failing to keep the young man properly contained.
Too preoccupied to dine, he left Lucy sleeping restlessly and headed back to Carfax.
When he landed outside the entry to the chapel, he found it cracked open and the sound of a struggle inside alerted him that Soarsby was not alone.
“… not yours! I am to be the one…” It was Renfield’s voice.
Something thudded against the old oak, knocking it shut. There were several crashes. Splintering wood. A muffled cry of rage or pain.
Dracula burst through the door and found Renfield fighting with Soarsby. Soarsby seemed to have some idea of what he was doing and several times the thief got the upper hand. But Renfield fought like a demon. The older man was winning.
Dracula waded into the fracas and pulled the men apart. Twice. Finally, he shouted, “Stop this right now!”
They stopped.
He gave them both a shake before releasing them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.” He felt as though lie were lecturing a pair of children. They stared at their toes, afraid to look Dracula in the eye.
“Who started this?”
“He did!” They replied in unison, each pointing to the other. Maybe the comparison to children was not far wrong. It reminded him of all the times he and his brother Mircea fought for their father’s attention. Dracula took a step backward, glaring at the two men. “You two have got to learn to get along. Now, shake hands and make up.”
Soarsby started to say something negative as Renfield shouted.
“Never!” The old lunatic pulled a knife from his waistband and dashed toward Soarsby, slashing wildly.
“Renfield!” Definitely a strong resemblance to the relationship between himself and his brother. Including the mayhem and bloodshed.
He tried to get between the men, but Renfield was too fast. In a second, the old man had plunged his blade into Soarsby’s chest.
“Heh heh! I am the one, the one who will be Yours forever! It is—” Soarsby’s “alarm” went off again.
Renfield darted through the door, slamming it shut as he charged his pursuers. Dracula heard the sound of a vicious battle through the thick wood. Continuing to give ear to the fighting in the courtyard, he knelt beside the body of his erstwhile assistant. Soarsby lived. Barely.
He considered his alternatives. How disappointing! The thief had proven to be a very valuable aide, but Dracula had no intention of spending eternity with him.
What to do? He stared thoughtfully at the door, listening to the battle raging on the other side. “My dear Renfield, you certainly know how to make things difficult. I shall have to attend to you presently.” He looked down at Soarsby’s gasping form. “But for now, I think it is time for my morning repast.”
He sank his fangs into Soarsby’s neck, savoring the last few drops of life in the man’s body. Leaning back, he eyed the pool of blood forming beneath the hilt of the knife.
Everything to Order
Jody Lynn Nye
The bell rang precisely at the appointed hour of eleven. As the porter swung wide the door, Miss Violet Carr peered out at the three well-dressed women standing on the steps half-clad in darkness. At first she was cross with the porter for not lighting enough lamps, but she realized that the visitors were hanging back in the folds of the thick fog that wrapped around the London night. Miss Carr curtsied and dipped her beautifully coiffed head with the deferential half-bow she reserved for members of the titled class. They all wore heavy coats of velvet lined with the most expensive sables, with more furs wrapping them to the ears. Their hats were also black fur, from which depended thick black silk veils. The outfits must have been sweltering on an August night. “Welcome to the House of Feldon, ladies,” Miss Carr said, with deference and cordiality. Silently, the shrouded figures slipped one by one over the threshold. Once inside, they lifted their veils. Miss Carr scanned the faces and hesitated slightly, conscious of the possibility of making a dreadful faux pas and starting the evening out on the wrong foot. “I… I beg your pardon for asking—which of you is Countess Dracula?”
“We all are,” the eldest said. She gave Miss Carr a smile as curiously undefinable as her accent. She didn’t seem to be very much older than the youngest, who seemed as though she could boast the same number of years as Miss Carr herself, twenty-four.
Violet Carr was young for a vendeuse, but was grateful for the opportunity that the owner of the House of Feldon had bestowed upon her, to oversee showings of the house line to clients, to take orders, and to supervise fittings of the chosen garments. It was a position of trust, and she already had two—two!—titled clients who asked particularly for her when they came to the House of Feldon. She hoped to increase her status this very evening, if it meant she had to stay up until dawn.
“We must thank you for your indulgence in allowing us to come to you so very late,” the eldest countess said. “We keep late hours. It is not an English custom. All of your shops are closed before sunset. How are we to make our purchases? Other houses of fashion of whom we made this little request were unable to accommodate us. It is most inconvenient.”
“We endeavor to please,” Miss Carr said, pleased for Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs’s sake. It surely would be worthwhile having remained. These ladies were possessed of fabulous wealth. The necklace about the neck of the youngest countess was composed of real diamonds, each stone the size of Miss Carr’s thumb tip. Such jewels had to be worth the value of a steamship. Those other couturiers would regret having refused, and Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs would have reason to be smug.
Her eagerness must have showed upon her face, because the eldest countess smiled. She had a most interesting face. It spoke to Miss Carr of high breeding and quality. The cheekbones were particularly beautiful, not too protruberant, yet with a piquant shadow beneath. Her nose was high-bridged, narrow as a hawk’s beak, and she had large, deep brown eyes that seemed to be a blend of black and red, and black-brown hair swept up into sleek folds around her head. She wore black velvet sewn with jet beads and fringe that swayed gently as she moved. The second lady was very much like her, the lineaments of her dark-complected face spare as a sculpture, with large dark eyes. Her dress, also of velvet, was blood red, trimmed in jet and garnets. The third lady, clad in heavy blue velvet, was equally striking, lovely in a more English manner, with masses of blonde hair, fair skin, and large, luminously blue eyes. At least their beauty would be more pleasant if these ladies had the bloom of health upon them. They were all so very pale. Perhaps in Rumania ladies of quality were not permitted or encouraged to take the air very often. It was on the tip of Miss Carr’s tongue to ask, but good manners took over. It was not a question she would ever ask of an Englishwoman. She must not allow her training to desert her even though these were only foreigners.
Pages, yawning openly due to the late hour, assisted the countesses in removing their coats and hats, and vanished with the garments to the cloakroom. Miss Carr took the lead, escorting her visitors into the salon. She heard a murmur of approval from behind her as she stepped aside to allow them to enter the chamber ahead of her. The room, the most superior of the five that Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs maintained, had walls covered in Regency-striped oyster silk with dark wood trim and doors. A vase of lilies stood on one occasional table, and a vase of ostrich feathers adorned the other. She was pleased to see that the porter had raised a good fire in the marble-lined grate, and begged the visitors to make themselves at home. The second-eldest countess took the most comfortable chair, a luxuriously padded, chestnut-coloured upholstered leather armchair with mahogany legs that sat at one side of
