BRIAN MOONEY

 

Endangered Species

 

 

BRIAN MOONEY, although never prolific, has been contributing short stories to magazines and anthologies for forty years. His first professional appearance was in The London Mystery Selection in 1971, since when his fiction has appeared in Fantasy Tales, Kadath, Cthulhu: Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos No.2, The 21st Pan Book of Horror Stories, Space 3: A Collection of Science Fiction Stories, Final Shadows, Dark Ibices 5, The Mammoth Book of Werewolves, The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein, The Anthology of Fantasy & the Supernatural, Shadows Over Innsmouth and The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror Eighth Annual Collection.

 

After retiring from HM Customs & Excise, he now lives in Deal, Kent, where he has recently resumed writing fiction again.

 

 

Still searching for companionship, Dracula turns to the personal ads ...

 

~ * ~

 

WELCOME TO MY house! Enter freely and of your own will!

 

That is correct, I am your “mysterious” host. And you are Miss Roisin Kennedy. Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring. But come, for you have had a long journey. The night is chill and you must be in need of food and rest.

 

Please walk this way. We will go into my library, which is comfortable and where there is warmth and refreshment. This great house is old and much of the rest of it is sadly dilapidated. I was told that it was built by one who made his fortune in the 1849 gold rush and who lived out his whole life here as a stingy hermit, neither improving nor renovating. But it is in keeping with my tastes, for I love houses which are old, which proclaim to you of their history.

 

See, is that not better? A blazing log fire has so much more to offer than other forms of warmth. Its appearance alone can comfort and cheer the weary traveller. I abhor this modern central heating—it is so clinical, do you not think? In the old country the forests were ancient and thick and provided light and fuel for boyar and peasant alike. I hear that under Ceausescu my land is polluted by the effluvia of industry and coal-fired power stations. Such an abomination!

 

I digress. Accept the apologies of a garrulous old man who sees so little charming and intelligent company. Be seated, here in this wing chair by the fire where it is most comfortable. In a few moments I will join you and we can converse. But first, allow me to serve you. A little cold chicken and salad? Some wine perhaps?

 

I am rambling away and forget my manners. You, I know, are Miss Roisin Kennedy of Boston, Massachusetts. I have lived in Boston, a charming city. How wild and remote these forests and hills of Oregon State must seem to you, although they comfort me greatly for they are so reminiscent of my beloved Carpathians. Ah, there I go again ... In my clumsy way, my dear, I am trying to express regrets for not yet having properly introduced myself to you.

 

My given name is Vlad. I have been known by other names. Once I was called Tepesch but I may be more familiar to you as Dracula.

 

No, I beg you, do not look so alarmed. You are not in the presence of a madman. You are in none of the danger so common in the movie entertainments of such as Mr Hitchcock. I am speaking nothing but the simple truth. I am indeed the Voivode Vlad Dracula, late of Transylvania, late of London, late of... so many places.

 

I am Dracula the terrible, Dracula the arch-fiend, Dracula “the fearsome lover who died yet lived” as one old movie poster described me, Dracula the ... much-maligned.

 

You still seem to be a little agitated, which I can understand. Yet you must have courage for having undertaken your long journey into the unknown. A glass of wine, that will soothe you. Here is some good Tokay, one of the finest years. Is that not excellent? And see, I drink with you.

 

You laugh. That is good. And I know why you laugh. It is from sheer relief. You think that as I am drinking wine with you I cannot possibly be who I say I am. And yet am I not a nobleman of a lineage centuries-old and proud before Columbus set out on his voyages of discovery? Is not wine a natural drink to one such as I? To tell the truth, I can stomach only a little but if I sip slowly all is well.

 

There, a little more in your glass. And a toast—to our friendship! You must not believe all that you see and read, particularly if it emanates from such a place as Hollywood. I blame a certain clumsy playwright and that terrible old Mittel-European actor with his oh-so-studied poses. “I do not trink…vine ...” Hah! A nonsense! As far as I recall, not even Stoker used that. He simply had me say that I had dined and that I did not sup, which was literally true.

 

What is that you say? I am “putting you on”? Ah, I understand: you believe that I am jesting with you. Dracula was a fictional character, you are sure, based loosely on a real-life fifteenth-century tyrant who died in the year 1476 and who anyway is always destroyed in the book and all the plays and movies. If you bear with me, I will explain all that in due course.

 

First, I must thank you for answering my advertisement and for having the courage to attend this meeting. So few persons, men or women, would have agreed to an assignation with an unknown person in a place so distant and remote.

 

So, you were intrigued by my wording. That was my intention. “Reclusive European nobleman, living far from civilization, promises an inquiring soul unique experience, interesting narrative and rich reward. Intelligent young persons only, of sturdy good health, apply to Box Number V1214”

 

The truth is, my dear, that even one such as I can be lonely and at times must have an outlet for a very human vanity. I purposely placed this advertisement in a great variety of newspapers and journals, rightly guessing that many of the responses would be unworthy of my consideration. As it is, I received few replies and was immediately able to dismiss most of them.

 

Several were obviously from persons who were little more than panders and I admit to an outdated moral outrage towards such creatures, so much so that I was tempted to meet with and destroy them. This was just a foolish whim which would have achieved nothing and I dismissed it.

 

Others were from persons who seemed to lack the intelligence that I sought or whose cupidity shone through their every word. There were those urbanites whose idea of “living far from civilization” is that they need travel no greater distance than the edge of the city.

 

Your letter, though, was interesting. I have it here. I was impressed at the outset by the fact that you took the trouble to write by hand, and legibly at that. In this age of typewriters and other mechanical devices, you demonstrated a rare—an almost obsolete—courtesy. Then your style of writing, your use of language and choice of words, indicated that you are well educated and intelligent, that you are worthy of my cultivation.

 

What follows is what decided me. “I want no rich reward” you wrote, “I was born to wealth and privilege and the consequential first class education and all my life I have wanted for nothing. Yet I remain dissatisfied for I have never had to struggle to attain anything. Everything in life has been handed to me and I am bored.

 

“If you can indeed offer me a unique experience, ‘reclusive European nobleman’., then I wish to meet with your

 

You say that you want no rich reward, and yet your time must be recompensed. As promised when I first wrote to you, I have paid your travelling expenses. Your background is wealthy, you say, but it is my experience that even the wealthy can always use a little more wealth. This leather pouch contains a considerable sum in antique gold coins, crowns, thalers, double-eagles and the like, for which I can provide authentic provenance. Distribute them slowly and carefully among a variety of dealers and you will receive good prices without arousing suspicion.

 

Now, to convince you that I am who I say I am. The human race, whether or not they believe in such as I, call us Vampire, Nosferatu—Undead—Monster. I eschew such pejoratives. Were I to choose a description it would be along the lines of “Homo superior”. There, I did tell you that I have a very human vanity. However, the accepted human terms are convenient ones and so I will use them.

 

I will offer strands of evidence which I hope will weave themselves into proof. The light in here is low but I am sure that you can note the pallor of my skin. And no, I am not a recently released felon as I believe you may be thinking. Prison pallor is quite different.

 

Here is my hand, take it in your own. Ah, you are startled. Is not my flesh abnormally cold? Unlike your own fingers which are silken soft and warm with the vibrancy of the living blood flowing in your veins. And witness the palms of my hands, the coarse hairs which grow upon them. No human, however hirsute, would have hair growing there.

 

Unnecessary to say that I do not keep mirrors about me but I believe that my hair and moustache must at the moment be grey, perhaps even white. You nod. A sign of ageing? Or is it, as in my own circumstances, a sign of long abstemiousness? No, 1 do not offer the lack of colour in my hair as proof but simply point out that it shields more evidence. See, I move the locks aside and reveal how pointed my ears are.

 

And if I draw back my lips. Observe my canine teeth which are longer and sharper than those of any normal man. Yes, you are right. They could be false, or I could have had special dental work performed to fuel my fantasy. But it is not so. Here, feel the weight of this huge fire iron. How many men do you know who could bend it in two with such ease—thus? Now I will offer you two final pieces of evidence which should fully satisfy you that there is no trickery in what I tell you. Come, stand next to me here at the fireside.

 

See how your own shadow stretches away towards those shadows beyond the pool of light cast by the flames. Where then is my shadow? So, I have your interest. Now, I doubt not that in your handbag—forgive me, your purse—you carry with you a small mirror as do all women. Hold it before me. Where then is my reflection?

 

At last you are convinced as to what I am if not who I am, I can see it in your eyes, I can feel it in your aura. There is realization and there is belief and there is fear. Yet underlying the fear I sense a steely determination to see this adventure through and I salute you for it. I chose wisely.

 

Resume your seat, Miss Kennedy. I may call you Roisin? Then please, take your seat my dear Roisin. In a short space of time you have had so many surprises. At first you probably thought you were travelling to meet an eccentric dilettante, then you had the brief worry that you were trapped with a maniac, and now you realize that you are the guest of an infamous ... vampire.

