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Amelia tugged at her hair, wishing it had not been cut to such short and uneven lengths across her scalp. It looked dreadful, and now that she was out of the shower some of the shorter tufts were curling upwards. It was somewhat unfair. Her back was healed, not even a scar left to serve as a reminder of the doctor's injurious treatment, yet her new hair cut remained.
For a few more seconds she stared at herself in the mirror, hating the reflection that stared back. The rage boiling in the pit of her stomach had subsided, leaving her feeling exhausted and bitter. Despising Millennium was certainly easier now – increasingly so over the past couple of hours – but she shuddered at the thought of depending wholeheartedly on anger and hate until she could find a way to escape.
Turning away from her reflection lest she grow accustomed to the grim countenance, she crept out of the bathroom.
The man responsible for her disastrous haircut sat at his desk, and did not look up from his work when she moved towards him; either he was unaware of her presence or considered it of little importance compared to the papers in front of him. Amelia came close enough to read the larger print in one of the opened tomes, but kept the desk between them.
It's time I got some answers. She lifted her chin and clenched her clammy hands. "What did you do to my blood?" Her voice was higher than usual but she managed not to stutter.
Doc gave her the attention she wanted after a couple of seconds, though he did not put his pen down. "I do not know what you are referring to."
"In that room." She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and consciously lowered her voice, wondering if she sounded like she was shouting. "The blood from my arm…" She reached over and gripped her right wrist, expecting the doctor to understand.
"Blood?" Doc leaned forward on his elbows, his tone incredulous. "Is blood typically colored black? Can you solidify and liquefy it at will, controlling its shape and movement? Do you often stab people with it?"
Amelia said nothing. Keeping in mind all that she had encountered in Millennium's custody, she could have easily answered 'yes.' Judging by the reaction to her question, however, an affirmative answer would be like arguing that the Earth revolved around the moon.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Then what is it?" She prompted, hoping to keep the doctor talking.
"Alucard was able to manipulate shadows; Mina Harker displayed a similar talent." He paused, a scowl darkening his brow at a thought that went unsaid. "Yes, I would call it a shadow. Obviously this is not a scientific term, but there is no known substance I can compare it to, and its…" He pursed his lips, the topic seemingly putting him in a foul mood.
He doesn't understand it either? It was an estimated guess, but based on the scientist's response, it was probably true. She let go of her wrist, surprised, if not a bit glad, that he was actually struggling with his research.
The ensuing quiet held some tension, but before Amelia could pry further for details, Doc asked her a question. "How is your back?"
"It's healed."
Doc put down his pen, and Amelia took it as a sign that he intended to verify the statement. "No scars? Are you sure?" He spoke of the discolored marks she had found stretching across her lower back and the inflamed dark patch of skin over her right shoulder blade that looked not unlike a burn; scars that had disappeared over the course of half an hour.
"They were gone by the time I finished washing." Doc sat still for a moment, contemplating trusting her.
Eventually, he picked up his pen again. "I suppose that'll do." The words seemed like a closing statement. "You should rest now. You'll need your strength tomorrow."
"For what?"
The doctor did not reply, but stared at her as though attempting to read her thoughts. "More trials," was his final answer. His looked back down at the report on his desk. "Now sleep."
Amelia turned away, but not in the direction of her room. "In a little while," she stated, just loud enough for Doc to hear. He straightened at the comment, watching her as she walked towards the bookshelves, while she did her best to ignore his stare. If only he knew how hard it was feigning composure while wondering if her heart was going to give out from the stress.
"Miss Harker."
"That is not my name," she whispered, refusing to look back at him as she stopped at one of the furthest shelves from his desk.
"If you will not voluntarily rest now," Doc began, and she quickly scanned the spines of the books on the top row, "then you shall be forced to."
"I'll fall asleep faster if I'm reading," Amelia called, hoping it would buy her some time.
Is that a pentagram? She frowned, lifting onto her toes to reach the book and wiggle it from the tightly packed shelf. When she gave the book a final tug, another book slid out from the shelf with it, tilting towards the edge.
"Oh!" She reached for the slender little book, fumbling to catch it with one hand before it hit the ground. Glad to have avoided a commotion, she glanced at the cover. Blank. There was no writing on the spine either.
Setting the larger book on the shelf, she flipped through the untitled book until she came to the first page with writing. It was only a sentence, but as she read the scribbled words, her eyes widened. A shiver ran down her spine, and she tensed, sensing someone beside her.
She turned around to face the Captain, taking a few steps back while tightening her hold on the leather-bound item. Doc's really serious about resting now.
The silent man looked at the book she had left sitting out, then at her, noticing the smaller one she held protectively.
"He's let me read before," she defended.
The Captain turned his head to the side, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Please."
He replaced the book she had discarded on the shelf and then held out a hand towards her. He was asking for the other book.
Amelia pulled the small book against her chest and turned her shoulders, showing she wasn't willing to give it up.
The Captain took a step closer.
"This isn't your book." There wasn't any safe place she could run to, so she stood her ground, her heart throbbing loudly in her ears. "It doesn't belong here."
His stride longer than hers, the Captain needed only two more steps before he was towering over her.
"I-it's my grandfather's –," her voice cracked and she broke eye contact, finding it difficult to speak up for herself when her throat was so dry and she had to tilt her head back to look at him, " – grandfather's journal. Jonathan… Harker's." The last word came out softly, and following it, a sense of dread as Amelia realized she was acknowledging her relation to the man called Harker.
