PRINTING HISTORY Ace trade paperback edition / November 2001
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Dracula in London
Introduction
Okay, I confess it—I love Dracula! He IS the man!
The first time I remember seeing him was in Universal’s
Hence this book. I wanted to put together a collection of stories with the Count as the focus, not a mere cameo, and ask the question, “What ELSE was Dracula doing in London when he was not being chased by Van Helsing and company?”
I feel very fortunate that some of the best writers in the business decided to answer. To have the chance to read so many delightful variations on a theme has been a dream come true. My sincere thanks to all of you for contributing your time and imaginations to this project. It’s been an honor.
* * *
In 1897 the original novel
Writers hate when that happens.
But over the next century, as though to make up for it, Dracula turned into an honest-to-God cultural icon. You say the name nearly anywhere on the planet and you’re bound to get a reaction of some sort. “What are the odds?” one might ask Mr. Stoker, who would likely be astonished. Or amused.
I like to think that somewhere he knows his tale eventually achieved an immortality greater than that which his character met in that dark and thrilling opus.
My hope is that he might well have enjoyed this “tip of the hat” collection of stories centered around his best-known creation.
P. N. “Pat” Elrod
To Each His Own Kind
Tanya Huff
London was everything the Count had imagined it to be when he’d told Jonathan Harker of how he’d longed to walk “through the crowded streets… to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity.”
He could see the house he’d purchased across the street, but it might as well have been across the city for all he could reach it. Yes, he’d wanted to move about unnoticed but this, this was wearing at his patience. And he had never been considered a patient man. Even as a man.
Finally, he’d been delayed for as long as he was willing to endure. Sliding the smoked glasses down his nose, he deliberately met the gaze of an approaching horse. In his homeland, the effect would have been felt between one heartbeat and the next. Terror.
Panic. Flight. This London carriage horse, however, seemed to accept his presence almost phlegmatically.
Then the message actually made it through the city’s patina to the equine brain.
He’d purchased the house furnished from the estate of Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. From the dead, as it were. That amused him.
His belongings were in the dining room at the back of the house.
“The dining room?” He sighed. His orders to the shipping company had only instructed that the precious cases be placed in the house. Apparently, here in this new country, he needed to be more specific. They would have to be moved to a place less conspicuous, but not now, not with London calling to him. He set his leather case upon the table and turned to go.
Stepping around a chair displaced by the boxes of earth, he brushed against the sideboard, smearing dust across his sleeve. Snarling, he brushed at it with his gloved hand but only succeeded in smearing it further. The coat was new. He’d sent his measurements to Peter Hawkins before he’d started his journey and had found clothing suitable for an English gentleman at journey’s end. It was one of the last commissions Mr. Hawkins had fulfilled for him. One of the last he would fulfill for anyone, as it happened. The old man had been useful, but the necessity of frequent correspondence had left him knowing too much.
Opening the case, he pulled out a bundle of deeds—this was not the only house that English dead had provided—and another bundle of note paper, envelopes, and pens. As he set them down, he reminded himself to procure ink as soon as possible. He disliked being without it. Written communications allowed a certain degree of distance from those who did his bidding.
Finally, after some further rummaging, he found his clothing brush and removed the dust from his sleeve.
