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When they finally parted, both slightly breathless, Jonathan saw a flicker of something in Dracula’s eyes – a vulnerability that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“Did you sleep well?” Dracula asked, his tone casual as he moved to pour them both a glass of wine.
Jonathan accepted the glass, taking a sip to steady his nerves. “Well enough,” he replied, then, gathering his courage, added, “Though I found myself rather... curious about certain parts of the castle.”
Dracula’s back stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Oh?” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “And what parts might those be?”
“The East Wing,” Jonathan said, watching Dracula’s face closely for any reaction. “I’ve never been there, you see, and I wondered—“
“The East Wing is off-limits,” Dracula interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “It’s... not safe. Promise me you won’t go there, Jonathan.”
The abrupt change in Dracula’s demeanor only fueled Jonathan’s suspicions. “Not safe?” he pressed. “What do you mean? What’s in there?”
The Count turned away, moving to stand by the window. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with,” he said, his voice distant. “Just promise me you’ll stay away.”
Jonathan felt a surge of frustration. “I’m not a child, Count,” he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. “I think I deserve to know—“
“Enough!” Dracula’s voice cracked like a whip, making Jonathan flinch. The Count’s eyes softened immediately, regret evident in his features. “I’m sorry. I just... I need you to trust me on this. Please.”
The pleading note in Dracula’s voice tugged at Jonathan’s heart, even as his mind rebelled against the secrecy. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and Dracula visibly relaxed.
As the night wore on, Jonathan found himself hyper-aware of every touch, every glance from Dracula. The Count seemed more attentive than ever, almost hovering at times. When Jonathan mentioned taking a walk in the castle grounds, Dracula insisted on accompanying him, citing concerns about Van Helsing and his hunters.
“I can take care of myself, you know,” Jonathan said as they strolled through the moonlit gardens. “I’m not completely helpless.”
Dracula’s arm tightened around his waist. “I know, my dear solicitor. But you don’t understand the dangers that lurk in the shadows. It’s better if you stay close to me.”
The words, meant to be comforting, only served to increase Jonathan’s sense of unease. Was this protectiveness born of genuine care, or was Dracula simply trying to control him, to keep him from discovering uncomfortable truths?
A sudden and peculiar sensation coursed through Jonathan’s body, amplifying his awareness of the world around him. The rustling of leaves in the far reaches of the garden tickled his ears, and the rich, loamy scent of the earth clung to the air, filling his lungs with vitality.
“Dracula,” Jonathan began, his voice a mix of curiosity and awe, “sometimes I get used to this new sensation, and it feels normal. But then, out of nowhere, I feel the wind on my skin, or I catch a glimpse of a leaf dancing in the breeze. It’s like I can see everything at night so clearly. It’s fascinating.”
As Jonathan spoke, he noticed a flicker of concern cross Dracula’s usual calm demeanor. “It’s the effects of my blood,” Dracula explained, his voice low. “Your body is... changing.”
Jonathan’s heart raced at the implications. “Changing? You mean... am I becoming like you?”
Dracula shook his head, a sad smile playing at his lips. “No, not yet. But the potential is there. My blood has awakened something in you, Jonathan. But it is something that can be undone with a lot of time.”
The mixture of excitement and fear that Jonathan felt must have shown on his face, for Dracula cupped his cheek gently, his eyes intense. “We don’t have to decide anything now,” he said softly. “There’s time.”
For a moment, it seemed as though Dracula might say more, might finally open up about the mysteries surrounding them. But then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. Dracula’s hand dropped away, and he stepped back, his expression once again inscrutable.
“It’s getting late,” he said, his voice suddenly brisk. “You should rest.”
Confused and hurt by the abrupt dismissal, Jonathan retreated to his room. Sleep eluded him, his mind too full of unanswered questions. Finally, unable to quiet his thoughts, he sat at his desk and began to write.
“Dear Lucy,” he began, then paused, unsure how to continue. How could he possibly explain the turmoil he was experiencing without revealing the supernatural nature of his situation? In the end, he settled for vague generalities, hinting at a growing attachment tinged with doubt and confusion.
As he sealed the letter, a knock at the door startled him. It was Vigo, come to collect any outgoing mail. As the old servant took the letter, a wistful expression crossed his face.
“It’s good to see the castle with some life in it again,” Vigo said, his voice soft with memory. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a guest stay for more than a few days.”
Jonathan’s ears pricked up at this. “Oh? How long have the others stayed?”
Vigo’s eyes widened slightly, as if realizing he’d said too much. “Oh, no, not long and not many have come here as you may think,” he backpedaled. “None of them were as... special as you, of course.”
The servant’s hasty retreat left Jonathan with a sinking feeling in his stomach. More lies, more half-truths. Was there anyone in this castle he could trust?