 

I regret that I must test your strength of purpose just once more. As a sign of good faith, I must ask a small quid pro quo for my hospitality. It is long since I have fed and I ask for a little of your blood. Please, hear me out. I intend you no harm and upon this you have the word of a Prince. No more than a sip, and then my story.

 

The choice is yours. If you do not agree, then I will honour your wishes and you may leave immediately with your gold. Although I must point out that the limousine driver who brought you here was instructed not to return until the morning. There is no telephone in this house nor is this the sort of area where one can find a taxicab, either by day or night. Furthermore, the roads are dark and treacherous and there are wild animals. You could so easily meet with a terrible accident if you were to attempt the many miles to the nearest village.

 

You are willing? Then I did not misjudge you. You have fire and determination and you are indeed a worthy guest. A sip, no more I guarantee. I promise that you will feel no pain; only perhaps a little lassitude, and possibly a tingle of ecstasy. If you will kindly bare your neck—yes, just there where I can see and scent the rich veins throbbing beneath the fine skin ...

 

~ * ~

 

Thank you my dear. That was not so bad, was it? Here, a little more wine to fortify you. You will forgive me if I do not partake this time. I will not sully the bouquet of the wine that I have just enjoyed.

 

Now that we are both comfortable, I will tell you of Dracula and how he comes to be sitting before you rather than being ancient dust long since dispersed by capricious Carpathian winds.

 

Ask not how I came to be Nosferatu for I do not know. I died and then I awoke as I am now. It may be that somehow my behaviour in life marked me, for I freely admit to being a cruel and unrelenting tyrant. But I lived in a different world to the one that you know and I was probably neither worse nor better than many other fifteenth-century rulers. I justify myself by saying that I was a man of my time.

 

With the condition of Unlife comes enhancements and limitations. My life is eternal, barring interference by those who have the knowledge and there can be few of them today. How grateful I am for your modern scepticism and cynicism.

 

I have supernormal strength and yet I can pass—wraith-like -through the merest crack in door or window. I can take the form of animals and mist and moonlight and as such go where I will, once I have been invited. The powers of mesmerism and persuasion are mine and I can hold the most strongly willed person in thrall when I so wish. I can control animals, bending them to my bidding, although I admit to a distaste for domesticated hounds, cringing, fawning wretches that they are. Within limits I can command the elements, bringing about localized storms and fogs and blizzards at will. I regret, though, that I am unable to retard or to stop time.

 

Balanced against all these is the fact that certain of my extraordinary powers are limited to the hours of darkness. Outside of these times my strength and swiftness remain constant but my ability to change is impaired. I cannot endure certain things held by men to be holy, but again—who today believes, save for a few scattered peasants in the old countries of Europe? Direct sunlight is anathema to me although I can walk abroad on cool and cloudy days. This is the result only of centuries of Unlife and a young Nosferatu exposed during the daylight hours would suffer the most agonizing death.

 

You have read Stoker’s novel? Good; I feared briefly that perhaps your exclusive education might have narrowed your mind against works so lacking in literary merit. Know that the book was literally true.

 

The general belief is that Stoker was inspired by earlier works, such as those of Le Fanu, and that his research among old books led him to select myself as his central character. Not so. The nature of Stoker’s work brought him in touch with many people at all levels of society, among them the person he called Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming, although that was not the noble lord’s true name.

 

Like many who have endured traumatic experiences, Lord Godalming needed the catharsis of confiding in another, an outsider. In Stoker he found a sympathetic, if perhaps a doubting, ear.

 

Through him, Stoker became acquainted with the whole of that group. I am sure he did not believe their tale but he could see its potential as High Gothic romance. After long negotiation, all gave him permission to publish subject to concealment of their true identities. Moving in society, they did not wish to compromise their positions.

 

They handed to Stoker all of their diaries and papers and with careful editing and some dramatic licence these became the novel Dracula. To avoid confusion, I will continue to refer to the persons involved by their fictional names.

 

I am sure that their underlying purpose in giving permission to Stoker was a foolish optimism that the world would come to believe in and take arms against we superior ones. Despite the depth and breadth of his learning, I believe that Van Helsing was naive enough to seek such an outcome. Stoker was more worldly-wise. He would have realised that those most likely to believe—villagers and peasants and suchlike in the Balkans and surrounding lands—were the most unlikely to hear of or read the novel anyway. Stoker, I am sure, sought only fame and riches, and good fortune to him.

 

I know all these things because I made it my business to find out. Of necessity, Nosferatu cultivate useful acquaintances at all levels of society. Following the publication and success of Dracula, I had a private enquiry agent look into the matter for me. Stoker had been unable to resist dropping hints of the truth to theatrical friends of his and some of these, plied with strong liquor, were loose-tongued.

 

You are curious, naturally, as to how I escaped oblivion during that apparently final confrontation. The answer is simple. It was not I in that coffin being borne to my home by the Szagany but a simulacrum which I had created. In more modern parlance, you would probably call it a clone.

 

You see, I realized very early on during my stay in England that I had made two grievous errors. The first was that in my arrogance I was certain that I would remain undiscovered and unexposed there, for was I not in a land of reason in an age of reason, a land where there was no room in the rational mind for creatures of legend?

 

I brooked no expectation that that accursed nuisance Jonathan Harker would survive. I had surely believed that when and if I chose to return to my native soil I would find Harker to be such as I, a regent to partner my three consorts.

 

In time Harker could have become a power to reckon within the world, for he was an intelligent and determined man and from such spring the true Princes amongst us. He could have brought others to the fold and ... But what use bemoaning now, for it was all so long ago.

 

And again, how could I have foreseen that a mere lunatic-master such as Seward would know a meddling old woman like Van Helsing? A doctor, Van Helsing called himself. A doctor! What right has a physician to know more of ancient lore than of his own profession? Forgive me, dearest Roisin. I came very close to losing my temper then. The thought of those interfering quacks still irks me from time to time. Well indeed that they are long dead and beyond my justice.

 

The second of my great errors was that I came, in my own way, to love. Yes, we can love, we denizens of the night. And like humans, when we love we yearn for the constant companionship of the loved one. Both Lucy Westenra and her friend Mina Murray—later Harker—attracted me greatly and I determined that both would be mine for eternity. I set out to convert them to this glorious enhancement of life, knowing full well that in their turn they would recruit their own loved ones to swell my empire.

 

It was when Lucy was destroyed that I realized someone had knowledge and posed a serious threat to me. As a precaution, I took a little of my blood and mingled it with the sacred soil of my homeland to create my replica. The ability to clone is something which a Nosferatu knows by instinct. It seems to be a survival instinct inherent when passing from human to superior life, as instinctive as the struggles of a newly born antelope on the African plain to gain its feet and run. My survival does, must always, take precedence over my loves. For I have a supreme importance in the great scheme of things.

 

As I said, I created my clone and sent it about my business. I am able to control my clones with my mind and their actions are as my actions would be, but when danger lurks then only the clones are in peril. It was the clone which compelled Mina to drink of its blood, it was the clone which made that mad dash for freedom from the house in Piccadilly.

 

I have admitted to my errors, but they too -Van Helsing and his crowd of whiter-than-white heroes—made theirs. They assumed that the four houses and the fifty boxes of earth comprised the total of my places of refuge. At different times, both Van Helsing and Harker had commented on my astuteness and ability to plan ahead. And yet in the end they so foolishly disregarded their own insight.

 

I had dealt with a number of English solicitors and agents and there were many more homes and boxes of Transylvanian earth in and around London for me to take refuge. When those wretches were contaminating my resting places with their holy relics, they were doing little more than exposing to me the limits of their knowledge.

 

I deliberately had the clone confront them, with the very purpose of making them think that my resources were exhausted but for a few paltry pounds. And the fools swallowed the bait. “His mind is that of a child,” bleated Van Helsing and his sheep bleated with him.

 

It was the clone that fled on the good ship Czarina Catherine, the clone that they pursued from London to Galatz, from Galatz to the Borgo Pass, from the Borgo Pass to my castle, the clone that was lying in the coffin when the blades flashed down in that so-called “final” sunset of Dracula, the clone which crumbled to dust when its heart was pierced and its head shorn from its body.

 

What a strange journey that had been, with our minds—Mina’s, the clone’s and my own—inextricably linked together. I could experience the darkness of the coffin in the ship’s bowels, could feel the sick lurching of the waves. I could sense the cold and snow where Mina and Van Helsing camped, could revel in the temptations from my three consorts that Mina, with the old man’s aid, had to resist.

 

I had hopes, almost, that my clone would triumph, for it was a close run thing that final chase and battle. They all thought that the scar of the Sacred Host passed from Mina’s brow because of the “death” of Dracula, but really it passed because I chose to relinquish my hold on her. The importance of my survival, you see.

