- XV -

Without A Tear

Dr Jekyll was staring at the phial on the coffee table of his sitting room, which, illuminated by the fireplace's flickering flames, emitted an eerie green glow.

Oh, how highly tempted he was to just inject the auspicious liquid right into his veins! How he craved to uncover that damned memory, to find out what had happened to him that dreadful day, to finally see clearly again! Of course it was unwise to consume the counteragent to his original serum without testing it on healthy subjects first, of course there was the possibility of unwanted side effects. It would have been only reasonable to find the required sane men – or to follow his friend's way.

Well, all due respect for Victor's efforts to help him by studying vampires, but the endless days, weeks, even months it would take until they would eventually be able to question a revived Fenton...! How could he endure them? Would he be able to withstand the temptation of the green elixir, the temptation of knowledge?

No, he could not! He could not bear waiting any longer! With a trembling hand he reached for a syringe, then for the phial before him, mesmerising viridian reflections dancing in front of his dark eyes, the glass cool against his fingertips, his own heartbeats hammering in his ears...

"Milord?" the old butler's worried voice caused Henry to flinch.

The man had suddenly appeared next to him, out of thin air. "Milord, I knocked thrice, but you did not answer..."

"What's the matter, Poole?!" Jekyll hissed at him between gritted teeth.

"A boy brought an urgent message from Dr Frankenstein – "

Before Poole could finish the sentence, Henry had already ripped the paper from his wrinkled hands.

Henry,

striking success – subject shows physical reaction!

Come quick!

Victor

was everything it read, but it was enough to cause Dr Jekyll to spring from his seat, hurry down the stairs and call for a cab.

Arthur Holmwood's Diary

24 September

I wrote to my darling, asking how she feels, and had the letter delivered in the morning. It is evening now, I am surprised there is still no answer.

27 September

I am still not allowed to see my Lucy as her fever is not yet gone. She seems to be unable to answer my letters, but her mother writes "it is nothing serious". I will be patient.

30 September

I went to the Westenra mansion today, so I could at least speak with my in-laws to be. They are claiming Lucy to be fine, the family doctor finding nothing wrong with her. But then I encountered a servant leaving my beloved's chamber and asked her about Lucy's wellbeing straight away. To my great surprise she told me it is not a fever her mistress is suffering from, but something mental instead! I am shocked! Why has no one told me this before?

2 October

This morning I could no longer sit in my study, pretending everything will be fine, so I paid the Westenras a visit again. They still would not let me see my darling, denying she has a mental problem, and so we argued. I completely lost my temper, demanding access to Lucy's room, when a woman unknown to me exited the same, reprimanding me for my clamour. She introduced herself as Dr Seward, and explained that my Lucy was suffering from delusions, that she heard voices in her head and had horrifying nightmares of some kind of ghastly presence assailing her at night. I did not believe my ears! My sweet, always joyful Lucy! I thought nothing could becloud her happiness, nothing could bedim our luck! Full of worry, almost desperate, I beseeched the doctor to let me see my beloved, but she also sent me away.

4 October

I heard terrible rumours of my in-laws to be, considering to let Dr Seward commit Lucy to a hospital – a mental hospital! I cannot allow that! I will not allow any of those loathsome alienists to touch my darling! Gathering all my friends and my most faithful servants, I went to the Westenra house today and we occupied the entrance hall for hours, ready to block any attempt at abducting her to such a disgusting institution.

5 October

We have spent the whole night at the Westenras', until in the morning Dr Seward paid us a visit, announcing that Lucy's condition had worsened, not only her mental, but her physical state as well. As my beloved seems to show symptoms of anaemia, Seward suspects something concerning the blood, and will now consult a physician specialised in haematology. Despite these bad tidings I am relieved, for the doctor assured me she would not commit Lucy to any asylum as long as she had no clarity on the nature of her disease.

Renfield shifted his weight on the window bench he had chosen as his reading corner, and sighed as he turned the page filled with scratchy scribble, so unlike the twirly lettering of the previous ones. Arthur Holmwood seemed to have truly cared about Lucy, loved her dearly, craved to be by her side in sickness as in health, even before their marriage. As much as he had loathed the lord's rosy musings on his Mistress, he now sympathised with her late husband, felt connected to him, sharing his emotions. The way he had been shocked when Dr Seward in that harsh tone of hers had informed him about his fiancé's condition, his deepest worry for Lucy's wellbeing, how he had fought to save her from being committed to an asylum. Richard could imagine all of this as if he had been present, nay, as if he had seen it with Lord Godalming's eyes, felt it with his heart and soul – and even more, even more intense, for he knew what kind of disease it was Lucy had been suffering from. Tears welled up in his pale blue eyes at the memory of his own martyrdom at the slaughterhouse, at all the horrible images emerging from yesteryear's darkest depths, but he defiantly wiped them away with the back of his hand. He would not allow the mere retrospection of Dracula's cruelty to distract him from reading on the late lord's diary. No, the feeble phantom of a demon would not detain him from discovering his beloved Lucy's past!

