bolted to the floor in the center of the room. His pale face was lifted, his dark eyes fixed on the tiny window that was set just below the ceiling. It was in the middle of the one wall that did not front on the patients rooms, and since it was so far from any means of access, it had not been thought necessary to bar it. "Sewards never taken him to his bed." Prossers voice was severe, but there was more titillation than disapproval in his tone. "Course not." Bamford grinned, showing several gaps in his teeth. It was hard to say what had caused the loss--neglect, or violence. "Not to his BED, though I think the Looneys own bunk mightve seen a bit of fun. Ive seen Seward go into his room more than once, always late at night. You know that the doctor dont mess with the patients after bedtime unless one of em is having some sort of fit. Well, there was never a peep out of little Mister Renfield, but there was the doctor, and he spent a nice bit of time in there,

too." "Dog," said Prosser casually. "Well, he needs something, like we all do. Int likely hed get any from that fancy bit next door, is it?" "I spose. But hes got the pick of any of this simple-minded bitches." Bamford nodded at one woman who was wandering past, muttering to herself. She looked at least sixty. Her hair was like cobwebs, and her eyes were rheumy. A sour, stale odor wafted toward them as she passed. "The pick isnt so very choice. Thats typical of this lot." Prosser studied Renfield. The small man was an oddity in the asylum--he was almost fastidious about his personal hygiene. He washed every day, braving the cold water that was supplied, and he managed to keep his clothing neat, and relatively fresh. His hair had grown a little during his stay (given the excitable nature of most of the inmates, haircuts were few and far between--no one wanted to deal with scissors around them). A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead, half-covering his eyes, but he didnt seem aware of it. "You know, he looks better than most of these cows." Prosser gave him an incredulous look. "Hes mad, and if you keep talkin like that, Im likely to think you are, too." They didnt hear the door behind them open--the noise of the inmates covered it. "Im just sayin," Bamford continued, "that if a person WAS to want to have a bit of fun with that one, where would be the harm? Considerin the tales hes told already, it isnt likely anyone would listen if he said..." "Listen to what?" Bamford flinched, turning quickly to find Doctor Seward locking the door that led to the public part of the asylum. "This bleedin noise, sir. Im about to go deaf." "Well, why havent you gotten them into their rooms? You know very well that bad weather agitates them. You should have had them go in as soon as the storm blew up." "Right you are, sir," said Prosser. "Well take care of that right away." "Theres hardly any point now--the storm has almost dissipated. Still, go ahead. Itll probably take forever for them to calm down enough to sleep." Steward took a whistle out of his pocket and blew two sharp, shrill blasts. The noise around them didnt stop, but it decreased markedly as most of the inmates turned to look at him. He raised his voice, saying, "Bedtime! Everyone return to your rooms." There were protests, and he said firmly, "No arguments!" He looked toward the attendants. "Move them along, and try to be gentle about it." He unlocked the door that led to his own quarters, and went in. Prosser and Bamford heaved sighs, almost in unison. Some of the inmates had begun moving into their rooms. Prosser went upstairs and began locking doors after them on the upper floors, leaving Bamford to urge the stragglers along with shoves and cuffs. The room had emptied out, and Bamford, quickly made the rounds of the ground floor, peering through the slot in each door to be sure it was occupied before locking it. Finally he gave the room a quick scan, to be sure no one had been missed. "Well, well, well." Renfield hadnt budged from his place on the bench. He was still staring fixedly up at the window. Bamford sidled up behind him, moving quietly. He neednt have bothered with stealth--Renfield was quite absorbed. Bamford studied the way the slightly ragged, dark wisps of hair lay against the back of Renfields neck. It looked almost... delicate. Bamford poked him in the back, a bit more gently than he had the others. "I hate to tell ya, Renfield, but the Queen aint likely to drop by for tea at this hour." Renfield turned his head slightly, shooting him a disdainful glance from the corner of his eye before looking back at the window. Bamford didnt like being dismissed. He poked again, more roughly this time. "You heard the doctor. Time for beddie-bye." "Just a few more minutes," Renfield murmured, not looking back. "Hes close--I can feel him." "Oh, I bet you feel him, all right," sneered Bamford, "but hes hardly likely to give you a cuddle out here." He grabbed Renfields arm, pulling him upright. "Come on, now." Renfield didnt struggle as he was dragged toward his room, but he protested, "But hes coming for me!"

"Well, Im sorry, Cinderella, but your Prince Charmin has gone to bed, and he aint likely to come out here again tonight." As he spoke, he opened the door to Renfields room, shoving him in. He paused, leaning back out to look at the upper levels. Prosser was locking a door on the upper floor, and hed probably stay up there for a while, making sure that the patients were settled in. Then he looked back into Renfields room, eyes speculative. Renfield was standing in the middle of his little room, arms crossed, chin tucked like a petulant child. His back was to Bamford, so the attendant didnt see that his eyes were lifted toward the window that was set near the ceiling. The paper cross tied to the bars was a little lopsided, softened by the rain. Any other night he would have wondered why Prosser hadnt simply slammed the door after him, but tonight he had other things on his mind. "Dont just stand there, Renfield. Get into bed." Renfield glanced back at Bamford, then stepped over to the bunk and sat on it. "Not like that, fool. I said get in it, not sit on it." Renfield reached for his blanket. "Not like that! Aint you civilized?" He pointed at the pile of coarse cotton on the beds thin pillow. "Skin out of your duds and get into your gown." Renfield hesitated. "Very well. Id like a bit of privacy, if you please." "I dont please. Ive got to be sure you change. Its against the rules for you to sleep in your clothes." "Is it? I dont recall any such rule." "Well, Im tellin you now, aint I?" He gestured at Renfield. "Strip off." Renfield stood and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, removing it. He took the time to fold it neatly, and place it on a rickety chair. He was envied for that chair. Hed earned it by being quiet and docile for most of his stay. He had no undershirt, and the cool, damp air made him instinctively cross his arms over his chest again. Bamford was staring. Renfield had the smoothest body hed ever seen on a man past puberty. His skin looked pale and soft. "Go on." His voice was a little hoarse. Renfield stepped out of the soft slippers (all that the inmates were allowed), setting them neatly by his bunk. He reached for his fly, then paused, frowning at the attendant. "Turn your back." "Me, turn my back on a loony? Not likely." "I dont like you looking at me." Bamford smirked. "Too bad, Princess. Its my duty to keep an eye on you, to be sure you stay safe and behave yourself. Now, behave yourself, and take off those trousers. Or will I have to do it for you? Ive had to strip bigger than you for baths or sos the doctor can attend them." He smiled. "I wouldnt mind." Renfield was trembling slightly, and it wasnt from the chill. He silently unbuttoned his trousers and took them off, folding them. As he reached for the gown, Bamford said, "And the drawers. Dont know why they let you lot wear those--nothing but more laundry." Renfield scowled at him. "Youre a filthy minded wretch, Bamford." He picked up his gown. "Ill take them off AFTER I have my gown on." Renfield quickly slipped the gown over his head, then shoved his underwear down, stepping out of them. He turned to deposit them on the chair, then cried out in surprise as a big hand grabbed the back of his neck and shoved him face-first against the wall. A large, heavy body pressed against him from behind, pinning him to the cool stone. "Filthy minded, am I?" Bamford hissed in his ear. "Think I dont know what you and the doctor get up to?" The weight crushing him to the wall was bad, but the sense of helplessness was what was stealing his breath. That, and the jumbled memories of pain and humiliation that began to swirl through his mind. "Let me go!" "Whats wrong, loony? A workin man aint good enough for you? You want someone with nice, clean collar and cuffs, eh? Someone with soft, smooth hands?" Bamford jerked the hem of Renfields gown high. He still held Renfield pinned with one hand on the back of his neck, but with the other he slapped the smaller mans ass--hard. Renfield yelped at the sting, and Bamford grabbed one soft, pale globe,

squeezing brutally. "I ought to teach you a little respect for the common man." Renfield felt the mans hand clench even harder, rough fingers sinking into his tender cleft. "Please, dont!" Renfield whimpered. "Not again. Oh, please, not again!" "Bamford!" Renfield was released abruptly, and he slumped, crumpling to the floor, sobbing. He heard the man say sullenly, "He was actin funny, Prosser, and I was just checking to be sure he hadnt smuggled in a weapon." "Up his arse? Get out of there, you shite-headed idiot. You saw what happened to those other two the doctor caught fiddling with the patients. Theyre gone, and with pitch-black marks on their characters. Theyll have to leave the area to be able to find work--do you want to end up the same, just for a quick cuddle?" Prosser stepped into the room, going to the little man huddled on the floor. "Here now," he said gruffly. "It isnt as bad as all that, is it?" He helped Renfield to his feet. "Just a bit of a rough joke." Renfield, still trembling, wiped his face. "Im glad you came before the punch line." Prosser glowered at his co-worker. "Bamford didnt mean no harm." "I was overcome by your charms," Bamford drawled. Prosser was surprised by the clear hatred in Renfields eyes when he looked at Bamford. There was still fear, but there was cold rage, too. "Im going to ask him to kill you. He might do it for me. He might." This made Prosser uneasy. Renfield had been fairly non-violent since his arrival, and hed never been aggressive toward the staff. Of course, he supposed he couldnt blame the man--Bamfords intentions had been obvious. "Dont be troubling yourself about that." He guided Renfield over to the bunk, urging him to get in, then pulled the blanket up to his chin. "He wont be bothering you any more." He shot Bamford a hard look. "Ill see to that." Renfield caught his hand, and smiled sweetly at him. "Youre kind. You should be safe, but if theres any doubt, Ill ask him to spare you." Prosser felt flustered. He rubbed Renfields head, saying awkwardly, "Theres a good lad." He followed Bamford out of the room, shut and locked the door, then rounded on his companion. "Jesus Christ and all the saints, what the bloody hell were you THINKIN of?" Bamford remained silent. "Oh, right--you WERENT thinkin, or if you were, you were doin it with your PRICK! Messin with the inmates is bad enough, messin with one who obviously aint interested is WORSE, and messin with Doctor Sewards particular pet is cuttin your own throat. Leave off him, Bamford, or Ill knock some sense into you meself. You go up and keep watch." "But I usually..." "Im stayin down here tonight. Youre goin to be away from temptation." Grumbling, Bamford stamped up the stairs. In his room, Renfield gazed up toward the window, whispering. "Please come." The moonlight slanting through his window faded, and Renfield saw the mist drifting outside. He felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck, and felt a pull, deep inside. He sat up, excited, whispering, "Please, please, please." The mist drifted farther away. "No! Dont go, dont leave me here alone! Why wont you--? Oh!" Renfield leaped up, shoving the chair against the wall, and climbed on it, babbling. "Im sorry, Im sorry! This wasnt for you." He reached for the tattered paper cross, then hesitated. He stared into the swirling mist, and said softly, "He... He isnt with you, is he?" There was silence, but some of the apprehension left his expression. He stretched his hands high over his head and tore down the makeshift cross, crumpling it. Then he stepped down, and tossed the wad of soggy paper under his bunk. The mist drifted through the bars, pouring down. As it came it thickened and coalesced, seeming to draw into itself. In seconds it solidified, taking on the shape of a tall man. In a moment, Prince Draculea stood in the small, dark room, gazing down at Renfield.

Renfield dropped to his knees, gazing up at the vampire, and murmured, "Master." His eyes widened as he took in Draculeas revitalized appearance. He would scarcely have recognized the man, if it were not for the bond they shared. "Master?" Draculea smiled at him. "Yes, Robert. As you can see, I am well. And you?" Renfield tittered. "They tell me that Im mad." "They?" "All of them--the doctor, my employers--everyone." Draculea snorted softly. "And some people believe that Rill is feeble minded." Roberts face lit up. "Rill! Is he well? Does... does he miss me?" Draculeas grim expression softened a little. "Hes worried about you, Robert. I wish that I hadnt had to send you away. Do you wish to come back to Transylvania with us?" Renfield clasped his hands, eyes shining, but then fear crept into his expression. "I... dont think I can, Master." "What do you mean? Rill will be very sad if you refuse. It will break his heart." "But Master... I cant... If... if HE... the other one..." Draculea closed his eyes briefly. "Im sorry about that, Robert, but Rock will never hurt you again. Hes dead." Draculea opened his eyes to see Renfield cocking his head, looking at him questioningly. "The true death this time." "Did you kill him?" "I took part. He tried to harm Jonathan..." Renfield clutched his head, keening and rocking in grief and rage. Draculea caught his shoulders. "No, listen to me, Robert. He did not succeed. Rill stopped him." He smiled grimly. "Rill battered his rotten skull to a bloody pulp, and after I tore his head off, he burned what was left. Simion discarded the trash in the river, and by now the ashes, chips of bone, and bits of charred, decayed flesh will have washed into the sea. He will never hurt anyone again." Renfield quieted, then swallowed hard, and smiled at him tremulously. "Thats all right, then. I can go back with you? I can live at the castle with Simion, and Rill?" "Yes." His eyes shadowed. "Will Sinn be there?" "Yes, but I will give him strict orders to leave you be. He will obey--hes always been clever when it comes to his own survival." "Yes, Master. I want very much to go with you. But Im not sure that Doctor Seward will allow it." Draculea gazed at Renfield silently, then raised an eyebrow. Renfield started giggling again. "I know, I know. It IS funny. Wait!" Renfield scrambled up and went to his bunk. He flipped up the coarse sheet, and wiggled his hand into a slit in the think mattress. A moment later he came back to Draculea. Bowing his head, he lifted his hand toward the vampire. A brown mouse peeked over the top of his hand, whiskers twitching. "They found the other one, but I hid this one. Hes nice and fat--full of blood." Draculeas lips twitched, but he didnt smile. He said gravely, "I thank you, but I have eaten well tonight." "Oh." Renfield petted the mouses head with one fingertip. It turned its head and nipped at him. He gasped, looking at the tiny streak of blood left on his finger, then popped the tip in his mouth and sucked it. "If you dont want him, can I eat him? I havent been able to catch many spiders lately." "Let him go." Renfield frowned, like a child denied a treat, but he set the mouse down. It scuttled away, squeezing under the door. "I have something better for you." He held out his hand. "Come here." Renfield went to him trustingly. He could not clearly remember much of what had happened to him in his final days at Castle Draculea, but all his fear and rage was centered on Rock. He knew that Draculea had somehow helped him back from the physical and emotional hell into which hed been plunged, and through that hed come to realize that the prince loved Jonathan--loved him even more than Renfield

himself did. Renfield could forgive much for that. And now Draculea was offering him all that hed never had--a home, with people who would care for him, and care ABOUT him. Draculea slipped an arm around Renfields back. With his other arm, he unbuttoned his shirt. "Youre mortal now, Robert--fragile. Rill knows that were different from most men, but its hard for him to accept about people he cares for. All he has known for many years is our household. Sinn and I are," he shrugged, "what we are. Simion does not age. The Rom are only with us for a handful of years--they leave my service when they begin to age. It would grieve Rill if he had to watch you grow old, and die, but I can prevent that." He pulled aside the cloth. The nails on his free hand had grown long and sharp, and now he sliced one across his chest. A shallow slit opened up, and blood oozed out freely. Draculea urged Renfield closer, guiding him. "Drink." Renfield whimpered, then clutched at Draculeas arms, and pressed his mouth to the seeping cut. He sucked, swallowing mouthfuls of the salty-sweet, warm fluid. Renfield closed his eyes in rapture. Yes! This was what hed been seeking when he devoured the tiny creatures that he caught in his cell. He could feel life, heat, and strength flowing into him. He unconsciously began pushing his pelvis against Draculea. Renfield straddled Draculeas leg as he drank, and the prince felt the hard nudge of the mans erection against his thigh. He smiled. The sharing of blood often caused this reaction. Many times hed indulged those who gave, or received, by touching them till they found their release. When Renfield hunched against him, Draculea released his hold on the mans neck. Reaching down with both hands, he cupped Renfields buttocks through his gown, squeezing gently. Renfield mewled softly. He licked at the last trickles of blood, hips jerking quickly, rubbing against the vampires body. Then he trembled, and Vlad felt a warm dampness against his leg as Renfield found his release. The little man let his cheek rest against Vlads chest. Then he rolled his head, peeking warily through the hair that had fallen before his eyes. Draculea stroked his hair back. "Its all right, Robert," said Draculea quietly. He set the man back, and said, "I must go now." Renfield grabbed at his sleeve. "But you promised!" "And I will keep that promise, but you cant come with me now. I have to find Jonathan again, and then I have to make him understand. That may take some time. Until then you must stay here." "Cant I go an stay with Rill and Simion? Theyll take care of me." "Not yet. If I were to just take you away, thered be an uproar. Theyd turn the countryside upside down looking for you, Robert, and I need time and quiet." Renfield calmed down. "I understand. You couldnt very well court him if everyone in the county was running about, looking for an escaped lunatic." "I AM sorry." Renfield smiled at him. "Youll come for me soon. You promised, and you keep your promises." "I do." Draculea turned, looking up toward the window, prepared to leave. "Master?" Draculea looked back at Renfield questioningly. Renfield smiled. "Give him chocolates. He likes sweets." end part 95 Back to index

Chapter 96: Chapter Ninety-six: Settling In

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None this section Rating: FRM Summary: Vlad and company begin to settle in--and the legendary name is finally used. :) Archive: Mailing lists and archives that have already received author approval. Otherwise, ask. Disclaimer: Characters and concepts borrowed from, and inspired by Bram Stokers Dracula, which is now in the public domain. Original characters and the story are copyrighted by the author. Do not distribute without authors permission. The Year of Our Lord 1892 Ring o Roses Tavern, Near the Westenra Estate, Outside London Chapter Ninety-six: Settling In You never knew about stormy nights at a tavern. Either it would be desolate, nearly deserted, or overflowing with people seeking shelter. Tonight it was quiet at the Ring o Roses. Only the most entrenched regulars were willing to brave the gale for their evening pint. Digby, the owner, leaned on the bar, idly polishing one of his few, precious pewter tankards. Pottery or cheap, heavy glass was good enough for most of his clientele. The pewter had been passed down from his father, and his grandfather. It was reserved for quality customers--and those were few, and far between. Still, they werent unkown. Lord Arthur Holmwood himself dropped by occasionally, when he was in a merry mood. He came when he got tired of paying court to that high society wench who lived in the big estate just down the road. Holmwood liked Nancy, the barmaid currently snuggling with one of the taverns few customers. Nancy might not be able to converse on art, literature, and the current styles, but she knew what to do between the sheets to make a man feel like a man. He wasnt likely to be in tonight, though. As much as the gentry swore that they loved the country life, there werent many of them willing to actually get out and experience it when the weather got mucky. He looked up as the door opened, admitting a moist gust of air--and two new customers. He started to fix his usual smile of greeting on his face, but hesitated when he got a good look. They were a stocky, fair-haired man, and a swarthy younger one. The second one was unmistakable. Digby raised his voice. "No gypsies!" The quiet murmur of conversation stilled as all eyes turned toward the door. Instead of leaving, the new arrivals approached the bar. "You both deaf? I said no bleedin gypsies in here!" The fair-haired man slapped his hand down on the bar. When he withdrew it, he left the gleam of gold. "Is this enough to overcome your prejudices, at least for a little while?" Digbys gaze was drawn to the coin, and his eyes widened. It was a half sovereign. He kept a few rooms above the tavern for guests, and that single coin was worth more than what he would normally charge for the best one--for a month. "Sorry, sir--I seem to have been mistaken. Whats your pleasure? I have a good room upstairs, an theres a nice stew on the stove in back." Simion turned to Salazar and spoke to him in Rom. "Dogs will dance for gold. Well take a few minutes to get dry, and see how close we are to the Princes property. It should be nearby. I expect youre hungry?" Salazar nodded, smiling. "Couldnt take a meal on board, like the master and young Rill." Digby fidgeted as the two men conversed in some heathen tongue. He didnt like it, but he didnt want to give up that coin. Finally the man said, "Well have the stew, and ale. As to the room, we may be moving on soon, but well let you know if we want it." He smiled slightly. "Do you think it will still be free?" Digby wasnt a sophisticate, but he wasnt exactly thick, either, and he recognized sarcasm when he heard

it. Still, gold... "Quite likely, sir. Choose your seats, an Nancy will have it to you in just a tick." He slapped his hand sharply on the counter. "Nancy!" Nancy looked up, and Digby indicated Simion. "Supper for these two, an move your arse." When he removed his hand from the counter, the coin was gone. They took their seats, and Salazar said, "So, what now?" "Now we wait for the ship to be discovered. It shouldnt take too long, though we might have to wait till morning." "Those two on board are snug enough, but what of the master?" Simion gave him a wry look. "You think that the master cannot take care of himself?" Salazar shrugged sheepishly. "Dont worry about him. Even before he reached his present state, the prince knew how to survive. Hes always been a warrior, not one of those soft, spoiled royals. He hasnt gone out much during your time with him, but during the early years after he lost his love, he was restless. He once gave me a fine scare." Simion shook his head. "He didnt come back one morning. I near went mad with worry, but he showed up the next evening. Hed wandered farther than hed thought, and when daylight came, he buried himself--scratched himself a shallow hole, then pulled the dirt in behind him." Simion smiled. "He wasnt very happy, but hed learned a valuable survival tactic." The tavern keeper had finished drawing a pitcher of ale, now he reached for two pottery mugs. But he hesitated, thinking of the gold coin in his pocket. He set one of the cherished pewter tankards on the counter. After considering a moment, he added a second tankard. He didnt like the idea of the gypsy drinking from his best vessel, but he had a feeling that the paying customer might take offense if he thought his companion was being slighted. He brought the drink to the table, ignoring the ironic looks of the two customers. When he left, the girl arrived with a tray of food. She studied the two men as she unloaded stew, bread, and cheese. They certainly didnt look rich, but if that pinchpenny Digby was willing to break out his precious pewter, there had to be more to them than first met the eye. It might not hurt a girl to be friendly. The older man nodded his thanks, then said, "Tell me, girl--do you know of an old abbey nearby?" She bobbed them a curtsy, smiling. "Yes, sir. The old Abbey be just two miles up this road toward London. But why would you be interested in that gloomy old place? Its been abandoned for more years than my grandma has been on earth." "My employer has purchased it." Nancy gasped. "Oh, sir! Youre never going to stay there, are you? Its haunted." "Is it now?" Simions tone was amused. "No need to worry about me, girl. Ive seen things in my life that would make the most bloody specter run screaming." Nancy looked doubtful. "Well, Im hoping youll be well there." She gave Simion, then Salazar a glance from under her eyelashes. "If youre in the mood later, sir, there be a nice plum cake in the kitchen." "Ill let you know," said Simion. The girl bobbed again, and sauntered away, swinging her hips. Simion noticed how Salazars eyes followed the sway. Salazar caught his look, and grinned. "I wouldnt mind a slice." When Simion gave him a sharp look, he continued, "Just saying. I know better than to go tasting, at least before we get things settled here." Simion grunted, pulling a bowl closer, and reached for a spoon. "Im glad to hear that. Areas like this are notoriously intolerant of strangers, especially anyone they consider a foreigner. And you, Salazar--you could have been born and bred here in England, and youd still be a foreigner to them." They had almost finished their meal when the door banged open, and several excited men entered. "Theres been a grounding!" one of them shouted. "Ships run aground not a half-mile from here. Something more is wrong with it than that, though. Theres not a speck of light anywhere on board." Another said, "Should be signal lights all over it. Should have been a flare sent up. We need whoever can to come out and see whats going on. Ive already sent someone for Doctor Seward, in case any of them are sick or hurt. But if any of them ARE sick, we might not want them coming ashore right away, and it

would be good to have a few more men." The other few customers started for the door. Simion called out, "Can you see the name?" The first man frowned. "Not through this storm." "Im on my way to London to meet a ship. It could very well have been blown off course, and fetched up here. If it is The Celestine, please send word back to me." "Ill do that. Is it a passenger youre supposed to meet?" "No, Im just an agent, and Im to collect a small cargo. If it is my ship, Ill be happy to pay to have the property unloaded." There were appreciative murmurs from the other men. A hundred years ago a grounded ship would have been cause for a looting spree. Most people living in the area were cash poor, and any paying job was a boon. The fact that the local constable was present was probably what kept history from repeating itself. The increased crowd hurried off into the waning storm. Simion beckoned the tavern keeper over to the table. "If that is my ship, then theres certainly no point in traveling on to London. In fact, this may save me some time, since the cargos final destination is nearby. If I can get it off the ship tonight, would you have a place I could store it until I can arrange to have it transported there?" "If it isnt too great. Theres a stable in back, but its only used when a customer has horses, and that isnt often. Its empty now." "That would be perfect. Well wait for word back from the others. If theyre back within an hour or two, Ill arrange to have the cargo brought here, and Ill take that room you spoke of." The man left, and Simion poured himself more ale. Salazar watched him, then said, "Youre thoughtful." "Its just sinking in. Ive been moving toward this place, this situation, for a long, long time, Salazar." Simion took a sip of ale. "As long as the prince. When Rill came into my life, he completed me. I think of how I would feel if I lost him, and I can imagine the pain and grief that Draculea has suffered. Trying to help him find his lost love has been the driving force in my life for so long." "And now it will soon be over," said Salazar. "You are apprehensive? You think that life will be empty without this purpose?" Simion gave him a puzzled look, then laughed shortly. "No! To finally see my prince once again happy and contented?" He held up his tankard, as if in salute. "I cant wait." ~*~ Draculea left the asylum feeling a little reassured. Hed been a bit guilty about Renfield, and he was glad to see that the little clerk now wasnt quite so broken. He had to see about removing Renfield from the asylum soon. While he had been searching out Renfield, he had sensed things along their bond. Robert had been, in general, treated well, but there were disturbing elements in the asylum. He might not be safe for long. Judging from the letters that Jonathan had written at the castle, his fiancee was nearby, staying with one of her friends. Jonathan had made mention of her--Lucy Westenra. Hed spoken of Renfield being housed in the neighboring asylum, and his hopes that Mina would look in on him, and let him know if his friend was all right. Yes, that was where they would bring his beloved. He would want to have some knowledge of the place, the ins and outs--the weaknesses. He assumed his wolf form again, and loped toward the nearby lights. Draculea had spent most of his life in houses designed for royalty, or at the very least, nobility. It was a sign of the changing times that a place like the Westenra estate could be owned by a commoner. Luckily, it had been designed for style and comfort--not defense. It wouldnt be difficult to get in unseen, but that would come later. Tonight was for exploration. He avoided the expanse of lawn in the front, and made his way through the surrounding trees toward the back. Here there was a garden. It had been designed with clumps of bushes, and beds of tall flowers and

herbs--there would be sufficient cover, if he was careful, to keep him concealed. He made his way closer, as close as he dared, and lay down in a thick bed of something with lavender flowers. The leaves he crushed emitted a faint smell of cinnamon. As sometimes happens, the scent triggered a memory--Nicolae in the castles kitchen, hovering as the teasing cook prepared spiced cakes. The wolf whined softly in the back of his throat, the sound an almost human moan. He watched the house for a while. None of the draperies had been fully closed for the evening, all being left with an even, decorative gap. He could see a figure pass occasionally--servants, judging from their dress. His eyes were drawn to the second floor. Two rooms on each side shared balconies, and the drapes on the left corner room were opened wider than the others. This would be an important room, reserved for family members, or honored guests. He watched, willing himself to patience, and his patience was rewarded. A young woman appeared in the window, gazing out. Her eyes were fixed on the sky, and she was speaking to someone in the room behind her. She was quite pretty, with curly blonde hair, but the overall first impression that Draculea received was spoiled. From her lively expression he imagined that she was speaking of the storm, but somehow he had a feeling that the grandeur of nature did not, as it did for so many, make her feel insignificant. Hed never seen the girl before, but there was something familiar about her--something beyond the physical. The same was true of the girl who joined her at the window. This one was dark-haired, with large, dark eyes. Somehow she didnt seem quite at home her rich surroundings. She would be a guest, not a part of the family. *Mina,* Draculea thought. *The one who thinks she holds Jonathan.* His lips wrinkled back unconsciously, baring teeth. The two girls stood close together, talking. Mina slipped an arm around Lucys waist, and the smaller girl leaned against her. His eyes narrowed. They looked cozy together--very cozy. Mina leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Lucys cheek. Vlad knew that though the English were thought distant and standoffish by the rest of the world, they prided themselves on their devotion in friendship. It was praised in song and story almost as much as romantic love. Rhapsodies were written to friends who were closer than brother, or sisters. Lucy reached up, hand cupping the back of Minas head, and drew her down for another kiss. This one was full on the lips, and it lasted far too long to be considered sisterly. Suddenly something clicked into place for Draculea. The dim memory of two other women, physically different from these, but alike in aspect, was suddenly clear. A low growl rumbled in the wolfs chest, a sound that was too full of hatred to sound entirely wild. Hot yellow eyes fixed on the two. In the Westenra house, Lucy broke the kiss, turning her gaze outside again. This time she lowered her eyes to look down into the garden. The rain had thinned to a drizzle. The clouds were scattering, and the moon shone through, silvering the wet leaves, but among the silver glints there was another of gold, and it drew Lucys attention. "Mina, I think theres a dog in the garden." "Its probably one of your fathers hunting spaniels," said Mina. "No, it wouldnt be. Hes very careful of them. Theyll all be in the kennel." "Perhaps its a fox." "I dont think so. I get the impression its rather large. See? In that bed, there." They both stared at the yellow eyes, and Mina shivered. "I dont like the idea of something that big being this close to the house." "Oh, dont be afraid, darling. Ill tell father tomorrow, and hell have the groundskeeper set traps, or the game keeper will hunt it down." She looked again, and shivered herself. "It hasnt moved. Its almost as if it were watching the house--watching us." "Dont get morbid fancies, Lucy," said Mina firmly. "Its just a beast. Its waiting to see if there are any scraps thrown out, or perhaps its hoping for a nice, fat lap dog."

"Youre awful, Mina." She bit her lip. "I dont know. I keep thinking Ive seen something like that before." The two girls stared toward the shadowy figure lying in the tall herbs. The wolf stared back. Despite the distance, it was as if they were looking into each others eyes. The feeling of recognition grew in Draculea, and a similar feeling, faint and uneasy, grew in the girls. A single, common thought passed quickly through each ones mind, so brief that it was almost unconscious. *I know you.* The girls flinched as the golden eyes suddenly flared red, then disappeared. There was a brief glimpse of a shadowy, shaggy form racing back into the trees as Lucy and Mina clutched at each other. Breathless, Lucy said, "I will not wait till tomorrow!" and hurried from the room to tell her father that something dangerous was roaming their land. end part 96 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Old Enemies

Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-seven The Year of Our Lord 1892 Ring o Roses Tavern Old Enemies The group that meant to investigate the grounded ship had not been gone long when the door opened again. This time, when he saw the new arrival, Digby nearly dropped the glass mug he was polishing. The man was tall, with long, dark hair plastered across his face by the rain. He shut the door after himself, and raked the hair out of his face with an impatient gesture. Sharp, light blue eyes swept the room quickly, and Digby knew that they missed nothing. The mans clothes were sopping, dripping a puddle on the floor, but only a blind man would not recognize their quality. And his boots... A mans footwear was even more important in judging a mans class. Shoddy, flimsy shoes were a dead give away of the lower class, but boots or shoes that were too pristine and fussy were just as telling. This mans boots had obviously seen use, but they were well kept and supple, and obviously well made. They were the boots of a gentleman. Digby was about to hurry over to greet the man when the other two strangers stood up. Their deference was clear--neither sitting till the newcomer had indicated that he wished them to. Before he took a seat, the gypsy came toward the bar, and Digby had another one of his pewter tankards ready. The man shook his head, and mimed opening a bottle. Digby understood. He trotted hastily into the back of his tavern, and returned with a dusty bottle of wine, and a single fine cut glass goblet. This was even more precious to him than his beloved pewter ware--he had only one left. Salazar returned to the table, pouring wine for Draculea with the skill of a practiced servant. Draculea sipped, then gave the bartender a brief nod. Digby felt himself swell with pride, at satisfying someone of quality. As Salazar resumed his seat, Simion said, "You found Renfield?" "Yes. You will be able to assure Rill that he is quite well--physically, in any case. Hes still..." Draculea made a wavering motion with his hand. "Yes, thats to be expected," said Simion. "I fear that the poor man was teetering before he came to us.

Rock was happy to launch him over the edge." "Hes better than he was, though. He spoke to me, and he made sense, but hell be so much better once hes out of that place. Its a lunatic asylum, Simion. I could feel the madness all around me, like a dense, stinking fog. Hell never get any better in a place like that. He needs our Rill to care for him." Vlad cocked his head, studying his old friend. "It wont bother you?" Simion smiled. "No, my lord. Even if they should occasionally take pleasure of each other, I know that no one could ever take my place in Rills heart." "Good. As much as I want Rill to be happy, I couldnt sanction anything that hurt you, my friend. Speaking of Rill, how are things progressing with the ship?" "It goes well, I believe. The ship has already been discovered, and a party has gone to investigate. Ive put out the story that Im in charge of the cargo, and Ive made arrangements to have it brought here, till we can have it moved to your property. We were lucky to find this place. Its close to the ship, the asylum, AND the abbey." "And to one other most important place. Ive found where theyll be taking Jonathan." Draculea twirled the goblet in his fingers, watching the light glint on the glass. "Ive been there--and Ive seen something." Simion caught the nuance in Draculeas voice, and sat forward with interest. Draculea kept his eyes fixed on the cup. "During our conversations, he spoke of his life in England. I wanted him to. I want to know who he is now, as well as who he has always been. He spoke of this Wilhelmina--the woman who thinks she will own him. He spoke of her friend--Lucy. He was ever the gentleman, but one can learn things from the tone, and the things that are left unsaid. It would seem that those two are closer to each other than Wilhelmina is to Jonathan." "Ah." There was a world of meaning in Simions tone. "You think they might be...?" He trailed off. Draculea nodded. "I saw them together, and I believe that we should say are instead of might be." "Do you think Jonathan knows? He is planning to marry the girl, and why would he wed someone he knows loves another, and can never truly love him?" Draculea gave Simion a humorless smile. "People marry for many reasons." He said nothing more, simply pressing a hand to his own chest. Simions expression hardened a little. "Yes, my lord, but hopefully we can prevent another incident like that." Draculea sighed. "I cant really hate her, you know. If not for Beta, I would never have found my Nicu. No, she was only a silly, shallow, self-centered chit. Left on her own, she would have been quite harmless, perhaps even pleasant, in her own way. But the other one..." A flame seemed to flicker in Draculeas eyes. "It wasnt enough, Simion. All that she went through before she died--it wasnt enough." "No, my lord. Comfort yourself that she spends eternity entertaining Satan himself." "But does she? I told you, Simion, that I recognized the women. I think the recognition goes deeper than Wilhelmina Murray, and Lucy Westenra." "My lord?" "If my Nicolae has been reborn, and he has--Ive no doubt of that--then who is to say that others, though less worthy, might not have done the same?" Simion sat back in surprise, and Draculea nodded. "We never thought of that. We never considered that Lena Abul might be allowed to crawl back from the depths and befoul the world again." "If this is true," said Simion slowly, "there is no justice in the world." "Not true, old friend. Nicolae did come back. As to the other..." The bartended blinked suddenly, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Perhaps he should light more lamps. His eyes were playing tricks on him. For a moment, the new customers face had looked somehow distorted. The man caught the bartenders gaze, and his eyes glittered like ice over deep water. The bartender looked away quickly. Draculea looked back at Simion and continued, "As to the other," he smiled slowly, "we must see to it ourselves."

The door opened, and several men entered. The men in the group had been excited when they left to investigate the ship--they were even more agitated now, but it was more distress than excitement. As a group they went directly to the bar, and the leader said, "Whiskey, Digby, for everyone." Digby gave him a dubious look, and the man growled, "Ill pay for it, damn your parsimonious soul. We need it." The bartender began to set out small, heavy glasses, and the speaker looked around, "Wasnt there someone with an interest in the ship?" Simion stood. "Yes, over here. Join us. And innkeeper, Ill take care of those drinks with my own bill. These men have earned at least that much." There were murmurs of thanks as the men began reaching for their drinks, and the leader carried his over to the table, taking the chair that Salazar pulled out for him. He gave Draculea and Salazar curious looks, but addressed Simion. "I spoke to you before we left, I believe. Im Bran Ellis, constable for this area." "Then were glad that you were along on that expedition," said Vlad. "Im sure that these are honest folk, but sometimes there are great temptations to bend the rules on salvage." "Theres no need to fear that," Ellis assured them. "The cargo is safely on its way here--all, since there wasnt much of it." "And it survived in good condition?" asked Vlad. "None of the cases were breached?" "All tight and undamaged." "Good. My thanks to you and your people. The contents of those crates would be worthless to anyone but myself, but to me--they are precious." He smiled. "Sentimental value." Bran hesitated, then said, "You gentlemen are strangers here." He paused, obviously waiting for an introduction. Normally Simion, as his lords steward, would have formally announced Draculea, making sure that all were aware of his masters rank. Now, though, he hesitated. This was a situation where anonymity might better serve the princes purpose. He waited now for Draculeas response, ready to take his lead. "Strangers, yes, but we feel very welcome." He indicated his companions. "Salazar, who is in my employ. Simion, who is... I suppose the English term would be personal secretary, or assistant." He smiled, "And I am Count Vlad Dracula, of Transylvania--the last of an ancient, and faded line. I have purchased property near here. We shall be neighbors." The constable smiled politely, thinking, *Oh, yes, and I take tea with Lord Holmwood every Thursday.* "Im afraid we found something very disturbing on that ship--or rather there was something we should have found that we didnt. There was only one man on board, and hell not be telling us what happened." "Injured?" asked Simion. "Dead, sir. Very dead." Ellis shuddered, gulping his whiskey. "Being constable, Ive seen the dead before. Drownings, accidents... I helped cut down a man whod hanged himself." He shook his head. "It had been at least a week since hed done himself. Ill never forget... And we did have one murder a few years back--laborer killed his wife with a tile cutting knife. That was bad. But Ive never seen anything like this." Simion gestured to Salazar, who went to the bar and brought back the whiskey bottle, filling Ellis glass again. "My thanks. This is all I will take. I need to keep my head clear tonight." "The dead man?" Draculea asked. "He was lashed to the wheel. Ive heard that sailors will sometimes do that in a bad storm. Ive never seen such a look of terror. His face was twisted, as if hed seen the devil himself coming for him, and his throat... It... There wasnt much left of it. The rain must have washed away most of the blood, because there should have been a pool all around him, but there was scarce a drop. There was more blood elsewhere, though. We found it in both the cabins, and in the hold. There was violence done on that ship." "Mutiny?" asked Simion. "Thats a possibility." "I had two agents on that ship," said Dracula. "They were loyal men. I would hate to think that something

had happened to them." "Im sorry, sir, but it seems likely that theyre dead. Ill do what I can to find out what happened, but I fear that, unless we can find a survivor, its going to remain a mystery." "It isnt that I doubt you," he said judiciously (doubting a gentlemans word could still cause trouble for a working man), "but you do have papers showing ownership?" Draculea, now Dracula, looked at Simion. "Simion?" "Of course." He pulled a waterproof parcel from his shirt, opening it and removing several documents. "Our contract with the ship owner, and the bill of lading." The constable examined the papers, then said, "The name here is Prince Draculea." "A distant relative," said Dracula smoothly. "He still clings to the archaic spelling of the family name." He shrugged. "And our line of the monarchy is long deposed. I only use my title out of family loyalty." The constable was satisfied. He handed back the papers, saying, "Ive told the men to store the crates in the stable. Im sure that youll have no trouble having them transported wherever you need. You will be staying here?" "I will leave Simion here to see that the cargo is transferred, but I will go on to the abbey. I wish to look over my new home, settle in... prepare myself to meet my neighbors." "My lord, you will take Salazar with you." The way Simion said it made it a statement, rather than an inquiry. "Yes, youre right," said Dracula, glancing at Ellis. For a nobleman to live rough and unattended in a near derelict house would raise suspicion. The constable wasnt to know that Salazar would not be acting as valet or cook, but rather as bodyguard for his sleeping master. The constable insisted on having the landlord provide lanterns. He stood before the tavern with Simion, watching the lanterns carried by Dracula and Salazar dwindle to specks as they went down the road. He looked over at Simion and said, "They should be all right. Theres the asylum nearby, but theyre careful of the lunatics, and theres little real crime in this area." "Really?" said Simion. "How fortuitous." *What a shame. It will be harder for the master to procure fresh blood without restraint. A good criminal population means good hunting.* ~*~ Lucy hurried into her fathers study, saying, "Father, you need to set the dogs loose at once! Ive seen..." She halted abruptly, frowning at the rumpled, damp man standing beside the fire. "There were no visitors announced." She came closer, examining him. "Its Constable Ellis, isnt it?" Her father said, "Lucy, I wont scold you for bursting in so rudely, because there are more important matters at hand. Where is Wilhelmina?" "I think shes coming right behind me. Whats wrong?" The constable started to speak, but Mister Westenra said, "Please wait for Miss Murray. This may concern her." Wilhelmina came into the room, stopping by the door. "Oh. Lucy, maybe we should wait till the morning, and..." "Come in, Mina, and have a seat," said Mister Westenra. Mina felt apprehension. Lucys father had always been nothing but pleasant to her, but now there was a sort of sad kindness in his voice that worried her. She sat down, and Lucy went to sit beside her. "What is it?" "Constable Ellis has brought me disturbing news. Mina, you must be brave. A ship has run aground nearby." Mina blinked at him in incomprehension, but Lucy grasped the situation immediately. "Jonathan!" "Jonathan?" Mina gasped. Westenra held up his hands. "Stay calm. Something very bad happened on that ship. It seems to have been

abandoned before or just after it ran aground. There was one body found on board, but from what the constable tells me, its not Jonathan." "Is he sure?" Mina asked. "Well, Miss," said Ellis, "Your friend is a young man--about your age?" She nodded. "Dark hair and eyes, and hes a clerk in a law office? This man is older. I cant say the color of his eyes, because theyre..." He pulled at his collar. "Anyway, this one was no office worker. Hed lived a rough life. I dont think it was your Mister Jonathan. Ill be searching the ship more thoroughly later, and Ill look for the captains log, so we can be sure, but this seems to have been a cargo ship. Ive spoken with the man who commissioned the voyage, and he had people on board, so I doubt there were other passengers." Lucy hugged Mina comfortingly. "Oh, poor Mina! Dont be afraid, darling. Im sure that wasnt Jonathans ship. You wait--hes even now sailing to safety. I wouldnt be surprised if hes already landed in London, and is even now making his way here." Mina clutched at Lucy. "But what will I do if..." Lucy cradled her friends head down on her shoulder. "Dont worry about that now. You know very well you can stay here with me for as long as you need, as long as you want." She petted Mina. "And if it takes a long time for Jonathan to recover, Im not going to let you go off to nurse him alone. Im sure that if hes as frail as they indicate, he mustnt go back to crowded, dirty old London, and be cooped up for hours on end in an airless office. I can persuade Arthur to give him a job tending the library at his estate, and then youll be able to stay nearby, perhaps even on the estate. Oh, it would be perfect." Constable Ellis listened to this, disconcerted. Hed been prepared for fainting, or perhaps even hysterics, but neither of the young ladies were as distressed as he would have expected. Miss Westenra even seemed almost excited by the thought that her friends fiancee might be incapacitated to the point of leaving them both in need of her assistance. end part 97 Back to index

Chapter 98: Chapter 98: New Arrivals

Child of the Night, Chapter Ninety-eight The Year of Our Lord 1892 The Holmwood Estate New Arrivals The crates had been brought to the tavern in short order, and Simion was able, for a good fee, to hire the wagon and service of one of the men. The man was curious as to what was so important that it couldnt wait in the stable till daylight, but he wasnt inclined to question. Simion paid in advance. He paid well, too, because the man didnt relish the idea of going to the Abbey at night. There were stories about the old place, though they varied, depending on who you spoke to. Some said that a nun had been walled up and left to starve, another said that wastrel noble had repented his wicked life and joined the order just before he died, and still walked in penance. The man knew that wild animals tended to favor abandoned buildings, and that was enough to make him less than happy about being there. The driver was prepared to refuse to enter the building, but it didnt come to that. The gypsy came out to meet them, and in short order the crates were unloaded at the door. The driver was eager to go, jumping back to his seat as soon as the last box was settled. Simion called. "Wait! Give me that bar in the back of your wagon. Ill need a way to open these." The man ignored him, lifting the reins, ready to slap them down on the horses back. The gypsy stepped

up quickly and grabbed the horses halter, giving the man a hard stare. "I aint staying here while you take the time to use it." "No, youre not." Simion tossed a coin up on the seat beside the man. It was enough to pay for a dozen of the tools. The man tossed the bar to Simion, almost throwing it at him. He was a little surprised at the ease with which the man caught it, plucking it out of the air as neatly as if it were a dry branch. Simion nodded to Salazar, and the gypsy loosed the horse, stepping away with an ironic bow. The driver slapped the reins sharply, and the horse started away. In later evenings, over pints at the tavern, he would remark that those two would likely be right at home in a haunted house. As soon as the cart was out of sight, Simion went directly to a case. He laid a hand on the lid and said, "Rill?" There was a faint tap from inside. Simion immediately wedged the thin end of the bar under the edge of the lid and began to pry it up with impatient jerks. The nails ripped free, and in moments Simion tossed down the lever, hastily grabbed the lid, and lifted it. He eagerness to free his lover made him careless, though, and one of the nails jabbed into his hand. He hardly noticed it in his anxiety to be sure that Rill was safe. The young vampire blinked up at him, then wrinkled his nose. "I dont like being closed up like that when Im awake," he complained. "Im sorry." Simion reached down to help him stand. "Oh, you dont have to be sorry," said Rill, as he stood, stepping out of the box. "I know I had to. I was just saying." There was a thumping sound, and muffled curses. "Wed better get Sinn out. Hes going to be in a really foul mood if he has to stay longer." Salazar picked up the lever and set about freeing the Frenchman. Rill made an exclamation of distress, and took Simions wrist. "Simion!" There was a small tear on the side of his hand, oozing blood. "Youve hurt yourself." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the wound clean, then bound it up. Simion watched with gentle affection. It was a measure of the boys devotion that it hadnt occurred to him to at least taste the blood. *As quickly as I heal, its hardly worth binding it.* Rill finished, tying the makeshift bandage neatly, then looked up at Simion with a smile. *But he wants to take care of me, so I say nothing, and Ill wear it longer than I need.* "Thank you." Rill looked around. "Where is the prince?" "He is exploring the Abbey. It isnt as large as the castle, but weve never really NEEDED all that space. He visited Renfield before he came here." Rills eyes lit up. "Robert! Will he bring Robert here?" "Not yet, but he made sure that your friend is well. You must be patient." Sinn was grumbling to a stolid Salazar about his recent confinement when Dracula came out of the Abbey. "Simion, excellent work, as usual. Well be well settled before dawn." "Yes, my lord, though if this rain continues, we hardly need worry about sunrise." "True. Sinn, come here. I have something important to tell you all." When the others had gathered round, Dracula said, "I expect that we will see more of the neighbors here than we did in Transylvania. They are not to be eaten." He looked at Sinn as he said this, and Sinn shrugged. "Salazar, youre still to keep intruders away, but try to do it without bloodshed. The constable in this area doesnt strike me as the sort to look the other way. And when we speak to the people here, I am no longer Draculea." Rill looked confused, and Dracula rubbed his head. "Its a game, Rill. Pretend?" Understanding lightened the boys face, and he smiled eagerly. He loved to pretend. "From now on, you serve Count Dracula, a distant relative of Prince Draculea." Sinn shook his head. "I will never understand. The need for a different history is clear--we do not know how much Jonathan remembers. But to willingly go from prince to count..." "Youll fit in well in English society, Sinn," said Dracula dryly. ~*~ The Next Day

Arthur Holmwood felt someone shaking his shoulder gently. Not opening his eyes, he muttered, "Pickens, what the devil are you doing waking me up in the middle of the night?" "Sir, its your usual time--just gone half-past-seven." Arthur slitted his eyes open, then quickly shut them. "Tripe. It cant even be dawn yet. The room should be abominably bright. Wheres the sunshine?" "I should imagine that its behind the clouds, sir. The storm may have passed last night, but it left behind a good bit of rain." Arthur reluctantly opened his eyes. He sat up, and his valet tucked two pillows behind him, so that he could sit comfortably. As the valet went to fetch a tray from the small table by the door, Arthur peered at the window. The drapes were open, and he could see why the room seemed so dim. The only illumination in the room was from the two lamps--there was no ambient light. "Well, I dont suppose Ill be riding this morning." "I wouldnt advise it, sir." Perkins unfolded the legs of the tray, positioning it over his employers legs. He poured a cup of tea, then added sugar. "Though it might let up, I suppose." Arthur watched as Perkins stirred sugar into the tea. When he was done, Arthur picked up the cup and sipped, then nodded his approval. "Wheres the rest of my breakfast?" "Lady Holmwood requests that you join her in the morning room, sir." Arthur set down his cup with a sigh. "Oh, bloody hell. Mother never bothers me before noon unless she wants something. What is it now?" "I wouldnt like to say." Arthur gave his valet a jaundiced glance. "Perkins, I know very well that in this household the servants usually know things before I do. If I have to face my mother on an empty stomach, I dont want to be at a total loss." Perkins folded his hands and said judiciously. "Well, sir, it seems that the butchers boy brought something besides the order this morning. He brought news. The kitchen staff got the story from him, and you know how gossip spreads below stairs. The footmen got it from them, and the maids got it from the footmen. Your mother heard the maids gossiping, and had the butler get the full story from them. She then asked me to inform you that your presence was required." "A wonderful explanation of the estate grapevine, Perkins, but it tells me precisely nothing. Mother seldom bothers to pass along servants gossip to me. Whats so important this time?" As Arthur finished his tea, Perkins related the mystery of the ghost ship that ran aground, deserted save for one mutilated corpse, lashed to the wheel. "Yes, I can see how that would make the rounds quickly. Id wager its going to spawn some gruesome ghost stories. Soon well have phantom ships sailing under full moons, with skeletons beckoning to unwary folks on the beach. But is that all? Id think mother would save that story till luncheon." "Yes, sir. I believe that she wishes to speak to you about owner of the ships cargo, who arrived not long after the ship grounded, and has taken up residence at the old Abbey. It seems, sir, that he is of the nobility." "Really? I havent heard of any new families moving into the area." "Not surprising, sir. The gentleman is not English. He is from Transylvania--a count." "Transylvania?" Arthur sounded incredulous. "Everyones handing out titles these days. I think I can guess why Mother wants to speak to me. Dash it all, Ill have to go out into the weather anyway." "Yes, sir. Might I suggest your brown tweed? Its excellent at keeping out the damp, but still looks nice enough to make a welcoming call on minor nobility." "Fine." He smiled as he finished his tea. "Youre a worse snob than I am, Perkins." "Yes, sir." ~*~

Lady Jocelyn Holmwood looked up as her son entered the breakfast room, and came over to her. She lifted her cheek for his kiss. "Good morning, Arthur." "No, it isnt, Mother. Its filthy outside, and I suspect that youre going to require me to leave my cozy nest and walk abroad." "Dont be unpleasant." Arthur shrugged, and began to fill a plate from the covered dishes sitting on the sideboard. "Something very interesting happened last night..." "Grounded ship, deserted, mutilated body, mysterious owner now at The Abbey, and in need of welcoming. Does that cover it?" Lady Jocelyn was too well bred to look shocked by anything less than a social impropriety, but she DID look annoyed. "Really, Arthur! Youve been listening to staff gossip again." Arthur seated himself beside his mother and picked up his knife and fork. "How did you find out about it, then?" "If youre going to be this rude, perhaps I shouldnt ask you to visit the count." "Nonsense. You know very well that Im only rude with you because you love me to distraction, and will forgive me anything. Im generally quite charming. Ask anyone." He smiled as he buttered his toast. "Even poor old Jack Seward will say the same, and Im going to marry the woman he loves." "Please dont sound so smug about it, Arthur. Its terribly common. I understand there is no lady in the Counts household, so it wouldnt be proper for me to call until weve been introduced. But I want you to go over and tender my regards. Once thats done, I can see about arranging a small dance or supper party to introduce him to the local society." "Such as it is. Ill do that, but youll have to be fast off the mark, Mother. You know how much Lucy wants to be the premier hostess." Lady Jocelyns eyes narrowed. "Shes a sweet child, but very ambitious for her age. I hate to say it, but I think she may be marrying you mainly for your position." Arthur shrugged. "She could be, but would that make her any different from most of the society debutants? Im marrying her because shes respectable, shes pretty, shes socially adept, and shell eventually bring a packet of money to the estate." "Arthur! Dont discuss money. Its so vulgar." "So grandmother never told you that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one?" His mother looked away, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. Arthur knew all the local gossip--old and new--and his mother was rumored to have once been very taken with a certain young vicar. Her parents favored the previous Lord Holmwood--Arthurs father. When the vicar had an unbelievable stroke of good luck, and was posted to a very comfortable position almost on the other side of England, the budding romance was nipped, and Jocelyn married her titled suitor. Arthur had pity on her. "If I take the brougham instead of the gig, I can drop by the Westenras and see if anyone there wants to dash over. Lucy will be thrilled if I give her a jump on meeting the newest additions to local society. If hes at all presentable, itll be a feather in her cap. Well, if Im to present myself at The Abbey without previous introduction, I ought to at least know who Im going to see. Whats his name?" "Count Dracula." "Dracula." Arthur sniffed. "Sounds rather barbaric." ~*~ Arthur Holmwood arrived at the Westenra estate just after nine oclock. Mister Westenra had gone visiting earlier, but Mina received him in the salon. She stood up from a small writing desk to greet him. "Lord Holmwood, what a surprise!" "Hullo, Mina. Wheres the lovely Lucy?" "Either still abed or just beginning her toilet, I should imagine. In any case, youll have a good hour or two before she makes an appearance."

He gestured at the boxy typewriter on the desk. "Are you still fiddling about with that contraption?" She smiled. "I want to be able to help Jonathan with his work. Im getting quite good at it. I can rattle off, oh, forty words a minute now." "That much? What a speed demon you are." "We seldom see you before noon, and I would have thought that today of all days..." She gestured toward the window. It was almost as dark as night outside, streaming with rain. "Yes, it IS beastly. But Mother has wind of a new arrival to local society, and Im to draw first blood by greeting him before anyone else. I dropped by to see if you and Lucy would like to steal a march on the other ladies by coming along." Quincy Morris entered the room, looking around. "Oh, pardon me, Miss Mina. I didnt know you had company. I was just looking for Miss Lucy." Mina noticed with wry amusement the way the two men reacted to each other. Both offered slightly stiff nods of greeting, with a barely polite murmur. *Not quite like two cats ready to dispute territory, but not far from it.* "I was just telling Lord Holmwood that she hasnt come down yet. Lord Holmwood has graciously offered to take us to call on our newest neighbor. I can go ask her if she wants to go, but Im not sure how shell answer. She may want to wait and make a grand appearance. Who is it?" "Some minor European nobility, from one of those little countries that are so small and disorganized it surprises you that they have an actual government--Transylvania," said Arthur. "His name is Count Dracula, and... Mina, you have the most peculiar look on your face." "Jonathan was visiting a Prince Draculea in Transylvania when... Well, when whatever happened, happened. I wonder if hes any relation?" Arthur shrugged. "Could be. For all we know the Dracuwhatsit name might be as common as mud over there, like Smith or Jones is over here. Say, if Lucys going to be all that long, I think Ill just toddle off. I want to get this visit over." "Just wait a moment. Im sure shell want to go." As Mina hurried out of the room, she thought, *Shell go if I have to drag her by her hair.* ~*~ No such violence was needed. A mysterious European aristocrat was just the thing to pique Lucys curiosity. She was dressed and downstairs in less than a half hour--an unheard of feat for her. It was decided that Quincy would accompany them. Rather, Lucy decided it--Arthur acquiesced rather than argue with her in public. When Quincy was around, Arthur didnt feel QUITE so sure of his claim on Lucy, and he didnt like that at all. It was still raining, and as dark as twilight as they road to The Abbey. When they pulled up at the front door, they stayed inside while the driver jumped down and went to rap on the door. Naturally the quality folk would not step out into the rain until it was certain that they would be received. The door was opened by a coarse looking, swarthy-skinned man. Lucy gasped, "A gypsy! Father had the most dreadful time with them last spring. Chickens were disappearing from the tenant farm, and when he had the constable run them off, the farmers daughter went with them. Shameful." "Whats he doing in the house?" said Mina anxiously. "They might very well have squatted there when it was empty, but if they found someone living there, who knows what they might have done to them?" The coachman was speaking slowly, distinctly, and very loudly to the gypsy. He waved at the carriage. "Visitors, for the count. Lord Holmwood. Very important." Salazar stared at him with a bored expression. He looked toward the carriage, his expression never changing. Then he grunted, and made a stay here gesture, shutting the door. "The nerve of the man!" said Lucy. "Just leaving us out here to..." "Lucy, hes probably gone for someone who will better understand whats going on," said Mina. "And youd hardly admit a group of total strangers into your house so easily, would you?"

