Twilight Is Not Good For Maidens

Author's Note: Well, this is an unusually quick update for me! Anyway, we're in flashback mode now, and the real story is about to begin – the development of the Mina/Dracula romance in England and the awakening of her feelings for him. For this scene, I've borrowed lines from J.V. Hart's script, because it was necessary. I hope you like it and please do review. I hope to have more up shortly. Enjoy!

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TWILIGHT IS NOT GOOD FOR MAIDENS

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Chapter 1: The Meeting

London, July 7, 1897

"See the amazing cinematograph! A wonder of modern civilisation!"

A crier hawked his proclamation across the ears of countless London citizens, seemingly contending with the brash cries of a young newsboy, barking out news of wild storms, deserted ships and escaped wolves. The contesting shouts caught the ears of many passing through the streets – some paid attention, some chose to ignore them. Nonetheless, they all shrunk back into the mass of people, becoming nameless and faceless in the crowd, happily sinking into the endless sea of people.

Only one figure among the crowd was different. He strode through the streets of London with what seemed to be a deliberate purposefulness in every step he took, occasionally nodding politely to passers-by whose attention he had caught, and tipping his hat to other passing gentlemen. Despite the aura of mystery that surrounded him, the natural imperiousness, the unmistakable traces of darkness and power, the strong air of nobility to him, the strange sense of otherness that followed him, he was almost unseen. Despite, the grand finery of his clothing, the odd tinted spectacles he wore and the dark, handsome features of his face, he passed through the ever-moving crowd mostly unnoticed. It was almost as if a shroud of shadow separated him from the distant strangers around him, keeping him hidden and anonymous, though his presence was keenly felt by all who passed him. He slid across the streets, through the grand city as though they were his own, as though London was entirely his own element, the only sign of weakness lying in the deep blue eyes hidden behind smoked glasses, always averted from the glare of the sun.

Those same concealed eyes drank in the sight of the great city – the feats of construction, the rich diversity of experiences, the collective excitement towards the promise of the future, its national pride, the comfortable, familiar feel that much of the flaws of humanity remained unchanged, the beauty, the squalor and the swarms of passing humans. It was close to overwhelming, were he one to be overwhelmed by such material things. But even to his ancient, tired eyes that had seen much of what the world had to offer, this was an entirely new sight. Perhaps he had underestimated the world, he mused.

London was everything he had expected it to be, another world entirely. A world he had near forgotten in his unchanging life, home in his motherland. He was lurking within the beating heart of a powerful country, wandering through its veins, keeping hungry eyes fixed on its lifeblood. This new world of advance, revolution, change and industry had a charm that nearly rivalled the legend, power and passion of the ways of the Old World; his Wallachia, though it could never come close. The blood of this new land was dry, its bones brittle – and though all the former, proud ways of life of his homeland were drained away, he had his memories. Memories more real than the advancing ranks of buildings and marvels around him at that very moment. Memories that brought poignant joy and straining anguish in equal measure.

Yet, the cries of the figure advertising the cinematograph, as it was called, served as a momentary respite from such hauntings, and as a reminder of what wonders had been accomplished in his absence from the world, a testament to his age. He was indeed in the whirl and rush of humanity, as he had told Jonathan Harker he longed to be – words that were not entirely lies.

Although, he amended as he waited for a break in the evening traffic to allow him to cross to the neighbouring street, a little less whirl and rush would be preferable.

Despite the dreary dazzle of the mighty city and all it had to offer, it served only as a distraction, albeit a very interesting and pleasing one. But he was beyond the reach of such petty glamour and freshness – they could not console him. Even as the whirl of life and change bubbled around him, almost inviting him to join in, his pain had become so great that even such great new wonders could not ease it. He had tried to avenge it, erase it, ignore it, and ease it but his longing and the old aches of loss only strengthened. Over the centuries, the distractions of eternal life and bloodlust had faded away, and over endless time, the hurt had gone deep, tainting his heart.

After passion had claimed its tragic price, when he – in a rage of heartbreak – first accepted his curse, his first desire had been revenge – and what a blazing, blinding vengeance it was. He had turned his bloodlust into a weapon of great evil, raining down murder, bloodshed and madness at all within his kingdom. The first victims of his fury, his despair, his anguish, had been the Turks. He had brought a black and bloody reckoning to every single one within his reach. Soon, they all fled. This revenge did not ease the pain of his loss. Next, his raging grief had turned, again in violence, upon the Church. Those creatures of a God who had happily condemned a good, loving and innocent woman to an eternity of torment and damnation. He had burned with a dark, terrible need to bring the tortures of Hell to all the followers of Christ whenever they ventured too close, unprotected by holy items and the scared cross. And yet all too soon, no release could be found in that.

