It was not long before the whole wedding party disbanded. In rather a breach of custom – though a necessary one, of course – Doctor Seward took over the final duties of the best man from Quincy and paid the clergymammal, as he himself would not be leaving the party. Van Savage made ready to depart around the same time.

"You mustneeds pardon me, friend John," said he, "but I have earnest business and must be away for the night. You know our usual routine, and all I can add to it is that you must not disturb the rice."

The horse, who of course could not help overhearing, stared at him in befuddlement. "Sir, I am no physician, but I cannot for the life of me understand how rice on the floor has anything to do with this young bride's health."

"Yes, and neither can I," agreed Seward. "Forgive my saying it, but if I didn't know you better I should think you were going mad, Van Savage."

The professor took this in stride. "Yes, but you know the signs of madness as well as any, and you may be certain I am not mad. You also know that I don't tell lies, so trust that I am telling the truth about this matter: that grain must not be removed for any reason."

Doctor Seward shook his head at his mentor's insistence. "As you say, then, but sometime you really must explain to me the meaning of all this."

The answer came gravely – and, as the doctor would think it later, rather darkly. "Of that, old friend, you have my promise."

How it would one day chill the younger doctor to remember those words… and oh, how he would wish he had never been given his request.

Doctor Seward remained in the house all the rest of the day with little further incident except to remonstrate one of the maids who began to sweep up the rice. He spoke as kindly to her as might be, saying honestly that he no more knew what the cause was than she did but that he was under strict commands on the matter. She, accordingly, abandoned the task and made sure to relay his instructions to the others. Seeing that this was settled, the doctor spent much of the day in repose to prepare for the night's long vigil. Judy likewise meant to rest so she might sit up with Lucy, particularly as it would be less questionable for her to do so. However, she was much too enlivened with the excitement of the day and could not rest up. So it fell to Doctor Seward to take the first watch.

He took the duty with a good will, and as the maids went to bed he admonished them to each partake of a glass of wine. They did so gladly, and all drank to their mistress' long life and good health. Having seen to that little matter, Doctor Seward went to Lucy's room, where the doe was already dressed for bed and sleeping serenely. It was a bittersweet sight for the doctor, who had wished her to be his own bride, now to see her the wife of another man. Yet he solaced himself, for Lord Goredalming was a good man and would love her as well as – nay, much better than – he could have himself. It concerned the honor of his sex and his occupation to be, if not happy, then at least content for her and for his friend, her husband. Now the business at hand was to watch over her through the night, guarding against any sudden ill chance which might set back their efforts for her good.

He sat, therefore, and spent much time in reading; reading the notes brought to him from his aids at the asylum, and reading of diseases strange and rare. The former papers were fairly regular; one or two inmates were getting better, and some seemed to be declining, with most much as they had been for some time. A wolf named Romfield, a particular favorite of his, had been displaying signs of a growing religious mania, rambling now and again about 'the master' coming and bringing 'all good things.' No doubt the poor fellow thought himself some manner of prophet; a prophet of a god imagined in his own likeness and after his own wishes, as many mammals both mad and sane were known to dream up. He had on occasions past been given to violent fits, but of late had been mild and peaceable enough that, apart from his babbling, he seemed as civil as any mammal out walking the streets.

The research on diseases went much more slowly, alas. There were a few case studies like Lucy's, most of which he had gained from his old professor, who got them from Heaven only knew where. Unexplained loss of blood, often leading to death foreshadowed by delirious ravings of stalkers at night and red eyes. None of these had ever been properly understood, though, and the notes accompanying them indicated that the responses were generally superstitious, not scientific. None of it seemed to be of any worth.

Somewhere about eleven of the clock, he was pulled from these readings by a knock at the front door of the house. He paid it no mind at first other than to idly wonder why someone would come at so late an hour. Yet when the knocking persisted, he went to see himself, wondering why the maids had not answered.

To his surprise, the mammal at the door was a tapir named Roland; one of the aids from the asylum!

"Roland?" he asked, bewildered. "What are you doing here?"

