Dracula_in_London

by P. N. Elrod

  "Gold?" Her voice rose in curiosity, almost betraying her sex. "There are always those who would buy gold. As to honest, I can see what I can discover."

  The person would, of course, be honest. I have ways of dealing with those who are not.

  We spoke a bit longer then retreated to the first pub we found, where she and I sat in the larger room, one filled only with men and an occasional woman dressed in a way that convinced me that some professions are the same in any country.

  I told her that I had already eaten, though in truth I was famished. I tried not to focus on my savior too closely, watching instead the men at the bar. Most were drunk or nearly so. When one stumbled out the door, I said I needed to step out back where the privies were built on the wharf. My partner shrugged and continued to devour her stew, gripping her spoon with her fist the way the men in the tavern did.

  The building backed nearly up to the water, and there was no way to get to the front but through the pub or over the roof. Fortunately, the latter is not so difficult for one such as myself. Mist-like, I moved from back to front, finding my prey just as he was about to enter one of the foul-smelling hovels your poor call homes.

  Too drunk to scream, he instead looked at me with wide eyes as I took form before him. Perhaps he even thought me some image of his sodden brain. No matter, he was mine in an instant. I moved his inert body into a narrow space between his building and the next and drained him. Even through his blood, I could feel the heat of the alcohol, so strong that I wondered if it would affect me. But I was not so foolish that I did not slit his throat before I left him.

  His blood did give me a headache by the time I said goodbye to my evening's companion. But that was later, far after we left the public room.

  Hunger gone, I could be more genial, enough that she eventually found the courage to say, "I am not what I seem."

  I smiled, closed mouth, afraid that were I to open it I would laugh and she would notice my teeth and likely guess why. "I know," I said.

  "So I thought. Thank you for being silent."

  "And why such clothes?"

  "I have reasons," she replied then looked at me, frowning, weighing my discretion. I must have passed, for she explained them.

  I do not presume to understand her whispered lecture about women working in terrible conditions, living with brutes for husbands, denied land and a say in governing. But I did understand that last, the part that had her in so much trouble. "It is the same everywhere," I replied when she had finished. "Women have large families. They work too hard. They die young. At least here they have food to eat."

  "And would have far more if they limited their children to two or three."

  That was the number that would likely be left after plague and misfortunes and an occasional famished creature such as myself took their weaker offspring but I kept silent, believing that such a statement would not be well-received by the woman. She went on, in a voice so close to silence that even I had to strain to hear her.

  "I and my sisters came here to help as we have helped many in London with information on how to limit children. I have pamphlets that explain the basics to those who can read. To those who cannot, we hold lectures."

  "And what do their men think of this?"

  "Many approve. Others don't. But the government needs their soldiers and laborers and they do not approve. Nor does my husband. He forbade me to continue this work. I do not have his support in this endeavor."

  "And why not?"

  "He is a banker. They have reputations."

  I killed a fair number of bankers when I ruled, and rarely pleasantly. "All bankers have reputations," I said, pleased when she understood the joke and laughed.

  "So I waited until he left for business on the continent, then came here with my friends from London. But they were arrested for public lewdness. Now I give the lectures, always ahead of the authorities looking for me."

  "And so the clothes?"

  "Exactly. But now I must return to Mayfair… that is, to London, by whatever means I can before my husband gets home on the 18th. Since my money was with my sisters I have no means. And I thought…"

  She could not continue. Women, no matter how they play at independence, are not good at bargaining. "You thought one foreigner with a similar need might help?"

  "A train ticket. Some money for food and I will help you get all your boxes safely to London," she said, leaning close to me as if we were partners in some crime. I needed the help. I agreed.

  We were just leaving the establishment when some unfortunate woman found the remains of my night's meal. She screamed, drawing a crowd. My partner took a step toward the group, then moved back close to me. "It is good I have someone to walk with tonight," she said.

