!Warning: M (16+)-rated themes: Depiction of murder, violence against children.
- IX -
At His Mercy
At dusk the window panes grew grey;
The wet world vanished in the gloom;
The dim and silver end of day
Scarce glimmered through the little room.
And all my sins were told; I said
Such things to her who knew not sin—
The sharp ache throbbing in my head,
The fever running high within.
I touched with pain her purity;
Sin's darker sense I could not bring:
My soul was black as night to me;
To her I was a wounded thing.
I needed love no words could say;
She drew me softly nigh her chair,
My head upon her knees to lay,
With cool hands that caressed my hair.
She sat with hands as if to bless,
And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;
Ensouled by ancient Quietness,
A gentle priestess of the Wise.
– G. W. Russell
"Richard? Richard?! What do you think you are doing here?"
Renfield found himself sitting at the foot of Lady Lucy's bed, still fully clothed, even wearing his jacket and shoes. Aghast, he stared at the figure of his Mistress, also still in her embroidered nightgown, half risen from the pillows, dimly enlightened by the first glow of dawn. There was a strange expression on her lovely features, somewhere between appalled, offended and worried, whereupon he dared not to breathe, not to think. He should have stood up instantly and apologise to her like a good servant, but he was not able to move a limb.
"Me...?" he throatily stammered instead. "Nothing!"
What on earth had happened?! Apparently, the carnal part of his dream had – as always – been pure fantasy, but his venture to her room had not. Or was he still experiencing a dream in a dream, a nightmare in a nightmare? Was he not able to distinguish imagination from reality anymore?
"How long have you been watching me?" There was so much reproach, so much disappointment in her bell-like voice that his heart broke at her words.
"I... I don't know, Mistress, I don't know why I am here," he tried to defend himself, but poorly failed.
"Have you been sleepwalking?"
"Yes, maybe... I don't know!" Renfield repeated, sounding utterly terrified now, his unhealthily pale features displaying all the anxiety and distress that rose within him.
In an awkward motion he slumped from the bed, falling to his knees on the carpet beneath.
"Oh God, I have crossed the line again!" he cried, voice wavering with heavy feelings of guilt. "But I did not intend to, I swear, I swear! I only followed the Master's voice..."
Lucy condoned her servant's lamentation, the last words he uttered, however, caught her attention.
Was Dracula still present in Richard's mind? Was that devil still able to befuddle his thoughts and force him to do things he did not wish? She folded back the cover and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Looking down on his bent, crouching form, she could imagine why he was not able to get rid of the loathsome link to his Master. He was still too young a night creature, just too weak in character and will, too dependent on the guidance of others to set himself free. He needed to become stronger, he needed her help.
"No harm done," she said in a gentle tone, gesturing for him to move closer. "Come here."
At first, he stared at her with wide eyes, hesitating, as if he did not trust his ears, but then he half stumbled, half crawled over to his Mistress like a bruised child. And like a child he hugged her knees and rested his head on her lap, while tears streamed down his hollow cheeks in rivulets.
"Thank you, thank you so much..." his voice was but a broken whisper. "I will never, never ever forget your kindness."
Lady Godalming could only melodically sigh in approval at that, placing her hand on his head to stroke through his hair.
When John Clare, after miles of detours, considered himself unwatched and dared to return to the Godalming mansion, he found the door to the sitting room ajar. Had he just finished his poem the way the lady had wished, he would have been courageous enough to walk in and recite it to her, but after the disturbing events of the night, he could only hesitate at the threshold, carefully watching instead. The pale morning light, dimmed by the upcoming fog outside, illuminated the room insufficiently, but he could make out her white form, contrasting the dark surroundings as well as the black clad figure of her servant, sitting indecently close to her on the sofa. He poured them a thick liquid from a silver decanter, the smell of which John recognised to be the same as the one emanating from his gore drenched sleeves.
Of course, he was aware of their inhuman nature, it had attracted him since the day he had first seen Lady Godalming in the cemetery, and now that he thought about it more thoroughly, he both felt familiar with and estranged from it. Somehow, they were all the same: abandoned, lonely creatures, ripped from their lives and their mortality, roaming the night in search of something to fill their hearts with a spark of warmth, of hope. But on the other hand, they were different from him – no, he was different from them. They shared something so substantial, weighing more than any unity in solitude, a tie with roots as ancient as mankind itself: a bond of blood.