Beside her the Captain leaned over, bringing himself down to her eye level. The movement re-captured her gaze, and he pointed at the book.
"I'm not giving it back." Amelia said with a shake of her head, but he pointed at the book again. Confused without an explanation, she opened the journal and began turning the pages slowly, searching for the first entry while glancing every so often at the Captain, expecting him to snatch the book away when she wasn't paying attention.
Pausing on the page with the earliest date, she skimmed over a couple of lines before flipping to the second entry. Her posture slumped. She went on to the next page and felt no better.
The journal was written in shorthand. She couldn't read it.
"It's not fair," she whispered angrily, the words leaving her mouth before she could think twice. But she realized the mistake as soon as she made it. If her questioning of the doctor and selection of the book on demonology hadn't been indicative enough, the utterance proved she was searching for specific information.
But Doc is too far away to hear me, so… She couldn't help but glance at the man next to her, their eyes meeting for a second before hers dropped back to the journal. He knows.
Slowly, carefully, she shut the journal, keeping a grip on it with both hands. You idiot! You're not helping yourself! Why don't you follow the Captain's example and just keep your mouth shut!?
The Captain straightened as Doc appeared around the corner of the bookshelf. "I thought – ah. Yes, thank you Captain. Make sure the lights are turned off when you leave the room."
He sent Amelia a stern expression. "You need to rest, whether you're tired or not." Then he was gone, back to his desk to finish his report.
Keeping her eyes dutifully trained on the floor, Amelia began to walk, stiffly, in the direction of her room, waiting for a hand to stop her and demand she return the journal. But after ten steps nothing had come between her and the door.
Don't look back, she sternly warned herself when the possibility that the Captain had forgotten about the book crossed her mind. Once she had made it back to her room she turned towards the door. The curtain pushed aside, the Captain stood patiently, waiting, although he did not enter her room. No, I don't think he'd forget that quickly.
For a moment she stared at the journal in her hands, contemplating. It needed to be kept somewhere where it couldn't be so easily taken from her when she was sleeping. She looked at her bed; looked at her dresser; discreetly glanced towards the door. The Captain was still there.
Amelia swallowed and felt her face warm, growing increasingly self-conscious. He follows directions too well.
Making up her mind, she went to her bed and pushed the book inside the pillowcase. Imagining an unwavering gaze on her back, she hurriedly got into the bed and pulled the covers up to her head, rolling over so that she faced the wall.
Her heart continued to beat fast as she lay there, even after the room was enveloped in darkness. Why didn't he take the journal? Is he going to try and steal it once I've fallen asleep? Less of a fuss that way, I suppose…
She curled up into a ball, drowsy but reluctant to sleep. I can't read the journal on my own, but it must be important if it was on Doc's bookshelf. Maybe there's another book that can help me read it? I'll look tomorrow. Shivering, she pulled the blankets more tightly around her, both scared and excited that she was devising an escape plan.
The flames quivering about the logs in the hearth crackled, the sound filling the otherwise silent high-ceilinged sitting room. The furnishings in the space were old, carefully crafted antiques and fine upholstery that were likely to be found on display in a museum or passed down through family generations. A couple of chandeliers hung from the ceiling, providing light where the fire could not. Dark drapes hung over the two tall glass doors in one wall, hiding the balcony beyond. In front of the hearth at the center of the room were a settee and two arm chairs, the forest green upholstery matching the color of the rug that lay covering the stone floor. It was a nice room meant for entertaining guests, but had never seen much use.
From his seat in an armchair, Alucard gave a small growl of impatience, having opened his eyes to see that the room remained empty. His gaze swept to the fire as he slowly tapped the index finger of his right hand against the leather arm that would never fade, never crack, and never change. As long as he willed it, this room – this location within his essence – would remain forever in perfect condition.
Days had passed since he set to work; the task of combining every place such as this, where a soul was stored inside him, had been a long and troublesome one. Without rest, he had shattered the boundaries of worlds: every time period and location had been molded into one dimension; the souls of Christian and Muslim crusaders would find themselves sharing a world with those of soldiers and veterans in the World Wars.
Now there existed only two separate spaces: the combined world holding every person and animal he had ever consumed, and the sitting room, taken from the memory of a castle once standing in the Carpathians. If Amelia Seward slipped into his essence again, she had only two spaces in which she could appear, and for the time being, he was under order to remain in the sitting room.
The Count let his eyelids shut but remained awake, listening to the fire.
When next he opened them, he found himself no longer the sole occupant in the room.
For a few seconds the vampire did not move, just sat blinking at the female figure leaning against the lap of the arm chair opposite him.
The girl wore the same white gown, looking no different than when last he saw her – except for the bad haircut. Her breathing was steady and she appeared to be asleep, but her position must have been uncomfortable, for she stirred after a minute and opened her eyes. When her eyes wandered over the unfamiliar room and landed on him she was on her feet in an instant.
Alucard uncrossed his legs and stood, taking a few steps closer to the young woman but still allowing some space between them.
Amelia made to increase the distance again by moving back, but found the arm chair in her way.
A smirk played at the corner of Alucard's lips as he lowered his head, crimson eyes meeting grey. "The last member of the Harker bloodline: to what do I owe this pleasure?"