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Published:
2024-04-01
Completed:
2025-07-26
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65/65
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Survivor's Guilt

Summary:

My name is Robert Montague Renfield. A hundred and fifty years ago I was a real estate lawyer who journeyed to Transylvania where Count Vlad Dracula wooed me with words and promises until I gave up my soul and became his familiar. Thirty years after, a second solicitor followed my footsteps to the same castle and the same count. But there was a different fate in store for him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Having escaped an impossible nightmare, Renfield and Jonathan would rather the past stayed forgotten and buried. But old troubles have a way of coming back...

Chapter 1: 1.A 2023

Notes:

Welcome to another fic where I combine Renfield movie and Dracula novel canon. I'm using a lot of the same backstory I created for the last fic which should be clear in the text (for those who haven't read my previous work) and will cover plenty of new ground as well (for those who have). I've enjoyed giving voices to some characters I haven't written before, although it's taking quite a bit of research because the subjects they're passionate about (insects, trains, 19th century property law) aren't subjects I know anything about. I take my fic writing seriously.

I'm playing quite a bit with narration types as well, so if you're a person who doesn't like stories written in the first person or present tense, the second chapter might be more to your liking.

Enjoy!

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

Late evening in New Orleans.

We’ve not been to this city before. I picked it at random off a map after our last mishap, but it’s been good hunting thus far.

Plenty of tourists, plenty of crime.

I’ve stuck mostly to the city’s underbelly the past few weeks. The support group I stumbled across for abusive relationships has turned out to be a gold mine leading straight to those engaged in black market dealings and unlikely to be missed. Or at least unlikely for their disappearances to raise eyebrows.

Four bodies in one night was quite the recent success, even if I took too long getting back to get much blood out of the one who’d stabbed me. Still, the other three were still alive, and I siphoned what I could out of the corpse before it was completely useless.

The abandoned hospital we’re currently squatting in might be a nightmare of asbestos and rats, but at least no one is likely to be attracted by muffled screams. Fortunate when I had to leave the others tied up for the better part of a day until the cocaine left their systems and Master could feed without uncertain side effects. His recovery is too precarious right now to risk with tainted blood.

Unfortunately, criminals aren’t the best eating, and Master’s past the point in his recovery where he’ll eat whatever I bring without comment. Well, he’ll still eat. And he didn’t say anything. But he gave me that long look which said that he might understand why I was bringing him the safest targets, but they were leaving a bad taste in his mouth that could only be cured with healthier blood.

So, tonight I’m on the hunt for better game. Something full of life and young vitality to further Master’s recovery.

The bar is filled with people. In the dim light, I blend in fairly well. I’ve watched the city long enough to choose appropriate dress for the locals, even if my nocturnal habits leave me pale for the latitude. I’ve chosen a table near the wall and sip a drink sparingly while I watch the crowd. I wonder if I dare order food. I’ve been too busy lately to eat properly or regularly, but I don’t want to lose a target while waiting for the bill.

I might regularly facilitate murder, but I would never stiff a waiter of a hard-earned salary.

I understand the exhaustion of long hours on one’s feet too much for that.

I try not to stare at anyone in particular as I scan the room.

Tourists of the happy couple variety? No. That’s easier when we have a house or hotel room to lure them back to for a three or four-way. Convincing them to follow me to an abandoned hospital… unlikely. And if I don’t take both, the other will be quick to alert the authorities. Two unconscious bodies from this lively part of town… too risky right now.

The nuns are better potential targets. What are so many of them doing in a bar this late? Nuns spend so much of their lives separated from the world that it wouldn’t be surprising for one to wander off for a few hours without her sisters noticing. And the sisters are more likely to pray for their missing and search on their own than immediately call the police. Not that the police are much use for missing persons within the first forty-eight hours, and by then Master and I have reliably covered our tracks.

Still, Master might not be eager for holy blood after that last encounter. He’s still much too weak to handle holy objects, and I’d never forgive myself if an overlooked rosary set him further back in his recovery.

The busload of cheerleaders offers all sorts of possibilities. Once they’ve been drinking, the herd of them will mingle into the crowd, lose track of one another, and forget how many they started with. It could be morning before they realize someone is missing, and then they might be too scared to have lost someone to alert authorities until it’s far too late. But the outcry when a young person goes missing is far more pronounced than adults, and if we intend to stay longer in the city, perhaps it’s best to take less high-profile targets.

Then again, college students are generally young and healthy. Easy to siphon from and release. If Master’s well enough to hypnotize, even if he isn’t yet well enough to bite without killing, we might find use for them.

I’ve set my eye on one cheerleader who is drinking more heavily than the rest and straying further from the others when everything erupts into madness.

Wolves.

I’m on my feet in an instant, already nudging open the lid of my bug box.

If there are werewolves here…

But no. Not werewolves. Not in the transformative sense. Men in masks. A pack of them centered around a nervous and jittery leader.

With brazen use of guns, they direct us back, singling out one woman as the focal point of their animosity.