When John saw their knees touching, when he beheld how the servant's fingertips like incidentally caressed the back of his lady's hand, while he passed her the goblet, the poet knew he himself would never belong among them. And so, he withdrew to the library in silence, without greeting the lady in white. Now he at least had found some emotions other than happiness to inspire the next verses of his poem.
The dreadful event of the night was forgotten, as Richard was allowed to sit next to his Mistress on the sofa, having a delicious drink of the sweetest kind and discussing not business, but personal matters.
"And your former employer was a psychologist, you said?" Lady Lucy's bell-like voice sounded genuinely interested.
"Yes, Mistress, Dr Seward," he confirmed. "But do better not ask how I liked my work there. The old hag caused me nothing but trouble..."
At the mention of the doctor's name, her elegant eyebrows rose in surprise and something he would have described as a hint of discomfort.
"Dr Florence Seward?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered just as bewildered. "Do you know her, Milady?"
"Unfortunately, I do," Lucy's beautiful features contorted to a frown. "She was among the doctors my family called when they thought me ill. An unpleasant person, indeed, but seemingly one of the few a mother can frequent without drawing public attention to the mental health of her daughter."
"They considered you insane as well?" Renfield felt a painful stab to his heart at the idea his Mistress could have been committed to a facility like the one he had been imprisoned in.
"For a short time, yes, then another doctor, some Dutch luminary, declared the diagnosis void and adjudged me to be anaemic instead. The blood transfusions helped me to feel a bit better, until the night I was drained dry completely..."
Her tone was so aggrieved, so full of sadness again, he could not help but take her hand in his. It seemed like their equally ghastly experiences connected them further, like sharing their horrible memories created an additional bond, tying them together in tribulations. His zealous gaze fixated on her sorrowful eyes, he raised her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles.
"If you need anything, Mistress, anything, whatever it may be, I am here for you," he breathed.
In the dim morning twilight, Lucy took a closer look at her servant's features. Without the glasses, which usually gave him a stiff, businesslike appearance, or the gaunt mask of misery and suffering that had covered his face so often, he seemed quite handsome. Soft, almost translucent skin, a well-defined nose, pale blue eyes encircled by long blond lashes, full, appealingly curved lips...
She tugged a loose strand of hair behind his ear, then traced the line of his cheekbone with light fingertips.
"I know, my dear," she said with a sweet smile. "What I need first is you visiting the estate you were not able to view last time. And on the way home, do not forget to bring the preordered goods from the grocer."
"I am truly sorry that I have to inform you about this inconvenience, Dr Frankenstein," the old butler expressed his sympathy. "However, his Lordship is quite upset and will not receive any visitors today."
"But I need to see him, Mr Poole," Victor insisted. "If not as his friend, then at least as his doctor."
"Rest assured, if Milord needed medical attendance, I would not hesitate to call his late father's personal physician," Poole answered ever so politely. "Now if you will excuse me, Sir..."
Frankenstein gritted his teeth in frustration, then, in a reflex action seized the servant's arm.
"Wait a moment!"
The butler stopped in his tracks, while Victor hectically searched his pockets, not finding what he was looking for.
"Do you have a piece of paper I can write a note on? And a pen?"
Wordlessly Poole withdrew both from his livery, whereupon the doctor scribbled down a few lines, folded the sheet and gave everything back.
"Would you please hand this to Henry? And make sure he reads it, before he tears it to shreds!"
With that, he turned on his heels and headed back down the streets, throwing a last glance at the large windows, where he knew his friend would at least pace the room behind in restless anger, if not take apart the expensive furniture in violent rage.
Cowering on the cold stairs, with a frown on his pale features, Renfield waited in front of the still vendible estate second on his list for almost an hour now. Not only that the repeated appointment here was unnecessary considering he had just announced it to Sir Carew, the vendor of the luxurious Hampstead house, in order to beat down the price – nay, the seemingly notoriously tardy agent of this mansion did not show up today either. Furthermore, he felt quite frustrated since the morning, when he had so chivalrously demonstrated his loyalty to his Lady, and she had tasked him with nothing more than his usual work.
