– XIX –

Into The Dark

'And' quoth he, 'I'll take a drive.
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favourites thrive,
'And what shall I ride in?' quoth Lucifer then –
'If I follow'd my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

– Lord Byron

Dracula let his crimson gaze wander through the pitch black darkness. Here, far from the pulsing life of the city, there was nothing of interest to behold, nothing exciting to listen to, nothing stimulating to smell. After his beloved Vanessa's death, he had chosen this exile, he had chosen to seclude himself from the world to mourn her, to let his wrath and pain and dolour subside. He also had disbanded his army of night creatures by cold-heartedly terminating their existence, making them feed on each other until only the strongest had been left.

After months of hermit-like isolation, however, he had longed for some activity and he had decided to allow his mind to venture on a little foray. The first thing his expanding perception had caught had been Renfield's wretched consciousness. Oh, he had loved playing with his favourite's emotions, with his very sanity. It had been such a delightful amusement to watch him stumble and fall and fail, to goad him to perfidious intrigues, to seduce him to his first kill.

Then, suddenly, she had intervened. Lucy...

Even though it was but a blink of an eye in his ancient existence, the year that had passed since he had left her seemed like ages to him. He had savoured her and had appreciated what she had given him after his long journey to England. Then, however, when it had been time to begin the search for Vanessa and he had discarded Lucy, it seemed he had been a bit too careless. He had not assumed her to be of such resilience, had not thought that she would cling to life in such a vigorous way. Her resurrection from the dead had truly astonished him, but he had left her in peace then, for he had had other things on his mind.

When she had taken pity on Renfield, however, he had encountered her again through his eyes – and discovered that she had evolved into a serious opponent. Lucy had been able to expel and exclude him from his former slave's head entirely!

He had withdrawn his mind to his hermitage again, trying to continue wasting away in lonesome darkness, but with the knowledge gained of his children's thriving he could no longer linger here in peaceful rest. Dracula wanted to find out more about how they were faring, to see them prospering or fading. He desired to rule them again. Maybe it was time for the devil's brother to emerge from the grave.

After Lady Godalming had left his room, Renfield hurried to follow her instructions, washing the cold sweat from his face, combing his hair, putting on his jacket and shoes. He was already about to hasten downstairs, when the gilded letters of a book cover on the bedside table caught his eye. The damn diary! He could not leave it here. His Mistress had already implied that she had discovered something displeasing inside his mind and he feared it could be his indelicacy of reading her late husband's notes.

With trembling hands he fetched the book from the piece of furniture and on his way through the Godalming portrait gallery shoved it behind the painting of an old, armoured lord with a huge ruff. Surely, no one would search it here – and at the same time this particular ancestor was flamboyant enough so that Richard would have no problem finding the diary again. Although still brooding over his Lady's words, he did not forget to pour himself an ample drink from the silver decanter, before he exited the mansion through the main door, venturing into the dark, snowy night.

Searing bolts of pain shot through Fenton's chest with every step and the thorns of window glass seemed to cut deeper into the flesh of his arms and shoulders with every movement, but determined to escape the baneful laboratory, he kept on running – over the roofs as steep as precipitous cliffs and though the labyrinth of high chimneys emitting black smoke into the dark sky like hellish funnels. He ran and ran, until a yawning abyss opened before him. At the end of the row of buildings there was no way forward.

The boy's eyes flickered back in unease, but it seemed no one followed him. Panting, he stood there for a while, before his reason told him to find a way down. Aching and bleeding all over, Francis forced himself through a small hatch, then stumbled down a long ladder to an abandoned staircase. Finally, he made his way outside, scrutinising his surroundings, frantically searching for a hiding place, preferably one with some kind of food source, but he could make out only endless, empty streets, coated with white frost.

On the verge of despair, Fenton limped along a wall and around a corner, then back again and in the opposite direction, entirely disoriented, until eventually he beheld the tops of dark trees looming at the horizon. A park! There he would find a cranny to rest and some animals to feed on! Again, the boy gathered all his remaining strength and hastened towards the promising greenery.

