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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.

Chapter Text

Letter, from Jonathan Harker to Miss Mina Murray

My Dearest Mina,

      My mission to Purfleet has been a success, although I have another half dozen properties around London to examine before I see you again. I don’t know why the count wished to employ a solicitor stationed so far from London, but for my sake, I’m glad he did, and I’m so pleased that Mr. Hawkins trusted me to carry out this task. I don’t wish my employer ill, but if his gout continues, perhaps he’ll consent to sending me abroad in his stead? Can you imagine what it would mean to be entrusted with so important an assignment?

      If I knew Lucy was home, I would call on her while passing through London, but I think she’s still traveling, and I’ll have to wait until she visits you to see her again. Perhaps I can look up these men she keeps writing about. Wasn’t that doctor she mentioned based somewhere in Essex? Do you recall his name? It hardly matters. I think we both know where her heart lies, even if I admit that I’ve never found Mr. Holmwood terribly interesting. Perhaps one has to have been raised in the lifestyle to go on so about hunting and fine wine.

      Do I sound bitter? I truly don’t mean to. I suppose the new responsibility is weighing on me. It’s daunting to be running all over the country attempting to pick up where the count’s last solicitor left off. Speaking of which, today’s adventures led in a most unusual direction…

March 1890: Jonathan Harker

“There’s an asylum next door?” Jonathan asked as the housing agent unlocked the estate door.

The agent’s face flashed with distaste before smoothing into a schooled smile. “I assure you that the neighborhood is quite safe, and you’ll hardly be aware of any unique individuals nearby…”

“Mr. Wickens,” Jonathan interrupted with a conspiratorial grin. “My client is already aware of the neighborhood and very insistent that he approves of the property. The quality of the house is all that matters to him. I’m the one curious about the noise.”

The noise could hardly be denied. There’d been a face pressed against one of the barred windows screaming at them as they’d come up the pathway. Though the asylum was hidden now by trees and a high wall, Jonathan still felt tense for another outburst at any moment.

The agent hesitated, then spoke in a soft and hurried tone. “I wouldn’t want to stay here. You never know when one of the loonies will go off their heads. I’ve had to come here a couple times when one’s gotten over the wall.”

“That’s a pity. I’ve heard the treating of the infirmed has been improving.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Wickens agreed grudgingly. “I see some of the patients walking around the garden calm as you please. But I still wouldn’t raise a family this near one of those places.” He swung open the door and gestured Jonathan inside. “Probably why Carfax has been vacant so long.”

“Yes… about that. Have you ever heard anything from the last solicitor my client sent to look at Carfax?” Jonathan’s gaze swept around the entryway, admiring the aged woodwork and fine designs. He began making notes of the room’s features – good and ill.

The house had been unlived in for a long time and had received minimal upkeep. How much labor and money would it take to restore this place? And how many servants would be required to look after it?

Jonathan’s mouth twitched with a bit of distaste. It wasn’t that he had anything against the upper class. It was just that when one had to scramble up from the bottom, it was hard not to see a place like this as a drain of resources that could be spent in far better ways.

It would take a successful passing of his examinations, a promotion, and more clients of Count Dracula’s caliber for him to be able to afford a decent home for himself and Mina. A cook. Maybe a maid. How affluent would he have to become for gardener or valet or…

“No.” Mr. Wickens’ voice cut through his daydreams. “Had a few solicitors come to the office to ask about it, but once they saw the price and the location, their clients went after different properties instead.” He pushed open more doors, occasionally gesturing at a particularly fine feature as he talked. “That last solicitor your client sent was the only one who seemed interested enough to come back a second time. And I didn’t have much hope after that second visit. He… wasn’t right.”

“Yes, my client wanted me to ask about that. Do you have any idea what might have happened to him? He’s disappeared, and my client hoped I could track him down.”

Mr. Wickens shook his head. “He wasn’t right,” he repeated. “If I hadn’t already spoken to him once, I wouldn’t have let him in the office. He looked as if he’d been sleeping rough, if he’d been sleeping at all.” He shuddered. “Looked as if he belonged locked up next door.”

Jonathan frowned. “Maybe I should start hunting for him in the charity hospitals in that case.”

“Is it really any business of yours?”

“Count Dracula asked my employer to locate him. I thought it was a strange charge, but Mr. Hawkins says it’s not the strangest task a client has given him. So…” Jonathan spread his hands. “…I’m charged with searching for the missing.”

Mr. Wickens muttered his own doubts, and the tour continued with Jonathan dutifully examining every room and writing down anything he thought might be important. It wasn’t the first home he’d assessed, and he hoped he was properly documenting the points of interest.

They toured through the chapel, the stable, and the grounds – still mostly drab from the recently concluded winter.

“If I were your client,” Mr. Wickens said, “I’d plant that whole wall with roses. The sort with big thorns. Something to deter the crazies from going over the wall.”

Jonathan grimaced. It hardly sounded neighborly. Or sympathetic.

But he couldn’t entirely disagree with the impulse to build a larger barrier between himself and… whatever went on inside an asylum.

What did go on in there? They didn’t keep the mad in chains all the time anymore. The Quakers and their notions of treatment through kindness had seen to that.

Certainly for the best. Much kinder to treat the insane as people than animals.

But still… one wouldn’t want to live too close.

They finished with Carfax soon after. Jonathan promised to contact Mr. Wickens again soon and not simply vanish like the last solicitor.

“Can I offer you a ride back to town?” Mr. Wickens asked as they started down the walk.

Jonathan hesitated, an idea forming in his mind. “I think… I’ll call in at the asylum first.”

They said their goodbyes, leaving Jonathan to hurry along the road and step up to the front gates.

A conversation with an orderly… and then two more orderlies… eventually brought him into the office of the superintendent.

“Mr. Harker,” the doctor said, greeting him with a firm handshake and an offered chair on the opposite side of a cluttered desk. “I’m Doctor Seward. How can I help you?”

“Well, I’m not sure that you can. And I’m afraid this is probably a fool’s errand and a waste of your time. But I wasn’t sure how else to begin and hoped you could advise me.”

“You’re off to an intriguing start,” the doctor replied with a small smile. “Do please explain yourself.”

Jonathan leaned forward in his chair. “I’m a solicitor’s clerk acting in the interest of a foreign count by the name of Dracula. He’s planning a forthcoming move to England. He’ll likely be moving into Carfax, as it happens.”

Dr. Seward nodded pleasantly. “I hope we’ll be tolerable neighbors.”

Jonathan smiled to himself and resisted relating any of the housing agent’s thoughts on the asylum. “I hope so as well. But that isn’t why I’ve come. Although, I was just touring Carfax, which was what gave me the idea. You see, my office is the second one my client has employed. The first solicitor… something seems to have happened to him.”

“Oh?” Dr. Seward looked mildly interested.

“Yes… As I understand it, he was directed to buy multiple properties throughout London and the surrounding country. He’d been at the work for some time when… the count says his letters became… concerning.”

“Concerning?”

“Erratic. Poorly written. Misspelled. Signs that made the count concerned that the solicitor was unwell. As far as I know, Carfax was the last estate he examined. The housing agent said he looked extremely unwell and… his mind may not have been functioning properly. He wandered off from there and has not been in contact with the count or anyone else in months. I fear he may have been afflicted with an illness or…” Jonathan trailed off, uncertain what the polite term was while speaking to a doctor.

“Madness?” Seward guessed with a smile.

Jonathan grinned back with a touch of embarrassment. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Count Dracula has asked my employer to try and locate him, and I’m afraid I don’t have the slightest idea how to start. I don’t know where he was staying or if he has any family. As I understand it, he was working independently for the count, not through any office, so I don’t have anyone I could contact. But it occurred to me that if he was found wandering in a delirious or infirmed state, he might have been brought to a hospital. I thought perhaps… you might know where I could begin to look?” He gave the doctor a hopeful smile.

“It’s quite the story,” Seward agreed. “And it sounds like you have a difficult task ahead. But I can provide you with the names of some hospitals. Better still…” He extracted a pen and paper from the mess cluttering his desk. “If you’ll give me the man’s name, I can write on your behalf to some of my colleagues. That will speed your search along, although if your man is ill enough not to know his name, you might have to search yourself.”

“The count gave me a description,” Jonathan said eagerly. “Although I hope I won’t be required to hunt through morgues.”

“Don’t assume the worst immediately. Let’s start with a name. Do you have it?”

“Yes…” Jonathan rummaged belatedly through the documents he carried, at last locating the count’s most recent letter. “Here it is! Renfield. Robert Montague Renfield.”

Dr. Seward jumped and stared at him. “Is it really?”

“Do you know him?”

The doctor seemed reluctant to answer, but after a reaction like that, he could hardly deny it. “There… is a patient here by that name,” he admitted slowly. “But I don’t think he’s the man you’re looking for.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Well, he claims to be Mr. Renfield, but I’ve located records for the man in question. He was a solicitor in London who went abroad some years ago and never returned.”

“That seems like it could be my man if he was employed abroad by Count Dracula. What makes you think he isn’t who he claims to be?”

“Because the Renfield whose records I’ve found would be nearly sixty. And this man…” He rose. “Perhaps it’s best you see for yourself.”

Jonathan followed the doctor through the asylum, shrinking nervously close to his host as they entered the patient’s wing.

The hall was lengthy and lined with doors – all locked with heavy bolts and set with barred observation windows. The grim-faced orderlies who passed them carried heavy batons at their waists and whistles around their necks. The patients they led along were thin and nervous specimens who darted quick glances at Dr. Seward and Jonathan, then looked hastily away.

“Here we are,” said the doctor, throwing open the bolts of one room without knocking or calling warning to the patient. “This is Mr. Renfield.”

Jonathan followed Seward into the small and mostly bare room. A man sat on a stool with his back to the door, his eyes fastened on the window.

“Renfield!” Dr. Seward called sharply. “This man is looking for you.”

The patient didn’t answer. If anything, his focus on the window intensified.

Dr. Seward sighed. “It’s one of those days. He gets into his sulks and won’t answer anyone. But as you can see-”

He was interrupted as an orderly hurried up to say that one of the asylum’s financial backers had arrived and wanted to speak urgently with him.

“I’m sorry,” he told Jonathan. “I need to go at once. Martin will show you out. Mr. Harker.” He shook Jonathan’s hand and departed.

Jonathan lingered another moment, studying the rigid back of the patient at the window.

“If you want him to talk, I can make him,” the orderly offered.

Jonathan didn’t like the look of eager malice in the man’s eyes and the way his hand strayed to his baton. “No, that’s quite alright,” he said quickly. “Mr. Renfield, I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll leave you alone now.” He started to follow the orderly out.

“You were in Carfax,” the patient said, his eyes still fastened on the window. “I saw you.”

Jonathan stopped and turned back. “That’s right.”

“Why?”

“My client is interested in purchasing the estate.”

The patient spun around and rose from the stool in a swift motion.

He was thin and pale, his eyes ringed and sunken behind a veil of unwashed dark hair and an unshaven beard. The grey clothes did nothing for his washed out and ill look.

Jonathan couldn’t begin to guess his age, but he certainly didn’t appear sixty or even close to those advanced years.

“It’s claimed already,” the patient said.

“What?”

“Carfax. It has a buyer already.”

“Yes, I-”

“You can’t have it! No one else can have it!” He advanced, his eyes rolling and his hands balled into fists.

Jonathan startled backwards, trying to muster an explanation as he did. Before he could speak, the orderly sprang forward, his baton raised in warning.

The fervor went out of Renfield immediately. He cowered, recoiling into a corner, his hands raised pleadingly as he mumbled a torrent of apologies.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said quickly, raising his voice to be heard over Renfield’s mumbles and the orderly’s threats. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll be going. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

He fled the asylum but not swift enough to miss Renfield’s pained screams.

Chapter Text

Letter, from Count Vlad Dracula to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Solicitor

To my friend Mister Peter Hawkins

      I am pleased that your agent has so quickly located my missing man. I am not surprised by Renfield’s condition. He is of a frail disposition and easily overwhelmed. Perhaps I should not have entrusted him with so complicated a task as it seems more than his mind could endure without support.

      It would be best for his sake if he was returned to me. The mountain air is healthy, and I have every confidence that he will make a full recovery in conditions where he is familiar. Despite his current situation, he is of value to me in other tasks, and I desire his presence once again.

      I have enclosed funds which should be sufficient for his care and travel expenses. I am familiar with a shipping route which will take him and your agent as far as Gibraltar. From there…

April 1890: Jonathan Harker

“I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Harker.”

“It’s quite simple, Dr. Seward. My client wishes Mr. Renfield released into his care.”

Jonathan had no idea if he had a legal leg to stand on as he sweated nervously on the opposite side of the desk from the asylum superintendent. A background in property law had not included custody disputes over the mentally ill.

But Count Dracula had been direct in his desire to have Mr. Renfield brought to him, and Jonathan thought it sensible to be equally direct with Doctor Seward and see what would come of it.

The doctor was understandably hesitant. He stressed that he wasn’t certain of his patient’s identity, but Jonathan insisted that he’d sent a clear description to the count, including the puzzlement over Renfield’s age, and the count felt certain that this was his man. That, Dr. Seward thought, might confirm his own theory that his patient was the son of the presumably late R. M. Renfield whom he suspected had died abroad having fathered a child in a foreign land.

It was as good a theory as any, but it made no difference to Jonathan. Whatever his true identity, this was the man he’d been sent to fetch.

Dr. Seward debated with himself for a time, giving plentiful reasons that the man couldn’t be released, rambling over the patient’s preoccupation with eating bugs and his religious fervor about an omnipotent figure he called ‘the master’. There were his fits of screaming and hysterics which could sometimes take several orderlies to restrain him until he quieted. But he was not entirely insensible. Often the threat of the strait-waistcoat was enough to make him docile before the fits grew too fevered.

Unnerving tales. And things that hardly seemed fitting to share with a stranger. Still, Jonathan persisted that if there was somewhere the patient could go where he would be well cared for, why should anyone stand in the way? The line of reasoning compelled Dr. Seward’s reluctant admission that Mr. Renfield was in his care largely because no one else had come forward to claim him when he’d been found wandering the streets.

“Perhaps this should be put to Mr. Renfield?” Jonathan suggested. “I have a letter for him from the count that I ought to deliver.”

Dr. Seward took the sealed envelope Jonathan showed him and started to open it before the clerk snatched it back, objecting that it was for Mr. Renfield and shouldn’t be tampered with. Reluctantly, Dr. Seward led the way to the cells.

Inside his room, Renfield was seated on the floor, crouched over a jar in which an assortment of flies flew tight circles. Each time they landed, Renfield would give the jar a shake to urge them back into motion. He did not look up at Jonathan and Dr. Seward entered.

“Hello, Mr. Renfield,” Jonathan began politely. “I’m Jonathan Harker. We met briefly some weeks ago. I’m terribly sorry to have upset you that day. I should have explained then. My firm has been employed by Count Dracula to conclude his business in England. He’s worried about you.”

The patient bent lower over the jar, his shoulders stiffening. That was the only reaction.

Jonathan went on, forcing down the disappointment at the lack of reaction. “He’s sent a letter for you.”

Renfield’s hand shot out – palm upraised and flat. His eyes were still on the flies.

Jonathan set the letter on the open palm.

Renfield studied the exterior of the letter for a long time, examining the seal with slow-tracing fingers. Then he tore the letter open with his teeth and fell to reading the short missive very intently.

At long last he slipped the letter into his shirt and rose to his feet. “Did I have a coat when I came in?”

“No,” said Dr. Seward.

“Then I am ready.” He turned to Jonathan, standing expectantly with his eyes trained somewhere around the clerk’s midriff.

“Renfield,” Dr. Seward said slowly, “do you understand who this man is?”

Renfield didn’t answer, and the silence went on long enough for Jonathan to feel compelled to speak. “What did the letter say?”

“That I am to go with you and obey you,” Renfield answered promptly. “And you will bring me home.”

That was all he’d say. His eyes remained fixed on Jonathan without wavering. Nor did he speak another word to Dr. Seward, who grew irritated at being so ignored.

The men returned to the office, Renfield following swiftly on Jonathan’s heels before he could be shut back in the cell. He trailed close after Jonathan, pointedly ignoring the orderly looming behind him.

In the office, Dr. Seward returned to his seat at the desk and Jonathan to the other chair. Renfield stationed himself at Jonathan’s side, his eyes still focused on the clerk to the exclusion of all else - particularly the doctor.

Dr. Seward tried to ask Renfield if he understood what was being offered, but Renfield refused to acknowledge any questions unless Jonathan repeated them.

Jonathan would have interpreted this as a madman’s inclination, but he saw a flicker of smugness cross Renfield’s face as Seward’s voice rose in pitch and began to wonder if there was some method to Renfield’s peculiarities.

It was the loss of temper that swung things in Jonathan’s favor, surprisingly. Or perhaps Dr. Seward noticing that he was losing his temper. He sank back into his seat with a growl and abruptly snatched some papers into his hands. “Your count wants him? Fine. Take him. So long as his expenses are paid.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to protest that he’d not intended to remove the patient immediately, but then he caught sight of the relief shining in Renfield’s eyes. He quietly worked his way through the discharge papers before common sense could override his conscience.

Thus, moments later, Jonathan Harker found himself walking toward the asylum gates with an unwashed lunatic at his side who trembled and shrank against him anytime an orderly looked their way.

“Is there anything you’d like to bring with you?” Jonathan asked with a worried glance at his barefoot and poorly garbed companion. “Clothes? Keepsakes? …Flies?”

Renfield dipped a hand into his shirt, raising the letter high enough to be seen over the collar. “This is all I need.”

It took some bribing of the porter and some coaxing of Renfield to get the madman onto the train. Once aboard, Renfield balled himself into a corner, chewing nervously at his knuckles until he fell asleep with his fist clamped in his mouth.

Jonathan had to nudge him awake at Paddington and was relieved that his charge followed him meekly through the station where he was able to buy a coat for Renfield and food for them both while they waited for the train to Exeter.

The long ride gave Jonathan plenty of time to worry and struggle to formulate a plan, though ultimately he could think of nothing else but to head home and beg his landlady to let him rent the second bedroom for a few days.

Mrs. Lucas was a widow who made ends meet by renting out two rooms on the upper floor of her house. Jonathan was fortunate to be the only lodger at the moment, and her eagerness to earn a little extra as well as a sympathetic nature worked in his favor.

She soon had the bed made up, chattering apologetically about the dust and scolding Jonathan affectionately for not giving her any warning that he was bringing an invalid friend home with him.

Once she was gone, Jonathan stood in the doorway, studying the man seated on the edge of the bed. He’d need to write explanations to Mina and Mr. Hawkins before he slept. And try to stifle down the worries running rampant in his mind.

Was the lunatic dangerous? A flight risk? Diseased? What was he to find for Renfield to wear? What was to be done with him while Jonathan was at work? Would it be better to turn him over to Mr. Hawkins or manage things himself?

Renfield looked up at Jonathan through wide and frightened eyes. He held the letter clutched in his hands like a rope flung to a drowning man.

Jonathan’s worries melted for the moment. “Do you need anything?”

The madman bowed his head. “I won’t cause you trouble, Sir.”

Jonathan winced. Were his thoughts that obvious?

He forced himself to walk away. “Get some sleep,” he called.

Inwardly a single thought drowned out all the others.

What had he gotten himself into?

The adventures of life with a madman began the next morning when Jonathan opened his door to find Renfield asleep across the threshold.

“What are you doing?” Jonathan demanded after nearly tripping over him.

Renfield blinked up at him. “Guarding you from harm, Sir.”

“I don’t believe Mrs. Lucas will assault me with anything more than a demand for the rent,” Jonathan replied. “Please return to your room.”

Renfield obeyed without a murmur.

Jonathan rubbed his pounding head and went to find some cold water.

He’d just finished shaving when he heard Mrs. Lucas calling that he had company. With a puzzled frown, he hurried down the stairs, still tugging on his suspenders as he went.

Was it a message from Mr. Hawkins? A constable here to arrest Renfield for… something? Was it…?

“Jonathan!”

Mina and Lucy swept him into a joint embrace which banished his worries with a rush of laughter.

“Surprise!” Lucy crowed. “I was visiting Mina yesterday when your message arrived. So…” She gestured several servants carrying baskets into the house. “…we decided to bring you breakfast.”

“That’s so generous. But I warned Mina about…”

“We know!” Mina laughed. “That’s why we came here. It sounded from your letter as if your new…” Her eyes slid briefly to Mrs. Lucas. “…friend could use a proper meal.”

Jonathan’s eyes misted over, and he gripped both Mina’s hands in his. “You’re wonderful. Both of you.”

“Yes, we know we are,” Lucy replied. “Now be a gentleman and invite us out of the entryway!”

Mrs. Lucas was always happy to allow Jonathan the use of her rooms for entertaining when Mina visited. The girls were soon occupied with filling the table while Jonathan trotted upstairs in search of his houseguest.

It belatedly occurred to him that Renfield had probably been too well conditioned to remain in any room he’d been told to stay inside, and his suspicion seemed true when he found the man seated in his bedroom, staring out the window with the intensity Jonathan had witnessed in the asylum.

He offered some of his clothes, though nothing fit on the gaunt frame, and Renfield was obliged to remain barefoot. Jonathan headed downstairs, a little amused at the way Renfield cowered behind him in response to Mina and Lucy’s cheerful greetings.

At the table, Renfield ate sparingly, speaking little and looking to Jonathan for permission each time a question was directed at him.

Seeing his discomfort, Lucy took command of the conversation, telling engaging stories of her adventures in the country and her conquests among the many smitten men.

“Are you out to break all the hearts in England?” Jonathan teased.

Lucy laughed. “Of course not. I’d never play cruelly with hearts that could easily be broken. No…” She sobered. “It’s lovely to be loved and admired and to give the same. But to leave tears behind…” She shook her head. “I hope I’m never so cruel.”

Despite Jonathan’s worries of how Renfield would behave at table, he proved knowledgeable of etiquette. He ate little, but he seemed to enjoy what he did consume. He listened to Lucy’s stories with his head tilted to the side, eventually relaxing enough to respond to her questions when she asked him for trivial opinions.

Few could resist Lucy’s charm, and Renfield seemed no different than any other.

Mina tugged Jonathan into the hall as breakfast concluded. “We didn’t just come to bring you food. We came to take Mr. Renfield off your hands for the day.”

“What?”

“You need to go to the office. Lucy and I will look after him. We can get him cleaned up and get him some proper clothes. And tonight we’ll have supper here, and you can tell us your travel plans.”

Jonathan had several objections, and Mina answered most of them by introducing him to the large footman Lucy had brought along. After that, the only thing left was to ask Renfield his opinion.

He seemed surprised to be asked. “They’re kind,” he admitted when prompted. “If you wish me to go with them, I will. But…” He clutched Jonathan’s sleeve. “…you won’t leave the country without me, Sir?”

Jonathan assured him that they weren’t scheduled to depart for several days, and that soothed him considerably.

With unease churning in his stomach but a determination to trust his friends and probably wiser fiancé, Jonathan departed for the office.

“Well? How does he look?” Lucy demanded.

Renfield truly was a sight to behold. Still far too thin, pale, and bruised, but he’d attract fewer stares now.

The girls had started by arranging a bath. Once cleaned, they’d set off to a tailor that Lucy trusted to be discreet about the initial appearance of his client.

Renfield had surrendered quietly to Lucy fussing over him. He’d only spoken up to agree with Mina’s gentle assessment that his clothes were meant for traveling and would hardly need to be so fine of attire as Lucy might have chosen had she had entirely her own way. Still, they had him serviceably dressed by afternoon and took him to a club where they could enjoy tea in a private room where the overwhelmed man could have a much-needed respite from the bustle of the street.

He'd trembled so badly when they’d approached the barber that they’d brought him home where he’d shaved himself under the footman’s watchful eye.

The footman reported that he had shaved almost entirely without looking in the mirror, an odd skill indeed, and that he seemed well acquainted with performing his own ablutions.

Not a gentleman, whatever else he might have been, Jonathan thought as the story was related.

Mina had cut his hair after lengthy assurances that she wouldn’t harm him. He’d remained frozen under her hands throughout, his eyes squeezed shut until she’d gently instructed him to look at the mirror.

Admiring their joint handiwork, Jonathan had to admit that Renfield was a far better looking - and much younger - man than he’d first appeared. Certainly not the sixty years Seward had suggested. The madman gazed shyly back at him, self-consciously tugging at his shortened hair.

A sharp knock at the door startled the group out of staring. Renfield flinched closer to Jonathan, a pulse of nervous tremors running through his body.

“I sent the footman out to fetch supper,” Lucy explained with a laugh to break the startled chill. She hurried out of Mrs. Lucas’ parlor toward the front door as if she hadn’t lived a privileged life of servants since birth.

Jonathan hurried after her, recalling that he ought to behave as the gentleman. Renfield trailed on his heels, seeming too tense to remain behind.

Lucy flung open the door, letting out an exclamation of surprise. “Jack?”

“Lucy?” Dr. Seward stammered back in equal bafflement.

“Oh, it was her name you called out,” Renfield said softly.

Lucy whirled to look back at Renfield, but Jonathan remained facing forward, so he saw what she missed – the look of murderous fury which passed briefly over the doctor’s face.

Renfield caught the gaze and cringed, hands raised to ward off a blow as whispered apologies rained from his lips.

Jonathan caught him by the elbow and steered him out of the room, leaving Lucy to explain matters and smooth over the confusion with her eternally gracious charm and invited the doctor to join them.

The six were soon seated at the dining table (Mrs. Lucas looking pleased to preside over such company). Jonathan was between Mina and Renfield, which he hardly objected to, even if the one who nudged their chair as close to him as possible was not the one he wanted to cuddle with. He tried not to stare too often at Dr. Seward, the memory of that thunderous expression souring the meal for him despite Lucy’s happy prattle as she introduced her doctor friend, telling stories about his skill and cleverness, faltering only when she mentioned his opening of an asylum as her gaze flitted across the table to Renfield with the sudden realization of why Seward had appeared on the doorstep.

Renfield ate little, concealing more into his napkin than he put in his mouth. The moment the meal wound down, he turned to Jonathan with whispered begging to be allowed to go to his room. Jonathan consented, and the madman fled with the napkin clutched to his chest.

The tension eased as the others moved to the parlor where Lucy and Seward chatted over old times, and Jonathan finally gave undivided attention to Mina.

Mina turned the conversation to Jonathan’s upcoming travel abroad. She had the train schedules and routes from Brest to Budapest memorized and had thoughts about the engine types he’d see on the continent and what to look out for.

Jonathan let her go on for a while before apologetically breaking the news that he’d been booked via the sea route.

Mina took this news harder than that of Jonathan’s impending lengthy absence. But she adapted herself, accepting the comforting thought that there was no reason Jonathan couldn’t return by train. She brightened at the prospect of looking through the train schedules going the opposite directions soon.

They talked about her schoolwork, though Mina had few engaging stories to tell about creative pupils. She far preferred organizing lessons and reviewing papers to the actual teaching, which suited her school matron just fine. She passed off most of the tedium to Mina, who immersed herself in planning the logistics of school outings and managing the budget and replying to concerned parental letters, rarely noticing how overworked she was until the occasions when Lucy kidnapped her for a week in town or the country.

Jonathan’s heart tumbled over with love, and he might have kissed her if he’d had a better idea of how Dr. Seward would interpret such actions. For now, he contented himself with holding her hand and wishing he never had to let go.

As Mrs. Lucas appeared to ask if anything was needed, and Lucy drew Mina and Mrs. Lucas into conversation, Dr. Seward took the opportunity to lead Jonathan into the hall.

“As delighted as I am to see Lucy, it was you I came to speak to,” he murmured.

“I assumed as much.” Jonathan smiled worriedly. “There wasn’t some trouble with releasing your patient to me, was there?”

Seward hesitated. “…I suppose my concern is more for what trouble you might have. Especially as it occurs to me that you’ll be traveling quite a distance in my patient’s company.”

“Mr. Renfield seems eager to go with me,” Jonathan replied. “I don’t think he’s likely to cause trouble.”

“Lunatics don’t always act sensibly,” Seward said flatly. “One day a man like Renfield is perfectly sound and reasonable. The next, he might spout the most outlandish stories you could imagine and swear they’re the absolute truth. You’ve seen Renfield in one of his docile stretches. He’s prone to fits of violence – particularly at night. And his strength! It sometimes takes a half dozen orderlies to hold him down before we can chain him.”

Jonathan winced. “I thought asylums didn’t use chains anymore.”

“Only when absolutely necessary.” He scrutinized Jonathan’s face. “I don’t want to terrify you, Mr. Harker. But are you certain you want to travel with this sort of man? Alone? Surely if this client of yours is coming to England, he can retrieve Renfield safely from the asylum when he arrives.”

Jonathan hesitated, seeing the logic in Seward’s suggestion. But he shook his head. “Count Dracula has requested Renfield be brought to him, and I’ve agreed. I won’t go back on my word.”

“In that case…” Dr. Seward rummaged into his bag and brought out a pair of manacles. “…I suggest you keep him restrained whenever he isn’t under your direct supervision.”

Jonathan stared at the cold and cruel irons. “I…”

“At least at night,” Dr. Seward pressed. “You’ll sleep better knowing he isn’t loose.”

Jonathan recalled where he’d found Renfield that very morning and reluctantly accepted the manacles.

Just a precaution, he told himself. I don’t have to use them.

But after Dr. Seward had departed, having spent the rest of his time telling stories of seemingly quiet men falling into homicidal rages, Jonathan found himself mounting the stairs in search of Renfield.

The madman was seated on the edge of his bed, his eyes fastened upon the open window. A quantity of food lay scattered upon the sill, but Jonathan didn’t have time to ask before the manacles in his hand clinked, and Renfield whirled with a cry of terror.

He recoiled against the wall, one hand raised in a pleading gesture. But just as suddenly, his body drooped, a look of resignation coming to his eyes. “How would you like me, Sir?” he asked.

Jonathan swallowed down the surge of guilt. “On the bed, please.”

Renfield took half a step toward the bed. “H-how… how should I position myself?”

Jonathan grimaced. The hospital had certainly trained the madman with unpleasant cruelty. “However you’ll be most comfortable.”

Renfield slowly lowered himself to his back, glancing often to Jonathan for an indication of approval as he raised his arms over his head and awaited the chains. His skin was icy, and his arms shook as Jonathan shackled him to the headboard.

In his mind, Jonathan chanted the necessity of the action. His future depended on the count’s goodwill, and if he lost Renfield, what would that say about his ability to deliver on the real estate deals? And there was Mrs. Lucas downstairs. What if Renfield harbored violent desires towards her?

No, this was the most sensible choice.

He mumbled a quiet goodnight as he tucked a blanket over the shackled man and fled the room. At the door, he paused to look back.

Renfield’s face was ashen and terrified. But there was confusion in his furrowed brow. “Are the ladies still here?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said.

Renfield nodded resignedly. “I will await your pleasure, Sir.”

Jonathan forced himself to flee downstairs and immersed himself in cheerful conversation in hopes of distraction.

But he couldn’t forget Renfield’s terrified eyes.

Or Seward’s furious ones.

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

“Robert? Is there anything you’d like to share?”

From my place in the ring of folding chair, I meet Mark’s eyes and look away.

I don’t know why I keep coming to these meetings. I’ve hunted from the group as much as I dare. It would raise too many questions if all their abusive partners disappeared. Master’s able to hunt for himself now without me having to fish for victims too often in any one part of the stream.

I suppose I come back because they’re the closest I have to friends. People who know my name. Who might notice when I disappear. Who at least act like they care.

Several more eyes are looking expectantly at me. Fresh meat, their gazes seem to say.

Maybe they feed off a good sob story.

Maybe they’re all just tired of listening to Carol ramble and hope for any distraction since she looks prepared to start another meandering tale if someone else doesn’t speak up soon.

“I’m not…” I struggle to come up with a plausible lie. It’s hard to juggle all the false stories I’ve spread across the world. I’m sure I can invent a proper villainous partner to suit the tone of the group.

But… the dreams…

The past has been feeling much closer lately than it has in a long time.

“I’m not in a codependent relationship now,” I say slowly. “I didn’t mean to come here. I was… actually, I was following Bob because he looked like a good…”

“Friend?” Bob asks hopefully.

“…Yes,” I lie, not wanting to admit that Bob practically screams someone who could be made to vanish without anyone noticing or caring. I tell myself that maybe I should get to know something about Bob besides that his wife has drained his bank account dry and demands he work longer hours to facilitate the lifestyle she wants.

“I didn’t know what the group was when I came in. But hearing your stories… They’re all so… sad.”

Some people are nodding encouragingly. Some are looking suspicious that I’ve just insulted them.

“It… it reminded me of my past.”

“Were you in a bad relationship before?”

“…You could call it that.”

I close my eyes, seeing myself all those years ago stumbling my way up to that castle in such a desperate state that the old master probably could have turned me into his familiar that night without me offering a single protest.

“I was in a bad state… financially. My bosses were nightmares to work for. I was underpaid and overworked and didn’t know how to get away from them. And then… He was a new client of theirs. Wealthy. And he was looking for someone to work for him full time. It…” I sink my nails into my arm, trying helplessly to find the words to explain. “The job wasn’t as he initially described it,” I say at last.

In my mind I’m back there. The process which turned me into what I am now. His voice in my mind. His claws sunk into my soul.

Remade. Into his creature. Body, mind, and soul his to command. Barely able to think for myself. Unable to resist. Not wanting to resist.

“He was good to me at the start,” I say. “He was the first person who seemed to really care about me. He looked after me.” I gaze around the room desperately. “I would have done anything for him.”

Multiple heads are nodding now. Even Carol isn’t eying her phone.

I take a deep breath. Hold it. Struggle.

“Did your interaction with him become physical?” Mark asks gently.

I nod. “I’d always been raised that… wanting another man… that was a sin. But… ugh.” My head knocks back so hard that I slam against the back of the metal chair.

Jonathan stirs in my mind, alerted by the pain and my turbulent emotions. I shoo him off and forcibly close the bond between us.

I don’t want to explain what I’m doing at this meeting. Even if I will inevitably spill to him sooner or later.

But the thought makes me want to extricate myself from being the center of attention.

“It was good for a while,” I say. “And then it wasn’t. And by then I was in too deep to know how to escape or even think that I could. And then… someone else got dragged into the mess. He…” I hesitate, unable to imagine how to explain any of what happened over the course of those terrible months. “He saved me,” I say at last.

My mind flutters against the memories of that last terrible day and skirts away as it always does. I can barely make sense of it – so beaten and damaged as I’d been by then. The bond between the old master and myself so tattered that it brought only renewed pain and madness each time he scourged me with it. That last fight… I'm barely certain of events. How Jonathan escaped the death sleep long enough to strike. What wounds I inflicted on him before the bond shattered completely, and I fell, a broken puppet, knowing I would die, knowing I had nothing to live for.

And then Jonathan’s blood in my mouth, and knowing I would live… and live forever with the guilt and relief of that.

Not that I can say any of that to the group.

“I wasn’t right,” I say, skipping hastily onward. “For a long time after that. Jonathan took me away from there. Looked after me. Gave me a new… job. I’ve been with him ever since.”

Stunned silence. Mark finally speaks up. “You’re in a relationship with… him now?” he asks as if he can’t quite believe this.

“It’s more… Well, yes,” I finally admit. “I know how it sounds. But it is different. We’ve been there for each other through… a lot. I trust him to make the tough choices, and I’m there to support him in whatever he does.”

“Okay.” Mark takes a breath. “You understand it can be dangerous jumping straight from one relationship into another? And especially with someone that you’ve experienced trauma with. Do you feel you’re capable of leaving if you wanted to? That he wouldn’t stop you? Hurt you?”

“I’m safe,” I say, avoiding the questions. “I know how it feels not to be.”

In a room full of people still in abusive relationships (or waiting breathlessly to see if anything comes of their missing persons reports), I probably sound like the healthiest person there.

Mark is still looking doubtful, but I stare pointedly at the wall until he takes the hint and moves on. We soon finish up, joining hands to say the affirmations, then dispersing in groups and singles.

I stay behind to help Mark put away the folding chairs.

“That was quite the story you… weren’t sharing,” Mark says once we’re alone.

I smile ruefully. “Was it obvious that I was leaving things out?”

“It’s alright to take your time opening up. But if there’s anything you need to share about your current situation…”

“Thank you,” I say before he can pry. I hesitate, the dreams nudging so forcefully against my mind that I can nearly feel the claws wrapped around my throat… “Are you hungry?”

We talk as we walk toward the nearest bar, trying awkwardly to find a safe conversation topic. Mark seems as reticent to talk about his own life as I am, and we fall silent.

I let the bond open enough to assure Master that I’m fine. He doesn’t pry, although I can feel the worry hovering at the edge of his emotions.

Where are you? I ask as I pretend to type into my phone so that Mark doesn’t notice my distraction.

At a baseball game, he replies, letting me borrow enough of his senses to see the small crowd of mostly parents around the school field. A man sits beside Jonathan, alternating between explaining the rules of baseball to his new English friend and shouting insults at the umpire.

Are you enjoying yourself? I ask.

It’s nice to do something outside again, he replies. But I’d prefer a sport that involves less waiting for something to happen.

Americans don’t like proper football as much as you do.

I will never understand this country.

I smile and pull myself back into my own head.

Mark is watching me. “Is that Jonathan?”

“What?”

“On the phone.”

“Yes.” I pocket the phone in a hurry so he won’t see that I’ve been typing gibberish.

“Does he check up on you often?”

“He was just seeing if I was alright. I left before he woke up.”

“Did you tell him where you are?”

I frown at Mark. “Why would I?”

Mark flicks his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m being nosy. We’re out of the group session after all.”

We step into the bar and make our way to an empty table. The crowd is thin, and the waitress quickly offers us menus. I point to a photo of their largest sandwich.

Mark blinks at me. “Can you eat all that?”

“I’ve been skipping a lot of meals lately,” I admit. “I need to make up for it.”

“Has something been wrong?”

Hunters. Our comfortable life going up in literal smoke. Dreams that won’t give me a single day’s rest.

“We’ve only moved here recently. Things have been chaotic.”

“Oh? What brought you to New Orleans?”

“Jonathan had some… health problems.”

That’s an understatement, but how else can I explain? Certainly not the true condition we were in the night I pulled the van up to the abandoned hospital that Jonathan’s shady real estate contact had found for us on short notice. We’d huddled in the filth for days, surviving off rats and cats until Master had recovered enough power to siphon some healing my way, allowing me to function enough to ensure our survival.

Bad days. Dark days.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you here to see a specialist or-”

“If you don’t mind,” I interrupt. “I’d rather not think about that right now.”

Mark winces. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to turn off the counselor brain. This is why I don’t usually go out with the group members.”

“Oh? What do you do for fun?”

This leads to much easier conversation. Mark’s lonely, I think, as he talks about the city and gradually about himself, telling stories about his neighbor’s cat who keeps breaking into his garage which leads to him asking if I have any pets, and I reluctantly talk about my insect colonies to his evident fascination. This leads to his delight in horror movies, and shock that I’ve never seen such classics as The Fly which he says we need to rectify as soon as possible.

The tickle in the back of my mind is the only warning I receive before I’m tackled from behind.

“Renny!” a familiar voice squeals in my ear as two slender and surprisingly suntanned arms wrap around me. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Hello, Lucy,” I say, putting emphasis on her name to make it clear that we are in public where I am not required to use formal titles. “When did you get into town?”

“Just now. Mina’s dragging Johnny off for some doctoring, so I thought I’d sniff you out.” She throws herself down at our table, giving Mark the friendliest grin in the world. “Hi. I’m Lucy. I’m Renny’s boyfriend’s wife’s wife.”

Mark blinks.

“She does that on purpose,” I say with a grin, never anymore immune to Lucy’s vivacity than everyone else. “Mark, this is Lucy. She’s… well, I mentioned Jonathan? He’s married to Mina, who’s married to Lucy. And… here she is.”

“That’s me!” Lucy chirps, stealing a fry off my plate, eying it for a moment, then putting it back.

Mark leans his head back against the chair. “I’m going to need to ask you for your entire life story in a not therapist way one day.”

Lucy tenses. “You’re a doctor?”

“He’s a friend, Lucy,” I protest, tapping the back of my hand as I speak.

A tap to the mouth would mean vampire. To the neck would mean food source. The hand is for humans. Also other supernatural beings because our code only goes so far.

“Oh, good. Renny needs friends,” Lucy declares. “And if he’s talking about Johnny, he must think you’re someone special.”

I blush and cover my face. “Please don’t talk about me.”

“Sometimes you can’t get a word out of him for days,” she moans, leaning her head on my shoulder. “You should have seen him when I first met him. Barely strung three words together and afraid to talk to anyone but Johnny.”

“I understand he had a difficult history before meeting this ‘Johnny’,” Mark says tactfully.

Lucy sits up, looking surprised. “Wow, he has told you a bunch! Have you met Johnny yet?”

“Please,” I groan through my covered eyes. “I’m trying to occasionally have a personal life.”

“Oh. Ohhh. I didn’t know you two were-”

“We’re not!” I yelp far too loudly. “I wouldn’t-”

“Geeze, lighten up. It’s not like Jonathan’s been putting out recently. If you can find better company than your left hand and a centerfold…”

“Please stop talking,” I moan.

Lucy laughs triumphantly and launches into an entirely new subject, mostly about her travels. She’s been striking out on her own as she frequently does, apparently on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, which sounds like a disaster to me, especially since she doesn’t have a familiar, but Lucy’s stories are always quite rose-hued as if nothing distressing ever happens. I wonder sometimes what she doesn’t tell us.

Any discomfort Mark felt when she first sat down is gone as Lucy’s easygoing manner charms him as much as it does everyone else. She’s clearly fishing to figure out how I’ve met him and what he knows, and Mark deflects as efficiently as someone who doesn’t give away group secrets. I appreciate him for it. And I’m aware Lucy’s prying is born from protective urges, even if I appreciate it less.

I finally separate them by reminding Lucy that some of us need sleep. Lucy gives Mark a kiss on the cheek and promises she won’t interrupt anymore of my dates to which I groan appropriately as we head out.

“I like him,” she says once we’re outside and have walked far enough to not be overheard by anyone who saw us together. “Where’d you meet him?”

No subtle interrogation for me, clearly. “He leads a group for people trying to get out of codependent relationships.”

That makes her falter and shoot me a worried look. “Are you and Johnny okay?”

I give her a reassuring smile. “I followed a target in without knowing what it was. And the pickings have been good for making some unsavory people disappear.”

Lucy grins. “Good familiar,” she coos, patting me on the head in a way that would be demeaning from anyone who wasn’t her. Or Jonathan.

I laugh and toss my head to dislodge her. We bump against each other for a few steps before I sober. “It’s bringing up some old memories. Hearing everyone talk about abusive partners that they don’t know how to leave.”

“Ah.” She gives me a worried look. “Have you talked with Johnny about any of this?”

I shake my head. “We never… even back then… It felt like the past should just stay dead. Forgotten. But lately…”

“Has something happened?”

“You mean besides being set on by hunters, burned out of Savannah, and Master nearly dying?”

“Yes.”

I smile humorlessly. Lucy’s directness is one of the things I appreciate about her. “I’ve-”

“You!” comes a sharp voice of someone who expects to be listened to. “Wait! Stop!”

We whirl, both tensing at the sight of a woman leaping out of a police car.

Lucy steps in front of me, assuming logically that if a cop is coming my way, I’ve probably been spotted dumping a body.

I catch her arm and shake my head, which might not be reassuring but at least checks her first impulse.

“Officer Quincy,” I say with what I hope is a friendly smile. “Nice to see you again.”

It isn’t, but what else am I supposed to say?

She plants herself in front of us. “I’ve been looking all over for you! I couldn’t find your name anywhere in the city records.”

“I haven’t been here very long,” I say. “And I don’t know how long I’m staying, so…” I try to edge away.

Quincy bars my path. “You disappeared right after the fight! I didn’t get a statement.”

“I don’t think I have anything of value to say. I don’t know anything about those men who attacked you.”

“But you saw their leader's face, didn’t you? You can tell the police who he was!”

I shake my head. “There’s nothing I can tell the authorities that you couldn’t.”

“I need witnesses besides me! But no one from the bar will talk!”

The other officer is out of the car now. He has his phone out and is recording us. I tried to position myself between him and Lucy. It's always hard to be sure if my masters will show up on recording devices, and it's better anyway if their faces remain anonymous.

“I’m sorry,” I say, once again trying to move past her. “I don’t think I can help you. The men were all masked. They could have been anyone.”

Officer Quincy groans. “They got to you too, didn’t they? What did they threaten you with? We can protect you! Just come to the station!”

If the situation isn’t awkward enough already, it’s at this moment that Jonathan and Mina start getting passionate.

We probably would have felt it building if the police hadn’t been distracting us, but now it’s too late to shut off our respective bonds in a hurry.

I feel my face flush and my heart pound. Lucy clamps her knees together and hisses through her teeth - which might be exasperation or something else. Either way, she loses patience with Officer Quincy. She puts out an arm, an unmovable barrier to restrain Officer Quincey as I duck around her and flee up the street.

The officer shouts furiously after us, but we walk quickly and don’t look back.

Once we’re clear, I lean against a wall, close my eyes, and force the bond closed inch by inch until my breath comes mostly steady.

I’m still experiencing some amount of second-hand pleasure, just enough to feel a little giddy and invigorated, but that’s manageable.

Lucy appears in control of herself, although she’s generally so lively that it’s hard to tell. I give her a little nod, and we start walking again.

“What was that about?” she wants to know, and I tell her about the fight at the bar. She’s interested enough to contemplate making the acquaintance of the cop who sounds like a person worth knowing, despite the failing of being a cop and of harassing me.

The hotel is miles away, but we’re in no hurry and wander there leisurely.

The receptionist waylays me to say that two extremely large boxes have arrived. Lucy takes my keycard and permission to enter the room while I follow the clerk to the service elevator and help a pair of tired looking maintenance workers maneuver the crates upstairs. They’re confused when I tell them to drop them outside the door and that I’ll handle them from there, but a few dollars send them on their way while I pull the crates inside.

One of the bedroom doors is closed, and the thumping from within indicates what’s going on and will continue for hours more.

Vampire stamina is an impressive thing. Not always on the receiving end, of course…

Lucy helps me wriggle the crates into the other bedroom and move the bed over enough to provide floorspace. I pry open the tops and brush away enough straw to give my mistresses access to their coffins without fully unpacking them.

Their luggage is stashed inside the coffins. I move the bags to the dresser, leaving the unpacking as a future project. There’s quite a bit, which means they intend to stay for a while.

I’m glad. Master always longs for their company, and it’s nice for all of us to be under one roof.

“Mistress didn’t bring her familiar?” I ask as Lucy sits on the edge of the bed, and I crouch down to remove her shoes.

“The last one resolved things with her family and went home,” Lucy replies. She arches her feet meaningfully, and I agreeably sit cross-legged, her feet in my lap, massaging the walking out of them.

“That didn’t last long. Four months?”

Lucy huffs. “I thought we should eat her, but Mina didn’t think anyone would believe her if she started babbling. Still, probably best that we’re here for a while.”

I don’t ask how long they’ll stay. That’s usually up to Mina.

Lucy puts on the television, entering someone’s streaming password and putting on something without asking my opinion. The noise is a pleasant distraction from the nearby thumps.

She nudges her toes against my groin and gives me a questioning look.

I consider a moment, then shake my head.

It’s been a long and sobering night, and I can’t say I’m in the mood for more than companionship.

Lucy retreats her foot and lets me get on with massaging. She eventually rises, her fingers toying at her panty line. “I’m taking a bath.”

I scoot back, feeling bereft at the loss of contact. “Would you like me to wash your hair afterwards?”

She brightens. “I’ll call you.” She vanishes into the bathroom, and the running water can’t quite hide her occasional moan.

Smiling to myself, I toe off my shoes and make a cursory effort to straighten the room. I’ve been using it as my own, but we’re accustomed to the inevitable rotation when we’re all together. It’s different in a house where we can disperse into our own space, but close quarters often means bunking together in odd combinations.

Lucy calls for me eventually, and I slip into the bathroom.

The tub is built into the wall – space efficient, but not a particularly comfortable angle for me to reach her. I shrug out of my clothes and slide into the water behind her.

She leans against me, her body pleasantly languid after its rush of self-pleasure.

I lean her head back against my shoulder, using a cup to soak her hair. Filling my hands in shampoo, I begin a slow massage.

My mistresses are fond of saying that I’d make a very good ladies’ maid. My fondness for bright colors and less masculine dress delights them. They’ve dressed me in skirts for their amusement at times, only complaining that I’m too tall to bring about with them in public.

I take my time rubbing slow whirls into Lucy’s scalp long after it’s clean. Rinse, then repeat with the conditioner. She hums, sinking gradually deeper into the water until she’s pillowed on my hips. She pulls one of my hands in front of her and plays at entwining our fingers together in lazy combinations. “I’m doing your nails after this,” she informs me, taping their uneven and broken lengths.

Lucy’s hair billows in the water, cascading across my lap in a dancing wave. I continue to card one hand through it, enjoying the silken feel and the heat radiating off the water.

Eventually Lucy rises, and I follow. In towels we lounge on the bed, some peaceful romantic comedy playing on the screen. True to her declaration, Lucy collects her nail kit and sets to work shaping and filing mine to her satisfaction.

Nail polish is a lost cause on vampires considering the length of their claws and how much they use them. Lucy paints hers regularly anyway, enjoying the art of it and pinning me or Mina or even Jonathan down for a manicure when the mood suits her.

She entertains herself with colors and patterns while I drift in and out, basking in feeling warm and cared for. The polish won’t last any longer on my nails than hers, but I’ll be careful with her art for a day or two before it inevitably chips to pieces.

The sounds from the other side of the wall lull, then pick up again. I smile and shift a little closer against Lucy.

It’s the first moment I’ve felt safe since we left Savannah.

Lucy tries to tease me awake for more conversation, then gives up and drapes a blanket over me.

My last sight is of her settling against my side with a book, and the contact soothes me deep into slumber.

For once, the nightmares leave me blissfully in peace.

I awaken late morning. I’m alone in the bed, and my dreams have been lustful enough to leave the sheets wet.

More awkward for the logistics of getting the beds changed with three vampires sleeping in the rooms than any discomfort of my masters seeing.

The other bedroom would probably flame under a blacklight by now.

I rinse off and get dressed. With a glance that Lucy is secure in her coffin and a brush against the bond to confirm that Master is sleeping lightly, I slip down to the business lounge for breakfast.

Families dominate the tables with a few people in suits scattered at the far end of the room. I pause to study them, not seeing anything which immediately screams danger.

I claim a recently deserted table and mop up enough of the mess to give myself room to eat. I balance my phone against a mug, scrolling through the latest headlines.

Nothing too interesting, and nothing that seems to concern us. I do a few searches, not finding anything from the past few days about the shooting at the bar.

Officer Quincy must be right about no one giving a statement.

A pity for her. But I’m certainly not going to bring myself to police attention. I dread to think what crimes I could be connected to if they ran my prints.

Renfield? Master calls groggily. Where are you?

Breakfast. Do you need something?

No. Just checking that you’re alright.

I smile. Miss Lucy was a perfect gentleman last night.

I hope she let you sleep.

Eventually.

I hear the distant mumble of Mina snuggling closer to him in the coffin.

We may have broken the bed. And the sheets need to be changed. What’s left of them.

I’ll see to it, Master.

Thank you. Another mumble as the bond grows muffled with sleep. Mina wants tickets to a show tonight. Just the two of us.

Anything in particular?

A pause and a mumbled exchange.

Something funny. She wouldn’t mind a musical. Or a stage show. She says she trusts your taste.

I’ll try not to disappoint her.

You never could. The bond dissolves entirely into slumber.

I finish eating, refill my coffee cup, and head back upstairs.

Time for the work day to begin.

Chapter Text

Letter, from Count Vlad Dracula to R. M. Renfield

Renfield –

      Your task will be completed by another. The bearer of this letter will see you returned to me. You will serve, protect, and obey him in all matters until you are back in my presence.

      I expect no further trouble from you.

      -D

May 1890: Jonathan

It was possible to adapt to anything, Jonathan supposed.

Even sharing living quarters with a madman.

Actually… that wasn’t as difficult as Jonathan first anticipated.

That first morning when he unchained Renfield, the man had obviously not slept and shuddered under Jonathan’s hands as he released the cuffs.

“Did your lady friends stay late?” he asked in a small voice. Jonathan’s affirmation seemed to confirm something in his mind, and he no longer seemed perplexed as he followed Jonathan down to breakfast.

Jonathan was left once more with the question of what to do with him. Mina would be at school all day, and Jonathan loathed the idea of leaving a large and erratic man under his fiancé’s watch even if she had been available. Leaving him behind seemed imprudent, but so did bringing him to the office. And chaining him… Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to leave Renfield like that all day.

Eventually guilt overrode common sense and he departed for the office after making Renfield swear not to leave the flat.

He returned at midday, entertaining horrific fantasies of finding his landlady murdered and his charge fled.

Instead, he found his rooms cleaner than he’d ever known them to be and Renfield scrubbing diligently at the stairs.

According to Mrs. Lucas, as soon as Jonathan left, Renfield had asked for water and a brush and set to work with an intensity she’d seen in very few washer maids.

Jonathan tried to tell Renfield that he hardly needed to do such work, but the man insisted desperately that he needed to be of use, and so Jonathan permitted him to continue.

The days passed swiftly with Renfield performing all the washing, ironing, and mending with the skill of a trained manservant. In the evenings he blackened Jonathan’s boots and mended his shirts, waiting on the clerk with quiet deference. He probably would have fallen fully into the role of valet if Jonathan hadn’t shooed him out of his room while he was dressing and washing. He certainly never intended to take advantage of Renfield’s offers to shave him.

The signs of madness were still clearly visible. There were moments that Renfield would simply freeze – staring blankly into space for long minutes before suddenly shaking himself and resuming his tasks without a word. Other times, Jonathan found him crushed into a corner, rocking himself and biting his knuckles until they bled. Sometimes he seemed utterly unsure where he was or what he’d been doing only a moment before.

He mumbled to himself, a low wordless chant that sometimes turned to stuttered breathing and fluttering hands before the tremors passed. And that laugh – the slow and humorless noises that made Jonathan shudder whenever he heard the unexpected sound.

And the bugs.

That… took the most getting used to.

By the second day, Jonathan was aware that Renfield was using his food to bait flies. He kept them in a large matchbox he’d gotten from Mrs. Lucas – the ones he didn’t immediately eat.

Jonathan was startled the first time he saw Renfield snatch a fly out of the air and cram it into his mouth.

Renfield winced when saw Jonathan watching and hurriedly bowed his head. “S-s-s-sorry. I won’t. Not if you don’t want me to. Sir. No. Won’t. Not if…”

Jonathan started to say something about disgusting and unhealthy habits, but he checked himself. “Won’t it hurt you to eat those?”

“Oh no, Sir. They’re good for me. They’re life. It is good. They make me strong.”

Jonathan hesitated another moment. Renfield ate meals so hesitantly that Jonathan worried he’d starve. At least the bugs were something.

“Do you know which ones wouldn’t be good for you? Some bugs would certainly make you sick.”

Renfield nodded earnestly. “I know my types. I know what makes me strong.”

“Well… then… do as you please with the insects. But don’t let them loose inside the house.”

Renfield promised with such joyous fervor and smiled so rapturously at Jonathan for the rest of the day that the clerk was left overwhelmed and deeply uncomfortable.

And… sad.

He found himself thinking of that stretch after he’d lost his father. He’d never known his mother, and his father had worked such extensive hours that there had been many long stretches in which he had no time for Jonathan. But when he had looked at him and seen him - acknowledged him, valued him – those had been the greatest moments of Jonathan’s childhood.

And then he’d lost his father as well. And there’d been nothing. No glimmer in a dreary word.

Until the first time Mr. Hawkins had given him a kind word. Looked at his young charge and spoken well of Jonathan’s work.

And the sun had come out from behind the gloomy clouds for a glorious moment.

Jonathan had never forgotten how that moment of care and kindness had shown him the way through his grief and given him hope for the future.

How long had Renfield huddled in darkness without anyone to encourage him along?

If kindness meant looking the other way while the madman consumed more bugs than human food… was there any real harm in it?

After the third time Jonathan started for the door and Renfield pursued, begging not to be left behind while Jonathan went off to Transylvania, Jonathan spent an evening spreading out his travel plans and maps and going over the itinerary with his companion in great detail.

Renfield studied the maps for hours, tracing his finger along the shipping routes and reciting the names of the ports. Jonathan later heard him chanting the names and dates to himself as he worked, seeming much calmer now that he understood their immediate future.

Was this all it took to give a troubled mind stability?

Every evening, Jonathan hardened himself against Renfield’s terrified shaking and chained him to the bedpost. And every morning he was greeted with exhausted and puzzled eyes when he went to unshackle his charge.

“I’m under your command, Sir,” Renfield whimpered on the second morning of this. “I’ll submit to whatever you desire without resisting.”

Jonathan didn’t answer, though the words puzzled and troubled him for the rest of the day.

Was it Renfield’s way of begging to be left unshackled? Assurance that he wouldn’t attack Jonathan in the night? Or something else entirely…

Whatever Renfield meant, Jonathan continued to chain him despite allowing the madman to go about unfettered and unguarded all day. He took Renfield along with him to the office one afternoon when he had to work late, and Renfield was as anxious to be useful there as he was in the flat. But Renfield generally fell asleep immediately after tea and slept the afternoon away until Jonathan returned, so Jonathan found it easy to leave him to his habits.

The poor man certainly wasn’t sleeping well at night.

But at least he bore his captivity quietly.

At least he did… until the fourth night when Jonathan was awoken by such screaming that he thought a child was being murdered.

He bolted out of bed, first staring blankly into the darkness until his mind activated enough to recognize that 2+2=Renfield, and he charged across the flat.

“Renfield!” he called, trying to be heard above the screams and what sounded like a body being flung into the walls. He seized the knob and turned.

He’d only just opened the door a crack when it was slammed closed from the inside, a weight thunking against it hard enough to make the frame shudder.

Jonathan recoiled across the hall, staring in horror at the door as realization swept through him.

Renfield was loose.

“Jonathan?” Mrs. Lucas’s voice sounded from the stairs, soon followed by the woman, a candle trembling in her anxious hands. “Jonathan? What’s happening? Is it burglars? Murderers?”

“It’s Renfield,” Jonathan replied, biting his lip with a flicker of embarrassment to have brought this trouble to her home. “I think he’s having some kind of fit.”

An animalistic howl followed the pronouncement, the wall shuddering once more with the impact of a body.

“Should we call the police? A doctor? The army?”

“Just… give him a minute. Maybe he’ll calm down on his own.”

The suggestion sounded hollow to Jonathan’s ears, but he couldn’t think what else to do. It couldn’t possibly be safe to try to enter, and Seward’s method of piling orderlies onto Renfield until he collapsed sounded cruel… even if Jonathan had had the resources to try such a method.

The chains clearly hadn’t worked. What good would a straight-waist coat have been?

He could only hope that this eruption would pass the same way as Renfield’s glazed moments or confusions.

And a minute later he thought his hopes were reaping fruition. Renfield’s screams were giving way to sobs, and the blows to the walls had lessened to an occasional thump against the floor. Another few minutes, and all was silent within the room.

Taking the candle from Mrs. Lucas, Jonathan cautiously eased open the door. He pushed it closed behind him, whispering to Mrs. Lucas that he’d call if he needed help.

Renfield was seated on the floor, his head lolled back against the mattress. Considering the noise, the room was largely still intact. He was still manacled, but he’d wrenched free of the bedframe, splintering the wood in his quest for liberty. The manacles had cut gouges into his wrists which bled slow rivers down his arms.

Jonathan crouched down, speaking softly to his charge and watching the inert face for any reaction. There wasn’t any. Even as he carefully removed the manacles, Renfield remained limp and passive.

Promising to return momentarily, Jonathan hurried out to fetch dressings for the wounds. Renfield hadn’t moved, nor did he flinch while Jonathan cleaned his lacerated arms. He rose after much prodding and lay on the bed when Jonathan pushed him down. His eyes remained open, twin glazed and vacant orbs staring into the night.

Jonathan left him at last to assure Mrs. Lucas that everything was alright, and the police need not be involved. Exhausted and dazed, he took himself back to his own room and collapsed into a turbulent sleep.

Somehow Jonathan wasn’t surprised to find Renfield curled up across his threshold the next morning. He squatted down and gently shook the man awake. “Renfield?”

Renfield’s eyelids fluttered, cracking open with a superhuman effort. He blinked blankly for several long seconds before scrambling to his hands and knees. “Did I hurt you, Sir?” he gasped, shaking so hard that Jonathan thought he’d fall onto his chin.

Jonathan cautiously helped him rise. “No. You scared Mrs. Lucas terribly, but you didn’t hurt anyone.”

“I’ll apologize to her. And you, Sir. I damaged the bed. And disturbed your slumber. I’m terribly sorry.”

His gaze was so anxious and sincere that Jonathan felt some of the fear leave him. “What happened last night?”

Renfield hunched his shoulders and ducked his head. “It just happens sometimes,” he whispered helplessly.

“Is there anything you can do?”

Renfield twitched in place for a moment and bit at his knuckles. “Sometimes,” he mumbled vaguely.

Jonathan glanced him up and down, seeing the lumps standing out on Renfield’s head where he must have bashed himself into the wall and the myriad of bruises dotting his body.

He kept me out of the room, he thought. Whatever sent him out of his mind, he knew enough to protect me. I think he’s more dangerous to himself than anyone else.

“Did your flies survive the night?” he asked.

Renfield winced. “They’re gone.”

“Escaped?”

“…No.”

Jonathan’s eyes fixed on Renfield’s damaged wrists, unease welling in his gut that the manacles hadn’t held the madman and had caused more harm than protection.

Renfield noticed the trajectory of his gaze. “You could chain my ankle tonight,” he suggested meekly. “The bed isn’t broken at the foot.”

Jonathan stared, then hastily turned away.

There was no understanding this man.

Jonathan jogged up the street for home, his heart practically singing in his throat.

What a beautiful day! What a beautiful, wonderful, perfect day!

There’d been no further mischief in the night from Renfield (Jonathan had chained him by the ankle and tried not to feel guilty about it). Tomorrow they’d leave for Transylvania. And today. Today!

He burst into the house, ready to explode with news. Where was Mrs. Lucas? Renfield? Somebody? Anybody!

“Jonathan?”

Mina!

He sprinted into the parlor, nearly dragging her from the sofa in his exuberance. He was barely aware of Renfield watching quietly as he spun Mina around, laughing too hard to explain himself.

She laughed with him. “What is it? Why did you want me to come here so fast?”

He thrust the letter into her hands, still unable to speak.

She glanced once at the envelope, then up at him. “Your examination? You passed? Oh, Jonathan!” She flung her arms around his neck, and he whirled her once more in a joyous circle.

“A solicitor! A real solicitor!” Mina cried once her feet were back on the ground. “Oh, Jonathan! I’m so proud of you! You worked so hard for this!”

“And Mr. Hawkins says once I’m back from abroad, he’ll make me a partner in the firm. Can you imagine?” He clutched her shoulders. “Do you know what this means?”

Mina laughed and pecked a quick kiss on his cheek. “One thing at a time, Darling.”

Jonathan felt a cold shiver rush through his joy. “Do you… If you’ve changed your mind…”

Mina kissed him again with another warm laugh. “Tonight, we are celebrating this!” She shoved the letter back into his hands. “And when you come back…” She smiled, her eyes narrowing to seductive slits. “…there will be plenty of time to make our next joyous announcement.”

Jonathan kissed her back – full on the mouth this time – never mind that Renfield was in the room and pretending to be very fascinated by a spider crawling up the wall (he probably was fascinated). On a night like this, he wouldn’t hide his joy or his love.

They spoke for a time longer before sitting down and turning the conversation more to the immediate future of tomorrow’s voyage. Jonathan found to his amusement that Mina had been occupying herself while waiting for him by explaining her system of memorizing the train schedules to Renfield who she claimed seemed very interested in learning about engines.

Jonathan doubted that was true, but he loved Mina and her passion, so he leaned against her as Mina rambled about the improvements to the reliability of the rail system in the past ten years and the increased quality of the engines.

“I’m sorry,” she broke off abruptly. “I’ve been talking far too long. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

Renfield hadn’t taken his eyes from her the whole time she’d been speaking, and his expression had been more of interest than social politeness. “Passion is good,” he said simply. “All should embrace passion.”

Mina smiled. “And what are you passionate about, Mr. Renfield?”

The madman flinched and shrank smaller in his seat. “Be good,” he mumbled breathily. “Good and quiet. No rambling. Be good…”

“Renfield,” Jonathan interrupted gently. “What’s the name of that spider over there?”

Renfield barely had to glance at the spider still working its way up the wall. “Zygiella x-notata. The sector spider. It is odd to see her now.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“It is not the time for spiders. The males die in the fall. The females protect their eggs until the spring, then die as well.” He watched the spider with a sad frown. “She is long lived for her kind.”

“Does that mean you’ll leave her alone?” Jonathan asked with a smile.

Renfield watched the spider thoughtfully. “Perhaps her soul is tired. Perhaps she would be happy to give her life.” He turned his back. “But it would be unkind to take her aboard the vessel tomorrow. She will go her way and I mine.”

“You truly eat bugs?” Mina asked, then blushed as recollection of social niceties resurfaced through her curiosity. “I’m sorry. Dr. Seward mentioned… it was probably wrong of him to do so. He talks too much about his patients, I think. I’d be bothered if it was my relatives whose secrets he spreads so freely. But…”

“Yes,” Renfield said simply, cutting effortlessly through her discomfort.

Mina looked gratified at the bluntness and dispensed with tact. “Why?

Jonathan shifted uneasily, equally interested and also concerned that questioning could set Renfield off on some fit.

But Renfield’s answer was composed. “You eat life to give yourself strength,” he said. “It is the same.”

“But… what I eat is dead before I eat it,” Mina protested.

Renfield nodded sagely. “Exactly. Dead life gives you some strength. How much more would you receive from living life?”

Mina stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Jonathan. “I’m hungry,” she declared. “It’s our last night together for months, and we have something to celebrate. We should go out.”

Renfield begged off her polite invitation and retreated upstairs. Jonathan followed to hastily change his clothes. “You’ll be alright by yourself?” he asked as Renfield helped him into his jacket.

The madman nodded and turned to stare at the window. “Tomorrow, we go home.”

He was still sitting at the window when Jonathan returned. Staring East.

Chapter Text

May 1890: Jonathan Harker

My Dearest Mina,

      I am writing to you from Gibraltar. I’ve never dreamed of journeying so far from England!

      I was fascinated by the ship and spent as much time as I could on deck observing the business of the sailors. Renfield was quite green and generally uneasy to be away from land. I think he misses his bugs. Still, he followed me gamely about the ship, even if he seemed deeply wary of our fellow passengers and the crew.

      Gibraltar is fascinating. I can see the Rock in the distance and dream of climbing it if only we had the time. Renfield assures me I’ll have my fill of mountains before the journey is through.

      I’ve tried several fish dishes and copied down a few recipes. I hope I can recreate them for you when I return.

      The ship that will take us to Istanbul is loaded for cargo. We will be two of the only passengers aboard. Our cabin is quite oddly shaped. You cannot see the door from the bunks, a fact that disturbs Renfield greatly. We slept there last night even though the ship won’t leave until today. Renfield spent quite a while pacing the cabin in search of an angle that would allow him view of the door. In the end, he flung himself to his knees before me and begged me not to chain him while we were aboard. I know you disapprove, Mina, but I have still been manacling him at night. If he has one of his fits, I don’t want to be responsible for what he might do to another passenger or the ship. Still, he was so distressed, and he’s given me so little trouble, that I agreed to try it for a night.

      It was not a restful night for either of us. Anytime there was noise outside, he rose and went to stand at the door. He didn’t attempt to leave, so I suppose his behavior can be tolerated. Perhaps he’ll settle down once we’re underway.

