The house was quiet in the early hours of the morning, for it was just past two when Lucy heard her companion's breathing ease into tranquil depths, indicating Mina was at last asleep. She slipped from beneath the coverlet, intending to go downstairs and tell Jonathan she was far too tired for their customary visit. He had waited for her all night, eager to embrace and kiss her, to whisper of their intentions of marriage and share his thoughts on the London practice. Jonathan knew she would not be ready for marriage for some time; her interests lay elsewhere and school would take many years, but was convinced she would change her mind. But Lucy would never alter her intentions, for she wanted to be a lawyer, not married to one.

Nothing stirred downstairs as she descended, knowing the occupants slept undisturbed. Moonlight filtered through the filmy curtains and illuminated her gown as she crept into the parlor, careful not to make a sound. Jonathan normally reposed on the divan waiting for her but tonight was nowhere to be seen. Slipping across the carpet, she approached the window and peered out. Light fingertips fell against the flat surface, chilled from the night air, and her breath caressed the pane, her reflection visible before a shape materialized from the darkness behind her. "Boo!" Jonathan hissed from the shadows.

Her heart leapt at the sight of him, more out of anger and fear than pleasure, and she gasped, "Oh, my God, Jonathan, don't ever do that!"

All mirth in his countenance faded into muted disapproval as he said, somewhat caustically, "I thought you loved to be frightened?" There was an accusation in it, the implication that he resented her easy confidences with the Count. Jonathan would have preferred she be more distant and reserved, and that had been her intention, but Dracula brought out different emotions in her.

Lifting her chin in defiance, she said, "I think I shall go back to bed, Mr. Harker."

He stood between her and the hall so she twisted open the door behind her and passed into the courtyard, the moonlight caressing her hair as it rested loose against her shoulders. Jonathan followed on her heels, shutting them away from the occupants of the house in order to remain unheard. "Mr. Harker, is it? I see. Looks like I'm not going to be good enough for the likes of you anymore. Hobnobbing with royalty now, are we?" Resentment crept into his voice. He had dealt with society all his life, with condescending, sneering faces that looked down on him because his father was a milliner and his mother a woman of no consequence. No one assumed anything would ever come of him, much less that he would make a name for himself. He was accustomed to polite smiles and poisonous words, to those who believed him inferior because of his station in life even though he managed to rise above it. Dr. Seward on occasion looked at him in this manner, but he'd never thought Lucy would hold it against him. Not until her encounter with the Count.

"Really, Jonathan, you pretend to be so utterly modern." Lucy preceded him down the steps, the lace of her dressing gown stark against the night that pressed in around them. "We were just dancing."

His disbelief was evident, for he had seen the connection between them, an instant attraction that raged into passions he never managed to excite in her. The intensity of that dance, of their eyes, of her breathless enthusiasm had been near the act of love, far different from their flirtations. Lucy never looked at him like that, never smiled at him like that, and never wanted him like that. What he had seen in her with the Count aroused his jealousy. He reached out to catch her arm, halting her at the low stone wall that separated them from the lower gardens. Only hours earlier he had stood there with the Count and they had discussed things of no importance but the memory of the tall, impressive, dark man lingered in his mind. "You were just dancing? That's a right amazing way of putting it."

At first he thought she would argue with him, or even return to the house, but a faint trace of a smile passed over her lips. She rested her palms on his chest, feeling the strength of his muscles beneath the thin layers of fabric. "Do you know, Jonathan, if you go on being cross, you're going to sprout the most enormous wart right on the end of your nose?" The notion amused her so much that she giggled and he could not help chuckling. Encircling her in his arms, Jonathan leaned toward her and Lucy hesitated, his lips hovering over hers. She found it abhorrent to kiss him after his atrocious behavior but also felt submission. She held her breath and his mouth caressed hers, lightly at first and then with growing intensity as he drew her against him, her resolve melting into desire as she relaxed in his arms.

High above them, his form barely distinguishable against the turrets of the asylum, Dracula watched the mortals engaged in primal affections, loathing that he encouraged her to respond rather than obey her instincts and return to the house. He wanted her out of the bedroom where Mina slept, curled up against the pillows, lost in the wondrous nature of her dreams. It repulsed him that Lucy was with the solicitor, for the fool was unworthy of her, content to kiss and caress her, to tempt her into behavior her father would not have approved of rather than to truly satisfy her. He watched as Jonathan caught her hand and ran with her down the garden path toward the small potting shed that lay beyond, where they would sit with one another until the early hours of the dawn. Lucy was luminous in the moonlight, her absence from the garden unnerving when she vanished from sight, the house decidedly silent as he crept over the edge of the roof.