The low, overcast winter sun was already about to set, when he took a glance at the pub on the other side of the street. No, this time he would not go there and try to mingle with the mortal mob. He did not belong in public places, where the risk of giving in to the temptation of so many lives was just too high. The mere idea of venturing to Limehouse or Whitechapel, where he used to spend uncountable nights of amusement in the past, seemed unimaginable to him now, unbearable the thought of becoming a mindless murderer, a second Jack the Ripper – not to mention what kind of a man Lady Lucy would deem him if he would visit such shady districts again. No, he would head back to Hampstead Heath, pick up the groceries and return home diligently, without any detours, without any intermissions.
He stood up and swiftly turned around the corner, only to bump into an unheeding figure, whereupon he stumbled a step back. The other one, however, apparently a ginger haired lower-class boy, fell, landed on his back and uttered a pained cry. Instantly, the intense smell of fresh blood rose to Renfield's nose, stimulating all his senses and causing all fibres of his body to tense up. When the youth lifted his right hand to scrutinise the injury he had sustained, Richard became aware of two disturbing facts simultaneously: first, the casualty had grazed his hand and wrist, bleeding heavily, and second, he knew the boy! It was the waiter from the pub, the one who had been so eager to bring him another cup of tea, the one whose pulse and temperature had so inconveniently attracted him.
"Ah, damn, that hurts like hell! Can't you watch where you walk?!" the youth bawled, while raising his head to behold the person responsible.
At first, he looked at Renfield reproachfully, but then his blue-green eyes suddenly widened in surprise.
"Blimey, I know you..." The boy picked himself up, now scrutinising his counterpart. "Aren't you that oddball whom I waited on some time ago?"
Richard sucked in the freezing air, wordlessly staring at the adolescent's freckled face, when the selfsame went on in a half-pained, half-accusing tone:
"You didn't drink your tea, then got intrusive to me... and you ate a moth! If you hadn't run away anyway, I would've asked my boss to throw you out!"
Renfield's heart stopped for a moment. He had seen it back then, he remembered it, his miserable attempt to distract himself from the temptation! This realisation did nothing to improve his current state as nauseating panic mixed with his primal urges. What should he do now? He could not just flee again, and he could not quieten that witness of his inhuman behaviour either! Not without breaking his Mistress's rule of secrecy.
"Don't you wanna apologise, git?" the boy went on affronting him. "I can't work with a broken wrist, sod it!"
Richard's limbs began trembling and pearls of cold sweat appeared on his forehead, when he beheld passersby on the other side of the street, alarmed by the youth's row, stopping in their tracks and looking over at the scene of their accident. Besieged by both sheer fear and overwhelming thirst, his senses and nerves on the verge of bursting, he could – in an action of pure, despairing helplessness – only bury his face in his hands.
My dear Henry,
I do not know what you experienced in those hypnosis sessions, and so I cannot claim to understand your current feelings, but rest assured that I am and remain your friend under all circumstances there might be.
As we will not be able to recover your lost memories, I will start looking for answers in a different kind of approach, that is: rereading the old notes I took when studying vampires and revisiting their hiding places. If we can find any of those night creatures, they may lead us to your former patient, who again may know the mysterious woman and the incident which lead to your memory loss.
I will leave no stone unturned to help you.
Yours always
Victor
Dr Jekyll's black eyes hastened over his friend's letter, while a strange mixture of feelings rose in his chest. He was still so very enraged, the frustration and white-hot, impotent anger at both Frankenstein and that old hag of a psychologist clouding his mind, but on the other hand he knew he had wronged Victor. As always in highly emotional situations, his temper had prevailed his reason. His friend had but tried to help him, and apparently he still was eager to. At some point Henry appreciated this, the approach the physician mentioned, however, did not seem very auspicious to him. He did not wish to do a detective's work or play hide and seek with a madman on the loose. He was a scientist, and he would find a scientific way to solve this problem. If he could develop a serum to cure the criminally insane, he could as well find the formula to regain one's memory. With energetic strides, he headed down the stairs of his father's entrance hall, had Poole fetch his coat and called for a cab to drive him to his Bethlem laboratory.