I duck low and stay out of their way, all meekness as I allow myself to be herded with the others. I watch the restaurant patrons in case anyone attempts a foolish show of bravery.

Someone already injured and presumed dead is always an easy target.

But soon my focus is on the woman. A police officer. Standing solidly before the wolf leader despite the gun to her forehead. Glaring back as he gnaws at her emotions in search of weakness.

He won’t end her life. I can see it in his eyes. So much fear and inadequacy.

That’s dangerous. Fear could lead to reckless action. If he shoots wide and hits a patron, there could be chaos. More people shot in the resulting panic.

A waste.

And I’m starting to like this woman. Standing against this crowd of killers with a steady voice and firm stance.

A good woman. A rarity.

This won’t be her end if I can help her.

As the leader finally works himself into a state of deciding to kill to save face in front of his packmates, I strike.

Anything is a weapon in the right hands. A fork. A broken table. A serving platter.

I’ve had many years of practice.

The cop reacts as cops do and begins shooting. The pack follows suit.

I hope the patrons have gotten out of harm’s way. All I can do is keep my fighting at close range, kill quickly, and wreck the hands of those I don’t immediately kill so that they’re forced to drop their guns.

I still haven’t given up hope of gaining a meal out of this.

Renfield?

Master calls tentatively across our bond, probably alerted that my adrenaline has been up for an extended time. He doesn’t nudge to share my eyes, not knowing what sort of situation I’m in.

Busy, I call back.

He shuts down the bond immediately, knowing full well that any distraction could be a matter of life and death, and he’s in no condition to come to my aid if the latter becomes more likely.

I focus on protecting the cop. She, in turn, leaves several bullets in a wolf sneaking up behind me.

Good shot that time. A pity their leader fled with his tail between his legs and only minor bullet wounds.

Scanning for fresh danger, I ascertain that I’m in a room filled with the dead and injured. I relax my guard and approach the cop.

She’s breathless and looking around in a stunned manner as I pull her to her feet.

Her first mass carnage. It can be overwhelming the first couple times.

“That was amazing,” I tell her. “You stood up to them.”

Bravery I’d never have had back when I didn’t have a supply of supernatural healing blood at my back.

And even after, some of the time, if we’re being honest.

“What kind of life would I lead under the thumb of one of those assholes?” she demands in reply.

I smile. My mistresses would like this woman. “A very typical one,” I say, thinking of a century of witnessing humans both stand in defiance to superior forces and also lie down in surrender to it.

Both, in my case.

“Did I see you cut a guy’s arms off with a decorative serving platter?” she asks.

I wince. I’ve been far too obvious tonight. “Adrenaline?” I suggest.

Better than explaining how many nights I’ve spent sparring against far stronger beings than myself with any object that comes to hand.

Not to mention the hunters, the prey that fights back, wild animals, warzones, and desperate attackers in backstreets who have no idea what they’ve set themselves against.

The cop – Officer Rebecca Quincy, she says when we get to introductions – is already calling in the attack.

I need to get away before more police arrive and start asking questions. A shame there are so many eyes on me. So many fresh bodies and all their blood going to waste…

Master nudges cautiously at my mind, and I let him use my eyes.

What did you get yourself into? he marvels as I give him a slow panorama of the restaurant.

They were trying to kill… her. I swing my head to where Quincy is trying to handcuff any masked attacker still moving while snarling into her radio that she needs multiple cars now.

A lot of bodies for one officer, he observes.

She’s certainly upset the wrong people.

Are you in danger?

No. I don’t think any of them saw me properly. And lived anyway. I groan as I hear the shriek of sirens.

No chance of abducting any of the injured now.

I slip through a broken window, trying to vanish into the crowd before the officers can start demanding statements.

I’m not eating tonight, am I? Master sighs.

It’s not too late. I’ll take a bus across town and try and different bar.

Renfield, I can tell from here that you’re covered in blood.

I look down. He’s not wrong. Impressive as always that his nose is sharper than mine even when he’s borrowing my senses. Or maybe he’s simply more attuned to the smell than I am.

I’ll come back and change and then go out hunting again.

You’re going to drop once the adrenaline wears off.

I extract a fresh bug from my box. It’s hardly the worst night–

“Excuse me?”

I freeze, finding myself unexpectedly surrounded.

By cheerleaders.

Starry-eyed cheerleaders.

“You’re the guy from the bar, right? The one who saved our lives?”

I stare stupidly back at the spokesperson of the gaggle.

Say yes, Master prompts.

“Yes,” I echo, then scramble to speak properly as I snap the box shut. “Yes, I… Are you all alright? Was anyone hurt? There were so many bullets flying.”

There is a chorus of negatives from the girls followed by a sea of compliments for my courage in leaping in to protect them.

I answer with all the humility I can muster, deflecting their compliments back into concern for their care and wellbeing.

Some of them are starting to experience the trauma of their near-death experience now that they’re out of harm’s way.

It’s adorable watching the young process their first slaughter.

I assure them that it’s quite normal to be overwhelmed. That they should get somewhere safe. Do they live nearby? No? A hotel? It is nearby? Yes? Best to get there as soon as possible.