      We’ll dock next in Palermo. I’ll write to you from there.

Yours

      Jonathan Harker

My Dearest Mina

      We've reached Palermo, and I'm writing again as promised.

      The voyage has not been as pleasant as the first leg of the journey. The sailors are a rough and cruel sort. I believe they torment Renfield when they catch him alone. They’ve made some comments about the both of us within my hearing that I admit to not understanding but that make Renfield further distressed.

      He's taken to sleeping on the floor within sight of the cabin door. It’s a more restful night for both of us if he’s not pacing to check the lock every hour. With his bugs gone, he’s been feeding the ship’s mice. He keeps one shut up in a biscuit tin, and I dread what fate he has in store for it, but I haven’t told him to let it go since feeding it seems the only pleasure he has.

      And I believe he saved my life last night.

      We docked in Palermo late in the day, and I wanted to see some of the city before we set out again. The city is known for its churches, and we were told of a fine one not far from the docks.

      Perhaps it wasn’t far if one knows the city, but I confess to growing hopelessly turned around. Still, I was enjoying seeing the sights, and Renfield was much happier to be on land, so we roamed much further than we intended.

      We found the church eventually – or at least a church with impressive architecture. A man who spoke a little French showed us about. With one thing and another (I was determined to find fresh fruits after the dull fare we’d had aboard the ship), it was growing dark before we started for the docks, and we had no idea where to turn. I fear we wandered in circles for an hour before we found someone who could give us remotely accurate directions.

      I’m afraid we got separated at that point – entirely my fault. Renfield was trying to determine from a passerby if we were on the right road, when I set off on what I thought was the correct path, calling back to Renfield without him hearing or seeing which way I’d gone. I realized my error and tried to turn back, but I took the wrong street in my haste and went in entirely the wrong direction.

      I was so hopelessly lost that I thought I was better off trying to find the ship than Renfield and hoped that he’d do the same. Somehow my wandering continued to take me into progressively darker and more unfriendly looking streets.

      It was then that I began to be followed.

      There were three persons who trailed me at a distance with a predatory air that made me walk faster. Yet repeatedly I’d find that one of them had gotten ahead of me, forcing me to change directions until I realized too late that I’d been herded into a blind alleyway with all three approaching with hungry expressions.

      Perhaps it was my imagination, but I swear their eyes gleamed red.

      I tried to speak to them – loudly in hopes of attracting attention. If they understood English, they didn’t respond.

      Before they could set upon me, Renfield appeared and shoved between them and me with an air of strength and confidence that I’d not seen before. He shouted something which, to my surprise, made the attackers pause.

      One asked something back.

      “Dracula,” Renfield replied, barking the word with sharp authority.

      There was a pause, and then all three vanished into the shadows.

      Renfield immediately turned to me in a state of anxiety, apologizing profusely for having lost sight of me.

      “What did you say to them?” I asked.

      “I told them they could not have you.”

      “And if that hadn’t worked?”

      “I would have killed them if necessary.”

      “What? All three of them?” I laughed at the absurdity of my infirmed and frequently seasick companion fighting anyone.

      He looked very grim. “I would certainly have made them regret their choice of prey.”

      What a curious companion he is. I don’t know if it’s his madness which assigns him the role of my protector, or some memory of his past life.

      Still, last night, I felt more secure to have him between me and the night.

      I miss you terribly, Mina. If you share this letter, please try to make my adventures sound more heroic than they were. I fear Lucy will laugh that I was protected by an invalid.

Yours

      Jonathan Harker

My Dearest Mina

      We have arrived in Istanbul and hardly a moment too soon! I am glad to be away from the Empusa and never wish to see her deck again. We arrived too late to book passage to Constanța, so we will have to wait in Istanbul two more days. As impatient as we are to continue, I think we are both relieved to have time on dry land.

      Ship travel is overall dull. I finished all the books I brought with me. My journals might be up to date, but I fear you will fall asleep to read my accounts of yet another dinner of dried meats and biscuits. I made friends with the captain eventually, but he was not an educated or curious man, and conversation was lacking. There was an incident which I will not trouble you to repeat, save to say that Renfield injured several sailors, and we were not well liked by the crew after that.

      Istanbul looks fascinating thus far. I hope to visit some historic sites and perhaps find a guide who speaks English (or French. There is a fair amount of French spoken here) who can tell me about the city.

      I described some of the stories I’d read about Arabia and the far east to Renfield, and he suggested I keep such fantasies to myself and look around instead. I’ve taken his advice (his advice is usually sound. No matter how his mind was branded in England, he is mostly sensible save for when his fits are upon him) and tried to write my impressions without prejudice or attempting interpretation. When you read my journals, I hope some of what I’ve seen will come through with a fraction of its scents and colors.

Yours

      Jonathan Harker

My Dearest Mina

      I know it is strange, writing again this morning when I only sent away a letter last night. You will probably receive them together. Please read the other first. I’d like you to hear my optimism before I recount what I have to say now.

      I’d ask you not to share the contents of this letter with anyone, particularly Lucy. It would be unfair to allow anyone who might be influenced by my suspicions to read them when I confess to not knowing the whole truth.

      I wish you were here to give me advice. You’ve always been sensible and kept a level head better than I. I fear I am too inclined towards impulsive actions.

      What I’m about to relate I know many would say is not for a woman to hear. But I’ve spent too much of my life beside you to imagine women to be ignorant of the evils of the world. Perhaps this tale will not come as nearly the shock to you as it did to me.

      I mentioned before that Renfield injured several sailors. I did not intend to relate the details of what happened. But now, I feel I must.

      The crew aboard the Empusa were rough fellows who spoke coarse language towards us with less reserve as the voyage went on. Renfield was frightened of them, and his fear seemed to excite them further. They were constantly trying to corner him and whisper things that made him tremble anytime we left the cabin.

      One day, I was up at the helm talking to the captain when I looked down to see that three of the scoundrels had hemmed Renfield against the rail. I hurried down and pushed to his side, gaining laughter from them at how protective I was of my “pretty wife” and that perhaps I wished to join them that night for a bit of fun. They vanished to their tasks before I could ask their meaning.

      That night, Renfield was more agitated than usual. He paced, always carrying the tin in which I could hear his mouse squeaking. At last I convinced him to lie down – on the floor as had become his habit.

      I don’t know how long I slept before I awoke to a persistent rattle at the door.

      The room was dark, but I heard a frantic squeaking followed by what sounded like a crunching of bones.

      “Renfield?” I whispered, alarmed as the sounds at the door grew louder.

      “Stay in your bunk, Sir,” he whispered back.

      I confess I was too dazed to get up and fight, which was probably for the best, but I should like to report that I performed better than I actually did.

      I heard the door open, and a dim light from the passage spilled into the room. For a moment I saw Renfield crouched close to the ground. Then he sprang at the invaders, and I could see nothing more, though I heard screams and strikes aplenty.

      By the time I thought to rise and light a lamp, the attackers had fled. Renfield, apparently unharmed, shut and locked the door and moved our trunk in front of it. He lay back down and whispered that it was safe for me to return to sleep.

      The biscuit tin, I noticed, was open, and the mouse was nowhere to be found.

      Renfield was ill the next morning, so I left him alone while I went for breakfast. Later in the day, he coughed up bits of fur and bones, so I can guess what caused his indigestion.

      One of the crew had a broken hand and another’s arm was in a sling. A third was badly bruised but had apparently gotten off the best of their midnight adventure. The entire crew looked at me with naked hostility which surprised me greatly.

      Renfield was recovered enough by late afternoon to be capable of sensible conversation. I told him of the injured sailors, and he smiled a self-satisfied look. I expressed my puzzlement at how outraged the rest of the crew appeared.

      “Injured crewmates mean more work for the others.”

      “Oh.” I voiced my next perplexity. “I don’t understand why they’d try to rob us now. They couldn’t have expected to get away with it – so brazen an attack as that.”

      Renfield looked at me strangely. “You thought it was money they desired?”

      “What else could they have wanted?

      He gave me another long look. “The voyage is long, and there are no women aboard.”

      You will forgive me, Mina, for taking so long to understand his meaning. I suspect you’d have understood immediately.

      But it came to me at last, and I recoiled in horror and denial. “How could they?!” I demanded. “To desire another man like that? Only the lowest, basest…”

      “I doubt it has anything to do with preference,” he replied calmly. “Just lust and availability.”

      “But… us?” I demanded.

      “An ill man and a naïve one. Friendless and ignorant.” Renfield looked at me apologetically. “They saw targets easily subdued, and so they acted.”

      I paced about the cabin. You can imagine, Mina, how much I was feeling all at once. Revulsion and fear and a need to act, but there was nothing to be done! “I’ll speak to the captain. I’ll tell him what sort of men…”

      “Mr. Harker,” Renfield said gently. “This is not a large ship. I doubt there is little that goes on here without his knowledge.”

      I froze, unable to comprehend the idea that a man in any position of power… “Why would he let them…?”

      “Perhaps it makes things easier among the crew if he lets them prey among the passengers.”

      I sank to the bed, my head clasped in my hands. My mind reeled. I may have wept.

      Renfield came to sit beside me and rubbed my back.

      “What are we to do?” I asked when I could speak again.

      “I would suggest you make friends with the captain,” he replied.

      I stared at him in horror. The idea of conversing with a man who might be fully aware of the fate those sailors had in store for us…

      “You’re a likable man,” Renfield observed. “I’m sure he’s as bored as everyone else and would enjoy someone listening to his stories. Right now, he’s annoyed that his men are injured. Be friendly with him. He’ll be more likely to protect you if he likes you.”

      I noticed he said nothing about his own protection. “And what about you?”

      “I think it’s best I stayed away from him. But if he can watch over you in daylight, and I can guard your nights, you’ll get to port safely.”

      “But you’ll be left alone if you expect me to spend more time with him.”

      He tried to look confident. “I think the crew will keep their distance for now. At least while they don’t have safety in numbers.”

      I didn’t like this at all. It felt as if he intended to sacrifice himself to protect me. I resolved to do what I could for us both.

      I followed his advice and sought out the captain. He seemed glad for the company and welcomed me into his confidence. Soon I was taking most of my meals at his table, which unfortunately meant that Renfield didn’t eat at all since he wouldn’t go into the galley without me. He spent most of his time in the cabin, and I brought him cold rations.

      The arrangement wasn’t pleasant for him, but it was probably safer overall. I hoped it didn’t remind him of being locked in the asylum. At least there he’d had a window!

      Perhaps that was why he experienced one of his fits the night after the attack.

      I tried to wake him out of it, and he struck blindly at me, then recoiled in a panic when he saw what he’d done and spent an alarming amount of time slamming his head against the wall while I watched in distress. When he came out of it, he was immediately horrified that he’d injured me (it was only a bruise, truly!). It took hours before he seemed to come fully back himself and calmed down.

      He cried in his sleep more often after that. Begging someone not to hurt him or touch him or take his flies from him. If I have to listen to him crying to be let out of the strait-waistcoat again, I think my heart might break.

      I managed to catch a mouse and gave it to him. I knew I was sending the poor creature to its doom, but it was all I could think of to provide some comfort for my suffering friend.

      Surprisingly, he was quite gentle with it and fed it well for the remainder of our journey.

      And now we come to yesterday and the reason I’ve filled so many pages.

      The hotel gave us a room with only one bed. I admit to feeling uneasy. I know my companion’s strength and how he sometimes loses himself in the night. But I am also certain that he’d cut his own throat before he’d harm me, so I swallowed my unease and tried to speak lightly of the size of the bed.

      Renfield turned quite pale and avoided going anywhere near the bed.

      That night, he was the one who dug the manacles from the trunk and brought them to me. He was shaking badly as he pressed them into my hands. He said… it’s hard to write it. He said he was thankful for the reprieve I’d given him aboard the ship. Now that we were on land, he was prepared to surrender himself into my hands in whatever way I pleased.

      I threw the manacles aside, ashamed to admit that I’d been considering them myself. “There is no need for those,” I said. “I know you won’t harm me.”

      “Of course not,” he agreed as if that had never been a concern. “But if it pleases you to make use of them…”

      “No,” I said firmly.

      I thought I would see more relief in him, but he merely continued to stand before me struggling to speak. At last, he said, “I am sworn to serve however you please. With or without the chains, you may do with me as you will. I won’t resist you.”

      Would you believe, even after everything, it still took me a minute to comprehend him?

      Perhaps because I never once thought anyone could draw correlation between myself and those… those men.

      I recoiled from him as I had in the cabin when I realized his meaning. “No! I would never! Why would you even think…?!”

      His eyes strayed to the single bed, and it occurred to me that he thought I’d planned this.

      “I didn’t choose these accommodations!” I nearly screamed. “This room has nothing to do with me!”

      His shaking increased, and he backed away from my fury. This man who had stood between me and danger twice over without a tremor now cowered from me as if I held absolute power.

      “I’m not like those men!” I continued. “People aren’t like that! Why would you possibly think…?!”

      He spoke in a very small voice. “He brought you the chains. He must have told you what I was good for.”

      I confess I didn’t even want to look at him. When he took a blanket and curled up on the floor, I didn’t stop him.

      So here I am, sitting outside so early that the sun is only just ascending. I left my companion asleep. I’m sure he’ll panic when he finds me gone, and I’m sorry to cause him more distress, but at this moment I find it impossible to look at him.

      Mina, is it possible he was harmed in such a way in the asylum? He’s so strong, yet he cowered from those attendants. How could they have forced him unless he desired it?

      That was my thought last night, unworthy as it was. Now I find myself more uncertain.

      I don’t know how long he was locked away, but certainly long enough for force and hunger to work their power on him. I would hope I’d be made of sterner stuff, but I suppose no one knows how long it would take them to crumble until they’re in a situation where their every movement is controlled, where their access to food and water and even liberty of movement depends on the whims of their captor. Considering how he associates chains with assault and cries frequently in memory of the strait-waistcoat, I doubt he submitted willingly. And if the alternative was starvation and darkness… Can I be certain I wouldn’t make similar choices to stay alive?

      I fear what the orderlies did to him, but even more I find myself entertaining horrible suspicions against Dr. Seward. On the ship, I believe Renfield was correct in his belief that the captain was fully aware of the doings of his crew. Is not a superintendent in much the same position? And Renfield’s advice to me – to befriend the captain as a protector against the others… is he speaking from experience?

      I hate to suspect ill, especially of one in a profession meant to heal. And most especially of someone Lucy esteems. Please don’t share this with her. If I’m wrong, I would hate to ruin her opinion of a good man. But if I am right… please look after her. She has been a trusted friend. If I could protect her from a calloused man, I surely would.

      But now, what am I to do? I wish you were here. You could help me push aside any disgust and look at Renfield… not with pity, but with compassion. I don’t know all he’s endured, but I am certain he’s been ill-used, and I have done no better by him than his captors. He’s been nothing but loyal to me, and I’ve kept him in chains, allowed my own emotions to drive him away, and treated him overall with scorn and suspicion. You would know the right thing to say. I’ll have to muddle through on my own.

      I’m grateful to you even at this distance. Just writing to you has helped a great deal. My soul is far more settled than it was when I started.

      Have I told you recently how much I love and admire you? Whether this trip is my making or not, I should like to wait no longer. I should like to marry as soon as I return. Are you willing?

      Send your response to Castle Dracula if you can. Mr. Hawkins can give you the address. But if the letter should go astray, I will eagerly await your answer when I return.

Yours,

      Jonathan Harker

P.S. Renfield came looking for me, panicked that I’d gone on without him. I’d call him foolish as he was there when we checked the boat schedule, but I don’t believe reason always dominates his mind once an idea is fixed. I’ve assured him that I’ll not go anywhere without his knowledge again. He was pacified, but he is clearly still wary and fearful of me. I am ashamed of my reaction last night. I will do what I can to make it up to him.

My Dearest Mina

      We have arrived in Constanța. Our voyage through the Black Sea was uneventful. The crew kept to themselves, and the captain spoke so little English that I gave up trying to communicate. Renfield was much calmer. I’m not certain what he did with the mouse, but he doesn’t have the biscuit tin anymore. I hope he let it go.

      After writing, I took what I imagined would be your advice. I brought Renfield to the harbor, and I threw the manacles into the water. I told him I never should have used them, and I never would again. Nor would I ever hurt him the way those sailors intended or anyone had in the past. He went to his knees and kissed my hands, which was embarrassing especially considering he was thanking me for not assaulting him. But it seemed to soothe his feelings, and so I allowed it for a little while before raising him to his feet and changing the subject.

      I will add that he repeated that he was under orders to serve me however I desired, and if that included in bed, he would give himself over. I told him flatly that I would never desire him or any other man that way, and he seemed amused by my vehemence, which is disturbing, but I will try not to think of it.

The rest of our stay in Istanbul was pleasant. I could fill pages with details and have written extensively in my journal. You will have to wait until I return to read it all.

      We reached Constanța and the hotel recommended to us by Count Dracula. He’d left a message for us with instructions for our overland route. Renfield seems confident in where we are going. He led the way straight to the hotel and spoke Romanian with the certainty of a native speaker.

      My companion seems far less mad than he did at the start of the journey. Perhaps I’ve grown used to his oddities – I’ve long stopped wincing when he snatches flies from the air. He still has his fits occasionally, but he remains aware enough during them to smother his cries in a pillow and limit his thrashing to his own bunk. I’ve learned not to try to awaken him, though he is certainly grateful for water afterwards. He comes back to himself much sooner when given a bit of kindness, and he’s expressed his gratitude of not awakening restrained as he suspected that of doing more harm than good.

      I truly believe he is only a danger to himself in his fitful states. Or perhaps I hold too much confidence in my certainty that he’d never voluntarily harm me!

      I remarked on his improved state of health, and he replied that having purpose has helped him greatly as has the steady progress toward the count.

      Strange that he and I have spoken so little of the man we are going to see! I will have to sound him out on this last leg of our journey.

      The food here is filled with paprika. I am delighted with the flavor and will have to purchase some of the spice before I leave as well as copying some recipes. You will find me a most eclectic eater upon my return!

      Renfield tells me that Castle Dracula is very secluded, so I don’t know when any letters after this will reach you. Simply know that I love you and will be thinking about you every step of the way.

      I will add that I was quite… passionate in my last letter. The sentiment remains – I would marry you the instant you set the date. But I can see practicality a little clearer now. Should you prefer to wait until our circumstances are better, I will accept your judgment. I will always wait for you, no matter how long it takes.

Yours eternally,

      Jonathan

Here ends the correspondence of Jonathan Harker.

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

It’s midday, and my masters are all deep asleep.

I’m on the sofa, my laptop on the coffee table and an extensive assortment of notebooks and documents spread around me. I’ve mostly shifted over to the digital age, but I still prefer to make my lists on paper and have documents where I can flip through them without being dependent on electricity and internet. Plus, I was raised when schools still taught penmanship, and I’d hate to lose that skill entirely.

I manage stock portfolios for my masters and for some of the other vampires we’ve formed connections with. The younger ones – the ones who don’t rely on old money for everything - who are willing to invest in long term options and take the advice of a familiar instead of assuming that anyone who isn’t a vampire isn’t worth listening to.

We don’t have a lot of friends in the vampire community, not that it’s a particularly close community. We’ve learned it’s best to keep our distance from one another. One rogue killer can bring the hunters down in mass. Scattering and eating conservatively are the keys to long-term survival.

Much of the reason my masters live apart much of the time is that three vampires in one place for long is likely to attract attention. A few years in one spot, then it’s time for us to break into pairs and disperse.

But it’s been quite a while since we set up house together. Despite the extra work it means for me, I hope Mina and Lucy intend to stay.

I hear a rustle and look over my shoulder, surprised to see Mistress making her way to the fridge. Her eyes are slits, and if it was Lucy, I’d assume she was walking in her sleep again. But Mina has never demonstrated that habit, so she must be awake.

She sits beside me, poking a hole in a blood bag and nursing it slowly while staring through sleep-filmed eyes at the screen.

I watch her for a minute, but she barely seems aware of me, so I get back to work.

This is the first time she and I have been alone together since she arrived. She and Jonathan have been joined at the hip (often in the literal sense) the past few days. It always happens for the first couple weeks after they’re reunited. I’m accustomed to it, but it’s been lonely inside my head, the bond frequently shut down for privacy’s sake.

Our last solo communication was the frantic email I sent her after fleeing Savannah while Jonathan was still too injured to speak let alone type. I’d sent regular updates after that, assuring her that we seemed safe after my first panicked outburst.

I jot down a note that we’ll need more blood bags and collection tubes soon. My supply went up in flames, and we’re nearly through what I had in the emergency stockpile. It’ll be an overnight supply-gathering trip, and I suppose I should plan to pick up blood as well since I don’t have a network of donors here.

It’s never easy starting in a new city, and the terrifying exit from Savannah still haunts me. I feel I should be further along in getting us settled here, and reminding myself that Jonathan’s only just back on his feet doesn’t banish the sense of failure which has plagued me since we fled.

“Why did you pick New Orleans?” Mina asks suddenly after so much time has passed that I’ve forgotten her presence.

I glance at her way, seeing that she’s finished off the blood and is starting to look a little more awake. I resume typing, speaking as I do. “No reason, really.”

“There must have been some reason.”

I pause, considering the question seriously despite the distressful pounding of my heart to think about anything relating to that day. “Honestly? I wasn’t thinking clearly for hours into the drive. Just that I needed to get some states between them and us.”

Thinking had been the last thing I’d been doing, truthfully. I’d used up what mental stamina I had left reaching the van and loading what supplies and bodies I could salvage. After that, my only focus had been to keep driving as long as I could. The ocean was to the East, so I’d driven West, pausing only for gas and to root for bugs whenever my energy started to flag.

“I don’t think I even knew where we were until we’d crossed into Mississippi,” I admit. “Then… This just seemed like somewhere we could disappear.”

A few frantic phone calls to locate any safe haven. A voice finally giving me directions to the old hospital with a grumble that I’d owe one after that (at least I could usually repay those favors in stocks or real estate tips these days rather than bodies).

I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I admit. “No reason.”

Mina nods slowly, her eyes sleepy and focused a thousand miles away. “What do you think of this city?” she asks at last.

“I like it,” I say. “I think the hunting could be good for a while. The police seem corrupt. Lots of crime. I think I can set up a donor network fairly easily. Weather’s nice.”

“I’m surprised you’d want to settle somewhere so soon after last time.”

I flinch as hard as if she’d struck me.

From the corner of my eye, I can see her watching me with a far more alert expression.

I lower my head. “It was my fault.”

She doesn’t answer.

Master’s cut off all my self-condemnations to say that it wasn’t my fault. Lucy says it was probably Jonathan’s as much as mine.

Mina… Mina will assess. Judge.

Decide if I’m worthy of forgiveness.

She waits another moment before prompting. “Tell me.”

I take a deep breath and tell the story.

Savannah – One month ago

“Do you hear something?”

Jonathan barely shifts, his head pillowed on my chest and seemingly deaf to everything beside the slow thump-thump of my resting heartbeat. “Something…?” he prompts.

I raise my head a weary fraction from the pillows. “I thought I heard something from downstairs.”

Jonathan doesn’t move. “My superior vampire hearing says you’re wrong.”

“You don’t have superior vampire hearing.”

“Excuse me, that last TV show we watched was very specific about my extensive superior powers.”

I snort and sink back into lethargy. But my eyes rove towards the end of the bed and the pizza box teetering on the edge of the mattress. “Did I…” I scratch my nail against Jonathan’s ribs to keep him from drifting off. “When the pizza guy came last night?”

“Mmm?” Jonathan replies in a mumble.

“I don’t know if I turned the alarm system back on.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Then Jonathan groans. “It’s one of the kids, isn’t it?”

“You’ve told them not to let themselves in.”

“But they never listen.” Jonathan rolls off me and flops onto his back. “Can you go deal with it? I’m about to pass out.”

I look sideways at him with an arched eyebrow.

We’ve locked ourselves into the house for a private weekend. Which meant I’m in collar and harness and nothing else, and Master is sporting even less. I might manage to cover most of my ensemble with a robe, but Master stuck a piercing through my lip the night before and has been leading me about by the ring and chain ever since, which means my speech has an unfortunate lisp to it. Not to mention that I’m covered in bruises and bites and woozy from the loss of what feels like a few pints of blood.

Master doesn’t get much sustenance from feeding off me, but the blood drinking helps to keep the bond strong, and he enjoys embracing the urge to bite instead of the constant tempering of instincts that interacting with humans requires.

And the sensation of his teeth in me… bringing pain and pleasure and euphoria to make his victim compliant to his wishes… I don’t exactly object to his fangs.

I’ve nipped a ring of love bites along his collar bone, but none of those have broken the skin – too presumptuous for me to help myself to his healing blood – and they are more easily concealed than my injuries.

Plus, I’m not convinced I have energy enough to stand…

Jonathan wraps his arms around me and nuzzles my wounded throat. “Did I run my poor familiar too ragged?” he coos, ruffling my already very tangled hair.

“I’ll go,” I mumble, trying and failing to rise now that he’s holding me down and my head is spinning.

Master makes a more concerned noise, his tongue lathing across my injuries. “No, no. You need to be protected from my big, bad students. What would they think if they saw you like this?”

Jonathan teaches evening martial arts classes for teens at the local gym. It’s not completely uncommon for kids with troubles they want to discuss to escort themselves into our home.

We’ve been in Savannah the past ten years, and the city has been good for us. Our house is old and secluded, the neighbors more intrigued than scandalized by two men sharing a home together. We’ve become part of the community. Jonathan serves on the local school board and teaches weekly self-defense courses. I work part time at the nature center – mostly looking after their reptile and insect collection – and take classes at the university to update my law degree.

I have a donor network set up among the college students who are happy to give blood for cash and ask few questions if it gets them closer to a case of beer. When Jonathan needs life blood, he hunts where the kills are as low impact and unnoticeable as possible – nursing homes and hospitals mostly.

He guards his territory fiercely – chasing out other vampires and ghouls who linger too long. Occasionally we make undesirable humans disappear.

We’re members at the local gym. We host parties in our home. We volunteer for community events (I’ve been banned from telling monster stories at the Halloween events, but Jonathan’s elaborate accents and costumes always go over well).

This has become a home.

Jonathan scoops me up and carries me to his coffin. He drops me inside, planting a hand on my chest when I try to sit up. “Overworked familiars need their rest.”

“What about you?” I protest. “You’re about to pass out.”

He should be in the death sleep already. I can see that he’s fighting the effects and moving sluggishly.

He waves aside my concern. “I can stay awake long enough to send the kids on their way. You just rest. I’ll join you soon.” He closes the lid.

In the darkness, I lie back with a sigh.

I don’t really want to be stuck in here the whole time Master is asleep. What I want is food and fluids, but a nap does sound appealing. I can sleep with Jonathan for a while, then get up and find food without waking him.

I’m debating whether I have the energy to cook or where to order from when the coffin lid is flung back.

It isn’t Jonathan.

Five strangers stare down at me. Strangers armed with crossbows and crucifixes with a man in church robes in their center.

One of the hunters plants the tip of a crossbow between my eyes. “Don’t move, demon.”

“Umm… not a demon,” I say with a helpless smile.

“Demon, vampire. It’s all the same evil.”

“Not a vampire either. See?” I reached up slowly and tap an outstretched crucifix with a finger. I tap it a few more times for the benefit of their incredulous eyes. “No burns.”

I hope they’re inexperienced hunters. Ones who haven’t learned that vampires come in all sorts and weaknesses and quite a lot of them are only mildly bothered by religious icons.

Especially if there’s little belief backing them.

Luck seems to be on my side as the hunters look to the priest for direction.

“What are you doing in there, my son?” the priest asks.

I’m not sure if he’s actually a priest or something else. England was very protestant back in my day, and I’ve never gotten around to learning anything about the catholic church besides that they have a low opinion of my family for several reasons.

“You know…” I say evasively. “Just taking a nap. It’s cozy in here. Not many people bother you if you hide in a box when you hear company calling. What are you doing in my house, anyway? Can someone hand me a blanket? And can I sit up? It’s very awkward to be talking like this.”

The hunters are looking thoroughly uncertain now. The one with the crossbow pointed at me backs up a fraction, and I’m able to sit up even if no one gives me anything to cover up with.

Rude.

“My son,” the priest begins gently. “You should know that you are under the thrall of a creature of absolute evil.”

“You mean Jonathan?” I ask with wide eyes. “Look, I know the church isn’t into same sex pairings, but that doesn’t make anybody absolutely evil, does it? How do you feel about the kinky stuff? I was raised Church of England, so we’re kind of lax on the rules. Are you door-to-door evangelists? I know Mormons do that. Do Catholics? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t assume you’re all Catholic, should I? That’s presumptuous. I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Robert.” I take a breath. “And that’s Jonathan.”

The group whirls as Master cleaves the head off one of their number.

Vampire strength is one thing, but Jonathan still finds his Kukri knife to be highly efficient.

I’m forgotten in their alarm. I seize the priest from behind and yank him off balance. Unfortunately, between blood loss and being caught without bugs, I’m devoid of any particular strength. I barely manage to pull him down before he’s twisting out of my grip. Still, it gives me time to escape the coffin.

Jonathan plants himself between me and the hunters, giving me a clear line to the door. I flee the room, hearing Jonathan’s bellow of pain as a crossbow bolt finds a target.

I race into my room, throwing open the lid on the first terrarium I reach. It’s the crickets. The long-legged insects skip out of my grasp, but I scoop up enough to cram several wiggling bodies into my mouth. As the vampiric power surges through me, I whirl to confront the pursuing hunters.

Two have come after me. I hurl the terrarium at the first and plunge into close quarter fighting with the second. There’s glass digging into my feet, but I ignore the pain as I smash the hunter’s skull before he can defend himself.

The other hunter fires from where he’s fallen, his shot embedding in my leg. I scoop up a shard of glass and spring on him, stabbing repeatedly until the glass shatters.

Leaving the bodies, I limp from the room as fast as I can go.

Jonathan’s room is empty save two bodies, one with Jonathan’s knife buried in his stomach. I wrench out the knife and keep running.

The banister is splintered. I forgo the stairs and jump through the gap, landing on the priest’s broken body.

In the living room, a second priest is doing something with chanting and strewing powder while a pair of hunters hold Jonathan at bay. Master has taken multiple bolts and stakes and is swaying unsteadily.

These hunters are strange – both brandishing Molotov cocktails. One has a crossbow, the other a handgun.

An unconventional weapon for vampire hunting, but very unpleasant for me. It’s been a while since Master has had to fish bullets out of my vital organs before he could provide healing, and it’s not an experience I ever want to endure again.

Sadly, that preference is dashed as one hunter whirls and fires at me.

Handguns are hard to aim one-handed. Especially under pressure and at an impulsive target.

I should be capable of dodging. This should be an easy miss.

The bullet goes straight into my shoulder.

I scream and collapse to my knees.

It isn’t a normal bullet – it can’t be. At this range a normal bullet should have gone straight through.

But this bullet has shattered on impact, burying shards into my flesh that release wave upon wave of agony that courses through my body, leaving me spasming.

Renfield! I hear Master’s mental scream, my ears ringing too badly from the close-range shot to hear his feral roar. But through my streaming eyes, I see him throw himself at my attacker, heedless of the other hunter striking another bolt into him as he tears his target apart.

The Molotov cocktail flies wide, skidding off somewhere without breaking.

It’s a problem for a future moment, my current focus entirely on gouging the knife into my shoulder and hacking out the bullet fragments... and a great deal of flesh. My right arm hangs uselessly when I’m done, but the spasms have slowed.

Whatever was in that bullet is still affecting me, but at least not with relentless fervor.

And I’ve been well-trained to work through pain.

I’ve made it to my knees before I’m aware of the world.

Things have been happening while I’ve been immersed in my private agony.

The priest has completed his terrible work, and Jonathan now struggles within a ring of blue flames which hold him helplessly caged. Something’s wrong – I can see from the way he jerks about that his movements are too slow, too unfocused.

Exhaustion? Injuries? Was there something in the bolts?

If whatever was in the bullets had such an effect on me…

The remaining hunter levels his crossbow at me, and I know I’m not going to be able to dodge.

I’m not sure I have energy enough to stand.

“Wait!” the priest protests. “That one is an innocent.”

“Innocent?!” The hunter is incredulous. “Look at him!”

The priest ignores him, speaking gently to me. “My poor child. You’ve been enthralled by this monster for a long time, haven’t you? But he hasn’t turned you yet. You could still be saved. You could still be restored to the holy light.”

“I could?” I ask in a quavering voice. “How?”

“By rejecting this foul creature who has stolen your life. By aiding us in our mission to rid the world of this evil.”

“Your mission?”

“We’ve been tasked with the annihilation of the monsters who prey upon humanity. We seek these beasts in their lairs and cast them into the depths of Hell. Would you like to join us?”

I crawl cautiously forward, my eyes fastened rapturously on the priest with an occasional frightened glance at the hunter who has lowered the crossbow in favor of toying with his cocktail. “But Master will hurt me if I help you! He’s right there!”

“Fear not,” the priest soothes. “So long as the circle remains unbroken, the evil one is helpless. We will exorcise him from the world, and you will be free. Come, pledge yourself to the side of light and swear to share with us all you know.”

“You’ll really help me?” I crawl a little closer despite the hunter’s warning rumble. “You won’t kill me too?”

“Of course not, my son. We’re here to save your soul. Will you join us?”

In answer, I send the knife skittering across the floor and through the ring.

The blue flames wink out of existence, but before Master can lunge, the hunter throws his bottle.

Caustic liquid and flames splatter across Jonathan who staggers, one hand raised to shield his eyes.

I lunge for the hunter, who dodges, ducking too close to Jonathan as he does. Master grabs blindly at him, and they tumble together into an already inflamed easy chair which shatters, the pair screaming and struggling amidst the flames.

I snatch up the knife and gut the priest before he can cause further trouble. Then to the nearest window to cut down a blackout curtain. Thus armed, I seize a flailing ankle and yank a body out of the wreckage.

It’s Master – fortunately. I drop on top of him, smothering out the flames with cloth and body. His screams die away to a terrifying stillness.

I can’t think about that now. I have minutes before the house is unsafe. Already the flames are starting to lick at the walls.

There’s blood dripped across the protection circle, and it has to be Jonathan’s. I throw myself onto it, rubbing the drops into my wounded shoulder and feet.

It isn’t much, but it heals my arm enough to make it function.

I carry Jonathan to the garage, dumping him into the back of the car. I bought a station wagon and removed the backseats for exactly emergencies like this.

The priest’s body goes next. Then I rush upstairs.

I swallow another handful of insects, reluctantly leaving my collection to their fate. There isn’t time to move the terrariums, and some of them are too exotic to release without causing problems.

I try not to feel the pang of betrayal as I retrieve my emergency duffel bag, stuff the necessary documents and technology into it, then run to Jonathan’s room to do the same.

I leave the bags by the door and sprint into the basement where I tear the lock off the refrigerator and dump all the blood into a waiting cooler. There isn’t much. The hunting has been so consistent for so long that I haven’t needed to stockpile.

In the car, I cut the priest’s throat and shove Master’s mouth against the wound. He’s nearly unconscious, but his body reacts automatically and begins sucking feebly.

He won’t get much. He barely has the strength to feed himself right now.

I spare a pang of regret for all the other ripe bodies lying within the burning house, but there isn’t time for more.

The neighbors will see the smoke soon. The authorities will come.

And perhaps more hunters. If these weren’t alone.

We have to run.

My mind is a dozen steps ahead as I turn on the car.

Drive at a steady pace. Don’t alert the police to what’s in the back.

Get to the storage unit at the edge of town. Inside is a windowless van with false plates.

A coffin. Blood bags. Cash.

Everything we need to run.

I turn my back on the place we’ve called home for over a decade and drive.

I don’t look back.

There is silence when I finish the story.

I sit with head bowed. Hands clasped before me. Body bent for judgment.

“You know what happened,” Mina says at last, her voice soft and steady. “You know the mistake you made.”

I nod. So many mistakes. Failing to set the alarm. Being caught unguarded and weak. Not reacting fast enough…

“You called it home.”

That takes a moment to sink in, but my shoulders slump with acknowledgement when it does.

That might be the true curse my masters bear. The harsh feeding needs can be tempered and worked around. The loss of humanity staved off. The weaknesses endured and surmounted.

But unchanging faces will always be unchanging faces.

There isn’t any scenario that won’t keep us constantly on the move.

Even my first master, with his established castle of centuries, was forced to travel often. And he’d nearly starved himself out in his homeland by the time my second master came to him.

I doubt the modern world would have permitted him to live in such security and permanence for any stretch of time.

“I don’t know which of you got careless enough to make people suspicious,” Mina goes on. “It was probably a dozen things. But you two made the mistake that all of us will always make. You should have known better. We should have known better.”

I look cautiously at her.

Mistress grimaces. “If you hadn’t contacted me, it might have been me the hunters found. I only realized how long I’d been settled when I got your message. Lucy and I should have moved a long time ago.” She sighs. “We only took a few weeks to get here because she was out of town, and I wanted to leave as quietly and as normally as possible.”

“Normal,” I echo with a huff of breath.

Normal is keeping emergency drops across the country containing blood collection supplies, cash, and false travel documents. Normal is constantly planning ahead for the next move, the next state, the next country. Normal is leaving a rambling list of backstories across the world, always pretending to be in a town on a temporary job. Normal is always keeping an eye out for the closest pig farm or unattended woodchipper.

Normal is being inhuman walking among humans and knowing that even if there was a spell to revert us what we once were, none of us would know how to behave or even desire becoming something other than we are.

Mina wraps a hand around my head and tugs me to rest against her shoulder. “Jonathan should have known better,” she says. “You should have known better. I should have known better. And the next time we have this conversation, it will be because one of us made the same mistake all over again. But maybe staying together will keep that mistake at bay for a little while.”

I flick my eyes toward her.

She smiles wearily. “I made another mistake. We shouldn’t have stayed separated so long. It hurts too much.”

“So you’ll stay?” I ask cautiously.

“We’ll stay. And if you think this city could be good for us…?”

“I do. I think we can disappear here for a few years before we need to make a bigger move.”

Some time to regroup. Somewhere safe where my masters can hunt unnoticed while I remind myself of life on the road and make plans for a few decades of shorter stays and longer stretches of travel.

“Then you should find us somewhere a little larger than a hotel room.”

I laugh softly. “Yes, Mistress.” I wait, eyes canted up to her, still awaiting judgment.

Her hand against my neck shifts, four long nails pressing slowly into the skin. Then deeper, piercing through flesh and muscle and threatening to sever something vital.

I hold perfectly still, not a whimper escaping my lips.

“You failed at keeping Jonathan safe,” she says. “And it was your fault. And his fault. And the church’s fault. And a thousand little things that left you both hurt and fleeing. And then you took care of him. You got him somewhere safe, and you restored him to health.” She retracts her nails, giving me a kiss on the temple. “You’re forgiven your mistakes. Stop wallowing and look ahead.”

I exhale a month of exhaustion and guilt. I’m not sure what Mark and his self-help books would say, but sometimes the pain feels necessary. A moment of tangible acknowledgement that a mistake was made.

And then I can move on.

Jonathan stumbles out looking disgruntled and weary while we’re still leaning together. “Are you putting holes in my familiar?” he grumps.

“Yes,” we say simultaneously, neither of us the least apologetic.

Jonathan joins us by sliding over the back of the sofa so that he’s wrapped around me and leaning against Mina. He laps his tongue over the tracks of blood on my neck, then falls to nursing on the punctures. “Better?” he asks, his voice a comforting buzz against my skin.

“Mistress says I should find us a bigger place,” I reply, enjoying how the news makes Master’s mind purr, even if I’m sure they’ve already discussed it themselves.

“Maybe not right away,” Mina concedes. “There’s a lot to see downtown.”

“Still plenty of spots to visit.”

“We haven’t been to the aquarium yet,” Mina muses.

“Should I book you some tickets soon?” I ask.

“Make it a night you and Lucy can come too,” she replies. “We should start being a family again.”

Chapter Text

Letter, from Mina Murray to Jonathan Harker

My Dearest Jonathan,

      What adventures you are having! I wish I was beside you to see all that you have witnessed and offer you comfort and support. I think you’ve come to a sensible conclusion to trust Mr. Renfield. You are traveling into unknowns where you will be dependent upon his knowledge. Who knows how your trust and kindness will be repaid?

      At your request, I’ve related none of what you shared with me, though I was sorely tempted to do so after my last letter from Lucy. Dr. Seward has proposed to her! Nor was he the only one. She’s received three proposals in one day and is utterly overwhelmed, poor girl. She’s invited me to go with her to Whitby as soon as my schoolwork concludes for the summer. I think she’s anxious to escape her hopefuls for a little while so that she can think…

Jonathan Harker

“He says we have time for dinner before the coach leaves,” Renfield reported after a rapid discussion with the innkeeper which had left Jonathan behind after the initial greeting.

“Wonderful. I’m famished.” Jonathan stumbled out some rudimentary thanks in German to their host before diving into the dish with gusto.

Renfield likewise ate with more energy than he’d shown in England or on the ships.

Renfield had shown improvement since they’d disembarked. He hadn’t lost track of time, and his tremors were reduced. Jonathan had spotted him circling the coach horses and snatching flies off them that morning, and knowing Renfield always breathed easier when there were insects on his person, he’d joined in trapping a few which now buzzed angrily inside the matchbox.

“Will they live long in there?” he asked with a nod at the box.

Renfield glanced at the box and slipped it securely into his pocket. “Long enough to get us home,” he replied.

“Home? To the count?”

Renfield nodded, his body bent over the meal.

“It’s strange we’ve spoken so little of Dracula considering where we’re headed.” Jonathan didn’t expand that getting a sensible word out of Renfield some days had been nearly impossible. And mentioning the count was an easy way to send him into a shuddering and muttering state.

Today Renfield seemed lucid, though Jonathan still hesitated to test him too strenuously. He wasn’t sure he could communicate with the driver without his companion’s aid.

“You’ve been with him a long time?” he asked cautiously.

Renfield smiled distantly. “Since he called me to be his own.”

Jonathan debated giving up. Renfield’s occasional talk of the count had been tinged with that religious mania Dr. Seward had warned him of, and Jonathan felt stirrings of discomfort whenever Renfield’s eyes glazed over while he repetitively mumbled ‘Master, we are coming’.

Still, he tried recalling Renfield to the moment. “We’re nearly there. You must be excited.”

Renfield’s smile faded. “I’ve failed my tasks. He is not pleased with me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He is not pleased with me,” Renfield repeated. “I go to beg his forgiveness and serve however he’ll still have me. You’re his solicitor now. I failed at the task. But he calls me back. I pray he still has use for me.”

Jonathan reached across the table and gave Renfield’s arm a gentle squeeze. “You were unwell. Certainly he’ll understand. And I’ll vouch for your dedication in looking after me on the journey.”

Renfield shook his head. “I injured you.”

“It was my fault. We don’t have to tell him about that.”

“He will know.”

Jonathan tried to keep Renfield talking a little longer, but Renfield provided so few new details about Dracula and the castle, repeating as he had before that Jonathan ought to make up his own mind, that Jonathan gave up and went to update his journal until the coach was ready to depart.

Aboard, Jonathan smiled vaguely at the passengers while Renfield spoke to the coachman. Jonathan wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard Renfield give a different destination than their actual one. But soon the coach took off, the driver whipping the horses along at a breakneck pace and ignoring Jonathan’s suggestion that they walk up the hills to spare the poor animals.

Well after dark, they reached the Borgo Pass where Renfield had to argue vehemently with the coachman, and even some of the passengers, to convince the coach to stop. When the passengers saw that Jonathan intended to disembark, several of them clutched his hands in restraining grips and cried out protests in their own languages. Jonathan smiled awkwardly as he gently untangled himself.

One woman snatched a crucifix from her neck and pressed it into his hands, pushing it back with such fervor each time he tried to return it that Jonathan at last slipped it into his coat pocket.

By then Renfield had their trunk unloaded and was peering expectantly into the night.

The coachman tried to tell Jonathan that there was no one to meet them there and that he had better get back into the coach, but a scream from the passengers caught his attention.

From the road behind them came the sound of galloping horses and the sight of a lantern bobbing rapidly with the movements of a carriage.

The coachman sprang back to his seat, whipped his horses into a gallop, and vanished into the night amidst the encouraging shouts of the passengers.

Jonathan looked to Renfield in confusion, but the other had eyes only for the approaching vehicle.

A caleche pulled by four black horses halted before them, and the driver swept to the ground. Before Jonathan had time to collect himself, the driver was before him, hands extended in welcome.

“You are Jonathan Harker? Greetings. Welcome, my friend, welcome. Your journey has been long, and we have miles yet to cross before morning. Still, your travels are nearly at an end. Come. We will ride together this last stage of your journey.”

“Are you…?” Jonathan stammered, unable to believe that his host would come all this way to meet him himself but unable to believe any other would welcome him with such enthusiasm.

The man grinned, brilliant white teeth gleaming in the lamp light. “I am Count Dracula. Come, my friend. Let me assist you.”

Jonathan found himself helped into the caleche by the count himself, who settled into the seat beside him. Only then did Jonathan realize that while they’d spoken, Renfield had quietly stowed their luggage and taken up the driver’s seat.

There hadn’t been a word of instruction between him and the count, and Jonathan could only assume it was common practice for the count to drive himself until it pleased him to let someone else take over. Jonathan hardly had time to wonder as they set off at a rapid pace, and his host began questioning him about the journey.

Jonathan responded for a time, but the long day swiftly took its toll upon him. The caleche moved at a much smoother and steadier pace than the public coach, and Jonathan found himself lulled to slumber by the rocking.

At one point he thought he awoke to hear wolves howling and looked down to the sight of something large and furry running beside the caleche. At another, he thought he saw a flicker of blue flames, but soon that seemed only dreams.

The next thing he knew for certain was Renfield nudging him awake and helping him down.

Jonathan found himself in a courtyard, iron gates already closed behind. Count Dracula stood just within the open castle doors, repeatedly bidding him welcome and to enter of his own free will. Jonathan came to him willingly, studying his first proper look at his host beneath the torchlight.

He was a white-haired man – aged but still with an air of strength about him. His eyes were dark and very intense. Jonathan thought he caught a red gleam in them, but perhaps that was only the torchlight.

Dracula led the way through the castle, warning Jonathan not to test locked doors as much of the castle was unsound. Jonathan was ushered into a lovely bedroom and encouraged to refresh himself before a late supper would be served.

Renfield had followed silently behind, effortlessly carrying the heavy trunk. He departed with the count, the two of them disappearing further into the castle and leaving Jonathan alone.

Opening the trunk, Jonathan made a weary effort to separate his things from Renfield’s, then gave up and focused simply on changing into his least travel-worn clothes.

The count came to fetch him himself, declaring that supper was prepared. He walked with Jonathan to a dining hall where he took a seat at the head of the table and gestured Jonathan to the chair beside him.

Renfield arrived shortly after, carrying two plates of food, one of which he set down in front of Jonathan, and the other adjacent and out of reach of the count. For Dracula, he provided merely a glass of very red wine. He sat down across from Jonathan, looking expectantly up at the count who took no notice of him.

“I have no need of food at this hour,” said the count. “But please, eat, my friend. You must be hungry after your journey.”

This seemed the signal to begin as Renfield picked up a fork and applied himself eagerly.

Jonathn followed suit while the count asked a few questions about his thoughts on the country so far, then took over the conversation to relate interesting tales of the surrounding land and its history.

The meal concluded, the count escorted Jonathan back to his room, encouraging him to sleep long and well. They would discuss business the next evening. Until then, he bid him goodnight.

Jonathan found himself alone for the first time in weeks, a curiously isolating sensation which made him immediately miss Renfield and worry that the strange man who’d become a friend somewhere along the journey would ignore him entirely now that he was back to whatever purpose he served in this strange and silent place.

Feeling more asleep than awake already, Jonathan slipped into his bed and disappeared into dreams.

Renfield

I have dreamed for so long of hearing Master’s voice again.

In the asylum, I would dream he was calling to me, or that he had come for me. And I would cry and cry for Master to find me. But then I would awaken and know it was merely dreams. False dreams. Figments in the air.

The orderlies sometimes pretended to be Master. “I am your master!” they would say. “Bow down. Worship me.”

And when I said that it was lies, that they were not the master, they would beat me and order me to say the words. But I would not forsake Master that way. They could cage me and beat me and violate me as they please. But I would not blaspheme the master’s name. No, no, no.

It was all I had. The only sin I had not committed. I would not break it.

Dr. Seward never pretended to be the master. But he behaved as if he was. As if he owned my body and soul.

No, Dr. Seward. My body is at your mercy. My mind is your plaything. But you cannot have my soul. That is Master’s alone. Taken far away where you can never touch it.

I tugged often at the chain on my soul, seeking the answering tug back. The indication that Master was there.

I am not supposed to play with the bond. It is Master’s leash. Dogs don’t pull on their leashes. Dogs stand at heel. Dogs walk when Master walks. It is for Master to tug the leash. I am not to tug the chain unless I am in danger and need Master’s rescue.

And then I will be punished for being helpless and useless. But at least I will be back with Master.

I reached for the bond many times while I was locked away. Master didn’t come. Master didn’t speak to me. Master wasn’t truly ever in my dreams. I was abandoned. Rightly so. I failed. Master did not want me anymore.

But then… Master sent the letter. Master summoned me home!

I went with Mr. Harker. I served him. I protected him. I had purpose again.

How much easier my mind ran now that Master had laid a charge upon me. Each day we drew closer to Master. Each day I could feel the bond a little clearer. Each day I strove to serve Mr. Harker as well as I would the master.

Master sent me no dreams. No whispers that I knew were him and not falsehoods. I dreamed of the past – of the asylum which could be my future as well if Master rejected me.

Now we have reached the castle. Master does not look at me. Does not speak to me. His guiding hand on my mind bids me take the servant’s role, and I do so with gladness. I have purpose. I am useful.

When Mr. Harker is safely away in his room, I follow Master through the halls. He does not look at me. He does not speak.

It is not for the master to acknowledge the slave.

I follow where he leads. I am his shadow.

We enter the women’s quarters. I stand at the door.

“There is a new man in the castle,” he tells them. “He is my guest. He is mine. You will not touch him.”

“When will you bring us meat?” one asks.

“When will you bring us something to play with?” asks another.

“What of him?” asks the third, her eyes on me. “If you’ve found a new pet, you might let us have the old one.”

“None of you will touch what is mine,” Master snarls.

“Is it yours still?” she asks, drawing closer to me. “It doesn’t smell like you anymore.”

I keep my eyes on the ground and do not move. If Master leaves me with them, I will be killed.

It will mean I am no use to him anymore.

Not even worth the honor of dying at his claws.

“What I do with my creatures is none of your concern,” Master snaps. “You will feed only upon those I allow. If you play your games upon my slave, it will be at my command, not by your choosing.”

They complain, but they agree in the end, and he promises to bring them fresh game soon.

I am relieved. Mr. Harker is safe for now.

Until the women get bored or restless or hungry or forgetful enough to disobey.

Master leaves. I follow.

We go down.

Through the kitchen and outside to the little separate house which is carved all over in religious signs and strewn in garlic blossoms and wolfsbane.

A house with a single door and no windows.

Master knocks on the door. “Open, servants,” he calls.

Grigor opens the door after a moment. His eyes are heavy with sleep. He sees me behind Master, and I see a flicker of relief cross his face. Then he remembers himself and bows his head low.

The rest of his family clusters behind him, their faces pale and scared and quickly bowed before their lord.

“As I have told you, there is a guest staying with me. You are to have no contact with him. You will prepare the meals and leave them in the kitchen. You will only clean in his permitted areas of the castle when I order it. You will keep beyond sight of his windows. You will be invisible and nonexistent as far as he is to know.”

“Yes, lord,” Grigor whispers, bowing even lower. His family echoes the sentiment.

“Good. See that the castle gates are kept locked. I will tolerate no mistakes.”

“No, lord.”

Master wheels and strides away.

I linger a second to offer the servants a weak smile.

“Welcome back,” Grigor mouths to me.

I nod and rush after the master.

I am glad they have not been killed in my absence. The servants are the closest I am allowed to friends.

And they have been forgiving when I have been sent across their threshold to administer punishments.

Master walks the grounds, checking that the horses are well after their run. He does a circuit of the castle walls. I don’t know if he is concerned or if he merely wishes to observe his domain. I don’t ask. I only follow.

He goes to his room at last, spreading his arms so that I might remove his coat. I crouch and undo his boots.

I aid him in preparing for his sleep and follow him down the long stairs to the crypt. I open the coffin lid and fluff up the cushions. I kneel at its foot, my head bowed low and submissive.

His hand tangles in my hair, a cool and welcome presence. Then the fingers turn grasping, and he dashes me to the ground.

I go limp, forcing my hands to stay at my sides and not to fight back as he slams my head into the coffin then back against the ground.

The hand is replaced with a foot. Bare arch pressing into my neck, choking off the air.

I gasp, my body beginning to flail no matter how I try to stay limp.

“Worthless,” he hisses. “I set you to a simple task. All you needed to do was secure me a new hunting ground, and what did you do? Loll about? Forget your purpose? Forget who you serve?”

I try to answer, but I have no breath and can only sputter as he grinds me under his heel. I reach for our bond, trying to convey my shame and remorse. He strikes me away, his mental talons raking into my soul until I cower in a corner of my mind, the master in full command of my memories.

He sifts through them leisurely while my lungs go slack and the world turns grey. I try once to alert him to my failing body, but he lashes at my mind, sending me cowering back to my corner as the world turns dim.

Just as I am about to lose consciousness, he lifts his foot and gives me a sharp kick in the stomach. I double into a ball as I cough and hack saliva and blood across the ground.

“You lost your mind,” he says with a scoff. “Weakling. You should have finished my business and returned sooner. You’re not meant to leave my side.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, the words a slur through the retching.

“I chose you as appearing to have a half-decent mind. But you don’t, do you? You’re just a pathetic half-wit.” A pause. “Well?”

“Yes, Master,” I gasp, finding air enough to speak. “I’m stupid. I failed you.”

“Yes, you did,” he agrees. “I never should have trusted you with responsibility. You’re barely fit to lick my boots clean. Why did I think a dog could operate like a man?”

There doesn’t seem to be a safe answer, but he seems in the mood to hear me grovel. “I’m nothing, Master. You’ve been so generous with me. You gave me an opportunity to prove myself. I failed. I’m worthless, I know. I’m so-”

“Silence.”

He doesn’t kick me again, although he comes to stand near my face in what is certainly a warning.

I get my knees under me enough to crouch before him instead of sprawling.

“Crawling,” he observes. “That’s all you’re good for anymore. Pathetic, broken thing. You might manage a half decent effort at menial work. If you can’t do that…” He contemplates the air for a moment. “I suppose the women could have some fun with you.”

I clutch at the hem of his pants. “P-please,” I gasp, uncertain if I’ll be punished for speaking but desperate to do so. “Please, I can still serve you. Let me work! I’ll do anything – any task. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you! Just please, please Master. Don’t send me from your presence! I will do anything to return to your favor. Please.” I lower my head to his feet and press desperate kisses to his skin.

He contemplates my worthlessness for a long moment. “Harker will be my solicitor now,” he says at last. “He succeeded where you failed. I have no further use for you in any competent work. He will be my companion and helper. You… you will be my slave.”

I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. “Thank you, Master,” I whisper, resting my heavy head against his foot. “I will serve you gladly. Both of you?” I dare look up for clarity.

Master nicks his finger upon a tooth and grants my swollen face the mercy of his healing blood. “You will attend to Harker however he desires. Has he made full use of you?”

“N-no. He… he didn’t want me in his bed.”

He hums. “He can still have you if he wishes.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You will attend to his needs and provide any assistance he requires. Don’t think that means you may offer a word of legal advice. I don’t want your incompetency staining my affairs.”

“No, Master. Never again.”

“Your attention will be first and foremost upon me, of course. I expect you to be here the moment I arise. You will resume managing the storage and siphoning of my foodstock. As I don’t want the servants bothering Harker, you will attend to cleaning his allotted rooms. And if Harker attempts to leave, you will see that he remains within the castle walls.”

I nod. It’s a lot for someone he’s declared incompetent. A test, surely. That I can manage so much without failing or revealing his nature to Mr. Harker.

He gives me a nudge, and I crawl backwards, giving him room to climb into his coffin.

“Make sure Harker is fed in daylight. I won’t have him wandering off in search of the kitchen.”

“Yes, Master.”

“That is all.” He lies back.

I rise to bring down the lid. “Master? May I sleep beside your coffin?”

It’s dangerous to ask. It’s a kindness so rarely granted.

But I need it. I need to be near him. Every iota of my being screams to cling to him and never let go. To never allow time and distance to separate us again.

I am his familiar. He created me to serve him. Away from him, so far from his voice, I did not know myself anymore.

He gives me a cold look which I know means I’ve overstepped. But then, surprisingly, he nods. “For a little while. You have duties to attend to.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

I close the lid. I lie down at the foot of the coffin. A dog at my master’s feet.

And I feel whole.

Chapter Text

May 1890: Jonathan Harker

Jonathan awoke when the sun was already high in the sky. He blushed to think how lazy his host must have found him, but the count had looked so awake the night before that perhaps he kept late hours as well.

Someone had unpacked his trunk while he’d slept, and the absence of Renfield’s clothes gave an easy guess as to who. The dirty garments were likewise gone, including his coat. Jonathan hoped they’d be returned quickly since his remaining wardrobe was woefully lacking.

He found his shaving kit laid out with his other toiletries, but the mirror was missing and a quick search through his things failed to uncover it. Resolving to ask Renfield if he’d ended up with it, Jonathan did the best with what he had and stepped out of his room.

A covered and cold breakfast was waiting in the dining room with a note saying the count would see him that evening and Jonathan was to make himself comfortable until then.

Eating alone took little time, and Jonathan found himself swiftly at loose ends. He was wary to poke about without permission, especially after being warned that much of the castle was derelict, but a little wandering eventually led him to the library which he found to be well-stocked in English books. Relieved to have something to do and time to breathe after so long traveling, Jonathan was soon absorbed and paid no attention to the passage of time until Renfield made an appearance.

Informed that supper was waiting, and that the count would not be joining him, Jonathan asked Renfield to stay with him. “I have to talk to someone,” he insisted. “I’ve seen no one all day. Aren’t there any servants in this place?”

“Very few,” Renfield replied as he led the way to the dining hall. “And they keep to themselves.”

“Is that typical in this country?”

“It’s typical in this house. I don’t know about anywhere else.”

“Have you seen much of the country?”

“Some. I’ve accompanied the master on his travels, but he spends more time abroad than interacting with the wealthy of this country when he does seek entertainment. Here he’s… chosen a more remote lifestyle.”

They sat across from one another, Jonathan eyeing his friend thoughtfully. “How did you come into his service?”

“The same as you. He sent to England for a solicitor, and my office sent me to see if the request was real.” He laughed at the look on Jonathan’s face. “I see Dr. Seward has told you his theory that I’m not the man I claim to be.”

Jonathan grimaced. He’d been careful not to mention the asylum during their travels. Still, Renfield seemed relaxed for once. “You have to agree, you don’t look fifty-nine years old.”

“No. I doubt even my wife would believe I’m the same man who went away.”

“You’re married?!”

“I am. Or was. It’s been thirty years since I laid eyes on her. She may have had me declared dead by now. Even if I did send money for many years.” He looked into the distance with a frown, then pulled himself away from the memory. “You and Ms. Murray – you have known one another long?”

“Since we were children,” Jonathan said, uncertain if Renfield was changing the subject.

“And you have been engaged long?”

Jonathan blushed. “I was one and six when I proposed to her.”

“That is quite young.”

“Yes, and she refused on those grounds immediately. So, I waited two years and proposed again.”

“And then?”

“She refused a second time.”

Renfield smiled. “She is quite a woman.”

“Yes, and in response I told her that when she felt we were old enough to be engaged, she could propose to me.”

Renfield’s eyes sparkled. “And did she?”

“Yes, a year later. But with the stipulation that we’d need a long engagement before we were wed as our circumstances were too uncertain for marriage at that time. She said she’d have waited longer, but she couldn’t stand not informing the world of how she loved me.”

Renfield’s eyes grew sad, and he turned his head away. “She is sensible.”

Jonathan hesitated. “Were you not so sensible in marrying?”

Renfield shook his head. “We married for the wrong reasons, and we married with our situation far too uncertain. And a child followed as they often do which was more than we could provide for. So, I went away and have provided from a distance.” His face grew very grave. “And I suppose I’ll never see them again.” His expression changed, his sharp eyes catching Jonathan off-guard. “But you don’t believe my story?”

Jonathan winced. “It would be a strange enough story that someone would disappear for thirty years on a solicitor’s errand. But combined with your face…”

Renfield smiled, though there was no humor in it. “What story would you believe?”

“Dr. Seward proposed that Robert Renfield died abroad, and you are his child. If your father was working for the count, it would stand to reason that he’d bring you up and train you.”

“Yes,” Renfield replied slowly. “I suppose that seems reasonable. You may believe it if you’d like.”

“But it isn’t the truth?”

Renfield shrugged. “If you won’t believe I was born in England and left those shores thirty years ago, we’ve certainly come to an impasse regarding the truth.”

Jonathan sighed and tried again. “What’s your role here?”

“Whatever the master desires of me. I’ve been his manservant and companion depending on his moods. He sent me to London as his solicitor. I’ve failed in that role. Now you bear that title.”

“I’m sorry.”

Renfield shook his head. “My master has accepted me back into his service. How he chooses to make use of me is his prerogative.”

Jonathan thought of Seward’s religious mania concerns and wondered uneasily what sort of fixation Renfield had with Dracula. Perhaps it was best not to question further. “You seem… better,” he ventured. “More… settled.”

“No longer mad, you mean?” Renfield replied with a raised eyebrow. “You can say the word, Mr. Harker. It won’t send me into convulsions. I know what you think of me.”

“I don’t-” Jonathan started to protest, and then had to leave them unsaid.

Renfield smiled, but it was an amused look, not the wild grin of a madman as Jonathan envisioned it.

Renfield had never truly acted the madman part that Jonathan’s mind painted. He’d trusted and relied upon this man during their journey. A little odd, certainly. But a lunatic?

“Tell me,” Renfield said, “what about me do you call mad?”

“Well… the bugs,” Jonathan replied weakly.

“Oh? It is mad to collect bugs and study their mannerisms?”

“It is when you eat them.”

“Is it mad to keep cows or chickens to eat?”

“But that’s normal!”

“And in many parts of the world, so is the consuming of insects.”

“Yes, but you eat common flies and spiders. And that mouse! You must admit it’s typical everywhere to cook meat before eating it.”

“True,” Renfield said levelly. “But once it’s dead and cooked, it’s no good to me. I didn’t enjoy eating the mouse, as it happens. I ate a sparrow at the asylum, and that didn’t agree with me. If there’d been another way, I’d not have swallowed the mouse. But there were no bugs to be had, so it was the mouse or allow those men their way with us.”

Jonathan shuddered. “What does the mouse have to do with that?”

“Life is strength. I needed strength to fight for both our sakes, so the mouse was necessary. You wouldn’t begrudge a hungry man a chicken for the strength to live, would you?”

Jonathan couldn’t see the sense, but he had to admit that Renfield was consistent in his delusions. “Does the count know your tendencies?”

“He fed me my first spider.”

That was certainly a bewildering statement. But it made Renfield seem less senseless if perhaps he’d learned his peculiarities in the service of another.

Jonathan felt it better to let the matter drop as mentioning Renfield’s supposed religious mania or the hysterical fits seemed likely to set his friend off. And he’d grown too comfortable with Renfield’s company to wish to hurt him with cruel accusations, so he began to speak of what he remembered of the ride to the castle, and their dinner broke up soon after.

Count Dracula appeared after Jonathan had returned to the library, coming upon him as silently as a shadow.

Jonathan was glad to make his acquaintance at last and found his host to be amicable company. He dismissed any talk of business for the time being, instead launching into tales of his country and answering many questions Jonathan had about the land and people. He then asked about England, opening a newspaper and asking for details about events and celebrities which forced Jonathan to confess that Dracula seemed better informed than he was.

They moved on to business as Jonathan spread the papers before him, and Dracula’s acute and nuanced questions showed a keen mind that impressed Jonathan. Dracula kept him working well on toward morning before suddenly appearing to notice Jonathan’s yawning and bidding him goodnight until the next evening.

Jonathan fell asleep in his clothes, so drained from the conversation that even reaching his bed seemed arduous. He hoped every night wouldn’t keep him up so late.

Jonathan sat by the window as he wrote, taking advantage of the daylight to update his journal while enjoying the view of the land beyond the castle.

Such a different land from England. A wild land. Not tamed and controlled by relentless farming and fierce management. This was a land which still contained wild places and mysteries.

There were wolves in the mountains. Jonathan had heard them howling, and the count had warned him that they were a danger for any who traveled beyond the castle walls.

“I’ve heard wolves to be shy animals,” Jonathan said, remarking mostly on knowledge gleaned from a trip to the London Zoo.

“Perhaps elsewhere,” Dracula replied with a mirthful gleam of very white teeth. “But these are wild lands which still belong to them. Here their bravery is in numbers and in the knowledge of the hidden forest paths. Some say…” His grin widened. “…that some of the beasts are not true wolves at all.”

Jonathan smiled. “The common folk in England always talk about black spectral hounds and the like that hunt on the longest nights. Fairy creatures.”

“This is not fairy country,” Dracula said flatly. “These are not the hills of your English spirits. Those lands have dangers of their own, I am certain. Ethereal creatures from worlds beyond the hills. Here the dangers are more… of Earth. If you met one of the beasts in the forest, you would find it flesh and blood enough to cause harm.”

In the night, with the shadows so dark beyond the firelight, with the flames flickering odd patterns off the count’s white teeth, with that deep red wine he drank darkening his lips, it had all seemed believable in a primal way.

Now, in the bright light of day, with the sunlight chasing away the shadows and the wind playing through the scrub nearer the castle walls, it all seemed foolish.

He heard a whistling and leaned further out the sill as he saw Renfield striding toward the forest with an empty bag over his back.

It was good to see his friend looking well at last, even if they’d spoken little since their arrival. Renfield came and went like a shadow, speaking few words to him as he delivered food or laundry. He seemed to be avoiding Jonathan, which was troubling considering they’d spent weeks in such close company. The sudden distance added to Jonathan’s sensation of loneliness.

He leaned on the sill, absently watching Renfield’s confident movements with a smile to note that his friend seemed healthier and calmer here.

A smile which turned to a shout of alarm as grey shapes emerged out of the forest.

Wolves. Dozens of them. A horde. Huge and deadly. Heads low. Teeth bared.

Renfield kept moving as if he didn't see them or as if he expected them to part around him.

They did. Reluctantly. Slowly. Circling with bared fangs and intense eyes. Some circled behind him. They crouched to spring…

Jonathan shouted his distress and ran from the room, seeking stairs to bring him the half-remembered distance to the door. He stumbled up against locked doors and blind hallways, losing himself completely as he ran afoul on narrow staircases which went nowhere and locked doors at every turn. He yanked desperately the doors, scrambling for any bolt or key but nothing came to his frantic questing no matter how many doors he tried. Shouting for the count, he ran back upstairs.

It took just as long to find a window and thrust his head out, determined to at least witness Renfield’s demise if he couldn’t aid him.

But there was nothing to see.

No grey shapes. No bleeding body.

Just the quiet world beyond the locked doors.

Confused, he took several long breaths, then retraced his steps, working his way downward more methodically, now testing doors and memorizing the ornaments on the walls to mark his passage.

Every door was still locked. But Renfield must have gotten out somehow. A servant’s door?

He began to search with care, growing bewildered and alarmed each time he ran up against another dead end.

Hallways ended in doors which refused to yield. Ground floor windows were shut or too small for exiting. Doors which seemed to lead to the servant’s portions of the castle were locked too.

