Chapter Thirteen

Closing the fridge, Dracula stared at the pouch of blood he'd retrieved with a frown. Unable to smell anything through the plastic - one of the downsides of the twenty-first century was the widespread use of the damned material - he had asked Frank to label the packages with enough information to at least hazard a guess at the flavour of the contents within. But his idea of pertinent data was not the same as his lawyer's. Age, gender and occupation only told one so much about an individual. Using his own fingernail, he slit through the top of the pouch and inhaled deeply; the contents were middling though it wasn't as if he could pop out and find a more interesting, and much fresher, source. The days of drinking his fill were over, a necessary evil to ensure that Agatha remained with him and his happiness therefore continued. And he was ridiculously happy.

Decanting the blood into a more serviceable vestibule, Dracula placed the glassware on the table beside the mats he'd already laid out. Agatha had scoffed at his insistence on table manners, pointing out that she'd seen just what a messy eater he truly was. It was a fair point but as he had reminder her, he was also a gentleman - and one who wanted to make the experience of drinking blood a little more civilised for his bride. However, he was not below licking the pouch clean before discarding it; the slight taste of plastic lingered on his tongue as a result but the blood was too precious to waste. He had worked up quite an appetite this morning.

Upstairs, Agatha moved around with languid steps that he hoped represented her sated state, leaving plenty of time for Dracula to rinse off the evidence from around his mouth, taking a sip of water to swill out the taste of chemicals from the pouch, before she arrived downstairs. When she sauntered into the kitchen she was truly a sight to behold.

Long, slim legs led up to his shirt, the deep red of the material a stark contrast to the pale skin of her thighs, just as her blood had been against her neck when he'd fed from her, and whilst she'd fastened far too many buttons for his liking she was completely irresistible. "That's my shirt," he greeted lowly, torn between admiring her in it and reclaiming it as his own so that he could claim her once more.

"You ruined my dress," Agatha offered in defence as she slowed to a stop in the entryway of the kitchen, out of his reach.

"I did not hear you complaining at the time. About anything," Dracula grinned, moving to close the distance between them. "And I know you have more clothes yet you chose to wear my shirt."

Agatha smiled in response and took a step backward, reaching the doorframe where she paused once more. Leaning against it, her gaze dropped down Dracula's body and then back up to meet his eyes just as he came to a halt in front of her. "I, at least, bothered to dress," she chided but there was no animosity in her voice.

"Mmm, well I also know that you like to ogle me," he countered, bracing one hand on the wall beside her head and hovering over her. He hadn't missed the sneaky glance she'd taken at the convent gates; it had given him a brief glance at the wickedness that lay beneath the nun's habit. But the open admiration of his body was most pleasing, not that he could blame her; his restricted diet of late had led to a reduced waistline and he was probably in the best shape of his un-death. Not gorging on every Tom, Dick and Sally that crossed his path meant that he'd no longer needed to cycle for miles on that infernal 'exercise bike' either.

With no sign of a denial coming from his bride, Dracula reached for her with his free hand and dipped his head to kiss her, mostly because he could but also because it felt like a lifetime since he had last pressed his lips to hers; for a man who had been on this Earth for five hundred years, five minutes should not have felt so long but Agatha was fast becoming his new way of measuring time and it seemed to move much more slowly without her.

Slipping his hand beneath the shirt, he ran it slowly up her thigh, pressing more kisses to her mouth and neck, only to come to a sudden stop when all his fingers found was bare skin beneath the garment. The small amount of blood he'd consumed fruitlessly began to head southwards at the realisation that she was only wearing his shirt. "Agatha…"

"Food first," Agatha warned, one of her hands reaching for his, pausing its exploration, whilst the other landed on his chest, halting his attempt to reclaim her mouth. Dracula's post-coital pep talk came back to kick him in the arse when she grinned at him before placing another obstacle in his path, "And then I believe you have a gift for me?"

It would be easy to break free of her grasp and press further; the strength of a vampire gave her better odds against him than that of a mortal but the male/female disparity still persisted regardless. But there would be very little fun to be had in doing that. A little voice in his head, perhaps the warlord that had taken no prisoners on the battlefield, or the beast that growled to take what was now his, chided him for ceding so easily but he ignored it. Agatha bossing him around was the stuff of his dreams; she'd had a propensity for doing so even as a mortal but now that she was no longer intent on killing him the rewards for giving her anything she wanted were worth any inconvenience.

Still, there was no reason to cede to her demands without some resistance; there was enjoyment to be had in their verbal sparring, after all. "I should still make you wait for luring me into that churchyard."

"It did not harm you," Agatha soothed, her fingertips rubbing against his chest in a similar manner as her voice. "Which is fortunate because we'll be going back there very soon."

"What have you got planned?"

A small grin graced Agatha's lips in response, "Are you worried?"

"A little," Dracula conceded. The church and her God were no longer quite so physically repellent but religion still left a nasty taste in his mouth. Stepping inside a church, whilst now possible, was not something that he wished to endure again. He had once been a believer; it was hard not to be when one claimed the divine right to rule but his rewards for such devotion had only been bloodshed and death. And with his own death he'd been denied a warrior's grave, condemned instead to walk the Earth as a vampire for all of eternity.

