Claws coated in red, a handful of footpads, pickpockets, and predatory humans left dead behind him, Dracula calmed. They'd screamed and wailed and cried, and he smirked at the sound of the rapid bootfalls and piercing whistles of the cops. Let them wonder. He hadn't been after blood, only pain and fear, and while the dismembered corpses were covered with slashes, they weren't visibly a vampire's marks. Granted, there weren't a lot of other creatures that would happily rip out intestines and fling them across the alley...but even in his anger, he'd considered Van Helsing and restrained himself from ripping into them with his teeth.
A few moment's consideration, and he returned to that dead-end alley and the cluster of remains that had been a huddle of terrified humans. Two of them over his shoulders, two more in his arms...a short brisk walk through back alleys to the nearby river, a set of dull splashes, and another trip. As he picked up the bodies and vaulted carelessly over the back alley wall, he could already see the lanterns gatherered at the end as the bobbies prepared to enter and inspect.
Let them. See what a few strings of intestines could tell them.
Corpses bobbing down the river, Dracula sat and meditatively licked the blood from his hands, tongue flicking over claw-tips, as he thought.
He really ought to leave Abraham to the "guardianship" of those damned meddlers. Would serve him right, being ripped apart on the next hunt, bitten by a ghoul, taken by a vampire. His human had no right to bring others into this! But the blood and death and pain had calmed him, and he realized...Abraham was, as of yet, still unaware of the game. He couldn't really blame the man for taking away some of his enjoyment, nor the others for meddling.
He still wanted to rip them apart and then snarl at Abraham, but he was too old to give in to such petty whims. Honestly, he was too old to have ripped apart a half-dozen people in a fit of jealous anger, even though they were scum with more than a few murders behind them. He was a vampire lord, not some childish newcomer, and should act it.
Calmed, he returned home. He'd rinse out the red coat, put it out to be cleaned, and tomorrow he'd ignore Helsing and go to a theater or museum or something equally distracting. After another day to calm himself, he'd return to his games. Rising swiftly and smoothly, mind now soothed by plans and distractions and sated by bloodshed, he leapt lightly from the railing and meandered to his home.
-v-v-
They would have to hunt it in the theaters. That was it. That was all that was left to them. Four nights now, they'd gone each night, one to each theater, meeting afterwards to determine if the creature had been sighted, then splitting again to check yet another round of play houses and venues. And no luck. It might have been an enjoyable holiday, truly, had they not been frustrated and stymed. What was worse...they'd heard of the slaughter. Four bodies recovered from the river, all mangled. A fifth recovered earlier that day. Torn and battered, missing limbs and various organs. Possibly a human, but...so very unlikely. Possibly the same creature that they hunted.
They'd gone past the curiousity-seekers and the watchful bobbies to gawk with the others at the bloody smears where the carnage had occurred. The alley had reeked of human piss, rotten leaves, scraps of garbage, and blood. And the horrible clinging stench of released bowels...though likely not so much released as shredded and torn. No prints, though. No bloody handprints, no claw marks, no clumps of fur, nothing to tell them what had done this. And so, with no other clues, they'd gone to hunting in the theater district, all watching for the vermillion attire of their mystery creature.
Damnation, but he was tired. What had started out as John and Arthur's means to distract him had turned into an unwelcome chore instead. Theater after theater, wandering through the audience as he could, scanning and searching, then back through the streets an hour later to the rendevous, to hear the others report as little luck as he'd had. Back to another theater as the moon slowly moved across the sky, then the hourly meeting again. Off to a burlesque...then back through the humid and damp and airless night to meet yet again and report yet again that nothing had been seen. On such warm nights they had no real hope that their prey would still be wearing its red...but tonight, tonight was chilly. Not cold, really, but a damp and clinging chill, and Abraham had high hopes that one of them, at some point, would see the creature.
Distracted by these hopes, Abraham paid little attention to his route, simply winding through the alleys of the theater district to their meeting place at one of the many fountains and neighborhood wells. And so he didn't notice the darkness, or the emptiness...or the small band of footpads waiting for some drunken theater patron to turn down the wrong alley in the misty dark.
Abraham was not a small man, but he was alone...and there were three men. And their knives were not small knives. No, they were intended to go through heavy coats and vests and shirts and into the body of a victim, propelled by muscles and a greedy sort of indifference to human life.
-v-v-
Abraham's back was suddenly slammed against the wall, his body twisted mid-step and thrust to the side. A shout of surprise, an attempt to strike back, and a man was pinning each arm, a third holding a knife to his throat.
