- XX -

Off The Path

Say, lordly Man, of pow'rs possest,
That no inferior creatures know;
Say, can the mind with reason blest,
Relentless fury show.
To thy domain all beasts belong,
Yet why so merciless thy sway?
Why to the harmless, useful throng,
Such cruelty display?

– E. Bentley

"So, you are the chemist who invented a cure for all the tormented souls...? I am Lady Godalming."

"Yes, if you like to call it so. Dr Henry Jekyll."

"Tell me, dear Doctor...Who is the twentieth patient?"

"The maniac's name is Renfield. I have tried the serum three times now on him, but without success. So, I was just about to visit him and give him a double dose..."

"Perfect. Let's visit him together, shall we?"

"Ignorant fool! Don't you tell me he hasn't begged you for what he truly needs, that he hasn't tried to get it at any cost!"

"You mean human blood? But how can you know of this particular delusion...?"

"This is not a delusion, Doctor! Come and see for yourself! It seems your auspicious, lunacy curing elixir wasn't what this man needed, doesn't it, Doctor?"

"Are you suggesting to... discharge him?"

"What a clever scientist you are."

Dr Henry Jekyll's – Lord Hyde's – heart beat like a drum and his dark eyes snapped open at the return of his memory, the memory of that very hour, that had been suppressed for so long. Limbs sprawled out, he lay on the floor of his sitting room, breathing heavily.

He had done it, the new serum was working! Eventually, he saw clear again, the disturbing blind spot in his mind uncovered! Finally, he felt whole again! And he remembered the name of the vampire woman who had put that spell on him – Lady Godalming!

A gentle wave of relief washed over him, cleaning away all his trouble, all his sorrow. Another deep breath and Hyde was able to stand up, taking in his surroundings as if looking at them with new eyes. Had his father's interior always appeared so tastefully luxurious? Blinking, he turned to the sofa, sitting down in a pensive pose.

What should he do now with his newly gained knowledge? Should he search for the lady in white? And what if he found her? He had a good mind to track her down and confront that witch about what she had done to him, to bring her to justice for helping a criminally insane man escape from a royal institution, and to unveil her abnormal nature to the public!

The lord's vengeful thoughts, however, were bluntly interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Mr Poole's senile voice, asking if he was alright. Suddenly, a bolt of white-hot wrath shot through Hyde's entire body as he sprang from his seat, flung open the door and roughly seized the butler by the lapel of his livery.

"Of course I'm alright, you old doter!" he spat at him, black irises blazing with fury. "Why would I be not?!"

"I am indescribably sorry to disturb you, Milord," Poole answered, eyes wide in shock. "But I heard a thud, as if you had fallen... I only wanted to help!"

"Do I look like I need your help, you moron?!" Hyde hissed, while giving his subordinate a violent shake. "Rest assured I will call you when I need your infirm service!"

With that he tossed Poole backwards into the corridor, causing him to tumble to the floor and utter a pained cry.

"Now you know what it sounds like when one falls!" the lord snarled, then in passing the helpless old man, kicked his ribs and vigorously strode upstairs.

Lucy had searched Dr Seward's private address among her late husband's correspondence for almost an hour. Now that she had finally found it, she sat down at her desk and took out pen and paper, wrote only two lines, then folded the sheet and put it into a simple envelope, which she sealed with a neutral signet. No one, not even the doctor herself was to know whom the letter was from. Lady Godalming would give her no recorded hints to her identity, for, unlike spoken words, which she easily could erase from her collocutor's mind, proof in written form was beyond her control.

Taking a deep breath, the lady in white rose from her seat and headed down to the entrance hall, clothed herself in her polar fox cloak and exited the marble mansion in an elegant swirl of snowy pelts. In her determination to promptly post this most important letter, she paid no attention to John Clare's last poem on the floor next to the main portal, nor did she remember to fill up the silver carafe in the pantry. Lost in pondering what the results of a conversation with the psychologist would be, she did not perceive the fire of agitated feelings sparked off by an encounter of two fellow creatures not far from her home.

The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk –
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control –
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

– R. Kipling

"Oh my, boy, what happened to you?"

