Watching and Waiting
Another beautiful night. Replete and content, Dracula blinked drowsily at his coffin lid. Several miles away, Abraham Van Helsing paced and fretted. It wasn't long before Dracula was observing this, red eyes glowing with humor. The man was still stymed, still frustrated, and Dracula grinned. Abraham was an able foe, but he'd outwit the man. In the meantime, watching the doctor struggle was great entertainment. He'd stay in England, give the man the chance to find him, hunt him...and in the end, there would be a victor to this contest. Abraham would never match him in a battle of strength. Instead, it would be a matter of intelligence, planning, persistence and fortitude. He would never run from the man, nor would Van Helsing turn craven and run from him.
If he was staying in England, there were a few other things he'd need to do. While he slept well in the cemetary, he wasn't going to control the mind of a human every time he wanted a bath, or keep his clothes rolled up along him in the coffin. He owned a dozen pieces of property, he was a Lord, and he was going to exist like one. Time to find his solicitor. Well, not his solicitor, he doubted Harker would be of much worth, but there were others in that office.
Indeed...and all but one had gone home. The poor fellow working late found himself pinned by a red-eyed gaze as he toiled over the files of his clients.
"I had to leave the country unexpectedly and my return was delayed." Suave and persuasive, it didn't take too much effort to add a bit of mental coercion to the story. Dracula had bought properties, come to view them and select one for his home, inspect his new investments, and found his solicitor unstable and an urgent telegram from his homeland waiting for him. A prompt return to his own country, a lengthy illness, and now he was back to England and ready to plan for the usage of his properties and investments.
Living in one was out of the question, for Van Helsing undoubtedly knew of each of those residences. Finding him should be a challenge; he was not about to hand over his location to the man on a silver platter! However, a source of income and a home was necessary unless he intended to continue to languish in a cemetary with his worldly belongings tucked about his feet!
Instructions were left for a few of the properties, including that damned Abbey, to be sold. It appeared that the current market would actually allow him to make a tidy profit on them! The others were to be managed by an agent selected by his solicitor, leased out as possible, sold if an excellent price was offered. Collecting a few necessary names and files of a few new properties Dracula might be interested in, he left the dazed man behind him, now busily working on his requests.
Income would be assured. Renting properties...what a curiously English approach to ownership. But sensible. And he'd applied enough pressure to be certain that the agent would select a suitable landlord, and those properties should provide a consistent stream of money.
Bankers kept bankers' hours, and while he could have roused himself during the day to deal with this problem, Dracula had no intention of putting himself out so much. Instead, one of those names was that of a clerk at the bank where he had established himself. Tapping at the second-story window brought the sleepy face of the man to it, and a bit of pressure presented an invitation to enter. A new account, with a new and fictitious name, one that was protected from any casual request for information...not a terribly unusual request for a noble, though this account was not to maintain a mistress. His old account, languishing while it collected a petty amount of interest, was to be reactivated...and the clerk would remain late the next night to handle all these affairs and receive the required signatures.
Money, now. Enough to easily buy suits, horses, carriage, to purchase a new residence and hire the staff to maintain it and himself in the proper style. He'd have to make certain that no one would be speaking of these actions to Van Helsing...the man could use that to trace him. Neither the bank clerk nor solicitor would speak of it, but their superiors would have to approve the paperwork.
Draining, but necessary. Two more visits, two more late-night tappings at windows while the moon made its traverse of the sky, two more minds fogged and prepared to be silent on the status of his accounts and his actions. Careful questioning...yes. Van Helsing had asked them to report if his acquaintance, Dracula, returned to England, as Dracula had expressed an interest in purchasing his home. The clever bastard had also left directions with the bank about a funds transfer that would be completed only with his signature; when the Count contacted the bank, they were to contact Abraham so that he could deposit a substantial sum into Dracula's account. Clever man, very clever...he had requested no information on the account or anything that would raise a red flag, but merely refused to complete a transaction until the last possible moment.
Abraham looked a miser to them, pulling every last cent of interest out of the money as long as he could keep it in his possession, but he didn't look suspicious.
A worthy foe, but one that was again outmaneuvered. Dracula would access his accounts, establish himself comfortably, and watch Van Helsing fret and search and strain attempting to locate and destroy him. It promised to be quite entertaining. Eventually, it would come to an end, and he would have to destroy the man. But not until Van Helsing had found him using his own resources, been humiliated upon realizing the extent of the vampire's activity and the luxury Dracula intended to indulge in, had the presence of the vampire and its obvious existence, social activities, its sheer visibility, rubbed into his face like salt rubbed into a wound.
Then, they would contest, and one of them would fall. It would be the human...but there was no point in ending the game too soon.
Abraham was far, far too entertaining. Unable to resist any longer, Dracula ignored the last few errands he'd expected to accomplish by dawn to return to Hellsing's estate and spy on the man. The lights were extinguished, no one moving on the estate, and Dracula scowled in frustration. His toy had retired for the night; his visits to his solicitors, the clerk, their superiors...it had ticked away the minutes until he'd arrived too late for his nightly entertainment. Snarling to himself in frustration, he dropped to Abraham's bedroom window, glaring in at the slumbering form that slept on oblivious to the death outside the windowpane.
With ill grace, he returned to his coffin. There were hours to go until dawn, but nothing to accomplish. Few entertainments waited in London, none that he would want to attend. He was not hungry; the death of the tramp and his dessert from the whore would satisfy him until the next night, and he was too frustrated to wish to hunt for the pleasure of it. He WANTED to gloat over Abraham's frustration, fear, and anger while he arranged matters entirely to his liking.
Instead, he spent the time pacing about the countryside, tearing apart a fox for the sheer pleasure of the blood and pain. It eased his frustration to a small extent, enough that he could settle and relax. A large marble statue made a comfortable perch to let the last bit of the night pass away in the calm silence of his cemetary, then, as the sky pinked with dawn, he slipped into his coffin and into sleep.