AN: So this serves as a sort of sequel to the original Stoker novel. I tried to stay true to the events that transpired there, overlooking that Dracula is still alive. (Which will be explained, by the way.) Dracula's character may be seen differently, as in the original novel we never see through his point of view. I've taken creative liberties with his past, as it was left mostly unexplored in the book. Reviews are always appreciated.

Dracula's Revenge

Chapter 1

London, 1914

The rain pounded down on the deserted streets, spilling over curved rooftops and sliding on glass window panes. A low fog hugged the ground, leaving a faint air of gloom. Mud sloshed under foot and the scattered lights in the window cast a faint glow into the alleys, making them seem something ethereal . It was misty and miserable, with an air of sullen gloom.

It was not the London he expected, with its whirl of color and light, full of hustle and bustle. The people here, it seemed, were the same as they were everywhere else. Not so full of suspicion and doubt, too civilized and too cultured, until it was night and the lights were out and the moon hung high in the sky. Not until there was an unidentifiable sound in the distance and the hair on the back of their neck would prick and their flesh would crawl, and they would be as frightened as children.

People were the same, everywhere he went. Instinctively afraid of the unknown horrors that lurked in the night, but here too sophisticated to acknowledge their fear. It was the main difference from his home; the people here seemed bent on proving some sort of intelligence, some sort of battle of wit over instinct. It was their willful ignorance that made them such easy prey.

It made him lonely, being here. There were so many people crowded in one place that they stopped seeing each other. The human connection was lost and others faded into the background. Hardly anyone paid him any heed, even with his silver hair and black eyes.

They were the eyes of the devil, his mother had said. Black and dead and empty. Eyes that had seen so much over so many years ought not seem so empty, he mused, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a glass window. He had stepped into this alley to avoid the rain. His frock coat was new, though rapidly going out of style. He still preferred the clothes of the earlier periods, but it was important to stick to the times.

It was a lost cause, as his coat was already soaked through and his hair a tousled mess. His skin looked ghastly pale in the window, his eyes made all the darker by the contrast. He had changed his appearance since he last joined society, done away with his moustache and trimmed down his eyebrows. The face staring back of him now was of a young, distinguished man with strong, aquiline features, thin nose and cheeks, sharp cheekbones and a lofty forehead. His mouth hinted at cruelty and his ears were pointed ever so slightly. He was not, perhaps, a handsome man, but there was something singularly eye-catching about him, some aura of difference that made the eye linger longer than it should.

This dream to come to London had been made in ages past, and he found it flat and dull. Dreams rarely lived up to expectations. Or perhaps it was merely that he dreamt so little these days. He had once fantasized of vengeance and justice for his family, but it seemed a small and petty thing now. The years had worn him down.

There was a small comfort in hearing of the deaths of his enemies, the good doctor to suicide, Arthur to drink. Van Helsing would soon submit to old age. Jonathan and Mina, they were the ones who truly deserved to die, the ones who had bested him. It was strange to think of them now, two decades after he last saw them. Jonathan had been noble, but weak, easily lead astray from his righteous morals. Mina had been different, made of stronger stuff. Her love and devotion to her husband was her true flaw, without him to hold her back she could have been breathtakingly brilliant. She was intelligent and resourceful, not so beautiful as Lucy with her sweet smile and shining eyes, but of a more infallible element. It had been Lucy who caught his fancy, Lucy with her seeming innocence but wicked desires she held dormant in her heart.

Mina had resolve, unlike her friends. There was a part of him that might have loved her, like the devil loved the simmers he lead astray, or the lion the lambs he slaughtered. No, love was not something in his nature.

It was always with a slight sense of melancholy he thought of Mina. He had long considered finding her and seeking revenge, or taking his revenge on Jonathan by whisking her away. It was the better plan, so that he might both hurt Jonathan and spare her, who after all these years he still found his mind returning to. She was a constant thorn in his side, the thought just in the back of his mind, the name just on the tip of his tongue. It had taken him years to recover from the wounds inflicted on him; he had believed that he may find peace at last, but it proved out of reach. Death would have been a blessed release, but he found himself unable to die. His head was too full of regrets and fear.