"But Mina--were respectable," she protested. Mina smiled at her. "Contrary to what you may think, one cannot always trust the appearance of respectability." The door opened again. This time a stocky, fair-haired man bowed, looking past the coachman to the passengers of the carriage. "My master, Count Dracula, bids you welcome, and begs you to come in, that he might show you hospitality." "Thats a bit more like it," said Arthur with satisfaction. Shawls were held over Lucy and Minas heads as they hurried into the building. Once they were all inside, the man bowed, saying, "I am Simion, Count Draculas steward. If you will follow me, the Count and his companions will be down to greet your shortly." They were led into a large, gloomy sitting room. The floor was dusty, but the pile of dingy furniture cloths piled in one corner had kept the seats from becoming dirty. The numerous candles, and the large fire snapping on the hearth, went a long way toward cheering the room. Simion left, and the two girls took seats on a small sofa before the fire. Arthur strolled about the room, examining it critically, and said, "Hes got a lot of work in front of him to make this place livable." "Perhaps I ought to offer to have him stay over with us," said Lucy. "Oh, Lucy, you CANT!" said Mina. "Ask a complete stranger to stay at your house, without your fathers permission? I know that he lets you get away with a lot, but Im sure that would be the last straw." "Miss Murray is right," said Quincy. "I know its just that you have a generous heart, but you dont know these people." "Youre quite right, young man." They all looked. A tall, regal looking man stood in the doorway. He entered slowly. "One must not take a viper to ones bosom, at least not until you have been properly introduced." He bowed slightly. "I am Count Vlad Dracula, of Transylvania. I understand from my servant that I have the pleasure of greeting Lord Holmwood?" Arthur stepped forward to shake hands, and introductions were made all around. After shaking hands with the girls, he said, "Two such charming ladies." His eyes were fastened on Lucy. "Lucy is a pretty name, but tell me, Miss Westenra--do you have a second name? I know that it is often the custom among the more gently bred. My own second name is in honor of an ancestor--Tepes." "Why, yes, I do," said Lucy. "Its Elena." Lucy knew that well-bred young ladies did NOT fidget, but she wanted to, badly. The mans gaze was so intent. Dracula looked at Mina. "And you, Miss Murray?" "Its Elizabeth." Dracula looked between them, and nodded. "Elena, and Elizabeth. How... appropriate." end part 98 Back to index

Chapter 99: Chapter 99: Gathered at Last

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None this section Rating: FRM Summary: Draculas entourage charms the locals, and Jonathan arrives in England. Archive: Mailing lists and archives that have already received author approval. Otherwise, ask. Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com

Disclaimer: Characters and concepts borrowed from, and inspired by Bram Stokers Dracula, which is now in the public domain. Original characters and the story are copyrighted by the author. Do not distribute without authors permission. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Notes: Yes, this chapter is a little dry, but it was necessary to set things up for chapter 100. The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Old Abbey Gathered at Last Rill watched Sinn as the younger vampire frantically pawed through the contents of the crate sitting at the foot of the bed. The vampire was swearing in French, but he suddenly threw up his hands, exclaiming, "I KNEW that we would leave something important behind. I might have just managed if Id been given an entire box to myself, but no--there is no time, we must travel lightly and swiftly." "Im sorry, Sinn," said Rill. "I told Simion I didnt need much, but he kept on packing. What are you looking for?" "My sage green vest. It does wonders for my eyes." "I think the striped one looks nice." "Nice, yes--but so common. Still, it will have to do. The gray one is too drab." He took the striped vest out of the crate and donned it. "I simply cannot meet an English aristocrat wearing a plain vest. I suppose a cravat would be too much for a casual afternoon visit. What a pity." He made a face as he selected a charcoal gray tie--one that matched the vest. "I tell you, cheri, that true fashion for men has died an ignominious death." He slipped into his jacket, made a few minute adjustments, then said, "Rill--my hair?" Rill took a comb from his pocket, went to Sinn, and smoothed a few hairs into place. "Thank you, mon ami. This is the only thing I dislike about our state. How can a man ever be sure he looks his best if he cannot consult his reflection?" "You always look nice, Sinn." Sinn patted his cheek. "You are a dear boy, but perhaps a bit prejudiced." He took the comb from Rill, and the boy stood patiently, letting Sinn fix his hair to his satisfaction. "Bon. I believe the prince will have had sufficient time alone with our visitors..." "The count." Sinn smiled, shaking his head. "Ah, yes--of course. Thank you for reminding me, Rill. Now, let us go and meet the neighbors." They made their way downstairs, and Simion was waiting in the front hall. "Remember, you two--you must be very careful." "I was careful with Robert, and Jonathan," said Rill. Simion touched his cheek. "I know, but the situation is different. Then we were in our own home, now we are in their territory. We have to step carefully. You remember how it was when we were traveling." He looked at Sinn. "And you..." Sinn sneered slightly. "Please. Before the grandparents of these people were born, I was doing well in a society much more delicately balanced than this one." Simion grunted, but he knew that Sinn was speaking the truth. He led the two men to Dracula, and the visitors. The paused at the entrance to the room, and when the group turned to look, Simion said, "Mister Sinn, and Mister Rill." Dracula gestured, and Sinn and Rill went to him. "Allow me to present Mister Sinn Barbee, who is a friend from France, and Rill--my adopted son." Rill hadnt been expecting this, and his smile became brilliant. The visitors were quickly introduced. Lucy made a quick assessment of the new arrivals, and decided that Rill would be the easier conquest, so

she focused on him first. She scooted to the side, putting a little more space between herself and Mina, and patted the cushion. "Sit here by me, Mister Dracula." Rill took the seat, but said, "Please, Miss--just Rill." He glanced at Dracula, who gave him a small smile. "He has made me part of his family, but there is only one Dracul." Mina was looking at Rill, askance. It was unheard of to offer the use of ones Christian name so quickly. Shed gone to school with Lucy for months before they mutually extended this intimacy. "You have an interesting accent, Mister Rill..." "Just Rill." Simion, standing out in the hall, didnt bother to hold back his smile. He could imagine how a young lady of polite society would react to Rills ingenious insistence on informality. Mina hesitated. "Rill, then. Your accent is a bit different from the Counts." Rill looked at her, puzzled, then looked toward the Count. Dracula said, "We lived in Hungary during Rills youth. Naturally he picked up the speech patterns of those around him." "Your time there didnt affect your own speech?" Mina inquired. Dracula smiled. "Miss Murray, I was already quite old, and set in my ways. Ive traveled much in my life, but I never remained in one place long enough for it to impact on me very strongly." "Mister Sinn," Lucy said brightly. "Tell us about the latest styles in Paris." When Mina gave her a look, she said, "Well, we have to rely on fashion papers, and they can be months out of date. If we have a fresh source, we have to take advantage of it." "Alas," said Sinn, "I am afraid that I can be of no help. I have been living with the Count, and the area about the castle is..." He smiled. "Shall we say less than urbane? There are no ladies in the household, and Im afraid that Ive limited my interest to the male side of fashion." Snob that he was, Sinn had been looking forward to meeting Lord Arthur Holmwood--but he found His Lordship rather bland when compared to the other visitor. "And I must commiserate with you ladies in that I feel woefully behind the latest modes. For instance, Mister Morris boots." Quincy had been watching Sinn with interest, letting the smooth, lightly accented voice wash over him. Now he suddenly found himself the center of attention. Everyone was looking at his feet. These British were almost as surrounded by horses and dogs as he was at his ranch, so one had to occasionally be careful. He glanced down at himself, wondering if hed stepped in something outside. "Pardon?" Sinn came closer, and gestured. "I thought that I knew every style of boots currently in fashion, but I do not believe I have ever seen any quite like those. The toes are so pointy!" Quincy found himself blushing faintly. "My mother told me Id look foolish if I didnt let one of your valets dress me. I wasnt thinking, and I put on one of my usual pairs instead of the ones I bought when I was in London." "Ah, American--that explains it." Quincy was a genial young man, but usually a bit reserved with people who fit his image of elegant--and this company did that. Sinn, though... There was something about him. Maybe it was the fact that he was French. The only other time he could remember having this sort of response, it had been with a Creole gambler in New Orleans. He remembered the weekend theyd shared. Now the heat was not only in his cheeks. "Not just American--Texan." Sinn raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Cowboy?" Quincy nodded. "Magnifique!" Sinn felt like he was about to bubble over with anticipation. Quincy was a strapping, handsome young man, who exuded an almost animal vitality--and he was already interested. Yes, being Nosferatu had its advantages. The senses were so much sharper, and with a little dedication and concentration, it almost seemed as if one could read others minds. *But even before I gained this state, I would have known about Monsieur Morris. Ah, the heat! It looks as if I will have my own amusements while Dracula courts his Jonathan.* The group talked for a little while, making polite conversation about nothing of significance. The more

socially adept--Lucy, Arthur, and Sinn--did most of the talking. Dracula was content to spend most of the time listening, and watching. Finally Arthur said, "Count Dracula, my mother is eager to meet you. She..." "The you MUST bring her to dinner at my home tomorrow," said Lucy brightly. She ignored Arthurs annoyed look and smiled charmingly at Dracula. "You will come?" She included Sinn and Rill in her smile. "All of you. I know its short notice, but..." she gestured prettily at the room. "You CANT be very comfortable here. Let us give you at least one good meal in welcome." Dracula tipped his head in agreement. "We would be honored, Miss Westenra." "Would you like for me to help you find a cook, and perhaps a few domestics?" "Youre very kind, but that wont be necessary." "Are you sure? Good servants are hard to find, and quite frankly the locals may be reluctant to take employment here." Her voice lowered. "Im afraid your new home has a bit of an eerie reputation." He smiled. "Im familiar with the superstitions of the lower class, Miss Westenra, and it doesnt bother me. Again, thank you, but no." His smile widened slightly. "And my household has very little use for a cook." ~*~ The Julyan arrived late, but safe. It sailed into London harbor around noon the day after the storm. Jonathan argued with Lukas that he should simply deliver him to his former lodgings. He had no doubt that Mrs. Halifax would be delighted to take him in and nurse him till he regained his full strength. Lukas replied patiently that it was out of the question. He had promised the good abbess that he would deliver Jonathan safely to his intended at her friends estate, and he would do so. He had promised God that he would watch over Jonathan until he was convinced that the young man was, indeed, safe, and he would do so. He still refused to tell Jonathan exactly WHAT the danger he feared was. Jonathan would have left the ship when Lukas went to arrange transportation (crawling if necessary), but he didnt get the chance. Lukas had told the crew at the beginning of the voyage that his charge was delicate, and... excitable--given to flights of fancy. When Lukas explained the situation, the first mate was happy to purchase the train tickets, and arrange a carriage to take them to the station. Jonathan was not left alone for a moment. The station provided a wheeled chair, so at least he was spared the humiliation of being carried to the train in Lukas arms. Since the trains door and corridor were so narrow, he managed to convince Lukas to let him walk to their compartment--supported by Lukas, and a porter. Lukas insisted that Jonathan recline on one of the bench seats, as he sat on the other. They had the compartment to themselves at the beginning of the trip, and they remained alone. Several times Jonathan saw a passenger pause and look through the glass panel set in the door. His expression would be vaguely sympathetic when he looked at Jonathan, but then his eyes would wander to Lukas, and he would quickly move on. The trip was long. Jonathan kept hoping that Lukas would fall asleep--then perhaps hed be able to slip out. He wasnt sure what hed do if he managed that. Ask for help? What would he say? That Lukas was over-solicitous in his care? That the mans religious fervor made him nervous? That he seemed to have focused that fervor on Jonathan himself, like a missionary grimly determined to save an endangered soul? No, Lukas didnt sleep. He quietly read his Bible, or said his rosary, but he showed no sign of sleepiness or, indeed, weariness. It was Jonathan who dozed, lulled by the rhythmic motion of the train and the knowledge that, despite his disturbing company, he was once again in a comfortably familiar land. Perhaps he wasnt quite as recovered as he thought, because he slept for most of the trip, awakening only

when they finally pulled to a stop at their destination. Again Jonathan hoped that he might have at least a few minutes alone while Lukas arranged their transportation to the Westenra estate, but the station clerk proved to be infuriatingly obliging. It seemed that he had a cousin who lived just by the station, and was in the habit of ferrying travelers, for a very reasonable fee. As he was bundled into the back of the mans wagon, Jonathan thought that he was heartily sick of traveling. All he wanted to do was settle in one place and stay there for a century--or the rest of his life, whichever came first. The trip to the Westenra estate was short, but Jonathan felt weary by the time they arrived. The driver pulled the wagon to a halt in the drive before the front door, and looked back at them. "Here we are. Ya goin ta need help shiftin him?" "I have no doubt that there will be plenty of willing hands. Go let them know of our arrival." The driver looked surprised. "What--knock at the front door?" Lukas snapped. "Do not delay! This young man is to be an honored guest--hes expected. Now is no time to worry about encroaching on your betters." The driver obeyed reluctantly. He hopped down and approached the door. He pulled off his hat before he knocked. The door was opened quickly, and a supercilious-looking footman gazed out at him, then said, "The tradesmans entrance is at the back, but theyll not be taking deliveries at this hour." He started to close the door, and Lukas called sharply, "You are expecting Mister Jonathan Harker." The footman was galvanized. "Mister Harker? One moment--Ill get assistance to bring him in." He disappeared inside, but only for a minute. News could be spread quickly in an English country house. In no time four sturdy footmen had come out, bringing a blanket to be used as a litter. While Jonathan protested futilely that he should be allowed to attempt to walk, he was lifted in the sling, and the footmen began to carry him to the house. Before they could reach the door, Mina hurried out, followed closely by Lucy. "Jonathan! Oh, my poor darling." Luckily the footmen had a firm grip on the blanket. They didnt drop him as Mina pushed in close, half-embracing Jonathan. Jonathan waited for the sense of relief and joy that he knew should come at his reunion with the woman he was to marry. Instead all he felt was a vague sense of discomfort, and embarrassment. There was something not quite genuine about Minas effusive greeting. Shed never been so emotionally demonstrative before. He was almost grateful when he heard Lukas say, "Young lady, please--he is not well." Mina pulled back a little, allowing Jonathan to breathe, and frowned at him. "Who are you?" The man bowed. "I am Lukas Kreski, porter of the church in Tepeslau. I helped Father Josef when he found Mister Harker on the bank of the river. I have been his caretaker during the journey here." "Well," said Lucy. "You must stay with us for a day or so before you return to your home. Well find you a room in..." She was about to say in the servants quarters, but it occurred to her that Lukas did not quite fit into the domestic class. "A comfortable room. Have funds been provided for your passage home?" "The Lord will provide," said Lukas calmly. "But my return journey is of no concern now. I will be staying to look after Mister Harker." There was a brief silence while Lucy and Mina tried to assimilate this declaration. The footmen exchanged amused glances. The entire domestic staff knew of the grand nursing plans that Lucy had been nurturing. They also knew that her nursing would consist mostly of fluttering about in a lacy apron, occasionally fluffing a pillow, feeding the invalid a few spoons of broth, and perhaps reading aloud to him--if she wasnt too bored. Finally Mina said stiffly. "That is most kind of you, but hardly necessary. It is my duty, as his betrothed. Lucy will help me, and as you can see," she gestured at the patient footmen, then to where one of the

maids waited in the doorway, "there are ample helpers. We do not know how long Jonathan will need assistance, and we couldnt possibly ask you delay your return till..." "Im told that Mister Harker has at last arrived." Mister Westenra strode out of the house, going directly to Jonathan. "Well, my boy. Youve had quite an adventure, havent you? But youre safely home now, and well take good care of you. Lucy would never forgive me if I didnt give Minas intended every accommodation I could." He looked at Lukas. "And who is this?" Before Lucy or Mina could speak, Lukas bowed and said, "Lukas Kreski, sir. I rescued Mister Harker from the river, and I have sworn that I will not leave his side until I, myself, am satisfied that he is completely well, and completely safe." "Thats an admirable sentiment. Are you trained in caring for an invalid?" "I alone have tended Mister Harker during the journey. He was entrusted to me by the Abbess of the Little Sisters of the Five Holy Wounds, and she would not risk the health and safety of anyone she had placed under her care." "Thats fine, then. It isnt easy to arrange for trained nurses out here. The only ones nearby are at the asylum, and Im sure Seward couldnt spare any of them. Besides, theyre jobs are more keeping the lunatics in line than actual nursing. Lucy," he patted his daughters arm, "This will free you to get on with your plans for the Counts visit tomorrow night. I know how you fret over every little detail. Peters, take Jonathan to the spare room over looking the back garden. That way hell be close to both of you ladies, and youll be able to cosset and spoil him to your hearts content." Satisfied that everything had been arranged, Mister Westenra nodded, and went back inside. There was another short silence, then Lucy laughed. "Well, theres a reason why Father has been so successful. He sees a situation, he settles it, and he moves on. It looks as if Mister Kreski will be staying with us for a while. Theres a small room for a ladys maid just down the hall from Jonathans room--that should suit. Come along, Mister Kreski, and Ill show you where Jonathan will be staying. You can tell me if you need anything that hasnt been provided." She led him into the house. The footmen were prepared to follow, but Jonathan grasped her hand, tugging, urging her to bend down again. She did, refraining from embracing him this time. "Mina," he whispered. "Please, send Lukas away." "Jonathan, you heard what Mister Westenra said, and it DOES make sense. I dont particularly like the man, but he seems competent." "You dont understand, Mina. Theres something terribly wrong with the man." "But what?" "For one thing, hes a zealot. Religious fervor is one thing, but hes taken it to unwholesome lengths." "How so?" Jonathan stared at her. He couldnt say it. He couldnt tell a well-bred, sheltered young woman like Mina about Lukas insane self-mutilation. "You must trust me on this, Mina. The man is a danger--to himself, if not to others." She shook her head, pulling away. "Youre not thinking clearly." She touched his head gently, and he winced slightly. The lump was much reduced, but still had not completely receded. "My poor Jonathan. Dont worry--I wont let anything harm you. Everything will be all right now. Youre back in England," she smiled, "and what is there to fear in England?" end part 99 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver

Back to index

Chapter 100: Chapter 100: Reunion Unaware

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: Rating: FRM Summary: There are some who, though separated by time, space, trial, and hardship, are fated to meet again. Archive: Mailing lists, WWOMB, and anyone else who already has permission Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Since Bram Stoker has been deceased for over 75 years, this work is copyrighted to the author. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Westenra Estate Reunion Unaware Lucy felt a rising irritation as she watched Lukas critically examining the room that had been provided for Jonathan. Her father had spared no expense in indulging her tastes in decoration and furnishings, and the room was one of the best in the house. She knew it was fit for nobility, and now this rough man was daring to judge whether or not it would do for a simple law clerk. Finally she said, "Well, does it suit? Theyll be bringing him up soon." Lukas gave her a slight bow. "I do not question the quality of the accommodations you offer, gracious lady." He indicated the French doors that led out onto the balcony. "But this troubles me. I would prefer that the young gentlemans room not have an outside access." "All the rooms on this floor have doors onto a balcony." "Then perhaps he could have a room below?" "No, there are no bedrooms on the ground floor." "It need not be a bedroom--just a quiet room with a divan or sofa, one deep in the house." Lucy was shaking her head. "We cant ask the poor man to make do in the study or salon when we have perfectly good bedrooms available. It wont do." "Then perhaps the floor above?" Now Lucy looked almost scandalized. "Thats nothing but storage and servants quarters. Besides, it gets so stuffy and gloomy up there. No, Im afraid youll have to make do with this room. If the doors bother you, then here..." She walked over to the set of doors that led onto the balcony and turned the key that sat in the lock. "And here..." She shot the small deadbolt that sat high up on the doors, then turned to him, spreading her hands. He stared at the locks, then turned an unimpressed gaze upon her. "Those? You have led a very sheltered life, have you not, Miss Westenra?" Lucy could feel herself flushing. Shed always prided herself on being cool and unaffected, no matter with whom she was speaking. Why did this man make her feel so self-conscious, and even (she hardly cared to admit it to herself) a little silly? "That is of no pertinence to the situation." She busily turned down the spread and sheets on the bed, arranging the pillows invitingly. "This will be Jonathans room

while he stays here. I am on one side, and Mina is on the other. You are just down the hall. With so many caring helpers so close by, he cannot help but recover. Now, come along, and I will show you to your room." She started toward the door, then hesitated. "You didnt bring a trunk?" "He travels most swiftly who travels light. I believe that the coachman will have left my duffle bag downstairs. The few simple garments that the sisters provided for Mister Harker will be with it." Lucy didnt bother to keep the distaste out of her voice. "He can hardly wear such things now that hes home. Oh, well--I believe that Arthur is about his size. Im sure I can persuade him to provide a few things till we purchase more. Besides, if hes going to be bedridden for a while, he wont need much." They heard the shuffling of feet, and mutters of, "Careful, now! Hold up your end, or well drag him on the floor." Lukas quickly turned down the covers on the bed as the footmen carried Jonathan in. He said, "Hold him steady," and carefully scooped Jonathan out of the makeshift sling. As Lukas deposited Jonathan on the bed, the head footman said, "Will you be needing anything else, Miss Westenra?" "I think not. Well call if we do." She bustled over to the bed, and managed to move Lukas aside without actually seeming to crowd him. "Oh, poor Jonathan!" She considered him, then smiled, and it was a little sly. "Oh, but you cannot sleep in your clothes. I must play nurse, I suppose." She reached out and began to undo the top button on his shirt, saying, "I never thought Id be doing this for a man till I was married." Jonathan and Lukas moved simultaneously to stop her. Jonathan pushed at her hands, saying, "Lucy!" Lukas was more direct--he grabbed her arm, pulling her away. Lucy gasped, "Unhand me!" Lukas let go of her immediately, and she rubbed her arm, saying, "How dare you lay hands on me?" Lukas voice was quiet, but firm, "In your enthusiasm to be of service to Mister Harker, you have forgotten yourself, Miss. It would be indecent for a maiden to undress a young man. Even among the holy sisters, when a patient must be attended to, only the most senior of the nuns, those far beyond the temptations of the flesh, do such services." "Oh, I suppose so." Lucy stroked Jonathans forehead. "I must go, dear friend. We are to have guests tomorrow, and I have a hundred things to do. The servants are totally lost without me." She bustled out. Lukas watched her go, thinking, *He is not only an invalid, but her best friends betrothed, and she simpers for him. Already I have seen vanity and pride in her nature, and now it would seem that there is lust, also. Well, I dare say that though she is a sinner, she is not actually evil--no need to guard against her. The young man must find the strength to resist some temptations on his own.* One of the footmen appeared at the door, and spoke to Lukas. "I have your bag, sir. Will you require it in your room?" "Tell me, sir, is there no way that I might sleep in this room? The thought of Mister Harker left alone in his weakened state worries me." "Well, sir--that is a very old bed. There is a trundle under it, intended for a servant, or a small child that cannot be far from its mother. If you wish, we could..." "No!" Jonathans voice was stronger than it had been in a long time. When Lukas looked at him, he said, "Lukas, you have fulfilled your vow--you have brought me to my homeland, and you see me among friends. I am not nearly as helpless as you seem to think, and though I know you mean well, I feel as if I will go mad if I do not have a little privacy! I cannot order you from this place, but I CAN demand that I have my room to myself. If you insist on sleeping here, I shall somehow make my way downstairs and sleep on the kitchen hearth, if I must." Lukas shook his head. "And with healing comes stubbornness. Very well. I suppose you will be safe enough for now. If I cannot be at your side, I will take other precautions." He went to the balcony doors,

reached into his pocket, and removed a crucifix, then hung it from the handle. "That will serve until I can truly fortify the room." He bowed to Jonathan. "May your dreams be untroubled, good sir." He left. ~*~ "Jonathan seems very worried about something," said Mina. "I would have thought that once he reached England, his troubles would be over, but hes so uneasy. Lucy," Mina put a hand on her friends arm, "could we have Doctor Seward come over? Perhaps he could set Jonathans mind at ease." "Mina, that would be just the thing!" exclaimed Lucy. "And since Jack is a doctor of the mind as well as the body, hell be able to tell us how much of Jonathans troubles are physical, and how much are..." "Lucy, stop it." "Well, Mina, you might as well face facts. After all, that other one came back from Transylvania absolutely mad, and Jonathan might very well have been exposed to the same influence. You told me yourself that he wasnt acting very stable." Lucy had been sitting beside Mina on a sofa in the salon, and now she went to a small writing desk and started to scratch out a note. "Ill send one of the footmen for him right away." "But its getting late." "Oh, he wont mind," said Lucy carelessly. "Hell come right over for me." "Yes, Im sure he would, but is it right to ask him?" Lucy gave her an uncomprehending look. It would never occur to her that she didnt have a perfect right to ask for anything she desired. "Never mind. Yes, ask him. Ill feel so much better once a good English doctor has seen him." ~*~ Renfield sat almost primly in the chair before Jack Sewards desk. Seward occasionally glanced up from the notes he was taking, studying him. Renfield was relating a particularly vivid hallucination. He believed that he had been visited the night before by his mysterious master. "And you believe that he came to protect you from the unwanted attentions of one of the staff?" "Oh, no. No. He has other business here, more important business." Renfield smiled proudly. "But he came to make sure that I am all right, and am not being maltreated. Hell take me away with him when his other business is done." "And what would that be, Robert?" Now Renfields smile was knowing. "Oh, that would be telling. But I can assure you that before he leaves, people will know of him." He nodded. "Yes, some people will be made QUITE aware of him." He paused. "Im going to ask him to kill Bamford." Seward had been writing again, but now he stopped, looking up sharply. "Why?" Renfield bit his lip, looking away. "Ill ask him to spare the other one--Prosser. Hes not so bad, not like Bamford." Renfield made a face. "Isnt that an ugly name?" "Whats so bad about Bamford?" Renfield turned haunted eyes on Seward, and whispered, "Hes like that devil--Rock, the hard one. Maybe not quite as bad, but he isnt as strong, you see. Hes only a HUMAN monster." "But what does he do?" "He didnt. He didnt have a chance. Prosser was there." "Robert, I need to know what Bamford did to you. If hes transgressed, then he must be punished." "He will be, but not by you." "Tell me why you think he should die." "You know." "Renfield, if you wont tell me..." Renfield suddenly bared his teeth, his eyes gleaming. "He wants to fuck me." Seward flinched. For extended spells Renfield would seem almost sane, and then thered be an outburst like this, a sudden flash of crudity or aggression that was totally at odds with his usual meek demeanor. Robert was continuing.

"There! Now Ive said it, and you can write it in your little book--or will you? Perhaps youll just write that I fear him sexually." He snorted. "Hardly sounds as if I should be upset, does it?" Jack laid down his pen. "You dont fear me, Robert." The look Renfield gave him was almost amused. "Youre hardly in the same category, Doctor." Jack could feel himself flush, and Renfield shook his head. "That isnt an insult. What weve done together..." His voice trailed away, and he licked his lips. Seward felt a wave of warmth. "That isnt the same thing. Ive wanted it." He smiled again. "Youve forced nothing on me, but the only reason I can say the same of Bamford is that he hasnt had the chance. He will, you know." He shivered, suddenly looking small, and lost. There was a tap on the door, and it was opened by Prosser. Seward said sharply, "I told you that I didnt want to be disturbed when I was in here with a patient." "I wouldnt usually, sir," said Prosser apologetically, "but weve had a message from the Westenra estate, and I thought youd want to hear about that." "Yes, of course. What is it?" "They sent a note." The man came in and handed the note to the doctor. As Seward ripped open the envelope and took out the note, Prosser felt a tug on his pants leg. Hed stopped right beside a chair, and he looked down to find Renfield gazing up at him. The little man gave him a sweet smile. "Hullo, young fellow. Having a nice visit with the doctor?" "Not as nice as it could be," Renfield stroked his own thigh, "if you hadnt come in unannounced." Prosser swallowed hard. He was a married man--he loved his wife, and loved what they did in bed. Hed never thought that hed think of another man in a sexual way, but there was something about Renfield--small and soft, mad and wise, all at the same time. Jack Seward stuffed the note in his pocket and shut his notebook. "I must go at once." He stood up and got his doctors bag. "Take Renfield back to his room, Prosser." He left quickly. Renfield looked up at Prosser, peeking at him through the hair that had fallen before his eyes. He giggled. "Yes, Prosser--take me to my room, please." This time he caressed Prossers thigh. Prosser reached down and took his arm, pulling the smaller man to his feet. "None of that," he said roughly. Renfield shrugged. "As you wish." He giggled again. "But I wouldnt mind..." ~*~ Jonathan lay back on his pillow with a sigh. *No one listens to me. I dont think anyone has listened to me since my mother died.* He considered a moment, then thought, *No, that isnt true. They listened to me at the castle--I think.* That was something that had troubled him ever since he had first regained his full senses. He couldnt clearly recall what had happened, before he awoke in the convent infirmary. He knew that he had been taken there from the village church, but that was more from what he had been told than what he remembered, and before that... He clearly recalled his distress at learning of Roberts troubles, and his displeasure at not having time to visit him before he went abroad. The journey itself was a series of impressions--railway cars, cramped inns, and jolting coaches. More vividly there was a memory of standing on a rough road, near wilderness, in fast falling darkness, listening to the sounds of wild things, and then... *Blue. Blue eyes.* He shook his head, but that was the clearest thing about his trip--those eyes. There was something familiar about them, as if he had gazed into them before, long ago. That was impossible, of course. He thought about Prince Draculea, and smiled a little, thinking of what his father would have made of him. The senior Harker loathed anything he considered the least bit exotic, and the Transylvanian royal was certainly that. Jonathan thought of the elderly man in his rich, velvet dressing gown, his white hair flowing down his back in a braid, his age speckled, slightly gnarled hands resting on the arms of his chair.

*He had nails like a Mandarin, but somehow that was appropriate. The Mandarins did it to show that they did not have to labor, but he had a feeling that Draculea simply had a regal disregard of what was expected of him. *He was kind... wasnt he? The prince was a complete stranger, but he made me feel welcome--more welcome than I felt in my own fathers house. I know that Draculea did not look down upon me, as I had thought that one in his position might.* Jonathan closed his eyes. His time at the castle was the vaguest of all. He knew that he should remember--he knew that he should WANT to remember--but somehow the uncertainty was comforting, rather than distressing. All he knew was that something terrible had happened there. Hed been attacked; he was sure of it, but by whom? He had an impression of something twisted, and distorted--something not quite human. Hed fled, running as far as he could, climbing... Yes, hed been on the roof of the castle, and then hed been on the edge of a great drop. And then... and then... *Flying. Ive often flown in dreams, and this was so like... Perhaps it WAS a nightmare. No, not flying--falling. I fell into blackness, but there was someone there--someone reaching for me. Someone came for me, but too late. Perhaps if I concentrate, if I think hard enough, Ill be able to see his face.* "Mr. Harker?" Jonathan opened his eyes to find a man standing at the door. He was in his thirties, and rather handsome, though a little haggard looking. "Im sorry if I woke you up. Im Doctor Jack Seward." Now Jonathan noticed the black satchel that the man was carrying. "Im the director of the Seward Sanitarium, just down the road. Miss Westrenra sent word to me that youd arrived, and asked me to come have a look at you." He came over, setting the satchel on the bed, and shook hands with Jonathan. "Thank you. It will be good to have a real doctor examine me. Perhaps Ill be able to finally convince everyone that Im not at deaths door." Seward opened the satchel and took out a stethoscope. "Im sure youre not, but we want to set the ladies minds at rest, dont we? Unbutton your shirt, please." "Very well." Jonathan opened his shirt while Jack fitted the stethoscope about his neck. The doctor was preparing to fit the ends into his ears when he stopped abruptly. "I say! Lucy didnt tell me youd been knocked about so." Jonathan looked down. His torso was mottled with purple bruises, fading into lavender and green around the edges, and a few dark, crusted scrapes. "Theyre much better now. They were positively frightening when they were fresh." Seward peered at the injuries closely, and prodded one deep patch over Jonathans ribs. The young man hissed softly, and Seward said, "Im sorry. Have you had any trouble breathing?" "No." "Good. And theres no sharp pain, no sense of something grating inside?" Jonathan shook his head. "Very good. I sincerely doubt that any of the ribs are broken. Judging from the marks, thats a lucky happenstance." "Yes. I think all the injuries were caused when I was thrown against rocks in the river. Im lucky my brains werent dashed out, or that I didnt drown." Seward donned the stethoscope. "Do hold still, Mister Harker, and breathe as I tell you" Seward moved the end cone of the instrument over Jonathans chest, listening to his heart and lung sounds. All sounded as it should--strong, regular, and clear. Seward was holding the metal cone between his thumb and forefinger, and hed splayed his other fingers out to hold it steady. Now it occurred to him that his fingers were spread on warm, smooth skin. His right pinky rested just beside one brown nipple, and he realized that the flesh had drawn up a little, skin crinkling. He found himself staring, then thought, *Its from cold--I should have warmed the metal before I started examining him.* "Can you sit up and lean forward,

Mister Harker? I need to listen from the back." "Surely. Im not sure who youve spoken to--Lukas, Mina, or Lucy--but I havent been able to convince any of them that Im not all that helpless." "Perhaps not, but you mustnt be hasty in your attempts to get up and about, Mister Harker. A patient often thinks hes more recovered, and sets himself back by trying to do too much too soon." Seward pulled Jonathans opened shirt away from his body, and again listened, this time his hand moving over Jonathans bare back. He murmured apologies when Jonathan winced at a touch on a scrape. He stopped when he found that he was considering running his finger down the ridge of Jonathans spine from nape to base. If Jonathan had been any other patient, Jack would have asked him to remove his trousers, so that he could assess the injuries to his lower body. Instead he contented himself with gently flexing Jons knees and ankles to be sure of their mobility. Finally he put away his instrument, saying, "Well, Mister Harker. Im sure you havent been comfortable, but it isnt all that bad. Ive seen people much worse off from taking a spill during a hunt." "Then I wont have to convalesce?" "Not as such. I would like you to get a good sleep tonight, and perhaps remain in bed part of tomorrow. Youve just completed a long journey, and a little more rest wont come amiss. Then if youre careful not to exert yourself too strongly till your bruises no longer cause you discomfort, you should be fine." "But I CAN get up, and I wont need a nursemaid?" "I dont think so." He smiled. "Unless you want one. Lucy and Mina seem determined to coddle you." "Im sure they have the best of intentions, but the sooner they realize Im well, the sooner we can send my escort back to Europe." He hesitated. "Doctor Seward, you are a psychiatrist?" "Yes, but I am a medical doctor, also, so Im quite qualified to..." "Yes, I understand. I just wanted to ask you... If someone had a religious mania, and even," he swallowed hard, "if they mutilated themselves due to this belief. Would this person be a danger to others?" Seward frowned. "It would be hard to say without an extensive examination. Some of these people are a danger only to themselves, while others might exhibit violent tendencies, especially to those they felt were violating..." Lucy came in, carrying a nightshirt over her arm. "Ive brought something for you to sleep in, Jonathan." She laid it across the foot of the bed, then tucked her hand under Sewards arm. "How is he, Jack? The poor dear keeps telling us he feels fine, but Im sure he must be poorly." She spoke in a tone that said she obviously did not expect to be contradicted. Jonathan wanted to roll his eyes when Seward gave her a placating answer. "Hell only need a little nursing, Lucy. He should be able to get up and about in no time." She frowned prettily; obviously reluctant to give up her dreams of being an angel of mercy, but then something occurred to her. "Good. Were having a small dinner party tomorrow, and youll be able to join us downstairs, Jonathan. Youll never guess who is coming to visit--a noble from the very country you just visited, a count. In fact, I think that hes related to your client. Wasnt his name Dracula?" "Close, Lucy," said Jonathan. "It was Prince Draculea. If this man is a noble, its possible that he belongs to one of the other branches of the princes family. If I remember correctly, the prince had no close relatives. Id like to meet him. Perhaps he has some news of the prince. I wish I hadnt left without speaking to him again. Im afraid he may have been worried about me." "Im sure hell be able to send word back that you are safe. So, Jack, you think hell be well enough to come down to dinner tomorrow?" "I should think so, if he rests until just before." "In that case, I have to arrange dinner clothes for you, Jonathan. Its late to send for a spare set from Arthur, but I believe that the seamstress should be able to alter some of Fathers in time. Now, Jack, I will

see you downstairs, like a proper hostess. Jonathan, the bell cord is just beside your headboard. Only ring if you need anything, and someone will come directly. Good night." Seward made his farewell, and they left a small lamp burning on his bedside table. Jonathan lay back for a moment and thought wryly, *And so much for Miss Lucys dedicated nursing. A servant will attend my needs during the night.* Still, he wasnt disappointed that Lucy wouldnt be attending him personally. Her flirtatiousness had always made him uncomfortable, and now that she was engaged, it seemed to be even less innocent. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and began to undress. He wanted to get changed quickly, lest Lukas reappear and offer to do it for him. He was a little stiff, but he managed handily. Just to be cautious, he did not get up to arrange his clothes, but folded them on the foot of the bed before getting beneath the sheets. At last he blew out the lamp, and lay down, and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. *How odd to be back in England at last. I should feel as if Ive come home--but I dont. Surely thats because Im here at Lucys house? But if that is so... I cant imagine anywhere else Id feel at home. Not with Father. And my landlords in London were kind, but still...* He turned his face to his pillow and drifted off to sleep. He dreamed of wild mountains and forests, of looming stone walls and echoing, vast rooms somehow made familiar and welcoming because of those who lived within. He dreamed of those things, and his deepest core knew it as home. ~*~ "I wish you could come, too, Simion," said Rill. Simion finished adjusting Rills white tie, and gave his lapels a final brush. "But I am coming." Rill made a face. "You know what I mean. Youll be there, but you and Salazar will be eating in the servants hall. I dont like that." Sinn patted him on the shoulder. "But you know how these things are, cheri. The rest of the world would not understand Simions unique position in our household. Simion, my friend, please assist me." He handed over a pair of mother of pearl cuff links. "I simply cannot place these things as neatly as should be done." Simion did as he requested, but said, "Are you sure about these, Sinn? I believe the upper classes here usually favor something simpler--like plain gold or silver." "I know, I know. But I am sacrificing by wearing their dreary black--I must allow myself a little touch here and there. Besides..." He admired the gleam of the cuff links. "I believe that Mister Morris will appreciate them. Ive heard that Americans can appreciate an occasional flourish, and that Texans are more flamboyant than most." Dracula had entered the room. "Just remember where you are, Sinn. I wont forbid you a bit of amusement, but be cautious. If an alarm is raised because of anything you do, I will be very displeased." He didnt need to say what penalties invoking his displeasure could entail. Simion had given Dracula a clean shave, and trimmed his hair, though it still wasnt as short as was conventional among the English gentry. Dressed in his evening clothes, he looked like nothing more than a handsome, vigorous man in his early forties. Even if Jonathan had not suffered the disorienting fall into the river, and the blow to his head, he would have had a hard time recognizing Dracula as the elderly prince Draculea. "I want both of you to keep your ears open for news about Jonathan. But try not to be obvious about it. As far as they know, none of us have ever met him, so we must be cautious in what we say. As far as they are concerned, Jonathan was visiting a distant, elderly, and very eccentric relative of mine." "Yes," said Rill, smiling. "This is pretend, as if we were putting on a play--but more important. I wont forget." Dracula went to him and smoothed his hair. "I know, Rill. You never forget the important thing."

~*~ "Arthur, Im so pleased that your mother was able to come," said Lucy. "Im afraid were going to be woefully unbalanced, since well have eight men and only three women, but I simply couldnt invite anyone else suitable on such short notice." "You mean that you couldnt invite anyone who wouldnt be any competition," said Arthur dryly. He looked over to where his mother sat stiffly on the sofa between Mister Westenra and Quincy Morris, with Jack Seward occupying a chair nearby. "And shes quite miffed, you know. When she found out that youd beat her to the post, she almost chewed my head off--in a ladylike manner, of course. Eight men?" "Father, you, the count and his two companions, Mister Morris, Jack Seward, and Jonathan." "If you wanted to keep things even, you neednt have invited Seward--then you could have had a man seated on each side of the ladies." "Oh, Arthur, I COULDNT snub poor Jack like that. It would have been cruel, especially after he was kind enough to come over and examine Jonathan so late yesterday evening." "Speaking of Harker, is he well enough to attend? From the way you were talking the other day, I expected him to be prostrate." "Jack seems to think it will be all right, and Im glad. I must admit that it would have been tedious if he could do nothing but mope about in bed. Im sure Mina would have hovered over him, and wed have had no time together." The butler came to the door and announced, "Count Dracula, Mister Rill, and Mister Barbee." Lucy hurried over, extending her hand as the three men entered. "Welcome, gentlemen. Im so pleased you could come." Dracula took her hand and held it for a moment, Rill gave it a timid shake, and Sinn lifted it, ghosting a kiss over its back. Lucy refrained from giggling, but it was an effort. "Such gallantry! Please, let me introduce you to the others. This is Lady Holmwood, and youve already met her son, Lord Holmwood, and Mister Morris..." ~*~ Lukas watched Jonathan, disapproval evident in his expression. Hed come in as the footman that Lucy had sent up was helping him with the final touches to his appearance. "Its no use glowering," said Jonathan. "The doctor said I might go down if I wished, and Im going. I refuse to be treated like an invalid. You can see that Im quite able to care for myself now, and you can safely begin to plan your return trip." "We shall see, Mister Harker. I had a short conversation with Mister Westenra. He is a most sensible and considerate man. He says that I must not think of making an immediate return, and that I am welcome to remain here for a little time." Lukas smiled. "I expressed an interest in speaking with the local clergy, in order to discuss theological matters." Jonathan looked at him sharply, and thought, *He knows I couldnt justify asking them to drive away a man studying religion--not without seeming boorish, or unreasonable. I believe that Lukas is more cunning than most give him credit for.* Lukas said, "Mister Harker, you do not find it unusual that tonights guests have arrived from the very place you lately left?" "Its a coincidence, but nothing more." The footman finished adjusting the set of Jonathans jacket. "There, sir. It looks as if it was made for you. Shall I tell Miss Westenra that you will be down soon?" "No need to bother--Ill only be another minute or so." The man left, and Jonathan turned on Lukas. "I rather expected you to counter what I last said, Lukas. You dont agree that its a coincidence?" "That would be the most likely explanation," the older man agreed. "But some things that appear coincidental have a deeper reality. I beg you to be prudent tonight, young man." Jonathan paused at the door. "Im only going to a dinner party, Lukas--Im not going to meet my fate."

~*~ Once everyone had been introduced and was settled with a glass of sherry, the polite conversation began. Count Dracula, as the most important male visitor, sat with Lady Holmwood and Mister Westenra, the host. Lucy attempted to engineer the other conversational groups, and was successful--for the most part. She had intended to have Mina entertaining Arthur and Jack, while she held court with Sinn, Rill, and Quincy. However, only moments into the chat, Sinn drained his glass and said, "I am afraid I have been indecorous, but it is such a fine sherry. Miss Westenra, do you suppose that I could have just a touch more?" Lucy had been making Rill blush, and she was annoyed at having to stop, but as hostess, she couldnt ignore the request. "Of course, but the footman has removed the sherry to my fathers study, the stupid man. I shall ring for him." She gathered her skirts to stand up, but Quincy quickly said, "No need for you to trouble yourself, Miss Lucy. If you dont mind, Id be proud to fetch it for Mister Barbee." "Would you, Quincy? Youre such a lamb." Sinn stood up. "No need to fetch, sir. I feel the need to stretch my legs, so with Miss Westenras kind permission, I will accompany you." Lucy didnt like the thought of losing another admirer, but she could hardly complain, so she smiled graciously. The two men made their way to the door. Dracula, smiling at Lady Holmwood as she related some bit of local gossip, caught Sinns eye, and gave him a warning look. Sinn returned it with an almost imperceptible shrug. In the study, Quincy went to the decanters, and regarded them. He picked up one cut glass bottle, and turned. He was startled to find Sinn almost at his elbow. Quincy prided himself on always being aware of what was going on around him, and a man who could move as noiselessly as Sinn Barbee needed to be watched. The Frenchman smiled at him. *Watched for all kinds of reasons,* he thought. "I think this is the sherry." Sinn didnt even glance at the bottle. He held up his glass. "You have a fine eye, Mister Morris, so Im sure you are right." Quincy poured some of the amber liquid into Sinns glass, and replaced the stopper in the bottle. He put the decanter down, and watched as the other man took a sip. "Yes, quite right. A very pleasant drink, sherry." He turned the glass in his hand, regarding the contents studiously. "But somehow I feel that it would not be your first choice. Sherry, I think, is a bit too delicate for you, Mister Morris. You strike me as a man with strong appetites. I would think that your usual drink would be whiskey." He paused. "Straight?" "Ill use a little water with it sometimes. I bet that you drink mostly fancy wines." "I do enjoy a good vintage." Sinn drained the glass, then reached past Quincy to set the glass on the table. "But I also enjoy more robust refreshments. I feel that America could provide something Id like." He regarded Quincy, smiling slightly. "Something strong, almost overpowering--perhaps a little raw, but with... authority." Quincy gazed down at Sinn, feeling a tingle of pleasure and excitement. It seemed that the hopes hed been having since first meeting this man might come to fruition. Though Sinn presented an elegant appearance, Quincy thought that the Frenchman might very well be a match, on all levels. That was what Quincy wanted--NEEDED: someone who could be just as ferocious in his submission as Quincy was in his aggression. Quincy was about to say something, he wasnt quite sure what, when there was a tap on the door. It opened, and Rill peeked in. "Miss Westenra wants to know if youre coming back, or should she just send your dinner in on trays." He frowned slightly. "I think she was making a joke."

As they started for the door, Quincy said, "I hope Miss Lucy seats us together. This is a conversation Id like to continue." Sinn nodded. "Or perhaps expand upon." As they made their way down the hall, Quincy said to Rill, "Why did you knock when you came to fetch us?" Rill gave him a look that said he was asking a silly question. "You were alone with Sinn, werent you?" ~*~ Jonathan paused at the bottom of the stairs. One of the footmen bowed to him, saying, "In the blue salon, sir, down this hall to your left." "Thank you." "Allow me to introduce you." He preceded Jonathan to the salon. Stepping inside, he said, "Mister Jonathan Harker." He bowed and left, as Jonathan entered the room. Lucy bounced up and hurried to him. Mina moved more sedately, but she came, also, and each quickly took one of his arms. "Dear Jonathan," gushed Lucy. "How brave you are to struggle down her all on your own. You MUST sit down immediately." "Yes," Mina agreed. "You shouldnt force yourself to do anything beyond your strength, just to be sociable." She and Lucy were guiding Jonathan to a seat, and the young man allowed it--he was too well bred to shake them off. "Im sure our guests wouldnt have minded if youd stayed upstairs and rested." "There you are wrong, Miss Murray." The voice was deep, and somehow familiar. Jonathan had taken his seat, and now he half-rose, turning toward the voice. When he saw the speaker, he suffered a sudden dizziness, a feeling that he somehow knew hed experienced before. The man was a stranger, but it was as if a memory had risen from deep in his subconscious, appearing for only a split second before fading back again, leaving him confused and frustrated. Jonathan dropped heavily back into the seat, and Mina cried, "Oh! I knew you were trying to do too much!" "No, Im all right," he murmured. The man had risen from his seat, and was approaching. "I dont know. Maybe I came down the stairs too fast. It was just..." He trailed off as the man loomed over him. Vlad gazed down at the young man. There were so many things that he wanted to do--roar in triumph, sweep Jonathan into his arms and carry him away from these fools, fall to his knees and bury his face against Jonathans thighs as he had done so many times with Nicolae... He did none of these things, for though there had been a flicker of something like recognition in Jonathans eyes, it had passed quickly. Now was not the time. Now was the time for subtlety, and courtship. He extended his hand, and after a moments hesitation, Jonathan grasped it. "Allow me to introduce myself. I cam Count Dracula, and I have been waiting to meet you..." his grip tightened, and Jonathan drew in a breath, but did not try to pull away, "for what seems like forever." end part 100 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Chapter 101: Chapter 101: Dinner

Authors Notes: Fandom: Dracula Pairing: None this section Rating: FRM Summary: Just what the title says, with a little chat. Its only polite to show interest in your fellow guests. Dracula and Sinn are more interested in some, than in others. Archive: Mailing lists, WWOMB, and anyone else who already has permission Feedback: poet77665@catlover.com Disclaimer: I did not create the recognizable characters here, I dont own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them. Since Bram Stoker has been deceased for over 75 years, this work is copyrighted to the author. Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Notes: I got my information on escorting/seating in Victorian times here
http://www.snap.com/snap_frame.php?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.oldandsold.com%2Farticles05%2Fbusiness-6.shtml&query=dinner+etiquette&rank=1

Id give you the URL for where I got the list of courses, but I went to Ask Jeeves, and the sucker ran almost half a page. :) It was easy to find menus for modern restaurants specializing in Victorian ambiance, but not so easy to find actual menus that were served during the Victorian era. Instead of specifics, I got the list of courses, then went from there. 1. Hors doeuvre 2. Soup 3. Fish 4. Entre 5. Roast 6. Salad 7. Dessert 8. Coffee And I figured that Lucy would want to show off, and would offer at least two or three choices for each course (since she didnt have to cook or clean up herself). And yes, people really HAVE eaten bananas with a knife and fork. Seems ridiculous, I know, but this was Victorian England. Warnings: Okay, this is mainly fluff, but Vlad cant just LEAP into courting Jonathan. He has to be a little more subtle--at least for a day or two. :) And heres my chance to give you a little more about Victorian England, and perhaps make you a little more irritated with Lucy. The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Westenra Estate, England Dinner Jonathan continued to gaze up at the man. After a moment he heard a rustling nearby, and the slight sound of someone clearing his throat, and he realized that he was still holding Count Draculas hand. He gave it a brief, firm shake, and released it. "Im very pleased to meet you, sir. Your name has a familiar ring. Are you by any chance related to Prince Draculea, in Transylvania?" Dracula smiled. "Indeed I am, though I have not seen the old gentleman for some time. He is a very distant relation." Dracula gestured apologetically. "Im afraid I cannot even tell you what our exact relationship is. I would have to blow the dust off my copy of our family tree, and spend a little time tracing the branches." "Prince?" said Arthur. "Then youre related to royalty?" The only thing that could really impress Arthur Holmwood was someone whose ancestry could be counted as more illustrious than his own. For foreigners, that precluded everyone but royalty. "Yes," said Dracula casually. "Though I am entitled to claim the rank of prince myself, but at present, I choose not to." Quincy was nodding. "Thats the way. The world is moving slowly, but surely, toward democracy." Dracula smiled at him. "You speak with the fervency of a true believer, Mister Morris." Dracula studied

Jonathan. "There are a few things in this world that might change on the surface, but if one looks deeply enough, one will find that it is as it ever was." Mina frowned. "Thats disturbing." Dracula inclined his head. "Perhaps to you, Miss Murray. To others, it is comforting." "Well," said Lucy brightly, "it looks as if well have plenty of conversation at dinner." She wagged a playful finger at Quincy. "Now, not too much politics! It spoils the digestion. Shall we go in?" It was a command phrased as a question. The group immediately began to sort itself out. It was a peculiar custom among the upper classes that one did not simply choose his dinner companion to suit his own tastes. The order in which one entered the dining room was rigidly established, and the hostess had little more leeway designating the seating. Mister Westenra, as the host, escorted Lady Holmwood--the highest-ranking female guest. Lucy, as the hostess, was to bring up the rear, escorting the highest-ranking male guest. That would usually have been Lord Holmwood, but since they were engaged, the honor fell to Count Dracula instead. Neither of the men was overly pleased by this, but they were both socially adept enough not to let it show. Since it was considered bad form for married or engaged couples to stay together (it was assumed that they saw enough of each other, and they should spread their social attention to others while in public), Mina was paired with Lord Holmwood. Lucy had suggested to her father that since there were so many more men than women, the ladies might go in to dinner with a gentleman on each arm. Her father had replied sternly that Lady Holmwood would be shocked, and Lucy did not need to offend her future mother-in-law. Besides, it was the lady ornamenting a gentlemans arm--not the other way around. The larger group of single men (Quincy, Jack, Rill, Sinn, and Jonathan), made their way toward the dining room behind the couples. Arthur would have preferred to escort Lucy. His rank, wealth, and charm had always assured him of a selection of eager women. Mina Murray was too serious to interest him much, but none of the single men held much interest for him, either. Hed be polite to the two foreigners, of course, but he had no desire to spend most of the night chatting to them. Jack Seward was as familiar and dull as dishwater, and Jonathan Harker--Jonathan was a law clerk--what more needed to be said of that? Sinn moved up beside Jack Seward as they passed down the hall. "So, Doctor-you study the mind?" Jack would have hardly expected such an elegant, and apparently shallow, young man to be interested in such things, but he was always willing to talk about his profession. "Yes. I run an asylum nearby. I dislike the administrative duties, but the job is important for my studies. It allows me close observation of patients with a wide range of disorders." "Ah. I would suppose that these are all unfortunates whose complaints make it impossible for them to fit into normal society?" "Well, yes. Their behavior or appearance would be alarming or unpleasant to most people." "But dont you agree that there are some... shall we say irregular personalities? That there are people who hold beliefs and views, who have hidden practices that would shock and horrify the world at large, but who appear on the surface to be perfectly normal, even..." he smiled, "charming?" "Oh, without a doubt. These are the most dangerous." "I cannot help but agree. I do hope that Miss Westenra has seated us together, Doctor. I find this discussion fascinating." Jonathan was walking beside Rill. The boy was watching him with such obvious friendliness that Jonathan felt little discomfort in starting a conversation. "Your country is very beautiful." Rill nodded. "Yes. I have lived in the country, and in a great city, but the mountains where we make our home now are my favorite place on earth." "You live in the mountains as well? The prince I was visiting has a castle in the mountains, near Borgo

Pass." Rill gave him a sidelong glance. "Ive been there. Its quite wild, despite the village nearby. When I first went there, I had to be careful in my roaming that I did not go too far, and become lost." "Yes, there were wolves. I heard them." "Oh, the wolves didnt bother me," said Rill carelessly. "I just had to be careful that I wasnt so far from the castle that I couldnt return by dawn, or..." "Nightfall, cheri," Sinn broke in. Rill gave him a puzzled look, and Sinn said slowly, "You had to be careful to return before nightfall." Rill looked embarrassed. "Yes, of course." "I believe that the forest around Castle Draculea is quite dangerous, once the sun goes down," said Jonathan. "I suppose so," said Rill, but there was an undercurrent of doubt. "Myself," Sinn continued, "I like a little wildness. Tell me, Mister Morris, is Texas the pioneer wilderness that they describe in the dime novels?" Rill laughed, "Simion says that its ridiculous that Sinn has a wonderful selection of literature at his fingertips, and he has the cheapest, crudest sensationalism available shipped to him." "What can I say?" Sinn examined his fingernails, then cut his eyes toward Quincy. "One occasionally has a taste for the... earthy." Theyd entered the dining room. Each person paused a moment just inside the door to give proper admiration to the beautiful china, silver, crystal and table decorations. Lucy was very proud of the fact that shed arranged the centerpiece herself. Of course the gardener had cultivated the flowers, and a maid had followed her with a basket as shed snipped each choice blossom, the housekeeper had brought her the cut glass bowl, and actually placed the bowl on the table after the maids had laid the place settings. But Lucy HAD arranged the flowers, and she pointed that out with what she was sure was becoming modesty. Her artistry was duly admired. "Very pretty, Miss Westenra," said Count Dracula. "How nice to see a young woman who possesses practical skills, and is not just decorative." Jonathan looked at him sharply, hearing a certain dry amusement in his voice, but Lucy took the comment at face value. "Thank you--I try to keep busy. I help the local vicar with his good works, when I have the time. Id like to help organize the charity events," she frowned, and the expression was pettish, "but he seems to think that Im too young and inexperienced to be given charge." She gave Lady Holmwood a clearly envious look. The older woman kept her attention carefully on Mister Westenra, but her spine stiffened a little. Shed heard Lucys complaint, but she was too well bred to comment in return. Mister Westenras place was at the head of the table, with Lady Holmwood to his right, and Lucy sat at the foot of the table, with Count Dracula on her right. Before they sat down, Lucy said, "Well, since we dont have a balanced set of guests, then I dont suppose we need to hew too closely to convention. I wont tell you all where to sit except for one thing--Mina, you have to place yourself with a gentleman on each side. Dont try to sit beside myself or Lady Holmwood." She smiled brightly. "We have to spread our conversation as much as possible." There was a little shuffling before the guests settled. In the end, there was Lady Holmwood, Jack, Mina, and Rill on one side, and Sinn, Quincy, Jonathan, and the Count on the other. Lucy, though shed directed her guests to choose their own seats, wasnt completely pleased with the outcome. She started to suggest that Mina should switch so that there would be a woman on each side, but her father gave her a stern look. Normally shed have just blithely continued, but the Count was giving her a rather narrow look, also, so she simply rang for the footmen to begin serving. There were lavishly filled fruit bowls flanking the centerpiece, and Rill was staring at the one before him in fascination. It was crowned by a fat, elegantly curved, bright yellow banana. Since hed spent most of

his life isolated at the castle, hed never been exposed to tropical fruit. He had deduced, since it was placed with apples, pears, and grapes, that it was edible, but he couldnt figure out HOW. As the footmen brought in the first dishes, his hand drifted slowly toward the tempting object. Dracula cleared his throat, and Rill looked up alertly. The Count gave his head a minute shake, and Rill quickly returned his hand to his lap. Now he recalled what Simion had taught him about eating with the upper classes--he needed to wait until someone else at the table took a piece of fruit, or it was offered to him. Hed never purposefully do anything against what Simion had taught him, but it didnt stop his eyes from wandering occasionally to the fruit, covetousness and curiosity clear in his expression. The first course was a choice of deviled eggs or oysters on the half shell. The oysters were offered in individual bowls of chipped ice, and when the footman stood at Rills elbow, presenting them, the boy gave the glistening, quivering morsels a near horrified look. His principal diet now was blood, but hed never accustomed himself to the thought of eating raw flesh of any kind. He gratefully accepted two of the stuffed eggs instead. Sinn, on the other hand, welcomed the oysters with relish. "Though perhaps I should not," he murmured to Quincy, voice low, so that the other diners would not hear. "Oysters are known to stir up certain other appetites." Sinn still occasionally indulged in normal food, and Rill had kept the habit, joining Simion in at least one meal almost every day, but it had been centuries since Dracula had taken any nourishment other than blood. During his mortal life, though, he had attended many formal dinners. He often had no desire to consume more than a small amount of the food offered, so to be diplomatic he had become adept at seeming to eat, while in fact rearranging his food on the plate. He hadnt had to practice this deception for a long time, but he was still skilled. He chose the deviled eggs also, but for a different reason than Rill. It would be easier to look as if hed consumed a reasonable amount of them, while the still filled oyster shells would have been hard to disguise. "Ill be getting a French cook, of course, when I move into my own household," Lucy confided to the Count. "But Father insists on keeping the same woman who did for him since before mother died. Shes all right with plain foods, but one must almost beat her to induce her to use any sauce more complicated than drawn butter. If Arthur hadnt volunteered to supply us with produce and fruit from his hothouses and game from his estate, I doubt I would have been able to come up with a menu fitting for guests." *How subtly you call for compliments,* thought Dracula. He chose a clear consomme, waving away the pale green cream of cucumber soup. "Really, Miss Westenra, you worry unnecessarily. This is quite a treat for us. As a bachelor household, we dine very simply. In fact, there is usually only one dish..." Rill chuckled, and Dracula gave him a mock severe look, then smiled. "But it suits us well. The fare you are providing seems quite rich to us, so you must not be offended if we can manage only small amounts." He touched his glass of wine to his lips. "Digestion, you know." He glanced over at Jonathan. From the moment hed seen him, Dracula had been exercising iron will not to simply pull him into his arms. Sinn was watching him curiously from the far end of the table. He knew Dracula had honed his self-control over centuries, but he also knew how badly Dracula wanted Jonathan Harker. It wasnt hard for Sinn to imagine Dracula simply seizing what he wanted, killing anyone who tried to stop him. That could prove interesting. Should the Count break, Sinn fully intended to take Quincy Morris for himself. Dracula, voice even, spoke to Jonathan. "You do not seem to have that problem, Mister Harker." Jonathan had broken his roll, and was about to take a bite. He paused, the bit not quite to his lips, regarding Count Dracula. Dracula felt his insides squeeze. Again he saw Nicolae perched in the window of Vargas castle, eating his simple breakfast, and gazing down at Draculea as he mounted Lucifer for his morning ride. "Sir? Oh, digestion. No, no. Quite the opposite, Im afraid. My fathers housekeeper used to say that when I was around, she hardly needed to use the scrap bin." "What a charming woman." *How sad that I wont be able to pay her a call before we leave England.*

As the meal progressed through the fish, the roast Guinea hen, the joint of beef with accompanying potatoes and vegetables, and the salad, Lucy found herself growing more and more irritated. She was used to her dinner companions vying with each other for her attention. While the Count would occasionally pass a remark to her, most of his attention was concentrated on Jonathan. Lucy just couldnt understand it. How could a sophisticated man prefer to spend time with a common law clerk when SHE was willing to sparkle for his amusement? Her pride would not let her try to engage Dracula in a more pointed fashion, so she instead focused on Rill. Even though he would not have been her first choice, he was still personable, and his position in the Counts household seemed to be a respected one. Rill politely divided his conversation between Mina and Lucy, but the boy had no idea of current fashions, no gossip, and was not interested in any of the traditional country pursuits, such as fishing, shooting, and hunting. He had perked up a little when Lucy had brought up hunting, but then hed said, "Oh, FOX hunting. No, Ive never done that." "Really? What HAVE you hunted?" The Count and Sinn became very still, watching Rill closely. The boy turned his attention to the plate before him, poking at a tomato slice. "Big game. Miss Murray, do you really operate a type writing machine? They must be awfully complicated. It took me a long time to learn the proper use of a pen and ink without making a mess..." Lucy was left with the unsettling feeling that this obviously simple boy had neatly evaded a probe for information. Mister Westenra had been spending most of the meal conversing with Lady Holmwood. She was an old friend, and the fact that their children were to be married gave them much to speak of. But despite devoting most of his time to her, hed been well aware of what was going on among the other diners. It seemed that Lucy neednt have fretted about the uneven number of men and women. The Count and his companions were having no trouble making conversation. Indeed, the Count and Jonathan Harker, and Sinn Barbee and Quincy Morris seemed well on their way to forming firm friendships. The Counts preoccupation with young Harker, and his subsequent near neglect of Lucy, rather amused Mister Westenra. He loved his daughter, but he was well aware that she was dreadfully spoiled. There had been very few times in Lucys life that she did not get her own way, and he thought that a few minor disappointments might do her some good. The salad plates were removed, and finally coffee and plates of small, ornate cakes were brought in. Jonathan was eagerly trying to choose a cake, when he noticed Rill. The other young man had finally taken the banana that hed been coveting for most of the meal, but he was turning it in his hands, eyeing it with obvious perplexity. There was another banana in the fruit bowl, and Jonathan said, "You have a good eye." Rill looked up at him curiously, and Jonathan took the second piece of fruit. "I do believe that Ill have one of these, too." He laid the fruit on his plate, moving a little slowly, and deliberately. Then he picked up his dessert fork and knife, held the banana in place, and sliced partway through the stem at the end. He laid aside the knife, held the banana in place with the first fork, and used a second fork to peel away the skin in strips. Rill watched this carefully, understanding dawning on his expression, then he happily began to copy Jonathan. Once the banana was peeled, Jonathan deposited the peel on the side of his place, took up the knife again, and began to slice off and eat small chunks. Rill followed suit, and was soon happily engrossed in his treat. Dracula watched him fondly, then turned his eyes on Jonathan. "You are a kind young man." Jonathan found himself blushing. "Im greedy, because not only am I having this banana, but I intend to have one or two of those cakes as well." "Perhaps," Dracula indicated one cake that was coated in fondant, the top decorated with sliced, candied almonds. "That one?"

