!Warning: M (16+)-rated themes: Violence, sexual content.
- VIII -
In The Shadows
When Richard Renfield took a glance at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he found himself quite changed. Not that he would have looked healthier in any way, no, the unnatural, almost translucent pallor and the dark shadows around his opalescent eyes were still present. There was, however, a new amendment to his features, the appearance of which caused him both excitement and unease: Upon opening his mouth, his dry lips revealed not only the usual row of uncommonly pointy teeth, but also two distinctly elongated canines.
Had Lady Lucy's kiss now fully transformed him into a vampire? Had she granted him the honour of becoming more than a lowly votary, more than a mere minion to the Master? He thought so, because with the physical change, there also came a mental alteration. Since last night, he had not heard Dracula's voice or even noticed his presence in his head, instead he felt so much closer to his Lady, not only knowing she was here, but also sensing a faint hint of her mood, of her very emotions.
With the upcoming awareness of the strengthened bond between them, his discomfort dissolved like the tap water's hot vapour. Completely confident, he dressed in his fine black three-piece suit, bound the silk tie over the starched white shirt in a skilled motion, then neatly parted his hair and put back on his glasses. A look at his pocket watch told him it was time to leave for the second viewing of the estate on the opposite side of Hampstead Heath.
There was an expression of pure joy on John Clare's pitted face, when he recited his newest poem to her in the middle of the Godalming library. Lucy, however, lent him just half an ear, for her thoughts constantly circled around last night's events.
How Mr Renfield – Richard – had so willingly given himself to her mercy, so entirely, she could have done with him whatever she had liked. Yes, she could have drained him to the last drop, and he would have happily died in her arms, carried away with euphoria. The lady in white knew that a night creature's kiss had an intoxicating effect, oh she knew this all too well, but she had not had the intention to completely subdue her servant, not to such an extent. He had submitted to her out of his own free will, making the experience of drinking from him more exciting than she would have thought it to be. In addition, the nectar from his veins had tasted so unexpectedly bittersweet, a grade of flavour she had not savoured in a long time, and now that she mused about it, a flavour perfectly matching his character.
A sweet smile spread over her pale features upon this thought, before she turned her attention back to John again.
"Beautiful, Mr Clare, indeed a wonderful poetic painting, so full of happiness," she said. "But maybe you should consider writing some additional stanzas, with a twist to another emotion."
"Another emotion, Milady?" Clare repeated after her, bewildered. "What else but happiness could there be, now that I am relieved of all my sorrow?"
Lucy didn't get around to answer, for in this moment, her servant stepped through the ajar door, dressed for their appointment to view a particularly auspicious estate, and with a bold smirk on his boyish face.
"Mistress, it is time," he reminded her, his tone confident like never before.
"Of course, my dear," Lady Godalming replied and turned away from John, heading for the door.
"If you will excuse us, Mr Clare, Lady Godalming and I need to attend to business affairs," Renfield said with a grin, placing quite an amount of emphasis on the last word and revealing a predatory pair of fangs to the poet.
John watched the lady and her servant leave the house side by side, until their figures were no more than a white and black spot, eventually disappearing between the trees of Hampstead Heath. Pen in hand, he then headed for his desk, but even before he could make the attempt to sit down, he realised that, as perfect a workspace the library was, it would not provide him with further inspiration – not, if he was to add another nuance, a different colour to the atmosphere of his lyric painting.
And so, he decided to go for a walk as well, fetched his coat and stepped over the threshold of the main portal. After taking a deep breath of the cold, unusually clear winter air, the poet steadily began strolling out onto the busy London streets and let the door fall shut behind him, ignorant of the bunch of paper on the floor beneath the letter box that was today's issue of the Westminster Gazette.
Under glistening, white frost covered willow branches, a lace adorned parasol in her left hand, her right arm linked with his, his Lady walked beside him. Could he imagine a moment more heart-warmingly peaceful than this? Although it was not their natural time of day and the bright light caused him to blink now and then, he savoured every second of their promenade. This close to her, he could hear her every breath, every heartbeat, sense the pleasant anticipation she harboured in prospect of visiting the estate he had chosen.
