!Warning: M (16)-rated themes: Depiction of blood.

- XXIII -

To The Brink

Fast as lightning, Lucy reached out for Dr Seward's mind, her telepathic powers assailing the psychologist's consciousness from every side, enwrapping it tightly. Then, the vampire used all her strength to destroy everything she could catch, every thought, every memory, pulling at them, ripping them out of the older woman's brain. Florence's face contorted in shock at that attack and she opened her mouth in an attempt to scream, but a hoarse gurgling was everything that escaped her throat, before her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed on the floor, the revolver slipping from her hand.

Lady Godalming had successfully neutralised the threat Seward had posed, however it had been too late to avert the shot that had already gone off from her weapon. Azure gaze flickering over to the desk, Lucy prepared herself for the worst. And in fact, she beheld a gruesome sight: Richard Renfield had stumbled away from the body of the girl, his back against the wall, eyes wide in fright and pain, clutching his chest, where bright crimson stained his white shirt, fanning out further and further, until his sleeves were drenched as well, until his brocade waistcoat was soaked in blood.

The bullet had pierced his heart.

"This is all your fault, Victor!" Henry's voice, distorted by hate and rage, seemed to echo through his laboratory again, as his threatening form towered over his colleague. "You have sworn to respect and care for human life, and though you bring nothing but pain and suffering! Accursed be your falseness!"

With those spiteful words, suddenly, his friend's body began to shake and convulse. It appeared as if he grew taller and at the same time shrunk into some hunched, unshaped thing. With unspeakable speed he flew at Frankenstein, and in the moonlight that fell in through the shattered window, his features seemed to melt, merge into the most misbegotten mask – a deformed ghoul, a ghastly golem!

"Look at me and behold what you have made me, Victor!" the abomination that had once been Dr Henry Jekyll growled at the trembling physician. "See what you have created!"

Gasping in horror, Frankenstein started from his morphine-induced nightmare. He was lying on the floor, dangerously close to the sharp shards of window glass that still covered half of his laboratory. With a pained groan, he picked himself up, then more stumbled than walked to the bathroom and, taking a deep breath, washed the cold sweat from his gaunt face.

Of course, this had been but a fevered chimaera, of course, Henry would not turn into a monster because he had failed to help him recover his memory. However, after the catastrophic outcome of their last attempt to do so, the chemist might now be more tempted than ever to test his new serum on himself – a not calculable risk! Maybe it would have no effect on a sane mind. Or maybe he would be successful in curing his amnesia, but would do unrepairable damage to his brain.

Whatever the result of such an overhasty action would be, he, Victor Frankenstein, was to a very large degree responsible for it! Clenching his teeth and fists, Victor took a decision: Despite Henry's choleric nature, despite his proclamation to never see him again, he would not let his friend down! He would not give up on trying to help him! A newly found energy spread through every fibre of his haggard body, as the doctor fetched his coat, strode down the stairs and called for a cab to drive him to the Hyde mansion.

Through vaults of pain,
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness,
I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain
To dire distress.
And hammerings,
And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent
With webby waxing things and waning things
As on I went.
"Where lies the end
To this foul way?" I asked with weakening breath.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend –
The door to death.
It loomed more clear:
"At last!" I cried. "The all-delivering door!"

– T. Hardy

Excruciating, searing pain exploded in his chest and like a bolt of lightning ran through his entire body as the bullet from Seward's revolver pierced his skin, flesh and bone, lacerating his arteries. The shock of the impact caused him to stumble backwards against the wall and his vision was already blurring when he, as if in some kind of slow motion, beheld how his Lady turned to the gunslinging psychologist and with her mental abilities rendered her unconscious. Instinctively, he was relieved to see the attacker fall to the ground, but the fact that she would not shoot him a second time did nothing to allay his agony. Whatever remained of his heart in desperate convulsions tried to keep up his circulation, failing miserably, only accelerating the process of blood loss, life leaving him, as a crimson river inexorably streamed from his left side.

"Mistress..." was everything Richard could utter in a choked whisper as he sank down the wall, his knees giving way under him.

Lady Godalming stood there, in the middle of the room, in the middle of the bloodbath, motionless as a beautiful marble statue, and did not know what to do. She had seen with her own eyes what Richard was capable of, she had witnessed how he had abused and killed an innocent girl – a girl with ginger hair. It was clear as daylight to the lady in white that he had not randomly chosen her as his quarry, no, the poor secretary had served as a surrogate for the one he truly desired. He had satisfied his thirst on this particular mortal because she had reminded him of his Mistress.

This was what she had feared all along. The man she had rescued and taken into her home, whom she had believed to be a fragile soul in need of care, had become a mindless murderer, driven to atrocious cruelty by his suppressed urges – he had turned into a monster, because he could not have her!

