!Warning: M (16+)-rated themes: Violence, sexual content.
- XVI -
From The Depths
The bright light blinded him and agitated voices rang in his ears, when Fenton, for the first time after two years of imprisonment and isolation within his own mind, perceived his surroundings again. Sucking in the air with a stertorous first breath, he desperately tried to sort all the impressions descending on him like a surge.
Apparently, it was day, but which date could it be? And where was he?! He felt a stinging pain in the crook of his arm... and he was lying on something hard and cold, maybe made of metal. The voices he heard seemed to belong to some men. None of them was his Master, no – oddly, his mental connection to Dracula seemed severed... These two were both mortals. Had they brought him back to life? Who the hell were they?!
"My God, Henry, look at that!" Dr Frankenstein excitedly exclaimed, eyes sparkling with fascination. "He is breathing! He regains consciousness! After only one transfusion!"
"Truly remarkable, my friend, indeed!" Dr Jekyll replied, utterly impressed by both the medical marvel he was witnessing and the otherworldly appearance of the revived night creature, then he quite sarcastically added: "And without a single electric impulse!"
Victor threw the chemist a short glance, but decided to ignore the swipe and turned to his pale patient again, patting the boy's cheek.
"Mr Fenton, can you hear me?"
A hoarse groan left Fenton's parched lips, then his hitherto scampering gaze fixated on the men looking down upon him. One was dark-haired, probably of Indian origin, and unknown to him, the other one, however, seemed quite familiar. Hadn't he been one of the mortals who had held him captive in their cellar? Yes! It was the doctor who had tried to "cure" him from vampirism with those useless blood transfusions! With the more than unpleasant memory returning to him, the boy bared unnaturally pointy teeth at Frankenstein.
"Formidable dentition..." Henry observed, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe we should secure him to the table before he starts biting."
Arthur Holmwood's diary
18 October
Van Helsing came over from his hotel and examined Lucy again. After last night she looks devastated, her body trembling, breathing heavily beneath the cover. Later, Van Helsing took me aside to tell me about his theory on her disease. I listened carefully, eager to eventually hear the well-known haematologist's words, but instead of a scientific solution he fed me some ridiculous horror story! I wondered if I should call Dr Seward to commit the good professor to the lunatic asylum, when he told me that Lucy's nightmares were real and there truly was a monster, an ancient creature, a vampire which crept into her chamber every night to suck out her blood. I made clear that this was not the time for macabre jokes and bid him good night.
23 October
Some days have passed since my last entry, and Lucy is still very sick. We continued the blood transfusions, but they bring no improvement anymore. When I spoke to Van Helsing about it, he again tried to convince me of his fantastic theory, this time in even more florid phrases. He seriously believes that a vampire's curse would transition to Lucy, and she would become such a creature as well, that she would thirst for blood for all eternity and drain us dry if we did not kill her first! – Kill her! At this last statement his rheumy eyes sparkled with pure madness, and I could not hold myself back anymore, seizing his throat in violent rage. How dare he talk to me like that! How dare he speak such dreadful words, come forward with an entirely insane proposal like this! I did not care about Mrs Westenra's or Dr Seward's reactions when I dragged that old dodderer down the stairs and threw him out of the house. Never again will such a quack lay a hand on my Lucy!
Uttering an outraged snort, Renfield clapped Arthur Holmwood's diary shut. What simpleminded ignorants they had all been! The lord still believing in a reasonable explanation, Seward at her wit's end, Van Helsing guessing right but forfeiting all his credibility by talking like a madman.
Renfield lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling, while his thoughts again wandered to the truths that had been concealed to everyone in Arthur's records. Obviously and though secretly Dracula had bereft Lucy of her blood, of energy, of life, slowly but thoroughly he had drained her, while creeping into her head, capturing her in a labyrinth of nightmarish illusions to veil his true nature, to bewitch her, make her obey his every command.