Roland panted, sagging with his hands on his knees.

The attendant looked quite ill. "It's Romfield, sir. He's loose again, and this time he's attacked one of the attendants!"

"Attacked?" asked the doctor in surprise.

"Yes sir. When the attendant went to check on him, he asked for help with something in the room. Then he bit the poor chap on the wrist, and when others came to the yell they found him lapping at the blood. But when they rushed on him he forced his way through and ran out of the house!"

Doctor Seward's blood ran cold. It seemed, as he had once feared, that Romfield's mania had turned dangerous. To have him on the loose in such a state, at night too, was a horror to imagine.

"I'll be right there," he promised, hurrying to get his hat and coat. "Just let me make arrangements."

He went to fetch one of the maids, but instead found Mrs. Westenrut up and about. "Madame," he objected when he saw her. He knew he had to hide his fears. The thought of a lunatic out and about would undo her for certain. "The hour is late. Why are you up?"

"Oh, no fussing," she protested. "I've rested so much today that I can't sleep now. But why are you dressed to go out?"

The doctor saw here a chance to solve two problems at once. "Well, a matter has come to my attention which I must see to at once," he explained. "Nothing grave, but it requires my personal attention. I was going to check on Lucy before I went, but perhaps if you are sleepless you would see to her."

"Why of course," said the lady, much to his relief. "I might as well sit up with her as wander around the house for nothing."

Doctor Seward thanked her graciously and departed as swiftly as the situation allowed, confident that all would be well when he returned. Never in a hundred years could he have fancied how awry his hopes would go.

Mrs. Westenrut walked down the hall to her daughter's room, feeling more light and alive than she had in a long while. Her daughter was growing well again, and married to a fine gentleman. Now, whatever might become of her own self, she could rest assured that Lucy at least would be well cared for. Moreover, she had taken such steps as to ensure that when she did pass on, her property would go to her dear son-in-law to further ensure that all would be well.

"I do declare," she remarked aloud to herself, "I feel I could die happy though it were this very night."

Then she got a look at the room.

"Why, look at this mess," said she in dismay and disappointment. "Still strewn with rice from wall to wall. Oh, those careless maids. But there's a broom here, and they're all in bed. I'll sweep up myself, and have a good stern talk with them tomorrow."

Accordingly, she suited her actions to her words and removed the grains which Professor Van Savage had strictly ordered none should touch. Before this, however, she opened a window to let in a little air.

"What a shame for her to smother with all this garlic – and on her wedding night too."

It was some hours later when Lucy awoke to a cool breeze blowing on her face. Her mother lay asleep in the chair usually occupied by one of the doctors, gently snoring with her chin on her bosom. A twitch of worry went through the young doe when she saw the window open, for she recalled the many times the professor had said very strictly that it must always be closed and secured at night. She calmed, however. She was feeling so much better that surely an open window could do her no harm.

She knew not how long she lay there awake before a rustling in the bushes outside made her start. What was that? She flicked her ears forward, staring at the moonlit window, but all she saw was an owl flitting about outside.

"I'd better close the window," she decided, putting her feet over the side of the bed. "I don't want the filthy thing coming-"

But before she had risen to her feet, a great gray shape came hurling through the opening, shattering the pane as it bashed through its lower edge. Lucy screamed as the shape tumbled on the floor and quickly resolved itself into a wolf dressed in torn clothes and staring with wild, bestial eyes. Mrs. Westenrut started awake and jumped to her feet, but all at once a great paleness came over her. She seemed seized by sudden weakness, and fell backwards into the chair stone dead.

"Mother!" cried Lucy, rushing to her stricken dam. But there was no time to do anything, for as if drawn by her movement the wolf fixed its eyes on her.

"Flowers," he hissed. "Filthy, filthy flowers. Master hates filthy flowers!"

The wolf lunged for Lucy with paws outstretched, and she fainted dead away.