Afraid, stripling? Dracula's voice echoed in his head again.
Yes, Master! Yes, I am afraid, so very afraid! was his desperate answer.
Heartless laughter full of cruel amusement followed. Not the bold adventurer anymore, aren't you?
No, I am not! I am but a fledgeling child! Renfield replied, completely subdued.
Ah, self-awareness, how droll... the Master drawled. So, what will you do now?
I don't know! I don't know what to do! No, I don't! Richard frantically stammered.
Do you need help, little one? Dracula asked gloatingly. Then beg for it!
Renfield did not need thinking about this offer.
Yes, I need your help! Please, Master! Please, help me!
Another merciless laugh made his head ache, but then Dracula instructed him:
Look at that mortal, blood of my blood! Look at him and tell him what he wants to hear, show him what he wants to see!
Taking a deep breath, Richard dared to let his hands sink and his opalescent gaze fixated the boy's angry eyes.
"I am sorry," he spoke in a surprisingly calm tone, implementing the Master's advice. "I did not intend to hurt you in any way."
The redhead knitted his brows, but at least finally stopped blustering.
"What's your name?" was the next question that came to Renfield's mind.
"Nathan..." the waiter replied, apparently baffled by the adult's sudden composure.
"May I have a look at your wound, Nathan?" he inquired further, instinctively.
He had expected a reaction of retreat, like from an injured animal, but the youth presented his arm without hesitation, even allowing him to touch and turn his hand. Was this the Master's doing? Or had his own composure calmed the boy to such an extend?
When two women and a man approached them, Richard demonstratively withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around Nathan's wrist and said: "Don't worry, it does not appear broken to me."
This seemed to satisfy the passersby's curiosity, for they walked on without paying any more attention to them.
"Thank you, Sir," the boy expressed his gratitude, much to Renfield's surprise.
His inhuman eyes flickered from Nathan's rosy face to the crimson liquid already seeping through the white cloth and back again.
"But it is still bleeding. You will need further treatment, I fear," he expressed his concern in a soft, caring tone.
"Right..." Nathan confirmed his observation. "Do you have any medical expertise, Sir?"
Astonished again by both the boy's change of manners and the personal question, Renfield raised an eyebrow.
"I have, indeed," he lied. "If you show me to a place more quiet, I will tend to your injury as best as I can."
For a moment, the waiter remained silent and Richard already feared he had gone too far with this questionable offer. Then, however, Nathan unexpectedly nodded.
"Sure," he answered. "There is a yard with a fresh water tap down the street, if you will follow me, Sir..."
With that, he turned on his heels and headed around the corner. Now! This was the opportunity to run the other direction, flee this precarious situation without the boy noticing it. However, Renfield did not use it. He did not follow reason, nor sanity. He followed the sweet smell, the pulsing sound, the warmth and the life radiating from this human being. He followed his primal instincts, but not as mindlessly and animalistically as in the past, nay, he chased his victim with a newfound determination, a freshly evoked rigour he had never experienced before.
I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here –
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where Summer's wave unmurmuring dies,
Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,
The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"
– Thomas Moore
After a few minutes walk, Nathan crossed the street and turned left into a small alley which opened to a dimly lit yard. Sitting down at the foundation of a hydrant, he peeled the meanwhile blood soaked handkerchief from his wrist. The pale stranger soon sat next to him and produced a small pouch with first aid instruments, bandages and pads, then bedewed the latter with clean water from the tap. Nathan winced when the soft mull came in contact with the wound.
"Shh," the ash blond man calmed him. "You will soon be better."
A silver needle twinkled in the twilight, then the boy felt the piercing pain of several stitches in and out the skin of his wrist and hand. When he looked down at the finished work, he had to admit the eccentric fellow indeed knew how to tend to wounds.
"Much better, Sir, thank you," he said. "That was very kind of you."
A crooked half-smile spread on the adult's face, causing his sickly features to in a bizarre way appear both eldritch and endearing. Nathan blinked at the weirdly mesmerising sight.
"Can I..." he began, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Can I be of service to you in return...?"
Suddenly the stranger's eyes lit up in a vibrant blue, like his irises were glowing of their own and a low, guttural sound escaped his throat.