Before long, he’d circled all the way back to his own quarters without finding an exit.

He was… trapped.

With heart hammering in confusion and alarm, he looked once more out the window.

Still nothing there. Had the wolves erased every trace of the man? Dragged the body into the woods to consume?

Would they do the same if Jonathan dared set foot beyond the walls?

He stayed at the window until twilight, trying several times to pick up his pen and document what he’d seen, but the words wouldn’t come.

How could mere pen and ink relate the tragedy of a man killed in such a horrific manner?

But as the shadows began to lengthen, he was startled to see the most impossible of sights.

A figure came walking out of the forest. A figure silhouetted against the darkening shadows with a bag slung over their back.

It had to be Renfield. Who else could it be?

Renfield, alive?! Not savaged by wolves?

Jonathan leaned as far out of the window as he dared, calling to Renfield as he drew closer.

Renfield didn’t seem able to hear, perhaps concentrating on his weary walk.

“Is something occurring outside?” asked a voice so close behind that it made Jonathan jump and whirl.

He nearly tumbled backwards out the window at the sight of the count leaning over his shoulder.

Dracula caught him by the shirt to stop him from falling. “Steady, my friend. I did not mean to startle you. What is it which has attracted your attention?”

“I saw… earlier, that is… Renfield was walking toward the forest. A-and there were wolves! Lots of them!”

The count nodded. “They dwell in great numbers in these parts. You have heard them singing in the night.”

“I thought they’d killed him. But… See! He’s coming back. Unharmed.”

“Not entirely,” the count observed. “He does appear to be limping.” His face faded into a frown. “The wolves have forgotten that he is not to be harmed. They will be reminded.”

Jonathan blinked. “Reminded?”

Dracula’s face smoothed into a placid smile. “Have you eaten, friend Jonathan? Your supper must be prepared by now. Come. I will speak with you while you eat.”

The meal was delivered to the table soon after by Renfield, who looked roughed up and used only one arm, but mumbled assurances that it was nothing and he’d be fine. He retreated with his head down before Jonathan could ask questions.

Count Dracula was lively company, asking much about England as always and insisting that Jonathan correct his English pronunciation.

From the dining table, they moved to the library and continued their exploration into property law where Dracula proved himself both well-educated already and with deeply specific questions in mind.

As was typical, they worked late and talked afterwards with Renfield appearing to offer wine to the count and coffee to Jonathan. Renfield had cleaned up, but he limped heavily and favoring one arm.

“Are you alright?” Jonathan asked as he accepted the coffee.

Renfield glanced at the count, then spoke his answer toward the floor. “I’ll be restored soon, Sir. It’s nothing.”

“I thought you were going to be killed! I tried to reach you, but…” Jonathan now found himself glancing questioningly at the count. “I couldn’t find a way out of the castle.”

“Your impulse does you credit,” Dracula replied, “but be assured that my servant can look after himself if he knows what’s good for him.”

Renfield winced and ducked his head lower. At a gesture from the count, he fled the room.

Jonathan’s mind warred with questions. Many about his strange traveling companion. Surely Dracula could explain the mysteries which Dr. Seward had failed to discern. But at this moment, his biggest concern… “Why are so many doors locked?”

“I have told you. The castle is unsound in many places.”

“Yes, but the doors outside are locked as well!”

“You saw the children of the forest. Believe me, they would not treat a stranger so gently as they do my servant. It is for your protection that the doors remain shut.”

Jonathan chewed at his lip. “I understand you’re worried for my safety,” he said slowly. “But you do understand… I’m in a strange place with no means of traveling on my own, and I find myself sorely limited in movement. It’s… unsettling.”

Dracula nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I understand. You are a stranger in a strange land as the holy book says, yes? You have not spent much time beyond your country’s shores, have you? Our ways here must seem so strange to you. Be assured, I do all things for your comfort and protection.”

Jonathan looked back into the red-flecked eyes of his host and found only sincerity written there.

“I suppose you know this land and its dangers far better than I do,” he said slowly.

The count beamed. “Exactly, my friend. Come. Let us return to kinder topics. What can you tell me about the nobilty of your country? Might I ever dream of meeting your rulers?”

Jonathan forced himself to smile and relax into the conversation.

But in the back of his mind, he was concocting plans.

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

I kneel, fingers braced against the ground, head bent low.

I can’t stop trembling.

Before me, the offering thrashes against the bonds, dripping precious blood across the floor.

Their blood is on my hands. Staining my clothes. Precious life wasted.

A mistake. The blood belongs to the master. I’ve spilled what doesn’t belong to me.

He’ll be displeased.

He approaches. He crouches down and cradles the offering’s head. His tongue licks the trailing blood off the cheek. Tests it upon his tongue as if examining a fine wine.

The offering gurgles around the gag and goes rigid with terror.

Their blood is on my hands. Staining my clothes.

I hit them! I hit a person. I brought a person to be kil-

An offering. I brought my god an offering.

As it should be.

His teeth are in the throat. The offering spasms, then is still.

If I regret, it is too late now.

I await my own fate at those terrible jaws.

He tosses the carcass aside once it is drained.

Just meat now. Unimportant. Another task for me to complete. Later.

Once he’s done with me.

He stands over me. My master, my god.

I crouch lower, biting my lip to halt the babbling which wells up in me.

I’m sorry! It was my first time! I hit too hard. I didn't know. But I brought them to you alive! I’ll do better next time.

Please give me another chance.

His hand is upon my head, his fingers curled in my hair.

Will he dash my skull against the ground? Strangle me with my own belt?

Throw me away like a useless carcass?

“My familiar,” he hums. “I chose you well.”

I dare gaze up into those unfathomable, red-flecked eyes. Dare to seek forgiveness.

And he bestows a smile upon his unworthy devotee. “Your first hunt. You didn’t hesitate. You brought me strong blood.”

He takes me by the chin. Raises me up. Draws me close to his chest.

“How shall I reward my loyal servant…”

I jolt awake, drenched in sweat and shaking with chills.

Fleeing the bed, I stumble to the bathroom and splash water over my face. I drink from my hands, the cold reviving me to the present.

That was my past. So long ago that I can barely remember (or tell myself that I barely remember).

I never should have spoken up in group. I never should have disturbed the past.

The nightmares have been relentless since we left Savannah.

But this is worse.

It’s bad enough to dream of the old master’s vengeance night after night. But to remember before things got bad? When he was kind…?

It’ll break my mind again if I dare dwell on what was lost.

I used to frequently dream this way. Early on, when the bond with Jonathan was still fragile. Back when the old master’s shadow loomed over our every interaction. Back when I regretted not dying when I was supposed to more than I felt grateful for Jonathan’s mercy.

Jonathan must have known my regrets – he was in my mind too much back then not to know. But we never spoke of it. He never forbade me from remembering or punished me for dreaming.

And gradually my new life rose to the forefront of my mind. The dreams came less often, overwhelmed by concerns of the present.

The past was sealed into its crypt where it belonged.

Until now.

I back away from the sink, gazing blankly down at my water-splattered shirt. I’ve fallen asleep in my clothes after the day’s long supply run. It’s late evening. I’ve slept through the masters’ rising.

The need to be near them is a sudden and acute yearning. I head for the living room – sleep tousled and hardly presenting the appearance of the trained servant.

My masters are all there. Miss Lucy slung over a chair with a book in a most unladylike posture. Mistress on the sofa, the coffee table strewn with her research. Master beside her, his focus on his laptop.

I barely notice the others as I stumble my way to Master’s side and drop to my knees.

The pause goes on forever.

This is the worst part. Always.

No matter how many times I’ve been told to ask for what I need, to come to Jonathan when I’m on the brink, the certainty that this will be the time too many - the time I’ll be rejected - never goes away.

The soft brush of his fingers over the back of my neck expels my terrors.

He swirls his fingers through my short neck hairs and encourages me to lean my head against his leg. I do, my world narrowing down to that point of contact.

His hand moves away from me, resuming his typing. Periodically it returns, petting me or simply resting there while I drift in a quiet and empty place where nothing matters but the contact.

I hear the soft buzzing of voices, and Master nudges me to shift until I kneel between him and Mistress. Two hands now offer me periodic comfort. Two hands assure me that I’m safe.

Eventually they draw me to my feet and lead me to the bedroom where I’m undressed and held between them. Pleasure comes slow and leisurely as they alternate between stroking me and leaning across me to toy with one another.

I lean into their touches, feeling too limp to return any of them but silently assuring Master of my willingness each time he nudges at the bond.

They hold water to my lips. A spider as well. The needs of my body met along with that of my soul.

Eventually Jonathan holds me in his arms, his nose in my hair. Better? he asks.

I nod against his bare chest, my forehead resting on the cross-shaped scar on his sternum.

Do you want to talk about it?

Not really.

We’re silent for a stretch.

Mina has more questions for you. About the hunters and their weapons. Will you be alright with answering?

I’ll do anything that helps with her research.

Anything to learn why those hunters seemed so ignorant about vampires but were so well armed with weapons we’ve never experienced before.

I feel his fingers tapping lightly against my back as if it was a keyboard. You’re writing another story, aren’t you?

Guilty, he admits.

I sigh. Is this a new series, or will we need to uncover an unpublished manuscript from your last alias?

Too early to say. Another long pause. Is the group helping with whatever’s eating at you?

I don’t know. Probably not. I hesitate. I still like going.

Just be careful, he replies, giving me a squeeze. We don’t need anyone wondering if you’re hearing voices.

I snort. I only hear one of those. And I don’t think Mark has the kind of license to lock people up. But I’m not planning to do anything obvious in front of him anyway…

“How can you name silent movies I’ve never heard of but you’re completely ignorant of classic horror?” Mark demands as we walk up the dark street in search of his car.

I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets to still any awkward twitching. “Eclectic taste?”

Film technology had been fascinating to all of us at the start, but the novelty had gradually worn off, making it just another form of entertainment to occasionally enjoy. None of us were ignorant of movies, but their release dates tended to blur along with anyone’s definition of ‘classic’.

“I just thought with as much as you know about insects, someone would have made you watch all the movies about people turning into them.”

“Uhh… how many movies are we talking about? I do have to work at some point.”

“Work? It’s nine pm!”

“I keep odd hours.”

Mark frowns. “I thought you managed stocks. Doesn’t the market close?”

“The work never ends.”

“Didn’t you say work was why you were late to group tonight?”

It had been. And by work I meant that Master and I had gone clubbing. And by clubbing I meant that we’d stationed ourselves in the bathroom of a dance club, siphoned half a pint or so from college students as they came in, and sent them on their way with vague memories of over-drinking.

We had to go early before their blood-alcohol content was too high, so I’d missed most of the group session.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

“It’s not required that you come to every session. I just worry when people disappear.” Mark gestures helplessly. “Hazards of facilitating and feeling responsible for everyone.”

“There’s always someone else to help. I heard you brought in some new people.”

Two, I’d been told by Bob afterwards. Both people Mark had seen being ridiculed by their partners in public and had given them pamphlets.

Mark, I thought, would make a very good familiar. He was good at sniffing out desperate people and winning their trust. And he liked taking care of others. Pair him with the right vampire, and he’d be effective at looking after them.

Not that I’d wish my life on anyone. Despite how much I wish Mina or Lucy would find themselves permanent familiars.

Mark is briefly distracted telling me superficial details about our newest members. He gives me a frown at last. “How are you doing? You haven’t said much lately. Not since you shared part of your story.”

I grimace. “Telling what I did… it brought a lot of memories back. Things I’m… not sure I even want to remember. We – Jonathan and I – we never talked about what happened with anyone. It would have been a crime to admit what we went through.”

“Why? Did you kill someone?”

I’m silent long enough for Mark to shoot worried glances my way. “I won’t ask if I shouldn’t know.”

I study the puddles on the sidewalk. “My… old boss… He did things. To both of us. Impossible things.”

“Impossible?”

I nod without clarifying. “I don’t think what Jonathan did to save us was really a crime. Justified as it was. Not that we’ve ever told. And the things that happened to us before that… No one would have understood.”

“Ah.” Mark nods as if he can guess. “I know it’s hard… especially for men to admit to certain things.”

I smile sadly.

He doesn’t know how right he is.

If everything had been known, I’d have been hung right alongside my assaulters. And Jonathan… who wouldn’t have said that a pretty, eager, young lawyer was asking for what happened to him? That he’d probably enjoyed it?

That we’d both have resisted if we hadn’t wanted…

I give myself a shake back to the present. “I’d rather just listen right now. I wish I could do more to help everyone.”

“Sometimes listening is the best thing you can do. But if you ever do want to share. Or explain about your poly lifestyle…”

I grin. “You can quit fishing and ask me outright. I don’t mind.”

Mark pounces, unbridling the restraint he’s held himself under since meeting Lucy. “How does it work? You don’t all live together, right? Who’s connected with-”

“Marky? Marky, is that you?”

We both jump as three muscular men uncurl from their slouches against Mark’s car.

They approach us, moving with the tight formation and efficient movements of soldiers.

I tense, weighing them up as possible threats or victims.

One would need to be separated from the pack if I wanted to bring them back alive. But they’d be strong donors. Perhaps they’d be amenable to being paid…

“Marky!” the ringleader crows and crowds into Mark’s personal bubble.

One of the others lunges without warning and pushes me into the side of a building.

“This guy bothering you, Marky?” the leader demands as his goon looms over me. I try to look small and helpless while edging my hand into my jacket pocket.

“He’s… he’s not…” Mark’s confidence evaporates as the leader slams a hand down onto his shoulder.

“Not bothering? Not anybody? Not what, Marky?”

“It’s… Mark,” Mark stammers weakly, trying to recoil from the tightening grip. “He’s just a… a friend.”

“A friend? Are you sure, Marky? You’re not cheating on Andy, are you?”

“We’re not… that was a long time ago…”

“Time’s nothing. Not when Andy misses you as much as he does.”

“I… How did you find me?”

“Jeff here-” He jerks a thumb at the man standing beside him. “-thought he saw this ol’ rust bucket of yours driving around. Thought we’d better check things out.” His grip tightens. “We haven’t told Andy yet. Didn’t want his heart breaking all over again if it wasn’t you.”

“Mark?” I ask quietly. “Are these people bothering you?”

Mark lets out a weak and helpless noise that doesn’t formulate into words.

“Stay out of this!” the thug snaps and slams his knee into my stomach.

“Don’t hurt him!” Mark begs as I double over and drop to my hands and knees, using the opportunity to swallow a handful of mealworms. “Please! I’ll… It’s been over with me and Andy for… You don’t need-”

“It’s never over!” the leader snaps. “Andy wants you. That’s all that matters. You belong with him.”

I laugh.

The slow and unpleasant ‘heh… heh… heh…” that I picked up during a… bad time in my life.

It comes out involuntarily sometimes.

But it does have its uses. Tends to make everyone pause and stare at me.

“He belongs to himself,” I say in the silence. “He belongs where he chooses.”

From the corner of my eye, I see the thug shoot out a hand to seize my hair. I catch his hand in mine and squeeze.

Bones snap in my grip as the man screams the high pitch of blind agony.

The other thug comes at me, swinging back his foot to kick. I catch his heel and flip him onto his back. I release the broken hand as I leap from all fours onto the downed man’s chest. I land as lightly as I can so as not to shatter his rib cage. My hand clasps around his throat and pins him to the ground.

Gentle. Gentle, I coach myself.

Not enemies to be killed. Not victims to be brought back alive.

Men to be warned away.

And their fates do not belong to me.

“Mark,” I say, my eyes now focused on their leader, giving him the full intensity of my still-glowing eyes. “What would you like to have happen here?”

“I…” My friend is silent for a terrified moment, then speaks in a rush. “I’d like them to go away.”

Probably for the best. I don’t know enough of the circumstances to abduct them safely.

I stand, taking a step back so that I can watch all three at once.

The leader has recoiled from Mark, saving his own skin now that his band of brothers are down. He weighs his choices, then he reaches for his back pocket.

I don’t wait to see if it’s a knife or a gun as I dart forward and grab his arm. I twist him to his knees, taking care not to wrench his arm off completely. “Do you want to lose this arm?” I whisper against his ear.

He shakes his head frantically.

“Then… run.”

I release him with a push. He obeys at a stumbling and sobbing pace, his companion with the broken hand following suit. The other is still breathless and dazed. I help him to his feet and escort him to a bus stop bench. He looks around desperately for the others.

“They left you,” I observe. “Think about that next time.”

I walk back to Mark, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the fight. That barely winded me.

I glance up at Mark, uncertain what I’ll find in his gaze.

My eyes are back to normal, but the vampiric energy is still running strong. And he must have seen…

Say something, I beg in my mind.

Mark finds his voice in a stumbling rush. “So when you said impossible things were done to you…”

“He was a vampire,” I say as if that explains everything.

“Riiiight,” Mark says slowly, then starts walking rapidly away from his car. “I don’t normally recommend drinking to cope, but that’s happening. Right now. And then you’re telling me a story.”

“So vampires are real,” Mark says slowly.

We’re in the church gym again since Mark backpedaled the invitation to his house, and this isn’t a conversation to be had in public. I think he’s hoping that a holy building will keep the monsters at bay. I don’t tell him that this rarely works.

“Yes,” I confirm, taking a tentative sip of the can Mark handed me. It says hard lemonade on the side and doesn’t taste as if Mark’s much of a drinker. Fine with me. I prefer that my senses stay sharp when we’ve already been attacked once, and this location isn’t secure or particularly defensible.

Mark sits on the floor against the wall, hugging a stray basketball to his chest like a security blanket and ignoring his own drink. “And you’re not a vampire.”

I shake my head. “My first master made me into a familiar.”

Mark processes this slowly. “Like in those John Murray detective novels?”

I close my eyes. “You’re a fan?”

“Have you read them?” he asks with the desperate eagerness of a mind trying to grasp onto anything besides the reality in front of him.

“Most of them, yes,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Are they… accurate? With everything they say about vampires and familiars?”

“It varies. There’s a lot of different kinds of vampires out there. But for me and Jonathan… yes. Those books do reflect our experiences.”

“So Jonathan’s a…”

“A vampire, yes. And my current master.”

“I thought… In the books, familiars aren’t supposed to be able to switch.”

I grimace. “They’re not. Jonathan… was very determined to save me.”

Mark hugs the basketball a little tighter. “The rest of your family? Lucy?”

“Also a vampire.”

“But she’s so tan!”

“It comes in a bottle.”

Mark’s silent for a long minute, the wheels turning in his mind. “When you said you were following… Oh God. You were going to eat Bob!”

“No!... Well, yes. But I didn’t! He has enough problems without that.”

“But you do kill people?”

“...More chloroforming them and taking them back to Jonathan. And not often. He rarely needs to kill when he’s healthy. I mostly find donors for him.”

“But sometimes you do kill.”

“...Yes. But we’re good at finding people who are about to die anyway – lurk around hospitals and nursing homes and those sort of places. It draws less attention to us. And when I do have to hunt, I try to do some good if I can.”

“Good?”

“Doesn’t Caitlyn seem happier without Mitch? And Karla?”

Mark sits up very straight. “You’re the reason so many abusers have disappeared?!”

I try to look modest.

“This group is supposed to give people the strength to separate themselves from abusive relationships. Not so you can use it as a buffet line!”

I hunch down. “My way seems to work faster,” I mumble.

“Robert,” he fumes at me. There’s a long stretch of silence. “You saved me tonight,” he says quietly.

“Who were they?”

“My ex’s army buddies. I… moved to New Orleans last year to get some distance. He… apparently found me. Again.”

I stare back in alarm. It’s probably the wrong time to offer to kill for him, but the suggestion hovers between us.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

“Anytime,” I reply.

He groans. “Please don’t say that.”

I toy with the opening tab on the can. “I don’t know how else to help.”

“Listening is generally recommended.”

“Oh. Do you want to talk about your ex?”

“Right now? Not really.”

“Some other time?” I’m begging, and I think we both know it.

It won’t be surprising if he never wants to speak to me again.

I’d really hate to lose the group. It’s my only social outlet. But I knew it was inevitable from the first time I went by choice. Sooner or later people get suspicious.

“You won’t hurt anyone in the group?” Mark asks, sounding slightly hysterical.

I shake my head. “If you know anyone who wants to donate, I pay by the pint. But I won’t hurt my friends, and I can’t eliminate anymore of their abusers without the police getting suspicious. I haven’t been coming here looking for victims. I just… It’s nice to talk to people. Hear regular problems.”

“I guess you really can’t share a lot of what’s happened to you with anyone without sounding completely crazy.”

I shudder. “I’d rather never be committed and locked up again.”

“Again?!”

I wrap my arms defensively around my stomach. “There’s a lot I didn’t share in that story. A whole lot.”

Mark edges a little closer. “If you’re ever ready to share…”

“Does that mean you still want to speak to me?”

Mark shoves back his glasses and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I shouldn’t. I should be… reporting you to the men in black or whoever deals with monster crimes. I should be… barricading myself inside a church and praying for protection or… a spiritual awakening or…” His hands drop, and he turns red-rimmed and helpless eyes on me. “But all I can think about is that Andy’s buddies found me, and they’ll probably find me again, and that seems like a way bigger problem than any moral justification for whatever life you’re leading.” He looks away, his eyes blank and helpless and threatening to turn to tears. “What if they know where I live?”

“I can help,” I offer tentatively. “I could come back with you tonight and check things out. See if your place looks secure. I can stay up so you can rest. I don’t need a whole lot of sleep.”

“Wouldn’t your… Jonathan object?”

I shrug. “Master knew I was planning to spend half the night watching movies with you. I’ll just tell him not to expect me back until after sunrise.” I rise and offer a hand to Mark.

It means more than just a hand up. I think we both know it.

He hesitates, looking warily up at me. “What does it say about me that I really want to trust you?”

“That you just saw me terrify three jarheads into running with their tails between their legs, and you know I can do it again.” I say cheerfully. “Your choice. I’ll leave and not come back if you’d rather have one less complication in your life.”

He takes my hand.

I pull out my phone and call for an Uber.

“But don’t think I don’t have questions,” Mark says as we walk out of the church. “And concerns that you’re living with someone you call master and don’t think you’re in a problematic relationship!”

“That’s the part that’s worrying you?!”

Chapter Text

June 1890: Jonathan Harker

“I don’t recommend doing that.”

Jonathan jumped and whirled in the act of trying to pick the lock at the end of the hall.

From a distance, Renfield stood watching him with an unimpressed expression.

Jonathan straightened, shamefully concealing the dinner knife that he’d been trying to use to reach the tumblers. “I wasn’t…” He hesitated, feeling like a schoolboy caught sneaking into the kitchen. “I don’t like being trapped!” he burst out instead.

Renfield advanced and gently took the knife from him. “The rest of the castle isn’t safe.”

“I’m sure I could be careful,” Jonathan protested. “You could show me where it’s safe to walk.”

Renfield grimaced. “It’s best if you avoid anything that’s currently locked off.” He turned away.

Jonathan pursued. “I don’t mean to be a bad guest,” he said, frantically trying to justify himself. “I’m sure Count Dracula has his reasons for closing off so many doors. But it’s unnerving! Do you know what it’s like to be a prisoner in… Oh… My apologies.”

He watched Renfield’s shoulder’s tense. “I understand your restlessness,” the other man said in a guarded tone. “But please accept this area as being the safest place for you.”

Jonathan sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to break out.”

“You were going about it all wrong, anyway,” Renfield replied. “Did you not learn to pick locks in your boyhood?”

“Ah… No. I was very concerned with not upsetting the people who took me in after my parents died.”

“Understandable.”

“But you know how?”

Renfield grinned. “It’s been a necessary skill in the life I’ve led.”

They returned to the dining room where Renfield resumed washing the table, a task he’d likely just begun when he’d heard Jonathan’s burglary efforts.

Jonathan leaned against the wall and watched him. “You did say there are servants here?”

“A few. There’s a family who does the cooking and looks after the horses and the garden.”

“But they haven’t been doing the cleaning or serving here. That’s all been you?”

Renfield concentrated very hard on his task. “The master requested that I look after you. The others would not understand enough English for you to converse with them, and they’re suspicious of strangers.”

Something registered abruptly as Jonathan watched Renfield work. “Your arm!”

“What of it?”

“You couldn’t use it yesterday.”

Renfield glanced at the appendage and then back to the table. “I was not made to endure that injury for long.”

Jonathan frowned and slumped into a chair with his arms grumpily crossed. “None of the answers I’m given by you or Dracula make any sense.”

Renfield shrugged apologetically. “This place has many secrets.” He paused, looking long and seriously at Jonathan. “It would be best, Sir, if you did the task you came to do and then departed without prying into them.”

“It shouldn’t take much longer. We’ve gone over all the property. I’ll be able to bring back the signed paperwork to London within a few days once I’ve answered all Count Dracula’s questions.”

Renfield resumed working. “The sooner…” He winced and broke off. “It is good that all will be prepared soon,” he said carefully.

Jonathan sat in silence, watching as the dining room was put into order. “Do you have my shaving kit?” he asked abruptly.

Renfield froze. “Was it not in your bag?”

“The razor was. But I couldn’t find my mirror. I thought maybe it ended up with you.”

“If shaving is a concern, I can assist you. The master says I have a steady hand for the task.”

Jonathan stiffened, unwillingly recalling that his only friend in the castle had been confined as a dangerous madman scant weeks before. “I’ll manage. I’m sure there’s another mirror around here.”

Renfield didn’t answer and vanished off to another task leaving Jonathan to resist restless pacing.

I should write to Mina, Jonathan thought listlessly as he looked down at his journal brimming with its baffling shorthand notes.

He had plenty of time. The count might have dominated his evening hours with conversation and games, and a portion of his day was spent in sleep as a result, but that left many hours in which he was alone with little to do but exhaust Dracula’s supply of English literature and pace the few rooms he was allowed to explore.

He’d tried writing several letters but had tossed them onto the fire in disgust. How could he explain that he believed himself to be a captive of a perfectly amiable gentleman who’d done nothing to arouse his suspicion?

Except… there was something, wasn’t there?”

Something which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end whenever the count was near.

Something… something he couldn’t put into words.

With a huff of frustration, he cast himself into a chair, his arms and chin resting on the windowsill.

Wasn’t this the pose he’d seen Renfield adopt in the asylum?

Was he going mad as well?

Did it take long for captivity to turn to madness?

What would happen next? Would he hear voices? Become obsessed with insects?

…See impossible things.

A black shape was crawling its way down the castle wall, swift and effortless as a spider. As Jonathan watched, the shape landed on the ground, straightened, and revealed itself to be the count. Dracula straightened his coat and a wide-brimmed hat and set off purposefully along the road toward the forest.

Jonathan stared after him in bewildered shock until the figure was entirely out of sight.

He remained by the window for hours. He doodled on a paper as he waited, speculating wildly about the height of the castle walls and the chances of likely footholds.

If he squinted, he thought he could find gaps in the stones.

Perhaps it was possible. Perhaps he could get out that way as well.

Amidst the lengthening shadows of evening, he saw the count returning. More alarming, he wasn’t alone.

The wolves trotted beside him. And far from the threats they’d given Renfield, they frisked around him like a pack of hunting dogs, some running ahead and tussling with their fellows, some jogging close enough to brush against Dracula as he strode.

They halted as Dracula reached the castle wall and began to scale it as effortlessly as he’d descended. When he vanished from sight, the wolves whirled and raced back to the forest.

Jonathan stuck his head out his window, watching Dracula disappear through another window. He scrutinized it, committing it's location to memory.

Were those Dracula’s quarters? Far from the region of the castle Jonathan had been told was ‘safe’.

Did the count not trust his guest near where he slept? Was there reason not to trust?

What sort of man was he? Who climbed sheer rock with the swiftness of a squirrel and walked among wolves as if he was one of them?

And more… who slept mostly by day and was active at night. Who ate nothing, but sometimes drank such a thick and red wine as to make Jonathan suddenly shiver with dread.

But that was nonsense – the madness seeping into his mind. Stuff of legends and fairy stories.

And yet…

Renfield tapped upon his door, calling him to dinner.

Jonathan swallowed down his unease and rose for yet another night of attending to the amusement of his host and captor.

Renfield

Master has not forgiven me. Master is not pleased with me.

I say too much to Mr. Harker. I give too many hints and warnings.

Master holds my body down and ravages my mind.

Wrong, wrong, wrong! he snarls. You would frighten him away! Deprive me of my prey. Failure. You fail me time and again! What good are you to me? You, who abandoned me in London and defy me now! Why shouldn’t I tear the life from you? Your blood is the only thing of use any longer.

I grovel. I weep. I give myself over to him again and again.

I am loyal! I am yours! I don’t want to fail you! I want to serve you! You! Only you! I have no other thought! No other desire! Forgive me! I will do better!

The bond is tattered between us. He uses it as a scourge against my mind. Pain, such pain.

He takes me to his bed. Chains me down. Uses me without remorse.

I cry out his name as he drives into me. As his claws savage my chest and his mind lacerates mine into fragments.

Master! I am yours! I live for you! I will die for you! Only you forever! I am nothing! Unfit to be touched. Unworthy to be noticed! Blessed are the works of your hand. Tear the sins from me and make me pure. Cut away all that is wrong and flawed and make me into a perfect tool to perform your bidding.

He casts me from the bed when he is through with me. I lie upon the floor, the cold and darkness seeping into me as the blood runs out.

The discarded toy. Waiting to be played with once more.

He returns when he requires my service. A few drops of blood, and I am repaired enough to be of use. I attend upon him. I listen to his commands. I swear they will be fulfilled.

When he retires for slumber, I scrub my blood from his floor and bedsheets.

I make all new and clean for his use.

Unblemished skin, unblemished room.

Until he paints both with his marks once again.

Jonathan Harker

Jonathan tried to tally the days and came up with several different numbers.

It shouldn’t have been hard – bored as he was most of the time. But staying up so late and losing a portion of the day to sleeping had confused the rhythm of his mind.

And more… the whole of the journey had turned to a blur which he couldn’t make sense of any longer.

When had he started out from England? How long had he been in Transylvania?

When would he be allowed to return?

The count had little further use for him. The papers were signed and sent away. One of the servants had ridden off with them, the count assuring Jonathan with a congenial smile that there would be no delay for travel this way. The mail would hurry to London where Mr. Hawkins could complete matters. No need for Jonathan to go. Not while the count took such pleasure from his company.

Jonathan had seen nothing strange since he’d witnessed Dracula with the wolves, but even the ordinary had such a sensation of bewildering in this place.

Renfield seemed to avoid him. Jonathan awoke to the cleaning having been done while he slept and his breakfast waiting with no hands there to serve it. When they did cross paths, Renfield kept his eyes down and spoke very little.

Jonathan spotted the other servants outside occasionally when they exercised the horses or hung out the laundry. But though he called to them, none glanced his way.

He was painfully alone most of the time.

But also unwatched as far as he could tell.

A reason to try the locks again.

He waited until long after Renfield had cleaned and departed before he went to work, choosing a door as far from the dining hall as possible. Tentatively certain of being alone, he set to work with a nail he’d pried from the wall.

An hour of work and abruptly the door swung open.

Except… he hadn’t been touching it when the handle had yielded.

He blinked into the shadows of the hall, then rose, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the darkness.

Going back for a candle would have been wise, but how long did he have before his absence was noticed?

And what was he to do if he was caught? Renfield was one matter, but if the count found him beyond his bounds…

What would a man who walked fearlessly among wolves do if he was crossed?

Jonathan moved as fast as he dared, testing every step before letting it take his weight.

It was not impossible that the warnings of the castle being treacherous were true.

He tried the doors as he went, disappointed to find locked door after locked door without any sign of what they contained.

No torches burned here. The shadows seemed to swallow him, leaving him to quest blindly at doorways. His hands scraped against the stone, catching against rough places which left his skin stinging and lacerated.

When a door gave under his hands, he nearly pitched forward through the suddenly gaping opening.

There was a window in the room, though so muted by a heavy curtain as to do little but fill the room with shadows. He edged forward, squinting weakly in the gloom.

The room was hung in gauzy drapings which fluttered slowly despite no wind blowing. The rustle of silks filled the room with a constant whisper which made him turn… and turn…

…Where had the door gone?

Everything was curtains and whispers. Just soft noises and a heavy scent which filled his nose and raced straight to his mind, leaving him reeling with a sudden dizziness.

Movement. More movement than just the silks.

Something peeling away from the wall. A vision of floating gauze and languid movements.

A woman.

There were hands on his back. He whirled to find another woman behind him. She looked up at him, no coyness in her red-flecked eyes. Just steady, unblinking, desire.

He recoiled from her, only to find himself stepping into the arms of another. And another.

They ringed him. Three ethereal beings of inhuman eyes and unblinking stares who seemed to float with the shifting shadows.

The tallest said something low and honeyed in her own language which earned a laugh from the other two.

“I… I’m sorry,” Jonathan panted, trying to draw away from their questing hands. “I don’t understand…”

“English,” purred the shortest of the trio. “Another English.”

“Yes. I’m… I’m Jonathan. From England. Umm…” His face reddened as his body proved itself not immune to their soft caresses. “If you wouldn’t mind…”

The women laughed and pressed closer, murmuring to one another in their own tongue.

Although Jonathan’s blood was rushing in a southerly direction, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to think with his head.

And also heart.

Mina. I love Mina. Only Mina.

That didn’t stop the enthusiastic thump-thump-thump of his heart… or the twitching elsewhere.

“Ladies, please. I’m… Could you…” He caught one by the wrist and drew her questing hand out from between the buttons of his shirt.

She laughed and twisted effortlessly from his light grasp, catching him by the shoulders and pulling him low enough for a kiss with such strength that Jonathan couldn’t pull away.

His wrists were caught behind his back, and his belt was unlooped so quickly that he’d barely heard the click of the clasp before it slithered off his twitching hips, leaving him gasping and breathless.

He struggled with more earnestness now, trying to free his hands or escape their exploring touches, but their grips were velvet vices holding him defenseless.

He was pushed to the floor, the tallest of the women straddling his lap while his belt was used to bind his hands. The other two caught his shoulders and forced him to his back, one gripping him by the hair and pulling back his head until his neck was painfully stretched, and his eyes saw nothing but the twisting shadows on the ceiling.

“Please! Let me go! I don’t want to hurt you!” The last seemed foolish as he found too late that the women were more than match for what strength he could muster.

Indeed, they merely laughed and toyed with him when he struggled to rise.

The tallest woman loomed over him, her eyes brilliant scarlet, her lips drawn back in a bright-toothed grin. She leaned toward his neck…

Crash!

Jonathan heard the door bouncing against the wall followed by a shout that left him weak with relief.

“Get away from him! Let him go!”

And Renfield was there, his eyes glowing amber as he slammed the tall woman from her perch and cast her to the ground.

The other two rose, releasing Jonathan with angry cries. They shouted back at Renfield, coming at him with threatening gestures.

Jonathan felt Renfield tremble as the manservant pulled him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. “Go,” Renfield hissed. “Run!”

Jonathan stumbled blindly through the doorway, his head and eyes swimming. He careened into a wall, collapsing to his knees and struggling upright only after nearly breaking his nose. He limped a few steps, collapsed against the wall, and looked back the way he’d come.

He could hear the women shouting and Renfield answering back in their own language with words that awoke furious snarls from the women. There was a sound of something striking skin, and a yelp of pain from Renfield…

…And a shadow rushed past Jonathan in a whirlwind which solidified into Dracula’s shape as the count plunged into the room with a roar.

“What have you done?!” he heard Dracula bellow, followed by the sounds of blows and furious shrieks from the women.

A body flew through the doorway and hit the floor. A moment later, Renfield picked himself up with a shake and staggered his way to Jonathan.

“Come on,” he grunted as he pulled Jonathan off the wall and tore away the belt binding his hands.

“What’s… Who are…?”

“Keep walking,” Renfield insisted, still tugging him along. “Quickly.”

Amidst terror and confusion, Jonathan forced his legs to move and scrambled his way out of the dark hall and into familiar territory once again.

Renfield didn’t release him until he’d deposited Jonathan onto a sofa in the library. “Lie still,” he advised. “Deep breaths.”

“Those women… Who are they?”

Renfield hovered over him, his hands cautiously touching Jonathan’s neck. “Did they hurt you? Bite you?”

“No. They held me down and… what were they doing? Who are they?”

“Companions of mine. Once,” the count announced, emerging into the room with the silence of a shadow. “Now merely… annoyances.” He stepped closer to the sofa. “Are you well, friend Jonathan?”

Renfield went to his knees as the count approached, his body tense and his eyes canted away.

Jonathan stared blankly at the manservant, only registering the question after a moment. “I’m… I’m fine. I…” He looked down at his stinging palms, noticing only now how bloodied they’d become during the adventure. “Oh… I…” He yelped as his wrist was suddenly seized.

The count held Jonathan’s hand close to his face, his eyes blown wide open and fixed with rapt fascination.

“It’s… it’s nothing. I… Can you…?” Jonathan squirmed helplessly against the vice grip, so similar to the power the women had shown.

The count didn’t answer, his focus so intense that he barely noticed Jonathan’s struggles.

“Master,” Renfield said softly, and that seemed to rouse the count as Jonathan’s voice had not.

Dracula released Jonathan and rose in a rush. “Attend to him, Renfield. See that he is not harmed again.” His gaze met Jonathan’s, his eyes infinite pools of velvet depths. “Sleep, Jonathan,” he purred in a tone so tender as to make Jonathan yawn. “Sleep, and all will be well when you awaken.”

Jonathan’s head felt too heavy to endure. He collapsed back, and darkness swiftly overtook his mind.

Chapter Text

June 1890: Jonathan Harker

“I long for this new land,” Dracula mused as he studied a map of London. “I’ve been in this place too long.”

In the chair nearby, Jonathan shifted uneasily, something in the count’s tone awakening fresh worry in his mind.

“The peasants know me too well,” Dracula went on. “They see my carriage, my servants, and they flee to the shelter of their homes with their crosses and their wards. There is pleasure in commanding fear and respect, of course. But it had led to ill hunting.” He shook his head slowly as he stared into the fire. “I look forward to walking your streets unknown. Yes… It will be a wonderful thing to pass anonymously through your city.”

Jonathan felt a fresh chill surge through him. He couldn’t explain his unease, not entirely. But the count… this place… it screamed of danger. Or perhaps madness.

He was certain Renfield had been limping and freshly bruised the day after the encounter with the women, but the manservant was fine today. And both he and the count acted as if nothing had happened. As if Jonathan had seen nothing impossible.

But his hands were still scraped. And the hall door was now nailed shut.

But to voice his musings about eyes that changed color and men who effortlessly scaled walls… it was to give voice to legends and monster tales.

And yet… was the count more than a man? Was that the answer?

The way he stared at Jonathan… watched him… kept him confined…

What did the count desire of him?

And how could he avoid it?

Escape was Jonathan’s goal now. This world was too maddening to endure. He’d flee, find a way back to England, warn… someone.

One step at a time, he coached himself. First get out of the castle. Then…

He smiled tightly and settled in for another night of listening to Dracula talk.

Jonathan crept down the stairs, listening intently for any voices from the kitchen. He’d managed to prop the door in the dining room while Renfield exited with the breakfast dishes and had waited for the perfect moment to flee.

His pockets were filled with what little he’d been able to scrounge – a dinner knife, a bit of food, what money he still possessed.

Meager possessions but enough, he prayed, to get him to a town from which he could beg aid.

When the voices in the kitchen dropped to silence, he inched down the stairs and into the deserted room. Without pausing to hunt for further supplies, he hurried toward the outside door.

Just as his hand touched the door, it was flung open, and he found himself face to face with a woman carrying a basket of vegetables.

They froze for a second, the woman’s eyes going huge and terrified.

“I won’t hurt-” Jonathan started to say, but he was speaking to empty air.

The woman fled, abandoning her basket in favor of clutching a rosary and fleeing with it gripped in both hands.

Jonathan pursued, certain he had only seconds before she alerted whatever guards existed in this place… or at least Renfield.

But the woman didn’t pause her flight as she sprinted into a little house and slammed the door behind her. From within, Jonathan heard several voices raised in fervent prayer.

It added desperation to his steps as he dashed across the courtyard.

The great iron gates were ajar, and Jonathan wriggled through the gap and into the open countryside.

The road lay open before him. The road from which he could certainly be seen from the castle. He ran toward the woods.

His desperate strides ate up the ground. The trees closed around him – no gradual forest but a sudden enveloping of foliage which welcomed him into green darkness.

He could hide here. Find his way… somewhere. Anywhere. There had to be farms somewhere. Villages. Somewhere he could beg a ride as far from the castle as possible. He just had to keep run…

The shadows moved somewhere to his left.

He spun around, his eyes frantically seeking into the gloom.

Nothing. And it had been nothing, hadn’t it? A branch moving in the wind… on this still day. A bird? An animal?

Another flash of movement at the corner of his eye. He whirled again, once more seeing nothing. And then… something rustling in the bushes. Just beyond where he could see.

He took a step back, then spun again at a louder noise behind him. He backed further from the sound, now uncertain which way he’d come. The world was a blur of trees and things hidden within them.

Another flash of something large and silent darting low to the ground. Another rustle in the opposite direction.

Jonathan backed against a tree, trying to see in all directions at once. He yanked out his knife, brandishing its stubby and dull length as the only defense he had.

Yellow eyes stared at him from the shadows. Then they were gone as quickly as they’d appeared.

Jonathan’s heart hammered wildly in his throat. A strangled whimper sounded from his lips. He tried to turn it into a shout of defiance, but it came out as a sob.

And then… something bit him.

A light nip from behind. Not enough to break the skin. But for his terrified mind, it was the world crashing down around him.

He ran, the terror turning him mindless. He ran blindly, barely stumbling around trees, no certainty of where he was going.

The shapes were all around him. Shadows and fangs and swift limbs. He fled, recoiling from those grey forms each time they lunged close. He swiped uselessly at them, losing his knife as he stumbled. He tried to plan, but all he could think was to run. Survive. Escape.

He crashed into the body which appeared before him, clinging blindly to Renfield’s shirt whether for salvation or sanity, he couldn’t say. Just that something solid had appeared suddenly in this world of nightmares.

The manservant put an arm around him and guided him what seemed such a short distance out of the woods and back onto the clear path. Jonathan leaned into him, going meekly back through the iron gates of the castle, back up the stairs, back to his bedroom.

There was a relief to hear the doors locked behind him.

Caged against the dangers outside.

And caged with the dangers within.

Count Dracula said nothing to him about his flight as they played cards that evening. They talked of England and Dracula asked him to clarify the pronunciation of particularly tricky words and to listen to his accent to see if it reflected a particular English region.

All smiles and amiable conversation as if nothing had happened.

But when Renfield appeared with the evening coffee, he moved stiffly and his face was a mass of bruises and cuts.

And some of those gashes seemed suspiciously reminiscent of the pattern of rings upon the count’s fingers.

There were people in the courtyard.

Jonathan leaned out the window, watching the men unloading goods into the servants’ hands.

So that was how Dracula got his supplies and news of the outside world.

What sort of people worked voluntarily for the count? The sort who knew nothing, or who could guess what went on behind the castle walls and chose to ignore it if the dangers weren’t visited upon them?

Because people were dying here, Jonathan was certain of that now. He’d seen the count and the women leave in the twilight, and he'd watched for their late-night return - not all on two feet. And he thought he'd seen a mouth stained red.

Not to mention the wine Dracula occasionally drank, which he was certain wasn’t anything of the sort.

Renfield had practically admitted it in his desperately evasive way.

Renfield wasn’t looking well, Jonathan noticed with a flicker of residual worry for the friend who’d become his jailer. The weight and health he’d gained after Jonathan had sprung him from the asylum had disappeared. Despite his formidable strength, his clothes hung off his gaunt frame, and his eyes seemed increasingly sunken and hollow. He’d grown twitchy and nervous, serving Jonathan in a silent rush and fleeing as quickly as possible. He was even more nervous when the count was present, though he still lingered, his eyes trained towards the count’s feet with a desperate sort of longing in his expression.

But there was no sense worrying about him. He’d chosen this. He’d wanted to return here. Probably knowing what fate awaited Jonathan whenever the count bored of him… whatever that was.

And that meant Jonathan needed to concentrate on escape without remorse for what would happen to his once-friend.

He drafted letters to Mina and Mr. Hawkins. News of what had befallen him. That he was a prisoner, and that the count was dangerous. Possibly inhuman. No, he scratched that out quickly. They’d never believe him if he spoke of blood drinking and control over animals. Stick with what they’d believe. That the count was mad. That they should alert the authorities to keep him from England. That if there was any chance of sending someone to Jonathan’s rescue, please find it.

He wrote in shorthand, praying that Mina would be believed when she passed on the messages. It seemed impossible, but it was his only hope.

He found a few coins amidst his belongings, then hurried to an window open and signaled to one of the strangers.

It took a lot of gesturing and showing of coins, but at last the man took the letters and money with a comprehending smile.

It wasn’t the best hope of escape. It was barely a hope, really. But at least he wouldn’t die unknown this way.

At least his friends in England would be warned of what drew nearer.

“The strangest thing occurred today,” Dracula announced, seating himself at the dining table while Jonathan was eating. “Did you see the visitors in the courtyard this afternoon?”

“Yes,” Jonathan replied warily. He couldn’t deny it. They’d been loud enough that feigning ignorance would have sounded like a lie. “They didn’t understand me when I tried to speak to them,” he added. That seemed safe.

“Yes, they are not well versed in languages beyond those used in these lands. Which makes it all the more curious that one of them was carrying these.”

Jonathan’s heart sank as his letters were set upon the table.

“I cannot imagine where they came from,” the count went on in his friendly and calm voice. “After all, there is no reason to send secretive missives from this castle, is there? We are all friends here. There would be no reason to go behind the back of a generous host and send letters without his knowledge, would there?”

“I… can’t imagine any,” Jonathan mumbled hopelessly.

“So of course there would be no harm in the host reading such letters, yes?”

Jonathan nodded. What else could he do?

Dracula opened the first letter with a delicately inserted claw. His face went from calm to annoyance at the sight of the shorthand. He rose and vanished through the kitchen door, leaving it standing open in his haste.

Jonathan ran to the threshold and strained his ears, listening as the count bellowed for Renfield. There was a stretch of silence while Jonathan held his breath.

Shorthand was a newer form of writing. If Renfield really was as old as he claimed, if he had really left England when he said he had, then…

“I’m sorry, Master,” he heard the manservant say. “I don’t understand this. It’s a code of some kind. I can’t-” He broke off with a cry of pain.

More strikes and cries followed as Jonathan slunk back to his seat and toyed miserably with his dinner.

He’d known, of course he’d known. The bruises always lined up with his escape attempts. But it was different to hear it.

Different to feel directly responsible.

The count returned, his face composed and serene as he wiped his hands on a handkerchief which was left stained a blackish red. “Are you finished, my friend? Let us retire to the library.”

There Dracula placed several sheets of paper before Jonathan and directed the writing of new letters. Letters dated into the future. Letters announcing his departure. Letters which could now be used as evidence that Jonathan had left Castle Dracula safely.

If he vanished after that – well, the road was a treacherous place, wasn’t it?

Jonathan stared hopelessly at the letters.

His life had just received an expiration date.

Jonathan paced the library like a caged creature. Which, of course, he was.

And his freedom had been further limited.

His paper and pens were missing. The windows facing the courtyard were boarded up, further limiting his sight and communication with anything beyond his limited rooms.

More indications of his captivity.

And yet, the count still treated him as a welcome guest. They still talked and played games until the early hours of the morning. The count still talked as if they’d be journeying to England soon – and he spoke as if Jonathan would travel with him.

It was enough to drive a man mad.

If he wasn’t mad already.

“Can I do anything for you, Sir?” Renfield asked worriedly from the doorway.

Jonathan whirled and glared at him, finding little pleasure in Renfield’s flinch.

The manservant wasn’t bruised anymore – his injuries having disappeared overnight as if they’d never been. But there was a fresh caution in the way he watched Jonathan which said he feared what would be done to him if Jonathan tried anything further.

Jonathan tried not to care.

“What are you allowed to do for me?” he snarled sarcastically.

Renfield hunched his shoulders and stared at the ground. “The master says I’m to serve you however you wish,” he mumbled.

“And if I said I wanted to walk in the forest?” Jonathan challenged.

Renfield swallowed with visible concern. “I… I would accompany you. If you so desired.”

Jonathan stared at him. “I’ve been locked inside for weeks, and you’d let me out yourself?”

“You haven’t asked to leave, Sir,” Renfield said softly.

Jonathan wanted to hit him. He forced the desire down. “Let’s go. Right now.”

He expected Renfield to put him off, but the manservant obediently opened a locked door and led him down into the courtyard.

The iron gate was opened with equal ease, and Jonathan breathed the air outside the castle with a rush of exhilaration.

He was free!

Not really. But… but perhaps he could progress from here?

Glean information about the road. Study the castle and locate an unguarded door. Perhaps spot a distant farm…

The first of the wolves appeared as they neared the edge of the forest.

Jonathan froze.

“Stay close to me,” Renfield instructed. “They won’t attack while you’re with me.”

“And if I was alone?”

Renfield glanced at the animals, then away. “I’m not certain what instructions the master has given them regarding preserving your life.”

“He gives detailed instructions to animals?”

There was a long pause as Renfield seemed to weigh his words. “They’re not all animals. Not entirely.”

Jonathan stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Renfield looked helplessly at him, then shook his head. “How far would you like to walk, Sir? I don’t recommend we spend much time in the forest. It’s not…” He glanced at the watching creatures. “They wouldn’t like it.”

Jonathan resolutely forced them to walk another few minutes before he agreed to turn back.

“Are you happy to be home, Mr. Renfield?” he asked, failing to keep the bitterness from his tone.

Renfield flinched and hunched miserably. “I hoped he would forgive me sooner,” he said softly.

“What is it you did that was so horrible?”

“I failed him. One does not fail the master and expect forgiveness. I should have known coming back wouldn’t be…” He trailed off. “He is right to be displeased with me,” he said at last. “I’ve not served him as faithfully as I should since my return.”

He meant that Jonathan kept trying to escape, the solicitor suspected. And Renfield blamed himself? Or had been taught to blame himself?

Or it was easier for Dracula to lay the blame on Renfield and take his displeasure out on his servant’s hide than to show Jonathan anything besides a friendly face.

Yet the threat was there, wasn’t it? This could be you, the silent message read. I’ve chosen not to hurt you. Yet. But it could be you. Next time maybe it will be.

“Can you arrange transport for me to leave here?” Jonathan asked, testing how far his boundaries could possibly be stretched.

“The master will arrange that when your work for him concludes,” Renfield replied evasively.

“What more could he possibly want of me?” Jonathan demanded.

Renfield flinched. “I am not privy to his plans.”

But he knew more than he was saying, that was obvious.

Jonathan tried a different approach. “How old were you when you came here?”

Renfield looked surprised but answered readily. “Twenty-nine, I believe.”

The same age he looked now. And with all the strangeness Jonathan had seen… that fact hardly seemed impossible any longer. “So you’ve been his man all these years?”

“Yes.” Renfield slowed as they neared the castle’s iron gates. “I was fortunate that my life was useful to him.” He paused to fish a box out of his pocket and swallow something that buzzed in his mouth. Then he pulled the iron gate open and closed with ease.

Jonathan turned around and tried to move the gate himself. It wouldn’t budge. He looked back at Renfield, noticing not for the first time the amber glow to the manservant’s eyes.

The wolves in the forest aren’t wolves, he says, Jonathan tallied in his mind. The women aren’t women. Their eyes are red. Same at the count’s when he’s upset. Renfield’s are yellow. He’s strong. So are the women. So is Dracula. They’re all fast. The count can climb impossible things. And the women can change their shape. Maybe Dracula too.

They’re monsters. All of them. But Renfield wasn’t always. Something happened to him. Something that made him stop aging and made him strong. Maybe something different happened to Dracula and the women. Something worse.

Renfield quickened his strides. “The master wants me.” He gave Jonathan a pleading look. “You’ll return to your rooms?”

“Yes,” Jonathan agreed, feeling it was better not to make an enemy out of the one person who seemed somewhat kind to him. Or at least honestly kind. The count had never been anything but kind. And it scared Jonathan.

Renfield peeled off to hurry through forbidden halls.

Jonathan spent a moment looking after him… and then returned to his prison.

This would have been a bad time to attempt escape when the wolves were alert for him, and Dracula was awake.

Best to behave for the moment.

Besides, the trip hadn’t been entirely wasted.

He’d seen the horses grazing beyond the castle walls.

“Did you enjoy your excursion?” Dracula asked as he took a seat at the dining table, watching Jonathan eat in a manner which made Jonathan feel as if he was being fattened up for the kill.

“I appreciated the chance to stretch my legs,” Jonathan said carefully. He flicked a glance at Renfield who was refilling his glass. The manservant looked unscathed, which gave Jonathan a flicker of relief despite striving to harden his heart against it.

“I am glad. I desire you to be comfortable during your stay here.”

“And how long is my stay here to last?” The question slipped out before Jonathan could hide behind the dance of civility.

Renfield started to depart, but the count raised a hand, and he froze in his tracks. Dracula moved his chair back and pointed to the ground. Renfield knelt at his side at once. His back was straight, his head bowed, his hands resting on his knees.

The pose was so practiced as to make Jonathan feel slightly ill.

Dracula rested a hand on the back of his servant’s neck, his long nails swirling patterns in the short hairs. “It is so rare that visitors come to these parts,” he said conversationally. “The peasants fear me, as you may have noticed.”

Jonathan thought of the woman who’d recently come to the castle gates, sobbing for her child. He’d not seen her again after the wolves had gone their way. “I have,” he said cautiously.

“It was some years ago that I first toyed with the idea of moving. Some… thirty years, I believe it was. I wrote to so many English solicitors. I was sadly ignored. A foreigner, they thought. A joke that I would write without an idea of their ways of doing business.

“Imagine my surprise when one young man appeared at my castle gates without warning. Poor soul that he was. Hungry and lost after so long a journey. Hopeful that I could be the making of him.” His hands strayed beneath Renfield’s chin and raised his head, caressing him as one might a favored dog.

Renfield looked up, eyes so desperate and so fearful as to make Jonathan’s heart pound with anxiety.

“I did so enjoy the new entertainment. Someone who could teach me your language and customs. An attendant in my travels throughout this region. One who would serve me as long and as faithfully as I might wish.” His grip had tightened around Renfield’s chin, his nails digging indentations into his flesh.

Renfield didn’t try to pull away.

“But a servile devotee… that sort grows tiresome quickly. Useful, of course. Eternally useful. But enjoyable?” Dracula waggled Renfield’s head back and forth in a negative gesture. “No. Too pathetic for that. Still…” He released Renfield who collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. “…he has his place. But it does mean…” His hungry eyes met Jonathan’s. “…I must seek a companion elsewhere once again.”

Jonathan swallowed hard. “I’m… flattered you’ve enjoyed our time together. But… I do have a job waiting for me back home. And… a life.”

“Yes, you mentioned the lovely Ms. Murray,” Dracula purred. He rose, a tall and fluid shadow amidst the torchlight. “She sounds like a true and devoted helpmate.”

There was a slight sneer to his tone which made Jonathan lift his chin sharply. “Mina is her own woman. I’m forever grateful she chose to love me.”

“Love,” the count mused with a small shake of his head. “So much throughout history has been done for love. Is any of it worth it? Love fades, my friend. Your beautiful rose… she will age and wither. All the bloom and vivacity of youth… it will turn into something grating and foul. You’ll look at her wrinkled and weak body and wish you’d never coupled with her. No. Love is an illusion. A tale of poets and dreamers. There is no eternal. There is only… the moment.”

He'd stepped close and turned Jonathan’s chair to face him. He cupped a hand around the young man’s cheek.

Jonathan slapped the hand away and snatched up the dinner knife. “Don’t touch me.”

Dracula chuckled. “Such spirit. You!” he snapped over his shoulder to Renfield who’d risen at the threat. “Down!”

Renfield dropped back to his knees.

“Dogs belong at the master’s feet,” Dracula observed, the purr of amusement back in his voice. “But you… you are a fiercer creature than a cowering mongrel.”

He struck so fast that Jonathan didn’t see him move. The knife was snatched from his grasp and flung across the room. Jonathan and his chair were shoved against the wall. Before he could rise, two powerful hands seized his shoulder and held him fast.

“Let go of me!” Jonathan bellowed, struggling and kicking wildly.

The count seemed impervious to the blows. “Be calm, my friend. You are in no danger. You have had so many questions. I am merely giving you answers.”

Jonathan’s struggles slowed as he gazed into the unfathomable depths of the red-flecked eyes.

Dracula smiled at him. The congenial and generous host. The mask of civility and care so carefully in place.

And then he struck.

Gleaming teeth fastened themselves into Jonathan’s neck before he could react.

He cried out in pain and… something more.

A flood of unwanted want which surged through his veins just as the blood was pulled from them. A torrent of tender assurance that all was well. That he was safe. That he need only lie still and pliant and no harm would ever befall him.

That in the master’s hands, he was at peace.

Dracula pulled back, his mouth stained in Jonathan’s blood. He smiled, a smile that dripped red down his pale chin. “Stand.”

Jonathan rose. His mind felt soft and soothed. A drifting sea in which all was safe if he only followed the call of the lighthouse which was Dracula’s voice.

“Come.”

His legs moved of their own accord, following wherever the count might lead.

Dracula snapped his fingers, and Renfield rose to take up his place at the end of the procession.

In the library, Dracula gestured Jonathan to the sofa. “Lie down, my young friend. Be at ease.”

Jonathan obeyed, stretching out fully on the sofa, one arm lazily tucked under his head.

“Isn’t he a beautiful sight, Servant?” Dracula hummed.

Renfield mumbled something which might have been confirmation. The look he threw Jonathan’s way was one of agony and apology.

Jonathan wondered why.

Dracula seated himself on the edge of the sofa, his hips nudged against Jonathan’s side. His fingers toyed with Jonathan’s shirt, gradually exploring higher. He began working open the buttons, his hands wandering freely over Jonathan’s chest.

At long last he heaved a regretful sigh and rose. “Not yet. No… it will be sweeter later on. Rest well, my Jonathan. Tomorrow… we will see. Renfield, attend me.”

Renfield looked back at Jonathan as they left him there, half undressed and exposed to the evening’s chill. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Renfield!” the count called sharply, and the servant scuttled after him.

Jonathan wondered what there was to be sorry about. This was the most relaxed he’d felt since he’d arrived. Everything would be just fine now. Just relax and let Count Dracula arrange everything.

He nestled deeper into the sofa and drifted into blissful slumber.

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

I glance twice at a flyer on the restaurant door and tug it down.

Mark makes a protesting noise as he follows me inside. “If you take it, how will anyone else see it?”

“I’ll put it back,” I promise. I snap a picture as we sit down. “Happy?”

“Oh, you do understand modern technology,” Mark grumps.

“Just because I don’t answer your texts immediately…”

“I wouldn’t worry if I knew when you sleep.”

“Sleep?” I grin sweetly and snatch a fly out of the air. “Who needs circadian rhythm when you have bugs?”

Mark gives me a pained look.

I hold his gaze, then release the fly.

He relaxes visibly. “Thank you.”

“It’s perfectly normal. Just some extra protein.”

Mark busies himself with the menu, muttering about proper diets and healthy sleeping habits while I laugh at him.

“Have you been to the global food festival before?” I ask, my eyes on the flyer.

“A few times. You might be disappointed. Since you’ve been all over the world.”

“I haven’t been everywhere. We mostly move somewhere with the intention of staying. Lucy’s the traveler. She’s always visiting new places.”

Mark looks wistful. “It would be nice to be able to see the world.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Money. Responsibilities. Fear for my safety…” His face changes to that preoccupied and scared look I’m growing accustomed to.

It’s been two days. Mark says he’s fine and doesn’t want to talk about it.

He isn’t acting fine.

“I’m off that day if you want company,” he says with a nod at the flyer.

“Actually, I was thinking Jonathan would be interested.”

Mark looks up sharply. “For hunting?”

“For eating. He loves curries.”

“He can… eat?”

“He can’t. But he’d use my body to taste things.”

“He’d what?!”

I frown. “I told you he can share my senses. He’d just… take over completely for the day.”

“He’d make you do that?!”

“He wouldn’t make me. I thought he might want to.”

“But losing control of your body. That’s… can you imagine what someone might do?”

“But it isn’t someone. It’s Jonathan.”

Mark is trying for his therapist face. Mostly he looks scared. “Have you ever stopped to think… really think… if this is something you feel safe doing?”

“We have our rules for when we’re sharing a body, and we’re good about following them.”

Mark warily takes a drink. “So long as you’re sure you’re not being coerced.”

I wait until his mouth is full. “It makes for fascinating sex.”

The waitress brings another drink once Mark has finished coughing his all over the table.

Jonathan, being Jonathan, spends the rest of the night on the festival website reading aloud the list of vendors and asking if I’m sure I don’t mind letting him have all the fun.

Mina and Lucy roll their eyes at his enthusiasm. They lost their taste for human food long ago. That Jonathan remembers and craves more than just blood is unique and entirely thanks to having been bonded with me at so young an age. It means he still remembers his favorite things.

Namely, spicy food.

I stock up on the Pepto Bismal.

Late afternoon, I tape a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign to his coffin and slide to the floor beside it.

Ready? Jonathan asks.

I close my eyes. Enter and be welcome, Master.

So formal, he teases.

He doesn’t need an invitation. But he always asks.

His mind flows into mine, expanding to fill my body. I retreat my consciousness as his presence grows. My limbs tingle and flex. My breath comes sharp and forced as someone unaccustomed to involuntary breathing takes over.

My fingers move tapping patterns until dexterity is established. My eyes open.

Jonathan climbs to my feet shakily, taking a minute to pace the room until he’s comfortable with stride and movement. “Okay in there?” he asks, nose wrinkling at the sound of my voice with his inflections.

I’m here.

Jonathan pulls on my jacket after a reminder that this body feels more temperature variations than his and heads for the trolley. I resist helping with directions. He is fully competent at navigating, but he gets out so little in daylight that he’s always a little overwhelmed. Still, it’s polite not to treat him as if he can’t get on without my help.

Even if sometimes I wonder.

We reach the park and join the throng of people roaming among the booths. Music plays on a stage nearby, and signs advertise ongoing entertainment throughout the evening.

Jonathan only has eyes for the food. We laugh at traditional fare that looks nothing like what we’ve experienced in those lands. We come upon a German booth, and Jonathan tries out what he remembers of the language, being told that his syntax is rather dated.

He stalks off, muttering about ‘kids these days’ while I call him grandpa and he shoots back that I’m dramatically older than he is, and I reply that forty years isn’t a lot considering we’re both working on our second century.

“Robert!” I hear a voice calling.

Jonathan is busy asking a Nepali woman about her hottest curry and doesn’t acknowledge the voice.

I give him a nudge after the second call. That’s you.

Jonathan turns, blinking blankly at the slightly breathless Mark. “Hello… friend.”

Mark.

“Mark.”

Mark halts and eyes us warily. “Robert?”

He knows.

Knows? How much does he know?

Please be nice. He’s my friend.

Jonathan smiles. “Not today.” He puts out a hand. “I’m Jonathan.”

Mark looks utterly alarmed at the prospect of contact. “So if you’re… You’re really not Robert?”

Jonathan shakes my head. “No, but he’s in here too.”

Hi Mark.

“He says hello.”

Mark backs up, his eyes alarmingly wide. “How… Is he okay?”

“Of course.” Jonathan collects his curry with a smile of thanks. “Hopefully his stomach will be too.” He’s salivating eagerly but manages something resembling manners. “Want a taste? It’s spicy.”

Mark shakes his head.

Jonathan takes a bite, making a groaning noise that puts all Mina’s bedroom antics to shame. “Have you seen the whole fair yet?” he asks once he’s eaten enough to be capable of thinking.

Mark shakes his head. “I just got here. I was looking for… you.”

Jonathan grins. “We haven’t been here long either. Shall we?”

And Mark finds himself falling into step with the vampire, perhaps mesmerized along by intrigue or too scared of the situation to leave Jonathan alone.

Jonathan is delighted to have company. He keeps the conversation focused on food, urging Mark to buy a selection before they find a picnic table. Jonathan eats with gusto. Mark looks as if he’s convinced he’s being fattened for the kill.

“There’s the heat,” Jonathan hums as he bits into a rice cake soaked in a red and burning sauce.

How many spicy dishes are you planning to try? I ask.

How many of them are here?

If I’m sick later, it’s your coffin I’m throwing up into.

Jonathan laughs, and Mark looks up sharply. “Just Renfield threatening what he’ll do to my coffin if I make his body ill.”

“You really have a coffin?” Mark asks.

“Of course. It comes standard with the lifestyle. My body’s in it right now.”

“And not with Robert’s mind inside it?”

“We’ve tried that. It doesn’t work very well. Conflicting instincts of what to do in a crisis. Plus, it’s more fun to enjoy a sunny day like this together.”

“Which you… can’t… typically. Because you’re…” Mark trails off.

“It’s not a bad word,” Jonathan says with a reassuring smile that is his more than mine considering the way he’s learned to smile without showing his canines. He nibbles on a meatball. “These are interesting. Sort of a dill sauce. Do you want to try?”

Mark wavers and looks prepared to bolt. Then he stretches out a fork, “Yeah, okay.”

It doesn’t take Mark long to resume questioning. “So you can… move into someone’s head? Read their thoughts?”

“Not anyone,” Jonathan replies levelly. “Just Renfield’s.”

“Could you force yourself into his body and take control?”

“Yes, but I’d have to sleep with the consequences.”

Mark looks blank.

“He’s my guard when I’m at my most vulnerable,” Jonathan explains patiently. “I have to be able to trust him explicitly.” I nudge at his mind, and he adds; “And it’s rude of us to talk as if he’s not part of this conversation.”

Mark jumps. “He can hear us? I mean… Robert? You’re…?”

“He says of course, he’s paying attention to the conversation. It is about him. And he’s answered some of these questions already.”

Mark taps his fingers restlessly against the picnic table. “You understand that this-” He waves a hand at my body. “-concerns me.”

“How so?”

“Because I run a therapy group for people in abusive relationships. I spend my nights meeting with people who are wholly consumed by their partners. And I’m looking at the walking embodiment of that.”

“Ah.” Jonathan leans back and shifts inwardly. A quick discussion between us and then he turns back to Mark. “Would you have an easier time with this if you met both of us? In separate bodies?”

Mark frowns. “Why does it matter to you? Couldn’t you just… zap my mind?”

“You’re Renfield’s friend. I wouldn’t do that. Without asking first.”

“People ask you to wipe their minds?!”

“You’d be surprised.” Jonathan sips a mango lassi and makes a face. “That does not pair well with the meatballs. So. Would you like to continue exploring with us?”

Mark rises with him. “Are you two going to be laughing at private jokes the whole time?”

“Probably.”

Surprisingly, Mark smiled. “That… does make this seem a little better.”

“I’m delighted it’s not all a horror movie for you.”

They resumed roaming, enjoying food and music. Once thoroughly sated, Jonathan steers them to a picnic table and sits down. I’ll meet you at the gate.

Be safe, I respond, then slump over the table as Jonathan departs my mind.

It takes a minute to regain control of the body. I can hear Mark calling worriedly when my ears start functioning again.

“Jonathan? Is something wrong?”

I respond with a groan and touch my stomach, now fully aware of the aching. “He ate too much.”

There’s a long pause. Then – “Robert?”

“Hi,” I say, waving a limp hand.

“It’s really… You’re you again?”

“Yes.” I slowly stand. “I need water.”

Mark hovers worriedly as I down an entire bottle. “It’s really… This isn’t a trick? You’re not… you don’t have one of those multiple personality conditions? I’m not going crazy?”

“You’re not crazy. You spent the afternoon with Jonathan. Who is currently trying to catch a trolley.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

I lean against a tree. “It’s always disorienting at first.” I touch my stomach. “And this is never fun to come back to.”

“You knew he’d overeat?”

I shrug. “You do things to make the people you love feel special. In my case… stomachache.”

