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Later that night, Jonathan retreated to his room above the tavern. It was a far cry from the spacious chambers of Castle Dracula—small and cramped, with rough-hewn wooden walls and a single narrow window. A creaky iron bed frame adorned with a threadbare quilt occupied most of the space. A small writing desk and chair stood in one corner while a chipped ceramic washbasin rested on a rickety stand.
Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded Jonathan. This man, Van Helsing, his words echoed in his mind, intertwining with fragmented memories of his time at the castle. Unable to rest. He lit the stubby candle on the bedside table and opened the book that old man had given him.
Turning to the chapter on vampyres, Jonathan read with growing unease. The creatures described within were beautiful men and women who hungered for blood, could shapeshift into other creatures of darkness, and were immortal. They were portrayed as lacking morals, seducers, and killers of the innocent. He thought of that night in Paris, that beautiful man who led him to the tents, the hands that slid all over him. Dracula’s own hands caressing his naked, sweaty skin.
One passage, in particular, caught his attention - a reference to vampyres’ ability to alter memories. Jonathan’s heart raced as he wondered if he and the Count had truly made love, or if his memories had been tampered with. And that night in Paris? Was that real as well? He recalled the wolf-like man he had seen in London before taking this job and then seeing him again in Paris. Were they all connected to the Count? How long had he been watching him, and for what reason?
Jonathan slammed the book shut and took a deep breath. He was losing his grip on reality! Finally, exhaustion claimed him, and he fell into a fitful sleep.
In his dreams, Jonathan found himself transported to another time and place. He watched, as if from afar, as two figures stole away from a military encampment under the cover of night. With a start, he recognized one as a younger Dracula; his face was less haunted, and his eyes were alight with a passion that took his breath away.
The other man - Béla, Jonathan somehow knew - was tall and lithe, with a shock of dark hair and eyes that sparkled withmischief and love. They moved swiftly and silently through the forest, their hands clasped tightly together.
Finally, they reached a secluded glade, bathed in moonlight. Without a word, Dracula pulled Béla close, their lips meeting in a kiss that spoke of longing. Hands roamed over bodies, urgently removing layers of clothing until they stood bare before each other, vulnerable and unashamed.
Their lovemaking was intense and passionate. Dracula’s lips traced the contours of Béla’s body, worshipping every inch of skin as if it might be the last time. Béla’s fingers tangled in Dracula’s black hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
They moved together, their bodies intertwined in the soft grass. Jonathan felt jealous and aroused watching the pair. He could feel Dracula’s desperation, his fear of losing Béla, and his desire to freeze this moment in time forever.
The dream dissolved, and Jonathan felt a profound sadness, a longing for something he couldn’t quite grasp. He mourned for Dracula and Béla; even as he felt a pang of jealousy, he still mourned for the love they had shared and lost. He grieved for his own decision to leave the castle and turn his back on the connection, however small he had felt with Dracula.
How could he feel such sorrow for leaving a man he also feared? How could he yearn for a love he had never truly experienced?
As Jonathan drifted in and out of consciousness, tears staining his pillow, he grappled with the realization that he might neverknow a love as deep and all-consuming as what he had witnessed in his dream. Societal expectations, the fear of his own desires, and the terrifying reality of what Dracula truly was all pressed down upon him, threatening to crush his spirit entirely.
Chapter Eighteen
Jonathan jolted awake to the shrill bleat of the carriage driver’s whistle. His room was dark, but he didn’t bother to light the oil lamp on the bedside table. For some reason, he was able to see somewhat sharply, even in this dead of night. He grabbed his luggage and quietly headed downstairs. He spotted the owner in the dark near the bar with a sickle in hand as if to attack him. Jonathan watched him for a moment unsure if he should speak or not. He decided to just simply take his leave of this place.
As the rickety coach set off, Jonathan gazed out at the quaint thatch-roofed cottages, finding an odd sort of melancholy beauty in this place he was leaving behind.
His thoughts drifted to that rambling old man named Van Helsing and his ramblings about vampyres. He recalled Lucyand her servant Bistra’s warnings as well. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the cross necklace, turning it over in his hands before tucking it away again. It hadn’t saved him, after all. Jonathan couldn’t help but chuckle now at the absurdity of it all, as if a piece of metal could save him.
A sudden cry from the driver broke Jonathan’s reverie. There was a harsh crunch of gravel underfoot, and several ominous figures emerged from the tree line, brandishing torches and crude weapons. The beleaguered driver tried to whip the horses into a gallop, but it was too late. Fear gripped Jonathan’s heart as he realized they were under attack.
“You there, coachman! Pull up and surrender the passenger, and no harm shall befall you!” A familiar, gravelly voice bellowed through the evening gloom. Jonathan strained to see the speaker, but the darkness and chaos made it impossible to identify him.
“What do you want from me?” Jonathan shouted, his voice trembling. “I haven’t brought much money; my trip was funded by my company!” He assumed this was a simple robbery, his mind unable to grasp the true nature of the attack.
Without warning, the armed men surged forward. They attacked the carriage with brutal efficiency, setting it ablaze with their torches. Jonathan found himself trapped inside the burning vehicle as the horses panicked, their whinnies of terror piercing the night air.
Just as Jonathan thought all hope was lost, the carriage door was wrenched open with inhuman strength. There, silhouettedagainst the flames, stood Count Dracula. His pale face was a mask of fury, eyes blazing with an otherworldly light.
“AWAY FROM HIM, YOU WRETCHED FOOLS!” The Count’s voice was a bestial snarl ripping through the chaos. With almost languid ease, he landed amidst the raving mob, those piercing eyes now burning like twin garnets in the torchlight.
What followed was a horrific display of speed and brutality, as Dracula quite literally tore his attackers limb from limb. Jonathan watched in sheer, petrified awe as the Count unleashed the full ferocity of his preternatural strength, talons and fangs lashing out to shred flesh from bone.
Blood rained down in steaming arcs with each tattered body part flung aside, only fueling the frenzy in Dracula’s scarlet-flecked gaze. Though armed with blades and pikes, the coterie proved little match for the immortal’s berserker onslaught.
One attacker lunged at Dracula, swinging a heavy axe. The Count moved with impossible speed, dodging the blow and seizing the man’s arm. With a sickening crack, he wrenched the limb from its socket, using it as a gruesome club to batter another assailant. Blood sprayed across Dracula’s face, his fangs bared in a terrifying grin of savage pleasure.
Another man charged, brandishing a sharpened stake. Dracula’s hand shot out, fingers elongating into razor-sharp claws. In one fluid motion, he plunged his hand into the attacker’s chest, ripping out his still-beating heart. The organ pulsed in Dracula’s grip for a moment before he crushed it, showering the ground with gore.
The air filled with screams of agony and the wet, tearing sounds of flesh being rendered. Dracula moved like a whirlwind of death, his supernatural strength allowing him to toss full-grown men about like rag dolls. Bones snapped like twigs under his assault, and arterial spray painted the night in crimson.
Shaking off his stupor, Jonathan noticed the carriage driver struggling to free the panicked horses. He rushed to help, his hands trembling as he worked to undo the harnesses. As he did so, he caught sight of a figure creeping up behind Dracula, stake raised high.
Without thinking, Jonathan snatched up a fallen dagger and plunged it into the would-be attacker’s back. The man’s dying gurgle was lost in the chaos of battle, but what he’d done hit Jonathan like a physical blow. He’d never killed anyone before, and the realization left him horrified and nauseous.
