Child of the Night, page 2

Part Eighty: Degrees of Madness

Notes: //written words// peignoir--noun: woman's dressing gown: a woman's 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. It's 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 there's only so much I can do.//

//I feel it's 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 I'm afraid they found a perfect victim in one of the newer ones.//

//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 client's 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. I'm 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 man's 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. Don't they make spectacles that fit the face, but don't 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 didn't 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 crumbs of cheese. He hadn't had a dinner engagement, so once again he'd 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. I'd meant to turn in hours ago. Can't do the poor blighters in my care much good if I'm 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, I'll never get to sleep tonight. I'll be so ragged out by the end of the workday that I'll be dropping by the time I'm expected at Lucy's. I'd 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 I'll sleep.*

//Another interesting aspect of Renfield's 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 of 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 devil's 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, that's enough, Jenkins."

"But miss, you always do four hundred strokes, regular as clockwork."

Lucy looked sharply into the reflection before her, capturing her maid's gaze. "Are you my mother now, Jenkins?"

The woman blushed and stammered, "No, miss, of course not. I'm sorry..."

Sure that the older woman was sufficiently cowed, Lucy gave her a sunny, forgiving smile. "Never mind. It's just that I haven't 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? I'm afraid she retired before I could ask, and I didn't like to disturb her."

"No, Mina would think that hot chocolate in bed was dreadfully decadent. She'll make do with tea at breakfast, and probably at a shockingly early hour." Lucy half turned, to look her maid in the face. "So, don't you go slipping into her room tomorrow morning."

"Won't she be needing me to help her dress?"

Lucy gave a trilling laugh. "Mina? Oh, no, she's QUITE self-sufficient. When she graduated from school she stopped buying any dresses that didn't button up the front, because she no longer had chums to help her with them, and she wasn't frivolous enough to purchase something that would require the assistance of a lady's maid."

"Huh. Fancy that."

Lucy's 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 conversation... all the things that would suit her to be a proper wife to a man in her own social circle.

Lucy said coolly, "She's very independent. It's a quality I much admire." The maid caught the reproving tone, and quickly muttered agreement before hurrying out of the room. Lucy decided that she'd 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 moment's 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 were a maid, she'd demand fresh water for her ewer. If it was a footman, and he was handsome enough, she'd 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 Mina's little school friend. Mina was usually sunny and sweet, but she could be a right minx when her wheedling didn't 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 room's 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, aren't 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. You're far too loyal to Jonathan. I know!" She clapped her hands. "He's come home! He couldn't 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 Mina's smile had faded. "Oh, dear." She went over to her friend and put a hand on her shoulder. "Poor, dear Mina. You're missing him, aren't you?"

Mina nodded, patting Lucy's hand, then screwed the top back on her inkbottle. "I hadn't expected to, but I am. I've become so used to him, Lucy. He's a very comforting presence." Lucy wrinkled her nose, and Mina smiled again. "Yes, I know--he's a bit boring, but he's so NICE. And I am rather fond of him."

She'd 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 girl's shoulder. "Oh, that's a lovely foundation to build your marriage on--fondness."

"It's more than many have. What shall you build yours on?"

"Position," said Lucy promptly. "I'm 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 mustn't beat me."

"High standards. What if he's unfaithful?"

Lucy shrugged. "As long as he's 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?"

"I'm writing a letter to Jonathan. I can't let him believe that I'm 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. I'll transcribe these tomorrow, and send it out with the afternoon post." She fidgeted a little. "Lucy, do you suppose there's any way I could get a London postmark on this?"

"Why ever...? Oh. He doesn't know that you've quit your employment."

Mina blushed. "He'd be so disappointed. I really didn't 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 friend's hands, pulling her to her feet. "Really, the idea of you cooped up all day in that stuffy, dusty little back room," she caressed Mina's cheek, "ruining your beautiful eyes by squinting at those tiny figures." She lifted one of Mina's 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. You'll 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 he's not a socialist?" When Mina smiled, Lucy hugged her. "Don't worry about that now. Let's to bed. I'll 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 that's what school chums do," agreed Lucy, sliding under the sheet.

Mina removed her robe, tossing across the foot of the bed. "We've 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 rolled toward her, throwing an arm across Mina's slender waist. "We're 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 girl's 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 friend's nightdress, baring her breasts. "Much, much better things."