When poor Lucy awoke, she found herself sprawled on her bed. She began to stir and at once froze with fright, for there was the wolf. He seemed no longer to pay her any mind, however. He was busy about the room, tearing down every petal and stem of the flowers which so festooned it and paying special mind to the roses and garlic. At intervals he would rush to the door and throw them into the passage by the armful.

Lucy wanted to scream, but it was as though an invisible hand held her by the throat with the strength of iron shackles. Why did the maids not come? Where was Doctor Seward? Why was her mother so horribly still and sprawled?

"Lucy? Lucy!" came Judy's voice up the passage. An instant latter the bunny herself hurtled through the door, looking about the room in wild confusion.

"Judy!" gasped Lucy.

There was no time for her to say more or for Judy to reply, for in a moment the wolf flung himself at this interloper. Judy threw herself to one side and the wolf blundered into the passage. Before she could slam the door, however, he was back in again. Thwarted in her first purpose, Judy leaped towards the bed and kicked off one of the posts. The wolf yelled in inarticulate rage when Judy, shouting for Doctor Seward to come and help, latched onto his face.

It was a brief struggle and a brave one, but all to no avail. With such strength as only a madbeast could boast, the wolf ripped her away along with two pawfuls of his own fur. The last thing Judy saw was a view of him and her terrified sister beyond him before the back of her head cracked against the wall and she knew no more.

Lucy watched in utter terror as the wolf gazed at helpless Judy for a long moment before returning to his strange affair. With the fight over he seemed to have put both his foe and the object of their quarrel completely from his mind. "Clean it all," he jabbered seemingly to no one. "It must be cleaned. The Master comes."

Presently, Lucy's wits returned. Whatever this wolf was doing in the room, he could not mean her any good. If something happened; if… if he killed her, others had to know what had happened.

Moving as silently as she could – though the wolf seemed by now utterly heedless of her presence – she tore a page out of the journal on her nightstand. With desperate speed, she began to write of everything on which she could lay her frightened mind: her mother, the wolf, and the flowers festooning the room. At long last she hastily rolled up the parchment and hid it in her bosom. The wolf wouldn't look there; not if he had an atom of manhood in him. By this time, however, the wolf seemed done, having even torn the curtains down with the rod and flung them out of the room. He bowed to the window as a courtier to a king, seemed to listen for a moment, and then threw himself back out into the shrubbery.

Lucy lay still, hardly daring to breathe or even move. Part of her ached to get out of there; to flee from the room and from the house which had become such a scene of madness and horror. Yet her limbs were paralyzed, and she could do nothing as the time slowly passed… as a mist crept into the room… as that mist gathered itself into a kind of pillar.

The last thing she noticed was how odd the gaslight looked through that pillar; more like two burning red lights than anything. It would not occur to her in that lifetime that the gaslight was not lit.

As oblivion overtook her, spreading like a blanket over her shattered nerves and wits, the mist thickened and blackened into a dark, massive figure. Glancing disdainfully at the dead woman in the chair, and at the door which held back those odious repellents, he paused to regard Judy's slumped form.

"No use," said he. "Not now. But you will serve me later."

With this ominous prophecy, he moved to the bed where Lucy Westenrut lay as one in a charmed sleep.

"This time," it snarled, "I will be certain."

Judy woke to a wet towel flicking her in the face. "Judy? Miss Judy, wake up!"

She stirred, trying to open her eyes. Her head was throbbing, and she felt as if her limbs were made of lead. "Whu…?"

"Easy, easy. Do you remember anything?"

It hurt just to think. "No," she murmured, finally opening her eyes to see the concerned physician's face. "What happened, and…?"

Then her sight focused enough to take in the room behind him. "What happened in here? Who tore apart-?" She stopped, seeing the bed empty. "Lucy! Where's Lucy?!"

"She's being treated downstairs, but you have to-"

For someone with such a crack on the head, her speed was incredible. She was halfway to the door before he could stop her. She didn't even know why she was in such a panic, but she had to find Lucy.

"Lucy!"

"Wait!" Seward overtook her and barred her way. "You're not well. They're doing all they can for her, but you must sit still."

