“I view the past as if through a great wavering veil, a heat-haze rising from the field of conflict,” he went on, sounding weary. “It was another man who lived through the blood and battles and heroism of those times. Not me. I cannot remember being other than I am. The days of war are long-gone... and if they come again, as they surely will, it will be others who lead our armies into battle.” As he spoke, there seemed to be a great sighing space around him, aeons of solitude. “Meanwhile, I go on, by my own choice. When I was in limbo, and when you passed me by and I felt your spirit touch mine, all I remembered was the pleasure of living.”
I recalled what I had read in Elena’s journal; her experience of Dracula’s dreadful solitude. The memory pulled at my heart. I cannot allow such sympathies to grow.
He went on, “I had forgotten the terrible loneliness...”
“There is surely a cure for this loneliness,” I said sharply. “To die at the appointed hour and go to your Maker!”
Dracula laughed, showing hard white teeth that made my stomach contract in anxiety. “But I want life! I want dominion over life. Your Van Helsing destroyed not only me. He killed the three companions of my heart and they cannot come back.”
“The three women in the castle,” I said. “Who were they?”
He spoke so softly I am not sure I heard him rightly. “Daughter... sister... wife. Now they are gone.”
“But when were they gone? When Van Helsing destroyed them – or when you first made them Undead?”
He did not answer. I expected him to be angry, but he only looked thoughtful, and so grave I began, again, to feel sympathy. I asked, “Why can they not come back, as you have?”
“Van Helsing dispatched them more efficiently than he did me... but there is far more to the matter than that. Through no fault of their own, they had not my knowledge or strength. They left no mortal walking the earth with their blood in her veins; no companion bonded in blood. They lacked my singular will, my appetite for life. I returned only through you, Mina Harker, and for you. Do you not therefore bear some responsibility for my existence?”
I hated the way he tried to blame me, to draw me in, but in a sense it was no less than the truth. “Perhaps. If it is so, I am as sinful as you.”
He smiled; his face, for a moment, was almost kind. I could see in it the mortal he once was, who presumably felt some tenderness at least for his family. “No. You have far to go. But can you not be barred from heaven as much for a small sin as a great one? Therefore it will make things no worse for you if you should go a little further. That is, to let wrong occur not by failing to hinder it, but by actively desiring it.”
“You know I cannot.”
“Can you not? Don’t lie to yourself, Mina. A wrong, but for the greater good; your freedom to be with your son.”
“If you do as I ask, will you not only set us free, but leave us alone for ever?”
He paused. “I cannot promise so much. This transaction is to allow you and Quincey to be together. To let you both go home unhindered – I may require more.”
“This is not fair!”
“It is all I can offer.”
“Why do you need me to consent?” I said angrily. “Why not take me by force, as you did before?”
“I tell you again that I did not force you. You failed to hinder me, which was your subconscious consenting even while your conscious did not. You were yourself acutely aware of your ‘stain’. I draw your attention again to your record, Mina: were not your spiritual agonies somewhat exaggerated for the benefit of your Christian fellows? But if, instead, you refuse to think yourself ‘stained’, then who can make you ashamed?”
“That would be self-delusion!”
“I am talking about the free will necessary for transactions between good and evil.”
“Free will,” I said. “Of course, the Devil can take only those who offer themselves willingly. If I consent, the power you gain from taking my blood is greatly enhanced. Is that the case?”
“It is so,” said Dracula.
“How can I consent?”
“Because I hold Quincey.”
“Then it is still coercion!”
“Not so, for it requires you to make a choice. Or, put another way, it enables you to make the choice while still telling yourself – and your husband and your almost-father, Van Helsing – that you were forced. I am cruel to be kind, Mina.”
“You are the Devil!” I cried.
“No. Nor do I serve him; I care nothing for him. But whatever I am, you know me, Mina. When my spirit entered Jonathan, you knew who it was that you welcomed into your bed. You knew that it was me and not your husband. Have you ever shown him such passion? I doubt it – nor he to you.”