I escort them to the bus, the grateful driver shepherding me along with the flock. She wants to buy me a drink in the hotel bar. When I protest my soiled state, the girls clammer to offer me showers in all their rooms. And whatever spare clothes they can find.

Master? Are you well enough to travel?

Get me directions. I’ll bring the blood bags.

Smiling, I take a seat behind the driver, chatting pleasantly as I lean close to read her GPS.



Dawn is approaching. It’s hard to tell through the eternal lights of the city which hide the stars and mask the sunrise, but the clock says it’s nearly morning.

Master and I stand in a hotel room, surveying some sixteen girls passed out on the floor and beds. Beside us sits the results of our night’s labor – bags of fresh blood currently stacked together in a few empty pizza boxes (we’d had to order in once the girls started getting woozy).

No one is dead. I doubt the girls have a prayer of winning their cheering competition considering the state they’re in, but it will be written off as trauma or eating disorders.

They’re alive. That’s worth the cost of fame and glory.

“I’ll get us a hotel room,” Master says. “Finish up here.” He takes a step back, straightening the collar of his shirt. “How do I look?”

I check him over for splatter, worrying at a fleck on his sleeve that wouldn’t bother anyone but me. I brush his hair into place, scrutinizing his face with a careful eye.

He looks older than he should – more lined and weary. But he’s drunk well tonight, and there’s a flush to him from fresh feeding.

Enough to cover up the lingering burns.

And enough that his powers are working again. The girls sleep under his hypnotic spell, and he’ll be able to whisper away whatever puzzlements the hotel clerks might have about this guest arriving from upstairs and seeking a room so early in the morning.

Alone, I heap the blood into several trash bags and set them by the door. I check the room over, carefully ensuring we’ve left no needles or tubes behind. I shift several girls into more comfortable sleeping positions, checking their necks and arms as I do.

A few punctures and needle tracks that haven’t closed all the way. Shouldn’t be anything noticeable.

Go up, Master sends to me. I got us a suite.

A mildly surprising choice. He usually goes for lower profile accommodations when it’s just the two of us.

But after weeks in the filthy confines of the hospital, I’m certainly not going to object to whatever choice yields a clean bed and air conditioning.

I shoulder the trash bags and head for the elevator.

None of the hotel staff is around, nor are any guests stirring yet. We are concealed in the rooms with the blinds carefully drawn and the blood stuffed into the minifridge without anyone catching sight of us.

It’s a nice suite. Two bedrooms and a sprawling living area. Big windows, but the curtains are thick enough heavily darken the rooms for the benefit of those who keep odd hours or can’t tolerate the city lights.

“I booked it for two weeks,” Master says as I poke around.

I nod, making a mental list of everything I’ll need to do. “I’ll fetch our things and get us settled.”

Master catches me around the waist before I can start for the door. “Settle down,” he chides. “When did you last rest?”

I protest futilely as stronger arms manhandle me across the room and into bed where I’m undressed and my every minor injury fretted over.

“It’s nothing,” I protest as my master insists on bleeding for my scrapes. “Nothing I won’t survive.”

“Two days ago, you took a knife to the gut,” he replies. “Have you slept since then? Eaten?”

“Yes,” I grumble, not willing to admit that it’s been all scattered catnaps and food snatched from vending machines combined with handfuls of bugs which serve about the same function as a caffeine addiction.

He snorts, too aware of my bad habits not to read between the lines. He might try to stay out of my mind most of the time, but we’ve been together too long not to know one another’s behaviors. And he’s been on coffin rest the past few weeks, which generally means I’ve felt him nudging to share my senses much more often than when he’s well.

He drapes himself over me, nothing seductive about it as I’m held down and forced to rest whether I want to or not.

“Sleep,” he orders. “Get in a few hours at least and then go eat a proper breakfast. It comes with the room. I checked.” He sounds proud to have remembered to ask about my feeding options. “Then you can worry about everything you’re worrying about.” He bumps his forehead against mine and nips affectionately at my ear. “The danger is past, Renfield. You’re allowed to take care of yourself, you know.”

“Yes, Master,” I sigh, not wanting to revisit a century-old argument.

Master has always taken good care of me. But I had decades of far different treatment and training before I fell into his service, and the scars of that time have never gone away as we both can attest.

Satisfied that he’s gotten his way (as if there was ever a doubt), Master nuzzles me into a spooned position, his arms entwined around my middle and one leg locked around mine in determination to keep me in place.

I make a show of grumbling, but I’m certain he can feel my internal purring as he wraps the duvet securely around the pair of us and settles in to contentedly sleep off his heavy meal.

My name is Robert Montague Renfield. A hundred and fifty years ago I was a real estate lawyer who took a trip to the distant region of Transylvania where Count Vlad Dracula wooed me with words and promises until I gave up my soul and became his familiar. Thirty years after, a second solicitor followed my footsteps to the same castle and to the same count. But there was a different fate in store for him.

And I’ve served Jonathan Harker and his family faithfully since the day he murdered my first master.