He had even tried to drown his sorrow by taking new lovers, enticing some of the beauties of the land into becoming creatures of the night, in the hope that one among them might make him forget his beloved lost princess. In his heart, he had known it to be hopeless and his heart's wisdom proved him right – the fire of his passion for his triad of brides had long dimmed and his desire for them had waned into nothing long ago.

Though his hatred and anger still burned furiously within him, as did his yearning and passion, it was all for nought. Such a blaze of feeling had been too short and had flown from him far too soon, leaving him alone and empty. Time had pulled on and he had decayed, just as his castle was slowly beginning to crumble through years of neglect. In truth, he was angry and tired after centuries of living like a bloodthirsty animal and he had become gradually worn down by his centuries of loneliness and loss, even to the point of allowing himself to decline into physical old age. He now lived a twisted existence, charred by grief.

All distractions having long fallen from him, in the abrupt and final way that only distractions fall, he only longed for her. Elisabeta. The love of his life. In pools of tears and blood, there always existed images of her sweet face. Her memory was always with him, always near him but it offered no comfort – it only served to remind him of all he had lost, of all he would never again hold. Her memory lingered and yet the subtle sense of her presence had forever departed. Her soul had truly left him, it seemed. She was always in his thoughts and yet she was never more truly gone.

He had been weary in spirit, but his heart had been revived by a new, exciting, ruthless emotion – hope. His body had been akin to cold steel, his blood; a stream of ice, until he conceived of the thought that perhaps her spirit had returned to him. Perhaps he had a second chance. It all seemed impossible, that a direct sign of her return to the mortal coil could be brought to him, brought into his very home, the property of an ordinary young Englishman. It was almost as if God – the old dealmaker – was playing a cruel trick on him, a further punishment for his renouncement.

His thoughts had long turned away from London and his own past, and turned towards something for more important, far more consuming. Her. Miss Wilhelmina Murray. Or Mina, as she preferred to be called. The girl in Jonathan Harker's photograph. The very image of his beloved Elisabeta.

Finding her again in such a small photograph, such a tiny, forgettable item was a revelation. It was as though he had been stumbling, lost and cold, in the darkness for so long and suddenly, without warning, had found her there, waiting for him.

For a moment he believed he had gone mad. He could not believe it was true. A light was lit in his heart and, even as all the memories and sorrows flooded his eternal senses, a new life was born in his heart. He remembered what it felt like when love was alive and fulfilling, instead of ageing and hollowing. To look at her, through eyes of medieval strife and the crispness of 18th century invention, was bewildering. He had examined the face, how the light and shadows toyed with her image and he knew he could not be mistaken.

A quiet goodness and brightness seemed to shine in her beautiful face. That dignified and regal posture – seemingly aloof, but with a gentle tenderness behind her eyes. Her skin, still blessed by Celtic pallor. Her small, beautifully-formed mouth. Her hair – glossy and dark, pulled back into a stiff bun. The delicacy of her features and the strength behind them. And her eyes – eyes gleaming with intelligence and potential, shining with a beautiful and pure light, eyes that showed a soul of innocence and love. He was captivated, fascinated. He knew that face so well; he saw it in the countless portraits around the castle, in his memories, in his dreams... It was her – he knew it!

He had never dared hope of such a thing, and yet his dream seemed to be flesh and blood, before his very eyes and waiting for him in a foreign country. It seemed that her soul had broken through the gates of Heaven or Hell, and returned to earth to find him once more. He had, of course, known of the concept of reincarnation but had never before believed it to be true. And yet, here was the photo of Elisabeta, for no other soul could move his heart that way – it was no mere resemblance. Elisabeta's very spirit was captured in that tiny photograph. It seemed too good to be true, but true it was – Elisabeta had been returned in the body of Mina. It was destiny.

Having had that one glimpse of her, he was eager for more. Many a time in his dark castle, before Harker had any true suspicions of the supernatural web woven across the land, he had tried to encourage the young Englishman to talk of his life, his friends, his fiancée. It had all been under the veneer of polite conversation, but the Count thirsted to know more of the young lady who so resembled his lost love. He urged Harker, ignoring the young man's growing apprehension, to describe her, not only her appearance but also her persona, in order to discover if the connection went beyond looks. All Harker had done was list her qualities and happily brood over her good traits and virtues. Harker had been quietly tolerant of the few odd questions but the man was so lacking in imagination, he could only paint the vaguest mental portrait of the character of his darling fiancée.