Thanks to his increased self-healing capability, the wound on his neck had totally disappeared by now, but had he closed his eyes, he would have felt the sweet pain of her fangs penetrating his flesh again. He still wondered how it was possible that the act of giving his life to her had strengthened their connection so much. It had strengthened him in such a way he almost felt as supernaturally powerful as back then during the perpetual night. In contrast to these dark times, however, he no longer was forced to think and act on the Master's command, no longer was dependent on his ephemeral gifts, his volatile mercy.
He was free to make his own choices now, and he had chosen to dedicate himself to another, so much kinder, so much more caring favourer, a good-hearted, forgiving benefactress, providing him with all he needed, all he desired.
Well, not everything he desired... Not yet, he kept telling himself, for he did not consider being of service to his Mistress in a carnal way an unreachable impossibility anymore. The high hope for soon knowing the true promise of her flesh and blood rose within him, causing exciting elation to bloom in the brightest colours.
The estate her servant had described as the most auspicious so far, was quite to her liking. Built by an architect of good reputation not yet ten years ago, it combined all the fashionable stylistic elements, all the rich ornaments and details one could wish for, from stained glass windows to arched ceilings, from exclusively carved banisters to extraordinary chiselled spires. It was almost too beautiful to solely serve as an investment.
Lucy instantly asked the vendor – an old gentleman by the name of Carew – for the necessary papers to sign, but Richard discreetly intervened, making use of a varied set of negotiation skills to in the end arrange a better price. His tactic among other things contained the intention to first view another estate, he had – due to schedule difficulties – not yet had the chance to visit before he truly could advise the lady to buy. And so, they left the house with the promise to soon notify the vendor about her decision.
On the walk back beneath the trees of Hampstead Heath, to the branches of which the setting sun lend an apricot coloured shine, Lady Godalming stopped in her tracks, and to Renfield's pleasant surprise, her light hold on his arm turned into a gentle caress.
"You did so well today, my dear," his Mistress praised him with a sweet smile. "I am utterly proud of you."
With that she drew him closer to her and placed a feathery soft kiss on his cheek.
John spent the evening in the busy London streets, always walking in the shadows, always half concealed by lampposts, columns or quoins, and watching passersby – men, women and children alike – studying them, taking in every interesting detail. Despite, or maybe just due to the fact that there were so many different faces with so many various aspects to behold, he struggled rather hard to find inspiration for his newest poem's second strophe. Three times he had taken out a sheet of paper, and three times he had put it back in his pocket, blank. Leaning against a dirty brick wall, the poet sighed. Writer's block, horror vacui. Maybe he should scribble nonsense all over the white page, just to fill it with something.
He closed his eyes and listened to the city's background noises for a while – chatter of all sorts, the rattle of carriages, drunken songs, and yelling.
"Heya, lads, look at that strange fella! What an ugly scarface!"
John instantly knew whom the slurred insults addressed. In a quick motion he turned up the collar of his coat, but seemingly too late, for the group of five burly young men already headed towards him.
"Lord! That guy looks just like they wrote in the newspaper today!" one of them exclaimed.
"Ye're right, the description of that animal abuser! It's fittin'!" another agreed.
"Matchin' perfectly ye might say!" a third chimed in.
Clare wondered what they were talking about. There had not been any description of a perpetrator in the article he had read, the reporters had just been speculating if the incident in Hampstead Heath was the deed of a wild beast or a man. On the other hand, he had not read today's issue of the Westminster Gazette yet...
"Hey, you! Cripple! Yeah, you!" the first man yelled at him, whereupon he could no longer ignore them and looked up from his makeshift disguise, but also took two careful steps to the side.
"Don't ye try runnin'! Now we've got ye, swan fucking freak!"
Swiftly, John turned around the corner of a dark alley, then hurried to get out of reach of the drunk mob, but soon a pile of bulky waste and a high boarding blocked his way. Behind him he could hear the men approaching, stomping, and bawling.
"Looks like he's trapped, the gross bastard!"
From the corner of his eye John saw them flexing their brawny muscles, two of them even drawing knives.
"Ye know what happens to abnormal pervs like ye?" their leader rhetorically asked. "They get the crap beaten outta them!"
With that, all five men lunged at him in a storm surge of fists and blades.
When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven!
Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone it for now,
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh, think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake will be torture sufficient.
