Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to not be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!
Author's Note: **blows off cobwebs and layers upon layers of rainbow internet dust** Hello again my dear readers, I have returned. I'll keep the apologies and explanations short [if you're uninterested go a head a skip to the story!]- Sorry everyone~~~ as much as not writing is concerned, I was blocked out of my account for a while due to complications with my e-mail, but once I managed to get around that loophole, I found myself sorely lacking my creative energy. As in I could not write at all. I'd like blame my workplace for sucking my creative juices, but that's only partially it. Anyway after an exceedingly long time I'm back! I'm also currently in process of editing the next two chapters and writing a third, so one way or another things will be done! **proceeds to unwrap a sugary treat**
Drink My Soul
Chapter Nine: When All Things Fail
"Failure is nature's plan to prepare you for great responsibilities."
–Napoleon Hill
Myra couldn't quite make sense of what she was seeing. She blinked- as if that could change the information before her. In her hands she held a small cut out of paper creased several times, which she had pulled from her brother's jacket. In small elegant calligraphy, Bertrand had listed several addresses placing the numbers one through eight next to each one though not in sequential order. A majority of the addresses, she noted, had been crossed off. It was one of those addresses, which put her into a state of shock—it was Australian with a five-digit postcode, and Myra knew it was where she had resided with Gothar. Next to it was the numeral '1'. Myra scanned the rest of the numbers, murmuring the addresses as she followed the sequence until finally the eighth address read:
Liverpool.
Though Myra wasn't sure how close Garside Grange was to Liverpool, she knew that the addresses were either Gothar's past addresses or his current one. Worst of all, Bertrand had felt the need to underline Liverpool several times. Myra traced the familiar font with her fingers, not sure if she should feel comforted by Bertrand going after Gothar, or scared for her life.
She swallowed unevenly, replacing the note back into the pocket.
What was Bertrand doing? She ran a hand hastily through her hair, when she felt the air become chilled suddenly. She looked up at the ceiling, watching as the tarantula that lived in the chandelier above her coffin scuttled hurriedly along the roof, and walls into a small crevice, where it was seen no more.
The Clan Leader had arrived.
Myra bit her bottom lip. "Worrying will get you nowhere," she hissed to herself and made her way to Bertrand's makeshift wardrobe. Pulling out a simple black suit top and fishing out a blood red tie, Myra hastily began the creation of an outfit. "No use in being held up in here if I can do something to help. Sorry, Vladimir."
The knee-high boots the Count favoured so much did nothing but slow him down in his haste to move along the corridors of Garside Grange. Slipping through the shadows, smiling awkwardly across as the young girls waved at him from inside their classrooms, only to be caught out by their teachers. Granted the Count did feel better knowing he could still make young girls' weak at the knees, but at this point and time he was Count Dracula on a mission.
Even if that mission was to see a Breather.
The old wooden door was the only thing standing in the way of him and one miss Alexander McCauley, he put on another burst of speed carelessly crossing into a beam of light which shone through an old window. He grimaced, but simply brushed at his stinging hand until the distance between he and the door had been closed. One hand on the handle, he pushed forwards into the room and all sense of urgency evaporated. Those high cheek bones, full luscious lips, and beautiful piercing blue eyes—so tantalizing, that the Count found himself inhaling on instinct just to fill his nose with the perfume she chose to wear. Smooth and light at first, before the spice bled through and the Count lost all ability to think.
Well, until the little minx of a breather noticed he had entered the room, and he opened his mouth to talk about something. Only he had no idea what. A hard look crossed her features, and she stood, much less gracefully (he imagined) than Myra would but just as beautifully.
"I found these in your office," she held onto a stack of papers. The Count blinked helplessly, not quite knowing what to say. She pushed on, "I take it you've not read them yet."
He felt the air around him pulse, and instantly knew now was not the time to be dealing with this. Papers and reading of all things? Letting his head drop against the wooden frame heavily he felt panic flood through him. He looked back down the corridor he'd rushed through, only to smell that, that scent of hers.
"I really need your input on the staffing levels."