But it had been enough to convince Vlad Draculea. To know that she lived again, that she was waiting! Having taken measures to keep unfortunate Jonathan Harker trapped within his castle, he had left for England as soon as possible, burning with love and hope and memory. Soon, he would find her and they would be together always. He would make her flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, kin of his kin and they would never again be separated.

On his journey, he had slain the crew of the ship on which he travelled, obeying his bloodlust, knowing how it would replenish him and undo the decay of years. Upon arriving in England, his first act had not been a noble one. He had attacked a young girl, beckoning her to him before partaking of her young blood. It was all he needed to fully restore him to youth.

But Mina had discovered them. A horror he was quite unfamiliar with coursed through him as he recalled – he recalled the scent of a human intruding, recalled roaring in anger at the interruption of the feeding...and he recalled Mina. He had found himself face to face with his long lost love – and she was trembling, not in passion but in fear and horror. The look of her was burned into his memory – her body, cold and rigid, tingling with the need to move towards her friend, to do something, and yet frozen by fear. Her face – brave and terrified, her mouth open and shaking, her eyes filled with disgust, dread, disbelief and terror. He saw the blood coursing through her veins, her pale face paler yet by cold and fear. More than that, he saw himself as he saw her, as a monster.

He could not have her look upon him. He could not have her see him as this creature, in such a loathsome shape. Yet the encounter had brought an emptiness into his heart, the sense of unworthiness. What of his humanity – what was left of it? After four centuries of bloodshed, what was left of him that could be loved? For the first time, he truly saw himself as a low creature of darkness, unworthy of the love for whom he had longed all these centuries.

But his love was stronger than his doubts. He would pursue her and he would win her love, and then they would both live forever in a golden age of undying love, happiness and peace. He would not be again robbed of his one measure of happiness, the one life he priced above all things on earth. He would hold her fast and cherish her always and never let her go, never let harm befall her. He had seen her again and that had given him new life and knowing she was near filled him with bright hope. He needed her. She had returned to him, now if she would wait for him and come to come, she would find him. Be damned the cost – he intended to make her his for all eternity and would regret nothing, if only he could hold her in his arms once more.

He must take this precious second chance, his one last chance for human love, to be with her once more. And they would be together for eternity. If only she would hear his call and come back to him, love would live again.

He crossed over to another street, tipped his hat at a passing stranger and moved on. His thoughts were filled with a deep interest in her, his love reborn.

Mina Murray... Her name had something interesting about it to him, something special, even then. Mina... He repeated the name in his mind, calling to her with it. He kept the name alive, keeping it fresh and breathing, inwardly repeating it over and over, as though if he did so enough times, he could posses that name and posses her with it. Mina...

As if she and fate had heard his secret calling, the crowd parted to reveal a pretty young woman in a tidy green dress walking across the street. He could not take his eyes off her. Seeing her in the light, her expression unmarred by fear, it was clear that she was indeed his beloved Elisabeta. It was not only her features that matched, but also the light behind them, the quiet goodness that gently flowed through her. It was her expression, the way she moved. It took him back four centuries. It was as though the very heavens had parted, in mercy to him, to reveal and angel.

She did not look as one would expect an angel to appear. She ghosted through the bust crowds, her eyes mostly fixed downwards in a quiet, poignant expression, occasionally darting upwards and scrutinising the people around her. She seemed withdrawn, but not timid or shy. She looked distant, lost and small within the throng of bodies, a tiny, subtle shade of sadness tainting her. It did not seem unusual to her. Yet, there was something that made her stand out, that made her different. There was a quiet dignity to her.

To most, she would seem closer to plain than beautiful, her features pleasing but without a single chief virtue, one prominently attractive detail, except perhaps her soft and deep eyes. She was a small slip of a girl, her body short, thin, petit. She looked almost breakable, yet her body was slender, straight and proud, Her hair was lustrous and black, the shade of a raven's wing, bound back tightly in a bun. She possessed a small pale face radiating an aloof and awkward kind of warmth, its features delicate, except for her mouth, lined with determination. Her dark eyes, a deep brown bordering on black threaded with soft shades of blue and grey, were steady and knowing, fringed by dark lashes. It was as if Elisabeta had not fallen to her death, but instead had been whisked through time into the future and placed on these unfamiliar streets in a strange new gown. Looking at Mina, he could not believe that Elisabeta was dead.