– Lord Byron
This night, Richard Mortimer Renfield sank into his bed happier than he had ever been in his whole life. He didn't get around to undress or even remove his shoes, before he fell asleep so soundly and peacefully no cockcrow could have woken him.
I am hers, all hers! The words kept repeating in his mind over and over again.
With body and mind and heart and soul I am hers! And she will be mine as well, I can feel it, yes, soon she will be mine as well!
Oh, my foolish child... Dracula's ominous baritone answered.
You are nothing more than a useful tool, nothing more than a menial slave, a speck of dust under her sole. Why would she want to be yours?
Ha, empty words out of a toothless beast's mouth! Renfield hissed at him.
You cannot daunt nor dispirit me! It is only a matter of time! She will want me as I desire her, oh yes, she will, I know it!
A thundering laughter echoed from the dark walls. Do you really believe you could touch her like I touched her? Kiss her like I kissed her? That you can have her the way I had her? How pathetic! You can never have her.
Of course I can! Richard spat defiantly.
Then prove it right now! The disembodied voice was a cajoling whisper now.
Prove that you truly are blood of my blood!
Nothing's easier than that! You will see, you will see!
Eerily lit by the moonlight, the leafless branches of the trees outside cast crooked shadows on the walls, when he ventured into a part of the Godalming mansion he had never been to before. Lady Lucy's private rooms were located on the westside of the bel étage, at the end of a long corridor he swiftly and noiselessly moved along – like on the wings of an owl or bat, like the night creature he was.
Soon the oaken portal to his Mistress's bedchamber loomed before him, veiled in shades like the entrance to a secret sanctuary, but with the handle illuminated by a stripe of silver, and when his fingers closed around it, he found the door unlocked. An invitation!
He sneaked inside silently and was greeted by a comfortable coolness. A fine scent of lilies and jasmine filled the air of the high-ceilinged, expensively furnished room, but he paid no attention to the décor or the flowers.
Allured by the slight flowing of white silky curtains, he crossed the Persian carpet with a few soundless steps, whereupon he stood beside his Lady's luxurious fourposter bed. At first, he remained motionless, like a pious pilgrim before a holy shrine, then he dared to peel aside the milky mantle of fabric.
And there she lay! – clad in a cloud of ivory lace, still as a porcelain doll, paler than the moon, her hair fanning out on the pillows like the aureole of the winter sun. My God, is she beautiful!
Awestruck, he sat down on the foot of the bed, watching her, excitedly taking in all the details of her embroidered nightgown, the meanders of every fiery lock, the faint movement of her chest heaving beneath the covers. And he listened to her heartbeat, enchanted and enthralled by its slow and steady rhythm.
What now, stripling? Are you going to sit there and bashfully stare at what you will never possess? Or will you prove yourself a worthy offspring of your Master?
Shut up, you feeble phantom! I'll show you what I am capable of!
Slowly he took off his glasses and removed his jacket and shoes, then shifted his weight and carefully crawled along the mattress, his motions smooth like a stalking cat's.
Blood sputtered in John Clare's pitted face, when the knife he had wrested from his opponent cut through the burly man's throat. Two precise punches more, and the second assaulter hit the dirty cobblestones with a thud. Easily blocking the third one's attack with a supernaturally fast and strong grasp, he shoved him away and into the fourth man, whereupon they both crashed into the pile of waste behind them. Yellow eyes narrowed, he examined the motionless bodies for a second, making sure they would not stand up against him anymore. Then he turned around again to face the last brute but was only able to make out his fleeing form in the distance, mingling with the mob on the street.
Taking a deep breath, John wiped his face with his sleeve, provisionally cleaning away the grime, and approached the corner of the alley. To his relief, no one seemed to have noticed the fight in the dark byway. Turning up his collar again, he slowly walked down the street, careful not to attract any form of attention. When he felt out of harm's way, his thoughts began circling around what those drunks had slurred. They had suspected, nay, believed him to be the animal abuser of Hampstead Heath!
At the next bookstall he stopped, taking a look at the Westminster Gazette, and his eyes widened in shock at the headline. There was indeed a description of the perpetrator, seemingly delivered to the newspaper by an anonymous witness, and accurately matching his own accursed appearance. A feeling of nauseating panic rose in Clare's chest. How could this be? He had not noticed anyone else in the park that night who could have mistaken him for the wrongdoer.