By the sight of what he had been doing to his victim, Lucy knew now also the way he craved to possess her: as his helpless prey, decoyed into submitting to him and trembling under his touch. The lady knew what this girl had had to endure, what it was like to be forced to do a heartless, merciless man's bidding, to be a tyrant's plaything. And she had sworn to never allow this horror to befall her again!

Her eyes lit up like azure flames when she stared at the heavily injured assaulter.

"Mistress..." re rasped in a pitiably broken tone as blood gushed from his mouth. "I think... I am dying..."

Her reason and sanity told her to let just this happen, turn her back on the atrocious thing her servant had become, and leave to live her lonely life again, immerse herself in solitude as she had done in the past.

"Lucy..." Renfield now used her first name. "...my heart..."

She still did not answer. Was he hallucinating? Was he already that close to fading that his brain in its last throes spun some cruel chimaera for him to behold? Or was his Lady truly hesitating to approach him? Had his latest and last sin appalled her so much that she would not come to his rescue this time? Was she so disgusted by his misdeed that she could only watch the scene of his crime, petrified in horror? If so, then, by his own detestable doing, he had condemned himself, had forfeited the chance of a life at her side. Then, he was unworthy of her grace. And his death would be only just and equitable.

A single tear ran down Richard's cheek, soon dropping away into the ocean of blood he lay in.

After Lord Hyde had injected himself with another dose of his elixir, it fortunately had not taken long until his memory again had returned, and he had been able to resume his research for Lady Godalming. Soon, he had noticed that his father's books did not give him any more information on her whereabouts and he would have to consult another source in order to find out more about the vampire witch.

At first, he had thought about going to the municipal register office, an institution so meticulously keeping records of every citizen's addresses that not even a supernatural creature would be able to elude its prying bureaucratic eye, but a glance at the grandfather clock told him that at this hour there was no chance of visiting there anymore. Hyde, however, was unwilling to wait until tomorrow morning, and after pondering his options, decided to instead venture to the British Library, which might still be open and where he hoped to find some more tomes on the history of aristocrats.

When reaching for his coat, the lord raised an eyebrow. Had his outerwear always looked so shabby? Bewildered, he threw it into a corner, then opened his father's wardrobe, where he found a luxurious astrakhan coat, which, upon trying it on, fit surprisingly well. As he was now in the mood to dress up, he also took out a top hat and a silver adorned cane, then headed down the stairs in vigorous strides.

Mr Poole was already about to lock the main portal, when he heard energetic steps echoing through the entrance hall. The old butler looked up, expecting to see his master in another fit of rage – and froze. What in heaven's name was that?! It seemed as if he had some kind of vivid déjà-vu, as if a ghostly apparition had emerged from the deepest depths of the past. He blinked twice, thrice, but the phantom did not disappear from his sight.

Not the bastard heir, but the late Lord Hyde himself was descending the stairs, in all his aristocratic splendour! Eyes wide in shock and awe, Poole stood there, petrified.

"What are you staring at, servant?!" the spectre hissed at him. "Better get my coach ready, or do you think your lord would take one of those filthy cabs?"

For another long moment, Poole gaped at him, completely beside himself, then, like in trance, the butler obeyed.

"Lucy..."

Although she was already determined to turn her back on him, the broken sound of her first name from Richard's bloodied lips somehow crept into her ears. Although her reason told her to leave, his plea moved her heart, affected her as if it was an invocation, the prayer of a dying child, beseeching Our Lady to go to heaven. It was a sound she had heard not yet a year ago, spoken in the same pitiable tone.

Back then, she had, helpless herself, not known how to help. Back then, she had failed to save the one she loved.

"...my heart..."

"My heart beats only for you." Those had been Richard's words, expressing his unconditional love.

"And I want you to know, that whatever may come, I will care for you," had then been her answer.

An unspeakable ache spread in Lady Godalming's chest upon the remembrance of her promise to him. No, oh God, no! She could not follow her reason! In spite of what he had become, no matter what he had done, she could not let him bleed out on the floor, could not allow him to draw his last breath at her feet, for she knew, if she now left him, returning to her old life would prove an impossibility. If she now, in the face of sure death abandoned him, she would find no peace of mind ever again, his last plea would haunt her forever! Her broken promise, her neglect, her betrayal would weigh as heavy on her heart as if she herself had murdered him!

And so, when a last tear rolled from his empty eyes, Lucy eventually took a step towards her moribund servant and fell to her knees beside him. And while the fine fabric of her white dress became soaked with his blood, she removed her gloves and rolled up her sleeve to mercifully feed him with her own divine nectar again.

When Dr Frankenstein arrived at the Hyde house, he did not hesitate to energetically hammer against the main door.

"Henry! It's me!" he rather pointlessly called, as if the lord of the mansion would wait for him in the entrance hall.

And just as usual, it was not his friend himself opening, but the old butler, who tonight looked even more doddery than the last time he had seen him.

"Mr Poole! I need to see Henry!" Victor demanded without further ado.