As Dr Frankenstein watched his dearest friend turn his back on him in rage and frustration, his heart broke. Henry's negative emotions assailed him like a storm surge and together with all his strain and stress descended upon him in a destructive downpour. Caught in a whirlwind of exasperation, he slumped down, resting his head on the cold steel base of the operation table. Victor felt as if every incident of the last weeks was his own fault, as if he alone was responsible for every failure which had struck them. Henry was right. Nothing he had done had brought his friend any success or relief. The events he had precipitated had even worsened his condition!

As for Francis Fenton's fate – he had exhumed and reanimated an innocent child and exposed him to Henry's blind wrath. Frankenstein knew there was no point in searching for the boy, for if he was only half as fast as the vampires he had encountered in the past, he would be already gone into hiding somewhere out there in the dark, alone and injured.

Burying his face in his hands, the physician let out a shuddering breath. Was he incapable of bearing responsibility for anything or anybody? Was he doomed to miserably fail everyone he held dear, everyone he cared for? For what seemed like hours, Victor cowered on the floor, devastated by black despair, until from the back of his tormented consciousness a long forgotten need crawled to light. As of their own, his limbs straightened and he rose from his wretched position, then turned to a cabinet to his left. And from the depths of the shelves he, with trembling hands, retrieved a brown glass vessel, the label of which read: Morphine.

Sergeant Gainsborough followed his target through the London night, watching the murderer from a safe distance and at the same time keeping an eye out for any police patrol he could call in as reinforcement. John Clare, however, seemed to exactly know where to creep along to avoid encountering the long arm of the law, and so, Gainsborough had no opportunity to implement his plan.

Only after more than an hour of detours through the smallest and loneliest alleyways, it began to dawn on the young Sergeant, where the culprit was heading. Clare went to King's Cross – now that he thought about it, a logical destination considering the madman wanted to flee the city. A smile confident of victory spread over Gainsborough's unshaven face. At the railway station there would be enough policemen available to catch twenty murderers!

It was freezing down here beneath the snow-covered trees and leafless hedges and only a few small animals were out tonight – a rat was the most nourishing thing Fenton had been able to catch, and its tiny life did almost nothing to restore him and heal his wounds. With trembling fingers, he had picked out all the shards from his skin and the shallow cuts had stopped bleeding, but the deep stab in his chest was still as agonisingly painful as before and from time to time he coughed up fresh crimson. Would it kill him? Would he choke on the very substance that kept him alive, his own blood?

Francis could not treat himself, nor could he, in fear of being imprisoned and tortured for so-called studies again, visit any mortal doctor. He could only hope that one of his many brothers and sisters, that another night creature would find him, but even as he had left Frankenstein's laboratory, he had not perceived any sign of them. Where were they? Where was the Master? Had he been buried in the earth for such a long time that they had forgotten him? Had they vacated this city and left him behind for dead? Moreover, he still could not believe Vanessa was dead!

No, the stab wound was not the worst injury he suffered from. It was his heart that hurt, the broken heart of an abandoned child. Shivering from the cold and his devastating emotions, Francis cowered on the frozen ground, wrapping his arms around his knees, and he cried. He cried large, salty tears, running down his puerile face and mixing with both the pure white snowflakes that fell onto his cheeks and the bloody grime on his hands.

O, were I loved as I desire to be!
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
Or range of evil between death and birth,
That I should fear, if I were loved by thee!
All the inner, all the outer world of pain,
Clear love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine.

– Lord Tennyson

With no disturbing voice in his head and with his consciousness retrieved from the dark abyss the reading of Arthur Holmwood's diary had created, Renfield felt quite elated. Deeply inhaling the cold, refreshing air, he savoured the night outside the mansion. In the evening, he wandered the snowy London streets, confident and without being tempted by any of the mortals who scurried around him like the mean animals they were. Looking into the windows of inns and groggeries and watching the mob indulge in their vespertine amusement, he was more than disgusted by their gluttony and alcoholism, and passing by shady alleys where he knew opium dens and brothels were located, he could not believe he had once himself visited such places.