"Yes, I have my eye on it. I hope I wont have to race you for it." Dracula chuckled. "No, it is not the type of sweet I prefer. I will enjoy watching you enjoy it." "How did you know that was what Id choose?" Draculas smile faded a bit, and there was a far away look in his eyes. "I once knew someone who was very fond of sugared almonds. You remind me of him." end part 101 Feedback: poet77665@yahoo.com Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles and http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/foxluver Back to index

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. This story archived at http://www.squidge.org/peja/cgi-bin/viewstory.php?sid=9579

Title: Child of the Night, 102/? -------------Child of the Night, Chapter One-hundred two The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Westenra Estate Satin and Leather After dinner, the Count expressed a desire to join the ladies in the salon, rather than remain in the dining room for brandy and cigars. Mister Westenra, being a good host, acquiesced. Lady Holmwood privately wished that her son wouldn't look so petulant. He could easily indulge in spirits and tobacco when he returned home--waiting an hour or two shouldn't be such a hardship. While the men took port, and the ladies sipped sherry, there was a discussion of what they should do next. Lady Holmwood suggested a game of whist. There was only one small card table in the room--the servants would have to bring more tables and chairs for all the guests to play. "Oh, don't do that, Father," said Lucy. "Why don't the rest of us go into the music room? I can play, Mina can turn my music, and we can sing duets for the other gentlemen." Lucy wishing to spare the servants extra work would be odd--but wanting to show off her talents? That seemed perfectly natural. It was decided that Mister Westenra would partner with Lady Holmwood. "How about you, Count?" he asked. "Do you play?" Dracula smiled. "I am very fond of games." He turned to Jonathan. "Mister Harker, will you be my partner?" Jonathan, a little surprised, glanced reflexively to where Rill and Sinn were standing. "I know my companions too well to ask them. Rill prefers the simpler games, and Sinn..." Sinn was apparently once again commenting on Quincy Morris' attire. He had hold of the taller man's elbow, and was exclaiming over a set of silver and turquoise cuff links. "I do not think Sinn is feeling sedentary tonight." "I'd be happy to be your partner," said Jonathan, "though I have to warn you--I'm not that good a player." The other two players had already seated themselves at the table, and Mister Westenra was shuffling the deck with dexterity, while Lady Holmwood watched approvingly. Jonathan lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Lucy gossips, and according to her, Lady Holmwood and her father are both card sharps." Dracula raised an eyebrow. "Oh, they don't cheat, but they're ruthless in their playing." He lowered his voice even further. "And if they want to play for stakes, I'll have to bow out. I honestly can't afford it, since I don't know when I'll be able to go back to work." Dracula patted his shoulder. "You're not to worry. If they do wish to wager, I will provide the funds. Perhaps we will win, and if we do not," he shrugged, smiling, but there was a hint of something Jonathan couldn't quite identify, "You will find some way to repay me." As the two couples settled down to their game, Lucy led the others into the music room. She and Mina went to the piano and began to sort through the music, discussing what would be most suitable for the occasion, while the men took seats on the several small sofas that were placed about the room. When Jack Seward started to sit next to Quincy, Sinn put a hand on his arm. "Do you mind, Mister Seward? While I already know something of your charming England, I have had a long fascination with America." He smiled at Quincy. "I hope Mister Morris will be willing to educate me." Jack went and sat beside Arthur as the Frenchman took his seat. Arthur remarked, "I can understand why Barbee might find Morris interesting, at least for a little while. The French have always had a low fascination with the rougher elements. But I have no idea what Morris finds interesting about Barbee." He shrugged. "Perhaps it's just my personal tastes. I've never cared for people who are TOO smooth, and Barbee certainly is that." "They make an odd pair," agreed Jack. "It's rather someone trying to pair satin and leather." Sinn had been speaking to Quincy in a low voice. Now the Texan got up and went to the piano, where the girls had reduced their selection to three or four choices. "Miss Lucy? Ma'am, I hope I'm not being

rude, but I was wondering if you might excuse myself and Mister Barbee for a while? He's interested in having a look around the house, and since you, Miss Mina, and your father are all busy entertaining the other guests... Well, I've been staying here for awhile, and I can't give him the history of the house," he smiled boyishly, "but I can make sure he doesn't get lost." Lucy wasn't pleased with the thought of losing half her audience--especially since it was the half that she'd had the shortest amount of time to charm. Mina could tell that she was about to make some petulant protest. It wasn't easy, given the volume of their skirts, but she managed to give Lucy a sharp, warning pinch. Lucy smiled graciously. "Of course, Mister Morris." She shook a finger at him playfully. "You WILL stay out of the ladies' private rooms, I hope." Quincy blushed. "Miss Lucy! My mama raised me right." As the two men left the room, Lucy began to play a tinkling, pastoral tune about the joys of simple country life--something that she'd never experienced herself. Oh, her home was in 'the country', but she'd never made do with less than a dozen servants to ease her daily routine. She might have, as the song said, gathered eggs and milked cows as a lark, but the moment it was required she would have thrown a monumental tantrum. Jack sat a little forward on the sofa, watching Lucy. Arthur glanced at him, and thought that there was something different in the man's expression. Usually when he watched Lucy there was nothing more than pathetic, hopeless longing. Now... There was still longing, but now it was mixed with something very like doubt--as if he wasn't quite sure why he wanted what he wanted. Arthur wondered if Jack had finally accepted that his pursuit of Lucy was hopeless, and had begun to look elsewhere. He had the air of a man who had not quite fixed his affections on a new object, but had found one that might be suitable. Jack looked over at Arthur and whispered, "Don't you like the tune?" *I must have been looking distracted.* "It's all right," said Arthur negligently. He sighed. "I should have stayed in the other room. I could have given advice to the players, and made a general nuisance of myself." "But don't you WANT to listen to Lucy?" Arthur gave Jack a jaundiced look. "I have the rest of my life to do that, old fellow." ~*~*~*~ "Where would you like to explore first?" asked Quincy. "The kitchens," said Sinn decisively. Quincy blinked. "This surprises you?" "I guess not. All the Louisiana French that I know love their food, but I have to say that I didn't notice you eating a lot at dinner." "Ah, but what I DID eat, I SAVORED. There is much value in quantity, Mister Morris, but one must also consider quality." They were walking down the narrow back hall that led to the kitchen. Quincy said quietly, "I wish you'd call me by my first name." Sinn paused, looking Quincy directly in the eye. "I would be charmed. And you will call me Sinn, yes?" He put a hand on the other man's arm, fingers tightening slightly. "It is so much more friendly." A small serving girl, no older than fourteen, came through the door at the far end of the hall. She was carrying a pile of carefully folded linen napkins, and she was bustling along busily. When she saw the two men, she froze, her eyes wide. She hadn't been in service long, and she was still at the most humble level of the domestic staff. She hadn't expected to even see one of the gentry close up for another year or so, and here were two of them--large, well dressed gentlemen who filled the hall from side to side.

How on earth was she supposed to get past them to complete her errand? Sinn regarded the girl for a moment, seeing that she was too petrified to move. Smiling, he crooked a finger at her. The girl swallowed visibly, then came forward slowly. When she arrived, she began to reach for her skirt to make a curtsy. The napkins started to tumble, and she rescued them with a squeak, then settled for making a bobbing motion of respect. Sinn said, "Gracious, girl, you need not fear that we will eat you. We were well fed at dinner tonight. That is why we are here. I wish to convey my thanks to the cook, and the kitchen staff." Wonder flooded the girl's face. A guest, offering thanks? Sinn cocked his head, studying her. "You are very young, cheri. Tell me, did you help in the preparing of the meal?" "Yes, sir." The girl was breathless. "They lemme clean t' vegetables." "Ah! You did an excellent job. Not a single grain of dirt spoiled the meal. Is it not so, Quincy?" "That's true," said Quincy solemnly. "I remarked to Mister Barbee here that I don't think I've had cleaner vegetables anywhere--and I've been a few places." The girl flushed with pleasure. "Cook says if I do well in a few weeks she'll lemme peel an' cut them, too!" "You will be an artiste," Sinn assured her. "Now, run along and finish your chore." The girl looked doubtfully to either side of the pair. "But of course. Quincy, we must make way for this young lady." Both men turned, putting their backs to the wall, and opening a narrow space between them. The girl began to slip through. But as she was just between the men, Sinn put his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place. She looked up at the man, feeling a thrill of fear. She'd heard stories all her life about the perils of serving in some houses--how the men of the family, or the guests, often thought they could make free with the female servants. Sinn smiled down at her, one hand cupping the back of her head. Then he bent down and pressed a cool kiss to her forehead. Sinn closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the skin beneath his lips. It would take so little. All he'd need to do would be take a firmer grip in the girl's hair, pull her head back, and bend to her neck... He released the girl, giving her a gentle push down the hall. "Go, or you will not be able to seek your bed before midnight." As the girl hurried away, they started down the hall. "The young can be so sweet." "The young in general," said Quincy, "or in particular?" "Oh, I have no designs on the child. The single-minded pursuit of the innocent and inexperienced is for those who have little imagination." He slid a glance sideways at Quincy. "I moved past that stage some time ago." Quincy looked as if he wanted to comment or question, but they'd arrived. The kitchen was warm, and still smelled delicious. The two scullery maids and footman who were busily finishing the cleaning came to a halt in their labors as the two gentlemen entered, and the cook (who had been sitting at the table, enjoying a cup of tea) struggled to her feet. "Bonjour," said Sinn brightly. "Please forgive the intrusion, but I felt compelled to come back and thank you for the delightful meal." He went to the cook, took her hand, and dropped a kiss on it. The plump woman, already rosy cheeked by nature and flushed from that evening's exertions, blushed even darker. Sinn murmured, "You were the creator of the feast?" She nodded. Knowing that the typical Englishman would expect some sort of a Gallic gesture, he kissed his fingertips. "Madam, I have dined in royal halls, and never have I tasted finer food." Sinn proceeded to charm the rest of the staff, flirting with the women, and predicting a bright future for the footman. *No,* thought Quincy. *I'll be damned if he isn't flirting with the footman, too, and the boy doesn't quite know what to think about it.* He watched as Sinn, one hand on the footman's shoulder, shook a finger at the boy playfully, warning him against being too charming to the house

maids. *So, he's sending out the signals. The question is, is it more than just smoke? Is there fire behind it? Maybe I ought to be cautious, but if I can't be sure one way or the other tonight, I think I might just die of curiosity.* "Now," said Sinn, "where shall we go next?" "There's Mister Westenra's study, the conservatory, the library..." Sinn brightened. "Ah, a library! Let us go there next." As they left the kitchen, Quincy said, "You like libraries?" "Libraries are very important in our household. The Count has an excellent one. Simion sees to it that the room is nicely kept, that the books remain in perfect repair, and that new volumes are occasionally added." "The Count is a great reader?" Sinn shrugged. "I think he goes there more for the atmosphere, and the memories. As I understand it, he had happy times there." They passed the music room, and Sinn peeked inside, while urging Quincy on down the hall. He joined him, saying, "Miss Lucy has a fair sized stack of music arranged easily to hand. I believe that we shall have to amuse each other for some time." "I don't think that will be a problem." The library was a small room compared to the rest of the house. Three of the walls were lined with book-filled shelves, and the room was comfortably furnished. No, perhaps not comfortably. There was no fault in the furniture itself, but as was common in many houses of the period, there was too much of it. Consequently, the room seemed crowded. As Sinn shut the door, he ran a hand over the frame, saying, "Look, there is a bolt. What do you suppose the good Mister Westenra does in here that requires him to secure his privacy?" "He probably works on some of his business papers," said Quincy. Sinn made a face. "How boring. I would hope it was for some more interesting reason." He wandered into the room, stopping to look at a framed display of pressed flowers that graced a small occasional table. He smiled to himself as he heard the quiet snick of the bolt being engaged. He touched the frame and said, "What do you call these, Quincy?" "My mother calls them dust catchers, and I figure that's as good a name as any." Quincy came up behind Sinn, moving in so close that Sinn could feel the heat of his body, and Sinn's smile broadened. "I meant the flowers." "I can tell a rose from a daisy, but that's about it." Sinn felt Quincy's hands begin to settle on his shoulder. "Mon Dieu, is that a stuffed bird over there?" He moved quickly, but casually--as if he was unaware of the other man's gesture. There was indeed a stuffed bird on one of the shelves. Sinn went to it, standing close and peering at it. "A robin. Now, why would they want to preserve a creature whose main attraction is its vitality?" Quincy approached again. "I think it's for the color." This time Quincy laid his hands on Sinn's arms. "Some people like to have pretty things around. I can understand that." Sinn felt Quincy begin to tighten his grip, and he moved again. To Quincy's surprise, Sinn managed to slip away again. That was unexpected. Quincy had been determined to get a firm hold on the smaller man this time, but once again he found himself with nothing but thin air, and Sinn smirking at him from the other side of the room. Quincy felt his pulse pick up. It had been a while since he'd actually had to work for a conquest. He stalked slowly toward

his companion, saying, "Aren't you just a little bit skittish tonight, Sinn?" "Moi? Oh, no, mon ami--not skittish. To be skittish implies apprehension--" Sinn was standing with his back to the desk. Now he put his hands behind him on the desk's top, then hopped up to sit on it. "Not anticipation." "What is it you're looking forward to?" Sinn didn't reply, only spreading his knees. Quincy licked his lips, eyes gleaming. His voice low, he said, "Son, you'd better not be intending to back out on me." Sinn's hands shot out, grabbing Quincy's lapels, and he pulled him close, dragging him between his open thighs. "I never promise what I'm not willing to give, Quincy." His hands slid around to Quincy's back, then drifted down to settle on his ass. He squeezed. "Now, what of you? You also have been making promises without speaking." Quincy's answer was a growl. He shoved Sinn so that he fell back on the desk, and leaned in and over, covering Sinn's torso with his own. His mouth came down on Sinn's in a direct, hard kiss. Sinn's response was more than he could have hoped for. The smaller man clutched even harder, fingers digging into the muscles of Quincy's ass. Sinn arched, pushing his pelvis strongly against Quincy's, and his mouth opened eagerly. Quincy let go of Sinn's shoulders to bury his hands in the other man's hair. He held Sinn's head firmly against the desk while he plundered his mouth, sucking and nipping hungrily at Sinn's lips and tongue. Something in the back of his mind noted that the other man seemed cooler than normal, and he filed it away for future reference, but it hardly seemed to matter now. Guessing Sinn's true intentions, he'd been half-hard since Sinn had solicited his services as a guide. Now, through layers of cloth, he could feel an answering bulge rubbing against his own awakening member. Quincy groaned into Sinn's mouth. He wanted so badly to rip the elegant clothes off Sinn, then bend his pliant body over the shining surface of the desk and give himself over to simple, primal sex. He could imagine spreading Sinn's pale buttocks wide, finding the small, crinkled hole, and inserting first his tongue, then his fingers, and finally his hard, aching cock. "I know what you are thinking." It was a rough whisper against his lips. Quincy raised his head just far enough to look down at Sinn. The Frenchman's pupils were so dilated that his green eyes looked almost black. "You want to fuck me," Sinn crooned. "You want to slide that big, delicious cock into me, filling me till I almost burst, seeing the skin stretch tight around you, feeling ME stretch around you..." Needing to do something, and not sure exactly what, Quincy thumped Sinn's head back against the desk, and Sinn just laughed. *He knows what he's doing to me.* Quincy thought in wonder. *He knows that filthy talk is just making me hotter.* "Yes." "So you shall, Quincy--but not just yet." Again Quincy thumped Sinn's head on the desk, sharply enough to make the other man's teeth click together. Sinn's answer was to worm a hand between their bodies and caress the bulging front of Quincy's trousers. "I'm not going to deny you, my beauty, but though I enjoy the spice of possible discovery, we should be practical. The Count would quite literally have my guts for garters if I spoiled his plans. But I will happily bring you release now, and I promise that what you postpone will be worth waiting for. Now, let me up, Quincy." Quincy stared down at him. "Let me up, and I'll give you a spend that you will remember till your dying day." Quincy pulled back, but he let one hand slide down to cover Sinn's crotch. He squeezed, feeling the rigid flesh beneath the fabric. Sinn was sitting up, propped on his elbows, and his expression showed that Quincy's touch was just a little too firm to be entirely comfortable. Quincy deliberately tightened his grip, wanting to see how Sinn would respond. Sinn flinched, in obvious pain, but heat flared in his eyes. He pushed himself harder against Quincy's hand, and he seemed almost disappointed when Quincy released him. "Sit down." Quincy gave him a hard look, and Sinn amended, "If you please. You will be more comfortable, and I intend to try to weaken your knees." Quincy took a seat in a well padded chair. His breath quickened as Sinn got down on his hands and knees, and crawled over to him. It didn't escape Sinn's notice. As he came closer he purred, "You'll have me like this soon, Quincy--on my knees. Of course you might prefer a different position." He was

on his knees now in front of Quincy. Reaching out, the put his hands on Quincy's knees, then let them slide up his inner thighs, and pushed his legs apart. "But somehow I think you'd like the most basic way." His hands settled on Quincy's groin, massaging, "Rutting like an animal--no thoughts, just sensation." He started to unbutton Quincy's fly. Quincy watched closely as the long, pale fingers deftly unseated each button. So far Sinn had not just met his expectations: he had fulfilled his hope. Quincy knew that even if the Frenchman proved to be awkward at the actual sex, he would be more than willing to work for improvement. After all, training could be very enjoyable. Quincy gripped the arms of the chair as Sinn reached into the gap he had created, seeking the slit in Quincy's drawers. Quincy drew in a shuddering breath when cool skin came in contact with his heated flesh, and Sinn made a faintly mocking noise of commiseration and apology. "I know, cheri--you find me cold. I assure you that it is purely of my physical nature, not my intentions..." he had drawn Quincy's stiff prick out into the open, "and soon you will not care." He bent down. Quincy was engulfed in soft wetness. Sinn had judged that Quincy's patience was nearing its end, so there was nothing lingering of hesitant in his method--he simply swallowed as much of Quincy as he could, and sucked lustily. "Damnation." The softly spoken word was more like a prayer than a curse. Sinn couldn't smile, but he made a smug noise that was suspiciously like a chuckle. "Oh, you're proud of yourself, aren't you?" Quincy grabbed Sinn's head and lifted his hips, forcing his cock even deeper. He was prepared for the usual choking, gasping, and struggle, and he'd decided that he'd only hold on for another second or two. He was shocked when instead of pulling away Sinn moaned, digging his nails into Quincy's thighs. Quincy felt the prick, even through his pants. Quincy eased his grip experimentally, and Sinn began to pull back. Morris was ready to counter any complaints about his roughness, but he didn't have to. Sinn never pulled off, he simply slid back till only the head of Quincy's cock was trapped between his lips, then dropped back down, beginning a bobbing rhythm. Quincy was surprised, but pleased. Usually by now his partners in this type of sex had begun complaining about the size of his organ, and his uninhibited method. Sometimes Quincy thought that if he heard one more whine about how hard it was to breathe... But Sinn didn't seem to have that problem. Things were going beautifully. Sinn had already shown indications that he not only would tolerate, but enjoyed, a bit of roughness. Quincy decided to experiment. It might be that this was to be a one-time affair, and if that were so, Quincy wanted it on HIS terms. Again he gripped Sinn's head, fingers twisting in the dark hair, and began to fuck the other man's mouth, lifting his hips in short, hard jabs. Sinn made a choked, whining sound, but again he did not try to escape Quincy. Instead, first one hand, then the other went to his own pants, working frantically at the buttons. When Quincy managed to look away from the way Sinn's reddened lips encircled his engorged sex, he saw that Sinn had exposed himself. One hand was fisting his straining cock, while the other held a large handkerchief wadded against his balls. It was a little surreal, knowing that the man had enough sensibility left to prepare so that he'd not soil himself when he found release. Quincy soon forgot that, though. Since Sinn wasn't bracing himself now, it gave Quincy even more control. He was able to ram himself deep, pushing in till he was fully seated, Sinn's chin pressing firmly against his balls. Quincy held him there, and Sinn swallowed, working the muscles in his throat. Quincy gasped at the rippling, squeezing sensation. He threw his head back as he reached his climax, his seed gushing forth. Again Sinn surprised him by not trying to pull away. He continued swallowing, drinking everything. Even the Creole gambler hadn't done that, though Quincy had beaten him for his continued refusal. He'd always ended their sessions by spitting a wad of come and saliva into a basin or towel, then washing his mouth out with wine, or brandy. Quincy finally let go of Sinn. The kneeling man pulled off of Quincy's softening member, but not far. He began to lick away stray trickles of come, while he continued to masturbate, hard and fast. Then he leaned forward suddenly, burying his face in Quincy's crotch, the Texan's damp prick pressed against his cheek. Quincy stiffened in shock and erotic thrill as Sinn bit him, sharp teeth pinching hard at the scant slice of skin visible through his disarranged clothing. He shoved Sinn back and slapped his face,

hard, hissing, "Whore!" Sinn fell back on the floor as if boneless, but he had the wadded handkerchief wrapped tight around the head of his cock, and his hips jerked spasmodically as he reached climax. "Yes!" he gasped. "Yes, whore. I whore myself for you." Quincy watched, bemused, as the man slowly relaxed. The crumpled kerchief was screwed into an even tighter ball, and thrust into Sinn's pocket. Then Sinn gave a lazy, luxurious stretch. His still half-hard cock was rosy, a contrast to his otherwise pale skin. Sinn sat up, tucking himself away with casual efficiency, and said, "You surpass my hopes, Quincy." The lack of awkward coyness was another plus. "Same here, amigo." Sinn indicated Quincy's still exposed staff with a lazy wave. "Shall I play valet?" Quincy nodded. Once again Sinn crawled to him. This time he reversed his previous actions, leaving Quincy's apparel once again in order, and decently closed. He gave the fly a final, companionable pat. "There. Now, I hope you will do me a favor." He extracted a comb and handed it to Quincy. "If you would help me with my hair?" Quincy was about to say that he was no one's damned hair dresser, when Sinn smiled and said, "I am afraid that you must have disarranged it terribly. You were most... enthusiastic." It only took a moment for Quincy to stroke the comb through Sinn's hair, leaving it once again neat and smooth. "Thank you, cheri." Sinn accepted the comb, and put it away. "I am hopeless unless I can see myself in a mirror, but I do like to look my best when I meet the world." He gripped Quincy's knees, and pushed himself to his feet. "And I believe it is time that we returned to the other guests. It would be a bit awkward if they came seeking us, and found the door bolted." Quincy stood, and before Sinn could move away, he grabbed him, pulling him into a tight embrace. "I want more." Sinn let his hands settle on Quincy's chest, playing with the buttons of his shirt. He watched this, eyes downcast, but he was smiling. "Bon. More there shall be, but not tonight. We will have to choose another place and time, Quincy--somewhere more private, and some time when we need not fear interruption." "Sinn," Quincy's voice was rough. "I'm not a gentle man. If we're together again, I can't promise you that I'll be soft and considerate. I can manage that with women, because they're more fragile, but when I'm with a man..." "Cheri," said Sinn chidingly, "have I indicated a desire to be treated delicately? I have always preferred demanding men. Perhaps some day, when we know each other better, I will tell you something of my history, and you will understand. Quincy unbolted the door, and they made their way to the music room. Arthur was looking bored, playing with his watch fob. Jack, was staring at the wall, his thoughts apparently far away, till Lucy asked him what he had thought of the last song. He replied with vague praise, and Quincy had the feeling that he hadn't really heard it. Mina was just arranging the last few pages of sheet music, and Lucy glanced at them, saying, "Well, that was quicker than I expected." Quincy sat, with Sinn settling beside him, and said quietly, "Quicker than I expected, too." Lucy wondered at the ironic tone, but turned her attention to Sinn. "That really was a brief tour. Would you like me to show your around later?" He smiled at her. "Thank you, dear lady, but I have already seen everything in this house that could interest me." --Title: Child of the Night, 103/? Child of the Night, Chapter One-hundred three

The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Westenra Estate Whist, and Other Games Jonathan and Dracula took seats opposite each other at the table, with Jonathan on Lady Holmwood's right, and the count on Mister Westenra's. "Now, then," said Mister Westenra, "would anyone have an objection to a small wager, just to make the game more interesting? Jonathan," his voice was indulgent, "your credit is good here. I know you're a fine, responsible young man." *Whom you are pressing to gamble when you know he has no funds,* thought Vlad. "I have agreed to be Mister Harker's banker. What stakes?" Their host squared one of the two decks of cards, saying, "This is just a friendly game. Say, oh, a shilling a point?" Vlad saw Jonathan pale a bit, and knew that he was thinking of how quickly his weekly salary could be eaten by such stakes. *Your daughter is consumed by vanity,* he thought, *but it would seem that Greed is your own particular vice, Westenra.* He gave the boy an encouraging glance, and nodded. "Good! Shall we cut for the deal?" The question was a rote formality, but then so much social interaction in the upper classes was just that. They each drew cards, and the host drew an ace. When no one matched it, Mister Westenra presented the deck to Jonathan for the final shuffle. Jonathan handled the cards easily, but without giving a sense that he was too familiar with them. As Dracula watched the play of Jonathan's hands, he recalled watching Nicolae carefully stitching the binding of a book. The longer he was around Jonathan, the more similarities he found between the young Englishman and his lost beloved. Jonathan finished the shuffle and gathered the pack, then set it on the table and pushed it across toward Dracula. It sat before the count for a few moments, ignored. Mister Westenra and Lady Holmwood exchanged glances, and Jonathan said, "Count?" Dracula blinked, his look becoming questioning, and Jonathan indicated the cards. "I beg your pardon?" "I shuffle, you cut." As Dracula cut the deck, Jonathan said, "You looked like you were a million miles away." "No, not a million miles." Dracula pushed the deck to Mister Westenra, who began to deal the cards. "Perhaps a few centuries." Jonathan brightened, smiling. History was much more to his taste than cards. "Which era interests you the most?" "I find the fifteenth century fascinating. My country was strong then, a force to be reckoned with in the world." Mister Westenra turned up the final card, saying, "The trump will be hearts," then took the card into his hand. Jonathan gathered his cards and began arranging his hand. "There was a great deal of conflict with the East, wasn't there?" "The Turks, yes." Dracula was idly sorting through his cards. "Fierce fighters, but an army is only as good as its leaders. If the head is weak, it doesn't matter how strong the body is." Jonathan nodded absently, eyes on his cards. "I saw a famous battle between the Transylvanians and the Turks once..." Vlad looked up sharply as Jonathan moved a card. "I mean I saw it laid out with toy soldiers." Jonathan frowned. "I can't remember where or when. My father thought soldiers were a waste of money, since he intended me to go into law, and I never really visited much with other..."

"Mister Harker," said Westenra pointedly. Jonathan looked at him questioningly. "Have you decided yet which card you will play?" Jonathan blinked. "The person to the LEFT of the dealer--? I'm sorry, I forgot." He gave his cards another glance, then laid down the Jack of spades. Lady Holmwood laid down the ten, then Vlad laid down the ace. Mister Westenra frowned, tossing down the two of spades. *Then either Vlad or Lady Holmwood has the king,* thought Jonathan. *I don't think Mister Westenra would have played such a low card if he could have won the trick.* Jonathan played his lowest spade--the four--next. In quick succession the players laid down the five, the seven, and the queen. Mister Westenra looked a little smug as he gathered in that trick. He lost his smugness quickly when Jonathan and the Count quickly won the next four tricks. When all thirteen tricks had been played, Jonathan and the Count had won ten. As Lady Holmwood carefully marked down four points for her opponents, Mister Westenra said, "Well, it looks as if we may have finally found someone who'll give us a run, Evelyn." His voice was jovial, but there was a hint of annoyance in his eyes. "We shall have to be on our mettle if we don't wish to be thrashed." Lady Holmwood laid down her pencil and took the just-used deck of cards, beginning to shuffle them. "Try to put a little luck into those, Evelyn." He pushed the unused deck of cards to Jonathan. "And you, young man--don't be so stingy with the high cards." "I'll do what I can, sir," Jonathan promised, and began to deal the cards. He handled them easily, his movements smooth. Mr. Westenra gathered his cards, saying, "Are you sure you don't play much cards, Jonathan? You handle them like a professional." Dracula was arranging his hand. "I think it's more that Mister Harker is simply deft. I'd wager that he writes a fine hand." Jonathan smiled. "I won several prizes for my penmanship in school." "How proud your parents must have been," said Lady Holmwood absently, studying her hand. Vlad saw Jonathan's smile fade slightly. "I think my mother would have been. My father... He said that I needed to write clearly for business correspondence, but beyond that it was a waste of time and effort." *Well,* thought Vlad, *At least it seems that your father in this life was merely a poor excuse for a father. He sounds petty, rather than vicious.* The second hand was not much more to Mister Westenra's taste. Jonathan and Vlad won the rubber with two points to spare. The game continued in much the same vein. Jonathan and the Count won trump after trump, playing off each other with increasing ease. Mister Westenra and Lady Holmwood were regular partners, and neither were used to being so thoroughly bested. Both were too socially conscious to complain, but as the game progressed their manner toward each other moved from smug assurance to coolness. Lady Holmwood's marks on the score pad became sharper, and Mister Westenra's aggressive shuffling was beginning to bend the cards. When the game was finally ended, Lady Holmwood counted up the score, then gave Count Dracula a small, chilly smile. "Well, it seems that the winnings tonight have been rather one-sided. You and Mister Harker have won one hundred shillings to our eight." Mister Westenra took his wallet from his pocket. "I will, of course, pay our debt of honor. Now, let me see... Your winnings less ours... Ninety-two shillings. Let's just say five pounds. The eight shillings is hardly worth bothering over." As Mister Westenra laid the bills on the table, Dracula noticed Jonathan frown slightly. To a young man earning his living, eight shillings were most certainly worth bothering over.

"Thank you, sir." Dracula gathered the money. His first instinct was to hand it all to Jonathan, but he hesitated. *He has changed a bit since we first shared out lives. Then he was humble, but now... He isn't vain, but he is proud of the fact that he lives by his own labor, asking nothing from others. To hand over all the money would be an insult.* Dracula folded two of the notes, slipping them in his pocket, and offered the other three to Jonathan. Jonathan looked at him for a moment, as if puzzled, then said, "But Count, I contributed nothing." "Don't be foolish, young man," said Dracula. "You contributed your skill. The money was won fairly. Take it." Jonathan glanced at his host, who was watching him closely. Refusing honest winnings could be considered an insult. He accepted the money. "Thank you." He smiled. "If we play again before I leave, I'll be able to contribute." "I would enjoy that very much." "Well, I'm not sure I'D enjoy it," grumbled Mister Westenra. "I've never seen new partners so in tune. Count, are you sure that you're not one of those Eastern swamis who can read minds?" Dracula shrugged. "Nothing so esoteric, Mister Westenra. I believe that now and again two people may meet who share with each other a little more than they do with others. It does not happen often, but when it does, one would be a fool to ignore it. Mister Harker, are you still feeling well?" Jonathan blinked. "Why, yes." "You are not fatigued? I was given to understand that your health was perhaps a bit delicate, due to some recent ordeal." "I'm a little bruised and scraped, but other than that I'm quite well." He made a gesture of frustration. "I'm just having a hard time convincing anyone of the fact." "Then you'd have no objection if I called again," he looked toward Mister Westenra, "if your host doesn't object?" Westenra inclined his head, but there was an ironic tilt to his smile that said he realized that Dracula knew he couldn't refuse without seeming ungracious. "Of course, Count. Lucy will be beside herself with joy if you choose to visit again." "How kind." The two words were dry. "I look forward to becoming better acquainted, Mister Harker. But now," he stood, "I believe I'd best go check on my companions. They were both excited about our visit, and there's no telling what sort of mischief the young ones can get up to if left unsupervised for long." Mister Westenra chuckled. "There speaks a parent." Dracula bowed slightly. "Still, I doubt you need to worry. Rill seems like a very well mannered boy." Dracula pursed his lips slightly, as if trying not to smile. "Yes, Rill is." *Sinn, on the other hand...* "Mister Westenra, can you spare Mister Harker, so that he might show me to the music room?" "Of course," said Westenra. "You two go and find the other young people. Evelyn and I will stay here, lick our wounds, and pick apart out technique. Evelyn, would you like another sherry? I know I could use one." As they made their way down the hall, Jonathan said, "You don't know how refreshing it is to be around someone who doesn't treat me like an invalid." "I believe that you are in many ways stronger than those around you suspect."

10

"I'd like to think so, because lately most of those around me seem to have me confused with a slightly feeble child. I confess that I'm becoming irritated." "Solicitude is a wonderful thing, but it can be annoying when one is not in need, and those who seek to coddle will not accept that fact." Jonathan gave him a thoughtful look. "You know, Count, your theory about new acquaintances being simpatico is sounding more and more sensible." "Are you familiar with London?" "Why, yes. I grew up there." "Excellent. I may call upon you in the future to be my guide." "I'd be pleased to be of service. In fact, I'll soon need to travel to London to speak to my employers. They'll want a report of my business in Transylvania..." His voice trailed off, his eyes growing a little vague. "Mister Harker?" Jonathan gave his head a slight shake, and sighed. "Perhaps I AM a bit more affected by my ordeal than I'd like to admit. I'm afraid that most of my trip abroad is little more than a blur." "Indeed? Don't let it trouble you. Often the mind defends itself by hiding certain things from the conscious self. If you need to remember, you will." They entered the music room in the middle of Lucy's final piece. When Rill saw them, he quickly stood up and stepped to the side of the chair he'd been occupying. He was obviously going to offer his seat, but then he paused, looking between Jonathan and the Count, unsure. Dracula said, "That's good of you, Rill. Mister Harker, have a seat." When Jonathan hesitated, he continued, "Please do not make me insist." He smiled slightly. "Or, as the Americans say, 'pull rank'?" Jonathan graciously accepted. It was perhaps fortuitous that neither of the girls had to make their living by performing, because they allowed themselves to be distracted by the new arrivals. Perhaps Mina was more aware of the byplay than Lucy. When Lucy reached the end of the current page of music, Mina was watching the Count and Jonathan, frowning slightly. Lucy's playing stumbled and stuttered slightly as she ran out of fresh score, and she hissed, "Mina!" Mina flinched slightly, and quickly turned the page. Lucy's recital continued, but her back was, perhaps, a little stiffer. She enjoyed pretending modesty, but she did NOT enjoy being seen as anything less than charmingly accomplished. When the girls finished, they went to join the men. Sinn and Quincy stood quickly, giving Mina and Lucy their places on one of the small sofas. "Well," said Lucy, "I do hope that you didn't allow Papa to skin you too badly. Social gaming is his one vice. Thank goodness he limits himself to parties and his club. He's skillful, but if he frequented gaming houses, I'm afraid me might soon find ourselves in dire straits." "Actually," said Jonathan, "the Count and I were blessed with singularly good luck." "Please," said Dracula, "you must not give Fate all the credit. You exhibited skill, and we developed a rapport that contributed greatly to our success." "Yes. You know, Mina, it's funny--we never have such luck when we play together. Our opponents always trounce us." Mina was frowning. Dracula smiles slightly. "Sometimes, Mister Harker, all you need is the right partner." ---

11

Title: Child of the Night, 104/? Child of the Night, Chapter One-hundred four The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Westenra Estate Suspicion Lucy was finally in what she considered her element. She occupied the centerseat of another sofa, with her fiance on her right, and the other eligible men of the party gathered around. Though Quincy and Sinn were paying more attention to each other than they were to her, she felt herself properly the center of activity. "You have been to my homeland recently?" Dracula was seated on one side of Jonathan, and Mina was on the other. Before Jonathan could speak, Mina broke in. "It was horrible!" She suddenly realized how that must have sounded, because she said hastily, "Oh, I'm sure it's a lovely place." "I think so," said Dracula dryly. "Did my relative make you welcome, Mister Harker?" Jonathan flushed slightly. "I believe he did. I'm afraid I don't remember much about the trip, not after my arrival at the castle, anyway. I've been told that the memory may come back gradually." He looked away. "I feel that there are parts I might not wish to remember, but then I think that there are things I not only want to remember, but MUST." "Then you will," said Dracula calmly. "Don't try to force yourself. Just let the memories come back naturally. When you are ready, you will remember." "I hope not," said Mina. "I'd rather he forgot the whole incident. He needs to just put it behind him." She made a small face. "Though it might be rather hard till we get rid of that man who brought him back." Lucy had been half listening, and now she rolled her eyes. "My dear, he's quite impossible. I'm sure he's a very decent and respectable sort, but... Well, I hate to say it, but he's as common as dirt, and he has the most peculiar ideas. He seems to think that Jonathan is in some sort of danger here. He seemed quite disdainful of the lock on the balcony door in Jonathan's room. I half expect to find it boarded up the next time I look in." "If he's a typical peasant, he would probably not have faith in such simple physical barriers," said Dracula. "I will wager that at some point you will find that he has, oh, hung a garland of garlic on the doors or windows." Jonathan gave him a puzzled look. "You know, that's exactly what he did at the inn before we embarked for England. And he drew crosses over the door and windows, and on the shutters." "He'd best not try any of that superstitious nonsense here," said Lucy firmly. She laughed lightly. "For one thing, I doubt he could find even a bit of garlic anywhere nearby. The cooks in this area are less than adventurous. And if he tries to mark up any of my moldings or sills... I'll give the staff instructions to inspect the room each day, and wash away any such nonsense." Sinn was smiling enigmatically. "You will be mistress of your own house, eh, Miss Westenra? Even if it is because of the man's religious beliefs?" Dracula gave Sinn a sharp look, but Lucy didn't notice it. "I have no objection to him practicing his religion, as long as he isn't destructive, or... or too..." She trailed off, not exactly sure of how to express what she felt without seeming intolerant. "Overzealous?" offered Dracula.

12

Jonathan said quietly, "I admire a strong faith, but I'm afraid that Lukas really DOES take his too far. At the inn, he poured holy water over the door sill. I think that crosses the line into blasphemy." "He hasn't done that here?" Jonathan gave Dracula a surprised look. The Count's tone had been a little intense, as if he found this information vitally interesting. "I don't think so. He used up the supply he had on our trip, and as far as I know, he hasn't been near a church." Dracula seemed to relax slightly. "If I may be so bold as to offer advice--you shouldn't indulge him in his excesses, even if they are in the name of faith. If you no longer need him, he should be sent back to Transylvania." Dracula paused. "He will be happier among his own kind--and safer." "Safer?" "We are all at risk when we travel far from the world we know." ~*~ Lukas was sitting at a small table in the room he'd been assigned. Before him was the tray that a servant had brought him earlier. The cook would have been scandalized to see how little he had eaten. Though the fare provided had been less elaborate than the menu presented to the dinner party, Lukas had still found it too rich for his tastes. As part of his penance for the sin of being a weak, mortal man, he ate only the coarsest of food, and only enough to remain strong--to better serve the Lord. Such extravagances as gravy and sweets seemed decadent to him, perhaps indicating a moral weakness in the household. *I should have taken him to a church,* the porter thought. *Though the English church is not the true one, surely one of their clergy would understand the danger, and agree with me as to how to keep him safe.* Lukas was not comfortable at all that the young man had defied him, and gone down to join the party. He'd sensed a streak of stubbornness in Jonathan Harker, and as the Englishman grew physically stronger so, it seemed, did his determination to do as he wished, and not as he was advised. Lukas sighed. *Some of the old legends say that Nosferatu cannot pass over running water, but they say nothing about lakes and oceans. The old stories say one time the demon prince disappeared for many years. Some say he was sleeping a long sleep, growing powerful while his human dogs guarded him. Of course, no one dared go to the castle to see, so it is possible that he was traveling the world during that time, and if that is so...* He got up and paced restlessly. *Is it possible that I am worrying too much? He is back home, among his own people.* He sighed again. *People who seem to have no awareness of what is not right before their eyes. They already wish for me to leave, but I dare not--not yet--especially not now that a man bearing the family name of my own family's ancient enemy has come.* As suspicious as he was, Lukas could not in good conscience condemn the man without some investigation. While it was unlikely that his hosts would consider introducing him to a visiting nobleman, there was a chance that he might at least catch a glimpse of the visitors. That would be a start. Lukas made his way to the front of the house, and hesitated at the main staircase. He could see a footman stationed at the foot of the stairs, near the front door. Lukas wondered if the man had been stationed there to be ready for other possible visitors, in case the dinner party needed any errands run-or to be sure that Lukas did not leave the second floor. He wouldn't be at all surprised if Lucy had instructed the servants to keep him away from the guests. Lukas thought for a moment, then came up with an idea that he thought might work, if he were quick and quiet. If he leaned over the balustrade near the landing, he could see a few feet down one of the halls. The floor was of gleaming, polished hardwood. Lukas fished in his pocket and found a small

13

copper coin. He leaned over the side and tossed the coin, pitching it as far into the lower hallway as he could. There was a distinctive clink as the money hit the floor. The footman looked up alertly, and moved off down the hall toward the noise. Lukas moved quickly and quietly, hurrying down the staircase, and down another hall. When he was sure that he was out of sight from the foyer, he paused, pressing back close against the wall. After a moment he heard the footman return to his station. Lukas had heard that some of the British, ever suspicious of the lower class, tested their servants by leaving coins lying about, trifles that might easily have been legitimately lost. If the money was removed, and not turned in to the master or mistress, they felt justified in punishing, or even firing, the servant they believed had committed the 'crime'. The footman was humming to himself. Lukas had a feeling that the coin would not be reported. Lukas moved down the hall slowly and cautiously, trying to judge the most likely location of the guests. If they were in a room with a closed door, he would be out of luck. He had no confidence that he could open a door unnoticed. There was an archway on the other side of the hall, and there was a low murmur of conversation coming from the room. Lukas paused, considering. If the occupants of the room were distracted enough, it was just possible that he could get a look at them. Peering around the edge of the arch wouldn't do, but if he came up on the opposite side, and leaned just a little, he would be able to see much more of those inside than they could see of him--if they looked. He shifted forward a bare inch at a time. Slowly the slice of the room that he could see grew. He wouldn't be able to see it all without risking exposure, but perhaps... Miss Lucy was on a couch, surrounded by admirers. Lukas noted that she showed them none of the irritation and disapproval she'd exuded toward him. No, now she was all flirtatious charm. *I would say that she is a woman subtle of heart, but she is not really so very subtle. I believe she could be, but she has no respect for the discernment of the men around her. She believes that they will not see past her front into her heart.* Since there was no room beside Lucy, the doctor who had come to examine Jonathan was standing near her. Lucy payed him the scantest of attention, barely bothering to direct an occasional smile or phrase in his direction. Lukas saw the yearning expression he directed toward the oblivious young woman, and thought, *In his case, I believe she is not mistaken. Seek faithful affection elsewhere, doctor--you will not find it in her.* The man sitting on Lucy Westenra's right had to be someone she considered of an equal, or superior, rank to be allowed such a position. Seeing the familiar way in which he'd laid his arm across the back of the sofa behind her, he concluded that they must have an 'understanding'. A Victorian male would hardly be bold enough to become so physically intimate with a respectable woman unless they were related or married--it was even considered a bit forward for an engaged couple. There was a young man with dark, curly hair on her other side, and the moment he saw him, Lukas feared for the boy's purity. He had an open, almost childlike expression--a woman like Lucy Westenra would be a temptation to any man, but for one who looked so innocent... His purity would be in mortal peril. The men conversing beside the sofa were another matter. One was tall and rangy, and didn't look quite at home in his elegant evening wear. Lukas got the feeling that he was not an Englishman. He thought the other was a foreigner also, but for the opposite reason. The smaller man was nattily dressed, and seemed perfectly at ease in the fashionable ensemble. Lukas frowned as the shorter man laughed at some comment made by his companion, laying a hand lightly on the other man's chest. There was something about the man's manner that reminded him strongly of Lucy Westenra. He could pick Jonathan Harker's voice out of the murmur, but couldn't see him from where he was standing. With the other guests preoccupied, he assumed that his charge must be entertaining the guest of honor--Count Dracula. This was the one he needed to get a look at. After a moment he decided that there was only one way, so he took it. He stepped into the room.

14

~*~ Sinn noticed him first, and said, "My word." Quincy looked toward the door, mildly resentful of anything that took Sinn's attention away from him. "What," said Sinn, "is that?" "That's just Harker's keeper," said Quincy dismissively. "He's something short of a priest or monk--but maybe not by that much--and he watches over Harker like a hen with one chick." "But whatever is he doing here?" By now the others in the room had noticed Lukas, and the conversations had stopped. Lucy said coldly, "He's pushing in where he has no business." Lord Holmwood patted her shoulder with a condescending air. "I'll handle this, m'dear." He stood and started toward Lukas. "See here, only the upper servants are allowed in the family's rooms, and then only if they're needed." Lukas made a short bow. His tone was polite, but his manner was unapologetic. "I became concerned for Mister Harker. He is not long recovered from a most taxing physical ordeal." "The man means well," said Mina. She raised her voice slightly, "Jonathan, perhaps you ARE overdoing it. Shouldn't you excuse yourself and go up to bed?" Lukas looked to where Mina sat. Jonathan was sitting beside her, and on his other side was a tall man with long, dark hair. Jonathan was pale and looked tense. For a moment Lukas thought that he had proof that the Englishman was reacting to something disturbing about his companion, but then Jonathan said, "I told you, I'm all right. I won't be sent up to bed, like a child being called back to the nursery." Lukas realized, with a sad resignation, that he was the cause of Jonathan's agitation. The young man was still fighting his protection. The man reached across Mina and laid a calming hand on Harker's knee, saying, "Now, Harker, I'm sure that the man means no disrespect. He's simply worried about your wellbeing." Pale blue eyes were turned upon Lukas. "Aren't you...? What is your name?" Lukas found himself staring at the man. There was something familiar about him, yes, but he'd never actually seen the Nosferatu prince. He had only the whispered tales of his neighbors, and the few living who could remember having seen him at all spoke of an ancient creature--gnarled, wrinkled, and white haired. This man was obviously in his prime. Still there was something... not right about him. "I am Lukas Kreski, sir." He paused. "Have we met? You seem familiar to me." Lucy muttered under her breath, "It's you who are familiar." Dracula ignored Lucy's comment, keeping his eyes fixed on the burly porter. "I'm not surprised I look familiar to you. My bloodline has existed a long, long time. My ancestral home is near your own." He cocked his head. "Though we have never met, it is entirely possible that there have been dealings between our families in the past--the distant past." "Very possible, sir." Lukas' face was stoic. "Though I am afraid that if that is the case, they were not pleasant. My family's history with the Draculs is... harsh." "I am sorry to hear that." Though he spoke with a faint smile, Dracula's voice was nearly toneless. Mister Westenra and Lady Holmwood entered the room behind Lukas. Westenra frowned at Lukas. Before the host could demand an explanation, Lukas bowed to him. "Mister Harker is reluctant to take his rest, sir. Perhaps you can persuade him? Surely he will wish to please his host and do what is best for himself, rather than follow his own whims." Westenra coughed. "Well, it's about time things broke up, any way. Lady Holmwood is feeling a bit

15

tired, and she's ready to be taken home." Lucy looked annoyed. It wouldn't be polite to keep the party going after the ranking female guest had gone home. "Pooh." She gave Rill, then Sinn and the Count her most winning smile. "We've hardly had any time together at all." She patted Rill's hand. "My time with you has just seemed to fly." Rill blinked. "Really? It seemed like a long time to me." Before Lucy could understand that she'd just been insulted (however unintentionally), Sinn said smoothly, "Rill often has a hard time chosing exactly the right words. What he means is that one moment in your presence is enough to give us joy for days to come." Lucy smiled at the flattering comment, and glanced at Rill. The boy was regarding Sinn with confusion. Behind Lucy's back, Sinn frowned at him, and made a tiny 'go on' gesture. "Yes," said Rill. "What Sinn said. A little of you lasts a long time." Sinn rolled his eyes. Mister Westenra pulled a bell cord near the door. When the footman stationed in the foyer arrived, he was instructed to have the visitors' conveyances brought around. He was also given a stern look that told him that he was going to be asked for an explanation of how Lukas had been allowed to make his way to the guests. The dinner party arose and began to move toward the hall. Mister Westenra and Lady Holmwood, being closest to the exit, were already halfway to the front hall. Lucy, on Lord Holmwood's arm, swept past Lukas with her nose in the air, both of them pointedly ignoring the man. Jonathan escorted Mina out, pausing to say quietly, "I'm going upstairs, but I can put myself to bed, thank you." As Jack Seward approached, he offered his hand to Lukas. They shook, and the doctor said, "Your concern is appreciated, but really, I don't think you need to worry. Jonathan is a sensible man--he won't do anything to endanger himself." "He might not realize that what he was doing was perilous, doctor," said Lukas. Rill, Sinn, and Quincy came to the doorway together. Rill started to reach out to Lukas, as Seward had, but Sinn caught his sleeve, shaking his head slightly. Instead, Sinn gave Lukas a short, formal bow, and Rill followed suit. Seeing this, Quincy shrugged, and touched his forhead in an ironic salute as he passed the man. Lukas turned his attention to the last guest in the room. Dracula was still standing near the sofa, watching him closely. He came toward Lukas slowly, his eyes never leaving his face, and stopped just beside him. Lukas was not a small man, but he had to look up at the Count. Feeling as if he were issuing a dare, Lukas offered his hand. He was a little surprised when, instead of bowing as the others had, Dracula took it. The man's grip was strong, and cold. "Your hand is cold, sir." Dracula hadn't let go. "The English can be stingy with their fires." He stared directly into Lukas' eyes as he spoke, and Lukas felt a tickle of unease. "Are you certain we have never met?" "We have never been introduced." Dracula finally released the man's hand. "And had we ever met face to face, rest assured--you would remember." Title: Child of the Night, 105/? Child of the Night, Chapter One-hundred five The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Traditional Enemies Sinn, Simion, and Rill were clustered together near the fireplace, watching as Dracula stalked the room,

16

pacing back and forth. "Mon Dieu," muttered Sinn. "I have not seen him like this since Rock made his attempt on Jonathan Harker. What has him so upset?" "Don't be silly, Sinn," said Rill. "It was because of that man who came in just before we left." "Jonathan's nursemaid?" Sinn made a negligent gesture. "Not a pleasant man, but I can't imagine why he'd elicit this reaction." "What was his name?" Simion asked. "Lukas Kreski," Rill replied. "Lukas..." Simion grimaced. "Damn. He's the porter at the church in our village, the one who kept Dracula from retrieving Jonathan after he fell in the river. It's no surprise that he's upset." "But if that's so..." Rill was thinking hard. "Simion, why didn't the Count kill him?" "You didn't know him before Nicolae, Rill," said Simion. "There was a time when he would have. But for Nicolae's sake, he learned a little patience, and self-control." "Then why didn't the man raise an alarm about us?" Simion smiled, stroking Rill's cheek. "My sensible boy. Because he might be suspicious, but he wasn't sure. He never actually saw our master, Rill. It's a good thing that I was in the servants' area when he came down, because he probably would have recognized me. I have gone through the village occasionally. I'll need to be cautious about staying out of his way until this is resolved." "Why bother?" Sinn smiled, fangs glinting. "I could take care of him easily enough. He was interested in me. He doesn't APPROVE of me, but he was interested, nonetheless. Besides, I ate well on the ship, but I haven't had anything but horse blood since we landed." "No." Dracula had stopped his pacing on the other side of the room. They had thought he was too preoccupied to notice their conversation, but Dracula had seldom in his very long life been unaware of what was going on around him. "If he's found dead, they'll be on the alert. If he simply disappears, they'll still be suspicious. Leave him alone." Dracula frowned. "I'm beginning to believe that there might be more between him and me than I first suspected. I've seldom encountered such immediate suspicion and hostility. He said that his family had dealings with mine in the past." Dracula started pacing again. Sinn yawned. "Well, I suppose I'll go to my room. He won't be wanting any companionship for the rest of the night, and I'd like to spend a little time thinking about that delectable cowboy. It isn't often I've found someone who can so fully live up to my hopes without being prompted." He left the room. Rill whispered to Simion. "Simion, can I go visit Robert? He's so close, and there are several hours till dawn." Rill had been ecstatic when Dracula had told him about finding Renfield at Seward's asylum. "I know that I should ask the prince, but..." He cast a glance at the tall figure moving restlessly on the other side of the room. "I don't think he'll mind as long as you're careful," said Simion, "and return in good time. Just remember--it's a mad house, and there may be watchmen." "I'll be as quiet as a mouse." Rill giggled. "Maybe I'll BE a mouse--or a rat, anyway. I haven't managed a mouse yet, but rats aren't all that hard. I think it's because of all their blood I've had over the years." "Perhaps." Rill gave him a kiss. As he watched his young lover hurry away, Simion thought, *It's odd how the powers manifest themselves differently. It isn't surprising that Dracula is the strongest of all, since he is the eldest, and the sire, but even the newest has his talents. Sinn is the strongest at persuading the

17

mortals, but Rill seems to have extra senses. I'm certain that he was able to somehow commune with Robert, even when we were still in Transylvania. He's much better at transforming, too. Sinn can't even become a fog. I wonder if his conceit has anything to do with that? He just can't conceive of himself as being anything as insubstantial as vapor.* ~*~*~*~*~ Dracula had finally dropped into a seat, and he was rubbing his forehead, a sure sign that something was truly troubling him. Simion approached, and said quietly, "If the man bothers you this much, perhaps Sinn had the right idea." Dracula shook his head. "I wonder why he seems familiar. Something about his eyes, I think. They're green, a peculiarly vibrant shade for someone from our region. Green eyes. Who have I known with green eyes?" After another moment's thought, Dracula sat up straight, his expression a combination of speculation and disbelief. "It isn't possible. But the name, the eyes..." "What, my lord?" "Do you recall someone I took an interested in not long after I reached this state, a young woman in Tepeslau named Anna? I visited her just before her wedding." "He reminds you of her?" "No--he reminds me of the bridegroom." Dracula's smile was feral. "I took more than blood from him. He served me well for many years. His name was Lucian Kreski." "Ah." Simion's tone held a world of understanding. "Yes, I remember him. It's very possible. I know that he had a clutch of children, and unless they died young, THEY had children." He shrugged. "It's the way of the world. It would be ironic if his descendant were the one who kept you apart from your love." Dracula was rubbing his eyes. "You have no idea HOW ironic, Simion. I've seen those eyes before--not just eyes like them." "My lord?" "You're thinking that I had not been out of the castle for decades, and I did not see the porter when I tried to take Jonathan from the church. It was before that. I was still going out occasionally, Simion. Not to hunt--I'd been feeding from the castle rats and horses for some time by then. No, it's just..." He shrugged, giving his friend a twisted smile. "Creature of the night, yes? The call is strong sometimes." His smile faded. "I wish now that I'd resisted." "What happened?" Dracula gestured at a chair. "Sit, and I will tell you, and you will know why I think that God has a bitter and twisted sense of humor." ~*~*~*~*~*~ Near Tepeslau, Thirty Years Before The night was particularly fine. Draculea supposed that that was what had lured him out. The weather lately had been so rainy that he hadn't even wanted to go out in the courtyard. But when he awoke that evening, Simion told him that the sun had come out, and had been shining all day, so he decided to go out. He no longer had a favored mount--Lucifer's bloodline had finally faded near the turn of the century-but he could still command fine horseflesh. It had been months since he'd ridden, and the horse he

18

chose was restless. But even though Draculea now looked like an old man, he was still a match for any beast in his stable. He didn't drive the animal as he had in his younger days, but let the beast find its own pace. Since the horse hadn't had much exercise recently, the pace was brisk. But as he neared the village, Draculea saw something that made him slow the horse to a walk. He peered ahead intently. There was something familiar about the shapeless object lying in the grass, farther up the road. When he realized why it looked familiar, he kicked the horse into a canter. He'd seen something like this before, not long after he'd turned. At first he had thought that some traveler had lost a bundle of clothes. Instead he'd found a young man lying close beside the road, the victim of a murderous bandit. That had been almost four centuries before, but he still remembered the terrible feeling of life and potential wasted. The horse did not want to stop, and he carried Draculea past his destination before the Prince got him under control. Draculea threw himself off the beast, not bothering to tie it to one of the nearby trees. It would go, or it would stay, but now moments might be vital. The smell of blood hit him before he got close enough for a good look. The smell was fresh, and there was the warm scent of life itself. He broke into a run. Draculea dropped to his knees beside the sprawled body, quickly taking in hundreds of details that would have escaped a mortal. What he saw made him moan and curse. This time there had been no simple throat slitting. The boy was naked from the waist down and he had been mutilated. Dracula could see thick splotches of blood leading back to the shrubbery. So, the boy had been butchered elsewhere, but why had his attackers brought him here? They had to know that he would be found, and their crime would be known. *So much blood.* The boy's *Yes, boy. He's not yet a man. He can't be more than fourteen or fifteen* face was even whiter than Draculea's. His chest rose in slow, shallow breaths, so faint that it was doubtful that a mortal would have detected it. *He can't live--not with that much blood gone, not unless...* Draculea thought of the strength and vigor that drinking his blood gave Simion. *It might work, if I am quick.* Draculea lifted his wrist to his mouth, and slashed at it with his fangs. He'd fed in the stable before going for his ride, and his blood flowed almost as it would have had he been alive. He hooked a finger in the boy's mouth, pulling down, and opening his mouth. The boy was slender, his features sharp, and he looked like a baby bird waiting to be fed. Draculea held his wounded wrist over the boy's mouth, letting the blood drip in. After a few drops, he saw the muscles of the boy's throat ripple slightly as he swallowed. "Yes. Good, boy. Drink, drink and grow stronger." He pressed his wrist against the boy's mouth, clenching his fist to urge a stronger blood flow. Soon the boy was suckling weakly. As the boy drank, Draculea examined him more closely, his expression hardening as he saw the extent of the wounds. Even if the child lived he would never be a whole man. Draculea knew that his blood could do many things, but it could not replace a lost limb. Once, one of the Rom had gotten his hand crushed while cutting wood. He was far from his friends or kin, and he knew that he would die if he waited for rescue. He managed to once again reach his axe, and chopped off the ruined hand, clotted the stump with grass and leaves, and made his way to help. Since he was the grandson of a man who had served Draculea faithfully, he was brought to the prince. Draculea fed him willingly. In that day many men died from infection after receiving much less serious wounds, but though the man's injury healed cleanly, he remained one-handed. After a moment the boy coughed, and his eyes fluttered open. His gaze wandered for a moment, then focused on Draculea. The prince removed his wrist. He knew through experimentation with Simion that past a certain point, more blood did no more good. If this amount of blood wasn't enough to make the boy survive, he would simply die--despite what the local physicians could do. There was an oddly calm look in the boy's expression. At first Draculea thought he was simply stunned by what had happened to him. He would take the child to the village and leave him with someone who would care for him, but first... "Who are you?" The boy blinked. "Who did this to you, boy?"