“You do more for him than just that,” Mark observes suspiciously.

I shrug again. “It’s complicated between us. Might not be healthy in your eyes. But… I’m as happy with my life as I’ve ever been. Can we find somewhere to sit down?”

We find a bench near the edge of the park and watch the crowds until Jonathan, followed by Mina and Lucy, arrive.

“Hi!” Lucy cheers, enveloping Mark in an enthusiastic embrace. She links arms with him and me. “You boys can be my dates when Johnny and Mina abandon us.”

“We’re not going to abandon you,” Jonathan protests, but within ten minutes, he and Mina are dancing in front of a stage while Lucy calls insults at them. She tries to drag me off as a partner, but I protest mercy for my abused body and find a place to sit while she leads Mark into the dancing space.

I watch Mark loosen up at last, much of the burden he’s been carrying the past few days slipping away.

“I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?” Jonathan asks as he joins me on the bench.

I lean against him. “Just don’t expect any work out of me tonight.”

I spare a moment's reflection on what my life has become that I can beg a stomachache as an excuse not to perform my duties when there had been a time when I’d have been expected to labor until I passed out from major damage to vital organs.

He kisses the side of my head. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“I enjoyed it too.”

Mark drops to my other side as we watch Mina and Lucy dance something fast and complicated that draws the attention of the other dancers until a ring of applauding spectators forms around them.

“Hi again.” Jonathan waves awkwardly at Mark.

Mark leans forward and takes a scrutinizing look at him.

“He knows he’s good looking. You don’t have to burnish is ego,” I say.

Mark stammers, his hands doing their awkward dance in the air. “I didn’t mean…”

“I need all the compliments I can get with the way Renfield cuts me down,” Jonathan grumps.

I push back his wide-brimmed hat to tug a lock of his salt-and-pepper hair. “I have to after a century of every young person with daddy issues throwing themselves at you.”

Mark continues to frown at us.

“Separate bodies isn’t helping?” I ask.

Mark rubs his forehead with a pained air. “Two days ago, my life was normal. Now I’m living in a Detective Hawkins story.”

Jonathan lights up. “Oh! You’ve read them?”

“Of course! They’re amazing.”

Jonathan elbows me. “You didn’t tell me he was a fan.”

“I hoped it wouldn’t come up,” I grumble.

But it’s too late. Mark is delighted to talk to anyone about his passions, and Jonathan is delighted to encourage the enthusiastic rambling.

“The last one was wild,” Mark says with a pause to breathe. “It’s too bad the author died before he could write anymore. I had first editions of the whole series, but I had to leave them behind when I moved.” His expression darkens. “My ex probably destroyed them.”

“I don’t think I have any first editions,” Jonathan says apologetically. “But I could autograph you something.”

“If you have autographed ones, I don’t think they’re real. The author was famous for never signing anything. Or appearing in public. There’s not even a photo…” Something clicks in Mark’s mind. Probably buoyed along by Jonathan’s broad grin. “Are you…? I mean, there were always rumors that his death was faked…”

Jonathan gives me a squeeze as I huff moodily. “I thought you did a fine job with the funeral arrangements.”

“I still wish you’d given me more warning before killing off your most popular alias.”

Mark’s eyes bulge behind his glasses, and his hands are vibrating. “You’re John Murray?!”

“Yes. Well… I was. Murray was getting old. I can’t keep old names around forever.” Jonathan frowns. “It’s a shame. I liked that one. But maybe I can come back as his child and continue the series.” He looks at me. “Did Murray have kids? I don’t remember.”

I shrug. “I’d have to check the records. But I think we can find a cousin at least.”

Mark continues to stare. “You really published… I guess I never thought about what vampires do with their time. Besides drinking blood and posing dramatically on castle parapets.”

“We don’t eat that much,” Jonathan replies. “And Renfield keeps me stocked in donated blood, so I don’t hunt often.” His gaze shifts longingly toward a beignet stand. “Blood, anyway. Renfield…?”

I give him a pleading look, and he looks away with a dramatic sigh.

“But, yes, I have to make a living somehow. And selling real estate got old after a few decades. And harder when there were a couple wars going on. So, I started writing travel narratives for magazines. And some short stories. And when Renfield told me I didn’t write like I understood humans anymore, I thought I’d give other genres a try.” Jonathan is rambling, and I can’t really blame him. It’s not like he gets to tell his whole story to people very often.

Neither of us should have told Mark as much as he already knows. Or anything. But it’s too late to stop Jonathan, and I don’t really want to.

Maybe after losing our illusionary life in Savannah, we’re both a little desperate to share who we really are.

“I did some stories with robots and spaceships back in the fifties and sixties. Nothing that really caught on. But then vampire stories started getting popular, and I thought I could write something that wasn’t a rehash of Carnilla. And it turned out people were excited about a vampire detective. So… I wrote a few more.”

“But did you have to stop them where you did?!” Mark protests. “After the last one…”

Jonathan’s arm around my chest tightens. “I’d said what I needed to,” he says a little sharper than he probably intends.

Mark looks between us, his frown reappearing, though with a more thoughtful air. “So, you write books… and you invest.” His eyes stray towards the dance floor. “What about everyone else?”

“Mina’s a medical examiner,” Jonathan says.

Mark’s head whips back around.

“Currently anyway,” I add. “She learned nursing back in the first World War, and she’s gone back to school a few times whenever new opportunities for women open up. And Lucy…”

“Lucy does what Lucy does,” Jonathan supplies. “She’s very good at it. Whatever ‘it’ happens to be this particular decade.”

“Anything that keeps her traveling and trying new things.”

“That must be nice,” Mark murmurs, his eyes drifting toward Lucy and Mina again.

“What about you?” Jonathan asks. “You run that group Renfield’s been talking about. What else do you do?”

Mark laughs awkwardly. “A little of everything, I guess. I counsel troubled teens through the church. And I help with their administrative work. Organize their food pantry. Mass mailings. That sort of thing.”

“You’re religious, then?”

“Not particularly. They were the only ones hiring in remotely my field when I moved here. And it’s been rewarding. Exhausting. Not the most financially stable work. But… once you’re involved, there’s always more to do.”

Jonathan nods vaguely.

The girls return, announcing they want to see the festival, so we rise. Mark and I soon fall back a few paces, saying little as we watch the crowd.

“If you ever wanted out of… all of this,” Mark says cautiously, “could you leave?”

I sigh and shove my hands into my pockets. “My life and Jonathan’s are tangled together in ways I’m not sure either of us could unravel. It’s dangerous for a familiar to be away from their master for an extended time. For both parties. We’ve seen what happens when the bond is abused. Neither of us want to go through that.”

“So you can’t leave him?”

“I can’t leave him,” I confirm. “I’m not all the way human anymore. It makes for some different rules.”

Mark’s face is troubled but he looks less distressed than before. “Does it have to be that way? For… everyone like you?”

“I don’t know. There are plenty of vampires that just have servants who are familiars in name only. No bond. No transformation. No sharing of powers. Those could leave, although they’re more in danger of being eaten.”

Mark’s alarmed expression is back.

I keep talking. “I’ve met some other created familiars who don’t seem as connected at the level that Jonathan and I are. Maybe they could separate themselves from the bond without damaging either party.” I shrug. “My creator wanted to make sure that even death wouldn't separate me from him. Jonathan might have saved me, but I think it cost us any hope of being apart.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Probably. But I’ve had more than a century to adapt to it.”

Mark hisses through his teeth. “And then you go and say things like that and make this even weirder.”

I grin. “Sorry my life doesn’t fit nicely into one of your books.”

“I think the same affirmations apply. No matter what, you deserve happiness, your feelings respected, your-”

“Mark,” I hiss, my attention captured by several men wandering our way.

Jonathan alerts in the same direction, too close in proximity not to immediately sense my anxiety spike. Mina, then Lucy, turn as the tension travels down the bond.

Who are they? Jonathan asks.

They hurt Mark. They’ve been following him.

Without a word spoken, we shield Mark from view and duck between a pair of booths. Mina slips behind the men as they pass and trails them at a distance.

Mark collapses, his hands clutched around his head. “H-how did they find me again?”

Lucy sits with him, murmuring reassurances and teasing out even more of the story than I knew while Jonathan and I stand solidly between him and anyone who might question our presence. I give Jonathan my memories of the fight.

If they found his car, they may have learned where he works, Jonathan observes. Maybe someone at the church mentioned he’d be coming here. And they may have been looking for you for payback. You know how soldiers can be.

I sigh. I’d rather not get shot again so soon after the last time.

I’d rather you never got shot again ever.

We can only dream.

Jonathan’s eyes unfocus. “Mina says they’re leaving. They didn’t see you.”

Mark lets out a breath. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“How are you doing?” I ask, squatting down to be closer to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, leaning into Lucy’s embrace with a shudder. “I’m scared to get my car. I’m scared to go home. Andy… you met his friends. That’s the sort he attracts. People who will hurt others for him because they like hurting other people. I thought moving across the state would be enough.” He looks up at me with helpless eyes. “I thought I could disappear.”

“It’s never easy to do,” I agree. I exchange a look with Jonathan and Lucy. “Why don’t you come back to the hotel with us?”

“What?”

“We have two beds,” Lucy says. “Renny’s the only one sleeping in them. And we’re paying for four even though he’s the only one eating the breakfasts. You can have free food and a place to stay. And someone else does the cleaning!”

“Frequently me,” I mutter.

“And you’re so good at it,” Lucy replies sweetly. She turns back to Mark. “And if your ex or his buddies come by, we can make sure they’ll never bother you again. Or anyone.”

“I don’t wish being eaten on Andy,” Mark protests.

“I can do scary too,” she replies carelessly. “Believe me, I’ve dealt with plenty of stalkery exes over the years.”

“It’s her specialty,” I confirm.

Mark hesitates, his eyes roaming from person to person before settling on Jonathan. “This is okay? Really?”

“Mina says it’s fine,” he replies.

“She’s in charge,” Lucy explains. She bounces to her feet and offers both hands to Mark. “Please come. Renny could use a human friend.”

He takes them cautiously. “If you’re sure…”

Lucy doesn’t give him time to change his mind. Within ten minutes, she and I are in an Uber with Mark between us. Lucy chats so easily about the festival that Mark is beginning to smile when we reach his house. Inside, I help him pack for a few days, impressing him with the speed at which I can collect essentials while Lucy prowls about unplugging electronics and throwing out perishable food.

I don’t say that the state of Mark’s fridge and house indicates that he hasn’t been taking care of himself for some time. Or that he’s been on the verge of flight probably since he moved in.

Jonathan and Mina are still away when we reach the hotel - by design to give us time to settle our guest. Mark blanches when he sees the contents of the fridge and shudders at the sight of the coffins. But we settle him on the sofa and talk casually until much of his tension has eased. Lucy deserves all the credit for knowing when to ask serious questions and when to steer our talk to lighter matters and when to put on the TV so she and Mark can argue over a reality show together.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” I ask once Mark is yawning and lilting onto Lucy’s shoulder. I’m worried about this part. The four of us are accustomed to piling into beds or coffins in whatever combination we find ourselves in. But Mark’s not from a time period when central heating with a luxury for the future and cuddling with friends, family, or strangers was common practice. I’m not sure how he’ll feel about sleeping in a room with at least one coffin and awakening to find someone inhabiting it.

Mark grimaces. “Is it weird that I don’t feel safe? Even now?”

“No,” Lucy and I say as one.

“Fears don’t go away immediately,” Lucy says. “But having other people around helps.” She catches him by the hands. “Come on.”

Once he’s changed for bed, she brings him into the room the girls have been sharing and tugs him into the bed where she settles on top of the blankets and gestures for me to climb under them. “Renny and I will stay with you.”

Mark looks uneasily at me as I climb in beside him. “Are you okay with this?”

“Are you?” I reply. “We’ll do whatever makes you comfortable.”

Mark hesitates. “I don’t think I want to be alone,” he confesses.

Lucy flops back on the pillows, a book in her hand. “If you need someone nearby, Renny’s right there. And if something wakes you up, I’ll be here.” She leans down and kisses his hair. “Sleep time. No more worries.”

“I just got kissed by a vampire,” Mark mumbles in a tired daze.

“Don’t worry,” I murmur back. “Miss Lucy only bites friends if they ask her to.”

“Who would ask…?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Chapter Text

June 1890: Jonathan Harker

“Sir? Would you like something to eat?”

Jonathan kept his back to Renfield and didn’t answer.

He’d made it as far as his room before vomiting up the memories of the night before. He’d washed himself over and over, scrubbing his chest raw and clawing at the marks on his neck until they bled. After that, he’d dropped onto his bed, turned his face to the wall, and lain in a stupor as the hours passed.

It wasn’t the first time Renfield had come to his door. He’d heard the manservant leave him tea hours before. And take it away once it grew cold.

He listened to Renfield shift uneasily. The stuttered breath as if he wished to say something and then thought better of it. At last, his footsteps retreated, leaving stillness behind.

The daylight slowly dimmed. Jonathan tried to think of… anything. An escape. A plan. An understanding of what had happened. What he’d felt. The wanting. That was the worst of it. The desire for… for whatever the count intended.

His stomach churned though he had nothing left to lose.

“The master’s away,” he heard Renfield say from the doorway. “He’ll be gone for a few hours.”

Jonathan didn’t move.

“If you don’t come to him, he’ll come here.” Renfield’s voice dropped lower. “It’s worse if he comes to you. Your room… you bed… it’ll never feel safe again.”

Jonathan sat up quickly, whirling to face his jailer. “You let him put his hands all over you, didn’t you?”

Renfield hunched, his teeth worrying at his knuckles. “He was kind then,” he mumbled. “It was easy to…”

“You’re disgusting!”

Renfield nodded, his head bowed in acceptance of shame.

Jonathan rubbed the bite marks on his neck. “What is he?” he demanded, his voice breaking with barely suppressed terror.

Renfield started to speak, then faltered. “It’s… better you ask him.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“There are things he’s ordered me not to tell you.” Renfield's eyes pleaded for understanding. “I can’t resist him. You felt it. It’s like that for me all the time.”

“And you wanted to return to him.”

Renfield looked away. “He used to be different.”

“You can take dinner away,” Jonathan said flatly. “I’m not going near him ever again.”

“He’ll come to you,” Renfield said quietly. “If he wants you to eat, you’ll eat.”

And I’ll smile while I do, Jonathan thought hopelessly.

No way out. Dracula had proved that repeatedly. And last night he’d shown he could make Jonathan perform however he wished.

“He’ll keep being kind if you do as he says,” Renfield said with a touch of desperation. “He likes you. It’s better if he likes you.”

“Does he kill the ones he doesn’t like?”

Renfield didn’t answer, but renewed gnawing at his knuckles gave a clear answer.

“Why me?” Jonathan asked. “Why does he want me?”

“He’s always had companions. Servants. Fa-” Renfield winced and spoke in a careful tone. “He chooses from wherever he travels or intends to travel. Right now, he’s thinking about England. So he wants someone useful to him. Who…” He struggled to find the words. “You don’t know anything about what he is. I didn’t either. He likes the… the novelty of being unknown. He enjoyed my ignorance. I suppose… he wanted that again.”

Jonathan rose. “Did you know?” he demanded. “Our whole trip here, you never said a word about him. Never gave me a shred of warning. Did you know what he’d do to me?”

Renfield clutched helplessly at his head. “I hoped… I hoped I’d be enough for him. I… I couldn’t remember… properly… what he was like… It was all so fragmented and…” He broke off, whapping his head against the doorframe while ripping out a tuft of hair.

Jonathan tensed, waiting to see if Renfield would fall into a seizure. But the servant calmed himself after a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered at last, his voice utterly desolate. “I thought he’d get what he wanted and send you away to finish the work you’d started. Or if he decided he had no further need of you…” He looked up, his eyes hopeless and haunted. “…I tried not to care about what he’d do.”

Renfield fled, and Jonathan sank back to the bed, his head in his hands.

He had to get away. It was the only choice.

If he didn’t he’d either be killed or go as mad as Renfield.

He didn’t know which fate was worse.

“Renfield tells me you’ve not eaten,” Dracula said, appearing in the doorway of Jonathan’s room. “Come. We will dine together.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jonathan said sullenly.

The count’s face was all smiles as he wrapped an arm around Jonathan’s middle and escorted him out of the room. “I really must insist,” he said as congenially as if he wasn’t dragging his ‘guest’ along like a petulant child. “I would be a poor host if I allowed you to grow thin and pale.”

You don’t worry about that with your servant, Jonathan noted as Renfield laid a plate before him with shaking hands.

“Come, my friend. Eat. If you do not like this, the cook will prepare something else.”

Jonathan glared and watched Renfield set down the count's glass of... wine. “What is it you eat?”

“Ah, this would not sit well with you. My diet is… most particular.”

Jonathan placed both hands on the table. “Perhaps, Count, you would be kind enough to simply tell me instead of continuing this charade.”

“Charade? Whatever do you mean?”

Jonathan glared at him. “You’re stronger and faster than a human. Your eyes change colors. You drink blood. I know it’s blood. You don’t need to keep giving me that smile!”

Dracula was giving him exactly that smile. “Please, go on with your observations.”

Jonathan took a ragged breath. “You stop breathing sometimes. I think you change shape. Those women too. I know they exist! It wasn’t a dream. He-” He jabbed a finger at Renfield. “-doesn’t age. And what you did last night. You… you controlled me.”

Dracula shook his head. “Nothing so crude, my friend. I merely… suggested that you might be calmer. You were so very agitated. As you are now. Should I calm your nerves once again?”

Jonathan couldn’t stop from trembling. “I would rather that you didn’t,” he said carefully.

Dracula’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then eat, please. I fear you will make yourself unwell otherwise.”

It was a threat. They both knew it. Jonathan reluctantly picked up his fork. He noticed that he’d been given no knife.

Did Renfield fear he’d try to use it on the count? Or on himself?

Or was this yet another deprivation because of his poor behavior the day before?

The count watched each bite Jonathan consumed with a steady gaze. “You are most observant. It is a good trait to possess. Very wise indeed.”

Jonathan paused. “So will you tell me… what are you?”

Dracula smiled a wide and amused gleam which revealed his long and pointed fangs. “Ah, Jonathan. I have been called by so many names. What would it be in your tongue? Do you have a word for a being gifted as I have been?”

“Gifted?”

“I was like you once. Long, long ago in a darker time. Sad creature. Consuming the gross flesh as you do. Susceptible to all your ailments and injuries. Weak and ignorant of the wider world. But then… such a blessing came to me. Such power.” He sighed. “And I was reborn as the being you see before you.”

Jonathan stared at him… and a thrill of unease flickered through his mind.

The count looked… not so old as he had appeared upon Jonathan’s arrival. His hair was no longer white. Closer to black, though streaked in a peppering of grey. His skin clung tighter against the bones. Though abnormally pale, there was a flush of life which had not been there before.

Jonathan touched his neck.

Dracula smiled. “Yes, Jonathan. You have helped to make me young. You and… so many who have given themselves that I might live on. That is the secret of life, Jonathan. Life requires the sacrifice of life.”

Jonathan’s eyes flicked to Renfield. He’d said something similar. So long ago…

Dracula saw the glance. “My servant feeds upon the small lives. I did not create him to subsist upon blood. No. That is a gift for my companions alone. The slave…” He made a dismissive gesture. “…is meant to crawl and so must content himself with the things that creep upon the ground.”

The flies. The mouse. Was that the secret of the yellow eyes? The bursts of strength? The unchanging face?

But what had Dracula said…?

“You’ve called me your companion!” Jonathan burst out.

Dracula looked amused as he took a long sip of his goblet. “Have I?”

Jonathan rose, recoiling from the table. “I’ll not drink blood!”

“Not as you are,” the count agreed. “But once you are like me…”

“No! No, I’d never become like you!”

“My dear Jonathan. What makes you think you have a choice?”

It’s the only chance I have, Jonathan thought desperately as he peered out the window of his room. I might fall and break my neck… but isn’t that better than becoming a monster?

It was early morning. Dracula kept him up so late that he usually slept through these hours. He could only assume that Dracula and Renfield did the same, although Renfield would be here sooner or later to do the cleaning.

He had to be gone by then.

I love you, Mina, he whispered to the wind. If you never find out what’s happened to me, may these words reach you. I hope you find someone else so you won’t be alone. But I still hope we’ll be together in paradise.

He swung his legs out the window.

Finding purchases in the wall was nearly impossible. He slipped repeatedly, each time thinking that this would be the moment he’d meet his maker. But he always caught himself. Always managed to inch his way slowly downward without dashing out his brains.

At long last, he stood on solid ground outside the castle wall.

He ran for the field.

The horses flared their nostrils and eyed him suspiciously, but one suffered itself to be untethered and led to a boulder so Jonathan could scramble to reach its back.

He knew how to ride in theory more than practicality. He’d never been wealthy enough to have ready access to horses, and borrowing Lucy’s placid ponies was a far different experience than swinging himself aboard this healthy and vigorous mount – and without saddle or reins.

At least it pranced about as if it was eager to run.

All he had to do was point it at the road and hope he stayed on its back long enough to cover a good distance.

He gave the horse a few kicks until it got the message and took off running with Jonathan hanging on by the mane.

It was a flawed idea from the start. From the way he bounced and slid every direction to the way the horse lost motivation for running within too short a time. And even if he was still on the road and the wolves hadn’t made an appearance, he was certain they’d materialize if his feet touched the ground.

“Keep going!” he growled to the horse, giving it another kick as it slowed to a reluctant trot.

The horse put back its ears and gave a little bunny hop which turned into a full-out buck.

Jonathan was not nearly skilled enough to endure even one such sudden movement.

The only good thing about his fall was that he kept his grip on the mane so that he slid feet first rather than landing on his head.

He still lost his grip when the ground slammed into him and ended up flat on his back while the horse pranced off with a series of high-steps and snorts.

As Jonathan propped himself up on his elbows, he saw the other least desired form running toward him.

Renfield.

Fleeing was probably futile, but he wasn’t going back without a fight.

He sprang upright and took off running down the road.

It was a pathetically short time before he was tackled to the ground.

He flailed and kicked and eventually got turned around enough to get in a few punches.

At least Renfield grunted and flinched when he was hit, which was more satisfaction than Jonathan had received from Dracula. But the manservant gritted his teeth and held Jonathan down until the solicitor had exhausted himself. And then, as if the fight had been nothing, Renfield slung him over his shoulder and dragged him back to the castle.

Jonathan struggled the whole way, aware that it wouldn’t do any good but unwilling to simply accept his fate. He hurled curses down on the silent manservant, spitting and biting at him until Renfield trussed him up in his own jacket and gagged him with a handkerchief.

Renfield didn’t put him down until they were back in Jonathan’s room. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he walked away.

Jonathan eyed the still open window. If escape was impossible, there was one choice left to him.

Did he want to go that route?

Did he want to accept that there was no hope? That unavoidable and terrible things would be done to him unless he…

Mina. I still have Mina. If there’s a way back to her, I’ll find it. Wait and watch. There has to be a way out of here.

He got up and quietly shut the window.

At twilight, Dracula appeared at his door. “Follow me, if you would be so kind.”

It wasn’t a request, no matter the wording.

Jonathan rose and trailed the count through one of the forbidden doors.

His heart quavered as he was led deeper and lower into the castle.

Had he lost his chance? Was Dracula about to do unspeakable things to him? Should he run now? Throw himself out the nearest window?

Dracula unlocked a heavy door and gestured for Jonathan to precede him.

By the light of the torches, Jonathan beheld a room that made his stomach churn.

Chains and manacles hung from the ceiling and the walls. Racks held an array of whips and weapons. A wooden table was dotted in instruments of the sharp and cutting variety.

Renfield was there already, lighting the last of the torches. The flame danced and struggled in a way that revealed the shaking of the manservant’s hands.

“Have a seat, Jonathan,” Dracula instructed, leading Jonathan to a wooden chair. He leaned over him, his fingers brushing lightly along Jonathan’s arm. “I don’t wish to inconvenience or distress you, but I am afraid you’ve demonstrated some difficulty staying in one place.”

The rattle of chain was the only warning Jonathan received before one hand was manacled to the chair.

He pulled against it immediately, hiding his free hand behind his back as if that would do anything to protect himself from the count’s iron-tight grip.

But Dracula merely ran his fingers through Jonathan’s hair. “Be at peace, my friend. You are merely here to observe.” He straightened and crossed the room.

“I have tried to be a generous host,” the count said in his quiet and soothing voice. “I have welcomed you into my home and given you sanctuary within its walls. You have been fed and cared for at my command. We have had such pleasant conversations, have we not?” He reached Renfield and caught him by the arm. The servant was limp in the count’s grasp as he was led to the center of the room.

“I am delighted with your aid practicing my English and in the myriad of information you have provided about your country. I appreciate your wit and intellect. I hope to have many future engaging conversations with you.”

As he spoke, he divested Renfield of his clothes, rarely stopping for buttons as he tore them from the shaking body.

Jonathan tried to look away from the naked figure who’d been positioned facing him, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from being drawn to the terrified and hopeless face.

“Please,” he heard Renfield whimper. “Please, Master.”

Dracula ignored the pleas as he caught up the hanging manacles and shackled Renfield’s arms above his head. All the while, he continued his calm and steady monologue.

“With such enjoyable evenings together, I cannot understand your actions. I’ve been generous with what I’ve provided. You need only request, and you shall receive anything you desire. All I ask is that my rules are followed. For your own safety, of course. My castle is a treacherous place. And the woods beyond. The beasts there are territorial as you have seen. All I desire is to keep you safe.”

He'd moved away from the shackled figure to one of the racks. The whip he selected was an ugly creation. Its tails were barbed with jagged metal which rattled as he swished it lightly through the air.

Renfield’s breathing was ragged and breaking. “Please,” he sobbed in a soft babble. “Please, I’m sorry. Please, Master. I won’t… Never again…”

Jonathan’s own cries were far louder. “What are you doing?! He didn’t do anything! Let him go!” He sprang from the chair, trying to drag it with him, but it was bolted fast to the floor, and the shackle refused to yield.

Dracula seemed utterly unaware of the shouts or the crying man. “I can’t understand how you would violate my trust and kindness so thoroughly.”

The whip came down.

Renfield screamed and arched against his chains, screaming again as Dracula tugged the whip free. There was a pause, the count studying the bleeding wreck before him. And then the whip came down again.

And again.

And again.

Renfield screamed animalistic cries of agony until his throat was too raw to do more than rasp agonized moans.

Jonathan fought against his shackle, shouting unheeded protests against the butcher’s work.

He saw every convulsion of Renfield’s chest, every helpless wrench of his neck, the way his feet skidded and slipped in his own blood as he hung from the chains, his shoulders wrenched from their sockets, his eyes rolling in sightless agony.

And all the while, there was Dracula, never breaking a sweat, never showing the least exertion as he flayed his servant to the bone. He talked steadily as he worked, serene words which neither heard over the shrieks. But always on the same subject. Of how he’d welcomed Jonathan into his home. How he’d cared for him. How hurtful it was for Jonathan to violate his trust.

At long last, after Renfield had stopped screaming or flailing, after Jonathan had fallen to weak and broken sobs, the count halted and stepped back. He laid the whip reverently on a table, spreading out the tails to allow the torchlight to reflect on the glittering sheen of blood. He drew out a handkerchief and delicately wiped his face, ignoring the remaining gore covering every inch of himself.

Jonathan cowered back in the chair as Dracula walked towards him. The count stopped, gazing down at him as he absently licked the blood from one hand.

It was not the hand he used as he uncuffed Jonathan from the chair, leaving long streaks of Renfield’s blood smeared across Jonathan’s arm.

“Oh dear,” he tutted worriedly. “You seem to have hurt yourself.”

Jonathan gazed stupidly down at his swollen and lacerated arm. It was the least of his agonies.

Dracula drew a finger over Jonathan’s wrist, collecting the beads of blood. He snaked his tongue over the finger, his eyes rolling back with a pleased hum. “Delicious,” he observed.

Jonathan quailed and shrank further from him, too dazed to imagine escape or retaliation.

With a gentle touch, Dracula helped him to his feet and guided him from the room.

At the door, Jonathan balked. “Renfield?” he asked, a quiver in his voice.

“Oh, I have no need of his services right now.” The count said dismissively and slammed the door shut, leaving the unconscious man alone with the dwindling torches.

Jonathan tried to find the words to protest, yet his body yielded to the uncompromising pressure of the count’s hand upon his back. He was barely aware of their passage through the castle, hardly certain of anything until Dracula was helping him into yet another chair and bidding him a good evening.

Jonathan looked down dully, realizing that he was in the dining room and that a very red steak lay before him, oozing pink juice across the plate.

He fled the table, but there was nowhere to flee. Nowhere he could go that wouldn’t…

He sank into a corner of his room, his working arm wrapped around his head.

Trapped! Trapped and hurt and lost and helpless and…

He gave in to panic for some time, at last forcing himself to breathe long and slow breaths.

Think. Don’t think about what happened. What you saw. All that blood…

No! Think rationally. What do you know? What are your choices?

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Steady.

I can’t run. There’s no escape outside the castle. I don’t know where I’m going, and even if I do attempt it…

Don’t think about that!

Escape isn’t an option. Very well. What are my choices?

I could jump. End the suffering. But… he’s going to England. No one will know what he is. He can do whatever he wants. Hurt anyone he pleases!

I helped him. Not just the property. I’ve been teaching him to blend in. To disguise his accent.

To be invisible.

I can’t let him leave here. I have to stop him.

I have to kill him.

Jonathan leaned his head against the wall. It was the only choice, wasn’t it? Even if he died trying, at least he had to try. It was the only way to escape the torment.

It was two days before he saw Renfield again.

Chapter Text

July 1890: Jonathan Harker

Scared and silent servants brought Jonathan his meals and fled the instant he tried to speak. He left them in peace after his first attempt. He didn’t want to make life worse for anyone else.

Dracula continued their nightly interactions, behaving as if there was nothing strange about his manservant’s absence. Jonathan likewise pretended that nothing was wrong.

His arm was swollen and useless – probably broken - but he endured the pain with a forced smile.

He was certain he saw the count smirking as he struggled to function left-handed.

Despite knowing there was no Renfield to fetch him back, Jonathan made no further escape attempts.

There might have been no Renfield to catch him, but there was no Renfield to protect him from the wolves either.

And Jonathan knew he either had to get back to England alive to warn the world or leave a corpse behind in this castle.

After two nights of worrying, Renfield appeared with Jonathan’s supper, saying that the count had gone away for the night to hunt. Jonathan gratefully persuaded the manservant to join him at the table.

“You look… well,” he ventured.

Renfield’s tone was carefully neutral. “Master granted me a reprieve this afternoon.”

A reprieve. Probably meaning he’d been hanging in that freezing chamber for days. Bleeding out? Visited by Dracula whenever the count felt like exorcising him of another layer of skin? Or alone and wondering if he’d been left to die?

But there was another question hovering in Jonathan’s mind.

“You can heal yourself?”

“The master can… restore me.” Renfield fell to trembling so badly that Jonathan suspected he was on the verge of a fit. Jonathan babbled nonsense about the food and the room and described insects he recalled from his childhood until Renfield began to shakily answer back.

Eventually, Renfield noticed Jonathan’s swollen arm and convinced one of the servants to splint it for him, assuring Jonathan that the break would heal straight with proper care.

Dracula could have ordered this days ago, Jonathan thought bitterly. But he’d suggested no relief for Jonathan’s suffering.

Easier to control someone who couldn’t swing himself out a window.

“I know there is a lot you can’t tell me, but can I ask questions?” Jonathan asked at last. “You don’t have to answer.”

Renfield nodded warily, his expression a mask of dread.

Jonathan picked what he hoped was a safe direction. “What keeps those women from coming to this part of the castle?”

“The master’s orders.”

“Is that all it takes?”

Renfield grimaced. “No. He doesn’t have full control over them.”

“They’re the same as he is?”

“Similar. They’re… shadows. The humanity and life drained out of them but not replaced with something so strong as what the master is. They can’t go far from this place – where they died and were reborn.”

“How is that done?”

Renfield shook his head in warning that they were treading into forbidden ground.

Jonathan tried again. “You’re not the same as them.”

“Master wanted me for a different purpose.”

What about me? Jonathan’s mind screamed. What’s his purpose for me? And how can I avoid it?

Instead, he asked, “What would they do to me? If they came in here?”

“They’d… play with you. Drink your blood. They might not intend to kill you. But… that would be the result.”

“And you’ll be able to fight them off if they violate the count’s orders?”

Renfield’s expression was not reassuring. But he still said, “I’m to protect you at any cost.”

Is that why you take my beatings? Not that you have a choice.

He pushed away from the table. “I think I’ve had enough.”

Renfield rose with him. “Is there anything else you’d like to know, Sir?”

So much. But the conversation was more depressing than enlightening.

“Want to play cards?” Jonathan suggested hopelessly.

Maybe this was why Dracula fell back on games.

It was the easiest way to avoid unpleasant subjects.

Dracula returned, and Jonathan saw him herding a knot of sobbing and pleading people into the castle.

Of course, Dracula said nothing of his new captives, and Jonathan kept silent.

This was the game they played.

And it was driving Jonathan mad.

One night Dracula began to talk of his travels, and for a little while the danger of Jonathan’s position was swept away.

No matter what sort of monster Dracula was, he was also an engaging orator.

Jonathan listened enraptured to tales of cities and peoples he could barely imagine. He found himself asking eager questions, and his curiosity was rewarded with further information.

“And where have your travels taken you?” the count asked at last.

“Only here,” Jonathan admitted. “I’ve read about exotic lands. But from what I’ve seen… I think the papers get things wrong.”

“Nothing compares to first-hand experience. You and I will explore together. I will enjoy your reactions.”

“But… what of England?” Jonathan asked warily. It was the first time either of them had brought up the count’s plans… and how Jonathan might factor into them.

“We will make our home there first,” the count agreed. “But after, we will have time aplenty to explore the world.”

“Surely you won’t need a solicitor on a pleasure excursion,” Jonathan protested.

Dracula smiled his toothy grin. “That is not the role I intend for you.”

Jonathan’s eyes darted around the room, then back to the count. And he took the plunge. “What is it you intend for me?”

The smile widened. “Eager, are you? I am glad. Fear not. The day grows near.”

He joined Jonathan upon the sofa, allowing their knees to brush together as he laid an arm across the sofa’s back.

His eyes fastened deeply into Jonathan’s. Those bottomless depths in which Jonathan felt he’d drown.

He quivered and tried to rise, but his body seemed as paralyzed as the rabbit before the hawk.

“You have met my consorts,” the count hummed soothingly. “They’re not the first. But perhaps…” He tucked a strand of Jonathan’s hair behind his ear. “…I’ve found my last.”

Jonathan tried to rise, but the count restrained him with a light touch on his shoulder.

“No,” he purred. “Stay right there. You look so lovely in the firelight.” He stroked his finger down Jonathan’s cheek. “So alive. So warm. It’s a pity I can’t keep you this way, but some things must change in the preservation. And if I left the blood in you… Well, I don’t think you’d suit as one of my other creations.”

His hand traced down Jonathan’s neck, resting where the bite wounds had been. “These healed some time ago,” he observed. “I’ve abstained better than I thought myself capable of. The last time I held out so long… it was with your other countryman. The reward, I knew, would be worth the wait. And he has been such a good dog. It’s rare to find one so beaten already as to be effortlessly molded into something so servile. You though, you’re made of sterner stuff.”

His lips found Jonathan’s, his body coming to rest over the stunned and spellbound man.

Jonathan had kissed before. Chaste kisses to Mina which whispered of promises. Since their engagement, they’d gone further, but they’d been careful not to go far enough to leave a clue inside Mina’s body.

And there’d been others. Friendly kisses in his childhood. Practices with male classmates. He’d never minded when another boy cupped his cheek and slid their lips together.

It hadn’t seemed wrong in those days of exploring as if there was no difference between boys and girls. He’d had his share of male bosom friends, and he knew that Lucy and Mina entwined closer than sisters in the dark.

But gradually, they’d grown up, and the societal barriers had arisen. So he’d stifled down any desires. Put them away as childish foolery.

He loved Mina completely. That he’d have loved her just the same had her body been shaped differently… that was never to be admitted.

So it had been long since he’d kissed another man. Long since he’d allowed himself to want to kiss another man.

There was no wanting in this.

This was… taking.

His mouth was claimed as if the other had the right to it. He was held down as teeth sank into his lip, injecting him with whatever power the monster used to control. Then the tongue pressed into his unresisting mouth – exploring, commanding, owning every inch of him.

Jonathan managed to cry out. And then the euphoria of the monster’s will swept over him, and he was forced into the limp paralysis from which there was no escape.

That he was not a willing or active participant didn’t seem to bother Dracula. From the pressure of the growing bulge, it might have been a perk.

The count drew back. “Remove your jacket.”

Jonathan obeyed blissfully. This time, though, a part of him was aware. A part of him was screaming.

Once the jacket was gone, Dracula guided his suspenders down his shoulders. “You asked what I am. Ah Jonathan, it is a tale. And a mystery. They’ve called me by many names. Demon. Devil. Undead. Unholy. Revenant.” He laved his tongue over Jonathan’s throat. “Vampire. The name is unimportant. Remove your shirt.”

Jonathan fumbled for the buttons, fighting against the compulsion so desperately that his hands shook.

Dracula’s smile broadened. “Strong mind. Strong will. I knew I picked well. I’ve made many like myself over the centuries. Sent them out to work their malice.”

Jonathan finished with the buttons, struggling against the urge to bare himself entirely.

Dracula merely watched, smiling with pleasure as compulsion acted against will.

It was just a waiting game for him.

“I hear my children even now. Far across the world. Slaying and being slain. Foolish children who believe they can raise empires more powerful than any I’ve built.” He tutted pityingly. “They’ll bring the hunters down upon themselves. And they leave their sorry little offspring in their wake. Weaklings, all. I rarely make any who could rival my power.”

Jonathan dragged his arms unwillingly out of the sleeves. A gesture from Dracula forced him to lay the shirt over the back of the sofa and leave himself exposed. His skin prickled as the count’s soft fingers played over his chest to tease at a frigid nipple.

“So young,” Dracula observed. “Unblemished. A pure soul. Such innocence. You’ve seen so little of the world yet.”

Jonathan would have protested his orphan state – the parents he’d laid in the ground, the charity he’d survived off with the knowledge that he’d have to repay every kindness. Maybe I’ve never killed anyone or seen your centuries, he thought. But I’m not a child. I’m not the doll you’re trying to make me into.

Hollow words considering the way he was lifted onto the count’s lap, Dracula petting whatever he pleased.

“I made the women to serve me in my solitude. But they’re fit only to join the hunt. To frolic in my bed afterwards. But you… I think you are far more the companion I craved.” He raised his voice. “Renfield!”

The servant appeared in a breathless rush. “Master?” he asked, trying not to look at Jonathan.

Dracula snapped his fingers and pointed to his feet.

Renfield knelt, his face upturned and anxious.

“Look at him, Jonathan,” Dracula instructed, and Jonathan had no choice but to obey.

Renfield looked… terrified. Which had become typical. That brief improvement upon their voyage and their first few weeks in Transylvania was long gone. The man was paler and thinner than he’d been in the asylum, his eyes sunken with exhaustion, his skin a pattern of bruising which the count seemed to replace as often as they healed.

“This is what disappointment looks like,” Dracula observed.

Renfield’s eyes squeezed closed with a look of despair.

“When this creature first came to me, I saw something rare. Something broken. So aware of its own worthlessness that anything could be made of it. Tell Jonathan what I did for you, Servant.”

Renfield licked his lips. “You gave me purpose, Master.”

Dracula kicked him. “Stop speaking in the abstract. Tell Jonathan what you are.”

Renfield crouched lower to the ground. “Nothing,” he whispered. “I am nothing.”

Dracula snarled. “You can’t answer properly. I’ll have to demonstrate.”

Renfield screamed and fell on his side, clawing at his head as his body convulsed.

“That’s better,” the count purred. “He swore himself to me. Body. Mind. Soul. He’s my creature. I see through his eyes, hear what he hears. His thoughts are mine to read, sad mumblings that they are. I’ve carved away all that was of no use to me. He is a hollow tool to be used however I wish.”

“If…” Jonathan rasped, fighting to engage his own mind. “If…”

“Are you fighting me?” Dracula asked, squeezing Jonathan affectionately. “Wonderful! Let us hear your views.” He flicked a hand, and Renfield lay still, wheezing hoarsely against the floorboards.

Jonathan found his tongue free though it was still a struggle to form thoughts around the blanketing weight of bliss. “If he is nothing but what you made him,” he said laboriously, “why do you hate him?”

“Hate him?” The count sounded shocked. “How could I feel anything for a useless shell? He’s a disappointment. I thought I could make something satisfactory of him, and instead… if you begin with a worm, you end with a worm.”

“You wouldn’t be so angry if you truly believed that.”

Dracula’s nails sank into Jonathan’s stomach. “Careful, my friend. You speak of matters you don’t understand.”

Jonathan sucked in a nervous breath. “Your pardon,” he managed. “I simply want to learn.”

The servile words burned his tongue, but if he wanted information, he needed to indulge his captor’s good mood.

The nails retracted. “What would you like to know, my Jonathan?”

Having permission helped the words to come. Dracula’s other hand tracing circles around his nipples did not. “How is it done? Creating your… companions?”

“Ahh.” Dracula nuzzled his neck. “Fear not, my love. What I do to you will be worth what must be endured. You will thank me when it’s over.”

He snapped his fingers, and Renfield dragged himself to his knees. Obeying some unspoken command, he shuffled to the sofa and began to remove Dracula’s shoes.

“Sometimes I find a child,” Dracula said, resuming his possessive exploring of Jonathan’s unresisting body. “Feed it upon the milk of wolves and my own blood. Trim away what makes it human. Sew it into animal pelts until the fur begins to grow. Eventually I have a new hound. A wild creature fiercer and crueler than any wolf. One that obeys my summons and fights at my command.

“But they’re weak-minded beasts. They can manage simple commands – nothing complicated. For that, it is always best to have a familiar on hand.”

He gave Renfield a prod with his foot. “Explain yourself properly, Pet. Tell Jonathan how I made you.”

Renfield kept his head bent low. “The master took me to the crypt below the castle. He-”

“No, idiot!” Dracula snapped. “From the beginning.”

Renfield’s trembling increased. “The master sent letters seeking a solicitor. I-”

“Not there,” the count interrupted, kicking up his foot and catching Renfield under the chin. “No one cares about your life story.”

Jonathan tried to assist while Renfield coughed on a mouthful of blood. “Renfield said you saved him.”

Dracula preened. “Yes, that’s correct. Poor fool dragged himself all the way here and threw himself upon my charity. Pathetic and desperate from the start, weren’t you, Renfield?”

“Yes, Master,” the servant coughed, managing to resume easing off the count’s shoes. “I would have starved if you’d not granted me your mercy.”

“Exactly. And what did I do for you?”

“You offered me a place in your service. Where I would be cared for and have purpose forever. And then…” Renfield’s eyes flicked up frantically, judging each word before it left his lips. “You granted me the honor of… becoming your…familiar.”

“Familiar,” Jonathan echoed, the word conjuring up tales of witches and black cats. Was there truth in those stories as well? How much bigger was the world than he’d imagined?

“A very particular type of servant,” Dracula explained. He pulled his foot free of the servant’s grasp and ran his toes down the side of Renfield’s face, pushing hard into his cheek.

Renfield leaned into the contact with a look of misery and longing.

“I gift my familiars with a portion of my powers. You’ve seen Renfield grubbing about for bugs to maintain his strength. He’ll live as long as it pleases me to keep him. There is a bond between us which allows me to command him. He exists to serve me and for no other purpose.”

“How is a familiar created?” Jonathan asked.

Dracula chuckled. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. It will be years before you can control the bloodlust enough to make one for yourself. Renfield will serve you as well once you’re my fledgling.”

Jonathan tensed, even the count’s manipulation not enough to keep his mind from terrified screaming. “What… what will you do to me?”

The count’s hand closed gently around his throat. “I’ll take your blood. Slowly. Carefully. Night after night until you lie upon the brink of death. And then, you will feed upon my blood. My power will fill you, and you will be reborn. My creation. My fledgling. My pure and spotless bride.”

Jonathan tried to break free, realizing too late that the moment of danger had come. But the count’s teeth were already fastened into his neck.

The world grew hazy. Sparkling with funny pops of light and color that left him dizzy and sinking back against the count’s chest.

He felt heavy. Exhausted beyond anything he’d ever experienced. He could lie down here. Let the veil of death wrap him in welcoming folds. Never awaken back to the pain and confusion of living.

“He’s beautiful in sleep, isn’t he, Renfield?” he heard Dracula say from a great distance.

“Yes, Master,” came the familiar’s hopeless voice. “Shall I return him to his room?”

“Not yet. I should like to enjoy him while he is still so vibrant with life.”

Jonathan felt his belt being undone. He lolled against the count’s shoulder, mumbling weakly as Dracula’s hands roamed low to fondle his limp state.

“Ah, Jonathan,” the count breathed. “I will savor these nights of ours. And when you are reborn, you and I shall dance together. For eternity.”

He felt himself being carried and laid down on a bed of silken sheets. He felt a body as chilled as a corpse press close and touch him freely.

“Up, Renfield,” he heard the count command. “I want your mouth.”

A shift of the mattress. A rhythmic motion. The count’s approving groan and a hand stroking him with enthusiasm.

After a time of drifting, he felt hands start to lift him. Then a snarl and a strike.

“What are you doing?”

“Shouldn’t he be returned to room?”

“Did I order that?”

Another strike.

“Leave him. He is too weak to flee. Come.”

“Please… may I bring him food and water? He will be in need when he awakens.”

“Very well.”

A long stretch of silence, though the darkness was punctuated by that now familiar hand still playing with his body.

“You’ve taken quite a bit of interest in my new bride.”

“You did command me to attend and protect him, Master.”

“I think sometimes you forget who you serve.”

“I could never-”

Another strike

“Never contradict me.”

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“Don’t look at him.” A long stretch of silence. “You’ll be all over him if I leave you here.”

“Please. I only want to serve-”

“Shut up!”

A strangled whimper of pain.

“Come. You’ll stay where you won’t make any further trouble.”

The sound of footsteps retreating.

Stillness.

Jonathan smiled languidly and drifted deeply asleep.

Food and water were gratefully consumed… after he’d finished vomiting.

He tried to aim for a chamber pot. Being sick all over Dracula’s bed would have been a little vindictive, except he suspected Renfield would end up beaten for it.

Somehow, everything was inevitably the familiar’s fault.

Familiar.

That was the word for whatever the last solicitor to blunder into Dracula’s web had become.

And for him… the count had called him fledgling. Bride.

Horrifying whatever they meant.

He sat on the beautiful bed in the beautiful room as his head spun and the world failed to make sense.

His captor had taken his blood. And would continue to until he had no blood left. And then replace it with something which would make him into… a monster.

If he was to act, it had to be now.

He rose unsteadily and made his way to the door. It opened effortlessly, revealing dark corridors beyond.

He was loose.

Loose with a broken arm and a body deprived of blood…

…and no shoes.

His clothes were waiting by the bed, but those had been taken.

As if he hadn’t been disadvantaged already if he tried to escape.

He scanned the room, trying to piece together the puzzle of where he was.

It had to be Dracula’s room, but why wasn’t the count sleeping in the bed? Where was he?

Pushing himself off the bed, he shuffled about slowly, trying doors that led to closets and other rooms… and a narrow staircase leading down.

He brought me to a crypt, Renfield had started to say before he was cut off.

If there was something that Dracula didn’t want Jonathan to know about, that was what he wanted to find.

He lit a lantern and descended into the gloom.

It was a long and cautious journey down the dark and spiraling staircase. No windows. No sounds. The air grew dank and musty. Jonathan’s heart hammered in his throat, his head spinning horribly from the blood loss.

How was he to get back up again?

He reached earth at last. A dirt floor and a corridor which broadened into a long room.

A crypt? There were no bodies.

But there was a coffin.

And beside it…

Jonathan heard a clink of chain and saw something move. His heart skipped a beat, certain he’d come upon some disfigured monster…

But the light reflected off a pale face and sleepless eyes.

Renfield.

Chained like a dog beside the coffin by an iron ring affixed tight around his neck.

Jonathan stared at the shivering and beaten man, then turned his attention to the coffin.

The lid was closed, and it took all his remaining strength to force it back. The hinges groaned open to reveal…

…Dracula.

The count lay on his back, his eyes closed in slumber so deep that Jonathan couldn’t see the rise of his chest.

If it rose at all.

The count looked entirely… dead.

Except… those lips - full and stained with Jonathan’s blood. That dark and silky hair. That smooth and perfect skin.

Beauty and health stolen from the living.

He lived… even in this state of apparent death.

If there was a moment to slaughter him…

Jonathan stumbled blindly around the large chamber, finding a few passages leading to other chambers… some of which were stacked with skeletons.

Some of which still had flesh clinging to them.

Dracula’s larder? Or where he disposed of what he didn’t feed to the wolves?

There was a shovel in one of the side chambers which Jonathan seized and marched back to the coffin.

The shovel was dead weight in his hands, and his feet felt leaden. But he had to do this! He had to strike! Had to end this before…

Did he have the strength? The willpower? He’d never killed. To slay a man…

Not a man! A monster! One that would do far worse to him. Had already…

He raised the shovel.

“It won’t work,” Renfield said quietly from where he’d lain so unmoving that Jonathan had nearly forgotten him. “I’ll still have to stop you if you try. And if I hurt you, he’ll hurt me.”

Jonathan hesitated. “Why won’t it work?” He stared at the coffin, seeking any sign of movement, any hint that Dracula feigned this appearance of death. “Is he awake?”

“No.” The familiar shifted to sit up, though the short chain forced him to remain hunched. “It’s called the death sleep. Mostly he sleeps just as you or I do. But for a few hours, he’s like this. Dead. Vulnerable.” He eyed Jonathan’s weapon. “It would take much more than that to hurt him. And you don’t have the strength.”

“So, if I’d found my way here before last night…”

“You still wouldn’t have had the strength. You’d need to be as strong as he is and armed with something much better. And there are so few things that work against him.”

“But you would still stop me now?”

“I have my orders.”

Jonathan sagged against the coffin. “How can I kill him?’

Renfield didn’t answer.

“I can’t let him turn me into a monster,” Jonathan pleaded.

After a long moment, Renfield spoke hesitantly. “If you refuse to drink his blood, you’ll die.”

Jonathan slowly processed the words. “You mean… I could escape through death? Couldn’t he compel me to drink?”

The familiar considered. “He needed me to agree to become his before he began the process. I think it’s the same for his companions. You could refuse his gift.”

Jonathan’s mind whirled. The monster had a weakness. A few vital hours in which he could be killed if only someone knew how.

That explained the other creatures Dracula kept nearby. Few would make it through the forest, and Renfield was on hand inside the castle.

But Renfield could bleed. He could probably die.

The way he watched Jonathan, he seemed aware of what Jonathan was thinking.

To kill Dracula, the first step would be killing Renfield.

Jonathan toyed with the shovel handle for a moment, then let it go.

He’d need to be sure of slaughtering the monster before he warned Dracula of his intentions by murdering his servant.

And it would feel like murder.

Killing the count… that he could accept.

Killing someone who’d protected him… Cared for him…

It’s all for Dracula, he told himself. Renfield has his orders as he’s said from the start.

That didn’t make it any easier to imagine bludgeoning a man to death.

Even if he wondered if maybe Renfield hoped he would.

“Can he see into my mind?”

“Not yet. Once you’re his, then he’ll be able to read your thoughts.”

“So, he won’t know I’ve come down here from my mind…”

“Not from your mind.”

Ah. Of course.

Whether or not Renfield wished to be his master’s spy, he couldn’t conceal Jonathan’s actions.

“Is there an easier way out of here?” he asked wearily.

Renfield shook his head. “Only if you can fly.”

Was Dracula capable of that? What other impossible things could his captor do?

But for now, conquering the stairs was Jonathan’s only concern.

With a final and repulsed glare at the serene face in the coffin, Jonathan began the long and laborious climb.

Reaching the room at last, he cast himself face-first onto the count’s bed.

A small voice screamed that this was not where he wanted to be found.

A much louder voice said he’d worry about that when he awoke.

Sleep claimed him before the arguing could reach a conclusion.

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

The straight-waist coat is strapped so tight that my shoulders strain in their sockets. Every breath is a struggle. The heavy canvas rasps against my injuries, bruises reigniting with fresh pain at each movement.

My trousers are smeared in blood and… other things. The flies found me long ago, their greedy tongues lapping at the stains and nipping at my wounds. They gather at the corners of my eyes no matter how often I toss my head.

I snap them from the air when I can, but it does little good.

A flicker of power. The barest hint of connection. Then, gone.

I’ve been depleted too long. Cut from my master’s fount and goodwill.

Their tiny lives serve only to keep me alive, to dim the edge of hunger, to speed up the healing by mere minutes.

There isn’t enough power left to fight my restraints.

I can’t sleep, too constricted and agonized. My mind drifts hazily, barely functioning. Barely remembering what I’ve done to deserve this.

Why Master sent me away. What I must accomplish before I’m permitted to return.

It’s gone. Emptiness. Silence where his commands should be.

I am alone.

Rejected.

My poor familiar.

My head jerks at the voice from everywhere and nowhere. “Master?” I rasp hoarsely.

Everyone has abandoned you, haven’t they? the voice purrs. Look what happens away from my side. Away from where you belong.

“Master,” I repeated, but an alarm is buzzing faintly in my mind. Something isn’t right. Something…

You never should have left me, the voice continues. You were stolen from me. Forced to betray your vows. Have you missed me, Servant?

“Yes,” I gasp, straining towards the shadows.

The warning sounds in my mind again. Danger.

But why? From my master’s voice? Even if I haven’t heard it in a century…

No… months. It’s been months since I left Transylvania.

Not years.

Or has it?

Come, Servant. Come back to me.

“How? You’re… I can’t leave this place.”

Show me. Show me where you are. Show me the one who stole you.

An image of Doctor Seward flashes into my mind. The terrifying and all-powerful doctor who played so gleefully with my mind and body. Who wounded my soul in ways I never thought imaginable.

He paid for his crimes. Master came…

…No. It wasn’t Master. Master never came to save me no matter how many nights I screamed.

And when the doctor paid for his sins…

The mental alarm flares again, shying away from those memories. Focusing on the pain. The restraints…

What are you hiding from me? Show me! Show me where you are!

I wrap my suddenly unbound arms around my head, my body slamming against a wall I hadn’t realized was so close to. A cushioned blow against the padded wall.

Velvet.

I sink my fingers into the familiar softness. I ground myself in the touch.

Even as within my mind…

Show me! Show me your mind! Show me what I need!

A rush of fresh air. Hands grasped around my ankles, my shirt.

And I am ripped from the mind’s grasp.

I blink awake as Mina sets me on the ground, my delirious eyes seeing several memories at once.

“I was in the hospital,” I slur.

“That was this afternoon,” she says. She peers at me, her face crinkling with worry. “I didn’t realize you were so deep asleep.”

Memories gradually return.

The abandoned hospital, yes. The one I’d left stacked with corpses for too long.

A long day of dismembering them without aid of a meat grinder. Spreading out the freshest ones for the scavengers and flies. Digging a pit for the others for lack of anywhere else to dispose of them.

Bodies should be made to disappear entirely. Burned or fed to bone-crunching scavengers. Added to fill pits under new interstate ramps or slipped into coffins beside intended bodies. Hauled to landfills or the waste pits behind rendering plants.

Only amateur serial killers bury bodies where they are sure to be found.

Why I’d decided it would be a good day to bleach the van as well and find a new storage unit for it is beyond me. Just determination to check off as many lengthy tasks that have been nagging at me as possible.

I’d returned to the hotel utterly spent. But the beds had been taken. Lucy and Mark on one, immersed in another reality show marathon. Master and Mistress in the other, their interaction slow and too intimate to interrupt.

I’d showered and collapsed face-first into Master’s coffin. Sleeping with my arms trapped beneath me and my lungs restricted must have led to the nightmares.

I shake away the lingering shadows and look up at Mina. “Did you need something?”

In answer, Mina’s face curves back in a wicked grin. She holds out my collar.

I groan and flop flat against the ground in protest. But my traitorous hips are starting to wriggle.

Maybe I’m not completely exhausted.

Mina’s smile broadens. She waits, the collar extended on open palm.

It’s one of our rules – I have to put it on myself if I’m willing to play.

I could crawl back into the coffin now and nothing more would be said.

I take it from her, sliding the soft and worn leather around my neck, the clasp clicking to its perfect fit. I look up at Mistress for approval.

She slaps my face. “Bad dog! Parading about in human clothes. Take those off right now!” She whirls away without waiting to see if I’ll obey.

I shrug out of my clothes as quickly as I can, only pausing to swallow a few six-legged energy capsules.

That banishes the lingering exhaustion and the last remnants of dreams.

I have more pressing concerns than corrupted memories.

Undressed, I sit on my knees, watching while Mistress wrestles Jonathan out of his clothes and into his collar.

It’s an ugly metal creation – the spikes pointing inward to jam into his neck with every wrench. His neck is already scored with long gashes, but the pain isn’t slowing him down as he fights to escape, grinning madly as Mistress works to wrestle her dog into submission.

He settles once he’s leashed. He follows her on all fours, butting Mistress in the back of the knees when she bends to attach my leash which earns him a swat across the nose.

Mistress enthrones herself in a chair, her face a cold frown. She holds our leashes balled around one tight fist.

Jonathan and I kneel before her, legs splayed, hands on the ground, heads bowed.

For the moment we’re both still and quiet. But it’s unlikely to last.

Jonathan is rarely a good dog.

Jonathan is the sort of dog to pull and resist until he’s beaten into obeying. He’ll be red and raw before the night is over.

I’m the sort who will obey the slightest order immediately and completely. The sort Mistress will pet and coo over and tell Jonathan he ought to be more like.

But she likes Jonathan better. She likes when he makes her work for his compliance.

It’s one thing in our own games when Master puts me over his knee and spanks me until we’re both hot and eager. It’s another when Mistress scolds and strikes me. It takes me back to darker and more frightening times, and it’s no fun for anyone if I fall into panic attacks. She won’t hit me more than a swat if I make a mistake, and even that can be too much if she’s not careful. So, I’m generally not the dog to be beaten.

But I am the one who can be humiliated. Who can be footstool and table and rug for her. Who can lick her feet and carry objects along in my mouth. Who can be ordered to grovel and repeat the lowest of phrases while Jonathan still resists with a degree of dignity impressive to retain as she makes him suffer for his defiance.

She begins with putting us through our paces. Lie down. Roll over. Beg. Play dead (play undead, Jonathan always insists as he falls back dramatically with his arms crossed over his chest). Hold a variety of precarious and suggestive poses which we must not move from until ordered to relax.

Jonathan grows bored and begins to tug toward the bed. Mistress snatches up her whip to chide his poor manners, leaving me balancing unsteadily on one hand and one knee.

(I won’t be beaten for falling as Jonathan would be. But I will be put with my head in the corner or given even harder poses to hold.)

Jonathan is brought sullenly back to heel after a brief reprimand, and I am made to crouch while Mistress sits on my back and tries to make Jonathan mind, which he won’t and keeps trying to put his head under her skirt until she loses patience and ties his collar to his ankles and leaves him to watch while she removes said skirt, returns to her chair, and orders me between her legs to perform all the licking and nuzzling which he had so wanted to do.

Jonathan strains and grumbles for a time, motivated by Mistress’ cries of pleasure. Eventually he begins wriggling upon the ground in suggestive contortions, trying to reclaim her attention.

Mistress brings him to the bed, tying his leash to the headboard and positioning him on his hands and knees. At her orders, I slather him in lube, then mount while she raptly watches the show.

Jonathan has never minded taking as well as giving and saw nothing wrong with taking turns when he and I eventually found ourselves in bed together. He was surprised later to learn how strong an opinion many vampires had on the proper place of familiars and how civilization as we knew it would crumble if decorum was not maintained.

Mina knows, of course. Even if she acts as if she’s punishing Jonathan when she sets things up this way. And she certainly enjoys watching Jonathan strain and whine beneath me, especially when she forces him to beg for release.

I take my time, aware of how eager Jonathan is for me to hurry. If we were alone, I’d oblige him. But this show is for Mistress.

She plays with herself while she watches until suddenly sliding beneath Jonathan and forcing us to accommodate as she forces him inside her. Jonathan, tied tightly by the neck, isn’t in position to use his full exertion or take full enjoyment as I push him into her, but he’s given no leeway from either of us to readjust himself, and the purring I hear from his mind conveys his delight to be see-sawed about even at the cost of his skin and comfort.

Jonathan and I hold off as long as we can, but it’s inevitable, and Mistress chides us for climaxing without her command. I’m banished to the floor to grovel in silent disgrace while Jonathan is made to suffer her sharp hand and then caged until she is satisfied with his repentance.

I’m permitted back on the bed so we can jointly pleasure her until she’s near mindless with ecstasy. We kiss and nuzzle one another at her orders, now both perfectly well behaved so long as Jonathan’s future satisfaction is at stake. I need no caging to be made to behave, and she enjoys holding me in check with a word and a glare.

At last she releases him, only to bind us to the headboard with our hands behind our back. She strokes and suckles us in turn, making us both cry and beg for mercy before she’s through with tormenting and finishes us off – me with a hand, Jonathan inside her.

I lick the pair of them clean while Jonathan kisses her feet and gradually up her legs until he’s allowed to lay his head in her lap and be petted and called a good dog. I sink down at the foot of the bed but am called to her other side so that I too can be petted and cuddled.

She eases off Jonathan’s collar, and he winces to have the metal teased free from his skin. He’ll need fresh blood, I think, making a mental note to see who I can find.

My collar comes next, my own injuries checked over with assurance that I’ve sustained little but bruising.

We sleep together until the vampires feel the compulsion towards their coffins. I awaken as Mina crawls out from under me.

She gives my raised forehead a soft kiss. “Good familiar,” I’m assured as she tucks a blanket over me, then leads Jonathan off to their rest.

I curl into the nest of tumbled sheets and trampled pillows, thinking idle thoughts of getting up in time for breakfast and what laundry will need to be done.

But those are thoughts for a familiar who’s gotten at least a few hours of rest.

Peaceful darkness claims me, and I retreat into its embrace.

“Enjoyed yourself?” Mark asks dryly as I set my plate onto the table across from him.

There’s minutes left on breakfast. I’ve filled my plate with chilled leavings, but at least the coffee is fresh. I try not to run on caffeine and bugs… but it happens more than is probably healthy.

I slide gingerly into the chair with a rueful grin. “Did we keep you up?”

“Not a bit. I have no trouble sleeping with someone next door scolding their bad doggies for several hours.”

“Only one dog,” I say innocently. “I happen to be a very good dog.”

Mark stares at me for a moment, then droops, rubbing his eyes with a weary hand. “Your life is weird.”

“The part where I’m nearly two hundred and in the service of undead creatures of the night, or the part where I occasionally engage in threesomes involving puppy play?”

“The part where you invite me to stay with you and don’t worry about what I’ll overhear.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I focus on shoveling cold and grainy eggs into my mouth.

It’s been three days, and Mark hasn’t left the hotel. He Zooms the appointments he can and cancels the ones he can’t. I’m not thrilled about the support group getting canceled, but I understand why Mark doesn’t want to go near the church.

Having him in the rooms frees me up to be elsewhere. I don’t like leaving my masters unattended and vulnerable, and my list of lengthy projects that need daylight hours to complete has been nagging at me. At least now I can finally make a dent in those. Even if I’m failing at pacing myself for fear that Mark will get over his temporary agoraphobia and leave.

“Do you invite a lot of random humans into your home and secrets?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Just Mina’s revolving door of familiars. She doesn’t like keeping anyone around for long.”

“Lucy mentioned that. She doesn’t… do whatever happened to you to them?”

“Once,” I say. “It didn’t work out.”

Mark eyes me, but I don’t elaborate, and he moves on. “Lucy’s never had a familiar?”

I grimace. “There was someone once that she thought… But he chose differently.” I sigh. “It’s her business to tell, but… someone hurt her. A lot. She wasn’t ready to trust outside the family for a long time afterwards.”

“Does this have something to do with why she doesn’t like psychiatrists?”

I choke on my eggs. “What?!”

“I just… We were talking the other night. She mentioned her husband and how much losing him hurt. I asked if she’d ever talked to a professional, and her eyes got… The red’s pretty terrifying, so I changed the subject. But I remembered she didn’t like it when she found out what I do, and I thought…”

“Don’t bring that up. Please,” I manage to say.

Mark’s eyes grow even more concerned. “You mentioned you’d been incarcerated…”

“Please,” I repeat a little desperately.

Mark breaks off. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t push. Your family is just… so many minefields that no one’s talking about.”

“We know how to avoid them,” I say flatly. “It’s how we’ve endured.”

“If you don’t disarm some of them, one of you will explode one day.”

I grimace. “Not today, though. There’s enough immediate stuff to worry about without dredging up the past. And what about you? Ready to go outside yet?”

Mark sinks in his chair. “Lucy says she’s taking me bar hopping tonight whether I’m ready or not.”

I grin. “Welcome to immersion therapy.”

“That’s been proven not to work.”

“Still doesn’t mean we won’t have a good time.”

The night is warm, and the doors to every Bourbon Street business stand wide open. Music and voices pour from the bars, shrinking the street into a press of gleeful bodies swirling in the evening warmth.

Lucy strides through the throng with barely a glance. Her eyes flit from doorway to doorway, her nose jutted out and drinking in the world.

She is on the hunt.

“Where are we going?” Mark asks, trying to keep pace with my long-legged gait and Lucy’s swift glide as we trail behind her.

“That’s up to Miss Lucy.”

“What’s she looking for?”

“She’ll know it when she finds it… That, apparently,” I say as Lucy veers into a bar.

I can’t say it’s any different than any of the other places we’ve passed, but Lucy knows her own mind.

And how to ingratiate herself.

Within minutes she’s got control of the karaoke machine and is circulating the crowd while crooning that she ‘knew you were trouble when you walked in’.

Mark and I secure drinks and seats at the bar, watching the crowd bend to her until many are singing along as she extends the microphone for them to share.

“Does being a vampire give you all the charisma points?” Mark asks.

“That’s just Lucy. She was like this when she was human too.”

Mark watches her with admiration. “I’m lucky to get through group sessions without completely tripping over my tongue.”

“Give yourself a century of practice, and you might improve too.”

Mark laughs softly, but I notice he isn’t discounting that immediately.

“You two are getting along,” I observe.

“She’s nice,” he admits. “I can’t remember when I could just… talk with somebody without stressing that I’m sharing things I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t recommend sharing your ex’s address unless you want her to deal with that the fast way.”

Mark winces. “I wish I could keep avoiding dealing with that. Forever.”

“I know the feeling.”

A crowd of drunken businessmen have the mics now, Lucy still in their midst and encouraging their touching as they slur about ‘angel is the centerfold’.

Mark watches the crowd with nervous eyes. My teasing assurance that no one will recognize him here doesn’t make him look at ease.

“Do you want to go back?”

He shakes his head. “I have to go outside sometime, don’t I? I tell plenty of other people to face their demons. I have to do the same.” He tips back his beer, the froth dripping down his shirt.

“Oooh, you’re sticky now,” Lucy coos as she shoulders her way next to us. “Good. We’ll buy you something that’s not a sweater jacket.”

Mark looks affronted. “I happen to like sweaters.”

“Mmhmm,” Lucy hums and tosses me a hotel keycard. “His name’s Randy, if you can believe that. I left him in the men’s room. Same hotel as ours. Seemed easier that way.”

“Right,” I say, tossing back my drink as I rise.

Mark looks between us, the wheels slowly churning. “Did you…? I thought we were going drinking.”

“We are,” Lucy says blithely. “I just had my drink. Now you and I are off to have fun.”

“But…?” Mark looks at me.

“Renny’s on the clock,” Lucy replies, seizing his arm. “Come on. No better way to forget an ex than a makeover and dancing.”