A bizarre mixture of emotions rose in Renfield's chest. On the one hand, a shiver ran down his spine at the memory of the Master ruling over his own mind and he hated the devil's brother for what he had done to his beloved Lady. At the same time, however, he wondered, no, he craved to know what it was like to have such complete control over her, to possess her so entirely...!
"Don't touch me, you wretched mortals!" Fenton furiously cried as Jekyll and Frankenstein strapped him to the operation table. "Release me or you'll feel the Master's wrath!"
"The master's wrath?" Henry repeated. "What is he talking about?"
Victor let out a frustrated noise as he pulled the buckle tight and turned to his friend again.
"Those beings all originate from a single creature, older and more powerful than every man, and seemingly controlling them through some kind of telepathy," he explained as short as possible.
Dr Jekyll's eyes went wide with bewilderment. He could not believe such superstitiously sounding words were coming out of the other scientist's mouth.
"And should we honestly be afraid of that ominous master vampire?" he asked with an amused smirk.
Frankenstein, however, did not laugh at that.
"Oh yes, I think we should. Believe me, I have met him," he said in a deadly serious tone, then turned back to the boy on the table.
"Fenton," he addressed him, trying to maintain a calming tone. "What is your first name, if I may inquire?"
The vampire boy narrowed his eyes, suspiciously scrutinising the doctors, but then eventually in a child-like, almost humble voice answered: "Francis..."
"Francis," Victor addressed him again, with the use of the boy's first name now creating a more familiar atmosphere. "We do you no harm, nor do we wish to cause you any trouble. We only have a few questions and if you cooperate, we will release you."
Fenton's unnaturally blue eyes flickered to and fro between his capturers, still distrustfully sparkling. "Do you promise?" he wanted to know, truly sounding like a bruised child now.
"We do promise, Francis," the physician assured him in a soothing voice.
Walking through London was running the gauntlet! In the last few hours, John Clare had been forced to hide twice – the first time from a woman, who had recognised his face from the description in the newspapers and had outright started a loud clamour in the middle of the street, the second time from a group of policemen who had thereupon searched every corner of the quarter. Maligned as he was, he could no longer feel safe in this snake pit full of prying, sensationalist eyes, he knew that now. He had to leave the city as soon and as fast as possible, for the coast or maybe for the north again.
With his collar folded up and his eyes downcast, the poet lurked in a dark, dirty corner behind a high brick wall, contriving an escape plan. Was it wise to find a coach with a bribable driver to smuggle him out at night? Or should he better disguise himself and take the train? After an excruciatingly long moment of pondering, John decided for the latter. It would be much faster, and he would not be dependent on another person, who might change their mind and betray him. So, the train from King's Cross it was!
With trembling hands, Clare searched his pockets for something he could alter his cursed appearance with, something that would serve as a makeshift mask, when his fingers came in contact with a frayed piece of paper. Withdrawing it, he noticed it was the poem he had written while hiding in the subway tunnel: And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run... how fitting!
Sighing, the poet put it away again. Unlike his prior verses, this one would never be published. Not that he would have attached much importance to presenting his work to the public – not in his current situation! – but the fact that his words would fade unread was a stab to his heart.
Then, however, an idea sprang to his mind, both undescribably romantic and momentous. He would leave these lines as a farewell gift to his benefactress!
"No, I don't know any bloke called Renfield! Why do you keep asking me that?!" Fenton snarled, blue eyes lighting up with anger.
Despite the fact that the vampire was still restrained, unease rose within Dr Jekyll's chest when he beheld the boy's eerie irises, which, with the sun setting, had begun to somehow glow of their own.
"We thought – we hoped – that you would know him. He is of the same kind as yourself," Victor explained, voice still calming.
"He is a night creature as well?"
Indeed, in this case it was odd that Francis did not know him, for usually they were all mentally connected, huddling together under the Master's leadership like a swarm of bats, a pack of wolves. On the other hand, since his awakening, he had not perceived a single thought or feeling from Dracula – or any other vampire or any other being beyond this decrepit room with its two annoyingly curious mortal inhabitants.
