Wait, what do we have here- me, actually continuing with an idea and writing more than a one shot? What can I say, what started out as a small story to fill a gap soon grew into a few more. Well, not much more, I have one more chapter ready, but we'll see.
As for the previous one, this one is based as well on the novel Dracula (1897) and covers events that could have happened during the nights of September, as the Count didn't visit Lucy every evening.
Again, this will be rated M just for good measure.
Laughter and shouter follows him out of the pub, but Mr. Brand doesn't heed them. So what if he's leaving early? Can't a honest fellow go about as he pleases? The night air is thick with the fog from the Themse, the Docklands not as well lit by gas lamps as great London herself, so he slowly makes his way forward through the streets. His legs are still firmly supporting him, it does take more than a pint to knock him out. Yes, yes, a former sailor like himself can take quite a bit, although those days are behind him. A labourer in the Wharf he had become once Mrs. Brand had been expecting the third one and he frankly hadn't minded much that change, the sea both wild and treacherous, his will for adventure well satisfied. His good health and physical strength made up for good coin on dry land as well.
It's an unusual cold night for this early in September and he can feel the chill slowly making its way into his bones as tiny drops of moisture cling to his hair and coat. It becomes hard to see, the fog so thick, barely any window with light near.
He looks out for his own four walls, a small fire in the oven spreading a worm glow into that humble abode, Mrs. Brand working the needle by a single candle, the bed in the corner showing four little ones peacefully sleeping, the covers slowly rising with each peaceful breath they take. True, they often had to make the best of little, but for his good lads and the girl he gladly greeted each morning grateful for the work he had and the bread they received. Yes, he got his fair share of luck in Mrs. Brand too, a woman who knew how to make even the simplest of homes a true palace. That is why he had left his fellow men in the pub a few minutes earlier- a pint was a fine thing but it took from your pockets nevertheless. No, each coin had to be spent carefully.
Abruptly he stops, the wet and slippery ground nearly bringing him to fall. It appears he must have been walking in circle after taking a wrong corner, for he has found himself by the river bank again, close from the pub he started from. What the devilry was it with this fog today? Cursing he turns around to start all over when he suddenly notices a figure in the distance.
"Hoi, somebody there?" He calls out, slightly on the edge already by this frustrating evening.
The figure comes closer, reviling a man, a gentlemen by his looks, if though a slightly odd looking fellow.
"Good evening, my friend. I have been waiting for you."
"For me?" Mr. Brand asks back, the gentleman was sure jesting.
"Yes, I am a foreigner in this parts and wanted to see where I could get a strong drink."
"Well, this is the Limehouse area and I doubt a fine chap like yourself will find anything to your liking here." In the dim light the face of the gentleman stood out for it parlour, moustache and pointed beard charcoal black. Mr. Brand couldn't point out why, but he didn't feel comfortable in the fellows presence.
"That is very considerate of you, but I do enjoy variation in the choice of my drink."
"If you say so, I know just a place for you. Needed to go there anyways, seems like I got lost in my own town tonight."
The odd gentleman tipped his top-hat and Mr. Brant decided to bring that fellow quickly to the pub. The sooner he got rid of him, the sooner he'll be home.
The cold had gotten harsher somehow, his limbs by now painfully stiff even by the constant walking. It was eery quiet and an unease had settled on him. If only he would get warm again. It takes only a few minutes before the panel windows of the pub are to be seen, the light from inside radiating a warm glow onto the streets, the smell of bacon and stew making his mouth water. And if he went back in as well? Wouldn't it be nice to order a warm pie, and maybe another ale to go with it? So what if he already had one drink, can't a man drink his share by his own terms in this world? He is after all the maser of his own destiny and no one else. Yes, a drink, one more drink will do no harm. With this resolution he is about to walk forward these last few feet to the door, but a hand on his shoulder suddenly has his legs turn into the narrow alley before. He realises that it is the gentleman that guides him into this lonely and forgotten place, but instead of protesting or asking why, he simply moves on deeper into the shadow. By now his body is nothing more than a block of ice, neither his limbs nor mind responding in any plausible way. A silent command makes him halt and he can sense the gentleman stop as well. The hand on his shoulder turns into a strong grip and he has a wish to fight back but no will to bring forth. What is this? Where is his strength, why has it deserted him? Something bites into his neck and after the first struggle and pain he feels confusingly grateful, for warmth seems to burn the cold away.
The last thing he hears is laughter and shouter from somewhere in the distance.
As the novel itself had a whole sailing crew be drained of blood I gave poor Mr. Brand the same fate. And yes, i do feel bad i made his good wife a widow.
