!Warning: M (16+)-rated themes: Violence, sexual content.
- V -
From A Nightmare
A searing pain shot through his head and his unhinged exaltation faded, as his Mistress slapped him across the face.
"How dare you!" she hissed, utterly enraged. "Slaughtering animals like a primitive savage, in the middle of a public park! Are you not fed properly here? Do I not provide you with everything you need?!"
Renfield did not know what to think, what to reply and how to react to her reprimanding him like this. And so he just dully obeyed when she sent him to his room and told him to clean himself, shuffling up the stairs and disappearing into the faintly lit corridor that led to the servants' quarters.
When he stepped into his dark room, the homely furniture seemed somehow distorted and the ray of moonlight falling in through the window flickered about like a reflection of lightning.
What had he done? Why had he broken the only rule his Mistress had established? Why had he disobeyed her, failed her completely? With another step forward his surroundings began spinning like in a whirlwind. The next moment the world went black, and he there and then collapsed on the floor.
Lady Godalming looked up into the unnaturally yellowish eyes of the stranger at her door. In contrast to his ruffian build, he seemed to be a peaceful fellow, smiling at her almost sheepishly. She smiled back. "Thank you for bringing my servant back, Mr..."
"...Clare, John Clare, Milady," he introduced himself in a soft whisper.
"Mr Clare, what you have seen must have been quite unsettling," she said in a sympathetic tone. "A disturbing sight you hopefully were the only one to behold."
"I was, of this I can assure you," Clare hurried to reply. "At this hour there was no one else in the park."
Her full lips curled up in a smile.
"It is cold outside, Mr Clare, maybe you would like to come in for a cup of hot tea?" Lucy invited him, curious to find out more about this man who had the strength to subdue a night creature.
John's eyes widened in pleasant surprise, and he nodded curtly.
"I am Lady Godalming," she said, and he was just about to answer "I know", before biting down on his lip und just nodding again instead.
"If you'll follow me to the sitting room then?" The lady headed down the entrance hall.
After closing the door behind him, he wordlessly, but elatedly went with her.
Though thou seest me not pass by,
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye
As a thing that, though unseen,
Must be near thee, and hath been;
And when in that secret dread
Thou hast turn'd around thy head,
Thou shalt marvel I am not
As thy shadow on the spot.
– Lord Byron
Renfield was back at the cemetery, slowly and with heavy steps descending the stairway into the Godalming tomb again. It was cold, so cold, and darker than night down here in this netherworld, but then suddenly, a dim light shone through the blackness, growing, until it took on the form of Lady Lucy.
She stood before her husband's sarcophagus, engulfed in only a thin, feather trimmed white nightgown, her ginger locks flowing freely around her small shoulders. As he beheld her divine presence, he hurried to her side, bowing low.
"Milady..." he heard himself address her in a wavering voice. "I am so, so sorry! Please forgive me my outburst of violence against these innocent creatures! Please, I promise, I will never again..."
She turned to him in a fluent motion, putting a pale finger to his lips.
"Shh, my boy, don't worry," she whispered, then, with a rustle of her feathery gown, sat down on the black marble lid in an inviting pose, beckoning him to come closer.
He obeyed at once, crossing the distance between them with a hasty step, leaning down over her sensual form. Without hesitation, his Mistress ran her cool fingers through his hair, caressed his cheek.
"Come, my arms are hungry for you!" Lucy lured him in the sweetest tone.
Renfield stared at her with eyes widened in awe and lust, but he did not dare to move. How could this be? How was this even possible? Especially after what he had done...?
"Kiss me, my love, my darling!" She arched her back, pressing herself against him, until he could doubt no more and think of nothing else than her beautiful, beautiful body.
And so his mouth crushed down on hers in a wild, passionate kiss. Breathlessly he devoured her lips, the obscenely thrilling prospect of having her right here on her husband's very grave making his head spin in a maelstrom of sinful pleasure.
His trembling hands fumbled with the clasps of her gown. Then, anxious to eventually touch her flawless skin, he just tore the soft silk apart, causing the feathery trim to dissolve into a myriad of white flakes that soon tumbled through the black tomb like snow in a glass globe.
Sweet moans escaped Lucy's lips as he kissed and licked his way down her long, pale neck, inhaling her mesmerising scent, urged on by her accelerated breathing. When he could feel her fluttering pulse under his tongue, something within his mind snapped just like back then at the lake, and in an act of pure primal instinct he buried his teeth in her deliciously juicy flesh.