  Ah, yes, this is not Romania. With luck it will stay so.

  * * *

  Such a charming woman, intense Sarah Justin. And she might not know how to bargain well but she got a fair enough price for the gold bracelet and ruby ring I gave her, and by the next evening all my boxes save three were being shipped to London through the efforts of the Billingtons, father and son.

  Fifty boxes left my hands, but I am no fool. Fifty might be listed on Billington's records, but I kept the remaining three with me.

  Those and my partner pulled out of Whitby a day later, on an afternoon train. I was safely resting in one of my boxes in a baggage car, not asleep but well aware of the train's motion; the faint, pleasant rocking as it headed west and south.

  Would that I had been more aware of my companion. In truth I should have been wary. I have had a history of choosing the wrong sort of servant. Now that I have even more need for such loyalty, the matter has gotten worse. That lunatic Renfield, screaming out his fantasies in the charnel house you call an asylum, is the worst of any. But it matters little. Servants can always be replaced.

  My thoughts wander and I only have the night to tell this story. You see, while I slept in the station warehouse, Sarah used the money I gave her for a first class ticket to pay the fines of her sisters in crime. They had means to leave and so all managed to catch the same train I was on, getting the lowest sort of tickets and sharing a section of one of the cars, plotting their next attack like the devil on All Hallows' Eve.

  We pulled into Sheffield two hours before sunset. They were ready, leaflets in hand, departing the train for the meeting they had hurriedly arranged with one of those wire machines… telegraphs I believe Mr. Harker called them.

  I can only conclude that the women thought they had right on their side and so were careless, because while Sarah in man's clothes had eluded them for days in Whitby, three women in skirts could not manage the same for even a few hours.

  I was first alerted to the situation by loud-voiced men entering the baggage car. An employee of the railroad pointed out that the boxes—my boxes!—were not the property of the women they had arrested, but it made no difference to the local police. I heard one of them walk close to me, heard the workers argue with him one final time, then the pounding of an ax… thankfully on the box nearest the door.

  Splintering wood. Creaking hinges. A man's voice, demanding, "What is the meaning of this?"

  By which he meant, of course, what was the meaning of the earth inside. It was only then that I heard quick-minded Sarah reply, "Earth, sir. My traveling companion is… is a… a wealthy man. He has brought plantings from his native land and thinks that they will do better in their native soil."

  Plantings! How well she put it.

  I heard the policeman mumble something back, then the railroad official repeated his warnings. "And where can I find this man who pays good money to ship dirt, Mrs. Baxter?" he asked Sarah.

  Clever woman! She never used her real name. "I believe he is in a private compartment."

  "First class is at the front of the train, sirs," the railroad official added, no doubt trying to get them to leave the baggage car before they did more damage.

  "Are we free to leave now?" one of the wome
n, not Sarah, asked.

  "Your fine was paid, and Mrs. Morgan's, but Mrs. Baxter's to be sent back to Whitby to see the magistrate with my blessing. Glad to get rid of the lot of you troublemakers." Not acceptable, of course. I see to my servants. The train would leave Sheffield at 10 o'clock, which gave me too little time to rescue Sarah. But I had to try. At sunset, I moved as mist outside the car then went to the front of the train, taking shape in the motor room, just behind the engineer. I disposed of him quickly, drinking nearly all of his blood. I was not particularly hungry but such an opportunity should not be wasted. At the end, to be careful, I broke his neck then stayed where I was, waiting for the rest of the… the crew I think they are called, to come and join him.

  The second man reeked of sweat and soot, the third much the same; these I killed quickly and in a violent human manner. Then, just to be certain the train would not leave with a different crew, I ripped through the wires of the engine. At the last, I dragged one of the bodies away from the front of the train, toward the passenger compartments further back. We would stay where we were, at least until the passengers had been questioned. Plenty of time, I thought, as I made my way partly by instinct, partly by the help of strangers to the center of town and the police station. As I had hoped, the bodies had been found and there was only one old man guarding Sarah and a male prisoner in a separate locked room. I had already decided to take the moderate approach to this problem—which is to say the human one—if only because a dead guard and an escaped prisoner would bring a great deal of trouble on Sarah Justin, and through her, onto me.