19

"Did this to me?" His voice was faint. "Who hurt you? I will see that they pay with pain." "No one did this to me. You must blame no one." He moved feebly. One hand had been bent beneath his body, and now he pulled it free. He was holding a large, sharp cooking knife. It was coated with blood, the crimson liquid bathing his hand past his wrist. As Draculea watched, his fingers slowly uncurled, and the part of the handle that had been gripped was hardly marked at all. Draculea realized with a jolt that indeed the boy must have done this himself, otherwise there would have been much blood beneath his hand. "Now I won't have the dreams." *Dreams? This isn't one of the children I spoke to.* It had been years since Draculea had visited the village to whisper outside the walls of some child. He never touched them while they were this young, waiting till they had grown--but he DID 'groom' them. He insinuated himself into their dreams, leaving unconscious yearnings, then, when they'd grown... The boy had continued speaking. "The dreams were sent by the Devil. He sent me visions of beautiful men and women, and I knew that they would try to tempt me to sin. Three times I awakened with soiled sheets. I couldn't let the devil win, but my parents, the priest... I asked the doctor myself, but he would not cut away the sinful flesh, so I had to do it myself..." The true horror of what he had discovered washed over Draculea. The boy was a victim, yes--but of his own sick mind. *I thought they had stopped this insanity, but I suppose there will always be those who mortify the flesh in pursuit of purity of the soul.* Even as he thought this, Draculea said hoarsely, "I have had little dealing with your God, boy, but I do not believe he could have wanted such a sacrifice from you." The boy's expression twisted into a grimace, with bared teeth. "I thought at first you were an angel, sent to welcome me and lead me to Heaven. If you can say such things, you aren't an angel--you're a demon!" Draculea scooped the boy into his arms, saying, "Demon or angel, I'm the one who's going to save your life." Determined to resist what he saw as an evil force, the boy tried to struggle, but as weak as he was, it was of no import, and he soon lost consciousness. This was actually a good thing, since it made it easier for Draculea to do what he must. The horse hadn't gone far, and Draculea draped the boy over the saddle. Then he seized the reins and tugged. In a moment they were running, the vampire easily keeping pace with the horse. When he came to the outskirts of the village, he went to the first house that showed a light. He pulled the boy down, letting him drape across his shoulder, and carried him to the door. He rapped sharply. There was a scuffling sound inside, and a cautious male voice called, "Who is it?" Draculea ignored the question. "Open the door. I have a hurt child here." There was a pause, and he raised his voice. "I said open! If the boy dies, it will be on your head, for I have done all that I can to save him." There was the sound of a bolt being thrown, and the door opened. A man, standing well back in the house peered out suspiciously, and Draculea could see a woman peeking from behind him. Draculea lifted the boy in his arms, "Here. Take him to your doctor." When he saw the man's dark expression he said coldly, "If I had done this to him, would I bring him to you? Come and get him, I can't bring him to you." Still the man didn't move, or speak. Draculea thought that he was going to have to simply lay the boy down and go, then the woman gasped. "It's the Kreski child! What has happened to him?" "He said," Draculea replied, "that he did it himself. Trying to cut out his human, sinful nature, I suppose."

20

The man's voice was grudging, "That does sound like something he would do. The boy has never been right. They should have sent him away to a monastery when he asked them to." Draculea closed his eyes, feeling a sudden stab of pain. "Monasteries have sheltered many." The boy awakened. As weak as he was, he glared up at Draculea, and the vampire could see that the boy's eyes were even greener than Sinn's. Perhaps they only seemed that way, because the boy's eyes blazed with the light of a fanatic. He tossed a look at the open doorway, seeing the light spilling from the darkness, seeing a fire leaping on the hearth farther back. "You try to take me to Hell, demon! God will not allow it. He knows I am faithful. I showed him. Give me the knife, and I'll take my eyes, so that the beauties of the world will not tempt me. Give me..." The boy, weakened by even this brief tirade, fainted again. Draculea looked to the couple. Their horrified expressions showed that they now believed Draculea. "He WILL die if he isn't tended to, and he wouldn't survive the trip back to my castle." The couple flinched, finally knowing for sure whom they were speaking to. The man gripped the door, preparing to slam it. Draculea was a little surprised when the woman behind him grabbed her husband's arm and said sharply, "No!" "You know what he is," the man protested. "I know that child, and I know that this... man has saved him. We can't let the poor thing die. Now, either take the boy, or I will." When the man gave her a scowl, she said, "I will, even if you beat me." The man hesitated. He advanced slowly one step, then another, then he was across his own doorsill--in the realm of the night. Draculea silently handed the boy over to him. Then, as the man quickly stepped back through the door, Draculea (glad that he hadn't entirely given up the mortal habit of keeping money) pulled a purse off his belt and tossed it after him. "That will pay for his care, and tell his parents to send him to that monastery." The door slammed shut, and Draculea raised his voice. "He'll be safer, and so will you all." He let his voice fall away. *As long as I'm here, they won't take him out again, and they must take him to a doctor.* Draculea mounted his horse and rode away, thinking, *If he can direct that sort of violence toward himself over the desires that his God gave him, and at such a young age, then may that same God help those people if he ever grows to judge THEM.* ~*~*~*~*~*~ Carfax Abbey, 1892 Dracula had stopped speaking some minutes before, and Simion sat, staring at him. At last he said, "I remember you speaking of this, but you didn't tell me the boy's name." Dracula shrugged. "I wasn't worried about that at the time." "That was at least thirty years ago. It might NOT be the same boy, lord. The name of Kreski is not rare in our region." "Nor is it common." Dracula shook his head. "No, Simion, it's too much of a coincidence. If it was just the eyes, or just the name--perhaps? But both? And he already has an enmity against me. He accused me with his eyes, if not his lips. He may not recall exactly what happened--I wouldn't be surprised, after what he put himself through--but something lingers in his memory--and that makes him dangerous." "Perhaps not. Surely if he was allowed to remain free, he has not committed violence against anyone but himself." "That isn't like you, Simion. You're always so practical." Dracula leaned over to pat Simion's arm. "You try to soothe my worries, old friend. You've often been right, but in this case, I think you are merely

21

being hopeful." Dracula brooded for a moment more, then turned a look on Simion that was an odd combination of anger, amusement, and sorrow. "Four centuries ago I take what I want from one man. Generations later, I save his mad descendant from his own religious mania. Thirty years after that, the one I saved keeps me from the only person I've ever truly loved, and might very well kill him if he ever finds out our true relationship." His laugh was bitter, with an edge of rage. "Do you see what I mean about Divine humor?" --Title: Child of the Night, 106/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-six The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Seward's Asylum Temporary Rescue Bamford knew that he should forget about Robert Renfield. However, Bamford had never been overly fond of doing what he should do. He found himself watching the smaller man constantly. Earlier in the day one of the inmates had taken advantage of his inattention. He sneaked up on the attendant and sank his teeth into Bamford's hand. Bamford had retaliated by laying the man out with a punch. He wouldn't have gotten into trouble for that--the attendants were expected to protect themselves against the more aggressive patients. No, it was the kick in the side, after the patient was unconscious that put him on probation. Then he'd had to get a shot from Dr. Seward to prevent lockjaw, and now he had stitches in his hand. It throbbed painfully with every beat of his heart. Bamford, being Bamford, blamed Renfield for distracting him. Still, the man wasn't completely stupid when it came to staying out of trouble. He knew that after that little incident in Renfield's cell, Prosser was keeping a sharp eye on him. Bamford was careful to be correct and distant when Prosser was also on duty, but he wasn't worried about the rest of the staff. He was bigger and meaner than any of them, and they wouldn't report him for anything short of severely injuring an inmate. Bamford could bide his time. Shifts were occasionally rotated, and he wouldn't ALWAYS be working with Prosser. He didn't have to wait for a rotation. That night a different attendant--Hoskins--had come in for Prosser. It seemed that Prosser had gone to have a bad tooth removed, and the dentist had used a touch too much laudanum. Prosser was going to be too woozy to be of much good to anyone till the next day. Bamford had a hard time looking properly sympathetic when Hoskins explained this to him. As they locked on their head cages, he'd exercized his seniority, telling the other man that he would be in charge of the upper level, while Bamford himself looked after the lower one. "An' once we get them to bed, I don't want you trottin' up an' down them stairs every time one of the loonies sneezes. Don't come down unless I scream for help, or the bloody place catches fire." Hoskins agreed readily. He hadn't been working at the asylum long, and it never occurred to him that Bamford might be planning anything unpleasant for one of their charges. Bamford spent the few hours between his arrival and the inmates' bedtime filled with a sense of smug gloating as he watched Renfield. When it was time to get the patients bedded down, he'd reached a state of nervous anticipation, and had fixed on a plan that, if he were caught, would give him at least some sort of excuse. When all the other inmates were locked in, and Hoskins was safely settled in a chair on the upper level, well away from any clear view of the main floor, Hoskins put his plan into action. He went and drew a basin of water, and got a bar of the harsh soap and one of the coarse towels supplied for the inmates, then headed toward Renfield's room. ~*~*~*~*~ Once he was outside the Abbey, Rill had to decide how he would travel to Seward's asylum. There were the horses, but such a large animal would draw attention. He wasn't as good as Dracula at making

22

himself insubstantial, but he had become quite adept at other manners of transformation. He concentrated hard, and felt the change begin. He managed it more quickly than Dracula had, compacting and twisting his body till he took on the form of a wolf. He loped through the night, keeping to the underbrush, away from the roads. When he got to the hospital, he circled it slowly, trying to decide the best course of action. He couldn't very well assume human form again and knock on the front door. In fact, it wouldn't be a good idea to be spotted in wolf form, either. While a wolf wouldn't have been out of place back in the mountains of Transylvania, it would have been of great note in England, this close to London. He thought for a moment, and then realized that there was one animal that, if seen, might cause a bit of an uproar, but would hardly be considered remarkable. It was very convenient that it was an animal he'd practised becoming many, many times. Rill concentrated hard, and began to transform. ~*~*~*~*~ Robert Renfield, dressed in his nightshirt, sat on the edge of his bed. He stared fixedly ahead, his expression one of a man in deep thought. He was completely still, except for his right index finger--that was tapping rapidly. It looked as if the man were filled with screaming energy, but it only had an outlet through that one, small motion. Since Dracula's visit, Renfield had been going through a cycle of emotions. He ran from placid assurance, through excitement and impatience. He knew that he had to wait, that Dracula needed time to court and win Jonathan--time without the distraction of the neighborhood being in an uproar. *But maybe he'll come and see me again. He might. And maybe he'll give me more blood. I wish I hadn't let the mouse go. That would be just the right sort of pick-me-up.* Renfield heard a scratching, scrambling sound, and looked up alertly. That was a sound he was quite familiar with. He stilled even the jittering finger. Now all that moved was his eyes, darting quickly around the room, looking for the source of the sound. The inmates, of course, were not allowed any sort of flames, so candles, lamps, and gas illumination were impossible so he couldn't make out much. He determined that the faint sounds were coming from the outside--not his cell, or the main room. His eyes fixed on the open window. The moon was visible, the bars making dark slashes across the silver face. As he watched, something crawled over the edge, then crouched on the window sill. Renfield stared with dawning delight. It was a large, brown rat. "Oh, my," he breathed. "You're a big one, aren't you?" The rat sat up on his hind legs, as if to get a better view of the man in the room below. "Strong and frisky, too. You'd give a lot of life." He crooked a finger at the animal. "Come down." He smiled, and it was sharp, and most definitely unbalanced. "Come to dinner." The rat's whiskers twitched, almost as if were considering the invitation. Renfield frowned. The rat's eyes looked red. Renfield knew that an animal's eyes might reflect red, but there wasn't any illumination in the cell to cause the reflection, so why...? The door to his room opened, and Renfield looked around quickly. His pleasant anticipation shriveled when he saw Bamford entering his cell. "What do YOU want?" Bamford smirked at him, but didn't answer the question. "Who were ya talkin' to, looney?" Renfield's gaze turned back to the window. The rat wasn't there any more. "It was GOING to be my dinner," he said petulantly, "but you scared it away." He gave Bamford a scowl. "I'm not surprised. I'd wager you frighten babies on your days off." Bamford shook his head. "And you're supposed to have been a law clerk? I thought they had to be smooth and accommodating when they dealt with people." "With clients. Though I'm sure you've needed help with the law before, my firm didn't handle that sort of business. Now, what do you want? If you go away quickly," he looked at the window again, "maybe he'll come back."

23

Bamford set a basin of water on Renfield's chair, then tossed the soap and towel on the bed beside him. "Make good use of those." Renfield stared at the items, then looked at Bamford, frowning. "I had my bath this morning." "Well, you're going to have another one. C'mon, looney--cleanliness is next to godliness, so they say." "I hate to tell you this," said Renfield tartly, "that I don't think either one of us has much to do with godliness--though it's a recent development for me. You--I expect the devil had you before your poor wretch of a mother spawned you." "Won't do you any good to try to get me upset. I've worked here, and before that I was on the docks. I've been called names you've never even heard, city boy. Now, get your arse off that bed, strip down, and wash--or do I have to do it for you?" Renfield froze, eyes widening, as he suddenly realized the situation he was in. Prosser hadn't come in tonight--his best protector on the staff wasn't here, but his worst tormentor WAS. "Go out, and I'll do it." Bamford shook his head. "And there's that impractical modesty again. I intend to see that you do it right, get all the nooks and crannies. I've bathed bigger men than you, Renfield, so you might as well take the easy way out..." He grinned nastily, "and maybe that's ALL I'll do." He reached toward Renfield. There was a thin, shrill shriek, and something heavy and furry landed on the top of Bamford's head. Before he could react tiny, sharp claws were scrabbling, raking bloody furrows across his forehead, barely missing his eyes. He yelled as a tuft of hair was jerked out by the roots. Shouting again, he grabbed at the creature that was attacking him, his hand closing on a muscular, fuzzy body. He jerked the animal away and got a look at it. It was the biggest rat he'd ever seen--and, as he'd told Renfield, he'd worked on the docks. The animal again made a noise that was more scream than squeak, and sank chisel shaped teeth into his already wounded hand. It was hot agony. This time Bamford didn't shout--he screamed. He threw the rat against the wall, then tried to stomp on it, determined to break its spine. But the rat scurried away, squeezing under the cell door. He didn't pause to wonder how this was possible (the gap shouldn't have allowed anything that large to pass), but followed it, jerking the door open so hard that it crashed against the wall. He ran out into the main room, looking around fiercely for his attacker. "Bamford! D'you need help?" Hoskins was peering over the edge of the upper walkway, his expression more curious than concerned. "Renfield giving you a hard time? You're bleeding." Bamford cursed, and sucked at the wound. "You shouldn't do that. You might catch..." "Shut up, you idiot. It was a big rat--a monster." There was no way he could go back into Renfield's cell now--not when Hoskins had seen him emerge. Reluctantly, he relocked the door, and went to find something to bandage his hand with. *And if the good doctor hasn't locked the door to his quarters, maybe I'll help myself to some of his dope. I damn sure need it worse than he does now.* ~*~ Robert sat on his bed, stunned. One moment he was certain he was about to be raped, and the next he'd been saved by an animal he'd been considering eating. He listened to Bamford talking to Hoskins, and wished that he could believe that the other attendant would protect him if he reported Bamford. He didn't think so. If Hoskins believed that the incident had happened, and wasn't a figment of Renfield's imagination, he'd probably just shrug. He wouldn't care. He heard a noise, and looked over in time to see the rat that had attacked Bamford wiggling back under the door. "That was very brave of you, attacking someone so big and vicious. Thank you." It crept closer. "I'm sorry that I was thinking about eating you. You don't have to be afraid of me." It crept near his feet, then sat up on its haunches, regarding him with beady red eyes. Renfield hesitated, then

24

reached down and gingerly stroked the rat with his fingertip, rubbing right between its ears. "And you're friendly, too. I can use a friend right now." His voice was sad. "Not even Dr. Seward is my friend--not really. He thinks I'm..." Robert's mouth twisted, and his voice was disdainful, "INTERESTING. And he likes what I do to him, but he doesn't REALLY care. No one cares." The rat squeaked, dropping down onto all fours--then it started to change. Renfield watched in silence as it grew, limbs stretching, fur receding, taking on the form of a dark haired man. He watched with no horror or panic--only a sense of curiosity. At last the man crouching on the floor looked up at him, and he gave a glad cry. "Rill!" Rill laughed as Renfield threw himself at him, tumbling them both to the floor. He hugged his friend tightly. "Yes, Robert! I came. You knew I'd come, didn't you?" Head burrowed against Rill's chest, Renfield nodded. "Yes. I knew even before Draculea came to talk to me." He clutched at Rill's shoulders looking anxiously into his face. "He said that I could come back with you, and live with you forever. Is that true? Do... do you want me?" Rill gave him a sweet, gentle kiss on the cheek. "Yes, very much. You'll come and live at the castle with me, Simion, and Sinn, and the prince... No, he's a count now." Renfield sat back a little from him. "Dracula said that you killed... That other one. The one who hurt me." Rill nodded. His expression was sad for only a moment, then it hardened into grim satisfaction. "I had to. He had hurt me, you, and many others, and he was going to hurt Jonathan. Jonathan is my friend, and he's not one of the bad people. I couldn't let Rock do it." "And you saved me from Bamford. I was afraid he'd killed you." Rill shrugged. "I'm a little sore. I think maybe he broke my back." He said it as negligently as a man reporting a stubbed toe. "Oh!" said Renfield. "I can help." He pulled the collar of his nightshirt down, turning his head to offer his neck. When Rill didn't immediately accept the invitation, he urged, "Go on, I don't mind." He slid Rill a glance from the corner of his eyes. "I like it." Rill stroked his throat. "It DOES feel good, doesn't it? I can still remember when the prince drank from me. But I shouldn't. I can't take you out of here tonight, and you need to stay strong while you're around that nasty man." "Please?" Rill paused, then said, almost shyly. "Only if you promise to accept blood from me after I do. Then I'll know you'll be strong. The prince says that my blood might not be as powerful as his, since I'm so much younger, but that it should still be able to help a mortal stay young and healthy." Renfield nodded eagerly. Rill pressed his face to the other man's bare throat, licking him. He tasted the lingering bitterness of fear on Renfield's skin while he sought out the pulse, and decided that he WOULD kill Bamford before he left England. Renfield sighed in voluptuous happiness as he felt the sting of fangs. He gripped Rill's shoulders, fingers working like the paws of a purring cat. After a moment, only a few swallows, Rill sat back. As his visitor pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to Robert's neck, the lunatic said wistfully, "Is that all? Are you sure you don't want a little more?" Rill kissed him. "No, thank you. I had a nice dinner of the old kind of food. I had something called a banana. Have you ever had one of those?" "Yes, I have. They're very good, as long as they aren't too old and soft." His smile was wicked, and he jostled Rill with his shoulder. "Rather like men."

25

Rill blinked at him blankly, then suddenly giggled. "You're bad! Now, turnabout is fair play." He sank his fangs into his own palm, waited for the blood to well up, then offered it to Renfield. Then he watched curiously as Renfield sucked at the blood. The blood from a Nosferatu's wound never flowed for long, and soon Renfield was licking away the last few dribbles. Renfield sighed in mild regret as he stroked Rill's palm. "I believe that the punctures are already closing." "We heal quickly. You will, too--now that you are taking blood." They were still sitting on the floor together, and Rill looped his arms around Renfield's neck in a companionable manner. "It will make you stronger, too. If that man tries anything again, you just... just... kick him between the legs. Simion says that if you do that, he won't be thinking about anything but how much he hurts for awhile." "It sounds like a good idea. I think I'd rather do that than tell Dr. Seward what Bamford is doing." "But the doctor is supposed to take care of you." Renfield sighed. "Yes, but people who have the care of others don't always fulfill their duty--no matter what they may tell themselves." For a moment Rill's eyes were distant, as he remembered his former life with Rock. He'd gradually come to understand the full extent of Rock's exploitation. That was well--it made him easier in spirit after he killed his brother. "No, they don't. But I met Dr. Seward at the Westenra house. He seemed like a nice man." Rill frowned. "I think he wants to be with Lucy, but she wants to be with Lord Holmwood." He gave Renfield a disgusted look. "She teases everyone. Sometimes teasing is nice, but not the way she does it." "I'm not surprised. She teased him, did she?" Rill nodded. Renfield bent his knees and wrapped his arms around them, rocking slowly. "I'll probably get a visit from him tonight, then." "But it's awfully late for a visit from..." Robert gave him a sly look, and Rill understood. "Oh! Should I stay and make him...?" "No, no, Rill. That won't be necessary. You see, I don't mind if HE visits me. Perhaps he isn't as careful as he should be of those in his charge," Renfield hugged his knees tighter, increasing the speed of his rocking, "but in some ways he's very nice indeed." "I'd better go, then." Rill stood up. "Is there anything you want me to tell Dracula?" "He already knows that I serve him, and him alone. You might assure him that I am patient in my waiting. I trust him to keep his promises." "I will." Rill closed his eyes, willing the transformation. He seemed to collapse in on himself, dwindling quickly. In a moment the rat once again crouched on the floor, naked gray tail curved around its body. It pattered over to Renfield and stood up, bracing its front paws on his leg, stretching its neck up toward him. Renfield leaned down and dropped a light kiss on its pink nose, laughing when the twitching whiskers tickled him. Then he watched as the rat easily scaled the rough brick wall to the window. The tip of its tail was just disappearing when he heard the door open behind him. He tensed, but only for a second. He could tell from the sound of the tread that his visitor was wearing light dress shoes, rather than heavy boots. "Good evening, Doctor Seward," he said, not turning. "Do come in. I've been expecting you." ------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 107/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-six The Year of Our Lord, 1892

26

Carfax Abbey Second Visit, First Part That Same Night "You're going to try to go to him before sundown, aren't you?" Vlad looked up at Simion from his chair. "I don't see how I can avoid it entirely. But England is the land of fog and rain, Simion. I've experimented, and if it's overcast I CAN go out. It isn't in the least pleasant, or even comfortable, but it doesn't harm me physically. If I have any luck at all the bad weather will continue for a few days. If not..." He folded his hands, tapping them against his forehead. "We still share a blood bond, though it isn't as strong as I'd like it to be. I must enforce it as soon as possible. In the meantime, if I call to him, I think he will come." He smiled. "It wouldn't be unusual for a young man to pay a call on a new acquaintence." Rill came into the room, going straight to Vlad and dropping on his knees before Dracula, then burying his face against his knees. Concerned, Dracula stroked his hair. "Child, what is it? Something has upset you." Rill looked up at him. His eyes were red, because they were swimming with unshed tears. "It's Robert." Simion knew how much his lover cared for the little law clerk. If anything bad had happened to Renfield it would cause Rill great pain, and he had already known too much suffering in his life. He went and bent to Rill, embracing his sholders. "What happened to him?" Rill looked up at him, and a scarlet trickle traced its way down his cheek. "He... He's all right for now. I stopped the man." Dracula sat forward tensely. "Rill, did you--?" Rill knew what he was asking, and said quickly. "No. I was a rat. He doesn't know it was me." Rill scowled. "I wish I could have been a wolf, then I could have torn his throat out." He wiped the tear away with a fist. "I wouldn't have turned him like that, but I remembered how you told me I mustn't attract attention. They have rats everywhere, so it wouldn't seem so strange if one attacked him." "I'm sorry I doubted you," said Dracula gently. "But what, exactly, happened?" "He was going to... to... What Rock did to him before." Rill's expression twisted again. "Robert couldn't stand that again, lord. I think he'd kill himself if it happened." Dracula looked at Simion, and the other man knodded. "Very likely, my lord." "If he stays there for much longer the man might try it again," said Rill. "And I know that we don't want to cause an uproar because that might make it hard for you to court Johnathan. But please, sir, can't we do something to help him?" Dracula sighed. In a way, he was responsible for Renfield's current situation. True, Renfield had been emotionally fragile before he came to castle Draculea. True also that Dracula had not himself hurt the man: but he had given Rock free reign to do what he must to get the information he needed--and he knew Rock. Despite his sometimes violent methods, Dracula had always felt a deep need to protect those that Fate had placed in his care--both personally, and as a ruler. When he allowed Robert Renfield to be broken, he made himself responsible for the man. "I don't know, Rill." He looked at Simion. "You, old friend. You've remained closer to the world than I have. You've never given me bad advice. Do you have any suggestions?" Simion thought. "There are several ways the problem could be resolved," he said slowly. "I'll need to know a little more before making any firm plans. Rill, which would you prefer: that we remove Robert, or that we kill the man?"

27

Rill bared his teeth, and he didn't look so gentle now. "Both." "That may not be possible," he said quietly, "but I will try. Tell me, does this man resemble Robert at all?" "No. He's much bigger, and he has black hair." "Damn. I thought perhaps if his face were destroyed, say in a fall... If he were wearing Robert's clothing they might be persuaded that he WAS Robert, and they wouldn't seek him. But if they're that different, it wouldn't work. Perhaps... Though if he lives alone," Simion glanced toward the fire leaping on the hearth, "there might still be a way." ~*~*~*~*~ The next morning Johnathan refused the tray that Lukas brought to his room. Instead he got up and dressed, then went down to the dining room for breakfast. Of course it was far too early for Lucy to be up, but he found Mina and Quincy at the table. Mina looked up from her conversation and frowned slightly. "Johnathan, what are you doing down here? I ordered a tray for you, so you could rest." "Then I have you to thank for the coddled egg and toast soldiers. That was very thoughtful of you, but last night was the only REAL meal that I've had for weeks. Lukas insisted on feeding me like an invalid, and I've quite had my fill of beef tea and milk-toast. I need real food, and I think that the fact that I haven't had a bad reaction to last night's meal should be proof enough that I'm ready to resume eating like a grown man." "Good for you," said Quincy approvingly. He indicated his own plate. It was laden with ham, eggs, bread, kippers, and fruit compote. "While my mama might not have more than rolls and coffee for breakfast, she knows that I'd just waste away if she tried to limit me to that. You go on and help yourself, Mister Harker. I'd recommend these fish. You know, I never thought I'd like fish for breakfast unless I was camping out and I'd caught them myself, but these are pretty good." Jonathan helped himself lavishly from the dishes on the sideboard, then went to sit at the table. Mina frowned a little when Jonathan sat beside Quincy instead of her, but she told herself that it was simple good manners--Jonathan took the nearest seat instead of walking around the table with a full plate in hand. "Really, Jonathan. Don't you think it would be wiser to increase your diet more gradually?" Jonathan took a forkfull of scrambled eggs. "As I said, Mina: if that dinner last night didn't give me a bellyache, I don't think this will." "Perhaps not," she said, with a touch of severity. "But you'll begin to put on weight if you eat like that." "Not if I resume my usual activities, Nanny," said Jonathan. Mina's frown deepened at the teasing name, and Jonathan wished, not for the first time, that she had more of a sense of humor. "I've already said that I don't intend to languish in bed, and I wouldn't look good drooping gracefully on a chaise lounge. I'm going to send word to my employers and see if they need me back in London. If there isn't any pressing need, I may take advantage of Mister Westenra's hospitality for another week." "Good to see a man who takes his work seriously," said Quincy. "Jonathan takes it VERY seriously," said Mina, and for a moment her tone WAS reminiscent of a proud caregiver talking about a favorite charge. "He's going to go far. He'll have his own firm some day, with a dozen clerks working for him." Jonathan looked up at her. It wasn't the first time that Mina had talked about plans for their future, but he'd just realized that though the future was supposed to be mutual, he'd had very little input in it. Mina had decided that Jonathan would have his own law firm, and perhaps, she hinted, move on to a judgeship somewhere down the line. She had it all mapped out. Jonathan had a flash of his father sitting across the table from him one morning, coldly telling him that Jonathan's career ambitions were ridiculous, and he'd be studying a sensible profession--law.

28

Neither of the other two at the table had noticed Jonathan's brief distraction. Quincy continued. "Mister Harker, I hope you aren't going to be one of those men who's content to sit back and let others work for him. I think a man has to have his hand in the day-to-day running of his business if he wants to keep abreast of what's going on, and hold onto his employees respect. When I'm back home I don't just push papers. I can rope a steer and lay a brand on its behind just as well as any of my men. I can understand a man who works hard appreciating some time off, but I have to wonder how it is for someone who's never had to actually earn a living." Mina's voice was stiff. "Mister Westenra..." "Oh, I didn't mean him. I'm sure he worked like a dog to build up his business, and Miss Mina has complained that he hardly spends any time at home--always off tending to his factories." *She'd complain even more if the business failed and she had to give up some of her luxuries,* thought Jonathan. *And where did that idea come from? It's... uncharitable.* Quincy said, "I was thinking more along the lines of our visitors last night. "I've heard that the European nobility can be pretty darn decadent." "The count didn't strike me as a soft man," said Jonathan. "Not so much him," Quincy agreed, "though I got the impression that the hardest thing he ever HAD to do was look over his holdings. No, he seems to be the kind who isn't willing to give up the control of anything. I was thinking more of that Frenchman." "I thought he was very elegant," said Mina, "but I don't know if I'd call him soft." "Maybe not," Quincy agreed, remembering Sinn's nearly voracious response to his advances. "But he DOES strike me as someone who wouldn't exert himself except for his own good. There's nothing so very wrong with that, as long as you know what to expect." Quincy thought for a moment, then smiled. "With Mister Barbee, I'm not sure whether I know what to expect or not. I think I'll drop by and pay a call on the Abbey a little later." Jonathan looked up. "I'll go with you." "Jon." Mina's tone was scolding. "It's pouring rain outside. It won't be good for you, and surely they won't expect visitors in this kind of weather." *She's talking to me again like a nursemaid laying down the law to a child.* "I'll bundle up, and I'd think that it would be pleasant to have visitors on such a dreary day." "I tell you what," said Quincy. "Miss Mina, if your worried about Mister Harker getting soaked and taking a chill, we'll go over in a closed carriage." "It wouldn't be very considerate to ask a coachman to get out in this rain for an unecessary social call," said Mina. *I haven't noticed any of the womenfolk in this house expressing concern for the comfort of the servants before. I could almost think that little Miss Murray doesn't want Jonathan to go visiting for some reason other than concern about his good health. And Jonathan is being pretty damn persistant in wanting to go see someone he's just met,* thought Quincy. "There's no need to trouble them, Miss Murray. I'm right handy with a team of horses, and a tiddling little..." He blushed. "Beg pardon, Miss. A tiny little shower like this is nothing. England may have more consistantly rainy weather than Texas, but it doesn't seem like much once you've been through one or two of our gullywashers. Why don't you and Miss Lucy wrap yourself up in those nice sealskin capes I saw on the front hall coat tree and come along?" *Oh, my. That WAS a sharp look Jonathan just gave me. He doesn't want his little sweetheart coming along. I wonder why? Or rather I have an idea--I'm just not sure if it's the Count or that nice little simple boy. He spent a good bit of time talking to both of them.*

29

Jonathan needn't have worried. Mina wasn't happy with the idea of Jonathan meeting with someone likely to be more interesting than she--without her being there to remind him of his committment--but she wasn't going to make herself uncomfortable to prevent it. "I doubt that Lucy will wish to go," said Mina stiffly. "There's no social obligation to be paid back, and she's too sensible to go jaunting off in bad weather." *And when was the last time Lucy Westenra has been accused of being sensible?* thought Jonathan, going back to his food. The two men allowed Mina to talk them into waiting until after luncheon to make their visit. "The weather may have cleared up by then. In any case, it would hardly be polite to arrive unnannounced around meal time." Neither Jonathan nor Quincy could argue with that. Lucy, who finally came downstairs around ten, added her arguments to Mina's, but she had no more success than her friend had. After lunch Quincy got into his leather, sheep-skin lined coat and Stetson hat. He'd informed Jonathan and the ladies that a cowboy's hat was one of the most essential pieces of his wardrobe, almost as necessary as his chaps. "It's protection from the sun and rain, you can use it to fan embers into a fire, or dip up water to give your pony a drink, and a hat has saved more than one cowboy's life when it was used to distract an ornery bull. I felt right naked going to visit the Count the other day without it, but the butler had sort of hidden it in one of the closets." He went out to the stables, telling Jonathan that he'd bring the littlest closed coach up to the door, so that he wouldn't have to walk in the rain. It wasn't a bad storm: there was nor lightening or thunder, but the rain was steady. The sky was overcast, with iron grey clouds crowding the sky to the horizon in every direction. Carfax Abbey was a darker grey hulk between the sky and the grey-green mass of the wet trees that surrounded it. Jonathan, peering through the coach's small window, thought that it would be easy to believe that the place was long deserted. It looked lonely, and it seemed to strike a chord inside him. *It's like deja vu,* he thought. *I feel as if I've done this before: approached some great, neglected stone building, and... something was waiting for me there.* Quincy pulled up before the entrance to the Abbey and climbed down, calling, "You stay set till I see what's what. If they aren't at home there's no use in you getting wet." Quincy used the great knocker on the door, and Jonathan thought that he could hear the echo, even from where he sat. A few moments later the door opened, and the same blond man who had met the Westenra greeting party looked out enquiringly. Quincy, who'd stepped under the slight covered offered by the recessed doorway, swept off his damp hat. "Afternoon. Mister Morris and Mister Harker wish to present their regards--in person if possible, because I ran out of those fussy calling cards quite some time ago." Simion's lips quirked slightly at the corners. He thought that Morris was probably demonstrating a sense of humor, but one never could tell. It was safer to take things at face value. "I'm sure that the Count and perhaps Mister Barbee would be eager to greet you, but it may take a few moments. You see, our household schedule is topsy-turvy compaired to the usual. What is bedtime for most of the world is the middle of the day for us." He opened the door wider. "But if you wouldn't mind waiting..." "I don't, and I'm pretty sure Mister Harker won't, either." "Good." He smiled now. "I'm afraid I would have had to insist." Quincy walked back out to the coach and secured the reins to a hitching post. "Come on, Harker. Hustle your bustle and you'll barely get damp." Jonathan sprinted the short distance to the sheltered doorway. He pulled off his hat, smiling as he greeted Simion. "Are you sure? I'd hate to think I was disturbing the Count." Simion was pleased that Jonathan had shown him the courtesy of taking off his hat, even before he entered the house. The middle class didn't often observe the smaller rules of good manners when

30

dealing with servants. *But then Nicu was always a polite boy.* "Please believe me, Mister Harker-the Count would have a hard time forgiving me if I allowed you to escape before he could meet with you." He led Quincy and Jonathan into the front parlor. He'd built a fire in it earlier, so the room was dry, warm, and as cheerful as it was possible for such a long neglected place to be. Once the men were comfortably settled, Simion excused himself. When he was out of the room he moved with increased speed, going to the basement first. Sinn and Rill had rooms on the second floor--inside, windowless room, but Dracula had spent so much times in the subteranean vaults at Castle Draculea that it scarcely mattered to him where he spent his daylight hours. Simion made his way quickly to where the Master's coffin rested in a far corner. He rapped on the lid and said, "Master. Master, you must awaken. HE is here." He bent down close to the lid. Instead of raising his voice, he whispered, "Do you hear me, Vlad Dracula? He has come to you. Waken." He stood up and waited. There was a moment's pause, but he was patient. He felt certain that Dracula had heard him, but it might take him a few moments to shake off his unnatural sleep. There was a faint creak, and the lid of the coffin lifted a scant inch, paused, then was shoved up abruptly. Dracula, lying in the coffin, opened his eyes and gazed up at Simion. His voice was thick with the dregs of his sleep as he said, "Old friend, you bring such good news that I can scarcely believe it, yet I know you would not lie to me--not about this." "I swear to you, Domn. He sits in the parlor--he and the American cowboy, Morris, have come to call." Simion smiled. "I am on my way to alert Sinn. His interest may not run as deep as yours, but it will be considerable." Title: Child of the Night, 108/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-eight The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Bonding Simion made his way through the house toward Sinn's room. He often assisted Dracula with small matters when he arose--helping him change clothes, giving him a shave... During his period of ennui Dracula had allowed him to neatly braid his long, white hair. Dracula had done so not from any personal concern for his appearance, but because he knew that it pleased his old friend. But this time Simion had rightly guessed that Dracula would want a few moments alone to prepare himself to meet Jonathan. Sinn's room was one that might once have housed the owner's less socially prominent guests. It was smaller than most, and had no window. This was, of course, why it had been chosen. While Sinn saw the necessity, it still mildly rankled him. He'd always thought that he deserved the best, and it made him pettish to think that he would have to sacrifice anything for his own good. Since they were in their own residence, he would not sleep in his coffin: it had been relegated to a closet. He'd supervised Salazar in making the bed with the set of fine linens that he'd requested from Simion some years ago. Sinn had learned quickly what Beta never did--if he requested rather than demanded something, he had a much better chance of obtaining it from Dracula. And even with the taste cultivated by one of the most decadent societies in history, Sinn had never expected the sort of lavishness that Beta and Lena had seen as their due. Simion unlocked the door to the room, and went inside. A low fire burned on the room's tiny hearth. The illumination it afforded was dim, but it was enough. Simion picked his way over to the bed, reflecting sourly that the English seemed compelled to cram every room with bits of essentially useless furniture. He shook his head when he looked down at Sinn. Rill slept in whatever sprawl he'd been in when the sun rose: Sinn's position was so artful that it could only have been posed. He wore a simple, but elegant, silk night shirt, opened at the throat. The sheets were folded neatly down below his chest, and his left hand rested peacefully on his belly. The right arm was gracefully curved so that the hand lay, palm upward, just above his head. *He looks as if he is inviting someone to tie him to

31

the headboard,* thought Simion wryly. *And from what I've heard from the gypsies about his games, that's JUST the sort of thing he'd suggest.* Simion was always cautious when he awoke one of the vampires--even Rill. He firmly believed that when they slept their inner nature was much closer to the surface, much more in control. Even gentle Rill might strike out instinctively if he was awakened abruptly. Simion stood back as far as he could, reached down, and gave Sinn's shoulder a push. "Barbee, wake up." There was no response. Sinn's body had remained inert, not even moving with the push. "Barbee! If you will not get up you must say so, then I can tender your regrets." After a moment Sinn muttered, "Simion, if the house is not on fire..." "You have a visitor." Sinn groaned, and one eyelid opened, showing a sliver of green. "Tell me it isn't that ridiculous Westenra bitch. I may have to kill her, and that would be so inconvenient." "Not a bitch--a dog." Sinn opened both eyes, his interest piqued. "Which one?" Simion shrugged, but he couldn't help smiling a little. "Which one have you been shaking a bone at?" Sinn sat up, stretching. "You can be very vulgar sometimes, Simion. It's a shame you don't like to play. Mister Morris?" "Yes--and Jonathan Harker. I'd advise you to get up. It will please the master very much if you can manage to keep Mister Morris occupied, and give Dracula some time alone with Mister Harker." "Is it still raining?" "Yes, and not likely to clear up for some time." Sinn smiled, showing a glint of eye teeth. "Then distracting him will not be a problem." He threw off the sheet and stood up, reaching for a pair of breeches. "Normally I would wish much more time to prepare my toilette, but I have a feeling that Quincy will appreciate more simple clothing." He stepped into them, sliding them up his legs. "Fewer fastenings to deal with." ~*~ Dracula changed quickly. It wouldn't do to appear in the same evening clothes that he'd worn the night before. While a great deal of eccentricity was tolerated in the upper class, there was no reason to provoke curiosity. It took him a few minutes, but he was still surprised to meet Sinn at the foot of the stairs. He'd assumed that he'd be left to entertain the guests for a good half hour before the Frenchman was satisfied with his appearance. Sinn realized what his master was thinking and shrugged charmingly. "Surely you've been so eager to see someone that you were not as particular in your appearance as you might have been." Thinking of times that he'd hurried to Nicolae straight from his training sessions, Dracula nodded. "I'll want you to remove Mister Morris--non-lethally." "Please," Sinn made a brushing motion. "Would I waste something that delicious? I anticipate a wonderful relationship with Mister Morris. I believe we understand each other." "Like Rock?" Sinn made a face. "What was there to understand about Rock? He was simple in the extreme. After the first year or two there were no more surprises left, and he didn't even see it. One would have thought that he had invented sex, and saw no reason to improve on the original. Now," he smiled, "shall we go

32

and greet our gentleman callers?" ~*~ Jonathan had taken a seat near the fire, but Quincy didn't seem able to remain still. He was pacing the room, peering disinterestedly at various objects. He ran a finger along the bottom of a picture frame, then showed the smudged tip to Jonathan. "They need to see about getting some women in to take care of this place. I live where half the prairie can blow in if you aren't careful, and my mama would have a fit if the house ever got this dusty." Jonathan shifted, looking around. "It's funny." Quincy raised an eyebrow. "Odd, maybe, but funny?" "Oh, I don't mean the fact that the place can use a good dusting. No, I mean... You see, I grew up with very neat people: my mother, then my father's housekeeper, and the school I attended was ruthless about keeping our rooms clean. I should feel quite uncomfortable here, but for some reason I don't. There's something rather comforting about the dust and age of the place." He looked around. "It's as if I've been at home in a place like this. It doesn't make any sense." Dracula and Sinn entered the room, and Jonathan quickly stood up. "Count, I hope you don't mind our dropping by unannounced." "Please, Mister Harker, you mustn't be unsure of my hospitality." He shook hands with Jonathan, then Quincy Morris. "I'm delighted that you felt welcome enough to come by." Quincy shook hands with the other two men also, saying, "Where's Rill?" "Rill is young, and he was up late last night," said Sinn. "He's taking a nap, and Simion would have someone's head if he was awakened. Since Simion will not touch the count," he gave Dracula a slight bow, "that means that I must protect myself. I'll do what I can to keep you amused." He cocked his head. "Monsieur Morris, you are rather damp. Did your coachman not hold an umbrella for you when you came in?" "No coachman this time," said Quincy. "I drove us over myself." "Oh, la! So efficient. But I know that Salazar has gone into the village, and Simion did not look as if he had gone outside. What of your horse, Mister Morris?" "Tied up outside." Sinn made a gesture of disapproval. "But that is unnecessarily cruel. The stables here are not in the best of repair, but they are roomy, and quite dry. We should get the poor beast out of the storm." Quincy was studying Sinn. "I don't believe in abusing a good animal, but I'm already as wet as I want to be." "That can be taken care of. There's a rather huge umbrella in the hall, left by a previous tenant, I suppose. It's old, but seems to be in good repair. I believe it is large enough to shelter us both. You may lead the horse, and I will carry the umbrella, oui?" Morris nodded. "Count, I hate to walk out so soon, but..." "I understand completely, Mister Morris," said Dracula. "Certainly, go with Sinn. You two take your time. I'm quite looking forward to visiting with Mister Harker." The two men left, and Dracula gestured at the chair Jonathan had been using. "Please, sit." Jonathan did, and Dracula drew another chair up close beside it, sitting down himself. "This is an unlooked-for pleasure. I was hoping that you would visit, but I didn't think I had any right to expect it so soon." Jonathan blushed. "I suppose it was hopelessly forward of me." "Not at all. I'm afraid that our society has become bogged down by trivial rules." He shook his head.

33

"Sinn keeps abreast of things more than I. He told me of a story... A family's house nearly burned down, because of a fire in the chimney. They managed to escape unharmed, and people discussed it afterwards, as people do. One neighbour mentioned that she had been passing the house and had noticed flames. Why, then didn't she go and tell the family? Had they been warned in a timely manner, much damage and danger could have been avoided. The woman replied that she regretted she was not able to warn them, but that they owed her a social call, and she couldn't POSSIBLY just drop by." Jonathan laughed. "Oh, dear. That's just awful enough to be true." "You have a very pleasant laugh, Jonathan. I wish you'd do it more often." Jonathan's smile faded a bit, but it seemed to be more in puzzlement than censure. "Have I been too forward?" "No, not at all, Count." "Vlad." "Vlad," Jonathan agreed. "I suppose that I'm a little out of practice at laughing. I haven't really had much to inspire it in my life." He shook his head almost fiercely, making a sound of denial. "What's wrong with me? I sound positively pathetic." "Jonathan, I'm afraid that you have one of the failings of the English. Englishmen believe in moderation in all things, including emotion. To exhibit even a marginally stronger example of any feeling, be it happiness or grief, is looked upon with condescension, if not contempt. My people are older, and have perhaps developed a more balanced attitude. We realize that man has many emotions, and to try to pick and choose what we will experience is foolish arrogance. All things come to all people eventually--even melancholia." He lifted a finger. "The trick is to find something, or someone, who will take you out of yourself." Jonathan nodded slowly. His voice was a little heavy as he said, "That must be a wonderful thing." "It is." "Then you've found the person who takes you out of yourself?" "I have. Rather, I did--we were parted." "I'm sorry." There was sincere sympathy in Jonathan's voice. "Do not distress yourself. I believe that we will be brought together again, very soon. And you, Jonathan? Is Mina the one who will turn you from your sad musings, share your joys and sorrows, hold you up when you would falter, and accept your strength when her own fails?" Jonathan bit his lips. "When you speak of it that way it sounds so serious." "Mating is serious business, Jonathan." "Mina sees marriage as..." "I said mating--not marriage. There is a difference. Mina is your fiancee, but is she your mate?" Jonathan looked away quickly. "And now I HAVE been too familiar. I beg your pardon, Jonathan. Please put it down to kindly interest, and too little time spent lately in polite society. I should be acting the host instead of trying to be your confessor." He stood up. "I haven't even offered you refreshment." "That isn't..." Jonathan stopped. "You needn't chide yourself on lack of manners, Vlad. I was about to protest that there was no need for you to make an effort on my account." Dracula smiled. "And that would have been rude, because it would deny me the chance to display my own good form. Manners are such a balancing act. I'm afraid it will indeed be only a small something. We haven't really laid in supplies, but I DO have a few bottles of rather nice wine. They were overlooked in the cellar, and Rill found them while he was prowling the abbey when we first arrived.

34

The boy is a bit of a genius at seeking out things hidden in dark corners." As Dracula made his way to a sideboard on the far side of the room, Jonathan said, "I'm surprised that you find them still palatable. I'd think that anything left here would have turned to vinegar long ago." The Count had unstoppered a decanter, and poured wine into two goblets. "It is perhaps not as good as it might be, but I brought with me a very small amount of a certain spirit from my own country." His back to Jonathan, Dracula quickly bit into his own wrist. He'd drunk from Salazar earlier, and the blood ran freely. He held the wound over one of the goblets, watching thick red drops splash into the wine. "I use it to fortify and flavor the wine, and it becomes something quite wonderful." The flow had slowed. Dracula licked the wounds a few times, speeding the healing. He remembered how Jonathan had noticed his wound at Castle Draculea, and made certain that his sleeve was tugged down over the mark. He swirled the glass in his right hand, watching as all trace of the unnatural additive dissipated. Jonathan looked up as Dracula came to stand beside his chair. "Again you must forgive me, but I could find no tray." He offered the goblet in his right hand to Jonathan. "I know that they tried to market this place as fully furnished," said Jonathan, "and I suppose I shouldn't contradict my employers, but really--they exaggerated. I'm surprised that you were left any furnishings or household goods at all." He accepted the glass. "Let alone serving trays." Dracula resumed his seat. "On the whole I am very pleased with the place. My relative made an excellent choice. I must thank you for being so conscientious in your dealings with him. He's rather eccentric--something of a recluse. I was surprised to hear that he'd had you in his own home." Jonathan was studying the wine, head cocked as if trying to remember something. "I'm afraid I don't remember much of the visit, but I DO recall that it seemed quite isolated. That was a little odd, since the village there was as large as the one here, and no further from the castle, I believe. But once you approached Castle Draculea... Well, it was like entering another world." He shook his head lightly. "Or perhaps another century." "Yes, the Draculea family is very firmly rooted in a much older time. You haven't tasted your wine, Jonathan. Is there something wrong with it?" "On the contrary." Jonathan leaned close to the goblet and sniffed, closing his eyes as he savoured the aroma. "I'm just anticipating. As I said, I don't remember much of the trip to Transylvania, but I DO recall being served a most excellent wine. I'm hoping that this is similar." "I think you will find that it is. I know it isn't usual in an informal situation, but I'd like to offer a toast, if I may?" Jonathan smiled his acquiescence. Dracula lifted his goblet slightly. "Memories, and making new memories." They both sipped. The moment that the wine touched his lips, Jonathan felt an nearly overwhelming urge to drain the goblet. He fought it down, forcing himself to take a single, slow sip. Then he had to once again close his eyes for a moment as the flavor and power of the wine flooded through him. *What is it? I've never liked spirits much, but this... I feel I could happily drown in it.* He heard Dracula's voice. "This closing of the eyes--is it a good sign, or a bad one?" "Very, very good." Jonathan allowed himself another sip. He had intended to only taste, wanting to savor the wine and draw out the experience, but he found himself drinking deeply. When he lowered the goblet he found Dracula watching him, a small smile playing over his lips. "I'm afraid you're going to think that I'm a sot." "No. I'm just pleased that it finds favour with you. It's very rare, Jonathan. Not everyone would enjoy it. Some would hate it." "I can't imagine that." Dracula had put his hand up, fingers resting thoughtfully against his chin, and Jonathan caught a glint in the firelight. He sat forward a little, looking more closely. "That ring..."

35

"This?" Dracula held up his hand, the back toward Jonathan, to display the jewelry. It was a large ring with a rectangular cut stone of some black, shiny material. "Yes. Is that silver?" "No, it's pewter. I'm afraid that I cannot touch silver without bearing pain. It's an allergy peculiar to those of my bloodline. The stronger the blood of the Draculs, the worse the sensitivity. Rill is less affected by this, and Sinn is hardly affected at all. But I... I would be blistered." "But last night at dinner..." "I handled the tableware, yes. There was some discomfort, but I managed." He smiled. "If Mister Westenra was told that his service was pure silver I am afraid he was rooked. It must be an alloy." He turned his hand a little, and again the ring seemed to flash. "Do you like it?" "It's... it suits you. It's elegant without being fussy--almost regal." Dracula bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I am complimented, and I appreciate your words because I know that you do not seek to flatter." "Is it carved?" "Yes. This has been my family signet ring for generations." Dracula sat forward, extending his hand. "Would you like a closer look?" "Yes, please." Jonathan quickly finished off the last of the wine, setting the cup aside. As he reached for Dracula's hand he said absently, "You must have had the wine close to the fire before. It was so warm that it was almost as if it had been mulled." "It's best served so. Please, tell me what you think of the ring." Jonathan took Dracula's hand, leaning down for a closer look. "Oh, it's carved. A lizard." "Dragon." "Of course--dragon. Dracula is dragon in your language, isn't it?" "Son of the Dragon, or Son of the Devil." He smiled. "I'm afraid that my family has not always had the best of reputations. This is the hereditary signet ring. My relative, the one you visited, passed it along to me. That was quite unusual. Our people tend to cling to things." Jonathan sat forward a little, studying the ring. "I thought it was plain black, but when you moved your hand a moment ago, I saw a red flash." "It is a black opal. The best carry fire in their depths, and this is one of the finest." He flexed his fingers, and the ring flashed again. "See how the flames seem to flicker inside? Look closely, Jonathan." Dracula's voice was warm, low and even. It was almost like a touch. It felt as if it was seeping into Jonathan, filling him. "Listen to me, Jonathan. There can be heat, even in cold stone, even in the coldest of dead things. Sometimes there is more life in things that do not breathe than those that walk and talk with you every day." "Yes." Jonathan's voice was faint. He blinked slowly, shaking his head slightly. Dracula spoke again, reaching out to prevent the young man from shaking off the influence that was creeping over him. He moved his hand again, making the opal glint. "People see all sorts of things when they gaze into a fire. Study it, Jonathan. If you look closely, perhaps you'll see something special, something significant to you." Jonathan's hand tightened slightly. His voice faint, he said, "I see things in the fire sometimes. Sometimes in the sky, at night. But it's never clear."