It was his princess. And she was more beautiful than he remembered.

"See me." He willed. "See me now."

Her eyes moved towards him, held his gaze for a moment, a look of loneliness ghosting her features. Then she broke her gaze and crossed the road.

She walked into the pharmacy, her thoughts troubled. Not only was she deeply worried about Jonathan, who had been gone for so long without sending her a word, but she also feared for Lucy. She remembered desperately searching through the maze at Hillingham, her heart wild with concern for her sleepwalking friend, the storm in her blood. What happened next – was a blur. She remembered discovering Lucy, her blood chilled in her veins at the memory, but somehow, it seemed to have been erased from her mind. She had seen...something. Something had been there with Lucy, attacking her, hurting her. But when she tried to recall more clearly, her head only ached. Had she truly seen anything at all? Or was it just an optical illusion of some sort – her imagination running away with her? Her minds said yes, but her heart seemed to strongly disagree.

She had brought Lucy back to the warm safety of her room, as the storm calmed and died around them, fearing that her friend would become ill from wandering out in such brutal weather. She had slipped into Lucy's bed, to keep her friend warm, and they had fallen asleep nestled together, arms comfortingly about each other, like two resting birds, folded in each other's wings. Mina remembered with a fond smile how they hadn't done that since they were young children.

The next morning however, had brought terror to her. She remembered waking up and feeling Lucy next to her, cold and dreadfully still, unresponsive to Mina's cries and shakes. Only after Mina shook Lucy hard, desperately, did the redhead wake up weak and weary. Mina had been so relieved, she very nearly wept – for a brief, terrible moment, she was sure that Lucy was dead.

The memory put her in a sense of great unease. She couldn't shake the moment from her mind, the feeling of Lucy limp and cold beside her, the confusion about the night before. She had reassured herself that she was being silly, that she was only a little startled by the situation, that nothing was truly wrong. However, Lucy had been ill and bedridden all day; Mina suspected a fever but wasn't entirely sure. She noted to herself that if Lucy hadn't recovered by tomorrow, she would ask Dr. Seward to see her. For now, she hoped the tonic she was currently purchasing would soothe Lucy towards a speedy recovery.

As she left the pharmacy, she bumped into a young man and accidentally dropped the tonic. To her surprise, before it could hit the paving and shatter, the strange gentleman in an elegant, elaborate suit of rich, smoky grey caught it, politely handing it back to her.

Looking up appreciatively, she was startled. She had seen him a moment ago, before entering the store – it was only a moment in which their eyes had met, but somehow, she sensed something strange about him, something that called her eyes to his, that tempted her to look again. She wondered what his eyes looked like beneath those bizarre tinted spectacles. Looking at him now, a grateful, bemused smile teasing her lips, she sensed something startlingly familiar about him, though she could not quite place it in her mind. Pale skin, broad shoulders, brown hair even longer and finer than her own falling down his shoulders and back – there was something so familiar about him...

He spoke first. "My humblest apologies."

She gave a small nod, still slightly transfixed, though masking it as well as she could. Yes, there was something familiar about him, about his voice...not only his accent...but something else... Of course, she wondered why this man – clearly someone of some importance or wealth – was making conversation with her. It was a flaw in her nature to be naturally suspicious and slightly hostile with strangers, she was simply not comfortable with them. The fact that she found him strangely handsome unnerved her slightly and she only wished to be on her way.

He spoke on quickly. "Forgive my ignorance; I have recently arrived from abroad and I – I do not know your city. Is a beautiful lady – "

Ah. Flattery. So he didn't have any interest in talking to her after all, he only wanted directions. Or an escort. Well, she certainly had no time to waste dallying in this manner.

"You may purchase a street atlas for sixpence. Good day, sir." She said bluntly and with a cordial smile, she walked away.

"I have offended you."

Of all the voices and chatter amongst the crowds, his voice had found its way to her ears instantly and stopped her in her tracks. There was something about the statement that impressed her, perhaps the boldness he had in making it or his insight. She turned around, looking at him again.

"I am only looking for the cinematograph. I understand it is a wonder of the civilized world." He said.

"If you seek culture," she replied "then visit a museum. London is filled with them. Excuse me."