He felt above that primitive plebeians now, and not because those policemen had, by his exclusive clothing, mistaken him for a lord. No, he was a superior, immortal being now, and he had finally, after months of fighting the consequences of his transformation, realised that he did not lust for the filthy flesh and tainted blood of that riffraff. Had the separation from Dracula brought that change? Or his overcome breakdown? Maybe the regular consumption of the pure life from Lady Lucy's silver goblet? – Probably their connection, which seemed to be strengthened again, both by his enhanced knowledge of her past and her expedition into his subconscious.

Although she had turned her back on him and sent him away, it would be only a mood of hers, she would forgive him for whatever she had experienced inside his mind, he was sure of that, as she was always forgiving him. With time, they had become tied together so tightly – not only he to her, but she to him as well – that there would be no breaking their blood bond ever again. He would stay by his Mistress's side forever, be there for her, care for her as she cared for him – because he loved her!

In stark contrast to the pain he had felt when first realising his feelings for Lucy, a comforting warmth now spread in his chest at this thought, for he no longer worried about being cast out. With all the trouble gone or reduced to naught, there was only one wish left unfulfilled. Sighing, Richard let his gaze wander across the nightly horizon, where the black treetops of Hampstead Heath stood out against the heavy grey clouds. It was the longing he had felt from the moment he had first encountered her, the craving constantly nagging at his body, mind and soul, the yearning to be loved by her as well, the desire for the Blessed Sacrament of her fairest flesh and purest blood.

After her servant was out of her sensitive perception's reach, Lucy sat down at the desk in her study, took a deep breath and reviewed the disordered images, sounds, and smells she had experienced in his mind. What soothed her agitated thoughts was the fact that Dracula had not been present anywhere in that maelstrom, and so, she could be sure her spell had once and for all banned him. That most events had been familiar to her could also be considered a positive aspect, for she thereupon presumed Renfield did not keep all too many secrets from her, at least concerning his deeds.

Actually, there were only two impressions she could not contextualise: The pages of twirly writing and the events at the Westenra estate. Did this mean, Richard had read a handwritten text on her past life, some dubious notes unknown to her? But how had they come into his possession and who could be the author? Dr Seward maybe? The psychologist was their only mutual acquaintance...

This unsolved mystery bothered Lady Godalming. Renfield's emotions, his wishes, however, were much more of a worry to her. She was sure, his love for her was true and unconditional – no one could feign this purest of all feelings. And with this love came his desperate yearning to be with her in an intimate way. Of course, she had known that he wanted her, for most men did, and she had caught him daydreaming on innumerable occasions, but she would never have thought his lust to prove as dark and abyssal as Dracula's had been. She would never have deemed this delicate man, this fragile boy capable of such saturnine cravings!

Had she assessed him wrongly? Had his role changed from a subjective, defenceless victim, unable to control his primal urges, to a cruel, desire-driven offender, savouring his wrongdoings? When his nightmarish fantasies someday would swallow his weaker, harmless side, would he act them out? Would the pitch-black part of his soul someday bring agony not just upon himself, but upon others as well? Was keeping him at her side not only a risk of exposure to mortals, but to her own wellbeing in a direct way? Was Richard a physical threat to herself?

Lucy could not tell for sure. As a night creature, she was older and more experienced, and she could rely on her mental abilities, but with the sheer chaos inside his head he might prove unpredictably dangerous. The question was now, what would be the wisest thing to do thereupon? She could not simply dismiss her servant and throw him out of her house – she had done this once, and he had refused to leave – nor could their relationship continue in its current way, for with the insight she had gained from his mind she would never again feel entirely safe.

Furthermore, having freed him from Bethlem, she bore a certain responsibility for Renfield, for with that fateful day he had become more than one of Dracula's votaries. By that action she had made him her creature as well. So, if he turned into a mindless murderer, it would, at least partly, be also her fault.

Knitting her brows and biting down on her lip, Lucy buried her pale face in her hands. Despite all her mental strength, her composure, her steadfastness, and patience, she was failing to control what she had given rise to! Alone, she would not be able to master this situation, without help, her idea of establishing a decent, regulated life for him as well as herself would fall apart, the castle in the air she had built would crush to the ground and shatter into a thousand pieces.

