A Vampire in Gotham
Gotham City – 200 years ago
The fog blanketed Gotham City in a cloud of cold, chilling mist which the gaslights could barely penetrate. The lamps glowed faintly, like fireflies trapped in little glass boxes, blinking their last desperate winks against the icy fingers of the mist which threatened to envelope them. It was not a night to be outside, and indeed few people were. There was, however, one lone man standing on the docks, peering out to sea and ignoring the chilling spray which clung to him.
Solomon Wayne brushed a few drops of fog off of his cape and returned his attention to the water. He could see nothing but the lighthouse searchlight from time to time, and in the distance a faint bell.
"Brutal night, Solomon," said a voice. Wayne turned to see a figure emerge from the fog, puffing on a cigar. He nodded at him.
"Indeed it is, Mr. Cobblepot."
"Henry, please," said Cobblepot. "There's no reason why the two wealthiest families in Gotham shouldn't be civil to each other."
Wayne said nothing, looking back out to sea. "Any sign of him yet?" asked Cobblepot, withdrawing a hip flask from his jacket and sipping from it.
"No," said Wayne. He checked his watch. "He's late."
"Well, you know what foreigners are like," said Cobblepot, shrugging. "No sense of punctuality." He offered his flask to Wayne, who shook his head.
"Abraham is never late," murmured Wayne, softly. "What if something's gone wrong?"
"What could go wrong?" asked Cobblepot.
"You ask that?" said Wayne, turning to look at him. "When you know what Abraham carries with him?"
"The remains of a dead man," said Cobblepot, nodding. "That's all. If you're trying to scare someone with a lot of fairy stories about ghosts and witches and demons, I'm afraid I'm a little old for it."
"Have you read Abraham's account of the horror which invaded London…"
"Yes," interrupted Cobblepot. "And if I believed it, I would never allow him to bring such a thing to Gotham City. But I don't believe it, Solomon. Blood-sucking corpses and the dead returning to life – it's all nonsense."
"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'" muttered Solomon, tightening his hand on his cane.
"What?" asked Cobblepot.
"Just remembering my Hamlet, Mr. Cobblepot," murmured Solomon. "That's all."
A bell rang again, closer to them, and then a ship's whistle was heard. And suddenly from out of the fog emerged a small vessel, bumping quietly against the dock. The crew bustled to tie the ship down and brought out the gangplank. Wayne and Cobblepot watched as an old man hobbled out from the ship, clutching a small chest to his heart as if for dear life.
"Abraham, my old friend," said Wayne, stepping forward to shake the man's hand warmly.
"Solomon, it is good to see you again," murmured the old man, in a soft, but commanding voice. "I cannot express how grateful I am to you for…"
"Please, none of that," said Wayne. "When I got your letter, there was never a doubt in my mind what the right course of action was."
The old man smiled at him. "You were always decisive, Solomon," he murmured, clapping him gently on the shoulder. "And brave and determined. These traits run in your family, I think, from what I have seen of your son."
"I hope that they will always do so," said Wayne. "Mr. Cobblepot, allow me to present Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, of Amsterdam."
"It is a pleasure, Mr. Cobblepot," said Van Helsing, shaking his hand. "I owe you the same debt of gratitude I owe Solomon. It is not a cowardly man who would do what you have agreed to do."
"Let no one ever say the Cobblepots are cowards," replied Cobblepot, smiling. "But come, both of you. My home is not far – let us sit down in front of a fire with a glass of brandy and remove the chill from our bones."
Van Helsing smiled sadly. "I thank you, my friend. But it is hightly unlikely for me that the chill will ever be entirely removed from my bones. Nor my heart."
He clutched the chest tighter as Cobblepot hailed a cab. As they drove, Van Helsing looked out the window at the numerous cranes and building sites, as the fledgling city began to grow upward.
"Gotham shows great promise," he murmured when they were all three comfortably settled in Cobblepot's drawing room. "It may yet be as mighty as London someday."
"That's certainly what we're hoping for," agreed Cobblepot. "Solomon and I are both great advocates of Gotham's expansion, both physically and economically. This will be a great city one day."
"I have no doubt of it," replied Van Helsing, gratefully taking the drink Cobblepot offered him. "You are both clearly men of vision. But greatness is not always the blessing we believe it to be. Things can be great without being good."
"Speaking of vision, any chance we could see him?" asked Cobblepot, nodding at the chest Van Helsing still clasped tightly against him.
Van Helsing stared back at him. "Um…yes, if you wish," he stammered, slowly putting the chest down on the table. He carefully undid the hinges, and then pulled out a tiny key which he turned in the keyhole. The chest clicked open and Van Helsing raised the lid. Cobblepot and Wayne looked inside.
"Not much to look at, is he?" chuckled Cobblepot. "Could be anyone's dust in there."
"But it is not anyone's dust," murmured Van Helsing. "This is the dust of a great man. Evil, yes, but great. It is not the kind of greatness you want Gotham City to be known for, Mr. Cobblepot."
"Oh, I'm not so sure," replied Cobblepot, shrugging. "I don't know what Solomon's plans for him were, but I'm thinking we could put that little casket there on display," he said, nodding at the chest. "Maybe in a museum. Give him a whole exhibition, and let the tourists come by the thousands to sneak a peek at him. With the popularity of Mr. Stoker's book skyrocketing, it's sure to bring in a substantial revenue…"
Van Helsing slammed the lid shut. "What kind of game do you think this is, Mr. Cobblepot?" he murmured, furiously. "Do you think this is all a joke? Do you think the things Mr. Stoker wrote about in his novel were fictitious? Do you think the things I wrote in my letter to Solomon were just a story? They were not. This man, this…creature, was real. As real as you or I. And he is not a joke. He is not an attraction to be put on display in some freak show. He is a monster."
"Was a monster," corrected Cobblepot.
"Is," murmured Van Helsing. "For though he is dead, his spirit lives on. Can you not feel his presence in this very room now, yearning to return?"
Everyone jumped as the fire suddenly crackled, letting out a hiss. Van Helsing shivered.
"His lust for life was wonderful, Mr. Cobblepot," he whispered. "His body may be ashes, but his soul is not at peace. And he was a great man. If he is determined enough, and if those entrusted with him are foolish enough, he will rise again."
"We are here to ensure that is not going to happen, Abraham," murmured Wayne, quietly. "When you wrote to me to tell me of your illness, and how you had no heir to pass on the creature's remains to, I took it upon myself and my family to continue your life's work in protecting humanity from this evil. It would be my honor to help you in this matter."
"And can you assure me Mr. Cobblepot takes this matter as seriously as you do?" asked Van Helsing, looking steadily at Cobblepot.
Cobblepot shrugged. "I may not altogether believe everything about it, but I'm no fool. I'm not about to let just anyone have access to that thing," he said, nodding at the casket.
"Then we are agreed," murmured Van Helsing slowly, nodding. "I thank you, my friends. It is not an easy task you give yourselves, but it is for the greater good. If he were ever to return, to unleash his terror upon an unsuspecting public once more…it could be disastrous."
He held out the key to Wayne. Cobblepot beat him to it, taking the key from him and placing it in his pocket. "I'll look after it," he said.
Van Helsing gazed at him with his clear, blue eyes, and suddenly took his hand. "That is the key which guards the last earthly remains of Count Dracula, the most evil man who ever lived," he murmured, quietly but firmly. "Do not let it fall into the wrong hands."
200 years later…