She tried to make her way past him, but she was still dazed from the impact. "What happened?" she asked. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," said Seward. "I can't begin to sort it out, but there was some kind of break-in. Lucy's had a terrible relapse, and your mother is…" He stopped, reluctant to upset her.

"What?" demanded Judy. "What happened to Mother?"

His ears dropped, and his face told all that was needful. "I'm terribly sorry, but… your mother died. We believe it was instantaneous, from a bad fright."

Judy felt as if she'd been knocked on the head again. No… she thought, trying to think through the fog. No, it can't be real. It can't.

Yet she was not one given to denial. Idealism, yes; even fanciful idealism at times, but not denial. Like a drowning swimmer, she locked onto the one thing she could. "What about Lucy?"

Seward picked her up. "They're doing all they can, but you're in no condition to-"

A painful yelp burst out from him as she gripped his arm with frantic strength. "Let me help," she insisted.

Doctor Seward reluctantly took her down to the kitchen, where a scene of utter madness was in progress.

Three of the maids, looking rather groggy and dazed, were rushing about heating water and cloths or running and fetching all manner of things. They had filled a large tub with hot water as they would for a bath, and the third maid was busy bustling about someone in the tub at that very moment. She was bent over, frantically rubbing the bather's legs and body while Van Savage worked feverishly at the arms of the same.

Yet it was the mammal slumped in the tub, fully clothed in a night dress, who captured their attention at once: Lucy. She was so sickly, and so limp, that it was nearly impossible to recognize her at all. She was nearly as white as salt under her hair, even to her very lips. Her eyes were closed, and she scarcely seemed to be breathing. Her throat was bare, and there were two wounds on her neck.

"Lucy!" Judy cried.

Van Savage looked up. "Oh, thank God and all of Heaven!" he cried. "Judy, you must see to her chest. We must chafe her or she will die!"

Somewhat recovered and now spurred at the sight of her adopted sister, Judy ran forward and leaped into the tub dress and all.

"Joh, take this girl's place before her arms give out!" ordered Van Savage. "You, girl, find someone to give blood; anyone her size or more! Shout in the street. She must have blood or death within the hour!"

Judy was hard-put not to lose her mind. The whole thing was madness; utter madness. "What about yesterday?" she cried.

"Gone," was Van Savage's answer. "All gone! Oh, God forgive me, fool that I am!"

"Keep chafing!" cried Doctor Seward, for Judy had stopped at hearing the wolf's lament. "What little blood she's got left in her needs all the help it can get."

Van Savage nodded his agreement, then waved to one of the maids supplying water and cloths. "You," he commanded, signing her to move back to Lucy, "put two fingers to her neck; right there by the wounds. We must know if she has a pulse; any pulse at all."

The maid came compliantly, feeling anxiously as she had been instructed. "What am I feeling for?" she asked.

"Movement," was the answer. "Like the gulping of a throat when it drinks water, only smaller."

She checked, and said she thought she felt a tiny movement… but it was getting fainter and fainter.

"We are fighting death for certain," said Seward unnecessarily.

Van Savage shook his head, looking as sick with his exertions as Lucy did with whatever was so mercilessly preying on her life. "If only death were all that assailed us. Why, why? And this sweet maiden of all creatures."

Judy stared at him in confusion. He spoke like someone who knew something terrible… or was just plain out of his mind.

"Keep going!" ordered Seward, for in her distraction Judy had abated. The look on his face made it clear he did not understand his mentor's words in the slightest, but there was no time to waste on idle questions.

At long last, Lucy's face flickered with movement and she managed, just barely, to open her eyes.

"It's working!" cried Judy.

"Here, here. Hold her head steady," Seward ordered one of the maids.

Lucy struggled for breath, and seemed to be trying to say something, but whatever it was would never be uttered in the mortal world. By the time the missing maid returned with a tiger in a constable's uniform, Lucy Westenrut had been dead not less than five full minutes.

Both of the doctors looked beyond comfort, and Judy wept without heed to anything.

"We did all we could," said Seward. "At least… at least now she is at rest."