Part Eighty-one: Suitors

The Year of Our Lord, 1882
The Westenra Estate, Outside London

Mina watched Lucy as she finished her primping, seated at her vanity. "Lucy, tell me you aren't really doing it."

Lucy glanced at her friend's reflection in the mirror, her brown eyes wide and innocent. "Doing what?"

"You aren't having all three of those poor men over here at once."

Lucy frowned slightly. "Goodness, Mina, there's 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, I'll 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, doesn't it?" Mina said wryly. "You need the attention, and the catering-to."

Lucy shrugged. "I've never pretended to be anything but what I am. Yes, it's important to me."

"The men?"

Lucy heard the sharpness in Mina's 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 you're marrying Jonathan for more or less the same reasons?"

Mina looked down at their clasped hands, then lifted them, turning Lucy's hand, and kissed her palm. She sighed, "No. He's a sweet boy, and I know he'll be good to me, but the main reason we're engaged is that it's expected." She looked up at Lucy, brown eyes fierce, and said, "And I don't 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 isn't ambitious," her voice took on a hard edge, "but I am."

Lucy kissed her. "And with you to guide him, he WILL succeed. You'll 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. Let's hurry down. It would be most impolite if we weren't there to greet our gentlemen callers."

Lucy's father, Peter Westenra, welcomed the two young women into the parlor with a good natured, "Ah, the flower of English womanhood!" He kissed his daughter's cheek. "You're 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 mustn't let him think we've just been waiting for his arrival. He'll 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 she'd just been given a surprise treat.

Jack had been shaking hands with Lucy's 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 didn't 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 don't know about such things, but you're 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 you're all right?" She touched his leg gently, and felt smug when she noticed his small shudder. "Perhaps I ought to check and see if you're 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 room's 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 haven't a chance, but you needn't 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 don't believe in titles. No, Quincy Morris isn't 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. *There's another one who doesn't stand a chance, and doesn't HAVE a chance. It's just as well. Lucy can barely stand being here in the country, away from the bustle of London. She'd never survive in the wilderness of Texas. She'd 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 Texan's 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 haven't known each other long in days, but I feel as if I know you well. Sometimes... Sometimes when you meet someone, it's as if you've 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 Lucy's 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. He'd 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 Lucy's 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?"

Lucy's smile was as smug as Arthur's had been. "You'll just have to wait, with everyone else."

"You wicked thing! Well, I don't have to wait--I know."

"What do you know?"

"That you've 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 can't keep anything from me."

She laughed, leaning over to kiss Mina's cheek. "I wouldn't want to, Mina. Dearest, dearest Mina." She took Mina's hand, her voice lowering, and whispered, "I will marry Arthur, and we will get on well. I'll make him a commendable wife, I will give him an heir, and we will both live our own lives. I'm very fond of him, but you--Mina, our souls belong to each other. We've always known that. It's rather like Mister Morrison said--sometimes you meet someone and instantly, it's 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 Lucy's ear, murmured, "We're 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."

"I'd 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 Jonathan's needs and, indeed, whims. The prince noticed his disappointed expression, and said, "I didn't say never. Just--not now."

"I see." He didn't, though. He wondered if there was anything in the library that Draculea felt was unsuitable for the eyes of an outsider. *Perhaps it's only that it has fallen into disrepair, like the rest of the castle.* The thought of a fine collection of books lying neglected didn't exactly offend Jonathan, but it made him want to DO something about it. "I was wondering if you'd come to a decision about the properties."

Draculea sighed. "You are a conscientious young man. You won't 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 that's close to your fiance's friend's home?"

"Carstair's Abbey. It's not in the best of shape, but it wouldn't take much to fix it up. If you're 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. "It's 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 it's the firelight. I've always heard that firelight and candlelight was flattering to women. I suppose the same can hold true for men. He looks revitalized. I'd almost swear that his skin is less crepey, and that his hair is darker. He's 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. He'd reached the top of the stairs, when he was startled by someone stepping out of the shadows. It was Sinn. He noticed Jonathan's startled look and gave him an ingratiating smile. "Did you have a nice chat with the prince?"

"Our conversations are always most stimulating."

"Stimulating--there's a word to conjure with." Sinn stepped closer. "He keeps you to himself. We've 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..."