The Count sent her a pained look, quickly murmuring, "I have no idea what a staffing level is," and turned to leave the room but she was already speaking.
"Staffing levels refer to the amount of teachers we have employed."
Exasperation would sufficiently describe how he felt at this point and time. "Very good! Carry on without me."
With a roll of his eyes, he turned to leave but again she started speaking.
"It can't wait." Anger pulsed, but the second he turned to her she was already speaking, "Time is now critical. I have to hire new staff and I need you to approve of the candidates."
The Count was at a loss for words. Hardly something he was ever short of, but he admired her strength to question him, a Dracula.
He gave in to the beauty standing before him.
What else could he do, she was a little minx?
Muttering, 'alright' under his breath, the Count held the papers firmly and began to scan through the details.
Ramanga could smell them. Could feel them. Could taste them. Breathers, their young hearts thrumming loudly, a mass choir to his ears, some bigger, some smaller—he could sense them all.
"You're hiding in a school for breathers," he hissed. Disgust only one of the emotions he was feeling, amongst the insatiable hunger.
Bertrand stared dead ahead, posture stiff. As if ready to fight at any moment, Ingrid noted.
"We're being cautious," he explained steadily.
"The only thing breathers need learn is how to feed us," Ramanga intoned lightly.
Ingrid thought this clan leader was too... arrogant. The only arrogance allowed was to be made by her and her alone. Not some pathetic Clan Leader. She was the only one whom was to torment Bertrand, to make her father feel fear.
"We like to play with our food before we eat it," she crooned. Bertrand sent her a glare, and Ingrid couldn't help feeling just a little smug.
The Clan Leader paused for a moment, regarding the little vampire before him. He liked her, "Hm," he muttered without commitment, "Where's the Chosen One?"
Bertrand gave a quick bow. "I—I'll bring him before you," he stuttered.
Ingrid felt her smirk settle into place as she heard the wavering voice of the invincible Bertrand. But he barely gave her a second glance as he left the room. Ingrid turned to glower at the roaring fire angrily.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, she admonished, revenge Ingrid, you're not supposed to help him. Ramanga entered her vision, capturing her eyes with those dark soulless pits;
"Well this has turned out nice in the end," Renfield began awkwardly, before turning to Ramanga and holding his hands out, "Can I take your—?"
Ramanga didn't even spare the pus filled maggot a glance. "Don't touch."
Renfield dropped his arms in an instant. The deep voice brought Ingrid out of her reprieve, "Go and tell the Count that our honoured guest has arrived."
The breather all but ran from the room.
Wile him with your wicked ways she'd said, Ingrid recited before sending Ramanga a flirtatious smirk.
The Count stared at names and faces which he really, truly couldn't be bothered with. One face bled into another, names washed over the Count's head and their 'hobbies'? Yes well, he didn't particularly care if one Mr Smith liked golf on the weekend.
"Look," he whined, dropping the hand holding the papers against his lap, "I really don't have time for these... minutiae."
She walked straight past him. "The devil's in the details, Mr Count."
"He's in a lot more than that," he growled, glaring at the papers before him, until Renfield came bursting into the room.
"We've had a delivery!" he stated, words melding into one.
The Count ignored him and went back to staring into the boring brown eyes of Mr Smith, when he attempted to try and read the reference again.
I have spent most of my time abroad specialising in history-"A special delivery!" Renfield repeated urgently, "You have to sign for it!"
And the Count gave up.
"Can nobody do anything in this place without me?" he roared, turning his heated glare onto Renfield, "If it needs a signature I'm sure your scrawl will suffice."
Renfield paid no mind. "Someone's here!"
I have spent most of my time—
"Y'know the—"
Spent most of—a ghoulish shout and Renfield had his Master's attention once more, so he began to mime the appearance of the Clan Leader. Ms McCauley turned her head with a light frown. What was he doing?
"—Thing!" Renfield gnashed his teeth together softly, and pointed to her quickly.
"Eh?" The Count's eyes danced back and forth between the two before realisation covered his features and fear set in. "Right, I've got to go. Urgent business to attend."
He stood and followed Renfield out.