Van Savage shook his head, slumping with exhaustion. "It's my fault," he rasped. "My… my fault."

Doctor Seward patted him on the back. "Now, professor, we all did our utmost to-"

"You don't understand!" cried Van Savage, whirling and striking away the comforting hand. Then, as if he had the burden of Catlas on his shoulders, he crumpled to his knees and buried his face in his paws.

Judy followed suit, burying her face in Nick's chest. He quietly put his arms around her still-soggy form.

"Ladies," ventured Doctor Seward to one of the maids, "will you take her someplace where she can dry and… and grieve in peace?" He looked at that moment as if he himself would like to go off and weep, but masculinity and the sight of others forbade it and there was work in hand. "I will have the others clean the body up and put her in something dry, and Van Savage and I will handle the legalities." This last he said with a glance at the tiger officer, who stood looking on the whole matter in great confusion.

No one saw Van Savage slip a small rolled-up paper into his coat, much less thought to ask him anything of it.

It was a note which had fallen from Lucy's bosom when they took her from her room; her last mortal words, and the secret of her death.

Nick came sometime later, wondering why Judy had not come to the office, and found all in mourning and turmoil. In was no surprise that all who knew of the catastrophe mourned the loss of the two women, save for the officer who merely took a statement from the two physicians. There was some dispute betwixt them at the first, but the consensus at the end of it was this: that a mammal, still at large, had broken into the house at night and frightened poor Mrs. Westenrut to death. As for Lucy, the shock of the attack and her mother's demise had caused her to have a fatal relapse of her illness, so that she too perished. The officer noted that Van Savage seemed rather firm on having this explanation accepted, but it was asserted by all who had been present that he was away hours before the incident and could not have had any part in what followed. For this reason, the officer accepted their statement and left, but advised that he would likely be back for more information.

"It is well no one mentioned that you asked her to be your wife," the professor said to the doctor after this interview. "If such were in the record, it might be taken as motive for some mischief on your part."

"But she was sick long before that," Seward objected.

"I know that, and you know," Van Savage agreed, motioning him to come in close, "but there is ill afoot here, old friend, and we must not have any of us taken on a misguided charge."

The doctor put his ears back, regarding his friend in confusion. "You speak as if this were more than illness."

Van Savage looked grave. "I think it might be, but I cannot say just now. Too much is going on to pursue my theories now, but if I am right then more evidence will present itself soon. For now, we must settle all privately."

Their private conference was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come," commanded Van Savage.

Nick walked in, his arm around a red-eyed Judy. "I think I'd better get her out of here," he offered. "She's… well, not doing well."

"Of course," Van Savage agreed. He seemed to hesitate, as if to say more, and then spoke again. "Friend John and I have examined her head, and I think she will get well."

Judy sniffed loudly. "It's all my fault," she sobbed.

Seward shook his head. "My dear, you of everyone did the most. You will not remember for some time, and may never recall, but I am sure you were struck down trying to save her life. It was a brave thing, and no mammal could have done more. I am at fault for leaving."

Van Savage shook his head. "It was cunningly done," he said, though no one heard him. Then he turned to Judy and spoke more clearly. "My dear Miss Judy, may I come see you later? There are things I must ask which I think you can help, to bring the killer to justice."

At this Judy nodded. "Of course, but…"

"Go now," said Van Savage. "Friend Nicholas, if you will take her to a hotel, I shall repay you for her lodgings tomorrow."

"No need," offered Doctor Seward. "My asylum has an infirmary well away from the patients. Take her there and tell them I sent you. It's the least I can do after leaving last night. If anyone asks, tell them it is because of Romfield. They'll know what it means."

Nick took Judy to the address given him, and the doctor's advice proved good. He did not go home or to work that day, but remained at Judy's side or within calling of her the whole day. Toward evening, Van Savage came to see them as promised.

"Miss Judy," he said with his tail tucked under and his manner as forlorn as ever a wolf's was, "I am grieved at your loss, and grieved to see you suffer. I must beg forgiveness for leaving last night. I thought all well, and did not imagine trouble would come back so soon."