"Can I help you, Sir?"
The bookseller's question startled him to such an extent that he flinched.
"Ah, no... no, thank you!" he stammered, then turned around and fled to the next, fortunately much less crowded street.
He needed to go into hiding before someone else recognised him!
His heart rate and breathing quickened, as he experienced a déjà vu: That morning in the natural history museum, when he had sneaked up on Vanessa Ives and had got a glimpse of her wonderful taste. But this time there was no Master to haul him off his desired prize, nobody to forbid him to touch his Lady, no one to stop him!
Leaning over her soundly sleeping form, he deeply inhaled Lucy's scent. Oh, she smelled so much sweeter than all the flowers in the room, sweeter than every flower imaginable! And tonight, he would savour her lovely nectar again!
Both mesmerised and determinedly concentrated, he lowered himself down onto her and gently kissed the translucent skin of her neck. The sensation of her pulse against his lips, however, soon caused his chaste kisses to turn into covetous licking and a stinging pain shot through his upper jaw, when his canines grew to predatory fangs. Burning blue gaze fixated on her carotid, he opened his mouth wide, preparing to cross the last boundary, but then suddenly he felt a light pressure on his chest, where against she had placed her pale little hands.
His heart stopped, when he beheld her awake, looking up at him with huge cerulean eyes. For a moment, a panic-fuelled thought of flight crossed his mind, but soon her crimson lips curled into a sweet smile.
"Finally you have come to me," she spoke under her breath. "Night after night I have been waiting for you, my love."
He could hear his own heart beating in his ears at her words, feel it hammering against his ribs, on the verge of bursting.
"Well... you said you wanted me closer to you, Mistress," he dared to coyly reply in a hoarse whisper.
"Will you kiss me now?" The sound of her soft, bell-like voice made his head spin with thrilling anticipation. "Will you fulfil my every desire?"
His pale features melted to an expression of pure adoration, when he breathed:
"Oh, yes my dear Lady, yes, I will!"
With that he sank his fangs in her soft, vulnerable flesh until the most delicious drops of red bedewed his lips, until a fount of crimson began effervescing, filling his mouth with the flavours of a myriad nourishing lives, all assembled in a virtuosic composition. He could feel her chest quiver with a shuddering breath beneath him, and she let out a sweet moan of pleasure, while he drank and drank, mouthful after mouthful.
His hands massaged her shoulders and upper arms, then travelled further to caress her breasts through the light silken fabric of her nightgown. Soon, Lucy removed the disturbing cover from between them as well as his tie and began to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. When her cool hands touched the naked skin on his chest, he abruptly let go of her neck, sucking in the equally cool, jasmine and blood scented air.
Gazing at that face most fair in awe, his eyes two blazing blue flames, pupils dilated, he could not prevent a large dark drop rolling from his lower lip. The trickle of life, however, was not wasted, for it fell into her open mouth and caused her cerulean orbs to light up in a divine glow as well. Instantaneously she reached up, drawing him into a passionate kiss, savouring her own nectar from his lips and tongue and teeth, causing his whole body to tremble and he hurried to get rid of the white cloth of both his shirt and the upper part of her gown.
The flesh of her breasts felt even softer than her lips, inviting him to let his mouth wander downwards again, passing by the still bleeding mark he had left on her neck, until he attained those perfectly round curves. His caresses, half licking, half playfully biting, made her moan again, and, writhing in delight, she peeled the remaining silk from her milky skin.
For a seemingly endless moment he stared down at her naked form, so vulnerable, so fragilely exposed to him, but then she made clear she wanted him to continue his ministration by reaching up again and unbuttoning his pants as well. This drew him from his state of hesitation and he, too, reached down again, skilfully stroking the insides of her pale, slender thighs, working his way up to the soft, hot wetness between, while she removed the last piece of fabric that kept their shivering bodies from fully connecting.
And so, he sank into her, slowly and carefully – breathlessly –, until her tender warmth enfolded him wholly, until her burning heat engulfed him entirely. If her room resembled a sanctuary and her bed a shrine, this was the Blessed Sacrament! And she seemed just as taken away by the sensation of him filling her so completely, so that she drew him into a tight embrace, pressing herself to him, moaning his name.
"Oh, Richard! Richard!"
"Richard? Richard?! What do you think you are doing here?!"