"But I really need your approval on these candidates," she was (sufficed to say) a little put out, but the Count barely paused.
Clan Leader.
In his home.
He could die, what's he care about some breather? "We'll do this later," he lied.
And the tail of his coat was the last thing Miss McCauley saw before the wooden door slammed shut.
Myra dressed in the dirty white jeans from before and her brother's black shirt, sleeves rolled up while the blood red tie formed a loose waist belt looked like someone had just dragged her from a pirate's story book. Only the dark glasses on her face set her apart. Her bare feet tapped against the wooden boards as she made her way to the main area of the manor, where she was sure she could feel the Clan Leader. Well, that was until she heard two pairs of footsteps speeding simultaneously along the stairwell. Light steps from beneath her, and heavier steps from above. Her eyes darted to find a quick escape, and she found a small door to her left—without even hesitating, Myra threw herself through the door and into a dust filled room, tarp covering various shapes. She paid no mind, preferring to eavesdrop on what was happening outside.
Bertrand hurried down the steps.
He had to get to Myra and explain the situation, perhaps hide her in the cellar until Ramanga was gone. Then he could find Vlad, make up some plan and—he sniffed the air, and heard footsteps.
Erin had been down here, and those footsteps belonged to Vlad.
They aren't doing something so stupid when they know the danger, he thought angrily and sped down the steps now wanting to find Vlad at all costs. But Vlad met him halfway.
"Vlad," the younger vampire quickly glanced and met his eyes, "The Clan Leader's here. Don't tell him you can't open the book—play for time."
Vlad glared at the floor. "What's the point," he murmured, "I'm never gonna get it open."
Bertrand wanted to shake the Chosen One until he lived up to that supposed title of his meant. "You can if you get those stupid ideas out your head."
Vlad frowned. "What ideas?"
Sure, play innocent now, Bertrand rolled his eyes internally. "You want vampires and breathers to live together in peace. You want the bloodshed to end forever."
Anger piqued through the young Vladimir Dracula. "You were spying on us."
Bertrand imagined punching the boy. Why wouldn't he spy on the Chosen One and his half-fang girl? "You and Erin are vampires, you can't change that."
Vlad swallowed roughly. "Yeah... yeah! We are vampires!" Bertrand rolled his eyes, until the boy continued, "Vampires who want humans to be our friends not food."
"You want to stake your life on that?" Bertrand hissed towering above the boy menacingly.
"If that's what it takes," came the self-assured answer.
"Go tell that to Ramanga," he whispered, "and it'll be the last thing you do."
There was silence. "I'll be with you in a minute. I've got something I need to do."
They parted ways in an instant, Bertrand returning to Ramanga too angry to warn his sister, and Vlad hastily descending to Erin.
"Don't keep him waiting," Bertrand ordered and flittered away.
What was that all about? Vlad wanted breathers to live amongst vampires? That would never work! Maybe if she could talk to him, explain something that his father obviously had neglected, she was sure that the Count would've missed something. But then there was that pause, the slight tone of disbelief in regards to the half-fang...something was going on. Myra counted to ten before deciding to open the door—by that stage the two were far-gone, Vlad's footsteps faint and at the bottom of the stairwell, Bertrand not even in the same area. A quick sniff and she decided to follow Bertrand up to where the Clan Leader was waiting.
She wasn't some damsel who would wait in the wings for help to arrive, or let the 'big strong males' take care of her. Myra didn't need that, what she needed was to do something and a battle of the wits was something she had always been good at, even when she'd been with Gothar. She would speak to Vlad after she bought the Dracula's some time.
Halfway towards the steps going up and Myra heard it. A voice, no...rather, a whisper? The echo of the Chosen One but much darker, sinister.
"I'm in the mirror room."
It felt as if her entire body had come alive.
That voice was the reason she had her powers, it was her reason for being.
Without ever really making a conscious decision—she began to move, and her eyes to sting. She knew what was happening, the voice which called to Vlad called to her as well.
"Look for the mirror...
that's right...I'm over here...
here in the dark... I'm in here!
In here!
Look for the mirror!"