What concerned him most was that Agatha's plans were some sort of attempt to save his soul because that would be an exercise in futility, even for her. But he would concede to whatever she had planned, mostly because the alternative was losing her and he did not want to endure that again. "I'm picturing church fetes and tea with the vicar," he frowned at her.

Agatha smirked in response but revealed no further clues, "Would that really be so bad?"

"I am not a man of faith, Agatha. So, yes; that would be truly awful."

"Good."

He wasn't entirely sure whether she was teasing him or being truthful about their future escapades; either way, she was enjoying herself and he was enjoying the delicious little puzzle that was Agatha Van Helsing. Grinning, he released his hold on her hip and reached for her hand instead, inordinately pleased when Agatha let him lead her towards the kitchen table with no resistance. He had to relinquish his hold on her to pull out a chair at the table but it was worth it because she received the gesture with the same sincerity with which it had been given. To his disappointment, he'd tasted a growing disdain for such behaviour from some women in this century.

Rather than taking his own seat, Dracula headed towards the counter where he had earlier dumped all his belongings. Agatha's gift lay beneath his jacket, now fairly redundant given that he'd ruined the accompanying pair of trousers, but he retrieved his phone from the inside pocket before placing the garment to one side. The phone had been buzzing when he'd first entered the kitchen, the dull vibration audible as he'd descended the stairs, but he'd ignored it in favour of preparing lunch. A quick flick of his thumb revealed there was a missed call from Frank that had been followed up with a text message, the first line of which mentioned the Jonathan Harker Foundation. Dracula scowled at the device, and the potential it had to sour his good mood, before shutting it down completely and dumping it back on the counter.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing that can't wait, I'm sure," Dracula replied with a smile as he turned to face Agatha, unwilling to diminish her ebullience, either. The Harker Foundation could remain a distant annoyance for another day or two. Picking up the gift he headed back towards Agatha, taking a seat at the head of the table. The blood in the decanter was calling out to him but the small frown, the tilt of her head and the way she was staring at him suggested that Agatha was more interested in his phone. "I had planned to wrap this in something finer but I have been very busy this morning," he smiled, presenting her with the brown paper bag in the hopes of stalling any talk about Frank or the Harker Foundation.

There was a moment's pause before Agatha took the package but the lure of what lay inside the bag was stronger than anything else. Carefully removing the gift from its plain wrapping, a small smile lifted the corners of her mouth when she realised that it was a book. The delicate tome was turned over in her hands with care, surprise flooding her features when her eyes grazed over the title, that same emotion audible in her voice as she read out the inscription on the cover, "The Count of Wallachia?" Agatha's gaze immediately sought out Dracula's, "Is this supposed to be about you?"

"I believe so," Dracula beamed, sending Agatha's attention straight back to the book. When he had stepped inside the quaint little bookshop, the building formerly a house that had been converted to commerce with no more effort than adding some random shelving, and revealed that he was looking for a gift for his bride to be, the proprietor had tried to steer him in the direction of the Bronte Sisters and Jane Austen. The suggestion that Agatha's interests lay in much darker corners had sent the elderly gentleman scuttling into the back of the shop, only to reappear moments later with the book and a desire to discuss 'The Count of Wallachia' at length.

Gaining knowledge the old fashioned, human, way was not as enjoyable as drinking blood but Dracula's restraint and patience had paid off handsomely. The old man had been a fount of knowledge on vampire literature, explaining that whilst the book had not been a bestseller when first published, it had paved the way for more of its kind and was now considered to be the Grandfather of the 'blood drinking creatures of the night' genre. The book-seller had claimed that the author's name was most likely a pseudonym but the year 'The Count of Wallachia' had been published seemed, in Dracula's opinion, to point to only one person. "I think Mina Murray did more than set up the Harker Foundation," he elucidated but Agatha was already nose-deep in the book.

Unsure if she'd even registered his words, Dracula began to pour out their meal, a fond smile taking up residence on his mouth when Agatha remained oblivious. It was almost unbelievable that an early edition of a book about himself just happened to be in a shop he'd entered on a whim, in a town that had not been on his radar a week ago, but it wasn't nearly as unlikely as meeting Agatha when time had been against them from the start. If he'd not been re-born as a vampire, and not managed to survive for so long when his peers all seemed to wither one way or another, then he would never have met her. And what a tragedy that would have been for both of them.

"If this was written about you by Mina Murray," Agatha began, fingertips of one hand gently holding her place as her other hand cradled the spine of the book, respectful of its age. Her eyes sought out Dracula's, a soft smile gracing her lips when she found him staring warmly at her even as she continued to question him, "You realise what that means, don't you?"

Dracula casually shrugged a shoulder in response and reached for his glass. He could argue it meant that he should never have let the insipid Mina Murray go unscathed but doing so would have jeopardised everything he had now; of course, if he'd chosen Mina over Agatha he'd never have known what he'd missed out on and nineteenth century England would never have known what had hit it. But Mina had survived and long enough to establish a Foundation that was intent on hunting him down as well as penning a book that had influenced popular culture. "That she popularised the vampire legend?"

"No," Agatha disagreed but then obviously thought better of it as her face scrunched up delightfully in thought. "Well, yes I suppose it does. But I was thinking that it means you gave me a gift about yourself."

"You are obsessed with me," Dracula offered in defence before taking a swig from his glass. Her response almost had him choking on the blood.

"You and your huge ego."