Narrow fingers dug into the rough stone architecture, his weight nothing as it carried him down to the verandah and the locked set of doors that prevented him from entering Mina's room. There were a handful of lights in the wings of the asylum; some of the inhabitants were certain to look out, perhaps even see him, in their minds nothing more than a great black bat. There were forces of nature he could control and a faint mist began to creep up from the rotting leaves on the ground, unfurling in white clouds that rose to conceal his descent, swirling over the vines and seeping in at the edges of her door. Mina awakened, her eyes drifting open and coming to focus on the latch moving faintly in the gloom. Concern descended as she lifted up from the pillow, her gaze fixed in horror at the hand that appeared outside the verandah door. Her mouth opened but no scream came out, nothing more than a feeble gasp as curved fingers began to pick at the lead in the window, sharp movements that were inhuman and impossible, prompting her to look around in fear for Lucy. But her friend was not in the room and Mina could not move, frozen in place as she watched one of the panels of glass fall out, shattering on the stones beneath. The hand slipped within and beneath it the handle turned. Her heart pounded as the doors opened to admit a tall, ghostly figure into the room, mist unfurling around him as he emerged like a great black shadow from the darkness. As he drew nearer, his features came into focus and she saw the Count, intensity radiating from him as he looked down at her. Reassurance came over her and with a sigh she drifted into the pillows, reaching for the buttons of her night dress; beneath her fingertips, they came undone. It was not just his will that dictated it but also hers, innocence transforming into desire as she invited him to draw nearer, parting her neckline to reveal the whiteness of her throat in the moonlight. Her eyes were trusting as he bent over her, touching the side of her face. She turned into his hand and moaned softly, closing her eyes and reveling in the tenderness of his caress. The bed moved as he sat down, resting one hand on either side of her frail form. Illness radiated from her, weakness he longed to turn into strength.

Mina would be radiant, beautiful, and far more powerful than her peers. That specialness she longed for could be hers. Beneath his touch he sensed her pulse, her heart returning to its normal pace, even though she knew his presence was inappropriate; Mina believed it nothing more than a dream and she felt no shame in allowing him nearness. What she wanted from him was innocent and he allowed her to have it, touching her lips with his and finding gentleness in her embrace. Mina did not resist as his mouth traveled to her throat, his reassuring whispers faint in her ear. There was an instant of sharp, penetrating pain that faded into the depths of a trance, heaviness in her limbs allowing her to relax. He knew how much to take without killing her and had she been anyone else, might have drunk only enough for nourishment, but he would not let her suffer. He would give her a new life, away from the suffering the world forced upon her. God had not lessened her pain, so he would, even if it meant killing her.

It was so easy to take a life, simple to drain her until not much remained in her veins, to leave her to fade into death with the coming of the dawn, for by then she would be enough transformed that light would be fatal. She must seem to die, to descend into such a deep state of hypnosis that death was inevitable. It would be traumatic and painful, the transition fierce, but it would make her stronger for it. In the past he would have remained with her, held her as she experienced the terror of death and the wonder of rebirth, but this time he could not. Mina could not know what was happening to her, could not be allowed to remember anything of her "dream."

Memories were flooding into him, her memories, visions of former events that brought him sorrow, for her life was compounded of moments of inferiority, from a rush of emotions that reminded him of her gentle nature; her concern for her father, her compassion toward him; her interest in Lucy and their late night conversations. Mina feared she was a bother, was ashamed of her weakness, and envied the people around her who were without pain. She prayed each day for redemption, for salvation, for strength. Then there was the night he had summoned her and she responded to him, found attraction in the caress of his fingertips against her hand. She wanted so much more from life than it was possible to give her, but he would make certain she experienced all of it, from passion to the exquisite sense of power in holding another's life in your hands.

When he had taken enough, he drew back to look at her, pale beneath his shadow. She would not drink from him, for she was too virtuous even beneath a trance, so he sliced his lip with his sharp teeth, drawing a bead of crimson blood. Mina felt euphoric as he kissed her, exhaustion and heaviness settling into her limbs as she tasted the sweetness of his mouth. Unconsciousness descended and he rested her against the pillows, gently buttoning her gown and brushing his hand against the soft tendrils of her hair before he arose, retreating out onto the verandah and latching the door behind him. Darkness welcomed him as he threw himself off the railing, the rush of wind carrying him safely to the ground. It was not far to the drawing room window and he opened it soundlessly, slipping within and retracing his steps to retrieve the ship's log from the side table where it rested.

Turning through the pages in the moonlight, his eyes glowing with disapproval, he tucked it within the folds of his cape and passed out the window. Even before his form reached the damp earth, his feet transformed into paws and he ran through the night, his luminous eyes cast in the direction of the garden shed before he passed through the cemetery, howling at the moon as it sank toward the distant horizon. The eerie sound carried through the air and halted the conversation of Jonathan and Lucy, her smile fading as she looked toward it, feeling strangely drawn to the haunting cry. "It's nothing," Jonathan reassured her, his hand at the back of her neck. "It's just a dog."

He laughed and she drew him nearer for another kiss, but uncertainty did not leave her even when he lifted her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. Resistant to his advances, she pulled away from him and insisted it was time to return to the house. Jonathan was disappointed but did not argue as he put out the lantern and followed her into the garden. He was several paces behind and paused on the outskirts, turning to stare into the darkness across the expanse of rocks. Nothing met his gaze but a sense of heavy unease accompanied him back into the parlor, where she parted from him at the foot of the stairs and crept back into her room. Careful not to awaken her companion, Lucy tiptoed to the bed and drew back the covers. Mina faced slightly away from her and was unmoving as her friend slipped between the cold sheets, drawing the coverlet higher on both of them and snuggling into her pillow. Sleep would not come easily and she drifted in and out of awareness into listless dreams.