I hung my head, blood rushing hotly into my face. He added, “You are alive and I am Undead – yet which of us is it that knows how to live with all the passion of life?”
“You are jealous of the living!”
“Jealous... I do not think so. But I must be near them. I could not possess you, beloved; you were too strong. But I need your strength, your warmth. If you died in my embrace, and became Undead, all your arguments would vanish.”
“Yes, and that is where the deepest evil lies – that I would lose my conscience, and no longer care, and feed upon my own son!”
He leaned over and put his hand upon mine. It was warm from the fire. The worst thing was that I tolerated the touch! “That is why I need you to choose, while you still know good from evil,” he said softly. “When I was in Jonathan’s form, you wanted me. We are husband and wife; you know this.”
“In a vile travesty of the Christian union. It has no weight in God’s eyes!”
“Then there is only sin, in God’s eyes. Give yourself to me, beloved, when the time comes. I must have your blood. Give it gladly, and you will be reunited with your son.”
It was as if he held a spell over me, so crystal-clear that I could barely feel it – or was it that I truly was acting of my own volition? I cannot continue to blame him for my sins, when in truth they are mine alone.
I discovered that it is possible to step out of God’s grace and into the darkness, not in glee or bitter rage, but with absolute calm and dignity. I met his eyes and said, “Very well, I will deceive myself no longer. Let me see Quincey first, as a gesture of good faith.”
“But if I fulfil my part of the bargain first, you may change your mind.”
“I may,” I said, “but will that not make it a true choice?”
*
Dracula has let me spend time with my son. Quincey is pale and has a chesty cough again, though he seems to be eating quite well. Poor lamb, this place will kill him if I do not get him away. I am desperate.
He said to me, “Mama, is that man the strange man who came into Elena’s room? I don’t like him. The drinks he gives me are bitter. May we go home now?”
What could I tell him? I pretended it was a little holiday, but Quincey is too bright to be fooled. He knows something is very wrong – but at least, trusting Elena and me, he is not distressed.
What will happen to him, if one or both of us should die?
14 November, morning
What have I done? Turned my back upon God, and cast myself into the darkness.
I said good-night to Quincey, and came back to my own room for supper. As I prepared for bed, Elena came in and took the brush from my hand. I let her do what she would, and so she sat and brushed my hair as she used to. Her lovely face was flushed, her eyes glowing shyly, and she seemed all aglow with excitement, planting kisses upon my cheeks and lips. I did not want these attentions, and yet there seemed no use in stopping her. She brushed my hair until it shone like glass, smoothed my nightdress and tied the ribbons just so, for all the world as if she were a bridesmaid preparing the bride for the groom. When she undid the chain of my cross and took it away, I did not try to stop her, though it seemed my last connection to the light.
“This night is yours,” she sai
d softly. “But soon it will be mine.”
She left me with a kiss. I lay down to sleep but my eyes stayed wide open, watching the coppery glow of the embers. I knew what was going to happen. The two halves of me were warring – the light against the darkness. Should I sin willingly – even to save my son? Would it be better that he died, than that his mother gave herself to the Devil? I don’t know, I don’t know.
Soon I became aware of the long, dark figure of the Count standing over me. His face seemed to glow, candlelight lending his features an eerie luminescence. Like a proud, wild sculpture of some heathen king was his face, his eyes two red suns glaring down at me; each with a dark pool at the centre, and that blackness lit by strange stars. My breath was all in the top of my lungs. I pushed back the covers of the bed and waited.
“Do you offer yourself to me willingly?” he whispered. One of his pallid hands came a little towards me, his fingers plucking at the air.
I said nothing. If I nodded, it was without conscious intention.
“Would you give yourself even if I told you that no harm will come to your son, that you and he are free to go?”