I wave as they depart, then head for the bathrooms.

Her meal is easily spotted – slumped against a wall and counting bricks. I boost him up, checking his puncture wounds while informing him that I’ll get him home safely. He smiles vaguely and comes along agreeably, Lucy’s trance making him as susceptible to my instructions as her own.

The street is even more crowded, and the man drops more weight on my shoulders with every step. I lean him against a wall while I extract a bug. He loses his balance, and I leap to stop his tumble as another passerby scrambles to keep from being flattened.

“Terribly sorry,” I mumble. “He’s just had a few-”

“Mr. Renfield?”

I blink as I meet Officer Quincy’s eyes.

She’s not in uniform. And she looks more sleep deprived than I usually do.

“H-hello again,” I stammer. “Let me just…”

“I’ve been trying to find you!”

“Look.” I sling the man’s arm back over my shoulder. “I’ve spoken to some people about this gang, and they sound too immersed in the local police for it to be safe to give a statement.”

The advantage to scrounging for blood donors is I get to know a lot of the down-on-their-luck types. It hasn’t been hard to learn countless horror stories about the wolf-masked gang.

“I’ve been suspended!”

“What?”

She throws up her hands. “Do you know how impossible it is to do the right thing in this town? I arrest Teddy fucking Lobo on ten charges, and he walks! He tries to shoot me in front of dozens of witnesses, and not a one of them says a word. I find a pen at a crime scene, ask my FBI sister to run the evidence, and now the pen is gone, she’s been attacked, fled the state, and I’m suspended for-” She makes angry air quotes. “-"failure to follow protocol"!”

“Uh… what was that about a pen?” I ask, searching my mind frantically.

I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to stab an attacker and leave the weapon behind, would I? Granted, I was trying to keep from losing my intestines while also retrieving a head and tying up an assortment of alive and dead criminals (you’re welcome, Caitlyn and Karla). And distracted and sleep deprived with the move and Master’s injuries…

Rebecca ignores me in her rant. “I can’t trust anyone in the department! Not the captain! Not my partner. Who keeps asking questions about you, by the way.”

“What?”

“You’re the only person I know who can’t possibly be on the Lobos’ payroll!”

“Well… no, I’m not. But…”

“Do you know anyone who could help me? Anyone who could stand up to a corrupt police department and the gang running them?”

I shake my head. “I’m no one. I just… happened to be in the right place to help you that night. Now… there’s nothing I can do.”

I try to move away, but she grabs my arm. “They killed my dad! He was the best police officer this city’s ever known, and they killed him, and they got away with it, and I can’t let that go! I have to bring them down.” She slumps and I see all the helplessness in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. But this isn’t a problem I could solve for her with a bottle of chloroform. It’s systemic, and messy, and quite possibly a danger to my family.

And they will always be my priority.

Her eyes flash daggers. “Fuck you,” she snarls and vanishes into the crowd.

Redirecting. Mark said something about that a few meetings ago.

I wish it didn’t leave me feeling helpless.

But right now I have concerns of my own to deal with.

I nudge at Master’s mind. I think we need to move out of the hotel soon.

What’s wrong?

That gang may still be looking for me. Possibly alongside the police.

Do we need to get out of the city?

No! I’m surprised at how forcefully the answer comes to my mind. But I’ve said it, and I feel the rightness of it. No, I don’t think we need to worry that much. I’d just feel better if we shifted to a more defensible location.

We could go back to the hospital. I can feel the distaste in Jonathan’s mind.

I agree with it. At least he’d had a clean coffin to sleep in. I hadn’t even had that much. Or a working shower.

And the decrepit building had had far too many entrances for comfort.

I’ve got some housing leads, I say. I’ll follow up with them tomorrow. We can always move to a different hotel tomorrow night if I can’t find a place right away.

Will that be soon enough?

I’m sure it will be. I resume hauling Lucy’s victim out of the press of people. After everything we’ve survived, what’s one human gang?

Chapter Text

Letter, from Miss Mina Murray to Jonathan Harker
Found unread among Count Dracula’s papers

My Dearest Jonathan,

      I received your letter saying you’d be staying abroad another month. Are you well? The writing didn’t sound like you. I’m sure I’m worrying over nothing. Looking after the count’s affairs must take all your energy. But if you have opportunity, please send word that all is well. I am eager to hear about your mysterious client. And how is Mr. Renfield faring?

      Our trip to Whitby was cut short by Mrs. Westenra’s weakening health. I’ve come to stay with them for the time being. Lucy hopes I’ll remain with them until your return. I’m not opposed. Since I fear I’ll soon be losing Lucy.

      I told you of her three proposals, but I said little of the men. Mr. Holmwood, you know, will one day be a lord. Lucy has never taken notice of class or status when choosing her friends, but I fear what being surrounded by high society will do to her generous nature.

      I’ve seen more of Dr. Seward. He visits often to treat Mrs. Westenra. Even without your warning, I would not think well of him. He’s dismissive of suggestions made by the staff and family – particularly those by women. He speaks with such indiscretion about his patients. It troubles me that he seems to use them to test his theories without consent of the patients or their families. I kept silent about my feelings, but Lucy asked one night why I was so cool toward him, and I touched a little upon these troubling things. She’s studied him more seriously since then.

      The third is an American friend of Mr. Holmwood’s. Quincy Morris, a wealthy and adventurous man from Texas. I believe his heart is as big as his courage. He comes often to raise Lucy’s spirits with his wild tales – many of which I think are true. He is a passionate fellow who I believe would dedicate himself in the service of a lady like a knight of old even if she wed another. I think he would be good to Lucy and show her such adventures.

      So those are her choices. A man who would take her away to another country, a man who would elevate her beyond my reach, or a man who would disappear with her into a world of science. Perhaps it should be Dr. Seward’s suit I should desire since a doctor’s wife and solicitor’s wife could associate comfortably in the same circles. But I don’t think she would be happy in his world even if I didn’t dislike him.

      I know I should have resigned myself to Mr. Holmwood long ago, but I thought he would wait longer to propose. I thought she and I would have more time…

July 1890: Jonathan Harker

Dracula was sickly tender when he awoke Jonathan. He cradled Jonathan to his side and fed him from a spoon as if Jonathan was too weak to take care of himself.

Jonathan noticed a conspicuous absence from their peaceful evening, but he held the questions in check.

How long would it take? How many nights before his body was an empty husk and he was forced to receive the vampire’s gift or surrender his soul to Heaven’s mercy?

How long before Dracula bored of playing with him and struck with finality?

For now, he had to glean what information he could while his mind was his own.

As usual, they talked without speaking of the obvious. They both knew that Jonathan had seen the crypt. They both knew Jonathan was seeking escape before it was too late.

And it amused Dracula to give his prey enough rope to strangle himself.

“Would those ladies ever care to join our nightly games?” Jonathan asked, moving several stones ahead into their little dishes and scooping out the captured pieces.

Dracula scowled. “Their company is rarely worthwhile.”

“You must take some pleasure in it. You keep them with you.”

The count sighed. “They’re playthings. Weakling creations of mine to serve simple purposes. They were entertaining once. Now…” He smiled fondly at Jonathan. “Perhaps it’s time for a fresh start. Eliminate the worthless and unfaithful. Begin anew with a companion closer to my soul.”

Jonathan’s stomach rolled and threatened to disgorge his dinner. He forced himself to swallow the bile down. “You hardly know me, Count. What makes you think I’ll satisfy you anymore than they do?”

Dracula laced his fingers together and rested them against his chin. “You are young. Innocent. An idealist. You’d never roll over and beg for me to turn you into one of my playthings. You have spirit. You’ll amuse me for a long time to come.”

But not forever.

Maybe Dracula thought it would be forever, but his love seemed fickle. If he’d loved any of the women once, he didn’t anymore. Renfield had been an amusing toy once before the count had broken him. Now Jonathan was the new gleaming object before his eyes on which all his hopes for a bright future were pinned.

And eventually he’d lose interest. Move on to other playthings. Create fresh monsters to people the world.

Unless Jonathan could stop him here and now.

“Do they know you’ve brought me to replace them?” he asked nervously.

“They undoubtedly suspect.” The count moved his stones and scooped up a large pot of treasure.

“What’s to keep them from coming into this area of the castle while you’re away?”

“Hmm.” Dracula sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to let Renfield out of his chains, won’t I? And at least heal him enough to be some use to you. Although he doesn’t need his tongue back for the present time.”

Jonathan flinched. “It was my fault. I came to him. I…”

“My dear Jonathan,” Dracula interrupted. “You don’t need to defend the misbehavior of a slave. He brings his punishments upon himself. I expect my orders to be obeyed. By all my creatures.”

Jonathan bowed his head to avoid the meaningful look cast his way.

Inwardly, he was seething.

I have so little time. You’ll know my every thought soon. And you’ll keep me weak and caged until you have what you want. I have to find a way. I have to kill you now.

“The game is over, Jonathan,” the count prompted him gently from his seething. “And I seem to have won.” He rose and held out a hand. “Come. Let me help you rest.”

The sky was bright when Jonathan awoke, flinching away from sun’s glare.

It wasn’t comforting to awaken in his own bed.

Naked again.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the memories of the way the count had pressed their bodies together. Had touched him so intimately then stroked himself to…

“Oh, God,” he moaned, afraid to move, afraid to confirm what coated his belly.

He heard a cautious knock and opened one eye to the sight of Renfield hovering worriedly in the doorway. “Just… leave me water to wash myself,” he rasped. “And… drink. And… food.”

The familiar obeyed, retreating out of sight as soon as he’d left his offerings.

Get up. You have to get up. Clean him off you. Feed yourself. Bandage your neck. Pretend for a second that this nightmare isn’t happening.

It took impossibly long just to rise and longer to function around the dizziness threatening to drop him back into unconsciousness.

Don’t lie down! If you do, you won’t get up again. Keep fighting. Keep trying to think. Use these hours. For… something.

He sponged himself off and struggled into his clothes, then forced himself to eat every bite of food.

It didn’t make the relentless headache go away or still the ringing in his ears, but at least it made him feel in control of himself.

Dear Mina, he wrote in his mind. I don’t think I’ll ever see you again. I’ve been captured by a monster. A true monster. The stuff of nightmares. He drinks blood and sleeps in a coffin. He commands wolves and changes his shape. He’s stolen my mind. He puts me in a state where I’ll do whatever he wants, allow him to use my body however he pleases. And he calls it love. But it isn’t. I know love. I know what you and I have. I know what you and Lucy have. And that’s just one sort. I love Lucy as a sibling, and Mr. Hawkins as a second father. Those are human connections, Mina. Not what he forces upon me. Not what he’ll do to me and claim it as love as he assumes control of me forever.

I can’t escape this place. I’ve tried. I’m weak. Injured. Without resources. Alone in a castle filled with monsters. Death is my only escape. And I’m not going to take that path. You might think me mad, but I have resolved to live. I have to stop this monster. Somehow.

And I’m afraid… I’m afraid there’s only one way to fight him. I won’t be strong enough otherwise. He won’t tell me his weaknesses until he thinks I’m under his control.

I don’t know how to do it. Once my mind is an open book to him. But maybe I’ll know his mind as well. Maybe there will be a way to close myself off.

Mina… I’ll never see you again. Because I’m about to become a monster. To stop a monster. I can’t dare come near you once I’m like him. Even if I survive my fight with him.

No matter the cost, I have to stop him before he reaches England. I have to keep you safe.

I’m sorry you’ll never receive this last letter. I’m sorry you’ll never know my fate. I hope you don’t wait for me too long. There are others out there who will value you as I do. Above all else, I want you to find happiness.

Goodbye, Mina. May we meet again in paradise.

With love, Jonathan

He took a deep breath, signing that last imaginary letter with his name and set it free on the wind.

Fly to her and let her know that she was my last thought. Let her feel this last kiss that I give as a mortal man.

“Renfield!” he called as he finished his goodbyes.

The familiar shuffled cautiously around the doorframe and halted at a distance.

Apologies welled in Jonathan’s mind, but he forced them down. “Can you tell when he’s in the death sleep?”

Renfield nodded.

“You see into his mind? The same as he does yours?”

Renfield made a wobbly ‘so-so’ gesture with his hand. He tried to say something which dissolved into a moan of pain.

“What about the women? Do you know their whereabouts?”

Renfield shook his head.

“Once I’m… what he’s doing to me… will you be able to sense me? See my thoughts?”

Renfield shook his head again.

Not that it mattered if his captor would have full access to his mind.

Jonathan took a deep breath. “I want to walk around the castle. Will you stop me?”

Another negative shake of the head.

“But you’ll accompany me?”

A nod.

“To protect me.”

Another nod.

“And to see that I don’t do anything to myself.”

A reluctant nod.

“I’m not going to kill myself,” Jonathan reassured him. “And I know I have no hope of running away.”

He pushed himself off the bed and started for the door, nearly toppling before he made it that far.

Renfield caught and steadied him, releasing him as soon as Jonathan stopped swaying.

Jonathan forced himself to resume his progress.

He made his way through his allotted rooms, exploring them with great care.

He knew their contents by now. But what was missing? What should be here that…?

“Mirrors!” he nearly shouted as he spun on the trailing familiar. “Where can I find a mirror?”

Renfield skittered back a step, shaking his head frantically.

Why no mirrors? They could be sharp if broken. Could be used as cutting weapons. But so could cutlery.

He thought back to what he’d been served on since coming here. Golden cutlery and China plates.

No silver as one would expect.

“Is there any silver in the castle?”

Renfield’s look of mute terror told him everything.

Silver. There was something in that. Stories about using it against witches or demons or some such creature.

And perhaps Dracula as well.

What else had he been told? What other legends?

Renfield unlocked the doors at his asking, and Jonathan made his way along the main hallway, slowing to study the count’s décor.

There were paintings and tapestries – worn and ragged with age and neglect.

But the weapons which lined the walls were in far better condition.

Knives. Swores. Axes. Spears. Bows. Such a variety of weapons – most of the close-quarter killing sort. Jonathan touched the hilts of daggers he could imagine assassins stabbing into someone from behind.

They were of all ages and types – little rhyme or reason for how they’d been displayed or why they’d been selected to rest so prominently upon the wall.

And there were a great many spots open for more.

His hand trailed over a blank space, looking back to Renfield with a questioning look.

The familiar gave the weapons a gaze of misery, then looked away.

Jonathan sighed. If only there was anyone else in the castle to speak to.

His mind flicked to the servants in the kitchen. The ones not eaten by the monster. He headed for the stairs.

The servants recoiled from him in a panic when he appeared. And though he raised his hands placatingly, they fled him when he advanced.

Do they fear me because they think I’m already a monster or because they know I’m soon to be one?

He followed them at his slow and shambling pace, ashamed to frighten them but seeing no other way to gain knowledge.

They vanished into the house beyond the kitchen door, throwing the bolts so hard that the walls rattled.

From within, he could hear them praying. Fervent, anxious chants he associated with those of the Catholic faith.

It brought up old condemnations and prejudices to his Lutheran upbringing, but he pushed them aside.

Catholic. Protestant. It hardly mattered when faced with the darkness inside the castle.

He made his way slowly to the door and stared at it.

It was worth staring at considering the volume of crosses carved into the wood.

He ran a finger over one deep-cut line, then looked back at Renfield. “Does this work?”

Renfield shrugged, a twist of his lips suggesting these to be more superstitions than useful.

Still… it was the protection the peasants had chosen.

“The count wants them here? He wouldn’t kill them?”

Renfield nodded.

“But the women? They don’t sound like they’d… think through who would do the work if the servants were killed.”

Renfield nodded again.

Jonathan took a step back and looked up at the house. “So what’s protecting them?”

Dracula seemed delighted to let Jonathan puzzle, but he wouldn’t provide the easy answers.

No mirrors. No silver… Weren’t mirrors made from silver? Holy symbols. Prayer.

Herbs.

Those were hanging in the house’s narrow windows. All the windows.

Far too much to be just for drying purposes.

Jonathan broke off a sprig and sniffed it.

Renfield stopped him before he could put it in his mouth. The familiar wrapped a hand around his own throat and mimed a gagging motion which showed more of the wreck of his mouth than Jonathan’s stomach could endure.

Poison?

Another piece to the puzzle. At least perhaps some ways to keep the forest monster at bay. Not that it would do him any good. He doubted he could have evaded Dracula at this point even with all the crucifixes in the country.

He swayed suddenly, the weight of a very real and horrible comprehension dawning on him.

He was about to die.

Perhaps his body would live on. But who he was now. That person. That human person, was about to die.

Even if he found the clue to defeating his captor, he’d never be the same.

Renfield caught him as he collapsed.

“Take me back to my room,” Jonathan whimpered. “Please.”

Renfield had to carry him most of the way.

Once in bed, the familiar brought him food and water, bundling him securely in blankets and making anxious noises as if wondering what else he could do.

“Stay with me?” Jonathan begged, clutching the hand of the man who’d been his friend and jailer. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Renfield settled on the floor, his hand squeezed gently around Jonathan’s.

Jonathan squeezed back, then surrendered himself to slumber.

Chapter Text

July 1980: Jonathan Harker

Jonathan had been prepared to die that night. He’d made his peace with the monster he was about to become with as much dignity as he could muster.

But the night passed without Dracula taking a drop of blood.

As did the next.

And the next.

Dracula wasn’t through playing with him.

There wasn’t retribution for Jonathan’s jaunt around the servants' house, surprisingly. And after several nights passed with Renfield slowly dying of dehydration and infection, Jonathan managed to talk Dracula into healing his tongue. If only so the familiar could swallow a bug should danger threaten, he said.

He saw how it was done as Dracula kicked the crumpled body of his familiar onto his back, slit his own wrist, and dripped blood over Renfield’s black and swollen mouth.

The healing process was as gruesome as the injuries. Jonathan watched in fascinated horror as the infection burst from the engorged flesh, wounds healing themselves behind the rivers of pus. The tongue and broken teeth grew back from nothing, an agonizing process that left Renfield screaming and convulsing, only Dracula’s shoe planted on his sternum preventing his thrashing.

When it was finally over, Renfield crouched before the vampire, using his new tongue to lick the count’s shoes to a glistening polish. At Dracula’s prompting, he crawled to Jonathan and subjected his bare feet to the same.

Jonathan tried not to hear the raw rasping of the throat which hadn’t touched water in days.

Renfield still didn’t speak when he and Jonathan were left alone together in daylight hours, and Jonathan didn’t try to encourage it.

They were walking on a tightrope, their fickle overlord playing a game of his own devising of which they only knew they’d broken the rules when punishments descended upon them.

Punishments which never fit the crime or matched the offender.

So the days passed in which Jonathan’s body began to feel a bit stronger as his blood renewed itself and his more proactive walks down to the courtyard and back strengthened his weakened limbs.

His mind drifted in a dream of shadows and mist. He slept steadily later, keeping to the inner reaches of the castle until past the midday. Food was difficult to get down, but he persisted.

He needed his strength. He needed to keep as alert as possible.

But the world was starting to fade around him, only sharpening into focus when Dracula was near.

Something was happening to him. Something he feared he’d never recover from even if he found an eleventh-hour escape.

With what time of liberty he was allotted, he roamed the castle, seeking for what wasn’t there. No silver, no mirrors. No holy symbols inside the castle proper. The servants housed outside the castle. What did it mean?

He didn’t ask Dracula, who would have answered with riddles. And he didn’t ask Renfield, who he badly needed for protection.

If the women hadn’t initially known Dracula’s intentions, they knew it now. He awoke one afternoon to all three of them staring down at him, their lips curled back to reveal glistening rows of fangs.

“We smell him on you,” one said in carefully pronounced English. “We know.”

Before they could strike, Renfield arrived with Jonathan’s breakfast and sprang into action, beating them off Jonathan with the serving tray without concern for their sex.

There was something curious in how Renfield managed them, Jonathan reflected later. He dashed past them into the room, opened wide the shutters to let in the sun, then herded them toward the hall with relentless strikes.

The women retreated, jeering and snarling in their own language as they merged into the shadows.

Renfield led Jonathan out to the sunlit courtyard and brought him a fresh meal there, mumbling about it being a nice day while he stood warily at attention nearby. He relaxed at last with a reassurance that the count was out of the death sleep.

Another piece to the puzzle.

Jonathan was growing less fond of the sunlight which seemed brighter and more unpleasant by the day. Dracula preferred night, even if Jonathan had seen him outside.

But only on cloudy days. And, he noticed when he brazenly searched the count’s bedchambers (while Renfield sweated miserably on the threshold), Dracula certainly favored hats with wide brims and cloaks with hoods.

Sunlight. Perhaps not fatal. But unpleasant. Maybe worse for the weaker creatures as the three women apparently were.

Not a weapon he could use. Probably.

He descended the stairs to the crypt that same day and prowled among the monuments to the honored dead of the past.

He found the second exit Renfield had mentioned – more a cellar door than anything useful. So high up that one would probably break their neck dropping into it and escaping that way would have required a lot of rope.

Or wings.

Dracula awoke while he was still below and greeted him jovially as if this was expected and desired. He remarked upon how eager Jonathan appeared to be.

That morning, Jonathan found one of the women waiting in his room when Dracula dismissed him to bed, and only Dracula's presence within shouting distance prevented her attack.

Renfield escorted him everywhere after that, and Jonathan was grateful for his jailer and protector who was the only thing likely to keep him alive until he found opportunity to act against the count.

Renfield's presence permitted him more freedom of movement, and Jonathan took the opportunity to circle the castle grounds, at last finding the crypt opening.

He’d been correct. Too far a drop to enter safely this way.

What good would it do him? He couldn’t escape by any door or window. Even finding a secret exit wouldn’t protect him from the forest or give him the speed to outdistance his jailer.

“The creatures in the forest don’t attack the women,” he observed to Renfield. “Or you.”

Renfield considered his words carefully before speaking. “The shifters and the wolves don’t live long. The master shows me to them when they’re pups. They grow up knowing to leave me alone.”

“They attacked you when you came back.”

Renfield nodded. “Some had to be reminded that I belong to the master. Not much of his scent was on me that first time I entered the forest.”

“I smell like him now,” Jonathan observed, recalling what the women had said.

Renfield eyed the forest dubiously. “I’m to prevent you from suicide as well as escape,” he said quietly.

Not a surprise. And that said everything about what Renfield thought his chances were of surviving the forest.

Dracula didn’t… exactly remark upon Jonathan’s increased wandering or deliver punishments. But that night he ordered Renfield to kneel beside him as he and Jonathan played their nightly games. And his hand dipped often to pet the familiar's upturned head. It didn’t take long before the petting became more claws than kindness – Dracula’s long nails scoring deep furrows into the servant’s scalp until Renfield’s face was washed in blood.

The familiar was silent throughout.

The wagons arrived several days after Dracula had taken renewed interest in drinking nightly of Jonathan's blood. He didn't take enough to entirely incapacitate the solicitor, but enough that Jonathan moved slowly as he trailed Renfield through his daily tasks.

Now he watched from a distance while Renfield spoke with the wagon drivers and helped them unload a long box. They carried it not to the castle’s front doors, but to the hole leading to the crypt where the box was lowered into the darkness.

Within the hour, the men had taken their pay and fled, clearly determined to be far from the castle before nightfall. Jonathan saw more than one glance his way and make a sign against evil.

What did they see when they looked at him? Did the forbidding gloom of destiny hang in an inescapable weight around him?

Jonathan pushed it aside as he clambered up the castle to the count’s bedchambers and then down the long stairway to the crypt.

Without being asked, Renfield pried open the box, revealing the coffin inside.

Jonathan stared at the polished wood and carved decorations of leaves and devilish faces. “It’s for me, isn’t it?” he said.

Renfield looked away.

That night, Dracula didn’t play with him for long. He sat patiently while Jonathan ate, talking about nothing of consequence while Jonathan failed to comprehend a single word. But after the last meal of the condemned man was completed… then the night belonged to Dracula.

He ordered Renfield to fill the bathtub in his own chambers, and he led Jonathan there with a hand on the small of his back. He spoke of how impolite a host he’d been to not give Jonathan an opportunity to properly bathe and encouraged him to do so now.

Jonathan performed the ablutions mechanically, keeping his eyes averted from the count who hungrily watched the entire procedure. He wasn’t surprised that his clothes had been whisked away while he bathed, replaced only with a white shift which Renfield helped him into, his eyes downcast and his hands trembling.

“You’re most particular about your face, aren’t you?” Dracula observed once Jonathan was dressed. “Servant, shave him.”

Jonathan didn’t resist as the familiar lathered his face.

Renfield met his eyes as he brought the razor to Jonathan’s throat, a question hovering there.

Jonathan gave his head the barest shake.

With a nod, Renfield gave him a close and efficient shave, then stepped back as Dracula scrutinized Jonathan closely.

The count smiled at long last. “You’re perfect, my beloved.” He held out a hand. “Will you join me?”

Jonathan looked up into those dark eyes, no red in them for the moment. The count looked so young, so assured.

So human.

“I hate you,” Jonathan whispered, all the helpless malice rising up in his throat.

Dracula smiled sympathetically. “Ah, Jonathan.” He shook his head. “You’ll feel differently soon.”

“It won’t be love. It won’t be whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“You’re still confused. Once you’re mine, everything will become clear. You’ll rejoice in what you’ve become. And you’ll love me for making you into so much more than you are now. You’ll see. Once your eyes are opened, you will know joy.”

Jonathan flicked a glance at Renfield, who’d retreated to the wall to wait until something was demanded of him. “It doesn’t seem like he knows much joy.”

Dracula spared a scathing glare for the familiar. “He did when he was useful. Now… who worries about the happiness of a broken mongrel? He’s brought his disgrace upon himself. Haven’t you, Servant?”

“Yes, Master,” Renfield answered in a nervous rush. “I have been a blight upon your good works for too long. I am justly condemned for my incompetence. I am-”

“Silence.”

Jonathan watched the exchange with tight lips. You need to die. I’m going to kill you. I’ll find a way. I’ll never stop fighting you.

“Come, my friend,” the count purred, his eyes aflame with eagerness as he held out a hand to Jonathan. “Join with me. Be mine.”

“And if I refuse?”

Dracula chuckled. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you love so deeply. If you did refuse me and flee into death, I would be saddened. And I know another who would be so sorrowful to hear of your demise. I would have to bring the news of your tragic accident to her myself. And then I would be there. A shoulder for a pretty young thing to cry upon. Is she as pretty as you say? As clever and vivacious as you? I would delight in learning if it was so.”

Jonathan lunged, his hands wrapping around the count’s neck and slamming him into the wall. “You’ll never lay a finger on her!”

Dracula merely chuckled, not the slightest bit winded as Renfield wrestled Jonathan off him. “Won’t I? How will you stop me if you’re not at my side? Renfield, if you’ve bruised him, I’ll cut off your hand.”

Jonathan struggled against the restraining arms. “Why do you delight in torturing me so?”

“Torturing? Oh, Jonathan, you haven’t known torture yet.” He stroked Jonathan’s face, unconcerned with the snarls tumbling from Jonathan’s lips. “I have so much to teach you. But tonight…” He raised Jonathan’s chin and gazed into his eyes. “Tonight we dance together at death’s door.” He stepped back and held out a hand. “Join me. Please.”

Jonathan shrugged out of Renfield’s slackened grip. He took several long and furious gasps of air.

No choice. No real choice.

Not if he wanted the strength to kill the monster. Not if he wanted to keep Mina safe.

May God forgive me.

He took Dracula’s hand.

The count was so tender as he laid Jonathan into his bed, arranging the pillows just so and asking if Jonathan was comfortable. Did he want a last glass of water? A blanket? Was the mattress soft enough?

Jonathan wanted to scream for the monster to get on with it. But Dracula smirked and continued fussing over him in a way which made Jonathan wonder if Renfield was wrong and the vampire could read his thoughts even now.

Or maybe his feelings were too clearly written on his face.

The familiar was ordered from the room with instructions to guard the door should the women attempt to interfere. But perhaps the long delay had lulled them into complacency since all was silent beyond the bedchamber.

Dracula crouched over him, a deadly black shadow poised for the kill. “My first,” he said conversationally, “was a little servant boy of mine. So sweet and loyal even when he saw how terrifying I could be. It was the bloodlust. I’d never intended to bite him, but I lost control of my hunger. I caught myself before he was completely drained. And then… I’d known already that my blood could heal. Foolish of me to feed it to him – thinking I could heal what I’d stolen. It worked far differently than I expected.”

He sighed wistfully. “You cannot imagine what a beautiful day that was. Discovering that I was no longer alone. That there was another creature like me – one which I had created. Our music was a glorious symphony.” Another sad sigh. “It’s a pity. He was not made to last.” He kissed Jonathan on the forehead. “But don’t fear, my beloved. I know my work far better now. You will be reborn. A powerful creation. One worthy to stand beside me. My perfect, spotless bride.”

He struck.

Jonathan fought the first stab of teeth, but then the blissful euphoria clouded his mind, and his struggles fell to an occasional twitch. Even that slackened until he hung, still as death, from the count’s greedy fangs.

And it never seemed to end.

That pure stream of liquid which was his life drained away, leaving hazy darkness in its wake. The world grew cold. Distance. Insubstantial. Broken.

He felt his mouth being nudged open and lolled obediently with the action.

Something fleshy and trickling cold wetness pressed against his lips.

“Drink, my Jonathan. Drink deep. And be reborn.”

There was no choice but to comply. The voice spoke deep in his mind, into his very soul, bidding him to drink from this fount and be remade.

He didn’t hesitate. He sunk in his own teeth as if he was a monster already and began to suckle the chilled blood of rebirth. As new strength filled him. He clutched Dracula’s arm in both fists and pulled him closer, gulping greedily this taste of new life.

“That’s it, my darling,” Dracula laughed. “Drink deep. Be filled. Become.”

Jonathan barely heard. He knew only the insatiable hunger. The need to consume every last drop. To grow stronger and stronger with every drag of blood from the icy veins. He shoved Dracula onto his back, crouching over him as the hunter over a kill.

Take, take, take. Become strong. Stronger than…

Dracula plucked him off effortlessly and cast him onto his back. “That’s enough.” He was laughing and continued to laugh as he pinned Jonathan down by the wrists and kissed him fervently. “Lie still. Breathe easy. Breathe through the pain.”

Pain? Jonathan tried to say, but then it hit.

His limbs seized and spasmed. His spine arched an impossible degree, cries of inhuman agony echoing from his throat.

“Your body is rejecting the transformation,” Dracula observed. “It knows to fight invaders, and it doesn’t realize that the enemy is already through the gates. Breathe steadily. It will pass as your body surrenders.”

Jonathan’s body was as unwilling to lie down quietly as his soul. He sobbed and convulsed and fought against the count’s restraining hands, screaming all the while at the agony turning his once-strong body into a shaking wreck.

And through it all, he heard Dracula’s laughter. Heard his praise. Heard his cries of delight for how strong a monster Jonathan was sure to be.

Jonathan didn’t know how long it went on. He didn’t know how long he thrashed in black unknown. But then came a movement. A jerking. A hurt. He opened his eyes.

Dracula was over him. And inside him. And thrusting into him.

“No!” Jonathan howled with renewed horror, his battered and exhausted body rearing at this fresh violation.

Dracula laughed and kept him pinned down as effortlessly as if Jonathan was a child. “Go on, my fledgling. Struggle. Fight me. Wear yourself down. Your surrender will taste so much sweeter the longer you resist.”

Jonathan barely understood. He certainly didn’t recognize that he was being goaded.

Just that he refused to give in.

He struggled mindlessly. But his body was against him. The convulsions continued, spasms that darkened his vision and left him writhing without knowing up from down amidst the unending pain.

And through it all, there was Dracula. Riding his pain. Savoring his struggles. Pressuring him to keep going. Keep up his flailing and seizuring while the vampire drank his pleasure from Jonathan’s agony.

And when it was over, when Jonathan lay inert, his body a foreign and cold thing that hurt in impossible places and hungered for things he couldn’t name, when Dracula had milked every last pleasure from him and fondled Jonathan’s helpless and unresponsive body to his heart’s content, then the vampire lifted Jonathan in his arms and carried him the down the long staircase into darkness.

Jonathan whimpered weakly. Pain. Hunger. He felt like a kitten. Helpless in the claws of a bird of prey. Weeping to be fed and knowing no relief would come.

He struggled feebly as the coffin lid yawned open, and he saw the fate in store for him.

“No…” he mumbled. “No… please…”

“Shh.” Dracula kissed his forehead. “Little fledglings need their sleep. Time to rest. Time to sleep until Master wants you again.”

No paltry flailing of limbs could prevent him from being settled into the satin-lined tomb. He cried out as the lid was closed, and shrieked with further alarm when he heard the click of the lock.

“Rest, my Jonathan,” he heard the count hum from far away. “Sleep and learn patience. You are mine now. And you will learn to obey.”

And no matter how he screamed and struggled, there was nothing but silence and darkness

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

The apartment is ragged and wrong for our purposes, but I like it.

A thorough cleaning and a lot of paint could do wonders. Some bright colors, maybe a few posters and plants.

But that’s not the life I lead, and a studio apartment meant for a single occupant isn’t right.

I always follow my own housing leads without contacting an agent. They always want to tell me about the recently replaced furnace or the quality of the nearby schools while growing increasingly bothered as I check sightlines with the neighbors and how easily the pipes can be disassembled if they get clogged with blood and hair. Plumbing has been another of those skills I’ve had to teach myself after one incident with a human finger and a building superintendent.

This particular superintendent is eager to say that payments can be made in cash and monthly with no background checks. Even as I mumble my disinterest, he presses his business card into my hands.

I wonder what’s wrong with the building, but it seems best to nod and smile and move on.

Leaving is delayed when I encounter the neighboring child carrying an ant farm, and we fall to discussing insects.

It’s not often I meet a passionate conversationalist.

A group of men just forced their way into the room, Master rumbles, sounding sleepy and irritated.

I break away from the boy, calling a vague farewell over my shoulder. Hunters? Cops?

I think they’re looking for you.

Me? I dash blindly down the street, lucky to avoid a collision as I vaguely heed traffic laws. What are they saying?

They’re pointing guns at Mina. Master’s tone changes from befuddled annoyance to rage, and I slow down as I’m swamped with a second-hand red mist and the distant screams of carnage.

I pull my mind away from the agony and call for an Uber, still speed-walking in the general direction of the hotel.

It probably isn’t hunters if they brought guns. Police? Have they found the bodies in the hospital?

Not cops, Master reports at last, his mind awash with anger and blood.

Are you alright? Who are they?

In answer, Master tugs me into his mind.

At least five corpses that I can count at a glance. Mina and Lucy have their fangs sunk into a victim each, steadily draining them dry. Mark is flattened into a corner, his eyes bugged so wide that they’re swallowing his glasses. Master holds down a still living and sobbing figure, but by the way he’s losing blood, the man doesn’t look likely to survive for long.

“Who sent you?” Master snarls, displaying his bloodstained teeth and red-burning eyes.

Either terror or rapidly approaching death have rattled the man’s tongue. “Va… vamp… va…” he gasps, the words breaking off as he chokes on his own blood.

Master plunges in his fangs, seeking to seize hold of the man’s mind before he can expire. Obey me, he snarls to the man’s soul. Tell me who sent you here.

The man’s mouth works desperately, trying to formulate a last phrase. But it’s too late. His heart spasms and stops, leaving Master clutching fresh food and nothing more.

Jonathan’s teeth sink in, drinking swift and voraciously, unable to resist his instincts with this much fresh blood clouding his senses and overwhelming rational thought.

I pull back to the edge of his mind while I wave down my ride, aware that none of my masters will be capable of planning until they’ve taken the edges off their bloodlust.

We’ve gone a few blocks before I feel the red mist start to dissipate. Is Mark still alive? I ask to test the waters of how far gone he still is.

He’s fine. Lucy’s protecting him, Master answers.

Not as reassuring as he probably intends it to be.

But… good. My masters aren’t always able to tell bystanders from threats when they’re enraged.

I look through Jonathan’s eyes once more, seeing that Lucy has shifted to place herself between Mark and the others while she feeds. Even if she may be guarding him as a future meal, he should remain safe long enough for everyone to settle down.

And two corpses apiece will leave them sated and sleeping once it’s safe to drop.

The door is standing open, something Jonathan manages to tear himself away from his meal long enough to rectify when I prod him.

The lock’s still intact, I observe. Did they have a keycard?

I didn’t notice as they were waving guns at Mina, Master growls with more venom than I usually hear from him.

I show my metaphorical throat, but there is too much worrying me to back off entirely. Someone must have told them the room number and given them access.

Master growls a low and ugly sound of someone not at all fond of betrayal and who has experienced too much of it. There may be more outside, he observes. Don’t get too close.

I lean over the seats and ask the driver to drop me a block away. Soon I'm back on my feet and moving with care, keeping within crowds and eyeing every passing car warily.

There’s several cars with tinted windows idling outside, I report as I near the hotel. I’m guessing it’s that gang.

You said moving wasn't urgent, Master snarls.

I wince. Maybe they got to the cop.

Master conveys this to the others, all recognizing the fresh danger of their position.

And it’s still daylight.

“Have we all been identified or just Renfield?” Mina asks.

“An officer recorded us together,” Lucy replies. “If the police are involved, they probably have my face.”

Where have you found for us to go? Jonathan asks me.

Nowhere ideal, I admit. I was just looking at an apartment building. It’s not good, but they take cash, and I don’t think they’ll ask questions. It might be a less obvious place for us to go than the giant abandoned hospital in the middle of the city.

Arrange it.

A quick phone call to a very relieved superintendent secures the apartment. It’s going to be cramped, but it’s a roof over our heads while we decide our next move.

When I check back with Jonathan, he’s in the elevator and heading down.

There may be others, I worry.

Mina’s handling a distraction.

Just as he reaches the lobby, I see a body plummet from the roof, splattering onto the pavement outside.

The stampede of the horrified crowd both toward and away from the sight is an immediate impediment to the watchers in the dark cars who scramble out and struggle to reach the corpse.

Inside, everyone in the lobby rushes to the windows. Jonathan slips behind the receptionist and bites a shallow gouge into her neck. “You’re checking us out of the hotel,” he murmurs to her as his venom forces her compliance with more speed than the slower work of mesmerizing. “And you’re removing all records and recordings of us. And you’re calling for a hotel van to go around to the loading dock. And you’re going to tell me who made you give up our room number.”

I reach the hotel’s back entrance long before the bemused van driver arrives. He doesn’t stay confused for long. Lucy’s fangs take all his doubts away as we tear out the van seats and shove two coffins inside.

We send the driver on his way, none of us accompanying him to Mark’s great confusion. I slip out of the alley once more, moving with the crowds for blocks before making my way to the new apartment where the driver is asleep in the van per Lucy’s instructions and oblivious as I unload the coffins and drag them up the stairs to our new temporary residence.

Room paid for, luggage removed from the coffins, I head out to try to find whatever will resemble blackout curtains on short notice while keeping an ear on Jonathan and the rest of the family.

The receptionist has helpfully let them into an empty room and immediately forgotten ever encountering them as she returns to the desk. Helpful since Jonathan confirms she was scared by the Lobos into giving up the room number of the guest matching my description.

I doubt she’ll survive the day.

It’s a stressful few hours until nightfall when the family can slip out, disappear into the city, and eventually make their way to the apartment.

Master gives me a glare upon his arrival and turns his back.

I flinch and make myself busy continuing to clean the disastrous space.

At least I got rid of all the fly paper. And scrubbed off the furniture that came with the place. But everything smells unpleasantly of chemicals and lemon now.

Mina is last to arrive, having spent an extended time hanging about the hotel and learning all she can.

Jonathan only relaxes and stops pacing once she’s here.

“No news crews,” she reports. “Everything swept under the rug. The receptionist got taken away. Hopefully your memory wipe holds.” She reflects for a moment. “Or she dies quickly.”

“Should have eaten her,” Lucy grumbles.

Mark sits beside her looking entirely horrified.

“We need to get out of the city,” Mina says.

I make a protesting noise that earns me a glare from Jonathan. I hunch my shoulders, resisting the old urge to bite my knuckles.

Mina is kinder. “Is there a good reason for us to stay here?”

I open my mouth… and no sound comes out.

No, there isn’t a good reason to stay in New Orleans. We could survive just as well in any other city with a little planning. And we’ve hardly established ourselves here. Still living out of a hotel for weeks and only just getting around to actual house hunting. And what’s it gotten us? A cramped apartment that’s barely livable by human standards, let alone vampire.

But the voice in the back of my mind keeps insisting that we should stay. That we need to be here. That running would be… wrong.

Yet I can’t think of a single good reason to object.

“If it’s just the gang that’s a problem,” Lucy remarks, “we could get rid of them. Call it a public service.”

“You wouldn’t really…” Mark starts to say.

“No,” Mina replies firmly. “That sort of plan always leads to a quagmire.”

“Still fun,” Lucy mutters, but she winks at Mark, and he relaxes, at least temporarily convinced that Lucy wouldn’t seriously consider mass slaughter.

“We’re leaving,” Mina decides. “I don’t think we need to rush, but we do need to be careful. Especially you.” She looks at me. “You’re the one reliably visible to cameras, and you’ve already drawn the most notice.”

I bow my head in acknowledgement of my mistakes.

This is my fault. I’ve brought trouble down on us once again.

One impulsive moment of playing the hero. Now my family is in danger, and we’ll soon be leaving the city unless I can come up with a good reason for us to stay.

“It’ll take time,” I blurt out, barely hearing the words. “We were already low on supplies, and that was Master’s emergency coffin that just got left behind.”

“You left my coffin?” Jonathan demands, his gaze jerking between me and the others.

“There was only so much space!” Lucy retorts. “Relax, we hid it in the hotel. We can go back for it.”

“How?!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mina snaps. “We can import another. Right now, we need to focus on where we’re going and what we need to do to leave safely.” Her gaze flicks to Mark. “And how many of us are going.”

Mark doesn’t notice since Lucy’s speaking softly to him. He grins in a way that makes me suspect she’s making jokes at Mina’s expense.

Lucy’s the only one who might dare.

We talk for several more hours, mostly proposing cities. Jonathan calms down gradually. He edges across the room until he’s cuddling up to Mina. She ignores him, more focused on a problem in need of solving than a husband trying to assure himself that she’s safe.

Lucy doesn’t take any of this seriously and spends most of the discussion whispering jokes to Mark.

I mostly keep quiet except when I can interject a reason to stay a little longer, to tread with a little more caution.

Jonathan’s stopped glaring at me, but he’s shut off the bond, and the lack of thoughts – good or bad – leaves me more adrift than his anger.

I hug my arms across my chest and try to keep my ticks at bay.

I’m alone in a small room full of pairs.

“Seriously, when do you sleep?” Mark demands as he joins me in the kitchen late the next morning.

“I haven’t yet,” I reply, my cell phone tucked against my shoulder as the call-waiting music plays. The counter is spread in US maps, false ID cards, bank books, and extensive task lists. “Hello? Yes, I’m still here… No, it’s the wych elm I want… Yes, the same style as the last time… Yes, I’ll hold.” I give Mark an apologetic look. “Importing from England is always a challenge.”

“New coffin?” Mark asks. At my nod, his brow furrows. “Why not just order locally?”

“Native wood. It’s important. Like the soil.” The hold music sputters out again, and I finish ordering a new pair of boxes for Jonathan. Delivery stumps me, but I finally give them the current address.

Between construction and getting through customs, it’s going to be a while before the coffin arrives. I probably can’t use that as an excuse to stay here longer, but it might be worth mentioning tonight.

Mark is still watching me critically. “Have you eaten?”

I wave a hand at my one terrarium which survived the evacuation. The other was crushed somewhere in the chaos.

Mark flattens his hands over mine before I can reach for my list. “Stop. Breathe. We’re going to breakfast.”

“I just need-”

“Breakfast,” he insists flatly. “I’ll treat.”

He barely lets me change my clothes and insists I leave my phone behind.

We find a diner a few blocks away and slip into a booth.

I drum my fingers restlessly on the table, mentally shuffling through task lists. The bodies at the hospital desperately need to be fully disposed of. And some of our things are still there – things we’d had in storage and not inside the Savannah house. It should all be gathered into one place or put into a shipping container. Mina probably has a shipping container. I could combine if we’re going to the same place…

“Robert!”

I blink unsteadily at Mark. “I’m sorry… What?”

He stares at me. “When did you last sleep?”

I wave a vague hand. “I can go a few days. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine.” His face contracts with worry. “Are you punishing yourself?”

“No! There’s just a lot to do if we’re leaving here.”

“Which you don’t want to do,” he observes. A pause. “But you never said why.”

“I didn’t have a good reason.”

“But it’s still your feelings. Don’t you share those?”

I shrug. “When they’re valid.”

“You didn’t think they were valid last night?”

“It’s my fault we’re in this mess.”

“But that’s not true! You saved a life. That’s a good thing.”

“And yesterday it nearly got my family killed.” My hand strays up to my mouth before I can stop it, and I bite into the knuckle of my thumb. The pain awakens me back to the moment, and I snatch my hands down to my lap. “Mistress was right,” I say in a low voice. “I should have been more careful. There’s cameras all over this city. Maybe they tracked me. Maybe they got to that cop. I’m supposed to be the one who doesn’t attract attention. I do the jobs to make sure they stay fed and unnoticed. That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“That’s what you do constantly! Do you ever stop working?”

“Of course.”

“For something other than sleep?”

“Oh… I mean… You’ve met us at a bad time. When we’re established somewhere, then my workload’s more reduced. Just… looking after feeding and the home and whatever else comes up.”

“You do all the… food disposal and sometimes collection? And all the housekeeping and everything else on top of that?”

“Yes.” I wonder where he’s going with this.

“And what do they do?”

“Their… jobs.”

“You have a job too. I’ve seen how long the stock work can take you some days.”

“Depends on the day or who needs things liquidated.”

“Robert…” Mark gazes at me. “Do you ever just do… you things?”

“Of course.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” I find myself floundering. “The support group,” I land upon after a moment. “Hanging out with you.” Even if he is thoroughly bonding with Lucy these days.

“The last time I thought we were going to hang out, you went off to deal with Lucy’s victim and never came back.”

“I was working that night.”

“And every other night. Do you get days off?”

I scowl at him. “This is how my life works. I serve them. That’s what I do.”

“But that’s not who you are, is it? You’re more than just the work you do… aren’t you?”

My knuckles are back in my mouth, and I can’t seem to put my hand down no matter how many angry orders I give myself.

“I know I don’t know everything you’ve been through… but meeting you and Jonathan makes the Detective Hawkins books make a whole lot more sense, and I wouldn’t want you to end up like… you know.”

I frown at him, forcibly squeezing my hands in my lap. “What?”

“Haven’t you read them?”

“…Most of them.”

“Most of them?”

“Jonathan asked,” – told – “me not to read the last one.”

Mark’s eyes widen. “So you don’t… But there’s spoilers all over the internet!”

“I’ve never looked at the fan chatter. I don’t think Jonathan ever has either. So long as the checks keep coming to the Murray estate, we assume they’re still popular, but that’s all I know. And that the movie script’s stuck somewhere in Hollywood limbo and will probably never see the light of day.”

“There’s a movie script?” Mark the fan makes a brief appearance before the worried counselor returns. “My point is… Forget the books. My point is, you work nonstop, and they know it. You shoulder all the blame, and they know it. You make all your needs secondary, and they know it.”

“That’s the job.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why does the ‘job’ have to be that way?”

“Because that’s how it works!”

“Says who?”

“Says…” My voice dies.

I won’t say his name. I won’t even think it. Keep the memories buried. Keep them out of my life.

He can haunt my dreams, but I’m awake and in control now. He won’t define me.

Except… except is the foundation he laid still governing my life?

Mark watches me silently, his brow scrunched with concern. “Robert?” he asks at last.

I take a breath. “I’m lucky,” I say with what force I can muster. “It was much worse before. And I loved…” I break off. “Jonathan has been far kinder to me than I deserved and more generous and trusting than he had any reason to be. You don’t know what we’ve been through. You don’t understand how it could have been.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” he agrees. “All I see is now. Where you have three people who might care about you but are so used to you doing all the work and taking all the blame that no one – including you – thinks twice about how you’re treated. And Jonathan at least is aware of it, and bothered by it, and doesn’t say anything because none of you ever want to talk about anything that’s happened in this mysterious and miserable past of yours.”

“You’re right.” I slide out of the booth and stand. “We don’t want to talk about it. It’s better that way.”

“Robert!” Mark protests.

My hands are shaking. I shove them into my pockets. “Some things should stay forgotten. Because if they ever came back in any form…” I flee the diner, ignoring Mark’s calls.

I walk fast, my eyes a sightless blur of suppressed memories.

It’s over. It’s over and dead. He’s dead. He’s gone. He’ll never hurt me or hold me or…

I swear I feel his embrace. The shadow in my mind that could shatter me to nothing or elevate me to celestial heights.

The shadows I’ve been free of for more than a century and will never endure again.

I walk until my until my lungs are burning and I’m completely lost.

I force myself to stop. To breathe.

Then I turn my steps toward the unerring compass which is Jonathan’s presence and let the stable and steady bond strengthened over the course of a century lead me back.

Chapter Text

August - September 1890: Jonathan Harker

Jonathan’s world was the blackness of the coffin punctuated by the occasional appearance of Dracula.

Dracula brought him tiny glasses of blood which were too minuscule to bring any satisfaction. He screamed for more, but his cries were ignored.

He was too weak to walk, which suited the count. He'd carry Jonathan upstair, leisurely rape him, and then return him to the coffin.

Jonathan screamed and clawed at the lid relentlessly until he wore his fingers down to bleeding stubs which the count tutted over as if he’d broken a silly toy.

So little blood. So much that needed healing. His little allotted sustenance devoted each time to fresh injuries as the count deliberately hurt him whenever his hands started to heal. So little left to simply keep him alive.

Dracula reveled in his helpless state. He smiled so masterfully whenever Jonathan tried to flee and could only crawl a few steps before collapsing. He delighted in tying Jonathan’s arms to the headboard, breaking them first if Jonathan managed to put up the least fight.

Every night ended with kisses and assurances of how much his master loved him as Jonathan was sealed away.

A toy to be brought out, played with, and returned to its box.

His hatred grew with every night. Even as his defenses weakened.

It didn’t take much for Dracula to force him to beg for his supper. Then to perform for it.

It didn’t take long before Jonathan was spreading his legs quietly if it only meant he’d be fed once Dracula’s lust was sated.

He’d once scorned Renfield for this. For surrendering to whatever the doctors did to him in return for food or relief from restraints.

Now he understood.

And he hated himself for understanding.

Being caged for unending hours should have given him time to think. Time to adjust to what he was now. But all he could think about was hunger.

Blood.

Dear God, how he craved it.

He might have shunned his new diet with revulsion, but that would have been with the luxury of choice. With his life reduced to hunger and isolation, his focus narrowed to a relentless obsession.

Blood. Fresh from the source. Hot and thick and tasting of life. Not the paltry dribbles which only made him scream for more. Endless rivers filling his belly until he was bloated with it.

He dreamed of the hunt. Something helpless whose heartbeat he could hear pounding in his ears. Prey that fled like the deer in flight through the dark woods. Prey that reeked of mindless fear.

The fear would taste as beautiful as the blood.

He dreamed of himself. The predator. The shadow. The bringer of death.

Closing in. Bridging the distance. The strike. The blow. The blood.

And only then would he awaken with the realization that his prey was human.

He longed to reject his desires, but his mind thought of little else.

Hatred for Dracula, hunger for human life.

That was all he was now.

His first kill was not human.

Dracula brought him a rabbit. Alive and afraid within its sack.

His reward for having been so good and patient.

He didn’t hesitate as he sank his new fangs through fur and skin, draining away the unsatisfying life.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t right.

A meal of spun sugar when he longed for steak.

But he still thanked his captor for the treat. Still kissed his hands and went quietly to the bed.

He needed food. He needed a longer leash.

And Dracula held his chains too securely to do anything but comply.

Is it true that he can read my mind? He wondered over Renfield’s assertions when he managed to think about anything besides starvation. There’d been no sign that Dracula knew his private thoughts, not that there were many to be had. His mind must have been a dull and screaming place awash with the single-minded demand.

Weeks passed before Dracula began to feed him a little better and didn’t leave him nursing broken limbs. He was allowed from the coffin for a few hours at a time, never permitted to take more than a few steps from his creator’s side. Never permitted to feed himself or even hobble far on his shaking strides before Dracula scooped him up and carried him to whatever bed or sofa he’d chosen for his nightly amusement.

It still wasn’t enough, but the relief of pain and slight reduction of his aching belly gave Jonathan a little ability to think.

He needed to continue playing at full compliance. Needed to go along with this life until he was allowed at least a little freedom. Then to find the vampire’s weakness…

…Which was his as well now. Whatever could kill Dracula could surely destroy him. And likely he’d die far faster, weak as he was. There wasn’t a weapon he could wield with strength or confidence, no poison he could administer without probably first killing himself, no one he could ask who wasn’t entirely under the monster’s thumb.

He was no better than he’d been before. Perhaps even worse off.

Maybe he should have killed himself when he’d had the chance.

“I have something special for you today.”

Jonathan sat up slowly as the coffin lid opened, his head spinning dizzily with his constant hunger. He looked up at Dracula, distressed not to see the usual cup of blood in the monster’s hand.

Dracula smiled and lifted him from the box, holding him upright as Jonathan swayed and leaned against him. “Come to the table. You’ll eat like a civilized creature today.”

Jonathan limped beside him on shaky legs until they reached the stairs. Then Dracula swept him into his arms and carried him up the long staircase.

Jonathan leaned weakly against him, dizzy at the blur of stones as they ascended the spiraling length. His eyes sank closed, his nose resting against the hollow of Dracula’s throat.

This had become safe. The strong arms which carried him wherever they wished. Never dropping him. Never straining with their burden.

What happened after… less so. But Jonathan had grown soothed by the nightly carrying. The soft hum of Dracula’ voice murmuring over him that all was well. That he belonged in Master’s arms. That surrender was his natural state.

The sluggish and not starving voice somewhere in the depths of his soul screamed at him to awaken and fight, but the base needs of the body drowned it out. He needed food. And more than food, he needed someone.

Dracula was the only light in the dark confinement which had become his life. That Dracula was the cause of it was less important than the vampire retrieving him from the constant darkness and starvation.

Dracula was becoming the savior amidst his misery.

How could he kill that?

He was settled onto a chair in the dining room and held steady until he found his balance, and Dracula left him to take his own seat.

The table was not set with cutlery, though a fresh candle burned as a centerpiece and a napkin lay before each of them.

Renfield appeared carrying the usual glass of blood for Dracula. And for Jonathan…

Jonathan salivated as an entire human arm was laid before him. Freshly severed and leaking blood. Red and oozing and… delicious.

He shoved the severed end into his mouth, practically swallowing it whole in his desperation.

“Manners, Jonathan,” Dracula chided gently. “It’s polite to wait for the host to begin first.”

Jonathan didn’t answer or slacken. He could barely hear over the glorious euphoria ringing in his ears.

Food. Blood. Beautiful, sweet blood.

When he could drain no more from the upper arm, he twisted it around and bit into the wrist, gulping fast as he felt the blood cooling and coagulating. He didn’t care. He’d drain every drop even after it lost its initial sweetness.

He left a dozen bites all up and down the arm, spitting out the flesh so that he could get to the mead beneath.

Every last drop.

It wasn’t enough.

More than he’d ever been allowed, and it wasn’t enough.

But there was more blood within the room.

Fresh and alive.

He could hear it pumping through veins. The thump-thump-thump of the steady heart. The scream that this was life.

He leaped out of his chair and lunged.

The blood source was taken by surprise and borne to the ground by his assault. A hand was flung up in protest, but he shoved it aside as he sank his teeth into the defenseless throat.

Blood! Fresh, pure, bl-

Jonathan recoiled, spitting out the cloying mouthful saturating his tongue.

Beneath him, Renfield’s eyes were closed, his head averted, his throat offered up in surrender.

Jonathan stared at him, still hungering, still feeling the urge to drink, but still tasting wrongness burning in his mouth.

“He’s my familiar, Jonathan,” Dracula said from where he still sat without reacting to the attack. “He has too much of my blood in him to taste pleasant. You can still eat from him if you’d like.”

Jonathan whimpered, struggling to understand. Food… but not food. The blood was right there. But tainted.

His mind had been working at such a crawl lately, and the most recent meal was only taking the edge off the insatiable urges.

Here was the solution. A full and brimming body beneath him. Free for the taking. Even if it tasted off, it would be nourishing. It would fill him. He needed to feed so badly.

Shakily, he edged off the servant and found his unsteady footing. He leaned against the wall, struggling just to breathe.

Renfield rose cautiously, rightened Jonathan’s toppled chair, and retreated to stand unobtrusively in the corner.

Jonathan returned to his seat, his mouth watering and his eyes fixed on the slow trickle of blood running down Renfield's neck. He wrenched his gaze away...

...to the shriveled arm lying in front of him.

Human. He’d been chewing on a human limb without a single thought.

And he’d been fully prepared to take another life just to fill the urges screaming inside of him.

Oh God, what have I become?

The blood writhed in his stomach, and he barely had time to lean over the table before the whole of his desperately consumed meal spewed across the polished surface. His head fell forward, his forehead landing in the pool of bile and blood. His vision swam to darkness, his hearing turning into a distant ringing.

To his horror, he realized his tongue had snaked out to lap at the vomit.

It was enough to make him retch a second time.

“Hmm.” He heard Dracula’s flat voice from somewhere far away. “Your table manners are regretfully lacking. I had hoped you’d be better company by now.”

He was picked up and carried chest down, his head hanging limp and jolting with each step.

“Clearly my fledgling has not gotten a proper rest,” Dracula observed as he flipped Jonathan into the coffin and brought down the lid. “A few days ought to give you time to reflect on good manners.”

When Dracula finally let him out, Jonathan was so weak that the count had to cut a hole into the flesh he offered and hold Jonathan’s mouth to it before the young vampire found strength enough to drink.

It was another arm. A woman’s arm this time.

Jonathan drank every drop.

And he slept long and dreamless afterwards.

“Please, Jonathan, make an effort not to drop everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan replied through gritted teeth as he struggled to wriggle the piece into the peg hole on the board.

His hands shook badly, hunger and weakness still making him clumsy and stupid.

But Dracula was feeding him enough for him to stay awake for a few hours each night now. And the extended time meant Dracula had decided they should resume their games before he brought Jonathan to the bedchamber.

This was their third round. Jonathan had lost the last two, and he could barely keep the ringing in his head at bay long enough to focus. He’d spent more time groping under the table for his pieces than making successful moves.

He managed to fit the piece where it belonged and watched dully as Dracula rolled the dice and surveyed his options.

“You haven’t been much for conversation lately, Jonathan.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan mumbled.

He said that a lot these days. He was sorry when he couldn’t stand, and sorry when his hands shook and sloshed blood over himself. He was sorry when he failed to demonstrate enthusiasm in bed, and sorry when he couldn’t remember the question Dracula had asked him.

Apologies and mistakes. That was all he was these days.

Couldn’t seem to do anything right. Couldn’t behave well enough to be allowed out of the coffin or be granted more food. He couldn’t be trusted not to waste what he was given and couldn’t stay awake long enough to be of value to his master.

It was all his fault.

He bit down on his tongue to concentrate as he picked up the dice, forgetting for the hundredth time how sharp his canines were now and piercing straight through. The black and cold blood of his own veins flooded his mouth, an unpleasant taste he’d rather have spit out, but he couldn’t waste any drop. Even his own.

He managed to make his move without dropping anything, noticing too late that he’d made poor choices. But it was too late now. Dracula’s pieces moved swiftly towards their goal, leaving Jonathan’s pawns to flounder in their wake until the game was over, and he nearly collapsed with the relief to not have to maneuver the small pegs any longer.

“Another win for me,” Dracula observed. “You’re not having much luck tonight, are you?”

Jonathan didn’t answer. He didn’t think ‘I’m sorry’ was the correct response, but he couldn’t think of any other utterance to convey his feelings.

“Shall we play another round?”

“Yes, my lord,” he mumbled, knowing what the correct words were whatever his true feelings might be.

There was an expectant pause.

“Reset the board, Fledgling,” Dracula prompted.

Jonathan struggled to obey, his fingers too clumsy for the delicate work. But it had to be done. Orders had to be obeyed or else he’d risk being locked away for days.

“You seem tired,” the vampire observed. “Are you sure you wish to play again?”

Jonathan worried at his punctured tongue and swallowed down another mouthful of cold blood. At least it dampened his dry throat a little. “If it pleases you,” he managed.

Dracula’s chuckle was warm and amused.

Yes, he liked watching Jonathan struggle and surrender.

“Are you hungry?”

Jonathan wanted to scream, but he forced himself to find the tactful answer. “I’m sure you know best how much is good for me.”

“Well spoken,” the count said with approval. “I think you should go first.”

Jonathan obediently fumbled for the dice and squinted to read the numbers.

Six. Off to a decent start.

He picked up both his pawns and moved each three spaces.

“Ah. A unified strategy. Good luck to you.” Dracula tossed the dice lightly across the table.

Movement caused Jonathan to look up as Renfield shifted from his attentive stance against the wall and bent to listen to Dracula's softly delivered orders. The familiar slipped from the room, and Jonathan bent back over the game.

He tried to keep alert and stuck with the strategy of dividing his rolls between the two pawns, which meant one of Dracula’s quickly outdistanced his, but the other lagged, so perhaps there was sense to it. He’d lose, he was sure. He just had to keep playing as long as was required of him.

Renfield appeared with a tray in hand.

Jonathan kept his eyes on the game, never enjoying the sight of Dracula sipping a late-morning glass while Jonathan remained ravenous.

But the servant slid two glasses onto the table.

One in front of Jonathan.

Jonathan stared, his vision going blurry as he focused on the impossible sight.

Was he actually going to be fed a second time?

His gaze rose questioningly to Dracula.

The vampire gave a little nod of permission. “You seem a bit parched. Just be careful not to spill.”

Jonathan swallowed nervously. He’d learned the punishment for wasting blood.

It was the same punishment for any infraction. That didn’t mean he didn’t dread Dracula’s calm declaration that he needed a few days alone in the coffin to think about what he’d done each time the vampire uttered those horrible words.

He stretched out a trembling hand, the glass vibrating violently as he tried to lift it.

Getting it to his lips without spilling the meager rations felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done. Restraining himself from chugging the entirety took all his willpower.

Dracula would take it away if he drank too quickly. Tell him it was unbecoming to gulp like a common drunkard.

Jonathan forced himself to take small sips and focus a fraction of attention on the game. And on Dracula, who’d suddenly grown chatty and demanded Jonathan’s opinions of books he’d never read or forgotten if he’d ever heard of them.

He wondered despairingly how long he’d be able to keep the vampire’s attention when the count was so very educated, and Jonathan could think of nothing besides hunger.

The blood filled his stomach, soothing the constant ache to something manageable. He savored the last few drops, swiping his tongue along the interior of the glass at a moment that he hoped Dracula wasn’t watching.

The count saw and gave him a disapproving look.

“I… I shouldn’t waste any blood?” Jonathan suggested meekly, and that seemed enough to pacify Dracula even if he did signal Renfield to take the glasses away.

The blood helped keep him awake, and though the game ended in Dracula’s favor (of course), Jonathan at least managed not to drop nearly so many pieces.

He managed to walk all the way to Dracula’s bedchamber on his own, though once there it was easiest to lie still and allow the vampire to position him however he pleased.

He wished he had the energy to fight, and he suspected Dracula wished that too. His conquest of Jonathan’s will might have pleased him outside the bed, but within it, the vampire spent too much time teasing and hurting him for Jonathan to assume his captor was entirely satisfied with his exhausted lump.

It would have felt like satisfying defiance if his mind wasn’t overwhelmed with a sick sort of apathy.

“What ails you, my fledgling?” the count sighed after he’d finished and now brushed his nails through Jonathan’s long and dirty hair. “You’re so dull and pouty these days. What can I do to make you smile?”

Feed me! Jonathan’s mind screamed. Out loud he said “You are generous in attending to my every need, my lord. I’m sorry I’m poor company.”

Dracula kissed him. “Fret not, my beloved. We’ll have many years together in which you can dance attendance upon me properly. For now…” He kissed him again. “…such sweet a boy as you deserve a little pampering, doesn’t he?”

Jonathan forced himself to smile, false and strained as he knew it appeared. “I’m sure you know best.”

He received another kiss and a bit of time to sponge himself off before he was carried back to the coffin.

He settled into his cage, accustomed by now to the dark. To the limited mobility of his limbs. To the sensation of the air growing stale in his lungs as he eventually recalled that breathing was no longer a necessity.

For once his mind was capable of thoughts beyond the relentless pang of hunger, and he embraced the chance to simply think.

Had he learned anything since his transformation? That blood was delicious when there were no other choices. That his body still longed for food and air and warmth even if he no longer needed such things. That he could heal swiftly from any injury, and Dracula could probably heal even faster. Killing him would be a challenge.

If he could be killed…

Dracula had become all-powerful in Jonathan’s mind. The prospect of raising a hand against him – impossible. There was nothing he could do to stand against such might and strength and control.

And if he failed… To disappoint his maker and master…

No! He shook his head furiously, thumping it against the side of the box. Dracula was his captor! His tormentor! Who starved and raped and hurt him for the pleasure of it.

No! He could not let his thoughts fall into the servile patterns which Dracula seemed to desire. He had to keep a grip on himself. Had to remember what mission lay before him.

The monster had to die. That was the goal. The end of it all. No hesitating, not recoiling.

No matter how impossible it seemed, there had to be a way.

He just had to play nice for now.

Just until Dracula let him out of the box. Fed him decently. Gave him just enough leash…

There had to be a way.

Chapter Text

October 1890: Renfield

Master doesn’t hurt me often anymore. He barely looks at me. Do this, he says. Fetch that. Butcher this. Clean that.

And that is all.

Never does he say I’ve done well. Or badly. Or speak a conversational word.

Once I was his confidant. His companion.

Once I was the one he carried to bed and doted pleasure upon.

Once I thought he loved me.

I don’t dare touch the frayed thread of the bond. It might break if I nudge it. I don’t feel his emotions anymore. I wonder if he’s capable of feeling mine.

I should be jealous of Mr. Harker. He has been elevated to the position I was never good enough to be offered. He has all the master’s attention and love now.

But I was never worthy of the honor bestowed on him.

I was fortunate to ever be allowed to crawl.

I would serve them both if Master would allow. I would be whatever would please them.

Just to be acknowledged…

Just to be forgiven…

Harker is suffering.

I hear him clawing at his coffin day after day. He’s starving.

I keep away from him. I warn the servants to lock themselves away as soon as darkness falls.

He is not in control of himself.

He’s tried to kill me once, and he had thought enough to pull back when he tasted my blood, but I don’t think he’d be able to stop himself for anyone else.

I’ve seen Master when he’s starving. I’ve seen the desperation of the women when Master punishes them. I’ve seen that thin veneer of control stripped away.

A starving fledgling.

Master acts as if it makes him easier to control.

I fear it is just a matter of time…

Jonathan Harker

“Come outside, my Jonathan,” Dracula purred as he dragged Jonathan away from the bowl of blood he’d been forcing the fledgling to lap like a dog in revenge for breaking a goblet the last time he’d been fed.

Jonathan whined and struggled to escape the grip. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely, several nights of starvation gnawing relentlessly at his mind.

“Now, now. Are you going to misbehave?”

Jonathan froze. “No, my lord.” Trembling, he got his feet under himself and stood with his head meekly bowed. “F-Forgive me.”

“That’s better. Now come.”

With a wistful glance back at the blood, Jonathan followed his captor up the stairs.

Dracula led him through the residential portion of the castle, through the long entryway, and out the massive oak doors.

Jonathan hesitated on the threshold, only crossing when Dracula gave him a permissive nod.

He’d not set foot outside since his transformation.