 

So there I was, safe in London. I decided that my emotions and activities must be curbed, lest Van Helsing and his cohorts suspect that I yet lived. Such abstinence is not so difficult. While a young Nosferatu can be dangerously greedy, one such as I may—like the spider—survive with little or no nourishment for a long time, for very many years if necessary. I could patiently outlive my adversaries, even their descendants, for what are decades to one with eternal life?

 

I surmised that it would take time for the Van Helsing party to return from Transylvania, for they had to bury Quincy Morris, that courageous and hot-headed American, and to recuperate from their ordeal. They believed me to be dead, they knew with certainty that my three consorts were dead and returned to the eternal dust thanks to that accursed old Dutchman, and they had massacred poor Lucy in her London tomb. They would have been in no hurry, for had not the horror ended?

 

I decided that it would be in my best interests to move away from London, in fact from England altogether. I would spend a few years lying low, perhaps alternating between Paris and one of the great German cities such as Berlin.

 

Before taking my leave from the land of my near downfall, I carefully reviewed the events of the recent months. One conclusion I did reach was that my boxes of native earth were the most easily traceable clues for their movement relied upon other parties, agents, carriers and the like. And why had it been so essential for me to transport so many boxes? Instinct, perhaps. Could I do without them?

 

Over a period of several weeks, I experimented. At the end of that time, I had come to realize that no more than a pinch of my consecrated soil was needed for rest and a filled portmanteau or two should suffice for very many years.

 

~ * ~

 

I set sail for France in mid-December when the nights were long and such daylight weather as there was would most likely be overcast and gloomy. Travelling on an evening fast packet from Dover, we arrived in Calais well before the morning. I arranged for my baggage to be sent on to Paris, where I had negotiated to rent an old house in a run-down district, and then set out to find refuge for I was weary.

 

By now I habitually carried several ounces of Transylvanian soil in a pocket for times of need and in principal I could have rested anywhere. But almost always I have a compulsion to seek somewhere old to make my repose.

 

Assuming bat form I circled the town until on the outskirts I discovered a small church which bore all the outward signs of dereliction. Surrounding the church was its graveyard and into this I descended, taking on my human shape once more.

 

A heavy, misty drizzle permeated the air and the whole area lacked adequate street lighting which made the pre-dawn gloom impenetrable and unwelcoming—to a human. For me conditions were perfect, presenting no difficulty as I can see in the dark. The churchyard was neglected and overgrown, the graves no more than shapeless hummocks thick with weeds and surmounted by time-weary headstones in varying states of decrepitude and collapse.

 

I searched about until eventually I came upon a disused family vault, its outer walls dripping moisture and stained by moss and fungus growths. Such a place as was perfect for my needs. The vault door was loose and hanging ajar and inside were niches containing rotting coffins together with some half-dozen stone sarcophagi in the centre of the floor.

 

I heaved the lid from the largest of these and threw out the mouldering bones which were all that remained of the occupant. I could stay here comfortably for a day or two before continuing my journey to Paris.

 

As I was scattering the pathetic bones, a man’s voice, coarse and querulous, cried out from the shadows. Although his speech was thick with regional accent, my French is good and I understood him easily enough. “What’s this?” he called. “Who’s intruding in my hideaway?”

 

From behind another sarcophagus he staggered into sight, an unshaven ruffian with dulled eyes and rotten teeth. One filthy, scarred hand clutched an absinthe bottle to his chest and everything about him reeked of dipsomaniac. “What d’you want? Bugger off, this is my place!”

 

“Take great care,” I warned him. “You should beware of how you address strangers for you do not know what they can be capable of. I need refuge for a day or two and then I will be gone from here. Until then, disregard me and I will disregard you.”

 

“Oh, a bloody toff,” the man sneered, “I’ll wager that you can spare me a few sous. Come on, hand over your money.” Gripping his bottle by the neck, he made a threatening gesture.

 

All the pent-up fury inside me erupted, a fury which had been simmering since Van Helsing and his cronies had thwarted my schemes. Seizing the oaf, I dashed him to the floor and he cried out in agony as bones shattered. “Non, m’sieu!” he screamed out, “I meant nothing by it. The vault is yours, only let me be!”

 

Reaching down I pulled him to me like a rough child hugging a kitten, and giving no thought to soothing mesmerism I plunged my fangs deep into his jugular. I had determined to abstain from gluttonous feeding but realized that one good feast would sustain me for some time to come. I drank deeply until at last the shrieking animal subsided, near to expiring. His blood was foul, no doubt the result of many years of imbibing filth, but it would have to do for the while.

 

Then I cursed myself for what I had done, not from remorse -for this is an emotion foreign to me—but for the fact that I had infected a creature not worthy to join the ranks of Nosferatu. Casting him down, I tore aside his ragged shirt, ripped open his body and shredded the still living heart with my talons. At last, rage abated, I was calmer. Leaving the carcass where it had fallen, I settled myself into the tomb and rested well.

 

In Paris I was met and greeted by a neat and prissy little man, Monsieur Jeanmaire, the agent through whom I was to rent my new home. He took me in his carriage and gradually we passed from the fashionable thoroughfares through streets which became meaner and meaner and more crowded, from these into places largely abandoned and housing only vagrants and the very poorest, until at last we reached my proposed new abode.

 

It was a four-sided house—probably imposing a century or so previously but now heading towards ruin—standing in several acres which were overrun with tall grasses, tangled weeds and ancient trees, dark and gnarled and leafless. The grounds were surrounded by a high brick wall topped with sharp iron spikes which were in surprisingly good condition.

 

“This appears to be admirable,” I told Jeanmaire. “I must explain that I am a scholar and a recluse and I will brook no disturbance. Can you guarantee me the solitude I require in this place?”

 

“The locals consider it to be a haunted house, m’sieu,” he replied, pressing a delicate hand to his mouth to suppress a little snigger. “Believe me, none will so much as venture beyond the gateway.”

 

“Let me see inside,” I commanded.

 

The interior, unmodernized and unfurnished, comprised six rooms on each of two floors together with several large basements, dank-smelling and dungeon-like. Thick wooden shutters, through which only the merest glimmer of daylight penetrated, were fastened over the windows, while the dust of years lay thick everywhere, turning opaque the festoons of cobwebs hanging from ceilings and walls. I was exceptionally pleased with the basement which was well below ground level and which I could fortify with ease.

 

I told Jeanmaire that I would take the property and at the rent asked, offering to pay a substantial sum in advance.

 

The agent toyed with his silly tooth-brush moustache, a look of doubt on his face. “Herr Szekely—” (for such was the name I had assumed) “—is obviously a man of quality,” he said. “Possibly even of the nobility. To offer the Herr such a place, even although it is as stipulated, does not seem right. I can find the Herr somewhere far more suitable at very little more rent.”

 

“The rent is irrelevant,” I told him. “The house is what matters.”

 

He continued to look doubtful and started to extol the virtues of other properties on his books, properties situated in places far more appropriate for one such as I. I needed this man’s trust, at least for the present, and only a plausible explanation would allay his doubts.

 

“I am a refugee from my own country,” I told him. “There I have offended certain high-ranking individuals who find my philosophy too radical, too threatening to their position, and who would be only too pleased to see an end to me. You will understand, sir, for has not your own lovely country had its own upheavals? I need a place to dwell where their agents would least expect to find me.”

 

He spread his hands in that peculiarly Gallic all-purpose gesture of accord. “M’sieu, je comprend. Your position is safe with Jeanmaire et Cie where discretion is a byword.”

 

“One final thing, friend Jeanmaire. Were I occasionally to need a ... certain companionship, where would I best go to find it?”

 

Ever since my attack on the vagabond in the Calais tomb, I had given serious thought to my needs. I have mentioned, Roisin, that I can abstain from feeding for very long periods; yet there is always a danger that a combination of long fasting coupled with a sudden rage can make me act carelessly.

 

I had decided that to lessen the chance of my making indiscriminate attacks on humans, the most sensible solution would be for me to avail myself of the services of a bordello, where from time to time I could take a little discreet nourishment without any lasting effect upon my companion of the evening.

 

Jeanmaire pursed his lips in a diplomatic smile. “I hear that the most popular establishment with gentlemen of quality is Madame Charmaine’s, close by to the Bois de Boulogne,” he said. He took a card from his pocket and scribbled an address on the reverse.

 

~ * ~

 

And so it was that I came back to settle in Europe for a number of years. Once established in Paris, I journeyed to Berlin where, in the alias of Le Comte de Ville, I rented a similar property and alternated my time between the two cities. Unlike a human, I need little in the way of material comfort and furnishings in my homes were kept to an essential minimum: a chair or two, table or desk, some bookcases.

 

I acquired books, subscribed to various popular journals and through various means I was able to smuggle much of my wealth and chattels from Transylvania. (I was pleasantly surprised that these were intact, for had I been in the shoes of Van Helsing and others I would have had little compunction in looting the castle. English gentlemen such as Godalming and Harker are strange: they will happily loot whole nations and yet leave the private property of a defeated enemy intact.)

 

To have once again a substantial library pleased me greatly and I resumed my studies: languages, history, politics, the arts and the sciences, I absorbed all with equal facility.