"Yes, he is a vampire, and moreover, a goddamn madman!" Henry growled at the boy in impatience. "He and some mysterious woman managed to render me amnesiac."
Fenton pricked up his ears at this and his porcelain features took on a touchingly childlike look full of naive hope. "A woman? Was it Mother? Was it Vanessa? Where is she?"
Dr Frankenstein gritted his teeth. He remembered it well, the day in Sir Malcolm's cellar when the boy in a state of feverish frenzy had called Vanessa his mother and Lucifer's whore in the same breath.
"I am sorry, but Vanessa Ives has passed away several months ago," he sighed, while in his thoughts adding "thanks to your devilish master".
"Mother is dead?" Fenton uttered in shock and disbelief. "No! You're lying! She cannot be dead!"
The vampire struggled to free himself from his restraints again, hissing at the doctors like a cornered cat, while at the same time tears of impotent rage welled up in his eyes.
"Listen, boy!" Jekyll hissed back, himself enraged now by the slow pace of this interrogation. "You have to tell us where we can find other night creatures – or whatever you call yourselves. Lead us to them!"
"No! Never!" the boy whined in a choked, but defiant tone. "I won't betray my kind to mortal quacks and butchers!"
With this insult the short-tempered chemist eventually lost his patience and his fist shot forth, punching Fenton in the face hard, whereupon the vampire cried out in pain.
"Are you going to tell us now?!"
"Henry!" Victor exclaimed, incensed. "You cannot batter him! This is mayhem!"
"I cannot?" Jekyll snarled in a cynical tone. "This brat is officially dead, only risen from the depths by our doing. It is desecration of a corpse at the most."
With that, he raised his hand again, aiming to break the boy's nose.
Arthur Holmwood's diary
24 October
Van Helsing seems gone and I can only feel relief over the disappearance of that old charlatan. Today the tailor with our wedding clothes arrived and despite her weak condition Lucy insisted on trying on her dress. Of course, I decently left the room, but I could hear her sweet, bell-like giggle through the door and this little sound made my heart melt. What a lucky man I am to see my darling happy again!
25 October
My God, what has happened today! I woke up from a deep, dreamless sleep in the middle of the night, rose from my makeshift quarters and wanted to throw a glance at my beloved through the ajar door, when to my great shock I beheld her bed empty! I almost frantically searched the house, but could find her nowhere! Then, I remembered Lucy telling me that as a child she had been sleepwalking, sometimes even venturing to the garden, and so I stepped outside into the rainstorm, calling her name through the hedges, over and over again. After what seemed like endless hours, I finally found her, fragile, shivering, broken – half naked! – lying in the cold grass. Of course, I did not hesitate to lift her up in my arms and carry her back to the house, but she remained motionless, did not embrace me in return, did not even look at me! I could only wrap her in dry blankets and light a fire in her room to keep her warm.
From thy false tears I did distil
An essence which hath strength to kill;
From thy own heart I then did wring
The black blood in its blackest spring;
From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake,
For there it coil'd as in a brake;
From thy own lip I drew the charm
Which gave all these their chiefest harm;
In proving every poison known,
I found the strongest was thine own.
– Lord Byron
When Richard closed his eyes, he could hear the wind howling through the trees, feel the rain on his face and gloomy, endless yew hedges appeared before him like an impermeable labyrinth. Stepping forward, however, he instinctively found his way between them, determinedly heading for the dark aim his sharp senses guided him to, pursuing what his black soul desired most. He could smell her delicious scent – oh, he would have recognised it everywhere!
Then, brushing aside teal branches, he eventually beheld her standing there, her white form contrasting the obscure surroundings, her slender figure, despite her rain-soaked nightgown and hair, radiating with beauty.
As a shiver ran down her spine she folded her arms around herself gracefully, her huge blue eyes flickering over the hedges, searching for the one she was expecting to meet here in the middle of a tempest, in the eye of the storm.
"Good evening, Milady," he greeted her, emerging from the shadows like an eldritch apparition.