Ruby red life effervesced from her veins, soothing his burning thirst, nourishing him like no meal had ever before. Oh, most blissful liquid, balm on his bruised heart, cure for his diseased body and ailing mind! No words could describe how much he relished every drop of her!
But then, an iron grip on his shoulder abruptly ripped him from his ecstasy. Was it that brute from the park again, disrupting his meal for a second time? Before he could expand the thought, a shadow crept all over him, extinguishing the warm light, painting the tomb darker than black again, and suddenly he was spun around violently and lifted from his feet by a force much greater than any man's. Horrified, Renfield looked up into the blazing flames that were Dracula's demonic eyes.
"Come along, you rabid cur!" the devil's brother growled, his furious voice echoing from the walls like thunder. "Come back to your master!"
Renfield woke up from his own screams, his gaze hectically scampering along the ceiling of his room. He, however, was not lying in his bed, but on the hard floor, in a puddle of mud, bloody grime and turbid molten snow. He seemed to have fainted here right after entering, for he had not even removed his shoes.
Panting, he sat up and examined his trembling fingers, crusted with the rotting remains of his last meal. His heart stopped at the sight. Had he hurt Lady Lucy? He took a shaky breath. No, it had been a nightmare, and this was still animal's blood.
Laboriously he got up and shuffled to his bathroom, where he desperately tried to wash away the stench of death from his hands. When he took a glance at the mirror, he beheld a gruesome view, a grotesquely distorted image of his own face, gaunter and sicker than ever, the foul filth sticking to his hollow cheeks like the excrescence of an infectious disease, merging with the blackish veins that protruded on his forehead and contrasting the inflamed redness of his dull eyes.
Disgusted by his appearance and on the verge of throwing up he clutched at the porcelain sink. The primitive act of savaging the swans had not led to any curative effect on his constant longing for life. Instead, it had corrupted his body and mind further, drawing him deeper into the infernal abyss.
Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh... he suddenly heard the Master's voice whispering.
His head jerked around sharply, feverish pupils searching the room, but there was no one there. Dracula's presence was long gone from his head, their connection separated for weeks. He was no more than a spirit in a nightmare to him, he told himself, a harmless spectre. But the dreadful memory still was not muted, haunting him in his sleep and his weakest moments.
With uncoordinated motions he prepared a bath, then got rid of his ruined clothes and submerged into the hot water, purging his skin of the foul stain.
"So, if I may inquire, what is your profession, Mr Clare?" Lady Godalming asked, while pouring him a cup of steaming black tea.
"Oh, I have worked here and there," he answered. "At the theatre, on a survey vessel, but at the moment I am not permanently employed, I fear."
"But you seem educated to me, you should not have any problem to find a new work, should you?" She smiled again that sweet smile of hers, filling up her own cup from another carafe.
A sad expression cast dark shadows under Clare's strange eyes, when he replied: "It is rather my looks that impede me..."
"Your looks?" she repeated in bewilderment. "Well, you certainly do not look like the ordinary labourer, but believe me, there are men in this city much less sightly than yourself. You do not need to be bashful."
His features lit up in elation and she could hear his heartbeat accelerate upon her statement.
"That is too kind of you, Milady!"
Lucy's eyes began to sparkle in the firelight. After mere minutes of small talk she had found his weak point, her charms working around him like they did around every man she wished to influence to her liking.
"Now, there is one thing about you that interests me most." She fixated him with her cerulean gaze, and then straight away asked: "What are you?"
John sucked in the air, almost aghast for a moment, then just ashamedly averted his eyes, staring into his tea. He could not tell her about his disgraceful past. What would she think when she found out about all his crimes, the dreadful things he had done?
"Well, you surely are no ordinary human," the lady said in her bell-like tone, but not without a certain pinch of emphasis. "As you may have noticed, my servant, as well as myself are quite exceptional beings. I assure you, were you a mortal, you would not have been able to overwhelm Mr Renfield and bring him all the way back without receiving a scratch."
Becoming aware of the fact that he could no longer hide his nature from her, Clare woefully sighed.
"You are correct, Milady, I am no mortal," he confessed, still staring into his cup. "However, I do not know what exactly I am."
Suddenly he felt the touch of her tiny, lace gloved fingers upon his rough hand, her temperature just as low as his own. Surprised, he raised his head and found her smiling sweetly again.
"You are such a remarkable man, Mr Clare." Lucy's mesmerising gaze seemed to directly penetrate his wounded heart. "And now, tell me everything about you."