 

Within several weeks of taking residence in Paris I asked for an appointment to meet Madame Charmaine, the brothel keeper. Reaction at first was cool, the procurer—obviously with ideas far above her station—accepting visitors only on the basis of personal recommendation. By return I sent a sealed packet containing an appetite-whetting sum in louis d’or, which must have been sufficiently personal for the woman for she consented to meet with me almost immediately.

 

The establishment was in a large mansion house, florid and gaudy with many formally attired servants and a resident orchestra. Décor in the public areas was crimson and gilt rococo and the furnishings plush, the whole well lit by magnificent Italianate chandeliers. A pompous butler with a sergeant-major’s moustache and side whiskers led me to the proprietor’s sitting-room, which was in very much better taste.

 

Madame Charmaine herself was a handsome fleshy woman who would probably have made good feeding if that had been my agenda for her. But as with Jeanmaire, I needed her as a friend for now. She offered me an elegant hand which I took, fleetingly touching my lips to it. I saw that my letter with the small heap of gold coins lay on a fine Louis Quatorze desk at one side of the room.

 

“Please be seated, sir,” she invited and when I had taken a chair continued, “And how can I serve you, Herr ... Szekely?”

 

“I wish to purchase occasional services in your house,” I told her. “My needs and tastes are unusual and while not prepared to discuss them, I will pay handsomely. Before I proceed, are you prepared to accept me as a client?”

 

“M’sieu, very many of my clients pay handsomely to satisfy bizarre needs and tastes,” the woman said. “My only conditions are that I am satisfied of your ability to pay and that none of my little ones suffer permanent damage.”

 

I placed a bag containing more gold in her lap and she blinked rapidly when she had loosened the drawstring and examined the contents. “As to the other condition,” I said. “You must accept the word of a ... gentleman. You will find that your employees may need to rest for several days after a visit from me, but my fees will compensate for their lost time.

 

“And now I must set certain conditions of my own.” She nodded acquiescence and I continued: “I will come here infrequently, perhaps three or four times a year and then only with ample notice. The sex of whichever employee you choose is immaterial but they must be young, strong and in perfect health. Do not deceive me on this point.

 

“Under no circumstances will I use the same employee twice. Whomsoever I patronize is to wear neither jewellery nor ornament of any kind, neither is the allocated chamber to have any kind of mirror, ornament or picture. For what I will pay you, I consider these conditions reasonable. I hold you personally responsible for checking them when I am to visit. Do not be tempted to act contrary to my instructions, for then you will incur my displeasure and I assure you, Madame, you would not enjoy that. I will contact you in the very near future; until then, I bid you goodnight.”

 

In time I made similar arrangements with a superior house in Berlin and so I lived for more than ten years, contented with my books and my studies and my occasional light feedings.

 

In my feedings I took every precaution to ensure that there would be no future embarrassments. I would place my companion in a deep trance and take little more than half-a-litre or so of blood. Then—satisfied if not sated—while my companion still slept I treated the wounds with holy water which I had bribed a mendicant to obtain for me. The water I kept in a gold flask and was very careful that it did not spill upon my own flesh.

 

It was in 1911 that the first sign of a long-term purpose altered my apparent course in life. I had paid one of my visits to the brothel and was about to leave when the butler approached. Bowing low, he told me that Madame wished to confer with me in private. This was a singular event. In the time that I had been visiting her house, we had made little contact which is how I had wanted it. We both adhered to our pact and the stated conditions and there was no reason for us to meet. At most we exchanged reserved greetings if we happened to pass each other on the stairway or in the salon.

 

With some asperity I agreed, and the servant led me to Madame’s sitting-room. When he had gone and the door was firmly closed, Madame Charmaine politely offered me a glass of wine. With equal courtesy I declined.

 

“Forgive me,” she said with a coquettish laugh. “But of course you do not wish for wine. After all, you have just feasted on blood, have you not?”

 

A surge of rage sprang into my breast, a feeling that I had not experienced for many years. In the old days, that emotion was the precursor to a frenzied killing. Controlling an impulse to rend and tear the impudent creature, I asked: “What do you mean by that?”

 

There was an audible tremor in her voice. “After all ... Herr Szekely…You are undead, are you not?”

 

I have heard that when fury shows in my face it is a frightening sight, demonic in its intensity. So must it be, for the woman flinched back from me, her face turning white beneath her mask of rouge. She edged her way to the desk and pulled an accursed cross from the drawer. With an effort I held back from her.

 

“What is this to be?” I snarled. “Extortion?”

 

“Not at all, m’sieu!’ Her voice was terrified but she stood her ground, certain of the power of the object in her hand.

 

“Then what? And how did you know? I have conditioned your employees to remember nothing.”

 

“How did I know, m’sieu? After all these years? There were so many signs, and I am not ignorant of those.

 

“The pallor of your flesh and its dreadful chill that one time you kissed my hand. Never the same whore twice. Your insistence on the lack of personal and room decoration—terrified, I suppose, that you would be faced with a crucifix or a religious painting. Always the tiny scars on neck or breast or wrist, as if cauterization had taken place. It adds up. And besides, did you believe that you are the only “one?”

 

“What do you mean?” I stepped forward, prepared almost to risk the white-hot touch of her cross.

 

“One other of my regular clients is an undead, m’sieu. And he has once or twice brought a guest. He wishes to speak with you. He is here, in my boudoir. I will leave you together and you can rely on my total discretion. The other pays me well, has done so for more years than I have known you. I keep the cross only to ensure that he does not forget himself.”

 

In bygone days I had heard of other Nosferatu using human servitors, holding them in thrall with the promise of immortality to come. I have never done such a thing for I would not trust a human to that extent. The madman Renfield was an exception to my rule and then only as a means to an end, a dupe rather than a servant.

 

I stared intently at the woman until she nigh swooned with terror, then I nodded abruptly. She turned and tapped on the boudoir door before leaving the room, making sure to give me a very wide berth as she exited.

 

The inner door opened and a figure emerged. I can only imagine that what I saw was like gazing into a mirror. The man was tall and thin, with an aquiline nose, piercing eyes and full ruddy lips which showed a slight protrusion of sharply-pointed teeth. His shoulder-length hair, his small moustache and the neat Van Dyke beard were all iron-grey in colour. But whereas I favour all black raiment, the other was clad in a white ruffled evening shirt with scarlet trousers and smoking jacket. There could be no doubt, though; this man was Nosferatu.

 

“Good evening.” He bowed his head slightly, one equal to another. “I take it that you have been using an alias here. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

 

I inclined my head in return. “I am Vlad Dracula, Prince of Wallachia.”

 

“Ah, I know of you. This is an honour for me, my lord Dracula; I had heard that you were destroyed but I take it that human cunning was no match for your own.” He smiled. “I am ... I was in life Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu.”

 

“Vanity, vanity,” I muttered. “I have always supposed myself to be alone, save for my offspring and they are now destroyed.”

 

Richelieu gestured me to a chair, waiting with respect until I was seated before sitting down himself. “No, not alone, although there are but few of us,” he said. “I am in regular correspondence with the others, all men of power in their lifetimes. In your Transylvanian mountain fastness you were isolated—the others of us were rather more at the centre of things, being in European countries of international importance. We have been aware of your movements for several years now and your discretion has been exemplary.”

 

“And who else is there?” I asked.

 

“Perhaps six or seven, though we constantly watch out for others. But their quality and lineage must be perfect. Although unaware of your true name, your conduct indicated to us that your antecedents were almost certainly noble. Undead of lesser status we destroy as unworthy, although they are few now. And who have we among us? Well, in Italy there are the Borgias, Rodrigo and Cesare. In Germany my contemporary Wallenstein of Bohemia, in Russia Gudonov, the Spaniard Torquemada, a couple of others.” His smile was grim. “All of us combinations of princes, statesmen, warriors and religious leaders. How came we, I wonder, to be gifted with Unlife?

 

“Still, let us not concern ourselves with that for now—let us be thankful for what is.” His manner became businesslike. “I wished to meet with you, my lord Dracula, for two reasons. The first obviously being to ascertain your identity, to determine whether you should live or die.” Again, the grim little smile. “I am thankful that we did not have to pit ourselves against you, for I can only believe that you might well have prevailed.

 

“The second reason was to ask of you a special favour. It is that you leave France, for a very long time, if not necessarily forever. And to leave also any other place you may visit regularly in Europe.”

 

“Why should I?” I sneered. “Do you consider these lands to be exclusively your demesne?”

 

“Not at all, you misunderstand me,” Richelieu said, “Such is my respect for you that I would not have the temerity to stand against you. I ask you this for the common good. Please bear with me, lord Dracula, for what I have to say is of paramount importance.

 

“As I have said, we are few. And we are all old undead, discreet in our predations and careful to ensure, at this time, that we do not create any new Undead. In France and Germany at least, you have been acting in a similar way. For now, I believe it to be essential that we continue in this manner for the world is changing and rapidly.