  Besides, I wasn't hungry any more. In your land a vampire could grow fat.

  The guard didn't even glance up at me as I walked into the room, though I made enough noise to alert him to my approach. He waited until I stood before his desk then looked up from the book he'd been reading. "Office is closed," he said.

  "Closed?"

  "You can't get legal work done, I mean."

  "I think I can," I said and laid a gold ring in front of him.

  "What's that?" he asked, making me wonder how he saw to read.

  "Gold," I said. "Nearly pure. And if you pick up the piece you will notice four tiny diamonds along one side. Worth more than Mrs. Baxter's fine, I would think."

  "We're not in the business of taking goods for fines, and she hasn't even seen a magistrate yet. It will have to wait until Whitby."

  Not certain if I had found an honest man, or only a greedy one, I laid a second, larger ring beside the first. "I don't care if these pay the fine or not," I said. "I want her released."

  "I can't do that, sir," he said, though he leaned forward to examine the pieces. As I took in breath to try one final, persuasive argument, I caught a scent that likely saved his life—alcohol, some cheap grain, recently consumed from the strength of it. If I had been more fixed on him than on my reason for being there, I would have noticed it sooner.

  "I can't," he repeated, looking up from the rings and directly into my eyes.

  "Give me the keys," I said after a moment.

  He handed them over, but fought my suggestion that he sleep. A well-aimed blow to the side of his head placed him in a state close enough to sleep to seem so to the first returning policeman. Just to be on the safe side, I found the bottle in his pocket and spilled it across his desk. The rings were in plain sight. When the others returned, they would think he had been too drunk to hide his bribe.

  In the back, I tried the key in the lock of the room where they had put her, but though it fit, it did not open the door. Apparently, the drunk was not trusted with an actual set of keys. I wonder if he knew it.

  With no choice left me, I called to Sarah—awake now and wary. I told her to step back then flung myself at the door. It burst inward with such a crash that my first sight of her was with her face contorted with fear, eyes shut tight, hands covering her ears. "I thought you blew it up," she said.

  "No need. It is not so thick," I replied, though my arms and shoulders ached with an almost human sharpness. "Now we need to catch the train."

  "It would have left by now with your… boxes." She wanted to ask about the earth, but my only answer would be the one she gave the authorities.

  "There's been trouble at the station. The train is still there. We must go."

  She barely glanced at the unconscious guard as we passed him. Apparently my ruse fooled even her.

  The station was filled with police. We waited in the shadows near the depot for the questioning to end. Two men passed close by, speaking of the murders. Sarah became pale as one of my brides, but I swore on the Bible and my mother's grave that I knew nothing of them. My soul is already damned, of course, and my mother, being a deceitful woman in life, would hardly be bothered by my lie.

  We saw her friends. She started to call to them but I told her to be silent. "You must not be seen with them because they might be thought—" I hesitated, uncertain of the word.

  "Accomplices," she supplied and nodded her agreement. So we sat, speaking little until the police went away and the train was fitted with a new engine. At the moment the wheels began to turn and the train pulled forward, blocking the view from the station, I pushed her toward an entrance. No coward she, she grabbed the handrail and pulled herself up. I followed with far less difficulty and soon we were sitting in the stateroom I had presumably rented for us… the first time we were together in it since the journey had begun. We had, I understood with some concern, less than two hours until sunrise and would arrive in London in midday rather than after dark. Like it or not, I was at her mercy. I had no choice but to explain matters as truthfully as I dared. To my surprise, I found that I did not wish to cause her anguish or take control of her mind, and not just because I needed her services.