Oh, the cruellest thing he could have said! For his spell lay on me, the terrible spell of his kind, that I knew how damnable this was and yet still desired it; that I did not want to be shorn of my only justification! I should have said, “Then let us go! I don’t consent!” But I did not. Instead I answered softly, “Do what you will.”
There is the sordid truth. He took every obstacle out of my path to the light, and still I chose evil! And he knew it. He smiled. His red lips lifted to show the great white teeth, and they shone like rich ivory, and some wanton, voluptuous part of me – the part we struggle so wretchedly to vanquish – longed to feel them entering my flesh. He stood looking down at me a little while. His smouldering eyes warmed me, seeming to ignite little fires on my skin that spread and ran together until my very blood was molten.
Then the hovering hand came closer and flowed over me. Not touching, but following, an inch from my body, every contour of my throat, breast, waist, all the way to my ankles, and again upwards. My sinful feelings rose to a pitch of unbearable intensity. I craved the touch of that floating hand, I arched towards it, I stroked my own body in an effort to subdue my fever, but my own hands only inflamed me more. I could reason no longer. An agony of exquisite tension held me; I became blind to all considerations but that of release, for I felt that I must either break the tension or die.
So it was I who pushed my restless flesh into Dracula’s hands, I who drew him down towards me. I write this as a confession, yet even as I write it, hating myself, hating my uncleanness, I still remember with tingling, unholy joy the breathless delight of it. I put my arms around his back. He embraced me, lying along me and over me, holding my face and looking into my eyes. He whispered, “Mina...”
I remembered those eyes shining from Jonathan’s face. I remembered a time, seven years ago... We were not, after all, strangers to each other. There was something wondrous in the bond of flesh and spirit between us, of blood and this fierce fire that now drove my heartbeat, my breathing, the rushing of my veins. I welcomed the firmness of his lips upon my throat, the piercing hardness of his teeth.
The night and all the stars seemed to be whirling inside me. I felt my life going out of me from the wound and into him and I was glad, glad to nurture the devil who drank from my veins, who stroked my hair and held me in a spasm of passion as he drank. Oh, horrible. All came at once, the swoon and the knowledge of sin and the unholy consummation of it.
God help me, why did I fall? Not to save my son. Let me not deceive myself. I fell because the sweetly painful horror of it was nothing to the extremity, the agony of the pleasure.
Chapter Thirteen
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
14 November, morning
A breakthrough! Investigations fruitful at last. We found a carrier along the road to London who changed horses for a man answering Dracula’s description – Then Seward telephoned his wife Alice and asked her to discover if there had been any activity at Carfax Abbey, since the property lies adjacent to Seward’s house and asylum. Within two hours she had news. A carriage was seen going through the gates of Carfax, very early on the morning of the 12th. The gates are now locked, but smoke can be seen coming from the chimney!
We leave at any moment. Please God, let Mina and Quincey be still alive! But what does Dracula mean by making his lair in so obvious a place? Can he be that stupid, or is it, more likely, that he means to lure us there? Lacking any other clue, we have no choice but to chance the trap.
Kovacs is travelling with us. Dressed in a dark suit that I have lent him, with his hair combed, he looks human – as human as the Count once did to me, before I discovered what he is. His presence makes us all deeply uneasy – but he offers no threat, and may be our only hope of infiltrating Carfax.
* * *
ELENA KOVACS’S JOURNAL
13 November, night
I sit at the window with the child upon my knee. The room flickers with fire and lamplight; outside it is dark, a wet-black darkness. Dogs are howling, with the thin eerie sound of wolves, their voices rising one after another, twisting and falling in mournful dissonance. All over London, it seems, they howl. Quincey rests quietly against my breast; he knows that something strange is happening, yet he knows nothing at all. Guileless boy! How I love him – not for being a child, but for what he may become.
The singing of the dogs is sweet, but it cannot block my ears to other sounds. He is with her. I am jealous, I am jealous. I should not be. There is a place for us all in his family. But still.