 

“Soon, it will be different from anything we have known previously. I truly believe that before long, there will be a great war in Europe—and perhaps more than one—which will have worldwide implications. Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany is ambitious and acquisitive and Austria-Hungary will dance to any tune that he plays. I can see a threat of we undead becoming extinct, even if only by accident, in such a war, and it is better that we are isolated from each other so that one at least has a chance of survival.”

 

“There is probably much in what you say,” I agreed. “Thinking myself to be alone I have worried little about the possible effects of human folly. As long as they remained unaware of me, I was happy to let them do what they would to each other. You are forcing me to reconsider, Richelieu. What would you have of me?”

 

“Thank you, my lord Dracula.” Richelieu bowed. “We. would ask you to go to America. The tentacles of a European war are unlikely to reach there and we could thus ensure that one of us—the greatest of us—remains safe. Those of us remaining here will take all possible steps to ensure our safety and I will certainly remain in correspondence with you. One day, and that day may be in the very distant future, our time will come. What do you say?”

 

I mused upon what Richelieu had said for some time, weighing the options, and eventually decided that he was right on all points. And America was a burgeoning land, probably destined to become a power like any unknown before. Furthermore, were I to make my home in America the chances lessened considerably of Van Helsing and the others discovering that I lived. Finally, America was a young country with a mass immigration policy and the temptation of all those teeming souls was hard to resist for Nosferatu, even for one determined to tread with care.

 

I reached across to clasp Richelieu’s hand in agreement.

 

~ * ~

 

As it happened, almost another two years elapsed before I set foot in the United States. Careful planning was required and Richelieu—who had established an enviable network of corrupt human officials, a skill honed during his life as Louis XIII’s Prime Minister—and I worked closely together. We arranged a network of Swiss bank accounts for me, transferring some of my fortune into these. Agents smuggled the rest of my gold into America, secreting it in a number of caches known only to themselves and me. Needless to say, it was necessary for all of these agents to suffer fatal accidents.

 

And finally we disposed of my French and German real estate. But that was near to the end of my days in Europe. I regret that Monsieur Jeanmaire and his German counterpart also died mysteriously, as did the brothel master in Berlin. Madame Charmaine was sufficiently in Richelieu’s power to be permitted to live, for the time being.

 

During my remaining time in Europe I met with some other Nosferatu of Richelieu’s band and we formed ... well, we Nosferatu do not have friendships as such, but we formed powerful bonds and alliances. I was particularly taken with the Borgias, for their iron control of Italy had not been unlike mine own in my lands. Rodrigo, who in the latter days of his human life had been Pope, was breathtaking in guile and hypocrisy.

 

I told this powerful group about my sally into England and of the troubles which had beset me there, warning them to be wary in all ventures lest Van Helsing and his band of compatriots were again aroused by the passion of the hunt.

 

Although I would be entering America in non-human form, I was provided with skilfully forged papers showing that I had been granted status as an American citizen in 1895. And so it was that towards the end of my fifth century in this world, and like other emigrants before me, I departed my native continent to begin a new life.

 

I travelled packet rather than passenger, on a boat called The Maine King, its crew comprising hard-headed Yankees rather than superstition-ridden fools such as had manned the Demeter when I took passage to England. The captain had been instructed that I was an elderly and eccentric invalid who would spend the whole of the voyage in the seclusion of his cabin. Meals were to be left outside my cabin by the steward; these were sent through the porthole to the fishes during the hours of night.

 

The journey was uneventful but not too irksome, for with the passing of centuries one learns a certain patience. I whiled away the long hours of day and night, the long, long sea-miles, studying literature and maps of my new homeland, so that by the time we made landfall I probably knew as much about the continent and her great cities as did most of her native sons.

 

The first port of call in the United States was the city of New Orleans where one of my many caches of gold was stored. I slipped ashore at night—the tide being on the turn—in the form of a great wolf, easily evading the officials and labourers who, with startled cries, tried to corner me. Some shots were fired but the only bullet which struck passed through my body as if through a shadow.

 

I needed sustenance, for I had fasted very many months prior to embarking on The Maine King, and this was provided fortuitously by a huge dog which attacked me as I loped through mean and noisome dockside streets and alleys. The blood of animals is not so richly satisfying as that of humans—rather like, say, cornmush when one is accustomed only to the finest viands—but it fills the belly and has the added advantage that animals, being soulless, do not in their turn become as we Nosferatu.

 

I will not weary you with details of how I found a home. Suffice to say that I discovered an old and derelict property a little way out of the city and purchased it. Although they are nothing like Europe, I did enjoy the Louisiana wilds with their strange mists and bustling animal life and the swathes of Spanish moss draped from the trees like huge spider webs.

 

Again, I made arrangements at a brothel to satisfy my need for food. This time the whoremonger was a native-born American of Sicilian descent, a member of the Black Hand. Unlike his European counterparts he cared nothing for his employees, regarding them as no more than money machines. I would be safe from unwanted enquiry.

 

A few more years passed uneventfully. The Great War raged in Europe but my fellow Nosferatu survived and Richelieu corresponded regularly, addressing his letters to Mr Newman, Poste Restante, New Orleans. Two pieces of news gave cause for elation. One was that Van Helsing had died in old age, choking on a piece of blood-sausage, a delicious irony I am sure you will agree. The other was that both Lord Godalming and Dr Seward had perished in the war: one at Ypres; the other at The Somme. The war passed in time and the world again lapsed into peace, although Richelieu said that all European countries were less happy places now.

 

It was in 1922 that I once again became obsessed with a woman, overwhelmed by that occasional mad lust to conquer, to engulf, to become as one for an eternity. Not since Lucy and Mina had I so desperately wanted a woman to become my blood consort.

 

I often stalked the night—using my power to distract attention from where I was—observing the world about me. I would visit taverns and vaudevilles, concerts and plays, even the movies; I would eavesdrop, identifying those who held positions of power and riches; I would ascertain their dwelling places and their friends and servants; I would make sure of all of those snippets of information which might at some time prove advantageous to me.

 

Thus it was that on a certain night I was attending a society ball at one of the great ante-bellum houses outside of the city. Or perhaps attending is not quite the right expression, for I was outside of the building looking in on them, a predatory cat gazing into the window of a butcher’s shop. By and large, the guests seemed to be a tedious crowd, concerned largely with their places in the pecking order, grovelling or condescending depending on whether or not they were addressing their so-called superiors or inferiors.

 

An orchestra somewhere in a background salon played Strauss and Lehar and other waltz music for men in white ties and tails and women in ball gowns to dance to. My attention was caught by a burst of merry laughter from a group of younger women who were watching a similar group of young men preening and displaying in an elaborate social courtship ritual. Who says that we are so different from the animals?

 

The young women, richly varied in size and colouring, were all beautiful in their own ways, all of them flushed with the rich blood of life. I could almost hear the blood pumping endlessly around those lovely nubile bodies, almost inhale its warm rich coppery aroma, almost taste the thick succulence upon my palate. I turned away lest greed overcome me.

 

The night was fine and clear, the sky an ebony jeweller’s cloth displaying a richness of diamond stars. Except for where light spilled from the house, the vast garden was a patchwork of shadows cast by great clumps of trees and shrubbery. I sat upon a stone bench, listening to the darkness, its multitude of sounds—muted, nigh nonexistent, to humankind—a concerto to my ears.

 

Suddenly voices were raised in argument. From beneath a nearby group of magnolias I caught the whiff of a woman’s scent and the stronger odour of a young male in passion, and my night-keen eyesight picked out a couple struggling a little in the shadows. Her voice was filled with indignation, his with a drunken desire.

 

“Haydon Lascalles! You just keep your hands to yourself and leave me be! I’m just not interested in you that way!”

 

“C’mon, honey, you know you want it really,” was the slurred reply. “Stop making such a damned fuss and give me a kiss.”

 

The woman was now fighting harder against the beefy and immature oaf who was attempting to embrace her, his clumsy strength slowly prevailing. As I stood, preparing to intervene, the woman raised her hand and slapped his face hard, at the same time screaming aloud.

 

“You goddamned bitch!” he bellowed. He pulled her towards him with his left hand, in the same instant raising a massive right fist.

 

As I rushed towards them, I became aware of others pouring out of the house behind me and instantly quelled my intention to kill the importunate fool. Instead I seized his collar and threw him to one side. To one of my supernormal strength his bulk was nothing and he flew from me as if he were a child, landing heavily on his back.

 

He glared up at me and without moving from the ground blustered: “Fifty years ago I’d have duelled with you for that, old man!”

 

“And fifty years ago, I would have killed you,” I told him coldly. My face must have contorted into a dreadful mask for the pathetic wretch caught his breath in sudden fright and I could sense the blood draining from his fat face.