When Fenton looked at the man addressing him, he soon noticed it was not the Master, but a stranger, tall, with ash blond hair and dressed in an elegant black suit. The almost translucent pallor of his skin and the opalescence of his irises, fixating the boy through round glasses, however, appeared quite familiar – this man undoubtedly was a night creature like Francis himself.

Without hesitation, the injured vampire approached him, stumbling, falling, almost crawling the last couple of feet, before he finally came to a halt on his knees, gazing up at his potential saviour.

"Thank goodness, Sir, I am so relieved that you found me!" he uttered in a heartwarmingly childlike tone. "Mortals hurt me, they battered me and stabbed me with a knife. I am not healing, look...!"

With that he opened his ragged shirt, exposing the still bleeding wound in his chest. The stranger narrowed his eyes, taking a closer look at him, but remained silent.

"I am too weak to feed myself, and my only hope was for one of our kind to come for me..." Tears now streamed down Fenton's puerile face in rivulets.

The other vampire, however, did not seem all too affected by the image of black despair cowering before him.

"Help me, Sir! Have mercy with me!" Francis begged, tear-choked voice breaking with exhaustion. "Give me blood! Please..!"

His last words, spoken in the most pitiable whisper, apparently got through to the stranger's heart, for he furrowed his brow and an expression of discomfort spread over his gaunt features. With his last strength, the boy reached out for him, but before he could clutch at the fine fabric of the lordly man's trousers, he took a step back, causing Fenton to collapse on the frozen ground.

"John Clare! Hands up and turn around slowly! You are under arrest for multiple homicide!"

Remaining unexpectedly calm, the poet did as he was told to, and in the process scrutinised his surroundings, taking in every detail, carefully observing every face in the station hall. There were thirty policemen at the least, forming a circle around the counter, ready to lunge out at him every moment, but armed with batons only. A sole young plainclothesman – the one in command, who had addressed him – stood opposite him, pointing a revolver at his chest.

In the blink of an eye Clare considered his options. If he surrendered, they would arrest him and question him about all the crimes he was suspected of, and he would be forced to play a game of lies in order to protect Lady Godalming from further investigations. If he fought them, the inspector would surely shoot him. Six bullets, however, would not suffice to kill him, so the uniformed men would come at him and, his flesh squashed and his bones crushed by clubs, he would die a slow and painful death.

While his thoughts raced to and fro between these two unpleasant scenarios, a shrill sound suddenly reached his ears, a sound of hope for another outcome to this precarious situation – the whistle of a departing train! Fast as lightning John spun around and, using the element of surprise to his advantage, with supernatural strength pushed his way through the row of policemen, dashing towards the platforms.

Renfield had had enough of the dirty streets with their drunken mortal mob, enough of obtrusive innkeepers inviting him into their dives and officious whores molesting him with their flaunted sluttishness, so he had left the crowded quarters and had headed back to Hampstead Heath, where he hoped to find some silence beneath the snow-covered trees.

He did not intend to return home yet, for morning was still a few hours ahead and he assumed that his Lady would want a full night of musing about whatever she wished to contemplate. Instead, he wandered the far side of the park, keeping a good distance to the mansion and enjoying the white wonderland glistening in the moonlight. Just as he closed his eyes, imagining the milky fabric of Lucy's dress shining like the snowy meadows, her fair skin translucent as the sheet of ice on the ornamental lake, a feeling of unease overcame him, assailing his mind from somewhere outside.

It felt like perceiving one of his Mistress's emotions, but he was sure it was not her reaching out for him. Could it be... another night creature? Stepping off the path, Richard followed the strange telepathic track, passing by hedges and willows, stiff with white frost, until he arrived at a clearing. Instantly, the smell of fresh blood crawled up his nostrils and soon, he was able to make out the figure of a bedraggled boy, not older than sixteen, stumbling out from beneath the trees.

With the unmistakably supernatural eyes of a vampire, he looked up at him, clutching his chest, where he bled heavily, the crimson soaking through his ragged shirt. He clearly was another of Dracula's abandoned children, Renfield, however, did not know him from the slaughterhouse. For months, all the night creatures had been gone from London and he had deemed his Mistress and himself the only ones left. So, where did this wretch suddenly come from?

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

Falling to his knees, the adolescent showed him the deep wound, telling him in the most pitiable tone that mortals had stabbed him. Richard scrutinised him with a certain deliberation, and at the same time savoured his own superior position. Never before had someone knelt before him!