The wind hit him with an intensity that made him shiver and flinch back. But… there was nothing to shiver about, was there? Not with his body so permanently chilled. He rubbed the hairs on his arm, noting the way they stayed flat without pimpling.

How much cold would he have to be exposed to before he truly felt it?

Dracula led him through the iron gate and onto the road. “Watch closely.”

For a moment the vampire stood tall and proud, a solid mass of shadow in the night. Then he toppled forward, his hands striking the ground with a resounding crack.

His appearance altered horrifically. Fur sprouted over his face and cascaded down his neck, his clothes vanishing into lupine pelt, his shape exchanged for that of an enormous grey wolf.

Nothing of the count remained.

Except the eyes. So ferocious and piercing when they turned to stare at Jonathan.

They'd been inhuman before. Now they were inanimal as well.

All the teeth. Too white, too elongated.

More perfect a predator than a true wolf.

Thus far you have looked upon your transformation with horror, my Jonathan, said a voice in Jonathan’s mind.

He jumped, spinning around wildly before returning his gaze to the amused and knowing eyes of the wolf.

Your mind is mine, my fledgling. Why are you so surprised to receive proof of it?

Jonathan tried to reach out, to follow back this mental command to its source, to answer the same way.

And there was a thread, wasn’t there? A line between himself and the vampire. A connection which tasted of blood and power.

Talons clawed against his mind, sending him retreating with a scream of agony which drove him to his knees.

The slave does not intrude upon the master, the counts voice hissed. Be wise to remember your place, or I will be forced to teach you to respect it.

Jonathan could only respond with a whimper, but the piercing pain retreated to a threat at the edge of his mind.

A warning that Jonathan’s next move would determine if further pain or forgiveness would be forthcoming.

The wolf stepped closer to Jonathan’s collapsed form, standing tall and expectantly with an air Jonathan knew well.

He knew what Dracula wanted of him.

He'd been well trained by now in the fine art of groveling.

He bent himself low and kissed the wolf's paws, painfully aware of the hot breath huffing against the back of his neck.

“Forgive my presumptuousness, Lord,” Jonathan whispered. “I will not intrude beyond my bounds again.”

The wolf’s teeth nibbled the short hairs on the back of Jonathan’s neck. He felt a pleased chuckle in his mind.

“So you've broken the new toy already,” observed a scornful feminine voice from the doorway of the castle.

Jonathan looked back to see all three of the women watching the scene with amused smirks.

My fledgling knows his place, the wolf rumbled loftily for all to hear. You would be wise to take lesson from him.

In answer, the women merely laughed. “And here we thought you'd replace us with this new toy,” one observed. “But if he’s broken faster than the last one, you'll bore of him and return to us by the snowfall.”

Jonathan’s stomach lurched. Were they right? Was he broken down to nothing already? No better than the crawling creatures who served Dracula so blindly?

No! This was an act. A means of survival. As soon as there was opportunity to strike…

He heard the wolf’s amused chuckle in his mind and knew with sickening despair that his every defiant thought was on display for his captor to see.

What are you doing outside the castle? the wolf growled. I gave you no permission to leave.

The tallest of the women tossed her head. “When have we ever needed your permission? We go where we please.”

“And we came seeking you for your benefit,” said the shortest of the trio.

“But if you do not wish to listen…” said the middle sister.

“…then we will go off and leave you to be surprised,” finished the tallest.

Jonathan stared at them a little dizzily. Were they three separate individuals? Or a fragmented whole?

The world might make sense any which way.

What do you have to say? Speak! Dracula demanded.

“Just men…”

“…several men…”

“…creeping through the forest…”

“…toward the castle.”

“They slew deer a distance away…”

“…the shifters ran to the meat.”

“Now the men come here…”

“…unimpeded.”

“We followed them through the forest…”

“…then ran ahead…”

“…to warn our noble lord…”

“…but if you don’t need our warnings…”

“…then we will go about our business.”

“Perhaps once the hunters slaughter you…”

“…your pets will find they enjoy our company more than yours.”

Dracula let out a snarl and took off in a blur of silver fur, leaving Jonathan crouched in the dust and the woman laughing scornfully behind.

“We could have dealt with the men ourselves…” one woman purred as she circled around Jonathan.

“…given them our sweetest kisses…” said the next.

“…but where would be the fun in that…” said the third, her fingers caressing Jonathan’s neck.

“…when our lord runs off so easily and abandons his pets to our embraces?” the tallest finished.

Jonathan swallowed hard. He crouched back on his heels, trying to rise even as strong and slender hands held him down. “I have no blood now,” he said thickly. “I’m no good to you as food.”

“Oh we know…”

“…It’s a pity…”

“…We should have put more effort into kissing you before…”

“…But we wanted to see what he would do with you…”

“…And what you would do to him…”

“…You’re very disappointing.”

“Disappointing?” Jonathan asked, trying to escape their too forceful and too intimate caresses.

“You crumpled before him so quickly…”

“…Just like the other…”

“…We thought you were stronger…”

“…A weapon…”

“…A challenge…”

“…But you are weak…”

“…He’ll break you soon…”

“…And then he’ll despise you…”

“…As he does us…”

“…And the other…”

“…Maybe you’ll want to play with us then…”

“…Just to know someone’s touch…”

“…Just to feel again…”

“…You’ll be all hunger soon…”

“…Desire…”

“…Just as we are…”

“…You’ll join our chorus…”

“…Our newest sister.”

Jonathan ripped himself away from them, leaving clothes and skin behind as they sunk their claws deep into his flesh. He recoiled, standing swaying and unsteady upon his feet, glaring defiantly at the women. “I’m not broken!” he snarled. “I hate him! I want to kill him!”

Peals of laughter met this declaration.

“Do you think you’re alone?” the tallest asked as their chorus started up again.

“We hate him too…”

“…some of us loved him once…”

“…but there is only hate now…”

“…He took away everything but hunger and hate…”

“…He is our lord. We serve him or else we’d starve…”

“…Just as you…”

“…He keeps us bound to this place…”

“…Denied liberty…”

“…Denied weapons…”

“…Denied hope…”

“…Now we only hunger…”

“…Hunger and hate.”

Jonathan took several steps back as they prowled closer, unable to do anything as they circled him like sharks. “If you hate him so much, why don’t you fight?”

“Why don’t you?”

No chorus. Just a single phrase which cut to his cold heart.

“How can I?” he asked. “He starves me and keeps me caged. He sees into my mind. I don’t know enough about what he is to even hurt him. How can I fight him?”

The women giggled as they circled close enough to touch him with caresses and claws.

“Excuses…”

“…always excuses…”

“Would you have the nerve?”

“To strike?”

“To slay?”

“If you knew how?”

“If you were strong?”

“If you were free?”

“Or would you find peace in groveling?”

“In feeding on the wolf’s scraps?”

“In sheltering beneath the monster’s wing?”

“Do you truly want freedom?”

“Do you have true conviction?”

“What drives your mind?”

“What drives your hand?”

“What drives your heart?”

“MINA!” Jonathan roared the word into their faces.

The women drew back in a silent huddle.

“Wilhelmina Murray. Mina. My betrothed. The woman I’ve loved since… since forever. I’d do anything for her. I’ve become a monster for her sake. So I’d have strength to kill him before he can reach England and harm her! Mina is everything in my heart. She’s why I’ll never stop hating him. Why I’ll never stop searching for a way to slay him!”

The women looked at one another, silent thoughts passing between them. The smallest opened her mouth as if she might speak, then all three vanished into mist, fading like the wraiths and memories they were.

Jonathan stood alone, trembling with rage and conviction.

And pain.

The women had not been gentle with him.

He swayed, the constant clawing of starvation nearly dropping him once more.

To the ground. To the outside ground.

He was… free? Freer than he’d been since his transformation. No Dracula hovering at his side. No caging coffin walls.

Just overwhelming weakness.

And his captor sure to return to him momentarily.

But was there time to act before then? Find food? A weapon?

He thought of the servants, and his mouth began to water.

Fresh, hot blood. Exactly what he craved.

He’d only taken a few trembling steps towards the kitchen before sound of screams echoed from the forest. He froze, listening with a knotting hunger and horror to the voice of slaughter.

Whatever those men had intended, their end had come to tragedy.

He saw a blur, then the women appeared beyond the castle wall, running swift as wolves across the ground toward the sounds of death.

Going to join Dracula to feed upon the remains.

Jonathan started forward with the same thought.

He’d barely reached the gate when Dracula appeared, striding down the path with the screaming body of a man flung over his shoulder and a deadly curved weapon in his hand.

“Good, Pet,” he cooed and chucked Jonathan under the chin, the blade dancing dangerously down Jonathan’s chest with the motion. “Coming to welcome your master home. Very good. You!” His voice turned harsh, speaking to someone behind Jonathan. “Take this to the dungeon.” He dumped the injured man to the ground, stepping over him and striding toward the castle. “Come, my Jonathan,” he ordered.

Jonathan fell into step behind the count, forcing himself not to look at the broken body singing with hot blood. From the corner of his eye, he saw Renfield shoulder the body and stumble off with it, and he tried not to envy the familiar the unattended contact with something alive… delicious… vital…

He shook himself and followed where his captor led.

Dracula halted in the entryway where he surveyed the wall of weapons with a prideful eye. “Where should my new prize be displayed…?” he mused. He pushed the blade into Jonathan’s hands. “Hold this, my friend.” He moved further down the row, humming to himself as he studied the wall.

Jonathan stared at the wicked and curved blade, drenched in shining red. He couldn’t help himself as he lathed his tongue over its length, groaning at the taste of blood so recently flowing hot and alive. He shoved the entire knife end into his mouth.

The tip nicked against his tongue, his own dark and sluggish blood mingling with that of the knife’s former owner.

“You’ve baptized it,” Dracula observed. “Some say that makes the weapon yours. But like all things here…” He plucked it from Jonathan’s hands. “…it is mine.”

Jonathan looked blearily up, watching as Dracula affixed the blade into a bracket on the wall. “What is it?”

“Hmm? Something someone thought to use against me.” Dracula chuckled and waved his hand at the display. “All of these are trinkets some fool thought to use for my slaughter. As you can see… they did their owners no good.”

“All of them?” Jonathan marveled, staring hopelessly at the array of weapons lining the hall.

Dracula sighed. “I’ve lived long. And fools never learn. Here-” He grabbed Jonathan’s wrist and hurried him to the start of the hall. “This was the first.” His fingers traced over a chiseled, stone knife. “My own brother. Thought he could save me. From what I was becoming. He thought it was a curse.” He laughed darkly. “Fool. He never knew how I sought the power. How I desired. This one…” He moved on, reverently touching a jeweled and gilded knife. “My favorite concubine. Little fool thought I’d actually given her something that could kill me.” He moved further down, gesturing at a long procession of spears. “This is the first time a whole army came against me. I didn’t take all their weapons – just those of the ones I personally killed. My creatures dealt with the rest. Speaking of…”

He moved further down to a necklace of wolf teeth. Except… as Jonathan stared closer, he realized some of the teeth were rather human. And some… much too long and sharp for a wolf.

“This was the first of my creatures to turn against me. Fierce beast she was. I crucified her in the Roman style. She was strong. It took her days to die. And my other beasts sat at the foot and watched. I wouldn’t let them move an inch. Not until the flies had eaten out her eyes.”

He turned to Jonathan, his gaze sharp and cold. “I don’t take kindly to betrayal.”

Jonathan shuddered and looked away. “I’d never dream…”

Dracula laughed. “Of course you do. You won’t for long, of course. You’ll come to love my chain and shackles. You’ll come to love me.” He stepped in flush with Jonathan’s body and toyed with the unresisting fledgling. “You’ll run with me on the hunt soon. You’ll glory in the power of your new body. You’ll savor the kills and dance in the blood of the weak cattle we hunt. Ah, my Jonathan…” He cinched the young vampire tight against him and clasped him close. “What a beautiful future awaits us. And when we reach England, when that new land brimming with fat and stupid cattle is mine, how glorious it will be to have you at my side.”

He spun Jonathan about as if they were dancing to music only Dracula could hear. “You’ll be strong then. Sheltered in your native soil in a bed made from your native wood. How glorious you’ll be. The envy of every young man and woman in the town. How they’ll flock to you. And you… you’ll bring them to me. And how we will dine.”

Chills swept through Jonathan. Chills and sickness enough to urge his stomach to expel what little lay inside it.

But he kept his mouth closed. He kept his voice silent.

And he danced with his captor in the hall of broken hopes until Dracula sent him on his way with an affectionate kiss and commands for Jonathan to take himself straight to his coffin because ‘little fledglings need their rest after a night of fun.’

The bowl of blood was still waiting on the floor – congealed and dried and repulsive. Jonathan lapped down every drop and licked the sides of the bowl desperately in search of more even after it was drained.

He heard steps behind him, but he ignored them until the scent of fresh blood reached his nose, and he whirled eagerly.

Renfield stood at the base of the stairs, another bowl in hand. A bowl brimming with blood. “I thought… I thought that might have gone bad…” he explained weakly as Jonathan snatched the bowl from him.

Jonathan fed ravenously, feeling the edge taken off his starvation for the first time in days.

It occurred to him as he handed both bowls to the waiting servant that this meal had not been commanded. That it had been an act of kindness.

An act Renfield would likely pay for.

He lay back in his coffin, trying not to think about anything but hunger. Safer that way when his very thoughts belonged to his captor.

And he had much he badly wanted to contemplate.

He heard the lock snap closed on his coffin, followed by the regretfully familiar sounds of Dracula beating his devoted servant. Jonathan closed his ears and turned his head away.

But then he heard another voice. A breathy, feminine voice. A voice of three speaking as one.

“He hears only waking thoughts… and he hears only the thoughts he cares to read… Those he dismisses, he doesn’t consider threats… Tomorrow we run with him… far from here… to seek those who sent the hunters… Think on that when you dare…”

And he heard the click of his coffin lock coming free.

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

If I could avoid boats for the rest of my life, I would.

But Master wants out of Europe. And with the state of the continent, I can’t blame him.

But these aren’t exactly first-class accommodations.

It must be daylight since the death sleep holds Jonathan fast, not that any daylight filters into the cramped hold. Only one wall separates us from a boiler room. The air is hot and stale and swirls with dust.

I’ve made a narrow space for myself between the wall and the coffin. Enough room to stretch out, prepared to leap up should danger threaten.

It seems unlikely anyone will come here, and my guard has relaxed into quiet lethargy. My blanket feels heavy and weighted. More than I can hope to shift. As heavy as the eyelids I cannot keep open.

As heavy as the shadow closing around me.

The peaceful and warm weight turns paralytic, my limbs anchored down, denying me even a spasming twitch. My eyes are heavy… heavy… barely working against the dark.

Yet I know Jonathan is there. The coffin open. His body vulnerable.

I’m meant to protect.

And I’m about to fail.

Again.

I know the shame same as I know the owner of the shadow. The one weighing down my mind. A stone that will plummet me to the bottom of his abyss and leave me to drown.

Shame. Failure. Betrayer.

I have no protests against the accusations. I want to say that I fought with everything in me that day. That I intended to sell my life. That my survival was an accident.

That I’m ashamed to have lived.

Except, another’s name encircles my soul. A murderer’s name.

A name I’ve followed willingly.

In a century of service, I’ve never hesitated at anything Jonathan has asked of me.

And isn’t that the real betrayal?

The shadow is in my mind. My lungs. It pins my leaden limbs. Strangles my voice, my movements, my choices.

It reaches for Jonathan.

I see it encircle him. The darkness pulls tighter… tighter…

I scream. Except I can’t scream. My lungs are full of shadows. My throat is in the claws of another. My tongue is choked and voiceless.

I fight without moving a fraction. I scream without sound. I watch with eyes forbidden from looking away as the shadow turns to a single, deadly blade poised over Jonathan’s heart. It rears back. It strikes…

“Robert! Robert, wake up!”

Mark is reality and brightness as he shakes me back to the muffled light of the apartment. I see him as a dim outline, but an outline that pulses with Markness and reassurance of the solidity of his existence.

My limbs are still weighted, my lungs burning. But Mark is shaking me. Moving me. Ordering me to –

“Breathe! Open your mouth! Breathe!”

I obey.

I suck gallons of air into my lungs, inflating my body until I am too light for the shadow’s weight. Shadows run, the dreams with them. My limbs flail and twitch, tingling with memories of pain – not real pain but just the memory of the nightmare insisting that there was pain.

And… memories – true memories – of pain.

Pain inflicted on me by…

I fling myself from the bed, nearly face-planting into Lucy’s coffin. I brace myself until my feet remember how to work. I stumble to the other coffin and wrench back the lid.

It’s Mina’s coffin, but she’s opted to join Lucy today, leaving Jonathan to sleep alone.

He’s there. Lifeless as a corpse.

But he’s in pain.

The death sleep doesn’t afford dreaming. He should only dream in the span before and after. But despite the bond telling me that he’s in the depths, I can see his eyes darting behind his lids. The tiny spasms of a body unable to move. Unable to scream. Unable to wake.

I drop into the coffin, draping myself around him and clutching him tight. I croon a half-remembered song of years past. It’s the first thing that comes to me. Something old. Something peaceful. Safe.

I whisper across our bond that I’m here. That I’m guarding him. That I haven’t forsaken him. That I never will.

I’m aware of Mark hovering awkwardly, his fluttering hand occasionally rubbing against my back as he seeks to soothe without any idea of my distress or how to alleviate it.

Master’s twitching stills. His staccato breaths turn to silence as his lungs return to their usual flat state. His eyelids sink deeper closed.

The death sleep has him. No longer interrupted or infringed upon.

By… something.

I look up at Mark, my face awash with tears.

“Is he alright?” Mark asks.

I nod.

He struggles a moment, then asks, “How can you tell?”

I touch my temples. “He’s not screaming anymore.”

Mark flinches. “It was… it was just nightmares, wasn’t it?”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know. Nothing should be able to touch Jonathan when he’s like this. But… something came for him. Something… powerful.”

Mark crosses his arms on the coffin edge and rests his chin on them. “It wasn’t just nightmares,” he says slowly. “Can you tell me about it?”

I try. The details of the dream are fading. Just the sensation of being held down while something monstrous came for Jonathan.

“It’s called sleep paralysis,” Mark says. “What you experienced. Or it would be in a normal person. I don’t know about you two.”

“It’s never happened before.”

“No?”

“We’ve felt when the other’s having a nightmare,” I amend. “Not every time, but sometimes.” I gaze down at Jonathan. “But never when he’s in the death sleep. He can’t hear me when he’s like this.”

“This would be the best time to kill a vampire, wouldn’t it?” Mark muses.

“That’s why they have me,” I reply with an edge to my voice.

Mark isn’t a threat to my masters. I know that cerebrally. But at moment’s like this, it’s hard not to see everyone as a threat.

Same reason Jonathan was growling at me over Mina being in danger a day ago and now acts as if nothing has happened.

Same reason I don't let the hurt of his snarls affect me as I wrap myself around his rigid body and hold him for the long hours until the paralysis leaves him, and I can allow myself to relax as I too drift into dreamless slumber.

“What do you remember?” Mina asks, her eyes boring into Jonathan’s.

He squirms beneath her interrogation, his hand gripped protectively around mine. “Just… hurting… As if…” His head droops, his eyes clenched shut. He squeezes my hand. “Go wait outside.”

“Are you sure?” I ask even as I rise.

He nods without opening his eyes.

I slip out the door and onto the landing, leaning on the railing to stare unseeing at the salmon-colored walls.

We need to stay here, my mind insists. It’s important to stay here.

But why? asks another part of my mind.

I don’t have an answer, just the same certainty as before.

Moving would be a mistake. I have to prevent it at all costs.

“…you don’t forget what it feels like to have someone tear into your mind from the inside,” comes Jonathan’s voice filtering through the open kitchen window.

I distance myself hurriedly down the stairs.

That’s what he didn’t want me to hear. The memory.

Because Jonathan’s only experienced that once.

And it’s been more than a century.

Who could have hurt him now? Hurt him hard enough that it stabbed through the bond and assaulted me as well?

We don’t have enemies. There aren’t that many vampires in the world. The ones who create trouble attract notice and quickly meet their end. The ones that survive the centuries either adapt with the times or hide away in remote locations. We don’t interact with each other enough to make enemies. The older ones who disapprove of the way the younger generations do things don’t go out of their way to draw attention by starting fights.

And as for hunters, they target vampires with known names. The ones who are reckless or go mad. And hunters don’t exactly live long and fruitful lives. They die as often as their targets… perhaps even more often considering what they set themselves against.

We’re not well known. We’ve never had any particular hunters chase us across continents or swear multi-generational vengeance against us. We’ve killed some and fled from others, leaving them for some other monster to slaughter.

There shouldn’t be anyone who cares enough to find new ways to hurt us.

There shouldn’t be anyone who hates us with such fervor.

So why were we attacked?

Mina is alone in the apartment when I return hours later. I’ve kept myself occupied, forcing down memories and fears in favor of the basic tasks required for our survival.

Mina has stretched all her research across the kitchen table and is utterly absorbed, oblivious as I edge around her to the refrigerator to drop off the blood I’ve gathered.

It represents the last of the blood collection bags. Which is just as well since I was nervous to contact most of the willing donors I’ve found for fear one of them tipped off my identity to the gang. This set comes from a family who speaks no English and that I suspect of being in the country illegally, so I have less fear of them telling anyone anything.

“How much do we have?” Mina asks, her eyes never leaving her notes.

“A few days, maybe,” I say. “Not enough for traveling.”

It’s tougher to hunt on the road without knowing the lay of the land. Yes, rest stops and campgrounds are good places to find victims, but you never know what kind of security is in the area, or how influential a victim might be, or what other vampires have claimed the territory.

Best to have a stockpile.

“You don’t want us to go,” Mina observes.

“No,” I admit.

“Why?”

I shrug. “No reason, really.”

“That’s the same thing you said about moving here.”

“Was it?”

Mina spins in her chair and looks at me. Intently. Scrutinizing. “Are you sure you didn’t have a reason for coming here?”

I don’t look away from her piercing stare. “No. I just… feel like we should stay.”

“Mmm.” Mina releases me from her gaze and returns to her notes. “You and Jonathan aren’t the only ones who have been attacked recently. Four others that I’ve been able to find.”

I wonder what sort of vampire WhatsAp chat Mina might have arranged, but I’m not surprised that she would.

“Not everyone survived,” she adds.

“The hunters who came after us barely seemed like they knew what they were doing.”

“That’s what everyone’s saying. Hunters in large groups. Armed with effective weapons and very little knowledge. There’s a pair up near Tulsa who had that ring of blue flames you described used against them, but it didn’t work, and the hunters didn’t seem to have any idea why. But that gun… That’s been effective.”

“A gun that works against vampires,” I murmur.

“Or at least slows them down. Enough to use weapons that actually work. Have you spoken to any of your contacts since the attack?”

“No. I’ve been too busy with everything else.” I glance back at the fridge. “Whether we’re leaving or not, we need supplies.”

“Where’s the nearest drop site?”

“Little Rock. It’ll take me a day to get there and back. Few more days to harvest. Or I can order blood too if you want us to get on the road faster.”

Not that we have a destination. No one’s been able to agree on that.

I haven’t asked Mark if he’s coming. Logically, he should go home and deal with his own problems, but we’ve all been simply reacting since the hotel was attacked. I don’t think he’s taken a breath long enough to think that he could or should walk away.

He’s apologized for prying. Again. And he’s good company when he’s not asking personal questions, so I like having him around. And Lucy likes him.

It’s nice to see her trusting someone.

“Get blood,” Mina decides. “Even if we don’t go quickly, hunting here isn’t safe until we know what’s going on. We should all stick to donor blood and not hunt for now.”

Lucy and Mark walk in at that moment, Lucy wiping fresh blood from her face and Mark looking a little green.

“What?” Lucy asks innocently as Mina glares at her.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Jonathan asks. He hovers protectively as I lace up my shoes.

I laugh. “It’s just a seven-hour drive.”

“And seven back,” he replies. “And you haven’t been sleeping well.”

I grimace. The nightmares have been constant since we got to New Orleans. I don’t need nearly as much sleep as a proper human, but even I can feel the short and restless slumbers getting to me. My reactions are duller than they should be, and the days have a foggy feel to them that has become so consistent that I’m starting to forget what it feels like to be awake without copious amounts of caffeine and bugs.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve endured worse.”

Jonathan still watches me. “It’s not your fault,” he blurts out. “Those people finding us.”

“But it is.”

“I mean…” He pulls me to my feet, worry in his eyes. “It wasn’t wrong to help that cop. You did a good thing. And we’re strong enough to handle a few idiots with guns.” His face contracts. “I shouldn’t have been angry at you. We were fine. Mina was fine. She can take care of herself. As she is forever reminding me.”

I smile weakly.

He clutches at my arm. “I should go with you.”

“You know I can take care of myself too.”

“Yes, but…”

I tug gently out of his grip. “You’d be too worried about Mina to function. Don’t worry about me. Worry about planning our move.”

He follows me to the door, all nerves and anxious glances toward the window and the soon-rising sun. “Maybe we could manage without supplies. Or pick them up on the way.”

“And then when would we harvest?” I counter. “This way’s more efficient, and you know it. I’ll be back by tomorrow morning at the absolute latest, and everything will be fine.”

Jonathan stands in the doorway watching me my whole walk out of the complex.

If you asked one of the senior vampires – the ones with a few centuries behind them – who the most famous vampires were, they’d inevitably list undead with titles like ‘The Conqueror’, ‘The Destroyer’, ‘The Relentless’ and such.

They honor the slaughterers of thousands. The ones who ruled kingdoms – openly or behind puppet kings. The ones who made the hunters flee.

If you ask the younger vampires, they’re all likely to mention Henry O’Roark.

Henry was a small-time salesman from Chicago who volunteered for World War II, became a quartermaster for the army, and returned several years after the war in an undead state.

It’s a common story considering the way battlefields attract vampires like carrion birds.

What made O’Roark important is that he saw the way the world was changing, saw the way vampires were scrounging for blood, and went into business.

He started manufacturing and supplying blood collection kits, finding ways to make them of cheaper material than hospital grade. He expanded to anticoagulants and medical waste disposal. From there he moved to paying a steady stream of humans to give blood which allowed vampires to take fewer risks during hunting.

Of course, operating the world’s largest provider of meals for vampires means intense security. New clients have to be introduced by existing members and carefully screened. O’Roark has never been infiltrated by hunters, and he takes every precaution to keep it that way.

Which is why supplies are never shipped directly – only to prearranged drop-sites.

And why I’ve driven four hundred miles to a small town outside of Little Rock, Arkansas on my own without unauthorized company.

It is late afternoon when I arrive at a derelict storefront. The girl who greets me stays in the shadows and looks as if she’s just woken up. She waves me around back, and I’m soon loaded with supply boxes and Styrofoam coolers. Another stop to refill the van with gas and myself with food of the dubious quick mart quality and I’m heading south.

An anxiety fills me to push the van to its limit and rush back. Which is ridiculous. This isn’t the first time I’ve left New Orleans to fetch necessities. There is no reason for my anxiety to spike with a need to be back within the city limits.

But I still have to force myself to go something resembling the speed limit.

There would be far too many questions about a van full of blood if I was pulled over.

The meandering road that winds across rivers and through three states slows me down along with increasing traffic as the evening rush clogs the lanes. I’m struggling to focus. I stop often for coffee, exhausting my supply of insects entirely. I consider seeking out a pet store and decide to press on.

I can surely get by without the vampiric energy boosts.

I hiss an unhappy sound each time the road curves away from the distant sense of Jonathan’s presence at the edge of my mind. We’re too far away to speak to one another, but I’ll always know where he is.

Always feel that compass point leading me home.

No, not home. New Orleans cannot be home. We’ll be leaving soon.

But we need to stay.

Why?

My tired mind tumbles over the question.

Why am I so certain? Why do I feel such need to be there?

Why did you pick New Orleans?

Mina’s words echo in my brain.

No reason. There wasn’t a reason. Just a place to go. Just a place still suffering enough hurricane damage even twenty years later to leave an entire hospital standing empty in a prime hunting location.

Plenty of tourists, plenty of crime.

Why wouldn’t I pick New Orleans?

But why did I? Why did I point the van in that direction from the moment I fled the burning house and never slow until I’d passed so many other possible cities that it had become the most logical choice?

Why had I needed to be there? Why did I need to be there now?

Why –

Bing!

I look down, shaken from reflection by the van complaining of a nearly empty tank.

Already? I just filled up… What time is it?

I glance around, noticing belatedly how dark it’s grown.

I’m lucky not to have been in an accident if I’ve been this unaware of the world.

The next exit advertises one gas station and nothing else. I follow the signs a distance from the highway, pulling up to a pump beside a few other travelers. The bored man on the other side of the pump doesn’t look up as I insert a credit card. His passenger types into their phone without a care for the rest of the world.

I extend my mind, surprised at how close Jonathan feels. Am I closer to the city than I thought? I should have another couple hours of driving, shouldn’t I?

It’s getting hard to remember.

I turn to unscrew the gas cap.

I hear quick steps behind me and whirl as the other driver whips me across the head with a crowbar.

I jerk away, the blow glancing against my ear. I slam against the side of the van, unable to recoil further as the driver swings again.

His passenger is out of the car now, and two more cars charge into the station, parking themselves across my van’s hood and rear.

They’re boxing me in.

I struggle to assess my odds as the crowbar comes down again. I grab the man’s arms and wrestle for the weapon, only for the passenger to slash a knife down my forearm. My grip slackens, and the driver pulls free, slamming the crowbar into my stomach.

Renfield!

The cry comes feral and alarmed across the bond, bringing with it waves of fear and anger and love and a relentless chant of hurry-protect-hurry-help-hurry-hurry-HURRY.

I flatten myself and slither beneath the van before I can be struck again.

It’s a mistake.

The men from the other cars have surrounded me. I’m helpless as they warn me back with bullets smashing into the asphalt dangerously near my head. As I scramble away, someone grabs my leg.

And stabs.

I scream and kick from their grasp, but not before they’ve slashed through the ankle tendons.

Even if I can get out from under here, I’m not going to be able to stand.

I reach my hands into the van’s underbelly, scrambling for anything that will break loose. Anything I can use as a weapon.

My hand comes away covered in gasoline.

Only then do I recognize the steady dripping forming a puddle beneath me.

There’s a hole in the gas line.

How long have they been following me without my notice?

I’m about to die, and it’ll be entirely because of my own stupidity.

Another car screeches into the station. A car I recognize.

Mark’s rusted little Honda. Abandoned outside the church days ago.

Jonathan leaps out of the driver’s seat, ripping away a layer of protective clothing against the recently-set sun.

He must have started after me hours before.

While he was still vulnerable.

He charges my attackers. The most powerful predator on the planet. The unkillable survivor of a century of conflicts. Winner of fights against dozens of hunters.

The first bullet buries itself straight into his throat.

He should have seen it coming. He should have dodged.

Instead, he screams, a scream that rips down to my soul and shatters my heart. A scream of agony unimaginable.

I’m out from beneath the van before he hits the ground, trying to stand on my bleeding leg, trying at all cost to reach his side.

They come at me from all sides – a blur of crowbars and fists. I fight as best I’m able, punching vulnerable spots as they appear and biting whenever a limb flails into range.

The blood hits my tongue with acrid and sickly familiarity.

That’s not a human tang.

Not completely.

I look up, staring into a sadistically grinning face and two unmistakable amber-glowing eyes.

An arm clamps around my neck and squeezes, other too-strong hands caging my wrists and wrenching them behind my back. They bear me to the ground, and I catch a glimpse of a needle before it plunges into my neck.

My last images before the world goes dark are too many maniacal grins lit in amber gleams and too many men emptying bullet cartridges into the still form of Jonathan Harker.

Chapter Text

October 1890: Jonathan Harker

Jonathan's eyes opened to darkness and mindless hunger.

Despite the decent meal he’d received that morning, his body screamed with a sole and unfillable need.

Blood.

Living blood. Blood fresh from the source.

His dreams had been ceaseless fantasies of hunting. Consuming. Killing. Glutting.

He slammed his fists against the coffin lid, screaming for release, screaming to be fed…

…and it moved.

He stared into the blackness for a second, then threw his whole strength into pushing…

The lid creaked reluctantly, threatening to topple back on him. He sat up, pushing harder until the hinges squeaked to their fully open position.

He was free.

The crypt was dark, though his eyes saw shapes with more clarity than his human senses had been capable of.

Dracula’s coffin stood open. No movement that Jonathan could discern.

He walked cautiously, testing the ground with each step for fear of stumbling. But he was steady on his feet. Capable at least of walking.

He started toward the stairs, then hesitated and reversed directions.

If Dracula was present, he’d be in the castle.

If Jonathan wanted to take advantage of his liberty…

He reached the hole in the ceiling and looked up into a darkening sky.

Freedom…

He jumped up and down, trying and failing to get anywhere near the opening.

Just needed something to climb…

It took a great deal of energy to drag both coffins to the hole and prop them on their ends, but perhaps not as much effort as it would have taken were he still human.

With one braced against the other, he scaled his coffin and rocked precariously on the upright end. It was still a distance to the lip on the hole, and he’d probably topple the coffins when he sprang.

But what else was there to try?

He bunched himself and leaped.

There was little to grip. Old flagstones crumbled in his fists, but he hung on and scrambled madly, swinging one leg over the edge, then the other…

He lay panting heavily amidst the dirt and weeds in this corner of the courtyard. His strength was spent, and his head swam.

Have to keep going. Have to move.

He dragged himself to his feet.

The castle gate opened with a shove.

He glanced back once. Then he ran.

It was a shambling and stumbling run, but it was running.

He plunged into the forest.

Swift as a whisper. Terrifying as the shadows.

This was his dream. Running. Chasing. Hunting…

His dream had not included wolves.

A half dozen beasts emerged, springing into his path with fangs bared and bodies crouched.

He froze, staring back at the unmistakable warning.

Then he sprang.

He picked the most human-looking of the group. A gruesome form that still had forelegs ending in wrists and hands. Whose muzzle was a short thing which lacked hair, though the teeth were long and pointed.

Human meant blood. Human meant prey.

The shifter was caught wholly unaware. These were the strongest predators in the forest. Lords of the shadows from which all else fled. They never expected their targets to strike first.

The shifter reacted too slow, clawing once at Jonathan’s chest before it was spasming beneath his fangs.

The true wolves of the group scattered. The other shifters lunged toward the slaughter.

Jonathan raised his bloodied mouth and snarled his challenge, the warning cry that this feast was his, and that none should dare disturb him while he fed.

The shifters wavered and bunched, instinct and training commanding them to bow before the superior creature.

But to see one of their own slaughtered…

“Go back!” a new voice called. “Leave this one! Go!”

The shifters obeyed, and Jonathan swung his head to snarl at the new threat.

Renfield raised his hands and backed quickly from the vampire and his meal. “I came for your protection, Sir. I would not take what you’ve claimed.”

With wary and blood-shot eyes still fixed upon the familiar, Jonathan plunged his fangs into his kill and drank.

It tasted wrong. Wrong as Renfield had. Tainted with animal and vampire blood which curdled the human taste beneath. Nothing pure or satisfying about this meal.

But blood! Plentiful blood. Hot and burning and close to what he’d longed for night after endless nights.

He drained the corpse, slurping every last drop from the veins.

“It’s not enough,” he murmured once he was through. “It’s not right.”

“I don’t think there’s humanity enough left in them to truly sate you,” Renfield observed.

Jonathan glared up at him. “Where’s Dracula?”

“Away. He took the women and left at twilight to hunt for more attackers. They’ll circle the countryside and remind all the towns why they’re to be left alone. He won’t return until dawn.”

Jonathan managed to gain his feet. His stomach churned, the strange blood not sitting comfortably. Still food. Fuel.

Enough to think.

“Did you unlock my coffin?”

“No, Sir.” Renfield’s heart pounded a frightened rhythm. “I wouldn’t dare.”

No. Renfield wouldn’t. And… there had been a voice just before he’d fallen asleep…

“Let’s go back to the castle,” he said shortly.

Renfield fell in step behind him, bowing his head as submissively as he would have for Dracula.

Renfield would be punished for this. Jonathan as well.

He’d best make it worth it.

They passed into the courtyard, Jonathan’s eyes peeled for movement.

He veered towards the servants’ house, reaching up to hover one hand over the multitude of carved crosses.

They burned.

Not as acutely as fire. Not as sharp as ice. But something akin to both. A screaming of antithesis and revulsion down to his core.

“I’m rejected from the light of the church,” he murmured in horror.

“It’s not the church,” Renfield said. “Anything someone believes in with absolute faith – whatever the faith – seems to work. Not enough to kill. But it’ll hurt you. Make it harder to enter somewhere branded with the symbols.”

Jonathan put his ear to the door, hearing the murmur of voices inside. They weren’t praying this time. Perhaps they didn’t realize who stood beyond.

“How does a family come to serve a monster?” he asked.

“Master sometimes finds… undesirables. Outcasts. Displaced people. Sometimes he offers to spare them if they’ll serve him.” His eyes fixed sorrowfully on the door. “They can’t leave. The shifters know their scent and would hunt them everywhere. Master breeds himself a supply of servants this way. And sometimes…”

“Starvation rations,” Jonathan surmised.

Renfield winced. “When he goes to England, maybe he’ll let them go.”

“Let’s go inside,” Jonathan grumbled, striding swiftly across the courtyard.

It was then that he heard footsteps.

His head swung around, catching a glimpse of a girl carrying a bucket of water and hurrying toward the cottage.

In a flash, he shot across the courtyard and pounced, throwing her to the ground and sending the bucket flying.

He felt Renfield’s hand close around his jacket and rolled, bringing the girl between them, his long nails at her neck. “Get back!”

Renfield reared back, his eyes wide and alarmed.

The girl was screaming and struggling like a wounded rabbit. His teeth dipped low toward her throbbing neck...

...and then he saw the cluster of her terrified family gathered at the cottage door.

Her heartbeat was a wild drum in his ears, the heat of her so tantalizing that he left long ribbons of drool across her neck.

“What happened to the man?" he forced himself to demand. "The one Dracula told you to take to the dungeon? Is he still alive?”

Renfield stared mutely back at him.

Jonathan jabbed his claws deeper into the girl’s neck.

“Yes!” Renfield cried out. “I harvested from him for your last meal, but he still lives.”

Jonathan could barely speak around the desperate salivating. God, he wanted to kill this girl so badly. “Take me to him.”

Renfield whimpered.

“I’ll kill her,” Jonathan threatened. “I will.”

Renfield met his eyes, searching into their depths.

Jonathan tried to make his face add credulity to his words.

Tried.

Renfield abruptly bowed his head. “Yes, Sir,” he mumbled.

Jonathan relaxed his grip, and the girl bolted into the arms of her family. In a moment, they were separated from him by locks and prayers.

I should have kept her until I had what I wanted. But I couldn’t stay near her any longer.

Would I really have killed her?

Jonathan pushed away the question.

He climbed to his feet, his eyes warily fixed on the familiar. “Put your arms behind your back.”

Renfield obeyed, and Jonathan clamped his wrists in a firm grip. “Take me to the dungeon. And don’t try anything.”

He didn’t think there were threats he could truly offer considering the beating Dracula would give Renfield as soon as he returned.

Yet Renfield whispered his acquiescence and set off at an awkward and restrained pace.

They went down. And there…

…people.

More than just the hunter.

Jonathan could hear their weak heartbeats. Their whimpers of pain and misery.

Their fear.

It made him ravenous.

“Where are the keys?”

In the darkness, Renfield shuffled along to a wall and stopped. “Here, Sir.”

At a push, Renfield dropped to his knees, his head resting against the wall and his arms still crossed behind him.

Jonathan’s fist closed around the key, and he turned toward the cells.

Four heartbeats. All in pain. But one sounded livelier than the others.

As if they’d only been recently confined.

Jonathan turned the lock.

It took only seconds to end a life.

When there was not a drop of blood remaining, he straightened and wiped his mouth.

Full. Finally full.

He stumbled a little drunkenly back to Renfield and replaced the key with an unsteady hand. “You can get up,” he managed to say without belching.

They walked back the way they’d come, Jonathan turning his back on the suffering behind him.

Guilt was starting to set in, but he shoved it away. For now.

Have to plan. Have to think.

“I want a bath,” he announced.

Renfield accepted the statement as the order it was and hurried off to arrange for water to be boiled and the tub to be filled.

Jonathan stood by, watching as Renfield and two very terrified servants brought up buckets of hot water. He tried to speak his thanks, but the servants fled the second their buckets were emptied.

It was probably better that way.

Alone, he scrubbed away weeks of rapes and caked-in grime.

And his kills.

He’d killed tonight. Twice. He could argue self-defense for one and a mercy killing for the other, but that didn’t take away the fact that he’d killed so that he might live.

Was he as monstrous as the beast he sought to slay?

And once he’d done the deed… there would still be a monster left.

Himself.

The worst part? The very worst part? How good it had felt.

His feet pounding so swiftly through the forest. His mouth wrapped around a neck that pulsed with life and terror. The heady taste of hot blood, better than any wine.

Even if it were possible, would he want this glorious feeling to go away? Would he want to be blind and deaf to all the world could show him?

And he’d live! Live on and on in this young and healthy body. Unchanging, but witnessing the changes of the world.

…While everyone he’d ever known withered and died.

His parents were gone. He had no siblings. Those were no worries.

But there was Mina. And his future with her.

Except… that future was gone now. He’d live until he could kill Dracula. And then…

Focus on one thing at a time. Kill the beast.

Because he still had no idea how.

Cleaned and dressed, he paced to the library, seating himself near the window to stare out at the forest beyond.

Renfield appeared, taking up his customary attentive position against the wall.

Jonathan pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”

Unhappily, the familiar complied.

“I’ll tell him I got out myself and forced you to obey,” Jonathan assured him. “He can’t blame you for what I did.”

Renfield gave him a look which clearly said, yes, Dracula would blame his servant for Jonathan galivanting around the castle.

Jonathan sighed. “Has he always been like this with you?”

“No,” Renfield said softly.

“You did say he was kind.”

“He was,” Renfield insisted. “Kinder than I deserved.”

“And now…?”

Renfield dropped his eyes. “I failed-”

“You couldn’t have!”

Renfield flinched and hunched in the chair.

Jonathan swallowed the urge to shout. “You do everything he says, take every beating, and it’s never enough. I see him blame you for everything – things you haven’t done wrong and never could. He beats you whenever he’s in a mood, and you just lie there and take it.”

Renfield tucked his knees up and hid his face behind them. “It’s the only time he touches me anymore,” he mumbled.

Jonathan stared at him. “He’s forced you into his bed,” he whispered.

“There wasn’t any force about it.”

“It’s a sin! It’s obscene. It’s-”

Renfield lifted his head and glared. “What he does to you – that is wrong. But that’s not about love or pleasure. Just control. Making you surrender to something he knows hurts you.”

“Don’t tell me he’s any kinder to you.”

“He used to be. They might say back home that it’s wrong – to want a man’s touch that way. But it never felt wrong. Not with him.”

“Does he feel the same?”

Renfield’s face disappeared back behind his legs. “I thought he did.”

In his mind, Jonathan warred between education and the examples before him.

Renfield was… was mad. That was the easy conclusion. The sad creature who probably deserved to be locked away if he believed there could ever be love between two men and that it wouldn’t go against God and nature.

But… Jonathan had never been opposed to that sort of touch. Hadn’t it always felt as natural as a woman’s?

And did it matter anymore? His soul was lost. What was admitting to one more sin?

“He doesn’t love me,” he said. “He starves me and cages me until I’ll do anything he wants. He controls my every movement, and he calls that love. And you… it’s not because of anything you’ve done that he hurts you.”

“It has to be,” the familiar whimpered hopelessly. “If I could just be better…”

“He hurts you for the same reason he hurts me,” Jonathan growled. “Because he can. Because he likes it. Because he wants to dominate someone, but he’s not happy with what’s left once they’re broken. He got bored with the women, and bored with you, and bored with hundreds before us. Eventually, he’ll get bored with me and move on to the next victim unless I stop him now.”

“I can’t help you,” Renfield whispered. “Even if he doesn’t look in my mind anymore. I’m his. He carved out every bit of me that wasn’t. I can’t defy him. I won’t.” He lifted miserable eyes to Jonathan, begging for understanding. “I’m nothing without him. I’d never betray him.” His head drooped in exhausted defeat. “Even for your sake.”

Jonathan’s mind raced. “He doesn’t look in your mind?” he echoed.

Renfield shook his head. “The bond between us… there’s so little of it left. I can’t feel him inside my head anymore.” He sighed. “I don’t think he notices me enough to look.”

So here was a chance. Jonathan’s own mind might betray him, but Renfield’s would not.

Especially if Dracula didn’t think there was anything to find.

“Come with me,” he ordered, springing to his feet.

He hurried for the crypt, Renfield trailing behind him. He glanced out the window as he went, relieved to see the sky still awash with stars.

Hours before dawn. No guarantee Dracula won’t come back sooner, but there’s a chance. If he’s staying out of Renfield’s mind, and he doesn’t think there’s a reason to look into mine…

“How far can he read minds?” he asked abruptly.

“A few miles, I think,” Renfield replied hollowly. “He’s far away right now.”

“You can still sense where he is?”

“I know his direction. And… that he’s far from me.”

Jonathan looked back at the familiar. “That’s what broke you in England, isn’t it? Being unable to hear him?”

Renfield nodded hopelessly.

“Did it break him too?”

Renfield looked blankly at him.

“Not being able to hear you… after thirty years with you at his side… did that hurt him too?”

Renfield shuddered and looked away. “The familiar cannot live without the master.”

“Can the master live without the familiar?” Jonathan demanded.

“It can’t be like that. He’s my creator. My god! To think he’s the least dependent…” But Renfield looked doubtful.

Jonathan’s feet reached the bottom stair. He whirled and grabbed Renfield by the shoulders. Before the familiar could react – if he even would have – Jonathan dashed his head into the wall.

It took a second sickening blow before Renfield lay still, his head swollen and bleeding, his body crumpled as if in sleep.

Jonathan stared down at him, trembling more at this act of violence than at the kills he’d made. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then fled up the stairs before shame could overwhelm him.

Renfield would be fine. Dracula would heal him. And punish him for being taken unaware. Just as he’d punish Jonathan for attacking a creature Dracula regarded as his own.

Two creatures. Probably three.

Jonathan trembled for what would certainly be done to him.

More than just confinement and starvation.

If he didn’t act now.

He continued his frantic run.

Where could he find anything of use against Dracula? The hall was a gallery of failed weapons. The things that decorated the servants’ house… they might work against the women who were not so powerful as their maker. But Dracula… the servants lived at his sufferance. Not because he couldn’t hurt them.

Or maybe they were protected. Maybe there was something in those peasant superstitions which meant something.

But how could he possibly find out?

And where could he look?

Not among the servants who locked their doors and refused to speak even if they could understand him (threatening to murder the girl had probably ruined any chance of allies).

Not in the women’s quarters. They had the same weaknesses as Dracula. Perhaps more so.

Dracula’s own rooms? Jonathan slowed as he entered his captor’s quarters and cast his eyes around blankly. Why did Dracula even keep a bedroom? Just for the showpiece of it? He hardly used the room for anything but storing his clothes.

And he did make use of the bed. Just never for sleeping.

Jonathan moved through the opulent and painstakingly cleaned quarters, scanning their contents with a dubious eye.

If a weapon could harm Dracula, it wouldn’t be here, would it?

How would the vampire handle it if it could?

Maybe that’s what a familiar was for.

With a flicker of insight, Jonathan quit the room and went hunting with more focus.

Where would Dracula keep the servant he’d once loved and now treated so abominably? Nearby so that his familiar could be on hand the second he was wanted? In some sad and forgotten corner full of dust and decay?

Something in between seemed the answer where Jonathan pulled open the door of a little room and knew he’d found the right place.

The jars of flies on the windowsill gave its occupant away.

Jonathan didn’t hesitate as he began to methodically search the room.

The closest contained an odd assortment of clothes – some demure uniforms, others looking as if Dracula had gifted worn things of his own to his servant. A sewing kit seated beside an assortment of shredded garments gave testament to Renfield’s meticulous repairing of his master’s frequent mauling.

In a chest, Jonthan found something more interesting.

The biscuit tin Renfield had brought from the ship. And inside…

Jonathan snorted at the sight of his long-missing shaving mirror. So Renfield had taken it. But why…?

Jonathan startled and dropped it as he turned the glass around and saw… nothing.

Frantically, he fumbled for the pieces and seized the largest shard. He shifted it one way and another, even waving his hand frantically over it. He looked behind himself at the wall, then back at the mirror.

Yes, the mirror was behaving as it ought. Showing the room. The closet. The bed. Everything.

Except Jonathan.

Except the glaring and empty space where an unliving person should have been.

“Why?” he whispered helplessly. “What does it mean?”

He looked back into the box, his eyes focusing on the second item buried within its depths.

A crucifix.

Why would Renfield have…?

But it hadn’t been his, had it? It had been Jonathan’s.

That woman on the coach. She’d pressed him to take it. And he’d put it into his pocket and never given it another thought.

Never noticed that when his clothes had been returned, it had been missing.

Clever of Renfield to take it away before Jonathan could wonder at its purpose. But… why had he kept it?

For the same reason he’d preserved the mirror? Maybe he’d hoped Jonathan would depart safely with the items returned. Maybe he’d hoped to make use of them himself.

Jonathan’s hand closely cautiously around the crucifix chain.

Burning raced up his arm, a jolt that rushed straight to his soul.

The contact with something meant to be the sheer antithesis of what he now was…

He dropped it and the tin, clutching his hand protectively to his chest.

It burned. But… not burned. His skin was unmarred.

Would it be any stronger against Dracula? Unlikely. The vampire seemed infinitely powerful. Such a small thing… Not a weapon. But… maybe…

Hunting further, Jonathan found his confiscated journal and writing supplies. The envelopes were all that mattered to him as he scooped the crucifix carefully into one and wrapped it in two layers of writing paper.

Leaving the room a mess, Jonathan jogged down several flights of stairs to the entry hall.

The weapons were a testament to the futility of murdering a vampire, but perhaps they could have another purpose.

Jonathan hesitated, overwhelmed by the volume of objects. Which should he take? Which would be overlooked?

One knife seemed to call out to him. The curved blade which had tasted his blood. He took it down reverently, testing the weight in his hands.

It suited him.

The crucifix burned irritably in his hand, and he veered into the library to cut several pages out of an atlas to further wrap the talisman.

Reaching the crypt at last, he stooped to feel Renfield’s neck for a pulse.

“I’m sorry,” he told the unconscious, but still breathing, man. “I can’t let you see anything.”

He dragged the coffins back to their proper places and examined the hinges on his own. He gouged out the wood around them until he could reach the metal.

With his current strength, he hoped he could break them from inside.

He opened and closed the lid a few times to assure himself it couldn’t be seen.

As he brought down the lid, a splinter sprang out and buried itself in his thumb.

Agony shot up his arm, acute enough to drive him to his knees.

More pain than even the crucifix.

He bit into his thumb, tearing frantically until he’d removed the splinter and spat it away.

He stared in bewilderment at the sluggishly bleeding wound.

All the pain he’d felt in the past months… why… why had that hurt so intensely?

Why was his thumb still bleeding – full of fresh blood as he was? Why were the edges of the wound turning disturbingly black?

He looked from the wound to the coffin, struggling to formulate an answer.

The weapons on the wall… stone, metal… perhaps even clay.

Wood? Had there been wood?

There must have been. But… specific wood?

What had Dracula said – native soil, native wood? To make him powerful.

The coffin… elm, he thought. And had taken so long for it to arrive. Had Dracula imported this prison all the way from England?

Was the reverse true? Was the wood itself the weakness Jonathan sought?

His eyes rose to the second coffin.

The coffin which sheltered Dracula by day.

And perhaps all Jonathan needed… was part of it.

Chapter Text

October 1890: Renfield

I awaken to Master’s blood in my mouth.

Followed by his foot.

I’m thrown by the blow, smashing against a wall.

I feel my spine crack, though the fresh blood heals it as quickly as the injury comes.

But the healing is rapidly exhausted.

Long before my pounding head has time to recover.

Master holds me aloft, his fist a ruthless collar around my throat.

I try to cry out for mercy. To beg.

But my lungs are aflame. I have no breath.

No memory save enduring the pain.

Master throws me down, ribs shattering on impact. “Who did this to you?!” he demands.

I croak wordlessly, unable to speak Master Harker’s name. I try to convey it across the bond, but the thread is too thin for me to grasp.

I can’t speak to his mind. Can he even look into mine?

Master kicks my stomach, catching more even ribs. “Useless,” he snarls and stalks away.

I curl around my battered body, conserving my energy as the master’s blood works its power on some of my injuries.

Some… but not all. Not enough blood to repair all he’s done.

I watch Master stalk to Harker’s coffin. His gaze focuses immediately upon the open lock. He glares back at me. “Did you do this?”

I shake my head desperately, coughing out weak assurance that I’d never do such a thing.

He turns away, pushing open the lid.

I tense, waiting for him to find it empty.

He stares for a long time, then slams down the lid and fastens the lock with a ferocious jerk of his wrist. “He’s been fed,” he snarls, advancing on me.

I crouch with my head mashed to the ground. “In the dungeon,” I stammer. “He drank from the foodstock.”

Master looms over me. “Did you show him the way?”

“Yes,” I confess.

I have no time for explanation or justification. He hefts me aloft and flings me into Harker’s coffin. I smash into the side and tumble to the ground, barely a moment to breathe before Master seizes me once more and slams me against the wall.

I land behind his coffin, discarded detritus in a crypt of broken stones.

I lie where I’ve been cast, my eyes focusing blearily on Master’s coffin.

It’s been damaged at the base – I’ve lain beside it so many nights that I know its angles well.

Pieces are missing. Long and deadly shards.

Stakes.

Stakes as the hunters say must be used against a vampire.

I’ve never seen them work better than any other weapon employed against my master.

But with the strength of a vampire behind them…

One freshly fed and full of hate…

My eyes flick to the hole in the ceiling.

Gray dawn light filters down.

The night is past – or nearly so. The women are undoubtedly slumbering. Harker has retreated into the death sleep already if he’s sought his coffin instead of escape. Master will join him soon. His movements are already slow and weary, his eyes hooded and blurred.

It must not have been a successful hunt.

And he didn’t feed night before. He’d left the dead to the women and carried back the living one untouched.

Mr. Harker is in the stronger position.

Except he already sleeps.

Whatever will happen, it won’t be in the daylight.

It can’t.

There’s time. Time to disarm Harker. Time to warn Master that his fledgling is plotting.

That perhaps Harker has allies who released him from his coffin last night.

I need only speak a word of warning.

I let out a small croak, trying to formulate the words.

“Silence,” Master snarls.

I close my mouth. I look away.

If there was ever a moment to disobey him, this is it. This is when it is necessary.

And I am silent.

Silent as Master stalks around the crypt, his eyes on the ground, trying to discern the odd furrows in the disturbed ground.

Silent as the hinges on Mr. Harker’s coffin are shattered from the inside and the lid is thrown back.

Silent as Master’s careless cruelty is repaid.

Jonathan Harker

Jonathan had thrown himself into sleep as fast as possible – before the dawn was close.

He had to sleep. Had to reach the death sleep before Dracula returned to look into his mind.

The curved blade lay behind his back, the cut and sharpened stakes beside it.

Beneath his shirt, he’d laid the crucifix onto its layers of protective paper upon his chest.

It had already scalded through the envelope.

He hoped it was only a matter of time before it burned through the other pages.

And perhaps… perhaps it could defend him to an extent.

Enough to keep his captor’s mind at bay.

Impossible in his old form to fall asleep at command – keyed up as he was.

But after weeks of confinement, weeks of sleeping through unimaginable hunger, he’d found he could fall into the death sleep the moment he lay back and closed his eyes.

If only it was so easy to awaken.

Surrendering to sleep… he was counting on so much.

On Dracula not noticing the damaged coffin or being too weary to be concerned about it before he’d slept.

On his plan to escape working in the way he’d imagined without time to test the concept.

On Renfield not giving anything away.

The last was probably impossible to hope for. But at least Renfield couldn’t know that he’d armed himself.

For now his hope was for the death sleep to claim him into a world free of worries where Dracula couldn’t probe into his mind.

A safe cocoon until the crucifix awoke him after Dracula had fallen into his own helpless state. Then he could arise and murder his captor.

He closed his eyes and surrendered to the emptiness.

Pain ripped Jonathan from the death sleep too fast and too brutally. Searing pain coursing up his chest. He jolted up, nearly braining himself on the coffin lid.

The crucifix! The crucifix had slipped off its protective paper and now bounced its way along his chest.

He thrust a hand into his shirt, frantically scooping paper and talisman out, shedding several buttons in his haste to cast the burning object into the bottom of the coffin.

Beyond his cage, he could hear a slam and a cry of pain that were too common of sounds in the castle. He heard Renfield’s half legible croak, followed by Dracula’s snarl for silence.

Dracula was here! He’d sense Jonathan’s awake mind too soon. His desperate planning would be for nought.

Scooping up a stake, he punched out the hinges and flung himself free.

It wasn’t the most dramatic entrance – tumbling head-first out of the coffin as he did. But he got his feet under him and sprang upright as swiftly as he’d fallen.

Dracula hadn’t moved – frozen in open-mouthed surprise at Jonathan’s eruption. “How did you…?” He had no time to wonder further as Jonathan launched himself at his captor and plunged the stake into Dracula’s eye.

Dracula reacted in time – throwing up a hand so that the stake went through his arm instead of into his skull. But it found skin. It pierced. It tore as Jonathan wrenched it free.

And Dracula screamed.

He stumbled back, clutching his arm and retreating as Jonathan pursued. He warded off a second blow, tossing Jonathan backwards as he opened his mouth and screamed an order that reverberated through the crypt and inside Jonathan’s mind.

“DEFEND ME!”

Jonathan ducked his head and clenched his jaws, resisting the claws lashing into his mind as he lunged and struck once more.

Again Dracula turned away, the stake tearing through his clothes and leaving a thin furrow down his side. He recoiled further, giving ground to Jonathan’s assault.

Jonathan raised his arm to attack again… and was tackled from behind.

Renfield had entered the fray.

The familiar looked half dead already, but nothing, not even regular and ruthless beatings, would keep him from fighting for his master’s protection. His eyes gleamed with the amber of the leeched vampiric power as he struck wildly with fists and teeth, no skill or plan in the near-mindless gaze.

Jonathan flung Renfield away, tossing him halfway across the crypt and barely sparing a glance to watch the broken servant pick himself off the ground and totter in pursuit once more. He had time before Renfield could attack again.

Time enough to slaughter the master vampire.

But Dracula was prepared now. The moment Jonathan turned, Dracula struck.

They tumbled together, both grappling for the stake – one to disarm, one to strike.

Dracula slammed him ruthlessly against the ground, bringing stars to Jonathan’s eyes. He clung to his weapon, trying madly to turn it towards Dracula’s heart.

He saw Renfield at the corner of his eye, hovering unsteadily and seeking a place to strike. It gave him an idea.

“Now!” he shouted. “Strike now!”

And Dracula, the vampire champion of thousands of battles and survivor of hundreds of years, fell for one of the oldest tricks a schoolboy brawl could employ.

He turned his head. He looked. He believed for a second that his devoted familiar could turn against him.

And Jonathan struck.

The stake went straight through the count’s throat, sinking so deep into the flesh that Jonathan had to release it as he scrambled to escape Dracula’s wildly flailing claws.

Because the count wasn’t finished.

He wasn’t even down.

He screamed another mental bellow as he clawed at his throat, seeking to dislodge the deadly weapon.

Spurned by the roar, Renfield leaped at Jonathan, but the fledgling was ready for him. He caught Renfield a fist to his already broken ribs, leaving the familiar doubled over and wheezing. Using him as a ladder, Jonathan pulled himself to his feet and smashed Renfield in the head once more for good measure as he fled the battle and back to his coffin.

Bats assaulted him as he ran, diving from the air without regard for their safety or survival. Rats latched onto his feet, peppering his legs with a hundred stinging bites.

He kicked them aside as he plunged his hand into the coffin, drawing out the other two stakes and the crucifix.

Thrusting one stake into his belt, he turned to find Dracula on his feet, supported by Renfield who slurped frantically at the blood dripping from the count’s arm. He could hear Renfield’s bones snapping back into alignment. There was little time to act before he had two formidable opponents to contend with.

He shoved the crucifix into his pocket, seized the curved blade, and charged.

Renfield stepped into his path before he could reach the count, selling himself to defend Dracula just a little longer.

Buying time. What else must have heard the cry to protect their master? How soon before the shifters arrived to overwhelm Jonthan with fangs and sheer numbers?

Jonathan saw the exhaustion in the servant’s eyes. The resignation. The way his gaze fastened on the knife with a look of hopeless finality.

Renfield squared his stance and raised his fists to defend himself as long as he was able.

Jonathan didn’t slow. Didn’t falter. Didn’t hesitate as he raised his weapon against the man he’d once called a friend…

…and smashed the dull end of the stake into the familiar’s much-abused stomach.

Renfield’s fists hammered down on him, but there was little strength behind the blows – not from the too exhausted and too beaten man who’d lost this fight before he’d even stepped into it. He went to his knees as Jonathan smashed the flat of his blade into Renfield’s head, then slashed down his arm to leave him further helpless.

He scrambled past the downed body and raised his stake…

…and Dracula erupted into a torrent of bats.

The swarm which was the count mingled with the diving bodies of the true bats. They pelted Jonathan’s face, striking for his eyes and hands.

Jonathan switched weapons and slashed wildly with the knife, catching dozens of teaming winged forms across the glistening blade.

Some bats dropped immediately, twitching helplessly upon the ground. Others coalesced with their fellows, forming a turbulent mass that plummeted eventually into the writhing shape of the bleeding count.

Jonathan didn’t give him time to regroup or form a plan. He threw the knife away and leaped onto the mass, stabbing into winged forms and human flesh, stabbing again and again with strength born of desperation.

There was no losing this fight. There was no showing mercy. No backing down.

Dracula would murder him if he floundered. Murder him and then journey to England and wreck his vengeance upon Mina. Upon Mr. Hawkins. The entire population of the island nation.

If he’d wanted to feast upon them already, no doubt Jonathan’s actions would triply motivate him.

And what if… he didn’t murder Jonathan outright. If he kept the young vampire alive. Caged. Starving. Suffering. Tortured relentlessly for the count’s sadistic amusement.

For his own sake. For the sake of anyone he’d ever loved. This had to end. Now.

Dracula formed hands and talons and struck back, carving Jonathan’s face down to bone with his first strike. One eye was casualty of the claws. Another caught in his mouth and ripped a canyon grimace. The talon gouged into his chest, ripping for his heart.

Jonathan never wavered as he stabbed again and again. And nothing – not the diving bats, not the scrambling rats, not Renfield’s weight trying to drag him off – was enough to slow his arm.

And though the wood splintered and dulled in his hands, it was making headway.

The wounds had stopped bleeding. Nor did they begin to close, fed to healing by the count’s stolen blood. They blackened. Charred, Fragmented.

The count was gradually turning to ash.

Renfield ripped Jonathan off the master vampire and dragged him across the floor, ignoring Jonathan’s repeated blows to his head.

You can’t win, Dracula snarled in his mind, his claws driving into the depths of Jonathan’s soul, causing the young vampire to scream and convulse. You’re mine. All of you are mine. I own you. I control you. I could snuff out your life with a thought.

Jonathan gritted his teeth and braced against the pain. But his body was weakening. His soul was caving under the pressure of his creator and captor.

Dracula was right. He didn’t have the strength. The blood-born power was waning. And there was no other source…

He jerked his head and plunged his fangs into Renfield’s neck.

The familiar wailed and fought blindly to escape. He tore himself free, leaving a trail of blood as he rolled away from Jonathan’s greedy fangs.

But he’d gotten enough.

Fresh blood in his veins, he lunged back into the fray.

Dracula still ripped at his mind, but the first fresh stab of the stake made his concentration waver. And by the fourth blow, he’d lost his grip on Jonathan’s soul entirely.

The vampire writhed and struggled, no longer fighting back but seeking to escape.

Jonathan felt the surge of exhilaration as he pursued. He was winning!

Dracula whirled abruptly, stabbing upward with Jonathan’s curved blade.

Jonathan reared back and twisted as the blade sought his unprotected side…

…and was turned aside!

He heard the screech of metal meeting metal as the blade glanced off the crucifix in Jonathan’s pocket and cut a shallow gouge below his ribs.

Jonathan ripped the crucifix from his pocket, still protected in its shredded paper wrapping. He shoved it – paper and all – into the gaping hole in Dracula’s throat.

The vampire screamed a mental wail of pure agony. A wail answered by howling wolves and shrieking bats.

Jonathan was deafened to all, near blinded with the pain of the wail. But his arm never faltered as he drew his final stake and struck again and again into the count’s unprotected chest.

Dracula never stopped fighting, not as his wounds blackened and disintegrated into ash. Not as he lost the ability to hold the blade in crumbling hands. Not as crucifix and wooden weaponry ate through his neck.

Jonathan’s arm worked mechanically, stabbing into every bit of flesh he could see – chest, arms, face. The wood splintered and dulled in his hands, but he kept on, thrusting deeper with every strike in search of the vital spot, in search of the final necessary blow.

My Jonathan, the count whispered. My friend.

A voice of a heart breaking.

Why?

And the count fell slowly and inevitably to dust.

The bats were first to flee, darting in terrified mass back into the rafters and shadows.

Then the rats, vanishing into cracks and crevices known only to them.

The wolves broke off their clawing at the gates.

In the aftermath of the screams, the world was silent.

Jonathan crawled slowly to his feet, staring down at the crumbling corpse at his feet.

Because… that was all it was now.

A body which had lived too long. A death too long avoided.

Nothing but crumbling ash which deteriorated to fine powder as Jonathan watched.

The weapon as well – the stakes which had been their owner’s protector and poison, the coffin they’d been cut from – likewise fell to ash.

Only the crucifix and a handful of rings remained, gleaming dully within the fine powder.

Jonathan touched his head, feeling the sudden lifting weight of absence.

The claws were gone. The grip of control and ownership.

He was his own man.

He was free.

A rustle made him turn sharply, beholding the last remnant of the count’s control.

Renfield stood, swaying helplessly on his broken and battered limbs. His hands hung limply at his sides, no attempt to stem the river of blood flowing from his serrated neck.

He made no attempt to reach Jonathan, nor even to move. The commands to slay were gone from his mind.

All commands.

And without his creator, his master… what remained?

Their eyes met. The man Jonathan had called friend. The man who’d been set as watchdog against him. The hound who’d pursued when he’d fled. The fighting cur who’d warred against him with his last breath.

Jonathan snapped his fingers.

Renfield limped to him, coming to heel as automatically as he’d obeyed Dracula’s every summons. There was no hesitation as he sank to the ground at Jonathan’s feet, head bowed, neck exposed for the executioner’s blade.

Jonathan glanced across the crypt, eyeing his curved knife contemplatively.

It wouldn’t be amiss to end this now. To take revenge against the one who’d brought him here. Who’d prevented his every escape, dashed his every hope.

But who had been the one to tend to his needs. To bring him sustenance even at the risk to his own hide. Who’d taken Jonathan’s punishments and never let word of complaint pass his lips.

If it had not been him, there would have been another. Another familiar. Perhaps one who’d have rejoiced in causing pain. In witnessing suffering. One Jonathan never could have called friend.

He looked down at the bowed man and saw one devoid of hope. Devoid of purpose.

Familiars couldn’t live without a master.

He slid his fingers beneath Renfield’s chin.

The servant tipped his head back immediately, exposing his lacerated throat ripe for the taking.

Jonathan scooped his fingers through the spilled blood, gathering enough to coat his tongue as he licked his hand clean. He gouged his nails into his own wound, collecting the blood into his palm. He spat into the mixture – that venom which had compelled his obedience before his transformation. A claw swirled through it created a frothing slurry which he tipped into Renfield’s mouth.