36

"Are these visions?" "I'm not sure. They seem familiar, more like memories. Lately they've been memories of what happened to me in Transylvania, but it's as if they're behind a veil. And... and behind them..." He trailed off. Dracula reached out, putting his hand on the young man's arm. "Memories from farther back, still?" "I think so. It's hard to explain. It's... it's like memories behind memories, hidden by an even thicker veil. I think that if I could just pull aside the veils I would understand so much. But I can't seem to grasp them. They're insubstantial, but they block me as effectively as a wall. I try--I think I've been trying all my life..." His voice was becoming strained, almost plaintive. Dracula reached up, touching the young man's forehead. "Sh, Jonathan. Perhaps you're trying too hard, yes? There are some things that cannot be forced. Coaxed, perhaps, but not forced. If it is meant to happen it will. It will come, even if you try to avoid it." "I don't want to avoid it. I want to know." "You will. There's so much to know about yourself, about who you are--and who you have been." "Have been?" "Before you were as you are now, you were a youth. Before you were a youth you were a boy, and before you were a boy, you were an infant. What were you before that?" "I... Nothing. I... didn't exist." "Are you sure?" Still holding the older man's hand, Jonathan lifted his eyes to his face. For a moment Jonathan seemed to be gazing into an unimaginable distance, then he focused on Dracula's face. For a long minute he was silent, then he said quietly. "No." "Let me help you, Nicu." Again Jonathan blinked. "That name. No one but my mother has ever called me by that name." "At least one other, but... not in this lifetime." Dracula turned his hand so that it covered Jonathan's, then he brought up his other hand so that he was holding Jonathan's in both of his. "Oh, Nicu. You must remember. You WILL remember." Jonathan frowned slightly. He felt very odd, as if he were swimming through warm silk, drawing ever closer to some place that was dark, but at the same time safe--a place where he would be loved beyond anything else in the world. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't think of what to say. Finally, without thinking, he let a single word, a word he did not recognize, but one that seemed to hold a universe of meaning, slip past his lips. "Domn?" ----------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 109/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-nine The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Kindred Spirits

37

As they entered the front hallway, Sinn put his hand on Quincy's arm, as if he felt the need to restrain him from running away. He peered around, searching for something. "Now, let me see... I know it was here--ah!" He pointed. "There, by the door." He tugged slightly. "Come along, before the poor beast outside drowns." As he followed Sinn, Quincy said, "It isn't raining that hard." "There speaks one who is not forced to remain out in the weather." Sinn found the furled umbrella and picked it up, shaking it lightly. Dust puffed. "I only hope that I am not mistaken, and it hasn't made a meal for moths." Sinn started to open the umbrella, but Quincy quickly caught his wrist. At Sinn's questioning look, Morris said, "Don't open it inside the house--it's bad luck." Sinn leaned back slightly, as if surprised. "But that is rank superstition, Quincy. Do you dodge black cats and toss salt over your shoulder to appease bad spirits, also?" Quincy flushed slightly, his grip tightening on Sinn's wrist. Sinn's smile faded just a little, and his eyes flickered. His voice soft, he said, "There is no shame in believing in things unseen, cheri. I have done so myself, and profited by it. Release me." He tilted his head. "For now?" Quincy silently let Sinn go, then opened the door for him and made a slight bow. Sinn stepped out under the eaves, then popped open the umbrella and gave Quincy his own small bow, inviting him into its shelter. "I'm afraid that you'll have to stand quite close in order to avoid the wet." Quincy reached up to take hold of the horse's bridle. "I can stand it if you can." "Oh, I can more than stand it, Quincy." Sinn leaned close to him, slipping his free hand up under Quincy's jacket in back. "I can glory in it. The stable is just over here." They walked toward it slowly. As they came to the door, Quincy said quietly, "I hope you weren't planning on hurrying back." Sinn gave him an innocent look. "You think that it will take that long to secure the beast?" The household's horses were tethered in the first two stalls, watching them placidly. In their lives with Dracula they'd become accustomed to things that would have most of their breed stamping and snorting in near panic. Quincy led the horse to the first empty stall. The small carriage creaked along after it, wheels rumbling over dust and bits of musty straw. There was an iron loop set in the back wall, and he quickly knotted the reins through it, then stepped back out into the stable. "Just about..." The large room was empty. Voice sharp, Quincy said, "Sinn! Damn it, boy, you'd better not have..." A wisp of straw floated down past his face. He looked up. There was a dark trap door open in the ceiling beside the wall. Sinn was standing on the ladder attached to the wall just below it. He flicked another straw at Quincy, watching it as it drifted lazily to rest at the Texan's feet. "I think I saw a cat up here, so you might want to be careful where you step. Feral cats can be dangerous if cornered." He glanced around. "I was raised on a country estate, and I've never forgotten the wonderful times I spent in the hayloft," his grin widened, "with the stable lads... and grooms... and footmen..." He climbed quickly up into the gloom. "Gonna make me work for it, eh, you little monkey?" Quincy muttered, pulling off his jacket. His voice was far from displeased. He hung the jacket over a stall divider and climbed up. The moment his head cleared the trapdoor he caught a face full of straw. Quincy spluttered, eyes narrowing. "You're not just asking for it, son--you're BEGGING for it." Sinn, kneeling in a pile of straw that came almost to his waist, laughed. "But the question is, cheri, are you man enough to give it to me?" Quincy had been climbing into the loft, and he launched himself without bothering to stand up from his crouch. He tackled Sinn, throwing him back into the straw, and landing on top of him. Sinn bucked and

38

thrashed, and to his astonishment Quincy found himself thrown aside. Sinn scrambled a few feet away and crouched, regarding him with hot amusement. "Not quite as simple a conquest as you expected, eh?" Quincy's expression darkened. "Oh, no, Quincy--I do not intend to deny you. But..." he started to unbutton his shirt. "You must make a little effort." Sinn opened his shirt as Quincy stared. The other man's nipples were hard, dark against his pale skin. Sinn licked his lips, fingers closing over one stiff bud, and he pinched--hard. His eyes half closed, and a low, liquid moan bubbled in his throat. The hunger Quincy had been feeling flared. "I've always liked sluts." "Then I will be the love of your life, Quincy." Quincy moved toward Sinn, reaching for him. Sinn moved quickly, and his palm smacked sharply against Quincy's cheek. Morris stared at him in shock, rubbing the reddened skin. "What's wrong? Can't you take what you want?" Quincy growled and lunged, tossing Sinn on his back in the straw. Again Sinn struggled, but this time Quincy was ready for it. Oh, had Sinn truly wished to escape he could have done so. In life Quincy would have handled him with relative ease, but there were very few mortals who could meet the strength of a Nosferatu--even a second generation one, like Sinn. But as Sinn had said, he had no intention of actually escaping. He just wanted to see how determined Quincy was. Quincy straddled Sinn's thighs and caught his flailing hands at the wrists, pinning them above his head. "You just simmer down, boy," he hissed, "until I tell you it's time to move." Sinn went still, and smiled up at him. "That's better." Quincy started to lean down for a kiss. Sinn jerked his knee. The angle wasn't quite right for him to make contact with Quincy's most sensitive area, but he landed a hard blow to the inside of the other man's thigh. Quincy's head jerked back with a grunt at the sudden pain. He slapped Sinn hard, then again--a backhand blow. "You like to play rough? Oh, I can play rough." He grabbed Sinn around the waist and rolled over. He ended up sitting, and threw Sinn face down across his lap, with one hand on the back of his neck. When Sinn twisted he squeezed, pushing the other man's face into the straw. "Hold still, or I'll keep you like this till you pass out." Sinn had to bite back a chuckle. The idea of the American trying to deprive a Nosferatu of something he didn't need--air... But this was promising, so Sinn merely squirmed. He felt Quincy's hand move under his body, grabbing at the waistband of his breeches. There was impatient tugging, and small ripping sounds as the thread on his fly buttons gave way. Sinn shivered. He'd always liked the sound and sensation of tearing cloth--it heralded so many possibilities. Quincy pulled Sinn's pants down below the curve of his buttocks, moving the cloth with short, impatient jerks. Then he gripped one buttock, squeezing hard. "No drawers? What would your mama say, Sinn?" "The old bitch seldom bothered with me. She had me on the tit less than a month before she handed me off to a wet nurse, and I doubt if I saw her more than once a week after that." "Disrespectful." There was a smack, and a quick, bright pain flared on his ass. Sinn jerked in surprise. He hadn't been expecting such a direct assault--he'd rather thought that Quincy would scold and threaten before giving him a few token swats. But the pain came again on the other cheek, and Sinn knew that it was enough to bring a pink flush to his pale skin (since he'd dined well off one of the horses not long ago). There was a third slap, and Sinn thought with rising delight, *Mon dieu, I think he means to blister me. Let us see if he might be encouraged.* "Do you think you are my father, that you would discipline me so?" "No son of mine would ever be so impudent," Quincy growled. "I like spirit in my mounts..." He squeezed Sinn's buttock again, "all of them. But they've got to know who's boss." His hand was working at his own waist, and Sinn shuddered with anticipation as he heard the faint leather whisper of a belt being pulled from its loops. Quincy held the belt by its buckle, jerking his hand so that he could catch the end, doubling it into a loop. "Sometimes nothing works but leather." He whipped the belt down across his captive's bare ass, listening in satisfaction to the loud crack as it struck flesh. He

39

hesitated, belt upraised, waiting to see how Sinn would react. Sinn whispered, "If I promise to be good, will you stop?" There was no supplication in his voice--only curiosity, and a hint of amusement. "Hell no," Quincy growled. "Bien." He hissed in mingled pleasure and pain as the belt came down again. "I won't cry for you, cheri. I haven't for years--I can't." He chuckled, and there was another stinging crack. Sinn jerked. "Mon dieu! Perhaps my eyes might water after all." "You don't have to cry, pretty man." There was another short flurry of hard whips, then Quincy tossed the belt aside and pressed his palm against the faint pink stripes he'd made. "Damn, you don't even want to give me a decent welt, do you? We'll see what we can do later, but now..." Sinn tried to scramble forward in surprise as Quincy pulled his cheeks apart and prodded roughly at his anus. Quincy shoved hard at the back of Sinn's neck. "I WILL hurt you, and not just in fun." "You know, I think I believe you." There was a gurgling sound, and Sinn felt a warm splash of slick liquid hit the crease of his ass. Quincy pushed again, and this time he managed to jam his finger into the tight sheath of Sinn's body. He grunted, "You're cold, boy, but I can warm you up." "Barbarian!" It was a breathy croon. Sinn let himself go boneless as Quincy began to vigorously pump and twist. "No tenderness, Quincy?" Quincy made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Somehow I don't think you'd appreciate that--not unless you were in the mood for it, and neither one of us is right now." Quincy let go of Sinn's neck and grabbed the other man's hand, pushing it down between their bodies, pressing Sinn's fingers over the firm bulge of his erection. "You want that, don't you?" "Yes!" Sinn's voice was firm and clear. "I want it. Give it to me," he demanded. Quincy jerked his hand free and tossed Sinn off. "On your hands and knees, and spread 'em wide." Sinn quickly assumed the directed position, spreading his legs wantonly, wiggling his ass temptingly. Quincy cursed quietly as he opened his pants, baring his rigid cock, and moved up behind Sinn, reaching down to grab his hip. "We'll see how frisky you feel when I get through riding you." "I've been with many men, Quincy. Give me something to remember." Quincy positioned himself carefully, then stabbed forward, driving his hard cock deep into Sinn's core. Sinn jumped, starting to pull away in a purely instinctive response, but Quincy wrapped his arms around Sinn's waist and jerked him back as he once again thrust. Their bodies met with a damp, meaty smack, and Sinn made an almost feline yowl. Quincy started fucking him with short, almost vicious strokes. One hand slid down and fastened around Sinn's hard, wavering member, and he stroked hard and fast. There was going to be no hesitation or gentleness in this first joining. Sinn moaned steadily in pleasure, hands ripping at the loose straw beneath him. There was a rustling noise nearby, and a small, scrawny cat popped up just in front of him. Sinn hadn't been making things up when he spoke of feral stable cats. This one was wilder than most, since there'd been no civilizing influence at the Abbey its entire life. It considered the stable to be its domain, and experienced too little contact with humans to be afraid of them. Bristling, it snarled at the man who was making all the noise, disturbing his sanctuary. Sinn tossed back his head, and glared at the cat. His eyes flashed red, face shifting subtly, and he returned the snarl. The cat suddenly realized that he was facing something unnatural, and dangerous. It turned and was gone in a flash, leaving the loft to the two noisy intruders. Quincy never noticed the brief exchange. He was too caught up in the moment and sensations. Sinn wasn't just enduring his attentions--no, he was responding. He thrust back to meet each lunge. In a move that was astonishing in its erotic power, Quincy felt the grip as Sinn exercised his internal muscles, squeezing him. Sinn climaxed first, jerking with pleasure as he spilled his seed into the straw. Even as Quincy

40

continued to plunge into him, Sinn scraped straw back over the resulting damp patch, hiding the bloody color. He redoubled his efforts, throwing himself into every thrust that Quincy made, muttering the foulest obscene invitations he could think of. It couldn't last much longer. Soon Sinn felt the hot gush of Quincy's seed as he emptied himself into the vampire's back passage. As he climaxed, Quincy grabbed Sinn's hair, jerking back till he stood up on his knees, then Quincy sank his teeth into Sinn's shoulder, just where it joined his neck. Sinn shouted in delighted surprise as Quincy clung to him, teeth pinching a deep bruise. Finally Quincy shoved Sinn down face first into the straw, and sprawled on top of him. Sinn quickly began to sham breathing. Quincy might not have noticed its lack during their joining, but the mind could often seize on small things in the aftermath of sex. After a moment Quincy rolled off Sinn and lay in the straw, staring up at the ceiling. Though brief and crude, this had been one of the most satisfying physical experiences of his life. He wondered if it would be possible to persuade the Frenchman to visit America. His mother would welcome a sophisticated foreign guest, since it would set her above the other local matrons. Sinn moved closer to Quincy, but didn't try to embrace him. "Glad to see you don't expect to be petted and snuggled," said Quincy lazily. "There are times for that," said Sinn agreeably. "But now is not one of those times." He reached out and ran a hand across Quincy's chest. "You're quite magnificent, cheri. Cowboy." He gave the word an exotic twist. Quincy chuckled. "Bronc buster." He reached down and gave Sinn's sticky cock a squeeze. "You're one of the most gingery rides I've ever had." Sinn thought about the blood in his seed, and the fact that Quincy might look at his hand. He quickly brought Quincy's hand up and began to lick it clean. Quincy watched him. "You're filthy." The tone was admiring. "I'm glad to be able to offer you something a little different." "Oh, not different," said Quincy, off hand. "Maybe more intense." "Oh, that won't do. I must be unique in your life." "That won't be easy, son. I haven't lived long, but I've gone out of my way to hunt down carnal experiences. There isn't much I haven't tried with my partners." Sinn studied him. "I think I can offer you something new. Do you have your knife?" Quincy propped himself up on his elbows, giving Sinn a curious look. "I always have it with me." Sinn held out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Quincy bent down and pulled the knife from his boot sheath. He paused again, then turned it in his hand and offered it, butt first, to Sinn. "You don't quite trust me, do you?" Quincy said nothing. "You're very right not to, Quincy. But you needn't fear that I'll use the knife on you." He took the blade from Quincy. Keeping Quincy's eyes fixed with his own, Sinn held up his left hand, then made a short, deep cut just at the base of his palm, high enough so that he wouldn't risk slicing the major veins in his wrist. Quincy's only reaction was raised eyebrows and a quickly indrawn breath. Sinn laid aside the knife, then brought the wrist to his mouth. He put out his tongue and touched it to the thin trickle that was snaking its way down the inside of his arm, being careful not to lick the actual wound. He licked his lips, smiling, then offered his hand to Quincy. Quincy stared at Sinn, then looked down at the seeping cut. "Don't be afraid, cheri. It's just another way of sharing, perhaps even more intimate than what has gone before." Quincy studied Sinn, then smiled slowly. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sinn, but this isn't as new to me as you might think." He took Sinn's hand, bent his head, and licked at the blood, then fastened his mouth over the cut and sucked strongly. Sinn shook his head. "You astonish me, my friend. But still I say this is a unique experience for you." Quincy sat back, a puzzled look in his eyes. He wet his lips thoughtfully, and his voice was a little hoarse when he said, "There IS something different. It... doesn't taste the same as the other ones."

41

"No? How so?" "I can't say for sure. Thicker, stronger, a little sweet. It should be salty, but it's like there's sugar and spices in it." "Do you like it?" In answer Quincy bent his head and put his mouth on the wound again. Sinn smiled down at him, and gently stroked the American's hair. "Drink. Drink deeply... my childe." Title: Child of the Night, 110/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-ten The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Remembrance In the warm, dimly lit salon, Jonathan blinked, the world slowly coming back into focus. Count Dracula was leaning forward as he watched Jonathan, cool hands clasping Jonathan's hand. The expression on his face was indescribable, but it was obvious that the man was in the grip of some powerful emotion. "I... What did I just say?" "It was a word in my own language." The Count's voice was husky. Jonathan thought of pulling away--it would be the proper thing to do. Physical intimacy of any kind was seldom offered, and even less often accepted in his society. He didn't really want to move, but he thought that it would seem odd for him to simply sit, holding another man's hand. He withdrew with as much grace as he could, speaking to distract the Count, so that it would not seem a rejection. "I'm afraid my grasp of the language is a little shaky. I didn't insult you, did I?" There was regret in Dracula's eyes, but he only said, "No, far from it. The word is a term of respect among my people--but more than that. It can be used as... a term of affection." "Oh." Jonathan could feel himself blushing. "I'm sorry." "No, you must not apologize for that. Have you ever called anyone by that title before?" "No, of course..." His voice trailed off. "I... don't know. It seems that I have, at least once. I think it was when I was in your country, at the prince's castle." Jonathan frowned as unclear but distressing memories fought toward the surface of his mind. "I was in danger, and I called out. I called out, and someone answered, but not in time." Dracula closed his eyes briefly. "To my eternal sorrow. Though you survived, I would not have had you go through that, Nicu--not again." "Again?" The confusion in Jonathan's voice was painful. He sounded like a child asking someone to please explain the cruelty of the world. "I don't understand." "What happened over there, Jonathan? Think. If you can remember that, you will remember more. Try. For the sake of my soul, try." Jonathan bit his lip. His voice low, he said, "I remember the dark--the night around me, and... and there was space behind me. It was as if the earth fell away, and it frightened me. I was on the edge of some great drop, and I wanted to move away from it, but there was something stalking me. Some sort of animal, or... something vicious and evil was coming for me. I felt so alone. There was no escape," his eyes lighted, and Dracula could tell that he'd remembered something. "And I called out to someone, someone I knew could save me. I don't understand that, though. There's never been anyone in my life who protected me. No one except my mother, and that was so long ago."

42

"There WAS someone else, but that is farther still in your past." Jonathan made a noise of confused frustration. "You speak as if you know, but you can't. We've only just met. I know that we've spoken of feeling a kinship on first meeting, but you can't possibly believe..." "I DO know you. Oh, not petty details like your school record, or the name of your first pet. Deeper, more fundamental things. You lost your mother too young, and though she died in pain, her last thought was of you." Tears welled up in Jonathan's eyes, but he blinked them back quickly. "And I know that your father might not have been physically vicious, but he was cold, distant, and controlling. He didn't like you to speak of your mother once she was gone, did he? You've never really felt at home in your own life. There have been times when you felt as if you had been dropped down in the middle of a play, expected to perform a role that was unfamiliar." He sat forward. "You would have made the church your life, but you were not allowed, because that would have been of no practical use to your father." Jonathan was fighting hard not to gape. "How do you know these things?" he whispered. Dracula could see that something was struggling inside Jonathan, pushing toward the surface. He ignored the question, continuing. "You couldn't join the church, and you've felt most at home since then when surrounded by books. You are not appreciated by those who should love you the most--your family, and those who have been given charge of you. But you are loved. You have always been loved. Haven't you felt it, Jonathan? Haven't there been times when you knew--you KNEW--that you belonged to someone?" Jonathan's voice was faint. "When I was a child I used to believe... I would hear a voice at night, very faintly. It would call to me, talk to me. I told my mother, and it frightened her." He frowned. "I grew to believe that it was because she was afraid that I would become unbalanced, but now that I think back, I'm not sure. It's almost as if she truly believed that I heard someone, and that person might take me away from her." He lowered his head, then looked up at Dracula. "I think she was right. The voice pulled at me so powerfully. I think if the speaker had ever come for me, I would have gone willingly-even joyfully." Dracula moved quickly, almost violently. In a flash he was kneeling before Jonathan. His hands shot out and grabbed Jonathan's wrists, and he looked up into the younger man's face. His voice was deep, and seemed to touch something inside Jonathan. "Do you mean it, Nicu? Would you have come with me?" Jonathan pulled back in the chair, alarmed by the sudden show of emotion, but Dracula's grip tightened. "I was afraid that you'd never hear me. I called to you for so long, with never an answer. I began to give up hope, and that shames me, my love. I should have known that you would never abandon me." "Count, please..." "Call me by my name, Nicu. Please." Jonathan hesitated. *I should be feeling alarmed. This isn't proper, it isn't... right?* He pulled back from the thought abruptly. *But so help me, it FEELS right. It feels as if this is how it should be, with him touching me.* "Vlad..." Dracula dropped his head, pressing his face to Jonathan's forarms. He whispered, "When you say my name, I am myself. I know you are confused, my love, but you must try to understand, try to remember. Long ago and far away from this place, we knew each other." Dracula lifted his face, gazing up at Jonathan, his eyes burning. "I took you away, and made you my own." Again he bent his head, and Jonathan shivered as the older man kissed the back of his hands. "I made you my own, but it was you who owned me, Nicu--body, heart, and soul." *Two men together? It's unnatural.* Jonathan realized that thought had been a reflex, a LEARNED reflex. He'd heard it all his life, when people actually dared to speak of such things. But he'd never given it much personal thought. Deep down he knew that he believed that real love, in whatever form,

43

was something to be cherished and nurtured. "This is very strange. I feel that I should be..." He made a sound of frustration. "I should be panicked, disgusted, or outraged--any of those would be a response that society would accept. But I don't feel any of those things." "What do you feel?" "As if I want to stay here for a long, long time, and just listen to you." Dracula smiled. "I was never a great conversationalist, but I could sit and talk for hours with you. I could tell you anything." "You keep speaking as if we have known each other for years. I CAN'T know you." "No? I've told you about yourself, now..." he sat back on his heels, resting his hands on his thighs, "Tell me things about myself that you shouldn't know." "But you haven't told me much of your personal life." Vlad nodded, saying nothing more. Jonathan made sound of frustration, then said, "You're a member of the nobility, descended from royalty. You've travelled extensively. You're household is small." He frowned. "I believe that Rill is your adopted child. You care for him, and feel responsible for him. It's obvious that he loves you." John stopped speaking abruptly, knowing that he hadn't just edged past the boundaries of good manners, he'd broken completely through by speaking of such intimate matters. Dracula once again knew what he was thinking, and said, "Go on. We're beyond the petty regulations of polite society, and no one will know what passes between us here." With this assurance, Jonathan continued. "Sinn... Him I'm not so sure about." Jonathan flushed and looked down. "I think that he wants to be closer to you than he is, but he doesn't really care for you. Simion... He's your friend. Yes. That's unusual here in England. Most people believe that one can be either a friend or an employer, but not both. I get the feeling that aside from those three, you're... alone. And it hurts you more than it might others, because you have had someone special in your life." Dracula sat forward quickly. His voice almost vibrated. "Who was this special person? "I don't know." Jonathan's voice was almost desperate. "I CAN'T know." "You can!" Dracula rose into a crouch, his hands coming down on the arms of Jonathan's chair, caging the young man. "Jonathan--Nicolae... You MUST." Jonathan stared into the Count's pale blue eyes, and he felt a moment of vertigo, as if he were plunging over a precipice, but he wasn't afraid. It wasn't as if pain and death were rushing to meet him. Instead it was something that he'd been looking for his entire life--for LONGER than his life. He didn't think--he acted on instinct. His arms went around the neck of the man bending over him, and he pulled him in closer. His mind was whirling with a sudden flurry of memories, things that he knew he hadn't experienced--in this life. Hunger, the knowledge that all around him watched him with speculation, and contempt, cold, pain at the hand of someone who should have protected him, desperately seeking some warmth and sanctuary, and being denied what he thought was his only chance. Oh, there had been some small joys--long hours spent working with books, or filling pages with careful script, but he was always alone. Jonathan had been an only child, but he knew what it was like to have siblings who refused to admit the relationship, and he knew what it was like to cherish the only family member who showed him any affection. He'd expected to lose her when she married, and he'd been melancholy when the man who would take her away arrived. And then he'd seen him. Dracula *No, he wasn't Dracula then, but the name was similar. Draculea. The same name as the prince I visited in Transylvania. And that man might have been the grandfather of the man who came to court someone who was not my love, but was important to me. I saw him...* He'd been on horseback the first time Jonathan had seen him, almost a part of the great black beast.

44

Their eyes had met for a moment, and his had been blue, THIS blue--these very eyes. These eyes had looked at him with curiosity, with desire, and finally with love--a deep, yearning love that made him feel at once exultant, and humble. A love that could not be denied. "Vlad..." Jonathan whispered. He felt as if someone else inside him was speaking, but the words were his own as well. The person inside could be nothing but another part of himself. He touched the older man's face gently, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Where have you been? What happened?" Dracula swept Jonathan up into a strong embrace, burying his face against the young man's shoulder. Jonathan returned the embrace, a little bewildered to feel the big man trembling. "You've been gone, haven't you? I'm not myself when you're away, my love." "I'm sorry, Nicu. I'm so sorry that you had to go through this." Jonathan smiled, running his hands up into Dracula's hair. "But it wasn't your fault, Domn. I'm sure that nothing but some grave duty would have kept you away from me." He made a quiet sound. "Of course--the battle!" Jonathan squeezed him tightly. "You have triumphed! Oh, Vlad, I knew you would, but I was still afraid. I thought... I..." He faultered. When he spoke again it was slowly, with dawning horror. "Vlad? You... died." "No!" The denial was fierce. "Abul brought you lies, Nicu. She KNEW they were lies, and she knew what it would do to you, my poor darling. But I made her pay for her rank betrayal." "Then you didn't die?" His laugh was unsteady. "Of course you didn't. Here you are, in my arms. It was so real. I thought that I..." Again his voice died. It was shaking when he began speaking again. "What did I do? Vlad, what did I do to Beta?" Dracula was crying with relief at knowing that finally Nicolae had awakened, and grief at the pain the awakening was causing him. "You tried to save her the only way you knew how. You acted with love and sacrifice, as you always have." Now Jonathan was clinging to Dracula as a drowning man would cling to a rescuer. "I don't understand any of this." "Understanding can come in time. Now you need only believe, and accept." Jonathan nodded, but said quietly, "This is insane, you know. I'm engaged." "It means nothing. It was an agreement made to satisfy expectations--hers, your family, your friends. You didn't KNOW, Nicolae." "Jonathan." He paused. "My name is Jonathan." "Now. Then you were Nicolae." "But I'm Jonathan now." Dracula pulled back, and Jonathan gasped, seeing the bloody tears. "Can't you see? Jonathan... Nicolae... You are my love. You always have been, you always will be." He kissed him hard, pouring all his love, determination, and desperation into the touch. Jonathan groaned, bent back by the force. He thought he should struggle, but instead he found himself clutching at the other man, trying to pull him closer still, his mouth opening in helpless invitation for an invasion that was both novel, and sweetly familiar. Their lips parted a scant inch, and Jonathan's warm breath fanned Dracula. "Isn't that enough?" Dracula whispered. Jonathan drew a deep breath, and time seemed to stand still for a moment. His small smile was

45

wondering as he murmured, "Yes, it is." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 111/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-eleven The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Blank Spots Dracula, refusing to release Jonathan, led the younger man over to a sofa, so they could sit side-byside. They settled, with Dracula keeping one arm around Jonathan's shoulders. After being parted from his love for so long he was loath to give up contact. He took Jonathan's hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it tenderly. Jonathan watched him with a tiny, bemused smile. "No one ever did that before." "Does it trouble you?" Dracula asked. "I know that the English are physically reserved, even with those to whom they are affianced. I would wager that you have never been truly close to Mina--not as a lover." Jonathan blushed. "We've kissed a few times, but a gentleman doesn't try to do more." "Not even with the one he is to marry?" He shook his head. "Well... I thought about it, but I always had the feeling that she'd rather not. Oh, I don't think she'd have slapped me, or even pushed me away. But to be simply endured..." "Yes, that would be painful. So, you haven't been intimate with her?" "Not physically, no." Jonathan thought for a moment, then said in a low voice, "Not in any way, I suppose." "Jonathan, I'm afraid that I'm about to embarrass you, but please know that it isn't from any desire to make you uncomfortable. There are things that I need to know. You have not had intimate knowledge of Mina--but have you been with any other women?" Jonathan stared at him. "I agree that such a question is shockingly personal, but I need to gauge your experience." He stroked Jonathan's cheek, and the young man instinctively turned his head, pressing into the touch. "I would not want to do anything that would frighten or upset you." Jonathan swallowed. "You sound as if you want to do a great deal." "I hope to," Dracula said softly. "I know that while contact between couples in the middle class is limited, some men will satisfy their carnal cravings with certain willing women--professional women?" Jonathan blushed a little. "Prostitutes," he said stiffly. "No. I never have, never will. It would be taking advantage of the unfortunate. I've no doubt that most of them were forced into that life by circumstances. And it would degrade something that should be held special." Dracula wanted to shake his head, but he simply said, "And more proof that you are indeed my Nicolae reborn. He was loath to lay fault at anyone's feet, even for the choices that they made, and he would never have given himself to someone for whom he truly did not care deeply. You haven't been with a woman, then. What about men?" Jonathan bit his lip, looking down quickly, his cheeks suddenly flaming. Dracula felt a twinge, but he had sworn to himself that whatever life Jonathan had led before they met did not matter--that this would be a fresh start. "Dear one, you need not hesitate to tell me. I will hold nothing against you. You are a warm, giving person, with a tender heart. You very much need to love, and be loved, and you have been alone for many years. You only suspected our bond before this day. If you found someone else to give you solace..." "You'd be willing to forgive that?"

46

Dracula looked deeply into his eyes, cupping Jonathan's face in his palms. "There would be nothing to forgive, but I must know, so that I can be gentle where I should," he squeezed very lightly, and there was a spark of heat in his eyes that kindled an answering warmth in Jonathan, "and strong where it will best please you." Jonathan reached up, taking hold of one of Dracula's hands. "There was only one time, and it wasn't... I was sixteen. It was my birthday, and one of the boys suggested a silly game--a kissing game." Jonathan's gaze broke away from Dracula's as he made the confession. "He kissed me out in the hallway. Not just a kiss. He... he... I didn't realize that people did that with their tongues, and he pressed against me." Dracula kept his voice steady, though the thought of someone else kissing Jonathan in that manner made him want to rage. "Is that all?" "Yes. I think he wanted to do more, but the others were already calling out for us. I was glad that he didn't come back to school the next semester, though it was... interesting. But it wasn't right. I didn't really know why back then, but I kept thinking 'he's not the one, I don't belong to him'." Jonathan turned surprised eyes up to Dracula. "I guess I was waiting for you, even then." Dracula heaved a sigh. "I told myself that it would not matter, but I'm so glad that you waited, my sweet one." Jonathan tried to look away, but Dracula didn't let him. "Does that embarrass you? But I WILL call you pet names, Nicu. I will call you my precious, my darling, my gentle lover. You are all these things to me, and I will not deny it." He relented, smiling slightly. "But I won't do it before others, if you do not wish it." "I think that would be best." There was a hint of wryness in Jonathan's tone. "I can just imagine Mina or Mister Westenra's reaction if another man called me 'dear'." He was quiet for a moment, studying Dracula, then said slowly. "So I was with you... how long ago?" "A long, long time past." "Decades?" He made a sound of irritation. "Of COURSE decades. It had to be before I was born this time... Oh, that sounds so odd, but it feels right. Decades?" Dracula hesitated. Jonathan seemed to have accepted the situation, but how strong was that acceptance? If he was presented with something too far beyond the beliefs he'd grown up with, might he not deny it? But Dracula could see no other course than to tell him the truth. "Centuries, Jonathan. I first met you in the year 1460." Jonathan paled, and said faintly, "That long?" Dracula nodded. "I was born in the year 1429." "How is this possible?" *And again I must take a risk, but perhaps not the full risk.* "It is not possible--not for a normal man." "Does it have anything to do with how cold your hands are, and how you avoid sunlight?" "Yes." "Is it a congenital condition, like the free bleeding that some European royalty have?" Dracula chuckled. "What?" "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you, but free bleeding..." He chuckled again. "Some day you'll understand how ironic that is. Are there any clear memories?" "Let me think." He closed his eyes, concentrating. "A fair haired man. I think he treated me kindly, but it feels as if I've seen him recently, not..." His eyes flew open, and he looked at Dracula in surprise. "Simion?" "Yes. He was your friend then, and he will be your friend now, if he may."

47

"But it seems to me that there was something in between. Was he at Castle Draculea in Transylvania when I went there?" "Yes," said Dracula quietly. "Simion has cared for me all these years--we have never been parted." Jonathan grimaced. "I should have known, but that time is so muzzy." "You were injured. Only time can heal such things. But I suspect that now that you know, the memories will become clearer." "Yes," Jonathan said decidedly. "I'm remembering more every moment." He smiled. "Rill and his soldiers, and he loves the horses so much. Sinn was hungry for news about fashion, and... and..." His voice faltered, colour beginning to drain from his face. "There was someone else..." he whispered. Dracula embraced him strongly. "Sh." "No, there was someone dangerous. He... I'm not a coward, but he frightened me. I think he wanted to kill me." "My love, must you remember that now? It's painful, and we have so much time ahead of us. We've only just found each other. Can't we take this little time to be as peaceful as we may?" He kissed Jonathan again, reaching along the blood bond to soothe him and distract him from the troubling memories. Jonathan gripped Vlad's shoulders, feeling himself beginning to sink into the sensations. But he'd relied on order in his life, and he wanted to understand the parts of his life that had been unknown until this afternoon. He pulled his head back with a small gasp. "Blue eyes, but darker than yours--and hard. Cruel. He..." Vlad had to stop the flow of memories. Jonathan's ordeal with Rock had been a large part of what had caused his condition, and he didn't think that Jonathan was ready to deal with the horror. When he was more secure in who he really was--who THEY were together--then. But he was showing the stubborn streak that had been such a surprise in Nicolae. Measures had to be taken. Vlad settled his hands on Jonathan's thighs, stroking firmly. Jonathan suddenly felt weak, all thoughts of anything other than Dracula's touch fleeing. "What are you doing?" he whispered. Dracula's voice was almost as quiet. "I have to touch you, Nicu. I must. I loved your spirit, which has been reborn, but I also loved the body that housed it. If you must remember something more now, remember that." His hands slid higher. "Remember how it felt." He kissed Jonathan again, and this time his tongue slipped into the younger man's mouth. "Remember how I tasted." He buried his face against Jonathan's neck. "You said that you loved the flavour of my skin. I know that I loved yours." One big hand covered Jonathan's crotch, and Dracula smiled a secret smile against his beloved's shoulder when he found a warm, growing bulge. He squeezed gently, but firmly. Jonathan moaned, and said breathlessly, "We can't. Someone might come at any moment." Dracula rubbed, saying, "All my people know better, Nicu. None of them will try to enter this room unless I summon them." "Quincy..." Dracula laughed. "Mister Morris is with Sinn. Believe me, Nicu--Sinn may look elegant, but he has the morals and libido of a feral cat. He will keep Quincy occupied for some time. We have a little time to ourselves. Let me touch you?" Jonathan had never really had any experience that approached sex--not consciously. He wondered if he should be ashamed that he found this hurdle so easy to cross. "Yes. I want that."

48

"My sweet boy." Sure, nimble fingers were already working at Jonathan's fly, slipping buttons free with greater ease than he usually had himself. Then the hand slid into the open fly, closing over Jonathan's awakening erection, separated from his own flesh by only a thin layer of cloth. It was too much. Jonathan cried out, hips jerking a little as his orgasm took him by surprise. He felt the blush heating his cheeks as he gasped, "Oh, God! I'm so sorry. I..." Dracula pressed his lips to Jonathan's. "Never apologize for that, Nicu. There is no shame in enjoying your lover's touch, and I'm pleased that I can please you." He sat back a little, then pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. "I would clean you myself," his smile was sharp with a promise that made Jonathan shiver, "but I fear that my chosen method might be a little too much for you at this time." Jonathan used the cloth to wipe himself, then examined the front of his drawers. He'd been quick, and there was only a small stain, barely damp. He'd be able to close his pants without worrying that it would seep through and announce his dalliance to the world. When he was done he stared at the soiled handkerchief, puzzled as to what to do with it. Dracula silently took it from him, stroking his wrist as he did so, and placed it in his pocket. "I know I've shocked you, but I really had no choice in this, Jonathan. I had to touch you. We've been apart for so long. I always knew, deep in my heart, that we'd be together again, but..." he shrugged, "I am a man, and man is slave to his flesh--even the most wilful of us." Jonathan silently leaned against Dracula, putting his head down on the other man's shoulder. "This isn't going to be easy." Dracula hugged him. "Few good things in life are." "I mean society is so against this sort of thing." He slanted a look up at Vlad through his lashes. "The same gender together. Though the women have it easier than the men. Did you know that relations between two women isn't even illegal because the queen refuses to believe that such things can exist?" "One of the few instances where pigheaded ignorance in a monarch can benefit the subjects. I realize that there are difficulties. There would have been even if you were an English maiden, or I was a countessa instead of a count. Society seems to spend most of its time setting up rules, regulations, and obstacles. Their favourite pastime is dictating how others shall live. This is why I want you to return to Transylvania with me." Jonathan sat up abruptly. "Vlad, I CAN'T! My whole life is here. My job, my friends, my fiance..." His voice faded. "Mina isn't really an argument any more, I suppose. I can't marry her now that I know... about us. About myself. There was gossip when I was in school about one of the teachers. He was married and had two children--a boy and a girl--and seemed quite happy with his wife. But on weekends... The other boys said that he went to a place called the Pretty Whistle, and they had boys there not much older than we who painted their faces like women of the street. They'd let the men buy them drinks, and then they'd go up to their rooms, and... and the other boys always stopped there, leering and nudging, and I always nodded wisely, as if I knew what they meant. You know, now I'm not sure they DID know anything--not really." "Innuendo and half-formed suspicions are all that most have these days, Jonathan. But you see, in Transylvania you would not have to worry about that. My sphere of influence has shrunk there, but what I hold, I hold TIGHTLY. Now, as you said, Mina is no longer a valid reason for remaining here. Your job--Jonathan, one employee had already returned mad, yet they sent you right after. Does this indicate concern, or an appreciation of your value? What of friends?" He held up a finger. "And I mean TRUE friends--not just acquaintances." Jonathan thought... and thought, then said slowly, "I never was really close to any of my school chums--the gap was too great. I haven't fit in with the group with whom Lucy and Mina mingle, my landlords are decent people, but friends...? That leaves work, and there's only one person there..." He closed his eyes in sadness. "There WAS only one person there. Renfield was so good to me. He took

49

me under his arm, helped me along when he didn't have to, and he was always happy to listen to me, or talk to me. I suppose he's the only real friend I've ever had." "I know Renfield, and I believe it is the same for him." "But he's mad now, so they say," said Jon sadly. "I want to go see him, but I've just now gotten to where they'll let me out of the house without a nursemaid." He bit his lip. "And you're the first person I visit instead of him. I'm not sure what sort of a friend that makes me." "Believe me, Jonathan--Robert understands. All he wants if for you to be happy, and safe." "I want the same for him, but I don't see how it can be. Oh, the methods for treating the mad have improved greatly, and become much more humane, but there's still little hope of a recovery if someone is placed in an institution like Seward's Asylum." "Yet people have emerged, and lived full lives. This is something you need not worry about. Leave it to me, Jonathan. I won't abandon Renfield. He became a part of our little family when he stayed with us in Transylvania. Rill would be devastated if we left him behind." "You speak as if you were there, too, during Renfield's stay--and mine." "Yes." "But I don't recall you. If you were there, I don't see how I could forget." "Tell me what you recall." "Well, as I said there was Sinn, and Rill, and Simion, and... and that other one." He swallowed. "He was hard, and his name was hard. Stone? No--Rock. Rock. What an odd name. All of them, and a few gypsies whose names I never really grasped--and the prince." Jonathan made a sound of understanding. "Of course! You're related to the prince. The bloodlines must be very close." "They are indeed." "He looks like your grandfather." Jonathan gave a short laugh, and there was a nervous timbre to it. "Or as you might in forty, forty-five years. Exactly what relation is he to you?" "The others may be returning soon. I'd like to kiss you again--just once more." Jonathan blinked at the abrupt change of subject. He wanted his question answered, but the chance to be kissed again was a strong distraction. "I wouldn't mind." Dracula smiled. "Not even if I were to give you a love bite? Do you know what--?" "Of course I do. I'm not TOTALLY ignorant, you know. One of the faster boys used to show them off when he came back from holidays. He and his female cousins used to practise kissing with each other, and he'd have the most livid red-purple blotches on his neck and throat. They looked painful." His tone was curious, and not at all frightened. "Is that what you want to do to me?" "It is similar," said Vlad softly, "but more serious, and more intense. It DOES hurt a little, but it can also feel incredible, and it will bond us more closely. But I won't do it unless you agree, Jonathan. I've done it many times before with people who meant nothing to me but a passing moment of pleasure. I won't do it with you unless you WANT it. Do you?" Jonathan looked into his eyes. "It will mark me?" "Just a little. If I'm careful, it will hardly be noticeable. It might even be hidden by your collar. You don't have to worry about..." "I'm not worried." Jonathan's voice was calm as he started to unbutton his collar. "I like the idea of you

50

marking me, leaving some visible trace of your touch." He'd opened several buttons on his shirt, pulling it open. The long, firm column of his neck was exposed. "What do I need to do?" "Nothing, my dearest one." Dracula embraced Jonathan and kissed him, whispering against his lips. "Just relax, my Nicolae, my Jonathan. Close your eyes and think of nothing but what you feel. You'll start to drift in a moment. Can you feel it?" "Yes." Jonathan's voice was a husky whisper. "Warm. Safe." Dracula's arms tightened. "All those things. Loved. Desired." His mouth grazed a trail across Jonathan's cheek, and down to just below and behind his ear. "I feel your pulse beating here--slow and strong, but beginning to speed up. That's for me, Nicu. Your blood races for me." He pressed his mouth to Jonathan's throat, just over the pulse, and sucked strongly at a patch of skin. There was a moist, pulling sensation that quickly moved up to an ache, and a sting. But at the same time there was a sense of warmth spreading from the spot. Jonathan whimpered when he felt the scrape of teeth, and Vlad immediately began to stroke his back, big hands petting him soothingly. When Jonathan had settled down again he heard an almost inaudible whisper. "A little pain, beloved." It was more than a little pain. It was as if someone had driven needles deep into his throat, and he cried out softly, stiffening. Dracula's arms tightened around Jonathan, but Jonathan didn't try to escape, or push Dracula away. He let his head drop back, whimpering slightly in discomfort, but dawning pleasure. It ached, yes, but the heat had crept down and pooled in his groin. Though he'd spent only a few moments before, Jonathan felt a stirring of carnal interest. *So sweet, so warm.* Dracula felt rather than heard the low purr that had started in his own throat. *So trustingly given. I could drain him in a moment. He has already tasted my blood twice. Would that be enough? I could drink deeply, then feed him, then drink again. That SHOULD do it. But what if I am wrong? What if this time it was I who killed him? I'd walk straight into brightest day and embrace a cross. I'd ask Simion to take my head, cut out my heart, burn my body, and then scatter the ashes. What I've known for the last few centuries hasn't really been life, but I wouldn't want even what I have left if I hurt him. No, no matter how easy it might be, I must wait.* If it had gone on long enough Jonathan would have found himself rampant again, and who knows what might have happened? But it ended quickly. He felt Dracula licking the hurting spot. The wonderful, cool mouth was withdrawn for a moment, long enough for Jon to feel a warm trickle on his skin. The tongue returned, lapping away the moisture. When Dracula sat back there was already a sort of itching tightness that Jonathan had always associated with a wound beginning to heal over. Dracula sat back, beginning to rebutton Jonathan's shirt while the young man swayed slightly, a dazed look on his face. Jonathan's hand drifted up to prod at the tender spot on his neck, but Dracula caught his hand. "No, don't touch it. Surely your mother told you not to worry at an injury?" Jonathan smiled vaguely. "I think all mothers must say the same thing." "Most, but not all. Some women are dams, rather than mothers." He cupped Jonathan's cheek, gazing into his eyes. "Jonathan?" "Mm?" "Jonathan, wake up." Jon blinked, bewildered. "You dozed off. The wine, and the warmth of the fire, I suppose." He smiled. "And perhaps the dry talk." "Oh, no! No, you're a wonderful companion, Vlad. I don't know what came over me. I hate to admit it, but perhaps I AM a little weaker than I thought." "I'm sure it is just temporary. A good meal or two, a solid night's rest, and you will be yourself again." "Myself again," he repeated, looking off into the middle distance. Then he took both of Dracula's hands. "I'm just learning that," he shrugged, "I have a lot to learn about myself."

51

"So do most men, Jonathan. It is a wise one who realizes, and accepts." They heard the door out in the hall open, and the clatter of footsteps on the bare boards. These were accompanied by two voices--Quincy's low drawl, and Sinn's lighter, teasing voice. The two men appeared at the doorway, stopping just inside the room. When Quincy saw how close Jonathan Harker and Count Dracula were sitting, his eyebrows lifted, but he made no comment. Considering what he'd just been doing, he didn't feel he had the right to comment on the level of intimacy between two other men. Sinn smiled at the pair on the couch coyly. "I'm sorry we took so long. I had to show Quincy the hayloft." He reached over and picked a wisp of straw out of the Texan's dark hair. "And then he WOULD get mischievous." Sinn brushed at his own clothing, removing bits of chaff. "Thank goodness I did not wear my good clothes. I love them, but they can be such an annoyance at times. Hard to keep free of stain or spot." His eyes slid sideways at Quincy. "And all those buttons. One could feel quite strangled." Quincy leaned over and whispered, so low that only Sinn could hear, "One could get his ass tanned real good if he tells tales out of school." Sinn's answering smile was angelic. "One can only hope." --------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 112/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-twelve The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Old Friend Sinn yawned, covering his mouth. "Oh, I do beg pardon." He put his hand on Quincy's arm, glancing at Jonathan, and said apologetically, "I am sorry. I had a late night, and I'm afraid that even such a small exertion as," he turned his eyes back to Quincy, "our little walk has exhausted me." He bowed slightly. "So if you will excuse my unpardonable rudeness, I will retire." Quincy watched in amused annoyance as the dark haired young man left the room. *Son of a gun. The little bastard gets what he wants, then moves right along. I think I've just been given a 'wham, bam, thank you ma'am'. That means I'm going to have to keep his ass in bed a couple of hours next time.* "You must forgive Sinn," said Dracula dryly. "He has many feline qualities, and one of them is indolence." Quincy straightened his cuffs. "That's all right. I've always liked cats--independent cusses. It's just about cleared up outside." Dracula bit back a sound of frustration, and Jonathan said quickly, "Then we should go and allow you to retire." Quincy gave Jonathan an inquiring look, and Jonathan looked hesitantly at Dracula. Dracula realized that Jonathan was thinking of his 'condition', but thought it would be rude and presumptuous to mention such a personal fact to Quincy. Dracula explained, "I have a condition that makes me very sensitive to sunlight. We do what we can with closed doors and curtains, but..." he shrugged, "there is always the unforeseen. Though I'm loath to cut our visit short, Jonathan is right--I should return to a more sheltered area." Dracula could see the disappointment in Jonathan's eyes. In one way it gladdened his heart to know that his love was reluctant to lose him, but if he could help it, he didn't want to see him in the least distressed. *I know what will distract him.* "Jonathan, since you'll be out and about, perhaps you'd like to check on Renfield?" Jonathan blinked, and his face lit up. "Yes, of course. If you wouldn't mind driving me to the asylum,

52

Quincy?" "Happy to," said Quincy. "Then I beg your indulgence for not accompanying you to the door," said Dracula. They shook hands, then Dracula offered his hand to Jonathan. The contact wasn't long enough to attract attention, but it sent a minute shiver through Jonathan. "May I call on you later this evening?" "That would be a great pleasure..." He suddenly noticed that Quincy was watching him with slightly speculative interest. "I'm sure that Lucy would welcome you. It would be a triumph to have the neighbourhoods most illustrious guest visit." "Whatever I can do to polish the lady's reputation," he said dryly. As he spoke they went into the hall. Dracula inclined his head graciously, offering another farewell, and made his way down the hall, deeper into the house. Jonathan had grasped the knob, but he waited a moment, watching till Dracula disappeared around a turn, before he opened the door. As Quincy had said, the weather had cleared considerably. There were still clouds, but they were thinning, showing patches of washed out sky, with thin rays of sunlight breaking through. "The stables are back over here," said Quincy, leading the way. "I guess that poor ol' horse is going to wonder what's going on. Out of the stable, into the stable, out of the stable." "You won't have to worry about confusing him again too soon," said Jonathan as he climbed up into the carriage. "I don't suppose they have a stable at the asylum." Quincy untied the horse and led it out of the stable. Climbing up on the seat he started the horse with a brisk slap of the reins, calling, "How long to you figure on visiting with your friend?" Jonathan raised his voice to be heard over the creak of the moving carriage. "I'm not sure. I have a lot to tell him, but I don't know how long a visit the doctor will feel is prudent." "You know, he might not want Mister Renfield to have visitors at all. I expect that some addled people are less excitable if they don't have a lot of contact with people from outside the hospital." "I doubt that's the case with Renfield. I believe that they usually don't restrict visitors unless the inmate is violently inclined, and I never knew anyone more gentle than Robert." Quincy thought, *Someone said that about a neighbor of mine back in Texas. That was just before they found out that all the housemaids that had disappeared from his staff were buried in his cellar.* He said nothing, though--only giving a non-committal grunt. ~*~ There was a hitching post near the entrance of Seward's Asylum. Quincy tied the horse while Jonathan went up to the door and rang the bell. Quincy came and joined him, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels. "Don't you usually just walk on into a hospital?" "Not this kind of hospital," Jonathan said. "I'm sure they keep the door locked, as a precautionary measure. There are probably a limited number of keys." A few more moments passed, and Jonathan rang the bell again. "In fact, I'm not at all sure there wouldn't be a tragedy if there were a fire." Again he rang the bell. An irritated voice inside called, "Hang on, hang on. Ya can't possibly have anything to do in here that's so bloody urgent." There was a pause, then he said, "Move over a bit so's I can see you." Jonathan stepped over so that he was right in front of the tiny glass circle of the door's peephole. There was another pause. The man must have decided that they were important enough for him to avoid further rudeness. There was the sound of several locks being opened, and Jonathan gave Quincy a 'you see?' look.

53

The man who opened the door was wearing nondescript dark clothes, although the cap he wore declared it to be a uniform. He was a stocky, strong looking man, but his coarse features were arranged in a carefully polite expression. "Yus? I'm afraid that if yer here to see Doctor Seward, he's... indisposed." "I'm here to visit one of the inmates." "Half a mo." The man took a clipboard from a peg by the door and consulted it. "Your name, sir?" "Jonathan Harker." The man's eyes scanned the paper, and he squinted at Jonathan. "Sir, we have a list of approved visitors for our guests, and I'm afraid that your name isn't on it." "I'm sure that's only because no one thought that I'd have a chance to visit Renfield, but I assure you..." Recognition lit the man's face. "You mean the bug eater?" He noticed Jonathan's expression and realized that he'd been unaware of this facet of Renfield's condition. "Robert Renfield--the one what was driven mad over in some heathen country?" "He was in Transylvania just before his trouble." "That'd be him. Ah. Well, I suppose it's all right. Come in." Quincy and Jonathan entered, and the man began relocking the door. "There ain't many visitors for the ones in the common ward. In my granddad's day there was. He used to get many a farthing giving tours to those who wanted a bit of amusement, but they put a stop to that." He snorted. "Said it were cruel to the loonies. Now, if you wanted to see one of the special patients, you'd need Doctor Seward's approval, but since he's a charity case..." He'd begun leading Jonathan and Quincy back into the building, and Jonathan stopped abruptly. "Charity? Isn't my law firm paying for his treatment?" "Well, ya see, sir, we gots three types of patients here. We gots the 'guests'--them or their families pay a nice bit of change for them to have pretty much the run of the house, supervised walks, even trips to the village now and then. They're mostly here because they tend to be a bit too free with the spirits, or a bit too friendly with the wrong sort of people, if you get my meaning. Then there's the violents--we're pretty much just storing them where they can't hurt no one. Between them there's the regular patients in the ward. I think your employers give the doctor something, but not near enough to get Renfield a room in the front part of the house. He's got a room to himself, though." The man snickered, and there was something dirty about the sound. "He INTERESTS the doctor." They'd been passing down a narrow corridor, and now they came to a thick door set in the end wall. The attendant pulled a cord, and they heard a bell clang inside. The wait was much shorter than it had been at the front door. A small window in the upper part of the door opened and another man peered out. "Yeah?" "Bamford, what are ya doing here this time of day?" "You know that tooth Prosser had removed? Well, he got an abscess. I'll be workin' like a dog till he comes back. What do you want? Place isn't on fire, is it?" "Yer not gonna believe this, but one of the loonies has some visitors." The inside man peered curiously past the first attendant. "I don't think I'll be able to get Doctor Seward. He was up late last night," Jonathan could only classify the man's expression as a leer, "attending to one of the patients, and I suppose he must've taken some of his medicine to help him sleep. He never came out for his luncheon tray. Right tasty cake on it, too." "We don't need to bother Seward," said the first man. "It ain't like Renfield's dangerous, is it?"

54

"I suppose not. He's only really gotten scrappy that one time in the doctor's office. Other than that he's been like a wooly little lamb." He was eyeing Jonathan and Quincy. "And those two look big enough to handle him if he gets fractious." He raised his voice a little, directing his words toward Jonathan. "You'll have to come in here. I can't have him wanderin' about out there." "Fine," said Jonathan. Bamford gave the other attendant a smirk. "Brave soul, ain't he? You unlock your side." The little window closed, and their escort selected a key off a crowded ring, and turned it in the thick lock above the knob. There was a click from the other side, and the door opened. The man on the other side said, "Hurry in. We don't want to leave this door standing open for long. One of 'em might get ambitious. Jackson, don't forget to lock your side." "Well, why don't you just tell me my job?" the first man grumbled as he shut the door. Bamford relocked the door. The key was on a cord, and he hung it about his neck, slipping it under his collar. "This way, and don't annoy the loonies. Most of 'em are harmless, but there's no point in aggitating them." They moved into the room. The wandering patients who noticed them scuttled away. New people usually meant new inmates, but these two were far too well dressed for that. Quincy looked upward, noting the railed galleries on the other two floors, and the bedraggled people with their fingers in the mesh that screened them, gazing back at him curiously. "You folks are housing quite a few here, aren't you?" "Too many for my likes," said Bamford. "And too few of us to stand watch over 'em. We got to keep a firm hand, 'cause if they ever realize how much they outnumber us... Well, it could get nasty." He led them over to a bench that was occupied by a pair of shabby, wary looking men. "Move, you lot," he said shortly. "There's no need for that," Jonathan protested as the men got up. "There is. I ain't having you wandering about. Have a seat and I'll bring Renfield to you." He was looking around. "Since he ain't out here, he must be in his room. He's been told about that. They ain't supposed to hide in their rooms in the daytime, but he said he don't like to be out where there's sun. Something about getting used to the dark." Jonathan and Quincy took seats on the bench and watched as Bamford went to one of the many doors set in the surrounding walls. He slid open a small window, much like the one in the door they'd used to enter the ward, and peered through. "Renfield!" Jonathan heard Renfield's voice. "Go away." "Don't be like that, Princess." "I mean it, Bamford. I'll tell Doctor Seward if you don't leave me alone." "First off you know it's against the rules for you to hole up during the day. And besides, you got a visitor." Now Renfield's tone was cautious, but curious. "I don't know anyone who'd come to see me at this time of day. Who is it?" "Damned if I know. He didn't say." Jonathan stood, calling, "Robert? Robert, it's Jonathan." There was a second of silence, then the door flew open, smacking Bamford solidly. The man stumbled back, swearing, as Renfield bolted out of the cell. Robert looked around eagerly, and his eyes fixed on

55

Jonathan. He started quickly toward him, then halted abruptly, obviously taking control of himself. He closed the remaining distance between them, moving with as much dignity as he could muster in his rumpled clothes and soft slippers. Renfield stopped before Jonathan, gazing up into his face. He started to speak, but nothing came out. His hands fluttered up, making patting, stroking motions, but stopping short of actually touching the other man. Finally he said quietly, "Is it really you? I need to be sure, Jonathan. Sometimes... It isn't always easy to be sure of things in here." Jonathan reached out and caught both of Renfield's hands in his own. He gazed into Robert's troubled eyes and said softly, "Yes, Robert--it's really me. I'm so, so sorry that I've taken so long to come to you. What a friend you must think me." "Yes, a friend." Jonathan stiffened slightly as Renfield leaned down and pressed his forehead to Jonathan's shoulder. "My friend. Oh, Jonathan--I thought I'd never see you again." Jonathan felt his discomfort fading. Renfield was so vulnerable, so honest in his need. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to gather the smaller man into his arms and hold him comfortingly. Jonathan felt Renfield tremble, and he patted his back. "It's all right, Robert." Quincy, still sitting, watched this exchange with interest. Americans were more physically casual than the English, but even with an old and dear friend, Quincy would have hesitated to be that demonstrative. *I think that little man took Harker by surprise, but Jon's too kind to set him aside. Good enough. Judging from that exchange with Bamford, Robert can probably use a good friend.* Jonathan set Renfield back a little. "Let's sit down, Robert. Quincy, would you--?" "No problem." Quincy slid over to the end of the bench, patting the boards. "Have a seat, bo." When Renfield looked at him warily, Quincy gave him a friendly smile. "You don't have to worry about me. Besides," he winked, "I don't think Harker here would let anyone give you a hard time." "No," Renfield agreed. He gave Jonathan a melting look as they sat beside Quincy. "He's very good to me. He wouldn't want to let anyone hurt me." Renfield cast a furtive look toward where Bamford was loitering, not even pretending that he wasn't eavesdropping. Jonathan noticed and said coldly, "You can go about your business." Bamford sneered. "This IS my business--making sure the loonies don't damage the regular folk." Jonathan's eyebrows drew down and he said stiffly, "I wish you'd stop using that term--it's degrading." "What--loony? It's what he is, in'it?" "It's ugly. I'd wager it's not a word that Doctor Seward uses, nor would want his staff to use." Bamford sniffed. "I got news for you, young sir--he can't afford to be too picky. There ain't many would have my job at my wages." But Bamford moved off to stand at the door, leaning back against it, arms folded. Jonathan wasn't satisfied, but he knew that he couldn't expect more. "How are you?" Renfield shrugged, giving him a tilted smile. "Mad, or so they tell me." He looked thoughtful. "I think they might be right, though perhaps I'm not as mad as some who are still walking free." He frowned. "I don't see why they won't let me go. It isn't as if I run about attacking people." "I'm sure it's done in your best interests." "But why? I could take care of myself. I remember to eat, and bathe. I even insisted that they give me a brush for my teeth." He cast a disparraging glance at Bamford. "I take better care of my person than HE does for himself." Renfield lifted his eyes briefly in thought before looking at Jonathan again. "You don't suppose it's because of the spiders, do you?"

56

*Hallucinations,* Jonathan thought. "Are you seeing spiders?" "Oh, not nearly enough of them. That's one down side to the fact that they keep this place fairly clean-there aren't enough bugs, spiders, or vermin to get a decent meal." Jonathan paled, but Renfield didn't seem to notice. "I had a rat the other night, but I let him go." He smiled. "I couldn't eat him--he was a friend." Quincy was staring at Robert, lips pursed. Now he gave Jonathan a significant look and said genially, "You ought to visit Carfax Abbey, old son. All the cobwebs around there, there have to be legions of spiders keeping the troupes of mice company." Renfield's face brightened. "Perhaps he'll bring me there soon." "I don't think I'd be allowed to take you on an outing," said Jonathan gently. "I know, but that's not what I meant. I don't want to just have an outing, I want OUT. I don't like it here." Quincy watched as a mumbling crone ambled past, picking at her ear. "Can't say I blame you." "I'm going to try," said Jonathan resolutely. "I'll speak with Doctor Seward, and perhaps he'll release you in my care." "Where are you planning on taking him?" asked Quincy ironically. "What room do you think that Lucy would settle him in?" Jonathan bit his lip. *He's right, of course. Even if I dared ask Mister Westenra to take in an unbalanced man, he'd never be so reckless as to agree. Not with his own daughter in the house. If I took him back to London... But as kindhearted as my landlords are, I think he'd frighten them. I don't see how it's possible, unless I can find a small private place, and that would take time and careful finances.* "Robert, I'm afraid..." "Oh, don't trouble yourself. I don't think Doctor Seward would want to send me away, no matter how much I wished it." Renfield chuckled. The sound took Jonathan by surprise. He never would have credited Renfield with the ability to sound so sly. "We get on so well. No, I'm afraid that the decision will have to be taken out of his hands, and you don't have the authority for that." He smiled. "But I'm going--soon, I think." *No point in shooting down his hopes.* "That's wonderful, Robert. How will you manage this?" "He will come for me." "Who?" Robert gave him a wise look. "You know--the master. Well, he might not come himself. He might send my other friend for me. You know him, too, Jonathan. The one who is as gentle as slow flowing water." Jonathan was about to question Renfield more closely when a nearby door opened. Jack Seward, looking rumpled and almost haggard, came into the room. He was rubbing bruised-looking eyes, and he put out a hand to steady himself against the door frame. His eyes fell on the trio sitting on the bench, and he stiffened slightly in surprise. He gathered himself with a visible effort and approached, fastening the last two buttons on his shirt. "Mister Harker, Mister Morris. This is an unexpected..." He hesitated, then didn't complete the sentence in the obvious manner, but said, "Last night you didn't mention the possibility of a visit. I'd prefer that you give advance warning next time." Jonathan inclined his head but said mildly, "I didn't think that Renfield would have any strict schedule that should not be disrupted. Is he, perhaps, on a regime of treatments?" Renfield, of course, like most of the other inmates, was receiving no regular therapy. His only treatment was the occasional interview with Seward--whenever the mood struck the doctor. Seward

57

wasn't about to admit this, though. "Not a strict schedule, but it's still better to keep disruptions to a minimum." Renfield cocked his head. "But Doctor, surely you wouldn't deny me a bit of companionship? I do enjoy your company, but if you're going to restrict me from seeing others, I'll begin to think you're jealous." Seward flushed, and Jonathan thought, *Good lord--Robert is pouting at him. He must be more disturbed than I thought, or...* The next thought wouldn't have occured to Jonathan before his trip to Carfax Abbey, but he thought, *or there's more to their relationship than doctor and patient.* Quincy had been studying Seward, and now he said with a hint of concern, "Doc, you look like you've been rode hard and put up wet." Seward looked a little startled, and Quincy added, "I can only think of two men I've ever seen look so exhausted. One of 'em was a man who'd ridden three days to bring us the news that Texas had bought the Alamo from the Catholic Church so we could hold it as the historic monument it is, and the other was a friend of mine after a week of debauchery in New Orleans. Boy looked fifteen years older than he was. Scared his mama half to death when she saw him, and he'd had a few days to recuperate." "Thank you," said Seward faintly. "I've just been having a hard time sleeping lately." "A terrible shame," murmured Renfield, "and with me doing all I can to help..." "Robert!" Seward's voice was sharp and apprehensive. Renfield gave him an innocent look. "But don't I? I'm as good as I can be, so that you won't worry." He paused, and again there was a wicked tinge to his voice. "What did you think I meant?" "Mister Harker, I think you'd better go now," said Seward. "It will be time for the inmates' evening meal soon, and some of them are hard enough to coax into eating without added distractions." When Jonathan started to rise, Renfield clung to his arm. "Must you? We've hardly had a chance to talk." "I'll come back soon," Jonathan reassured him. "Tomorrow?" Jonathan looked at Seward sharply, and the doctor gave a slow, almost reluctant nod. "Yes, tomorrow." Jonathan smoothed Renfield's touseled hair back from his forehead. "You'll take care of yourself, won't you, Robert? Eat properly, and rest when you should? You'll do what Doctor Seward tells you?" Renfield slid a glance at Jack, who was flushing again, and said meekly, "I always do what Doctor Seward tells me to. In fact, I try to think up different things that will please him." He paused. "New things." Jack Seward swallowed, moving toward the door. "Come along, gentlemen, and I'll see you out." When Bamford let them out, they met two other men outside. One of them was carrying a tray that was laden with wooden bowls and spoons. The other was carrying a large tin bucket that contained some sort of pale-looking stew. Seward and Jonathan walked past them, but Quincy paused for a moment, and put his hand against the side of the bucket. He gave the man carrying it a look, and the attendant said defensively, "We can't give it to 'em hot, can we? This way if they throw it at us, or each other, no one gets hurt." Quincy grunted, and quickly dabbed a finger in the glutenous liquid, then popped it in his mouth. Jonathan had paused to watch him. Quincy made a face. "If this is what you feed them on a regular basis, I'm not surprised you have a hard time getting them to eat it. There's this wonderful new thing in cooking that you ought to tell your cook about--it's called salt."

58

As Quincy joined the other two, Seward said, "Mister Morris, you must understand that a bland diet is in keeping with our goal of preventing over-stimulation." "That ought to do it, all right. That's one of the least stimulating things I ever tasted, and I don't think I saw a lick of meat in it. Nothing but potatoes, and what looked like parsnips or turnips. Lord knows I'm not keen on vegetables, but couldn't you even toss a few carrots in there, just to keep it interesting?" "Costs..." "Never mind. I'm going to seriously consider having someone deliver a few beeves to this place so you can give those poor bastards a solid meal." As they continued on their way out Jonathan said, "You're very kind, Quincy." The big Texan shrugged. "Can't abide someone taking advantage of the helpless." His sharp smile made Jonathan wonder about what he said next. "The strong--that's a different matter." Title: Child of the Night, 113/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-thirteen The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Outside Seward's Asylum Eviction It wasn't raining, so Jonathan climbed up to sit beside Quincy. "I've been so cooped up lately that I positively crave open space." Quincy slapped the reins, starting the horse ambling toward the Westenra Estate. "I get like that if I spend too much time in the city. Open country--that's the thing. I love Texas, but sometimes I wish they had some real mountains. I spent a little time in Colorado, and that's some of the prettiest country I've ever seen. You get out in those woods, away from all the stuffiness and crowding, and it's just impossible not to feel alive." "Yes, the mountains are wonderful." Quincy gave him a curious look. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I didn't think that England had much in the way of mountain ranges." "We don't," Jonathan agreed. "I'm speaking of Transylvania. You've heard the others speak of my trip there? I was up in an isolated area, very wild. I don't think it's changed very much for the last three or four centuries." "Sounds wonderful." They rode in silence for a moment, then Quincy said, "That Renfield seems like a nice little fella." "He is. He's my best friend, and I've never known him to be unkind in any way." Quincy grunted. "I don't think that's going to be an advantage in that place. I think he'd be a damn... Excuse me. I think he'd be a sight better off if he was the sort that was ready to bite someone's head off if he got looked at slantways." "You mean Bamford?" Jonathan asked. Quincy nodded. "I'm afraid you're right. An uncaring attendant could make things very uncomfortable." Quincy gave him a disbelieving look, then said, "Jonathan, I think that being uncomfortable would be the least of Robert's worries. Bamford reminds me of a rattlesnake that's lost his buzz. I think your friend had better stay out in the public eye as much as he can when that one's around." "Surely he wouldn't actually beat Renfield? Jack Seward wouldn't allow it."