When tears started to flow from the boy's huge blue eyes, a feeling of exciting demonic power rose within him. It was as delightful a feeling as back then when he had ruled over Nathan's mind, rendering his victim defenceless, and though it was different, for this one was no ordinary mortal. Then, the boy begged him for mercy, child-like voice breaking, and Renfield's heartbeat accelerated in a lustful sense of superiority. Should he respond to this desperate appeal?

"Give me blood! Please..!"

The other vampire's last plea ran through Richard's ears like a bolt of lightning. These were exactly the words he himself had uttered when beseeching Dracula for nourishment, the words that had set the seal on their calamitous contract, the words with which he had so entirely submitted to a higher being. If he now donated his life to this creature, he knew he would become the child's master. With feeding him from his veins, he would establish an inseparable connection between them, a blood bond, with the consequence of being responsible for him, of being obligated to further look after him. After such an action, he would not be able to just walk away on his own path again.

And what if he brought him home to the Godalming mansion? Would his Lady think of him as a merciful benefactor or a cruel abuser? Oh, my poor boy! – Lucy's compassionate phrase echoed through his head. Surely, she would want to take this wretch into her care just as she had admitted him! And what would become of him then? The secondary servant? The one already tended to sufficiently? A minor matter?

Renfield sucked in the cold air forcefully as this horrifying misgiving unfolded its black wings in his mind. No! He could not allow that! As much as he longed to act out his power over this boy here and now, the aftermath of such a deed he could not bear! And so, he took a step backwards, retreating, resiling, fleeing from the small outstretched hand, whereupon the injured child collapsed on the frozen ground.

"I am sorry, boy," Renfield whispered, his tone not so lordly anymore. "I am truly sorry, but I cannot do this."

A dreadful sound, somewhere between animalistic whining and despairing cry, left Fenton's throat at that and he curled up into a pitiable picture of misery. He would have crawled before this man, given him everything in exchange for a mouthful of life, but he was far too weak to further beseech the stranger for mercy, far too exhausted to offer him whatever he wished for. Bled out, he was no longer able to speak or even move a limb, and the only thing he perceived was the sound of cracking footsteps hastening away in the snow, before everything went black and the vampire boy was left behind, no more than a forlorn speck of grey and crimson in the wide, white clearing. Slowly, but steadily, the falling flakes covered Francis Fenton's motionless body.

Richard fled back to the marble mansion as fast as he could, almost falling up the stairs to the main portal, fumbling with the keys. Stepping inside, he instantly shut the heavy door behind him, leaning against it, breathing laboriously. An agonising feeling of guilt and shame rose in his chest and tears welled up in his pale blue eyes.

His failure to save that boy was tugging at his heartstrings much more than the murder on Nathan or the schemes against John Clare. Again, he had chosen what he thought would redound to his own advantage, leaving another innocent soul to a gruesome fate, delivering another victim to the claws of death.

This failure, however, felt like the worst of all his misdeeds to him, for that wretched creature had reminded him so of his own self. Back then in Bethlem, he must have gazed up at Lady Lucy with the same despair in his eyes, and when he had begged her to forgive him, he must have done so in the same breaking voice. What if she had at that time acted the way he had now? What if she had abandoned him or cast him out forever? A choked sob left his trembling lips at these black thoughts, and he slumped down to the floor, burrowing his face in his hands.

Then, suddenly, an idea sprang to his mind. He could not give his own blood to the dying vampire, but he could provide him with the nectar from Lucy's silver decanter! This way he would have saved the boy's life and thereafter he could tell him to leave and never again disturb his and his Lady's world! Renfield picked himself up in a hurry and flew to the kitchen, flung open the pantry door, reached for the carafe – and noticed it was empty.

"Stop! Stop where you are or I'll shoot!" the plainclothesman shouted after him, but John Clare was already out of hearing range, jostling through the stream of oncoming people, making it impossible to take a clear aim at him.

The uniformed men did not hesitate to chase him, however, slowed down by frightened passengers and personnel they were only able to reach the platforms after Sergeant Gainsborough had given two warning shots.