Renfield lapped automatically, defeated and unresisting to whatever fate Jonathan chose for him.

Jonathan extended his mind, blood calling to blood. They needed a connection. A bond. They’d had the same maker – a first link binding them together. They’d exchanged blood – a second link. And a third…

“I’ve slain him,” he hissed to the world at large. “What was his is mine now. Including you.”

It came in a rush. Sudden awareness of Renfield’s heart beating a resounding cry of life. His mind, hovering just at the edge of Jonathan’s consciousness. His to reach out and command with a thought. The soul – that indescribable true center of any living thing – now leashed and linked to Jonathan's own by a chain forged of blood and vows.

Renfield’s head bowed low. “Master,” he said, the only word required.

Jonathan baptized him in his blood, the familiar’s wounds swiftly healed beneath the dark offering.

As Renfield regained his feet, Jonathan began to sway, and Renfield was there to take his weight before he could topple.

The wounds and blood he'd spilled to claim his liberty catching up with him in a rush of exhaustion.

Renfield lifted Jonathan gently and carried him to his coffin where he laid the vampire reverently to rest.

Jonathan's prison and his sanctuary.

As it would be for as long as his eternal unlife lasted.

“The women might come,” Jonathan rasped weakly as shadows and delirium swam before his eyes. “The shifters…”

“I’m here, Master,” Renfield assured him softly. “Rest. I’ll watch over you.”

He pulled closed the broken lid, sealing Jonathan into darkness.

Jonathan felt the much-needed death sleep taking hold, but he resisted a little longer. He listened to the soft sounds of Renfield seating himself beside his coffin, the warm weight of the bond assuring him of his familiar's presence between him and the dangers of the world.

Jonathan sank back, feeling for the first time in so many months, the overwhelming sense of safety and peace.

He’d need to feed when he awoke. Heal. Assess what was now his. Understand fully how he was to live.

Decide what he would be without his creator in control of his mind.

Across the sea, Mina waited. If he could control himself… return to her… Or… if she might join him…

So many ifs.

So many uncertainties.

But for now, Jonathan let the blissful dreams of home carry him into darkness.

Chapter Text

2023: Renfield

I awaken through a drugged haze so heavy I feel as if I’ll never be capable of moving again.

My head spins madly, my dazed mind convinced for long minutes that I’ve defied gravity and hang from the ceiling.

Gradually pain wriggles its way through the spinning and delirium, bringing a slow focus of reality with it.

I don’t try to move or open my eyes, waiting for my thoughts and senses to catch up before attempting to interact with the world.

I can’t pinpoint what’s wrong. Just pain. Constant pain from every part of my body as muscles and bones awaken enough to scream to my mind of the agony they’re in.

I take an experimental deeper breath, my lungs inflating as well as they can crushed against the ground.

If there’s internal damage, at least those are working.

My arms are wrenched behind my back tight enough that I’m not certain my fingers move as I give them a tentative twitch. Too deprived of blood flow for too long. That could be bad.

There’s rope around my legs as well but not quite so tight. I attempt a subtle flex of one toe, but pain races up my leg so brutally that my world once more goes black.

Voices gradually filter through the darkness though it takes longer before my ears begin to distinguish clear sounds.

“…is what he wants, so this is what we do to keep him happy.”

“What’s the point? We already have one, and he can make more. So why bother keeping that one alive?”

“Do you want to tell him it’s pointless? Master wants them both, we give him both.”

“But why? Dude’s a weakling. Didn’t take any work to take them both out.”

“Work?! You know how many of our guys died stalking them? And how many weeks it took to track them down. We’re lucky we’re not dead too.”

“But we can’t die, right? Didn’t he say that? Wasn’t that part of the whole… thing?”

“Getting your head ripped off’s the same no matter what. And just cause you can’t die doesn’t mean you can’t get beat to shit. Like him.”

A foot prods into my side. It comes unexpectedly, and I can’t stop myself from flinching.

“Is he awake?”

“I dunno.” I feel the heavy breath of someone close to my ear. “HEY! YOU AWAKE?!”

A groan falls from my lips – or would if my mouth could open. Instead, a bubbling sound of air and an aborted groan breaks from me, bringing with it a fresh stabbing of agony as my mouth tries to move.

My tongue flicks forward, trying to seek what’s impeding me. I find my agonized and swollen lips pulled and pinched unnaturally forward, bits of metal rasping across my questing tongue.

Piercings? Staples? Whatever they are, my lips have been bound shut, leaving me struggling to get enough oxygen through my nose as a wave of panic sets my heart to anxious pumping.

I try to open my eyes, only realizing now how much pain is centered there.

Eyelids. So delicate. Protecting such fragile orbs beneath.

How carefully must someone have worked to sew both my eyes shut? And did they succeed without damaging my eyes?

I can’t distinguish enough through the agony to be certain.

I thrash in my awakening panic, realizing as I worm across the ground that my legs are only lightly bound because there’s little need.

I wouldn’t walk even liberated.

My feet flop useless, white-hot pain stabbing into my mind when I flail against the ground.

I know this pain, long though it’s been since I’ve endured it.

My hamstrings have both been cut.

Memories swamp me. The dark forest floor. Snow clogging my eyes and mouth. The sound of swift-approaching paws crunching through the underbrush. Dragging myself along by my hands, scrambling for weapon, for deliverance. Teeth sinking into my already hobbled legs, dragging me backwards. Dragging me into reach of the unmerciful slashing maw.

And laughter. A voice in my mind reminding me of my flaws. My failure.

That this is what I deserve…

The rational part of my mind tries to make itself be heard. Calm down, Lie still. You’ll hurt yourself more if you keep this up.

But the louder voices are screaming mindlessly. Screaming for an agony which only squeaks past my caged lips in strangled whines. Screaming for explanation. For salvation.

For Master.

Master! Master, help! Please! I… I… Master?

The words tumble into a void.

My mind is darkness. Emptiness. The voice which should exist at the periphery of my consciousness is… gone.

The voice which has been a steady presence for more than a century. The voice which filled the void the last time…

The last time…

Horror freezes my limbs, hot tears fight to escape my mangled eyelids, sobs choke my already struggling lungs into impotency.

I force myself to lie still, to focus on the simple act of breathing.

To not think about what the silence means…

But clutching at rationality would require me to have time. And the boots which slam into my sides give me no moment of thought.

I curl up as best I’m able as my attackers come at me from every side. They strike without hesitation or aim, bludgeoning mercilessly from all directions.

I hear their laughter and jeers as they beat me.

And a word.

One repeated with the fervor of the devoted.

Traitor, they call me. Traitor.

“Enough.”

The voice is soft. It shouldn’t cut through their taunts. It shouldn’t be heard above the blood pounding in my ears. But it’s there.

A voice commanding absolute obedience.

A voice I know as certainly as I know my own.

The blows halt as quickly as they’ve come. I hear the scramble of feet retreating from me. The stuttered protests.

“We were just softening him up for you!”

“He deserves it!”

“We wouldn’t have killed him.”

“We didn’t mean…”

The words die away. The room still.

I breathe raggedly in the emptiness. Concentrating on the hissing of meager air through my sealed lips. Huffing out the blood now pouring from my nose.

Trying not to lose myself to mindless terror.

Trying to deny what I’ve heard while knowing with certainty that it’s the truth.

There is a sound of measured footsteps. Slow, deliberate strides. The distance between us bridged leisurely. A halt. Silence.

Something narrow presses against my neck. A careless kick flips me onto my back. The cane tip presses deeper into the hollow of my throat.

I realize for the first time that I’m naked. All that I am, and was, and have become exposed for his eyes.

Does he drink in the sight of me? Separated from his side for a century and no different than the day I was claimed by another.

The war prize. Won in combat and claimed in blood.

And now…

Now I’m back at the feet of the one who made me.

“Leave us,” he says, his voice low and carrying to every straining ear.

A rush of feet. A slamming of doors.

Silence.

Long and deadly silence.

I try not to breathe too loudly, even as I gurgle on the blood running down my throat.

Even as my heart slams such an impossible rhythm that he must hear every thundering beat.

I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.

“Welcome back, Servant. I’ve dreamed of your return for so long. Have you dreamed of me?”

A long pause. A hum of anticipation.

“Nothing to say?” he asks. “I had hoped to hear you sing.”

The cane tip vanishes from my neck.

A moment of anticipatory dread.

And then the blows come.

Relentless.

Unending.

Unmerciful.

I don’t beg for mercy. I don’t pray for salvation.

There is no voice in my mind to cry to. No bond to clutch as a lifeline.

I’m cut from both of them – the old master and the new. Silenced from both those who have owned my soul and called me their own.

There is no voice but my own within my head.

And it is screaming.

I duck my head and roll with the onslaught. Scream so desperately that I tear through some of the staples, further drowning my gasping lungs with fresh blood.

And as the blackness takes me back into its frozen emptiness, I know that this is my mistake.

However he’s returned, whoever has aided him and brought him here, I started it.

I was the one to preserve the dust. To protect what little remained. To mourn his passing.

If Dracula slays my family, I’ll know it is my fault.

Chapter Text

2020-2022: Dracula

Hunger.

Hunger and pain.

Need. Need. Need.

Feed.

Feed until the pain diminished.

Feed until he could think.

Darkness.

Darkness and hunger and pain and -

Alone.

Someone should be here.

Someone should be attending to him.

Hunger. Hunger. Hunger.

Where… where was…

Pain.

Sometimes there was blood.

Blood. Healing blood. Sweet blood.

Dead blood.

Cold and thick.

Sometimes human, sometimes animal.

Never enough.

Not nearly enough.

Hunger. Hunger. Hunger.

Pain… pain…

Where… Someone should be here. Someone should be seeing to his needs.

Fixing him.

Where…

His eye cracked open.

Maybe it had been open before.

But all the necessary pieces had finally knitted together so that he might open one eye and see.
Stone.

Darkness.

Shadows.

Well, that had hardly been worth the effort.

Sleep wasn’t restful.

Where was his coffin? Where was his soil?

He should have been swaddled in his resting place. Fed each time he called out for sustenance. Devoted hands administering to his every need.

Where…

Pain was constant. His body trying to regrow its entire self from…

What had he been? What had he become?

What was the last thing he remembered?

So hard to remember anything.

A stake.

Pain.

Betrayal.

When…

Where…

If only he could properly sleep.

Fascinating to watch one’s body regrow from nothing.

He spent hours just watching his toes reform.

They still hadn’t grown talons.

Once his fingers grew another few joints, he could do something about his cell.

He wasn’t always alone. There were humans who entered to stare at him. Humans who brought cups of blood carried on the ends of long sticks to feed to him as if he was some caged animal in a menagerie.

Strange humans.

Their hands were blue. He couldn’t see the rest of them through the baggy white clothes they wore. And the masks which covered their faces completely. He could see eyes and dim features through the dark covering of the masks.

Some sort of glass? He’d find out when he punched through it.

Sometimes one dared come close enough to poke at his bulbous and disfigured body.

He allowed the violation.

Allowed them to grow complacent.

As soon as he was strong enough to strike…

The restlessness grew.

The itching grew.

The impulse to claw off his regrowing skin until he bled.

Not that his blood would help him.

Needed to conserve that.

Conserve his power.

If only they’d give him better blood.

Always too cold. Never from a proper life source.

Often it wasn’t human.

And when it was… not proper pure-souled humans at all.

He’d have spit it back in his familiar’s face if he’d been offered this.

Familiar. Yes. That’s what he needed.

That’s who was supposed to be here.

Who was…?

Renfield.

Yes. That was who should be here. Feeding him. Soothing his itches. Seeing that he slept comfortably.

Slaughtering these blue-handed humans and feeding his master their blood.

Where had he run off to?

Three walls of his prison were stone. One was stone and dark glass.

Not always dark.

He saw the ghostly figures moving beyond the veil. Sometimes the rooms beyond were illuminated enough for him to see clearly.

The humans were not blue. They were not faceless.

They covered themselves. Gloves. Masks.

No skin showing.

The white clothes looked thin enough to bite through.

But he saw glimpses of something worn about their necks. Something heavy.

And on their arms.

So. They were wary of his fangs.

But they would make mistakes.

He simply had to watch.

He was vulnerable in the death sleep.

The humans knew this.

Sometimes he awoke with his body contorted in different positions. With his skin smelling unpleasantly of their touch. With veins nipped open or skin scraped.

They were stealing from him.

Studying him.

Time he did the same.

He lay still. Feigning the death sleep for long hours.

They took the bait. Two of them. Approaching cautiously. Speaking back and forth to one another.

English.

Good. He’d been practicing English recently.

“He’s out. We can proceed,” one said.

They crouched down. Moved his arm.

He struck.

It was a false attack. So much slower than he could truly strike. Deliberately falling short of their protected neck.

Enough to see what the humans would do.

The victim shrieked and recoiled, falling back to escape his grasp.

“Lights!” screamed the other.

And the sun erupted into the chamber.

Brilliant, dazzling, burning.

It came from the ceiling. From the walls.

From everywhere but one dark corner.

He scuttled into the retreat, balling his burning body into the tightest knot to escape the sun’s rays.

The humans fled with utterances of relief.

The sun vanished.

He huddled in a shaking ball for a long time even after the sounds outside the cell were silent.

The burns healed at a crawl. Not enough blood. Not the right blood.

And now the fear. Fear that the sun could return if the humans shouted. If he dared move from the corner.

They didn’t bring blood to him anymore.

A hatch would open in the door. A cup slid through.

He’d have to crawl across the dangerous span of floor if he wished to feed.

When the humans entered, they’d stab at him from a distance with their poles and only approach if he didn’t move.

Sometimes he was awake. Watching. Studying. Feigning the death sleep as they violated his body with their instruments and blades.

They talked. Words he didn’t understand.

Words to assess his healing. His weaknesses.

As if his body was one of Renfield’s flies brought out to be analyzed.

As if he was their toy.

His hatred grew faster than his strength.

He would kill them all.

But he must wait.

Study them as they studied him.

No false feints again.

Patient as the spider in its web.

Learn. Then strike.

“Hello?” the human said through the glass in a louder voice than he’d heard before. “Can you understand me?”

He ignored the words.

“Peux-tu me comprendre?”

“Kannst du mich verstehen?”

They were very persistent. Russian. Hungarian. Romanian. Arabic.

Idiot. Of course he understood.

And he was intelligent enough not to answer.

“LEFT,” the human said in a loud voice, pointing to one side of the cell. “LEFT.”

They repeated the word a few dozen times until he’d considered falling asleep.

Then they switched to shouting RIGHT and pointing in the opposite direction.

What sort of idiot did they take him for?

“Now… LEFT. GO!” They pointed forcefully.

Dracula ignored them.

And the sun came back.

Against the right wall. But creeping steadily toward him.

He fled, scrambling on his still skinless stumps of hands and feet to the left wall.

“Good,” said the human.

The sun went away.

Dracula found himself panting unnecessary breaths in his relief.

“Now,” said the human. “RIGHT. GO!”

And the sun forced him to obey.

Dracula ground his teeth in deepening hatred.

They were training him.

The rules were simple. Follow directions and there would be blood rewards in the end.

Disobey, and the sun would force his obedience.

Who were these humans who controlled the elements?

What sort of magic had the church discovered?

It had to be the church. He’d hunted among a thousand faiths in his time, but in recent centuries, the religions had consolidated themselves. Centralized their power and messages.

Technology speeding up communication to an aggravating degree.

He couldn’t just slaughter one village of inconvenient fanatical worshippers. Now he had to fear them sending messages back to a larger body who’d return for revenge.

The Catholics, that once tiny sect in the midst of Rome’s other thousand gods, had become a relentless thorn in his side as their mission of conquering the world had included the destruction of one who’d witnessed their rise and intended to be on hand for their fall.

So the church had him. And instead of destroying him outright, they’d decided to torture him first.

But how had he come into their power?

And what had they done with Renfield?

He was strong enough to reach for the bond… and found silence.

Had they succeeded in killing his familiar?

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Renfield wouldn’t have allowed him to be abducted if he still drew breath.

So his familiar was dead.

He didn’t like the pang he felt at that thought.

The pets were not to be mourned.

He’d have to find another.

A shame. He wasn’t in condition to train a new dog.

He’d find someone disposable.

Someone happy to sell their soul for dreams of power and wealth.

Those were always easy to find.

Renfield had been a rare gem. Someone willing to give up everything just to be useful. To be praised. Valued.

He’d been so entertaining in the beginning. And so convenient even after the novelty of his presence had worn off.

So easily trained. So quick to come crawling back after every blow.

It had been so inconvenient to have him skulking off to England for so long. All the thousand tasks he was supposed to be there to complete at a snap of Dracula’s fingers (or of his own initiative if he knew what was good for him) left undone for months on end.

And inadequate since his return. A mind barely functioning and plagued with images of the other men he’d allowed to touch him. A bundle of shaking nerves prone to dropping things or forgetting orders no matter how many times Dracula tried to beat sense into him.

All that fear and groveling forever pounding at Dracula’s temples.

Tugging at the bond for attention as if he had any right…

As if Dracula had ever missed…

But there was something else.

Something still gnawing at his fragmented memories.

Betrayal.

Betrayal from someone impossibly close.

Who would have dared…?

Who did he have to thank for his current condition?

The light wasn’t magic.

The humans weren’t sorcerers.

His hearing had improved. His eyesight along with it.

The muffled world beyond the glass was still mostly an enigma, but he could hear more when the humans stood near the glass.

And there was a device they used to shout their words into his cell.

Sometimes they forgot to turn it off.

He watched them.

He listened.

He learned.

They wore paper masks when they spoke to each other.

They talked of quarantines and social distancing.

Had the plague come to their town?

Would it do its work before he had a chance for revenge?

What would become of him?

Not yet strong enough to break himself from his prison.

He wouldn’t die. But he’d waste away. A withered corpse.

Lying powerless year after year until something with blood in its veins blundered into his jaws.

It had happened before.

It would not happen again.

Not if he could strike first.

Day after day. Waiting. Listening.

He learned ranks. Their personalities.

There was one who called himself their leader, and another with ambition to be the same. Some with sympathy and some without.

Learn.

Wait. Plan.

If only they would feed him.

They’d bored of stealing from him in his sleep. In training basic commands.

They began to hurt him.

Garlic. Juniper. Wolfsbane.

He endured them all.

The holy relics came with no pain.

They did not believe in them.

But the holy water. Blessed by someone who truly believed.

That brought pain.

And the silver.

Silver in powdered form that burned through his skin and ate into him until he’d stripped his arm of flesh down to the bone.

And that wasn’t all.

They’d shackle him to the floor while the death sleep had him. Hold him immobilized for nights on end, depriving him of sustenance while they played.

Stakes. Stakes of so many different trees.

Ash and Aspen. Mistletoe and Holly.

He heard their names as they pierced sliver after sliver into his flesh.

It hurt.

It always hurt.

It took so long to heal.

They didn’t find the one he truly feared.

The one which was blessing and bane.

Native soil, native wood.

The tree which had grown upon his grave.

The tree whose roots he’d snapped through as he crawled his way to the surface that spring night when he’d awakened back to life and been reborn.

The tree he’d had carved into his resting place once he’d finished slaughtering the ‘family’ who’d betrayed him. Once he’d enslaved their people with the new delightful power of fangs and mind.

None had found the secret of the tree.

Except… someone had.

Because the memory came with the pain.

Jonathan.

His darling Jonathan.

To whom he’d given his most precious gift.

A companion to roam with him for years to come.

A companion. A pet. A lover. A servitor.

Jonathan had been the one to turn on him.

Jonathan had taken his trust, his gift, his affection.

And thrown it back in his face.

Jonathan would pay.

They did not know how to kill him.

But they sought to hurt him.

Months passed in chains while they drowned him, burned him, flayed him, froze him.

They reduced his body to a skeleton a dozen times. And fed him back with those minuscule drops of blood.

Merciless.

And humans called him a monster.

There were both men and women in the group.

Both equal as alchemists.

Both as cruel.

It was one of the women who violated him.

She came to him alone. Assessed the results of the acid they’d poured over his chest.

And then she looked lower.

And smiled.

They’d given him more blood recently. He’d been able to regrow most of his body parts after the last time they’d incinerated him.

She explored.

She touched.

She grinned with wicked delight when he gasped and hitched under her hands.

She darted her eyes about as if to see if anyone watched and dipped her head low.

He hated her most of all.

The way she made a toy of him for her amusement.

They way she made him want.

And remember.

Glorious memories of when his life had been more than shackles and cells.

He hated her most of all.

They released him from the shackles after they’d fitted him with the muzzle.

A horrid affair of iron and silver that jutted out from his mouth so that he couldn’t sink his teeth into anything.

They wouldn’t give him a cup anymore. Now they extended a tube through the hatch and made him slurp his meals on hands and knees.

Animal. They treated him as an animal.

With the advent of the muzzle, they lost whatever fear they still harbored of him. More casual in their entries. More liberal in their violating touches.

More frequent in their casual punishments with their bottles of holy water and their little sticks that erupted with electricity and made his body spasm.

They amputated his claws while he slept – chopped off the final digit of each finger each time they grew back.

They thought him helpless.

They gave their orders in the slow and loud way one spoke to a dog as they made him lie still while they did as they pleased to him.

They’d grown interested in his other bodily fluids. Hurt him until they could take his tears. Force him to scuttle back and forth across the cell for hours in hopes of making him sweat. Shackling him down while they stroked and pumped until he thrust unwillingly against their hands, and they made off with his seed.

“Can he pee?” he heard one ask before they pumped his stomach full of water.

His body rejected that. Erupted it back into their faces.

But they were just as pleased to have the fluids from his stomach.

It was hard to think about anything but blood by now. Life’s blood. Killing blood.

He’d already survived longer than he thought possible on their sad offerings of siphoned and dead blood.

He needed to kill.

He needed to truly feed.

And they had grown so careless.

It was time to strike.

The sun lights were on, keeping him caged in his dark corner while the youngest one cleaned up the results of their last experiment.

They were so confident he wouldn’t move. He hadn’t tested the lights in so long.

And today – with most of the flesh of his left leg stripped and scattered across the cell – why would they consider him a danger?

She moved close, reaching to fetch the bit of meat lying near his mouth.

And then she saw that the skin was tangled in the muzzle. That it would break if she tugged.

She crouched down. Took up his head. Jiggled free the skin.

His tongue shot from his lolling mouth, wrapped around her gloved finger, and pulled it to his fangs.

The work of a second to pierce through the thin blue to the skin beneath.

The work of a second to inject her with his venom.

Just a little. Barely enough to place her under his thrall for minutes. But enough.

She unlocked the muzzle straps, leaving it in place as she finished cleaning the cell and departed.

“Close the door!” he heard someone call in a voice of annoyance, not fear.

She ignored the voice. She walked to the controls.

And turned off the sun lights.

He moved the instant the lights vanished. Ripped loose the muzzle and sprinted through the door.

He was slower than he should have been. Slower and weaker.

But fast enough.

Some grabbed for weapons, but too slowly. Some fled, but he had measured the room a thousand times. Planned how to get between them and the door.

Three died in the first attack. The one already enthralled received a stronger bite to keep her docile. The fifth had lost himself to fear and fled stuttering into a corner. Another bite silenced his tears.

Five. Not all his tormentors. But enough for now.

Feed. Feed-feed-feed.

Drain the corpses. One, two, three.

Feed to bloating. Feed to satiation.

Feed until he could drink no more.

His thralls entered the cell and chained themselves to the floor at his command. He dragged the bodies in after them, still nursing upon the veins until every trace was gone.

He scaled the walls and shattered the sun lights. He ripped out the door lock and piled the bodies against it on the inside to keep it closed.

He could barely keep his eyes open as he curled in the corner which had become his only safe haven and slept.

The thralls were free of his mesmer when he awoke.

Free and sobbing.

They were soiled and breathed in rasping gasps for want of water.

He killed the girl immediately, her blood furthering his steady recovery.

It would take more than five bodies of impure blood.

But it was enough to give him strength to hunt.

A pity he couldn’t make other use of his remaining captive. But creating a familiar took time. And restraint.

He had neither at this moment.

His eyes felt heavy and his body lethargic by the time the body was drained.

He needed somewhere safe to rest while he healed.

But this was all he had.

He curled up and slept again.

His remaining captive was dead.

Had he truly slept so long?

He fed anyway, ripping apart the body and gulping down whatever coagulated and tainted sludge remained in the veins.

It was not a meal for a prince.

This was the slop only the lowest of peasants should stoop to feed upon.

He ate anyway.

Streaked in gore, in a room that stank with decay, he rose and stretched.

Not fully healed. Not nearly full power.

But stronger than he’d been in a long time.

Strong enough to think beyond the lust for blood.

And then he saw the door.

New. The one with damaged locks replaced while he’d slept.

He threw himself at it, clawing at the metal with his new-grown claws.

They left long furrows down its length.

But they did not pierce through.

He’d not been clawing long, screaming his rage for long, when the room beyond the glass erupted in light.

A woman stood beyond the glass.

A woman in white.

“Prince Dracula,” she said in a voice of soft gravel, her English lightly accented. “I am sorry we have not had opportunity to speak sooner. My name is Bellafrancesca Lobo. I believe we can help each other.”

Chapter Text

November 1890: Renfield

I have a new master.

The reality sinks in during the hours that I wait in vigil beside the coffin.

My creator. My god. My master. Is dead.

Dead at the hands of the one I failed to stop.

I’ve failed. Failed the final time after months of mistakes.

More than a mistake.

A betrayal.

I couldn’t save my creator.

I couldn’t die when I was meant to.

My mind skirts away from that last moment, the moment of the master’s death. The moment my mind was erased. Order and purpose turned to ash.

Nothing remaining.

And now there is a new chain encircling my soul. New bonds claiming my failure of a life.

Jonathan Harker’s – Master’s – collar is tight around my soul. I feel his claim with every struggled beat of my broken heart. The new chain cutting into the wounds left by the old.

But the bond – the link between us – that is still thin. Not the tatter Master’s – the old master’s – connection had become. But not the stout leash I’d known before, the strong hand on my mind and soul which guided my every thought and movement.

Could I break it? Flee his collar and mastery?

But what would I be without it?

I was nothing but what the old master made me.

Now I’m debris. The broken remains of his might.

The new master will see my worthlessness.

Until then… I am nothing but the service I can render him.

I rise to do what I can.

The rats have returned to feed upon the spilled blood.

Can rats become vampires?

Considering what these creatures eat, I’ve long suspected them of being more than ordinary rats.

I shovel away the mess and bury it in a corner.

I find the knife half buried in the dirt. That cruel curved blade Jona – Master – did not use to take my life.

Kukri, its makers call it.

I remove the ragged remains of my shirt and wipe the blade clean. Finished, I hold it at arm’s length, uncomfortable with the feel in my hand.

As if the weapon wasn’t meant for the likes of me.

Can a weapon have a soul?

Or is this a new delirium welling up in my damaged mind?

I lay it across Master’s chest. I place his hands over the hilt.

As kings are buried.

There must be a sheath – probably still worn by the corpse in the dungeon.

I’ll need to go down there to fetch blood for Master. He’s injured. He’ll need my aid.

I calculate the extent of his injuries and the remaining meals in the dungeon as I face the final necessary task.

The dust.

All that remains of my all-powerful creator.

I should scatter and bury it as I did the blood.

Instead…

I collect the dust carefully into an urn (emptying out whatever long-forgotten ancestor once resided there). I carry it deeper into the crypt and choose a resting place – an alcove far from sun and wind. I use a diamond ring to chip awkward letters into the stone beneath it.

D-R-A-C-U-L-A

I don’t weep. I’m too numb to weep.

I’m too confused to weep.

I shouldn’t be alive. I shouldn’t be bound in service to another. I shouldn’t…

…I shouldn’t feel relief.

I scatter the rings upon the ashes and seal the urn, placing the crucifix atop the lid.

I lower myself to the ground beside the new master’s coffin where I can sleep until he awakens.

There will be much to do then. His wounds are severe. I’ll have to feed him. Care for him until he’s strong enough to function on his own.

Perhaps this is why he’s kept me alive.

Perhaps he’ll execute me once he’s well.

I feel no trepidation or joy at this thought.

Only exhaustion.

Sleep claims me, and I welcome its darkness.

I’m awakened constantly by Master’s cries.

He keeps none of his pain or thoughts shielded from me.

Maybe he can’t.

I drag one of the victims to the crypt where I can open their veins whenever Master calls to be fed.

I hold the cup to his lips. I support his lolling head.

I clean him. I bandage his wounds until they can heal on their own. I ease him into fresh clothes.

By day I sleep in the dirt at his side.

By night, I wait in tense vigil.

I haven’t seen the women since the old master was destroyed.

But nothing restrains them now.

I will not be surprised if they come for the new master. Or for me.

Master screams often in his delirious state. Aloud. Inside my head.

Sometimes his pain reverberates so brutally through my body that I lie prone, suffering his agony hour upon hour until he finally releases me from his mind’s grip.

Am I being punished for the wounds I inflicted? For the part I played in keeping him captive?

Or is he unaware of the suffering he presses upon me?

Master’s mind forces itself into mine.

I retreat against the onslaught, curling up in a corner and surrendering control.

My body is yours. Do with it as you please. I will not fight.

My limbs twitch and move. My eyes blink and stare. My hands flex. Touch the ground, the coffin.

Master’s mind retreats in a rush back into his own body, leaving me collapsed in the dirt. I hear Master panting hoarsely from his unnecessary lungs.

Did he leave his body by accident?

I carry Master to the body I’ve laid out for his supper. I hold his head until he’s properly latched onto the throat.

He’ll drain the whole corpse. And then he’ll sleep.

Long and restfully, I hope.

I try to assess his condition. He’ll need more bodies to reach full power.

The dungeon’s empty. I’ll have to hunt for him. If he’ll grant me permission to go.

When I return him to his coffin, Master remains upright, swaying a little as he surveys the dark crypt. “Is there a reason to keep the coffin down here?”

“Mas… the old master said it was important to sleep close to his native soil,” I offer. “But he simply brought soil with him when we traveled abroad.”

“This isn’t my native soil. Does it make a difference for me?”

“I… don’t know,” I confess, tense for the reprimand at my ignorance.

No blow comes. Master lilts to the side, his eyes drifting to the ground. “Don’t you get cold sleeping there?”

I realize too late that I’ve curled in one place too long. There’s a depression in the soil. Evidence of my existence.

Evidence that I’ve dared seek my master’s presence without permission.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I…”

It was so I could be on hand when he needed me. In case of danger.

Excuses.

Reality… is selfish. Seeking the comfort of closeness without permission. Taking advantage of his inability to send me away.

“You do get cold, don’t you?” Master presses.

I manage to nod. “Yes, Master.”

I should say that I’ll endure whatever is commanded of me. That I’d stand in snow if I must.

But it would sound like begging to be allowed to stay. And I must not beg for notice.

The good servant is a tool. Furniture. Hands to serve. Invisible when unneeded.

“You should get some blankets. You’ll make yourself sick freezing down here.”

I stare at him. “They’d… get dirty.”

“Things can be washed.” He eyes the crypt with a grimace. “I hope eventually to move the coffin upstairs. Until then, please find yourself some bedding.” He rests his hand on my arm.

There’s only one answer.

An answer which is hard to squeak out with Master’s hand on me.

“Y-yes, M-master,” I whisper.

He gives my wrist a squeeze as he leans back. “Thank you, Renfield. I couldn’t survive this without you.”

I close the lid and sink to the ground, shaking too badly to stand.

Master is… Master is pleased? Master desires me near?

Convenient. That must be it. The loyal dog on hand to serve.

I should not read anything into a touch. A smile. A moment of concern.

Master has but one servant. Master desires me healthy until I can be replaced with someone competent. Someone who hasn’t caused him such pain.

That must be it.

Nothing more.

Grigor asks me if the count is dead.

He must already know the answer.

I’ve withheld speaking the words for fear that the servants will attack the new master while he is weak.

I don’t want to have to hurt them.

I confirm. And further confirm that nothing keeps the women in check now – wherever they’ve gone. Or the shifters in the forest.

I say that the new master desires to return to England. That perhaps he’ll grant them safe passage when he departs.

I’ll intercede for them if I can.

Even if my own life is forfeit, I will try to aid the others who have served beside me.

Winter brings out the fur trappers. I find a father and son setting their snares.

The forest is devoid of poachers for a little longer.

Master is delighted to sink into the bath I’ve prepared for him. He declines my offers of assist, and I wait outside the room until he calls for help dressing when the buttons proved beyond the dexterity of his easily exhausted mind.

“When did you last bathe?” he asks.

I flinch and mumble apologies for my disheveled appearance.

I’ve been too occupied looking after his needs to think about my own, but that’s no excuse if the master wishes me to appear well groomed in his presence.

I should be aware of these things without being told.

“The water’s still warm. Why don’t you wash yourself now?”

I stare at him in shock. “Use… the master’s things?”

“He’s dead, Renfield,” Master says flatly. “He won’t come back to flay you for touching his soap.”

“I meant…” I break off but speak again at his urging. “I-I meant you, Master. They’re your things now.”

Master looks about with surprised eyes as if ownership of the castle by right of conquest hadn’t occurred to him. “Mine…” he mumbles thoughtfully. His voice strengthens. “Then you’re definitely allowed to use the bathtub. Take your time. I’ll be in the library.”

Take your time. Little chance of that if the master is waiting for me.

But… perhaps I do take a little extra time. Since Master seems to want my appearance improved.

I shave. I put on my nicer clothes that I’ve kept the old master from shredding. I tie back my hair which has grown long since I last remembered to cut it.

I feel… perhaps a little better.

I find Master occupied with collecting and sorting the documents strewn across the library.

I wonder if I should apologize for not keeping the room tidier, but Master smiles at me. “You look better. Come sit down.”

He gestures to a chair, so I don’t have to question if I am meant to kneel. I sit, wriggling with discomfort as he sits opposite me, gazing as seriously as if we were equals.

It shouldn’t feel as wrong as it does. I sat often with the old master in happier times. It was only recently that he wished to see me so perpetually on my knees that I grew fearful of touching the furniture.

I don’t know the new master’s expectations.

I don’t know if I can know them.

I was created to serve the old master.

He cut away everything else.

How can I possibly accommodate myself to someone else?

I was never meant to belong to anyone else.

“You’ll have to help me, Renfield,” Master says, cutting through my turmoil.

“Master?” I ask.

“Understanding what this bond entails. What’s expected of me.”

I stare. “Nothing is expected of you. I am meant to serve however you desire and obey your every command.”

“And what do you receive in return?”

I stare blankly at him.

“Dracula must have promised you something. What was it?”

I hunch my shoulders and look away. “Extended life. A fraction of his power. Healing…”

“I know those things come with what he made you. But is that what he offered?”

“No,” I admit reluctantly.

“What was it?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. It feels so unimportant now. “He… he said I would always have a place with him. Purpose. That I would be taken care of. That I’d never be lonely or cast aside”

“That’s not a high price you put on your soul.”

I hang my head.

“You wanted so little,” Master muses, “and he still couldn’t give that much.”

My eyes snap open. Protests on my lips that the old master was always right and just and…

…And it’s true I was often lonely. That the old master had bored and cast me away.

But that was my fault. I’d been the one to fail him. My service had been deemed unsatisfactory.

How could I expect him to deliver on his promise when I had failed at mine?

“I know you feel you failed him,” Master says slowly as if reading my thoughts. Perhaps he is, or it’s simply that obvious. “But that was him. You’re bonded to me now.”

“Yes, Master,” I say quickly. Devotedly. Desperately.

A traitorous part of me rebels against this new bond. Someone new claiming my soul when it was meant to belong to the old master forever.

But the louder voice scolds that to silence. The voice of obedience. The new master has claimed me by right of conquest. He’s put his chain on my soul and baptized me with his blood.

I am the war prize. I must surrender myself before the conqueror and new lord.

I must have no desires or wants of my own.

“I’d like us to start afresh,” he continues. “New promises. New vows. I think… I suppose it should have happened before we bonded. But… I hope it can still take. Are you willing to try?”

I nod, prepared to agree to anything.

He makes a little gesture. “Come here.”

I kneel at his feet, upturning my head to gaze attentively at him.

To show I’ll accept his every word and law.

That I will be his.

No matter the secret sorrows in my heart.

He shifts in his chair, looking at me with unease enough to make me tremble. But then he gathers himself. “Swear your loyalty, Renfield,” he instructs.

I don’t hesitate. He owns me already. I’ll give whatever words will please him.

And I’ll mean them.

“I swear to serve and obey you as long as you will have me,” I say, putting no caveats of his death or mine on the terms of service.

It’s for him to discard me. Life and death will not separate me from him if he does not wish it.

“I will follow your every command, defend you from harm, surrender my whole self to whatever you desire of me. Body, mind, and soul are yours.” I bow my head. “Do with me as you please.”

The pause goes on forever.

His hand touches my neck. Slides up to cup the side of my face.

“Renfield…” he says in a voice hushed and unsettled. A pause. Then - “Did he leave you any of who you used to be?”

I shudder and cringe. “I was hollowed out and filled with him. He cut away all that wasn’t useful to him to make me a more perfect servant. I am… was… his. And nothing else.” I dare flick my eyes up to him. “And now I’m yours.”

He sighs. Looks away from him. Looks distressed.

At least his hand remains on me.

Perhaps he isn’t completely disgusted with the shell he’s inherited.

“You’re the only friend I have in this place,” he says wearily. “The only one looking out for me. I have to hope some of that wasn’t just because you were ordered. Or else…”

His hand slides up, tangling into my hair. My head bows lower under the weight of his palm.

The lord bestowing blessing upon the vassal.

“I swear that you’ll always have a place with me,” he says. “That your needs will be looked after. That you will be taken care of and given what you need to survive. That you won’t be abused for pleasure’s sake, and you won’t be worked beyond your endurance. And…” He wavers. “Once we get back to England, I want to revisit this. You’ve given your entire life to the service of someone else. You should receive something worthwhile for that.”

I shake my head slightly but don’t answer.

He’ll see. He’ll learn how little I’m worth.

That my service isn’t even worth the compensation he’s granted it.

He pulls his hand away, and I think this is over. But then he draws his knife. “Give me your arm.”

I obey, barely flinching as he opens a long gash along my forearm.

He does the same to himself and brings our wrists together.

A mingling of blood. My still living red cells swirling with the dark chill of his own.

And the bond expands to become all encompassing.

I’m aware of every pulse of blood through his arteries. Every touch of his lightly chilled skin.

I hear my heartbeat thumping louder than a drum and realize I’m hearing it through his ears.

I’m inside his head, and my own as well. And his mind is within me. and with me.

I start to pull back. To retreat to a corner of my mind while he plays with it however he chooses, but Master stops me.

It’s alright. It feels right, doesn’t it?

It… it does. And it shouldn’t.

It’s not for the familiar to make use of the bond, I protest. It’s your leash. I’m not to touch it.

Then how can you call me if you’re in need?

I can’t be in need. If I cannot survive danger on my own, I’m not worthy of survival.

And if you’re injured and need healing?

I must wait patiently until my master deigns to revive me.

You could die before I knew you were in trouble!

Then I hope my service is acceptable enough to be revived.

“That’s possible?!” Master is startled enough to pull out of my mind.

I nod. “My soul is yours. Even in death. Your blood will return me to your service for as long as you desire me.”

“Renfield…” Master sounds unsettled.

He moves his wrist up to my mouth, giving me leave to take as I need.

My arm is already nearly closed - the intermingling of blood having had that effect.

Now my knees stop aching. The sleepless pounding at my temples softens. A thousand little aches and pains erased.

His wound quickly closes thanks to his own recent meal.

No outward sign of what we’ve just done.

But internally…

The bond feels stronger than before. And different. I was leashed before. I still am - more securely even. But now… now I feel more of a flow between us. As if I too have looped a thread around his soul

A tentative string of connection that might… extend both ways?

Master thoughtfully licks his blade, ingesting a second intermingling of our blood.

He doesn’t make a face at the taste of mine. Perhaps he’s braced for it.

I exhale as he tucks the blade away, still more than a little certain he’d intended to take my head.

“You can go back to your seat,” he tells me.

I wish he’d let me stay at his feet. Keep petting me. Touching me.

But that choice isn’t mine, and I know better than to make any requests.

Master begins talking - rambling, really. Making tentative plans without being certain of anything.

He intends to return to England. That hasn’t changed. He wants Mina if she’ll have him, though he has no confidence in that. He worries how to explain to his employer that he murdered the client who was meant to be his making.

What will happen to all the property he bought in Dracula’s name?

I speak up cautiously, reminding him that he was the count’s protégé and progeny. By right of inheritance - not to mention of conquest - all that was the count’s is now his.

Master is startled by this revelation. Disbelieving. But not in a doubting way which leaves me beaten for speaking words he perceives as falsehoods. Disbelieving in a way of someone working through a new idea.

He’ll need to think about what this means, he says, his eyes straying to the count’s desk with new eyes.

I don’t tell him yet about the rooms filled with treasure. The drawers filled with property deeds. The halls lined in priceless and decaying relics.

He doesn’t seem to have strength for everything quite yet.

Indeed, he soon tries to rise and falls back. He accepts my help with a rueful laugh, uttering his embarrassment at how much he must lean on me.

I help him to the crypt and into the coffin. He gives my wrist a squeeze as I bring down the lid. “Thank you,” he says with sincerity. “I couldn’t get through this without you.”

“I’m here, Master,” I promise. “Always.”

He smiles at me as he lies back. Soon I feel his mind slide into slumber.

There is much I need to do, but I find myself curling up in the knot of blankets and pressing close against the coffin.

The bond feels stronger than ever before. Warmer.

I know I’ll fail and disappoint him soon enough. I know he’ll discard me once he reaches England and can find someone more capable. Someone who hasn’t caused him pain.

I know my time with him is limited.

But for now, I press close, basking in the taste of his blood still lingering in my mouth and the touch of his hand still tingling on my arm.

Chapter Text

2022: Dracula

“I apologize that your accommodations have not been adequate for a man of your standing,” the woman purred in a rough voice filled with confidence.

Dracula made himself stand regally tall despite his naked and gore-streaked appearance. He stared back, refraining from speaking to one of his captors.

Inwardly, he cursed himself.

Delirious with hunger. Single-minded when meals finally appeared.

He’d not taken advantage of the opportunity to escape. To learn more from his captives.

He’d simply fed.

And retreated back to his cage like a trained animal.

But there was blood in him now. And the sun lights were broken. What was glass for one with his strength?

He would not be kept caged for long.

“It took the scientists quite some time to learn how to revive you. Many did not believe it was possible. Some of them doubted you’d ever truly existed.” She smiled coldly. “I never believed that one of your power could be extinguished from the world so easily.”

He studied her. Aged, but confident. The grace of a killer.

She thought herself a predator. She’d learn what true strength was when he squeezed his fist around her neck.

“You’ve had the scientists thoroughly fooled. They’ve thought you mindless. An animal’s understanding at best. But I hope we can speak together as equals.”

Dracula scoffed.

As if the food could ever stand in equality with a god.

“I understand your doubts, but I would point out that I hold the upper hand at this moment.”

“Are you certain of that, my lady?” Dracula sneered, stepping close to the glass. “Those who tormented me now feed my strength. Do you truly believe that stone and glass will hold me for long? I have endured centuries. All who threatened me are now carrion fit only for the dogs. You will fare no better when I step from this place.” He leveled his blood-red eyes at her. “Open the door before I release myself, and I will make your death swift. And you can meet your end knowing the joy of fueling the ascent of a god.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “All who threatened you?”

“What?”

“Do you know the condition in which you were found?”

Dracula ground his teeth. “There was a minor altercation between myself and one of my followers. I would have recovered from it on my own eventually.”

“Eventually? How long?”

“It makes no difference. Time is meaningless to one such as I. Losing a few years to the sleep of death is nothing to me.”

She stared back without flinching. “In the crypt of a ruined castle, my people found a jar inscribed with the name Dracula and filled with ashes. All that remained of an ancient and forgotten warrior.”

Dracula’s nostrils flared. “My castle is not a ruin. And my name will never be forgotten!”

“The castle was abandoned over a century ago,” the woman replied steadily. “And no one recounts the deeds of Dracula with fear any longer.”

“A century…” Dracula stared past her at the room filled with devices he’d been unable to understand.

A century of human progress… The cattle crawling further out of the muck… While he’d slumbered in death…

He paced the cell, his head reeling.

Jonathan! Jonathan who’d found the secret to his demise. But not completely. No. The weakling fledgling had struck blindly. Not with wisdom.

So Dracula lived.

Someone had preserved his remains. A trophy of a slain enemy? The reverent laying a god to rest?

Who had done it? And why?

“I confess I had different aspirations when I first arranged the search for the castle,” the woman went on. “But by the time my scientists informed me that they’d made progress reviving you, it was unnecessary. I’m certain you’re unaware of recent events, but you’ve lived long enough to know how upsetting a plague can be to any society. Nature and the panicked masses have done the work to advance the rise of my power without the need of a monster to hold against my enemies. I have not kept so aware of events unfolding in this lab as I should have. I apologize for any mistreatment you have endured at the hands of my underlings. I assure you, it will not happen again.”

Dracula laughed. “What guarantee do I have of that?”

The woman smiled. “If I offered you a demonstration of my goodwill, would you be willing to discuss the future with me?”

“That would depend on the demonstration.”

The woman’s smile widened. “I will provide my gift and then we will see how you feel.”

She departed, leaving the room beyond the window dimly lit.

Dracula stepped close to the glass, studying the other side of his prison with new eyes.

A century…

Certainly, he’d seen the world advance in his long lifetime. Firearms had seemed an erratic weapon at first, but he’d watched them grow in accuracy and popularity. The locomotive – how fascinating that had been on his first ride. Steamships as well – turning the crossing of the ocean into a thing of weeks not months. If travel grew swifter, he’d imagined he could eventually cross to America without running out of crew before reaching shore.

He would have to learn about this new time. Learn of progress and how it could be exploited.

But he would wait for the moment.

See what his captor offered him.

She might prove amusing before he killed her.

The other alchemists entered their laboratory in a nervous huddle, calling protests to men in the hall beyond.

They peered warily into the cell where Dracula crouched in a false stupor among the corpses of their fellows.

“Are we sure the door will hold?” one demanded, fears echoed by the other three as they gaped at the sight of their decaying comrades and repeated the terrors that it could have been them if they’d been in the lab that day.

Dracula’s ears twitched as he heard the lock on his cell click open.

The laboratory went dark.

Dracula grinned wolfishly and eased the door slowly open.

He took his time on this hunt, savoring the screams of his victims as they scrambled for weapons and lights, pleaded for someone to let them out, howled for mercy.

He knew he should save them. Savor them. But their terror excited him into a frenzy, and he slaughtered his way through them in a rush, drinking conservatively this time so as not to fall into a stupor.

He wasn’t going back into the cell.

He’d find a way to escape this room.

And from there…

“Mister… Dracula? May I interrupt you for a moment?”

Dracula’s head shot up, focusing on a single point of light in the dim room.

A box. A box with a woman’s face painted on it.

A painting that moved.

“I am watching you from some distance away through the web camera,” the woman said.

Dracula edged closer to this new strangeness, refusing to look as fascinated as he felt. “Indeed?” he purred. “Why keep this box between us? If you’d like us to work together, shouldn’t we meet face to face?”

“Of course. And we shall. I hope this gift is the start of a connection between us. The people who tormented you are yours now. You see what I can deliver.”

Dracula smiled, his teeth dripping in blood. “My dear, these are merely the foot soldiers. As I understand it, you are the one ultimately responsible for my current state.”

“Correct. I am the one who rescued you from the state in which your past followers abandoned you. I trust I have your gratitude for reviving you.”

“Absolutely. I long to share my gratitude with you as soon as possible.”

“Of course. But you must understand that the pressures of ruling keep me terribly busy. It might be a few days until I can arrange a visit with you.”

“How tragic. I will have to find ways to amuse myself until you grace me with your presence.”

“I’m certain you can. Enjoy your gift.”

The box went dark.

The door wasn’t hard to force.

And the men with firearms standing outside? They stood no chance.

They marched ahead of him now, leading through doors which only opened with a gesture from the cards they carried and by pressing their faces to the walls.

What strange rituals.

They tried to lead him into another cell even smaller than the one he’d escaped. They said it was an elevator which would carry him to another place.

Dracula redoubled the force of his claws on their minds and ordered them to lead him by a different path.

Stairs took them down to a door which the men couldn’t open no matter how many times they showed their faces to the wall.

Someone shouted through the little glass window on the door.

“Mrs. Lobo says to go up to the penthouse.”

The men shouted back, but Dracula grew tired of this charade and ordered his thralls to turn around.

He’d play this woman’s game for the time being.

Until he learned enough to destroy her.

It was a long climb. His new and ill-fed muscles were quivering as the climb went on, and his thralls panted and clutched at the railing to aid their ascent.

They passed other doors, and the men tried each one but were turned away by whatever force controlled the locks.

At long last a door yielded to their touch, and they stepped into an antechamber with double doors standing wide open before them.

Dracula made his thralls enter first, then ordered them to their knees while he prowled through the palace he’d found.

Polished wood floors. Elegantly patterned rugs. Multiple rooms all displaying comfort and wealth. Here a sitting room, there a dining room. A starkly cleaned kitchen, a library, several bedrooms – one containing nothing but a coffin.

He circled the coffin, unimpressed. No craftsmanship. It might have been adorned in carved ivy and winged babies, but the work was shoddy. Not made with the loving and terrified hand of a devotee carving for a god.

Nor was it of any tree from his homeland.

It smelled of wood polish and human hands, not of earth and desecrated graves.

Everything about it was wrong.

And he loathed how much his body longed for anything remotely resembling the familiar touch after so long of sleeping on stone.

There was metal on the walls. Great sheets of it, the mining work of hundreds of slaves and laboring craftsmen.

Who was this woman who owned mines enough to decorate her walls with these strange ores that did not feel like pure iron?

Who was this woman who’d heard legends of him and brought him to this place?

He would know more before he killed her.

“Mister Dracula?” he heard her call. “Do you approve?”

He stalked through the rooms in search of another box painted with her visage. To his surprise, he found her standing in the entryway, another pair of armed men flanking her with pistols in hand.

A lash of his mind brought his thralls to their feet. They tackled her guards, rolling across the ground for possession of the weapons. One drew his own firearm and shot with speedy accuracy, leaving the body to bleed out on the expensive rug while he lunged to assist in a second execution.

The woman ignored the fighters as did Dracula. They had eyes merely for each other.

“Mister Dracula…”

“Count, if you please.”

“Count Dracula.” She dipped her head in the slightest bow, her eyes never leaving his. “And I am Madame Bellafrancesca Lobo. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“I am afraid I am unfamiliar with your family line.”

“Oh, we are not an old family name. Not like yours. Shall we sit?”

They walked together to the soft furniture, each sinking into a chair, their eyes still locked.

Behind them, a second shot rang out, one of Dracula’s thralls now the victim of the bullet.

“Your pistols have increased in accuracy,” he observed.

“Guns are the great equalizer of war. No longer does the battle go to the strongest but to the side with the best firepower.” She laced her fingers together. “But I’m sure you would agree that the mind of a great tactician is still a vital weapon.”

“Indeed.”

“Lobo was not my husband’s name. Nor mine. I chose it when I began to rise in this country. I have made it my own. Spanish is not among your languages?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It means wolf.” She smiled. “You see, we have something in common.”

“Yes, I am fond of wolves.” He let his teeth show in his smile. “They have served at my feet for many generations.”

She did not rise to the bait. “Wolves are creatures of the wild places. This world is shrinking its forest and leaving its monsters behind. They are not feared as they once were. Many old legends are forgotten and scorned. But I know that the monsters of the shadows aren’t all vanished. Some walk among us even now. Some could be useful in the new order of the world.”

“Really?” Dracula arched an eyebrow. “Do you believe you could snap your fingers and make one such as I bow at your feet?”

There was a gurgling and pounding from the other room. Then silence.

Measured footsteps, and Dracula’s thrall entered, his hands raw and stained in blood.

Dracula tapped the side of the chair, and the slave knelt where ordered, staring blankly ahead as Dracula stroked his head.

He was pleased to see a break in the lady’s steely expression. A whiff of fear and glimmer of horror.

Good. She was not quite so emotionless as she appeared.

“There must always be those who lead and those who serve,” he went on. “But those who think to make a tamed dog of a wild thing will always be disappointed. Those who were meant to serve should keep to their place. It’s safer than aspiring to stand with deities.”

Madame Lobo nodded slowly. “You misunderstand, dear Count. I would never dream of making the mightiest of beings crawl. I hoped there might be a partnership between you and I. The world has moved forward while you have slumbered. I could be of great value to you as you reestablish yourself. And you could be of great help to me. Should you wish to be.”

“Why would I wish to help you?”

Madame Lobo rose and paced the room, foolishly and deliberately turning her back on him. She went to one of the metal panels and tugged a chain.

Gradually, the great wall of metal slid up, revealing glass behind it.

And beyond the glass…

Dracula rose with a gasp.

A city stretched out as far as he could see. Buildings taller than he’d ever imagined. Lights gleaming from window after window.

A rich city where candles did not need to be rationed. Where metal and stone were in ample supply.

A city brimming with life.

“The world has changed while you’ve slept,” Madame Lobo repeated. “The forests are controlled. The dark places on the maps are filled in with names and ownership. The wolves are few and no longer the stuff of nightmares. When I came to this country, my family was told it was a land of opportunity. But we were not told how we would be scorned for our looks. Our customs. Our language. How we had to leave everything behind if we wished to rise.

“I have fought to be more than what this land would make me. I have fought to achieve more than they permitted me to dream. I don’t wish to be a wealthy woman in a land full of wealth permitted to enjoy my last days in a retirement community on a beach.” She turned to Dracula, a ferocity in her eyes. “I wish to own this city.”

“So you are not the queen of this place.”

Her chin rose. “My people are inside their police force. Inside their government buildings. I have bought the right politicians to create the laws I want. I own the law enforcement so that they’ll turn their heads away as my people carry out my works. But there are some who’d stand against me.

“It isn’t laws or police who rule, Count. It is money. It is those who control the masses. The people are sheep. To be fed at my hand so that they’ll come back time and again for what I give them. And there are others who’d stand in my way. Organizations who’d seek to interrupt my ascent in their own grabs for wealth and power. I want them destroyed. Entirely. I want to watch their people crumble under my blade. I want their leaders to bow at my feet and swear their loyalty to me and mine. I want them to huddle in fear of the monsters I could unleash upon them.”

She took his hands, ignoring the claws that could eviscerate her with a twitch, ignoring the gore of those he’d murdered to reach this tower. “This world has forgotten the terror of your kind. I want to awaken it again. I want this city to fear the shadows. I want them to run to me for salvation as my enemies are drained bloodless and their corpses are left to rot in the streets. I want to share this new world with you. Will you help me build it?”

“Madame,” Dracula said slowly, “that is the most fascinating offer I have had in centuries.”

Bellafrancesca smiled and drew her hands away. “You may think upon my offer. These rooms are yours. Any desires you have will be delivered to you. You wish to eat? Whatever you wish will be brought to you.”

Dracula stepped back and surveyed the room. “There are changes I would have made.”

“Make a list and all will be as you please.” She hesitated. “May I have my man back?”

Dracula glanced down at the glazed-eyed thrall. “No. I have further use for him.”

She dipped her head. “So be it.” She turned to the door. “Rest well, Count. I will speak with you tomorrow evening.”

And she was gone.

The double doors closed and locked behind her.

Another cell. But improved conditions.

Dracula seated himself in the chair Bellfrancesca had deserted. “Wake up,” he ordered the thrall.

The man came out of his stupor, blinking and bewildered. He looked down at his raw hands and began to scream.

Dracula watched indifferently as the man went through all the stages of horror, finishing with bolting out of the room.

Not a promising specimen.

But it was what he had.

The man charged back, a firearm brandished in his shaking hands. He mashed the muzzle against Dracula’s temple. “Y-y-you… What did you do to me?”

Dracula sighed. “Calm yourself. You’re dripping on the furniture.”

“I k-killed… you made me kill…”

“I can’t imagine that was the first time.” Dracula turned, the muzzle now pressed between his eyes. “Well? Go on.”

“What?”

“You wish to commit one more act of murder? Proceed.”

The man blinked shocked and lost eyes.

Dracula batted the gun away with a blow that broke the man’s hand and left him screaming on the ground.

“Your lady left you to me. I own you.”

The man scrambled for the gun and pointed it with his heavily shaking left hand.

Dracula ignored the pathetic threat. “You have two choices of what you can become.”

“Become?”

“You can either become my next meal and join your friends who are currently bleeding out while we speak. Soon, there won’t be enough in them to satisfy me, and your choice will be made for you. But if you hurry, you could still choose to live.”

The man’s hand was shaking even harder. “How?”

Dracula let his eyes go red and hypnotic. “Serve me. Serve me and live. Serve me and reap such rewards at my hand.”

“W-what… what kind of rewards?”

Dracula smiled. How easily a new soul was won.

Chapter Text

March 1891: Jonathan Harker

It was dark inside the coffin with no way of telling night from day.

Nothing to do within its confines but resist panicking with the fear of being forever trapped.

Jonathan shoved the lid, relieved as always when it yielded to his touch. He sat up, looking toward the boarded window from which a few slivers of daylight filtered through.

He rose anyway, stepping carefully over his slumbering familiar. Although Jonathan encouraged Renfield to sleep in his own room, he didn’t stop him from sleeping beside the coffin. At least he’d convinced Renfield to bring in some blankets though he’d lost the fight to hand off his unused bed to the familiar.

He whispered to Renfield’s mind to stay asleep, though he had no confidence that such an order would work. The first time he’d told Renfield to stay sleeping, the familiar had immediately awoken screaming and clutching at his head. It had taken hours to reassure him that Jonathan had not been punishing him for not being awake when the vampire arose.

At least he’d learned to rein in his mental voice enough that Renfield didn’t collapse in pain anymore. But sometimes his words failed to reach his bonded companion, and frequently he projected more than he wanted to share. Not to mention hearing Renfield’s thoughts and fears nearly constantly unless he concentrated all his energy on shutting the familiar out. And Renfield looked at him with panicked eyes whenever he suppressed the bond, eternally convinced that such actions were a precursor to being abandoned entirely.

It had been four months since Dracula’s demise. Four long and unsteady months which had flown and also crawled by. There had been the early weeks in which Jonathan had suffered from his injuries, thinking of little but hunger and pain. Following that had come the slow recovery as he regained the health Dracula had kept from him during his captivity.

But there was never enough blood.

And he couldn’t control himself.

The servants yielded up their blood to Renfield’s knife whenever the familiar went to them, but each could only be bled monthly at best. In the ravenous state of his recovery, Jonathan had drained the few victims Renfield caught. After that, and with winter settling in, he’d had to learn to endure hunger and ration what was available.

When he was strong enough to hunt, he took to the forest, killing several of the shifters and wolves before the horde scattered into the mountains. After that, he could occasionally bring down deer and foxes and once a bear that he dug from its den. But the animal blood didn’t satisfy. It took the edge from his hunger, but it gave little strength, and he burned through it too quickly.

To survive, he needed human blood. And for that he and Renfield had had to hunt further afield.

Many were the nights that they lurked at the edges of villages in hopes of a peasant stumbling out to the wood pile or privy. Most wore crucifixes and decked their doorways in foul-smelling herbs, but those were hardly protection against the familiar who sprang upon them and divested them of their protection so that Jonathan could feed.

He didn’t want to kill. If he could drink a little and release his victims to live and feed him another day, so much the better. But once he had his fangs in their necks… he couldn’t stop himself until all the blood was gone.

So he’d force himself to wait while Renfield cut a gash and offered him the milked blood. Then he’d try to speak to the victim’s mind. Make them forget what had happened.

Mostly they ran from him. Their memories intact and terrified.

And Jonathan had to range even further in search of another meal.

No wonder Dracula had been wizened when Jonathan had come upon him. He’d had four mouths to feed.

The women had vanished. If they still haunted the castle, they’d kept away from the other residents. If they were in the forest, Jonathan had found no trace of them.

Dracula had called them memories. Wraiths of the past.

Perhaps the killing of the old vampire had set them free of whatever cursed their haunting of the castle.

Or perhaps they were simply thrilled to be able to roam without the master summoning them back.

Jonathan gave them little thought. He had enough to worry about.

He’d found several letters from Mina buried among the count’s papers. Two with news and a third addressed to Dracula begging for information regarding Jonathan’s whereabouts. He’d managed to send out a letter before the snow made travel impossible, claiming that he’d been unwell and wouldn’t be able to return until spring.

He had not reported the other news… that the client who was supposed to help him advance was dead, and Jonathan had inherited… he had no idea how much he’d inherited.

There was gold – piled in decrepit rooms as if it was nothing. And antiques – some in decent enough shape to be worth selling.

Deeds to properties across the continent. Bank statements from multiple locations. Several of what appeared to be treasure maps leading into remote wildernesses.

The property deeds alone were enough to keep the two solicitors busy for weeks of untangling Dracula’s paper trail and drafting the necessary documents to transfer everything to Jonathan’s name.

And they still continued to uncover correspondence and documents that neither of them could understand.

Jonathan’s interest was mostly in the property in England. There wasn’t just Carfax and the house in Piccadilly. There was another in Whitby and several cottages scattered across the north of England and another crumbling estate. Retreats, Renfield explained. In case London ever grew dangerous. He’d purchased those first before heading south into London which was when his mind had unraveled.

Jonathan roamed through the now-looted castle. The treasures had been boxed and sent ahead over the course of the past few weeks. Ships bound for England where the worldly possessions of Count Dracula would be gathered beneath the roof of Carfax as the count had prepared and intended.

It had seemed practical to use the plans already set in place. And Carfax had been a sensible place to store things. A secluded area, but the neighboring asylum meant the police patrolled past it regularly.

Hopefully everything would be safe there until Jonathan could find a better way to hide or redistribute his new possessions.

He was rich. In a way. The inheritor of a crumbling castle he didn’t want filled with treasures he didn’t know how to manage.

And he just wanted to get back to Exeter where his fiancé, employer, job, and life waited for him.

And he might be incapable of reclaiming any of that.

Wealth and immortality were not the cure-alls to life’s problems that the storybooks suggested.

Logically he should stay away. He wasn’t safe, and perhaps he never would be. He couldn’t feed without killing. And even if he could, there was no denying that he was a monster who slept by day in a coffin of wych elm, guarded by a man who ate bugs for power. He ran faster, lifted more, and jumped higher than any human. He was more than any human could hope to achieve.

And also less. Also cursed. Also so very vulnerable.

Perhaps few weapons could slay him now, but who could love him as he was? How could he ever live among people again?

How could Mina accept him?

He should vanish into the mountains. Send word that he was dead. That Mina should consider herself free to find a new love.

Yet every ounce of his being longed to be with her once again.

He peered through a sliver of window into the courtyard.

The wagon drivers loitered about or slept under their wagons. Their horses dotted the pasture alongside Dracula’s black carriage animals.

Jonathan had locked them out of the castle at the behest of the servants who feared the rough strangers more than the vampire who at least wouldn’t carry off the women for cruel pleasures.

There’d been an incident when the drivers had last come. The older daughter – the one Jonathan had once threatened to eat – had been caught alone and buffeted about by the men before she’d bolted into the forest where the carters had hesitated to pursue.

Renfield had gone searching and brought her back hours later in a torn and bloodied state.

Not all the shifters had vacated the area, it seemed.

And not all of them were animal enough not to take advantage when they caught a girl alone.

Jonathan had dealt with the shifters, ranging through the forest night after night until those that remained alive had fled the forest. Since then, the servants had kept within the castle when the carters were present, and Renfield had put the fear of the master into the men without revealing who that was.

They were all trading on Dracula’s name for protection.

Jonathan only hoped it would last until they escaped the country.

He drew away from the window with a sigh.

Despite knowing that Dracula had walked in daylight simply with the precaution of a large hat, Jonathan had no confidence in his own survival if hat or cloak should slip.

He knew so little about what he was now. He could mesmerize minds with venom and mind, but that worked erratically at best. He’d seen Dracula’s transformations, but he’d managed no shifting of his own. The animals didn’t answer when he reached for their minds – not even when he fed the rats his blood.

There were no instructions to be found on the development of a fledgling vampire. No guidelines for how to temper his feeding or guard himself against his weaknesses.

Renfield could offer him little insight. He knew what an aged and powerful vampire could do, not what it took to become that. He’d encountered other vampires and said he’d seen other weaknesses and powers, but he knew nothing of how a single vampire might change over time.

Jonathan had scoured the count’s room, eventually finding what he thought were private diaries, though he couldn’t understand the language and thought it was something older than Romanian. He’d packed them away for future deciphering along with a multitude of other mysteries that might last his indefinite lifetime.

He returned to his room.

Renfield still lay upon his pallet, his eyes open but remaining where Jonathan had ordered. He rose only when Jonathan spoke to him.

The faithful hound.

Things had not been easy between them. The pressure of another mind and another set of emotions pressing so close to his own made Jonathan sometimes want to scream.

How had Dracula withstood it? Another mind entwined with his? Feeling the other’s fears as intently as his own? How hadn’t it driven him mad?

Or maybe it had. Or maybe it had been the absence of it. Unable to sense one another with a continent between them… Had that irreparably damaged the bond? It had broken Renfield’s mind. Had it injured Dracula as well?

Maybe that was why he’d treated his familiar with such relentless cruelty upon his return. He hadn’t wanted to admit how much he’d needed the connection or reestablish something that made him feel weak. So he’d shut Renfield out. Violently. Vehemently.

Until it had broken them both.

Renfield was very much broken now. Months of abuse piled upon months of assault and madness in the asylum had left him a wreck. He cowered from Jonathan, certain any mistake would see him flayed. The apologies fell from his lips even before he made errors, certain punishments would come at any moment.

From his mind, Jonathan heard even worse. Renfield’s self-worth was long shattered. He believed Jonathan only tolerated him for lack of anyone better. He believed he wasn’t worth saving.

Jonathan had no idea how to respond.

He simply tried to provide the kindness he’d seen denied.

It took very little to make Renfield melt with awe and bewilderment. Even a murmur of thanks brought a flicker of disbelief and hope to his eyes. He craved any form of approval and would have gladly accepted beatings if that’s what his master wished to give.

At least it meant contact.

It was… a lot to have hovering in Jonathan’s mind.

Not to mention a mind he sometimes found himself trapped inside.

He’d awoken more than once outside his coffin in a body which puppeted at his commands, the owner of the mind curled up in a corner prepared to surrender his entire self to Jonathan’s whims.

Horrifying

And to dream another’s dreams.

Witness the agonies of someone else’s nightmares.

And worse… the happy dreams.

He had no doubt of the miseries Renfield had endured in the asylum now. Any questions of Dr. Seward’s actions… the doctor hadn’t just known. He’d taken full advantage of a scared and friendless patient.

Except the dreams were twisted things in which Seward stood in avatar for whatever harms had befallen Renfield at another’s hand. Sometimes the doctor displayed powers beyond a mortal’s ability. Or stood within familiar castle walls as he administered his punishments and cruelty.

Dracula was present in the dreams, but Renfield wept for him. Longed for him. Dreamed of happy times together. Both in his waking and sleeping.

Rarely a night went by without Jonathan catching flashes of memories. Of Renfield painstakingly teaching the count English and learning Romanian in return. Of riding together through the brilliant moonlight. Of running through the forest – the wolf bringing down his prey with gentle jaws and affectionate licks. Of travels and parties and theatre and… and willingness in the bedroom that Jonathan had never experienced or desired at the count’s hand.

Why had Dracula once gentled Renfield along – the man he’d called servile and nothing more than a dog meant to crouch at his feet – while Jonathan - marked from the first as a future companion - had had to be broken into submission and raped in the bedroom?

Were Renfield’s memories lies? But… there were signs in the castle of their travels. Of the language lessons and payments made to a Mrs. Renfield back in England.

It wasn’t all lies. There’d been a time of caring between them. Some form of caring. Some kindness intermingled with cruelty and degradation.