"We're not the companions he wants. We can't give him what he needs, though heaven knows I've tried," he smirked. He moved closer. "Rock hasn't made an effort, but he served a purpose, for a time. But he's 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 needn't fear me, mon petite. I'm a sensible soul. I won't try to trespass, not when I know what the results would be. I just want to let you know that I'm your friend." This time he did touch Jonathan, delicately straightening his collar. "Not everyone in this castle can say that, Jonathan. Remember it, won't 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.

Sinn's eyes were green, weren't they?

Part Eighty-two

The Year of Our Lord, 1882
Castle Draculea, Transylvania
Exploration

"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, it's 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 it's painted brown. And the face and hands... It took me forever to mix the paint to the right tint. Simion helped me, though. He's seen lots of Turks. This one is a spearman." He frowned. "The spear isn't very sharp. I wanted to sharpen all the spears, but Simion said it wouldn't 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. "He's very right."

Rill nodded vigorously. "Simion always is. Now," he indicated another, much smaller force, opposite the Turks. "Here are the brave Transylvanians."

"They aren't 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. "There's one more thing they have that the Turks don't have, and it's 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. It's surface was glassy smooth with handling and loving polishing. "Oh, my! It's remarkable, Rill. I don't think I've ever seen anything so lifelike. He looks quite ferocious."

"He was. This is Lucifer, he was the prince's 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 prince's life. Prince Draculea had struck at a Turk, and his sword was lodged in the man's bone. As he tried to free it, another Turk rushed to spear him. Lucifer bit at the man, and tore his throat out."

"That's 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. He'd have to be mad to think it actually resembled anyone. "What, Rill?"

"Nothing. It's just that you went away for a moment."

He handed the toy back to Rill. "But I haven't 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 it's 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?"

"It's 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 boy's curls. "He's quite the pet here. Rill, you've 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 it's to be expected, since time doesn't 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 haven't been to see the horses. They'll be missing me."

"The gypsies care for them well enough," said Sinn.

"But they don't give them sugar or apples. Jon, do you want to come?"

Before he could answer, Sinn said, "Rill, the weather is filthy. It's chilly, and there's a nasty fog. You don't want to risk our guest taking a chill."

"No. It's better I go alone," Rill agreed.

"But what if you take ill?" asked Jonathan.

Rill gave him a puzzled look, and Sinn said, "We don't 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."

Rill's 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 didn't 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 mirror's 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 hadn't 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 he'd be able to get a good look at the subject's 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 isn't 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 couldn't. 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 can't believe it. My eyes have to be playing tricks on me. That woman has been dead for centuries, and Mina's family doesn't even come from this part of the world, so she can't 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 couldn't, and didn't WANT, to understand.

When he closed the door to the room, he felt a sense of relief, but his breathing didn't 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 hadn't 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. He'd watched as the young man had entered the storage room, and he'd felt a touch of satisfaction. So the prince's new pet wasn't quite so perfect. Perhaps he hadn't 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 Draculea's 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 Draculea's iron rule, he had been edging steadily toward uncontrolled madness. He'd come very close to the edge when he'd 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 he'd stolen from Rill, and unlocked it. He slipped inside and quickly lit some of the candles around the room. There wasn't time to light all of them, because he could hear Jonathan's 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. *It's the library. I've 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 it's one of Draculea's favorite rooms. I'd love to see it.* He was drawing closer. *But he said that I wasn't to see it now. That was yesterday, though. Perhaps he'd be willing to show it to me now. He might not even be there. Simion might have just prepared it for him, lighting the candles.*

He was standing before the door, within arm's 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, won't he? Yes, the door has been left open by mistake. I'll go on to the small room, and see if he's there. If he isn't, it will be a pleasant enough place to wait.*

Jonathan started to turn away, but hesitated. Reaching out toward the door, he thought, *I'll just close the door for him.* His hand settled on the cool handle, he paused...

...and he stepped forward, slowly pushing the door open.

Child of the Night, Part 83: Confronting

The Year of Our Lord, 1882
Seward's Asylum, Outside London

"Renfield."

The slender man in the baggy inmate pajamas was standing at Dr. Seward's office window, leaning in close. Seward thought about saying something to him about it, telling him not to smear it, but he realized it wasn't 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.

*That's unusual. He doesn't like to be out of his room after sunset. I've known some patients to begin to feel that their cell is their home, but not usually this soon after their commitment. He's 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 it's like I feel it will be."

"I could tell you."

Renfield shook his head. "You wouldn't know. It wouldn't 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? I'm 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 can't tell you. It's a secret."