The departing train to Edinburgh was already moving, steaming and pitching, beclouding the hall with black smoke and, although his eyes and lungs burned like hellfire, John ran and ran and ran. When the last waggon was mere inches away from his outstretched hand, the poet leapt forward. As another three bullets hit the brick walls and iron arches behind him, his fingers closed around the railing. With all the strength he could muster, he hauled himself up onto the step.

"Stop that train!" Gainsborough's enraged voice echoed through the station, drowning even the loud pounding of the engine, but for executing this order it was too late. The heavy steam vehicle was leaving King's Cross station and, hiding beneath the porch roof of the last waggon, John Clare was about to slip from his hands.

The zealous sergeant's pulse was racing as he stared at the departing train. He still had one bullet left, but his target was absconding further and further with every second he hesitated. Soon, Clare would be out of reach for even the best marksman. The young police officer tried to calm down by sucking in the polluted station air, then positioned himself on the platform in a stable posture, aimed for the tall, dark figure and pulled the trigger. Another deafening sound echoed through the hall.

In this very moment, a black cloud of smoke sank down over the train's rear, and Gainsborough was unable to make out Clare anymore. Had he hit him?!

Excruciating nausea overcame him as he stared at the bottom of the vessel, where not a single drop of red bedewed the polished silver. The decanter had been the boy's last hope – his last hope to avert another addition to his long list of crimes, to prevent another sin from staining his deformed soul. It seemed as if fate was hindering him to do any good, as if he was doomed to prove a villain.

With hands shaking, Renfield put the decanter back into the pantry and on shaky legs left the kitchen. Only when almost staggeringly walking down the corridor, he noticed that he perceived not a single emotion from Lucy – his Mistress was absent, the house just as empty as the silver carafe. Soon, the heavy load of the misery that always befell him when she was not near piled up on top of the mountain of guilt already weighing on his shoulders.

Reaching the sitting room, he could do nothing but flaccidly fall into a chair. Limbs sprawled out and head leaned against the back rest, he let out a sigh of the most devastated exhaustion. As he slipped into the misty state between wakefulness and sleep, images of his beloved Lady emerged before his inner eye. Where had she gone? What was she doing when she left the mansion? What was the reason for her absence? The things she had discovered in his mind? Terrible uncertainty was mixing with his old longing for her – her cerulean orbs, her fiery hair, her cool touch, her soft lips, her flesh, her blood...

The sun had risen, warm rays leaking into the room, when Richard started up from his slumber, heart beating like a drum. His mouth dry as parchment, he could barely swallow the lump in his throat. Of course, it had been only a matter of time until a third calamity would be burdened on his tormented self:

Thirst. Gnawing, burning, all-consuming thirst had befallen him, pounced on him like a wild beast. Apparently, the empty decanter was not only the boy's ruin.

Although beclouded by the red fog of need, his mind mustered to catch some reasonable thoughts and calculate his options. With his usual source gone, he could try to feed on animals for a while, but just as his fellow creature in the snowy park, he would not find all too many of them in the garden behind the house. The alternative to that hopeless quest was, of course, to venture back to the crowded streets and hunt for a human, but no, oh no, he could not augment the mountain-high pile of his sins further!

In this precarious situation, there was only one thing left for him to try: He had to find his Mistress, find her and beg her for nourishment. How quickly Fortuna was varying her face! Within hours, his role had again changed from that of a lordly master to that of a needy slave.

Taking a deep breath, he rose from his seat and on trembling legs steered for Lucy's study. If she had left any hint to where she went, he would find it there.

His agitated eyes flickered over the papers and folders on the shelves, but he discovered nothing of interest, he pulled out all the drawers, but detected nothing useful. Frustratedly, he fell into the desk chair, running his hand through his hair, dishevelling the neatly parted ash blond strands in a motion of black despair.

Then suddenly, something blindingly reflecting the sunlight caught his eye. It was but a blank piece of paper, though, on closer examination it proved valuable evidence, for some lines written on a formerly overlying sheet had left clear impressions on it. Quickly, Richard retrieved a lead pencil from a drawer and with agitated movements hatched over what he thought would bring light to his Mistress's whereabouts. The words revealed by the grey strokes, however, caused him even more bewilderment, for the supposed letter began with:

Dear Doctor Seward...