6 October

A telegram arrived from Prof Abraham Van Helsing, Amsterdam – the haematologist Dr Seward spoke of. He is willing to cross the channel immediately and have a look at Lucy. I still am not allowed to see her and my heart aches more and more with every day that passes without her sweet presence.

8 October

Seward picked me up in the morning and we took a cab to the Westenra house, where we were to meet Van Helsing. The professor is elderly, but seems to be a practical man of good reputation. Together we visited Lucy in her rooms – I insisted to join them! Since no one got infected by the ominous disease ever since, Van Helsing assured us that it would be safe to approach her, and so Mrs Westenra could no longer hinder me. As soon as I saw my darling, I could not help but hurry to her side and embrace her. She looked so fragile and pale, with dark circles around her beautiful blue eyes, but she smiled at me the sweetest of smiles. When Dr Seward had introduced Van Helsing, Lucy told us about her terrible nightmares. I am afraid I cannot reproduce those dreadful images she described, but they all contained some kind of dark, nebulous creature, a bizarre being that came to her night after night, bereaving her of strength, draining her of life, leaving her no chance to breathe. I kissed her lips and promised I would never again leave her alone with this horror. In the guest room right next to her chamber I will bed down, ready to defend her, to comfort her!

It seemed a dark shadow crept through the sitting room when Renfield had finished reading this particular entry. Unlike Arthur Holmwood, he himself knew the images Lucy had described were by no means nightmares, but grim reality. He knew Dracula's way of terrorising his victims with the most dreadful visions, of making them obey his every command by playing their deepest fears like a virtuoso his musical instrument. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of his Lady being held captive under the Master's spell, experiencing what he had once had to endure. But again, he did not permit his emotional memories to interfere and kept on reading, eager to study every facet of Lucy's background.

The Westminster Gazette

YOUNG BOY FOUND DEAD

THE HAMPSTEAD MONSTER – JOHN CLARE – WANTED FOR INFANTICIDE

More horrifying news reached our editorial today, concerning the wanted murderer, assaulter and animal abuser. According to our informant close to Scotland Yard, the violent death of a 13 year old boy, whose body was found in a cellar, is also the dreadful deed of the individual responsible for murder and mayhem on the streets of Soho as well as the brutal butchering of the swans in Hampstead Heath – the terrible cases have been keeping our city on tenterhooks in the last weeks, as The Westminster Gazette reported.

In addition, we now finally have a name to the monstrous madman: JOHN CLARE.

Is it the same John Clare as the one only recently critically acclaimed as the "Rising Star In The Firmament Of Poetry" (The Dailygraph, feuilleton)? Not an implausible assumption, for exceptionally creative minds often have a tendency to overreactive, sometimes violent actions and are prone to mental illnesses, as Professor Alfred Sullivan, respected psychologist, told our interviewer.

Since the insane murderer is still on the loose, caution is recommended, and any information leading to Clare's arrest will be much appreciated by the police as well as The Westminster Gazette.

John's stomach turned and his yellow eyes flickered to and fro in unease after reading the newest issue of this lurid paper he had picked from a kiosk's news rack. So, it was official now, the whole of London deemed him a mindless killer of men and children, a new kind of Ripper, while in truth his only act of violence had been committed in self-defence.

For several days he had lurked in the subway tunnel, pretending the lack of light and oxygen was no bother to him, but the complete silence, the absence of impressions, both sensory and emotional, the absence of life he had not been able to bear any longer. He then had felt obliged to emerge from that underworldly cavern, to eventually see the surface again – even if it was just dirty streets and barely less dirty citizens, even if he ran the risk of being caught by the police. Now, however, that his name was in the newspapers, said risk had exponentially increased.

He could have despaired, collapsed, cried at this unfair situation, at all the wrongful, dreadful accusations, but he did not. He had to stay calm in order to escape the long arm of the law. Folding up his collar, the poet stepped away from the kiosk to hide in the shadows of an abandoned alley, hide from the prying glances that seemed to assail him from every side.

Arthur Holmwood's Diary

9 October

Strangely, I have been dead to the world this night, despite my intention to keep vigil of Lucy and despite of usually being a light sleeper in foreign surroundings. The professor has examined my beloved fiancé and affirmed Seward's theory concerning blood – Lucy indeed is anaemic, not mentally ill! Van Helsing prepared a transfusion and of course I willingly gave everything my veins could offer. We all were astonished how quickly the colour returned to Lucy's cheeks upon that treatment and how much stronger she seemed mere moments after. Finally, she is recovering! Finally, I see light at the end of this darkness. Still, two questions remain: Will this also be the end of her nightmares? And can we identify a cause for her condition, a reason for that strange absence of blood?