"Tell me." Renfield shook his head, and Seward made his voice firm and no-nonsense. He couldn't afford to lose control of this relationship, but he wanted to give Renfield the illusion that this was a give and take affair. "I'm 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 it's rather two for one, isn't it?" He kept his chin tipped down, but lifted his eyes to Seward, peeking at him. "You're 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."

"We're 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 weren't. Dear, dear--such defensiveness. One would think that I'd 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 don't 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 didn't know... My thoughts were so clouded. But when I sleep here, there are dreams." He moaned softly. "Such dreams. And I know they're 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 I've ever wanted was to be... to be tender."

*Here's 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--haven't you ever met someone with a will stronger than your own?" For a fraction of a second an image of Lucy flashed through Seward's 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.

Renfield's smile was ironic, and sympathetic. "I'm not sure that Sinn wasn't worse than Rock. Rock's torments were physical. He didn't touch me--not the REAL me. And I didn't let Rock have what he really wanted." Renfield frowned, cocking his head in thought. "At least I didn't give him what he asked for. But I'm afraid that he got it anyway."

"What did Rock want?"

"It wasn't Rock, really. It was the devil. I've 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 weren't that innocent?"

"Don't be stupid." Again Renfield seemed to have stopped drifting, and his voice was curt and pragmatic. "I've known what I am for a long time, Doctor, and it's not innocent. Not evil, but definitely not innocent." He went still for a moment, then said quietly, "Is the moon up yet?"

Renfield's 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 Renfield's 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? Couldn't 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 he'd 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... He's in danger. They'll hurt him. He doesn't 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. Renfield's 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. He'd degenerated into incoherence by then, but just before he was taken away, his eyes fixed on Seward and he said, "Doctor... Doctor, wouldn't the devil protect what was his? Wouldn't he protect his own?" The guards pulled him away, and his voice rose again in a scream. "Tell me he would! For God's 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 couldn't 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 he'd 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 hadn't experienced this sort of atmosphere often, since his father's 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 he'd 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 didn't 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 wouldn't do to be found fondling his host's 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 wouldn't be able to resist this room forever."

"I didn't mean to intrude..."

"Oh, you're not intruding--intruding indicates that the person you're speaking to is annoyed by your presence. I'm not, so you aren't intruding. You are, I believe, trespassing. Didn't the prince ask you not to come in here?"

Jonathan could feel himself flushing. "Yes, you're right. I shouldn't have come in. I didn't 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 he'd always made sense before. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's your room. He made it for you."

"I don't understand." His eyes flicked toward the walls of books. "It must have taken generations to build this collection. The prince didn't know I was coming until less than a month ago."

"Oh, he's been expecting you much longer than that. He's been expecting you for... lifetimes."

*He's making no sense at all.* "I really shouldn't be here now." He started to move past Rock toward the door.

Rock put out his arm, blocking Jonathan. "Not just yet. You haven't seen the centerpiece of the room. You really must see it--it's 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 Rock's smile widened. "It will only take a moment--it's just on the other side of the room. And I swear to you, it's an experience you'll never forget." He took hold of Jonathan's 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, it's very fine."

Rock snorted. "I'd 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 Jonathan's 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, scholar's 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 weren't 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. *It's me. It doesn't just LOOK like me, it IS! Aside from the hair length, it couldn't be a closer likeness if I'd posed for it myself. Good lord, it's as true a likeness as the photograph I had taken. I think it's 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, don't you?" There was dark satisfaction in Rock's voice.

Jonathan whispered, "My family doesn't 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 haven't learned, have you? What might be impossible elsewhere is not even improbable here, Nicu."

Jonathan's head swiveled around toward Rock. "What did you call me?"

Rock's smile widened to a sharp grin. "I think the proper name is Nicolae, but the pet name, the lover's name, is Nicu, yes?"

Jonathan jerked away. "It's my mother's name for me. She's the only one who has ever used it."

Rock was shaking his head. "No, not the only one--not even the first one. Can't 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... *Didn't I hear? Mama was there, and she didn't 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 wasn't 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 don't care. You're here now." Rock's touch softened till he was cradling Jonathan's face, and his voice was almost thoughtful. "And you're beautiful. All that nonsense about fate and destiny aside, I can see why he wants you."

Jonathan had been alarmed, but the look in Rock's eyes brought on a flare of true fear. "You're mad."

