Bram had purchased some more kerosene on the way home from the convention, and he lit the lamp, gesturing to two chairs as he did so. "Now, gentlemen, how may I help you?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder to where they sat, cloaked in shadow.
Valerious leaned forward, his eyes glimmering in the candlelight. "Has the servant-girl gone?" he asked very softly.
Bram raised an eyebrow, but, not sensing danger from either of them—though Valerious did have a definite presence of one who could be very dangerous if provoked—strode quickly to the door and opened it. The corridor was empty. He closed the door again and nodded. "She has gone."
"Then please sit. We have little time."
Bram did as he was asked, far less groggy by this time.
Valerious leaned forward once again. "First, Mr. Stoker—"
"Bram, please."
"—Bram, my name is not Valerious. It is Van Helsing."
Van Helsing! The famed murderer, who disappeared after every killing, and who was wanted in nearly every city on Earth!
Bram stared at him, mouth dry. "The…THE Van Helsing?"
"Yes. Do not be alarmed. I am not a murderer as people say. I—" He paused, and an intense pain flickered across his face, but he quickly regained composure and looked Bram straight in the eye. "I have recently returned from Transylvania. You are the fourth cousin of Voris Valerious, are you not?"
"You mean the Gypsy King? Yes, he is my mother's third cousin…how do you know this?" Bram was more intrigued than afraid. THE Van Helsing! In his apartment! Bram could feel the writer inside struggling to keep from asking thousands of questions.
"Never mind that. You know that he died over a year ago, then?"
"No, I only was aware that I was related to a Gypsy King by the name of Valerious, which is why I was so startled when you introduced yourself—the first time, I mean," he said hurriedly, not missing the look of wry amusement on Van Helsing's face.
"His children are also…dead." Van Helsing's look of amusement died, and again the pain flickered like heat lightning—the man's eyes looked haunted by some horrible tragedy. This time, it was harder for him to compose himself. The friar, Carl, put a hand on Van Helsing's shoulder.
Bram frowned. "Why are you telling me this?" Possibly he had inherited a fortune, he thought, but he was hardly in the direct line or even remotely close to it.
"You are an author?"
"Yes."
"Then I trust you will take great care of these." Van Helsing thrust a packet into his hand. "These are the last remaining records of the Valerious clan. See that they are not lost to history."
"But…I don't understand…"
"You are the closest thing to a historian in the extended family of…Anna Valerious. As such, it only makes sense that you be the one to receive the family records before they are lost to time. And believe me, Bram, these are worth preserving." He stood to leave. "Carl and I must go now; the Vatican awaits us. Thank you for your time, Mr. Stoker." He put on a black, wide-brimmed hat and tilted it forward in a nod.
"You're welc—wait, did you say the Vatican? But you are a wanted man!" Bram's writer's instinct was nagging at him. "What…why…"
Van Helsing smiled, and Bram suddenly realized just how ageless his eyes were, much older than his companion's. "Perhaps those papers will explain," he said simply, and the two men left.
For nearly ten minutes after the odd visitors—a murderer and a friar, of all things!—had left, Bram Stoker sat on his bed, staring at the folder in front of him. He didn't know what to make of it. The "last remaining records of the Valerious clan"? What in the world was that? Finally, with trembling fingers—his writer's sense was now going off full-force—he carefully peeled open the first page and began to scan it.
Fifteen minutes later, he was so engrossed in the reading that he did not even notice the little footsteps upstairs sneaking toward the piano.
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