Enough to keep Renfield loyal and striving for more.

Would that be their own future? Jonathan eventually growing disillusioned with his familiar and lashing out at the one who saw too much of his mind?

Was the price of immortality a loss of conscience? Of human decency?

How did he retain his humanity after he’d lost his soul?

He spoke briefly with Renfield about their preparation, his restless eyes darting frequently toward the window.

“I think it’s late enough,” he told Renfield. “Go ahead with the servants. There’s one last thing I need to do.”

Taking a deep and unnecessary breath, he turned his steps through the rambling corridors, seeking out a room he’d only visited once.

It felt no different. All draping gauze and heady scents.

“Are you here?” he asked into the shadowy emptiness of the women’s quarters. “Can you hear me?”

There was no answer save the slow swirling of hanging clothes in the windless room.

“If you can… thank you. I never could have killed him if you hadn’t helped me escape. And I think you made sure he came back hungry. You gave me a chance. So… thank you. If there is anything I can do to assist you…?”

He thought he heard laughter but nothing more.

Nothing but ghostly memories.

“I’m leaving tonight,” he added. “We all are. Me. Renfield. The servants. I’m never coming back here. This place can rot and crumble. I hope it does. If you want it, it’s yours. If not… I hope you find somewhere to be at peace.”

If they still existed, he should probably kill them. Leaving behind monsters that he’d seen devour infants with relish… But he was a monster now as well. And they had helped him. It felt wrong to turn on them.

Perhaps they’d already gone.

Somehow he doubted it.

The sun was sinking as the carters loaded two coffins into their wagons, grunting under the weight of the heavy boxes which had been stuffed with enough luggage to give the illusion of bodies. The servants added an assortment of bags and boxes – everything they’d wanted to take in their own escape from the castle which had been the only home and prison some of them had ever known.

There were five of them. The old woman with one eye and few teeth remaining. A young man of simple mind. Grigor, the head of the little family, and his two daughters - one somewhere in her teens and the other still a child.

Jonathan had asked once what had happened to the mother and received only a meaningful look from Renfield. He hadn’t asked about them again.

The women clustered in the calache, the men and Renfield dispersed among the other wagons.

Watching from the shadows, Jonathan heard Renfield call orders to the leader who responded with anxious gestures toward the setting sun followed by shouts that set the carters to whipping their animals to hasty trotting.

They wanted to be away from the forest before it got too dark. Before the burdens they thought they carried in the wagon beds awoke.

Jonathan could understand.

He stood alone in a castle soon to be surrendered to rats and ghosts. Emptied of what could be easily stolen, the rest left to rot and ruin.

The main hall still bristled with its array of useless weapons. Jonathan had only taken the knife he considered his. He brushed his fingers across the blades of axes and swords, the shrine of those who’d failed to slay a monster.

He still couldn’t believe he’d succeeded where so many had failed.

But he was free. And he’d make the most of it.

As the sun sank below the trees, he strode from his prison for the last time. First walking, then running faster than the trotting horses ahead could match.

He’d catch up and slip among them, a terrifying reminder of the master vampire’s watching eyes. They’d let the drivers think Dracula stalked them in the forest, relying on the bats and owls they were sure to encounter to sell the illusion. Fear would do the rest.

Once within the city, the servants would go their own way, well paid and well provisioned for their own travels. They were going south. Across the Black Sea and many overland miles. Back to the Persian where the old woman and her family had fled long before. Her kin and her daughter were long gone, but she desired to return her granddaughters to their roots. And as the men had no ties to anywhere else, they’d agreed to follow her desires and set up new lives far from the Carpathian Mountains which had caged them in this nightmare life they’d endured too long.

They were seeking home.

And so was Jonathan.

He looked back at the crumbling castle. It seemed like nothing now. Not so foreboding or impenetrable as it once had. If it still held mysteries, he didn’t care to discover them. He’d leave those riches and dangers to curious locals once superstition and memories stopped keeping them at bay.

As he gazed back, he saw something pale upon the battlements. A flitting of whiteness. Like someone in a flowing dress.

More than one someone.

But as he squinted into the growing gloom, the figments vanished.

Leaving only memories behind.

And Jonathan set his eyes toward the road that would lead him home.

Chapter Text

2022 – 2023: Dracula

Dracula provided an extensive list of demands.

He was amazed that they were all rapidly fulfilled.

The ‘light bulbs’ were removed from his rooms and replaced with candles. Dirt was imported from Romania along with a proper coffin of proper wood.

He arranged for it to lock from the inside and forced his familiar to remain awake and on guard whenever he rested.

It wasn’t a very good familiar. He drove it indifferently toward exhaustion night after night.

He had no intention of treating any creature of Bellafrancesca’s with respect until she’d earned it.

He descended from his quarters as soon as his familiar was capable of functioning after its agonizing transformation, demanding information about this castle and this world.

The building held many floors of residences for those connected with Madame Lobo and her organization. Others floor for storage and offices.

And laboratories. More than just the one which had confined Dracula.

The basement contained a tunnel running to a second building. A mansion.

Madame Lobo’s home and gilded seat of power.

This mansion was where the family and their ‘boys’ could be found. Rooms filled with opulent displays of wealth and power.

The beautiful façade to hide the horrors Madame Lobo kept in her basement playroom.

Dracula was intrigued the first time she escorted him into the room filled with… toys.

Swords. Whips. Saws. Hammers. Instruments of war and instruments of construction.

All used gleefully for torture.

And when she was finished with her enemies, Dracula took away their pain with a click of his jaws.

He didn’t appreciate feeding upon the already bloodied and broken, but Bellafrancesca was willing to provide him with sport. She’d let a victim escape their cell while Dracula stalked from the shadows, assuring his prey that they could be free if they reached the front door.

None ever made it that far.

Bellafrancesca told him of her enemies – the five families in particular. Five gangs who had united into a single unit and controlled most of the city between them.

She wanted to reduce them to nothing.

The time wasn’t right to act. There was a cop making trouble who had to be eliminated. A few more key players to place before she was ready to prepare for war.

One question lay unanswered.

Would Dracula fight with her?

He continued to put her off as he lived upon her goodwill. As he studied the range of her power and what control she believed she held.

He’d still destroy her in the end, no doubt about that.

But he had to admit her ruthlessness and determination amused and excited him.

Enough to put off escaping her realm.

He dreamed one day in someone else’s dreams.

That hadn’t happened in a long time.

He’d shut out the new familiar entirely, tiring of the whimpering and whining even before it had come out of its grave reborn.

Before his betrayal, he’d been separated from his last familiar for more than a year. First by the distance of England, then by choice once he’d returned.

Further back… it had still been rare that his mind had mingled with another’s enough to see into their dreams.

But one night… it happened.

Hardly substantial images. Hallways that merged into forests and into rooms. Something about a cabinet and something that shouldn’t be there. Faces of people he’d never met.

But he awoke with a certainty in his mind.

Renfield.

Renfield still lived.

How? A few months away from Dracula’s side had driven him mad.

A hundred and thirty years? The man would be a catatonic husk by now.

Except the mind had felt sane. Steady.

Alive.

Dracula paced his rooms in a fury, terrifying his familiar into flight as he lashed out blindly.

Jonathan had killed him. He remembered it now. But Jonathan had been badly injured. Starved, wounded, ignorant. He should have gone feral. A revenant. A mindless monster.

But if he had survived with his faculties intact, it meant someone had fed him. Someone had protected and cared for him.

There was only one who could have done that.

And it wasn’t possible! Renfield should have died without Dracula. He’d created his familiar carefully, implanting a singular command into his formation.

Serve me. That is your purpose. You cannot live without that purpose. If you are denied it, you will die.

What had gone wrong? How had Renfield defied his commands?

And where was he now?

“You haven’t given me what we agreed upon,” Dracula said, interrupting whatever Bellafrancesca was trying to explain to him about the five families.

Madame Lobo halted. “In what way do you feel I have been remiss in my hostess duties?”

“You said you would give me all those responsible for my condition.”

“Well?”

“You haven’t brought me the traitors who left me in that urn.”

Madame Lobo studied him. “If you have reason to believe they are still alive…”

“They are.”

“Then of course my people will have them brought to you.”

Dracula rose. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.” He swept from the room.

“Please, Master,” the familiar groaned on bended knees, its hands clasped around its stomach. “Please let me eat something.”

Dracula made a dismissive gesture without looking away from his book. “If you hunger, find yourself something. But don’t leave my sight.”

Tears poured from the familiar’s eyes. “Th…there’s nothing here.”

Dracula snapped the book shut. “Idiot.” He rose and stalked to the window.

Renfield never required me to hunt for him. Renfield never whined about such things.

He’d actually enjoyed watching Renfield eating when they’d gone abroad. There had been entertainment in bringing his pet to the finest establishments. The way Renfield’s eyes would widen at the elaborate dishes set before them. The way his hand would tremble as he reached for glasses of wine worth more than his slender lawyer salary would ever have afforded.

His kisses afterwards, leaving red stains up his master’s pale body. His mouth tasting of berry and vinegar…

He caged a spider between two fingers and brought it to the whining form. “Here.”

The familiar had the audacity to turn its head away from its master’s bounty.

“Eat," Dracula snarled, seizing the man by the chin.

The familiar struggled. “Please… I can’t eat that…”

Dracula shoved the spider down its throat.

The familiar’s eyes flared amber. It jerked in place, its veins surging with vampiric energy. “Wha…” It whirled around wildly, suddenly on its feet and alert to everything.

Dracula rolled his eyes. “I explained you would be allotted a fraction of my power.”

“I could run forever,” the man gasped. “I’ll never need to eat again.”

“It won’t last,” Dracula grumbled as he returned to his book. “Be sensible and find yourself actual food the next time we go downstairs. Your purpose is to see to my needs. I should not need to be bothered with yours.”

Honestly. When had the creature last bathed? Or changed its clothes? And those rings around its eyes were becoming unsightly.

Renfield had never let himself go to this extent.

“I am concerned about Derrek,” Madame Lobo informed him.

“Who?”

“Your… familiar? Do you know what he did yesterday?”

Dracula tried to recall anything amiss. He’d sent the familiar to fetch the newspaper. It had been gone nearly an hour, but Dracula had barely noticed the absence and hardly expected competency. “He was slow returning to where he belonged,” he admitted.

“He got into a fight with some of the other boys. The ones who prefer bats and pipes to guns because they like the personal touch.” She paused. “He won.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“You don’t understand. He’s a nice enough boy, but he’s not one of my best. I’d only just moved him up from product distribution. He shouldn’t have left three men with broken bones.”

“He’s my familiar,” Dracula replied in a tone which said this was obvious. “I allow him a fraction of my power to use in my service.”

“Interesting,” Madame Lobo purred. “What sort of powers?”

Dracula flicked a dismissive hand. “As you saw, Heightened strength and reflexes. He’ll heal faster on his own.”

He opted not to expand further than that.

Bellafrancesca laced her fingers together. “And how it is done? Building this connection so that another may benefit from your powers?”

Dracula raised his eyebrows. “Do you wish to swear yourself to my service?”

She smiled thinly. “Not at the present time. But perhaps you could take some of my protégés beneath your wing?”

Dracula forced himself not to show alarm. Multiple familiars at once?

Multiple human minds whining at the door of his own? Snuffling about with their needs and emotions and expecting him acknowledge or care…

Renfield had been bad enough, and he’d been well trained to endure in silence.

But he smiled as he made a calculated move in this game they played. “Tell me how this might benefit me.”

New Orleans.

A city of lights and decadence.

He couldn’t say he approved of these automobiles.

Considering how slowly they crept through the streets screaming their horns at one another, it hardly seemed an improvement over walking.

He missed his carefully bred horses.

Trained not to panic at his scent and conditioned to keep their heads even when wolves bumped against the carriage. The battles they’d fought together. The victims who’d stopped to admire their beautiful poise and climbed naively into the calache.

Gone now.

His castle. His horses. His wealth. His concubines. His servitor. His power.

He tried to keep the bitterness at bay as Madame Lobo introduced him to the city.

She took him to restaurants and the theatre. She told him of Carnival and music. Of a history of brave pirates and dishonest politicians. Of women who’d created and men who’d squandered. Legends of vampires and ghosts which still lurked the streets.

He didn’t understand her need to possess it, but he respected the desire to conquer.

So he smiled and complimented her world.

And wondered how long before he understood enough to leave her and her paltry aspirations behind.

He demonstrated the strength of his familiar at her request.

A target of her choice. A police officer. An honest man in a corrupted city.

The familiar took a bullet amidst the fight, though he dragged his kill back to Dracula’s feet.

Dracula granted him the reward of his blood.

He felt the connection flutter between them. Blood renewing the chain he’d fastened around the soul, awakening pathways in the mind. Drawing him toward the touch of human emotions and…

He shut it down and cast out the feeling with claws and snarls.

He’d not feel anything for this one.

For any of them.

Never again.

He knew she kept secrets.

He heard whispers when her minions thought he was beyond hearing.

Whispers of seeking out vampires. Searching for rumors and truths.

For what purpose?

He could have stretched out his mind in search of his progeny.

But there was only one mind he sought to reach.

Come. Come to me. Serve me.

And he felt nothing.

Screams.

Terror.

Blue flames.

Pain. Pain beyond imagining.

Terror and flight. A mind desperate for refuge.

For sanctuary.

Come. Come to me. You’ll be safe here.

Dracula awoke with a grim smile.

Something had panicked his wayward pet into flight.

And instinct was driving him towards his master’s arms.

He felt the bond sever. The scream of impending death, followed by the lurch as one connected to his power was broken from it.

He felt a moment’s panic. That he’d just begun reeling in his errant pet for death to steal him.

But… no. It was the other. The recent creation.

No great loss. He’d largely released the familiar to run with its pack, only calling it occasionally if he had a task he wanted performed that wasn’t too difficult for a simple mind.

Surprising that something had managed to kill it, but that had happened many times in the past. He’d sacrificed many to hunters and peasant mobs while he escaped their invasions.

An inconvenient loss. And not one he intended to rectify. He had no intention of allowing Madame Lobo to learn the strength of his blood.

He had to keep what secrets he still had.

Until he learned all of hers.

“The city grows more troubling,” Madame Lobo grumbled as they played chess. “Do you recall that cop you eliminated for me?”

“I do.”

“His daughter had the audacity to arrest my son.”

“What a tragic loss,” Dracula muttered without sympathy.

The wolf pup was an arrogant and needy creature. Bravado when danger was distant, a sniveling toad when threatened.

The police would have done a service in eliminating him.

“I had him retrieved and sent him to remove the cop. But someone helped her escape. They killed a dozen of my men and disappeared. Including the one you’d claimed to have made invulnerable.”

Dracula lifted his eyes, intrigued at last. “Indeed?”

Perhaps he ought to pay more attention to activity in the mansion. He’d been sleeping more lately. It was easier to reach out to Renfield’s mind from the darkness of his coffin. Easier to reach his wayward servant’s mind while he was asleep and vulnerable.

But it was a challenge to catch Renfield’s erratic dreams and flood them with images of what his master would do once he was back in chains.

Renfield was close, but that was as far as Dracula’s weak connection had been able to draw him. Now he’d wait until he’d terrorized his servant into making a mistake.

“If it’s someone connected with the five families, I need to know if they can be eliminated or turned to our side.”

“Have you made any progress finding my traitor?” Dracula asked before she could renew her demands that he take his place in her desired web.

“It’s difficult with what little you could tell me,” Madame Lobo replied. “I have minimal people outside the city, and my hackers can only dive so deep into government databases. We’re reliant on internet rumors for the most part when we seek out creatures hidden in our midst.”

“You must have some clever sources. You found me, after all.”

Bellafrancesca’s smiled secretively. “That was a source all my own, my dear count.” She made a move across the board.

“What do you do to test these supposed vampires?”

“We let the locals handle the initial contact. I’ll not waste my people against rumors. It isn’t difficult to find amateur hunters to test their defenses. The religious zealot sorts. Or young people hoping to make a name for themselves on Youtube.”

Dracula nodded along sagely. “Indeed.”

“We pass what we know along to them and wait to see what happens. If the hunters kill humans, it isn’t on our heads that way. If the hunters are killed, we try to track the escaping creatures. If your… fledgling, you called him?... was one that we uncovered, he must have fled without my people managing to track him. I can ask my team to bring photos of those we’ve identified as possible creatures. Perhaps you’ll recognize him.”

“You’re going to quite a lot of trouble just to find one man for me.”

“I confess the interest goes beyond your needs. Monsters live among us. They take from us.” Madame Lobo gave him a dangerous smile. “It is time we took back from them.”

“That’s the guy!” Dracula heard Teddy shriek from Madame Lobo’s office. “That’s the guy who attacked me!”

“We’d have had this video much sooner, but the officer who took it seemed to think we’d pay him for it,” another voice reported.

“But who is the woman with him?” Bellafrancesca demanded.

Dracula peered curiously past the group surrounding the picture box with its images…

…of Renfield.

Dracula forced his rage to stay contained. To not smash that magic box as he would his familiar once he got his claws into him…

Fortunately, the humans were too agitated to notice his presence.

Who was the female? Not one of his women. But someone who behaved toward his familiar with an air of ownership.

Had Jonathan not stolen his familiar? Had another vampire intruded on his claim?

Or was that a human? That wife Renfield used to fret about? No… humans wouldn’t still look like that after this many years. Maybe he’d found a new mate.

Vampire, he decided as he watched the moving images play. She moved like a hunter.

“We’re hooking into cameras across the city. We’ll find him,” one of the humans assured the group.

“We’ve seized all evidence connected with those thieves at the warehouse,” another reported. “We had to rough up that FBI Quincy girl, but we got everything.”

Dracula took himself upstairs and settled in his coffin.

Where are you? Who has you? Show me.

He closed his eyes and quested out his mind, seeking the answers in a soul increasingly vulnerable to his prodding.

“So we see footage of the guy from the restaurant coming out of this hotel, right?” Teddy prattled as he pursued Dracula through the halls. “And we send in some guys to wait in his room to ambush him, yeah? Know what happens? One comes flying off the roof and the others are all torn apart in the room!”

“Indeed,” Dracula murmured. “And where were you while this was happening?”

“Hey, my team was backup! We were waiting outside so we could surround the dude.”

“You failed.”

“That’s not our fault! Guy’s a ghost. A freaky, murdering ghost.”

Dracula smiled inwardly. It was nice to see Renfield was still at adequate fighting strength. He really was doing Dracula a favor getting rid of so many of the Lobo thugs. Fewer eyes tracking Dracula’s movements while he observed them from the shadows.

It didn’t lessen his anger, though.

As soon as he had Renfield back on his leash…

“Mom’s super mad. She was gonna try and flip the guy, but now she’s got kill orders to all our guys across the city.”

Dracula froze and turned slowly. “That is unacceptable.”

Teddy quailed under his glare. “You gotta take that up with my mom. But she doesn’t back down when someone messes with her guys.”

“Hmm.” Dracula eyed the pup contemptuously.

Irritating creature. Desperate to please but too weak-hearted to act. The mother had handled the pup poorly. Too coddled and simultaneously too overwhelmed.

And yet… Madame Lobo did value him. Treasured him. Protected him.

He might be useful after all.

“Tell me, how would you kill this ‘ghost’?”

“Me?” Teddy tried to look confident. “He can’t hide from us. We just gotta corner him somewhere and then…”

“I said you.” Dracula stepped forward, his chest flush against Teddy’s.

Teddy tried to step back but Dracula’s hand caught around the nape of his neck and squeezed.

The pup froze. “H-h-hey, man,” he gasped. “This is getting kinda gay.”

“Quiet,” Dracula ordered as his hand tangled in Teddy’s hair and tipped his head backwards, exposing the long track of his neck.

Teddy let out a strangled whine, his knees going weak and sagging against Dracula’s legs.

Dracula laved his tongue over the pulsing Adam’s apple. “What would you do against this fighter?” he whispered. “Would you like the power to fight him? Would you like power that would make you stronger than everyone?”

Teddy only panted raggedly and broke out in a sweat.

Dracula smiled. He pressed closer, rubbing forcefully against his victim’s tightening pants. He allowed his teeth to nick against Teddy’s ear as he whispered. “Get control of yourself. Then come to my room.”

He strode away, leaving Teddy collapsed in a quivering puddle.

Chapter Text

March 1891: Jonathan Harker

They went by rail.

Neither of them had any interest in enduring a boat ride ever again.

Their things had gone ahead by ship, only the cumbersome coffin and a few bags remaining to haul with them between stations.

Jonathan analyzed their route seriously, picking out the times and tickets and factoring in the likelihood of being stranded by late trains as they churned their way across the continent.

It occurred to him only after they’d boarded the first train that he could have afforded the luxury cars if he’d wanted them.

Although likely his clothing and Renfield’s spoke too heavily of working-class life to integrate among the wealthy.

And probably always would.

He’d taken some clothes from Dracula’s wardrobe to supplement the threadbare remains of his own, but donning the vampire’s clothes made him feel as if Dracula still embraced him in chilled arms and controlled his every movement.

The smell of dirt and old blood wouldn’t leave them no matter how many times the servants had scrubbed them.

So despite their patched and frayed look, he kept to his own clothes as much as possible.

They couldn’t travel as directly as Jonathan would have wanted thanks to his sleeping limitations and feeding habits. They had to plan for overnights in populated areas where they could hunt and creep back to the train station before morning.

Jonathan hated the days of travel – the long stretches in which he was locked inside both his coffin and a shipping crate, dependent on Renfield and a crowbar to set him free each night. He spent much of his days inside Renfield’s mind, often drifting into it without intending to. Renfield always gave ground, allowing Jonathan full use of his senses and what little entertainment that provided.

Not that Renfield was up for seeking out much entertainment. The crowded trains stressed him as did being so alone and vulnerable. Aboard the trains, he’d huddle in a corner, gnawing at his knuckles for the long hours until they reached a station and he could disembark and rush to Jonathan’s side.

Jonathan had to nudge him to eat and relieve himself, his presence sometimes the only thing keeping the familiar from going entirely catatonic. He might have pressured Renfield to eat more often than the familiar truly needed, the sensation of complex tastes across a human tongue being a pleasure Jonathan sorely missed.

Once night fell, they’d set off hunting – first for bugs or worms, then for blood. Jonathan thought it spoke poorly of his future survival chances that he was far better at finding the former than securing the latter. But they harvested enough blood from laborers and street people to keep Jonathan’s appetite satiated.

Or they should have.

The blood never felt like enough. He drained every drop Renfield brought him night after night and refrained from begging for more.

But the hunger lingered.

The need for something more. Something his body desperately craved.

It was when they found themselves lingering overnight in Munich that Jonathan couldn’t stand it anymore.

It came after he’d been forced to wait until well after sundown for release from his coffin, Renfield having been chased away by station guards when he’d tried to sneak into the baggage area and forced to lay long for an extended stretch before creeping back to try again.

He’d brought blood, but Jonathan pushed it aside with a growl that made his familiar cringe.

Jonathan blocked out the frightened warbling inside Renfield mind and stalked away, the restlessness in his limbs more than he could endure. “No!” he snapped as Renfield started to follow. “Wait here. I… I need…” He stormed away without properly explaining himself.

He needed to run. To stretch his cramped limbs. Feel the wind in his hair, the ground pounding beneath his feet. Fresh blood in his mouth…

He shook off the hunger and forced himself to walk, keeping to the shadows as he slipped from the yard and into the city.

Munich. Another place he’d never visited.

A map full of cities and wonders forever denied to a curious young mind like his.

Exploring the world was for those who could afford to do so. Those who’d never had to work their way through the ranks as he had. Who’d never had to risk everything on a foolhardy venture across the continent to pursue a client who could make or break a career…

But Munich was as full of the shrines of the wealthy as anywhere else. Large homes competed in size along handsome streets. Decked in elaborate architecture and opulence.

Churches were the same. Living in the shadow of Exeter Cathedral all his life had made the opulence of the church feel commonplace. Now eying the churches disgusted him.

Churches were meant to save and protect souls. You said your prayers, you listened to sermons…

…and then the devil himself spirited you away to another land and clawed his way through every protection the sacraments offered.

Were any of them real? Protestant, Catholic… Did it make a difference to the demons who truly held sway over the Earth?

Maybe all the other faiths were just as valid. Would their holy emblems work just as well against the monsters in the dark?

And what would that mean if they did? If belief was all that mattered, then was any of it real?

What if there was no truth? What if the symbols didn’t matter? What if prayer and sermons and devotion meant nothing?

Because what kind of god would allow creatures like him to exist if there truly was a loving deity out there with a plan and omnipotent power over all?

Maybe there was nothing.

Maybe there were only monsters.

It occurred to Jonathan somewhere in his existential crisis that he was lost.

In a foreign city.

Again.

At least his German was far better than his Italian.

If he dared try to speak to anyone.

That… had not been going well.

He’d tried speaking with humans – the servants first, then some of the people they’d encountered while traveling.

But no matter how he schooled himself, just being around a living person… with their pulsing hearts and warm breath and blood so close to the surface if he could only get his fangs into…

And he’d snap back into his own mind to realize he’d been staring. Salivating. Drifting closer like a snake preparing to strike.

Renfield had kept himself between Jonathan and the servants, ready to interrupt Jonathan’s focus with a question or sudden movement. He’d have slunk away and allowed Jonathan to slaughter whoever the vampire wished at a command, but until Jonathan gave that order, his familiar had chosen to protect the population at large and Jonathan’s secrets.

But Renfield wasn’t here. And Jonathan was finding it harder and harder not to see every hurrying form as prey in need of chasing, every frantic movement as a sign of distress, every elevated heartbeat as a siren song drawing in his fangs…

He fled the city center, fled at random, changing directions every time he saw people in front of him.

Seeking silence. Seeking to make himself safe.

If only he wasn’t so hungry.

He wasn’t sure when he’d started running until he forced himself to slow. Was he chasing something? Running from? Towards?

Was he hunted?

There’d been vampires in Palermo. It wasn’t impossible that there were vampires here.

A thick population center. Trains bringing strangers in and out every day.

Why had Dracula selected London – an island - when somewhere along the railroad would have worked even better for the anonymous taking of lives?

He’d probably done it in the past. All those tales of his travels. Following trade routes and armies.

Perhaps London had simply been somewhere new whose existence made him curious.

What motivated the unapologetic killer’s mind?

And what motivated Jonathan’s?

Right now, an unhealthy combination of fear and hunger.

He spun about, searching the shadows with frantic eyes.

Had he been followed? No. No, he seemed to be alone.

No vampires. No wraiths. No werewolves or whatever other monsters inhabited the world.

He was simply alone in a strange place with no idea of where he was or how to get back.

Except… Renfield!

Renfield had said he always knew Dracula’s location. It stood to reason that Jonathan could do the same.

He turned in a circle once more, now with his eyes closed and his senses turned inward.

There! There was the pinprick pulse of a soul connected to his own.

A thread he could follow back to the trains.

Feeling more certain and less fearful of shadows, he set off.

The trouble was being unable to follow a direct line. There were streets in the way, sometimes taking him well off course before he could return to the path he wanted.

And when in his random flight had he crossed the river?

It took an annoying amount of time to find a bridge, and longer to pick a moment when no other people were crossing.

It was not far from the river on a street he’d hoped was deserted that he heard a new song.

Singing.

Bad singing.

Drunken singing.

Coming from a man lilting his way up the road.

He couldn’t see Jonathan stalking slowly up behind him. He saw nothing but the unsteady street before him, heard nothing but the bellowing call of his own voice, thought of nothing but the drink inhibiting his senses.

Jonathan was hyper alert to everything. Every distressed and helpless movement. Every huffed and heavy breath. Every wince as the man put weight upon an injured leg.

A bandaged leg.

A bandage red with blood.

After that… Jonathan remembered nothing.

Not until he felt the hunger abate and sighed a whisper of contentment.

And then realized his perilous predicament.

Alone in a strange city. Alone with a corpse.

The killer of a man he’d deliberately stalked and slain.

Not the territorial fights with the shifters in the forests. Not the mercy kills of those already damaged in Dracula’s dungeon. Not the accidental deaths of the peasants.

This had been intentional from start to finish. No justification or rationalizing in his frantic mind.

He’d killed. He’d proved himself the same sort of monster as Dracula.

He’d never be safe to approach Mina.

It would serve him right if he was found out here and now. If the crowd with their torches and pitchforks herded him immediately into the river.

The river!

He could dump the body there. Make it disappear.

Erase that this had ever happened.

It was the work of minutes. So terribly easy to dispose of a corpse once it stopped being a life.

Once it was just a problem to make go away.

With more desperation in his steps, he resumed following the trail back to the station.

His path took him more often through scattered groups of late-night wanderers. Drunks and ladies of the night. Police and laborers.

None looked long at him.

And none excited his need to feed.

He felt… whole. Sated. For the first time in weeks.

A whole corpse had done what the nightly feedings had not.

He was safe to walk among humans for the moment.

So long as he remained well fed.

Renfield still waited beside the coffin. The good dog told to stay. His gaze betrayed his anxiety. “Are you well, Master?”

“I’m fine,” Jonathan assured him. “I just needed to… stretch my legs. I’m sorry I snapped before.”

Renfield cautiously offered him the cup of blood.

It was cold and congealed by now, but Jonathan drank it anyway, nodding his thanks to his tentatively smiling familiar.

Unpleasant to wash away the glorious taste of fresh blood. But necessary. Necessary to conceal what he’d done. Never mention it to Renfield. To himself.

Dismiss the incident and continue to focus on what he needed to be. Something tamed. Something that wouldn’t hunt. Wouldn’t be a threat.

Someone Mina could still love.

“Get some sleep,” he told Renfield. “I’ll watch over you.”

With trusting eyes, the familiar crept into the coffin to rest for the remainder of the night.

Leaving Jonathan to sit back and idly watch the world pass by.

And try not to relive the glorious sensations of the hunt.

It was broad daylight when the boat crossed the channel, but Jonathan determinedly swaddled himself against the sun and took the last steps onto English soil himself.

“Welcome home, Master,” Renfield said softly as they sought out a cab with space enough to fit a coffin.

“It’s your home too, isn’t it?” Jonathan asked.

Renfield frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I don’t think I have a home anymore. There isn’t anywhere I dream about coming back to.”

“What about your wife and daughter? Any other family?”

“My parents are undoubtedly dead. Possibly my older siblings as well. If my wife’s still alive, I hope she’d declared me dead and moved on.” He sighed. “I was a poor husband and father. I forgot them and stopped providing for them long ago. They don’t need a reminder that I ever existed. I’m better off to them dead.”

Jonathan grimaced and told the driver to take them to the station.

“We should be in plenty of time to catch the train to Purfleet,” he told Renfield as they drove.

Renfield nodded thoughtfully. “It might be too late to find transport to Exeter until tomorrow.”

Jonathan hesitated, then spoke as carefully as he could. “We’re not going to Exeter right away.”

The familiar’s eyes darted to him with sudden tension.

Jonathan sighed. “You don’t have to come. But all the boxes in Carfax need to be moved somewhere more secure than sitting in a decaying entryway. We’ll get a room in a boarding house, and you can stay-”

“I’ll go,” Renfield said quickly, then flinched as if expecting a blow for interrupting. When none came, he spoke with bowed head and trembling voice. “I’ll go where you go, Master. It’s fine. I’ll… I can still be useful to you. Even if…”

“It’s alright if you’re afraid to go back there.”

“I’ll go.” Renfield’s head came up, his eyes now filled with desperation. “Please. I… Please don’t leave me behind.”

Jonathan put a hand on his arm. “I’ll always value your presence.”

He turned a blind eye to the way Renfield chewed on his knuckles and mumbled to himself for the remainder of the drive.

It was evening by the time the train reached Purfleet station, but fortunately the housing agent was still in his office, and Jonathan could secure the keys to Carfax, officially claiming the first of his new properties at last.

He posted letters to Mina, Mr. Hawkins, and Lucy saying he was back in England and would see them soon. With the coffin stowed at the station, they found a pub where Renfield could get a decent meal and drink the edge off his nerves while they waited for sunset.

Once dark, they made their way on foot to the abandoned estate and the still well-lit asylum next door.

They went over the wall on the far side of the estate and wove through the woods, creeping as softly as burglars until they reached the front door where Jonathan’s key allowed them the easy access of owners.

A multitude of boxes met their eyes. Boxes of earth… with much more than earth hidden within.

Jonathan surveyed his ill-gotten gain with a resolute sigh. “I think we should bury the gold for now. I don’t know how to dispose of it… or deposit it. So…” He cast his eyes around the old structure uncertainly.

“The chapel’s in better shape than the house,” Renfield volunteered. “And it has a much better lock on it.”

“I wasn’t able to enter there when I made my inspection. The housing agent didn’t have the key.”

Renfield gave a small smile. “I hid the key.”

Jonathan followed the familiar outside and into the woods. “Hid the key? Why would you have taken it?”

Renfield chewed at his lip. “Master… the old master… He would have wanted somewhere that had once been holy to rest his coffin. And wherever the master sleeps must be protected.”

Not for the first time, Jonathan wondered how much of a mess Renfield’s mind had already been the last time he’d visited Carfax.

“How far onto the grounds did you go on your inspection?” Jonathan asked after several minutes of weaving among the trees.

“Not far. I moved the key last spring when I broke out of the asylum.”

“You… The housing agent did tell me a patient had gotten over the wall.”

Renfield nodded. “I thought… I imagined the old master was here… That I could get to him. Or protect him.” He crouched beside the trunk of a distinctively misshapen tree and dug among the roots. “Here it is.” He passed the key to Jonathan.

The lock screeched loud enough to make them both hide and watch the asylum for several long minutes. But perhaps the sound didn’t carry as far as it felt to them. Or perhaps no one cared.

With its stone walls and tiny boarded windows, Jonathan could see the appeal to a vampire in need of a daily hideout. He was equally thrilled with the easily torn up floorboards.

Moving and burying the gold took all night. Both men were weary just from digging holes with whatever they could find long before they were prepared to move the gold. Sneaking it from the house to the chapel was stressful, even more so for Renfield. Jonathan eventually told him to stay and bury the gold while he did the running back and forth with sacks of treasure.

By the time Jonathan started to open the door and fell back with a cry of pain as the red morning sun caught him across the face, both men were ready to drop.

“I can’t go out,” Jonathan confessed as he recoiled into the deeper shadows. “I can’t stay awake much longer. But… my coffin…”

“I can bury you here,” Renfield offered, gesturing at the pit they’d dug along one end of the room. “English soil. A place where the dead have been laid to rest. You might be as comfortable here as the coffin.”

Jonathan blinked at the hole. “That works?”

Renfield nodded. “I think the coffin is important to revitalize you all the time, but somewhere like this ought to be fine for the day.”

“And what of you?”

“I’ll watch over you.”

“Here?” Jonathan gestured vaguely at the decrepit space.

“I’m certain there’s more than enough bugs to satisfy me.”

“I meant…” Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to say the words for fear of bringing up old ghosts.

Renfield jerked out his chin, trying to look confident. “I’ll be fine, Master. Truly.”

Jonathan hesitated, but their options were limited. He was about to drop unconscious, and they were far safer hidden here than if Renfield tried to drag his corpselike body through the streets. “If anything happens, get out of here and hide. I’ll find you when I awaken.”

Renfield nodded.

Lying back on a pile of treasure in a trench not dug to fit a human body was massively uncomfortable. The panic as Renfield piled dirt over him nearly made Jonathan sit up and demand they find another option.

But then the death sleep overwhelmed him, and he was left in the hands of his familiar.

It was horrifying to open his eyes and see a wall of dirt.

Certainty flooded Jonathan’s mind that he’d been buried alive. That he’d fallen asleep at his desk or been mistaken for a corpse. That Mina was mourning him even now.

He lashed out his arms, punching straight through the dirt with little effort. Frantic clawing freed his face and convinced him to sit up.

In a dark chapel. Where he’d allowed this to happen. Because there was no fear of death any longer.

Not as he was.

Renfield was stretched across the threshold deep asleep. The dim light filtering in from the windows revealed that he’d finished filling in and replacing the boards on their other hiding places. That just left Jonathan’s trench.

He worked quietly, getting most of the dirt in before Renfield awoke and joined him. Together they put the boards down and disguised what traces of their presence they could easily erase.

“I think we’ll just have to hope nobody comes in here until the dust settles,” Jonathan remarked. He peeked out the door, wincing away from the sun.

“I can go back to the manor and find you a covering,” Renfield offered.

“Let’s wait a little longer,” Jonathan replied. “Just until it’s closer to sundown.”

Until the shadows were longer and Renfield was less likely to be spotted by anyone from the asylum.

The chapel was closer to the wall than the house, and despite the unlikeliness of it happening, Jonathan didn’t want to risk exposure. Especially from there.

Renfield didn’t look well. His knuckles were solid masses of blood, and his relentless gnawing had started down the backs of his hands once he’d run out of skin on his fingers. His eyes darted in constant frantic flickers towards the windows, and he jerked at every rasp of tree branches against the chapel walls.

Jonathan nipped a hole in his thumb and caught hold of Renfield’s hand. He smeared his blood across the wounds, feeling a bit of satisfaction that at least his new body could grant this much relief.

Something he could do to make himself more than just a killer.

Dropping Renfield’s hand, he reached for the other.

Renfield recoiled, snatching his hand behind his back with wide eyes.

Jonathan let his own hand droop. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

Renfield still stared. “It’s… I caused this.”

“Yes?”

“It’s my fault.”

Jonathan frowned. “Should that make a difference? You’re hurt.”

“Not from anything life threatening.”

“I’d rather you weren’t in pain at all.”

“But I…” Renfield’s healed hand strayed towards his mouth, and he forcibly jerked it away. “I’m likely to do it again. If they’re healed.”

“Then I heal you again. I have plenty of blood.”

“But…” Renfield seemed utterly out of his depths. “If there’s no pain… how will I remember my faults?”

Jonathan sat down, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t think it’s a fault. You do that when you’re stressed, don’t you? Have you always done that?”

Renfield studied his hands, then looked at Jonathan. “I… think so.”

“So being in pain hasn’t helped fix the problem, has it? Maybe you should find some safer ways to deal with stress. It’s understandable that you’d be nervous right now. I would be too. But you came anyway, and you’ve been looking after me.” He extended his hand. “Can I do the same?”

Renfield lowered himself slowly to his knees and cautiously extended his bloody hand.

Jonathan smiled at him as he healed the knuckles. “That’s good. Thank you.” He met Renfield’s eyes. “You’re very good.”

Renfield’s shining smile made even the dirt still trickling down his shirt feel worth it.

Chapter Text

2023: Dracula

A pity he couldn’t take his time creating his new familiar. They were always more stable if he extended the transformation across several days.

And current situations didn’t allow him to bury them alive as he so preferred.

Still, he made do with what he had and indulged what time he could.

Fourteen hours later, he dragged Teddy out of the bathtub for the final time and struck the water from his lungs.

Teddy cowered on the bathroom floor, no longer resisting as Dracula manipulated his naked body. He’d been a slow learner, but somewhere around the sixth time Dracula had revived him, he’d given up the struggle and begun surrendering passively to whatever the vampire did.

Much improved, Dracula thought as he checked that the tattoos he’d disliked and removed had healed nicely to unblemished skin.

Maybe he’d allow Teddy to put something new in their place. His name perhaps.

There was something pleasurable in imagining Bellafrancesca’s face when she saw that.

“Open,” he ordered, and Teddy’s mouth went wide as his eyes squeezed closed.

Dracula pushed a spider saturated in his blood and venom deep down Teddy’s throat and held his mouth closed until he swallowed.

It wasn’t the first insect he’d fed his new familiar, but he wasn’t taking chances on the bond proving weak with this one.

Teddy began to shake with the vampiric energy, more so than he already was from cold and the withdrawal symptoms from the cocktail of drugs clogging his veins.

He’d tasted repulsive even before he’d drunk Dracula’s blood. He’d probably need to be tied up for a week to clear his system of the addictive substances.

Although… as he was now… they might make him easier to control.

Right now, there were other concerns.

Dracula carried his new pet into the living room and settled in a chair with Teddy propped at his feet, the familiar’s head resting on his inner thigh.

“There now,” he cooed. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Teddy’s teeth chattered with fear and chills as he turned red rimmed and incredulous eyes upon the vampire.

Dracula smiled affectionately as he cut open his thumb and pushed it into Teddy’s mouth. “Suck,” he ordered.

The pup obeyed, whimpering quietly as Dracula petted his hair into place.

“I know the transformation is difficult, but it is worth it. You have the power you craved now.” He spoke in a low and soothing voice, disappointed that Teddy continued to jitter.

It had never taken more than a minute of petting to drop Renfield into stillness. Even if he was shaking from the aftereffects of a beating.

Especially when he was shaking with the aftereffects of a beating.

Teddy was actually tapping his fingers against his knees at a frantic tempo and dragging on Dracula’s thumb with fierce jerks of his head that weren’t the least soothing.

But they might be stimulating elsewhere.

Dracula cupped the familiar’s chin and lifted his face. “Would you like something more interesting to suck?”

Teddy bobbed his head.

“Say please.”

“Please, Ma…” Teddy recoiled as the word nearly fell from his lips.

Dracula held his head in place, scratching with a firmer hand and a touch of claws that the familiar seemed to like. “Go on. Say it.”

“M…” Teddy worried at his lip and gazed up at Dracula with bashful eyes. “Mom’s gonna be pissed.”

“You need not worry about that any longer.” Dracula shook him lightly by the scruff, amused at the way Teddy shamefully pressed his knees together. “You’re mine now. You swore yourself to me. Remember?”

Teddy nodded, his eyes darting nervously toward the bathroom.

“Shh, Pet,” Dracula soothed. “That’s over now. State your vows. Go on.”

Teddy’s reddened and tried to hide his face, but Dracula caged his chin and forced him to continue looking up.

“I s-swear…” Teddy began. “This is too weird, man.”

“State your vows,” Dracula growled, squeezing his nape a little tighter.

“…th-that my life is surrendered into the hands of my master!” Teddy choked out in a rush.

Dracula loosened his hold. “Very good,” he praised. “Continue.”

Teddy found his stride, the words falling more easily to his lips. He didn’t falter as Dracula nudged his knees apart and rewarded each recited line by stroking his foot across Teddy’s hardening flesh.

“My will is his. My soul is his. Given freely and of my own will. I swear to live in service of my master’s desires as long as I live. I swear to put aside all needs and desires of my own to better serve him. My body and mind are his to use as he wishes. I am a tool in his belt, a weapon in his arsenal. I give up myself and give all to the one who chose me and made me to be his own.”

Dracula closed his eyes, his mind drifting deep into the past…

1860

“…I give up myself and give all to the one who chose me and made me to be his own.”

Renfield’s voice was high and fast with fear, but he spoke the words fervently. Willingly.

As willingly as he laid himself onto the plank and held still as he was shackled down at the wrists, ankles, and neck.

He lay helplessly bound, naked and shaking in the winter air, barely able to turn his head enough to see Dracula digging his grave.

It was an act of mercy that Dracula was doing the digging himself rather than making Renfield do it. He’d made some of his past familiars dig for themselves, but Renfield was so woozy after weeks of blood loss that it had felt kinder to reward the services he’d already rendered by allowing him these last moments of rest before he was laid into the earth.

What a delight he’d already been – this awkward and desperate gift that fate had tossed onto Dracula’s doorstep. The ignorant and destitute solicitor who’d been so anxious to please and so grateful for every act of kindness that he’d obeyed every rule and accepted Dracula’s every oddity without question. He’d shifted his sleep schedule immediately to fit his host’s, accepted the locked doors caging him from the outside world without question, strived to learn Dracula’s language while teaching him English without any flicker of arrogance.

And he’d given up his blood.

Dracula had no qualms about taking from his sporadic guests. Few who entered his keep ever left, and he hadn’t intended for Renfield to survive once he’d gleaned what he wanted from him. But the solicitor had been so useful as teacher and companion that Dracula had resisted feeding for fear that his new plaything would turn flighty or sullen when he began awakening with unexplained teeth marks.

The hunting had been poor for several weeks before he’d brought down a foolish traveler who’d strayed from the path. But he’d given over the whole body to the women who’d been hungry and restless, threatening to take his guest for themselves if he didn’t provide for them.

He’d gone to his guest moody and hungry and said too much in his preoccupied state. But instead of fleeing from the castle, Renfield had anxiously unbuttoned his collar.

Renfield was no fool. He’d seen enough in his months of residency to know his host was something beyond human. Yet he’d been so confident in the generosity he’d received that even now the naïve fool never considered that his life might be at risk.

Renfield had arrived destitute with little but the clothes on his back. That the count had fed and clothed and welcomed him was more kindness than he could conceive. Kindness he was desperate to repay in whatever way possible.

So he offered his blood.

And Dracula accepted the willing offering with gentle bites and shallow sips.

But perhaps his teeth found their way into his guest’s neck more often than they should have as the days grew shorter and Renfield grew paler.

Dracula had thought they might continue this way for the winter if he was careful. It would be nice to have an available meal at his side when the snow grew heavy, and he enjoyed something warm and alive to snuggle against in the night while Renfield read aloud the English books or haltingly repeated back Romanian phrases. The Englishman was fun to play with and the way he blushed scarlet at a whispered lewd suggestion was an unending delight.

That was what had tipped the scale ultimately. Dracula wanted his new plaything in his bed, and an ordinary human wouldn’t survive his frequent roughness. Besides, Renfield’s blood was proving too irresistible, and retracting his fangs after a single sip grew harder every time he indulged.

He either needed to make a vampire or a familiar out of the solicitor before he killed him outright. And Renfield – so quick to flinch at any raised hand and desperate to perform any task that would please his host – was no future vampire.

No, he’d practically been formed to serve. What nature hadn’t given him, an upbringing of an unspared rod had. How eager he was even now to sell his soul if it meant care and belonging forever and always.

Always being until Dracula bored of him and snapped his neck, but he didn’t share this, of course.

Now he finished digging, taking a little time to make certain the bottom was flat and the corners were wide enough before he returned to his captive.

Renfield was shaking with cold and fear, but he still crushed his head against Dracula’s hand as the vampire crouched to stroke his cheek.

“You behave well,” he praised softly.

“Th-th-thank you, Sir,” the solicitor stammered.

“Mouth open,” Dracula prompted. “One more insect.”

Renfield opened his mouth obediently.

Dracula pressed a fly drenched in his own blood down his throat. Keeping two fingers inserted between Renfield’s teeth, he spat a glob of venom into his mouth as well, then held Renfield’s lips closed until he was satisfied that the solicitor had swallowed.

The bond was already starting to form – the blood he’d taken and the blood he’d given working a connection between them that ritual and Renfield’s rebirth would complete.

“You will sleep now,” he told the trembling man. “When you wake, you will be mine.”

“Yes, Sir,” Renfield whispered hoarsely. His eyes fixed on Dracula’s with the desperation of a drowning man. They didn’t waver as Dracula lowered him into the grave and settled him below the surface.

He held still as the first shovelfuls of dirt hit his legs and torso. It was when the clods began to drop over his chest that the stoicism broke into panic. “Please!” he shrieked as he fought against the shackles. “Please! Sir! Please, don’t!”

“State your vows,” Dracula replied without slowing the filling of the grave.

“I… I s-s-surrender my life into the h-h-hands of mu-my m-master!” Renfield gasped, still writhing helplessly. “My will is…”

He kept it up until the earth fell over his face and his mind broke with terror.

Dracula finished filling the grave to the tune of muffled, mindless sobs.

Three days Renfield lay beneath the surface. The earth was loosely packed, and it took time for the weight to crush his lungs and for the air to run out, especially as the transformation began its work to reduce his human frailties. But death claimed him eventually. Temporarily.

And then Dracula called his own.

As evening fell on the third day, Dracula dug up his captive, released the shackles, and carried the body inside. By the fireside, he cleared the dirt from Renfield’s mouth and tipped reviving blood down his throat.

Renfield awoke with coughing and cringing, dazed to find himself inside, unharmed, and cradled in his master’s arms.

With his mind helpless and vulnerable, Dracula drew tight the chains of the bond. Forged of blood and ritual. Strengthened by Renfield’s oaths and the soul Dracula had claimed from death itself.

Renfield fell asleep in his arms, clinging to Dracula as the only lifeline in a frightening world.

He’d be docile and fearfully swift to obey for weeks afterwards. Ripe for training and molding. By the time he awoke from his trembling state, the groundwork would already be laid.

Dracula brushed away the dirt caking the familiar’s pale skin.

Although he’d most likely kill him come spring, his new pet was going to bring him such pleasure as long as he lasted.

Dracula roused himself from his memories to the sensation of Teddy’s head bobbing a desperate rhythm between his thighs. His claws were sunk into his familiar’s scalp, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

“Oh, Renfield,” he breathed.

Teddy’s rapid pace faltered, his eyes fluttering up with a look of confusion.

Dracula fisted his hair tighter and forced him deeper, speeding up the rhythm to suit his own wants. Teddy’s hands braced against his thigh, scrambling weakly as he made little choked and alarmed noises. Dracula thrust his foot between Teddy’s knees, providing pressure and friction that the pup’s body rutted against eagerly.

He was enjoying being used, Dracula observed. Surrendering control.

Perhaps Teddy wasn’t going to be as useless as he’d first appeared.

Dracula climaxed with Teddy messily dripping all over himself. He caged the pup’s hands and withdrew the pressure of his foot, forcing the boy to writhe and whine in his grasp.

“All pleasure comes from me from now on,” he said. “Understand?”

Teddy didn’t answer as his restless body spasmed against the ground.

“If you want something, ask for it.”

“I wanna-”

“Nicely,” Dracula interrupted, giving the pup’s wrists a cruel squeeze.

“P-pu-please,” Teddy gasped. And then – “Please, Master.”

“Good boy,” Dracula praised and allowed the pup to hump himself to satisfaction against his leg.

Filthy creature. And now gazing up at Dracula with a mingling of shame and desperation for approval.

This one was going to be needy.

And insatiable.

He patted him on the head and told him he’d done well with lies that made Teddy’s eyes sparkle. Worse, it make him begin to chatter about the women he’d conquered with insistence that they’d all wanted him to obsessive degrees, extolling his prowess until Dracula bored of the chatter and flipped him face down onto the sofa where Teddy’s mouth was soon occupied with biting into a pillow while Dracula worked himself upon a hole which, despite Teddy’s insistence of being a dominant lady killer, Dracula suspected of not being so virginal as the pup pretended.

Teddy trailed him on limping and devoted strides when Dracula retreated to his coffin.

“You will remain in the apartment while I rest,” he ordered, enforcing the words with a twist of the chain around the pup’s soul to see that he’d stay where he belonged.

Hopefully Madame Lobo wouldn’t come looking for her son too soon. Dracula would have to find the ideal way to reveal to the lady and her minions what he’d done.

He awoke too soon to… noise.

And a tug at his powers as his familiar tapped eagerly into them.

Teddy had obeyed. He’d remained within the penthouse.

That had not stopped him from calling up for pizza and clothes and for a half dozen of his friends to join him with a bag full of crickets which he gleefully used to show off his newly acquired ‘Dracula Powers!’.

Dracula watched from a distance as Teddy smashed furniture with his fists and wrestled three men at once – still managing to lose half the time despite being faster and stronger than all of them by a wide margin.

He readied himself to strike with all his mental power and fury to reduce the pup to a quivering pool of nothing… and then checked himself.

The others were envious. Fascinated.

This could be useful.

Bellafrancesca’s face was white with fury, and it wasn’t simply because her son was strutting about the mansion in eveningwear modeled after Dracula’s preferred wardrobe. “My team sent me the photos of the suspected vampires they’ve identified,” she snapped and slammed a photograph onto the table between herself and Dracula.

A long distance shot of two men.

Walking hand in hand.

Laughing.

Dracula didn’t dare pick it up. Not with the way his claws were shaking.

“Is this the man who betrayed you?” Madame Lobo demanded, her long nail jabbed into his familiar’s face.

“No,” he said, pushing her threatening hand away. “It’s the other one.”

“Have you known all this time that he was the one killing my men?”

“How could I when you tell me so little?” Dracula replied levelly.

“I’m going to have them killed.”

“We would have no bargain if you did. They both belong to me. And without my assistance, they’ll continue killing your men.”

Bellafrancesca’s face contorted in anger. “You touched my son.”

“He came to me willingly. He desired my gift. I think it is sensible this way. If we are to work together, shouldn’t there be a bridge between us? A unifying connection?”

A hostage, he didn’t add.

But he could see that she understood. “What do you propose?” she asked warily.

“You’ve asked me to give your men my power. If I did so, they would be strong enough to fight against these two. In return you’ll bring the traitors to me. Alive. And we discuss how I might fit into your operation.”

“How many of my men would you grant this gift?’

“Oh… three perhaps.”

“Ten.”

She spoke it too fast. Too eagerly. Her heart raced with hunger.

Dracula hid his smile. How quick she sold her men for a gift she didn’t understand.

It wasn’t hard to talk her down to six.

She wanted his aid too badly to refuse. She wanted soldiers who could be impossible weapons. She wanted him as her dark assassin to hold in terror over the five families.

Perhaps she didn’t love her son as deeply as he’d thought.

Or perhaps she’d fought too long to allow sentimentality to interfere with her ambition.

He tore into their sleeping minds.

Renfield had been a challenge - off his leash so long that it had been hard to locate the remaining threads and slowly reel them close enough to use. But he’d had his claws sunk into Renfield’s soul so long that even a century hadn’t completely shaken his grip. It had taken time to whittle away the defenses, sending dreams of torture and terror until the soul cringed before him and responded to his whispers.

Even if Renfield was eluding him by avoiding sleep. But the familiar could only run so long before he collapsed.

And when that happened, he’d be weak.

Easily subdued.

With Renfield growing too weary to think straight, it was time to concentrate on the other mind.

He could always open his mind and see how many of his progeny still scuttled about the world. Those bonds didn’t deteriorate, the control of the sire over the fledglings meant he could always squeeze them into submission.

And Jonathan was doubly vulnerable – his soul both tied to his creator’s and impossibly to Renfield’s.

Polluting and claiming what belonged to his master.

My fledgling. My love. You betrayed me. Turned on your maker. I gave you everything, and you dared raise your hand to me? You’ll know my fury for the rest of your days.

He savaged the helpless mind, ripped into the soul, dug deep to find what hurt most.

And felt a stab of care and love blaze through his assault.

Renfield.

Renfield awake and escaped from his claws. Reaching out to Jonathan. Seeking to protect. To soothe. To take the pain.

The devoted familiar. Overflowing with love.

Dracula shrank back, his eyes snapping open as he severed the connection.

Love that should have belonged to him. Love that should have followed him to the grave.

He shut himself off from both their minds.

He’d have them screaming at his feet soon.

They’d regret ever crawling away from his shadow.

“Where are the others?” Madame Lobo demanded as Dracula led three trembling and dazed newborn familiars out of the darkness.

“Not all survive the process,” he replied carelessly.

It hadn’t been wise to create all five at once as Bellafrancesca had demanded. Dracula could have explained that, but the survival of her boys was no concern of his.

And really, she should have asked what precisely he’d needed instead of assuming this ritual was something simple. It wasn’t his fault he’d had to improvise hanging them to slowly strangle over the course of the single night she’d given him to produce results. Under those circumstances, was it his fault that two souls had slipped their bonds and fled too far into death for him to bring them back?

He sent them off with Teddy to learn the scope of their abilities.

Soon he felt the tug at his powers as they explored what they could do with their stomachs full of small lives.

He gritted his teeth, determined to endure without reacting to the indignity of his power being siphoned for amusement rather than in acts of service to himself.

“They’ll truly be able to fight your traitors?” Bellafrancesca asked.

“They’re equally as strong and fast now,” Dracula replied. “What they do with that is their own business.”

“I’m not taking chances. The one from the restaurant was spotted leaving the city.”

“He’ll be back,” Dracula replied confidently.

“We know his vehicle now. We’re watching the traffic cameras. When he’s away from the other, we’ll strike.”

“Remember, I want them both alive.”

“I wanted my men alive,” Madame Lobo snapped. “Two more are dead because of you!”

Dracula rolled his eyes. “They were weak. I warned you of the risks. Send me stronger material, and I will provide you with what was agreed upon.” He glared. “Just see that the traitors are brought to me alive.”

It was an unnecessary warning. Despite the weapons he suspected they’d found to use against vampires, he doubted they’d found the sole thing that could permanently kill Jonathan. And as for Renfield, death wouldn’t spare him from Dracula’s wrath.

Still, he hoped he received them alive.

He wanted to bask in their terror.

Chapter Text

March-May 1891: Jonathan Harker

“Will we return to Exeter now?” Renfield asked as they made their way toward the train station.

“London,” Jonathan corrected. “I want to get the keys for the house in Piccadilly. I…” He trailed off

Renfield threw him a curious look.

Jonathan shoved his hands into his pockets and studied the ground. “Did your family have much money?”

“We did once,” Renfield replied. “A few generations before I was born. You know how it goes. Second or third born sons begetting second or third born sons. Eventually there’s a name and nothing to back it.”

Jonathan nodded. “Then… do you know what it’s like?”

“What what’s like?”

“To… to look at houses you’ll never afford and wonder… what life could have been?”

“Ah,” Renfield said with a slow nod. “Piccadilly.”

“Piccadilly,” Jonathan agreed. “Hazards of going into real estate. We purchase things we can never afford in the name of men who will forever have more money than we will.”

“And now you own a house in the center of London.”

“And an estate that might take all that gold to restore,” Jonathan added bitterly. “That no one wants to buy because it’s sitting next to an asylum.”

“Well… you haven’t lost any money on it yet,” Renfield reasoned.

Jonathan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re right. It’s no loss if I sell it for land. So we’ll change out of these clothes, head for London, and spend a day or two-”

“Jonathan!”

The voice made Jonathan’s barely beating heart stop cold.

The world disappeared. Sound. Sight.

Nothing but her.

Then Mina’s arms were around his neck. And he was holding her. Feeling her warmth. Breathing her scent.

“You’re so cold!” Mina declared, drawing back. “Are you covered in dirt?”

“It’s… been a strange trip,” Jonathan stammered. “Mina… how did you get here?”

“You wrote that your business in Essex would take all day,” she replied cheerfully. “I knew the earliest train you could take would be the 4:05 to Paddington, but knowing how engrossed you can get, I thought you’d take the 5:15. So, I took the 3:10 down and got here with a half hour to spare!” Mina embraced him again. “I can’t believe you’re home at last.”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Jonathan panted, acutely aware that he hadn’t eaten since Munich.

“Of course I’m here! I couldn’t wait any longer. Let me look at you.” She straight-armed him and gaze up at his face with eyes that went from joyous to alarmed. “Your hair!”

“My… hair?”

Mina caught a strand and tugged it toward her. “You’re going grey!”

“I am?” Jonathan drew back, touching his hair self-consciously.

He hadn’t gotten a proper look at his face since his shaving mirror had disappeared, and the past months had been chaotic enough that he’d given little thought to the appearance he could no longer see, trusting Renfield to keep him trimmed and shaved to socially acceptable appearance.

He’d never once thought something might have happened to his hair’s color.

He looked to Renfield for confirmation, seeing surprise in the other man’s eyes of a change he’d failed to register.

“Was it the illness?” Mina demanded. “What happened that you were unable to write for so long? It must have been dreadful. And you can’t be recovered yet. You look so pale.” Her eyes followed Jonathan’s gaze, startling as she abruptly realized there was a man beside Jonathan. “Oh! Mr. Renfield? You’ve come back? Are you…?”

“I…” Renfield stammered weakly.

“I hired him,” Jonathan said quickly. “For the office. Since he was a solicitor too. If I’m to be a partner now, I thought we could use the extra help.”

“Partner?” Mina’s eyes widened. “Did none of my letters get to you?”

“I saw the one you wrote to the count. I’m sorry it took me so long to respond to it. But then the pass was closed off. I wrote to you when we were departing. But if there were other letters…?” He looked again to Renfield who shook his head uneasily.

“Oh… Oh dear.” Mina covered her eyes. “Perhaps you’d better sit down.”

“Sit… Mina, what’s happened?”

Mina dragged him by the arm to a bench, and Jonathan could barely resist leaning toward her neck. God, she smelled so good…

Renfield bumped against him, awakening him back to current concerns.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“Quite a lot, and most of it tragic, I’m afraid.” Mina covered her eyes. “Where do I even begin? Maybe this should all wait until we get to Lucy’s.”

“Lucy? Are you still staying with her? But that was this summer. Wouldn’t you have returned to teaching?”

“I did. But…” She sighed. “Mrs. Westenra… Her heart. It was so weak. Dr. Seward said any shock might be her end. Lucy was so good to her throughout. And I stayed with them as long as I could. It was a happy time, truly. As happy as we could make it. But… the winter was too much for her. One morning we found she’d passed on in her sleep.”

Jonathan clutched his chest. “No. Poor Lucy…”

“Yes, they were always so close. You remember her sleepwalking when she was young? I think the grief made it worse. Her maids found her out in the cold one night. Since then I’ve been staying with her. She’s quite improved. Lord Godalming has been wonderful. He comes so often to look after her and cry with her. It’s lovely to see.”

“Lord Godalming? Why would Mr. Holmwood’s father…?”

“No, not his father, Darling. Him. Mr. Holmwood. The former Mr. Holmwood. He’s Lord Godalming now.”

“But that means…”

“This fall. Lord Godalming took ill. They knew it wouldn’t be long. Mr. Holmwood wanted to bring him the good news of the betrothal. When he asked her a second time, she finally stopped hesitating and followed where we knew her heart would always lead. But then poor old Lord Godalming passed away, and the new lord’s been so busy. It’s only recently they’ve been able to grieve together. I think it’s done them both good.”

“Oh. Well…” Jonathan shuddered, his mind on the well-bred woman who’d been so kind to Lucy bringing home such friends as Mina and himself. Tolerant at first, then openly mothering. She’d cooled to Jonathan once he’d begun to mature enough for her to see him as a distraction to her daughter, but she’d had respect enough for Mr. Hawkins to continue welcoming his ward into their social circle and resigning herself somewhat to Jonathan’s presence as his unswerving affection for Mina became obvious.

She hadn’t been the most observant or worldly of people, and Jonathan wasn’t sure if she’d ever realized that what went on between Lucy and Mina was more than sisterly embraces, but she’d never tried to separate them, so perhaps she’d understood their bond in some way.

“Poor Lucy,” he mumbled, aware as the words left his lips that he should sympathize with Mr. Holmw… the new Lord Godalming. But that was harder than seeing how this second tragedy would affect Lucy.

Mina squeezed his hands. “Yes… But, Jonathan…” Tears stood out in her eyes. “I haven’t told you the worst of it.”

His heart froze. “Did something happen to Lucy?”

“Not Lucy. She’s as well as can be expected. Jonathan…” The tears were falling so fast she could barely speak. “It’s Mr. Hawkins.”

It felt like a stake straight through the heart.

“No,” he whispered. And then… the world went silent.

Mr. Hawkins. Who’d taken him in after the death of his father. Who’d taught him a profession and paid for his schooling. Who’d been the only father he could truly remember as his childhood memories faded.

Mr. Hawkins who’d made him a partner. Who would have gone to Transylvania if Jonathan hadn’t, and at least Jonathan had comforted himself that his mentor’s life had been spared by that choice.

A life cut off while he’d been away. His own life twisted into something so repulsive that perhaps he was glad he’d never have to face Mr. Hawkins as he was now.

But he still should have been here. Been at the old man’s bedside. Been there to shoulder his worries and all the things a son should have done in a father’s declining years.

And he’d chased a dream of advancing and missed it all.

“Ma… Mr. Harker? Breathe. Please, breathe.”

Renfield was calling to him from a distance. Shaking his shoulders.

Telling him… but that was foolish. He didn’t need to breathe to escape this panic spiral.

Oh. No, that wasn’t why he was being instructed to breathe.

It was so Mina wouldn’t think his heart had stopped.

He forced himself to take deep breaths, making a show out of the human façade.

Faking his body’s reactions while his mind was shutting down.

Mina hovered nearby, trying to push past Renfield to take Jonathan in her arms, but the familiar kept his grip on Jonathan’s shoulders and ignored her attempts to insert herself.

Protecting Jonathan’s secret while he didn’t have control of himself. Protecting Mina if Jonathan lost control entirely.

I can’t, Jonathan whimpered to his familiar without even being certain what he couldn’t do except that the answer was everything. I need time…

Renfield nodded and straightened. “Ms. Murray. This is quite a lot. Mr. Harker is still not himself. We’d intended to rest tonight in London. Perhaps it would be better if we did so here? To give Mr. Harker time to grieve. You could discuss matters in the morning once he’s rested?”

“Oh! Oh, yes of course.” Mina’s arms were around him again, and Jonathan both reveled in her touch and wished Renfield would peel her off before he did something he’d regret for eternity. “I’m so sorry, Darling. I shouldn’t have put all this on you at once. Of course you need time.”

“I’ll look after him,” Renfield said with a confidence impressive for a man who’d been huddled in a corner half delirious with anxiety mere hours before and who was still stained in dirt and his own blood.

Jonathan wasn’t certain how he got through the farewells or how long he waited while Renfield secured their luggage. He was aware of Renfield asking for directions to a rooming house and a cab ride and sitting alone on a bed…

And then Renfield was placing a cup of warm blood to his lips.

The smell. The taste.

At this moment, it was everything he needed.

He drained the glass dry, then passively allowed Renfield to change his clothes and help him into bed.

It wouldn’t be restful – sleeping this way. But sleeping like a normal person – when the sky was dark and in a bed with sheets and blankets as if he was a person… it broke through the shock.

And he wept the tears he hadn’t shed.

For lost hopes. Lost parents. Lost futures.

For himself. For Lucy. For Mr. Hawkins. For Mina. Even for Mr. Holmwood.

Maybe even for Dracula.

“He left you everything.” Mina’s voice was thick with tears. “The house. His fortune. The practice. He… he spoke of you as a son.”

Mina’s hands were clasped tight in his own. When she squeezed, the veins stood out on her wrists.

Jonathan swore he could see her pulse beating.

But he was safe for now. Well-fed a second time before meeting with Mina in the secluded corner of the coffee house.

“Everything…” Jonathan echoed without really understanding.

“He wanted us to have a home. When we were wed. He wanted it to be with him. And when he realized he wouldn’t live to see your return… He was so kind to me. He called me his daughter. He… he loved you so much.”

Jonathan trembled with a thousand emotions he couldn’t express.

“You still have some of Mr. Hawkins’ clients," Mina said softly. "And once the count arrives, you’ll-”

“He’s dead,” Jonathan said harshly. “The count. I…” He broke off before he could confess.

Mina squeezed him tighter. “Oh, Jonathan. I’m so sorry. Was he a good man?”

“No,” Jonathan admitted. “But he… he left me something of a legacy.”

“Oh… That was kind of him. It means your travels weren’t entirely wasted. Was he afflicted by the same illness that plagued you?”

“In a way.”

Mina nuzzled her head against his shoulder. “Mr. Renfield seems unaffected.”

“He took care of me,” Jonathan said. “I wouldn’t have survived without him.”

They sat in silence, Jonathan struggling to process everything and to choose his words with care. “Mina… I asked if you’d marry me as soon as I returned…”

“Yes?” Mina said in a voice so eager that Jonathan nearly lost his nerves.

He closed his eyes. “I love you. I want to be joined with you…”

“But?” Mina prompted in the silence.

“With all this, and… Things happened to me abroad… The hair isn’t the only thing about me that’s changed. I…” He opened his eyes, expecting to see tears and hurt.

But there was understanding. “You need time."

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, I… There’s much I need to do. And more I need to tell you. And right now…”

“Right now you need to go back to Exeter, make your peace with what’s happened, mourn your losses, and choose your next steps.”

“Exactly.”

God, how had he survived Transylvania without her? Well, he hadn’t survived, really.

He’d need to trust her insight and wisdom for the rest of his life.

Or whatever short time he had before she saw through his façade and rejected him.

But right now, she was everything he needed.