Mina would be the same in centuries come to pass. He'd steal her away and drain the life from her in front of her fool husband, make him watch as she arose a creature devoted purely to him. He wondered how Mina would look now the years had passed. She'd not be so old as he, but with her staunch morals and unwavering faith, she'd abstain as long as she could. She'd fight harder to survive than Lucy had fought, grasp unto her humanity with tooth and claw, defiant to the very end. He wondered if it would carry over, if she would refuse to feed and age and wither.

The thing about London was it was so easy to feed, the streets packed with vagabonds and ruffians, too despicable to be missed. He could eat his fill and not be bothered. It had been too long since his last meal; his hair had silvered and soon he would show signs of aging. It would be easy enough to charm some corner proxy into a secluded corner; all it would take was a flash of coin. He detested the thought; he rarely employed seduction to his victims, it was an unnecessary labor. Hypnosis was so much simpler, more efficient and if that failed attacking them outright solved the problem neatly.

There was a flutter of movement on the other side of the window, a lithe, lean boy of approximately twenty years of age gathering together a mess of papers. Dracula watched him carefully, caught on a bizarre sense of familiarity. There was something about the boy that seemed imperfectly remembered, something in the messy sweep of his thick, chestnut hair and dancing gray eyes. He had open, boyish features, a mouth that curved into an easy smile and short, ink stained fingers. There was something about him that just barely hinted at the feminine, a sort of androgynous prettiness sometimes found in youth.

The boy startled when he opened the door and saw him standing there, nearly dropping his papers. He smiled, as if meeting an old friend, full of charm, the sort of smile that seemed as if it were to be aimed only at its recipient alone, as if the one receiving it were the singularly most interesting person in the world. It reminded him sharply of Lucy, of flirtatiousness and virtue melding into one, both the sinner and the saint, the whore and the virgin.

Or perhaps in his old age he was becoming nostalgic. He was a very old, very tired man.

"Hello. Didn't see you standing there."

It was late, but the boy had an energy to him, a vigor that made him seem vibrantly alive. Dracula considered attacking him there in the alley, to feel him blood pulsing below his mouth, to taste the coppery taste of him on his tongue, to watch his eyes flutter closed as the vitality left his body. "I'm afraid I've gotten rather lost. I've only been in London a few weeks."

It was a silly whim, having a conversation with this boy, but it had been so long since he talked to another. Solitude didn't suit him as well as it once did. There was all the time in the world to make a meal of him, it would hurt nothing to engage in a conversation with him first. Small talk before dinner.

"Where are you from then? I don't recognize the accent."

"Transylvania."

The boy shifted his papers and looked at him eagerly. "Oh, I've always wanted to go to Transylvania. They have the best stories, people that rise from the grave, monsters that feed on the flesh of men-"

"The stuff of penny dreadfuls." Dracula intoned. It was rare to find someone so interested in the stories; most were met with suspicious fear or mockery and disdain.

The boy laughed, a warm, rich sound. Dracula could hear the blood pulsing in his veins, the rhythmic beat of his heart. He wondered whether his blood would taste as warm and rich. "You sound like my father."

"Better yours than mine."

"Oh, I don't know. Mine's a lawyer, expects me to follow in his footsteps. He has no imagination at all. He hates the penny dreadfuls, the gothic horrors and the like. He'd rather read law books all day."

It was an integral part of youth to resist being like one's parents. The young lad would likely follow his father's wishes and work alongside him, until he married and had a few children, after which the wishes he followed would be that of his wife. Then he would force his own sons into the same pattern. It was a cycle that never changed, as endless as people were. It was not so different than when he was young.

"Law doesn't suit you?"

"The law doesn't suit anyone; it's why so many break it."

Dracula supposed at twenty, the remark was passing clever. He'd learned to value wit, but so few possessed it. This boy was no different, though he had a certain charm. In any case, he hadn't properly made any friends, and he needed someone to introduce him into the social circles of London. He extended his hand. "Vlad Dracula."

The boy took it and shook it with more vigor than was entirely necessary. "Quincy Harker."