59

Quincy sighed, shaking his head. *That's the trouble with wanting to believe the best of the world. You keep getting kicked in the teeth.* "Whether or not Seward gives his permission hardly matters if it happens when he isn't there, does it? I think I know Bamford's sort, and the threat of official punishment, unless it's actual time in jail or a fast dance with a hemp necktie, isn't going to keep him from being true to his nature for very long." Quincy debated whether or not he should express his other apprehension to Jonathan, and finally decided that, given what seemed to be his close interest in Renfield's welfare, he should. "And I don't think a beating is all Renfield has to worry about there." "What other danger could there be? I can work on having him released, and..." *Oh, hell. I'm going to have to be blunt.* "That Bamford looked like a randy cuss." Jonathan blinked at him slowly, then blushed. "Come on now, Jonathan. How old are you? You surely must know by now that not every man courts sweet little women." "But Robert isn't... isn't..." He trailed off as Quincy gave him a cynical look. "You might be wrong about that. And even if he isn't 'like that', what makes you think it would make a difference to Bamford? Hell, it would probably just make Renfield even more attractive." "That's horrible." "Yeah. I've never myself understood someone wanting a reluctant partner, but I know it happens often enough. You and me don't have enough pull to get Renfield released, and I'm not sure that Westenra could be talked into it. Somehow I don't think he'd have a lot of patience with someone who wasn't exactly 'all there'." "I think that the Count would be willing to help. He says that he knows Renfield. He must have met him when Robert was in Transylvania." He frowned. "It's funny that Robert never mentioned the Count in his correspondence. As I recall, he was very chatty. I wish I had his letters with me." Jonathan's jaw tightened in determination. "I'll speak to the Count the next time I see him." They returned to the Westenra estate, and Quincy handed the horse over to a groom, following Jonathan inside. They were heading toward the sitting room when Lukas came down the stairs. "Mister Harker, you haven't been over-exerting yourself?" Jonathan flushed in annoyance, but kept his tone civil. "No, I haven't. I'd hardly call a short visit taxing." "As you say. But perhaps a nap before your evening meal..." "Lukas..." Jonathan hesitated. "I think it's time you returned to Transylvania. I'm perfectly well, and I'm sure that you're needed at your church." "Sometimes, sir, a man can best serve God by tending to unofficial duties." Jonathan lost his patience. He didn't raise his voice, but it was firm. "Your duties were fulfilled when you delivered me here. I want you to go." Lukas regarded him silently. "I mean it. This isn't just an idle whim." "I understand, but this is Mister Westenra's house. I need not leave except at his direction." Jonathan stared at him in astonishment, and Quincy frowned. Quincy spoke up, "There isn't much sense in staying somewhere you aren't needed--or wanted. I don't think Mister Harker could make it any clearer. You no longer have a reason for being here." He took a step toward Lukas, and his voice and gaze were level. "You should go." There was a moment of silence, and Jonathan could feel tension in the air. Though no more words passed between the men, there was some sort of confrontation going on. While he was on the surface

60

an easygoing man, Quincy occasionally relished some contention. He'd never backed down from anything less than a raging steer or a mad dog. Jonathan took another look at Lukas' impassive face and thought of the peculiar blankness he'd sometimes seen in the man's eyes--and he felt apprehensive. He had a feeling that Quincy might be facing something more dangerous than he thought. The staring continued for another few moments, and Quincy realized that he was in a true test of wills. He did a fast reassessment of Lukas, and decided that caution was called for. His hand started to drift toward the knife that always hung at his belt, and Jonathan was almost horrified to see a thin glint as Lukas bared his teeth. Mister Westenra came into the hallway and stopped abruptly, frowning at the tableau before him. "What's going on here?" Most of the tension was immediately dispersed. The look Lukas turned on his host was as polite and humble as ever, but though he had relaxed a bit, Quincy still watched him closely, and his hand rested on his belt, near the knife. Jonathan spoke up. "I was just dismissing Lukas. He doesn't seem inclined to leave." Mister Westenra frowned. "Lukas, I've told you that I'd prefer for you to remain on the first floor during your stay, and..." "No, sir," Jonathan interrupted. "I meant that it's time for him to return to his home in Transylvania. I'm well, he no longer needs to tend me." Jonathan had been trained to be very careful--perhaps overly careful--when it came to tact, but now he spoke bluntly. His voice firmed, "I don't want him here. I'm grateful for the care and shelter you've given me, Mister Westenra. No one could be more gracious and hospitable. But if you do not choose to require Lukas to leave--I will find lodgings elsewhere, or I will return to London." "My dear boy, of course you won't leave us," said Westenra. He looked at Lukas. "I'll have my secretary make arrangements for your trip. You'll be supplied with a modest sum to provide food and shelter till you reach your destination, and..." "Sir." Lukas broke in, and received a startled, irritated look. Westenra was not used to being interrupted, especially not by a social inferior. "I beg to disagree with Mister Harker. The young gentleman's judgement is compromised. After his ordeal in Transylvania he must be viewed as a child, who needs to be protected and guided. As to his wellbeing..." Lukas looked at Jonathan, and Jonathan felt a prickle run over his body as the man frowned, then started toward him. "Some things are not readily apparent." He reached toward Jonathan's collar. Jonathan jerked back abruptly, and Quincy instinctively slipped between the two men, pushing Lukas away. "You keep your hands to yourself, mister!" Lukas looked past Quincy to Jonathan. "Where have you been? Were you with the Count, the one from my own troubled land?" His voice hardened, and he started to lift his hand again. "Has that son of darkness touched you?" "You're MAD! Franklin, Turner, Wilson!" Mister Westenra's voice was loud and sharp, the last three words commands. Three burly footmen came running, and Westenra indicated Lukas. "Put him out, and watch him. Then one of you have a maid collect whatever he owns and bring it out to him. You..." He spoke to Lukas, "You can go to the local inn and wait there. I'll send word to you about your travel arrangements, and send over the money. STAY THERE! If you come back on my land again, or try in any way to harrass my family or guests I will have the constable incarcerate you till you can be legally deported." He glanced at the footmen. "WELL?" They approached the dark man cautiously. The Westenra domestics had not become close to Lukas during his stay. While they were perfectly willing to be friendly with other visiting servants, Lukas clearly did not fit comfortably into any strata of their society. He was not a tradesman or servant, he was certainly not a gentleman, and he was above all a foreigner, and a Catholic. Like most Britains of their day, they were Church of England, and while Americans like Quincy saw little to distinguish the two religions, they were quite clear about the differences in their own minds. Anyone who owed

61

allegiance to the Pope was automatically slightly suspect. The servants were not at all displeased to be given the order to eject Lukas. Lukas regarded the footmen, measuring his own bulk against theirs, gauging the determination in their expressions. He glanced at Quincy and found him tense and hard-faced. He considered, and before the first footman reached him, he bowed. "I can but bow to your desires, sir, though I once again state my misgivings. I trust Mister Harker to your care, and I beg you, sir--be vigilant." He gazed at Jonathan, and it was all the young man could do not to flinch. He was not a coward, but the deranged light of a zealot burned in Lukas' eyes. "Mark me well, Jonathan Harker--it is not only your life that is in peril. I believe that a devil has followed you from Transylvania. If it is as I fear, he will not rest until he claims your very soul. God grant you His protection, since you will have none of mine." He bowed again and walked through the door which one of the footmen held open. "Watch him!" snapped Mister Westenra. "I don't want him left alone. Franklin, you instruct one of the maids, then send my secretary to me. You two, escort that," Westnra's tone twisted, "person off my property, and if you see him here again, deal with him swiftly and decisively. Don't just stand there-move!" The men hurried to obey. Mister Westenra turned to Jonathan. "Are you all right?" "Yes, sir," said Jonathan, "but I'm glad of the footmen." "What set him off? I grant that I haven't seen much of him, but he's always seemed perfectly normal, if a bit grave." "As you say, you haven't spent much time with him. I," said Jonathan grimly, "endured many days, and I tell you plainly that I have known that he is insane for some time. I should have warned you earlier but... but the nature of his sickness is horrid, not fit for public discussion. Perhaps I should tell you, though, so that you will understand my own aversion, and the grave need to keep him far away from all you hold dear." Jonathan glanced around, making sure that there was no one near save Quincy and Mister Westenra, then described the time that Lukas had revealed his self-mutilation. Quincy winced, and Mister Westenra blanched, sitting heavily on the bench that was provided for those entering the house who wished to remove their soiled boots. Westenra murmured, "Yes, you should have told me, but I can understand why you were reluctant. Thank God that Lucy and Mina were not harmed." "Or any of the other women in the household," said Quincy dryly as a little maid hurried past, carrying Lukas' small bag of possessions. "What?" Westenra seemed distracted. 'Oh, yes--of course. If I'd known about this, I'd have had the men lock him in the cellar until Seward could send some of the asylum attendants to collect him. He obviously should be locked up." "I agree," said Jonathan, "but I doubt if he will be. Remember, he's shown no violence toward others. His public behaviour isn't much stranger than that of many peaceful eccentrics." Westenra snorted. "It wouldn't be the first time that a public nuisance had been locked up, and the sanity proceedings, er, delayed." Jonathan stared at him. Even though Lukas frightened him, the man still hadn't actually threatened anyone. Jonathan just couldn't find it in himself to consign someone who hadn't yet harmed anyone to the grim confines of Seward's asylum, especially after he had seen it firsthand. But still there was that troubling qualifier--'yet'. ~*~ The footmen had been prepared to tackle physically Lukas if necessary. But the man had waited almost placidly, standing calmly in one place, arms folded, seemingly unperturbed by the recent scene. They were alert, but they hardly saw Lukas as a serious threat. The man had been nothing but mild so far, and they were confident that if he showed any signs of recalcitrance, they could easily subdue him. They wouldn't have been so sure if they'd known the turbulence swirling under the man's quiet exterior.

62

*Why did I ever let him out of my sight? I sensed... I KNEW there was danger. It must be the one who calls himself Dracula. Dracula. Feh. Draculea's blood runs strongly in that one. The prince himself must have sent one of his chosen after poor Harker. Unless... No, surely not. The few who have seen the Prince describe him as showing all the long years of his corruption. This Dracula is in his prime. Still, the voice that spoke to me in Transylvania was young, and strong. The creature that raged outside the church might have been filled with the strength of his evil. And who can say? If the Nosferatu can escape the true death decreed by our Lord, might they not also be able to turn back the cycle of physical decline? The stories are that where Draculea goes, there go also his three chosen companions. Dracula is accompanied by two, but if those two are of the three, then might not Dracula be...?* He took a step toward one of the footmen, and the man tensed. Lukas let his hands dangle limp at his side, showing that he meant no harm. "Before I go, please answer a question or two. I was not able to see much of the guests who recently visited this household, and I confess to curiosity," he gave a small smile and used the tactic he thought would most appeal to the snobbery that many English domestics shared with their masters, "about such grand gentlemen. I know something of the Count--his people and mine have lived side by side for a long, long time. But his companions--the boy, and the dark haired dandy..." The belief in the tendency of servants to gossip was often a shameful prejudice, but in this case it was true. Turner smirked. "Frenchy, he is. Flirted sommat dreadful with the scullery maid." Wilson nodded. "Don't know his place." He didn't notice Lukas raising an eyebrow at this declaration. As much as the upper class would sneer at a common worker wanting to interact with them, so would the servants react to the gentleman or lady who wanted to reverse the situation. "Went back to the kitchen an' talked to cook. I'd've expected it from the Yank--they ain't been around long enough to get civilized, but I thought the Frenchies had a bit of manners." *A Frenchman. One of the village drunkards claims that he once stumbled upon a devil drinking from the torn throat of a deer, and that it cursed him with a human voice--in French. He said its eyes shone red, but that they faded to green when he fell on his face before it. And its laughter was like a bell that is swung by a hot wind from Hell itself.* "It may well be that he is not truly a member of their gentle class, but only a..." he hesitated, and made the next word delicate, "companion. The rich often surround themselves with the less well bred, for their own amusement." The footmen were nodding wisely. "I wonder if it is the same with the boy? I only glimpsed him, but he seemed a comely, gentle lad." Again the men smirked, and Wilson said, "Almost as pretty as a girl, and a bit..." he twisted his finger near his temple, clucking while letting his mouth hang slightly open. He was fortunate that Simion wasn't there to witness his performance. "How sad. Unbalanced, you think?" "Um, no. I'd say he's just short of sense. You know, not much more upstairs than he needs to feed himself and do up his own britches." He snickered, and it was rich in insensitivity. *And a second who seems young, and is simpleminded. I've heard from the merchants that they've seen such a one with the demon Prince's right hand man the few times he's come down from the mountain to send messages, or pick up some special thing they'd ordered. He's very careful of the boy, from what I've heard.* The maid came out, bearing Lukas' bag. She eyed the man nervously, saying, "I ain't going near him. He's got the evil eye." "You're daft, Molly. He's a bit odd, but no danger," Turner assured her. She shoved the bag into his arms. "Then YOU give 'im this. And this." She handed over an envelope. "And mind you don't open that! The master said that all what's in it was to go to him, an' he'd have anyone who tampered in the lock up, sure as the sun rises." Her warning given, she glanced once more at Lukas, then went back to frighten her fellow maids with tales of the man's fearsome appearance.

63

Turner handed over the bag, then held the envelope, considering as he ran his fingers over it. "Listen to it crackle." He held it up, squinting. "Damn thick envelopes. Can't see a bloody thing, but it's got to be pound notes. Right nice pile of them, too." He gave Lukas a measuring look. The man wasn't to be allowed close to the house again--what was the danger of him complaining to Mister Westenra if his funds were short? Lukas had to know what he was thinking, but his patient expression didn't change, and that unnerved the footman. He thrust the envelope into Lukas' hands. "That way--march." They took the long walk down the drive to the road that ran to the village in one direction and the asylum in the other. At the road Wilson said, "On to the tavern with you, and the master will send word of his arrangements for your travel." Lukas stood in the road, looking up one way, and down the other. "Please, can you tell me which way is your church?" The footmen exchanged looks. "I feel the need of spiritual surroundings. If not the church, then your clergyman's home?" Wilson gestured toward the village. "That way, past the tavern. You can't miss it, though it hasn't as nice a steeple as some. The rectory is right beside it. The rector usually has a service in the evenings, and you might have time before your train leaves." "I thank you." Lukas started off in the direction they had indicated. The men watched until he was far down the road, then went back to the house, satisfied that they'd done their duty. They might not have been so pleased with themselves had they known that Lukas had been unconcerned about whether or not the footman would appropriate some of the funds because he had no intention of taking the train. Title: Child of the Night, 114/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-fourteen The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Vicarage, Near Carfax Abbey Rescue The Reverend Mister Thomas Clairidge was reading a very interesting tome called The Mystical and Today's Church. He sipped a cup of tea, eyes roaming over the pages, and he shook his head. All these modern notions were distressing. People were looking to science instead of to God these days. They wanted a neat explanation for everything. They desired for everything in the universe to be quantified and catalogued--there was no room in their bright lives for the unexplained. *They're missing so much,* he thought, *And I fear that if they trust in science and logic to keep them safe they're leaving themselves vulnerable. When will they learn that you can use science to work for the Lord? It's possible to believe in both. Granted there aren't many examples around to follow, but there are a few.* There was a knock on the front door. He stayed where he was. If he had dared to answer the door while his housekeeper was at home, that good woman would... Well, she wouldn't scold, but the atmosphere in the vicarage would be as chilly as a November morning for quite some time. But the door to the hall was open, and the entrance was quite close, so he listened. There had been a time or two when Mrs. Linton had told visitors that the vicar was not at home when he WAS. Like many a caretaker of religious men she'd become very protective. From the suspicious tone of her voice when she spoke, he had a feeling that she was about to exercise that protectiveness. "I'm sorry, but we have no work for you today." "I thank you for your consideration of my circumstance, ma'am." The man's voice was deep and quiet. "But I have not come seeking employment, nor charity. I wish to see the vicar on a matter of spiritual importance." That made Clairidge perk up. He didn't recognize the voice, and strangers were a novelty in this parish. If he wanted to meet the man he'd better act quickly, because Mrs. Linton was saying, "He's available for counselling after services, so if you'll come back..." The vicar stepped to the door of his study, peering down the hall. Mrs. Linton was a small woman, and the man on the other side of the door was quite large--there was no trouble getting a good look at him.

64

She'd been airing her prejudices when she mistook the man for a tramp, he decided. While he obviously wasn't a gentleman or even a member of the middle class, his clothing was too good for one of the vagabonds who were so common these days. He called, "Mrs. Linton." She looked around, and her shoulders slumped a bit as she realized that the vicar was going to see the man after all. "Please bring a fresh pot of tea and another cup for my visitor." She nodded and turned to go to the kitchen as the vicar advanced, holding out his hand in greeting. "I'm Reverend Thomas Clairidge. Please, come in." The man shook his hand. "I thank you, sir. I am Lukas Kreski." He followed the reverend into his small, cozy den, taking a seat on a small sofa. "I hate to trouble you at your home." Clairidge waved away the apology. "Sir, I am a man of God, and that is not an occupation that is bound by shopkeeper's hours. You told my housekeeper that this was a spiritual matter?" "First, sir, I will ask you--are you a modern man? By that I mean do you discount as superstition and nonsense all the wisdom and beliefs that have come down to us from our forefathers?" Reverend Clairidge regarded him solemnly. "You know, I was just thinking about that, and I've come to the conclusion that I am not one of those. I'm dreadfully old fashioned, and I'm just lucky that I'm in a quiet rural area. If I were in a smarter parish I'm sure I'd have been ejected long ago for my unfashionable viewpoint on such things as sin and evil." Lukas smiled, green eyes glittering. "You give me hope, sir." He was silent while a palpablydisapproving Mrs. Tilton brought in a tray of tea, complete with a small dish of plain cookies. Those few treats said 'You see that I am not prejudiced. I will treat this low person as a guest, but I will NOT encourage him to make himself at home'. Lukas waited until she had left before speaking. As the vicar began to pour out the tea he said, "I have a long tale to tell you, sir--long, and strange. It will be quite difficult to believe, but I beg you to hear me out, and to listen with an open and faithful heart..." ~*~ Dracula was newly risen for the evening, and he was debating whether he should go over to the Westenra's estate. He yearned to spend every possible moment in Jonathan's company, but too much attention to the young man might arouse suspicions. While he was debating, Rill came into the room, going directly to him. "Master?" Dracula stopped his pacing. He had a special fondness for Rill. When he was at one of his lowest points, Rill had offered him simple warmth, comfort, and acceptance. "What is it, childe?" "Robert. Master, you promised me that once you'd found and claimed your lover we would free him from his imprisonment." "It isn't really a prison, Rill. You know that Robert is disturbed. He's in a hospital, and the doctor there is trying to make him better." Rill's expression was stubborn. "It has bars, and locks on the doors. He sleeps on a hard bed in a bare, cold room. He eats rough food, and he is under the care of even rougher men. Master, please. I fear that if we can not bring him to us soon, he will be completely lost to us--to the world." He took a deep breath, then said simply, "You promised." A call on his honor was never ignored. "Yes, Rill--I promised. I can't help you in this, though. I have to remain aloof, because is anyone were to find out..." Rill's expression had become bright and eager. "I know! You don't have to. I can do it. Simion and Sinn will help me." Sinn and Simion had come in behind Rill, and Simion gave Draculea a questioning look. When Draculea nodded, Simion said, "We're going to take care of that dog who has charge of him, too. The thing to do will be to make certain that Renfield isn't suspected of his death when he disappears after.

65

Let their priority be looking for some stranger who killed the attendant, not an innocent lunatic who managed to escape in the accompanying confusion." "If he was with someone?" Rill said questioningly. "It should be someone other than one of the other inmates," said Sinn. "Someone at least nominally 'respectable'." "I know," said Rill. "Doctor Seward, the one we met at the Westenras'?" He looked down for a moment, biting his lip, then looked up again. "He likes Robert. Sometimes he visits him--at night." Sinn smiled knowingly, and Dracula cocked an eyebrow, but all the count said was, "The doctor would make an excellent witness to prove Robert's innocence--if he will be willing to admit that he was with Robert." "Why wouldn't he?" Dracula studied Rill, trying to decide how he should word his reply. "He might not want people to know that Robert is his special friend. They might think that he couldn't be a good doctor to him." "But he's Lucy Westenra's doctor, and she's his friend." Sinn started to laugh, but when Dracula and Simion gave him sharp looks it turned into a cough. Then he shrugged as if to say 'can you blame me?' Anyone with eyes could see that the doctor was yearning after the little blonde flirt. He'd probably never be able to bring himself to act on those desires, since she was a 'lady', but he allowed himself to indulge his baser nature with Renfield. After all, Renfield was a man, a madman, and he sought the encounters. These facts allowed Jack to muffle the accusing voice in the back of his mind. Simion said, "I think it will be all right, Domn. Seward might have a faint worry about his reputation, but he'll have a plausible explanation. Renfield is his patient, after all. And I believe that his English pride in his countrymen's honesty will not let him deny Robert a deserved alibi. He won't need to elaborate. If someone suggests Robert is the murderer, all Seward need do is say that he was with Robert at the time. I doubt anyone will question him closely about that." "Then go," Dracula laid his hand on Rill's shoulder, "with my blessing. When you free Renfield, bring him here directly. The abbey has many rooms--even if we have visitors it shouldn't be hard to hide him safely till it's time for us to return home." Rill grabbed Dracula's hand, pressing a happy kiss to it. "Thank you, my lord! I'll take care of him, you'll see." Dracula smiled at him fondly. "I know you will, childe." ~*~ Seward's Asylum Bamford went to answer the knocking at the ward's door. He opened the little barred window and peered out, blinking in surprise. "Prosser, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to be taking another night off." Prosser was pale and looked irritated, and in pain. "I was, but I'm all right. It's griping me to think about the place being left short handed." He gave Bamford a sharp look that said 'leaving it with YOU'. Bamford let him in. As he was relocking the door Prosser said, "So, what's been going on since I was gone? The babies behaving themselves?" "Eh, nothing more than the usual. Was a bit of excitement the other day. A couple of the local muckitymucks came by."

66

"Oh, lord," sighed Prosser. "I thought that Seward didn't believe in letting the bored tour for their amusement." "It wasn't that. They were visiting one of the looneys." That surprised Prosser. "What? You mean someone cared enough about one of these poor bastards to come visit him? The ones in the front part, yeah, but I don't recall anyone ever coming for one of these. Who was it?" Bamford pointed. Renfield was once again sitting on the bench, gazing raptly up at the barred window near the top of the wall. "Him? But I thought he didn't have no family, and his bosses dumped him here." "Yeah, but apparantly he has at least one friend in the world." "I'm surprised that Seward allowed it. As proud as he is of the humane conditions here, he don't usually like outsiders larking about." "Well, he didn't exactly authorize it, but one of 'em was from the Westenra house. He's some special guest or some such. Harker his name was. And the other was a bloody great Yank who seemed to have a soft spot for the loonies. He was talking about sending them special food." Prosser nodded. "Bout time someone did. The stuff they get is a half step up from pig swill." Bamford snorted. "He'll probably want us to tuck them in at night." There was an unhealthy leer in Bamford's voice, and Prosser looked at him sharply. His voice was hard as he said, "Listen, you--listen careful like. I told you before you're to stay away from Renfield at bedtime or any other time. That goes for the others, too. Some of these looneys have relatives in the area. They may not visit much, but they still care what happens to 'em, and they'll be happy to deal out a little comeuppance outside the hospital, and you may think you're a hard lot, but they can teach you what hard is. So help me, if I find out you've been mucking around..." "All right, all right! You don't need to rabbit on about it, Prosser. Damn. You're so careful of their delicate sensibilities ye'd think they was a bunch of twelve-year-old girls." One of the slightly closer-to-normal inmates came over to the pair. Scratching his head vigorously he whined, "Sir, Renfield won't give over on the bench. He's been there all evening, and me and my mate want a sit down. All he's doing is talking to the rat." "Rat?" said Prosser, peering past him at Renfield. "Where?" The inmate pointed upward, and Prosser followed the indicated direction up to the barred window. There was a rat perched on the sill, narrow snout poked through the bars, whiskers twitching. As he looked it emitted several high pitched squeaks. Renfield nodded. "Yes, I understand. Oh, I don't think that will be a problem. Thank you. Thank you so much. I knew..." The rat had sat up on its hind legs, and was gazing toward Prosser and Bamford. It squeaked again, its eyes fixed on Prosser with what the man would have almost sworn was human intelligence. Renfield turned slowly, his eyes falling on Prosser. He studied the attendant, and there was a shrewd light in his eyes. He said softly, "No, not a problem, I think." Renfield gave the rat one more look, then got up and headed for his room. Two inmates quickly took possession of the bench, and that started a squabble with the couple that had been complaining to Prosser. By the time Prosser and Bamford had the quartet separated and the matter settled, Renfield had disappeared into his room. The inmates circulated around the open ward for another hour or so, till it was approaching their usual bed time. They started sifting away, one going to his room, then another. Prosser told Bamford in no uncertain terms that now that he was back, Bamford would once again be patrolling the upper level. Bamford grumbled a little, but Prosser had seniority. They were about ready to begin locking the cell doors when Renfield came to the door of his room and called out, "Mister Prosser? Mister Prosser, could I please talk to you for a few moments?"

67

Prosser went over to stand beside the open door. "What is it, Renfield?" Renfield glanced significantly at Bamford and whispered, "Not here. Come inside, and shut the door." Feeling uncomfortable, Prosser said, "That's against the rules." "Please." Renfield turned large, pleading eyes up at him. "Well..." "You're not afraid of me?" Prosser hesitated. Renfield looked so harmless and meek. Where would be the harm? "Just a minute, then." He followed Renfield into the room. Bamford watched them disappear, thinking sourly that no one told Prosser not to harass the patients. Of course it never occurred to him that might be because Prosser had never given them cause. The big room was empty now. As soon as Prosser came out they'd begin locking the doors, and start their nightly patrol. It was odd how quiet this big room could be without the constant muttering and shuffling of the inmates. Sound carried. He never would have heard the thump during the daytime. Of course he woldn't have had to listen for it. If a rat had jumped from the second floor window to the ground floor during the day, the outcry of the inmates would have alerted everyone within earshot. Bamford whirled to see the brown rat crouching on the floor near the bench, watching him with red, beady eyes. He blinked in surprise. He had always supposed that one rat looked very much like another, but there was never a doubt in his mind that this was the same rat that had attacked him in Robert Renfield's cell. Bamford's jaw set with stubborn determination. He'd done his damndest to kill the rat that last time, and he was damned sure going to succeed this time. The rat bared yellowed, sharp teeth, and it was almost as if it were grinning at him. Bamford pulled his baton off his belt and took a step toward the rat, trying to guess which way it would run. He thought he was prepared for it to run in any direction, but he wasn't. It ran right at him. ~*~ "Well, Renfield," said Prosser. "What is it, then?" "You've been gone," said Robert. "I don't like it when you're gone. Bamford... watches." Prosser grimaced. "Yeah, well. I've had a talk with him about that. He's to leave you alone or things will go hard for him." "Thank you. I feel safe when you're here. Why were you gone?" Prosser rubbed his jaw tenderly. "Tooth. I had a bad 'un, and the doctor pulled it. He was a bit ham handed." Renfield frowned, making a tsking sound. "Oh, that's dreadful! A tooth pain can be very intense, and the cure can be even worse." "Don't I know it, but you must have it taken care of. It can poison you else wise." "Yes." Renfield stepped over to him and reached out. Prosser stiffened. It wasn't always safe to allow an inmate to touch you, but Renfield had never demonstrated violence toward others save for that one incident in Seward's office. Prosser knew he was taking a risk, but he believed that offering trust where it was possible would help the inmates. Renfield was gentle. He touched Prosser's jaw lightly. "It's still swollen. It must hurt." "A bit. The dentist gave me some pills for it, but I don't like to take too many. They make me dopey, like things aren't quite real."

68

"That isn't a good feeling," Renfield agreed. "I've felt that." Renfield's eyes unfocused slightly, and his voice became a little distant. "When you aren't in control. I mean I've often felt I couldn't control my world, but when someone else is directing you..." "If that's all, you ought to get to bed. I need to go..." Renfield blinked, seeming to come back to reality. He looked into Prosser's eyes and said, "It isn't just the jaw, is it? It's making your head hurt." "It is that. It's throbbing. Feels like it could work itself up to fair burst my skull, and I still don't want to take one of the pills." "Perhaps you don't need the medicine. Human touch can be healing." Renfield reached toward him again. "If you'll let me..." ~*~ The rat's charge startled Bamford so badly that he couldn't react immediately. Then he instinctively moved backward, and he stumbled against the bottom step. He fell, the rough impact jarring as his spine, then the back of his head struck the stairs. He tried to haul himself up, but he wasn't fast enough. The rat leaped landing on his lower leg, nails catching at his trousers. The cry Bamford was going to make choked in his throat as he kicked frantically, trying to dislodge the rodent. He vividly remembered the pain of the creature's bite, and he had no desire for another. Then the rat began to swarm up his body--toward his face. The breath hitched in Bamford's chest and he battered at the rat. But by now the rat was so high on his body that his reach was too long to be accurate. He only thumped himself painfully with his own baton. He was about to drop the club and try to swat the rat away, or grab it when it leaped. He was both relieved and surprised when instead of landing on his face the rat sailed over his head. The relief didn't last for long, though. Almost immediately there was a ripping pain in his scalp as the creature tore out a tuft of his hair. Bamford sprang up and turned, ready to beat the rat to a jelly. It was moving, though, running up the stairs, leaping easily from step to step. "Bloody hell-beast!" Bamford gritted, and started up after it. ~*~ Prosser stiffened suspiciously. "What are you up to, Renfield?" "Just trying to help." Renfield's fingers settled on Prosser's temples, and he began to rub slow, gentle circles. "I had a friend who used to do this for me when... when I first got sick. It helped. It made me feel more peaceful." Prosser stayed still, humoring the little man. It didn't hurt anything, and it WAS soothing. "That is nice." Renfield looked down, then up at him. "It could be nicer still if you laid your head in my lap. I can sit on the bed, and you can stretch out. Just for a minute." ~*~ The rat reached the narrow top landing. Instead of scampering down the walkway that ran around the walls, it turned and chittered at Bamford. Bamford slowed, creeping toward it, club raised high. "That's it, beastie. You just wait for Bamford. He'll send you right to rattie hell." The rat sat up on its haunches--and seemed to just keep going up. Bamford froze as the animal seemed to swell and expand. Fur thinned and thin limbs thickened and stretched. Bamford was struck immobile for only a second or two, but that was all it took. He found himself facing not a rat, but a strange young

69

man who glared at him with the rat's angry red eyes. "You want to hurt my friend," he said accusingly. Bamford whispered, "I've gone mad. The looneys have driven me as mad as they are." His expression hardened. If he were mad, then this was just an illusion, and an illusion couldn't hurt him. But perhaps if his will was strong enough, he could drive the illusion away. "You're not real!" he declared, and swung his club. Rill easily caught the man's wrist, and broke it with a quick twist. Bamford yelled in shocked pain, suddenly realizing that a delusion couldn't hurt you, so this had to be something very different. ~*~ Prosser, though troubled by his own reaction to Renfield's touch, was actually considering doing as the man suggested. His wife was a good woman, and he loved her, but between the children and the housework there was seldom time for gentle touches and careful consideration. Their congress was limited to what went on between the sheets, and she did that as briskly and efficiently as her washing up. He'd almost decided that there would be nothing wrong in accepting Renfield's invitation when he heard Bamford yell out in the main room. Prosser stiffened. "Trouble!" Renfield moved quickly, grabbing at his shirt. "He's just yelling at one of the inmates. You know how he is." There was another yell. "No, that sounds like pain." Prosser tried to turn away, but Renfield clung to him stubbornly, his grip surprisingly strong. "Let go!" Prosser was much larger than Renfield, so it wasn't too hard to tear him away and push him onto the bed. Not too hard, but it took several seconds. ~*~ The club fell from Bamford's numb fingers, clattering down the steps as Rill's free hand closed on the attendant's throat. The vampire shook him easily, growling, "I wish I had more time. I wish I could give you to Rock. But Simion said it has to be fast, and it has to look like an accident." "You... you can't... PROSSER!" Rill grabbed his neck with both hands now and wrenched hard. There was a grating snap, and Bamford's eyes widened as his body began to shudder. Rill threw him backward down the steps, watching as his body jolted and tumbled loosely, his head striking several times with solid thumps. "I can." ~*~ As Prosser headed for the door he heard the unmistakable sound of a body falling. He could see the area in front of the stairs, and Bamford tumbled into view, coming to rest in a loose, disjointed heap. Prosser raced out and bent over him. Bamford wasn't dead--not quite. He was still breathing shallowly, and his eyes blinked slowly, looking bewildered and horrified. From the way his head lolled, Prosser had the sickening notion that blinking was probably the only movement the other man was capable of. "What happened?" he asked. Bamford made a sound, but it couldn't be interpretted as anything meaningful. His eyes rolled, trying to look at the stairs. Prosser followed his gaze, hoping to see some clue as to what had caused this horrendous accident--if it WERE an accident. He half expected to see one of the lunatics standing at the top of the stairs, looking down on the tormenter who'd finally had the tables turned. There was nothing human there, but there was a large brown rat crouched on the top step, peering down. Was that what had caused this? Prosser had heard of Bamford's earlier run-in with a rat. It was entirely possible that Bamford had slipped while trying to exact revenge. It would have been just like him to act carelessly while distracted by rage. There was no time to think about the rat now. Prosser didn't have much hope for the broken man, but he

70

had to try. He ran to the exit and snatched at the cord that would ring the alarm bell. That would bring the outside warders on the run, and he could get them to send for Dr. Seward. Bamford would likely die before Jack Seward could return from the Westenra Estate, but an effort had to be made. He was too preoccupied to see the rat patter down the stairs and disappear into Renfield's room. ~*~ Renfield, jittery with nervous anticipation, had forced himself to remain in his room. He very badly wanted to see Bamford dead, but more than that he wanted out of the asylum. He wasn't going to risk the latter for the former. He'd sat on the edge of his bed, but when the rat scurried in, he hopped eagerly to his feet. The rat turned in a circle, his movements almost jubilant, and Rill stood up. He smiled at Renfield. "He won't hurt you anymore." Robert gave a glad little cry and threw himself at Rill. He hugged the vampire fiercely, the coldness of the body in his arms comforting rather than alarming, as it might once have been. Then he took a step back, took Rill's hand, and laid it across the back of his neck, murmuring, "My life for you." "Oh, no, Robert." Rill kissed him on the cheek. "Dracula is your master--I am your friend." "And very sweet it is," said a voice from the window. They both glanced up to find Sinn holding the bars, peering in. "But if he is to come with us, we had better do it now, before they think to come outside." "How will I get out?" said Renfield. "There will be attendants all over. I can't just walk out." "Of course not." Sinn had been tugging on the bars, studying them closely. "Aren't we lucky that they used such inferior materials, and that the English weather is so harsh on masonry?" He twisted, and there was a gritty sound. "Rill, come and help, and we will be able to have one or two of these bars out in a moment." "Robert, boost me up," said Rill. He turned into a rat again, and Renfield picked him up, then lifted him as high as he was able. The rat jumped, and Rill changed in mid-air, catching hold of the bars. His toes settled firmly against the wall, bracing, and he began to twist and tug on the bars with Sinn. It wasn't long before one of the bars came out of the crumbling mortar, then another. This created a narrow gap, but one that was big enough to allow a small man passage. Rill dropped back down. "I'll boost you up, then Sinn will help you through and get you safely to the ground." He bent down, offering the shelf of his back to Renfield. Renfield climbed up, like he was going to make a piggy-back ride, and Rill lifted him, holding his legs for balance. "Now you have to try to climb up and stand on my shoulders. Use the wall for support." With a little grunting and panting, and some assistance from Rill, Renfield managed to get into the rather precarious position. His head was still well below the window, though. Sinn leaned through, extending his hand. "Grab hold, Robert, and I will pull you up." Renfield, wobbling even with his hands pressed against the wall for support, gazed up at him with confusion and doubt. Sinn knew what he was thinking. "Merde. Robert, even if I wished to have my way with you I would not attempt it while hanging here. Besides," he smiled, "I have a new friend who enjoys my games." He crooked his finges. "You're quite safe." "Robert," said Rill. "You're heavy, and we have to hurry. Someone may start checking on the inmates." Renfield's mouth firmed in determination. He reached up and Sinn locked his hand firmly around Robert's wrist. The vampire pulled, lifting him as Renfield pushed up, and grabbed for the remaining bars with his free hands. In a moment he had slithered through the narrow opening. It was a good thing that Sinn had his vampiric strength. Very few mortal men could have kept their grip on the bars with one hand while lowering another to the ground. Still, he managed to do just that, and Renfield had a very short drop to the ground. He landed easily, bending his knees to absorb the shock. In another moment Sinn had joined him on the ground, then Rill. Rill grabbed his hand urgently. "This way! Simion has the wagon behind those trees. Once we get there

71

you'll go in the back under some sacking, and we'll take you to the abbey." Again Robert hugged Rill, and Sinn rolled his eyes. "Such sweet gratitude, but it will go to waste if we are discovered. Courez, enfants!" Three dark figures hurried across the dirt road that ran behind Seward's Asylum, slipping into the copse of trees, merging with the thick shadows. Then the night was still for a moment. There was the sound of a door opening near the front and a man made his way down the main road toward the Westenra Estate. An observe might have noticed that he jogged along, but didn't seem to be moving with any great urgency. After he turned the corner, going out of sight behind a small hill, a rough wagon emerged from behind the asylum. A dark haired young man, dressed in clothes that seemed a bit too elegant for such a rustic mode of travel, sat beside the driver, an older, fair haired man. Another young man sat in the bed of the wagon. He sat beside a pile of canvas sacking. One hand rested on the pile, and now and again he was seen to pat the material almost comfortingly. ---------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 115 Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-fourteen The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Vicarage, Near Carfax Abbey Belief Mrs. Linton was up with the birds, as usual. The first thin curve of the sun had barely appeared over the Eastern horizon when she made her way down from her room in the attic. The Vicar had tried to insist that she take one of the good rooms on the first floor but shed told him firmly that despite his novel ideas of social equality her place was in servants quarters. Besides, he might need the space for visitors. *And its just as well,* she thought sourly, drawing her skirts up a fraction, and making a note to herself that it was past time to sweep the stairs. *Since that... PERSON stayed over last night. Whatever was the Vicar thinking of? Its a wonder we werent both murdered in our beds.* The foreigner had stayed. Even now she could scarcely believe it. Mrs. Linton had been annoyed when the Vicar had told her that Lukas would be staying for supper. It wasnt that there wouldnt be enough food to go around. The Vicar favoured light suppers, so there were plenty of eggs to add to the omelette. Had Lukas been one of the respectable local folk, Mrs. Linton would have been pleased to have him as a guest, but as it was she served them in frosty silence. Neither of the men seemed to notice, and her pique fell a bit flat. She was clearing up when the Vicar had stepped into the kitchen and informed her, in an offhand manner, that his guest would be staying the night, and would she be good enough to make up one of the guest rooms? Mrs. Linton, like many domestics, had a personal interest in her employers household, and she was affronted that the Vicar would consider having such a person under their roof. She hurried past the door of Lukas room, moving as if she expected him to pop out and drag her off to a fate worse than death. Once she was safely past she slowed down to a more dignified pace. She reached the ground floor and started for the kitchen, thinking resentfully that shed be expected to provide breakfast for the visitor as well. She was passing the study and gave it a negligent glance. She was in the habit of giving every room she passed a quick inspection. Vigilance was the key to a well ordered house. She corrected everything she saw out of place immediately, and since the Vicar and his guest had again retired to this room after supper, it was entirely likely that there would be some disorder. What she saw made her stop in her tracks. Vicar! Thomas Clairidge, still wearing his previous days clothing, was sitting in his favourite chair before the hearth. The fire had long ago died, leaving not even embers, but the Vicar was staring into it as if he were trying to see pictures in a dancing blaze. His usually neat hair was disordered, as if hed been running his hands through it. Though the Vicar was approaching sixty hed always been a vigorous, lively man, but now his face was drawn, his complexion almost grey. He looked as if hed aged ten

72

years. Perhaps most disturbingly his necktie hung, undone, and the first two buttons of his shirt were open. Mrs. Linton felt almost as scandalized as she had the time shed seen a man working on a road gang strip off his shirt. He hadnt even glanced up at her exclamation. He still didnt look around as she approached to stand beside his chair. She proved her loyalty to her employer by overriding her natural reluctance to make physical contact with a an by putting her hand on his arm. Sir? He flinched slightly, then looked up at her distractedly. Oh, Im sorry, Mrs. Linton. You neednt wait up for me. Ill go up to bed soon. Sir, its morning. You dont mean to tell me that youve been here all night? He blinked, looking around, noting the dim light that was beginning to fall through the window. I suppose I must have. Oh, really Sir, it wont do. I havent known you to sit up like this unless you were at the bedside of an ill parishioner. I had a lot to think about. Lukas Her expression hardened. I might have known! Hes said something to upset you. I knew he was trouble the moment I saw him standing at the door. She drew herself up. Im having him out of this house immediately, and if he wont shift, Ill send for the constable. The Vicar shook his head. No, no. Its only that he told me some things that required much consideration. Sir, if its something thats going to be keeping you up all blessed night then its something that you need to lay down. Youll ruin your health. This isnt something I can walk away from, Mrs. Linton. Ive sworn to do what I can to protect mankind as a whole, and men as individuals both physically and spiritually. To turn a blind eye would be breaking those vows. Mrs. Lintons admiration for the Vicar was rooted in his selflessness, so she couldnt urge him to do something that he clearly felt would be a betrayal of his beliefs. But she also couldnt stand to see him so disturbed, so she fell back on common wisdom. Well, trouble shared is trouble halved. Surely you have colleagues who can help. He sighed. No, none of the locals. If I were to ask for their help in this Matter he chuckled tiredly, Im afraid they might ask Dr. Seward to have a look at me. He grew thoughtful. No, no one local. But perhaps... I havent spoken to him in years, but Ive been following his career, and Im sure he would be interested. Even if what I fear isnt true Mrs. Linton cleared her throat, and he came back to the moment. Oh, Im sorry. Mrs. Linton, please prepare a bit heartier breakfast than usual. Im sure that Lukas would appreciate something more than milk and toast. In fact, I think Ill join him. He knew that this would ensure her best effort. And if youd be good enough to brush my jacket? Ill be going to the telegraph office after breakfast. Telegrams? Theyre very dear. If youd like to write a letter I can have the neighbours lad run it to the post office. A letter wont do. The post is far too slow. Oh, nonsense. What with the trains these days Mrs. Linton, please dont argue with me about this! She looked hurt, and he softened, apologizing. Im sorry, but truly, this is an urgent matter. And Im not entirely sure where the man I need to reach is right now. He moves around a good deal, has business in many places. Im going to send messages to the first likely half dozen places.

73

Ms. Linton reluctantly went into the kitchen to begin breakfast, thinking, *A half dozen telegrams? Nothing warrants a half dozen telegrams save a wedding, a birth, or a death. He has no sweetheart, so the first two are unlikely. That leaves...* Mrs. Linton dutifully said grace before each meal, and prayed before bed and in church. Shed always thought that kept God well enough informed, so she didnt bother him unless there was some sort of crisis, but she found herself praying now. She wasnt even sure why she needed to pray so it was formless, but it was fervent. ~*~ When they had arrived at Carfax Abbey, Renfield had been offered his choice of rooms. There were many bedrooms that were grand in scale, and could have quickly been made pleasant. Given his pick, Renfield had chosen a tiny, stuffy room that had once been provided for a guests valet or maid. He chose it because it was interconnected with the one shared by Simion and Rill. When Rill had tried to urge him into taking a larger room Simion had taken him aside and explained that Renfield wanted to be as close to him as possible. Rill had then suggested that Renfield could share their bed, it was large enough for three. Simion considered this. He knew that Renfield, in his quiet way, was attracted to Rill. He also knew that it was because Rills sweet nature reminded him of Jonathan, and that no one would ever take his own place in Rills heart. Simion loved Rill, but Redfields helplessness touched him. His whole life had been dedicated to protecting and serving: first Dracula, then Rill. Dracula hadnt really needed him for some time, and Rill was so much stronger, physically and emotionally, than he had been when he first came to the household. It would be good to again have someone who really needed him. Renfield had been following their conversation, listening intently. Now Simion addressed him. What do you think, Robert? Would you like that? Renfield said quietly, Ive slept by myself my entire life. Ive wondered what it would be like. You wouldnt mind? Simion shook his head. It appears that the idea finds favour with us all. If it doesnt work out it will be but the work of a few moments to prepare a bed for you. But remember Robert, Rills schedule is backward from most of the rest of the world. I know, said Renfield. I would have gotten used to it by now, but they wouldnt let me sleep during the day at the asylum. He made a face. They said it wasnt normal. As far as Im concerned, normal doesnt necessarily mean good. Then we should go to bed, its almost dawn. Ill only sleep a few hours. I find that I do not need much sleep, and it is best if Im available during the day to keep watch, and tend to the Counts business. Renfield nodded, then said almost shyly, We didnt bring my nightshirt. Rill giggled. Those are so silly. I remember you were wearing one when I visited you. If I hadnt been so worried and angry with that man I might have laughed. He quickly patted Redfields shoulder, assuring him, Not at you, Robert. I know they MADE you wear that ridiculous garment. Simion and Renfield exchanged a look. Neither one was going to tell Rill that such ridiculous garments had always been part of the former clerks wardrobe. Simion said, I understand that you might not be easy with sleeping bare. You can wear your drawers, if you really need to wear something. He started unbuttoning his shirt. But if youre to sleep with us tonight Ill have to ask you to remove your shirt and trousers. The material is coarse, and Rill has delicate skin. Renfield glanced at the vampire and was a little startled to see that he had begun stripping also. He was down to his trousers, and his pale body gleamed like marble. Rill gave him an encouraging smile as he began to unbutton his fly. Oh, I dont mind. But Robert, youll be a lot more comfortable without them. I never wear anything when I sleep in a bed with Simion.

74

Renfield hesitated another moment, then slowly began to remove his clothes. Simion finished first, and Renfield carefully looked anywhere but at Simion as the other man turned down the covers on the bed. Renfield was still toying with the top button of his trousers when Simion finished. Simion noticed Redfields discomfort. As Rill slipped into bed, Simion went over and laid a hand on Redfields shoulder. The smaller man stiffened, looking away, but Simion said quietly, Robert, you dont have to come in with us. The room is ready, and Rills feelings wont be hurt. I just He looked at Simion warily. You truly wont mind? I wont be... Intruding? Simion smiled at him. Believe me, if you would I would have TOLD you to take the other room. He lowered his voice. I know whats worrying you, Robert, but you must understand how it is between Rill and me. Yes, Im occasionally jealous, but only of people I know want to separate us. He cupped Redfields cheek almost gently. I know that isnt what you want. You just want to be with someone wholl care for you. We can both give you that. Renfield smiled tentatively. You like sleeping with Rill, dont you? Simion returned the smile. Very much, but that sounds like the prelude to a request. What do you want? Could I sleep between you two, just for tonight? The last few words were said rapidly, as if he felt he had to get it out quickly. Simion patted him again. Tonight, yes. I have to warn you, though. You might want to keep your drawers on if youre in the middle. As much as I love Rill, his body temperature can take a little getting used to. Redfields face shone with pure happiness. I dont mind. Rill had been listening. When Renfield turned to the bed, Rill scooted over to the far side and held the sheets back invitingly. Come on, then. The sun will be up soon, and I want to talk a little before I drop off. Renfield quickly pushed down his trousers and slid beneath the sheets, moving close to his friend. They turned on their sides toward each other and began whispering together. Simion shook his head, then put out the lamp and joined them. He lay in the dark, listening to the quiet voices. Hed expected to feel left out, but he didnt. It was odd. He supposed that he should be feeling jealous, but he didnt. It was like listening to two children, best friends. He was starting to doze when he felt someone cuddling up to him. He automatically put his arm around the warm body. *Warm,* he thought. *Not Rill. Thats right, Rills on the other side of Renfield.* An arm crept across his chest, embracing him, and he felt breath ghosting against his chest. He realized with a bit of surprise that, as happy and satisfied as he was with his vampire lover, hed missed that simple sensation. Then he felt an even warmer, softer touch: the touch of lips on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly, looking down at Renfield. The little man was gazing up at him, his expression hopeful, anxious, and almost diffident. Renfield whispered, Rill said it would be all right. Rill? Rill raised up, resting his chin on Redfields shoulder. I thought you might both like it. You always let me take you, and I know how much I enjoy it. Renfield likes to give himself, but only to someone wholl be good to him, and I know you would be, so His voice trailed off. I... was I wrong? Simion reached over and touched him. If it doesnt hurt you, no. You werent wrong. Simion laid his hand on Redfields arm, stroking. Are you sure about this, Robert? You havent had much choice in your life in matters of the bed. I want to be sure that you dont feel you owe us this.

75

I want it. Please? The final word was almost aching with yearning. Youre part of our family now, Robert. You must never beg anything of us. He leaned down and kissed Renfield gently. Only ask, as it is your right. It proved to be another instance of Rills perception. Simion had been missing the aggressive side of sex, and he hadnt even realized it till he moved over Renfield. The little clerk had pulled down his drawers and lay on his stomach. Rill tucked a pillow under Redfields chin, stroking his hair as Simion got the bottle of oil from their bedside table. When Simion breached Renfield with one slick finger, Robert tensed slightly. Rill was there immediately, rubbing his shoulder and whispering soothingly about how gentle Simion would be. And Simion was. It had been decades since hed been with anyone but Rill. He thought hed never want to. But as he prepared Renfield, he found that he was becoming more and more aroused. By the time Robert was relaxed and ready, Simion was rampantly erect. It was readily apparent as he knelt straddling Redfields thighs. He had a brief worry that Rill might still be upset, then Rill, lying beside Robert, ran a hand down Redfields back and smiled up at his lover, saying, Hes very smooth, isnt he? Simion bent down and kissed Rill, while he massaged Redfields shoulders. He whispered against his lovers lips, You are the most giving person Ive ever known, my love. Simion gripped Redfields hips and entered him in a slow, smooth glide. Renfield whimpered, rubbing his face in the pillow, but it was a happy sound. After all the times hed been used and abused... By Sinn and Rock, of course, but his times with Jack Seward had still been a less violent sort of use. Now someone was giving him what he wanted in a tender, caring manner, as hed always dreamed. It wasnt Jonathan, but it was enough. And then it was more than enough because Rill slid his hand under, stroking Redfields rigid prick as Simion thrust slowly into him, filling him with heat and the sense that he didnt have to do anything but accept and enjoy. Rill knelt up in the bed beside the joined couple. He took hold of Simions wrist and pulled his hand over, pressing it to his own erection. Simion stroked Rill to completion with a sure, loving touch. He was the first. Then Renfield cried out softly, squirming with pleasure. The little noise and the extra friction caused by his motion brought Simion to his own release. While Simion held Renfield, gentling him down from his climax, Rill quickly fetched a cloth, and they all cleaned up. Then they settled back down, with Renfield still in the centre. He settled down, one hand on Simions chest, the other curled up near Rills neck. As naturally as if this was a long established habit, Simions and Rills fingers entwined over Redfields waist, and they fell asleep. Renfield lay awake a little longer, staring up into the darkness. This was how things were supposed to be. If someone went through pain and terror, they were supposed to come through to peace and happiness, and he had at last. As he drifted off to sleep he thought that his sanity had been a very small price to pay. ---------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 116/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-fourteen The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Royal Museum, London Antagonist The Curator was studying the list of possible patrons, feeling sour. He'd chosen his profession because he wanted to preserve the wonders of the past, and educate the common people by presenting the knowledge of past civilizations. Instead he found himself spending most of his time kow-towing to the well-to-do of London society. Some of them were true philanthropists who shared his own dedication,

76

but most were simply pretentious. They donated to the fashionable causes in the same way that they patronized the currently fashionable dressmaker. He knew very well that if he didn't look sharp this year's generous museum patron could be next season's generous opera patron. His secretary, a mercifully unambitious young man, bustled in, holding a thick clutch of opened envelopes. "Good morning, sir. Quite a lot of mail today." "Any checks?" asked the Curator, not looking up. "Um..." The secretary flipped through his burden quickly. "One. I'm afraid that Mrs. Smythe-Wilkins hasn't come up to scratch. She's only sent about a third of what you were hoping for." The Curator sighed, pushing the list away. "I might have known. She was trying to avoid me at that first showing of the Greek pottery. Well, I'll just have to toady a bit harder to the rest of the list. Anything else of interest?" "Request from the Boy Guides for a special tour, a local Ladies' League asking you to recommend a luncheon speaker, some lady in Hertfordshire is accusing us of stealing that Viking helmet from her back garden..." The Curator snorted with laughter, and the secretary smiled. "Yes, I'll send a polite reply directing her to contact her local constabulary. Then there's this." He held up an envelope and turned it over in his hand, studying it curiously. "A messenger brought this telegram. Apparently it's been forwarded from Germany. I don't exactly recognize the name, but there is something a bit familiar about it." He handed it over. The Curator pulled a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and perched them on his nose, peering at the envelope. "Ah, yes. Well, you only met him for a few moments when he first arrived last week. He's been doing research in our Medieval section, poking about the more obscure religious texts and artifacts." "Oh, I recall now. Why was it sent here?" "I believe that we weren't on his original itinerary. This is from Heidelberg--he's been operating from there for the last few years. The telegram must have gone there, and they sent it along. Telegram. Well, I expect we should get this to him. It might be important." He handed it back. "Take this directly to Professor Van Helsing." ~*~ There were many parts of the museum that were less than cheery, and the section devoted to the more obscure aspects of Medieval religion was one of them. The professor wasn't in the upper room, among the relics, historic books of theology, and tapestries, so the secretary passed through to the door marked NO ADMITTANCE. The room behind the door contained the rarest and most fragile texts, richly gilded and illustrated bibles, and crumbling parchments. It wasn't easy to obtain admittance to this room. References were needed, and not just social and political references. Only the most scholarly and pious were allowed to study this collection. The secretary pulled a key from a heavy ring. Another rule of usage--anyone studying the collection had to agree to be locked in. There was a cord inside that would ring an outside bell if the researcher needed to come out before their appointed time. There had been an occasional complaint about the dubious safety of such an arrangement, but most of the scholars who were interested weren't concerned enough to protest. The secretary unlocked the door and stepped through into the room. It was actually of a fair size, but it was so crammed that it seemed cramped. Besides the shelves lining the walls from top to bottom there were free standing shelves. These were packed in so that there was a scant two or three feet of space between them and the chairs at the study tables. Anyone might have expected such a close room to be dim, but it was well illuminated by several overhead electric lights. When the museum was changed over from gas, this had been the first room converted. Some had argued that it would make better sense to work with the public areas first--till it

77

had been pointed out to them exactly how flammable the collection was. There was usually one or two theological scholars or clergymen studying, but today there was only one. The secretary paused in the doorway, studying the man. It was odd--this Van Helsing was like, and unlike all the other researchers who'd come before him. He was dressed in the plain black favoured by most of the clergy, but he didn't wear the white collar. He was as quiet and distracted as most of the other researchers, his mind clearly on something other than the here and now. But the differences were almost stark. The most obvious was the hair. It wasn't the usual short, neat clip--it was long, almost as long as that playwright--what was his name? The one who'd written that frothy comedy--Lady Windermere's Fan. The resemblance ended with the hairstyle, though. He was bent low over a tattered parchment, but somehow it wasn't the classic scholar's stoop. The man's body was lean, and there was a sense of coiled energy--as if he were ready to spring up at any moment, prepared for anything. *But what on earth could require such vigilance?* thought the secretary. And he remembered the man's eyes, too. Those hadn't had the dreamy, far away look he'd come to associate with most of the men of God who had come to study this collection. His eyes were sharp, watchful, and somehow old. This bothered the secretary, because though there was a thick shock of gray streaking the man's dark brown hair, and deep lines bracketed his stern mouth, it was doubtful that he'd passed the age of forty. It usually took a few moments for the researchers to move from their contemplative state back to contact with the mundane world, and judging from how absorbed Van Helsing appeared to be, the secretary expected that to be the case here. He was startled when, not looking up, the older man said, "Yes?" "I'm sorry to disturb you, Professor." "I believe that I still have several hours scheduled today." "Oh, yes, sir. There's no problem there. It's just that a telegram has arrived for you." "I'll be taking a luncheon break soon." The man hadn't raised his head, hadn't even glanced up. "We thought that it might be important, sir." The man heaved a sigh and looked up reluctantly, holding out his hand. "I'm sorry to be rude, but I've reached a very interesting section. If you please?" The secretary handed the telegram over. "If you care to reply, I can send a message off by one of our staff." "Thank you." Van Helsing was tearing open the envelope. "Wait a moment and I'll let you know. I wonder what the University thought was urgent enough to pass along?" The secretary waited as the man's dark eyes ran over the telegram. Van Helsing's eyebrows shot up, then slowly lowered. A series of emotions passed over his face, some of them unreadable, but the secretary recognized shock, and something oddly like triumph, then grim determination. Van Helsing lifted his eyes from the paper, looking off into the middle distance, and stared. The secretary began to fidget. After almost a minute he said, "Professor?" Van Helsing blinked. "Professor, is something wrong?" "It could be nothing," said Van Helsing slowly. "But then, it could be everything. It could be that I am at last being called to fulfil my destiny." "I..." The secretary was confused. This could be either great good news, or a personal tragedy, and he'd be damned if he could tell which. "Is there anything we can do for you, sir?" Now Van Helsing's gaze flicked to him. "Don't trouble yourself, young man."