"Oh, yes, I think you can indeed be of service to me," he whispered, while removing his glasses and leaning closer to him.
Before the boy could even think of flight, he found himself pressed against the brick wall in his back, the man's face only a hand span away from his own, his chill breath on his cheek, while he ran his cold hands through Nathan's hair in a more than unambiguous way. The youth's eyes widened in shock and fear and his heart beat like a drum.
"I don't mean that kind of service, Sir! I'm a decent boy!" he wanted to scream, but the words left his lips in only a hoarse mumble.
Rendered motionless by the eerie offender's sheer presence, he soon felt the touch of spidery fingers unbuttoning his shirt.
"Don't!" Nathan uttered a faint plea.
"Hush..." The soothing sound next to his ear seemed to creep directly into his mind. "It's alright. I said, I do not intend to hurt you."
Suddenly, cool, dry lips pressed down on his neck. Nathan's eyes rolled back into his head at the feeling of the stranger's soft, wet tongue against his throat, and with the obscene sensation of something sharp penetrating his skin, everything went black.
Renfield was utterly surprised when the boy turned into a dark, completely abandoned alley and sat down near a well in a relaxed pose. Had he not clearly expressed his disgust and disrespect towards him mere moments ago? And now he had led the stranger he found so odd to a hidden, unlit backyard, entirely exposing himself to him? Had he himself accomplished this? With the Master's help, with a borrowed fragment of his supernatural abilities, a grain of his unequalled power? He did not know what exactly had caused the youth's carelessness, but he would use it to his advantage, nevertheless.
Richard let his gaze wander along the brick walls, where he could make out only a few small windows with the curtains drawn. There would be no witnesses this time. In a smooth motion, he sat down next to Nathan, who had already removed the makeshift bandage from his bleeding wrist. Maybe he expected him to help him rinse the graze now or stitch up the deep cut in his palm. Renfield again fixated the youth's eyes with his own pale blue gaze, then took his hand in his, the sweet smell which emanated from it crawling up his nostrils.
Oh, yes, he would tend to his wound as promised! He bend down over the boy's arm, his mouth found the bruised skin, and he softly kissed and licked away every single drop of red that effervesced from his fair skin. Nathan winced at the sensation and Richard paused for a moment.
"Shh, you will soon be better." The calming words left his lips as of their own, before he continued, suckling and carefully biting the delicious flesh.
Strangely enough, the boy did not even now retreat nor protest. Was he so bewitched by the Master's spell that he did not perceive such actions as unnatural behaviour? What kind of insidious illusion had Nathan been trapped in that made him so compliant? Or was it possible that he liked this?
When the wound did not give away any more of the nutritious liquid, Renfield looked up into those large, blue-green eyes again, which scrutinised the injury contentedly. Now Nathan shyly expressed his gratitude and even offered him to in return be at his service. He had to naughtily smile at this and could not prevent a low moan of pleasant anticipation escaping his throat. For some incomprehensible reason, this boy was a more than willing victim.
"Oh, yes, I think you can indeed be of service to me," he whispered, while removing his glasses and leaning closer to him, trapping him against the wall, bereaving him of any chance to flee.
How fair his young skin was! And how fiery his ginger locks! Although much shorter, they reminded him of his Mistress's silky tresses so much. The significant difference, however, was that he could never touch Lucy, while he seemingly could do whatever he pleased with Nathan. And so, Richard ran both his hands through the adolescent's hair in a fervid caress. Strangely, this seemed to frighten the boy more than the bites to his wrist, but he still did not understand the nature of the creature he had attracted. Instead, he mistook him for some ordinary lecher, a prurient paedophile, when he mumbled something about being "a decent boy".
But Renfield could not let him go, could not let go of him, not now that he was so close to get what he so feverishly longed for. The smell, the sound, the feeling of life, everything right here in his grasp, under his control, at his mercy! What a marvellous might, what a delightful, demonic power he held at this very moment, rushing through every fibre of his body! In a few skilled motions, he unbuttoned the youth's shirt and silenced his last weary, half-hearted attempt at resistance with a whisper of sweet nothings in his ear, before he finally let his mouth meet Nathan's juicy flesh and his fangs penetrate his vulnerable skin – almost as soft as he imagined Lady Lucy's neck would be!