 

I turned to the woman and—were I human, you might have said that I had fallen in love at first sight. Latin races call it the thunderbolt. She had heavy dark hair falling about high cheekbones and slightly oval eyes which reminded me of the Slavic women of my native land. Cheeks were flushed with blood, full scarlet lips were parted slightly and her body radiated wrathful heat. But it was not just the outer beauty which called to me, for that never was an imperative consideration when choosing a mate. It was an inner and indescribable thing, something which always makes me certain that someone—man or woman—is a fit consort for Nosferatu. My hunger screamed.

 

“What’s going on here?” The speaker was almost a caricature, the archetypal Southern colonel, tall, skinny and sun-withered, hair white and goatee beard long and wispy. His posture cried out suppressed rage as he glared from the sprawling youth to me. Another man, a similar type but shorter and somewhat stout, pushed his way through the small crowd to pull the young man to his feet.

 

The woman clutched at the Southern colonel’s arm. “Daddy, Haydon was molesting me and this fine gentleman very bravely came to my rescue.”

 

The Colonel’s face purpled and he stepped threateningly towards the miscreant. The second man stopped him. “I’ll deal with this, Deschamps. He’s my son. My sincerest regrets, Miss Josephine. When Haydon sobers up, I’m sure that he will be pleased to make a public apology.”

 

He slapped his son hard on the cheek. “Get home, you’re drunk and a disgrace!”

 

Haydon Lascalles retreated several yards then turned to point a shaking finger at me. “I’ll see you again some day. Then we’ll find out how tough you really are.”

 

“Excuse him, sir, he’s young and foolish,” said Lascalles senior. He pushed his son away, telling him once more to get on home.

 

I bowed slightly. “Does the tiger find it necessary to pardon the yapping of the jackal? It is forgotten, sir.”

 

The man called Deschamps grasped my hand and released it almost immediately, as if startled by its chilled strength. “My gratitude, sir. I am Georges Deschamps and this is my daughter Josephine.”

 

“Szekely. Count Szekely. A very recent resident of your beautiful and great land.” I bowed to Josephine Deschamps and took her hand to kiss the fingers lightly. It was as well that the still curious crowd had not dispersed, for I yearned to lap avidly at her blood.

 

“Again, my thanks, Count,” said Deschamps. “Haydon Lascalles is a boorish wastrel who merits a sound thrashing.”

 

“In my day I would have—” I stopped myself in time. I had been about to say that in my day I would have had him impaled and that had he taken less than two days to die, the executioner would have joined him on the stake. I smiled a little in the dark, relishing memories of those lost, cruel times. “In my day I would have been honoured to thrash him,” I concluded.

 

Deschamps pressed something into my hand. “My card, sir,” he said. “You will be a welcome guest in my home. Perhaps, Count, you will honour us with a visit very soon.” An invitation—my sanction!

 

“Alas, sir, business is to take me away for some weeks,” I lied. “But when I return ... well, now that you have so kindly invited me, I doubt you will be able to keep me away.”

 

We all laughed at this supposed pleasantry as I made my farewells. The pathetic foolishness of humans. How easy they can make it for we Nosferatu. Now that I had received Deschamps’s gratitude-impelled invitation, nothing could gainsay me entrance to their dwelling place. And I would act upon that invitation, sooner than they could know, to dine with a member of their family. As I walked away from them my tongue lapped at lips and fangs as if I were a beast of the forest confronting a helpless fawn.

 

Despite the passions tearing at me, I did not plunge in rashly as would have done a young Nosferatu. No, instead I spent several evenings and nights reconnoitring the Deschamps home, merging in with the light ground mists which crept lazily through their property, exploring the layout of house and gardens, casting forth my mind to identify and know family members and servants and their locations during those crucial nocturnal hours. Containing my patience was a burden, for I was torn by the almost irresistible cravings which torment my kind in these circumstances.

 

At length I chose my night. Generally the household retired at about midnight but I stayed my hand with difficulty for another hour or so beyond the time when I sensed that the last occupant had fallen asleep. At the end of this lull I made my way to that part of the house below Josephine’s own balcony and bedroom window.

 

I scaled the outer wall with ease, instinctively finding finger- and toe-holds imperceptible to humans, gaining the balcony within brief moments. Despite the night’s humidity windows and screens were firmly closed, doubtless to prevent access of pestilence-ridden night-flying insects. The family were patently unaware of other, more potent, dangers of the night. The windows were neither let nor hindrance to me and I slid with ease through the tiny gaps available.

 

The moon was full that night and shed its golden light into Josephine’s chamber, casting chequered shadowy patterns on floor and walls almost to ceiling height. The apartment was huge—as becomes that in the home of a wealthy family—and was well appointed with fine antique furnishings, the centrepiece being a fine leather-topped escritoire with chair upon which a silken gown had been carelessly tossed. Against the wall opposite the windows was a vast and solid four-poster bed with heavy drapes held back by loops of silken cord.

 

There, in charming disarray, lay my sleeping Josephine, mane of hair spread across fine lawn pillows like dark weed in a milky sea, a single sheet pushed back to well below her waist. Her soft lips were parted and with each gentle breath she took I could hear the Lorelei song of virgin blood.

 

With my mind I summoned her to wakefulness and slowly she roused, stretching lazily and gazing around the room until she spied me there at the window. With a gasp she sat up, as if about to scream for help. I placed a finger against my lips, imposing silence upon my victim, my love.

 

For seconds only she resisted and then yielded, mentally and physically, relaxing back against the pillows, eyes shining in terrified fascination. She made but one more sound. “You!” she gasped.

 

For long minutes I did no more than stand and watch, partly to appreciate her beauty and partly to whet my appetite to the full with anticipation. Then in response to an imperious gesture of my hand, Josephine slowly loosened the top of her nightgown, drawing it aside to reveal one perfect breast, the dark nipple stark against the white flesh. I could see the gentle throbbing of a vein in her neck. I settled by her side, taking one hand in mine to kiss it gently.

 

“This is a dream,” she whispered.

 

“It will be but as a dream,” I told her. “A recurring dream of which you will have no memory. And from the dream you will slip into the longest sleep of all, a sleep from which you will awake immortal to take your proper place at my side.”

 

I lowered my head and drank deeply, more deeply than I had intended that first night but love knows few restraints. I drank my full and more from the fountain of that wine which gives life to us all whether Nosferatu, human or animal. During the day that followed and the days following that, I rested more completely than I had rested for many long years.

 

~ * ~

 

It took Josephine Deschamps one week to die. The family physician and the specialist he consulted were no Van Helsings. They puzzled over their patient at the beginning and they puzzled until the very end. They assigned nurses to her day and night but they were no obstacle for I needed to do nothing more than entrance them deeply before coming to Josephine.

 

On that final night I was at the bedside studying my soon-to-be consort. Her flesh was pallid and drawn, the sole colour being two bright spots of fever on the now skeletal cheekbones. The eyes which looked back at me glittered madly, while pale lips pulled back from hueless gums and white teeth which were taking on the sharper aspects of Nosferatu.

 

“Soon, my love,” I reassured her.

 

“Soon, my master,” she replied, voice weak and resigned.

 

I took nourishment from Josephine for the final time then opened a vein in my wrist, holding it to her mouth so that in turn she could drink. She clutched fiercely at my hand, like a feeding baby clutching at the mother’s breast. Then she collapsed back. She would be dead by dawn, I knew. Then it would be but a short wait until the rebirth.

 

I knew that funerals tend to be held swiftly in the Southern States, such is the corruptive quality of the climate. I also knew that because of flood risk in the local environs, interments were frequently above ground in stone niches. I guessed that a family of status such as Josephine’s would have its own crypt somewhere in or near the city and I had spent a little time searching for this. When I did find it, I was pleased with it, for it was a large, plain edifice, unadorned save for double bronze doors and a simple plaque inscribed: DESCHAMPS.

 

Josephine’s mortal remains were taken to a funeral parlour popular with the wealthy. Late at night, after the last mourners had gone, I slipped in to view the body. I told the attendant mortician that I was a family friend just returned from Europe and that having heard the sad news I was constrained to pay respects. He led me to a tiny chapel where the open casket rested on a bier beneath a wall-mounted cross. I dared not approach too closely; to allay suspicion I mendaciously explained to the attendant that I was a Mussulman.

 

Nonetheless, I could see Josephine clearly enough from where I stood and noted that cheeks and lips were full and red with apparent good health, that a little smile seemed to touch the wonderful mouth. I was pleased with this, for the signs were now there that she was Nosferatu. Resurrection varied in my experience but it was unlikely to be more than three or four days before she emerged from the tomb, ravenous and ready to be tamed and tutored.

 

The day of the funeral was dull and heavily overcast and I watched the actual interment from beneath the shade of a grove of trees beyond the graveyard. I began my vigil that night and for several nights thereafter, shielded by localized fog which I had summoned to the area. There was no sign of Josephine emerging but I remained calm for I know how very much the return can vary from person to person.

 

You may wonder at my apparent unconcern, but the truth of the matter is that it is a far better thing for new Nosferatu who have been entombed to make their own way to freedom. It is an essential part of the process of discovery.