78

"But if there's some sort of problem, perhaps I could help you..." Van Helsing had stood up. His jacket had been draped across the back of his chair, and he was shrugging into it. Once again the secretary was reminded that he didn't have the slight or corpulent body shape shared by most of their religious researchers. Van Helsing's shoulders were broad and muscular, and he moved with an impatient, fluid ease. "Your heart is in the right place, and I thank you, but no." He came around the table, and the secretary had the sudden urge to take a step back--not so much to clear the way as to actually avoid the man. There was something alarmingly aggressive in the way the man moved. He almost flinched when Van Helsing put a hand on his shoulder and said heavily, "There are things in this world, young man--dark things. God never intended for all of mankind to know of them. He has given the knowledge and the skill of dealing with them to only a few, and it is our task to seek out the darkness, and remove it from God's world." He patted the secretary. "Cherish your innocence. Relay my thanks to the Curator. I will return to finish my research at a later date, God willing." He pushed the secretary aside and hurried out, his stride long and purposeful. The secretary stared after him for a moment, then stepped out of the room once again, locking the door. It took him a moment to recognize what he was feeling as relief, and he had to wonder what was causing it. The professor had been unfailingly polite, and had never offered the least hint of unpleasantness. But still there was an aura about him--something that hinted of aggression and danger, something totally at odds with the relaxed, gentle mood that the secretary had become accustomed to at the museum. Perhaps if the secretary had seen the particular bit of parchment that Van Helsing had been studying, he might not have felt quite so comfortable amid the collection of religious materials. It had been an account of a particularly bloody incident that had occurred during the reign of an obscure Transylvanian prince. It was included in this particular section because the Church had claimed that the Prince acted in response to a blatant gesture of religious defiance on the part of several Turkish envoys. Later scholars agreed that the motivation for nailing the men's fezes to their heads had been more politically than purely religious. Though both views were, to a certain extent, correct, there were only two men living who knew the REAL reason that the Turkish diplomats, and most particularly the youngest of the three, had been dealt with in such a bloody and decisive manner. ---------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 117/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-seventeen The Year of Our Lord, 1892 The Westenra Estate Uproar "Lucy," said Mister Westenra, "Don't pout, dear. It's not attractive." Lucy dismissed her father's pronouncement as ridiculous. She knew very well that she looked charming when she pouted. "But father, where can Jack be? He knew very well that he was expected at seven, and here it is half past. Dinner shall be ruined. I won't be responsible for Cook's temper, I really won't." She waved at the others assembled in the salon. "The Count, Sinn, and Arthur all arrived in a timely manner, and the asylum isn't any farther away than their houses." "The circumstances are different. Our friends here are gentlemen, but Dr. Seward has a job." "He has a CAREER," said Mina firmly. "Like Jonathan." Mister Westenra was too socially adept to show embarrassment for a faux pas. His tone said that he was soothing an unreasonable woman. "Of course, Mina. That was an unfortunate choice of words." *So like an Englishman,* thought Dracula. *To believe that it's an insult to refer to someone as a

79

working man. One works when it is necessary, be he noble or peasant. Otherwise,* he glanced at Arthur Holmwood, who was looking bored, *otherwise one is a waste.* Sinn was sitting close beside Quincy. Rill, he had explained, had remained at home. He had sent his regrets, Sinn informed them, but he was feeling out of sorts. Lucy had tendered pretty and half-hearted concerns. Now Sinn said, "One must be understanding, Miss Westenra. The good doctor is in charge of a facility where there are many..." He frowned, waving his hands as he searched for the right word. "Such places are prone to crisis, yes? Perhaps something came up suddenly." "Well, doesn't he have people to deal with such things?" said Lucy pettishly. "My dear," said her father wearily, "some things cannot be delegated. I remember once..." The butler came in. "Dr. Jack Seward." Jack, looking unutterably weary and a little rumpled, came in. "Good evening, all. I apologize for my tardiness." "Really, Jack, you're just too bad," Lucy scolded. Then she looked at him coquettishly. "What could possibly be important enough to keep you from my side?" Jack dropped into a chair, sighing. "An escaped lunatic." That most definitely got everyone's attention. Even Arthur sat up alertly. "Do you mean to tell me that there's some bally axe murderer running loose?" "Don't be more of an ass than you must, Arthur," said Jack shortly. This made Arthur blink in surprise. Jack Seward had never been anything but inoffensive and, in Arthur's opinion, ineffectual. He wasn't used to hearing the doctor speak so sharply. "We haven't had an axe murderer at the asylum for years." "When did this happen?" asked Mister Westenra. "Yesterday evening. I found out about it when I returned from my visit here. I spent all last night and most of today supervising the search. I managed to catch an hour or so of sleep just before I came over." Mister Westenra slapped the arms of his chair. "And we're only now hearing about it? Good lord, Seward. We could have all been murdered in our beds." "That's hardly likely," Seward assured him. "I'm much more concerned about the safety of the patient than the threat of any violence he might commit. He was one of my more inoffensive inmates, he's never shown a threat to anyone. Harker," he looked over at Jonathan as he spoke, "You know him-Renfield. You agree with my assessment of his personality?" Jonathan frowned in concern. "Robert? Robert is lost out there, all alone? Dr. Seward, how did this happen?" "Quite frankly, I have no idea." Seward shrugged helplessly. "I didn't even know for several hours after I returned to the asylum. When we finally did a head count he was missing, and I've no idea how long he'd been gone. You see, there was a bit of an uproar. One of the attendants managed to fall down the stairs and break his neck. He did it rather noisily and violently, and it upset the entire establishment. Those lunatics are very hard to settle down once they're stirred up." "But how did he escape," demanded Jonathan. "I thought establishments like your had... had multiple levels of security, locked doors beyond locked doors, beyond guards." "We're not entirely sure how he managed it. One of the other attendants was checking on him in his cell. He left him there to check on Bamford..." "Bamford?" said Quincy alertly. He looked at Jonathan. "That's the cuss who was giving your little

80

friend a hard time. Kind of peculiar that he breaks his neck on the same night that Renfield flys the coop." He looked at Seward. "The little fella didn't have anything to do with it, did he?" "But mon ami," said Sinn, "the good doctor said that the other attendant was with Renfield when the unfortunate incident occured. Perhaps he slipped out during the uproar?" "The door to the outside is NEVER left unattended," Seward said firmly. "Someone would be watching it even during a fire." He rubbed his forehead. "I think that we can blame a structural fault for part of it. One or two of the bars on his window seem to have just... just fallen out." Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Fallen out? How shoddy IS that place?" "It's old, but it's in fine shape," Seward snapped. "It must be that they used an inferior batch of cement when they set the bars in his window. We've never had that problem before, and I never would have believed that Renfield would be able to scale that wall high enough to squeeze through--not without help. I suppose that in the confusion one of the other inmates could have slipped into his cell and helped him, but I confess that I wouldn't have credited anyone in our current population with the intelligence, foresight, or spirit of cooperation necessary for such an incident. I'd be more inclined to believe that he had outside help." He turned suspicious eyes on Jonathan. There was a moment of silence, then Quincy sat forward and said in a deadly polite voice, "Mister, I know you're not suggesting that either me or Mister Harker had anything to do with this." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Quincy was telling Seward that he'd better NOT be suggesting any such thing. Seward realized that the implied accusation wasn't going to go unchallenged. He flushed, then said, "No, of course not. It's just... It's very confusing. I can't imagine any of the locals helping him out of the goodness of their hearts. I know their attitudes about my inmates, and most of them are continually suggesting stronger locks and more guards. But if he had help it must have been one of them, since he knows no one else in this area." "Count," said Quincy, "I've heard you speaking with Jonathan as if you know Renfield. He visited the castle of one of your relations, didn't he? Did you meet him there?" All eyes turned to the Count. He considered, then said slowly, "Yes. Now that I think, I believe I DID meet him once--briefly. I make an occasional visit to the Prince. He's my only living relative, and he's quite elderly." Dracula shrugged, smiling. "I'm the only known blood relative, but the laws of my country would allow him to dispose of his holdings as he wished. He's never been a particularly devout man, but I know you've all heard of people who, in their dotage, suddenly become pious and leave their wealth to the church or, " his smile widened, "a home for indigent pets." There were a few chuckles, and Holmwood shook his head. Eccentricity was not limited to the English nobility, but they liked to believe that they had perfected it. "I only spoke with him a few moments, but he struck me as a rather..." Dracula gestured, "I think innocuous would be the best way to describe him." "But he's insane," said Arthur. "You can never tell how a madman will act. He could become suddenly violent." "Anything is possible," said Jack Seward, "but I hardly think it's likely. However Renfield is... fragile-both emotionally and physically. He could very easily be victimized, or injured by an over zealous searcher seeking to capture him. I've notified the constabulary, and they'll be on the look out for him. If he isn't found within the next day or so they're going to raise a general alarm in the area." "For goodness sake," said Lucy. "Why not do it now?" "Because," said Mina, "there's a great deal of difference between one madman and the next, but that's hard to explain to people. The last thing we want is to have the local hysterics running about, armed to the teeth, having at anything that moves." "Quite right," said Mister Westenra. "Much better to leave this to those who are best fit to deal with it."

81

*And of course that wouldn't be the people themselves,* thought Dracula cynically. *Cooler heads-such as yours--must prevail.* "Count," said Mister Westenra heavily, "I don't like the idea of you going home alone in the dark. I'll send some of the footmen with you." At the word 'alone' Sinn raised an eyebrow, and Quincy didn't miss it. While Quincy saw Sinn as a sexual conquest, he didn't underestimate him. He had a healthy physical respect for the man, and felt that Sinn could more than acquit himself in a fight. Sinn touched a finger to his lips and said mildly, "Monsieur Westenra, while your concern is most gratifying, you need not fear for our safety." "Mister Barbee," said Westenra heavily, "I'm not doubting your bravery, but let's be honest. Those of us of a certain class haven't generally been prepared for physical confrontation. No offence intended." Sinn's smile was sharp. "None take, monsieur. But one should realize that though one's circumstances my be on the surface similar to those of another man, a deeper look might reveal many unexpected things." "I thank you for your concern," said Dracula. "But it is unnecessary. You must remember that I travelled here with two of my own servants. With them I would feel safe against an entire band of cut throats." "However," said Sinn. "A little extra protection would not be amiss. Perhaps Monsieur Quincy would consent to lend his presence? I am sure that we could offer him accommodations?" He looked questioningly at Dracula, who nodded. "He can make his way back here by light of day." "I'd be pleased to," said Quincy. He got up and bowed to the group, starting for the door. "I'll just go tell one of the footmen to pack a few things." Sinn arose also and followed him. At the door, Sinn laid a finger on Quincy's arm, and the big Texan paused, looking down at him. "Instruct him to fetch a change of clothing only, mon ami," purred Sinn. "No need for one of those ridiculous nightshirts." He cocked his head, smiling. "I'm sure we can otherwise accommodate you." Quincy gave Sinn a hard, sharp smile, and went out. "Sinn?" Sinn went over to Dracula, bowing before him. The count beckoned, and Sinn bent close to him. Voice low, Dracula said, "Have either Salazar or Simion go ahead to the Abbey and see that it is prepared for guests. Do you understand?" "I do, my lord." Sinn bowed to the rest of the company. "If you will excuse me for a moment?" He made his way toward the kitchen. Simion was playing cards with one of the footmen, and Salazar las leaning close to a giggling housemaid, muttering blandishments in Rom. She couldn't understand the words, but the tone was familiar enough. When he saw Sinn, Salazar chucked the girl under the chin and went to him, looking at him expectantly. In French Sinn said, "We bring home a guest tonight. Go ahead and make sure that Renfield knows to remain in his rooms." Salazar nodded, glancing at Simion. Simion didn't look up from his cards, just said, "Take one of the horses." Then in French he added, "I don't want them alarmed. Be sure that they know that it is the American who was kind." Salazar nodded. With another wink at the maid he started for the stable. The footman had been studying Simion curiously. Now he said, "I thought there was only you, that one, the Count, and his two companions at the Abbey." "So it is." Simion rearranged his cards. "But all of you came here but the young one, and you said 'they'. 'Them' and 'they', not 'he' and 'him.'" Simion winced mentally. "You're mistaken." "No, I'm not. You said 'ils' when it should have just been 'il'. I worked for a French gent for two years before I came here. I didn't get to speak it like a native, but I absorbed some of it."

82

"Well, I'm afraid that I haven't been quite as sharp in picking it up," said Simion calmly. "Had Mister Barbee been here, I'm sure he would have scolded me for my faulty grammar." The footman thought about this. He was still doubtful, but the idea of this upper servant being less fluent in a language than he was himself appealed to him. He decided that he was willing to accept that explanation. He laid a card down. "There. Beat that." Simion had several cards in his hand that would have beaten the footman's play, but he laid down his hand and pushed the few coins they'd been wagering toward him. "I'm afraid you have me." *And it's worth this little sacrifice to keep you from being suspicious. To think of the times I've scolded the young ones about caution. Now after all these hundreds of years of caution, I almost give us away with a few syllables.* ~*~ At the Vicarage Mrs. Linton was just clearing away the supper dishes when the knock came. She scowled. *I never saw such and the vicar had been conferring in the study, and the big foreigner stepped into the hallway, gazing toward the door. "You just go back," she said sharply. "Answering my door? I should say not!" Lukas didn't protest, but he didn't go back in the study, either. He stood, watching as she opened the front door. The stranger standing on the front step wasn't as alarming as their last visitor had been, but he was by no means familiar or comforting. He loomed before her, a tall man wrapped chin to toe in a dusty traveling cloak, with a slouch hat pulled low on his forehead. He gained a flicker of approval in Mrs. Linton when he politely removed his had and made a short bow. "Is this the home of the Reverend Mister Thomas Clairidge?" "It is, but this is an inconvenient time for a call." "Madam, this is not a social call. I have been summoned." "Van Helsing." Abraham Van Helsing looked past the plump woman blocking his way, and studied the man standing down the hall. Their eyes met, and a connection was immediately formed. It probably would have gone unnoticed by most people, but it was ominous, and it was dangerous. It was two fanatics, recognizing each other. ---------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 118/? Child of the Night, Chapter One hundred-eighteen The Year of Our Lord, 1892 In a carriage, heading toward Carfax Abbey Antagonists Dracula was occupying one side of the carriage, and Sinn and Quincy were sharing a seat on the other. Sinn was not bothering with discretion now that they were away from the Westenras. He sat close to his chosen paramour, speaking to him in silky tones and touching him here and there, as if to make a point. Quincy was enjoying it, but he'd been a touch uneasy at the beginning of the ride. As they pulled away from the house Sinn had reached over and given his knee a lingering squeeze, murmuring that it had been a long time since he'd been able to entertain a guest under his own roof. Quincy had shot a quick look at the Count, ready to push aside Sinn's hand if it offended the older man. Dracula had returned his gaze calmly, then had given him a cool smile and examined his nails. Quincy felt a stir of fierce satisfaction. The Count was obviously a man of the world: he not only allowed his companions to seek

83

their own pleasure, he encouraged it. As they pulled up before the Abbey, Dracula looked between the two and said ironically, "Will I have the pleasure of your company tonight?" He smiled. "Or is our guest fatigued, and ready to seek his bed?" Quincy glanced at Sinn. He wanted more than anything to get the Frenchman behind closed doors, strip him mother-naked, and try to find new ways to fuck him, but Quincy WAS a guest. The polite thing to do would be to stay up for an hour or two, socializing with his host. Dracula saw his indecision. He could well understand it. He couldn't count the number of nights he'd left a group of guests or meeting of advisors earlier than was strictly proper so that he could go to Nicolae. He inclined his head graciously, saying, "In fact, I am afraid that if you wish to stay up awhile longer, Sinn will have to take my place as host. I have some work to attend to in my rooms, and if I do not begin now I will not finish it before daybreak. If you will excuse me." "Of course," said Quincy quickly. "I'm a businessman myself. Some people think that when you're the boss you just work when you want to. You do that and you don't hold anything for long." Dracula nodded. "You do not work when you wish, you work when you must, and often that is longer than those you employ." They exited the carriage and went into the Abbey. Before he made his way toward the back of the building Dracula said, "Sinn, if Mister Morris so desires, there is some excellent wine in the sitting room." He held up one finger. "But not the wine in the cut glass decanter." Sinn cocked an eyebrow at him and said, "Special stock?" giving the words a significant twist. Dracula nodded, then gave Quincy a short bow. "Sir, your servant." There were only a few candles near the front of the hall, and Dracula disappeared into the shadows that led into the depths of the Abbey. Quincy watched him go. "You know, you usually don't see that kind of old-fashioned manners in a man his age. He must have learned them from his granddad." "I am sure that the Count learned many things form his grandsire, but I'm not sure that courtly manners was one of them," said Sinn with a touch of tartness. "His people were not known for their formal niceties." His smile was a little twisted. "Though there was one rather notorious incident in which they were very strict. Something having to do with the removal of hats indoors, I believe." Sinn clapped his hands lightly together, rubbing them. "I believe that the wine was an excellent suggestion. Shall we?" Quincy quickly moved close to him, taking his arms in a firm grip. "Oh, we will, we will." He pulled Sinn up hard against his body, sliding his hands around to grab the vampire's ass and force their groins together. "Feel that?" he whispered. "That says we will." Sinn put his hands lightly on Quincy's shoulders and glanced up at him through his eyelashes. "My greedy wild man." Quincy's grip tightened. Sinn sucked in a small breath in order to let his lover know that he was being affected. "Why do you do that?" Quincy growled. "Why do you act womanish? You're not. You may dress fancy, have fancy manners, and care more about your looks than most women, but you're NOT the effeminate, Sinn. I know you like riding a cock, but I can tell that you could rut just as well. So why do you do it?" "I would have thought it was obvious, cheri." Sinn's head darted forward and he nipped sharply at Quincy's bottom lip. He didn't draw blood, but he pinched it painfully. Quincy growled and pushed him away, keeping a hold on him, and backhanded him. When Sinn looked back at Quincy there was a droplet of blood at the corner of his mouth, and he licked it away sensually. "I do it, cheri, because you like it--and it will get me more of this." Quincy snarled softly, hand reaching for the front of Sinn's breeches, but the smaller man twisted nimbly out of his grasp and stepped away. "A drink first, Quincy. I can promise you sincerely that you'll like this wine," he smiled, "once I have prepared it. Come, have a seat."

84

Quincy took a seat before the fireplace. There was still a small fire flickering behind the safety screen, so Sinn didn't light any candles in the room. He went over to the sideboard and regarded the two wine decanters. The one on the left was cut glass, and it was half full of a slightly thick, ruby liquid. He reached over and took the plain glass decanter, and poured a measure into a wine glass. Then, knowing that the angle of Quincy's chair and the shadows would shield him from his guest's view, he started to strip. Quincy sat forward suddenly, mouth going dry, when Sinn emerged from the shadows. Sinn was naked, his pale skin almost luminous in the dim glow of the firelight. He moved casually, as though he were strolling down a path in a public park. His cock was half hard, and it bounced and swayed with each step, almost mesmerizing Quincy. Sinn stopped before him, smiling down. Quincy said hoarsely, "I need that," and reached for the glass. "But no," said Sinn, holding it out of his reach. "I told you that I must prepare it for you. Surely you didn't think that involved only pouring it out?" He reached down with his free hand, gripping his thickening prick, and began to stroke himself. Quincy watched in disbelief as Sinn masturbated, firmly pumping his cock, bringing it to a weeping, solid erection. Aside from an occasional self-admiring glance at what he was doing, Sinn kept his eyes fixed on Quincy's face, judging the effect of his show. He was pleased with the results. By now there could be no doubt in Quincy's mind as to what he intended, but he made no protest. Indeed, his tongue flicked out now and then, and his lips remained parted, as if hungering for the turgid flesh. Sinn found it incredibly arousing. He'd always been a bit of an exhibitionist, and performing for a virile man--one he already knew was willing to give him the carnal violence he craved--was incredibly powerful. After a few moments Sinn spread his legs, planting his feet firmly, fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, just above his flushed balls. Voice breathy he said, "I need your help, amour." "What... What do you need?" Sinn gave him a sensual smile. "I need direction." He held up the wine glass as if in example, then indicated his rigid hard-on. "My talents do not include accurate aim. If you would...?" Quincy sat forward, taking the goblet. He held it before Sinn, close to his body and just below waist level. Then he reached out and stroked his thumb over the slick, rosy head, took hold of it, and pushed down. He bent the solid flesh till the tip of Sinn's cockhead touched the surface of the wine, and said, "Now." Sinn released his grip. He reached up and took hold of his own nipples. Throwing his head back, biting his lip, he squeezed and twisted violently. His hips jerked, but Quincy had been ready for the movement, and he didn't lose a drop of either wine or semen. In the golden glow of the firelight he couldn't tell that the essence shooting from Sinn's dick was red instead of pearly white. When Sinn's flow had slowed to a dribble, Quincy bent farther forward and took the glans into his mouth, sucking and licking it clean while Sinn purred in pleased approval. Sinn dropped to his knees before Quincy, laying his head on the Texan's strong thighs. Quincy held the goblet up as if in a toast and said, "You're the damndest thing I've ever run across, Barbee." As Quincy started to lift the glass toward his lips, Sinn reached up and stopped him. "Wait a moment, cheri. There is still one more step in the preparation." He gripped Quincy's wrist, holding the wine glass steady. He peered up into Quincy's face and saw nothing but arousal and anticipation. Nodding, he brought the wrist of his free hand up to his mouth and bit down savagely. Quincy's eyes widened, but he said nothing as the young man held his wounded wrist over the glass, turning it so that a thick, crimson stream pattered down into the wine. When the flow slowed Sinn licked the gash, and Quincy felt a queer thrill as he saw that it looked like it had already begun healing. Then Sinn sat back on his heels and said, "Drink, sweet one." He held up a finger. "But only if you are sure, absolutely sure, that I am what you want." Quincy stared at him. Sinn leaned farther back, spreading his thighs. He ran his hands up his own smooth torso, plucking at his nipples, then clasped his hands behind his neck in a classic pose of

85

submission and thrust his groin forward. His still hard cock bounced. Quincy met Sinn's eyes, then drained the glass in one long swallow. "Bien," said Sinn softly. He flowed to his feet. "One moment, while I make myself..." the corner of his mouth crooked, "decent." As he headed back toward the shadows around the sideboard, Quincy called after him, "If you haven't been made decent in all this time, I doubt you'll manage it now." Sinn's chuckle floated back to him. He heard the quick rustle of clothes, and Sinn returned. He was barefoot, and his shirt hung open, but he was fastening the last button of his trousers. "I would have led you to my bed in the nude," Sinn shrugged, "but there's that last nagging bit of civilization. Come, cheri." Sinn led Quincy up stairs and further toward the back of the house. Finally they came to a room that Quincy thought must be gloomy even on the sunniest day. But though it had no windows there was a small fireplace, and a cheerful fire snapped on the hearth. The flickering glow made the room seem warm and cozy rather than stifling. And the most important feature, after all, was the bed. It was large and comfortable, spread with smooth, clean sheets. Quincy had never had Sinn in a proper bed, and he was looking forward to it. Sinn ran his hand down Quincy's chest, murmuring, "I must leave you." When Quincy grabbed his arm hard Sinn assured him, "Only for a few moments. I must speak to the Count." Quincy smiled, but it was crooked, and hard. "Going to ask permission?" "Not for what you think, Quincy." Sinn reached up and delicately nipped at Quincy's ear. "In all things carnal I am my own master, but in a few matters I must answer to him. He's my patron, my guardian..." he shrugged. "He's been something of a lover, though not recently, and despite that he's been more of a father to me than the man who planted me in my mother's womb. If you truly want to be with me, Quincy, I must speak to him." "All right," Quincy agreed. "I guess there aren't many people in this world who have no one to answer to." He pushed Sinn away and started unbuttoning his shirt. "But hurry." "I fly on the wings of love," Sinn cooed. Then he smiled tartly. "Or at least desire." ~*~ Dracula was in a small back sitting room. Rill and Renfield sat on a small sofa nearby, and Simion stood behind them. Dracula was telling the men of what had transpired at the Westenras'. "So I don't think we need worry too much, Robert. There isn't a very great hue and cry over your escape." Renfield shrugged. "I didn't think there would be. I may be crazy, but I'm not considered dangerous." He giggled. "I make them uncomfortable and nervous, not afraid." They all looked up as Sinn entered the room. All were a little surprised. Dracula had told the others that Quincy had accompanied them, and all had simply assumed that Sinn would be preoccupied with the big Texan for quite some time. Judging from his dishevelled appearance they hadn't been entirely wrong. Sinn went directly to Dracula and dropped to his knees before the ancient vampire. He bowed till his head rested against the side of Dracula's foot, then stayed there. Dracula regarded him in silence for a moment, then said, "Why are you kneeling?" Not raising his head, Sinn said, "I make obeisance to my creator." Dracula snorted softly. "You've either done something, or you want something. Which is it?" Now Sinn peeked up at him, making his expression both contrite and charming. "A little of both."

86

Dracula sighed. "Oh, get up, and tell me." As Sinn stood, Dracula said, "Would I be correct in assuming that this concerns Mister Morris?" His tone sharpened. "I know you haven't hurt him--you're not that stupid." "Non!" Sinn protested. "I would never hurt Quincy," he bit his lip playfully, "unless he wanted me to." Sinn again hung his head. "But I have yielded to temptation." "How unusual for you," said Simion dryly. "Did you remember to cloud his memory of your meal?" "No, that is not it. I did not drink from him--I fed him." "You WHAT?" Dracula sat forward suddenly, hands gripping the chair arms as if ready to propel himself at Sinn. Sinn didn't flinch, but met his eyes. "I fed him, as you feed Simion." Dracula took a moment to collect himself. "Does he know what you did?" "Oh, yes. He's quite an unusual man, is Quincy. He found the taking of my blood quite stimulating, and it wasn't just for its unnatural properties. He has interesting play habits. We suit each other very well." Sinn sobered. "And that brings me to my request. I want him." "It sounds to me as if you've already had him," said Simion. Sinn looked at him flatly. "You know what I mean. I WANT him. I want to keep him. I want him to be with me through the years." He looked at Dracula again. "It's possible if you give your consent. I know that you are wary of creating more of our kind. I know that Rill's rebirth into this unlife was more by accident than design." He looked at Rill apologetically when Simion glared at him. "I'm sorry, cheri, but this is so." "It's all right," said Rill quietly. "I've always known that." He gave the Count an adoring look. "He didn't know what would happen, but he was still trying to save me, and that's what counts." Seeing that he hadn't upset the young vampire, Sinn continued. "Then you created Rock to help Rill, and Rock created me through sheer vicious stupidity. You have never deliberately set out to create a fellow Nosferatu, and I respect your reluctance. But that need not be the way." He gestured at Simion. "We have before us living proof that the long life and some of the strength and wellbeing can be passed along simply by feeding the chosen one. This is what I ask. Let me do this with Quincy, and bring him with me. Please, my lord. Rill has his Simion. You have found your lost lover. I have no one." "You love him?" asked Dracula. Sinn's smile was ironic. "My prince, I have no idea of whether or not I am even capable of that deep emotion. I DO want him, more than I've ever wanted anyone or anything. He is the first man I've ever known who accepts me as an equal, and yet can take charge of me, despite his lesser strength." Dracula considered this. He planned to return to Castle Draculea soon--with Jonathan. He knew that even with Rock to distract him, Sinn had been growing bored with the never-varying routine of castle life. Boredom in an undying being was a dangerous proposition. Yes, a companion for Sinn would be a very practical idea. "Is this what he wants?" "He says he wants me. I haven't asked him to join me yet." Sinn bowed. "I knew better than to lay out the situation to him before I spoke to you." "You're not only cunning, Sinn--you're wise," said Draculea. "He must be willing. You could compel him, but we can never be sure of how strong a compulsion laid on a human will be--not even a strong blood bond. Tell him the truth. Ask him. If he is amenable--wonderful. My blessings on you. But Sinn-if he refuses, you know what you must do." At Dracula's approval, Sinn's expression had become joyous--now it dropped a little. "I'm serious. No one who knows the truth of our existence must be allowed to roam free. If you can't bring yourself to do it..."

87

"Come to me," said Simion. "If it will hurt your tender heart, I can ease him into the next world so quickly and painlessly that he will be greeting the guardian at the gates of heaven before he realizes that the breath has left his body." Renfield had been thinking, and now he said, "Quincy. He's the one who came to visit me with Jonathan, isn't he?" Sinn nodded. "Oh. Oh, I hope you don't have to kill him. I like him." "So do I, cheri," said Sinn as he left the room. "So do I." Title: Child of the Night, 119/? The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Invitation Quincy tried to remain patient as he waited for Sinn's return, but it wasn't easy. He'd been attracted to Sinn from the moment he saw him, and the attraction seemed to grow stronger with each passing hour. Quincy had done more self-study than most men of his age and station, and he realized that it wouldn't take much to turn what he felt for the Frenchman into obsession. Normally such a possibility would disturb him, but now... Now he couldn't think of much he'd rather do than spend a long, long time learning every square inch of the man, and every corner of his dark soul. Sinn knew that he was eager, but Quincy thought that it might be good if he didn't know HOW eager, so he forced himself to take a seat before the fireplace. Even then he found his feet shifting restlessly, his hands flexing on the chair arm as if he were touching firm flesh. Since Sinn's sensual display downstairs, the desire that always seemed to run through him like a low grade fever had been rising steadily. Was it the wine? He was used to strong spirits-- wine had never really affected him unless he consumed a bottle on his own. Whatever it was, his skin felt sensitized. He grazed the inside of his wrist with his fingertips and shivered, feeling his half-hard cock stiffen even more. He imagined that it was Sinn's fingers, or better yet his mouth. Quincy leaned forward in the chair, opened his jacket, and took it off, dropping it across the chair arm. After only a second's hesitation, he loosened and removed his tie, then started to unbutton his shirt. With most of the other men he'd been with in his life, he'd have hesitated, wondering if he'd be pushing the boundaries of assumption by stripping while he waited for them. But with Sinn... He smiled and shrugged out of his shirt. He thought that if Sinn walked in to find him buck naked, his response would be delight. Once he'd removed his undershirt, though, he stopped. He'd been glancing around, and noticed that though the room was generally well-ordered, the floor hadn't been swept for some time. The rug was thick with the dust of years. Quincy supposed that with as small a household as the Count had, beating rugs had to be far down on the list of essential chores. Quincy considered sitting on the bed and removing the last of his garments, but decided against it. He didn't want Sinn to return to find him waiting naked in bed. That sort of thing hinted too strongly of submission. In his mind it was the lessaggressive partner who waited, though there wasn't really much that was passive about the man. Sinn slipped into the room, shutting the door quietly. Then he leaned against it, hands coyly behind his back, and tipped his head to smile at Quincy. "I see you have made yourself comfortable, cheri. But why stop there?" Quincy stood and went to sit on the edge of the bed. "Why don't you come help me?" His tone made it more of a directive than a question. "There is an invitation I am powerless to refuse." Sinn glided over. Most of the people he'd met in England thought that since Quincy Morris was from Texas, he must be a rough frontiersman. They didn't stop to think that nowhere is culture more fiercely sought than in a place that has finally begun to move beyond the stark struggle for survival. As a member of the moneyed, landed class, Quincy had been exposed to the arts as thoroughly as any young English gentleman. Quincy had seen the great ballet companies of this age, and Sinn Barbee could move with more sinuous grace than any ballet

88

dancer who'd ever made the titled ladies in the audience gasp in admiration. Sinn hovered before Quincy for a moment, then sank slowly to his knees and held out his hands. "Now I am your boot boy, Quincy. Give me your foot, Master, so that I may..." Quincy's pulse picked up as the pink tip of Sinn's tongue swept over his bottom lip, "service you." Quincy extended his right foot, settling it in Sinn's hands, and Sinn began to slowly, slowly remove the boot, shifting the leather an inch at a time. When he had it off he set the boot aside, then removed Quincy's sock, pulling it off even more slowly than he had the boot. As he tugged down the soft wool, he let his fingers caress Quincy's calf, shin, ankle, and finally foot. He stroked Quincy's sole, saying, "One would expect a cattleman to have heels as hard as the hooves of his stock, but not you, Quincy." Quincy reached down quickly and grabbed Sinn's hair. "That's the only part of me that's soft." Sinn laughed. "Does my remark prick your pride, Quincy? It shouldn't." When Quincy released his hair, Sinn bent his head and pressed a kiss to the arch of Quincy's foot. "It is the contrasts that keep things interesting. I feel, Quincy, that I could explore you for centuries, and still find fresh aspects to please me." He licked delicately, his tongue curling around Quincy's smallest toe. "Son of a bitch," Quincy breathed. "And just when I think you can't get any more perverse, you find something to surprise me." He pushed the heel of his left boot against Sinn's belly and ordered, "Get that off me--and take your time." Sinn hung his head so that his long hair fell forward, hiding most of his face. To some it might have looked like a subservient pose, but Quincy knew it for what it was--a pose. Sinn was putting on a show for him, working to inflame his libido--and he was succeeding. Sinn tugged Quincy's other boot off and set it aside. This time when he pulled down the sock, he explored every exposed stretch of skin with his mouth. It was mostly licks and soft kisses, but just when Quincy thought he'd slip into a daze, there would come a sharp nip, bringing back his full attention. By the time Sinn had him completely barefooted, Quincy was almost painfully erect. He'd been considering having his lover pleasure him with his mouth, but now he knew that wouldn't be enough. He had to bury himself in Sinn's tight ass, to feel the man holding him in the most intimate manner possible. "Do you have anything to slick up with here?" His voice sounded thick to his own ears. Sinn had been sucking Quincy's toe. Now he looked up with mischievous enquiry. "Will we need it?" "Unless you just really ENJOY getting torn up." Sinn lowered Quincy's foot, his lips puckering in a small pout, then he smiled. "Some sacrifices are worth the reward, but yes--I have oil." He lowered his lashes, then glanced up at Quincy through them. "I thought that perhaps it might be needed." Quincy reached for his own fly. "Then get your ass in the bed." Sinn reached up and caught Quincy's wrists. "Wait. You're so impatient." "If I was impatient you'd be lying on that bed right now with my spunk cooling on you." Sinn laughed. "And you have an elegant turn of phrase. Quincy, once we've had our fun, I'll have a proposition for you." His hands tightened, and Quincy could feel the strength. Sinn cultivated an image of delicacy, but Quincy knew it was just a facade. "You must promise me to consider it with all seriousness. It will be the most important decision you've ever made. It will be... life-changing." Quincy studied him. He nodded. "All right. What we speak of after this is no game." Sinn flowed to his feet and took hold of Quincy's fly, jerking hard. Quincy stiffened in surprise as several buttons hit the carpet. Sinn had the belt undone in a couple of quick motions, and he shoved the trousers and drawers halfway down Quincy's thighs. Quincy's erection lifted from his pubic thatch, the head already slick. Quincy started to reach for Sinn, but the young man stepped back, then stripped

89

quickly. Quincy knew how careful Sinn was of his wardrobe, and Sinn's reckless abandon in tearing off the clothes and tossing them on the floor said as much about his eagerness as the hard thrust of his pale cock. "How do you want me, Quincy? Across the bed? On my knees?" "Lie down. I want to be able to look you in the face this time." Sinn threw himself on his back, sprawling luxuriously. "How sweetly intimate," he drawled. Quincy smiled at him ferociously. "Oh, we're going to get intimate, all right. The only thing closer than what I've got planned for you would be a baby in his mama's belly." Sinn pretended shock. "Please, cheri! No mention of Maman while I am naked. It's SO inappropriate." He flicked his finger at the stand beside the bed. "The oil is in that drawer." He wiggled. "Please use a good bit. This position requires a smooth glide for maximum stimulation." As Quincy opened the drawer, he said, "You know, I get the feeling that you really know what you're talking about." As he sat on the bed and opened the bottle he said, "Get on your side, facing away from me." "But I thought you wanted..." "I have to get you open first, and this way is easier. Cock that top leg." Sinn rolled on his side, facing away from Quincy, and murmured, "Do not teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Quincy." Quincy had poured a thick coating of oil on the fingers of his right hand. He used his left hand to grip Sinn's upper hip, long fingers catching the curve at the crease between the buttocks and prying them apart. "My grandmama," said Quincy, "was a feisty old wench who buried three husbands, and one of them died under what you'd call 'intimate' circumstances." As he spoke he'd pressed a fingertip against Sinn's hole, and now he pushed--hard. Sinn gasped, body stiffening as the thick finger shoved deep, abruptly stretching tight muscles. It hurt, but the finger ended up lodged firmly against his prostate, finishing the burn with a bolt of pure pleasure. He snarled softly in appreciation and humped back, trying to gain a fraction more. Quincy chuckled. Because it was exactly what he, himself, wanted, Quincy did what Sinn wanted. He began to pump in and out of the tight channel, pausing now and then to twist or wiggle the finger. On every deep thrust he rubbed the prostate--not once, but several times. Soon Sinn was cursing continuously in French. Quincy had learned a bit of the Creole language, but this was as different from that as the TexMex spoken by most of his ranch hands was from classic Castilian Spanish. Still, it was similar enough for him to catch a word here and there, and what he could understand made him grin. Sinn's speech was cultivated and genteel in mixed company, but he was a gutter mouth in bed. When he knew that the taut ring of muscle had been loosened enough to prevent damage, Quincy pulled out. Ignoring Sinn's protests and fervent urging of speed, he poured more of the oil on his own cock, rubbing to be sure it was thoroughly coated. Quincy thought, with vague amazement, that he'd never been so aroused in his life. It was as if the heat from his prick would burn his palm while he tried to prepare himself. Sinn had been slightly cool inside, and Quincy knew that the only relief from this building heat would be found deep inside his body. Quincy roughly pulled Sinn over onto his back and moved around in the bed. He jerked Sinn's thighs so far apart that it was almost like a farm wife trying to disjoint a chicken. Quincy hefted Sinn's legs till his knees hung over his shoulders. This left Sinn's buttocks spread wide, almost level with the bobbing staff of Quincy's prick. Quincy looked down, taking hold of his cock in order to guide it to his desired target. Sinn arched his back, flexing his buttocks, and the loosened, reddened hole seemed to wink at Quincy in invitation. Quincy butted his cockhead up against Sinn's anus and thrust without hesitation. Sinn crooned and Quincy moaned as the thick flesh slid deep into the cool depths of Sinn's body. Quincy entered him fully on the first stroke, not pausing till his balls settled in the wide-spread crease in back. Then Quincy

90

grabbed Sinn's thighs, pushing his legs back as he began to fuck. Sinn reached back over his head and gripped the headboard, bracing himself. This kept his head from banging into the board, and gave him enough leverage to push himself into Quincy's thrusts. Quincy stared down at Sinn as he pumped into him. Most of his other partners had closed their eyes while he fucked them, concentrating on their own sensations. Sinn stared back up at him, his eyes never leaving his face. Quincy had no doubt that Sinn was thinking of him, and nothing but him. Many times Quincy had felt that as far as his bed partners were concerned, he was nothing more than a stud-that any other marginally attractive man with a hard cock would have been a perfectly acceptable substitute. But with Sinn... Sinn wanted HIM, and Quincy was determined that he'd have ALL of him. Sinn growled in pleasure as Quincy pounded into him. He'd had more lovers than he could count over the centuries, certainly more than he could remember, but Quincy--Quincy was special. He was the first man that Sinn had been with since he'd become a vampire who felt like an equal. Not a superior-Dracula was that. Sinn had never for a moment doubted that he was subservient to the elder vampire. Renfield had been no match for Sinn, his will crumbling at the gentlest push. Not when it came to Jonathan, of course, but Sinn knew that was an entirely different matter. No, for himself, poor Renfield had been sweet and vulnerable, and that wasn't what Sinn wanted, either. Rock? He thought of himself as powerful and dominating. In truth he had brute force and blind arrogance. These had been amusing for a time, but Sinn had grown tired of him. If Rill hadn't killed him, Sinn might have eventually been forced to do it himself. He was sure that Rock would not have been able to take no for an answer, and if Sinn had decided he was through with Rock-- he would have been through with him. Sinn lunged upward, clasping his hands behind Quincy's neck, and kissed him. If Quincy had been able to think of anything at that moment he would have been nearly astonished by the other man's flexibility. Or he might have considered the fact that during the short time he'd known him, he'd actually kissed Sinn more than any other man in his life. What Quincy did with other men didn't usually include kissing--at least not the traditional, romantic kind. But somehow with Sinn there was nothing at all unmanly about it, so Quincy returned the kiss with all his usual vigor, plunging his tongue into Sinn's mouth as he plunged his cock into Sinn's ass. Soon Sinn reached his climax, bucking. Quincy grinned in triumph as his sensations suddenly multiplied. He felt the spurt of liquid between them, and the clenching around his embedded prick. It quickly brought him to his own climax. Quincy slowed to a stop, still inside Sinn, and grinned down at him, panting. Sinn still had his hands behind Quincy's neck. Now he slid them around, cradling the Texan's face between his palms. "Magnifique, as always, cheri. Before you relax I must warn you--do not be alarmed by what you see. Be assured that I am perfectly well, as are you. This will be unfamiliar to you, but I promise that it is no call for worry." Quincy grunted as he pulled back. "Hell, Sinn, you talk like I'm going to faint, or..." His voice trailed off in shock as he got a fuller view of his lover. Sinn's pale, flat belly was splashed with blood, some splatters almost reaching his chest. Quincy was too numbed by the sudden revelation to react immediately. His first thought was that he'd been rougher than he'd thought, and had torn Sinn. He couldn't imagine how the blood would have gotten where it had, but he couldn't think of any other explanation. Then he felt Sinn gripping his shoulders. There was something about Sinn's voice that pushed back any chance of panic. His voice strained, he said, "You're not hurt?" Sinn shook his head slowly. Quincy pulled out of his grasp and moved to sit beside him. "I don't think it would be possible for me to bleed that much without feeling something, so it's not mine. It's just in exactly the right place to be..." He dabbled his fingers in the red smears, then sniffed them. "Are you sure there isn't something wrong inside, bo?" His voice was concerned. "No, cheri. It's just how I am." Sinn rolled on his side, bending his elbow so that he could prop his head in his hand. "Had the light been stronger downstairs you would have noticed when I , um, fortified your wine." Quincy propped a pillow against the headboard and leaned back against it comfortably. "You're taking it more calmly than I anticipated." "Well, I'd heard that the European nobility ended up with some odd conditions from family branches being a little too cozy for good health." "True enough, but that isn't the case here. Listen to me, Quincy, and consider what I will tell you very

91

carefully. First--they have ghost stories in America, I know." "Every country has ghost stories." "Do you have stories of other unnatural creatures? Those who walk the night, and take nourishment from blood?" "Sure. The Indians have stories about evil spirits who slip into our world and possess the careless, then drink the blood of the unwary." "Have you heard of the Nosferatu?" Quincy frowned. "The name is vaguely familiar." "I believe the more common term is 'vampire'." Quincy sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing. "We had a German housekeeper when I was a kid. She used to tell us stories about what she called the 'vampir' back in her home country. People who were dead, but not dead. They slept in graves or tombs by day, and at night they roamed. Criminals who died without receiving absolution and suicides were most likely to come back as vampires." Sinn snorted. "The Catholic Church spreads much nonsense. As far as I know, unless one dies at the hands of a vampire, one simply dies." He smiled slowly. "That was not my case." Quincy regarded him in silence. Seeing that Quincy was not frightened, angry, or contemptuous, Sinn continued. "I was murdered. It was Rock--sweet Rill's quite nasty brother." Sinn made a face. "A thoroughly rough and vicious animal. He thought he was simply killing me, but through his ignorance he had taken certain steps that insured I would..." He gestured, "Shall we say regain some semblance of life?" "You're serious. You really believe that." "And you do not?" "How can I? I'm looking right at you. You're moving, you're talking, you're breathing..." Sinn shook his head. Taking hold of Quincy's hand, he drew it over till his hand was cupped across Sinn's face, his palm over Sinn's mouth and nose. Then Sinn waited, watching Quincy's reaction as it gradually dawned on the other man that no breath was exhaled for far longer than should have been possible. Quincy pressed his fingers against the side of Sinn's neck, feeling for a pulse, and finding none. "It isn't there, cheri," said Sinn quietly. "My heart beats now only in a philosophical sense. I'm quite dead." He studied Quincy carefully. "You have, in effect, been having sex with a corpse. Necrophilia, I believe it is called," he cocked his head, "though of a most peculiar sort." "The coldness," said Quincy. "Never coming out in the sun." Sinn nodded. "What about the others?" "The Count and Rill, yes. The gypsy... is a gypsy. And Simion... I'm not quite sure what Simion is. He's been with Dracula from the beginning. Dracula has fed him, and fed from him countless times, but Simion never had the long sleep and cold awakening. He walks in the sun, and silver and holy objects do not burn him. But I can't believe he's still quite human." "Why are you telling me this?" Sinn let his head drop back on the pillow. "I've told you what I am, but you haven't fled. I look at you, and I see no hatred, no disgust. Quincy, you know what I am. Do you still want me?" There was a moment of silence. His voice thick, Quincy said, "God help me, yes." "Bon," Sinn whispered. "It might not be easy, but it can be done. The thing is, you will have to change. No, I'm not asking you to become like me. I'm asking you to become like Simion." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

92

Title: Child of the Night, 120/? The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Consideration Sinn regarded Quincy through hooded eyes. "I believe, mon ami, that it would be good for you to see more of my life." He smiled. "Or shall we say my existence? Can you spend the night away from the so very correct Westenras without raising suspicion?" "I'm a man fully grown and in my right mind," said Quincy. "I can do what I like, as long as they aren't likely to arrest me for it." "What do you say to remaining here with me till tomorrow evening? You will see me in my most natural state." He smiled, and there was a glint of fangs. "If you can see me as a corpse and still want me, then I see no reason why this shouldn't work out between us." Quincy reached out and ran a hand over Sinn's smooth, pale chest, and roughly tweaked one still firm nipple. "The way I feel now I'm likely to jump your bones while you're... well... out of commission." Sinn chuckled. "Do not think it hasn't happened before, or that I did not enjoy it." "I've got one question, though. Do I go with you, or do you come with me?" Sinn's smile dimmed, and he looked thoughtful. "I confess that I am not sure. Before I would have said that leaving Dracula would be out of the question--he's very possessive. But now that he has found his own love..." Quincy grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, it's pretty obvious that he's taken quite a fancy to Harker." Sinn shook his head. "Nothing so simple, cheri. The story is long and fascinating, but not for the telling at this time. I'll only say that their relationship is stronger and older than Jonathan realizes now." "How do YOU feel about it?" Sinn bit his lip. "I would love to be under your complete sway, Quincy, but is it practical? No one will question if Dracula's retinue grows, and he will be returning to Transylvania soon, in any case. But what of you? I have no doubt that your people would gladly accept if you brought home a visitor--but if that visitor stayed... and stayed... and stayed... and stayed, and never changed..." Quincy nodded. "I see what you mean, but it could be done. I've got plenty of land out there, and people will pretty much keep to their own business, if I make it clear that they need to." "Dracula is well established in this life. No one dares confront him on his home land. He's quite wealthy--yes, I know that you are well off, too, but he has the riches of a prince, Quincy. He's very, very old, and very wise in the ways of protecting what is his own. He was a great warrior in his life. Europe trembled at the mention of his name." Quincy grunted. "He's a smooth one, but yeah--I kind of got the feeling there was something dangerous underneath. We don't have to decide right now, though. I tell you what I want..." Sinn grinned, rolling against him. "Yes, do tell me what you want." Quincy reached around to squeeze his ass. "I want to get dressed and hunt up Simion to get his perspective on things. I have the feeling that Dracula listens to him before he listens to anyone else." Sinn pouted a little as Quincy pulled on his clothes, but he said, "In that, dear Quincy, you are correct. I would be hard pressed to describe their relationship. The sexual part has passed, and Dracula is still

93

clearly the master, but..." He pursed his lips. "Father, brother, soul friend... It's no one thing, but it is as strong as the forces that keep the planets in their orbit. Yes, it is wise to seek his counsel," he smiled, "You'll gain no points for flattery, but that doesn't seem to be your problem." Quincy raised a single stiff finger in a vulgar salute as he exited the room, and left Sinn chuckling softly. ***** Quincy made his way downstairs and paused, considering the most likely place to locate Simion. Then he heard a scuffling sound from under the staircase, and a soft, coaxing murmur. Curious, he stepped to the side, so that he could see into the small alcove formed beneath the stair risers. A small, dark haired man, dressed in what looked like rough pajamas, was kneeling in one corner, his back to Quincy. As Quincy watched he heard him whisper, "Thaaat's it, Miss Mousie. It's good, fresh cheese. All you have to do is come out just another inch or so, then one of us can have dinner." The man's hand darted, and there was a triumphant cry, blended with a frantic squeaking. The squeaking was quickly muffled as the man jerked his hand up to his face. Quincy's stomach turned over as he heard muffled crunches. But he was as fascinated as he was shocked, and he watched as the man finished, then turned his head and spat out a small, damp wad that Quincy was sure was hair and bones. Now the man turned his head to glance back at Quincy and said calmly, "I heard you, you know. Thank you for not frightening off my snack." He turned and sat in the corner, legs neatly crossed, and regarded Quincy curiously. "You're big." His face lit up. "I know you! You came with Jonathan when he visited me in Hell." Quincy cleared his throat, and answered calmly, as if he was just having any other quiet conversation. "That's right. I'm Quincy Morris, and you're Robert Renfield." Renfield made a brief face. "I know who -I- am, you ridiculous man. Not like some people I could name. I remember because you seemed kind, even though you're so big. You're almost as big as the Master." *That would be Dracula.* "Isn't he kind?" Renfield looked surprised, then slightly confused. "Well..." He thought a little more. "He's the Master. He can't be kind ALL the time, but he usually is, as long as you haven't been very bad. He wasn't kind to Rock..." Renfield's expression darkened with pain, rage, and sorrow. "But Rock was very, VERY bad." Now he cocked his head and gave Quincy a curious look. "I thought they said that you were with Sinn. Is he finished with you already? I don't think that's like him." Quincy could feel his brows lifting at the man's bluntness, but he merely answered, "We're taking a rest. I need to talk to Mister Rill's friend--Simion." "I know where they are," said Renfield, hopping up. He darted past Quincy, slithering through a space that the bigger man would have thought far too narrow for him to navigate. "Well, come on." He moved back into the depths of the house at a near trot. Quincy followed, shaking his head. Renfield was obviously insane, but Quincy had a sneaking suspicion that he might very well be happier than he'd been when he was 'normal.' Now he could say exactly what he thought, because he was no longer considered capable of following the rules of polite society. Quincy followed Renfield as he scurried up a back staircase and down a long, dim hallway. The doors were set close enough to tell him that the rooms were small--very small--and he assumed that these had once been servant quarters. They turned a corner into a hall that was slightly better kept, and Renfield went to a door midway down. He paused, waiting with his hand on the knob, watching Quincy with mild irritation at his slowness. Quincy found himself lengthening his stride. Renfield tapped on the door, and a voice from inside called, "Come in, Robert." Renfield opened the door and slipped inside, and Quincy followed him. The room was brighter than most of the house, lit by several lanterns and a cheerful fire. It only took Quincy a quick glance to come to the surprising conclusion that this had once been the nursery, or playroom. There were a couple of small beds by one wall, with an adult sized bed between them (for Nanny, no doubt). There

94

was a scaled down table-and-chairs set near the fireplace, set with a dusty doll's tea set. His swift assessment of the room also took in a rickety rocking horse, a hoop, a jump rope, and a selection of rather simple dolls. He supposed that any china or wax beauties had been packed whenever the last occupants left. He took all this in, but his attention was drawn quickly to the rug before the hearth. An old fashioned copper bathtub sat there. While it should have been bone dry, it was instead filled with water, and there was a rather impressive model of a three-masted schooner floating on it. As he watched, Rill (who was kneeling beside the tub) gave the ship a gentle push with one fingertip, and watched with obvious glee as it sailed majestically across its tiny sea, hitting the far side with a faint clang. "I sent it to Madagascar, Simion," he said gleefully. "It's going to take on loads of bananas and coconuts and maybe an orange-- ring...?" "Orangutang." Quincy hadn't noticed Simion standing in a shadowed corner, but somehow he'd known that he would be within sight of Rill, keeping careful watch. "It means 'old man of the forest'." Rill laughed. "That's silly. Old men don't live in forests." Then he looked doubtful. "Do they?" "Perhaps some do. Rill, won't you greet our guest?" "Robert's not a guest, he's... Oh!" Rill had looked past Renfield, who had come to kneel on the other side of the tub. Hands on the rim, he studied the boat with as much intensity as Rill had--as if he expected to see tiny sailors come forth and start climbing the rigging. "Hello, Mister Quincy. I thought you were with Sinn." "So did I," murmured Robert. "I know Sinn didn't get tired, so it must have been..." He trailed off, casting a sly glance at Quincy. "I'm not here to discuss my stamina, bo," said Quincy calmly. "Do you want to play merchant with us?" asked Rill. He looked down. "I know some people think it's kind of babyish." He looked up defiantly. "But I like it." "It's a good game," said Quincy. "But I always pretend I'm a pirate. Actually I came to have a little talk with Simion, if he has time." Simion smiled slightly. "Mister Morris, I have nothing but time. Rill, Robert--no splashing. You nearly put out the fire last time. Mister Morris, there's a room next door that's been made habitable. Would you care to join me? I found a rather good wine in the pantry." "I'd be much obliged." They walked to a room next door that had been cleaned so well that it looked as if it had been steadily occupied the entire time the Abbey had sat empty. Simion saw his look and glanced around. "Rill. He actually enjoys cleaning. If he wasn't beyond death he would work himself there in gratitude for what Dracula has done for him." "The Count seems to inspire strong emotions," said Quincy, taking a chair as Simion went to a table and poured two glasses of wine. Simion came back and handed him a glass, then took a seat beside him. "In that you are most correct. There have been legions who would kill for him, or die for him--whatever was required." Quincy took a sip of wine, and Simion studied him, then said, "Sinn has told you about our little family." "Yeah." He rubbed his forehead. "I won't say it wasn't one of the bigger surprises of my life. I knew y'all were different, but I had no idea it went that far." "And he told you about me?" Quincy nodded. "Did he tell you that I was the Prince's torturer, and executioner? That I have knowledge of potions and herbs that can kill instantly, or let the victim linger

95

in weeks of unspeakable agony?" Quincy's mouth went dry. Simion smiled. "Would you have accepted that wine so readily if you'd known? Have no fear, Mister Morris. You are no threat to the people I love, so you are quite safe--for now. Why did you wish to speak to me?" "Sinn's made me a proposition." Simion smirked, and Quincy had to grin. "Yeah, one of those, too. We've sort of cottoned to each other, and I'd like to spend more time with him--a LOT more time. He's agreeable, and he suggested that instead of me becoming like him or Rill, I become like you." "Very sensible of him. I'm not sure the master would approve of making another vampire. He believes that he knows how to do it, but he isn't sure that Rill or Sinn would have the power required. They were both created by accident. My own situation was an experiment that happily succeeded. We are doing the same with Renfield, and he is already hardier than he was. I believe it will work for him, and I believe it would work for you." "What does it involve?" "Trust. Sinn would feed you, and if he needs it, you would feed him. The Master would probably feed you occasionally at first, to be sure that your blood is strong enough to take what Sinn gives you and use it." "I talked with him, and he was right about another thing. I couldn't bring him home--not and stay there. I'd have to move somewhere away from my family, where they didn't know me. And we'd have to move regularly to keep people from getting suspicious. But if I told the family that I'd decided to stay in Europe, expand the family business there--they'd accept it. Do you think that Dracula would be willing to let me join his household?" Simion smiled. "I'm sure that he would. Sinn isn't his pet, but he has no animosity toward the man. Dracula has known great happiness in his life, but only for a tragically short time. It does him good to see others find happiness." "So, how do I go about this?" Simion shook his head. "First learn not to be in such a hurry. You're going to have to change your concept of time, Quincy." Quincy noticed that Simion had used his Christian name, and he relaxed. He knew that if Simion approved of him it would go a long way toward Dracula's final decision. "How long have you been with Dracula." "A long, long time. Four centuries, give or take." Quincy took a gulp of wine. "Yes, think about that. That length of life can be a reality. I don't feel like I've aged a day since the first time Dracula cut himself and let me drink from the cup of his palm. And that length of life could be a burden, if you did not have someone to share it." "What if I stopped drinking the blood?" Simion shrugged. "I don't know--I've never considered stopping. But I would imagine that you would begin to age again, at a natural rate." He smirked. "None of this sudden deterioration, like in the story by Oscar Wilde." Quincy got thoughtful, gazing into the glass and taking an occasional sip. Simion waited patiently. He'd always had patience, but down through the years he had perfected this virtue. Quincy was facing a choice that would change his entire life in ways that he had never conceived--he deserved time. Finally Quincy looked up and said, "I can't think of a thing wrong with what Sinn's offering, and so many things that are right. I just need Dracula's approval, and I can start setting things up so they can do without me permanently back in the States." "I'm glad you came to that decision," said Simion. "I will be very honest with you, Quincy--I doubt you would have been left alive if you had decided otherwise. While Dracula would like to trust others he has lived too long and seen too much betrayal to risk the safety of himself, and those in his care."

96

Quincy nodded in understanding. "I'll want Sinn with me when I speak to him. Will you come, too, and offer your opinion?" Simion drained his glass. "I will gladly be your patron, Quincy. It will be good having another of my own kind about." He stood. "Why not go and get Sinn now? I will meet you in the back parlour. The Master is given to spending time there. There are many shelves of books. He feels most at peace surrounded by books." "Reads a lot, does he?" "No," said Simion, going to the door. "But you'll understand his reasons after you've been with us a little while." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 121/? The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Joining Chapter One Hundred-twenty One They went back to the room where Robert and Rill were amusing themselves. They found the two sitting in front of the fire. Rill was sitting cross-legged, and Robert had curled up beside him, laying his head in the vampire's lap. Rill was smiling down at Robert, stroking his hair gently. It made Quincy wonder--what, exactly, was their relationship? Simion was obviously Rill's lover, so it wasn't that. Was the relation that of friends, parent and child, or master and pet? Quincy concluded that it held elements of all those, and more. In any case, both seemed perfectly content. "Rill, Robert..." said Simion. "Quincy wishes to join our household." Rill's smile was brilliant, and excited. "Oh, good! Sinn will be so pleased. He gets tired of playing with the gypsies. What do you think, Robert?" Renfield glanced at Quincy, then back to Rill. "He's kind, and he doesn't stare at me. I like him." "Quincy," said Simion, "You have earned the approval of the entire household, save the master. I cannot promise this will guaranty your approval, but it will carry weight. You two go and get Sinn, and meet us in the library." "Yes!" Robert knew Rill well enough to get his head out of the vampire's lap before Rill leapt to his feet. "Hurry, Robert!" Robert followed Rill out of the room, scurrying to keep up with his eager pace. "He loves giving good news," murmured Simion. "After all these years he is still as fresh and enthusiastic as he was in life." They made their way downstairs, and paused at the bottom when they heard Sinn calling to them. "Wait, mon amies." He came down carrying a fine jacket over his arm, buttoning a fresh shirt. "You are fast, Quincy. I barely had time to clean myself and change clothes." He smiled. "One must look one's best when seeking the sanction of a personal alliance." Rill and Robert had followed Sinn, so it was quite a group that arrived at Dracula's library. Simion knocked, and Dracula called, "Come in." He was sitting in an armchair before the library fire, holding a book. He lifted it as they entered. "I was perusing the books, and came across this one. The illustrations were so bizarre I had to read it. It's about the adventures of a small girl who falls down a rabbit hole, into a magical world. They seem to believe this is a children's book, but I say that the pictures alone would give most children nightmares. Near drowning, a baby that turns into a pig, and a queen that wants to chop off her head. And some said the old fairy tales were too gruesome." He put down the

97

book. "Hm, the entire household, save for our gypsy. I suppose, then you have news..." he raised his eyebrows as the studied Sinn and Quincy, "Or a question?" Quincy stepped forward, his manner assured and respectful. "Sir, I'm not sure of the exact terms I should use, but Sinn and I... Well, we've come to an understanding. I want to spend the rest of my life, however long that might be, with him. I know after talking to him and Simion that he'll always belong to you, first and foremost. But... Well, I'd like to be just below you when it comes to Sinn. I want to be his man. If you accept me, I'll do everything in my power to protect and support him, and all the other members of your little family. I don't come empty handed. I have a considerable fortune of my own, and business that show a healthy profit. As long as I can provide well for my people back in America, I'm willing to contribute the rest to the common pot." "You're an honourable man, Mister Morris. I have known many who would have tried to steal Sinn away, or at least to dictate terms." His eyes glinted briefly. "Neither would be allowed. You show common sense, as well as respect. I assume that Simion has explained what such an alliance would entail?" "Yes, sir." "You will be able to leave behind your old life, your family?" "I never figured on living the same life till I died, and the only close relation left is my mother and sister. I can set up trusts to take care of them both lavishly. And, well, I'm ashamed to say it, but we haven't been that close. I'm too much like my daddy was--what time I haven't spent on business I've spent living wild. I can handle most of my business through correspondence, and..." He jerked a thumb at Sinn. "I figure this one can give me enough wildness to keep me satisfied." "I am pleased to hear that." He considered Quincy, then said, "You know our secret, yet you show no terror, and have not tried to escape, or tell others. I don't think you can truly understand the situation you're stepping into till you've begun to live the life, but we have to have faith on that point. Yes, Mister Morris. I think you would be an asset to my household. And don't bother about contributing to our finances. We are in no danger of... What's the legal term? Bankruptcy. Use your profits to spoil Sinn. You'll both enjoy that." He stood and walked over to Sinn and Quincy. "Sinn will be your primary feeder, but you must partake of my blood first, to bind you to me, and those I shelter." He indicated Quincy's feet. "I've seen the knife you carry in your boot." He held out his hand, palm up. "Make the cut, then drink." Quincy didn't hesitate. He felt that this was in some way a test. He mustn't be reluctant, or bumble. He mustn't be too eager, or unnecessarily brutal. He pulled the big Bowie knife, and took Dracula's wrist in his free hand, his grip firm. He made a short cut across Dracula's palm, deep enough to let blood run freely but shallow enough so that major tendons were not endangered. The blood was a little sluggish, seeping rather than flowing, but it didn't take long for it to fill the cup of Dracula's palm. Then Quincy waited for the invitation. Dracula nodded in approval, and said, "Drink, Quincy. Become blood of my blood." Quincy tilted Dracula's hand, setting his mouth to the side, and sipped when the blood touched his lips. His eyes flew open in surprise, but he did not pause. Dracula obligingly tipped his hand farther as the blood lessened, till there was no longer a pool or flow. Quincy lifted his head from Dracula's bloodpainted hand. He was clearly reluctant to give up the last few drops, but would not have felt right about licking them up. Again Dracula nodded. The new household member was proving that he was not selfishly greedy. Dracula smiled at Rill and held out his crimson hand. "Would you like the rest, childe?" "Of course I would," said Rill honestly. "But could Renfield have it instead?" Rill patted Renfield's shoulder. "He hasn't had much yet, and he can use every bit of nourishment he can get." "Certainly, if he wishes. Robert?"