15 October

Lucy needs bed rest again, in fact she is sleeping all day. In the evenings, however, she seems quite awake and we talk, making plans for our future. When the family doctor arrived for her transfusion tonight, and I, as always, rolled up my sleeve, the good man shook his head and advised against taking more blood from me. Indeed, the insides of my elbows are horribly cratered with puncture marks and haematomas by now, and so I offered to ask my friends – e.g. Quincy – for a donation. However, Lucy suddenly grew seriously angry thereupon. Her voice sounded so different when she told us she would not take anyone else's blood, that she wanted mine, and mine alone. Maybe it was but a trick of the light, but I could swear I saw her eyes glowing of their own. I gave in to my darling's demand, of course I did. The doctor had to search long and thoroughly for an intact vein in my left arm.

17 October

Tonight I woke up, startled by my beloved's cries, and instantly hurried to her chamber. The window stood wide open – the room gone cold completely – and strange shadows eerily danced on the walls. In her night terror Lucy had gotten entangled in her sheets and, sitting down next to her, I tried to somehow sort them and calm her down. When I started unwrapping the silk shawl from her neck I thought I beheld some dark stains on it, but before I could examine them further, Lucy suddenly wrapped her arms around me and with a strength I would never have thought her capable of – not even in health – she pushed me down onto the mattress. She whispered something to me, about being thirsty and then leant down to kiss me. Her lips felt dry and cold, but still so sweet that I could not resist her advances. When her mouth travelled down my neck, however, we were bluntly interrupted by Van Helsing, who had entered the room without knocking, dragged me away almost furiously and ordered her to rest again. Of course, for the sake of her health, I understood his actions – nevertheless, I was slightly disgruntled.

Renfield found himself lying between tousled sheets, his Mistress leaning down over him, clothed only in a messy nightgown, her just as dishevelled ginger locks flowing around her beautiful porcelain face, half-lidded eyes burning into his.

"I am so thirsty, darling..." Lucy spoke with the sweetest voice, while desperately trying to wet her parched lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Is there not a carafe left in the pantry? Yes, a full carafe it must be..." Renfield heard himself remarking waveringly.

Lady Godalming angrily hissed at that, revealing her elongated canines.

"But I will not drink anyone else's blood!" she growled, her tone utterly changed now. "I want yours, and yours alone!"

Richard took a shuddering breath, and with shaking hands opened his shirt. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, when he let his head fall back, baring his throat for her.

"Then take it, take all of it," he softly whispered. "It is yours, Mistress, as am I..."

"Are you daydreaming again, boy?" Lucy's bell-like voice sounded amused, but nonetheless he was startled enough to flinch and fall from the sofa he had been resting on.

Clumsily, Renfield picked himself up, desperately trying to sleek his disheveled hair and tighten his loosened tie. Fortunately, Arthur Holmwood's diary had slid down and under the table where she would not discover it.

"Have I been...? It seems so, indeed..." Richard stammered in bewilderment, then looked at Lady Godalming, brows knitted in a pitiable expression of remorse. "I am so sorry, Mistress!"

Lucy took a step towards her servant, seized his chin in a gentle but steady grip and scrutinised his unhealthily pale features with keen azure eyes.

"You appear absentminded very often in the last days, my dear," she observed. "Even more than usually."

Renfield's pulse accelerated at her words. Was she suspecting...?

"But at least you seem to know that you are mine now," Lucy added with a sweet smile, before withdrawing her hand and exiting the sitting room in an elegant blur of snow-white tulle.

Richard stood there for a long while, palpating his chin where she had held it, bathing in the afterglow of her gloved touch and reflecting on the importance of being careful what he was uttering in his sleep.

When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?
It cannot die, it cannot stay,
But leaves its darken'd dust behind.

– Lord Byron

This was not how he had imagined the promised perpetual night, the blessed dark the Master had always spoken of. Paralysed and bereft of his senses, of sight, hearing, olfaction, all kinds of perception, he had been abandoned in the blackness. Left for dead – but unable to die. With no chance to experience his surroundings, he had not known where he was, what had happened after the fight in Sir Malcolm's mansion, after he had fallen into the crashed window and some sharp shard had cut into the back of his head.

Ever since, Fenton was captured, imprisoned in his own mind like in an impenetrable cocoon. Was this hell? Or was this God's way to punish those who had denied him and followed the fallen angel instead? Was it God's will to lock him away in pitch black darkness and complete silence, blinder and deafer than an unborn child?

He wanted to scream, but he could not open his mouth, he wanted to cry, but he was unable to shed a single tear.

He had nothing left but his own imagination, and so, Fenton dreamed – dreamed of his mother, caressing his cheek, and her sun-kissed face blurred into the pale features of Vanessa Ives, and she comforted him and kissed his forehead, whispering soothing words to him, and the Master approached them with steady steps and embraced them both, engulfing him with warmth and care and love. And when his dream had reached its end, it began again from the start, repeating itself over and over, because there was nothing else Fenton could have thought of, because these images were now his only reality, his whole world, his everything.

Without any sense of time, the boy did not know how many hours or days had passed, or if he had spent years within this shell of a lifeless body. He only knew that in this very moment something was different. This time, the loop of his dream did not replay, this time, Dracula did not just take him into his fatherly arms, but brought with him a faint hint of something long ago buried in oblivion. Some kind of perception long forgotten.

A scent. A scent of life!