Judy just sighed, having gone into a kind of shock over the deaths of her remaining family.

"Friend Nicholas," added the professor, "You have lost good friends this day, I know, and you remain true to Judy. You are as good a man as ever I have met.

"I come to ask a favor of you both; you in particular, friend Nicholas, as it concerns you more directly."

Both of them regarded him curiously. "What kind of favor?" asked Nick.

Van Savage's ears stood very erect, and his face took on the expression of one who has committed himself to dive into deep water. "Miss Judy has told me of your business trip to Romania, and of severe impact it had on you. She made mention of a sealed journal of said venture. Do you have it still?"

Nick nodded, looking a little sick at the mention of the unfortunate book. "I do," said he. "I mean, she does."

"Alright. I should like to see the chronicle, if I may."

This was a strange request, to be sure. "If you really want to," said Nick, "but why?"

Van Savage averted his gaze. "There is much going on, and I feel I must not become idle at such a time as this. To see the journal would put my knowledge at your disposal, if perhaps I may be of some service to you. It will serve me, meantime, by helping me look forward."

Judy was given to curiosity and somewhat jealous that a stranger should come out ahead of her to explore the mystery of Nick's trip when it had first been entrusted to her. On the other paw, she had little stomach for mysteries or jealousy now. She had lost too much in a single day and swiftly decided that she didn't want any more dark tales. At least Van Savage could see the matter objectively, and if he wanted a riddle he could take this one and welcome. "Alright," she agreed at last. "I'll bring it tomorrow, but…" here she reached out and took the professor's paw to show how earnest she was. "Don't show it to anyone else; anyone."

He smiled warmly and patted her paw with an almost paternal air. "You may put absolute trust in me," he vowed. "I call God to witness that I shall mention neither the journal nor its words to any beast without your consent; not even friend John."

Nick coughed. "Uh, yeah, I'd especially appreciate him not knowing about it. Nothing against the guy, but he might think I'm crazy."

Van Savage looked at him quite seriously. "Friend Nicholas, I have known madbeasts. Let me assure you that if you are mad, you are the soberest lunatic I have ever met."

"Oh." Nick wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Uh, by the way, why so curious about my trip? Or do you just want to take your mind off of Lucy?"

The professor's tone and visage gave no token whether his next words were in jest or earnest. "I have no wish to take my mind off of Lucy," said he, "but please ask me no questions now. When the time is right, I shall tell everything."

Nick could hardly be persuaded to leave Judy all that day, and when at last night bade him leave he finally voiced an idea which had been taking shape.

"Carrots, I've been thinking we should try to do something to help tomorrow."

She looked up at him wearily. "Help how?" she asked.

"Well, I know you're pretty rattled by all this, but I think Arthur's gotta be pretty broken up too. There's gotta be a ton of stuff to sort out since he and Lucy were married and she was the last Westenrut." He chose his reasoning carefully, knowing that Judy was always looking for some way to be of use to someone. "Why don't we go over there tomorrow? I might be able to help with some of the papers, and you… well, I think you and Arthur both need some time."

Judy could almost have smiled, in a very sad way. Nick hadn't been as close to Lucy or Mrs. Westenrut as she had. He couldn't have had he tried his level best. Yet he understood well enough that she would gain by having someone who had been close to Lucy, to comfort and draw comfort at one go. It was a noble thing of him.

"Alright," she said at last.

After Nick left, she dressed herself for bed and lay down, hoping that sleep would come soon. Yet she lay awake for some time, puzzling a question which she had tried all day not to think of.

Lucy had the life of four males in her, he thought, and three of them were strong and hardy. So where did all of that blood go?

She would have to ask Van Savage about it the next day.

It should be pretty obvious now – even to those who haven't read the original version, that this is a takeoff of Dracula. Accordingly, I will backtrack and explain one or two details about vampiric superstitions in due course.