After he had cleaned away all the filth from his skin, he felt more human again and his mind finally became a bit clearer. Astonished to find another finely tailored suit hanging in his wardrobe, Renfield dressed as meticulously neat as possible, pulling his tie tight, leaving not a single wrinkle to the starched collar of his shirt. He combed his hair just as precisely and put on his freshly polished glasses. Another glance into the mirror told him, he no longer resembled a raving maniac, but a sophisticated businessman again. He now would go and apologise to Lady Godalming in an appropriate, dignified manner.
John Clare had no idea why he just had thrown his intentions overboard and told the lady in white everything about himself, from his painful birth and the hunt for his creator to how he had murdered and blackmailed, run away and returned to London, had found and then lost his family. But regardless of the reason, he now felt relief, like after confessing to some higher power, to a being who did not blame him for his crimes and who may be even able to take away his guilt.
"I must admit, when I first beheld your angelic appearance, Milady, I was so mesmerised that I thenceforth watched your every step. More than once I resolved to present myself, but I miserably failed. Ashamed, I only could deliver my poem," he closed his explanations.
"A poem?" Lady Godalming asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, have you not received it?" John anxiously replied.
Lucy turned in her seat, reaching for a pile of paper to her left.
"Is it this one?" She shoved a sheet towards him which he instantly recognised.
"This one it is, Milady," he confirmed, and without further examination began reciting from his memory: "I am! Yet what I am none cares or knows..."
Heading downstairs in long strides, he passed by the abandoned library as always and followed his intuition to the sitting room, where he instinctively knew he would find his Mistress. The door had been left slightly ajar and he took the chance to carefully peek in before knocking.
The sweet flavour of blood emanated from inside, mixing with the rich smell of tea. Tea? The faint light from the fireplace cast a warm glow at the walls, causing the furniture to appear like silhouettes cut from the blackest paper, but Renfield's inhuman eyes could still make out two figures sitting at the coffee table. Two?
One of them was obviously Lady Lucy, her white gown reflecting the dim shine, but who was the other? When taking a closer look at the second shadow, dreadful feelings of shock, envy and bottomless hatred rose within Renfield's chest. It was the ruffian from the park, who had so brutally seized him and dragged him away from his meal! That crude fiend was sitting with his Lady! And what the hell was that? Was he touching her hand, her fragile porcelain hand?!
Renfield was on the verge of storming into the room and lunging at that monster. He would tear him to shreds for even looking at his Mistress, oh yes, he would! But then the demon in the twilight spoke, and his boiling blood suddenly froze. It was those verses echoing through the vastness in a soft whisper, the same he himself had recited not long ago, from the poem he had found in the letter box. Did this mean that this ugly brute was the author? It seemed so, for the words flawlessly flowed from his deformed mouth as if he did not read them but knew them from memory.
Suddenly a terrifying awareness grew within him, choking him almost as brutally as the monster's grip had. Disobeying the rule of secrecy by feeding in a public park had not been the worst crime he had committed. He had wronged Lucy in a much more personal, emotional way.
In an instant she would understand that he had not only kept the knowledge of an anonymous admirer from her, but also posed as the poet himself in her weakest moment! His Mistress, his Lady, his world, his everything, she would know that he had betrayed her!
He was no longer able to set a foot in the sitting room, nor could he even take another look at the shadowy pair inside. Horrified, Renfield fled down the corridor to the kitchen, where he hid in a corner behind the door, trembling with a wild conglomerate of emotions.
Now, blood of my blood, the Master's whisper rang in his ears, now you have betrayed her, too!
A cold shiver ran down Renfield's spine at the mention of Lucy in that dreadful growl, from those cruellest lips.
"Get out of my fucking head!" he cried, his voice cracking in sheer panic. "You have no power over me anymore! I am no longer yours!"
If he had dispelled him with these words or if Dracula's presence had vanished voluntarily, he did not know, but he heard no more from him.
Panting, he cowered in the corner for some unquantifiable measure of time, before slowly and warily rising and taking a step towards the kitchen table, where he found one of the silver carafes, emitting a soothingly sweet scent. Hands shaking, he poured himself a glass, then another and a third, downing all of them in one draught.
The crimson beverage calmed his senses like a sedating drug, almost fully restoring his previous composure. Why did this particular liquid have a so much more positive effect on him than the swan's blood, he wondered. Now that he thought about it, it seemed to even satisfy him faster and better than the human life he had consumed at the slaughterhouse. What was so special about it? Whose was it and where did his Lady acquire it?
Renfield squinted his eyes. He was too tired to further fathom these questions. Taking a shuddering breath, he turned on his heels and headed back up to his chamber.