  She sat across from me in the little compartment, staring at the door every time someone went by as if the horror she would face lay outside our little compartment rather than on the seat across from her. Her hands clutched each other and the folds of her skirt, no doubt to keep me from seeing how they trembled. I reached for one. I had touched her before, but never for so long. I let my guard fall slowly, watching her face for some sign of understanding.

  "Your hands are so cold," she finally said.

  My usual means to approach the matter. "There is a reason for that," I said, and told her.

  She listened to my story, more incredulous than horrified. A smile danced across her lips as if she wanted to laugh. "You are taking my mind off my troubles with this outrageous tale. You could make a fine living here as a penny dreadful writer," she said when I had finished.

  I could have pressed her hand to my silent heart but that would have been too intimate, too… well, I would not. With only an hour remaining, I made her swear not to scream. And I changed.

  I chose wolf form. A large and dangerous animal, it is true, but it has been my experience that women are far more afraid of bats,

  Dear Sarah! When I lay across the seat opposite her in the form of noble beast, my muzzle resting on my paws so I would look as tame as possible, her hands shook but she reached out and brushed them across my fur, then buried her face in the back of my neck. "How wonderful!" she cried. "How completely wonderful!"

  Such a woman, Sarah Justin! She watched with interest, not fear, as I shifted first to mist then to my own form. "And to think I have traveled with you all this time and never once suspected!" she said as much to herself as to me.

  Now that she believed my story, I went on to explain that any exposure to sun would burn me as painfully as flames would her.

  She understood and said she would see my last two boxes safely to Carfax. I told her she need not do this but she insisted. "I think of the men on the train with their axes and all you have done for me. Of course I will see you safely to your new home. The train stops in Purfleet. I will arrange for cart and driver then catch a later train to London. I'll have more than enough time to make it seem that I never left home at all."

  Then
she sat, hands in her lap again, watching me with a curious expression. Was it hope? She seemed to like the wolf and I enjoyed the feel of her hands on my pelt. But such a form is dangerous. I lose some human control and to have her touch me as she would not dare were I in human form… no, it was better to stay as I was and follow her conventions.

  To pass time, I asked, "Tell me what you know of London."

  She spoke of theaters and pubs and the banking district and the rest. I absorbed it all—particularly the places in your East End where one such as me can feed without arousing suspicion. Thanks to her, I feel almost at home in this marvelous city, and the hunting is excellent.

  I left her just before sunrise, aware of her gaze following me. She had not given me her address. I had not asked for it. It would be better that way, for she belonged to another and I owed her too much.

  When I rose again, I would see my new home. I was far too excited for sleep and so I was awake when my boxes were unloaded, feeling the sun even through the thick wood of my daytime refuge. I heard the rough voices of the loaders, the creak of a cart, the snort of a nervous horse, then Sarah's sweet voice asking them to please be careful.

  "Done this longer than you've been on this earth, Miss. Now let us be," the man said.

  I was being lifted, carried. I heard the train's whistle, the horse's nervous whinny, a crash, and last, Sarah's loud scream.

  For a moment, I tensed, waiting for the burning of the sun.

  Nothing. It was the other box that fell, cracked, my precious soil mixing with the dung in the road.

  "Should we scoop it up, Miss?"

  Just go, I thought, and heard her echo my words.

  It was a long drive. The wood absorbed the heat and made rest impossible. When my box had been safely deposited in the cool confines of Carfax, I felt her hand brush the top of the box, a finger run the length of it. "Goodbye," she whispered, and was gone.

  One night passed. Two. I found the old stone walls to my liking. I took the boxes of earth and scattered them through London, placing some in Belgravia and Bloomsbury and all the other places where foolish people walk the streets at night thinking there is nothing to fear. The rest, I hid on the Carfax grounds, a wild place with many hiding spots. And as I labored alone, I tried not to think of Sarah except to hope that her ruse had gone well and that she was happy.