Lucy's eyes grew wide in both awe and fear at his appearance, her rain-wet lips quivering when she said: "It is you... I have been waiting for you!"
Approaching her with elegant steps, he bowed to her. It was, however, not a humble gesture.
"Here we will be undisturbed, my beautiful Lady," he purred as he took her arm and drew her to him in a swift motion.
Placing her tiny hands on his chest, her pulse fluttering, she looked up at him.
"Why do you mesmerise me so?" she breathed. "What is it that I am so attracted to?"
A charming smile curled his lips at these questions, and he gently brushed the strands of wet ginger hair from her neck.
"It is my kiss, beloved, my kiss," he whispered in her ear, before sinking his fangs into the tender flesh of her throat.
Like always, her blood was delicious, so sweet and pure! A taste of innocence he had not savoured in years, maybe decades. And every time he drank from her, with every mouthful, her life restored him a bit more, gave him back strength after his long journey. What serendipity that he had right here found such an abundant well of nourishing crimson!
When he eventually let go of her neck, her head flaccidly fell back and she uttered a small gasp, her voice like a little bell, just as sweet as the nectar in her veins. He had taken pleasure in listening to that honey-like sound several times now, and he would hear it again tonight. Again and again, he would make her moan that soft moan of hers.
When her knees gave way under her, he carefully laid her down on the grass, the uncomfortable coldness of which she, in her haze of bliss, did not even notice, and then knelt down himself. When he bent over her fragile, milky white form, with the thin nightgown sticking to her skin in wet translucence, he was able to behold every curve of her beautiful body – nonetheless, he slid the silk up her thighs. Bewitched by his powerful spell, she opened her slender legs for him without hesitation, and he claimed what was his.
In the tight grasp of the cold he held her, in the pearly film of the raindrops he was all over her, and with the fluid motions of the gusts he took her, causing her to writhe beneath him in lustful delight. Her eyes closed, her cheeks burning, her mouth half open, she filled the humid air with hot breaths and honeyed moans. Then, she arched her back in order to press herself to him even more, swayed her hips to meet him in even more intense contact, with even deeper thrusts, at an even faster pace, until in the gush of the downpour and the tremor of thunder sheer ecstasy overcame them both.
Renfield's eyes snapped open and like on the verge of asphyxiation he sucked in the stale air of his chamber with a desperate gasp.
My God, what had he just experienced?! This had not been any of his usual lewd fantasies or lecherous dreams! He had not been himself, nor had he taken on the perspective of Arthur Holmwood... he had seen this through Dracula's eyes!
Panic welled up inside him, a horrifying apprehension crushing down on him like a storm surge. Did this vision mean that his Mistress's spell, her ban against Dracula's evil spirit had subsided, that the devil's brother had come back upon his mind, again intending to unhinge his thoughts, manipulate his will and drive him into the abyss of lunacy?!
With uncoordinated motions he scrambled from the bed and to the bathroom, taking a glance at his gaunt and tired reflection in the mirror. Panting, Richard watched his own unnaturally blue eyes flicker through the darkness, their faint glow leaving wild, opalescent afterimages on his retina. Complete silence. There was no ominous voice whispering to him, no cruel laughter echoing in his head. Only his own racing pulse and ragged breathing. Did Dracula mock him by sending him such powerful, all-consuming images and afterwards remaining wordless? Or was it possible that the vision had come from his own subconscious, from the deepest depths of his black, deformed soul...? And had it been caused by the reading of Arthur Holmwood's notes? By the strong connection he himself felt to those past times? Regardless, if the one or the other was the case, the last days seemed to have been only a tranquil intermezzo in his constantly distressed life, his haunted existence.
Washing away the cold sweat from his face with even colder water calmed his agitated senses to some extent and the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat decelerated. Taking a deep breath, he raised his head to look at his image with a bit more confidence and determination now.
No, he would not break. Not even a vision from hell would distract him from reading on in that damned diary!
Author's note: Yes, I invented a first name for a character again! Why Francis Fenton? Because I love alliterations LOL