But who could she turn to? Whom could she ask for help? Standing up from her seat, Lady Godalming started to pace the room in random lines. Who was familiar with both psychological matters and the existence of night creatures? Who was sensible enough to listen to such a surely bizarre sounding request? Whom could she make a confidant – at least for a short time, until she would have the answers she sought?

For a long moment, Lucy brooded over this question, then, the scales fell from her eyes. She knew someone fitting this profile perfectly! Once, she herself had described that someone as an unpleasant person, but one of the few a mother can frequent without drawing public attention to the mental health of her daughter. Maybe this unpleasant person could also be frequented by a lady, who did not wish to draw public attention to the mental health of her servant.

Stopping at the large window, Lucy let her gaze wander into the darkness outside, where it determinedly fixated on the pale face of the moon rising above the clouds. Yes, she would contact their mutual acquaintance in these matters. She would turn to Doctor Florence Seward.

After leaving the rattrap Frankenstein called his flat, Dr Henry Jekyll, Lord Hyde hurried home to his mansion. He, however, had no eyes for the luxurious interior, nor did he fancy any of the expensive refreshments Mr Poole was offering him. He did not care for the wounds the vampire's claws hat left on his shoulders, he did not even discard his ruined shirt, for he could focus on only one thing. With a determined expression on his face, he went straight to his sitting room, where the phial of green serum still sat on the table, its gloomy glow still lingering in the air, waiting for his return.

There would be no more loitering, no more waiting, no more trying other options, no more listening to others' advice or relying on others' capabilities. He, Dr Jekyll, most exceptional and excellent chemist of the Victorian era, would now take his fate into his own hands! He would find the answers he sought in his own formula! With a vigorous gesture he snatched the glass vessel off the marble tabletop, proudly holding the essence of his scientific work up one last time, before drawing up a syringe and injecting the full dose right into the vein of his arm.

When reaching King's Cross station, John Clare folded up his collar again and combed his long black hair into his pitted face, hoping nobody would recognise him this way. Then, he took a deep breath and dared to step from the shadows into the queue which had formed at the counter, patiently and inconspicuously waiting to buy a ticket. Where to exactly he had not yet decided. As it was already evening, there would not be many destinations to choose from and it did not matter where he went, as long as it was far away enough from this accursed city.

After almost ten minutes, it finally was his turn to step forward and he, in a low and calm voice, asked the ticket seller for the next connections, when the woman behind the counter suddenly stood up from her seat, eyes wide in shock, raising her hands in a defensive gesture and retreating backwards. Bewildered, John wondered if she had identified him as the wanted murderer from the newspapers, but then, the people hitherto queuing behind him – although they could not see his face – fled as well.

"John Clare!" a harsh voice yelled his name through the station hall. "Hands up and turn around slowly! You are under arrest for multiple homicide!"

When Fenton woke up, he did not know for how long he had lain on the icy ground in the park. Was it still the same night? Or had he slept away the day? He was indeed astonished to wake up at all, for the stab wound in his chest was still not healing, as deep as before and even more painful. But it was not the excruciating pain that had woken him, it was another sensation, a perception beyond any physical experience.

Francis's eyes snapped open, and he struggled to get up from his crouched position beneath the trees. He felt it, right here and now! The presence of someone like himself! The presence of another night creature! They were not all gone, they had not all abandoned him! Stumbling out onto the snow-covered grass, his azure gaze flickered about in search of the familiar being, whose aura grew strong and powerful as it drew near.

It had to be a full-fledged vampire, one in control of their thirst, one regularly feeding – and not on animals, but on humans. It had to be one high up in the hierarchy, close to the Master... or could it be... Dracula himself?

Fenton stopped in his tracks as he beheld the tall figure of a man emerging from the darkness right in front of him, elegantly clothed in black and with eyes burning demonically.

"Oh my, boy," the dark apparition addressed him in a melodic baritone. "What happened to you?"