Dracula's Guest
Harlesden, 1979
She was not to be trusted, that much he knew for sure. Carefully, he turned the icon over in his large hands, solid gold carved into the likeness of a bat, stained glass denoting large eyes from which the familiarity of its countenance might gaze back at him, had it breath to breathe. He raised his eyebrows and lifted his head to regard her, seemingly a young woman in her early 20s, dressed all in black. He knew her type. Although he had seldom few dealings with the Fangire tribe, just as he had limited his dealings with the Brujah and the Tremere, there was something of this woman that was noticeably dangerous, far more dangerous than the brutishness or sly charm of those other clans.
"You do not wish to be king?" she asked, her words soft, politely spoken, a clear challenge.
He snorted with displeasure, returning the icon to the table, the blood red glass of the wrought shape staring back at him.
"Child," he retorted, looking at her with distaste, "I am already lord over all our kind."
It was her turn now to raise her eyebrows, to pretend surprise.
"Oh, really?" A smile played upon her lips. "Is that so?"
This child, barely a few hundred years old; this child, who came into his secret place, the home he had sailed across the black seas from Eastern Europe for, the land that the accountant, Harker, had purchased for him—this child could cause problems for him.
Queene, she had dared introduce herself, a title he was sure was supposed to be impress him, yet did not. Those who claimed descent from monarchy in their circle were ten-a-penny, he reflected, even the so-called 'brat prince' Lestat had some kind of assertion to some throne or another. The longer you lived, the older you got, the more reluctant you were to relinquish power, it seemed.
"That," he answered firmly, "is so."
This century alone, as he had mentioned to both Lord Ruthven and Count Orlok on separate occasions at the Bagatelle Card Club, he had encountered three different species of aliens who claimed to have been the progenitors of that power which he now possessed. The first claimed to have been an evil spirit incarnate, a force of nature as old as the world that seeped in through the blood of dying men and made them immortal; the second claimed to be a sort of parasite, an alien grub that dwelled within the guts and provided much the same, whilst the third claimed to be descendants of ancient gods who had fought a war with a race named the Prometheans and their giant mechanical death machines, the Firewalkers.
Quacks and phoneys the lot of them, he thought derisively; he liked them less than that young man he had met in Washington once, who had claimed descent from his own great line, and who had sparkled like Bowie in the morning sun, or the imbeciles he had encountered in New Jersey, living together in a dilapidated mansion, having long since quit the motherland.
Before him, the woman stood there, her lips twitching with displeasure, the solid gold bat on the table between them. She was not unattractive, he reflected, perhaps a little short, maybe. Yet, she had a touch of Elizabeth's fierceness in her temperament. Perhaps, under different circumstances, they might have made quite the match.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his cat, Carmilla, come sauntering into the room from wherever she had been, a slender and lithe creature of coal black fur, free to express herself as she pleased, indifferent to the company he kept. No, he thought, regarding the cat fondly, those days of world domination were over, he was domesticated now, he would not take this woman's offer.
For a brief second though, he did miss the old days, the occasional disputes with Varney, the presence of his faithful dog, Zoltan, forever at his heels. With grace and elegance, Carmilla leapt into an empty armchair, turned once, and settled down to the serious business of dreaming, and a faint smile crossed his lips. No, he thought again, he was happy here, North London had been kind to him, and there were good rail connexions to the city via the Bakerloo Line.
Hastily, he turned his attention back to the present, to the young woman standing before him, the exquisite frills and ruffles of her dress, the childish impetuousness of her manner.
"You may come to regret this," she warned, her voice soft, her words sharp. "Perhaps one day I might be called on to pass judgement upon you."
He looked at her, bemused by her attempts to threaten him, to cajole him, as if the weight of such words might have meaning for him. He disguised a smile, trying at least to remain considerate of her feelings.
"I am afraid you will find that the laws of the Fangire Court hold no weight here."
He rose up from his place of rest, drawing himself up to his full height, pleased at the way in which her presence seemed to shrink in his shadow.
"You will find that here," he gestured with a gloved hand, "that in Harlesden, we have our own way of doing things."
That last statement, he thought with a wince, did not sound as impressive as once it had. When he had brought the land, Harlesden had been mostly fields, a corner of Middlesex north of the Grand Union Canal. Yet, following that business with Harker, who had secured the deed for him, the slow progression of industrialisation had brought more and more people to the area surrounding him.
Five years after he had settled into his new home, a biscuit factory had been constructed on his doorstep and that had been the end of things.
He resisted the urge to shake his head, failing to understand why the English were so fond of biscuits.
"Is that a threat?" she asked him. "Are you threatening me?"
For a moment, it seemed as if light played upon her skin, refracted illumination over her clear complexion, her lips twitching with displeasure.
"Quite the contrary," he said with reserve, staring intently into her eyes. "In fact, it is due to my concern for you that I tell you these things. I would hate for you to find yourself out of your depth."
She said nothing, and yet the anger, the frustration was clear upon her face. Swiftly, she snatched up the belt from the small table and turned away from him, marching across the plush carpet to the double doors before turning, delivering one last expression of her displeasure.
"The days of your old order are over, you know that? In less than a decade there won't be any of you old vampires left, but we, the Fangire, will still be here."
He fixed her with an expression of dismay and displeasure.
"Dear girl, I think you will find that there will always be a place for Count Dracula."
Again, she turned, wrenching the doors open, striding down the hall and into the darkness away from him.
Yes, he thought, perhaps with more than a little melancholy, such a child could certainly cause a problem for him—for all of them.