A while ago Quincey said, “Elena? What is it like to die?”
“I don’t know, my lamb. Why do you ask?”
“Because I am so often ill, I am afraid I may die. That is, I don’t mind for myself, I only mind for Mama, because it would make her sad. Am I going to die?”
“Everyone dies one day, Quincey,” I said soothingly. “I expect it is just like falling asleep. But don’t be afraid. The Count is a good man and he can work magic; he knows how to wake people up again, so they never die.”
“He wakes dead bodies? I don’t think I should like that. The bitter drink makes me sleepy. Does the Count meant to kill me? I don’t mind. I am so very tired.”
Oh, Quincey.
Is it only in my own mind that I hear Mina and my Dark Companion sighing and murmuring together? It should be me in her place. My heart and mouth and loins all yearn towards him... but I can do nothing, and so I sit here, and rock the boy, and dream.
I wonder if Dr Van Helsing, with his great brain, has yet worked out where we are? It cannot be so difficult. Let them come, it will make no difference!
And it should be me in his place, my lips upon Mina’s throat.
He must take me to him soon. I have been patient, but I can wait no longer. Sometimes my eyes blur, and I cannot find my breath, and when I look in my mirror my reflection seems insubstantial, as if I am on the borderline between the light and the shadows. The light seems so dazzling, hostile and painful, but the shadows are as soft and fluttery as wings, and warm like a raven’s breast... yet still I live.
14 November
When I took Mina her breakfast tray, I was surprised to find her up and dressed. She was at the desk, writing, but propped herself on her left arm, as if to sit up were a great effort. She was pale and bloodless, even her lips nearly white, with half-circles as blue as grapes impressed beneath her eyes. As she looked up at me with glassy eyes, she took a laboured breath, let it out, and took another as if she could not get enough air. Ah, I know these signs well enough.
I put down the tray and said, “Here is your breakfast, my dear. You need your strength.”
Still she said nothing, but looked at me in voiceless appeal – muted terror, mixed with an elation I understand only too well. I could not help but go to her. From behind I slipped my arms around her, and leaned down
so that my head rested on her shoulder. I kissed her cheek; she shut her eyes, and her right hand came up to clasp my wrist. I tried to read what she was writing over her shoulder, but she cheated me; they were meaningless squiggles, her precious shorthand. But the wildness of the strokes – some so heavy the ink had run, others long, weak and tenuous – told me all.
I love her and I hate her.
“Soon we will all be together,” I whispered. “A family.”
She shook her head weakly. “Elena, I would like to see Quincey, if you please,” she said.
“Then eat your breakfast,” I said, withdrawing from her, “and I will bring him to you.”
* * *
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
14 November, later
I feel myself slipping, descending from grace into a dark place where I do not even recognize myself. I have looked back on my record of last night and think I should destroy it – yet my pangs of shame are dull, remote, and the revulsion I should feel is barely there at all. Instead the memories are dream-like; a kind of excitement, like the recollection, not of horror, but of a heart-warming delight. And that I feel so should appal me, yet it does not. I am too tired. Tired, and there is never enough air! I am so languid, I could have lain in bed all day, dreaming sweetly. (Would I have looked as sweet and rosy upon my pillow as Lucy once did, I wonder?) Instead I have forced myself to dress and write my journal, as a form of self-discipline, though it taxes me sorely to do so.
My memories are hazy now... but it seems to me that after he drank from my veins, he held me tenderly for a time. I did not resist this, for my mind was awhirl and I had no will to escape him. But I remember also that he pierced his breast with his nail, and that I sucked and swallowed the ruby of blood that oozed out... oh, God, did that happen also or did I dream it? Then I am more unclean than the first time, for this time he did not force me... But if I am unclean or ashamed, I cannot feel it. I feel... numbed, quite.
Dracula the Undead: A Chilling Sequel to Dracula Page 19