Rock nodded agreeably. "Yes."

Child of the Night, Chapter 84: Found Love Lost

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 wasn't 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 Draculea's existence stood before him--vulnerable. Rock felt two physical sensations--his lengthening fangs pricking his inner lips, and his cock stiffening. He wasn't sure which lust he wanted to slake first.

"Where are you going, Nicu?" Rock's voice was soft, but it sent a shudder through Jonathan.

Jonathan continued to inch toward the door, but he responded almost unconsciously. "Don't call me that." Rock was reaching toward him, and Jonathan blurted, "Don't!"

"Mustn't touch the pretty one? Yes, that's how it's been. The only one I've been allowed for ages was Renfield." Rock gave a guttural laugh that chilled Jonathan's blood. "Oh, and he was tasty. He fought me for a long time, and I rather enjoyed that. Sinn had him first, though. You--I'd wager you've 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. "I'd always heard that the English were carnal laggards. You'll be better than Renfield. You're still fresh." Jonathan had always acquitted himself well in his school athletics, and he'd 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 Englishman's 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 Rock's 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 Jonathan's 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. Rock's head snapped back, but he didn't 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 Rock's 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, "What's wrong, sweetness? Am I too cold? I can remedy that, but I'll have to feed first, and I can't be sure that I'd 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 he'd have to be quick in taking what he wanted. He turned back to Jonathan, ripping his shirt open to bare his throat. Rock didn't 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 Rock's 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. He'd 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! He's the prince's love. He's my friend, my FRIEND! You hurt Robert, you hurt Jon, you hurt ME! You hurt EVERYONE! You're bad, Rock! You have to stop."

"Get away, you worthless simpleton," Rock snarled. "He's mine now, and I'm not giving him up. I'm 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 Rock's 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 brother's aggression--Rill had never dared to oppose him physically. What Rock hadn't counted on was that Rill wasn't 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 Rill's 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 Master's 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 Rill's 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 vampire's strawberry blond hair, and jerking him back hard enough to snap a mortal's neck. The blade was small, but very sharp, and Rill reached around, slashing it across Rock's 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 wasn't 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 Rock's 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 don't know." The whisper was bewildered. "I don't know what he is."

Simion's 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 brother's 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. You'd never survive to reach sanctuary. Go upstairs--you'll 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 he'd ever seen. Rock was sprawled on his face, with Rill on his knees, straddling his back. The younger vampire's arm was rising and falling in an erratic rhythm as he pounded Rock's head. Simion recognized the weapon as Nicolae's prized inkwell. There were dark splashes spread around Rock's 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 he'd endured, a fierce exultation rose in Simion. But this wasn't Rill, and Simion knew that he needed to stop this. When the red rage left him, Rill's gentle nature might torment him. "Rill." No response, and the inkwell descended again. Simion strode over to the pair and caught Rill's 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 brother's body and said quietly, "Did... did I kill him?"

"I don't know." Simion squatted down to examine Rock. The back of the vampire's skull was a mush of flesh, old, gelid blood, and bone chips. The blood didn't 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. "It's 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 you're right. He should be returning from his ride any moment now. Come, we'll 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 Rill's ruffled hair back, running his fingers over the fast vanishing sharp contours of his face. "He's 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 didn't 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 didn't 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 Rill's 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 he'd 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 Rock's 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 Rill's hands were befouled with it--vampiric blood. Considering Sinn's 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 Draculea's eyes and said hastily, "But Rill stopped him." He took hold of the boy's wrist and held up his hand, showing Draculea.

Draculea reached out, cupping Rill's 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 isn't enough."

Simion said, "I examined him, Domn. There was no response at all."

"Simion, I've 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--I'm fairly sure you haven't actually killed him." He wanted to sigh when he saw the relief in the boy's eyes. "But you've 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 didn't 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 I'll be merciful. I'll 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 Rock's 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 Rock's 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 Rock's spine broke. With a roar, Draculea wrenched hard. There was a wet, meaty sound, and Rock dropped limply. His head, however, remained in Draculea's hands, but not for lo ng. 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.

Chapter Eighty-five: 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, wasn't 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 he'd 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. He'd 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 hadn't 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 couldn't 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 didn't 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. Jonathan's 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 wasn't 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 wasn't 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 hadn't really planned exactly how he would keep his reborn love in his life, hadn't planned out the exact direction their reunion would take. He had felt their bond the moment he'd 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 he'd felt that bond growing stronger and deeper. Perhaps he would simply continue, once the young man's 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 Draculea's 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 boy's 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 he'd 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. "You've never been like that before. The other death beds I have attended did not seem to disturb you so."

