“Come, dear Lucy, we must get you back to bed. You’ll catch your death in this damp, chill air!”
Dracula laughed to himself.
Mina gently helped her friend to her bed, still murmuring words of encouragement. As they left the window, Mina threw one furtive glance toward the trees, and Dracula quickly faded into the darkness.
He sighed. This Mina might prove an interesting diversion in the future. At the moment, her untimely return had proven—inconvenient. Miss Westenra would have to wait. There were other matters of importance to attend to.
His errand took him to the docks, past the row of darkened warehouses. The air smelled too much of salt and fish and waterlogged wood, but the gloom of the docks suited his mood as he stalked down the aisles between the crates. He was still seething about Mina’s sudden return. Damned inconsiderate woman! He had been so close, and yet…
At last he found what he sought. Ethan Soarsby. His kind had been called many things over the centuries, but Dracula thought “wharf rat” suited him best. The little man might be just the distraction he needed. Dracula had been studying him for several days. He had potential.
Soarsby stood by one of the packing crates, pry bar in hand as he plied his trade. A moth-eaten wool jacket lay atop the crate, muffling the sound of splintering wood. A matching wool cap covered his head, leaving visible a fringe of mousy brown hair. On the ground beside him lay a pile of sacks.
A sudden crash at the end of a row of crates sent Dracula into the shadows to investigate. The last thing he needed was a witness. But the culprit turned out to be a cat hunting among the boxes, nothing more.
Satisfied his actions would go unnoticed, he returned to the now-open crate, but Soarsby had gone. Not far, though. Empty sacks still littered the ground and Dracula could feel the man’s presence. The little thief was near. Very near.
What was the best way to catch a predator? The vampire knew that answer from years of experience. Pretend to be prey.
He grinned and stood quietly, letting Soarsby step in behind him, a lion playing with a mouse.
The thief stepped silently into position. Silently to normal ears, at any rate. Dracula waited for him to make his move.
A hand snaked around his neck and a knife-edge pressed against his flesh above the collarbone. The thief’s skin was clammy and his breath reeked of onions and fish.
He noticed Soarsby had also had garlic for dinner and almost laughed out loud at the thought of that old wives’ tale. How many times had he met with some would-be adversary who thought it was the
Centuries before, a knife at his throat might have caused Vlad Tsepes a moment’s nervousness. But many battles and many lifetimes had passed since then. As it was, he found the situation— entertaining.
Seconds ticked by while he waited for the thief to make the first comment. Finally, Soarsby thought of something to say.
“Don’t move a muskle, or ya won’t be able ta move a’tol.” Soarsby emphasized his threat by pressing the knife deeper into the flesh of Dracula’s neck. Considering their height difference, the action was as much of a stretch as the threat itself.
“Really? How amusing.” He deliberately kept his tone light. “I have a better plan.”
The Count took the thief’s wrist and gently forced it down as he turned to face the little man. Soarsby’s features contorted from the effort as he tried to keep his knife raised. He failed.
Several emotions played across the thief’s face. Surprise. Anger. Hatred. Fear. The fear won. His eyes widened as he began to understand the kind of force he was fighting.
Dracula continued amicably, “I have a proposition for you, my friend…” He swept his cloak over Soarsby’s shoulders and led him back toward the warehouses.
“It will be back by dawn. See that everything is in order.”
“Yes… Master.” Soarsby rolled the word around on his tongue, as if tasting it for the first time. In fact, he was. That vintage of it, at least.
Dracula left through the ironbound door, wincing as its rusted hinges screamed protest. It had been two days since his last visit to Lucy Westenra, and he looked forward to it. She was so— giving. He smiled at the thought.
He returned just before dawn, in much better spirits than on previous mornings. His visit with Lucy had gone well. Her friend Mina had not even noticed him. Having Lucy sit beside the window had proven to be a very good tactic. As long as she never left her bed chamber, her friend felt she was safe.
He landed just inside the wall surrounding the abbey. He was in such a wonderful mood, he felt like walking. A few wispy clouds trailed across the moon and a light fog had developed, lending Carfax an ethereal quality.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the salt/flower scent of the ancient apothecary roses that hugged the crumbling walls of the chapel. He was so engrossed in the smells, sounds, and flavors of the night that he completely missed the pile of rubbish some cretin had left by the corner.
Metal and wood scattered noisily as he stumbled through the pile of discarded building materials. A broken timber smashed into a pane of glass with a loud crash.
“What the—?” Considering the manner in which the things had been arranged, it almost looked intentional. But who would have done such a thing?
He limped toward the chapel, cursing in four different languages. Some of the words had not been heard in over three centuries.
As he approached the entrance, he paused, steeling himself for the whine of the hinges. But there was no sound.
He opened and closed the door several times, experimenting. Neither a squeak nor squeal. Soarsby had located Renfield’s underused oil can.
“Nicely done.” Dracula entered the chapel quietly for the first time since his arrival at Carfax. He looked around, amazed.
Soarsby had dusted the spider webs from the corners, fixed the holes in the shutters and fastened them securely against the coming daylight. He had even removed the coffin lid and smoothed the soil within.
A fresh earth scent rose from the box, to mingle with the smells of old wood and wool in the ancient chapel. And there was something else. In the shadow where the lid overhung the edge of the coffin was a gift: Soarsby had left a bedtime snack in the form of a large rat in a wire cage. How thoughtful.
“Things are looking up,” Dracula mused as he lay down for his nap. The picture on the inside of the coffin lid was a nice touch, too. He would have to remember to suggest to Soarsby that he replace the raw steak with one of those French postcards. Scented.
“Will ya be visitin’ tha pretty miss this night, Master?”
“Not tonight. I have other business this evening.
There is a stack of papers to go over and a libretto I, um,
The papers were, as expected, boring. Real estate contracts, accounting records, and reams of legalese he had not managed to escape for the last two hundred years. It constantly amazed him how many ways mankind had found to increase their load of paperwork. It got worse every century. Maybe he should start a campaign to save the trees and put an end to the document craze. Or invent something to take the place of paper. He dwelt on that thought an extra moment. It might be worth looking into.
Meanwhile, all that legal babble had given him a headache. Perhaps the play would prove more interesting. The title certainly looked promising:
An hour before dawn, a flustered Soarsby hesitantly entered the room Dracula had adopted as his office. He