"I b'lieve they say, "Your money or your life" and all that. We're not so fancy as yer theater types, though. Give us the money handy-like and it's a quick an easy death for the likes of you. Fight us, and you'll lie here bleeding and screaming for a good long time."
The man's eyes glittered, and Abraham had no doubt they really meant it, that he was going to die. Or so they thought. He'd fought vampires, dammit, and a trio of footpads would not be his end! A heavy hobnailed boot slammed onto the foot beside him, though he'd kept his face showing only fear and no signs of his intention. It worked, they were surprised, the man to his side releasing his arm slightly in shock...and Abraham yanked to the other side, moving his throat from under the knife though it left a thin, shallow cut behind.
But now they were ready for him, one angry and hurt, two angry and frustrated, and his shout of anger only brought their fists into play. Not knives, no...they wanted to hurt him first. He had his guns, yes, always had them, always loaded and ready, and tucked away inside his coat, out of reach of pickpockets...and out of his reach, too. They threw him to the ground, though he'd gotten a few good hits in of his own, and a boot landed in his ribs, then another...but only one person? Rolling, he pushed himself up, ready to shout, hoping that his own friends were in hearing distance, digging through his clothing to his guns...
And, back to him, stood a tall man, menacing. The coat's color was indeterminate in the damp blackness, as was the hat...but Abraham would quite willingly stake all he owned that they were a deep red. A snarling, growling, angry voice hissed out at the footpad dangling from the man's...claws...as the footpad fought and tore at the hand locked about his throat.
"He is MINE. MINE!" The beast flung the full-sized man away with a single careless arm, and the arc through the air ended with the sickening thud of a head meeting a brick wall. Two more men...their remains...lay nearby. Moving faster than he could possibly think, Abraham found the guns, pulled them out, and began to fire.
No matter how deadly the men had been, whatever it was that had claimed him was far deadlier still. He hoped it was sensitive to silver, blessings, or both...and the bullets flew across the short distance, burying themselves in its back. One, two, three, four, five, six...and he stopped, heart caught in his throat, watching. The long, thin legs folded, the creature fell to its knees...then forward. And it did not move.
His whistle...his whistle...they all had one, to call the others to them quickly. And so he blew it, staring at his prey, again and again and again. They'd come, the fountain was so close, only a few blocks distant. And...he needed to see what it was that had come to his rescue, then claimed him for its own. Vampire? Werewolf? Something different?
Dracula. It was Dracula. Not dead...in fact, the body was slowly pushing the bullets out as the eyes stared blankly forward. Mind in a muddle, he stopped and stared and thought.
-v-v-
"He didn't kill me in my own house. He saved me in the cemetary. He saved me tonight as well." Angry, frustrated, Abraham stared down at the vampire. "I can't kill him. It would be...entirely dishonorable. I can't." The others started to argue, but he stopped them with a single raised hand.
"Tonight...no. I'd be dead if he hadn't been here. Next time, yes. We'll kill him. But I only have him tonight because...I shot him in the back as he protected me. But I'll leave him a reminder. And a promise." Abraham stopped, briefly dipping his hand into the blood pooled under the vampire, and left a great bloody handprint on the ground beside it.
"We know he's here. We know he's in London, that he comes to this district regularly enough for us to have seen him here twice in less than a week. We can hunt him again. But not tonight."
Abraham was the only one with a gun. They had not even a stake on them, not silver...they had only thought to find the creature, not kill it, not tonight. They had assorted tools on their horses, yes...but who wanted to walk into a theater carrying a great mallet and a half-dozen stakes? And in the time it would take to reach the horses...the vampire would be healed and gone.
John and Arthur had no choice but that didn't mean they were happy with Abraham's unshakeable decision. It was not a game! This was a monster, to be killed when found! As the hands twitched and curled on the beast, they angrily took their leave, only hoping the vampire wouldn't take another innocent life before their next encounter.
-v-v-
Dracula woke slowly, painfully, aware of a great burning in his back and chest. Silver? What...what had that man done? Why was he still laying here on the filthy pavement, in that same alley?
Alone?
Pushing up onto his hands and knees, he paused, waiting for the pain to subside, then sat up entirely, looking about. Empty, Abraham had gone, leaving him and the corpses. A sniff...the others had been here. Those fools...Arthur and that damnable Seward. Why had he been left behind?
At least he could eat the corpses of those fools. The blood would still be warm if motionless. And so he stood, staggering towards one of the corpses, only to pause after a single step.
Red eyes fixed on the bloody handprint, and there was a moment of silence.
A great, rolling, booming, richly evil laugh chuckled and roared out of the darkness.