98

Renfield crept forward, muttering, "Thank you, thank you, the blood is the life." The others watched tolerantly as he lapped Dracula's hand clean. For most of them it was like seeing a very small child enjoy a treat. When Renfield was done Dracula said, "So, Quincy, you are one of us now. When we return to Transylvania you will accompany us. But for the time being I think it best that you remain at the Westenra estate. It might cause unwanted attention if you moved here. I'm not quite ready to leave, and I want to be ignored by as many people as possible." "I understand," Quincy replied. "I'm not anxious. I'm going to have plenty of time with my friend here." He pinched Sinn's ass--hard. The Frenchman jumped and yipped, then rubbed his rump with a petulant pout, but a smile hovered behind it. ********** Reverend Clairidge pushed past Lukas and went down the hall to greet his guest. "Mister Van Helsing." They shook hands. "Thank the Lord that you could come so quickly. I thought that you wouldn't dare travel here in the dark, and we'd have to wait on morning." "One must be swift to do the Lord's work, Brother Clairidge," Van Helsing said solemnly. He opened his cloak and revealed a large silver crucifix hanging about his neck. "And I prepared myself for a risky journey." "Please, don't stand out there. Come inside." As he shut the door he said, "Do you need anything? Food? Drink? I'm afraid you'll have to share a room with Brother Lukas, here, but Mrs. Linton has made it very comfortable." "Thank you, and I never object to sharing space with fellow believers. I need no food, thank you, but some water would be appreciated." "I have a jug in my study. Do come along. Mrs. Linton, that will be all for tonight. Retire whenever you wish, but do not disturb us. I expect we'll need to be up early?" He looked questioningly at Van Helsing. "Not too early, since the beings we will be dealing with can go nowhere on their own once the sun is up. We'll be discussing things late tonight, and we all should be well rested before any confrontation." "Confrontation?" said Mrs. Linton suspiciously. "Here, what are you letting these two talk you into?" "Mrs. Linton," said Clairidge, "You are neither my mother, my wife, nor my sweetheart. You have no say in what I do. Please go to bed." Mrs. Linton's bottom lip started quivering. She drew herself up very straight and swept down the hall toward the kitchen. Her slightly teary voice floated back to them. "...never been spoken to like that in all my days, and when I'm just concerned about his wellbeing." "Oh, dear," sighed Clairidge. "I've hurt her feelings." "Better to hurt her feelings than to stumble in your duty, for that might mean her death or damnation," said Lukas. "Well said, friend," said Van Helsing. He removed his cloak and hat, and hung them on hallway pegs. He picked up the black satchel he had set on the floor and followed the other two men into the study. Van Helsing and Lukas settled on a small sofa while Clairidge poured a glass of cool water for his guest. As Van Helsing drank, Clairidge took a chair near him and said, "Do you recall me, Mister Van Helsing?" Van Helsing set aside the glass, his brow wrinkling in thought. "You haven't been one of my students, I think, but I seem to associate you with the classroom."

99

"It was five years ago..." Van Helsing snapped his fingers. "In King's College!" "Yes. I was visiting London on a holiday, and you were giving a lecture on the basis in reality of things now considered fanciful--such as witches, werewolves, evil spirits... and vampires." "You stayed after the lecture and asked me some very intelligent questions. I did not recognize your name when your message came, but the information you provided compelled me to come. Give me all the details of the situation." "I believe Lukas should begin," said Clairidge. "He has had the most extensive interaction with the... creatures. He can tell you what brought them to our land." Van Helsing looked at Lukas, and Lukas began. "From my childhood I have dedicated myself to removing evil from God's world. I have served the Church however I might. Several months ago I was working as a porter to a small town in the wilds of what was once called Wallachia--now Romania." "Ah." "You know of the situation in my homeland?" "I know that the legends of the Nosferatu reach back many centuries, and continue to this day. People still festoon their houses with garlic, draw crosses on their doors and windows, and shun travelling at night." "Indeed, sir, in my home area the vampire is not a legend--he is a fact. You are a knowledgeable man. Have you ever heard of Prince Vlad Tepes Draculea?" Van Helsing went very still. "Heard of him? I have spent a lifetime studying him. Several times I hoped to travel to Romania and seek him out, but something always spoiled my plans. It is as if Fate itself protects the man." "He is no man," said Lukas grimly, "And perhaps it is Satan who defends him." "If that is so then he shall surely fall, for Satan cannot prevail against the righteous. Tell me everything." Lukas began his story. He left out his first childhood encounter with Dracula, and began with finding Jonathan washed up on the riverbank. The reverend supplied all the gossip that Mrs. Linton had passed on to him about Jonathan's previous life. Harker was an up and coming clerk in a well respected London law firm. He came from an irreproachable background, and was decently engaged to a suitable young woman. He'd been sent to Romania to succeed where his fellow clerk, Renfield, had failed--to do business with Prince Draculea. "The Count claims to be a distant relation of his," said the reverend. "I think that the relationship is much closer than he has said," said Van Helsing. "The Draculea bloodline should have died out long ago, as the original prince was supposed to have died without issue--if he died at all. I think it's a good chance that Prince Draculea and Count Dracula are one and the same. If this is true, this monster has been walking the earth for more than four hundred years. God knows how many innocents he has sent to the grave--or hell." Lukas continued. He told of the siege in the church, of fleeing with Jonathan, and his trip across the sea to deliver him to his people. He said regretfully, "The young man has no gratitude for the pains taken to save and protect him. I fear that the monster has set his claws in the young man, seduced him. I'm not even sure if he can be saved. It might be more merciful to dispatch him while his soul is still with him." Now Clairidge blinked. "Oh, here now! You're talking about murder." "But isn't it better to kill the body, if it saves the soul?" asked Lukas.

100

"There is no need to decide the final course of action for Mister Harker right now. It is not that I do not trust you, Brother Lukas--you are obviously zealous in your desire to serve God. Still, I must examine these people myself to be absolutely certain they are what we fear. It would be a mortal sin to kill someone who was not a creature of Satan, or one of his servants. After I am certain we can dispatch the vampires, then turn our attention to Mister Harker. He must be saved, if it is at all possible." Clairidge had been certain of his course of action before, but hearing Lukas talk so calmly of killing Jonathan, and Van Helsing responding as if it was simply another factor to be weighed, made him feel hesitant. What had he started by bringing in Abraham Van Helsing? ---Title: Child of the Night, 122/? Child of the Night, Chapter One Hundred-twenty two The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Westenra Estate Infiltration Mister Westenra, Jonathan, and Lucy were at breakfast the next morning. Lucy had, as usual, slept in. A maid would bring her breakfast in bed in another two hours, if she was not called before then. She very seldom was. Quincy entered, whistling jauntily. "Morning, all." He went to the sideboard laden with serving dishes. "I'm glad to see this spread. The Dracula household isn't much on breakfast." Mister Westenra nodded. "Continentels seldom have more than coffee or chocolate and a bun. How they can make do without sausages, bacon, kippers, or eggs is beyond me." He shook his fork. "Mind you, that's why Europe is in decline. Too much sauces and not enough good, solid meat and potatos. Too much fancy wine and not enough wholesome, honest beer." Quincy was helping his plate lavishly. "Well, I'll agree about a big breakfast. It just wasn't right at home without a steak, chop, or ham steak, plus eggs, biscuits and gravy, and maybe some grits." Mina frowned. "Grit? Like what you feed birds?" Quincy laughed as he took a seat. "Bless you, ma'am. Grits are sort of a Southern version of porridge. It's just made from dried, ground hominy corn." "Hominy?" "You'll have to visit my mama some day, Miss Mina, and let her feed you up." "You had no trouble last night?" asked Jonathan. "Not a lick. The trip was as quiet as a Sunday ride on the family mare. The Count is a hospitable man." He smiled as he started cutting his kippers. "The whole group is very hospitable." "I know you accompanied them because of Renfield, but I can't help feeling that Lukas would be much more of a danger, if he is still nearby. I hope he isn't, but he doesn't seem the sort to give up easily." "I have to agree with you there," said Quincy. "Your friend struck me as the mild sort, but that Lukas fellow..." He shook his head. "I saw that same look once on the face of a circuit preacher. We found out later that he was wanted in Oklahoma for beating his wife and little son to death. Claimed he was punishing them for their sins on earth, so they could go to heaven." Mina had gone a little pale, and was holding her napkin over her mouth. "Oh, I beg pardon! I'm afraid I'm not around ladies much, and I need to be more careful about keeping to appropriate subjects. But you have to understand, Miss Mina, that being insane doesn't necessarily mean being a danger to others." "I suppose you're right," said Mister Westenra. "I'm in mind of a squire named John Mytton. Used to go hunting in all sorts of weather in the flimsiest clothes. Then when the fever of the chase was upon him he'd strip naked and run through the forest. Idiot tried to arrive at a dinner party riding on a bear. When

101

he spurred it on the beast quite rightly bit him. Barking mad, if you ask me. I think it's best to err on the side of caution if we're to err at all." They were finishing up when a footman came into the dining room and addressed Westenra. "Begging your pardon, sir, but Reverend Clairidge has come to call, bringing a guest." "Drat," said Westenra. "I suppose he's here to ask for a donation to repair the church roof, or buy a new stained glass window, or help a widow, or some such. I suppose I must see him. I'll receive him in the salon. Bring tea and coffee. Before I go, what do you young people have planned?" "I think it's past time for Jonathan to contact his employers," said Mina. "Jonathan, you can write them your formal report on your trip, and I will type it for you. Be sure to subtly indicate that you deserve an advancement or at least a bonus for your efforts." Jonathan frowned. "Right now I don't feel like reporting to them. I don't like this entire business with Romania. They should have found out more about the Prince before sending Renfield over there. And then they knew something was wrong with the situation, and sent me along anyway. They've treated Renfield abominably since his return, having him locked away in that prison." "Hospital," said Mina. "Asylum, and there are locked door and bars on the windows, Mina. It's a prison. You know, the more I think of it, the less sure I am that I want to continue in my present employment." That got Mina's attention. "What do you mean, Jonathan? You can't possibly think of quitting now, not after we've done so much to advance you in that firm. You just brought them very profitable sale, and they're sure to give you a rise and possibly a promotion soon. You'd never be able to do as well somewhere else." "Perhaps not, but I'd be more comfortable--more at peace." The look Mina gave him said that she considered this nonsense. "I don't want to discuss it now." "It's none of my business..." said Westenra. *But you're going to give me advice anyway,* thought Jonathan. "But your fiancee has a good head on her shoulders. Never take your employment for granted, son. If you quit a steady, respectable job without an equal one waiting, you just might be in for a long, thin spell. You have to think sensibly now that you're to support a wife." "I don't know why most people seem to think that 'sensible' is the same thing as unpleasant." "Jonathan!" said Mina reproachfully. "Don't take on, Miss Mina," said Westenra. "He's young, and the young tend to be restless. I'm sure that once you're married you'll settle him right down." *You mean she'll turn him from a stallion to a gelding,* thought Quincy. *I think the Count is going to weigh in on that.* "If you don't mind, Mister Westenra, I'll drop in on your meeting after I've finished eating. My mama would skin me if I didn't go greet a preacher." "Of course. Just don't be surprised if I remember some pressing business and leave." He left the room. Jonathan shook his head. "I've no doubt that Mister Westenra attends church regularly and donates to every presented church charity, but still he sees spending time with a clergyman outside of church to be something to be endured rather than embraced." "Don't be silly, Jonathan," said Mina. "He's simply set his religion among his priorities--he doesn't neglect it."

102

"Perhaps he doesn't neglect his religion, but what of his soul?" "I don't know what you mean." "No, you don't." *And Mister Harker is seeing flaws in the future missus,* thought Quincy. *He may be more open to Dracula's interest than I thought before. Good thing, too. I get the feeling the Count doesn't deal well with frustration.* He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then tented it over his empty plate. "If you folks will excuse me. I haven't been o church for awhile, and I'm curious to see how English pastors shape up to ours." "You're not Church of England," said Mina. "Catholic? Lutheran?" He smiled. "Baptist, ma'am. We don't sling fire and brimstone as much as some denominations, but we get our share of 'hallelujahs', 'amen, brothers', and an occasional speaking in tongues." He left the room. "How totally bizarre," said Mina. "Imagine believing in such things in this day and age." "Mina, someday you're going to understand that just because you don't believe in something, doesn't mean it doesn't exist," said Jonathan wearily. When Quincy entered the room he could see that Westenra had changed his mind about bowing out quickly. The two guests were on a sofa and Westenra was seated nearby. His posture was usually erect, but this time he was actually leaning slightly toward one guest, as if fascinated. Quincy knew without being told that the smaller, portly, balding man was the Reverend Clairidge--he wore the usual sober clothing, with what was very commonly known as a 'dog collar'. But the other man... *He doesn't look like any preacher I've ever seen. Well, except for the eyes. Some of the hellfire evangelists get that look, like they've counted the stains on your soul, and are ready to rip them out for the Lord.* "Morning, gentlemen. Thought I'd come along and pass my respects." "Clairidge," said Westenra, "this is the Texan I was telling you about--Mister Quincy Morris. Mister Morris, this is our Reverend Thomas Clairidge and his guest--Abraham Von Helsing." The two men stood to shake hands, and Quincy had to restrain himself from whistling. Van Helsing was a big cuss, and none of it was fat. If it wasn't for his sober dress and the smoothness of his hands, he could have been mistaken for a prime cowhand. *Or with those eyes, maybe a gunfighter.* "America," said Van Helsing. "A new land." "I'm not sure the Indians would agree with you on that, sir," said Quincy. "I mean that eventhough it has taken in thousands from all over the world, it is still part pristine wilderness. The ancient evils that plague Europe and the Middle East have not yet found a foothold there. But your people must be vigilant, Mister Morris. The taint can creep in subtly." "We're not worried," said Quincy mildly. "If it tries to invade Texas it'll be facing more guns than most armies can muster." Van Helsing's smile was almost painful. "Those only work against mortal man, Mister Morris." "It's the most fascinating thing," said Mister Westenra. "Van Helsing here has been telling me that he has encountered actual monsters--not men who act like monsters. He's dispatched several werewolves and vampires with his own hands." "Murder?" said Quincy. "Not murder," corrected Van Helsing. "Is it murder when you put down a rabid dog?"

103

"I guess that all depends on how sure you are," said Quincy. "I heard was that vampires looked pretty much like you and me." His lips quirked, "And I'm pretty sure they don't foam at the mouth. Tell me, Mister Van Helsing. Have you ever killed anyone because they MIGHT be a vampire or a werewolf?" Van Helsing stared at him in silence. "Uh-huh. This seems like a pretty quiet neck of the woods, Mister Van Helsing. Can I assume that you're here strictly for social reasons?" Van Helsing was quiet for just a second too long, then said heavily, "I had forgotten how direct Americans can be. Though I always enjoy meeting with men of God--no, this is not a pleasure trip. I cannot afford to idle away my time. I am here because Reverend Clairidge called me to lend my expertise in what may be a very grave situation. Mister Westenra, it is possible that this area--and your family in particular--is menaced by one of the undead." Westenra blinked. "And not just the undead, but the veritable supreme Nosferatu--the oldest and most dangerous vampire in existance." "I say," said Westenra. "I don't want to seem skeptical, but... that's all actually rubbish, isn't it? I mean, it's exciting to yarn about evil creatures and the supernatural, but I've never encountered anything of the kind. I have a cousin who claims to have seen a headless monk, but he was completely sozzled at the time." "If you will pardon me, sir, you most likely would not recognize a vampire till he had your throat in his teeth." "Realy!" "No, that is not meant as an insult. Thank God that you have managed to remain in ignorance. Indeed the greatest strength of the supernatural being is that in this 'scientific' age, the majority of mankind has ceased to believe in it. We go not guard against what we do not believe in. That is why the few, such as myself, who know the truth must be zealous in our efforts." "But I still don't understand why you're here," said Quincy. "As I said, I was summoned." All eyes turned to the Reverend Clairidge. He figited, then lifted his chin. "Yes, I sent for him." "But why, Clairidge? Has someone been turning digging up graves in the church yard?" said Westenra. " suppose there are still body thieves about, but that doesn't mean..." "Certain facts were brought to my attention," said Clairidge. "Facts about this household? Which of my servants has been gossiping? I'll have them out in a flash, without references. I may even prefer charges." "Wait a minute, sir," said Quincy. "I can think of a more likely candidate. Mister Clairidge, have you been talking to a big, bearded, dour fellow who goes by the name of Lukas?" "This man did come to me," said Clairidge. "He was most distressed about the situation of a young man who had been placed in his care--Jonathan Harker. He told me of the unwholesome interest that a certain visiting European count had taken in Harker, and how he is convinced that the man is none other than Dracula--the undead body of a wicked prince of centuries past." Westenra gaped, and Quincy shook his head in disgust. "Preacher, I'm sure you're a good man, but you really need to consider your sources more carefully. I've been around this Lukas, and my opinion is that he'd be right at home in Dr. Seward's asylum--in the violent section. And the Count's never done anything to make me consider him as anything less than a gentleman. I was even his guest last night, and I slept completely unmolested." *As long as you don't count when Sinn woke me up in the wee hours.* Van Helsing's eyes narrowed. "Is that so? Mister Morris, would you indulge me by allowing me to examine your throat?"

104

Quincy stared back at him. "I don't in general go showing my body to complete strangers, but I can see you'd be like a dog with a bone if I didn't, so..." Quincy hooked a finger in his collar and pulled it down, then turned his head left and right, lifting his chin so that everyone had a clear view. "If you see anything there it's going to be a passion bruise, and no--I won't tell you who gave it to me." Clairidge was blushing, and Mister Westenra looked amused and uncomfortable at the same time. Van Helsing, though, leaned forward to study Quincy intently. At last he grunted and said, "No penetration. I apologize." "Accepted." *And there WAS penetration, but it didn't involve teeth, and I wasn't the one being penetrated.* "Van Helsing," said Mister Westenra. "I find your theories very interesting, but I can't say I strictly believe them, and I still can't see how they involve me." "Your family, sir," said Van Helsing. "I hear that you have a precious daughter, and that young Harker's fiancee is here also. They could be in mortal danger. Virginal young women are very attractive to a vampire." *And again you don't know what you're talking about, hoss. The only person in Dracula's household that might be attracted to a woman is the gypsy. Dracula himself might consider a woman as a meal, but he wouldn't be craving after her, like you mean.* But Quincy was distressed to see that Westenra seemed to be taking this warning seriously. "They've got me, Jonathan, Mister Westenra, and a whole troop of stout men servants to protect them. I think they'll be all right." "Too much self confidence is foolishness, sir. You do not know what you are dealing with, and are thus at an automatic disadvantage." He turned to Westenra. "I beg you, sir, let me help you. Do not let your doubt lead to the loss of innocent lives." Clairidge spoke up. "Mister Westenra, you know me--I'm not an alarmist by nature. But something in what this man--and Lukas--have told me rings true. It will hurt nothing if you co-operate, and might do good. Just allow Van Helsing to stay in your house for a day or two, and fortify it. Let him watch over your family. It never hurts to be cautious." Quincy frowned as he saw that Westenra was wavering. "Personally, Mister Westenra, I wouldn't want my neighbors knowing that I was catering to a monster chaser." "Do not trivialize what I do!" snapped Van Helsing. "This is not a game to me, and if you insist on treating it as one then I despair of your life, and possibly your soul. Mister Westenra, if public opinion bothers you so much, you can tell them simply that I'm a visiting scholar. It's quite true--I hold several degrees from European universities." Westenra drew a deep breath. "I suppose I could let you stay for two or three days, just to set the Reverend's mind at rest. Besides, I know that Lucy would love to have another gentleman guest to practice her wiles on. She loves playing hostess. But I must insist that you not fill her head with a lot of gruesome stories. She's delicate, and I don't want her having nightmares." Quincy tried not to groan. For a moment he considered saying that if Van Helsing stayed, then he'd be going. He didn't have to say that he'd be going to Carfax Abbey. *But then again it would probably be a good idea for me to stick around. I'm pretty sure Dracula is going to be interested in this Van Helsing, and any good prince knows that it's wise to have an informant in the enemy camp.* ---------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 123/? Child of the Night, Chapter One Hundred-twenty three The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Westenra Estate A Close Enemy

105

Lucy had her breakfast in bed, as usual. While she was lingering over her chocolate a maid came and informed her that they were having another house guest--a visiting professor named Van Helsing. Lucy asked about the man and was informed that he was 'not so old as your father, not so young as Doctor Seward, and a fair looking man--for a foriegner'. This stirred Lucy. She hopped out of bed and harried her maid for extra speed and care as she prepared herself to greet her visitor. She met Mina as she was coming down the stairs. "Mina, you look as if your porridge were cold and your eggs were runny. What's wrong?" "Oh, it's Jonathan," sighed Mina. "Ever since he returned from Romania he's been being difficult. He won't grant perfectly reasonable requests, and sometimes he seems so distant. It's as if he was only pretending to pay attention to me, while his mind was elsewhere." She bit her lip. "You don't suppose he's met someone else?" Mina laughed. "Jonathan? Don't be silly. He's as faithful as a spaniel. You just haven't gotten him properly trained yet. I tell you what--I hear that we have a new gentleman guest. Why don't you flirt shamelessly with him? I'm going to. It does our men good to get jealous every now and then--makes them more attentive." "Lucy, that's so manipulative." Mina smiled slyly. "And it sounds as if it might work. Come along." The linked arms and went into the study, to find Quincy, Mina's father, Reverend Clairidge, and the visitor. The maid had been fairly accurate, thought Lucy. The man was not quite middle aged--still young enough--and rather handsome, if one liked the Puritanical type. Lucy thought it might be delightful to try to render such a man blushing and confused. "Ah, Lucy," said Mister Westenra, "Mina. You both know the Reverend Clairidge. This is his friend, Professor Abraham Van Helsing. He's on sabbatical in our area, um... researching local religious legends. Gentlemen, my daughter Lucy and her friend, Miss Mina Murray." Mina swept forward and held out her hand to Van Helsing. "How do you do? A professor! I rather regret that I didn't continue my education. Many fine colleges are accepting women nowadays." She lifted her eyes to him. "I'm sure that I would find any class that you taught fascinating." "I'm afraid that most of the subjects I teach are unsuitable for a gently reared lady," said Van Helsing. "And this is Miss Murray?" Mina shook his hand, allowing herself to hold his hand just a second longer than necessary. He ignored it. "How is your fiance, Mister Harker? I understand that he had a very strenuous journey recently." "Yes," said Mina. "It was odd, and quite perilous. He nearly drowned, and he brought back the most fanciful tales. " "How is he?" She frowned. "He seems well recovered physically." "Physically? But otherwise?" "Oh, nothing dramatic. He's just not himself." "Does he seem distant? Uninterested in his former life?" "Why, that's it exactly. He seems to have lost all interest in his career, and he treats me in the most offhand manner. He used to be the most obliging man in the world, but now he rebuffs the simplest request or suggestion." "I haven't seen that," said Quincy. "All he did was refuse to write a toadying leatter to his bosses this morning."

106

"Pardon me, Mister Morris," said Mina cooly, "You do not know him as I do." "Ever thought that maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do?" "Mister Morris!" "Don't take on so." He smiled slightly. "There ain't many men who are truly themselves when they're courting." "Mister Westenra," said Van Helsing. "Will you allow me to offer the ladies a small token of my esteem?" The look he gave Westenra said that this was not really a request. "I suppose so," said Westenra. Lucy laughed. "Oh, please do. I never turn down tokens." "And Miss Mina?" said Van Helsing. "I trust your young man will not think it improper." "At this moment, sir, I have little concern for what he would think," said Mina. "I would be honored." "Wonderful." Van Helsing removed two small boxes from his pocket and presented one to each of the girls. "Please accept these in the spirit of Christian care." The girls opened the boxes almost simultaneously. Mina drew in a breath, and Lucy made a small, glad cry. "Oh, how lovely." She pulled out a thin chain, supporting a cross. It was larger than the fashion of the day, being as long as her thumb, and quite plain. There was no engraving, no embelishment of any kind. Had it been made of a base metal, it would have looked almost brutal. She held it out to Van Helsing, saying, "Will you help me with this?" Weestenra took it, saying, "I won't have a stranger hanging jewelry on my daughter in my own house. Turn about, Mina, and I'll fix it for you." She pouted, but did as he said. Mina was examining her cross with a perplexed look. "But Mister Van Helsing, this is real silver, and heavy. I'm not sure I should accept such an expensive gift." "Miss Murry, please do not give this simple gift attributes I did not intend," said Van Helsing. "It is large, so that all may see your devotion and piety. We must never be ashamed of our Christianity. It is true silver because silver is a holy metal. This is a gift of spiritual fellowship, nothing more." "I suppose it's all right, then. It IS pretty, in a very simple way. Thank you, sir." Lucy was admiring the way her cross lay upon her bosom. Mina cleared her throat pointedly. "Oh! Thank you, Mister Van Helsing. It's lovely. I feel more pious all ready. I can't wait to wear it to church on Sunday." Van Helsing held up a finger. "This is not just for church. Does one doff their religion during the week and put it away, only to bring it out on Sunday? No. You must wear these at all times. Show the world that you belong to the Lord, and they will keep evil at bay." "I don't recall the crucifixes and rosaries saving many priests when they were being persecuted over here," commented Quincy. Van Helsing gave him a cold stare. "They can only rebuke earthly evil, but they are proof against otherworldly evil." Quincy looked at Westenra and said jokingly, "Does this mean you have a family ghost you haven't told me about? Got a banshee that comes wailing? Or maybe a blood spattered bride who was killed on her wedding night?"

107

"Do not mock!" Van Helsing had only raised his voice slightly, but his words were like hammer blows. "As the scripture says, fools make a mock at sin." Quincy's expression grew rigid. "I know my bible, too. "Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing,but underneath are ravenous wolves." With that he turned and left the room. "Professor Van Helsing," said Westenra, "I apologize for Mister Morris. He's from Texas, you know. It's still a frontier, and I fear that he wasn't reared with the social niceties we have in a more established country." "He is a very rash young man," said Van Helsing heavily. "I am not insulted. I have heard much worse many times. I only hope that his skeptical attitude does not cost him dearly. Would you like me to help you with your cross, Miss Mina, or do you prefer to wait for your fiance?" "I'm quite capable," said Mina, fastening the necklace around her throat neatly. "It's very old fashioned to think of women as helpless. I believe there will come a day when women will take their place in the working world alongside me, and not necessarily as a means to survival. No, they will do it to live independently." "And I suppose you're going to vote, too?" said the Reverend Clairidge indulgently. "Sir, for a man who believes that a woman brought salvation to the world through the birth of her son, you have a low opinion of our sex." Clairidge blushed, flustered. "No, of course not! I mean, yes--Mary was vital... I mean..." "Mina, stop harrassing the reverend," said Jonathan as he entered the room. He addressed the guests. "She's not quite a suffragette, but she isn't far behind." "And you approve?" asked Van Helsing. Jonathan shrugged. "Whether I approve or not is of no consequence. It's a very personal choice that Mina must make for herself. I have a hard time objecting to anyone wanting to be independent. You must be Professor Van Helsing." Jonathan offered his hand, "Morris told me about you." "Not a good report, I fear." Jonathan just smiled. "And I have heard much about you, Mister Harker." "Really? I hardly think I merit intense discussion." "I understand that while in Romania you very nearly came to tragedy at the castle of a certain Prince Draculea." Now Jonathan frowned. "It seems that everyone knows as much about my business as I do myself. I'm afraid that my ordeal in the river wiped most of the memories of that time. I just know that it seemed odd, but then I was in a foreign country--almost another world." "That is perhaps more true than you realize." Van Helsing would have continued, but Mina spoke up. "Jonathan, look. Professor Van Helsing has given me this lovely cross." She hooked a finger in the chain and lifted it for his inspection. His eyebrows lifted. "It's very nice." He glanced at Van Helsing, and his look said, *And very personal.* "While I am not ordained," said Van Helsing, "I do all that I can as a layman for the service of God. I believe that all good Christians should own at least one cross, and carry it with them at all times." Jonathan made a small noise. "Not a bad desire, but most would be carrying it absently, as a mere matter of form. That would seem to me to insult the symbol rather than honor it."

108

Van Helsing switched subjects abruptly, going back to his true interest. "I have studied a bit about the Draculea liniage. The original Prince was one of the strongest rulers that country ever had, but an evil man. He tortured and killed hundreds, if not thousands, and on his death he became a Nosferatu." "A vampire? Surely you meant to say 'legend has it'." Van Helsing was silent. "Whatever his ancestor has done, I do not recall feeling threatened by the current prince. I believe it was some underling in his household who was responsible for my falling off the parapets." Jonathan's gaze became distant. "In fact, I think I called to the prince for help, and he was coming to aid me when I fell." He shook his head, as if clearing it. "It's fuzzy. Still, you cannot hold that man accountable for the sins of his ancestor." "The sins of the fathers..." Jonathan cut him off. "When Christ died for our sins that law passed away. God no longer visits tragedy on innocent children because of what their parents have done." "I had hoped for time to breech my facts to you gradually, but I see that perhaps a straight ahead approach is best. Mister Harker, I believe that the man you met in Romania is, in fact, the original Prince Draculea, The Impaler." Jonathan blinked, then said slowly, "I believe you're serious." "I am, and I'll venture furter. I believe that there is a chance, a real chance, that this Count Dracula is the same man." "No," said Jonathan firmly. "I do remember the old prince's appearance, and he WAS old. He was bent, wrinkled, and gray. The Count is vigorous and healthy, and certainly no more than in his forties." "We do not know everything about vampires, but it is believed that their natural physical state is the same as it was when they died, but that neglecting to feed on human blood will gradually wither them till they resemble their true age. Once they again prey on the living, their youth is returned." "It is believed. You haven't seen evidence of this yourself?" "Some. I once dug up the grave of a girl who had been in the ground for twenty years. Her body looked to be whole, uncorrupted, and still in the flush of youth." "And what did you do?" "I put her to rest." "You reburied her?" A pause. "Eventurally." "What did you do, Mister Van Helsing? Why do you hesitate to tell us?" "I followed the prescribed ritual for disposing of a vampire. I drove a wooden stake through her heart, then I removed her head and stuffed the mouth with garlic." Both Mina and Lucy were looking green, but Van Helsing continued doggedly. "I burned the body to ashes, put it back in the coffin, then reburied her under a cross-roads." Lucy had sunk down on the couch, and Mina was fanning her with a handkerchief. "I am sorry to be so blunt, ladies, but each step must be followed for maximum assurance." "I can't believe this. Mister Westenra, you're giving shelter to a man who has admitted to such heinous acts? With his own voice he admits to grave robbery, and the mutilation and destruction of the corpse of a young girl. He may claim to do it in the name of God, but it strikes me as blasphemous." "I take no insult," said Van Helsing calmly, "for you are very young, and you believe that because you escaped danger once, it is overy. Not so, young man. If what I have heard is true, and I am inclined to

109

believe it is, then you are still in grave danger. Once a vampire has staked a claim on a mortal, they will not rest until they take them. They will drain them dry, and if the victim is very unfortunate they will pass on the curse of life after death." "Isn't it possible," said Jonathan, "for one of these beings to survive without killing? Man will eat all manner of beasts when he can find no other food. Might they not turn to, say, cattle, and spare men? And can they not take only a small amount at a time? Many a man has lost blood but gone on to live a full life." "I suppose these things are possible," Van Helsing responded grudgingly, "But they are hardly likely. Having lost their soul, they lose all kinship with humanity. Killing is nothing to them but a means to an end, and perhaps a pleasure." "I don't believe that." "And where have you studied the undead?" said Van Helsing, with ill concealed irritation. He did not like being refuted. "Where have you, sir? Have you ever actually known one? I don't mean hunted and killed--I mean spent time with him." "That would be impossilbe. The vampire would immediately try to kill me." "Perhaps because he sensed that with you it would be kill or be killed. I'm of the opinion that there must be as many types of vampires as there are men. Yes, some would be cold and viscious, but surely others would control themselves, and do their best to cause no harm. I think that vampireism must be rather like strong drink--it is most likely to simply intensify a person's personality. A man who becomes violent and abusive when drunk had that inside him all the time." "That goes contrary to all my studies of the supernatureal, sir." "You only go by the commonly held beliefs? Man once believed that the earth was flat, and that the entire universe revolved around us. Widely accepted does not mean true." "Jonathan," said Mina, "Why are you debating so heatedly?" "Everyone else here save Quincy seem to be taking this man and his theories far too seriously. I thought there should be one person speaking for common sense." "Mister Harker," said Van Helsing. "You have formed a quick and close friendship with this Count Dracula, have you not?" "I won't deny it. He's a cordial and cultured gentleman, and we share many interests." "May I please examine your throat?" Jonathan did not quite gape in astonishment. "Excuse me?" "When someone falls under the influence of such creatures there is often physical evidence." "Sir, do you often ask people to allow you to examine them intimately? While I don't believe in being petty about the rules of etiquette, this is quite beyond acceptable." "I can only assume that your reluctance means that you are wary of what I might find." Now Jonathan flushed. "It's because you're being presumptuous and cheeky. No, I won't bare my throat for you. It's clear that you're goiing to believe that I carry a mark whether I do or not, so I won't play your game." "Oh, Jonathan, do show us!" said Lucy. "Quincy did." She giggled. "His throat was unmarked, but he

110

made the most scandelus remarks about how he might have come to have a bruise there. Has he been trysting with a maid over at the Count's household?" "Mister Morris is mindful of my privacy, and I am mindful of his," said Jonathan shortly. "What can it matter?" said Mina. "And truly, you are acting as if you have something to hide." "Mina, you've always been so careful of what is considered proper. I remember summer days when I was sweltering, but when I mentioned removing my jacket you told me how embarrassing it would be if anyone saw me in my shirtsleeves. Now you encourage me to do this? I don't believe I'm the one who's acting out of character now." "If you will not let me examine you, will you at least take this?" Van Helsing held out another small box. Jonathan made no move to take it. "What is it?" "A simple cross, like I gave Miss Mina and Miss Lucy." "No. And don't look at me as if I've just revealed a great secret. I'm not related to you, sir. I'm not a friend, nor even an acquaintance. And as I am not in the habit of accepting jewelry from complete strangers, I decline your gift." He hesitated. "With thanks. Now, if you will all excuse me, I believe that Quincy had the right idea." He left. When he was gone Mina said, "I apologize for his rudeness." "Didn't seem exactly rude to me," murmured Westenra. "I rather admire the young man for being so independent, and not bowing to pressure." "Believe me, sir," said Van Helsing, "Mine is not the pressure that he should fear." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 124/? Child of the Night, Chapter One Hundred-twenty four The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Carfax Abbey Warning After speaking with Jonathan in the hall and telling him exactly what he thought of Van Helsing (in profane language) Quincy went out to the stable. He refused the help of the grooms and himself saddled his horse. Knowing that he was going to be overseas for some time he'd brought his favorite mount with him--an Appaloosa stallion named Blue. The horse was strong willed, but he'd acknowledged Quincy as his master, and obeyed every directive. Quincy knew that Blue might not be able to beat these fancy English thoroughbreds in a short race, but he could run them into the ground when it came to endurance. He galloped over to Carfax Abbey, not needing to do more than touch Blue with his heels, and urge him on. The stable hands were a little startled by the "Yee-ha!" that preceeded his rapid departure. When Quincy reached the Abbey he looped Blue's reigns through the ring of a rusted hitching post, then rapped on the door. It was the gypsy Salazar who answered. "I need to talk to someone." The gypsy stared at him. "Look I know that you can understand me. This isn't a social call. I have news that the Prince will want to hear." The gypsy's eyebrows lowered. "Yeah, that's right--prince, not count. That should show you I know a thing or two. I'm not asking to speak to him personally, since this isn't the right time. But I know Simion can see me, and I know he'll want to." At this the gypsy shrugged and opened the door to let him in. He indicated that Quincy was to wait, then disappeared into the depths of the house. In a few moments Simion came out. "Well, Mister Morris. I expected to see you again, but not so soon."

111

"I didn't think this should wait. There's news that Dracula should hear as soon as he wakes up." Quincy drew a deep breath. "The Reverend Clairidge brought over a strange dude named Van Helsing-Professor Abraham Van Helsing. He's asking some very ticklish questions. It seems that he believes in vampires, and he thinks we might have one or two, uh, menacing us." Simion's eyebrows rose slowly. "Indeed? I must say, I didn't expect that here in England." "He's not English. I'm not sure where he's from originally, but he sounds sort of German. I don't like him, Simion. He looks dangerous. Not just dangerous to Dracula's kind--just dangerous. I don't think he's too tightly wrapped, if you know what I mean. Liable to come unravelled at any minute. And he believes in KILLING things." "You were right to bring this to my attention," said Simion. "I can see that you are going to be a distinct asset to this household. Do they know you came?" "I don't think so. I didn't speak to anyone, and they were all engaged when I left." "Then hurry back and try not to be missed. It would be best if this Van Helsing did not know how close you are to us. If I need to, I can send you a message by Salazar." "Fair enough. You know, it wouldn't surprise me at all if that lunatic decided he needed to clear out the whole nest of you, from Dracula to the gypsy. I know he isn't one of them--or like you--but I don't think that would matter much to Van Helsing. He'd figure the man was tainted by association, and if not, then he had served darkness." Quincy smiled, but it was more like a baring of teeth. "That's not my opinion, but I'm pretty sure he'd say something like that. Any plausible excuse." Quincy left, and Simion took a moment to consider. Dracula would want this information as soon as possible, but there was little he could do till the sun went down. His master had been having a trying time emotionally, so Simion decided not to wake him. He did seek out Salazar, though, and inform him of what was happening. The gypsy listened carefully, nodding. Then he took out his large knife and began to hone it against a whetstone. Simion made his way around the ground floor, making sure that shutters were barred on the inside. He didn't bother with the upstairs, and he didn't fortify the doors downstairs. There needed to be some means of escape for himself and Salazar, but the vampires could all easily leave through any upstairs window. He finally finished his round and went to the kitchen. Salazar was cleaning a pistol, and nodded to Simion as he entered. Simion setteled at the table with a cup off coffee, and there were a few moments of silence. Finally, speaking Rom, the gypsy said, "How many times?" Simion looked at him questioningly. "How many times have you prepared for men to come after him?" Simion blew out a breath. "I have no idea. Many, many times. The precautions were not always necessary, but too often they were. I wish I knew more about this one, so I'd have a better idea of what to expect, but I have a bad feeling. From what Mister Morris said I'm afraid he's one of the true believers, who has taken up a cause. A man with a cause is a dangerous thing--to everyone, not just his target. They become very adept at justifying any and all means. I think the most dangerous of all, though, are the disbelievers who become believers. Such outrage when it's proved that they were wrong, such fervency in their pursuit. And they never know when to give up. Most sensible beings will admit when they're hopelessly out powered but these are committed. Success or death--they see no other alternatives." *********** "I am having a book delivered here. It will contain the supplies I'll need to fortify your house." said Van Helsing. "But there's one thing I'll need to obtain from you. I don't carry it in large supply because its potency fails as it ages. I will need you to supply me with as much garlic as you can." "Garlic?" said Westenra. "Um, well... I'd be surprised if we have any in the kitchen. In fact, I don't think we've used a bulb of it in the past five or six years. Strong, foreign stuff. Overpowers the flavor of everything it comes in contact with."

112

"Then we must send to the market for it. I will provide the payment." "No need for that." Westenra stepped to the door and called a footman. He handed him some money and said, "Send a lad to the market and tell him to buy out their stock of garlic." "Garlic, sir?" said the footman. "You heard me." "Yes, sir." As he left the footman was muttering, "Looks like it'll be bread and cheese for me for awhile." "Shall I send someone to the Reverend's place to see if your box has arrived?" "No need," said Van Helsing. "I instructed that it was to be delivered here." Westenra stared at him. "A bit sure of yourself, weren't you?" "I was trusting that you would be a sensible man, and delays are to be avoided in a situation like this. I have another request. I want to brink Lukas here." "Out of the question! The man is unbalanced. He has an unhealthy obsession with young Harker, and I won't have him around my daughter or Miss Murry." "They need not know he is here. Don't you have quarters above the stable for your staff?" "I don't want to force them to be around him, either." "He doesn't need careful accomodation. The stable itself would be fine, or any small outbuilding. He isn't afraid of a bit of hardship if it's in the cause of fighting evil. Please, sir--be reasonable. Lukas will be a valuable allie." "Daddy, I don't like him either," said Lucy. "But if the Professor says he'd be helpful... Can't he sleep in the gardening shed? We could send him some blankets and a pillow." Westenra shook his head. "If I didn't put my foot down you'd fill the estate with every stray dog and cat in the shire. If you believe he'll be a help, Van Helsing, he can stay. But he'll have to come to the back door for his meals and take them outside. He makes the servants nervous." "Very well. Reverend, send Lukas here when you return home." Clairidge cleared his throat. "I intend to remain here, if Mister Westenra doesn't object. This family is under my spiritual guidance, and I can't be a careless shepherd." "It's unneccesay," said Van Helsing, "and might prove dangerous to you. It would be better if you went home." Clairidge looked stubborn. "My flesh may be weak, but my spirit is strong. I will not leave unless Westenra sends me away." He looked at Mister Westenra expectantly. Westenra felt backed into a corner. He might tend to agree that Clairidge was not physically suited to this work, but then Westenra himself was not too much younger than the reverend. If he turned Clairidge away it might leave a deep social wound, and he could be viewed by many of his neighbors as hypocritical. "I don't see any reason why the good Reverend shouldn't stay. There can't be too many spirit warriors, can there?" Van Helsing frowned, but said, "All prayer is needed and wanted. I'm sorry for being hesitant, Reverend Clairidge, but you must understand that my first instinct is to protect." He smiled grimly. "Like many men I feel that if I don't do something myself, it hasn't been done."

113

The footman again entered the room, and Westenra said, "You must be psychic. I need you to send a message to Reverend Clairidges house and tell his guest to come here." "Yes, sir, but that wasn't why I entered. There's a package being delivered here for a Professor Van Helsing, and I assumed that would be this gentleman." "Quite correct," said Van Helsing. "Please bring it in, and bring also a crowbar or hammer and chisel, so that I may open it." The footman bowed and left. A few moments later he returned carrying a heavy hammer and chisel. Two other footmen were lugging a wooden crate, about the size of a small trunk. "Sit it there, please." The head footman started to place the chisel between the case and its lid. "Shall I open it, sir?" "No, give me those tools. I'll take care of it." The footman was surprised that a learned gentleman would want to do a common bit of brute labor, but he was not going to argue. He handed over the tools and left the room with his fellows. The servant's hall had been filled with gossip lately--now it was going to fairly buzz. Van Helsing fitted the chisel into place and drove it home with a sure, hard swing. Westenra couldn't help wondering, with a morbid thrill, how he had developed his striking technique. In short order Van Helsing had pried open the crate, and he began lifting out the contents. It consisted mostly of crosses, of all different sizes. There were also several sacks that seemed to contain something like grain, and some small mirrors. Other items were more sinister--knives, rope, a saw, stakes, a heavy mallet, and a pistol. Westenra pointed at the last item. "I don't like those." Van Helsing hefted it, and checked the chambers. "While it is not the prefered weapon against vampires, a silver bullet will kill if it hits a vulnerable area. If it doesn't kill, the wound will not heal as quickly as those caused by base metals, and will further hinder the Nosferatu." Finally he lifted out a large metal flask, which was etched with crosses, flowers, and doves. His touch was careful and reverent. His voice hushed, he said, "My most powerful weapon. This flask contains water from the holy shrine at Lourdes, and it was blessed by a the Pope himself. The Church itself does not officially sanction me, but many of their clergy believe, and offer help. This was given to me by a Cardinal. It is to be used in only the most desperate circumstances." "Lourdes?" said Westenra. "I remember when we first started hearing about what was supposed to have happened there. I always thought it was just a case of a teenage girl working herself and her friends up into a frenzy of religious fervor." Van Helsing gave him a flat look. "Such things happen," protested Westenra, "a lot more often than true visions, I'd wager. In any case, I suppose that if a priest blessed it, it's real holy water. Our Church of England doesn't use it." He snapped his fingers. "But we DO have communion! Say Reverend, perhaps you could provide a few dozen hosts?" Clairidge drew in a sharp breath. "I'm sure you do not mean to be blasphemous, Mister Westenra, but I could never desecrate the body of Christ, and yes--I believe that using it to battle the undead would be desecrating it." "While I believe that it would fulfil God's intention of saving his earthly children," said Van Helsing, "but I will not argue with you on that point. These supplies should be sufficient. I've never needed more." Lucy was interested in following Van Helsing about to watch him at his work, but her father firmly forbid this. "This isn't meant to be some sort of party game, Lucy. Until this is over I want you to be with someone at all times--myself, our guests, or a servant. No wandering in the garden after dark, either. I'll want you to keep your windows and the balcony door closed and locked." "But father, it will get so stuffy," she protested. "You'll survive, girl. Judging from what Van Helsing believes you might NOT survive if you're careless."

114

"Oh, pooh. And I thought it was going to be fun to be the fair maiden in distress." "Yes, you are fair, and believe me--you are in more distress than you realize. Miss Westenra, Miss Lucy--I must warn you that the vampire can be unnaturally charming. I don't mean just pleasant to be with--I mean that some seem to have the ability to control the will of others. If you are strong minded and alert, you should be able to resist such mental pressure, but if you are unaware you are at risk. I caution you that if you find yourself becoming dreamy, detatched, lighted, unnaturally distracted... If you feel compelled to do things contrary to your safety, such as opening windows or doors, and going outside... Resist with all your might and call for help immediately. Now, if you will excuse me." He removed a pouch of nails from the crate, took the hammer, and loaded his arms with crosses. "I will begin setting our defenses." He left and Lucy said, "Father, you're not going to let him go pounding holes in our walls? It will take forever to repair them." "Lucy," said her father wearily. "For once be a little patient." "Truly, Miss Westenra," said Clairidge, "what does replacing a few panels mean if their defacement protects you?" Lucy bowed her head slightly, and said her good-byes, indicating for Mina to come with her. Once they were out of the room Lucy hissed, "And there speaks a man who's never given a moment's thought to decorating! I had fresh walllpaper put all through the house not ten years ago. It took me months to choose the patterns, and I had to have the stupid workmen do one hallway over three times before they got the stripes right. I swear, Mina, men have no consideration. Arthur won't be getting away with nonsense like this once we're married." They could hear the sound of hammering nearby, and followed it to the front door. As they arrived in the foyer the front door opened, and Van Helsing came inside. They just had time to see a cross nailed to the front door before it shut. They all nodded to one another, and Van Helsing continued on toward the kitchen. Lucy opened the door again and she and Mina gazed at the cross. It was at least a foot long, made of simple polished wood, and was hung in the exact center of the door at eye level. Lucy groaned, "Mina, it's going to be like living in a convent." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------Title: Child of the Night, 125/? Child of the Night, Chapter One Hundred-twenty five The Year of Our Lord, 1892 Westenra Estate Lukas received word from Van Helsing. He immediately made his way to the Westenra Estate, going to the kitchen door. An kitchen maid answered his knock, and immediately tried to slam the door shut. Luka braced it easily and said, "I am sent for. Tell the professor I am here. Never fear, I will not try to enter." The maid eyed him suspiciously, then called a burly footman over to watch the door while she sent the message via another footman. Lukas and the servant waited silently, exchanging stares. Van Helsing arrived and said, "Thank you for your speed, brother." "I am always swift to do the Lord's will. Tell me what I must do," replied Luka. "I do not need you immediately. Go to the garden shed--they've left bedding for you there. Sleep now, while our enemy sleeps, so that you will be well rested for tonight." Luka nodded and made his way to the shed. He took the blanket, but set aside the pillow. It was his habit to sleep as simply as possible. He knew that many monks slept on platforms, without pillows or sheets, and he could be just as zealous as they in mortifying his body for God's glory. It was the great sadness of his life that he'd never been accepted into a monastery. He'd applied to several, but they'd always refused him once they found out how he'd tried to cut the sin out of his flesh as a boy.

115

Van Helsing had left the kitchen when the stable lad who'd been sent to market returned with a picnic basket full of strands of garlic bulbs. He set it quickly on the table and stepped back. "Here 'tis, and phew, I'm glad to be rid of it. I'd dunk meself in the horsetrough, but I'm afraid I might taint it and hurt the horses." He left, and the entire kitchen staff starred at the basket as if it might contain a cobra. Finally the cook said, "I never thought I'd see the day they'd bring such a lot of foreign rot into my kitchen. If they want something strong, why not cabbage? What am I supposed to do with this?" "I think we're supposed to give it over to Mister Westenra's guest, the professor," said the lowest kitchen maid. "Don't be a goose. If any food stuff is sent to me, they must want it used. He sent for this special, so it must be important to the master. Well..." She opened a drawer and pulled out a cookbook. It was so new that the spine cracked as she opened it. "I guess I'll finally have a use for this book on fancy French cookery Miss Lucy got me. Frenchies love garlic, don't they?" She began paging through the book. "Oh. A whole section! There should be something suitable here." She looked at the staff. "You lot might want to go find some clothes pins. It's going to be rank in here." Dinner time was approaching. Van Helsing had finished most of his preparations, and had returned to the study. Westenra found him perusing a battered tome in a foreign language. Van Helsing looked up and said, "It's a Hungarian work--there's historically been a great deal of supernatural activities in that area. I'm afraid that it's hard to tell the difference between folktales and actual observations." "Perhaps you should write one yourself," suggested Westenra. "I'd like to pass along my hard won knowledge, but I have no time now. Perhaps in fifteen or twenty years--if I live that long. I need to find an apprentice or two to carry on my work if anything should happen to me. I'm going to be watching Lukas closely, to see how he handles this situation. He might be a likely prospect. Mister Westenra, perhaps you should send someone to check on whoever went to the market. Surely he should have been back by now." Westenra checked his watch. "You're right. He should have been back hours ago. You don't suppose that one of the, er, things got to him?" "Not in broad daylight. Their human servants can be dangerous in the daytime hours, but I doubt there was any trouble like that. After all, I've only just arrived, so I doubt word could have gotten to them yet. As long as the man stayed clear of... Carfax Abbey, was it?" Westenra nodded. "They seldom leave their home base." "In any case I'm curious now." He rang for a footman. "Jessup, has the footman you sent returned from the market yet?" "I sent a stable lad, sir," said the footman. "All the footmen were busy, but he's an honest lad. I saw him not long ago, so he must have been and returned." "But then where's the garlic?" The footman blinked. "You wanted it brought to you directly?" "Yes!" "Sir, when you send someone to market for food, you always have it sent to the kitchen. I assume that's where he took it." Westenra sighed. "Go get it." "Yes, sir." The footman left.

116

"I hope she hasn't peeled much of it yet," said Van Helsing. "Garlic strands are easy to hang, but it would be difficult to nail up peeled bulbs." "I suppose so. I've never thought of it." "I've tried it. Slippery." The footman returned, accompanied by a stout, redfaced woman wearing an apron. Lucy, Jonathan, and Mina came in behind them, and Lucy's expression said much about the pungent aroma that accompanied the woman. Before anyone else could speak she said, "Cook, what on earth have you been doing? I hope you don't intend to serve us whatever it is that caused that smell." "Don't blame me!" said the woman tartly. "'Tisn't my fault you father wanted a garlic banquet." She gave Mister Westenra a grim look. "Sir, I believe I've gone above and beyond my calling today. If you'd given me a bit of notice I wouldn't have minded so much, but I've done quite well on short notice." Van Helsing groaned. "You didn't use it all?" "It wasn't easy. I made a cream of garlic soup to start. I made garlic croutons for the salad, and a garlic flavored mayonaisse that they call aoili. Chicken stuffed with forty cloves of garlic. Garlic infused roast. Garlic bread, and for something a bit normal, cabbage and potatos with onions... and garlic. I refused to use any in the dessert." "You fool!" Everyone looked at Van Helsing, startled. Till now the man had been quiet, and even tempered, and this sudden vehement outburst took them all by surprise. It did not, however, fluster Cook. She was in the traditon of a long like of English cooks--the iron ruler of her kitchen, and she felt she had a vested interest in the family she served. She was not to be cowed by attitude. "Fool yourself!" she snapped. "I won't be spoken to like that. I only did my job. If food is presented to me I cook it, unless I've been specifically told not to. I've no idea what you would have done with it in those nasty, rough strings, anyway." "He was going to hang them on the walls, I think," said Lucy. This seemed to befuddle the cook. "Huh. The ideas of the gentry. If you don't want to eat it, I don't know what I'm going to do for your supper. Maybe the Reverend Clairidge can give the food to the destitute. Lord knows the staff won't want much of it, and I can't blame them. Please excuse me now. If you want ought but scrambled eggs and toast for dinner, I need to get to work." Westenra dismissed the servants, then chided Van Helsing. "Really, old man, you can't talk to a cook like that. She's a good cook, and they're hard to come by." Van Helsing closed his eyes, almost looking in pain. "I apologize for my outburst." "It would make more sense if you apologized to the cook," said Jonathan. "Indeed. I shall do so." He started for the door. "Perhaps I can salvage something yet, though I wished she'd used a clear broth for the soup. I'm sure it would have been stronger." After he left Jonathan said, "I fear that we may find ourselves being advised to carry slices of garlic bread in our pockets." Lucy giggled. "He could dribble the soup across the thresholds and windowsills." Mina joined in. "Perhaps we should dab some of the aioli behind our ears, Lucy." "I'm sure that if we ate some of the chicken or cabbage our breath would drive away not only vampires..." she was starting to giggle again, "But... but everyone else as well."

117

"Lucy, please," said her father. "Really, you need to take this more seriously." "Oh, how can I? Really, Father. It's fun to pretend to believe in ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties, but it's all childish nonsense. I haven't been scared of the boogie man since I was ten." "You've never had to, Lucy," said Jonathan. "Do you believe in the boogie man?" "I believe in evil here on earth," said Jonathan. "But I believe that people often see it where it isn't, and ignore it where it is." "How very philosophical. Does the Professor suspect anyone in particular, father, or is he simply expecting a nomadic band of vampires to descend upon us?" Quincy had entered, and he said, "He suspects Count Dracula, and perhaps the other members of his household." "He said so, Lucy," said Mina. "Don't you remember?" Lucy frowned. "But I thought he was just... I don't know. I thought perhaps he figured that the Count was the most likely person in the neighborhood. After all, Jonathan and Quincy have seen them all during the daylight. Shouldn't that be impossible?" Van Helsing had re-entered the room. "It should but they may be a different sort of Nosferatu I haven't run into before." Quincy made a sound of disgust. "You're just not going to give up this fool idea. He could walk here at high noon, kiss a cross, and splash his face with holy water, and you'd still try to figure out how he managed to do it." "I'm sorry to hear you feel that way. I was hoping for your help, Mister Morris. I can see that you're a capable man." "Oh, I'll help, but in my own way. I'm not going to do anything I think is wrong." His eyes narrowed. "And I'm telling right now, if you go to hurt someone I think is innocent, I WILL stop you. Just so we're clear." Van Helsing bowed his head as if in agreement, but it was clear that he was not going to hold back because of Quincy. "Mister Westenra, your cook says that dinner will be a half hour late, but she had someone kill a chicken, and she can manage a decent fricassee." "Perhaps now you see why we want to keep in her good graces," said Westenra. ********** Dracula was sleeping in his coffin on a bed of his native soil. At the castle Sinn and Rill slept in windowless rooms, but Dracula slept in a coffin in the castle's basement. He seemed to draw strength from the nearness to his native soil, and there he felt closest to Nicolae. Now that he had Nicolae back in his life, he hoped to once again return to his former chambers. The thought of spending time there with his reborn love made him feel warm for the first time in centuries. When he lifted the coffin lid, Simion was waiting. Dracula accepted his hand to stand up, saying, "I'm always happy to see you, old friend, but when you're waiting for me to arise it is seldom to deliver good news." "Not good news, but not necessarily dire news. A man who styles himself as a vampire hunter has come to the Westenra estate." "Here, in England?"

118

"Apparently he's not English." "Let's go find the others. They need to be aware of this." They met the other two vampires in the downstairs salon. Sinn was watching Rill play with a blackand-white kitten. He had found the little cat sniffing around the kitchen door and instead of eating it as a snack, had given it to the younger vampire. A delighted Rill had fed the cat till its tiny belly was almost round, and it had quite obviously attached itself to him. *Just like him,* thought Simion. *Rill wants a pet. I suppose it will be coming back to Transylvania with us.* Dracula took a seat, and when the others' attention was directed toward him, explained the situation. "What is this man's name again?" asked Sinn. "Van Helsing," said Simion. "But I know that name. Let me think." He tapped his forehead, frowning. "Ah, yes. I ran across several mentions of him in a magazine dedicated to the odd and unusual a year or two ago. Dracula, I think we must take him seriously. His reputation is as close to legitimate as someone with his pursuits can be. And even those who don't believe as he does admit that his is very good at what he does, and very conscientious." "You succeeded in one of the most politicized environments ever, Sinn, and I trust your sense of survival. We won't have as long here as I had hoped. We must be ready to leave at a moment's notice." Sinn sighed. "And so I resign myself to losing even more of my wardrobe." "All I'll need to take is my box," Rill held up the kitten. "And this. I can keep him, can't I?" Dracula smiled indulgently. "We will do what we can, but you must understand, Rill, that none of us must be endangered by trying to find him when we have to leave. Know where he is at all times. It is a he?" "I'm not sure." Rill peered under the kitten's tail. "I can't see anything here." "When they're that little it's hard to tell," said Simion. "You can check again in another few weeks." "But I need to name it." His face brightened. "I know! I'll call him Domino, because he's black-andwhite. That can be for a boy, or a girl. Master, why don't we go over to the Westenra house and see if we need to worry about this man?" "Rill," sighed Sinn. "Cheri, would you walk into the lion's mouth?" "No, Sinn," said Dracula. "It really does no good to cower here, waiting for him to make the first move. Westenra got rid of Luka once he saw the man was deranged. I seriously doubt that Van Helsing has ever had possible prey seek him out. If we're lucky he might act outrageously enough to get himself evicted, too." He stood up. "I know that strictly speaking they should visit us before we go back, or we should wait for an invitation," he smiled. "But I'm not feeling particularly socially correct."

119