 

After the fourth night I began to feel alarm and by the sixth night I could only conclude that something was seriously amiss. Perhaps some bumbling primitive had sealed Josephine’s coffin with a cross, inadvertently denying her release. I had to discover the truth for myself and find some way to release Josephine from her prison.

 

I passed through the knife-edge gap in the bronze doors and entered the resting place of several generations of Deschamps where each coffin was sealed into the vault wall by a stone slab. Each of these was adorned solely with the name of the occupant, as a quick search revealed with the newest, deepest incision: JOSEPHINE DESCHAMPS 1901-1922.

 

I ripped the slab from its place and revealed the casket which I lifted down carefully. I scrutinized the external dimensions but could see nothing like a cross or religious icon which might have held Josephine helpless and immobile. I tore away the lid, the deeply sunken screws screaming in protest as I did so.

 

Josephine lay there peacefully, still with the healthy look that I had observed in the funeral parlour. It was now well into the night and she should have been responding to the initial cravings for human blood. I examined her carefully but could see no visible signs of Unlife. Baring my chest, I incised a vein and blood spurted freely. Lifting Josephine to me, I pressed her mouth firmly to the wound.

 

She did not respond, hanging limp in my arms with blood trickling down unmoving lips to stain the front of her burial gown. I touched her cheek in wonderment and noticed a greasy feel beneath my fingers. Swiftly I rubbed and her face became a mask, smeared as if by the bloody tears of a clown. She was masked by rouge and paint!

 

I laid my mouth to her neck but barely had my fangs penetrated the cold flesh than I was assailed by a foul chemical stench. I tore the gown from the young body. Her torso, from shoulders to pubis, was marred by a hideous Y-shaped cut, crudely stitched. There was no blood inside my darling, only a noxious preservative.

 

Embalmed! She had been embalmed! Her heart and entrails had been ripped out and she had been filled with some disgusting laboratory concoction. Josephine was nothing now, nothing more than a ruined husk. Emitting a bestial howl of frustration and rage, I ripped the corpse limb from limb, strewing its parts about that dreadful chamber of the dead. Grief unassuaged, I tore the Deschamps vault apart, destroying coffins and scattering bones and cadavers until there was nothing left for me to ravage.

 

Had the perpetrators of this vile outrage been cast before me at that moment, I would have made them suffer until they were crying for the ecstasy of death! I thought of the time when as a human ruler I had dined amidst the twenty thousand I had caused to be impaled after a memorable battle. Their anguish would have been as nothing to what I could have inflicted on that night in the Deschamps vault.

 

Sitting among the carnage I had wrought, I gradually regained some composure. The outrage had been committed and there was nothing now I could do about it. Night was drawing on and although an hour or more to dawn, I should leave before sunrise when my powers would wane.

 

I stepped forth from the ruin of that shattered sepulchre into slender veils of mist which still blanketed the place. I did not immediately metamorphose into bat or wolf but made my way instead towards the high gates of the cemetery entrance where at last I emerged into clear air. Without warning a beam of light shone suddenly into my face and eyes, momentarily dazzling me although I was able to make out a trio of shapes beyond the glare.

 

For an instant I thought that I had encountered a police patrol until I heard a familiar voice, triumphant with tipsy and malicious glee.

 

“Well, look what we got here boys. It’s the old feller who interfered between me and my girl. I told you I thought I’d seen him hanging around here.” My eyes had adjusted quickly and I could now see beyond the flashlight’s brightness. Haydon Lascalles had two friends with him, as big and burly as himself, and his courage was proportionately greater.

 

“Now my Josephine’s gone,” he was saying. “And gone without even knowing what a good man I’d have been to her. And it’s all this bastard’s fault. Reckon he’s a damned pervert too, always hanging around cemeteries. What we gonna do about him?”

 

“You sure this is him, Hay?” said one of the others. “He don’t look so old to me.”

 

“It’s him right enough, Brad. Must have been using hair colouring.” Lascalles sneered at me. “You think that hair dye would get you a nice piece of young ass, Granddad?”

 

I stared hard at the trio, barely controlling my ferocity. “Do not arouse me,” I hissed at them. “Walk away now and you may all live to see another sun rise.”

 

My tone had an effect on the third youth, the one holding the flashlight, for he sidled a step or two back. “Let’s leave this, we can tell the cops about this guy creeping round the graveyard at nights.”

 

“Hell, no!” Haydon Lascalles leaped at me, swinging a huge hunting knife he had snatched from beneath his coat. The weapon passed through me harmlessly and I gave a harsh laugh. Disarming my impassioned assailant, I retained an easy hold on him while disembowelling the one called Brad with an upward sweep of the keen-edged blade. Dashing Brad’s corpse aside, I seized the third man—who was striking at me with the flashlight—and snapped his spine. He fell to the ground, writhing and emitting pathetic mewling noises.

 

The reek of fresh gore from the gutted carcass that had been companion Brad was too overpowering for me to ignore. Pulling Haydon Lascalles close, I laughed into his face before striking at his throat. He barely had time to glimpse my fully exposed fangs, barely had time enough to recognize his fate and die wailing for mercy; but time enough he had to be plunged into a mental maelstrom of Hell.

 

Cowardly bully and wastrel Haydon Lascalles may have been, but his blood was thick and strong as it gushed. Young blood, invigorating blood, blood filled with vitality, blood—the well of all power. I drank until bloated, until I could feel hot streams overflowing teeth and lips to pour in rivulets down my chin. Then I twisted his gaping head from his shoulders, tossing it contemptuously to one side.

 

The one with the broken back had remained conscious throughout his friend’s death and his horrified eyes, from which bitter tears streamed, bulged at me. I stirred him with my foot as I glanced at the sky. There was time a-plenty and I was strong from my repast.

 

Wordlessly I began to call upon certain little friends and allies in their subterranean haunts and could hear their answering cries, as yet too highly pitched for the cur cowering before me. But soon he would hear, oh yes, soon ...

 

They came pouring from the gutters and the sewers and from the very tombs themselves, pouring in their hundreds and thousands, squirming, furry little bodies jostling and struggling and fighting for position.

 

And as I directed my little friends, the rats, the crippled man heard and understood and began to scream. He was still screaming when the tumbling ravenous masses swarmed over the three bodies and sharp little teeth began to rend and tear at their master’s gift, at the bountiful and unexpected feast...

 

I rested for some weeks thereafter, replete and rejuvenated, but still rankling at the loss of a worthy mate. I needed to know more about how Josephine had been stolen from me and finally visited the funeral parlour from which my love had taken her final journey.

 

I sought out the mortician who owned the company and interviewed him in his sumptuous office to the rear of the premises. Here, where no doubt he received all of the grieving loved ones, the air was scented as of flowers, but with my finer senses I could detect the malodorous foetor of the preparations he had used to destroy my Josephine.

 

“I have come here from Europe with my family,” I told him. “And now it seems that soon my father will die. I wish to ensure the finest funeral for him and I was recommended to you by Mr George Deschamps. I have been advised that in your mighty and progressive land, it is the done thing to embalm the deceased. In the old country, you understand, we lack such sophistication.”

 

“Indeed, sir,” said the mortician, an ingratiating smile upon his thin lips, thinking I suppose of the gold he could extort from me when he entombed my non-existent father. “Anybody who is anybody now insists upon embalming for their dear departed ones. It is not a cheap process but we guarantee full satisfaction. As you were recommended by Mr Deschamps you are aware of his own recent bereavement. Sir, his poor daughter was a triumph of my art. By the time that I had finished my task, she was as if she slept. I take great pride in my skills and my work, sir.”

 

I could not hate this man, for he was nothing other than a hired lackey. I did kill him, of course, but quickly and mercifully.

 

~ * ~

 

I moved away from New Orleans after that. I moved a great deal, in fact, never staying for more than three or four years in one place. I fasted a great deal, only feeding when absolutely necessary. I preyed upon animals or society’s outcasts, always destroying the latter when they were no longer of use to me. I stayed away from small towns where people tended to know each other well. Large cities or remote wild places, where both predator and prey could remain well hidden, were the most suitable places for me.

 

I continued to take a great interest in world events and politics and kept up my correspondence with Richelieu and the others. We discussed the likelihood of war breaking out afresh in Europe, agreeing that the rise of National Socialism made this inevitable. Throughout the thirties they made certain arrangements and by the time that Hitler invaded Poland all were safely hidden in those lands most likely to remain neutral. Like myself they continued to live with discretion.

 

The Nazi hordes swept across Europe, wreaking death and destruction on a scale unthinkable to those of us who were ancient warriors. At my most tyrannical, I could not have matched them.

 

Jonathan and Mina Harker both died in their seventies, not of natural causes but in a bombing raid on the City of Plymouth. Their son Quincy was apparently most valorous at the Normandy landings and was awarded the Victoria Cross, posthumously. I salute his memory.