"They were attended while God's 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 you're 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 haven't 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 mother's sister."

This disturbed Josef. Lukas was devoted in his service to the Church, and the Church's representatives. He worked tirelessly to keep the chapel and rectory in good repair, and did all that he could to see that Father Josef's life was comfortable and untroubled. The thought that Lukas might refuse to assist him at a parishioner's deathbed would never have occurred to him. But now that he thought about it, Lukas never went ANYWHERE after sundown. When he'd first arrived in the village, Josef had been waiting for the time that he'd have to discipline his porter for spending too much time at a local tavern (he'd 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. *I'd prepared myself to be disturbed at all hours of the day and night, but it hasn't happene d here.*

"Father, please."

Josef noted the man's anxious expression, and nodded, turning to resume his walk. They'd 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, you're wrong. There's something washed up into the shallows." He took a few steps off the path, squinting toward the mysterious object.

"Then it's a some poor creature that fell into the water and drowned." The man gripped Father Josef's sleeve, tugging at it. "Come!"

Josef stiffened in surprise. "Lukas, that's 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 rectory's 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 man's 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 man's eyes. Josef laid his hand on the man's 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 a'hunting."

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 Josef's 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 porter's 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. "There's 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 hadn't drowned, or been beaten to death against the rocks. He'd had a look at the parish's 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, "There's blood in his hair, but I don't 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 man's 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 victim's 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 man's 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 man's white skin. It reminded him of the time, long ago, when he'd unthinking picked up a poker too near the point. He hadn't 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 he's harmless enough."

*What does he mean? How could this poor creature be a threat to anyone while he's 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 patient's neck to lift his head slightly.

The man's 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 man's cheek lightly. "Listen to me. You need to open your eyes now. Can you?" The man's eyelids twitched, then opened a slit. "Good! Very good."

"What...?" There was such pained bewilderment in his voice.

"You've had a bad accident, my son, but you're safe now."

"Safe? What... what happened?"

"We pulled you from the river. It is only through God's 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. I'm 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. "You're safe, Jonathan Harker. You're 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 don't 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.

"I'm not sure," said Jonathan helplessly. "I can't 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 don't remember what it was--I just know that I've never been so afraid in my life. I was in danger. I was going to die. I ran. It's all a blur after that."

"Do not trouble yourself," the priest soothed. "You have a head injury. Some memory loss is not unusual."

"I've heard that," Jonathan agreed. He lifted troubled eyes to the priest, "But I still don't understand this. You see, I desperately want to remember, but somehow I'm afraid, too." His expression crumpled. "It's as if remembering could either save me, or damn me."

Chapter Eighty-six: Out of Reach Again

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. It's 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 man's 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 hadn't 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 building's 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. He'd 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 Jonathan's 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 man's 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, it's 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. "There's 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 he'd 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 haven't 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 mother's 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 he's 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 man's 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 don't 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."

"Don't listen to those fools, Jonathan. You know I am your friend. I'm sorry about what happened. I've never regretted anything more in my life than not killing that bastard before he laid eyes on you. But he'll never hurt you again, I swear. If he isn't dead yet, by all that's unholy I will FIND a way to be sure that he's consigned to his infernal master forever. Can you get up? Try, Jonathan. Come to me."

There was something strange about the last sentence. The prince's 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, Draculea's hands were clenched into fists as he heard the strain in his lover's voice. He kept remembering the sight of Nicolae's body on the floor of the castle's chapel. He'd 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 Jonathan's 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?"

"You'll not have him, Nosferatu!" called Lukas. "This is one that we'll 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 priest's 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 master's 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 wasn't 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. Draculea's 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 prince's 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, "He's there, Simion. He's in there, he's hurt, and the bastards won't 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 master's. "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 master's land. "Priest? Who else is with you?" He thought for a moment. "You have no brother priest, so perhaps your porter? Yes, Lukas. I'll 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. God's 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.

Simion's 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. Simion's 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 momen t. Shouldn't 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 Draculea's arm. "My prince, you share a bond with him. Tell me--will he survive?"

Draculea nodded. "Yes. He's 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 prince's 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 driver's 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