The note about it being a slight breach of custom for Seward to take over Quincy's duties in paying the priest is period-accurate, as ordinarily the best man would indeed be the last to leave and would take the job of paying for the wedding service. This would probably not raise any eyebrows, but it bears acknowledging as an anomaly anyway. Then again, as Van Savage notes, they are under no common circumstances.

Van Savage's insistence on leaving the rice on the floor is based on an old superstition that vampires are obsessed with counting (no, believe it or not that did not start as a Sesame Street pun). Several methods of tripping up the undead were rooted in this belief, such as scattering seeds across entryways (as seen here), leaving a broom by such apertures, and even burying coffins wrapped in fish nets for any budding vampire to try to untangle. This trick has even appeared in the X-Files, when untied shoelaces marked a vampire's handiwork, and Agent Mulder later cheated the culprit of a kill by scattering a pack of sunflower seeds in his path. Wild roses were another time-honored deterrent, but garlic - interestingly enough - was apparently not widely considered a guard against vampires until Stoker made it one. It was, however, reputed by some sources to have magical properties, which is probably where he got the idea.

The professor'srationale defending his methods is a deliberate nod to some logic utilized by C.S. Lewis, most famously in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The professor in that story reasons that as Lucy is clearly not crazy and not known for lying, they should assume she is telling the truth about Narnia. This is admittedly an anachronism, as C.S. Lewis would have been unheard of at the time of Dracula. However, since the laws of logic don't change and the chain of logic was based on a much older text, someone as shrewd as Van Savage could think of it well before C.S. Lewis was even born.

Romfield is a merger of two characters from the original novel: Renfield, a lunatic who veritably worshipped the vampire, and Berseker (a play on berserker), a wolf whom Dracula used to break into Lucy's room much as described in this chapter. I chose the name as a play on Romulus, the mythic founder of Rome, of whom it was said in their legends that he was lost or abandoned as a baby and nursed by a she-wolf. Interestingly, Draculahas been named as the first work to portray any enmity or one-upmanship between vampires and wolves or werewolves. Indeed, in older superstitions it was said that a slain werewolf was likely to come back as a vampire, which makes some sense in the version I am writing. I shall address the reason for this later, but it is enough to say that apparently Dracula was the first vampire to regard wolves of any kind as his subordinates. This is perhaps why, in the novel, wolves hate and fear him even though they obey his every command (Berseker, for example, growled at him when they first met).

The remarks about religious mania are drawn in part from Doctor Seward's reflections in the novel, prior to his realization that the object of Renfield's ravings is alas all too real. I also included a nod to the philosopher Voltaire, who once remarked that, "In the beginning God created man in His own image, and man has been trying to repay the favor ever since." While Voltaire was very cynical of religion and God, his comment is often cited by religious people as well as a caution against trying to reinvent divinity.

One point which bears confessing is that I somewhat downgraded Judy's fighting skills in the fight with Romfield. Since this version of Judy would not have trained to be a police officer (a point I am strongly considering changing for the full-length version, as I may have mentioned before), she would not have anything close to the strength or skills of her modern version – who, let's face it, was rather outlandishly OP for her size anyway. On a side note, the fight scene is all-new; it would not have fit in the What If version since in that one Judy spent that night elsewhere.

And now we have seen our first real glimpse of Dracula. You may have noticed that in this version I had him use the form of an owl rather than a bat. Actually this is appropriate, since owls were identified with death and vampires long before bats were. For centuries owl hoots were considered ill omens or even demonic, and the birds themselves were associated with tombs and unclean places. In a world where most of their prey would be actual citizens, this would doubtless be even more so. Today there is much less stigma concerning owls, for which I am glad because I do think they are amazing birds. However, there are still some notions of owl-like monsters such as the Owl Man occasionally reported in Mawnan, England (I should probably mention that, as a cryptozoology enthusiast, I am rather skeptical of that one).

About the only other thing of note is that some credit Stoker with inventing the idea of polymorphic vampires, though I have seen this contradicted elsewhere. At any rate, he seems to have been the first one to have one turn into a bat, likely inspired by the relatively recent discovery of bats which actually fed on blood.