"Dr Frankenstein, what a surprise..." Poole answered, motionlessly standing at the threshold and blinking in bewilderment.

"Will you let me in?" the physician impatiently asked, but the butler just stared at him, disoriented.

Frankenstein scrutinised his opposite for a moment, wondering if his blank expression was the first sign of beginning dementia or a symptom of shock.

"Are you alright, Mr Poole?"

It took the servant another long moment to reply, and when he eventually opened his wrinkled mouth, his voice was but a shaking whisper.

"My dear Doctor, I think... I think I have seen a ghost!"

Victor raised an eyebrow at that.

"A ghost, indeed?" he questioned the old man's confused statement in a sarcastic tone.

"Yes, indeed," Poole confirmed a bit louder now. "When I thought Lord Henry would approach me, it was not him but his late father, who then ordered me to ready his coach!"

"Oh my, Poole," Frankenstein sighed. "You should better get some sleep, and maybe think about retiring..."

The butler thereupon knitted his brows. "I must protest, Doctor! Although this experience of mine seems rather strange, I can assure you that I am still very much in my right mind!"

"Would you please let me see Henry?" the physician growled, utterly annoyed now.

Finally, Poole stepped aside, so Frankenstein could rush upstairs in search for his friend. However, he did not find Dr Jekyll in the sitting room, nor in his study or the library.

"Where is he?!" he called down from the gallery, his worried voice echoing through the wood panelling covered entrance hall.

"Lord Henry you mean?" the old butler asked.

"Yes, dammit!" Victor hissed back.

Poole still looked confused. "I must admit, I do not know, Sir..."

With a few vigorous steps the physician was at his side, about to scold the incompetent servant, but then his reason told him that this would lead to nothing. Although he was not all too often seeing living patients and had not much knowledge of consultation, he was sure that in most cases empathy proved the key to success.

"Alright, Mr Poole. The... ghost of the late lord, did he say where he would go?" he asked in a calm tone.

"I heard him ordering the coachman to drive him to the British Library," the butler informed him.

"Thank you, Poole!" Victor patted the old man's shoulder, then hastened outside to call for a cab again.

It had taken him long hours and the blood of a dozen mortals to fully recover from his self-imposed privations, and another day to travel to London. Dandering through the crowded quarters again, he became aware that he had indeed missed this city. As filthy and depraved a Babylonian quagmire it might be, as buzzing and radiating with life were its streets, like pulsing veins in a gigantic organism, a living creature – and nothing fascinated Dracula more than vital beings!

When he stopped at a corner, his red eyes following some exceptionally graceful passerby, a young lad stepped in his way and noisily advertised a newspaper.

"Murderer John Clare Finally Caught!" he proclaimed its headline, not bothering to move until he had sold a copy.

As he did not wish to attract any attention, the devil's brother threw the boy a penny, who thereupon more than happily presented him the newest issue of The Westminster Gazette.

MURDERER JOHN CLARE FINALLY CAUGHT

SGT. GAINSBOROUGH A SCOTLAND YARD HERO

The timid torpidity our city has been trembling with for weeks finally comes to an end! John Clare, cruel murderer and animal abuser, was caught by the police and arrested in Scotland Yard. Hero of the spectacular detention at Kings Cross Station is Sgt. George Gainsborough, a young, hitherto publicly unknown policeman, who bravely and without hesitation stopped the fugitive with a grazing shot, thus hindering him from absconding onboard a train.

Until today, no details concerning the madman's interrogation have been disclosed, however, an informant passed on photographs to our editorial office, apparently showing one of Clare's victims. In order to protect the privacy of both the deceased and his relatives, The Westminster Gazette will not show the entire material, to reveal the true brutality of the Hampstead Monster's crimes, however, we feel obliged to print at least a section that shows the lethal wounds on the murdered boy's neck, apparently inflicted by Clare's teeth.

As soon as new information on the lunatic criminal and his horrifying deeds is revealed, The Westminster Gazette will report.

Dracula's lips curled in cruel amusement as his unnatural eyes flew over the lurid article. The photograph clearly showed a night creature's bite marks and he remembered well who truly had caused them. He had been there, right inside Richard Renfield's mind, when he had drained that sweet boy in the backyard. John Clare, however, was the name of the ghoulish would-be poet, who at that time had lived in Lucy's house and whom Renfield had considered a serious rival in the strife for her favour.

An appreciating chuckle escaped his throat at that. His favourite had indeed successfully framed this poor wretch for his own crimes. Oh, how proud he was of his child! How he would have loved to see through his eyes again, hear his every thought again, feel his dark desires!

Before his arrival in London, Dracula had intended to at first find a new place to dwell, to construct a new identity for himself, but now he noticed that he could not wait any longer for the reunion with his lost offspring. In an elegant motion, he pocketed the newspaper, then turned on his heels and strode towards the looming treetops of Hampstead Heath.