 

I found my next Josephine—or, I should say, Josephines, for they were twins, brother and sister—in the early nineteen-fifties in Madison, Wisconsin. Both unmarried, both Doctors of Philosophy at the University, they were scions of an old and wealthy family. This time it was not a matter of the Thunderbolt but a cold recognition that these two, with proper control and guidance, had the potential to become great Nosferatu. They cared for little save their work and each other and treated all about them with a cold aristocratic hauteur which amused me greatly.

 

I took my time with these two. Many months passed before they died and by the time they did so, both their physician and their family’s mortician were fully under my control. The physician stipulated that an autopsy was unnecessary, he having been treating both for pernicious leukaemia. The mortician was fully persuaded that he had completed embalming the two, whereas he had done no more than apply paint and powder to the bodies. They were mine!

 

Their funeral took place upon a bright spring day, and that evening I went to the church where the service had taken place. I began to search the adjoining cemetery for the freshly dug graves and while I was doing so a custodian approached and asked if he could help me.

 

“There was a brother and sister buried here today,” I said. “From the University. I wish to pay my respects at their gravesides.”

 

“Their graves, sir?” The custodian looked puzzled. “Didn’t you know that they were cremated? So many families prefer that now...”

 

It may have been an expression of incandescent rage upon my face or it may have been the hideous grinding of my teeth which frightened the man, for he scuttled away from me, glancing back once in terror.

 

Once more my schemes were frustrated! What was it about these humans? So pitifully weak compared with such as I and yet somehow they consistently managed to impede my way. Embalming and now cremation. Such irony.

 

Had Richelieu been correct all those years ago? Were we Nosferatu doomed to extinction, were we to become an endangered species partly because of our insistence on quality for our offspring, partly because of the changing ways in which humans disposed of their dead? Our very nature demanded that we should be a dominant species and yet here we found ourselves in a parlous position akin to the tiger and the whale.

 

I moved from place to place in America, engaging upon a great study of their funeral rites. I frequented morticians’ premises and mortuaries and graveyards. I attended the funerals of acquaintances and strangers and visited morticians’ colleges listening to lectures and observing training. I immersed myself in the human rites of death.

 

And everywhere it was the same. Those worthy of becoming Nosferatu were invariably embalmed or cremated, or even both. Only the poorer people, those unworthy of my attention other than as cattle, continued to be buried in a natural state.

 

You may wonder why I did not simply use such creatures and then move on, leaving them to their own devices. I have mentioned that a young Nosferatu is driven by insatiable appetite. Consider the old conundrum of shoeing a horse: it needs four shoes, each with eight nails and you charge a penny for the first nail, two pennies for the second, four pennies for the third and so on. Calculate and you quickly realize that the cost is prohibitive. And so it would be with new and uncontrolled Nosferatu. Soon there would be a world empty of all but Nosferatu, which is unthinkable.

 

In Europe, even, according to my allies, embalming and cremation have become the accepted way, and they too have undergone the loss of potentially excellent consorts.

 

Another irony is that the human race—those, that is, who believe in or believed in us—hold us to be monsters. And yet, Roisin Kennedy, consider the twentieth century and then ask yourself just how monstrous we really are. Look upon what the century has given you: Hitler, Stalin, Mao-Tse Tung, major monsters all, wreaking so much more havoc than would any intelligent Nosferatu.

 

And your minor monsters. Amin in Africa, Pol Pot in Asia, even in my own land the dreadful Nicolai Ceausescu. And the almost invisible monsters: the scientists who develop more and more terrible weapons, the men who sell such weapons, the so-called “good” politicians who are prepared to advocate the use of such weapons. Tell me, how is it that such men can be considered more human than one such as I? How?

 

I wandered from place to place, here and there renting tumbledown properties unwanted by others, often spending long periods in a state not unlike hibernation, emerging to find myself ever more disgusted with humanity and what they were becoming.

 

At last I discovered this State of Oregon, and this house which called to me; it is one of those rare dwelling places which seems to be a part of the land on which it stands, seems to spring from the soil. So it was with my fortress in Transylvania which felt as if it grew from the very rock upon which it stood. And so it is with this house; although not old in the sense of which I am old, it is old within this land of America and it grows from the fertile ground like the forest around it.

 

For many years now, we superior Nosferatu have remained inactive. We have observed the world and what is happening to it and we can no longer condone it. We have debated carefully among ourselves and we have reached an important conclusion. There has been too much of the human monster.

 

The time has come for us to re-establish our rightful place. It will not happen immediately, for we move with stealth. However, we have set in hand a series of stratagems whereby we Nosferatu will move surely and inexorably, taking ourselves away from the path of the endangered species to the high road of a dominant one.

 

When our current plans reach fruition, perhaps by the end of this century, almost certainly no later than the second decade of the next, the world will be a place of enduring peace, controlled by Nosferatu. The human race will remain unaware of us, yet they will be our slaves and our livestock. Homo superior is about to come into his own: requiescat in pace, Homo sapiens!

 

~ * ~

 

And that, dearest Roisin Kennedy, is my narrative. As yet you can have little inkling of how good it has been for me to talk with you. Human or Nosferatu, the need to share one’s dreams and ambitions with another becomes sometimes pressing. You wonder about the unique experience I promised you. As for that, you have already experienced it. But have patience and I will explain in a moment.

 

Do you not notice something different about me? Ah, exactly. I look much younger, I am less thin and my hair and whiskers are darker.

 

When describing to you my Nosferatu powers, I mentioned my regret that I am unable to halt time in its relentless progress. I do have the ability, though, to give the illusion that I have stopped time. Tell me, Roisin Kennedy, how long have you been here? I see, one night.

 

Will it astonish you, lovely Roisin, when I tell you that you have been here for considerably more than a week? It is with the power of the will, the strength of the mind, that I create my illusions, that I make you believe little more than a few hours have passed. As for your unique experience—why, you yourself are now Nosferatu.

 

You have awakened from death to a superior state of life. Soon you will thirst and I will control the appeasement of that thirst. Carefully at the outset, until like a new child you come to learn and practise self-control.

 

Understandably you are unsure whether or not to believe me. Why not take that delicate little mirror from your purse once more and confront your image. There—see! Why, you have shattered it into pieces with the force of your throw. Faugh! do not concern yourself with that. It was but a human bauble for which you no longer have any use.

 

I gave my word of honour that I intended you no harm? Well, I do not consider that I have done you harm. I have released you to a higher plane of life, and what is the harm in that? Seduction is preferable to force as you will discover.

 

Now listen closely to me. The dawn of a new world order approaches and you can be—are intended to be—a part of it. Among others around the world, you were chosen.

 

Do you recall how it was that you first saw my newspaper advertisement? Precisely, it was shown to you by a friend who knew how your vitality was ground down by ennui. In effect, an agent of mine prepared to sell her friend for ... well, shall we say thirty pieces of silver?

 

There are others. Throughout this immense land of yours, others -more than at first I allowed you to believe—have answered my call and are awaiting the invitation to visit with me. All of you were selected with care, in the way that a breeder would select the finest stock: for intelligence, for positions in life, for family power and for influence.

 

Your own family, Roisin, has wealth and power and influence in abundance. In the past, some have aspired to the most exalted positions of status in the land, some have achieved them. They can continue to do so. Those who have no direct power are frequently power brokers. With you as my consort I can infiltrate that family and use them, just as together we will infiltrate and use the families of the others who will come at my summons. With you as helpmeet, those who wait so eagerly to meet their “reclusive European nobleman” can be altered so much more quickly. Our offspring, Roisin, will be awesome, mighty. Soon we will have puppets in the most influential positions in government and finance and society. And through them we will rule.

 

The web of the Nosferatu is spreading, its strands adhering and corrupting wheresoever we require them to. Throughout Europe Richelieu, the Borgias, the others, have all ensnared new subjects from the highest echelons. There may be in existence other worthy Nosferatu, perhaps to the east, and we seek to ferret them out and bring them into our alliance. We cannot be stopped, we will not be stopped. And none will be aware of this silent acquisition. Who was it who said that Satan’s greatest trick was to make mankind not believe in him?

 

You appear to be horrified. So are we all when first we awaken to this enhanced existence. But then comes the hunger and the awareness, and the horror soon passes. Your initial reluctance is understandable, though, and I will not compel you into my Empire. I will be American, democratic; I will offer you free choice.

 

It is dawn now, and having feasted well I go to rest. You died and were reborn within this room and it must be your temporary abode. In time, and if your decision is to become one with me, to become Dracula’s first consort both in his New World dominions and in the Greater World, then I will arrange a more fitting place for you to rest.

 

If you do not wish to join with me, then so be it: there is a way for you to end it. You will see that the windows are well covered with heavy velvet drapes. Outside the sun is rising and it promises to be a fine, bright day. When I have retired, you may—if you wish—draw aside those drapes to enjoy that brilliant sunshine.

 

I do hope that you will not choose such a course, dearest Roisin, for we are the future.

 

<<CONTENTS>>

 

~ * ~