He gave her a slow, meaningful bow of the head and she turned around and walked away. Mina was sorry to have been so abrupt but today her patience was short and she had no time for being helpful to any nobleman or gentleman, having far more important things on her mind. She was still ill at ease; her senses were overcome by a feeling that something was not quite right.

She looked up and found herself face-to-face once more with the strange man. She looked around in puzzlement – he had been behind her only moments ago! When had he walked ahead of her an how quickly?! Yet he looked as though he had been standing over there for all eternity, simply waiting for her to approach him.

Strongly agitated, she tried to walk away quickly but his words caught her.

"A woman so lovely and intelligent should not be walking the streets of London without her gentleman." He said, his voice reaching out to her.

She did not understand it. Why was he speaking to her? What was it about her that had so caught his attention? Could he not see that she plainly had no desire for his company? And why was he so familiar?

Her questions continued: why did he have to trouble her so much? Why would he not leave her alone? Was this a game, was he trying to make fun of her?

A thought crossed through Mina's mind that perhaps he was one of those noblemen, the decadent kind, that had heard things about English ladies from and equally-decadent friend and had now visited to find out for himself. That she should be the victim of these attentions humiliated and infuriated her. For someone to make such dreadful, degrading assumptions made her feel filthy. She responded, feeling righteous anger flare in her.

"Do I know you, sir?" She asked, indignantly. "Are you acquainted with my husband? Or shall I call the police?"

She put a deliberate, scathing emphasis on the word 'husband', hiding behind it, feeling Jonathan protect her from worlds away. But it was, after all, the most sensible thing to do when bothered by a strange man. She sensed that she was over-reacting to this man's interest but she couldn't understand it and her response was one of angry confusion.

He spoke again, a quiet understanding in his words. "Husband? I shall bother you no more."

There was something so gentle about the way he spoke to her, so understanding that she couldn't comprehend quite what was happening. There was a hidden sadness in his voice, a sorrow and loneliness that spoke to her, that managed to soothe her irritation. There was something strange about it...but she found the thought of his sadness quite unbearable. She knew she should forget such thoughts, but she felt that she knew his face. Suddenly, a cooling tide of remorse swept over her and she was truly ashamed of herself. She had behaved abhorrently; she realised with intense regret.

She turned towards him as he walked past her, her face and voice softer and kinder.

"Sir?" She said, searchingly, then glancing down in guilt. "It is I who have been rude. If you are looking..."

"Please." It was one word, softly spoken, but with an ache, a sound of loss so compelling that she complied.

He continued. "Permit me to introduce myself." He took off his top-hat, and bowed his head respectfully. Mina noticed now that his eyes were blue, a deep, powerful shade of blue. How was it that his gaze seemed so familiar when she had never before seen his face?

"I am Prince Vlad of Szekely."

"A prince, no less?" Mina replied with wry, teasing smile.

There was something playfully challenging in her tone, without cynicism. As she looked at him, she did sense a natural regal aura emanating from him. Somehow she felt quite foolish for having feared him – there was something strikingly intense about his gaze, and though made her nervous, she could also see sincerity shine there, and gentleness.

"I am your servant." Vlad said, fascinated by her. He spoke truly from the heart, full of reverence. It was her.

His reply touched her heart, as her eyes reflected as they flickered with sudden warmth.

"Wilhelmina Murray." She said in introduction.

He moved towards her slightly, closing some of the distance between them, just as he had stepped effortlessly through her defences. Mina looked at his face, waffling between swearing that she knew it from somewhere and the knowledge that she couldn't possibly have. She looked at his eyes again, through the spectacles, wondering why he wore them. His eyes were beautiful – seemingly composed of matter alien to her. All the passions, joys and agonies the soul can know seemed to dwell there, too terrifying to behold yet too fascinating to flee. She looked deep into them and tried to will the answers out of them.

"I am honoured, Madam Mina."

He looked at her, as her wide eyes seemed to sift through his own, searching for something. He was no accustomed to it and yet it did not feel unpleasant. There was something about her that took him off guard, something that surprised him. It was her vitality, her life, the fact that she was not a distant figure of his adoration but more than that: a living, breathing human with a heart full of her own passions. For the first time, he truly remembered what it was to be a man. What it was to love.

She was surprised that he had used the shortened version of her name, but took no offence. In fact, something about the intimacy of it pleased her.

"This way..." She said quietly and turned away inviting him to follow, feeling suddenly, a strange sense of happiness.

As she walked, Vlad close beside her, she wondered what this meeting had set in motion.