Dracula in London

heard of him, quite the vicious devil against the Turks in his day—and his own people. He was decidedly savage to any who challenged his authority. She swiftly closed off a random vision of a forest of writhing bodies impaled on stakes and moved on to his present-day concerns. He had plans to establish himself in England. The British Empire, right or wrong, was the seat of real political influence for the world. He’d once been in the center of such a maelstrom in his distant land between the forests. He wanted to resume that sort of absolute control again, but on a much larger field. He had some very specific plans on how to do it, too. Sweet Goddess, if he ever got to the Queen or the Prince of Wales…

Frozen with surprise, he gave a start and tried to throw her from his mind. She withdrew at her own speed, leaving him panting from the effort of trying to hurry her.

“What are you?” he asked, when he’d recovered.

“You already have the answer, but my apprenticeship was very much elsewhere than in the hell-depths of the Scholomance.”

“What know you of that?” His shock was such that he’d lapsed into Romanian. Still in tune with his mind, she was able to translate.

“I know much. I know that you are gifted with the Talent, but you do not see beyond the gratification of your own needs. You do not see forward to the consequences of your actions on yourself or others or the general balance of all things. That is blind and blatant irresponsibility. You’ve grown careless and foolish or you are simply mad. And your ambitions are such that I cannot allow you to continue unchecked.”

“You have not the strength to stop me.”

Damn. He possessed more arrogance than wisdom. She’d hoped to be spared the ordeal of her dream. “Sir, let it suffice to say that I am used to dealing with real monarchs, not some incognito lordling with delusions of his own importance. You are an invader here, I see that now, and, by the authority of the queen I serve, I command and require that you immediately leave and return to your homeland.”

She did not remotely imagine he would go quietly. From her touch on his mind she understood there was only one way to deal with him, only one thing he would respect. And she also understood the play of her initial dream, why it had ended in that manner.

He reared to his full height, like a cobra preparing to strike. “Ah, but I see it now. Talent and power you do indeed possess, but as for delusions of importance… you are nothing more than an escapee from that ridiculous madhouse across the way. Unfortunate for you, young woman. But you are comely, and for that I shall make it pleasant.”

The first wave of it stole suddenly over her like a heady perfume. Sweet, but that was meant to mask the underlying bitterness. It was most potent, though, and deeply compelling. Sabra felt her body willingly respond to his seduction, though her emotions recoiled. She could physically fight it, but it would do her no good, for he was bigger and stronger. She could magically fight it, and win, but he would have to die. She had no objection to killing, having done her share in the past, but her Sight told her his was a different destiny, entwined with that of the hunters. She knew better than to fight Fate.

He drew close, looming over her, eyes flaming with hunger, desire, and triumph. She smiled dreamily, as that poor girl must have smiled, and waited as though enspelled for him to take her.

He did indeed make it pleasant, murmuring softly in his own tongue, tilting her head to one side with the light touch of a fingertip. His breath was warm on her bare throat, his kiss gentle. Under other circumstances she might have welcomed him as a lover, but they were too far apart in spirit for that.

Then he held her close and tight, and bit into her flesh. Though he did not rend it like the wolf in her dream, the effect was the same. She gasped from the sudden pain, felt her blood being strongly drawn away, as though he were taking life from her soul, not her body. Perhaps he fed on souls, enjoyed corrupting innocence. That would explain his lengthy torture of the girl.

Nothing like that for me, Sabra thought. He intended to drain her dry. He pressed hard upon her, drinking deep.

She allowed it, waiting.

He was not the only one adept at blood magic.

But… hers was far older.

All that was of the divine—no matter the faith—was his bane. He’d chosen his dark path and thus made it so. And if the Host repelled him then so would…

His strangled scream, when it came, made it all worth it.

He reeled away from her, hands clawing at his mouth and throat. Staggering, he crashed against one of the boxes and fell. She watched his sufferings, showing no expression, but with a great lifting in her heart. Sometimes justice could be most satisfying.

Vlad, son of Dracul, writhed in the dust, choking and groaning his agony. She’d seen such symptoms before, but then the effect had been from strychnine, the convulsions so strong that the victim broke his own bones from his thrashings.

“In my veins runs the chill doom of Annwyn’s hounds,” she explained, rubbing her throat as the flesh knitted up. “They will harry you forever, you bastard son of the Scholomance.”

He shrieked, twisting.

“You feel also the holy fire of Cerridwen.”

Another shriek, his back arching, then he abruptly collapsed and went still.

Sabra stood over him, taking in the ravages her blood had executed on what remained of his soul. He yet lived, but the fight had gone out of him. When he finally opened his eyes to her, they were suffused with terror.

“Return to your own land, dragon’s son,” she whispered. “This place is not for you.”

Telegram from Mina Harker to Van Helsing:

“Look out for D. He has just now, 12.45, come from Carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the south. He seems to be going the round and may want to see you: Mina.”

The Dark Downstairs

Roxanne Longstreet Conrad

Here, now, Nora, dry your eyes. I know it’s a sad day, but we should all get about our duties now. She’s in a better place.

What, you want to hear about Dracula? At a time like this? Go on with you, you must’ve heard the story a dozen times by now, what with Mr. and Mrs. Harker and all the rest of ‘em in and out of the house—oh, I know, they don’t gossip to servants, but still, who notices us? Stand just outside the parlor, ear to the door—I know the tricks, missy, don’t think I don’t.

Hush, now, keep your eyes on your work. There’s Mrs. Bannock, she’ll have the hide off of us if we don’t finish these by teatime. What was we talking about? Dracula, indeed. Well, Nora, I never did see half what they say happened at Hillingham, and believe me, I was in the thick of it. No dogs, nor wolves, nor any of that foolishness. Dracula? Yes, I figure as I saw ‘im, but believe you me, he weren’t he worst of it. Not by a long chalk.

They’ll never tell that part of it, ‘cause it doesn’t concern the Quality.

Who does it concern? Us, of course. The downstairs. The servants.

‘Ere, you need that knife? Give it over. Now, where was I? No, I’m not telling about Dracula, I’m telling you about Elizabeth Gwydion.

First thing you have to know about Hillingham is that it’s been in the Westenra family for centuries, a good old country house in Whitby, near the sea—the family come down from London every season for the summer. By July Mrs. Westenra and Miss Lucy had arrived, along with Miss Lucy’s friend Mina Murray—yes, Mrs. Harker, but she