Not far down the winding road along the cliffs, in the somber entrance of Carfax Abbey, dancing shapes slowly came into focus for the man resting at the foot of the enormous flight of stairs. The box of dirt remained where he had left it and in the gloom he did not know where he was. Renfield was aware of the pain rushing through him and the bruises forming on his body. He rolled over and moaned, touching his head and struggling to his feet. "Bloody hell," he complained to no one in particular, for he was completely alone, "that hurts."

Disoriented, he stumbled in the direction of the kitchen, vaguely aware of his surroundings. Dust covered everything, his every step stirring up a faint cloud, cobwebs moving in the breeze through the nearest cracked window. The form of a water pump came into sight and he hastened toward it, cranking the handle and producing no more than an empty groan from the depths of the pipes. One drop of rusty water rolled onto his palm, his attention drawn to a dark shape scampering across the table in the moonlight. Renfield's eyes brightened and he slammed his hand down to prevent its escape, lifting its wriggling form in fat fingers. "Here we go," he purred, "nice and fat and juicy!" He bit off its head and stuffed the rest into his mouth, licking his fingers and nearly choking as he turned to find a formidable presence behind him.

A strangled gasp caught in his throat as he threw himself at the door, wrenching the handle and finding in his panic that it would not open. He did not know what fear compelled him to such action, only that the form of the Count as he approached filled him with an unimaginable dread that faded into submission as the man's features were revealed. "It will not open," the Count said needlessly, Renfield's hand still locked about the handle. Dracula could feel the man's pulse from across the room, frantic beneath his chest, his fear so pungent it carried on the air. Men often responded to him in this manner when they lost their senses, when they had seen what he was and felt the force of his fangs in their throat. Women submitted and became beguiled but men went mad. "You have nothing to fear," he continued. "I'm accustomed to barring my home; there are wolves in Transylvania."

Calm and luring was his voice, but it was not soothing the man before him, defiant despite every instinct compelling him to submit. "Not here there ain't," he protested, shrinking back against the door as Dracula towered over him. It was necessary for him to have a servant, someone he could control, someone to keep his house for him during the long hours in which he was forced to sleep. Dracula could not move about in daylight except in shadows and needed protection. Renfield was of a weak mind, impressionable, foolish, hampered by feelings of resentment for Jonathan Harker, but he would do.

"You must have patience with me," Dracula said. "You must try to understand me. I can reward you with a long and fruitful life, but I must have your loyalty. Can you give that?" It was not a difficult demand, one many other men had undertaken throughout the centuries, most of them abysmal failures but there was the occasional instance of true devotion. Most of them were gone. Dracula had seen them all to their ends, some more pleasant than others depending on their worth and dedication. Renfield would come to a bad end, but there was a spark of desire in him that compelled him to nod. "Then come," said Dracula, and indicated the dark passage behind them, prompting his companion to accompany him.

Faint memories were returning to Renfield, nothing pertaining to his master but images of recent turmoil that caused him to murmur, "I've been bit by a bat!"

Sweeping his cloak around the man's shoulders, Dracula answered, "So I see."

"Do you think I should have it looked at by that doctor at the loony bin?"

"No." Dracula did not conceal his disdain for the notion and his companion fell silent, following the Count deeper into the house. Scattered throughout it were his boxes of earth, several upstairs and more in the crypts beneath the stairs, dank, disintegrating rooms without natural light and removed from the rest of the estate by a series of locked doors that his master had no difficulty navigating through. The remains of hundred-year-old corpses littered the floors, sculls stacked in neat piles in corners and fragments of bones protruding from the floor. It was the custom in this part of the country for old and distinguished families to bury their dead together, new corpses among the old, eventually the oldest graves reused and the remains dumped in with the others. Renfield found this portion of the crypts disarming and his footsteps slowed as he followed his employer down the narrow stairs.

Pausing, Renfield asked nervously, "What are we down here for?"

"Come," his master commanded, lifting one hand and beckoning to him. Renfield could not resist his authority and went, going about his tasks with mindless obedience, for Dracula refused to answer any of his questions and efficiently silenced them with unflinching influence. It was only a few hours until dawn and there was much to accomplish. His boxes were moved where he wanted them, hidden in the labyrinth of rooms beneath the house, Renfield panting as he dragged them into place. Mina's blood flowed through the Count, an unusual quality to it that made him aware of her former weakness. In a short time, she would perish and he needed to be awake when she did. Compulsion would desire him to return to her side but he would resist, for there must be no suspicion cast upon him. The townspeople must not make any assumptions, and there would be few doubts, for her health had been in question for months. Everyone was waiting for her to die.

What no one anticipated was that she would again awaken.